Sawbones by Melissa Lenhardt

of admiration. He knew. He knew who I was.
    “Did you hear our conversation?” I nodded in the direction of the group.
    “Some.”
    “You think I am her.”
    He turned his head and spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. He wiped his hand down his long, full, gray mustache. “I saw the poster, what, two months ago? Never forget a face. Not a good likeness, is it?” Amos’s gaze traveled over my face and down, lingered appreciatively, before returning. His eyes were alive beneath the brim of his hat. “You’re softer in person.”
    “I did not kill him.”
    I held his gaze while he studied me. His expression of amused respect slipped to something like disappointment. “No, I don’t suppose you did. But you’ve got it in you.”
    “What?”
    “Killing.”
    “I do not.”
    He spit another stream of tobacco, wiped his mustache. “Laura, most everyone comes out here’s got it in them. Only they ain’t been pushed to the point yet.”
    “Are you going to turn me in?”
    “Well, I’ll be honest. I haven’t decided yet.”
    I tried to swallow the rock forming in my throat. Amos was an amiable man. I’d liked him—up until this point. I half-expected him to deny the urge to betray me, to be offended at the idea.
    “Five hundred dollars is a lot of money.”
    And there it was. I kicked myself for my naiveté. If I thought every man in New York would turn me in for $500, why wouldn’t every man in the West do the same?
    “Then again, I have no cause to be judging others for killing. And one less Yankee in the world ain’t a bad thing.”
    I opened my mouth to defend George Langton, but clasped it shut. Amos Pike didn’t care about the individual man, but at the death of an abstract idea like a Yankee, he cheered.
    He looked me over again. “I could be persuaded.”
    It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. To Amos, his proposition was benevolent; he would keep quiet if I would be his nighttime companion on the drive. But there would be no guarantee he wouldn’t use me before turning me in. Worse, I had nothing against him to make him follow through on his promise. I had little choice, and he knew it.
    I suddenly hated him, this middle-aged man who looked old, with bowed legs and large hands, scarred and calloused from years of hard work, who wore a sweat-stained hat to cover thinning, gray hair. I would not acquiesce easily.
    “Why aren’t you still rangering? Fighting the Indians?” I asked.
    “It’s a young man’s job.”
    My laughter was harsh. “Maybe Ester was right when she called you a coward.”
    He drank from his flask and punched the cork into its mouth with the palm of his hand. “I’ve no doubt you’re a sharp woman, Laura, but mark my words, if your mind don’t control your tongue, you won’t be long for this world.” The threat was more frightening because Amos’s expression and voice still held the benevolence from before. “You know why I don’t ranger anymore?”
    I remained silent.
    “There ain’t no money in it.” He toasted me with his flask and walked away.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Sherman and his retinue left before dawn, with a promise of sending a detachment to escort us to Fort Richardson. Pike declined, assuring General Sherman that his teamsters and cowboys were well able to protect us. Sherman was adamant, not only because it was the Army’s task to protect settlers and wagon trains, but also to show his authority over Amos.
    To calm Maureen’s fears about my wandering, I walked beside the wagon while she walked with Frau Schlek. I was anxious to ramble away from the train, to get some distance so I could think. The decision I made during a sleepless night did not stand up in the light of day. If I acquiesced to Amos Pike, I would be no better than a whore. If I refused, he might turn me in when we reached Fort Richardson.
    It was this question that was vexing me when Anna joined me. I forced a smile. “Hello, Anna.”
    “May I walk with you, Dr.