Vengeance Road (27 page)

She gives me a look that burns. She knows I'm just going on rumors and what I's read in Yankee papers.

“I saved you in Phoenix,” I add. “You owe me a life.”

“And you want it to be his?”

“You ain't my scout no more. Yer not gonna be round to save me if I need it later. But he needs it right now. Jesse needs this.”

Lil frowns a long moment. “I cannot make this decision, but I will ask those who can.”

She steps away to talk with the others. The women chatter in a language I can't follow. The children look between their parents and me, eyes wide. There ain't many men present, which makes me think they may be off on some trip, maybe even with their chief. The only males are a few younger ones—sentries, prolly, like the two who escorted me to camp—and a middle-aged Apache with his hair pulled into a long plait.

Finally, Lil comes back.

“Apache healing is physical
and
religious,” she says. “The injured and his friends and family must believe in Ussen and the Power he bestowed on our medicine man or the herbs will be less potent, maybe entirely useless. I know Jesse does not believe in these things. I know he does not value our culture or God. You may be no different. But Bodaway will see to him if this is how you wish me to fulfill my debt.”

“I do. Thank you, Lil. Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet. His life is in Ussen's hands.”

“I can pay, too,” I says. “Whatever the cost, I'll find the means.”

“There is no charge for Bodaway's Power, but a gift of gratitude is often given.” She motions for Jesse and I grab the burro's reins, leading him after her and 'cross their camp.

The medicine man's hut is draped with animal skins, while the others bear nothing on their woven branches. Soon as we're standing in the entrance, I know why. It's hot inside Bodaway's place, an internal heat trapped by the hides. The air smells wrong too, full of smoke and incense.

Bodaway's weathered face appears. He says something in Apache.

“This is a place for the sick only,” Lil says. “You must wait elsewhere.”

I watch two younger men carry Jesse inside. His head lolls limp. His shirt clings to his chest, heavy with blood. He already looks dead.

Lil touches my arm. “Come,” she says. “There is much to celebrate.”

Turns out Lil's arrived home on the eve of a ceremonial rite for one of the younger Apache maidens. She's come of age. There's to be feasting and song and high spirits, only I ain't invited.

As dusk falls, I stand on the outskirts of camp, watching as the Apache gather to witness the maiden step from the ceremonial hut. She looks barely thirteen. A smudge of white marks her forehead, and as she walks forward people toss something powdery into the sky. It flutters down like flour.

“Hoddentin,” Lil says, joining my side silent like a cat. “Pollen of cattails. It is used in all sacred ceremonies.”

I watch the young girl accept a drink from a shallow bowl. Polished stone beads hang from her neck and glint in the setting sun.

“She has fasted all day,” Lil tells me, “but now she eats. We all do.” She hands me a dinner of roasted mule deer and acorn-meal cakes, then disappears again to join the celebrations.

I sit on a rugged bit of rock and try not to devour my food so fast, it'll make me sick. The meat is warm and delicious—better than anything I's tasted in days—and the cakes surprisingly sweet. Filling, too. Mescal's poured and distributed among the Apaches. I don't got nothing but water, but it's no bother. I ain't dumb enough to indulge in mescal, even if it'd been offered to me. Suspicious gazes continue to flick my way from the camp, Apaches glaring and glowering and not at all pleased 'bout my presence. I'm still an outsider here, the enemy. I know my place.

After dinner, women shuffle off, cleaning up and readying for the night. The children bounce round the fire, playing a game with a stick that seems to involve balancing it on yer toe and kicking it into the air so that it lands on a marked bit of earth. One of the younger guards who greeted me on the mesa sits near the fire and begins speaking. The children abandon their game to come listen.

I watch all this from my perch on the rocks, but I watch Bodaway's wickiup more. My eyes keep drifting there 'gainst my will. Smoke's still snaking from the smoke hole, but no one's gone in or come out. If I strain real hard, I swear I can hear Bodaway chanting.

The injured and his friends and family must believe in Ussen and the Power he bestowed on our medicine man or the herbs will be less potent, maybe entirely useless.

It ain't working. Jesse hates Apache, and I don't believe much in their religion or folklore neither. I push to my feet, fast. The few men in camp go rigid, their shoulders squaring to mine. Lil looks up and frowns.

I scramble down from my rock perch, and when I reach the edge of camp she's waiting to greet me.

“I need to move,” I says. “I can't sit still no longer.”

Lil nods solemn. “I will find you when there is news.”

I leave without looking back, though I can feel the eyes of many following me. Watching my step over uneven stone, I keep moving away from camp, till I come to a ridge overlooking the Superstitions. The view is endless. Beneath twilight, it appears how I imagine an ocean would under storm, ragged and dark and teeming. Not that I's ever set my gaze on salt water before.

I stand there staring.

I ain't never put much faith in God. If there were someone up there watching over us, he wouldn't let things like this happen: Ma dying so young, Pa and Will hanging, that poor family burned alive in the coach. No almighty being would make a person like Waylan Rose and let him roam the earth free.

I can't bear the thought of being alone again. I know I's kept the Coltons at a distance, built a wall 'gainst anyone trying to get close, but I ain't sure why. I hate being alone. I hate that Pa's gone. I hate that I'm out here in the middle of a wild Territory without a hand to hold.

So I start talking. Not out loud, but in my mind.

I pray to God and heaven and every power that be, Ussen included. I ask for Pa to rest easy, and Will to do the same, and Jesse to be all right. I ask for forgiveness for all those souls I killed, on purpose and by mistake. Tom outside Walnut Grove, those poor men at the poker game, even the bastards in Rose's gang. It ain't like the killing's been making me feel better. I want the blood off my hands and my conscience washed clean. I wanna know I ain't as dark and twisted as Rose himself, and,
Christ, please Christ, God, Ussen, whoever is listening . . . Please let Jesse be fine.

From somewhere out 'cross the canyons, a coyote howls. I know it's just a wild dog. I know it ain't got the power to change nothing.

But I smile small, 'cus I feel like I's been heard.

When Lil finds me
a few hours later, I ain't moved from the ridge. It's dark now, stars spilled 'cross the sky like shards of silver. Back in the camp, I can hear the chant of song and drum, the soft whistle of a flute.

“He's waking,” Lil says.

I scramble to my feet. “And he'll make it?”

“He is lucky. The cut was long, but not deep. Much blood was lost, but Bodaway treated the wound with nopal and lay a clean cloth down after stitching. Herbs are chasing the heat from his brow.”

I's been holding my breath this whole time, and I exhale long. She holds out a lump of cloth I recognize as my shirt, which I grab eagerly, suddenly aware of how cold I am. I slip it on, cringing as the material grazes my sunburnt arms and bandaged shoulder. Jesse's blood's left a faint stain on the front, but the flannel's dry now. And soft. Someone must've cleaned it. Maybe Lil.

“I can walk him to you,” she offers. “If he feels well enough.”

“Thanks, Lil,” I says. “Liluye.”

Her chin jerks sharp, bringing her gaze to meet mine.

“I didn't say it right?”

She dismisses the question with a head shake. “You said it. That alone is a gift.”

I look at her fully. She is beautiful in a way I ain't never seen before. Stoic and sure beneath the moonlight, posture held haughty. Her dark eyes gleam like the polished stones round her neck. A tiny scar marks her right cheek, and I wonder how she got it.

Liluye smiles small and disappears. When she returns, I realize I'm pacing and stop cold. She walks Jesse to me and leaves again without another word.

Standing before me, Jesse Colton don't look like himself. He's pale and his shoulders slouch. Dark circles sag beneath his eyes. His entire being looks beaten and worn. Even his usually squinty eyes don't have the energy to pinch half shut. His blood-encrusted shirt hangs open, partially unbuttoned, and in the pale moonlight I can make out the bandage wrapped round his chest.

“Hi,” I says.

He don't even look at me, just keeps his gaze on the dirt between our boots. I could reach out and touch him, but he feels so far off.

“Jesse?”

He drops to his knees.

“Are you hurt? Do you need something?”

He glances up at me, and I know it ain't a physical pain. This is a cut that runs deeper, a scar that won't never fade. I can see the loss on his features, feel it in my chest like it were my own sibling stolen.

I crouch beside him. He's staring at his hands, which rest 'gainst his thighs, palms turned to the heavens.

“Jesse, I'm so sorry.”

“It's my fault.” His voice is dry and parched, like he's screamed it hoarse. “I got him killed. I—”

“I dragged you into it. You were tangled in this mess since I showed up at yer ranch.”

“You tried to make us leave.”

“But I struck that deal in Phoenix. I let you help me at the saloon, asked for yer guns 'gainst Rose, had you ride with me into these mountains.”

“I'm a grown man, Kate. I made my own decisions and can claim responsibility for 'em. I didn't have to do any of it, but I wanted the gold. I chose to ride this path, to take the journal, to keep going. Even when Will were saying he had a bad feeling and didn't like it, I pushed on. And look where it got us. Look where it got
him!
”

“Jesse . . .”

“Goddamn it!” He grabs a rock and heaves it off the ridge. “Goddamn it.” He keeps saying it, over and over, only each one sounds weaker than the next, till they're nothing but whispers. Till he's coming undone before me. Tears stream down his cheeks and it rips something open in my chest, 'cus Jesse Colton don't cry. He squints and jokes and criticizes and always has a plan. He ain't supposed to unravel.

“Jesse.”

But he keeps making that awful sound, that pitiful moan, more animal than human. He won't look at me. Not when I say his name. Not when I touch his hand. Not even when I put my palm to his cheek.

“I shoulda died too.”

“You don't mean that.”

“I wish I never woke up.”

“Jesse, no.”

“I don't deserve to be alive. I fail everyone. I should be dead, I should be dead, I should be—”

I lean forward and crush my lips to his, drowning out the words. He flinches, pulls away.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't've done that.”

He's staring at me like he's seen a ghost.

“I don't want you dead, Jesse. You understand me? I don't wanna hear you talk like that, not ever again. You don't deserve to be dead any more than Will. Or yer ma or my pa or so many other folks that get taken before their time.”

He don't say nothing.

What a dumb thing to do. What a stupid, desperate, dumb decision. But at least he ain't making that noise no more.

“Why aren't you furious with me?” he asks after a long moment. “I stole the journal and you came for me anyway. You saved me.”

“Bodaway saved you.”

“But I stole the journal.”

“I know why you did it.”

“Huh,” he says. Jesse turns toward the horizon, dark beneath the sleeping sky.

“Jesse?”

“No more talking. Just sit with me?”

He reaches out, tentatively taking my hand.

And I let him.