The Blue, the Grey and the Red

by George G. Gilman

  The final strand of the rope parted and Hedge's inert body slumped hard to the ground.

  "One thing's for sure," a guard commented as the sergeant was lowered. "He ain't the healthiest Yankee we got here."

  Dusk had fallen heavily and there was a palpable menace in the shadowed darkness within the Compound. Each man in the detail experienced a throat drying fear as he moved towards the gate, eyes raking over the untidy rows of sagging shelters.

  "The bogey man will get you rebs," a voice called from the left.

  "Yeah," a shout emerged from the right. "He'll come and stick a knife in your guts and keep twisting it until you've got nothing behind your belly button 'cepting bad gas."

  "It's all they got there now," a third voice yelled tauntingly. "Every Johnny Reb lost his guts first time he saw a blue uniform."

  High, desperate laughter trickled around the stockade and the rebel detail broke into a run and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief as one man when they crossed over the deadline a length of twine which ran parallel with each wall and which prisoners stepped over on penalty of immediate shooting by guards on the wall.

  Not until the north gate had been slammed closed did a five-man group of prisoners cross Main Street and crouch down beside the crumpled form of Hedges.

  "He ain't breathing, looks like," Bill Seward said flatly.

  "He's breathing," Forrest snapped, bending close to Hedges' face and detecting the faint draught of expelled air from the open mouth of the unconscious man.

  ''Hal and Johnny, carry him. Gentle-like. Bob, go get some fresh water."

  "Where?" Rhett asked helplessly, with a nervous glance around the darkened compound.

  Forrest stood and leaned close to the New Englander, who took a step backwards under the steely stare of the sergeant.

  "First you try the creek," Forrest hissed venomously. "If that's fouled, maybe there's a spring around. If you strike out there, find another fag and sell your ass for a bucket of water."

  "Christ, Frank," Rhett said miserably.

  "All else fails," Forrest went on, ignoring the comment, "you get down on your hands and knees and you either pray for rain or dig a well. You bring me back some water, or I'll wring you out with my bare hands. That oughta get us a couple of gallons."

  Rhett nodded vigorously. "Where'll I bring it, Frank?"

  Forrest looked up and down Main Street, then pointed. "Last shebang on the left."

  "How you know it ain't taken?"

  Forrest spat. "Get lost, Bob," he muttered. "Leave men to do men's work."

  Rhett was about to offer a retort, but saw the cold glint in Forrest's eyes and moved nervously away into the darkness. Then Forrest held out his hand towards Seward. "The Captain's blade, Billy?" he asked.

  When Hedges had been ordered to strip to the waist, he was careful to untie the cord of the neck pouch and slide the weapon and its container off with his shirt, then he had screwed up the shirt around the razor and handed it with his tunic and undervest to the man closest to him. Seward had been the recipient. It was with some reluctance that the youngster took the closed razor from his pocket and gave it to Forrest.

  "What'd you do with his other stuff?" "The clothes is hid," Seward answered. He looked at the ground and kicked up dust with the edge of a boot. "If he croaks, do I get the blade back? He gave it to me, Frank."

  Forrest's mouth cracked in a grin. "You ever known me give anything to anyone, Billy?"

  Seward sighed.

  "Let's move," Forrest said, and led the way along Main Street. Seward fell in behind him with Douglas and Bell bringing up the rear swinging the burden of Hedges between them.

  The shelter Forrest had selected had three wooden sides and one of tin, with a piece of canvas stretched across the top as a roof. There was no door: merely a hole to crawl through in one of the wooden sides. As Forrest stooped down to peer inside, a vile odor compounded of excrement, urine, sweat and stale air assaulted his nostrils.

  "Anyone in this stink hole?" he demanded.

  "That Olsen?" a small voice whined. "I need some bad, Olsen."

  A pale blur appeared at the hole and became recognizable as a man's face when Forrest reached in, grabbed a handful of shirt front and yanked the occupant of the shelter into the open. He looked fifty but may have been twenty. His face was skeletal in its thinness so that his dark-rimmed eyes seemed to be sunk deep beneath his jutting brows and the dirt-grimed skin followed closely every rise and indentation of his bone structure. His head was completely bald but at first glance in the darkness seemed not to be so because of the many scabbed and fresh sores which covered his skull.

  ''You're not Olsen," he said, disappointed rather than fearful as he looked up into Forrest's cruel face.

  "I ain't," Forrest agreed. "Just you in here?"

  The wretched man nodded. "Just old West Point himself. There were two others. They had the craps all the time. They died. Went out on the dead wagon. That's what I'm going to do. I went to West Point, you know that? I'm going back there. I'm getting out on the dead wagon. Only I won't be dead." The man began to giggle, but the sound became a hacking cough.

  Forrest transferred his grip to the back of the man's neck and hauled him completely out of the shelter. He beckoned for Bell and Douglas to ease Hedges inside.

  "Looks like he's for the dead wagon," West Point said as the bout of coughing finished. "But he's dead and that's not the way."

  He began to shake his festering head from side to side, his thin features forming into a shallow frown.

  "He's as crazy as a loon," Seward said scornfully.

  "He's got it made," Forrest answered. "First man I've seen in this joint who can laugh." He looked around. "Go find lover boy, Billy. Sight of all these guys cooped up with nowhere to run might have gone to his head."

  As Seward moved away, Forrest crawled through info the shelter, meeting the full brunt of the stench. There was no form of bed inside and Hedges was stretched out on his back on the bare earth. Forrest ordered Bell to take off his tunic and fold it to use for it pillow.

  "Why we doing this, Frank?" Douglas wanted to know.

  Forrest snorted. ''You know any way out of this pigpen, Hal?"

  "Hell, there ain't no way," Douglas answered bitterly.

  "That's how it looks for sure," Forrest concurred, and pointed a finger at Hedges, "But if we can pull him through, he won't see it that way. Just like every other guy in here, he'll want out. But what the Captain wants, he gets some way or other. Because he's got brains and he knows how to use them. He won't just want—he'll get. And we'll get with him."

  There was a shuffling sound behind Forrest and he turned, expecting to see Rhett or Seward. But it was the evicted West Point who stared back at him.

  "Olsen's coming," the old-young man announced with a tone of excitement. "You want anything?"

  "Who's Olsen?" Forrest demanded.

  "He's The Man," West Point answered, speaking in capitals. "You want any morphine, heroin, extra rations, get a letter out—anything. Olsen can fix it."

  "Move the butt, West Point," a voice roared from outside, and the man in the entrance was suddenly shot forward, propelled by a boot landed heavily on his rump. A lantern was thrust into the shelter and then the man holding it followed the light inside. "Ah," he said with a sigh as he sat down cross-legged on the dirt floor. "New customers for the store. Glad to meet you, gents. Name's Olsen. Bringer of comforts in these days of deprivation. Have it now and pay for it later."

  The three new prisoners looked at Olsen in open-mouthed amazement, astonished by the contrast he presented to the thousands of other Union men they had seen in the stockade. For Olsen was fat to the extent of obesity; he was clean-shaven and recently washed and his clothes comprised an Eastern business suit complete with matching grey derby. He was a rotund man with a round, angelic face shiny with health in the yellow glow of the kerosene lamp and his small, bright green eyes were alive with vitality.

  Forres
t was the first to recover and his voice was a snarl. "What do you want, punk?" he demanded.

  Olsen was unperturbed by the insult. "I want nothing. I came to supply West Point with what he requires."

  A knowing smile flitted across his complacent expression. "You men are new. In time you will discover you have requirements, too."

  The fat man took a small bottle from his inside pocket and held it out. West Point made a grab for it with a filthy hand which was merely a pattern of bones hung with skin. "I got my marker made out already, Olsen," the little wretch screeched, scrabbling inside his ragged shirt and pulling out a slip of paper. "Twenty-five dollars, right?"

  Olsen smiled, nodded, took the paper and released the bottle. West Point had to work hard at unscrewing the cap. He shook out four tablets and swallowed them like a starving animal taking food.

  "What's that junk?" Forrest demanded.

  "Hardly that," Olsen answered. "Poor West Point was shot in the head at Antietam Creek. The surgeon gave him morphine to kill the pain. Unfortunately, he became addicted to it. Latest medical evidence suggests that a new drug called heroin will cure addiction. It doesn't seem to be working for West Point, but it keeps him happy."

  "I still say it's junk," Forrest snapped.

  Olsen shrugged. "It might catch on. Who knows? Can I get anything for you or your unfortunate friend?"

  "You can get lost," Forrest replied.

  "I'll be around if you change your mind," Olsen said, beginning to slide out of the shelter, and reaching for the lamp.

  Forrest leaned forward sharply and applied a viselike grip around Olsen's wrist. "Leave the light."

  "I can get you one for fifty dollars." Olsen said, wincing as Forrest applied more pressure to his wrist.

  The razor appeared in Forrest's free hand and he flicked out the blade with a sudden wrist action. "You can get dead for nothing," he hissed, placing the blade beneath Olsen's double chin and forcing the man's head up to look in his eyes.

  "You're making a mistake," the fat man said with a tremor in his voice.

  Forrest showed him his teeth. "It's cheaper than making an offer."

  "I've got friends:"

  "Ain't no use to you dead, mister."

  Olsen swallowed hard. The action caused his flabby chins to move and the razor nicked the skin. "An' introductory gift," he rasped.

  "We don't want charity," Forrest muttered, removing the razor from its dangerous position. "You get your life in exchange."

  Olsen was already half out of the hole in the wall. Forrest placed the heel of his hand against the fat man's forehead and shoved hard. Olsen was ejected into the night with a squeal.

  "You didn't oughta have done that," West Point said, aghast. "He'll make trouble."

  Forrest whirled towards the little man, but held back a retort as he saw the tablets were taking their effect, spreading an imbecilic grin across the starved face, heightening the impression of a skull. He turned back to look at Hedges, drawing the lamp closer. The determination in his eyes was not tempered by compassion as he examined the salt-crusted face of the unconscious man and roved over the blistered body with an ugly red welt across the base of the stomach where the cane had made contact, But there was a mere flicker of anxiety visible as the sergeant felt for a pulse and for a moment failed to detect the tiny beat at the reddened side of Hedges' neck.

  Rhett crawled in through the hole first, a pail of water clutched in his trembling hands. Scott came in behind him, bleary-eyed and with dried blood encrusting one side of his face. Seward brought up the rear, his young face heavy with anger. Forrest snatched the pail and then ripped the kerchief from Rhett's neck.

  "Took you goddam long enough," the sergeant snarled.

  Rhett scuttled into a comer and looked fearfully from Forrest to Seward, like a terrified animal. Forrest folded the kerchief, soaked it and began to bathe Hedges' face and body.

  "He's crazier than that nut," Seward sneered, nodding towards the grinning West Point. "I found him going from one tent to another asking for the loan of a pail of water—like some city woman on the cadge for a cup of sugar."

  "Where'd you get it, Billy?" Bell asked.

  Seward's anger was suddenly gone and was replaced by a look of proud cunning. "We found Johnnie and made him play dead. While Bob made like he wanted to sell Johnnie's boots and gear to a group of guys, I sneaked into their hut and swiped it."

  Rhett sought to return to favor and forced a guffaw. ''You should have seen their faces when Johnnie suddenly came alive and we all started to run like hell."

  The rest, with the exception of Forrest and the unconscious Hedges, joined in his amusement and other prisoners and guards alike who were within earshot of the shelter turned confused eyes towards the source of the hilarity. For laughter was an alien sound within the stockade. But then somebody pointed out the glee was emitting from West Point's shelter.

  "Birds of a feather," a veteran guard commented to a companion. "Guess some of the new guys came in minus their marbles."

  The young corporal leaning beside him suddenly laughed. "Gave themselves up, you reckon?"

  "Uh?"

  "Asked for asylum?"

  *****

  Deputy Paxton galloped his horse along the firmly packed sand of the shoreline, sometimes kicking up spray as a breaking wave, more adventurous than others, carried its assault higher up the beach. And within moments of his passing, the advance of the tide wiped out every trace of his presence.

  It was after midnight and Paxton was a lonely figure in the darkness which was slightly silvered by a waning moon hanging low in the sky. It seemed to be the only light in the world, for the city was far behind him and the rising ground of the Garden of Eden spread to one side was as desolate as the vacant ocean to the other.

  But then, as the young deputy stared ahead, something flashed from out of the shadowed area of a cliff face and he reined his mount to a walking pace. The horse snorted and breathed deeply of the salty clean air. Paxton spoke softly to the animal and caressed its neck as he studied the cliff; and as he drew closer his facial muscles tightened into an expression of part nervousness, part satisfaction. For he could see the silhouette of a small house, the dark pine wood of its construction set against the faintly whitish tinge of the cliff face. The flash had been moonlight reflected off a window pane.

  He angled his mount away from the shoreline, the animal's legs sinking deep into the soft sand, and hitched the reins around a hook-like projection of rock at the foot of the cliff. He was a hundred feet short of the wooden stairway reaching up to the shelf upon which the house was built, and did not draw his Colt until he started up the steps. He made the top quickly and quietly, and there confirmed his first impression that no lights burned behind the four front windows of the one-story building. But he hesitated as he saw that the door was open. "You stopped at the right place," a voice said from within the house. "One more step and I'd have blown your heart out."

  Paxton's stomach turned to ice-cold water. He leaned forward slightly, straining his eyes to penetrate the velvet blackness inside the doorway.

  "Drop the gun, kid."

  Paxton's muscles wouldn't obey the dictates of his mind. He had to bring his left hand across the front of his body to unfold his fingers from around the revolver. It clunked to the ground. A tall, thin man stepped out of the doorway, his eyes and teeth shining in the moonlight. The star on his vest gleamed more brightly. He was aiming a Winchester at Paxton.

  "Jesus, you're Red Railston's deputy," the man said, dropping the rifle's aim to the ground.

  Paxton's pent-up breath escaped with a hiss but he waited for several moments before he risked speaking. Even so, the words seemed to him to have an unnatural sound. "You get your star through mail order?"

  The man looked tough, but unintelligent. He shook his head. "Mrs. Eden had the marshal deputize us. We're guarding a material witness in the Chadwick Eden case."

  The plural form was confirmed as a se
cond man emerged from the house. He looked tougher and more stupid than his partner. He was broader, but shorter. He also wore a star.

  Paxton's mind raced. "Red wants the girl at the jailhouse," he said.

  "We like having here," the second man answered.

  "He don't mean that like it sounds," the first explained nervously. "She ain't been touched."

  "He got authority?" the second man asked, eyeing Paxton with suspicion.

  "He's a regular deputy, Ed. I reckon he don't need it."

  Paxton thought it was safe to retrieve his gun and he scooped it up. He held it loosely in his hand, aimed at nowhere, but ready.

  "Mrs. Eden ought to know about it," Ed said. "You go tell her, Slim."

  Ed dropped a hand to his holstered Starr. Paxton leveled the Colt.

  Slim licked his lips, made to raise the Winchester and decided against it. "Frisco law don't mean nothing here, mister."

  Paxton hefted the Colt. "You want to argue, with this law?"

  "He won't shoot," Ed said.

  "Try me," Paxton told him, and raised his voice. "Miss Greer!"

  There was a creak of bedsprings and then the padding of bare feet on polished wood. The voluptuous form of the whore appeared in the doorway, clothed in a voluminous nightgown. Her face was heavy with sleep and aged by a lack of make-up.

  "Ain't two men enough?" she asked irritably.

  "You like it here?" Paxton asked her. She sneered towards Slim and Ed. "You must be kidding. I didn't know there were so many snakes in the Garden of Eden."

  "Get your clothes on."

  "I'm going with you?"

  Paxton's confidence increased for he knew the woman would be disappointed if he gave her a negative answer. He nodded.

  She smiled. "Where we going?"

  "Back to San Francisco."

  The smile broadened. "That's my town."

  "Figured it was where you left your heart," he told her as she turned to re-enter the house. "Toss your guns down on the beach," he said to Slim and Ed.

  "Mrs. Eden won't like this," Slim complained.

  "Everything in the garden can't always be rosy," Paxton answered. ''Toss them."