Legacies (31 page)

He shook his head to dismiss the vision from his mind and galloped his horse up the hill. At the top, The Blade reined in and surveyed the surrounding land from the hill's vantage point.

"Here you are, Master Blade." Ever anticipating his needs, Deu handed him an old, battered spyglass. All the regiment's equipment was as inferior as that damnable Mexican gunpowder. Roughly twenty percent of Watie's men had no weapons at all. The rest had old muskets, flintlocks, or, worse, Texas rifles, which were just as likely to blow up in your face as fire. The promised uniforms had never arrived. Few of the men had a change of clothes; many were in rags or blue uniforms they'd stolen off dead Yankees. But they were fighters, every one of them. They knew nothing of military discipline and protocol, but they knew how to fight. If they could only get their hands on some of the Union's new repeating rifles . . .

The Blade sighed and lifted the spyglass to begin a slow, thorough search of the area to the east and north, but he saw no sign of the patrol. On the chance that Lije had circled wide, he checked the northwest quadrant. Still nothing. He lowered the glass, a grimness thinning his mouth.

"Riders." One of his escorts pointed to the narrow dirt road a half mile distant that ran through the valley on their right. "It looks like our patrol." He stood in his stirrups and waved.

Turning, The Blade saw the mounted group. Just as he spotted them, the riders swung left and galloped straight for the hill. At first glance, he thought it was the scout patrol except—they had been coming from the south.

He raised the spyglass and cursed. "Yankees." He pushed the spyglass at Deu and caught up the reins. "Scatter! Now!" He pulled his revolver to snap off a shot as the others sank spurs into their horses. He saw Deu pull up to wait for him. "Go on! I'm right behind you."

He fired at the onrushing riders and started to wheel his dancing horse after the others, then hesitated. The Yankee in the lead was Kipp. He swore as the first bullets whined around him. He fired another round, trying to slow them.

Something slammed into his left shoulder. The impact nearly spun him out of the saddle. He grabbed at the horse's mane, conscious of a hot, stabbing fire high on his left arm. With his spurs, he jabbed the horse into a gallop, fighting the numbness that claimed his left side.

When he reached the flat of the prairie, he looked back. Kipp had topped the hill and was now racing after him, whipping his horse mercilessly. Another rider was a short distance behind him. Alex? He couldn't tell.

His horse started to slow. The Blade kicked it, then felt the animal laboring, its gait roughening. He looked down. Blood flowed from a small hole above its right shoulder. It had been hit as well. He spied a small thicket of brush just to his left and spurred his horse toward it.

"A little farther. You can make it," he said as much to himself as to the horse.

Gamely, it galloped on, bloody foam now spraying from its nostrils. Fifteen feet from the thicket, the horse stumbled and went down, pitching The Blade forward. He landed heavily on his left side. Pain exploded through his body.

Roll. Instinct told him to roll into the thicket.

The next time he opened his eyes, he found himself tangled in the undergrowth. Had he passed out? He didn't know. He wasn't sure. Horses. He could hear them. Fighting off the swamping blackness, he staggered and crawled into the thicket, ignoring the clawing branches and slicing thorns. The gun. It was still in his hand.

Don't go deeper into the brush, instinct warned again. Kipp will expect that. Get to the edge.

After crashing through the brush like a half-crazed, wounded animal, The Blade now crept with caution and care, moving as noiselessly as possible. The pain in his arm had receded to a fierce throb. He could think now without the blackness swarming around him. A single layer of brush separated him from the tall prairie grass. He paused and crouched low to get his bearings.

Hoofbeats drummed the ground to his right and stamped to a halt. "We have him now!" It was Kipp's voice—not twenty feet away. The Blade turned to face it. Through the thick leaves he could see the legs of the horses, then the blue pants of two riders. Was it Alex with Kipp?

"He's in that brush, I tell you. He's there, I can smell him. Come out, Stuart!" Suddenly, there was a cracking report of a revolver. Instinctively, The Blade ducked, but the bullet pierced the brush well away from him. Kipp was firing blindly.

"Come out, Stuart! Or do I have to come in there and drag you out like I did your father? You're a snake and a traitor. You should have died long ago. This time you will. Come out!" Again he fired.

At the mention of his father, The Blade involuntarily tightened his grip on the revolver in his hand, his thumb automatically going to the hammer, his forefinger gently hooking itself around the trigger. With great stealth, he wedged his way through the last layer of brush into the tall grass.

"This is your last chance, Stuart!" Kipp challenged. "Either come out and die like a man—or I'll come in and kill you like the snake you are!"

The Blade straightened slowly, bringing the revolver up to bear. Neither Kipp nor Alex noticed him. Both concentrated their attention on the broken branches in front of them, their guns aimed at it.

"Are you looking for me, Kipp?"

Kipp swung around, a snarl of rage claiming his face. As his pistol lifted to take quick aim, The Blade squeezed the trigger of his own cocked gun. It bucked in his hand. Kipp yelped, the fingers of his right hand splaying, dropping the gun as a red stain spread quickly down his right forearm. He grabbed the wound and started to bend to retrieve his gun.

"Try it, Kipp. Go ahead and try it," The Blade pulled back the hammer again. Alex was behind Kipp, his line of fire blocked by his father. "Throw your gun into the grass, Alex." The Blade never took his eyes from Kipp. "I don't want to kill you."

There was a movement behind Kipp. Then the sunlight glinted on blue steel as the gun arched through the air and landed somewhere in the grass near The Blade's fallen horse. Moving slowly and keeping the revolver pointed at Kipp, The Blade worked his way to their horses, his left arm hanging limp at his side.

"What are you waiting for?" Kipp jeered. "Why don't you kill me? You've wanted to do it for years. This is your chance. Pull the trigger, Stuart. Come on, shoot me."

"Be glad you are Temple's brother, Kipp." The chestnut's reins were still looped around its neck. It snorted suspiciously when The Blade came up on its right side, but the horse continued to stand quietly. Keeping the gun pointed at Kipp, The Blade put a foot in the stirrup, then quickly and fluidly swung into the saddle.

"You are a coward, Stuart. All traitors are. Your father was."

"I never met a man who deserved to die as much as you do, Kipp." Unexpectedly, the horse tossed its head, breaking his concentration for an instant. When he looked again, Kipp was pulling something from inside his jacket—a pocket revolver. Reacting instinctively, The Blade fired. Kipp backed up a step and pressed a hand to his stomach. The gun slipped to the ground as he pitched forward.

Alex rushed to his father. "He's dead." The rage of anger and grief twisted his face. "He didn't have a gun!"

Alex's words barely reached The Blade. Weakness was setting in. He had to get out of there while he still had the strength. The chestnut struck out across the prairie at a fast trot.

Alex came to his feet, yelling. "You murdering bastard! You'll die for this!"

Furiously, Alex searched through the trampled grass near his father and found the gun his father had dropped. Quickly, he raised it and sighted down the barrel, cocking the hammer. He squeezed the trigger without flickering so much as an eyelash. The resounding report echoed and reechoed across the prairie. He smiled when The Blade slumped in the saddle. The startled chestnut broke into a canter.

Alex turned back to his father's body, the smile fading. "I killed him for you," he said.

Then, with gentle care, he picked up his father and cradled him in his arms. He carried him to the ground-hitched black mare. She shied briefly at the smell of death, but Alex crooned to her. None too certain, the mare let him lift the body onto the saddle and snorted her dislike for the burden.

 

Deu galloped more than two miles before he realized The Blade wasn't behind him. Worried, he rode back toward the sound of scattered gunfire. Ahead, he saw the returning scout patrol had surprised the attacking Yankees, putting them to rout. With the Yankees in full flight, they broke off contact. Although he didn't see The Blade among them, he did see Lije splitting off from the others to meet him.

Lije reined in his lathered horse. "The whole damned countryside is crawling with Union patrols." He looked past Deu. "Where's the major?"

"I don't know. I thought he was right behind me."

Lije rose up in his stirrups to scan the sweep of prairie. Nothing. An uneasiness gripped him. "Something's wrong." He kicked his weary horse into a jaded canter. Deu joined him.

A half mile farther on, they spotted a chestnut horse grazing in a hollow, a rider slumped over its neck. "Master Blade was riding a bay," Deu said when they rode closer. "But that's his coat. I've patched it too many times not to recognize it."

It was the longest two hundred yards Lije had ever crossed. When they reached him, Lije peeled out of the saddle before his horse came to a complete stop. Deu was right behind him.

The chestnut horse moved off a couple steps, then fell to grazing. Lije got a sick, cold feeling in his stomach when he saw the spreading blood stain on the back of his father's coat. He approached the horse slowly, talking softly, not wanting to spook it. The instant he had the reins in his hand, he moved to his father's side and lifted his head. There was a groan and fluttering of the eyelids.

"He's alive," he said, hope lifting.

"Lije?" The voice was weak, the word faint.

"I'm here. Deu is with me. Don't worry, we'll take care of you."

"Kipp . . ."

A muscle leapt visibly in Lije's jaw. "What about him? Did he do this?"

"S'dead," The Blade mumbled, the words stringing together. "Killed 'im . . . can't tell . . . Temple . . . hurt His voice trailed off in a wavering sigh, a limpness stealing over his muscles.

"He's lost consciousness." Lije battled back the need to rage and curse. Dammit, he should have been with him! He should have been at his side. This was his fault.

"Master Blade will be all right. We'll take care of him," Deu said, but he sounded as worried as Lije.

But Lije knew if his father was going to live, words weren't going to save him. And no doctor traveled with their raiding party.

"Find Duncan," he told Deu. "Tell him what happened, and tell him we're taking my father home."

 

 

 

20

 

 

Grand View

Cherokee Nation

September 1863

 

"Eliza," Temple whispered, shaking her stepmother's shoulder. "Eliza, wake up.

"Mmmmm, what?" Eliza stirred, drowsily lifting her head. "What is it?"

"There's someone outside. I saw him from the bedroom window." The minute she saw Eliza's eyes snap wide open, Temple stepped back from the bed. Eliza threw back the covering sheet. "It might be a deserter or a runaway slave looking for something to eat. I only saw one, but there might be more. I don't know." She turned toward the open doors to the second-floor veranda and listened for a moment. The walnut stock of the Colt navy revolver felt smooth and oddly cool in her hand. "I sent Phoebe to wake Susannah and Sorrel. I'm—

"I'm already awake," Sorrel said from the bedroom doorway. "Why are you two whispering anyway?"

Temple swung around to angrily whisper, "Sssh, not so loud. Someone's outside."

"Who?"

"We don't know."

As Eliza pulled on her cotton wrapper, Susannah rushed into the room, with Phoebe at her heels. "Temple, we can't find—There you are," she said when she saw Sorrel near the door.

"All of you stay here," Temple ordered. "I'm going downstairs and find out who is out there."

"Not alone, you're not," Susannah retorted.

Temple started to argue with her, but she recognized that stubborn tone. "Very well, come along," she murmured irritably and moved into the hallway.

Just as she reached the top of the staircase, she heard the front door open. With greater care, Temple started down the steps, clutching the gun tighter, her palms sweating. She looked back once, reassured by the sight of Susannah one step behind her.

In the heavy silence, every little sound seemed magnified, the swish of her nightdress, the soft pad of Susannah's feet behind her, the creak of a floorboard. Suddenly, she saw a figure outlined by the paleness of the foyer wall. It was moving toward the stairs.

Gripping the gun in both hands, she raised it and pointed it at the dark shape. "Who are you? What do you want?" she demanded. "Speak up quickly, or I will shoot."

"It's me. Lije."

"Lije!" On a surge of joy, Temple lowered the gun and lifted the hem of her nightdress to run down the steps. "It's Lije," she called back to the others. "Phoebe, light the candles. Hurry." Almost immediately, light flared behind her, spraying a dim glow that reached to the bottom of the staircase where Lije stood. Temple ran straight to him. "You're home. I can't believe it." She went into his arms and laughed when she discovered the gun was still in her hand. "I thought you were—It doesn't matter what I thought." She drew back and reached up to stroke his cheek and run her fingers into the sides of his hair. "Look at you—your hair, it's positively shaggy. When did you cut it last, for heaven's sake? But you look wonderful. So wonderful."

She kept chattering away, her face shining with happiness.

Lije thought of all the worry and grief and fear she had known for so many years. It should have made her bitter and unlovely. But it hadn't. His mother was too strong, too indomitable. She would need that strength again.