by Ford Fargo
There was silence for a moment, and then Charley Blackfeather laughed. Not a wry chuckle, but a full, booming laugh.
“I swear, Captain,” he said then. “I got to quit listenin’ to your stories, you done got me all wound up, too. I reckon that’s more talkin’ than I’ve done in weeks.”
“When you do talk,” Dent said, “it’s usually something worth saying.”
“I don’t know about that, so much,” Charley said. “But I’m done spoutin’ off, for tonight anyways. I’m gonna grab some shut-eye my own self.”
Charley turned to go, then paused. “I almost forgot,” he said, taking a small pouch from his belt. “This is for you.” He handed the pouch to the captain.
“What is it?” Dent said.
Charley grinned. “Them piles is hell, Cap’n.”
Dent was confused.
“Hemorrhoids,” Charley said. “I seen how you been favorin’ your ass. This here is a poultice, ought to make things a mite smoother for you in the saddle tomorrow.”
Dent nodded, embarrassed. “Thank you.”
Charley grinned again. “You got to put it on your own self, though. Good night, Cap’n.”
Dent watched the Seminole walk away. Then he raised his head and looked at the stars, and through them, for a long time. He wondered if Molly were back at the fort, looking at the same stars. If she were, he hoped she would never see the same things in them, and under them, that he had.
And still would.
CHAPTER FIVE
“You don’t know where you’re going. You’re getting us lost, aren’t you? My feet are tired. We should have stayed with the coach. At least there we had a place to sit down out of the sun. Now we’re out in the open. Those Indians could come back and—”
“Be silent, you noxious git,” the man known as De Courcey told the Kansas City drummer.
“What? Why, you can’t…um….” Weatherby’s voice trailed off into silence when he looked at the expression reflected in De Courcey’s cold eyes. They did not match his polite smile.
John Hix gave De Courcey a very slight nod to acknowledge the man’s help with the fool.
There was something about De Courcey that he was not sure about. He really thought he had seen the man before. Perhaps not by that name. During the war? He thought that more than possible, although there had been so many in the various guerrilla bands. The rosters shifted and changed so often back then.
Hix could not come right out and ask. As far as anyone around Wolf Creek knew, he sat out the war in California and knew nothing about guns and fighting.
They might have been surprised had they known the truth about him.
“The Manning place is beyond that rise,” he said. “We’ll be there before dark.” He smiled. “They’re nice folks. I stopped there once. They took me inside and fed me. Mrs. Manning is a splendid cook, I can tell you that. And once we get there we will have that many more guns to help ward off the savages if they come again.”
“You sound like you know about such things,” De Courcey said, his smile widening wryly.
“Oh, no. Not at all,” Hix responded. “I just—” He shrugged. “I’ve just heard things, that’s all.”
Did De Courcey recognize him, he wondered? Hix felt sure that De Courcey, too, had once been a Confederate raider under Quantrill or Bloody Bill Anderson. Hix himself had served under both. He was fairly sure that was where he saw Reginald De Courcey before this meeting, not in Wolf Creek. Saw, but did not really know.
Back then men came and went in those guerrilla squadrons. Some genuinely cared about the South and The Cause. Others cared only about blood and booty. Hix had considered himself a patriot. He had fought. He had killed. And he had come to revel in the killing as much as in The Cause.
Now there was no more Cause. But there still was blood. There was still his thirst for revenge against those Redleg sons of bitches who murdered his baby son and his Confederate sympathizing parents and who put his beloved Marcie into an insane asylum.
Thinking about that and about the razor that resided so innocently in his pocket brought a tight smile to Hix’s lean face.
Oh, he did like to chat with his damnyankee customers in his barber chair. And he liked to listen. What did you do in the war, neighbor? And some of them told him, the fools. The Yankee sons of bitches. All of them were sons of bitches. That was a given. What he was looking for were the Redlegs.
And he found one. Found him in Wolf Creek. Followed him to Wichita. Left the former Redleg murderer there lying in a spreading pool of his own blood, his throat cut so cleanly by the razor of an unknown assailant.
Unknown to anyone but himself, John Hix thought with great pleasure.
The damnyankee had not suspected a thing. Had turned his back on the man who so innocently asked for directions.
Hix wondered what the murderer had felt in those final moments. Did he know he was a dead man? Did he suspect why he was dying? Did he regret his sins?
Now….
“There,” Hix said. “I can see the roof of Manning’s barn.” He frowned. “We should be able to see the house too, but—I don’t see the house at all. That is odd.”
Hix began to walk faster, a knot of worry growing in his belly.
***
“Dead? All of them?” Lester Weatherby whined. “Then what about us? What will happen to us now?”
“The same thing that happened to them,” De Courcey said, disgust heavy in his voice. “Now shut up.” De Courcey was leading the horse, their only remaining animal, while Miss Sloane rode upon it. The schoolteacher rode precariously in a sidesaddle position although the saddle was a regular, man’s saddle and was intended to be ridden astride. She slipped and slid on the hard leather seat but—unlike the drummer—she made no complaint.
The lady had said little since they left the disabled stagecoach and began walking toward what they hoped would be sanctuary at the Manning ranch. Now she demurely turned her face away from the carnage the Indians had left behind.
The Mannings were dead. All of them. Dead and mutilated by the savages. The two grown men and one boy slaughtered, plus one woman and the two little girls. All of the females had been raped before they were granted the mercy of death. They lay now, pale and naked and bloating, their bodies positioned indecently.
“Jesus,” the drummer blurted just before he threw up.
De Courcey helped the new schoolteacher down from the horse, then led the animal into the barn. It and a scattering of outbuildings were the only structures remaining. The house and, for some reason, the outhouse had been burned down by the Kiowa raiding party.
“I found a shovel in there, but just one,” he announced as he returned to the group. “Miss Sloane, why don’t you go into the barn. Sit down. Rest a little. We menfolk shall dig a grave for the Mannings. I’ll let you know when we’ve buried them. If you might like to read over them, madam? It would be a blessing to us all if you were to do that.”
“All right. Yes.”
Dave Benteen, the gunsmith, reached for the shovel. “I’ll start digging, and one of you can spell me in awhile. Anybody have an opinion about where this grave should be? No? Then I’ll just pick a spot close to where the bodies are.” Benteen walked away.
“I don’t have a gun. Does anybody have one to spare?” Hix asked. He had given the Smith & Wesson back to the gunsmith, who had stuck it in his belt. The barber made a show of being uncomfortable carrying the weapon while they walked—he feared that his proficient use of the weapon, when they charged the Indians back at the coach, might have belied his claim to be unfamiliar with firearms, and he hoped none of the others gave much thought to it. But now that Benteen had wandered off to dig a grave, Hix regretted returning the pistol to him. The two Indians that got away could lead the main group back to their trail at any time.
Sampson Quick reached into his belt and drew out the revolver he had taken off Chester Keene’s dead body. He tossed it to the barber.
�
�What do you need a gun for?” the drummer asked, his voice trembling.
“In case the Indians come back,” Hix said, in a tone that indicated he considered the question—and the questioner—incredibly stupid.
“Oh, God. They wouldn’t, would they? I mean—they’ve already been here. They’ve killed everybody here and either killed or run off all the livestock.”
“Come to think of it,” Hix said, “we could butcher that dead calf over there. It hasn’t been dead very long. It would provide us with food to last awhile.”
“We won’t—we’ll be leaving in the morning, won’t we?” Weatherby persisted. “Surely we’ll be safe if we can get to Wolf Creek. I mean—when we get to Wolf Creek.” The man looked as if he might burst into tears. “We will reach Wolf Creek, won’t we? Well, won’t we?”
No one answered.
***
John Hix shivered in the night chill and moved onto the downwind side of the fire he had built from the embers of burnt house timber. It was smoky there, but warmer. The others were inside the barn to get out of the wind. He used a sharp stick to roll the slab of beef over onto its other side. The meat would be covered in gritty ash and taste like hell, but he had eaten worse—much worse—during the war.
The meat was as done as it needed to be, he decided, using his stick to pick it up and carry it inside.
The Mannings had been buried, everyone in a common grave. No one had read over them—there was nothing to read from, the teacher had left her books behind and any Bible the Mannings had was burned with their home. De Courcey recited part of a poem by an Englishman named Donne, something about bells ringing. Miss Cora Sloane had remained inside the barn even after the badly desecrated bodies were in the ground and covered with a layer of dirt.
“We should take turns standing watch tonight,” De Courcey said. “The savages may return.”
“Why would they do that?” Weatherby whined. “Besides, isn’t it true that Indians won’t fight in the night? They are afraid of spirits or some such, right?”
De Courcey snorted. “Where did you hear such tripe? No, it isn’t true. Indians will fight any time they think they can win. Then, for no reason at all—at least no reason that a civilized man would understand—they might stop fighting and walk away. Don’t try to think about what an Indian might do, Weatherby. You won’t be able to make sense of it.” He grinned. “You’ll just give yourself a headache if you try too hard.” De Courcey looked at Hix and said, “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Hix?”
“Oh,” Hix said, “I wouldn’t know anything about such. Nor about guns or horses or fighting or…or…I just don’t know about those things, that’s all.”
De Courcey practically hurt himself he laughed so hard at that. The laughter made Hix almost sure the man had once been a guerrilla raider himself, and now recognized John Hix as another of his own ilk.
“My mistake,” De Courcey said. “It must have been your feral eyes.”
“I’ll take the first watch,” Hix volunteered. “And this meat is getting cold. Who has a knife so we can cut it up? You,” he said, gesturing with his chin toward the gunsmith, Benteen. “Can we use your knife again? I did give it back to you after I butchered the calf, didn’t I?”
“No, you left it lying there beside the carcass. I had to find it and clean it myself.”
“Well, can I borrow it again?” Hix asked.
“No, you can’t.” The man took out a folded Barlow, opened the big blade then leaned down and sliced a generous chunk of charred meat off the cooked slab. He took his supper and walked away from the others.
De Courcey shot the man an ugly look, took a knife from his belt and used it to cut a portion of the meat. He gave that piece to Miss Sloane. Then he offered the knife to Weatherby. “Pass it around,” he said. “I’m in no rush to get it back.”
When everyone had a piece of meat, De Courcey said, “I think I’ll check on my horse.” He disappeared toward the back of the barn.
Hix took his chunk of half raw beef, as gritty and tasteless as he expected, and walked outside to begin his watch. He barely had time to become comfortable with memorizing where everything about the Manning ranch yard was located, and what each object looked like in the night shadows—so he would be sure to notice if something changed—before De Courcey joined him, moving as silently as the mist.
“I remember you now,” Reginald De Courcey said softly. “You were at Rock Island. You stabbed a guard there, one who was especially nasty to the Confederate prisoners. Several of us saw you, but no one said a word.”
Hix looked the man in the eyes and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never in my life been anywhere called Rock Island.”
De Courcey paused for a moment. Then he nodded. “All right, friend. I believe you. Whatever you say, I believe you.” He smiled. “So long as you remember—I wasn’t there, either.”
Hix smiled and stuck his hand out. “Thanks. Friend.”
The two shook hands. “Although if you had been at Rock Island,” De Courcey said, “you would no doubt be interested to learn that Major Seth Allison, a very sadistic bastard, met with an unfortunate accident after the war. Not too dissimilar an accident than that which befell that sergeant of his.”
“What a shame.”
They stood in silence for a few moments more, then De Courcey nodded and returned to the barn.
John Hix stood in the darkness, leaning against the front wall of the barn, smelling the stink of embers and cold ash, and the long familiar scents of death and destruction.
How many nights, he mused, had he stood watch like this. Watching for Redlegs or damnyankee regulars. The regulars—he hated to admit it, but the bastards could fight. The Redlegs, in his opinion, were just so much vermin in need of extermination.
And the man who called himself De Courcey. Hix was certain now that he remembered seeing him at Rock Island prison, not among the guerrilla bands. Except he was an officer then. And his name was not De Courcey. Hix was fairly sure of that, too.
What he wished he was sure of was where the Kiowa raiders were now. Would they be coming back through the Manning place? If they did they likely would feel no need for stealth, he thought. That would make them easier to spot in time for the stagecoach passengers to mount a defense against the savages.
But there were so few whites to defend against—how many? And they had so little in the way of armament. Hix wished he had his heavy saber, the one with CSA on the guard, but that fine weapon was hidden away in his wardrobe back home in Wolf Creek.
He thought about the weapon and he smiled. Ah, it was a fine thing, that saber. An old and trusted companion. Steel. Cold steel had always been Hix’s choice. It would be a shame for him to be killed now and not have the saber in hand. That would not seem fair somehow. Dying was one thing. Doing it as a mere barber would be worse. And before he could have his revenge on the Redlegs—that would be criminal.
Hix shivered and turned the collar of his coat up as high as he could get it. His eyes burning with fatigue as he tried to penetrate the darkness in search of enemies—real or imaginary.
CHAPTER SIX
Dave Benteen didn’t like people much.
This was not an arbitrary decision on his part. It was an attitude that had been well earned over the years. People had consistently proven themselves untrustworthy during that time. And unlikeable. And he hadn’t seen anything in the people on the stage to change his mind. Oh, he’d been on his best behavior, especially with the new schoolteacher, but he would just as soon be off on his own than with them. And it didn’t help much when the new fella—De Courcey—came along on his horse.
The one thing he knew for sure about people was that they all had their secrets. And he was sure this bunch was no different. De Courcey, Hix, and Cora Sloane. Well, except maybe for the drummer, Weatherby. He was probably just what he appeared to be—useless.
He finished his meat, cleaned the grease off his Barlow and his hands
on his pants as Hix came up to him.
“Listen, Dave,” Hix said, “you and me gotta talk.”
“Don’t you and De Courcey have things all figured out?” Benteen asked.
“Just that the three of us should stand watch tonight,” Hix said. “I’m taking the first.”
“Fine,” Benteen said. “I’ll take the second.”
“But what do we do tomorrow?”
“That’s easy,” the gunsmith said. “We’ve got to get to Wolf Creek without getting killed.
“Not so easy,” Hix said.
“Not for all of us, maybe.”
“What are you thinking?”
“We’ve got one horse,” Benteen said, “and I think one of us should use it to get to Wolf Creek and warn them.”
“And get help?”
Benteen laughed.
“They can’t help us. They’re gonna have to fort up and help themselves.”
“So what about the rest of us?” Hix asked. “We just sit here?”
“No,” Benteen said, “we keep walking.”
Hix thought it over a moment, then said, “Okay, so who goes? You?”
“No, not me.”
“The woman, then?”
“There’s no way we can send a woman out there alone, not even on a horse,” Benteen said. “No, the horse belongs to Mister De Courcey. I think he should go.”
“I guess we better tell him what we’re thinking, then.”
“There’s no rush,” Benteen said. “We can tell him that in the morning. We should get our sleeping arrangements together so the lady can get some rest.”
“Okay,” Hix said. “Will you come back to camp with me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
They started back.
“What’s going on between you and De Courcey?” Benteen asked.
“Going on?” Hix asked. “Nothing. I mean, I don’t know him. Met him the same time you did.”
