Cloudcastle

by Nan Ryan

  White-trunked aspen had begun their seasonal change, blazing brilliantly in breathtaking yellows while the maples shone vivid red. The scrub oaks were already dark brown, but the towering evergreen and fir trees remained a lush dark green.

  Natalie smiled, breathed deeply of the cool, thin air, and laughed happily when a big-eyed doe flashed through the woods above her. These forests were teeming with antelope, prairie wolves, and coyotes. Occasionally she'd spotted a majestic mountain lion moving with lazy grace through the underbrush, and once she had come face-to-face with a grizzly bear. She'd been fortunate that the big brute had looked her over, turned, and lumbered away.

  Natalie was happy to share her isolated mountain paradise with these creatures. They belonged here in this wilderness, just as she belonged, she and the old shaman who had given it to her.

  Natalie's mount carried her steadily higher past a cold mountain stream where tall, splendid blue spruce trees shaded the crystal-clear waters. Blaze stepped into the stream, carefully picking his way across the boulder-strewn bottom. Pulling up on his reins, Natalie said softly, "Stop a minute, boy, and let's drink."

  The mount's ears pricked up and he halted at once. While Natalie, laughing like a little girl, jerked off her gloves, leaned low to the side of the horse, and scooped up a palmful of the icy water, Blaze drank noisily, lapping and blowing contentedly.

  Thirst quenched, the pair were back in motion. On the far bank, the horse once again climbed higher and Natalie let the reins go slack, trusting him to pick his way over the jagged bluffs.

  And then they reached the timberline where pines, gnarled and bent from frigid mountain winds, seemed to writhe in agony from their constant punishment. Soon the terrain became too harsh for even the hardy pines, and the big bay stallion labored, as he climbed cautiously up the barren rocky ledges.

  Natalie reined up sharply and raised a hand to shield her eyes. Above stark rocky outcroppings, wide slashing ridges and deep trenches, caves hidden by embrasures of half-sunken rock had been twisted and gouged and formed by prehistoric heat into a labyrinth that was supremely beautiful and totally confusing.

  Her gaze moved upward until she could pick out the high, jutting edge of rimrock that concealed the opening of the sacred Chiff Palace. The low-riding sun turned the ancient walls a golden color. And within those walls even where the sun couldn't reach, Natalie knew, the walls still shone yellow because they were made of gold.

  Natalie sighed, shook her head thoughtfully, and once more reined Blaze into motion, quitting the rocky ramparts. Continuing eastward around the mountain, she rode several miles before she reached the high pass between Promontory Point and El Diente Peak. Again she halted and looked up at the majestic peak, which soared even higher than Treasure Mountain.

  Thick, wet mist enshrouded the spires, piercing the bright, clear turquoise skies. Already the towering summits were dusted with snow. Natalie's eyes lingered on the jutting snow-capped ridges and she reflected on how this vast, remote fairyland had once come to be hers.

  It was hers because of snow. Bright, beautiful snow. Dangerous, killing snow. The "white death."

  It was in the early spring, 1862. The Civil War raged. Natalie's husband of two years, Captain Devlin Vallance, was fighting for the Union in far-off Tennessee. Natalie had completed her studies at Oberlin College in Devlin's home state of Ohio. Until the powerful Union forces could claim their victory and Devlin could return to her, Natalie had agreed to live with her parents in the wild Colorado Territory where her father, Will Carpenter, was the Castleton County judge. Natalie headed west with her parents.

  There was snow, lots of deep, wet snow beneath the wheels of the crowded Concord stagecoach. The stage had crossed the great Continental Divide and was no more than a day's journey from its final destination when it happened. There was little warning. No time to avert the tragedy. A small, strange vibration shook the lumbering stage just seconds before a deafening, roaring curtain of snow came sweeping down the mountain.

  "Merciful God!" Judge Carpenter exclaimed, reaching for his wife, and those words were to be his last.

  Natalie screamed as the stage and its occupants tumbled over. In an instant that seemed like a lifetime, she felt herself being sucked from the coach's window and tossed high into the air. Eyes wide open with horror, she saw the coach, with her parents inside, being hurled down the steep white mountainside. Her screams were choked off by snow filling her mouth and before her eyes there was now only snow. Blinding white snow. Brilliant, impenetrable snow. Suffocating, smothering snow.

  The next thing she saw was a shiny, polished panther's claw swinging close to her face.

  Natalie blinked in confusion and let her gaze move upward from the powerful, sun-darkened throat where the strange neckpiece hung on a thin leather strip. A pair of black, glittery eyes peered down at her from a broad ugly face, and a wide mouth was grinning.

  Terrified, she to rise, only to be pushed gently back to the floor by a strong hand. "Do not fear," said the old Indian, whose long, coarse gray hair swung about his blunt features. "You are safe, Fire-in-the-Snow."

  Thinking it must surely be a nightmare, Natalie closed her eyes and drifted back into unconsciousness. But when she awakened, again the same furrowed face was peering at her. And there was another face beside his ugly countenance. A lovely young girl with coal-black hair, tawny skin, and flashing black eyes was holding her hand.

  "My parents?" Natalie pleaded, and girl's dark eyes flickered.

  "Dead," stated the old Indian without preamble, and Natalie found herself plucked from her bed of animal furs and pressed almost roughly against his massive chest when she cried out in despair. A broad hand patted her back while the old Indian rocked her as though she were an infant.

  The young Indian girl spoke quietly.

  "My name is Metaka. My grandfather, Tahomah, is the respected shaman of the Capote Ute tribe." Her dark eyes went to Natalie's tousled red-gold hair. "You are Fire-in-the-Snow." The girl's eyes came back to Natalie's tear-stained face. "Grandfather was told of your coming in a vision."

  A deep voice rumbled then from deep inside the old Indian's immense chest, its resonance vibrating against Natalie's breasts as he continued to trap her in his gargantuan arms.

  He said, "The great spirit, Manitou, spoke to me. He said I must go to the summit of Red Mountain pass and wait inside the safety of Bear Creek Cave. When I hear great thunder of snow pass over me, I will know the time has come for Fire -in-the- Snow."

  Natalie managed to free a hand and rub at her red-rimmed eyes while the old man, his flat black eyes fixed and staring, continued. "I obey. I wait in cave for two suns. While I waited, snow grew deeper and heavier. Then the giant spirit hand pushed the snow down the mountain. The White Death." Old Tahomah shook his great head, eyes dazed. "I see fire in the snow just as the Manitou foretold. I go to the fire and examine it." The glittery eyes rested on Natalie's head. "Your flaming hair," he said somberly. "A lock of fiery red hair sprouting from the snow."

  Natalie waited, but the old shaman said no more.

  "He will tell more tomorrow." Metaka's sweet, girlish voice broke the silence. "Rest now."

  Confused, grief-stricken, but strangely no longer afraid, Natalie nodded her tired head and felt herself being lifted by those huge, strong arms back among the soft, warm furs. Square, callused hands tenderly pulled the covers up about her shoulders and the old Indian smiled down at her, "Sleep now, my chosen-daughter. I will watch over you till all my days here are run out."

  Natalie fell asleep.

  She remained in the lodge of old Tahomah and his granddaughter, Metaka, through the winter. While strong icy winds roared outside and new snows blanketed the silvery mountains, the old shaman, firelight flickering on his coarse features, sat cross-legged staring into the flames, his deep voice reverberating off the shadowed walls, telling Natalie of the legend:

  "When time began there was nothing but the sky. The Manitou lived alone
in the middle of the sky, ruler of all. He told the wind to blow, the suns to shine. Beneath the Turquoise Sky were white, thick clouds. Manitou punched a great hole in the clouds and poured stones from the floor of the heavens to make the 'Shining Mountains.' He touched these mountains with his hand and made the forests grow, the rivers run, the beast to roam."

  Tahomah studied Natalie's face. She met his gaze and said softly, "Please, Tahomah, continue."

  "All was good and my people lived here; built their cliff homes and prospered." His broad, ugly face suddenly furrowed into a deep frown. "Then the white-eyes come in search of the yellow and white metals." He shook his great gray head and his eyes grew fierce. His hand shot out and he took Natalie's arm. "Manitou has sent you to protect the sacred burial ground of my people, the Anasazi. It is a trust you must never betray."

  Abruptly he released her arm and continued, idly fingering the polished panther's claw at his throat as he spoke. "Deep inside a hidden Cliff Palace where the ancient ones sleep in death, a vast fortune in gold was left by the Spanish. The walls of this secret room shine yellow with rich veins of gold ore." Tahomah paused, his eyes cold, hard. "Only one white man has ever found the secret palace. I killed him and fed his bones to the wolves."

  Ignoring Natalie's openmouthed shock, he continued to speak commandingly in a deep, sure voice. "You, Fire-in-the-Snow, are the one who must protect the gold. The Manitou has ordained it. To you I give all of these lands." His hands made a sweeping gesture.

  Natalie protested. "You cannot, Tahomah. This land should go to your blood-kin granddaughter, Metaka, when you—" He raised his hand to silence her. "Metaka will not be here. I have seen in a vision that she will go to another land."

  Natalie looked at the girl, who was not yet fifteen. Metaka smiled and nodded her dark head. "Grandfather knows. The Manitou knows. The land must be yours."

  It was settled. Summer came.

  Natalie said a tearful good-bye to Metaka, climbed atop a big paint pony, and followed Tahomah away from the lodge. He led her through stone corridors and craggy, cloud-high peaks thrusting to the clear sky. At last they reached the concealed Cliff Palace high on the southern face of a rugged, rocky mountain. Solemnly, Tahomah announced, "Treasure Mountain, my chosen-daughter. No white man shall ever remove the gold and live to spend it." His ugly face was hard, his eyes fierce. She nodded. Mounted, they sat in silence, listening to the winds, echoes of the past surrounding them.

  "Come, chosen-daughter," Tahomah said, at last breaking the spell, "I will lead you down to the white man's village where you will make your home." He inclined his gray head to the northwest.

  Natalie nodded and followed the old man down through the hovering clouds, in and out of canyons, over rugged terrain, until finally the old man halted his mount and Natalie drew the paint up alongside.

  "Cloudcastle," he said, pointing to the small hamlet below. "I will leave you now. If you cannot find your way back to me, I will find you."

  "Beware when you come down to Cloudcastle," Natalie said softly.

  He grinned, black eyes gleaming. "No one will know I'm there. I will wear my invisible shirt."

  "Tahomah, if the land is to be mine, won't I need something… a paper of some kind with your mark on it?"

  Tahomah's grin broadened and his eyes twinkled mischievously. "Yes, it is called a deed and the mark is called my signature." He reached inside his calico shirt, brought out a folded document, and held it out to her.

  Natalie's face reddened. "Tahomah, I'm sorry I—"

  "Supposed all redmen are illiterate? It is all right; I am not offended." He thrust the deed into her hands. "This was drawn up by smart young Indian lawyer practicing in Denver." He grinned once more and his blunt fingers toyed with the panther's claw at his throat. "Harvard graduate. Speaks three languages… four, including his native tongue. Take deed to Tom Fairhope at the federal land office in Cloud-castle. He remember me from his blue coat days."

  Without another word, Tahomah whirled his big pony around and thundered back up the mountain, his coarse gray hair gleaming in the brilliant summer sunshine.

  The sun had slipped below the horizon, its afterglow burnishing the rocky mountains with blood-red light. Natalie was smiling to herself recalling that long-ago day.

  She'd kept her word. When Devlin had been furloughed and came to the Colorado Territory to spend his leave with her, she'd told him only that she'd been deeded the land; she didn't tell him of Treasure Mountain and its gold. She'd shown Devlin the deed, and he'd happily kissed her and said they'd build their ranch house at once. The shell was already going up when he'd ridden back to war, promising to return to her soon.

  But Devlin never came back. He was killed in the war's last days, and Natalie was left a widow at age twenty-three.

  Devlin never knew, he couldn't have known, about the sacred burial ground. If he had, he'd never have gambled away the land. He didn't know. It wasn't his fault.

  Natalie felt eyes upon her. She raised her head.

  On a rocky ledge twenty feet above her, old Tahomah stood peering down at her, his arthritic fingers toying with the shiny panther's claw. His broad, flat face, reddened by the dying sunlight, looked as though it had been chiseled from the rugged stone surrounding him. His long gray hair lifted in the winds and his black eyes shone with a mischievous twinkle. "Fire-in-the-Snow," he said happily, and Natalie knew the old shamag had known she was coming.

  "Tahomah," she said affectionately, and gently spurred Blaze. The old Indian took the horse's bridle in his huge hand and quietly led him into one of the thousands of narrow corridors slicing through the towering Shining Mountains.

  Chapter Nine

  Lids low over icy blue eyes, Kane Covington had calmly watched Natalie ride past and out of sight. Casually brushing the dark, unruly hair back off his forehead, Kane stopped from the sidewalk and crossed the street. With unhurried steps he strolled down Main, his intimidating gaze, aimed like a deadly weapon, slowly sweeping over the milling crowd of gossiping, staring townspeople.

  There was about him a quiet, lethal deadliness that lowered loud voices, stilled wagging tongues, and caused even the surliest of men to move out of the way so he could pass. A buzz of excited chatter followed him, but Kane Covington didn't care what was being said.

  In moments Kane stood on the shaded front porch of a large three-story boardinghouse on Silver Street. He knocked softly and nodded at the short, chestnut-haired woman who answered.

  Kane didn't hesitate. He said, "Ma'am, I need a room. So there will be no surprises, I'm Kane Covington. I've just come from the courthouse, where I was tried and acquitted of the murder of Jimmy Leatherwood." He studied her round, plump face, his penetrating eyes on her doubtful countenance.

  Marge Baker had heard of Kane Covington, though she had not been present at his trial. She wished she could tell this dark man with the intense blue eyes that he would have to find lodgings elsewhere. But Marge had two rooms vacant and she badly needed money.

  "Come in, Mr. Covington," said Marge Baker, forcing a smile to her lips. "I'll show you the room."

  At six thirty that evening, Kane joined the other boarders in the downstairs dining room. Loud talking dropped to low mumbles when he took his seat. Ignoring the disdainful looks directed at him, Kane spread his napkin on his knees and began to eat.

  Marge Baker brought in a huge platter of pan-fried steak.

  A young woman followed Marge, a gleaming silver pitcher in her hands. Kane's eyes swiftly settled on her. Glossy dark hair was held back off the girl's pretty face with a ribbon as red as her succulent mouth. A simple gingham dress failed to hide the voluptuous curves of her ripe, seductive body. Breasts, high and rounded, bounced temptingly with her steps, and full, womanly hips swayed beneath the folds of her gathered skirt. The smallness of her waist further accentuated the soft female curves and a natural grace added to her alluring sensuality.

  Kane's appreciative gaze climbed back to her face. She
was smiling, her wide, generous lips curved beautifully over even white teeth, her large and dark eyes fixed on him.

  "Belinda, honey, this is our newest boarder, Mr. Kane Covington." Marge Baker set the platter of meat on the table and put an arm around the tall, dark-haired girl. "Mr. Covington, this is my only daughter, Belinda."

  "Kane," he corrected. "Nice to meet you, Belinda."

  "Hello, Kane," Belinda said cheerfully, and came at once to his chair. She leaned over, tipped the silver pitcher, and poured fresh milk into his glass. A soft, full breast pressed against his shoulder and Kane's eyes met hers. She was smiling warmly at him and her dark, luminous eyes gleamed. But in their velvety depths Kane noticed an oddly blank, unreadable expression.

  Kane's gaze shifted to the girl's mother. He caught the unmistakable flicker of alarm crossing Marge Baker's plump face. The lovely young woman moved away from him, filled other glasses, and exchanged easy banter with the hungry boarders, though her beautiful yet strangely vacant eyes kept returning to Kane.

  Hungry miners wolfed down their food as though they'd never before eaten, then excused themselves and left the table. Only Kane remained. "Start the dishes, Belinda," Marge Baker said, and gave the girl a gentle shove toward the swinging kitchen door. "Okay, Momma," Belinda agreed. "See you at breakfast, Kane." She again favored him with a smile. " 'Night, Belinda," he said, smiling, and saw Marge Baker's hazel eyes cloud with worry.

  The girl had no sooner disappeared than Marge Baker took a seat beside Kane. Nervously she dusted crumbs from the white tablecloth and cleared her throat. "Mr. Covington, my beautiful daughter, Belinda, is eighteen in years, but only eight mentally." She drew a deep breath. "She was kicked by a horse when she was a little girl, and… and… she…" her voice trailed away, her head bowing.

  Kane's voice was low, soft. "Mrs. Baker, I would never touch your daughter."