by Rita Karnopp
"Now doesn't this make a pretty picture?" Gordon stood before them.
Brett jerked and Willow tensed before bolting upright.
"You just don't know when it's time to run with your tail tucked, do you, Gordon?" Brett asked, aware his words would only anger the bastard.
"You make it too easy.” Gordon’s laugh came loud and rough. "The way I see it, and so will the police, you came to accuse Willow of pouring bleach in your cistern. As usual, you two got into a fight, and you attacked her, raped her even. She managed to escape and get a gun. She shoots and kills you in self defense, but you manage to toss your knife at her."
"A bit convenient, don't you think?" Brett asked. "You might have forgotten one thing."
"Like?"
"Pretty hard for me to attack the likes of Willow Howling Moon with my leg in a cast. She's a strong, capable woman. I don't rightly expect too many would believe she had to resort to shooting me, it's a known fact she deplores guns. Maybe you should have me shoot her and her knife me," Brett taunted Gordon while slowly sliding his palm toward the bow at his side.
"This is getting out of hand, Gordon." Willow rose to her knees and sat back on her heels, staring hatefully at her husband. "Why don't you pack your things and leave? No one would have to know you're alive. I, for one, wouldn't say a word. Lance is better off believing you're dead."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Playing house with this half-breed," he snapped, glancing down at his wounded palm. Fresh blood dripped onto the straw on the ground, forming a dark puddle.
"Seems like you're losing an awful lot of blood," Brett said. "Did the old ones visit your dreams last night? Don't look so shocked, I was there too, remember? I saw what they did. You realize you're bleeding to death, don't you?"
"Brett, what are you talking about," Willow asked.
"Tell her, Gordon. Tell her how you've been pilfering her people's artifacts. Tell her how you dug up the graves and stole what she thought was protected. One of those ghost shirts belongs to a great medicine man, Nat-o-wap-ah, Blind Medicine."
"How do you know these things, Brett?" Willow asked again.
"It comes in my dreams. Nat-o-wap-ah came to me and asked that I return his powerful shirt. I told him I would. He said the man who stole it would feel the blood drain from his body if he didn't return it," Brett said, sliding his fingers over the bow hand rest.
"I don't believe a word of this bullshit," Gordon snapped. "You've turned into a freaking Indian. Couldn't stand you much before, it's worse now. You're unnatural."
"Call me any name you like. I’ve never needed to have you for a friend. I don't even care if you believe me. Look how your hand is bleeding. You think that's natural, Gordon?"
"I don't have to stand here listening to this nonsense. I'll kill you both, then―"
"What? Wait for the ancestors to come for you? You know the feel of their darkness. You know the coldness of the swallowing hole. You even know the smell of their rotting, decayed bodies, don't you?" Brett goaded.
"Shut up! This doesn't make any sense." Small beads of perspiration formed on Gordon's forehead and upper lip.
"Maybe if you return the shirt and the other artifacts, they might be forgiving," Brett suggested.
"This is crazy,” Gordon sneered. “I don't back down to live Indians, much less dead ones."
Brett tensed as Gordon pulled a gun from his pocket and aimed it toward Willow. Brett considered aiming the bow at Gordon, then reconsidered, realizing how ridiculous it would be against a gun. He had an immediate understanding how the Indians must have felt when the white man came with their thunder sticks. Helpless . . . totally helpless. "No one is going to believe we killed each other." He adjusted his cast so he could move his good leg under him. It would be easier to get up when the time came.
"They certainly won't think of blaming me, now will they?" Gordon asked, laughing. "That's the beauty of being dead."
Gordon's laughter still sounded high pitched and crazed. Perhaps it had been the result of being a dead man for six months. It might have been his experience with the ancestors. Whatever the cause, reasoning with this man would be futile, yet, Brett decided he had to try. "You don't have to kill us. Just leave."
Willow had grown unusually silent. Brett placed a hand on her arm and felt her tremble. So, Gordon had reduced her to this sullen, silent submission. The bastard!
"Never thought you'd see her with her mouth shut, did you, Brett old boy? She knows her place. You got to train a woman to behave. Ain't that right, darling?" Gordon took a few steps closer.
Unmoving, Willow kept her eyes downcast.
"Willow? You okay?" Brett asked, shaking her slightly.
"Answer, woman," Gordon shouted. "Know what I'll do if you don't," he threatened, moving closer to her.
Brett wondered if she lured Gordon closer, hoping that together they could over take him, or did she truly fear the man this much? Brett gripped the bow, ready to use it in any way that might cause the bastard injury.
"Bitch?" Gordon kicked her knee with his boot tip.
Willow dropped to her back, out of Brett's way. He raised the bow, bringing the wide wooden piece against Gordon's shin.
Gordon bellowed in pain, took several hops back and fell against the wall of straw bales. They collapsed, sending him sprawling. Within seconds he'd scrambled to his feet.
Brett read fury and the uncontrolled wild-look of a madman. Brett drew in a ragged breath as Gordon cocked his gun and leveled it at Willow.
"Look at her! Not so independent now, is she? I'm going to splatter her brains all over you, Brett. I'll let you feel the pain of losing her, and then I'll end it for you, too."
"You won't get your hands on either of the boys," Willow said, her tone low. She glared at Gordon with cold eyes and an icy expression. Her posture spoke of pride and defiance.
"You'll be six feet under, love. Nothing will stop me from doing what I want."
"I gave Mike Ferrell a packet before he left this afternoon. Instructions on the envelope say to open at the event of my death. Inside is the gun you used to murder that poor man whom you chose to take your place. I'm sure it has your fingerprints all over it. I told them you were alive and that Brett, Mike and Wyatt can verify it. I also included some soil testing results that prove oil has been found on Brett's property. It's motive enough for murder." Willow drew in a deep breath.
"So? It's my gun. It would have my fingerprints all over it. Anyone could have used it and returned it to the house. Where's the proof or witness it was me who shot that man? Maybe I went in hiding when I realized someone was trying to kill me. I've been in hiding and trying to gather proof."
"Think you've got it all figured out? You don't." Willow’s voice gained strength. “Just in case they can't prove you're guilty of this murder, which I think they can, I've made sure you won't get near the boys or their property. I wrote a Will, giving my parents full custody of Lance. Brett did the same for Sean. We both stipulated if we died it would be murder, and that you and Wyatt were guilty. We gave our sons complete ownership of our properties. You won’t be able to get it refuted in court. Even if your little murder scheme works, you still won’t get the boys, or the property oozing with oil—and that means you won’t be getting Lorraine."
"Bullshit!" Gordon snapped back. "It's my property and soon it'll all be mine. Lorraine and I will be living the life of luxury."
"Not at the rate you're bleeding," Brett pointed out. "You should be feeling weak, almost faint by now."
"Shut up. You're both trying to confuse me." Gordon's stance wavered slightly, yet he continued to aim his gun at Willow's head. "I don't believe you gave Mike a damn thing."
"Take your chances, then," Brett said. "Either way, you won't get away with it. Leave while you still can. You know you won't get the boys or the land."
"I don't give a rat's ass about Lance, but I will be reunited with Lorraine and my son. Sean will carry on with my dynasty." He extended his arm
and leveled the gun at Willow.
A movement behind Gordon caught Brett's attention. A figure clearly emerged from the opening. Brett stared, disbelief filling him. The Indian man of his dreams materialized before his eyes. He no longer had a haze about him, as he had in all his other appearances over the years. He had become real.
"Before you pull the trigger," Brett said, nearly whispering, "You might reconsider. A witness," he paused to glance past Gordon, back again, then continued, "could prove to be almost as fatal as your bleeding hand."
"Don't expect me to fall for that lame trick someone's behind you. I wasn't born yesterday."
"Evil one," the Indian called out, his tone that of the old ones.
Chapter Sixteen
Gordon whirled around to face the newcomer. "Where'd you come from? What the hell do you want?" he asked in a shaking tone.
"You know what we want. Where have you hidden the ghost shirt? Where are the beaded necklaces and all the weapons you stole from the sacred grounds? Did you think we would let you get away with it? You are dying, Napi-kwan."
Gordon stepped back slightly. "What the hell did you call me?"
"I called you white man. You are like those of years ago," the Indian explained. "You steal from my people. You lie, cheat, and even kill to get what you want. You are evil. When you return the things you have taken, the bleeding will stop"
"I don't have that junk anymore. I sold it all. Hell, I don't know who has them. You can't do this to me. It's murder!" Gordon shouted.
"How can we kill a dead man? Besides, it is not us who are killing you. It is your evil that brought you to this. I do not want to end your life here. It is fitting for you to die slow. Your lifeblood is leaving you. It is better this way. But I will not let you kill Willow Howling Moon. I will not let you kill my son, Shadow Chaser."
Brett blinked and shook his head to clear his thoughts. He glanced over at Willow and saw the same disbelief or surprise in her expression. He wondered if he had heard right. This Indian man was his father?
Brett felt Willow's palm rest across his. Her warmth confirmed he wasn't dreaming.
The Indian still stood facing Gordon. "Go. Find and return what you have stolen. If you do not do this, then you would be wise to find a high place to pray to your God. If you are lucky, he will forgive you for the evil that is within you. When your spirit wishes to soar to a good place, the spirits of those you stole from will come to devour you. They will haunt you until eternity. You will be able to do no more harm to others, even in the afterlife."
"You expect me to believe all this shit?" Gordon staggered a few steps.
"You believe, only you are too ignorant to admit it," the Indian responded.
Brett examined the Indian’s expression. Strong, powerful and . . . Brett rested his gaze on a white buffalo stone necklace and wrapped his palm over his own. The small, turquoise-beaded feather with a copper bead outline matched his in every way. His heart pounded. Could it be true? Had he found his father at last?
Gordon dropped to his knees, shaking.
"Do you not feel it?" the Indian asked. "If you listen hard you will hear the drums and rattles of the old ones. They are coming for you."
"No!" Gordon scrambled to his feet and waved the gun around like a madman. "I'll kill every last one of those damn heathens. They won't take me." His voice shook as much as his weakened body.
"You can't kill spirits, Napi-kwan," the Indian said. “Eternal damnation, I believe the white man calls your future. Here they come."
Gordon turned a ghastly shade of white, as though no blood remained in his body. A blast from his gun caused Brett to jump in surprise. The bullet caught the Indian in the shoulder. Within seconds a dark, whirling cloud entered the straw enclosure. Brett thought his own breath had been sucked from his mouth.
Glancing at Willow, he couldn't help being surprised at her seeming calmness. Did she understand what was happening? He turned back to Gordon and glimpsed him being pulled into the darkness. His horrible screams grew faint as the whirling, black, cold air seeped between the cracks in the barn sides, then blended with the night.
"He is gone," the Indian said, and then dropped to the ground.
Brett attempted to get up to go help the man, but his heavy, cumbersome cast hindered his progress. He crawled the distance, ignoring his pain. A quick look at where the Indian had been shot caused Brett increased anxiety. "Are you dying?"
"I am not hurt all that bad. The bullet passed through my shoulder," he said, showing his wound.
Thoughts crowded Brett’s mind as he looked over the man before him. He felt a connection with this stranger. "You're . . . you're my father?" he asked, afraid the answer was yes. Afraid it was no.
"I am your father," he answered, staring back at Brett.
"Why haven't you told me this before now?" Memories of his shame gripped him. He’d been the product of a rape and didn’t even know who his father was. The hateful words and actions of the other kids making fun of him flashed in his memory. It all surfaced, as did the feelings of confusion, anger, and desertion.
"I understand what you are feeling. I have pleaded with your mother many times over the years. I wanted to tell you the truth. She is a strong and even stubborn woman. She believed your growing hatred for Indians would not permit you to accept me. She feared the truth would kill your love for her."
Brett thought over the Indian's words. "She didn't want me to know the truth because she thought I'd stop loving her? That doesn't make sense. I could never stop loving my mother," Brett said, more confused than ever.
"I did not rape your mother, Shadow Chaser. You are not the result of the story you heard. Your mother and I found love. Your father did not turn cold and bitter when she told him the story about her rape. Before you were born, he did not know how to love or be kind. I worked for him. Your mother found solace in talking to me when he was out drinking. We did not plan to fall in love, but it happened. Then we found out she was with child, you. If you were born looking―"
"Indian?" Brett’s tone held a touch of bitterness. He knew he clenched his jaw, but he couldn't stop feeling betrayed once again.
"Yes, Indian. Not because it was an embarrassment, but because your father would have realized she hadn't been faithful. I feared he'd kill her. She told him the rape story, and he beat her so badly, I feared she and even you would not live."
"Why didn't she leave him?" Some of his anger subsided when he thought of how brutal his father could be. Brett had always felt protective for his mother.
"She wanted you to have the ranch. She wanted you to have an education and a chance to make something of yourself. On the reservation you would have been accepted for your Indian blood. But you would have had fewer opportunities. In the white world you're a half-breed, unaccepted, but the doors are open if your father owns a ranch and your parents are white."
"She did it for me?" he asked, thinking it through.
"Yes. I tried convincing her to tell you the truth. When your father was away, I'd sneak in your room at night and watch you sleep. I was there for your first words. I was there for your first steps. I watched you grow before my eyes, but I couldn't talk to you. When you got older, I couldn't even hold you. I watched you grow up to be a fine young man, but I could never tell you that I'm your father." John Steals Many Horses adjusted the cloth he pressed into his wound.
Brett had forgotten about the man's injury. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"No. There is no way to explain how a dead man shot me and is now living his eternity with the dark spirits."
The puddle of Gordon's blood had already seeped into the ground. Straw covered some of the irregular edges. Soon there would be nothing left to reveal Gordon Jenkins had ever been there. "I see what you mean," Brett said, glancing at Willow.
She looked at John and then Brett. "I can't believe I never saw it before," she said in a quiet tone.
"Never saw what?" Brett asked.
"The
two of you look so much alike, I can't believe no one noticed. I’ve known you all my life, John." Willow got to her feet. "I'll bet you were the Indian who helped the boys when they ran away together. You kept their fires burning hot and watched over them so nothing happened, didn't you?"
A slow nod and soft smile moved across the man's face.
This Indian is my father, Brett repeated in his mind. He'd longed for this day his whole life. It didn't seem real. Lately, what did seemed real? "I wish my mother had told me years ago," he admitted, looking at the ground.
"She did what she thought was best." John’s tone fell deep with emotion.
"Why was she so stubborn about it? She knew I hated my father . . . him!" Brett gritted his teeth.
"What if you were to slip the information in anger to him? He would have killed us both or at least tried. Where would that leave you? She couldn't take the chance."
"She could have told me after he died," Brett said.
"Yes. I told her that many times. By then your hatred for Indians was no secret. Like I said, she did not want to take the chance of losing you."
"I can see how she would think that. Before Willow made me face my prejudices I couldn’t have understood." Brett realized there could be no explanation for his behavior. His hatred, his prejudices, his anger had kept him from the one truth he'd always wanted. Through Willow he'd come to terms with himself. Now, he could come to terms with his mother and this man he finally could call Father. "Why did you call me Shadow Chaser?"
"I have watched you always. You chased after all the shadows of Indian men. I knew you wondered which one was your father. Your pain saddened me. I wanted to tell you and end your search. I could not."
Brett had so many questions, but they would have to wait. He stared at John and a lump grew in his throat. "Sit next to me and let Willow treat that wound and wrap it at least," he said, exhaustion claiming him body and spirit. He pulled himself back to where his pillow beckoned and stretched back on his makeshift bed. "I think we have a lot to talk about."
