Magnificent Guns of Seneca 6 (5 page)

The farmer looked at the rest of the group, all of them smiling eagerly at him, all of them dripping with sincerity.
 
“You all came here for that?”

“Yes, sir,” they said.

“Can you show us the way to them?” Ruth said.
 
She was the youngest of them.
 
The prettiest.
 
She batted her eyes at the farmer and looked up at him pleadingly.
 

“Shoot, you can go see an itjin right now.
 
Damn drunk is passed out in front of the saddler.”
 
The farmer spat on the ground and said, “No good goddamn waste of human flesh, that one.
 
Whatever you do, don’t give him any money.”

Ruth’s eyes narrowed at the man’s hard words, but Willard nodded at her, reminding her to be patient and loving toward all.
 
“Thank you, my friend,” Willard said.
 
“May the Great Spirit bless you and keep you.”

“Whatever you say,” the farmer chuckled.
 

Willard turned to his group and smiled, “And here I thought it would take us much longer to find one.
 
Who can deny that the Great Spirit is guiding our hands?”

All of them nodded thoughtfully and murmured prayers of thanks.
 
“Now remember,” Willard said, “Do not look him in the eyes.
 
They take it as a challenge.”

They crossed through the dust toward the smell of tanned leather and rich, fragrant oils coming out of the barn.
 
There was a man sitting in the dirt, so filthy and caked with grime that Willard almost overlooked him, thinking him part of the landscape.
 
As they approached, Willard made out the man’s rust colored skin and long, braided hair.
 

The man looked up at them with contempt and rattled his tin cup, making the two coins inside of it clang together.
 

“Greetings, my brother,” Willard said softly.
 
He kept his eyes down at the ground as he spoke and glanced down to make sure the rest of the group did the same.
 
He held his breath before he spoke, trying to control his excitement.
 
“We are the Church of the Great Spirit and have come a long distance to be among you.”

The man rattled his cup again.

“Are you the one they call Wally?”

“No.”

Willard grinned.
 
He understood the immediate distrust.
 
He looked around at the way the white men went about their business, ignorant of the situation and felt nothing but scorn.
 
“We are looking for the Beothuk.
 
We have come to live among them and learn their ways of peace and harmony with nature.”
 
When Wally did not speak, Willard reached into his pocket and produced a handful of coins.
 
He dropped the first coin in the cup and said, “If you take us to the nearest tribe, we will give you all of our money.”

“How much?”

“Enough for a room and a bath and enough hot meals to last a week, my friend.”

“Enough for whiskey?”

“If that is what you choose, but I sincerely wish you’d—.”

“We go now.”

***

They travelled in a rented cart pulled by lazy burros that brayed and complained with every lick from Wally’s crop.
 
The sun tumbled across the horizon as they rode, giving way to Seneca’s dual moons.
 
The group looked up in wonder at the sky and Willard smiled and reached out to each of them, touching their hands to say, “Blessed are the faithful.”

“The faithful shall enter the kingdom,” they responded.
 

Ruth sat up in the cart and said, “Brother Wally, are you from the tribe you are taking us to?”

“No.”

“May I ask which one you belong to?”

“I am
Motsai
, but there are very few of us left.
 
The
Pwatsak
overtook us when I was a child and scattered our people to the four winds.”

 
“How terrible,” Ruth whispered.
 

“
Pwatsak
?
 
Is that what you call the white settlers who took your land?” Willard said.
 
“We have heard terrible stories about their cruelty.
 
All that we ask is that you do not judge us by their actions.”

Wally looked back at him but did not speak.
 

***

A man perched high above them on a flat topped hill, held a rifle with feathers pinned to the barrel that rippled in the wind.
 
Wally held up his hand but did not speak.
 
The man on the hill walked over to the other side and whistled loudly.
 

The whistle was repeated several times from unseen sentries, the sounds whizzing past them in the narrow canyon.
 
Willard spun in his seat, seeing nothing but sheer rock faces on either side that swept upwards toward the sky.
 
Jutting ledges overlooked their passage with boulders and tangles of spiny thorned sagebrush.
 

Wally stopped the cart, looked around at the empty rocks, and called out something in a tangled, guttural tongue.
 

There was no response.
 

Wally turned around and waved his hand over the group in the wagon and said something else, pointing at Ruth and the other women sitting beside her.
 

“What’s he saying?” Ruth whispered.

“He’s telling them we mean them no harm,” Willard said.
 
“He’s showing them we have no weapons and half of us are women.”

Wally slammed his hand against his chest several times and shouted something that ended in the word “
Pwatsak
.”
   

A group of men emerged from the nearest ledge overlooking them, and the one who came to the forefront looked down at Wally with angry, flashing eyes.
 
His chest was bare under a whiteman’s torn suit jacket and his entire head was shaved except for a long braided ponytail.
 
“I will not speak your filthy language and it hurts my ears to listen to you mangle mine,” the man sneered.
 
“And I wouldn’t say it was brave of you to come here,
Motsai
scum.”
 

“How much,” Wally said.

The man looked down at the cart and rubbed his chin.
 
Finally, he smiled and said, “Free, I think.”

One of the men next to him raised his rifle at Wally, who threw up his hands and said, “There are more!
 
I bring you these ones just to show you what I can do.
 
This is just the first group!”

Everyone inside the cart began shouting, and Willard grabbed for Wally’s hand, “What are you saying?
 
What group?”

Wally slapped Willard across the face with the back of his hand and said, “Be silent, wasichu!”

The men on the ledge wound down the path toward the cart, surrounding it with weapons.
 
Willard wiped tears from his eyes that were brought on by the slap and said, “None of this makes sense.
 
We came to join you!”

“What?” the man said.
 

Willard pushed his way past the rest of the group, even as they grabbed onto him and begged him not to go.
 
He lowered himself down and stood before the tall Beothuk and said, “We are from the Church of the Great Spirit.
 
We travelled across the stars to come and be with you.
 
All we are seeking is to learn your ways.
 
We want what to live as you do.
 
To have what your people have, don’t you see that?”

The man’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Oh yes, wasichu.
 
I have
always
seen that.”
 
He snatched Willard by the blonde curls of his hair and twisted, ripping him forward.
 
The people in the cart screamed behind him as Willard fell to his knees in the dirt.
 
The Beothuk drew a long, curved knife from his belt, “So you want to learn the ways of my people?”
 
He pressed the edge of his knife to Willard’s scalp and started to saw.
 
  
 

Chapter 4:
 
Thasuka Witko’s Vision

At long last, he ran.

Free of the wracking cough that had plagued him for months, free of the ache in his knees and back.
 
Finally, he ran.
 
As a boy, Thasuka Witko scouted for his tribe’s warriors, able to outrun any of them before even his Ayawisgi rite of passage.
 
Now, his bare feet flew across the dry red clay of the Crimson Hills.
 
It was land he had not seen in the forty years since his father Hoka-Psice led their evacuation from it.
  
  

He ran so fast that he stumbled but as he fell he found he could run on all fours.
 
Ahead of him, a sleek, muscular animal leapt across a creek of running water and Thasuka Witko raced to catch up to it.
 
The animal turned to look back at him and smiled, its silver fur turned blue in the sunlight.
 

“Faster,” the animal said.
 

Thasuka Witko lowered his head into the wind, feeling it swirl around him as he dove across the creek.
 
His claws bit into the clay as he landed, allowing purchase to hurl himself forward even faster.
 
The animal laughed over its shoulder and said, “That’s it!”

He lunged forward, just close enough to swipe the animal’s back leg and trip it.
 
Both of them rolled across the ground, red clay dust sticking to their fur like paint.
 
The animal got upright and thrust out its wide neck and chest at him, showing the strip of soft white fur that below its chin as it slowly circled Thasuka Witko.
 
“Well done, little one,” the animal said.

“What are we?”

“We are that which has been lost.
 
The noble animals of the Beothuk before they came to this place.”

“Like the werja?”

The larger animal snarled, “Nothing like those
things
.”
 
He stamped his paw at Thasuka Witko, making him flinch backwards.
 
“You do not ask me who I am, though.”

Thasuka Witko recovered and moved with the beast, careful to keep distance between them.
 
“I already know who you are.”

“And who is that?”