Trail Angel

by Derek Catron

  Josey looked up, not sure what to say.

  “My wife has insisted on your presence at dinner tonight.” Carrington’s beard parted in a smile at his verbal misdirection. “Mrs. Carrington is not a woman to be refused.”

  Josey stood. “I wouldn’t think of it, except—” He looked down to the Colonel.

  “Don’t use me as an excuse for your antisocial behavior. I’ll be asleep by then, and sleep better for not having you standing over me at all hours like some vulture.”

  “Excellent.” Carrington beamed. “Mrs. Carrington will be delighted,” he said to Josey before turning to leave. He had stooped to slip outside the tent when he looked back. He nodded and departed the tent without registering Josey’s reaction to his farewell.

  “I’m sure you will take comfort knowing you won’t be dining alone with us. Mrs. Carrington has made sure to invite someone with whom I understand you are well acquainted: Mrs. Annabelle Holcombe.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Margaret Carrington managed to fashion a formal dining setting within the fort headquarters, one of the first buildings constructed. A table Josey expected was used for meetings among the officers had been covered with a lacy, white cloth. Artfully arranged candles created a warm glow about the diners.

  Even with a clean set of clothes and the loan of a jacket from Colonel Carrington, Josey felt underdressed. The fort commander wore his dress blue uniform, resplendent with brass buttons, gold braid and epaulets, while Mrs. Carrington had on a gown of blue that set off her eyes.

  Annabelle was there when Josey arrived, wearing a gauzy, cream-colored dress he had never seen, her hair done up so elaborately he wondered how long she and Mrs. Carrington had been plotting this evening. Seeing Annabelle, Josey almost forgot his whereabouts. Her eyes found his from across the room even as Colonel Carrington formally introduced his wife. A flush came over Josey, his breath irregular. He couldn’t look at Annabelle without remembering how it felt to hold her, without thinking that he would never have that pleasure again. The eye contact lasted only a moment. He couldn’t hold her gaze, feeling like a coward as he looked away.

  “I remember when you used to look at me that way, Henry.”

  “I hope I still do,” Colonel Carrington answered his wife. He took her hand in his and bestowed a kiss.

  Annabelle came to Josey, her eyes pinning him to the spot until she stood before him and waited to be kissed on the cheek. A coolness seeped from her, like a breeze off the mountains. Her dark eyes looked past him as she spoke. “I’m overjoyed to finally see that you are whole.”

  He had put off seeing her too long. He had known that, even as he continued to avoid her. A thousand times he thought of what he might say, but it never sounded right. He might tell Annabelle about the war. The hundred different ways he knew a man could look in the moment he dies. Bodies stiff and stacked like cordwood waiting for an unmarked burial. By torturing her with his memories, she might forgive his silences. No. It’s all a lie. He wasn’t afraid to tell her these things. What he feared were the questions that would follow.

  How did you feel?

  He could never tell her about the days he fired his rifle so many times he wore a glove to keep his hand from burning. He could never tell her about the boys and grandfathers at the Georgia farm who kept coming and coming. About how easy it was to lose himself in the routine of aiming, firing, reloading, so that it became a mechanical thing. About the pride he felt in being better at it than any man. Ah, there’s the thing. The crispy black ash in his chest where his heart had been.

  Josey remembered watching his father, so precise in how he displayed the goods in his store, following up behind Josey to sweep the floors a final time before leaving for the night because everything had to be just so.

  “A man should take pride in his work,” he had told Josey.

  His father had been fortunate to find work that suited his skills. He hid his disappointment that Josey hadn’t found his life’s calling in the store. Josey found it on bloody fields in Kansas and Georgia. It wasn’t that he enjoyed killing. Men who enjoyed it frightened him. No, Josey found pride in being good at something, at being better than anyone else. He enjoyed the way the Colonel depended on him. He had enjoyed the way other men looked at him and talked of him, at first anyway.

  Was he wrong to find pride in being the best at his task? Was it any different than a base ball player who clubs the ball farther than anyone else? Was he a lesser man than a fiddler who makes his instrument sing a heavenly tune? Of course, I am. The shame and nightmares were proof enough, and no penance was great enough to forgive what he had become. He could never tell Annabelle any of this, and he saw now he could never be with her without telling her.

  Mrs. Carrington displayed as much patience for a lull in the conversation as she would for a hair in the soup. Josey struggled to follow the small talk. He saw the women’s lips move without hearing all the words. By closing his eyes, he followed a snippet before he felt obliged to look at his hostess, her words lost again in the dissonance.

  He remembered every word of a favorite poem, every detail of long-ago battles, but he forgot Mrs. Carrington’s first name or the names of her boys, even after she completed an amusing story about them. When Annabelle and Colonel Carrington laughed, Josey laughed, too, though he didn’t know why.

  Annabelle watched him, but she looked away when he noticed. She called him “Mr. Anglewicz,” emphasizing her correct pronunciation. Another time, a look passed between Annabelle and Mrs. Carrington, but Josey wasn’t sure of its meaning. He fought the urge to retreat from the room.

  A gentle pressure on his arm brought him back. Mrs. Carrington looked to him expectantly. How long have I been out? Josey hardly knew how they came to be at the table, vaguely recalling two privates in clean uniforms serving a bubbly wine the ladies called Madame something. Over a soup made with canned lobster, Colonel Carrington spoke of Wyoming being a likely name for the new territory. Mrs. Carrington disagreed, but Josey hadn’t followed why. He nodded dumbly.

  “Exactly,” she said. “ ‘Wyoming’ might do very well for a county in—” she paused as she thought about it “—Pennsylvania. But it has no claim for application to the stolen land of the Crows.”

  “Surely, dear, the land is too big to be a part of Montana or Dakota.”

  She nodded between spoonfuls of soup. “It should be called ‘Absaraka.’ That means ‘Home of the Crows’ in their language,” she added, seeing Josey’s confusion. “The Crows deserve better treatment. They maintain the proud claim never to have killed a white man but in self-defense.”

  “They are also quite proud of their skills at horse-stealing,” Colonel Carrington added, chuckling at his quip. The Carringtons continued like that, their verbal play a well-practiced dance that dizzied Josey.

  The privates brought fresh elk steaks, salmon garnished with tomatoes, sweet corn and peas. More than once Josey sensed Annabelle watching him, but he no longer looked at her. He tried to follow the Carringtons as they went on about the Indian wars.

  When the conversation turned to the events at Crazy Woman Creek, Josey grew warm. Carrington praised him, sharing with the women details of the battle drawn from his officers’ reports and then hailing Josey’s modesty after he declined to embellish the account. It wasn’t modesty that held Josey silent so much as good manners in not wishing to contradict the fort commander with the truth of his cowardice.

  Josey relaxed when an opportunity to change the subject came as one of the privates served a chokecherry pie. Soon, the women were joking about the army’s lack of creativity in having two fort Kearnys on the western frontier, forcing Colonel Carrington to explain that the Nebraska fort took its name from the Mexican War General Stephen Kearny, while their fort was named for his nephew, the one-armed hero of the Battle of Chantilly, “Fighting Phil” Kearny.

  Looking at his plate, Josey saw the pie gone. He hadn’t remembered eating it. Then everyone looked at him, an
expression of curiosity on Mrs. Carrington’s face, on Annabelle’s one of rising anger.

  “I’m sorry—”

  Carrington rescued him. “Well, of course I told the boy he would have to see the wagons to Virginia City first.”

  Annabelle’s mouth had fallen open, a question left to Mrs. Carrington to pose. “And then you intend to return?”

  Josey watched Annabelle closely. “I haven’t decided.”

  Carrington sensed his discomfort. “As I said, he must see to his responsibilities first.” He cleared his throat. “How far is it from here to Virginia City?”

  “We should be in Virginia City in another few weeks,” Josey said, still watching Annabelle.

  The privates cleared the plates, the dinner concluded, but Annabelle remained seated. She met Josey’s gaze. “And you think then your responsibilities will be completed?”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Early the following morning, Annabelle found her way to the hospital tent. The Colonel’s eyes were closed. Annabelle pulled the empty cot next to his closer and sat on the edge. His weathered left hand rested on his chest, the skin speckled with brown spots and loose like an ill-fitting glove over the bones. She told herself the wounds made him look so wan, but she couldn’t look at him in repose without being reminded of a corpse in a coffin.

  “Are you an angel?”

  A hint of mischief in the Colonel’s eyes informed Annabelle he wasn’t hallucinating. “I came to fetch you. We are leaving soon.”

  Too weak to move his head, the Colonel cast his eyes about his surroundings. “I fear it is my fate to remain here.”

  “That is not acceptable.” She spoke in clipped tones to ward against the tremble in her voice. “You were paid to see my family to Virginia City.”

  “Josey will look after you.”

  “And who—” She used one of Margaret Carrington’s handkerchiefs to cover her mouth, as if it were a cough that stopped her. “Who will look after Josey?”

  “That task is yours now, child.”

  The Colonel hadn’t moved, but his image blurred in Annabelle’s eyes. She looked away, blinking hard to clear them. “He doesn’t want me.”

  That had become clear enough the previous night. She had believed Josey when he said he didn’t care that she was barren. She should have known better than to believe anything a man says in bed. Now he revealed his true feelings. Josey hardly looked at her.

  After dinner, Josey had offered to escort her to the wagons. Margaret Carrington spared him that, having arranged for Annabelle to stay overnight in the fort. Margaret’s words echoed in her head now.

  “It’s clear to any woman with eyes that boy still loves you,” she said after Josey made his hasty retreat.

  “Lustful looks aren’t love.”

  “It wasn’t lust I saw, not only lust, at least.” Margaret smiled at her jest, but Annabelle was unmoved. Embracing Annabelle, she patted her head, a sister’s comfort. “Battle does things to a man’s mind. I’ve been lucky my Henry has never faced these demons, but I’ve seen it in other men. You must be patient with him.”

  Annabelle nodded, but she wasn’t as confident as her friend. I can’t let him hurt me like this. I can’t let anyone hurt me again like this.

  Now Annabelle felt the Colonel’s hand over hers. Somehow he had found the strength to sit up, his hand clasping hers so tightly she winced.

  “You must promise me you will look after him.” Still not trusting her voice, she nodded, just to appease an ill man, and he fell back. They sat there, looking at each other, both trying to steady their breath. “I’ve never seen him more alive than when he is with you.”

  “Sometimes he can’t even talk to me.” The Colonel grew blurry in her eyes again. “He won’t let me help him.”

  “You already do.” The Colonel closed his eyes.

  “Maybe I should go.” Annabelle started to rise, but he motioned for her to stay.

  “A year ago I wasn’t sure he would live this long,” he said, his eyes still closed. “He drank then. Couldn’t keep the bottle away from him. He would get into brawls. He’s not a large man, but he fights like a demon when he’s drunk or angry. We had to leave the states, head into the territories.”

  “I guess he prefers to be alone.”

  The Colonel’s eyes snapped open. “Not at first, he didn’t. At least in the bars, when he got stirred up, he had someone to hurt other than himself. Alone with me and Byron, he couldn’t be rid of his dreams. Then I think he came up with a way.”

  The Colonel looked past her, his eyes moist in the growing light. “I took his guns from him. I don’t know what scared me more, taking them or seeing that he would let me.”

  Annabelle remembered how Josey rode at the road agents. “Do you think he wants to be killed?”

  “A man so filled with shame and guilt doesn’t think he’s worthy of living, much less being loved. You are Josey’s angel.” He reached toward Annabelle and she gave him her hand. His voice was hoarse. “You need to go. The wagons will be ready soon.”

  She kissed his sandpapery cheek, wondering if she would see him again. She wanted to thank him, thought to say farewell, but she feared choking on the words. As she rose and turned from the Colonel’s cot, Annabelle recalled something else Margaret Carrington said, a notion with which she believed the Colonel would concur.

  “You have a few weeks together until you reach Virginia City,” Margaret had told her. “Let nature be your ally.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Little more than a week after leaving Fort Phil Kearny, the wagons came upon Fort C.E. Smith, the last of the three forts under Colonel Carrington’s command. The soldiers had arrived only a few days earlier, so Fort Smith was little more than a camp of tents guarding the pass across the Bighorn River.

  Annabelle didn’t sense the same urgency in the construction of this fort that she’d seen at Phil Kearny. That didn’t stop the men in the wagon train from carrying their guns in readiness. With the group on its own again, everyone felt the strain of vigilance. In their minds, sharp bluffs became watchtowers. Thick forests shielded Indian ambushes.

  As they approached Montana Territory, they crossed cool, clear streams fed by snowmelt from the mountains. Caleb Williams and Willis Daggett caught enough trout to feed the entire camp one night. Signs of wild game became increasingly abundant, too. Every night they heard wolves howling, their number too great to count. Once Lord Byron pointed out grizzly bear tracks, Annabelle hoping she never saw up close the animal that left signs so big.

  Then she saw her first buffalo. At a distance, they looked like great shaggy bulls. Some of the men wanted to ride after them, but Lord Byron convinced them they didn’t have the horses to give chase. Josey shot one while scouting, but the carcass proved too big to bring to camp. He skinned it and cut away enough meat to feed the entire camp. The beef tasted lighter and sweeter than a cow. Josey gave the skin to Annabelle’s mother, who intended to make a blanket for winter.

  Even the stock seemed rejuvenated by the landscape, drinking their fill and growing fat on the abundant grass. Flocks of little brown birds Byron called buffalo birds alighted onto the backs of horses and oxen, picking off the flies and gnats that bothered them. The birds were so tame Annabelle’s cousin Mark captured one with his hands, though her aunt Blanche convinced him to set free the terrified creature.

  “This is God’s country,” Lord Byron told Annabelle one day as she rode beside his wagon. It was an unusual burst of loquaciousness for the big man, and she couldn’t contradict him.

  She’d felt awkward around Lord Byron at the journey’s start, resisting the urge to tell him how well her family’s slaves were treated. What little she knew from the Colonel and Josey of his past as a field hand in Georgia bore no resemblance to the experiences of household slaves in Charleston.

  Now Annabelle drew comfort from his solid presence. Lord Byron had never looked at her with hostility, though she shuddered to see the scars
around his wrists as he drove the oxen, grateful the long sleeves on his cotton shirt concealed more evidence of his tortured past. She wondered if she would ever overcome her shame to ask him about that life.

  The wagons came together at a distance from Fort Smith to find good grass. The Bighorn River was nearly as wide as the Platte and too deep to cross safely without a ferry. Another wagon train camped ahead of theirs, waiting its turn, and it wasn’t until the following day that Josey secured their passage. The ferry was just a roughly built, flat boat. The fort sutler charged five dollars for each wagon. As fast as the current moved, no one risked crossing on their own to save the money.

  When her turn came, Annabelle stood beside the wagon with Paint, keeping the horse calm while off-duty soldiers rowed them across. Most of the other wagons had already crossed, and another wagon train moved into position to be next.

  Shielding her eyes from the morning glare, Annabelle watched a large number of riders arrive with the wagons. One of the riders dismounted and stood at the river’s edge. He was a tall man and well dressed for a traveler. He strode off before she saw much more, but something in the way he moved sent a shiver along her spine, as if she’d been splashed with cold river water.

  She eased to the boat’s edge, seeking another glimpse of the man, but his face was lost to her amid all the other horsemen. Annabelle crossed her arms. The morning chill had melted away under the rising sun, but a coldness spread through her that she hadn’t experienced for years.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  After a restless night, Annabelle found Caleb Williams greasing wagon wheels. Twice the previous day she’d approached him, only to stop herself, convinced he would believe her mad once she gave voice to the suspicion that took root as they crossed the river.

  When both a planting season and harvest passed without a letter from her husband, Annabelle began hearing whispers from those who feared for her well-being. She believed herself free of her husband only after Caleb returned to Charleston and confirmed that he’d been with Richard when a Union patrol shot and killed him.