The Shaman's Secret

by Natasha Narayan

  I turned away coldly and saw Isaac flash me a look of surprise. No matter, it would all be out in the open soon. In fact, the sooner I told everyone how I felt about Waldo, the better.

  The preacher began intoning the funeral service. He had an odd rasping voice, and stopped for breath between each sentence. It made his address even more haunting as he spoke about sin, and our friend who was being burned today, who had committed many grave crimes against God. But he had seen the error of his ways in his last days and repented and sought Jesus’s love.

  The preacher only hoped that Mr. Cyril Baker had done enough to save himself from the fiery furnaces raging below ground. He painted a vivid picture of hell, the never-ending torments handed out to those who had lived an evil life.

  The townsfolk listened respectfully with several interjecting “Praise the Lord” here and there. Some of them were probably here because they hoped Aunt Hilda would buy them more drinks later. She was becoming a bit of a local legend.

  Then the service was over and the match was put to the funeral pyre. We watched it burn, the smoke rising black and oily for a bit. Then my aunt and Waldo, surrounded by admirers, went to make their way back into town.

  I drew my aunt to one side and said I needed a private word. This was going to be hard; Aunt Hilda had always had a soft spot for Waldo.

  “I think it would be better if Waldo went back to San Francisco and we continued the rest of the journey without him,” I said.

  “Why on earth would we want to lose Waldo?”

  “We can’t trust him.”

  “He’s a darn good fighter. The best shot we’ve got.” She corrected herself: “After me, of course.”

  “Aunt Hilda, he isn’t honest—or to be depended on.”

  “What’s this? Another of your lovers’ tiffs?”

  I sighed. “We’re not lovers and this isn’t a tiff. If you must know, I detest the way he betrayed the Apaches. Even you must have noticed. He told those cowboys right out where to find them. I cannot continue to put my trust in someone who could behave like that.”

  “Stuff and nonsense.” Aunt Hilda smirked at me. “You do get the craziest notions in your head.” Raising her voice, she yahooed to Waldo who was striding ahead with a party, including Red Dobie and his pretty girl. The girl was awfully friendly with Waldo, I noticed. Well, she could have him.

  “Hey, Waldo, c’m’ere.”

  “What is it?” Waldo called, turning round.

  “My niece wants you to go back to Frisco!” Aunt Hilda bellowed.

  A hurt look passed over Waldo’s face. Serve him right. Half the mourning party had turned too, to witness our quarrel.

  “This isn’t the time, Hilda,” I hissed angrily. “You go on. I need a moment.”

  Hilda groaned and stomped away.

  I purposely dawdled, desperate to get rid of the others. I needed a moment’s peace. A black mood was upon me. The quarrel with Waldo. The feeling of being utterly lost, of flailing in the dark, with hidden forces opposing us. The reverend’s sermon had affected me powerfully too. Maybe it was the desert sun, but I could feel the heat of that hellfire on my skin. I lingered and slipped further and further behind the others, dwelling on my own errors.

  I had the same mortal illness as Cyril Baker. I could feel it eating away at my mind, wriggling on my skin. If I was to die soon, would I go to hell?

  My thoughts were interrupted by a loud hissing.

  “Pssst!”

  Startled, I looked to the left and right. There was no one to be seen near me. Just the dwindling desert, scrub and prickly bushes. In front, mourners were heading down the path, back into town.

  “Kit Salter—here.”

  The voice seemed to be coming from ground level. I stooped down near a thorny mesquite bush and saw a pair of gleaming black eyes fixed on me.

  “Do not be afraid.”

  It was Boy, my crazy Apache friend, her face smeared with red clay, her black hair caked with dust. She was lying flat on her tummy, wearing nothing except her short deerskin tunic. Unbelievably, she was grinning at me.

  “Me afraid? If the settlers catch you, Boy, they’ll have your guts.”

  “They will never catch me.”

  “They know you stole Carlito.”

  “What is Carlito?”

  “Rolling Thunder—the most wonderful horse in the West.”

  “Ah yes, he is mine. I will take him back.”

  “He is not yours. He belongs to Red Dobie. You stole him.” I corrected myself. “He belongs to Aunt Hilda now—but still you mustn’t steal, Boy—they will hang you for it.”

  From ahead, Isaac looked back and shouted at me to hurry up.

  “Coming,” I called back, then turned to Boy.

  “I must go. You too. Go now, Boy. It is too dangerous for you here.”

  “I come to warn you of danger. Far-Seeing Man, he tell me that your friend, the pale ghost, he is dead.”

  “How did he know?” I gasped.

  “Far-Seeing Man knows all. This is why he named Far-Seeing Man.”

  “Far-Seeing Man must have known Cyril couldn’t survive his illness.”

  “I tell you, he sees. Also he sees that you are in the dark.”

  I drew a deep breath, because this was exactly how I had been feeling.

  “You are running in the dark and have nowhere to go. So Far-Seeing Man sends me to guide you to light. I will take you to the Grand Canyon.”

  I wanted to pour out my thanks, to weep almost, but I bit them down. “How will you know where to take us?”

  “I will follow Far-Seeing Man’s steps. Tomorrow at first light take the road south out of this place and ride for ten thousand paces on the desert road, just between those two mountains.” From her position on the sand Boy pointed the way. “Then you will come to a rock shaped like a horsehead. There I will meet you and take you onward.”

  “We will be there,” I said. “Boy—I don’t know how to say it—thank you.”

  Boy grinned at me. I noticed there was a new gap between her front teeth, right in the middle. She must have lost a tooth in a fight. The sight sent a pang of fear through me.

  “Your village. The … the other Apaches. They are not taken … They are safe?” Fear and guilt made me stumble over my words, which were like bitter lumps in my mouth.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are not too many dead?”

  “Why dead?”

  “But the settlers … They came and raided you. I saw that tunic they captured. The beaded one. I saw them set off—Boy, I must tell you this: it is our fault.”

  Boy laughed. “The settlers came—I was hiding in the trees, watching with the braves. They cursed and cursed when they found out we had gone. There was nothing for them—nothing but that tunic. We left them that as it was an unclean thing. The woman who wore it is gone to Usen.”

  I stared at her. Usen, the Apache creator god. What sense did this make?

  “But, Kit, you know this all. I told it to your friend Yellow Hair. I say, if you are stuck, tell them the way to our village. We will be long gone. They can never find us.”

  “KIT SALTER!” my aunt boomed. “What in heaven’s name are you doing out there? Come on right now.”

  With a hurried farewell to my Apache friend, I rejoined the rest of the mourners.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The wake for Cyril Baker was in full swing by the time I arrived at the Last-Dance Saloon. The atmosphere was more like a drunken party than a funeral. The piano player was banging away at a lively tune, the girls were dancing in a froth of bare ankles and scarlet skirts, Aunt Hilda was standing drinks all round.

  It was only just noon and she was already knocking back the Coffin Juice. Her cheeks were flushed and she had a hectic glitter in her eyes.

  Waldo was talking to Red’s girl, whose name, it turned out, was Candy. Candy, for pity’s sake. She might as well have called herself Strawberry Tart or Lemon Sherbet. Waldo was dri
nking beer with a manly air. Rachel and Isaac both looked a bit uncomfortable, nursing their lemonades in another corner of the bar. I noticed a handsome young cowboy was leaning over Rachel, smiling. Her face, however, was set.

  As soon as she saw me, she made an excuse and left him. Isaac followed her.

  “Thank goodness you rescued me,” she hissed. “That cowboy hasn’t had a bath for a month. He stank!”

  “He was talking about what a good life the frontier wife has,” Isaac grinned.

  “I can just see you knee-deep in cowboy babies, all wearing ten-gallon hats,” I said, smiling at Rachel. She didn’t smile back but changed the subject:

  “We need to get your aunt out of here. She’s tipsy. She’s going to make a fool of herself.”

  “Before lunch!” Isaac said, as if that was especially scandalous.

  “She’s old enough to look after herself,” I replied. “Anyway, I know from experience that no one can handle alcohol like Aunt Hilda. She must have some sort of well inside her where it all goes.”

  Waldo caught sight of us at that moment. With a sort of smirk he bent down and whispered something in Candy’s ear. She was tossing her red curls and smiling up at Waldo, just as if he was a big piece of strawberry pie. I felt uneasy. Boy had made it clear that I had misjudged Waldo. Not that I cared, but he was being an idiot. Red Dobie looked none too happy about him being so friendly to his girl. After all, the saloon keeper had given away his favorite horse just so the silly girl could have the biggest diamond in the Wild West.

  Well, I could have warned him. There was only one Carlito.

  Aunt Hilda caught sight of me. “Come over here, Kit,” she bellowed, beckoning me vigorously.

  I made my way through the noise, the smoke, the miners, cowboys, gunslingers and handfuls of saloon girls to Aunt Hilda. Didn’t anyone do any work in Chloride City? I had several knocks by the time I’d barged through to her.

  She introduced me to Red. “My niece, Kit.”

  “We’ve already met,” I reminded her.

  “One of the finest girls in England. Brave, loyal to a fault. Not much to look at, I know, but then nor am I.”

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar. I was sunburnt, unwashed and my hair was wild.

  “Aunt Hilda, have you gone mad?” I snapped. I kept a straight face, but inside I was hurt. I may not be a beauty like Rachel, but I am not unpleasing-looking.

  “I mean, she’s fine-looking, of course, as any niece of mine would be—just not a mimsy-wimsy beauty type. Why, Kit can fire a gun better than any man. She’s a credit to me.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Red Dobie said, his eyes twinkling.

  “Where is this going, Aunt?” I inquired coldly. “Have you discussed the arrangements for tomorrow? We really should be getting on, you know.”

  “Slow down. I’ve been talking all that over with Red here. Provisions, water, directions.”

  “We’ll do everything to help, ma’am,” Red said.

  “Red is being remarkably helpful,” Aunt Hilda said, gazing at him flirtatiously. “Anyone would think he was keen to see the last of us.”

  “Not me, ma’am,” Red protested, but I was sure he would be—especially Waldo, and Aunt Hilda was being a right nuisance too.

  “Could we take lunch in your room?” I suggested to Aunt Hilda. “We could plan our trip over it and then buy the necessary provisions in the afternoon.”

  Was it my imagination or was Aunt Hilda becoming a little sweet on Red Dobie? Or maybe she just wanted to sink her hooks into her investment in the Last-Dance Saloon. Either way, it was a relief to get her up to the bedroom, and for the steaming urn of soup to arrive. None too soon, for, unusually, I was starving.

  The soup was thin and had pig’s trotters floating in it. Revolting. I had no time to fuss, for as soon as we sat down to eat at the little round table by the window Waldo stood up again.

  “I have an announcement to make,” he said. “This will come as no surprise to some of you. Others, I hope, will regret what I have to say.”

  “Oh, do sit down,” Aunt Hilda said. “This delicious soup will get cold if we have to listen to you jabbering.”

  “No. I must speak my mind. I have decided not to join you on your trip to the Grand Canyon. I will take the first available stagecoach back to San Francisco.” He paused. When he spoke again, there was a catch to his voice. “I will not rejoin you on the journey back to England. I intend to telegraph my mother and tell her I am staying on in America.” He raised his blond head proudly. “I will seek my fortune out here.”

  There was a shocked silence. Rachel threw me an uneasy glance, but didn’t say anything. Then Isaac began to protest:

  “We’re a team, Waldo. I have the ideas and you do the fighting. Why would you want to leave? We work brilliantly together.” His voice rose. “I don’t understand why you would abandon us.”

  “Ask Kit,” Waldo said.

  I was looking at the floor and didn’t raise my eyes to meet his.

  “Go on, ask her.”

  “Kit?” Isaac said.

  “Look, this is all stuff and nonsense,” Aunt Hilda interrupted. “A silly tiff. You’re not leaving us, Waldo. I won’t allow it.”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m truly sorry, Waldo,” I said. “I misjudged you. You did not betray the Apaches—I had the wrong idea—but if you want to leave you must do as you please.”

  Waldo gave a nasty laugh. “That’s just like you, Kit. You say you’re sorry but in the same breath you take it away. You say I must leave.”

  I hadn’t said that, but I resisted pointing it out. Instead I forced contrite words out. “Please stay. I would prefer it.”

  “Prefer it?” Waldo rose from the table. “Too little, too late. I’m sick and tired of you throwing your weight around. Treating me like the dirt under your heel … I’m sorry, I’m very fond of you, Kit, but I just can’t abide it any longer.”

  Rachel’s low voice broke into this exchange. “This is between the two of you,” she said. “I must say, I think you’re being silly and melodramatic, Waldo.” She turned to me. “Kit, what I don’t understand is this: how do you know that Waldo didn’t betray the Apaches?”

  I explained about meeting Boy after the funeral, and how she had told me that the Apaches were safe, that Waldo had known they were moving camp. My words caused a sensation, for the others marveled at the daring of the Apache maiden to come within shooting distance of Chloride. I think Waldo was perhaps a little upset that his sensational statement had been upstaged.

  “So,” I said, “I was wrong. I flew off the handle. I should have known better. Waldo, please forgive me and come with us.”

  I looked him in the eye as I said this. The most humbling apology I have ever had to make to him. He looked at me, and his eyes were distant, hooded by his frowning brows.

  “I’ve been really upset.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t decide now. I’ll think about it and let you know tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, stop being such a girl,” Aunt Hilda butted in. “We can’t do without you. For one thing, Kit’s father already thinks you let her down in China. He would never forgive you if you jumped ship now. For another, this is no pleasure trip we’re setting out on. It is a life-and-death matter for my niece. If you leave us now, you’re abandoning Kit and betraying the rest of us. So, it’s settled. You’re coming with us.”

  That for Aunt Hilda was that. But from the look on Waldo’s face I wouldn’t bet on her getting her way.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  We assembled just after daybreak in the spiky shade of a pinyon pine. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, just flat blue that threatened to whiten till it burned with a dazzling heat. Another roasting day in the desert. Riding for miles, with aching limbs and the sun frying our brains through our straw hats.

  I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.

  Nor was anyone else, if the glum faces of our p
arty were a guide.

  Aunt Hilda had obtained a new outfit, and had a pair of fringed leather trousers to go with her ten-gallon hat. She looked weird, frankly, but then she never cares what anyone else thinks about her. Seeing her stomping about, ordering people around, getting the horses ready, packing provisions in the saddlebags, I wondered again if she ever regretted her lost opportunity for love with Gaston Champlon.

  When I say we were all gathered for our departure from Chloride, I should say everyone except Waldo. It took my aunt a while to notice his absence.

  “Where is that dratted boy?” she asked. “Kit, run up to his room and find him. He’s holding us all up.”

  “I’d rather not,” I said.

  Red Dobie, who had come to see we had everything we needed, offered to do it himself. But Aunt Hilda sent Isaac. Both of them came down from the saloon a while later, a forlorn Isaac dragging a sullen Waldo behind him.

  “Well, what’s going on?” Aunt Hilda said.

  Waldo didn’t reply, just looked mulish.

  “I don’t think he’s coming,” said Rachel.

  “WHAT?” Aunt Hilda exploded. “Of all the childish, ridiculous pranks to pull! I do not believe it of you, Waldo Bell. I’ve always had a lot of time for you, and I simply don’t believe you would let your team down like this. Kit is mortally sick, for pity’s sake.”

  “I have no choice,” Waldo muttered. “Kit has made it clear she doesn’t want me.”

  “Absolute nonsense. My niece may have a sharp tongue, but she apologized—very handsomely. It is you who is being childish and stupid. There, I’ve said it. Frankly, you are being ridiculous.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “Get on your horse now.”

  “NO!”

  “Waldo, I command you.”

  “There isn’t a stagecoach till next week so I’m going to ride to Las Vegas and get one from there.”

  “FOR—” Aunt Hilda was puce-faced, building up to a major explosion. Though I was angry, hurt even, I kept my temper. If Waldo wanted to go, fine, he must.