Walk the Sky by Robert Swartwood, David B. Silva Page B

both exhausted. Clay was still hurting from the shootout, and the bruise on Witashnah’s face had darkened. But it was the weight of saving George and dealing with Those That Walk The Night that had Clay feeling overwhelmed.  
    They stored the cache of guns and ammunition taken from the Reverend’s men, as well as the eight sticks of dynamite Clay had found in the crate at Goodman’s Mercantile, just inside the chamber.  
    Akecheta was hunched near the fire, his head bowed in sleep.  
    Clay sat across from the old Indian and watched as Witashnah checked on her grandfather.  
    “Is he okay?”  
    She nodded.  
    Before they had left town, they had moved the bodies of the Reverend’s men to a back bedroom of the Red Queen Saloon. Then they unsaddled the horses and set them free. They hoped it would buy them some additional time. If the Reverend came looking, it would be a while before he stumbled across the bodies. Apparently, the ploy had worked. There had been no sign of the Reverend or any of his men on their long journey back to the cave.  
    “Hungry?” Witashnah asked. She extended him a strip of smoke-dried meat. “I found some under the counter at the saloon.”  
    It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to tide him over.  
    “Thank you.”  
    He tore a bite out of the dried meat and found his thoughts drifting back to what had happened in town. He had killed intentionally. It hadn’t been an accident like it was with Mayor Bolton’s son. This time it had been with clear intent.  
    The guilt and horror should have brought him to his knees, but Clay felt nothing. He had done what he had needed to do, because if he hadn’t it would have cost Witashnah her life, George his life, and in the end Clay his life as well.  
    But he hadn’t killed on his own.  
    He had been guided by Akecheta, who was part of him now.  
    “You said you heard stories of when your grandfather was a warrior.”  
    Witashnah nodded. “Many stories.”  
    “Tell me one.”  
    Her gaze dropped to the fire and fixed there.  
    “When he was young, before he took a wife and fathered his first child, my grandfather fought against soldiers who had come to the valley to raid his village.”  
    Witashnah’s voice sang just above a whisper, soft and hypnotizing.  
    “It was his first battle, and he told me he could feel fear deep in his bones.”  
    Clay felt his eyes grow heavy.  
    “But he knew in his heart it was not about him, but about his people.”  
    It had been a long day after a night of little sleep, and Clay felt it catching up with him. He leaned against the nearest rock, crossed his arms over his chest, and listened to her words until they carried him off into the dark wilderness of sleep.

    *   *   *

    When Clay opened his eyes again, Witashnah had moved to a more comfortable position against the wall of the cave and was sound asleep. Akecheta, on the other hand, was awake. He appeared completely absorbed by the fire, as if he were watching the world around him take shape inside the flickering flames.  
    Clay sat up and studied the old Indian. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. It was difficult to believe he was as frail and unseeing as he appeared to be. Maybe that was because Clay had briefly experienced what it was like to be Akecheta. Or maybe there was more to the old man than he let you see.  
    Clay moved around the fire. He bent close to Akecheta, stared into his cloudy eyes, and whispered, “What did you do to me?”  
    Akecheta turned and stared up at Clay without saying a word.  
    “What are you hiding?”  
    The dark spot in his mind still troubled Clay. What was it he couldn’t see? And why was it being blocked?  
    “What are you doing?” Witashnah asked from behind him.  
    Clay glanced over his shoulder and saw her sit up from the wall, her eyes not fully open as she struggled out of her sleep. She put a hand across a yawn to stifle it.  
    “Checking on your