by Angela White
The orbs worked faster than Angela’s had and Marc was grateful. Healing was draining.
He weaved slightly as he rose. He would have to figure out how to refill it.
Atolius placed a hand on Marc’s arm, steadying him. His voice overflowed with satisfied awe. “The Ghost has come.”
Cameron slowly picked himself up, staring incredulously at the whole leg and the bloody arrow on the ground. When he finally glanced up, the feverish light of fanaticism was shining on his lined face. “My life is yours.”
Marc reached out an arm, not smiling. “I accept.”
Cameron shuddered in fearful eagerness and Marc let go of him. The flash of the future he’d gotten upon touching Cameron was powerful. He leaned down. “You will be a great leader, one day, Cameron Storm of the Chickasaw. The mighty warrior who saved his people.”
Cameron bowed as contentment and pride swept over him in thick waves. Whatever this odd one wanted from him, he would give. The feel of his power was unlike anything Cameron had felt and he wanted…no, he needed more of it.
Marc hid his triumph, glad of the way things appeared to be falling into place. It was a relief to know it would work for him as well. He wasn’t comfortable using Adrian’s leadership methods, but he was able to when the situation called for it. This one did.
10
The next group of Indians joined their party as dusk came. They were trouble. Marc knew it as soon as spotted the signs of their rebellion. On each horse, hung scalps, some still drying. Instead of dismay, he was relieved. These were killers.
As these new riders merged with their group, they were disrespectful, bumping into both Choctaw and Chickasaw horses in their haste to get closer to the Ghost.
Paul and Jax didn’t have time to defend Marc. The warriors they were riding with quickly closed ranks and refused to let the new riders through.
A skirmish immediately ensued.
Marc kept his men in place with a casually raised hand.
Paul and Jax observed the vicious fight with concern, but Marc was noticing the actions of the warriors protecting them. Each was taking the opportunity to touch him. Some were light brushes, some were pats, but all of them fed into Marc’s energy and strengthened his determination to have all of these men along. They were exactly what he needed.
With that thought in mind, Marc stood up in the saddle and took his place in history.
“Enough!”
His shout stopped the fight and swiveled heads his way.
Marc glared at the new Indians, but didn’t let the red bleed through. “My people are dying. I do not have time for this!” He waved a hand at Atolius. “Move us out.”
It was the first order he gave, and it was followed without question. His group of Indians shoved their way through the shocked new men while Marc kept his hands loose and ready.
When he heard the new men nosily fall into the rear of the group without issuing another challenge, Marc allowed himself to breathe. There would be trouble with that group when they camped, but until then, they would stay behind his men.
My men, Marc marveled. Even his time before the war hadn’t satisfied him this way.
11
Now expecting their first challenge, Marc only ran them for a full day instead of the two he’d planned on. They needed to be able defend themselves and he encouraged his men to eat and drink extra rations. Their lives would be decided tonight.
Paul and Jax knew without being told. It didn’t take a degree in Indian culture to know their drag riders were plotting something. They hadn’t been around for Marc’s good moments and that man wasn’t giving them anything right now. It was a quiet, tense ride.
As the Indians began setting up their camp, Marc stopped his men from breaking down the horses. “Water only.”
Those words implied a lot, and told Paul and Jax to get ready.
Marc waited for the drag riders to come to him, aware that the other Indians were no longer moving between them.
He braced himself, ready to prove his lethality once again.
Atolius stepped in front of the large drag warrior before he could reach Marc. They exchanged a few nastily tossed barbs in a language Marc didn’t know, and then both Indians turned to him.
“My Apache brother says you are no ghost. He demands you prove it.”
Marc shrugged lightly, coolly. “Which brave will he sacrifice to me?”
Red Stone, who had been Jimmy Barrows in another lifetime, scowled at the arrogance.
“You should not have come here! You will get us all killed.”
Marc understood the drag rider was trying to protect his people. He would spare the man’s life if he could. That would increase his following.
Marc began stripping his guns and gear, and found himself surrounded by eagerly betting men. It reminded him so much of downtime in the barracks that the tension he’d been carrying slid from his shoulders.
Paul motioned toward his rifle and then Red Stone’s extra mount. “Gun for the horse?”
“No,” Red Stone denied, slightly insulted.
Paul tried again, listening to the haggling going on around them. “Also, a pouch of tobacco and one moon clip of bullets for the revolver in your pack.”
Red Stone’s eyes lit up. “You have a deal. Even if he dies, you will pay.”
Paul was encouraged that they might be let go even if Marc lost, but it was a very distant concern. Marc was ruthless.
Not to be left out, Jax began viewing the arrows in Red Stone’s pouch. “If I have something you want, I’ll need you to teach me to use that when I win it. I’ve always wanted to learn.”
Red Stone grinned widely, showing crooked teeth. “You will cook every meal for me.”
Word had already spread, stories that were becoming legend, and Jax found himself chuckling. “It was good stew. Deal.”
Marc listened in a vague way, getting set in his mind. He wasn’t going to let the tiger out of the cage unless that was what these men needed to see. After tonight, riders would go out to the Choctaw, Chickasaw, and Apache with a final word on whether the Ghost had come. Marc had counted on many things, but mostly that spiritual instinct each of the Indians felt. He would prove that he could stand against what they threw at him, then give them the sign they were waiting for. This was one legend he’d learned well.
12
There were eleven men in the Apache group, all hard bodied, soldier-hating Indians who felt little mercy.
Marc fought them all.
It could have been ugly, but unlike the cage match, where Adrian had known only a group of fighters had a chance, the honorable Indians formed a circle and took him on one by one, losing the only chance they’d stood at a fair fight. In twenty minutes, all but one of the drag riders were bleeding and glowering hatefully from the side.
Marc faced Red Stone, also covered in blood. He may have won each fight, but they’d left their marks on him. He had half a dozen slices that should get stitched at some point.
Red Stone studied the mostly naked white man with wary hatred. Ten of his hardest warriors going down one after the other had given Red Stone pause. Who was this…ghost-man who could evade the hits of his braves so well? Even the scorned Choctaw riders had bet against the Apache. Only his warriors would be paying on bets tonight. How had this happened?
Marc sensed the time had come. He’d been waiting for it to feel right before opening up to them.
“I am the Ghost, sent to stop the government from rising from the ashes of our people.”
Marc raised his bloody hands and curled them into fists. Drips of crimson fell. “You will walk beside me in this battle. The spirits demand it.”
Red Stone expected protest, but those who’d been with this ghost man longer than his group remained quiet. Could it be true? Their legends were full of messiah stories meant to keep them hopeful, but Red Stone hadn’t believed in any of them.
“Maybe you should have kept an open mind,” Marc stated, not looki
ng away from the shocked man. “I see your thoughts!”
Red Stone stumbled back and Marc followed, now towering over their escorts in his openness. “I am a descendant of the Great Spirit. You will fight with me, die with me.”
That had their attention, and Red Stone found his mouth opening. “We will lose.”
“Our deaths are the sacrifices that the Great Spirit requires. We will give our lives for our people,” Marc insisted.
That, they understood with no further words needed.
Marc sent his red orbs over the camp of forty. “I am the Ghost. You are my Shadow Warriors. Together, we shall have honor and justice!”
“The Ghost!” Thaddeus shouted, raising his own clenched fist. “We will fight!”
“Fight! Fight!”
“The Ghost…”
“Ghost.”
“Ghost.”
Marc turned from the eerie chanting, slowly approaching Red Stone. “You will be my right hand of fury. You will kill more enemies than any other here.”
Red Stone’s chest swelled with pride. It was what he’d dreamed of before the war, but hadn’t been satisfied by since. “I will stay with you when these women warriors have all fled in fear.”
Marc grinned, holding his arm out. “My shadow brother. We will be unstoppable.”
Red Stone clasped his arm firmly, displaying crooked teeth and glints of eagerness. “Ghosts.”
13
By dawn, there were ten more riders with them, these from the Seminole.
By noon, that number had grown to thirty as representatives from the Osage and Ottawa joined them.
By dusk, Marc’s party was a hundred strong, with riders from seven different Indian nations, and he recognized the moment. It was time to start getting them ready for what they would do next.
Marc waved Jax and Paul over during a brief break, interrupting the lesson that Natoli was giving them on native legends. He squatted in the dirt and began to draw with his k-bar. “We’ll come out of tribal lands near 25. You two and a group will start laying our surprises. I’ll take a group to Denver.”
“Will they work with us without you here?” Jax asked worriedly.
Paul snorted. “Didn’t you listen to the first story? They think he’s their messiah, come to guide them to former glory.”
“I am,” Marc stated firmly. “Now pay attention.”
Neither rookie argued. Marc was playing a role here, that was clear, but how much was real and how much was an act, they didn’t know. So far, they were both assuming Marc was taking advantage of superstitions. He’d likely read of their legends and set all this up to look genuine.
Marc stared at the rookies with slightly red eyes. “Do you think so?”
With him glowing crimson, it was impossible to say that it was all a ruse, and neither man spoke.
Marc began outlining the plans for the mines and weapons they would place along route 40, and the Eagles turned their minds to it and dug in. The urge to be perfect here was terribly strong. The competitions in Safe Haven couldn’t compare to these men who challenged nature on her own terms daily. Jax and Paul had developed a healthy respect for their escorts, especially while riding in the wee hours and trying not to let anyone know how cold they were, or hear their teeth chattering. The Indians hadn’t appeared to notice the weather or discomfort.
Marc finished telling them what needed to be done, then included Thaddeus, saying, “You will be their right hand. Take care of my men. They must live to become ghosts.”
Thaddeus understood. In the old world, a trip from here, to Denver and back, would have been a two-day drive. Now, by horse, it would take four days each way. That was with breaks, though, and Thaddeus wasn’t sure Marc intended to take any. He had the same glaze that the restless braves sometimes carried when the reservation fences became too tall, too constricting. Those had been the first walls he’d brought down after the war.
“I will protect them. Do not fear for their safety.”
Marc sighed. “I don’t fear for their safety. I fear for yours. My rookies are new, but they hand out death as fast I do. Keep the riders away from them until they understand what and who we are.”
Thaddeus took the instruction to heart. The soldiers were the targets, not each other. “I will handle it.”
Marc hesitated, and then pushed on. “Other people may come, other races. They feel my pull, know the time has come. You have to convince your warriors to let them help us. There are Rancherias, pueblos, and colonies of Native Americans all over this broken country. We need as many as we can gather.”
Thaddeus didn’t care for the new information. “That will be no easy task. We locked ourselves here when the war came, to avoid those who survived. Outsiders were not welcome before. Now, they are hunted, purged from our lands.”
“There are more like me.”
Marc’s words drew the attention of the entire group. It was something the Indians had been wondering of Paul and Jax.
“They will come to find me, to help. You won’t know them. They will not give you the signs that I have. They, too, have been hunted.”
“The soldiers want to use them,” Paul added, looking only at Red Stone. “To regain control.”
Mutters went around the camp and the drag rider leader came closer. “We will not allow such power to fall in the hands of our enemy. It is better that you die.”
“I agree. But until that time comes, I will fight!” Marc shouted, gratified by the flinches. They were beginning to understand what he was now.
Marc calmed his inner rage, controlling the demon. He’d never imagined hunger like this. “We will be joined by many people, of many origins. Some of them will be the enemy in disguise. We will search each other and watch for those few. The rest we will welcome gratefully into our quest.”
The idea of spies had men staring at each other. Marc had already warned them of one such person and they glared around in suspicion.
“Tell us who the traitor here is, so that we may end his knowledge.”
Marc denied them. “He hasn’t chosen to betray us yet. As long as it is only thoughts, he has done nothing wrong.”
That was against the codes they were relearning or had been raised on, but Marc continued before anyone could speak. “Perhaps a dance would help him understand that the riches the enemy has promised will not be given.”
Red Stone’s mouth dropped open, betraying his control. “You would have us ghost dance!”
Marc grinned widely. “Yes. Let the people search the future and discover for themselves what waits if they continue to hide. The new earth will not stand for it. You must remember the first lesson of the Great Spirit.”
“We cannot love our enemy!” Red Stone protested.
“Yes, you can,” Marc affirmed, thinking of Adrian. “You respect his power, admire his intelligence, and loathe his ways. You love him for the challenge he will give you, for helping to prove your worth, your strength. The enemy is to be loved,” Marc repeated harshly. “And then destroyed like the plague that they are.”
Chapter Fourteen
Deceptive Innocence
July 17th
Near Holly Springs National Forest
1
“Wait.” Angela’s voice was different than it usually was when she was about to tell him of things they needed nearby. Adrian slowed to a gradual stop, fighting the heartburn.
“I’ll be right back.”
She was out the door before he could protest. Though she had a shadow, Adrian followed.
Angela stopped on the sidewalk, straining to view into the scraggily trees that lined the block of dark, paint chipped homes
After a moment, she walked slowly toward the tallest row of branches, gaze darting nervously around. It was bad here. She could feel…
Angela looked up. “There.”
Adrian struggled to spot whatever she had. When he finally realized what the small, huddled shape was, his heart thumped. He would have rolled right
by if not for her.
“That branch is ready to break.”
Adrian was studying the big tree. “Yeah. Look further up.”
She understood as she spotted the other shape, this one clearly dead. “Followed his cat up and got stuck.”
Adrian was glad there were no live cicadas in the trees. Plenty of eggs waiting for spring though, and he began searching for the right way to rescue the boy.
“Or they both hid and the cat couldn’t last as long as the kid,” Adrian offered, trying to distract her from the plans he could sense forming in her mind. “Lots of bullet holes and casings.”
Angela considered the branches, mind working the puzzle. Before he could argue, she lunged upward and began scaling the tree.
In view of their convoy, her actions drew immediate attention. The Eagles scrambled to secure the area as people climbed from their vehicles for a closer look.
Roughly half way, Angela glanced up to find the child staring at her with crushing gratitude. It was a relief so powerful that she smiled as tears pricked her lids. Another of her lost children, found.
“I’m Angie.”
The boy was younger than 10 and older than five, with matted brown hair and skin so dirty, she wasn’t sure if he was black or not. His dark brown eyes ran with tears, cutting a path through the grime that gave her a hint of his lineage. Middle Eastern.
“Hanali.”
Craaaccckkk!
The tree was thick, but brittle. The branch she had just left snapped. It fell heavily to the ground, causing people to scatter. Now that she was over half way to the top, the wood was weaker, rotting from the top down. She had to reach further to find a good grip, earning splinters.
Some of her grabs were risky, making the men below mutter.
“How long have you been up here, Hanali?” she distracted the child as the wind blew against the tree, causing it to sway sickeningly
She pushed herself to grab the last branch and hauled herself into the fork where he was clinging to the trunk.
“A...week? Many days.”
She gave him a quick look over, spotting the backpack that had surely saved his life. “Smart to carry stuff now.”
