The Riflemen

by Tony Masero

  “What you doing there, Ezra?” one of the guards called. “Leave that prisoner alone, we’re not to touch him until the Commander gets here. You know that.”

  Guardeen slid his blade across the last of the bonds and sawed his way through. With a sigh, Thaddeus tumbled forwards and slumped to all fours on the ground.

  “What’s that?” cried the guard. “Ezra, dammit! You can’t do him yourself, I done told you....”

  Guardeen stepped out from behind the cross, his Sharps leveled at the two guards. “Shut your mouth, mister. Unless you want a belly full of lead.”

  The guard swore. “You the fellow that did for that patrol of ours? Why, we all thought you was long gone.”

  “Still here, Reb. Now, sit still and do as I say and you might just get out of this alive.”

  “What you going to do?” the older guard said. “That old Sharps there has a one shot chamber. You might get one of us but the rest of the barracks will be on to you at the sound of it.”

  “Won’t matter much to you though, will it?” snapped Guardeen. “With your head spread all over that gate behind you.” As he spoke, he moved toward them. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that Thaddeus was still on all fours but trying desperately to crawl over to him. “You with me, Thaddeus?” Guardeen asked.

  “I’m a-coming, Mister Nick,” Thaddeus husked dimly. “I’m a-coming,”

  “You know this darkie?” asked the fat guard as Guardeen stepped up close to them.

  “Get up of your ass,” snarled Guardeen. “Open the port door in the gateway. You there, old fella, you go get Thaddeus on his feet. Do it now or by God you’re both dead men.”

  The old guard half rose to his feet, a look of disgust on his face, “I’m not about to help no damned nig–”

  In the blink of an eye, Guardeen moved the Sharps to his left hand, drew his pistol and swung the barrel hard alongside the old guard’s head, connecting with the bone of the temple and spinning the corncob pipe from the man’s mouth. “I’m not messing with you, old man, I don’t have the time. Do as I say or suffer worse than that.”

  But the old guard was a hardened veteran and he laughed indifferently as he put a finger up to touch the head wound tenderly, “You think that’s going do it? Heck! You ain’t fooling anybody, son. You’re not about to make any noise at all.”

  Guardeen stepped up close to him and pressed the pistol barrel deep into the softness of his pudgy stomach. Their eyes met momentarily and the guard suddenly recognized the blank coldness he saw there; he blinked and opened his mouth to say something but it was too late. Guardeen suddenly pulled back a step and swept the pistol down hard, knocking the man unconscious to the ground.

  He turned on the other guard. “Open the gate unless you want some of the same.”

  The man hurried to obey, his hands fumbling with the bolts. “Okay, mister. Okay, I’ll do as you say.” Nervously he looked over his shoulder at the old guard.

  Holstering his pistol, he helped Thaddeus to his feet. “How you doing, partner?” he asked softly.

  “Been better, Mister Nick. But sure glad to see you.”

  “Take the canteen, drink a little. I need to keep my eye on this fellow.”

  “Okay.”

  The fat guard had the small port door open. “Come over here,” Guardeen ordered. “Help this man.”

  The guard hurried over and supported Thaddeus as he thirstily drank the water from the canteen and at the same time made his stumbling way through the port door.

  “You’re not going kill me, are you, mister?” wheedled the guard. “Look, I’m doing what you say.”

  “Just shut up and keep moving.”

  Urging them on, Guardeen followed through the port door. Sudden lamplight filled the darkness outside the portal, dazzling them all like the burst of light from a full moon released from cloud. Black Band Doolin and a band of armed Confederates stood waiting in a semi-circle facing the doorway.

  “I just knew it!” Doolin burst out with a gratified laugh as he leveled his pistol at Guardeen’s head. “Just knew you couldn’t resist saving that little black boy of yours.” Doolin’s men crowded around, tightening the circle, pistols and rifles held on the escapees. “You got suckered, Guardeen. Now put down that Sharps and unbuckle your gun-belt. Man, am I pleased to see you!”

  Guardeen realized it was hopeless. Obediently, he laid aside his rifle and began to unbuckle his gun-belt, all the time never taking his eyes from Doolin. “Yeah, that’s right, Black Band. We have some unfinished business, you and me. So the feeling’s real mutual. I’m going to finish what I started back at the Round Top. You’re a walking dead man, Doolin. You know that?”

  Doolin chuckled but there was no laughter in his eyes. “You think so? Guardeen, I’m going to skin you alive for what you did to me back then. Come the morrow, the Commander’ll see what this southern boy can do with a real sharp skinning knife.”

  Billy Ray stepped forward, a crazy light in his eyes as he shoved his pistol menacingly in Guardeen’s face. “Let’s do it now. Why wait?” He leered at Guardeen. “I want to see you wriggle, mister hotshot sharpshooter. See how you feel with your guts in your lap.”

  Guardeen looked down at Billy Ray with disdain. “Get away from me, you little squirt.”

  Billy ray’s eyes bulged and his face colored. He swung up his pistol and viciously hit Guardeen on the side of his face.

  Doolin caught his raised arm before he could strike again. “Hold it, Billy Ray! He’s just riling you. Trying to get under your skin, so you make some dumb move and he can escape. Leave it be, he’ll pay plenty come tomorrow.”

  Billy Ray panted angrily. “You better let me have a piece of him, Doolin. Nobody speaks to me like that.”

  “You hit like a girl,” snarled Guardeen, blood running down his jaw from the cut on his cheek. “You’re just a little sissy really, ain’t you?”

  “Cut it out, Guardeen,” snapped Doolin. “Or I’ll let him loose on your black friend here. I swear it.”

  “Y ... you .... you’re finished,” stuttered Billy Ray, so full of anger he could hardly get the words out. “I .... I swear .... I’ll .....”

  Guardeen turned his back on the gunman. “Get me out of here, Doolin. Before I shiver myself to death in fear. This kid here, is so awesome, I’m real terrified.”

  Swede Gunnarson laughed. “Haw, haw! He’s got you plumb to rights there, Billy Ray. You certainly are scary.”

  Billy Ray turned this way and that in frustration, a mad killing light gleaming in his eyes.

  Doolin placed a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, Billy Ray. I told you, don’t let him get to you. Now, come on, let’s get these pigs in the pen before it gets light.” He shoved Guardeen with his pistol barrel and urged him back inside through the gateway. “We got a real nice place lined up for you and your buddy, Guardeen. No post jailhouse this time, fella. No, this is something special.” Doolin directed them across the courtyard, Guardeen in front and Thaddeus now able to limp behind him.

  They came to the base of the pyramid and in the middle of the stone steps was a narrow entranceway leading down into darkness.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Down there. Somebody bring a lantern, we wouldn’t want Mister Guardeen to trip and break his neck before the day, now would we?”

  Once a lantern was brought, they entered a narrow, low stone passageway and a dank smell of age and dust filled Guardeen’s nostrils.

  “They say this was where the old savages kept their prisoners,” said Doolin, his voice echoing hollowly in the gloomy corridor. “Before they took them up the steps to the top. Used to be a temple up there one time. Cut their hearts out, like in a religious sacrifice. That’s what they did, you know that, Guardeen? Think on it, because that’s close on what I’m going do to you in the morning.”

  They descended deeper into the levels beneath the pyramid and as they progressed Guardeen felt the pressure of the great stones above closing in on him The lamplight f
lickered eerily on the walls about them where simple figurines painted in black and ochre moved and danced mysteriously in primitive patterns of forgotten significance.

  Eventually, they came to a chamber at the end of the sloping corridor where a wooden door was fitted into an unusually shaped triangular doorway.

  “Here’s your bed for the night. Rest easy, it’ll be your last.” Doolin leered at them victoriously as he pushed Guardeen and Thaddeus into the cell. His face was lit from beneath by the lantern and the destroyed flesh twisted and moved like snakes in the flickering shadows. “Going to get me a drink or two now. Kind of celebration. Savor the moment. Thanks for the Sharps, by the way.” He lifted Guardeen’s rifle. “Going to sell it for an Indian night squaw, I reckon.”

  His laughter was truncated as the heavy door slammed into place. The lock clicked and the sounds of the men faded as they moved off.

  Guardeen and Thaddeus stood in silence for a moment, adjusting to their circumstances. There was total stillness here deep below ground, no rustle of movement or drip of water; it was an uncanny silence, heavy and tangible. Guardeen paced out the dust floor of the chill cell, feeling the walls as he went. The hand-carved stones were tightly set without the use of mortar, the join so fine he could not even get a fingernail in the gap. They were in a sealed stone box without any chance of escape. Quite a large cell, though; room enough for plenty of prisoners. Twenty by fifteen feet, Guardeen reckoned as he paced it out.

  “How’re you feeling, Thaddeus?” he asked into the darkness.

  “A whole heap better now I’ve had some water.”

  “You need more? Here, look, they left this sentry’s jacket and cap on me. Take it. It’s gonna get cold in here.”

  They fumbled in the pitch blackness until their fingers touched and Guardeen handed over the cap and jacket.

  “Obliged. And thanks for coming for me, Mister Nick. Don’t think I would’ve lasted much longer.”

  “You think I came looking for you? Damn it, Thaddeus. I needed some water, that’s all. You just happened to be in the way as I went to the well.”

  Thaddeus chuckled. Guardeen was surprised how good it felt to hear that deep sound again. “Get along with you. I knows you came to get me. And I’m not about to forget it neither.”

  “How’d they catch you?”

  “Ah, they were waiting at this way station. Seems like they partnered up with the folks that ran the place. Shot all the soldiers dead and took me down. Gave the livestock and the child to the folks there. It ended up bad, Mister Nick.”

  “Well, it’s not over yet. We still have to get out of here and finish the job.”

  Thaddeus snorted. “And how we going to do that, d’you suppose?”

  “Come morning, we’ll make our play. Two things are happening tomorrow. They’ve got Indians arriving for some kind of arms handout and Wyatt will be here too. We’re primed as the entertainment, a couple of Yankees all set for a hanging. Thing is, it’s going to be a busy day out there. Lots of drinking and carryings on. I heard those gate guards say they were brewing up a batch of hooch special for the Indians and you know how those redskins like a drop of firewater.”

  “So, how does that help us?”

  “Well, I made contact with the lady, Christine Lenoir. She helped get me in tonight. Might be she can give us a hand come morning. Other thing is, I’m gonna keep riding that young buck Laforge. He can’t control himself; he’s going to bust out some time. Might be we can make a move then.”

  “Well, Mister Nick. It’s certain we’re not going anywhere tonight. Best rest up now and be ready for the day.”

  “Sure, Thaddeus. You’re right. Let’s get some shuteye.” Guardeen slumped down to the hard earth floor and, taking his crushed Stetson out of his shirt, he rested his head on it as a pillow. They were quiet for a moment, each occupied with his own thoughts. Somehow in the blackness, Guardeen found it easier to voice his thoughts. “Good to have you back, Thaddeus,” he admitted.

  “Good to be back, Mister Nick – given the circumstances.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cave Everett Wyatt knew how to make an entrance, that was for sure. He arrived dressed as a full Confederate general, with a shining wreath and three stars set in gold thread on his upright collar. Two ranks of sixteen gold buttons shone on his gray breast and patterned curlicues of gold braid ran from the cuffs of his frockcoat up to his elbow. He sat proudly erect upon a skittish milk-white filly, with all the presence of a conquering hero returning home. His white hat brim was slouched in cavalier fashion, with a plume of black feathers cascading behind. With a flourish, he took off the hat and waved it triumphantly, bowing gallantly from the waist to the cheering troops that lined the roadway that approached the fort. A large Confederate flag and his personal standard blew out behind him. He appeared the perfect picture of a Southern warrior gentleman.

  The gathered troops and their families loved it and cheered until their voices were hoarse. An atmosphere of confidence ran through the whole crowd at the sight of restored military leadership that he presented. A slight smile of secret satisfaction crossed Wyatt’s features as he led his entourage through the gates and into the courtyard where his welcoming committee awaited.

  Wyatt was a sturdy, thickset man with a great head of snowy white hair. He wore a full beard and had brooding brow that completed the image of a masterful and pensive leader. Yet his eyes were surprisingly dull, a deadpan feature, almost as gray and lifeless as his uniform. It was as if they masked the secret content of his inner self, in which they surely did for Wyatt was a man without a soul. Bereft of all compassion and conscience he had made his way in life and gained his extensive fortune only over the broken minds and bodies of his opponents. With such an inner emptiness to fill he charged his mind with thoughts of acquisition and the gratification that power over other individuals could bring. A tall man, he stood well above his gathered entourage, who were elected to the position only because they reached a minimum height specification well below Wyatt’s own.

  Wyatt dismounted and stepped forward to shake hands with his stand-in, the ex-major of postage, now newly made Colonel, Cartright. Wyatt made a gesture and a uniformed photographer appeared from his entourage. The man swiftly set up his tripod and spent a long moment directing Wyatt and Cartright in suitable artistically arranged military poses before stepping under his hood and exposing the negative. The formalities over, the group climbed the steep-sided steps of the Indian ziggurat.

  “Good to be back,” Wyatt said, taking a deep breath of the hot air and looking out across the parade ground and fort walls to the mountains beyond. “Good to be amongst my own again.” He said it convincingly, winning them over by displaying his charming and charismatic self, a mask that disguised the arrogant and psychopathic soul lying beneath. Wyatt was completely sure of his position in the world, his belief in the mission he was called upon to bring to fruition and the assurance it gave him allowed an enormous source of confidence. A confidence far in excess of reality. Wyatt walked a narrow line between the power his wealth permitted and the insanity his ego misguided him with.

  “It’s good to have you back, Commander,” agreed a fawning Captain amongst the fort staff.

  Wyatt looked at the man. He knew him well enough but he feigned ignorance; it was a way of increasing his own sense of self-importance and relegating the other to a forgettable position too far below a Commander for consideration. “And you are–?”

  “Captain Lowell Beckett, at your service, sir.”

  “Ah, of course. Forgive me, Captain. Let me see, you did well at Atlanta, did you not? Took down a Yankee artillery train at Chattahoochee, as I recall”

  “Your memory does you proud, sir,” said Lowell Beckett. “Yes, we were lucky enough to lift some of their cannon from under their noses. It was a good day but it surprises me that you should remember such a small event, sir.”

  Beckett was a man in his thirty-fifth year and his sharp-featured good
looks were marred only by a slight cast in one eye that gave him the unfortunate disadvantage of appearing to look over the shoulder of whoever he addressed.

  Wyatt, who had a certain aversion to physical abnormalities, looked away from Beckett’s astigmatism with a barely disguised uncomfortable disdain. Once again though, he could not resist demonstrating his encyclopedic memory. “Oh, I never forget a good man, Captain. It was you who took up with the Lenoir woman, was it not?”

  “Indeed, sir.” Again, Beckett seemed slightly perplexed that the Commander should even consider such a detail of his personal life.

  “We knew each other, you know? A lady of the highest order. Most genteel. A real Southern belle. You are to be congratulated, Captain. You shall bring her to lunch. I should enjoy her company again.”

  “I’m honored, Commander. As you wish, sir. I did not know you had her acquaintance.”

  “Oh yes, we’re old friends from back East. Very good. Come now, gentlemen. I need a wash and brush up before lunch; the trip down has been dusty and hot. Quickly! At the double!” With that, he clasped the saber close to his side and ran up the steps, leaving his men behind and proving to them that despite his white hair he was still fit and able enough to outrun them all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Guardeen and Thaddeus were ushered along the corridor and toward the daylight, they heard the approaching murmur of the crowd outside, like the soft roar of the sea. Squinting against the light after their incarceration, they stumbled half blinded along the passageway. Thaddeus fastened the Confederate shell jacket over his bruised chest and straightened the kepi on his head. It was not a uniform he felt comfortable in but he realized it would have to serve for now.

  Guardeen slapped his Stetson free of dust and pulled the brim low over his eyes, forming a shadow against the brightness as they stepped out into the parade ground. The roar of the gathered troops and fort personnel hit them as hard as the sunlight. He felt as if he’d been physically struck by the noise of the angry crowd.