The Arrow Keeper’s Song (26 page)

As the sun continued its golden flight, the temperature rose as the earth released its captured heat. Despite their fears of an ambush by Spanish patrols, Tom and the others were grateful to be off the ridge and into the forest, where the branches of mahogany and cedar and logwood formed a protective canopy, shielding the column from the sun's harsh glare. The trail they had followed for the past hour or so consisted for the most part of a dry creekbed—level going, but strewn with rocks. Tom and Joanna alternated the lead. At no time during the long hours of daylight had they been alone and out of earshot of the patrol. The glances they exchanged reflected nothing of the previous evening's encounter.

Tom's thoughts drifted to the column of men riding behind him. When the smoke had cleared and the issues were decided, the fate of this patrol would hardly matter. He doubted the historians would include the deeds of these five Indians from Oklahoma when it came time to tell the story of how Cuba was liberated from Spain. Maybe none of that mattered. The surrounding stillness was like a yoke that weighed on the emotions and caused the mind to dredge dire fantasies of death and destruction awaiting them all.

Sandcrane was grateful when Joanna raised her hand at the front of the column, but his heart sank when she waved them toward a darkened gorge seldom visited by daylight except around high noon. A reaction swept through the patrol, each man viewing the passage with a deep sense of foreboding. It was as if some machete-wielding giant had carved the path, slicing a wedge through a seemingly impenetrable mountain of solid stone.

They rode single file into the gorge: Tom, then Willem, Tully next, and the wagon driven by Philo, then Enos riding the drag. The walls closed round, and the enveloping gloom severed them from the afternoon. When Joanna passed the word along that Rosarita lay less than a couple hundred yards ahead, Tom ordered the patrol to halt while he and Joanna reconnoitered the passage. He saw no point in ordering the patrol to silence, as one of the freight wagons rear wheels needed greasing, and the grinding hub issued a loud, incessant complaint that reverberated along the length of the passage.

Away from the others at last, Tom and Joanna walked their mounts past tumbled piles of boulders and slabs of debris that had come crashing down from cliffs a thousand feet in height. Tom cradled his Krag rifle and kept his finger curled round the trigger. His gaze swept the narrow defile, whose width he estimated at about forty or fifty feet across. If Zuloaga's men were waiting for them at the other end of this gorge, the rescue of Antonio Celestial would come to a violent end here and now.

Joanna was as watchful as her companion, but her thoughts were elsewhere, and when she broke the silence, she made it clear what was on her mind.

“For a ‘ghost' you showed quite a lot of life last night,” Joanna said. The kiss had surprised her. The experience was not unpleasant, however. Indeed, it had been a long while since she had felt anything akin to desire. There had been too much bloodshed and flight from the Spanish patrols. Every waking moment had been spent being a physician first and a woman second. Days and nights of caring for the wounded, only to watch them die or be healed to fight again, had taken all her passion. “Know I will not be laid hand on again, unless I ask it.”

Tom absently nodded, being hard-pressed to remember anything past the moment he had awakened from his restless sleep and found the medicine pipe clutched in his hand. Joanna's words did indeed stir his memory, and the rest of the evening came flooding back. He had no explanation for his behavior. The kiss had seemed like a good idea at the time.

They reached the end of the pass and entered a grove of cedar, where they paused to survey the deserted village. Rosarita looked the same as when Joanna had left it a week ago. The sun-washed casitas looked as dilapidated as before. Celestial's gelding listlessly circled the corral, the animal's supply of dry grass nearly depleted. Ravens fluttered about the thatch roof-tops. A pair of parrots with bright-green plumage sat atop the pockmarked walls of the church. Another formation of pale-blue and cream-colored parakeets alighted on the ground in front of the entrance to the church courtyard and began to feed on insects scratched from the dry earth. Tom estimated a couple of dozen mud-brick cabins were scattered around a central plaza. But all looked deserted save one of the casitas close to the corral, fronting the plaza. There, just beyond the doorway to the cabin, a man lay sprawled facedown in the shade of a thatch-roofed porch.

Before Tom could catch the reins of her horse and stop her, Joanna drove her boot heels into her mount.

“Joanna. No!” But she eluded his grasp. Her gelding lunged away, broke from concealment, and raced off toward the village at a headlong gallop. Tom, expecting the worse, cursed fate and bolted after her. If this was a trap, the Spaniards couldn't ask for more cooperative prey.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

T
HE WORST HADN'T HAPPENED YET
, T
OM THOUGHT
,
STANDING
alongside the cot where Antonio Celestial lay unconscious and propped against a couple of blankets rolled to a proper thickness, which Joanna had placed beneath his mane of white hair. But there was still plenty of time.

The physician was seated on a three-legged stool on the opposite side of the rebel leader. She and Tom had carried Celestial inside and returned him to his humble bedding. The woman immediately began tending to the rebel leader. She filled a stoneware basin with water Tom brought her from a well in the plaza and, soaking a cloth, began to dab the man's brow.

Tom's nerves were still on edge from the wild ride into the village. He had expected to be greeted with a hail of gunfire, a Spanish rifle in every window. Thank heavens this had not been the case. And a few minutes later Willem Tangle Hair and the rest of the column had left the narrow gorge to join them in the plaza. While Willem and Tully made a perfunctory inspection of the village, Philo had driven the wagon up to the corral, unhitched the team, and led the weary animals through the gate, along with the mounts from the rest of the patrol. Enos Stump Horn, his belly growling, found his way to the kitchen at the rear of the casita.

Tom leaned over Joanna and scrutinized the man on the cot. “I do not see a mark on him,” he grumbled. Her recent disregard for their safety had left him in a bad mood.

“It's his back,” Joanna explained, taking affront at the Cheyenne's attitude. “He took a blow across the spine several weeks ago. The injury has progressively worsened. It keeps him in constant pain.”

Tom spied an empty bottle beneath the cot and picked it up. The last dregs of rum sloshed around the bottom of the glass jug. Tom knelt by the rebel leader and sniffed the man's breath.

“His back? Hell, he's dead drunk! There's nothing the matter with him that a dunk in the creek wouldn't cure. We've ridden all this way to rescue a sot.”

Joanna's eyes flashed with anger now. “The rum makes it easier for him to bear the pain. Just get out of here. You have no idea what he's been through. Antonio Celestial is one of the most decent and courageous men I have ever known!”

“Well said, dear Joanna, but please. Not so loud.” Celestial weakly interjected as he opened his gray eyes, winced, and then looked around the room until his gaze settled on Tom. “And you have indeed ridden all this way to rescue a drunkard.” He sighed. “But for the ministering effects of jack iron, I'd spend the day screaming every time I sat up.”

He took the cooling cloth from Joanna's hand and placed it on his forehead. “However, maybe I overdid the anesthetic. I was determined to leave, so I drank enough to deaden the act of saddling my horse and riding out. How far did I get?”

“Just outside the front door,” Tom said, his sense of outrage easing. He was beginning to feel he had misjudged the rebel leader after all. But that didn't ease his misgivings. There was something about the village of Rosarita that disturbed him, although Tully Crow, Willem, and the other two men all seemed relieved at finding the village deserted and had begun to relax. Celestial and Joanna, however, did nothing to ease his fears.

“This is Sergeant Tom Sandcrane,” she said. “He and another four soldiers volunteered to bring you out of the mountains.”

“The Americans landed near Daiquirí, as we were told?” asked the Cuban.

Joanna nodded.

“And Mateo? Is he here with you?” Celestial continued. He glanced up, expectation in his eyes as Enos Stump Horn entered the room. The Cheyenne carried an enameled tin coffee-pot and two cups. Celestial had obviously expected to see the orphaned young man who had once ridden at his side. His disappointment was obvious.

Enos noticed the wounded man was awake and realized he hadn't brought enough cups. He shrugged and handed one to Joanna and another to Tom, who passed it along to the man on the cot.

“I'll take some later,” he told Enos.

Stump Horn nodded and filled the cups with the strong black coffee. He gave the Cuban a curious once-over, then returned to the rear of the house. Enos had pilfered the last of the bacon from Celestial's own meager supplies. The unmistakable aroma of frying pork wafted in from the kitchen.

After the man had departed, Joanna gave a quick account of her journey to the coast. Of Mateo's fate she could only guess. He might have been captured, but she couldn't be certain.

“Nevertheless, we must assume the poor lad is the reluctant guest of Captain Zuloaga. That vicious beast will force Mateo to lead the Lion Brigade right to the plaza.”

“Mateo wouldn't betray you,” Joanna replied, compelled to defend the youngster's honor. The boy had been devoted to Celestial and the cause of a free Cuba.

“He might find ways to stall and delay in order to buy me time. But in the end, if he was captured, Mateo will bring them here. Zuloaga never gives his captives much choice.”

“Then we leave at daybreak,” Tom said.

“Can you travel?” Joanna placed her hand on the Cuban's arm.

“But that is why you came back for me, my brave friend. Yet in truth, I don't know if I can sit a horse.”

“There's a wagon,” Tom replied. “We will make you as comfortable as possible.”

“Gracias
. And the Americans have brought a great army?” Celestial turned toward Joanna.

“They're probably marching on Santiago right this minute!” Joanna excitedly replied. She set the coffee aside and held the hand of her friend, hoping to impart her strength into his weakened frame. The constant pain had taken its toll. He seemed to have aged years over the past six months.

“And yet this one comes for me,” Celestial said, with a glance in Tom's direction. “He risks his life for Antonio Celestial. A man he doesn't even know. Why?”

“She asked me to come,” Tom said.

“As simple as that?”

“Just about.”

“Yes. Joanna can be most persuasive,” Celestial agreed. “And stubborn. Over and over again I tried to make her leave us. She could have stayed at the Dutch embassy with friends and been safe. But no. Right here in Rosarita, with the dirt and the death.” The Cuban took a sip of coffee and sighed with satisfaction. “Now the Americans have come to drive the Spaniards from Santiago. I should like to see this. At last the hour has come.” Celestial momentarily brightened, and his eyes flashed a fire of old. “After all these years.” He fixed Tom in a riveting stare. “My people have paid the price for freedom, in blood. They deserve it. Can you understand, Sergeant?”

“More than you'll ever know,” Tom replied, thinking of his own people's continuing struggle for freedom and a future. He looked away, inadvertently met Joanna's gaze and lingered a few seconds, then self-consciously turned aside to check the open window and the deepening purple sky. As daylight faded, the room gradually became a somber, dark place. A single candle would not dispel the gloom. Tom excused himself, touching the upturned brim of his hat as a gesture of farewell, and headed for the kitchen in search of a lamp or more candles.

Antonio Celestial finished his coffee, relishing every drop; then, when he and the woman were alone, the Cuban motioned for Joanna to draw closer. It was clear he was intrigued by Sandcrane and wanted to know more.

“An interesting young man. He's not like the gentlemen I met in New Orleans,” Celestial softly said, “the politicians and the businessmen.”

“He is a Southern Cheyenne,” Joanna told him. “And they are a most peculiar people.”

“Ah. You like him, then.”

“What?” Joanna glanced about in alarm. She hadn't intended to raise her voice. “You
are
drunk.”

“Yes. But not blind,” the rebel wryly chuckled.

Tom followed his nose into the kitchen and helped himself to the coffee. Enos, with fork in hand, was poking at a black iron skillet, turning thick slices of bacon as the grease popped and spattered. He worked with his back to Sandcrane, oblivious to everything but the sizzling strips of meat. Tom announced himself with a cough. Enos glanced around at his visitor.

“Bacon's near done. The biscuits aren't half-bad. My sister taught me how to make 'em right.” The man's rifle lay across the kitchen table. His Colt revolver was holstered on his right side, the shaft of his tomahawk tucked through his belt on his left. Tom doubted a more heavily armed cook had ever graced these humble walls.

As if impervious to the flames in the brick hearth that leaped and curled around the edges of the skillet, Tom gingerly used his pocketknife to spear a couple slices of bacon from the grease. He plopped them between two halves of a biscuit, then stepped through the side door, asking Enos to bring some candles into the front room for Joanna. Then he left the casita and stepped out into the dusk.

Philo was by the corral, hunched over one of the wagon wheels, greasing the hub. He glanced up as Tom approached and leaned upon the wagon siding.