He would inflict even more pain on them then. He would steal the ego’s voice and reveal the truth hidden below. It didn’t happen often, but for this mission, he had been given permission to go as far as he wanted. It was kind of Hampton to let him indulge.
His captive, Shugart, had screamed and called for God’s help when the nails bit through his flesh. Payne imagined Christ must have done the same. But when he was finished hammering, the man became quiet, calming himself as he drifted into a trance-like state.
Even after pissing himself, Shugart had continued to pray. Fiercely he prayed for deliverance from evil. He never begged, but he did plead with God quite convincingly. Enough to have Payne eyeing the sky and waiting for a response.
But for the most part, Shugart had just gone to a different place in his mind like he had left his own body behind while ignoring Payne’s excellent craftsmanship.
Payne had used his knife like an Oxford-trained surgeon, not like one of those hacks in the field hospitals, but a true surgeon practicing real medical precision, not sawing and hacking limbs just to toss them into a pile. In the end, Shugart cried out like Christ on the cross then went limp, his weight pulling down painfully on the nails.
Payne regarded the man. Was that his last breath? Shugart’s head dropped to his chest. His tuft of hair was almost motionless, the wind causing it to slightly flutter. His skeletal body appeared to have already been hanging for days. Soon the flies would come seeking rebirth in his flesh.
“Impressive.” He’d never thought a man of his age could have withstood such treatment.
Barely audible words tumbled from the dead man’s mouth, perking Payne’s interest. He studied him for a moment like a doctor would a moving cadaver. He’d assumed he was dead.
He stepped closer. Fresh blood surrounded the nail heads like angry red water wells, but enough had flowed to dry into the trunk’s bark. He grabbed Shugart by the loose tuft of hair, lifting his level with his own face. “You still have some life left in you?”
“Water,” Shugart mumbled.
Payne nodded in genuine concern. “Of course.” He snatched up his canteen and unscrewed the cap. His work could be very tiresome, so he kept it nearby. He tipped it back, letting the water flow into the dying man’s mouth. Water dribbled down his chin. “Not too much now,” Payne said as if he were addressing a child.
“You’re evil,” Shugart said, his voice hardly audible.
Payne cocked his head. “After I gave you a merciful drink of water?”
“You’ll never succeed here. Your cause is unjust.”
“Rescuing a man’s kidnapped wife?” Payne shook his head. “You abolitionists have such conflicting priorities.”
Shugart’s chest shuddered. “I go with God. I go with no reservation for the things I’ve done.”
Payne sighed. “More of this.” He shook his head. “God isn’t coming for you. You aren’t going to heaven. You’re going to burn in hell.”
“My God will take his faithful servant.”
Payne patted his arm. Then flicked the blood from his fingertips. “Okay, you win.” He stretched the man’s neck by tugging his tuft of hair.
Clouded eyes gazed at him. His throat jiggled before he managed a few more words. “I forgive you.”
Payne nodded his acceptance of a clean slate and ran his knife across Shugart’s throat. Blood trickled down his neck, leaving a crimson trail upon his naked chest. The elder simply let out a loud gurgle and lowered his head in death.
Payne bent over at the waist, getting close to Shugart’s face. “Did he take you?”
Shugart’s body hung limp, soundless and soulless, a husk of skin and bone.
Payne strolled back to the campfire with a sharp whistle of Dixie. Dixie was a peppy upbeat tune. It truly cheered him on the inside.
Turner glanced at him, finishing his story. His eyes darted down at Payne’s bloodstained hands. “Did he talk?”
Snatching a rag, he wiped his hands off. “He talked enough.”
Turner grinned, looking over his shoulder at the corpse. “Yank paid the price?”
“He paid dearly.” Payne unrolled the cuffed sleeves of his red shirt.
“And? Where are they?” Turner inquired.
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. But they’re close.”
Turner pushed his slouch hat back on his head. “You mean it didn’t work? All that crying and hollering.”
Payne’s eyes flashed fire at him. “It worked just fine, Sergeant. Sometimes they pass before we can acquire everything we need. It is an art but a delicate one.”
“Course it is, sir. You’re mighty good at it too,” Turner said, with a gulp.
“I am.” He took a seat, staring at the dancing flames of the fire.
“What are we going to do?” Corporal McMillan asked.
Snapping a twig between his fingers, he tossed it in the fire. “We wait.”
“Wait, sir?” McMillan asked.
The fire sizzled and cracked like an old steam engine locomotive on its last run. If he knew his prey, he’d have them soon enough. “For them to come to us.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Evening, May 10, 1864
Yellow Tavern, Virginia
The tavern door burst inward, and a distraught James barreled inside. Hands leapt for guns and swords. Wolf had his revolver cocked and aimed at the man before he raised his hands in the air.
“Don’t shoot!”
Pistol hammers were laid to silent rest when they recognized it was one of theirs. But James’s face quietly screamed of alarm.
“What is it?” Wolf asked, letting his chair rock forward. He stood and the chair behind him banged on the wood floor as it rested on four legs again.
“They got them,” James blurted out.
“Who’s they?” Hogan said. He adjusted his hat on his head, making his forehead seem longer.
“The rebels hunting us. At least ten of them.” James took a breath. “That’s not all.”
“What’s that?” Wolf demanded.
“There’s going to be a battle. The area is crawling with Stuart’s men. He’s beat Sheridan here.”
“How close?”
“I dunno. Maybe four or five miles.”
Wolf’s mouth formed a tight line, and he shared a glance with Wilhelm, then with Hogan. The BMI agent shrugged. “It’s what we want.” He walked around the table, raising a hand in the air. “We could make a break for Sheridan’s forces.”
“I would love to do that, but I cannot leave those men in Payne’s hands.” He peered down at his hand. There was a bit of a shake in it as if it remembered the torture. The vile thumb press tightening and squeezing until his thumb broke. He gulped down the horrible memory. “We will not leave them.”
“Listen, Wolf, they’re probably dead. If that guy is only half as bad as you made him out to be, then they’re gone, or worse, Payne and his men are on their way here.”
“No. If there’s a chance they’re alive, we’ll extract them,” Wolf said, with a shake of his head.
Wilhelm nodded in agreement. “Wouldn’t be right to leave them.”
“Can you take us back to where they were captured?” Wolf asked James.
“In the dark it will be harder, but I can.”
“I need everyone mounted in a few minutes.” He pointed at Dan and Roberts. “You two are going to stay here.”
“I’ll stay with her,” Nelson said with an evil grin.
“I wouldn’t mind her company either,” Adams chimed in. “We really are great guards.”
“No, I need you with me.” Wolf motioned Dan and Roberts closer. “If we aren’t back by sunup, let her go and head north.”
“Let her go?” Roberts said, scratching his head then staring at his brown-laced fingernails. “Ain’t holding her the whole point?”
“Yes?” Dan said, raising his bushy eyebrows over a thick brow.
“No.” He eyed them. “You let her go. She didn’t
deserve this. She was only a means to an end. We go north, find Sheridan, and tell him we tried.”
Roberts gave him an irritated smile. “Lotta good that will do me. He’ll throw me back in jail.”
“He won’t. He’s got his fight.”
“Easy for you to say since you aren’t planning on coming back.”
Wolf laughed. “You have to be ready in case I don’t. Payne is a dangerous man, and if I can, I’m going to kill him.”
“Never could back down from a fight, could ya?”
“Never do.”
***
James led them over the dark country roads. They passed dark naked fields and even darker forests. They even quietly passed by homes with lightless windows.
The night enveloped them into her nothingness. Beasts and creatures roamed the timberland around them, but one would scarcely know anything existed beyond the nearby trees as it was all covered by the abyss of night.
The horses became skittish as they approached the spot where Pratt had been shot. The animals tossed their heads and stamped their hooves in irritation as their riders drove them closer. Wolf patted Sarah’s neck. “It’s okay, girl.” Her ear twitched and she let out a soft neigh.
It only took another moment before they located Pratt’s pale body lying on the side of the road. The contrast between the night and the lifeless white corpse was stark.
Wolf dismounted, handing his reins to Wilhelm. He walked to the body and knelt near him. Pratt was facedown, shirtless, and bootless. His pants were still on, but his belt had been removed, leaving them bunched and loose. Wolf touched his shoulder, finding the dead trooper’s flesh cool. The entry wound was clear and almost in the direct center of his back. Merely an inch away from hitting the spine, it was an incapacitating wound for sure.
He awkwardly rolled the man over. Bugs scurried away with chattering clicks of legs and flapping of wings. The young trooper’s eyes were open and a thick line had been carved over his throat like a piece of roast beef. Must not have given the right answer.
Gently, he let the body roll to the side. “Let’s get him on back,” he said with a sigh. Bart helped him lift the body onto the back of his horse. Both the men remounted after Pratt had been tied down sufficiently.
Sarah shifted uneasily beneath him. The extra weight bothered her, but the smell of death did so even more. Wolf brought her reins to the side, trying to bring her under control. “Any idea which way they were heading?”
“We ran into them coming from the other direction,” James said. He hopped from his saddle and studied the road with a clear level of intensity. “I think they went back that way, but it’s difficult to make out for sure.”
“Take us that way.”
The men searched into the night. They turned the wrong way once and had to backtrack. An hour passed. Then another. He could feel the demoralized air surrounding them, all brought on by the knowledge that one of their own was being held by a madman. But it was the fatigue of hunting in the dark that really ate away at their courage.
“Stay the course,” Wilhelm said.
“It may be futile.” Wolf kept his eyes probing the upcoming road, looking for something, for anything to shine light on their predicament. He couldn’t see Wilhelm’s eyes well, but he knew they sought the same thing. They both knew that no search for a missing man was meritless.
“We could split up.” Glancing over his shoulder, Wolf eyed the way they’d come. “Perhaps trace a larger route?”
“I don’t think it’s wise at this point. With so many enemies in the area, we stand a better chance together.”
“But does Shugart?” Wolf asked.
“The old buzzard can take care of himself. Hell, God probably has a special angel that watches over his shoulder.”
Hooves rolled, causing the men to turn. George emerged from the murky trees. Wolf hadn’t even noticed him leave the group. “There’s a fire ahead. Through those trees. I saw men sleeping.”
“How many men?”
“Twenty or so.”
“Rebs?”
“Hard to tell in the dark, but some had sabers.”
Wolf’s eyes glinted with revenge. “Very well. Let’s pay them a visit.” There was no guarantee that the men ahead were even the enemy they were searching for. They could be Union forces.
The unit followed George along a road and astride a path hardly big enough to fit a horse. The trail wound deeper and deeper into the timber. Only the soft thud of hooves accompanied the men.
After the point that Wolf had thought about turning them around, the sharpshooter held up a hand. “Here we dismount. Less than a mile that way,” he said, pointing into the trees.
“Get on foot and spread ‘em out,” Wolf said softly but with command. His men tied their horses to low-hanging branches, leaving Hale to make sure the mounts didn’t become spooked in the night.
As quietly as possible, the rest of the men stalked through the forest, attempting not to be heard. Pinpricks of light grew larger through and around tree trunks. When they got close enough to stay hidden, his men took positions, observing the two midnight campfires.
The fires burned low with muted yellow flames. Blankets layered the ground, and the forms of their enemies resided in their warm embrace. Only a single sentry stood next to a tree in the distance. Much too easy. They should have at least two sentries, preferably four, watching the night. Either extreme arrogance or carelessness could lead them to a quick grave, unless it was a trap to lure them closer.
The woods suddenly became a much darker and more dangerous place in Wolf’s mind. Are we the ones being watched?
He crept to where George overlooked the camp. “I only see one,” Wolf whispered. He tugged on his brace.
The Ojibwe sharpshooter’s face stayed flat, a slight frown settling on his lips. “The guard hasn’t moved since we’ve arrived. All white men move when standing guard.” He eyed the forest over his shoulder. Then back at the camp. “Yet he still stands,” George said, gesturing with his head.
“Sleeping?”
“I do not know.”
“Could it be Shugart?”
“It is possible he is tied to that tree.” But even George’s words sounded unsure.
“Then cover me,” Wolf commanded. The men around him nodded their silent understanding, aiming their carbines in the night and ready to rain lead into the enemy at a moment’s notice.
Quietly stalking through the forest, he drew his pistol and left the hammer half-cocked for easier use. He zigged and zagged for the edge of camp, hobbling as he weaved around the trees. Men dozed around the campfires.
A few snored. One smacked his lips and rolled over, freezing Wolf in his tracks. Shallowly breathing, he waited for the man to stop moving, not even daring to blink.
He continued his stalk around the fringe of the camp, creeping closer to the man near the tree. As the distance faded between them, the surer he was that it was Shugart. But something was wrong.
The form stood at an angle. They must have him tied up. In and out, he told himself. They’ll never know you’re there. Maybe he should have his men shoot up the camp now. They were clearly outnumbered by the rebels, but the darkness and surprise would easily swing things in their favor.
He stopped and skimmed the woods where his men hid. One shout and they could do their dastardly deed. He licked his lips. No, you came for Shugart. He edged closer, and the form standing near the tree transformed into his comrade. He knew it right away when he could make out the flop of stringy hair on the top of his skull.
But each step Wolf took was like a hammer blow to his soul. Every foot nearer exposed the treacherous violence brazenly displayed upon the man’s person.
Dark red crusts caked Shugart’s body like a funeral shroud. His arms were entirely maroon where the skin had been shaved off him like strips of bacon. White bone was exposed in some areas, forcing bile to rise in Wolf’s throat.
Round-headed nails had been driven with
force into his palms. The flesh had torn as more and more of his weight was held by his hands. Wolf’s breath struggled as he neared the old soldier. The smell was antagonistic, warning Wolf that evil had been done. Nothing moved about the man who had clearly suffered before he died.
Wolf was afraid to see what had been done to the man’s face. He was well-versed in what Payne was capable of, and there were no boundaries to his depravity. But Wolf lifted Shugart’s head gently as if he were caring for the old man on his deathbed. He owed him that much.
Shugart’s head was dead weight, a mere hanging sack of wheat. His lips were swollen and purple, giving them the appearance of fat earthworms. Blank eyes lay open, yet no spark of life was left inside them. A slender line creased his throat where it had been cut like Pratt’s.
“I am sorry, old friend,” he whispered. “We shall get you home.”
With bitter sadness, Wolf holstered his pistol and pulled Shugart’s hands free one at a time from the nails pinning them. He lifted the old man, placing him upon his shoulder. His body was much lighter than he looked, merely a bag of bones in flesh. Softly, he turned around to make for his men.
A shadowed form stepped in front of him. Fire danced across his face like the devil had come to make witness. A grin scrawled on his lips as if he were about to charm a lady. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Wolf.”
Captain Marshall Payne’s cold calculating eyes studied him with not even an ounce of feeling.
Now that this man stood before him, no weapon drawn, Wolf froze. Payne hadn’t called to wake his men or sound the alarm. No. He only quietly confronted the intruder to his camp as if they were long lost friends.
Payne’s voice held a level of disdain as if he were disappointed. “I see you’ve been demoted, Colonel?”
“Never was a colonel.”
“You never were a colonel?” Payne shook his head, his long curled hair bouncing atop his shoulders. “Now that is regrettable. I thought we had come to a mutually agreeable consensus on the truth.”
Wolf’s eyes couldn’t leave the man. “I will kill you for what you’ve done to me.”
Northern Blood Page 23
