The Arrow Keeper’s Song (42 page)

Tom nodded. As Mrs. Yaquereno departed toward the rear of the restaurant, she paused in the second dining room, and Tom could hear her bidding farewell to the ladies within. A few moments later half-a-dozen women, ranging from their early twenties to a sprightly looking silver-haired woman on the threshold of sixty, emerged from the dining room. Tom would not have paid them any heed at all had he not spied Emmiline Benedict among their number. His eyes widened and numbness crept along his jawline. His pulse quickened. Anger, hurt, and desire swept over him in a single instant. It was like being caught in a flash flood and struggling to keep from being torn apart by the unleashed fury. He willed his features into an impassive mask, a poker face, to guard the emotional hand that life had unexpectedly dealt him.

The Indian agent's daughter saw Tom at the same instant, and much to the murmured disbelief of her associates, she excused herself from their midst and crossed the room to sit down at the Cheyenne's table. Amazingly enough, she was all sunshine and gaiety, as if she had never betrayed him at all.

“The silver-haired woman is Mildred Peltier, the wife of the Presbyterian minister. I'll bet her mouth is wide-open.” Emmiline spoke in the same voice, had the same flirtatious expression, as before. She shifted to the right, and Tom could see not only Mildred Peltier but the entire group of ladies staring at him. He stood and bowed slightly, a lascivious smile upon his weathered features. The women reacted as he knew they would. After all, he was a total stranger. The group crowded through the front door, gossiping among themselves about Emmiline's inexplicable and outrageous behavior.

Emmiline looked much the same. Her hair was coiffed and pinned atop her head in a lustrous dark wealth of curls. A narrow-brimmed hat was affixed to the side of her mounded hair. She wore a woolen riding dress and a thick cotton blouse covered by a short-waisted fur-trimmed coat, which was adorned with lace and stitchery. A faint, sweet scent of perfume tickled his nostrils.

As she spoke, Emmiline still had a habit of arching one eyebrow in a most provocative manner that had never failed to arouse his interest. Even now old emotions rushed through him; forgotten fires, long dormant, struggled to ignite, to be fanned into flames by her nearness. All that the embers of yesterday needed was a little coaxing to burst into life and consume him once again.

“Were you going to come see me, Tom?” she asked. That look again, but he was wise to her tricks. This time he kept his desire in check.

“No,” he replied.

“Well, you should have. Nobody holds a grudge forever. There is so much I wanted to tell you, to make you understand.…” She noticed his gloved left hand and realized he had not returned from war unscarred.

“What have you done to yourself?”

“Some blasted Cuban didn't want me to kill him.” Tom rubbed the deadened limb. “But I did.”

There, now, he thought. Remembering Cuba focused him. He allowed his mind to dwell on the carnage and bloodshed, the death of Zuloaga, the weary aftermath and painful recovery, the visions that had brought him back from the brink of death. He studied the woman seated across from him.

“Tom … please. What happened … my father made me. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But there was a fortune to be made and a people to be swindled out of their heritage.”

“No. What would the tribe have done with the land? Sold it off to the first oil company that came along and made your people an offer. At least my family will keep the tribe employed and provide some stability.”

“Yes. God bless Allyn Benedict … and his daughter.”

Emmiline's features hardened. His words wounded her, left cracks in her flirtatious facade. She had assumed he had returned to Cross Timbers for love of her. Now she was no longer certain. “I don't think I like you now.”

“Good. I'll be safer that way,” Tom replied. A grin found its way through the jumble of emotions he was feeling. Memories of the passion he had once felt were ashes now, and the winds of time were blowing, scattering them at last, enabling him to see her in a different light. There was an aura of darkness surrounding her—he had seen this before. Yes. Around Clay Benedict, too, but he had not realized it until just this minute, with Emmiline seated before him. He shivered, despite the warm interior of the restaurant. Tom leaned forward on his elbows and spoke quietly and with authority. “I did not come here for any of the Benedicts or their damn businesses. No, not even for you, Emmiline.” He eased back in his chair, and in that moment of freedom he almost felt sorry for her.

Mrs. Yaquereno arrived bearing a large stoneware mug of coffee and a thick earthenware bowl full of peach cobbler. Steam rose from the split crust, and the aroma of the peaches mingled with the smell of fresh coffee would have set his mouth watering any other time. But not now. His appetite was gone. Tom slid the bowl of cobbler and coffee mug over to the young woman. “Here … you're looking thin.” She stared at him in confused silence as Sandcrane stood and paid Mrs. Yaquereno for the food. Leaning over to Emmiline, he said,
“Heavohe netaxe eha-tova.”
Then he walked away and left her alone.

Emmiline frowned and clasped her hands in front of her, the blood draining from her knuckles. She had lived long enough among the Cheyenne to understand what he had said. Suddenly she lashed out at the earthenware bowl and sent it crashing to the floor. All eyes were upon her, startled by her destructive behavior, but she ignored the people in the restaurant and the Italian proprietress who arrived to clean up the young woman's mess.

What did he mean? she asked herself. And what did he know? His parting words reverberated in her mind.

“Heavohe netaxe eha-tova.”
The devil is hanging over you.

The devil was hanging over a man as well, Tom thought as he entered the mercantile under the watchful eyes of Luthor White Bear's relations. Ned Scalp Shirt and his sons, Matt and Little Ned, had been joined by Pete Elk Head, who had just arrived in town with the posse. Acting under Jerel Tall Bull's orders, Pete had stopped by the general store to inform Luthor White Bear of the morning's progress and how they had checked the Sandcrane ranch at Coyote Creek. Pete could be seen muttering something to Luthor's relatives as Tom made his way across the street. Like Tom, Ned Scalp Shirt and his sons had only recently arrived in town, but they remembered him from past tribal gatherings. Little Ned, eighteen years old and half a foot shorter than his father, was nevertheless cut in the same image, with his square jaw and solid build. He stood with his thumb hooked in the beaded belt that he wore outside his coat, the palm of his other hand resting near the gun butt tucked in his waistband. Urged on by Pete Elk Head, who stood to one side with a malicious grin on his face, Little Ned stepped in front of Tom at the top of the steps leading to the entrance of the mercantile. Brother Matt and Ned Scalp Shirt, wrapped in their heavy woolen greatcoats, were seated off to the side, Winchester carbines resting across their knees, perusing the townsfolk as if sitting in judgment of all who passed by.

“Stop right there, Sandcrane!” Little Ned said, holding out his hand as he barked his order. “Any friend of that murderous bastard Willem Tangle Hair has no business …”

Tom caught the young man by the wrist and with a savage pull hauled Little Ned from the wooden walk and sent him sprawling in the dirt. Ned and his eldest son, Matt, stared at the one-armed man in disbelief. They were plainspoken, hardworking cowmen, dangerous if provoked, but slow to react. Pete Elk Head dropped a hand to the gun riding on his hip, but by the time he touched iron, Tom had already disappeared inside.

He froze inside the door at the sight of Allyn Benedict, standing by the counter at the rear of the store, one hand resting on a stack of folded blankets, the other thrust into the pocket of his frock coat. He was impeccably tailored, tall and lean. But his boyish features had aged, and silvery threads had managed to weave their inexorable course through his blond hair, once merely gray at the temples.

Luthor White Bear had trimmed off the twin braids that had once framed his features. His hair was close-cropped now, and he wore a stiff-collared shirt and string tie as befitting a prosperous storekeeper. Behind him the wall was filled with bolts of cloth, canned goods, and bottled elixirs from a variety of vendors. The interior of the store smelled of apples and spilled cinnamon, coffee warming on the Franklin stove, tobacco smoke, and the familiar aroma of leather goods: saddles and bridles and harnesses to Tom's left. And yet a pall hung over the room despite the sunlight streaming through the open windows, as if everything that entered the store were in some way filtered through the black wreath of mourning hung on the front door.

“Tom Sandcrane,” Allyn said, and for a moment his eyebrows arched as he studied his erstwhile foe. The former Indian agent neither smiled nor frowned, but his lips were drawn in a thin, straight line. A muscle along the side of his neck began to twitch. “We're all proud of the way you conducted yourself in Cuba. I had even entertained the notion of having a statue built in your honor. But, then, most statues honor the dead … and here you are, alive and unharmed.” Benedict lowered his gaze to Tom's gloved hand. “Uh … alive, anyway.”

“I appreciate the thought,” Tom coolly replied. His emotions were like a wild stallion he had to keep tightly reined. He removed his hat as Rebecca White Bear stepped through the hanging curtains separating the rear kitchen from the rest of the store. Luthor's wife glanced up in surprise as she recognized Tom. She did not wait for a greeting and made no move to extend any sort of welcome. She moved past the counter and started up the stairs, the dry wood creaking beneath her steps. Draped in a black shawl that covered a brown woolen dress and jacket, the grieving mother was bereft of words for any friend of Willem Tangle Hair. The men in the store watched her leave, and when she had disappeared upstairs, Allyn struck a match and relit his cigar.

“I will stand by you, Luthor,” the oilman said, turning to the shopkeeper, placing a hand on Luthor's forearm.

“And Clay?”

“Badge or no, he is still my son,” Allyn said, blowing a cloud of smoke that drifted past a jar of peppermint sticks. “I have no doubt but that we can count on him to do the right thing when the time comes.” Benedict started across the store, making his way down the center aisle toward Tom. He slowed nearing the younger man. “There's been a lot of muddy water under the bridge, Tom. But I am willing to let bygones be bygones.”

Tom glanced down at the man's gesture of friendship. He made no move to clasp the oilman's hand. “Reckon that bridge got plumb washed away, Allyn. Could be the water's still rising.”

Benedict lowered his hand and nodded, his gaze narrowing, filled with questions as to Tom's motives and the meaning of his words. He continued on to the front door and vanished outside.

Luthor stepped around from behind the counter. He wore an apron whose hem was dusted with flour and torn at one corner. The shopkeeper opened a barrel and helped himself to one of the crackers inside. “Why'd you come here, Tom?” He slowly crossed to the makeshift table and chairs he kept near the stove. The chessboard and pieces were just as they had been on the night of Charlotte's murder, when Father Kenneth had staggered into the store and announced his grisly discovery.

“Just to pay my respects, Mr. White Bear,” Tom said. Now was not the time or place to begin a discussion about the Sacred Arrows. Tom looked about him, wondering what was wrong. Of course the man's daughter was dead, but there was something else he sensed—a more profound emptiness that confused him. “I am sorry about Charlotte.”

“That half-breed friend of yours killed her, choked the life out of her. My wife no longer sleeps. She hardly even speaks. She just waits, like me and the rest of us. The sheriff and his men will run Willem to ground. Mark my words.” Luthor reached down and with trembling hands poured himself a cup of coffee. He did not offer any to his uninvited guest.

“What makes you so certain Willem is guilty?”

Luthor stared at the contents of the enameled tin cup in his hands. Tendrils of steam curled over the brim. These days Luthor preferred his coffee dark and bitter. “Charlotte was bored here,” he said, becoming quiet as he reflected once again upon the painful past. “She liked to sneak off to Panther Hall, to dance with the roustabouts when they came in to spend their money. Willem wanted to marry her. But she never could settle on just one man.” Luthor gazed off toward the far wall, his expression distant. “It was all a party to her, laughing and flirting and having a good time. A couple of weeks ago Willem confronted her. They argued and she left for home and he followed her. There were witnesses, plenty of them. Later that same night Father Kenneth found her in his barn. Willem probably forced her to join him there, and when she refused to have anything more to do with him, he killed her.” Luthor absently gulped the coffee. A few droplets of liquid sloshed down his chin and stained the front of his apron. “In the shadow of the church … the white man's God failed her. I failed her. I should have known …” Luthor caught himself, grew suddenly aware of his audience, and fell silent.

Tom studied the shopkeeper for a moment, searching the man's grief-filled countenance. White Bear's sorrow was understandable—who could blame the man for desiring revenge—and yet Tom believed there was more there than met the eye. It was just something he felt … or perhaps did not feel.

Before he could press the matter, the front door opened and Luthor's relatives entered the store. The shopkeeper seemed relieved at their intrusion. And for Tom Sandcrane it was time to go. He hoped he could do so without violence—but he refused to leave without one parting remark.

“There is one way to be certain that she was killed by a Cheyenne,” Tom said.