CHAPTER 12

Slash O’Malley never told his grandfather about skin-walking. It was an Indian practice. On principle alone, Joe would have rejected it. But just now, in this place, the old Pechanga Chicon would have been a very helpful passenger.

The young man had tried the Indian mystic art a little over a year before, when his father had sent him to collect Gert from the Pechanga camp four or so miles due south. It was late winter and darkness came early—too early for Gert to come back alone, and Jackson O’Malley did not want his daughter remaining among them.

“She is young and easily impressed,” Jackson had said.

The man’s tone, his worried expression, said more than his words. He did not want to be the grandfather of a Pechanga child.

So Slash went, holding no deep personal opinion on the matter but not wanting to see his father or mother upset. Or Joe heading into the settlement with a shotgun. Out here, mongrel children, however born of love and loved themselves, made outcasts of the parents from all races.

He found his sister at the wide river, deep and surging with melted snows. She was standing alone among a spread of daisies grown tall and colorful in their damp soil. The passage of birds had further enriched the earth with their droppings as they passed overhead.

“Pa’s mad at you for overstaying your visit,” Slash had said to her.

“I wasn’t in any danger,” his sister had replied, her shoulders back with indignation. “Just the opposite.”

He had looked around. “What are you even doing here? Just standing around when there are chores?”

“I’m watching.”

“What?”

“A transformation.”

Slash was puzzled and she had taken his hand, coaxing him toward an area, near the river where an aged medicine man sat unseen in the shadow of a tall, ancient oak. Able to see deeper into the shadow now, Slash was no longer sure where the tree ended or the man began, its bark as rippled as the skin on the old man’s bones. His eyes were closed and his hands hovered before him as if resting on the air itself.

But that was not the most unusual thing about the tableau. The wizened man was huddled in a cloak of feathers that rested on his shoulders and were tied, by leather strips, about his wrists. His gray hair was tied back. Two talons hung from the deerskin ribbon that bound it. His thin, pale lips were shut and there was a slight upward tilt of his long, beak-like nose.

The siblings had approached quietly. Slash felt that even if they had tromped in, the elderly man would not have heard them.

“This is Chicon,” she had said quietly. “He is on the wind.”

“‘On the wind,’” Slash had repeated with confusion.

“Flying,” Gert had clarified.

Slash thought the statement, and his sister, were silly. Until she handed him a pelt that was lying nearby.

“Rabbit,” Slash had said.

“Sit beside him, put it on your head.”

Slash protested the game but Gert insisted and it was easier to do it than to argue. She was a woman with a mind like the western winds: they decided when to stop, one did not order it.

He draped the skin on his head, sat where he had been told—close enough to smell pungent tobacco clinging to the shaman’s clothes—and closed his eyes as Gert also instructed.

“Breathe deeply,” she had told him. “Like when you were a baby.”

It turned out to be a trick on Gert’s part. He tried to remember what it was like to breathe as a baby. He started remembering things from that time: the cradle with his sister snuggled beside him. His parents looking down. Joe, much younger. Grandma Dolley. The cabin where they lived. The sire of their current collies.

And then he wasn’t a baby anymore. He was—something else, something low beside the splashing waters of the river. It was night and he was moving quickly in the grasses. He was trying to get somewhere—a warren. His home. He saw it ahead. He heard a surge of wind above him, darted to one side, tumbled, then was suddenly righted and running toward the opening, into it, safe in the darkness . . .

Slash’s eyes had shot open. He sat for a moment, breathing rapidly.

Gert was standing a respectful distance from the shaman, who was still in his trance. But she was not so far that her twin couldn’t see the look of deep gratification on her face.

Remembering the pelt, Slash snatched it from his head. He rose and shook it at his sister.

“What did you powder this with?” he had asked.

“Shhhh,” she had replied, motioning him away from the shaman.

Slash padded toward her, glancing back at the tree. It did not appear as if the medicine man’s creased, leathery hands or face had moved. Though there was no breeze, just the rush and splash of beaded water, the feathers seemed to stir.

“What is the trick?” he had repeated.

“There is none,” she had said. “You were skin-walking.”

“An Indian myth, a trick,” he had hissed dismissively.

Gert had pointed back at the shaman. “He is aloft. That is why his feathers are moving. They are his spirit wings.”

Slash clutched the fur, put it to his nose. He had expected to detect the odor or effects of a plant or mushroom. There was nothing but the slightly musty smell of cured rabbit skin. His arm fell to his side. He circled wide around the tree. Nothing had been burned there, no dream-inducing leaves. Slash returned to his sister and looked back at the pelt.

“If I put this on my head, would I—would I be a rabbit again?”

“You might,” she said. “The air around Chicon is like the thunderclouds. But instead of lightning, there is a menagerie—”

“A what?”

“A garden of animals, of their spirits,” Gert had patiently explained. “When the shaman is an eagle, soaring, all that he sees is nearby.”

The pelt had suddenly seemed neither innocent nor as dead as it had first appeared. The fingers clutching it tingled. Slowly, carefully, and with greater respect, he had handed it back to Gert.

“This is yours?”

She had nodded.

“An eagle.” Slash had glanced back at the medicine man. “I felt as though he would have killed me. I was afraid.”

“That is because you were new in your skin,” she had told him. “In time, you would have learned that there is no lord in the abode of the spirits. The rabbit can see and smell what the eagle cannot. The wisdom he learns from the earth, about the earth, becomes part of the Great Knowledge.”

Gert moved both hands as if to encompass the sky. Her brother might have thought that she had lost her mind—had he not just lost it with her.

They went home, but after that day he came often when she was in the Pechanga camp. He listened to the shaman when he spoke to the young of the Great Knowledge. He and Gert always sat off to the side, where she could quietly translate his words—though the expressive hands and expressions of Chicon often told the story without need of a spoken language.

Slash did not skin-walk again after that day. Even Gert admitted that she rarely partook in the magic art, because she found it increasingly difficult to leave that world of tranquility and beauty. A world, Chicon assured his people, that awaited them upon the death of their bodies.

The O’Malley boy felt he could wait until then to find out more about this Eden. Right now, his life and the survival of Whip Station depended too much on his being alert and fit and able to carry a hunt to the place where the animals lived. He did not want to become brother to the fox and pig. They were prey. Like this afternoon, with the wild turkey.

Was that just a few hours ago? Slash thought incredulously.

All of that passed quickly through the young man’s mind, like a stagecoach made of memories. But it brought him to a surprising station. One in which he thought how useful it would be, just now, to become a spirit eagle and fly high over the terrain so he could see the place to which they were headed—and those who might already be in pursuit, trying to stop them.

Perhaps Chicon should be riding shotgun, not Slash O’Malley, he thought.

Or maybe Gert should be in the box. Why not? Clarity Michaels was riding with his grandfather. Gert could put on her rabbit pelt and run back, listen for plans, alarm the horses, create clouds of mischief to befuddle the enemy.

The young lady was a genuine worry to her parents and grandfather, and Slash could see both views. Whether or not she became squaw to some brave—and he could see that happening—she was already combative about the old ways of doing things. She resisted the calling of doctors instead of shamans. Bottled tinctures and elixirs instead of burned or pasted herbs. Wars over ideas instead of hunting grounds. Boats that belched black smoke instead of gliding along by the power of a man’s arms. Alcoholic spirits for strange visions instead of animal spirits.

Slash understood some of that. But he also saw things the way the older O’Malleys did. They were strangers in a new and often inhospitable land. If they did not pull together, they might very well perish. How often did B.W. proclaim that the nation had been nigh on Armageddon because of bloodshed over differences instead of cooperation over similarities.

If not individual tribe members, the Indians themselves were a potential threat, as were many Mexicans, white bandits, hungry, desperate former slaves who had come west alone or with new families.

As Mr. John Butterfield himself had written in a letter that accompanied the charter for Whip Station, “There is stren’th in union of purpose, but erosion in the consistent flow of dissent.”

To which letter, of course, Gert ascribed an interpretation contrary to the stated message. In her mind, the Indians and their bond with land and sky was a true union. The O’Malleys—whom she loved and ultimately, stubbornly obeyed—were the dissenters.

B.W. interrupted Slash’s thoughts.

“Someone ahead about—I’d say three hundred yards,” the driver said, pointing along his own side.

Slash was instantly watchful, the long gun leveled in the direction he had pointed.

There was a man, no doubt of it, and he was not hiding. He was standing openly along the trail, a saddle over his shoulder, a rifle in his right hand pointed toward the ground. The man was tall, of broad shoulders, and wearing a tattered, wide brimmed sun hat.

The man was black. Either a former laborer from the North or a freed slave from the South. In either case, Slash thought, not a likely enemy but a potential ally.

“What d’you think?” B.W. said.

“What’s the rules?” Slash asked.

“We don’t stop for strangers, even if they can pay,” the driver said.

“Y’ever do it? Stop, I mean?”

“Twice,” B.W. admitted. “Once was a squaw injured by whites. Second was a white tied to a tree by Injuns.”

“What do you think?”

“God loves a cheerful giver,” B.W. said. “I ain’t exactly cheerful, but . . .” The man’s voice trailed off.

Slash kept the gun raised. “His gun ain’t aimed our way. Could shoot us from cussedness if we pass.”

“And there could be more of’ em hiding. My granpap was waylaid and kilt by robbers in such a way.”

Slash looked across the mostly flat, treeless terrain. He didn’t see anyone.

“Let’s stop and talk,” Slash said. “That can’t hurt.”

B.W. had obviously been considering the same thing. His foot was already on the long brake arm. He pressed it forward.

The horses strained for a moment as the wheels resisted, then gave in to the tug and slowed. The stagecoach rocked to a swaying stop in front of the man. Slash leaned forward so he could keep the barrel pointed in his direction.

“Keep the cannon pointing the way it is,” Slash said.

“I got no cause nor particular stren’th to lift ’er,” the man replied.

“Freed slave,” B.W. whispered to Slash, hearing his Deep South accent.

“I’d’a guessed such from his attire,” Slash replied.

The man was a vision straight from some folktale, like the puppet Rowdy Patchwork Ma used to tell them about. His clothes were a patchwork of cotton, canvas, and mismatched pelts that had been used as patches. On his feet were moccasins that he did not appear to have made himself as they were too large and stuffed with moss.

“You’re quite a sight,” B.W. said to the man.

“I wouldn’t know,” the man replied with a helpless shrug. “Been a while since I saw a glass or a pond.”

“I’m Slash, the Whip is B.W. Who’re you?”

“Isaiah,” the man replied.

B.W. smiled. “Prophet of God, beloved by the Hebrews in captivity.”

“That’s what my ma tol’ me when I was put in chains as a boy,” the black man replied. “You gentlemen happen to have any water? I am one thirsty prophet.”

“Sure,” Slash replied.

The young man handed the driver his water skin. B.W. held it out. The man set his saddle on the ground, walked over, and reached out.

“Thank you,” the man said. He drank only a little and handed it back. “I’m in your debt.”

“You kin have more,” B.W. said.

“Too much’ll make a thirsty man sick,” he said. “But thank you.”

“You learnt that in the fields?” B.W. asked.

“On a raft I built m’self,” the man said. “Poled the Chattahoochee River in Georgia with cotton, other goods, before the War. During the War, I watched for Yankees. Couldn’t go far, though. Them four years I stayed close to shore, listened mostly.”

“Why didn’t you leave?”

“Sentries posted way the current flows,” he said. “Woulda shot an escaped slave.”

“How long you been waiting here?” Slash asked.

“Got here this afternoon,” he replied. “Saw the ruts, hoped someone’d be along presently. Heard your approach, knew what you was.”

“What happened to your horse?”

“Long trip from Alabama,” the man said. “He had enough of carrying me.”

“You said you’s from Alabama,” Slash said.

“I said the river,” Isaiah corrected him, courteously. “My master was just over the state line.”

“He knows the geography all right,” B.W. said from the side of his mouth. B.W. nudged his companion. “But brother, why you getting his life story? We gotta move.”

Slash didn’t disagree but continued to address Isaiah. He nodded at the man’s rifle, the polished barrel aglow with moonlight. “Confederate?”

“Found it on the shore after a skirmish,” he said. “Sounded the alert on the horn they gave me, then waited.”

“You any good with that cannon? You keep it clean.”

“Dirty gun cain’t help no one,” the man said. “And yes, sir. I’m more than fair. Good duck shooter.”

“Not fowl that interests me,” Slash said.

“Oh,” B.W. said with sudden understanding.

Slash looked back. There was still no sign of pursuit and he took a moment to consider the situation. His grandpa used to say something that made sense now. “You have your fear, which could come true. But you have reality, which is true.” And the reality was, they had three times their armed number likely in pursuit and here was a free gun.

“We got some Rebs and possibly Injuns somewhere back there,” Slash said. He jerked his head in that direction. “You care to ride north with us?”

The man smiled broadly. “Rest my dogs and shoot at Rebels? Mister, I will be many times in your debt.”

B.W. turned to his shotgun rider. “Well?”

“I’m for taking the chance,” Slash said to B.W.

“All we got is two dandies and a stone-silent Injun inside,” B.W. pointed out.

“Exactly,” Slash replied. “We could use a gun.”

B.W. pursed his lips, nodded. The driver faced the black man. “Find room for your gear on top and let yourself in.”

Isaiah used the back box to climb to the top of the coach. He lashed his saddle to a trunk, made sure it was secure, then lowered himself over the side. He opened the door.

There was no need to inform the passengers what was transpiring. When the coach had stopped, journalist Small pulled aside the curtain and stuck his head through the open window.

“Evening,” the new arrival said.

When neither the reporter nor the reverend moved, Isaiah settled in beside the shaman. The Serrano took his headdress from the seat and put it in his lap to give the newcomer room.

“Kind thanks,” the man said to the Indian as he shut the door and gently set his saddle-sore backside into the thinly padded seat.

With a jolt, the stagecoach resumed its travels. Slash craned around and kept his eyes on the horizon to make sure that no one had gained on them during the delay. He looked for a long minute, scanning the arid, flat landscape through dust they kicked up. He could really use those eagle eyes now, or even his own big rabbit ears. He wondered if he shouldn’t have been so smug, back at the station. If he had brought Gert’s pelt, he might have heard things no human could hear.

“Anything?” B.W. said over the rattling of the coach and rig.

“Not so’s I can see,” the young man replied.

“That’s real good,” the driver said with an ominous deepening of his voice.

Slash faced him urgently. “Why?”

B.W. pointed ahead with his whip and replied, “’Cause we may’ve been had.”

The young man turned fully forward. Ahead, in the road, too distant yet to reveal any details, was another figure. This one was also black. The person was on horseback in the middle of the road. A riderless horse was beside him.

As they neared, one thing more was evident.

Like Isaiah, the dark figure was armed.

* * *

Inside the coach, Isaiah sat with his rifle propped against the closed door. Across from him, Reverend Michaels had withdrawn a handkerchief and used it to cover his mouth.

“Sorry,” Isaiah said affably. “Been a while since there was a river for bathing.”

“I—I mean no insult,” the reverend said.

“You prefer the rose scent they sold you back in Saint Louis,” Fletcher Small said. “Two sprays for a penny, last you the entire journey. You could have had five sprays for two pennies but you didn’t think you’d need them.”

The preacher made no comment. But he was thinking that the protective scent was fading and a nickel would have been a good investment.

The reporter was busy studying the new arrival. He had fastened the curtain to the side to admit not just ventilation but moonlight.

“We are all soiled travelers,” the journalist said. “My name’s Fletcher, this gentleman beside me is Reverend Merritt Michaels, and the fellow beside you is the Serrano shaman Tuchahu. I heard you say your name is Isaiah . . . ?”

“That’s right,” the man said. “Isaiah Jesus Sunday.”

“Your mother was devout,” the journalist replied wryly.

“As the sainted Mama Mary herself.” Isaiah smiled. He was looking at the journalist’s waistcoat in the dark. “You don’t carry a derringer,” the black man noted.

Small chuckled. “Carry a gun, you could get shot. I leave that to others.” He looked fixedly at the new arrival. “Is there a reason I should have one, in here, among my fellow passengers?”

Isaiah laughed right back. “Ain’t room to level ’er. Stock’d have to be in the rear box.”

“That’s just one impediment,” Small said. “I’ve studied these conveyances.” He rapped gently on the wooden wall behind him. “The carriage was constructed for speed first, durability second. You discharge that blunderbuss at this range, bullet’s as like to pass through me, and the wall, and kill the horses.”

“Wouldn’t do nobody’s ears any good, either,” Isaiah said.

“True enough,” Small agreed.

“No, sir, I wouldn’t do such a thing,” Isaiah confided. “But there is one thing you got wrong.”

“Oh?” Small replied. “What’s that?”

Isaiah replied, “You mentioned my mama. She ain’t a ‘was.’”

It took a moment for the reporter to understand what the black man was talking about. No sooner had he done so than a shot cracked from somewhere ahead and whistled by the window.

The coach stopped once again. When it did, Isaiah reached for the door without hesitation or explanation. He grabbed his gun and opened the door.

“I thought, sir, you were a man of integrity,” Small said.

“You dishonor your names,” Michaels added through the scented fabric.

Isaiah did not have time to explain as he stepped into the night.

* * *

Slash heard the door open but did not turn. He had his gun leveled at the mounted figure. The figure was a woman and her gun was aimed at him. He didn’t think she would fire, however. The first shot had apparently been a warning not to try and run her down.

“Don’t be rash,” B.W. cautioned. “Empty horse is lame—no saddle.”

“I saw,” Slash said.

“What’s going on?” B.W. called toward Isaiah when he heard the door open, felt the carriage rock with his exit.

Isaiah had his own rifle across his shoulders, like a yoke. His right index finger was on the trigger.

“No one move sudden, or stupid,” the black man said. “Little trick I learned from an ex-slave in Texas. It’s so’s I can turn, aim with precision using my left eye, fire sideways real steady, and not offer much of a target.”

“I appreciate the lesson,” Slash said. “Now how about an explanation.”

“We got another passenger,” Isaiah said. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my mother, Willa. C’mon over, Mama. It’s okay.”

A tall, thin woman, white-haired, urged her horse forward, tugging the other. The second horse was having difficulty keeping up. She wore a floral pattern dress, splattered with dry mud. A cotton cloak was draped on her bony shoulders. It might have been a dark leafy green. Slash couldn’t be sure in the moonlight.

“Sorry for the ruse,” the black man said as he walked toward the front box.

“You should be,” B.W. said.

“We couldn’t go no futher after my horse stepped in a gully—and I didn’t know that you’d have room for two.”

“We might not have had room for one!” B.W. said angrily. “What would you have done then?”

The black man shrugged. “I’d’ve tossed some bags from your back box,” Isaiah admitted. “There’s room for two back there. And Mama’s strong of spirit.”

“This is crazy,” B.W. said impatiently. “Slash, we gotta get moving.”

“I know. But we got an impasse.” Deciding, the young man lowered his weapon.

“Isaiah, you know our situation,” Slash said.

“Fully. Like I told you, Mama’s strong. And she can shoot.”

“What a crew,” said an exasperated B.W.

“Y’ ain’t wrong,” Slash agreed thoughtfully. “But maybe God knows what He’s doing.”

“Oh, He does,” B.W. said. “I ain’t so sure about us. This is the first time I had a trip with one replacement Shotgun, let alone two.”

Slash took a moment, then replied quietly, “These are uncommon times.”

B.W. regarded him. “You thinking something? I hear it in yer voice.”

“I am.”

B.W. eyed him a little impatiently. “What is it, boy? Out with it?”

Slash answered by addressing the black man. “Isaiah, you better get your mother and take my place riding shotgun.”

“Him?” B.W. said. “What are you fixing to do?”

Slash replied, “I’m gonna borrow her horse.”