“Nowhere important,” he muttered and followed her up the stairs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Grace and Jessie reined in their horses after letting them have a good gallop on the trail out of town. Both Crowbait and Paul were frisky after their night in the corral. As Grace and Jessie came up side by side, Grace continued their earlier conversation as though there hadn’t been any break.
“So, Madame B. reckons Buzzard’s Ford is a kind of no man’s land between the town and a tribe of nearby Sioux. The townsfolk and the Sioux been going at it for years. Battles just keep getting bloodier and bloodier, and no one’s gonna give any quarter.”
Jessie nodded. “Yessum. It all started when the Sioux rode in one day and shot an arrow through the old sheriff’s chest. Bess reckons she ain’t seen a week without bloodshed since.”
Grace turned in her saddle and cocked an eyebrow. “Who’s Bess?”
Jessie’s cheeks burned and his grip tightened on the reins. “Just a gal in town I got talking to. She knew about Buzzard’s Ford. Said it’s named so in respect of all the vultures that frequent it.” Jessie gazed up, but aside from the powder-blue sky, there was nothing else blotting the horizon.
Buzzard’s Ford turned out to be a long swathe of fertile land beside a murmuring river. The grass near the banks grew straight and strong, though everywhere else it was flattened and brown. Trees dotted the Ford; not scrub or desert brush, but proper shade-giving trees. It was a peaceful place, and Jessie couldn’t imagine seeing it stained with the blood of the dead and dying, or how the murmuring river might look running red with blood. Yet when he peered closely, he could see the scars the Ford bore, scars that spoke of near-constant skirmishing across the land. Arrows stuck out of tree trunks. A long-lost revolver, choked by weeds, glinted in the sun. Man’s hand was truly upon the Ford. If he closed his eyes, Jessie could almost hear the screams of the dying.
Jessie’s eyes flicked open. Those were screams.
He turned in his saddle. Grace’s eyes were wide and her shoulders tense. She dug her knees into Crowbait’s sides, and the mare took off like a streak of lightning. Jessie cried and sent Paul racing after them. As the horses thudded alongside the river, a sweeping turn took them around a swatch of trees. Where the mouth of the ford opened up to wild prairie, Jessie glimpsed horses prancing in chest-high yellow grass, their riders flinging spears and firing arrows into the long grass. As Paul tore closer to the skirmish, Jessie’s eyes widened at the riders’ shaved scalps and flamboyant mohawks. Sioux warriors. He tried to spot the cavalry of white men they must be fighting but came up short. There were only Sioux riders prancing in the long grass.
Jessie clung to Paul as the gelding took him straight into the yellow sea. Kaga streaked forward and vanished into the long grass, the bullet he’d taken back at Sandycrag Creek not slowing him down for a second.
Except for the bobbing heads of the Sioux’s horses and their screaming riders, Jessie could see little else in the sea of yellow stalks. He jerked Paul’s reins as a Sioux rider bore down on him. The rider turned in his saddle, then faced forward, his mouth open in a silent scream. His wide eyes fell on Jessie and he yanked the mare’s reins. The horse skidded to a stop and a small creature leaped into the air and landed behind the Sioux on the horse’s rump. He jerked in the saddle and screamed as the small creature’s long-fingered hands wrapped around his arms. A grinning fiend popped its head up beside the warrior, then sank rows of razor-sharp teeth into the side of his face. Jessie gasped as three more little creatures crawled up the bucking horse, using their claws to find purchase. They buried their fangs in the Sioux rider and began to eat him alive.
A gunshot rang out and the Sioux jerked as the bullet tore through his left ear and ripped out the right. One of the creatures—caught in the crossfire—exploded. The Sioux dropped to the ground and the remaining creatures clinging to his horse looked up in rage. They were no more than three feet tall, and their long, gangly arms came to their knees. Instead of five stubby fingers, they had talons of bone and claw. Strange markings, like faded white paint, covered their chests, and lank hair spilled down their shoulders from their oversized heads. One of the fiends spied Jessie and turned its wicked little face to him. Its mouth split from ear to ear in a perverse grin. Rows of jagged fangs gleamed in its maw. It had no nose and two perfectly round yellow eyes. It chortled at Jessie.
An arrow skewered the grinning fiend, and it flew off the bucking horse.
Jessie blinked as the grass parted beside him and a fanged creature leered up at him. It snarled and launched. Jessie jerked in the saddle and slid sideways. His foot caught in the stirrup and he snagged to a stop half out of his saddle. Pain lanced through his thigh, and he grabbed a fistful of Paul’s mane to tug himself upright. Paul squealed and pranced, and Jessie grabbed the saddle horn. His leg burned like fire, and he grunted as he leaned across Paul’s back and saw the little creature on the other side of the saddle. It raised a bloody face from his ragged thigh. Jessie felt for the Colt in his waistband and fumbled to free the iron. It tangled on his belt. The creature slammed its face down into Jessie’s thigh and ripped and chewed his flesh. Jessie screamed and yanked the Colt free. He fired a blind shot. The fiend looked up from Jessie’s ruined leg, strings of red, ropey saliva dribbling down its chin. It uttered a chirping laugh and sank its fangs into his leg. Jessie’s vision clouded as he squeezed the trigger. The Colt barked and the creature flew off his leg with a shriek and spray of blood. Jessie sank sideways in the saddle, the weight of his entire body on his torn-up leg. He grabbed the saddle horn and with what little strength he had left, hefted himself up. His vision swam, and he vomited over Paul’s side. The gelding pranced nervously and snorted.
Jessie wiped his mouth, swayed, and surveyed the scene.
Kaga had flattened the long grass with the blood and bodies of his foes. He’d taken down half a dozen of the tiny creatures. A handful of Sioux riders milled about and jabbed their spears into the long grass. A hideous squeal, like a stuck pig, rose from the grass each time they struck. Grace sat atop Crowbait looking none the worse for wear. Justice and Mercy were holstered, but she cradled the big Winchester in her arms. A few fallen men called out in their native tongue and riders went to their aid. Other riders collected their fallen and strapped bodies to the backs of their horses. One warrior examined the Sioux rider who’d taken the bullet in his head. It was clear the dead man had been mauled by the creatures; half of his face was chewed off and his throat ripped out. But it was the bullet that had ended him. The warrior’s eyes fell on Grace and narrowed. He yelled and urged his horse toward Grace. The other mounted Sioux closed in around her. Grace eyed them but didn’t move.
Jessie nudged Paul, then moaned as a wave of agony rippled through him. He slumped in his saddle and fought the bile rising in his throat. A Sioux rider came up beside him. The man’s expression was grim, and his creased face crinkled as he spoke in clipped English, “Stay here.” He snapped the reins of his russet stallion and pushed his way into the semicircle of riders who surrounded Grace. Another warrior brandished his spear at Grace and spewed forth a sharp, angry tirade in their native tongue. Jessie didn’t need a translator to know why the man was angry; one of his men had fallen from a rifle shot to the head, and Grace was the only one holding a rifle. Grace gazed at the band of Sioux impassively. When the warrior shook his spear at her and urged his mottled horse closer, she raised her head but made no move to defend herself.
“Enapay! Enough!” the rider of the russet stallion called out. The warrior hesitated and glared at him. He snapped something in their language and the russet rider shook his head.
“Use your wits, Enapay. You saw Howahkan. He was dying badly from the Teihiihan. The woman gave him a quick death.” He turned his raven-black eyes on Grace, and she nodded to him. He returned the gesture then glanced back at the angry warrior. “She rode in without thought of her safety. She is not our enemy, Enapay.”
En
apay spat on the ground and snapped something in return. He held up his spear. The rider of the russet stallion spoke a quiet word and Enapay paled. He glared at the russet rider as he slowly lowered his spear. He said something in response and kicked his mottled mare. With a squeal, his horse bolted and the remaining Sioux trailed after him. The rider of the russet stallion shook his head and turned to Grace.
“Enapay is hot-blooded. Quick to anger, but also quick to forgive.”
Grace nodded. “Those things. Teihiihan? I ain’t come across them before.”
The rider shook his head. “I would think not. They feed on flesh. Alive or dead. They are only drawn to places where death lingers. They are drawn to Wicate-blaye.”
At Grace’s raised brow he supplied, “Death field.”
“Apt. Tell me, are you the folk at war with Whitestand Hollow?”
The rider’s lips thinned and his nostrils flared. “You come here to do their dirty work, wasicu?”
Grace shrugged. “Came here to talk is all.”
Jessie’s head swam as Grace and the russet rider exchanged words. He slumped across Paul’s neck and the horse snorted in response. The russet rider glanced over. “Your young one took a bite. Teihiihan sometimes leave bad spirits in the blood. Boy needs medicine.”
“You know the folk at Whitestand Hollow cain’t help him. They ain’t as daisy as you folk when it comes to med’cine,” Grace said.
The russet rider squinted at Jessie, then sighed. “Enapay will not be happy.”
Jessie moaned and the rider’s expression softened. “You guide his horse. I will take the boy with me.”
Grace nodded. “Much obliged.”
Kaga suddenly appeared in the grass beside Crowbait and gazed up at the rider. The two locked eyes and the rider’s lip curled in an expression of disgust. He yanked the reins of his russet stallion and trotted toward Jessie. “That thing stays out of camp.”
Grace glanced down at Kaga. They wore mirrored expressions of mystification.
“Skirt the camp. I’ll get a look at the inside,” she said in a low tone. Aloud, she called out, “Sure as a gun, chief.”
As they rode off for the Sioux camp, the long grass rustled and chattered as more little fiends arrived to make a meal out of their own fallen dead.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jessie stood in a sea of never-ending tall grass, listening to skittering laughter among the stalks. A flash of black caught his eye as something darted behind him. He spun and felt for his Colt, but as he brushed his hand over his belt, his palm ripped open. He turned over his hand and examined the wound. A soft sigh tickled his ear. Jessie jerked around and stood face to face with Grace. She wore her gun belt and nothing else. Justice and Mercy in one package. She took his hand in hers and tasted his blood. “Lamb’s blood.” She held open her arms and invited him to come. Jessie wanted nothing more than to push his face into her firm breasts. Grace smiled. Her grin grew larger and larger until her mouth split open and revealed fangs from ear to ear...
Jessie jerked upright gasping for breath. His heart hammered and he was drenched with sweat. He blinked as his vision adjusted to the gloom around him, and he frowned as he gazed up at the strange canvas roof. Wind breezed past his face and rattled the walls, and Jessie suddenly understood. He was in a tent. He sank back on a soft pile of furs as the nightmare receded and let memory and realization wash over him. His throbbing thigh prompted him to recall the long grass and the creature that savaged his leg. He sat up and pushed back the furs. His leg was bound with damp cloth, and some kind of muck oozed out from the dressing. He fingered the ooze.
“Do not poke the dressing, hoksila.” The sharp bark made him flinch.
Jessie frowned and peered into the shadowy corner beside his furs. A weathered face appeared beside him. A bone pierced his septum, and his hair was shot through with gray. Woven through his plaits were feathers and pieces of bone that rattled each time he moved.
“Good medicine does not need to be touched by hoksila.”
Jessie frowned. “That’s twice you’ve called me that. What’s it mean?”
“Means ‘boy’,” a gruff voice answered. Jessie swung around to see the rider of the russet stallion at the foot of his furs. “He does not take kindly to folk messing with his medicine. Especially hoksila. Do not touch it, boy.”
Jessie gazed around. He was hemmed in by a crudely strung hide, perhaps put up to give him privacy. Perhaps put up to keep him isolated.
“Where’s Grace?” he asked. His heart raced as he eyed the fearsome native warrior and his medicine man.
“By the fire.”
“I want to see her,” Jessie demanded. The medicine man tutted and muttered something in his own tongue. Jessie heard the word hoksila again.
“I want to see Grace!”
The medicine man looked over Jessie’s head and spoke to the russet rider. He gathered up a small collection of pouches and satchels and hefted himself to his feet. He brushed past the russet rider without a backward glance.
The rider looked down at Jessie. “Medicine man says if you get up you risk letting bad spirits into your wound. He says you need rest for a day and a night.”
Jessie gritted his teeth. “Take me to Grace. Now.”
A small tremor touched the rider’s lips. He silently lowered himself. Jessie hesitated, then flung an arm around his shoulder. As Jessie pushed himself up, pain gripped his bowels, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. The rider glanced sideways at him but said nothing.
Jessie bit the inside of his cheek. “Let’s go.”
Again, a slight smile played on the warrior’s lips as he helped Jessie limp around the buffalo hide. As they passed the divider, the rest of the large tent became visible, lit by a warm glow from the central fire. Grace sat before the fire, and Jessie’s breath stuck in his throat as he laid eyes on her. She’d washed the dirt and blood from her face, removed her hat and overcoat, and appeared relaxed and comfortable sitting in the tipis. A smile came to her lips when she saw Jessie.
“See my boy didn’t take to lying down, eh Tokota?” Grace said.
Tokota grunted and helped Jessie onto a bundle of furs. As Jessie slid down, agony seared through his nerve-endings and he gasped in pain. He was panting and sweaty by the time he was seated. He eyed the oozing poultice and wrinkled his nose. “What is all this goop anyhow?”
Tokota shrugged. “Medicine.” He sat down gracefully opposite Jessie and squinted at the young lad. He opened his mouth to say something when Grace cut him off.
“You were telling me how you came to be here. Why a bunch of Sioux are down this far south and this far east, and how you came to be in a pointless war with the folk of Whitestand Hollow.”
Tokota’s gaze drifted from Jessie to Grace. He frowned and leaned back on his butt. “Yes. The story of my people.” His eyes glittered as he looked at Grace. “You have some knowledge of the children of the land. You know we roam. But my people were different. We had finally settled. The gifts of the land were rich and it was close to migration trails. It was a blessed place.”
Tokota’s expression darkened and he snatched up a long stick and poked the fire. “We were chased from that blessed place. Run off. And so we roamed until we found another place. Not a blessed place, but a place that would suit us. Your white men have called it Whitestand Hollow, but we who found it when it was empty of all buildings and roads, we called it Wakte-ku.”
Grace frowned. “Home from war?” she asked hesitantly.
Tokota nodded. “This is close.”
Jessie fought throbbing pain and exhaustion to follow the conversation. “You say you were there first? That ain’t the way the folk from the Hollow talk. They say you all just showed up and started beefing them.”
Tokota scowled. “Their homes are built on the blood and bones of my people. My brothers fought for Wakte-ku, but there were too many white men to fight. My sisters were raped and killed by men in uniforms. Our tipis torched.
Horses butchered. We fled over Wicate-blaye and they took our place. Took our home.”
“So why didn’t you go find another place?” Jessie asked.
Tokota lowered his head and looked at his lined palms.
Grace answered for him, “’Cause why should they? Already ousted once at their blessed place. Why should they flee again? And what’s to stop it happening again after they found somewhere new? Gotta stop and draw a line in the sand sometime, Jessie.”
Tokota raised his creased face and studied Grace. “You sound just like Enapay. I implored him to go elsewhere. Leave this place to the white man and move on. He said, ‘Tuweni aka iyayekiya.’”
“No more running away,” Grace said softly. She eyed Tokota for a moment. “He the chief? Enapay?”
Tokota frowned. “The man who led our people was killed when we were chased from Wakte-ku. Enapay fills his place. He speaks. Men listen.”
“But he listens to you,” Grace said. It was rhetorical, and when Tokota looked into her eyes she nodded. “You don’t want to fight them. The folk of Whitestand Hollow. You want to cut and run.”
Tokota frowned. “I want our people to live. No more fighting. If that means leaving this place to the white men, then that is the path we must take.”
Grace glanced sideways at Jessie. She turned back to the dark-haired man. “How about if you could fight and win? Take back Wakte-ku.”
Jessie stirred and Tokota’s brows drew together. “We do not have the men. And I am tired of seeing bloodshed.”
Grace shook her head. “Nah, I have a study that there won’t be no more bloodshed. That them folk at Whitestand’ll back off and leave the town in your hands without a shot needing to be fired.”
Tokota snorted and said, “You white folk are witko.”
“If that means crazy, yeah, I gotta agree with the chief.” Jessie echoed. He frowned at Grace as she sat there calm as eggs with a small smile on her lips. “It’d take some kind of army to make a town as biggity as Whitestand Hollow turn yeller.”
Guns of Perdition Page 9
