The Shaman's Secret (20 page)

Terrified, I let out a shriek.

“Whoa there! Where you going at this time of night?” a voice said.

For a moment I was thankful that it was only Waldo. Then I remembered and drew myself up stiffly.

“I might ask the same question of you,” I said.

“It was a call of nature,” Waldo replied.

“Likewise. If you'll stand aside, I'll be on my way.”

“What is the matter with you? You've been giving me the evil eye for the whole day.”

“You're imagining things. I never looked at you once.”

Waldo sighed and moved toward me. He smelt of sweat and wood smoke. I hastily moved away. I needed to remember that I hated him.

“Come on. Tell me—what is it that I'm supposed to have done?”

All I wanted in the world was to be out of there, but the self-pity in his voice made me pause.

“You really don't know?”

“No, I really have no idea why you've been glaring at
me and jumping aside whenever I come near you. You're treating me like a leper.”

“Better a leper than a coward.”

“What?”

“You really, truly, have no idea what you've done?”

“NO! For heaven's sake, no. I already told you that.”

“Then you are even more boneheaded than I always thought.”

Our voices had risen in our anger. I saw a shadow slip out of one of the doors and realized we had company. No matter. Waldo's shame should be broadcast to the world.

“Just tell me.”

“Fine. Today in front of the whole of Chloride City you cast a few dozen people to the wolves. You did it casually, without a second's pity or reflection about the fate of those poor Apaches. Because of you, they will be hunted down—most probably be killed.” I halted for a second, the words choking in my throat. “You might think they're just savages. But they were kind to us. They gave us food and shelter and horses. Saved our lives. And you repaid them by throwing away theirs. And you know what the worst part is?”

I paused to let him reply, but he was silent so I continued.

“The very worst part is
you
. Waldo Bell. A person so
heartless
that you didn't even
think
about condemning people to death.”

A lamp was flickering in front of the shadow. I saw it was Rachel. The light danced on Waldo's face. He looked furious. I expected Rachel to tell me off, but I didn't care. I didn't care if they all told me off. I knew we had been in a nasty hole, with the miners ready to skin us alive for stealing Carlito, but there was no need to sacrifice others to save our own skins. There must have been some other way out of the mess.

“Kit's right,” Rachel said quietly. “You did a bad thing. I'm disappointed in you.”

Waldo's mouth opened then shut. I glanced at Rachel in surprise. She was quiet, but very angry.

“Aren't you going to say anything?” I said. “I thought you'd have had some neat justification ready.”

“Look here, you've got it all wrong. I didn't give the settlers the right directions.”

I glanced at Rachel and saw that she was as unconvinced as I was. We had both heard his excellent, precise directions.

“As I thought. A nice, neat justification all wrapped up in ribbons and—”

“I'm going back to bed,” Rachel interrupted. “I suggest you do the same.”

Without another word I sidestepped Waldo and made my way downstairs.

Most of the town turned out the next day for Cyril Baker's funeral. Hundreds of people—men, women and a few children dressed in shabby black and sweltering under the fierce sun. I guess any diversion was rare here. Even the funeral of a stranger they had never known was some entertainment. We made a strange sight, here in the desert, surrounded by sand, rocks and cacti.

This was one of the cemeteries known as a “boothill” because it contained so many who had died unexpectedly—with their boots on. Many graves were little more than mounds of stones, with weathered planks nailed into crosses above them. My eyes wandered over the inscriptions on the makeshift crosses as the mourners gathered and the preacher in white robes stood at the foot of the funeral pyre.

Here lies MO. He took four slugs from a .44 … Buckskin Joe shot by One-Eye Walt … Rock Johnson. Very Dead … It took three six shooters to Kill Charlie Pinkett. He was dragged here by a cowboy with a rope around his feet
.

The saddest epitaphs were the shortest. The ones with just a plank of wood stuck into a heap of stones and the legend “
Unknown
.” I think the only happy man in that cemetery was “
Smiley Johnson
,” who was unusual enough to have “
Died of Natural Causes
.”

“People have such short lives out here,” murmured Waldo, who was standing next to Isaac and me. It was true—it
was rare to see the grave of a man who had lived to his fifties.

I turned away coldly and saw Isaac flash me a look of surprise. No matter, it would all be out in the open soon. In fact, the sooner I told everyone how I felt about Waldo, the better.

The preacher began intoning the funeral service. He had an odd rasping voice, and stopped for breath between each sentence. It made his address even more haunting as he spoke about sin, and our friend who was being burned today, who had committed many grave crimes against God. But he had seen the error of his ways in his last days and repented and sought Jesus's love.

The preacher only hoped that Mr. Cyril Baker had done enough to save himself from the fiery furnaces raging below ground. He painted a vivid picture of hell, the never-ending torments handed out to those who had lived an evil life.

The townsfolk listened respectfully with several interjecting “Praise the Lord” here and there. Some of them were probably here because they hoped Aunt Hilda would buy them more drinks later. She was becoming a bit of a local legend.

Then the service was over and the match was put to the funeral pyre. We watched it burn, the smoke rising black and oily for a bit. Then my aunt and Waldo,
surrounded by admirers, went to make their way back into town.

I drew my aunt to one side and said I needed a private word. This was going to be hard; Aunt Hilda had always had a soft spot for Waldo.

“I think it would be better if Waldo went back to San Francisco and we continued the rest of the journey without him,” I said.

“Why on earth would we want to lose Waldo?”

“We can't trust him.”

“He's a darn good fighter. The best shot we've got.” She corrected herself: “After me, of course.”

“Aunt Hilda, he isn't honest—or to be depended on.”

“What's this? Another of your lovers' tiffs?”

I sighed. “We're not lovers and this isn't a tiff. If you must know, I detest the way he betrayed the Apaches. Even
you
must have noticed. He told those cowboys right out where to find them. I cannot continue to put my trust in someone who could behave like that.”

“Stuff and nonsense.” Aunt Hilda smirked at me. “You do get the craziest notions in your head.” Raising her voice, she yahooed to Waldo who was striding ahead with a party, including Red Dobie and his pretty girl. The girl was awfully friendly with Waldo, I noticed. Well, she could have him.

“Hey, Waldo, c'm'ere.”

“What is it?” Waldo called, turning round.

“My niece wants you to go back to Frisco!” Aunt Hilda bellowed.

A hurt look passed over Waldo's face. Serve him right. Half the mourning party had turned too, to witness our quarrel.

“This isn't the time, Hilda,” I hissed angrily. “You go on. I need a moment.”

Hilda groaned and stomped away.

I purposely dawdled, desperate to get rid of the others. I needed a moment's peace. A black mood was upon me. The quarrel with Waldo. The feeling of being utterly lost, of flailing in the dark, with hidden forces opposing us. The reverend's sermon had affected me powerfully too. Maybe it was the desert sun, but I could feel the heat of that hellfire on my skin. I lingered and slipped further and further behind the others, dwelling on my own errors.

I had the same mortal illness as Cyril Baker. I could feel it eating away at my mind, wriggling on my skin. If I was to die soon, would I go to hell?

My thoughts were interrupted by a loud hissing.

“
Pssst!
”

Startled, I looked to the left and right. There was no one to be seen near me. Just the dwindling desert, scrub and prickly bushes. In front, mourners were heading down the path, back into town.

“Kit Salter—here.”

The voice seemed to be coming from ground level. I stooped down near a thorny mesquite bush and saw a pair of gleaming black eyes fixed on me.

“Do not be afraid.”

It was Boy, my crazy Apache friend, her face smeared with red clay, her black hair caked with dust. She was lying flat on her tummy, wearing nothing except her short deerskin tunic. Unbelievably, she was grinning at me.

“Me afraid? If the settlers catch you, Boy, they'll have your guts.”

“They will never catch me.”

“They know you stole Carlito.”

“What is Carlito?”

“Rolling Thunder—the most wonderful horse in the West.”

“Ah yes, he is mine. I will take him back.”

“He is not yours. He belongs to Red Dobie. You stole him.” I corrected myself. “He belongs to Aunt Hilda now—but still you mustn't steal, Boy—they will hang you for it.”

From ahead, Isaac looked back and shouted at me to hurry up.

“Coming,” I called back, then turned to Boy.

“I must go. You too. Go now, Boy. It is too dangerous for you here.”

“I come to warn you of danger. Far-Seeing Man, he tell me that your friend, the pale ghost, he is dead.”

“How did he know?” I gasped.

“Far-Seeing Man knows all. This is why he named Far-Seeing Man.”

“Far-Seeing Man must have known Cyril couldn't survive his illness.”

“I tell you, he
sees. Also he sees that you are in the dark
.”

I drew a deep breath, because this was exactly how I had been feeling.

“You are running in the dark and have nowhere to go. So Far-Seeing Man sends me to guide you to light. I will take you to the Grand Canyon.”

I wanted to pour out my thanks, to weep almost, but I bit them down. “How will you know where to take us?”

“I will follow Far-Seeing Man's steps. Tomorrow at first light take the road south out of this place and ride for ten thousand paces on the desert road, just between those two mountains.” From her position on the sand Boy pointed the way. “Then you will come to a rock shaped like a horsehead. There I will meet you and take you onward.”

“We will be there,” I said. “Boy—I don't know how to say it—thank you.”

Boy grinned at me. I noticed there was a new gap between her front teeth, right in the middle. She must have lost a tooth in a fight. The sight sent a pang of fear through me.

“Your village. The … the other Apaches. They are not taken … They are safe?” Fear and guilt made me stumble over my words, which were like bitter lumps in my mouth.

“What do you mean?”

“There are not too many dead?”

“Why dead?”

“But the settlers … They came and raided you. I saw that tunic they captured. The beaded one. I saw them set off—Boy, I must tell you this: it is our fault.”

Boy laughed. “The settlers came—I was hiding in the trees, watching with the braves. They cursed and cursed when they found out we had gone. There was nothing for them—nothing but that tunic. We left them that as it was an unclean thing. The woman who wore it is gone to Usen.”

I stared at her. Usen, the Apache creator god. What sense did this make?

“But, Kit, you know this all. I told it to your friend Yellow Hair. I say, if you are stuck, tell them the way to our village. We will be long gone. They can never find us.”

“KIT SALTER!” my aunt boomed. “What in heaven's name are you doing out there? Come on right now.”

With a hurried farewell to my Apache friend, I rejoined the rest of the mourners.

The wake for Cyril Baker was in full swing by the time I arrived at the Last-Dance Saloon. The atmosphere was more like a drunken party than a funeral. The piano player was banging away at a lively tune, the girls were dancing in a froth of bare ankles and scarlet skirts, Aunt Hilda was standing drinks all round.

It was only just noon and she was already knocking back the Coffin Juice. Her cheeks were flushed and she had a hectic glitter in her eyes.

Waldo was talking to Red's girl, whose name, it turned out, was Candy. Candy, for pity's sake. She might as well have called herself Strawberry Tart or Lemon Sherbet. Waldo was drinking beer with a manly air. Rachel and Isaac both looked a bit uncomfortable, nursing their lemonades in another corner of the bar. I noticed a handsome young cowboy was leaning over Rachel, smiling. Her face, however, was set.

As soon as she saw me, she made an excuse and left him. Isaac followed her.

“Thank goodness you rescued me,” she hissed. “That cowboy hasn't had a bath for a month. He stank!”

“He was talking about what a good life the frontier wife has,” Isaac grinned.

“I can just see you knee-deep in cowboy babies, all wearing ten-gallon hats,” I said, smiling at Rachel. She didn't smile back but changed the subject:

“We need to get your aunt out of here. She's tipsy. She's going to make a fool of herself.”

“Before lunch!” Isaac said, as if that was especially scandalous.

“She's old enough to look after herself,” I replied. “Anyway, I know from experience that no one can handle alcohol like Aunt Hilda. She must have some sort of well inside her where it all goes.”

Waldo caught sight of us at that moment. With a sort of smirk he bent down and whispered something in Candy's ear. She was tossing her red curls and smiling up at Waldo, just as if he was a big piece of strawberry pie. I felt uneasy. Boy had made it clear that I had misjudged Waldo. Not that I cared, but he was being an idiot. Red Dobie looked none too happy about him being so friendly to his girl. After all, the saloon keeper had given away his favorite horse just so the silly girl could have the biggest diamond in the Wild West.