Tony muttered something, then said louder, “Has anything I have said sunk in? We can practice for a century and still not be ready. As Americans are so fond of saying, we are digging our own grave.”
Melissa tilted her head. “If you feel that way, why have you stayed with us this far?”
Tony nodded at Charley. “He is my friend.”
“That’s all?”
“What more is needed? In Italy, loyalty to one’s friends is almost as sacred as loyalty to one’s family. Charley stuck with me when my life was in danger. I can do no less for him.”
“Commendable,” Melissa said. “There is more to you than you’ve let on.”
“There is more to everyone,” Tony said. “And never enough space on a headstone for all of it.”
Nebraska Territory
Things had been going so well.
William Shores was confident it would not be long before he had the Hoodoos in his gun sights. The old Shoshone was holding to a pace that would wear out most people and came close to wearing out Shores. They were in the saddle from first light until the last glimmer of twilight. Breakfast consisted of jerky for Shores and a few dried roots for Red Fox. They never stopped at midday. Supper was usually rabbit stew, the rabbit courtesy of Red Fox.
The old warrior had a sense of urgency about him. He was eager to catch those who had slain his brother.
Shores didn’t mind. He was equally eager to finish up and go back to his old life. He missed it even more when along about the fourteenth day he made the mistake of spreading his blankets over a hole in the ground that was home to a legion of resentful ants. He woke up the next morning covered with them and with so many bites it looked like he had the measles. The bites itched fiercely. He couldn’t stop scratching until Red Fox prepared an ointment from a packet of herbs the warrior carried in a small leather pouch.
That very night a thunderstorm lashed the prairie for hours. The rain came down in sheets, and it wasn’t long before Shores was soaked to the skin. The next morning Red Fox broke the bad news.
“Rain wash away sign, Brother John.”
“We can’t just give up,” Shores snapped. He had tried to start a fire, but everything was too wet, and now he was huddled under a dripping blanket, his body cold as ice, his temper red hot. “Search around while I change into my other clothes.”
Grunting, Red Fox climbed on the paint and rode off. He did not seem the least bit fazed by the wet and the chill.
Stuffed into Shores’s saddlebags was the suit he had worn when he arrived in Cheyenne. As soon as Red Fox was out of sight, Shores pulled out the shirt, jacket, and pants, and his extra socks, and slipped into them. They were wonderfully dry, but he was still ice-cold, so he stood and paced, swinging his arms to increase the circulation.
It did no good. Shores’s teeth started chattering, and he couldn’t make them stop. The feeling of being cold alternated with hot flashes where it felt as if his skin were coated with burning kerosene. He was coming down with something, but he would not let a little sickness stop him.
Red Fox was gone over an hour. His expression was eloquent testimony to the success of his search. “I sorry, Brother John. No can follow bad whites.”
“We’ll keep heading southwest,” Shores proposed. “Sooner or later we’ll strike their trail again.” He was glad to get under way. He thought it would warm him, but by the middle of the morning he was no better. Quite the contrary. The hot spells were more frequent and lasted longer, and he constantly perspired.
By noon, Shores could barely sit in the saddle. He was as weak as a newborn kitten, and his mouth felt filled with cotton. His chin kept drooping, and he could not keep his eyes open.
Shores was suddenly conscious that the claybank had halted. He looked up, his vision swimming. The paint was beside the claybank. Red Fox placed a palm on his forehead.
“Brother John sick. Need rest. I make tea.”
“Forget it. We’ll stop when we usually do. The tea can wait.” Shores flicked his reins. The sea of grass around them rose and fell like the waves on the surface of an ocean. It had a nauseating effect. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down and moved on, holding his head high to show the Shoshone he was tougher than the old Indian thought. The prairie stopped heaving, and the dizziness lessened, and for a few minutes all went well.
Then Shores bent his neck to squint up at the sun. Something about the simple movement caused his head to spike with throbbing pain and his body to blaze as hot as the fiery orb he was looking at. The ground and the sky switched places.
Shores did not realize he had passed out until he opened his eyes. He was on his back, covered by one of his blankets, and his head rested on his saddle. “What—?” he murmured, his tongue as thick as a railroad tie. He was caked with sweat and could not stop shivering.
A shadow fell across him. Red Fox squatted. “Tea ready soon. Brother John rest. We stay until better.”
“Like hell. We’re wasting time.” Shores tried to rise, but he couldn’t make it onto his elbows, let alone stand. Groaning, he sank back and cursed. But even that took too much out of him, so he subsided and grumbled, “What is wrong with me anyhow?”
“Maybe ant bites. Maybe rain. Maybe both.” Red Fox turned to a small fire. On a flat rock beside it was Shores’s coffeepot. He lifted the lid, peered inside, and stirred whatever he was concocting with one of Shores’s wooden spoons.
“Been helping yourself, I see?” Shores was grateful for the old man’s help, but he resented the Indian being so free with his belongings. It occurred to him how ridiculously easy it would be for the Shoshone to stab him between the ribs and make off with the claybank and everything else. He slid his right hand up under his left arm to his Smith & Wesson. No matter how sick he became, he mustn’t relax his guard.
Shores closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the sky had darkened. He thought another thunderstorm was on top of them, but when he twisted his head to the west he saw that the sun had vanished from the sky. He had been out for hours. He also discovered they were in a hollow or basin of some kind.
Red Fox was squatting on his haunches by the fire, his thin arms folded across his spindly knees. The coffeepot had been slid back from the fire but was near enough to keep the contents warm. “Brother John, bear in winter, sleep same,” he said and smiled.
Shores didn’t find it at all humorous. They were squandering hours better spent in pursuit of the Hoodoos. Worse, it was his own body that had betrayed him. Him! Who had never been ill a day in his life!
The Shoshone was filling Shores’s tin coffee cup. He sniffed a few times, nodded in satisfaction, and slowly tilted the cup to Shores’s mouth. “Sip slow,” he cautioned.
Shores was unprepared for the harshly bitter taste. He coughed, and most of his mouthful dribbled down his chin.
“Again,” Red Fox said. “Sip slow but swallow quick.”
Once Shores got some down, the rest wasn’t so bad. He noticed no difference in his condition. Indeed, as the evening waned, he grew progressively worse. His fever climbed, his head throbbed, and every muscle in his body ached. The simple act of taking a breath became painful.
Shores drifted in and out of consciousness. Every time he glanced up, Red Fox was by the fire, watching him. Waiting for me to die, Shores suspected. But if that were the case, why was the old Indian going to so much trouble to help him. Or was he? Shores had a terrifying thought: What if the tea was poison instead of medicine?
Shores told himself he was being childish. There was no reason for Red Fox to kill him. But how much did he really know about the old man? Other than that Red Fox was Shoshone and the Hoodoos had murdered his brother? Supposedly murdered him, since it was entirely possible Red Fox had made the whole thing up. Maybe, just maybe, Red Fox was in league with the Hoodoos. Maybe, just maybe, the Hoodoos had learned he was after them and had sent Red Fox to do him in.