BIG SOUTHERN CHAPTER FOURTEEN

1863

MCCANDLESS

"You didn't need to do that, Bill." Lewis stared at the two bodies, their last twitches stopping a minute ago, blood pooling beneath one soldier's head into the dust it rested on. The beads of blood rolled slowly, moved like insects, not seeping into the dry ground but instead collecting a speckled surface of dust. Like they were rolled in flour, ready for frying.

Bill Hickman smiled. "I did, Lewis. We was told to do it, and I did it. The Prophet asks and we respond. Rear guard that you were for Brother Brigham, you should know that."

Porter walked to a body, pushed it with his boot. "They was a danger to Deseret," he said, looking at Lewis. "You suggesting Brigham was wrong?" He turned to Hickman. "Does that not sound like apostasy, Bill?"

Graham Lowe stood back from the others, noncommittal as usual.

Lewis' eyes went to the north slope of the Big Southern Butte. He looked northwesterly, to the foothills, that range's base the path he'd taken many times on the way to Lemhi and back within the last five years. This point had served as a beacon for him though he was never truly lost on those treks. He could not count the number of times his scanning eyes had flickered on to the Butte as a reference point and touchstone. "They were deserters," he said. "They posed no danger."

"Says you. Brigham said they were spies." Bill's visage turned toward a sneer but didn't quite reach. Porter snickered.

"I think you're enjoying this all a bit much." Lewis' eyes gathered a sternness.

Graham Lowe rocked uneasily, shifted in a nervous manner that urged movement away from the current exchange between the men. He saw the horizon change, fixed his gaze on the place where it altered. An object, now two, came toward them, a half-mile away and closing in. "Company," he said, not knowing whether he was stating a fact or asking a question.

The mood turned to alertness, all four men watching the approaching figures. Porter recognized them first. "Them's our horses."

In silence they watched them come, the horses' first aim to reach water, which they went to and began drinking greedily.

"You didn't need to leave that family out there to die," Lewis said.

"Who says they're dead? Would you have preferred walking?" He glared at Lewis. "We can still arrange that."

Porter's grin widened. "I think you look good on a mule, Lewis," he said, trying to ignite something, he didn't know exactly what, just that he was feeling excitement not only over what had just transpired but what was about to. He ached for that giddiness, always.

Hickman and Lewis stared, the horses seemed to have drank their fill, backing away from the meager spring. Hickman walked over to them, withdrew his pistol from its holster, shot the one in the head and when the other started running shot it ahead of its rear quarter, crippling it. He then walked over, shot it in the head, as well.

He looked at Lewis defiantly. Lewis stared back, the instant freezing him. "There is no depravity beyond you," he finally stated. He went to the borrowed mule, mounted, rode off without looking back. Graham Lowe looked at Hickman, looked at Lewis, got on the other mule and made to follow.

© 2025 Ralph Thurston