He closed his eyes, whispering, “I will miss that.”
He patted Billy’s hand, and turned to go.
Butler had passed the woman on the table with her tubes and pumps when he remembered the candy cupped in his hand.
131
July 4, 1868
Doc ran as he had never run in his life. Arms pumping, feet flying. His leather-soled shoes slipped on the boardwalk. People stared at him in surprise as he careened through them, many diving out of the way at the last moment. He crashed into others, only to stumble before charging on.
“Move!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Out of the way! Emergency!”
As he ran, lungs burning, he cursed himself for the despicable idiot that he was. What vile failing of character had caused him to concoct that deadly candy in the first place?
Let alone leave it in the cash drawer!
Butler, please! Tell me you kept it for later!
He brutally plowed through a gaggle of children, knocking one or two sprawling, hearing bursts of crying behind him, mixed with shouts.
Let them curse him! Hate him for being a brute.
Wasn’t a candle to how he hated himself.
Let me make it in time!
Just the fact that he hadn’t stumbled onto a crowd gathered about Butler’s dead body was cause for hope. His brother must have put it in a pocket for later.
God, don’t let him eat it! Please!
Tears were running down his cheeks, adding to the dismay in people’s faces as he gasped and panted his way, arms out.
“Move!”
“Out of the way!”
He slipped as he rounded the corner onto Larimer Street, fell, tore his hand and knee on the boardwalk. Bowling to his feet, he knocked a woman onto her butt. She was screaming, a man pounded along behind Doc, shouting threats.
Beat me senseless later.
And God, yes, the man could have him. Cane him to within an inch of his life, or beyond, for all Doc cared.
At Walley’s, he grasped the doorknob, wrenched it open, and hurtled inside. Walley gaped, sitting at his desk, a cash box open before him.
“Butler! Where is he!”
Walley had just opened his mouth, pointing to the rear as Doc vaulted a chair and straight-armed the door.
Please, God! Please.
“Butler!” he bellowed. “For God’s sake, don’t eat that candy!”
And then he was in the back, sliding to a stop.
Staring.
Eyes wide, arms out.
“Dear God,” he whispered through sucking pants, sinking to his knees.
132
September 28, 1868
Butler wondered if he’d ever been this tired and out of breath. His ribs and belly ached, each heaving breath feeling for all the world like it was tearing his lungs out of his chest.
He paused, struggling for air in the high altitude. Spots flashed before his eyes as he dragged a sleeve over his sweaty forehead. Blinking to clear his vision, he looked out across the high, gray peaks, lines of them, growing ever more distant until they faded into the horizon. Snow already whitened the northern slopes, the southern exposures having been melted by the slanting fall sun.
A cool wind tugged at him from out of the west as he thought, This is how God sees the world. To do so is to be blessed.
Mountain after mountain, peak after ragged peak, the long, timber-clad slopes slanting off to the blue-gray sage-blanketed basins. And in the bottoms, the dark green meandering line of the Wind River, marked as it was by cottonwoods and willows. This was the view commanded by eagles, and now it was his.
“You coming?” Cracked Bone Thrower asked, grinning, his white teeth shining in his brown face. “Or are you just another lazy taipo? Come to buy favor and lay with one of our women because you have the wealth to do it?”
“Never,” Butler puffed, resettling the freshly gutted sheep carcass on his shoulders. He could feel the animal’s blood draining onto his bare shoulders; the sweet pungency filled his nostrils. He’d smelled enough blood tainted by unjust death on the battlefields. This, in contrast, was the blood of life. This death would feed his naatea through the long winter months. And in return the people offered their thanks to souls of the sheep who had died that they might live.
Butler’s shoulders were already streaked and smeared with caked sheep blood. After the last of the carcasses had been carried down to where the women were butchering, he would scoop up handfuls of snow from the big drift. Half stunned by the cold shock, and with Flicker’s help, he would sponge the blood and gore from his naked body.
“Little children have better wind than you do!” Cracked Bone Thrower called over his shoulder.
“I’ve been down in the flatlands,” Butler protested. “Doing taipo things! They are all lazy. You’ve told me that so often, you should believe it yourself. Once I train my lungs, the men and I can outwork you all.”
He shot a sidelong glance at the men where they had seated themselves on rocks and in places in the sun. That was the thing about being crazy. His men never changed, never looked any more ragged in their holey and tattered uniforms. They didn’t look bedraggled in the rain, never cared for their rifles or gear. They didn’t shiver in the cold.
And, like today, they never did any work.
Sometimes he wondered about the rules of his madness. The men were never in his lodge. Never watching or making comments when he and Mountain Flicker were locked together under the robes.
Sometimes—when he was particularly happy—they vanished for long periods of time.
Because, as Water Ghost Woman taught me, I no longer need them. Then, later, they just appeared as if nothing had happened.
That had been the case ever since his return from Denver. As if, having cast off the last links to the white world, he had found a growing peace of mind. His madness didn’t matter when he was surrounded by people who didn’t care if he kept the dead around when he needed a shield.
In addition, his hallucinations seemed to recede
