The noise level from the regulars’ camp multiplied into a cacophony of voices and clattering gear and agitated horses. Smoke and the salty-rich tang of cooking bacon drifted around the mansion’s corner and into the Crowmakers’ camp, mingling with the scents of cornbread and coffee.
Once the horses had been fed and saddled, Ger returned to his tent and his waiting Crow. Its presence tickled across his consciousness as he approached, like it was a waiting puppy left alone for too long.
Further along the half-circle of tents, Byrne and Colley crouched in front of their Crows, an opened crate of bullets on the grass between them. Jennett and Ackermann stood nearby, Jennett thumbing bullets into the chamber of his .36 while Ackermann stood there, .36 in hand but unmoving.
“Some think the red men will not ever leave their lands.” Ackermann’s gaze lingered down the same lane as the men on the porch, aimed toward the Wabash River just out of sight beyond the trees. “They say we will need to kill them, every last one, before they will stop fighting back.”
Ger had only just walked up, and Ackermann wasn’t looking his way, so Ger had the luxury of being able to just ignore the remark. Jennett, for his part, made a noncommittal grunt in reply.
“I wonder, however,” Ackermann went on, “if it comes to such a thing, will we be able to accomplish it?”
Jennett grunted again. On Ackermann’s other side, Byrne lifted his head and glanced up toward Ackermann.
“You are not talkative on this subject, Mr. Jennett.” Ackermann’s normally nonplussed tone turned a little sour. “Have you no opinions at all?”
Jennett shoved the last bullet home and closed the chamber against his palm. “I’ve got plenty of opinions,” Jennett said. “I just don’t see much point in talking them to death. Only thing there is for us to do is whatever we’re ordered to.”
Jennett shoved his .36 into his holster and strutted away, booted feet threading through patches of bare earth between the tents and the cook fire.
“What exactly is it you’re trying to ask, Dale?” Byrne lowered his head and went back to work. He sounded less like he was setting up a punch line and more like he was just plain annoyed. “Because if you keep beating around in the bushes like that, you’ll eventually flush out a big old bear to come bite you in the arse.”
“I only wonder what you think.” Ackermann turned his bearded face toward Byrne. “Have you no thoughts of your own? Don’t you wish to share them?”
“You remind me of my grandmother.” Colley spoke with characteristic mildness, still crouched before his Crow and calmly pouring ammunition into its open hopper.
Ackermann frowned at Colley. “If your grandmother was of a curious nature and looking out for her family, then perhaps it is so.”
Byrne chuckled, but it soundly oddly un-amused, especially coming from Byrne. “I’m pretty sure what me friend Colley means to imply, Dale, is that you’re as nosy as an old woman.”
“Not at all.” Colley voice was as mild as ever, but he didn’t hurry his words in an attempt to reassure Ackermann. “All I meant was that she was very stout. And hairy.”
It felt wrong, suddenly. All of it—Ackermann’s eyes seemed too bright, Byrne’s voice too flat. An air of annoyance buzzed around even Colley. Wrong, just wrong, as if something rancid flavored the moment.
Ger paused in the act of opening the hatch on his Crow’s back and peered at Colley. Colley had his head down, though, so Ger couldn’t tell what expression he wore.
“You take nothing seriously.” Ackermann didn’t shout, but his voice was loud and sharp enough that Ger started. “None of you. Someday you will be sorry for your foolishness.”
A moment of silence passed. Neither of the Irishmen looked at Ackermann. Neither said a word. The quiet stretched until Ger couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Oh, come on.” Ger tried out a placating smile. “You know they’re just playing with you, Ackermann.”
Ackermann didn’t reply. He looked down at the .36 in his hand as if he’d forgotten he held it. Then he shoved it into his holster and strode away.
“And was your grandmother sensitive and prone to fits of pique?” Byrne muttered. But his lilt fell flat, and Colley didn’t respond.
Ger couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He concentrated on opening his Crow’s ammo hopper and then on making sure it was filled.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had just been said, and he’d failed to comprehend it.
7
Two rows of chairs and benches faced each other in the shaded grass beneath the trees. The row nearest the mansion held the trio of well-dressed, steel-haired men who’d earlier been pinching snuff on the mansion’s porch. Harrison paced in front of them, shined boots thumping the ground with an impatience Ger could nearly hear.
The dozen Crowmakers, now with shirts tucked in and uniform jackets sitting straight across their shoulders, formed a single mounted row behind Harrison’s side of the facing seats. The regulars remained in their camp, although from his horseback vantage point, Ger saw everywhere the flash of blue coats. The Army might not be on display like the Crowmakers, but that didn’t mean they weren’t prepared. A pair of their officers stood at ready behind Harrison’s row of dignitaries, one tall and broad, the other short and thin, but both with ramrod-straight posture.
Tucker Ellis and Vincent Bradley stood behind Harrison’s side of the seating, too. So far today, Ellis had done all the talking, directing his Crowmakers on their formation and reminding them of this meeting’s importance. Bradley’d had to settle for cold stares and a curled lip.
Neither Samuel James nor his daughter were anywhere in sight. Ger supposed they had more to hold their interest up at the mansion than down here with the Indians. He hoped that meant they were making progress on figuring out what had happened at the river crossing just before they’d reached Grouseland.
Ger inhaled, held the breath a moment, and let it flow out slowly in an attempt to ease the jittering of his nerves. Orders were to face forward, say nothing, and keep the faces beneath their gray hats set in somber expressions that matched the fierce slashes of their tattoos. Ellis had made them line up so that their horses’ sides slanted to one side of the clearing where the meeting would take place.
So the Indians could see the metal birds on the back of every saddle. Because however fierce the Crowmakers themselves appeared, the Crows were the real threat.
“Your job is to make them never forget, not for one instant, what is at stake today. Tecumseh must comprehend that if he does not deal with Governor Harrison, he will deal with the Crowmakers.”
And so the Crowmakers sat horseback, Crows carefully displayed, and waited, sun on their backs and the rising humidity of the day pressing against their tattooed skin. Waited, because there was nothing more for them to do. Waited, in hopes that whatever talking happened down the hill from them today would end with them not having to do anything more.
Beneath the hushed whisper of leaves overhead, another sound gradually picked its way into Ger’s awareness, something like the buzz of an insect but not quite. Something close.
Without turning his head, Ger slid his gaze sidewise. To his left, Jennett’s whipcord-lean frame sat straight in the saddle. Beyond Jennett, Kellen mirrored Jennett, as did the other five Crowmakers further down from her.
Nothing moved. Nothing seemed out of place. Ger glanced to the other direction.
Colley sat directly to Ger’s right, with Bryne and the rest of the Crowmakers beyond him. Their postures all matched, stiff and at attention.
The buzz came again, no louder than before but persistent. Not an insect. Something near-familiar snagged at Ger’s mind and prompted a weird warning tickle in his stomach.
In profile, Colley’s Adam’s apple bobbed slowly down and up. Colley’s gaze shifted and met Ger’s, as well as it could without either of them turning their heads. Colley’s jaw clenched, hard enough that the angles of his fine, high chee
kbones stood out sharply.
The sound again. Not a buzz so much as a rattle. Quiet. Repressed.
Comprehension flooded Ger’s brain. He risked turning his head, ever so slightly. Just a little.
Just enough to see that Colley’s Crow was moving, its wings shifting so minutely that Ger might have believed he imagined it. If not for the whispering rattle of its wings. If not for the tight anguish of Colley’s face.
Ger returned his gaze to Colley’s face, but Colley was no longer looking. He stared down the road leading past the clearing, and a new sound worked into Ger’s attention, a solemn waiting hush. Ger followed Colley’s example and looked ahead like he was supposed to be.
The Indians were on foot, ranks of them in black face paint. Feathers bristled from the hair of some, while other wore simple bandanas around their heads.
At their front walked one man, alone, wearing a blue bandana with a single feather tucked into its folds.
Colley’s Crow rattled its wings.
8
For all the painted faces and decorated bodies behind the man walking at the head of the Shawnee warriors, Kellen thought the man himself seemed almost plain. Aside from walking separately, the only thing to set him apart was a deerskin he wore around his shoulders, lanced with red quillwork and clasped at the front with a simple copper brooch.
But at the same time Tecumseh—that had to be who he was—didn’t seem plain at all. He walked at a firm and steady pace, head erect like he was a king. His nose pointed toward Harrison and never wavered. Kellen swore she felt his gaze sweep the row of Crowmakers up the hill behind Harrison, like a chill stirring of the gnat-laced summer air. But his head never turned. His chin never swerved.
Kellen’s skin itched and crawled. Probably that was the gnats—they were in her eyes now and then, swimming in her vision until she blinked them away. But she felt it in her gut, too, the sensation of wanting to be someplace other than sitting perfectly still in her saddle.
Just keep your shit together. That’s all you’ve got to do. If the likes of Langston and Rawle can manage to sit still for a couple of hours, so can you.
Like Tecumseh, none of the rest of the Indian warriors visibly turned their heads and looked up at the Crowmakers, either. As far as Kellen could tell, they just stared straight ahead and never looked at anything, not the shade-flecked lawn they set their bare feet on, not the thick green stirring over their heads, not the neatly-ordered row of white dignitaries before them. But as with Tecumseh, Kellen swore she felt their awareness like pinpricks against her skin.
They know we’re here. They damn well do. Just as sure as we know they are.
The Shawnee chief and his warriors reached Harrison’s carefully-prepared rows of chairs and benches and stopped. Tecumseh didn’t make a single motion that Kellen could see, but to a man the rest of the Shawnee lowered themselves to the ground. Every last one flat out ignored the seats Harrison’s people had arranged and settled into cross-legged poses on the bare earth around the provided seating instead.
That should’ve made Harrison’s delegates seem like they had the upper hand, since they had the higher ground. Instead, the row of primly-seated white men in high-backed chairs and benches just looked silly. By contrast, the Shawnee reminded Kellen of the rock formations she’d seen along the Ohio River, flat-faced stone that loomed over the waters like ancient guardians, dignified and a little frightening.
Even more alone now that he was the only Indian standing, Tecumseh took another step, further closing the gap between him and Governor Harrison. Tecumseh’s voice rose, carrying loud enough for anyone around to hear clearly, although Kellen didn’t understand his words. It was a rich voice, clear in timbre and powerful as a lightning strike.
When Tecumseh finished what he was saying, there was a short silence while a translator, a short and very young man with dark hair and skin like the Indians but wearing clothes like Harrison’s men, repeated his words.
Into that hush, another sound whispered against Kellen’s awareness. That sound brushed and buzzed against her skin, every bit as annoying as the gnats. The gnats, though, they didn’t cause the hairs on the back of Kellen’s neck to stand.
Keep looking ahead. You are not going to be the one who screws this up. Not this time.
The urge to turn her head throbbed like a physical ache down Kellen’s neck and across her shoulders. She made herself sit still and listen.
Five Crowmakers sat their horses to her left—she didn’t have to look to remember that Bosch, Goodson, Ackermann, Langston, and Rawle were that way. The noise, though, it seemed to be coming from her right. Not Langston and Rawle, then. Kellen couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or bad.
Listen. Just listen.
Metal on metal, she decided. That’s what the buzz sounded like. The memory of the river crossing slammed into her, of Crows on horseback rattling their wings.
Just to Kellen’s right, Jennett’s horse snorted. Further up the line from him, hooves shuffled. The scent of dust tickled through the heavy air.
Down the hill, the Indian boy in a white man’s uniform had finished repeating Tecumseh’s greeting to Harrison. Harrison, stiff in his spotless frock and breeches, polished boots gleaming in the midday light, bowed sharply. His voice rang out.
“It is good that you have accepted my invitation. I am confident that you will see—”
But Tecumseh had lifted his head and looked past Harrison. At the same time that more horses shuffled and huffed, Kellen again felt the Shawnee chief’s attention rake the line of Crowmakers.
Just sit still. Don’t be the one who screws up! Kellen prodded at the connection in the back of her mind. The link to her Crow thrummed with quiet presence, but that was normal. Normal was good. She could handle normal.
More metallic buzzing. Louder this time, like more than one Crow was acting up. Kellen couldn’t tell anymore what direction the sound was coming from.
What do I do. What can I do? She still heard nothing from the other Crowmakers along the line. Not even Langston said a word. Not even Rawle. Kellen held her breath, trying to decide at what point she should disobey Ellis’s orders to face forward and not move a muscle.
And then the rattling whisper of metal wings stopped. The horses huffed a couple more times, but then a still hush fell across the row of Crowmakers. Down the hill, Harrison had stopped speaking but not turned around. Ellis and Vincent stood side by side, at loose attention and facing the same direction as Harrison—away from the Crowmakers. Kellen held her breath.
Let that be it. God, please let this go right for once.
Tecumseh’s face remained turned toward them a moment longer. His attention was like a beam of midday sun, burning Kellen’s skin until it felt ready to melt right off her flesh. Kellen thought his lip curled, but he was too far away to tell for certain.
“I am confident that you will see,” Harrison began again, “that this talk of ours will be a good thing.”
The translator turned Harrison’s words into syllables Kellen couldn’t understand. Tecumseh’s gaze released the Crowmakers and returned to Harrison. If his lip really was curled, nothing Harrison had said was causing it to uncurl.
Tecumseh waited for the boy to finish translating what Harrison had said. Then he started in again, with his deep, strong voice and more words Kellen didn’t understand. But the gnats were the only thing itching at her now. She relaxed a little in the saddle and settled in to wait.
A couple of hours. I only have to sit here. If Langston and Rawle can—
Thunder cracked, high overhead, chopping through the heavy midday air.
Kellen jerked and cringed. Her heart soared into her throat. Her horse whinnied and pulled at the reins.
The sun is shining, was her one thought, as she held fast to her reins and pressed her knees into the horse’s side in an attempt to steady him. How can it be thunder?
Another crack. And another, so fast they overlapped, so fast they sounded like
—
Not thunder. What she heard wasn’t thunder.
9
It was funny, Vincent thought, how in moments like these everything seemed to slow down.
Moments like these. As if anything like this had ever happened to him.
Tecumseh was talking, his voice a timbre and resonance that reminded Vincent of Ellis more than anything. The warriors seated on the ground behind Tecumseh stared straight ahead, some nodding now and then as if in agreement with whatever Tecumseh was saying with the alien-sounding syllables of their language. For the most part though, they were perfectly still.
And then holes appeared in their bodies. Their heads. Dust puffed in clouds where bullets struck the earth and mingled with blood spray into a muddy mist.
And Vincent just stood there, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. And they just sat there, like there were trying to do the same. Even as bits of metal ripped through their bodies and crimson sprayed and flowed and Blood. Flesh. Dear God. I don’t want to look at this anymore.
But Vincent didn’t move. No one moved, not on either side of the meeting ground. No one but the ones who were falling. The bloodletting and the dying seemed to last for so long that Vincent felt he should’ve had time to measure the space between gunshots, trace the exact arc of every falling bullet.
Gunfire. Its rattle pounded through Vincent’s veins. The hot stink of blood roared into his senses. Nausea swept in behind it, rising in Vincent’s throat.
No. Stop. The words seemed to linger forever inside his head, echoing and repeating through the stammer of violent noise over his head.
Overhead.
Bodies of Indians went limp and toppled. Tecumseh no longer stood in front of Vincent. Only Harrison and his frozen-in-place dignitaries remained, faces and benches and fine clothing alike turned muzzy through a fine pink mist.
And still Vincent’s limbs refused to move. His eyes saw, but his mind refused to accept.
Monsters of Our Own Making Page 14
