The Arrow Keeper’s Song (48 page)

But it was asking a lot of such men to make a stand against their own neighbors if a mob came against the jail. Fortunately, the fieldstone walls were built thick and strong. That was some security. Of course, once the door was breached …

As for Clay Benedict, Tom sensed the man's turmoil, the divisions in his soul that were warring with one another. And why was the sheriff so dismayed that Willem had remained in the area instead of running off to Texas or the Far West? Clay was anything but overjoyed to have apprehended Willem Tangle Hair. Again, why?

Perhaps Clay was merely hoping to avoid a confrontation with Luthor White Bear and his mob of relatives and supporters. On the other hand, the sheriff might know more than he was letting on about Willem's guilt … or innocence.

Tom opened the door for Joanna, then joined her outside on the raised porch that ran the length of the sheriff's office and jail. It was no more than a fifteen-minute walk from Luthor's mercantile uphill to the porch steps of the jail.

“What is it, Tom?” Joanna asked. She glanced up as blue lightning shimmered to the north, followed by the rumble of thunder like distant drums.

“It won't take them long to get here.”

“Who?”

“Friends … neighbors, for the most part … but they'll be a mob, with the mind and heart and soul of a mob, coming for Willem and ready to go through anyone who stands in their way.” Tom started down from the porch, his collar turned up around his neck, his black hair streaming past his cheek. He realized she wasn't with him and looked around for her.

“You'll be standing in their way, won't you, Tom?” she said, more as a statement of fact than a question.

“My dreams have told me this should be done, for
this
I am here, to make my people live again.” From any lips but his, the words of madness. “The power of the Mahuts no longer protects and nourishes the Southern Cheyenne. We must be renewed if we are to walk the Great Circle again. Tomorrow may be the first step.” He walked up to her and held out his hand. “Will you walk with me, Doctor Cooper?”

Ignoring his hand, she descended the few shallow steps without any assistance. He knew she would—predictability was one of her charms. The woman was strong and refused to be coddled. Even on the way back to the infirmary, though she enjoyed his company, Joanna couldn't help inching ahead.

The three lanterns lit the area around the woodpile, providing Seth enough light by which to chop wood. He had noticed Joanna was getting low on fuel for the stoves and thought he could put his time there to good use while Tom and the doctor were off to check on Willem. Also, this provided him the perfect opportunity to stay outside and avoid Red Cherries, whose presence at the clinic had him completely baffled. The woman had literally taken over the responsibility of cleaning and cooking for the doctor, which was a real improvement. He had never met a better or kinder person than Joanna—but intelligence and wit and compassion had nothing to do with boiling coffee, or making beans or stew, or frying chicken or rabbit, all talents that had eluded the doctor. So Red Cherries was a welcome addition, and at least Joanna wouldn't accidentally poison some cowpoke after setting his leg and then inviting him to dinner.

Seth was pleased to see Red Cherries away from Panther Hall and the influence of Jerel Tall Bull. It shamed him to think he had contributed to her downfall long ago. The notion of being alone with her made him weak at the knees and reawakened in him the desire for drink, an ever-present demon he continually had to tame. So instead of raiding the doctor's liquor cabinet he remained outside after brushing down the horses and seeing them fed, and satiated his cravings with a shot of hard physical labor.

Seth found his rhythm by the third log, the ax flashing in the lantern light, biting into the wood, splitting it in two, again and again. The pile of logs began to shrink. After the better part of an hour Seth laid the ax aside, gathered an armful of kindling, and carried it over to the wood box near the back door. He had just completed his second trip when Red Cherries opened the back door and caught him at the steps.

Her clothes were simple now, a beige woolen skirt, a homespun apron, and a cream-colored cotton blouse buttoned at the throat. None of the clothes from her former profession would have suited the infirmary.

“Hard work can make a man thirsty. Come sit a spell. You've earned your coffee and bread.”

“Just coffee,
Kanee-estse,”
Seth replied, closing the firebox. It made a good bench seat for him to rest upon. He dusted his hands on his trouser legs and gratefully accepted the mug of coffee the woman handed him. She sat on the steps and looked out across the backyard and the houses beyond, whose windows glowed amber. “You surprised to find me here?”

“I about fell off my horse.”

Red Cherries softly chuckled. “Yeah. Me too. I reckon if it wasn't for Willem's capture, my being here would be the talk of the town.”

“It'll take a while for some, but they'll come around. There's no law I know of says you owe Tall Bull a damn thing. You did right by leaving. That kind of life is a rough cut down a short road.”

“You didn't think so when your hair was dark,” Red Cherries pointedly observed.

“Hell, I didn't
think
at all—that was my trouble. And I brought misfortune to myself … and to you. I do regret that,
Kanee-estse.”

Red Cherries studied Seth's features. They had been lovers once, witless, foolish, deliriously passionate lovers whose union had sowed the seeds of dishonor and pain. But that was behind them.

“Ha. The sun has already set on those days. It is the morning we must face.”

“Yes,” Seth agreed, and drained the mug. When he handed it back to the woman on the steps, their fingertips brushed, a fleeting press of flesh, a moment come and gone. “We have room out at the ranch. That is, if things don't work out for you here in town. You could stay with us.”

Red Cherries shot him a suspicious glance.

“No, I mean …” Seth struggled to rephrase his offer. “You could have my room, and I'd bunk in with Tom or in the front room. At least until we built you a place of your own. And you could help out with running things … or just do whatever you like.”

The woman smiled and shook her head. “I think I'll try my own way for a while,” she said, standing and smoothing her apron with her hands.

“Can't say I blame you,” said Seth as he started back toward the woodpile.

“Seth … maybe on a warm spring day I might take a ride out your way and see what you've done,” Red Cherries called out to him.

The man glanced around at her. “Be my honor to show you.” Then he continued along the well-worn path to the pile of logs with which one farmer had paid his medical bill. On the plains in winter, firewood was always a welcome currency. Seth heard the rumble of thunder as the wind began to gust. Suddenly he heard the rush of wings and looked up as a horned owl swooped past on its nocturnal quest for food. But to Seth this was more than a natural occurrence, no mere coincidence. The town was on the brink of an outbreak of violence. Some night soon Luthor's friends and family would become a mob in search of vengeance. Blood was going to flow like rain. The owl had warned him in its passing. And owls don't lie.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

T
ROUBLE CAME FROM THE NORTH
,
LIKE THE STORMS THAT SPAT
fire and scoured the plains, the wooded flanks of Council Hill, and the town below with a weeping wind. There were songs for days like this, mournful songs hinting at the violence and the death that men are often blind to and, in their ignorance, unleash.

A fine, misting rain began to fall before sunrise and brought a gray dawn, beginning the kind of day no man or woman cares to trade for a warm feather bed and a willing partner. But Olivia Flannery had children to teach, and to her that was more of a vocation than a job. And though she hated to quit Clay's side, she crawled out of bed, paid a visit to the privy, and returned complaining of the cold rain and miserable mud. A rumble of thunder underscored her sentiments. However, the storm never quite broke, and the rain tapered off before she had finished dressing. When she emerged from behind her dressing screen, all prim and proper and ready to stare down the older boys who continually attempted to disrupt class, she found Clay still in bed, propped against a pillow, a bottle of whiskey balanced on his hairy chest, a glass tumbler in his hand. He poured a drink and downed it in a single motion.

All night a dark mood had hovered over him like some harpy circling on black wings of misery and pain. But he refused to share his torment, keeping his revelations for the “friend” in the bottle.

“Rotgut liquid always has an answer,” Olivia remarked. “Trouble is, its always the wrong one. I know. We Irish have been looking in the same place for years. My father and brothers, lump them all together and you'd still not have enough to make one sober man.”

“Don't lecture me.” Clay poured another drink and continued to stare at the foot of the bed. “I'm not one of your students.”

“No. But if you were, I swear we'd have a proper row.” The schoolmarm crossed to the bed and sat on the corner, placing a hand on his ankle. “Are you still leaving for the oil fields? You will be careful, won't you? Those roustabouts are a hard crew, and even a thief could be dangerous if you corner him.”

“There hasn't been any theft,” Clay muttered.

“But last night you said …”

“What my father told me to say!” Clay drained the contents of his glass. The whiskey was burning a hole in his gut. Now, if it would only deaden his thoughts. “But I might as well stay here. It's as good a place as any. Just so long as I'm out of the way when Luthor's mob comes for Tangle Hair.” He met the teacher's stare. “Don't worry … Abram and Benje will take off at the first sign of trouble. Those two aren't about to put themselves in harm's way for Willem.”

“Oh, my God, a lynching … no, Clay, no. You cannot be a party to such a thing. Why it's … it's …”

“Murder. Of course it is. Oh, some will call it justice served. But I'll know—more than anyone except Charlotte's killer—that tonight an innocent man will die.”

Olivia heard the clock in the outer room strike seven times. It was time to start for the schoolhouse, but she could not tear herself away from the man she loved, not after what he had revealed.

Clay held up the bottle and sloshed its contents. He still had plenty, but then again, the day was young. The minutes would fly and the night of shame would begin. His gaze settled on the star pinned to the vest he had tossed onto the bed the night before. That silly piece of metal had meant a lot to him over the past months. The badge had provided him something his life had lacked. It was impossible to pinpoint the moment he had begun to take the responsibility seriously—things just sort of evolved. A store was robbed, he caught the thieves. A horse was stolen, he tracked it down. In short, he did the job and handled it well; when he stood for the law, it meant something. Maybe this sense of honor had always been in him, though buried beneath the weight of his father's expectations. After tonight Clay could never wear the badge again. The life he had begun to dream of for himself would end as the lynch mob's noose tightened around Willem's throat.

“Innocent?” Olivia's hand gripped the blanket. “What do you mean?”

“Just that I know who really killed Charlotte White Bear.”

“But how?”

“Simple. The killer told me.”

Olivia wasn't sure she wanted to hear, yet she felt compelled to ask. “Who?”

Clay chuckled mirthlessly and poured another drink and, in a wavering voice, heavy with loss, spoke the name.

Two men walked side by side along the boardwalk fronting the buildings on Main Street. The rain had ended, at least for the time being, though the clouds threatened more precipitation later in the day. The advancing cold front had not gathered enough momentum to push it way south and so remained stationary over the territory while a second front hurled down from Canada.

Tom Sandcrane glanced aside at Father Kenneth. “You certain you don't want me to accompany you into the mercantile?”

“I see no purpose in it,” said the priest. “Besides, I have nothing to fear from Luthor. We are old friends.”

“He may not see it that way.”

“I will take my chances. Good luck with Allyn. And be wary of those four who rode into town this morning.”

Trouble from the north, Tom thought, where Panther Hall stood silent and shuttered against the elements. The Tall Bull brothers, Pete Elk Head, and John Iron Hail … what where they up to, why were they there? Tom had spied them from the window of Yaquereno's restaurant, where he was having a cup of coffee and a bowl of cobbler, engaged in a congenial conversation with the owner. James Yaquereno, like many of the merchants, hoped to avoid trouble and wanted nothing to do with the hard lot congregating in front of the mercantile.

“Are you listening to me?” asked the priest. “I have a feeling Jerel and his brother are on the prod.”

“Yeah,” Tom glumly replied, and his tone of voice revealed how hopeless he felt the situation really was. Joanna had returned from the jail that morning with news that Clay had supposedly left town to investigate a rash of thefts up at the oil fields. Tom did not believe this excuse for a minute. He was certain Allyn had ordered the sheriff out of Cross Timbers, practically inviting the mob to storm the jail. Tom was determined to find out the reason for Benedicts actions and to save his friend whatever the cost. He was disappointed in Benedict's son, though. Tom had sensed a change in Clay and expected more backbone from the sheriff.

Father Kenneth started across the street toward the mercantile. Tom Sandcrane tensed as Little Ned Scalp Shirt moved forward out of a cluster of twenty or so hard-looking rough-necks to intercept the priest, who kept up an animated conversation with the young man all the way to the front door. Then he vanished inside, having talked his way past Little Ned before the Cheyenne could get in a word. Tom breathed a sigh of relief and pressed on to the offices of Benedict Exploration and Development, where an officious clerk assured his visitor that Allyn Benedict had not come in that day, but if Tom would care to leave a message, he would personally deliver it to the president of the company.