The Arrow Keeper’s Song by Kerry Newcomb Page A

president returned the documents to his satchel. Then he leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath his weight, and placed a pudgy hand upon Benedict’s copy of the agreement. “Remember: Endgames can be very tricky. They can wind up a draw. Then nobody wins.”
    â€œNot this time.”
    â€œLet us all hope you are not overconfident, Mr. Benedict.”
    Allyn chuckled aloud, then nodded to his son, who rose and headed for the door. The Indian agent followed, after tucking the contract into his inside coat pocket. He paused in the office doorway, leaned a forearm upon the doorsill, and turned back toward the businessman, who had resumed fanning himself by the window.
    â€œOn this board,” Allyn replied, “I control all the pieces, down to the very last pawn.” He patted his coat pocket and the papers that were the summation of his dreams, then vanished into the burning glare of the afternoon.
    Out in front of the office, Clay untied his horse from the hitching rail. Allyn draped an arm across his son’s shoulder and leaned forward to speak softly, allowing no one else to overhear.
    â€œYou ought to be able to reach Panther Hall by dusk. Tell Jerel Tall Bull it is time. Tell him he must be finished no later than the thirty-first of August. We must have the oil fields completely staked out, just in case some senator tries to make trouble for us down the road. This way the land will have been claimed by our company under the Land Rush Act. Do you understand?”
    â€œThe thirty-first,” Clay repeated. He hurried over to his horse and vaulted into the saddle, showing remarkable skill for a Yale man, even one who had been expelled from school. He glanced in his father’s direction. “Father …”
    â€œWhat is it now?” Allyn sounded exasperated. “Look. Just do what I say when I say it. I’m going to make something of you, boy, never fear.”
    Clay stammered a moment, struggling to give voice to his thoughts. It had been Allyn’s idea he attend Yale and become a lawyer. The task had been beyond him. Sure, he wanted to be wealthy, but there were other emotions warring within him, too. Yet today, beneath his father’s withering stare, he could find no voice of his own. Clay touched the brim of his hat and, pointing his mount west, cut a straight line across the parade ground and onto the road to Cross Timbers. Allyn Benedict watched him depart, and in a few minutes the solitary rider was lost in the shimmering haze.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    W RAITHLIKE CLOUDS DRIFTED ACROSS A NIGHT SKY AWASH with stars. Death had freed these windblown “souls” from earthly bondage and set them on a course to the All-Father: They paid no heed to the couple on the porch below but sped silently on their way, traversing the black velvet sky on a southeasterly course that eventually carried them beyond the hills.
    Tom and Emmiline stood arm in arm, between two shafts of lamplight that filtered through the shuttered windows. Within the house Allyn Benedict was relaxing in the front room, his attention focused on a recently acquired geologic survey of the territory. Margaret Benedict was voraciously making her way through the correspondence that Allyn had brought from Fort Reno. Many of the letters had been misplaced by the local postal clerk and left to gather dust at the fort for the better part of August. Margaret Benedict wouldn’t rest until she had personally replied to each and every missive from home.
    â€œDo you envy them?” asked Emmiline Benedict, nestled in the crook of Tom’s right arm.
    â€œDo I envy who?” said Tom.
    â€œThe clouds. They go where they want. They see it all and move on. So peaceful. Never knowing hurt or sorrow …”
    â€œOr joy,” Tom said. “No. I’d rather be alive and take my chances. Besides, I go where I want. So can you.”
    â€œDo you think so? Father has his plans for my brother and me.