And so it went the next few days. The Marshal would arrive bright and early, put in a long day’s work on the formerly Olmsted now Farquhar property, and listen as Sarah talked away about her life, her hopes and dreams, with the occasional bible verse thrown in. Sarah was no slouch herself, working as hard as her delicate constitution allowed.
Together, they cleared and seeded the land, got Olmsted’s old water pump working, and shined the cabin up prettier than a new penny. Sarah dipped into her inheritance to purchase supplies and provisions, which Slade hauled back from Anderson’s General Store.
A lesser deputy might have questioned his boss’ loyalty to his job, but Gunther was proud of his match making skills and demanded full reports whenever Slade checked in on the Buchanan Boys.
Slade always felt bad for leaving Sarah all alone so far from civilization, but Sarah insisted, quoting biblical verses off the top of her head as evidence that a man in the home of a woman he isn’t married to was enough to make the man upstairs blow a gasket and then some.
Late in the afternoon of the third day, Slade was on his way back to town when a peculiar sight off in the distance caught his attention. Two cavalry men in blue uniforms stood next to a buckboard wagon. A third man lying in the back cried out in pain.
Slade rode on over as any good Marshal would, only to catch a loud argument.
“AM I THE LIEUTENANT OR AM I NOT?”
“DOES THAT MATTER ANYMORE?!”
“HE’S DONE FOR! YOU KNOW WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE!”
“HE COULD PULL THROUGH!”
“Afternoon,” Slade said.
The Lieutenant was a big burly man with red hair and a full beard. The Private was a young man with blonde hair.
Slade went up to the wagon for a closer look. The third man clutched his neck, trying in vain to close up a hole and keep the blood from trickling out. He gasped and gurgled for breath.
The Private put his hand on the victim’s. “Hold on, Carl! Hold on!”
Carl was not holding on. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. One last, loud gasp and his head fell back. His life was over.
The Lieutenant withdrew his pistol and pumped three rounds into Carl’s forehead. On pure instinct, Slade drew his Colt. He and the Lieutenant traded glances until Slade holstered his weapon. The Lieutenant did the same.
“You didn’t have to do that,” the Private said.
“You know I did,” the Lieutenant replied.
Slade didn’t care for the sight he’d just seen. He figured it wasn’t a crime to shoot a dead man, but the act still puzzled him.
“What happened?” Slade asked.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” the Lieutenant said. “Or if you’d believe me.”
The Lieutenant sipped from a metal flask. He offered some to Slade, who declined.
“Injuns?” Slade asked.
“If only,” the Private said.
“Men,” the Lieutenant said. “And women. Overcome by some…I don’t even know how to put it. A delirium I suppose. Like rabid dogs with immense strength.”
“The more you shoot at them the faster they come,” the Private added.
“What?” Slade asked.
“My thought exactly,” the Lieutenant said as he hopped in the driver’s seat. The Private took his place next to him.
“Are you lost from your regiment?” Slade asked.
“We are the regiment,” the Lieutenant said. “What’s left of it.”
Slade could only repeat, “What?”
The Lieutenant yanked the reigns, telling his horses it was time to walk away.
“You’d have to see it to believe it,” the Lieutenant said. “I pray you never do.”
Dumbfounded, Slade stood there, alone on the open prairie, doing his best to make sense of what just happened. Unable to do so, he hopped onto Chance and headed back for Highwater.
Bookshelf Battle 