The Confederate 2

by Forrest A. Randolph

  “Cold rations tonight and no fire,” Ansel declared.

  “Why is that?”

  “While you went off chasing clouds, I have seen unshod hoofprints. That means Indians. Some of them are tame enough, even civilized. Ja, sure. Still, no one you want to slip up on your camp at night.”

  “We’ll stop in an hour. With no fire, there’s no need to camp until sundown.”

  Griff and Ansel reached Ft. Laramie four days later. Despite his eagerness to catch up to the Tuckers, Griff had stopped to marvel at the spectacular wind-carved rock formation known as Chimney Rock. He found himself wondering what Jeremy thought of it. The small town that had grown up outside the fort provided them lodging. Griff threw his belongings on the floor and set out immediately to learn what he could.

  Not a person he talked to knew the name, Tucker. No one registered any familiarity with the descriptions of Evan, Julie, and Jeremy. At the fort he had equally bad luck.

  Most of the regiment had gone out on patrol. Some bucks had jumped the reservation and needed rounding up. There wasn’t a massacre in the making, the regimental adjutant assured Griff.

  “They’re young. Only a little horse stealing and barn burning on their minds. A well setup wagon train wouldn’t have much to worry about. I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Stark. No one of that name or description seems at all familiar. Of course, most of the immigrants stay close to the campground on the other side of town. Unless there’s trouble, the army has little call to make contact with them. I appreciate your situation, but there’s not much we can do. Good day, sir.”

  “And to you, sir. Do you mind if I ask around a little?”

  “No. Make yourself at home.”

  In the sutler’s store, Griff’s questions received only blank expressions and negative shakes of the head. He explained all the notable features to no avail. The off-duty N.C.O.s drinking their beer and the few army wives shopping had no contact with the settlers moving west. The contract sutler dealt almost exclusively with the fort community. Disappointed, Griff decided to leave the fort and ask around at the campground.

  “Mr. Stark! Oh, Mr. Stark!” a young corporal called out, as he dashed in Griff’s direction from headquarters. Griff waited for him. “The adjutant’s compliments, sir. Major Greene’s apologies, sir, he said your name seemed familiar but he didn’t recall until after you left the office. Here, sir. This letter is for you.”

  Hope revived in Griff’s breast. He took the missive and split it open with his finger. He noted the date, only five days ago, and had started the salutation before he recognized the handwriting.

  “Dear friend Griff,” it began. “I have been assigned to the regiment at Fort Laramie. I left this letter with the adjutant, as I did at my previous posting, in the hope you happen to get here in your wanderings. Have you found your son as yet? I will be leaving today, after I finish this brief note, for a small outpost where my company will perform what I imagine will be rather dull picket duty between the settled lands and the wild Indians beyond Ft. Laramie. In the event you can spare the time, inquire of Major Greene my whereabouts and come by for a visit. Hopefully I will be able to meet Master Jeremy when you get here. In the event your schedule doesn’t allow, leave a note so we can keep in touch. Best as ever, your friend, Damien.”

  No son, no clue as to where he might be, but a warming message from a good friend. Griff felt better. Had the Tuckers reached Laramie? Maybe he had outsmarted himself. Struck with some unfathomable wanderlust, perhaps Evan Tucker stopped off somewhere between Broken Bow and Ft. Laramie. He had no way of knowing. Griff pocketed Damien’s letter, vowing to leave some reply before they departed, and started once more for the campground.

  “There’s three trails leaves outta here,” a grizzled old-timer told Griff a quarter hour later. “There’s the Oregon, the Bozeman, and the Upper Mormon or Salt Lake Trail. Take your pick. In the last week, trains have set out on all three.”

  “You don’t remember a man with one hand, a pale blond woman and a boy?”

  “Nope. Only got back the other day. Took a short run down Colorado Territory way. Nine days out, four back. Ask old Ginger Martin. He’s the one over there always munchin’ on ginger snaps.”

  Griff had no more luck with Martin. “If they was headed to Oregon, I’d say either the Bozeman or the Oregon. Could be one, could be the other. I recollects a rollin’ blacksmith wagon, all right. But I can’t for the life of me remember which train they signed up on.,,

  Griff consulted with Ansel. They agreed that a search would have to be made of each trail. At ten miles a day, never more than twenty, none of the trains could be more than five days’ ride on horseback from Ft. Laramie. They would take the Bozeman first.

  Chapter Nine

  “LISTEN CAREFULLY, MEN,” Colonel Chester Braithwaite spoke earnestly to the twenty men sitting their restless horses inside a small grove of cottonwood that overlooked the Sweetwater River, some ten miles from South Pass in the Wyoming Territory. “We have a new job to do. It isn’t going to be like our shenanigans in Colorado. No drunk Indians this time. We’re going to be dealing with real, wild savages. Cheyenne’s they are. Renegades at that. Even their own folks have run ’em off. Watch what you say and what you do. They’re touchy. Main thing is we leave a bunch of ’em dead at each spot to make sure the army knows it was a pack of red niggers did it.”

  “What we goin’ after this time, Colonel?”

  “Wagon trains. We hit the Mormons first, then go north to intercept the others. Chances are we won’t be able to hit all three that are supposed to have left Fort Laramie. We settle for what we can get. The idea is to cook up an Indian scare and give ’em something to agitate with back East for drivin’ the savages out.”

  Chester Braithwaite recalled the orders he had been given by the general manager of the Rocky Mountain Railroad only a week before in Silver Creek. Chambers had left no doubt what he wanted.

  “Consider the importance to the Consortium, Colonel. What are the lives of a few religious fanatics and some three-time loser immigrants compared to the overall advantage opening this treaty land would be to the F.R.C. We will be first in and claim everything of any value. Railroad lines will follow the natural and logical courses of wagon trails. There’s where the Consortium will file on property. Remember, each time there is a new parcel opened up to speculation by the Consortium, certain parts are put away in your name. Already you are an extremely wealthy man. With our expansion into Wyoming, you will be in a class with Mr. John Starr. Or at least where he was before he and our banking friends put together the Consortium. But, I digress.

  “You must make it absolutely clear to your men there are to be no survivors. One hint that whites might be behind these attacks will undo all our carefully laid plans. It could also lead directly back to you.”

  “Hell, I could always say it was Chivington’s bully boys.”

  “Use your head. Chivington’s people are Indian haters. Who would accept the preposterous idea that they had raided their fellow white men?”

  “Just about anybody. For the same reason we’re doing it. What better way to get a war of extermination going – and don’t doubt for a minute that’s what Chivington wants to do – than to have a couple of good old massacres of settlers?”

  Chambers shuddered slightly. “Sometimes, Colonel, your ferocity astounds even me. After your most recent failure, how is your project on Griffin Stark going?”

  The needle had hurt. Braithwaite glowered. “What about Carmichael and his sister?” he countered. “I, ah, heard things back East the last trip. They, too, are in the Consortium’s way, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Correct. The girl, Jennifer, is in Maryland, living at her mother’s place in Sunderland, and no immediate threat. Right now, not much can be done about Damien Carmichael. He’s somewhat untouchable, surrounded by a company of boys in blue suits, at some remote outpost beyond Fort Laramie. If, during your expedition against the immigrants, you sh
ould encounter him under favorable conditions, his removal would be considered a most beneficial mark in your record. The point is, however, Colonel, you are to get Griffin Stark.”

  His discomfort over that incident carried over as Braithwaite prepared his men for the raids. “This must be carried off with all the precision of a military operation. Do exactly as you are told by your section leaders. Leave no evidence. In fact, once we are in position, all horses will be unshod so our tracks can’t be told from our Indian accomplices. There will be a farrier along to reshoe your mounts after we are long away from the sites of the attacks. Any questions?”

  “What do we do with all the loot?”

  “Clothing, cheap utensils, and furniture will be strewn about as usual in an Indian raid. Valuables, money, the wagons … well, we can incorporate them into other operations or sell the rolling stock off. I see no need to be totally wasteful. Anything else?”

  “How do we split it up?”

  “The usual shares, only this time, considering the source, we will divide one hundred percent, instead of half. My superiors might not be pleased to know we made a small profit on the side. All right, men. We have ten miles to go, then get out of sight and wait for our Cheyenne friends to join us.”

  “Wagons ahead,” Griff Stark announced to Ansel Thorson, who rode slightly behind. “We’ll be there in half an hour.”

  The first wagon train. Griff could hardly control his excitement. Overhead, huge anvil-shaped thunderheads had begun to form. Distant rumbles of thunder heralded the approach of a huge storm. Birds cried in flight, headed east in search of some refuge. Griff felt a freshening of the wind on his left cheek. Chill now, not the furnace draughts that sapped strength from him. He led out at a canter.

  “I’m Cap’n Billy Johnson,” a lean, sun-bronzed man introduced himself three-quarters of an hour later. “What can I do for you folks?”

  “Is there a man and his wife, name of Tucker, signed on your train, Captain?” Griff queried.

  “No. There’s sure not.”

  “He’s a blacksmith. Has a wagon set up for his trade.”

  “I remember him. He was back at Laramie. He was talkin’ kinda thick with those Latter Day Saints. Askin’ all sorts of questions about this place of theirs, Deserete. Wanted to know about the Salt Sea and whether there be work for a blacksmith there. Ain’t sure but that he didn’t sign on with them.”

  Griff frowned. Would his brother-in-law never settle down to one thing? He’d encountered men like that in the months of recuperation after the war. Men who had lost everything, or felt they had. Restless, never satisfied. They moved across the land like wraiths, not staying long in any one place, discontent and forlorn.

  “I had heard he was considering Oregon.”

  “Could be, too. He jawed with me a bit about Spokane and the Snake River country. Nice place. Good orchard land. Your Mr. Tucker seemed bound for everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.”

  “I’ve started to come to the same conclusion. Well, sir, we won’t be keeping you longer. You really think he might have gone with the Mormons?”

  “No guarantee, but I’d put money behind finding him there over Nick Russel’s Oregoners.”

  “We’re going to lose more days cutting down to South Pass. Can you show me a shortcut? Also, Russel’s train left just before the Mormons. Is there a way through the mountains to come on them quickly in case the Tuckers didn’t join the Salt Lake train?” Griff produced his map.

  “Sure. Here you are.” Captain Johnson took the stub of pencil Griff offered and sketched in some terrain features. “Below South Pass, you head north again when you come to the Big Sandy River. You bear west slightly, until you come to the Green River, up near Fremont Lake. Then loop harder west to Jackson Hole. You’ll go through Teton Pass and somewhere along there, on the Oregon Trail, you’ll run into Russel’s train. There’s a small trading post and fort on the trail there at the Snake River. If they haven’t got that far – and chances are they won’t have – you can wait or backtrack.”

  “Thank you, Captain Johnson.”

  Five days later, Griff and Ansel came upon the Mormon train. At least what was left of it. Scavenging animals had been at the corpses. Many had bloated and discolored, making identifications impossible. Two partially burned wagons stood in the deep ruts of the trail, feathered shafts sticking from their sides. Ansel studied the red-and yellow-decorated arrows.

  “Cheyenne. Ja, sure. They are big on red war paint. They are supposed to be peaceful now. I wonder what caused this?”

  “Could there be … any survivors?” A pain too great to describe grew in Griff’s stomach. It radiated in waves through his being and robbed him even of words to cry out the rejection of what he greatly feared. His hopes fled, heart sank. He walked among the bodies.

  “The savages rarely leave anyone alive,” Ansel replied quietly.

  So far, no men with one hand. A feeble flame of hope began to flicker. The stench of decomposing human flesh made the grisly task even more unpleasant—almost impossible. It brought back memories of the months of his illness. Of dirty field hospitals, amputations, and death in wholesale numbers on a hundred battlefields.

  “This is a lot of people for only two wagons.”

  “Ja, sure. There were more. They were taken away. That’s a funny thing. Indians don’t have any use for wagons. But, see. There. An Indian body. Cheyenne clothing. It must have been that way.” Ansel wandered off, muttering to himself and looking closely at the dead warrior.

  A random breeze stirred a flicker of yellow-white. Griff swallowed his apprehension and walked over.

  A woman lay in a heap of clothing. She had been brutalized beyond belief, her breasts sliced off, privates ripped and torn. A small circular patch of scalp and hair had been cut from the crown of her head. She must have been fifty. Hair white as snow. Not blond. Thank God, not blond. Griff stumbled with relief as he moved on. Children. Five of them, sprawled at grotesque angles.

  Tears blurred Griff’s vision. Would one of them be Jeremy? He spotted a small, tow-headed boy and a lance point of fiery pain pierced his heart. He nearly lost the will to move his legs. Closer now. The lad could have been ten, perhaps twelve. Not seven. By all that was holy, not seven.

  Griff sank to his knees, overwhelmed with reprieve. Greasy powder smears on the lad’s face and one hand. He must have been firing a weapon. Not Jeremy. Not his son. Griff wanted to shout out thanks to God. Shame humbled him. That he should be grateful another child had died, rather than his own boy. What had his search brought him to if he could think like that? He rose, walked over to Ansel. “There isn’t much we can do here, is there?”

  “No. Burying them would take too much time. We will go through the rest of South Pass and notify someone on the other side. They are not here? Your family?”

  “No. Thanks to the Lord, they are not.”

  “This is a terrible thing. Ja, sure. How could human beings do such awful things?”

  “The ones who did this are not quite human. Believe me, they aren’t,” Griff concluded. He turned away from the scene of slaughter and headed for his horse.

  She began to wonder if she had done the right thing. The heat of a summer’s day, sticky with humidity, wrapped around her while the conductor took her elbow to steady her descent from the railroad coach. The sun’s glare off the Mississippi River threatened to give her a headache and Jennifer Carmichael hated St. Louis at first sight.

  Sprawling and noisy, the air thick with dust and acrid coal smoke, people racing about as though late for the last call for paradise, St. Louis intimidated her. In Maryland, Jennifer thought of herself as very much the capable young woman. She managed her mother’s home, kept track of the accounts for the plantation and still found time for occasional social involvements. Here in this Giant of the Plains, that all seemed frivolous. She inquired as to a good hotel and went to the Richmond, a modest place in the center of town. She chose it from among several because o
f its Southern sounding name. The clerk greeted her with guarded skepticism.

  “Traveling alone, are you Miss?”

  “Yes, I am. If it’s any of your business.”

  “Have family out here?”

  “Excuse me,” Jennifer began, tightly reining in her temper. “Is this sort of interrogation ordinary with all customers?”

  “No offense, ma’am. Only a proprietor has to look out for the reputation of his establishment. The Richmond might not be the finest in town, but we like to think we are a ‘family’ hostelry.”

  “I’ll certainly see that I do nothing to offend your Southern sensibilities,” Jennifer told him coldly. “If you look here on the registry, you’ll see that I am Jennifer Carmichael of Oaklawn Plantation, Maryland.” She spun the rotating guest book back with such force that two pages flopped over.

  “Yes, Miss Carmichael. No intention to offend. Sorry, ma’am,” the hotel’s owner gushed at her. “A small misunderstanding, I assure you. Out here we see a lot of different people over a year’s time.”

  Jennifer didn’t hear him, though. Her eye had been caught by a familiar, bold stroke of the pen, the name that it spelled out dear to her heart. Her brows raised, above eyes wide and round, and her mouth formed a startled little “Oh.” With an unsteady finger she pointed to the signature.

  “Griff … Griffin Stark stayed here?” she asked in a voice unfamiliar even to her.

  The scowl returned. Mr. James Pierce didn’t like people asking questions about his present or former guests. Especially so fine a gentleman as Maj. Griffin Stark. “Why do you want to know?”