The Arrow Keeper’s Song (17 page)

So when Sergeant Sandcrane asked for volunteers, Philo and Tully were only too happy to follow Tom up the forested slope and away from the ordeal of unloading boats, dragging frightened mules out of the surf, and slogging through the deserted village in search of a dry place to store clothing and ammunition and guns.

Palm fronds formed a canopy above as the three comrades relaxed upon their bedrolls in a clearing ringed with palm and plantain, ebony and silk-cotton trees, whose trunks were wrapped with thick strands of
jagüey
vine and dotted with wild orchids in a variety of subtle cream-colored hues. The hill seemed to catch a breeze, and even the insects allowed the men some breathing room. The horses were ground-tethered and grazing contentedly. Yes, things were looking up.

Tom shuddered at the morass of men and equipment he had left a quarter of a mile away and thanked the All-Father that the Spanish army had not launched an attack and turned the nightmarish landing into a complete debacle.

“Never seen the like of it,” Philo observed as he stacked wood to make a campfire. “You seen them crabs eating on that dead mule down yonder?” The heavyset man shuddered. “Gave me the willies.” He searched in his pack and found a watertight packet of matches and a tin for brewing coffee.

“This is a cold camp,” Tom reminded his sleepy-eyed friend. “We don't want to attract attention to ourselves, the three of us out here alone.”

Philo coughed and spat. “Now, you ain't worried some of your friends might have trailed us from Daiquirí?” The Third Volunteer Cavalry from Oklahoma Territory had landed before noon. Seventy-five desperately seasick cavalrymen, some of whom were Cheyenne and hailed from Cross Timbers, had hit the beach and beat a straight path to the medical tents set up to serve the wounded. For reasons neither Philo nor Tully could fathom, Tom Sandcrane avoided contact with his tribe, a task made simpler once the First and Third cavalries had been assigned different transports and put out to sea.

“We've been posted to keep an eye out for Spanish scouts,” Tom growled. He felt no desire to explain his actions to the Creek half-breed. He knew his kinsmen were among the ranks of the Third Volunteer Cavalry but saw no need to seek them out. Fate and a careful bit of maneuvering had thus far kept their paths from crossing.

“Scouts? Chances are we plumb scared them off,” Underhill replied. He sighed and glanced at Tully, who was keeping watch at the edge of the clearing. The man was nervous as a cat in a pack of dogs. “Tully's got a bad feeling about this place. He's like a grocer fellow I once knew—he weighed everything.” Philo flashed Tom a wide grin. “Weighed me out a cigar once 'cause I was a penny short. Trimmed the damn thing rather than let me get something a little extra. Anyway, that's the way Tully is. But somebody's gotta be his friend. Might as well be you and me, huh?”

“Philo … you're a philosopher,” Tom said, chuckling.

“Sheeeit. I'm Creek and you know it.” Philo studied the surrounding greenery, wholly unconcerned by the strangeness of the place. “Why, there ain't a Spaniard for miles around.”

“Tell that to the rider I just seen coming straight on,” Tully called in a hoarse whisper, hurrying over from the edge of the clearing. He waved for them to join him, and when Tom and Philo had scrambled to his side, the man stabbed a finger in the direction of the trees to the north. Tom quickly ordered Philo to lead the horses out of the clearing and hide them in the shadows along the backtrail. The former sergeant grudgingly scattered his firewood with a few well-placed kicks and headed for the mounts. Tom ignored Underhill's grumbles and complaints, for both came as natural to the man as breathing. More important, Philo was as dangerous as a Texas twister when it came to a scrap and could be counted on to stand his ground no matter' what the odds.

Tom hurried over to Tully's side. The wiry little man pointed at the tangle of trees and vines where brightly colored birds flitted through fading shafts of sunlight as emerald shadows stalked the hills.

“We're in for it now,” Tully said nervously, handing Tom a spyglass. After several seconds Tom was able to pick up a narrow winding trail that led along the hillside. A flash of movement caught his attention, and he stiffened. There it was again. A solitary horseman momentarily filled the eyepiece before vanishing behind a thicket of banana trees and broad-leafed fronds.

“You see him?” Tully softly inquired. The horseman's features were hidden beneath a straw sombrero. The rider wore faded brown cotton trousers and a loose-fitting shirt with a cartridge belt flung over his shoulder. “He means trouble or I'm a goddamn elephant.”

“Hard to tell,” Tom muttered. “That rifle might be a Mauser.”

“Spanish issue. And he'll probably use it if we let him.”

Tom considered the possibilities. Was the Spaniard alone? Perhaps this was a Cuban rebel. Either way he could open up on them with his rifle and in the process warn any other troops that might be in the vicinity, prowling the hills. Stealth, not gunplay, was required here. “Join Philo with the horses. Wait for me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“If you hear gunfire, get on back to Daiquirí.” Tom passed his rifle to his companion. It was obvious he was moving out alone to take up a forward position.

“Now, see here …,” Tully started to protest, then realized he'd been left to argue with the dangling vines and a screen of broad, waxy-leafed fronds. He had grown to feel a fraternal affection for Tom Sandcrane and didn't like the idea of the young sergeant hurrying off into the damn jungle alone.

A kingfisher soared past, and in the lessening light its large head and stubby wings seemed to take on a macabre, almost human appearance, like some spirit wearing a mask for the dead. Tully recoiled in horror, courage and concern momentarily failing. He tripped and dropped his rifle, but his outstretched hands broke his fall. Then he made a dash for the opposite side of the clearing, where he eagerly joined his companion by the horses.

“What is it? Where's Tom?” Philo asked.

“Out yonder.”

“You let him go off alone?”

“That was his orders. We're to wait, and if we hear gunfire, we're to light a shuck for the beach.”

Philo tethered the horses to a nearby tangle of roots and then strode halfway across the clearing. It took a few moments for him to notice he was alone. He looked over his shoulder at his companion. “Well?”

“I'm staying put. Orders is orders.”

“Where's your rifle?”

“Damn,” Tully muttered. “I dropped it.” Being unarmed was as worrisome as confronting the supernatural. He walked up alongside Philo and then cautiously approached the trees. “I saw a demon.”

“What? If this is another one of your goddamn tricks,” Philo growled. Tully was a prankster by nature and viewed his companion's role to be the eternal butt of his jokes.

“I swear. It came this close to tearing my head off.” Tully held up a finger and thumb about half an inch apart.

“Mores the pity,” Philo said. But just to be on the safe side, he unslung his Krag rifle and held it at the ready.

Perhaps not all the old ways were dead, Tom thought as he crouched half-naked among the sweet cedar and sandalwood along the faintly visible trail that wound through the forest. He had discarded his blue shirt, fearing the color, in contrast to the flora surrounding him, would reveal his presence. His dark, coppery skin blended with the greens and browns of the thicket in which he had chosen to hide, a stand of under-brush sprouting from a shelf of earth that protruded from the hillside and overlooked the faint trail he had glimpsed through the spyglass. As the sun, poised on the rim of the western ridges, prepared to surrender the foothills to the onset of evening, the Spaniard, astride a lathered, weary-looking mount, emerged from the forest and worked his way across a patch of cleared ground. The solitary rider, oblivious to the Cheyenne crouched like a panther waiting to pounce, rode unerringly toward Daiquirí. This might be the scout for a much larger force hidden in the hills and sent to spy on the American forces as they came to shore. Tom intended to take the Spaniard alive, if possible, and let him witness the fiasco on the shore from close-up, as a prisoner.

A butterfly sailed past, gracefully riding the currents of the late-afternoon breeze. A tree lizard scampered across Tom's boots, but he did not stir, and the reptile paid no notice to the man. Seth used to complain that books had never taught one to stalk a deer or to summon the Maiyun, the spirits of those who had gone before to give their counsel. Tom's father had always been fearful that education would ruin his son's natural skills. Tom was determined to prove his father wrong. He remained motionless as the mosquitoes found him and began to feed. A boa constrictor, fully eight feet in length, worked its way down the trunk of a nearby mahogany tree. The Cheyenne's blood turned to ice. It was only with the utmost effort he held his ground and overcame the urge to run like hell. The horseman chose that moment to appear on the trail ahead. Tom mentally urged the Spaniard to quicken his pace, for the boa had evidently caught Tom's scent and was coming to investigate. Indeed, the horseman and the boa were having a race without even being aware of one another. Tom, on the other hand, continued to track the progress of both and silently urged the horseman along. He was about to throw caution to the wind and bolt from cover when fate intervened. A nest of newly born tree rats concealed in a nearby rotted log began to squeal and squeak and cry for food. The boa, distracted by the proximity of such an easy meal, altered its course and slithered out of the thicket, much to the Cheyenne's relief. He returned his attention to the Spaniard.

Twenty-five feet … twenty … fifteen …
Easy now. Come along. Easy. That's it
. Tom uncoiled like a spring, became a coppery brown blur of airborne muscle and bone hurling through the shadows toward the trail below. The rider sensed the attack and twisted in the saddle. Tom landed on the Spaniard's upper torso and knocked him from horseback, jarring the man's rifle loose in the process. The weapon went spinning off among the trees as its owner was sent sprawling onto the hillside trail. Tom rolled as he hit the earth, scrambled to his feet, and lunged toward the Spaniard, intending to take him prisoner as quickly as possible. The man's horse made a dash for the trail ahead. Tom refused the distraction and, drawing his bayonet, shouted
“Entrega!”
ordering the Spaniard to surrender even as he landed on his fallen opponent and pinned his shoulders to the ground. Tom raised his knife hand in a threatening gesture, hoping to convince the man …

Man?

Tom stared down at his victim's shirt, torn open during the fall, and the twin mounds of cream-colored flesh revealed be-neadth its ripped folds. He lifted his gaze to the sun-browned features, smooth and decidedly pretty, though weeks of worry and insufficient rest were visible there as well. Deep-brown eyes revealed strength of character. Startled by his attack, the woman had already begun to regain her composure. With her auburn hair tucked beneath the straw sombrero, and loose-fitting clothes to disguise her features, she had passed for a man.

“Well, what do we have here? If all the Spaniards are as pretty as you, I've no use for a gun.” Tom grinned, amazed at his good fortune. I'll just take prisoners.” He made the mistake of relaxing his hold.

Joanna Cooper worked her right hand free from underneath Tom's knee and delivered a solid blow to his face. Her fist connected with a resounding smack that sent her good-natured attacker sprawling on his side. Tom howled and scrambled clear of the woman.

“Damn. On second thought I'll keep my gun,” Tom said, cupping his right eye. He glanced up and discovered yet another indignity—the woman was standing over him, a revolver trained on his chest. He was now her prisoner. Tom mentally scolded himself for leaving his Krag with Tully Crow. “Hold it now, miss. I'd hate to see you do something we'll both one day regret.”

“You're American.” It was more an observation than a question. Joanna motioned for him to stand. His blue woolen trousers were obviously part of a uniform, but Joanna wasn't totally convinced, though he certainly didn't sound Cuban or Spanish. “There were rumors the Americans would land somewhere near Daiquirí. If it is true, I need to find whoever is in charge.” Joanna paused, hesitant, appraising his dark, reddish-bronze appearance. “Where are you from?” Self-conscious of her bared bosom, Joanna managed to single-handedly close her shirt and tuck the hem into the gunbelt circling her waist. The double-action revolver in her right hand never wavered as she attended herself for modesty's sake.

“Indian Territory. I am Southern Cheyenne,” Tom replied. He was beginning to tire of staring down the barrel of her thirty-eight-caliber Colt. “Sergeant Tom Sandcrane of the First Volunteer Cavalry.” He stooped over and retrieved his bayonet, heard the telltale click as Joanna cocked her revolver, then straightened and slowly slid the blade into its scabbard, uncertain which hurt worse, his eye or his pride. This wasn't the outcome he had intended.

“My name is Joanna Cooper. I'm an American, a doctor,” the woman said, gingerly probing her rib cage. She winced at the bruised muscles she had suffered as a result of Tom Sandcrane's attack. Fortunately, a thicket of trumpet-shaped ferns had cushioned the impact of her fall from horseback. A quick assessment found no physical damage.

There had been a sawbones at Fort Reno, Tom remembered. A crotchety old bastard, as kind as salt in an open wound, who used to visit the mission school whenever he was sober enough to ride the mile from the fort. Tom and the other children dreaded his visits and preferred illness to an actual encounter with the man. Now here was a doctor cut from a different cloth, who might have had no shortage of patients.

“Never met a woman doctor before,” Tom dryly commented, reserving his judgment.