Read Online Meet the New Dawn by Rosanne Bittner - Free Book Online
Authors: Rosanne Bittner
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Shiloh that had almost ended his life. If not for Zeke’s finding him and getting him help, he would be dead for certain. The two men were close, in spite of their difference in blood and beliefs.
“Did you find the buffalo hunters?” Joshua asked excitedly. “Were they all dead?”
Dan looked at Abbie, his eyebrows arched. He well knew the kind of fighting man his older, half-Indian brother was. “Are you sure you’re all right, Abbie? That was quite a mess Zeke left back there. It must have been terrible for you.”
She sighed deeply and watched the yarn unwind from between her fingers. “It was. But I knew Zeke could handle it. I’ve seen worse, Dan, you know that.” How could she tell him that her worst fear was that the men would get hold of her and she would suffer again as she had at the hands of Winston Garvey? She knew that was what had given Zeke the extra strength and courage he’d had that day. He would not let thathappen to her again.
Dan looked at Joshua. “Yes, they were all dead. We buried them right there.” He was not about to tell the boy how they’d found some of them—ripped open by Zeke Monroe’s knife. He looked at Abbie again. “Well, I don’t suppose we have to worry about that husband of yours riding into Indian country, do we? I’d worry more about the Indians who might try to harm him.”
They all laughed lightly, and Abbie’s heart felt tight again with the fear that he would not find Wolf’s Blood. He must find the boy. It was so important to him.
The only sound was the wind, high on that ridge where Zeke sat on his grand Appaloosa. It blew hard that day, rushing through the tall ponderosa pines in a near-constant moan, so loud that the noises from the Sioux village below could not be heard from his high perch. In turn, the Indians below were not aware of his presence.
He only watched for a while, wanting to impress the sight in his mind: the huge settlement of tipis, their buffalo-skin walls painted with symbols representing the character of the warrior and his family who lived inside. Blue smoke curled lazily through the bunched poles at the top of the conical-shaped dwellings.
He took in the sight: dogs and children running about, a large herd of fat ponies grazing hearby, hides pegged out on the ground to dry. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought he was a young boy again, living in the days when the Indian was free and happy. But the peace and prosperity these Sioux were enjoying could only be temporary—of that he was certain. They had won a battle, but they would lose the war.
He wore his finest Cheyenne regalia, a grand specimen of Indian sitting there in bleached buckskins decorated with beads and tiny bells. His long black hair hung loose and flowing, with just a tiny braid at one side that was beaded and adorned with an ornament made of buffalo hair and beads, and still another tiny bell. Now he was Lone Eagle, not Zeke Monroe. All his life he had been torn between the two worlds, and he felt battered and beaten on the inside. On the outsidehis handsome looks were overshadowed by the many scars on his back, arms, and chest, as well as the thin scar on his left cheek, which showed him to be familiar with violence and hard living. That’s the way it was for half-breeds. But the hard life and his forty-nine years had only kept him strong, and he was determined to keep that strength and use it against the disease the doctor had told him he had.
He breathed deeply of the air, liking the smell of the pines. Zeke had not been this far north in many years, and felt strong today. Thanks to an understanding wife, when he needed to be “Indian” he could be, and that was all he was now—Indian. Perhaps this would be the last time he could get a taste of the old life. Views such as what he watched below were fast disappearing.
He started down, making his way quietly over fallen pine needles and flowering larkspur. A white-tailed deer skittered off to
“Did you find the buffalo hunters?” Joshua asked excitedly. “Were they all dead?”
Dan looked at Abbie, his eyebrows arched. He well knew the kind of fighting man his older, half-Indian brother was. “Are you sure you’re all right, Abbie? That was quite a mess Zeke left back there. It must have been terrible for you.”
She sighed deeply and watched the yarn unwind from between her fingers. “It was. But I knew Zeke could handle it. I’ve seen worse, Dan, you know that.” How could she tell him that her worst fear was that the men would get hold of her and she would suffer again as she had at the hands of Winston Garvey? She knew that was what had given Zeke the extra strength and courage he’d had that day. He would not let thathappen to her again.
Dan looked at Joshua. “Yes, they were all dead. We buried them right there.” He was not about to tell the boy how they’d found some of them—ripped open by Zeke Monroe’s knife. He looked at Abbie again. “Well, I don’t suppose we have to worry about that husband of yours riding into Indian country, do we? I’d worry more about the Indians who might try to harm him.”
They all laughed lightly, and Abbie’s heart felt tight again with the fear that he would not find Wolf’s Blood. He must find the boy. It was so important to him.
The only sound was the wind, high on that ridge where Zeke sat on his grand Appaloosa. It blew hard that day, rushing through the tall ponderosa pines in a near-constant moan, so loud that the noises from the Sioux village below could not be heard from his high perch. In turn, the Indians below were not aware of his presence.
He only watched for a while, wanting to impress the sight in his mind: the huge settlement of tipis, their buffalo-skin walls painted with symbols representing the character of the warrior and his family who lived inside. Blue smoke curled lazily through the bunched poles at the top of the conical-shaped dwellings.
He took in the sight: dogs and children running about, a large herd of fat ponies grazing hearby, hides pegged out on the ground to dry. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought he was a young boy again, living in the days when the Indian was free and happy. But the peace and prosperity these Sioux were enjoying could only be temporary—of that he was certain. They had won a battle, but they would lose the war.
He wore his finest Cheyenne regalia, a grand specimen of Indian sitting there in bleached buckskins decorated with beads and tiny bells. His long black hair hung loose and flowing, with just a tiny braid at one side that was beaded and adorned with an ornament made of buffalo hair and beads, and still another tiny bell. Now he was Lone Eagle, not Zeke Monroe. All his life he had been torn between the two worlds, and he felt battered and beaten on the inside. On the outsidehis handsome looks were overshadowed by the many scars on his back, arms, and chest, as well as the thin scar on his left cheek, which showed him to be familiar with violence and hard living. That’s the way it was for half-breeds. But the hard life and his forty-nine years had only kept him strong, and he was determined to keep that strength and use it against the disease the doctor had told him he had.
He breathed deeply of the air, liking the smell of the pines. Zeke had not been this far north in many years, and felt strong today. Thanks to an understanding wife, when he needed to be “Indian” he could be, and that was all he was now—Indian. Perhaps this would be the last time he could get a taste of the old life. Views such as what he watched below were fast disappearing.
He started down, making his way quietly over fallen pine needles and flowering larkspur. A white-tailed deer skittered off to
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