Scalpdancers (41 page)

He broke another couple of thick limbs from the tree trunk and tossed them on the camp fire. He wanted a good large blaze so as to attract the attention of the two who were following him. He had spotted Morgan and Sparrow his first day out. A dust plume from their horses had given them away. And once on a ridge he had watched from hiding as the couple rode into view, thinking themselves very clever as they trailed Lone Walker among the forested ridges and silent hills.

Perhaps the fire so obviously larger than one man needed would lure them into camp, the Blackfoot hoped as he stood the Medicine Cane upright in the soft earth. Lone Walker opened a parfleche and sprinkled the burning branches with sacred meal, then sat back on his heels and watched the ruby-red coals pulse with life and tried to will away the knot in the pit of his stomach. He glanced down at the cutlass alongside him and that turned his thoughts to the two who had followed him. They must go no farther. He must tell them. If only they would see the fire and understand. If only …

Lone Walker heard the approach of horses and breathed a sigh of relief. He glanced at the faintly illuminated patch of hillside and realized in the same moment that the horses couldn't possibly belong to Sparrow and Morgan unless they'd somehow ridden ahead of him and backtracked.

Lone Walker dived aside as a flintlock cracked and a ball sliced the air where he'd been standing. He hit the ground, rolled to his feet, and grabbed for the cutlass.

Drum charged into the firelight. He yelled his challenge and, using his rifle for a coup stick, stretched out as he rode past and tried to strike Lone Walker's shoulder and missed. The rifle barrel clanged against the cutlass blade as Lone Walker parried the blow.

Drum flew past and disappeared into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight. Lone Walker barely had time to face a second threat. Stone Bear was only seconds behind his blood brother and he was riding to the kill. His war-horse bore down on the Blackfoot. Stone Bear dropped the reins and raised his rifle.

Lone Walker stabbed the cutlass into the fire and skewered a branch as thick as a man's arm and completely engulfed in flames. With a quick flick of the wrist he flipped the burning branch into the horse's face. The animal reared and pitched the Shoshoni from horseback and bolted from the branch that burned its flesh.

Stone Bear hit hard. His rifle discharged harmlessly toward the sky. The Shoshoni leapt upright and drew his iron-bladed tomahawk, scrambled toward Lone Walker. The Blackfoot closed with the larger man—which was to Stone Bear's liking. They grappled for a moment and the Shoshoni tried to bring his greater strength to bear, hoping to force the Blackfoot to the ground and crush his skull with a single swipe of his tomahawk.

It was a good plan and would have worked except that Lone Walker was quicker and stronger than he appeared. His right hand twisted free of the Shoshoni's imprisoning grip. Stone Bear made a vain attempt to retrieve his hold. He failed and Lone Walker buried the cutlass blade in Stone Bear's belly. The Shoshoni gasped and fell backward, a look of astonishment on his face. The blade pulled free.

He landed on his back, staring up at the overcast sky. He smelled rain in the air and noted how the world was still, so still …

Blood dripped from the blade onto the chest of the dying man.

Lone Walker staggered back, sucking air into his lungs. A rifle blossomed fire and the Blackfoot spun around as pain seared his side and a ball plowed a nasty furrow through his flesh. He dropped to his hands and knees, and managed to remain conscious. Brandishing the cutlass, Lone Walker tried to stand. It took effort, but he made it.

Drum hurriedly loaded his rifle out beyond the glare of the fire. He cocked and primed the trade gun and then confidently walked his horse into the light. He noted with satisfaction Stone Bear's corpse.

Lone Walker clutched his left side. The gash was superficial, but the pain only fueled the Blackfoot's anger and renewed his strength. His muscles tightened and he prepared to hurl the cutlass at his foe.

“I have you, Blackfoot,” Drum said, “Your hair shall—” His voice faded and his eyes widened as he looked past his intended victim. Lone Walker felt his own hackles rise and turned despite himself and saw materializing out of the black night on a blaze-faced stallion a figure of great and terrible proportion wrapped in the ghostly hide of the white buffalo.

The shaman fired his rifle. Lone Walker flinched, thinking he was the intended victim. Drum spun back into darkness. Blood exploded from his chest. His rifle went spinning through the air. It landed among the rocks and discharged into the dirt.

Lone Walker stood motionless, stunned by the actions of his enemy.

“You saved my life once. Have you forgotten?” White Buffalo said. “Now I have done the same for you.”

He did not venture completely into the light, as if unable to sever his ties with darkness he must remain in shadow. The buffalo headdress he wore with its curved horns gave him the appearance of a demon. White Buffalo studied his opponent with renewed interest.

The young man's hair was already showing streaks of silver and the once young face was windburned and made wise with the gift of the spirit songs as if youth could not contain all he had seen.

“So you have found your eyes,” White Buffalo remarked. “What do they see, ‘Lone Walker'? What do your visions tell you? What power have you now? Perhaps your name is all there is.”

“Before the sun rises, you will know,” Lone Walker said.

White Buffalo respected a bold reply. He even sensed a kinship with the younger man. The shaman lifted his gaze and noticed the Medicine Cane thrust into the ground. He recognized it as a symbol of power, but what caught his attention was the portion of the cane wrapped in a grayish-white piece of buffalo hide. Alarm flickered behind his brooding expression. Something stirred in his memory, but the shaman couldn't dredge it up. Then he remembered. No, it could not possibly be. But his blood ran cold nonetheless.

White Buffalo cautiously walked his stallion around the campsite, always remaining on the fringe and never wholly venturing into the yellow-orange radius of firelight. Lone Walker turned on his heels, facing the shaman as he circled the clearing. Four times White Buffalo rode about the younger brave and chanted in a low voice, a chant for the dying.

Lone Walker watched and listened and at first was afraid, for the shaman called upon Death Striker and demons of fire and darkness. Yet, the sound of distant thunder awakened in him the memory of the buffalo herd he had followed for a time. They were life to his people as were the storms that nourished the land, and the good earth itself.

Then the fear left him and he did not falter. And when White Buffalo had finished, Lone Walker found a man facing him. The shaman nodded.

“Let it be so,” he said. “Your power is here. But the valley of the Elkhorn is mine.” His voice rang out, reverberated among the hills. “Once, Lone Walker, we heard an owl call a name. Before the sun rises we will know at last whether it was yours or mine.”

Was it a trick of the dancing flames or did the shaman's eyes seem to glow against the backdrop of night?

Lone Walker dropped the cutlass in the dirt and folded his arms across his chest. He met the shaman's malevolent stare with a look of pity.

“It is good for men to know the truth of things—of their visions and of their lives,” he said.

But White Buffalo was gone, leaving Lone Walker to his own visions.

The sound of White Buffalo's stallion departing at a canter through the dry grass had barely faded when Morgan Penmerry and Sparrow galloped into camp. Their horses were lathered, they'd been ridden hard since the sound of gunfire. Morgan brandished his rifle, Sparrow held one of his pistols and from the serious expression on her face she was prepared to use it.

Morgan searched from side to side, expecting an attack at any moment from every direction. When none was forthcoming, not even a war whoop, he returned his attention to the two dead Shoshoni braves Lone Walker had dragged out of the clearing. Morgan dismounted to help the Blackfoot and as they tumbled the bodies into a nearby gully, Morgan couldn't help but mutter, “Let the dead bury the dead.”

Lone Walker led the way back to the camp fire, where Sparrow had already prepared a poultice and elkskin bandage. She motioned for him to sit near the fire. He stripped off his shirt. Then the woman cleaned his wound and applied the poultice, a mixture of columbine root, fungus, spider web, and crushed juniper leaves.

“You followed against my will. Both of you …” Lone Walker looked over at Morgan, who averted his eyes and found the clouds that scudded across the face of the moon more to his liking.

“And if we had not, you would be bleeding to death,” Sparrow told him. He raised his arms as she wrapped the elkskin bandage around his middle and handed him his shirt. “
Saaa-vaa
. Are you the only one who dreams?”

Lone Walker didn't know how to reply. Her words were like a web and he a struggling insect, caught and held at her mercy. Indeed, he was glad to see them both. Solitude had begun to weigh on him like a sodden buffalo robe.

“The Scalpdancers are poor horsemen indeed if they could not catch you,” Lone Walker remarked, impressed that the couple had escaped the likes of Wolf Lance and Black Fox.

“They didn't have any horses,” Morgan said. “Blind Weed spooked them as we rode away. She was shouting and waving a blanket like the devil himself was after her.” He laughed again, recalling the sight. There had been so much commotion a child could have escaped the valley.

“Tell me, white man. Did your dreams bring you here?” Lone Walker asked.

Morgan shrugged. “Who brought me? Your woman.”

Sparrow had proved an able tracker. Morgan alone would never have picked up Lone Walker's tracks beyond the other side of the buffalo herd.

“You understand what I'm saying,” Morgan continued. “I may not see things like you, but I see what is. So here I am.” Morgan hooked a thumb in his belt and with the other arm leaned upon his rifle. “Sometimes you have to back up your dreams with powder and shot.”

“I do not understand any of this,” Lone Walker said.

“Oh, hell, friend, who does?” Morgan said.

“Before the sun rises I must face White Buffalo. Alone.”

“Go right ahead,” Morgan replied. “But if you go under—then he will have to deal with me.”

“And then me,” Sparrow added.

“You have journeyed far to lose your life,” Lone Walker cautioned Morgan.

“I lost my life weeks ago. Now, I'm trying to
find
it again.” Morgan stalked past the fire and headed for the horses. A gusting breeze had begun to worry them. He ground-tethered each of the animals, a task he performed with a minimum of effort, for Lone Walker had been a splendid teacher.

The Blackfoot studied Morgan a moment longer, sensing the white man's hurt, his anger, and his power; then Sparrow touched his arm.

“What shall I do for you?” she asked.

“You have done it,” Lone Walker said, his eyes full of love. He drew a reed flute from his belt and walked out of the firelight.

Sparrow wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and found a place by the fire. Morgan hunched down alongside her and warmed himself. There was a cold wind coming.

Lone Walker crushed the brittle grass as he circled the campsite. Rain had begun to wash the hills, but here only the wind blew while Lone Walker played upon the flute, sad, sweet, trilling notes that gave one pause.

“Mor-gan?” Sparrow said in halting English.

“Yes?” he answered.

“It is good you are here.”

“Thanks.”

“Your woman—she was brave?”

“Very brave.”

“I shall try to be brave,” Sparrow said.

“Yes.”

“You are also my friend, Mor-gan.”

The gunshot sounded like a broadside fired from an English frigate and wrenched Morgan from dreams of Macao and cockfights and wild nights and a missionary's daughter. He jerked upright, and saw Lone Walker astride his brown stallion against a predawn sky. The north wind moaned and set the spirit singer's unbound hair streaming, and the raven feathers on the Medicine Cane fluttered as if charged with energy. The stallion's nostrils flared and it pawed the ground near the circle of embers that had been the fire. Lone Walker tossed Morgan his rifle, still warm from the blast.

Morgan Penmerry scrambled to his feet. How the devil had he fallen asleep? He checked the horizon. How long before sunup was anybody's guess. All he could see was a mass of angry clouds and he shivered. The wind was biting. He noticed that Sparrow had brought both their horses. He began to wonder if she had drugged his tea or Lone Walker had put a spell on the white man to lull him to sleep. Maybe there was something to these fetishes and dreams and songs after all.

“Take Sparrow to the hillside,” Lone Walker commanded. “It is no longer safe here. Wait for me.”

“Where are you going?” Morgan shouted.

Lone Walker pointed to a gap between two ridges a half-hour's ride from the camp—less if a man rode full out.

“White Buffalo is there,” the Blackfoot said.

“He could have a dozen braves waiting for you.”

“I will not be alone,” Lone Walker replied. With a wave of his hand and a long last look at Sparrow—who showed no weakness though her heart was filled with worry—the warrior rode away, running with the wind, racing Cold Maker toward the mouth of the valley.

He had emptied himself of emotion and doubts. He allowed himself to be a vessel in which visions and dreams might reside. Lone Walker's flute had summoned the
Maiyun
. They spoke to him of his power; they revealed the secret of the Medicine Cane and warned him he might die. He heard their warning even now and still he rode on, because this was what must be done. The evil must end. If it cost his life, so be it.