Tecumseh looked at Wind Man, his eyebrows raised as if he had asked a question. That question, of course, was Tenskwatawa.
“Tenskwatawa’s shoulders bear a great weight.” Wind Man chose his words carefully, wanting to respect Tecumseh’s honor for the truth but not to spark his temper. “Laughing Girl says to me that when Tenskwatawa is listening to the spirits, he is at peace. It is bringing those words back to this hard world and living here that brings him difficulty.”
Tecumseh nodded. “I have witnessed much the same with him. I wonder.”
What he wondered, Tecumseh did not immediately say, and Wind Man did not press him. They walked along the river bank, and Wind Man listened to the southerly breezes sighing through the trees and the White Sand Water rushing and the heavy silence of Tecumseh thinking.
“He has become a man of miracles,” Tecumseh said at last. “The one that transformed him from Lalawethika into The Open Door. The ones that transform our people from weariness to hope. He speaks to the lenipinsia, and they answer him with thunder and rain.”
Tecumseh didn’t mention that the miracles had brought Tenskwatawa to openly challenge Tecumseh only moments before. But he paused a moment, and Wind Man sensed he was working up to the true source of his concern.
“If I do not put Tenskwatawa in charge while I am gone, then our people would question the choice. They become a broken people.”
“Not the unified one we need.”
“Yes. As you say.” Tecumseh’s black eyes flashed as he peered intently at Wind Man. “And my brother must understand that I believe in him. There is that, too. He must know that I bear him enough love and trust to leave him with our people in his hand.”
And to prevent him from turning against you, Wind Man suddenly thought. The realization stole his breath. He didn’t dare to say it aloud.
For another few steps, there was only the sound of leaves dancing with the breeze.
“I must make this journey,” Tecumseh said. “I must calm Harrison’s worries, so that he will leave us in peace a while longer. I must go to our brothers in the south lands. They have as much reason to hate the white men as anyone, and they still hold some strength. If we can bind their cause to ours, it will go better for all.”
Wind Man knew better than to believe that Tecumseh had changed from one conversation topic to another. He waited.
“And I must leave Tenskwatawa in charge. But there is a favor I would ask of you.”
“I would be proud to accompany you to the south.” The words fell from Wind Man’s mouth with an eagerness he hadn’t been aware of until that moment. His heart lifted at the thought of riding by Tecumseh’s side on this important duty of his.
Tecumseh lifted his head and looked into Wind Man’s face. A smile tilted the corners of his mouth but failed to ease the worry lines knit across his forehead.
“And I would be pleased to have you with me, son of my father. But that is not the favor.”
Wind Man’s throat closed. He knew, in his head, that whatever reason Tecumseh had for refusing him would be a good one, but for the moment his heart whispered only that he was not good enough, was not Shawnee enough, was not brother enough to go.
“I would ask you to stay here, close to Tenskwatawa. Keep watch over him. Help him to make good choices, if you can.”
Tecumseh looked at Wind Man again, even more intently this time. His voice dropped to a near whisper, not much louder than the easy brush of the river against its banks.
“Not to usurp his leadership, but only to be reassured that he remains of sound mind.”
He does not believe.
This second realization struck Wind Man with sudden clarity—Tecumseh did not believe Tenskwatawa’s claims. How could he not believe that Tenskwatawa had been transformed, when so much proof was before his eyes? How could he refute the miracles when he lived with them every day?
No. It was not that Tecumseh didn’t believe—how he could he do otherwise? It was exactly as Tenskwatawa had said: Even you cannot think your will is more important than the Master of Life’s? That you know better than he what his plans are?
And yet—that was exactly what Tecumseh thought, Wind Man understood. Tecumseh thought he knew better than the Master of Life himself what was best for his people.
“He cannot allow our people to clash with Harrison too soon.” Tecumseh’s black eyes bored into Wind Man.
But Wind Man found he could not speak. On the face of it, he agreed with Tecumseh. Unity was needed before the tribes could hope to stand against the whites. But if the Master of Life urged Tenskwatawa to do otherwise, then who was Wind Man—who, even, was Tecumseh—to say otherwise?
“When will you return?” Wind Man finally asked, because he could find no suitable answer to Tecumseh’s request.
“It will take time to prepare for leaving. More time yet to stop and parlay with Harrison before heading south. But we should return before winter. Maybe as soon as the fall bread dance, but certainly no sooner.” Tecumseh clapped Wind Man on the shoulder. “You are a good man, son of my father. You will do this task well.”
Wind Man wasn’t sure whether to believe that was a reassurance or a command. In the end, though, he did the only thing he could do. He nodded his assent and hoped he would not have to find out if it was a lie.
They turned and followed the river back to Tecumseh’s Town. As they climbed the hill through the heavy-sweet scent of summer forest, Wind Man looked ahead of them.
Tenskwatawa now stood outside the council lodge. The scarlet bandana he wore wrapped around his head, tugged down low on the right to cover his missing eye, was a splash of color against the brown-gray of birch bark walls.
Tenskwatawa could not have known the words that had been spoken between Wind Man and Tecumseh. But when Tenskwatawa’s gaze shifted and he looked down at the two of them walking up the hill, Wind Man could not quite look at Tenskwatawa, just the same.
The wind rattled through the branches behind them. For a moment it sounded so much to Wind Man like the sound of warriors shouting that his steps slowed, and he would have turned to look back toward the river. Then a fat drop of rain struck his nose and splashed into his eye.
Not voices, he thought, as he wiped the water from his face. Only thunder.
12
August 1806
Kentucky
“Drill time. Get those Crows in the air.” Vincent Bradley’s voice snapped through the clearing where they’d made their midday camp. Other Crowmakers stood around the makeshift practice field—Kalvis for the first time since he’d been shot—but Kellen felt, as always, like Vincent was talking directly to her. Like his ever-present anger was directed at her.
She figured it probably was. She didn’t figure it should still bother her so much.
With the renegade Cherokees who’d been threatening John’s Creek and other settlements along the Ohio out of commission, Tucker Ellis’s private militia, the Special Horse and Battery Troop—the Crowmakers—had followed something that resembled a road out of Fort Paxton and along the Ohio River. Now, they were heading for Indiana Territory and whatever their next assignment involved—something for Governor Harrison that actually involved the Territory, this time.
The regiment consisted of only twelve soldiers—former Philadelphia dockmen—led by a private businessman and his lieutenant, accompanied only by a scientist, his daughter, and a handful of servants. Probably they wouldn’t have intimidated a soul, except for the black metal birds accompanying them, one for every Crowmaker.
The road was wide and relatively stump-free despite the hilly, heavily forested terrain. Kellen allowed herself to feel a little grateful about that. Some places between Philadelphia and Ohio and into the forests of south of the Ohio River, the road they’d followed was little more than an Indian trail. Some places, there’d been no path at all, only forest and worry about Indians hiding in it.
Kellen’s mind slid away from that line of thinking. Brian Byrne and
Patrick Colley had sentry duty. As everyone else slipped into the usual camp-making routine, their Crows patrolled the sky over the clearing, black wings stark against the unrelenting blue. There’d been no Indian trouble in the weeks since they’d left Fort Paxton, and plenty of eyes watching in the event that changed.
Mr. Lockton, rail thin but ever efficient, had a cook fire half started even before the Crowmakers got the horses picketed. Mrs. Lockton and Mrs. Epler hauled a kettle off the back of a wagon. It clanged with a hollow sound like a ship’s bell as they settled it into place, and Kellen’s heart gave the same little lurch it did every time she was reminded of Philadelphia’s wharves.
Stupid, to let everything that had happened there still get to her. Here was here, and now was now.
“Everyone should be flying by now,” Vincent called out. “It’s not all that difficult.”
“As if you’d know,” Kellen muttered. But she and the other Crowmakers moved, with varying degrees of urgency, to obey Vincent.
“I surely do hope Harrison doesn’t get all his treaties signed and sealed before we get to Vincennes.” Robert Langston was somewhere behind Kellen, but his voice carried—like that was anything new.
“Why’s that, Bobby?” Johnny Rawle’s voice carried just as easily. Kellen had decided long ago that neither one of them knew how to talk quietly.
From their perches on the backs of the men’s saddles, two Crows lifted into the air, then a third. On wings far larger than a real crow’s, with a faint clicking whirr and motions that were not quite natural, they climbed through the forest canopy and into the sky.
As she tossed his lead over the picket line, Kellen’s bay gelding whuffed and tossed his head. Her Crow, holding with articulated metal claws to a special perch on the back of her saddle, shifted with the movement but never lost its grip. Silver light streamed through eye-like holes in its triangle-shaped head. Individual, feather-shaped plates rattle-rustled as its wings adjusted to help it stay balanced.
“Hey there,” Kellen said and laid one hand on the bay’s neck. The horses had mostly gotten used to the Crows, but a little reassurance never hurt.
Langston and Rawle walked past. Kellen glanced up long enough to catch a glimpse of them, blond-haired Langston strutting along in the shadow of taller, round-faced Rawle. Their guns waggled on their hips, but they still looked like overgrown boys playing at being grown-ups.
Maybe we’re all just playing at it. But while she couldn’t quite figure out how she’d gotten there or whether she knew what she was doing, Kellen felt a whole hell of a lot older than she had a couple of weeks ago.
“I’d like the chance to empty my guns into a pack of those Reds,” Langston said. “You had your shot, Johnny. I just want mine.”
Kellen’s stomach lurched. She sucked in a breath and held it, but her pulse became a panicked clatter inside her head. Even though she hadn’t been able to hear or smell a thing that day, she felt like she was choking on gunsmoke and pelted by hot drops of blood. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Mistake. Now she could see the smoke, see the upturned faces of the Indians, their eyes wide and mouths forming words of fear that she couldn’t hear.
I did that. Me.
And then, even though there had been no sound that day except the rushed breathing of the men around her and the waiting quiet of a gunshot that would come too late to warn her she’d been hit, Kellen could hear the Indians screaming and the roaring, rattling rain of gunfire. Through it all, her own fear shrieked like a dying rabbit.
“Ward!”
Kellen snapped her head up and opened her eyes. The smoke and blood slid away from her inner vision, and she found Vincent standing little more than an arm’s-length away and herself staring directly into his eyes. His brows were drawn down and his mouth twisted like he was about to shout again.
He stopped, though, and his angry face slid away. He took a step back, blinking like Kellen had slapped him instead of just looking at him.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Vincent’s voice stayed gruff, but it wasn’t a shout. “I called drill five minutes ago.”
For a second, Kellen couldn’t do more than just stare at him.
Vincent wore the same uniform as the rest of them—white linen shirts and coarse gray linen pants with muslin hunting frocks a shade darker. He carried the same coal-black Ellis .36. But his face was marked only by a scruff of black beard—no tattoos—and he had no Crow. He tended to make up for it by wearing a constant scowl, but that scowl was currently nowhere in sight. The only thing Kellen was looking at was Vincent.
Then she remembered: He’s no different than the rest of them, now. Don’t let him see any weakness.
She hardened her expression and stood a little straighter. “Not a damn thing wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?”
Vincent’s scowl snapped back into place, and he leveled a cold look at Kellen. She stared back.
That lasted for a second or two. Around them, horses huffed and shuffled. The other men grumbled and talked. Smoke from the cook fire wove itself in with the heady scent of summer heat and horse shit.
“Get your ass in line with everyone else.”
The other Crowmakers were watching now, too. Kellen didn’t look at them, but she could feel their eyes on her. She knew which of them would be frowning, either in disapproval or concern. She knew which of them would be smirking.
Rawle wasn’t bothered in the least by taking out the Indians. Kalvis and Jennett—tough as nails, hard as stone.
I won’t let them see I’m shook up, not a single one of them.
Kellen made herself keep holding Vincent’s gaze. She refused to blush, and she refused to back down. She sure as hell refused to give Vincent even the slightest hint that she was anything other than perfectly all right.
Then Vincent did what he always did, which was to turn slowly and deliberately away from Kellen, as if she didn’t matter in the least and never had.
God, what did I ever see in him?
For a few seconds, she stared at his back. Then she turned toward her horse and reached, far back in her mind, to open the link to her Crow.
13
In theory, Kellen was currying her gelding while waiting for Mrs. Epler to shout them all over for dinner. In truth, she’d been alternately hoping and dreading that Ger Owen would work his way around to talk to her during the sliver of time after drill and before the midday meal was served. She’d noticed Vincent was locked into conversation with Ellis, so she figured it wouldn’t be long before Ger meandered along the picket line to join her.
Stifling midday heat pressed against her skin, drawing sweat that dampened her shirt, deepening the stains under her arms and down her back. She’d shucked out of the uniform’s jacket and hung it from a low-hanging branch. Trees and undergrowth tangled into a near wall around the widening in the road they were calling a clearing. Shade was plentiful, but the mass of leaves overhead never stirred. The air was the temperature and weight of tepid water.
“You all right?” Ger’s footfalls shuffled the hoof-churned, leaf-littered grass beneath their boots. A second later, he stepped into the edge of Kellen’s vision.
Kellen’s horse dropped his head to nuzzle Ger’s shoulder. Ger being on the smaller side of average, he was nearly of a height with Kellen. He’d filled out some since the first time she’d seen him, beat half to death at the back of a cemetery, but he still verged on gaunt.
Ger rubbed the horse’s nose, but he looked at Kellen, with nut brown eyes that threatened to be her downfall every damned time.
“Yeah,” Kellen said. “Sure.”
She knew he’d know better. One of the things she liked about Ger was that he didn’t make her say things out loud that she didn’t know how to say. He just knew. Of course, that was also one of the things she hated about him.
She’d told him no, back in Philadelphia, and that had been the right thing—so right that Ger had agreed with her, and if Ger thought somethi
ng was right then it had to be. But God, sometimes she wished she could change her mind.
Ger studied her face now. With honey-colored hair falling into his eyes and deep creases across his forehead, he resembled a worried hound.
“Right. Clearly you’re not upset about anything. Kellen, you killed men. It’s natural that—”
She kept her eyes on the curry brush and shrugged. But she also put some effort into huffing out a snort that sounded equal mixes of derisive and callous. “It’s not the first time I’ve had a hand in causing deaths.”
Ger kept looking at her. His frown didn’t go away. “We both helped Ripley die. He killed Alvie Fox and Em Jacobs, Kellen. He’d have killed us, too.”
Wasn’t just Ripley I meant. We had a hand in Em’s death, too. She didn’t say it aloud, but when she looked up into Ger’s face, she knew she didn’t have to. The tattoo lines criss-crossing his face might be new, but the sorrow radiating from those deep brown eyes was just the same as always. They weren’t, either one of them, going to forget Jeremiah Jacobs anytime soon.
“They were going to massacre John’s Creek.” Kellen didn’t bother to hide the raw, uncertain edge in her voice. She couldn’t have put into words how it had felt to look down on that river full of shattered canoes and bodies and blood. But maybe Ger—being Ger—could pick out some of what she was feeling anyhow.
Ger’s eyes stayed on her face. “It would’ve been the settlers instead. If you hadn’t done what you did.”
It was the gentleness in his voice that undid her. It always did, dug a furrow across her calm like a knife drawing blood. Her heart squeezed, but irritation flashed across her vision like a flash of red.
“I know that!” Her horse started. Kellen rubbed his neck until he calmed. A warm, dusty scent rose from his coat, and Kellen had to fight the urge to lean her face against him and close her eyes.
Ger’s jaw tightened. Kellen made herself take a breath.
“I know. I’m not sorry for what we did, not one bit. It’s just… It was ugly. That’s all.”
Monsters of Our Own Making Page 5
