Scalpdancers (27 page)

In the shadows of the forest Lone Walker watched, not as a voyeur but as a man whose own love lay beyond the mountains, across hundreds of miles of hard country. He saw himself and Sparrow in the place of the lovers by the spring. He closed his eyes and his right hand burrowed against his chest in an effort to ease the pain.

His eyes were deep set now from his being ever vigilant and never relaxing his guard. He was leaner, his belly flat and hard. But his soul was the same and his heart was the same, and he longed for Sparrow. He had crossed the Backbone of the World and followed the sun, and still he had not reached the end of his quest. Lone Walker wondered if he ever would. His legs buckled as he propped himself upon the thickest branch of a storm-shattered tree lying on its side and overgrown with purple flowers and camouflaged with moss. The branch cracked beneath his weight and deposited the young Blackfoot on the ground. The noise disturbed his gray mare, who was grazing quietly several yards from the spring. The animal lifted its head and neighed in protest.

The crack of timber and the sound of a horse hidden in the trees brought Morgan scrambling into his breeches. Julia blinked awake and rubbed at her eyes.

“Morgan… what—”

He tossed his belt and brace of flintlocks onto the blanket beside her and brought his finger to his lips, signaling her to silence. Then he drew his cutlass and tossed the scabbard aside and began walking barefoot in the direction of the sound.

Lone Walker slowly brought his legs beneath him and stood. The movement alerted Morgan and he altered his course and headed toward the patch of shadow that concealed the Blackfoot in its depths.

Lone Walker readied his elkhorn bow and notched a black-feathered arrow to the sinew string. He could draw the bowstring and loose an arrow in an instant if need be. But though he held his arrow at the ready and could kill the white man at a distance, he did not take his shot. He was poised yet could not act, rooted in place by the white man's familiarity. Lone Walker studied the man's face, then looked at the long knife Morgan held.

Morgan entered the shadows. For a moment the patterns of fragmented sunlight and the colors of the foliage conspired against him. But at last, even to his unaccustomed eye, the shapes and silhouettes sorted themselves and he was brought up sharply in his tracks at the sight of the Blackfoot warrior standing a stone's throw away.

The warrior could have killed Morgan at any moment as he blundered forward, and Morgan realized this. It puzzled him.

Morgan sensed that this brave was different from the coastal Indians he'd encountered. The man seemed to have done some hard traveling, judging by the trail-worn condition of his buckskin shirt and leggings. His hair hung long and straight and black as night. His features were burned dark by the sun, and he had a lean and hungry look.

“Well, boy-o, you certainly got an eyeful,” Morgan muttered. He glanced at the bow and arrow and wondered if the warrior meant to use it. Why was the brave staring at him like that? Morgan took a chance and thrust the steel-tipped blade into the ground. “I'd have probably stayed for a look-see myself,” Morgan added with a grin.

Lone Walker tried to follow the man's speech. He understood a smattering of English from the rendezvous he'd attended with trappers down on the Wind River. And the black-robed Jesuits who had ventured into the north country had left in their wake a rudimentary grasp of French and the words of the white man's God who had lived long ago.

Am I dream-walking? Lone Walker pondered. He had to know whether this was a vision or a flesh-and-blood man. Either way, Lone Walker had seen him before. As Morgan discarded his cutlass, Lost Eyes dropped his elkhorn bow and gingerly approached him. He outstretched his hand and, hesitant at first, probed the white man's muscled shoulders.

“I must look worse than I think,” Morgan observed dryly.

“I know you,” Lone Walker said, struggling with the English words. He placed a hand on his chest. “I am Lone Walker.”

“I'm Morgan Penmerry and you chose a rotten time to make my acquaintance.” Morgan glanced over his shoulder and saw Julia had already dressed.

“I know you,” Lone Walker said. He repeated the statement in French. Morgan understood him both times. How could it be? Their paths had never crossed. Morgan didn't know him from Adam.

“You know me? How?” The hairs rose on the back of Morgan's neck; the brave seemed so earnest.

“Our spirits walked in a dream.” Lone Walker turned his attention toward the girl. His expression changed, became curious at first and then, suddenly, disturbed. He felt cold standing there in sunlight and shadow, cold in midsummer with a warm breeze at play in the treetops. The Blackfoot quickly looked away and retreated a pace. “You must show me where the sun sleeps,” he said to Morgan.

Lone Walker had been following the Columbia for days now, skirting villages, passing as a shadow through the forests. Today, in the presence of the white man, Lone Walker sensed the end of his journey was near. He used a mixture of English and French that Morgan had to struggle to comprehend. The young brave's intensity was all but overwhelming.

“Who is he? What does he want?” Julia came up beside Morgan. She carried his pistol belt draped over her shoulder. She handed him his shirt and black boots.

“As best I can figure, he claims to know me,” Morgan said, scratching his head. “He wants me to show him the sleeping sun or where the sun sleeps or something. He's been watching us for some time.”

“No!” Julia choked on the word. “Oh, my God in heaven.” Her hand fluttered to her mouth. Blood rushed to her cheeks and forehead. She bolted toward the spring. She splashed across the pond, her skirt held high. She emerged from the pond and continued down the path toward the river, unable to face either of the men.

“Shit,” Morgan growled, watching her flee the clearing. Julia would never be able to outrun what had happened between them. Maybe it was for the best that she left, before he made a fool of himself by declaring his undying love. What would have been her reply?

“Where does the sun sleep?” Lone Walker said, trying to make the white man understand.

Morgan had other things on his mind right now, words he'd wanted to say—but now the moment was lost. He considered leaving the Indian to his own devices, yet the urgency in the warrior's voice demanded Morgan try to help, though he wasn't sure just why. Where did the sun sleep? Perhaps beyond the ocean. It was worth a try. Morgan figured he'd have to borrow a horse on the way to the shore, but he knew just the camp. Old Boudins Reasoner would be right on the way.

“Come with me,” Morgan said to the Blackfoot warrior. “Follow.” He motioned for Lone Walker to fall into step and started off through the woods. His eyes darted only once to the empty blanket by the spring. It was enough to fill him with warmth all over again. I'm in love with a missionary's daughter? He tried to sort through his feelings as he watched the brave lead the gray mare toward him.

So it came to pass in the time of the Breeding Moon, Lone Walker left his horse where the forest thinned, and pressed on the last few yards alone. His weary body trembling, he followed the sound of the crashing waves until he stood upon the edge of the world. The tremendous expanse of the Pacific stretched on forever to meet the dancing clouds that rode the wind out of the cerulean horizon and swept across the cliff to engulf the man on the heights. Lone Walker opened his arms and breathed deeply. The moist whiteness enveloped the broken cliff face overlooking the ocean. Waves dashed upon the rocks below.

Lone Walker stood transfixed, arms open, his entire body absorbing the vista. Morgan waited a few yards behind. His borrowed animal grazed contentedly alongside the gray mare.

The sun continued its descent. The sky changed from pink vermilion to crimson and azure and became streaked with royal purple. Minutes passed; the colors melded into a golden light that bathed the world in its purity.

Lone Walker could not tear his eyes away. The sun danced and shimmered before him. It swelled in size, shrank, and swelled again. He raised his arms, hands palms outward, and breathed the golden air while he praised the dying light. He stood with muscles taut. He felt as if he were floating into the heart of the radiance. Flesh and bone seared away and he became a soul of light, drifting on the sea breeze.

Joy filled him. Wonder held him fast. Magic transformed him, sealing his name—and his fate.

As for Morgan Penmerry, he had seen sunsets before. He knew a man could sail the sea and find the sun again. He had tempted the cruel mistress of the sea and come away scarred perhaps but alive and ready for another challenge. Yet in Lone Walker's company Morgan saw the sunset with new eyes.

He heard the warrior's gentle sibilant song and though he knew none of the words, it was as if their meaning were etched in his soul, demanding he remain.

Lone Walker sensed his nearness and turned for a moment. Morgan trembled despite himself, for in that briefest of moments he could have sworn the Blackfoot's eyes became imbued with a dazzling and unearthly light, pulsing like miniature suns.

Lone Walker faced the sunset as the molten orb poised upon the surface of the waves, casting a path of liquid amber across the living water. Ephemeral figures moved along the path; some beckoned to him, others sang, still others could do naught but embrace the dying light. He heard his name spoken on the wind; he saw the faces now, the living and the dead, the spirits of the shamans and the spirit singers who must add their voices to the song of the Great Circle, for in their chanted prayers were the secrets of morning and night, life and death, chaos and peace.

The sun dipped below the horizon. Lone Walker watched as the spirits shook free and escaped the golden shackles of the sun and sped toward the cliff in an onrush of abandoned souls.

“Aaaahhhh!” Lone Walker cried out. He tried to withstand them but reeled before the Above Ones and collapsed, unconscious.

Nearly a thousand miles away White Buffalo bolted upright, and in the night-darkened lodge stared into the heart of a sphere of fire, painful to look at, blinding in intensity, yet he could not tear his eyes away. He struggled to breathe. He struggled to ward off the molten light and caught up. his war hammer.

“No!”

The light vanished, leaving him to the darkness that mirrored his own bleak heart. Perspiration streaked his cheek and dripped from his jawline. He sucked in a lungful of air, grateful that he was still able to. His magic, the power of
Iniskim
, had saved him. Still, the vision had left him shaken.

“He's alive,” White Buffalo said aloud.

The form beside him stirred. Blue Cap rose up on her elbows. The blanket slipped from her small, pointed breasts. Taken captive, she had immediately ascertained where the power lay. Unable to resist the shaman's personal magnetism, she had come to him willingly.

Blue Cap caught his arm. She hoped to remind White Buffalo of what they had been doing before the strange mood came over him. She took his hand and placed it between her legs.

The shaman shoved her aside. “He's alive!” he repeated. The vision had been a warning. And now that he knew, he would be ready.

Singing Woman bent to fill her water bag alone in the comforting quiet of the summer's night, beyond the reach of her noisy cave-home with mewling infants and fretful children and long-suffering adults, all of whom she considered tedious intruders. It was too late to do anything but endure now and have faith that the intrusion of her kinsmen would not last forever. Her fear was that White Buffalo might locate the natural caverns what with all the activity around the spring.

She sighed, content in the silence, as air bubbles rippled the surface of the pool and the spray from the waterfall cooled her flesh. Her silhouette upon the dark surface of the pond faded and in its place the fire glow of a miniature sun seemed to dance before her eyes. She experienced such elation, it made her heart young again.

She hobbled as fast as she could back to the cave, her silver hair streaming behind her like a cape.

She picked her way through the huddled sleeping forms curled in their blankets upon the grass-littered floor, and found Sparrow and hurried to her side and shook her awake.

“Lost Eyes is dead,” Singing Woman said.

Sparrow covered her mouth to stifle her outcry as Singing Woman continued.

“He is truly dead. Now there is only Lone Walker.” Singing Woman patted the girl's arm.

Sparrow embraced the old woman. They clung to each other, and Sparrow wept. “Are you sure? How do you know?”

“I have seen with his eyes,” Singing Woman replied.

Boudins Reasoner had stopped by Emile Emerson's mission to reclaim the horse he had loaned Morgan. He stayed to identify the semiconscious Indian Morgan had delivered to the church. Morgan had no intention of trying to convert the intense young man. The mission church simply offered shelter and relief from the rain that had begun to fall during the ride back from the coastline.

“I don't know what I'm doing with him,” Morgan snapped in exasperation. “He showed up at the spring, said he knew me. I haven't been able to cut free of him. I took him to the coast—and now here.…” Morgan threw up his hands and began to pace.

“He's a Blackfoot,” Boudins Reasoner said. He sneezed and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his greasy capote. He was a rail-thin, gamy old soul who had tempted fate more than once, having headed into the mountains purely out of curiosity about what lay on the other side. “To have come this far he's probably on a vision quest. I've seen his kind before, other warriors who have heard the gods tell them to go off alone and do something special.”

Reasoner scratched at his hooked nose. He had a hankering for a smoke, and pulled a clay pipe from a raccoon-head pouch dangling from his belt. He filled the bowl of the pipe with a mixture of tobacco and local roots the Clayoquat used in their ceremonial smokes. He speared a glowing ember from the fireplace with the tip of his dagger. He puffed clouds of blue-white smoke, sucking furiously to keep the pipe lit.