“Huzza for that, sir, and congratulations.”
“Thank you, Major.”
“But, beggin’ the general’s pardon, I’m going after Larsen.”
“Now?”
“With your permission, sir.”
“Surely it can wait a moment, Major. Larsen’s lost half his army, he’s in retreat, he stripped his headquarters of supplies—which implies he’s not coming back—I wouldn’t calculate him an immediate threat.”
“He’s just biding his time ’til you’re gone, sir, then he’ll swoop down again like the vulture that he is and prey on these poor innocent people.”
“All right, Major, very well. We’ll pursue him and chop him down. There’s nothing I’d like better than being the sword of justice. But in the meantime, let’s deliver some good news to these poor people—and give them a thrill.”
I nudged Edward forward and together, man and beast, we passed through the swinging doors of the saloon. The children shouted and laughed in astonishment and joy; their fathers eyed me with slack-jawed consternation; and their mothers sighed in appreciation for my return.
I raised my hand Indian-style and said, “Greetings, people of Bloody Gulch. Do not be alarmed, it is I, Marshal Armstrong Armstrong; I’m only disguised as an Indian. I bring you good news. You are all free to go home!”
I had to pause for all the cheers and rejoicing.
“The siege of Bloody Gulch is lifted. Your farms are returned to you. You can rebuild your town. And we will restore your church and your school.”
I waited for the inevitable question, but in the pandemonium of celebration it never came, so I put it forward myself: “Now you may ask, ‘But what of you, Marshal Armstrong—where will you go, what will you do?’ To which I say, ‘Your battle, dear people, is won; but my battle against Larsen continues, and Major Beauregard and I will carry the battle to Larsen wherever he might hide, whatever he might do, so that you need never again live in fear.’ ”
The thunderous applause set Edward’s ears back. I backed him from the saloon and doffed my black wig, acknowledging the appreciative ovation of the people.
As Edward trotted to the hotel, a window sash went up, and a be-robed and perfectly coiffed Miss Saint-Jean stuck out her head. “Marshal, what are you doing? Get some clothes on!”
“Miss Saint-Jean,” I shouted, saluting her with my wig, “your show can go on—here or any place you please; the siege is lifted; your showgirls are free.”
“Are you serious—or should I say, as serious as a half-naked white man disguised as an Indian can be?”
“Quite so.”
“Well, then, Marshal, hallelujah. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Your company, madam, at dinner is all I require, with a refreshing glass of Alderney, and perhaps the addition of my ward and Miss Johnson.”
“You old tomcat—but why wait for dinner?”
“I have business to attend to, Miss Saint-Jean. Until then . . .” I bowed in the saddle, sweeping my wig before me.
Billy Jack was still mounted, and waiting for me at the farmyard. “You want to continue the fight?” he said.
“You read my mind, Sergeant.”
“Not hard for a Crow to understand Boyanama Sioux.”
I gave him a sour look. “Major Beauregard is certain our fight isn’t over. You agree?”
He nodded. “Man like Larsen has only one good end—and that is six feet under, as you white men say.”
“And your Crows—will they fight with us?”
“No; they came to fight Sioux. They’re not interested in this war.”
“But you are?”
“I serve with you and Major Beauregard as pony soldier and scout.”
“Well done. So then, Sergeant, how about we follow those tracks?”
“After you change clothes—I do not like riding with Boyanama Sioux.”
I laughed and said, “As you wish.”
I was at my washbasin, patting my face dry, when I heard a knock at the door. I was half-dressed—pants and boots on, but shirtless—and said, “Just a minute.”
A woman’s voice said, “Marshal—General—it’s urgent!”
Knowing that my torso often has a calming effect on women, I answered the door immediately, shirtless. Rachel stood at the doorway.
“Why, Rachel, come in; what’s wrong?” I closed the door behind her.
“Billy Jack’s waiting for you on a horse outside. Where are you going? Are you leaving me?”
“Leaving you? Why, Rachel, no I’m not leaving you, if you mean abandoning you. If anything, I am further guaranteeing your safety. Billy Jack and I are going on a reconnaissance mission to see if we can track down Larsen.”
“And if you do?”
“Well, that’s valuable intelligence.”
“You’re going to fight him, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, I assume eventually.”
“And what if you get killed?”
“Well, there’s always that risk, but . . .”
“You do realize I’d be left entirely alone then.”
“Well, not entirely—you have your whole career in front of you with Miss Saint-Jean. Never underestimate, my dear, the worthiness of the professional cancan dancer. You are, in your own high-kicking way, advancing the cause of civilization is these parts.”
She turned her head, and was, I sensed, about to weep, as women do. So, I took her by the shoulders and said, “Look at me, Rachel, and listen carefully. You are my ward and I will do everything I can to protect you, but you must also realize that I am Custer of the West. Where I go, you cannot always follow; what I do you cannot do with me; my immediate future is one of being a knight errant. I will defend you always, but you must accept that I might be gone for long periods of time; that my battles for truth and justice are ones that you cannot always share. Right now, I have a mission to track down Larsen. That’s my duty. Yours is to be the best cancan dancer you can be, and to repay Miss Saint-Jean for all the kindness she has extended to you—not in money, but in service, the service of the theatre, which is a very great service to the human heart. Do you understand?”
She grabbed my arms and tried to compose herself. “Yes, yes, Golden Hair,” she said, looking up at me. “I . . . I understand.” I thought she’d want to step back and take at least one good look at me before she left, but instead she cast her eyes down, caught her breath, and then fled. Don’t ask me to explain it. That’s just how it was. So, I shrugged my shoulders, put on a shirt, and trotted down to Billy Jack who held the reins to Marshal Ney.
“I reckoned you’d like a fresh horse.”
“You reckoned right,” I said, stepping up into the saddle.
Beauregard come trotting up on a horse as well. “You boys goin’ somewhere?”
“Why, Major? Would you like to keep us company?”
“I surely would—like to keep you boys from getting lost too.”
I chuckled and we led our horses over the trench.
“I can tell you where they are,” Beauregard continued as we ambled in the direction of the Trading Post. “They’re almost certainly holed up at old cousin Delingpole’s place. It’s at the end of a big box canyon to the northwest of here. It’s a perfect hideout. Hidden from the outside by the canyon walls; a river runs through it, so there’s no worry about water; plenty of game too.”
“You know it?”
“Scouted near it—certainly heard about it.”
“And you, Billy Jack?”
“I know it. The Sioux killed an Englishman there.”
“Under Larsen’s orders,” said Beauregard. “Larsen took it over; it’s his hunting lodge now. That’s why I’m pretty sure he’s there.”
Billy Jack nodded. “Makes sense; strategic withdrawal.”
“All right,” I said, “but let’s start at the Trading Post. We can test your theory, Major, by following the tracks.”
“Yes, sir,” said Beauregard, saluting, and we picked
up our pace.
Billy Jack found the tracks easily at the back of the Trading Post, but Beauregard bid us wait. He dismounted and said, “I’d like to look around, if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish, Major. I’ll go with you.”
Billy Jack held the reins of our horses. Beauregard told him: “If you hear a gunshot or two don’t come running; wait ’til you’re sure it’s a gunfight.” Then he moved like a hound dog on the scent of a coon through the storeroom and into the main part of the store. He surveyed the counters, shelves, and barrels, then jogged up the stairs to the loft above, and headed straight for the offices, starting with the one on the far right. He threw open desk drawers, rifled through papers, then charged into the next office and did the same. At the third office, closest to the bedroom, a locked file drawer stymied him, so he blew the lock clean off with his revolver. He plunged his fingers into the files, pulling one after another, giving each a quick examination, and then pushing on. Finally he raised a document in his hand, like an Indian lifting a prized scalp.
“Take a look at this,” he said.
It was a land grant. The paper was smudged and dirty, maybe even bloodstained, given some of the rusty-colored marks on it, but legible enough, most especially the name of the property owner, Jack Delingpole.
“Major, what’s the point of this?”
“The point, Yankee General, sir, is that ‘Cousin Delingpole’ is more than a figurative expression. He actually was my cousin—my English cousin. His pappy exiled him and didn’t want him back, Jack being a younger son and all, and he being English and all—that’s the way things work over there. He served with me in the First Virginia Cavalry. That paper you’re holding says he owns Bloody Gulch—the town, the Trading Post, and his homestead.”
“I see. But he’s also dead, Major.”
“Yes, sir, I reckon that’s so. But I also reckon that Cousin Delingpole’s legal right to that land can be proved, which gives us another reason to put a bullet hole in Larsen.”
“We had reason enough already.”
“Well, sir, let’s just say I’m glad to have it.”
“But if this paper proves Larsen stole Delingplane’s land, why didn’t Larsen burn it?”
“Look at the scrawled addendum on the back. Cousin Jack deeds everything to Larsen as an agent for the Sioux. That’s a fraud, I reckon. County clerk’s office probably has a copy. Larsen had to make it look legal to prove his case. But I reckon with proper encouragement, Larsen’ll confess that addendum came under duress.”
“Meaning Indian torture?”
“Unto death, sir.”
“Which would mark Larsen a murderer, or an accomplice anyway—not something he’ll likely want to confess.”
“All a matter of alternatives, Yankee General, sir; I intend to provide him with the right ones.”
I handed him the deed, and he folded it and put it into his pocket and said, “I’ll hang onto this for now. Just thought you should know. And there’s something else, Yankee General, sir; there’s not just a murder to set right, there’s cousin Delingpole’s treasure. I know about that too. I know where it came from and I reckon I know where it is.”
“Not at the mine or the foundry?”
“No, but with your permission, sir, I’d rather leave that discussion for another time. The first objective is Larsen. Shall we go?”
I nodded.
We said no more, and I followed him as he trotted down the stairs and quick marched out the storeroom. To Billy Jack, he explained, “Just went over Larsen’s books.”
“With a gun?”
“Sometimes, Sergeant, that’s the best way to reconcile accounts.”
“Sergeant Bill Crow, take the point,” I said, “and let’s go get Larsen.”
CHAPTER NINE
In Which I Seek Delingpole’s Treasure
“Englishman’s place is about ten miles,” said Billy Jack as we rode through the tall grass. “Mouth of the canyon is about eight miles. We can expect sentries there.”
“How many men?”
Billy Jack nodded at Beauregard, who said, “Brace yourself, Yankee General, sir, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s upwards of fifty, if you add up the farm guards, the mine and the foundry guards, his personal guards at the Trading Post, and the men who lounged around the town and the saloon. If you’re looking for a war, sir, you still have one.”
“And glad for it, Major. Glory is a corporate thing. Oh, I know out here in the West, men like Wild Bill Hickok, with whom I’ve ridden by the way, have fame that’s unique, individual; but for me, it’s all about leading men into battle—the duty and the cause. That’s why I wear a badge, that’s why I wore the uniform.”
“An army of three, sir, is an army in reduced circumstances.”
“It’ll do, Major—first, we scout the enemy; tonight, at the hotel, we have a council of war. By tomorrow morning, I’ll have a plan. We’ll strap on bandoliers with our coffee.”
Billy Jack visibly tensed, alert as a jackrabbit in mating season. That had me worried.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“Pursuit.”
“How many?”
He held up one finger. “Been tracking us, but coming rapidly now—too noisy for Sioux.”
I heard nothing but trusted him. “How far away?”
He struck out five fingers. “Five minutes. From those trees,” he pointed to a line of cottonwoods on our southern flank.
“Well, then, Sergeant. Let’s form a welcoming committee.”
We turned our horses to the trees and pulled our Winchesters from their scabbards. As sure as biscuits need gravy, a horse and rider came bursting out of the trees and rode straight toward us, the rider unfazed by three men holding rifles; and then I saw why.
“Rachel—what the heck are you doing here?”
“I told you, Marshal, General, you can’t abandon me.”
I sighed and glanced at my comrades.
“Yankee General, sir; you don’t expect all your, uh, wards, to come ridin’ after us, do you?”
“I am alone, Major Gillette,” said Rachel.
Beauregard tipped his hat brim in reply. “Ma’am.” Then he turned to me, “Well now, sir, I reckon this calls for a change in plan.”
“It does nothing of the sort. Miss Rachel, you have made your decision. You have joined us on a dangerous and desperate reconnaissance. You must stay beside me at all times and do exactly as I say.”
“I will follow you, General, wherever you lead.”
“I reckon there’s no doubt of that,” said Beauregard, turning his horse onto the trail.
Billy Jack said, “I will ride ahead to see where sentries are posted.”
“Very well, Sergeant,” I replied. “Carry on.”
Rachel fell in beside me, as ordered. “I was useful last time we rode together, General. Maybe I can be useful again.”
“Maybe so, but for your safety, I wish you had stayed behind.”
“Where could I be safer than with . . .” she leaned over and whispered, “General Custer?”
I had to confess, there was logic to that.
We must have ridden five miles or more when Billy Jack reappeared.
“Mouth of the canyon is two miles distant. We can skirt the sentries if we cut north. There is rocky country, big boulders, up there—good cover and perhaps a good view of the canyon. The only easy descent is where the sentries are, where a tongue of land slopes down into the mouth. But if we don’t need to descend, if we only need to observe, the northern approach is better.”
“Very well, Sergeant, take the point and lead the way.”
Sergeant Bill Crow led us off the flatlands, up a slope, and into a grove of pines that opened onto a new landscape of rock, spurs of forest, and tree-flanked natural terraces in the hillside, along which we rode with scrubland and scree beneath us. We rode higher and higher up a winding hillside until we came out on a boulder-strewn bluff. We left our horses at a stand
of pines and moved stealthily among the rocks until we had a good vantage point on the canyon. It was a spectacular view. The Delinquentpool property—what was now Larsen’s hunting lodge—was set still farther back, though we could see it well enough and note that it was constructed in a “Tudor” style, but with turrets on its four corners. In contrast to our stony bluff, the land below was verdant and the area leading up to the house was one vast, green lawn, but lined and broken up with hedges, which—always thinking tactically—could give us cover.
It was not a sleepy place. Larsen’s men moved hither and yon like so many rifle-toting miniature cowboys. Those who didn’t have rifles were digging trenches—where the green grass yielded to hard, dry soil closer to the house—and others were stuffing the dug dirt into burlap bags for parapets.
“Picturesque, Yankee General, sir, but we can’t see all their traps and surprises from here.”
“No, we can’t. Let’s take a three-pronged approach. Sergeant, go as far north as practicable and scout the enemy’s rear. Major, I’ll leave the enemy’s left flank to you. I’ll descend right here.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but, your, uh, ward?”
“Rachel,” I said, “you must give me your word that you will follow my orders. You cannot come with me. The descent is too steep. The risks are too great. But I will entrust you with a grave responsibility. Stand guard over Marshal Ney. If anything goes wrong, you must lead him to safety. Do you understand?”
“Yes, General, I understand.”
“All right—stay out of sight. Sergeant Crow, Major Gillette—off you go.”
I’m about as sure-footed as a goat, but even I had to be supremely careful. It wasn’t just a matter of finding footholds, but of finding cover, scampering across the canyon wall from one shrub to another, and doing so with the brisk, light feet of a dancer, so as not to send sprays of pebbles and dirt raining down the rock face. My recent period of training with Miss Saint-Jean’s troupe proved invaluable in this regard.
Danger and daring have always been my friends, but with the sun beating down and the difficulty of the descent, I was dripping sweat. I was perched behind a bush, trying to look as inconspicuous as a fly on a horse’s tail when I heard a commotion up above. Billy Jack peered down the canyon rim; he saw me—and he shouted.
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