Later, when Aggie was called away for some consultation, Doc retreated to the parlor—a glass of Madeira in hand—to listen to the musicians. He had no idea what the piece of music was, but found it soothing, especially after the trials of the day.
Where, he wondered, was little Arnie? Had his parents taken him out to Jack O’Neill’s ranch—as the local boneyard was called? Or had they just driven him out onto the short grass and dug a hole?
“Are you enjoying yourself, Doctor?” Her voice was a pleasing contralto, and yes, he could hear Arkansas twang beneath the cultured tones she had adopted.
He stood as Sarah Anderson appeared and stopped before him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he told her. “I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed music. You and Aggie have built a delightful establishment.”
She was watching him through those hard blue eyes, as if, again, she expected something from him that he didn’t understand. “Would you accompany me upstairs for a moment? I think there is something you and I should discuss.”
“Of course.” He let her lead the way, felt curious at the number of male eyes that watched him as he followed her golden and provocative posterior up the stairs.
As she turned toward her room, she said, “Aggie has told me a great deal about you. About the war, the prison camp, about Butler. She said you went back to Arkansas, that the farm had been seized by squatters. She didn’t say, but have you heard from your other brother, Billy?”
Doc shot her a nervous glance. What was it about her? Those eyes, he almost felt as if he should know them. Then it hit him. They reminded him of Paw’s eyes.
She closed the door behind him, indicated a chair, then seated herself on the edge of her much too plush-looking bed.
“Billy? Not a word.” He shook his head as he sat. “Nor from my sister. They’re just gone. Vanished. I’ve placed ads in the Fayetteville paper. Little Rock, too. But nothing. I don’t even know if they are alive.”
Again she was looking at him with those haunting eyes, so he asked, “What about your family?”
“My paw was killed at Shiloh. Billy and I buried Maw behind the house … and you still have no idea, do you, Philip? That just stuns me. Have I really changed that much? What was I? A gangly girl of twelve when Paw used Sally Spears to humiliate you? Has life beaten and battered us so much that we’re unrecognizable?”
She stared away then, her eyes hurt and distant.
Doc swallowed hard, his heart beginning to hammer. Oh, dear God!
“Sarah?” But looking close, peering beneath the powder and rouge, he could see Maw’s cheeks and nose.
As it all came crashing down, he stood, met her as she rose and wrapped her arms around him. The tears caught him by surprise.
She, however, seemed immune, whispering, “It’s all right, Philip. There will be time to tell it all.” She paused. “But not tonight. I have a client.”
“Who?” Doc rasped, trying to find his voice. “Pat?”
“Big Ed Chase.”
“His wife’s name is Margaret.”
“That’s his concern. Did you know he hates George Nichols? Big Ed has offered me eleven hundred dollars for the pleasure of my company.” She pushed him away, staring into his eyes as if to see his soul. “So we’ll talk tomorrow, or the day after.”
She used a cloth from the stand beside the bed to wipe his tears. “Now, promise me something. Go down, enjoy the evening, but don’t tell Aggie who I am until tonight when you’re both home, and holding each other in bed.”
“Big Ed and George Nichols? Sarah, you’re playing with fire. They’ll kill you if you get in the way.”
“They can’t kill what’s already dead, Brother. Now go. I have a job to prepare for.”
God had done this. Played him after all—like a trout on a line.
91
August 15, 1867
According to the soldiers at Camp Brown on the Popo Agie River, they called it the Valley of the Warm Winds. To the west rose the jagged and pointed Wind River mountain range, its peaks still spotted with snowfields even this late in the season. The foothills beneath the steep and timbered slopes were the most unusual Butler had ever seen, the terraces being composed of piles of boulders and gravel, all mixed and tossed together in a way that made no sense.
The rocks appeared as insane as he was, which brought a cackle of laughter to his lips and askance glances from the men who marched to either side.
On his right the Wind River ran clear and cold, its waters splashing over the rocky bottom where the shapes of fast trout darted. Ospreys nested in the cottonwoods, and antelope watched from the far buttes, making their chirping calls.
Across the river, the land was as different as could be; flat-topped, sandstone-capped buttes rose in banded shades of gray, buff, and reddish brown. The northern horizon was blocked by the Owl Creeks—irregular mountains whose slopes looked tough and scarred behind the fortlike ramparts of foothills. Off to the northwest, they merged with the Absaroka Range, where its peaks seemed to chew at the sky.
The smell of the sage carried on the wind, the air fresh and crisp as it rattled the cottonwood leaves.
“Cap’n?” Kershaw asked cautiously. “What are we doing clear out heah? Ain’t even a road. We’s off’n de map.”
“Least we ain’t eatin’ rabbit no more,” Pettigrew mumbled from where he walked alongside Butler’s horse.
Phil Vail called from up front, “Glad the cap’n shot that prairie goat. Men can’t march ’thout rations.”
The rest of the men were giving him sidelong glances. He could feel their unease. Doc would have told him it was the expression of his own mind. That his delusions were tossing his own growing disquiet back at him.
Maybe that’s what it meant to be crazy.
“Bet they ain’t never heard no cannonade
