by Andrew Lane
Virginia slipped into a seat next to Sherlock. Somehow her hand ended up in his. He squeezed it reassuringly, and she squeezed back.
‘Seeing the militia gatherin’ around him, Black Kettle flew a white flag of peace over his tent. Without givin’ any warnin’, an’ without consultin’ with Chivington, Scobell gave the order to attack.’
Crowe paused, and the momentary silence in the room was like something heavy and alive.
‘It was a fire storm of death an’ destruction descendin’ on them from the skies,’ he whispered. ‘Men, women, children – all of them massacred by the artillery fire an’ by rifle fire. They had no chance to defend themselves. An’ when the artillery had run out of shells an’ the rifles had run out of bullets, Scobell led his men into the camp an’ they killed every last one, by beatin’ them with the butts of their rifles, an’ with their knives. Every last one.’
‘Someone must have taken action,’ Sherlock said, shocked. ‘I mean, Chivington and Scobell broke the peace treaty.’
Crowe laughed harshly. ‘What peace treaty? There weren’t any signed bits of paper to refer to.’ When Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else, Crowe raised a hand to stop him. ‘Chivington was hauled up in front of a military tribunal a year or two later and forced to resign from the Army. Scobell went absent without leave, an’ has been on the run ever since.’
‘But . . . children?’ Virginia whispered. ‘Why? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘When he was asked at the military tribunal why children had been killed, Chivington replied, “Because nits lead to lice.” Funny thing is, ah reckon ah can hear Bryce Scobell’s voice there, speakin’ through Chivington. Ah reckon Scobell had much more influence over his superior officer than people thought at the time.’
‘And I’m guessing,’ Rufus Stone said, ‘that you were sent to bring Scobell back to face justice.’
‘That, or mete out some justice of mah own choosin’,’ Crowe said evenly. ‘Ah was given that authority by President Andrew Johnson himself.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah nearly caught Scobell three times, in different places ’cross the States. Ah lost several good men in firefights along the way.’
‘What happened?’ Matty asked, breathless.
Crowe stared over at him. ‘Ah’ll give you an example of what Scobell is like,’ he said. ‘Cincinnati, three years ago: ah’d tracked Scobell down to a room in a boarding house. We surrounded it and burst in. He’d already left, but the woman who owned the place was sitting there, on the bed. She was holdin’ a stick of dynamite an’ a match. When she saw us, she struck the match and lit the dynamite.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘We only just cleared out of the room in time. The explosion killed her, of course. Found out later that Scobell had kidnapped her daughter – said he’d kill her if she didn’t act as a livin’ booby trap for us. An’ she believed him.’
‘What happened to the daughter?’ Matty asked.
‘Oh, he let her go. He had no further use for her. Course, she was left without a mother, but Scobell didn’t care nothin’ about that.’
Sherlock stared at Amyus Crowe. There was something the big American wasn’t saying.
‘Why did he change tactics?’ Sherlock asked. ‘It started out with you chasing him, but it ended up with him chasing you. What happened?’
Crowe stared levelly at Sherlock. ‘There ain’t much gets past you, is there, son? You’re right. Something did happen. Ah said ah lost some men in firefights an’ traps an’ the like. Scobell lost somethin’ too. He lost . . .’ He paused, and looked up at Virginia. ‘Ah’ve never told you this, Ginnie. Ah reckon you’ll think the less of me for what ah’m about to say, but that can’t be helped. It’s the truth, so help me God.’
He took a breath, obviously having to force himself to continue. Sherlock found that he was holding his breath, waiting for what came next.
‘Bryce Scobell had a wife an’ child. Ah don’t believe he ever loved either of them. Ah don’t believe he’s capable of love. But ah think he came closer to real emotion with them than with anyone else. Maybe it was more like possessiveness – ah don’t know for sure. But the thing that happened was, we cornered Scobell an’ his bodyguards at a farmhouse in Phoenix. They started firin’ when they saw us, an’ we fired back. In the crossfire, two of mah people were killed, and so were Scobell’s wife an’ son. We’d had no idea they were there. Scobell escaped, like he always did, but he took an oath that day that he would make me pay for what ah’d done.’ He grimaced. ‘A month later a message arrived for me. It was from Scobell. He told me that he’d kill mah wife an’ mah child an’ he’d make me watch. He told me exactly what he’d do. It weren’t . . . the kind of thing that would occur to any normal, God-fearin’ person, but ah knew Scobell – ah knew that once he set his mind to a thing, then that thing would happen. With the permission of President Johnson ah took a leave of absence from mah duties an’ came here.’
‘And now he’s followed you,’ Sherlock said in the silence that followed Crowe’s admission.
‘As ah said, once he sets his mind to somethin’, that thing happens.’
‘You could have asked for help,’ Rufus Stone pointed out. ‘Mycroft Holmes would have provided guards for your cottage, I’m sure. If not, we could have recruited some people locally to help.’
‘For how long?’ Crowe asked. ‘Even if Mr Holmes provided us with round-the-clock bodyguards, he couldn’t keep them there forever. At some stage they would have been taken away an’ placed on more important duties.’ He shook his head. ‘Bryce Scobell is a patient man. Patient, and very, very clever. He would have waited until everyone had gotten bored an’ tired, an’ then he would have struck.’
‘But you’ve faced dangerous men before,’ Sherlock pointed out. He was confused. He didn’t understand why Amyus Crowe hadn’t stayed to fight. Crowe had always seemed to Sherlock to be a man who confronted difficulty rather than running away from it. Secretly he felt a bit disappointed. ‘I was there in the tunnels beneath Waterloo Station when you took on that man who wanted to kill me. You nearly broke his neck, and you didn’t seem the slightest bit frightened. What’s so different about Scobell?’
‘Ah have faced dangerous men before,’ Crowe agreed. ‘Ah’ve gone up against some of the toughest, hardest men in the world in mah time, but Bryce Scobell is a different bucket of catfish entirely.’ He sighed. ‘It’s difficult to describe, but there’s something . . . not human about him. Most people are wary of bein’ hurt, of bein’ damaged, an’ that gives you an advantage in a fight, but he ain’t. He just don’t care. Ah’m not sayin’ he don’t feel pain, cos he does, but he just shrugs it off. It don’t interest him. An’ he don’t remember the pain neither. If you punch a normal man in the face enough times he’ll stay back, not wantin’ to get hit again, but Scobell – hit him the first time an’ he’ll remember the fact that he was hit, but he don’t seem to learn from the pain. He don’t seek to avoid it next time. Knock him down an’ he just gets up again, an’ again, an’ again. He keeps comin’ back at you, like some kind of mechanical creation.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah’m not makin’ much sense, ah know, but facin’ Bryce Scobell is like facin’ some dark force of nature. He’s unstoppable. That would be bad enough if he was stupid, but he’s one of the cleverest men ah know. He thinks several moves ahead, like he’s playin’ chess, an’ he gathers people around him who are like him.’
‘I don’t understand about the names tattooed on his skin,’ Virginia said suddenly. She had been quiet up until that point. ‘Why would he do that? What does it mean?’
‘It’s a fixation with him,’ her father replied darkly. ‘Ah was told that when he joined the Confederate Army he only had three names, tattooed on his arm. Someone asked him what they were. He said they were the names of men he’d killed.’ He paused and shook his head sadly. ‘He was only eighteen. He’d had them indelibly inscribed on his skin, along with the dates. Said he wanted to make sure he never forgot them.’ He shrugge
d. ‘Course, in war you rarely know the names of the men you kill, so he’d leave a gap an’ do his best to find out who they were, where they were from, based on their regiment. After the end of the War Between the States he spent a considerable sum of money tryin’ to get the names of all the Union soldiers who died in particular places, at particular times. He even tried to find out the names of the Indians he killed. Had Black Kettle’s name tattooed right across the nape of his neck. He’s obsessed with the idea.’
‘What about the ones in red?’ Rufus Stone asked. ‘As if I didn’t know.’
Crowe eyed him darkly. Sherlock assumed he was tacitly warning Rufus not to mention Virginia’s name. ‘Those are the people he’s going to kill but hasn’t got around to yet,’ he said slowly. ‘Planning for the future, ah guess. He’s makin’ a statement that there are people out there whose days are numbered. When they’re gone, he has the name tattooed over in black.’ He peered out of the window again. ‘Ah’m told he’s got mah name in red on his forearm, right where he can see it every day.’
Rufus Stone was frowning. ‘For a supposedly intelligent man,’ he mused, ‘this Bryce Scobell seems to have missed a trick. I mean, he’s on the run from you, he’s on the run from the whole US Government, and he deliberately makes himself more and more recognizable. If I was him I’d dye my hair blond and keep out of sight, not tattoo more and more names on myself.’
‘It’s a compulsion,’ Crowe explained. ‘The man can’t help himself. An’ it’s amazing’ what a pair of gloves an’ some stage make-up on the face an’ neck can accomplish.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ Matty asked. ‘What do we do?’
‘We don’t do anythin’,’ Crowe replied. ‘Ginnie an’ I, we leave the country. Head somewhere else. Change our names. Change our descriptions, as much as we can. You three go back to Farnham an’ try to forget about us.’
The words hit Sherlock like blows. His gaze slipped across to Virginia. ‘I don’t think we can do that,’ he said quietly.
Rufus Stone frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Why did you leave the clues to bring us to Edinburgh if you don’t want our help?’
Crowe closed his eyes momentarily. ‘Because ah wanted to say goodbye properly,’ he said. ‘An’ because ah wanted to explain, face to face, why ah was runnin’ away. Ah wanted you to understand the scale of what ah’m up against. Scobell will keep comin’, an’ keep comin’, and keep comin’ until he succeeds. An’ even if ah try to turn the tables an’ hunt him down, he’s too clever. He’ll cover his tracks an’ hide until I stop lookin’; or worse: he’ll lure me into a trap.’
A silence followed as each of them tried to come to terms with what Crowe was saying.
‘There’s two problems with all that,’ Sherlock said eventually.
Crowe raised an eyebrow. ‘An’ what’re they then?’
‘The first,’ Sherlock continued, not put off by Crowe’s attitude, ‘is that this man, Bryce Scobell, will keep on coming after you. If he’s as clever and as dedicated as that, then he will find you wherever you go, no matter how long it takes him.’
‘You’re right,’ Rufus Stone said, nodding.
‘What’s the other problem?’ Matty asked.
‘It’s that you’re treating this like you would treat any hunt.’ Sherlock paused for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts into some kind of order. ‘I know, from what you’ve taught me, that you treat men as if they were animals. If you’re hunting them you try to predict their movements based on their habits, and you look for the signs of their presence – the signs they can’t help leaving, the way that animals leave tracks.’
‘Ah’ve always believed that mankind is just a different kind of animal,’ Crowe conceded, ‘an’ many’s a time ah’ve used that fact to mah advantage. What’s your point?’
‘My point is that Bryce Scobell isn’t an animal. He’s turned the tables. He’s treating you as the animal, and he’s tracking you, and that’s spooked you. Your usual way of dealing with a situation won’t work. The game has been reversed.’
‘You’re saying he’s cleverer than me?’ Crowe challenged, his eyes flashing beneath his bushy grey brows.
‘Yes,’ Sherlock said simply. ‘So if the game has been reversed, let’s change the game. If Scobell is a better hunter than you, let’s not make this a hunt. If he’s a better game player than you, let’s not make it a game. Don’t let him choose the fight. Change the rules.’
‘Easier said than done, young man,’ Crowe rumbled, but the expression on his face suggested that Sherlock had surprised him.
‘If he’s looking for you,’ Sherlock said, ‘then don’t hide. Don’t do what he expects. Stay in the open. He’ll wonder what you’re doing. He’ll assume it’s a trap and he’ll back away.’
‘And then what?’ Crowe challenged.
‘And then he’ll make a mistake, and you can turn the tables on him.’
Crowe nodded slowly. ‘When the game is a hunt and you’re losing, change the rules.’
‘When the man you’re up against is cleverer and more ruthless than you,’ Sherlock amplified, ‘make sure that the game doesn’t depend on the winner being the cleverest or the most ruthless.’
Crowe smiled and opened his mouth to say something, but there was a sudden thump from the roof of the cottage. Crowe’s gaze snapped upward, his hand already on the pistol, then he looked through the window again. Sherlock followed his gaze. The narrow enclosed hillside that sloped away in front of the cottage was empty, deserted, but something in the air had changed. A smell. Something . . . burning.
‘Smoke!’ he said. ‘I smell smoke.’
Amyus Crowe moved swiftly across to the window. ‘Nothin’ out here.’
Sherlock looked towards the door out to the rest of the cottage. Was it his imagination, or was there a faint haze in the atmosphere out there?
‘It’s Scobell,’ he said. ‘He’s set fire to the cottage!’
‘But how?’ Rufus snapped. ‘Nobody’s come near! And how on earth did he find us?’
‘They didn’t have to come near,’ Sherlock replied. ‘He’s dropped something burning on to the thatched roof from the cliffs above the cottage! That’s dry straw – it’ll go up in seconds!’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Come on!’ Matty yelled. ‘We need to get out!’
Sherlock moved to take Virginia’s hand, wanting to make sure she got to the door safely, but Crowe grabbed at his shoulder. ‘Scobell will be out there, son!’ he shouted. ‘He’ll have rifles. He’ll pick us off like rabbits!’
Sherlock had a mental flash of the decapitated rabbit back at Amyus Crowe’s Farnham cottage. He didn’t want to end up like that.
‘We don’t have a choice,’ Rufus Stone said. ‘If we stay here we’ll be burned alive.’
They could hear the fire catching hold in the straw thatch now – a crackling sound, like sticks being broken by some giant hand. Smoke was drifting in through the open door. Already it was hard to breathe, hard even to see.
‘I don’t think he wants to kill us in the fire,’ Sherlock suddenly said.
Crowe stared at him questioningly.
‘He wants to take his revenge on you. A fire isn’t good enough for him – especially if he can’t be sure from the remains if you were even here.’
‘So what’s he trying to do?’ Rufus Stone asked, struggling not to cough.
‘Flush us out into the open. He’ll have men waiting further down the hill. They’ll have guns, and they’ll take us prisoner when we run out.’
‘But that’s the only option we’ve got!’ Matty cried.
Crowe shook his head. ‘Not quite. There’s a path that leads up the rock face, away from the house, if we can get down the slope that far. It’s hard to spot, but I know where it is.’
Stone covered his mouth and coughed. ‘The trouble will be in getting there,’ he said. ‘Scobell’s men won’t let us get too far from the house before they take us.’
�
�I think I’ve got an idea.’
Sherlock ran for the door to the outside. Crowe and Rufus were moments behind him, with Matty and Virginia just behind them. Sherlock threw the door open. The sudden blast of fresh air sucked the smoke out in a billowing plume that would immediately alert whoever was watching from the rocky crags above – as Sherlock was sure they would be doing.
All over the ground in front of the cottage were the rocks of various shapes and sizes they had passed on the way in. Twenty feet ahead of that was the point where the ground dropped sharply away for ten feet or so – the point where they had had to scramble up using hands and feet. Somewhere past there, hidden by the sudden drop in the ground, were Scobell’s men.
‘Help me!’ he shouted, and set to work dislodging one of the bigger stones.
Realizing what he was doing, Rufus and Crowe threw themselves against two more rocks – even larger ones. Matty and Virginia joined Sherlock, trying to get his one moving.
Sherlock set his shoulder against the boulder and heaved. His throat and his ankles throbbed where the rope had bruised the flesh, but he ignored the pain and kept pushing. The boulder shifted before his weight, rising up slightly and pivoting on a point on its front edge.
‘We’ve got it!’ he yelled.
Something whistled past his ear and buried itself in the ground by his side. He let go of the boulder in surprise, and it fell back into its crater with a thud that he could feel through the soles of his feet. He looked at the new object in surprise. For a moment he thought it was a stick, but there were feathers stuck to the back. He pulled it out of the ground. The front end was sharp, like an arrowhead.
He stared upward. Silhouetted on top of the V-shaped cliff into the bottom of which the cottage was set he could see men holding cross-shaped objects in their hands. They were aiming at Sherlock the way they might aim a rifle.
