South of Shiloh

by Chuck Logan

  His belt. His rifle.

  She held the Enfield in her hands and was wearing gloves, like LaSalle and Marcy, and she had a smear of black powder on her chin as she spit away the paper cartridge, yanked the rammer, and jammed it down the barrel.

  She returned the ramrod, dug a cap from the pouch on her belt, stuck on the cone, and pulled the hammer back. Marcy cocked the pistol, loading another chamber. Ellie leveled the rifle at Mitch.

  Another rattle of fire beyond the trees. Not as loud. Infantry.

  Mitch swallowed and stared at what had been inside Jimmy Beal’s skull and was now splattered on the leaves like something you find in the woods during deer season. Dwayne, eyes wide open, orange boots splayed out; and Marcy, not nervous or anything.

  A sinking thought. Not so many moving parts. So this is how a pro does it.

  He watched Marcy walk quickly to Ellie and stuff the pistol in the holster on her belt. Ellie never moved the Enfield off his chest.

  Marcy’s face looked terrible, bruises and swelling, but her eyes were still those witch-at-the-crossroads eyes.

  “I told you not to do it and you didn’t listen. Him either.” She jerked her head contemptuously at Dwayne’s body.

  “That’s all, Marcy. I got this. Go on,” Ellie said in an icy voice, her eyes wild in her long Kirby face, like some red fury come down from the Highlands.

  Marcy held up her hand, indicating her wristwatch.

  Ellie nodded. Then Marcy just turned and walked back down the trail. Her footsteps faded off to nothing and there was only the sound of Mitch’s breathing.

  “What’s going on?” he pleaded, dry-mouthed, studying the familiar rifle pointed at his chest.

  Nothing. He was looking in dead, cold eyes.

  “Jesus, Ellie. I’m your husband! LaSalle said…”

  She cut him off. “You should have thought about that before you went off digging up other people’s battlefields.” She steadied the Enfield against her hip with her right hand and reached to withdraw the pistol with the other, having a little difficulty with the holster flap, so the Enfield jerked sideways and Mitch saw a tiny brass twinkle as the cap fell off.

  Didn’t crimp it down.

  Suddenly spit came. Mitch’s voice returned. A flicker of the old smile. “Set me up you two. Got it all figured out, huh?”

  Fuck you, said her eyes, past talking now.

  Raging, Mitch yelled and lunged forward.

  Ellie pulled the trigger and would have shot him right in the chest, but the hammer fell on the naked cone. Click. Nothing. She yanked at the pistol but Mitch was on her, clawing at her hand, and the Colt discharged into the trees.

  He swung his elbow through the white smoke at her goddamn Kirby chin. Stunned, Ellie staggered, eyes fluttering; then rebounded, wiry as a wildcat, and they grappled for the pistol. Teeth bared, eyes inches apart, they wrestled in the mud and leaves, the Enfield trapped between them. Then he rolled and mounted her and forced the Colt’s muzzle down toward her face. Their breath mingled and rasped into one hysterical sob in the greasy smoke and spittle and Mitch was bearing down, thinking I’m gonna stick this right in your fuckin’ mouth. Rearrange that goddamn jaw.

  Ellie’s eyes bulged, pushing back with all her might, with both hands. Then she darted her head forward and clamped her teeth on the knuckle of his trigger finger.

  Mitch hissed in pain, the Colt went off, and he blinked, coughing, blind from more smoke. The pistol pin wheeled away from his hand and splashed muzzle down in a muddy rut. Ellie squirmed, got her feet under her, surged up. Had the rifle now. Raised it to club him. Mitch tore it from her hands and gripped the leather belt around her waist to hold her as he scrambled up. The buckle came loose, the belt parted, and she broke free.

  Shit.

  Ellie was a gray flicker, dashing through the trees, and Mitch started after her, fingering a cap from the pouch on the belt and fitting it expertly on the nipple. Pregnant my ass!

  “I GOT YOU NOW YOU LYIN’ MURDERING BITCH,” he yelled.

  63

  THEY WERE THREADING THROUGH A GROVE OF black gum and oak that ran aslant of the picnic area when they spied the cream-colored Caddy in the parking lot.

  “Dwayne’s car,” Beeman said as the cannons went off on Hurlbut Field. They exchanged sweaty glances. More tense now, they padded toward the broad green field beyond the fringe of trees.

  Beeman crouched against an oak and peered across the clearing. “There’s the cannon,” he said. Rane nodded, scanning the open space.

  A shot popped in the trees across the clearing.

  “Pistol. Black powder, by the sound. Okay.” Beeman readied himself, wiping a sweat-slick palm along the stock of the Sharps.

  Rane crouched, eyeing the rifle, opening and closing the fingers of his right hand. “If it comes down to black powder, remember, you got the better machine. You can load that thing on the move three times to his one.”

  Beeman nodded, blinking sweat.

  Rane said, “We work up and around the north end. Keep inside the trees. You stay to my right, let me…” Rane froze in place. His right hand swept up, signaling silence.

  “What is it?” Beeman whispered.

  Rane squinted, angled his head, and then pointed. “Something in the trees across the field.”

  “What?” Beeman craned his neck. “Shit.” He gripped the Sharps, bared his teeth.

  “See that orange? Like shoes? Somebody down. Maybe two of them. Dwayne Leets wears those…”

  They locked eyes. “Orange boots,” Beeman said and then he shook his head. “We gotta go check it out.”

  “Stop thinking like a cop,” Rane said emphatically, “not smart to cross that open ground, man. We have to work around.”

  A rattle of muskets beyond the trees put them more on edge.

  “Can’t do that, John,” Beeman shook his head. “No time. They might need help. There’s an ambulance up by the History Center at the landing. I can call it in.” He lurched to his feet and stepped from the cover of the trees.

  “Shit.” Reluctantly, Rane rose, tossed the toy Enfield aside, and followed. Now that it was here he found he didn’t really want it. But the way it worked he couldn’t let Beeman go alone.

  They were halfway to the trees when they heard a hoarse shout. Another muffled shot.

  They ducked and dashed across the field. Pow. Another shot. Rane read the heave of rolling ground. They were leaving a section of hummocks that offered cover, on open ground now. The cannon stood a hundred yards off to the right, a solitary marker.

  Panting in the shadow of the trees, they saw the two bodies sprawled on a trail. “That’s Dwayne face up, other one looks like Jimmy Beal. Check ’em,” Beeman said, swinging the Sharps, covering the end of the field.

  Rane moved to the two bodies, careful of the red spatter, quickly felt for a pulse in the throats, and said, “They’re gone.” He started to pick up the 9-mm Glock next to Beal’s stiff hand.

  “Don’t touch nothing,” Beeman barked, then he muttered, narrowing his eyes, “Shit.” He tore open the buttons of his gray jacket and reached for the radio attached to his belt. Before he could unclip it, a single shot boomed and echoed up the field. Louder than the other shots.

  “Rifle. Muzzleloader,” Rane said, gritting his teeth and bracing for the whiz of an incoming round.

  Beeman crouched, swinging the Sharps, searching for a target. “Gotta go up there,” he muttered. His whole body shuddered as he gathered himself, pushed to his feet, left cover, and started straight up the field.

  CAN’T OUTRUN HER. NEVER HAPPEN. MITCH STUMBLED, HURDLING a log. He had to turn her, get her out in the open. He made a snap decision, careened his shoulder against a black gum, raised the rifle, led the gray blur through the trees, and fired at a rock outcropping ahead and to her left. The rifle heaved against his shoulder and Ellie disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Mitch immediately was on his feet, running, reaching for another cartridge. Yes. Having the rifle in his
hands was a source of strength.

  A moment later, as he socked the charge home and returned the ramrod, he saw the ploy had worked. She’d changed direction when the round splattered off the rock and now was running with her hands waving around her head like she was shooing bees. Running to the right, toward the field.

  Come to Daddy, darling. That’s what I want. He slapped a cap on the nipple and ran for the edge of the trees. We’ll go down together. You first.

  “THERE’S COVER TO THE RIGHT,” RANE CALLED, RACING AFTER Beeman. “Go right.”

  Beeman ignored him and continued to dash toward the cannon and then, oh shit.

  “Beeman,” Rane yelled, seeing Ellender Kirby sprint from the edge of the woods in gray sweats. White dots for hands? She slid, stumbled, fell, and rolled over on the slick grass. “Two o’clock, coming out of the trees! You gotta stop. Get in position. Get ready!”

  Beeman changed direction and pumped his arms and legs, the rifle throwing off his balance. The Kirby woman had bounced back to her feet and was opening her stride.

  Good. Rane sprinting himself now, one hand steadying the swinging camera bag. She was running on the broken ground. Had to shift her gait for footing. The zigzag would throw off a shooter. Good.

  The shooter? Rane’s eyes jerked at the blur of foliage. Where are you? “Get down, Miss Kirby,” Beeman yelled, waving his arms to get her attention.

  She saw him and started to skid to a stop.

  “Keep running, move,” Rane screamed.

  “Stop. Get down,” Beeman screamed, bearing down on her.

  Rane was close enough to see the confusion on her face as she danced uncertainly from foot to foot, seeing Beeman coming straight at her, Rane not far behind. She swung her head back toward the trees.

  Beeman slung the rifle on his shoulder and put out his arms to wrap her.

  “No,” Rane screamed as he saw the blur of motion in the trees, sunlight marking a face and a twinkle of steel. Now Beeman stretched out to tackle her, and as they hit the ground and rolled to a stop, Rane saw the puff of smoke and heard the boom.

  Beeman sprawled over, covering her body with his own. Then the impact spun him.

  “Enough of this shit,” Rane shouted, cranking all-out the last few steps, vaulting over the two prone figures and peeling off the camera bag as he hit the ground. He rolled, turned, and grabbed the Sharps that had been flung from Beeman’s shoulder, checked the muzzle. Clear. The hammer lock. Still capped. His eyes flashed on Beeman. The cop’s back was a rip of gray cloth, blood, and mangled flesh. But his eyes were alert with pain and he was functioning, checking the woman for wounds. “She’s okay,” he gasped. Rane looked once into Ellender Kirby’s dazed eyes, then rolled over again, raised the Sharps, and fired immediately just behind the drift of smoke up the field. A second later he was on one knee, digging another round from his pocket, wracking open the lever, inserting it, capping the nipple. “Get down. Make yourself small. I’ll draw fire,” Rane yelled over his shoulder, then he snapped another shot.

  “GODDAMN,” MITCH GIGGLED, “IT’S A TWOFER.” SEEING, NO SHIT, that it was Kenny Beeman running across the field dressed in gray. Another guy behind him in blue. Don’t matter. We’ll all go down together, like it says in the song.

  Ain’t gonna miss you this time.

  He knelt, grabbed a sturdy sapling with his left hand, extended his thumb as a shooting rest, and flipped the sights up for two hundred yards. For a long moment, he estimated the point of intersection between Beeman and Ellie, made a slight allowance for shooting downhill, and waited until Beeman and Ellie collided and rolled on the ground. When they lay still, he squeezed the trigger.

  They disappeared in a cloud of smoke as he swiftly reloaded and primed the Enfield. For speed, he stuck the rammer in the ground, tulip up; scooped out three cartridges and placed them close to hand. Then he saw through a film of smoke that Beeman and Ellie were down in a tangle.

  But the other guy? Bang!

  A bullet clipped branches two feet above his head with a sickening whine. Shit. Mitch instinctively ducked as a sprinkle of punky wood bits fell on his sleeve. Shit.

  He squinted, still ducking his head, and now the guy was up on one knee and—bang—a second shot sizzled right over Mitch’s head.

  For a long second Mitch was stunned by the spectacle of the man rising to his feet and dashing up the slope toward him. Lookit you: blue jacket and cap and sky-blue trousers with a rifle held out in front of your chest. Okay then…

  He settled the sights on the brass twinkle in the middle of the blue chest and held his breath as the running figure approached the black cannon. Took a tiny space of time to steady down and reflect that the original rifle in his hands had seen this picture before.

  Except suddenly the blue apparition swept up his rifle, set his feet, and fired again, and this time the round tore a white gash into the sapling he was using as a gun rest, just four inches above his head. A spray of wet sap and raw white splinters slapped his crusted cheek stiff as needles.

  Mitch shivered as it dawned on him: He’s shooting at me. And he’s still coming, levering the breechloader on the run, and so let’s finish this up. First this nut, then go back for Ellie. He leaned back to the sights and settled down but, damn, like waves of shock were still rippling off the bullet that passed close to his face, putting bends in the air, and it was a mighty effort to get his racing heart under control.

  Then he settled down and shot the running fool in the chest.

  RANE THREW HIMSELF UP THE HILL STRAIGHT AT THE BULLET coming from the white puff of smoke. He canted his right shoulder back, wrenching his torso sideways as he reached into his pocket for another round, and then the thing he had wondered about for all these years jumped out and found him and ripped a burning trough across his chest and shoulder, and a splatter of brass eagle tore up his chin and cheek and punched a crimson triangle into his right eye. He sagged, stumbled on, and fell against the hot black iron cannon wheel. Not pain so much as a great slowness.

  His right eye was plugged with red, but he could see him now: a fuzzy, blood-veiled figure, kneeling in the trees maybe a hundred fifty yards, the long rifle held at a slant in a flurry of reloading. Not an image in a viewfinder.

  Real this time.

  His body continued to function with some difficulty, because the pulley system in his right shoulder was pretty much kaput and he had to keep his elbow tucked in tight to his side to lift his right hand. Best he could, he loaded the bullet and wracked the lever shut. Fumbled up the percussion cap. Saw blood trickle out under his cuff, down the crease of his thumb.

  He cocked the Sharps, pushed off the cannon, and walked on, lead-footed, toward the trees, blinking blood from his right eye, trigger finger numb in his right hand. Methodically, he put the rifle stock to his shoulder, found the trigger. No magic left in his right eye. Little feeling in his right hand. The lethal Sharps clumsy as a two-by-four. Hopelessly awkward and muddling ordinary and you gotta keep walking forward and just club the fucker down.

  Now he could make out the surprise on the man’s dirty face. Same face from the picture.

  So Rane stopped and took a stance and with every ounce of control and craft left to him he steadied the rifle and squinted through a tiny window in the red, right into Mitchell Lee Nickel’s wide eyes. He was raising the Enfield up there, aiming; so Rane held a little low and pressed the trigger at a mere hundred yards and knocked Mitchell Lee loose from his life with a sloppy but effective shot in the heart.

  64

  RANE STOOD IN PLACE, LEANING ON THE RIFLE. With his good left eye, he watched Beeman hunkered down, one hand on the woman’s shoulder, talking, heads close. She huddled, knees drawn up, pillowing her head on her elbows. The day rushed in Rane’s ears; locomotives of pain, shock, and adrenaline. Still, he noticed the white gloves had disappeared. Then Beeman pushed to his feet with difficulty and trudged up the hill, carrying the haversack that contained the Nikon.

  �
�You look like shit,” Rane said when the ragged Southern cop stopped next to him, left arm hanging limp, blood all down the left side of his back, more dribbling on his chin. “She okay?” Rane asked.

  “Real shook. Was fighting for her life up there.”

  They staggered up the hill and stood over Mitchell Lee’s gray-clad body that was torn and dirty and bearded. Sprawled on his back, both hands drawn up to his bloody chest, fingers arched like claws; he could have been a Confederate corpse photographed by Matthew Brady in a muddy trench at Petersburg.

  Beeman turned and called out, “He ain’t going to bother you no more, Miss Kirby.” He sagged with the effort, fought for balance. Rane steadied him. Ellender Kirby raised her head, nodded, slumped back down on her elbows.

  “What’d she say?” Rane asked finally, nodding toward the Kirby woman, who now had recovered enough to be talking on her cell phone.

  “Says he snatched her this morning.”

  “What about the black guy nobody could get past?”

  “Went to town. She was alone.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Beeman toed the body. “Looks like he was gonna settle up with everybody right here.”

  “With a muzzleloader?”

  Beeman grimaced. “She says he had a pistol. Saw him shoot those two then he turned it on her. They struggled and she got away…” After a moment, Beeman said with some difficulty breathing, “So how’s it gonna be, John?”

  Rane swept his good eye along the field. Wondered, what they said down there? Not my business. Let it go. You just have to live through this thing. You don’t have to own it. So he turned, spit a bloody wad of saliva, and smiled at Beeman. “What about her? What’d she see?”

  “She’s in shock, was out of it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well?” Beeman asked.

  Rane weighed it briefly, then said, “Looks like you got him. Hell of a shot, considering.”