"Levi Pope got a letter from his missuz. There was an Injun raid on Victor. You hear anything?" Eli's voice was as flat as the prairie. He sat on Raoul's camp trunk.
"Yes," Raoul said, choking on the single word. "A war party attacked Victoire."
He took a swallow from the jug. A cold, aching space was growing in the pit of his stomach. The whiskey settled in the middle of the ache like a tiny campfire in the middle of a blizzard.
He handed the jug to Eli, and Eli sipped and put the jug back on the table.
"Goddammit, don't just sit there staring at me." Eli displayed his ruined teeth as his lip curled back in a snarl. "What 'n hell happened?"
Raoul picked up the letter in a shaking hand and read aloud—horrible words, written in a flowing black script.
"'It is my sad duty as your sister to send you the news that Clarissa Greenglove and your two sons have perished at the hands of Indians.'"
"Oh, Lord God an' Savior," Eli groaned. His head fell back on his neck, his mouth open. His Adam's apple stuck out.
"'Also that our beloved Victoire has burned to the ground.'"
Raoul went on: