Shadow Soldier (The Gunsmith Book 2)

by C. K. Crigger

  I’m a woman of action, tough as they come. I never cry.

  So, of course, I burst into sobs. Tears washed down my face, and I simply sat there and let them fall. I had a great empty hole inside of me and I didn’t know what to do. Helpless, that’s how I felt. Helpless, hopeless, and tired. And betrayed.

  The two men stood gawking in appalled silence, unable to say a thing. Help came from an unexpected quarter.

  I froze as something rubbery and wet touched my hand. Involuntarily, I jumped and snatched my hand back, a last hiccup catching in my throat.

  “What in the world?” Glancing down, I saw a dog. At least I assumed it was a dog.

  “Good grief, what is this?” Size wise, this one made three or four of Dad’s Plott hound, Gabe.

  With his black coat, he’d been lost in the shadows, curled up on an old horse blanket beside Caleb’s cot. About all I could see of him even now were his eyes, glinting brightly at me.

  You couldn’t miss the kindness in those eyes or his desire to comfort, evident in the way he pressed close against my legs. It never occurred to me that I should fear him.

  I hugged him around his massive neck, grateful for his presence. Hey! I’ll take sympathy from whoever—or whatever—wants to give it, especially when there’re no strings attached.

  “That’s Ned’s dog,” Will said. “One of them. I’ve never seen him take much to anybody but Ned before.”

  “This dog has been hurt,” I said, like I was blaming him. The dog had one leg tightly bound with a canvas splint, made from a set of Caleb’s puttees, I’d have bet.

  “Busted leg.” Caferro leapt at the chance to talk about something other than Caleb’s two-timing ways. “He saved Ned’s life once, and I guess Ned saved his in return. The Huns did that,” he added, motioning toward the animal’s leg.

  “Oh.” I kept my arm around the dog, letting his warmth ease the chill built up around my heart. Unable to find energy to do anything more strenuous than simply sit, my mind went blank. I didn’t want to think. I had no idea of where to go from here.

  Caferro cleared his throat, and said in reminder, “Um, ma’am. Major Page said for me to take you over to the hospital.”

  I shrugged. Who cared what a dead man had said? Not I.

  “Private Mueller,” he said, sounding officious in the extreme, since they were the only two soldiers here, “you’re ordered to get a string of horses up to the front immediately. Blackhorse’s squad was under attack when the lady and I left, and that was the major’s last order.”

  Will glanced quickly at Caferro. “Last order?”

  “He’s dead,” Caferro said. “I’ll take the lady. I’ll be back to help before you leave.”

  Will shook his head and turned away, buttoning his jacket as he headed for the back tent flap. He was calling for helpers as soon as he got outside.

  “Ma’am?” Caferro said, wanting to see the last of me, I imagine, now that the wretched news had been delivered.

  I stirred. “Can’t I stay here and wait for Ned to come back? If . . . if he no longer cares for me, I still have to talk to him. I’ve come such a long way.” Further than Caferro could possibly conceive. “I’m so tired, Mr. Caferro. I think I could sleep for a week.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I can’t leave you here. My orders are to take you over to the hospital, and that’s what I’m going to do. Besides, this is no place for a lady. The Huns could drive on through here any minute. It’s not secured here.”

  After what I’d been through lately, none of that sounded a bit worse than anything else I’d experienced. I almost smiled. Almost. Still, Caferro had been more than decent to me. I didn’t want him getting into trouble on my account, so I shrugged and rose to my feet. For some strange reason the dog wouldn’t leave me alone, insisting upon tagging along at my heels.

  “Is there paper here? You will let me leave a note for Ned, won’t you? Is there something to write on?”

  “Sure. Must be here someplace.” He went over to a jerrybuilt bench standing opposite Caleb’s sleeping quarters and began pawing through the litter of tools. I was struck by nostalgia at seeing the mess. It looked my own workbench at home.

  But I couldn’t let myself think about home now. Quickly, while Caferro had his back turned, I dug the Colt out of my bag and put the pistol in the mysteriously empty holster hanging on a nail under Caleb’s shirt, arranging the folds of fabric so the gun was completely hidden. I didn’t stop to question whether in some way I was contributing to Will’s death. A choice had not been left to me. I only knew the Colt must be put where it belonged, and history must play out in the order it happened.

  “Found it!” Caferro said.

  When he turned around, I had my face under control, though not my nerves. The dog stared at the place I’d hidden the Colt as though to strip away the covering. He sensed the power—I knew he did.

  I knelt, pulling his head toward me. “What’s this dog’s name?” I asked, too brightly for the circumstances.

  “Dunno as it has one,” Caferro replied, obviously surprised. “I’ve never heard Ned call either one of them anything except ‘dog.’”

  A sign he’d thought his possession impermanent, I surmised. Why bother to name a creature you can’t keep? “Well, I guess I’ll name him then,” I said. “Where’s the pencil?”

  I bent and carefully printed a name on the canvas cast supporting the dog’s broken leg. “There,” I announced. “It’s official.” Then, before Caferro could get too curious about what I’d written, I grabbed the piece of paper and scrawled a note. When I had finished, I folded the paper and anchored it under Caleb’s shaving mug.

  “I’m ready to go,” I announced. “If I must.”

  Caferro snagged the handle of my bag, being the gentleman this time. This time, I let him.

  “Why is Will so antagonistic toward me?” I asked, as we passed from the tent.

  In one of the closer corrals, Will had a crew of men roping horses and fitting them with harness. He’d lost his hat somewhere, and his sandy blond hair gleamed under a single weak glint of sun. He didn’t look directly at us as we left, though I felt his eyes following.

  “Dunno. I’ve never seen him act like this before.” Spying an empty truck idling beside a huge pile of arms and ammunition, knapsacks, spare gas masks and medical packs, Caferro headed that way. “Come on. We can catch a ride into town with the supply truck. Save our feet for once.”

  He’d get no complaint out of me on that score. There’s nothing like exhaustion and a bad case of heartsickness to zap a person’s energy. Later, crushed between him and the driver, with my legs spraddled one on either side of the gear box, I asked again why Will had taken a dislike to me.

  “Hell, ma’am, why you asking me? I don’t know why people do what they do, or think the way they think. I guess maybe it’s because Sergeant Smith is a real hero and Will wants to be like him. Maybe whoever lets his hero down, lets Will down. Hell, ma’am, I don’t know.”

  “Well, I never let Ned down on purpose,” I said, growing a little sharp. “It wasn’t my fault.” Yet I knew the failure was mine. The thought crept in that if I were better, smarter, wiser, in my power, maybe things would be different. Different in that Caleb and I would never have been separated. He’d still love me, and not had opportunity to fall for this other woman.

  How could he? I wondered, nearly choking on the hurt. Did I mean so little to him that he could forget me at will?

  My head ached, bobbing in time with the lurching truck. Pain lashed behind my bloodshot eyes. We met a trio of Red Cross ambulances headed in the opposite direction, and as if the insignia were a catalyst of some sort, my mind abruptly kind of cranked into gear. I suppose I may be excused for its tardiness. I’m not used to being jilted or abandoned, or at least being told I’ve been jilted and abandoned. When you come right down to it, I had only Will Mueller’s word for that. And yet, wasn’t it what I’d feared?

  A question burst from my mouth,
hot with intensity. “Have you seen her, Caferro?”

  He jerked as if he’d been pinched. “Seen who?”

  “You know who. Her.”

  “Oh.” He thought about it a while before allowing that he had met her once.

  “Is she pretty?”

  He hesitated longer over this question than he had over the first. “Yes, ma’am. I guess she is.”

  The blade buried in my heart twisted. Of course she was. Caleb attracted every woman, old and young, the beautiful as well as the not so beautiful. Why would this woman be any different?

  “And young—she’s young, right? What’s her name?”

  “Ma’am, you don’t want to hear all this.” Sounding quite desperate, Caferro turned his head away. He gave the appearance to talking to the truck’s window. “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because you’re available, Corporal Caferro, and because you can tell me what I need to know. And because I do, too, want to hear. Every soldier ought to know his enemy before doing battle.”

  I heard him sigh and whisper something—a name—to the window.

  “Did Ned tell you he was in love with this woman—with Irene Prafke?” There. I said her name, only to find its syllables tasted like vomit on my tongue.

  “Shit!” Caferro yelled, going stiff.

  I hadn’t suspected my questions had bothered him that much. I began to apologize before I realized he wasn’t paying me any mind. His head was still turned to the window, only now his attention was riveted on something outside.

  “Jerry at three o’clock,” he said, tense and tight.

  The driver cursed, taking a quick look for himself. He cranked the steering wheel. The truck swerved wildly back and forth across the road as machine gun bullets slapped mud into little geysers in front of us.

  “Missed, by God,” the driver said triumphantly. They were the first words I’d heard him say.

  “He’ll come around again,” Caferro warned. He racked a shell into his rifle, poked the barrel out the window and tilted it skyward. “Step on it, buddy.”

  Crowded between the two men, I clutched the edge of the seat, wishing I could shrivel into a tiny ball. The truck’s engine growled as the driver shifted, then tramped down hard on the gas pedal.

  “We can’t outrun him,” he cautioned Caferro, taking up the zigzag pattern again.

  “Just go!” Caferro sighted on the airplane—invisible to me, though I heard the drone of a motor—as it came into view on a second pass. He pulled the trigger, and with a steady rhythm, kept firing until the rifle ran out of ammunition. The noise within the confines of the truck cab nearly ruptured my eardrums.

  I don’t know how long this went on, dodging and ducking. Far too long, in my opinion. Once, a pass of the plane brought a tattoo of bullet holes all the way across the cab roof, missing the driver and me by centimeters.

  “Everybody out,” he shouted, deciding to abandon ship. He didn’t bother stopping the truck first, simply taking a dive out the door as the plane came in again. I sped him along, giving a heave-ho that sent him sprawling. He hadn’t seen what I had—that the gunner in the plane was using him for a target.

  “Hey,” Caferro, intent on trying to bring down the plane, protested as the freewheeling truck headed off road. When I pushed him, too, anxious to make way to remove myself from the vehicle, he finally took the hint, tumbling into the ditch.

  I flung myself down beside him, hunkering into the smallest target imaginable. I wouldn’t have minded a rifle myself right now. Especially one with a good scope when I discovered Caferro to be about as bad a marksman as I’d ever seen. I found myself longing to snatch the rifle away from him and try for the plane myself.

  Fortunately the gunner in the German airplane—a Fokker Dr I, so Caferro informed me—was no better. Neither Caferro nor I were touched by what must have been a thousand bullets raining down on us.

  The driver had the slightest of grazes on his temple, showing I ought to have pushed him a smidge faster.

  The machine-gunner must have gotten his kicks by shooting hell out of the truck, which had rolled a little farther on down the road before the engine died. Soon, the French Air force came to chase the German away, though not before he managed to shatter every window, flatten a tire, and puncture the canvas top over the bed enough times for it to look like net.

  “DID NED TELL you he’s in love with Irene Prafke?” I asked again.

  After helping the driver change the tire, we’d all piled back into the truck—which, miraculously, still ran.

  But I started my questions right back where we’d left off as we continued on our way. Since bullet holes now perforated the cab, we were receiving a storm of rain and cold air. A crack in the middle of the windshield had jagged lines radiating from it. I could barely see the road. The crack, I noted, was exactly opposite where I’d been sitting. Caferro had been looking out the window at just the right time, giving us a chance to take cover.

  I nudged Caferro, waiting for an answer. “Did he?”

  “ ‘Course not,” Caferro said. “A man doesn’t go around telling other men his private business.”

  “I didn’t think so. Not unless he’s changed a whole lot since he’s been in this war.” I tried to put myself in his place. “He must be lonely and wondering if he’ll ever see home again. He’s probably reaching for any comfort he can find. But I’m here now. I’m his girl, and I’m not giving up on him. Not unless he tells me, face to face, that he doesn’t want me anymore.”

  “Here, here,” said the truck driver. Blood oozed from the cut on his temple, leaving a red track like cooling lava down his cheek. “Don’t you let that other woman grab your man without fighting back. You’re not half bad your own self.”

  Caferro grinned. “That’s right, ma’am. You ain’t. One thing’s for sure...you ain’t a screamer.”

  Isn’t it odd how almost getting killed can win you friends and make nearly everything seem better? Almost being the operative word, mind you. But our brush with wicked death had given me back my courage and my determination. I was close now. Somehow or another, Caleb and I would meet soon.

  I grinned back at my very own set of champions.

  CHAPTER 22

  Caleb slept heavily, his head resting on crossed forearms, which in turn rested on a plank table. Every fourth or fifth breath ended in a muffled snore. Not that this disturbed him, but the bartender, up early airing last night’s tobacco smoke and wine fumes from the bistro, jumped each time.

  The news, spread by word of mouth, was not encouraging this morning. Last night, ten miles or so to the east, the Boche had made a push on the American lines. The push was repelled. The Americans stood firm and had captured more territory of their own, but today, further news warned of a massive enemy force gathering for another attack.

  Georges, the bartender, had already stored most of the glassware in barrels of sawdust under the counter for safekeeping. The wine bottles had been trundled down to the cellar. This ritual didn’t take a lot of time, as he’d done it several times before and had an established routine. Only today, as soon as he got rid of this one pesky American soldier, he planned to close shop and go with his family out of town. Just in case.

  Georges’ long experience as a barkeep led him to suppose the American would want coffee as soon as he awakened. Unless he got sick first thing. Accordingly, Georges poured water into a small pot and put it over the fire. When it boiled, he threw a handful of ersatz coffee in to steep.

  He was not especially quiet in his preparations. The one thing he didn’t do was approach Caleb directly. No, not he. Not so long as the very large dog accompanying the American watched his every move from under its fall of hair. Georges didn’t trust the slight thump of the tail which, in any other dog, he would have construed as a friendly overture. This animal was simply too big to let Georges be comfortable.

  Sooner or later, of course, every man must decide his own destiny. Along toward eight o’clock, when the so
und of guns indicated the battle had joined, Georges decided his. He poured the coffee he’d made into a large pottery cup and headed over to Caleb’s table. The dog rose to sit on its haunches.

  “Good dog,” Georges murmured, wishing he had a bone to offer the animal, then said more loudly, “Monsieur...monsieur!” He shook Caleb by the shoulder.

  Caleb’s head lolled off his arms and thunked onto the wine-spotted table. He moaned and opened one eye. “Uh?” he grunted.

  “Coffee,” Georges said, waving the cup for Caleb to catch the aroma.

  In time Caleb’s other eye opened. Put together, both eyes were a Christmassy blend of bright green, red and white.

  “Whutimeisit?” he asked, blinking blearily. He snatched the coffee in both shaking hands and took a long swallow. “Merci.”

  Georges muttered a response to the merci part, and ignored the rest, since he hadn’t understood it anyhow. The lack of understanding didn’t bother him. He burst into an animated speech of which Caleb, judging by his blank expression, grasped no more than one word in twenty.

  His shooing motions were something anyone could decipher— including Caleb’s doggy pal.

  “Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on your way out,” Caleb muttered, the sentiment summing up the direction of his life of late.

  He squinted against the weak sunlight and leaned against the bistro’s dressed-stone outer wall for support. Gradually, the world stopped spinning—quite so fast. His stomach settled in for the long haul, not nauseous exactly, just kind of raw. It would get better. What he needed was a drink of water, three or four aspirin and some icy cold Gatorade to bring his electrolytes up. Fat chance. He wouldn’t go over to the field hospital on a bet, not even to beg for an aspirin

  He moved to the brick half-wall that separated the bistro from the butcher shop next door and sat, aching head cupped in his hands. He was unsure whether the pounding he heard came from cannon or from his pulsing brain.

  How in God’s name had he managed to get himself in this condition? Well, easy enough, he thought with self-deprecating humor. Spend enough money to keep the wine flowing, then bend your elbow and pour as much down your gullet as would fit—or all that you could keep down. Worked every time.