Free Sacred Is the Wind by Kerry Newcomb Page B

arriving in town from Foot o’ the Mountains. It had been an eighteen-hour ride that had taken them into night of the following day, but the rooms at the Hippolyte had been kept waiting, of course.
    Jubal shook his head and sighed. He had studied brandy in the same way he had studied the arts and law and what tomes of science he could lay his hand on. All to create an image that would one day completely subvert his true self, hide forever the reality of an unschooled frightened orphan left alone in the world by the act of a murderous band of savages.
    He watched as Marley crossed over to his bed and placed the revolver on the nightstand. “Loyalty is as rare as oysters in the desert,” Jubal said.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œYou are one of a kind, Sergeant. That’s all.”
    â€œNo sir. I got me two brothers back in Arkansas. Plowboys, let me tell you. Hell, they’d a liked to come west, only they’re too stupid to find it.” He chuckled and stretched back out on the couch. This night Marley slept in his trousers, long johns, and woolen socks. “If it’s all the same to you, Colonel, I’ll get back to sawin’ logs. I got me a whole pile to cut through afore sunrise.”
    â€œTo hard labor.” Jubal lifted his glass in salute. He inhaled from the glass and took a sip, wishing for a proper snifter. Cognac in an ordinary glass was almost a sacrilege. He stared back out at the town. Most of the buildings were dark, although light spilled into the street from the Judge-Me-Not Saloon. Movement caught his attention. He continued to watch until he could make out a cowhand and one of the gals from the Judge-Me-Not, dancing what appeared to be a kind of shuffling waltz. Jubal could hear no music, which lent an unearthliness to the scene. Watching, though, made him feel sad, but he continued. He had never had time for any kind of personal relationship, though he’d bedded his share of tarts. And Tom was his only family. At least having a brother made him feel not so alone. Tom was his link to the past and maybe to the future. At least they were together now. Tom Bragg was brash, but he’d learn. God, how he had complained about leaving Foot o’ the Mountains. Still, it was better than sharing the morning’s fire with a murdering …
    The Cheyenne! Jubal dropped the glass. It bounced off the rug and rolled to a standstill, leaving a trail of cognac. Now he remembered! The Indian in his dream, the face changing. It had never changed before. It was the brave from Wister’s place. But why had the dream changed now? Jubal had seen other Indians before. A number of them he had personally dispatched to their ancestors. Never enough, though. Never enough to balance the ledger for the deaths of his parents. But the Cheyenne … why had he entered the nightmare? Why him and none of the rest? Jubal felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Something about that cursed buck. He had sensed it from the moment the brave had entered the room. And when their eyes had met, what link had been forged in that single moment? Jubal had sensed it and he was certain the Cheyenne had, too. Jubal rubbed a hand over his features, wariness stealing into his bones. He glanced toward the lamps, decided to leave them turned up, and headed for his bed. Marley was already snoring, his great bulk draped over the length of the couch. No point in waking the man, for Marley would understand no more of this than did Jubal. The colonel climbed into bed, propped himself upright against his pillows, closed his eyes, and reconstructed the young brave’s dark, handsome features. Lost in his thoughts, Jubal absently tugged at his sideburns, conjuring an image of the Cheyenne that was at once intense and malevolent.
    â€œWe will meet again,” Jubal said. “I think we do not even have a choice.”
    That night, Jubal Bragg did not sleep.
    That same night, two days’ ride from Castle