The Savage Trail

by Jory Sherman

  “What’s your ace in the hole, John?” Ward asked.

  “Hobart wants to kill me worse than I want to kill him.”

  “So?”

  “So if he knows I’m here and looking for him, he’ll come after me. Or he’ll send Mandrake to kill me. If we can capture Mandrake, he might talk, tell us where Hobart is.”

  “Hmmm,” Ward intoned. “You have a point there.”

  “Damned right he has a point,” Ben said. “We don’t want to be cooped up in the fort, under guard, while that killer Hobartis schemin’ to murder more people.”

  “I will consider it, Ben,” Ward said.

  John took in a deep breath through his nostrils. He still had some cards to play. Ward was military, but he was also human. And he had a big stake in Hobart’s capture or death. After all, Hobart and his men had murdered his son.

  “Colonel,” John said, “do you want to know how Jesse died? He was very brave.”

  “Did you see him . . . were you . . . ?”

  “We was watchin’ everything, Colonel,” Ben said. “We was up in a cave, a-lookin’ down at our camp.”

  “Did Jesse suffer?” Ward asked.

  “He tried to save my sister, Alice,” John lied. “I mean neither Jesse nor any of the others were armed. Alice screamed when Hobart shot my mother, and Jesse, well, he grabbed her up and tried to protect her with his body.”

  “That’s right,” Ben said, picking up on the lie. “He done everything he could to save that girl’s life.”

  “Go on, John,” Ward said.

  “Hobart himself rode up, rode right up to Alice and Jesse. Shot the both of them. He shot Alice in the head and shot your son in the belly. Jesse still tried to cover Alice when he fell. He didn’t know she was dead, I reckon. Hobart let Jesse squirm and suffer before he shot him in the heart.”

  “That’s right. And Hobart liked what he done,” Ben said. “He enjoyed makin’ poor Jesse suffer.”

  Ward bowed his head, squinched his eyes shut to fight back the tears.

  “Jesse was brave,” John said softly. “Very brave.”

  A shudder coursed through Colonel Ward’s body, but he recovered and straightened up, his back stiff, his eyes narrowed.John thought he could see the flash of hatred in the man’s eyes, two burning coals that were emitting sparks through the slits of his lids.

  “That sonofabitch,” Ward murmured.

  “You have to let me try to draw Hobart out in the open, Colonel,” John said. “Don’t hog-tie me on this. Ben and I rode a long way and we know more about Hobart than you or anyoneelse on the post.”

  Ward did not answer right away.

  John could see that he was weighing the offer. The other men in the room stood like statues, none daring to venture an opinion.

  Ben shot John a look, making a slight nod toward Colonel Ward. John took that to mean that Ben wanted him to push the colonel a little more. At that moment, John was grateful that he had a friend like Ben, a man who would back him up, stand by him through thick and thin, fair weather or foul.

  “There’s something else, Colonel Ward,” John said, taking his cue from Ben. “Something you might not know about OllieHobart.”

  “I admit I don’t know much about him. He’s wanted in a lot of places. He rides, or did ride, with a rough bunch. What else do I need to know, son?”

  “Hobart’s traveling with a women. She’s as deadly as he is. Her name is Rosa Delgado. Ben and I drove her out of Denver. She owned a saloon there. We’ve been tracking her and Hobartall this way.”

  “A woman?” Ward said. He looked around at his aides and at Herzog. They all bore puzzled looks on their faces.

  “A Mex woman,” Ben said with a quick stab of his voice. “A mighty dangerous gal, that one.”

  “I did not know this,” Ward admitted. “Does it make any difference to you, John? I mean, if she and Hobart were to come after you, meet you face-to-face . . .”

  “Do you mean, sir, would I hesitate to shoot a woman?”

  “I guess that’s what I mean,” Ward said, obviously uncomfortablenow with a woman in the picture.

  “Rosa Delgado picked out her own path. There was a line there, and she stepped over it. Once she took up with Hobart, she called the tune on her own fate. If she faced me with a gun in her hand, I wouldn’t even blink an eye. I’d drop the hammer on my pistol once I had her lined up in my sights. To me, she’s no different than Hobart now.”

  “You’d shoot a woman? Kill her, as if she were a man?” Ward said. “That’s pretty hard-hearted, John.”

  “My mother was a woman. My sister might have been. Someone like Rosa Delgado, who picks up a gun and sides with a killer like Hobart, has lost all claim to womanhood. She might as well wear pants and rub away all her rouge. She’s not a woman to me anymore. She’s a killer, the same as Hobart.”

  “Hmm. That’s interesting, John. I see your point.”

  “What about letting Ben and me go our own way. We’ll stay out of yours, but we don’t want to be locked up in a stockade as long as Hobart and his gang are breathing air they stole from my folks, my sister, your son, and all the other men up in that mining camp.”

  “I don’t know,” Ward said, still hesitant.

  “See that pistol there, Colonel,” John said. “My pa made that. He left it to me. It’s all I have of him. But there’s somethingelse, too, you ought to know.”

  “What’s that?” Ward said.

  “Hobart wants that pistol. He sent three men out of Cheyenne to kill me and Ben. Not just because we were dogginghis heels, but because he wanted that pistol. And he was willing to pay extra for it.”

  “You know that for a fact, John?”

  “I do. Hobart has got him a worm inside him. It’s a worm called Greed. That worm is eating him up. He wants gold, he wants that pistol. He doesn’t care a whit about human life. He will kill to get what he wants. You lock me up and that pistol stays out of his reach. If he knows I’m out there, packing iron, he’ll want me and the pistol. He’ll come after me. He’ll make a mistake because that worm is gobbling up his innards.”

  “Damn, John. You make a good argument. I’m inclined to go along with your logic. It goes against my grain as a soldier. To me, you’re taking the law into your own hands and that ranklesme, rubs me the wrong way.”

  “Colonel,” John said softly, his voice cutting through the tension in the room, “there wasn’t any law when Hobart and his men slaughtered all those innocent people. There wasn’t any law around when he was cornered in Rosa’s Cantina. He killed one of his own men, just so he could make his escape. I don’t claim to be the law, but I want justice, any way I can get it. Don’t hog-tie me on this. Let me be to follow the path I chose.”

  There was a heavy knock on the door, the sound of a commotionoutside the room.

  “Bradley,” Ward barked to the lieutenant standing nearby, “see what the hell’s going on.”

  Lieutenant Winfred Bradley opened the door and a sergeantburst into the room.

  “Colonel Ward,” he said. “Somebody broke into the armory,killed Sergeant Dixon and Private Means. They carted off rifles and pistols and got clean away.”

  Sergeant Ray Stoner’s words galvanized the officers into action even before Ward issued his orders.

  “Sound assembly, Sergeant,” he said. “Muster every man jack to the parade ground in ten minutes.”

  Then he looked at John and Ben.

  “Gentlemen, you may strap on your pistols and take your rifles and horses. Leave the post immediately. I don’t want to see you or hear about you for at least twenty-four hours. That clear?”

  John and Ben both shot from their chairs as if they were propelled by an unseen force. In seconds, they had strapped on their pistols. They pushed their way past soldiers coming and going.

  “You take care, Savage,” Herzog said. “You get in our way and Colonel Ward won’t hesitate to blow you both to kingdom come.”

  “Herzog,” John said. “
You got a big chunk in your craw. You stay out of my way, or the same goes for you.”

  Ben and John stepped out into the night. Their horses stood there at the hitchrail. The two troopers stepped aside as John and Ben mounted. No one challenged them as they rode across the parade ground, which was filling with men at arms. The brassy sound of a bugle calling them to muster filled the air with curdling notes that sounded as feral, foreboding, and chilling as the howl of a timber wolf on the prowl.

  22

  HOBART’S HEAD BOBBED UP AS IF JERKED BY AN INVISIBLE CORD. He cocked it to one side, listening to the sound of pounding hoofbeats.

  Army Mandrake strode to the front window of the house. He slid the heavy curtain aside and peered out into the starlit darkness.

  “Uh-oh,” he said.

  “Who is it?” Hobart asked, rising to his feet. He pushed away from the table where he had been studying a crudely drawn map. His right hand dropped to his side. His fingers closed around the butt of his pistol.

  The hoofbeats grew louder.

  “It looks like Captain Fry.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yep. Wearin’ out leather. This ain’t goin’ to be good, Ollie.”

  “He’s got some explaining to do,” Hobart said. “Let him in.”

  The hoofbeats stopped as Captain Jubal Fry hauled his horse to a stop at the hitchrail outside the house. He sprang from his horse, hit the ground running. He left the reins dangling, knowing the horse would stay right where he stopped. His boots sounded thuds and squeaks on the pine porch as Army opened the door.

  “Army, we got big trouble,” Fry said as he entered the room. His eyes went wide as he saw Ollie standing there behindthe table, ready to draw his pistol.

  Fry’s uniform was wrinkled, the armpits black with sweat. He was a hollow-cheeked man, gaunt, spindly-legged, with short, black sideburns, a thin moustache, close-cropped dark hair greased to a high shine. His kerchief hung loose around his neck, its insides dark with sweat and grime.

  “You-you Oliver Hobart?” Fry asked when he had recoveredfrom his surprise.

  “I’m Hobart, Captain Fry. Let’s hear about this trouble. Make it quick and short. You were supposed to deliver another shipment of rifles and ammunition to Army yesterday.”

  “Aw, Ollie, Jubal’s okay. He can’t always sneak rifles off the post.”

  “He can talk, can’t he?” Ollie said, his impatience showing in a muscle that rippled along his left jawline.

  Rosa Delgado sat in a chair that was in shadow at one cornerof the room. She had a half-filled bottle of whiskey next to her, on the floor. She picked it up and held it out toward Fry.

  “Have a drink, soldier,” she said, her words slurred as if her tongue had been bee-stung and swelled up.

  Fry looked at Rosa, nonplussed. He was military, stood as straight and stiff as if he had an iron rod for a backbone. He didn’t acknowledge the drunken offer, but turned his gaze back to Ollie.

  “Yes, I can talk, Hobart. I rode out of a damned hornet’s nest tonight over at the post. All hell’s done broke loose. Army, I thought you had them Injuns under control.”

  “What in hell are you talkin’ about, Jubal?” Army said.

  “Stay out of this, Army,” Ollie said. “I’ll ask the questions. Captain, why don’t you sit down and talk some sense. You want some whiskey?”

  “No,” Fry said. “No whiskey.” He walked to the table, pulled out a chair, sat down. He sat as stiff as when he was standing up. That ramrod for a backbone, Ollie figured. Ollie sat down, too, and nodded for Army to take a seat.

  “First I knew something was wrong,” Fry said, “was when Chet Newgate, Lieutenant Newgate, he’s the quartermaster, come running into my office sayin’ a bunch of redskins had broke into the armory and was haulin’ out rifles and cartridges. I thought maybe it was Red Eagle, but no, these was Injuns I never seen before. They didn’t make no noise and they had packhorses lined up like they was at mornin’ muster. The two men guardin’ the ordnance was lyin’ dead, their throats cut from ear to ear.”

  Ollie looked at Mandrake.

  “You know anything about this, Army?”

  Mandrake shook his head.

  “Somethin’s damned sure wrong, Ollie. But, Jubal, you was supposed to bring us them rifles two days ago.”

  “I couldn’t pull it off, Army. Colonel Ward’s in a high dither over reports about them Injuns up on the Wind River breakin’ out and some other stuff.”

  “What other stuff?” Ollie asked, spearing Fry with a daggeredlook.

  “Colonel Ward’s son was killed at a mining camp down in Colorado a while back. He got wind that the leader of the gang was headed this way. He’s been sending out patrols to hunt this jasper down.”

  Ollie sucked in a breath.

  “You know the name of this gang leader, Captain?” Ollie asked, exhaling.

  Fry shook his head.

  “Nope. But I think the colonel knows. He’s keeping everythinghe knows real tight. No names. Well, most names.”

  “What’s that mean?” Ollie asked. “What names have you heard?”

  “I don’t know who they are, but one of the privates mentionedthat a patrol he was on had also been looking for two men that might be heading for Fort Laramie.”

  “Names?” Ollie’s irritation showed on his florid face, on the muscle that twitched along his jawline, and on the swelling veins in his neck.

  “A young feller name of John something. And a man named Russell. Ben Russell, I think.”

  Ollie stiffened in his chair as if he’d had an icicle dropped down inside the back of his shirt. His eyes flickered, then narrowedto rattlesnake slits.

  “John Savage,” he said, his voice a breathy loud whisper. “Was the last name Savage?”

  Fry’s expression did not change. Instead, his eyes turned agate hard and shone as if a lamp had been lit behind them.

  “Yes. Savage was the name. John Savage.”

  “Oh shit,” Mandrake said.

  Ollie glared at Army. Rosa gave out a small cry. It sounded like the squeal of a puppy that had been kicked.

  “I do not think you will get the pistola from John Savage,” Rosa slurred. “Not in the way you expect, Ollie.”

  “You shut up, Rosa,” Ollie said.

  “You do not want to hear the truth, Ollie.”

  Ollie turned his head to look at her, his eyes boring into hers with a fierce, withering stare. Rosa lifted the bottle and took another sip of whiskey. Her eyes grew cloudy and dull. She closed them as the whiskey seeped down her throat and ignited her veins.

  “How the hell could a bunch of redskins sneak into the armoryand steal rifles and cartridges?” Ollie asked, fixing Fry with a look that was almost unchanged from the one he had given Rosa.

  “All I can figure is they had help and they knew which throats to slit. Hell, they didn’t make a damned sound. Ain’t no walls around Laramie.”

  “Injuns, that many of ’em, ain’t invisible,” Ollie said.

  “These sure as hell were.”

  “Where in hell was Major Cresswell?” Army asked. “Wasn’t he helpin’ you, Jubal?”

  Fry’s shoulders lifted in a shrug, sank back to normal.

  “George was supposed to meet me two days ago and let me know when I could have the rifles to bring you.”

  “And?” Ollie said.

  “He didn’t come by, so I went to see him. He said there was a snag.”

  “A snag?”

  “That’s what he said. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, and yesterday he brushed me back again, like he was swatting a damned fly.”

  “What do you make of that, Captain?” Ollie asked.

  Fry raised his head, stroked the bottom of his chin as if testing the closeness of his shave, or trying to collect his thoughts. Ollie waited. So did Army.

  “I think he sold us out, Hobart.” There was no quaver in Fry’s voice. He laid his hands flat on the table as if he had just spread out the winning hand in a poke
r game. “I think he threw in with the Cheyenne and plumb sold us out.”

  “Why in hell would he do that?” Hobart asked. “And where did a bunch of renegade redskins get the money?”

  “And why in hell didn’t you come to me yesterday and tell me about this?” Army asked.

  “Hey, back off, Army. You, too, Hobart. I ain’t the enemy here. You made the deal with Major Cresswell. You dangled the pork in front of him. Not me.”

  “He sure as hell took the money,” Army said. “Agreed to the deal. Licked his lips when I put greenbacks in his hand. I figured him for a greedy bastard.”

  “You know anything about Major George Cresswell, Army? I mean, where he comes from, who he really is?”

  “He’s just another soldier to me,” Army said. “Why?”

  “Yeah,” Ollie said, leaning forward over the table, his eyes almost feral in their intensity. Fry straightened his back and pulled his head back as if he were at attention, but he was really bracing himself for a blow from those big fists of Ollie Hobart.

  “Cresswell, when he was a boy, I mean a little boy, maybe four or five, was in a wagon train heading out West from St. Louis. I think his folks were going out to Oregon or maybe Santa Fe. Anyways, the wagon train got hit by a bunch of Sioux and Cheyenne. His folks were killed and the Sioux took him prisoner. Raised him. Raised him like a damned Injun.”

  “A Sioux,” Ollie said. “Those Injuns we’re dealin’ with are Cheyenne, ain’t they, Army?”

  “Far as I know,” Army said.

  “George was sold to the Cheyenne, the Northern Cheyenne, the way he tells it, when he was about sixteen or so. He grew up speakin’ Sioux and Cheyenne, knows the sign lingo. Couple years later, he was in some Injun camp when the soldiers came up and shot it to pieces. Cresswell was taken and remembered enough English so the soldiers didn’t kill him right then.”

  Army leaned forward, caught up in the story.

  “Then what happened?” Mandrake said.

  “George was adopted by Colonel Roland Cresswell, sent off to school back East, joined the army, and, because he was a good fighter, and smart, he kept getting promoted. Far as I know, he never fought Sioux nor Cheyenne before. He was chasin’ Apaches down south with Crook and Miles. He come up here six months ago.”