The Arrow Keeper’s Song (7 page)

“Best watch the company you keep,” Tom cautioned. “This one's trouble.” He indicated the unconscious young man lying almost underneath the roan's hooves. Tom Sandcrane tucked the shotgun under his arm and glanced in John's direction.
“Na-ase
. I am leaving.” He continued on through the warm August afternoon, following the tracks in the buffalo grass to Panther Hall.

John Iron Hail watched Sandcrane for a few moments, then looked down at Pete's unconscious form. The fallen man stirred, tried to raise upon his elbows, grunted, and sank to earth. “Trouble? Not much,” John Iron Hail said, bemused and shaking his head. He unslung his canteen and proceeded to trickle water across his companion's bruised and battered face.

Three flies upon the tabletop alighted and cautiously approached the crumbs of fry bread that had spilled from Seth's plate. Seth's hand darted out and closed like a snare. Then he slowly uncurled his fingers to make his count. A single fly crawled around his palm for a fleeting second and then took flight.

“There was a time you'd've caught all three,” said the young, attractive woman Jerel Tall Bull had employed to serve his customers.

Seth looked up at Red Cherries, then glanced about the interior of the roadhouse. The rest of the tavern's patrons were outside, gathered at the fighting pit, where they railed at the hapless combatants and wagered money on their brutal sport. For the first time since the loss of the Mahuts, Seth and the widow of Jordan Weasel Bear were alone.

Red Cherries of the lilting laugh and teasing smile. Warm as summer to a lonely man's cold heart. Like her name, ripe and sweet and inviting … but forbidden fruit whose taste had cost him dearly.

She was achingly pretty and reminded Seth so much of his first wife, who had died shortly after Tom's sixth birthday. Red Cherries, a Northern Cheyenne, had been given to Jordan Weasel Bear, Seth's friend, for the sum of ten horses. Jordan, almost forty years the girl's senior, could at one moment be kind and caring, and the next, abusive. He'd lost all three of his sons in the Indian Wars that were the aftermath of the Custer debacle. Jordan dulled his sense of loss with the white man's whiskey. When the liquor fueled his jealous rages, Seth was always there to calm him down. Ironically, this act of friendship brought Seth and Red Cherries together. Over the months they also became friends, and then more than friends.

“There was a time when a Cheyenne woman would have lost the tip of her nose for taking another man to her husband's blanket,” Seth replied.

“I've been punished,” Red Cherries said. “I spent the last six months in Dallas.”

“Doing what?”

Red Cherries chuckled and indicated the interior of the tavern with a sweep of her left hand. “This,” she said. “And other things.” She shrugged, keeping part of her story private. “I had to stay alive. And it wasn't like I had a man to care for me. No one exactly came forward after Jordan's death.”

“It wasn't my place,” Seth defensively replied. “Not after what we did.”

“Seems like it was
your
place more than anyone else's.” Red Cherries brushed a strand of hair back from her face and pretended she no longer cared. Perspiration beaded her lip, her brown eyes wide and luminous despite the building's shadowy interior. She wore a loose-fitting embroidered cotton blouse and a Mexican skirt, whose billowing folds concealed her slender legs. Her features had lost the bloom of innocence—but, then, she was twenty now, a widow, and she had been to Dallas.

Seth shook his head and sighed. He poured himself another drink and tossed it down, his throat numb from the half a bottle he had already finished off. He cast his eyes across the room. There was nothing fancy about Panther Hall. One wall was dominated by a bar and rows of glasses from behind which the Tall Bulls dispensed such curiously named libations as Old Bronc, Three Fingered Jack, and Thunder Water, along with the more traditional elixirs—rye whiskey, sour mash, beer, and hard cider. Seth had seen a cat go mad after lapping up a puddle of Thunder Water. But the whiskey was brought in from Fort Reno, and though it had a hard edge, the liquor had never made him froth at the mouth.

The rest of the interior consisted of tables and chairs and an enormous stone hearth that filled the far wall and resembled the yawning mouth of a cave. Oil lamps hung from the beams that crisscrossed the ceiling, and could be raised and lowered as needed. The Tall Bull brothers had built the road-house to withstand the often turbulent Oklahoma weather, and nothing short of a tornado's direct hit would rattle its walls.

“Why did you come back?” Seth asked, downing another drink in a single gulp. His cheeks were flushed from the effects of the liquor. He'd been lying to himself, pretending all along that a craving for drink had brought him out to Panther Hall. But the widow had been the real reason. The minute word had reached him of Red Cherries' return, Seth was lost. He had to see her again. Nothing could have kept him away.

“Despite the opinion of the good people who fill the pews at St. Joachim's, I am still Southern Cheyenne.” The woman stiffened her spine as she spoke. She misjudged his scrutiny for a look of disapproval. “I have done what I have done. I seek no forgiveness, nor do I expect any.” Realizing she had raised her voice, the widow glanced about in embarrassment, hoping the two of them were still alone. Relieved it was so, a melancholy smile transformed her expression, making her seem wise beyond her years. “No doubt the ‘good Christian Cheyenne' would agree my place is here.” Red Cherries studied the older man's bedraggled appearance. There was hardly a hint of the power and the mystery that had drawn her to him months ago. The loss of the Sacred Arrows had divided his spirit and left him a cripple.

Seth took note of her scrutiny and scowled. “What are you looking at?” She was judging him, like all the rest. “Keep your pity. Save it for yourself. Like you said, your place is here. Mine too.”

“Yes. I work here. Jerel pays me. And he treats me no worse than the other men I have known. But I do this to live.” Red Cherries placed a hand on his shoulder. “I think you come here to die … a little at a time.”

Seth managed to stand, steadying himself with the back of his chair. He grabbed for her hand, but she pulled away. “You could come with me. I'll take care of you.” He wiped a forearm across his bleary-eyed features. His breath stank of drink. His clothes had been slept in for three days running.

“No. I waited for you after they brought Jordan back. But you did not come. Even when I sent word that I was planning to leave, you never showed your face.” The woman's eyes narrowed, grew distant, as the wound reopened and she relived the hurt. After Jordan's death, friends began to ostracize her, and the man she trusted and thought loved her kept his distance. He clung to his pride and his precious Sacred Arrows and allowed her to leave alone, without entreating her to stay or offering to stand at her side.

“Take care of me?” She chuckled. “You cannot even take care of yourself.” She turned and strode across the room, stopping by one of the rear windows to look out at the men around the pit. Some poor animal was dying for their pleasure. The thought sickened her. Why were men so cruel? Of course, the two women who plied the oldest trade in the back rooms were among the audience enjoying the blood sport. Red Cherries sensed her former lover behind her, and his hands grasped her shoulders. She attempted to pull free.

Seth tightened his hold and spun her around, pressing her against the wall as he covered her lips with his own. She did not respond but stood motionless as a statue, devoid of emotion and feelings. He drew back and looked into her eyes, his whiskey breath hot on her face.

“I don't like a man to put his hands on me unless I wish it,” she warned in a quiet voice. “And right now I don't wish it.” Seth retreated a step and wiped a hand across his mouth.

“You cost me everything … the Sacred Arrows, my peace, my life, even my son. Everything.”

“If you are broken, it's because you are brittle,” Red Cherries retorted. Though life had been brutally difficult in Dallas, she had survived on her own, with no one to express sympathy for her plight.

Seth cursed and raised a hand as if to strike her. But he hesitated, then looked at his upraised arm as if questioning its purpose. He sighed and stumbled away from her. The crowd at the fighting pit caught his attention. A dangerous smile crawled across his features as the liquor he had consumed continued to burn in his belly. The dozen or so men ringing the fighting pit clamored for a kill. The stench of violent death drifted in through the open back door. An idea began to form in the foggy recesses of the man's mind, and he chuckled. The sound made the young widow's skin crawl.

Seth hurried across the tavern and darted around behind the bar, searched beneath the counter for a few moments until he found what he was looking for, then straightened up and headed for the back door, an ax handle held loosely in his right hand.

“See you,” he muttered.

“Where are you going?”

“I never had any use for that damn pit.”

“Stay clear of Jerel Tall Bull,” Red Cherries said. For old time's sake? Or somewhere, buried deep in her heart, beneath all the layers of hurt, did she still care? Seth either didn't hear or chose to ignore her counsel. He vanished through the back door and started down the winding path that led to the pit, and to the ring of hardened souls come to wager on a game of life and death.

The Mississippi Blue Heeler had lost the battle but remained defiant. Weighing fifty-four pounds of muscle and bone beneath its blood-spattered brown-and-tan fur, the dog, General Sheridan, retreated toward the hard clay wall. Pound for pound there wasn't an animal on the reservation that could have taken him. But the Tall Bulls had pitted General Sheridan against a pair of red wolves brought over from Louisiana. Though smaller than the Blue Heeler, the wolves were pack animals and operated as a unit, attacking simultaneously from the front and rear. General Sheridan had held his own for several long minutes, and the bloody smears on the walls and floor of the pit attested to the savagery of the contest. One of the wolves was down and lying on its side, fluids pumping from the mortal throat wound the Blue Heeler had inflicted. But while General Sheridan had concentrated on one wolf, its companion had ripped the Blue Heeler's belly and crippled one of the dog's hind legs. To make matters worse, General Sheridan could no longer see out of one eye, and part of his right ear was missing. Muscle spasms caused the dog's powerful shoulders to tremble as it retreated, limping toward the gate through which it had entered the arena. Curtis Tall Bull, disgusted that the dog had not performed as expected, made no move toward the gate. He was not going to allow the animal to escape with its life.

“Curtis! Appears to me that mutt of yours has called it quits,” said Mickey Pallins, a Cherokee half-breed from the southeastern part of the territory, over near the Red River. He had brought in the wolves and was going home several hundred dollars to the good.

“He ain't dead yet,” Curtis snapped, his darkly handsome features flushed with anger.

“That's the spirit, Curtis,” one of the men around the pit shouted out. “Twenty dollars says the wolf kills him on the next lunge.” Though the remaining red wolf bled from a few superficial wounds, the smaller animal continued to stalk its opponent, knowing it had the advantage now. The Blue Heeler could no longer match the red wolf's quickness. The cunning predator began to close in, its head lowered and feral eyes gleaming with battle lust.

Jerel Tall Bull leaned into his younger brother. “Open the gate, Curtis. You've lost enough. Anyway, that's a fool's bet.” Jerel was heavyset and powerfully built. At first glance his lumbering gait, close-set eyes and thick, homely features made him appear slow-witted. Nothing could have been further from the truth. His reputation among the Southern Cheyenne was in many ways the equal of Tom Sandcrane's. There was grudging admiration for the way he had played the BIA and the army off one another while running a profitable enterprise expressly forbidden under the jurisdiction of the government. No one cared if some of his money made its way into the coffers of white officials. What mattered was Jerels air of defiance toward the authorities, twenty years after the last battles of the Indian Wars had been fought.

But Curtis shrugged off his brother's advice and took the bets that came his way. General Sheridan may have lost the fight, but he wouldn't go easy. The red wolf was still in for quite a tussle.

Suddenly, without warning, the crowd parted, and Seth Sandcrane hooked a leg over the wall and dropped down into the pit. The adrenaline coursing through him belied the effects of the alcohol he had consumed.

“What the hell?” Curtis blurted out.

Seth strode to the center of the pit. The red wolf lunged for him. Seth batted the animal aside with his ax handle. The wolf howled and retreated toward the opposite wall, where its owner rose up in anger.

“Who the devil is this old drunk? You leave my animals be!” shouted Mickey Pallins. He opened the gate for the wolf and allowed the creature to scamper through the passage and into its cage. Pallins slammed the escape route closed. “Is this a friend of yours, Curtis?”

“He comes here to drink. But after today, not anymore!” the younger of the Tall Bull brothers replied.

Seth ignored the interchange, impervious to the insulting remarks and protests hurled his way. He walked over to the dog. General Sheridan's legs trembled, but he stood defiant, his hackles raised.

“Oes-keso,”
Seth spoke. The single word, uttered in Cheyenne, had a profound effect on the frightened, pain-crazed animal. A calm seemed to settle over the Blue Heeler. “Sure, you recognize me,” Seth continued. “Poor old boy.” He knelt by the dog and outstretched his hand, palm down, fingers tucked in. General Sheridan extended his bloody muzzle and sniffed the man's knuckles. The animal's hackles slowly settled. It recognized this man. The Blue Heeler continued to whimper as its strength failed and it sank to the ground.