The Arrow Keeper’s Song (9 page)

Clay left his position by the door and joined his father behind the desk. The interior of the office was positively stifling, and Artemus Lehrman was sweating profusely. Clay was also uncomfortable. A droplet of moisture fell from his forehead and struck the first page, causing a stain to spread on the edge of the paper, near a clause outlining the relationship between the formidable conglomerate, Prairie Oil and Gas, and its newly created subsidiary company, Benedict Exploration and Development.

Deep within Clay Benedict, layered beneath the demands of being Allyn's son and his desire to win his fathers respect, the small, quiet voice of his conscience stirred as he read the text of the contract his father held. By signing these pages Allyn Benedict was placing his own interests above those of the Southern Cheyenne, the very people he was sworn to represent. Not that Clay had any love for Tom Sandcrane's people. What would a bunch of uneducated redskins do with the oil fields? And besides, each member of the tribe would receive a cash settlement, that was something. Of course it wasn't anything near the profits that could be realized from the oil revenue. Then again, men like Lehrman and his father were taking the risk of developing the wells, drilling, and marketing the oil and ought to be compensated. In the end Clay's innate decency proved frail; he turned a deaf ear to his conscience and concentrated on the document in his father's hands, though much of the legal language was lost on him.

“The test we ran up on the north tract of the reservation has every indication of being a bonanza,” Artemus said. “Yessir, a year from now you'll be a regular King Midas sitting on a throne of black gold.” He removed a silk kerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his pink, round features. “I hope there won't be any snags.”

Allyn did not reply. He was focused on the contract, carefully scrutinizing every line of text, every correction. And when he at last put pen to paper and signed his name to each draft of the agreement, it was with a sense of elation and, in all honesty, relief.

“We are in the endgame now,” Allyn softly said as he handed Lehrman the drafts belonging to Prairie Oil and Gas.

“You play chess? Ah, we must have a game sometime,” said Lehrman. The corporate vice president returned the documents to his satchel. Then he leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath his weight, and placed a pudgy hand upon Benedict's copy of the agreement. “Remember: Endgames can be very tricky. They can wind up a draw. Then nobody wins.”

“Not this time.”

“Let us all hope you are not overconfident, Mr. Benedict.”

Allyn chuckled aloud, then nodded to his son, who rose and headed for the door. The Indian agent followed, after tucking the contract into his inside coat pocket. He paused in the office doorway, leaned a forearm upon the doorsill, and turned back toward the businessman, who had resumed fanning himself by the window.

“On this board,” Allyn replied, “I control all the pieces, down to the very last pawn.” He patted his coat pocket and the papers that were the summation of his dreams, then vanished into the burning glare of the afternoon.

Out in front of the office, Clay untied his horse from the hitching rail. Allyn draped an arm across his son's shoulder and leaned forward to speak softly, allowing no one else to overhear.

“You ought to be able to reach Panther Hall by dusk. Tell Jerel Tall Bull it is time. Tell him he must be finished no later than the thirty-first of August. We must have the oil fields completely staked out, just in case some senator tries to make trouble for us down the road. This way the land will have been claimed by our company under the Land Rush Act. Do you understand?”

“The thirty-first,” Clay repeated. He hurried over to his horse and vaulted into the saddle, showing remarkable skill for a Yale man, even one who had been expelled from school. He glanced in his father's direction. “Father …”

“What is it now?” Allyn sounded exasperated. “Look. Just do what I say when I say it. I'm going to make something of you, boy, never fear.”

Clay stammered a moment, struggling to give voice to his thoughts. It had been Allyn's idea he attend Yale and become a lawyer. The task had been beyond him. Sure, he wanted to be wealthy, but there were other emotions warring within him, too. Yet today, beneath his father's withering stare, he could find no voice of his own. Clay touched the brim of his hat and, pointing his mount west, cut a straight line across the parade ground and onto the road to Cross Timbers. Allyn Benedict watched him depart, and in a few minutes the solitary rider was lost in the shimmering haze.

CHAPTER SEVEN

W
RAITHLIKE CLOUDS DRIFTED ACROSS A NIGHT SKY AWASH
with stars. Death had freed these windblown “souls” from earthly bondage and set them on a course to the All-Father: They paid no heed to the couple on the porch below but sped silently on their way, traversing the black velvet sky on a southeasterly course that eventually carried them beyond the hills.

Tom and Emmiline stood arm in arm, between two shafts of lamplight that filtered through the shuttered windows. Within the house Allyn Benedict was relaxing in the front room, his attention focused on a recently acquired geologic survey of the territory. Margaret Benedict was voraciously making her way through the correspondence that Allyn had brought from Fort Reno. Many of the letters had been misplaced by the local postal clerk and left to gather dust at the fort for the better part of August. Margaret Benedict wouldn't rest until she had personally replied to each and every missive from home.

“Do you envy them?” asked Emmiline Benedict, nestled in the crook of Tom's right arm.

“Do I envy who?” said Tom.

“The clouds. They go where they want. They see it all and move on. So peaceful. Never knowing hurt or sorrow …”

“Or joy,” Tom said. “No. I'd rather be alive and take my chances. Besides, I go where I want. So can you.”

“Do you think so? Father has his plans for my brother and me. Big plans and great expectations.” She sighed and reflected a moment. “He named my brother right. Clay. Easy to shape into whatever Father wants him to be.”

Tom couldn't help but notice a hint of bitterness in her voice. Allyn might be ambitious, but he seemed no more overbearing to Tom than most fathers with a daughter sweet as a plum hanging ripe and tender on the vine. “What plans?”

“By the way, you owe me an apology for this afternoon,” Emmiline replied, smoothly changing the subject before she inadvertently discussed her fathers business. One casual remark could endanger all her father's hard work. “You missed a wonderful picnic. I guarantee you would have enjoyed yourself.”

“I do indeed apologize,” said Tom, allowing himself to be steered away from the topic she herself had begun.

“What got into you, riding off like that? One would think you had seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I did,” Tom said, remembering the dust devil. He was still troubled by the experience. It was a wind, he told himself, nothing more, just the heat currents rising from the ground. And the voices … merely the product of his imagination.

“Oh, dear. You wipe that expression off your face right now, Tom Sandcrane. You look as if you're about to bolt again. Am I as frightening as all that?” Emmiline pressed against his side, her curves against his ribs, an enticing pressure. Maybe not frightening, he thought, but she made him nervous as all hell.

On returning to Cross Timbers from Panther Hall, Tom had ridden straight for Allyn Benedict's house, where he had a standing invitation to Sunday dinner, leaving Seth to worry over the mauled hound draped over the rump of his horse. Margaret Benedict always cooked more than enough, and to-night Tom found the Indian agent's company preferable to Seth's. He was still chafing at his father's hostility. The next time, Tom swore he'd ignore those damn voices in the wind, and if Seth's fat was in the fire, then so be it—let him stew in his own juice.

A carriage rolled out of the dark and wound its way up the road from the settlement. The vehicle pulled to a halt before the porch, and Father Kenneth peered around the edge of the leather cover. Moonlight glinted off the silver hair of Luthor White Bear, who was seated beside the priest in the carriage.

Father Kenneth was a stocky, good-natured man in his early fifties. His close-cropped blond hair was in retreat from his wide forehead; the inevitable hair loss would leave him bald by the time he turned sixty. A bushy blond beard and mustache and thick, round wire-rim eyeglasses were the significant features of this kindly man's face. Belonging to the order of Capuchins, he wore a hooded brown robe over his shirt and Levi's. A rope belt, from which usually dangled an assortment of carpenters tools and a rosary, circled his waist. The priest's skills with hammer and saw and his willingness to use them for the benefit of the local Cheyenne had endeared him to the tribe. Father Kenneth was a man who preached by doing, but Sunday was a day of rest for the priest, and the tools of his former trade were back at the rectory.

“Evening, Tom. Miss Emmiline.”

“Evening, Father Kenneth,” Tom said, doffing his hat. He nodded as his gaze slipped from the priest to Luthor White Bear, the Keeper of the Sacred Arrows.

Luthor was the sole proprietor of the Cross Timbers mercantile. He was an ambitious and successful merchant who anticipated making even greater profits once Cross Timbers became a thriving town and not a mere reservation settlement. The merchant dreaded that others should think of him as just another tame Cheyenne, lumping him together with the rest of the tribe. He considered himself a man of substance and was determined to remain that way when the lands were open to homesteaders and townsmen.

“We're looking for my daughter,” Luthor explained. Charlotte, his fifteen-year-old, was a wild and willful young woman who enjoyed the effect she had on men. “My wife, Rebecca, found her bedroom empty and her window open. I think she is out with that half-breed, Willem. Since he is a friend of yours, I thought you might know where they've gone.”

“Luthor here is quite concerned, as you can see,” said Father Kenneth. “I've tagged along to calm him down.” The priest climbed out of the carriage and worked a cramp out of one of his legs.

“I
am
calm,” Luthor growled. “But I instructed that daughter of mine to remain home. After all, she spent most of the afternoon with the half-breed. If he has taken her out to Panther Hall …!”

“Willem would not do that. The tribal police have no use for the Tall Bulls or their roadhouse.” Tom studied the hilltop west of the settlement, then returned his attention to the man in the carriage. Father Kenneth sauntered over to stand alongside him.

“What is it, Tom? What do you see?”

“Luthor, were you up by the Council House this morning?” Tom asked.

“No. I do not think it is necessary for the Sacred Fire to be lit and the songs sung every morning. See, the world has not ended,” Luthor said with a chuckle. Intrigued by Tom's question, he craned his head around the side of the carriage.

“Then you did not leave a ceremonial fire burning?” Tom asked.

“Absolutely not,” Luthor blurted out. “Why do you ask?” He glanced toward the hill and for the first time saw what had attracted Tom's attention. Sandcrane had noticed it while keeping Emmiline company on the porch: an orange-red tongue of fire flickering on the hilltop. Someone no doubt enjoying the view while warming before a friendly campfire. One couldn't ask for a more romantic spot than Council Hill.

“Damn!” Luthor kicked off the brake and slapped his whip across the rump of his horse. Tom and the priest were left in a cloud of dust as the carriage sped away from the agent's house. The commotion alerted Allyn Benedict, who emerged from the house to discover for himself what was going on.

“Is everything all right out here? Oh, Father Kenneth. Welcome.” The agent glanced in the direction of the departing carriage.

“That was Luthor White Bear, Papa,” Emmiline explained.

“He seems in quite a hurry.”

“No matter how fast he goes, he'll never catch up to Charlotte,” Tom said.

“Perhaps,” Father Kenneth said. “But mark my words, time has a way of slowing us down, even the restless ones like Luthor's daughter.” He patted the dust from his robes. “Good evening, Allyn. You're looking fit. Sorry if we disturbed you. I ran into Luthor at the stable and tagged along thinking I might be able to help the man rein in his temper.” Father Kenneth sighed. “Raising a child is like trying to hitch a wild mustang to a surrey. It's a thankless task. Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll just walk on back to the church.”

“You're welcome to stay for coffee, Father,” Allyn said.

“Thank you, but no,” the priest replied.

“Emmiline, it's probably time you came inside.”

Emmiline frowned at her father and stuck out her lower lip. “Oh, Papa, just because Luthor left here in a huff.”

“It
is
getting late. I'll walk with Father Kenneth,” Tom said, defusing an argument before it occurred. He touched the brim of his hat and bowed slightly in a gallant farewell to Emmiline. “Thanks again for dinner.”

“You are always welcome here, Tom,” said Allyn. “And don't forget, we're going to plan a sure-enough celebration marking the end of the reservation. The whole tribe will be invited to join in.” He stood aside and held the door open for his daughter. Emmiline sighed and retraced her steps into the house. Her mother glanced up from her lap desk, smiled at her daughter, and then resumed writing.

“Uncle Maynard has invited you to visit their family in New Haven. How would you feel about that, dear?”

Emmiline didn't answer. The living room was an all-too-familiar sight. The space was crowded with furniture, the papered walls festooned with photographs of family, and chromolithographs depicting a variety of autumnal landscapes and picturesque New England towns, none of which held any appeal for Margaret's daughter.