He had the river running at his door, the rolling expanse of the plains on one hand, the mountains stretched out like sleeping giants on the other, and a sky like a great blue bowl turned upside down overhead. How could he not look out on all that and not think that this was indeed the best of all worlds, these the finest of all days, and that it would never end?
He was wrong, of course.
They appeared without warning—a neat trick, given the terrain—while Pearl was busy chopping wood. One minute he was by himself, the next he was surrounded by snorting, stamping ponies. Normally a settler on the high plains would be alarmed by the sight of several armed Cheyenne warriors, but Johnny Pearl merely smiled in recognition.
“Greetings, cousin,” he said, setting aside his axe so none of the braves accompanying his wife’s kinsman might get the wrong idea.
“Greetings, Johnny Pearl,” Little Wolf responded.
There was something in the old chief’s voice that gave him pause. Pearl glanced at the assembled Cheyenne. Even though their skin was darker and their uniforms different, he still knew soldiers when he saw them.
Katie emerged from the cabin, wiping cornmeal from her hands. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit, Ohkom Kakit?” she asked.
Little Wolf shook his head. “This is no visit, Small Dove. I come to warn you.”
Johnny frowned and put his arm about his wife’s shoulder. “Warn us? About what?”
Little Wolf glanced at his men, and then took a deep breath. “Three moons past there was a great battle between the white man and the red man along the Greasy Grass.”
“You mean Custer,” Johnny Pearl said grimly. “I heard tell of it last time I was in town.”
“Yes. The yellow-hair,” Little Wolf nodded. “It was a great victory for the Cheyenne and the Sioux. We counted great coup against the pony soldiers.”
“You were there?” Pearl asked in surprise.
Little Wolf nodded and smiled crookedly, trying to keep his pride from showing. “It was a great fight. But now the whites are angry and seek to hunt us down and punish us for this thing.”
“The U.S. Army don’t take kindly to gettin’ whupped,” Pearl sighed. “I can tell you that first-hand.”
“The pony soldiers are rounding up all Cheyenne, all Sioux—warriors, women, children, grandfathers—all of us! They seek to lock us away from our hunting grounds and our sacred places as punishment for daring to fight. They will try and take Katie away from you, Johnny Pearl.”
“Why would they do that? She ain’t full-blooded. Besides, she’s my wife.”
“Perhaps you are right, Johnny Pearl,” Little Wolf conceded. “You know the mind of your people better than I do. But you would be wise to leave this place and come with us. We are headed for Dull Knife’s village. There we stand a better chance against the pony soldiers when they come.”
“We appreciate the concern, Little Wolf,” Pearl said. “But we’re staying put. Besides, Katie is in no condition to travel.” He smiled and patted his wife’s swollen belly.
“All the more reason to leave,” Little Wolf frowned.
Katie glanced anxiously at her husband but said nothing. Seeing the fear in his kinswoman’s eyes, the Cheyenne chief’s grim demeanor softened.
“Do not be frightened, little cousin. Your husband is a good man and a fine warrior. Farewell, blood-of-my-blood. And many blessings on your child.”
“I thank you, Ohkom Kakit, “Katie replied, blinking back a tear. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”
Little Wolf shook his head and pointed to the clear, cloudless sky on the horizon. “We must go. There is a storm coming.”
Two days after Little Wolf and his followers left, the storm arrived.
It wasn’t a storm that brought with it thunder and high winds and hailstones. No, the storm that bore down of Johnny and Katie Pearl was a mortal one—the kind that rains fire and hot lead.
Pearl had just finished milking the nanny goat and was bringing the pail into the house when the thunder rose through this boots. It had been a long time since he last felt anything like that—but it wasn’t something a man could forget. Many men on horseback were coming their way—riding hard.
Katie was in the front yard, throwing feed to the chickens. When she saw the look in her husband’s eyes, she let her apron drop and ran into the cabin, re-emerging seconds later with the carbine.
“Git in th’ house and stay there!” Pearl ordered as he loaded the Winchester.
Katie hesitated, placing a hand on her husband’s arm. “Perhaps it is only my cousin.…”
Pearl shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. “Whoever they are, they ain’t Cheyenne!” Katie gave his arm one last squeeze and disappeared inside the cabin just as a horse cleared the rise.
Most whites in the Wyoming and Dakota territories heaved a sigh of relief when they saw the U.S. Cavalry. Johnny Pearl wasn’t one of them. He’d spent too many years shooting at blue uniforms—and being shot at by them—to find their presence comforting. He watched uneasily as the squadron of troopers, roughly thirty in all, made its way toward his cabin. As the soldiers drew closer, Pearl stepped off the porch into the dooryard but did not lower his weapon.
The squadron’s scout trotted his mount forward to where Pearl was standing, lifting his empty hand in greeting. There was something about him Pearl didn’t trust. He fidgeted in his saddle too much, like he had a ferret down his pants.
“Howdy,” the scout said, looking about. “Where’s John Myerling?”
“He pulled up stakes and went back to St. Paul. I took over his cabin,” Johnny replied.
“That a fact?” The scout glanced in the direction of the soldiers, but Pearl couldn’t make out who he was looking at. “Have you seen any Injuns?”
“Sure, I seen Injuns. See ’em all the time. Now get off my land.”
The scout twitched in his saddle again, his eyes narrowing. “You sure got a smart mouth for a sodbuster.”
“I said get off my land,” Pearl replied, his voice hard as an iron bar.
The scout’s eyes narrowed a split second before he reached for his holster, which was all the warning Pearl needed to step forward and jam his rifle directly into the other man’s crotch. The scout yanked his hand back like his gun had turned into a red-hot poker.
“Y-you’re bluffing, honyocker,” the scout sneered.
“I never bluff.”
There was something in Pearl’s voice that that made the scout decide not to push his luck. He licked his lips nervously and fidgeted even more in his saddle.
“What the hell is going on here?” boomed an angry voice. An officer dressed in the uniform of a Cavalry captain rode forward. He was a big man, the way trees are big and rocks are big. His shoulders were as wide as an ax handle and his hands could easily hide Bibles. However, the captain’s most intimidating feature was not his sheer physical size, but the wavy mass of red hair that fell below his shoulders, and the matching beard and mustaches he wore combed out over his chest, which made him look like a lion. His stern face was burned by the sun, and his pale eyes were a startling contrast to the darker blue of his uniform and the vibrancy of his hair. “Put that weapon down, farmer!” the captain barked. It was clear he was used to being obeyed, be it by soldiers or civilians.
“Like hell I will!” Johnny snapped in reply. “And who might you be?”
“Captain Antioch Drake, United States Cavalry. Now do as I say, sodbuster, or I’ll forget I’m talking to a white man and have my men open fire!”
Pearl glanced at Drake, then stepped back, lowering his gun. What he’d seen looking at him through Drake’s eyes was all too familiar. He’d known men like him during the war: bloody-minded and scarlet-handed, incapable of separating friend from foe, soldier from civilian. Quantrill had been one such monster. If the war had taught Pearl one thing, it was that a bastard’s a bastard, whether suited up in blue or gray. And what he saw before him was a bast
ard in a blue suit.
“That’s better,” Drake said. “Now—are you going to answer the question my scout put to you or not? Did you see Injuns pass this way a day or two ago?”
“What makes you think there’s been Injuns through here recently?” Johnny asked, trying his best to sidestep the question.
“We’ve been following their trail—and it lead us to you,” Drake responded. “Now—did you or did you not see Injuns passing through?”
“What do you want them for?”
“They were amongst those murderin’ redskins responsible for the massacre of the Seventh Cavalry under Lieutenant Colonel George Custer at Little Big Horn,” Drake replied, his tone reverent.
“Do tell,” Pearl said, spitting in the dirt.
Drake seemed surprised by Pearl’s blatant indifference. “You do know about what happened at Little Big Horn, don’t you?”
Pearl shrugged. “Yeah. I know. But that still don’t explain why y’all are on my property, askin’ me questions about Injuns.”
Drake’s scowl deepened. “That’s some accent you’ve got there. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Funny. I was gonna say th’ same about y’all,” Pearl grunted.
Drake leaned back in his saddle, his pale irises seeming to disappear against the whites of his eye. “You wouldn’t be lyin’ to me about them Injuns just to make up for Stonewall Jackson, would you, Reb?”
Johnny Pearl’s cheeks burned, but he would be damned if he let this Union-suited son of a bitch get his goat. Still, he could not keep a waver of anger from entering his voice when he spoke. “How can I lie if I ain’t tole y’all nothin’! Now, get off my land! I got better things to do than to spend my day jawin’ with Yankees!”
One minute the cavalry officer’s hand was empty, the next the muzzle of his Colt was pressed against Pearl’s temple. There was no way Pearl could bring the carbine up in time to squeeze off a shot without Drake putting his brains on the ground, and both men knew it.
“Who’s in the cabin?” Drake growled.
Johnny struggled to speak around what felt like a rock wedged in his throat. “J-just my wife.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed into ice-blue slits. “I thought you said you was alone, Reb.”
“I didn’t say nothin’ about bein’ alone!” Johnny protested. “Y’all are just twistin’ everything I say!”
“We’ll just see about that,” Drake replied. He motioned with his free hand for a couple of his men to come forward. “Take his weapon, and see that he stays out from underfoot.”
With Drake’s service revolver cocked and aimed just above his right ear, Pearl was helpless to prevent the troopers from confiscating his rifle then roughly binding his hands behind his back. Satisfied Pearl was no longer a hindrance; Drake holstered his weapon and turned to speak to his junior officer.
“Lieutenant Barnes! I want that cabin searched!”
“Yes, sir!” Barnes barked, saluting Drake. He promptly dismounted and motioned several troopers to do the same. Guns drawn, they advanced on the cabin.
Johnny Pearl was no stranger to terror. Sometimes it seemed he was born knowing it. But before now, the fear he had experienced on the battlefield and in shootouts had always been for his own life. None of what he had undergone before had come close to preparing him for the sick dread that overcame him when he heard his wife scream.
“Katie!” Pearl shouted, struggling to break free of the troopers holding him. He wanted to scream, explode, turn himself inside out if need be—anything but let the bastards see his fear. “Don’t you dare touch her, you stinkin’ Yankee bastards!”
“Mind your mouth, Reb!” snarled one of the troopers as he smashed Pearl in the face with his gun butt. Through the stars exploding behind his eyes, Pearl saw his wife being dragged out of the cabin.
“Here y’go, Captain,” the scout said. “Weren’t no one but her in the house.”
Drake took in Katie’s long dark braid, high cheekbones, dusky skin and almond-shaped eyes, then turned to glower at his captive disapprovingly. “I thought you said there were no Injuns around here.”
“I ain’t said no such thing!” Pearl snarled, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “Besides, Katie ain’t full Cheyenne.”
“Even a drop of heathen blood is enough to mark her as theirs!” Drake sniffed. “She’ll have go on the reservation—the brat, too.”
“No! She’s my wife, damn it! That’s my baby she’s carryin’!”
Drake fixed him with a look of utter contempt. “Which makes you a squaw man—and as such, no better than a dog!”
Pearl lunged forward, his teeth bared in pure, murder-hot rage. If the troopers had not been holding him back, he would have leapt onto Drake and taken him off his saddle like a mountain cat bringing down an antelope. Instead, all he got for his trouble was his own rifle butt slammed across the back of his head, dropping him to the ground.
As he lay writhing in the dirt, clutching his skull, he heard a shriek of pain and surprise from the scout; “Jesus H. Christ! That Injun bitch damn near bit off my finger!”
Pearl raised his head in time to see Katie running as fast as she could away from the soldiers, but her belly was getting in her way. Within seconds the mounted troopers had surrounded her. They were laughing and making whooping noises, waving their hats at her as if she were no more than an errant cow they were trying to return to the herd. Katie dashed frantically to and fro, clutching her belly. She tried to find an opening in the tightening ring of champing horses.
It all happened so fast, so horribly, horribly fast. One moment Katie was calling out her husband’s name amid the chaos and the churning dust—the next she was under the horses’ hooves. Pearl wasn’t aware he was screaming until Lieutenant Barnes put a fist in his gut to shut him up.
Barnes massaged his knuckles as he watched Pearl gasp and choke for air. “What do we do with him, Captain?”
Drake’s eyes were as cold and unyielding as sapphires. “Make him an example for all those who would pollute the white race. Lynch him. Burn the cabin, while you’re at it.”
“Yes, sir!” Barnes responded, saluting sharply.
As his captors dragged him toward the nearest tree, Pearl felt as hollow as a dry gourd. It was as if they had reached down his gullet and yanked his soul out by the roots. Death, no matter how violent or unjust, was preferable to life in a world without his Katie.
The last thing Johnny Pearl saw before they chased the horse out from under him was the sight of his world in ruins: his house ablaze, his wife’s body sprawled in the bloody dust, and the scout bending over her, knife in hand.
Chapter Four
As the covered wagon made its way across the high plains, each jounce of its wheels made the utensils hanging in the back rattle like cowbells. If the old man perched on the driver’s box noticed the incessant clatter, he did not show it. Instead, his eye was fixed on the plume of smoke on the horizon. On the side of the canvas canopy was painted in bold, somewhat faded script:
Dr. Mirablis Wondrous Elixir Re-Vitae $1
(50 cents to Veterans & Widows).
“Pompey!” Dr. Mirablis croaked. “Come front!”
The head of a middle-aged Negro, the hair liberally laced with gray, popped out from behind the canvas flap separating the driver’s seat from the interior of the wagon.
“Take the reins on Alastor,” Mirablis wheezed. “We’re getting close. I must check on the elixir.”
Pompey nodded his understanding and moved aside, holding back the canvas so the old man could climb back into the wagon’s bed. He then seated himself on the driver’s box and took up the coal black horse’s reins. The beast flared its nostrils and rolled its eyes. It could smell death mixed with the smoke wafted their way by the wind. As could they all.
Pompey flicked the reins across the horse’s flanks, forcing it to move faster.
“Would you look at that,” Dr. Mirablis sighed, shaking his head in amazement as he
viewed what was left of the homestead. “They even shot the nanny goat.”
Twenty-four hours ago, this had been a place where people lived, worked and planned for the future. Now it was a scene of carnage. The cabin still smoldered. Although the roof had fallen in, the stone chimney still stood, but little else remained. The modest garden had been trampled into the dirt, and the livestock slaughtered and left to rot. Such barbarity was nothing new to a man who had survived the chaos of the Napoleonic Wars, but it still grieved him all the same.
Pompey grunted as he helped the old man down off the driver’s box. Mirablis was bent with age and walked with a cane.
His hair was white and thin as cobwebs. His scalp was dappled with the same spots that covered his wrinkled hands. Despite his advanced years, there was an intensity in his eyes—the kind found only in those of fierce intellect and even fiercer determination.
“Bloodthirsty savages,” Mirablis muttered under his breath as he shuffled through a litter of trampled chickens. The old man paused and pointed with his cane at something lying in the dirt nearby. “What’s that?” As they drew closer, Mirablis’s eyes widened and he began hobbling faster, despite Pompey’s attempts to keep him balanced. With a snarl of impatience, the old man yanked his arm free of his servant’s grasp and knelt beside the body of Katie Pearl. He grimaced in disgust and clucked his tongue. “This one is of no use to me—her skull has been smashed, as you can plainly tell, since some barbarian saw fit to take the poor thing’s scalp! Such a waste! And in the later stages of pregnancy as well.” Mirablis’s eyes dimmed, as the fire held within them was turned inward. A moment later he gestured for Pompey to help him back on his feet. “Still, if there was a mother,” he said. “There has to be a father.…”
His companion gently touched Mirablis’s shoulder and pointed to a flock of carrion crows circling a copse of trees that lined the nearby river.
“Ah, trusty Pompey!” Mirablis smiled, flashing his wooden and ivory dentures. “Ever my eyes and ears, old friend! Come, let us hurry! I can only pray those damnable birds haven’t had their way with our new friend!”
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