by Jake Logan
As they walked, Slocum with the man’s six-shooter pointed at the middle of his back, an uneasiness grew. Ahead blazed the small campfire, but something wasn’t right.
“Were you alone?” Slocum asked.
“I ain’t gonna tell you squat.”
Slocum pushed the man along faster until they reached the campsite. Slocum stared at the fire burning cheerily within its ring of fist-sized rocks. But no one sat around it. No coffeepot boiled its fierce bitter brew. The wagon was gone along with both women and Lester Vannover.
17
“Blow it to splinters,” Kimbrell said hotly. “There’s no reason to sit on our asses and just watch the damned place!”
Clayton Magee stared at his lieutenant dispassionately. Before Kimbrell could loose another rant, Magee said calmly, “We watch. We wait. They are not in Charity, but they will be. I feel it in my bones.”
“You’re the master tactician. You always go by intelligence reports. Where’re the facts?” Kimbrell refused to be mollified.
“I will get them. My scouts are ranging across this entire stretch of Oklahoma. Sooner or later, one will find them. They are so close.” Magee closed his eyes and smiled just a little. “I know it. I feel it.”
“I want to feel that Gatling gun kicking back on its tripod as I crank off a hundred rounds,” Kimbrell said. “There’s nothing to be gained by doin’ nothing!”
“There is,” contradicted Magee. “They will come to Charity, and I will once more be reunited.”
“Reunited?” Kimbrell looked hard at the major. The man had his eyes shut and the grin on his face grew as if he had already accomplished his goal of finding the two women.
It shouldn’t matter to Kimbrell what the reason was. Magee was a master at planning and was making Kimbrell a rich, rich man. This hesitation to use the fabulous weapons stolen from the army post, though, was a line in the sand. Kimbrell knew it was about time to part company and let Magee take the blame for everything while he recovered the loot he had been hiding and hightailed it for Mexico.
He had been keeping a fairly good accounting of all the gold and paper money he’d stolen, and he figured it had to be about ten thousand dollars by now. Magee ignored such things in his search for the two blond women, but Kimbrell did not. He only dispensed what was necessary to keep the gang on his side and fighting. No one else fought for the sheer love of it, like Kimbrell. They demanded to be paid, so he doled out a little here and there. A few hundred dollars to each man made them think they were kings. If they only knew what the real take was, they would string him up by his balls to make him divvy up what he had stolen from them.
It was definitely time to ride away, but . . .
They had broken off the attack on Charity once before because Magee had received word of the women being in Cimarron Junction. That meant the bank had not been looted, nor had any of the businesses been cleaned out. Kimbrell figured he could scoop up another thousand dollars if Magee would ever give the order to level the town. Kimbrell smiled. The marshal from Charity was dead—he had to be. That left the town wide open for looting.
Kimbrell looked at the Gatling gun with its tall magazine just waiting to be emptied. He could rip through that magazine and send a hundred bullets into Charity before anyone realized they were under attack. Or the cannons they had taken from Fort Supply. Both were ready for use. Hell, he had not even properly looted the fort of everything valuable. Magee had wanted to check the small encampment supplying the fort. Once more, they had broken off a devastating attack because Magee had heard a new rumor about the women.
Albert Kimbrell was fed up with not finishing what they started just because a rumor about the women reached the major’s ears.
He considered telling the men to attack Charity without the major’s knowledge. By the time Magee realized they were attacking, there would be nothing he could do about it.
“Who has come and gone from the town, Mr. Kimbrell?”
“What’s that?” Kimbrell looked at the major, and realized Magee’s reverie was long past and the analytical mind worked hard now. The cold eyes bored into him like drills. He wondered if Magee knew what he was thinking. It felt that way.
“Has anyone in our cordon of the town reported?”
“Nobody. The people in Charity are working hard to rebuild. The town’s cut off since we blew up and burned most of the towns to the east, and Fort Supply isn’t going to be much help, if it ever was.”
“There are other forts. And a cantonment is not too distant,” Magee said. “We must guard against soldiers from any of the forts finding out what has happened here.”
“They’ve got to figure out it wasn’t no tornado blowin’ through when they see all the people we shot and how we burned down the buildings,” Kimbrell pointed out.
“Let them think it was a renegade band of Indians. The entire territory is filthy with the redskins,” Magee said without a trace of malice in his voice. “It is part of my plan to shift blame to the tribes whenever possible until I find . . . them.”
“The women? Your family?”
“My family,” Magee said. He looked up sharply. “You will personally lead a small party to be certain the army does not learn of what’s happened in Charity.”
“Find a scout, kill a scout?”
“As you see fit,” Magee said.
Kimbrell smiled wolfishly. He knew the major was trying to manipulate him by offering blood sacrifices. There were always army patrols. Finding one and killing the soldiers would be child’s play. Before, Kimbrell would have relished it. Now he looked on it as a chore standing in his way of finishing the pillage barely started in Charity, so he could be on his way.
One last town, one final score to settle with the world.
“You won’t raid the town without me, will you, Major?” Kimbrell tried to keep his tone light and joking, but he felt deep down that he had to be in the thick of the battle. The smell of gun smoke and the feel of his six-shooter recoiling in his hand were almost better than sex. The sight of men and women dying by his gun was better.
“You are a vital part of my force, Mr. Kimbrell. Together we will succeed.”
“I won’t need more than two or three men.”
“Take whoever you feel is appropriate to the task,” Magee said, already dismissing him. Kimbrell hated that, but accepted it.
He stalked off, barking orders as he went. He wished he could take the Gatling gun, set it up near a road, and see what it could do to a man astride a horse. Or a stagecoach. They had fired it a few times, but never in the heat of battle except at that dinky town outside Fort Supply, and that hardly counted. Kimbrell had not even emptied the magazine before the fight was over and Magee had ordered them here to Charity.
“Just us, boss?” Barger towered over Kimbrell and tried to intimidate him, but it never—quite—worked. Kimbrell was tougher, and they both knew it. But if he had to have someone watching his back, it would be Barger.
“You and One Ear. Where is he?”
“Got his good ear to the ground,” Barger said, laughing at his joke. “Might be I should cut it off so he can carry it around in his pocket so he won’t lose it, too?”
Mention of severed body parts made Kimbrell reach up to his vest pocket and trace over the desiccated finger with the ring on it. He considered putting the ring on, but he would save that for the showdown with the major. It might not be such a bad thing taking over the gang by killing Magee. Wearing the ring would lend some authority to his position, if he did become leader.
Who’d ever know he hadn’t graduated from West Point? Nobody in the gang had enough imagination to think anything else but what he told them.
Kimbrell moved his hand away from the finger with the ring in his pocket. This was his little secret for the time being.
“Saddle up. We’re goin’ on patrol,” Kimbrell told Barger. “And find One Ear. I want him, too. He’ll sit in camp and get drunk otherwise.”
“Hell, I w
ouldn’t mind doing that. Can we sneak into that town and steal a few bottles of whiskey? My throat gets mighty parched out here.”
“We keep people from going in or out of the town,” Kimbrell said. “Mostly, we hunt for soldiers.”
“They must be plenty pissed at us for destroyin’ their fort like we did. Maybe we should go back and occupy it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Use it as our base. I get mighty tired of ridin’ around all the time. It’d be good to have a hideout.”
Kimbrell snorted in contempt. “You idiot, don’t you think after a while that even the army’d figure out that the men on those walls weren’t soldiers and do something about it? We couldn’t hide in the fort because everybody knows it’s there.”
Barger pursed his lips as he thought. “Reckon you might be right, but it’d surely be nice to sleep on a mattress more ’n once in a blue moon.”
“Don’t git too comfy, Barger. We got a lot of fightin’ ahead of us.”
“Where’s One Ear? I want to get on the trail. Hey, One Ear! Get your ass on over here!” Barger grumbled and strode off to find his partner. Kimbrell readied his horse. When the two returned, One Ear visibly drunk, they mounted and rode off.
“We patrol the outskirts?” Barger asked.
“We could, but I want to have a look-see at the countryside. Don’t want no soldiers sneakin’ up on us, do we?”
Kimbrell and his two henchmen rode for almost an hour before speaking again. That suited him just fine. Barger and One Ear were anything but good storytellers, and that was about all that mattered with a good trail companion. That and sharp eyes. Barger spotted the trail about the same instant that Kimbrell did.
They looked at each other and reached for their six-shooters. One Ear was trifle slower to respond, but he did, too, when he saw hoofprints in the soft ground.
“Good thing it’s not rainin’,” Kimbrell said. “We might have missed the tracks entirely.”
“Looks like rain, though,” Barger said, glancing at the clouds building to the south. “We’d better find them and kill them ’fore it gets too inclement.”
“Only a single rider,” Kimbrell said as he followed the trail. “This ought to be like shootin’ fish in a barrel.”
“Could be most anyone,” One Ear pointed out. “ ’ Cept it ain’t. It’s a cavalry sergeant.”
“Now how the hell do you read that in the tracks?” demanded Barger.
“He’s not lookin’ at the ground, you idiot,” Kimbrell said. He pointed ahead to where a cavalry sergeant stood, staring down in the direction of Charity. As he turned, he lowered his field glasses. Kimbrell got off a quick shot that only surprised the trooper and alerted him to the danger. Kimbrell didn’t care. He might have got a good shot at the soldier’s back if he had been quiet and snuck up close enough to be sure of his aim. This was more fun.
“After ’im!” Barger spurred his horse to full gallop. One Ear and Kimbrell were not far behind. They had the advantage of already being in the saddle and riding down hard. The cavalry sergeant had to mount and get his horse up to a gallop.
They overtook him quickly.
“He’s headin’ fer town. Don’t let ’im!”
Kimbrell did not need Barger’s warning. He veered to the left as One Ear went right. They got even more speed from their horses and moved to cut off the soldier’s retreat to the town. One Ear’s horse flagged quickly, but Kimbrell cut in front and drew his pistol. He saw the sergeant’s grim expression and laughed as he fired. All six bullets missed, but caused the soldier to slow. His horse broke stride, and that meant it was all over for him.
The three outlaws circled the soldier, who was desperately looking for a way out. The sergeant whipped out his pistol and emptied it, then went for his carbine. By now Kimbrell had a second six-gun out and firing as he charged straight for the sergeant. One round hit the soldier’s hand and knocked the rifle from his grip. Then Kimbrell raced past, his six-shooter empty. He drew a third one and went in for the kill.
“He’s all mine, boys,” he shouted.
“I’ll see you in hell!” roared the sergeant as he lowered his head and drew a long knife from his belt. Holding it like a lance, he galloped forward to meet Kimbrell.
Bullet beat knife.
The soldier toppled from his saddle and crashed to the ground. The impact knocked the knife from his grip and he lay gasping, staring up at the gathering storm clouds. Then Albert Kimbrell filled his field of vision.
“Who are you? Least I can do is let your commander know who died this day.”
“Benedict,” the sergeant said with his last gasp before Kimbrell blew him away.
“What’d he say, Al?” Barger shoved his pistol back into his belt.
“Didn’t hear,” Kimbrell lied. “What does it matter? Let’s see if there’s any more of them bluebellies out here scoutin’ and tryin’ to set a trap for the major.”
The trio of outlaws spent the rest of the day hunting for other cavalry scouts, but found no one. Kimbrell rode back to report to Magee, sorry there had been just the one, but knowing there could be no objection to going into Charity and burning it to the ground now. And if there was, if Magee said anything about his gut telling him his family would be there soon, Kimbrell would put a bullet through that lying gut. It was getting to be time for a change in leadership.
18
Already exhausted, Isaiah Langmuir felt like dying then and there. He squinted into the setting sun as he studied the way Clayton Magee had deployed his men around the town of Charity. Langmuir had hoped to get to the town and find some allies, but if he tried to ride into that town now, Magee’s gang would destroy him and his handful of soldiers.
He sucked in a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. Keeping his hands from shaking was already beyond his ability, but he needed to get a grip on his desolation. There had never been a class at West Point teaching how to feel or react in such a situation. They had studied battles and victories and looked at defeats as what you meted out to the enemy. Nothing was said about being driven into the ground and still having to fight against overwhelming odds.
The sight of the Gatling gun pulled off the road and partially hidden by trees worried Langmuir the most. If a company came riding from Fort Gibson, they would be cut to ribbons before they realized anything was wrong. He had not found where Magee had placed the two howitzers, but he knew Sergeant Benedict would find them. The sergeant had ridden a wider route, circling to cover the far side of the road leading into Charity. When he reported, Langmuir would get a better picture of what they were up against.
From what he had seen, though, any attack on Magee and his gang would be suicidal and gain nothing. Why the renegade major simply sat and waited rather than attacking the town—finishing it off after his initial attack—was something Langmuir hoped his sergeant would discover. Magee’s men lounged about, joked, and rested. Even if the cavalry got into position to attack, the pitiful ten remaining soldiers would be going up against rested, ready, and better-armed brigands.
If even one of his men felt better than he did, Langmuir wanted to know the secret. He touched a coat pocket where he carried a small silver flask. It had been filled with brandy—for medicinal purposes, he told himself. A few drops to his dying men had not been wasted. After he had dispensed those paltry few ounces, he began drinking the rest himself. Keep up his courage. Kill the aches and pains in his battered body. To make himself more alert and a better leader. He had used all those excuses, and now the brandy was gone.
Langmuir was running out of excuses, just as he had drained the last of his liquor.
He tried to make notes on a scrap of paper so he would not forget, or if necessary so the observations he had made could be passed along should he be injured or killed. Langmuir sighed deeply. That implied that his body would be found. If Magee or any of his killers got to him, he doubted he would ever be received into a consecrated grave.
Seeing the last
of the outlaws begin their cooking for the evening meal, Langmuir slipped away and found his horse. Rather than mount, he led the horse away from Magee’s camp so he would not be heard as he rode off. He had to rendezvous with Benedict; then they both had to find their way back to where he had left his ragtag band of soldiers. Langmuir hoped they would have time to recuperate and get themselves into fighting trim, but combat would be hard without adequate ammunition. He cursed Magee for stealing from the fort the supplies that they needed most. But this was war and he could not fault the major for his actions.
He could only damn him for killing so many innocents.
Langmuir swung into the saddle and rode slowly, but had gone only a few hundred yards when he heard a scuffle in the darkness. He stopped and put his hand on his pistol, not sure what to do. If this was only a disagreement between two outlaws, he was better served letting them settle their dispute. One might kill the other and save him the trouble.
The shrill cry told him it wasn’t an outlaw being chased. Knowing his duty lay in reporting back to his troops and hating himself for not obeying standing orders, Langmuir wheeled his horse around and trotted in the direction of the fracas.
“Yer quite a fighter, ain’t ya?”
“Get your filthy hands off me!”
The man laughed at the woman’s objections to manhandling her. Langmuir heard cloth rip and knew his mission had just changed. He was entrusted with protecting the people of the Indian Territory. Fighting Magee and his butchers was a part of that, but this was more immediate.
“Stop, oh! Don’t touch me there!”
“You ain’t a virgin. Don’t go tellin’ ole Jaycee that you don’t want what I got to offer. Lookit.” The man laughed harshly as the woman screamed.
Langmuir followed the noise, and quickly came upon the scene he had envisioned as he rode. One man held a thrashing woman down on the ground. Her skirts were pulled up to expose her privates. The second man watched and cheered on his partner, waiting his turn at rape.
