The Journey of Josephine Cain (22 page)

A shot rang out.

The Negro fell.

Josephine and Frieda screamed and Papa herded them behind himself, shielding them.

But their screams were the only screams. The whores looked on as if nothing was amiss, and one fiddled with the laces of her high-top shoes. Others who walked along the street hurried along, but no one came to the man’s aid.

And no one tried to apprehend the killer. He simply walked back into the saloon—to shouts of congratulations. Job well done.

The man on the street groaned. Papa pointed to the general store nearby and told Josephine and Frieda, “Go in there. I’ll take care of this.”

The women scurried inside—only to find Lewis already there. In the melee, Josephine hadn’t seen him take cover.

And leave her out in the open.

“I . . .” he said.

“Why don’t you go out there with Papa and help that man?”

“I don’t know anything about medicine.”

Josephine didn’t know what to say. But she did know what to do. “Frieda, stay here.” She went to the counter. “Towels? Cloth? Bandages? Do you have anything like that?”

The clerk handed her a towel and a roll of bandages.

Josephine took them outside.

Hudson ran to the general’s aid. The injured man had turned onto his back, and Hudson could see a hole in his shoulder. “I’ll help you move him,” he said.

General Cain looked up and nodded. “Let’s get him to my office.”

Miss Cain came running out of the general store. She hesitated just a moment upon seeing him, then said, “I have some supplies.”

“Good girl,” the general said.

The men carried the victim back to the railroad office, and Josephine ran ahead to open the door. There was a large table with papers and maps on it, but she quickly gathered those up to clear it.

The man groaned.

“Get the basin and pitcher.”

Josephine brought them close. The two men removed the man’s coat, vest, and shirt. With a glance, the general said, “If you’re squeamish . . .”

She looked pale but shook her head. “Just tell me what to do.”

The general poked his finger in the wound. “Help me see his back.” Hudson helped turn the man over. The man screamed at the movement.

“The bullet went all the way through.”

“Is that good?” she asked.

“It can be. It means we don’t have to do any digging.”

She made a face and dipped the towel in the water. “Here.”

The general cleaned the wound with a gentle hand. Hudson remembered seeing him help a soldier on the battlefield with the same authoritative but calming touch.

He nodded at Hudson. “There’s whiskey over there.”

Hudson retrieved the bottle. Once the wound was clean, he offered the man a swig, then poured a goodly amount on both front and back.

The man’s scream was primal.

Hudson saw Josephine close her eyes and take a deep breath. He was impressed she’d held herself together. The sight of it made his own stomach roil a bit, though unfortunately, he’d gotten far too used to bullet wounds and blood.

The general took the bandage roll and wrapped it around the man’s shoulder while Hudson held him up off the table.

Finally it was done, and they all took a step back. The patient’s eyes were closed. The general was breathing heavily. “I think he’ll be all right. Thank you for your help. Both of you.” He gave his daughter a wink.

“Is he really a cheater?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter. He didn’t deserve to be shot.”

Her forehead furrowed. “So sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that we shouldn’t have helped him. I was just . . .”

The general washed his hands in fresh water, then touched her cheek. “I know, sweet girl. It
is
a logical question. Unfortunately, Mr. Maguire and I have become hardened to the guilty and the innocent out here. The line gets blurred by the conditions and the varied histories of the men. We have to go back to the basics of what
any
human deserves and needs.”

Her forehead lost its tightness, and Hudson could see how much her father’s opinion meant to her. Mutual respect was evident.

Hudson took the bloodied water outside and emptied it on the ground to the side of the building. When he returned, father and daughter were locked in an embrace. “I am so proud of you, Josephine. But I am also sorry you had to witness such a thing.”

Hudson started to leave to give them privacy, but the general called him back. “Once again, Mr. Maguire, you have proven yourself indispensable.”

“I’m glad I could help.” He tipped his hat to Josephine, then turned again to leave.

“Will you join us for dinner tonight?” the general asked. “I have asked the cook to put together something special to commemorate my daughter’s visit.”

“I’d be honored.”

Sometimes good deeds earned a very good payout.

General Cain ordered a table set outside, near his railcar. It was covered with a tablecloth and set for five.

One too many, in Lewis’s opinion.

Everything Hudson Maguire did or said was like a needle jammed beneath Lewis’s skin. The man was being treated like a hero. All he did was be in the right place at the right time. Running to help that man who’d been shot . . . Maguire was used to this wild, awful place. Lewis was not. So it was logical that when he’d seen the man shot right in front of them, he’d run for cover.

That was only common sense.

But to make matters worse, the general and Maguire knew each other from the war. Soldiers. Bonding. All that rot. The soldier life was
not
for Lewis. The army was the cause of all his family’s problems.

“Remember before the Battle of South Mountain, when the cook tried to make raccoon, and a bunch of the men threw it into the bushes?” Maguire said.

“It was foul—at least the way he made it.”

“Lieutenant Hayes said he’d rather get shot than eat it again.”

“And then he got shot.”

Lewis perked up. He’d heard this story before. “Rutherford Hayes?”

“That’s the man,” the general said. “He was shot at Fox’s Gap while leading an attack on Lee’s flank.”

For the first time, Lewis felt involved. “Hayes was on the meridian excursion.” He looked to Josephine. “We heard his stories about the war.”

“He was wounded five times,” Josephine added.

Point one for me
.

“Were you ever shot, Mr. Maguire?” Josephine asked.

He shook his head but looked to his plate. “My brother John was. He was killed at Gettysburg.”

Josephine reached across the table toward him. “I am so sorry. I lost my brother too.”

The two of them locked eyes, and Lewis didn’t like what he saw. Yet it was when they both looked away that he knew the gig was up. They had
forced
themselves to look away.

He hated Hudson Maguire.

Then Maguire looked directly at Lewis. “Which regiment did you fight with?” he asked.

Lewis tried not to hesitate, but his throat was completely dry. “I was in Europe during the war, studying art.”

Maguire’s right eyebrow rose.

“Where did you study?”

He remembered his faux pas at the Wilson’s party. “All over. I traveled to the great cities of Europe and studied the masters.” He’d learned it was best to remain vague.

Josephine cocked her head, her eyes on him. “Not the Louvre?”

She knows I was lying about that
. He was appalled when he felt himself redden. “I certainly spent a lot of time in the Louvre, sketching the work of the masters, but the Louvre itself does not have a school.”

“How handy of you to miss the entire war,” Maguire said.

“You have no right to condemn me, Mr. Maguire.”

He shrugged. “Sorry to offend.”

Lewis
hadn’t
missed the entire war, but he couldn’t very well tell them that. He looked to Josephine, waiting for her to come to his defense by saying how she was glad that he’d been safely ensconced in Europe during all the fighting.

But Josephine remained silent.

This wasn’t good. He
had
to do something to regain her favor.

But what?

The dining table had been cleared and removed, and Papa had gone back to the railway office for the night. Lewis and Hudson were off to their respective lodging, and Frieda was preparing for bed.

But Josephine wasn’t ready to sleep. Not even close.

She realized she should be exhausted from the day: the arrival in Cheyenne, the tour of the town, the shooting.

Images and sounds flashed through her mind, but not surprisingly, the sound of the gunshot took precedence.

She walked away from the railcar, on the side away from the bustle of the town. She needed to be alone. She needed to let the memory of the sound of President Lincoln’s assassination merge with the sound of today’s gunshot. A mere second where the air split with a blast and flash. The descriptive word
bang
was not sufficient. She could
bang
two pans together. But she could not create a
blast
. An explosion. That killed.

She drew her shawl tighter and closed her eyes. The memory of the president slumping over into his wife’s lap merged with today’s image of the man falling to the ground right in front of them.

And then the imagined picture of her brother being shot on the battlefield. Away from his family. Gone forever in an instant.

Josephine shivered.

“Are you chilled, Miss Cain?”

She turned around and saw Mr. Maguire approach. An impulse to say yes so that he might put his arm around her was quickly usurped by the truth. “I am chilled by the memory of today’s shooting—and the one I witnessed the day President Lincoln was shot.”

He took a place beside her, the two of them facing west where the sun was making its last stand against the day. “Life is precarious.”

“And dangerous.”

“It can be.”

“I used to think otherwise.”

“Until the war?”

She hated to admit the next to anyone. “Not even the war could change my penchant for seeing life through rose-colored glasses. The war was going on, and Papa was off leading soldiers to battle, but I was
too young, too naïve, and too self-absorbed to let it color my ridiculous view of life.”

“Believing life is good is not ridiculous.”

“It seems so now, in hindsight. My brother and cousin were killed, and I saw the president murdered. . . .”

“You were actually there?”

She drew in a breath, trying to curb the tears that usually accompanied the memory. “I was there with my parents, watching the play, but not watching it, because I was too busy being jealous of the young woman who had the honor of sitting in the box next to the president.” She faced Hudson, letting a tear fall unimpeded. “I was looking right at the box when Booth came in and shot him. I saw the flash. I saw the president fall into his wife’s arms. I saw Booth stab Rathbone, the young woman’s escort, before leaping to the stage.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too—for the president, for the country, but also, selfishly, for me. Because that night was the beginning of the end of my ridiculous optimism.”

“Optimism is never ridiculous. Optimism is hope. And hope is essential. Without it, we might as well dig ourselves a hole and crawl inside.”