This Scorched Earth

by William Gear

  Flicker pointed. “There. Just around that red cliff. It is a place of springs. We will be there by dusk.”

  “Does Dirty Face have a bigger band than Puhagan?”

  “All Dukurika camps are small at this time of year,” she told him, mixing Shoshoni with English words and hand signs. “Mostly just families, no more than ten or twenty people. As the snow goes away we will move up into the mountains. In summer these lowlands are too dangerous. There is too much war and raiding with Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho, Crow, and Blackfeet passing through.”

  Butler glanced over at the men, calling, “See. There’s trouble everywhere that men are men. War and raiding. Even here in paradise.”

  “Maybe we’re all mad,” Corporal Pettigrew called back.

  “Maybe we are,” Butler agreed.

  Mountain Flicker glanced at the emptiness where Butler directed his remarks, and a knowing smile followed.

  The shadows were long by the time Puhagan led them down a drainage and into a small valley marked by red cliffs on the west and steeply sloped beds of sandstone that gave way to soaring limestone on the east.

  Two young runners came trotting up the trail, long hair bobbing behind them, dogs leading the way. It created a small melee as dogs and people sorted themselves out amid wagging tails, growls, and called greetings.

  After that it was another mile or so before the youths led the way into a gap in the upthrust sandstone. Behind it lay a sheltered cove beneath high stony slopes. Here water bubbled up out of the ground in a small stream. Above it, amid juniper and pines, a winter camp of brush structures had been built against a sandstone incline.

  Mountain Flicker pointed out the people. “That’s Dirty Face. And he’s the elder here. That tall young man is his oldest son, Chokecherry Eater. The two older women are Dirty Face’s wives, both sisters. The one with the limp is Ripe Currant, the younger one is Moon Cloud. That pregnant woman is Chokecherry Eater’s wife, White Hand.”

  Introductions continued as Butler dismounted and helped Cracked Bone Thrower unpack Shandy’s load. He led the animals to water and then to a grassy flat where he staked them on pickets.

  By the time he made it back to camp, a good fire was burning. Puhagan’s and Cracked Bone Thrower’s small tipis had been pitched, and Mountain Flicker was halfway through the task of weaving branches she’d stripped from juniper into a conical structure for Butler and herself. As soon as she finished with the frame, she’d wrap their lodge cover around it.

  “Go and see the hurt taipo,” she told him as her nimble fingers wove the prickly juniper. “This will be finished by the time you get back. Then we will eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Butler told her with a salute. She always smiled when he saluted her, knowing it was a gesture of respect.

  “That big earth lodge,” she told him, pointing to a domed structure back in the trees.

  Butler made his way to the low entrance, calling, “Puhagan?”

  “We are here, Butler,” Cracked Bone Thrower replied.

  Butler ducked into the low, warm interior, finding it lit by a stone-slab-lined fire pit just inside the door. The odor of stale sweat and sepsis made him grimace; flashes of memory took him back to Camp Douglas, and filth, despair, and death.

  The taipo lay in the back. In the dim light Puhagan was peeling back a blanket to expose long gashes that ran diagonally across the big man’s chest. The right hand was missing, the forearm a lacerated mess—skin and muscle stripped from the bone—and dripping infection. The left hand was chewed and missing the ring finger and pinky. Dark scabs could be seen across the man’s scalp where teeth or claws had ripped through the long white hair.

  “It was a spring grizzly,” Cracked Bone Thrower told Butler. “She had just come out of her cave with two cubs. The Silver Eagle”—he indicated the wincing white man—“came upon them by accident. She would have killed him and eaten him, but he managed to jump off the trail and fell down a steep slope. At the bottom a juniper tree stopped his fall, but even then, his leg is broken.”

  The Silver Eagle.

  Water Ghost Woman’s gift.

  It all made sense.

  Cracked Bone Thrower was giving him a “see, I told you so” look. Puha was at play here. He felt the Power of it settle on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.

  Butler fixed on the man’s thin face, on his high forehead, the matted beard, and hawkish nose. Behind the parted lips he could see the chipped tooth, the gap worn in the teeth from years of clenching a pipe stem.

  As if he were hearing it again, Water Ghost Woman’s words echoed in the cramped structure. “By saving the Silver Eagle, you condemn him.”

  “I have the puha to heal,” he whispered, heart pounding.

  “What was that?” Cracked Bone Thrower asked, the men looking up at Butler.

  “He has to be cleansed,” Butler told them. “The claw marks and bites are infected; I’ve seen it before, after the battles. You’ve told me of the Smoking Waters, where hot water bubbles from the earth. The Bah’gewana. We need to take him there if there’s to be any chance of saving him.”

  Cracked Bone Thrower had translated and Puhagan straightened, asking in Shoshoni, “You know this?”

  Butler nodded. “Can we go there tomorrow? Pack him on the horse?”

  “Ha’a,” Puhagan told him. “But we need to set that broken leg first.”

  Butler dropped on his knees, laying a hand on the fevered man’s forehead. Delirious blue eyes wavered in their sockets as he stared up at Butler. The man’s lips parted, his tongue working as if he were trying to speak.

  “It’s going to be all right, puha has brought me to you. Water Ghost Woman said I could save you.”

  “Butler?” the man finally managed to whisper.

  “It’s me, Paw.”

  107

  April 28, 1868

  The play that night at Angel’s Lair was Caesar and Cleopatra. The back of the parlor sported five chairs in which the clients sat, cigars and their liquor of choice at hand. On the raised stage, two male actors played Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. The background looked like a dressed-stone wall, and the only props were two velvet-upholstered chaise longues.

  Resources in isolated Denver being what they were, Caesar’s and Antony’s helmets might have looked more like buckets, and the breastplates they wore like stove parts; nor did the red kilts resemble the pictures of Romans that Sarah had seen in the magazines. The sandals had been borrowed from an acting troupe, as had the swords.

  Across the foyer, the two violins and a cello added a musical background while the actors spouted their lines in the glow of the floor lamps.

  The one playing Caesar—a tall black-haired Ohioan—declared in his nasal twang, “I tell you, Mark Antony, I shall burn Egypt! Raze it to the ground! I am Caesar! I come, I see, I conquer!”

  “But Caesar,” Antony objected, “this is the land of Pharaohs, birthplace of Moses. To simply lay it waste is a hideous bit of business.”

  At this juncture, Theresa, dressed in a simple shift, entered the room, bowing down in such a manner as to tease the audience with her rounded buttocks.

  “Hail, Caesar!” she cried. “I am Memnis, servant to Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. She has sent me with a gift for the noble Caesar!”

  Mark Antony stepped forward, laying a hand on Caesar’s arm. “Before you unleash havoc on the Egyptians, Caesar, at least see what the queen sends.”

  “I only do this for you, Antony,” Caesar quipped, gesturing.

  Into the room came Mick, bare-chested, wearing a pair of baggy yellow pants. A roll of carpet was carried crosswise in his arms. This he laid on the raised platform at Caesar’s feet, bowed, left.

  “She sends me a rug?” Caesar complained. “I could find the like at the local bazaar!”

  Sarah, from the back of the room, glanced at the rapt expressions on the johnnies’ faces. The ash on their cigars gave them away. Short ash, they were bored. Long ash, the cigars were forgotten
in anticipation. Now all eyes were fixed on the roll of carpet, shaped as it was in a most female form.

  Sarah slipped silently out and closed the door behind her as she entered the dining room. In the process, every male patron in the room strained to catch a peek. Callie and Ginnie, dressed to look like Egyptians, kohl dark around their eyes, were already waiting for the finale. Arms crossed to emphasize their busts, they’d been teasing the men at their suppers.

  Sarah gave them a nod, looked at the men, and said, “Don’t be left out, gentlemen. There will be another show tomorrow night. Make your reservations with Mick, and you’ll get a thrill you won’t soon forget.”

  “The only thrill I’d never forget is taking a roll with the Goddess!” one called jovially.

  “I will anxiously await your increase in prosperity, Joshua,” Sarah shot back with a wink, and stepped into the bar. Another ten men were drinking at the tables, poker games forgotten, heads cocked in the attempt to overhear the “play.”

  The bartender, washing glasses, gave her the “all’s well” nod, and went back to his duties. At that moment the musicians hit their cue—a dynamic crescendo as Agatha was unrolled from the carpet.

  From here on, as Cleopatra, she would slowly seduce Caesar, thereby saving her kingdom. Meanwhile, Callie and Ginnie would attempt to distract Mark Antony, who, despite both women’s attentions, would look longingly and jealously at Cleopatra as she enticed Caesar onto the chaise.

  Sarah glanced at the clock. The girls had another twenty minutes before the play was over and the johnnies would be desperate to get them upstairs.

  Mick descended the stairs, dressed again in his usual fine silk vest, pressed trousers, and starched white shirt.

  As he resumed his station below the stairs, Sarah stepped close and asked, “How are we doing?”

  “Five hundred up from last night, ma’am. Frankie, Sally, and Ceylon should be finishing their johnnies.” He indicated the men at the bar, every one of them imagining what was happening in the show. “Reckon by the time the show’s over, there’ll be demand enough that we’ll have a full house.”

  Keeping seven girls busy on show nights—in spite of the outrageous prices Sarah charged—was never an issue. Yet. Word was that after seeing one of the shows, Big Ed and some of his partners were working on two houses that would offer competition. As Aggie would have told her, “It’s short-term.”

  The presence of the new houses would add to the struggle of finding male actors. It wasn’t the money, or male willingness, but duration—finding the ones who could keep wood in their peckers long enough to end the play.

  A smart woman would seize the moment. She could almost imagine Aggie’s green eyes, her ironic smile. Practically hear her Irish-inflected voice saying, “Quote Big Ed a price. Worst he could do is say no, second worst is a low counteroffer, but then, he might just buy you out on the spot.”

  But what should she ask? What was Angel’s Lair worth? With Aggie’s death, she owned it all free and clear. She not only had investments in lots in both Denver and Cheyenne that had started to pay off, but through the lawyer Bela Hughes she had also invested in the Denver Board of Trade—a committee of influential men desperate to bring either the Union Pacific, Kansas Pacific, or a third line of their own creation, the Denver Pacific, to the growing city.

  The musicians hit another crescendo, the signal that Cleopatra had allowed the last of her garments to fall away.

  Whistles and applause could be heard, the music softening sensually. Agatha was peeling away Caesar’s armor.

  During the show, clientele were directed around to the back, entering through the kitchen so as not to distract from the action.

  Sarah wasn’t surprised, therefore, to see George Nichols emerge from the kitchen. He carried his cane, was dressed in a magnificent sack coat with matching vest, his black wool trousers pressed and immaculate over glossy black leather shoes.

  She needed only a glance at his face, however, to tell that this was trouble. George was drunk, his eyes glassy, the normally dark face ruddy. A wicked smile crossed his lips as he laid eyes on her. He wobbled on his beeline toward her.

  From a pocket, he pulled a packed roll of coins, tossing it to Mick. His greeting to Sarah was “Upstairs. Now.”

  She glanced sidelong as Mick poured out the golden coins. Sarah guessed it at a little over two hundred dollars.

  “You know my price,” she told him.

  His dangerous black eyes hardened, and he seemed to sway. “It’ll do. I want you now.”

  She gave Mick the desist sign, nodding at George. “Let’s go discuss this, shall we?”

  Yes, better this way.

  He’d make a scene otherwise, and the last thing she wanted was a row with one of the most dangerous and powerful men in the territory. And, who knew, drunk as he was he might just step into her room and pass out if she could stall him long enough.

  She reached the top of the stairs, led the way to her door, and closed it behind Nichols.

  He was having trouble shedding his coat. Wavering on his feet.

  “George, you’re drunk. You couldn’t put wood in your pecker if you tried.” She poured him a generous whiskey, handing him the glass. His black eyes burned, as if enraged. He chugged it down and ran his sleeve over his lips.

  “I want you, bitch.” He gestured with the empty glass. “Tonight. Now. Every night. I want to fuck you like no man’s ever fucked you. Like I fucked you that first time. Remember that? Four days and nights!”

  “Why don’t you sit down and let me—”

  He tossed the glass over his shoulder. It clattered off the wall, hit the floor, but didn’t break. Stepping forward, he laid his hands on her shoulders, staring hotly and balefully into her eyes. She saw a black maelstrom there, a swirling of anger, lust, and frustration.

  “George…”

  His head shot forward, kissing her, shifting his hands to the back of her head, holding her in place. She stiffened, tasting whiskey as his tongue probed her mouth.

  His body was like a tense spring, his erection hard against his trousers. Then he pushed her, toppling her back onto her bed. Before she could right herself, he was on her, clawing at her dress, ripping the low-cut neckline. Buttons popped on her bodice, and he tore the fabric away, dropping his mouth to her exposed breast. She whimpered as he took her nipple in his teeth.

  “George! All right! All right! Let me get out of this dress.”

  He was panting, something feral in his eyes as he released her, his lips parted in a desperate grin.

  She tried to wriggle out from under him, but he clapped a hand to her neck. Shifting, he pawed frantically at the ruin of her dress.

  She was able to reach behind her head, pull herself higher on the bed, get her back against the ornate brass-rail headboard.

  “You are mine!” he told her, blinking, his breath thick with alcohol. “No woman ever told me no. As if a whore like you was too good for George Nichols. Sarah, I own you. I made you. You don’t want to marry me? Huh? That it? Well, you don’t have to. But you’ll be my bitch, or I’ll bury you.”

  “You’re drunk, George.” The fear had burned loose, the feeling of helplessness, the old terrors leaping up from the past. Flashes of Dewley’s eyes, of the smell of sour breath being blown in her face as men grunted and rutted.

  “You tell me yes, Sarah,” he insisted, his hand tightening on her throat like a clamp.

  She tried to break free, only to have him crush her windpipe. Panic lent her strength, but when she clawed at him, he smashed a vicious right to the side of her head. Pain and lights burst through her brain.

  Half stunned, she slumped, letting her arms fall away. She managed a weak nod, body going limp.

  Nichols grinned, exposing tobacco-stained teeth. With both hands, he tugged on her dress, ripping it down.

  When he lifted himself and frantically began to unbutton his trousers, she shifted her grip on the headboard. Her fingers encountered cold meta
l, the smooth feel of wood.

  He pulled up her skirt, his breath gone to ragged panting. As he threw himself onto her, she tightened her grip on the wood and metal, bracing herself.

  His eyes had gone distant, expression hollow with anticipation. As he sought to insert himself, she drew her arm back.

  She could hear the music downstairs as Caesar, unable to resist, mounted Cleopatra.

  The voice seemed to come from a distance.

  Do it!

  Nichols barely had time to react, confusion flickering in his drunken eyes.

  With all her might, Sarah slammed Dewley’s heavy .44 Colt against the side of Nichols’s head. He twitched and collapsed on top of her.

  She lay there, exhausted, panting in the wake of the rushing fear, and rubbed her throat. When she’d hung the holster there, behind the headboard, she’d known this day was coming. Had thought it would be Parmelee. The feel of the revolver’s cool wooden grips reassured her.

  She felt Nichols convulse and managed to roll him off onto the floor before he doubled and vomited onto her throw rug.

  108

  April 29, 1868

  The knocking kept repeating before it finally brought Doc awake. Logy, he blinked his eyes open and realized the insistent pounding came from his door.

  He staggered to his feet, half stumbling in sleep, and made his way to the front door. Opening it, he squinted into a lantern’s light, recognizing Mick, Sarah’s professor from the Angel’s Lair.

  “What’s wrong?” God, tell me it’s not Sarah!

  “Got a man in the wagon, Doc. Sarah asked that you look him over at your surgery. See if he’s all right.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after two, sir.”

  “Let me get dressed.”

  Doc blinked, half staggering back to his bedroom where he fumbled for his clothes. Damn it, he shouldn’t have had that last glass of whiskey. Problem was, whiskey helped. It deadened the sucking emptiness and softened the features of Bridget’s face, forever hanging, as it did, in his hopes. Just beyond his vision, as if he could reach out and touch her.