It was a task I rarely, if ever, was required to perform in New York. Apparently, though, the Army believed its surgeons should perform the duties instead of paying the local barber who served as mortician. I followed my nose to the bakery north of the hospital, where a fat woman was setting out loaves of warm bread to cool on a long, meticulously scrubbed wooden table. She offered me a thick slice slathered with fresh-churned butter. The bread melted in my mouth and butter dribbled down my chin. I wiped my mouth with the handkerchief I kept tucked in my sleeve and saw Welch walk hurriedly past the guardhouse and behind the stables. I thanked the baker, and my curiosity piqued by Welch’s demeanor, followed. The stables were among the most solid fort buildings. Great care was taken with the horses, the West’s most valuable commodity. Horseflesh was considered by many to be worth more than a man’s life. A few soldiers saw Welch pass the corral; one called out to him.
