“And high time I took over. I don’t know, Griff ... about what to do or about this quest of yours. The boy has a family. You’ve not seen him since he was three. Would he even know you? Would you know him?”
Anger rose in Griff’s breast. “That’s not the point. He’s my son. That’s reason enough to want to find him, isn’t it? Oh, Damien, see it my way for a while. He’s lost his mother, murdered before his eyes. No doubt he believes his father dead, too. I can give him back part of the life he lost.”
“And get back a part of Bobbie Jean for yourself,” Damien advanced dryly.
“That’s unkind. But ... yes. He is a part of her. Of me, too. I want to find my son.”
“Bullheaded as ever. Race me to the house?” Damien offered to change the subject.
“Five dollars to the winner?”
“Why not? This time I know I’ll beat you.”
Only on cold, damp days did Griff need a cane, a single prop for his bad right knee. The coldness and tingling itch continued in his left foot, a natural side effect according to the best doctors. He had filled out, his muscular shoulders and torso once more assuming the respectable proportions of the past. He rode, a secret kept from Damien since his return the previous day, even better than before his injuries. Griff tightly secured his fishing gear and his catch and swung into the saddle. A moment later, Damien climbed atop his steed.
“Let’s go!” Griff shouted.
They broke with an even start. Down the narrow tree-lined path that led to the creek bank they thundered neck and neck for two hundred yards. Damien’s mount, unaccustomed to such energetic workouts grunted and gnawed at his bit in protest. For a moment he took the lead, driving ahead by a shoulder. Then Griff let his glossy Spanish stallion have a bit more head.
The powerful animal’s forequarters churned under him and Griff felt a thrill of confidence rise in his chest. Man and beast moved in perfect coordination. Ahead he studied the rise that led to the main road to Oaklawn. Once there, he could really open up. The gap closed in seconds and Griff pounded on past. He had Damien by half a length, then a length.
Dirt spraying in his face, Damien madly pursued Griff over the berm and onto the wide road that led to the right. He prodded with his military spurs, pleased at the instant response. The space between them closed. Then Griff came out of the turn and poured it on.
Almost at once the competitors had two lengths between them. Damien applied the whip. Ahead of him Griff rode high, standing in the stirrups now, bent forward, still holding back a part of his fine-spirited mount’s will to run. Damien applied the quirt with more force. The interval failed to narrow. A quarter-mile remained before they would pound down across the final stretch and into the stable yard. He could not believe the strength in Griff’s arms and legs. The blooded Spanish horse beneath his friend hunched itself and plunged down the road with single-minded determination. Griff showed no signs of weakening. Damien made a final bid to gain control.
The red-brown rump ahead grew larger. A little more, only a bit more, he silently urged his own frothing mount. The home-pasture gate posts flashed past. Two hundred yards. Incredibly, Griff demanded and got more speed from his stallion.
Damien had reduced his friend’s lead to less than a length by this time, only to see his chance for victory disappear in a fury of flying hoofs. He swore under his breath and shook his head while he reined to a stop beside a laughing Griffin Stark.
“Five dollars, Mr. Soldier Boy,” Griff demanded with a joyful shout.
“There’s something I’ll bet you’re not so good at as you used to be,” Damien challenged as he dug out his pocketbook and opened the bill compartment.
“What’s that? And no folding money. Gold.”
“How’s your saber arm?”
“Do you want to try me?”
“At once, if not sooner.”
To Damien’s surprise, Griff laughed and his eyes held an eager glow of anticipation. “Why not, then? Another five dollars … per point?”
“Are you taking up gambling, as a profession?”
“It’s a thought. Though I only bet on sure things.”
“Put your money where that big mouth of yours is, friend.”
“Done.”
In the exercise yard at one corner of the formal gardens, Damien produced two fine Toledo blades. He flexed one and made a few practice swings. Griff did the same. His limp, so slight as to be nearly unnoticeable, seemed to give him no trouble. “Who’ll judge this?”
“Why not your sister, Damien? She knows the rules. Been helping me get back in practice.”
“Jennifer? On the fencing yard? What would the neighbors say?”
“That they’d better stay the hell away from her if she’s mad at them and has a blade in her hand. She’s good and she doesn’t miss a point scored.”
“All right then. But I reserve the right to protest the outcome because of prejudice on the part of the judge.”
“In favor of which one of us?”
“Why, you, of course. I’ve seen that hungry-puppy adoration in her eyes every time she’s looked at you since I got home. What happened on that trip to Georgia?”
“We … we discovered we cared a great deal about each other. Her strength—her love if you will—helped me beyond all belief. Without her to sustain me, I would never have come to terms with Bobbie Jean’s murder. If I could ever find the men responsible—”
“‘Vengeance is Mine—’”
“Sometimes, God only helps us if we help ourselves.”
“Which brings us back to Jeremy?”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
“I’ll go get Jenny.”
“You needn’t bother. I’ll run up to the house myself.”
“Run?”
“Oh, sure. I do a sort of slow shuffle around the horse track every morning. Good for the legs, they say.” Griff trotted off, no messenger from Olympus, but respectable in his stride.
Ten minutes later he returned with Jennifer. “Shall we get on? Sister, dear, I am about to give this upstart a solid trouncing.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Jennifer opined.
“I already have.”
“Sucker.”
Months of life on crutches and canes had given Griffin Stark incredibly strong wrists. The opponents took position, saluted each other, and donned masks and gloves. Jennifer barely announced, “En gard,” when Damien found himself disarmed.
“Point for Griff,” Jennifer announced through a musical peal of laughter.
“Luck,” Damien grudged through his embarrassment.
He went immediately on the attack, the blunted practice blade slashing brightly in right and left upper quarters, then dipping low for a belly thrust. Always, Griff anticipated, his saber in place to parry. Damien found himself sweating under the warm April sun. He tried a feint to Griff’s midsection and found himself in a moulinet.
Again the weapon sailed from his grasp.
He retrieved his sword for the second time, feeling somewhat foolish. He and Griff set themselves. “Engage!” Jennifer commanded.
Suddenly Griff took the initiative. He pressed in on Damien’s hurried, unplanned defense, driving him back along the white-bordered strip. Up, over, through, weaving a dazzling pattern of deadliness. Gradually Damien regained control of the performance and narrowed the gap in talent. Still Griff pressed in. A feinted slash to Damien’s head, then drop the point … and thrust!
“Touché! Point for Griff. That’s three to nothing. Point and match.”
“You are impossible!” Damien enthused. “If anything, better than before. I’ve not run into strength like that since the fencing team at the Point.”
“Thank you. You never know, it might come in handy some day. Meanwhile, you owe me fifteen dollars. Gold.”
“Spoilsport. Your greed will be your downfall one day, mark my words.”
“Not as long as I keep my wrist and my eye.”
“You can’t mean
that,” Albert Treadwell gusted out. He reached for the fragile delft china cup and his fingers trembled at the effort to suppress his excitement. Casually, while his visitor spoke, he leaned back in the large leather chair behind his ornate Oriental desk in the Baltimore offices of the Federated Rail Consortium and sipped his coffee.
“Railway Protection agents traced the movements of Miss Carmichael and Stark back here. He is staying at Oaklawn.”
“Get them over there and arrest him at once.”
“He’s not wanted in Maryland. We would have to involve the local authorities.”
“No. We don’t want that.” Albert thought a moment, at last glancing at his distorted and useless left hand. “Thank you for your excellent work. Give my secretary the names of the agents involved and there will be a nice bonus for them. That will be all for now, Mr. Carey.”
Albert sat in silence for a long time after the railroad detective, Carey, departed. Through his mind raced the scenes of his confrontation with Griffin Stark. Somehow, each time he thought of it, the situation subtly altered. He became more and more of an innocent victim, set upon for no reason. Years ago his mind had selectively and unconsciously eliminated any recollection of a rock and a sneak attack. No, that didn’t fit the role he had chosen, so it had to go, like so many other selective truths in these strange times after the war. At last, Albert’s decision had been made. He summoned a rough-looking, silent character who usually stayed close to his employer, watchful, menacing, the perfect bodyguard.
“Loren, select five men. Reliable types who can keep their mouths shut. I have a special job for you. I want you to ride south to Oaklawn Plantation. My little brother will go along to lead you. There are three people there. Two men and a young woman. You’ll have their descriptions before you leave and Arthur can identify them. Be discreet, but I want them to disappear. They are never to be seen again.”
“Yes, Mr. Treadwell.” Loren’s voice came out surprisingly gentle, in a high tenor register.
Arthur Treadwell, at seventeen, felt inordinately important leading these six dangerous men on such a highly secret mission. His gaunt, pallid complexion was scarred by a scattering of angry red pimples, but for the first time since the onset of adolescence, he felt no embarrassment because of them. This was important. His brother had explained the details to him. Three people were to die; two men and a woman. Arthur hadn’t approved of murdering a woman. Patiently Albert had expounded the reasons for him. These persons had done harm to the Treadwell name and to him, Albert, titular head of the family. And they constituted a threat to the wellbeing of the Consortium. Enemies of the Consortium had to be eliminated at all costs. The girl’s life was a small price to pay in light of this.
Thinking of it made Arthur’s loins ache. He was no stranger to the delights of feminine flesh, not since his thirteenth birthday, when as a present from his older brother, he had visited the darkie shacks and wallowed in the bountiful pleasures of carnality. With the nigras all free, now, he made frequent journeys to sate his appetite with the only commodity these young women had to offer outside the strictures of slavery. But to tumble with a white woman. Perhaps … there might be time. After all, it wouldn’t be like she could denounce him later.
Their trip took all day, and they arrived at Oaklawn late at night. By then Arthur’s lustful fantasies had tormented him to the brink of involuntary release. Only the pounding of the hard saddle beneath him prevented an embarrassment. He hid his intentions from the others and, knowing Loren to be the real commander of this expedition, sat quietly while the former circus roustabout gave his instructions.
“There ain’t a lot of servants. Even so, we give everyone a chance to get to sleep. Then we bust in through all entrances, at the same time, close in on the ones we want and take them away. We do ’em in later. No shooting. Is that clear?” Loren hated talking to other people for any period of time and he fondly hoped there would be no inquiries.
“What if someone gives the alarm?” a stocky, hard-faced ruffian asked.
“Use your knife or a cosh. We can’t have noise.” At a nod from him, they rode on.
Tranquil silence lingered over Oaklawn. The main house had been darkened long ago and everyone slept peacefully. Even ears long tuned to detecting unusual sounds in the night missed the slow approach of the invaders. They reached their goal unobserved. A few dogs barked, to be quickly silenced with a bribe of fresh, dripping meat. The abductors dismounted and went to every door to the two-story building. Arthur’s heart pounded furiously as he waited at the main entrance with Loren. The big man silently counted to five then swung wide the unlocked portals and rushed inside.
They stumbled in darkness, made out the curving staircase and went to it. More marauders swarmed into the mansion and took the rear flight of steps upward. Arthur climbed two treads at a time, lagging behind Loren even then. In the upper hallway, the murderers spread out and took the bedrooms, Arthur falling in behind a squat little thug he knew only as Smitty. At the first door that opened, the young boy who supposedly led this hard-bitten crew discovered that they had stumbled into trouble.
A revolver blasted into the darkness, momentarily illuminating the room in an eerie orange-red light. Over the shoulder of the man in front of him, Arthur caught a fleeting glance of the details before the former highwayman flew backward into the boy, blood spraying from his shattered chest. Arthur staggered, which saved his life. The revolver blazed again and he heard the ball moan past his head. It cracked plaster on the opposite wall. Arthur scrambled to safety on hands and knees.
Another weapon discharged from the direction of the master bedroom and another of the ruffians shrieked in terrible pain, hands clutched to his gut. Arthur smelled a rank stench and realized it was his own fear sweat. He hugged the carpeting and prayed the awful noise would end. Sounds of a struggle came from a short distance down the hall and Arthur looked up to see an unbelievable sight.
A man with broad, powerful shoulders, clad only in a long night shirt, stood in the doorway, astride the corpse of the assassin he had shot, a thin, straight blade in one hand, a Starr revolver in the other. He held three attackers at bay. A woman’s scream came from another room. That was the one Arthur wanted. He came to his feet and rushed past the bizarre scene at the same moment one bully boy gagged hideously and clutched at his throat, which spurted blood in a crimson arc.
In Jenny’s bedroom, Arthur found her in disarray, her nightgown off one shoulder, so that the pink areola of a perfectly formed breast seemed to point at him like the muzzle of a rifle. A burly tough held her by the wrist and attempted to drag her into the hall. Arthur thought quickly, conscious of the rising pressure in his loins.
“I’ll take care of her,” he commanded. “Get out in the hall and help with that madman. He has a sword.”
The tough relinquished his hold and Arthur closed in on Jenny.
Instantly she read the intent in Arthur’s glowing eyes and lustfully twisted face. She backed up and one hand darted for the drawer of the bedside table. A small Philadelphia derringer resided there and she knew how to use it. Arthur beat her to it, nearly smashing her fingers in the drawer when he slapped it shut.
“None of that, my pretty bird. You and I are going to have a little fun. Oh, yes. I think you’ll like it, too.” He began to rummage at his waist to free his trousers.
Jenny screamed. Totally in control of her emotions, she knew that the outcry would attract attention. She was not afraid. This was a mere boy, a pimply-faced youth with only his nether parts on his mind. She watched, calculatingly, as he came closer.
Griffin Stark heard Jenny’s scream and redoubled his efforts. His .44 Starr blazed again and a thug reeled backward, his nose shot away along with the right hinge of his jaw. He made a gurgling sound, strangling on his own blood, then collided with the opposite wall and fell to the floor. The cane sword in Griff’s right hand flicked out and another man screamed.
With both hands pressed to his violated
eye socket, the brigand reeled off, his voice a high, keening sound. Two sharp reports came from Damien’s room and suddenly turned the tide.
“Get out of here!” Loren’s tenor voice was raised in urgency. “We’ve got to get out. They’re too much.”
The remaining tough joined his leader in a scramble for the stairs. Jenny screamed again. Griff ran to the entrance to Jenny’s room, his limp all but unnoticed. The tableau he observed drove him into a fine, high rage that dictated his actions. He rushed forward, sword at the ready.
Albert Treadwell had his trousers around his knees; a swollen erection thrust out from his skinny shanks and he wobbled it invitingly at Jenny. At the last minute he heard Griff’s furious rush and turned partly toward the attack. The thin steel blade flashed downward and a sudden numbness engulfed Arthur’s loins. He looked floorward at his severed member and his eyes rolled in their sockets.
Griff’s stroke had severed his penis an inch from its engorged base and blood streamed from the stump. Griff brought back his arm for a finishing blow when a shot sounded from the doorway.
Loren had missed Arthur’s presence and turned back from the stairs. He had surprised Damien enough to smash him in the head with his heavy 1860 Colt Army. The young Maryland aristocrat hit the carpet in utter blackness. The back of Loren’s mind had registered the significance of the screams and Arthur’s absence. The little bastard had a reputation for a stiff pecker and no scruples about how or where he put it. He had to pull the kid out of this tight spot or the boss would never forgive him.
Loren’s shot cracked past Griff’s head, close enough to lightly graze the flesh of his shoulder. Out of reflex, he went down and tried to roll. Arthur stumbled over him, in a standing faint, and blocked any attempt at return fire with his own body. Loren entered quickly, grabbed the boy by his coat collar and dragged him out into the hall. Jenny acted instantly.
From her bedside table she took the derringer and hurried to the hall. She made sure a cap was in place, cocked the diminutive piece and let fly.
The Confederate 2 Page 3
