The Confederate 2

by Forrest A. Randolph

  “Sound recall,” Griff commanded. “We’ll charge them again. Carbines this time.”

  Twin fusillades rose to a crescendo, only to be drowned out by the bass roar of another geyser erupting. Sheets of hot, sulphurous water descended on both sides and the warring men pulled apart in the downpour. Griff spotted Chester Braithwaite off to one side and spurred Boots in his direction.

  Braithwaite saw him coming. He took aim with his Colt revolver and fired. The shot went wild. Griff’s Starr blazed and he saw cloth fly in a puff from Braithwaite’s right shoulder. Griff fired again, missed. He spurred Boots hard and attempted to close on his enemy. Fury boiled in him and he determined to finish the man there and then.

  Nature intervened with a small geyser that spewed upward directly in front of Boots. The tough stallion whinnied in startled confusion and reared high on his hind legs. More geysers in the tiny field erupted in a cacophony of steaming water and howling steam. Braithwaite and a dozen men around him put spurs to their mounts and leaped away in the confusion.

  Griff clung to Boots in an attempt not to be dumped from the saddle. His helpless rage increased as he watched his enemy escape his revenge.

  “Easy, boy, easy. Take it easy, Boots,” he soothed until the animal regained some control. Then Griff turned back to the battle in time to see the last of the renegades fall from his saddle.

  “We got one alive over here, Major,” the first sergeant called out to Griff. Quickly Griff joined him.

  “What is your name?” Griff demanded in a cold, deadly tone.

  “Mitch Gordon. I … I hurt awful bad, uh, Major.”

  “You’re going to hurt worse if you don’t answer my questions.”

  Blood pooled under Gordon’s shoulder, pumped out of a ragged exit wound that had blown apart his right shoulder blade. He bled also from a hole in his stomach. Gordon licked dry lips and a terrible appeal glazed his eyes.

  “I … I’m thirsty. Sure could use a drink.”

  “Sorry. You’re gut-shot. Can’t risk it.”

  “Why the hell not? I’m gonna die anyway!”’

  “Maybe not here. Maybe on the gallows. Where would Braithwaite head from here?”

  “You know his name, huh? I … I suppose you’re that feller, Stark.”

  “I am. Tell me about Braithwaite.”

  “He … he has a place in Silver Creek. The Denver side they’re calling it now. But he wouldn’t go back there, not after this.”

  “Where would he go?”

  “I …” Gordon coughed and spat blood. “I don’t know. He … he talked about a special place, a hideaway, but never where it was.”

  “Did he … plan all of these raids?”

  “N-no. Not alone. He works for some people he calls the Consortium. I don’t know what that’s all about. He gave us our orders and we carried them out. P-payed real g-good.” Gordon coughed, a deep wracking convulsion that shook his body. Bloody froth formed on his lips. “Oh, God, it hurts something awful.”

  “Were you along when Braithwaite attacked a wagon train on the Oregon Trail?”

  “Uh … y-yes, I was.”

  “Remember a little boy, about seven, going on eight? Almost white hair, black eyes. Feisty.”

  “I… uh, sure. Yeah. Braithwaite wanted to kill him to get rid of witnesses. Some Injun took the kid.”

  Griff bent suddenly, shook Gordon violently. “Which Indian? Which one?”

  “I … I don’t know. Honest, Major Stark, I don’t … kn … kn … k-k-k …”

  Gordon fell back dead.

  Slowly Griff stood. A haunted expression had turned his face to a rutted map of demonic terrain. He wiped a big hand over his cheeks and turned to the first sergeant.

  “Gather up their equipment, weapons, and horses, and we’ll head back to the outpost.”

  The work crew got the telegraph back in operation three days later. The first message through was from Ansel Thorson. He had seen enough for this year, the old scout declared. He was headed back to St. Joe before the snows set in. Come spring, he promised Griff, he would be back. The second message to come over the line indicated that military authorities in Denver had nothing on anyone answering Braithwaite’s description arriving in town. Disappointed, Griff read the words a second time, then walked slowly over to Damien’s office.

  A fresh white bandage covered Damien’s shoulder and a clean sling held his left arm immobile. He looked up at Griff.

  “You look full of cheer this bright fall morning,” the calvary captain declared.

  Griff handed Damien the message form. “What do I have to go through to take that scout job? My son’s out there, Damien. I know for sure now. I … I’ve got to find him.”

  “I ... understand, Griff.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  FLUFFY WHITE FLAKES of snow drifted lazily past the windows and a comforting heat radiated from the wood-burning potbelly stove in one corner of the single-room schoolhouse in St. Joseph, Missouri. Jennifer Carmichael stood at the blackboard, pointer in hand.

  “Don’t forget, children, there will be a test tomorrow for the upper grades on George Washington and the winter camp at Valley Forge. Spelling for all and division for the middle grades. That’s all for now. You may go.”

  Yells of delight burst shrilly from twenty throats as the young students burst out into the three-inch accumulation of crystalline powder that covered the ground. Snowballs became the immediate order of the day. As usual, they had left the door wide open. Jennifer shrugged. The fresh air smelled good, after a day of being cooped up with wet wool and small-child scents. She walked to the corner and wrung out a scrap of cloth. With it, she began to clean the blackboard. While she did, her thoughts wandered to Griffin Stark.

  Where was he now? The summer was definitely over. It had snowed twice already. Each time the outfall lasted longer before the October sun melted it away. November was only five days away. Winter. Everyone agreed that no one could travel any distance then. Why hadn’t he come back? Was he still alive? A gentle rap on the doorpost brought her around, a guilty look on her face for having been caught daydreaming.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  A tall, gangly man, his long blond hair streaked with gray, stood in the doorway. “You would be Miss Carmichael, the schoolteacher? Ja, sure. I am Ansel Thorson.”

  “An-Ansel. Why, you traveled with Griff. Where is he? Is he in town now?”

  “No. He didn’t come back. Stayed at an army outpost out Wyoming way. Your brother is commanding there. Ja, sure.”

  “Has … has he found his son?”

  “Not yet. There was a bit of a tragedy. The Tuckers have been killed and Jeremy is captive to some hostile Cheyenne.”

  “Oh … how awful.” Jennifer put a hand to her mouth. “You mentioned my brother. Griff and Damien are together?”

  Thorson nodded.

  “That, at least, is good news, but I’m so sorry to hear about Griff’s sister and her husband. How … what was it like out on the plains?”

  “Oh, a lot of what happened was funny. Ja, sure. I told Griff Stark that I had never been there before.”

  “Why, someone in town told me you had once been a famous scout.”

  “That’s true, it is. Only, I knew if I told your Griff that I wanted to go along because I felt he needed help, I was sure he would refuse me. So I said I had never been out that way and wanted to see the country. Oh, it was good for many a laugh when he would learn some bit of trail craft and then carefully explain it to me, so the dumb-head Norwegian would be able to take care of himself. Ja, sure. Your Griff is a mighty good man, he is. He isn’t hurt and he still wants to find his boy. He signed on with the army as a scout. He’ll do all right. Ja, sure.”

  “And … when will he come back?”

  Ansel’s expression turned serious. “When he finds the boy … or his body. That Griff, he’s a stubborn man, too.”

  “That’s why I love him so.” A shocked expression washed over Jennifer�
��s face. She hadn’t meant to let that slip out.

  “He’s the lucky one, I’d be thinkin’. I’ll not keep you longer. I’ll be down in my shop if you would want to talk more.”

  “No. Don’t go. Let me fix us some coffee and you can tell me all about Griff’s search.” Her mind filled with happiness. Now, only the winter soon to come separated her from her love.

  Five unsuccessful probes dampened Griff’s hopes.

  In each camp, one friendly to the whites and two bands of hostiles rounded up before winter set in, he asked questions, poked and pried, yet found not the slightest trace of Jeremy. Nor did he find any more trophies, like the artificial hand, that would indicate any of these Indians had been involved in Braithwaite’s raid. Now, his search had been ended for the year.

  Snow fell in heavy wet flakes on Outpost Eleven. Already over a foot had accumulated. Christmas was less than a month away, with the worst of winter weather beyond that. Griff tossed another stick of cordwood into the squat, round iron stove and rubbed his hands.

  Would he ever see Jeremy again? The question plagued him. Would he ever know if the child was alive or dead? And what of Jenny, waiting for him back in Maryland? Did she deserve this long separation? He snorted at himself in derision and poured two fingers of bourbon into a glass. Of course she didn’t. More, still, he didn’t deserve the love of a wonderful girl like her. He swallowed the burning liquor and his thoughts turned black.

  Most of all, he wondered if he would ever catch up to Chester Braithwaite. A wanted man now, the ex-colonel would be in hiding. Probably change his appearance and name. But he knew. Griffin Stark knew that the murderous renegade was out there. Above all other things, for the sake of his murdered sister and brother-in-law and his lost child, for all the blood and heartache, Griff swore to one day have his revenge on Colonel Chester Braithwaite and whoever was behind him.

  The epic adventure continues in

  THE CONFEDERATE 3:

  RIDE BEYOND GLORY

  A Tribute to the Author

  by Patrick E. Andrews

  Forrest A Randolph, author of The Confederate series, was in reality my friend Mark K. Roberts.

  I first met Mark when we were schoolboys in Wichita, Kansas right after World War II. My family had moved from Fort Sill, Oklahoma, to live in that city after my dad transferred from active duty to the Army Reserves. Mark and I hit it off right away. We both liked to read adventure books and go to the movies on Saturday afternoons to watch the western films of Bob Steele, Sunset Carson, Charles Starrett and others.

  Later, as we grew older, our interest in literature turned to typing up adventure stories and passing them back and forth to each other. Most of these were westerns, since my family had pioneered in Oklahoma and his in Kansas. All this came to an end as teenagers when Mark's widowed mother remarried and her new husband took her and Mark to live in San Diego, California.

  Meanwhile, our devotion to writing grew stronger as we exchanged occasional letters and went about growing into manhood. I enlisted in the Army and volunteered to be a paratrooper, while Mark joined the California National Guard. When I was discharged from the service, Mark invited me out to San Diego to share an apartment and start some serious writing. A few years passed and he made some sales to Pinnacle Books, then I scored with four westerns bought by Manor Books.

  Now the good times started as more sales and improvement in our story telling skills developed. After that we saw each other only occasionally. However, we got together in one of our old watering holes for some drinking and jawing. Mark brought up the subject of us writing a western together. Great idea and it would be fun! We decided to make it a cavalry novel since we both had military service experience and our family lore supplied us with a lot of knowledge about cattle ranches and homesteads. The result was Apache Gold, and we had no trouble selling it to Kensington Publishers.

  Little did we know that decades later our novel would be picked up as an e-book by Piccadilly Books in the United Kingdom. My primary contact at PP was a savvy Brit by the name of Ben Bridges, who is not only a resourceful publisher but writes damn fine westerns of his own.

  In the 1990s Mark inherited some property back in Kansas where his great-grandparents homesteaded, and he moved back to the prairie country. At the same time I followed my wife Julie from California to Florida, and Colorado in her aerospace job. Since I was a writer, it was easy for us to pack up and go elsewhere. When she retired, we moved back to California to be with our son and grandchildren.

  Then, thanks to e-mail, Mark and I got back in touch. But it was not a happy occasion. One of the first things he wrote was, “Well, Patrick, I'm afraid I’m not the healthiest man in Dodge.” As the weeks passed, his e-mail activity slowed then stopped. I called the local sheriff and asked him to check on Mark. The next day the lawman called back and said he’d gone to his house and found that he had passed away. Mark was buried homesteader style in a corner section of land that had been used as the Roberts family cemetery for several generations.

  Rest in peace, old pardner. I’m in my 80s now, so maybe pretty soon, if you're in a celestial saloon, you’ll see me amble in to join you at the bar We’ll knock back some good bourbon like we did in the good ol’ days.

  But the adventure doesn’t end here …

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  THE CONFEDERATE 2: BATTLE CRY

  By Forrest A. Randolph

  First published by Zebra Books in 1983

  Copyright © 1983, 2021 by Forrest A. Randolph

  First Electronic Edition: April 2021

  PICCADILLY PUBLISHING

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.