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"Spirit Walker" INC
May. 28th, 2023 01:10 pm"When the Trumpets Go Silent"
5/12-5/23/1876
I.
A half dozen buzzards circled high in the white-hot sky. Eli Marcus brought his painted pony to a halt on the ridge and gazed down with a sinking heart at a dismal scene. The canvas-covered wagon lay on its side, one wheel bent half off. Harness and straps stretched out in the hard dirt, but there was no sign of the horses that had been pulling that wagon. The body of a near-giant stretched out nearby. Even from one hundred yards away, Marcus held no hope that life remained in him.
At forty, Marcus appeared older not so much from long exposure to the elements but from the grief and heavy cares which had worn him down. He was a lean, wiry man of average height in his buckskin trousers and red flannel shirt. Beneath the flat-brimmed hat, coarse black hair was plaited into a rope which hung down his back. The dark coppery skin was weathered, making the hawklike nose and deepset eyes stand out vividly. He rode on two blankets without a saddle, a simple pair of saddlebags slung over his pony behind him holding his few possessions. Holstered at his right hip was a single-action Navy revolver he seldom drew.
Tied by a rawhide cord to hang across his back, Eli Marcus carried a ceremonial coup stick carved with esoteric symbols few could read. At its thicker end were the seven eagle feathers he had hard earned and a thin band of silver capped the other end. Reaching up behind him, he tapped the stick with his fingertips and said out loud, "You have brought me where I need to be," then urged his mount down the steep incline toward the tragedy.
Dismounting lightly, Marcus went to check the body for life, even though he had no hope of finding any. A chill ran down his spine and a cold jolt touched his heart, Marcus turned toward the man and he froze where he was as an Eagle Star premonition shot through his body like liquid fire. Destiny was at hand, he could feel it, but how?
The dead man was lying on his back with his left arm up by his head and his right across his waist. The shaft of a long thing arrow was sticking up from the left side of his chest. The pale blue eyes had remained open, staring up straight at the noonday sun. His face was clean-shaven and the brown hair was cropped short. The man had been a near-giant in life, perhaps six inches over six feet in height and built as strongly like a village blacksmith. Ten feet away from his grasp lay a Winchester repeating rifle.
Turning slowly, studying the hoofprints and wagon treads, Marcus began to reconstruct events in his mind. At least six riders on horses not shod with iron. The panicked horses pulling the wagon had bolted but he could see the rut in the hard dirt that that caused the wagon to flip over. The man had leaped free of the crashing wagon but had taken an arrow to the heart. Marcus lifted the Winchester and sniffed its barrel. It had been fired more than once. He hoped the man had made at least one of the raiders pay dearly for this attack.
Strangely, the wagon had been not plundered for valuables. The rifle and a box of ammunition remained, as did all the bedding, clothing and personal items. Taking the shovel, whispering a respectful chant under his breath, Eli Marcus spent the day in labor making a grave. Six feet deep in the hard earth he dug. The sun was setting before he had finished and his shirt was sodden with sweat. Marcus paused to tend to his pony again, giving the beast water and some oats from his pouch. Satisfied that his animal was comfortable, he ate some dried meat himself and sipped sparingly from his canteen.
Then he turned to the body of the man, and Marcus hesitated.
From where he was kneeling, mountains to the West reached up directly in line with the corpse's head. Rising clear and sharp in the twilight was a single blue point of light. Marcus knew it well. The Eagle Star had appeared when he himself had been born and the wise men had said it was an omen of great import... that he himself had been chosen the Unseen World to strive for honor and righteousness in a brutal world. He had become known to many as the living Eagle Star, a burden and an honor.
The blue star flared up bright as a stroke of lightning. Marcus remained on one knee facing the body, knowing something momentous was about to happen but not knowing what. He braced the sacred coup stick on the ground, holding his breath.
And the dead man gasped, sat up and glared around wildly.
II.
Lurching up onto his feet, the big man swayed and immediately fell right down again. Marcus bent over to take his pulse and found it to be as strong and regular as a clock. He could see that barrel chest rise and fall smoothly. Despite the arrow directly in his heart! It was something that could not be explained. Despite everything he had experienced of the Unseen World infringing on normal life, Eagle Star shivered with uneasiness.
The man tried to sit up again, and Marcus held him down gently by the soldiers. "Lie still, my friend. I am going to have to cause you pain." The Eagle Star gripped the shaft and tugged the arrow free with one quick jerk. Although the big man inhaled sharply, the removal did not seem to cause him any harm. No blood oozed from the wound.
"I am Eli Marcus, called by some the Eagle Star," the old man said.
The man stared with horrified fascination at the arrow. "John. John Bascomb. I must say my head seems muddled. Did you... did I just see you pull that thing outta my chest?"
"You did."
"Why ain't I dead then? It don't seem natural. I can see blood all over my shirt but nothing hurts. What happened? Tell me what happened!"
"I have something terrible to tell you," Marcus said. "Steel yourself. This will be hard to bear."
Bascomb looked around in sudden alarm. "Is that my wagon? Where is my family? Where is my wife?! My son?"
"I have seen no sign of a woman or a child," Marcus replied quietly. He propped the man up to look around. As the meaning of the scene sank in, John Bascomb groaned in utter dispair from the depths of his being. He buried his face in his hands for long moments. When he finally lifted his eyes to regard Marcus numbly, he said, "I must search for them. I will begin now."
"Rest for the moment. Gather your strength."
"And... that empty grave?"
"That was for you. Hear me. You had no heartbeat, you did not draw breath. Your eyes had been open and unseeing for hours," Eagle Star said. "When I was ready to place your in your resting place, you sat up."
"Yes. I remember." Bascomb was steadier, he pushed himself up to a seated position next to the Indian. "I remember a vast gulf of bitter cold and unbearable darkness, then light and warmth returned again. Eli Marcus, you said your name was? Do you understand what has happened? It is a miracle unasked for. I have been sent back and it must be for vengeance!"
"That is not for me to say," Marcus muttered.
With a sudden surge of vitality, Bascomb leaped to his feet and raised a clenched fist toward the sky. "I will avenge the taking of my wife and son... and my own death! I swear it by everything holy. We were attacked by savages but they were not like any I have ever seen. I know there are small bands of Comanche in this territory but these were not Comanche."
Standing next to the furious man, Marcus placed a gentle hand on the mighty shoulder. "What did they wear? How was their hair arrayed?"
"Wear? They were nearly naked! I only had a few seconds to get a look at them, but they were scrawny wiry devils, only a small apron or twisted cloth around their private parts. Their bodies and faces were covered with mud. Their hair was slicked back with dried mud. I saw no ornaments of any kind. My God, their eyes seemed so dark and bloodthirsty behind the dry brown mud on their faces."
"I have never heard of such a people," Marcus admitted. "But this desert valley is not my home. My tribe came from far in the north, where there are lakes and the land is green. Look at this," he handed Bascomb the arrow that had been embedded in his chest.
"Huh. Strange. The point is of bone, not stone or iron. And the worksmanship seems crude and primitive to me. No feathers for fletching, only these strips of hide. What tribe makes arrows like these?"
"None that I know. This is a mystery."
"I have been brought back to life for a reason," Bascomb told the Indian. "Whatever these brutes are, I will track them down and kill them all. Nothing will stop me. Marcus, I thank you for your kindness. Is there a town nearby or even a single homestead?"
"Not for a day's ride. We are on the edge of No-Return Valley, dry rock and sand where nothing grows and not even a tiny lizard lives."
"It doesn't matter. Wherever those hoofprints lead, I will follow! First, I will scavenge what supplies are left in my wagon, then I will track those savages down and rescue my family. Perhaps we will meet again."
The Eagle Star had unslung his coup stick and was regarding it somberly. "There is no choice to be made. I am going with you."
The near-giant hesitated, then clapped a huge hand on the Indian's shoulder. "And glad I am to have you beside me. You're a good man."
5/12-5/23/1876
I.
A half dozen buzzards circled high in the white-hot sky. Eli Marcus brought his painted pony to a halt on the ridge and gazed down with a sinking heart at a dismal scene. The canvas-covered wagon lay on its side, one wheel bent half off. Harness and straps stretched out in the hard dirt, but there was no sign of the horses that had been pulling that wagon. The body of a near-giant stretched out nearby. Even from one hundred yards away, Marcus held no hope that life remained in him.
At forty, Marcus appeared older not so much from long exposure to the elements but from the grief and heavy cares which had worn him down. He was a lean, wiry man of average height in his buckskin trousers and red flannel shirt. Beneath the flat-brimmed hat, coarse black hair was plaited into a rope which hung down his back. The dark coppery skin was weathered, making the hawklike nose and deepset eyes stand out vividly. He rode on two blankets without a saddle, a simple pair of saddlebags slung over his pony behind him holding his few possessions. Holstered at his right hip was a single-action Navy revolver he seldom drew.
Tied by a rawhide cord to hang across his back, Eli Marcus carried a ceremonial coup stick carved with esoteric symbols few could read. At its thicker end were the seven eagle feathers he had hard earned and a thin band of silver capped the other end. Reaching up behind him, he tapped the stick with his fingertips and said out loud, "You have brought me where I need to be," then urged his mount down the steep incline toward the tragedy.
Dismounting lightly, Marcus went to check the body for life, even though he had no hope of finding any. A chill ran down his spine and a cold jolt touched his heart, Marcus turned toward the man and he froze where he was as an Eagle Star premonition shot through his body like liquid fire. Destiny was at hand, he could feel it, but how?
The dead man was lying on his back with his left arm up by his head and his right across his waist. The shaft of a long thing arrow was sticking up from the left side of his chest. The pale blue eyes had remained open, staring up straight at the noonday sun. His face was clean-shaven and the brown hair was cropped short. The man had been a near-giant in life, perhaps six inches over six feet in height and built as strongly like a village blacksmith. Ten feet away from his grasp lay a Winchester repeating rifle.
Turning slowly, studying the hoofprints and wagon treads, Marcus began to reconstruct events in his mind. At least six riders on horses not shod with iron. The panicked horses pulling the wagon had bolted but he could see the rut in the hard dirt that that caused the wagon to flip over. The man had leaped free of the crashing wagon but had taken an arrow to the heart. Marcus lifted the Winchester and sniffed its barrel. It had been fired more than once. He hoped the man had made at least one of the raiders pay dearly for this attack.
Strangely, the wagon had been not plundered for valuables. The rifle and a box of ammunition remained, as did all the bedding, clothing and personal items. Taking the shovel, whispering a respectful chant under his breath, Eli Marcus spent the day in labor making a grave. Six feet deep in the hard earth he dug. The sun was setting before he had finished and his shirt was sodden with sweat. Marcus paused to tend to his pony again, giving the beast water and some oats from his pouch. Satisfied that his animal was comfortable, he ate some dried meat himself and sipped sparingly from his canteen.
Then he turned to the body of the man, and Marcus hesitated.
From where he was kneeling, mountains to the West reached up directly in line with the corpse's head. Rising clear and sharp in the twilight was a single blue point of light. Marcus knew it well. The Eagle Star had appeared when he himself had been born and the wise men had said it was an omen of great import... that he himself had been chosen the Unseen World to strive for honor and righteousness in a brutal world. He had become known to many as the living Eagle Star, a burden and an honor.
The blue star flared up bright as a stroke of lightning. Marcus remained on one knee facing the body, knowing something momentous was about to happen but not knowing what. He braced the sacred coup stick on the ground, holding his breath.
And the dead man gasped, sat up and glared around wildly.
II.
Lurching up onto his feet, the big man swayed and immediately fell right down again. Marcus bent over to take his pulse and found it to be as strong and regular as a clock. He could see that barrel chest rise and fall smoothly. Despite the arrow directly in his heart! It was something that could not be explained. Despite everything he had experienced of the Unseen World infringing on normal life, Eagle Star shivered with uneasiness.
The man tried to sit up again, and Marcus held him down gently by the soldiers. "Lie still, my friend. I am going to have to cause you pain." The Eagle Star gripped the shaft and tugged the arrow free with one quick jerk. Although the big man inhaled sharply, the removal did not seem to cause him any harm. No blood oozed from the wound.
"I am Eli Marcus, called by some the Eagle Star," the old man said.
The man stared with horrified fascination at the arrow. "John. John Bascomb. I must say my head seems muddled. Did you... did I just see you pull that thing outta my chest?"
"You did."
"Why ain't I dead then? It don't seem natural. I can see blood all over my shirt but nothing hurts. What happened? Tell me what happened!"
"I have something terrible to tell you," Marcus said. "Steel yourself. This will be hard to bear."
Bascomb looked around in sudden alarm. "Is that my wagon? Where is my family? Where is my wife?! My son?"
"I have seen no sign of a woman or a child," Marcus replied quietly. He propped the man up to look around. As the meaning of the scene sank in, John Bascomb groaned in utter dispair from the depths of his being. He buried his face in his hands for long moments. When he finally lifted his eyes to regard Marcus numbly, he said, "I must search for them. I will begin now."
"Rest for the moment. Gather your strength."
"And... that empty grave?"
"That was for you. Hear me. You had no heartbeat, you did not draw breath. Your eyes had been open and unseeing for hours," Eagle Star said. "When I was ready to place your in your resting place, you sat up."
"Yes. I remember." Bascomb was steadier, he pushed himself up to a seated position next to the Indian. "I remember a vast gulf of bitter cold and unbearable darkness, then light and warmth returned again. Eli Marcus, you said your name was? Do you understand what has happened? It is a miracle unasked for. I have been sent back and it must be for vengeance!"
"That is not for me to say," Marcus muttered.
With a sudden surge of vitality, Bascomb leaped to his feet and raised a clenched fist toward the sky. "I will avenge the taking of my wife and son... and my own death! I swear it by everything holy. We were attacked by savages but they were not like any I have ever seen. I know there are small bands of Comanche in this territory but these were not Comanche."
Standing next to the furious man, Marcus placed a gentle hand on the mighty shoulder. "What did they wear? How was their hair arrayed?"
"Wear? They were nearly naked! I only had a few seconds to get a look at them, but they were scrawny wiry devils, only a small apron or twisted cloth around their private parts. Their bodies and faces were covered with mud. Their hair was slicked back with dried mud. I saw no ornaments of any kind. My God, their eyes seemed so dark and bloodthirsty behind the dry brown mud on their faces."
"I have never heard of such a people," Marcus admitted. "But this desert valley is not my home. My tribe came from far in the north, where there are lakes and the land is green. Look at this," he handed Bascomb the arrow that had been embedded in his chest.
"Huh. Strange. The point is of bone, not stone or iron. And the worksmanship seems crude and primitive to me. No feathers for fletching, only these strips of hide. What tribe makes arrows like these?"
"None that I know. This is a mystery."
"I have been brought back to life for a reason," Bascomb told the Indian. "Whatever these brutes are, I will track them down and kill them all. Nothing will stop me. Marcus, I thank you for your kindness. Is there a town nearby or even a single homestead?"
"Not for a day's ride. We are on the edge of No-Return Valley, dry rock and sand where nothing grows and not even a tiny lizard lives."
"It doesn't matter. Wherever those hoofprints lead, I will follow! First, I will scavenge what supplies are left in my wagon, then I will track those savages down and rescue my family. Perhaps we will meet again."
The Eagle Star had unslung his coup stick and was regarding it somberly. "There is no choice to be made. I am going with you."
The near-giant hesitated, then clapped a huge hand on the Indian's shoulder. "And glad I am to have you beside me. You're a good man."
