Two hours had gone by when Buck heard the jingling of trace chains and the creaking of wheels. Peering through the trees, he saw a wagon drawn by a bone-ribbed chestnut moving along the road toward him, a bonneted woman at the reins. By her side sat a girl with a sallow complexion in a faded dress.
“Kentucky, here come the Hewitts. Best you wake up Billy.”
“Yes, sir. I found him a crutch. Hope it’s the right size.” He went into the cabin.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Hewitt,” Buck said as the wagon came alongside. “This must be Hannah. Are you all right, young lady?”
The girl nodded shyly.
“Thank Dr. Thomson for helping us, honey,” her mother coaxed her gently.
The girl whispered her thanks to Buck.
“I’m happy you’re all right. Your momma was worried about you.”
“I found her waiting where I told her to,” Martha said proudly. “We smashed Zeb’s jugs of rotgut—”
“It was fun,” the girl contributed, showing spirit, “but it was stinky.” She wriggled her nose.
“It was stinky,” her mother agreed with a fond smile and brushed back the child’s lackluster brown hair. Returning her attention to Buck, she said, “When I emptied his mash, all I found was one piece of gold.” She dug into the pocket of her stained frock and extracted a nugget that wasn’t any bigger than a butterbean.
At that moment Billy burst through the cabin door using his new crutch and swept with amazing agility from the porch into the yard.
“Billy!” his mother exclaimed as she dropped the reins, leaned over and extended her hands to him. “Oh, Billy.” A joyous and tearful family reunion ensued.
Several minutes went by before she asked, “But where’d you get that crutch—”
“My friend, Mr. Kentucky, give it to me, Ma, just like he said he would.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She turned to Buck. “You’ve saved our lives, Dr. Thomson. We’ll be beholden to you forever.”
“Y’all have a safe trip. I hope you find your relatives in Tennessee.”
“Thank you so much, doctor. God bless you for all you’ve done for us.” She looked around the campsite. While her features softened with compassion, she didn’t flinch at the sight of the wounded. “And for these men.”
Standing up straight, Billy shook Buck’s hand, then accepted his help getting into the wagon’s bed. Buck placed the crutch beside him. “Take care of yourself and these ladies, young man.”
“Yessir, I will.”
Martha slapped the mare with the reins. The wagon lumbered forward. She glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t worry if y’all see smoke over Feeney’s way in the morning. I’m gonna burn the place down before we leave.”
The children waved goodbye. Buck waved back. At least something positive had been accomplished in the last few days. He’d freed a family from the clutches of an evildoer.
Kentucky came up beside him. “Nice folks.”
“May their future be better than their past has been.”
“I . . .” the orderly hesitated, “I’ve arranged a burial place for your brother near the big oak tree. It’s the nicest spot I could find, sir. That all right?”
“Thank you, Kentucky.”
“Preacher Tate said he’d be proud to say words in the morning.”
“I’ll be much obliged.”
Clay’s dead. It didn’t seem possible. My brother’s dead.
“Pardon me for saying so, sir, but you ought to get some rest. I can finish up here.”
“I am fading out. Be sure to have someone wake me early in the morning.” Buck trudged to the shack.
My God! Who am I? What have I become? I killed a man today and I feel nothing.
Inside the cabin he collapsed on his pallet and fell asleep.
#
He awoke with the sunlight well established and heard familiar sounds—the clip-clop of horses, the rattle of wagon chains, the crackle of cooking pots, and the oaths, curses and moans of men. This morning, however, he was aware of a new and welcome addition. Birds had returned, chirping merrily.
Maybe the carnage has truly ended.
As always, he found a bucket of water hanging on the porch, signifying that Kentucky was already up and about. Buck carried the pail inside, stripped to the waist, and scrubbed himself as best he could. His uniform was seedy and missing a few buttons. He straightened it and finger-combed his hair, wiped his boots, then stepped onto the porch. A new day, one that would begin with a funeral.
He made his way to the knoll behind the cabin. Kentucky and a few other orderlies, cooks and gravediggers had gathered to pay respects. A one-armed man stepped forward and faced the group, a Bible in his right hand.
“Friends, on this beautiful morning let us praise the Lord and say farewell to those who have left this life . . .”
The men removed their caps and bowed their heads.
Buck stared at the bandages on the stump of the man’s left shoulder. I cut the arm off this preacher and I don’t even remember doing it.
“I am the resurrection and the life . . .”
The familiar rhythm of biblical verses should have been a consolation, but Buck found it impossible to keep his mind on the words. His thoughts drifted. Sounds faded. He saw the parson’s mouth moving, but he heard no voice. Even the birds were strangely silent.
Suddenly Tate’s head exploded in a shower of crimson.
His skull reformed. The face was Clay’s this time, then Tate’s again.
Buck was aware of a faint roaring inside his head as if seashells were surrounding both ears.
“. . . though he were dead, so shall he live . . .”
Preacher Tate’s countenance transmogrified yet again, this time becoming Zeb Feeney’s. Buck could smell the vile man’s sour breath.
Kentucky gripped Buck’s arm. “You all right, sir?”
“I think so,” he whispered. But was he? How could he be? Clay was dead and here he stood among men whose arms and legs he’d cut off. Their bodies might heal, but what about their spirits? Yesterday he’d killed a man.
“He leadeth me beside the still waters . . .”
Buck stared at a gravedigger on the other side of the abyss. The man raised his blond head and smiled. Clay’s radiant face. The man began to laugh, though he made not a sound.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .”
It wasn’t Clay at all, but a stranger.
“We commend to Almighty God the souls of our departed brethren. May they . . .”
Gradually Buck became aware of people moving away from him, of orderlies and cooks returning to their duties. Kentucky started down the hill, then glanced back. “Sir?”
Buck stared, then together they moved toward the cabin.
“Major, sir,” Kentucky said along the way, “your brother had this on him. I reckoned you’d want to have it.” He dug into the canvas bag slung over his shoulder and produced a gold watch.
So Father had given it to Clay when tradition said it should go to the eldest son. Didn’t make any difference now.
“I appreciate it.”
“Sir . . .” The orderly hesitated. “I thought you might want something more personal-like, so I also . . .” He pulled out a small cartridge case and opened it to show the contents.
A lock of hair.
“I washed it good, so there ain’t no blood on it.”
Buck stared at his brother’s golden-yellow hair. Suddenly he was blinded with tears, too choked to speak. It wasn’t until they were at the bottom of the hill that he was able to murmur, “Thank you, Kentucky.”