She placed the flannel between Jewel's teeth without a word, and then, praying silently to any god who would listen, sliced the damaged flesh above the wound and plunged her bare hand in after the bullet.
Jewel groaned at the hideous intrusion and Fancy felt every muscle in the woman's body tense in desperate agony. Her own fingers slid through slithery blood and tissue, to the bullet lodged in rubbery muscle; blood welled around her knuckles, obscuring sight, and her heart pounded so savagely, she feared she might pass out. "Your hands have eyes, child," Atticus had said. "You kin see with 'em if'n you need to." Fancy shut her eyes tight and "saw" with her fingers. Jewel groaned and writhed beneath her, as she grasped the battered lead and pulled for all she was worth. The lump of flattened bullet tore loose in her hand so hard she nearly lost her balance; a shriek of agony was ripped from Jewel.
"I've got it!" Fancy shouted in triumph, but Jewel had mercifully fainted. Hurriedly, Fancy sutured the gaping wound with the needle and thread Jewel had stolen from the asylum; she bathed the whole area in the diffusion she'd made, then pressed the spiderweb concoction and dried poplar-leaves poultice into place.
"Sleep, Jewel, sleep. Stay unconscious just a little while longer." Pressing the bandages she'd made from their clothing down onto the incision with all the strength she could muster, and hoping she had damaged no artery in her efforts, Fancy let herself breathe again with the relief of completion. Sweat dripped into her eyes, but she couldn't move her hands from the pressure bandage even for an instant, and all she could do was try to wipe her sweat-soaked face awkwardly on the shoulder of her shirt.
Hoofbeats sounded on the trail beyond the cave and Fancy's head snapped up in the direction of the noise, but she couldn't leave her task to hide. She moved in closer to protect Jewel's body with her own, never slackening her grip on the pressure point. She eyed with conviction the position of the knife she'd used for the surgery. She would not let them take her back alive to Brookehaven; better to die here on God's clean mountain than to return to living death. And if they tried to kill her, she'd damn well take someone with her on the trip to eternity.
The horse sounds slowed to a walk and Fancy heard the crash of shredding leaves and twigs as the rider broke the sanctuary of the cave, crunching stones beneath the horse's hooves.
Fancy, back straight as a young tree, heart pounding fiercely in her throat, hands still pressed to the life-giving bandage, heard her daughter's voice pierce the smoky darkness.
"I came back, Mother," Aurora said softly. "I couldn't leave you."
Hart and Ford found them less than two hours later. The sounds of gunfire had drawn them to the women.
PART XIV: RAINBOW WIND
Final Reckonings
"Life ain't in holdin' a good hand, but in playin' a poor one well."
Bandana McBain
Chapter 132
Jason scanned the horizon and drank the last swallow of coffee. Steam rose around the tin cup and warmed his face in the frigid air.
He'd followed the trail the guards must take to return Fancy to Leadville, and finding nothing, had proceeded to Brookehaven. That idiot Endicott had made enough excuses for three fools, but the end was the same—Jewel had freed Fancy and Aurora, and all three women had taken to the freezing woods on foot. Fancy could handle herself in the wilderness, probably Jewel could, too. The man had said warm clothing had been stolen, and guns. Resourcefulness was one of the traits he'd liked best in Fancy in other days... at least Aurora would slow them down. He regretted now the choice he'd made of men: Bill and Pete would be useless as trackers.
Resolutely Jason broke camp, scattered the remains of the fire, and headed toward the route he intuited Fancy would take. He wondered if the telegram to London had produced any response yet about St. John. There'd be time to investigate the man's credentials after Fancy was disposed of.
The sounds of distant gunshots echoed on the still morning air; Jason stood up and listened sharply. They were southeast of him and halfway up the neighboring mountain, not more than a few hours' ride. He grunted with satisfaction. With any luck the men would have already accomplished what he needed.
Hart rigged a travois, Apache style, behind Ford's horse to carry Jewel. Made of two long poles with a blanket slung between them, it was the only possible means of getting her out of the woods, but it was uncertain if the unwieldy device could navigate the tricky mountain trail.
"I can ride ahead for help," Aurora offered. Hart and Fancy exchanged glances.
"Jewel's life may depend on you," the man said uncertainly. "Can you handle it?"
"About the only thing on earth I do well is ride," Aurora answered. "Give me a chance." She was already packing her gear into the saddlebags.
"There's a ranch about eight miles south of here, Aurora. You can get there long before nightfall. Ask for a wagon and find out if there's a doctor closer than Leadville." The girl nodded and mounted, looking up at the leaden sky.
"Snow," she said, and Hart nodded without answering. "I'll do my best," she whispered. Then she was gone.
Fancy tucked the blankets around Jewel's nearly comatose body as the first light flakes floated out of the sky—she turned abruptly to find something with which to protect Jewel's face from the coming storm. The movement saved her life. The unexpected rifle shot caught Fancy on the arm and spun her around.
Ford and Hart both dove for their rifles and returned fire in the direction the shot had come from.
"It's only a flesh wound," Fancy shouted, stuffing her kerchief into her jacket to stanch the blood. "Don't worry about me. Just get the bastard. It has to be Jason."
Hart and Ford exchanged glances. "You take the women, Ford. You've got to get Jewel to a doctor fast. Jason's mine to deal with."
Ford didn't argue. "Can you travel?" he whispered urgently to Fancy.
"You bet I can."
Hart was already in the saddle and moving into the trees.
The night was moonlit, cold and brittle. Jason had managed to elude his tracker through the darkening afternoon. Snow had created delicate traceries on branches and it lay in scattered patches, but there wasn't enough of it on the ground to assure footprints. Hart would have thought such a night lovely under other circumstances; tonight his only interest was in how much light the moon would provide for tracking.
The Apaches make no war after nightfall, for fear the souls of the dead would be damned to endless wandering. He didn't think such a fate too good for Jason Madigan.
The man had angled up through the timber; snapped twigs, torn bark and grass, churned-up loam all marked the trail. The landscape had quickly roughened into ridges and ravines, so the track provided excellent cover. Jason counted on the changing terrain above them and the dark; it would be hard to track in the craggy boulders, loose spurs, and rock face. Hart could see by Jason's spoor, he was showing no signs of panic and he had a woodsman's instincts, despite his city heritage.
Hart took a deep breath and watched the mist clouds steam around his nose and mouth. How easily he could repossess the mantle of the Apache... effortlessly... second skin, second nature. But something more than that possessed him—the spirit of the predator that heightens the senses and blocks out all that is irrelevant to the chase. Only Jason and the mountain existed for Hart now; he was once again Firehair, and his Power stalked his quarry at his side.
The air was ice crystal; Hart felt his horse energized by the brutal cold. The sorrel pranced and snorted as he made his way upward, but he never missed his footing once. This horse had guts and intelligence and seemed to sense the energy of the quest; perhaps he, too, was a predator. Whatever the reason, he carried Hart up a scrambling, panting bluff and once, when the rotten granite under his feet split and crumbled, he plunged to solid footing before the pathway could dissolve out from under them. Hart felt the wildness in that horse and the survival instinct, and trusted him to do what he must.
They were into the trees again and still climbing, when a sh
ot zinged by so close to Hart, it singed his sheepskin. He slid from the sorrel and looped the reins around a branch, relieved to see that the rifle shot hadn't spooked the animal.
The area was pockmarked with caves and abandoned mine tunnels—like as not Jason would hole up in one and try to wait Hart out until first light. It didn't matter to Hart how Jason played the chase; this man had killed his brother and Bandana, and tried to kill Fancy... he wouldn't live to see another dawn. Hart's eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and his senses alert as they hadn't been since Apacheria. He intuited, more than saw, the snapped twig, the broken thread, the twisted sapling, the spent cartridge. He saw his quarry peer stealthily from the mouth of the cave; the moonlight caught the sweat-sheen on Madigan's forehead despite the cold.
"Why'd you do it, Jason?" Hart called out; Jason fired at the spot where the voice had been, but Hart was no longer there.
"I don't answer to you, McAllister!"
"This the way you tracked my brother, Jason? This the way you kept him pinned in that old cabin 'til you were sure he'd bled to death?"
"You're out of your mind!"
"Just like Fancy, Jason? Is that why you put her in that lunatic asylum?" He edged closer. "It's all over, Jason. You haven't any more chance than my brother did."
"Nothing's over yet, McAllister!"
"Fancy's free. She'll bear witness against you, Jason... your confederates won't save you this time. If you know any prayers, say them."
Hart heard the man scuffle back a little, farther into the cave. He lobbed a few rounds in to push him back, then with rifle cradled in his arms, Indian fashion, he dove across the intervening space and landed, rolling, amidst a clatter of rifle spit. Hart still clutched the Henry as he scrambled to his feet inside the blackened tunnel where Jason waited.
He heard his prey move backward into blackness; Hart had to grasp the rock face in order to follow; the ground beneath his feet was slush and frozen mud. Hart moved into the hostile blackness that was shattered by a burst of gunfire. He returned the fire, hardly realizing he'd pulled the trigger, and heard a gasp of pain reward his efforts.
Madigan was moving again, this time erratically; there was a crashing sound, a scream, and the scrabble of rockslide. Hart gauged the probability of a trap.
"For Christ's sake, help me, McAllister!" Jason screamed out, his voice echoing in emptiness; there was genuine terror in the sound, for the first time.
Hart picked his way with extreme caution toward the voice, his eyes barely able to discern a dangling shape in the pitch-black tunnel. Jason hung by a handhold over a hole in the cave floor, his legs flailing desperately into eerie endless space. There was no gun in the man's hand that Hart could see; he must have dropped it down the shaft when he stumbled.
Hart reached a hand to the struggling man and hauled him, scrambling, up over the edge of the pit.
"Don't mistake me, Madigan," he said roughly. "I don't want this hole to kill you. I intend to do that myself."
Hart pushed Jason toward the moonlight.
"Are you planning to shoot me in the back?" Jason asked, a sneer in his voice, as he was propelled along the dark passage with none too gentle shoves.
"That's your style, Madigan, not mine."
They emerged into the clearing and Jason turned to face his captor. "I want to know why you did it," Hart said, each word harsh and unmistakable.
Madigan's expression was pinched.
"Because I loved her... because I was obsessed with her. You, of all men, should understand."
"I understand the love. Not the murder."
"I'm a rich man, McAllister. I'll make it worth your while if you let me go."
"Don't be a fool, Madigan. You killed my brother and Bandana. You tried to kill Fancy."
Fear was rising in Jason; there was something inexorable in Hart's even tone.
"You've got a reputation for being an honorable man, McAllister. You're not a savage like those redskins you lived with. You can't just shoot me in cold blood."
Hart raised the barrel of his Colt and pointed it at the center of Madigan's chest; he looked steadily into the eyes of the man who had wrought such evil in the lives of those he loved.
"There's nothing cold-blooded about vengeance, Madigan," he said. Then he pulled the trigger. The shot blew Jason's body backward into the rocks, before it crumpled on the frozen ground.
Hart stood for a long while staring at the dead man and thinking about Chance. "I have vanquished your enemy, my brother," he called out, his voice husky with his grief. He hoped Chance would hear him in the Shadow World. "I have brought him to you, according to the custom of the People."
Visions of his brother flickered in his mind; he saw him as he'd been in their youth, untrammeled by life's harsh lessons. Too blessed and too cursed, he was, Hart thought in sorrowful understanding. He never judged me at all, as I did him... just loved me... no questions asked, no changes wished for.
After a time, Hart stretched out his arms in an attitude of prayer, and anyone seeing him would have thought one lone Apache had somehow escaped the army's justice. Except, perhaps, for the tears that coursed silently down his cheeks.
"For Chance McAllister!" he shouted to the Old Ones, who kept the record of all men's souls.
"For Bandana McBain!" He called the roll so the spirits would know he kept his promises.
"For Fancy!" The words rumbled down the mountainside like thunder.
Hart mounted up and sat his horse, motionless as death itself, lost in the bittersweet memory of better days. His heart within him was leaden as the slate-gray boulders of the frozen gorge below. He felt empty and alone.
A sound began to gather in his ears that he didn't recognize at once... an eerie rhythmic cadence rising from the very stones around him. "Only the earth lives forever... only the stars live forever..." it reminded him, as if the Grandfathers gathered round him on the trail. The Apache Death Chant... the warrior's farewell.
Hart lingered a moment longer, reluctant to leave this ground where the shade of his brother seemed to hover just beyond his reach. Finally, he turned his horse's head and began to retrace the path by which he'd reached this place of vengeance. His horse's hooves on the rocky ground echoed the ancient chanting in the relentless quiet of the night. "Only the earth lives forever... only the stars live forever."
Chapter 133
Fancy sat at Jewel's bedside and held the hand of her friend; it was limp and fevered. The trip from their camp had torn loose the sutures she'd stitched so frantically in the cave; the doctor said the internal bleeding had been massive before he'd been able to perform proper surgery, and infection had set in.
Fancy rose as Ford entered, intending to leave him alone with the woman he loved, but he motioned her to stay. His eyes asked silently if there had been an improvement, and Fancy's own filled with tears, as she shook her head no.
"I've done all I know to do," she said miserably. "If it hadn't been for me..."
"She'd have died before we found you. Julia made her own choice to go after you, Fancy. Accept the gift, don't spoil it with guilt."
"I've had a lot of time to think, Ford. Hart, Jewel, you... you've always been there for me.
"I've been willful and headstrong.... People used to tell me that, and I thought they were mean and spiteful, but I've lived long enough to see they were right. I never meant to be a bad person, Ford, only to survive in a world too big and cold and hard for me. After a while I got so caught up in trying to get back what I thought God owed me, I lost track of all that Atticus ever taught me."
Ford had taken his place at Jewel's side, he held her hand in his own, but Fancy could see he was listening carefully.
"I forced everything to my will... and everybody. Chance did me wrong, sure enough, but maybe I was so all-fired busy getting him to understand me, I never listened long enough to understand him. I used Jason and he, in turn, used me. I loved Hart a lot longer than I knew, and then, when I could have given
him happiness in return for all he'd given me, I panicked and sent him packing."
She saw the tenderness and understanding in Ford's somber eyes, but he didn't refute any of what she'd said.
"You know, when I was a little girl, I listened to every word Atticus told me, but if I didn't like the sound of it I just said to myself, 'I'll prove him wrong, I'll show him I know better!' Then I got to that terrible asylum, and if it hadn't been for what Atticus had instilled in me, I wouldn't be alive now... and I sure as hell wouldn't be sane."
"What comes next for you, Fancy?"
"I don't really know, Ford. Hart's made a fine life without me and I have no right to interfere with whatever peace he's found. I guess I'll see what I can do about getting the children raised, try to get to know Aurora, if she'll let me... I'd like to do something to help those poor people left behind at Brookehaven, too.
"I guess I just wanted you to know that I've learned the things I should always have known, and I wish to God I could tell that to Jewel."
Ford's voice was gentle. "I think that's called growing up, Fancy. And I expect Jewel would think you're being a mite hard on yourself... making mistakes is a real human failing. I never knew Jewel to hold humanity against anybody, least of all the ones she loves."
"Oh, Ford. What will you do if she doesn't make it?" The man with the saddest eyes in the world held the fevered hand in both of his and raised it to his lips; he placed his chin on the hands that held Julia's.
"I went to the preacher today to see about a grave in hallowed ground for Julia... she always wanted that, being religious like she was. He told me no Christian burying place would take the likes of her." A terrible ferocity underlay the quiet words.
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