“I have heard enough,” Pereira said. “Gentlemen, are you satisfied?”
The two officers agreed readily, and the three held a brief, whispered conference. Then Pereira turned back with the verdict.
“Guilty.”
Alejandro wanted to laugh, but could not summon the energy.
Other words were spoken, but he did not hear them. A rope went over a boom and was made into a crude noose. A table was brought and put against the foredeck rail. Then calloused, thick-fingered hands took hold of Alejandro’s arms, made him climb up, and held him steady as he looked over the drop.
“Does the condemned have anything to say before sentence is carried out?”
He considered it. He considered denying it all, but D’Avignon had sprinkled just enough truth on his concocted tale, had mixed in just enough plausibility, that it was simply a matter of who was the more credible. And, of course, D’Avignon had seen to that, as well, with his devotions and his catechisms.
He considered leaving some last words for his wife and family, but the final thoughts of a convicted traitor would mean nothing to them, even if they were delivered intact.
Briefly, he considered piping up with some bit of patriotic pabulum, but tossed the idea in a heap with the rest.
He was done. Manipulated by politics, outmaneuvered by a scoundrel, and betrayed by his own ambitions, he was done.
He looked out over the blue, sun-spangled waves and smelled the fresh, salt air.
“At least I am not seasick,” he said.
The loop of the noose was put over his head, the rope rough against his skin and its slack length a prickly weight across his shoulder and back. As Velasquez gave him a final blessing, Alejandro scanned the faces below him.
Most of the men looked satisfied that justice was about to be done, while some were eager to see a high-born man hanged. A few had more charitable souls, and bowed their heads in prayer along with the priest. And then there was D’Avignon, head down, lips repeating the words of the Latin benediction in perfect unison with Velasquez’s gravelly baritone.
The priest finished his prayer and D’Avignon looked up, his face sorrowful, penitent.
Alejandro felt the hand on his back, ready to shove him over the edge.
D’Avignon winked.
Alejandro fell.
Epilogue
Hatchling Moon, Waxing
Sixteen Years after the Cloud Fell
Eastern Province
Alliance Territory
The clouds above had been building for hours, stacking one atop the other, building immense, steely towers, like pillars of heaven. George and Storm Arriving rode quietly, heading east toward the American border.
It had been a long day out on the range, checking on the herds. They’d been on the move since sun-up and George’s stomach was grumbling for food.
“The calving numbers look good,” he said.
“Good?” Storm Arriving said. “They looked very good. The winter wasn’t too hard this year, so percentages will be high. Very good for the next few years, probably.”
They rode around the shoulder of a knoll and the whistlers fluted, picking up their pace, knowing home and a night’s rest was not far away. Ahead, toward the river where the land dipped slightly, the town of Wewela lay quiet, settling in for the evening. It was an odd collection of buildings. Square wood-frame structures fronted the straight path where some traders and Americans had been given sanction to set up shop, but surrounding them were the hummocks of the Earth Lodge Builders who brought their families south to farm, and a handful of the conical buffalo skin lodges raised by those who came to this borderland town for a visit or to trade.
But the whistlers were not interested in Wewela. They knew that, for now, home was a bit farther along the trail, beyond the pastures and fields with acres of new-sown crops. Soon they could see it, the little grey house with a large garden out front and a lodge set up next to it.
The wind picked up, bringing the scent of rain. George looked to the west. He judged it likely that the weather would hold off until midnight. No longer than that, though.
“Are you sure you will not stay the night?” he asked.
“No,” Storm Arriving said. “I need get these reports back to the Council soon. They are already drawing up the numbers for the summer hunts. You will be coming for the hunt?”
“Of course,” George said. “We will only be here for a few more weeks.” He thought for a bit. “If we had a telegraph, you would not have to leave so soon. When you meet with the Council, talk to them again about the telegraph. Now that we’ve repaid the Americans—”
Storm Arriving laughed. “I will, I will.”
“I am serious. It is a new century. We must move forward with the times or—”
“You are as persistent as a robin in springtime,” Storm Arriving said with a smile. “But do not worry. I will sing your song to them once more. First we will build these message wires, and then we will convince them to build a railroad.” He laughed again.
“I am not joking,” George said.
“I know!” Storm Arriving replied.
“Well. Then, good!” he said, and laughed at himself. “I am too earnest at times. Your sister will be disappointed though, that you will be leaving so soon.”
Storm Arriving shrugged. “I know,” he said, hesitation in his tone. “It is just that...”
“What?” George prompted.
Storm Arriving growled. “I never know what to say around him.”
“Who?” George said. “My father?”
“Who else?”
George laughed, took a breath and laughed some more. “Well!” he said. “That explains why you are so ‘busy’ whenever we come out to visit them.” He laughed again. “You will stay for a meal at least.” He raised a fist. “No argument!”
Storm Arriving held up his hands in surrender.
“No argument,” he agreed.
The tiny homestead was settled in its dell near a stream. A thin line of smoke rose from the chimney.
“Ah, good,” George said. “Mouse Road is cooking. My mother always burns everything.”
“Ha!” Storm Arriving said. “No wonder Long Hair is so thin.”
George nudged his mount and she sang out with a rising call that ran from her belly to the top of her crest. From the paddock near the house, other whistlers answered. Then the door flew open. Two children ran out into the fenced garden, stood between the rose beds and the pea patch and waved.
George and Storm Arriving waved back and let their whistlers run toward their rest.
When the whistlers were in the paddock, Blue Shell Woman, the eleven-year-old George and Mouse Road named after the infant who had died, ran in to collect a hug from her father. Her brother Black Knife, bearer of his great-great-grandfather’s name, was close behind. Then they both turned to greet their uncle.
“Are you staying?” Blue Shell Woman asked.
“For a bit,” Storm Arriving said, sleeking her black hair.
“Mama is cooking,” she offered.
He scooped her up and flung her over his shoulder. “In that case, maybe a little longer than a bit.”
They came around the front of the house and found George’s father on the porch, sitting in a rocker, taking a cup of tea.
Storm Arriving nodded in greeting and then took the giggling children out past the garden fence to play Green Monster.
Custer sipped. “That boy doesn’t like me much, does he?”
George sat down on the floorboards and dangled his legs over the edge of the porch. “You...unsettle him.”
“Me?” Custer said theatrically.
“Yes. You,” George answered deadpan. “He doesn’t dislike you. You just...”
Custer sipped. “Just what?”
George shrugged. “I think you remind him of all that went before.”
“Hm,” Custer said. “I can understand that.” He sipped again. “Is he staying for dinner? You
r mother isn’t cooking.”
George smiled. “Blue made sure he knew that.”
Custer took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Out in the field, Storm Arriving chased two screaming children with his claw-fingered hands and stalking gait.
“Rawr!” he said, catching Black Knife, only to find Blue Shell Woman climbing on his shoulders. They all collapsed into a giggling pile and then were up for another round.
George noted his father’s peaceful smile.
“Go,” his father said. “Go inside. Kiss your wife. Help with supper.”
George got up and patted his father on the shoulder.
“Right away, sir,” he said, and went inside to help.
Acknowledgments
As always, I gratefully acknowledge the Cheyenne people whose law, legend, and history have been such a continued enlightenment and inspiration. Without them, this series simply would not exist.
My cadre of Second Readers is also due a nod. To the Baker clan (Mike, Kim, & Todd) and K.A. Corlett: your nit-picky “Surely you meant” attitude made all the difference. Thanks for taking nothing for granted, and seeing all the mistakes I couldn’t.
To my wife, my undying appreciation for her support during the long years of this project.
But for this final book, I reserve my greatest thanks for my readers (the Faithful Few) who have sent me their thoughts and encouragement over the many empty years between Books IV and V. You guys kept me going, got me started when I had stalled, and cheered me on to the finish line. This book is, in very large part, yours.
All the best,
k
Cheyenne Pronunciation Guide
There are only 14 letters in the Cheyenne alphabet. They are used to create small words which can be combined to create some very long words. The language is very descriptive, and often combines several smaller words to construct a longer, more complex concept. The following are simplified examples of this subtle and intricate language, but it will give you some idea of how to pronounce the words in the text.
LETTER PRONUNCIATION
a “a” as in “water”
e short “i” as in “omit”
h “h” as in “home”
k “k” as in “skit”
m “m” as in “mouse”
n “n” as in “not”
o “o” as in “hope”
p “p” as in “poor”
s “s” as in “said”
š “sh” as in “shy”
t “t” as in “stop”
v “v” as in “value”
x “ch” as in “Bach”
‘ glottal stop as in “Uh-oh!”
The three vowels (a, e, o) can be marked for high pitch (á, é, ó) or be voiceless (whispered), as in â, ô, ê.
Also by Kurt R.A. Giambastiani
Dreams of the Desert Wind
Unraveling Time
The Ploughman Chronicles
Ploughman’s Son
Ploughman King
The Fallen Cloud Saga
The Year the Cloud Fell
The Spirit of Thunder
The Shadow of the Storm
The Cry of the Wind
Beneath a Wounded Sky
Learn more at:
http://www.seattleauthor.com
Beneath a Wounded Sky Page 26
