Sacred Is the Wind (17 page)

Jubal headed straight for the front doors. He felt a tightness in his chest and suddenly his mouth turned dry as dust; it seemed every pore on his face was opening, becoming desiccated by the wind that struck the colonel as he walked out onto the broad front porch. He stood in the shadow of the false-front structure; the sign “
HIPPOLYTE
” creaked from its supports overhead. A group of men headed toward him. Several held lanterns, others carried torches held aloft. His soldiers, townspeople, ranch hands, and farmers mingled with a familiarity they seldom experienced in normal times. But this was not a normal time and tragedy had brought them together, and as word spread from house to house, other men and women, many half-clothed, streamed toward the throng that converged on the Hippolyte Hotel. A woman was sobbing. The sound of her brokenhearted cry rang piteously on the night wind. A broad-shouldered farmer walked at her side, in his arms the lifeless form of a young boy. Other men supported the woman, walking to either side of her and holding her up. Now and then her voice rose shrill and she shouted, “Oh God … oh God … oh God!”, repeating herself over and over until her voice would break and subside back to the soul-racked sobbing. Jubal waited at the top of the steps. He could make out the boy's features as the soldiers and townsfolk came to a halt in front of the porch. Not a word was said. Only the desperate sound of the widow. Then the crowd melted back and allowed Big Marley through.

He carried the blood-soaked corpse of Tom Bragg.

Jubal shivered as the cold hand of recognition clasped his spine. He reached out and supported himself against a nearby whitewashed pillar. Marley's eyes were redrimmed as he looked up at the colonel.

“He just stepped outside for a minute. I swear I wasn't away from him but just for … a minute.” He glanced down at the young man in his arms, the bloodstained shirt, and where the knife had been, the rent in the fabric just under the heart. Marley laid the body of Tom Bragg down on the bottom step and backed away. Jubal seemed to stare at the corpse as if denying it. As if trying to wake from a dream. Then he numbly moved forward down the steps and knelt at his brother's side.

“We have the knife. It's got markings, it belongs to the Northern Cheyenne,” Marley said. Another man worked his way through the crowd to stand alongside Marley. Sabbath McKean held out the knife.

“It's got the markings, all right, but that doesn't mean a damn thing,” he said.

“He took my horse,” a voice shouted from the crowd.

“And rode this young'un down,” the farmer holding the dead boy added. The widow began to wail “Oh God” again.

“He was headin' east. Probably back to the Warbonnet,” another townsman interjected.

“White Bull's village,” Marley said. “I guess he thinks he'll be safe there.”

Jubal reached out and touched his brother's face. Just a boy, just the … last … link … with another time. He stood and looked from the widow's son to Tom's drawn blood-drained features frozen in a mask of pain.

“Assemble the men,” he said to Marley. “I think I shall pay these Cheyenne a visit.”

“Maybe some of us could ride along with you, Colonel,” the farmer holding the dead child said. His offer hung on the air for a grim moment, unsupported.

“Us too.” Several ranch hands in faded denims and sweatstained hats stepped forward, adjusting their gunbelts and checking their revolvers. They reeked of whiskey but their movements were steady enough.

“Count me in,” said A. J. Goyne. The clerk glanced about to see if he echoed the sentiments of the townsfolk. “I see you, Cod Tatum. Go fetch your brothers and tell them to bring their shotguns.”

“This is madness,” Sabbath blurted out. “The knife could be anyone's.” He searched the faces of the crowd, hoping to find reason. “This is a matter for the law.”

Jubal pointed at the scout. “Marley, if that man speaks again, kill him.” Marley pulled his Colt Dragoon from its holster and leveled it at McKean. Jubal continued up the steps and disappeared into the hotel.

Marley called over to Hec Knowles. “Hec, you and a couple of men carry Tom here into the lobby and then get the coroner.” He glanced over at the farmer who held the widow's dead son. “Put the boy in there too.”

“I'll take him to his house,” the farmer replied. “We will grieve in our own way.” The crowd parted to let the widow and the farmer pass through. The wind rose and flames streamed like fiery banners from the torches. Weeks of fear had come to fruition this night. The ugly mood spread like wildfire as more townspeople found their way to the Hippolyte to discover for themselves the nature of these most recent tragedies.

“A bad time for Sheriff Yarbrough to be in Denver,” a portly old gentleman observed. He wore a black frock coat and carried a doctor's bag. He stood watching the soldiers bear Tom's corpse up the steps and into the lobby. “Or a good time, depending on one's persuasion.”

“No matter, Doc Schaefer,” said Sabbath McKean, daring a bullet, “Colonel Bragg's Militia is a law unto itself. They look after their own.” He did not try to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

“You're damn right,” Marley growled. He slapped his revolver up alongside McKean's head. The scout groaned and sank to his knees, a bloody lump forming at his temple.

“Blast you, Marley,” he said in a thick voice. “I'll remember that.”

“Then remember I didn't kill you like Bragg told me to. I figured I owed you for the drinks.” The sergeant cocked the revolver. “Now, squaw man, we're even.”

Jubal Bragg stood before the mirror in his hotel room. With slow, deliberate motions he buckled his gunbelt around his waist beneath his knee-length blue coat. The button-down flap holster rested on his left, the revolver butt-forward. He stared at himself in the mirror but what he saw was the image of the Northern Cheyenne. Tom had braced the savage at Foot o' the Mountains and now the red heathen had exacted his revenge. Panther Burn, that was the name. Panther Burn. He saw him standing over Tom's crumpled form, the crimson blade held aloft. Jubal reeled away from the reflection that his tortured mind had conjured. He stumbled to the desk and reached for the bottle of brandy, but his hand paused, as Jubal's gaze dropped to his journal and the unfinished entry. His dreams for a life with his brother, for a future, once more had been stolen from him by a murdering savage.
I am happy
—

The scrawled entry seemed to taunt him.
I am happy. I am happy.
He read it in silence over and over until his knuckles whitened as his fingers dug into the desktop and blood trickled from beneath his fingernails.
I am happy. I am happy.
The cry began deep in his throat, a cry from his soul that continued like a wounded animal's, a cry of anguish, as if his very heart were being ripped from his chest.
“Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”
It rose in pitch and in volume until it reverberated into the hall, until it tore at his vocal cords.
“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!”

A cry of pain that died in a whimper; with it died mercy.

Sabbath McKean grimaced as Esther Bird Hat Madison dabbed at his bruised scalp. With trembling hands she washed the blood away while the scout recounted the events of an hour ago to Reverends Holstead and Madison. Sam's features were bunched with concern and his cheeks had paled.

“I watched them ride out,” Sabbath concluded. “Bragg's Militia and most of the menfolk in town. It's bad. Real bad. They wouldn't listen to me and I didn't try to press them. After all, maybe the Northern Cheyenne is guilty. Oh hell, I can't see that. But I wanted to keep from getting shot. So I just held my head together and waited for them to leave.” Sabbath's eyes bored into Sam's. “It is not going to be a good time to be an Indian in these parts. Or to be thought of as an Indian lover.”

Sam's color returned as his whole lanky body tensed.

“No need to raise your hackles,” Sabbath said. “I weren't meaning no insult. I had me a Sioux wife for a spell. Prettiest little thing, too.”

“Oh dear oh dear oh dear,” Reverend Holstead muttered. He began to pace in his nightshirt and black woolen pants. He still wore his nightcap with a long tassel that hung down his back. “I suppose we're lucky that savage did not slit our throats while we slept.”

“None of this makes sense,” Sabbath said. “That young buck had the bark still on, right enough. And Tom had braced him. I was there. But to kill Bragg …” Sabbath glanced about the room. “Panther Burn wasn't the only other Cheyenne in town?” He waved Esther away. She had done all she could. The lump would hurt and there was nothing to be done but endure it.

“Rebecca Blue Thrush and James Broken Knife also came with us to town,” Samuel explained.

“And where are they?” Sabbath asked. Sam looked at his wife a moment, then back to the scout. “Rebecca left with the Northern Cheyenne. And we cannot find James. We don't know where he is.”

“Maybe the Northerner has done something to Rebecca as well,” Esther exclaimed. She bit her lip and reached out to take Samuel's hand.

“Come first light, I'll see what tracks I can pick up,” Sabbath offered. He stood and gingerly placed his broad-brimmed hat on his head, grimacing as he did so. He brushed a shock of red hair out of his face. “People been scared so long, makes 'em kind of loco. Hell, I ain't never been much of a talker,” Sabbath continued, studying Sam. “But you got the gift, Reverend. I'm sure Parson Holstead would loan you a fresh team to hitch to your carriage. I got a feeling Simon White Bull may need some help. 'Cause the little army that just left was in a mighty dangerous mood.”

“Of course, I'll leave right now,” Sam said. He had not been to bed and was still dressed. All he needed was a hat and coat.

“I got a bad feeling about this,” Sabbath added. “I'd stay here if I was you, Mrs. Madison. Should there be trouble …”

“I go with my husband,” Esther said with such conviction that Sabbath could only shrug. His gaze switched to Sam Madison.

“Fetch your coat, Reverend,” said the scout. “I'll harness the team.”

The horses were not only fresh and well fed but eager to run, and Sam Madison lost no time in applying the whip, driving the team of Tennessee bay mares at a gallop through town. He wanted to avoid confrontation, and the fear that gripped his stomach in a vise did not ease its hold the entire length of Main. Only with Castle Rock a half-mile behind did he begin to breathe easier. A crossroads ahead beckoned in the moonlight. Here the trails diverged, heading north toward the Wyoming Territory, or east to Simon White Bull's village, where the trail was churned from the passage of almost two hundred horses, or south toward Denver. Holstead's advice returned, tantalizing, and now making so much more sense. They could be in Denver by midmorning. Sam pulled back on the reins and the carriage slowed as the bays responded to his command. Sam tugged the reins in his right fist and the carriage swung around onto the wheel-rutted road that led south to Denver, to St. Louis, to Washington, and safety for them both.

“My husband … what are you doing?” Esther said. “This is not the way to our home.”

“Our home is in Washington. Or at least it will be,” Sam replied. His wife stared at him, incomprehension blanking her delicate features. “Listen to me, Esther. When I was a boy, I caught a bird in the woods behind my father's house. It was a fragile creature with a broken wing. A robin. I set its wing, fed it, kept it alive, tamed it to my call. My pretty robin grew healthy and I built it a large cage and kept it in my room near a window. That simple creature provided me precious moments of happiness in a stern, unhappy house. Eight years passed. And then it died.” Sam's voice grew soft but the ungainly lines of his face took on a hard edge. “When it died, I went crazy. I struck out at anything and everything. Such rage, and all for a bird, a silly, dear bird.” He looked at Esther. “If I could know madness over the death of a robin, what would a man like Jubal Bragg be capable of over the murder of his brother? Or the townspeople, at the brutal killing of a child?” He cracked the whip in the air above the manes and the carriage lurched forward. “Your life is all that matters and I will do anything to save it.”

“No, my husband, we cannot!” Esther clawed for the reins.

Sam shoved her away. “You will obey me, wife. Do you understand, you will obey me!” Esther shrank against the back of the carriage seat. She loved him. She loved her people. “To love, honor, and obey”—the words formed in her mind. “Obey.”

“We'll come back,” Sam said, trying to sound reasonable above the drumming hooves and the rattle of the axle. “After things have calmed down. We'll come back. Right now there's nothing I can do but risk losing you. And I will not do that. But I promise, we will come back!” Esther had nothing to say. He was her husband. And she would obey.

Moonlight showed the way. The trail ahead was paved with a ghostly glare. Sam allowed the twin bays to settle into a mile-eating trot. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, unable to meet his wife's defeated gaze and lacking the courage to glance over his shoulder, toward the east, toward the Warbonnet. I am doing this for her, he thought. His eyes began to tear. It was from grit kicked up from the horses' hooves, nothing more, he lied to himself. Esther was all the love in his life and for her he would sacrifice anything, his pride, his honor if need be.

And even his God.

7

R
ebecca bolted upright and wiped the sleep out of her eyes. She was alone on the buffalo robe. Stomach tightening, Star's daughter glanced around and was relieved to find the pinto grazing contentedly twenty yards away. The day was awash with a feeble glare as a lowering cloud pack held the sun at bay and dimmed the brightness of the world below, where even the evergreens seemed lusterless and dull. Rebecca started to call out, then hesitated as an inner sense cautioned her against raising her voice. Suddenly the full realization of her situation and the time of day burst into her mind.