“If the afterlife’s real,” Grant asked, trying to keep his tone light. “You think Jack went into it cut up?”
“People have perfect bodies in heaven,” Paulson said. “But even if people did go to heaven maimed, that’s still better than hell.”
Granted shrugged. “I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I believe this is all there is, so you better get while you can.”
“There’s a Bible verse for that outlook. ‘What does it profit a man if he gains the world and loses his soul?’”
Grant waved a dismissive hand.
“You can be wrong a long time, and God will give you chances to wise up,” Paulson said. “It’s not smart to let those chances run out.”
“Neither is believing in things that aren’t real—”
“Quiet!” Paulson cut Grant off. “You hear that?”
Before Grant could respond, Paulson crawled to the edge of the rock formation. Suddenly sweating, Grant followed with his heart thudding in his ears. If he believed in anything, he might have prayed to keep hearing it thud. He crept up beside Paulson and looked out into the murk. Now, stealthy sound reached his ears as a shape moved through the taller grass thirty yards away. Neither Grant nor Paulson could make out details, but the shape appeared to be of human height.
Paulson counted to three, and flames flashed from their Spencers. The shape collapsed as gun blasts dwindled to echoes.
“We got him!” Grant exclaimed.
An ungodly cry split the night, and the noise raised the hair on the back of Grant’s neck. He recognized the sound but couldn’t immediately place it. Surely, it was too inhuman to come from a man, and then Grant realized what the cry was and why it was familiar. Back at Fort Fetterman, two soldiers decided to have a horse race the month before. They took off outside the camp in a burst of hoof beats. A short distance later, one of the horses stepped in a gopher hole and broke its leg…
“It’s Jack’s horse!” Paulson beat Grant to the realization. The animal must have continued to plod along after the rest of them took off for the rock formation. It took all day to cover the distance, perhaps stopping to graze, but now it had finally caught up to them.
The horse continued to scream.
“Damn it!” Grant cursed. He put his rifle back to his shoulder and could just make out the patch of thrashing grass in the moonlight. He emptied the rest of his rounds into the area, and the horse fell silent.
Both men dozed off sometime after the incident with Jack’s mount.
Grant dreamed of the Button Game. He played by himself within a cloud. Every time he opened his hand it contained a wooden button with a petroglyph animal carved into it: a buffalo, a deer, a fish, a thunderbird, a rabbit, and a wolf. Grant placed them into groups, but he kept rearranging them because the groups didn’t fit together. The buffalo, deer, rabbit, and wolf seemed to match because they all had four legs, but that left the fish and the thunderbird by themselves. The fish lived in the sea. The thunderbird wasn’t real. Grant tried again. He put the deer, fish and rabbit together because they weren’t a danger to man, but that left the buffalo and wolf together and the thunderbird alone once more. Grant found himself growing frustrated with the strange logic of dreams. The carvings had to fit together. Next, he put the buffalo, deer, fish, rabbit and wolf together. That felt right at least. Shrugging, Grant put the thunderbird with them, which felt exactly right. It wasn’t a satisfying feeling, however. It frightened him.
When Grant awoke, the sun was an hour into the sky. He rubbed his face and grimaced at the gummy slime that had collected at the corners of his mouth. Thirst burned in his throat and turning around to check on Paulson awoke a deep ache in his back.
Paulson was gone.
Grant wobbled to his feet, his pistol drawn and his hand on his saber.
“Relax. I’m over here.”
Grant spun on newborn-colt legs. Paulson sat with his feet dangling into the cleft that descended from the rock formation’s summit.
“I was waiting for you to wake up,” Paulson said. “I’m going down to get food and water. You all right to cover me?”
Grant tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. He nodded instead.
“Back in a minute.” Paulson lowered himself out of sight.
Grant holstered his pistol. His mouth started to water at the thought of food, which loosened his shriveled tongue. He willed Paulson to be quick. The idea of gulping from a canteen was joy, peace and celestial choirs. He scanned the surrounding area and saw no signs of danger. The sun’s morning light was tranquil rather than torture. The horses still stood in their makeshift corral, waiting. The whole world stood there, waiting.
It’s going to be all right, Grant told himself.
They could reach the Yellowstone by dusk, and if they made it through the night, they could make it through the day. Below, Paulson reached the horses. He moved with quick, furtive movements, grabbed his canteen and food pouch and heading back the way he had come.
Grant kept his eyes peeled for the enemy, and movement arrested his attention. It took him a moment to realize what he saw — thirty yards away, black feathers flitted above the surface of the grass.
Feathers! Headdresses! Indians!
Grant raised his rifle and stopped himself from pulling the trigger.
It wasn’t Indians. Rather, buzzards fed on Jack’s horse. Faint sounds of tearing flesh reached Grant’s ears. A familiar dizziness spiraled up from the base of Grant’s skull, like when they discovered Jack, and he looked up into the sky and saw a bird disappear…
A buzzard hopped out of the tallest grass. Its legs, bald head and beady eyes appeared more reptilian than avian. It ruffled its feathers and shook a piece of dangling meat from its beak. It cocked its head, as if hearing something. A moment later it exploded into the air with a squawk that sounded afraid. Five of its mates followed.
Just like that, gone.
Jack gone…Breckenridge gone…Webster gone…
Torn meat on a beak…
Jack was torn apart…
Compelled by instinct, a subconscious urge and the fear of the buzzards, Grant looked up and realized why the thunderbird button of his dream belonged with the “real” animals. The bird he had seen flying through the air when they discovered Jack was no hallucination. It only appeared to fly low due to its huge size. The bird was actually high enough to fly behind the clouds, making it look like it disappeared.
Now the thunderbird dove for Grant, a creature with a wingspan of at least twenty-five feet — white, leathery and with a tail. A horn grew out of the back of the creature’s skull. The wind whistled over its wings as they pivoted at muscular shoulder joints, and an overpowering smell of carrion and snake brought tears to Grant’s eyes.
“Paulson—!”