Stranglehold

by William W. Johnstone

  “Aye, ’tis my company, and who would lead it but me?”

  “Captain MacCallister, as ye be the second in command, the loss, should ye be killed, would be a severe blow. Perhaps First Leftenant Robertson could be put in charge.”

  “Colonel, I’ll nae be sending my company into battle without being at the head.”

  Colonel McGregor nodded. “Aye, ’tis the honorable thing to do. But I ask ye, lad, to take Sergeant Major Campbell with you.”

  “There’s nae need for the battalion sergeant major to be put in danger, sir. M’ own first sergeant will be enough.”

  “The sergeant major has seen more battle than anyone else in the regiment, ’n ’tis thinkin’, I am, that he would be a good, steadying influence for your younger lads.”

  “Aye, perhaps you’re right. Very good, sir. I’ll be happy to have the sergeant major join me,” Duff replied.

  Five minutes later, advancing in a battle front formation and with fixed bayonets, Duff MacCallister led his company through the village square right into the heart of the resistance.

  The enemy fire was intense, and when Sergeant Major Duncan Campbell went down just as they reached the defensive perimeter, three of the Ashanti warriors rushed toward him, hoping to use him to their advantage.

  Duff hurried to Campbell’s side, killed all three Ashanti with pistol fire, then helped the wounded soldier to his feet. “Can ye stand on your own, Sergeant Major?”

  “Not without a wee bit o’ help,” Campbell replied in a voice strained with pain from the wound.

  “Put your arm around my shoulder, and we’ll continue the advance,” Duff invited.

  With Duff’s support, Sergeant Major Campbell resumed the advance, holding the pistol in his free arm and firing at targets of opportunity.

  With one final, bayonet-slashing rush, the Ashanti retreated, and with a triumphant shout of victory the first battalion of the 42nd Regiment of Foot, better known as the Black Watch, carried the day.

  As they made their bivouac that night, Colonel McGregor was extremely complimentary of Duff. “Captain, ’twas your bayonet charge that carried the day for us and, believe me lad, ’tis just such a thing I’ll be writing in my report.”

  “How is Sergeant Major Campbell?” Duff asked.

  “He’s fine, thanks to you.”

  “He is a good man, going to the front as he did.”

  “You were very brave,” Meagan said, her eyes shining with the pride she felt in him.

  “I dinnae mean for the story to be as self-aggrandizing as it turned out,” Duff said. “For it was nae a major battle when compared against so many other battles of history, but it was the last battle I fought with Colonel McGregor. Ye can see then, lass, why I cannae refuse his call for help.”

  “Of course we must go to his aid,” Meagan said.

  “We? Lass, I have nae asked you to go. There may be danger, and I’ve nae wish to subject you to same.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Duff. The letter says your colonel is the mayor of Antelope Wells. That means there is a town there, and I’ll be quite content to stay behind in the town while you, Elmer, and Wang save the day,” Meagan said with a bright smile. “Besides, you have promised me a trip, and since it is unlikely that we will be going to Scotland anytime soon, this one will have to do.”

  “Would ye be for promising me that you’ll nae clutch a knife between your teeth and go charging against whatever nefarious forces are holding the town at bay?”

  Meagan laughed. “I promise. By the way, did Elmer and Wang come into town tonight?”

  “Aye. The three of us are to meet at Fiddler’s Green at nine tonight.”

  “They would be with Vi and Mai Lin?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good for them.”

  Chapter Five

  While Duff and Wang had ridden farther into town, Elmer had peeled away from the others and headed directly for Vi’s Pies. Owned by Vi Winslow—an attractive widow in her early forties—Vi’s Pies was a small business, but one of the more successful in Chugwater.

  Like Duff and Wang, Elmer had a background of experiences that far predated his arrival at Chugwater, Wyoming. It could be said that he had the most diverse background of any of the three because he was, more than most men, the sum total of all his experiences.

  During the Civil War, Elmer had ridden with Quantrill’s irregulars, and had taken part in the raid at Lawrence, Kansas.

  Quantrill’s men had ridden through the town, killing every male of military age, finishing off the wounded and those men they found hiding. Though Elmer was as ferocious as any of the others in battle, he was surprised by the mass killing and, not only did he not participate in the wanton slaughter, he saved as many as he could.

  As he rode toward Vi’s his thoughts turned to memories.

  Elmer approached one of the wounded men in the arms of a grieving woman.

  She put herself in front of her wounded husband. “If you are going to shoot him, you’ll have to shoot me as well,” she said defiantly. “I don’t want to live without him.”

  “I ain’t a-goin’ to shoot you, ma’am. I ain’t a-goin’ to shoot him neither.” Elmer looked directly at the man who had been shot in the shoulder and one leg. “Mister, when I shoot, put some o’ that blood on your face ’n pretend you’re dead.” Elmer shot in the ground beside him.

  “Bless you,” the woman said.

  “You’d best commence a-cryin’ ‘n, makin’ out like I kilt your man,” Elmer said.

  The woman began weeping loudly as he left.

  In that way, Elmer spared the lives of fifteen men but even so, when Quantrill’s Raiders left Lawrence, 155 men and boys lay dead or dying behind them.

  After the war was over some of the men who had ridden with Quantrill and who had nothing to come back to continued just as they had before. Jesse and Frank James were just such men, and for a short while Elmer had been a member of the James Gang. He’d been with them when they robbed the bank in Liberty, Missouri.

  The memories stayed with him a little longer.

  It was cold and it was snowing when a group of men calling themselves the James Gang rode into town. Elmer walked into the bank with Frank James, while Jesse and most of the others stayed outside. There were no customers in the bank, and only two employees. Elmer stood by the fire, warming his hands, while Frank stepped up to the counter.

  “How can I help you on this cold, dreary day?” the bank clerk asked with a practiced smile.

  Frank and Elmer pulled their pistols.

  “We’ll take all your money,” Frank said.

  When they walked out of the bank a minute later, they had over $60, 000 in cash. As the group of men made off with their loot, they fired several shots to create a diversion. During the escape one of the men purposely shot and killed an unarmed boy who couldn’t have been over sixteen.

  That night, after having successfully escaped from the posse, Jesse and Frank divided the money, taking forty percent and dividing the remaining sixty percent with the other members of the gang.

  “I’m leaving,” Elmer told the James brothers.

  “Why? You’re a good man to have around,” Jesse said.

  “There was no reason for Jarrett to shoot that kid like he done.”

  “What the hell, Elmer? We just came through a war, where there was a lot of killing.”

  “We were in a war then. We ain’t now, ’n the boy that Jarrett shot didn’t even have a gun.”

  The Jarrett that Elmer was talking about was Jesse and Frank’s first cousin, John Jarrett.

  “Don’t be so damn delicate, Elmer. Robbin’ banks ain’t like plantin’ corn. From time to time folks are goin’ to be shot,” Jesse said.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t plan to be robbin’ no more banks, ’n I don’t plan on shootin’ no more people lessen they need to be shot. Like I said, I’m leavin’.”

  “If you leave now, you don’t get your cut from the job we just pulled,” Jess
e warned.

  “Fine,” Elmer said. “I don’t get my cut.”

  Leaving the James Gang meant leaving behind six thousand dollars, but Elmer had no wish to be a part of that life anymore. He’d gone West, where he’d lived with the Indians for a while, then when the Indian woman he had married died, he’d gone to sea.

  For five years Elmer had sailed the seas, visiting exotic ports of call from the South Sea Islands, to India, the Philippines, Japan, and China, rising in rating from an able-bodied seaman to boson’s mate. After leaving the sea he’d wound up in New Mexico long enough to take part in the Lincoln County War. From New Mexico he’d drifted up to Wyoming, and that’s where he and Duff had met.

  Living in an old, abandoned mine, Elmer had located a new vein of gold. Unable to capitalize on it because the property wasn’t his, he was living a hand-to-mouth existence in the mine, unshaved and dressed only in skins.

  Duff had just filed upon the property that included the mine, which meant everything Elmer had taken from the mine actually belonged to Duff. While he had every right to drive Elmer off, he didn’t. Instead, he’d offered Elmer a one-half partnership in the mine.

  That partnership had paid off handsomely for both of them. Elmer became Duff’s foreman and closest friend, and Duff’s half of the proceeds from the mine had built Sky Meadow into one of the most productive ranches in Wyoming.

  Eventually, Elmer had earned a vested interest in the ranch as well as the mine.

  Arriving at Vi’s Pies, he hung the reins over the hitch rail and entered the shop.

  “Hello, Elmer,” Vi said, obviously pleased that he had come to call on her. “I don’t know how it is that every time I make a new batch of cherry pies, you seem to know about it.”

  Elmer smiled and lay his finger aside his nose. “I can smell a cherry pie cookin’ from a hunnert miles away.”

  Vi laughed. “All right. Have a seat. I’ll cut you a piece.”

  “You got any coffee made?”

  “Of course I do. How can you eat pie without coffee?” Because it was after business hours, she cut a piece for herself and joined Elmer.

  “I’m goin’ to be gone for a while,” Elmer said.

  “I sort of thought as much.”

  “What give you the thought?”

  “I don’t know. There was just something about the way you looked when you came in here. Is it dangerous?”

  “Life is dangerous, Vi. You know that.”

  “I’m not even going to ask you to be careful. You’ve made it this far in life, so I figure you’ve learned when to duck.”

  Elmer leaned over and gave her a quick kiss.

  “What are you doing?” Vi asked in protest. The fact that the protest was feeble was advertised by her laughter.

  “I couldn’t have kissed you like that, if you had ever learned to duck,” he teased.

  “You’re an old fool,” Vi said, though she tempered her response with a broad smile. “Are Duff and Wang in town?”

  “Of course they are. You think I’m the only one who came in to visit his girlfriend?”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Well, ain’t you my girlfriend?”

  “I’m forty-four years old, Elmer. I’m long beyond the stage of being anyone’s girlfriend.”

  “Forty-four is a little young for me, but you’ll do,” he said with a grin.

  * * *

  At the far end of the street, Wang Chow was sitting across the table from Mai Lin. She was an exquisitely beautiful young woman who dressed to accent her beauty by wearing a formfitting dress split up the side. With her elbows on the table and her chin resting on her folded hands, she was staring at him through dark and sparkling sloe eyes.

  “There is something about him, Mai Lin,” her father had told her, the first time Wang had come into the restaurant. “He is not like the men who worked on the railroad. He is tebie.”

  “In what way is he special, Father?”

  “I don’t know, Daughter. I look with my eyes, but I cannot see. I listen with my ears, but I cannot hear, for who he is cannot be perceived in such a way. I know, because I know.”

  Mai Lin’s father had correctly discerned that Wang Chow was considerably more than the average man, for he’d been a priest of the Shaolin temple of Changlin, having entered the temple as a boy of nine. He didn’t leave until he was twenty-eight years old, by which time he was a master of the Chinese martial art of wushu.

  As Mai Lin stared at him, Wang remembered his life in China and reflected on how he’d ended up in Chugwater, Wyoming.

  After leaving the temple, Wang returned home to the simple life of providing fish for his father’s fish market. One day as he was casting his nets into the river, the Taiyang came to the market and killed Wang’s father. The Yuequi went to the house and murdered Wang’s mother and sister. In both incidents they left their mark—a red card representing Taiyang and a black stone for Yuequi.

  After Wang buried his family, he cut the topknot to his hair, which was his spiritual connection to Changlin, and donned a changshan. Arming himself with a sword, he took revenge, killing fifteen men in his personal vendetta.

  Upon hearing about the carnage caused by Wang, the Changlin Temple expelled him from their order, and the Empress Dowager Ci’an issued a decree for his death. Disguised, Wang left China with a group of laborers who were going to America to work on the railroad.

  When the railroad was completed, he supported himself in a number of menial tasks, never disclosing to anyone that he was a Shaolin priest.

  At some point, men with a penchant for evil decided to lynch a Chinaman. They chose Wang, but Duff happened by just before they were able to carry out their plan. Duff asked the men to release their would-be victim, informing them that he wished to hire the Chinaman. When they resisted, Duff made his pitch even more convincing by killing two of them.

  Wang was happy working for the man who had saved his life, and he’d made a personal vow to be ever loyal to his employer. If required, he would give his life in defense of Shifu MacCallister.

  He was also happy to spend time with Mai Lin.

  * * *

  Duff, Elmer, and Wang gathered in Fiddler’s Green for drinks before they returned to Sky Meadow. Biff Johnson joined them.

  “New Mexico is a long way from here,” Biff said in response to being told about the upcoming trip.

  “Aye, but there’s not a one of us who hasn’t been farther,” Duff said.

  “That’s true,” Biff agreed.

  “We’ll be leaving by train, tomorrow. I’ve already got the tickets and made arrangements for our horses.”

  Biff lifted his beer, then held it out over the table. “Here’s to you, boys. May the next Fiddler’s Green I see you in be this one, and not the one in the hereafter.” He recited a poem.

  Halfway down the trail to Hell in a shady meadow green,

  Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped near a good old-fashioned canteen,

  And this eternal resting place is known as Fiddler’s Green.

  Marching past, straight through to Hell, the Infantry are seen, accompanied by the Engineers, Artillery and Marine,

  For none but the shades of Cavalrymen dismount at Fiddler’s Green.

  “’Tis quite a good idea, this Fiddler’s Green,” Duff said. “And ’tis wondering I am if any o’ the lads there would accept a wee visit from men o’ the Black Watch.”

  “I’ll vouch for you ’n all your mates,” Biff said. “There be many o’ my friends there now—General Custer ’n his brothers Tom ’n Boston, their nephew Autie, ’n their brother-in-law, James Calhoun. Myles Keogh is there, and many an NCO I shared a beer with. First Sergeant Ed Bobo, Corporal John Brody, Trumpeter Andy Bucknell. Ah, that lad could blow a sweet tune and “Taps,” when he played it, would bring a tear to your eye. Bucknell was with Reno when he was killed. The trumpeter that stayed with Custer most of time called himself John Martin, but his real name was Giovani Martini. He was an Ital
ian who could barely speak English.”

  “Ye have said that ye would vouch for me ’n my mates,” Duff said. “Would you be for tellin’ me if there would be a piper there as well, to pipe a welcome to the lads who have served with the Black Watch?”

  “Damn right, there will be,” Biff said, and again, all hoisted their beer mugs for the toast.

  Chapter Six

  The Bootheel of New Mexico Territory

  The next target for Schofield’s military operations was the town of Cottonwood Springs—a town more centrally located within the Bootheel. The centralized location meant that Cottonwood Springs was better positioned than Hachita for Schofield’s temporary headquarters.

  Ever the tactician, Schofield had conducted a thorough reconnoiter of Cottonwood Springs. He learned that the town had a population of 169. Of that number, 83 were men and boys, but 20 of them were either too old or too young to take part in any sort of defense effort. That would leave 63 men who could be counted on to defend the town, and though the number 63 was more than the number of attackers, Schofield knew that he would have the greater advantage of surprise.

  “Also,” Schofield said, speaking with a degree of arrogant pride, “it is as the great Greek Tragedian, Euripides once said. ‘Ten men, wisely led, are worth a hundred without a head.’ I think all will agree that with me in command, our attacking force will be wisely led.”

  “Indeed, we will be,” General Peterson said.

  “General, you will take half the force around to the south end of town. When you are in position let me know by messenger. The signal to attack will be transmitted by the firing of three shots, thusly. Bang, a short pause, then, bang, bang, the last two shots to be fired in rapid succession.

  “As soon as you hear that signal, count to ten. I will do the same, then we will have a simultaneous attack from each end of the town.