Mentiroso.
“Liar,” he whispered fretfully to himself.
Jaxton quickly realized someone had figured out his scheme.
“There he is,” came a voice from behind him. “He has returned.”
From the doorway, the owner was allowing four men through. Jaxton sadly recognized one of them. He’d sold the bloke several bottles of snake oil that promised to enhance his sexual performance. Jaxton had sold him the lie that if he drank it, he’d become a better lover to the women who complained about his lack of talent under the sheets. Judging by his cross expression, it appeared that not even the placebo had had any effect.
The men surrounded him. One held a short club.
“We have some business to discuss with you, señor,” the customer said with hellfire burning in his eyes.
Jaxton instantly put on his showmanship routine.
“Gentlemen,” he said with a broad smile. “I see you are displeased with my product. I’ll be happy to reimburse you. That, and along with the damages done to my property, should make us even, sí?”
“No, it doesn’t,” the Mexican disagreed. “I’ve asked about your snake oil. Some Chinese say the snakes needed don’t live here. We searched your wagon and found only rattlesnakes, which isn’t the correct snake.”
“Searched it?” Jaxton interjected hotly. “You’ve wrecked it!”
His outburst earned him a hit across the back by the short club. The pain charging through his spine surged down his legs. A whack on the head brought him to his knees.
“You sell lies, señor!” the man hollered. “You’re a fraud who takes peoples’ hard-earned money!”
Pushing aside the pain, Jaxton tried one last-ditch effort to save himself.
“You got me, amigo. I’ll admit my snake oil requires some improvements, and I shall work on it.”
“You will not have the chance,” he growled darkly, taking out a knife.
In desperation, Jaxton looked over at the owner, who merely left, closing the door behind him.
“Now, wait,” Jaxton pleaded, holding up a hand. “We can talk about this.”
He didn’t get a chance to say much after that. The same bastard with the short club whacked him over the head again, sending him flat to the ground. Afterwards, the men ascended on him like a pack of ravenous wolves. The blade sank into him, burning him from within. There was another strike to his ribs, and then another to the chest.
Jaxton Beau’s fate thread ended. He stood there, looking at his beaten and bloody body, still being assaulted by his attackers, who hadn’t yet realized he was already dead. He decided that things could have been worse. With a shrug, Jaxton left the living world. He had another life waiting for him, and another adventure to be a part of.
* * *
Shyheim followed the red droplets and footprints to the small cave opening. He had no doubt it was where the white intruder had fled.
Shyheim was standing on the edge of the rocky cliff when he shot the intruder with his arrow. He was an old soul who preferred the weapons of his ancestors. Although only twenty, Shyheim had been told by the elders that he carried a wisdom that far exceeded their own. They told him he had the heart of a great warrior. He did his best to be worthy whenever he protected his lands from trespassers.
He decided not to go charging into the grotto. The white man would have his gun, and Shyheim did not know how deep into the cave he had gone. However, he knew the cavern very well. It was nicknamed the Fox Cave for its many escape routes. When his brothers climbed down, he instructed them to wait by each exit in case the intruder found his way out. He also told them to hold the man so Shyheim could finish him off himself. He took off his quiver, for he could not use his bow while holding a torch. Shyheim lit a fire and went inside, armed with his bone-handled blade.
Shyheim slowly moved through the cave, searching. The cavern was a maze with channels burrowed throughout the canyon wall. The sound of faint breathing stopped him. He listened and heard it again. It came from inside a nearby chamber. It was the intruder, and judging by the harshness of his breathing, Shyheim surmised his arrow had done a fair amount of damage. He imagined the intruder lying face down, too hurt to even defend himself.
It would be an easy kill.
Shyheim inched closer to the edge of the chamber entrance, gripping his dagger and torch tight. With a deep breath, he rushed in.
What he imagined was not at all what he found. The intruder yelled out and Shyheim halted with the dagger and torch held up. He had underestimated the stranger, for he had managed to sit up against a small boulder, leaning on his right side with the arrow sticking out of his upper back. Shyheim doubted he could move the injured arm. Blood was everywhere. What caught Shyheim’s eye, though, was the gun trained directly on him. The intruder spoke to him in English, a language he did not understand. He needed a way to communicate with him, for his life now depended on it.
“Parlez-vous français?” Shyheim asked hopefully.
“Oui,” the intruder answered. “Je parle français.”
Shyheim lowered his dagger and sheathed it underneath his belt. He raised his empty hand cautiously and took a step forward. The gun rose with a click of its hammer. Shyheim stopped. He only had to close the gap between them a little more. He accomplished that and crouched down submissively, setting the torch down beside him. If he could get this man to lower his weapon, he’d be able to pounce on him like a mountain lion. The extent of the intruder’s wound would work against him in a fight. Shyheim surmised the only reason the intruder hadn’t shot him when he ran in was because he knew others were around and the blast would undoubtedly draw them to him. Regardless, Shyheim decided not to test fate.
Shyheim folded his hands together in a peaceful gesture. “What is your name?”
The intruder took a moment to answer.
“Pierce.”
“Bonjour, Pierce. My name is Shyheim.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” the intruder named Pierce said. “I only want to leave.”
“I understand,” he calmly assured the man. “And you must understand why we attacked. You were trespassing.”
“We weren’t aware this was your land.”
Whether his claim was true or not meant little to Shyheim. The Shawnee land had been dwindling for generations, even after taking up arms with the French against the British many years ago. Shyheim didn’t see things getting any better with these backstabbers constantly promising lands and peace, but only delivering genocide and grief to the natives. For as long as he lived, Shyheim aimed to protect what precious land his tribe had, even from those who claimed their unwanted footprints were unintentional.
“I believe you,” Shyheim admitted anyway. “And it’s all right.”
“It did not seem all right when you charged in with your knife,” he pointed out.
Shyheim was acting too sympathetic too quickly. He needed to pace his fake emotions.
“I only wanted to disarm you so we could have this talk without weapons.”
“And how did that work out for you?” the intruder sneered.
Shyheim’s anger rose, and he strained to maintain his façade.
“It did not turn out well, actually.”
The intruder’s shivers were increasing. The blood loss was undoubtedly chilling him and making him weaker. It wouldn’t be long now.
“I don’t want to shoot you,” stated the intruder. “Just go away. I’ll leave and never return. You have my word.”
Another empty promise from another damn foreigner who had no right being on his land in the first place. Shyheim’s fingers twitched with a need to stick his blade into the man’s heart.
The gun trembled. Shyheim knew he was fighting to hold it up. Shyheim needed sand to dry the sweat on his palms in order to guarantee a good grasp on his knife’s handle when he sprang his trap. Causally, he scooped some up and rubbed the sand between his hands. As he did, a strange occurrence happened. The grains rubbi
ng against his skin gave each tiny nerve a slight snap, as if the sand itself was sending bolts of lightning into his hands. Along with this odd incident, the voice inside his head that sometimes told him things called to him. Some referred to this inner voice as a conscience or instinct. Shyheim always regarded it an important part of his self-being, even when it told him to refrain from doing something he really wanted to do. He spread out his hands to see that mixed in with the sand was blood—the blood of the intruder.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” demanded the intruder.
Shyheim raised his chin and studied him for a long moment. His inner voice told him there was something important about this white man, that he was more than a simple life to be taken by his blade.
“What sort of man are you?”
The intruder knitted his eyebrows together and slowly shook his head. “I don’t follow.”
The foreigner’s blood told Shyheim it had come from many beings that had crossed paths throughout the generations. This wasn’t as important as the question of why he suddenly felt differently about slaying him. What was it that his inner voice was trying to say?
“You must stay in the cave,” Shyheim ordered. “If you try to leave, I will plunge my blade into you.”
Shyheim stood and backed out of the chamber.
Outside, he told the others that he’d searched the cave and found no one.
“He must have made it to the road. Let him go. He’ll most likely succumb to his injuries soon.”
That last part wasn’t a lie, and strangely, when he uttered it, his skin prickled with dread.
He had everything he needed on his person to deal with the wound. The only thing left was taking the gun. Once his Shawnee brothers left for their posts, Shyheim relit the flame of his torch and returned to the chamber where the intruder named Pierce remained. He no longer held the gun as high—most likely because he was unable to.
“Listen to me,” Shyheim warned earnestly. “I need to mend your wound or you will bleed to death.”
“You aim to save me now?” he asked suspiciously before laughing. “Not likely.”
Shyheim’s approach was like the swooping of a hawk, fast and flawless. Before the man knew it, he was struggling weakly against a mighty Shawnee warrior, who easily seized his gun.
“Let me save you,” Shyheim barked, now holding the gun.
Pierce quickly realized he no longer had any choice and whispered mildly, “All right.”
Shyheim worked quickly. First, he built a small fire close enough to where the light would assist in the operation. He laid his patient chest down over the small boulder and broke the arrow in half. The man made a painful noise and uttered something angrily in English.
“Here,” Shyheim offered, handing him the broken piece of the arrow. “Use this to bite down on. It’s about to get more painful.”
“Merci,” he said arrogantly.
With the bolt broken, Shyheim was able to remove the man’s shirt and vest. He noticed the scars. Pierce had been stabbed in his side—twice by the looks of it—there was a scar across his throat, and a brand mark on his chest. The same symbol the Apache used on their horses. Shyheim realized Pierce wasn’t acting arrogant about the hurt that was coming. He’d been introduced to great pain before.
Once Pierce’s clothing was removed, Shyheim laid his patient back over the boulder, chest down. Pierce clutched the arrow in his teeth, nearly breaking it as Shyheim dug his blade in and carefully pulled the arrowhead out of his shoulder. Even when it caught on the shoulder bone, Pierce took the agony as bravely as any Shawnee warrior. He almost respected him for it.
After extracting the arrowhead, Shyheim dug in deep into the wound and removed a piece of cloth that had gotten pushed in when the arrow went through. Once the wound was cleaned, it was time to cauterize it. His patient moved little as he burned the blade over the flame until it glowed red. When he pressed it against his body, Pierce clutched the rocks, screaming through the bolt between his teeth as the heat sealed the wound.
Between deep breaths, Pierce claimed, “I need a drink.”
“Rest,” Shyheim advised as he wiped his hands clean of the curious blood.
“I have to leave,” he said, trying to stand.
It took little effort to push him down.
“Stay here or else I’ll put another arrow in you.”
His patient’s eyes widened. “You’re the one who shot me?”
“I am. And I’ll do it again if you try leaving before tonight.”
“Why? What’s supposed to happen tonight? Shit, are you planning to sacrifice me?”
“No,” Shyheim answered bluntly. “However, take heed, if it is safe to kill you, rest assured I will.”
Pierce looked at him warily. “And how is that supposed to make me rest assured? I think you simply mean be assured.”
Shyheim gritted his teeth. This man was too talkative for his liking.
“Whether or not I can kill you, cutting out your sarcastic tongue will suffice.”
His threat clearly worried Pierce. To keep him inside the cave while he went out, Shyheim used his belt and Pierce’s own scarf to bind his wrists and ankles. The blood loss and trauma from the operation soon sent Pierce into a deep sleep.
When night arrived, Shyheim left the cave and went out to the flat plains that lay beneath the star-glittered sky. It was hours into the night before he stopped by a single tree and made a circle with stones.
His mother had been just like him before her death. She had the gift. Many used to pray to the gods, but Shyheim actually spoke to them.
“Great warriors of the past. I seek your guidance and wisdom,” he announced with arms outstretched. “I call on you for your advice. Please, I am at a loss.”
Nothing happened, not the wind or the rustling of the brush. Then a spark of light flashed in the middle of the circle of stones, followed by a burst of white fire that ignited and grew taller than he. In the darkness, just out of the reach of the light, many eyes reflected the firelight.
Shyheim, came a voice beside him.
A coyote appeared and sat down near the fire. It looked up at him and conversed without moving its mouth. It has been a long while, child.
“Yelis,” Shyheim greeted the coyote with a slight bow. “I give thanks for your coming here.”
Cipelahq the owl flew overhead and perched on the tree branch. We are not as busy as we used to be, now that many no longer need us or even pray to us.
“That is not true,” Shyheim argued. “I need you. All of you.”
A snake slithered its way over Shyheim’s feet and settled near the flame. Yesss, yesss, boy, as you have ssstated when you sssummoned usss.
“Cheveyo from the Tsu’ngyam clan,” he greeted the snake. “Thank you for being here.”
A buck stepped out of the darkness from the other side of the fire. You seek our guidance, you say?
“Yes, Sowi-ingwu,” Shyheim said to the deer. “Today, I shot down an intruder who crossed into our land. A white man.”
Ooh, you must be very proud, Cipelahq the owl said. It’s not every day you kill one of those.
Unless Shyheim goes north, Yelis stated. Then they are every-where.
A naked mole-rat dug through the earth next to Shyheim’s feet. What did I miss?
Shyheim killed a white man today, Sowi-ingwu answered.
Oh, responded the mole-rat.
“I did not kill this man, Sun Catcher,” Shyheim explained to the mole-rat. “I shot him, but I haven’t yet ended him.”
He is alive? the mole-rat chirped. Where is he now?
“Inside the Fox Cave.”
Isss that your question, Ssshyheim? Cheveyo, the snake demanded. Whether or not to kill thisss intruder? Then our anssswer isss yesss, child.
Yes! Yes! Each of them chanted. Kill the intruder. Kill him!
The Sun Catcher, however, stayed silent.
Do not waste our time with this, boy, Sowi-ingwu the deer seethed. He
has trespassed onto our land and therefore must die.
“That isn’t my question,” Shyheim retorted. “I had him cornered, and yes, I was about to plunge my knife into his chest when I touched his blood. It . . . it spoke to me, Great Spirits. An inner voice warned me not to.”
You want to understand what it means? Sun Catcher asked.
“Yes,” Shyheim answered with relief. “Can you tell me?”
It means nothing! snapped Yelis the coyote.
I agree, Cipelahq joined in. He’s an outsider who disrespected our boundaries. He is dangerous like the others. Put him down.
Yess. Yess, Cheveyo the snake concurred. Just asssk the Cherokee or the Ssseminole or any other tribe that hasss been forced to walk the Trail.
“I know what has happened and what still occurs today.”
Then why are you protecting this white man?
“I’m not protecting him out of compassion. I feel there is danger for us all if he dies.”
The gods laughed at him. He thought for certain he’d receive meaningful advice from them. Had they become spiteful and dismissive because so few paid attention to them? Were they that petty? Or, perhaps they knew exactly what they were talking about, and Shyheim was too naïve to understand their wisdom.
The Sun Catcher said little throughout all of this.
Silence! Yelis ordered. Shyheim, this meeting has gone on long enough. Return to the Fox Cave and end this intruder’s life. This is no time for us to display tolerance or pity.
How could Shyheim argue with the gods?
“Yes, Yelis. It shall be done.”
With that, the coyote stood and left for the desert. The others followed, and soon the fire burned out, leaving Shyheim alone in the darkness.
* * *
The steady scratching brought Pierce around. He opened his eyes, crusted over by dried tears of pain. He found he was still bound.
“Bugger,” he muttered.
At least he was alive. Thirsty, but alive.
The fire Shyheim had built continued to burn. He sat up, his shoulder inflamed.
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