The Blue, the Grey and the Red

by George G. Gilman

  "He got the girl and you're paying the price, reb. Got any last requests?"

  "I'd like a cigarette."

  "You smoked too many already," Forrest said with a shake of his head. "They've took years off your life." He lashed out with the knife and Frank died with a strangled cry as the skin of his throat snapped back to erupt a river of blood from his jugular vein.

  "You giving him the last rites in there?" Hedges shouted from outside the saloon.

  Forrest retrieved his rifle, cast a final dispassionate look over the carnage around him and pushed through the doors. On the street the troopers were mounted and Seward was holding three spare horses.

  "Seems we lost two men," Forrest said as he swung up into the saddle of his mount. "Turn their nags free, Captain?"

  Hedges looked hard into the flat eyes of the sergeant and saw they backed up the inference of his words. "Just one," he said with emphasis.

  Forrest shrugged as Seward slapped the rump of a spare horse, to send it galloping away down the short street. "That leaves us with one too many," he muttered.

  The rest of the troopers sat tense in their saddles, awaiting Hedges' response to Forrest's attempt to rile him.

  "It matches the count on, big mouths," Hedges hissed as he heeled his mount forward. "Keep it closed until I tell you to open it."

  Forrest's face darkened with fury and had the two of them been alone, Hedges would not have turned his back on the sergeant. But there were too many witnesses and not all of them had more respect for Forrest's iron will than Hedges' rank. So the troop moved off without an explosion of violence at a slow, quiet pace set by the officer in the lead.

  Brookerville became quiet again, looking innocently peaceful in the soft moonglow, with the lights from the saloon windows shining out like welcoming beacons into the night. Not until the warmth of a new day came would the dead begin to give off their bittersweet odor to warn a passing stranger of the horror to which the village was playing host.

  The troopers emerged from the far side of the stand of timber and started up a gentle slope towards another clump of trees at the crest. The trail was baked hard and showed no sign of the passage of a horse, but to each side the terrain was a featureless tract of virgin countryside which would have revealed Terry's plan had he chosen to veer to left or right. The horse soldiers rode in a single file column, with Hedges at the head and Forrest bringing up the rear, leading the spare mount. Nobody spoke and even the horses seemed to understand the necessity for stealth so that their occasional snorts were almost apologetic.

  "Light ahead, sir," Douglas whispered from immediately behind Hedges as they reached the halfway point of the slope.

  "And it ain't no sun coming up," Hedges muttered. "Let's move it."

  He dug his heels hard into the flanks of his horse to send it racing ahead and the troopers were quick to follow, streaming up the incline towards the unmistakable glow of firelight that was starkly outlining the trees in the center of the clump. As Hedges swung off the trail, plunging towards the brightness of the fire, he heard a terrifying scream and his face became contorted by a mask of hate-filled fury as he realized his gamble had failed.

  He burst clear of the trees into a glade just as a second scream cut through the crackling of burning brush. His horse tried to stop too suddenly in compliance with the hard-pulled reins and went into a sideways roll. Hedges kicked free of the stirrups and snatched the rifle from its boot as he leapt clear. He landed on his shoulder and turned over twice before a tree trunk halted him, jarring every bone in his body. Rage was a red mist in front of his hooded eyes and he looked through it at the yellow flames which were dancing convulsively around the foot of a towering elm. The burning brush gave off a dry, dean smell, but suddenly this was swamped by the-evil odor of charring-flesh, Jeannie Fisher's body, held tight against the tree trunk by lariat rope, was no longer pale. The lower half was completely enveloped in the writhing flames which, even as Hedges stared, rose higher and blackened her flesh with each wicked lick. As the troopers broke into the clearing and slid from. their horses to gape in horrified silence, a stray spark rose and started a fresh fire in the girl's hair, dribbling flames down her face. She was already dead, but Hedges moved without a consideration for the fact, dragging himself to his feet and stumbling towards the crude pyre. But even as the flames leapt higher, generating the heat to drive him back, the restraining ropes burned through Jeannie's body, no longer recognizable as having human form, toppled forward into the seat of the fire.

  "Like I said," Forrest muttered to a trooper standing beside him. "One too many."

  The trooper looked at the sergeant with unconcealed contempt but then, as the fire found new moisture in the woman's body and hissed it into flaying vapor, the man's face drained of color and he folded his body forward, vomiting forth his reaction to the horror. Two other men emptied their stomachs in similar fashion. Others turned away, steeling themselves against the effects of shock. Only two men watched the fire until the last visible remains of Jeannie Fisher had been consumed by the flames. Hedges stared with mounting rage, the fury blazing in his eyes and reaching a strength that matched that of the fire itself. But every man has an emotional limit and, when the captain gained his, a transformation overcame him. Within him, that final sliver of humanity ceased to exist. Outwardly, his expression melted and then solidified into a new line. He turned slightly to look at Forrest: and there was no longer a red mist to cloud his vision. The eyes of the two men examined each other’s faces in minute detail over the period of a split second and then met, peering into the mind of the other.

  "Welcome to the club, Captain," Forrest said.

  Even those men weakened by nausea found themselves compelled to look up at the sergeant and the captain, for each bystander in the firelit clearing sensed he was witnessing the near unique event of a full-grown man being reborn.

  "Not yours, Forrest," Hedges answered.

  The sergeant shrugged. "It's the same one," he murmured."You just used a different entrance."

  Hedges lifted the Henry and leveled it at Forrest. The sergeant had left his rifle in the saddle boot and his holster was buttoned down.

  "If I was with you, Forrest," Hedges said evenly, "I'd blast you now, just because I think you came from the same spawn as the man who burned my girl. But I need a stronger reason than that."

  Forrest was not convinced that Hedges was speaking the truth. He backed off a pace, licking his lips, forcing his eyes to stop from blinking. "The longer we wait here, the further he'll be away," he said suddenly, quickly.

  Hedges allowed the rifle barrel to drop and several troopers gave noisy exit to their pent-up breath.

  "My problem," the captain said. "Take the men back to Murfreesboro."

  "The hell with that!" Seward exclaimed. "I don't figure to spend any more time sitting oil my ass and doin' drill in no camp."

  Hedges spun towards him, the rifle snapping into a firing position again. With the fire blazing behind him, Hedges sent a dozen enormous shadows across the troopers. "So you figure to die right here?" he snapped.

  "Seward hung his head under Hedges' steely stare. "You can't do that, Captain," he said.

  Hedges drew a bead on Seward's heart.

  "We're in a battle situation," Douglas said hurriedly. "He can do it." He looked at Forrest. "Let's go, Frank."

  "Ain't nobody gonna go no place." The voice came from the darkness among the trees and every trooper whirled to look in that direction. But before they could focus on the speaker a host of grey-uniformed figures stepped out of the shadows into the circle of light, muskets aimed. The Union troopers looked one way and then the other, along a solid line of Confederate cavalrymen who faced them from around three sides of the clearing.

  "Jesus!" Rhett quavered as he shot his hands into the air. "There must be a hundred of them."

  Hedges let his rifle fall to the ground as the rebel detachment parted to allow a man with general's insignia to pass through.r />
  "We got here firstest," Hedges said with a sigh. "But they sure got the mostest."

  The general swaggered across the clearing and halted in front of Hedges, a look of interest enlivening a slight smile which played at the comers of his mouth. "Hell, Captain," he roared. "I like that. I really like that. I'll have to see if 1 can't use it sometime. General Nathan Bedford Forrest at your service, sir."

  "Any relation, Frank?" Seward called to the sergeant.

  Forrest spat into the fire. "Wish he was, Billy," he said bitterly. "Maybe I'd live longer."

  His namesake swung towards him, bristling with righteous indignation, "You're lucky, soldier," he bellowed. "You've been captured by honorable men the cavalry of the Confederate army treats its enemy with respect. You will now surrender your sidearms and all other weapons to my men."

  "What do you say, Captain?" Seward called as the line of soldiers advanced and formed a complete circle around the Union troopers. "We gonna let them take us?"

  The ring of rebels closed in tighter and Hedges glared at Seward with ill-humor. "No, we ain't, Hedges said flatly. "We're going to dig a hole in the ground and drop into it. Then we're going to empty our side irons at them. When we're out of ammunition we're going to take their muskets and beat them over the head. After that we'll bite the rest to death. Then we'll bury them in the hole, steal their horses and ride into Richmond to blast Jefferson Davis."

  Seward was not the only Union trooper who listened in all seriousness to Hedges' monologue and showed surprise when he realized there was a musket pressing against his back.

  "Take off your gunbelts," a rebel lieutenant ordered.

  "Hell," Hedges muttered for all to hear. "They were too fast for us."

  General Forrest was pacing up and down outside the ring of captors. "Firstest with the mostest," he intoned. "First with the most. Yes, sir. I really like that. Kind of line that could make a man famous."

  The rebels began to line up their prisoners in marching order.

  *****

  Lydia Eden's husband had made his fortune from gold as a Forty-Niner and, largely as a result of his wife's good advice, invested the money in land and cattle. He died young and rich, deeply mourned by an attractive widow who chose to channel her great capacity for love in two directions. Nobody was quite sure whether the unselfish affection she lavished upon her son or the dedication with which she sought to swell her wealth had the more powerful motive. But in material terms, the latter had proved the more rewarding.

  The ranch she had called the Garden of Eden was spread over many miles of prime oceanside country, stocked with several thousand head of cattle. Citrus trees grew in patterned rows in well-kept orchards, and maize and wheat fields squared the landscape. At the center of this vast expanse of bountiful land was the big house. Two stories high, with Spanish-style arched windows, it was built of native stone, painted white so that it gleamed in the California sun. Around the main structure were spread the outbuildings, housing the servants and the purebred riding horses, the ornate carriages and the high-priced furnishings which the owner had bought on impulse and found no room for.

  Paxton approached the house from the west, aware there was less risk of being seen by the Mexican hands and American overseers employed by Lydia Eden. For while most of the property was under cattle or crops, a wide swathe of rugged, pine-clad terrain sweeping down from the house to the beach had been left untouched to provide the owner with a panoramic view of natural beauty which she regarded as a monument to her late husband. His body was, in fact, buried beneath the simple marker of a solid gold cross among a stand of pine in the center of the vista.

  Paxton passed the grave without pausing and made his way along a tree-lined bridle path. It was almost noon and he was sweating with the exertion of walking up the rising ground. His horse he had left on the edge of the beach, grazing on lush grass out of range of salt spray from the surf. The deputy moved cautiously, well aware of the meaning of the signs which had been erected around the perimeter of the property, warning trespassers of the severest penalty for their deeds. Three men had been shot for straying through the fences in pursuit of jackrabbits. Two of them had died.

  As he neared the crest of the rise, where the ground flattened out, Paxton veered to the side and then swung around so that he could approach the house from the rear. There was no sign of movement anywhere and even the shade trees were so still they seemed to be made of stone. But there were sounds to disturb the hot, quiet air: the rattle of crocks and cutlery from the house kitchen, the snorting of horses from the stables, the strangely beautiful voice of a Mexican woman singing softly in the servants' quarters.

  He waited for more than a minute in the deep shadow of the coach-house wall, gathering the courage to cross the bright, empty yard which separated him from the dazzling whiteness of the house wall. Then, just as he was about to step into the open, a door swung wide and out of the dimness stepped the slight form of Lydia Eden and the bulky figure of Red Railston. Paxton caught his breath and drew back. Their voices reached him crystal clear through the unmoving blanket of heat.

  "I'm relying on you, marshal," Lydia Eden said earnestly. "Every member of the jury must be in no doubt."

  Railston smiled as he twisted his hat between his meaty hands. "He'll hang, ma'am. With the gun evidence I'll give and Heffner's testimony to back it, I don't reckon there's any need to grease the jury."

  Despite her heavy mourning clothes, Lydia Eden looked as cool as the blue Pacific. Her tone was several degrees lower. "I'm relying on nothing. You do as I say."

  Railston bobbed his red head, the gesture almost a bow. "Surely, ma'am. Is the woman still being awkward?"

  Mrs. Eden's mouth twitched and then pulled into a straight, tight line. "She won't be in court. I will not have my son's name linked with that of a whore."

  "You got her someplace safe?"

  "At the beach-house, she won’t be set free until that man is swinging at the end of a rope."

  Railston released his hat with one hand and caressed the shiny butt of the Colt riding at his right thigh. "Might be best to keep her quiet for all time, Mrs. Eden," he said pointedly.

  The woman's eyes poured scorn on the lawman. "I pay you well to do my bidding, marshal," she said coldly. "If I needed a man to do my thinking, it would not be you."

  Paxton could not suppress a grin as he saw sudden anger flare in Railston's face, to be immediately transformed into subservience as the woman's rock-hard eyes turned to him.

  "Yes, ma'am," the marshal said, bobbing his head again. He put on his hat. "I'll see you in court?"

  "That you will," Lydia Eden said and turned, her skirts swishing, to go back into the house. The door slammed shut behind her. Paxton flattened his body against the hot stone of the wall as Railston strode angrily across the yard.

  "Hey, Mex!" the marshal bellowed. "Get my horse out here, pronto."

  Paxton chanced a look around the angle of the coach-house and saw a young peon emerge from the stable, leading Railston's big black stallion. The youngster looked frightened as the lawman scrutinized the animal.

  "What's that!" Railston yelled, pointing to a slight discoloration on a brass ring of the bridle.

  "It will not come off, senor," the peon said, quaking.

  Railston's anger at having to submit to Lydia Eden's insults exploded into a powerful roundhouse punch that caught the peon on the side of the head and sent him crumpling to the dust of the yard.

  "It's about siesta time, I guess," the marshal said as he swung up into the saddle and spat down on to the unmoving form of the unconscious youngster.

  "Your time will come," Paxton murmured as he watched Railston ride out of the yard. Then he waited until the dust from the horse's hooves had settled before moving away himself, wondering at which point on the property's oceanside frontage he would find the beach-house. But wherever it was, he would find it and his determination grew stronger every step of the way back to where he had left h
is horse.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The boxcar stank with the sweat and fear and the more pronounced odor of men who had been in close, unrelieved confinement for too long. It was one of ten cars strung behind a struggling locomotive racketing through the green fields of rebel-held Georgia. Each had seemed to be filled to capacity with Union prisoners when General Forrest's cavalry troop had halted the train in the early hours of the morning. But under the menace of the guards' muskets, the captives in the first car behind the locomotive had been persuaded to surrender their limited ration of spare space to make room for Hedges and his men. The search for Terry's Raiders, followed by the march to the railroad had taken up the greater part of the night and the new prisoners were able to regard the initial hours of their journey as something of a minor luxury. Wedged between the reluctant press of bodies, sleep came easily to them, their fatigued minds creating a lullaby from the clack of wheels against track. But as the grayness of dawn gave way to the brighter color of a day lit by fierce sunlight, the physical discomfort of the cramped, rancid conditions of their travel gained prominence over the need for rest. .

  "I think the rebs have won," Scott pronounced as he tried to stretch his legs, and drew a curse from a man whose head he kicked. "They got the whole Union Army packed on this train."

  "Yeah," somebody called from the other end of the car. "I hear they got Lincoln firing the boiler."

  Hedges, Forrest and Rhett were sitting together, pressed up against the sliding door on one side of the car, forced to keep their legs folded up to their chests by the crush of the other prisoners. But they gained some relief from a steady draught streaming in through a crack where the door did not meet Hush with its frame.

  ''We just gonna sit here, Captain?" Forrest asked irritably after many minutes of silence had passed since their waking.

  "What you want to do?" Hedges asked. "Dance with Rhett?"

  "You got no call to..." Rhett whined.