The Arrow Keeper’s Song (10 page)

Emmiline slumped dejectedly on a well-padded cane-backed couch and considered the invitation her mother had read. Uncle Maynard was a middle-aged professor of literature, a student of antiquities, a stuffy, humorless man with a dour-looking wife. New Haven? Never.

Allyn entered the room and closed the front door, then crossed to the nearest window and parted the curtains ever so slightly to watch Tom and the priest proceed down the path to the settlement. Tom was leading his horse. The priest had no mount.

“What is it, dear? You were nervous as a tick all through dinner,” Margaret observed without looking up at her husband.

“Nothing. Things have begun.” He looked at his daughter. “What did you and Tom talk about?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Emmiline replied. “We just talked.”

“I hope you were careful,” Allyn said. “Not that there is anything Tom could really do. It is out of his hands now.”

“It doesn't seem right,” Emmiline said. “I mean, Tom Sandcrane has been a special friend.”

Allyn Benedict walked across the living room to a triangular table of burled walnut, upon which rested a decanter of pear brandy, another of Kentucky Bourbon, and four glasses. He poured a measure of brandy for himself and returned to his rocking chair.

“You act as if I wish him harm,” the Indian agent replied. “On the contrary, Tom will have his place on Coyote Creek. I've put that in the map. He'll be well rewarded for all his efforts. Satisfied?”

Allyn Benedict took a sip of brandy and sighed as the warmth spread through him. He thought of Luthor White Bear. Now, there was a man with an entrepreneurial spirit. Yes, the merchant would do well as the town grew. Charlotte, though, was quite the little temptress. Once, she had visited the BIA office on an errand for her father and found Allyn alone in his office. The young girl's visit had certainly aroused a few illicit fantasies in the Indian agent's mind. Allyn sipped his brandy and sighed. Changing his line of speculation, he wondered what was keeping Clay, then decided his son must have remained at Panther Hall to have a drink. What the devil, why not celebrate?
Benedict Exploration and Development
Oil. Black gold. Now, there indeed was the stuff of which dreams were made.

Tom Sandcrane sat quietly in the humble little church and watched Father Kenneth secure the windows and sweep away the caked mud someone had tracked in front of the alter. The crucifix upon the rear wall bore an image of suffering that seemed to return Tom's scrutiny with eyes of sympathy and shared heartache.

“I get the feeling you and Seth have locked horns again. Well, there's an extra bunk in the rectory,” Father Kenneth said with a sigh. He always referred to the drafty cabin out back as the rectory; it seemed more official that way. The log walls might need chinking and the roof tended to leak during a rain, but there was nothing wrong with the place that couldn't be fixed. He anticipated a bigger church and a real house when the settlement became a thriving town.

“No, that would be too easy. That ungrateful old basta—uh … man isn't going to keep me out of my own bed. Anyway, he'll be too busy tending to General Sheridan to worry about me.” During their stroll down Main Street, Tom had entertained the priest with a brief account of the afternoon's events. The retelling helped cool Tom's temper.

“I'm sorry for Seth,” Father Kenneth remarked. “In a way, his decline is partly my doing. I was the one who insisted you go off to the Indian school at Fort Reno. Seth never understood.” The priest sat on the front pew and dangled a thick forearm over the back of the bench seat.

“They used to punish me every time I spoke Cheyenne,” Tom ruefully chuckled. The rules, though well meant, seemed harsh and unfair, and yet because of them he had learned to speak fluent English. Reading had also opened up a whole new world to him, shattering forever the narrow confines of the reservation.

“I am sorry,” the priest said. “Sister Jean Marie can be a harsh taskmistress.”

“Don't be. You just wanted me and the other children to have a chance. Maybe there are better ways, but at least I have an education.” Tom slowly stood and started toward the door. He feigned a yawn.

“Was there something I could help you with?” said the priest as Tom paused in the doorway. Nothing fooled him. “After all, I could have found my way home without your help.”

Tom shrugged. “I wanted to ask you a question. It seems silly now.”

“Ask anyway.”

“You have lived among us a long time,” said Tom. “Have you ever heard the wind speak?”

The priest's eyes widened. He set aside his broom, stepped down from the altar, and sat upon the nearest bench. “Well, now. The wind … indeed.” He folded his hands as if in prayer and chewed on his lower lip as he pondered his reply.

“Never mind.” Tom said, embarrassed at asking such a foolish question. “Good night, Father Kenneth.” He stepped through the doorway and vanished into the night.

The priest called him back, but to no avail. Alone in the stillness of the church, the man of God communed with the emptiness forever lurking on the fringe of his own devotion. Oh, how he envied a man who had heard the wind speak.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
HE HORSEMAN BY MOONLIGHT KEPT TO THE TREES AND
hugged the shadows, cautiously approaching the settlement. The ride from Panther Hall had been long and tedious, but necessity had forced John Iron Hail to check his backtrail every few minutes, pausing in the darkness to listen for any sound of pursuit. Apparently his absence had not been noticed. But the seventeen-year-old wasn't taking any chances. He skirted the settlement, to avoid the empty streets of Cross Timbers, and studied the cabins on the hillside south of Main Street until he found the one belonging to Seth Sandcrane. A lantern burning in the barn cast a pool of amber light through the open doorway. It was the only sign of life in all the sleeping settlement.

What time was it? John Iron Hail guessed it was somewhere between two and three in the morning. He wondered who was in the barn and hoped it was Tom.
Then I can say my piece and get on back before Pete Elk Head or one of the Tall Bulls misses me
.

He cut across the east end of the road leading into the settlement, then struck a course directly toward the Sandcrane cabin. He kept to a wheel-rutted path that decades of use had worn into the hillside, riding unnoticed among the silent houses whose occupants were deep in slumber and oblivious to his passing. He reined in his horse and dismounted in front of the corral, draping his reins over the top rail of fence. Again John hesitated; this time he was loath to enter the pool of light, fearing to make a target of himself. Minutes crawled past as he debated how best to approach the situation. Finally he edged along the corral, stepped around a horse trough, and, avoiding the lantern-lit doorway, stole along the side of the barn until he came to a window that was missing half a shutter. The barn wasn't much—four stalls and a tack room barely wide enough for a man to turn around in. Tilting his hat back on his forehead, John peered in through the window. The sound of snoring carried to him even as he spied Seth Sandcrane asleep in the straw. The former Keeper of the Sacred Arrows, a man once looked up to and held in high esteem, was stretched out on a bed of hay, a bottle of corn whiskey nestled in the crook of his arm. General Sheridan lay in another stall. The animal had apparently survived its injuries, for its bandaged sides rapidly rose and fell with every breath.

John cursed his luck and retreated a step, backing into the business end of a Winchester carbine. He gasped, his brief existence passing before his eyes. He held out his hands to show that he carried no weapon. The young intruder's voice trembled as he spoke.

“Don't kill me, Jerel. You got this all wrong.”

“What have I got wrong, John?” said Tom Sandcrane in a voice barely above a whisper. “I heard the horse. And saw you dismount. Is it Tall Bull's mischief you're up to?”

John breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his hands as he turned. Tom, clad only in Levi's, gave him some room and brought down the Winchester, though he gripped it loosely in his right fist and could bring it to bear if needed. John continued around to the back of the barn in an effort to avoid even the window's feeble glare, and came to rest in the shadow of a buckboard whose left front axle was propped up on a thick log. A wheel without an iron rim lay on the ground in a patch of weeds. A spider had strung its web from the underside of the wagon box to the singletree.

Iron Hail's behavior piqued Tom's curiosity, and he followed him, barefoot, over to the buckboard.

“Did Jerel send you?” Tom asked.

John nervously chuckled. “That's who I thought
you
were. He'd carve out my liver and eat it if he knew I was here talking to you.” The youth nervously surveyed his surroundings. “Listen to what I have to say. And I'll call you a black liar if you ever tell I was here.”

Tom was still drowsy and trying to make some sense out of this clandestine visit. He leaned a naked arm against the wagon box. The roan whinnied and Tom gave a start, his gaze darting to the corral. John Iron Hail's anxiety was infectious.

“Clay Benedict showed up at Panther Hall late this afternoon. He met with the Tall Bulls and then stayed around for a poke. Jerel called in me and Pete Elk Head and laid out a plan for Curtis and Pete and me to begin staking claims on the north plains, out where them oil pools smell so bad that the cattle won't graze.”

“Claims? For who?”

“Curtis was bragging how over a third of the reservation has already been bought up by some outfit called Prairie Oil and Gas. Bought clean out from under the tribe. Me and the others are supposed to set out the claim markers before the land rush next week. That way no one will even try to register on their claims.” John wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve, his lips dry as dust. Tired as he was, the seventeen-year-old was ready to head on back. “You've always played straight with me, Tom. I owe you. Since you helped bring the tribe into this game and sort of cut the deck, I figured maybe you'd want a closer look at the cards.”

“No.” Tom's voice was soft but emphatic. He scowled, and shot his hand out to catch John by the front of his shirt. “What are you trying to pull?”

“I swear my words are straight,” John exclaimed. “It's what I saw. If you have a problem with it, maybe you better ask Clay Benedict or one of the Tall Bull brothers.” He managed to wrest himself free, though he tore his shirt in the process.

“This is one of Jerel Tall Bull's tricks. He sent you!” Tom snapped.

“Have it your way,” John angrily replied. “But I got work to do.” He leaped over the fence, hurried over to his horse, and climbed into the saddle. He patted a canvas bag that hung from the saddle horn, reached inside, and removed a foot-long wooden stake banded with white cloth. He tossed the stake into Tom's outstretched hand. It was evident the youth had plenty to spare. John pointed his mount toward the silent hills and galloped off across the meadow, leaving Tom to stare at the length of wood in his hand. His eyes bored into the claim marker as the blood drained from his clenched fingers. The Southern Cheyenne were supposed to have first claim on reservation lands and designate their allocated acreages on the BIA map. No one, not even a big company like Prairie Oil and Gas, had any business on reservation land prior to the first of September.

Seth's face suddenly appeared in the window. “Who …?” he started to ask. Straw clung to his hair; he wiped a forearm across his pouchy features and struggled to focus on the figure in the night. “Heard … something.” At last he recognized his own son. “Oh. Its you.” A coughing spasm forced him to brace himself on the windowsill. When his body ceased to shudder, he spat in the dust and sighed. “I must have been asleep.”

“Me too,” Tom said, lifting his gaze from the claim marker to the darkened offices of the Indian Agency office. “Me too.”

CHAPTER NINE

T
HE LOCKED DESK DRAWER IN THE INDIAN AGENT'S OFFICE WAS
an open invitation to Tom Sandcrane. He had just broken into the place through the back window and wasn't about to stop now. Using the iron poker from the wood-burning stove, Tom dug at the wood and pried the lock until the front of the drawer splintered and gave way with a startlingly loud crack. He skinned his knuckles on the edge of the desk, muttered an oath, then knelt to examine the drawer's contents—which Allyn had obviously intended to protect. Tom removed a portfolio crowded with papers and sat in Allyn's personal chair below a map of the reservation. Ironically, the first item of interest the Cheyenne encountered was a map, again depicting the reservation, but with one difference from the one on the wall: The land north of Cross Timbers up along the Canadian was already under file and deeded to Benedict Exploration and Development.
Prairie Oil and Gas
was written in parentheses below the name of the company bearing the Indian agent's name. John Iron Hail had indeed spoken the truth. All the oil-rich lands—more than a third of the reservation—were already under ownership and unavailable for claim.

Tom glanced away, heartsick, and found himself staring at the sky through the window he had pried open just moments before. It would be sunrise within the hour. He heard a sound drift in from outside and tensed, wondering if his presence had been discovered. It sounded like footsteps. Tom's fists clenched as he rose from the chair and eased toward the back window, hoping to surprise whoever waited on the other side of the wall. Six feet away, now four, sweat rolled down the side of his cheek, he reached for the windowsill with the idea of peering out at the alley. Silent as a night spirit, a dark shape suddenly bounded from the shadows. Tom's heart jumped to his throat, and he cursed beneath his breath as a black cat with a blaze of white fur behind one ear leaped past him, landed lightly on the floor, and scampered off behind Benedict's desk.