XV
Hank was the first out of the Major Wilson’s office as all of them ran outside. Soldiers converged on the infirmary in ones and twos, their faces confused and shaken. Hank spotted the one called Red Horse and two other braves gathered in conversation, near the tent village, their eyes dark and furtive.
Major Wilson snatched a nearby soldier’s arm and pointed toward Red Horse’s group. “Corporal, go break up that little pow-wow.”
The soldier peeled away and stalked toward the group, carbine brandished.
The braves dispersed before the soldier could reach them. Red Horse’s expression of sullen hatred swept over the entire group of white men.
The medicine woman and Sergeant Weatherly paused. Wilson pointed at her, “Sergeant, get her out of here.”
“Yes, sir.” Weatherly took Little Elk by the arm and led her toward the Indian camp.
Hank reached the infirmary door first, pulled his six-gun and flung open the door.
One of the sick privates, Garrett, stood over Oliver McCoy, hands clamped around Oliver’s throat. Oliver gurgled and thrashed, but his struggles were diminishing quickly. Private Spalding curled up against the wall, his eyes bulging, mouth open, clutching his blanket to his chest.
Hank trained his pistol. “Get off him or I’ll put a hole in you, Garrett!”
The soldier leered at Hank, his eyes bleak but cognizant. “The black god wants this one. He’s heard the call.”
Hank cocked his pistol. “Let him go!”
The full intelligence in the private’s eyes, as if he knew things that Hank could never imagine, sent a chill down Hank’s spine. A chill he had not felt in decades. “The sun fades and your final hour nears,” the private said through gritted teeth, “The storm is coming. The sky will cleanse you all.”
“I didn’t carry that runt all this way for this!” Hank took aim and shot him in the arm, a mere graze, but the private did not relent. “Goddammit!” He cocked again, and sent a bullet squarely into Garrett’s torso.
Garrett staggered, but maintained his grip on Oliver’s throat.
A cold hand settled over Hank’s chest and squeezed fingers through his ribs. He took careful aim. His next bullet blasted through Garrett’s skull. The body fell like speared buffalo, convulsing, twitching.
Oliver gasped for breath, clutching at his throat, hacking, coughing, sobbing. Charles shouldered past Hank and ran across the room to Oliver’s bedside.
Hank holstered his pistol and crossed the room to stand over Garrett’s twitching corpse. His lips were tight, teeth clenched. A dark pool of blood spread from the apple-sized hole in the back of Garrett’s skull, seeping into the rough planks of the floor. There was a stain that would never come out.
Major Wilson strode in, surveyed the scene for a moment, and then approached Spalding’s bed. “What happened, Private?”
Spalding’s face could have been fashioned from the same linen as his sheets. “I … It’s just … Clete woke up like he had a nightmare. He was talking gibberish. You heard him, sir!”
“I’m not sure what I heard,” Wilson said.
Charles said, “Something about a black god.”
Spalding’s tongue darted out to moisten cracked lips. “Right! Right! And how the black god is coming. A black sun, chosen people, it was all crazy talk, sir. I ain’t never seen madness like that! And he just got up, all calm like, and walked over there, and started choking that poor feller.”
The corners of Major Wilson’s mouth turned downward, and his eyes narrowed.
Spalding said, “He told me yesterday he’s been having some powerful bad nightmares. Ain’t been sleeping well, he said.”
Charles said, “What kind of nightmares?”
“Wouldn’t say, sir. But he remembered ’em. I saw that much.”
Hank nodded toward Oliver. “He gonna be all right?”
Charles cocked his head skeptically. “He’s not out of the woods.”
Major Wilson frowned. “Do you have the resources in town to care for this man, Doctor?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good, because I do not want him here.”
Charles stood up, and opened his mouth to protest, but Hank had had enough. That boy was about to sow himself a heap of trouble. He let the heel of his boot fall hard on the floor as he stepped forward. “You can take better care of him in town anyway. Major, I’ll thank you to let me borrow a buckboard for the day. There are three dead men out on the range gathering flies. They need burying.”
Major Wilson masticated his cigar for a moment, a fake smile cracking his wet lips. “Fine. You have a buckboard at your disposal for the day, Marshal. Let it never be said that I don’t help the civilian law. Doctor, this man will be more comfortable at your office. Sergeant, begin the search for the missing children.”