Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  “I don’t have much choice,” Jordan replied without explanation as they left the boy to rest and moved to the outer office.

  Captain Beard explained for him. “The provost marshal wants Jordan to hang around for a few days while they investigate the death of a man over near that man Skelley’s place.” He cocked a suspicious eye in Jordan’s direction. “Seems the man was stomped to death by a horse. I didn’t see the body, but Lieutenant DiMarco said that was pretty much the look of it.”

  “Why do they want you to stay for the investigation?” Kathleen asked Jordan.

  He shrugged indifferently. “’Cause I was the only witness, I reckon.” A faint smile touched his lips. “That, and the fact that I’m ridin’ the chief suspect.”

  “Well, I’ve got my rounds to make,” Captain Beard announced, signaling an end to the visit. “Let your friend rest here for the night. Then he should be all right to ride.” Jordan nodded, and he and Kathleen walked outside to stand on the small porch.

  “You can walk me over to Mrs. Grant’s quarters if you like,” Kathleen offered.

  Jordan hesitated for a long moment before replying. “I thank you, but I reckon I’d better not. I’ve got to take care of the horses, and set up a place to camp.” It had been hard enough to try not to think about her over the past year. Already, this casual encounter was beginning to stir up memories best left alone.

  She was at once offended, but quickly realized that he was attempting to avoid disturbing thoughts that were bound to arise between the two of them. “Oh, well, some other time.” She managed to say it casually before spinning abruptly on her heel and leaving him standing there holding Sweet Pea’s reins.

  He paused for a moment, watching her walk away. The unexpected encounter had left him a little sad as it brought back thoughts of what might have been. But he was wise enough to know that it would never have worked out. He was a son of the mountains, born to roam the slopes and valleys. Even if circumstances were different, it could have never worked for Kathleen and him. He knew he would have made an honest effort to change his life for her sake. But any wild animal that was caged would eventually break out—or die trying. She had made her choice, married her arrogant lieutenant, and set herself up for a secure life as an army wife. So be it.

  He would never know the softness of her body, the touch of her hand, the secret thoughts that filled her mind. He could only imagine the passion she was capable of. Those thoughts were beginning to crowd into his mind again until he was distracted momentarily by a hawk wheeling high above the parade ground, its forlorn cry seeming to call out to him. He thought about that for a moment, then told himself, I’ll never soar above the ground like that hawk, either, but I can climb to the top of the highest mountain in the Rockies if I need to see the view. He would get over Kathleen, he decided at that moment, maybe as soon as he returned to the mountains.

  He turned to face Sweet Pea. The belligerent mare tossed her head impatiently. “You’re as anxious to get outta this army camp as I am,” he said and climbed in the saddle. “We’d best go make a camp. Tomorrow we’ll fetch Toby. Maybe in a day or two we can take him back to the Black Hills. I expect Hattie and Maggie are gettin’ pretty worried about that boy.” He paused to think about the prospect of another trip to Deadwood. “Besides,” he said, “I ain’t been shot at lately.”

  Read on for a preview of

  Charles G. West’s action-packed novel

  OUTLAW

  Coming from Signet in May 2006

  Making his way silently through the dark forest that covered the east slope of the ridge, a Confederate sniper stopped, dropped to one knee, and listened to the sounds of the night. Above him a Union picket passed in the darkness, following the narrow path that circled the crest of the hill. He had spotted the Union soldier when still some twenty yards away from where he presently knelt, and now he paused to allow time for the unsuspecting sentry to reverse his post. On the neighboring ridge, an owl hooted softly in the darkness. Several yards to his right there was a gentle rustle of leaves as a rodent scurried to seek a hiding place, aware that he might be prominent on the owl’s menu. Matt paid the rodent no attention. He was accustomed to the night sounds of the forest, and he had his own neck to worry about.

  Come on, dammit. I ain’t got all night, he silently urged the sentry, impatient to make his was across the ridge. Unaware of the Confederate marksman less than a few yards directly below him, the Union soldier paused to light his pipe. A dense cloud of tobacco smoke spiraled around the man’s head as he pulled vigorously on his pipe, tamped the load down, and relit it. Satisfied that it was lit to stay, he began his tour again completely unaware of the inviting target he presented. It was the Yankee’s good fortune that he was not this night’s primary target. Matt had been sent to seek a more specific objective. He had been told only that part of Sheridan’s troops, under General George Crook, were encamped along the bluffs overlooking Cedar Creek. His orders were to infiltrate the Union picket lines and, if possible, to take out any officers he could find. It would be unlikely that he would be able to get close enough for a shot at Crook himself, but the higher the rank, the more demoralizing it would be for the Union soldiers.

  While he waited for the picket to move on, Matt glanced around him in the darkness to make sure he was still undiscovered. He unconsciously reached up to stroke a small St. Christopher medal, a gift from his mother, that hung on a silver chain around his neck. His brother wore one just like it. Not really sure who St. Christopher was, both boys considered the medals to be good-luck charms.

  Matt Slaughter had spent a good portion of his young life in the hills and forests of the Shenandoah Valley, hunting every wild critter that dwelt there. He felt at home in the forest, alone, away from the confusion of his cavalry unit. His commanding officer, Captain Miles Francis, had recognized the wildness in the young volunteer from the central valley and was not at all surprised that the quiet young man proved to be the best marksman in Company K. Consequently, Francis was quick to use Matt’s woodland skills to the regiment’s advantage.

  Thoughts of his service since joining the Twenty-second Virginia Cavalry flashed though his mind as he readied himself to continue his climb up the slope. It had seemed a long time since the summer of 1863 and the formation of the Twenty-second. He had participated in most of the fighting in the Shenandoah Valley from the time his unit was thrown into the Third Battle of Winchester a little over a year before. That was a glorious effort, and a decisive victory for the South. But things had not gone well for the Confederate Army in the Shenandoah Valley since, for the Union Army had regrouped and come back with a vengeance. And now his regiment was engaged in little more than harassing attacks against an overpowering Union force—fighting and retreating—with the sickening knowledge that the valley was no longer theirs.

  Slowly rising to his feet again, he paused to look around once more—the careful precaution of a man who had no one to rely on but himself. It was late October. The leaves were already changing color on the hardwoods, but in the gray predawn light, they appeared cold and lifeless. He thought of his role in this fight: marksman, sharpshooter, sniper. By any name, the term that lodged in his mind was assassin. At first, he looked upon his assignments as no more than soldiering. Like any other soldier in the line, he was doing his duty as ordered. But after a while, it soured on him. In an infantry or cavalry charge, an individual was simply part of one army against another army. But when he killed, it was a personal thing, and the thought was beginning to weigh heavily on his conscience. In his mind, there was nothing heroic about slipping silently through the forest to wait in ambush, to kill, and then slip away again. He no longer took pride in being the best shot in the regiment. In fact, many times he felt no better than a low-down bushwhacker. Best get my mind back on my business, he reprimanded himself. Before I get a Yankee minie ball in my behind.

  He paused only briefly to glance in both directions when he crossed over the path the pick
et paced. Then he disappeared into the trees that covered the crown of the hill. Making his way down the other side, he continued until the fires of the Union camp were in sight on the bluffs above the creek. Slinging his rifle so he could free both hands to help scale the steep bluffs, he climbed up to a point high enough to be able to see into the camp. Edging a little closer, he positioned himself to look over the encampment, making note of the sentries posted about the perimeter. Satisfied that he had a clear view of the officers’ tents, he next determined his route of escape, for he would not be able to retreat the way he had come. His primary means of escape, his horse, was tied to a gum tree a quarter of a mile beyond the other side of the ridge he had just crossed. After giving it a couple of minutes’ thought, he decided his best route would be to follow the creek to a point where the bluffs were steepest. From there, he could scramble down and cross over. Carrying nothing more than his rifle and ammunition, he was confident that he could outrun anyone giving chase. With that decision made, he settled himself in a thicket to wait for a target.

  In no particular hurry now, for it would be at least an hour before daylight, he readied his weapon. One of only two issued to his company, the long British-made Whitworth was especially suited for his purpose. With its tubular telescopic sight mounted on a hexagonal barrel, he could hit a target up to eighteen hundred yards away. And that was six or seven hundred yards more range than the Enfields carried by most of the infantry companies attached to the regiment. The Whitworth had to be loaded down the muzzle, which was not ideal in a skirmish. But for accuracy, there was no better weapon.

  Now came the part he hated—waiting—for there was too much time to think over what he was about to do. If the opportunity presented itself, and it usually did, somebody’s wife would become a widow. What seemed unfair about it was that his victim would not be prepared to die. There would be no battle raging, no suicidal charge upon an enemy position, no anticipation of the possibility of the fatal shot. Assassin, the word kept coming back to haunt him. He hated it. It was a word without honor.

  The only person with whom he had discussed the issue was Lieutenant Gunter. Gunter was a favorite among the men of K Company. A jolly giant of a man, the jovial second lieutenant always seemed to have a word of encouragement for everyone. He had sensed the basic decency in the young soldier from Rockbridge County, and often took time to talk with Matt about his job. It was Gunter who advised Matt not to think of his targets as individuals, but to picture them only as faceless bluecoats. If further encouragement was needed, the lieutenant suggested thinking of the beautiful Shenandoah Valley, now laid waste by Sheridan’s invading troops. Matt had tried to think of these things, but the word that lingered most in his mind was assassin.

  First light finally began its gentle intrusion upon the darkened forest, creeping almost without perception until the individual trees began to take shape in the morning mist. A light fog lay across the creek bottom, but was not dense enough to obscure the tents above the creek. Captain Francis had ordered him to hold his fire until first light, which should be around five o’clock. The captain would not elaborate, but Matt figured that the company was to be involved in an early-morning assault upon General Crook’s division. It shouldn’t be long now. A thought of his brother, Owen, flashed through his mind.

  About twelve miles back down the Valley Pike, his brother was most likely stirring from his blanket. Owen always awakened before first light, a habit ingrained from long years working a farm. Unlike Matt, Owen was a family man. Older by two years, he had volunteered to fight for the sole reason that the valley was his home, and he felt a strong sense of duty to defend it and his family from the Union invaders. Poor Owen, Matt thought. He’s got no business in this fight. He should be home with Abby and his two sons. Both brothers thought the war would never come to the Shenandoah, but come it had, like a deadly plague of locusts, leaving the very ground gutted in its wake. Only ten days before, at Tom’s Brook, Matt’s unit had fought over ground less than thirty miles from his little parcel of land near the river before being forced to retreat back to Woodstock. They had been whipped badly on that day. The memory of it still smarted. The Yankees chased them twenty miles up the Valley Pike and then eight miles up the Back Road. The inglorious retreat came to be known as the Woodstock Races. He wondered now if his cabin and Owen’s house had been spared when the Union troops swept through. There had been no opportunity to find out.

  Suddenly, his senses were brought back to the present, for the Union camp came to life as soldiers crawled out of tents and blankets. Soon fires were reborn all along the bluffs, and the sounds of a waking army filtered through the hardwoods. Matt sat motionless as a Union sergeant walked out among the trees, approaching to within ten yards of him before stopping to empty his bladder. With no thought of panic, Matt watched until the soldier finished and returned to camp. Then he turned his attention back to concentrate on the officers’ tents. In a few minutes time, a soldier appeared at the flap of the closest tent carrying a cup of coffee. Time to go to work, Matt thought, forcing himself to ignore the feeling of reluctance that always came. Rising to one knee, he brought his rifle up and rested the barrel in the fork of a young dogwood. Sighting through the long telescopic sight, he trained the weapon on the tent flap. Moments passed. Then a gray-whiskered face appeared and stepped outside to accept the coffee. He wore no tunic, so his rank could not be determined. But because he was the one who was served coffee, Matt guessed that he was in command.

  Matt took careful aim. His intent was always to make the shot count—to kill his target as quickly as possible with minimal suffering. At a range of one hundred yards, he was confident enough to take a head shot, so he trained his sights slightly above the gray whiskers. He waited a few moments to allow his victim a sip or two of hot coffee before squeezing the trigger. The face in the telescopic sight disappeared with the sharp report of the Whitworth rifle. With no hesitation, but without unnecessary haste, Matt reloaded his weapon, ramming home another bolt, as the odd-shaped bullets were called. Although the sudden shot had caused pandemonium in the Union camp, with soldiers running for cover, Matt was not yet concerned with escape. He felt reasonably sure that his muzzle blast had not been seen, especially with the fog rising from the creek.

  His rifle loaded, he turned to sight on the second tent. As he expected, an officer emerged, a pistol in his hand. He took one step toward his fallen commander before collapsing on the ground, shot through the heart. There it was, that little sick feeling Matt always experienced when he assassinated an unsuspecting victim. It made no difference that the two officers were the enemy, and would send troops forward to kill him and his comrades. In his mind, it was outright murder. As Lieutenant Gunter advised, he tried to think of the officers as barbarians laying waste to the Shenandoah.

  His job done, Matt wasted little time withdrawing from the thicket that had shielded him. There were probably two or three more officers in the camp, but he wasn’t willing to risk another shot. His assignment had been to demoralize the enemy by killing the commanding officers. At this point in the war, it seemed a pointless task, but he did it one more time, and accepted it as his duty.

  Making his way along the creek at a steady trot, he listened to the excited sounds behind him, alert to any that might indicate pursuit. He knew from experience that at first the soldiers would be seeking cover in anticipation of an attack upon their position. Not until they realized that there was no Confederate force about to descend upon them would they mount a hunting party to go after the sniper. By that time, he planned to be long gone.

  Matt had barely crossed over to the other side of the creek when he heard the opening barrage of a battle behind him. Confused, he immediately turned and worked his way back along the bank to see for himself. “Damn!” he uttered as he spotted a wave of Confederate infantry sweeping along the bluffs, flanking the Union position. They must have marched all night to get here, he thought. This was what Captain Francis had hinte
d at the day before. From his vantage point on the creekbank, he could see that the Confederate attack was successful, for Crook’s soldiers were already falling back in retreat. God, he thought, we damn sure need a victory after Tom’s Brook.

  Giving no thought toward joining in the Rebel assault, he continued to watch until the Confederate infantry succeeded in driving the Union soldiers back toward Middletown. His reasoning was simple—he was apt to get shot by one of his own comrades if he came running out of the woods to join them. He elected to withdraw, and go back to retrieve his horse. He had done enough killing for one day.

  When he found his company later in the morning, he was greeted by several of his friends. Still basking in the heady wine of victory, they offered good-natured derision. “Well, lookee who decided to show up,” a lanky farm boy from Lexington called out. “Damn, Slaughter,” another asked, “where the hell were you? You missed a helluva party.”

  Matt just smiled in reply. He looked around him at the soldiers taking their leisure. “Anybody seen my brother?”

  “I saw him earlier this morning,” the lanky farm boy replied. “He was with Lieutenant Lowder when we charged up the bluffs. I expect he’s down the line a piece.” He pointed toward the lower end of the camp. Matt nodded and took his leave.