This Scorched Earth

by William Gear

  “You mean he’s alive.”

  Butler shook his head. “Was alive. The bear mauling was bad, Philip. Shredded Paw’s right arm. With the help of the men, I performed the amputation. Paw was barely…” He glanced to the side. “Yes, Private, he’d have died if you hadn’t remembered that double knot to tie off the brachial artery.”

  “Stop it!” Doc cried, his heart pounding. Then added, “I’m sorry. Please. Just tell … ask the men not to interrupt.”

  Butler shot a smug, slightly superior look to the side, saying, “See? What did I tell you?”

  Then to Doc. “Paw lived. We took him with our naatea, our family group, up into the headwaters of Owl Creek. He was recovering, learning to walk…”

  “What?”

  Butler looked down at his dirt-encrusted hands. “Someday I will tell you the whole story. But the things Paw confessed to? Let us just say he shamed me before my men and wife and family.”

  “Wife?” Doc swallowed hard. “You’re married?”

  To whom? What woman would have a delusional lunatic?

  “Her name in Dukurika is Wobindotadegi. Mountain Flicker. And I see that look you’re giving me. I’m not a madman among the Shoshoni; they believe I see the Spirit World, that I am a sort of puhagan. Especially after I went to the Underworld and lay with Water Ghost Woman.”

  Doc barely caught himself in time. God knows what kind of insanity he has imagined. Don’t drive him away!

  Butler might have read his mind, a weary smile coming to his lips. “You won’t understand, Philip. It’s all right. The men and I are not here to be a burden. I only came to tell you about Paw. In the end, disgraced by all his lies and sins, he shot himself in the head rather than face it. I had to get him out of Shoshoni territory, bury him where his souls, if they got loose, couldn’t plague the newe. I dug a hole and put his putrid body in it. Filled it full of rocks to keep him in, and covered the grave. I put the sod over it, and no one will ever know where he’s laid.”

  “You really believe all of this? I mean…”

  Butler chuckled, as if in amusement according to some internal whim. He gestured for Doc to wait, stepped to the door, and rang the bell as he stepped outside. Butler reentered with an Indian suitcase, what they called a parfleche.

  This Butler laid on the desk, saying, “That’s all of Paw’s possessions. Everything but the revolver. It’s a nice Starr and I’m keeping it.”

  Doc unlaced the ties and opened it. Inside was a small framed photo of Paw in his major’s uniform. No doubt taken just before Shiloh. His gold watch and chain, the one he wore so proudly at the legislature. A small sack of gold coins and a sheaf of Confederate and Federal money. His wedding band, a deck of cards, dice, a folding knife and Bowie, a strike-a-light and box of matches. The pin he insisted he’d taken from a Mexican general’s chest.

  Paw’s things, all right. “Jesus. You really found him.”

  “Divine justice.” Butler’s smile faded. “It was fitting that I was the one to find him. When I told him about Maw, Sarah, and Billy. About the farm. It might have been water off a duck’s back, for all he cared.”

  Doc glanced up. “Sarah.”

  Butler shrugged. “Paw had no news. He never so much as wrote to—”

  “Sarah is here. In Denver.”

  Butler blinked, as if processing this new revelation. “Is she all right?”

  Doc took a breath. “Brace yourself. She’s … changed.”

  Butler’s gaze slid to the side—the way it did when he glanced at his men. “Imagine that,” he said dryly. “As if any of us were left untouched.”

  “Untouched by what?”

  “The ways of puha. The cockeyed strings of fate, Doc. Of course she’s changed. We all are.”

  “Up until recently she ran one of the most prestigious parlor houses in the city. She’s … well, a madam is a nice way to say it.”

  “And Billy?”

  “No news.”

  “I’ll want to see her before I go.”

  “Go?” Doc asked, spreading his arms. “Go where? That night that Aggie came, I was just upset. I didn’t mean those things. I have cursed myself over and over for my stupid tongue. The endless nights I’ve lain awake … I beg you to forgive me.”

  Butler reached out, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Long forgotten. I needed to go. Had to go. I found my place. I have a wife, a family. I only came back to tell you about Paw. Do it face-to-face. The men and I figured we owed you that.”

  “And then you’re going back?”

  Butler nodded, firmness in his eyes. “I don’t belong in your world any more than you’d be happy in mine.”

  “But you’ll stay long enough to see Sarah?”

  A tease of a smile bent Butler’s lips. “Of course. But Philip, give me your word. You won’t conspire with her to keep me. You won’t lock me up or drug me, or do something I wouldn’t approve of.”

  Doc looked into his brother’s clear blue eyes. He might be a delusional lunatic, but he’d never looked as sure of himself.

  “My word, Butler.”

  “You keep Paw’s stuff. I need to clean up, maybe find presentable clothes. I left a shirt and pants at your house. Then we’ll go see Sarah. I’d like to know how she got here, what happened to Maw in those last days.”

  “It’s a hard story to hear, Butler.”

  “Aren’t they all?” he asked softly, his gaze distant.

  121

  June 29, 1868

  Sarah closed her door, and the messenger boy went skipping down her front steps. She picked her way around the workmen who were gathering their tools in the foyer, and retreated to her dining room. The last of the banging and sawing signaled the end of the workday.

  She used her hand duster to whisk the sawdust from her chair. Pulling up her skirt, she settled herself at an angle so her bustle cleared the chair back. Then, with a thumb, she broke the seal on the envelope Doc had just sent her.

  She scanned the few lines, then reread them just for the enjoyment. Butler was back in town! Apparently still mad, but tanned and healthy. Would she mind if he and Philip paid a call at seven?

  She smiled at that, remembering the last time she’d seen her brother—a dashing lieutenant on a warhorse, riding at the head of a detachment of cavalry. God, had it been so long?

  And what would he think of his sister the whore?

  Ex-whore?

  Could one ever really be an ex-whore?

  Butler had been the epitome of a Southern officer. Would there be censure in his eyes—that aloof distance spun of moral superiority? God, it would wound her if there was. She’d always admired Butler and his well-read knowledge. Looked up to him beyond all of her other brothers.

  Damn, she wished she could have ten minutes alone with Philip before they arrived. A chance to ask, “What does he think of me?”

  “Sarah, what the hell does it matter?” she asked herself. “After everything you’ve been through, you’re worried about the look in your crazy brother’s eyes?” She laughed at herself.

  No matter, she would be gracious, proud. If she had learned nothing else, it was how to put up a façade and hide the real Sarah.

  “Mrs. Anderson?” the last of the workmen called. “We’re leaving. Good night, ma’am.”

  “Thank you!” She shifted, glancing around the room as the front door closed authoritatively. She’d have to clean up a little. At least sweep up the sawdust in the dining room and wipe down the chairs so fine powder didn’t stick to their clothes.

  In the kitchen she poured water onto a rag from the keg she had delivered every other day, and attacked the worst of the mess. Nothing much could be done about the rest of the house. She’d give the tour, of course, but construction was construction, and Butler would just have to understand.

  She thought back to the Butler she’d known in Arkansas. His distant gaze as he’d worked cutting tobacco and doing chores; all the while his thoughts had been focused on Romans and Greeks
and ancient kings. That dreamy smile that would animate his lips as he told her of history and literature.

  How changed he had been the last time she saw him; his once sensitive eyes had betrayed a wounded soul. She could still see the waver in his eyes, how his hands had twitched when the subject turned to war and battle.

  “People born to be saints shouldn’t be trying to stuff themselves into a soldier’s uniform, brother. The cut and angles are all wrong.”

  She climbed the stairs, being careful of the lack of railing—although the dowels had been delivered and piled in the hallway just beyond her door.

  She opened the door to her bedroom wide. She kept it closed during the day to keep out the dust, and because the workmen needn’t be speculating on her big, plush bed.

  She stepped toward her wardrobe, thinking that the light gray poplin would …

  The floor creaked behind her.

  She whirled and froze.

  “Well, well,” he said, stepping out from behind the bedroom door. “You’ve become quite the lady, haven’t you?”

  Parmelee shook his head, grinning. He wore sawdust-stained trousers stuffed into rider’s boots. His shirt was in need of a wash, and his beard looked like it had been trimmed with a knife. His oily blond hair curled where it had been sweat-soaked by a tight hat. The grin on his lips, however, was predatory; his blue eyes deadly with threat.

  “How did you get in here?” She struggled to sound in control. God, she hated being afraid.

  “Passed myself off as a workman. They didn’t look twice at the fella carrying them turned pieces up the stairs. Gonna be a fancy hand railing. But you ain’t gonna see it finished.”

  She backed toward the bed, heart hammering against her chest. “You know they’ll kill you.”

  “Gotta catch me first. I hear you turned into quite the whore. The Goddess? How’s that for ripe? Washerwoman to Goddess. Talk about a fairy tale. I like to think I gave you your start. That having a real man inside showed you what you were missing. ’Specially after that milksop of a deserter.”

  “Bret was five times the man you’ll ever be,” she told him, stepping back to the headboard, slipping her right arm behind her.

  “Go on,” he told her. “Try for it.”

  A hand of ice might have taken her by the heart. “Try for what?”

  “That big pistol you hung behind the headboard.” He waggled a finger at her. “I put it somewhere safe.”

  With his left hand he pulled out a wad of stout cord, his right slipped a Bowie from its sheath. “I’m gonna have to tie you again. Don’t want you fighting or screaming. You understand, don’t you?”

  He paused. “Hope it’s still tight after you been riding so many cocks. I’d be damn disappointed if it ain’t.”

  Sarah took a deep breath. “I don’t suppose there’s any other way? Like I could just promise to lay back, give you the best I could, and you’d be on your way?”

  He barely cracked a smile. “Sometimes a thing’s got to be done just so. It’s putting you in your place … causing pain and fear. Knowing you’re hating my cock hammering away, but praying it’ll last ’cause when I ride you that last bit, you’re gonna die. That’s what makes it so good.”

  “You’re a sick pile of shit, did you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told. Now, you can turn around and let me tie you easy, or we can start with a beating.” He flicked the knife back and forth, as if teasing. Then he started forward. She could see his nostrils flaring with each breath.

  Sarah’s chest felt as if it would explode, her limbs charged and trembling.

  Now or never.

  122

  June 29, 1868

  “This damn thing looks like a castle,” Billy noted as they rode past the big house on Grant Street. The sun sat at an angle, dipping toward the distant Rockies. It shot bars of light through the smattering of clouds that seemed to glow above the city’s smoky air.

  “Guess she poured all the money she got from the Angel’s Lair into this monstrosity,” George said through a growl as he reined his horse up, hard eyes on the big brick house with its two towers.

  “Son of a bitch,” Billy muttered under his breath as they rode around to the rear. “That horse tied behind the outhouse? That’s Parmelee’s buckskin. From the piles of horse shit behind him, I’d say we’re a couple of hours late and a dollar short, George.”

  “Well, shit. Let’s go see what’s left of Sarah. That sick bastard has a thing for playing with knives while he’s fucking them.”

  Billy rode up behind the house, tied his horse off on a heavy sawbuck, and walked up to the back door. Locked. Down beside the stairs a workman had left a crowbar.

  Ten seconds later the door was open—if a little splintered.

  “Follow me,” George told him, leading the way. “If that bastard hasn’t left me something to humiliate, and hurt, and pay back, you can kill him twice. Slowly.”

  Billy shucked his Remington and kept a couple of steps behind. One thing he could say for Sarah Anderson, she was building one hell of a house. What was a lone woman going to do with a rambling hulk like this? Turn it into an orphanage?

  George led the way through the kitchen and into a dining room. Billy spotted the liquor bottles on the back wall’s unfinished hutch and grinned. If he had to wait on George, there’d be liquid entertainment. Quality if he could judge from the labels.

  They’d just made it into the parlor when a muffled bang from upstairs brought them both to a halt. Pistol shot?

  “Son of a bitch!” Parmelee’s shout carried from above.

  Another bang.

  A door slammed open, boots pounding on stairs as someone hurried down.

  Parmelee came reeling in from the foyer, a hand to his cheek, face like a strained mask. Blood, like a crimson blossom, spread on his shirt just below his right collarbone.

  He stopped short, gaping at George, and then Billy. “What in tarnal hell?”

  “Win Parmelee,” George drawled slowly. “Run out of a woman’s bedroom.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Parmelee dabbed at the blood leaking out of his cheek and grimaced. “She shot me in the fucking face! Bloody fucker, that hurts!”

  Billy covered Parmelee with his Remington as he heard footsteps on the stairs. The woman was coming, which meant things might get a little interesting if she had more than a two-shot derringer.

  George sounded pleasant. “How’d you get away from my men outside Virginia City, Parmelee? Heard that they had you to rights, but somehow you killed them all.”

  “Billy did that.” Parmelee sounded dull, his voice starting to slur as if in great pain.

  “Indeed,” George whispered. “Sometime in the future that will make for an interesting conversation.”

  “She shot me in the face!” Parmelee moaned. “It’s like a hot poker shoved into my head!”

  “It’s about the pain and fear,” a woman’s cultured voice said from the foyer. “Or so I’ve been told.” Then she added, “Hello, George. Is Parmelee one of yours? Or is this just happenstance?”

  Billy began to shake. Sarah’s voice!

  From the dreams.

  But different.

  His mouth went dry, blood rushing. Clutching the Remington, he began to tremble.

  Visions flashed behind his eyes, Sarah rising naked and abused. Towering over him, her eyes like blue burning fire. She was reaching down for him, death and horror in her eyes.

  He stumbled back into the dining room, ducked behind the partition. Back to the wall his knees went weak, and he slid down to the floor.

  Images of the nightmares kept playing behind his eyes; he began to weep.

  123

  June 29, 1868

  Sarah stepped into the main room, her .36-caliber Colt pocket revolver ready, hammer cocked. Parmelee’s face was a mask of pain, blood streaming between his fingers. The wet blossom on his shirt had begun to soak down in a V.

  George Nichols, wearing a short
black sack coat and starched white shirt, stood with one booted foot forward. Neither his fine black linen vest with its wide lapels, nor the jaunty, flat-topped felt hat with narrow brim, offset the .41-caliber Sharps single-shot pistol he held. They just emphasized the black rage seething behind his eyes.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve still got your clothes on, Sarah,” George greeted her. “Ripping them off gives me something to look forward to.”

  Sarah thought she heard a mewling sound from the dining room, as if someone were whimpering.

  “I’m delighted to see you, too, George.” Who did she cover with her revolver? Parmelee, or George? She had three shots left. George had one.

  And who, in God’s name, was sobbing behind the wall in her dining room? As if it stroked some distant memory …

  The spell broke when Parmelee’s eyes rolled back in his head. His knees buckled. She felt it through the floor when he hit with a bony thump.

  Sarah shifted her aim to George. “So, here we stand. Each of us armed, and—”

  “No one gets away with what you did to me. I came to close accounts, to pay you back for—”

  “Heard you’re broke,” she told him dryly. The sham was over. She could see it in his eyes. Nothing left to lose. “Is what they’re saying about the Piute Lode true? That you bet everything on a hill of worthless rock?”

  His face blanched, a snakelike emptiness behind his eyes as he raised the pistol, shaking it at her as if the jerking pistol could emphasize his words. “How did you hear? What do you know about…”

  She was looking into George’s eyes when his gun went off. Saw the surprise there as the report cracked in the room.

  She felt the impact in her left thigh, like a painless slap. George’s mouth was open, eyes wide.

  “You son of a bitch!” She took her time, raised the Colt. Over the sights she saw his shock mixed with glassy terror. He pitched sideways as she shot. Even without the smoke and flame, she couldn’t have seen if she hit him. As he whirled away, he threw his pistol at her.

  She tried to duck, the heavy Sharps glancing off her thrown-up left arm, giving her a hard knock on the head as it went by.