“Same. The only thing I’ve added is that cross. Guess it’s two ways of looking at…help beyond us.”
Rule explained his pouch contained owl medicine, including a sliver of bone from the giant, prehistoric cannibal owl the Comanches believed existed at one time. The full bone was used to heal, drawing out the sickness.
They took a few more steps down the incline, letting the rock shale slide in front of them. Neither spoke, both drawn to their strong connections to the Comanche way.
Rule spoke first, glancing down at the road below. “Sometimes, I think his spirit is close. Moon’s. He died the same day I met him. My best friend and I were headed for the war. Stumbled into a Comanche camp and they were good to us. Not sure why, but they were. Probably it was because of Moon. The old shaman said he knew I was coming.”
Looking back and up at where Morgan was waiting, Checker couldn’t see her. His mind caught up with Rule’s observations.
“Funny how meetings like that change everything,” he said. “Before I met Stands-In-Thunder, all I’d ever done with Comanches was fight them. He ended up being, well, a father, I guess. Mine didn’t want to claim me—or my sister. Happens, I guess.”
The hillside jerked into a small, flat ledge. Rule would remain here.
“Yeah, most of my preaching came from Moon—or what I learned later from studying the Comanche’s view of…the Great Spirit.”
Checker watched his friend get settled. “Did you know they believe there is an Evil Spirit? Something like our Devil, I think.”
Stretching out behind a large rock, Rule adjusted his Winchester into position and said, “Lots of parallels. Only the Indians think every step on the earth is a prayer. They see miracles every day. Silence is a prayer. I like that.”
Overhead, an owl drifted past in search of an evening snack.
Rule looked up. “The Comanche think owls are reincarnated souls, you know.”
Checker nodded.
“Did you know some believe in a group of small, evil men who come out only at night? Nanapi. They’re supposed to kill every time they shoot with their tiny bows and arrows,” Rule said, making motions of shooting a bow and arrow.
“Hadn’t heard that one,” Checker said. “Hope those boys’ll be on our side.”
“I do, too. I’ll see you later.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Checker completed the return to his site, twenty feet lower. Sounds of the land were welcome to his apprehensive mind. Just like music. Following a long drink from his canteen, he looked for a good place to wait.
There was nothing to do now, except that. Checker propped himself against a crooked mesquite tree and stared at the silent ridge behind him. Young green plants were ganged up trying to act big as well. Darkness hid their true color and twisted their shapes. He hated waiting.
Loneliness came and sat beside the tall Ranger. Everything in him wanted to climb the rocks and be with Morgan.
Wind had intimidated any clouds from the sky, making the moment seem more desolate than it was. Ahead of him was a well-used road from town; behind him and on the other side of the road were ridges that helped create the short walls of the valley. Waiting was the only thing that made sense—and the hardest to do. Attacking was always easier. For him.
Tired of sitting, he stretched out behind a huge yellow boulder, rechecked the loads in his rifle and laid it next to him along with a box of cartridges. He felt his side and knew that he was bleeding again, but not too much, he decided. He was so tired. So tired. He shouldn’t rest, but it would feel so good. The night sounds would warn him, he rationalized, and knew he couldn’t do so. To keep himself active, he pushed the cartridge box into his gun belt. It wasn’t just idle activity; he might have to move and shoot fast, and carrying a box would hamper his use of the rifle.
Scattered fragments of the past days were resting on the border between his conscious and unconscious mind. One fragment kept blossoming whenever he let go of the troubling news from town and what might lay ahead for his friends. And that was Morgan Peale. Morgan.
The owl hooted once more as if responding to his thoughts. It seemed as though his whole life was going to be spent this way—riding, waiting, fighting.
Why couldn’t he live as other men did? Why was he the one who rode alone to help people he didn’t even know? He hadn’t recognized the truth of the assertion until now. Stands-In-Thunder, in his wisdom, said it would be this way, that the grandfathers would gradually reopen his soul—when he was ready for it—to let caring back into his life.
A long streak of lightning and a boom of thunder off to the south reminded Checker again of his late Comanche friend, Stands-in-Thunder. Among his tribe, thunder was considered a spirit god, like other natural forces, and few men would have dared to stand outside during such a storm. His late friend had, indeed, been a highly respected leader. Checker missed him and his distinctive wisdom. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the small white stone.
“Wish you’d sing to me. Tell what’s ahead. What we should be doing,” he whispered, staring at the stone. “You know I can’t kill those men without warning. I can’t. That’s still murder. You know that. I’m still a Ranger.” He held the stone tightly and returned it to his pocket.
Maybe he could climb and see Morgan. Just for a few minutes. Oh, how he wanted to hold her in his arms.
Tiredness lay upon Checker and sleep was flirting with his eyes, but he dared not let the temptation overtake him. His fingers pressed gently against his closed eyes to ease their strain. Then he must be ready. He hoped the Holt gang would be riding in a tight group; a spaced group of riflemen would be more difficult to scare and track. If he and his friends were to have any chance tonight, it would come in the creation of immediate fear in the minds of the attackers. If they didn’t run after the opening barrage of gunfire, if they dug in instead, it would mean his friends would need to get away quickly. Hopefully, they would be able to do so.
Fights had always brought a change within him. He was aware of the transformation now, but he hadn’t been as a younger man. A cold intensity took over his actions. Everything was enlarged, as if under field glasses. And in slow motion. There was something that hadn’t changed; only he was more aware of it. As if a thick moss had grown over his heart. It had been necessary to carry on after leaving his sister, his only family, behind. A clinging moss keeping out all feelings, all fears, all life.
Until now and Morgan.
Oh, he knew a bullet could be his sometime, somewhere. No one lived a charmed life; bullets didn’t mind who they struck or why. He had seen too many good men, like A.J., die for no reason at all to believe he was invincible.
It was more as though he didn’t care. Not a death wish, nothing like that. Or maybe it was, deep down inside where he never allowed himself ever to probe. Probably for fear of what he would find there. Something was lodged within him that hadn’t been there before he realized his mother’s situation. And his. Was his sister still alive? Would she even remember him?
Like a stone skipping across water, Checker’s mind skipped back to Stands-In-Thunder, his late friend. How good it would be to see him again. To smoke a pipe and share the world from the old man’s perspective. There was a mental cleansing just in the remembrance. Maybe the old war chief would have some suggestions about what Checker should do against Lady Holt and her many advantages. Maybe he should walk away from the reputation of a “deadly man” when this was over.