The Confederate 3, page 17
Then his fierce, stubborn determination flared. He would seek Jeremy wherever he may be. He would not let this stop him. He consulted with Temple Ames and the young officer.
“There’s nothing left for us to do, Lieutenant, but to turn around and return to the outpost,” Griffin advised. “We’ve learned all we can and it’s important.”
Harding sighed regretfully. The murder of the whites and slaughter of the Cheyenne had moved him deeply. Within his breast burnt a flame of desire to bring the miscreants to justice. That would be up to higher headquarters now, he realized.
“Yes, Mr. Stark. My thoughts exactly. Yet …”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’d like to get my hands on the bastards who think it is fun, or profitable, to murder these innocent children, red or white.”
“I’ll have the troops ready to mount in ten minutes, sir,” Sergeant Mallory informed him.
“Very well, Sergeant. Carry on.”
Chapter Seventeen
ARTHUR HAD RETURNED to Denver, his mind already filled with thoughts of Mexico. He sat in his private accommodations in the newly opened office of the Federated Rail Consortium. Feet cocked up on one corner of his desk, a window wide open, he enjoyed the pleasant aroma of a mild May day. With an enormous effort of will he had curtailed his drinking, reserving the first draught of temporary oblivion until after the five o’clock closing time. That he usually shared with several other young gentlemen of wealth and influence at the ornate Crystal Bar. Three hours separated him from that blessed relief when his secretary knocked discreetly and entered to inform him that three important gentlemen of the press were in the outer office.
“What do they want?”
“They said they would only explain to you, Mr. Treadwell. They … ah, seem quite angry.”
“Really? About what? I wonder. And who are they?”
“Norman Kitchen from the Kansas City Star, Herman Weiss of the Denver Advocate and Millard Chivers of the Territorial Bulletin.”
“Why, they are friends. Whatever would they be angry about? Show them in.”
“Yes, Mr. Treadwell.”
Although it pained him to move rapidly, Arthur Treadwell rose from his chair and walked with as much spring as he could generate to greet his visitors. Their sober countenances did nothing to ease his difficulties. He shook their hands energetically, nevertheless, and waved expansively at his tall sideboard.
“Welcome, gentlemen, welcome. I don’t believe it is too early for a little libation, do you?” He received granite silence for reply. “Uh, well, then, sit down, won’t you? Norm, over there, Herm, right here, Millard, you take that comfortable one next to my desk, will you? Now, what brings you here?”
“You see,” Herman Weiss tried to begin in a squeak of timidity.
“It’s these scare stories,” Norman Kitchen rumbled.
“What scare is this, Norm?”
“You know damned good and well, Arthur.”
“What Norman and Herman are trying to say, Mr. Treadwell, is that … ah, this directorate you sent down for us to continue with the stories about slaughtered homesteaders and marauding Indians. About how the army is supposedly not doing anything about it. What. .. what you are asking us to say …” Chivers nervously cleared his throat. “What we are expected to print, simply isn’t so.”
“Not so? How do you figure that?”
“The Army is doing what it can. We’ve sent reporters out and checked on that. There haven’t been any raids in more than a week.”
“One of my sources at Fort Kearny,” Norman Kitchen asserted, “indicates that the Army is fairly sure that it is white outlaws killing the settlers, not the result of an Indian uprising.”
“But that is simply absurd,” Arthur pressed. “Of course Indians are doing it. The blood-thirsty Cheyenne. It is all right there in the directive. All you have to do is print what you are told.”
“There is no Cheyenne uprising,” Herman Weiss injected, his spirit restored and anger rising once more. “All is quiet. Why keep inflaming people?”
“For the very good reason that it is not safe for people to be in Wyoming or Montana right now.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “It is even less safe for nosey reporters and inquisitive editors.”
“There is more behind it than that,” Kitchen protested. “Such a humanitarian stance by the Federated Rail Consortium is, ah, a bit out of character, isn’t it?”
“Norm is right,” Millard added. “We were all good reporters once and are good editors now. We can smell something not right about this. Besides, it is deliberately misinforming people as to what the real situation is. Our stories are being picked up and reproduced in the Eastern journals. It’s our obligation to act responsibly in this.”
Arthur gave them a hungry shark smile. “You mentioned a moment ago what good reporters and editors you happen to be. Do you not also recall that you once owned the newspapers which now employ you? And you remember how you lost them and who bought them? I see you do. Excellent. Our money makes your little worlds go around and pays your rather extravagant salaries. You wouldn’t want that to come to an end, would you?”
“Well, no, Mr. Treadwell, perhaps we can discuss this, come to some reasonable compromise.”
“Herman there is only one acceptable compromise in this office. You three gentlemen will keep your mouths shut, do as you are told and stop attempting to interfere with consortium policy. The people need an Indian scare right now because the consortium needs an Indian scare.”
“You can’t dictate to us like that!” Norman Kitchen exploded.
“Can’t I?” Arthur paused to let the challenge sink in. When he continued, his words, though honeyed, rang with malice and power. “Stop trying to think for yourselves. You lost your businesses by believing you could do that. We, the consortium, pay the bills and we call the shots. There are millions involved in this. We don’t propose to lose them because three has-been newspaper men suddenly decide to go all moralistic. Go back to your pitiful little gossip sheets and cover the meetings of the Ladies’ Auxiliary and the quilting club. But, most of all …” Arthur slammed his clenched fist down on the desk to emphasize each word.
“Take—your—orders—like—good—little—boys. That’s all. Now stop your whining and get out of my office.”
As the three chastened, thoroughly frightened men made an undignified scramble for the door, Arthur suspended their motion with a whip-crack of his voice. “Oh, ah. A word of reminder. Mind that you take caution on the stairs leading to the street. A man had an accident there only last week. Fatal I might add. I would also give careful consideration to crossing the boulevards, driving a team, or any other activity. So many tragic things happen these days, one never knows, does one?”
Handled that rather well, Arthur evaluated after the others departed. Maybe Albert is right about watching the drinking, finding other outlets for anger and frustration. They were like frightened rabbits. Humm. Yes, a rather pleasant thought.
Griffin Stark had sunk into a well of depression on the long ride back to the outpost. He had been so close to finding Jeremy, he kept turning over in his mind. If only Damien had let him set out earlier, locate Black Horn’s village and negotiate for his son. If only … it became a self-defeating game. It had not happened that way and now Jeremy was who knew where. The news of Jennifer’s abduction, upon his return, did little for his peace of mind.
“This came yesterday,” Damien told him after describing the event and action taken. “I’m interested in your evaluation.”
Griffin took the scrap of paper and looked at the words, printed in a wide, bold stroke, all in capitals.
COME TO SOUTH FACE OF
SQUARE BUTTE FOUR DAYS
FROM NOW.
SMALL CANYON NEAR ROCK PILE.
BRING NO MORE THAN TWO MEN.
ONE MUST BE GRIFFIN STARK.
BRING $10,000.
“What do you think?”
“I get a strong feeling that whoever sent this is more interested in getting all three of us in a remote place than in the money,” Griff opined after careful thought.
“After the third time I read it, I had the same impression. Who?”
“As a guess, I would say Colonel Chester Braithwaite, or whoever is behind him.”
“Based on what you have learned about the good colonel, I have to agree. What do we do about it?”
“First we get Temple Ames in here and then we make plans to go, of course.”
“You mean we pay these people, or give ourselves up to Braithwaite’s hardcases?”
“The first thing is to get Jennifer safely away from them.”
“Then what?”
“We kill every one of the sons of bitches.” Griff’s voice rang like frozen steel.
“Ummm. I see. Do we take a platoon of troops along for this cleanup operation?”
“No. This is personal business. Only a few selected people. Temple, of course. And Ansel if he gets back here. I’d suggest Sergeant Mallory if he wants to volunteer.”
“With the two of us, that’s five. To take care of … how many?”
“They won’t be expecting it. That’s why I want only men with a lot of frontier experience, who can slip through the country and not make a sound, get behind them while they count their money. Then we finish them off.”
“I’d feel better with more men.”
“So would I. The more who come the more noise they will make and the easier to be seen. It’s chancy, but it’s the only chance we’ve got.”
“Ansel wired before he left Fort Kearny. By my figuring, he should be here tomorrow. That leaves us only two days.”
“We’ll do it.”
“What about the money, Griff? I doubt there is that much hard cash in two hundred miles. It would take months to get it here from Maryland.”
“We’ll give them a salted stack. A few real bills on top, with cut paper underneath.”
“And if they check it first?”
“The shooting starts early.”
Griff spent a restless night, thinking about things better left unformed. Ironic, he considered it, that first he should lose his wife and child, then the girl he loved and his son a second time. Was it fate? Was it God? And if so, why? Why him? Various plans revolved in his mind as to how to go about dealing with the abductors. Most he rejected out of hand. Unable to drift off into sleep, Griffin got up and poured a stiff three fingers of whiskey into a tin cup and downed it in one long draw.
It didn’t help. All he could do was wait out the night and the next two days and then play the hand with whatever cards that capricious fate dealt him.
An hour before the noon mess call the next day, a huge, bearlike man drove an equally large freight wagon into the fort. It rumbled with emptiness, and his jovial greeting for several soldiers and Damien Carmichael made it clear that he was well known.
“Clem Baxter, this is my closest friend, Griffin Stark. Griff, this is Clem,” Damien offered as introduction.
“Are you a regular freighter, Clem?” Griffin asked.
“Nope. Got me a little trading post and lashup out beyond Marias Pass. On my way to buy supplies for the summer trading season. Got sidetracked, though. Come across somethin’ the army ought to know about.”
“How’s that?” Damien inquired.
“I got this right from the horse’s mouth, so’s to speak. The Cheyenne and their Sioux cousins are beatin’ the war drum and paintin’ up. Word I get from my Cheyenne friends around Marias Pass is that they are fixin’ to deal with these renegade Snakes and the white outlaws that are raisin’ hell around these parts. The hotheads say around the council fire that the army only makes talk and does nothing. Once they get started, who knows when they’ll stop?”
“I don’t like the sound of that, Clem,” Damien remarked in a serious tone. “The army is now aware of the real situation and is taking its usual slow way of making up the official mind what and how to do something about it. How long do you figure we have before they take up the warpath?”
“Less time than I like to think about. A week, two at the most. It’ll take a lot more talking. Most of the old chiefs are against it. They want the army to be in charge of the situation. It’s the hotheads you gotta look out for.”
“Can they be talked to? Convinced?”
“Maybe. It might be the right person could. I … don’t know. Not for sure anyway.”
“We’ve tried. It’s kept them at peace until now. They … respect your word, don’t they, Clem?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that. They tolerate me and obey my rules around the trading post.”
“You’re married to a Cheyenne girl, aren’t you?”
“Sure enough.”
“Then … you probably have more influence than you think. Would you try to keep them cooled down?”
“Why don’t you do that?”
“There’s something else that is going to take a few days to settle, then I am sure we can start to take action against the hostiles, red and white.”
“What else is so all-fired important?”
“First off, I don’t have orders. Until I get them I can’t move the entire company into the field. Secondly, for the next three days or so, Griff and I and a few others are going to try to get my sister back from the men who took her.”
Clem’s big, rocky jaw sagged and his small mouth gaped. “Took her where? What for?”
“Ransom, they claim. Sent me a note demanding ten thousand dollars.”
“You got that kind of money?”
“No. Not without a lot of time to sell something to get it.”
“That’s what I figgered. So what are you going to do?”
“Take Jennifer away from them.”
Over the noon meal, Damien and Griffin explained the situation to the burly trader. His huge forearms bulged with solid, meaty muscle and his biceps rippled with each movement of his arms, which bristled with gingery hair. When the story ended, Clem Baxter glowered across the table.
“Takin’ a helpless girl like that is about as low-life as a person can get,” Clem said earnestly.
“Add to it that we have a strong suspicion that the men involved and the one behind it are connected to the attacks on the Cheyenne and settlers, and you can see the importance of this,” Griff added.
“You’ve convinced me.”
“That’s why I want you to take a fast horse and get back to the Cheyenne. Talk with them. Convince them to hold the peace and let us do the cleanup.”
“Not certain I can do it, Damien, but I’m willin’ to try. First though…” Clem rubbed his huge hands together as though savoring a slice of fresh-baked apple pie. “You mentioned volunteers for this bunch to go after the dogs that took your sister. Mind if I take a hand in that game, Damien? I’d love to wrap my fingers around the necks of such scum.”
Chapter Eighteen
A THUNDERSTORM THREATENED on the southwestern horizon on the day indicated in the ransom note. Above the six men who rode in silence toward Square Butte, the sky remained an incongruous bright blue. Only a light breeze rippled the tall prairie grass which had not yet lost its lush greenness to the searing summer sun of June and July. Early May, everyone agreed, was the best time on the high plains. Damien had deferred to Griffin in the plan of their operation, and the former Confederate major chose a circuitous route of approach. They had, in fact, been on the trail since the day before. Though the clouds continued to build behind them, their thoughts remained on what lay ahead. At a distance he estimated to be some ten miles from the tall natural structure, Griffin Stark called a halt.
“Here’s where we divide up. You four,” he directed, indicating Ansel Thorson, Temple Ames, Sergeant Sean Mallory, and the trading post operator, Clem Baxter, “continue on so that you come up on the back side of the box canyon described in the note. Damien and I will swing around now and approach from the expected direction. If we’re lucky, we’ll have all of their attention on us.”
“How many do you figure will be there?” Baxter asked.
“No telling. Though I don’t imagine it will be too many. Half a dozen men, hidden from view most likely, and whoever has Jennifer.”
“When does the action start, Mr. Stark?” Sean Mallory inquired.
“The moment you spot the other men. Take them out silently. Use knives or tomahawks. You mustn’t let whoever we encounter know something has happened to his backup.”
“If nobody is hiding out, then what, by golly?” Ansel queried.
“Then you get into position and wait for the first shot from us.” Griffin looked around at his small force. “Any more questions?”
“Only one,” Damien offered. “Can we do it this way and hope to get Jen out safely?”
“We’ve been over that before, Damien. At this point we may have to settle for the possibility that she might be wounded. The important thing is that she gets out alive. I don’t like it any more than you do, but we don’t have a lot of options. We’ve both agreed that if Braithwaite is behind this, the chances are that he wants to get the three of us together and kill us.
“We don’t know why, but we can take action to minimize the risk. All right. Good luck to you and thanks in advance for coming along.”
“Sure an’ we wouldn’t have it any other way,” Sergeant Mallory offered through a laconic smile.
“Ja sure, that is the truth of it,” Ansel added.
“Both of you be careful,” Temple Ames advised Griffin. “This chile wouldn’t cotton to havin’ a lot of funerals to go to.”
“Unless they’re for the ones who took Miss Carmichael,” Clem Baxter asserted.
Griffin and Damien reined their horses to the right and rode at an oblique angle to the scalloped ramparts of Square Butte. Half an hour later they swung due east and rounded the corner to the eroded edifice, then turned north and approached the south face as instructed.
