The heads of two snakes with gleaming eyes suddenly rose from the mouth of the bag, as if the snakes were crawling straight up to the stars. People gasped. Charles was momentarily mystified. Then, as the snakes dropped back into the bag, he noticed their lack of flexibility. Magee, cross-legged by his saddlebags, glanced at him with a disgusted look. He too had identified the snakes as snakeskin glued over wood.
The Cheyennes thought it an impressive trick, however. Chanting and dancing, Whistling Snake went all the way around the fire, revealing the climbing snakes at each quarter. He finished the circuit and crumpled the bag a last time before he sat. He fanned himself with evident satisfaction.
The Cheyenne faces shone in the glow of the fire. The atmosphere of lighthearted sport was gone. Whistling Snake watched the black soldier as if he were game to be cooked and devoured.
Magee produced a quilled bag. From the bag he took three white chicken feathers. He put two in his leather belt and changed the third to a white stone. He held the stone in his mouth as he changed the next two feathers. He took the three stones from his mouth one at a time and with one hand passing over and under the other he changed the stones back to feathers. When he had three feathers in his belt, he concealed them all in one fist and waved over it. He opened his mouth and lifted out three feathers. He showed his empty hands, reached behind the head of a seated man, and produced three white stones.
He eyed the crowd, awaiting some sign of wonder or approval. He saw hard glaring eyes. Charles realized Magee had not offered a word of patter during the trick. The black soldier sat down with a defeated look.
Whistling Snake drew himself up with supreme hauteur. Again he handed the village chief his fan. He showed his palms to the crowd; Charles saw the heavy muscles on his forearms. Tilting his head back and chanting, the priest stepped forward close to the fire and laid his right palm directly into the flame.
He kept it there while slowly lowering his left till they were parallel. His face showed no sign of pain. No stutter or falter interrupted his singsong chant. Magee sat stiff as a post, his eyes brimming with curiosity and admiration. He had momentarily forgotten that the Cheyenne wanted to kill him and take his wool and hang it up in his lodge. He was wonderstruck by the magic.
A great rippling sigh — "Ah! Ah!" — ran around the circle, and there were smiles, grunts, scornful looks at the three interlopers. Slowly, Whistling Snake lifted his left hand from the fire. Then his right. White hairs on his forearms above his wrists curled and gave off tiny spurts of smoke. His palms were unblistered; not even discolored.
Charles looked at Gray Owl, who exhibited as much expression as the granite of the Wichitas. Trying to hide what they all knew, no doubt. Magee flung Charles another look that was almost apologetic. Charles smiled as if to urge him not to worry. With a defeated air, Magee climbed to his feet. Charles snatched a faggot from the fire and with the hot end lit his last cigar.
From a saddlebag Magee pulled a leather pouch which he carefully laid on the ground. He next took out a small hand-carved wood box which he opened and displayed. The box held four lead-colored balls of a kind Charles hadn't seen for years. Magee plucked one out and carefully placed it between his teeth. Then he closed the box and put it away. With a sudden flourish, he yanked a pistol from the saddlebag.
Several Cheyennes jumped up, readying their knives or lances. Magee quickly gave them the peace sign. He balanced the pistol on his palm and slowly turned in a complete circle, so all could see it. Where had he found an old flintlock? Charles wondered. The barrel showed no rust. Magee had cleaned it well.
With slow, ceremonious motions, Magee opened the leather pouch and inverted it, letting powder trickle into the barrel. Suddenly he stamped his right foot twice, as if bitten by an insect.
Along with most of the others, Charles looked down and didn't see anything.
Magee pinched off the flow of powder and tossed the pouch aside. He found a patch in his pocket and wrapped it around the ball he took from his teeth. He slipped ball and patch into the barrel, unsnapped the ramrod underneath, and with careful twisting motions seated the ball. He replaced the ramrod and primed the pan.
Fat sweat drops rolled down Magee's cheeks. He wiped his hands on his jeans pants. He signed for Charles to stand up.
Astonished, Charles did. Magee glanced at Red Bear. The chief's attention was fixed on him. Whistling Snake saw that and frowned. His fan moved rapidly, stirring the hair at the ends of his white braids.
"What I did before was just play," Magee said. "I am going to kill King Death before their eyes. Tell them."
"Magic, I don't understand what —"
"Tell them, Charlie."
He translated. Hands covered mouths. The fire popped and smoked. If silence had weight, this was crushing.
Magee faced about in precise military fashion. He used his hands to make a parting motion. Those in front of him jumped up and shoved one another until a yard-wide lane was cleared. Magee summoned Charles to him with a bent finger. He gave Charles the old flintlock pistol and looked hard and earnestly into his eyes.
"When I say the word, I want you to shoot me."
"What?"
Magee leaned up on tiptoe, his mouth next to Charles's ear. "You want to get out of here? Do it." He made a puckering sound, as if kissing the white man. Several Cheyennes giggled over the strange ways of the interlopers.
Magee snapped the brim of his derby down to snug it; the shadow bisected his nose. In the shadow, his eyes gleamed like discs of ivory. He took ten long strides, rapidly, along the cleared lane, his posture soldier-perfect. He stopped, knocking his heels together, at attention. He about-faced. He was standing a foot from a tipi with a great ragged hole in its side.
"Aim the pistol, Charlie."
Christ, how could he?
"Charlie! Aim for the chest. Dead center."
Charles felt the sweat crawling down into his beard. Whistling Snake leaped up, his fan flicking very fast. Red Bear rose too. Charles drew the hammer back. Magee's shirt was taut over his ribs and belly. Charles's arm trembled as he extended it. He couldn't — he wouldn't —
Magic Magee said, "Now."
He said it loudly, a command. Charles responded to the tone as much as to the word. He fired. Sparks glittered, the priming pan ignited, the pistol banged and kicked upward.
Charles saw a puff of dust, as if something had struck Magee's chest three inches below the breastbone. Magee stepped back one long pace, staggering, closing his eyes, snapping his hands open, fingers shaking as if stiffened by a lightning charge. Then his arms fell to his sides. He opened his eyes. Whistling Snake's fan hung at his side.
"Where is the bullet?" Whistling Snake cried. "Where did it strike?"
In a drill-ground voice, Magee said, "King Death is dead. You will answer our questions and release us without harm or I will bring back King Death, riding the winds of hail and fire, and this village will be finished." He shouted, "Tell them."
Charles translated quickly. Gray Owl's guards had drifted away from him, as awed as he was. While Charles spit the words out, trying to make them as fierce as Magee's, he scanned the trooper's shirt. He saw no sign of a tear. Magee brushed his shirt off as if something had tickled him.
Red Bear listened to the threats and instantly said, "It shall be so."
Whistling Snake screamed in protest. The sound broke the moment. The Cheyennes rushed forward to swarm around Magee, touch him, pat him, feel his black curls. Charles stared at the old flintlock pistol, felt the warm barrel. King Death was dead, and there through rifts in the surging, laughing crowd was the banner of his conqueror. The familiar huge white smile of Magee, the wizard.