by Peggy Webb
She tightened her hold on her medicine bag. The lives of children were at stake: She would not back down.
“For many years you have provided healing for these people, but you are like the great oak tree whose dry leaves rattle on dead branches. I am a sapling, strong and fresh, with new ways of healing in my magic bag.” Kate entreated him with her right hand extended, palm up. “Let the circle spin itself out to completion.”
His eyes glittered with hatred and confusion as he stopped his chanting. He glanced from Kate to Marjorie, then lifted his face toward the ceiling and invoked his deity in a tragic voice.
Chills ran along Kate’s spine. On the pallets, the children drew rasping breaths. If they didn’t get help soon, it would be too late for them.
But Kate dared not step into the shaman’s sacred circle. Finally his terrible voice faded, and the old shaman tucked his gourd rattle into the folds of his buffalo robe and slipped out the door.
Kneeling beside the children, Kate said a prayer to her own God that she would be equal to the task ahead.
o0o
Hidden among the trees, the avenger saw her leave. She’d been in the house a long time, and she was mounting her white mare with the black medicine bag clutched in one hand.
“It won’t be long now,” the man thought. Or did he say it aloud? He must have, for the hawk circling above his head suddenly darted upward.
The slow clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoed off the rocks. With her head slightly bent, the white witch woman appeared drained of all energy. An overhanging tree branch caught the sleeve of her coat, and she didn’t even brush it away, but instead let it take hold and tug until the forward momentum of her horse pulled her loose. Moving along on a parallel course high above her, the avenger saw the ragged hole torn by the tree limb.
A pity. He liked his opponent fiery, at the top of her form.
Had the children died? Another sin to add to the witch woman’s long list of transgressions.
Briefly the trees hid her, and then she came into view once more, holding on to a saddle horn tilted slightly to the left. The rocks beneath her horse’s hooves were cold and gray and deadly. Kate swayed a little as the horse rounded a treacherous curve.
Empowered, the avenger stood on the rocks and lifted his hands toward the heavens. As if the Great Spirit had been waiting for his signal, Mahli’s girth snapped.
“Whoa,” the witch woman screamed. “Whoa, Mahli.”
But it was too late. Nothing could stop her headlong plunge toward the ground. Nothing could cushion her fall against the rocks. Nothing and no one.
She lay with her left foot at a crazy angle and her arms outflung, as if at the last minute she’d tried to call upon her own gods to save her. Beside her, the black bag was open, its contents spilling onto the ground.
Mahli stood watch for a long while, her saddle hanging sideways and her bridle dragging the ground. She whinnied softly then flattened her ears as if she were waiting for her mistress’s voice to tell her what to do.
The white witch woman’s skin glowed like death.
High above her, the avenger opened himself for a vision—fires leaping into the sky, burning away the darkness until there was nothing left except light.
With the stealth of a night creature he left his watch on the rocks. Below him the witch woman lay broken, her powers forever ended.
Chapter 31
Winston Mingo sat beside the fire, wrapped in a woven blanket while Eagle stood with his arm propped on the mantel. Even in repose he looked tense, wired for action. Winston sometimes wondered if he’d made a mistake when he named his oldest son his successor.
It was not a question of what was good for the nation: Eagle had done a magnificent job as leader of the Chickasaws. But had the mantle of duty been the undoing of his soul? To the casual observer he was a powerful, intelligent man in his prime. But to a father he was a haunted man, a man who hid his bleak heart behind a stern face and careful manners.
Winston rocked back and forth, letting the rhythm of the rush-bottomed rocking chair and the flicker of firelight comfort him. He was like the largest limb on the old tree outside his window, dried up and withered. Soon he would fall to the ground and become a part of Mother Earth so other, greener branches could grow in his place.
The time had come to speak truth.
“My days are slipping away.”
“The doctors say you have many good years left. With patience and therapy you’ll regain some of your strength.”
“I no longer have the luxury of patience.”
The thunder outside punctuated Winston’s statement. Fierce and terrible, it roared over the mountains and threatened the valley.
“There’s a bad storm coming.” Winston never changed topics without a reason, and now he was finished with the old one and no amount of persuasion could make him return to it.
Eagle looked out the window. Already rain was beginning to fall, not the soft, warm rain of summer, but a hard-driving rain that would turn to sleet as the night drew near and the temperature dropped.
“In weather like this a man should be in front of his own fire with his wife and children.”
Eagle let the remark slide. Winston eased the blanket closer around his shoulders. He wasn’t finished with his son yet. Not by a long shot.
“What are your intentions concerning Deborah Lightfoot?”
One of the things Winston liked best about old age was that old men didn’t have to be subtle. He watched the changing emotions on his son’s face, and he knew with a father’s certainty that the white woman was still in Eagle’s blood.
For a moment Eagle bowed his head and stared into the fire. When he looked up, his face was filled with resignation and resolution.
“She will bear my name and my children.”
“It is good. She is full-blood.”
“Yes, she is full-blood.”
“You will court her properly then tell her of this soon?”
A spear of white lightning split the sky, and rain lashed against the windowpanes. North wind moaned around the eaves and rattled the shutters.
“I have no time for courtship. I’m going to tell her tonight. The marriage will be quick and painless.”
Winston thought of Dovie and of how he sometimes could still feel his passion rising just thinking of her soft body lying next to his. He was filled with sorrow for his son, but he kept his tears inside.
“May the Great Spirit be with you, my son.”
Cold winds entered the house when Eagle left, and Winston pulled his blanket closer. His son was virile and passionate. Soon he’d have grandbabies on both knees to keep him warm.
o0o
When Eagle had been eleven years old he took every chance he could to visit Luther Mattox. Luther would grin his toothless smile and say, “Pull up a chair, young sprout. I know just what you want.” Then he would unlock the glass door of a cabinet and take out the most exquisite knife Eagle had ever seen. It had a curved six-inch blade of the finest steel and a handle made from the horn of a deer. Luther had carved the handle and set turquoise and coral in the niches.
Eagle wanted that knife more than anything in the world. He wanted it so badly, he’d have done almost anything to have it. At home he volunteered for jobs he didn’t have to do, even girl chores like mopping the floor. He did things without being told, such as taking a bath and doing his homework and turning the lights out at ten. Hope sang through him like the sweet waters of the Blue River. His birthday was coming up, and he knew he’d get the knife with the carved bone handle and the beautiful stones.
When the big day arrived, his father handed him a package. It was exactly the right size, long enough for the six-inch blade and the handle that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. He was so nervous opening the package that his hands were sweaty.
Inside was a knife, an ordinary knife with a straight blade and a plain handle. He tested the shiny steel blade and found it good, hefted the weig
ht of the knife and found it true.
“This is exactly what I need,” he’d told his parents, all the while still wanting the knife with the curved blade and the dazzling stones.
That was how Eagle felt as he drove home in the rain to call Deborah Lightfoot. She was good and true, but still he wanted the woman he couldn’t have, the woman with the white skin and the dazzling hair.
Deborah was at the clinic, and answered on the first ring.
“This is Eagle. I have something of great importance to discuss with you.” A compromise. A business proposition. He’d have told Winston without being asked, for the decision had been made long ago, the day he’d stood at his window and watched Kate drive away with Mark Grant. “Are you free tonight?”
In his single-minded pursuit of ensuring the family dynasty, was he robbing Deborah of love? Feeling like a thief, he waited for her answer.
“Eagle.” She sounded rushed and breathless. “I’m so glad you called . I was going to call you. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Deborah, slow down. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Kate.”
Was it possible to die of fear and still be standing upright, talking into the telephone?
“What about her, Deborah?”
“She hasn’t been here all day.”
“Maybe she’s on a house call. Is her car there?”
“It’s still in the garage.”
“What about her horse?”
“I don’t know. Mahli’s so old, I didn’t think about checking. I’ll do that now.”
“There’s no need for you to get out in this weather when I’m only a few minutes away. I’ll be right—”
“Eagle!” Deborah’s scream raised hairs on the back of his neck. “It’s Mahli . . .”
“Kate? What about Kate?”
“The saddle is empty.”
o0o
This was the part of his job Martin hated most, searching for the victim. Standing in Kate’s stable, he inspected the saddle once more. The girth had been cut; there was no doubt about it. Martin ground out his cigarette and pulled up the collar of his rain slicker. The weather was a bitch. Tracking Kate Malone would be next to impossible. And the chances of finding her were even worse.
“How long did you say she’s been missing?”
Deborah Lightfoot looked as if she might faint. That’s all he needed, a swooning woman.
“I came in at six this morning, and she wasn’t here.”
“Shit.”
Deborah glanced out at the sleet, coming down in thick sheets now, rattling hard against the stable’s tin roof. They were both thinking the same thing: If Kate Malone was out there somewhere, injured, how would she survive the weather?
“You have to find her,” Deborah said.
“How long ago did you say Eagle left?”
“About an hour ago. Do you think he can find her?”
“If anybody can, it’s Eagle Mingo. Let’s just pray he’s not too late.”
o0o
Hidden by trees, the avenger stood atop the hill above Kate’s clinic and peered through the heavy sleet. There was no mistaking the black stallion or its rider.
Eagle. The man of legend.
With the power of the Great Spirit hovering like wings over his shoulders.
With the valor of his namesake and the heart of a dove.
With the mark of the mighty warrior bird on his thigh.
The avenger flung himself facedown on the ground, stretching his arms to embrace Mother Earth. In the prostrate position he sought a vision. He waited for the thundering approach of the white buffalo and for the magic circle of life and light.
He waited and waited. But nothing came except the pounding of horse’s hooves as Eagle set out in search of Kate Malone.
Streaked with mud and shivering, the avenger left his watch above the clinic.
o0o
All hopes of finding Kate’s trail had vanished. Heavy sleet obscured his vision as Eagle sat on his horse and tried to decide which direction to go. When he’d left Kate’s stable, he’d been able to follow her trail for a short while. The ground near the clinic was protected by trees, and although the hoof prints were faint, they were still clear enough for him to know that she had headed west.
West lay the bluffs that had been scarlet with Indian paintbrush all summer, and the Blue River, swollen and threatening to overflow its banks. West lay the Arbuckle Mountains, their peaks hidden under a blanket of snow.
He’d come as far as the river, and now he had a choice to make. If he followed the course of the river, he would come to several small ranches, all of them owned by people who had at one time or another been Kate’s patients. If he veered instead toward the mountains, he would come to the treacherous trail leading to the remote Kent cabin. Because of the weather, the trail would be even more dangerous.
Restless, his stallion pawed the ground, waiting for Eagle to make a decision. He dismounted and searched for clues, any tiny shred of evidence that would help him locate Kate. He found nothing, just as he’d known he would.
Nothing could help him now except his instincts— and perhaps divine intervention. Eagle lifted his head toward the heavy gray sky. It would be dark soon. High in the mountains, a wolf howled.
Eagle raised his fists to the sky.
“Loak-Ishtohoollo-Aba,” he cried. But the Great Spirit wouldn’t be moved by false piety. He hid His face from Eagle and would not be found.
Eagle mounted his impatient stallion and began to follow the meandering path of the river. Suddenly he veered his mount and changed course toward the distant mountains. They rose silently out of the mists of sleet and shadow, calling to him in urgent voices disguised as the howling of the wolf.
He pushed his mount as hard as he dared, mindful of the slick rocks and the sheer three-hundred-foot drop on his right. Darkness covered the mountains, and the urgent howling of the wolf sounded closer.
Around a treacherous curve the stallion’s foot dislodged a rock that started a slide. The horse reared, screaming, while Eagle fought for control. In the ravine, the falling rocks echoed like thunder.
Flattened against the stallion’s back, Eagle used the ancient tongue of his people to bring the horse under control; then he dismounted and led his stallion around the rock slide.
His foot touched something soft, something that didn’t belong on the mountain. Eagle knelt down and picked it up. Kate’s medical bag. Groping in the dark, he found her scattered supplies and her gun ...and the rock covered with blood. Chance had led him there, and a miracle had protected the evidence. An overhanging shelf of rock had kept it safe and dry during the storm.
“Kate,” he called, on his knees, searching for her, his hands covered with blood. “Kate!”
Her name echoed back to him from the mountains. And then, out of the darkness, came another sound, a bone-chilling sound that froze Eagle’s soul—the frenzied cry of wild animals smelling fresh blood.
Eagle pulled his rifle from its scabbard and followed the howling of wolves.
Chapter 32
She crouched in the shallow cave, watching the glowing yellow eyes. The wolves stared back at her. Their demonic howls pierced through the gray fog of pain and hunger that threatened to overcome her, and the stench of their hot breaths filled her rocky shelter.
Kate ran her hands over the floor of the cave, searching for the only weapon she had, the scalpel that had fallen out of her medical bag. Her hands closed around the steel, and she forced herself to an upright position. She hadn’t survived a fall from her horse and a day in freezing rains only to be eaten by wolves.
“Just try to come and get me, you bastards.”
The yellow eyes grew bigger. Six of them. The wolves were closing in.
Her hands were so cold, she could hardly feel her fingers, and she wondered if anybody would ever find her bones.
“Stop it, Kate Malone. You’re going to survive.”
A wave of dizziness
caught her, and for a moment the yellow eyes faded. She bit down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. If she blacked out now, she was as good as dead. She’d heard that the dying have moments of epiphany, though how anybody could know that was beyond her, since the dead couldn’t talk. Instead of thinking about lofty moments such as the summer when she discovered love or the winter when she knew she would be a doctor, she pictured a lobster dinner with all the trimmings. Which all proved the theory of epiphany was hogwash, for if the howls of the wolves were indication, she was about to die.
“Get out of here, you mangy mutts,” she yelled, though the sound that came out was more whimper than shout.
She hated that most of all: that she wouldn’t die with her boots on and her gun blazing. With her cold hands gripped around the scalpel, she watched the wolves.
A shot rang out. Then another and another.
Was she hallucinating? Had she thought up so many rescue fantasies that she’d crossed permanently into fantasy land?
“Aiya!” The savage shout came out of the darkness— and the thundering of hooves. Eagle Mingo leapt from his stallion, and the wolves scattered, yelping.
“Kate!” he called.
“In here.”
He knelt down and pulled her from the cave. His arms were strong and warm, and the good solid feel of him made her want to curl up and stay for the next few centuries.
“What took you so long?” she asked.
“Are you hurt?” He ran his hands over her face and neck, and even in her foggy condition she cursed the fates that he was only checking for injuries.
“I’m wet and hungry and mad as hell about falling off my horse, but other than a lump on my head, I’m in perfect condition.”
“You didn’t fall off your horse, Kate. Someone cut the girth.”
“Where’s my gun? I’ll shoot the bastard.”
Even cold and hurt and hungry, Kate could make him laugh. He held her close, absorbing her chill into his bones, and the laughter released the tension that had been building in him from the moment he’d learned she was missing.
How would he live without her? She made survival a grace rather than a necessity. Once in a lifetime the fates matched two people who were luminous together, whose love brightened even the darkest moments of their lives.
