Kit Carson, Pulp Fiction and the death of Mrs. White by Apaches

From Duty, Honor, Country, a Novel of West Point & the Civil War

There was no sign of the daughter or servant.  Whether they’d been carried off or never made it here, there was no way of knowing.  There were so many small trails now going in so many directions, it would be impossible to know which to follow.

Cord sat alone, not far from where a couple of soldiers were digging a hole in which to bury Mrs. White.  The arrow had gone straight through her heart, killing her instantly.  Grier was going through the goods that had been abandoned in the haste to abandon the camp.  He was furious at Carson, believing if they had used a white flag the bloodshed could have been averted.

“You doing all right, Elijah?” Carson asked.

“I’m not.”

“What happened?” Carson asked.  “We got split up in the charge.”  He frowned.  “You drinking?”

“I-“ Cord began, but Grier came stomping over, holding something in his hands.

“Found this in her satchel.”  He held a well-thumbed pulp novel.  He extended it to Carson.  “Ever seen it?”

“Yeah, I seen it,” Carson said, not bothering to take the book.

Grier read from the cover.  “’Kit Carson: The Prince of the Gold Hunters’ is what it says.  You’re a giant of a man.  A hero.  Been everywhere, done everything yourself.”  He perused the insert.  “Says here in this story the frontier hero Kit Carson vows to some woman’s parents that he will track down and save their daughter, no matter how long it takes.”

Grier tossed the book to the ground.  He pointed at it.  “The myth.”  Then he pointed at Mrs. White.  “The real Kit Carson.  She must have been reading that, thinking the real deal would be coming for her.  Well, you came.  Didn’t work out, did it?”

Carson was crest-fallen, staring at the book as if it were a rattlesnake.  “I very much regret Mrs. White’s death.”

“It isn’t his fault,” Cord said.

Grier spit.  “A fraud and a drunk.  What a pair.”  He walked away.

Carson went over to the grave.  Cord joined him.  They helped lower her body in, then the two scouts began shoveling dirt, covering her.  When they were done, Carson stood at the foot of the mound of dirt, silent and troubled.

“It’s my fault,” Cord said.  “I had a clear shot at the brave who fired the arrow.  I missed.  He didn’t.”

Carson turned his head.  “You missed?”

Cord held out his hands.  The tremor was noticeable.  “I killed that woman.”

Carson sighed.  “You didn’t save her, but you didn’t kill her.  The Apache done that.”  He faced Cord.  “You need help, Elijah.”

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