The Arrow Keeper’s Song (3 page)

“Father …
ne-ho
!” Tom called out, his breath clouding the air. But the stand of timber had already swallowed Seth Sandcrane, draping the wounded man with its shadowed shrouds and hiding his hurt from prying eyes. Tom slowly exhaled, shook his head, and briefly considered following the older man. What was the use? Seth was beyond listening to what Tom had to say.

Despite the guilt Tom felt, he knew he had spoken the truth. There was no returning to the past, not even if he wanted to. Perhaps it was easier for a young Cheyenne like himself to understand this, while men like Seth were still too close to what had been, to the time when the Cheyenne had been lords of the plains.

The days ahead held challenge and change. Tom Sandcrane was ready. He doubted his father ever would be.

The dun gelding behind him nickered and stamped the ground. The animal was anxious to return to town and the comfort of a warm stall. Tom gathered the reins and swung into the saddle. Just as he pointed the animal toward town, a cold north wind sprang up and snatched the hat from his head. He made a futile attempt to catch it. The Stetson tumbled end over end and came to rest in the underbrush surrounding a pair of live oaks, its tall crown skewered by a forked twig. The dun fought Tom's steadying hand as the wind continued to whirl about them, moaning as it rattled the dry branches, and stung them with brittle leaves and grains of sand. The hair on the back of Tom's neck rose when he noticed that the other horses were wholly unaffected by the wind, while Tom had to struggle to keep his mount from bolting as the gusts buffeted him with unnatural force.

Suddenly the animal reared and pawed the air, and for a fleeting instant Tom spied a pair of warriors on horseback watching him from the grove where he'd lost his hat. The two warriors wore only breechclouts and leggings. Their naked torsos were swirled with red war paint, their faces obscured by garish red designs. They carried ten-foot-long spears tipped with stone blades that appeared to have been dipped in blood, and brandished war shields painted crimson like the powerful stallions they sat astride. Each wore a buffalo-horn headdress, the tip of which glistened a gory crimson in the moonlight.

The dun came down hard and almost dislodged its rider. A lesser horseman would have been sent tumbling. Tom held on for dear life, one hand on the reins and the other tangled in the gelding's mane. Tom's breathing became labored, and he felt consciousness slipping away. Then the wind ceased.

Tom gasped in a lungful of air, sat upright in the saddle, and brought the gelding under control. He glanced toward the grove of oaks to challenge the two warriors to identify themselves, but they had vanished without a trace.

“
He-tohe!
” Tom exclaimed, inadvertently returning to his native tongue. “What the …?” He was alone outside the ceremonial lodge. He cautiously walked the dun over to the underbrush and, leaning down from the saddle, retrieved the Stetson. He took note that the two warriors, whoever they were, had managed to vanish without so much as breaking a twig or leaving a single track in the underbrush.

“Glo
—
ria in excelsis Deo. Glo
—
ria in excelsis De-o.”

The faint strains of the advent choir drifted up the slope from the gaily lit church where Father Kenneth rehearsed his songs of praise for the Christian God. The “Gloria” spoke to Tom and called him back from what he had just experienced. A gust of wind, he told himself. And his own mind playing tricks on him. He dismissed the experience and studied the church at the east end of Main Street. Father Kenneth would be there. And Allyn Benedict with his family. And there were others in the congregation, both Cheyenne and white, who had come to Cross Timbers.

The tribal drummers resumed their steady beat, two light strokes, then one heavy, emanated from the ceremonial lodge, announcing that a new Arrow Keeper had been chosen. Such matters no longer concerned Tom Sandcrane. Latin verses mingled uncomfortably with the wailing voice of the tribal elders. Tom did not linger to appreciate the discord, but started down the road toward the settlement, a young man with his eyes on tomorrow, following the strains of an Advent chorus, and guided by the brightness of his dreams.

CHAPTER TWO

New Orleans

H
EAVENLY
F
ATHER
,
WE ASK YOUR BLESSING ON THIS FOOD AND
those gathered here who have come to partake of your great bounty. Lord, may you continue to bless the work of my hands. I thank you for bringing our family together. May you keep us joined in love and obedience to your divine will …”

Joanna Cooper noted how her father, Robert Bernard Cooper III, had worked the word “obedience” into the blessing. She immediately suspected their recent argument over her decision to leave New Orleans was now to be the topic of discussion here at the family table. Suddenly she regretted delaying her departure. Not that she didn't love her parents. That wasn't the issue. But her father had spent most of the afternoon voicing his displeasure with her plans and hoping to talk some “sense” into her. Joanna, though, had proven as stubborn as her father. Still, she did not want to be the cause of any more pain.

I should have never come home. A letter would have been kinder. Father will never understand. Maybe my plans are just one big mistake. But it is my life, isn't it? I must follow the path I believe is right for me. How can I do less?
She looked around the handsomely appointed dining room with its elegant satinbacked chairs and mahogany china cabinet crowded with fine crystal and porcelain plates. That she was about to turn her back on a life of luxury made her a fool in her father's eyes. Could she blame him? To Robert Cooper there was nothing more important than power and prestige. Joanna studied her reflection in a window that looked out upon a spacious, carefully kept lawn and a brick walkway leading down to the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. The slender woman she saw in the window had finely etched aquiline features, with high cheekbones. Long auburn tresses were carelessly pinned back from pale, creamy-white features that would burn easily beneath the Caribbean sun. Hands that could tend a wound or set a broken limb were inexperienced at the dressing table. She thought of herself as plain—at least compared to Eleanor, her winsome sister, whom the men had always favored.

As a child Joanna liked to climb trees and run races with the boys. She could handle a dare or a fishing pole as well as any lad. Her childhood had been one of privilege, and she had never wanted for anything. But the nuns of the Ursuline Academy on Chartres Street had awakened in the impressionable girl a thirst for knowledge. Joanna voraciously devoured the books in the academy while dutifully keeping up with her studies. As she matured, colorful literature the likes of
Robin-son Crusoe, The Count of Monte Cristo
, and
Treasure bland
instilled in her a desire to confront life on its own ofttimes harsh terms. The good Sisters gave her not only an education but a sense of responsibility for others less fortunate than herself.

Shortly after leaving the academy, Joanne entered medical school at Tulane, a move that sorely tested her father's patience. Yet he indulged her because he doubted any young woman would endure the rigors of higher education for much longer than a week. But Joanna proved tenacious and succeeded despite her father's disparaging views and the open animosity displayed by many of her male peers, who viewed this “doctor in skirts” as some kind of threat.

Now she was a physician, a healer, afire with the determination to help others. She had come home because she wanted to see her parents one last time. After all, there was no telling when she'd see home again. By the end of the month Doctor Joanna Cooper intended to be in Cuba and embarking on her own grand adventure.

“In remembrance of Your good works, O Heavenly Father, we will be certain to give Thee all thanks and praise. Amen.”

Robert Cooper, a diminutive, pugnacious little man with a hawkish face and close-set eyes, looked up from his folded hands and studied the faces of his two daughters. Joanna had always been the rebellious one, whereas Eleanor was pliant, like her mother. His iron gaze settled on Roxanne, his wife, a flaxen-haired belle, sweet as a mint julep, pampered and playful. She made no apologies, Robert thought to himself, for enjoying to the hilt the creature comforts that his inheritance and successful import-and-export business had afforded them. He cleared his throat, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had filled the void left by the dinner blessing.

“Amen, my dear, and very nicely put,” said Roxanne, reaching for a fork. “I always love the way you offer a prayer over dinner. You really missed your calling. Why, I should think you could have been a minister of the Church, I do indeed.” Roxanne speared a chunk of cooked carrot and lifted it, dripping, from a pool of sugary brown glaze, plopping the tidbit into her mouth.

“And would you have been content to eke out your days in some humble priory while I brought the word of God to the less fortunate?” the merchant asked.

“Heavens no,” Roxanne chuckled.

“Heaven
, I daresay,” Robert added, surveying the amply laden table with pride. Tureens of candied carrots, yams, slices of ham, snap peas swimming in butter and dusted with slivered almonds, plump pigeons roasted to a fare-thee-well, loaves of hot crusty bread, fresh churned butter, and, in keeping with the advent season, spiced mulled wine. Michel Raux, a servant of African and Indian descent, appeared at the table bearing a ladle and a soup tureen of shrimp gumbo. He paused alongside Joanna, who declined his offer to fill her bowl.

“Charlotte made the gumbo especially for you,” Robert said.

“I'm not hungry, really,” Joanna said.

“I should have thought breaking your parents' hearts would have worked up quite an appetite,” the merchant matter-of-factly replied, and helped himself to a roasted pigeon, whose golden skin glistened with juices.

Her father's statement set the tone for the meal. Joanna had no stomach for the upcoming confrontation. She slid her chair back, rose and excused herself, and left the dining room. Her footsteps rang on the curved stairway that led to the upper reaches of the house.

“Husband …,” Roxanne chided.

“I only spoke the truth.”

“At times it can be a most annoying habit.”

“Then you are happy that your daughter intends to throw her life away, crawling around some filthy Cuban hovel.”

“No. But I do not want to drive her from our lives forever. Eleanor, be a dear and go speak with your sister. She'll listen to you.”

Their remaining daughter sighed and then smiled. “As you wish, Mama. But Joanna has
never
listened to me or anyone else. She's as stubborn as Papa.” Robert Cooper raised his eyebrows; he obviously took umbrage. Eleanor, paying him no mind, lifted the hem of her day dress and followed after her sister, the thick Persian carpet muffling her slippered feet as she departed the room.

The scent of holly and the aroma of freshly baked pastries followed Eleanor up the stairs. She ascended quietly past a collection of oil paintings depicting the battle of New Orleans. Muskets and cannons spat flame and powder smoke, English marines bravely contested with a ragtag line of American defenders made up primarily of woodsmen and pirates. Eleanor paused and thought of her husband, the artist who had presented the paintings to her father. John Roddy was a lawyer by trade, but painting was his first love. He was in Washington now, where he hoped to secure a political appointment once the recently elected William McKinley was inaugurated. Eleanor and the twins intended to follow in the spring. My God, she missed him. It was too bad Joanna had never found a man.

Eleanor climbed to the top of the stairs and hurried down the lamplit hallway, past end tables displaying a collection of vases purchased in Macao. She entered her sister's bedroom without knocking.

“Jo, you can't just leave,” Eleanor said, glaring across at her older sister. The admonition came somewhat tardily, as a trunk containing the bulk of Joanna's clothes had already been sent on to the pier to be loaded aboard
The Pearl of the Antilles
, a sleek schooner anchored at the Jackson Street docks. She intended to spend the night aboard ship, as they'd be sailing at first light.

In the front room Joanna, wearing a simple day dress of gray wool trimmed with a modicum of lace at the throat, donned a deep-blue cape. Her black button shoes clattered on the hardwood floor as she made her way around the bed-room, packing the last of her keepsakes in a cloth bag and closing it tight.

Eleanor would not have been caught dead in such drab attire. Her dress was cut from scarlet and gold damask and hemmed with swirls of gold thread as were the voluminous leg-of-mutton sleeves, which were all the rage now in New Orleans's social circles. The satin bolero jacket she chose made no attempt to contain her ample bosom.

“Please … not like this,” Eleanor repeated. “I simply must insist. Dear Lord, I'll never hear the end of it. Father will do nothing but rant and rave for days on end and make everything dreadful.”

“There's a carriage coming for me in a couple of hours, but we have time to stroll down to the lake.” Despite her sister's coiffured hair and elegant fashion, Joanna could not help but see past the superficial trappings of wealth and find the smudge-cheeked baby sister she had played with on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. Joanna smiled—she would miss her little sister. “And where are my nephews? I shall not leave until I give each one a hug and a kiss.”

Eleanor, married three years ago at eighteen, had already given her parents a pair of darling grandchildren to spoil. Her twin boys had the run of the estate and were constantly tiring out a steady stream of servants hired to keep up with them. Joanna, now in her midtwenties was the spinster of the family.