Free Sacred Is the Wind by Kerry Newcomb

door.
    â€œBut my brother … see here … let me go …” Tom tried to protest but Marley’s momentum carried them both out of the room. Only then did Big Marley loose his hold. Tom pulled away and tried to head back into the room. Marley grabbed him again and this time did not stop until Tom was safe and secure in his own bedroom.
    â€œDammit, man, let me be,” Tom shouted, furious at such manhandling. He teetered on the edge of the bed but managed to regain his balance.
    â€œThe colonel ain’t gonna want to talk to you right now.”
    Tom’s room was simpler, smaller. Its furnishings consisted of a four-poster bed, a dressing table, two ladder-back chairs near the fireplace, assorted chromolithographs on the walls, two out-of-date calendars, heavy burgundy curtains over the single window, a lopsided nightstand on which a pitcher and washbasin balanced precariously. It was a room to sleep in, nothing more, but comfortable in a rough sort of way. Temporary quarters, not a home.
    â€œHow dare you lay a hand on me,” Tom snapped. The veins in his cheeks stood out in stark relief, a map of scarlet beneath his pale flesh. He tried intimidation, but somehow could not bring himself to muster the authority to make the bigger man retreat, something in the way his gaze could only reach Marley’s jawline. Failing that, Tom returned to his bed and sat on the edge, his hands folded in his lap. “What the hell happened in there?” he said in a resigned voice. Marley nodded, appearing to approve of the younger man’s unspoken surrender. Marley, who seldom slept fully out of uniform, hooked his thumbs in his suspenders, cleared his throat, looked for a place to spit, then swallowed.
    â€œLong as I’ve known him, and that’s been since sixty-two, when he pulled me out from under an overturned caisson and killed the three Johnny Rebs a-fixin’ to stick me, long as I been by him, he’s had them dreams. Or dream. Always the same one, always bad. About your ma and pa.”
    â€œOh,” Tom said, nodding. He frowned, then shook his head. “And he wakes up shooting.”
    â€œSometimes. Sometimes not. This was the first time in about six months or so. Seems I remember around Christmas … Well, it don’t matter. Only that he ain’t got any talk in him for a while afterward. He’ll be all right. I reckon it’s bringin’ you up from Denver that’s kinda opened an old wound.”
    Tom sighed, shook his head, then opened a flask he kept by his bed. He tilted the slim silver bottle to his lips. Marley watched with thirsty deference, but Tom lowered the flask, screwed the top back on, gasped, and took a deep breath. The bourbon settled his nerves. He returned the flask to the table by the bed and swung his legs beneath the covers. Marley started toward the door.
    â€œFunny. I can’t remember a thing about that day. Oh, I recall being put on the stage for Denver, and the train in St. Louis, arriving in Philadelphia and being curious why Jubal hadn’t come with me to our grandparents’. But what happened before … well, it’s all sort of blank. Funny …”
    Marley paused in the doorway. “He saved your life, like he saved mine. That’s all you need ever keep in mind. Don’t never forget.” The door swung shut with a finality that only emphasized the big man’s parting remark even as it plunged the room into darkness. Marley continued across the hall and back into Jubal’s suite. He gently closed the door and felt his way along the wall to the nearest lamp, then struck a match and touched flame to wick.
    â€œNot too bright,” Jubal said from his bed. He was sitting up, a Navy Colt revolver still gripped in his right hand.
    â€œYou up to beaver?”
    Jubal nodded, but the shadows of his past seemed to fill the room. It was always like this, after the nightmare. A tide of memories