Chapter 8

Libbie Custer, I learned as she spoke, wanted to honor her husband’s memory. So after he died she took up writing and speaking—writing about her husband and speaking about writing.

I studied her as she answered writing questions, simply the most boring subject I’d ever come across. My mind wandered, and I kept thinking back to my discussion with Captain Smith when I sold him Tucker.

I appreciated the officer, and no doubt I would apologize for running from him this afternoon, but a thorn of bitterness still caught in my heart. He’d known my parents but waited until a chance meeting to inform me? Intolerable.

Libbie Custer also knew me by sight, so why had she waited so long to contact me?

Her excuse would be similar to Captain Smith’s, no doubt. Everyone believed me to be dead.

After she answered questions and the students were dismissed, I waited at the back of the room with my arms crossed. Mrs. Custer spoke with several people who lingered, and as each left and passed by me they met my gaze and nodded hello. I returned the gesture.

Finally only a few people remained. Some talked in a group, others rearranged the classroom.

She danced between the clusters, her hoop skirt swaying as she weaved past.

I’d expected pleasantries, chitchat about weather or the train ride. Instead, as she approached she said, “You look like your mother. Your eyes.”

“I’ve questions,” I said, motioning to chairs in the corner. I tossed my hat on a desk.

“I will answer them.” She took a seat, and I sat across from her. Nothing was between us but years of history. The air was electric. “Your voice is like your father’s.”

I rested my elbows on my knees and wrung my hands together.

She sat straight, hands folded on her dress. “I thought you dead, Philip, or I would have found you. It wasn’t until I read the dime novel that I knew you were alive.”

There was my answer. But I had a memory to bring to her attention. “That’s not entirely true. You visited me after I supposedly died.”

She cocked her head to the side, her earring dangling against her shoulder. “Did I?”

“Sioux City. I was shooting at a stump.”

She brought a finger to her lips. “I remember. That was you? Autie was visiting Dave Mather—”

“The old man?”

“You were the boy with him.” She rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes. “Oh God, I’m sorry.” Her gaze rose to the ceiling then back at me. “I’m sorry, Philip. I want to do right by you. Please believe me.”

Dave Mather. The man hadn’t told me his name. I’d just known him as the old man. “Tell me about Mather.”

“Autie fought with Dave against the Sioux, but then Dave left the cavalry to become a lawman. That’s all I know about him.”

A stabbing pain shot from the front to the back of my mind, but I’d known the agony was coming. My past was written in concrete across my mind, and new information was a sledgehammer to my brain, as well as a chisel to the wall of my understanding.

“I don’t remember much of the past.” I rubbed my fingers together and wouldn’t meet her gaze. “For some reason, I don’t remember much.”

Libbie pressed her lips together. “You were young. And your parents were very busy.”

I eyed several glasses and a pitcher of water. “I need a drink.” Without waiting for a reply, I stood and crossed the room. My hand felt weak as I picked up the blown-glass pitcher and tilted the handle. Water streamed into the tumbler, the familiar sloshing a comfort. I took a sip as I filled a second cup, letting the cool drink trickle down my throat. I took them both back to our seats. I handed her a cup.

In the time I’d taken to fill our glasses I decided to trust her, and when I did my irritation vanished.

I leaned my elbows on my knees again, the cup of water grasped in both hands. “When my parents died, everyone else simply disappeared out of my life. I should have known of their friends.”

“You were young. You’re not to blame.”

“But my image of my parents has been so wrong. Captain Smith at Fort Randall told me he knew my parents and changed everything I thought of them.”

Her gaze was sad and generous. “There are many, just like Randolph Smith who could tell you of your parents.”

“How close were you to them?”

She set her glass on the nearby desk without taking a drink. “Some people use closeness, or perceived closeness to a person, to garner sympathy when tragedy strikes. I will be honest with you, and you can guess if I’m trying to gain your attention. Your mother and I were close.”

She struggled to gain control over her quivering lips.

I waited.

“I loved her like a sister. And when I heard she died . . .” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I hated her husband. I hated him.” More tears, and her voice was choked. “And I need forgiveness, because it has eaten at my soul.”

I realized she was asking me for forgiveness. From what I was learning, along with my awakening memories, she was one of many who didn’t think of my father as the hero I’d believed him to be. My first inclination was to ignore her request since it seemed such a silly emotion to hold on to. Instead I said, “Thank you. You have my forgiveness.” I couldn’t hold back the ironic laugh. “I suppose I’m the only person on Earth who can offer what you ask.”

She looked at me through crying eyes. “You have the best traits of your mother, Philip.”

I turned my head so I wouldn’t see her tears.

“Oh, Philip,” she said. Her voice was calm again. “If you only knew me better. I haven’t cried for quite some time.”

Was it safe to look at her? When I did, she’d finished brushing her nose with a white handkerchief. She returned the lacy cloth to a pocket or some other hidden hole in her dress just under her neck.

My duster had fallen open, revealing the gun belt. She gazed at it. “So it’s true. You are a gunman.”

“Not by choice,” I said, throwing the flap closed and buttoning. “I’ve an enemy.”

“John Maxwell is dead.”

“Another.” I hoped she would drop the subject, but she kept her eyes on me. I said, “One hundred sixty acres with Arabian horses and a log home. That’s all I want. But I’ve found love, and love always comes with a price.”

“A rival?”

“Bitter. Angry. There’s nothing that holds him back. No conscience. Not even God seems to be able to stop him.” I pushed Jacob from my mind and shook my head. “That’s not fair, what I said about God. But this is not an enemy I chose.”

“Autie had no enemies. Not really. Everyone loved him. So after the Confederates made peace, he decided the Indians were his enemies.”

“I would prefer to lock this away in a chest and throw it into the sea.” I tapped my hip. “I would live peaceably with everyone.”

“Like your mother.” The wrinkles around her mouth deepened as she smiled. “You may not believe me, but Constance—your mother—made me your godmother.” She held up a hand. “Again, no one is forcing you to believe me. I must, I feel, give you an explanation of my feelings.”

I wasn’t good with emotions, so I asked, “Which are . . .”

“I’ve a strong sense of loyalty to you, Philip. To explain, I say no to presidents, I ignore the notes from Mark Twain, but if you ask something of me I will do it.”

“I have no memory of you.” When she looked hurt, I explained. “Like I said, I have perhaps nine or ten memories of my childhood up to the point my parents were killed.”

“There’s an explanation, I believe, but I’ll have to start with when I first met your parents. The Southern Rebellion was a boon for Autie. He took advantage of the war, gaining prestige and honor. Your father was in business overseeing several blacksmith shops and a factory.”

“My father didn’t fight?”

Her smile was gentle. “He had the money to buy himself out of the war.”

“Three hundred dollars.”

“Yes, to buy a substitute to fight in his stead. Many men, especially businessmen, took advantage of the offer.”

I couldn’t fault him. If I could pay one thousand to sit out any of the fights I’d suffered, I would. But that would mean destroying the cause, no doubt, and my cause was Anna. No, there wasn’t a penny I’d pay to miss out on my cause.

My back was to the chalkboards, and I watched the doorway into the room as well as the black windows along the front. I took a second glance, just to be sure, even though the ghosts I looked for didn’t appear. For some reason, I was feeling unsettled.

“Perhaps you have so few memories of your parents because of your father’s work and your mother’s parties.” She put a hand to her heart. “Oh, your mother was a delight. Now understand, parties in Washington and other high society cities are for social elites. Autie was new to the life and I was only a small town judge’s daughter, but Autie found himself General George Armstrong Custer and a famous man. He was a dandy, and oh, the fun we had. But your mother was . . . simply your mother, and the most incredible person I have ever met.”

Captain Smith had said the same. “All my memories were of my father.” I looked at her and said carefully, “Sometimes I wonder if I’m like her or him.”

“You were a boy child, and boys always look up to their fathers and despise the women who birthed them.” She offered a wry smile. “At least children feel that way when they’re told to go to bed.”

“You’ve no children.”

She shook her head. “No.”

I glanced at the door again. No one had left, and no one had entered. Why the growing apprehension? “You believe I have so few memories of my parents because they weren’t home often.”

“You were in the care of a nurse, and sometimes your grandfather watched you.” She adjusted her dress and leaned back. “I remember the first time I met your mother. We were at a party with several senators, and one kept asking me if I worried Autie would be killed in a reckless charge. I assured him I was ready to sacrifice those I loved most for the cause, but he would not stop his badgering.” She set a hand on her hip. “I retired for fresh air and to clear the tears, because he was starting to pry open the fears I bottled, and behind me came the soft English accent of your mother.”

Mrs. Custer lifted a brow. “‘Reckless men on the battlefield,’ your mother said, ‘are safer than a loose tongue in Washington.’ She had come up beside me with her dazzling smile, your smile. And her eyes, Philip. Oh, her eyes. She said, ‘There is a man who will not be voted into the Senate again.’”

I couldn’t hold back a smile as Mrs. Custer attempted an English accent.

“Constance grabbed both my arms and looked into my eyes. I couldn’t help but believe every word she said. ‘He is safe now. He will be safe. He will return to you, more heroic and more dashing than ever before. And his devotion for you grows with every beat of his heart. How could it not?’”

Hearing my mother’s words soothed my own aching heart.

“Philip, if you could have seen the colors of that evening, the swirling dancers, the laughing officers, the chatting women, you would understand the magic of Washington. Lamps lit the large ballroom. The air was warm and intoxicating as your mother and I returned to the party. The evening wore on and feelings were intense and passionate as only a war can bring. As if this could be our last night. Music ran around us like a river of light, coaxing inhibitions from our souls. I must admit, I danced with a young officer, believing it might help Autie. Another young man, very handsome, asked your mother to dance.

“Your father had shown no interest in your mother the entire evening until the officer took Constance’s hand. I’ve never seen a man in such a fury. He wrenched her arm from the socket as they left. I visited the next day, and only on my insistence was I allowed in. The servant was very reluctant to announce me.”

I didn’t remember a servant.

“Makeup on your mother’s face, thick.” She touched her cheek. “He’d slapped her so hard, she bruised.”

I leaned back and crossed my arms.

She must have noticed my irritation, because she said carefully, “Philip, please understand. I tell you the truth because you’ve earned that of me. Every story has a point of view. This is my perspective. But how I saw events unfold is as important as anyone else.” She held both hands up. “The facts as I understand them are yours to do with as you see fit. I can only tell you my perspective. Would you like me to stop?”

“No,” I said, almost growling. “Please, go on.”

“You were her life,” she continued. “She loved you more than life itself. When she found herself pregnant and still your father did not want to marry her—”

I slammed my fist down. “Don’t say such a thing.”

She jumped. “I thought you wanted the truth.” Her brows creased as if she was hurt. “Philip.” She looked away for a moment, then back into my eyes. “Their decisions weren’t yours. You’re not accountable.”

“But yet my father’s decision to leave our home cost my mother’s life, and now I must piece together a world that’s forced upon me.” My mind flashed back to the map and the reasons my father abandoned a comfortable life in the East. “My parents’ decision has sent me on a journey so horrible, so evil, I cannot sleep at night. There’s no peace. Never. And I chose none of it.” I clamped my jaw tightly as feelings burned in my chest.

Mrs. Custer stared to the side at the desk, then picked up her water and took a sip. Finally she said, “God chose to let Indians kill my husband. Chose to let your mother and father die.” She rubbed her head. “Perhaps Autie dying caused peace to come between the soldiers and the Sioux faster. Perhaps his death kept every American Indian from being wiped out. What do we know of such things?”

“So the death of my parents was to bring about something else?”

She shrugged, an awkward movement in her constricting dress. But her smile was genuine. “What do we know of such things?”

“And where my life is leading . . . You would say—”

“What do we know of such things? All we have is a compass to point our way.” She touched her heart.

I took a deep breath, calming my heart as I leaned toward her. “I think I understand you better.” My mother was the carefree sort, happy to be with those she loved. She spent time at parties but followed the man she loved into the frontier. Mother would have liked Libbie Custer. Loved her. If I was honest, I liked her. “What do we know of such things? Thank you.”

“What is the name of your girl?” The playful look, similar to the one she wore on her face during her speech, returned. “The one you love?”

“Anna. Anna Johnston.”

“I’m sure she’s beautiful.”

Anna’s image came to mind. “Dark hair, blue eyes, soft cheeks. I like the way her smile is like the sun on a cool day.” I looked away.

“Be careful, Philip,” Mrs. Custer said, laughing. “You sound like a poet.”

I balled my hands together. “Our lives would be perfect, if only it wasn’t for Jacob Wilkes.”

Mrs. Custer straightened. “What did you say?”

“My horses, the farm, Anna—”

“No, the name.”

“Jacob Wilkes?”

Her face was pale and she took another drink. “Lord, have mercy.” A few drops of water trickled down her chin, and she absentmindedly rubbed the moisture away with her fingers.

“You know something.” I studied her expression, full of fear and of confusion.

“Your father had three friends, all very close, very secretive.” She spoke quickly. “Of course, he had business dealings with other men, but these were his inner circle. One was your grandfather. Another was your uncle, John Maxwell. Both men were your mother’s family. And there was a reason why.”

The map. My father was close to my mother’s family because he knew of the map. Did Libbie know?

The fear in her voice floated like a cloud between us. “The third friend—Jacob Wilkes.”

I held up my hand. “Jacob Wilkes is my age.”

Her lips squeezed tight before she said, “He was your father’s age. They were close, from long before I knew them. Aggressive businessmen. And Jacob, a banker, financed your father’s factory.” She pressed a hand against her forehead. “There was some map that your father found, something that held his attention. He split the map in two and kept one half. The other, he gave to a Catholic priest to hold for Jacob Wilkes to retrieve when he returned to the States. That I learned from Constance before she left.”

She looked up at the men who washed the blackboard, then turned her gaze back to me. “Your family had been gone a month on your move to the Dakota Territory when Jacob Wilkes arrived back in town. What I tell you now is simply a rumor. One, I must admit, I pressed from a monk. The monk would not hand over the map unless Jacob Wilkes adopted a child.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“The boy was new to the convent and needed fed. Needed a future. He was too old for most families to adopt. And what’s more, Jacob Wilkes had a reputation as a ruthless businessman that a frail wife couldn’t tame. So I believe the monk hoped a child would give Wilkes a better sense of purpose, of direction and honesty.”

“He named the boy after himself.”

“Yes, even though the boy was ten.”

That was ten years ago. “Did Mr. Wilkes get the map?”

“I don’t know. I believe so.”

Had the banker moved to the Dakota Territory to watch me? Did he think I had the second half of the map?

How had he known I survived?

I had the second half of the map. Could there be anything on this planet worth destroying my peace and the blossoming love in my heart? Love, above all, is worth fighting for.

My head ached.

This minute I would march to Mr. Wilkes’s front door and hand him my portion of the mystery and be done with it all. The map led to such wonton destruction that I couldn’t in good conscious keep the blasted thing. What could be worth all that these men attributed to it? I said aloud, “What could the map point to?”

Her chin thrust out as her head lifted and eyes widened. “Must you be like your father?”

I pulled my chair forward. “Now it is I who would like to be understood. There is nothing I can think of that could possibly entice a treasure hunt or convince me that anything of physical value could be worth a life.” I pointed toward the West. “How many lives had John Maxwell taken in his search for the treasure? How devastating is my mother’s death on you, on me, all because my father was driven by greed?” I lowered my hand. “No, I’m giving away my half of the map to Wilkes. And then they can do as they see fit. I’ll end this once and for all. And there will be peace.”

Instead of the relief I expected to see in her eyes, her brows furrowed. “You have it? There’s no need to hand over the map, Philip, surely. Your parents did die for it.”

Didn’t she just ask if I was acting like my father? And I knew in that moment she could no longer help me. There was nothing more I could learn, nothing more she could advise that would change my course. Even before I reached out to take her hand, a wall was building around the gunman part of my life. I grasped her fingers. “I feel like my mother and you were sisters.” As I said the words, the darkness inside was pushed to another part of my heart. “Just talking to you makes me feel as if you’re family.”

Her shoulders slumped and her fingers went limp in my hand. As if she knew she was being dismissed. As if her life of celebrity was nothing compared to mine. “Thank you, Philip. For coming to see me.”

“How long are you in Mitchell? I must introduce you to Anna.”

“I leave on tonight’s train.”

I let go of her hand and stood. “I’ve business I must see to, but now that we’ve met, surely we can write?”

“Your future adventures will be in a novel as well, no doubt,” she said as she stood. “Philip, please, with the map—”

“I had to shoot my mother’s brother. The path of destruction that piece of paper sent the world on . . . intolerable.”

“Just be careful.”

Of the two kinds of people—those who acted and those who told everyone to be careful—I was glad to be a man of action. But what could she do? Strap on a gun and fight beside me? I’d welcome the help, no doubt, but in the end this entire affair was my problem. I truly felt it a shame to lose this newfound connection to my past. “I’m serious about writing. Please.”

She stepped past me, walked up to the podium, and scratched out a few words on a paper. “My address,” she said, handing it to me.

I tucked away her note in my vest pocket. Something wasn’t right, and I realized the feeling didn’t come from my conversation with Mrs. Custer. I looked out at the blackness. Something was going on that needed my attention.

“Autie had that look sometimes,” she said. “You’re troubled. Follow the feeling. Trust it to the point you feel better. I wonder if Autie had the feeling the day he died and ignored it.”

I didn’t say that he surely had the feeling as he saw Sioux surrounding the 7th Cavalry, but the thought spurred me to action. “Thank you.”

In four bounds I was out the door and down the hall. I slammed the door behind me as I dashed for Raven. The cool night air touched my skin. The only welcome sounds were Raven’s snort when I lifted into the saddle and the comforting squeak of leather.

“C’mon, girl.” I tugged on the reins, and she pulled away from the school and shot like a star into the night.

We passed under a tree, the frogs calling as we thundered down the country lane. Wind whistled in my ears, and the thrill of Raven’s night run coursed through my body.

Dark windows stood empty as we sped by empty businesses. Main Street’s wide stretch seemed vast without the daily bustle, and the length stretched before us in the starlight and disappeared in darkness.

One window light shone like the moon—a lighthouse on the rocky shore. I slowed Raven as we approached the Wilkes Bank and Loan.

We stopped under the light and I looked up. The window overlooking the street belonged to the office of Mr. Wilkes, and I pictured him sitting behind the desk. Time for some questions to be answered, as well as a peace to be bought. I’d offer the map.

I spun Raven’s rein around the hitching post and tried the bank door. It opened without a squeak.

Before stepping in, I unbuttoned my duster and felt for the handle of my gun. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. No sound came from inside, and the smell was of gold bricks. At least, the metallic smell was what I thought gold bricks would smell like.

The cavernous main room was pitch dark. I stepped inside and clicked the door shut.

To call out? Or not call out?

No. Tonight, I was the phantom in the darkness.

I strode to the vague, shadowy steps and saw the upstairs office light reflecting off the brass banister.

He’d offered me a cabin to pay for his son’s sins.

He moved here, simply to follow me. What had he said after offering me a drink? I’d like you to keep an eye out for my son. I groaned. Only now did I understand he meant to pull me closer. How had he known so many intimate details about me? Now I knew why.

He’d been watching me.

One step, then another, my left hand on the banister and my right ready to draw. I ascended.

My boots made very little noise on the hard planks.

Near the top of the stairs, I heard shuffling papers. I stepped onto the second story balcony and started for the office. A shadow to the right looked human.

I froze and nearly pulled my gun.

A half-lit tree stood sentinel, and I watched the leaves, expecting a branch to pull a revolver.

Taking a breath, I kept walking.

Four more steps, and I leaned into the light to gaze into the office.

Mr. Wilkes stood facing the door, both fists pressing against his desktop. He looked down, his substantial weight forcing him to peer over his belly. Lamplight shone off his head, the glow dimmed only by the long strands combed over his bald skull.

The shepherd and sheep painting that had hung on the wall was missing, exposing an open safe. Behind him, the black expanse of a window overlooking the street gave the sense of an endless tunnel.

He shifted the page he was looking at then flipped the paper over.

My breath caught. The yellow sheet looked identical to the map.

I stepped into the room, my hand over my gun.

He glanced up, and his widening eyes held a moment of recognition and surprise. In the next breath, he regained control. “Philip Anderson. We’re closed, son. You’ll need to come back during banking hours.”

“What can we do to end Anderson’s War?”

He feigned confusion, though he wasn’t nearly convincing enough. “Well, Philip, I’m not sure why you’d ask me.” Without looking down he slid the paper to the side, lifting another stack with his thumb. The rest of him remained unmoved.

I didn’t like this. None of it. Why was he looking at the map now, of all nights? Why catch him on this one night of hundreds?

Because he looked at his half of the map every night.

Are men so easily bored with the conventions of a normal life that the promise of mystery and the hope of a gigantic reward was enough to control lives?

“You knew my parents and didn’t tell me.” My anger propelled me a step forward. “Five years in Mitchell and you never said a word.”

“I’ve known a lot of people.” He lifted a hand. “And I don’t like your tone. You’re upsetting me, Philip, and I’d like you to leave.”

“You moved here right after me. Followed me here.”

“You’re bordering on the absurd. No, you are absurd. This interview is over. Leave immediately.”

“But if you knew I was alive . . . knew where I was . . .”

The image flashed in my mind, the nearby river, the monolithic tower in the night, the gunshot that killed my father.

I looked into Mr. Wilkes’s heavy face. “You had my parents killed?”

I heard a click behind me.

I froze.

“Well, well. What have we here?” came the mellow voice of young Jacob Wilkes.