Sacred Is the Wind (14 page)

A man of wealth and power with an army to call his own. A man with nothing of his own but the horse beneath him, the rifle in his hand, and courage like a heart afire. Bound by fate, by timeless tragedy, by a blood bond neither could hope to fathom yet both suspected.

Samuel Madison called to his horses. The axles of his buckboard creaked and groaned as he continued on his way. Rebecca, much to James's chagrin, shouted to Panther Burn. For she had watched the two men and sensed in her soul the ominous flow of events coursing between red man and white. And she was filled with fear for Panther Burn. Her left hand stole upward to clasp the leather bag dangling from her throat. Her voice shattered the tableau. Panther Burn looked away from the colonel, and prodding his own mount, continued after the Madison wagon. Strangely enough, it was Marley who grunted in satisfaction. He had never seen the colonel behave so strangely. He watched the Reverend Madison and his “flock” depart toward the outskirts of Castle Rock. From the line of travel he guessed they were heading for the whitewashed church on the northeast corner of the settlement. Well, who cared?

“I'll be glad to get back to Denver,” he said aloud.

“We'll rest a day and start the men back,” Jubal instructed. He watched as his brother, having dispatched men for sentry duty, returned at a gallop toward them. “It appears Tom has energy for us all.”

“He's got the fire in him, true enough,” Marley dryly observed.

“A problem, old friend?”

“To be right honest, Colonel, and meaning no offense, a week of playing nursemaid is about all I can stand.”

“He's all I have, Sergeant. Bear with it a while longer. At least until we reach Denver.” Bragg grinned, dispelling the last of the Northern Cheyenne's legacy of gloom. Jubal needed to remind himself that only a few years separated Tom and himself, that they were brothers and not father and son. A small family, by most standards, but better than none at all. Though he hated to admit it, he was glad in a way that the Ute had slipped away. Tom was still too headstrong, too anxious for battle.

“I'll look after the pup,” Marley said. “Just so long as I ain't gotta bathe him.” Big Marley scratched beneath his cap, sent a stream of brown juice arcing to earth, and readjusted the plug of tobacco bulging his left cheek. “No need to worry yourself, Colonel. We're practically home.”

“Yes, home,” Jubal replied, and his gaze grew distant again, as if his vision had turned inward.

And Marley wondered what he saw.

6

N
ight came to the town of Castle Rock, bringing a noisy peace. Already word had spread the length and breadth of Commerce Street, from the bustling saloons and bordellos where the men of Bragg's Militia squandered the last of their hard-earned coins to the quieter environs of Main Street and the houses beyond, good news … for the war party that had plagued the area had crossed back over the Divide, been hounded by Jubal Bragg and sent scurrying. Families could return to their outlying farms. Folks could sleep without fear of waking to angry war whoops and burning walls and the cries of the dying. But before sleep must come celebration. So even in the more reputable homes, the town's distinguished citizens, men like the mayor of Castle Rock, the president of the bank, and the town barber, gathered with friends to toast the health of the militia and to wish them a speedy departure as well. The townspeople longed to return to normalcy. Now they wouldn't have long to wait.

At the north edge of town, in the shadow of a church steeple, the lights burned brightly in the parsonage of Reverend Charles Holstead. He too entertained visitors; Sam Madison and his wife had come to spend the night. And despite his misgivings, for hostility toward all Indians was on the rise, the pastor of Castle Rock's Church of Good Hope had welcomed these weary travelers. He would have done so even if Sam had not been his friend, because it was his belief that Good Hope must stand for something in this world. It must have value. It must reach out, beyond antagonism, and embrace with Christian love anyone and everyone.

Now with evening drawing on and the promise of a tasty meal to come, the unusually somber reverend had found an excuse to lead Sam off into the parlor, where, after hastily closing the oaken door, he hurried Sam into a nearby chair and slid another chair over alongside the first. Sam Madison watched in somewhat bemused suspicion as Holstead darted back across the room, peeked around the door to make sure they were safe from prying ears. Who was there to eavesdrop? Sam thought. The women were preparing the meal. As for James Broken Knife, he had already headed off toward town despite Holstead's suggestions to the contrary. And Panther Burn, the Northern Cheyenne, had remained in the stable out behind the parsonage.

Holstead assured himself that Esther and Rebecca were busy in the kitchen. He prayed they would stay there for a few more minutes, for what he had to say was for Sam alone. He was loath to alarm the girls. And because he thought of Sam Madison as something of a religious protégé, of whom the pastor of Good Hope was especially fond, Holstead was determined to make the young man see the light even if it meant risking insult. He had opened his house to Sam, his Indian wife, and her friends. But for all his devoutness and Christian belief, Holstead couldn't help but feel a trifle nervous. Given the present attitudes, what would his own church community say, when they found out?

“Reverend Holstead, you have me at a loss,” Sam began. But the parson waved him to silence. Holstead settled his heavy body into an overstuffed chair, which groaned as he shifted his weight. Holstead's round, good-natured features dripped sweat. Moisture shone in the folds of his double chin and capped his bald pate with glistening droplets. Apprehension did him poor credit. In place of his usual smile, his lips were drawn tight against his teeth as he struggled with how to begin. His fears shamed him. But then, he had never laid claim to perfection, only a place in the struggle along with the rest of creation.

“Now, listen, son, it's a poor time to be in town. Not good at all.”

“My wife and I—”

“Have done nothing,” Holstead interrupted. “Except
be.
And that's enough right now.
Being
an Indian.
Being
married to an Indian. Listen, you know there are good people here, but it takes time for tempers to cool. Having the militia around doesn't help matters. Mind you, I had no wish to lose what's left of my scalp to some raiding party of hostiles, so I was glad for Jubal Bragg's presence. And yet I will be glad when he leaves, too. There is a malice in him that spreads like a disease. I've seen it infect an entire community before.”

“Are you warning me against even boarding the stage in town?”

“I have a carriage and a fine strong team of Tennessee-bred mares. You could be in Denver by morning. And on the stage to St. Louis by nightfall. Just leave my carriage at the Methodist church. As for James and the girl, Rebecca, and that other one, Burning Panther or whatever … send them away. Send them away tonight.”

Samuel shook his head. “We are all tired. I cannot just rush off into the night. Old friend, I shall impose upon your hospitality and be off at daylight. I am sure you exaggerate the danger.” A Seth Thomas clock over the hearth tolled eight bells. Reverend Holstead tugged a watch on a brass chain from his vest pocket. The brass casing gleamed in the lamplight. The old man tapped the watch on the arm of the curve-backed chair and shifted his weight on the purple cushions. He returned the time-piece to his pocket, then rubbed the stubby fingers of his right hand across his face.

“Stubborn as a David,” the reverend muttered at last, peering over his knuckles at the younger man.

“Right is on my side.” Sam grinned. He settled back in the easy chair, which, like the others in the parlor, was sumptuously cushioned in purple and scarlet and stitched with a motif of swans and unicorns. The furniture was Holstead's pride and joy, for it had been delivered to him after a particularly devastating sermon on the nature of vice and God's fiery retribution against sinners. A certain madam had been so moved she had closed her coop of illicit love, scattered her flock of soiled doves, and become Holstead's church organist. Though the chairs had come from the brothel, the madam swore they had been purchased with honest money and prevailed on Reverend Holstead to accept them as a gift. Sam Madison never failed to be amused at the notion of the furniture's colorful odyssey from boudoir to parsonage.

Holstead sighed and stood. “Well then, I've said all I can say on the subject.” He walked back to the door and opened it. In the dining room, the table was set. Platters of meat and vegetables trailed steam. “I suggest,” Holstead cautioned, “we discover whether or not you married Esther for her cooking.” He sniffed the air, savored the rich aroma of roast antelope and fried potatoes. “I think I already have my answer.”

A man alone in the night. Panther Burn, the Northern Cheyenne, stood in the loft of the stable and looked out from the loading window upon the town of Castle Rock. He had been in towns before, but never one this large. How could people live like this in square lodges, with fences and alleys and streets all crisscrossed like the web of a spider? No wonder so many of the
ve-ho-e
were crazy. They had lost the Circle magic. And now they were trying to make the Cheyenne forget as well. The wind moaned through the eaves and a loose cedar shingle trembled overhead. It was time to leave, thought Panther Burn. This very minute. And go where? Back to a village of strangers, of
ve-ho-e
/Cheyenne? No. Why, then, the mountains. But go alone? He shifted his stance and looked down at the rear of the parsonage. The lamps in the kitchen were aglow and shadows passed before the unshuttered windows. He guessed it must be Rebecca moving quickly, with practiced grace among the tables and chairs and canned goods … Rebecca Blue Thrush, trying to be a white man's woman. His heart throbbed wildly in his breast. But a Cheyenne she was born, Cheyenne she was meant to be, to walk as one of the People, to live as one of the People. Panther Burn glanced at his scarred left hand. Even if he could never return to Spirit Mountain, he would always be Cheyenne, the Morning Star would always shine for him. And her.

Rebecca had stood with him in his blanket. Once he had called to her and she had come. From the moment he had seen her standing naked and proud in the Warbonnet, he had wanted her with him. This was why the Great Spirit had led him south, not to find another home, but to find her. Yes. It was so. He must tell her what had been revealed to him. Now! This very minute!

Panther Burn reached inside his buckskin shirt and his fingers closed around the flute. He patted the wooden instrument, and reassured, smiled and turned from the loading window. He hurried over to the ladder and scrambled down the splintery rungs to the earthen floor. He landed lightly on the balls of his feet and hurried up the center aisle. The pinto whinnied in its stall as Panther Burn approached. Suddenly the Northerner paused. He breathed in, alert now. The stable smelled of dirt, hay, manure, leather, and something more … something that had not been there before. He wrinkled his nostrils. The pinto nickered and stomped its hooves. Another horse scratched at the packed ground, then unconcernedly nuzzled a mouthful of oats out of a nearby trough. A brittle stalk of hay snapped as Panther Burn identified the new aroma: the still air reeked of whiskey. Panther Burn sniffed, turned as James Broken Knife lurched out of the shadows. The Southern Cheyenne came in low and fast. Too fast to stop as Panther Burn danced out of the way. James crashed through the siding of an empty stall and grunted as he hit the hard ground. He rolled off his gut and onto his feet, his stance uncertain. He ran a hand over his close-cropped black hair and searched the ground around him for his hat.

“You call me farmer,” James spat. “I will show you.” His hand came away bloody. The hell with the hat.

“You will show me a drunken Indian. Nothing more,” said Panther Burn.

James charged and once again Panther Burn avoided him, only this time he stuck out his left foot, caught James Broken Knife around the ankle, and sent the Southern Cheyenne sprawling into the middle of the barn.

“Enough,” Panther Burn said. He had no stomach for such a one-sided fight.

“You will leave. Tonight. You are not welcome among my people. I swear you will not return to the Warbonnet.” James groaned, wiped a dirty forearm across his features, blinked, and managed to focus on Panther Burn.

“Then we have nothing to quarrel about. I am leaving,” said the Northerner.

James sat up, surprised at his easy victory. “And the girl Rebecca?”

“She goes with me,” Panther Burn said.

“No!” James crawled to his feet, lunged forward, his powerful arms extended to catch Panther Burn in a spine-crushing bear hug. The Northerner ducked, and using all his strength, drove his right shoulder into the pit of James's stomach. The larger man gasped and dropped soundlessly to his knees. His breath came in short ragged gasps. He slowly curled forward, rolled on his side in a fetal position. He did not lose consciousness and his wide-open eyes burned with hatred. But the fight had certainly been taken out of him. Panther Burn turned his back on the fallen brave and walked over to the pinto. He led the fierce little stallion out of the stall and swung up on his back. He slung his Hawken rifle in its blanket scabbard over his shoulder.

“James Broken Knife,” said Panther Burn to the figure huddled in the darkness. “You make a better farmer than a warrior. Go back to your garden, go back to your white-man's buffalo. Do not follow me, for I would not have your blood on my hands.” Panther Burn did not wait for a reply, but rode from the barn. Once in the night wind, he reached again for the flute that Joshua had carved. What if this time she did not come? He was almost afraid to play upon it.