Death's Bounty

by George G. Gilman

  “Don’t he go on,” Hal Douglas whispered.

  “He’s goddamn enjoying it,” Forrest muttered, surprised. “After all that griping at wearing a dress and painting his face up.”

  “If he don’t hurry it up, Billy’s goin’ to belt him,” Scott warned. “I can see it happenin’.”

  “If he don’t hurry it up, I’ll cut him in a place that’ll make him more like a woman than any dress or paint,” Hedges breathed.

  The four men stood just off-stage left, their low voices muffled by bandanas formed into masks across the lower halves of their faces and tied at the back. They were dressed in western style, but their costumes were less ornate than those they had been weaving previously. Each carried a Spencer rifle and had Colts in tied-down holsters on their right thighs. Across the stage they could see where Griffiths stood in sweating awe, listening to Rhett hamming up his speech, explaining how a play without scenery allowed each member of the audience to witness the drama in an individual way.

  “I reckon it’s ’cause you can’t afford to buy none!” a man called wryly.

  “But enough of this,” Rhett concluded, ignoring the comment as he bowed elegantly from the waist. “The play’s the thing.”

  “Wondered if you’d ever get around to it,” another heckler yelled.

  Rhett flashed a bright smile and backed away from the hissing footlights, then turned to face Seward and Bell across a space of three feet. Now that they were as much the center of attention as the New Englander, the two became woodenly rigid with stagefright.

  There had been no kind of rehearsal below stage, and as the moment of going on stage approached, Hedges had considered calling a halt to the crazy charade, trying to lead the men out of the playhouse unobserved, and ordering them to shoot anybody who stood in their way. He had no doubt the troopers would fall in with such a plan, choosing to take their chances against the detachment of Rebel soldiers rather than face the civilian audience. But the ultimate aim of the mission had to be considered, and if they could maintain the disguise of actors, they would have a better chance of reaching Richmond and die Confederate president than if they were spotted as Union infiltrators. Rhett’s sudden announcement that he had acted in school plays had heavily influenced the captain’s decision, and Hedges had willingly allowed the New Englander to assume responsibility for what was to occur on the playhouse stage.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Seward/’ Rhett opened. “How’s Mr. Seward?”

  Seward remained resolutely silent, and Rhett leaned toward him.

  “I beg your pardon? I didn’t catch that?”

  “He’s okay,” Seward responded tightly, deeply.

  “My, you have a bad throat,” Rhett ad-libbed expertly. “Do you wish to make a desposit or a withdrawal today?”

  “I wanna take some cash out,” Seward replied in the same deep tone.

  Bell shuffled his feet.

  “And how’s Miss Bell this fine morning?” Rhett asked with a broad smile, leaning to the side to look around Seward.

  “Just great,” Bell growled.

  “Christ, there’s an epidemic of the sore throat out west,” a heckler yelled in delight.

  A ripple of laughter ran through the audience. Rhett turned his head slightly and glared venomously at Seward and Bell. When his profile came into view of the audience again, his face was wreathed in a bright smile.

  “How much, Mrs. Seward?”

  “How much what?”

  Rhett sighed and stamped his foot. “How much do you wish to withdraw?”

  “Oh, yeah. Hundred bucks. And hurry it up so I can get off the . . . outa the damn bank.”

  “Yeah, hurry it up and get him off, sweetie,” another heckler yelled. “He stinks.”

  Seward whirled, and stared into a wall of blackness above the glowing mantles of the footlights. Behind the masking veil, his features were changed from a scowl of anger to a frown of confusion.

  “Billy!” Bell warned in a rasping whisper.

  The men off-stage were supposed to wait for a signal from Rhett before making an entrance, but Hedges saw the sign of Seward’s flaring temper and stepped out onto the stage, bringing up the Spencer. The other three hesitated only a moment before crowding along behind him, leveling their rifles.

  “Everybody freeze!” the captain ordered too loudly. “Yeah, this is a stick up!” Forrest supplemented. “Foul up, more like,” a man in the audience countered, and drew several grunts of agreement.

  On the far side of the stage, out of public sight, the playhouse manager worked frantically at mopping sweat from his face. His free hand hovered nervously above the rope which operated the curtains.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Rhett exclaimed, thrusting his arms high above his head. “This is terrible.”

  “And how, lady!” from the audience.

  “Get ’em up!” Scott snarled, waving his gun between Bell and Seward.

  As both men raised their hands, Bell’s padded breasts slipped down inside his dress to form a bulge at his stomach. A roar of laughter burst from the audience.

  “He said up!” a voice cut through the noise.

  “You can have every dollar in the bank, so long as you don’t harm us!” RJhett stormed on, struggling to be heard above the laughter as Bell attempted to reshape his figure.

  “Shoot ’em and end our agony!” somebody catcalled as Bell succeeded in getting one piece of padding back into place.

  “Please don’t shoot!” Rhett pleaded, dropping to his knees and clasping his hands together in an attitude of prayer. His painted face was twisted into an expression of anguish.

  “Just hand over the money!” Forrest snarled, stepping up close to Rhett and shoving the muzzle of the Spencer hard against his chest. The barrel sank deep into the padding.

  “Hey, that ain’t even a dame!” a voice complained. “I bin gettin’ the hots for a guy.”

  “What we gonna do?” Forrest roared through the din, which was now part laughter, part angry hissing.

  A subtle difference in the sergeant’s tone told Hedges that this was not a spontaneous line in the impromptu play. He leaned close to Forrest to be heard above the uproar.

  “Let’s give ’em a big finish,” he snarled.

  The familiar, mean grin lit cold fires in Forrest’s eyes. “You mean—”

  “Act naturally,” Hedges confirmed. “Lights out first.”

  The officer and the noncom whirled together, drawing their Colts. For as long as it took them to fire three shots each, the greater part of the audience remained unaware of the fact that the shooting was not part of the play. The troopers on stage had the advantage of knowing that the guns were the genuine articles, loaded with live ammunition. As the last of the footlight gas mantles was shattered, plunging the stage into darkness, every person in the theater realized the truth of what was happening. The hissing was suddenly ominously louder as the unbumed gas escaped through the fractured pipes, permeating the air with its nauseous miasma.

  Women began to scream and men to shout. People rose from their seats and fought frantically to reach the doors, blocked solid by those who had been standing at the back or squatting in the aisles. The house lights on the walls at both sides were turned low, but emitted a glow sufficient for the men on the stage to see the massed panic.

  “What’s happening?” Griffiths screamed, rushing out onto the stage.

  “They’re running out on us!” Forrest yelled. “But they ain’t asking for their money back.”

  He emptied the Colt into the struggling mass of humanity, thrust the gun back into the holster, and leveled the Spencer from his hip. A woman and two men went down with screams, pouring blood from gaping wounds. Trampling feet stomped them into silence and erupted fresh blood from burst skin. Hedges, Scott, and Douglas fired their handguns into the center of the struggling throng as Seward and Bell tore off their dresses to reveal that they were attired like the others underneath. Both wore gun-belts and drew Colts to add to the wa
nton, murderous fire. “What are you doing?” Griffiths screamed.

  “Shooting us a few Southerners,” Seward answered casually, turning toward the playhouse manager. Both men began to cough. “Real gas, ain’t it?”

  He fired into the belly of the man in the tuxedo. Griffiths coughed again, and a great spray of blood erupted from his open mouth as he doubled up and fell forward.

  There were two doors at the rear of the auditorium, and both of them were open now as the Union troopers continued to pour rifle and revolver fire into the panicked audience. Following the lead of Hedges, the men aimed at the struggling forms in the doorways, partially blocking the escape routes with the dead and wounded. There was no return of fire, either because nobody had come to the theater carrying a gun, or because everybody considered retreat more urgent than retaliation.

  “Enough!” Hedges yelled. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “And leave these fish in the barrel?” Forrest shouted between wracking coughs. The bandana mask had slipped, and his lips were curled back to match the cold grin of his eyes. He pumped more shots toward the rear of the auditorium and saw men and women crumple.

  “They been battered enough,” Hedges yelled at him, and coughed violently. “Pretty soon they’re gonna fry.”

  “Jesus, he’s right!” Rhett screamed, turning and leaping across the slumped form of Griffiths.

  Coughing and retching, the others went in the wake of the New Englander. But while he started down the steps toward the dressing room, Douglas led the rest toward the stage door.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Hedges called down the steps.

  “I’m not walking around in public dressed like this!” Rhett shrieked in reply, jerking up the hem of the gown to show he had adopted the role of a woman right down to his skin.

  “You look like an angel,” Hedges told him sardonically. “And you could just be one if you don’t get your ass up here and out of this building pretty damn quick.”

  Rhett hesitated only a moment, then scrambled back up the steps and ran in pursuit of Hedges, hoisting the hem of his gown up to his bare knees.

  Outside in the alley, the other troopers waited in a group behind the stagecoach, long ago unhitched from the team. All were looking down toward die lighted square, where the first escapers from the playhouse were streaming into freedom. Many of the women were still raising anguished screams. Hedges realized that even if nobody thought to send a message to the army, the soldiers would soon be doubling toward the playhouse, seeking the reason for the noise.

  “Let’s go get us some horses,” Hedges instructed.

  “We’ll make sure to get a nice gentle animal for the lady,” Seward giggled.

  “I can see I’m never goin’ to be able to live this down,” Rhett gasped as he ran with the others toward the end of the alley farthest from the square.

  “Just concentrate on plain living, Bob,” Scott urged as they emerged onto a quiet, unlit street.

  Following the captain, they turned east and were soon able to run faster than at the start, as they breathed the final fumes of gas out of their lungs. As they put distance between themselves and the playhouse, the extraneous sounds diminished, and the thud of their running footsteps was bounced loudly between the fagades of the flanking buildings.

  They found a livery stable at the extreme eastern end of Pineville. The owner, like most citizens of the town, had gone out for an evening at the theater. With other survivors of the shooting and trampling, he stood in the square outside the building, watching as the gray-uniformed soldiers threw a cordon around the playhouse. The panic was over now, and while some women wept out their shock, most of the crowd just gaped on in stunned silence as they thought about the many still forms left inside.

  “I can smell gas!” a sergeant yelled.

  “They shot out the lights,” a civilian responded.

  “Christ Almighty, why didn’t somebody tell us?” the captain responsible for the execution exclaimed. “Everybody back. Back up there!”

  Only the side door through which the Union troopers escaped was open. Those in the foyer had been allowed to swing shut after the final member of the audience had run clear. The gas rushing out through the shattered gas mantles of the footlights built up in menacing layers of danger across the auditorium. The soldiers began to withdraw from their positions and urged the rubbernecks further across the square.

  “Where’s the main cut-off valve?” the captain demanded.

  There was no answer. The buildup of gas expanded still further and was ignited simultaneously by ten low-burning mantles around the auditorium walls. The explosion was awesome in sight, sound, and effect. The roof of the playhouse was rocketed high into the air as all four walls were hurled outwards. Flaming debris—timber, seats, scenery, and carpets—streaked into the hot, brilliantly lit night air. The blast lifted people bodily and slammed them down. Flying timber and glass smashed into vulnerable flesh. Ears rang agonizingly from the sharp report in its aftermath, so that those at the rear of the crowd could not hear the terrified screams of those at the front.

  The man who owned the stable had been at the front. A scaling pane of glass severed his head from his neck. A piece of flaming carpet wrapped itself around his falling body and set fire to his clothes. His gouting blood put out the flames. More than a score of others died just as horribly. Three times this number—soldiers and civilians— suffered mutilation or burning and lived to cry aloud their agony. In the roaring flames of the burning building, the square was black with charring and crimson with bleeding. The screams of the injured pierced the crackling of flames to reach the eastbound trail, along which the troopers steered their stolen mounts.

  “Seems like our play bombed,” Bob Rhett said with a giggle as the men looked back to where a thick column of black smoke reached into the sky, reflecting the orange, blue, and red of the flames which created it.

  “Had to,” Forrest responded, spitting. “Putting it on after a hangm’.”

  “We did all right,” Hedges told the men as he heeled his horse into a gallop. “We had lousy parts, but the execution was terrific.”

  They raced forward to Richmond.

  Edge backtracked to where the trails forked and followed the one that wound up toward the eastern pass. From the ridge, he had a panoramic view across a broad valley, green and peaceful looking in the pale moonlight. Built on the northern slope was a large, two-story ranchhouse with wide windows from which the owner could look out and survey his extensive domain. This was comprised of several hundred acres of grazing upon which better than five thousand head of cattle roamed at will. The spread was ten times bigger than any of those surrounding Jerusalem.

  There was just one lighted window in the house, and Edge used this as a beacon to home in, going down a hard-packed trail that curved toward the impressive ranch. It opened out into a broad area between the house and several outbuildings, then narrowed again on the far side to swoop down into the valley before rising toward an eastern pass broad enough to give passage to a cattle drive.

  The buildings were long-established but well cared for, recently painted in black and white. Window glass had a high gloss in the moonlight. A buckboard was parked in front of the stoop, with a horse harnessed between the shafts. The animal’s coat had a healthy sheen in the wedge of light from the window. It and the rig were in the same fine condition as the house and the spread surrounding it

  Had anybody been watching, even idly, the trail down from the pass, they would have surely seen Edge’s approach. Aware of this, the half-breed had made no attempt at stealth, riding tall in the saddle at an easy jogtrot. But once in the cover of the storage bams and stables wihout drawing either a call of welcome or a shouted challenge, he changed his tactics.

  He dismounted and tied the gelding to the low branch of a shade tree in front of a water-barrel outside a stable. Then he slid the Winchester from the boot and moved to a comer from where his hooded eyes could survey the fro
nt of the house. There was still just the one window with a light behind it. The drape curtains were drawn back, but a heavy netting partially masked the room’s interior, reducing shapes to fuzzy outlines. But Edge had a clear enough view across the intervening space and through the window to determine three people in the room—two men and a woman. One of the men and the woman remained stationary against an orange glow from the fireplace. The second man was constantly moving— pacing and whirling, often gesticulating with his arms and head. The sturdy walls of the house trapped all sounds within it, but Edge guessed that a one-sided argument was in progress.

  The half-breed could be a man of patience when the occasion demanded it, and this was just such an occasion. The fact that the buckboard was parked outside with the horse still hitched suggested that somebody would leave soon. He could only wonder whether the departing person would be carrying the bag with the money. It would be best if that happened, because the spread was a big one and the house large enough to hold a great many hands.

  So Edge waited, the rifle cold in his hands, prepared to enter the house and take his chances against as many guns as were in there, but hopeful it would not be necessary. The odds were against it, he figured, since any man who owned such a rich spread would be unlikely to need stolen money to pay his bills. .

  The wait lasted less than fifteen minutes. The man who was angry strode out of sight, and the couple followed him. A few seconds later, a rectangle of light showed at the transom above the solid front door. Then the door swung open and a voice spilled out into the night—loud and angry.

  “So take her! And I never want to see her again. Don’t invite me to the wedding, and if you breed any kids, be sure they know they don’t have a grandfather.”

  The speaker moved into the light—a big, broadshouldered man with iron-gray hair clipped short, and a deeply-lined, heavily tanned face from which his green eyes shone with an angry light. IBs daughter—the blonde Edge had spanked and, presumably the one who had ridden the stage with the money—had drawn a lot of her good looks from him. She was urged out across her father’s body and onto the stoop by the beefy young prizefighter who had taken a dive in Jerusalem—David Jefferson. It was Jefferson who carried the bag with the money in it.