Dark Trail Rising: Four Tales of the Old West Page 4

  "Want to part ways with your hair, Brit?" Danforth finally asked.

  "He's vicious," Harley put in. "What makes you think you'd be able to make him listen?"

  Arthur shrugged. "I don't know that I can, Mr. Thompson. But, as Mrs. Franklin says he isn't truly one of them. I'd thought—perhaps he might remember some of what he knew before he was kidnapped by the Apache."

  "For all we know, he might've been stolen when he was a baby. 'Pache life might be all he understands." Danforth watched him closely for a moment. "I think you mean to try it, no matter what."

  Arthur smiled. "I used to be quite the diplomat."

  Harley shook his head. "You know what them savages do to white people? I don't want to sit in here and listen to you scream all night long. And there's no way we can help you."

  Arthur stood up wearily, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "This is no way to spend Christmas, gentlemen."

  The owl sounded again outside, closer than before.

  Danforth wiped the sweat from his face. "Dear God, that's three times."

  "Does that signify?" Arthur asked, wondering at the ashen faces of the men.

  "Means death, for certain." Harley's answer was clipped.

  Maybe these men feared the Indian magic because it wasn't theirs. They hadn't been steeped in magic as he had. None of them had. Though he possessed no magic of his own, really, it could be that this night would lend its power to him. Or he could be on a fool's errand. Christmas Eve was said to be a miraculous time. Was it true? Could he talk Lance out of this senseless killing?

  In the past, Lance had always had a clear reason to fight. He'd fought for lands, for pride…for a woman. Never had he been savage and brutal without cause.

  Yet, in the flash of his blue eyes earlier this afternoon, Arthur had wondered… The killing lust had been there, and there was no mistaking the air of egotistical pride he wore. Some things never changed.

  This may be the time period where it all ended. And that was a good thing as far as Arthur was concerned. So, why did he tarry? He may be the only one who could talk some sense into Lance. Maybe Lance would remember, all those years ago, how he'd pledged his fealty to Arthur…how they'd walked together as brothers, talked as friends. Maybe he'd remember it all… It would be worth it, just to see.

  ****

  Before either of the other men realized what he was about to do, Arthur strode to the front door and pulled the bolt back, then swung it open.

  "Lance!" he called.

  The other men cursed and lunged for the door, and Arthur stepped through it to the front porch.

  The horses had long since been cut loose from the coach and stolen, but Arthur could make out the form of Evan Davis lying stiff and lifeless inside the stage. At least they hadn't taken the time to steal his body, Arthur thought. The door hung ajar, and the full moon wrapped the corpse in a silver shroud of light.

  "Lance!" he called again. "Come out where we can talk."

  The silence answered him once more.

  Arthur put his hands to his mouth and gave the call of a mourning dove. It was the only birdcall he'd ever mastered—a secret he and Lance had shared a laugh over many times. Especially when Arthur directed one of his men to give a call of a different kind of bird. "My royal directive," he'd laughingly called it, but only Lance knew it was because any other call he gave always sounded suspiciously like the mourning dove.

  From the darkness, the call was returned to him. He took the three steps to the ground, then moved to the side of the porch, looking behind him. As he turned, he looked up into Lancelot's face. Where there had been no one only seconds earlier, now, Lance stood behind him.

  "Arthur? My king?"

  Arthur stood tall and laid a hand on Lance's arm. "It's me, Lance. But as you can see, I'm no longer a king of any kind."

  "Sire, you will always be king," Lance answered, moving further into the light. "No matter how many of these false lives we live. This is not the first time…"

  Arthur shook his head sadly. "No. But I'm hoping it will be the last." He watched carefully for Lance's reaction. Lance looked down, his blue eyes shuttered in the dim moonlight.

  Just then, a flaming arrow came out of the darkness from behind where Arthur stood. It found its mark in the cushion of the stagecoach interior, igniting it instantly. A whoop of victory sounded, and Lance whirled, calling out a command in the guttural Apache language.

  "You are their leader," Arthur observed quietly. "They respect you." He nodded thoughtfully. "It seems the same through the ages."

  A caustic smile touched Lancelot's lips. "They respect my battle prowess, my lord. To them, it is everything, or nearly so."

  "They'll do whatever you say."

  Lance's eyes narrowed warily, a familiar expression that Arthur understood.

  "I'm not asking you to lose face with them, Lance."

  "Then, what?"

  Arthur shrugged. "I…don't know. I was hoping for some kind of understanding. Why are you attacking this stage station in the first place?"

  Lance shrugged. "Obviously, to drive out the settlers. To make it too dangerous—"

  Arthur shook his head. "Lance. You have to know, this isn't going to end. The station will be rebuilt. Progress will continue on. And what stake do you have in it? At some point, you'll disappear from this time and move to another a bit further down the centuries. But you'll still have the memories of what you did here. These innocent people you murdered."

  Lance stood unmoving, finally dropping his gaze from Arthur's.

  "There's a young boy inside, Lance. He's lost much recently—his mother and father, his home, his uncle—" He nodded toward the burning stagecoach.

  "Why is he special to you?" Lance's voice was grudging.

  Arthur remembered that tone well. His lips quirked, and he chose his words carefully. "Because, Lance, he believes. With all the fire and excitement of youth, he believes in what we tried to accomplish in Camelot. He knows the legends, loves the stories, kept them close to his heart—don't you understand? There are so few like him…he's precious to our dream—"

  "Your dream, Arthur." Lance's voice was hoarse with emotion. "I can scarce recall it. I have no part in it, except to have brought it to ruin."

  "Ah, Lance…no. No, you did so much more. How could I have even begun to try to shape Camelot into the reality I wanted it to become without you? You were there from the beginning, almost—remember? That first day you came—"

  "No. Arthur, don't." Lance shook his head, unable to meet his old friend's eyes. "I never meant for things to happen as they did."

  Arthur was silent a moment. Finally, "I know," he said kindly. "I know you didn't, Lance." He drew a deep breath before he went on. "We can't remember only the bad times, my old friend. There were many, many good ones, as well."

  "I think of them aplenty, Arthur. I wish—I wish everything had been different. But it was all written in the stars before it happened." When he glanced up at Arthur, his eyes were more desolate than any barren piece of the desert plains Arthur had ever seen.

  "You're right, Lance. It wasn't fair to any of us—none of it." He wasn't sure what to say next. Lance looked half-mad with torturing himself over what had happened centuries ago. It seemed to overshadow all else, including their present situation.

  "Ginny is inside, too," Arthur blurted. "She— She knows you're out here. That you're their leader. Will you kill her too?"

  "Why not?" Lance snapped. "You were willing, as I recall."

  Arthur met Lance's sullen anger with a small chuckle. "I knew you'd come for her."

  When he didn't respond, Arthur glanced heavenward briefly, then back at Lance. "Had you not ever wondered why there were no guards at the north gate?"

  Lance gave him a reluctant smile. "I was that predictable?"

  "Only because I knew you so well. Like the brother I always wanted."

  At that, an awkward silence fell. Lance brushed back a strand of his hair. "A b
rother would not have betrayed you."

  In a slow movement, Arthur laid a hand on Lance's forearm. "You didn't betray me in all things, Lance. I'm counting on you now…asking you…is there a way out of this?"

  Lance held his gaze for a moment, then looked down at the ground once more. "You don't know how I've dreamed of ending it. How I've even thought of ways to—" His voice trailed away, unable to speak of the terrible things he'd contemplated through the years.

  "Ginny says she believes that forgiveness may be the key." Arthur offered in the silence.

  Lance nodded, his lips set in a firm line, and Arthur could see how hard he fought to keep his emotions in check. There was no doubt that the events of centuries past had twisted Lance's thinking. To have considered suicide meant Lance had truly reached the end of his rope.

  "That can never be," Lance said in a low tone. "Guinevere and I committed—the unforgivable. I know that."

  Arthur watched him, Lance's pain still fresh after hundreds of years, his anguish sincere. "You don't believe I have forgiveness in me, is that it?"

  Lance's lips twisted in a wry semblance of his old carefree grin. "Even if that was possible, how will I ever be able to forgive myself? C'est impossible."

  "How do you expect this to end—this time?" Arthur was uneasy. He still hadn't secured a promise from Lance to keep the others safe from the Apaches. "You know, you and Ginny and I always have the chance to meet again on down the road somewhere and sort this out. But, these others," he shook his head and hesitated before he went on, "they're mortal, Lance. This is the only life they'll have. Will you take that away because of your pride?"

  Lance's head came up quickly, his eyes blazing. "You expect me to ride away? I've been Apache for ten years. I'm their leader, as you say. I can't run."

  "But—"

  "Arthur. I would give anything not to be in this position. But if I leave—" He spread his hands and shook his head. "I can't be seen as weak."

  "You can't really die, Lance."

  The former knight cocked his head. "The Apache can make you beg for death, Arthur. Their…ingenuity knows no bounds."

  The pop and crackle of the burning coach filled the silence, and despair overtook Arthur. "Am I to go back inside and await my fate with the others, then, Lance? You will lose men too. It's—the boy I plead for. The future. Maybe what we began all those years ago still has a chance."

  "Pender!" Thompson called through the window. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine, Mr. Thompson," Arthur responded, not taking his eyes off of Lance. "Give us a moment."

  "Mon Dieu, why is this happening to us?" Lance drew a hand over his face.

  "Lance, by all that is holy, it's Christmas!"

  "Do you think they care about that?" Lance gave a sharp bark of laughter.

  Arthur reached to grasp Lance's bare arms. "No matter what happens, Lance, I can't help remembering the good times. The days when we rode together, fought side by side, and lived as brothers. In my heart, you'll always remain so. I'll never forget."

  Lance took a deep breath. "Nor will I."

  "Arthur!" Guinevere's cry split the night air. The door flew open, and for an instant, she was outlined in the dim lamplight inside the great room.

  Chapter 8

  Lance and Arthur both glanced at one another then leapt back up on the porch toward her. Her beseeching cry had carried the hint of pure terror. It was Lance who reached her first. As he put a hand toward her, she took a step back, her terrified gaze going to Arthur.

  "What is it, my love?" He took her hands in his, but they had no texture, no weight. He reached quickly to shut the door behind her, muffling the sound of Thompson yelling for her to come back inside.

  Behind the closed door, the sounds of a scuffle penetrated. Arthur knew it was only a matter of time until Thompson wrestled the door open again, risking the lives of the others inside as well as his own.

  "Thompson! She's safe with us!" Arthur yelled.

  "What the hell? What's going on!"

  "Come on," Arthur urged softly, reaching to put an arm around Ginny and move her away from the door. But his arm fell to his side, as if—as if Ginny was no more substantial than the air they breathed.

  She looked at him, wide-eyed, then at Lance. Lance's startled expression turned to one of curiosity, then pity. But there was none of the fear that Arthur himself was trying so desperately to quell.

  "Lance…" she whispered as she saw his thoughts reflected plainly in his face. "Oh, Lance—it's happening."

  "Ginny!" Thompson shouted from inside the cabin.

  "Shouldn't you be saying goodbye to him, my lady?" Lance's tone was quietly cutting. "After all, we've said our farewells in time past."

  "Let's get away from this blasted doorway," Arthur broke in. "They can hear everything."

  Lance gave a quick nod of agreement and they all moved to the end of the darkened porch. Arthur jumped to the ground as did Lance, but when Arthur turned to reach up for Ginny, she hesitated before taking his outstretched hand. He couldn't feel it when she did.

  When her feet hit the ground beside him, there was no noise.

  She stood looking up at him in the winter moonlight, like some wood sprite. He lost his heart all over again, just as he had all those years ago in his youth. He wasn't young anymore. Now, he loved her with the heart of a man well-seasoned in years. He loved her with the fear of loss, with the longing of desire unmet, with the passion of his soul as well as his body.

  "Arthur, I'm afraid."

  He smiled at her, wishing he could kiss her one last time. "This is what we talked about, Ginny. Remember? The forgiveness…" His voice trailed away as he fought for control. Kings did not show their feelings. Kings did not do what they wanted, they did what duty demanded of them…including returning time and again. Would he never be permitted everlasting peace? Perhaps it was coming, this time.

  He smiled at her, his Ginny. The woman he'd loved beyond all else. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed her. At Camelot, she'd seemed to breathe life into the stone walls. But that was long ago. Now, she just seemed tired, desiring nothing more than the same peaceful rest he craved.

  "I love you, Ginny."

  She smiled, looking more embarrassed now than afraid. "I've longed so many times through the years to hear you say that to me again. Arthur—if I could do things over, I—"

  "Shh, Ginny. We, none of us, could change it."

  "I'm so sorry." Her face crumpled, and she came into his arms at last, her tears warm on his shoulder where her face rested.

  He allowed himself to inhale, taking in the essence that was hers alone—innocence and spice, naiveté and betrayal, cedar and joy. That last, he thought, had to be because it was the season of her beloved Christmas-tide.

  "You need say nothing more, Ginny. I know your heart. I always have."

  She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. The moonbeams played in her hair, but there was something more there—a light that was like nothing Arthur had ever seen before, swirling around her, filling her.

  "Thank you, Arthur, for your kindness. And your understanding. But most of all, for your love."

  "You've always had it."

  She smiled and reached to kiss his cheek. Her touch was familiar from those days when they were young, and just beginning to build their dream.

  "And you, mine, though you may not believe it…or care," she added, so softly he barely heard.

  He stood, watching the shimmering, odd light that had somehow seemed to move through her like liquid silver. Her features became peaceful, and fainter as he watched.

  "I care, Ginny."

  And then, she was gone, leaving only traces of the beautiful iridescent light where she'd stood. Arthur was no more surprised by her leaving than he had been by so many other things that had taken shape during the lives he'd lived—especially that first one, in Camelot. Ginny had found her peace, at last.

  With the downfall of his dreams, the certain dem
ise of his reign, he'd also learned acceptance. Merlin…Merlin had been an excellent teacher. Able to take any form with his magic—and to enable Arthur to do the same. Merlin had been with him near the end, but there had been nothing the sorcerer could do to change the outcome. How hard that must have been, Arthur thought, to have known what was to happen, yet to have been unable to change it.

  He reached to touch the last of the motes of silver where Ginny had stood, slowly raising his fingers to the dampness at his shoulder, where her tears had fallen on his shirt.

  Lance stood, transfixed, speechless, until Arthur finally turned to face him.

  "I hurt, Arthur. In my soul, I hurt. For everything—"

  Arthur nodded. He understood. His heart ached unbearably at losing Ginny again, but he knew this was what they'd all wished for, for centuries. It was finally ending. Ginny had said forgiveness was the key. She'd been right. Yet, forgiveness was something he'd never expected to find within himself for Lance—or for Ginny.

  Lance's eyes were filled with the anguish he had no words for. Arthur reached to lay a hand on his arm. It was not quite firm, his fingers grasping only air as his palm rested on Lance's bare skin.

  "Lance—"

  "I feel it." His voice was terse.

  "I forgive you."

  Lance nodded, and lowered his head. "It is more than I ever could have hoped for."

  "No matter what," Arthur said huskily, "we built a dream together, my brother."

  Lance raised his eyes slowly to Arthur's. "It was all that mattered, then, wasn't it?"

  Arthur smiled. "It still is, Lance. Don't you see? It's what the world remembers—even now. We actually created peace. We did right. We made our own miracle. We were the keepers of Camelot. Nothing can ever take that away."

  "You're right." Lance nodded toward the cabin. "The boy is important—and all the others like him. Maybe…they'll keep the dream alive."

  "They won't forget the example of what we did." Arthur glanced past the silver shimmers that had begun to play in Lance's dark hair, toward the woods. "Call them off, Lance. We'll leave this time as we should've left all those years ago—parting as friends in peace."