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supposed to be the best in the world, except for something from Scotland. But he hadn’t liked it then and three years had done precious little to change his mind. The stuff still tasted like it was trying to burn its way out, scorching him from his tongue all the way down.
    He shrugged and took another pull. “What the hell’s the difference?” He looked around, as if someone else had spoken.
    But the porch was empty, and so was the earth, as far as he could see. He had only felt this lonely once in his life, at Shiloh, staring right up the muzzle of a Yankee rifle. The black hole looked big enough to swallow him, and the black eyes behind it looked deeper and darker still. Only a misfire had saved him, and for a moment he had been sorry, wishing to hell it was all over. He wanted the noise to stop, the terrible thunder of the guns, the screaming of wounded men, the sighing of the wind in those rare moments when no one fired and no one spoke. But most of all, he wanted the stink to go away. The stench of blood, the smell of piss, and the almost-sweet fragrance of gunsmoke, hanging like a shroud over them all, Rebel and Federal alike.
    But it hadn’t gone away. None of it had. The sounds were still rattling around inside his skull,and the stench clung to his skin. He couldn’t rub, wash, or scrape it away, and now he no longer tried. It would stay with him until he drew his last breath. He still wondered why no one else seemed to notice it. Even Ellie, who got closer to him than anyone else, didn’t notice. Or if she did, she chose not to mention it.
    But it was there.
    He emptied the bottle and tossed it into the yard. It clattered across the ground but didn’t break. That made him angry. He wanted it to break, and when it didn’t, he fished his Colt out of its holster and fired, but he missed by several feet. He fired again and came no closer.
    When the gun was as empty as the bottle, it still lay there, mocking him. He wanted to break it in the worst way, but couldn’t. He tried to get up, but he was too drunk and fell back in the chair, fighting to keep from throwing up.
    As the sun started to go down, the bottle changed colors, the white flash of the glass changing to orange, then to red. Finally, in one last wink of purple, it was gone. No longer taunted by the glass, he closed his eyes and slept.

6
    JOHNNY REINED IN on the hilltop. Rafe skidded to a halt alongside of him.
    “There it is, Rafe, the Arkansas River. We get wet one more time, and we’re in Kansas.”
    “Seems like nothing, Johnny, don’t it? I mean hell, what’s one more river? All them politicians drawing lines back in Washington. Cows don’t pay any attention to lines. Maybe they got more sense than we do.”
    “I guess they do, Rafe. Still, we come all this way, we might as well celebrate, don’t you think?”
    “I don’t have the strength to celebrate, Johnny. I’m an old man.”
    “You got more than I do. More than the boys, too.”
    “Nope, I don’t. But it sure is pretty in a funny way, all them rolling hills. Some kind of paradise, looks like. Almost, anyhow.”
    “I was thinking, Rafe. Maybe we shouldn’t stop here.”
    “You better be kidding, Johnny. The boys are a whisker from half dead. You want to push them farther, they won’t like it. You’ll lose half of them, and them that stay won’t be up to much.”
    “I look at the herd, Rafe, and you know what I see? I see money. I see the future. If we can push on, maybe to Wyoming, someplace like that, we can build a spread. Sell off enough of the beeves to get a stake, keep the rest and build on ‘em.”
    “You can’t push them cows no more, either, Johnny. They’re already worn to the knees. Bags of bones, most of ‘em. You make them walk to Wyoming, they’ll be saddlebags on bloody stumps before they get there.”
    “It’s a thought, though.”
    “It is, but it ain’t a good one, Johnny. We come this far, we should thank the Almighty. Take what we can