The Arrow Keeper’s Song (51 page)

“My fault … all mine … Charlotte's death … this evil …” He coughed pink spittle as he struggled to speak. “I sold the Arrows!” The enormity of his guilt tore at his soul. The words struck Tom with the force of a thunderclap.

“I lost all … money … store … and Jerel … gave me gold … for the Sacred Arrows …” Luthor sucked in his breath, made a hideous sound, and coughed blood. “Forgive me.” He reached up with a feeble hand and caught the front of Tom's coat. “You … you …! And then he was gone—his expression went slack, his body grew limp, and his chin dropped to his chest. Little Ned continued to weep.

Tom stood, somewhat dazed, his heart pounding against his rib cage. It took a few moments for him to realize that his father and Clay Benedict were standing close at hand and with them Joanna and Father Kenneth, who had just staggered into the street. Joanna was already wrapping a crude bandage around the priest's scalp.

As Father Kenneth knelt and began to administer the last rites to his old friend, Joanna stepped to Tom's side and laid a hand on his arm.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Tom replied, “but I have to go.”

“I know. Just make sure you come back.” She reached out and gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then returned her attention to the wounded.

“Did you hear?” Tom asked his father.

Seth nodded. “That explains much. A man makes mistakes. But to sell the Sacred Arrows …” He shook his head in disbelief. “I knew he had sunk most of his money on a dry well to the south. But I never thought he'd be so desperate.”

“If you're going after Tall Bull, I'll ride with you,” said Clay. “Just give me a minute.”

“No,” Tom said. “This is for me to do.”

“Now, see here …”

“There is more at stake here than your law,” Tom firmly replied.

Clay met the man's dark gaze a moment and acquiesced. “Reckon I have business in town to tend to.” One more duty to perform before he could pay a call on a certain school-marm and show her he was alive.

Seth fell into step alongside his son. He would walk with Tom to his horse but go no farther. This hour had been a long time coming; it had been whispered in the dreams of both father and son. What had begun long ago at the gathering of the elders would end tonight. The path ahead was for Tom to walk—alone.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

A
LOOSE SHUTTER UPSTAIRS SWUNG TO AND FRO IN THE RAIN
, slamming against the outer wall, sounding for all the world like some unseen visitor trying to gain entrance.
Should have latched the damn thing
, thought Allyn Benedict, laboring over a reply to a rival oil company whose president had suggested they reach some sort of a mutual agreement on the price of the crude that companies were transporting to eastern refineries. But it was difficult to concentrate on such matters. The former Indian agent's thoughts were all a blur. He felt as if his life were unraveling despite all his efforts to gather the loose threads back into a constructive whole.

The whore, Red Cherries, was a problem. Allyn cursed himself for a fool. Like all the painted harlots at Panther Hall, she had been invisible to him. It had never entered Benedict's mind to exercise discretion around such a woman. The cabin at the roadhouse had seemed the perfect place for a dalliance with Luthor's hot-blooded daughter. Why worry if the whores noticed his coming and going? They were the property of Jerel Tall Bull and knew better than to cause trouble. Unfortunately, Red Cherries was proving the exception to the rule. Damn Tall Bull for not keeping his soiled dove in her coop. Now she'd have to be dealt with, before she blabbed about his indiscretions to the entire town. Red Cherries might have to suffer the same fate as Charlotte White Bear unless she learned to curb her tongue.

The pen snapped in Allyn's grasp, and on reflex he jerked back his hand and inadvertently tipped the inkwell over on its side, ruining the first draft of the letter he had just completed. The former Indian agent struggled to regain his composure and cursed the doubts and misgivings that plagued his resolve.

“Damn!” He slid the chair back and searched the desk for a scrap of cloth to stop the rivulet of ink he had unleashed among his ledgers and books. In an act of desperation he grabbed a silk kerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and used it to sop up the black ink. He tossed the cloth into the wastepaper basket near the corner of the desk.

A drink was in order to steady his nerves, for the storm had him on edge. It should be finished. Willem had to be swinging from a barn beam or an upturned wagon hitch by now. Charlotte's “killer” had been punished, case closed. Now things could get back to normal. He'd have to patch things up with Margaret; buy Red Cherries' silence, it wouldn't do to have her spreading gossip. Down the road he would sever his alliance with the Tall Bulls in such a way as to keep the depth of his relationship with them a secret.
Well, all good things come to those who
wait, Benedict told himself. And with that he filled a deep crystal glass with a measure of French brandy.

The front door opened and closed with a bang, and voices drifted in from the front entrance. Emmiline must have intercepted their guest, for Consuela had been sent home for the night. Allyn was expecting Jerel Tall Bull to report on all that had transpired at the jail. The last thing he wanted was for this gambler and ne'er-do-well to have anything to do with Emmiline.

“I'll see to it, my dear,” Allyn called out, and started across the room, but Emmiline appeared suddenly outside the door. She looked pale, her features betraying her alarm. She entered the room, and another figure loomed behind her in the shadowy hallway.

“Now see here, Jerel, I …” Allyn's voice trailed off as he recognized his son. Clay was spattered with mud; a red-stained bandage circled his right arm. His clothes were rain soaked and plastered to his skin, and his coat left a trail of muddy water down the hall and into the study. His features were grimed and powder burned. “What are you doing here, son? You are supposed to be up north, dammit all, that was the plan. Well, never mind now. Is it over? Have you been to the jail? Is it ended?”

“Ended … no, sir,” Clay said, glancing aside at his sister and then directing himself to the man near the desk. His father. “It has only begun.” His left hand held the scattergun he had reloaded along the way. He thumbed both hammers back, an ominous sound in the sudden stillness that filled the room. “You are under arrest for the murder of Charlotte White Bear.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

T
HE RIDER IN THE RAIN SKIRTED THE BLACKENED FACADE OF
Panther Hall; rounded the ominously silent, tomblike structure; passed the fighting pit whose mudslick walls in the flash of stormlight were the color of dried blood; passed the silent, shuttered cabin where Allyn Benedict, corrupted by his lust of wealth and the desires of the flesh, had sown the seeds of his own demise; passed the barn and the clearing where the ashes of a dead whore's makeshift pyre leached into the soil, leaving a blackened skull to watch with sightless eyes.

“This way,” moaned the wind through the bones of the rain. “He passed this way. The Mahuts await.”

The horse shied and fought its rider. Tom tightened his grip on the reins as the animal reared and pawed the air. And there in the graveyard glare he saw the warrior who had haunted him down the labyrinth of his days. The specter lowered his spear, indicating a dimly visible path through the woods. Then, shrouded by the rain, it vanished. Or had it ever been? Tom understood and slid from horseback. He tethered the gelding to a nearby oak, checked the loads in his Colt, and started down the path. The rain began to lessen in intensity, and though the branches of the white oaks and cedars overhead afforded some protection, the knotted trunks and the weedy overgrowth had a disturbing way of closing round him like the jaws of a trap.

The flames of the fire leaped upward toward the roof of the arbor overhead. Twisted limbs and dried thatch would ignite if Jerel Tall Bull wasn't careful. The man kneeling in the lurid light paid no attention to the danger at hand. He added another couple of logs to the fire, then sat back on his haunches and passed his hands over the Sacred Arrows. The obsidian points gleamed black in the firelight. The long shafts, banded with white, red, black, and yellow paint, seemed to glow with a life of their own, as if drawing on the flames. The wind tugged at the gray and white eagle feathers adorning the Mahuts. Jerel closed the deerskin and mallard-skin folds of the pouch, secured it, then held the bundle before him, his voice rising and falling with the familiar tones of the cadence. He no longer thought of the debacle at the jail; the death of his brother left him unmoved. These things paled to insignificance when compared with what was at hand. It had been revealed to Jerel in a dream that he would never be the Keeper, never know or possess all the power of the Mahuts while Tom Sandcrane lived.

Let him come now and be destroyed by the very relics he sought to recapture. Jerel Tall Bull held the bundle over his head, then lowered it to the blanket. With one hand on the pouch he raised the other and pointed at the trail.

“The power is with me. I am the Keeper,

the blood of the Hawk is in me. Who can

stand before me? No one. I am not seen.

I cannot die. My enemies tremble and

fall upon their knives.”

Tom Sandcrane stumbled and dropped to his knees, a searing pain in his chest. He dug his hands into the mud and gasped. He rolled over onto his side as a winged shape dislodged from the branches and plunged toward him. It was a hawk, old and powerful, with cruel talons like curved sword blades. Tom held up his hand to ward off the attack—he screamed and flailed at the predator, but to no avail. The hawk raked his forearm until the flesh hung in tatters.

No. You are not real. The one who sent you walks in my soul. But this I will not allow. Return to him. Be gone!

Tom's vision cleared. Raindrops splashed off his cheeks and eyelids. His right arm was unmarked. He crawled to his knees and came face-to-face with Captain Diego Zuloaga, arrogant, handsome, absently tugging at his goatee. The man pulled a revolver from his belt and fired it point-blank at Tom, who instinctively ducked. He drew his Colt and squeezed off a shot, but Zuloaga was gone and the bullet thudded into the trunk of a nearby oak.

Stop this. Get out of my head. Get out of my mind!
Tom holstered the gun and closed his eyes, rubbing them with his knuckles, doubled over. When he looked again, he was kneeling in blood, in a rain of crimson, and there were his dead comrades, Philo and Tully, bloated and dead, their flesh wasted away, food for the worms, and they were waving him onward, inviting Tom to join them in the arms of death. And behind them the shadows lengthened, the blackness swept toward him, spreading its wings.…

Jerel Tall Bull lost all grasp of time. Minutes were as indistinguishable as hours. He only knew his song had outlasted the rain. The fire had outlasted the storm. There was a feeling of exultation in his heart. His very being soared. He felt stronger than ever before, and his eyes blazed with triumph as he lifted the bundle in his hands and stood. Behind him the flood-swollen waters of Little Sister Creek raged with a fury all their own. Winds gusted around him, wrapping him with the tendrils of the ceremonial fire. Flood and flame were a part of him now, as were all the savage elements of creation.

“The storms shall do my bidding.

I will walk unseen among my enemies,

I am the healer and the destroyer.

The power of the Ones Who Have

Gone Before is mine. They call

me by name. I am the Keeper!”

And a voice answered, a quiet voice, weary, but from one unbroken. “Not tonight, Jerel Tall Bull. Not ever.”

The world came crashing in on the man by the fire. One second he felt airborne, the next anchored fast to the mud and the clay and the wreckage of his dreams and ambitions. Jerel's jaw dropped as Tom Sandcrane emerged from the woods and walked toward him, his gun drawn and aimed at Jerel's heart.

“No,” said Jerel.

Tom entered the clearing and circled the fire. “Put the Arrows down.”

“No!” Jerel shrieked, and, whirling on his heels, threw the bundle over the edge of the creekbank. The Sacred Arrows hung poised in the air for a fraction of a second, then dropped toward the savagely racing waters below.

Savaa!
” Tom shouted, and brushed Jerel aside as he dived in vain for the bundle. He lost his footing and plummeted toward the floodwaters, slipping and sliding, rolling down the embankment toward the raging torrent. Tom managed to twist and dig to gain footing, stopping himself just at the water's edge. Something loomed out of the dark. The shattered remains of a tree trunk careened past, bristling with roots like spears that missed him by inches. He flattened against the riverbank. Something white-hot grazed his cheek, clipping the flesh away and leaving a streak of blood. Where was the bundle? It was too dark and he was blinded by the mud. Had it been carried off by the flood? Destroyed when he was so close?

Jerel prowled the top of the riverbank, a carbine in hand, determined that a bullet should succeed where his magic had failed. He cursed and called Tom by name and fired again. A geyser of mud erupted inches from Tom's leg, but the human target did not react.

Rushing water, mud and fear and pain, all memories rushing back. His fevered dreams, the wraith-hawk—yes, he remembered. Only Jerel was the hawk now, and yet as the dreams foretold, everything else was the same. Then, as he had in the dream, Tom reached out, stretching, slipped and caught himself as the floodwaters lapped at his boot heels, reaching, clawing in the mud, inching along. His muscles protested. He jammed his left arm into the bank, propping himself as best he could with the near-useless limb. Reach out … nothing … nothing … and then his fingers closed round a leather string and then another. His heart soared and he drew the bundle to his breast.