The Arrow Keeper’s Song (46 page)

I
remember the firelight, the
shadows
on the walls, the drums beating like the heart of Maheo, the faces painted white for morning, red for thunder, yellow the color of sunset, and back, the killing storm, the stayed hand of death …
.

The wraith-hawk came diving for him out of the deepest recesses of his mind, sweeping aside the other memories, its red eyes gleaming hatred, its talons once more eager to tear him limb from limb, to rip his heart out. Or his soul. The image blurred as Tom slammed facedown into the earth. The impact broke his concentration, loosed the hold of this horrid hallucination. Tom spat dirt and dust, then rose to his knees and sat on his haunches, gingerly rubbing his bruised cheek-bone, still uncertain what exactly had happened.

Old terrors threatened to loose themselves once more upon his already damaged soul. When would it end? There was no doubting that the wraith's hellish resurrection was directly related to Tom Sandcrane's homecoming. Tom crawled unsteadily to his feet, shook the dirt from his frame, and gulped in several bitterly cold lungfuls of air until his head cleared.

“I am here,” he whispered to the stillness, looking around at the circle of darkness. If the Maiyun were listening, let them hear. And if they chose not to reveal themselves, so be it. The time had come to find a bed and a fire to warm himself by. Summoning his courage, he turned his back on the gloomy interior and headed into the night.

A few moments later, and he was standing outside in the waning moonlight. As night's black cloak draped itself across the hillside, Tom Sandcrane made the best use of the fading moonlight to retrace his footsteps over a patch of snow. He crossed the clearing and picked up the overgrown path as it wound through the barren trees.

Tom had found no answers on the hillside. Indeed, the confrontation with Jerel Tall Bull had been the last thing he'd expected and left him utterly confounded, yet the effort had been worthwhile just the same. After all, he had learned at least two things.

One, the apparition that haunted his heart and mind had a name.
Blood Hawk
.

And two, it was time to start carrying a gun.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

A
KNOCKING AT THE BACK DOOR ROUSED
J
OANNA FROM HER
sleep. She sighed, a deep, sibilant exhalation that aptly expressed her very deep regret at being awakened and dragged from a rather sensual dream. She propped her head up and reached for the gold watch and fob she'd left on the dark-stained mahogany end table next to her bed. She opened the engraved cover and stared at the watch face.

Seven twenty-seven … oh my!

Could it be Tom at this hour? The dream had been of him. She blushed with the memory and laughed softly. Now, that was one dream whose contents he would never learn. Well, then again, maybe he just might, depending on how things worked out. She was worried for him; the visions, some of which he described, had chilled her blood. He had revealed enough of his intentions for her to know that Tom Sandcrane could be tempting trouble.

Visions … in another time or place he could be taken for a madman with such talk, but here in Oklahoma Territory things were different. This raw, primal frontier was evolving into a whole new world. But the gods of those who once had ruled this land died hard. It was enough to boggle her own sense of Christianity. However, as Father Kenneth often liked to quote from Shakespeare, “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in all your philosophies.” Joanna couldn't swear the priest's quote was entirely accurate—she had not read
Hamlet
in years—but the words sounded right, and she had come to accept their basic truth.

For the past three days Tom Sandcrane had ridden into town to keep a standing dinner engagement with her. Every night since his first visit, they had either prepared the evening meal in her kitchen or taken dinner at Yaquereno's. Of course, the relationship had not gone unnoticed. He was a Cheyenne and she was white, which offended the sensibilities of some of the locals.

And yet, as she was the only physician in the area, much of her conduct was overlooked or taken with the proverbial grain of salt. Joanna Cooper had also earned the respect of many of her neighbors, who would not tolerate any malicious gossip. In time those townspeople who worried about such matters would no longer care and move on to other scandals.

The knocking resumed. Whoever was at the back door was determined to see her.
Bang bang bang
… the glass pane rattled and the frame shook; the doorknob gave a furious turn.

“All right … I'm coming!” she called out, and swung her legs over the side of the bed, pulling on her dressing gown as she padded to the door. She released the latch, opened the door, and stepped back, surprised at the identity of her visitor. Red Cherries stood in the shadow of the house, a few feet from the door. The prostitute had wrapped her slender frame in a woolen shawl. Her features were hidden behind a smear of rouge and face powder. She wore a dress of indigo satin with silk ruffles across the low-cut bodice and torn pale silk trimming at the hem. Her long black hair was partly unpinned, and several strands fell across her shoulders and along her neck.

“Oh, it's you,” Joanna said. She stared at the Cheyenne woman for a moment, then came to her senses and invited the woman into the kitchen. “Pardon me. Please come in.”

Red Cherries hesitated.

“Please. I'm freezing,” Joanna said, shivering. She was barefoot, and the cold morning air was pouring into the kitchen. Red Cherries nodded and then accepted the woman's offer.

“I left my horse around front. I looked through the window and didn't see anybody, so I figured you might still be asleep.” Red Cherries glanced around at the kitchen, then ran her hand along the table and took a seat. “Out at Panther Hall me and the girls would just be getting to bed. To sleep, that is.” She lowered her eyes, for her meaning wasn't lost on the physician. Joanna Cooper nodded.

“Yes, then … uh, well. If you'll excuse me for a moment, I will just find my slippers. Make yourself comfortable.” Joanna retreated to her bedroom and closed the door. “Amazing,” she muttered to herself. “What on earth …?” She slipped out of her sleeping gown and into a chemise, cotton hose, a dark-blue woolen dress, and a cotton blouse with a row of tiny pearllike buttons down the ruffled front. She tugged on a pair of half boots and tied back her auburn hair with a leather string. By the time Joanna had finished dressing, she could smell the aroma of coffee. She arrived in the kitchen to find that Red Cherries had built a fire in the stove, filled a pot with water and coffee, and set it on to boil.

Red Cherries checked the pot and shook her head. “Coffee isn't ready yet.” She glanced in the direction of the skillet. “I could fry you up some ham. Maybe make some fry bread.”

“No … just coffee when it's ready.” Joanna sat at the table and folded her hands on the dark, wine-colored surface. “But help yourself,” she added, finding this a most peculiar visit.

“No. I'll take some coffee, though. It's not as cold as it's been, but I still took a chill.” She chuckled ruefully. “Didn't think to bring my coat. But I've always done things the hard way.” She glanced at the pot as if willing the coffee to be ready to drink.

“It's probably strong enough,” Joanna said. The prostitute nodded and filled two cups, sliding one across the table to the physician. Joanna nodded her thanks. “Red Cherries … this is an unexpected visit. Are you ill? Another of the girls?”

The Cheyenne woman shook her head no and gulped the hot liquid. “I couldn't bury Clarice. The ground was too hard, froze hard as rock out there. I tried but couldn't get much dug, not enough to cover her proper.” She kept her head lowered, staring at her reflection floating on the surface of the contents of her cup. “Jerel gave orders to have her dragged off and burned. Like some empty crate, or trash from the road-house. She didn't have anyone, no one to say words for her. And maybe she was a whore, but she was a fair and honest whore, and no man ever paid her that he didn't get his poke's worth.” Red Cherries sniffed and wiped her shawl across her features, smearing the rouge and dabbing the moisture from her eyes. She swallowed, exhaled, and managed to regain her composure. It had been a long time since she'd cried.

“My God, he burned her?”

“Pete Elk Head hauled her off in an old blanket, soaked it in coal oil, and set her afire.” Red Cherries' expression hardened. “I stayed by her side until the fire died out and all there was left was ashes and bone. I made up my mind right then and there I'd had my fill. There was a time I thought Jerel Tall Bull liked me. I even let him take me when it suited him. But none of it mattered to him—I was just another whore, that's all. Like poor Clarice. Damn men!” Red Cherries slammed the empty coffee cup down on the table. “I don't want to go back. And end up like Clarice—consumptive, coughing my lungs out, then dead and burned like yesterday's garbage. Miss Joanna, let me stay here. I can work, I can help you, you'll see. Blood doesn't scare me, and I've sewn up my share of wounds.”

“Oh, I don't know …” Joanna said, somewhat alarmed, and taken aback by the woman's suggestion.

“I've seen your extra beds.”

“Those are for patients.”

“I can sleep on the floor in the front when there's folks staying over. I can cook. And when it comes to caring for a man, who knows better than one of us doves how to ease a boy's ailments?”

“Your treatment is not exactly what I would consider proper practice.”

“You'd never want for customers.”

“No, I can see that,” Joanna laughed.

“Then I can stay? I'll be a help.”

“But, Red Cherries … well …”

“I'll not go back to the Tall Bulls. Of course, they could make trouble for you. I wouldn't blame you for being afraid of them.”

Red Cherries stood and took a step toward the door.

“No!” Joanna spoke right on cue, galvanized into action by the prostitute's last remark, one that the Southern Cheyenne woman knew would elicit a response from the proud doctor. “No … you can stay. For a little while. Until we figure out what to do.”

Red Cherries brightened. “I'll be a big help. You'll see.”

Joanna closed her eyes a moment, envisioning the infirmary as the settlements only bordello. I
must be mad
, she thought. “Please, Red Cherries. Not too big a help.”

The navy-issue thirty-eight-caliber Colt spat flame three times in rapid succession, and the log in the gunsight jetted splinters of bark and wood slivers. Three slugs dead center. Powder smoke curled upward in the wintry sunlight.

The air was chilly, but not uncomfortably so. And with the barn completed Tom had taken a few moments for himself, strolling off from the ranch house with his gunbelt slung across his shoulder. He'd followed the tree-lined creek for a couple of hundred feet until an appropriate target presented itself, a cottonwood log abandoned in the mud by the last flash flood to turn the lazy creek into a raging torrent.

Then again, maybe it was the solitude he sought. Ever since Tom had told his father of the encounter with Jerel Tall Bull, Seth had been as protective as a mother hen, constantly on the lookout for his son, following him about the ranch and worrying into the night over what he considered Tom's casual response to Jerel's threats. Seth was all too familiar with Tall Bull's history and his family's connection with the Sacred Arrows. Blood Hawk, according to Tom's father, was a name to be reckoned with and nothing to take lightly.

Tom's description of his own dreams and the presence of the wraith-hawk when he lay wounded in Cuba and now here in Oklahoma only heightened Seth's concern. The elder Sandcrane had begun to fear for the safety of his son and the night before, on the porch, had even hinted that Tom ought to curtail his visit. But the choice was no longer Tom's alone, for he had set his feet upon the path the Maiyun had revealed, and he would follow it to the end, no matter the cost. That way, dead or alive, he would at last know peace.

He aimed and squeezed off the other three rounds, the checkered grip scraping the palm of his hand—
blam blam blam
—in rapid succession. Wood chips scattered over the opposite bank or floated down the gold-splashed surface of the creek. Tom lowered the revolver, and the swing-out cylinder allowed him to eject the shells easily. He tucked the barrel under his left arm and reloaded. The waters of Coyote Creek gurgled merrily underfoot.

“Not bad shooting,” Philo Underhill laconically observed
.

“Huh, better than you could ever do,” said Tully, squatting on a nearby log
.

“Don't you go giving me a hard time, you Creek bastard. Anyway, what would a plowboy like you know about anything? You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn from the inside.”

“Now, see here, you sidewinding no-account half-breed …!” Nobody could muster up a good case of indignation better than Tully Crow
.

“Both of you pipe down,” Tom said, closing the revolver with a flip of his wrist. Tully always looked as if he could use a meal, and Philo, broad and sleepy-eyed, was a devil with the ladies, which drove his companion mad with jealousy. How could such a big, ugly lout attract the women? It was more than Tully could fathom. And both men had taken credit for Tom's success in the brigade as if he had reached the rank of sergeant solely through their intercession on his behalf
.

“You'll spoil my aim,” Tom added
.

His arm shot out, the revolver an extension of that arm, his finger curled around the trigger, the gunsight centering on the log. Only this time there was a red-haired man standing by the target, his arms upraised, holding a Winchester carbine over his head, his freckled features split by a care-worn grin.