Fort Hatred

by Corba Sunman

‘I’m Trooper Myhill, Captain,’ he reported. ‘I’m to be your orderly while you’re here. I was just about to spruce up your uniform, sir, and polish your boots.’

  ‘Thank you, Myhill. I’ve got some reading to do.’ Moran threw the summary of evidence on the bed. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could rustle up some coffee and food before you do anything else. I’ve been on the trail for several days and meals were sparse.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. I’ll run across to the cook house and get you something.’

  Myhill departed in a hurry. Moran looked around at his quarters, which were sparsely furnished. There was a tall cupboard, a small table, and a wash basin in one corner. An upright chair and an easy chair completed the furnishing. Moran removed his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, sat down, opened the summary of evidence folder, and began to read the contents. He became so engrossed in the evidence that he barely noted Myhill’s return until the trooper handed him a spoon and a plate of stew. He had set a tray on the table, and a pot of hot coffee sent out an aroma that soon attracted Moran’s attention.

  He paused to slake his thirst and eat the stew, and then continued reading the evidence until he had picked up the gist of the events that surrounded the desertion of Clark and the murder of the sentry who had caught Clark in the act of stealing a mount from the horse lines.

  There seemed to be no mystery about the murder. The sentry, Trooper Barlow, on duty at the horse lines, was stabbed when confronting Clark, and had survived long enough to raise the alarm and report that he recognized Clark as the man who had stabbed him. There was a statement from the guard at the main gate that he saw a man scaling the wall of the fort from the inside and fired two shots, but the man dropped over the wall and made good his escape. A subsequent search of the outside area of the fort failed to reveal any sign of the man, alive or dead. It was assumed that he had been Clark, who had got out of the guard house an hour before the murder was committed.

  Moran read the evidence several times until he had mentally absorbed it, and came to the conclusion that he would have to catch Clark before he could make any headway in the case. He decided to visit Cactusville as soon as possible, accompanied by a trooper who knew Clark, and try to get a lead on the deserter. He would stay out of uniform so that he would not be conspicuous in the town.

  Myhill attended to Moran’s uniform and boots and put them in the wardrobe before departing to handle other duties. Moran relaxed as he considered the situation. He was washing at the basin in front of the window when one of the panes of glass shattered and tinkled to the floor. He was so surprised he forgot to duck, and a second window was broken before he heard the sound of the first shot, which was so quiet as to be almost inaudible. But he was not slow in dropping to the floor, and in his haste, his head struck the side of the bed. A curtain seemed to drop over his eyes, and sight and sound faded as he lapsed into unconsciousness. . . .

  CHAPTER TWO

  A hand shaking his shoulder aroused Moran and he opened his eyes to see Sergeant-Major Craven bending over him. Craven helped him to his feet and eased him onto the bed.

  ‘I was coming to see you, Captain,’ Craven said, ‘and heard the shots. They came from Spyglass Hill.’

  ‘I was washing in front of the window,’ Moran said, pressing a hand against the side of his head where it had made violent contact with the bed. He could feel the stickiness of blood, and his head was aching. ‘Send a couple of men out to check the hill. I’ll go there myself when I’m able.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that,’ Craven said. ‘I’ll send a couple of gallopers towards town with orders to turn and ride back to the hill on the back trail from town. They might just catch the sniper riding back to Cactusville.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Moran agreed.

  Craven hurried from the room. Moran got to his feet. His head was clearing. He bathed the wound, pulled on his jacket and hat, and went out to cross the parade square to the headquarters buildings. Four riders swung into view from the horse lines and went galloping to the main gate in a cloud of dust. Sergeant-Major Craven emerged from his office.

  ‘You look shaken, Captain,’ Craven observed. ‘Perhaps you should see the post doctor before doing anything else. Lieutenant Cross is in his office. I’ve got to see him, so I’ll walk with you over to his place, if I may.’

  ‘I don’t need a doctor, Sergeant-Major. Get my horse brought here and I’ll go and take a look around. I’ll need a man to accompany me into town – someone who knows Clark well, and if he can be dressed in civilian clothes then so much the better.’

  ‘I know just the man, Captain. He’ll be here by the time your horse has been saddled.’

  Moran was impatient until he was ready to leave the fort. His horse was brought around from the horse lines by a mounted civilian.

  ‘I’m Sergeant Bessemer, Captain,’ the man said, ‘and I’ll be riding with you. I know Clark like I know my own father. If he’s in Cactusville then we’ll get him.’

  ‘That’s very good, Sergeant.’

  Moran liked the appearance of Bessemer, who was large and looked capable of handling anything that might come up. He was fleshy, his face somewhat battered. His nose was crooked, and he had several lumps around his eyebrows. His blue eyes were hard and bright.

  ‘Let’s take a look around Spyglass Hill. Someone is getting into the habit of shooting into the fort from there, and he should be discouraged from further activity.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It will be a pleasure. Lieutenant Sandwell was killed on parade by a shot fired from the hill. He was a fine officer, sir – my Troop leader, and I’d like to get the man who killed him.’

  They left the fort and rode towards the hill. Moran had a stream of questions to ask and so many points to cover, and he was aware that he could only cover one facet at a time.

  ‘What kind of a man was Sandwell?’ he asked.

  ‘The man or the soldier, sir?’

  ‘The man. Did he get drunk in town? Did he gamble? Did he chase after women? Did his involvement with a married woman bring the husband down on him?’

  ‘I don’t think he did any of those things, sir. He was just a normal man, and he treated his troop OK, which says a lot about him.’

  ‘But he had one enemy – someone who hated him enough to want to kill him.’

  ‘It could have been someone with a grudge against soldiers generally, and picked him because he was in view at the time when the shot was fired.’

  Moran nodded. He looked at Spyglass Hill, which was visible from ground level, and then glanced back at the fort, judging the distance between the summit of the hill and the parade ground inside the fort to be about 500 yards – a long shot, and probably impossible for an ordinary Army long gun. So there had to be a man in the locality who owned a special rifle, probably equipped with a telescopic sight. He had seen several such weapons in his time, and made a note of the fact for further reference.

  The hill was no higher than fifty feet, and looked as if the builders of the fort had planned to build earthworks but had not completed the job. As Moran drew closer to the spot, he saw two soldiers scrambling around on the apex; their mounts were grazing nearby. They came down to ground level and joined Moran and Bessemer. One of the two was a sergeant, and he saluted Moran.

  ‘I’m Sergeant Askew, Captain. I sent two of the patrol to ride a wide circle around the hill to look for recent tracks. There’s nothing on the hill; not even an empty cartridge case. Was anyone in the fort hit by the shooting, sir?’

  ‘It was directed at me,’ Moran replied. ‘Some windows were broken, that’s all. Wait for the rest of your patrol to return to you. If they have found tracks then send someone to find me in town to report their findings. If there is nothing to report then return to the fort. Sergeant Bessemer and I are riding to town immediately.’

  Sergeant Askew saluted. Moran regained his saddle and departed with Bessemer at his side. Bessemer selected their route in such a way that if a rider
had left the hill for Cactusville after the shooting then they would be certain to find his tracks. But they found nothing, and as they continued to town, the two gallopers appeared whom Sergeant-Major Craven had sent out, and they reported that they had not found any tracks. The gallopers were ordered to return to the fort, and Moran continued to town.

  Cactusville seemed to rise up out of the range as they neared the little community of some 600 souls. There was a collection of buildings on either side of the trail heading south, most of them built of adobe. The general appearance of the place was sad and lonely. There were few people in view, the sun blazed down, and dust was everywhere. An old dog lying in the shade of a broken-down wagon lifted his head to look at them as they passed by, but did not have the energy to get up and check them out. His head dropped back on to his paws and he closed his eyes.

  There was some activity in front of the Mercantile. Two men were loading supplies on a buckboard. Three horses were standing hipshot at a hitch rail outside a saloon, and Bessemer reined in.

  ‘Have we got time to wet our whistles, sir?’ he asked.

  Moran smiled. ‘I guess we can check out the saloon first,’ he replied, ‘and we could quench our thirst while we are inside – all in the name of duty.’

  They dismounted and tied their mounts to a hitch rail. Moran led the way into the saloon. Several men were standing at the long bar with glasses before them, and they all turned and looked towards the entrance when they heard the batwings creak. The hum of voices halted as if cut off by a knife. Moran went to the bar and leaned an elbow on it. The bartender, a small, wiry-looking man in a red shirt, had sparse black hair flattened with a liberal dose of pungent-smelling hair oil, the aroma of which preceded him as he came along the bar. He looked from Moran to Bessemer and his face lapsed into a smile.

  ‘What are you doing in town at this time of the day, Sergeant?’ he demanded. ‘And out of uniform too. Have you deserted?’

  ‘I’m showing a new officer around, Clancy,’ Bessemer replied.

  ‘Two beers,’ Moran said, and waited until the ’tender slid foaming glasses along the bar. ‘What do you know about deserters, Clancy?’

  ‘Nothing but town talk,’ Clancy replied, his dark eyes blinking rapidly.

  Moran picked up his glass and took a long drink, his keen gaze not leaving the ’tender’s face. ‘And what are they saying around town?’ he persisted.

  Clancy shrugged. ‘It’s mostly nonsense, as usual. Have you come to replace Colonel Davis?’

  ‘No.’ Moran lapsed into silence.

  Clancy shrugged and moved away. One of the two range-dressed men standing on Moran’s right came along the bar and nudged Moran’s elbow as he raised his glass to drink. Beer splashed down Moran’s jacket. He set down the glass and turned to face the newcomer, expecting an apology, but the man merely glared pugnaciously.

  ‘What’s sticking in your craw?’ Moran demanded.

  ‘Soldiers are a damned nuisance,’ the man replied, his jaw jutting angrily. ‘Why the hell are they stuck out there at the fort? There’s no Indian trouble now. They are a waste of public money. They don’t spend much in town, and raise hell every chance they get. When they are in town on Saturdays it ain’t safe for women and children to be on the street. Why aren’t they employed on something worthwhile, like hunting down the bad men we’re plagued by? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  ‘What’s your name, mister?’ Moran demanded.

  ‘I’m Deke Sloan. I own the Lazy S cattle ranch, and I’m in town at this time of the day to report the loss of some steers instead of attending to my business.’

  ‘Do you suspect that soldiers stole your cattle, Sloan?’ Moran kept his tone steady.

  ‘Nothing would surprise me,’ replied Sloan sneeringly. ‘I think soldiers should be banned from coming within a mile of Cactusville. My daughter came into town for the dance in Bennett’s barn last Saturday and was manhandled by a drunken soldier.’

  ‘Did you make a complaint to the commanding officer at the fort?’

  ‘That would have been a complete waste of time. I’ve got a description of the man, and when I meet up with him, he’ll be sorry for what he did. I’ll take a horse whip to him.’

  ‘It would be far better to complain to the fort and have him dealt with by the military authorities,’ Moran said.

  Sloan turned away. ‘It would be a waste of my time,’ he said. ‘Others have complained about similar incidents, and nothing has ever been done about them.’

  Moran drained his glass, glanced at Bessemer, and nodded towards the batwings. Bessemer took the hint and led the way out of the saloon. They paused on the boardwalk. Moran looked around the unlovely street. He saw the town marshal standing in the doorway of the law office.

  ‘You take a look around town, Sergeant,’ Moran suggested. ‘Keep your eyes open for Clark. If you do see him then arrest him and bring him to the law office.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Bessemer saluted and made himself scarce.

  Moran went to the law office. Bowtell, the marshal, was staring fixedly at the dust in the street. He seemed miles away. Moran spoke to him twice before he looked up.

  ‘How’d you get on at the fort?’ Bowtell asked. He turned, entered the office, and Moran followed him into the welcome shade.

  ‘I’ve made a start on what I came here to do. Did you catch any of the bank robbers?’

  ‘That’ll be the day!’ Bowtell shook his head and sighed. ‘The posse is still out looking. I can use my time to better purpose back here.’

  ‘My job is to locate a trooper named Clark. Did you know him before he was jailed?’

  ‘I had some trouble with him.’

  ‘Have you seen him since he deserted?’

  Bowtell frowned. ‘I would have arrested him if I saw him. I wouldn’t want him running around loose in town after he went loco over Laura Tipple.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Moran invited.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea. I have to go to the bank and get some statements about the robbery. Why don’t you head for the general store and talk to Seth Tipple? He’ll tell you all you want to know. Then come back to me later and we can go on from there.’

  Moran agreed and left the office. He walked to the store and entered. A tall beanpole of a man, white-haired and thin, was talking to three female customers. His apron was two sizes too large. He looked haggard and overcome by problems. He looked up as Moran entered, and his craggy face showed relief as he left the women and came to Moran.

  ‘Can I help you, mister?’ he demanded.

  ‘There are three women ahead of me,’ Moran pointed out, smiling, ‘and I wouldn’t want to be accused of pushing in.’

  ‘Take no notice of them. They won’t want serving until they’ve run out of gab. That’s my wife in the yellow dress, and she can’t get enough of local gossip, God bless her.’

  ‘I’m Provost Captain Moran, Mr Tipple, and my job is to locate and arrest Trooper Clark, who escaped from the fort guardhouse a short time ago. I’ve heard that he was seeing your daughter before the trouble started, and I’d like to speak to her to learn the background of what went on.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ Tipple replied. ‘When Clark was arrested, I sent my daughter to Austin to stay with my brother, and she ain’t coming back, ever. Clark pestered her nigh to death when she turned him down, and I was certain that if he got to her he would kill her.’

  ‘It was that bad, huh?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it.’ Tipple shook his head. ‘I hope you get him quick, and if you shoot him dead trying to take him then I’ll feel pretty good about it.’

  Moran looked into Tipple’s eyes, saw worry in their depths, and knew the storekeeper was not joking.

  ‘I heard that Clark was seen around town after he busted out of the fort,’ Moran said. ‘Being a local man, have you any idea where he might hide out?’

  Tipple nodded slowly. ‘There’s one man – Stark Shorten
– owns a horse ranch north-east of town; sells remounts to the fort. He’s a hard case, but Clark seemed to hit it off with him, and I reckon you might learn something about Clark’s whereabouts if you catch up with Shorten. But walk softly around him. If you go out to his place to see him, he might start shooting before you can ask any questions. He’s like that. He reminds me of a man who is waiting for a lawman to tap him on the shoulder.’

  ‘Thanks for the information.’ Moran turned to depart. ‘I’ll see Shorten right now.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ Tipple replied softly.

  Sergeant Bessemer was coming along the sidewalk when Moran emerged from the store. Bessemer paused at Moran’s side, shaking his head in reply to Moran’s enquiring gaze.

  ‘No sign of Clark,’ he reported. ‘I reckon he hit the trail for other parts as soon as he got clear of the fort. What do we do now, Captain?’

  ‘We keep on plugging away at finding him. I’ve got a lead I need to check out. I heard that Clark and a man called Shorten were good and friendly before Clark went into the guardhouse. Do you know where Shorten’s horse ranch is?’

  ‘I sure do. Let’s get our horses and head north-east.’

  They collected their horses from the hitch rail in front of the saloon and rode along the street. Bessemer inched ahead, turned into an alley beside the bank, and then crossed a back lot. When they came to a trail, Bessemer turned left and they headed north.

  ‘We’ll ride into Shorten’s yard if we keep on along this trail,’ Bessemer said. ‘It’s about twelve miles. Shorten is the kind of man nobody but a fool would tangle with. He ain’t got a sense of humour; shoots first and asks questions later. Don’t attempt to creep up on him. You’ll get a slug if he spots you.’

  ‘Don’t gab so much, Sergeant. I’ve got things to think about while I’m riding. Just tell me when we get to Shorten’s place.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll ride a few yards ahead, shall I?’

  Moran nodded and Bessemer pulled ahead. Moran began to muse over the information he had gained. But it was early days, and there was nothing cut and dried about any part of the situation. Apart from Clark, there was the unknown man who could not resist shooting at the fort from Spyglass Hill; he had killed Lieutenant Sandwell, left no clues to the incident and, Moran sensed, there was no earthly chance of finding any.