by Andy Kutler
He did not respond, just stared at the ground.
“She would not want her father to murder another man in cold blood. Break his nose, yes. But you’re no murderer.”
Kelsey looked up at her. “Emily, your husband is a good man. Colonel Royston is a good man. They have qualities I don’t. I’m okay with that. Or at least, I’ve come to accept that.”
“I believe,” said Emily, “that you don’t know yourself as well as you think.”
He shook his head. “Trust me, you don’t know me. I have done things—”
“Yes, you’ve killed before. Out of duty. This would be different.”
He looked at her with intensity. “That man all but tried to kill your husband.”
“I know that. But Cal didn’t die, he was spared. Someone in Mexico showed him mercy.”
Kelsey looked away.
“You can’t bring Peter back, Sergeant.”
“No, not Kirch.”
“Then who?”
Again, he remained silent, but she was struck by the fierce, determined look on his face.
“I won’t ever see you again, will I, Sergeant Kelsey?”
He shook his head.
“Then may I ask one favor? Stay until morning. Whatever your aim is, a few hours won’t make a difference and pneumonia won’t help your cause.”
He hesitated and Emily could see he was debating it in his own mind.
“You can leave at first light,” she said. “I brought you an extra blanket, and I’ll leave you some food to take with you.”
“Just don’t tell your husband or Royston. I don’t want to be talked out of this and I don’t like goodbyes. As far as you know, I just left. But I’ll be gone before first light.”
“Then farewell, Sergeant. I wish you a safe journey, and that you find whatever it is you are looking for.” She turned to leave.
“He’s not going anywhere.”
She turned back to him. “What?”
“Your husband. It won’t be easy, talking to him about it. If that is what you choose to do. You might have a rough patch. But you were saving the life of his son. Some men wouldn’t see that. He will.”
She nodded, distantly.
“You saved your son’s life,” he repeated, intoning each word slowly.
Emily gave him an appreciative smile. “Good evening, Sergeant Kelsey.” She turned to leave again.
“Emily?”
“Yes?”
He started to respond, then paused. It was almost imperceptible, but she saw the slightest movement on his face, the tightening of creases, the upward turn of his lips. The beginning of a smile.
“Call me Mac.”
***
He had awakened before dawn, a habit he had acquired during the war. Looking outside he saw that the rain had subsided into a soft mist, the grounds of the estate enveloped in a dense fog that darkened the morning sky. As Kelsey reached for his saddle, he saw a small basket had been mysteriously placed, a bounty of bread, apples and some dried meat. There was also a canteen and dry bedroll, and a letter that had been torn open. He examined the handwriting on the envelope; it had a New York return address on it and the last name Kirch. It was addressed to Ethan Royston, Major, U.S. Army. He opened the envelope and read the enclosed letter, four years old now, and felt his determination hardening even more.
Behind the envelope was a single piece of paper. He unfolded it, finding two crisp one-hundred dollar bills inside. He read the words, neat and feminine.
Mac,
I wouldn’t have talked you out of it, and none of us like goodbyes either. Ethan says for you to consider this your severance pay for the Army and to help you on your journey. He also orders you to come back when you’re finished.
EPG
Kelsey put the note and money in his pocket. He finished saddling his horse and rode out into the morning twilight, an apple in his hand.
CHAPTER 31
He pushed through the swinging doors, feeling like a dressed-up cowboy in a Hollywood western. The cavernous room was clouded with tobacco smoke and brimming with patrons, filling every table and crowding the length of the bar. Despite the lively atmosphere, one hand rested on his holstered revolver. He knew how close he was.
The Wilshire Hotel was one of the more upscale drinking establishments in St. Louis. Even so, the ensemble of barmaids with their exposed corsets and gaudy makeup, showering their leering customers with affection, revealed there was much more than liquor being served here.
Kelsey’s mind flashed back to Manila and his first liberty as a young ensign. His shipmates had goaded him, but in truth, it hadn’t taken much to push him toward that whorehouse that was legendary throughout the fleet. The Filipino girl went by the name of Danni, and she was the beginning of the end of his marriage to Susanna.
Kelsey finally spotted the man he had been searching for. He was sitting alone in a corner, pouring a half-empty bottle of something into a shot glass. He waived off one of the more buxom ladies who had glided by his table as if he was swatting away a gnat.
It had been quite an odyssey to get to the Wilshire. Kelsey had been surprised at how much two hundred dollars could buy him in eastern Ohio, where his search for Hiram Travers began. He started with a train ticket to Missouri, having had to abandon his army mount and favorite McClellan saddle. He kept his sidearm as most did when they mustered out. Of course, Kelsey hadn’t bothered with any official paperwork. Just left his horse and rifle with a stable boy at the cavalry depot near Columbus, which Kelsey figured was one step up from resigning by mail. The Army would catch up with him at some point, but he no longer cared. As long as he stayed free for a few weeks. His Colt, and time to find his man, was all he needed.
It did feel strange to be out of uniform. Any uniform. A first for him since his ROTC days. The wool trousers he had purchased were tucked into his cowhide boots, and a frayed barn coat, covering his blue Army blouse, was cinched tightly by the gun belt strapped around his waist.
If Travers hadn’t been the only man at the Wilshire in uniform, Kelsey may not have recognized him. Even sitting, the man’s brawn was evident. But what had once been long, swept-back hair had now been cut much shorter. It was still black as an inkwell, but it now barely reached his collar and was neatly combed and slicked back with some sort of pomade. His unruly beard was gone too, though a thick dark mustache remained. He wore a spotless tunic with captain bars and the insignia of what Kelsey assumed was the 15th Ohio Cavalry. His boots were polished to a high sheen.
The transformation was remarkable. He looked more like a natty rear-echelon officer than the crass and rough-hewn frontier sergeant he once was.
Travers was sitting at the very table that his regimental clerk said he would be. He looked up as Kelsey approached his table, prepared to swat away another gnat. His face registered first annoyance, then recognition.
“Well, well,” he said, both surprised and amused. “I remember you. Kinsley, is it?
“Kelsey. Mind if I join you, Captain?”
“Free country. Even here in Missouri. Have a seat, Kelsey. Quite a coincidence running into you here.”
The voice was friendly enough, but Kelsey wasn’t fooled. He had heard it many times before and heard the unmistakable edge in it.
He knows this is no coincidence.
Kelsey lowered himself into a chair across from Travers. “Actually, I’ve been looking for you. Hard man to find.”
“It’s a big army.”
Travers signaled to the bartender to bring another glass. One appeared, and Travers quickly filled it, pushing it across the table. Kelsey picked up the glass, admired it for a moment, then slowly turned the glass upside down.
The amber liquid splashed on the cedar plank floor, but Travers remained nonplussed, the smile fixed in place.
“Now ain’t that a shame, wastin’ good whiskey like that. So how did you find me, Kelsey? We’ll get to the ‘why’ forthwith.”
“Well, first thing
I did was track down Colonel Thatch. I knew he had requested your transfer to his outfit back in sixty-two. I found him a few weeks ago at his brother’s farm in Akron. Sounds like he took a musket ball in the spine when you were all down in Georgia. He’ll never walk again. Could talk though, and couldn’t say enough about you. Said his brigade would have folded any number of times without you holding the line.”
Kelsey gestured towards the other man’s epaulets. “Gave you that battlefield commission himself. He wasn’t sure what happened to you once he was wounded, but he heard you got yourself in with General Sheridan.”
“Yep. Sheridan gave me my own troop.”
“Right. So I went to Sheridan’s headquarters and asked around about you. Got yourself quite a reputation. Quite a few there said your troop was unbreakable, the backbone of your regiment.”
“Well,” Travers said, pouring himself another drink, “we all did our part.”
“And now here you are. Just back from an extended furlough, ready to head west. Dakota Territory, I hear.”
“Good duty out there. Honest, Kelsey, I was getting a little tired of shooting Rebs. Privileged sons of bitches, but they were still Americans. White men. I signed up to fight savages. Will be good to get back to that.”
“Colonel Royston sends his regards.”
“Good man, Royston. Between us old sergeants, he was none too sharp, mind you. But he watched out for the men. I hear that young one with the butter bars bought it.”
“Townes. Yep, not too many left from the old Second Dragoons. Officers are almost all gone, except for Royston and Garrity.”
Travers looked up sharply. “Who?”
“Royston and Garrity. You remember Lieutenant Garrity? Sure you do. You were with him on that patrol—my first patrol. Told us he had been butchered up by the Apaches. You must have seen someone else. Garrity, it turns out, just got himself in trouble with some Mexicans. They ended up sending him home to Virginia just before the war broke out.”
“Well, well. Good for him.”
“Yes, sir. Got himself his own regiment, served under Jeb Stuart.”
“Still alive is he?”
Kelsey forced a smile. “Sure is. Lost an arm and spent the last couple of years in a prison camp. But he made it.”
Travers poured himself another shot and knocked it back. “An arm? Now that is a shame. Where is he now?”
Kelsey smiled. “Funny, I just ran into him not too long ago. Interesting name that came up in that conversation. Peter Kirch.”
Travers squinted his eyes, pretending to search his memory. “Don’t ring a bell. And you still haven’t told me why you’re looking for me. I’m starting to think there is a point to this conversation. I take it from those clothes that you’re a civilian again. Back where you came from, eh, Kelsey?”
Kelsey pulled a large, sealed pouch from inside his coat and tossed it on the table.
“What the hell is that?”
“Peter Kirch’s personal effects. He was killed this month, stabbed to death. I need to send those to his ma in Michigan.”
Travers shrugged. “Tough luck.”
“Luck? No, Captain, Kirch was killed in camp. The Army believes by another soldier.”
Travers frowned, glancing at the pouch. “Told you I don’t remember the name. You know how many men I’ve served with?”
“You don’t remember him from all your time in New Mexico? He was the company bugler down there, and then he was Royston’s bugler in the Sixth Cavalry. You were with us in sixty-one and sixty-two, and you were sergeant major for a time.” Kelsey leaned forward in his chair. “How could you not remember the fucking bugler?”
He had raised his voice with the last three words, loud enough to turn heads nearby, his tone having its own edge now. He’d had enough of Travers’ gamesmanship, though Kelsey was not quite finished.
And this time, Travers remained quiet, beads of sweat dotting his temples.
Kelsey opened the pouch and pulled out a bundle of letters. “Damn good kid. Did you know the boy wrote his ma almost once a month? Must run in the family. She wrote him letters every day it seemed. Even wrote the colonel once in a while, asking him to look out for her boy.”
“Lot of words. Get to your point.”
Kelsey sat back, pretending not to hear him. “Sure is some interesting reading in there.”
“Reading a dead man’s mail, Kelsey? Don’t sound appropriate to me.”
“Well,” Kelsey winked, “you got me there.” He thumbed through a stack of letters until he found the one he was searching for. “But like I said, these letters do make some interesting reading. I like this one. Goes all the way back to April of sixty-one. That was when I first joined the outfit.”
Kelsey began reading. “Dear Peter, I have offered a prayer for your safety nearly every day for a year now. I know you insisted we speak no further of this, but I remain terribly concerned about the man who threatened you with his dagger. Your last letter sounded so fearful and I cannot imagine any individual, particularly in your own army, who would threaten a boy as kind and respectful as yourself.”
Kelsey lowered the letter. “A dagger. Kind of a lady’s weapon, isn’t it?”
“Sounds like it was man enough to probably make this bugler shit his britches.”
Kelsey kept his face impassive. He knew what Travers was doing. “Well, Captain, guess what they found next to Peter Kirch’s corpse? You’ll never guess.”
Travers said nothing, glowering across the small table. Kelsey reached into his coat and pulled out the small blade. He tossed it on the table, still crusted in dried blood.
“Go ahead, Captain. Pick it up.”
Travers picked up the bottle instead and tilted it toward his empty glass. “You got something to say to me, Kelsey?”
Kelsey covered the glass with his hand. “Maybe you shouldn’t have any more to drink.”
“And why’s that?”
Kelsey leaned forward again and lowered his voice. “Because I’m going to kill you tonight, and I want you at your best.”
Travers’ eyes burned with malevolence. “What did you say, you prick?” he hissed.
Kelsey saw the man’s arm move, but not toward the dagger on the table. It fell to his hip instead.
Travers suddenly froze. Even above the din in the establishment, he heard the distinctive sound of a hammer being cocked.
Kelsey gripped his gun tightly under the table. He leaned over and removed Travers’ weapon, tucking it into his own holster.
The slight, gray-haired bartender, who had seen a lifetime of drunken brawling, had been eyeing the pair from the relative safety of his bar. He had been content to let the two belligerents have their say, but a gun was in play now and a number of patrons were aware of it. There was a flurry of whispers and pointing followed by chairs scraping across the floor as customers fled the Wilshire, pushing their way through the same swinging doors Kelsey had passed through minutes ago.
“You boys have gone far enough,” the bartender called out. “Now clear out of here or I’ll fetch the city constables.”
Kelsey barely turned his head in response, a natural reaction, as was the subtle shifting of his eyes from his adversary to the speaker across the room. The movement was inconspicuous, but not enough. He immediately knew he had erred, perhaps fatally.
It was all Travers needed.
The man leapt to his feet and pushed the table back into Kelsey, his chair tipping back and spilling Kelsey to the floor. Lacking a weapon, Travers plowed through the other patrons and bolted from the Wilshire.
Kelsey found the dagger and quickly scrambled to his feet in pursuit. A gaggle of children slowed Travers, enabling Kelsey to gain ground as he gave chase. He saw Travers turn into an alley.
Kelsey, smaller but more athletic than his prey, quickly closed the distance. Just as he reached the alley he had to put the brakes on, nearly colliding with a well-dressed older man who made no effort to avoid the fast-approa
ching Kelsey. Nimbly dodging the man, Kelsey slowed, thrusting his Colt and the weapon he had taken off of Travers into the stranger’s hands.
“I’ll be back for those,” he called over his shoulder as he raced into the alley, dagger in hand.
He had barely turned his head around when he collided full speed into Travers, who had apparently hit a dead end and reversed his flight. The dagger tumbled to the ground.
Travers was considerably larger and managed to roll onto Kelsey, using his weight to his advantage. He straddled Kelsey and wrapped his massive hands around Kelsey’s throat. Kelsey tried to twist free, but the heavier Travers had Kelsey’s shoulders pinned under his knees while he squeezed his throat tighter. Kelsey was quickly running out of air in his lungs.
And then somehow it came back to him. An obscure lesson from his ROTC days. His legs were free, and he lifted them into the air and brought them forward, near Travers’ shoulders. He scissored his legs, locking his ankles just under his opponent’s chin. Before the big man could react, Kelsey forced his legs back to the ground. Pulled back by the force of Kelsey’s ankles, Travers lost his grip and fell backwards.
Score one for the ROTC instructors.
But Kelsey had no time to celebrate. He staggered to his feet, gasping for breath, knowing he could not spare a second. As Travers rolled over and rose to his knees, Kelsey pounced on him and drove him back into the ground. He reared back and punched Travers three times in the face, with more force than Kelsey thought he was capable of, until blood began to spurt from the man’s nose. Travers fell limp underneath him. Kelsey reached down and retrieved the dagger, pressing it against the man’s throat.
What was one more?
So many had already died, so many had suffered. Would the world miss this piece of garbage? He pressed the razor-sharp blade harder, watching a tiny rivulet of blood trickle down the unconscious man’s neck.
I’ve killed better men than this.
Travers’ eyelids fluttered as he slowly came to. Kelsey wanted to puncture the windpipe, knowing Travers’ last sight would be his own blood spraying from his throat. Travers would witness his own death, all in a matter of seconds.