Firing his rifle a second time, he ended the second man before he could fire. The eagle’s scream cut through the air. The shriek reverberated through him. The great bird soared out of the killing stoop, rising on outstretched wings.
The closer the beautiful predator came, the better he could make out distinctive markings—the white head, the black and brown plumage on the wings and, more importantly, the wicked, gleaming talons. The bird continued to stoop, swooping toward him, talons outstretched. A crack from behind him, and Jimmy pivoted. Shane’s arm cocked back, ready to throw something.
“No!” Too late. He flung the rock and Jimmy threw his rifle at the same time. He would never shoot it, for fear of the bullet hitting Shane or the eagle, but the rifle struck the rock scant inches from the eagle’s dive. The bird flung out its wings and, with its talons, seized Jimmy’s hat. The wild brush of the wind washed against his face, and then the majestic bird climbed upward. The hat landed a few feet away, but Jimmy experienced the strangest sensation as he watched the beautiful bird sail up into the sky.
“It was going to attack you,” Shane declared, but Jimmy shook his head.
“No, I think she was mad I took her prey.” Speaking of prey, he cut a glance to the fallen men. They needed to clean them up. “That rock could have hurt her.”
Ignoring the boy’s look of surprise, Jimmy pointed him in the direction of the makeshift camp. “Go tend the horses. I’ll be back.” Retrieving the rifle, he glanced at the skies. The bird continued to fly in almost a lazy circle overhead.
“Okay, Father,” he said into the silence, his gaze fixed on the bird now bearing straight toward him. “I saved the eagle.”
Now what?
Chapter 5
Onsi, Lonely Hills, Unclaimed Territory
With care, Onsi weaved through the grass. Staying low and slow, she sought to approach her quarry without giving away her position. She’d found a trail just beyond the encampment and followed it. One day south, the grouping split and headed in three different directions. While she might not be an expert tracker like Minninnewah or the other warriors of her tribe, she’d ridden on enough hunts. She also knew to trust the feeling in her gut. The trail she followed would end in blood and tears…just as it began.
Following the pair rather than the other groups had been a tactical decision. Kill one, capture the other, and rip from him the information she needed to find the others. Then the rifleman interfered. He’d killed her targets.
Both of them. Frustration and fury curdled her stomach. If she didn’t get to the bodies soon, she would lose any hope of finding the others. No. She refused to accept the possibility the butchers of her tribe would escape. Slowing to absolute stillness, she arched higher and peered over the tops of the grass.
The rifleman crouched just a few feet away, hunched over the body of the first man. He checked his pockets, then rose and went to the other man. The systematic purpose to his movements disputed his actions as a scavenger. Why did he shoot them? Had they harmed him in some way? She’d barely noticed his presence before he’d fired. The speed with which he killed her quarry aggravated her.
He picked up his rifle a half-second before he spun in her direction. Onsi dropped low and went motionless amidst the tall grass. She didn’t risk the chance he would end her with deadly proficiency before she’d completed her task. Seconds passed while she waited then, with agonizing slowness, she took another peek.
Standing, the man with the rifle scanned the skies, not the grass. Tall, as tall as Minninnewah, if not taller. He wore a dusty yellow coat and a much abused hat. His hair fell in a longish wave, longer than any other white man she’d met in recent years, yet shorter than the men of her tribe. A sheen of dirt grimed the skin of his filthy face—what she could see of it, for the rest hid behind a growth of hair on his cheeks and over his lips. Nothing on the surface of him appeared remarkable, yet she couldn’t pull her gaze away.
Whispers in the grass tickled her ears. The spirits pressed in upon her, wanting her attention, but she ignored them. She’d barricaded the path and refused to reopen the door to their presence. Their constant insistence wore on her nerves. What did they want from her?
No. She didn’t need to consider their wants or needs. Not anymore. He left the body of the first and moved to the second man. Though he searched the second body with the same thoroughness, he kept glancing skyward. Onsi didn’t dare breathe too deeply. The man knew she watched.
How he knew, she couldn’t guess. Her choices were few. She could settle back into the grass and wait for him to abandon the bodies, or she could chase him off. The first likely the more prudent choice, but if he lingered too long, her window of opportunity would be gone. If she elected to try and drive him off, she ran the risk of his turning the rifle on her. Frustration coiled in her soul.
Shifting her gaze, she studied the horses. The beasts hadn’t wandered far, seemingly content to munch on the dry grass. If she startled the horses, he might pursue the animals and leave the bodies to her. Onsi reached for her boot and extracted a knife. Fashioned from the natural world, the polished bone blade was exceptionally sharp. The dagger passed to her from the long line of shaman and medicine women.
Using the blade, she nicked her finger. A drop of blood welled up immediately. Closing her eyes, she began to mouth the prayer, keeping her words as low as possible. No one needed to hear the prayer, save for the wind itself and the breeze as it stroked her cheeks and pulled at her hair.
The wind carried her words through the rippling grass. Releasing power into the prayer, her whole body tingled. The first horse stomped its feet and tossed its head. He’d heard her. The second mirrored the first when her words wrapped around him. Both animals shied violently to the side, heads bouncing as they pawed and nickered. Their actions lured the gunman away from the bodies.
But not far enough. He paused, studying the animals then the sky and finally the grass.
Onsi wanted to scream. What could he look for? The seconds became minutes and minutes rapidly slipped through her fingers. With every passing moment, her plans evaporated further.
“I see you…” he called. While she didn’t understand the words, she also didn’t know whom he spoke to. “You can come out.”
Unmoved, Onsi kept still. She’d pulled her thick black hair into two taut braids, so it didn’t betray her to the breeze. She wore doeskin and held the bone knife tightly in her hand. Only a fool would dare to face down such an accurate shot with a knife alone.
He called out again, the words making less sense than his first two statements. Though worried he’d seen her, she stayed still. The foolish prey revealed themselves, allowing the predator to startle them. She’d seen it many times and heard many hunters revel in the moment when the animal broke cover and ran.
They never made it far.
A rustling to her left chilled her blood. Then another voice joined the first. “I heard the shots.”
Careful not to move too far, she slanted a look at the new arrival. Younger than the first, but he still looked as big, almost thicker in the shoulders.
“I told you to stay with the horses.”
“I know.”
She didn’t need to understand his words to read the body language. The older one radiated calm disapproval and the younger hunched his shoulders, as if expecting a blow. The surprise on his face when the rifleman didn’t strike set off a note of warning in her gut. She’d seen younger braves react after too harsh a discipline. The white man’s whiskey made more than one warrior behave in a rash, unpleasant fashion. Minninnewah forbade the drinking of it, but it didn’t stop some warriors from hiding caches of the foul liquid.
Though they were near the horses and the rifleman went through their bags, he spared the younger man a look. “Go.” Thankfully, the odd word accompanied a pointing gesture. Storing the words away, she’d decipher them later. On the handful of occasions she’d encountered whites, she’d always brought a translator for the liv
ing. She’d never needed to question the dead. Another verbal exchange passed between the two men, before the younger finally stalked off.
The older man stared after him, his expression briefly softening. He was the elder brother, though he possessed a paternal air. Much as an older warrior would chide an apprentice. He did not show him the same softness because difficult younglings needed a firm hand.
Minninnewah behaved the same with their youths. A fist squeezed her heart and choked off her ability to breathe. The pain would never end. She would never see the wise light in his eyes or hear his chiding chuckle or face the focus in the intensity of his expression when they discussed their plans. Never again would she see his smile or enjoy the ferocious teasing when he was of a mind.
The weight of her grief pressed in on her. The scuff of her quarry’s boot drew her back to the present, and she found herself gazing into a pair of warm brown eyes. The corners of his eyes crinkled. Reality thundered through her. He no longer looked in her direction. No, he stared directly at her.
With two fingers, he nudged up the brim of his hat, then motioned to his eyes and mouth, before pointing to her. He wanted to speak to her. Too late to pretend she hadn’t noticed him, or to slink away, she considered her options.
“Greetings, little sister.” His accent might be terrible, but she recognized the words. He spoke Comanche.
Baring her teeth, she didn’t answer. She would sooner eat dung than speak the language of her cousins to the white man.
“All right.” He resumed his white man’s language. The syllables made no sense, but he touched his hand to his heart, then to his mouth and then opened his palm. He would speak from his heart, and he invited her to listen. He’d pointed for the boy, earlier, to send him away, but he did not point at her. Did he understand, where so many whites did not? “Greetings, little sister.” He chose Apache next. Again, she didn’t even dignify it with a response. Did she look as bloodthirsty as the horse peddlers?
He grunted then scratched at his bearded cheek. The breeze shifted and carried the pungency of his scent to her. Nose wrinkling, she fought to breathe through her mouth. He stank of horse, sweat and dirt.
“Yes, I know I smell.” The words made no sense, but he finally said. “Tell me, do you speak the language of the People?” Cheyenne.
Shock and surprise rippled through her. “How do you speak the language of the People? You are not of the People.” A white man. Everything about him—his clothing, his dress, his dung-filled stench told her she spoke true.
“I speak the languages my father taught me. You may come out. I will not hurt you, little sister.” The affectionate greeting of a warrior to a woman of the People did not belong on This Man’s lips.
“Why should I believe you?” The words escaped before she thought better of them.
He nudged his hat higher until she could see the wrinkles of his forehead drawn together in a frown. His next words were halting, but no less clear. “Because This Man has not injured you, This Man will not. Jimmy. Say Jimmy.”
“This Man is not People.” Rising to stand, she glanced from him to the bodies of the men. “Those men are not People.” But she needed their bodies nonetheless. With enough time, she could call their spirits back and put her questions.
“No, not People.” He sighed and jerked his hat off to run a hand through his hair. It was as unkempt as the rest of him. “They wanted to shoot the great bird. I could not let them.”
Surprise filtered through her, but she clamped her teeth together. She did not know him, and the whites were well-known for speaking out of both sides of their face. Even if he could speak the language of the People, he was not necessarily her friend.
“Then stay there, little sister, I have to put the bodies into the earth.”
“No.” She took a step forward and raised the hand with the blade in it. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed on the weapon.
“You’re safe, little sister. The men must go into the earth. I took their lives, so it is my responsibility.” If he buried them, she would never be able to call their spirits back—not without the help of her spirits, and she refused to heed them.
“You must leave the bodies, for I have a task with them.” One she could not fail. She’d wanted to kill one and take the other alive. Then she could find out where the others had gone and, more importantly, ask why they had massacred the People.
His frown grew. “Task for them?”
“Yes.” She raised her chin. “I will tend the bodies.”
“No.” He shook his head, slicing his hand across the air in front of him. An act of finality, of denial. “You are safe. Go home to your people.”
Fresh pain lanced through her, clearing the way for fury. She had no people to go home to anymore. Spitting, she cut around him to head for the bodies only to be halted when he seized her arm. She swung. He might be larger than her, but she was fast. While she did not care for hunting, nor did she participate often, she’d been trained. He made a grunting noise, but caught her arm before the blade could touch him. The weight of his hand shackled her wrist and he squeezed. The pressure flexed her fingers, and the blade fell from her open palm.
“I did not offer you harm,” he said in broken syllables, but she no longer wished to listen. She struck out at him with her feet and earned another grunt. One moment she fought, the next she found herself completely surrounded by his arms and hauled back against him—trapped and immobile.
“All right, little sister. This Man will not fight you, but he won’t let you harm him either.” Incredible strength held her still, yet even as he kept her in place, the pressure did not injure her. She wanted to scream. The man took her quarry and refused to let her take from them what she needed? The knowledge would be gone soon. The passage of the sun in the sky told her time no longer weighed on her side.
“I need their spirits,” she confessed, for what other choice did he leave her? She could barely move her head and the stench of him was terrible so close. So, too, was the odd sensation of safety so utterly at odds with his reek and actions.
“This Man isn’t sure he understood. Spirits? They don’t have any whiskey.” Slamming her head back against his shoulder did nothing but make her head ache. He grunted then sighed. “This Man misunderstood, didn’t he?” The weary frustration in his tone almost made her smile.
Almost.
Too frustrated to appreciate his quandary, she searched for words, then tried to give them back to him in his broken format. “This Woman must capture their spirits for knowledge. They know things. Things about the People. I have to have what they know.”
A startled jerk shook the man holding her. “They’re dead.”
“Their spirits linger.” All spirits did for a brief time after they left the body, as though tethered. The more violent the death, the more shocking, the longer they might linger as though belief were necessary to allow them to part from the living world. “Soon they too will be gone.”
Would he understand? He spoke the language of the People. When she’d tried to hurt him, he’d only incapacitated her, not offered injury. Shame crept through her, but even the acidic bite of self-recrimination could not halt the urgency of her task.
“Please,” she whispered. “They killed the People. All of my people.” The last came out on a ragged note, and she fought the surge of tears. Baring her soul to the stranger was one thing, she would not give him her tears.
The arms holding her released, and she was on her feet. Curiously bereft, she twisted to see him take a step back. Genuine sorrow reflected in his eyes. “Do what you need to do.”
Did he speak the truth? Her doubt must have shown, because he took another step then gestured toward the bodies. “Do you need This Man to move them?”
“No,” she said slowly, not quite sure what to make of his response.. She couldn’t afford to hesitate. Scooping up her blade, she headed for the bodies. The first man felt cool, too cool. She studied the air aroun
d him and listened.
He was already gone.
Abandoning him, she went to the second and the whisper of a frantic voice brushed against her. Joy crested from beneath her grief. His spirit remained. Rushing, she sliced her hand and heard the man’s oath, but ignored him. He’d told her to do what must be done. Touching her bloodied finger to the dead’s forehead, she drew straight lines down his face then touched her hand to his chest.
Obey me. The energy gathered inside of her crackled out, and the curtain between the worlds parted.
“Damnation.” The word rode a harsh exhale from the gunslinger. He’d come right up next to her and stared at the spirit shimmering into being. Spirits lingered everywhere in the world, and this soul was furious. It struck out at her. Though the man tried to get between her and the spirit, the being could no more harm her than a breeze. The ice of its passage sliced through her and then stopped.
“Obey,” she ordered the spirit, shackling it with blood and word. She was of the Blood. Her blood carried all the magic of her people, all their legends, all their lore. She could control the dead, for it had no voice without her. This spirit would answer her questions.
A string of invectives flew from the spirit’s mouth, and her heart sank. It spoke the language of the gunslinger, of the white man. She couldn’t understand what he said.
Sliding a look toward her unwelcome companion, she found him glaring at the spirit and answering him. The spirits laughed at her. She’d caught her quarry, and still they denied her answers.
The man glanced at her, brows raised, and he grunted. “This Man can ask the questions.”
Surprised jerked through her. “This Man would do this for me?” But why?
He nodded. “This Man is happy you cannot hear his foul words. So This Man will ask your questions. What do you want to know?”
Faith. Maybe the spirits laughed at her folly, but they’d also placed This Man in her path. This Man, who’d sought to protect the eagle, protected her and wished to help her again. “This Woman wants to know why and who.”
The Quick and the Fevered Page 7
