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the ground was a woman; she looked unmarked, but was most definitely dead. Between her legs, naked on the ground, was a baby. It was still attached to her by the umbilical cord, but where the mother had departed this world the baby, a boy, was alive but only just. She couldn’t have given birth too long ago and when Walt knelt and touched her she was still slightly warm, but there was no pulse, no heartbeat. The woman stared back at him with empty eyes and he closed the lids with fingers. Left weakened and with no one to tend to her, she must have died giving birth. The baby though, by some miracle, had made it thus far: there was at least one survivor of the massacre.
    ‘My dear God,’ Edith said, standing next to her husband. She held a thick blanket and the half-drunk bottle of whiskey. She smiled weakly at her husband. ‘The poor little thing.’
    Walt took the whiskey from her, mouthed a long slug and then pulled his Bowie from his waistband. He poured some of the whiskey over the blade, catching the drips under his free hand. He then licked the sodden hand and knelt and held the umbilical cord in one hand and took his knife to it, slicing it clean, close to the baby’s body. There was a quick spurt of blood and the child let out a weak and pathetic cry.
    The old man picked up the baby and handed it to his wife and the warmth of the blanket.
    The poor mite felt spindly and weak.
    ‘Born on a battlefield,’ Walt said.
    Had a child ever had a worse start to life?
    Edith’s eyes filled with tears. She held the baby close to her, warming its clammy skin. They both knew the child had virtually no chance of survival but they had to try. They had the house cow tethered to the wagon which would provide milk, so at the very least they could feed the poor thing, so there was a slim chance that they could save the child.
    ‘Arkansas,’ Walt said. ‘Call him Arkansas. Since that’s where we is.’
    ‘Arkansas Smith.’ Edith said and smiled when the baby gripped one of her fingers in a tiny fist. He seemed to approve of the name. ‘I think he likes it.’
    In truth, they had yet to cross the Missouri border and Arkansas was still some miles off. The old man had never been the best of navigators and by the time they reached Fort Comanche and learnt their mistake the name had come to suit the baby. Arkansas it would remain. Good job I didn’t think we were in Dung City, the old man had often joked.

FIVE
    With the advent of first light the doctor again changed Will’s dressing, paying particular attention to the pus and gore on the spent one. There was some infection, but he said he expected Will would be able to fight through it. He placed a thick poultice beneath the fresh dressing and then nodded with satisfaction. He would call at the cabin every other day for at least a week, he promised, and then gave Arkansas strict instructions as to his friend’s care. Fluids, and not of the rye-based kind, were important. Water, some coffee was permissible. And it was imperative that Will eat a little several times a day if he was to regain the strength to fight the sapping fever that had set in. He had left a bottle of medicine for the pain and said he would apply a fresh poultice to the wound the next visit.
    The doctor had then left for town.
    Arkansas had offered to escort him, but the medic insisted on going alone, he would have no trouble handling the horse and cart and besides, the doc hadpointed out, Arkansas’s talents were better suited here, in care of his friend. Arkansas had to admit the doctor had a good point there. And although the doctor didn’t say anything it was evident from his manner that he was eager to go. Perhaps he was spooked at Arkansas’s suggestion that someone had been watching the cabin overnight. After all, it was an irrefutable fact that Will had been attacked and shot in this very cabin. Someone had sure enough done that.
    Arkansas had watched the doctor ride out of sight and then