The Arrow Keeper’s Song by Kerry Newcomb Page A

like a big brother to him in the past.
    â€œJerel’s orders. They have something special going on, just for their friends,” John explained. He couldn’t bring himself to level his shotgun at Tom. He pointed the barrel at Sandcrane’s horse.
    â€œThe pit again?” Tom asked. The Tall Bulls had dug a hole in the prairie out behind the roadhouse where the patrons wagered bets on half-starved animals driven by torture and abuse into fighting to the death. The Pit was fifteen feet in diameter and three feet deep and was ringed by a three-foot wall to protect the onlookers and keep the combatants from escaping. The two men blocking the wheel-rutted path didn’t need to answer. The sound of distant snarls and growling trailed on the summer breeze.
    â€œMy father pass through here?” Tom sternly inquired, his eyes narrowing. The question was directed at John, who shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.
    â€œThe likes of that drunken old sot are always welcome at Panther Hall,” Pete answered as he rode up alongside Tom and then jabbed Sandcrane in the ribs with the muzzle of his shotgun. “Now, you can just turn that roan and ride back the way you come, ’cause the day ain’t dawned a tamed buck like yourself could ever get past me.”
    A striking rattlesnake was slow as molasses in winter compared to what happened next. Tom’s left arm shot out. His hand caught the shotgun halfway down the barrel and jammed the stock into Pete’s belly. Air exploded from the young man’s lips. Tom tore the weapon from Pete’s loosened grasp and struck him again, this time in the face, breaking the man’s nose for the second time in his young life. Pete, still gasping for breath, toppled from the saddle and landed on his rump in the middle of a patch of sunflowers.
    â€œSumbith! My nothe! You bath-tard. You broke my nothe.” Pete bellowed as he cupped his hands to his face and glared at his attacker. “John, you gonna juth thtand there?” Blood filled his mouth from a split upper lip and gum.
    â€œYeah, John,” Tom added, without even bothering to look at Pete’s companion. His fingers curled around the twin triggers of the weapon he had just confiscated.
    â€œShit,” John Iron Hail muttered, wiping the back of his hand across his dry mouth and square jaw.
    Tom glanced in his direction and saw the seventeen-year-old return his shotgun to its saddle scabbard, ending the incident before someone else, namely John Iron Hail, got hurt.
    â€œIt isn’t like you to wear Tall Bull’s brand.” Tom commented.
    â€œJust helping out,” John replied with a shrug. “Their money spends as good as anyone’s. And I aim to have me a little extra cash when the land goes public. I figure to claim me a fair piece of grazing land and raise some horses out on the strip north of the Canadian.” Glancing past Tom, John’s eyes widened. That and the sound of a broken twig were all the warning Tom needed. Pete Elk Head had mistaken the brief interchange for an opportunity to get at Sandcrane while he was preoccupied. With scarcely a break in the conversation, Tom turned and delivered a well-timed kick to Pete’s jaw as the youthful assailant attempted to drag Sandcrane from horseback. Pete’s head snapped back, and his eyes glazed over as he crumpled alongside the roan.
    â€œBest watch the company you keep,” Tom cautioned. “This one’s trouble.” He indicated the unconscious young man lying almost underneath the roan’s hooves. Tom Sandcrane tucked the shotgun under his arm and glanced in John’s direction. “Na-ase . I am leaving.” He continued on through the warm August afternoon, following the tracks in the buffalo grass to Panther Hall.
    John Iron Hail watched Sandcrane for a few moments, then looked down at Pete’s unconscious form. The fallen man stirred, tried to raise upon his elbows,