Butler’s chest began to tickle with that odd mix of excitement and fear. He couldn’t help but remember the anger and pain in Doc’s voice as he’d thrown Butler and the men out of this very building.
“Jus’ get it over with, Cap’n, ça va?” Kershaw insisted. “Otherwise you stand out heah all day, mais oui?”
Butler glanced at the men for reassurance and reached for the doorknob. It rang a bell hanging from a hook. Otherwise the office and waiting room looked about the same. Maybe the bench was more polished, and the clutter of papers on the desk not as neat.
“Be there in a moment!” Doc’s familiar voice called from the surgery.
Butler stepped over to the surgery door, butterflies in his stomach as he peeked in.
Doc was bent over a little boy whose shirt was off, his suspenders down. Back to Butler, Doc leaned over the lad, listening to his chest through some device with tubes that were inserted in Doc’s ears. A worried-looking woman stood beside him, holding what was obviously the little boy’s shirt.
“You say he only gets this when he’s helping stack the hay?” Doc straightened and removed the tubes from his ear.
“Yes, sir.” The woman’s voice was filled with twang. “It gits so bad with the coughing, little Jake here th’ow’s up. Then, to a night, he cain’t hardly breathe a’tall.”
“It’s the hay fever, Mrs. Smith. Sometimes they grow out of it. My advice, and I know it’s hard, is to keep him away from the haying. If he absolutely has to, you give him half a teaspoon of codeine just before bed. But no more. And only when he needs it.”
Butler backed away, smiling. Doc was like himself—if a little thinner-looking.
“Looks like he need t’ clean a little more.” Frank Thompson bent to inspect the coffee stains on the side of the pot where it rested on the stove. Butler shooed him out of the way, carefully tested the pot with a quick tap of the finger, and found it still warm. Taking a tin cup from the rack, he filled it and took a taste.
“God, I’ve missed coffee,” he remarked.
“Reckon them Dukurika could larn a thing er two ’bout a good drink,” Jimmy Peterson added.
“I really miss that phlox tea Mountain Flicker makes,” Butler told him. “Coffee’s good, but I really wish I was back there.”
“Missin’ the missus?” Pettigrew fixed hard eyes on Butler. “Reckon y’all know how we feel.”
“Not all of you had wives,” Butler pointed out, “but Corporal, I never discounted what you all gave up when you enlisted.”
“So, what’s next, suh?” Billy Templeton asked. “You dead set on going back to the mountains?”
“We told Mountain Flicker we’d be back.” At movement, Butler turned, nodding and touching his battered hat brim as Mrs. Smith herded her little boy out, stepping wide of Butler in the process and avoiding his eyes.
“That’s a nice little tinkle bell Philip put up,” Vail noted as the woman left.
“It is, Private.” Butler studied the thing. “But I guess without us to keep watch, it’s the next best thing. Sort of like a picket you don’t have to feed or relieve from duty.”
“Dear God!”
Butler turned at Doc’s cry. “Hello, Philip.”
Doc stood in the door to the surgery as if frozen, his face expressing wonder and disbelief. His right hand clutched a couple of greenbacks. Then he rushed forward, wrapping arms around Butler, hugging the breath out of him.
“God, I’ve missed you! Worried about you! Don’t you ever leave me like that again!”
Butler smiled, tears, unbidden, trickling down his cheeks as he hugged his brother to him. “I’m sorry, Philip. So sorry.”
120
June 29, 1868
Doc pushed his brother back, searched his face, took in his travel-filthy clothing. Butler looked like he’d been in the wilderness, pants threadbare and grease-blackened. He smelled of campfire smoke, stale sweat, and dust. Instead of boots, heavy trail moccasins of a style Doc had never seen clad his feet. A holey excuse of a felt hat—worse than the scarecrows at Camp Douglas used to wear—topped his head.
But beneath the wild tangle of unwashed hair and beard, Butler looked tan, lean, and healthy as a wildcat. His eyes were clear, without that anxious wavering and insecurity.
“Are you all right? Where in God’s name have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I went to the mountains.”
“Where? Idaho Springs? Central City? One of the camps?”
“The Shining Mountains. Up on the Wind River. Where Paw always talked about.” The old fear rose behind Butler’s gray eyes, hard-edged and painful. “I found Paw.”
“What do you mean you found Paw?” Philip knew that look. Butler wasn’t happy with what he had to say. “Don’t tell me he’s in your head, too. Like Kershaw and the rest of your phantoms. You are still seeing them, aren’t you? That’s who you were talking to when I came out.”
Butler glanced to the side in irritation, then waved it away. “I know he’s never liked you, at ease, Corporal.”
Turning back to Doc, Butler said, “Paw ran at Shiloh. Deserted. He never told me where all he went. Mostly I suspect he drifted from tribe to tribe, wearing out his welcome. He ended up with a Sheep Eater band. Before they could drive him out for being a lazy shit, a bear got him. Mangled him pretty bad.”
“Wait” Doc put a hand out, pleading. Realized it was still full of Mrs. Smith’s money, and took long enough to unlock the drawer and stick it in the cash box. Then he seated himself on the corner of his desk, watching Butler’s delighted expression as he sipped Doc’s mediocre coffee.
“You mean he’s alive.”
Butler shook his head. “Was alive. The bear mauling was bad, Philip. Shredded Paw’s right arm. With the help of the men, I performed
