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welcome as spring.”
    Widow Kate held up the grey tunic, seeing that it was pieces of two or three Confederate uniforms of different rank sewn together. The brass buttons across the front were mismatched, and the epaulets looked to be an afterthought. Blood spatter stained one side.
    Widow Kate said, “Honey, you need someone who knows what they’re doing to take of this. You want to appear your best, don’t you?”
    Beaudine looked at Kate with calm eyes, “That’s part of my battle dress. Every spot of blood is a badge of honor.”
    Kate took a Bowie knife from the inside pocket before handing back the tunic. She said, “I’ll put this in the office with your guns, and they’ll stay safe, until you get right with the house.”
    â€œYou’re putting me in jeopardy, Madame. How am I to properly defend Miss Bly and myself ?”
    Kate took Beaudine’s hand, her palm smothering his. “Against what, Major? Against what?”
    Beaudine said, “The traitorous enemies who’re plotting against us.”
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    The trickle of water from the morning-melted snow laced along the bites of the cave roof, before finding a place just above John Bishop’s head, where it rained into his mouth. Bishop leaned back, took a drink, and then stepped away from the cave wall, all the time holding his right half-arm in front of him as an exercise.
    Two pieces of heavy scrap iron were laced together with a leather thong, where White Fox had tied them to his arm, just below the elbow joint. The pieces dangled free, clanking together with every move. Bishop strained. The leather gutted tight, as he lifted the weights with the small section of arm that Beaudine had allowed he could keep.
    Bishop straightened his elbow, fighting the iron as if he were leveling the shotgun. “You counting?”
    White Fox gave her answer with her deep, black eyes: she was.
    Bishop lifted again, drawing his arm as close as he could to his shoulder. He lowered it slowly, stopping waist-high and holding. He stole another drink from the ceiling.
    White Fox said, “Too much water.”
    â€œWho’s the doctor, huh?”
    She settled cross-legged between the ammunition and medical supplies, wiping the dried blood from inside the leather cup that held the shotgun rig. She soaped the cup, kneading it with her fingers, before folding a small piece of tanned deerskin around the edges. She put her hand inside the rig, gauging its comfort, while keeping a watch on Bishop. Always keeping watch.
    Sweat beaded his face, as he held out the scrap iron, his body shaking. Finally, he exploded, “God almighty!”
    Bishop and the iron banged to the cave floor. White Fox moved to him, untying the leather thong with a quick pull, releasing the weights.
    White Fox smiled and said, “ Koké’ahe .”
    Bishop leaned back, catching the stream from above, “I thought my arm was going to come off, ’least what I have left.”
    â€œBeaudine is with you.”
    â€œAlways.”
    â€œ O’osó .”
    â€œI’m not wrong. The bastard’s the reason we’re here.” Bishop smiled. “Amaryllis’d be so angry that I cussed.”
    Bishop took a small mirror from his field kit and examined the deep slice on his face, which was now purple with healing. He said, “He cut everything I had to pieces.”
    White Fox stood, opening her blouse to reveal a scar that snaked from the edge of her rib cage to just above the curve of her right hip. The raised tissue was ten inches long and a quarter of an inch wide, with the jagged pattern of sutures now flesh-permanent. She ran her fingers over the area, which was still dead to the touch.
    Bishop said, “I did a sloppy job there.”
    â€œYou saved me.”
    â€œBut that’s the reminder of your husband and that night. You can’t forget.”
    â€œ Tóxetanó ?”
    â€œYou