Sacred Is the Wind (12 page)

“And I will see to it,” Jubal said, rubbing a hand over his weary features. “I always see to it.” After his parents' deaths, there had been no others. Bodies, yes. Corpses to be entered in his mind's mad tally book. Debits and losses, a ledger of vengeance only he could read. Or one day balance.

“How?”

“I will worry about ‘how,'” he snapped. “I don't have enough men to send up in the passes and risk losing them to ambush or late snows, I just don't have enough.” Jubal knew if he hadn't taken the time to wait for Tom in Denver he could have been after the Ute a whole week earlier and avoided this dilemma. Too late, now. Water under the bridge.

“So we do nothing,” Tom growled. He drew the Colt revolver he had yet to even fire. At his left protruded the hilt of his as-yet-unbloodied saber. He worked the gun's cylinder, studying the loaded chambers. “It isn't fair.” Click, click. The gun gave him a feeling of power. He liked the sensation.

“Fair?” Jubal chuckled. “Such notions are for Easterners, fine city folk in soft feather beds. The morning coffee's cold and life's ‘unfair.' Or it is a fine day, we are safe and the Sunday chicken is plump and juicy and life … is ‘fair.'”

“There is no glory in Sunday dinner,” Tom said, returning the revolver to his holster, and reaching over, helped himself to a glass of brandy from his brother's decanter. He filled a coffee cup half-full. “No glory at all.”

“No fortune either,” Jubal added. “Nor sweet revenge.” A moth fluttered into the tent and circled in on the lantern, drawn toward the light in an ever-tightening spiral.

“A single gray morsel of life,” Jubal observed, “bent on suicide.” His hand shot out, catching the moth in mid-flight. He tossed it toward the loosely dangling canvas flap, blocking the entrance. “You will find, little brother, out here in the West, a man or a moth can still make his own victories.”

The moth darted away from the tent flap, forsaking night for the lure of the flame. It flew from freedom to death against the lamp's soot-streaked heated glass chimney.

“Or tragedy?” Tom noted, sipping from his cup.

“Exactly,” Jubal said, reaching over to clap his younger brother on the shoulder.

“And what about the Ute war party?” Tom asked.

Jubal stood and stepped around the table and drew back the flap. Two dozen campfires scattered their red glow throughout the aspen grove where the hundred men of his militia were camped for the night. He looked toward the snowcapped battlements looming above them, where wind-scoured passes had offered an escape to the savages he had sought to bring to justice. So be it, he said to himself. But they weren't the only red devils around.

Three privates of Bragg's Colorado Militia warmed themselves at their campfire, extracting the last vestige of comfort due them before assuming their midnight sentry duties. Hec Knowles growled in his cups and decried the unfortunate roll of dice that had lost him his right to sleep. He dunked his hooked nose over the tin cup and breathed in steam. Dickey Rutledge, the youngest of the three, stretched his hands, palms open, to the campfire. “Don't seem right to be so cold in May,” he muttered. His fuzz covered cheeks seemed unnaturally pale in the glare of the fire.

“We climbed better'n a thousand feet today, I'll warrant,” the third man observed. He was a hawk-faced, hard-looking sort with yellow teeth and a bulge in his cheek from a chaw of tobacco. All three had followed Jubal Bragg long enough to wear out a uniform apiece.

“I should've checked those dice,” Hec reiterated for the hundredth time. A shadow fell across the trio as Big Marley loomed over the men.

“Bellyachin',” Marley said. “I heard it from over by the spring and knew it had to be Knowles, Rutledge, and Spike Cutter.” Marley squatted and helped himself to coffee. “So what else is in your craw?”

Spike Cutter spewed a rust-colored stream of tobacco juice into the fire. “Since you're makin' a list, Sergeant. It galls me we been chasin' ghosts. Ain't seen red hide nor warbonnet of them butchers.”

“Seems we ought to have left these Spencer repeaters back in Castle Rock,” Rutledge added, nodding in agreement, his boyish appearance hidden behind a scruffy beard and caked trail dirt. “And brought shovels.”

“And maybe a hearse.” Hec chuckled.

“And four white horses,” Spike finished.

Marley gulped the coffee down, tongued a lump of grounds out from between his teeth. His thoughts echoed their sentiments but protocol kept him from letting them know. He dropped the cup, spat out the grounds, and tugged the brim of his cap low over his eyes.

“You boys just see you keep awake tonight. Leave how to fight Indians to the colonel.” He did not offer the men an opportunity to reply but continued on his way out of the camp and up the nearest slope to the ridge where he knew he'd find the one man who didn't waste time complaining. Marley took care to make enough noise to announce himself, stepping on twigs, letting low-hanging branches swing back into place. His sudden yelp, however, was unpremeditated as an owl startled from its roost buzzed him as it screeched off into the darkness.

“Big ox.” Sabbath McKean made his observation from his cold camp. His voice carried over the stillness to the lumbering sergeant.

“Don't aim to give you the chance to shoot me for a redskin,” Marley said. His stumbling efforts carried him over toward the scout. “Light a shuck to show me the way.”

“Not hardly.”

Marley cursed and crawled hand over fist until he gained the deadfall Sabbath McKean had chosen for his camp.

“So … you think some of them heathen rascals might've doubled back.”

“No. Just a habit of being cautious,” McKean replied. Marley grunted, sat upwind of the scout.

“Then we lost them for sure.”

“This time,” McKean said, clasping his hands behind his head and staring up at the stars.

“Curse their souls.”

“Might as well curse the wind for blowing too hard, the sun for shining too hot, the rain for falling,” Sabbath reflected, unruffled by his companion's anger. “Ute or Sioux or Cheyenne or any other Indian … they're just another element, no worse, no better. You and me and Jubal Bragg down there, we're the visitors.”

“Them we buried ain't,” Marley growled. “You know, one day, me and you are gonna have to tangle. Just don't seem right if we don't. Maybe when we've killed the last red nigger whelp.”

“Why do you hate them so much?” Sabbath asked.

“Injuns. Hell …'cause the colonel hates 'em,” Marley said. “You got an extra stick of jerky?”

Sabbath dug in his war kit and found a hard, flattened chunk of meat about six inches in length. He tossed it over to Marley. It landed on the sergeant's round solid belly.

“Thanks,” the sergeant muttered.

Sabbath nodded, though the man couldn't see. The scout knew deep in his heart that the Ute were crossing back over the mountains; their raid was ended, leaving behind them a few fire-gutted ranches and maybe a dozen slaughtered whites; leaving behind something else as well.

Hatred.

And hatred wasn't something men could just set aside or turn their backs on. It was a legacy that gnawed at the heart like a cancer. It could drive a man mad and turn mercy into bloodthirsty retribution. The militia was returning to Castle Rock with nothing to show for their troubles but hatred. He lowered his eyes to the western mountains, implacable, unyielding, a dead end to grand ambitions. Not a shot had been fired, but Jubal Bragg's little war was over.

Or was it?

Sunday. A time for worship and departure. Surrounding the couple in the center of the camp, the people of the Warbonnet village spread out in an ever-increasing throng to hear Sam Madison's words of departure. Against an azure sky, clouds floated in listless harmony like barkentines of old. To the west and north, distant snowcapped peaks filled the far horizon. It was a day of leavetaking and Samuel Madison's voice rang forth upon the clear spring air. He held aloft the worn leather Bible that he had carried into the wilderness seeking to atone for a wealth that was not of his choosing, seeking respite from the seductive trappings of his family's influence. Fittingly enough, he had read a passage from Exodus. Now, standing on the wagon bed, he could see that most of the village was indeed gathered to wish him well, to hear his parting words. “My brothers and sisters,” he said, “it is thus with sorrow in my heart that I must begin my own exodus. I must leave you for a time. But I will be a hollow man in the city of the Great White Father, for my spirit remains here, with you. I will come back to you, but until I do, I leave my sacred book as a sign that I am still among you, that I will always be among you. My Bible, the words of the one true God put down for all to have and hold.” Simon White Bull stepped forward from the crowd, a grave expression on his face as he lifted up his arms and Samuel placed the Bible in Simon's outstretched hands. The chief of the Southern Cheyenne turned, holding the Holy Book aloft so all could see what had been entrusted to his keeping.

“And now,” Samuel continued, catching a smile from Esther, whose uplifted eyes beamed with admiration and love, “I shall ask you all to pray with me, that the Holy Spirit watch over us and guard us and bring Esther and me safely back to you, our people.”

Men and women sank to their knees on the fragrant earth. Samuel spotted Panther Burn sitting astride his horse on the fringe of the gathering. He was dressed for traveling, savage in his buckskins, his rifle balanced in the crook of his arm, his long black hair framing an expression of distrust and even contempt. Samuel lowered to his knees, returning his attention to his flock, ignoring the panther on the perimeter, though he sensed the Northern Cheyenne was no less dangerous than his namesake.

“Heavenly Father …” Voices lifted in prayer. The flap-flap-flapping of the American flag atop its pole in the center of the village.

Panther Burn wheeled his horse about and trotted back toward his uncle's cabin. It bothered him to watch all those Cheyenne kneeling and praying to the
ve-ho-e
God. Panther Burn knew how to speak to the All-Father, standing up and singing out alone, with all the spirits of earth and sky to listen. It was a good way. But a glance aside told him Rebecca had her own ideas, for she was kneeling with the rest. His disregard for the strange customs lessened then. He willed her to look in his direction, that she might see his readiness, for he had insisted on accompanying her to Castle Rock. After all, had she not stood in his blanket, had she not walked with him alone and spoken her secret thoughts in whispers soft as prairie breezes? She would not be distracted from her prayers, and Panther Burn continued on, passing through the conglomeration of cabins and tipis, where dogs licked their chops and anxiously inspected the racks of smoked beef, where hoes, rakes, and plows were stacked in place of spears and war shields, where men knelt and prayed to “Jay-ho-vah” instead of the Buffalo Spirit or Coyote Prankster or the One Spirit, All-Father.

He found Joshua Beartusk sitting outside his cabin, scraping the stone blade of his tomahawk until it tapered to a keen edge. Zachariah sat cross-legged at the blind man's feet, giving his awed attention to Joshua's tales of battles and hunts, the lives and deaths of warriors from long ago. An audience seemed to do his uncle good, Panther Burn noticed. In the week since his arrival, here at least was one positive sign, the rebirth of Joshua Beartusk. Oh, Joshua kept his jug of store-bought whiskey handy, but he turned to it less now. And Zachariah, who had once felt only disregard for the Red Shield warrior, now found his own burning dreams of greatness and honor refueled by Joshua's stories.

The blind man paused, hearing the pinto's approach and recognizing the cadence of the animal's gait. “So, then, you have not left,” he called out. “Perhaps she has changed her mind and does not want you to come with her. Perhaps another has played upon a flute and called her to a blanket she finds more to her liking.”

“Perhaps the All-Father has made a mistake,” Panther Burn replied. “He should have left your eyes, Uncle, and stolen your tongue.”

Zachariah stood and Old Warrior the mongrel hound lifted its furred head in disapproval, for the dog had been using the boy for a backrest, warming itself in the morning and napping to the droning voice of its master.

“I still want to go with you. We could ride to the mountains from the white man's village. We could follow the eagles …” All the enthusiasm of his youth was mirrored in the boy's trusting expression.

“Tell him, Nephew, that you hope to nest not with eagles, but a different kind of bird. A thrush?” Joshua leaned forward as he cackled at his nephew's expense. Zachariah looked inquisitively at Joshua, then returned his pleading attention to Panther Burn.

“When I return,” said the Northern Cheyenne, “we will go then, you and I. To the mountains.” He reached out with his rifle and jabbed at his uncle. “And we will take this worn-out moccasin of a man with us. And lose him there.” Joshua scowled and batted the rifle barrel away with the shaft of his tomahawk.

“Who would be there to protect you if we ran into a war party of Ute? Ha. Mock me, young one, and you will have more to mourn than the loss of a finger.” Panther Burn straightened, his composure stiffening. Joshua sensed his wit had become too sharp and wounded his nephew and he turned his sightless gaze toward the sound of the horse as it whinnied and pawed the earth.

“Nephew … I …” Joshua sighed. Hearing the horse retreat, he sensed Panther Burn's departure. “Ahh.”

“What is it, Joshua?” Zachariah said. “He just rode away, without …” The boy started after the Northerner, but Joshua caught him by the arm.

“Do not follow, little brave.” Joshua ran a leathery hand across the badlands of his seamed and care-worn features. “A man must heal his wounds alone.”