CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Halfway to the town, Otis pulled up his horse and remained still, staring into the distance. O’Reilly, who didn’t notice at first, reined in and turned, deep furrows on his face. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
He swiveled in his saddle, looking across the wilderness that separated the woods from the town. There was nothing, save for the sweeping plains, the distant mountains. Somewhere overhead, an eagle screeched.
“Something?” O’Reilly, a man who had scouted for the Union, who knew his way through forests, across mountains, could tell which tribe used what bird feathers for their fletchings, could sense nothing. Otis’s agitated state, however, caused him concern. “You can see something? What?”
“I don’t know.”
He doesn’t know. O’Reilly blew out his chee
