The Arrow Keeper’s Song (40 page)

And the world would not end that day.

Tom was aware of another presence behind him, and for a moment he feared to turn, half expecting to be confronted by one of Those Who Had Gone Before. Seth Sandcrane stood a few yards back, clad in his Levi's, red flannel shirt, hat, and boots, a blanket draped across his shoulder. His eyes were wide and filled with a mixture of wonder and astonishment.

“Haa-hey!
Now I know,” Seth exclaimed, shivering. His lips were drawn tight in a grimace from the cold, his breath clouded the air. “You have come for the Mahuts. You have returned for the Sacred Arrows!”

Tom did not need to answer. After all, truth was truth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

T
OM DROVE THE HAMMER DOWN WITH AN OVERHANDED BLOW
and grazed the nail, shooting it off across the roof, where the projectile struck Seth a glancing blow to the cheek, raising a welt just below his eye.

“
Saa-vaa
! For one who talks with the Spirits, you can't hammer worth a damn,” Seth said with a grin. “By the time you get the barn roofed, the horses will be nothing but bones in the dust.”

“Well, why don't you come over and hold the nail for me, you old bastard?” Tom growled. He shoved another nail into the cedar shingle and managed to get it to stick upright, then picked up the hammer and tried again.

“Ha! Hold the nail? I want to keep both my hands,” Seth chuckled.

Tom gave him a sharp look, then laughed despite himself. He had spent most of the morning perched on the roof hammering shingles into place and trying to figure out some errand that would take him to town. Throughout the morning he struggled to come up with a plan by which he could tide into Cross Timbers without arousing the suspicions of the priest or his own overly curious father. Joanna's presence in Oklahoma could hardly be called coincidental. But why was she there? The thought of seeing her filled him with a mixture of excitement and dread. After all, he had left Cuba without even saying good-bye. How could he explain such behavior? No matter—she had been on his mind more than once since returning to the States. It would be good to see her again, even if she spit in his face. The problem, of course, was coming up with an excuse to leave. Seth and the priest were bound to suspect the real reason for his departure.

Despite the cold, Tom's flannel shirt was patched with sweat. He had worked hard that morning, traversing the ladder single-handed, refusing to work below, where it was safe. He continued to push himself, as if striving to prove that his gloved left fist was nothing more than an inconvenience.

From the vantage point of the rafters he was able to appraise anew all that Seth had done in his absence. That his father was sober was astonishing enough, but that he had rescued the land along Coyote Creek, built upon the site, and done all that Tom had once planned for them both left the younger man with a feeling of renewed respect for his father.

A column of dust rising in the cold air, and General Sheridan's angry barking, signaled the arrival of visitors. Tom shaded his eyes and saw what appeared to be half-a-dozen men, their backs to the sun, riding out of the east from the direction of town. Seth grumbled a threat—anyone trying mischief with this barn was going to pay a hard price—and scrambled down the ladder. Tom followed his father over to the ladder and started to descend. Father Kenneth, who had been working below, put his weight on the bottom rung to keep the ladder from sliding. By the time Tom reached the ground, Seth was standing in the wagon bed, a Winchester cradled in the crook of his arm. General Sheridan trotted off to the side and peered through the wagon spokes; the dog's dark hackles rose, and a guttural snarl sounded deep in his throat.

“Now, Seth, it would be a fool troublemaker who comes to pay a call by daylight,” said Father Kenneth, his fair features flushed, his cheeks cherry-red from exertion. He wanted to finish cutting and hanging the shutters over the two windows in the barn's lower level and didn't relish being caught in the middle of gunplay. Seth had been pretty edgy since the loss of his first barn, and rightly so. But Father Kenneth also figured his role there was as peacemaker.

“If they mean trouble, they'll find it today. This barn will stand,” Seth said.

“Father Kenneth's right. Night riders have no use for day-light,” Tom cautioned, placing himself between Seth and the approaching horsemen.

“Just the same, I'm ready. Now, get out of the way, son.” Tom merely ignored the older man's request.

The barn builders did not have long to wait for the arrival of the visitors from Cross Timbers. Clay Benedict, riding a zebra dun, led seven hard-looking men into the yard of the Coyote Creek ranch. The posse for the most part was made up of townspeople, white men whom Tom failed to recognize. But two of the riders were Cheyenne—Pete Elk Head and John Iron Hail—and they were another matter entirely. Elk Head and Iron Hail wore Levi's and leather chaps, dark flannel shirts, and plaid woolen coats and were armed with revolvers and rifles. The two-Cheyenne walked their mounts up to Tom, who held his ground, even though he came near to being trampled. Pete Elk Head in particular seemed to take a kind of evil delight in crowding the one-armed man. John Iron Hail was not so reassured. Another shadow fell across Tom, and he looked up at the sheriff of Cross Timbers.

Clay Benedict touched the brim of his hat. “Good morning, hero. So you decided to pay your old home a visit, after all. Well and good. Lots of changes, though.”

“Hello, Clay. Nice of you and your folks to take the time to give me a proper welcome.”

“We rode out here for more than you, Sandcrane,” Pete Elk Head snapped. Clay silenced the man with a frown, then addressed the man in the wagon.

“Seth … we're looking for Willem Tangle Hair. What with Tom being home, I thought it would be a good idea to check on you.”

“I haven't seen him,” Seth replied in a voice as cool as the north breeze.

“Maybe we better see for ourselves. Tom and Willem always sided with one another. Could be you're hiding him in the house,” said Pete Elk Head as he started his horse past Tom, whose hand darted out and caught the man's reins.

“You hold up, Pete. I'm the sheriff here, and you'll follow my orders or clear the hell out,” Clay snapped. “Now, get on back with Lassiter and the rest of the boys.”

Elk Head scowled. It was obvious he had been anxious to provoke a confrontation with Tom Sandcrane. But Clay's words carried more weight than his own hunger for trouble. A year and a half was a long time to hold a grudge. Tom wondered if there was something more than wounded pride behind Pete Elk Head's open animosity.

“C'mon, Pete,” John Iron Hail spoke up from alongside his companion. “Let's go.”

“Nice to see you, young John. Appears you've grown some. Do the Tall Bulls still run you?” Tom asked, peering up at the young Cheyenne.

“They treat me good. I do all right. At least you don't see me slopping hogs, chasing chickens, and climbing around on some barn roof like a damn monkey.” And with that reply John Iron Hail swung his mount about and walked the animal back to rejoin Benje Lassiter and the other members of the posse, all of whom appeared edgy and eyed Seth with suspicion.

“We ain't gonna check the old Injun's house?” Lassiter called out.

“I've never known Seth Sandcrane to lie. Not even when he was drinking,” Clay remarked, much to Tom's surprise.

“Luthor's people are drifting into Cross Timbers,” Pete said. “They aim to make certain your friend Willem pays for killing that girl.” The Cheyenne pulled free of Tom's grasp and returned to the center of the yard.

Saddle leather creaked as Clay dismounted and stood in front of Tom Sandcrane. He fished in his pocket for makings and rolled himself a cigarette, then offered the tobacco to Tom, who declined.

“Walk with me a minute, Tom,” Clay said, and led his horse away from the ranch house and out of earshot of the others. Tom fell in step alongside the son of Allyn Benedict, wary, suspicious of the younger man's motives. There had never been any love lost between them.

“What brings you back, Tom?”

“Not your sister, Clay, if that's your concern.”

Clay frowned and pursed his lips, then nodded and blew a cloud of tobacco smoke. “Glad to hear it. Emmiline's special to me. I never cottoned to the way things were … before you left. I got nothing personal against you.”

“You just didn't want her running with a buck from the reservation. Of course, your father had other ideas. He approved. Hell, he even encouraged. How far did he want her to go to keep me from finding out about his land deal with the oil company? Just what was she supposed to do? Would he have whored his daughter to keep me from discovering what he was up to?”

Clay stiffened and turned on the Cheyenne, his eyes mere slits beneath the brim of his hat. “You push hard, Tom Sandcrane. Don't expect me to keep backing away. Whatever my father did is better left in the past. Leave it lie.”

Benedict's son had always appeared too handsome, almost foppish, until now. Time had trimmed the edges and hardened the exterior with age and experience. Perhaps it was true—he had stepped out of his father's shadow and been burned by the sun. It was a part of growing up and gaining wisdom.

Tom studied the sheriff for a long moment. Clay shifted uncomfortably beneath the Cheyenne's unwavering scrutiny.

“What the hell are you looking at?”

“I don't know,” Tom said. “You've changed.”

“We all have.”

Tom nodded in agreement. He sensed a distinct feeling of torment and indecision in Benedict. These were emotions Sandcrane had learned only too well over the past months. Odd—the last thing he had ever expected was to feel a kind of kinship with Clay Benedict.

“If Willem comes around, you let me know,” Clay said.

“So you can hang him?”

“Look. Most boom towns aren't fit places to live. But not Cross Timbers. I've kept the peace in this county and made it safe. Until this killing. Now I intend for Willem to receive a fair trial, which is more than he'll get from Luthor White Bear's clan. Pete spoke the truth. They are out for blood.”

“I cannot believe Willem would have killed the girl. He loved Charlotte.”

“He wouldn't be the first man to destroy what he loves,” Clay replied, staring off at the creek, his tone distant and tinged with bitterness. He finished his cigarette, tossed the glowing white stub on the ground, and crushed it, leaving a sooty black smear underfoot. Sunlight glinted off the badge pinned to his coat. “Just remember I represent the law here.”

“Which law? Allyn Benedict's? Did your father send you out here to speak for him and warn me off?”

The lawman scowled, his temper flaring. Tom's words were cutting close to home, made even more painful because they were the same questions Clay had been asking himself for the past week.

“I think you've returned and brought trouble, Tom Sandcrane,” Clay gruffly answered.

“No,” Tom said, and removed his hat, the cold breeze tugging at his shoulder-length hair, shadows and sunlight playing across his stern coppery features. What lay within this man had been forged by trial and blood. “Trouble was here long before I ever left.” He reached out and tapped the sheriff's badge. “A man who wears that piece of tin has to be able to stand and shoot. Now, I know you can shoot; the question is, can you stand? And what will you stand for?”

Clay Benedict turned without replying, climbed into the saddle, and, tugging on the reins, backed away from Tom. The two men swiftly appraised one another in silence. Then Clay touched his heels to his mount, and the zebra dun trotted over toward the other men, who were watering their horses at a trough by the corral under the watchful eyes of Seth Sandcrane.

Clay barked an order and his posse assembled. General Sheridan left the wagon and began barking and nipping at the horses, causing the animals to buck and fight their riders' control. The dog chased the posse out of the yard and into the trees. They left the way they'd come, in a column of dust and drumming hooves, whose cadence could still be faintly heard after the riders were beyond the trees and the Blue Heeler had returned.

Seth climbed down from the wagon bed and with the rifle still resting in the crook of his arm sauntered over to his son, Father Kenneth following close behind. General Sheridan joined in the procession, loping along after the men, tongue lolling from between his jaws, sides heaving, and his breath clouding the cold air.

“What did Clay want? What were you two jabberin' about off by your lonesome?” Seth blurted out.

Tom rubbed his gloved left hand, a gesture of habit now, as he wrestled with his thoughts. He looked from his father to the priest, then shrugged. “Old times.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

O
N THAT SAME MORNING, AS THE DUST FROM THE POSSE WAS
settling in the yard of the Sandcrane ranch, Red Cherries reined in and alighted from her horse before a hardscrabble farm about seven miles north of Panther Hall. She noticed the buggy first thing and knew she had found the woman doctor. Joanna Cooper had spent the night with Patrick and Kathleen Pretty on Top, helping Kathleen through a difficult birthing process. After more than ten hours of labor, just before dawn, Joanna had helped the exhausted woman deliver a little girl, the first child born to Patrick Pretty on Top and his wife. They named their daughter Hope. It was a good name, Joanna told them, and Hope had gurgled and squalled as if voicing her approval.

Sleep and a hot bath had been paramount in the doctor's mind until Red Cherries' arrival. The prostitute leaped down from her mare and, with her riding dress clinging to her legs, ran across the farmyard and entered the house unbidden, where she pleaded with Joanna to stop by Panther Hall on her return trip to Cross Timbers. One of the girls was sick, and no one seemed to be able to help her.