Perched on the branch of a nearby oak, one of the crows screeched. Big Ben approached the tree, his arthritic back screaming in pain. The creature flapped down and landed in the snow before him. The Reverend liked to call these things the P’mola, but they had nothing to do with the Abenaki lore of old. Rather, they were the Master’s creations, perverse beings spawned from the Reverend’s own blood.
Big Ben knelt to one knee slowly and bowed his head.
“I have the boy, Reverend.”
You’ve done well, Ben. Hurry him to Wisdom.
“Yes, Master.”
Once there, gather your strength and be ready. Coward is waiting to set the trap, but he will need you at your strongest.
Big Ben hesitated to speak about the pain in his body—but there was no need to voice the concern anyway, for the Reverend could read the thought as easily as Big Ben could read a Kansas map.
You will have more of the Prime soon.
Big Ben said, “What of my Chamelia?”
The crow made a chattering noise, as though laughing at the question. Keep the beast close. There will be need for it again soon.
With an Ack!, the crow took to the air and sailed into the cold morning to join its brethren.
Big Ben whistled to the Shifter. A boggy stench reached him before he caught sight of the thing, hunkered low between two crooked pin oaks not far away.
The Chamelia slunk forward. Along the way, it shifted again, abandoning the scales and bulky length to become smaller, hairier. The beast that now approached was closer in size and appearance to a coyote.
Big Ben scowled. “Go, beast. Be alone if you wish. Stay in the shadows and remain close enough to hear my call.”
The Chamelia turned and leaped into the canopy of a nearby oak. It sprang from branch to branch, the bare limbs swaying under its sleek weight.
Big Ben returned to the unconscious boy. Stooping, he slid an arm beneath the lad’s back and lifted him off the ground, wincing as he did. He carried the slumbering boy to his horse and heaved his body over the mare’s croup.
Big Ben paused as his prize groaned. A whispered word escaped the kid’s lips.
“Papa?”
Big Ben punched the boy. The knock caused the youth to slump across the horse.
“Back to sleep, boy. I need you alive, but I prefer you stay silent.”
Without another word, Big Ben Loving mounted his bay and rode south toward Wisdom.
CHAPTER 11
EDGAR DOYLE
Pa Abner stirs a crackling campfire as Keech and Sam rest for the evening, their boots kicked off in the low grass, their backs against their unfastened saddles.
“Now, boys, recite the rules of alliance,” Pa says. He lifts a finger to start them. “One.”
“Know your friend, know your enemy,” the boys recite, their voices echoing faintly across the crisp Missouri wilderness.
“Two.”
“To learn a man’s heart, watch his actions.”
“Good.” Pa walks a few steps away to retrieve a fresh log, then returns to their tight circle. He points at Sam. “How can you know if an enemy is pretending to be your friend?”
Sam struggles with the answer, so Keech speaks it for him. “His intent will be made clear through his actions.”
“Exactly so. Sam, make sure you learn the words proper.”
“Yes, Pa.”
“Look at this log, boys. On the outside the wood appears to be dry enough, like all the others in the pile. And we desire warmth, so we might be tempted to accept any fuel that promises a good heat. But how do we know the truth of the log? We place it in the fire, test its intent. If the log is our friend, the wood burns clean and gives us heat. If the log is our enemy, moisture hidden inside the wood stifles the burning and fills our eyes with smoke.”
Keech marvels at how Pa Abner could take difficult concepts and make them simple.
“Vigilance will tell you if a man is true,” Pa continues. “Learn his heart…”
* * *
“… watch his actions,” Keech recited below his breath as the rawhider known as Edgar Doyle rode his magical steed across the surface of the Kansas River.
The leather-clad stranger trotted his horse along the length of the Liberator. The vessel was drifting downriver. Doyle extracted a coil of long rope from his range saddle. Keech caught a glimpse of two other backup lariats hanging from his tack. The steed carried the man around the boat’s corner to the bow, where he flung the rope over the front railing. “Someone tie this off. I’ll tow you to shore.”
Nat and Cutter volunteered to help Doyle tether off to the railing. After they had secured a clove hitch to the front board, the Ranger slung his rope over one hefty shoulder and gripped the taut edge of the cord near his chest. “Steady now, kids,” he hollered. He spurred his horse with a loud “Giyahh!” and the Liberator pitched forward. Doyle guided the boat while his steed lumbered over the channel, its broad hooves stamping the river’s surface.
Despite the dreadful panic and sorrow of losing Felix, Keech couldn’t help watching the extraordinary way the man’s enchanted horse strolled on water.
Nearby, Nat shook his head. “How in purple tarnation is he doing all this?”
Quinn beamed. “I told y’all he was something. After he hid me from the Chamelia with his special chant, I knew he had talents, but I never saw business of this sort.”
“And you’re sure he can be trusted?” Cutter asked.
“Ranger Doyle saved my life. And yours, if we’re keeping count.”
Duck slung a dry blanket over Quinn’s shivering form. As she tossed a second one around Keech’s shoulders, reaching up to touch his face in a gesture of sympathy, he whispered to her, “Duck, when the Ranger rode up, did you feel anything strange with your charm?”
“I don’t think so. Did you?”
“Nothing.” Keech peeked into his shirt and saw no glow on the metal. “I think we’re safe.” He gazed beyond the bow of the ferry, where the Ranger and his magical horse were tugging the Liberator to shore. “I reckon there’s no reason to get up a fuss. I got a good look at his horse. No Devil’s mark on the forehead or anywhere else. And the man doesn’t look to be packing iron.”
“What kind of Texas Ranger doesn’t wear a sidearm?” Duck asked.
“Maybe the better question is how can a man control the wind and walk his horse over open water?” There was a gentle splash ahead. Then Keech rocked back a little on his boots as the Liberator’s nose nudged onto the snowy shore.
“Everyone out,” Doyle urged, his steed stepping up the bank.
The young riders marched ashore, leading their ponies. Keech kept his eyes trained on the bank ahead, refusing to look back at the river; there was simply no use. When they had cleared the water, the Ranger said, “You kids still wearing dry clothes head into the forest and gather some wood. We need to get these two in front of a fire pronto.”
Nat, Duck, and Cutter scattered into the surrounding grove to grab logs and kindling. When they returned, Doyle built a fire for Keech and Quinn in a small clearing. As the man worked, he hummed a strange, lonely tune and occasionally scanned the morning sky. The Ranger’s monotonous hum gave Keech the willies.
The boys opened their blankets to allow the heat to thaw them. They laid their soggy socks and coats over a log near the flames for drying. The driving snow had stopped for the moment, leaving a pearly calm over the land.
As the others joined them, Keech’s eyes drifted to the ponies. Tethered to branches nearby, the four animals looked about nervously, as if searching for their missing companion, and Keech suddenly couldn’t hold up his head to keep watching them.
Felix had been his partner for years. Keech had learned every reining maneuver, every gallop, every gait from atop the gelding’s saddle. When Pa Abner had given Minerva to Sam, the boys took their ponies on a long ride past Low Hill. On the trail, they happened upon a coiled rattler. Felix jumped in front of Minerva and stomped the
snake to death. The pony had possessed the heart of a hero and had given his life to save his master.
After losing his family and facing down dangers that would shake any man, Keech had started to believe himself beyond overwhelming sorrow. At least he expected to be better at coping with loss, but losing Felix to the monsters in the river was too much to bear. He felt as if he were standing over the ruins of the Home for Lost Causes all over again, choked with such grief that he couldn’t even speak a proper eulogy.
“Sorry about your horse,” Quinn said through chattering teeth. “It’s powerful unfair.”
Keech tried to offer some sort of proper response, but the words caught in his throat. He simply hung his head and wiped at his eyes.
Rubbing his palms together over the fire, Nat turned to the stranger. “I’m sure you realize we got a few questions. Our new friend Revels here has told us you’re a Texas Ranger seeking your lost partner.”
Doyle scratched at the heavy stubble on his face. “That’s right.”
“Yet you happen to show up on the Kansas River while we’re crossing. Have you been following us?”
Before the man could respond, Duck added, “And why don’t your horse sink in water?”
“And what about that whirlwind? How did you do that?” Cutter asked.
Doyle raised his hand to pause the barrage. “I understand. You’ve witnessed some curious happenings and want to know how they came to pass.” Again, the man looked up and scoured the heavens. “Problem is, I don’t have time to sit around in the woods telling tales to a bunch of ragamuffin kids.”
“I ain’t no kid,” Cutter grunted.
This time, Doyle barked laughter—a sound that reminded Keech of Pa Abner’s guffaws after Granny Nell told a joke. “Son, in my experience, if you have to tell someone you ain’t a kid, then you’re still a kid.”
“You won’t answer any of our questions?” Duck asked.
“I will. But not here.” Knocking mud off his rugged deerskin moccasins, Doyle stepped over to his black steed and dug through his saddlebag. He produced a handful of squirmy things—beetles and grub worms, from the look—and much to Keech’s surprise, fed them to the horse. The animal chomped on the critters as gleefully as oats. “If you’re up to riding a pace, I know of a homestead farther south where we could bunk for a spell. Once there, you could eat some grub and grab a nap. You all look like you could use it. While we’re there, we can talk.”
Nat said, “Listen, Mr. Doyle, we appreciate your help on the river, we surely do. But we can’t just follow a strange man to a strange house without knowing more.”
The fellow considered, then shrugged. “You don’t have to trust me, but I think I proved I’m on your side. I know where you can get dry and rested, but maybe you have another way.”
To learn a man’s heart, watch his actions, Keech thought. So far, Doyle’s actions had been noble. Keech understood there were plenty of risks involved in trusting an outsider in the wilderness—not long ago, they had encountered a scoundrel in Sunrise Albert—but shelter would offer some small protection against spying crows and lurking beasts. Maybe they could actually rest up a little, regroup, and make plans before reaching Wisdom.
“I’ll come with you, Ranger Doyle.” Quinn tested the moisture in his wool socks, found them still too damp for comfort, and pulled his oversized boots onto his bare feet. “If these others won’t tag along, I may need a ride.”
“No, I think we should follow,” Keech said, glancing at the others. The pity in their eyes stirred anger in his gut—he didn’t need their pity; he needed Felix. “Let’s hear him out. He saved our lives.”
Duck turned to her brother. “Nathaniel, I think they’re right. We should go. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to eat a proper meal.”
“I could use a long siesta,” Cutter joined in.
Nat pondered for a moment. “Fine. We’ll ride to the homestead. But after meals and naps, we head out for Wisdom.”
Doyle’s head suddenly tilted. “Wisdom, you say?”
“You know it?” asked Nat.
“I do. And if you plan to go there, you’ll want to listen to what I have to say.”
Keech glanced at Nat. “Like I said, we best hear him out.”
After dousing the fire, the Ranger climbed up on his horse. “We’ll be skirting the Potawatomis and heading through Shawnee land. The Indians there will allow us untroubled passage.” Pushing his brown hat low, he clicked at the horse, and the creature hurried toward the southern woods, a white forest full of pin oaks and deep shadows.
The young riders trotted after the man. On Quinn’s insistence, Keech rode double with him on Lightnin’, sitting just behind the saddle on the gelding’s wide rump. The pony didn’t care for the arrangement at first, shuffling about with the clear hopes of shaking Keech right off, but Keech held tight to Quinn’s wet coat. In time, the animal consented. To Keech, riding another pony felt like a strange kind of betrayal, but he had no choice.
The morning snow had started up again, tumbling in fat flakes, but the forest beyond the Kansas River was thick enough to screen most of the drift from their faces. After half an hour of frigid riding, the gang clambered up a lofty hill. Doyle pulled back on his reins when he reached the crest and held up two fingers to halt them.
“Why’re we stopping?” asked Duck.
Keech looked down the hill and spotted a company of Native horsemen passing in a tight cluster, moving toward a heavy thicket to the west. Four of them wore draping buffalo pelts. The other two men rode in sawtooth robes that reminded Keech of the traded blankets that Pa Abner had kept inside his study.
Doyle watched the six horsemen with interest.
“Potawatomi?” asked Quinn.
“No, they’re Osage.” The Ranger smiled. “I believe I’ve seen this team before, farther south on the prairies.”
Cutter wiggled a finger at Keech. “You’re Osage, right, Blackwood? You can speak to them for us.”
Keech shook his head in disappointment. “Pa Abner taught the orphans what he could—a few handy words and phrases, how to respect all the people and traditions around us—but he didn’t know everything. There’s a whole heap I don’t know.”
He wanted to say more on the subject—that ever since Pa Abner had divulged who his real father was, Keech had been feeling a lonely disconnect from his place in the world—but he was cut off when Doyle called down to the riders with a loud “Hah-weh!”
The horsemen glanced up the hill.
Keech had been wrong about the band’s number. There were seven of them, but the seventh member—a young Osage girl on a short brown pony—rode inside their crowded assembly, nearly invisible in the cluster till one of the men nudged his horse aside. Like her four companions in buffalo robes, the girl wore a shaggy pelt draped over her shoulders, a billowing bison hide that blended her almost perfectly with her mount and the brushwood. Keech imagined that if she wanted to, the girl and the horse could pass completely unseen in a thick forest.
Doyle started down the hillside. “I need to speak to those men, if they’ll permit. It’s a matter of some urgency, so follow quick.”
When the horsemen saw them coming, one of the men in buffalo hides galloped out in front of the group. He spoke something in Osage, and the other riders kicked up their pace. Keech caught a glimpse of ornaments and eagle feathers tied into the leader’s hair, denoting war honors and the man’s bravery in battles, a distinguished headdress of an Osage warrior.
Doyle pushed his steed faster, forcing Quinn to goose the stubborn Lightnin’ to keep up, but by the time everyone had reached the bottom of the hill, the Osage riders had slipped into the dense brush.
The Ranger continued his pursuit, driving his horse into the thicket.
“I don’t like this one bit,” Nat said, but he led the young riders onward in single file through the compact woods till they caught up to Doyle. It took a few moments to negotiate the brake, and the shadows inside were
menacing, but before long a powder-white meadow opened up before them.
“Would you look at that!” Keech said when he saw what stood in the clearing.
The Osage riders were nowhere to be seen, but standing in the meadow was another bending tree, much like the one near Mercy Mission. It had the furrowed bark of a sugar maple, and the thick base had grown into a deep split, forming a twisted Y. Both trunks bent away from each other, then curved up before fracturing into a thousand slender branches. One thick arm pointed back toward the Kansas River; the other bent to the south.
“Is that what I think it is?” Cutter asked.
Steering his horse closer to the maple, Doyle answered, “It’s a marker tree. The tribes in these parts have cultivated them from saplings to guide others to water or safe passages.”
“The Osage must’ve known it was here,” Duck said.
“They rode off lickety-split, like they weren’t too tickled to find you near it,” Nat added.
“Or near them,” said Duck.
Disregarding the comments, Doyle dismounted and stepped toward the tree. Though the growth bore a slightly different shape than the white oak farther north, four white stones surrounded the maple, one at each point of the compass, exactly like the ones around the first tree. A thin layer of snow coated the ground, covering the stone circles, but Keech could still see their faint outlines.
Doyle moved to the stone nearest him, dusting off the snow with his moccasin. Then he placed the same foot on its smooth center and held it there. For a time, he stared between the Y of the tree, tilting his head as if struggling to see something just out of focus. A moment later, he shook his head with something like frustration. Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out a small leatherbound journal and a stubby pencil. He opened to a cluttered-looking page and began to scribble a note.
The journal and pencil went back into his pocket, and out came a cherry-colored pipe and a small leather bag of tobacco. After emptying the dottle and packing in a fresh plug, he took his foot off the white stone and turned back to Keech.
The Fang of Bonfire Crossing Page 9