1
Spring, 1877
Raven Alexander knelt by the dying man, her clasped hands resting against her knees, her head bowed. The coals of a mesquite fire burned down, breathing little warmth into the shadows. But she did not feel the cold.
From outside the tepee came the sound of low, muffled drumbeats, growing slower and slower, like the ebbing of the old man’s heart. Then came the keening of voices, high, tight with grief, blown by the wind.
Death was no stranger to Raven. Her mother had lost her life bringing Raven into the-world. Her boisterous Irish father had been killed in a mining accident. Now she was losing Flying Cloud, the man she’d always called Honorable Grandfather.
Suddenly the old man opened his eyes and reached out to clasp her by the arm. “Come close, my child,” he said, gasping for breath. “I have little time.”
“Be still, Grandfather, you must rest.” She tried to ease him back to the rug on which he lay, but he continued to hold tight.
“No, you must listen. I have told you of the wealth of our people hidden in the sacred mountains to the south. The time has come for you to go there, to claim the treasure.
“I don’t understand.”
“The spirits will protect you, Raven. You must go.”
Flying Cloud let go of her arm and collapsed back to the ground.
“Grandfather? Please, I can’t leave you.”
“I have prepared you for this journey all your life, Raven. You will find two men. One comes to you,” he rasped, “in the form of the cougar.”
“Cougar?” Over and over in recent weeks, she’d dreamed of a sleek golden mountain lion.
“He’ll take you to the other, the keeper of the sacred treasure who will guide you to the place where the light of the moon touches the light of the sun.”
“But I don’t want to leave you now.”
“Go, my child. Promise me that you will do this thing.”
She had no choice but to follow the wishes of this man who’d been her rock in a changing world. “I promise, Grandfather.”
With a heavy heart, Raven stood and backed away from the man she’d loved all her life. His last words followed her from the dwelling.
“Beware the bronze dagger.”
In a small cantina just south of the border, Tucker Farrell watched the slim Mexican across the table blatantly deal his Spanish friend a card from the bottom of the deck. The Spaniard wore an open jacket, displaying crossed silver-trimmed leather straps filled with cartridges for the pistol at his hip. Not only was he a crooked card player, he was a bandit as well.
The dealer gave a sharp laugh as he slapped a card on the table before Tucker and moved on to the grizzled old half-breed miner who’d turned up earlier, and who, in order to get into the game, had bragged about finding a lost treasure.
Nothing new about that along the Rio Grande. Tales of lost mines and treasure were routine. Tucker studied his cards. He was holding a pair of fours. Another time, he might have stayed in, but he weighed the possible loss of his drinking money against his chances and threw in his hand. He might have won, but a sure bottle was worth more than a few hundred maybes.
The miner studied his cards, took two. When the old man raised the bid, he shuffled his cards several times, then pulled a nugget of gold from his pocket and threw it into the pot.
The two remaining cardplayers looked at each other and nodded. The onlookers grew quiet. Tucker would have moved away had he not been caught up in the tension of the play. The hand progressed. Consternation was obvious on the old Indian’s face. Now the pot held two nuggets and what looked like a heavy gold watch fob set with a ruby.
A sick feeling hit Tucker in the pit of his stomach. The prospector was heading straight for trouble, and he seemed oblivious to the danger.
“The bet, it is to you, old man,” the dealer said in heavily accented English. “What do you say?”
Tucker wondered why the miner took such a chance. If he had actually found a treasure, it had to be worth a lot more than a meager pot in a poker game.
Must be pride, Tucker decided. Hell, he could understand that. He’d felt the same way, until he’d lost his own self-respect and given up on finding it again.
“I have a name,” the old man said, a sudden burst of excitement giving him courage. “I am called Luce, the keeper of the mountain.”
Just as quickly the bravado turned to uncertainty as he wiped perspiration from his forehead with the worn sleeve of his shirt. “I—I cannot cover the bet, not with what I have. But I give you my marker. I will return with the money, I swear.”
“We don’t take no markers,” the dealer’s sidekick said. “You’d better have money or it’s all mine.”
Tucker groaned and laid his hand on the pistol strapped on his left hip, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it. The old Indian had been showing off. No telling how he’d come by his precious loot, but he was in the stew now.
“But I have more,” the old man insisted. “I do. I will make my mark.” He reached inside his pocket.
Tucker heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. Ah, hell. The bastards weren’t going to let him get away. If Tucker didn’t act quickly, the bandits would have more than the old man’s IOU. Without thinking, Tucker reached for the bottle in front of him, knocking it over on the cards. The dealer turned his eyes on Tucker in disbelief.
“What the—?” the bandit swore, scrambling backward.
“Sorry.” Tucker took his bandanna from around his neck. “I’ll just wipe it up.” He lurched to his feet, slurring his words just enough to convince onlookers that he was drunk.
At the same time, he stumbled, swept the nuggets and the watch fob into his pocket, and collapsed across the table, determined that the bandits not profit from their cheating.
Then, as if he were trying to right himself, Tucker pulled the table toward himself and, shoving the miner out the door, sagged backward, blocking the exit as he fell. “I think I’ve had too much to drink,” he said with an affected laugh.
“Get out of the way, you idiot!” The two men tried to get past him, one of them firing at the escaping prospector. But in his efforts to apologize and stand, Tucker managed to delay both men long enough for the old miner to get away.
The tirade that followed was in Spanish. Tucker didn’t have to understand the exact words to know the men weren’t going to let him leave the cantina peacefully. It looked as if the half-breed wouldn’t get his treasure back after all. Still, it wasn’t until until they forced Tucker out of the saloon and into the plaza beyond that he realized what they had in mind.
The saloon emptied as the customers followed, expecting to be entertained by what was obviously a common occurrence in the village.
“You know what we do in Mexico to people who get in our way?” the dealer asked, a cruel grin exposing the stark white of his teeth against his swarthy complexion.
“It was an accident. I wasn’t even playing. I’d already folded.”
“You and the old man were in cahoots. I saw you steal the ruby,” the sidekick said. “Get a rope for the americano outlaw, compadres. Then we go treasure hunting. Si?”
Suddenly the situation wasn’t so funny anymore, Tucker opened his eyes and took in the circle of men. He was a lot bigger and stronger than the Mexicans, but the guns pointed at his chest evened that difference.
“You can’t hang me.” Tucker drew himself to his full height and looked the cocky little bastard straight in the eye.
“Oh, but we can, señor,” the man with the pistol boasted. “We surely can.”
Tucker swallowed hard. He might as well give them the nuggets. Unless a miracle occurred, he didn’t have a chance in hell of living to return the gold. After all the bad things he’d done as a soldier in the name of duty, he was going to die for helping a man he’d never seen before.
“What the hell,” Tucker said. “This place has definitely lost what little charm it had. The whiskey’s bad, the games are cro
oked, and as for women, haven’t seen one I’d mess around with since I left Amarillo.”
Tucker didn’t know whether his stomach, his pride, or his manhood was suffering more. As his captors slipped a rope around his neck, he knew he’d never satisfy any physical need again. Returning the booty wouldn’t change anything. The only way he’d get out of there was to sprout wings and fly.
Then suddenly he heard a low rumbling sound, like the ripple of sails in the wind, that grew louder and louder. The onlookers grew quiet as angry shrieks cut through the air. The sky filled with hundreds of large, yellow-eyed, black birds. They settled in the tops of the gnarled mesquite trees surrounding the plaza and on the roofs of the buildings. Soon the hard-packed ground was black with the querulous birds, while others hovered above the circle of men.
The Mexicans looked at each other in alarm. Two of them dropped to their knees, crossing their chests. The others followed.
The birds continued to appear as if they’d been summoned, closing out the sun and leaving the plaza dark and cold. For a moment Tucker was stunned. Then, seeing he’d been given a chance, he slipped the rope from his neck and ran to his horse.
“Get me out of here, Yank,” he whispered, throwing himself into the saddle and leaning against the animal’s neck. The birds scattered before them as, for once, the horse followed orders and together they raced away from the village toward the safety of the hills to the northwest.
Behind him the unnatural shrieks of the birds still filled the air. Then, as quickly as they’d come, the flock swept across the sky before him in a dark swirling mass, blotting out the setting sun like a black-gloved hand.
A ripple of unease ran up Tucker’s spine. He didn’t understand what had just happened, but he knew that it was unnatural as hell, and maybe as close as he’d ever want to be to the place. If he’d been a religious man, he might have been unnerved. Now he galloped along an unfamiliar trail in the burgeoning darkness; his freedom in peril should the Mexicans decide to come after him instead of the old prospector.
After several hours of hard riding along the rocky terrain and through shallow streams, Tucker reached a point where he could look back over the area he’d covered. He couldn’t see any evidence that he’d been followed. And there was no sign of the half-breed Indian miner.
The horse Tucker had given, in a moment of irony, the name of Yank was breathing hard. Tucker was edgy, not only from almost losing his life, but from the way in which he’d been saved. He’d seen buzzards and he’d seen crows. The flock that had dropped like a cloud over the plaza was neither.
Shaking off the sense of unease that had traveled with him, Tucker was satisfied that he’d escaped. It was time to give both himself and Yank a rest.
Remembering his mad dash to safety, Tucker swore and reached back to examine his saddlebags. The pint of whiskey he normally carried was still there. He retrieved it and, with his teeth, pulled the cork from the bottom and spat it into his hand. He wasn’t normally given to heavy drinking, but he was not normally rescued by demon birds either. Tonight he could use a little courage. He lifted the bottle.
When the bottle was half empty, Tucker Farrell re-corked it and stuck it back into his pack. Not only was he wide awake, but all his senses seemed enhanced. Once, in the path of a tornado, he’d felt a sudden tingle in his skin that announced some startling event. Tonight he felt it again.
The moon “had risen full and threatening, showering the trail with moonlight, making him an easy target to anyone watching.
Even Yank seemed unusually high-strung. He stumbled and came to a stop as he encountered a rock that had fallen from higher up. “Get on, you stubborn mule,” Tucker cajoled.
Yank, true to his name, bullied his Rebel master by following orders only when they suited him. Tucker swore. Getting himself killed was one thing, but injuring his horse was something Tucker would never do. It was time to find a place to bed down before he fell off and rolled back down the mountain to that godforsaken place he’d escaped from.
Tucker disengaged one foot from the stirrups, swung it over the saddle, and, leaning his upper body in the other direction, slid to the ground. Too late he realized that he should have dismounted on the side toward the mountain instead of the side toward the ravine. As he tried to balance himself the earth beneath his feet gave way and he slid straight down, bouncing only once before he hit his head on a rock and knocked himself out cold.
For most of her twenty-six years, Raven Alexander had been torn between two worlds. Three days ago she’d left them both.
Perhaps her life would have been different if her father hadn’t been Irish and her mother, Pale Raven, half Arapaho. But her kinship with her mother’s people and the Grandfather, Flying Cloud, had pulled at her, forcing her to follow a separate path.
The leaving hadn’t been easy. She’d had to fight her older half sister Sabrina’s disapproval from the moment she’d announced her mission. Expecting Sabrina to understand the difference in their backgrounds had always been impossible. Sabrina’s practical Irish mother had instilled such responsibility in her children that Sabrina would always consider herself head of the family.
Raven should have left in secret. That way, she’d have been saved having Sabrina accompany her to Denver, trying one last time to change her mind. “Raven, you are not going to New Mexico, alone, on some kind of crazy treasure hunt.”
Raven let her go on. All the Alexander sisters had learned that when Sabrina set her mind to something, there was no stopping her. Raven could only be grateful that the other three sisters had married and moved away. Otherwise she’d have been besieged on all sides.
“The country is changing,” Sabrina had argued. “The Comanche and the Apache are at war. The ranchers in the Southwest are bringing in gunfighters to stop the cattle rustling. And you don’t even know that the treasure exists.”
‘‘It exists,” Raven explained once more. “And I must find the keeper of the mountain. He will show me the way.”
Raven didn’t know why she mentioned only one of the men. Explaining that she expected to find a man who came as a cougar was more than even she wanted to try.
“You’re just going to ride off into the sunset and wait for some old man to step up and say, ‘Look here, girl, I’m to be your guide.’ ”
Raven ignored her sister’s logic. She knew he would come. “It’s the Arapahos’ last chance, Sabrina. With the gold, we can buy land, good land, where all can live without being dependent on either crooked Indian agents or a government that changes the rules before the ink on the treaty is dry.”
“But Papa’s silver mine is producing now, Raven. And a share of it is yours. If you want to buy land, you can have the money. You may be part Arapaho, Raven, but you’re Cullen Alexander’s daughter too.”
“Yes, my father was an Alexander, Sabrina, but my mother was an Indian. My hair is as black as the bird for which I am named. My eyes are brown and my skin has been touched by the sun. We are sisters of the heart, but we are different. We each have our own purpose in life. I must follow my destiny.”
“Destiny, smestiny! You sound like some highbrow English novel. The Arapaho will be fine on that reservation in Wyoming. What you need is to come back home and forget about the Indians.”
“You forget, Sabrina, I am part Indian, more Indian now than white. But more than that, I made a promise. It was Grandfather’s dying wish that I journey to the mountains in the south and find the guardian. I gave my sacred word.”
“What guardian?”
“When the Arapaho tribe left the southern mountains, part of their people stayed behind to guard the sacred mountain. The secret of its location was left to those in the south, but one member of each succeeding generation in the north was given the means to find the treasure. Grandfather passed that secret to me. All I have to do is find the guardian.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” Sabrina asked in disbelief.
“I don’t know,” Raven admi
tted. “Grandfather said the spirits would guide me.”
Sabrina wrung her hands. “But why you?”
Raven tried to find the right words to explain. “Because those who are left are divided. Swift Hand and his followers want to challenge the soldiers. The elders are weary of fighting. There are fewer than a thousand Arapaho left, and they go to the reservation because they have no choice. I am the only one who can change that.”
In deference to her sister’s concern, Raven had donned proper traveling clothes and taken the stagecoach from Denver to Santa Fe. But her horse, Onawa, carrying her Indian dress and bedroll, was tied to the back.
More than once in the last two days, she had regretted her decision. Sharing her stage with a frightened mail-order bride and her small daughter and a newspaperman heading for Albuquerque made the journey seem endless.
“I’m Lawrence Small, a reporter for the New York Daily Journal,” the thin young man said eagerly. “Are you a native of the West?”
“I was born here, yes,” Raven had answered reluctantly.
“And do you know any outlaws or cowboys?”
Once she answered, “I’m afraid not,” he lost interest in Raven and began to interview the woman who’d answered an ad from a rancher who needed a wife.
Raven longed for her horse. Even her bones were sore from bouncing around the hard seat. She’d long ago given up on keeping the dust from her clothing, and the only way she could control her hair was by braiding and covering it with the absurdly small hat someone had devised as a way to torture its wearer.
Long before Santa Fe, she decided to leave the stage at the next stop, remove the travel dress with its tiresome bustle, and don her buckskins.
Taking in a deep breath of the crisp, cool air, Raven cast her gaze outside the window and studied the mountains looming larger in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon. It was early spring and snow still capped the tops of the peaks, giving their stark variegated edges the look of jagged hard candy dipped in sugar frosting.
She longed to lie beneath the stars in peaceful solitude. The moon would be full, a bright silver disk etched with lacy shadows, resting against a dark tapestry embroidered with pinpoints of starlight. The wind would sing to her. From the looks of the clouds beyond the peaks, she might even feel the cleansing rain sweep over the earth.
Judith E French Page 27
