Trail Angel by Derek Catron

bears, but I know men have souls.”
    The Colonel nodded. “I think I said nearly the same thing.” He took back his bowl from the boy. “You know what he said to me? ‘Yes, but most men got it coming.’ ”
    As he finished his story, another coughing fit overcame the Colonel, this one so bad he couldn’t breathe. Annabelle rushed to him.
    â€œHe’s burning up,” she said to her mother.
    Others came to help. The old coot could barely stand. Annabelle sent one of the boys running for Josey Angel. Her aunt tried to get the Colonel to lie down while Mrs. Rutledge ordered the men to put him on a bed in their wagon. Having regained his breath, the Colonel wouldn’t have it.
    â€œA good night’s sleep is all I need,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It’s only the ague.”
    Backing away along with the Daggett boys, Caleb hoped he was right. More than once the old man had warned them disease was a greater threat than Indians. Caleb didn’t mean to find out.

C HAPTER T WENTY
    The old man was sick.
    Josey saw it coming but couldn’t stop it. He told the Colonel to rest, to ride in a wagon or hold the emigrants in camp an extra day. They might have blamed it on a need for repairs or rest for the stock. The Colonel’s pride wouldn’t permit it. He didn’t want to let on that he felt poorly.
    There was no hiding it now. The first glow of morning bleached the sky and Josey saw his friend wouldn’t be rising with the sun. The Colonel slept fitfully. His clothes and hair were damp from fever, and he looked wan and weak. Josey felt the heat pouring off the old man even before his hand made contact with his papery skin. Lord Byron kneeled beside Josey. His furrowed brow reflected everything Josey thought.
    â€œWe should get him into some dry clothes and a clean bedroll when he wakes,” Josey said.
    Byron nodded, and Josey noticed the clothes on the ground behind him. He should have known Byron was a step ahead of him. “Best be getting to the wagons,” Byron told him. Josey smiled, realizing he’d been dismissed.
    It had been a restless night for both. The old man shivered when they put him to bed. Byron stirred the fire to life and fixed the bedroll. Josey lay beside the Colonel, wrapping him in his arms to still the shakes. When the Colonel slept, Josey rose without disturbing him and sat beside Byron, who handed him a tin cup. Like most Union soldiers, Josey had practically lived on coffee. He gave it up on the march through Georgia, where the blockade made it impossible to find real beans and the bitterness of the roasted rye and sweet potato blends the rebels ground as a substitute put Josey off the stuff for good. Yet he accepted the cup from Byron, knowing neither would be sleeping.
    All had suffered the ague that winter, one of the coldest anyone remembered. Ague left a man feeling like he’d been dragged behind a wagon for a day and a night, but he would rise eventually. Byron and Josey recovered quickly, but the illness lingered in the Colonel. He possessed such vigor, Josey forgot that most men his age spent their days rocking on a porch somewhere. Josey figured the Colonel had suffered a relapse, but until they knew for sure, he had to keep the Colonel away from the others, especially the children.
    A wagon train left little time to care for the sick. Cattle needed fresh grass. Provisions were limited. If the Colonel didn’t recover quickly, they couldn’t ask the others to wait. Byron knew this as well as Josey. He said simply, “He won’t be well enough by morning.”
    â€œWe can rest a day. Tomorrow is Saturday. We would have stopped on Sunday, anyway.” Byron didn’t speak. A tilt of his head was question enough. They stopped on Sundays, in part, so the faithful among them could honor the Sabbath. “We won’t give them a choice,” Josey said.
    That would buy them a day. A sick man