door and glanced out at the still-falling snow. The large flakes drifted soundlessly to earth, a thick curtain of white that prevented him from seeing farther than a few inches. He hoped it stopped before the pass was closed. Buck reckoned Old Ted had made it through or he would have been back, pounding on the door by now.
If the old man stuck to his usual habits, Buck wouldn’t see Ted until spring. It was a stroke of luck that the old man had happened by when he did and was able to care for Baby, or Buck would have been forced to take the child with him to Cheyenne.
The fire had burned low. Buck threw on another log and sat back down. Maybe he was already crazy and didn’t know it. Crazy as Pa and Patsy. Pa hadn’t even known him at the end. Why should I be any different? he wondered.
No, things couldn’t get any worse. Of course, he’d been thinking that most of his life now, and fate had tended to make him a liar. Things always got worse. He could hardly remember the good years anymore because they hadn’t lasted long at all.
He’d been born in Kentucky in 1860, and then his father, Silas, went off to fight for the Confederacy a year later. They lived in the hill country then, and Buck grew up running the hills and hollows barefoot and carefree. His mother, Irene, a midwife for the surrounding hamlets, let him roam as far as he cared to go as long as he promised to follow the creek bed so he wouldn’t lose his way. She took him with her whenever she went to deliver babies.
Silas returned from the war defeated in spirit and took to moping about their log cabin, unwilling to do little more than swill whiskey, stare at the wall, or make love to his wife. When Buck was six, his sister Patsy was born. Two years later, his mother had Sissy. Irene kept them together by selling her home-brewed elixirs and midwifing. From the time he was old enough to learn about the herbs and potions she mixed as curatives, Buck had dreamed of becoming a real doctor, a healer.
When Buck was twelve, Irene Scott ran off with a handsome drummer who’d come to the door trying to sell them a new frying pan. Two things came of her betrayal: Silas Scott was forced to get up and care for his children, and Buck’s dream of becoming a real doctor died.
A drifter passing through told Silas there was money to be had hunting buffalo out West and one man’s word was all it took to convince the elder Scott to pack up Buck and the girls, who were then six and four years old, box a few staples, and leave Kentucky behind. They set out for Dodge City in a rickety wagon pulled by two old mules. Buck had charge of the girls from then on. He was to see that they were fed and “made to mind,” as his pa put it.
Just as his mother had taught him to read from the only books they owned— Doctor Jayne’s Medical Almanac and Guide to Good Health, a frayed-edged Bible, and a tattered copy of Antony and Cleopatra, one volume of a set another drummer had left behind as a sample—Buck taught Patsy and Sissy to read. Patsy took to reading like a duck to water, but Sissy had been another matter. Whenever she had tried to concentrate, a passing butterfly, a sudden noise, or a mere daydream would cause her to stare off into space. Her lack of attention was more than Buck’s patience could stand and he soon gave up on her. Patsy read until she had memorized the story of the Egyptian queen and made Buck and Sissy act out the drama with her.
The winter of ‘seventy-two was the first that the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe operated out of Dodge City. The coming of the railroad helped to further eradicate the wild buffalo herds around Dodge, for the hunters could then ride along and shoot the animals from the windows of the train. Hides were loaded on box cars that sat waiting on spur lines, cars piled from floor to ceiling with buffalo skins. So manyof the beasts had already been destroyed that by the time Silas Scott arrived in Dodge with his children, the
If the old man stuck to his usual habits, Buck wouldn’t see Ted until spring. It was a stroke of luck that the old man had happened by when he did and was able to care for Baby, or Buck would have been forced to take the child with him to Cheyenne.
The fire had burned low. Buck threw on another log and sat back down. Maybe he was already crazy and didn’t know it. Crazy as Pa and Patsy. Pa hadn’t even known him at the end. Why should I be any different? he wondered.
No, things couldn’t get any worse. Of course, he’d been thinking that most of his life now, and fate had tended to make him a liar. Things always got worse. He could hardly remember the good years anymore because they hadn’t lasted long at all.
He’d been born in Kentucky in 1860, and then his father, Silas, went off to fight for the Confederacy a year later. They lived in the hill country then, and Buck grew up running the hills and hollows barefoot and carefree. His mother, Irene, a midwife for the surrounding hamlets, let him roam as far as he cared to go as long as he promised to follow the creek bed so he wouldn’t lose his way. She took him with her whenever she went to deliver babies.
Silas returned from the war defeated in spirit and took to moping about their log cabin, unwilling to do little more than swill whiskey, stare at the wall, or make love to his wife. When Buck was six, his sister Patsy was born. Two years later, his mother had Sissy. Irene kept them together by selling her home-brewed elixirs and midwifing. From the time he was old enough to learn about the herbs and potions she mixed as curatives, Buck had dreamed of becoming a real doctor, a healer.
When Buck was twelve, Irene Scott ran off with a handsome drummer who’d come to the door trying to sell them a new frying pan. Two things came of her betrayal: Silas Scott was forced to get up and care for his children, and Buck’s dream of becoming a real doctor died.
A drifter passing through told Silas there was money to be had hunting buffalo out West and one man’s word was all it took to convince the elder Scott to pack up Buck and the girls, who were then six and four years old, box a few staples, and leave Kentucky behind. They set out for Dodge City in a rickety wagon pulled by two old mules. Buck had charge of the girls from then on. He was to see that they were fed and “made to mind,” as his pa put it.
Just as his mother had taught him to read from the only books they owned— Doctor Jayne’s Medical Almanac and Guide to Good Health, a frayed-edged Bible, and a tattered copy of Antony and Cleopatra, one volume of a set another drummer had left behind as a sample—Buck taught Patsy and Sissy to read. Patsy took to reading like a duck to water, but Sissy had been another matter. Whenever she had tried to concentrate, a passing butterfly, a sudden noise, or a mere daydream would cause her to stare off into space. Her lack of attention was more than Buck’s patience could stand and he soon gave up on her. Patsy read until she had memorized the story of the Egyptian queen and made Buck and Sissy act out the drama with her.
The winter of ‘seventy-two was the first that the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe operated out of Dodge City. The coming of the railroad helped to further eradicate the wild buffalo herds around Dodge, for the hunters could then ride along and shoot the animals from the windows of the train. Hides were loaded on box cars that sat waiting on spur lines, cars piled from floor to ceiling with buffalo skins. So manyof the beasts had already been destroyed that by the time Silas Scott arrived in Dodge with his children, the
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