by William Gear
Corporal Pettigrew paced nervously where he guarded the packs, and said, “We’re down to seven rounds for the Spencer, Cap’n. A couple of pounds of flour, and a half tin of lard. Reckon come breakfast mess, the last of that antelope is gonna be gone, too.”
“Sounds like supply and commissary is getting’ thin along with the air.” Frank Thompson was jabbing a stick into the ground. “But … guess it ain’t the fust time we all been on short rations.”
As Butler looked around, the men had turned somber, eyes either on the distance or the ground at their feet.
He couldn’t stand it. “Have any of you seen Sergeant Kershaw?”
No one so much as met his eyes.
“I just can’t take insubordination. An officer must have obedience.”
“Kershaw’s right,” Pettigrew told him, “you caint miss all them trees. They’s there whether y’all wants t’ see them or not.”
“That day is done, gentlemen.” Again he felt the throb of fear growing around his heart.
Don’t go there, Butler. If you do, it will destroy you.
“How about a song?” Butler asked, and began singing. “‘Hurrah! Hurrah! For Southern rights, hurrah! Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star. Hurrah for our Confederacy…’”
His voice faded. None had joined in.
“Would you rather we sang ‘Lorena’?” Seeing only sad expressions, he asked, “What about ‘The Rose of Alabama’?”
Billy Templeton stared into space. Jimmy Peterson slowly touched his fingertips together and pulled them apart, only to do it all over again. Pettigrew was shaking his head, gaze vacant. None would so much as look him in the eye.
“We had to leave,” Butler said, hating the emptiness inside. “Doc wanted us out of his life.”
One by one, he looked at them, saying, “We can do this! It’s not the first time we’ve faced long odds. You should have been with Tom Hindman and me in Arkansas. We had nothing. The state was lost! But we brought it back. Yes, it was hard. Yes, we made difficult choices. But damn it, men, we built an army.”
“And lost it at Prairie Grove,” Pettigrew reminded. “And all them partisan rangers? Wasn’t they the ones who tore the state apart? Drove the people away from their homes? How’d that work out, Cap’n? Arkansans killin’ each other instead of Yankee invaders? If Tom Hindman was so all-fired smart, why’d they th’ow him outta Arkansas? What’s he doing in Mexico? Why’nt he win the damn war?”
Butler shivered, leveling a shaking finger at Pettigrew. “Stop it! I don’t want to hear any more. Not a word. We did what we had to. Don’t you see? Killing those men … those boys? They were deserters. Right down to those children the Texans shot down. That wasn’t my fault. No sirree. They abandoned their oath and their state.”
He swallowed hard, looking down at his shaking hands. “Not my fault,” he whispered. Damn it! Why couldn’t he stop the spasms in his hands?
“Didn’t have to let us charge up that hill,” someone muttered.
Butler snapped his head up. “Who said that? Speak up.”
The men seemed frozen, flickering ghostlike at the edge of the firelight. None of them would meet his eyes.
The trembling in his hands was worse, as if the muscles in his arms had lost all control.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Butler whispered. “It wasn’t me.”
93
September 1, 1867
Maybe shooting the calf elk would change things. At least, Butler hoped so as he stood over the brown carcass. He pulled a hind leg up and propped it against his back to expose the light tan underbelly. Working carefully, he sliced through hair and skin to open the belly, slitting from the brisket, past the penis, to the pelvic bone. The warm smell of blood, fat, and the hot sweet scent of elk internals rose to bathe Butler’s face. In the cold morning air, steam from the guts rose in delicate tendrils.
Please, let this change things.
He wasn’t sure he could stand the growing strain, the long periods of quiet as the men avoided him. It was horrible the way he’d catch them casting accusatory looks in his direction when they thought he wasn’t looking.
It was all because Kershaw had left.
Damn him anyway.
Then, that morning, this bull calf had burst from behind a patch of willows, water dribbling from its mouth where it had been drinking. Two cow elk had exploded from the other side of the thicket and fled headlong for the timber a couple hundred yards up the slope.
Confused, the calf had stared openly at Butler and his horses. In that moment of hesitation, Butler had pulled up the Spencer, eared the hammer back, and shot the calf in the chest as it whirled and ran after the two bounding cows. The way the beast had run full-out up the sage-studded slope toward the timber left Butler wondering if he’d missed. Impossible as that seemed.
Apple hadn’t appreciated the carbine’s sharp report and made life interesting as Butler tried to control his crow-hopping mount, keep his seat, and maintain his grip on both the carbine and the packhorse’s lead rope.
As the horse had settled, the distant calf had slowed, staggered, and finally fallen just shy of the timber. It had been a remarkable run for a lung shot.
Butler and the men picked up the first frothy crimson spots halfway to the animal, and the blood trail had increased until they reached the calf, lying on its side, eyes wide and dark.
“You see,” Butler told them. “We’re back on full rations. Tonight we’ll feast on backstrap. No Confederate commissary ever fessed up the like of that, now did they?”
He pointed his bloody knife at Pettigrew. “Corporal, you’ve been bitching like an old one-legged hen in a muddy barnyard.” He waved around at the rest of them. “You all have. Which is what soldiers do. I understand. But lookee here. An officer’s first responsibility is to his men. And tonight, we’re feasting like we were in Richmond at Jeff Davis’s table. Not even Tom Hindman could have provided the like.”
Butler bent to cut out the anus and core the pelvis before reaching into the gut cavity. He jerked everything loose, and pulled the intestines and bladder out into the sagebrush.
Two ravens had appeared, both cawing to each other as they bounced from branch to branch in the closest fir trees and watched with beady black eyes.
“Reckon we owe y’all an apology, Cap’n,” Phil Vail admitted, dropping to his haunches to stare out across the valley at the high cliffs off to the north.
“I should have been more appreciative to the needs of my men,” Butler admitted.
He stopped where he’d been cutting out the diaphragm and stepped over to Pettigrew, looking him in the eyes. “But you, Corporal, during Sergeant Kershaw’s absence, are second in command.” He pointed a finger. “I expect more from you.”
Pettigrew, however, stared back stoically, as if not hearing.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Butler stomped over to Vail. “Don’t you see? I’ve never shirked my responsibilities to any of you. I realize you’ve had your doubts, not only in battle, but on this march. Nevertheless, I know what I’m doing. It should—”
“Ain’t seen any beaver,” someone said.
Butler whirled, wondering which of the men had blurted it out, but Templeton and Peterson were watching the ravens hopping about in the branches and waiting for their chance at the gut pile.
“Who said that? Step forward, and be a man.”
When none of the men moved, Butler told them, “Paw trapped beavers on the upper Wind. We’ll no doubt find them as we get higher. I’ve brought you this far, haven’t I?”
He shook from a sudden surge of anger, snapping, “Goddamn it! What do you expect from me? I’m doing the best I can.”
He muttered under his breath as he pulled the ruined lungs from the chest cavity. The shot had been good, but the .50-caliber bullet had only destroyed the left lung, stopping halfway through.
“At what point in the animal’s death did the bullet fail to perform?” Butler asked himself.
Nevertheless, he glanced at the men. “Don’t think we want to tackle a grizzly with a Spencer, though. Paw says they’re tough as sun-cured rawhide, big, and meaner than the devil himself.”
He sliced open the throat, cutting out the trachea and severing it just below the jawbone. This he tossed to the ravens who fluttered down and began squabbling over it.
Butler walked back to the packhorse and retrieved his ax. With sure strokes, he split the rib cage and propped it wide with a stick to cool. The men had watched with unusual attention, respectful for the first time since Kershaw had left. And, since that fateful day, Butler finally felt more sure of himself.
Maybe an elk would do that.
Butler glanced at Shandy, wishing he had a good pack saddle and panniards instead of the tarp he’d tied on with a diamond hitch.
“What ch’all gonna do next, Cap’n?” Vail asked. “I ain’t never packed nothing bigger’n a deer or hog.”
“We’re going to cut the carcass into halves,” Butler told him. “Front and back. It’s a trick Paw taught me. Then we cut each half down the middle through the backbone, but we don’t cut the hide. That holds the whole load together when you lay it upside down and inside out on the horse with a quarter hanging off either side.”
He pointed. “Front half goes on Apple, the lighter, back half, on Shandy. I’ll lead the horses to where we’re going to camp tonight, and we’ll spend the next couple of days cutting up the meat and smoking it dry over a fire.”
He heard whistles and stamping feet as the men approved.
Right up until the time came to load.
Loose, limp halves of elk were almost impossible to lift. And this was only a calf? Then, as he strained, his legs trembling, blinded by the hairy burden, the horses shied away every time he staggered close to them.
Finally he collapsed onto the fragrant sagebrush, panting and gasping. On one side the horses watched him with wary eyes, the men from the other.
Butler blinked, muttered under his breath, and the horses shifted their wary prick-eared attention to the trees.
The ravens leaped into the air, each with a dangling and bloody treat hanging from its beak. They flapped away, wings slashing the air.
The horses shifted nervously, the air having gone remarkably quiet beneath the breeze blowing down the valley.
He first saw the Indians on the slope below. They had formed a line in the sagebrush. With hand signals, they were ordering several large dogs to circle to the side. Indians for sure, their dress and long black hair could be no other. They had bows in hand, arrows nocked but not drawn.
Butler called, “Atten-shun! Corporal Pettigrew, have your men form a line.”
“Form a line,” Pettigrew bellowed. “Look sharp now!”
Butler wished he had a bugler and drummer, but would make do as the men formed up, looking downhill. Indians! A thread of fear pulled tight in his gut.
“Cap’n, suh?” Kershaw whispered behind his ear. “Reckon y’all otta look to the rear. They done flanked us, suh.”
Kershaw! He’s back!
Butler whirled around, seeing no less than ten warriors emerge from the trees no more than forty yards away. And in that moment, he steadied, almost smiling his relief. Kershaw was back. He could face this new threat.
“Been missing you, Sergeant.”
“Reckon y’all needed some he’p.”
The Indians wore their hair piled high and roached up before it fell down their backs in black waves. Two held large-caliber flintlock muskets, the others carried finely crafted bows with nocked arrows. They had hard, dark faces, their features hawkish, noses thin and cheeks wide and angular. They watched him with wary and unforgiving dark eyes, wide mouths pinched into angry lines. Some had feathers in their hair, others woven strips of fine and glossy fur.
They moved with a fluid grace as they surrounded Butler and his command. And it hit him, their hunting shirts—more like coats actually—were finely tanned and tailored, clean, and trimmed in wolf, coyote, and bear hide. Tall moccasins rose almost to the knee and colorful breechcloths hung at the loins.
“Hold your fire!” Butler commanded his men. “Sergeant Kershaw, order the men to fix bayonets.”
“Fix bayonets,” Kershaw bellowed from behind Butler’s ear.
“Fix bayonets,” Corporal Pettigrew repeated.
One of the Indians, more lightly complected, his hair wavy and brown, stepped forward, hands raised. Staring warily around, he finally focused light brown eyes on Butler, asking, “What’s yer name, pilgrim?”
Butler snapped to attention, saluting. “Captain Butler Hancock, Company A, Second and Fifteenth Arkansas Volunteers. You have the advantage of me, sir. I cannot see your rank or martial affiliation.”
The Indian cocked his head slightly, looking perplexed. “That ain’t palaver this coon’s ever heard. Ain’t even heard it amongst the missionaries, and they talk plumb odd of an occasion.”
Butler blinked, hearing Paw at the supper table when he fell into the vernacular of the mountains. “Y’all are common folk, then?”
“We’re what ye’d be calling Sheep Eaters. Can ye ken that, pilgrim?”
“Sheep Eaters.” Butler laughed and slapped his thighs. “Reckon this coon can. My pap larn’ed me when I was a young ’un. He spoke highly of the Sheep Eaters. Said they were brave and men of honor. Said he lived with the Dukurika Sheep Eaters for a couple of years. Said they were some of the best days of his life.”
“Who you talk to?” The Indian gestured around at the sagebrush.
“I am an officer. I am responsible for these men.”
Again the Shoshoni looked confused. He spoke rapidly to the others in his own tongue. One, an older man—streaks of white lining his temples and deep lines in his face—kept studying Butler intently. A thick necklace of animal bones, claws, and beads hung down his chest. He asked something of the young warrior.
The young man shrugged, then stated, “We don’t see no men but you, coon.”
“My men are soldiers, Second Arkansas. They’re standing right there.” Butler pointed. “I see them plain and clear as I see you.”
Again the Dukurika conversed.
“You see them, but others do not?”
“Some call me crazy,” Butler told him with a smile. “But tell me this? Who’s got the right of it? Me? Who can see them? Or you that can’t?”
Butler reached out with his left hand, grabbing his right to keep it from shaking.
The old man watched him as he did. Meanwhile the speaker translated.
Then the older man stepped around the elk’s gut pile and stopped a pace away, staring into Butler’s eyes. The effect was eerie, as if those stone-black eyes were looking down into Butler’s trembling soul.
“Who’re you?” Butler asked.
“He is Puhagan,” the speaker told him. “What you would call medicine man. He has asked to see you.”
“To see me? How did he know I was coming?”
“We been watchin’ fer days, Man Who Speaks to No One.” The young man gestured with his hands. “We watched you. The ravens watched. The elk and wind have watched. We all talked about you. You fed the ravens, reckon now you c’n feed us.”
Butler was still looking into the old man’s eyes. It was as if he were falling into a deep and dark hole. A place where dreams and the real world mixed and flowed together.
Puhagan said something.
The speaker translated, “Puhagan says that you are to come with us, Butler Hancock. He says he knows what you are. A party of the Injuns you call Crow is a half day’s ride over east. He would rather that they don’t carry your carcass off ter their land.”
“He knows who I am?”
The speaker shrugged his young shoulders. “A puhagan palavers with the spirits, maybe like you do, Butler Hancock.”
“Where’d you learn to talk English?”
“From the traders, coon. My mother lived in a mountaineer’s lodge fer nigh on ten years afore he
went under. She brung me home, remarried.”
“Hold!” Butler called as Billy Templeton tried to shift out of line. “At ease. Form the men, Sergeant. Prepare to move out.”
The puhagan had watched him, eyes gleaming and thoughtful.
At the old man’s orders, the elk was easily lifted onto the horses and tied down with lengths of braided leather rope the Sheep Eaters provided. As quickly and expertly as the warriors tied on the load, they might have done it a thousand times. The heart, liver, kidney, and tongue vanished into sacks and bags.
The men who’d cut off retreat downhill were approaching now, the dogs called to heel. They were big beasts, splotched with color, panting from mouths where most of the teeth were filed flat. They watched Butler and the elk with alert and interested eyes.
Then, at an order, the dogs literally leaped on the gut pile, devouring the lungs, paunch, and long strings of intestines.
“How are you called?” Butler asked the speaker.
He rattled off something in Shoshoni. “Means Cracked Bone Thrower, after the man who done taken the last bone from the feast, cracks it open and sucks out the marrow. Then, when there is nothing left, he throws it out beyond the camp circle. My white name is Dick Hamilton. After my grandfather Richard. That ol’ coon trapped beaver and traded all through these parts.”
Puhagan asked something, and as he did Cracked Bone Thrower translated, “We do not want to walk on your spirit men. Can you show us how to avoid them?”
“Tell your elder that the men appreciate his concern, but they’ll do fine on their own. They’re used to staying out of the way.”
When this was translated, the puhagan gave Butler the most unsettling stare, as if the man were passing judgment on Butler’s suddenly nervous soul.
“Cap’n?” Kershaw whispered behind Butler’s ear. “I reckon we be in a heap of trouble.”
“Why is that, Sergeant?”
“’Cause my mam done tol’ me about the evil eye, and I reckon that old man’s done fixed it on you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means you and him’s gonna have to do battle afore this is over, Cap’n.”
