Fort Hatred

by Corba Sunman

  Fort Hatred

  A puff of gun smoke erupted from the broken window and Moran fired at it without seeming to aim. A bullet whined past his head and he fired two more shots through the window while moving for cover at the right hand side of the shack. A man emerged at a run from the ramshackle building, triggering a stream of lead at Moran, who dropped to one knee, his gun replying with deadly accuracy.

  The man fell face down in the dust and did not move again. Moran got up and ran to the front window. He saw movement there and tossed a slug into it. A man pitched to the floor inside the shack. Moran reached the window, gasping, breath searing his throat, shoulders heaving. Sweat was running down his face.

  ‘Hold your fire, Soldier-boy,’ Shorten yelled from inside. ‘My two men are down and done for. They started shooting against my orders. I ain’t fool enough to tangle with the Army while I’m working for them.’

  ‘Come out of the shack with your hands up,’ Moran rasped. . . .

  By the same author

  Nebraska Shoot-out

  Ruthless Men

  Black Horse Creek

  The Wideloopers

  Bad Blood

  Fighting Ranger

  Retribution

  Stranglehold

  Fort Hatred

  Corba Sunman

  ROBERT HALE

  © Corba Sunman 2017

  First published in Great Britain 2017

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2558-3

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  Corba Sunman to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Captain Slade Moran reined in on the crest of a ridge in West Texas and gazed intently at his surroundings. The terrain was featureless, seemingly empty, and a line of mountains, purpled by distance, overpowered the flat landscape with their height and might, but he knew the area from a previous visit and reckoned that he was within spitting distance of Fort Tipton, where he was heading, but first he wanted to check out the nearby town of Cactusville. He was attached to the Provost Corps of the Army of the Interior, and his job was to capture, arrest and bring to trial soldiers who had broken military law.

  He saw a cloud of dust off to his right. That must be the trail to the fort, he thought, and if it led into Cactusville then Fort Tipton would be three miles to the north. He urged his tired black horse forward and rode in the direction of the fast-moving wagon he had spotted. He was hunting a renegade cavalryman – Trooper Clark, who had deserted the fort three weeks before, having killed a sentry in the process.

  Ordinarily, a deserter would make fast tracks to put as much distance as possible between himself and the unit in which he had served, but it was rumoured that Clark had a woman in Cactusville and was seen in the area since his desertion. When he deserted, Clark had broken out of the guardhouse and killed a sentry who surprised him in the act of taking a horse to further his escape.

  Moran was tall, three inches over six feet; lean and well-muscled. He was aged thirty years, blond-haired, and had blue eyes. His civilian store suit was black, trail-worn and dusty, and he wore ankle length leather shoes. His military campaign hat was pulled low over his eyes, and a yellow neckerchief was knotted at his throat. He was armed with a .45 Army Colt, snug on his right hip in a cutaway holster, and a six-shot Springfield carbine in his saddle scabbard.

  He rode down a slope and headed for the dust of the wagon he had seen, alert and ready, watching for trouble, and when he caught a furtive movement off to his left, he slipped his feet out of his stirrups. A shot crashed, and Moran dived out of the saddle, reaching for his pistol as he hit the sun-baked ground. The shot echoed as he prepared to fight. His hat was jerked from his head as if by an invisible hand and another series of echoes fled to the horizon. He pushed himself to one knee and cocked his gun.

  A figure was running towards him from the brush, sunlight glinting on a hand gun it was holding. The gun lifted to cover Moran and Moran triggered his Colt. The man jerked and twisted away. His legs lost their strength and he blundered to the ground and stretched out in the dust.

  Moran got to his feet, his ears ringing. He looked around, but saw no more danger. He reloaded his pistol before picking up his hat, and gazed at the neat bullet hole in the curved brim before moving to the downed man. He kicked an outstretched foot without reaction. Blood was showing on the man’s chest. Closer examination showed that he was dead.

  Moran straightened and, as he glanced around, he heard the sound of approaching hoof beats – about six horses, and the next instant, half a dozen riders swept into view from the brush and came galloping towards him, guns in their hands. The foremost of the men was wearing a law badge that glinted in the sunlight. They closed in around him and sat their mounts in a rising cloud of dust, covering him with their weapons. One of the men slipped out of leather, came to Moran, and snatched the gun from his hand.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ demanded the man with the badge. He was tall and solid, with a pistol holstered on his right hip. His dark eyes were filled with suspicion as he regarded Moran. His voice was rough, laced with an innate thread of brutality.

  ‘I was riding into town and this jasper sprang out of the brush shooting at me,’ Moran replied. ‘I was about to check him out when you showed up.’

  ‘That’s short and sweet! Tell me your name and state your business.’

  ‘I’m Captain Moran – Military Provost Department. I’m on my way to Fort Tipton to take up a case of murder and to hunt down a deserter.’

  ‘Have you got papers on you?’

  Moran produced his papers and handed them over. The marshal looked through them intently, and his manner changed appreciably as he returned them.

  ‘I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Captain. I’m Marshal Bowtell of Cactusville. My posse is on the trail because four men raided the bank in town a short time ago and headed out in this direction. One of the robbers had his horse shot from under him, and I reckon it was the guy you shot. Have you seen anyone, apart from this man?’

  ‘Not a soul until that jasper popped out of the brush. Have you any idea who he is?’

  ‘Do you know who he is, Billy?’ demanded Bowtell of the man who had taken Moran’s gun.

  ‘Never see him before,’ Billy replied.

  ‘Give the Captain his gun back and we’ll be on our way.’ Bowtell touched the brim of his Stetson. ‘I’ll see you around if you’re gonna spend some time in town. Leave that bozo lying where he is and we’ll pick him up when we return. I’ll check him out. So long!’

  The posse moved out, leaving Moran standing beside the dead man. When the sound of hoof beats faded, Moran dropped to one knee beside the body and searched its pockets. He found nothing, and fetched his horse and loaded the dead man behind the cantle. He mounted and rode on until he came upon a trail that led north and south, chose north and pushed his mount into a lope. Minutes later, he caught a glimpse of buildings ahead, and pulled his black off to
the left in order to circle the town. He realized that he needed to visit Fort Tipton as a priority to get the lowdown on the deserter Robert Clark, and an identity for the dead man who had attacked him.

  He saw the fort a mile before he reached it, and a sigh of relief escaped him when he reached the big double gate and halted where a sentry was standing in the shade with a carbine in his hands.

  ‘Have you got business in the fort?’ the sentry demanded.

  ‘I’m Captain Moran, Military Provost. I’m here to see Colonel Davis.’

  The sentry came to attention and saluted. ‘Yes, sir, Captain. Go through the gates, sir, and cross the parade square to the headquarters building. There’ll be a sentry on the veranda. He’ll take you to First Sergeant Craven in the Troop Office, who will take you to Major Harmon, in command because the Colonel is off sick.’

  ‘You’re a mine of information, Sentry. What’s your name?’

  ‘Belding, sir. Welcome to Fort Hatred, Captain.’

  ‘This is Fort Tipton, isn’t it?’

  Belding grinned. ‘The men have a better name for it, Captain.’

  ‘Take a look at the dead man behind my saddle, Belding, and tell me if you know him.’

  Belding came forward and lifted the dead man’s head by grasping the hair and twisting it. He gazed at the dead features, then let go of the hair and looked up into Moran’s grim face.

  ‘He’s a stranger to me, Captain. How did you get him, sir?’

  Moran smiled and rode into the fort without answering. The parade ground stretched before him and he crossed it to a row of wooden buildings on the far side. A sentry stood in the shade of a veranda, and came forward as Moran dismounted and dragged the body off the horse.

  ‘I’m Captain Moran. I want to see whoever is in command.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The sentry saluted. ‘That’ll be Major Harmon, Captain. You’ll find the First Sergeant in the Troop office, through the second door, sir. He’ll put you right.’

  ‘Get an orderly to take care of my horse,’ Moran said. ‘I shall be staying here for some days. Have my blanket roll taken to the officers’ quarters.’

  ‘First Sergeant Craven will attend to your needs, Captain.’

  Moran mounted the veranda and entered the doorway the sentry had indicated. He found himself in the Troop Office, which contained two desks, shelves lined with folders and stationary. Two men were seated at the desks. One wore the stripes of a First Sergeant; a short, older man with greying hair cut very short. His uniform was immaculate. His face was weathered by the sun and he looked as if he could handle anything that came up in the line of duty. His brown eyes were alert, and when he looked up from his paperwork and saw Moran, he got immediately to his feet and stiffened to attention, a smile crossing his lips and instantly disappearing from his face.

  ‘Captain Moran, sir,’ he greeted in a clipped tone. ‘It’s good to see you again, sir.’

  Moran studied the Sergeant-Major’s face, and smiled when recognition came to him. ‘First Sergeant Craven! I last saw you in Nevada – a pay master and his coach carrying a pay roll had disappeared. I’ve got a body outside. He ambushed me – I think he was after my horse.’

  ‘You killed him, Captain?’ There was no emotion in Craven’s voice and his face remained expressionless.

  ‘I had no choice. I’m here to look for Trooper Clark. Bring me up to date on his case, and I’d like to see a summary of evidence. My information about him is that he’s hiding out in this area, probably in the town. Have there been any more sightings of him?’

  ‘There are reports that he hasn’t left the area, sir. Major Harmon will be able to give you more on that. I’ll tell the Major you’re here. He’ll want to see you as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll be staying at the fort. My gear is on my horse. Take care of it for me.’

  ‘Will do, sir. I’ll appoint an orderly to you. I’ll see if Major Harmon can see you now, Captain.’

  Craven went to a door at the rear of the room which bore the legend Commanding Officer, knocked, and entered in response to a harsh voice calling an order to enter. Moran turned and looked out through a window beside the outer door. A dozen mounted troopers were now lined up on the square and a sergeant, also mounted, was shouting drill orders. The Sergeant-Major emerged from the office.

  ‘Major Harmon will see you now, Captain.’

  Moran entered the inner office and a tall figure stood up behind a desk set before a large window and came forward, his right hand outstretched.

  ‘Captain Moran,’ he said. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you, and we could certainly do with your help around here.’

  Major Harmon was tall and lean, his long face showing the unmistakable signs of worry, especially around the eyes. His uniform was smartly pressed and his boots were highly polished. His thick black moustache softened the line of his taut mouth which showed a tendency to cruelty. His eyes had no compassion – they were like black pebbles from the bottom of a stagnant creek.

  ‘Welcome to Fort Tipton, Captain. First Sergeant Craven will bring you up to date on Clark. Please excuse me but I have an appointment to see some of the town committee in Cactusville, and I’m running late. I’ll catch up with you when I get back from town and we’ll plan a clean sweep in this area to regain the initiative lost by Colonel Davis.’

  Moran saluted and departed, and was talking to First Sergeant Craven in the outer office when Major Harmon emerged from his office and departed. Craven’s craggy face showed a number of expressions, dislike among them, as he gazed after the Major, and Moran noticed but made no comment.

  ‘I’ll need Clark’s summary of evidence, Sergeant-Major. Then I’ll settle into my quarters and get into uniform.’

  ‘I’ve given Trooper Myhill orders to act as your orderly, Captain. He’ll be in your quarters now. He’s taken your horse and your gear and should be working on your uniform by this time – if he isn’t, he’ll be on punishment drill before the day is out.’

  ‘Harsh treatment, Sergeant-Major,’ Moran commented.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Craven’s face was impassive, but his eyes gleamed. ‘Discipline has slackened around here but now the Colonel is out of the way, we can stamp out the trouble that’s come up. I’ve got the matter in hand, Captain.’

  Craven opened a drawer in his desk, took out a folder, and held it out to Moran. ‘This is the summary of evidence for Trooper Clark. We’ll get on with his court martial once you’ve brought him back – and we’ll throw the book at him. With any luck we’ll be able to prove that he was the instigator of the murder of Lieutenant Sandwell, who was shot dead on the parade ground a month ago. The fatal shot was fired from outside the fort, Captain, from a spot on Spyglass Hill. By the time we realized that fact, the killer had slipped away, although there were some horse tracks on the Hill.’

  ‘I’ll come back to you when I’ve had a chance to read the summary. I shall need to question all the witnesses who made statements. Now direct me to my quarters and I’ll settle in and get down to work.’

  Craven called an orderly to show Moran to the officers’ quarters.

  ‘And come straight back here, Redfern, when you’ve shown the Captain where to go,’ Craven instructed.

  Trooper Redfern turned and left the office, and by the time Moran reached the veranda, Redfern was almost out of sight. Moran called to him and the trooper halted. When Moran reached him, Redfern was standing to attention, his eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the distant horizon.

  ‘Slow it down,’ Moran advised. ‘What’s your hurry?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Redfern was a short man with an unsmiling face. He was powerfully built around the shoulders, his arms heavily muscled; hands abnormally large. He had blue eyes that glittered with an unholy light, and looked at Moran with none of the submissiveness of a lower rank faced by an officer, but there was no defiance in his direct gaze. He fell into step with Moran. ‘I heard tell you’re here to hunt dow
n Trooper Clark, Captain.’

  ‘What’s your interest in Clark?’

  ‘He was a friend of mine, sir.’

  ‘Why did he desert? I heard he was a good soldier who suddenly kicked over the traces and made a run for it, and yet it’s said that he hasn’t left the area. What’s keeping him here where it’s highly dangerous? Deserters usually put as much distance as they can from their point of desertion. Is it true that he’s got a woman in Cactusville?’

  ‘He never mentioned anything like that to me, Captain. He didn’t just desert. If he hadn’t upped-stakes and made a run for it he would have been killed.’

  ‘Like Lieutenant Sandwell?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that, sir. The lieutenant’s death had nothing to do with the trouble inside the fort. He was shot from outside by someone on Spyglass Hill.’

  ‘I shall want to talk to you later, after I’ve picked up what information I can glean from the summary of evidence.’

  ‘That will get you nowhere, sir. The men who know the truth haven’t made any statements, and there’s nothing I can tell you, sir. I don’t know any more than the rest of the troopers here. Judging by the general talk buzzing the fort, everyone is shocked by what has happened and nobody seems to have any idea what and who is behind it.’

  ‘Someone knows something,’ Moran said quietly, ‘and I’ll track him down before I’ve done with this place.’

  ‘I’ve heard of your reputation, Captain, and I guess it’ll take someone like you to get the lowdown.’

  Redfern showed Moran to his quarters, where an orderly stood inside, removing Moran’s uniform from the rolled blanket that had been tied behind the cantle of his horse. Redfern departed swiftly. Moran faced his orderly, who stood to attention beside the bed in the room; a short, slight figure with sharp brown eyes and wispy blond hair.