Zeke and Ned (36 page)

Meanwhile, the bottle was thoroughly broken, and half a bottle of whiskey lost for good. It vexed Ned, that he had gotten only half value for his money and would have to go home with a hole in his coat besides. Unless he was lucky, Jewel would smell the whiskey on the coat and conclude that he had gone after liquor rather than a preacher. It was sure to make her mad as spit.

All in all, it added up to a disappointing trip, rather than the jolly time he had been hoping for. He still meant to salvage breakfast if he could, and went tromping through the weeds and wet grass to the Sheriff's house.

Then he noticed a buggy at the jail—Chief Bushyhead's buggy, with his grey mare hitched to it. That struck Ned as odd, for it was not even all the way light. What was the Chief doing at the jailhouse so early? When Zeke Proctor had been locked up, it was uncommon for anybody to be at the jailhouse this early. Sheriff Bobtail usually fished a little, or shot a squirrel, or paid some attention to his pigs and chickens, before showing up at the jail.

Seeing Chief Bushyhead's buggy in town so early made Ned apprehensive. Something bad must have happened; Ned wondered if it had anything to do with Zeke. Ever since he had watched Zeke ride off after the big shootout, Ned had been worried about him. He was afraid the shock of the massacre might have caused Zeke to lose his fire. Zeke had always been stout in his own defense, and cautious to a fault. He had even trained his dog, Pete, to walk sideways with his back to the buildings, just as Zeke did, in order to keep a sharp lookout for enemies.

But if Zeke had lost his fire, he might have stopped being alert in his own defense. Maybe the Becks had ambushed him and killed him; or, if not the Becks, then the Squirrels. Zeke had far too many enemies to be wandering around in a low state. Zeke needed to sidle through life for a while, with his hackles up, ready for trouble. Otherwise, some
wild fiend like Davie Beck would get the best of him, and cut his head off.

Ned considered slipping away from the jailhouse, back into the woods, before anyone spotted him. Chief Bushyhead had ordered him out of town and would not be pleased to find that his order had been disobeyed. Besides—slipping away was the smart thing to do in most cases. The news, whatever it was, would not take long to climb the Mountain. If it was bad, he would have the safety of the woods. He could take his wife and vanish, if need be.

But this morning, with the sun just burning off the mists in the valleys to the east, Ned did not feel like slipping away. He was a member of the Cherokee Senate, and a Keetoowah brother—if the Chief was out this early, the matter at hand might be one that would affect the whole community. He did not want to sulk off like a coyote, when important business was being conducted or important councils held. He was not a coward, and besides that, he was a free citizen of the Cherokee Nation. Despite his considerable respect for Chief Bushy-head, it had annoyed him to be ordered to leave, when he had just got into town. He had stayed, and that was that. If the Chief did not like it, he would just have to put up with it.

Ned knocked, and boldly went into the jail. He had to stoop to get through the low door. Twice, while waiting with Zeke, he had neglected to stoop and had bumped his head.

Chief Bushyhead and Sheriff Bobtail stood by the bunk in the one little cell, looking at a body covered by a sheet. Sheriff Bobtail looked startled when Ned appeared; Chief Bushyhead just looked annoyed.

“Who's that?” Ned asked, nodding toward the body under the sheet.

“Dan Maples—he was the marshal that was looking for you,” the Chief said. “Did you kill him?”

Ned thought he must have misheard.

“Did I what?” he asked.

“Kill him. I'm asking you,” the Chief repeated. He pulled back the sheet a little. The dead man had no shirt on. There were three bullet holes in his chest.

“No, Chief, I didn't kill him,” Ned said quickly. “I never laid eyes on the man, until this very minute.”

“I believe him,” Sheriff Bobtail said. “Ned ain't a killer. I expect it was the Becks.”

The Chief was silent for a moment. It aggravated him deeply that young Edward Christie had ignored his order to leave town. He was not in the habit of simply ordering people out of town on a whim. Edward Christie, and for that matter, everyone with any sense in the District, knew how touchy things were with the white law. Avoiding contact with a marshal who was bent on arresting him only made sense, and Edward Christie was certainly intelligent enough and old enough to grasp a simple point of that sort.

And yet, here he stood, still in town, and the marshal who had come looking for him was dead of three bullets well placed in his chest cavity. It was a bad luck day for everyone concerned. Now the white marshals assuredly would come again—and this time, they would come like an army.

It all could have been avoided, the Chief knew, and yet it had not been avoided. He wondered what it was in people—what stubbornness or contrariness—that prevented them, time and again, from doing the plain, the intelligent, the practical thing.

He did not know, and the judges did not know, and the wise men and the healers and the preachers did not know; yet, it was there. Over and over again, sensible and responsible people who knew clearly what the right thing was went stubbornly ahead and did the wrong thing.

“Are you sure you didn't shoot this man?” he asked Ned Christie again.

“No, I did not shoot him, Chief,” Ned repeated. He had begun to realize that he had made a big mistake in not obeying the Chief's order to leave. The Chief, who had known him since his birth, had just asked him twice if he had killed the white marshal. If Chief Bushyhead thought it possible that Ned had killed the man, then what would the white men think? He had quickly landed himself in the thick of trouble, and had not a bit of fun in the process. All he had done was drink a half bottle of whiskey under a bush in the rain.

“Somebody shot him—that's plain,” the Chief said.

“I figure it was the Becks,” Sheriff Bobtail repeated.

The Chief looked at him sternly.

“Why do you figure that, Sheriff?” he asked.

“Well, he was looking for them, too,” Sheriff Bobtail reminded the Chief. He was wishing he had kept quiet. Conclusions that seemed sensible enough when he uttered them had a way of seeming absurd, once the Chief inspected them in his stern manner.

“I've had no reports that the Becks were in town yesterday,” the Chief said. “Have you had reports of their whereabouts, Sheriff?”

“No, but they're sneaky. They could have slipped up on the marshal while he was looking for old Ben.”

“Did you see any Becks yesterday, Edward?” the Chief asked Ned.

“No, but I was drunk,” Ned admitted. He saw no reason to hide the fact now.

“I didn't wake up till about daybreak,” he added. “I slept under some bushes up past the creek.”

The Chief and the Sheriff looked at one another.

“Near the bridge?” the Sheriff asked.

“Not too far from the bridge,” Ned said. “Why?”

“The marshal was crossing the bridge when he was shot,” the Sheriff said. “He slipped off into the water. He shot back at whoever killed him—shot three times. He might have wounded the killer. We don't know.”

“I ain't wounded,” Ned pointed out. Then he remembered that he had a bullet hole through his pocket, and a broken whiskey bottle inside that pocket.

“The man was shot about dark, and it was rainy,” the Chief said. “I doubt he hit anybody. Where is your friend Mr. Proctor?”

“Why, I don't know, Chief,” Ned said. “I believe he's on the scout.”

“You didn't see him last night?” the Chief asked.

Ned suddenly got exasperated. Why was the Chief hammering at him so? Of course he had been foolish to disregard good advice and stay in town, but then he had no reason to suppose a marshal was about to be murdered.

“I told you twice I didn't have nothing to do with this killing!” he said loudly. “I wanted to go see the marshal and talk to him honest about what happened in the court, but you told me not to yourself. I ain't seen Zeke since the day of the trial.”

He realized then that he was nearly shouting, and made an effort to lower his voice. He had a sudden, strong urge to be on his horse and gone.

“I ain't seen Zeke since the day of the trial,” he repeated, in a more moderate tone.

“All right, Edward. Get along,” the Chief said quietly.

“Do what?” Ned asked, surprised.

“Get along,” the Chief repeated. “Go do what I told you to do yesterday—I expect now you wish you'd taken my advice,” the Chief said.

“I do wish it,” Ned agreed. “I just wanted to be helpful about that roof.”

The Chief said no more. Sheriff Bobtail pulled the sheet back up over the dead marshal's face. Ned, careful not to bump his head, stooped and went out the door. He wished he had never had the notion to come to Tahlequah in the first place. He meant to take the good roads and ride as fast as his horse would carry him.

He had a great urge to get home and hold his young wife Jewel in his arms.

A
MILE AND A HALF OUT OF
T
AHLEQUAH, WHERE THE ROAD FORKED
, Ned changed his plans about rushing home. He decided to rush to Zeke's place instead. The death of the marshal was not a good thing; it was likely to have hard consequences for them both. Sheriff Bobtail had informed him, as he was saddling his horse, that in fact two marshals were dead. Dan Maples himself had shot the other marshal, in a dispute of some kind. Ned did not doubt the information, but he had a feeling that the white law might doubt it. They were going to be so upset by the news that two marshals were dead that they might overlook the fact that Dan Maples himself had killed one of them.

Ned's notion was to talk to Zeke about these events, and as soon as possible. If an army of white law came riding over the hills, Zeke would be affected, too. It might be that the two of them would have to go on the scout together, which would be a great vexation to Jewel, and to Becca as well.

When Ned was about a mile from Zeke's place, he was startled to see Sully Eagle suddenly fall out of a tree beside the path. Old Sully was known to do odd things, and to turn up in odd places, but Ned had not expected him to fall out of a sycamore tree on a bright morning.
Though Sully had not fallen very far, he was an old man, and slow to get up. Ned got down to help him. He thought old Sully might have broken a bone.

Sully Eagle was embarrassed by his fall. The fact was, he had gone up in the tree to shake down a coon, but the coon was quick and got past him. Since he had gone to the trouble to climb up, Sully thought he might rest a moment. In the process of resting, he got sleepy and took a nap with his head against the bole of the sycamore tree. In his sleep, he dreamed that an eagle was looking for him. The eagle flew low over the hills, calling for him. It was a startling dream, for it could be either good or bad, depending on what the eagle wanted. But before the eagle found him, Sully woke up.

The eagle dream was powerful, so powerful that it caused Sully to forget he had climbed a tree after a coon. His mind seemed to have split off from his body because of the dream. In his mind, he was on the ground, but in his body, he was in a sycamore tree. By the time he was awake enough to realize his mistake, he was falling. When he hit the ground, his mind came back to his body, and came with clear information: he had fallen out of a tree. No bones were broken, but Sully was embarrassed. Ned Christie was bound to think it odd, that he was so daft he could not remember whether he was on the ground or up a tree.

Under the circumstances, Sully thought it best to immediately change the subject, or in this case, get a subject going that might interest Ned and deflect his thoughts from the embarrassing thing he had just witnessed.

“You best watch for the Becks,” he told Ned. “They're on the move.”

“On the move where?” Ned asked. “I ain't seen them.”

“I saw two of them headed to town yesterday,” Sully informed him. “It was Davie and Willy. I hid. The Becks shot at me once, and I don't want to give them no second chance.”

“Willy and Davie—are you certain?” Ned asked. It was important information, if true. If Willy and Davie had indeed been in town, then there was at least a likelihood they had shot the marshal. But he himself had been in town most of the day, and he had not seen them. Sheriff Bobtail had given him no reports of Becks being in town.

“You sure it was yesterday you saw them, Sully?” Ned asked. It was well known that Sully Eagle was not particularly reliable when it came
to dates. He had been known to confuse a day with a year, to move things forward or backward in time to make them conform with spirit time. Ned's own father, Watt, was developing tendencies such as Sully's. He was mostly interested in spirit time now—he might claim that an event had happened only the month before, when in regular time it might have occurred many years back.

For himself, Ned respected spirit time. It was the way the Old Ones had lived, the way they protected the gods and their beliefs. But the matter at hand allowed for no flexibility in the way of spirit time. White law ran on white time, and in white time, yesterday meant yesterday, a rainy day in July—it did not mean the long, open yesterdays of Sully's spirit time.

Sully felt annoyed. He knew that people did not trust him with dates or other daily information. He had to pursue what was important to him in life, and the immediate thing of importance to him was what the eagle had wanted, when it screamed at him in his dream. Had it wanted him to go along to the Other Place? Or was it merely screaming because he wanted to shoot a bear, or catch a big fish? When he had the meaning of an important dream to pursue, it was bothersome to be asked about whether the Becks had ridden to town the day before or the month before. Young Ned was too impatient, too caught up in the things of the day, things that would soon pass and be forgotten.