Grace and the Guiltless

by Erin Johnson

  But through it all, she clutched Pa’s gun in her good hand.

  Then they mounted another hill, and suddenly Grace cried out in relief. There, before her, were several bushes filled with purple berries. They looked like the berries that were in the preacher’s pemmican, except these were round and plump, and the ones in the pemmican were dried.

  Her heart dancing, Grace staggered toward them, scattering several birds pecking on the fruit. She feasted, popping berry after berry into her mouth, then finally tore herself away to the nearby stream to rinse the stinking fabric fish net with her good arm, keeping the gun beside her on the bank. Rushing back to the bushes, she spread the cloth on the ground and filled it with as many berries as she could.

  A full stomach gave her renewed energy. She whistled for Bullet, and he plodded toward her. Poor boy.His gait had grown slower and less steady. Fear gripped Grace as he hobbled closer. His legs were so swollen under the bandages that the fabric edges had made indentations in his skin. She squatted to unwind the strips, but they were stuck. She’d have to soak them off when they stopped for the night.

  But a few hours later, it was Grace who was in trouble. She felt sudden, stabbing pains shooting through her belly, leaving her gasping for breath. She clutched her stomach as it churned horribly, nausea rising in waves, her esophagus burning. Had the raw fish made her sick? Grace tried to press on farther, but the cramps doubled her over, and she slid to the ground.

  Shivers racked her body. Her teeth were chattering, but her body was burning up. Sweat dripped down her face and stung her eyes.

  Water. She needed water.

  Grace tried crawling toward the nearby stream, but her throbbing arm refused to support her weight. Her forearm had swollen inside the bandage, just like Bullet’s wounds, and the skin above it was now a purplish red. But Grace was too weak to loosen the bandage. She collapsed a few feet from the stream, her body spasming with dry heaves.

  She still clutched the gun. Bullet stood over her, his shadow shielding her from the sun and blocking her view of the buzzards circling overhead.

  The palomino’s shadow grew, floated past her eyes, turned into the mocking shapes of Hale and his men. They pointed guns at her. Hale opened his mouth. It yawned like an open grave. A bear leaped from the darkness. Grace screamed. Her body jerked . . .

  As if from a distance, she heard Bullet neighing, and the nearby brush parted.

  Had Hale’s men found her?

  Grace was shivering too violently to get to her feet. She couldn’t even lift the gun. Desperation and sorrow flooded her eyes.

  A cool hand descended on her forehead, followed by water. Icy cold drips slid down her temples and onto her neck.

  Grace flinched, and her muscles convulsed. She rolled onto her side and retched. Hands gripped her shoulders, supporting her until her stomach emptied.

  Weak and spent, Grace lay panting, and the strange hands let go of her. Moments later, more water trickled down her face. A wet cloth pressed against her forehead, slid down over her eyes, swiped across her face. Blessed coolness, but Grace couldn’t stop shaking.

  “P-preacher?” she croaked. Had he followed her?

  A deep chuckle rumbled beside her. “First time I was ever accused of that.”

  “Who . . . are you?” Grace croaked. She opened her eyes, trying to focus, but the sun burned her eyes and left the face above her in shadow. Grace had a vague impression of the brim of a Stetson dipping toward her, long dark hair falling forward, and even through her fever she realized she recognized the figure.

  “You. Again.” The boy who’d thrown her the pouch of silver.

  “Yes, me again. What are you doing way out here? You didn’t have enough trouble in town?”

  If she could catch the wisps of thoughts floating in her brain, she would answer him. But she couldn’t remember how she’d ended up here. Only two words were emblazoned in her memory.

  “Elijah Hale,” she whispered.

  “Are you crazy? You came out here chasing an outlaw? A girl? Alone?”

  More convulsions shook her, and she couldn’t respond.

  He glanced from her purple-stained fingers to the cloth she had dropped. “You didn’t eat those berries, did you?”

  Grace tried to nod, but it set off more spasms. She rolled onto her side, choking.

  He held her shoulders again while she emptied her stomach. Then he wiped her face and mouth with the wet cloth.

  He shook his head. “Any fool knows pokeberries are poison.”

  Grace tried to sit up. “Are you . . . following me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “First in town. Now here.” Through her fogged brain, Grace remembered the silver. She had to tell him she’d pay him back.

  “I have more important things to do,” he said. “But I’m not surprised I ended up saving your neck again.”

  She frowned. “You . . . you . . .” but before she could choke out any more words, blackness closed over her mind, and everything went dark.

  CHAPTER 7

  In the distance, Grace was aware of stomping, chanting, bells jingling. Pounding drums vibrated the air, and feet slapped the earth around her, jarring her body. Her head thumped and ached.

  The noise faded. Her body convulsed with violent shivers. She was burning and freezing at the same time. Cool hands touched her forehead. Liquids dribbled between her chattering teeth, down her throat. Grace struggled to open her eyes, but her eyelids were much too heavy.

  Smoke swirled around her, filling her lungs and making her choke. Grace thrashed. She had to get out. To save Zeke. She reached out to cradle him close to her chest, but pain ripped through her arm, jerking her awake.

  Where was she?

  Poles arched overhead, baskets dangled from the rafters. Through the haze, Grace made out walls that looked like tufts of grass.

  Fur lined the hard ground beneath her. A rough wool blanket covered her.

  A strange murmuring sound came from above, and a dark-skinned man leaned over her, a cotton headband wrapped around his forehead. His long black hair fell forward and almost brushed her chest.

  Grace sucked back a scream and squeezed her eyes shut.

  An Apache.

  Had she been captured by the Apache? Would they torture her?

  Did they kill you first and then take your scalp? Or did they do it while you were still alive? Was he getting ready to kill her?

  Grace watched him through slitted eyelids. What was that in his hand? He chanted strange words and shook what looked like a gigantic leather baby rattle painted with yellow and blue designs. Eagle feathers dangled from the handle. Was it a club?

  He bent closer, laid a hand on her forehead. She flinched, and her chest constricted so she could barely breathe. She swallowed, trying to suck back the terror. A scream gurgled up from her chest, and she reared back. She had to get away —

  “You are awake. That is good.”

  He spoke English? Grace opened one eye, then the other. That strange rattle had disappeared. In its place, he held a handful of eagle feathers. With a brushing motion, he spread the smoke, and another cloud drifted toward her. Grace coughed, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “You hurt here?” He tapped his fingers to his forehead, making the shell necklaces on his buckskin-covered chest clink together.

  Was he warning her he was going to hurt her? Or was he asking if she had a headache?

  His broad smile seemed friendly enough, but Grace stayed on high alert. She searched for an exit. Behind him, a buffalo hide hung across a doorway. If her exhausted muscles would cooperate, maybe she could distract him and run. She tried to scoot back when he turned to pick up a gourd bowl behind him, but her left arm throbbed so much it couldn’t support her weight.

  The man turned around again, bowl in hand, and pointed to his ch
est. “I am Cheveyo.”

  His name? He wouldn’t introduce himself before he killed her, would he? Grace’s heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a canter.

  “My people call me Spirit Warrior.” Then he pointed to her. “You?”

  “Me?” Her voice squeaked. “You mean my name?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m Grace.”

  “Gurrr-asss,” he repeated. “English is hard to speak. Ahote teaches me, but I do not always learn well.”

  “How . . . how did I get here?”

  “Ahote find you. He brought you here.”

  “Ahote knows English?”

  Cheveyo’s brow crinkled, then he said, “He is English.”

  Did he mean Ahote was English or that he spoke English? If Ahote was English, maybe he could help her escape. At least, she hoped he could. Grace tried to make her next question casual. “Is Ahote here?”

  “He is hunting.”

  “When will he return?” Soon. Please let it be soon. She had to get away from here. She had to carry on, to track down the Guiltless Gang . . .

  “If the hunt goes well, he will be back soon. But in your language . . .” Cheveyo stared at the ceiling, his face scrunched up as if he were thinking. After a few seconds, he looked at Grace again. “Ahote means ‘Restless One.’ So maybe he will return soon . . . maybe not.” He smiled.

  So she was trapped here until this Restless One returned? And if he did, would he even help her escape? She couldn’t wait for him — she had to find her own way out. Would the Apache leave her alone, unguarded? Cheveyo had to sleep sometime . . . but she would need Bullet.

  “My horse!” Grace said, her voice rising in urgency. “Where is my horse?”

  Cheveyo looked grave and shook his head.

  Was Bullet dead? No, no, it couldn’t be . . .

  “Your horse needs much time to heal, like you.” Cheveyo leaned forward and lifted Grace’s arm gently. “That needs more medicine.”

  She stared at her limb, shocked. Red and tender, her arm had swollen to twice its normal size. In place of the makeshift bandage, a white cloth soaked in something had been wrapped around it.

  Cheveyo walked over to a stone bowl and pestle. He crushed bits of bark, poured in some water from a container over the fire, and brought the mash over to her.

  “What is that?” She grimaced, looking at it.

  “White willow bark. It will take away the pain and swelling.”

  After unwinding the bandage, Cheveyo applied the warm paste to Grace’s arm. Then he rewrapped it with a clean bandage, and soon the pulsing ache in her arm was soothed.

  From containers lining the wall, Cheveyo mixed some herbs into the remaining willow bark. He poured the herbs into a gourd bowl and diluted it with more hot water. Then he knelt beside her with the steaming concoction. He slid one hand behind her back, propped her up, and brought the gourd bowl to her lips. “This will make you strong and well.”

  Grace turned her head away. She choked as another cloud of smoke drifted into her nostrils. Liquid sloshed out of the bowl and splashed onto the earthen floor. In one swift motion, Cheveyo set the bowl on the ground, leaned her forward, and patted her on the back until she could breathe again.

  Grace’s eyes watered, and she kept hacking. “That smoke.” She waved her good arm toward the foggy room and forced herself to keep coughing. “I need air.” Maybe she could convince him to take her outside. “Air,” she repeated and followed it with gasping noises.

  Cheveyo continued to pat her back.

  “Outside.” She tried to sound like she was about to collapse.

  “Smoke is good.” He waved more smoke her way. “Smudging. It will help you heal. The sacred plants have great power to cleanse.”

  Grace obviously wouldn’t get out of this hut that way. She needed another plan.

  Cheveyo picked up the bowl again. “This is good for fever.”

  Grace stared at it suspiciously.

  “You are afraid to taste it?” Cheveyo tipped the gourd to his own lips and took a sip. “It will not hurt you.”

  Warily, Grace sipped the bitter tea he held out.

  Cheveyo studied her with compassionate eyes. He motioned to the gourd bowl. “That will heal your body, but you must heal here too.” He tapped his forehead.

  What did he know about her state of mind? Perhaps it would never heal. But bringing Hale and the Guiltless Gang to justice might give her at least a chance of mending it. She had wasted too much time already. Grace set down the bowl and pushed back the blanket.

  “Please, I must go.”

  But when she tried to move away from his supporting hands, her whole body went limp. Cheveyo shook his head. “You are not ready.”

  Grace couldn’t let that gang get away. How long would they stay holed up in the mountains? They could be gone already for all she knew. She had to get after them.

  “Revenge is not the way of the spirit. You must also heal here.” He laid a hand over his heart. “This is the great healer. It can make you sick. It can make you well. But only you can choose to let go of what makes you ill inside.”

  Grace let out a tight, dismissive laugh. “I’m ill because I ate pokeberries and was attacked by a bear —”

  “Yes, this is true. But you also hold much hurt and anger here.” Again Cheveyo thumped his chest. “Only if you let it go will you heal.”

  “I only hold a need for justice,” she said. And Grace knew she would never let that go. Never. Not until every last one of the Guiltless Gang was jailed or hanged.

  Cheveyo shook his head. “Let Usen hand out justice.”

  “Who is Usen?” Grace said eagerly. Would he help her find the gang?

  Cheveyo pointed toward the sky. “Usen is the Great Creator. It is his place to say what should happen. He makes all things right.”

  Grace sighed deeply. No one and no thing could make this right. And why did everyone she ran into believe God was the source of justice? Perhaps before everything that had happened to her she would have said the same . . . but now? Didn’t they see all the terrible things in the world? How could anyone trust in a God like that? And as for letting God hand out justice . . .

  She’d seen that firsthand, and she wanted no part of it. Just as she had seen the sheriff’s brand of justice. The only justice she wanted right now was what she could get herself. She couldn’t depend on people or on the law or on God. She was alone in her fight for true justice.

  “Peace in the heart puts the body in harmony with the universe and all that is,” Cheveyo said softly. He lifted the buffalo skin that covered the door and stepped outside. “To walk in happiness, let the hurt go.”

  Now he sounded like Reverend Byington. In spite of what Cheveyo and the preacher said, Grace wouldn’t find peace until every member of the Guiltless Gang had been brought to justice, and she couldn’t do that while she was holed up in an Apache hut. But maybe she had a chance now — Cheveyo was leaving. She would wait for a few minutes, until she was sure he was gone, then she’d slip out. But as the seconds ticked by, Grace found herself fighting to keep her eyes open. Had he tricked her with a sleeping potion? He had only taken a small sip himself. No. She couldn’t fall asleep . . . she had to stay awake. She had to get out of here.

  * * *

  Grace woke with a start. The room still smelled smoky, but daylight streamed through the doorway, where the buffalo skin over the entrance was pulled aside. Twined burden baskets, pitch-covered vases, and clay pots lined the walls beside the door. Though still so weak she could barely push herself up on one elbow, Grace felt better. And she was alone.

  Now was the time. She had to get out of here before Cheveyo returned. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, a shadow darkened the doorway. Grace’s heart sank. If she’d only been a little faster . . .

  “Glad to see
you’re finally awake.”

  “You again?”

  “It’s me. At least this time you aren’t calling me preacher. My name is Joe, by the way. And you are?”

  She pursed her lips, but then sighed and answered him. “Grace. Listen, is that Cheveyo gone? If he is, we should get out of here now before he comes back —”

  Joe interrupted her with a short, incredulous laugh. “You can’t go anywhere!”

  “We have to!” The nervous energy running through Grace gave her voice a sharp edge. “What if . . . what if they kill us?”

  Joe threw back his head and laughed. “If they planned to do that, they’d have done it by now.” He squatted down beside her. “Relax. You’re in the medicine lodge. Lucky for you, Cheveyo’s a skilled shaman. If it weren’t for him, you would have died.”

  “You brought me here deliberately? Why?”

  “Don’t you remember eating those pokeberries?”

  She tried to nod, but her head ached too much to move.

  “For all his skills, Cheveyo was only just able to save you. Your fever got so high that you went wild. They had to lay you on the floor instead of on a bed.” Joe gestured toward a rectangle of sticks woven into a mat and suspended from four stakes so it hung a foot off the floor.

  It didn’t look as if it would be any more comfortable than the ground.

  “I . . . I wasn’t sure you’d live.” Joe glanced away and shook his head. “They even did the full healing ceremony with pollen and the Four Dancers.”

  “What?” Grace stared at him. “What did they do to me?”

  “The Four Dancers danced around you for four days. Cheveyo sprinkled pollen on you.”

  Hazy memories of drums and pounding feet drifted back to Grace. But then she realized something else Joe had said. “Four days? I’ve been out that long?”

  “Longer than that. Your arm was infected. That and the pokeberries and not getting enough water. Lucky I found you when I did. You wouldn’t have lasted much longer,” Joe said.