The Arrow Keeper’s Song (49 page)

Tom excused himself and continued on to Benedict's house. The Tall Bull brothers were seated on the front porch, cups of coffee in their hands. Pete Elk Head lounged against one of the marble lions. John Iron Hail was just returning from the livery stable across the road. All four men wore rain slickers and carried Winchester rifles. No doubt they had revolvers hidden beneath their coats, but Tom started up onto the porch just the same. Curtis rose and placed himself in front of the mahogany double doors. Jerel stood, uncoiled his powerful physique, and plodded past the pillars, descending the steps until he came face-to-face with Tom.

“Mr. Benedict is a mite under the weather. He won't be seeing anyone today.”

“I thought you and Benedict ran together only at night. People might start wondering what you two have in common.” Tom stepped back and called out, “You hear me, Allyn? Can you afford to be seen with the likes of the Tall Bulls by the light of day?”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Curtis exclaimed, starting forward. His finger curled around the trigger of the Winchester. “We don't need to listen to this.”

Pete Elk Head, expecting trouble, began to crouch by the lion, bringing his own carbine to bear on Sandcrane. One quick shot and Tom would be lying facedown in the mud.

Jerel waved his brother back, then, shifting his focus, fixed Pete in an icy stare. The man by the lion relaxed and lowered his carbine.

“Yes, keep a tight rein on them,” Tom said. “Just as Allyn keeps one on you.”

“Perhaps it is the other way around,” Jerel said.

“Why did Allyn bring you to town?” Tom stepped back and looked up at the window overlooking the street. He could imagine Allyn behind the curtains, watching and waiting and plotting. “Why are you afraid of a trial, Allyn? Are you worried Red Cherries might tell what she knows about how you entertained Charlotte in the cabin behind the roadhouse?”

A few moments later the great doors were flung open, and Benedict, nattily dressed in his frock coat, shirt and vest, and tailored trousers, appeared in the doorway, his features flushed with anger. He was full of bluster and protest, a man caught in the web of his own lust.

“Damn you, Sandcrane, hold your tongue.”

“A scandalous affair with a Cheyenne girl might be just the sort of conduct that would kill a political career.”

“I will not permit this slander to continue,” Allyn snarled, becoming increasingly bellicose the longer Tom remained in front of his house. “Nothing of the kind ever happened. It will be my word against that of a whore's.”

“I think enough folks will believe her, Allyn. But, of course, if there is no trial, that information might not see the light of day. So you brought in Jerel and the rest to make certain Willem dies without ever standing before a judge.”

“You misjudge us, Tom. Mr. Benedict fears some kind of mob action could damage his property,” Jerel explained. “We are here to keep that from happening.”

John Iron Hail arrived and took up his place over by the second stone lion. He nodded to Allyn Benedict but reported to Jerel.

“Horses have been looked after,” he said. The Cheyenne touched the brim of his hat as he faced the man in the street. “Howdy, Tom.”

“John …” Tom nodded. He glanced up at Benedict, secure in his wealth, believing himself above the reach of lesser men, then looked back at John. “You're walking the wrong side. But there's still time to cross over.”

“Kind of muddy looking where you stand,” John laconically replied, rolling a cigarette. He found a match in his coat pocket, struck it on his rifle stock, lit the cigarette, and soon exhaled a cloud of tobacco smoke—all, possibly, a show for the benefit of the men with whom he rode.

“And hard going,” Tom added. “But it is the right path.”

“Maybe you better worry about yourself, Sandcrane. From where I'm standing, you're the one who's got a long walk up an empty street,” Allyn called down. “Now, get away from my house or I'll have you shot for trespassing.” He retreated inside and slammed the doors, as if to punctuate his threat.

Tom glanced toward town. Indeed, Cross Timbers seemed deserted. There was little traffic on Main Street or on the walkways. Everyone seemed to be waiting for the worst to happen, for an outbreak of violence. No one wanted to be caught outdoors when they could watch and wait from the safety of home or shop.

The only sign of life was the crowd in front of the mercantile, a gathering of angry, quarrelsome men, fueling their outrage and bracing their courage with copious amounts of whiskey. Come nightfall they'd have talked themselves into a lynching.

“Look at them,” Jerel said, drawing close. “Things are going to get ugly by sundown.”

“With your help, no doubt,” Tom said without facing the man.

“Maybe so. But none of it matters. We have more important business, you and I,” said Jerel. “When this is ended, remember, we will be waiting for you. In the clearing beyond Panther Hall.”

“‘We'?”

“Yes. Blood Hawk and I.” Jerel softly laughed. “The Maiyun have brought you home to die. I, who have walked in your soul, know this.”

Tom's blood ran cold at Jerel's words. Nightmares of old filled him with doubts. Yet he refused to buckle before Jerel's steel-eyed stare. And when he spoke, it was in a voice so quiet that Jerel had to strain to hear. Yet that was power, to make a man lean forward, off balance, and listen.

“I am a singer. I too can walk on moonlight. Remember, the Old Ones are tricksters. Honor them, but do not trust them. We will see who the Maiyun have called by name.”

Tom stepped back and indicated the others with a wave of his hand. “Tell the white man who runs you I will be waiting at the jail. There will be no hanging tonight.” As if casually dismissing the threats he had heard, Sandcrane turned on his heels and started back into town, sensing his barbed words had struck home.

Jerel's features bunched and became ugly, his eyes narrowed into slits. Curtis left his position by the door and ambled forward to stand alongside his brother.

“What'd he say?”

“Nothing,” Jerel growled. He glanced over his shoulder at the stained-glass windows in the double doors. Jerel Tall Bull didn't care why Benedict wanted the half-breed dead. Allyn had paid him in gold to see that Luthor's mob didn't back down at the last minute, and that was all that mattered.

Lynching Willem Tangle Hair was a business matter, simple as that. But Tom Sandcrane was something else entirely. The man had to die. Of that there was no doubt; Jerel's own ghosts demanded it.

And killing him was going to be a pleasure.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

N
IGHT FELL AND THE WINDS OF CHANGE WERE RISING
. The sky shimmered with electric light, blue lightning that coruscated among the ugly thunderheads, and still the rain held while the town waited in fear of the coming storm.

Earlier that afternoon Tom and Seth had pushed a freight wagon in front of the jail to use as a makeshift barricade at the first muzzle flash. It wasn't much, but afforded a better field of fire than the jail itself. Despite the thick stone walls, the sheriff's office had too many blind sides; once trapped inside, the defenders could always be burned out. To the surprise of both father and son, Benje Lassiter and Abram Fielder had remained at their posts, though neither deputy looked thrilled with the prospect of facing down a lynch mob. Joanna had arrived at sundown, and for the past hour Tom had been trying to talk her into returning to the infirmary.

“What can I say to make you see how foolish it is for you to stay?” Tom was exasperated by her stubborn resolve to place herself in danger.

“Nothing that you haven't already said,” Joanna told him, pouring a cup of coffee for herself. The interior of the sheriff's office was filled with tension that arguing failed to alleviate. Abram and Benje had excused themselves and wandered outside with Seth, leaving the couple to hammer out their differences.

“Look, Joanna, there might be shooting. All it takes is one drunk to pull a gun, and we could have a real war on our hands.”

“I have been shot at before, or have you forgotten?” the woman firmly replied. “And if war breaks out, then all the more reason for me to stay.”

“Both of you are crazy,” Willem called from his cell. “I don't want your blood on my hands.”

Tom stood in the doorway to the cell block and saw his friend slumped forward, arms dangling through the bars. “You've got no say in this.”

“Both of you are stubborn. You're going to get yourselves killed, dammit,” Willem protested. It was clear the prisoner did not expect to see the sunrise.

“Not if I can help it,” Tom said, closing the door. Then, turning, he confronted Joanna for the last time. “You aren't going to leave, are you?”

“No.”

“At least stay inside.”

“I'll go where I am needed.”

Tom smiled despite himself and, realizing they were alone, reached out and pulled her to him and kissed her. Joanna was a willing recipient, her eyes gleaming in the lamplight and warm with affection for this man. It had been a long afternoon—the waiting had taken its toll, leaving him drawn and solemn looking. And yet that one kiss seemed to revive him, restoring the fire to his soul, renewing his determination.

He might have spoken what was in his heart at that moment but for Clay Benedict, who unexpectedly appeared in the doorway.

“Savaa-he!”
Tom exclaimed in his native tongue.

“Yeah, I'm a little shocked to be here myself,” Clay said.

He entered the office, followed by Seth Sandcrane and Benje Lassiter, the latter making no attempt to hide his relief at the sheriff's return. Abram remained on watch, standing upon the wagon bed and staring off toward the center of town. Clay headed for the gun rack and helped himself to a twelve-gauge shotgun, then crossed to his desk to search the side drawer for a box of shells.

“I heard you'd left for the oil fields,” Tom said.

“I hid out at Olivia Flannery's house,” the lawman replied. “Tried to crawl inside a bottle but couldn't find one big enough.” A couple days' growth of stubble, and eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, added to Clay's disheveled appearance. Neither Tom nor Seth looked any too rested, for that matter.

“I tried that myself,” Seth added. “Took me a hell of a long time to find out it couldn't be done.”

Clay glanced in the man's direction, then nodded and shoved a handful of shotgun shells into his coat pocket. He found a couple of extra tin stars in the top drawer.

“I don't suppose either of you intend to leave.” His answer was plainly visible in the expression of the two Cheyenne men in the office. “Might as well make your being here official,” Clay added, handing the stars to Tom and Seth.

Tom picked up the deputy's badge and pinned it to his coat. His father quickly followed suit. Clay tossed a set of keys to Benje.

“Release the prisoner,” the lawman said.

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“We gonna let him go just like that?”

“Why not? He's an innocent man.”

Lassiter's eyes widened. Tom did not seem as surprised by the sheriff's announcement. He filled a tin cup with black coffee and placed it on the lawman's desk. Clay muttered his thanks, took the coffee in his trembling harrds, and gulped the steaming liquid.

“And you know who did murder Charlotte White Bear,” Tom said.

Clay nodded and took another swallow of the bitter brew. “My father had just left a meeting at the bank when he saw Charlotte riding down Commerce. He followed her to the church and confronted her in the barn. Charlotte was furious. They had been together several times out at Panther Hall, in the guest house Jerel keeps there for those who require privacy. Father had been trying to end the matter … but Charlotte wouldn't hear of it. She wanted to confess to Father Kenneth all that had happened and how she was carrying my father's child.” Clay stared at the contents of his cup, unable to face the people in the room. “My father must have gone crazy. They argued and then his hands were around her throat. And she was dead. He came to me that night, desperate. That's the only time I can remember him so frightened. I told him to wait, to see what happened when her body was discovered. How could I arrest my own father? And then word spread round about Willem's quarrel with Charlotte at Panther Hall, and everyone just assumed he had killed her. As long as he was free, I had time to wait. I could put on a show of looking for Willem and bide my time.” He finished the coffee and looked up at Tom.

“He
is
my father.…”

Willem emerged from the cell looking utterly confused by the turn of events Tom motioned toward the gun rack.

“Better grab a rifle. You might have to convince Luthor's people at gunpoint that you had nothing to do with Charlotte's death.”

“Will somebody please tell me what's going on?” the red-haired breed grumbled, but did as he was told.

“Appears you're a free man, just like I said,” Benje Lassiter told him. “Lucky, ain't you?”

“Hey!” Abram called out from the wagon. “They're coming! A whole dad-blamed army of 'em!”

Tom started toward the door. “Willem, you better stay put. And keep Joanna with you.”

“Now, wait a second,” Joanna exclaimed. But Tom had already vanished through the doorway, followed by Seth and Benje Lassiter. Tom, however, reappeared, his wiry physique filling the doorway as he addressed the man behind the desk.

“You've come this far, Clay. Are you going all the way?”

Allyn Benedict's son glanced aside at the Cheyenne. He set the cup down, slid back his chair, and slowly stood. Cradling the twelve-gauge scattergun in the crook of his arm, he stepped around the desk and started out of the room. “All the way,” he said.