The Arrow Keeper’s Song by Kerry Newcomb

much, dear,” Margaret added. “It will only make things harder.”
    Words to the wise , thought Emmiline, but too late, alas — too late .

CHAPTER FIVE
    P ANTHER H ALL WAS A LONG , LOW-ROOFED ROADHOUSE NESTLED among a grove of post oaks. The building’s rough-hewn log exterior blended in with its surroundings and attracted little attention to itself. A man riding the North Road would never notice the roadhouse unless he chose to follow the wheel-rutted path that veered from the main road and cut across a hundred yards of meadow, dappled with crimson firewheels, Indian paintbrush, and brilliant yellow sunflowers. To reach Panther Hall, a man had to be willing to leave the daylight behind and enter shadow.
    The consumption of spirits was expressly forbidden on the reservation, but that hadn’t stopped Jerel Tall Bull and his younger brother, Curtis, from setting up their notorious establishment. There was some speculation that the commanding officer at Fort Reno received a share of Panther Hall’s profits in return for his not sending troops onto the reservation to burn out the establishment. The Southern Cheyenne, even those among the tribe who disapproved of the brothers, were loath to lodge any complaints concerning their actions. Indeed there was a certain amount of grudging respect for the Tall Bulls. As for the BIA, Allyn Benedict had specifically chosen to avoid any confrontation with Jerel and Curtis. The brothers were the offspring of warriors and had a following among the tribe.
    Jerel Tall Bull had thrown his considerable support behind Benedict’s efforts to abolish the reservation. He was as anxious as anyone to see it dissolved and the entire grant opened to settlement. The Tall Bulls would be able to operate without fear of being closed down. There were far more profits to be made in a thriving township than could ever be realized in their present rural surroundings catering to a bunch of poor Cheyenne.
    So against official government policy, the Tall Bulls continued to operate their roadhouse with impunity in these waning days of the reservation system. They offered a variety of vices and thirsts. For whiskey, women, or a game of chance, the roadhouse was the place to go. The only place. And only a fool went there unarmed.
    â€œHold it right there, Tom,” a voice called out. A pair of riders galloped up out of a draw to the right of Sandcrane. Tom halted about midway across the meadow and allowed the two men to approach. Both young men wore checkered shirts and Levi’s tucked into scuffed boots. They carried double-barreled shotguns loaded with buckshot. Extra cartridges rattled in their vest pockets. He recognized them both. Pete Elk Head was a brash, troublesome youth with a history of brawls and petty thievery that frequently landed him in the tribal jail. John Iron Hail, the one who had called out, might be wild as a green-broke stallion, but he did not share Pete’s criminal reputation. They were both seventeen, and like all seventeen-year-olds, they deemed themselves immortal.
    John was the first to reach Tom Sandcrane. He flashed a grin, straightened his hat, and crossed his hands on the pommel of his saddle.
    â€œSorry Tom. Panther Hall’s closed.”
    â€œI can’t believe that,” Tom remarked. “The Tall Bulls wouldn’t lock their doors until the last drop of whiskey’s been licked from the barrel.”
    â€œWhat he means,” said Pete Elk Head, “is that Panther Hall is closed to you.” Pete was a swarthy half-breed youth with broad shoulders, pockmarked features, and a nose that had been flattened by a cantankerous mule. His knuckles were hardened scar tissue. John Iron Hail, unlike his quarrelsome companion, was by nature easygoing, if a bit lazy. But he’d never been able to walk away from a dare, a trait that often landed him in trouble. John even seemed embarrassed by this confrontation, for Tom had been