by Debra Dixon
“I have a name,” the old man said, a sudden burst of excitement giving him courage. “I am called Luce, the keeper of the mountain.”
Just as quickly the bravado turned to uncertainty as he wiped perspiration from his forehead with the worn sleeve of his shirt. “I—I cannot cover the bet, not with what I have. But I give you my marker. I will return with the money, I swear.”
“We don’t take no markers,” the dealer’s sidekick said. “You’d better have money or it’s all mine.”
Tucker groaned and laid his hand on the pistol strapped on his left hip, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it. The old Indian had been showing off. No telling how he’d come by his precious loot, but he was in the stew now.
“But I have more,” the old man insisted. “I do. I will make my mark.” He reached inside his pocket.
Tucker heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. Ah, hell. The bastards weren’t going to let him get away. If Tucker didn’t act quickly, the bandits would have more than the old man’s IOU. Without thinking, Tucker reached for the bottle in front of him, knocking it over on the cards. The dealer turned his eyes on Tucker in disbelief.
“What the—?” the bandit swore, scrambling backward.
“Sorry.” Tucker took his bandanna from around his neck. “I’ll just wipe it up.” He lurched to his feet, slurring his words just enough to convince onlookers that he was drunk.
At the same time, he stumbled, swept the nuggets and the watch fob into his pocket, and collapsed across the table, determined that the bandits not profit from their cheating.
Then, as if he were trying to right himself, Tucker pulled the table toward himself and, shoving the miner out the door, sagged backward, blocking the exit as he fell. “I think I’ve had too much to drink,” he said with an affected laugh.
“Get out of the way, you idiot!” The two men tried to get past him, one of them firing at the escaping prospector. But in his efforts to apologize and stand, Tucker managed to delay both men long enough for the old miner to get away.
The tirade that followed was in Spanish. Tucker didn’t have to understand the exact words to know the men weren’t going to let him leave the cantina peacefully. It looked as if the half-breed wouldn’t get his treasure back after all. Still, it wasn’t until until they forced Tucker out of the saloon and into the plaza beyond that he realized what they had in mind.
The saloon emptied as the customers followed, expecting to be entertained by what was obviously a common occurrence in the village.
“You know what we do in Mexico to people who get in our way?” the dealer asked, a cruel grin exposing the stark white of his teeth against his swarthy complexion.
“It was an accident. I wasn’t even playing. I’d already folded.”
“You and the old man were in cahoots. I saw you steal the ruby,” the sidekick said. “Get a rope for the americano outlaw, compadres. Then we go treasure hunting. Si?”
Suddenly the situation wasn’t so funny anymore. Tucker opened his eyes and took in the circle of men. He was a lot bigger and stronger than the Mexicans, but the guns pointed at his chest evened that difference.
“You can’t hang me.” Tucker drew himself to his full height and looked the cocky little bastard straight in the eye.
“Oh, but we can, señor,” the man with the pistol boasted. “We surely can.”
Tucker swallowed hard. He might as well give them the nuggets. Unless a miracle occurred, he didn’t have a chance in hell of living to return the gold. After all the bad things he’d done as a soldier in the name of duty, he was going to die for helping a man he’d never seen before.
“What the hell,” Tucker said. “This place has definitely lost what little charm it had. The whiskey’s bad, the games are crooked, and as for women, haven’t seen one I’d mess around with since I left Amarillo.”
Tucker didn’t know whether his stomach, his pride, or his manhood was suffering more. As his captors slipped a rope around his neck, he knew he’d never satisfy any physical need again. Returning the booty wouldn’t change anything. The only way he’d get out of there was to sprout wings and fly.
Then suddenly he heard a low tumbling sound, like the ripple of sails in the wind, that grew louder and louder. The onlookers grew quiet as angry shrieks cut through the air. The sky filled with hundreds of large, yellow-eyed, black birds. They settled in the tops of the gnarled mesquite trees surrounding the plaza and on the roofs of the buildings. Soon the hard-packed ground was black with the querulous birds, while others hovered above the circle of men.
The Mexicans looked at each other in alarm. Two of them dropped to their knees, crossing their chests. The others followed.
The birds continued to appear as if they’d been summoned, closing out the sun and leaving the plaza dark and cold. For a moment Tucker was stunned. Then, seeing he’d been given a chance, he slipped the rope from his neck and ran to his horse.
“Get me out of here, Yank,” he whispered, throwing himself into the saddle and leaning against the animal’s neck. The birds scattered before them as, for once, the horse followed orders and together they raced away from the village toward the safety of the hills to the northwest.
Behind him the unnatural shrieks of the birds still filled the air. Then, as quickly as they’d come, the flock swept across the sky before him in a dark swirling mass, blotting out the setting sun like a black-gloved hand.
A ripple of unease ran up Tucker’s spine. He didn’t understand what had just happened, but he knew that it was unnatural as hell, and maybe as close as he’d ever want to be to the place. If he’d been a religious man, he might have been unnerved, Now he galloped along an unfamiliar trail in the burgeoning darkness; his freedom in peril should the Mexicans decide to come after him instead of the old prospector.
After several hours of hard riding along the rocky terrain and through shallow streams, Tucker reached a point where he could look back over the area he’d covered. He couldn’t see any evidence that he’d been followed. And there was no sign of the half-breed Indian miner.
The horse Tucker had given, in a moment of irony, the name of Yank was breathing hard. Tucker was edgy, not only from almost losing his life, but from the way in which he’d been saved. He’d seen buzzards and he’d seen crows. The flock that had dropped like a cloud over the plaza was neither.
Shaking off the sense of unease that had traveled with him, Tucker was satisfied that he’d escaped. It was time to give both himself and Yank a rest.
Remembering his mad dash to safety, Tucker swore and reached back to examine his saddlebags. The pint of whiskey he normally carried was still there. He retrieved it and, with his teeth, pulled the cork from the bottom and spat it into his hand. He wasn’t normally given to heavy drinking, but he was not normally rescued by demon birds either. Tonight he could use a little courage. He lifted the bottle.
When the bottle was half empty, Tucker Farrell re-corked it and stuck it back into his pack. Not only was he wide awake, but all his senses seemed enhanced. Once, in the path of a tornado, he’d felt a sudden tingle in his skin that announced some startling event. Tonight he felt it again.
The moon had risen full and threatening, showering the trail with moonlight, making him an easy target to anyone watching.
Even Yank seemed unusually high-strung. He stumbled and came to a stop as he encountered a rock that had fallen-from higher up. “Get on, you stubborn mule,” Tucker cajoled.
Yank, true to his name, bullied his Rebel master by following orders only when they suited him. Tucker swore. Getting himself killed was one thing, but injuring his horse was something Tucker would never do. It was time to find a place to bed down before he fell off and rolled back down the mountain to that godforsaken place he’d escaped from.
Tucker disengaged one foot from the stirrups, swung it over the saddle, and, leaning his upper body in the other direction, slid to the ground. Too late he realized that he should have dismounted on the side toward
the mountain instead of the side toward the ravine. As he tried to balance himself the earth beneath his feet gave way and he slid straight down, bouncing only once before he hit his head on a rock and knocked himself out cold.
For most of her twenty-six years, Raven Alexander had been torn between two worlds. Three days ago she’d left them both.
Perhaps her life would have been different if her father hadn’t been Irish and her mother, Pale Raven, half Arapaho. But her kinship with her mother’s people and the Grandfather, Flying Cloud, had pulled at her, forcing her to follow a separate path.
The leaving hadn’t been easy. She’d had to fight her older half sister Sabrina’s disapproval from the moment she’d announced her mission. Expecting Sabrina to understand the difference in their backgrounds had always been impossible. Sabrina’s practical Irish mother had instilled such responsibility in her children that Sabrina would always consider herself head of the family.
Raven should have left in secret. That way, she’d have been saved having Sabrina accompany her to Denver, trying one last time to change her mind. “Raven, you are not going to New Mexico, alone, on some kind of crazy treasure hunt.”
Raven let her go on. All the Alexander sisters had learned that when Sabrina set her mind to something, there was no stopping her. Raven could only be grateful that the other three sisters had married and moved away. Otherwise she’d have been besieged on all sides.
“The country is changing,” Sabrina had argued. “The Comanche and the Apache are at war. The ranchers in the Southwest are bringing in gunfighters to stop the cattle rustling. And you don’t even know that the treasure exists.”
“It exists,” Raven explained once more. “And I must find the keeper of the mountain. He will show me the way.”
Raven didn’t know why she mentioned only one of the men. Explaining that she expected to find a man who came as a cougar was more than even she wanted to try.
“You’re just going to ride off into the sunset and wait for some old man to step up and say, ‘Look here, girl, I’m to be your guide.’ ”
Raven ignored her sister’s logic. She knew he would come. “It’s the Arapahos’ last chance, Sabrina. With the gold, we can buy land, good land, where all can live without being dependent on either crooked Indian agents or a government that changes the rules before the ink on the treaty is dry.”
“But Papa’s silver mine is producing now, Raven. And a share of it is yours. If you want to buy land, you can have the money. You may be part Arapaho, Raven, but you’re Cullen Alexander’s daughter too.”
“Yes, my father was an Alexander, Sabrina, but my mother was an Indian. My hair is as black as the bird for which I am named. My eyes are brown and my skin has been touched by the sun. We are sisters of the heart, but we are different. We each have our own purpose in life. I must follow my destiny.”
“Destiny, smestiny! You sound like some highbrow English novel. The Arapaho will be fine on that reservation in Wyoming. What you need is to come back home and forget about the Indians.”
“You forget, Sabrina, I am part Indian, more Indian now than white. But more than that, I made a promise. It was Grandfather’s dying wish that I journey to the mountains in the south and find the guardian. I gave my sacred word.”
“What guardian?”
“When the Arapaho tribe left the southern mountains, part of their people stayed behind to guard the sacred mountain. The secret of its location was left to those in the south, but one member of each succeeding generation in the north was given the means to find the treasure. Grandfather passed that secret to me. All I have to do is find the guardian.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” Sabrina asked in disbelief.
“I don’t know,” Raven admitted. “Grandfather said the spirits would guide me.”
Sabrina wrung her hands. “But why you?”
Raven tried to find the right words to explain. “Because those who are left are divided. Swift Hand and his followers want to challenge the soldiers. The elders are weary of fighting. There are fewer than a thousand Arapaho left, and they go to the reservation because they have no choice. I am the only one who can change that.”
In deference to her sister’s concern, Raven had donned proper traveling clothes and taken the stagecoach from Denver to Santa Fe. But her horse, Onawa, carrying her Indian dress and bedroll, was tied to the back.
More than once in the last two days, she had regretted her decision. Sharing her stage with a frightened mail-order bride and her small daughter and a newspaperman heading for Albuquerque made the journey seem endless.
“I’m Lawrence Small, a reporter for the New York Daily Journal,” the thin young man said eagerly. “Are you a native of the West?”
“I was born, here, yes,” Raven had answered reluctantly.
“And do you know any outlaws or cowboys?”
Once she answered, “I’m afraid not,” he lost interest in Raven and began to interview the woman who’d answered an ad from a rancher who needed a wife.
Raven longed for her horse. Even her bones were sore from bouncing around the hard seat. She’d long ago given up on keeping the dust from her clothing, and the only way she could control her hair was by braiding and covering it with the absurdly small hat someone had devised as a way to torture its wearer.
Long before Santa Fe, she decided to leave the stage at the next stop, remove the travel dress with its tiresome bustle, and don her buckskins.
Taking in a deep breath of the crisp, cool air, Raven cast her gaze outside the window and studied the mountains looming larger in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon. It was early spring and snow still capped the tops of the peaks, giving their stark variegated edges the look of jagged hard candy dipped in sugar frosting.
She longed to lie beneath the stars in peaceful solitude. The moon would be full, a bright silver disk etched with lacy shadows, resting against a dark tapestry embroidered with pinpoints of starlight. The wind would sing to her. From the looks of the clouds beyond the peaks, she might even feel the cleansing rain sweep over the earth.
At times like this, the spirits would come. A kind of silver mist would fall over her, and everything would grow quiet. Then, from somewhere beyond her mind, a chorus of muted voices would begin to chant and she would experience what she had come to call her waking dreams, dreams so real that she could experience pain and fear. But all the while, she’d be divorced from danger.
Longing for some kind of reassurance, at the next way station she decided to carry out her plan. While the food was being prepared, Raven found a private place to change her clothing within a stand of cottonwood trees. The travel dress with the bustle was stored in the bedroll along with her slippers and petticoat. Her tired body welcomed the soft buckskin dress and moccasins.
When she started back to the shack, the child met her, eyes wide. “You look like a princess in a fairy story. Do you have wings to fly?”
“No, I don’t fly, little one. But I am going to leave you here and ride my horse across the pass into the mountains.”
By the time the driver started to get worried about her whereabouts, the exotic Miss Alexander had been replaced by an Arapaho woman in a buckskin dress.
The stationmaster reached for his rifle.
The newspaperman gave a disbelieving whistle.
The mail-order bride fainted dead away.
Raven left her case and most of her clothing for the bride, mounted Onawa, and rode west toward the mountains, feeling freedom settle over her like a peaceful mantle.
This was her quest, her mission, the unknown she’d waited for. Energy bubbled to life within her, and she let out a cry of joy as the horse beneath her leapt forward.
“Aieee!”
On the third night, the moon rode high as Raven crested the peak, casting a light as bright as day. She could hear the labored breathing of her horse and regretted not making camp earlier. Traveling unfamiliar territory was difficult enough in the day
time. At night it was foolhardy. But Onawa never faltered, and as Raven climbed higher she had felt herself drift into a spiritual meditation.
Now the horse slowed her steps, slinging her head as if she were listening to some unseen voice. Raven, too, sensed something she couldn’t identify. They rounded a boulder, and the path she followed went dark as it intersected with another. Her horse stopped, waiting for direction. A shaft of moonlight suddenly found an opening in the overhanging ridge above her, casting a circle of pale silver around her that increased Raven’s unease. “Which way, Grandfather?”
But there was no answer. Never had she been so tired. Her food supply had been exhausted since she’d left the main trail the day before, and other than a few berries, she’d had nothing to eat since then. She could have foraged the countryside as she’d been taught by her mother’s family. But she felt driven and she hadn’t taken the time. The area where she rode had become more and more rocky, almost as if a playful child had picked up a handful of assorted boulders and dropped them in a heap. The trail was steep and barren, with little foliage and no wildlife, except for the wave of black birds that appeared periodically overhead.
Birds. For the past two weeks, she’d had recurring dreams about large black birds and a rangy, untamed mountain lion of a man with hair the color of the sun. Then the man had gradually changed into a sleek, tawny cougar whose power was as great as the control with which he contained it.
Always before, Mother Earth had protected and provided for Raven when she was alone. This time she seemed strangely distant, almost as if she were punishing the child of her loins.
From the time she’d left the stagecoach, Raven had moved south as Flying Cloud had directed, following some inborn instinct. Now she was confused.
“Oh, Grandfather,” she whispered, “show me the way to the guardian.”
You will know the way, my child. The secret is hidden in your heart, the path in your mind. The guardian is one of us. Soon it will be clear.
“You choose, Onawa.” Raven allowed the horse free rein. For a moment the small mare hesitated. Then, as if she’d been nudged, she turned to her left, taking the trail that continued upward.