The Arrow Keeper’s Song (30 page)

“Voestaso
… come have a drink,” Joanna called out, standing near the wall and holding out a tin cup and wooden canteen. The brightness of the sun forced her to squint as the Cheyenne rose against a backdrop of white-hot sky and leaped to the earthen floor. He landed soundless as a cat, leaned his rifle against a pile of weathered bricks, and gratefully accepted her offer of a drink.

“Aren't you going to ask me how I knew your name in the language of your people?” she asked.

“Enos Stump Horn told you while you were patching his head,” Tom said. Joanna frowned, unhappy he had guessed so easily. “But I am puzzled why you asked him,” he added.

Joanna shrugged. “I wanted to know everyone's name, seeing as I might have gotten the five of you killed.” It was obvious to him she was quite serious.

Sandcrane tilted the cup to his lips and drank. The water was flat and tepid, but it eased the burning in his parched throat. Funny. His hands had been sweating even as his throat had become dry as dust during the dash to the church and throughout the attack. He wiped his palms on his trouser legs and took up his rifle.

“I had Enos move the dynamite out of the wagon,” Joanna said. “It seemed like a good idea.”

Tom nodded. “Yeah. I guess I forgot about that. And the water?”

Joanna sloshed the contents of the canteen. “Right here. There are a few swallows in a couple of the others. No one had time to visit the well, things happened so fast.”

Tom pursed his lips and then sighed, blaming himself for their current predicament. “I should have seen that they were filled last night.”

Joanna started to explain to the sergeant that none of this was his fault, but an all-too-familiar voice interrupted her impromptu lecture on guilt.

“Antonio Celestial!” It was the voice of Captain Diego Zuloaga, shouting from the protection of the casita nearest the church. “I would speak with you, my old friend.”

“C'mon,” Joanna said, hurrying over to the wagon to stand at the rebel leader's side. Tom followed along, curious to know what sort of enemy he had in the captain of the Lion Brigade.

“I have never been your friend!” Celestial replied. He walked around the side of the wagon and stood in the shadow of the entrance. Joanna's hand tightened on Tom's wrist as the Cuban came close to presenting a target to the Spanish Mausers.

“And the Americans … who speaks for them?”

Tom didn't need to issue an order—Willem, Philo, Tully, and even Enos had already scrambled up the piles of debris to assume their positions on the walls. The Cheyenne rounded the wagon and stood alongside Celestial.

“Say your piece, Captain,” Tom called out. The hills threw his voice back at him.

Zuloaga materialized out of the shadows of the casita. He kept close to its protecting walls, however. The captain had courage but he wasn't a fool. “Send out the Cuban. I have come for him. Send him out and go with my blessing.”

“He's a generous man,” Tom muttered aside to Celestial.

“It is a chance to save yourselves,” Celestial answered. “We are trapped here and you know it.” His expression softened, the lines around his eyes smoothing as he made his case in a voice heavy with resignation. “Perhaps you should accept his terms and ride out. Take Joanna with you.”

“It'd be safer to run naked through a cave full of angry bobcats than try to force that lady to do something she was dead set against doing,” Tom said.

Joanna overheard their conversation and glared at both men, daring either of them to try to force her to leave. One look at her determined mien, and the rebel leader conceded.

“Ah, you have a point.” Suddenly he noticed the color drain from Joanna's features, and he turned to see for himself what had caught her attention and left her shaken. “No,” he whispered in a solemn voice. On the edge of town Diego Zuloaga had upped the ante in his deadly game and sent out poor Mateo.

“Antonio, I have brought a young friend to see you. He has been my loyal guide.” Zuloaga's voice radiated confidence.

“Do you make war on children now?” Celestial exclaimed with sinking heart.

“Oh, my God,” Joanna muttered beneath her breath. Mateo's face was partly obscured beneath a filthy, blood-soaked rag. His clothes hung in tatters and fluttered as he stumbled along the path to the church, the chains of his shackles rattling with every shuffled step. It was obvious he had endured torture at the hands of his captors.

Tom grimaced with distaste. “What sort of man is this?” he said.

“The worst,” answered Celestial, and then called out, “Mateo!”

“Antonio. Forgive me!” Mateo weakly responded. He had begun to tremble and could not hold back his sobs. He cursed his faltering resolve.

“Surrender to me, and the boy shall live and go free. I will count to five. What happens after that will be your doing,” Zuloaga carefully explained. He wanted to make absolutely certain his old enemy understood. Five seconds would give Celestial time enough to surrender but render him unable to formulate a plan of escape. Zuloaga reached out, and Lieutenant Garza, concealed along with five other men within the bullet-riddled walls of the casita that served as a lookout post, placed a Mauser rifle in the captain's hands. Zuloaga flattened against the side of the hut, shouldered the rifle, and drew a bead on his prisoner.

“Do not believe him,
jefe
. Stay where you are,” Mateo pleaded, his strength returning.

“One!”

Celestial cursed and started to leave the crumbled ruins of the church. He had taken only a few steps toward the open field when Tom caught him by the arm and brought him up sharp.

“I didn't come all this way to watch you kill yourself,” said the Cheyenne.

Celestial struggled to extricate himself from Tom's restraining grasp, but the rebel, hampered by his injured back, proved no match for Sandcrane.

“Two!”

“Damn you, let me go,” the Cuban snapped. He tried to shove past, but Tom overpowered the man and pinned him against the side of the wagon. Celestial inhaled sharply as new waves of pain swept over him.

“Three!”

“Are you deaf? Release me, I say. I demand it,” the Cuban exclaimed.

“Four!”

“Zuloaga will kill him. Don't you understand? He'll kill Mateo.”

“Walking out there is the same as suicide,” Tom flatly stated. There was simply no give in him. “From what Joanna's told me about this Zuloaga, his word isn't worth spit.”

Antonio Celestial sagged against the soldier, the spirit draining from him. There was no denying the truth of Tom's words. He turned toward the thirteen-year-old who had become like a son to him. “Zuloaga … the revolution is over. The Americans have landed in Daiquirí. Soon they march on Santiago. Your war is over. Let there be a truce between us and no more blood spilled.”

Mateo, hearing the voice of the Cuban resistance leader, raised a hand in salute with the last vestiges of strength flowing into his limbs. And in that moment his own agony left him and Mateo felt victorious.

“Viva Celestial! Viva Cuba!”

A gunshot rang out. Mateo staggered forward into the arc of his own blood as the slug passed completely through his slender frame. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he toppled forward and landed facedown in the dirt, his arm still outstretched and his right hand knotted in a fist.

“Five!” Zuloaga called aloud and chambered another shell.

The American soldiers on the church walls loosed a volley and peppered the walls of the casita, forcing Zuloaga to duck back out of sight. The gunfire echoed down the long hills and gradually faded, leaving only a looming stillness broken by the faint rush of wings as more of the carrion birds were invited to the feast.

“Remain here,” Zuloaga ordered, focusing his smoldering gaze on the lieutenant and the five troopers. “The Americans may attempt to escape under cover of darkness. If that happens, stop or delay them until I bring up the others. The rest of the command will take quarters back in the village. We will wait until after midnight; then the Lion Brigade will storm the walls and put an end to our defiant friends.”

“It will be as you say,” Garza replied with a snappy salute and a click of his boot heels. He was anxious to regain the captain's good graces and kept up his assurances until Zuloaga had departed.

In the shadowy entranceway Celestial continued to stare at the lifeless body of the boy who had ridden with him into more skirmishes than he could count. Tom felt numbed by the display of brutality and the cavalier way the Spaniard had snuffed out the life of a mere boy.

“You will pay for this, Captain Diego Zuloaga. You've had your day of fire and blood, but there will be a reckoning, I swear it.” Celestial's voice wavered and he could barely get the words out.

“The Spaniard cannot hear you,” Tom gently said.

Celestial slowly focused on the Cheyenne. “No. But God can.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T
OM WAITED OUT THE DAY
,
ALONE ON THE EAST WALL OF THE
church, keeping apart from the other defenders, avoiding even the most casual conversation. Joanna and the soldiers accepted his behavior without trying to second-guess its cause. The woman, in her own way, understood. None of them felt much like talking. Sandcrane had been correct about the Spaniards' imminent threat; if he wanted to be off by himself, so be it.

Sometime during the afternoon Joanna found time to check on Celestial, who had been forced to seek the meager comfort of his cot. There was a little shade to be found within the ruins, and the rebel took advantage of it. He greeted her with a feeble wave of the hand as she approached. The woman doctor judged the pain in his heart to be far greater than that of his injured back.

“How are you doing, Antonio?” she asked, kneeling alongside the cot.

He laughed softly, without humor—a cold, frightening sound that caused her to shiver inwardly. “I am fine, Doctor Cooper.” He reached down and patted the Winchester. “I have only one illness, a terrible ache that gnaws at me. But, you see, I already have the medicine. And when Diego Zuloaga lies dead at my feet, then I will be healed.” His gaze grew distant as he added, “And my poor country will be healed.”

“Yes,” Joanna said, and placed her hand on his arm. She had not been able to cry. Maybe the tears would come later. She lifted her eyes and looked up at the solitary figure on the east wall.

“Is he still up there?” Celestial asked. He rose on his elbows and tried to look in Sandcrane's direction, but the effort set the nerves along his spine protesting.

“Yes. I wonder what he is doing.” Joanna replied.

“Ah … only he can say. But mind you, when the sergeant comes down, be ready for anything,” said the Cuban. He shook his head and sighed. “Poor Mateo.”

“He was always proudest riding at your side.”

“Yes. And the revolution was everything to him. The revolution … when it begins, it is a beautiful lady, grand and beautiful and full of promise, the kind of woman men gladly devote their lives to. But she does not remain a lady for long. Soon she is a whore, magnificent at times, yes, but a whore all the same. And she will take any man's life, or any boy's. She does not care. And her whore's heart feels nothing. I should have warned the boy. I should have warned Mateo about the whore.” Celestial averted his face and placed a forearm across his eyes. And then he sighed, deeply. And Joanna left him with his dignity intact.

Tom Sandcrane tracked the course of the sun, the lengthening of shadows, the circling vultures held at bay by an occasional rifle shot from Antonio Celestial, who would not allow the carrion birds to alight among the bodies of the slain. The sky went from azure to burnished gold tinged with pink that deepened in hue until it became the color of blood. Tom stood atop the far wall out of sight of Spanish guns and faced the horizon, his mind searching for words, for the songs of long ago, but suddenly his father's teachings failed him, or so he thought. No songs, no prayers, only an empty yearning in his heart.

What had brought him here? Visions? Maiyun? And what did it matter? The reasons were unimportant now. He lowered his eyes and took in his own appearance, found his torso bathed in gold and crimson, as if the left side of his body were dark with blood. A trick of shadows, he reasoned. “Sacrifice” … the word came from nowhere, yet arrived in the middle of his thoughts like a hurled spear. They could escape under cover of night. All he had to do was turn his back as he had done before in Cross Timbers and ride away. He owed these people nothing. Anyway, what happened here was meaningless compared to the clash of armies at Santiago.…

Tom watched the dying of the light and wondered who would live to see the dawn. Looking into the red sun, he was reminded of a most unsettling dream: the hawk with wings of blood, diving toward him, sinking its talons into his breast. The image suddenly filled his mind with such ferocity, he nearly toppled from the wall. It ended as quickly as it began.

He was emotionally drained, his spirit buffeted by the storm raging within, which refused him rest and in the end had changed him over the course of these days and nights.

“I have seen evil today,” he said aloud. There was more to the darkness that stole across the valley than the setting of the sun. The image wasn't lost on him, that the line of shadow devouring the valley had its origin in Rosarita, where Captain Zuloaga and his cohorts waited and watched. It was time to act.

As the stars began to fill the sky, Tom rejoined his companions, motioning for even the two men keeping watch by the wagon to join him. The day's events had marked each person, and in the firelight it showed in their grave expressions and sober voices.

Tom leaned forward until his features were plainly visible to one and all. “Around midnight we need to be ready to ride. Have the wagon team hitched and your saddles cinched.”