Free The Arrow Keeper’s Song by Kerry Newcomb

noticed one of the other gamblers, a crony of Curtis Tall Bull, start toward him, knife in hand. He closed in fast, hoping to catch Seth off guard, only to be felled by an ax handle to the side of the skull. The remaining gamblers cleared a path for man and dog, giving Seth the impression of being home free. Then a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight-caliber double-action revolver cracked twice in the heat of the afternoon, and twin geysers of dirt erupted a couple of feet in front Seth, halting him in his tracks.
    He slowly turned and faced Jerel Tall Bull.
    â€œI think you’ve about wore out your welcome, whiskey-gut,” said Jerel. Smoke trailed from the Smith & Wesson’s six-inch barrel. He had another three rounds in the chamber, more than enough for the man standing in front of him.
    â€œWell, then, reckon I better leave,” said Seth.
    â€œWhile you still can,” Jerel replied. “Put down the dog.”
    â€œHe’s dying. What does it matter?” Seth asked.
    â€œRemember … I am a Crazy Dog. We are men of principle.”
    â€œAh …” Blood was seeping through Seth’s fingers. General Sheridan’s breath was coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He might still be saved, but the odds were against it.
    â€œThe animal stays here. Leave him on the ground and walk away.” Jerel’s brows knotted above the black buttons of his eyes. Behind him, Curtis Tall Bull shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like a boxer waiting to enter a match. He made no attempt to hide his excitement. No doubt he was anxious for his older brother to avenge the mistreatment he had suffered at Seth’s hands.
    â€œLook, whiskey-gut, don’t try my patience.”
    Seth shrugged, slowly turned, and continued on toward the corner of the roadhouse. He felt a twinge of pain between his shoulder blades and steeled himself for the inevitable.
    â€œSandcrane!” Jerel shouted. He raised the thirty-eight and sighted on the older warrior. Without warning, as if in response to Tall Bull’s outcry, Tom Sandcrane rounded the corner of the roadhouse and was soon abreast of his father, placing himself in the center of the conflict.
    â€œSomebody call me?” Tom asked. He met Jerel face on, his expression as grave as the Dog Soldier’s as he shielded Seth with the roan.
    Jerel took a couple of steps forward. Curtis followed him while remaining in his older brother’s shadow. Both men noticed the shotgun Tom held in a one-handed grip, pointing a load of buckshot at them both.
    â€œWhere’s John and Pete?” asked Jerel.
    â€œBack yonder where I left them. They’re still watching the road. Pete Elk Head was nice enough to let me borrow his shotgun, though,” Tom said. He glanced over his shoulder at his father, who was surprised as anyone by Tom’s timely arrival.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing, boy?” Seth muttered.
    â€œSaving your ungrateful ass,” came Tom’s reply. He returned his attention to Jerel Tall Bull.
    â€œWhiskey-gut ain’t leaving with our dog,” Curtis spoke up as he peered past Jerel’s broad shoulders.
    So that’s the reason for the standoff , Tom thought. We’re about to kill each other over what’s left of a camp dog . Keeping the shotgun trained on the brothers, he fished in his Levi’s pockets and brought out a crumpled wad of bills. “This ought to be about twenty-six dollars,” he said, tossing the greenbacks toward Jerel. They fluttered to earth like falling leaves. “I’m buying the dog.”
    â€œTwenty-six dollars! He’s worth four times that!” Curtis blurted out.
    â€œNot anymore,” Tom said as he watched his father depart with the limp-looking animal cradled in his arms.
    â€œHell,” Jerel grumbled, and lowered his thirty-eight. He knew for a fact that Tom had never been involved in anything more than a fistfight. Still, there was