Fort Hatred

by Corba Sunman

  Moran cut off his thoughts. They were leading him into a morass of conjecture. He descended to the bank, took his leave of Maxwell, and went outside, heading for the back lot to check for a weapon along the rear of the bank. He found nothing.

  He heard a noise from the alley he had used, and saw Art Bowtell emerging. The town marshal came towards him. Moran considered him as he halted. He was grinning, and Moran thought that he would not be in a light mood if he had failed to get the men who robbed the bank that morning.

  ‘Looking for anything in particular?’ Bowtell asked.

  ‘I’m checking for the gun that was fired at me across the street from the bank.’ Moran sighed and relaxed. ‘I guess I made a mistake. But I was certain I was shot at from the roof of the bank.’

  ‘Dan Archer was up there when you looked,’ Bowtell mused.

  ‘Do you think he took those shots at me?’ Moran demanded.

  ‘Hell, no! I’m just looking at the facts.’

  ‘Archer didn’t have a gun with him. He told me how he came to be on the roof, and his wife bore out his statement. Do you know what I think? You’ve got a bad set-up around here. There’s a bunch of dishonest men working together to extract what they can from the community. So who do you know who is crooked?’

  ‘You think I know who’s doing what around here?’

  ‘You know the community, and there must be some men inside of town limits who don’t work regularly but have money to spend. Point me in their direction and I’ll try to expose them.’

  ‘You must be getting desperate if you’re ready to try a stunt like that.’ Bowtell shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t attempt it. I’d be dead before I started asking questions.’

  ‘But you know who they are,’ Moran insisted.

  ‘A couple of names spring to mind.’ Bowtell shook his head slowly. ‘I’m not inclined to mention them because they might cloud the issue.’

  ‘Are there any soldiers on your list? Is Clark still around here?’

  ‘I ain’t set eyes on him, and that’s a fact, and there’s been no talk about him since he busted out of the fort. The soldiers have a run-in with the townsmen at times, but it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘You’re not doing your job properly if you can’t pinpoint the hard cases around town.’ Moran set his jaw pugnaciously. ‘Are you trying to hide something, Marshal?’

  Bowtell allowed a tight grin to pass across his face, but his eyes were hard and unfriendly. ‘I’ll overlook that, seeing who you are,’ he grated. ‘It sounds as if you’re getting a mite desperate. OK, I’ll give you a name and we’ll see what you can make of it. Bart Swain works in the saloon as a gambler, and he’s slippery as an eel. I’ve always reckoned he was up to no good around here, but I’ve never caught him out, so see what you can do. Now that I’m thinking about him, I remember your deserter, Clark, was friendly with him.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Moran turned and went to the saloon, leaving Bowtell to stare after him. He pushed through the batwings and went to the bar. The saloon was not busy, and there was no sign of Bart Swain. Moran asked for beer and, as he paid the bartender, asked, ‘What time does Swain start his job?’

  ‘Around seven. Feeling lucky, are you?’

  ‘I can usually hold my own,’ Moran replied. He glanced at his pocket watch, saw the time was just after six p.m., and took his beer to a table where he could watch the ebb and flow of business through the batwings.

  The saloon began to fill as the evening drew on. Several cowboys pushed through the batwings, cheerful, brash and noisy. They bellied up to the bar and called for drinks. Townsmen began to put in an appearance. The batwings banged and creaked incessantly. Then Bart Swain entered from the rear of the saloon, easily recognized for the gambler he was. Moran studied the black-suited figure. Bart Swain was no more than thirty years old, tall and good-looking. He was gaunt-faced, as if his occupation and its attendant dangers were too stress-filled to be handled casually. He wore a grey Stetson to relieve the funereal colour of his suit. His eyes were brown and unblinking beneath his hat brim.

  Swain sat down at a large table in the centre of the saloon, and the ’tender came hurrying over from behind the bar with a bottle of whiskey and a glass. The ’tender spoke cheerfully, but Swain did not break his hard expression or acknowledge the ’tender’s presence. The ’tender went back behind the bar and Moran, anticipating a general drift towards the gambler’s table, moved in first and dropped into a seat opposite Swain.

  ‘This table is used for private games and by invitation,’ Swain said in a clipped tone. ‘I don’t know you, Captain, and I don’t want to.’

  ‘I’m not here to play poker,’ Moran replied harshly. ‘I’m a military policeman sent into this area to investigate the actions and activities of certain troopers stationed at Fort Tipton. I have heard that you were friendly with Trooper Clark, who escaped from the guardhouse and killed a fellow trooper during his escape.’

  ‘Did you say Clark?’ Swain’s eyes took on a wary expression.

  ‘I doubt there is anything wrong with your hearing,’ Moran retorted. ‘I did say Clark.’

  ‘I don’t recall the name off-hand. So many faces show up around this table and I can’t remember them all.’ Swain reached inside his jacket and produced a pocket watch. He glanced at it and then replaced it in his pocket. Moran caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster and the butt of a small-calibre gun before the lapel of the jacket closed in to conceal them.

  ‘Am I holding up your scheduled game?’ Moran asked.

  ‘You could have picked a more convenient time. But I have nothing to say that would interest you. You’ll be wasting your time trying to push this line of your investigation with me.’

  ‘I’ll be the best judge of that. Just answer my questions. I have a job to do, and I’ll do it come hell or high water. There are two ways we can handle this, and it’s up to you which way we do it. You can co-operate and be helpful or you can handle it the way you are doing, and if I’m not satisfied with your attitude and information, I can make life very difficult for you. I have the power to arrest you on suspicion of withholding information, and I’ll take you into the local law office and hold you until I get what I want. Do you understand?

  ‘So what was your question?’

  ‘Do you remember Clark? I heard that you and he were friends before his arrest.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I’ll ask the questions and you answer them; nothing more.’

  Swain’s dark eyes seemed to smoulder and his thin lips pulled into an almost invisible line. The fingers of his right hand twitched as if he wanted to pull his hidden gun. Moran watched him silently, outwardly casual, but tense and ready to flow into action. Swain heaved a sigh and tried to relax.

  ‘I knew Clark,’ he said without seeming to move his lips, and his hard gaze did not leave Moran’s face. ‘I wouldn’t call it friendship. He played poker at times, and seemed to be above the usual run of soldiers. He was interesting.’

  ‘Have you seen him since his escape from the fort?’

  ‘No. If he had the sense I thought he had then he would be far away by now.’

  ‘Did he have other friends in town?’

  ‘We didn’t talk on a personal level. What he did and who he knew was of no interest to me.’

  Moran knew he would make no progress with Swain. He stood up and prepared to leave, but paused and looked into the gambler’s inscrutable eyes.

  ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ he said. ‘I may need to talk to you again, Swain, depending on what I learn from other sources of information.’

  Swain ignored Moran and turned his head to look at a group of men standing at the bar. ‘I’m ready to play poker now,’ he called.

  Moran turned away as four men left the bar and hurried to the gambler’s table. He bought another beer and sat down close to a small raised stage at the rear end of the saloon. A man was seated at a piano beside the stage, and he began to
play the instrument. A woman appeared from a back room and came to stand beside the piano. She began to sing, and Moran leaned back in his seat and gave her his full attention while his mind ticked over the points of his investigation.

  The woman was tall and had a good figure that showed to advantage in an off-the-shoulder blue dress. She was beautiful, her blue eyes bright and glowing with vivacity. Moran got the feeling that she was singing to him personally, and he noticed that her gaze favoured him among the men present in the saloon. When she finished singing, she surprised him by approaching his table, waving and smiling to her audience.

  ‘Good evening, Captain,’ she greeted. ‘I haven’t seen you in here before. Are you new at the fort?’

  Moran got to his feet. ‘I arrived this morning. Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She paused while he drew out a seat for her, and flashed him a quick smile as she sat down.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ he invited.

  ‘Not at the moment, thank you. If you arrived at the fort this morning then I assume that you are Captain Moran, the military policeman.’

  ‘News travels fast in this town,’ he observed.

  He could tell by her manner that she had something on her mind, and he was concerned. His first glance at her had struck an unfamiliar chord in his mind and he was instantly attracted to her. The sound of her voice appealed to him, and he gazed into her eyes and felt concerned by the sorrow that filled them.

  ‘I knew two weeks ago that you were coming here, and I’ve been waiting for your arrival. I’m Ruth Sandwell, Captain. My brother was Lieutenant Sandwell, who was murdered in the fort three weeks ago.’

  Moran leaned forward in his seat, suddenly very interested. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Sandwell, and I’m truly sorry about your brother. One of my duties is to look into his death. If there is anything you can tell me that will help my investigation then I’ll be happy to listen to you.’

  ‘We can’t talk here,’ she replied swiftly. ‘It’s too dangerous for me. No one here knows who I am. I’m calling myself Ruth Kelling. I have a room at the hotel. Could you come there to see me after I finish my stint here? In fact, I could pretend to have a headache after my next song and leave early.’

  ‘I’ll meet you when and where it would be most convenient for you,’ he declared.

  ‘Thank you, Captain. You’ll find me in room nine at the hotel.’

  She smiled at him and arose abruptly. He watched her cross the stage and enter a room, and then he finished his drink and left the saloon. He was elated by the turn of events. Ruth Sandwell obviously knew something of the circumstances of her brother’s death, and he controlled his impatience and waited in the shadows of the alley next to the saloon. . . .

  It was some twenty minutes later when Ruth emerged from the saloon, and she was accompanied by a tall man who was well dressed and talked in a loud voice. They passed closely by Moran; the man in full conversational flow.

  ‘Are you sure you’re gonna be all right, Ruth?’ he said. ‘I can get Doc Arnott to come to the hotel and look you over. It’s no trouble.’

  ‘It’s just a headache, Chuck,’ she replied. ‘I think it’s the spotlight you have shining on me when I’m on stage. It’s so bright, and it is centred right between my eyes.’

  ‘We got to let the customers see you, Ruth. You’re going over big, and that means money. You take care now, you hear? We’ve got something good going here.’

  ‘Just get that spotlight adjusted so it doesn’t blind me when I’m singing,’ she told him.

  Moran followed them as far as the alley beside the hotel, and got a good look at Chuck as the man escorted Ruth into the hotel. The stranger was a big, wide-shouldered, handsome man with fair curly hair and an expansive smile. He must be the saloon owner, Moran thought. He waited in the shadows of the alley, and ten minutes later, Chuck emerged and went back along the sidewalk in the direction of the saloon.

  Ruth quickly opened the door when Moran knocked on the centre panel of room nine. He stepped inside and she closed the door. Her face was serious now; eyes dull with an inner pain. He glanced around the room. There was a single bed by the window, a couple of easy chairs, and little else except a small table with two chairs at opposite ends. Moran sat down at the table. Ruth opened a cupboard and produced two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

  ‘My father is a Colonel in Washington,’ she explained as she poured whiskey into the glasses. ‘He was against my coming here, but I insisted. He found out about you coming here and arranged for me to be on hand when you arrived. Do you know what happened to my brother?’

  ‘Only that he was killed while on the parade ground by someone outside the fort shooting from a nearby place called Spyglass Hill. Tell me about your brother. I intend looking into the circumstances of his death when I can get the time.’

  ‘Frank was sent here by our father because there is something seriously wrong at the fort. He reported that the troopers were close to mutiny some weeks ago. Discipline was slack, the troopers were causing trouble here in town, and everyone was beginning to call the fort by a nick name – Fort Hatred. Colonel Davis was posted. They put it around that he was ill and unable to do his duty, but he was suspected of dereliction of duty. A large quantity of rations, guns and ammunition had disappeared from the store, and have not been traced.’

  Moran listened intently. But Ruth did not have much to tell him. Her brother had written reports to his father but merely mentioned the crimes being committed without supplying names of the people involved. Ruth’s voice quivered as she explained that Lieutenant Sandwell had been killed before he could expose the guilty men.

  ‘There’s not a lot to go on,’ Moran mused when Ruth fell silent. ‘I did not know the extent of the trouble.’ He saw the expression which crossed her face and hastened to reassure her. ‘But I expect to make an impression on the situation. There will be loose talk around the fort and I’ll glean facts from it. I’ll keep in touch with you and you’ll be able to report to your father. But don’t tell anyone your real identity. There are some bad men around town as well as in the fort, and the fact that you are a woman would not stop them from silencing you to save themselves.’

  She nodded, and from her expression Moran was able to see the extent of her anxiety. He got to his feet and reached for his hat, his mind dilating with unusual sympathy.

  ‘We’ll have to be careful about how and where we meet.’ He wanted to pass the thought to her that she was not alone, that he would help her where he could because he found her different and he wanted to get to know her better.

  She nodded. ‘I have struck up a friendship with Major Harmon, thinking that he has most opportunity of knowing what is going on. But he is close-mouthed and defensive. He seems to have a lot on his mind, but that might be down to the fact that he has taken over command at the fort and is now responsible for what happens next.’

  ‘If I have anything to tell you, I’ll drop in at the saloon so it looks as if our meeting is above board. You can be sure I shall be watched, and anyone I talk to will be under grave suspicion by the men I seek.’

  ‘I’m not unduly worried about the risks I shall be taking,’ she replied. ‘My brother died in the execution of his duty and I want to bring the circumstances to light, no matter the cost.’

  Moran shook her hand and departed, carrying with him a picture of her soulful eyes and the expressed determination that inwardly drove her.

  He left the hotel and stepped into the darkened alley beside it, but he heard nothing but quickly sensed a presence behind him. He turned quickly, reaching for his holstered gun and raising his left arm defensively. The shapeless darkness seemed to leap at him, and he tried to duck the upraised pistol that descended to strike him. When the blow landed it was as if all the stars in the firmament collided inside his head. His half-drawn gun fell from his suddenly limp hand; shrouding shadows blacker than the night enveloped him. He was not aware
of falling to the ground. . . .

  CHAPTER SIX

  The town marshal, making his evening round of the town, checking doors and inspecting businesses, stumbled over Moran’s unconscious body and cursed under his breath when his entire body weight crashed onto his left knee. He sprawled in the alley, pushing his face against the hard ground before rolling on to his back. He drew his gun before reaching out to check what had caused his downfall, and the yellow kerchief around Moran’s neck gave him his first intimation that the senseless man was a soldier. He felt for a match, struck it, and looked down into Moran’s stiff face.

  Bowtell got to his feet and lifted Moran bodily; carried him into the hotel and put him down on a couch. Charles Grant, the owner of the hotel, was at the reception desk, and watched Bowtell without making any movement to assist. Grant was short and rotund, smooth-faced and weak-chinned. His blue eyes were screwed up as if he had trouble seeing normally.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Grant demanded. ‘If he is, you can take him out of here pretty damn quick.’

  ‘He’s not dead,’ Bowtell replied. ‘Go fetch Doc Arnott.’

  ‘Not me. I don’t want to get involved. He’s the new captain that showed up at the fort today, huh? He’s just like the rest of those officers – useless.’

  Bowtell controlled his temper. ‘Just watch him until I get back,’ he rapped. ‘I’ll fetch the doc.’

  He hurried out to the street and rapped on the doctor’s door, which was opened by Arnott’s wife, a small woman with a neat figure and a careworn face; white hair which was sparse at the crown.

  ‘Is the doc in, Mary? I’ve got an Army officer at the hotel. Someone clouted him with the barrel of a pistol.’

  An inner door was opened and Arnott appeared, carrying his medical bag. He was short and fleshy, and nodded affably when he saw Bowtell.

  ‘I knew I was wanted as soon as I heard your knock, Marshal,’ he said.