By Mary
Copyright 2000
Buck tossed some wood onto the campfire and gazed up at the stars. The sky was peaceful tonight. It felt like a good sign. The air was sweet and cold and he drank in a healthy dose. Surrounded by nature, Buck always felt free. He remembered the time some old friends of Rachel’s had come out to Rock Creek to get married. Rachel was the maid of honor, so everyone from the station was invited to attend. He felt almost suffocated in the church—unable to move—half-afraid to breathe, lest he draw attention to himself.
It all seemed a little ridiculous to him now. If he hated it, why did he go? Would anyone have cared if he’d stayed behind? Buck thrust his knife into the ground. As the earth surrendered, he twisted the blade deep into the yielding soil. He stared, transfixed, into the fire’s snapping flames. They flared proudly—like the sun’s rays—reaching out to envelop the darkness. But it was a hard fight. The night was a formidable enemy.
Buck had planned to return to the express station before it became too late, but after his
visit to the way station, he thought better of it. The station master was visibly upset at learning of McMasters’ untimely demise, and didn’t waste any time stating his opinion about the situation.
"Its people like you that cause all this trouble," he accused, staring Buck coldly in the eye.
When Buck politely asked him if he had any information that could help him track down the killers, the station master snorted.
"You know, it was only a month ago that a band of ’em raided the station and almost burned us to the ground. That was just a warning. Now, they’re out to kill." He hesitated. "But why should I tell you anything? You’re probably working with them. I always thought Teaspoon Hunter made a big mistake when he hired on an Indian. You can’t trust any of the bastards."
Buck decided that it was futile to ask any more questions and he forced himself to walk away before his presence caused any further trouble.
If the station master was that upset, Buck could only imagine how the town would react once they heard the news. And what about the riders? Buck believed somewhere in the depths of his heart that they wanted to accept him for his spirit and not his color. But when Indian trouble brewed, he knew their prejudice, however latent, was bound to get stirred up. It would be best to keep away from everyone for the night and give the situation some time to cool off, he’d decided.
Buck shivered against the growing night. The cold was beginning to penetrate his skin and he wished vainly for a blanket. The neglected fire started to die down into a smoldering heap of embers and ashes. Buck thought he should build it up again, but then decided against it. Sometimes, it was better to let things die.
His heart suddenly ached as he remembered Ike. How many nights had they spent together under a sky like this? In between jobs and too broke to pay for a hotel room—wrestling for the last piece of jerky and staring up at the stares—they may have been poor, outcast orphans, but they were happy. . .and free.
Buck remembered how, on nights like this, Ike’s eyes would grow wild and his face assume a goofy mix of fear and hilarity as he tried to scare his Native friend with tales of vengeful spirits coming back from the dead. . .
But Buck knew better than to torture himself with memories. Even though the dark of night enveloped him, he had a feeling no spirits would honor him with their presence
tonight. He lay down on the hard earth and tried to sleep.
A soft breeze caressed his face and his eyes opened. Blackness gave way to a collection of thick shadows as Buck raised his eyes. A heavy yellow moon struggled to cast a weary light upon the landscape. It succeeded only in intensifying the shadows that began to crowd in around him.
Confusion stirred Buck’s soul to its depths, but he could not remember how to question it. He found himself standing in the midst of this alien world clad only in a pair of buckskin trousers. In his left hand, he gripped a long smooth walking stick. Two eagle feathers dangled down from a leather strap tied to the top of the stick. His feet were bare, yet he could not feel the cold or the sharp stones that lay beneath him.
Something beyond thought beckoned him forward and he began to walk. With each step, Buck became more aware of his surroundings. He knew this place. His soul saw through the shadows and he realized he was walking through Rattlesnake Canyon. He had played here as a boy and knew every inch of it by heart.
Buck froze. There were others here. As this knowledge flooded his mind, they began to emerge. One spirit, and then another, appeared on either side of him—slowly materializing from the dust that stirred in the waking wind. Buck soon found himself surrounded by hundreds of silent figures all dressed in Kiowa costume.
Some faces, he recognized as braves who had long since perished in battle—their death wounds now bleeding afresh. Many others, he did not know. Some women stared at him with pleading eyes—their white lips slightly parted as if to speak. But in the land of spirits, they had long ago forgotten what words were. Others glanced at him with hope and then with disbelief as they turned their faces away. Still others stared vacantly through Buck and did not notice him at all—their eyes glazed over with death.
Buck now understood that the souls of his ancestors had called him to this place. But he could not think to ask why. Suddenly, he sensed another presence. He turned to find an eagle suspended in mid-air before him. It glowed like white fire—burning with its own celestial light against the shadows of Buck’s ancestors who now dissolved into darkness as quickly as they had appeared. As the eagle’s dark, knowing eyes reached out to him in the night, a familiar ache flew to Buck’s heart. Immediately, the eagle’s blazing fire disappeared as the bird was transformed into the figure of a person Buck was sure he’d never see again.
"Ike?" Buck questioned. But the word was lost in the night. No living voice could penetrate the eternal silence of the spirit world.
In the wan light, Ike stood dressed in the same clothes in which he’d been shot; the bullet wound in his chest still oozing with blood.
Buck’s eyes stung with tears as he gazed upon his friend’s ashen face. Though Ike’s lips were forever silent, his soul spoke to Buck. It tore into his very being. Ike’s eyes read his every thought; their deep sadness reflecting the seemingly immovable weight of grief that lay at the core of Buck’s heart. It was a grief Buck had staunchly defended after Ike’s death. He had spent many hours in silence, locked away from the world, religiously guarding it. His pain was the one living sensation he still carried that helped him feel in touch with his best friend, and he was afraid of what might happen if he allowed it to be probed. But Ike alone could reach that depth of Buck’s spirit without being forced away. He understood why Buck clung to the loss—the hopelessness—that he so often felt when he thought of his dead friend.
Ike’s sad, sympathetic gaze filled Buck with a strange sense of relief that caused him to loosen his grip on the pain he had carried for so long. As he opened his heart to Ike’s healing power, Buck realized that his friend wanted something more of him. Ike turned his gaze from Buck and stared out before him. He began to walk ahead, and Buck felt an uncontrollable urge to follow.
Through the shadows that shrouded the canyon, Buck noticed several figures moving in the distance. Some stood, while others sat, silently by the side of a well-worn path that wove its way far into the darkness. It wasn’t long before Buck realized that these figures were his friends from the Pony Express. He wanted to speak to them, but he felt strangely distant from the world in which they were existing.
He passed by Cody, who sat propped up against a large rock, his face creased with pain. Buck saw that he was nursing a leg wound. Noah knelt beside him, trying to help stop the bleeding. Neither of them noticed Buck, who continued forward. Another few paces led him past Kid and Lou—searching for comfort in each other’s arms. Lou’s face was streaming with tears as Kid tried vainly to console her. Buck’s soul was filled with compassion at the sight. As if sensing his presence, Kid looked past Lou and stared blankly at Buck. Then, he turned away. As Buck traveled onward, he spied Jimmy Hickock crouched near the path. He had suffered a minor shoulder wound. As Buck walked past, Jimmy caught his gaze. His face was as gray as any of the ghosts Buck had met that evening. Buck cringed as Hickock’s accusing stare struck him squarely in the chest. Where were you? His cold eyes clearly said. Why didn’t you help us? Buck felt these words pound over and again in his heart as he turned from Hickock and continued on behind Ike.
Ike suddenly stopped. Turning to his friend, he silently called Buck to his side. As he approached, Buck was shocked by a sudden chill that settled stubbornly in his bones. He felt compelled to seek guidance from Ike. The spirit’s eyes were filled with pity. But Buck sensed something else—a flicker of hope and faith—pass over the quiet lips of his friend.
Reaching out, Ike pointed into the shadows before him. Buck was able to discern two figures a short distance away. One man was on his knees—his arms stretched to the sky. Immediately, Buck knew it was Teaspoon. The other figure stood before Teaspoon, awash in shadows that Buck could not see past. Slowly, the figure drew out a pistol and leveled it with cold precision at the Marshal’s head.
Panic stricken, Buck turned to Ike. The spirit’s eyes lowered and he shook his head. A violent shot rang out—shattering the silence—and the world crumpled into darkness.
Buck’s eyes flew open. He clutched the earth, his breath coming in smothered gasps, as he began to make sense of his surroundings. Dawn had melted the darkness away—its soft new light gathering strength in the distance.
His horse stamped a hoof restlessly. Buck turned his head to find the cold remnants of the campfire sitting silently before him.
Slowly, his cramped fingers released their hold on the land and he sat up. He reached for Ike’s bandanna, which still hung in its proud place around his neck, and he began to stroke it. He hoped for some sort of comfort, but none came. Only the images of Ike’s pale face, a shadowed figure pointing a gun at a defenseless Teaspoon, and that horrible gunshot—rang through his head like an endless bell tolling a terrible future.
Buck knew that his white friends were in danger. Ike’s spirit and the souls of his ancestors had given him a warning. It was a sensation he could not doubt. Yet, he also knew, as he rose stiffly to his feet, that no one would believe his vision.
As he saddled his horse, Buck gazed out at the glowing disk in the east as it climbed up over the horizon and dawn met day. He decided to keep his vision to himself and wait to see what the future held. Perhaps this new day would shed some light onto his dream.
Chapter 5
Rachel, that was the most delicious breakfast I have ever eaten." Jake Michaels pushed his plate away and sat back with a satisfied grin.
Rachel flashed a broad smile as she began clearing the table. "Well, that’s awful kind of you to say, Mr. Michaels."
"Rachel is the finest cook there is," Teaspoon boasted. "The roof may leak and the horses may act onry, but Rachel’s cookin’ never fails to bring a little slice of heaven right where it counts."
Michaels laughed and turned to the others with a mischievous grin. "Well you all may have had the great fortune of enjoying the finest cookin’ in all the world, but I for one have had to endure the culinary terror that is Mr. Teaspoon Hunter. And frankly, I can’t believe I’ve lived to tell about it!"
"I feel a story comin’ on," Noah predicted.
"Now hold it right there, Jake," Teaspoon ordered. But it was too late. Everyone in the room had already taken the bait.
"Well? What happened?" an impatient Lou asked.
Savoring the moment, Jake stole a glance at his old partner’s humiliated face before he began. "If you must know, we were out chasing a couple of outlaws who were threatening Deadwood some years back, and we had to spend a night out on the prairie. Well, you can imagine how hungry huntin’ renegades can make a man. Teaspoon, great thinker that hie is, decided that the beans we brought with us would heat faster if we cooked ‘em in the can."
"It is a proven fact," a defensive Teaspoon interjected, "that when you apply heat to a can of beans, they warm up faster than if you open ‘em up and cook ‘em in the pot. Has somethin’ to do with what they call the physicals of heat an’ energy." He glanced hopefully at seven disbelieving faces. "I read about it. . .somewhere. . ."
Jake grinned as the Marshal’s face went red with shame. "Yeah, well I don’t know all about the ‘physicals’ behind it, but its most definitely a proven fact that when you heat up beans in an unopened can—they explode! You all should’ve seen it. Pow! Beans everywhere—dripping from Teaspoon’s face—now I’ll never forget that look on your face, Teaspoon. The explosion spooked off our horses. We spent the rest of the night trying to get hold of ‘em. By morning, we were too dog tired to blink let alone run down outlaws. Yep. It surely was one of your finest moments, Teaspoon."
An awkward silence filled the room. Then suddenly, an anonymous snort ignited a chorus of laughter.
"All right. All right. You all go on—get yer jollies." Teaspoon’s face was solemn, but his eyes betrayed a certain satisfaction that Michaels’ teasing never failed to bring to his heart—even if it was at his own expense.
"Boy, Teaspoon, looks like even Jimmy beats you out at cookin’," Cody grinned at a humiliated Hickock.
Rachel’s maternal eyes suddenly clouded over with concern. "I wonder where Buck is. I bet he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s breakfast."
"Buck can take care of himself alright," the Marshal reassured.
"Teaspoon’s right," Noah added. "He probably spent the night at the way station at South Pass. He didn’t set out for there until it was pretty late."
Noticing Rachel’s unshaken worry, Teaspoon continued, "But just to be sure, if he ain’t back by lunchtime, I’ll send someone out to hunt fer him." He sighed thoughtfully. "I hope the boy found somethin’ helpful. This Indian trouble ain’t just hurtin’ the Pony Express."
Cody stole a look at Jake’s necklace. "You have much experience with Indians, Jake?"
"Oh, a little," he replied. "Spent some of my earlier years as a trader back in Kansas Territory. Mostly dealt with the Sioux. In fact, that’s how I picked up this necklace."
"Sure is beautiful," Rachel admitted.
Jake passed his hand over the polished stone that adorned his prize. "Its been my good luck charm for goin’ on fifteen years now."
"Hard to think anyone would want to part with it," Kid said.
"Yeah, well, when you’re desperate enough, you’d be willin’ to part with just about anything, I suppose," Jake replied. "The Indians I traded with were really hurtin’ for goods at the time. I was lucky. I only had to fork over a rifle and an old hunting knife to get it. The Indian who wore it before me swore it had the powers of the spirits in it. Now, I don’t know about all that, but I can’t deny that I’ve been one lucky man since I started wearing it."
"I don’t doubt that," Teaspoon agreed. "You’ve cheated death more times than I can count."
Noah laughed. "Your fiasco with the beans bein’ just one of those many times, I’m sure."
Jake brightened. "You know, that reminds me of the time Teaspoon got so drunk that he became convinced he wasn’t cut out to be a law man and decided to start a new career at the saloon. ‘Course I never thought you was the bar maid type myself, Teaspoon, but with that dress on, I swear. . ."
"Now hold on just one minute!" Teaspoon glared metallically at his friend. "First, that never happened." Michaels opened his mouth to object, but Teaspoon cut him off. "An’ I don’t care what you got to say otherwise! Second, breakfast has been officially over for a good fifteen minutes now, and its time fer you boys to start earnin’ yer keep. There’s chores to be done."
Several loud cries of dissent rang out, but Teaspoon remained firm. "Now you all git."
Reluctantly, the crowd broke up and they went their separate ways. When the room finally cleared, Teaspoon turned to Michaels. "You are one low down, double crossin’, dirty rat, you know that?" He smiled. "You could never rib this old man enough, could ya son?"
"I couldn’t miss the chance to torture you just one more time, Teaspoon—you oughta know that."
Teaspoon’s gaze fell to his hands. "So you’re really headed out west, huh?"
"Yep," Jake answered plainly. He saw Teaspoon’s expression harden as he clenched his jaw tight. For a moment, the Marshal looked as if he was about to speak. But then, he seemed to think better of his words before he raised his head and stared with a cool eye at his old friend.
"I gotta head to town and take care of some business at the jail," Teaspoon said finally. "Why don’t you come along and we can catch up on old times?"
"I’d love to, Teaspoon," Jake answered enthusiastically. "But first, I’ve got some chores of my own to do. Gotta stop by the general store and the livery. . .but let’s say I’ll meet you at the jail in a couple of hours. How’s that?"
"Sounds just fine to me, son." Teaspoon stood, and Jake followed suit. Then, together, they headed outside.
Chapter 6
"Whoa!" Buck pulled back on the reigns and slowed his horse to a walk. It was only mid-morning, and already the sun was glaring down on the earth with a harsh eye. The mare tossed her head in weary agitation, trying to shake off the heat, but she soon settled down into complacency.
Buck reached out and stroked her neck affectionately. Somehow, she knew, as he did, that it was useless to fight against the powers of nature—no matter how uncomfortable the circumstances became.
"You need some water, girl?" he asked aloud. She snorted. "Yeah, I thought so." He smiled to himself, amazed at how delighted he was to be making conversation with a horse. Though, compared to the company he’d kept the night before, the brown mare was a welcome relief. At least she didn’t stare at him—pleading for help. Or worse—torture him with looks of devastation and disbelief.
Almost against his will, the shadowed canyon materialized in his imagination. Suddenly, he felt Hickock’s bitter gaze rip through him once more; his soul calling out to Buck as if from between clenched teeth. Where were you? Jimmy demanded. Why didn’t you help us?
Buck considered the endless eyes of his ancestors. So many of them—crying out for his assistance. So many others—turning away in disgust. Even Ike didn’t have total faith in him.
He broke out into a cold sweat as his heart lurched forward. How was he supposed to help Teaspoon when even the spirits didn’t trust him? What kind of tortured quest was this? And why was he the one called on such a hopeless journey?
As the questions tumbled through his head, Buck began to feel the nausea boil up in his stomach. He knew he had to get back to Rock Creek. He needed to see Teaspoon—to learn if he was dead or alive.
But a stronger emotion pulled him away from his intended destination. He had to visit Rattlesnake Canyon first. The spirits, however reluctantly, had called him there in his dream. Perhaps he could glean a better understanding of his role if he stood in the place of his vision. Besides, the horse needed watering and the canyon was relatively close by. If he didn’t gain any more knowledge, at least he had the comfort of knowing the trip wouldn’t be a total waste.
He kicked the mare into a gallop. "Come on, girl."
Suddenly, an eagle’s cry pierced through the skies. Buck sought in vain for the illusive bird. Yet, though he could not trace it with his eyes, Buck knew its call.
"Guide me. . ." he whispered.
On to Chapter Seven
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