Legacy, Book 8: Homecoming

By Gerald Welch and Warren Murphy

The Desteen Nation will stop at nothing to reclaim their land.

For eight generations, the Desteen have vowed revenge against the Sinanju.

For eight generations, their hatred has simmered.

For eight generations, they have trained...and now, the time has finally come to fight!

With Sunny Joe stuck in federal court, will Stone, Freya, and their new friend Ruby Gonzalez be quick enough to stop an armored regiment from destroying the reservation? Or will War Feather fulfill the Desteen’s ancient prophecy, and eliminate the Sinanju once and for all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warren Murphy Media LLC
• Release date: May 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781944073534

Gerald Welch

GERALD WELCH is a double-edged threat, both writer and graphic artist. The self-described literary hybrid of Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir, Jerry is best known for the writing and artwork in his “The Last Witness” series. www.thelastwitness.comJerry prefers to be known as one of only four people on Earth ever to be granted the title “Honorary Master of Sinanju.”His personal website is www.jerrywelch.com where he’s always blogging about something or other.

Book preview

Prologue

Sinanju Tribe, 1862 A.D.

The late Arizona sun baked the desert winds as a tall, thin man moved silently between each gust. Uzumati flowed over the dunes at an astonishing pace, leaving no prints in his wake and making no sound as he moved. There was purpose in his hurried stride and superhuman precision in his movements. Anyone who would have spotted him would have thought they had seen a ghost.

Moving to the top of a small hill, Uzumati disappeared into a copse of Palo Verde trees. While others would have sought the trees for shelter from the scorching desert sun, Uzumati had vanished into the trees to watch. The heat did not bother him. Uzumati was a Master of the ancient Korean art of Sinanju and his body adapted to whatever conditions he faced. Instead of sweating to cool down, he simply lowered his body temperature to offset the beating desert sun. At forty-three, his leathery skin bore testament that he had done so for many years.

For forty-one of those years, he had been training. His father Gyeong had just retired, and Uzumati was named chief, a position the Sinanju nation referred to as Sunny Joe. The tribe was a scattering of communal branches across the southern border of the newly-established New Mexico territory.

Though he had mastered the art that originated in a small Korean fishing village five thousand years earlier, Uzumati still had trouble mastering the social aspects of being Chief. One of those duties involved his father’s custom of maintaining contact with the postal carriers that passed through Sinanju territory two or three times a year. Even when they had no mail or packages, carriers on the southwestern route knew to steer through Sinanju land. They were the tribe’s eyes and ears and were paid well for vital information.

That is how Uzumati recognized the large man with the faded jacket and bowler hat. Waving at Uzumati from the front bench of a bright red mudcoach, Dub Taylor was one of three mail carriers he had met over the past decade. While others used fast horses for delivery, Dub was known for his custom mudcoach and his love of Missouri Fox Trotters. Uzumati never understood why he used the large, chestnut-colored horses. They were far slower than the Morgans that most other carriers used, though he had to admit that they were far faster than the camels the United States government had recently given to the Sinanju in trade negotiations. Like most people his age, Uzumati thought of Trotters as plow horses, but Dub refused to use any other breed. He dismounted and smiled at Uzumati.

So, I hear you’re Sunny Joe now, huh? he asked, tying his horses to a post. How ‘bout that.

Dub opened the door to his coach and rummaged through one of the many boxes inside. He handed a large brown envelope to Uzumati. The sender was ‘Mr. A. Lincoln’ from Washington, D.C.

So how’s your Pop doin’ these days?

Master Gyeong is Sinanju, Uzumati explained. What news do you bring?

Right to the point, huh? Dub said, wiping his brow. A man could use some water first.

Of course, Uzumati said, motioning for Dub to follow him.

Construction had recently finished on the colorful buildings that lined either side of the dirt path that served as the tribal main street. Each of the joined buildings was designed in the fashion of other modern western towns: flat, elongated and functional. Sidewalks of desert ironwood lined both sides of the street, keeping the horse posts a decent distance from the entranceways.

Uzumati’s personal office was the center building on the strip. Dub followed him inside and Uzumati handed him a flask of water. Dub placed his hat on a table near the front window and sat. He took a long swig from the flask.

Couldn’t help notice that letter from Washington, Dub said. They wonderin’ which side you’re on?

We are a peaceful people, Uzumati said. This is not our war.

Maybe now, but I gotta tell ya, it’s getting pretty bad out there. Won’t be long before everyone’s gonna have to pick a side, Dub said, taking another drink. So, your Pop’s on The Walk?

Uzumati sat down across from Dub. He had always been uncomfortable with the amount of information his father gave to carriers. It was well known that after a new Sunny Joe took over, the previous Sunny Joe would leave with the Caretaker of records to give the tribe time to accept the new Sunny Joe as their leader and the old Sunny Joe time to seek out new trading partners. Even though The Walk was not a secret, it was still uncomfortable for Uzumati to speak about it to an outsider.

He shall return in two harvests, Uzumati said stiffly.

Yeah, I never understood any o’ that, but there’s lots about you Sinanju I don’t know about, Dub said, looking around at the front of Uzumati’s office. The walls were paneled with strips of freshly-stained desert willow, and decorated with brass lantern fixtures. The front window was constructed of multiple panes of real glass and the floor was new enough not to be scarred from the constant scuffing of sand on wood.

Hmm, this is a lot better than the shack your Pop had. I ain’t seen nothing this fancy since Nacogdoches. They got themselves a nice setup like this, ’cept they don’t have a big walkway like you do.

Uzumati noticed that Dub was fidgeting in his seat.

There is something you wish to say?

Yeah, uh, ya see, he said, scratching the back of his neck. Carriers had an arrangement with your Pop. He paid us for important news.

I am aware of your arrangement, Uzumati said. It shall continue with me.

Good, ’cause this is as important as it gets, Dub said, releasing a breath and leaning forward. The war’s getting hard and the South needs money. A band o’ Rebels just got routed outta Fort Stockton and they mean to take your gold. I was kinda hopin’ I’d get here before your Pop left.

Uzumati tilted his head in confusion. Why would Master Gyeong need to be here?

There’s more’n twenty soldiers headin’ this way! You’re gonna need every man you got to stop ’em.

Where are these soldiers now? Uzumati asked, beginning to understand why his father kept carriers happy.

I left ’em in El Paso, Dub said. They were powderin’ hair from bar to bar, yappin’ to all the girls about how rich they were gonna be. I didn’t think nothin’ of it until I heard ’em say they was headed to Sinanju territory. I steered ’em north to give me time to get here first. They’re still probably three days northeast.

Before he finished speaking, a spinning gold coin appeared in midair, landing face-up on the table in front of Dub. The symbol of the Sinanju was stamped in the center: a trapezoid with two slashes, surrounded by five posts and a multi-pointed border, representing the sun. This was not one of the smaller coins or silver trinkets he had obtained in the past. This was a solid ounce of pure gold. The coin quickly disappeared into one of Dub’s vest pockets.

I will meet these men before they reach our land, Uzumati said.

Wait…don’t you understand? Dub asked. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way!

They will listen to me, Uzumati said sternly, standing to his feet. Thank you, Mr. Taylor.

Dub took a last swig from the flask and stood. Well, I tried. Best of luck, kid…I mean, Sunny Joe.

Uzumati gave a slight nod and Dub left, shaking his head. He hoped that they would still be alive when he returned from California. The Sinanju were a good people.

Uzumati informed the Caretaker of his plans and told his son Cheveyo to continue his training. Shortly after he left Sinanju territory, he felt someone following him. Uzumati purposely slowed to allow them time to catch up. When he reached a small grouping of trees, he darted inside and waited.

The man following was as tall as Uzumati, but outweighed him by thirty pounds. It was Sekani, a member of his tribe. Though he was breathing through his mouth to cool his body, Sekani’s movements were faster than any human outside of Sinanju had a right to be. When Sekani approached the trees, Uzumati stepped out and became visible.

Sekani almost tripped trying to stop.

Why are you following me? Uzumati asked. There was an uncustomary edge to his voice.

Uzu…Sunny Joe! Sekani yelled. He leaned forward and caught his breath. The carrier told everyone about the rebels. He said you were going to face them alone and needed help.

There is nothing you can do, Uzumati said. Return home.

But I can help! Sekani said. You taught me how to breathe! I’m strong as an ox and fast as a jaguar!

Sekani grabbed a breath and began moving his arms at superhuman speed.

Uzumati stopped the blood from flowing to his cheeks to avoid looking embarrassed. He remembered playing with Sekani during his isolated life as a young Sinanju trainee. Now older and wiser, he knew that his father refused to allow him to play with others to keep the secrets of Sinanju safe, just as he did not allow Cheveyo to play with others his own age. This had been a difficult concept for a six-year-old, so Uzumati would sneak away and play with Sekani.

But Uzumati soon found out that games were no fun because he was so much stronger and faster, so over a span of four months, he secretly taught Sekani how to properly breathe. He even taught him a basic stroke that they could use to destroy tree stumps for fun. They wrestled and raced each other for weeks before Master Gyeong found out. Sekani’s family was forced to move to one of the other settlements on the reservation and Uzumati later found out that Sekani’s father had been personally threatened.

The boys never saw each other again. Uzumati eventually became friends with the Caretaker’s son and he forgot about his secret adventures with Sekani.

For his part, Sekani remained quiet, because he feared Master Gyeong’s wrath.

These men have guns, Uzumati warned.

Then I will die serving my tribe, Sekani said, proudly striking his chest with his fist.

Uzumati closed his eyes. By publicly displaying Sinanju techniques, Sekani had admitted to a crime punishable by death. But in the dozens of possible scenarios running through Uzumati’s mind, a dark, but tempting thought kept coming back to him: If Sekani died during the attack, he would not have to pass sentence on him. No one would ever know. Then he began to worry what would happen if Sekani survived.

You will be responsible for your own safety, Uzumati said reluctantly.

He paced himself to Sekani’s slower lope and they arrived at the rebel camp late that evening. The sun had set an hour earlier, but Uzumati easily saw both guards. One soldier stood outside the camp area, while the other sat back by the horses with his rifle laid across his lap. The rest of the men slept around a small fire, just enough to keep the breeze warm.

Uzumati suddenly appeared in front of the soldier standing guard and he almost dropped his rifle in surprise. The man, who had no idea why he was told to watch a group of fully armed men, blinked his eyes in surprise and raised his rifle. Halt! he yelled.

I am the chief of the Sinanju, Uzumati said, raising both empty hands out to his side.

Cap’n! the soldier yelled, keeping his eyes and rifle locked on Uzumati. Better get over here!

A young man in his early twenties approached. Unlike the others, his uniform was clean and appeared to be freshly pressed. The soldier whispered to him and nodded toward Uzumati.

The captain looked at the two men. They wore faded shirts and dusty trousers with simple vests and old boots. He was told that the thin one identified himself as the chief of the Sinanju, but he did not look like any chief the captain had ever seen. He wore a simple hat and was obviously not armed.

He walked over to Uzumati with a puzzled look.

You’re the chief of the Sinanju? he asked with a thick Georgian accent. You don’t look like no chief.

I bring a message of peace, Uzumati said, holding his arms further out to his side.

Sekani began to look worried as the rest