Glancing back again, Butler called, “Even in death you’re a perpetual goddamned pestilence, aren’t you?”
He looked up at the tan sandstone ridges to the south. The flat stone beds were dotted with juniper and pines. And beyond them lay the Owl Creek divide, its timbered skyline rounded and rumpled.
He’d take the trail south across Mud Creek, past Rattlesnake Springs, through the Red Canyon and over the pass to the Wind River Basin. From there he’d top the Sweetwater Rim, hit the Oregon Trail, and follow the telegraph to Muddy Gap. Then he would cross to the Laramie Basin, and somewhere in that vastness, be far enough away from Shoshoni country that Paw’s malignant ghost, if it ever escaped, could harass the occasional passing Arapaho or Sioux. Because he sure wouldn’t worry any white man.
“Got to bury you, Paw. All tied up like you are, we want your ghost deep underground where it can’t get out and bother decent people.”
“Y’all expect him to answer?” Corporal Pettigrew asked as he marched at the head of the men. They followed in the wake of the travois, tramping along on either side of the two drag marks.
“Absolutely not, Corporal.” Butler smiled to himself. “With most of a company of dead men already at my beck and call, what do I need another one for?”
“Don’t make fun of us, suh,” Jimmy Peterson called back.
“Just feeling sorry for myself, Private. Thinking that Water Ghost Woman played me for a fool. Told me I could heal, and gave me the one man on earth I should have let die.”
Butler shook his head, swaying in time to the horse’s pace. “If I hadn’t interfered, but let Paw die back in Red Canyon, we’d still be with Mountain Flicker, laughing and eating fine. The Dukurika wouldn’t be staring nervously over their shoulders. Hard Hand wouldn’t be thinking his daughter married a monster’s son, and Puhagan wouldn’t be wondering what he’s going to have to do to cleanse me of soul pollution before I can return.”
“Soul pollution, suh?” Frank Thompson asked.
“Reckon that means the cap’n’s gonna have to do another puha journey to the Underworld, with all them sweats and fasting,” Phil Vail told them.
Kershaw spoke up for the first time. “Not only that, Cap’n, but this time of year? Yor paw’s gonna be turning a mite ripe. Reckon he’s already drawing flies, comprendre?”
“We could drop him anywhere,” Pettigrew groused. “How are the Dukurika gonna know any different?”
“We will not.” Butler shot a hard glance at the recalcitrant corporal. “Paw might have been a liar, but I’m not. I gave my word. We will see this through in the honorable tradition of Company A, Second Arkansas.”
“Be just as like to run into a passel of angry Sioux out here all alone.”
Butler thinned his eyes. “And what chance does a party of Sioux have against a company of the Second Arkansas Infantry? As upset as I am right now? We could take half the Sioux nation.”
“What about Philip, Cap’n?” Kershaw asked.
“What about him?”
“Reckon he ought ter know ’bout his father, le père, oui?”
Butler winced. Philip had hated Paw, but he was still the man’s son. And there were only the two of them left.
You can write him a letter from one of the stage stations on the Overland Trail.
But after lecturing the men on honor, was that really the thing to do?
116
June 6, 1868
The thrill of the hunt pulsed with each beat of Billy’s heart. End-of-the-Tracks was all that Parmelee had promised. And sure, it was small-time compared to the stakes he was used to. But that old joy of watching the approach of prey—in this case a half-staggering man appearing from the tent door—of seeing Win Parmelee reach up and touch the brim of his hat to signal the go-ahead, and then following behind the unknowing victim just plain made Billy’s bones quiver.
Adding to the thrill was the sense of danger, of knowing that a mistake would mean discovery, flight through the darkness, and the chance of being caught.
Billy, moving silently on his feet, stepped behind the latest target. The man was big, heavy through the shoulders. Most track builders were, from pick-and-shovel men, to graders, to the ones who carried the ties or unloaded the rails. Let alone the ones who swung the jackhammers all day pounding in spikes.
Win Parmelee’s weighted-leather sap wasn’t the tool for this kind of hunting. Instead, Billy carried a pick handle. More wallop and less room for error.
The man he now crept after was whistling softly, wobbling as he made his way to the line of outhouses. Billy set himself, swung.
Some sense warned the mark at the last instant; he ducked. The thick end of the pick handle glanced off the side of the man’s head. Definitely not enough of a blow to flatten him, but enough to topple him. As he hit the ground, he let loose with a loud bellow, followed by, “Son of a bloody bitch!”
Billy made a quick calculation of his chances, figured it was time to blow, and with all his might, slung the pick handle at the galoot. He didn’t look back as he made fast tracks for where he’d left Locomotive.
Shouts rose behind him, with calls of “Thief!” and “Some dirty beat’s just tried to bushwhack me!” “Where’d he go?” “That way! Christ, my head hurts!”
Billy rounded a corner just as a man with a lantern emerged from a shebang shanty. Billy plowed straight into the chucklehead. Face-to-face as they collided. He had an image of a green-eyed man with a mashed nose, thick beard, and breath like rotted onions.
Then Billy was on his feet, half blinded by the lantern. Blinking at the afterimages, he damn near made a wrong turn. Caught himself at the last instant, and plunged between the two wagons that hid his horse. He paused only long enough to tighten Locomotive’s cinch, then he was in the saddle, letting the big black horse find his
