Westward Weird Page 9

  Iron Hawk’s face was stony and his eyes dark and still full of the fury of the fight and the race back home. After a long time he spoke slowly, in English, almost as if he talked to a child. “You are still a doctor. Please take care of mine first.”

  Of the Indians. Julian’s hands shook as he dug his instruments out of his bag. He spoke to Black Shawl Woman. “Please bring water and ask someone to heat more water.”

  She nodded. They had done this before, he and Black Shawl Woman. Before the ghost. The ghost had come from here, from this tribe. It had happened after a different fight. Indians to Indians. A fight that rushed into the circle of teepees and resulted in the death of the old medicine man, Speaks to Trees. He never called the ghost that anymore, couldn’t bear to call it anything. To think he had once thought that the essence of the medicine man would make him a better healer. He had come here to study with him. He shook his head, letting old disappointments go for now.

  Julian recognized the first brave that came to him. Running Bear. His hand flopped at the end of an arm so shattered that white bone showed near the wrist. Worse than a splint could heal. He asked for three sticks anyway, and sinew. While he waited he ignored the wrist and looked at the rest of Running Bear, careful not to touch him. It was always all right to look. The ghost seemed to need touch to choose the fate of a man.

  Not much else looked wrong. A scrape on the other arm, and a few old scars, one of them from a time Julian had sewn him up in the past. Everything about the man was muscle and ligament, no fat at all. Running Bear’s back was so thin it looked like it sagged off of his shoulders. Julian remembered him being almost fat, for a Sioux.

  A small boy raced up with the sticks and sinew, his eyes shy as he handed them up. Julian gave Running Bear one of the sticks to bite on and pulled on his arm, snapping it as close to correct as possible given the shattered bone. The brave grunted once and blinked, looking up at the blue sky above him. Strong. They were all strong, these Indians. Even the ghost inside of him.

  Julian wrapped the break in the other sticks and some clean rags from his bag, then tied it with the sinew. The ghost began to rise in him, nearly gagging him as it filled his chest. Sweat poured down the back of his neck. He should never have left Rachel. He should have just stayed in Graver’s Gulch and taken his chances.

  His hands encircled the wrapped wrist and stayed there, heat flowing up through the soles of his shoes and straightening his spine, catching in his heart so he took a deep breath to encourage its passing up to the small dimple by his clavicle. From there, it flowed down his arms and into his hands. It took a few breaths. It was never instant, him standing there and the ghost doing its work for good or ill. He let go when he felt the heat slowing inside him.

  The man’s face had lost its thick pain lines.

  At least this warrior was a good man.

  The next task was almost the same, only a nasty cut that looked better before he even finished washing it in the water that Black Shawl Woman had brought him and salving it with supplies from his valise.

  The ghost backed off for the next two patients, who presented simpler problems: a jammed finger he splinted like he had the arm and a set of nasty-looking but shallow gashes. At least when there was no possible way to explain a death the ghost didn’t create one.

  Maybe he would survive this day and be able to ask Iron Hawk how to give the ghost back. He stopped and drank from his flask of water, words running through his being. Thank you for the gift. It has two faces and I don’t want it. Can you help me kill your old magic man? Can you make me just another white man again?

  His mouth tasted like dust and death and the ghost.

  ~ * ~

  The two white captives had been taken from the mounts and put on the ground, their legs tied and children set to watch them. An insult, or maybe just acknowledgment of to how beaten they looked.

  Black Shawl Woman had stepped away somewhere, perhaps to get more water, but Iron Hawk stood watching him, his face inscrutable. If he had something better to do after just returning from a devastating fight, he didn’t show it.

  The first man was young, maybe just a few years older than young Tom back in Grover’s Gulch. His beard was fuzz at best. He had been the one whimpering, but now he was silent and wide-eyed, almost accusatory. As if Julian was a traitor for being here. Julian didn’t bother to introduce himself. No reason for rumors of him with the Indians getting out. People got killed for less in some towns, especially after a long night of drink.

  An arrow had gone through the thick of his thigh. The shaft was close enough to veins that Julian was afraid to draw it out lest he miss the exact path it went in. He snapped off the head and the fletch and stared at it for a moment, checking the shaft for barbs or splinters. It was well-made. “Grit your teeth,” he said, and then he pulled slowly and steadily, still not touching the captive.

  The boy cried out, his eyes wide, sweat beading his white brow where a hat he no longer seemed to have had shaded it from the sun.

  Julian kept going, feeling the ghost in him, not sure which way it was going to choose.

  He handed the broken arrow to a child and said, “Put that in the fire” in a mix of English and bad Sioux. The boy seemed to understand him. He ran off.

  Julian took a deep breath and clamped his hands over the bleeding holes on either side.

  Cold seeped through his fingers. He knew— because it was still running through his fingers— that the blood was hot and alive, but all he felt was cold.

  The cold seeped all the way to his own heart. Fear.

  When he felt this he fought. He always fought. It happened inside him, something no one could see. His stomach soured with it. He could just let go of the patient and tell someone else what to do if he could make them understand him, but Iron Hawk stood watching, eyes narrow.

  He held on, his lips thinned against his teeth, his hands shaking, the blood that should have stopped by now pouring out from between his fingers like a cold river.

  The young man’s heart sped up and he cried out more softly, struggling and falling all at once. His face whitened.

  Julian forced his eyes to stay with the young man.

  ~ * ~

  It took a very long time, the blood running through his fingers and the stoic Indian standing above him watching and the ghost working against him and against the life that still throbbed under his hands.

  Eventually, as always when the ghost decided, the young man stopped bleeding.

  Two men came and carried the body off silently. Someone would end up with the scalp but at least they didn’t take it in front of him.

  Iron Hawk nodded at the other captive. Maybe if Julian rushed Iron Hawk the old man would kill him, run him through with a spear or a shoot him. The tribe had a few guns.

  Julian stood up. The world swung around him, tilting.

  Black Shawl Woman plunged his hands in a dented metal bucket of tepid water.

  He shook himself and nodded thank you at her, scrubbing hard as if he could wash the death off of him.

  The other captive was older, maybe even as old as Julian. Blood caked his scalp and the side of his face as if someone had tried to scalp him alive and done a poor job. Pain filled his eyes and thinned his mouth. He sat with his knees drawn together, arms wrapped tightly around them. He had watched in silence while the young man died. Hadn’t, in fact, said a word or uttered a whimper on his trip in. Julian circled him, looking for other signs of injury. He didn’t see any, but the man was folded tight across his torso.

  ~ * ~

  Iron Hawk watched.

  Julian knelt in front of the captive. “Can you stand?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “My stomach might,” a pause, “fall out of me.”

  Julian gestured Black Shawl Woman over. “Blanket, please, and hot water.”

  While she directed a younger woman to do her bidding, Julian arranged his surgical instruments out onto the a square
of leather he carried for that purpose, carefully setting each in its place, letting the man see them, and see how carefully he handled them. The ghost stretched inside him, curious.

  “You live with the tribe?” the man asked.

  “No. I’m just visiting.”

  “But they let you work on them.”

  Julian didn’t want to explain the details. “I haven’t been here for five years.”

  “Lucky me.”

  Julian shook his head. Maybe.

  Black Shawl Woman brought the blanket. She didn’t speak to him, but neither did she watch him as carefully as her husband did. It felt almost comfortable to be around her again, as if he were falling into old habits or she were an old friend. He knew better, knew she allowed him in her camp because of Iron Hawk. But still, they worked together to lay the blanket out and help the old man scoot onto it.

  “Why don’t they just kill me?” the man asked after he’d gotten squared onto the blanket, still protecting his torso.

  “Maybe they will,” Julian replied. “Let go of your knees.” He hadn’t been holding his knees when he came in on horseback. Whatever was there, the man wasn’t going to bleed out instantly. But Julian would touch right away, get this done, give in to the ghost. And then he’d ride away and shoot himself.

  Julian sat on one side of the man, ready.

  Black Shawl Woman sat on the other.

  The man rocked until he was on his back, his knees up in front of him. Then he straightened out his legs fast, his hands coming up with a knife between them. He slashed toward Black Shawl Woman, opening her upper arm and digging in with the knife as if it were an awl instead of a blade.

  Julian knocked his arm to the side, holding it down, knife blade digging into the blanket.

  Black Shawl Woman scrambled away.

  Julian leaned on the man. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Kill me.”

  “No.”

  The ghost was in him, pressing toward where Julian leaned on the man.

  Julian couldn’t let go of the knife or risk it himself. He bore down harder, letting the ghost choose.

  “That your squaw?”

  “No.” Julian barked, leaning hard on the man’s arm, holding it down with his knee so he could take the weapon.

  Warmth spread down his arm, his own heat and the ghost’s heat pouring into the man who was now struggling under him like a wounded fish.

  Julian threw the knife away from him, heard it skitter against the stony ground and then stop.

  The damned ghost was going to heal this one, after taking the other one.

  Julian kept his weight on the man, watching in fascination as blood stopped welling up from his scalp and color came back to the cheeks.

  Black Shawl Woman had returned with ropes. She and two women bound the captive in place, under Julian, while he lay there, the heat of the ghost running through him like a river or a volcano, feeding the man color and life and breath.

  After his blood cooled and he sat up, he stared at Black Shawl Woman. She stared back, and then cracked a small smile that might even be approval. Blood still ran down her arm.

  He reached toward her, but she took a step back and gestured for the women to help her move the bound captive. Julian wasn’t sure he’d place a penny bet on the man’s life, but at least his hands would have no part in his death if it came. He stayed on the blanket, now bunched and dirty from the scuffle, and tried to get his breath.

  Iron Hawk still stood watching. He hadn’t even moved in to help Black Shawl Woman, but had merely watched. And it was Julian he watched.

  Or the damned ghost. Who knew what Indians could see?

  “I do not want this inside me any more,” Julian said.

  Iron Hawk shook his head. “Until you die. It is part of you until you die.”

  “There is nothing you can do?”

  “We will take Speaks to Trees back when you die.”

  Julian imagined Rachel back at the Swinging Gate, chatting with customers or wiping down the bar and humming. He imagined her exposed to the ghost and what it would be like for the life of someone he loved to ebb away from him. For Rachel to die under his hands.

  He pushed himself up, his knees weak and his hands shaking. He walked past Iron Hawk and over to Red, running his hands down the horse’s thickly muscled neck, feeling its warmth. He reached into his saddlebag and folded his fist around the grip on his Colt. It felt light as he slid it out of the bag and into the air. In spite of how tired he was, he cocked it and held it to his head, the weight wrong now, pressing down on his wrist. The barrel felt as cold as he expected.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The gun bucked in his hand, the shot off-center, pain blossoming in the back of his head.

  He staggered.

  No way he had missed, but he still moved and breathed.

  Heat forced him to his knees. The gun fell onto the ground.

  Iron Hawk stood above him, chanting in Sioux.

  Heat burned through his veins. He fell forward onto his stomach, biting his tongue to keep from crying out.

  He rolled over, looking up at Iron Hawk, his visions fuzzy. Iron Hawk’s hands and lips moved but Julian heard nothing. The heat stopped, cold. Literally. Every place that had been burning felt like ice, and for a brief moment he felt the ghost had judged him, felt anger rolling into his heart.

  He took in a shuddering breath.

  The ghost was gone.

  He would miss Rachel. The tribe would care for Red. He let go, falling into darkness as his eyes closed.

  When he woke, he ran his hand across the back of his head, which should hurt like hell but was only a bit sore, the way it felt after a headache. Dried blood caked his hair but he couldn’t feel the place the bullet had seared his skin.

  The stained hide of a teepee circled above him, light from a small fire playing across painted images. Night. Stars overhead, just a few winking in the black hole that let the smoke out. Furs under him felt lightly scratchy against the bare skin of his hands. Someone was singing.

  Black Shawl Woman. He looked. Her arm had been bandaged. Good. He couldn’t bear to touch her and have the ghost judge.

  It didn’t rise to fill his chest anyway. He closed his eyes, felt inside his body.

  No ghost.

  ~ * ~

  Water boiled nearby, and by the time he opened his eyes, Black Shawl Woman was approaching him with a warm wet cloth. She wiped his face and his head, the cloth coming away stained almost black by old blood.

  He looked around for Iron Hawk, didn’t see him, lay back down and passed out, the soft singing of Black Shawl Woman following him into dreams.

  The next time he moved, natural light bathed him through the open teepee door. Black Shawl Woman offered him water and a bit of rabbit soup, both of which tasted so good he might be dead, although by now it was clear he wasn’t.

  Red was saddled outside. Iron Hawk stood at the horse’s head. He nodded, still solemn, but his eyes had lost the cold assessment and instead he— almost—looked friendly.

  “What happened to Speaks to Trees?” Julian asked him

  “What do you think his job with you was?”

  Julian let out a long breath while he checked his saddlebags to ensure the Colt was there and that he had fresh water. “It acted like a judge.”

  “In the end, what did the ghost judge the most?” Julian felt the emptiness where the ghost had been. “Me.”

  “And through you, others like you.” Julian wasn’t sure that was entirely a good thing. The ghost had only healed about half of the patients he’s seen in the long five years. He didn’t ask what Iron Hawk would do with the information. That was for the old man to decide. At least the ghost had found Julian worth saving.

  He reached out and clasped Iron Hawk’s hand and clucked at Red to get moving. In three days, he would be able to ask Rachel to walk with him.

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  ~ * ~

  SURVEYOR OF MAR
S

  Christopher McKitterick

  J ohn didn’t need to turn his scope alidade to witness the intruder headed his way. The man had been stirring up dust for nearly an hour during his long walk from Acidalium Town, where most of the pioneers lived. In the low Mars gravity, it was easier to keep one’s balance by shuffling along than by taking big steps. The cloud lingered in the summer afternoon’s still air, reminding John of the smoke a steam engine would leave back home, weaving through the Montana high desert, millions of miles away. The gigantic bulge of the cargo-ship parked at Lowell Space-Port shone like a steel mountain on the other side of town, where laborers were feeding it tons of native Martian artifacts, Mars-stone, and discouraged or broken homesteaders headed back to Earth. This was the 15th day of Second-July, 1902, two Mars-years (four Earth-years) after men first landed here, a little more than four Earth-years since the failed Martian invasion.