Death's Bounty

by George G. Gilman

  “You others agree with Forrest and Rhett?” he asked softly.

  “Between you and me, Hedges!” the sergeant snarled as the troopers shuffled back under the pressure of the flat-eyed stare and quiet strength of the voice. “The boys are with me, but I don’t need ’em to help me take you.”

  “Take him good, Frank!” Seward urged with a giggle, careful not to look at Hedges in case he was trapped by the killer’s stare.

  “We’ve both known for a long time this was gonna happen,” Forrest rasped. •

  Hedges gave a short nod of agreement. “Make your move,” he said simply. I

  A laugh rasped from the sneering mouth of the sergeant, as if the humor had substance and his throat was lined with sandpaper. “You calling me, kid?” he taunted.

  “I had the rep as the fastest man with a gun in the entire southwest.”

  “Hope you haven’t lost your talent,” Hedges replied easily.

  Forrest blinked, which could have been fatal had Hedges been so inclined. “Uh?”

  Hedges pursed his lips. “You’re gonna have to be real fast, Sergeant. First to blast me before I put a bullet between your eyes and maybe even hit your pea-size brain.” The anger expanded from the mean eyes to spread colorfully across the entire dirt-streaked surface of Forrest’s face. It reached his hands too late. He had moved the Spencer only a fraction of an inch before he was forced to freeze. Hedges did not only swing his rifle from the hip. He snapped it up to his shoulder and drew a bead with the gun muzzle no more than an inch away from the sparse flesh of Forrest’s forehead. “Then you gotta be real fast on your legs,” Hedges went on in the same low tones. “To get the hell out of here after that bunch of soldiers on the road come looking for—”

  “Jesus, there’s a hundred of ’em!”

  All the troopers except the two men facing each other had whirled at Hedges’ warning. It was Rhett who exploded the croaky exclamation, hurling himself to the ground. The others were just a moment behind him in hitting the deck. Sweat showed on the area of forehead threatened by the rifle muzzle. It oozed from distended pores and fought through the grime of dirt. There was a soft thud as the sergeant’s rifle slid from his opened palms and hit the sodden ground.

  “You’re faster,” he allowed without grace. “And your timing is a hell of a lot better.”

  “And I’ve got a hell of a lot more careful lately,” Hedges muttered, backing away from the sergeant, lowering the Spencer, and dropping into a crouch.

  Forrest went down, turning as he did so to look at the Confederate soldiers on the trail. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and when the move was complete, his lips parted to show his tobacco-stained teeth in a wry grin. “They wouldn’t have seen us,” he whispered. “But, I gotta admit, a shot would have brung ’em running.”

  Ever since Hedges first saw the Rebels when he looked at the troopers to ask if they were backing Forrest, he had been sure that he and his men were safe from being seen. For the enemy—Rhett’s estimate of one hundred was about right—were- struggling through the mud of the trail. Their pace was dictated by the crawl at which a half-dozen horses were able to drag as many artillery pieces. They were coming from the direction of Hartford Gap, and were still better than a half-mile from where the Union troopers crouched and sprawled on the ground. But it was not only the distance which protected the troopers. The spot where Forrest had chosen to make his play was under the brow of a rise, the crest of which was shrouded in timber. Thus, apart from being dark shapes against a dark background of hillside, the troopers were also in the deep shadow of the tree clump.

  “Back,” Hedges said softly, and the men covered the remaining few yards of open ground to reach the even greater security of the trees themselves. A nod from the captain told Forrest he could pick up his discarded rifle on the way.

  Once more, the proximity of the enemy caused the mean-faced sergeant to set aside his enmity toward Hedges, and it was as if this latest of several such incidents had never happened.

  “Looks like they come through town,” Forrest said, crouching down beside the officer between the massive trunks of two oak trees.

  “And through a battle before that,” Hedges answered, raking his hooded eyes along the straggling line of soldiers as the column drew closer.

  In the comparative safety of the wood, the troopers were able to view the Rebels with objectivity—to see beyond the simple fact that the men were an enemy to be feared. And like Hedges, they saw that many of the men below were walking wounded. Although stained by weather and sweat, bandages around heads and limbs still showed up pale against the mud-spattered uniforms of the soldiers. Some of the men hobbled along with the aid of makeshift crutches, while others leaned on their comrades for support.

  “Hell, only half of ’em are still in one piece,” Seward whispered excitedly. “What say we take a few potshots at ’em?”

  “Sure, Billy!” Hal Douglas agreed. “They got no cover down there, and they ain’t gonna be able to run away very damn fast.”

  Hedges looked at Forrest with one eyebrow raised, and his lips slightly parted in a sneer of scorn. The sergeant, returned to his status as an understanding second-incommand, gave a slight nod.

  “Billy? Hal?”

  “Yeah, Frank?” Seward acknowledged with his excitement still high.

  Forrest spat through the gorse brushing his face. “You make any more half-ass suggestions like that, I’m gonna put bullets in both your butts. Then you’ll see how fast those guys down there can move. And when those cannons start lobbing shells up here, I reckon you two might get kinda athletic.”

  Seward and Douglas scowled at each other.

  The trail angled across the foot of the hill from which the Union troopers were watching, then curved to snake around it. Less than three hundred yards separated the observed and the observers at the point where they were closest, and it was then that Hedges saw a blue uniform among the gray. The sergeant saw it, too.

  “They got the lieutenant,” Forrest said dispassionately.

  The young shavetail was close to the head of the column, trudging through the mud in the wake of three officers and two artillery pieces. Behind him was a big corporal with a leveled rifle. Whenever the lieutenant fell, the corporal hauled him roughly to his feet and pushed him forward with a jab of the rifle. The lieutenant went down into the sludge often, for his arms were lashed behind his back from pits to wrists, impairing his equilibrium.

  “Wonder why they don’t just leave him down to choke in the crap?” Forrest muttered coldly.

  “Same reason they didn’t shoot him, I guess,” Hedges replied. “Let’s go.”

  He rose and turned to move deeper into the trees capping the hilltop, and the'men followed, sacrificing silence for speed in the knowledge that the noise caused by the progress of the Rebels provided ample cover for the sounds of swishing ferns, cracking twigs, and heavy breathing.

  The timber extended further down the slope on the eastern face of the hill and did not thin out until the ground fell away in an almost sheer, twenty-feet high cliff face to the very edge of the trail the Rebels were following. On the other side of the trail, a swollen river arced around the base of a rise. It had burst its bank and was lapping around a stranded stage with the nearside, rear comer sunk deep into the mud as a result of a broken wheel.

  Seven men in western dress were attempting to manhandle the stage up from the grip of the mud with a singular lack of success. The four horse team were still in the traces, snorting as they struggled to get free of the same water-covered mud. Because of the angle adopted by the crippled stage, the legend painted on the side was clearly visible to the troopers peering down over the rim of the cliff:

  THE JOHN FORD TOURING COMPANY PORTRAYING THE WEST AS IT REALLY IS

  “Seems the stage ain’t what it used to be,” Forrest whispered after watching the struggles of the men below for several moments.

  “Shut up and wait for the next act,”
Hedges rasped, looking to left and right

  They had emerged at the highest point on the cliff. In both directions the ground fell away, and he knew that he had ample time to lead the men down the incline to the east, and be long gone from sight before the head of the Rebel column rounded the turn in the trail and saw the way barred by the crippled stage. And the group of actors were too intent on their chore to be concerned with other things.

  But Hedges remained prone-on the soaking ground, setting aside his original plan, which was to get ahead of the enemy soldiers and use the greater mobility of the smaller group to extend the gap. For he had the germ of a new idea, the feasibility of which depended upon what was about to happen below.

  Ten minutes were lost in the damp darkness of the early hours before the Rebels rounded the obstacle of the hill and the leading officers saw the barrier across their path. The actors spotted the soldiers at the same time, for they were resting, leaning against the tilted stage to recover from an exhausting, concerted effort which had raised the burden a few inches. But when one of them had turned away to reach for a blocking rock, the others had missed his strength. The stage had settled down lower than ever.

  The officers—two captains and a lieutenant with a bandage around his throat—were cool. They hesitated only a moment, then kept coming along the trail. During the brief pause, they had drawn Colts from their holsters.

  “It’s okay,” one of the actors said breathlessly. “Southerners.” Then, when the head of the column was closer, he raised his voice. “Boy, are we glad to see you fellers!” he yelled.

  The column ground to a grateful halt, with less than ten feet between the officers and the actors grouped at the rear of the crippled stage.

  “Are you authorized to be on this road?” the taller captain asked. He and the other two officers held their revolvers negligently, but nonetheless pointed toward the civilians.

  “Sure, Captain,” the spokesman for the actors replied. “We’re entertainers. We got papers sent from Richmond. Saying we can put on shows—for the army and civilians alike. Helps to keep up morale in these troubled times.”

  “Check them out, Lieutenant.”

  As the Rebel junior officer moved forward and held out his his hands for the papers proffered by the acting troupe’s top man, the Union shavetail sank to his knees. He twisted as he fell, and sprawled out on his back in mud. Water from the flooded river seeped into the indentation made by his body. The corporal guarding him stepped forward and inserted a boot under his head. His face stayed above the water level as the rest of him was swamped. The Union troopers looking down at him were unable to tell whether the lieutenant was expressing pain, for his face showed- too many signs of past suffering. They had beaten him until not a fraction of an inch of his features remained unmarked. His forehead, cheeks, and throat were swollen by evil-colored bruises. IBs eyes were sunk deep in the inflated flesh. His nose was an ugly blob crusted with dried blood. His puffed lips were slightly parted to show twin rows of broken teeth. Trickles of blood turned black by drying zig-zagged across the injuries which had been their sources.

  “He looks beat,” Forrest whispered, then clamped his lips tight as he met Hedges’ icy stare.

  “Papers look okay, sir,” the Rebel lieutenant reported. “Shall I check the stage?”

  “Make it fast,” the captain rapped.

  “You gonna give us a hand to raise her?”

  “No time, mister,” the captain answered as the lieutenant splashed back to his place and gave a nod to indicate that the contents of the stage bore out what the papers said. “We have an important prisoner to deliver to headquarters.”

  The top man of the actors, a thin-faced, stoopshouldered man of about forty, grimaced. “Only take a minute. Just to get her up with some rocks under her. We’ll fix the busted wheel ourselves.”

  “You heard me, mister!” the captain snapped. He looked over his shoulder as he thrust his revolver back in its holster. “Move out, men!” he shouted, and splashed into the shallows of the river, leading the column around the stranded stage.

  The shavetail was hauled roughly to his feet and prodded forward in the wake of the two horses and guns.

  “You see seven men in Confederate infantry uniforms in this part of the country, be careful,” the captain shouted back to the angry actors. “They could be federal spies.”

  “He talked!” Scott rasped disgustedly.

  Forrest spat silently.

  “Pained him to do it,” Bell muttered.

  The column waded on a curved course around the tilted stage as the actors watched miserably.

  “Thought the show was always supposed to go on!” a Rebel taunted.

  “If the West’s like that, you can keep it,” another called.

  A man with a bandaged knee, leaning against another with a head dressing, looked up at the sky. “Pity,” he mused. “Weather’s clearing. More rain and maybe she’d have floated up for you.”

  His companion laughed.

  Not until the tail of the column had passed did the actors return their attention to the stage, straining and cursing in their struggles. Hedges looked away from them, peering along the trail toward the east and watching the Rebel soldiers diminish into the distance until they were lost to sight in an area of wooded country. The sky above the woods had taken on a definite lighter shade—the first sign of a new dawn in the offing.

  He peered downward again and gave a nod as he reached his decision.

  “What now?” Forrest whispered.

  “Curtains for the actors,” Hedges replied. “But no applause. Real quiet.”

  Forrest glanced over the top of the cliff. “That way?” “I reckon.”

  “We could all break something.”

  Hedges’ teeth showed in a cold grin. “You scared, Sergeant?”

  Forrest paused, then matched the captain’s expression. He shook his head. “Just happy you stopped being careful.” He swung around to look at the troopers. “You all in the picture?”

  They responded with apprehensive nods, glancing at the depth of the drop they had to make. Forrest drew a knife, and the others followed his example. Hedges reached up to the back of his neck. The open razor came free of the pouch. The others took their lead from the captain in standing, blade in one hand and rifle in the other. They eased forward to the edge of the cliff.

  “Let’s drop by the show!” Hedges rasped, and launched forward.

  With the exception of Rhett, the troopers were only a moment behind the captain. The actors were in the middle of a renewed effort to raise the stage, straining with all their might as they prized the unwieldly burden clear of the sucking sludge. They were completely unaware of the attack until the six Union men thudded down into the mud, sending up great sprays of black water. One of the actors cried in alarm and tried to back away. But he slipped, his feet and legs shooting in front of him. The others released their grip on the stage, and the enormous weight fell back to rest. The man who had slipped was crushed between the buckled wheel rim and the submerged rock that had caused the damage. His groan of agony was curtailed as his stomach burst open and exploded soggy pieces of red meat through the muddy water.

  Then the troopers were lunging at the terrified actors, throwing their feet high to make speed through the quagmire.

  Seward reached his man first, hooking one arm around his neck and using the actor’s rigidity to power himself the final foot of the way. The knife went underhand into the actor’s belly, and the grinning Seward clamped a hand over the gaping mouth to stop the scream. The man went backward, taking himself off the skewer of the knife. Seward went down with him and held the head under the slimy water until the bubbles ceased to rise.

  Forrest went for a stab to the belly also. But with his greater strength, he was able to jerk the knife upwards, ripping open the man’s body from navel to chest. “Just wanted to see what you were made of,” he rasped into the death mask of agony.

  The man before Hedges
started to turn as if to run away. The captain’s arm moved quickly up and across in a blur. It was the long arm of a tall man. He stabbed with the razor, and the blade sank an inch into the flesh below his victim’s right ear. Hedges turned his wrist and his action became slashing. A great wake of blood was thrown up behind the course of the razor ploughing across the throat. The blade came free under the left ear.

  “Lousy death scene,” he muttered as the actor crumpled without a sound.

  Scott and Bell discovered they had both chosen the same man. Scott went for the heart and Bell for the stomach. The man was pressed against the rear of the stage. Both knives sank into the hilts. The blood didn’t start until they withdrew the blades. Then it poured in torrents. The two killers grinned at each other. Then fear leaped into Bell’s eyes, and he suddenly hurled his blood-coated knife. It spun over Scott’s shoulder and sliced deep into the blazing right eye of a man holding a large rock above his head.

  Scott whirled and watched the man collapse, smashing the rock into his own dead face. “Saved by the Bell!” he gasped.

  Douglas was straddling the victim he had knocked down with a superficial stab wound in the chest, blocked by a rib bone. Now the corporal was flailing wildly at the actor with the dripping knife as the man bucked and mouied beneath him. The other troopers had made their kills V’ithin the space of a few seconds. They watched dispassionately as the surviving actor suffered terribly at Druglas’ butchery. .

  “He won’t die!” the attacker shrieked as he plunged in the knife again, withdrew it, and stabbed.

  “Real tough cat,” Seward muttered. Stab.

  “Got nine lives,” Scott put in. Stab.

  Hedges lunged forward, sank to his knees, and slashed open the throat of the victim. The moans became a final sigh» and the struggling ceased. Tears of frustration gleamed in Douglas’ eyes as he met the icy stare of the captain.