Sweet Prairie Passion (Savage Destiny) (40 page)

“They’ll tease us first,” he was telling the men now. “They won’t give us their all in the first attack. They’ll
just try to scare us into handing Connely over, show their force, come at us without really doing a hell of a lot of damage. They aren’t as bloodthirsty as you think, but they’ll get worse if we don’t give up Connely.”

He was obviously perturbed that they had decided to risk their lives for Connely, yet he respected their decision and their Christian feelings. Abbie was certain that Connely did not appreciate what these people were doing for him. She had never liked the man in the first place, and she had reluctantly voted not to turn him over to the Indians, only because of her own fear of God’s punishment if she voted otherwise. But in her heart she had no desire to suffer at the hands of the Crow for a cheating, lying, prejudiced man like Morris Connely.

Night came, and they could do nothing but try to sleep, something that did not come easily to any of them. Abbie lay awake well into the night, thinking about how Connely had not even thanked them for their decision and wondering if Zeke would sleep at all. It was early morning before she dozed off lightly, and it seemed she’d only slept an hour or so before she heard a light tapping at the back of her wagon. She opened her eyes to see the sky just beginning to lighten with dawn.

“Abbie?” It was Zeke’s voice. She sat up quickly and moved to the back of the wagon, quickly running her fingers through her hair to straighten it a little; then she opened the canvas flap. Their eyes held a moment, then his darted around to be sure no one was looking. She reached out to touch his face, but he pulled back. “Don’t do that!” he said quietly. She
pulled her hand away.

“You look so tired, Zeke,” she said lovingly. “How about that wound in your side?”

“I’m all right,” he replied. He looked around again, then back at her. “I just … I wanted you to know I’ll be watching out for you when they come.”

She smiled softly. “I didn’t doubt it.” Their eyes held again, and then he turned away.

“You … uh … you stay under the wagon, not in it. It’s hard to shoot underneath a wagon, whether it’s arrows or guns. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. And you watch yourself. I’m scared for you.”

“If you want the truth, I kind of look forward to shooting a few Crows. It’s just the women and children I’m worried about. If not for them, the situation wouldn’t be so bad. I still say they should just hand Connely over and be on their way.”

“I agree. But I voted to keep him. I guess I have too much Christian white in me. Keeps a person from being practical sometimes.”

He smiled a little. “That’s true.” Bradley Hanes climbed out of his wagon and Zeke stepped farther back. “Load your Spencer and get under the wagon,” he said quietly. “They’ll come soon as the sun is full up.”

She nodded, wanting to hug him and stay close to him, but he quickly disappeared. Her heart ached with love and worry as she quickly rinsed her mouth, splashed water on her face, and checked out her gun. She climbed out of the wagon, grabbing a stale biscuit to soothe her growling stomach. People were moving about now, and Mrs. Hanes was quickly and quietly
feeding her children while the men congregated to make last-minute plans. Connely did not join them. He stayed beside his wagon, his face pale with fright, holding his rifle tightly in his hand and waiting.

All too soon they could hear the thunder of horses and the distant hoots of Indians. Mrs. Hanes crawled under her wagon with little Mary, while ten-year-old Jeff loaded a rifle of his own. Abbie kept six-year-old Mike Hanes under the wagon with her, pulling the little boy close and crouching behind two barrels that sat just alongside the wagon.

When the Indians came closer, none of them were ready for what happened next. The men positioned themselves at various places around the circle of wagons, and the yelps and war cries of the Crow chilled Abbie’s blood as she prayed for Zeke and the others. Then suddenly Bradley Hanes yelled out.

“What the hell! What’s that crazy son of a bitch doing?”

Abbie peered through the crack between the barrels to see the Indians coming, and Preacher Graydon running out to meet them, waving his arms and holding a Bible.

“Repent!” he yelled. “Repent, you heathen sinners! Come to Jesus, and He will cleanse you and make you as pure as the white man! God is my protection! Come to Jesus, you lost people.”

“Sweet Jesus, he’s lost his mind!” Abbie whispered to Mike.

“Will the Indians kill him?” the boy asked her.

“Most likely,” she replied. “You’d best not look.” He closed his eyes and covered his face and she hugged him close.

“Get back here, you crazy hypocrite!” she heard Zeke holler. The preacher turned to look back as the Indians came closer.

“You’ll burn in hell with the rest of them!” he roared. “I’ve come out here to do what I can to save the souls of these heathens, and I—”

He did not finish the sentence. In the next moment an arrow pierced his back, and he fell forward. Abbie closed her eyes, yet could not quite feel badly about the man’s death. He had been a hypocritical and sorry excuse for a preacher, and he’d even raped Yellow Grass. Soon there was not time to worry about him anyway, for the Indians were upon them. She heard the sharp report of Zeke’s rifle, and one of the warriors riding in front fell dead. Then they were circling, around and around, yelping and screeching. She heard someone cry out somewhere, and she hoped no one had been hurt too badly.

She jumped as Zeke’s rifle fired again near her, and a Crow warrior screamed and fell from his horse, rolling right toward her and Mike. When he landed no more than six inches from the barrels, Abbie screamed and scooted back. The Indian’s hand twitched a couple of times, then stopped.

“Abbie?” Zeke hollered out anxiously.

“We’re all right!” she shouted back. The firing continued for several more minutes, but it was obvious the Crow were doing just what Zeke said they would do. They were making more noise and show than actually shooting and killing, and soon they rode off with a couple of Willis Brown’s cattle and a few horses. Dust rolled for a minute or two, and when it settled, the Crow were gone.

It seemed the fighting had ended as quickly as it had begun. At first they all stared at each other, not sure if they could relax. A lot of dead Indians lay outside the circle, a gruesome sight.

“Anybody hurt?” Zeke called out, as the women and children crawled out from under the wagons.

“I think just me,” Kelsoe replied. “Grazed my arm. Nothing serious.”

“Come here and let me have a look,” Zeke told him.

“Looks like we lost our preacher,” Kelsoe told him as he walked up to where Zeke stood.

“No great loss as far as I’m concerned,” Zeke answered bluntly. He looked past Kelsoe at the others. “Two of you men go on out and get his body. Bury it quick. They won’t be back for a while—maybe not even until tomorrow.” The men left and Zeke tore open Kelsoe’s shirtsleeve to study the wound. “Not real bad.” He looked over at Abbie. “Put some whiskey on it for him, will you? And bandage him up.” He looked around the circle. “Where in hell is Connely?” he asked. They all searched around, at first thinking the Crow had somehow got hold of the man; but then Connely came crawling out from under his wagon, and it was obvious to them he’d not even joined in helping with the fight.

“You yellow-bellied skunk!” Willis Brown blurted out. “Here all these people are risking their lives for you, and you cower under your wagon like a woman!”

Connely swallowed and looked around. “I … I had to stay low,” he tried to explain. “If they see my face, they’ll ride inside the circle and take me. Surely you all realize I couldn’t let them see me!”

Zeke’s jaw flexed in anger. He stormed over to the
man and backhanded him hard, making Connely’s body spin around and fall flat. Zeke turned to the rest of them.

“I say I take him to them right now!” he growled.

Kelsoe frowned, holding his wounded arm. “I have half a mind to myself, Zeke. But we took a vote. And we still have to do the Christian thing. Let’s wait it out. Maybe they won’t come back.”

“They’ll be back, all right! And they’ll be thirsty for blood! And if one person—just one person—gets hurt bad, I’m taking Morris Connely out there to them, and that’s my final word! I don’t give a damn what
any
of you think! You were supposed to take my advice on these things. And I’m telling you it’s Morris Connely or
all
of us! They deliberately let us think we have the upper hand. The second time around will be worse. Then they’ll come at us harder and harder! And you’d best go easy on the water! If they can’t drive us out by fighting, they’ll starve us out and keep us from getting fresh water. Before long you’ll understand that out here all that counts is being practical. The word is
survival,
people!
Survival!
That’s all that matters! You’ve come West, and now you’re going to have to learn to live by a different set of rules!”

He stalked off to help bury the preacher, and Connely picked himself up and climbed sullenly into his wagon.

The day lingered for what seemed an eternity to the frightened and anxious settlers. Occasionally each would glance out at the grave of Preacher Graydon with mixed emotions. He had been a hard man to like, and a foolish one for exposing himself as he had,
pompously believing that God would protect him from the “heathens.” And there had been his shameful attack on Yellow Grass. Still, the man was dead, and some of them could not help but be sorry for him. But all knew that what bothered them most about the grave was their own fear that they, too, would soon be dead.

The rising sun brought a warmer than usual day to the high mountain pass, and there was little movement or talking—only endless waiting for the hated sound of renewed Crow war cries.

Bradley Hanes had suggested they just pick up and move on, but Zeke warned them that breaking up the circle would leave them too vulnerable.

“They
want
you to think they aren’t coming,” he told them. “They want you to start moving and break into a straight line. You’d be playing right into their hands.”

“But this could go on and on!” Willis Brown complained. “They could keep us here until we all—” He stopped short, not finishing the sentence.

Zeke nodded. “That’s right. But you folks made the decision. Apparently you think Morris Connely is worth dying for.”

Connely remained inside his wagon, unwilling to face the others and afraid to be out in the open at all. Yolanda Brown lay weeping and fretting in her own wagon, occasionally becoming hysterical and screaming that the Crow were going to cut her baby out of her stomach. Zeke ordered Willis Brown to pour some whiskey down his wife’s throat to quiet her down.

The day melted into afternoon, and now Zeke slept beneath the shade of the Hanes wagon. Only Abbie
and Olin knew just how badly the man was probably hurting. Abbie had noticed him occasionally rub his side as he rested. She was sure he had not slept at all the night before, and she worried about his still-healing wound, longing to go to him, to hold him, and to assure herself that he was all right. It was torture to watch him and not be able to care for him. She wondered if violence was something that would always follow someone like Cheyenne Zeke. Surely to live with him would entail always fearing for his life; yet the worry and fear would be worth it if she could be his wife. She tried to imagine what his mother and half brothers must be like. Full-blooded Cheyennes. How well would they accept a white woman into their clan? That question sent shivers through her blood. Were the Cheyenne any different from the hated Crow who lurked out there in the hills now?

She sighed and walked a few feet from her wagon to gaze out at the green foothills. Perhaps he was right. To think she could live among a people so different was just the daydream of a foolish young girl. And yet, to live without him …

She stared at the gray, snow-capped peaks of the Rockies, standing silent and magnificent, always far off and untouchable. She wished life could be as sure and dependable as those mountains. They had probably been there for millions of years and would still be there thousands of years after her own small self was dead. No matter what happened to the Indians, no matter how the white man’s progress affected the West, the mountains would never change. She decided this land was probably the most beautiful place God had ever designed. It was splendid and immense,
painted in beautiful colors. Yet it could fool a person. For it was also dangerous and threatening. It beckoned a person on, like a witch beckoning children into her home so she could eat them. Abbie felt that it was eating her, piece by painful piece. Yet she knew that no matter what this land did to her, she could not leave it. Tennessee would never be the same.

“You’re straying a little too far,” Bobby Jones stated from behind her. She jumped and turned, startled by his voice, and surprised to see that she had absent-mindedly wandered away from the wagons as she stared at the Rockies. Bobby Jones had spotted her and hurried up behind her with his rifle.

“Oh!” Abbie replied, blushing slightly. “I…the mountains are so beautiful… I guess I just kind of lost myself.” She glanced back at the train to see Zeke still asleep, then looked around at the distant foothills. “There’s nothing out here but a few rocks anyway,” she went on. “If those Indians come again, we’ll hear them in plenty of time.”

“Zeke says they’re tricky. They can sneak up on you right easy, Abigail.”

She glanced around again, crossing her arms in front of her nervously, then looked back at Bobby. “You scared, Bobby?”

He shrugged. “Some. I guess all of us are—except maybe Zeke.”

She smiled a little and blushed. “I think he just acts first and gets scared later,” she answered. “Sometimes there just isn’t time to be scared. You just dive in and do what needs to be done and don’t think about being scared.”

“I guess.” Bobby sighed, watching her closely.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you, Abigail … well… we might not live through this … and just in case we don’t, I want you to know … I watch you all the time and I … like you a lot, Abigail. You’re awful pretty, and I’m damned sorry for the terrible things you’ve suffered on this trip.”