The Confederate 3, page 18
Two men waited at the entrance to the small canyon. The butts of Sharps rifles rested on their right thighs, each clutched at the small of the stock, index fingers on the triggers, barrels canted at a menacing angle.
“In there,” the dark, mustachioed one instructed.
Griff and Damien entered the narrow passage that led to the small cul-de-sac. The gunmen fell in behind them.
“Wonder why they didn’t take our weapons?” Damien asked in a low whisper.
“The way they probably figure it, they got us mouse-trapped. Also, if they plan to kill us, taking our guns now might tip us off.”
“Comforting thought.”
“Around that bend, rein in and wait. You’ll be met,” the fair-skinned one with the sunburnt nose ordered.
Jennifer Carmichael, bound hand and foot, sat against the bowl of a scraggly pine that struggled to survive deep in the shadow of the canyon. Towering over her, ex-Colonel Chester Braithwaite quickened with a surge of elation. Soon now he would have all three of them in his hands.
He had not been told why the Treadwell brothers wanted Griffin Stark and the Carmichaels dead. He didn’t care particularly. Knowing why, of course, might give him special power over the odd pair and others on the consortium’s board. He was a member of that board now. For nothing more than expediting the construction of the railroad. Once he delivered the corpses of Stark and the others, what might he be able to achieve?
“I’ll untie you in a moment, my dear,” Braithwaite said condescendingly. “Wouldn’t do to get your brother and Major Stark suspicious before I could spring my little trap, eh?”
“Why are you doing this?” Jennifer inquired for the hundredth time.
Braithwaite considered her question a moment. “I suppose nothing would be harmed by telling you now, would it? It’s really rather simple. I was given orders to kill you by my employers.”
“Is … is that what you do? Kill people for money?” Jennifer could hardly believe what she heard.
“Sometimes,” Chester Braithwaite replied in a smug simper. “It has taken some time, you know, to catch up with you three. I first received instructions regarding Griffin Stark back during the war. I arranged several attempts, but they failed. I really thought my suicide orders at the Battle of the Wilderness would do it. Too bad.”
“It was my brother who found him. Is that the reason we are to die also? For saving Griff’s life?”
“Oh, no. Not that I know of, at least. But then, I was told very little about this matter.” Damnit, he thought vehemently. He had let something slip, admitted a weakness. But it mattered little. She, along with Stark and Carmichael, would be dead in less than half an hour.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Griffin exclaimed after he and Damien had reined their horses and looked ahead.
“The balding man with the graying hair. That’s Braithwaite himself?”
“Yes. I didn’t expect he would be here.”
“Get off your horses,” commanded the pale young gun hand. “And don’t try to take them rifles along.”
“Well, well, Griffin Stark. It’s been a long time, Major,” Braithwaite greeted jovially as he came forward.
“Since last fall when I took a shot at you,” came Griff’s surly reply.
“My, my, such hostility. I was referring to our service for the cause.”
“I’m almost ashamed to admit I was in the same army as the likes of you. Where’s Jennifer?”
“Over there under that tree. I just cut her bonds and she’s a bit numb. She will join us shortly. Did you bring the money?”
“Yes,” Damien answered. “It’s in that picnic hamper on the skirt of my saddle.”
“Excellent. We’ll count it out in a little while, then conclude our transaction.”
“No. Jennifer first, then the money,” Griffin demanded. He raised his voice. “Jenny, come over here.”
“I dare say I have the upper hand and I’m giving the orders.”
“What is it all about, Colonel?” Griffin inquired as Jennifer walked up and stopped at his side, her face strained and pale. He looked at her with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Y-yes. A little sore and my feet hurt. But, Griff, he … he got you here to … to …”
“Aha!” Braithwaite interrupted as though Jennifer had not spoken. “I had hoped you would ask that question. I am, let us say, but the instrument of the consortium’s will.”
“Who are these people, this consortium, that they have to extort ten thousand dollars from us?” Damien asked.
“Oh, they have no need to obtain money in such a manner,” Braithwaite said loftily. “The money is my idea. A little bonus. As I just explained to Miss Carmichael here, the real purpose of all this is to kill the three of you. For some reason you have gained the enmity of the consortium. That can never be allowed.
“You see, the consortium is all powerful. It controls banks and transportation, pays for favors in the halls of government, and influences opinion directly through its newspapers. Before long, it will even control the nation’s major food supplies. Nothing can be allowed to stand in its way. Particularly three insignificant young people like yourselves. I’m a part of the consortium now. I’m a member of the board. And, as it happens,” Braithwaite went on, “I am also your executioner. I have men stationed all around here to insure you came alone. Quite foolish of you to have done so. In your place, I wouldn’t even have bothered. Of what value is one girl’s life to your own futures, eh?”
“You are a bastard of the first order, Colonel,” Griffin growled, making the military rank sound like an obscenity. “You are also quite wrong. We fully considered the possibility that this was a trap. That we were to be captured or killed, using Jenny as bait. We also decided that you were the one behind it. By this time, those men you bragged of aren’t around anymore. They have been taken out by troops we brought along and had approach by another route.”
“Don’t toy with me,” Braithwaite snapped. “All right, men. Show yourselves and we’ll get this over with.”
A long silence followed.
“Come on. Step out and start shooting.”
A rustling came from four places in the brush. Corpses suddenly appeared and began to roll down the steep incline of dirt at the base of the canyon walls. A few seconds later, several more fell onto the floor of the canyon. A voice, thick with Irish accent, called out. “Sure an’ they was easy, Major, sir.”
Undaunted by this shocking revelation, Chester Braithwaite went for his revolver, a Forehand and Wadsworth chambered for the .38 long cartridge. Before he could clear it from under his coat, Griffin Stark’s Starr revolver left its holster in his blurred fist and roared a challenge.
Braithwaite staggered backward when Griff’s bullet creased his left thigh. He started to bring up the Forehand and Wadsworth again, only his target had left his line of sight.
Griff gave Jennifer a solid shove that sent her stumbling toward the horses. “Mount up and ride out of here, Jenny,” he shouted at her.
At the same time he lined the sights of the big Starr .44 on the dark-complexioned gunhawk. He squeezed off a round a split-second before the revolver in the mustachioed man’s hand spat fire. The slug intended for Griff rippled the air close to his right ear with a violent crack. His own bullet found its mark.
A black hole appeared in the notch formed by the gunman’s collarbones. Blood flew from his mouth and the back of his neck. He pitched over backward and lay twitching in his death throes. Griff looked around to see Damien fire at the other hardcase.
Braithwaite’s henchman took the slug in the right side of his chest. He spun part way around and discharged his Colt. Griff fired a fraction ahead of Damien and his slug exploded the gunman’s head. Damien’s hammer was falling, so that his issue Colt blazed in the dusty mid-afternoon air and sent an unneeded two hundred fifty grain lead pellet into the dead man’s abdomen. Satisfied with the effect, Griff turned back to Chester Braithwaite.
Braithwaite’s revolver bucked in his hand, and above on the steep slope of the canyon wall, a man cried out and pitched forward. His hat flew off and Griffin recognized the yellow-gray locks of Ansel Thorson’s hair. He brought up his Starr and snapped off another quick shot at Braithwaite.
Suddenly the former Confederate colonel broke and ran in among the trees to where the horses had been tethered out of sight. Griff and Damien both fired after him. Braithwaite staggered forward for a couple of steps. A bullet had creased the top of his left shoulder. Then he disappeared among the pines.
Hoofs thudded softly against the bed of decaying pine needles, and Braithwaite came into view, astride a powerful-looking, big-barreled chestnut gelding. He lay low along the running animal’s extended neck and fired his revolver as he charged toward the two men facing him.
Griffin had time to fire again and saw the bullet tear deeply into the fleeing colonel’s vitals. The impact shook him but he maintained his seat and flashed past the spot where Griff stood. Then he came into line with Jennifer and caused Griff and Damien to hold their fire. In an instant he rounded the bend and was lost to sight.
“Let’s get the horses and go after him,” Damien urged.
“Ansel’s been hurt, Braithwaite has a good head start, and the rest of our men are on the slopes. He may have reinforcements close at hand. We had better consolidate and set out for the outpost.”
Damien kicked at a dried horse dropping, then turned to his sister.
“Why didn’t you leave like we told you?”
“I … there was a rifle in the scabbard. I thought to use it if I could. It all happened so fast.”
Tension left Damien’s face, the pinched whiteness replaced by a flush of blood. “You could get. hurt that way, you silly little goose.”
“Oh, Damien, you haven’t called me that since I quit wearing pigtails. You aren’t mad, are you? Not really?”
“No … I can’t ever be mad at you, Sis. But, I would really like to go after Braithwaite. We had a chance.”
“I know how you feel,” Griffin informed him. “I would, too. Look at it this way. He can’t exactly run to this consortium and tell them he had bragged up their power and all and then let us escape him. So, that gives us time to find out what is behind it and make a clean sweep, get him and his cronies in this consortium. They’re bringing Ansel down. Let’s see how bad it is.”
Barely conscious, Ansel groaned with each movement of his body. A large, wet red stain spread on the front of his buckskin shirt. His face was pallid, with a blue tinge around his lips. A fine pink froth bubbled over them.
“That’s not good,” Griffin observed. “He’s been lung shot. We’ll have to cover the entrance hole with something, and he shouldn’t be moved far right away.”
“I’ll be honored to stay wit’ him, Major,” Sean Mallory offered. “Sure an’ I’ve tended boyos with wounds just like it. An’ bigger holes they was, from Confederate rifles, beggin’ yer pardon.”
“I’ll send a wagon from the outpost,” Damien offered. “We’ll give you spare rations, plenty of water. It shouldn’t be more than two days.”
“We’ll manage just fine, we will, Cap’n, sir.”
Fortunately the expedition had brought along a rudimentary medical kit. Griffin cut away the buckskin from around the wound and bathed it with water, then alcohol. Ansel groaned.
“Hang on there, partner. It was a little bullet. You’re too tough to be badly hurt by a thing like that. We’ll have you out of here soon.”
“The only way I’ll leave this canyon is with the angels, ja sure ,”Ansel gasped out at the expense of great pain and a whistling suction through the .38 caliber hole in his chest.
“Don’t talk nonsense. You’ll be up and riding in a month.”
“I feel cold, Griff.” Ansel’s teeth chattered. “Is … is it evening already? It is getting so dark, by golly.”
“Lay back and rest, old friend. Think about sunlight and birds singing. Don’t let the darkness close in on you.”
“Is he … ?” Jennifer asked softly, her lower lip trembling.
Griff nodded, his face grim. “A lot depends on him, right now. Whether he has the stubbornness to fight to live.”
Ansel coughed weakly. A darker spew of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his eyes rolled upward. For a long moment his chest stopped heaving. Then, with a rattling gurgle, he began to breathe again.
“Devil take it,” Sean Mallory muttered. “Thought we’d lost him.”
“Not yet. He’s hanging on,” Griff said thankfully.
“The rest of us had better be moving,” Damien reminded them.
“You rest easy, now, Ansel,” Griffin urged as he finished the bandaging. “Sean is staying to help you out. We’ll be at the fort when you get there.”
“The girl? Is Miss Jennifer safe?”
“Yes she is, Ansel. Now sleep if you can.”
“G-good-bye, old friend,” Ansel managed, then broke off in feeble coughing.
Chapter Nineteen
“NO ONE IN Maryland will ever believe this,” Jennifer Carmichael said airily as she lifted the cut crystal glass to her lips and sipped the rich, red claret. Now, with her ordeal two days in the past, she seemed little affected by the events of her captivity and rescue.
She had yet to tell Griff and her brother of her close brush with rape. The thing was still too fresh in her mind, perhaps it always would be.
Her abductors had taken her to where the gang was encamped along a lovely little creek, lined with cottonwood and wild cherry trees. The stream had gradually changed its course there in the bend, leaving a wooded depression that was bordered on three sides by flowing water. Someone had built a tiny dugout into the rim of the basin furthest from the creek.
“This here will be your home for a spell, ma’am.” The dark, mustachioed leader spoke for the first time. “Not much for a lady, I’m afraid.”
Jennifer had been startled, then encouraged by his soft southern accent. She found his actions even more rewarding when he dismounted and removed his personal gear from the squalid quarters.
The interior was cramped, damp, and dreary, its sole amenity a pole bed frame, laced with strips of rawhide and covered by an ancient buffalo robe. Oh yes, there was the bucket, the lousy damn bucket. She’d avoided using it until well past the evening meal when she knew she could never sleep with her bladder so full.
Jory – she had heard one of the outlaws call the leader by that name – had provided her with a blanket from his own bedroll. He had told off sentries to guard the rawhide flap that served as a door – she was relieved to see the rodent-faced little man who had hinted at having his way with her was not included – and personally brought her supper of sowbelly and beans and provided a canteen of water. The man had been polite and reasonably courteous but silent.
It must have been the sound of water in the bucket, perhaps he’d been standing on the other side of the hide flap, intent on the dark interior. She’d sensed something earlier, then put it off as girlish imagination as she squatted over the bucket.
Suddenly the flap jerked back and he stood there in the moonlight. The black silhouette lunged and grabbed her, one hand fumbling to cut off the scream. She fought desperately in the darkness, clawing for his eyes, trying to get her teeth into the hand that was depriving her of air. Something Griff had once told her came through, and with the swiftness of the thought she lifted her knee, feeling the crunch of a direct hit. He groaned, lurching against her, and she heard his foot hit the bucket, felt the hot wetness on her feet.
A voice bellowed something and her attacker swung to face the source, shoving her onto the bed, collapsing it. There were two dark forms above her, and something flashed between them, landing with a meaty smack. The smaller shadow spun in her direction, falling to strike her knee with a head that slid down to rest on her foot.
“I’m sorry ma’am, I heard he’d swapped places with your guard,” Jory apologized. “I came here directly.”
The next day Jennifer found her skirt smeared with blood and bits of broken teeth on the floor. Jory had found a place in her esteem for a few days.
Then had come the day when Griff and Damien had ridden into the canyon in response to the note. It took her only moments to realize that they had no intention of dealing with the men who had taken her. By then she was pleased at this knowledge. Once the shooting started Jennifer watched in betrayed horror as Jory raised his cocked rifle against the back of Griffin Stark, her warning scream lost in the roar of weapons, Griff’s among them. The man Jory was no more.
Jennifer shuddered back to the present, not sure of what had been said. She noticed the others looking at her expectantly.
“I only wish Ansel could be here with us,” she blurted.
“He is resting well, at least,” Griffin remarked. “I’m sorry a real doctor could not be brought to him.”
“When he grows stronger, we can send him to Fort Kearny by wagon,” Damien told them. “He’s a tough old bird. At first I didn’t think he would survive the trip here from Square Butte. Now, he’s on the mend. What troubles me is this reply from Washington that headquarters sent forward. It arrived as I was leaving my office.”
“What did they say?” Griffin asked, body bent forward at the waist so that he looked as though he might leap from the red velvet cushion of the Windsor chair.
“Not what we expected. No such thing, they say, as the consortium. They imply it is the invention of a disturbed mind. Such an organization would be known about, they informed me, if it existed at all. As to the Rocky Mountain Railroad and Braithwaite’s connection to it, my orders were that this was not the army’s jurisdiction. A civilian commission would be appointed to look into it. We are to do nothing.”
Griffin’s face flushed with anger. “I can’t believe that. Braithwaite practically outlined their entire scheme to us. The railroad and this consortium can move to cover their operations long before this striped pants’ commission has been organized, let alone even crossed the Mississippi River. We’re here, it should be our job.”
