The injured and his friends and family must believe in Ussen and the Power he bestowed on our medicine man or the herbs will be less potent, maybe entirely useless.
It ain’t working. Jesse hates Apache, and I don’t believe much in their religion or folklore neither. I push to my feet, fast. The few men in camp go rigid, their shoulders squaring to mine. Lil looks up and frowns.
I scramble down from my rock perch, and when I reach the edge of camp she’s waiting to greet me.
“I need to move,” I says. “I can’t sit still no longer.”
Lil nods solemn. “I will find you when there is news.”
I leave without looking back, though I can feel the eyes of many following me. Watching my step over uneven stone, I keep moving away from camp, till I come to a ridge overlooking the Superstitions. The view is endless. Beneath twilight, it appears how I imagine an ocean would under storm, ragged and dark and teeming. Not that I’s ever set my gaze on salt water before.
I stand there staring.
I ain’t never put much faith in God. If there were someone up there watching over us, he wouldn’t let things like this happen: Ma dying so young, Pa and Will hanging, that poor family burned alive in the coach. No almighty being would make a person like Waylan Rose and let him roam the earth free.
I can’t bear the thought of being alone again. I know I’s kept the Coltons at a distance, built a wall ’gainst anyone trying to get close, but I ain’t sure why. I hate being alone. I hate that Pa’s gone. I hate that I’m out here in the middle of a wild Territory without a hand to hold.
So I start talking. Not out loud, but in my mind.
I pray to God and heaven and every power that be, Ussen included. I ask for Pa to rest easy, and Will to do the same, and Jesse to be all right. I ask for forgiveness for all those souls I killed, on purpose and by mistake. Tom outside Walnut Grove, those poor men at the poker game, even the bastards in Rose’s gang. It ain’t like the killing’s been making me feel better. I want the blood off my hands and my conscience washed clean. I wanna know I ain’t as dark and twisted as Rose himself, and, Christ, please Christ, God, Ussen, whoever is listening . . . Please let Jesse be fine.
From somewhere out ’cross the canyons, a coyote howls. I know it’s just a wild dog. I know it ain’t got the power to change nothing.
But I smile small, ’cus I feel like I’s been heard.
Chapter Twenty-Four
When Lil finds me a few hours later, I ain’t moved from the ridge. It’s dark now, stars spilled ’cross the sky like shards of silver. Back in the camp, I can hear the chant of song and drum, the soft whistle of a flute.
“He’s waking,” Lil says.
I scramble to my feet. “And he’ll make it?”
“He is lucky. The cut was long, but not deep. Much blood was lost, but Bodaway treated the wound with nopal and lay a clean cloth down after stitching. Herbs are chasing the heat from his brow.”
I’s been holding my breath this whole time, and I exhale long. She holds out a lump of cloth I recognize as my shirt, which I grab eagerly, suddenly aware of how cold I am. I slip it on, cringing as the material grazes my sunburnt arms and bandaged shoulder. Jesse’s blood’s left a faint stain on the front, but the flannel’s dry now. And soft. Someone must’ve cleaned it. Maybe Lil.
“I can walk him to you,” she offers. “If he feels well enough.”
“Thanks, Lil,” I says. “Liluye.”
Her chin jerks sharp, bringing her gaze to meet mine.
“I didn’t say it right?”
She dismisses the question with a head shake. “You said it. That alone is a gift.”
I look at her fully. She is beautiful in a way I ain’t never seen before. Stoic and sure beneath the moonlight, posture held haughty. Her dark eyes gleam like the polished stones round her neck. A tiny scar marks her right cheek, and I wonder how she got it.
Liluye smiles small and disappears. When she returns, I realize I’m pacing and stop cold. She walks Jesse to me and leaves again without another word.
Standing before me, Jesse Colton don’t look like himself. He’s pale and his shoulders slouch. Dark circles sag beneath his eyes. His entire being looks beaten and worn. Even his usually squinty eyes don’t have the energy to pinch half shut. His blood-encrusted shirt hangs open, partially unbuttoned, and in the pale moonlight I can make out the bandage wrapped round his chest.
“Hi,” I says.
He don’t even look at me, just keeps his gaze on the dirt between our boots. I could reach out and touch him, but he feels so far off.
“Jesse?”
He drops to his knees.
“Are you hurt? Do you need something?”
He glances up at me, and I know it ain’t a physical pain. This is a cut that runs deeper, a scar that won’t never fade. I can see the loss on his features, feel it in my chest like it were my own sibling stolen.
I crouch beside him. He’s staring at his hands, which rest ’gainst his thighs, palms turned to the heavens.
“Jesse, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s my fault.” His voice is dry and parched, like he’s screamed it hoarse. “I got him killed. I—”
“I dragged you into it. You were tangled in this mess since I showed up at yer ranch.”
“You tried to make us leave.”
“But I struck that deal in Phoenix. I let you help me at the saloon, asked for yer guns ’gainst Rose, had you ride with me into these mountains.”
“I’m a grown man, Kate. I made my own decisions and can claim responsibility for ’em. I didn’t have to do any of it, but I wanted the gold. I chose to ride this path, to take the journal, to keep going. Even when Will were saying he had a bad feeling and didn’t like it, I pushed on. And look where it got us. Look where it got him!”
“Jesse . . .”
“Goddamn it!” He grabs a rock and heaves it off the ridge. “Goddamn it.” He keeps saying it, over and over, only each one sounds weaker than the next, till they’re nothing but whispers. Till he’s coming undone before me. Tears stream down his cheeks and it rips something open in my chest, ’cus Jesse Colton don’t cry. He squints and jokes and criticizes and always has a plan. He ain’t supposed to unravel.
“Jesse.”
But he keeps making that awful sound, that pitiful moan, more animal than human. He won’t look at me. Not when I say his name. Not when I touch his hand. Not even when I put my palm to his cheek.
“I shoulda died too.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I wish I never woke up.”
“Jesse, no.”
“I don’t deserve to be alive. I fail everyone. I should be dead, I should be dead, I should be—”
I lean forward and crush my lips to his, drowning out the words. He flinches, pulls away.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve done that.”
He’s staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.
“I don’t want you dead, Jesse. You understand me? I don’t wanna hear you talk like that, not ever again. You don’t deserve to be dead any more than Will. Or yer ma or my pa or so many other folks that get taken before their time.”
He don’t say nothing.