by Lauran Paine
They loitered a moment, listening for other voices, heard none, and made the last hundred yards to the creek-side undergrowth in a slashing sprint. Ben at once went to the north at the very edge of the thicket, taking the lead now, and then cut west again where Bass Templeton’s lumpy form showed faintly against the paler earth.
“Keep a sharp watch,” Ben ordered, and passed Case his carbine as he planted himself down beside Templeton, rolled him over gently, and put his head far down. In frank astonishment he looked around, whispering: “By God, he’s alive.”
Case looked at the unconscious form, put both their carbines into one hand, and reached out for Templeton’s shoulder. “Drag him,” he hissed at Ben. Together, they retreated a hundred yards back into the undergrowth, hauling Templeton with them. There, clawing deeper into the thicket’s thorny security, they made a little clearing and stretched Bass out his full length, face up.
“You keep watch now,” said Case, “passing the guns to Ben Albright and bending over the disheveled form upon the ground.
Templeton had been struck three times, once in the left upper arm, again in a curving way across the abdomen and up along his left side, and the third time over the back, up high across his shoulder muscles. None of these injuries seemed to Case likely to prove fatal, which was miraculous he thought, until he recalled that at the time Templeton had been fired upon, he had been riding north and his body had therefore been profiled sideways, not head-on, toward the ambushers. Another factor, no doubt, was that Templeton had been moving when fired at, and the final factor was that the light had not been conducive to good marksmanship.
“How bad?” queried Ben, not looking around, but keeping a tense watch over the faintly lighted plain in every direction.
“He was damned lucky,” Case responded. “He’s got two muscle shots that don’t amount to much, and one up along his side that broke maybe two or three ribs. That one’ll pain him, but he’ll pull through...if....”
“If what?”
“If we get out of this alive and back to camp.”
Ben made no answer to this.
Case tore Bass’s shirt into strips and wrapped his injuries in these makeshift bandages. He then crawled to the creek, filled his hat with water, and crawled back to lessen the injured man’s fever. Next, he got his carbine from Ben and stretched out prone, pushing the barrel out.
“I don’t like this,” mumbled Ben. “It’s too quiet.”
Case made himself comfortable, saying dryly: “As long as Connelly’s after us, at least he’s not bothering Atlanta and Ruben.”
“How did he come to bushwhack us? How did he know we’d be along?”
“Maybe he heard us coming. I have an idea he was up at the camp, like Beal thought he might be. For some reason he didn’t attack, but started back south...maybe heard us, and then decided it was a good opportunity to ambush us.”
“You’re probably right,” stated Ben, also getting down flat and peering out past the foremost fringe of underbrush. “He’s a damned poor strategist,” he said after a while. “An experienced man would never have made it possible for us to get into this thicket, while he and his men went out onto the plain.”
Case thought for a minute and then remarked: “He’s anxious and he’s vengeful. Those things have destroyed a lot of men.”
Ben rummaged the yonder night for sound or movement, but there was neither. “What was your rank in the war, Case?” Albright asked Hyle.
“Lieutenant.”
“I thought so. You handle yourself like an officer. I was a major. Fourth Texas. You?”
Case lay still. He said nothing, until he felt Ben’s gaze fully upon him. Then he said: “Texas Mounted Rifles, Army of the Cumberland.” He turned toward Ben, but could only make out his silhouette as a cloud had passed over the moon.
Ben Albright lay there expressionless, staring back at Case’s outline. After a moment, he said very softly: “Army of the Cumberland, Case, was a Yankee outfit.”
“That’s right, Ben. It was the Fourteenth Corps, then it was called the Fourth Corps, and when the fighting ended, it was known as the Twentieth Corps.”
Albright very slowly turned his head away.
Case saw, even in that difficult light, how the muscles along Ben’s jaw tightened and rippled. How his visage became darkly stormy. He looked away, putting his somber gaze back out upon the plain again, and thinking how this always came between he and other men. He recalled what he’d said to Atlanta, but he made no attempt to reiterate this same statement to her uncle.
A man’s sharp call erupted from the north. Two quick barks answered, one from the south and one dead ahead.
“I guess the waiting is over,” ventured Case.
Ben said nothing in response to this.
Chapter Fifteen
Mayor Charles Connelly had determined where Ben and Case Hyle were by a process of elemental deduction. He verified this by firing into the thicket, then moving swiftly away so that when the return fire came, he was in no great danger. After the skirmish had happened, he collected his men and the three began a stealthy approach toward the creek.
Case had surmised this would be Connelly’s maneuver and told Ben. Albright listened carefully, but still he would not look or speak to him. The pair of them lay there in grim silence, waiting. They had been like this for several minutes when Case suddenly raised his head a little, straining toward the north.
“Riders,” he said quickly. “Horsemen coming from the north.”
At this, Ben raised up. His knuckles were white where he gripped the saddle gun.
Out on the plain there erupted a sharp call. Case knew this was Connelly even though he could not see him. He also knew Connelly had heard this new sound in the night and was warning his companions of it. Case figured about where that voice was, and fired, levered up, and fired again.
An angry burst of mushrooming muzzle blasts came back in response. This was so intense neither Ben nor Case dared raise up off the ground to reply to it. Then that fire storm ceased, a ringing silence settled, and Case cautiously pushed aside some wild grape creepers to peer out. There was no sign of Connelly or his men. He strained, listening for movement, too, and again went unrewarded.
“They’ve stopped,” he said to Ben. “Those riders have stopped out there somewhere. Heard the shooting I expect.”
Ben inched forward until he was head and shoulders clear of the thicket. He peered to the north. Case began to push ahead, also, and as he did so, there came the clear sound of several horses rushing all together, heading eastward. They crashed into water, were briefly silent, then emerged upon the Trinchera’s far bank and went beating away into the night.
Case sighed, got clear of the underbrush, and stood up. “That was Connelly,” he said. “He’s run out.”
“Get down,” growled Ben. “Those other riders are approaching.”
Case paused to listen and then turned. He fastened a somber look upon Albright. “That’s a familiar sound to me, Ben. That’s a troop of Yankee cavalry.” He twisted to face the gloomy north, saw a big-hatted civilian scouting ahead, and called out to this recognizable horseman: “Owen, over here in the thicket!”
Ben emerged out of the thicket to stand beside Case just as Owen Wallace rode up and halted. He shot a quick look at Case and Ben, nodded, and turned his horse, calling out: “It’s safe this far, Lieutenant!”
“This is a relief,” Ben said, releasing a sigh.
Owen Wallace dismounted. “Good to see you, too, Ben. This is our second stroke of luck. We found Ferd on the way into camp. We crossed the creek pretty far north...and there he was. His shoulder is dislocated. But he’s going to be fine. We left him at camp, along with a few soldiers. We figured you might be heading back, so we decided to head south. Frankly, we were afraid we’d miss you in the dark.”
Ben nodded, w
atched as a dark host of men rode up, stopping five yards out. He watched as one of the men swung down and stepped ahead to where Owen Wallace stood. He touched his hat brim casually.
“Lieutenant Joel Forsythe, U.S. Fourth Cavalry,” he introduced himself, and then waited for one of the Texans to speak.
It was Albright who spoke, but his voice was cold. He told Lieutenant Forsythe who he was, explained about the ambush, and about Bass Templeton back in the thicket.
When Ben Albright had finished with his update, Forsythe informed him: “Mister Albright, your niece is fine. I left a squad there with her. I thought you might be worrying.”
Ben made a stiff little nod at this.
“Now, about those men who ambushed you. Did you see them well enough to make a positive identification?”
Ben looked grim. “Only saw one of them up close. He’s lying out there where he died.” Ben indicated the direction with a flagged flourish of one arm. “But I don’t know the man. Never saw him before in my life.”
“You shoot him?” the lieutenant asked.
Ben jerked his head sideways. “Mister Hyle there shot him.”
Forsythe turned, his face catching the full light of that scimitar moon. He looked at Case for a moment, before saying: “If you’ll show my men where your wounded companion is we’ll rig out a pack-stretcher and take him back to your camp.”
Case nodded, was about to do this when Ben said: “Lieutenant, you take Templeton back to my camp. I’m going down to Lansing’s Ferry.”
Forsythe was young, but now he looked out at Ben from his youthful blue eyes, and, in a tone that was beyond his years in its assertiveness, said: “Mister Albright, you’ll return to your camp with a squad of my men. Mister Hyle will go with me to Lansing’s Ferry.”
Case did not move as Ben drew up erectly before that deceptively youthful stare. Both his scarred big hands closed into fists at his sides. He was about to speak when the lieutenant turned his head.
“Sergeant!” he called out.
A battered Irishman appeared from among the dark body of troopers. “Yes, sir!” he snapped out.
“I want this gentleman here...Mister Albright...to return to the Texan camp with a squad. I want him kept there.” Forsythe now put his steady glance back upon Ben. “Those are my orders,” he stated. “I will enforce them any way that I must, Mister Albright.”
The graying sergeant looked balefully at Ben Albright. He was clearly a long-time veteran, a man with memories, too. He jerked his head at the Texas cowman without speaking, and then looked to Case.
Ben turned abruptly, saying to Case: “I think you will be in appropriate company.” Then he walked away.
Forsythe watched Albright go off. Afterward, he said mildly to Case: “What did he mean by that?”
Case shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he answered. “It’s a personal thing.”
Forsythe, watching Case closely, nodded. “I talked to his niece. I can guess what he meant. I also talked to his old retainer, Ruben Adams. That’s why I ordered him back. I don’t want a battle at Lansing’s Ferry. My job is to apprehend a killer and ask some questions. Now, about that injured man....”
Case led four strapping soldiers to Bass Templeton and stood aside as they carried the wounded man away. He then returned to Lieutenant Forsythe’s side, saying: “I have no horse.”
Forsythe smiled. “My men picked up two not far from here. They might be even be Mister Albright’s. They were spooked by the shooting, I expect.” He let his smile die and studied Case a moment before saying: “You’ve had a rough couple of days. Maybe you’d rather go back with Albright and get some rest.”
“I’d rather, yes,” answered Case, “but I don’t think I will.”
Forsythe nodded, called for a horse for Case. When Owen Wallace came up, leading the animal, the officer said to Wallace: “You’ve done all you had to do. You can go back with Mister Albright.”
This was unmistakably an order and Owen’s dark face became very still, very antagonistic. He and the young officer exchanged a long look, then Owen turned and walked out where Ben was waiting.
Forsythe nodded at the horse, saying to Case: “Are you ready?”
Case mounted, turned, and led out back to the south and Lansing’s Ferry. He rode mechanically, saying nothing, just listening to the soft rustle of leather behind him. Where he led the soldiers across the Trinchera and out upon the east-side bank, Forsythe spurred up beside him to ask a question.
“What did you discover in Lansing’s Ferry earlier tonight?”
Case told him all that had transpired. He also told him where Patrick Connelly’s dead horse lay, that Marshal Beal had young Connelly’s gun, and he concluded by saying Forsythe was prolonging the chase of Charles Connelly by riding along like this and by neglecting to send scouts on ahead to intercept the fleeing men.
Forsythe took this in good part. He called back an order and at once several squads split off from the main company, rushing headlong into the night.
Forsythe lit a cigar as he rode along. He seemed in no hurry, and, although he’d ridden hard for many hours, he did not appear tired. He studied Case Hyle in silence, his interest lively and unconcealed. He obviously would have liked to engage in conversation, but Case’s stony profile discouraged this. Finally, he did say: “Why did Connelly think this Will Johns killed his son?”
Case explained how this was. Then, after a pause, he added: “Will couldn’t have killed young Connelly. There is plenty of proof that he didn’t kill him, too, but Charles Connelly was too blinded by grief to see it.”
“What proof, Mister Hyle?”
Case looked around. “Which do you wish to do first...catch Charles Connelly, or see the proof?”
“Connelly doesn’t worry me,” replied the officer. “We’ll get him. I’ve been running down these renegades since the end of the war...Reb and Yank alike. My company will get Connelly, so why don’t you show me this proof?”
Case changed course, led the soldier company to Patrick Connelly’s dead horse, and there, while standing over the animal, pointed to the shot that had killed the beast.
“Take a close look at that wound,” he told Forsythe.
After the young officer had dismounted and done this, Case said: “Powder burns, Lieutenant. Did you see them?”
“Yes. The horse was obviously shot from very close quarters. No more than a foot or two away.”
Case remounted, waited for Forsythe to get back astride, and, without speaking, resumed riding southward toward Lansing’s Ferry. Forsythe caught up to him, looking puzzled.
“Someone shot the horse from close up,” he said. “What does that prove, Mister Hyle?”
“I’ll show you when we get to the Ferry,” Case replied, and then remained silent until the company was passing down Lansing’s Ferry’s main thoroughfare. There, he pointed out Marshal Beal’s office, explaining what it was, and that Beal had shown forbearance in the face of Ben Albright’s hard truculence. Then, when Lieutenant Forsythe started to rein toward the building, Case stated: “No, not yet. I want to show you the rest of that proof.”
He led the officer to the eastward alley behind Lansing’s Ferry, and up it to the ramshackle shed behind the doctor’s residence. As they neared their destination, the town suddenly came to life despite the late-night hour as word of the soldiers’ coming passed rapidly from mouth to mouth.
After the two dismounted, Case led the officer into the shed, pulled out the candle from the door-side bracket, and walked up to the to the table holding Patrick Connelly’s body, where he stopped.
“This,” he explained, drawing back the sheet, “is Charles Connelly’s son. This corpse is the reason Connelly rode after us, killed young Will Johns from behind, and tried to kill all of us by stampeding the cattle herd over our camp.”
Forsythe, hearing the
bitterness in Case’s tone, looked from Case to the corpse and back again.
“Look at that wound in Connelly’s head,” ordered Case. “What do you see, Lieutenant?”
“A bullet hole.”
Case got the candle from its door-side bracket, held it low, and waited several seconds before asking: “What else, Lieutenant?”
“Powder burns.” Forsythe drew back, looking perplexed. “Powder burns exactly like the horse had. This lad, like his horse, was shot from very close quarters. No more than a foot away.” Now the officer straightened and turned fully around toward Case. “Are you inferring that whoever killed this man and his horse was a close friend...someone who could approach within a foot or two before killing this man?”
Case moved the candle closer to Connelly’s head. He looked upon dead Patrick Connelly without speaking for a while. Then he said, tiredly: “No, that’s not what I’m trying to show you at all.” He blew out the candle as he walked toward the doorway. “Come along, Lieutenant. Now we can go see Marshal Beal.”
Back out in the alleyway filled with soldiers, Forsythe halted Case with an upflung hand. “I don’t like mysteries,” he said. “I want you to explain this.”
Case shook off the hand, went to his mount, and stepped up across it. “No mystery, Lieutenant, but you wanted proof and I’m giving it to you. Come on.”
Forsythe motioned for the troopers to follow, then rode on after Case. Where the party of them emerged into the north-south roadway there were dozens of silent, motionless men, some not completely dressed but all round-eyed and hushed, watching the soldiers ride forth, halt before Marshal Beal’s office, and dismount. Here, Case waited for Forsythe before entering the building.
Conrad Beal was there at his desk, rubbing both eyes with fisted hands. At the appearance of Case Hyle with a uniformed cavalry officer, he sprang up, both startled and astonished.
“This is Lieutenant Forsythe from Fort Alert,” Case announced as he crossed to Beal’s desk, drew open a drawer, picked up the six-gun lying there, and handed it to Forsythe. “This is Town Marshal Beal,” he concluded, his solemn gaze upon the officer.
