The Arrow Keeper’s Song Read Free Page B

timber had already swallowed Seth Sandcrane, draping the wounded man with its shadowed shrouds and hiding his hurt from prying eyes. Tom slowly exhaled, shook his head, and briefly considered following the older man. What was the use? Seth was beyond listening to what Tom had to say.
    Despite the guilt Tom felt, he knew he had spoken the truth. There was no returning to the past, not even if he wanted to. Perhaps it was easier for a young Cheyenne like himself to understand this, while men like Seth were still too close to what had been, to the time when the Cheyenne had been lords of the plains.
    The days ahead held challenge and change. Tom Sandcrane was ready. He doubted his father ever would be.
    The dun gelding behind him nickered and stamped the ground. The animal was anxious to return to town and the comfort of a warm stall. Tom gathered the reins and swung into the saddle. Just as he pointed the animal toward town, a cold north wind sprang up and snatched the hat from his head. He made a futile attempt to catch it. The Stetson tumbled end over end and came to rest in the underbrush surrounding a pair of live oaks, its tall crown skewered by a forked twig. The dun fought Tom’s steadying hand as the wind continued to whirl about them, moaning as it rattled the dry branches, and stung them with brittle leaves and grains of sand. The hair on the back of Tom’s neck rose when he noticed that the other horses were wholly unaffected by the wind, while Tom had to struggle to keep his mount from bolting as the gusts buffeted him with unnatural force.
    Suddenly the animal reared and pawed the air, and for a fleeting instant Tom spied a pair of warriors on horseback watching him from the grove where he’d lost his hat. The two warriors wore only breechclouts and leggings. Their naked torsos were swirled with red war paint, their faces obscured by garish red designs. They carried ten-foot-long spears tipped with stone blades that appeared to have been dipped in blood, and brandished war shields painted crimson like the powerful stallions they sat astride. Each wore a buffalo-horn headdress, the tip of which glistened a gory crimson in the moonlight.
    The dun came down hard and almost dislodged its rider. A lesser horseman would have been sent tumbling. Tom held on for dear life, one hand on the reins and the other tangled in the gelding’s mane. Tom’s breathing became labored, and he felt consciousness slipping away. Then the wind ceased.
    Tom gasped in a lungful of air, sat upright in the saddle, and brought the gelding under control. He glanced toward the grove of oaks to challenge the two warriors to identify themselves, but they had vanished without a trace.
    â€œ He-tohe! ” Tom exclaimed, inadvertently returning to his native tongue. “What the …?” He was alone outside the ceremonial lodge. He cautiously walked the dun over to the underbrush and, leaning down from the saddle, retrieved the Stetson. He took note that the two warriors, whoever they were, had managed to vanish without so much as breaking a twig or leaving a single track in the underbrush.
    â€œGlo — ria in excelsis Deo. Glo — ria in excelsis De-o.”
    The faint strains of the advent choir drifted up the slope from the gaily lit church where Father Kenneth rehearsed his songs of praise for the Christian God. The “Gloria” spoke to Tom and called him back from what he had just experienced. A gust of wind, he told himself. And his own mind playing tricks on him. He dismissed the experience and studied the church at the east end of Main Street. Father Kenneth would be there. And Allyn Benedict with his family. And there were others in the congregation, both Cheyenne and white, who had come to Cross Timbers.
    The tribal drummers resumed their steady beat, two light strokes, then one heavy, emanated from the ceremonial lodge, announcing that a new Arrow Keeper had been chosen. Such matters no longer