Death's Bounty

by George G. Gilman

  The hardness remained in Forrest’s eyes, but his lips curled into a grin that was not altogether cynical. It was almost like an invitation to share mutual respect between equals—the older man showing he was prepared to make allowances for the inexperience of the younger one. This was not the first time the sergeant had attempted to bridge the rank gap and establish an affinity with Hedges—a man he had come close to killing on other occasions.

  “I’ll remember,” Hedges allowed against the background of rifle and revolver shots stabbing through the hiss of rain. But neither his tone nor his expression offered encouragement to the man across the lobby.

  Forrest shrugged. “What they tell you about this crummy town?”

  Hedges spat toward the spittoon and missed. “We’re on our own. There’s a couple of civilians around somewhere.”

  “I’m one of ’em,” a voice spoke up nervously.

  Hedges and Forrest whirled toward the desk, leveling their rifles.

  “Come up slow!” the captain ordered. “Hands first.”

  The hands showed above the desk, trembling badly. The face that appeared between the arms was thin and white, with wide, red-veined eyes and a slack mouth that trickled saliva of fear. He was about twenty, and he stopped growing from behind the desk when he reached a height of an inch or so above five feet. “Don’t shoot, fellers!” he pleaded. “I’m on your side. I fixed the food for you men.”

  “That’s what they told me,” .Hedges said. “Most of the civilians headed south when the Rebels were chased out. Army took over the town. Yesterday there were better than five hundred infantry and artillery here. They were moved west. A lieutenant, the two sentries that got blasted, and a Pinkerton man were left to fill us in.” “Big of ’em!” Forrest rasped. “Were they filled in about the bastards up on the roofs?”

  “They knew there was a chance that some Rebs were in the area,” the captain answered. “They didn’t think they were very close.”

  The window to the right of the doorway was shattered, and the trembling clerk threw himself down behind the desk as bullets smacked into the keyboard behind him. “They’re close!” Forrest growled.

  ‘‘Close enough,” Hedges countered. “Hey, you!”

  “I ain’t standing up no more!” the clerk yelled.

  A further burst of firing, accompanied by a high scream of agony, sent a spattering of bullets through the doorway and window. Plaster spat from the wall close to Forrest, who went down into a crouch.

  “He ain’t very big, but he’s smart,” the sergeant muttered, then raised his voice as he looked across at the officer. “I’m getting dry in here, Captain. But that’s all I’m getting. You figured out what we’re goin’ to do yet?” *Tm thinking about it,” Hedges replied, and he was. The crazy dash from the wagon into the hotel had been an impulsive act, bom out of anger and nurtured by a selfish need to get away from the smirking object of his ire. But now he had shaken free of purely personal emotion. He was an officer responsible for the safety of his men. Forrest had put into words what all the troopers must have been thinking.

  “You can talk sitting down!” Hedges called to the cowering clerk. “Tell me about this town.”

  “Christ!” Forrest muttered, staying in a crouch as he moved into the restaurant. He scuttled across to the spread of food and went under the tables, taking a large cut of beef with him. He sat cross-legged, chewing the meat from the bone as he listened to the voices of the clerk and the captain.

  Outside in the rain the battle continued. Every horse in the wagon teams was dead. The cavalry mounts were either inert heaps in the mud or had bolted. The Negroes had been reduced in number to ten. The eight casualties were either crumpled on the street or sprawled in pools of their own blood at doorways and windows. Four Confederate soldiers had toppled from the rooftops. Three others lay still behind their inadequate cover with the rain diluting their spilled blood. But because of the wind-slanted rain and the thicker darkness of night, which had rolled over the town in the wake of evening, no soldier on either side had a full view of what had happened. Most saw only blurred outlines of buildings and wagons and | fired at gun flashes.

  “Where the hell’s Hedges?” Scott growled, flattening himself into the mud as bullets smacked into the wagon above him.

  “You wanna go find out?” Bell asked him.

  “Let’s send one of them.”

  His thumb jerked toward the three ex-slaves sharing the cover of the wagon. The Negroes looked at each other and reached agreement without exchanging a word. They even elected a spokesman with their eyes.

  “You wanna try, white trash?” the designated man hissed.

  Three mud-covered rifles were suddenly trained on Scott and Bell. Scott swallowed hard.

  “Guess not,” Bell said.

  Seward and Douglas were no longer inside the pharmacy. They had gone up the stairs, found an exit on to the roof, and picked off one Rebel across the street. But neither was prepared to make the leap that would take them onto the roof of the bank next door to look for new targets. For such a move would have exposed them.

  “Whatever’s on those wagons ain’t mine!” Seward justified.

  “Captain smart-ass Hedges is in charge of it,” Douglas pointed out. “You reckon he’s got something in mind?” Seward grimaced. “If he has, he sure don’t seem anxious to let it out.”

  In the store Rhett kept a tight grip on his unfired rifle and silently implored Hedges, God, and the Union army to put an end to his terror. One of the Negroes at the window was dead, and the other was bleeding badly from a chest wound. His ragged breathing was an ominous sound filling the brief pauses between the shooting. At the door Manfred alternately fired at the unseen enemy and scowled at the petrified Rhett.

  “Hey, you Johnnie Rebs up there!”

  Shouting the words as loud as he was able, Hedges blasted his voice through the rain in the wake of an angry burst of gunshots. The beating of the rain was all the answer he received for several long moments. In this period the startled Forrest tossed away the remains of the meat and scuttled out into the lobby, suddenly aware that it had been some time since Hedges and the desk clerk had said anything. The clerk’s eyes were very frightened as they peered out over the top of the desk.

  " “Where’d he go?” the sergeant snapped.

  A trembling hand appeared to point toward a door under the stairway. “Back way.”

  “Whereto?”

  Gulp. “Dunno, Sergeant. But he seemed pretty interested in the flour mill half a block down the street.” Forrest’s eyes showed how puzzled he was as he spun around and moved toward the front door of the hotel, careful to stay out of the direct line of fire. He crouched down with his rifle at the ready.

  “You hear me?” Hedges yelled.

  Not a shot had been fired since he shouted the first time. Again the hissing of the rain was the only blemish on the silence as he listened for a response. It had been easy to get into the mill, for all the ambushers were concentrating their attention on the street. He had left the hotel through the kitchen door and moved silently across the back lots, occasionally hearing the scrape of boot leather on wood or a whisper of conversation above him. But without knowing the numerical strength of the enemy, he was not prepared to try picking them off one by one. “I hear you. You wanna give up?”

  The flour mill was on a comer lot, almost half a block up from the hotel and courthouse which marked the northern extreme of the attackers’ positions. The big side doors, through which the grain was taken in and the sacks of flour sent out, were closed but not locked. Once inside, he struck a succession of matches to discover the layout of the building.

  “You got it right!” he shouted.

  The mill, perhaps the whole town, had been deserted in a hurry. There were a couple of wagonloads of grain piled by two hoppers at the rear. At the front was a huge pile of sacks. When his razor slit one open, freshly milled flour spilled out.

  “Speak for your goddamn self
, Hedges!” Roger Bell shouted. “I got my fill of stinking Reb prison.”

  “Damn right!” Billy Seward yelled.

  “What’d you say, Frank?” John Scott demanded.

  Forrest didn’t hesitate. “You bastards better listen to the captain!” he bellowed.

  “You Yankees done yakking yet?” the officer in command of the attackers wanted to know.

  Hedges was standing inside and to the right of the open front door of the mill. “We’re done!” he shouted, trying to pinpoint the position of the man who was replying to him. He thought he was on the roof of the telegraph office next door to the courthouse. “My men will lay down their weapons and fall in outside the hotel.” A babble of discontent was audible through the sound of the rain. Hedges ignored it. “Who am I talking to?” “Major Collins, Second Kentucky Infantry,” came the reply.

  “Do I have your word my men will be accorded their due rights as prisoners of war, Major?”

  There was no hesitation. “You have it.”

  “Sergeant!” Hedges roared.

  “Sir?” Forrest answered.

  “Fall in the men. Disarmed. Hands on their heads.” “Sir!” came the shouted response. Only the frightened desk clerk heard the rasping: “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Forrest rested the Henry against the wall, then drew his Colt and dropped it on the floor. He took a deep breath and stepped outside, hooding his eyes against the rain and tensing his muscles in preparation for the thud of a bullet. No shot was fired. He moved off the sidewalk and peered down the street. “You heard the captain!” he bellowed. “Get up off your butts and into line.”

  For stretched seconds nothing happened. Then there was the squelching sound of men raising themselves from the moist grip of mud. First Scott and Bell moved into the faint wedge of light that slashed across the street from the gaping entrance of the hotel. The Negroes who had been under the wagon with them were next to show. All had left their rifles behind, and their holsters were empty.

  “Hands on your heads!” Forrest rasped.

  They complied, their faces showing the disgust they felt at the humiliation of the surrender. Four more Negroes trudged through the mud and joined the line. Then Manfred and Rhett, Seward and Douglas, were trailed by two more Negroes, and a second rank was formed.

  “What the—” Seward started.

  “Save it!” Forrest rasped.

  “It done, Sergeant?” Hedges called, his voice sounding more distant than before.

  “I got a count of sixteen, sir,” the noncom reported.

  I “Makes it eight we lost.”

  Hedges was covered from the top of his forage cap to the toes of his boots in a thick layer of flour, the particles glued to him by the understrata of mud. The interior of the mill was filled with a heavy mist of flour, generated ! when he used his razor to slash the sacks, which he then hurled in every direction. As the sacks sailed through the air, they trailed arcs of the choking white dust. And as they hit walls and floor, they burst and great clouds of flour billowed up. Because of the fine powder clogging his nostrils and threatening to attack his throat if he opened his mouth, the captain was unable to acknowledge Forrest’s shout until he was out on the street, with the door firmly closed behind him. He carried an unlit lamp plucked from a low beam.

  “March the men this way, Sergeant!” he ordered, then dashed across the street and into the shelter of a livery stable on the opposite comer.

  Forrest had learned never to be surprised at whaf Hedges did or at the orders he gave. “Turn left, quick march!” he snapped, using the tone of voice which the troopers had learned to obey instantly.

  The two unequal lines of bedraggled uniformed figures had made the turn and were marching awkwardly through the mud before the men on the roof had recovered from their surprise.

  “What the hell!” Major Collins exploded. “Hey, you men!”

  Because of the rain-streaked murk, only those Rebels positioned on the roofs of the hotel and the courthouse could see what was happening. The others could hear, but no order had been given.

  “Halt!” the major yelled. “Halt or we fire!”

  Forrest peered ahead and strained his ears for an order from Hedges. He saw and heard nothing. The men continued the trudging march, each of them holding his breath.

  “Captain?” the sergeant shouted.

  “Halt, I say!” the Rebel officer ordered, standing up. The four men on the courthouse with him raised themselves, rifles leveled. Three more figures loomed up from behind the hotel sign.

  Another two squelching paces. Sweat mingled with the rain on the strained faces, helping to wash the flesh clear of mud.

  “Captain, what do we do?”

  The head of the column was within ten yards of the comer. Hedges cursed under his breath at the slowness with which the men were ploughing through the ankle-deep mud. But he knew he could wait no longer.

  “Run!” he yelled, with a glance across the street.

  He saw the mill’s window was still acting as a barrier to the thick, white mist. Then the men were running, stumbling, and crashing into each other in their panic to get from under the guns of the momentarily surprised Rebel soldiers. Hedges got off three rapid shots toward the hotel roof and heard a scream before the Rebels opened fire. Bullets splatted into mud and thudded into flesh. Three of the Negroes went down. Two lay still. The third sat up and tried to lift himself. But blood gushed from his thigh. He grasped his legs in both hands. The others—black and white—splashed around him. His head exploded into ghastly fragments as a hail of bullets was pumped into it. Another Negro went down and was still.

  The survivors ploughed between the mill and livery, staring in horror at the white apparition that was Hedges.

  “Keep running!” the captain ordered, hurling his rifle.

  Forrest caught the weapon and set the pace.

  “After them!” Major Collins roared. “Don’t let them get away!”

  The Union troopers struggled across the street junction, harried by a group of four shots. Only one found a mark, and Manfred sat down hard, gushing blood from a shattered ankle. He was immediately outside the door of the mill. In a short period of silence while the Rebels jumped and clambered down from their rooftop positions to give chase, the massive Negro stared at Hedges with an odd mixture of anguish and puzzlement in his wide eyes. He saw the captain pick up the lamp and back into the depths of the livery. Hedges gave a quick shake of his head. Manfred got the message and stared down at his wound.

  The Rebel soldiers had as much difficulty making speed through the mud as the Union men. When Hedges saw the first one pass, he struck a match and lit the lamp wick. A small group of five or six, with the major among them, slogged into sight. Hedges replaced the lamp glass. Two shots were fired—wildly because the targets were lost in the rain and dark. A Rebel soldier caught the flash of light from the corner of his eye and swung his head around to stare into the stable. Manfred stuck out his good leg, and the soldier went headlong into the mud with a cry of alarm.

  Hedges drew the Colt with his free hand and started to run forward. The flame of the lamp danced crazily in the glass. He halted abruptly in the doorway and hurled the lamp. It flew across the street, spinning wildly. Hie flame died, then flared again. A succession of images were channeled into Hedges’ mind through the slits of his hooded eyes. The face of Manfred, showing terror, hatred, then forgiveness. A dozen, perhaps more, of gray-uniformed figures frozen momentarily in a variety of attitudes of awkward running. A rifle pointed toward him. The man with the rifle being flung backward as the Colt exploded a bullet into his heart. The lamp smashing through the white-backed window, flaring brighter than ever, as if in triumph at defeating the attempt of the pelting rain to extinguish it. Then there was just darkness as he flung himself to the ground behind the protective front wall of the stable.

  The sound of the explosion was like a thousand cannons fired simultaneously. The orange flames lit up
the entire town for a brief moment. The blast disintegrated the mill. Men were lifted bodily from the mud and tossed back again or smashed against the walls of surrounding buildings. There were no screams, for there was no time. Flesh was burst open like the skin of rotten fruit. Entrails and dismembered limbs—even severed heads—sailed through the night air, fleetingly devoid of rain under the force of the searing blast.

  The sound seemed to roll on and on in Hedges’ mind. It affected his sense of balance, and it was only on the third attempt that he was able to haul himself erect and peer out onto the street. The ruined mill blazed with an angry crackling noise, sending up tongues of flame to do battle with the teeming rain. Its light sprayed out against the night, putting the ghastly tableau of bleeding and burning flesh on cruel display.

  Hedges viewed it without emotion, his slitted eyci raking the scene for a sign of life, the Colt swinging to left and right, ready to put out the slightest spark if it showed. But only the flames and the rain provided movement on the street. All else was still. Manfred had been cut in half by a piece of flying debris. His head was twisted in the attitude of a broken neck, and his eyes were directed toward the captain. They were as cold and devoid of feeling as were Hedges’.

  Suddenly the officer whirled to the left as the roaring subsided in his head, and he heard another sound. His knuckle was white as his finger pressed the trigger of the Colt. But he was as skilled in the art of not killing as he was in the taking of life. The shavetail lieutenant and the Pinkerton man were moving down the street, keeping to the sidewalk. On the other side, the terrified desk clerk was peering toward the scene of slaughter. When the familiar noise of mud sucking at boots sounded from the other direction, Hedges turned more slowly. Twelve troopers trudged into the area lit by the flames, equally divided, black and white. Five of the whites surveyed the broken and mutilated bodies with expressions ranging from simple delight to giggling from glee. Rhett clasped his hands in front of him to stop them from trembling. The rest of his body shook uncontrollably. The Negroes looked for and found the recognizable portion of Manfred. They halted and stared at their dead leader in silent sadness.