Black Sun, Killer Moon

By Michael Milardo

Epic in scope and inspired by actual people and events in what was Indian Territory — present-day Oklahoma — Black Sun, Killer Moon tells the extraordinary story of escaped slave Silence Reeves. Hoping to find his way north to freedom after killing his master, Silence is scooped up by a tornado and slammed down in Indian Territory, where no white man’s law exists, only savages, Silence believes, who will eat his liver. What Silence discovers, however, begins his transformation from forced ignorance to, “A civilized man. A dignified man. An educated man.” But also a gunman as he begins the hunt for his adoptive father’s killer amid the explosion of post-Civil War crime in Indian Territory. To end the lawlessness, a “hanging judge” is summoned and U.S. Deputy Marshals are appointed. Rangers with the shooting and tracking skills necessary to bring in the worst humanity has to offer – dead or alive. Men with skills like those of Silence Reeves and the astute, ever-insightful Creek leader, Hawk Eyes. But also men like the one who murdered Silence’s adoptive father. A clash between Silence and that man becomes inevitable. A mere question of time and place. With a resolution that will leave readers breathless. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Jan 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977272072

Michael Milardo

Michael Milardo is the author of three critically acclaimed novels: Nick Ilsanto and the Scourge of the Black Hand; Chica and Me and a Girl Named Angel; and Bobby Stitch. His award-winning short stories have appeared in Sparks, Haunts, and Churchyard magazines, and in a collection of his works entitled Herm and Pop Visit Eternity. While attending New York University, he studied film production and screenwriting under Martin Scorsese and acclaimed television producer, Barbara Schultz. Then after working as a classically trained chef for sixteen years, he changed careers and taught language arts and social studies for seventeen years. He lives in East Hampton, Connecticut under the tutelage of his three cats – Lola, Mika, and Francine.

Book preview

One

A BAPTISM

It had pursued him for miles, and now it was upon him.

Whistling, booming, roaring, thundering louder than ten-thousand buffalo – Hell on Earth – the twister seemed to have targeted Silence Reeves. Clamping his head to the gelding’s, its gray mane whipping in his eyes, Silence screamed in unison with the terrified beast as they raced across the vast, wind-swept plain heading for refuge in Indian Territory. But there would be no refuge from the twister, anywhere. It was heading straight for him, and above the gelding’s thundering hooves, he heard it unleashing the wrath of God behind him- punishment for what he had done, thought Silence, brain bouncing in his head as he grimaced and narrowed his eyes against the dust and mounting wind, and the gelding snorted and screamed.

Only a half-mile behind, thought Silence, praying the twister would veer away, and the gelding would not suddenly break down. And that God would understand why he had done what he did – that he had no choice – and would forgive him. But the wind, growing ever stronger, now swirled dust and dirt everywhere as the world began to spin before Silence’s eyes, and he clamped them shut. No, no mercy. Instead, God’s wrath. God’s bounty hunter. Hell on Earth.

Tightening his grip on the gelding’s reins as the whistling wind nearly blew him off the horse, the world exploding in his ears, dust, dirt, and now rain pelting and stinging his face, Silence opened his eyes enough to see that the sky had turned to a churning inferno of billowing black smoke, obliterating the sun, and tarnishing the plain until it, too, turned entirely dark. And still the wind grew stronger. The gelding, fighting to maintain its balance as the howling gusts nearly blew its back legs out from beneath it, stumbled but did not fall. Desperately, Silence wrapped both his arms around its neck, and as the gelding lost strength, slowed, and again nearly fell, he screamed louder than the terrified beast.

As the gelding now fought to put one leg in front of the other, its screams gurgling in its throat as the world spun all around, a fierce whirlwind of dust, dirt, brush, and shattered tree branches, Silence glanced back and glimpsed a pair of cottonwoods about two hundred yards away yanked up from their roots and tossed in the air. As he returned his eyes ahead, the plain and distant mountains nearly invisible, another thunderous boom and ear-splitting wail told Silence death was now only moments away. Barely able to move his head because of the whirling wind’s growing force, Silence again glanced back and saw the funnel-shaped cloud tearing up everything in its path – cottonwoods ripped from the earth soaring and spinning in mid-air – death now less than a quarter mile away. As the beast stumbled on, Silence screamed louder, Go! Go! but now he knew there was nowhere to go, his dream of freedom damned by God for what he had done. Not only him, but all of God’s creatures would pay. Such was God’s wrath, Silence believed.

And then the entire world spun as God’s almighty hand suddenly yanked Silence from the gelding’s back and jerked him skyward, spinning him like a child’s top as the gelding shot out from beneath him amid a massive vortex of dust, dirt, rocks, and stones. Then as Silence, choking, fighting to breathe, streaked, tumbled, somersaulted, and spun in the funnel’s grasp about a hundred feet above the battered, wind and rain-swept plain, he glimpsed below him the gelding rising up from the earth as if it were racing in mid-air, before spinning out of control and disappearing in the tumultuous dark.

Flying, spinning, battered and beaten nearly senseless – just as the colonel used to do to him, Bird, and Whisper, only worse now, much worse – Silence, eyes rolling, brain exploding, caught mere glimpses of the earth as the screeching wind sought to tear his arms and legs from their sockets, and his head from his shoulders. Up, down, up again he went, spinning and tumbling in mid-air amid stinging rain, dirt, and mud, arms limp, then flailing like a rag doll with a broken neck, then limp and lifeless again, like a dead blackbird tossed about in a maelstrom. From out of nowhere, a straw-haired, naked old white lady, slack jawed, eyes dark, dead, whizzed straight toward and then past him, her frozen, horrified face just missing his.

Then as if God was satisfied that His justice had been met, it all suddenly ended, and Silence plummeted to earth. On his way down, clinging to consciousness, expecting death, he glimpsed the remains of a flattened, shattered house and a red barn that had been flipped upside-down, along with demolished cottonwoods scattered about like broken bones. Instantly he crashed down through the branches of a solitary standing cottonwood, the branches slashing his face, legs, and arms, and tearing away his tattered denim clothes. Naked, he splashed down flat on his back in a pig trough filled with slime and mud blacker than him, everything now quiet, as if dead, until the decapitated carcass of the gelding he had been riding, ribs smashed flat, legs twisted and broken, as if tied in a knot, landed with a nauseating, mud-splattering explosion nearby. Seconds later, as Silence, all of him covered with stinking muck, except for his eyes, gazed skyward from the trough, he witnessed more objects falling from the still dark but clearing sky. Suddenly a cow and a pig crashed through the branches of the cottonwood and into the deep muck that surrounded him. Quickly followed by dead chickens, their feathers all but plucked, and a dog’s mangled carcass. And then an ear-splitting crack as a large limb from the cottonwood suddenly broke and fell, crushing Silence’s left arm and shoulder. Mouth agape, he tried to scream, but mud and dirt choked him, so he just closed his eyes, wept, and withstood the pain, just as he had all his life with the colonel, until he killed the old man. Taking in air through his mud-clogged nostrils, able to move only his eyes, Silence watched as the sun suddenly appeared, and the once dark, chaotic sky gradually brightened and turned blue. And though he was not sorry for what he had done, Silence still apologized to God, and asked Him to take care of Bird and Whisper- that they not be punished for what he had done. Please… he gasped, clinging to consciousness, the world turning gray as his entire body turned numb. Please… And though the sun now shone brightly, suddenly it began to rain. A baptism.

A sun shower, thought Silence, and he imagined smiling, and God smiling down on him. He tried to move his lips and smile but could not. Perhaps, that was God’s punishment for murder- his body completely paralyzed. He would accept the punishment, thought Silence, and again he asked God to protect Bird and Whisper. As he did, he watched the rain end as suddenly as it had started and imagined seeing Bird and Whisper smiling down from the clear blue sky, as if nothing had happened. No twister. No death. No murder. But then he saw their faces in the dim moonlight as he looked back at them two nights ago when he fled the north Texas plantation on the colonel’s gelding, after he had shot the maniacal drunk dead- with good reason, Bird and Whisper had assured him, despite what the Bible and the Sixth Commandment stated.

Suddenly feeling trapped inside his paralyzed body, Silence shut his mud-caked eyes and began to sob and wail, his sounds muffled by the muck stuck in his mouth, throat, and nose, making him gag. Exhausted, he opened his eyes, tears and mud now blurring his vision as the sun nearly blinded him. Then, barely able to look out over the opposite end of the trough, buried flat on his back in putrid muck, as he shifted his eyes about and struggled to focus, Silence thought he saw two distant figures on horseback slowly approaching. The blurred figures, in gray silhouette, now coming straight toward him. Instantly he thought of them, the ones Bird and Whisper had warned him about, and the colonel had always cursed. His heart pounded.

Suddenly the horses stopped, and the riders dismounted. Then after turning in circles, as if searching and listening, the figures stopped, stood absolutely still. Silence prayed to the God he had betrayed for a miracle that would save his life. That it was Bird and Whisper come looking for him. And not them.

Mud and slime again blurring his vision, Silence saw the figures approach the trough. Then suddenly halt at its edge. Silently, they stood above him, and then they leaned over, heads moving back and forth, as if searching for something in the muck. Suddenly they seemed to find it and, moving their heads closer to his, they looked down into his eyes. Silence stopped breathing. His heart exploded. He dared not blink. Their faces inches from his, Silence, heart thundering, eyes frozen despite the muck that itched and blurred them, suddenly saw that they were not Bird and Whisper. But the ones they had warned him about. The ones that would sever his manhood and cut out his liver- then eat it. The lawless. The Godless. Them. And Silence, surrendering to fate, no matter how gruesome – God’s will – blinked.

Two

THEM

Now, he would die.

Silence caught mere flashes of the two bronze-skinned, dark-eyed devils as they struggled mightily to lift the broad, thick limb that had pinned his left arm and shoulder to the trough. As they did, Silence felt nothing. He had numbed himself even to death.

Must be anxious to torture me. Eat my liver, thought Silence, surprised through blinking, mud-spattered eyes to suddenly notice that the two ancient, sun-scarred, round-faced devils – unlike the Comanche devils in Texas – wore large, round, flat-brimmed deerskin hats and other white men’s attire: dark serge jackets and trousers; white shirts with stiff, starched collars; mud-spattered black leather boots, and black string ties, like the ones the colonel always wore to attend Sunday service, or to impress company. All to hide what everyone, both owners and slaves, already knew- that over the past twenty years the once respectable Colonel George C. Reeves had turned into a brutal, sadistic drunk, at times more vicious than a rabid dog, even foaming at the mouth like one. As when after buying Whisper at auction in Galveston eighteen years ago, in 1837, a year before Silence was born – according to Bird – he sliced Whisper’s vocal chords with a hand scythe because it was the colonel’s desire that his newly purchased coon forever speak in a hush, like a breeze through the pines. He would always grin and laugh after saying that – again, according to Bird – revealing yellow, tobacco-stained teeth, until his devilish laughter turned into a whiskey and smoke-induced cough, and he gagged and spat blood- his health, like the north Texas homestead and his finances, rapidly declining. So, until Silence killed him, rather than purchasing slaves, the colonel had been selling them off, along with acres of once cotton-rich soil, to pay his debts, mostly resulting from gambling losses and what he called coffin varnish, or whiskey, until two nights ago, when Silence shot him dead. Whisper’s raspy croaks, uttered from deep within his thickly scarred throat, unlike Bird’s lilting, sing-song voice that could dazzle, at times sedate and even mesmerize the violent drunk who, ironically, had sometimes treated Silence like a white boy, even, maybe, like his own son. The colonel had been forced to sell off Silence’s mother nine months after he was born. No one, not even Bird, knew who the real father was, but she raised Silence like he was her son, and Whisper, gaunt, haggard, and prematurely gray, did the same acting as his pa. Since the infant hardly ever cried or complained, and since the name seemed to fit so well with Bird and Whisper, they named him Silence; and loved him as much as the baby Bird had given birth to the previous year, and Whisper had fathered. The baby that had been born with a lopsided head, deformed hands, a toeless right foot, and a cleft palate. The colonel, drunk on coffin varnish, immediately took the infant down to the Wichita River just outside of Prairie Dog Town, where the homestead was located, and drowned him, the river becoming the child’s grave. Bird’s heart remained with her child somewhere beneath the shallow river’s slowly moving current, until Silence came along. By then, whiskey had begun to enslave the colonel morning, noon, and night, including two nights ago, when Silence killed him and then fled Prairie Dog Town for Indian Territory, where, in 1855, and since its establishment in 1825, there was no white man’s government or law, except when a bounty hunter came ‘a callin’. Maybe looking for a murderer. Or a bank or coach robber. Or an escaped slave who had also killed his master. If Silence somehow survived these two devils working to free him, he knew, and as both Bird and Whisper had warned, it would just be a matter of time before a hired gun came looking for him.

Now, as Silence gazed up through weary eyes and a battered brain at the azure sky and listened to the two devils grunt and groan, a thought suddenly occurred to him. Perhaps, they wore the clothes of white men they had slain and mutilated, and whose livers they had devoured. Then shifting his eyes, he saw them finally hoist the limb onto their shoulders and, after stumbling several steps and nearly falling, drop it into the muck. And with that, as the old devils, huffing and puffing, doubled over, clutched their knees and struggled to breathe, Silence accepted that he must now pay with his life for the murder he had committed – a previous killing notwithstanding – no matter what the rheumy-eyed, drunken baby killer had intended to do to him after accusing Silence of cheating at cards: sever his vocal chords like he had Whisper’s so that he would live up to his name and forever remain silent. No matter that he had saved the colonel’s life from Comanche devils three years ago- because, although his master, the colonel had taught Silence to shoot his .44 caliber Sharps carbine, and Silence had taught himself to shoot it expertly – no matter how unreliable the weapon was – while aiming it with either hand. Along with the colonel’s two prized Model 1851 Navy Colt revolvers, which Silence used to pick off squirrels, prairie dogs, and jackrabbits, again, with either hand. And so, three years ago, at age fourteen, marked the first time he had ever killed a man- if that screeching, yelping Comanche devil, with his long, feathered headdress and painted face riding a painted pony was a man, or even human. Surely during the surprise raid with twelve other Comanches on the homestead, he would have scalped Colonel Reeves with his feathered tomahawk. Scattered his genitals across the grassy plain. Eaten his liver. Even Bird and Whisper, strict believers in God’s law, agreed that only a savage devil – or a white man – would do such things. So, in God’s eyes, they all agreed, Silence had committed no sin. Had murdered no man. Still, during the three years since the Comanche raid, Silence had maintained serious doubts concerning his innocence in God’s eyes. And now, as he gazed out at the devils standing upright, breathing more easily, faces returning to bronze, no longer deep red, he wondered what they planned to do next. Would they go straight for his liver? What would the knife feel like going into his side? Would he kill them if he had the colonel’s revolvers, a bullet through each savage’s heart, if they had hearts? Yes, I would kill them, answered Silence, and then, suddenly hearing a profound thump in his ears, he felt a terrifying jolt in his lower back, as if he had been stabbed, his spine severed. Breath stolen, panting, taking in mud, Silence arched his back, writhed, attempted to scream. Moments later, the pain subsided, Silence relaxed, breathed more easily, tried to avoid choking. And instantly realized, as the two devils returned to the trough, that he was not paralyzed. Instantly he wished he were, so he would feel nothing once they started mutilating him.

Just get it over with! Silence wanted to scream. Then shifting his eyes to their horses, a black and white pinto and a chestnut mare, he saw that unlike the Comanches, they carried no feathered lances or tomahawks, no bows with arrows to fire off at forty per minute, with terrifying, deadly accuracy. Instead, they carried rifles, the weapons of civilized people, and their horses bore saddles. Suddenly a strange thought occurred to Silence. Were these two devils trying to save him? But why? Silence felt his head spin, as if he were back in the vortex, and he wanted to vomit. No, he concluded, chest heaving as he struggled to breathe and nearly wept. They were going to torture him. Castrate him. Tear out his liver while his heart was still beating. Then rip out his heart, too. Returning to reality, what ensued startled and confused him even more.

One savage, after rolling up his shirt and coat sleeves, reached into the muck and grasped his shoulders beneath his armpits, making him wince and scream. The other, after rolling up his sleeves, then reached in and took his feet. Then after counting to three – in English! – they lifted him out of the trough, stumbled a few steps, and then swung him gently to the rain-soaked grass beside a large, dark puddle. As they did, Silence, limp, weak, but heart thundering at the possibility that these two creatures were actually going to save rather than torture him, glimpsed the carcass of the gelding he had been riding and pitied the poor beast. Bird and Whisper always agreed that he had a kind heart and a special way with all of God’s creatures, even the colonel- when he was sober and treating Silence like a white boy, even a son, arousing long-held suspicions by everyone that the colonel had fathered Silence, despite his ebony skin. And now, Silence prayed, the ground cold beneath his wet, naked, putrid smelling body, he would have a special way with these two creatures – humans, he reminded himself and, for some reason, nearly chuckled – and they would treat him as a human. He watched them bend down beside him, fill their cupped hands with water, and gently bathe him, clearing his throat, nostrils, and private parts of grit, twigs, pine needles, and mud. As they did, Silence thanked God that they seemed to have no plans to castrate him and that, at least for now, he felt only a painful throb in his left shoulder, along with the cool water and their wrinkled, weathered hands gently bathing his skin. Again, they spoke in English, and he felt even more relieved.

He is not just covered with black filth, said the one who had taken his shoulders. He spoke slowly, deliberately. He is a young black man. My guess he is an escaped slave from somewhere west. Probably the land of Texas, since its border is not distant from our territory.

It was the first time, thought Silence, his arms and legs limp as they washed them, his left arm and back beginning to throb, that anyone, other than Bird and Whisper, had ever called him a man, and not a coon, nigger, or boy. Who were these strange people? he wondered, as the water drained down his face, neck, and chest, and they continued their gentle cleaning, as if afraid to hurt him. Maybe, Silence thought, suddenly feeling exhausted, he had died and gone to another world. Or maybe the twister had taken him to this land, that he was actually somewhere up in the sky, but not in Heaven, and suddenly he recalled the dead old white lady whizzing by him in the vortex of God’s Hell on Earth.

I think he will live, but his shoulder may be broken, said the elderly man who had taken him by the feet, ending Silence’s thoughts of other worlds and Heaven. It is good for him that we found him. Others might still find use for him, no matter his shoulder. I will get my blanket to cover him. Then one of us must go get Hawk Eyes.

As the ancient one went to the pinto, removed a red saddle roll and then returned with it, and the other finished bathing him, Silence wondered what use others might still find for him, and his hopes of being saved suddenly started to fade. The answer to his question came quickly.

I will go get Hawk Eyes, said the one with the blanket, and unrolling it, he and the other covered Silence from neck to toe. No, he shook his head, I don’t think he can be of any use to others as a slave, even though he is young and strong. I am not certain his shoulder will ever heal.

Did these people, these Indians, also own slaves? Suddenly Silence’s mind spun in a vortex of its own. But how could that be? He was in Indian Territory! How could Indians own slaves? Bird and Whisper never warned him of this. They must not have known, he concluded, warming beneath the blanket, again surrendering to God’s fate as the other spoke, and his brain continued to spin.

You must leave soon. I sense rain. The clouds tell me so. Briefly, he looked up at the sky. I think I am starting to smell it, despite the sun. He finished tucking the blanket beneath Silence, gently stroked his forehead with his fingertips.

Hawk Eyes is nearby. We will bring a blanket and poles to make a travois to carry this black man to the village. Or to shelter if it begins to rain and we cannot return to the village before dark.

As Silence then watched him return to the pinto and ride off, the other sat on his haunches beside him and spoke again in English, this time with news that reignited Silence’s hope for freedom.

Do not worry, my friend. He shook his head, a smile further creasing his round, wrinkled leather face. Some of us believe in slavery, but we do not. Since Jackson and the white man’s government forced us here as one of the so-called five civilized tribes, we are allowed to possess slaves…Because we are civilized. He grinned broadly, his round face a sudden explosion of wrinkles.

I don’t know what on God’s earth you be talking about. His neck and jaw now suddenly aching, Silence found himself barely able to speak. And again he heard a loud thump in his ears before feeling the breathtaking jolt in his back. Easing and regaining his breath as the terrifying pain subsided, Silence again surrendered to whatever God and fate held in store for him. He had no choice, he realized. He was still a slave.

You are young, the old one stroked his forehead. You will heal. Hawk Eyes knows many remedies that will help you get well. He is wise in the ways of the Great Spirit. You will see. The old man smiled, nodded. You will see it in his eyes. Why are you here in Indian Territory?

Then this is Indian Territory, whispered Silence, now completely assured. Yet you are still allowed to own slaves. He tried to shake his head, but instead gasped and winced from the pain in his neck and left shoulder. I’ll never understand such a thing. You don’t seem to be savages. Devils, like the Comanches in Texas, where I come from. Suddenly it occurred to Silence that the Comanche warrior he had killed was a man, a human being after all, though not like this one. You’re not going to cut out my liver and eat it.

We are Creek people, said the old man, straightening, as if taken aback. "Civilized people. More civilized than Jackson and all the others that forced us here nearly twenty years ago, along with the Chickasaw, Choctaw, Cherokee, and Seminole, along the Trail of Tears. Our homelands are what America now calls its southeast, he emphasized, pursing his already deeply etched lips, his bright, alert eyes turning dark. But those were our homelands. They still are." His eyes brightened.

I know nothing of God’s world. This world, Silence barely uttered his words, what remained of his strength suddenly dissipating as he gazed upward, the sky now streaked with wispy white clouds. I don’t know how to read or write. We were never allowed to go listen to newspaper readers when they came to Prairie Dog Town or anywhere near it. The colonel would beat us or kill us if we did.

What is your name? asked the ancient one. Do you have a name?

Silence Reeves. Jaw aching, he croaked his response. And yours? Suddenly the old man seemed completely human to Silence, and not a savage like the Comanche, or the colonel, despite his drunken claims that he spoke and acted for the Almighty.

Jefferson White Elk is my civilized name. Again, he chuckled quietly. But I prefer just White Elk. Much more colorful. Much more Indian. He sniggered, mischief suddenly filling his ancient eyes. Don’t you think?

Yes, answered Silence, his mind awhirl, unable to grasp all that had happened during the past few minutes and hours. All that had happened since he killed the colonel. Much nicer. White Elk is the name of a free man, not a white man or a slave.

How did you get your name, Silence? The old man wiped some mud from his own face and hands. It is an interesting name. He nodded, lifted his hat from his full head of flowing gray hair, replaced the hat and waited for Silence to answer.

Bird named me that, Silence finally replied, his left shoulder again suddenly aching, now throbbing as he grimaced, tightened all over, held his breath. Then relaxed again as the pain slowly eased. Because she said I was so quiet as a child. She was one of the colonel’s slaves, too. Her and Whisper. The colonel slit his throat so he would always speak in a hush. ‘Like a breeze through the pines,’ he used to say. I killed the colonel two nights ago. Shot him dead with his own gun.

No need to hide anything, Silence decided, especially the truth. This old man, this free man, he also decided, would not judge him. But he might judge the colonel for all he had done. For being a savage.

Why did you kill him? The old man looked into Silence’s eyes, his eyes suddenly as dark as Silence’s skin. I sense you must have killed him for good reason. You…

Suddenly he was interrupted by the sound of approaching horses, and soon Silence saw two riders appear on the horizon, one of them the ancient Indian from before. And just as suddenly he writhed and gasped for air as the thump in his ears again sounded, and pain exploded in his lower back. Slowly, it dissipated, and tears leaked from his eyes. Silence wondered how much more pain he could take before passing out.

Good news, my friend. The man Silence once feared was a devil now gently smoothed his wet, closely cropped hair and forehead and wiped away his tears. Hawk Eyes is here. He will help you with your pain.

As the old man’s words filtered through his brain, Silence felt himself drifting, fading, along with the sunlight and the image of a man stepping off his horse and approaching him… Now looking directly down at him… Now close to him, eyes inches from his. But what Silence perceived in the thickening gray was not human. Instead, he saw the cold, keen, deadly eyes of a bird of prey. A hawk’s eyes. Momentarily, Silence thought he must be seeing things, what the colonel had once called hallucinating after he shot and killed his cherished bloodhound, claiming, after another day-long dose of coffin varnish,