The pecan limb cast a dark shadow over Charles's face. He didn't want to go through with this. He was sick of killing. He reminded himself that Bent represented an obligation that was more than personal. He owed this to Orry and George; especially to George, for his wife. He owned it to Green Grass Woman and God knew how many others Bent had wronged over the past twenty-five years.
Charles stepped back from the mule.
"You can't! Military genius is a rare gift —"
Charles slid the Army Colt into the holster and flexed the fingers of his right hand, brushing the tips over his palm in a cleansing motion. A male and female cardinal flew frantically round and round above the creek, frightened by the shouting.
"You're killing Bonaparte!"
He positioned his hand to slap the mule. A final look at Bent, to be sure he was real — then his arm and hand moved in a blur. The sound of the slap was loud. The chestnut tossed his head and Magee reined him hard as the mule bolted. The rope hummed taut and Bent's weight made the pecan limb creak.
Bent seemed to glare down at Charles. But his neck was already broken. The shadow of his body moved slowly back and forth across Charles's face before he turned away, unable to stand the sight.
"I'll catch the mule."
"Let me," Magee said softly. "You go back to your boy."
In the sundown's dusty orange afterglow, Charles sat on a nail keg, watching the creek. He drank the last of some coffee Magee had brewed. The soldier had killed and cleaned and hearth-broiled one of the chickens but Charles had no appetite for it. Instead of the creek, flawed black glass streaked with colored highlights, he kept seeing Bent's eyes just before the rope sang its last low note. Bent's eyes became a mirror of his own life. In the vengeful Bent he recognized himself, a humiliating image. He was no better. He spilled the bitter-tasting coffee on the ground and went inside.
He crossed the main room, lifted the red blanket screening the doorway, saw his boy sleeping on the old straw-filled mattress in the bedroom. He walked to the bed. Even asleep, Gus had a pinched, anxious look. Charles touched the oozing cut on his left cheek. The boy moaned and turned. Pierced by guilt, Charles drew his hand back. He walked out and let the red blanket drop in place.
Gray Owl sat at a table, enveloped in his blanket, his eyes fixed on some infinity beneath the scarred wood. Magee rested in one chair with his boots on another. He munched some hardtack, his practice deck of cards fanned out in front of him. Green Grass Woman sat on a nail keg with hands clasped and eyes downcast. She looked old, worn, full of despair. Coming in from outside, Charles had found her with a bar bottle. He'd taken it out of her hand and emptied it outside, then done the same with the others.
Now he walked over to her. She raised her head and he saw a flickering image of the young, fresh girl who'd listened to Scar's courting flute with a saucy confidence that the world was hers, along with any man in it that she chose. He remembered the lovelorn looks she gave him that winter in Black Kettle's village. Somehow the memory hurt.
He spoke in Cheyenne. "How did you get here?"
She shook her head and started to cry.
"Tell me, Green Grass Woman."
"I listened to promises. A white man's lies and promises. I tasted the strong drink he gave me and I wanted more."
"This was Bent?"
"Mister Glyn. Bent killed him."
He had a dim recollection of a seedy trader named Glyn. He'd met him when he rode with the Jacksons. No doubt it was the same man.
"Let me look at the dressing."
There was an echo of girlish shyness in the way she drew up the deerskin skirt just far enough. The bandage showed staining but it would do until morning. Green Grass Woman could walk on the slashed leg, though probably not without plenty of pain. That focused Charles's mind on a responsibility that became more inevitable the longer he thought about it.
"I need to take you back to the People."
Gray Owl straightened up, alert, anxious. The girl's eyes showed fright. "No. They would scorn me. What I did was too shameful."
Charles shook his head. "There isn't a man or woman on God's earth who isn't in need of forgiveness for something. The nearest village is Red Bear's. I'll take you there and talk to him."
She started to protest, but she didn't. Gray Owl didn't protest either. Evidently the idea was reasonable.
Magee scooped up his deck and squared it. "Glad we're going to get out of here. Something bad about this place."
"Gray Owl and I will take her," Charles said to him. "I want you to put Gus on one of those mules and ride straight through to Brigadier Jack Duncan at Fort Leavenworth. Will you do that?"
Magee frowned. "I dunno, Charlie. I hate to send you back to those Indians without your wizard. That Whistling Snake, he's probably still burning."
"There won't be any more trouble." It was a declaration, not a certainty. The prospect of returning to the Cheyennes did bother him, but the duty seemed unavoidable. "We'll ride in and out in an hour. Now listen. At Leavenworth, I'd like you to send a telegraph message for me. I saw some paper in the other room. I'll write it out."
"All right," Magee said.
The burned-out feeling consumed Charles. He strode to the door, flung it open, stared at thousands of stars gleaming more brightly than usual in the clear air. He thought of the Hanging Road. He'd nearly traveled it this year. He was so tired. "God, I wish I had a cigar," he said.
In the morning he wrote the telegraph message and saw it safely stowed in Magee's saddlebag along with the flintlock pistol, powder bag, and box of fake ammunition. Charles pulled the nails from the corners of the oil portrait and rolled it up. It was dry and brittle. A corner broke off. He tied the painting carefully with a strip of rawhide.
From a blanket he'd washed and hung over the corral rail to dry, he cut a large square which he slit with his knife, making a small poncho for Gus much like his own gypsy robe. He lifted the boy onto the horse blanket he'd tied to the mule with braided rope; there was no spare horse furniture in the stable.
Gus looked like a little old man, scarred and pale. "Hug your pa," Charles said. The boy took a long, deep breath. He was wary. The hurt flickered in his eyes.
Charles hugged him instead. "I'll make it all right, Gus. I'll come to Uncle Jack's soon and it will be all right."
He wasn't sure, though. It would take months, perhaps years, of attention and love. The hidden scars might never heal. He hugged the boy fiercely, arms around his waist.
Gus laid one hand on the top of his father's head. After a moment he drew it away. His face was sober, without emotion. Well, the touch was a start.
To Magee he said, 'Take care of him."
"Count on it," he answered.
Charles and Gray Owl watched until the soldier and the boy vanished on the hazy horizon to the northeast.
The tracker helped Charles pull down two corral rails and shorten them with a rusty axe. They rigged a travois for Green Grass Woman. It was another sunny day, with a light breeze. The Cheyenne girl said nothing as the two men carried her to the travois.
Charles had already saddled Satan; they'd brought the horses back late yesterday. Passing Bent's corpse was unavoidable. The buzzards had already feasted on the American Bonaparte, and plucked his clothes to bloody rags.
"This is an evil place," Gray Owl said, seated on his pony. "I am glad to go."
'Take the travois a little way down the creek, to those post oaks. I'll be there in a few minutes."
Gray Owl moved out, leading the mule. Green Grass Woman exclaimed softly as the travois bumped over a sharp stone. Gray Owl looked apologetic. His pony plodded on. The Cheyenne girl held her bandaged leg and watched the sky.