Peacemaker (9780698140820) (16 page)

Apparently satisfied with what it had learned, the mammoth creature lumbered around the injured man to touch noses with the odd coyote. The two animals stood that way for a long moment, sharing some kind of secret communion.

Only when a stray night breeze passed through the tall grasses did Caleb realize that the buffalo had left no sign of its passing. Where it should have flattened the prairie grass, the stalks were straight and unbroken, swaying peacefully where they stood. And if he squinted, he realized he could see the grass
through
the behemoth's body, as if it were no more tangible than smoke.

“God. I'm hallucinating.” In a small way, he was relieved. Perhaps he'd at least be insensible when the worst happened. Being eaten wouldn't be that bad, so long as he wasn't aware of it.

The buffalo snorted, either at the man or the coyote, Caleb wasn't sure. Without a second glance, it turned and lumbered back out into the plains, passing through the grass without disturbing a single blade. The coyote remained, and it yawned hugely, displaying its sharp white teeth.

“Sorry that I'm boring you. I'm being remiss in my duties as host.” Caleb laid his head back again, watching the stars dancing in the sky above him. It seemed they whirled much faster than he remembered, the spinning making him dizzy after a while. He closed his eyes, no longer caring if he ever opened them again.

Twice more, the grasses rustled to reveal yet another animal come to inspect the captured Peacemaker. A delicate doe nosed at his cheek, the hair on her muzzle tickling his ear until he laughed. And a prairie hen, all feathers and bluster, strutted and fussed around him, apparently oblivious to the vicious predator sitting not a few feet away.

One of them did not exist, Caleb decided. Either the coyote was not there, or Caleb himself was a figment of the imagination. And since the other animals all seemed to have some deep and interesting discussion with the canine observer, Caleb concluded that it must be him.

He had the disturbing thought that perhaps he was dead already. “If this is heaven, I'm mightily disappointed.” Though, perhaps it wasn't heaven. Perhaps he hadn't been nearly the good man that he'd thought. There were so many deaths on his head, but . . . that was war, wasn't it? Would he be held to account for his past actions?

The mosquito bites on his wrists itched something fierce, and he next decided that he could not be dead, because allowing mosquito bites in hell was too cruel, even for Satan himself.

The coyote provided no information. It had been sitting for hours by now, perhaps simply waiting for Caleb to expire.

“Hey, since you're just sitting there . . .” The animal looked over at him, giving the curious head tilt again. “I don't suppose you could go get me some help, could you?” Again, the coyote tilted his head to the other side, as if considering it. “Please?”

The animal looked at him for a long time, and Caleb swore he could see the stars' own light reflected in the amber eyes. Finally, it stood and trotted into the grass without so much as a sound.

“Well, I'll be damned.” That brought another fit of manic chuckling, but he quickly got it under control.

The disadvantage, he quickly discovered, was that he was now alone. Even silent and odd, the coyote had at least been companionship.

With nothing else to distract him, he became aware of how much he hurt, still, and how very thirsty he was. His mouth tasted like copper where the blood from his cracked lips had trickled in, and it was a wonder he could talk around the great swollen piece of shoe leather that was his tongue. For a few seconds, he convinced himself he was about to choke on it, and he thrashed against his bonds again, the ropes cutting deeper into his wrists.

“Warner, you bastard! You could have at least shot me like a man!” The shout went unanswered, as he knew it would.

Or had it?

Somewhere at the edge of his hearing, he caught the faintest of notes, a voice humming in the distance. Though he could make out only every third or fourth note, when the wind favored him, he found himself humming along, filling in the missing parts from memory. He knew that tune, didn't he? From where . . . ?

It gradually swelled to fill his head, blotting out all other sounds. The soft lullaby spoke of gentle hands, loving arms, warmth, and safety. And he'd heard it before, but he could not for the life of him remember when or where.

The first time his eyes drifted closed, he forced them back open with a start. He could not afford to sleep, not when waking again was so unlikely. But it happened a second and third time, the darkness lingering a bit longer each time before he remembered to resist. It would be so easy to sleep, to rest. The song said he would be safe, and he was so very, very tired.

With the woman's voice humming softly in his ears, he finally let go and drifted to sleep.

Chapter 13

Cool water trickled over his lips, and delicate touches moved over his chest and arms while the soothing song went on. It took him some time to realize that he could open his eyes if he wanted, and when he did, he found himself staring up into dark eyes set in a lovely, honey-brown face.

The Indian woman, the one from the mountain and his dreams, smiled to see him awake, and she slipped her hand behind his head to support him while she trickled more water down his throat.

Caleb gulped it as fast as he could, though he was certain even an entire river would not have been enough. When he managed to choke himself, she laid his head back down with a chiding look.

“I . . .” He paused to cough. “Thank you.”

Smiling her approval, she gathered up some cloths and bowls and rose, walking gracefully across the floor.

Only then did Caleb realize that he was inside one of the large teepees, cheerfully lit by a crackling fire in the middle. The smoke rose in a column through the hole in the top, and beyond it he could see only darkness. It was still night, then, but the same night or another one?

An attempt to sit up revealed that he was still stretched and tied; the lodge had apparently been erected right over his place of confinement. The nullstone amulet still nestled in the center of his chest. Perhaps they didn't trust him after all. “How long have I been here?”

The woman was busily working with some pungent smelling plants on her side of the fire and barely glanced over at his voice. His answer came instead from the other side.

“Time passes differently here, so that is hard to say.” From the shadows, the old shaman appeared, moving to take a seat next to the fire. It was unmistakably the same man from the Dog Soldier's village. Physically, he looked no different from the last time Caleb had seen him, though his long white braids were wrapped in dark fur this time. His face was still deeply lined with years and responsibilities, and he still carried himself with the air of a man who expects his orders to be obeyed without question.

Something was different, though, something Caleb couldn't quite put his finger on. The old man seemed . . . younger almost. Brighter. More alive. Even the decorations on his leathers seemed more vibrant, as if the beaded creatures were about to leap off and cavort around the fire. Everything in the teepee looked that way, he realized—too deep, too rich to be real. Too much.

The coyote familiar padded into view as well, lying down with its head on its paws and its eyes on the captive man, and Caleb abruptly realized that the shaman had spoken, and he had understood.

“You speak English now?”

The old man smiled, the creases in his face deepening. “There is only one language of the spirit, and all who are brothers may speak it in this place.”

Caleb glanced around. “What, in this teepee?”

“You are in the Place Between.”

“The place between what?”

“Between life and death. Between asleep and awake. Between one world and the next.” The white-haired man threw a handful of something on the flames, and aromatic smoke rolled out. Sage, Caleb thought. “Coyote spoke to me of your need, and your readiness to see this place.”

Caleb eyed the familiar beside the fire, but he couldn't tell whether it was the same coyote that had watched over him on the prairie. One looked very much like another. “Am I . . . hallucinating still?”

The old man chuckled. “It is possible. That is one way of reaching this place.”

“Am I dying?” The woman returned to his side, and Caleb eyed her warily. She knelt, scooping a handful of a dark, wet substance from a bowl, and began smearing it on his burned forearms. The poultice was cool and sent tingles through his skin.

“I do not believe you are dying. Though you would have without our aid.” The old man produced a long pipe and began filling it with tobacco. Caleb could smell it even under the aroma of the other herbs. “I am called Crying Elk. I am the medicine man of this band of the People. And you are a star soldier of the white man.”

“Star soldier?”

The old man tapped the place above his heart, and Caleb understood.

“My badge . . .” It was gone, he supposed, wherever Warner had discarded his shirt.

“You are not the same as the last star soldier who came to this land. He was a man like the dark one, the one who digs into the mountain's heart and causes such pain. He was only interested in his personal gain.” Crying Elk smirked with dark humor. “We would not have aided him, no matter how he begged Coyote.”

That fit in line with everything Caleb had learned about his predecessor. “I feel like I should apologize for that.”

The old shaman snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils to join the haze. “Each man chooses to walk his own path. His choice was not yours, so why would you need to apologize for it?”

Caleb shrugged, only to be reminded of the bonds that tied him. The woman frowned at his fidgeting, reaching to smooth some of the sticky goop over his forehead as well. “What is . . . what is she doing?” Instinctively, he flinched away from her touch, and she grabbed his chin firmly, giving him a glare.

“She is a great healer of our people. The poultice will take the heat from your wounds, allow them to heal. The water will replenish you.”

“Why are you doing this for me?”

“I told you this already. Because you are not like the other star soldier. You spare lives when you could more easily take them, even among people not your own. You give food to the hungry and warning to those in danger.” The old man grinned in the firelight. “Though your spirit guide should more likely be praised for that.”

Spirit guide . . . Ernst!
“Is Ernst all right? Where is he?”

“You cannot tell?” The shaman canted his head curiously. “Is he not a piece of your spirit?”

“The stone.” Caleb jerked his chin at the medallion lying on his chest. “It blocks me from him, keeps me from reaching him.”

Crying Elk pursed his lips thoughtfully. “When I was a boy, a man with pale skin and black hair upon his face came to our lands. He had a headdress and shirt made of metal, and rode a horse before we had ever seen such a creature. His own people had left him behind, but he fell in love with a beautiful woman of the People, and he chose to stay with my band. We learned much of the white man's ways through him.

“Once, in battle against another tribe, he split himself in two, the piece of his spirit aiding him much as your spirit guide does. When the battle was over, the piece of his spirit remained, separate from him, yet always a part of him. Is it not the way with all white men and their spirit guides?”

Caleb blinked in the dim light for a few moments, disturbingly certain that the old man had just described the arrival of the Spaniards on this land, something that had taken place over three hundred years ago.
Dear Lord . . . Three hundred . . . ?
There had to be some mistake, some error in translation perhaps. “We don't know where familiars come from. They just . . . appear. Ernst just came to me.”

The shaman shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Perhaps he was a different kind of white man, then.”

“What about yours? Is he part of your spirit?”

The coyote cocked his head at Caleb's words, giving every impression of being indulgently amused.

“Coyote visits when he wants, and aids me when he chooses. We are friends, but he is not of my spirit.” Crying Elk rested a hand on the head of his own familiar, more a gesture of respect for an equal than affection bestowed on a pet. The coyote looked up, and Caleb swore he could see the animal smile fondly in return.

Even knowing he would not be able to move past the nullstone, Caleb tried to reach out for his connection to Ernst. It was like pushing through yards of wet wool, but he gritted his teeth and tried anyway.

The woman slapped his arm lightly and shook a finger in warning. Caleb resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at her petulantly.

“You are not strong enough just now to fight the power of the draining stone. I will teach you later, when you are more yourself.” Crying Elk drew on his pipe deeply, his eyes watching the dance of the fire before him. “Now is the time when we must speak of more serious things.”

Caleb dragged his gaze away from the woman with her hands all over him to look at the old shaman. “What things? And you know, it's hard to have a conversation all tied up like this.”

“Is it? It is not bothering me in the least.” The old man blew a perfect smoke ring, amusement in his dark eyes. “Attend now. Time must not be wasted in this place.”

“But you said time—” Caleb fell silent at a look from the old man. Something told him that the shaman would answer only what he chose to.

“The dark man must be stopped. The mountain sleeps for now, but if he continues to dig at the heel of the giant, it will awaken, and all will feel its wrath. Even now, it stirs fitfully in its sleep, and the world shakes.”

The image of the sleeping rock giant sprang vividly to Caleb's mind, and he looked toward the woman, who had her head down over her mystery concoctions. Her eyes met his, and she subtly shook her head no. He was not to mention their little dream adventure, then, hmm?

“What happens if the . . . if the mountain wakes?”

“Who knows? It has not happened in all of my three hundred forty winters, nor those of my father before me nor of his father before him. But if the sleeping giant can cause the mountain to fall down upon our heads, imagine what an angry and wakeful one could do.”

Caleb had to blink and allow that information to sink in.
Three
hundred forty winters. He really did see the Spaniards arrive.
Granted, strong magic users were blessed with longer lives, but . . . Even Caleb could expect to see only one hundred and thirty years, if he was truly fortunate.

The rumors of the ancient Indian shamans had trickled back east, spread by gruesome war stories and sensationalized penny dreadful novels. Privately, Caleb had always scoffed at such tales as dramatized yarns good for frightening women and children on dark nights around the fire.

If it was true, though . . . No wonder the white man could not defeat the red man's magic.

“Why don't you just stop him then? Drive him off the mountain?” Even as powerful as Warner was, this Crying Elk was more than a match. Of that Caleb was certain.

“Because if my people attack the white men, the soldiers will come just like in the north. I do not wish to lose my people, or to kill any of yours. I have no hatred for those who simply wish to live in peace, so long as they allow us to do the same.”

He spoke the truth, though Caleb couldn't have said why he was so sure. Maybe it was the great weariness that lurked in the old man's eyes, that threatened to stoop his proud shoulders. “You didn't raid the Anderson homestead, did you?”

“The family in the foothills? No. That was the dark man, poorly made to look like a raid by the people. I do not allow my warriors to raid.”

Caleb nodded, resting his head back to gaze up at the thick leather above his head. “I thought you'd say that.”

“You do not believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I bet they're on top of another gold vein; that's why he wanted them out. The Cheyenne woman is showing him where they are somehow.”

The old man nodded. “That is a sad tale. She was a daughter of the People, but now she angers the spirits greatly. The dark one has tethered her to his will, but if she were free, I think she would fight against him.”

“Tethered . . . I don't understand what you mean.”

“You will see. When you go there.”

“Now, wait.” Caleb tried to raise his head, the muscles in his neck quivering. “What makes you think I'm going out there? Just because you tell me to?”

“You will go, because that is the path I see before you. All of your roads lead to the dark man.” Crying Elk tapped out his pipe into the fire and stood.

“And if I don't believe in your . . . vision?”

The old man chuckled. “We shall see. I do not see whether you will die, but if you do, it will be a good day for it. I will find you again when it is done, Good Man.” He paused at the leather flap that led outside. “Do not attempt to leave the teepee. There are things in the Place Between that are not brothers and would not be happy with your presence.”

Caleb eyed the ropes still binding his wrists and ankles. “I don't think that's going to be a problem.”

The old man left, chuckling.

That left Caleb alone with the woman, who was humming softly under her breath again. “How long are you going to keep me here?”

She glanced up briefly, but went back to her work without a word.

“I guess you don't talk here, either.” With a sigh, Caleb laid his head back to stare at the ceiling again. The poultice was drying on his arms, itching faintly, but he could tell that the pain had receded already. If it was a hallucination, at least he wasn't suffering.

“I do not know what to say to you.” Her voice was low, soft, and Caleb looked at her in surprise to hear her speak at all. She blushed faintly under his gaze.

“Tell me your name, then.”

She returned to his side with more water, helping him drink as she spoke. “I am called Falcon Woman.”

He swallowed the water gratefully, feeling his parched tissues suck up the precious moisture. She laid his head down gently, and began checking the packs of damp herbs covering his body. He watched her long enough that she blushed again.

“Why do you stare at me so?”

“Why do you walk in my dreams?”

She bit her lip as she bent to smear more poultice on his raw wrists. “I should not have done that. Father would be very angry if he knew. It is not polite to walk in another's dreams without being invited.”

“Do many of your people walk in dreams like that?”