“Sometimes, Cap’n,” Kershaw told him, “you jus’ ain’t smart.”
“Sergeant, I don’t need you to remind me of my shortcomings.”
“It’s all right, Butler.” Sarah’s voice was forgiving. “I’ve done what I’ve done. Philip told me to expect occasional, well, uncomfortable moments when talking to you. Now, why don’t you stop torturing yourself and bring me that basket? And while you do, you can tell me about this Indian princess of yours.”
“She’s not a princess.” Avoiding her eyes, he set the basket on the examining table and began removing biscuits. “She’s just a woman. I call her gwee, which means ‘wife.’ We have our own lodge and what you’d call a family. I really, really miss her. If it hadn’t been for Paw, I’d have never come back.”
Sarah took the plate he handed her. “What about us? Your family here? And Billy’s back. We still haven’t heard his story.”
Butler glanced shyly at the men. “I only came back to tell Philip about Paw. I guess it was just luck that you and Billy showed. It was worth it to know how Maw got in that grave, and to see that you’re alive. But I have to get back. There’s winter to prepare for, and I have to make sure that everyone knows I properly disposed of Paw’s evil.”
“Are they that much better for you than we are?” She took a fork and stabbed at a sausage.
“They don’t judge.” Butler tried again to still his hands. “My wife loves me for who I am. She doesn’t care if I’m crazy. And when I talk to the men, her eyes don’t get that worried look. We laugh, and share, and hold each other. We work side by side, and it’s … well…”
“Go on.”
He wiped at a sudden pesky tear, his chest full as if to burst. “I love her! I really miss her, and I can’t wait to get back.”
Sarah was studying him with thoughtful eyes. “But Butler, Philip and I, we love you, too.”
“Then I am doubly blessed. But Sarah, don’t fight me on this. I’m going back. I have to.”
The bell out front rang, a voice calling, “Sorry to wake you, Doc. Can I have a word?”
“Marshal.” Doc sounded groggy.
Butler walked to the surgery door, seeing Dave Cook, the city marshal.
“Don’t look like the marshal got much sleep last night,” Phil Vail noted.
“Neither did we,” Pettigrew retorted.
Butler waved them down, noting the bland look on Cook’s face. The man had a high forehead, straight nose, and a knobby chin—all emphasized by his full mustache. He wore a long linen coat over a colorful checkerboard-patterned vest, and baggy trousers. A polished leather gun belt hung at the man’s hips.
“Doc?” Cook asked. “You got a man here? Young galoot, blond, maybe twenty? Might have a couple of gunshot wounds?”
Cook held out a paper flyer, that Doc took, asking, “That man look familiar?”
Doc rubbed a hand over his face as he studied the picture. “My brother Billy.” Then his expression fell. “What’s this wanted business? A reward? For murder?”
“It gets worse,” Cook told him. “You ever hear of the Meadowlark?”
“The hired killer?” Doc asked. “Thought he was more myth than real?”
Cook took the flyer back. “If that’s your brother, he was bragging to half the Criterion saloon that he was the Meadowlark. That he worked for George Nichols … doing his hired killing.”
Doc looked sick, his face lining with worry. “My sister says Billy went after Nichols after the shooting at Sarah’s yesterday.”
“Well, he found him. Shot him down in the Criterion in front of about twenty witnesses. Paused long enough to put a meadowlark feather in the bullet hole. Nichols was unarmed. Which, given what went on at Mrs. Anderson’s, might have been justified. I’m not sure it even would have gone to trial. But on the way out, your brother shot and killed a bystander who tried to stop him. Fella by the name of Swede Halverson. Well liked by his friends.”
Cook paused. “And then there’s the warrant from End-of-the-Tracks.”
Butler’s heart was thumping, a hollow desperation beginning to ache. “Our Billy?”
Cook shot him a look. “So, you’re back? Must be a Hancock family reunion.”
Doc rose unsteadily to his feet. “Butler found Billy on the street last night. He’s in the surgery. He was pretty shot up. Especially the hip. Femoral artery stopped the rifle ball without rupturing, if you can believe it.”
“Doc.” Cook lowered his voice. “I need to see him for myself.”
“Of course, Dave.” Doc led the way, Butler retreating and the men scattering to clear a path.
Cook removed his hat, nodded respectfully at Sarah where she sat frozen, a buttered biscuit halfway to her mouth, having no doubt heard the whole conversation.
“This is your brother? Billy Hancock?” Cook asked, matching the face with the drawing as he leaned over the comatose Billy.
“It is.” Doc sounded half dazed.
Cook lifted the blanket, inspecting Billy’s wounds. Then he asked, “Son, can you hear me?”
Doc replied, “Dave, he’s drugged. It will be hours before—”
“Sssss awright, Doc,” Billy whispered hoarsely, blinking his eyes open. “I’m tougher than I look.”
Sarah called, “Billy, you don’t have to—”
“Sis,” he rasped, “can’t cheat the Devil forever. I been dreaming. Maw’s rising from the grave, telling me it’s time. She’s coming to get me. Gonna drag me to hell where I b’long.”
“Son, did you kill those men at End-of-the-Tracks?” Cook asked.
“Yep. And I left a string of dead whores behind me. Started with little gal named Margarita down to New Mexico. Thought she was Sarah’s ghost … reaching … reaching down … And I’d try to kill her.”
“I don’t understand,” Cook said.
“Isss th’ demons.” Billy licked dry lips, eyes vacant. “Ol’ Hob had his joke on this child, didn’t he?”
“And the Meadowlark murders?” Dave Cook leaned forward.
“Make you a deal, Marshal. When Philip fixes me up to where you can get me to a jail? You hand me a pistol with one shot. You do that … and I’ll tell you the whole thing in front of a court recorder. Full confession.”
“Billy!”
