by Len Levinson
Eunice said under her breath, “Do as he says.”
Gunfighters handed their weapons to the armed soldiers surrounding them, while more soldiers watched from the corners of buildings, rifles ready to fire.
“Nothin’ personal,” Sergeant Nichols said, “but if’n you fellers start any shit in town, you’ll wish you didn’t.”
The soldiers stepped out of the way, and Mulgrave spurred his horse. His gunfighters rode down the main street of Woodlawn, and housewives watched fearfully from the windows of their homes.
Stolney sidled his horse next to Mulgrave. “Think we’ll have time fer a little snort in one of these here saloons?”
Eunice’s voice assailed him from the other side of her husband. “Absolutely not!”
The gunfighters didn’t want their cojones sliced off again, so they kept their mouths shut. They approached the front gate of the fort, where another group of soldiers stood guard, led by Corporal Bailey, veteran of countless clashes and skirmishes with injuns, busted up and down the ranks more times than he cared to count. “Hold it right there!”
“Want to see the lieutenant,” Mulgrave said.
“Just one at a time. Sorry.”
Mulgrave turned to his wife. “I’ll go.”
She didn’t like the idea of her bumbling, fumbling husband confronting the clever Lieutenant Daltry alone, but it wouldn’t look right if she went instead. “Be careful what you say,” she said softly, “and you might want to make it worth his while.”
The flag fluttered in the morning breeze, soldiers performed close-order drill on the parade ground, and shots crackled on the rifle range, as Mulgrave dismounted in front of the orderly room. Sergeant Baxter looked up from his desk.
“Want to speak with the lieutenant,” Mulgrave said. “A matter of vital importance.”
“Reckon he’ll want to speak with you too, sir. Be right with you.”
Sergeant Baxter strode to the commanding officer’s private office and opened the door. Lieutenant Daltry lay on the sofa, reading a translation of On War by Karl von Clausewitz.
. . . in such dangerous things as war, the errors which proceed from a spirit of benevolence are the worst.
“’scuse me, sir,” the crusty first sergeant said. “Mr. Mulgrave is here.”
Daltry sat upright, and removed his steel-rimmed glasses. “Send him in.”
Baxter closed the door, and Daltry hid the book in a drawer, with his eyeglasses. He didn’t want anybody to know about his weak eyes, or any other defect he might possess. The combat commander must present an aura of invincibility at all times.
Mulgrave entered the office, and Daltry stared at him coldly. “Six of your men pulled a bushwhack on Main Street last night, and I’ve been forced to declare martial law. You and Mr. Reynolds better settle your differences peaceably, otherwise I’ll throw both of you in the stockade. I have enough trouble with injuns, and don’t need more from you.”
“This is an outrage!” Mulgrave pounded the heel of his fist on Daltry’s desk, but not too hard. “Reynolds burned my ranch to the ground last night, and if you won’t take action, goddamm it, I will!”
Daltry pointed at Mulgrave’s nose. “You take the law into your own hands, I’ll come after you with all the forces at my disposal. You want war, I’ll give it to you!”
Mulgrave tried to stare him down, with mixed results. “I and Colonel Simpson are on the best of terms. You get in my way, I’ll have your shoulder boards hanging from my living-room wall.”
Daltry wanted to pull his service revolver and blow Mulgrave’s head off. The rancher observed the rage he’d triggered, and knew he’d gone too far. He flashed his most obsequious smile. “Things were peaceful before Reynolds showed up, but he killed six of my men this morning. I have a right to Army protection, and if you don’t believe me, come to my ranch and see for yourself. It’ll smolder for days, all I worked for in my lifetime, me and the missus. What’re you a-gonna do about it?”
“I’ll send a courier to Fort Eustace, but that might take a week. In the meantime, stay away from Reynolds.”
Mulgrave withdrew a handful of coins from his pocket and laid them on the desk. Daltry gazed at more than he earned in a month, and his father wasn’t as prosperous as everyone thought.
“Attempting to bribe an officer of the U.S. Army,” Daltry said coolly. “I’ll throw you in the stockade.”
Mulgrave grinned nervously. “No witnesses. My word against yours.”
“That cuts both ways.” Daltry grabbed the front of Mulgrave’s shirt and threw him toward the door. Mulgrave slammed into it, bounced, and caught his balance. The door opened, and Sergeant Baxter appeared, gun in hand. “What the hell’s goin’ on here, sir?”
“Show this man to the gate.”
Lieutenant Daltry pushed Mulgrave out the door, slammed it, and returned to his desk. The coins beckoned beside the ink blotter, the young officer picked them up, tossed them into the air, then dropped them into his pocket. He took out von Clausewitz, put on his glasses, and resumed his reading program.
~*~
The desk clerk looked up from his register. A broad-chested cowboy with a firm mirthless mouth approached. “Room fer the night.”
The desk clerk turned the register toward him. The cowboy wrote a name and pushed the register back. “Ever hear of a man called John Stone?”
“Our sheriff,” the room clerk replied. “You a friend of his?”
Boettcher was taken aback momentarily by the sudden news. “How long’s he been in town?”
“Few weeks.”
“Know where I can find ‘im?”
“We’re havin’ a range war, and it keeps him purty busy.”
“He got a woman?”
“Our new schoolmarm.”
“Young, dark hair, pretty, about this tall.” Boettcher held his hand in the air.
‘That’s her.”
“Where’s the schoolhouse?”
~*~
Two cowboys pulled the Gatling gun out of the barn, sunlight gleaming on its brass fittings. They rolled it to the center of the yard and covered the barrels with sun-bleached tarpaulin.
Stone stood nearby, with Barbara Reynolds and the cowboys. “If I know Mulgrave,” he told them, “he’ll come like a bat out of hell. Fill your pockets with grenades, and keep plenty close by. If we break their attack, we’ve got them beat.”
Cowboys headed for the barn to retrieve the crates of Ketcham grenades. Stone studied the defensive system with a professional eye. I think we have the firepower to stop them.
He returned to the main house and found Reynolds at his post before the window of his office, searching the valley for signs of Mulgrave. “At Gettysburg,” Reynolds said, “we tried to kill each other, but today we’re on the same side. I don’t know what to make of it, but maybe we’re both a little loco. Anyway, I hope Mulgrave comes soon. You can’t keep men at a fighting pitch for long.”
~*~
Sometimes life seemed a strange mystery to Boettcher. Other men had women, and he had whorehouses. They had a knack, and he didn’t know what it was. He’d tried to imitate them, but it didn’t work. Love, the most important thing in the world, eluded him.
He came to the window of the schoolhouse, peeked inside, and saw her standing behind a desk, wagging her long forefinger as she explained a fine point of grammar. Maybe she’ll be glad to see me.
He sat on the porch and tried to figure what to say. A bell rang behind him. Tiny feet rushed the door, and he leapt out of the way. Children spilled onto the porch, screaming at the tops of their lungs. They roared through the backyard and disappeared into alleys, heading home for lunch. Boettcher recalled going to school for a few years, but his mother needed him to take care of the younger children while she worked as a laundress.
The backyard became quiet, and Boettcher entered the schoolhouse. He came to a corridor and followed it to the end. Through an open door he caught a profile of her, correcting arithmetic pa
pers and munching a sandwich. His feet became leaden.
Her head turned to him, and his eyes clicked on hers. She sucked wind, and her jaw dropped open. Then the sandwich fell out of her hand. Her face went pale. “You!”
He sauntered uncertainly into the classroom, a half smile on his face. “Should’ve knowed you couldn’t git away from me, missy. I’d foller you to the North Pole.”
Her eyes bugged out of her head, her worst nightmare coming true. Boettcher stopped at the edge of her desk, and she remembered the gun in her dresser at the Blodgett home.
“You don’t look happy to see me, missy.”
“I’m with John Stone now. You’d better leave me alone.”
Boettcher snorted. “You mean the sheriff? That don’t mean a damn to me. You don’t know what you’re doin’, missy. That man ain’t fer you. You belong home, with yer daddy.”
“If you don’t go away, I’ll call the soldiers.”
“Are you with John Stone of yer own free will?”
“You bet your life I am.”
“He turned yer mind around, but you’re too young to see.”
“It’s none of your business.’ Please leave me alone.”
“Anything you say, missy. I’m sorry to bother you. But a-fore I go, let me give you a piece of friendly advice. Keep yer eyes on John Stone. He ain’t what you think.”
The front door opened. “Anyone home?” asked Lieutenant Daltry. He entered the schoolroom, his eyes fell on Boettcher. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
“Not at all,” Leticia replied. “The gentleman was just leaving.”
Boettcher mumbled something incomprehensible as he backed toward the corridor. “Who’s that?” Lieutenant Daltry asked after the front door closed.
“Just somebody. Is this an official call?”
“I wanted to make sure our schoolmarm is safe. And to talk with you.” Suddenly his tongue became thick as a watermelon. Sweat broke out beneath his uniform.
She sensed that he wanted to say something important. “What is it, Lieutenant? I hope nothing’s wrong.”
“As a matter of fact,” he said stiffly, “something definitely is wrong. You’re married, and I’m not.”
He spun around and walked swiftly to the door. Before she could blink, he was gone.
~*~
The valley thundered with hoofbeats as gunfighters and a woman rode toward the Reynolds ranch. Wind flapped their coattails and creased the wide brims of their hats as they bounced up and down in their saddles. Armed with rifles, six-guns, and knives, they advanced on their mission of doom.
Mulgrave rode in front, whipping the haunches of his horse with his reins. He imagined lining Reynolds and his men before a wall, and giving them the firing squad. Reynolds’s been in my way too long. I’ll kill that son of a bitch if it’s the last thing I do.
A few feet behind him, Eunice rode a pinto stallion, wind rustling her long skirts, the sun reflecting glints on her spurs. She wasn’t so certain of success as her husband, because Reynolds had John Stone on his side, and she knew he was a formidable opponent. But they had to attack. Stone gave them no choice.
On the other side of Mulgrave, Stolney rode a black gelding with white boots. He wanted a long Mexican vacation with plenty of pesos to spend on the senoritas, and knew Reynolds had wealth in the form of cattle, horses, wagons, farm implements. Stolney had seen Barbara Reynolds, not bad to look at. Wouldn’t mind having some fun with her.
In a mass of churning dust and horseflesh, the gun-fighters followed their new ramrod toward their rendezvous with bloodshed. Their guns and rifles loaded, minds filled with avarice and lust, their horses shook the ground with pounding hooves as they swept like a pestilence across the valley.
~*~
Three soldiers played poker on a barrel, watching Boettcher out of the corners of their eyes. Boettcher checked them and everyone else in the general store as he came to a stop at the counter.
“How can I send a letter the fastest way?”
“A man’ll carry it to Fort Eustace for five dollars,” said the proprietor. “Train stops there every day. You can make the arrangements through me.”
Boettcher threw the envelope and a few coins on the counter. “When’ll it go out?”
“First thing in the morning.”
~*~
Lieutenant Daltry paced back and forth behind his desk, muttering and mumbling under his breath. I made advances to a married woman! Shocked by his discourteous behavior, he wondered how he could ever face her again.
He couldn’t believe the words escaped his mouth, but a demon possessed him for a few moments. She handled it well, he had to admit. Cool as a cucumber. Von Clausewitz would be proud of her.
What’ll I say next time I see her? Pretend it never happened. He wrapped his fingers around a bottle of laudanum in his bottom drawer, unscrewed the top, took a swig, and waited for the warm glow to come on. Next time you see her, don't say anything suggestive. And if she brings it up, apologize from the bottom of your heart.
The essence of red poppies spilled into his bloodstream. “It’s not the end of the world. Thank God there were no witnesses.”
~*~
A few feet away, Sergeant Baxter pressed his ear to the door and heard the lieutenant talking to himself. The first sergeant shook his head sadly and returned to his desk.
Once, at Fort Phil Kearney long ago, he’d heard the story about a company commander like Lieutenant Daltry who spent all his time alone with books. First he began talking to himself, and then one day pulled out his service revolver and shot the company clerk and first sergeant before he could be subdued.
Sergeant Baxter placed his revolver on his desk and gazed fearfully at the door to Lieutenant Daltry’s office. “You’re not takin’ me by surprise, you crazy son of a bitch.”
~*~
Leticia sat alone in her hotel room and tried to think. She’d sent the children home early, because she had a splitting headache. “I’m at the crossroads of my life, and if I make a big mistake now, I’ll have to live with it forever.
She felt torn between the practical side of her mind, and the part that loved John Stone. I want a stable life, and John Stone could never give it to me. He changes his mind every day, and we don ‘t have much in common. He treats me like a chattel slave.
She thought of his powerful arms and naked chest covered with dark blond hair. If I marry John Stone, I’ll spend the rest of my life in cheap hotels, or with injuns. He drinks too much and I’ll never own a ranch, but he’ll talk about it till his dying day.
Lieutenant Daltry’s not so exciting, but at least I could have a decent life. He’s on his way to the top, while Stone is headed for the bottom. I don’t want to go there with him, no matter how good he is in bed.
The scales tipped increasingly toward Lieutenant Daltry, and Leticia wondered how to broach the issue with him. I’ll have to pick my words carefully, because if I put him off, I’ll be stuck with that drunken gunfighter, and God only knows what’ll happen to me.
~*~
The riders came to the top of a hill, and below them, the Reynolds ranch sprawled on a meadow, silent and still except for smoke rising from the chimney of the main house.
The gunfighters’ horses snorted long spirals of saliva and danced from side to side, anxious to keep going, while their riders pulled reins and waited for the order to attack.
Mulgrave angled alongside his wife. “Wait for us here, my love. I’ll bring you Reynolds’s head on a platter.” The gunfighters swarmed around him, guns in hands, complexions blotched with excitement, ready to plunder and spill blood. “Follow me!” Mulgrave hollered. “Don’t let any git away!”
Mulgrave spurred his horse, and the animal bounded toward the ranch buildings. Hired killers followed at full gallop, wind stream bending back the brims of hats, shouting encouragement to each other. Tiny figures like ants ran back and forth within the compound, as Reynolds’s cowboys prepared for battle.
<
br /> “Charge!” screamed Mulgrave, swept up in his dream of war. “Onward!”
~*~
The Gatling crew tore the tarpaulin away, then rolled the weapon toward the edge of the barricade. They aimed six gleaming brass barrels at the cloud of dust in the distance, and other cowboys readied their Ketcham grenades.
Reynolds sat in his wheelchair before a window, resting his rifle on the sill, while his wife knelt at the kitchen door, aiming at the oncoming riders. Stone stood at the section of the line where the gunfighters would strike, and examined the enemy formation. They were bunched, easy targets, but had overwhelming numerical superiority.
An impulse made Stone glance at the house. His eyes found the outline of Reynolds in his wheelchair, framed by the office window. That man, more than any other, was responsible for the defeat of the Confederacy. What’m I doing on his side?
But as hoofbeats pounded closer, he realized the truth. Major Reynolds was a man of honor, regardless of what uniform he wore, but Mulgrave’s a cheater, thief, and killer. That’s what Captain John Stone, formerly of the old Third South Carolina, is doing with Major Thomas Reynolds, formerly of the old 20th Maine.
~*~
Mulgrave felt exalted as he charged the tiny cluster of defenders, while behind him came tumultuous hoofbeats of gunfighters’ horses, the men’s battle cries echoing across the plain. Mulgrave always wanted to lead men in a fabulous cavalry charge, and now at last it was happening. He felt like a Chaldean general about to conquer the Persians, as the barricades loomed closer. “Over the top!” he hollered. “Onward!”
Thrilled and excited beyond anything he’d imagined, Mulgrave cocked the hammer of his six-gun. He imagined a victory dinner that night in the main house, with Reynolds hanging by his neck from a gibbet outside, next to a victory bonfire.
