Sacred Is the Wind (39 page)

“Father.”

“Yes, I am,” said Panther Burn. “I forgot that, in my anger at seeing how my people have lost the Circle. And how you have lost the Circle. You have lost the way.”

“No, Father.” Michael winced as pain cut through him like a surgeon's scalpel, shattering his resolve. He gasped, regained control for a moment. “I walk the Great Circle of life and death and life with the All-Father, I follow the Cheyenne way only by another trail. There is more than one trail through the forest.”

“Perhaps,” Panther Burn said. “I will think on this. Yet I grieve for my people. If it is true that they must walk in the new ways, what will keep them Cheyenne? Who will teach them to hear the wind? They must have something to remember. Something …” Suddenly Panther Burn's expression changed as he discovered an answer in himself.

“Father?” Michael tried to rise but Panther Burn pushed him back.

“We have never known each other,” Panther Burn said, drawing close. “There was no time. But you have always been my son and you will always be.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You will know—when you hear the thunder in the hills.” Panther Burn placed his hand upon Michael's shoulder and patted once, then turned and left the room. He hesitated a moment by Kate, looked back at Michael and then to her again. A smile touched the corners of his mouth as if he sensed the growing bond between them. He continued past her, took up his rifle, and descended the stairs to the floor below, where Sabbath waited in the parlor.

Kate stepped inside the room again and resumed her vigil at Michael's bedside. His concern was evident. He looked at her.

“I don't think I will see him again,” Michael said. He reached for her. Kate placed her hand in his.

“I love you, Michael Spirit Wolf.” There. It was said. Time was spinning away from them. Pride had no place. She wondered what her own father would say and thought he just might approve. Now. She leaned forward and kissed him. And in her kiss, in her warmth, was life. Michael closed his eyes and drifted into sleep, remembering when first he kissed her and how shocked she had been. “I told you,” he said in a drowsy voice. “The next time you would come to me.”

Kate remembered, and throwing caution out with pride, kissed him again.

“How is the lad?”

“He will do well,” said Panther Burn. He leveled his rifle at Sabbath, who was caught unawares, and started to reach for the pistol holstered at his waist. Panther Burn shook his head. “I would not like to kill you now. There is no hatred in my heart.”

“Fire that gun and you'll alert the soldiers.”

“You will still be dead.”

“That I will.” Sabbath sighed. He raised his hands and Panther Burn disarmed him. “I guess I never really wanted to bring you in. But the soldiers are another story. The Army will never stop looking for you. Stay around these parts and they'll make your people suffer so much they'll turn on you like a pack of—”

“Dogs,” Rebecca said from the stairway. She walked down to be by her husband's side.

“Sabbath McKean, I trust you. You carry my words to the soldiers. Friday is the ration day?” he asked, glancing at Rebecca.

“Three days from now.” She nodded.

“On that day, when the sun clears the Divide, let the soldiers wait for me in the valley to the north at the place called Squaw Hill. For I shall ride against them.”

“Are you crazy? You won't stand a chance. They'll kill you.”

“Then let the soldiers see how a Cheyenne warrior can die. But tell the Long Knives I shall ride through them. And I will count coup on them. Let the soldiers stop me if they can.”

Panther Burn started down the hallway toward the back door. Rebecca remained behind, keeping Sabbath covered with his own gun. Her expression remained unchanged, though Panther Burn's pronouncement had been like a white-hot dagger plunged into her breast. His words had filled her with horror. She wanted to run to her husband and beg him to reconsider. Instead, like the warrior's woman she was, Rebecca Blue Thrush continued to hold Sabbath at bay long after she heard the back door close.

Outside, in the night, Panther Burn clung to the shadows as best he could as he crossed the backyard and worked his way to the carriage shed where the horses were tethered. He had just gained safety when he heard the hammer of a rifle being cocked. The war chief stopped in his tracks, one hand outstretched, fingers reaching for the rawhide reins. Slowly he lowered his arms and turned around. In the faint silvery glow of moonlight a man aimed a Hawken rifle at Panther Burn's midsection. The war chief unconsciously tightened the muscles in his abdomen. He sniffed the air, detected the reek of whiskey. Yet the rifle was steady in the man's grip. Long stringy hair, a thin half-naked body clothed in ragged overalls and battered worn-out boots—here was a broken Cheyenne. Panther Burn drew closer and recognized the Hawken, for it had once been his. Starlight glinted on a design, a Morning Star outlined in brass tacks on the rifle stock.

“Zachariah …?” whispered Panther Burn, scarcely believing his eyes. Could this scarecrow of a man really be Zachariah Scalpcane? He received no answer, but he chanced death, and ignoring the rifle, stepped closer until the muzzle pressed against his chest. Zachariah looked up at him. Tears streaked his face.

“You should not have returned.” He tried to squeeze the trigger. The rifle wavered. “You betrayed me.” His voice rasped like the dull teeth of a saw blade scraped across metal.

Panther Burn remembered what Michael had said, his words of reconciliation. Panther Burn had also felt betrayed. Now Zachariah accused him. So many paths through the forest …

“I never meant to,” said Panther Burn. “I think maybe you have betrayed yourself as well.” The war chief placed his hand on Zachariah's shoulder. “Are we Cheyenne, or dogs whom the white man has set one upon the other?”

Slowly the rifle lowered. Zachariah no longer understood. His shoulders bowed forward. “I am lost,” he said, his voice trembling.

“I know a path. It will not be easy, but you can walk it with me, if you want.” Panther Burn swung around, padded over to his horse. He cut the leather tracings of the crude travois strapped to another of the Army horses, and freeing the animal, led it over to Zachariah. Panther Burn mounted his own and waited. The moon drifted behind clouds like gauze strips draped upon the sky. An owl screeched and swooped down from a nearby cottonwood by the creek. It lost its prey and rose aloft, complaining to the night. The cry of a coyote lingered in mournful echo, filtering down from the hills.

“A path …” stammered Zachariah. He pulled himself into the saddle, gasped, and steadied himself. “Does it lead far? What must we bring?”

The last war chief of the Cheyenne looked at Zachariah, leaning close and remembering the daring of a small boy. And oh, the wild glory that shone in the eyes of Panther Burn as he answered, “Courage.”

23

T
hursday.

A lead slug tore a fistful of wood out of a fencepost on the edge of Lame Deer. The gunshot echoed down the hills. Captain Henry Morbitzer sighted down the length of the Smith and Wesson, thumbed the hammer back, and squeezed off a second round. Splinters flew from the post.

“Shoots good,” he said.

“Sixty dollars' worth,” Jubal Bragg replied.

“Nice balance,” Morbitzer added. He heard the creak of axles, and turning, spied another pair of wagons heading into town. Both buckboards were crowded with Cheyenne families, men, women, and children in from farms and hardscrabble ranches coming early for their rations. Henry Morbitzer knew the reason why.

“More of them,” Jubal noted. “The town's already crowded with the likes of these red devils.”

“It is their town, after all,” the captain remarked. “I expected as much. The troop from Fort Keogh ought to be arriving sometime this afternoon.” Morbitzer was obviously pleased at the way he was handling this emergency. “I have assured Tyrell Gude the situation is under control. No need for alarm.”

Bragg brought out a brandy flask and lifted it in salute. “I commend you, Captain,” he said, and tilted the flask to his lips, only to pause with the pungent fragrance clinging to his nostrils as he watched a horseman come riding out of the hills. The figure on horseback seemed poised on the polished surface of the flask. Bragg lowered the shiny silver bottle and tucked it back inside his coat pocket. He had the unsettling notion he recognized the man in the distance. The colonel could make out another couple of horses or mules strung out behind the rider.

“Hmm,” the captain muttered, staring in the same direction as Bragg.

“Ought to be McKean. Bringing in Sergeant Broken Knife and your man … uh … Muly?”

“Marley. Big Marley,” said Jubal Bragg.

“Queer sort of name.”

“It fit,” Jubal replied. He watched the rider in the distance increase in size as he angled toward them across the valley floor. Jubal recognized Sabbath by his short broad build and the flame-orange mustache that obscured the lower half of the man's face.

Sabbath led two mules on a length of rope looped through their bridles. A tiny brass bell hung from each of the bits and jangled with every step of the plodding beasts. Two blanket-wrapped corpses were slung facedown over the mules. Jubal felt a pain gnaw at his gut at the sight of Marley's long legs dangling from under the brown blanket; then he willed the discomfort away, protecting himself from grief. Sabbath headed straight for the two men. A half-dozen Indian children charged toward him. A rabbit darted from under a patch of dry thistle. The mules tried to fight the rope as the rabbit scrambled beneath their hooves. Sabbath shouted and cursed and brought the skittish animals under control. The rabbit leaped to safety. Its respite was brief, for the six fearless hunters in pursuit brandished their bows and arrows, ignored the mules with their burden of death, and gave chase. They scampered past the mules without so much as a backward glance, so immersed were they in a ritual of life. Sabbath brought the contrary beasts under control and continued toward the captain and Bragg. The expression of displeasure on Sabbath's face made clear how he felt about seeing Jubal still on the reservation. He noticed the bullet-scarred fencepost, then gazed over at Camp Merritt. Men sat before their cabins, cleaning rifles, sharpening sabers, polishing boots. The place was a flurry of activity as soldiers prepared themselves for war.

Sabbath looked down at Jubal and then tossed him the end of the rope. “Bragg, you left something up on the Divide.” Sabbath turned toward the captain. “Maybe you ought to have the other one brought over to Gude's.”

“Leave them here. I'll assign a man to it,” Morbitzer said.

“Obliged,” Sabbath said. He glanced around at Jubal. “I ought to arrest you.”

“For what? Defending myself? Panther Burn attacked
us.”
Jubal hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. He returned Sabbath's glare, measure for measure. He was a man well aware of his rights.

“Just look at all these soldier boys. They can't wait to get at it. They don't even know they're working for you. How does it feel, Jubal, to have your killing done for you?”

“It feels good,” Jubal replied, a thin smile on his lips. He refused to be baited by the lawman.

“That is quite enough, Marshal McKean,” the captain added, stepping between the two men. “Mr. Bragg has recounted his story to me, of the personal tragedies he has suffered at the hands of these hostiles, especially Panther Burn. I cannot blame him in the least for wanting to see such a renegade apprehended. And as for your opinions, sir, I will have you know the cavalry works for no one but the government of these United States.”

“Spoken like a patriot, Captain Morbitzer. Spoken like a patriot. I don't suppose the government could just back down on this? You know, turn around and ride away and ignore this whole business? Kill Panther Burn, and you'll create a martyr. Ah, hell … don't bother. I already know your answer.” Sabbath touched the brim of his hat and walked his mount off toward St. Theresa's Catholic Church. McKean rode up to the front of the church, where Father Hillary was sweeping the front steps. The priest looked up, paused to catch his breath; his hands propped on the broom handle, the very picture of calm. But appearances were deceiving. Father Hillary dreaded the day to come.

“Good afternoon to you, Marshal McKean,” he said, tightness in his voice.

“Afraid I left you some work over at Camp Merritt, Father.”

“Oh?”

“Two funerals,” Sabbath said, stabbing a thumb in the direction he had come from. The soldiers were leading both mules over to the Indian agent's house. “I reckon ol' Marley might have use for a minister about now, at least to read some words over him.”

“Oh my,” Father Hillary gasped. He tossed aside his broom and hurried down the steps. Sabbath dismounted and blocked the priest's path.

“They ain't going no place, Father. You offered to share a bottle of good Kentucky whiskey with me the other night. Does it still stand?”

“In the kitchen, just inside the pantry, top shelf,” Father Hillary said.

“Will you join me?” Sabbath asked as Father Hillary brushed past.

“Good heavens, man. No. It's too early for me,” the priest called over his shoulder as he broke toward Tyrell Gude's house at a dead run. Sabbath lifted his gaze toward Squaw Hill north of town where Panther Burn would ride down to make war against the government of the United States. Too early, the priest had said.

“And too late for the rest of us,” Sabbath muttered to himself. He climbed the steps to the church and entered, seeking the solace to be found not at the altar but the pantry … holy spirits.

•   •   • 

The ashes of the spirit fire danced above the flames. The coals glowed baleful yellow and crimson; shapes unfathomable to all but the medicine woman billowed and leaped in mad gyrations above the embers. Rebecca sang and sprinkled a mixture of crushed antelope horn, the pulverized roots of wild strawberries, and dried sagebrush onto the fire. Firelight made vivid her buckskin dress and braided hair. She held a small wooden flute adorned with beading and brass buttons and when she had finished her prayer-song she lifted the flute to her lips and blew a piercing note, blew softly and the note grew mellow, harder again and the note rose in pitch, becoming like the scream of a wounded animal. She reached in her pouch of badger hide and brought out the large silky feather of a great blue heron and fanned the fire three times, then set the feather aside. In a second, another figure had stepped forward. Panther Burn brandished a war lance and warily approached the medicine fire, where he waited for Rebecca to give him the sign. Her eyes were on the flames. The wind rose here on the hill crest and the flames became streamers of light. Rebecca sounded another piercing note on the flute and placed the heron feather into the heart of the coals. As it burst into flame she nodded to Panther Burn, who loosed a wild cry of his own and drove the point of his war lance down into the fire, where he skewered the remains of the sacred feather. Sparks flew upward, exploding in his face. Motes of pulsing fire clung to his naked torso, blistering his flesh. The wind stole his cry and carried it down the hills to the town of Lame Deer in the valley below, and there were men who heard that cry and trembled.