Trail Angel (30 page)

Josey never came.

The second wagon train arrived at the fort late in the day. Doc Hines offered to allow Caleb to stay in a hospital tent, but Caleb wanted to get back to the wagons. He would find no peace until he knew about the gold.

The light from the cook fires led Caleb to the camp. The sound of wolves snapping and howling, drawn near the fort by the scent of the butchers' discarded offal, kept him moving. He had overestimated his strength, and the long walk over uneven ground in the gathering darkness exhausted him.

Someone must have brought word of the wagon train's return, and soon familiar faces surrounded Caleb. Langdon Rutledge embraced him like a prodigal son. Willis Daggett pounded him on the back with such enthusiasm the brotherly blows nearly felled him. Blanche Swift tenderly cradled his face in her hands and kissed him. No one but Laurie had ever appeared so delighted to see him.

He stood before them weeping, as much for joy as guilt, realizing even now he couldn't divulge his secret. As they guided him to a seat by a fire, filling his hands with food and drink, Caleb sensed their apprehension. As pleased as they were to see him, the absence of the Colonel and Josey Angel filled them with a dread that muted the joy of his reunion.

“Where's Annabelle?” he asked. Hers was the one face missing from the group.

“She went to the fort,” her father said. “She wouldn't wait once the soldiers brought word that your wagons had been seen.”

Caleb was relieved he wouldn't have to explain to Annabelle what had happened. Before he said another word, the settlers peppered him with questions, and he told them about the Indian attack, his narrative disjointed, his ability to explain unable to keep pace with their curiosity. In their befuddlement, they pressed Caleb for more details.
How can I explain to you what I don't even understand myself?

He wasn't sure he conveyed the desperation of the final fight. The only thing that had saved them from being slaughtered to the last man was the Indians' reluctance to make a concerted charge. While they waited for the men to return with the water, the Colonel had explained it just wasn't in the Indians' nature to sacrifice even a few of their braves to overwhelm and wipe out a foe.

Not all the soldiers believed that. They were a chastened lot by then. They had been full of themselves coming west: the army that had bested Bobby Lee now confronting nothing more than lice-ridden savages, fighting with bows and clubs against rifles and cannon. Their error proved a deadly lesson, and now they had an understanding of the ruthless opponent they faced.

Fearing the worst, a few of the men removed their shoelaces and tied them together, fashioning a loop at one end to go around their foot. They tied a smaller loop at the other end and attached it to the trigger of their rifles. The tortured soldier at Dry Creek was too fresh in their minds. If the corral were overrun, they would stand up with the muzzle of the rifle under their chin. The Indians wouldn't take them alive.

Caleb couldn't tell the settlers these things. Instead, he told them how the Indians melted away into the hills once Jim Bridger and the mounted soldiers from Burroughs's wagon train appeared from the north. His listeners made him go back to the beginning, so he told of the ambush, the desperate run for water. Gaps in his story tested their patience.

“What about Josey? And the Colonel?” Mary Rutledge's face pinched with worry. He told them how the Colonel had been struck down, how Josey Angel left the cover of the wagons, firing his weapons until exhausting his ammunition.

“Then what happened?”

He thought the woman might shake the answer from him. “He fell to his knees. We thought he was praying, at first.”

The soldiers had watched helplessly as the pale Indian charged at full gallop toward the kneeling man, expecting to witness Josey's slaughter. Belatedly, a few thought to fire at the rider, but none could hit such a fast-moving target. To Caleb, it looked like Josey Angel was offering himself, whether to God or the Indian brave, it wasn't clear.

Just as his horse came upon Josey Angel, the Indian slid off to the side, reaching out to clasp Josey Angel's outstretched hand with his. The contact lasted for only a moment, but the momentum of the charging rider twisted Josey Angel in a half-circle, so that he was left facing the rider as he retreated toward the ravine, the hand that had touched his foe raised triumphantly as he whooped to mark his victory.

“He was counting coup?” Langdon Rutledge sounded no less amazed than Caleb had been at the time.

“That's what the soldiers figured.” No one had been able to explain it, and Josey Angel never spoke about it.

When he returned to the corral, the men parted wordlessly before him, like he had been touched by something more than an Indian. He fell to his knees beside the Colonel, who was unconscious but still breathing. For a moment Josey Angel looked to the skies again, his eyes closed against the day's glare. Then he lowered his head so that it rested against the Colonel's forehead.

As much as Caleb enjoyed the attention, he couldn't tell another part of the story, about a conversation with Josey Angel before they knew help was on the way. It was a story he knew none of the emigrants would believe.

Josey found a deck of old Union cards in the hospital tent. Instead of spades, clubs, hearts and diamonds, they were adorned with eagles, shields, stars and flags. When the Colonel awoke, Josey sat beside him, idly shuffling. The Colonel's voice was barely more than a whisper. “You hate cards.”

Josey continued shuffling. “You want water?”

The Colonel nodded. Josey set aside the cards and helped the old man lean forward and drink from a cup. The Colonel fell back heavily against the pine wood–frame cot, wincing as his head came against the tick suspended on the woven rope netting. Josey dealt, leaving six cards facedown on the Colonel's chest. He moved to show the Colonel the cards.

“I can do it.” He tried to sound gruff but didn't have the breath for it as he shifted to a sitting position. Keeping four cards, he put the others facedown on the blanket that covered his legs and Josey did the same. “How are we going to keep score?”

Josey glanced around for paper and pencil but saw none. “I'll keep it in my head.”

They both laughed at his joke. “You can't remember what game we're playing, most times.”

“I can cheat this way,” Josey said. He flipped over the starter card.

Before they finished the first play, the Colonel turned his gaze to the tent opening. It was mid-morning, and the camp throbbed with activity, a rhythm of sound from hammers and saws, shouted commands and responses. With the Indians so active, no one could rest until the fort stood strong.

“Do you want to sleep?”

“I want—” the Colonel smiled “—to not feel tired.”

“The doctor says you should feel better soon. He thinks the swelling is gone, which is too bad. A bigger brain might make you smart enough to win this game.”

“Smart enough not to kneel before a charging Indian?”

Josey winced.
Doc must have told him.
They had not spoken of the attack, probably never would. Josey still wasn't sure what to make of his encounter with the Indian warrior. He had expected to die. In the moment, thinking the Colonel already dead, the prospect relieved him. Now he wanted only to forget it. He had never failed the Colonel. His guilt squeezed like a chain bound so tight around his chest he struggled to breathe.

The old man reached for Josey's hand and squeezed, his grip surprisingly strong.

“I won't be ready to go with you.”

“I'm not going without you.”

“Don't be foolish. You have to lead these people to Virginia City. They can't wait for me.”

“I can't leave you here. I owe it to you.”

“What you owe me is to see this through.” There was steel in the Colonel's voice and his eyes were clearer than they had been since his injury. “I gave these people my word. You must keep it for me.”

Josey nodded, knowing he wouldn't win the argument.
You got what you wanted. Now you must keep your vow.

Josey had gone to check on the Colonel the night he'd been wounded. He found Rutledge's teamster seated beside him. Caleb looked like he had lost a quarter of his weight, his thick features turned gaunt, but at least he was alert. Josey motioned to the Colonel.

“Has he woken yet?”

Caleb didn't bother to look at Josey. “He's the same.”

The Southerner had never liked him. Josey found some comfort in that disdain now. He dropped beside Caleb. “You feel better?”

“Still drawing breath.” Caleb wasn't exactly welcoming, but Josey felt too tired to rise and wanted to be near the Colonel. “The water helped,” Caleb said after a spell.

Not that I was any help with that.

“What's that?”

Josey hadn't meant to speak aloud, wasn't sure he had. “I wasn't any help,” he said. “With the water.”

“You made sure those Indians didn't wind up in the corral. I'd call that a help.” For the first time since Josey sat down, Caleb looked at him, glassy-eyed but focused.

“It should have been me who went for the water. Not Wands. The Colonel wouldn't be lying here if I'd gone for the water.”

“You're right. It should have been you.”

Josey nearly laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “You have a strange way of comforting a man.”

“You want comfort, go to one of the women,” Caleb said, his voice even. “You wouldn't have run out of bullets. Once your rifle was done, you would have pulled those pistols, I expect.” Josey had thought the same thing. “Why didn't you go?”

The answer wasn't clear to Josey. He'd hesitated a moment, just long enough to consider the consequences. A delay no soldier could afford.

“I didn't want to die.”

Caleb snorted. “Can't blame a man for that. Dying's not high on my list right now, either. Too much to live for.”

Josey nodded. Since the war, he'd been drifting through his days, pausing only when the wind slackened and never for long. Those were his good days, when the darkness of what he'd seen and done didn't make him wish for a quick end. The thought of taking root somewhere seemed as unlikely as surviving the war once had.

Things were different now. He fell so easily into the daydream of the Montana ranch. As Josey rode, his imagination covered the valley with cattle, a barn and a grand ranch house on a knoll overlooking the stream. He filled the house with comfortable furniture and kitchen things a woman would use.
What a fool I've been.

He had dreamed of a future he knew he couldn't have. He had been wrong thinking he wouldn't outlive the war, but that didn't mean he could go back to being the man he once imagined he would be. The Greeks called that hubris, and the gods always punished a man for it. The Colonel paid for his hubris, just as Annabelle would pay for it if he didn't stay away from her.

“Do you believe in God?” he asked Caleb.

If the question surprised Caleb, he didn't show it. He shifted his weight from one side to the other. Stroked the whiskers across his jaw. “I don't,” he said. “A god would punish the guilty, not the innocent.”

“What if living is the punishment?”

“Then you should be thankful your colonel may find his peace. You don't look happy for him.”

“Why should I? He doesn't deserve peace any more than I do.” Both men laughed.

The Colonel did look at peace. His lips were chapped and ringed white, his face red from the day's sun. That much color was probably a good sign, but Josey wondered how much longer the old man could sleep before it harmed him.

He spoke a vow to himself. Some might have called it a prayer. Josey still believed in God, not with the blind faith of a child but with even greater certainty. That man was made in God's image he had learned to be true, for only God was so fearsome as man at war. There was nothing else in nature like it. A man doesn't ask mercy of such a god. Instead of asking anything, Josey offered himself for the task he knew God had given him.

God had made Josey an instrument of war, and the moment he turned his back on what he was, he put everyone around him in danger.
Didn't I learn that lesson in Kansas? Wasn't her death enough?
Josey wouldn't make that mistake again.

He left the woman's farmhouse in the morning. After a night with her, leaving was the last thing Josey wanted, but he couldn't betray the Colonel's trust by going AWOL. He promised he would return.

“You don't owe me anything.” She wore the flower-patterned white dress from the night before, had somehow found time to freshen herself. In the bright light of morning, the lines around her eyes and mouth were more distinct, but when she smiled she glowed from within. He started to promise something that would make the moment easier, but she stopped him with a finger to his lips.

“Don't say anything you'll regret later.”

He didn't understand, not at the time, but before he asked her meaning, she swatted his horse, and it lurched forward. By the time he looked back, she'd disappeared inside.

The hours couldn't pass swiftly enough that day. Josey avoided the Colonel and anybody else who might have asked where he'd been the previous night. He sneaked a sack of flour and a few other provisions from the cook wagons. It wasn't much, but it might help her after the soldiers moved on. He couldn't get away again until evening.

In the gathering dusk, he smelled the smoke before he saw it through the trees. He rode hard.

Flames licked at the roof, and smoke poured from the open door. Josey ran inside. Smoke overcame him within moments. He couldn't see anything. He fell to his knees, coughing, fighting for air. He crawled to the back of the house, into the bedroom. A leg dangled over the edge of the bed. The white dress had been torn, fully exposing the lifeless body. Her vacant eyes stared toward the door as if at the last she had been looking for his return. He flung her over his shoulder and ran from the room, eyes and lungs burning.