by Tony Masero
“We’re going to burn you and your nappyhead, you Yankee dirt bag!” An angry soldier shook his clenched fist in Guardeen’s face. Grimly, Guardeen stared him down as the two guards pushed back the crowd and with their bayoneted rifles urged the prisoners to climb up the pyramid steps.
Doolin forced his way from out of the crowd and stepped up alongside them. “It’s getting closer, Guardeen.” He grinned, his damaged features creasing into the semblance of a smile.
“What is?” Guardeen asked.
“Why, my time alone with you. When the Commander’s finished with you up there.” With Guardeen’s rifle, he indicated the crown of the ziggurat. “Then I get you all to myself.”
“You looking after my long arm?” Guardeen asked, eyeing the Sharps Doolin held.
“Mmm, I’m kind of getting to like it now. Might be I’ll hang on to her for a while.”
“Just you look after that weapon, Doolin. I’ll be coming for it directly.”
“Sure you will.” Doolin chuckled. “Going to walk through this entire army and just pick her up, huh? Got to admire your pluck, Guardeen. Surely do. Lot of guts but darned few brains.”
“I’m not fooling with you, Black Band. You take care of that rifle and maybe I won’t kill you with it.”
“Go to hell. Enjoy yourself while you can. I’m going to break you before this day’s out. You’ll soon be all mine!”
“You know, I’m getting awful worried about you, Doolin. What with all this personal attention. Where’s your bunk roll buddies at right now? You leave those two girls at home, did you?”
Doolin snorted impatiently. “Don’t try that on me. I’m not Billy Ray, you’re not going to needle me with that line of talk.”
“It’s not just me, Black Band,” Guardeen said innocently. “It’s everybody else. You just don’t see it, do you? They’re all saying how close you are with those guys. A little too close. You know what I mean? Maybe you’ve got a problem that way, is that it?”
“Shut your mouth, Guardeen!” growled Doolin, then his brow creased in doubt. “Who says that?”
Guardeen ignored him and saved his breath as they climbed higher up the steeply spaced steps. He looked back down once at the parade ground where the crowd was shrinking in size as they moved up nearer the building on top.
It was a simple rectangular structure with a peaked stone roof, initially built from hand-cut stone slabs but now, he’d learned, with further adobe brick rooms added at Wyatt’s instruction. Once it had been a temple the size of a small church but the additions pushed the building to the limits of the platform on three sides; only the entranceway had a small patio before it. It was on this old sacrificial shelf that Wyatt and his entourage sat in a row at one side of a cloth-covered table spread with a substantial lunch.
Above the roof fluttered the Confederate flag and over their heads a long canvas cover was spread against the sun’s intensity. As Guardeen stepped onto the platform, he saw Christine Lenoir, still managing to look stunning in an off-the-shoulder gray silk ball gown despite the fact that she sat hunched and obviously ill-at-ease between the Commander and Lowell Beckett. She picked idly at her plate and peered up at Guardeen with obvious disappointment as their eyes met. To Wyatt’s left sat Colonel Cartright and next to him an unidentified Major, who was obviously one of Wyatt’s aides.
“Well then,” boomed Wyatt. “Here we have the captured Union infiltrators. And their captor too, well done, Mr. Doolin. A shaky start but good work eventually, good work indeed.” Wyatt looked once at Doolin’s shattered features before turning away quickly away with a shiver of distaste. “You are to be recommended,” he finally managed by way of compliment.
“Thank you, Commander,” Doolin answered respectfully. “Just doing my duty.”
“Now then, names please?” He directed his question at Guardeen.
Guardeen shrugged, and then said, “Begging your pardon, General. But me and my partner haven’t eaten in a spell and those vittles look mighty fine. Think you could spare us a plate? Be a pleasure to sit down with you and enjoy some of your renowned Southern hospitality.”
“Don’t fool with me, mister. Present yourself!” snapped Wyatt, rising slowly from his seat.
“Nicholas Guardeen and Thaddeus Johnston, late of Company C Berdan’s Sharpshooters, at your service, Mister Wyatt.” Guardeen said easily, with a slight smile and fake military precision.
“You will address me as Commander or General, Sharpshooter Guardeen,” Wyatt ordered pompously. “That is my proper title.”
“Seeing as you never actually served, mister Wyatt. You received no military commission in the field or out of it as far as I’m aware, sir. Don’t see why I should recognized any unearned military title just on a civilian’s say so.”
“You test me, Guardeen.” Wyatt glowered, his face coloring. “You, I can see are going to be a difficult proposition. And if that’s the way it’s to be, then so be it.” He turned suddenly and looked down at Christine Lenoir. “What think you, Miss Lenoir? You think my title should be recognized?”
Christine swallowed visibly, a blink of fear crossing her eyes. “Of course I do, Commander.”
“Then what do you consider we should do about such an affront as I am offered here?”
Christine’s bright blue eyes met Guardeen’s and they slowly hardened to stone. “Why, sir, a good thrashing is the usual recourse I believe.”
“Well said, my dear. You were always so wise in matters of retribution.” He smiled as he said it, a softly made compliment with all kind of underlying insinuations.
Christine’s eyes flashed with sudden anger, “Some that were never resolved, I fear.”
“Ah,” sighed Wyatt with false modesty. “You speak of your dear father. You must know it could not be avoided. Business is business and I fear your good father was not the best of businessmen.”
“True,” she said, still obviously simmering. “He was a man with a conscience. A sad failing generally in the world of modern economics.”
“I’m afraid it is so, my dear.” Wyatt stood behind her and spoke with an avuncular tone, his hands resting on her shoulders with less than a touch of impropriety as he stroked and fondled her bare flesh with all the familiar implications of ownership. Christine twisted under his unwelcome handling but he fastened his grip, digging his fingers into her and pressing her down. “Sit still, dear,” he said with soft menace. “Sit still. I can see we shall have to renew our acquaintanceship. Obedience is everything in relationships between the sexes. Is that not so, Captain Beckett?”
Beckett was taken by surprise and had obviously missed all the hidden significance of the interchange. “Er, as you say, Commander. Exactly right,” he agreed as he stroked his mustache abstractedly.
“Obedience that sometimes needs a firm hand as I recall.” He dipped his head and whispered something in her ear that only she could hear. Whatever it was he said brought a pallid tone to her face and a tremor that ran up through her body.
Guardeen now guessed where her ill feeling towards Wyatt originated. Wyatt had at some time in the past made improper advances toward her. An alliance that had obviously not gone too well.
Wyatt turned to his aide, the major sitting at the far end of the table. “Major Dewey, would you oblige me and entertain Miss Lenoir in an inner chamber. I believe she should not be a witness to any further proceedings out here. Thank you.” He lifted Christine from her chair, his hands playing on her arms as he did so. “It would be best, my dear. Not the sort of thing for young women to have knowledge of.” The skin of her shoulders glowed red with the imprint of his fingers, a glow that matched the angry flush of her cheeks.
The major dutifully rose and escorted Christine through the stone archway of the building behind the table. She looked once briefly over her shoulder at Guardeen, her expression one both of sympathy and pleading and then she was gone.
“Now then.” Wyatt turned back to face Guardeen, his voice hardening. “How
shall we teach you the principles of obedience?”
“Might be a tad harder with me than it is with a woman,” supplied Guardeen grimly. “Perhaps mister Wyatt would like to come over here and whisper sweet nothings in my ear and see how far he gets with it.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a long moment before Wyatt smiled. “I see we have a Yankee humorist amongst us. Perhaps he needs a lesson in manners as well as obedience.” Wyatt tilted his head at Lowell Beckett. “Captain, would you oblige me?”
“Yes, sir!” Beckett jumped to his feet and strode purposefully around the table.
Guardeen noted the position of those around him. Behind the table, Wyatt and Cartright. Their guards on either side a pace or two behind, Doolin off to his right and Thaddeus on his left hand. “Be ready,” Guardeen whispered.
“You, sir!” snapped Beckett into Guardeen’s face as he stamped up before him. “Shall remember to whom you speak.” He slapped Guardeen hard across the cheek.
Guardeen turned his head slightly at the blow and licked his lip thoughtfully as he looked across at Wyatt. “Kind of hard if the jar don't have a label on it. Don’t recognize the contents.”
“You stand before General Cave Everett Wyatt, Commander the Renewed Army of the Confederacy and you shall address him as such and behave with proper decorum in his presence. You understand?”
“I thought you rebels had your day long since past. You got beat once, you want it all over again?”
“Stand aside, Captain!” ordered Wyatt, pushing his chair savagely away. He nodded at the guard at Guardeen’s back. The man swung his rifle butt hard between Guardeen’s shoulder-blades.
Guardeen staggered a step or two forward and doubled over, wincing in pain.
Wyatt nodded once more and the guard moved in and struck Guardeen again, dropping him to the stone floor.
“That’s where scum like you belong, I fear,” said Wyatt grimfaced now, with all appearance of mock humor gone from his face. “Union supporters should crawl on their bellies in the dust before the majesty of the Confederate flag. Because that is what I represent, sir. Our Confederate States united, a uniform of pride and a joined country of honor that justly requires its independence to determine its own future. That is who stands before you and who you shall respect. Not the man, sir, but the ideal.”
Guardeen lifted himself stiffly off the hard stones and managed to stand at a half crouch. “It’s a dead ideal, General,” he said tiredly. “And it’s about time we buried it.”
He moved with a sudden swift sideways shift and shoulder-butted Doolin in a low tackle. As he hit him, he snatched the rifle barrel from Doolin’s hand. Gasping with surprise at the suddenness of the assault, Doolin staggered onto the brink of the platform, trying to keep his balance and prevent himself from falling over the edge. Guardeen swung the Sharps up in a long overhand loop in the air, feeling the familiar grip smack comfortably into the palm of his hand. In one motion, he one-handedly cocked the hammer and fired. The bullet took Doolin in the midsection. At close range the shell had all the power of a pile driver and it raised a cloud of impact dust from Doolin’s shirt and threw him away from the platform and out into space.
In the same instant, Thaddeus spun around and caught at the guard’s Springfield rifle. He swung the barrel towards the other guard and forced his hands over his opponents on the barrel and grip. The bayonet glittered before him and he lunged, carrying the guard with him. Plunging the blade into the other rebel’s chest with a loud cry. The man gasped in shock and fell to his knees, dropped his weapon and clutched at the deep bayonet wound. Thaddeus swung back, bringing the guard behind him around in a sharp semi-circle. Forcing him on with his grip over both hands on the rifle. Then Thaddeus released his right hand and brought his elbow up and back sharply into the guard’s nose. His nose broken, the man instinctively released his hold on the rifle. Thaddeus swung the butt into the man’s jaw with a solid clunk. The guard dropped to the platform floor.
Captain Beckett stood round eyed and frozen, dumbly surprised by the sudden and speedy violence. Guardeen reached over and pulled the Colt revolver from the holster at Beckett’s waist. Guardeen pushed him aside and turned back to face Wyatt. The Commander stood behind his Colonel, shouting in Cartright’s ear: “Take them, Cartright! Hold them here, I’ll get reinforcements.”
Then the Commander scurried into the building. Guardeen cocked the pistol but his line of fire was obstructed by Cartright who was struggling to loosen the latch on his holster. Guardeen fired. His bullet was aimed at the back of Wyatt but it caught Cartright in the shoulder, spinning him round. As he fell, Cartright, clutched at the tablecloth and the lunch and dishes followed him to the ground with a crash.
Guardeen turned. Thaddeus covered Beckett with the Springfield.
A roar arose from the parade ground and he hurried to look over the edge. The bloody body of Doolin lay tangled at the foot of the pyramid and Billy Ray and Swede Gunnarson were running angrily up the steps. Billy Ray loosed off a shot and the lead cracked the air beside him. At that moment a column of stern-looking Apache braves rode bareback through the fort gates, spreading their number amongst the jeering mob.
Guardeen fired down at the two men but the pistol misfired and he tossed it away in anger.
“What do we do now, Mister Nick?” Thaddeus asked, his rifle still leveled at the bemused Beckett.
“Get rid of him first.” He booted the Captain in the backside, catapulting him over the brink of the platform. “Best thing to do with wife beaters.”
Beckett dropped, stumbled and tried to regain his balance. His weight carried him forward and awkwardly he tumbled down toward Doolin’s two men. Billy Ray took aim and fired repeatedly at the approaching figure. The bullets cut into Becket’s body and hurled it to one side on the steps.
“Come on, Thaddeus!” Guardeen urged. “Leave them for later, let’s go get what we came for. That so-called General Wyatt!” Leading the way, he ran to the fallen Cartright sprawled amongst the scattered remnants of their meal. He bent and relieved the Colonel of his revolver and tucked it into his belt.. “Not quite the same as the postal service, is it Colonel?”
The only response he received was a glare filled with pain.
“You got ammunition for the Sharps, Mister Nick?”
Guardeen nodded as he peered around the open doorway. “Sure do. They took my pistol belt but left the ammo one.” He jacked open the breech and loaded a long shell. “Let’s do it!” He dived into the doorway with Thaddeus in hot pursuit.
The interior was divided into small rooms, with narrow stone corridors joining the various sections. It was gloomy inside the corridors, with little sunlight penetrating the few small windows.
Guardeen jerked his head and Thaddeus nodded in understanding as they separated and made their way in opposite directions, checking the building room by room.
The rooms were stocked with ostentatiously inappropriate furniture imported from the East. Polished wooden cabinets with glass doors, finely carved elegant dining chairs and brocade settees populated the stone cells, while the cold walls were covered by large and extravagant tapestries depicting heroic battle scenes.
Guardeen found them. As he poked his head tentatively around the doorpost of what was obviously a bedroom, the stone lintel above his head splintered in an explosion of stone chips and the whine of a ricochet rattled down the corridor.
“Hold it there!” shouted Major Dewey from behind the cover of Christine’s body. “Or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Guardeen stood with his back to the corridor wall and to one side of the doorway. “You all right, Miss Lenoir?” he called as he rested the Sharps gently against the wall and drew the pistol from his belt.
“I’m okay, “ she answered nervously.
“She’s fine,” called the Major. “You’re the one with the problem if you come through that door.”
Guardeen quietly cocked the pistol. “Sure you’re not feeling
faint, Miss Lenoir,” he called meaningfully. “Like you’ve got the vapors and about to pass out and drop to the floor at any moment?”
“I believe I’m feeling rather ill. I’m about to .... to pass out this very instant,” she said weakly.
He heard the rustle of her dress as she sagged in the arms of the Major. “Wait! ... no ... ma’am,” Major Dewey cried out in alarm.
Guardeen slid around the door jamb, the pistol held high.
The Major was struggling to support Christine and at the same time raise his gun.
“Should have let her drop,” he said and fired. The bullet caught the Major high in the chest and he fell in a heap. “So much for Southern gentlemen,” he observed. “Brings them down every time.”
Thaddeus came running at sound of the shooting. “You folks okay?”
“We’re fine. Any sign of Wyatt?”
“No. Don’t know where he’s gone. The place is empty.”
“He has a secret way out,” blurted Christine. “A stairway, it runs down through the middle of the pyramid. Comes out in the courtyard.”
“Can you find it?”
“Yes, this way. Come on, I’ll show you.”
As they ran behind her through the corridors to the rear of the building, Guardeen heard the sound of voices behind them.
“Where are you, Guardeen!” panted Billy Ray.
“We’ve come for you,” Swede Gunnarson growled. “Where in the hell are you?”
Ignoring them, Guardeen followed Christine into a room. A large wardrobe had been pulled aside and, set into the stone slabs of the floor, the wooden flap of a trapdoor was exposed.
Quickly, Thaddeus pulled the door up and laid it to one side.
A set of steps led into pitch blackness.
Guardeen stepped into the hole. “How’re we going to see our way down here?”
Behind him, Christine said, “There should be lanterns laid ready somewhere at the bottom.”
