The Confederate 2

by Forrest A. Randolph

  “You’re unusually talkative today, Ansel.”

  “I’m happy. To be going after so many years in one place. My family moved from Norway to Ireland, then to New York, and on to Minnesota. I came to Saint Joe from there. We all have itchy toes we do. Ja, sure.”

  “Itchy feet, you mean.”

  “Ja, sure, that’s it.”

  “When we catch up, I’ll pick a calf if I can and shoot it.”

  “Very sweet.” Ansel leaned closer, his face serious. “Have you noticed that there are four men riding behind us?”

  “Yes. I spotted them two days ago. What’s important about that?”

  “Because each day they get a little closer. Yet, they seem in no hurry to catch up. It could mean trouble, I’m thinkin’.”

  “I’ll keep a closer eye on them.,,

  That night, by the light of a buffalo-chip fire, they gorged themselves on buffalo hump. Thick, juicy slices of the sweet-tasting meat, the flesh and fat in alternating layers, so rich that the broiled delicacy made Griff salivate at its aroma, even with a belly hurting from overfilling. The dark red tissue and golden fat continued to sputter over the flames and within an hour, Griff rose and cut himself more.

  “I could go on like this all night.”

  “Why not?” Ansel suggested. “We could use the rest, so could the horses. And those riders would have a chance to catch up. We could find out who they are.”

  Griff considered it. “It’s a thought. Maybe we should.”

  A great inverted black bowl, smeared with a superfluity of blazing stars, hung over the silent camp three hours later. The question of the strangers had been put aside for the while. They could, Griff declared after his third helping of buffalo, look into that in the morning. The unknown voyagers settled the issue themselves.

  Yellow fire blossoms opened in the night and bullets plowed into the campsite. Griff Stark jerked away and snatched up his Henry. Ansel stirred, then dived behind the mule pack when a slug dug up a gout of dirt beside his bedroll.

  “Py yumpin’ yiminy!” he blurted out. “Those bastards are trying to kill us.”

  “You noticed.” Griff had maneuvered out of the faint light of the guttering coals and wormed his way through the darkness to a position beside the picketed horses. “Over that way. They can’t see you there.”

  Ansel obeyed as the fusillade opened up again. Griff took careful aim slightly to the left of one muzzle flash and squeezed off a shot.

  A man screamed in brief agony and his death tremors rustled the grass.

  “There’s at least one of them left,” a voice called out of the dark. “Close in.”

  Scratching footsteps approached from two directions. Ansel’s Sharps boomed out and the advance stopped. “You hit?” another man inquired.

  “No. Keep going.”

  A large shape appeared near the burned-out fire, dark against the black prairie sky. Griff took aim. He gently squeezed the trigger.

  Two weapons fired as one. Ansel’s heavy .54 caliber slug nearly took off the man’s head. He jerked under its impact, blood, bone, and brain tissue forming a cloud around the shattered remnants of his skull; then he jackknifed when Griff’s bullet took him two inches above the navel.

  “Harry?” a cautious query came out of the night.

  “Harry’s dead, friend. Come out where we can see you or you’ll get the same,” Griff commanded.

  “Hell with you!” the assassin yelled. He rapid-fired a six-gun, spraying lead around the camp without effect. Griff fired to the left of the bright bloom. A man staggered into sight, a second revolver in his left hand. He cocked it and threw a hasty shot toward where he had seen Griff’s muzzle blast. Blood leaked from a hole in the right side of his chest.

  The bullet cracked past Griff’s head. He quickly levered three rimfire cartridges through the Henry.

  Shot to doll rags, the would-be killer spun on one heel, teetered a moment, and fell.

  “You’re all alone out there, mister. Give up and we’ll let you live. Who sent you?”

  Silence answered Griff’s demand.

  “Show yourself or we’ll hunt you down.”

  Running footsteps replied. Then the pounding hoofs of a galloping horse.

  “Who … who were they?” Ansel asked unsteadily.

  “I don’t know. Maybe more of Phillby’s railway agents. We had better keep a closer watch on our back trail from now on.”

  Chapter Eight

  A DISTANT LINE of fluffy cirrus clouds, like puffs from a steam whistle, added an accent mark to the unending cerulean sky, and the bright red, white, and blue of the Stars and Stripes snapped in the unending prairie breeze atop the palisade at Fort Kearny. Although a humdrum midweek day, the effect seemed to put a festive air to their arrival. Griff and Ansel rode through the main gate and asked the guard directions to the headquarters building. The young corporal looked back at them as though their question had confirmed his long-held suspicions about all civilians. He pointed with his left arm.

  “Over there. The only two-story building on the post. The one with the flagpole in front of it,” he added for clarification.

  Griff thanked him and the two travelers walked their weary mounts to a tie rail in front of the indicated structure, dismounted, and entered.

  The regimental sergeant major glanced up from his paperwork when he heard boot heels on his sanctuary floor. “Good morning, gentlemen. What can we be doin’ for you?”

  “We’d like to see the regimental commander,” Griff asked politely.

  “D’ye have an appointment?”

  “No. Sorry to say we don’t.”

  “Th’ colonel’s a busy man. Perhaps you should see to refreshin’ yerself and come back tomorrow.”

  “I’m Marshal Stark, from Saint Joe, Missouri,” Griff pressed, using his former position as a lever. “This is Mr. Ansel Thorson of the same city. We’re trying to find a man.”

  “Oh! I see now. Why din’ ya say so in the first place? I’ll talk to himself personal and see if he won’t take a few minutes for ye.”

  The big-bellied N.C.O. left his chair behind the small, squarish desk and crossed to a closed door. He rapped twice and waited.

  “Come.”

  The sergeant turned the knob and entered. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sar, but there’s two gentlemen—” The closing door cut off the rest of his words. Half a minute passed and he reappeared.

  “The colonel can give you five minutes. Please go on in, Marshal.”

  Griff knocked, paused, and entered in proper military fashion, which fact startled the R.S.M. no end.

  Colonel Miles Hutton sat behind his desk, imposing with his luxurious mustache and neatly groomed hair. His uniform was spotless and he held his head with an air of confidence and superiority. A cloud of tobacco smoke wreathed his upper torso and face, a battered old briar clenched tightly in his teeth.

  “Good morning, Colonel,” Griff began. “I’m Griffin Stark and this is Ansel Thorson. We’re looking for a family named Tucker, who wintered here last year.”

  “Tucker … Tucker ...” The colonel brightened. “Evan Tucker was it?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s my brother-in-law.”

  “I recall them now. Had a boy with them. Bright, active little lad. He always wanted to be here for reveille and retreat formations. Got a kick out of the cannon firing.” The colonel’s eyes narrowed and he tapped his teeth with the chewed stem of his pipe. “The sergeant indicated that the man you were after was wanted.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that, sir. I want to locate them for personal reasons. There’s no crime involved.”

  “I see. Well, the Tuckers moved on after the first heavy thaw.”

  “Do you know where, sir?”

  “Toward Broken Bow, as I recall.”

  “Have you, ah, heard anything more of them since?”

  “This is a big country out here, Stark. People come and go very much as they please. But I think I would have recalled the Tu
ckers if they had been back this way.”

  “Thank you, sir. I won’t take any more of your time. We’ll rest here a few days, if it is all right, and then push on to Broken Bow.”

  “Quite all right with me, Stark.” The colonel paused, a frown of concentration on his brow. “Stark … Griffin Stark. West Point, Class of Fifty-seven, right?”

  “Uh … yes, sir.”

  “Don’t you remember me? Miles Hutton. Captain Miles Hutton then. I was your instructor on fortifications engineering. You always had trouble with redouts, do you recall?”

  “Uh … I do, now. Yes, sir. The geometry of them always plagued me.”

  “How is it you’re not in uniform?”

  “I … ah, picked the losing side in the war, sir.”

  “I notice you didn’t say, ‘wrong side,’ Stark. Made rank I suppose?”

  “Major. I commanded a squadron of cavalry in the second Maryland campaign and at the Wilderness.”

  “I was there. Damned rough fighting. Anyone who could never figure out an abatis or a transverse trench would make a hell of a good cavalry officer. Any time you think of getting back in, come see me. After two years faithful service, there’s the chance of putting in for a field commission. I’d back you. You’re a good man.”

  “Second in my class, sir.”

  “That’s right, you were. I trust my instincts, you see. How about it?”

  “Perhaps. After I … after I find my son.”

  “Now the light dawns. I didn’t think those two quiet, reserved people produced a future squadron commander like that … ah, Jeremy.”

  Griff grinned with parental pride. “That’s my boy, sir.”

  “Go get him, then come talk about joining up.”

  “I might. If … other things don’t go the way I want.”

  Jeremy Stark, nearly eight, sat astride the bare back of a shaggy pony. His bare feet were caked with dust and his black eyes squinted from under a floppy round-top felt hat. Beside him, a wagon-wheel hub squealed in protest. It had been making noise for better than a mile. Jeremy came out of his daydream and drubbed heels into his pony’s ribs.

  “Uncle Evan,” he called out when he reached the front of the big Conestoga. “That right rear wheel needs greasin’.”

  “Care for it tonight, boy. We have to put miles behind us if we’re to reach Fort Laramie on schedule.”

  “What if it seizes?” the boy inquired, proud of his newly acquired vocabulary on wagons and black-smithy.

  “Then we’ll have to stop and fix it.”

  The boy shrugged. “Can I go pot-shoot a rabbit for supper?” Jeremy pleaded.

  Evan Tucker glanced at his wife. She seemed dull, listless. All the same she nodded approval to match his. Fresh meat would be a welcome relief to all of them. Evan handed the boy a short-barreled, .31 caliber squirrel rifle he had cut down to size for Jeremy to use. The old muzzle-loading percussion gun shot with amazing accuracy.

  “Take care, y’hear? Don’t shoot back toward the trail. Make each shot count. No more than three for each two rabbits.”

  “Yes, sir.” With a wild whoop, Jeremy rode off at a right angle to the slowly moving wagon. He wanted very much to get two, maybe three nice fat rabbits, to surprise his Auntie Julie and to please Uncle Evan. But for a moment, disappointment overshadowed his excitement.

  Why did they have to move again? He had only started to get to know the boys in Broken Bow. He’d learned to shoot marbles, had gone fishing with them and swum naked in the icy creek that ran past town to the South Loup River. The Broken Bow kids were fun to know. Then, just like always it seemed, came the announcement that ‘things weren’t working out.’ Uncle Evan insisted they move on again. This time to some place called Oregon. Where the hell was that dumb, shitty place? He’d learned some amazing new words from the boys of Broken Bow. A hundred yards farther across the prairie he forgot his unhappiness.

  A white fluff of tail flicked in his direction and a fat plains hare loped away, to pause behind a clump of buffalo grass in hope it provided security. Jeremy hauled on the reins and slid from the back of his pony, rifle in his hands he began to close in on his pony, moving soundlessly on his tough bare feet.

  “You couldn’t have missed them by more than two weeks,” the owner of the general mercantile and postmaster of Broken Bow informed Griffin Stark. “Ol’ Evan said it was time to move on.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Fort Laramie, first off. Said he had his heart set on Oregon. He did a right smart bit of work around here. Folks was sorry to see them go. Do you know, he built himself some special tools that fitted on the stump end of his left arm. He could work that forge like any other blacksmith. Maybe a little better. He had a hook, of course. Then there was a sort of pincher thing, to grasp metal with when he pounded it on the anvil. And a three-pronged gadget that let him work the bellows handle. Mighty clever. Their boy was a wild one. Not bad or mean, you understand, only that he lived life to the fullest. From the looks of him, you’d almost wonder if there was some Injun in him.”

  “There was. Cherokee on his mother’s side.”

  “You know them well, then?”

  “He’s my brother-in-law. Jeremy, the boy, is my son.”

  “The war, no doubt, separated you. Figger that because you both have a Southern accent. If you want to catch up, you’d better get to movin’. Like’s not they’ll be to Laramie in a day or so.”

  Griff thanked him. He and Ansel purchased replacement supplies and they left town immediately. On a crude map he had obtained in St. Joseph, Griff plotted the most direct course to Fort Laramie. Time preyed on him and he didn’t want to take any chances. They would join the immigrant trail near Bridgeport and Chimney Rock. It would, he estimated, cut three days off the trip. He needed that time.

  They had rested two days at Fort Kearny. Idle hours that he now regretted because they would have brought him that much closer to his son. Once on the trail again, he pushed as hard as Ansel would allow him to do. The going remained easy until they reached a strip of badlands, all that separated them from the immigrant trail and still distant Fort Laramie.

  “We better get water skins and fill them. Ja, sure. That ain’t snow ahead. It’s what’s called alkali flats. No water until we get to Bridgeport.”

  “This stretch isn’t even marked on the map,” Griff protested, feeling betrayed by the wagon master who had drawn it.

  “Most folks travel by the immigrant trail. No need to show what’s not gonna be seen. Ja, sure,” Ansel explained in his slow, deliberate manner of speech. “About that water. We will have to turn around …” He let his words trail off when Griff reined in and dismounted.

  Griff went to the pack mule and opened one large parfleche pannier. From it he took two big, rectangular, canvas-covered bags. “I bought these in Stapleton when we stopped for a meal and more grain. Buffalo paunch bags covered with canvas. They hold ten gallons each. Thought they might be handy later on. They’re supposed to seep slowly and the wet canvas keeps them cool.”

  “Always thinking, my friend Griff. Ja, sure. When this trip is over, you’ll be a certified plainsman.”

  They filled the containers at a slow-moving creek and attached them to the bows of the packsaddle. Griff studied the clear sky, his skin prickling from the broiling heat. “We can make a few more hours. Let’s ride.”

  Two hours into the badlands, clouds of alkali dust rose from their horses’ hoofs. At Ansel’s suggestion, Griff had covered his face and the nostrils of Boots with wet bandannas. It kept much of the stinging, irritating dust out of nose and mouth. His eyes had become red-rimmed and he had a constant itch. Lulled by the monotonous passage of identical scenery, Griff let his mind mull over several events that troubled him.

  Why was Evan Tucker moving all the time? Nearly everyone he had contacted spoke well of the family and of Evan in particular. They had not been run out. The situation in Illinois he discounted as Rebel fever. An exception. Somethin
g … inside … troubled Evan Tucker. It must be rough on Julie, he reflected. She had never liked traveling. Ten years older than Griff, the two had not been close as children. Still, Griff recalled his sister’s irritation and reluctance whenever the family made trips to Atlanta or Savannah.

  “I declare, there’s no reason I should have to go along. It’s hot and oppressive and it does simply awful things to my complexion. I get … positively brown there,” his seventeen-year-old sister had complained one year when their father had decided the family should spend part of the summer at the seashore. “Besides, you know traveling makes me deathly ill. I can’t stand the motion.”

  Griff loved to travel, he remembered. Much, he thought, like Jeremy must now. His sister’s airs and affectations affronted his little boy’s spirit of adventure. He liked the seashore even more. Barefoot, shirtless, an old, faded, and ill-fitting pair of trousers rolled above the knees, he would splash for hours in the surf, glorying at how thoroughly brown he got. He couldn’t understand Julie’s attitude at all.

  “But the fellahs … my beaus … they’ll all laugh at my ugly dark skin and … and … freckles!” she wailed in response to her father’s determined insistence that she accompany them. Hands to her face, she scurried to her room. It had all seemed frivolous, silly, to young Griff Stark. Now, in retrospect, he had second thoughts.

  In all fairness, Julie had been a real beauty by the standards of the time. Her light blond hair, pale complexion, and delicate ways were the epitome of the Southern belle of the antebellum days. What would this … compulsion of her husband’s do to her? It would be hard on Jeremy. A boy needed to have some roots. Friends, a familiar home to go to each day. But he was apparently resilient enough to endure this constant change. For a while at least. Would Oregon be the end of the trail for Evan Tucker? For Julie’s sake, Griff hoped so. Another question, unconsidered before, bothered him.

  With their own child dead, how would they react to his taking Jeremy from them? It wasn’t as though they had adopted him. No record of any such legal transaction had been found in any of the places where Evan Tucker had paused briefly in his constant quest for a new horizon. Yet … more than two years now. He would have to think of some kind, gentle way to break the news. A snort of protest from Boots ended Griff’s examination.