“This is an important place,” John said, stopping beside him. With his left hand he pointed down to the base of the limestone cliff. “You see the trailhead where it comes through the rocks?”
“Yep.” Billy used a sleeve of his grimy shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
“I heard the story from a Caddo. He said that this place has seen many battles. That if a handful of warriors crouched up here they could hold the rimrock against hundreds of enemy warriors coming up from the bottom. You see the way the limestone overhangs the trail below? You can shoot right down on the enemy’s head. They have no protection, and the trail is rocky and steep with drop-offs. Bad footing.”
Billy shifted his load of turkeys and peered over the edge. Sure enough, every bend and twist of the trail below was visible as it zigzagged down to the trees a hundred feet below.
“All the times we been up and down here, how come you ain’t never mentioned this a’fore?”
Gritts shrugged. “Akto’uhisdi nula guhdi iyuwakdi.”
“Yep. Wisdom comes with time.”
Gritts gave him a yellow-toothed grin. “Now you will never climb up or down this trail again without looking up and wondering who might be on top, ready to drop a rock on your head.”
“And I thought the footing was scary enough on this son of a bitch.”
Gritts glanced at the high sun. “If we hurry, we can just about be to your home by suppertime. Then you can face your mother and see what scary is really like.” He gave Billy a deadpan look. “And don’t forget to stop your cussing. She’ll whack you for that.”
“You just want a hot supper.”
“And maybe to hear how your white man’s war might change things. Cherokees keep slaves, too.”
“Don’t reckon much will change, John.” Except Paw would be in the middle of the politics. And, as John had reminded him, he’d take Sarah off to Little Rock to “introduce” her to society. Which was just a fancy way to troll her like a lure to snag some rich and influential husband.
And then what am I going to do?
3
May 10, 1861
With his back propped in the chair, Butler Hancock idly rolled the bottom of his glass on the familiar scarred wood of the family table. His ass ached, as it had since he was a boy sitting on these selfsame chairs. They’d been locally made by a craftsman who’d learned the trade in New England and built a mill-powered lathe to turn spindles, legs, and bedposts. The chairs were every bit as uncomfortable as they were attractive.
His ass? Not his posterior?
He was home, all right. The cultured veneer he had worked so hard to learn and cultivate back in Philadelphia seemed to erode with every hour that passed, as if the very Arkansas air scuffed it away like grit ate the polish off a fine pair of shoes.
Philadelphia with its hustle and bustle had come as a shock after Little Rock. And Butler had paid a terrible price; he’d become the butt of jokes, scorned for his bucolic ways. To survive, he had dedicated himself to the task of learning the social graces, even inventing imaginary friends to practice with. But in the end, he’d survived because everything he read stuck in his head.
And, of course, the fact that he had grown up wrestling, swinging an ax, and splitting rails didn’t hurt anything, either. Wasn’t a one of them he couldn’t flatten in a knock-down brawl. It had only taken one to earn the complete respect of his fellow scholars.
And now I’m home. And it is as if nothing’s changed.
Leaning his head back he found the soot-stained plank ceiling only a tad darker than it had been when he’d left two years past. Maw’s pale hair, pinned back in a bun, might have acquired a whiter tint at the temples; but she still hurried back and forth in the kitchen with its counter, stove, and fireplace.
Paw Hancock’s house had been the first frame structure built on the upper White after the sawmill opened. The original log cabin, ten by twelve, still stood out back. From those humble beginnings, Paw Hancock had built his curious estate.
Butler sucked on his pipe, enjoying the last of a mellow blend he’d brought with him from Memphis. Paw sat at the head of the table like a king, his own pipe working like the stack on a steam locomotive. His mane of white hair stood up from his high forehead like a wave that rolled over his skull and down to his collar. Now that he was nearing sixty, his once-red hair had surrendered to time. For the moment, Paw’s angular face was clean shaven, the line of his jaw firm despite the missing teeth in his gums. Fierce blue eyes stared across the table at their guest, Isaac Murphy.
A redheaded Irishman, the normally affable Murphy wore a frock coat despite the late May weather, and his riding breeches were travel stained. He stared into the mug he cradled, attention absently focused on the light brown whiskey that remained mostly untouched.
How often could that be said of an Irishman? The thought brought an amused twist to Butler’s lips.
Billy sat at the end of the table, fidgeting and pulling at his fingers. Burly for his age, Butler’s younger brother acted as if a fire had been built beneath his seat. The boy’s gaze kept straying first to John Gritts—the big Cherokee who sat to Billy’s left—and then to the door behind him. Billy couldn’t have been more eloquent were he Cicero addressing the Senate.
That’s when Butler noticed the spider. A big one, brown and black, it came dropping down from the ceiling. Silk trailed out behind; the eight legs were held wide.
“Son of a bitch,”
