Renegade General 01, page 6
part #1 of Renegade General Series
“Hello sir,” Major Twenty identified himself and pulled the actual photo of Swellen from his file. He asked the man at the front counter of Blusters Stage and Delivery,
“Have you seen this man? Within the last two to three weeks, he came into town and left again. He’s about six feet tall, brown hat and a brown leather, jacket with white fur trim. About early forties in age. You might remember a big white fur trim collar.”
The clerk studied the picture and chatted while Lieutenant Bernes scrutinized a schedule hanging on a wall and wrote down a list of all the cities the business line ran to. Given the local access to trains, this list was small and what was left ran only to nearby towns.
“I can’t say that I have sir,” the clerk said.
“Okay. May I leave some wanted posters with you? Will you post one and make sure all your employees look at it? There’s a thousand-dollar reward for him.”
“My God, did he kill the President? A thousand dollars!”
Major Twenty smiled and said, “No sir. Treason, sir. The man was once a lieutenant general, and he must be taken to task for cowardice, desertion and treason.”
Lieutenant Bernes pulled ten posters from his leather satchel and laid them on the desk.
“We are currently staying at the Crescent Hotel should anyone remember anything.”
With the same line of questioning and poster distribution, they visited:
Christopher Stage Lines.
Amid Fields Coaches.
Travelers.
Greater North Carriers.
Sioux Falls train station (they felt most hopeful).
Nothing substantial was gained. Much later, tired. the two men whipped off their caps, tugged off their gloves, took off their heavy uniform jackets, and plopped into velvet chairs near the roaring lobby fire at the Crescent Hotel. Major Twenty stuck a hand in the air, a signal, and a waitress quickly arrived. He ordered two Schmidt beers.
“The stages all run to eleven cities nearby in total,” Lieutenant Bernes said, “The train runs direct to four major cities. He could have taken any stages or trains once in any of those cities. From there, Swellen could have jumped on any stages or trains in those places.”
“Quite the spider web of travel,” Major Twenty said.
“Yes, Sir.”
The beers arrived and then a bellboy approached and handed Major Twenty a note. He read the message aloud.
“Wendle ‘Gee’ Willikers will be here in three days by train. I sure hope we have a lead on Swoop before he gets here. He’s an impatient cuss.”
“I’ve never met him, is he as ... as colorful as stories go?” Lieutenant Bernes asked.
“Let me put it to you this way Bernes, if he’s stuck here with us with no leads? In about two days, he’ll start taking the town apart brick-by-brick, plank-by-plank.”
“Searching?”
“No. Just ornery,” Twenty said.
“Major Twenty! Major Twenty!” a man at the hotel counter called out.
“Yes?”
“Telephone!”
Major Twenty got up with a tired grunt and walked to the side of the counter to stand beside the wall phone. He put the receiver to his ear and spoke into the mouthpiece, “This is Major Twenty.”
“Mister, er, I mean Major, my name is Elton Willbarger. I work at the rail lines. I punch the tickets on the trains, ya know. And I have seen that man you are looking for. I eye-balled yer poster when I came in the office this afternoon from the St. Paul run. I especially remember his furry white collar and that face. And I spoke with him. He asked me how I was, which no one ever does. We spoke a bit.”
“Where was he going Mr. Willbarger? Do you remember?”
“Denver, Sir. Denver, Colorado. I know it. I remember.”
“What is your home address, Mr. Willbarger. If this helps us find him there will be some reward for you. It won’t be a thousand dollars, that will be reserved for the man who lays hands upon him, but there will be something for you. I will see to it that you get something for your help.”
As Major Twenty spoke to the man, he gave Lieutenant Bernes a thumbs-up signal from across the room. He hung up and sat back down with Lieutenant Bernes.
“A ticket puncher positively identified our man, on a train to Denver. I will leave in the morning for Denver and Fort Logan. You stay here and wait for Gee Willikers. Then the two of you train on down to Denver and meet me at Fort Logan.”
Chapter Ten: You Should Not Know My Name
Manitou Springs, CO.
“MR. ARCHIE! SIGNORE Archie.”
Knock, knock, knock.
“Yes. Who is it?” Swoop asked.
“Mr. Zapello wishes to have lunch with you.”
“Mister ... ,” Swoop opened the door half-way to see a swarthy man in a black suit and a well-dressed Catty Corners standing behind him. She strolled right past the man and right into the room with her hands clasped behind her back. The man stepped in next.
“It’s too early for lunch,” Swoop said.
“Lunch will be served at the Zapello base camp office of Pike’s Peak,” the man said. “It will take almost an hour by carriage to get there.”
“Less,” Catty added.
“I see,” Swoop said, watching Catty with a curious eye as she paced and studied every corner of his room.
“You won’t find anything interesting in here in any corner, Miss Corners.”
“A stoic has such few possessions,” she added.
“Well, come to think of it, yes. Few,” he said.
She sat on the bed, palms flat on each side of her, her fingers stroked the blanket’s material. Swoop watched her fingers move.
“Sir?” the man said, getting back Swoop’s attention.
“Oh, ahhh, yes. I think I will go. Yes, of course. I will meet you downstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Ahh, Mr. Zapello asked ...” the man said sheepishly, “for you to wear your guns if you have any?”
“My guns.”
“Yes sir, I see you have guns,” the man pointed to the gun belt with two pistols, hanging on the back of the desk chair.
“Rough country out there, I guess, huh?” Swoop said.
“Rough, sir.”
“Well, okay,” Swoop said with a sigh.
He walked to the room door and opened it all the way for both their exits. “I will change, and I will meet you downstairs.”
“I think I will stay,” Catty said, “I need a change today.”
“Ahh, oh, well, very well!” The man said.
He backed up, nodded with a bow, and walked down the hall.
Swoop shut the door.
“You know, a lady alone in a hotel room might have her reputation ruined,” Swoop said unbuttoning his shirt.
“Well then ... since my reputation has already been ruined by me just being here ...”
About an hour later, Swoop and Catty appeared on the stairs and in the lobby, dressed for a cold ride to the foothills of Pike’s Peak. Under his long jacket, he wore his guns and even snapped his swagger stick into his belt, to punctuate the “armed” request.
“Got something for you, Mr. Turner,” the hotel manager Mr. Holden told Swoop.
“Oh?”
Holden handed him the long, heavy scabbard of the dead duelist’s cavalry sword.
“Some fellows, cowboys, came by last night. Dropped it off for you.”
“Thank you,” Swoop said, admiring it up and down in his hands. “Can you keep it here until I get back? Or maybe have a maid leave it up there?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Outside in the cold, the Zapello’s man paced around a very nice enclosed, European-style, two-horse coach. He seemed relieved at their arrival.
“We will be late,” he said in a frustrated whine, opening the coach’s side door.
Once inside, the ornate coach took off for Pike’s Peak.
“Ever been to Pike’s Peak?” Catty asked.
“Never have.”
“I have lived here since the Gold Rush. 1859,” she said.
“You were but a child,” he said.
“I was. My parents came here for Kansas. There wasn’t much mining right here, but all over the mountains there was. The news is that there will be gold found in Pike’s Peak soon again though, especially after Zappy’s train is complete. Easy up and down. It’s part of the Rocky Mountains. It’s about thirteen miles to the top on very skinny mountain roads. Rugged roads. Too narrow at times. But not narrow other times. It’s beautiful at the top ...”
“You’ve been to the top?” Swoop asked.
“Oh! Yeah. Many times. The state of Colorado has hired Zappy to build this special mountain-climbing train so everyone can get up there, easily and see it all. It’s too hard now. You see the poles and telephone wires?”
“I do.”
“Zappy has it all wired, and now half-way up the mountain where there is the Half Way Hotel.”
“Does everyone call him Zappy?”
“Oh, pretty much. Or Zap. Don’t ask me what I call him.”
“I can only imagine. Why do you think he wants to talk with me?”
“You’re an interesting fellow, Archie. I’ll say that. But he’s having some serious troubles. Best he tell you. I don’t know the whole story and I don’t want to know the whole story. I’ll still be here long after he’s gone back to Sicily. AND ... back to his wife. Or he’ll stay over here and build trains on all the mountains and his wife will come here. Where does that leave little ol’ me?”
“I understand.”
Within some forty-five minutes, the coach reached the base camp. From the compartment windows Swoop could see the area under a cold, crystal clear blue sky. It was Colorado-Rocky Mountain beautiful, with a spectacular view, even at that lower elevation than the Peak’s official climb. Pine trees, rolling hills, a distant river surrounded tents, buildings, train engines and train cars stacked side-by-side, ready to be placed on future tracks, storage yards, horses and stables, a large, two-story, square-shaped, log cabin near piles of rails and equipment. It was a work yard for a large project and men were moving everywhere as busy as bees or ants in the snow.
“Happy New Year! Welcome! Welcome. I see that Catty has delivered you successfully,” Zapello shouted from the cabin porch.
“I have been delivered,” Swoop said softly, and Catty gave him a short, sharp elbow to the ribs.
This time Zapello was dressed in alpine clothes, boots, baggy pants, wide suspenders and a red flannel shirt, not a man prepped for a European opera like the evenings before. He beckoned Swoop and Catty onto the wide balcony encircling the log cabin.
Once inside, Swoop cast his eyes upon a long table loaded with food.
“Come. Come. Hungry?”
“Yes,” Swoop said while the driver collected their jackets and hats. This exposed Swoop’s guns and stick, of which Zapello took note. No less than six cats of various colors roamed the big front rooms.
“Yes! I like-a the cats!” Zapello said, “And I see you have the Roman, Centurion stick at your side. I like that.”
“Habit,” Swoop said. “We call it a swagger stick here. And if I am told I need my guns. I probably need my stick too.”
They sat with Swoop shifting the guns and his army stick around, guns parallel to his thighs, stick hanging down. They proceeded to eat a heavy lunch of steak and vegetables, supported by Italian wine. Zapello explained his train-mountain-climbing, construction mission. Swoop asked questions a few questions about Sicily.
“Miss Corners, might I have a word with Mr. Archie alone? I don’t want to bore you my dearest.”
“Sure, sweetie,” she said, and stood. She meandered off to another room.
“Archie ...” Zapello started, lighting a pipe, “I noticed that you watched Carlos Greco’s duel with that most ignorant cowboy the other day.”
Swoop nodded.
“Greco as you might guess, works for me. Here for me. With-a me from Sicily. He is a supervisor. He is also a master swordsman. He has studied with many great masters of Europe. Anyone who duels with him is an ignorant fool. He has killed many men. Reminiscent of the American gunfighter? Eh?”
“Gunfight duels are mostly in the pulps, Mr. Zapello.”
“Oh, oh call me Zap!”
“There are not a whole lot of real, gunfighting duels in the West like the Eastern magazines print. Just maybe sudden gunfights spurred up inside fist fights, bushwhacks ...”
“I see.”
“ ... ambushes. Not many standoff duels. Do all his sword fights end up in a death?”
“Yes-a. Now. But in his years of fighting in competitions of course no. Those were controlled sports. He had challenges to the death in Italy and Austria. France. He now enjoys the true sword fight that ends in death-a. In Europe the laws of the sword fighting, the duel, come and go, here in America, the consensual duel, specially in the ... wild, wild West ... is okay.”
“The wild, wild West. I have a question. What ... why did Greco ask that man about God? Renouncing God? Then kill him like that?” Swoop asked.
“A sad story. You see in the European traditions of some bad men, the ... the evil side of history of the sword in Europe ... for some, to kill a man, to really, really KILL a man, some think that they must also kill his soul. They must totally win. Kill. By that, they must stop the soul from rising to heaven. So-a, they trick the wounded. They suggest the wounded man renounce Jesus to live. Renounce God to live. Of course, the wounded man wants to live in the scary moment, the sword tip at his neck. So at that moment, scared, he declares this renouncement of the savior. And at that one Godless moment, men like Greco stab and kill them. Men like Greco think they have really killed an opponent. Killing their soul too. Or you might say ... you might say ... killed him twice. Heart and soul.”
Zapello inhaled on his pipe.
“That’s some very evil thinking,” Swoop said.
“Yes, it is. Very. The Bible says, ‘They will face a reckoning before Jesus Christ-a who stands ready to judge the living and the dead.’ Are you a religious man, Archie?”
“Rather not.”
“Seen-a too much? Too much in the Army?”
“Perhaps,” Swoop said, “did too much. Seen too much.”
The tobacco aroma of the pipe lingered around the table. The coach driver, now in white, who had transformed into the food butler and dish remover, appeared with some coffee.
“Italiano coffee,” Zapello said with a sweeping hand and a big smile.
“Thanks,” Swoop said, spotting how small the cups were.
“Italian style coffee. The essence of the coffee,” Zappy said. He downed the hot stuff in one gulp, like a shot of whiskey.
Swoop sipped his.
“After the duel the other day,” Zapello continued after the butler left. “I saw you speak with Greco. Then I saw you on the street. You stare him down. Unafraid. Right into his eyes you stared. Right after you saw him kill a man, right before your eyes. I saw your blood a turning, burn hot. I could tell. I saw ... I saw ... what I think was a certain ‘maschilismo.’ The Spanish here call it “machismo.”
“I might be one of those ignorant fools,” Swoop said.
“I don’t think so, Archie. Archie is not your real name is it, Mr. Archie?”
“No.”
“What is your real name?”
“You should not know. I should not burden you.”
“I should not then. You should not. I have enough burdens already. I have a problem.” He sat back in his chair. “There are many opportunities in the Rockies for the trains I have designed. The United State wants many of them. All the other states with mountains too. I am associated with an American businessman Ralph Englemen who visited Pikes Peak once. He said it was a miserable, two-day pack mule trip to the top. He’d visited Europe in the past and he knew I had built these mountain-climbing trains in Switzerland. He contacted me and we created a very good business deal. A partnership.”
Swoop nodded and sipped his coffee.
“We own ... what your country calls ... patents on the train system. Now, we do here too in the United States. The papers are on file in Denver and Washington. For the law-abiding citizens, Engleman and I own it all. Everything. But, people here, my people ... some of them? They have a curse. A burden. Have you heard of the Mafie? The curse of mafie? Have you heard of the American version? The Black Hand? Or the Mafia? On your east coast?”
“No.”
“I see. By the 1800s my Sicily was very disorganized. The government was a stupid mess. So, small private armies, like clans or families, known as “mafie” took advantage, took control over the chaotic conditions. They extorted protection money from landowners. They threatened, they destroyed and kill. They steal.”
“Mafie,” Swoop repeated.
“Yes, they are like a disease for some of my people. For them? No rules. Back in Sicily, one day, the mafie walked into my office. They wanted half my company. For nothing in return. Just they say, my ... my safety. Money from me, or I will start to have all kinds of problems. Maybe problems like deaths in my family. Explosions. So! I moved. I agreed to this business deal with the American and I moved over here to escape these threats. Soon my wife and children will come. I hope to build many trains in the Rockies. And anywhere there are mountains.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But some mafie,” he pointed through the big windows to the workers on the grounds and then up to Pikes Peak, “they are here with me now. Just the curse of them. The curse is here with me. When I first came to your country, I had a hundred and fifty-one Sicilians. Now I have a hundred and thirty-two. The rest are ... missing. Gone,” he snapped his fingers.
“Dead?”
“The workers claim they quit. Went back home. But I am told though in the whispers, that they have been killed. Vendettas. Coltello! Knife! Some sword fights, but mostly knife fights. You say here, arguments over who knows? Eh? Insults? The dead? They are buried away on the Pike’s Peak somewhere. Out in the woods? I cannot tell what really happened to them. But, most of my men are good men. They keep secrets from me. Many have wives and children and already live in the town. But they have these secrets from me. And some have the curse of the criminal.”
