by Greg Dragon
Next, he walked down to the river and slathered mud on his face and arms, then he returned to the fire. Raising his arms above him, Little Bear took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. He rehearsed the ceremony once more in his mind, going over each detail as best he could. Fear settled into his gut. He grew up hearing stories of clan members who had tried to call on the spirits without first earning their respect. What would happen to him if they did not accept his offerings?
He opened his eyes. North Wind watched nearby from the shadows of the trees. It was time.
Little Bear stared into the fire and began softly chanting the words his grandfather had made him repeat over and over. The young man had never actually performed this ceremony before. He had only ever watched as it was done. He remembered his grandfather going into a trance, speaking to the air, to creatures that were not there. The old man would sway and call out their names, asking them to come to him.
The young shaman rocked on his heels and waved his arms over his head as the words flowed from his lips. He stumbled over several of them as his tongue tangled in his mouth. If his grandfather were still here, the ancient man would admonish him for not practicing enough, for being disrespectful. Deep in Little Bear’s heart, he felt the dull ache grow. His grandfather wasn’t here. He would never be here again. He was all alone.
He called to the spirits with renewed force, with renewed fury. “Oh powerful ones, I call you. Come before me and hear my request.”
He danced to the side in an intricate pattern and picked up a feather from where it lay. A turkey feather, not the required eagle feather. He waved it around over his head. “I offer you this token as a sign of my obedience and faith. Come to me. Come heed my words.”
He repeated the gesture again and again until all the items around the fire had been offered. Then he stood in his original spot and waited, chanting continually with his arms over his head. He could see North Wind out of the corner of his eye. The warrior waited with him, his face a mask of stone.
Then the man was gone. The area around Little Bear’s periphery vision disappeared, fading into pure, impenetrable blackness. The fire in front of him sparked and sputtered, then it exploded into a roaring orange and black tornado.
The young man stumbled backward and tripped over a rock. His chanting came to a halt as landed hard on his backside. He stared into the flames with wide, disbelieving eyes.
A woman stepped toward him through the smoke. Her body was created from the swirling black mist, her hair a wall of flame that floated behind and around her. She towered over him. Her red eyes burned into him, through him.
“Who dares to call my brethren forth from the abyss?” Her voice reverberated through his bones and set his teeth chattering against his will. An ache spread throughout his body, giving him the strong urge to curl into a ball and hide until she disappeared.
Instead, he scrambled to his knees and prostrated himself before her. “I... I do. I call upon you,” he mumbled into the wind and roar of the fire. “I need your help.”
The woman’s foot stopped a mere inch from his face and she leaned over. He could feel her heat burning the hair from the back of his neck, but he did not look up. He couldn’t. He was frozen with fear.
“And what gives you the right? What gives you, a scrawny little nothing of a child, the nerve to demand my presence?”
Her words tore through him, setting his insides aflame.
He gritted his teeth and spoke. “I am the grandson of the Great Flying Eagle. I am his successor. He taught me the ways of the shaman. I was to take his place.”
She snorted and small drops of fire landed on Little Bear’s back. He bit down on a scream, refusing to show the smallest sign of weakness. “You are not a descendent of the Great Flying Eagle. He is a man of honor, a man who understands our ways. He would never insult us like this.”
Fear surged through Little Bear and he rose to his knees despite every instinct that told him not to. “No, you don’t understand,” he cried. He dragged his eyes up to meet hers and immediately regretted it. His face was on fire. His insides were melting. He was sure everything would soon come pouring out of his body, leaving him to die in a puddle of his own blood.
He pressed on. He had no choice. “My grandfather is dead. The Great Flying Eagle is dead. All my people are dead. I call on the spirits, on you, for help. I need to avenge them. I need to make it right. Please, help me hunt down the men who murdered my village and make them beg for mercy before I peel the skin from their bones.”
A slow smile grew on the gray woman’s face. Her mouth was a pit of flame. “Avenge? I do not hear vengeance in your voice, boy. I hear ‘I’ in your every word. You do not call upon us for the greater good of mankind. You call on us to protect your pitiful pride.”
“No!” Little Bear found himself standing. He took a step toward the woman. She was still taller than him by a full head and shoulders, but he would not back down. “I need your help. You must give it to me. You cannot deny me this request.”
Her smile blossomed into a cheerful grin that made Little Bear shiver despite the overwhelming heat coming off of her. Her laughter boomed across the forest. “Very well. You want my help?”
He pressed his lips together and nodded, hoping that his luck would hold.
She reached out for him and trailed a finger across his cheek. It throbbed with a pain he had never before known and he gritted his teeth together to stifle the scream that was burbling in his throat. “You shall have my help, little one,” she cooed as her eyes blazed. “I will give you everything you need to seek revenge on those who harmed your people. You will be almost unstoppable.”
Little Bear’s entire body was shaking uncontrollably. “Thank you,” he forced out through chattering teeth.
The woman snickered. “You are most welcome, boy. Have fun.” She chuckled heartily as she walked back into the flames and disappeared.
The black around Little Bear faded and the clearing became visible once again. His eyesight was blurry, but he could see North Wind was still standing on the edge of his vision. The young shaman shivered and collapsed to his knees. He took several deep breaths to steady himself before he stood up to face the warrior.
“It is done.”
***
North Wind watched as Little Bear met with the spirit. The warrior could not see into Little Bear’s vision, but he looked on as the weak boy convulsed on the ground and vomited up blood before collapsing into a heap. The shaman lay very still for a very long time. North Wind was certain Little Bear was dead, but when he took a step forward, the boy stirred.
Then Little Bear rose and faced the older man. North Wind’s hand went to his blade and his jaw dropped. The boy’s eyes were gone, replaced by black pits of nothingness. Blood streamed down his face from the open holes, burning dark trails across his face, neck, and chest. His normally tan skin held the gray pallor of death. His teeth were stained with blood when he spoke. Even the air around the young shaman felt wrong, like a sickness had been cast upon him.
As Little Bear walked toward him, North Wind drew his knife and prepared for the worst.
Chapter 4
Sheriff Connor McClane yawned as he leaned one shoulder against the post outside his jailhouse. His eyes felt gritty from a severe lack of good, solid sleep, but the rising sun refused to let him crawl back into bed. Not that he’d want to, anyway. His recurring dreams were not a place he wanted to revisit. Connor pushed himself away from the post and buried the heel of one hand in an eye as he stomped back into the jailhouse.
Ed Finch dozed on the floor near the bars of one of three small cells, sleeping off the excess drink from the night before. Connor was sure he spent more nights in the cell than out of it, but Finch was harmless otherwise. He was loud and obnoxious when he had a little too much whiskey, but he would never hurt anyone.
McClane glanced back out the door. It was still quiet that early in the morning. Only a couple people wandered the street
. He watched as Lily Sacks shut the door to the newspaper office and then he walked over to his desk. Plopping down in the chair, he glanced at the door one more time before reaching for the bottom drawer. Several bottles clanked together as the drawer slid open. He picked one that was half empty and pulled it out.
“Eh! Give us a sip, would ya?”
Connor turned to glare at Finch. “Go back to sleep. You’ve had enough.”
With a grumble and several insults slung at Connor’s long-dead mother, Finch rolled over in the mess he had left on the floor. Connor waited until he heard the telltale snore before he propped his feet up on the table and leaned back in his chair. He pulled a long swig from the bottle, then tilted his hat down over his eyes.
“Might as well move his stuff in.”
Connor jerked awake and nearly sent his chair flying backward. He just saved the bottle in his hand from tipping over and righted himself with several muttered curses. The bottle thudded heavily on the desk as he pushed his hat up away from his eyes. He squinted toward the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the bright sun as it streamed around the shadowy figure standing there.
“Cora,” he mumbled as he took in the shape of flouncy skirts and the round face. Her dress was a bright cerulean blue and the sleeves hung off the shoulders seductively.
The dancing girl trounced into the room and propped a hip on the corner of his desk. “You sound so happy to see me,” she teased. With a practiced deftness, she moved the bottle well out of his reach as she placed the basket she carried onto the desk. “I brought you breakfast. You look like you need it. Rough night?”
Connor grunted and yawned. Cora laughed as she pulled a metal cup and a carafe full of coffee from the basket. She poured a cup of hot black liquid into the mug and pushed it toward the sheriff. “Drink up, little brother.”
As he sipped the coffee, Cora pulled out a tin plate and began arranging other items on it. Cornbread, a couple hard boiled eggs, some fried sausage. Connor picked up a piece of sausage and munched it between sips of coffee. Cora pulled out another package and unwrapped more cornbread as she walked over to the occupied cell.
“Finch,” she called sweetly through the bars. “Wakey wakey.”
The old man didn’t move. She reached a booted foot through the bars and prodded him in the ribs. He grunted and rolled over, but didn’t wake up. With an exasperated sigh, Cora walked to the bucket sitting next to the cells and drew out some water. She carefully maneuvered the dripping scoop over Finch’s trousers and tipped it up. He sputtered and swore as he swatted at his crotch, but eventually pulled himself into a sitting position.
“Bah, it’s just you.” He glared at her with mock dislike, but he happily accepted the cornbread she tossed to him.
She propped a hand her hip and affected a mock pout. “What do you mean ‘just me’? You seemed awful happy to see me last night, Mr. Finch.”
Ed grumbled. “ ‘Cause o’ you, I always end up with less money ‘n I start out with. Yer a devil woman.”
Cora leaned over and tweaked his cheek through the bars. “My dear Mr. Finch, you never complain about parting with your money when you’re doing it.”
She tossed him a wink and sauntered back over to the desk, her heels clicking soundly on the wooden floor the entire way.
“Why do you have to do that?” Connor sighed at his older sister and shook his head.
Cora’s grin fell and she crossed her arms as she narrowed her eyes at Connor. “Do what, dear brother?” It was a challenge to start an argument they had had too many times before and he couldn’t help but rise to the bait.
He waved a hand at her dress. “That. Wearin’ that getup. It’s too damn early in the morning to be doin’ that whorin’ stuff.”
Cora’s lips pulled into a snarl and her nostrils flared. Her hands balled into fists and shook as she fought the urge to slap him. “I am not a whore, Connor McClane, and you would do well to never call me that again.”
Connor held up a hand in surrender. “Calm down. I wasn’t calling you a whore. I just meant...” He sighed and changed tactics. “I just worry about you is all. You’re my sister, Cora. I almost lost you once. I don’t want to do it again.”
She forced a smile onto her face and settled back onto the desk. “I know, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me. After Michael left for the war, I don’t know what I would have done without your help. And when I got sick, and the kids, when I lost them... if you hadn’t been there for me, I would have died. I’m sure of it.” She reached out a hand and he gripped her fingers gently.
Silence fell over them for a moment as they both remembered the day Connor went to check on Cora. She lived miles outside of Lonesome Ridge on a ranch owned by her and her husband. Michael Monroe had left her to run it alone when he went off to fight for the South in the Civil War. She was six months pregnant at the time with her third child and had been against slavery since she was a child. She had begged him not to go, but he ignored her pleas.
Two years later, sickness came to the ranch fast and furious. When Connor finally came for his weekly check-in, two of her three children were already dead, taken by the fever, and she and her eldest daughter were not faring much better. He found them huddled together in a corner, shivering as sweat poured down their bodies. The sheriff brought them to town, but it was too late for the little girl. She died on the trip in. The animals had suffered greatly with Cora out of commission and the ranch fell into disrepair. When Cora was healthy again, she took up dancing at the saloon to make enough money to support herself until her husband came home. When he did, he was a different man, a broken man.
“I’m a grown woman,” Cora said to break the sadness that threatened to overwhelm them. “And I can take care of myself, Connor. I need to take care of myself. I make good money at the saloon and Neil Avery takes good care of me. He makes sure nothing bad happens and I help him sell more drink.”
“Ain’t that the truth of it.”
Cora shot a glare at Ed Finch to silence him before she continued. “Look, you’re the only family I have left, and I know you worry about me, but I worry about you, too.” She picked up the nearly empty bottle and wiggled it in front of his face.
The sheriff rolled his eyes in irritation, but refused to cave to Cora’s taunting. He had his vices, just like everyone else. At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself when he wasn’t deep in the bottle.
“Amos and I are headin’ over to the Gaines’ place today,” he said to change the subject as he tore his eyes away from the sloshing liquid in front of him.
Cora stiffened and set the bottle down. “Just the two of you? Are you sure that’s a good idea? I don’t trust those boys as far as I can throw ‘em. Especially that darned Jedidiah.”
Connor snorted a laugh. “I remember a day when you thought Jed was the greatest guy in the west.”
His sister’s lips tightened into a thin white line. “Yes, well, we all change. And he did not change for the better. As much as I hate to say it, it’s a good thing we went to live with Aunt Ivy after Ma and Pa died, to get away from them. I can’t imagine what would have happened to you had you boys stayed friends.”
Connor bit his lip. Jed Gaines was yet another subject he didn’t like discussing. The morning was not starting out very well for him. His eyes roved his desk until they found the bottle. It was on the other side of Cora, just out of his reach. He wouldn’t be able to get to it before she did. He was contemplating the risk of pulling another bottle out of his desk when the door opened again.
“Morning, Amos,” Cora sang as she rose from the desk. “How are you, darlin’?”
The young deputy blushed from the collar of his shirt all the way up to the tips of his ears. He doffed his hat and offered the dancing girl a little bow of the head. “Mornin’, Miss Cora. I’m doing’ all right. I hope you’re well.” He shuffled his feet like a school boy with a serious crush, but didn’t step further into the office.
“
I’m doing just fine. You’re so sweet for askin’.” She gave him a winning grin that upped the pink in his cheeks by several degrees.
Amos coughed. “I’ll, uh, I’ll wait for you outside, sheriff.”
The sheriff fought back a grin. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
The deputy left and Cora clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggle.
“You’re so mean to him.”
She scoffed. “How am I mean? He loves it.”
Connor rose and adjusted his rumpled trousers. “He loves you, you mean. And you’re never going to feel the same.”
“I’m never going to feel that way about any man. Not after Michael. Not after what he did.” She shrugged. “By the way, it’s almost noon, not early morning. You were sleeping, so I waited awhile outside. You better get a move on if you want to hit up the Gaines’ place before dark.”
Connor strapped on his gun belt and grabbed the ring of keys off the hook on the desk. “Come on, Finch. Time to leave.”
The old man grunted and groaned, but somehow managed to push himself to his feet and stumble out into the sunlight. “See ya tomorra,” he mumbled as he left.
“I hope not,” Connor called after him as he watched the man trip down the stairs into the street. The sheriff turned from the door just in time to see Cora stuff his bottle of whiskey into the basket. He gritted his teeth, but said nothing.
She turned around with a smile on her face. “I should be going,” she said. She harbored no guilt over taking away his bottles. It wasn’t the first time, and it would not be the last. She walked over to the door. “Be careful, little brother.” She stood on her tiptoes for a moment to kiss him on the cheek. “And keep an eye on Amos, please. I want him to return in one piece.”
Amos was leaning on a post near the door, within earshot, and his cheeks brightened to a deep rouge.
