Still gripping the rope that led Nat’s mare, Duck shuffled over the snow and reined Irving to a halt. Sally fell behind them, her saddle empty, her reins tied loosely to the horn. Duck was silent at first, her breath fogging around her face, and the hand holding Sally’s rope quivered. Finally, she said, “I lost my brother, too. He died saving my life. I never expected I’d have to say goodbye—I thought he’d be with me forever—but that’s not the way it turned out.”
Strong Heart looked at the girl with a solemn face.
Taking a deep breath, Duck pulled at Sally’s lead rope. When the mare stepped next to Irving, Duck put a hand on the horse’s neck. She murmured a few quiet words to the Fox Trotter, then held the rope out to Strong Heart.
“Please take her, and give her a good home.”
Strong Heart’s hand reached for the rope—but then she hesitated and glanced back at her uncle. With a gentle nudge of the reins, Strong Bones walked his pony closer and took Sally’s rope. He looked closely at the Fox Trotter then said to Duck, “This is one of your best horses. When you offer a horse, it is a good gift. Weh-wee-nah.”
Tears tumbled from Duck’s eyes. She tried to speak, but her breath tangled in her throat and the words faltered. She watched as Strong Bones handed the rope to his niece, who nodded her appreciation and drew Sally into their fold. The mare resisted at first, glancing back at Irving as though confused, but when the Protectors began to move, the Fox Trotter went along.
“Goodbye,” Duck said to the pony.
Strong Heart spoke one last thing to the young riders. “Wah-Shkan,” she said, then turned and didn’t look back again.
“I wonder what that meant,” said Quinn.
Keech knew. It was a phrase that Pa Abner had once passed on to the orphans, having learned it from his Osage friends. “It means do your best, never quit, and be fearless.”
CHAPTER 35
THE SHIFTER’S FAREWELL
Inside the snowy clearing, Doyle worked on a campfire while Keech and Duck and Quinn unsaddled the ponies. A few yards from the camp, John Wesley waited beside the sleeping Chamelia. Cutter sat close by, using his long blade to engrave words onto a flat piece of oak timber he’d found near the bending tree.
Leaving Duck and Quinn with the horses, Keech approached John Wesley, moving slowly so as not to spook the Shifter. The creature’s new appearance surprised him. Before leaving Bonfire Crossing, the Chamelia had shifted down to something like a coyote; here in the clearing, it had changed yet again, this time resembling a slick cougar. It was as if the stab of the Fang had not only severed Big Ben’s hold but had also rendered the beast uncertain of its own true form.
Speaking softly, Keech asked, “Hey, John, how are you holding up?”
“Okay, I reckon.”
“Are you sure that thing ain’t dangerous?”
John Wesley shook his head. “She’s sleeping.” He stretched out a clawed hand and patted the side of the Shifter. “Don’t fret none about her.”
“That ain’t so easy for me, John. I’ve seen what that thing can do.”
“No, you saw what the Devil’s mark can do.”
A realization dawned on Keech. If he were going to trust his friend, he would have to allow him to lead the way with the Chamelia. “Fair enough,” he said. He turned to head back to the fire, then stopped. “Hey, John?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s good to have you back.”
John Wesley didn’t answer, instead turning his attention back to the creature.
Back at the campfire, Duck, Quinn, and Doyle had placed their saddles on the ground and kicked off their boots. They leaned against the seats, warming the bottoms of their feet. Keech joined them, and they shared a few rounds of tongue twisters to pass the time. After Quinn stumped him with Three twigs twined tightly, Keech returned his gaze to John Wesley. It concerned him how John had connected to the beast. He told the others about his conversation and how protective their friend had become of the creature since Bonfire Crossing.
“She?” Quinn grimaced. “That thing’s a girl?”
“That’s what John Wesley said, but I don’t know how he figures that. He’s been acting strange since the Fang took away Rose’s brand and the Chamelia passed out.”
Duck gazed at the fire. “He sits apart from us now.”
Holding a bundle of sticks, Doyle walked up to the campfire. “Give my boy time. He’s trying to figure out his new place in the world.”
After the campfire had grown comfortably warm, the young riders sagged against their saddles, too sleepy for tongue twisters. Not far away, Cutter’s knife still scratched on the wooden plank.
Quinn yawned. “I’m so tired I could sleep for days.”
“Me too. I just might.” Keech put his bowler hat over his eyes.
After a silence, Duck said, “Do y’all think Strong Heart will be okay?”
“She’s a strong person. I think she will,” Quinn said.
Keech knew that Strong Heart would undergo months of mourning rituals, a full year’s worth in most cases. She would partake in the ceremonies that signified the loss and vindication of a loved one. Keech hated that he had given her the bad news about Wandering Star, but she was better off knowing than constantly hunting for him and wondering.
Keech felt his body slipping off to sleep. He closed his eyes thinking about Strong Heart, John Wesley, and the Shifter, and so he didn’t quite hear the words that Cutter suddenly shouted.
He bolted upright. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the Shifter!” Duck said.
Slipping back into his boots, Keech ran over to John Wesley and saw that the boy had backed away from the Chamelia, which was twisting and snarling in the snow. The creature’s hide rippled, the fur retracting and a sea of thorns sprouting across its back.
“That demonio’s changing again!” Cutter shouted. He circled nearby, lifting his knife by the blade so he could lob it at the beast.
Duck and Quinn dashed over. Doyle ran up with one fist raised over his head, the same way he’d looked in Wisdom when preparing to unleash a cyclone.
John Wesley grumbled at the creature, but Keech thought the noise sounded more dejected than fearful.
Doyle said, “Move back, John.”
When John Wesley swiveled to face his father, his eyes turned a vicious red again. The boy’s lips pulled back into a sneer. “Don’t come any closer!”
“Okay.” Keech held up his hands. “We’re not gonna hurt it.”
The Shifter’s eyes darted back and forth as though searching for the best escape. It took a few steps toward the wood line, but then it turned back and locked its yellow reptilian eyes on John Wesley.
John said, “Go!”
The Shifter barked, a sound between a hound’s call and a bobcat’s roar, and it turned on wide paws and bounded away toward the forest. Within seconds, the creature had disappeared into the brush.
“Is it gone?” Cutter asked.
“No. I can feel her waiting,” John Wesley said.
“What do you mean, son?” Concern scratched at Doyle’s voice.
“I’m like her now. A beast.” John Wesley lifted a hand and regarded the hooked claws at the end of each finger. “I ain’t a person no more. Look at me.”
“That’s fool talk,” Cutter said.
“No, Cut, it’s true.” John Wesley pointed back to the tree line. “Once upon a time, she was a person, too. She wasn’t always like that, but she got changed. Same thing that’s happened to me. I ain’t me no more.”
“You’re still my son,” Doyle said.
Sorrow cut across John Wesley’s features, but instead of tears, his melancholy intensified the small shifts happening across his body. Quills pushed out from his shoulders, and with a sudden terrible crack, his knees popped backward so that he was hunched on canine legs.
“John, calm down,” Keech said. “I think your emotions are making you shift.”
When John Wesley spoke again, hundreds of
needlepoint fangs slurred his words. “I have to go with her. She can teach me how to control this.”
Cutter reached out to him. “I can help you, amigo. Stay with us. We’ve been through this, hermano. Your place is with us. With me. We’re partners.”
“I can’t, Cut.” John Wesley looked back at the woods where the Chamelia lurked. “I feel her calling me. I belong with my own kind.”
“John, my boy,” Doyle said, his voice pleading. “You belong beside your father. Come with me. I’ll take you home.”
John Wesley’s head tilted at the man. “That’s just it, Papa. We ain’t got a home no more. You took that away when you stole Eliza and left.” He backed a step away from the camp.
“Wait, son. Don’t,” the Ranger begged.
Looking frantic, Cutter reached into his coat and pulled out John Wesley’s straw hat. Keech had forgotten that the boy was carrying it. “Take this,” Cutter said, and tossed the hat to his trailmate. It landed in the snow between John Wesley’s feet. A single tear slid down Cutter’s cheek. “Remember, no matter where you go, you’re one of us. You’re a Lost Cause.”
John Wesley stared at the hat on the ground but didn’t pick it up. Turning to peer at the woodland, John Wesley moaned a deep, rattling sigh. Then he glanced back at his father, at Cutter, at all the young riders. “I’m gonna go find the Chamelia now,” he said. “Goodbye.”
He bolted from the camp toward the forest, leaving his torn hat to sit in the snow.
“John, no!” Cutter bellowed, chasing after him. “Come back!”
John Wesley kept running. A moment later, the woods enveloped him, and he was gone.
* * *
Later that afternoon, the young riders warmed themselves by the campfire, nestling deep in their blankets and letting the crackle of firewood be their only conversation. The horses slept in a tight standing circle, their reins tied off to the boughs of the now-defunct bending tree. Doyle had taken out his leatherbound journal and was silently scribbling on a page, while Duck and Quinn leaned against each other, staring into the fire.
For a long while after John Wesley had run away, Cutter had paced the edges of the forest, calling his friend’s name. Now he adjusted Chantico’s saddle and mounted up, the plank of wood on which he’d been carving tucked under his arm. When Keech asked him where he was headed, Cutter simply said, “The woods. Not far.”
“You should stay close,” Keech said. “The crows may be about.”
“I can’t stay at this camp, Blackwood. I need to be alone for a bit.”
Keech frowned. “You won’t find him, Cut. He’s long gone.”
“I won’t go looking. I just need to think.”
Spurring Chantico, Cutter trotted away from camp, out of the clearing and into the forest. Keech watched the boy disappear in the trees.
Before long, Keech drifted once more into sleep. He dreamed of the Missouri wilderness and Pa Abner’s training circle. Sam sat next to him by the campfire, and Pa was giving his lecture on trust and wisdom and the rules of alliance. As they listened to his lesson, Pa walked to the woodpile and retrieved a fresh stick for the fire.
Look at this log, boys.…
As he dreamed, Keech shifted on his bedroll. From his deep sleep, he thought he heard small noises—the shuffle of feet in snow, the crack of a twig—but the sounds were not threatening, so he continued sleeping and dreaming of Pa.
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.…
CHAPTER 36
AMICO FIDELI
“And fills our eyes with smoke.”
Keech sat upright, realizing he’d spoken Pa’s words aloud. The campfire in the clearing had burned down to gray dust, with the smallest hints of cinder beneath. Out of habit, Keech reached under his shirt to touch his charm—the Ranger’s charm, actually, but now his.
The shard was missing.
Startled, he patted down his body and searched through his bedding. As he rummaged, he called out, “Everyone, wake up! It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?” Quinn’s tired voice answered.
“Doyle’s pendant.” Keech glanced around the campsite. He saw Duck sitting up, quickly alert, and Quinn rubbing sleep out of his eyes. The spot on the ground where Doyle had been resting was vacant. All that remained was the man’s blanket, neatly folded on the dead grass. At the bending tree, the ponies stood tied off to the boughs, their heads drooped in slumber.
There was no sign of Saint Peter.
“Where’s the Ranger?” Duck asked.
“Good question.” Keech pulled on his boots. He was careful not to move. He wanted to read the clearing. He looked at the first yellow rays of day breaking over the horizon and realized they had slept for more than twelve hours. A light snow from the night before coated the camp, but there were no horse tracks leading out. Keech did notice the faintest indication of moccasin prints near their bedding, but the fresh snow had filled most of the divots.
“I can’t believe we slept so long,” Duck said.
“We needed it,” Keech replied, but still he wanted to kick himself. After days of hard riding and brutal fighting, they had all been so exhausted that they could have slept through the Siege of Fort Texas and not stirred.
“Where’s Cutter?” said Quinn.
Keech peered past the clearing. “Still in the woods, I reckon. He wanted to be alone.”
“But it’s been twelve hours,” Quinn pointed out. “Shouldn’t he be back?”
“Fellas, I think we got a problem,” Duck said. She had begun patting her own coat, and now panic cascaded across her features. She searched through her blanket. When she looked up, her face was ashen. “My charm’s gone, too.”
Uneasiness whittled its way into Keech’s gut. He reached into his coat pocket and felt for Strong Bones’s deerskin sheath. His fingers wrapped around a blade hilt, and for a second, he breathed in relief. Then he realized the hilt’s texture was all wrong. He pulled the blade out of his pocket and looked at it. It wasn’t the Fang of Barachiel.
It was Doyle’s knife.
“No!” Keech yelled.
The trio scoured the campsite for any sign of the two missing shards or the bone dagger. When nothing turned up, Duck threw up her hands. “He stole everything.”
“No way,” Quinn said. “He wouldn’t do that.”
Except Keech knew he would. Doyle had made it clear that nothing mattered more to him than his family. I went out of my mind with grief, the man had told them while sharing the story of Eliza’s death. My wife, Gerty, and John Wesley wanted to mourn and move on. I couldn’t.
“I’d wager he decided on this plan when John Wesley went off into the woods,” Keech said. “He had no more family left to lose. He knew when we went to sleep that we’d be easy pickings.”
“But why ditch us?” Quinn asked. “Why not take us with him?”
“Because we’d try to stop him,” Duck answered. “He knew we’d never go along with a scheme to resurrect his daughter.”
“And since Saint Peter never leaves tracks, I reckon we’ve got no way of finding him,” Keech said.
Stomping over to the spot where Doyle had slept, Duck kicked at the abandoned blanket with a furious shout. A small cloth bag tumbled out of the folds. “What’s that?”
Keech snatched up the bag, hearing something jangle. When he opened it, he saw no relics, only a small book and a few coins.
The book was Doyle’s leatherbound journal, the one he had scrawled in while investigating the bent sugar maple near the Kansas River. A blue ribbon marker lay tucked inside, along with Doyle’s pencil. Keech held the journal up for Duck and Quinn to see, then flipped through the pages. Doyle
had scribbled hundreds of entries, each one beginning with the date.
When Keech reached the blue ribbon, he noticed that the Ranger had scrawled a message to the young riders:
Lost Causes,
I am sorry that you’re awakening to betrayal. I never intended to double-cross you, nor to put you in harm’s way for the sake of my gain. I leave you this journal, my life’s record, so that you may learn from it and hopefully understand where I came from. I no longer need its reminders. An Enforcer’s past holds too much torment.
Take this money to the nearest town. Buy feed for the horses and proper gear. Then head home. Do not consider hunting me. You will only find more pain.
Be well and live on,
E. D.
Glancing again at the coins inside the bag, Keech was taken aback when he realized he was looking at a handful of silver dollars, the kind of coin he had only heard about in Pa’s study.
Duck and Quinn squeezed in to read the message.
“Home?” said Quinn. “We can’t go home. We ain’t got homes.”
Duck pointed to the journal. “There’s something on the next page.”
Keech flipped the page over. Scribbled at the bottom was a final note before the rest of the pages in the book fell blank:
My family will be whole again.
Keech looked at the note with a mixture of sorrow and frustration. His oceanside conversation with Doyle at Bonfire Crossing replayed in his mind. John needs his family whole again, Keech had said. His ma is gone. He needs to know his pa is with him.
You’re right, Doyle had answered. He does need his family whole again.
Keech slammed the journal shut and tossed it back into the bag. “We better round up Cutter and have a meeting.”
Quinn slipped on his forage cap. “I’ll fetch him.” He scurried off to the forest where Cutter had ridden off alone.
While they waited, Keech and Duck rounded up their gear. They didn’t speak, but Duck occasionally touched the place in her coat where her father’s pendant once hung. He remembered her words about the charm in Missouri—It’s a family heirloom. Our pa gave it to us a few days before he died—and he suddenly found himself battling fresh tears. Duck’s pony, Irving, and the clothes on her back were the only things she now carried from her old life in Sainte Genevieve. Doyle had stolen the last reminder of her family, all for the sake of some futile attempt to try to make his family whole again.
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