“Put your hands on my shoulders. Do it, Catherine, and look at me.” He spread two fingers and pointed to his face. “Right here, look into my eyes. You are not going to die. Do you hear me?”
“Talk.”
“What?”
She dropped the knife, placed her hands on his hard, broad shoulders and willed his strength to flow into her. Sweat from her forehead mingled with the tears sliding down her feverish cheeks. She cried for him, the babe that would soon enter this ugly, black world. “Talk to me, anything, just talk.”
Chapter Two
Elam thought he was prepared for anything when he kicked in the door to the miner’s shack. Apparently, he wasn’t. The last thing he expected to encounter was a woman in the last throes of labor. Her sweat-soaked body and pain-filled eyes pitched him back to a time he didn’t want to revisit. Life had a strange way of kicking a man in the ass when he least expected it. Best that man must rise to the occasion, do what he must to get through it rather than piss and moan ‘why me’?
He knew the woman was Kiowa, or marked by the Kiowa, the moment he laid eyes on her. No, wait; he couldn’t toss her into a class with all women. Despite the hardships she must have endured while living in their camp, the word woman didn’t do her justice. This female was sin and sorrow rolled into one, the worst combination God ever created.
Like a veil of gossamer silk, her black hair hung in waves about her shoulders. A belt of mountain lion fur clung to her protruded abdomen; the Kiowa’s way of telling the world she’s with child. Dark circles shadowed her anguished eyes, eyes that reminded him of the violet gentian busting through the outcrops near the Rockies. One look into those depthless orbs and any man would wonder who dropped the angel from the clouds. Perfection. Ethereal beauty personified.
The cloying scents of earth, white sage and musk radiated off her body when she placed her hands on his shoulders. Her chest heaving with effort and pain, she hissed the words through teeth that were whiter than sun-bleached linen. “Your name, tell me your name.”
“Elam, my name is Elam Barden.”
“How-how did you come to this-this place?”
“I am... that is, I was a tracker for the US Army. Gave ‘em ten good years. They wanted two more, but I said, ‘No, I’m going home.’”
With her eyes locked on his, she sucked in a gulp of air and released it in measured breaths while shuddering through the next convulsion. At the end of the spasm, her chin met her chest. “God, help me!”
“Catherine, look into my eyes. Stay with me.”
Her moist, full lips quivered when she looked up again. “Where’s home?”
“Colorado. It’s not much, but I have a small ranch along the Arkansas.”
“Your wife waits for you.”
He got the feeling she didn’t care one whit about who was waiting for him, but she had to keep talking. Maybe she reckoned as long as she could talk she wasn’t dying. He didn’t think she’d die but no sense trying to reason with a woman mindless with pain. Hell, no sense trying to reason with a woman when she’s of clear mind. “No, an old Indian has been tending the cattle and goats, running things while I’ve been gone.”
Digging her nails into his shoulders, her hopeful eyes searched his. “Will you know what to do when the baby comes?”
For her sake, he had to sound relaxed and self-assured. “You’re in luck. I delivered a babe once.” His voice trailed off as he fought the demons. “Years ago, a lifetime ago.”
His mind wandered to a time he’d spent years trying to forget. A montage of scarlet gore, flesh and blood trampled through his brain like a whirlwind bent on destruction.
She wheezed the words. “Your wife’s baby?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about her and your child.”
“No, not now.”
“Then tell me how you helped her....”
He wanted to scream the words, but one look at her angelic face stopped him. “Some other time, maybe.”
Their eyes locked in a timeless stare again. Seconds passed in suspended time before realization crowded out the pain and suffering in hers. “They died, didn’t they?”
Elam’s gut churned with guilt. He wanted to run from the panic in her eyes, flee this hell-hole no matter what awaited him outside. Death would be preferable to the mantle of regret and remorse cloaking him. Had cloaked him for a decade. God had to be one sick son of a bitch to place him in the path of another woman giving birth. Then again, maybe God had nothing to do with it. Karma could be at play here or good old-fashioned salvation. His ma always said, ‘Believe in second chances, son, and might be they’ll come your way now and then.’ His heart stampeded in his chest. What if the second chance turned out to be a repeat of the past? What if Catherine sensed his ultimate fear—her death during childbirth? Just like his wife’s death. His hands grew clammy and nausea swirled in his gullet.
“O sun. You remain forever, but we Ko-eetsenko must die. O earth you remain forever, but we Ko-eetsenko must die.”
Her frail voice and pitiful lament snapped him out of his misery. “Stop it, Catherine! Do you hear me! Stop with that morbid Kiowa death chant. You’re not going to die. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you.”
“The baby comes; I cannot stop him now.” Spouting oaths no Christian woman would claim, her face contorted into a mask of pain and torment.
Elam’s belly hit the hard floor planks of the shack, his hands positioned to catch the child. Covered in blood and mucous, the tiny form slid into his embrace like a slippery eel. Visions from his past threatened to drag him into the pit of darkness.
Catherine’s frantic voice came to him through a tunnel. “Elam! He’s not crying. Elam!”
This can’t be happening, please not again. Silence settled around them like a vaporous fog chasing the night, broken only by his desperate pleas, “Breathe, little one, breathe.”
Infernal moments of time passed before raucous wails of new life rent the still air. Catherine’s joyous cry of relief followed on its heels. Elam clutched the infant to his chest with one cupped hand and swiped at the tears sliding down his cheeks with the other. Catherine slithered to the floor, rolled to her side and stretched out her arms for her son. She scanned his face, and next his body. Her pain-endured expression, the only one he’d known, faded into a mask of joy and wonderment. Her eyes found his and for the first time he saw her smile. Words alone couldn’t describe the myriad emotions coursing through him, but if he had to make a list, rapture, bliss and serenity would be at the top. He wondered now if he’d truly lived through the last ten years or merely drew air to survive. Nothing mattered to him outside the walls of this shack, not the mournful wail of the wind or the impending threat of Kiowa bent on death. The mutt, the boy, Catherine and him existed, and nothing else.
***
Wolf-dog whimpered when Catherine rose up to an elbow in the bunk. She looked down on her son’s perfect features and elation coursed through her blood. Here was a reason to live again. Boots shuffled against the plank floors across the room. Rifle across his arms, Elam stood guard near the window.
He must have sensed she was awake. Without turning around, his voice drifted toward her. “Did I tell you I watched over my shoulder as the birds fell to the ground during the squall?”
“I imagine many of our animal brothers died during that storm.”
“Yes, black clouds of dust stole their breath and they weren’t strong enough to flee.”
“That could have been me yesterday, almost was,” she said looking back with a shudder. “So many times I thought I couldn’t go on, take another step. But Wolf-dog pulled me along, his loyalty unquestionable. He must have sensed his direction, knew where we were headed. I owe him my life, which yesterday I didn’t think was worth acorns.”
“The dog belongs to you?”
“Oh, no. Animals belong to no one. When I first arrived in the Kiowa camp, they considered me a slave. I was given little food, but what I did receiv
e I shared with Wolf-dog.” She patted the dog on the head. “He’s been by my side ever since.”
“I take it you weren’t always a slave?”
“A family took me in when I was thirteen summers. They saw the value of trading me in marriage.”
“To Gomda?”
“Yes.” How she wished he’d turn around so she could see his face, know if his mouth had curled down after her admission. “He brought the most horses.”
“You’re free now, Catherine, and I can take a detour before heading to Colorado; return you to your family.”
Her heart splintered. “I no longer have a family or a home. The Kiowa made sure of that when they raided our homestead.” Visions of her mother, father and little Jack after they were scalped invaded her thoughts. Perhaps, she’d take those images to the grave.
“How old were you when they raided your homestead?”
“Eight.” She sighed. “An innocent, naïve eight.”
“You must have a Kiowa name. They name all captives.”
“Yes.” She looked down and fidgeted with her fingers. “Tapco. It means—”
“Antelope,” he said still staring out the window.
“I ran, ran faster than I thought possible when they came. Apparently not fast enough. For that, they named me Tapco.” She paused. “It is a name I choose not to use, no matter what happens.”
“You had it pretty rough with the Kiowa, huh?”
“At first, yes. But in time, I found friends among the tribe. Not all of the People are heathens, just like not all whites are kind.” She held no illusions what her life would be like if she returned to civilization with an Indian son. Women who had been captured by natives and ransomed were scorned, ridiculed and cast aside. She didn’t care what they said and did to her, but how could she bring that ugly world into her son’s life?
Elam lifted his chin as if focusing on a particular object through the window. “Compassion and tolerance don’t play favorites with race.”
She tried to see over his shoulder, a near impossible task from the cot. “Has the storm passed?”
“Yes, one has.”
Clutching the baby to her chest, she rose with the death knell ringing in her heart. Abject horror prickled her spine. “Gomda comes?”
“He’s been here since dawn.” Elam swiveled around, his serene expression mingling with one she hadn’t come to recognize yet. “Look, I have no business asking you, not with ghosts from my past waiting to welcome me home, but would you consider—?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know what I was about to ask?”
“Oh, but I do know, and yes, a thousand times yes. I will journey with you to your home.”
“You could be saying yes to a dead man, you know?”
“Death is but another journey; I no longer fear it.” Her voice cracked. “Besides, we’ve lived several lifetimes since you walked through that door.”
“I’m about to walk out now; it’s the only way. Gomda won’t storm the cabin and risk killing his son, and we don’t have enough food and water to last more than two days.”
“I understand.”
“No matter what happens, I want you to know I wouldn’t change last night, watching your son come into the world.”
“You were sent by the Mountain Spirits.”
“No, Catherine, I was passing by, looking for shelter like—”
“I choose to believe a spirit intervened. We crossed paths for a reason.” She walked across the room and stood beside him at the window. “Perhaps one day you’ll tell me about your wife and son. Because you lost them, you were determined not to let it happen again.”
“I can’t lie to you. Yes, I couldn’t let it happen again. I wasted ten good years on regret, self-pity and whiskey. I’d rather be dead than repeat that cycle over you and the boy.”
“We’ll come with you, Elam Barden. Maybe you’ll hear the song of the bird again and,” she placed a hand on his forearm, “perhaps I’ll learn to care about life once more.”
Looking down on the boy, he smiled. “You have good reason to try.” He turned to face her. “Then it’s settled before we walk out that door; you’ll come with me?”
She offered a nod through a shimmer of tears.
“Keep your son close. Gomda won’t risk harming him to get to you.”
“Are you a good fighter?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Fair enough. I’ve fought my share of Indians and I’m still here to talk about it.”
“Gomda shows favor to his right leg, a battle wound. He will carry his weight on the left.”
Elam smiled. “Good to know.”
“And…there is more. Do not allow him to use the lightning stick.”
“What…why?”
“It has power.”
“That’s the second time you’ve brought that up. My God,” he said studying her face. “You believe it.”
“I have witnessed it with my own eyes.”
“Catherine, I don’t harbor such beliefs but even if I did, I can’t change what is about to happen.”
She swiped a tear from her cheek. “May the Mountain Spirits be with you.”
Chapter Three
Elam opened the door to the shack and Catherine followed him, the baby close to her chest, Wolf-dog dogging her heels. The sun struggled to cut through the murky aftermath of the storm, but one would have to be blind not to see the gaunt, painted faces of the warriors surrounding the hovel. Fierce and lethal they stood, their bodies primed to launch into a blur of motion with one command from the chief’s son, Wayward One.
Gomda stepped forward brandishing his lightning-struck branch. “Come, Tapco, let me gaze upon the face of my child.”
Catherine offered him a sneer. “That is no longer my name and I am no longer your wife.”
When hatred flashed in the Brujo’s dark eyes, Elam cocked his rifle and his hand slid to the haft of the knife resting in his boot.
“It is for the Council to decide now,” Wayward One said. “The Kiowa child must have a father.”
“He’s part white,” Catherine said, emboldened by Elam’s courage against impossible odds. “I will choose now about his life.”
One thing was certain, not a warrior in the group would harm Gomda’s child. She took solace in that thought. No matter what happened to Elam and her, the boy would live. Yesterday, she felt certain she’d die bringing him into the world. She had accomplished her one act of grace by giving him life. Her death today no longer mattered. Her legacy, whatever it was, would go on through her son.
“Would you deny the child a father, one who will teach him about the sun, the earth and spirits?”
“Ha! Teach him to raid and kill, you mean.”
Elam put an arm out, his voice the embodiment of calm and strength. “She stays with me. I will be the boy’s father.”
Shouts and sneers broke out among the warriors, followed by a clatter of raised voices.
Her heart fell. “Gomda says no, I belong to him. Wayward One says it is your right to fight for me.”
“Cheers for Kiowa customs.” Elam shed his shirt, handed her the rifle and wrenched the knife from his boot. “So be it, with one condition.”
Wayward One nodded. “Speak.”
“If I die, no harm will come to her. You take the boy and let her go.”
What? Does Elam think I can go on now without my son?
On a whisper that only she could hear, Elam delivered the words. “It’s the only way, Catherine. If you thought your life was worthless before, a living hell, that pales in comparison to what it will be now back in that village.”
“But... Elam, I can’t—”
“You can and you will, or all this bloodshed is for naught. If I die, I want my last thought to be that your son will be safe and somehow, you’ll find the will to go on.” Setting his teeth, his voice went up an octave. “Say it; tell me you’ll surrender the boy and leave this place.”
With h
er heart in her throat, she looked at the child’s face and whispered, “I’ll do as you ask.”
Wayward One’s words broke into their heart-wrenching agreement. “I give my word as a warrior. If you die, Gomda takes the boy and the woman is free.”
An ominous silence enveloped the bronze-faced crowd. Catherine peered over her son’s head and sent a prayer skyward. Elam walked forward, his sudden absence beside her pitching her pulse into rapid acceleration. Wayward One bound Gomda’s and Elam’s left arms together with strips of leather, leaving their right hands free. When they finally faced one another, her heart leaped into her throat. Rarely did both men live through such combat. Knives would clash, blood would flow and she knew one, or perhaps both, would die this day.
She took note of the differences between the fighters, hoping Elam’s lean, agile body could outmaneuver Gomda’s stout frame. Despite her efforts to remain strong, her knees trembled and her spine fell into a boneless mass of cornmeal. She wasn’t foolish enough to dispel Gomda’s hidden talents, powers that marked him a potent shaman. The warrior’s center part was splashed with red—the color of battle. Sweat streamed in small beads from his forehead and dripped onto his bronze torso. His hard mouth formed a thin, firm line, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember a time in her life he had smiled. The air cracked with Gomda’s strength and confidence, turning her blood to ice.
In contrast, Elam stood tall and erect, his solid body braced for battle. He didn’t have Gomda’s years or experience, but not a flicker of fear showed in his stoic expression. For a breathless moment, Elam’s eyes locked with hers and her heart splintered with pride and gratitude.
Oh Great Spirit, help him.
Gomda lunged and Elam parried with a downward thrust of his blade. Silver flashed beneath a hazy sun and ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ rose amid the warriors. Elam kicked Gomda’s feet out from under him. Bodies rolled and grappled in a cloud of dust. Mesmerized by the scene playing out, Catherine couldn’t force her gaze away. She couldn’t allow herself to think about Elam dying, his blood staining the earth below him should he lose. Her intestines churned with nausea and bile rose in her throat. The combatants clambered to their feet, straining against the ties binding them, stabbing through a dense mist of sand and grit.
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