The noise sent my destrier up on her hind legs, and by the time I got her back down, Sam was slumped over in the saddle. He was already gone by the time I ran to his side.
The bullet had gone clear through his heart. I was reaching for my pistol when Walt Junger put the barrel of his gun against my forehead. “Time for you to make a decision, Old Man Willow.”
“Go to hell, you murderous son of a bitch.” Tears were streaming down my face and filling up my eyes to the point that I could hardly make out either of them.
Billy got down from his saddle and came up beside Walt. He pushed Walt’s gun down and said, “Calm down. Mr. Willow’s mind is spinning right about now. He needs a few moments to process.”
I got my pistol free and shouted, “Process this!” like I was some sort of dimestore hero. I feel funny writing it, but it’s the truth. The look on both of their faces was priceless. It would have been perfect if I’d shot them both right there, but I squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. Either the damn thing jammed or it was never loaded in the first place. I’ve never been much of a gunman. If anything, I kept it with me for show.
They laughed when I sank to my knees in the dirt and cried like a fool. Jem, I cried for you kids and I cried for my dear friend Sam. I’m not proud to say that I cried for myself and Anna too, because I was convinced that they were going to kill me next.
But I did not beg.
I cursed those sons of bitches and told them to get on with it.
Billy squatted down in front of me and said, “I think there’s been enough killing for one day. Especially since you got that pretty little girl back home.”
“Imagine what could happen to her if you don’t come home tonight. We might have to go visit her, just to check on her,” Walt said.
“I heard how that old boy who used to work for you got real friendly with her,” Billy said. “I heard he had her do all sorts of things. Sounds to me like she’s got some experience. What do you say, Walter?”
“I could use a sweet young thing that knows what she’s doing,” he said.
“Unless of course we can all agree that we found Sam Clayton dead out here. I think if we all made that agreement, we could all live together in peaceful harmony.”
I looked at both of them and cursed them harder than any man has ever cursed another human being. I cursed them, Jem, and I told them to shoot me, but they didn’t.
They laughed at me.
Both of them dragged Sam’s body off to the side of the road just to leave him there. I wouldn’t allow it. I dug out a shallow grave for him with my bare hands at the crest of the mountain. When they weren’t looking, I took his Sheriff’s badge and stuffed it in my pocket.
Before we left, I memorized where we were and when I got home, I drew a map to his grave.
Justice died in Seneca 6 the day Sam Clayton was murdered, Jem. It’s been sitting inside this wooden box ever since. My hope is that by writing this, I might bring the day that it returns closer.
I pray with all my might that you forgive me, Jem.
May God have mercy on my soul, and none on the bastards that murdered the finest man I have ever known.
Jem folded the pages of the letter and removed a map from inside the box. The map was a crude drawing with a stick figure for Sam’s body and various symbols designating the terrain. Old Man Willow had drawn dots across the map to show footpaths and scribbled notes along the margins about the terrain.
At the bottom of the box was a small object wrapped in black velvet cloth. Jem felt the heavy object inside the cloth, weighing it in the palm of his hand, before he unwrapped it. He peeled away the corners of the covering slowly to reveal the tarnished bronze star hidden within. The word SHERIFF was etched across the front.
Jem laid back on the bed and inspected the star, turning it over in his hands. It looked smaller than it had when he was a boy, even though this was the first time he’d ever actually held it. Sam had never taken it off of his coat.
Jem twirled the badge between his fingers, feeling that the grooves of the letters were worn smooth. He studied his reflection in the dull brass surface and could not deny that the image he saw looked a lot like the badge’s previous owner.
But he’d been a good man, Jem thought. A law-abiding man of respectable character. Decent as the day is long. Sam Clayton was a good man, and you sons of bitches took him away, he thought. He picked up the letter and looked at it again, thinking, you all are about to die.
16. The Mercy Seat
The newest Ayawisgi entered the sacred circle, surrounded by the warriors of the tribe. A trio of drummers pounded a skin of stretched hide in unison with a slow beat that made the boys bend over and sweep the ground with their hands. The pace of the drum increased and the drummers sang in high-pitched tones of an ancient battle between the Beothuk of the Plains and the White Man.
Lakhpia-Sha winced as he tried to lift his thickly bandaged arm at the elbow to point it toward the sky. Haienwa’tha hovered close by, keeping the excited Thathanka-Ska from bouncing into them both.
Osceola stood outside the circle, stone-faced as he watched the boys dance save for the movement of his lips as he recited the choreographed movements he’d carefully imparted to them. His eyes clenched shut each time one of them missed.
Chief Thasuka-Witko entered the circle and held up his hands, “All Ayawisgi join us inside the circle, and celebrate your fellow warriors’ ascension into the tribe of men.” Everyone began to dance, and even ancient Mahpiya limped with his staff into the circle to join them.
Mahpiya had been a grand-champion in his youth, competing against other tribes and returning with ribbons and blankets in prizes for his people. He mastered the dances of the Northern tribes and Eastern tribes and even now as his steps were limited and stilted, everyone stood aside at his approach lest they give off the appearance of challenging him.
Mahpiya watched his people dance and held out his hand to the four winds in thanks for another season. He closed his eyes and swayed to the drum’s beat, feeling the wind rise and blow across his face.
Mahpiya stopped dancing.
Everyone quickly noticed him standing still, face into the wind, chanting. Thasuka-Witko made his way toward the old man cautiously, not wanting to disturb his trance. Mahpiya’s eyes opened and he said, “Clear the circle.”
The drumming stopped and the dancers filed out of the circle behind the Chief, leaving the medicine man standing alone in the center. He raised his stick and lifted it high in the air, then drove it into the ground. He held out his hands and uttered a prayer, drawing circles in the dust with the edge of his staff until it started to swirl on its own.
Mahpiya guided the small cyclone from side to side, as it grew in force and started toward the edges of the circle, whipping past the faces of the men who stood watching. The cyclone spun around and around, circling Mahpiya as he reached into his pouch and threw a handful of green leaves into the winds.
His eyes darted back and forth to read the shape the leaves took as they flew past, and suddenly the old man clapped his hands and the wind stopped, sending dust and stone raining toward the ground. Mahpiya looked at Thasuka Witko and said, “You must gather the women.”
Chief Thasuka Witko greeted the Women’s Council by nodding at the ones who surrounded the fire and assessed him with their stares. The eldest woman on the Council was called Agaidika. She was older than the small mountains; older than even Mahpiya.