The Fang of Bonfire Crossing

by Brad McLelland

  Duck glanced at him with a frown. “You’re crying.”

  “Yeah.” Keech wiped his eyes angrily. “But things will get better. They have to.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  Quinn returned a few moments later, his face looking sweaty and frantic. “Y’all better come take a look. I think Cut found some trouble.”

  They sprinted to the woods, Quinn leading the way. They ran for a good spell through heavy thicket till Quinn stopped and pointed to a tall hickory tree. “Right there.”

  Keech approached the tree slowly, keeping his eyes peeled to the ground. A stubby log sat on its side at the base of the hickory—the place where Cutter had apparently sat to rest. Dark red stains blotted the snow around it.

  “Blood,” Duck said.

  “Not too fresh, though. A few hours,” Quinn added.

  “He’d been whittling on a plank of wood he found,” Keech pointed out. “Someone sneaked up and attacked him. There.”

  A chaotic puddle of mud had been churned up beside the tree. Fresh snow had tumbled onto the forest hours ago, but Keech could still see the indentations of boot tracks leading up to the hickory. A jumble of footprints then stepped away to a neighboring tree, where Cutter had apparently tied off Chantico. From there, the mare’s hooves replaced boots and trotted off through the wilderness.

  “Cutter’s been taken?” Quinn asked.

  Duck shook her head. “Not a chance he’d get surprised like that.”

  “I don’t think he was surprised at all.” Keech pointed to one of the clearer prints. “Look at the size of that boot.”

  Quinn stooped. “Small. Like a kid.”

  “It was Coward,” Keech said, suddenly recalling the small man’s fascination with Cutter in Friendly’s holding cell. “He sniffed his way to us.”

  “I thought he was long gone with the Char Stone,” Duck said.

  “I did, too. But you heard what Coward said back in Wisdom about how they still had ‘unfinished business.’ I tried to ask Cut about it, but he wouldn’t budge. He was scared to death of that fella.”

  “All this blood.” Quinn pointed at the ground. “Looks like Cutter put up a mean fuss.”

  Keech squinted at the clues. “This doesn’t make sense, though. Based on these tracks, it looks like the scuffle started after Coward walked up. That explains the blood and the mud. But here’s the strange part.” He stepped over to the disturbed snow leading to the place where Chantico had been tied off. “Over here it looks like Cutter and Coward walked side by side over to Chantico.”

  Duck looked confused. “They rode out together?”

  “If I’m reading the land right, looks that way.”

  “He likely had a gun to Cutter’s head,” Quinn said.

  “I can’t imagine any other reason,” Keech replied.

  Duck glanced around the forest. “There must be more clues.” Her eyes locked on something beyond the hickory. Stepping over, she plucked a small timber of oak from the snow. It was the plank that Cutter had been carving on.

  Brushing it off, Duck gave the board a somber look. She displayed it for them. Across the plank, Cutter’s knife had scratched out these words:

  AMICUS FIDELIS PROTECTIO FORTIS

  “‘A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter,’” Quinn quoted.

  Silence fell over the trio as they looked at one another, letting Cutter’s final message permeate the space between them. Finally, Duck propped the plank on the log where Cutter had sat, then muttered, “I shouldn’t have called him a liar.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Quinn said.

  “He was keeping secrets about my family, but he didn’t deserve this. We’ve got to find him.” Her stark blue eyes turned to Keech. “What do you reckon we do?”

  Keech didn’t know how to respond. He had never wanted to be placed in a position of leadership. The wrong choices could cost them their lives. He dropped his head and closed his eyes, listening to the wind, hoping to hear the voice of Pa Abner in his mind. To his surprise, the strong voice that called out to him didn’t belong to Pa. It was the voice of Nat Embry, speaking the words he had given Keech and Duck just before his death in Wisdom.

  Keep each other safe and never stop fighting.

  A strange kind of warmth filled Keech to his bones, and he understood at once what they needed to do. He stepped closer to his friends, Duck Embry and Quinn Revels, his small but fierce team.

  “The Lost Causes protect their own,” he said, pointing to the path left by Chantico’s departure. “I ain’t about to let the Reverend Rose take another of our band away. Let’s head back to the ponies. We got work to do.”

  The young riders hurried back to the camp and mounted up. Seated high on Hector, Keech led the group away from the clearing, glancing behind him at the bending tree that had brought them back from Bonfire Crossing. The coastline and the ocean and the great fire seemed like trinkets he had taken from a wondrous dream. Like Pa Abner’s painting of the seashell, they would forever hang on the wall of Keech’s mind, echoing tales of the bright day when he had stood with friends and fought evil.

  As the trio steered back onto the white prairie, the clouds parted, and the morning sun warmed them enough so they could unbutton their coats.

  Duck scanned the rolling skies. “Without the shards, we can’t defend ourselves from crows or thralls or fish monsters. We’ll be wide open.”

  “We do have a defense,” Quinn said. “Back at Bonfire, Keech destroyed that devil bird with his mind.” He glanced at Keech. “You can teach us that, right?”

  Keech pondered for a second, nervous at the notion of being a teacher. He said, “Only if you teach us how to hide from the crows.”

  Quinn chuckled. “I ain’t sure I’ve actually done that.”

  Keech looked at both of his trailmates. “There’s a lot we can do. Doyle said we have a true gift for tapping the energies. I don’t know why, but we can do things. All of us. If we stick together and learn from one another, we’ll be okay.”

  “But we don’t even know where to go next,” Duck said.

  Keech gazed over the yawning sweep of prairie. A long wagon path stretched off to the west, twining through heavy grassland, and he knew he was seeing the great Santa Fe Trail. “We do know where to go.” He recalled the words of a brave Enforcer who had fallen in Wisdom. “It looks like Cutter’s taken the Santa Fe. We’ll follow him toward a place called Hook’s Fort.”

  “The place Milos Horner wanted us to find,” Duck noted.

  “Right. Once we get there, we’ll find the trapper McCarty, just like Horner said. He wanted us to find this person for a reason, so that’s what we’re gonna do.” Keech’s heart quickened at his own words. He ran his thumb over the initials etched into the leather of Hector’s saddle horn—MH—and felt the stirring of electricity in his veins.

  He felt focused.

  He turned back to Quinn. “We’ll track Cutter and Coward. And when we find them, we’ll find your aunt Ruth, too. I’d wager their paths are leading to the very same place. We’ll save her, Quinn. I swear it.”

  Sudden tears brightened Quinn Revels’ eyes, then tumbled down his cheeks. “The Lost Causes protect their own.”

  “That we do,” said Keech. “We also collect on the debts we’re owed. We mete out justice, and the Reverend’s in need of a heaping lot of it. We’ll find this House of the Rabbit the Osage elders mentioned and make good on that promise.”

  “And what about Doyle?” Duck asked.

  “Oh, we’ll be seeing him again,” Keech said. “He won’t stop till he gets the Char Stone back from Coward, so it’s only a matter of time before our paths reconnect. When we find him again, we’ll get the shards back, too. Pa Abner told us to unite the five, and that’s what we’re gonna do.”

  “You know we can’t fight him,” Quinn said, wiping his eyes. “He’s too powerful.”

  “Maybe we can’t, but we know his weakness, don’t we?”

  “E
liza,” said Duck.

  Keech smiled. “Pa used to say even the deadliest beast has soft skin near the heart. ‘Jab at the heart, put the beast on his knees.’”

  The young riders snapped their reins, and the ponies picked up their pace. Soon Quinn began singing his curious Odyssey song, and his smooth voice rolled over the white plains of Kansas Territory like a breath of courage and strength:

  “Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero

  Who traveled far and wide

  After he sacked the famous town of Troy.”

  Settling Hector into a comfortable gait, Keech listened to Quinn’s song with a feeling of hope and led the Lost Causes toward the open frontier.

  EPILOGUE

  The two horsemen saw the billowing gray smoke on the dark horizon and tugged their mounts to a halt. Whipping winds pulled tendrils of fresh snow from the Kansas clouds, and frost sprinkled their hats, but the chill didn’t bother the travelers. More than the cold, the horsemen felt a dreadful curiosity to know the source of the distant smoke.

  “Where are we?” the first rider asked, stretching his long back.

  The second rider reached into his saddlebag and withdrew a map of the Territories. He traced his gloved finger from the Kansas River down to the Neosho. “Here.”

  Based on their current position, the smoke was smoldering near the town of Wisdom, which stood farther south. The faint tracks they had been following suggested fast movement in that direction.

  “He’s near,” the first horseman muttered. He wiped a flew flecks of snow off his mustache.

  “We best hurry then.”

  The two travelers snapped their horses’ reins and pushed on through the Kansas chill.

  The riders wouldn’t stop till they found Keech Blackwood and put an end to his journey.

  THE END

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS

  The book you hold in your hands—as well as its predecessor, Legends of the Lost Causes—is more than the solitary endeavor of two authors. Since 2015, we’ve been fortunate enough to work closely with the Wah-Zha-Zhi Cultural Center and Language Department—two organizations that help comprise the Osage Heritage Center in Pawhuska, Oklahoma.

  Back when we started planning the Legends series, we knew right away we wanted to tell a magical Old West story that included a diverse cast of characters, a group of resourceful kids who could join forces to fight the Reverend Rose’s evil. For us, this meant examining the cultures of 1855 Missouri and Kansas. Our research led us to the Wah-Zha-Zhi Cultural Center, where we met the wonderful directors and specialists who would become readers of our story and close reviewers of our cultural content.

  All of the Osage language and names seen in our series have been directly provided by the Cultural Center and its partner, the Language Department. Though we consulted some written sources in early drafts, such as Francis La Flesche’s A Dictionary of the Osage Language, the final approval of all words, phrases, and names came from these language and cultural experts who so graciously agreed to help us.

  The same holds true for all Osage customs or practices found within the books. Though the Protectors and Bonfire Crossing are figments of our imaginations, the customs to which we allude—such as the giving of horses as gifts, the mourning ritual for Osage loved ones, familial naming conventions—came from extensive conversations with our cultural partners. We also learned a great deal about the traditional clothing, weapons, and traits of Osage warriors in 1855. In addition, the Center’s consultants worked closely with us on the character of Meenah/Strong Heart, not only providing her name for the story but also guiding her dialogue and interactions. Naturally, any mistakes or inaccuracies in these details are the fault of us, and no one else.

  In the end, Legends of the Lost Causes and its accompanying stories are meant to be enjoyed as magical fantasies full of adventure. But it is also our hope that this series grants young readers a larger awareness of the remarkable cultures of 1850s America, as well as a deeper recognition of the country’s darker histories of slavery, cruelty, and violence. When we understand where we came from, we can steer the course of our lives into better harmony with one another.

  Please visit osagenation-nsn.gov/ to learn more about the Osage Nation.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Well, now, looky here! Happy to see we’ve all survived another rowdy adventure. The trails were long and the dangers were thick, but we made it back into the light for now. We couldn’t have made it this far, though, without the helpin’ hand of several kind neighbors, good folks like:

  Our agent, Brooks Sherman, who knows all the best roads to help two cowboys along. Brooks, we’ll always be grateful for your confidence in us, just like we’re thankful to the excellent team at Henry Holt Books for Young Readers, starting with:

  The brilliant Brian Geffen, our five-star, top-notch editor, who sees what we think before we even write it down. And Morgan Rath, our publicist, who steers us daily in the right direction. And we certainly can’t forget the great Christian Trimmer, the fella who makes it all go ’round. And to our other remarkable trailmates—Lauren Festa, Morgan Dubin, Liz Dresner, Mark Podesta—we can’t thank y’all enough. That goes double for:

  Alexandria Neonakis, our cover and interior art illustrator, who never fails to amaze us with her incredible eye and dazzling imagination. Thank ya, Alex, for mixing all the best colors into our world.

  We’re also mighty grateful to Ibeawuchi Travis Uzoegwu, who provided a thorough reading of the novel and offered his profound insights into Quinn Revels, as well as other characters and plot points. Ibe, you’re a dandy person, and our book shines even more because of your wisdom.

  The same can be said of all the exceptional folks at the Wah-Zha-Zhi Cultural Center and Language Department, who have kindly opened their doors over the years to a couple of writers. Director Addie Hudgins, Cultural Specialist Jennifer Tiger, Language Director Vann Bighorse, Language Specialist Cherise Lookout, Language Teacher Alaina Maker, Mr. Harrison Hudgins, and anyone else at the Osage Heritage Center who assisted on the book’s cultural content—we’re so thankful for your help, your patience, your kindness, and, most of all, your friendship.

  Brad peers around suspiciously. Say, Louis? We forgettin’ anybody?

  Louis says: I suspect so, pard. I’d like to offer my thanks to Kimberly and the dogs for making my life so swell. I’d also like to thank my ma and pa, and my brothers and sister, for being so daisy all the time. I’d also like to thank my sprightly nephews and nieces, as well as my dandy in-laws—Cheryl, Brent, Jennifer, and Kevin—for being so supportive. And as always, I thank Lewis-Clark State College and my creative writing colleagues. What about you, Brad? Who else you want to thank before this here book closes?

  Brad says: I’d like to give a special “much obliged” to my incredible wife and stepdaughter, Alisha and Chloe, who always give their full permission to let my imagination run amok. I’d also like to thank Roger and Pat Mullins for opening Bliss Books & Bindery in Stillwater, Oklahoma, and for making a debut author feel so welcome on the bookshelves. Friends, I’ll never forget your hospitality. Oh, and Clint Clausing, for playing all the best cowboy tunes at my book shindigs. Also, a mighty shout-out to the magnificent “Electric Eighteens” debut group of authors and illustrators, who’ve become great friends and colleagues and who pull me up by my bootstraps when I can’t take another step. I’d also like to thank my ma, Babs, and stepdad, Joe, for believing in my magic, and my pa, Jerry, for watching all the best Western movies with me when I was a boy.

  We also extend our love and gratitude to the late Cindy Hulsey, general manager of Magic City Books in Tulsa, and co-founder/executive director of the Tulsa Literary Coalition. Cindy and her business partner, Jeff Martin, hosted the very first Legends book launch, and we’re mighty grateful for the experience. Friends, we’ll never forget your hospitality. We’ll do our very best to spread the light that Cindy carried daily.

  Last but not least, we tip our hat
s to YOU, amazing reader. May your saddle be cozy, your pony strong and well-fed, and your trail free of trouble. We’ll see ya soon, when Keech and his Lost Causes ride again.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Brad McLelland was born and raised in Arkansas and spent several years working as a crime journalist in the South. In 2011 he obtained his MFA in creative writing from Oklahoma State University, where he met his writing partner, Louis. A part-time drummer and singer, Brad lives in Oklahoma with his wife, stepdaughter, a mini Aussie who gives hugs, and a chubby cat who begs for ham. You can sign up for email updates here.

  Louis Sylvester is a professor at Lewis-Clark State College in Lewiston, Idaho. He and his wife spend their free time playing tabletop games from his collection of over 1,000 card and board games. Louis enjoys watching Western films and reading fantasy novels. He has two dogs that go wild when they hear the word treats. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice