Trail Angel (31 page)

He collapsed outside, his weight falling heavily on her body. For a minute, maybe two, he couldn't breathe. Air came in sips, like breathing through a knotted straw. The tattered dress clung to her back. Once he could breathe and see again, he arranged the material to cover her. He closed her eyes and took her hand in his, wishing to ask forgiveness but not allowing it for himself. The silver band was gone. Josey covered her body with a horse blanket he found in the barn. He mounted and rode to camp. Darkness had fallen by the time he arrived.

The bummers were infantry, their camp separate from the cavalry. Josey left his horse and rifle at his tent. Once among the infantry, he followed the lights of the cook fires. He nearly bumped into one of the bummers as he walked back from the latrine. He was even younger than Josey, a towhead with an overly large nose. Josey recognized him as the man who'd held the squawking chicken.

“Been busy?”

The man's eyes widened. Before he moved, Josey bull-rushed him, pinned him against a tree, his Bowie knife to the boy's neck.

“It wasn't me.”

“Be quiet.” Josey pushed the knife against his skin, drawing a trickle of blood. “Quietly, tell me what happened.”

“It was the sergeant. He killed her.”

“You didn't take a turn?”

The boy shook his head, so violently he almost slit his own throat against Josey's knife.

“Was it the four of you again?”

The man nodded. “But it was the sergeant that did it.”

“What did he do?”

“You know . . .” The boy feared speaking it aloud with a knife to his throat. He swallowed hard and winced. “She screamed so much, he started choking her. To make her quiet.”

“And then what?”

The boy closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was calmer. “The sergeant told us to fire the place, so no one would know.”

“She had a ring. The sergeant take that?”

The boy shrugged. “He must have. No one else was with her.”

“Where's the sergeant?”

He looked to his left, in the direction of a fire.

“The others with him?”

He nodded.

“Anyone else with you.”

“No. I'll show you,” he said. “If you let me go, I won't say anything.”

“Like you didn't say anything when he killed her?”

The boy closed his eyes again.

“I—”

Josey drew the knife across his throat with a violent jerk. He didn't care to hear the rest.

The other three were seated around the fire, just as the boy had said. One of the men crouched over the fire, pouring a cup of black. The sergeant already had his. He reclined against a tree, his boots off, legs stretched toward the fire so his toes glowed pink in the light through torn socks. Josey moved straight to him.

“Jesus, Shelton, you were gone long enough to shit a horse.”

The sergeant had just enough time to realize his mistake before Josey fell on him and the knife was out and it was done. The other two sat dumbstruck. Josey whirled on them in a bloody frenzy of slashing. Only the last man had time to rouse himself. He reached for a revolver and Josey cut him. They struggled for the knife. The other man outweighed him by a few stone, but the life slowly drained from him. Josey held him down and waited, watching his eyes as fury gave way to fear, then to surrender, then to sorrow, a sinner's final penitence.

Josey rummaged through the sergeant's pockets and found the ring. He rode back to the farmhouse in the dark. The house had burned itself out. The stone fireplace remained, along with a few smoking timbers at the foundation.

After replacing the ring, Josey dug a grave under a tree behind the house. He found some leather strips and a pair of stakes in the barn to construct a cross. Then he kneeled beside her resting place. A day earlier he might have prayed. Instead, he cursed the men who killed her. He cursed himself for not returning sooner. He cursed a god so bloodthirsty the thousands sacrificed in battle couldn't satisfy him. Dawn cast a pink glow across the sky by the time Josey returned to camp. The Colonel waited on the path before the sentry pickets.

“We need to go.”

Josey heard the sounds of camp, louder than usual for so early in the day. Amid the usual noise, he heard shouted commands as if the soldiers were readying for battle. “Where are we going?”

“Georgia.”

Josey nodded. If the Colonel trusted him enough not to ask why they had to leave, Josey wouldn't ask why they were going to Georgia.

“I'm ready.”

Colonel Henry Carrington looked more like the lawyer and man of letters he'd been before the war than an infantry officer commanding a frontier post. A stooped, thin man with a high forehead and soft dark eyes that looked sad even when he smiled, he found Josey at the Colonel's bedside in the hospital tent. They'd given up on cards.

“I understand from the doctor you are in no condition to travel,” Carrington said to the Colonel after exchanging introductions. “While the circumstances are regretful, it would be foolish of me not to make use of what providence has delivered. We have need for scouts with your—” he looked to Josey as he considered his words “—martial skills. The Indians are not so pacified as Washington would believe.”

“Yes, we had cause to see,” the Colonel said. His hand moved to the back of his head.

Carrington's lack of field experience had been a frequent topic among the men headed to serve under him. The grousing stopped once the Indians attacked. Action was always the best tonic for camp gossip. So it was at Fort Phil Kearny, where Josey found the men were too busy to complain. Maybe Carrington wasn't much of a fighter, but he knew how to put his men to effective use with saw and shovel.

“Do you have plans to attack?” the Colonel asked.

“Not until we're ready. The fort must be completed first,” Carrington said. He paced before the Colonel's cot, the movement apparently helping him focus his thoughts. Though not an old man, maybe forty, his deep-set eyes made him appear older. “We still must scout the territory more thoroughly. We have no firsthand knowledge of their numbers or position.”

Carrington came to a stop, his gaze shifting between the two men. “That is why I need you.” He resumed his pacing. “I know many of my men dismiss them as untrained heathens, but it is a mistake to underestimate the Sioux. Two-thirds of my mounted infantry didn't even know how to ride when we left Nebraska. I don't yet have enough officers to train them. My hope is we'll have time to drill once the fort is completed.”

“You should start with target practice,” Josey offered. “It's a different matter shooting from the back of a horse than it is standing in a line, especially with those long rifles.”

Carrington dropped his head, mumbling something Josey didn't hear.

The Colonel looked to Josey, not sure he believed what he heard. “Did you say you don't have the ammunition?”

“It's true,” Carrington said, speaking more softly. “We were promised one hundred thousand rounds at Laramie, but there was nothing for the arms we carried. We don't even have enough to shoot at the wolves that gather around the fort at night. Most of what we have are old Springfields.” He looked at Josey. “If I could arm every soldier with a rifle like yours, I would take the fight to the Indians.”

“Why don't they get you repeaters or at least breech-loaders?” the Colonel asked. “Carbines would be better for fighting from horseback.”

“The war department claims the single-shot rifles cut down on wasted ammunition,” Carrington said. His dark-ringed eyes looked even sadder.

The Colonel scoffed. “Sounds like somebody in the war department is getting paid extra by Mr. Springfield.”

Carrington brightened. “You see how great my need is. Can I count on you?”

“I'm afraid I won't be much help to you, Colonel Carrington, and Josey will be needed to see these settlers through to Virginia City.” He looked to Josey as he said the next part. “We gave them our word.”

Carrington responded with a stiff bow of his head. “I respect your decision, but our priorities are not in opposition. Winter is the best time to seek out hostile Indians, when they are encamped for the season.” He looked to Josey. “You could complete your mission and return by then. The fort should be done by Christmas. We'll begin our campaign with the new year.”

I hope the Indians aren't ready before he is.
Josey kept his doubts to himself.

An awkward silence fell over them until Carrington cleared his throat. “I see I have given you much to think about. I won't expect an immediate answer, at least not to this request.” He placed his hand on Josey's shoulder. “I have one more thing to ask, and I'm afraid you will not be permitted to refuse.”

Josey looked up, not sure what to say.

“My wife has insisted on your presence at dinner tonight.” Carrington's beard parted in a smile at his verbal misdirection. “Mrs. Carrington is not a woman to be refused.”

Josey stood. “I wouldn't think of it, except—” He looked down to the Colonel.

“Don't use me as an excuse for your antisocial behavior. I'll be asleep by then, and sleep better for not having you standing over me at all hours like some vulture.”

“Excellent.” Carrington beamed. “Mrs. Carrington will be delighted,” he said to Josey before turning to leave. He had stooped to slip outside the tent when he looked back. He nodded and departed the tent without registering Josey's reaction to his farewell.

“I'm sure you will take comfort knowing you won't be dining alone with us. Mrs. Carrington has made sure to invite someone with whom I understand you are well acquainted: Mrs. Annabelle Holcombe.”

Margaret Carrington managed to fashion a formal dining setting within the fort headquarters, one of the first buildings constructed. A table Josey expected was used for meetings among the officers had been covered with a lacy, white cloth. Artfully arranged candles created a warm glow about the diners.

Even with a clean set of clothes and the loan of a jacket from Colonel Carrington, Josey felt underdressed. The fort commander wore his dress blue uniform, resplendent with brass buttons, gold braid and epaulets, while Mrs. Carrington had on a gown of blue that set off her eyes.

Annabelle was there when Josey arrived, wearing a gauzy, cream-colored dress he had never seen, her hair done up so elaborately he wondered how long she and Mrs. Carrington had been plotting this evening. Seeing Annabelle, Josey almost forgot his whereabouts. Her eyes found his from across the room even as Colonel Carrington formally introduced his wife. A flush came over Josey, his breath irregular. He couldn't look at Annabelle without remembering how it felt to hold her, without thinking that he would never have that pleasure again. The eye contact lasted only a moment. He couldn't hold her gaze, feeling like a coward as he looked away.

“I remember when you used to look at me that way, Henry.”

“I hope I still do,” Colonel Carrington answered his wife. He took her hand in his and bestowed a kiss.

Annabelle came to Josey, her eyes pinning him to the spot until she stood before him and waited to be kissed on the cheek. A coolness seeped from her, like a breeze off the mountains. Her dark eyes looked past him as she spoke. “I'm overjoyed to finally see that you are whole.”

He had put off seeing her too long. He had known that, even as he continued to avoid her. A thousand times he thought of what he might say, but it never sounded right. He might tell Annabelle about the war. The hundred different ways he knew a man could look in the moment he dies. Bodies stiff and stacked like cordwood waiting for an unmarked burial. By torturing her with his memories, she might forgive his silences.
No. It's all a lie.
He wasn't afraid to tell her these things. What
he
feared were the questions that would follow.

How did you feel?

He could never tell her about the days he fired his rifle so many times he wore a glove to keep his hand from burning. He could never tell her about the boys and grandfathers at the Georgia farm who kept coming and coming. About how easy it was to lose himself in the routine of aiming, firing, reloading, so that it became a mechanical thing. About the pride he felt in being better at it than any man.
Ah, there's the thing.
The crispy black ash in his chest where his heart had been.

Josey remembered watching his father, so precise in how he displayed the goods in his store, following up behind Josey to sweep the floors a final time before leaving for the night because everything had to be just so.

“A man should take pride in his work,” he had told Josey.

His father had been fortunate to find work that suited his skills. He hid his disappointment that Josey hadn't found his life's calling in the store. Josey found it on bloody fields in Kansas and Georgia. It wasn't that he enjoyed killing. Men who enjoyed it frightened him. No, Josey found pride in being good at something, at being better than anyone else. He enjoyed the way the Colonel depended on him. He had enjoyed the way other men looked at him and talked of him, at first anyway.

Was he wrong to find pride in being the best at his task? Was it any different than a base ball player who clubs the ball farther than anyone else? Was he a lesser man than a fiddler who makes his instrument sing a heavenly tune?
Of course, I am.
The shame and nightmares were proof enough, and no penance was great enough to forgive what he had become. He could never tell Annabelle any of this, and he saw now he could never be with her without telling her.

Mrs. Carrington displayed as much patience for a lull in the conversation as she would for a hair in the soup. Josey struggled to follow the small talk. He saw the women's lips move without hearing all the words. By closing his eyes, he followed a snippet before he felt obliged to look at his hostess, her words lost again in the dissonance.