Lamb to the Slaughter

by Tony Masero

  ‘Get her along now, Sergeant,’ Meriwether had a warning tone in his voice.

  ‘Yes, sir, right away, sir.’

  ‘When you’re done, get back here. We have guard duty rosters to go through.’

  Qualms hurried her along the corridor and Meriwether watched them for a moment before going back into his office.

  ‘He wants you for himself,’ whispered Qualms. ‘I seen that look in his eye.’ The sergeant wrinkled up his face, ‘Might be, we’ll have to share you ’tween the two of us,’ he started to laugh then, a low wheezing laugh. ‘How’d you like that Mistress Slaughter-high-and-mighty-Monette?’

  Chapter Five

  The one thing Kirby never expected them to do was to act in concert.

  He considered that these were a pair of selfish, self-seeking individuals focused on little more than their own welfare. That’s why they caught him unawares when they made their play.

  The storm had slowed them down on their journey to Fort Leavenworth and Kirby’s planned intention of arriving early had been postponed. It had been a hard ride and he decided to hold up and give the ponies a much-needed rest before going on through the final stage. The fort was a few miles distant yet and he wanted the ponies to arrive still walking.

  In the pre-dawn light he could see the trail behind was clear and it appeared to Kirby that the following band of Bart’s men had been as much delayed by the fall of torrential rain, swamped ground and overflowing streams as they had.

  He was off-loading his damp saddle to ease the pinto’s back a spell when they made their move.

  Clinton and Bart were still manacled together at the wrist and as Kirby turned, the saddle in both hands they ran at him. With chained arms spread wide they held the manacle links apart and caught Kirby clean under the chin. He gurgled a choking gasp and fell over backwards, thudding to the ground and laying on his back with the heavy saddle and all its attachments resting on his chest. Bart raised his boot and was about to bring down the heel on Kirby’s head when the Pinkerton man heaved up the saddle and managed to bring it between him and the descending boot heel.

  Bart’s foot slid off the curved seat of the wet saddle and he staggered, losing his balance and hopping on one foot. Clinton, who was laughing gleefully at their success, suddenly felt himself being dragged after his cousin and his face dropped accordingly.

  They all fell together in a confused bundle on the sodden ground. Kirby still held under the saddle and the two cousins, one taking a cartwheeling fall over and the other being pulled down after him.

  Clinton recovered first and scurried to pull Bart to his feet.

  ‘Come on you stupid asshole, get up!’ he cried desperately.

  He was straddling spread-legged over the fallen Kirby and dragging at his cousin’s arm, when Kirby brought his foot up hard. The boot caught Clinton in the soft cleft between his thighs and although it took a moment, the sickening thud gradually translated itself into a disabling moan of complaint. Clinton folded over at the waist, grabbing his crotch with his free hand and squealing like an un-oiled gate.

  Tossing the saddle aside, Kirby rolled on his side and scissor-kicked at Bart’s legs as the renegade lumbered to his feet, one foot taking him behind the knee and the other above. Bart was a stocky fellow and the blow did not drop him but it did cause him some pain, namely because Kirby’s spur dug into his thigh.

  Bart howled obscenities as the sharp star dug in and dragging the hobbling Clinton with him, he bent down and grasped at the Henry rifle in the scabbard on Kirby’s saddle.

  Now, that Henry Repeating Rifle was a new weapon that Kirby had just invested in. And it must be said that although he was most pleased with the gun’s capacity of a sixteen shot magazine he had found the much vaunted thousand-yard claim for killing range woefully inaccurate, he had discovered that with a 26-28 grain black powder bullet the rifle was good for up to two hundred yards and no more.

  Despite these shortcomings he favored the extended capacity of the weapon and when Bart’s grasping hand fixed on it and dragged the gun free, Kirby was doubly pissed. Not only had these fools attempted escape but also now they were laying hands on his brand new and much prized rifle. A thing no man should do. He rolled up onto one knee, pulling out the cross-draw as he came.

  What happened next, happened in a split second. In the blink of an eye Kirby fired twice. His first shot hit Bart straight in the heart, it hit the renegade just to the left of his sternum and walked straight though to the pump killing him instantly. As he fell, his linked arm drew the hobbling Clinton after him and the unsuspecting gunman took Kirby’s second shot in the back where it parted his cervical vertebrae and dropped him like a stone to lay across his cousin.

  As he smoke cleared, Kirby climbed to his feet and looked down at the two dead men.

  ‘Shucks! Sorry about that Clinton,’ he murmured, slipping the smoking Colt back in the holster. ‘Guess it was meant to be after all.’ He leaned down and unlocked the manacles, flipping the bodies over and making sure both men were quite dead. Then he picked up his saddle and spat a curse as he saw that Bart’s sliding spur had gouged a splintered line across the leather sides and over the wooden seat of the McClellan.

  ‘Damn you, Bart McCoy,’ he said, glancing over at the resting renegade. ‘I liked that saddle, now I’m going to have ride with a runnel up my ass every time I mount up.’

  He looked over at Bart’s pony and the saddle still on the beast’s back but it was a poor piece of work by comparison and he decided against a swop. Instead he draped the two bodies over each of their horses and taking out his knife, squatted down to chamfer down the offending scrape on his saddle.

  Finally, satisfied with his woodwork, Kirby lay on the saddle again and mounted up. He had tied off the dead men’s ponies together, the rein from one looped to the tail of the other and was about to take up the lead rein when a warm humming crack of sound sounded close to his ear. It was followed by the boom of a sniper rifle that told him plainly that he was under fire.

  He saw them then. The forty men following, lit up by the advancing rays of the rising sun against the dark storm clouds that were still on the horizon. They were racing towards him and just under a mile away, all of them firing wildly. Most of their bullets were falling short and fired from exuberance rather than any real hope of hitting the target but Kirby did not hesitate, he dropped the lead rein and dug in his heels.

  The pinto did what it did best and leapt to the challenge, rearing up and taking off with a good turn of speed. Kirby whooped and slapped at the pony’s haunches with his hat, then laying low he raced off across the open plain in front.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that some of the men had pulled up at the standing ponies and were identifying the draped bodies with loud shouts of anger. The rest came on though, bounding after Kirby in a determined mass.

  The sound of their hoof beats rumbled across the plain like coming thunder and it encouraged both Kirby and the pinto to stretch out further.

  The pinto was a good pony, strong and nimble and yet it had had a hard night of it. Plowing through the storm at a forced pace had tired the beast and soon Kirby realized the animal was fading. Spume flecked it neck and he could feel the panting ribs between his knees. Kirby was no savage Apache and he could not bring himself to ride the trusty animal until its heart burst, as the Indians would have done.

  He circled the pony, bringing it to a halt and as he had trained it, he brought it to lie down on its side as he dragged the Henry free. Taking up position behind the saddle, he leveled the rifle guessing that these men were probably still using older single shot rifles and not aware of the repeating possibilities of the new gun.

  Kirby waited. He knew that by the time they were in killing range it would be too late; their speed would take them into overrunning him. His fate was marked plain but he was determined to take as many of them as he could lever bullets into the firing chamber.

  He commenced with the central ri
der, hoping to blunt the charge at its head. The Henry bucked in his hand and he saw it was the pony that took the shot, the beast falling as if its legs had been pulled from under it and catapulting the rider high over its head and into a head-slamming fall. Kirby worked another bullet under the pin and fired again, this shot lifted his target rider into a spinning whirl that tossed him from his racing horse.

  They were close now, he could see the grimacing faces and all of them were firing their pistols as they came upon him. There was no way Kirby could miss at this range. Climbing to one knee, with nothing to lose he fired from the waist, cranking and firing continually, loosing off a series of shots that tumbled three riders in a flurry of legs and torn sods of wet earth.

  They were there right over him when Kirby heard the bugle call. It rose high and clear and turned the heads of the riders in the direction of a company of Union cavalry charging towards them. They made a brave sight, an officer leading with his saber drawn and the company flag fluttering behind. The bugle rang out the charge again and the bandits fled, they turned and ran, picking up their fallen comrades as they went.

  Kirby stood up, a grin of pleasure on his face and he raised the Henry triumphantly above his head in recognition as the patrol drew level.

  The officer, a young lieutenant, smiled back at Kirby, ‘Just in time I think,’ he said, with a quick salute. Then he turned to his sergeant, ‘See them off, ten men only. Don’t dally though, sergeant. Get back here as quickly as possible.’

  With a salute the sergeant obeyed and detailing off ten men took off after the fast vanishing survivors.

  ‘Would you be a Mister Kirby Langstrom?’ asked the lieutenant, dismounting and pulling off his gloves.

  ‘I would, Lieutenant. And mighty glad I am to see you.’

  ‘The Pinkerton agent?’

  ‘Indeed,’

  ‘The very man then,’ said the soldier and they shook hands. ‘We’ve had an urgent communication from headquarters with orders to find you and bring you in. It appears there’s an emergency of some kind and you’re to leave off here as apparently you’re needed poste haste for a priority mission.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Insubordination!’ bellowed Captain Meriwether to the massed prisoners. ‘Insubordination will not be countenanced. I want you all to understand that.’

  They stood in the open courtyard behind the prison at Castle Thunder. It was the place for roll call and punishment and a whipping tree stood at the center, a limp Negro man hanging there, his back raw and bloody. But it was not he whom the prisoners had their eyes fixed on, it was the three men who were being prepared at Meriwether’s feet. As his dog, Brutus, growled impatiently and offered an occasional aggressive bark at the prisoners, Meriwether continued.

  ‘I myself have been a prisoner of war,’ he explained. ‘So I know what you all think. I have been there and thought as you do. I know what to expect so do not think you can out-fox me, for I have you tabbed with good clarity, each and every one of you.’

  They stood ranked in their hundreds, hungry and emaciated many sick with dysentery and small pox. Uncared for and treated with cruelty, the prisoners watched with careful eyes unwilling to look away lest one of the guards notice and drag them out for equal punishment.

  ‘Shirts off!’ he ordered the three men due for punishment. Reluctantly, the three obeyed, they were all white men and common thieves imprisoned for stealing rations from an army supply wagon.

  ‘These fellows thought to do as they will,’ sneered Meriwether. ‘Without one moment of consideration for the brave men whose food they took from their mouths. How lowly can a person become? Whilst his fellow citizens fight for his freedoms to then steal from them,’ he gave the prisoners a disdainful look. ‘Bend them over and lash their hands behind their knees,’ he ordered and Sergeant Qualms hurried to obey, a greasy grin of anticipation on his squat face.

  Meriwether strode up and down the ranks of inmates, Brutus following at his heels, the black dog swinging its huge head from side to side with red eyes glowering at the lines of marshaled prisoners.

  ‘So not content with this form of treason we now find these men are impartial to our disciplines. They speak out of turn to those above them as if they have some rights in their affairs. You all will see and no doubt approve of their punishment in such circumstances.’ He turned on his heel and stood up ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Sit them down, Sergeant. Let them rest their scrawny tails on the ground.’

  The three prisoners were pushed down and they sat in a row, their bowed backs forced into a curve by the lashed wrists under their thighs. Each man hung his head between his knees; unable to lift them and see Qualms slide a long leather strap from a covering sack. The strap was thick, a three-foot-long solid two-inch square of hard leather and it hung from a flexing loop to a bound handle.

  ‘Twenty-five strokes for each man, Sergeant,’ ordered Meriwether. ‘And lay it on,’ he added venomously.

  Belle watched from the center of the female contingent as a slow smile spread across Qualms face. He stretched out the long strap and let it trickle across the ground before cracking it in the air behind the squatting prisoners. Each man jumped and shuddered expecting to be the recipient of the blow. One of the watching guards gave a raucous laugh at the show of fear.

  Their lack of feeling disgusted Belle but she knew after almost three weeks in the prison that these men were incapable of any humanity. Each man was chosen with an inability for compassion, these were dead souls that guarded the place and they were allowed freedom to carry out their insanities without restraint. It was a mad house governed by fear.

  Already Belle was filthy, there was no water for washing and the lack of food left her with a grumbling stomach every day. Her promised clothing had never arrived and she feared she would never see it now. Around her stood the other cowed females, some of them common prostitutes and murderers, others imprisoned for crimes of a political nature. Some, a few she had met, were women of character and courage but in the main they were lowly creatures beaten into submission by the cruel system.

  Huddled and bedded down in bare rooms where they lay crammed together like fish in a tin, it was a nightly raid by some of the guards that Belle feared the most. They would carry off a few women, usually the youngest and most vulnerable to satisfy themselves with before returning the beaten and bruised creatures the next day.

  Belle could not understand why she had been left alone. With a face and body that could turn all male heads it was surprising, but so far she had been left to her own devices and not even Sergeant Qualms had carried out his threat to assault her.

  As Qualms, his face gleaming with excited sweat lashed out at the screaming prisoners, Belle glanced across at the immobile figure of Captain Meriwether. She saw he was looking directly at her. His pale eyes appearing baleful as he fixed his stare on her and her heart sunk as she read his intentions. That look told her why she was being left alone.

  The black prisoners were kept in the worst conditions and brutalized far more readily than any of the other inmates but in the perverse nature of their psychopathic caretakers it was one of theirs that was treasured by the guards. He was a young Negro boy of around eight years old, who was kept as a favored pet by the rough men. Dressed in a miniature Confederate drummer boy’s outfit, the boy who was called Sebastian was allowed the freedom of the prison. He would dance and sing for the guards and he kept a capuchin monkey, a creature once owned by a sailor who had made a brief appearance at the prison before being carried off by disease and this beast was always on Sebastian’s shoulder held there by a long leash.

  The little boy stood now on the fringes, to one side amongst the guards and watched the punishment, wincing as each blow smacked across a naked back. The monkey gibbered and ran across the child’s nappy head and shoulders, squeaking in sensed distress, a fact that proved to Belle that the ape had more sensibility than the cold indifference of the watching guards around it.<
br />
  As she had feared, once the awful punishment was over and the bloody sufferers dragged away, word was given to Belle that she was to appear before Meriwether. As the other disconsolate inmates were filed off back to their bare rooms, Belle was taken to Meriwether’s dingy and chill office.

  ‘Leave us alone,’ Meriwether ordered the accompanying guard as Belle was brought before his desk. Once the guard had gone and the door closed, Meriwether steepled his fingers and gazed at Belle over them. ‘I have been making enquiries,’ he said.

  She met his empty stare with the glare of her own fascinating blue eyes, lowering the lids and trying to ascertain what he wanted. ‘Indeed?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said coldly. ‘It seems you are not adverse to the company of many of our young officers in more than just your capacity as intelligence gatherer.’

  Belle nodded. ‘It is true, I am a young woman who enjoys stimulating company.’

  He looked away from her unsure of how to go on, his lips pursing silently as if it were difficult for him to speak.

  ‘What is it you want with me?’ Belle asked.

  Meriwether sniffed, ‘A little conversation, is all, my dear. Just that, will you take a seat?’

  She demurred and took the offered chair. Meriwether did not get up to offer her the chair he just indicated it with a finger. As she sat, Belle attempted to straighten her dirty dress and pull her hair into some kind of order.

  The dog growled at her from beneath the desk.

  ‘Be quiet, Brutus!’ snapped Meriwether and the dog rumbled a moment or two and then was silent. ‘You prefer cleanliness and order I see,’ said Meriwether watching her attempts at some form of toilette.

  ‘It is very hard here to maintain one’s dignity,’ she answered coolly.