Death Rattle

by Sean Lynch

  “Detail,” Lieutenant Gabel commanded for the third time, once more raising his saber. “Prepare to fire!”

  “Do you have any last words, Atherton?” Gabel asked, as his men readied their Fayetteville muskets.

  “No last words,” Pritchard said. “Only regrets. I regret I didn’t get a chance to put a ball into your pea brain.”

  “How about you, Clemson? Any final words?”

  “Yeah,” Ditch said. “Kiss my Missouri ass.”

  “Ready!” the lieutenant said, in his loudest and most official command voice. The firing squad conducted a half turn, brought their rifles to port arms, and cocked the hammers back.

  “Aim!” Gabel commanded, in his parade-ground voice. The rifles were raised.

  “Fire!”

  The sound of gunfire erupted.

  Chapter 16

  The thunderous report of hundreds of rifles echoed across the meadow. A carpet of thick gray smoke was added to the already heavy morning fog, reducing visibility from yards to feet. Pritchard and Ditch heard the sound of a bugle. The footsteps and battle cry of an entire Union brigade closed in behind them.

  Lieutenant Gabel and four of the firing squad were hit and fell to the ground. The fifth went to a knee and fired his rifle into the fog before he, too, was felled. The sixth member of the firing squad dropped his rifle and ran back toward his regiment’s lines.

  At the sound of the first shots, Pritchard elbowed Ditch backward into the trench. They landed heavily among the pile of dead.

  “Don’t move,” Pritchard whispered to Ditch. “Play dead.”

  Pritchard and Ditch lay motionless among the rancid bodies for long minutes as countless men and horses moved past them in waves. Twice men in Union uniforms fell into the trench, obviously unable to see the large hole due to the fog and smoke. Both cursed and immediately climbed out to rejoin their comrades in the attack on the Confederate camp. Soon the sounds of even more gunfire, the clash of steel, and the fierce and agonizing screams of men in battle were emanating from within the rebel post across the meadow.

  “Now’s our chance,” Ditch said, once the fighting shifted to the camp. “We’ve got to get going before this fog lifts.”

  “Right behind you,” Pritchard said.

  They had to move together, since they were still connected by leg-irons. They clambered out of the trench and belly-crawled through the grass toward the firing squad.

  They found Lieutenant Gabel lying faceup with a gunshot wound in his chest. His eyes were closed, and he didn’t move. Ditch and Pritchard began searching his pockets for the key to the irons.

  Ditch found the key and grinned when Pritchard located his father’s bag of gold coins, tucked away in the officer’s inside breast pocket.

  “Thieving bastard,” he said, taking the purse from Pritchard.

  Gabel suddenly opened his eyes and grabbed for Pritchard’s wrist. The officer’s lips parted to release a shout. With his other hand, he went for the butt of one of the Remington revolvers in his belt.

  Pritchard clamped one giant hand over the lieutenant’s mouth, stifling the bellow before it began. He beat the officer to the draw for the revolver with the other.

  “Looks like I’ve got no regrets at all now,” Pritchard said, remembering his nearly last words. He snatched the revolver, cocked it, and put the muzzle against the officer’s head while Ditch occupied himself unlocking their irons.

  “Go ahead,” Lieutenant Gabel said through a mouthful of blood. “Finish me, you coward.”

  “Who’s calling who a coward?” Pritchard said. “Ain’t you the feller who marched us out here, unarmed and in chains, to be shot?”

  Ditch looked to his friend’s face. He was gratified to note the lethal shadow had not yet overtaken Pritchard’s features.

  “Do it,” Lieutenant Gabel insisted.

  “Not today,” Pritchard said, releasing the hammer. “I ain’t going to shoot you. I believe I’ll leave you in this field to die slow, without my assistance. You can go to your end knowing that while Ditch and I may not be Confederate officers, nor gentlemen, we’re better men than you.”

  “That’s it,” Ditch said, removing the chain from Pritchard’s ankle. Ditch helped himself to Gabel’s other revolver.

  Pritchard and Ditch both stood up, but started to go in different directions.

  “You’re heading the wrong way,” Pritchard admonished. “That’s the way back to camp.”

  “I know,” Ditch said. “I’m going back for my pa’s horse and rifle.”

  “Are you loco?” Pritchard asked. “They’re fighting a battle back there, or can’t you hear?”

  “I ain’t leaving without what’s mine. Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

  “I ain’t going to let you go back into that reb camp alone,” Pritchard said.

  “No use in both of us getting killed,” Ditch argued.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Pritchard said, jumping back into the trench. He came up a minute later with a Union coat and cap. “Put these on,” he ordered Ditch, “and grab one of those rifles.”

  While Ditch picked up one of the rifles belonging to their execution squad and ensured it was still charged, Pritchard recovered the leg-irons and draped them, unlocked, over his wrists. Then he took Ditch’s revolver and tucked his Confederate tunic over both pistols in his belt.

  “I’m your prisoner,” Pritchard said. “You’re going to march me back into that camp, pretty as you please.”

  “And you called me loco?” Ditch said.

  Pritchard started to walk toward the Confederate camp. His hands were folded before him, near his concealed revolvers, though ostensibly restrained in irons. Ditch walked dutifully behind him, the bayonet of his Fayetteville musket in Pritchard’s back.

  They passed the picket, where dead men lay all around them. The vast majority of the bodies were clad in Confederate gray.

  In the camp, still shrouded in fog and a heavy blanket of gun smoke, the firing had grown sporadic. Dead and wounded men, many moaning and crying, covered the ground. Pritchard and Ditch had to step over a number of corpses to navigate their way towards the corral, which was fortunately near the edge of the camp. What was left of the fighting was now deeper within the interior of the post.

  Pritchard and Ditch entered the corral. Several of the horses had been struck by gunfire and lay dead or wounded in the rope pen. To Ditch’s relief, Snake and Rusty were both unharmed.

  Ditch shouldered his rifle, Pritchard dropped his chains, and they quickly located their saddles. Ditch was further relieved to find his pa’s Hawken rifle, still in its scabbard. They also found their coats and hats among a similar pile of confiscated clothing. They hurriedly began to saddle their horses.

  “You there,” a voice called out. “What are you doing in that corral?”

  Pritchard and Ditch turned to find a Union captain pointing a pistol at them. He was outside the corral, with a very tall sergeant. The sergeant’s rifle was also directed their way.

  “Private Clemson, sir,” Ditch spoke up. “This here’s my prisoner.”

  “I didn’t ask your name,” the captain said. “I asked you what you were doing.”

  “The medical officer ordered me to take this prisoner,” Ditch lied, “round up a coupla good horses, and meet him in the field to search for our wounded.”

  “Interesting,” the captain said. “Especially since I am the medical officer. Drop that rifle and get your hands in the air. Both of you.”

  Ditch shrugged off his rifle, shaking his head in defeat. Pritchard, however, in one lightning-fast movement, lifted his tunic, drew one of the Remingtons, and shot the sergeant in the neck.

  He dropped to one knee as the captain fired, his hasty revolver shot sailing over Pritchard’s head. Pritchard fired the .44 twice more, both shots striking the captain in the upper chest. He fell next to the sergeant and didn’t move again.

  Ditch thought he saw a remnant of Pritchard’s now-familiar death-sh
adow fade from his countenance as his friend slowly stood up. Smoke filtered from the barrel of the Remington.

  “You’re getting pretty good with those things,” Ditch commented.

  “Gettin’ plenty of practice,” was all Pritchard said.

  Ditch hastily finished saddling Snake, then cinched the strap on Rusty’s saddle. Pritchard was busy collecting the ammunition belt and holster from the dead captain and stripping the uniform tunic from the dead sergeant.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Ditch said, “before any more soldiers try to waylay us.”

  “Union, or Confederate soldiers?”

  “Does it matter?” Ditch answered.

  “From now on, in our travels,” Pritchard explained, holding up the blue coat for Ditch to inspect, “I’m carrying both colors.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Ditch agreed. They mounted and rode off into the fog.

  Chapter 17

  “Idelle is not moving into the hotel, and that’s final.”

  “I thought you’d want to keep her near you,” Shipley said.

  “I do,” Dovie said, “but not at the expense of having her reside in the Atherton Arms and exposed to the sort of characters who frequent this establishment.”

  Shipley and Dovie were seated at a table in the hotel restaurant. She was drinking tea and he was drinking bourbon. She’d reluctantly relented to begin allowing him to be seen with her in public. She’d put if off as long as she could.

  “I believe,” Shipley said, around his mustache and cigar, “you’re confusing the Atherton Arms with the Sidewinder, across the street. While the Sidewinder’s clientele is admittedly of a coarser nature, the Atherton Arms is highly reputable.” He chuckled. “I happen to know the owner of both establishments quite well.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence,” Dovie said. “The Sidewinder is merely the more honest of the two businesses, that’s all. It doesn’t pretend to be anything but a drovers’ saloon, gambling hall, and whorehouse. Here at the Atherton, the rooms are more expensive, there’s linen and doilies on the tables, and you’re served by folks who’ve bathed since their last payday. But just like the Sidewinder, the Atherton’s got liquor and gambling downstairs and women on their backs upstairs. Neither is a suitable place to raise a young girl.”

  “You’re a well-informed woman, Mrs. Pritchard.”

  “One doesn’t need to be well informed to know what services the Atherton Arms and Sidewinder provide,” she said. “One only needs a working pair of eyes.”

  More than a month had transpired since Thomas Pritchard’s death. Dovie and Idelle had been guests of Alice and Rodney Nettles since his killing, but Dovie was under growing pressure from Burnell Shipley to take up residence with him at the Atherton Arms, as she’d agreed.

  It had been a profitable month for Shipley. The Atherton sawmill, formerly the Pritchard Lumber Company, received the government order he’d been alerted to, and with a substantial down payment from the U.S. Army. The lumber demand had become so great, Shipley had to purchase a third steam-driven saw, hire a dozen more men, and the operation still struggled to fill the order.

  Since armies marched on their bellies, business was also booming at the Atherton stockyards. The army bought beef and horses as fast as the drovers could herd them into town. The railroad couldn’t ship out the lumber and livestock to Kansas City fast enough.

  These enterprises, fueled by the war and coupled with Shipley’s primary financial endeavors, liquor, gambling, and prostitution, had in very short order made Atherton a boomtown, and Mayor Burnell Shipley an even wealthier man.

  “What do you propose to do with Idelle?” Shipley said.

  “I want her to stay at the Nettleses’ place,” she said, “permanently. I will reside with you here at the Atherton Arms, as promised, but she will live with them. I expect you to pay a suitable stipend to the Nettleses for her care.”

  “I’ll agree to that,” Shipley said.

  “Thank you,” she said, rising. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my daughter.”

  Shipley put down his cigar and stood. “When can I expect you to be taking up residence here at the Atherton?” he asked. “I believe a ‘month or two’ after your husband’s funeral was the length of time discussed?”

  “I will not be moving in until we’re married,” she said.

  “I’m a patient man,” Shipley said. “But my patience has limits. Did you have a date in mind for the nuptials?”

  “You may announce our engagement at Christmas,” Dovie said without emotion. “I will marry you no earlier than Valentine’s Day.”

  “And your wifely duties?” he asked.

  “After the ceremony, of course.”

  “Of course,” Shipley said, his grin widening. “But Valentine’s Day is more than two months away. How do you expect me to satiate my masculine urges until then?”

  “I suggest you go across the street to the Sidewinder,” Dovie said. “You claim to know the owner. Perhaps he’ll give you a discount?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Pritchard,” Shipley said to himself once she left the hotel. “I do look forward to our wedding day.” He extinguished his cigar in the remains of his drink. “And especially our wedding night.”

  Chapter 18

  It took Pritchard and Ditch almost three weeks to make the nearly two-hundred-mile journey south to Washington, Arkansas. They hadn’t forgotten how easily they’d been captured. As a result, they took their time and were extremely cautious in their movements.

  Arkansas had declared itself a Confederate state, but most of the northern region was still infested with Union forces. Pritchard and Ditch hoped to see fewer bluecoats the farther south they rode.

  They crossed the Arkansas River east of Fort Smith to avoid the Union troops posted there. Traveling by night, they took cover in woods or thickets during the day, and avoided detection by steering clear of roads and towns.

  They were able to skirt the larger columns of Union troops they encountered by sticking to the forests and adhering strictly to their nighttime-travel routine. When they began to observe more Confederate units than Union ones, by mutual agreement, they decided not to announce themselves until they spotted rebel cavalry. Ditch’s brother was supposedly assigned to such a unit, and the last thing they wanted was a repeat of their encounter with the reb infantry regiment back in the Ozarks.

  Pritchard and Ditch found late autumn in Arkansas mild, compared to Missouri, and noticed the weather got milder as they progressed south. There was fresh water in the numerous streams, ponds, and lakes, still-green grass for the horses, and plentiful game. They had no trouble bagging deer, turkey, and rabbit, taking turns hunting with the Hawken.

  Each morning they would find a remote place along their route to make camp. The location was carefully selected. It had to be hidden and defensible, and was typically within a stand of trees or in heavy brush. While one of them tended to the horses, the other would take the Hawken and scout the vicinity. Pritchard and Ditch took pains to ensure there was no one in the area before discharging a weapon or building a fire.

  After obtaining their daily meat, they would clean, cook, and eat it. Once they’d filled their bellies, they would take turns sleeping and keeping watch until sunset. Ditch filled his daylight hours, when not resting, caring for the horses. Pritchard spent his time while awake cleaning the two Remington revolvers and the Hawken rifle. Once darkness fell, they would once again mount up, point their horses south, and ride on.

  Pritchard preferred the Remington revolvers over the Colts. The Remingtons were sturdier and felt more solid in his hand. But the main reason he preferred the Remingtons were the safety notches milled between the charging holes. These meant he could load with six shots and not merely five. He also liked how quickly the Remington could be reloaded. With a spare charged cylinder, he could have an empty Remington reloaded in a few seconds.

  When not cleaning the revolvers, Pritchard practiced drawing from his belt and dry-firin
g them. He repeated this routine for over an hour each day. He would wedge one of Ditch’s gold coins into a tree at head level and pace off ten steps. Then he would repeatedly draw, cock, and fire. Even though the guns were empty, he always ensured the front sight split the coin before squeezing the trigger. He worked both of his large, muscular hands equally, until there was no difference in the speed and dexterity with which he could draw and fire with either.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of pretending to shoot those guns?” Ditch asked once, after their meal, as Pritchard conducted his daily practice regimen.

  “No more than I get tired of living,” Pritchard said, without taking his eyes off the coin.

  It was at a trading post near Oden, halfway to their destination, that Ditch and Pritchard met their first trouble since escaping the Confederate camp. They spotted a large cabin on the Ouachita River, with a slat corral and hog wallow behind it, bearing a sign that read TRADING POST & GENERAL STORE. They found the building by following the scent of smoked pork and observed the store from hiding for the better part of a day before deciding to approach.

  Both Pritchard and Ditch’s only clothes were becoming threadbare, and neither had shaved in almost three weeks. There were a few items, such as a razor, new clothes, salt, medicinal whiskey, another knife, powder, and other necessities they thought they might try to obtain, as well as grain for the horses. They had money, hadn’t seen soldiers from either army in two days, and convinced themselves patronizing the store was worth the risk.

  Pritchard checked his revolvers, ensuring they were both charged with six balls each. He also made certain they were tucked loosely in his belt under his unbuttoned coat. Ditch readied the Hawken and patted his knife. They tied Rusty and Snake to the hitching post, next to two horses and a mule, and went inside.

  The trading post’s interior was dim and warm and smelled of cooked bacon and charred wood. Behind the counter, cutting meat with a large blade, stood a squat, bearded man with thick forearms. Across the room, seated at a table with a bottle in front of him, was a very tall, heavyset, man wearing a long wool coat and a top hat. Despite the coat and hat he appeared disheveled, as if he’d been sleeping in the rough like Pritchard and Ditch were.