“What did you tell him?”
“Said there was a messenger from Governor Smith what needed to see him. That there was trouble with Major Lewis.”
“And who’s he?”
Danny dropped his voice to a whisper. “Lewis? He’s an army major sent here by General Sherman. It’s all a mess. This fella Meagher? He’s just the territorial secretary, but he called up a militia to fight Indians. He don’t have the authority, but he did it anyway. He’s here to pick up a load of guns due upriver on another boat any day now.”
“If the guns is on another boat, why’s he on this one?”
“All the passengers got off, right? So the boats is empty. Ain’t but two shabby hotels in the town, and all these people come in. Where would you rather sleep? Out there on the ground? Or here in a fancy stateroom with a roof and a feather bed? Captains turn the boats into hotels, make extra money that way.”
“Damn, I’d stay here. Hell, I’m on a real steamboat! And I can’t even look inside?”
“Let’s just do the job, Billy. Lay low a couple of days, and we can come back and do it! Rent staterooms. See the engines and the wheelhouse and everything.”
“By God, I love this job!”
As they passed the last of the cabins he asked, “What do you think Meagher did to rile George?”
“Could be anything. Montana’s politics is a worse mess than Arkansas’s if you can believe it.”
“Maybe I can’t.”
“Meagher pardoned a man a couple of weeks back that George wanted hung. And Meagher knew it. Feller named James Daniels had tied a knot in one of George’s ropes. Kilt one of George’s friends and queered a business deal. Cost him title to a bunch of claims at a place called Silver Bow Creek, over the other side of the mountain from Helena.”
“It don’t do to rile George,” Billy agreed.
“You there?” a voice heavy with Irish accent asked from the darkness by the stern rail. “You’re the man looking for me?”
“General Meagher?” With his left hand, Billy eased the Bowie from its scabbard. “Major Lewis wanted me to give you a message, sir. ’Specially with as illegal as the militia is.”
Billy offered his hand to the dark-bearded figure.
As Meagher grasped his hand, Billy pulled him close, running the Bowie up under the man’s breastbone and through the heart. Meagher stiffened, a croaking in his throat. He rose up onto his tiptoes, as if he were trying to lift himself off the blade.
“Message is, don’t never buck George Nichols, you Yankee piece of shit.” Danny had stepped close. Together they eased Meagher off the stern and into the water.
“Hold his hand,” Danny ordered as he bent down and tied a length of rope to the dead man’s wrist.
“What are we doing?” Billy pulled a meadowlark feather from his pocket and stuck it in a crack between the deck planks.
“You wanna just let him float? They’s gonna find the body, Billy. See that he was stabbed.”
“So?”
“Ain’t it better that he just disappear? Make it more of a mystery? You hold the rope, and we’ll pull him to shore, toss him over a horse, and haul him out into the middle of nowhere to bury.”
“Thought we was gonna come back and see the boats.”
“After he’s buried, Billy. And they got good whiskey on these boats. And card games. I been practicing. I can win as often as I lose these days.”
As Danny left for the shore, Billy floated Meagher’s body over toward the levee bank. At Danny’s call, he tossed him the rope, then walked casually down the deck, looking at the fancy woodwork, hearing the hollow thump of his boots.
It was but a moment’s work to drag the general’s limp body from the dark water, and together he and Billy slung it over the roan’s saddle and tied it in place. Billy caught a stirrup and vaulted onto Locomotive’s back.
As they started into the darkness, Danny turned on his saddle, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Man overboard!”
But Billy never looked back. He’d never heard of General Meagher. Wouldn’t have cared if he had. But at least he’d set foot on a steamboat. Maybe, if he was sleeping on one of them steamboats, in a real bed, with a whiskey load on, Maw wouldn’t rise nightmarelike from her grave.
Maybe there’d be peace.
“Danny?”
“Yep.”
“When we get back to Helena, I’m gonna wire George. Tell him I’m gonna stay in Montana for a while.”
“Think he’ll let you?”
“Don’t care. I’m gonna do it.”
90
July 10, 1867
Sometimes it didn’t matter how hard a man tried; he had to stand by and watch. Doc should have been hardened. He’d seen death often enough. Lived with it like a companion.
The worst part this time was the parents, both bending over the examination table. The mother, a narrow-faced woman dressed in dusty gray gingham, sobbed into a handkerchief. Her back was bowed as though bearing a great load, and her hair was coming loose from the old-style net she wore.
The father stood with slumped shoulders, head down in defeat. He kept kneading his worn felt hat with thick, dirt-encrusted fingers. The look on his face was what Doc called shock stupid. Hollow from disbelief and the inability to comprehend. Even simple words seemed beyond him.
The boy on the table had just turned six. He would never turn seven. Wouldn’t even see the sunset, given the sound of his labored breathing. Blood had run from his nose, mouth, and ears. His head was oddly distorted, flattened, the skull having been crushed. A dark bruise ran across the snapped jaw, cheeks, and bloody ear. The parents’ story was that the boy, Arnie, had fallen from the wagon. Landed just so on Market Street, and the combination of pulling oxen and the momentum of the wagon had rolled both right-side wheels over the boy’s head.
Doc had given the child just enough chloroform to deaden his senses. Now he waited,
