Killer's Breed

by George G. Gilman

  He grinned suddenly and crouched down to remove the man's shoes, finding the two dollars in the left one. Then he grabbed the man by the feet and started to haul him out of the alley and into the street. His undershirt was dragged up, baring his bulging belly and very white, hairless chest. Hedges hauled his burden back down the street to the doorway where the whore had been standing.

  "You still open for business?" he called into the shadows.

  "Sure am, mister," the familiar voice answered. "Oh, it's you?" Her tone was suddenly derisive. "Change your mind, soldier boy? I got a special rate for first timers."

  "It's not for me," Hedges answered. "He's got two dollars."

  The whore gasped as Hedges dragged the groaning man into view. "He was so anxious he couldn't wait to get undressed," Hedges told her. "Is two dollars enough?"

  "This some kind of joke?" the whore demanded.

  Hedges dropped the feet of the man and held up the two bills. "He does look kind of funny, doesn't he? And for two dollars the joke can be on you,"

  A hand reached out of the darkness and long fingers with scarlet-painted nails closed around the money and snatched it away. The whore laughed harshly. "They aren't usually in that state until they leave me, but I guess in wartime a girl's got to take what she can get. Bring him inside."

  Hedges turned away. "I've given you your oats, lady," he called to her. "I'm not about to feed them to you."

  "Screw you!" she shrieked after him.

  "No, him," Hedges said as he walked away, able to maintain a straight line without effort now.

  He heard the door slam and as he again neared the edge of town he turned to look over his shoulder and saw the man still lying in the street. "Should have known," he muttered. "Pa always told me never to trust a woman with painted nails." He tried to remember whether Jeannie Fisher had colored her nails.

  *****

  EDGE was naked and lying face down on the big double bed in the master bedroom of the farmhouse, his body from shoulder blades to feet covered with a sheet and six blankets. He was clean of mud except for that which clung among his long hair. But replacing the mud was a fine sheen of sweat, forced from his pores by the bed covering, the fire which roared in the hearth and his own dangerously high body heat.

  "I wish father and Allen were here," Grace said as she sat by the fire, watching steam rise from a large pan on the hob.

  Her mother was sitting at the head of the bed, stropping Edge's own razor on leather. The storm had passed now and except for when the women spoke it was very quiet in the room, the stillness marred only by the consistent splash of rain on the roof and the regular, pained breathing of the man on the bed.

  "Your father wouldn't he much help," Margaret Hope answered. "He's strong and he's brave, sure enough, but he's got no stomach for this kind of thing. Your brother's probably the same."

  "But they could go and get Doctor Patterson," Grace argued. "You can't be sure you're doing the right thing."

  The elder woman eyed the ugly, venomous ridge across the neck of the unconscious man and grimaced, then tested the sharpness of the razor. She nodded as the slightest of pressure nicked the skin of her thumb and drew a hairline of blood.

  "Wound's poisoned, you got to get the poison out," she proclaimed. "That's commonsense and I don't need no medical training to tell me that. And time anyone got to town and brought Doc Patterson back, this feller would be past helping."

  She got to her feet and crossed to the fire, there to squat down before it and, protecting her hand from the heat with her apron, thrust the blade of the razor into the flames.

  "I think I feel sick," Grace said, swallowing hard, her wide eyes staring in horrified fascination at the flames licking up the blade.

  Margaret Hope looked at the pale face of her daughter and smiled to take the harshness out of her words. "It was you who found him, so you've got to help me. Bring that bowl and be ready to mop up the mess when it bursts out. Likely to smell a bit which won't help your stomach none but now you know about it, you'll expect it. That water looks to be boiling, girl. Let's get it over with and see if he's toting a bullet in there."

  There was already a heap of clean clothes on the bed—shreds of tom-up sheet—and Margaret Hope arranged these around the wound as her daughter set down the steaming pan on a nearby chair.

  "At least he won't feel it." Grace said.

  "Course he won't," her mother snapped, her sudden anger revealing for the first time her own distaste for what lay ahead. She was immediately penitent for the slip and reached out to brush gentle fingers down her daughter's forearm. "Be brave, Grace," she murmured. "It must be done."

  Her hand trembled as she lowered the blade of the razor, but became abruptly steady as the point touched and then sank into the sliver-thin, septic skin. Grace swayed but fought for self-control as the first spout of pus erupted, then gasped in horror as the blade travelled the length of the wound and the man's neck was suddenly running with yellow and green poison which gave off a nauseating odor.

  "Wet cloths, girl," her mother demanded and Grace scalded her hand without feeling pain as she complied. The razor dropped to the floor, and the first swab followed it, white with an ugly stain. Working with haste and feminine gentleness, the elder woman accepted each new soaking cloth from her daughter, bathed the poison from the wound and discarded it. And soon the staining changed color, from the subdued tones of venom to the bright scarlet of fresh, clean blood. The man did not move or make a sound, but his body reacted with great beads of sweat which oozed from each pore to soak the bed-linen.

  Margaret Hope sighed as she looked at the cleaned wound, bright red at the center with a darker coloration of inflammation along each side. "It was a bullet," she pronounced. "Creased him deep but didn't stay."

  Grace had kept her eyes averted during the primitive surgery. Now she looked at the man and drew in her breath sharply. "It still looks..."

  "I know," her mother answered. "He's still making poison, but we won't get at it like this. Bring the medicine chest, girl. All we can do now is put some salve on him, cover it and then keep him sweating to kill the fever." She used the back of a hand to brush sweat from her own forehead. "Then it's up to him. I reckon if he's got the spirit to live, he'll pull through."

  "We could pray for him," Grace murmured.

  Her mother nodded. "Reckon we could, Grace. We ain't no doctors but we did pretty good. So maybe we could pray and it won't matter that we ain't been to church since last Christmas. You say the words, daughter. You speak prettier than me and the Lord's a man."

  As Grace sank to her knees and began to move her lips in silent prayer, her mother continued to stand by the bedside, clasping her hands together. The rain seemed to slacken during the appeal for mercy, but when it was over, came down with an increasing intensity.

  "Weather’ll slow down your father and brother," Margaret Hope said pensively. "Kansas City ain't no Sunday ride at the best of times."

  "Wonder where he comes from?" Grace asked, nodding to the man on the bed.

  "Somewhere I want no part of," Margaret answered. "That's just one more wound he's got. He's been shot lots of times before. I don't think he's a good man, Grace. Feller who carries a razor like he does don't only use it for shaving."

  The two women looked down at Edge, each with her own thoughts about the kind of man he was.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HEDGES and Captain Gordon Leaman, each with a party of twenty troopers, rode three miles ahead of the main body of McClellan's army. Leaman's group was north of the railroad tracks while Hedges kept to the south. As they pushed eastwards in the pale light of pre-dawn they were sometimes lost to each other behind low rises of areas of timber. But for the most part each group had sight of the soldiers in the other as they scouted the route for the main body.

  Hedges had the first hangover of his life and was not enjoying the dull ache behind his eyes, the insistent thirst that irritated his dry throat and the cramps in his
stomach. But counteracting his discomfort was a taut feeling of excitement compounded by the thrill of impending action and a nagging doubt, amounting almost to fear, of how he might react to it. He sensed that the men who rode behind him were experiencing a similar set of emotions. Previous troop movements had been made in the safe knowledge that the territory they covered held no dangers and inevitably the monotony of the circumstances had whetted the appetite for a confrontation with the enemy. But this period was now over and every man under McClellan's command was aware of this. To anticipate danger from a distance and face it bravely was easy to view it at close quarters with the awareness that the courageous sentiments had to be supported by deeds was a situation many men found hard to bear.

  Not least a man like Hedges who recognized, for the first time since donning his officer's insignia, that the men at his back were placing a great deal of trust in him. Blind trust, since he was as untried in war as they were. And because of his own self-doubt, Hedges felt the responsibility heavily upon his aching shoulders but not weighty enough to dull the keen edge of his anticipation.

  "Looks like a town ahead, sir."

  The sergeant was older than Hedges. He was about thirty-five, a farmer with a wife pregnant for the fifth time. He was not an intelligent man, and this showed in the dull flatness of his widely spaced eyes and the narrowness of his brows. But he was a hard man, expert with a rifle. Until today Hedges had considered him too stupid to experience fear, but now as the sergeant pointed ahead to where three columns of white smoke rose in the clear, still air, the man's forefinger was shaking. Hedges looked into the dull, sallow complexioned face of the man and saw the features were set in a stiff mask that emphasized rather than concealed his inner torment.

  "Philippi," Hedges answered with a nod, not having to consult a map. "Last report we had indicated a group of fifty rebels there."

  His tone was soft and even and the sergeant looked hard into the face of his officer. It was not a handsome quality that commanded attention. Beneath a head of thickly growing, short-cut black hair the forehead sloped to prominent brows which jutted out above deep-set, ocean blue eyes. The eyelids were slung low over the eyes, hooding them so that the man seemed to view the world about him with a close, suspicious scrutiny. The nose flared wide at the nostrils and the mouth, as if complementing the eyes, was thin and when the lips curled back it was difficult to decide whether he was smiling or sneering. The clean-shaven jawline was finely chiseled and resolute, completing the appearance of a man who looked and probably was as hard as the situation demanded. The sergeant hoped that he was.

  "Just us and Captain Leaman's troop going in?"

  Hedges' smile was like morning sunlight on fresh fall of snow. It looked warm but the sergeant could feel the chillness. "First we've got to figure out the odds. No sense in troubling the general if there's only a handful of Johnnie Rebs holed up in Philippi."

  The sergeant didn't like the plan but before he could voice his opinion hoofbeats sounded and both men turned at the approach of Leaman and his troopers. Leaman was the same age as Hedges but shorter and thinner. He had a fresh, eager-looking face with bright, honest eyes and an easy smile. He was a regular soldier, a West Point graduate with an ambition to emulate his father who was a general in Washington. He and Hedges had not met until the morning briefing.

  "Looks like it," he said as he halted his horse. The easy smile was not in evidence now as he tried to conceal his nervousness with a facade of toughness. On such a face the expression was incongruous.

  Hedges nodded. "How do you figure it?" He remembered army protocol, but the "Sir", was rather late.

  Leaman chewed his lower lip. It looked swollen, as if he had been worrying it ever since the ride began. "I've been expecting to run into trouble since we started out. The intelligence has been too consistent to be wrong. They have to be somewhere in the area and my guess is in Philippi."

  Hedges realized the captain was stating the obvious to gain time. He didn't help him out, but waited impassively for the decision to be made. Leaman glanced at the smoke, then turned in his saddle to look at the men. The steady rise of the smoke and the nervous expectancy of the men offered no assistance. Yellow rays of sunlight stabbed out of the east.

  "I'll take six men and close in," he said at length, pulling down his cap to shade his eyes. "With any luck we'll be able to get close enough to make an estimate and then back again without being spotted. You wait here with the rest, unless you hear gunshots. Then come at the gallop. If I consider we need more help I'll send one of my group back to McClellan."

  Hedges nodded, accepting the order without question and, in truth; finding no fault with it. Leaman picked the scouting party from his own troop and immediately led them off in a column, slanting southeast from the railroad and following a rutted trail towards a wooded hillock from behind which the smoke was rising.

  "Dismount," Hedges commanded as soon as Leaman's party had gone from sight and the. Men obeyed gratefully, many of them beginning to roll cigarettes. Hedges slid from the saddle and while holding the reins of his horse with one hand, drew a sealed envelope from his hip pocket.

  It was addressed in small, neat handwriting to: Lieutenant J. Hedges, Army Camp Parkersburg. It had been handed to him by one of the sentries just before the advance groups had left camp and. this had been his first opportunity to open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of notepaper, folded twice, and a few lines in the same neat handwriting as on the envelope: Just to say thank you once more for your gallantry last night. Because of what you did my opinion of soldiers has been changed a lot. My sister is much better after her medicine. We live in the house behind the stage depot and you will always be welcome to visit us there. Gratefully yours, Jeannie Fisher.

  Hedges read the note through three times; savoring every word, feeling as indebted towards the girl as she was obviously beholden to him. It was the first letter he had ever received from a woman. He recalled her gentle smile and felt a warm glow spread across his face, but then her naked body intruded and the warmth sank to his loins and became a burning heat. Suddenly he was ashamed and glanced guiltily around the men, as if fearing they could read his thoughts. But they were sitting or lying in attitudes of strained relaxation, not talking, but concentrating upon the hill shielding Philippi as they tried not to show their fear. Hedges refolded the letter in its creases and put it back in the envelope. He was just pushing this into his hip pocket when the volley of gunfire sounded distant and almost innocent in its muted key. But unmistakable for what it was and the direction from which it came.

  "Mount up!" Hedges yelled as he leapt astride his own horse and dug his heels into the mare's flanks.

  The animal broke at once into a gallop and the men streamed in her wake; faces tense and some yelling—as much to urge themselves forward as their horses. As he entered the fringe of the trees covering the hillside, Hedges unbooted the Spencer repeater and rode with it across his chest. Behind him some of the men unholstered sidearms while others made ready with the motley selection of muzzle and breech loading rifles they had brought into the war with them. It was hard riding up the west side of the hill, following the trail which meandered through the trees like a wild stream, but when they reached the crest and started down the going made for greater speed. It was warmer now, with the sun streaming through the foliage on to the troopers. And the rifle fire was louder; then became a cacophony as the troopers burst from the trees to race across the stretch of open ground to the town. They had passed no messenger. It was only a small settlement of houses and shacks, a church, a saloon and a few business premises. There was no sign of human life among the buildings, but three bodies were sprawled in the center of the town's single street, two dressed in blue and one in gray. Three chimneys continued to give out smoke from early morning fires, but other smoke, puffing from the center of orange bursts of exploding powder, could be seen dotting the town.

  As the sound of hoofbeats reached the ears of Ph
ilippi's defenders the rate of rifle fire increased and Hedges stooped low in the saddle, ducking behind the neck of his mount as he heard the whine of bullets and ballshot. He heard a man scream and snatched a glance over his shoulder in time to see one of the youngest troopers slide from his saddle. The trooper's horse bolted in terror and swept ahead of Hedges with the man's boot still trapped in a stirrup. The man had received a superficial shoulder wound but screamed in agony as the flesh was scraped from his hands and face by the rough ground over which he was dragged. The trooper immediately behind Hedges was sickened by the sight and vomit gushed from his open mouth to spatter into the faces of the three men behind him. One of these opened his mouth to shout his disgust and a bullet zinged between his lips and ripped out through his, cheek. Blinded by blood, and vomit the man continued to dash forward, into the town street as Hedges led the rest to the right and skidded to a halt. A dozen Confederate bullets entered the trooper's body, dyeing his uniform red as he was lifted from the saddle and slammed into the wall of a building.

  The survivors of the charge followed Hedges' lead in leaping from their horses behind the shelter of a two story house, and then clustered around him, waiting for orders. For several moments he said nothing as he struggled to rid himself of the mind picture of the young boy being dragged by the horse.

  "Sir!" the sallow faced sergeant prompted, having to shout to be heard above the rifle fire and get through to Hedges' preoccupied mind. Hedges blinked and then raked his hooded eyes around the group of more than thirty men. He had to shake his head to clear it and bring about the realization that they were awaiting instructions from him.

  "We divide into two groups," he snapped, his voice hoarse. "Sergeant, stay this side of the street and cover the rest of us until we get over there." He pointed across the street and quickly brought down his hand as he saw it was shaking, "As soon as we're over there, move through the town building by building."