These Violent Times

by C. Courtney Joyner

  “If you had your way, every drop’d be deadly, wouldn’t it?”

  “Use what we’re gathering from the diseased, and they will be. One day. It will be so that every town in every state will fear the rain.”

  Cavanaugh said, “After what I had to do with that bucket under the bed, I read up on Doc Blackburn, assessing why you hate him so much.”

  “Luke Blackburn was a schande—a disgrace to the cause, and to medicine,” Weiber-Krauss said, voice rising. “Yellow fever epidemic with infected clothes and bedding? This attempt, trying to expose the enemy to the disease without actual contact with the pestilence, this was idiotic in the extreme.”

  “His amateur mistakes,” Cavanaugh said. “But you’re taking the direct approach, sir, sailing into your own port.”

  Weiber-Krauss acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his head. “Exposing tribes to infection through their water, with blood, we can ensure they’ll be thinned out. Savages are roadblocks to progress, and better to have them gone than scuttled away where they can mutiny. You’re a naval man; you understand this.”

  “I understand gold.”

  “And expansion. And the gold that brings. And,” he added with some relish, “progress. Medical progress. To understand disease, one must exploit it. Witness it. Field-test cures.”

  Cavanaugh smoked, nodded toward other men below them, men of the Muddy Linens Brigade who were scattered around the mine, ignoring the rain. Walking their guard posts, or taking a stance as sentries, they were all blank eyed and silent, sported linen trousers and shirts and kept their rifles to their shoulders. A small group sat under an old army tent, shredded, letting in more water than it kept out, playing cards with their weapons propped next to them. Waiting for orders. One was away from the others, hunched down on his knees, head down, staring at the ground, rifle in the mud.

  “The pray-er,” said the Confederate. “Asking God’s forgiveness for his every sin.”

  “There is nothing wrong with earnest repentance,” Weiber-Krauss said.

  Cavanaugh flung his cigarette sizzling into the air. “I wouldn’t crew with any of ’em.”

  “Your judgment.”

  “Why’d you have me recruit these damaged souls?”

  “For one reason only,” Weiber-Krauss said. “They are loyal to me. You were never a patient, but even those in the general ward could talk to these men, on their level. Simply, they trust. That is their need. I intimidate them. The desire to please, above all, makes a good soldier, makes a good soldier brave. They are different from you. Your thinking about the mission was clear.”

  “For a janitor.”

  “No matter. When we sought the Hunley, and I heard the ideas you proposed to Admiral Buchanan—innovations for warfare that should have been implemented—I knew you were a man for this team.”

  Cavanaugh said, “Ideas that got me flogged twice for insubordination and theft.”

  “Still, sound thinking. To have a self-propelled torpedo—”

  Cavanaugh cut in, “I just improved on the British, French, and German designs.”

  “If the South had those instead of what you used, the Hunley would now be a victory ship, not a sunken hulk.”

  “Admiral Buchanan was another South Ca’lina boy, so his rebuke had that extra sting. The old bastard wasn’t going to be defied,” Cavanaugh said, lighting a match, flicking it into the rain, watching it travel to the ground. “When I was at sea, I know my captain regretted not hanging me.”

  “Some men are just too useful to hang.”

  “No,” Cavanaugh said. “Some are better stuffed with poison and oozing blood.”

  Weiber-Krauss took out a pocket watch, angled it so he could see the dial.

  “We have time,” the Confederate said. “Smith still has preparations with what I brought.”

  Cavanaugh shuddered slightly. The Indians and the diseases were one thing. The next step in the progression was more wholly damning.

  Weiber-Krauss regarded the men below and said, “Do you regret anything you’ve done for me?”

  “No worse than in war. I can sleep at night.”

  Smith stepped from the corral carrying Duffin’s saddlebags, and Cavanaugh called, “Hey, big man, toss those.”

  Smith looked to Weiber-Krauss. “Doctor?”

  Weiber-Krauss nodded. Smith tossed the bags, and Cavanaugh stretched over the railing to snatch them out of the air. He took the Dragoon from the leather, checked its action, saying, “It hasn’t felt right since the marshal took it off me. Ah, I’ll fix it later.” Cavanaugh put it under an arm, held out the notebook that had been stuffed into the bag’s deep pocket. “A gift from the great one-arm. More of Bishop’s plans, I’m supposing. The marshal was going to use whatever’s in there against him.”

  Weiber-Krauss thumbed the pages. “Special equipment for treatment of disease in the field,” he said, not hiding his excitement. “These can be of tremendous use.”

  “There were more in the shack but I had to leave those . . . evidence.”

  “Of course,” Weiber-Krauss said. “Do you think he is in the clear, Bishop?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think the marshal’s disappearance is going to help him any. That was his main defense from blowin’ up the blacksmith’s place. That and the word of a Cheyenne.”

  “He will be tried by what he did and what he hasn’t done,” Weiber-Krauss remarked, momentarily cherishing the book to his bosom as if it had been written by the finger of God before putting it in his satchel.

  Cavanaugh laughed. “You mean the Police Gazette headlines?”

  “An infamous man is a better scapegoat than an innocent one.”

  “Then we are damn well protected,” Cavanaugh said, still smiling.

  Weiber-Krauss took a last look at his motley troops, who were nonetheless out in the rain, before turning to the shack door and pushing aside a section of rotten board to reveal heavy armor underneath, and three deadbolt-locks in the hammered steel.

  The keys Weiber-Krauss used to open them were on a large rail conductor’s ring inside the satchel he held, and he turned each lock before signaling Cavanaugh to hand over the pouch with the bottles of infection. He placed his own satchel inside the door, against the wall, then held out his hands.

  “Doctor, you for sure don’t want these breaking.”

  Weiber-Krauss took the pouch carefully, saying, “Not until I order it.”

  * * *

  The waterfall over the sandstone ledge was snowmelt: narrow, running streams of cold from the mountains, pouring over a jag of black rocks and forming a shallow lake surrounded by rain-bent grass. Colors in the lake’s surface broke apart as White Fox dipped a small wooden box into the water. Holding it with both hands, she filled the box to the brim before dropping in a piece of lake ice.

  Packing a handful of medicines, she had gone on ahead to the nearest village, leaving Bishop and Dent to make the best time they could with the wagon. She had left while they were still unloading the dynamite, agreeing to meet here at the lake. It was a lake she and Bishop knew well, from one of the few leisure times they had enjoyed together.

  White Fox had actually gone to two villages; they were close enough. She wanted to come up with a plan for dealing with the illness. She had returned, told Bishop she was still working on it, then come here—congested from the hard ride, the damp morning, the unpleasant air of the forest of evil.

  The ground was still rain-wet, and the horses drank from the edge of the lake, as White Fox sealed the box lid, fitted the brass nozzle on its side with a celluloid anesthesia cone, and breathed deeply.

  Bishop was on the back of the wagon, checking the blue crates. “That the one I made?”

  “No.” White Fox drew from the cone, taking in oxygen from the ice water. “My father, following your plans. The old one was given away.”

  “They have cigarettes for asthmatics now,” Bishop said, opening a crate with a blood smear across its lid. “Herbs from China
. It’s the newest thing.”

  White Fox still had the cone pressed against her mouth, “I could never smoke a cigarette or a cigar or even a pipe. I always choked.”

  She breathed into the device, the air calming her lungs, steadying her, the coolness settling inside. She met Bishop’s inquiring eyes, finally said, “We have a day’s ride to go.”

  “Then we’d better leave soon,” he said. He looked over to where he’d tied Dent to a tree. “Do you know how many cases were yellow fever? Anything else?”

  “Children and the old ones. Hundreds. I lost count. John, this is monstrous. It spread so quickly. I did my best.”

  Bishop said, “I know.”

  “But not good enough,” White Fox said, pulling off her buckskin jacket, tossing it aside. “Now it’s up to you, Doctor.”

  “Keep your jacket on. It’s going to be frozen around here tonight.”

  White Fox put aside the cone. “The jacket has too much blood on it.”

  Bishop pulled a folded blanket from a medical crate and tossed it to her. Then he went and untied

  Dent, who had been told to speak very little to keep from opening the wound along his jaw. He had complied amiably, even holding his head very still as he climbed onto the wagon.

  White Fox came over with the painted and Bishop was about to settle into the back of the wagon, when a stuttering voice from the edge of the meadow made him turn, bring up the rig. He snapped it into place, then stayed by the wagon, aiming down at the man who was climbing off a red, dog-eared mule, his hands in the air.

  “Dr. John Bishop?”

  “That’s a pretty foolish question, under the circumstances,” Bishop replied.

  “Yes . . . yes, it’s certainly you, but may I ask again, so you can confirm?”

  Bishop bowed a little at the neck without taking his eyes or rig off the man.

  “Dr. John Bishop?”

  “I am he.” He added, pointing the rig at a saddle scabbard. “Step away from the carbine.”

  “Oh of course. Thank you, sir.”

  “Who are you?” White Fox asked. “We haven’t time—”

  “I understand. My name is Innocence Lee,” said the other. Lee, skinny, all Adam’s apple over a starched collar and with thick spectacles, took a few more steps, not lowering his arms, elbows crooked to his sides and palms out. “Please, don’t shoot. I’m not here for any nefarious purpose.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Innocence Lee, hailing from Potter, Nebraska. I’m involved with physical therapies, specializing in the healing of bones. That’s not precisely right, I’m truly a librarian with an interest in orthopedic medicines, but the closest thing to a doctor my group has.”

  Bishop kept a foot on the tailgate, the rig locked. “I’ve known you less than a minute and you’ve already lied once. Not a good sign.”

  “I what? Lied?”

  “Your belt buckle says IA.”

  “Oh.” The newcomer laughed nervously. “My full name. Innocence Lee Atwood. I–I saw no need for formality.”

  White Fox had moved her steed to the side of the wagon, catching sunlight in her face. She was watching the beanpole with his hands still raised and stuttering away: “I went to the trading post for supplies, and a woman told me of the recent, frightening occurrences. She had been drinking, so maybe—I didn’t know.”

  White Fox smiled a little at that.

  “Go on,” Bishop told him.

  “But she said I might find you along the river, or next after that on this lake, as she thought you were going to a Cheyenne camp. I didn’t know how she knew but she seemed to and, well, here you are. She was alone out there,” he added.

  “She can take care of herself,” Bishop said.

  Bishop said, “You’re holding up necessary healing. Get to the meat of things.”

  Innocence Lee pushed his glasses up on his nose with his middle finger, then snapped them back to peaceful intention. “The woman I saw, who is blind as you know, but I still took her word, said you had medical supplies and might sell some. I’m from a small settlement, Nebraskans moving for the mountains, and the children are sick with measles. You know what that can mean, Doctor, and we have no way to treat them, which has slowed our little wagon train to a stop.”

  Bishop said, “We’re on our way elsewhere.”

  “I understand, but thought you might let me have something from the wagon. Anything that might help.”

  Bishop looked to Fox, who made no expression, didn’t move, just watched with a hand on the knife handle. His brow furrowed as he looked at her. She didn’t seem to notice his expression and didn’t pull the blade as Innocence Lee took a few steps forward.

  “Please, sir . . . madam,” he said. “Anything you can spare.”

  There was a deep draw of air, stirring some courage, as he made his way to the back of the wagon, hands out at his side, eyes on Bishop and Fox and occasionally on Dent, who sat still as a dead man.

  “Open the red box in the back,” White Fox said. “Take as much as you can fit in your pockets.”

  Innocence Lee came to animated life. “Thank you! Bless you!” He moved to where Bishop was seated, unafraid despite the rig, and used a small pocketknife to slit the cord. He gently removed the bottles, and even more gingerly put them in his pockets as if they were newborn kangaroos. “This is very kind. I can administer it myself. I know a thing or two from reading the medical texts. That’s my interest.”

  White Fox said, “So you claimed.”

  “Why did you ask me to say my name in direct response to the question?” Bishop asked.

  “I have a book of common law on my reference shelf,” he said. “That makes things legal, you see.”

  “Ah.”

  Innocence Lee finished taking medicines as he was instructed, hesitated as he seemed to consider asking if he could carry one or two or three.

  “Be on your way,” Bishop said.

  “Already going,” said Innocence Lee, his relieved smile splitting his thin face, his eyes crinkling to nothing, and said, “Thanks so much for your generosity, Doctor. And best of luck. To you both. On your journey. I know you’re on God’s mission.”

  By the time he’d finished speaking, Innocence Lee had climbed back onto his mule. Bishop kept the rig trained on him as if he were Dent, healthy and armed. The skinny man waved, as he brought the animal around, rode away.

  The rig had quietly elevated, steady on Innocence Lee’s back. They were still within range of a good man with a carbine.

  White Fox said, “You always do that now. Keep the gun on everyone.”

  “Habit. I don’t even think about it anymore.”

  “You’d kill him?”

  “If his hands left the reins or he turned too quickly,” Bishop confirmed. “I would have cut him in half.”

  Fox said, “Odd words, standing beside all that medicine.”

  Bishop dropped from the wagon’s gate, walked to White Fox. “It isn’t congestion,” he said.

  She sat stoic and still.

  “How long have you been fever-sick? In the light, I see yellow along the edges of your eyes.”

  White Fox looked away.

  “We’re not going until you answer me,” Bishop said.

  “It hasn’t been too long,” she said, watching Innocence Lee cut the mule toward an open spot in a gathering of cottonwoods. Then she replaced the celluloid cone over her mouth and nose. “Just my trouble getting a breath. The fever, not so bad.”

  “Yet,” Bishop said, also watching the trees, the rig still leveled and pointed at their distance. “After Innocence on the mule, we’re not staying here.”

  “I know,” White Fox said, letting down the cone. “Give me two more breaths.” After she had inhaled, she put the cone back in a pouch slung over the pummel.

  And gasped.

  “Dent’s gone!” she said urgently.

  “As I expected,” Bishop said. “Take the wagon, go to the camp.”

 
“What are you going to do?” she asked.

  He answered, “I’m going to find out what Innocence Lee wants with Walter G. Dent.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Forest Primeval

  Dent looked like a thick-bodied ostrich as he rushed along the lakeside, his head held stiffly atop an artificially stretched neck in an effort to keep it still. He wasn’t sure what to expect: the gallop of a horse behind him, dying before he heard the boom of Bishop’s rig, or neither of those. Bishop would be angry but not careless, and he had noted Lee owned a carbine. He might even have noticed that the scabbard was well worn, the sign of a hunter or a sharpshooter. In either case, not someone you wanted firing at you from a place of concealment.

  Which is what the woods alongside the water offered, and which is why, following the trail Innocence Lee had left, Dent now ducked in among the cottonwoods. The branches were low and Bishop would have to dismount to make it through here.

  Considering there hadn’t been a plan until the marksman showed up, pretending to be a librarian of all things—right down to that comment about the book of common law, brilliant—the improvisation now was a good one.

  Dent had not told Bishop about the sixth man at the trading post because he was there for exactly this reason: to find out where the disease had gone after being disbursed, and how bad. White Fox had provided that information. Now Dent had to get it to Innocence Lee, who would protect him as they made their way to the Lady Freemont.

  As he hurried along, Dent did not expect to encounter anyone. He stopped short as he practically ran into a wide man standing just behind a tree, a cowboy in a torn shirt and a torn grin with a cigar that wasn’t lit so it wouldn’t draw anyone to them. The man held a Spencer Repeater in his two hairy fists and wore a Remington revolver on his side.

  “Walter G. Dent?” the man said gruffly.

  Dent nodded.

  “Innocence wants yer report,” he said. His pale blue eyes looked past Dent. “And I want the legend.”

  “Fine, good,” Dent said through a nearly closed mouth. “Straight ahead? Yes?”

  The cowboy spit. “Unless you want to go back to yer friend with the gun-arm.”