The Arrow Keeper’s Song (52 page)

But the next flash of lightning would make him an easy target for Jerel's carbine. There were stories of the Sacred Arrows, how the tribe had been protected from pursuing enemies through the power of the Mahuts. Clutching the bundle to his chest, Tom began to chant; though the deafening roar of the rain-swollen creek obscured his voice, he mouthed the words all the same, hearing them in his mind:

“Power is in me, birth and death,

Sacred is the way of my truth.

Swift as the eagle, strong as the eagle,

from the four skies I am coming.

I will shelter my people.”

At that moment shimmering fire lit the sky, bathing the creek in its lurid glow. Not twenty feet away Jerel Tall Bull stood on the edge of the riverbank, staring right at Tom, who tensed, bracing himself for the bullet, and continued his chant. Jerel held his fire and then, apparently confused, began searching the bank a few yards upstream.

Tom dug in his heels and started to crawl, working his way up the bank. He held the bundle with his teeth to free his right arm, and the going became easier. Slowly, taking his time, he worked his way up the treacherous wall of clay and mudslick stones, distancing himself from the deadly torrent. Near the top of the bank he checked his holster. The long-barreled Colt was gone. But his sore ribs reminded Tom of the second revolver he had tucked away in his coat pocket. Unfortunately, he could not remember reloading the weapon after the fight at the jail. He glanced in Jerel's direction. The man was several yards away but walking toward him, carbine held waist-high.

Tom dragged out the Colt thirty-eight, for a heart-stopping moment nearly lost it in his muddy grip, flipped open the cylinder, emptied the shells, and began pulling cartridges from his belt loops and sliding them into the cylinder. One-two-three.

“You!” Jerel shouted. The carbine cracked, a bullet whined overhead.

Tom swung the cylinder shut and climbed onto solid ground, rising to one knee, the Sacred Bundle on the ground before him. It was stained with mud and water and blood. Jerel was firing, he could see the muzzle flash, but all Tom heard were the voices of warriors surrounding him, voices chanting, crying down the corridors of time and calling him by name.

Years later, as an old man, revered by his people and surrounded by his friends and the children of his friends, Tom Sandcrane would tell the story of the way it was that night, kneeling in the mud, his gun firing though he had not consciously squeezed the trigger, the Colt thirty-eight recoiling in his grasp. His arm was not his own, his hand belonged to the “others,” they centered him, held him up, and aimed the weapon.

The story might grow, but the kernel of truth would remain the same. Tom would recount how Jerel had stopped in his tracks before the first bullet ever struck him, how Jerel Tall Bull, in those final few seconds of his life, must have been given the Vision, the Truth. Still as a statue, a look of awe and terror on his face, the man at last beheld the heart of the mystery he had struggled to command and that, in the end, had destroyed him. Jerel was dead long before the bullets struck him—one-two-three—in the chest, pushed him over the creekbank, and flung his lifeless body into the flash floods crushing embrace.

E
PILOGUE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

I
N THE MORNING THE PEOPLE OF
C
ROSS
T
IMERS AND THE
S
OUTHERN
Cheyenne on both sides of Council Hill woke to the sign of prayer smoke drifting above the treetops, a lazy spiral against a limitless expanse of azure sky. The storms had played themselves out, in their wake the clear, cool air carried the scent of an early spring, a rebirth for the land and for the People who dwelled upon the land. A voice rode the trail of prayer smoke, weaving a song that echoed over the lonely land and stirred the hearts of a people asleep. Men turned their eyes to the hillside, to the Council House at the summit; women and children alike were caught up in the spell and listened in respectful silence. Elders stumbled forward, drawn by the magic in the voice.

Joanna heard and, standing in her backyard, saw Seth, his eyes pouchy from lack of sleep, stumble from the barn where he had been tending the horses. An expression of such peace washed over his features that Joanna nearly wept at the sight of it. Tom was alive and whole again. And Red Cherries, she who was lost, appeared at the back door of the infirmary and, looking out upon the sunrise of her own new life, began to laugh, a girlish laugh, almost innocent. Seth glanced at Joanna, who smiled with understanding and watched him leave the yard as he began walking toward the hillside. Joanna listened. A familiar sound caught her attention, faint on the breeze, the tap-tap-tapping of a distant drum, recalling the vision that had brought her home to the wilds of an untamed land.

The voice called out and sang so that the world would not end and so that the Southern Cheyenne would never die, but live the old ways and the new, setting their feet upon the white road and the red.

The hand of Maheo, the All Father, appeared in the center of the Sacred Fire; Tom Sandcrane's features were etched in stark relief by the brightness of the apparition. The heartbeat of Maheo filled the air and caused the earth to tremble. The Maiyun, Those Who Have Gone Before, leaped soundlessly one moment, gyrated madly the next, as if to distract the singer from his ritual.

Once Tom might have seen merely flames and shadows cast by sunlight, or heard no more than the tapping drum he held. But no longer. He had walked the Great Circle and learned to see what lies beyond sight. He was alone now, but he knew in his heart it would not be so for long. Setting the drum aside, he gathered the Sacred Arrows in his hand and sang:

“Maheo. All-Father.

To the four winds I cast my

prayers. Upon the four winds

my voice drifts like smoke.

I hold my People as I hold the Arrows in my hand.

What am I? What am I?

Fire in the blood of
nako-he
, the Bear;

The crack of ice on frozen rivers,

The call of the wild geese.

I ride upon
hotama haa-ese
, the North wind.

Call me Spirit Catcher, Sweet Medicine,

By many names men have called me.

I am the Arrow Keeper's song.

I walk here.”

Ackowledgments

The Sacred Arrows, the Mahuts, are the Southern Cheyenne's most revered possessions. They are a direct gift from Maheo, the Supreme Deity, also called the All-Father, who presented the four arrows to Sweet Medicine inside a cave in Sacred Mountain, a place the
vehoe
(white men) call Bear Butte, near Sturgis, South Dakota. The Sacred Arrows are a direct link to the All-Father and thus are incredibly powerful objects that give the bearer supernatural dominance over the elements, the animals, and men. The presence of the Sacred Arrows among the Southern Cheyenne reinforces the union between the People and the All-Father and sets them apart from all other races. The Cheyenne devoutly believe that without the Sacred Arrows they would undergo great misfortune and cease to exist.

When presenting certain aspects of the ceremonies and prayers relating to the Sacred Arrows, I have purposefully altered my descriptions so as not to infringe on the customs and culture of the Cheyenne religion as it pertains to these holy relics. I do so out of affection and deep-rooted respect.

I have tried to make this work as authentic as possible and have drawn upon such acknowledged historians as George Bird Grinnell and Peter J. Powell, as well as my own personal experiences while living with the Cheyenne during the 1970's. I must also pay homage to my dear friend Ken Kania, a teacher of Native American culture and history at Dull Knife College and Labre Indian School on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Montana, for his invaluable assistance. Ken and his wife, Pam, continue to work tirelessly for the betterment of the Cheyenne People.

I wish to thank Aaron Priest, my agent and friend, who somehow keeps the lights lit when the night is darkest. Thanks also to the good folks at Bantam—especially Tom Beer, my editor, and Tom Dupree, for being accessible and true believers. No expression of gratitude is ever complete without the names of my parents, Ann and Paul Newcomb, and my brother, Jim, whose sustaining love helps me to keep the faith.

About the Author

Kerry Newcomb was born in Milford, Connecticut, but had the good fortune to be raised in Texas. He has served in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and taught at the St. Labre Mission School on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Montana, and holds a master's of fine arts degree in theater from Trinity University. Newcomb has written plays, film scripts, commercials, and liturgical dramas, and is the author of over thirty novels. He lives with his family in Fort Worth, Texas.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1995 by Kerry Newcomb

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

978-1-4804-7886-2

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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EBOOKS BY KERRY NEWCOMB

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