The Arrow Keeper’s Song (19 page)

“What are they singing?”

“Songs to give them courage. And to remind them of home.” Tom closed his eyes and listened to the voices, thinking of the home he had left behind with his wounded pride, and the future that would never be. “Oklahoma Territory, where the Washita cuts through strands of buffalo grass and wooded hills. It is a place of good grass and water lying golden in the morning. It has been Cheyenne land for as long as the People can remember. Until now.” He listened to the voices in the night and, in a quiet voice, repeated the chant in English for the woman's benefit.

“Father, we walk a far country.

Guide our steps. Place our feet

upon the path of bravery.

May the blood of the bear

be in us.

May the heart of the panther

be in us.

Our song rides upon

the smoke of our fires.”

Joanna found herself staring at the sergeant, caught up in the beauty of the song he interpreted in such a wistful tone. She sensed his loneliness, though she had known him for scarcely more than an afternoon. She saw the solitude in his eyes that were as brown as earth where the soil has slumbered under a mantle of autumn leaves. His time-sculpted features, even by moonlight, wore a haunted, distrustful expression.

Joanna stumbled for a reply. “Why aren't you with your … uh … people?” she managed, with immediate regret for the way it sounded.

“I walk a different path … and there is no place for a ghost at their campfire.” His voice turned cold as he spoke. It was clear he intended to say nothing more on the matter. Joanna was intrigued by his reply and brass enough to push the issue. What did he mean … ghost? But the intrusion of Bernard Marmillon put an end to the exchange and rescued Tom Sandcrane from the woman's curiosity.

“Joanna! Is that you? Ah yes …” As Bernard hurried along the beach, waves spread a carpet of foam at his feet, impeding his progress. He stumbled in the wet sand, tripped on drift-wood, and nearly fell. Tom used the opportunity to retreat into the shadows.

“Wait. You don't need to leave,” Joanna called out. She felt silly talking to the night air and the incoming tide. The doctor thought she spied movement inland at the base of a palm grove, but it might have been the night breeze bestirring the fronds.

“Who on earth are you talking to?” Bernard asked, glancing around at the empty stretch of shore.

“Ghosts,” Joanna said with a shrug.

Bernard gave her a quizzical look. “I gave up figuring you out long ago, my dear.” He offered her his arm, intending to lead her back to camp. It was an incongruous gesture, considering the circumstances. This was hardly some dressed ball or the gardens surrounding the Cooper estate. And Joanna hardly looked ladylike, wearing a khaki shirt and regulation-blue trousers borrowed from the quartermaster's store of spare equipment. “Come back to camp. Captain Huston is waiting to talk to you.” Bernard glanced back toward the hospital tents. “There he is.”

Joanna could see the darkened silhouette of a soldier against a backdrop of campfires and fell into step alongside the medical officer. From time to time she glanced over her shoulder at the coastline and the serene grove of palm trees, where she imagined her solitary Indian chaperon kept his vigil.

Captain Huston appeared tired and smelled of rum, although he was steady on his feet. He removed his hat as the two physicians approached, a gesture in deference to the fairer sex, depite the fact that she was dressed like a trooper. The captain had been suffering from a bout of diarrhea ever since disembarking. Fearful of the medical profession in general, and. determined to avoid a visit to hospital tents if at all possible, Huston was treating his symptoms with copious amounts of rum, hoping the alcohol would serve to kill off whatever had infected his gut.

“Evening again, miss … uh … Doctor Cooper. You know it probably isn't such a wise idea to go wandering off by yourself. There might be Spanish scouts in the woods.” He lowered his voice. “And you
are
a woman.” The captain spoke as if this were some shocking revelation.

Joanna had become inured to condescension. She had grown to expect it in men once they learned of her calling. Now and then she encountered someone like Antonio Celestial, who accepted her without pretense. The experience was always refreshing. Come to think of it, Sergeant Tom Sand-crane had also reacted in much the same manner. She might be a “spectacle,” but he apparently did not disapprove. On the other hand, she considered her Cheyenne guardian quite an enigma. Perhaps after she saw to Celestial's rescue, there might be time to become better acquainted with the sergeant and satisfy her own curiosity concerning him and his people. She was fascinated by the Indian brigade, with their rituals and chants.

“Well, Captain Huston, I assume you have come from the colonels.”

“Yes, ma'am. Your request was placed in Roosevelt's hands.” Huston winced and rubbed his belly. “After much deliberation Colonel Roosevelt has decided that as important as this rebel leader is, the colonel cannot in good faith risk your life in obtaining his rescue.” Joanna started to protest, but Huston cut her short. “However … if you can arrange for some volunteers to go in your place and perhaps draw them a map to guide them, he will permit the attempt. But headquarters cannot spare more than three or four men. Our main objective is Santiago. Capture the heights, force the Spanish to surrender, and Cuba is ours. That's the best way to help these people.”

“That settles it, then,” Marmillon blurted out. “Joanna does not know anyone among these rough riders.”

“Present Colonel Roosevelt with my regards. I'll find the men and dispatch them come morning,” Joanna replied.

Captain Huston stared at her in open disbelief. Finally he shrugged, saluted Marmillon, and strode briskly off toward the plantation house.

Bernard Marmillon was beside himself. Joanna had obviously been immersed in this madness for far too long and had no grasp of reality. She meant nothing to these troops. “Joanna. Forgive me. The situation is hopeless. You're a stranger to these soldiers. Where are you going to find men foolish enough to wander off into the mountains and risk their lives to rescue someone they have never even met?”

Joanna studied the night-darkened palm groves, a faint smile on her face. “If angels tred where wise men fear to go, might not a ghost?” she said. “Something tells me the woods are full of them.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

H
E SOARED ABOVE
C
ROSS
T
IMBERS ON THE GRAY-WHITE
of his namesake
.
Even in his dream the rush of wind and the sense of flight was altogether real. There was the Council House, strangely empty and dark. Something was wrong here.… The old ones were grieving, what were the voices saying? No. Let them call someone else. Ride the wind, away from here, quickly away. The land below sped past, and soon he was gliding over Coyote Creek, skimming the treetops of oak and cedar and
willow.
Sunlight on the ribbon of water glittered like diamonds. But the land was being cleared. Someone had claimed this precious glade. But why should he despair? He had turned his back on it long ago. But the voices held him. There was more
. Look to the sun,
they whispered
. See what we see.
And Tom obeyed. What was there? Only the blinding brightness. He could not bear it. But before he could look away, he spied a minute sliver of shadow, diving out of the sun, growing larger and larger in his sight, becoming more defined. It was a hawk, with plumage the color of blood, and it was diving straight for him, cruel talons curved and lethal, ready to sink into his flesh. Turn away! Turn away! Too late. Awake the sleeper. No! No!

“Tom!”

They rushed him from the darkness. Fortunately, someone called out his name and alerted him to the danger at hand. The voice that had called out the warning jogged Tom's memory, but he had no time to search his mind for the identifying features; he'd slept this night in harm's way.

Despite the Southern Cheyenne's natural quickness, one of his assailants got in a few good licks with the toe of his boot as Tom scrambled to his feet. Sandcrane grunted and rolled with the kicks and winced as pain shot along his side. Struggling amid a rain of punishing blows, he lashed out at his attackers, left and right, his fists striking home with every thrust of his powerful arms.

He blocked a punch aimed for his mouth, caught the fist, and twisted until its owner screamed, then pulled the man forward and slammed a forearm into his assailant's unprotected gut. The man dropped to his knees and gasped for air. Tom kicked him in the neck and sent him reeling into the arms of his companions, who carried their fallen comrade to safety.

A pair of brawny arms momentarily pinned Tom and left him open to punishment. In a matter of seconds Sandcrane's lips were puffed and bloody, his left eyelid swollen from a flurry of punches as he struggled to extricate himself. The moon drifted out from behind a cloud bank and bathed the beach in a silvery light that revealed the identities of his attackers. They were Cheyenne, soldiers like himself, several of whom he recognized. And they weren't finished with him.

Tom doubled over and fought free, spun in his assailant's grasp, and delivered a vicious headbutt that flattened the nose of the man behind him. Blood spattered from crushed bone and cartilage. In the ghostly glare Tom recognized the pain-bunched features of Enos Stump Horn, a Southern Cheyenne from Cross Timbers. Stump Horn howled and abandoned the fight.

His sudden departure seemed to cool the tempers of a couple of other Cheyenne, who followed the big man as he lumbered down the beach. But those who remained intended to mete out the retribution they figured Tom Sandcrane so richly deserved.

They weren't prepared for the fury with which they intended victim charged among them and fought his way into the open. Kneeling, Tom scooped up a handful of sand and hurled it into the face of the first Cheyenne who followed him. Momentarily blinded, the fellow was an easy target for a hard driven right to the gut and a knee to the groin. Tom grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants and propelled him headfirst into the oncoming waves. The effort cost Tom his balance, and he slipped in the moist sand and fell to his knees. Bodies ploughed into him. He was knocked on his back and pinned by their weight. A thumb came too near his jaws, and he clamped his teeth on the digit and ground until one of the men atop him shrieked and pulled away. Tom twisted and kicked and squirmed free, then staggered to a fighting stance only to find himself crouched alone in the mud with the moon-flecked sea swirling around his ankles as it spilled onto the shore. The remaining Cheyenne had dissolved like shadows and returned to the darkness from which they had sprung.

“Just as well,” Tom muttered as his legs gave way and he kneeled in the surf to catch his breath, his sides heaving and pink spittle spilling from his mouth. He splashed his face with seawater; though the salt stung like the devil, it helped to revive him.

Someone chuckled, and Tom looked up to see Willem Tangle Hair squatting in the sand a few yards from waters edge.
The warning
, thought Tom. Seeing Willem resurrected a painful wealth of memories that rose as unstoppable as the sea bathing his bruised features. Without uttering a single word of greeting, Willem stood and started to leave.

“Why the warning?” Tom asked.

“For old time's sake.”

“Tell your friends the Cheyenne have become like dogs in the night, sneaking out of the dark to attack me.”

“They saw no reason to announce themselves. Did you warn your own people how the oil companies would take their land? No. You convinced us all how much better it would be to open the reservation. Now Allyn Benedict owns the northern oil fields. Cross Timber grows, but the township is no longer Cheyenne. Much of the choice range land was traded or sold off to the white settlers for money squandered on whiskey and the gambling tables.” Willem removed his campaign hat and wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve. His red hair was matted with sweat. “But your friend the Indian agent has done well. The Tall Bulls are building a new Panther Hall. It is even bigger, with more of everything to part a man from his money. They have done well. And Seth …”

Tom glanced up at the mention of his father.

“The Sandcranes are ranching the choice pasture lands along Coyote Creek. I've heard it was a gift from Benedict, in gratitude for all your help.” Willem took a step toward the kneeling man. “Now I know why you burned the agency building. You destroyed all the evidence, anything that might have proved Benedict acted on his own behalf over ours. Then you left. Why? Did you really think we would forget?”

“Go to hell,” Tom growled. He had lived with his own guilt long enough. He wasn't about to have it shoved down his throat. Tom straightened and staggered out of the water. Seth on Coyote Creek! The former Arrow Keeper had surprised his son yet again.

Tom gingerly worked his hands, checking his scraped and bloodied knuckles, thankful he hadn't broken any bones. Maybe he had deserved the beating. It certainly hurt no worse than the internal pummeling Tom had given himself during all these long months.

“I didn't see you in Tulsa,” Tom mentioned.

“You'd left for Florida by the time I joined,” Willem said. “But I heard you'd been around. I knew our paths would cross once we got to Cuba.”

“Have Stump Horn and the others had enough?” Tom shifted his gaze toward the fire-dotted coast. “Does it end here?”

“Perhaps.”

“It had better,” Tom warned. “Before someone gets killed. From now on I'll be carrying a gun.” To have the death of one of his former friends on his hands was the last thing Tom wanted. But neither was he about to endure another attack.

“An empty threat, Tom Sandcrane. You've never killed anyone. Remember … I know you.”