The Arrow Keeper’s Song (8 page)

“Sandcrane,” Curtis said. “Sheridan cost me over a hundred dollars. Now I got a chance to win some back. This is none of your concern.”

“The dog is finished. It can fight no more.” Seth made his statement in a flat, clear voice as he lifted the dog into his arms.

“Goddam it, Seth, who the hell do you think you are?” Jerel blurted out.

“I'm the one who is going to take this dog home,” Seth said. “He's dying.”

“Then let him die here,” Curtis said. His voice began to rise in pitch. “Now, put him down.”

Seth continued across the pit and walked to the gate. Cradling the dog in one arm, he shoved the gate open and then passed through. There were no walls lining the passage, and he was able to climb past the cage and up onto the ground.

“You can't do this,” Curtis said angrily, blocking Seth's path. Young and headstrong and full of himself, he cocked a fist.

Seth jabbed him between the legs with the ax handle. Curtis doubled over, hands clutching his privates as he struggled to breathe.

“Sonuvabitch,” Curtis groaned.

Seth pushed past him toward Panther Hall, where he'd left his horse ground-tethered in front of the tavern. From out of the corner of his eye he noticed one of the other gamblers, a crony of Curtis Tall Bull, start toward him, knife in hand. He closed in fast, hoping to catch Seth off guard, only to be felled by an ax handle to the side of the skull. The remaining gamblers cleared a path for man and dog, giving Seth the impression of being home free. Then a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight-caliber double-action revolver cracked twice in the heat of the afternoon, and twin geysers of dirt erupted a couple of feet in front Seth, halting him in his tracks.

He slowly turned and faced Jerel Tall Bull.

“I think you've about wore out your welcome, whiskey-gut,” said Jerel. Smoke trailed from the Smith & Wesson's six-inch barrel. He had another three rounds in the chamber, more than enough for the man standing in front of him.

“Well, then, reckon I better leave,” said Seth.

“While you still can,” Jerel replied. “Put down the dog.”

“He's dying. What does it matter?” Seth asked.

“Remember … I am a Crazy Dog. We are men of principle.”

“Ah …” Blood was seeping through Seth's fingers. General Sheridan's breath was coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He might still be saved, but the odds were against it.

“The animal stays here. Leave him on the ground and walk away.” Jerel's brows knotted above the black buttons of his eyes. Behind him, Curtis Tall Bull shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like a boxer waiting to enter a match. He made no attempt to hide his excitement. No doubt he was anxious for his older brother to avenge the mistreatment he had suffered at Seth's hands.

“Look, whiskey-gut, don't try my patience.”

Seth shrugged, slowly turned, and continued on toward the corner of the roadhouse. He felt a twinge of pain between his shoulder blades and steeled himself for the inevitable.

“Sandcrane!” Jerel shouted. He raised the thirty-eight and sighted on the older warrior. Without warning, as if in response to Tall Bull's outcry, Tom Sandcrane rounded the corner of the roadhouse and was soon abreast of his father, placing himself in the center of the conflict.

“Somebody call me?” Tom asked. He met Jerel face on, his expression as grave as the Dog Soldier's as he shielded Seth with the roan.

Jerel took a couple of steps forward. Curtis followed him while remaining in his older brother's shadow. Both men noticed the shotgun Tom held in a one-handed grip, pointing a load of buckshot at them both.

“Where's John and Pete?” asked Jerel.

“Back yonder where I left them. They're still watching the road. Pete Elk Head was nice enough to let me borrow his shotgun, though,” Tom said. He glanced over his shoulder at his father, who was surprised as anyone by Tom's timely arrival.

“What the hell are you doing, boy?” Seth muttered.

“Saving your ungrateful ass,” came Tom's reply. He returned his attention to Jerel Tall Bull.

“Whiskey-gut ain't leaving with our dog,” Curtis spoke up as he peered past Jerel's broad shoulders.

So that's the reason for the standoff
, Tom thought.
We're about to kill each other over what's left of a camp dog
. Keeping the shotgun trained on the brothers, he fished in his Levi's pockets and brought out a crumpled wad of bills. “This ought to be about twenty-six dollars,” he said, tossing the greenbacks toward Jerel. They fluttered to earth like falling leaves. “I'm buying the dog.”

“Twenty-six dollars! He's worth four times that!” Curtis blurted out.

“Not anymore,” Tom said as he watched his father depart with the limp-looking animal cradled in his arms.

“Hell,” Jerel grumbled, and lowered his thirty-eight. He knew for a fact that Tom had never been involved in anything more than a fistfight. Still, there was something in young Sandcrane's eyes, a funny kind of look, like that of a peace-able man oblivious to his own capacity for violence. If Jerel Tall Bull was going to be the one to take a walk on the danger side of Tom Sandcrane, it would have to be for something worth a lot more than a dog. He ambled forward, scooped the bills off the ground, and tucked them into his pocket. He was close enough for his words to carry to Tom alone.

“Do not get the wrong idea. You were the son of the Arrow Keeper, yet you turned your back on the songs and the power. Fool. I think you are only a shell of a man now. And when it suits me, I may destroy you.” Jerel's black eyes held the younger man in their malevolent stare. “Should you ever stand between me and that which I truly desire, I will grind you into dust.” Jerel turned and rejoined the gamblers who, as a whole, appeared relieved. Blood sport was one thing, but no one wanted to be an innocent bystander to gunplay.

“That's it? You're gonna let him ride out?” Curtis exclaimed.

“You want to catch a belly load of buckshot for some damn dog that'll be dead before they take him a mile? Go ahead,” Jerel snapped, and thrust the Smith & Wesson into his younger brother's hands. Curtis recoiled as if the revolver were white-hot to the touch. “I didn't think so,” Jerel added.

Tom turned the roan and retraced his steps to the front of the roadhouse. In a minute he was out of sight of the pit. Jerel Tall Bull's behavior confounded him. There was more to the man than greed. The owner of the roadhouse would bear watching. In front of Panther Hall, Seth had already caught up the reins to his horse and climbed into the saddle. General Sheridan was draped across the skirt just behind the cantle, looking like a pair of saddlebags and just as lifeless.

“Who do you think you are—Crazy Horse?” Seth exclaimed. “You should have minded your own business. I didn't need your help. Jerel Tall Bull has killed men before. He could have shot you dead at any time.” Seth touched his heels to his mount's flanks and urged the animal to a gentle trot.

Tom, speechless, looked aside and thought he saw someone in the shadow of the tavern doorway, catching a glimpse of skirt as the figure darted out of sight. He was unable to identify the woman, but she had most assuredly been watching them. Checking his father's trail, he saw the dust swirl in a tight, swift spiral, then settle in the heat. A whirlwind had sent him; another was telling him to leave. It was all strange, more than he could explain.

“You're welcome,” said Tom to Seth's slowly diminishing figure. He eased down the twin hammers on the shotgun, dropped the weapon into the nearest horse trough, and rode away from Panther Hall.

CHAPTER SIX

C
OMPANY
A
AND THEIR BITTER RIVALS
, C
OMPANY
D,
PLAYED
to a four-to-four tie in the heavy heat of the afternoon. Then, in the bottom of the sixth inning, with D Company at bat, the game fell apart. Corporal Johnson hit a line drive over the center fielder's head and the go ahead run on third, a lumbering cavalryman of Czech extraction named Pastusek, charged home while A Company's catcher screamed for someone to throw him the ball. It was obvious that the throw from the outfield was never going to make it in time unless the catcher slowed Pastusek down, which is precisely what he did. As Pastusek bore down on home plate, the catcher palmed a derringer and shot the runner in the leg. Pastusek yelped and crumpled to the ground, clutching his calf. The catcher caught the throw from center field, trotted victoriously along the base path, and tagged the runner out. Pastusek reached up, caught the catcher by the throat, and proceeded to throttle him. The two men rolled in the dirt, gouging and pommeling one another as their teammates charged across the playing field. The teams came together at the pitcher's mound and went about settling the issue with fists and baseball bats. Allyn Benedict, as umpire, declared the game a draw and quit the playing field.

Uniformed officers hurried toward the melee in a futile attempt to restore calm. But the rivalries ran deep and had been allowed to fester throughout the long, boring months of duty. It was going to take something more than a few barked commands to bring the situation under control.

Allyn spied his son waving to him from the sidelines and angled over to the young man. Clay grinned and nodded toward the brawling troopers.

“The rules out here are different from back east,” he chuckled.

“In more ways than one, and for a lot more than baseball,” Allyn replied. “Has Mr. Lehrman arrived?”

Clay nodded and indicated the cluster of cabins and bar-racks that made up Fort Reno. An impressive array of settlers arriving in wagons, carriages, and on horseback had been assembling at the fort since the end of July. The meadow east of the fort was a sea of white canvas tents and smoky cook fires. The impending land rush had attracted would-be landowners from all over the country. With change in their pockets and a fistful of dreams, these settlers were anxious to carve a place for themselves out of the soon-to-be-opened reservation. Already folks had begun to grumble about how unfair it was that the Southern Cheyenne would receive land allotments before even taking part in the rush. His thoughts on the turbulent days to come, Allyn outpaced his son as he entered the parade grounds and proceeded with all due haste toward the land office in which he had set up shop in anticipation of September 1.

Grasshoppers whirred in ungainly arcs, escaping the Indian agent's crushing steps. Dust billowed in his wake. Allyn's face felt dry and blistered from the sun, and he entered his cramped office with a sigh of relief. It was a sparsely furnished space, two chairs and a desk, a cabinet for documents, and a territorial map on the rear wall. A rotund man sweating in a frock coat sipped whiskey from a flask as he sat by an open window and fanned himself with a copy of the Tulsa
Register.

“Sorry I'm late, Mr. Benedict. I am Artemus Lehrman, vice president of Prairie Oil and Gas. The driver I hired promised we'd be here by midmorning.” He tossed the newspaper onto the desk and patted it with the fleshy palm of his hand. One news article dominated the front page: the impending land rush, which was destined to change the face of the territory for all time.

It was a lesser piece of reporting, however, that had caught Artemus Lehrman's attention. He jabbed a finger at a narrow column whose banner simply read “Tragedy in Cuba.”

“Intriguing situation there. Deplorable. Simply deplorable. The damn Spanish are brutally suppressing the people of the island. One of their leaders, a charismatic rascal by the name of Antonio Celestial, has appealed to Washington for help. The president grudgingly turned him down—at least that's the rumor I heard. Although there is some popular sentiment to involve us.” Lehrman folded his hands across his ample belly. “Think of it. A fine little war could prove quite profitable.”

“We are a long way from Cuba,” Clay interjected, breaking Lehrman's long-winded reverie.

“On the contrary, my good lad. The island is practically at our doorstep. Why, dash it all, the entire world is but a stone's throw away, at least that's the way it seems. A good steamer can take you anywhere on the ocean. Rails span the Americas and Europe.” Lehrman's voice rose in pitch as well as volume as he expounded the virtues of the modern world. It clearly made him excited just thinking about the endless possibilities for a shrewd businessman like himself. “You'd do well to keep your eye on Cuba, young man. Mark my words: Their rebellion might be the magnet that pulls us onto the center stage of world events.”

“You think big, Mr. Lehrman,” Allyn flatly observed.

“Precisely. And it has made me a remarkably wealthy man. I intend to do the same for you, Mr. Benedict.” Lehrman stroked his double chin. “Now, what do you say to that?”

“That's why I am here,” Allyn replied. There was no reason to hide his enthusiasm. This was a goal he had worked toward all his adult life. And now it was finally about to be realized. Now he would come out of the shadow and bask in the light. Artemus Lehrman lifted a leather satchel to the table, unbuckled the flap, and removed a set of documents.

“I think you will find everything in order. Congress is pleased with the arrangement. Once the reservation is terminated, ownership of the northern oil fields will be transferred to Benedict Exploration and Development, a subsidiary of Prairie Oil and Gas. My company agrees to underwrite the payment of a lump sum to be distributed to the tribe for the benefit of all parties concerned. Read the documents at your leisure. However, I can assure you …”

“My son and I are in no hurry,” Allyn replied as he took a seat by the desk. Donning his reading spectacles, he began to study the papers in earnest.

“Your father is a shrewd man,” Lehrman said with a glance in Clay's direction.

“Read this with me, son,” said Allyn. “Better that you become acquainted with the business. After all, one day it will be yours.”