Death Rattle

by Sean Lynch

  Witherspoon’s Rangers spent the next ten days riding the prairies northward. They foraged as they went and lived on buffalo and beans. They avoided towns, and on the fifth day encountered a large Chickasaw war party. The captain ordered the Confederate flag hoisted up on a rifle barrel. The Indians let them pass unmolested.

  On the eighth day, Ditch asked his brother if the company had a destination, or were just aimlessly riding north.

  “The cap’n always has a destination,” Paul answered.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Cap’n will tell us when we get there,” Paul said. “Best shut up and ride.”

  On the evening of the tenth day, Sergeant Murphy announced they’d left the Oklahoma Territory and entered Kansas, which was Union country. Fires were prohibited, and everyone was told to ready their arms, and themselves, for action.

  The following morning, B Company met dawn at the outskirts of Independence, Kansas.

  Captain Witherspoon divided the company into two columns, one led by him and the other by Sergeant Murphy. On his signal, a pistol shot, the company rode down the main street at full gallop, firing their revolvers and screeching rebel yells at the top of their voices.

  The left flank, commanded by Witherspoon, was to take control of all interests on that side of the street; the right flank, led by Murphy, the opposite side. The objectives were the telegraph office, marshal’s office, bank, general store, livery stable, and eventually, as Paul explained to Pritchard and Ditch, the saloon.

  Ditch was assigned to his brother, to assist in acquiring horses from the livery. Pritchard was assigned to a group of guerrillas designated to secure the marshal’s office and general store.

  There was sporadic gunfire from a few shops and houses as the they descended on the town. Pritchard saw a ranger next to him get shot out of his saddle, a bullet tearing through his jaw. He was trampled by his own comrade’s horses as the rebel columns continued their charge.

  An elderly man in a shopkeeper’s apron and glasses emerged from the general store and aimed a shotgun at Pritchard. He fired his pistol reflexively, and the man teetered. Before Pritchard could shoot again, the shopkeeper was struck several more times by pistol shots from other Confederate rangers and fell dead.

  Frightened people were running and screaming, and the sound of gunfire was everywhere. A cloud of blue smoke filled the streets of Independence.

  Pritchard reached the marshal’s office and dismounted, along with two other rangers. As he ran up the steps, a Remington .44 in each hand, he was met at the door by a deputy town marshal wielding an Army Colt.

  Both fired at each other from point-blank range. The deputy’s pistol misfired and produced only a hollow click. Pritchard’s shot hit the deputy through his nose. He stepped over the body and into the office.

  There were no other deputies inside, and only two men locked in the jail. One looked, and smelled, like a tramp. The other prisoner was well fed and clean. The tramp appeared hungover. His roommate looked scared.

  “Stay here,” one of the other rangers told Pritchard, “and hold. We’ll head on down to the general store.”

  Pritchard nodded. As the rangers left, he went to the door and beheld the carnage unfolding before him.

  What little resistance being offered by the townsfolk had all but ceased. The telegraph office was on fire, and the general store and bank were being swarmed by his fellow rangers. He could see the bodies of eight or ten townsmen littered along the street and sidewalk. A freight wagon had been “commandeered,” as Paul would say, and a mob of rebel horsemen were busily loading items from the store into the wagon’s bed.

  Down the street, he could see Paul and Ditch leading a string of roped horses.

  Pritchard bent down and took the Army Colt from the deputy marshal he’d shot. The man looked to have been in his early thirties, and had rough, calloused hands. The weapon was fouled with a significant accumulation of powder residue, and its cylinder would barely turn. Pritchard wondered if the deputy marshal hadn’t been anything more than a simple farmer before pinning on his star. Pritchard set the useless revolver on the marshal’s desk.

  The gunfire stopped. The remaining townsfolk, a few old men, young boys, and a large collection of women and small children, were lined up at gunpoint along the wooden sidewalks. They huddled together, their terrified faces looking up at the disheveled men on horseback who’d invaded their town.

  “I’m Captain Jed Witherspoon,” the captain announced. “General Shelby sends his regards. This town and all it contains, including you, are now the property of the Confederate States of America.”

  The captain continued his address. “Which one of you is the mayor?”

  “He’s lying dead in front of his store,” an old man answered. Pritchard realized, with some chagrin, that it had been one of his balls that contributed to his death.

  “Where’s your town marshal?”

  No one answered.

  “I’ll ask only once more,” Captain Witherspoon said. “Where’s your town marshal?”

  “He’s in here,” a voice behind Pritchard said. He turned around to find the tramp had spoken. “He took off his tin star and gun and locked himself in his own jail when he saw you fellers ridin’ in.” One look at the prisoner told Pritchard the tramp’s words were true.

  “Bring him out,” the captain commanded.

  A ranger went past Pritchard, took the key from a nail on the wall, and opened the jail door. At first, the marshal refused to come out. It was only at gunpoint that he relented. He was marched into the street before Captain Witherspoon, who was still on his horse.

  “So, you hid out in your own jail,” Witherspoon asked, “while your fellow citizens died fighting? That’s rather cowardly conduct, considering you’re the one sworn to protect these good people from the likes of men such as myself.”

  “Please,” the man pleaded. He was a tall, heavy, middle-aged man with sideburns. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Then you’re in luck,” Witherspoon said. He drew his pistol and shot the marshal in the head. “Your troubles are over.” Several women on the sidewalk covered their children’s eyes. Others began to sob.

  “We’re going to rest here for a while,” the captain went on, “and be on our way. We’ll be helping ourselves to whatever we decide is needed for the war effort. Do as you’re told, and we won’t have to shoot any more of you.”

  Pritchard shook his head and turned back to the tramp, standing in the jail cell’s open doorway.

  “You didn’t have to speak up,” Pritchard said. “You could have let him hide out and pretend to be a prisoner, like you. You got that man killed for nothing.”

  “Weren’t nuthin’,” the tramp said, grinning. “I didn’t like him. That’s somethin’.”

  “What are you locked up for, anyway?”

  “Had my way with a Creek squaw,” the tramp said, stepping out of the cell. “Marshal said it was unlawful. Called it ‘rape.’ Far as I can tell, iffen they can’t say no in English, it ain’t no rape.”

  Pritchard blocked the tramp’s path. “Get back in your cell.”

  “Ain’t you going to let me out?” the tramp asked, looking up at Pritchard towering over him.

  “Nope,” Pritchard said.

  “Why not? The marshal’s dead, and from what I hear, so is Mayor Bromley. He’s the justice of the peace around here. Without no lawman or judge, I can’t be tried, can I? Why not let me go free?”

  “Because I don’t like you,” Pritchard said.

  The tramp suddenly lunged for the revolver on the marshal’s desk. Pritchard let him reach the Colt and bring it up before drawing and shooting him twice through the middle. The tramp died with the inoperative revolver still in his hand.

  “What’s the shootin’ about?” Sergeant Murphy said, entering the marshal’s office with another ranger.

  “He was one of the deputies,” Pritchard lied, motioning with his pistol to the dead
tramp. “He was hiding out with the marshal. Grabbed that gun and tried to make a break for it.”

  “Nicely done,” Murphy said, kicking the tramp’s corpse. “I’m beginning to like you, Joe.”

  Chapter 22

  “We lost four men,” Sergeant Murphy began, “killed outright. Got six more wounded. Four of them can ride. The other two won’t likely make it through the night.”

  Most of Witherspoon’s Rangers not on watch were inside Whistler’s, Independence’s main saloon. Captain Witherspoon was seated at a table before an unopened bottle of whiskey, receiving the after-action report.

  It was dusk, and the men were standing around inside the tavern, anxiously awaiting word from their commander to begin drinking. Pritchard was loitering in the back of the saloon, awaiting the arrival of Ditch and Paul, who were at the livery tending to the company’s horses.

  “How many of theirs killed?”

  “Twenty-one men, two women, and a child.”

  No mention of wounded was made. Pritchard didn’t know it yet, but Witherspoon’s Rangers, as a partisan guerrilla force, didn’t take prisoners.

  “Horses?” Witherspoon asked.

  “We lost nine,” the sergeant said.

  “What did we take in?”

  “It’s a solid haul, Cap’n,” Murphy said. “Got thirty good horses and plenty of ammunition, powder, and grain from the general store.”

  “The bank?”

  “More’n thirty thousand,” the sergeant said. “Over twenty in gold, the rest in Union paper.”

  “Where’re all the townsfolk?”

  “We put ’em all in the church, like usual,” the sergeant said. “Maybe two hundred of them, mostly women and kids.”

  Pritchard watched the hungry eyes of the men as the sergeant mentioned the women.

  “Has the watch been set?”

  “Yes, sir. The town of Independence is secure.”

  “Very well,” Captain Witherspoon said, uncorking the bottle, “those not on watch later tonight may commence their recreation. Advise the men we pull out at dawn. Any ranger unfit to ride will be left behind.”

  Rebel yells filled the saloon and echoed across the vacant streets of Independence, Kansas. Confederate rangers vaulted the bar and began distributing bottles, which were quickly passed out among the men.

  Pritchard picked up his rifle and walked out unnoticed through the saloon’s rear door. He made a stop at the jail for more ammunition, then collected Rusty and made his way through the empty street toward the church.

  The rifle was an 1859 Sharps, which he found in the marshal’s office and “commandeered.” It had been well cared for, and Pritchard found it clean and in excellent working order. There were several boxes of. 52 caliber paper cartridges for the weapon inside the marshal’s desk.

  Pritchard spent the afternoon cleaning and reloading his Remingtons, and disassembling and cleaning the Army Colt .44 that would have killed him had its owner maintained it. Once he was finished, and the Colt was reassembled, he loaded it with five balls and strapped on the belt and holster worn by the deputy marshal he left lying on the steps. Then he helped himself to as much powder, cap, and .44 caliber ball as he could carry.

  Shortly before dark, all the rangers who weren’t standing guard mustered inside Whistler’s Saloon. After hearing the after-action report, and watching the rangers begin their drunken revelry, Pritchard knew what would transpire next.

  He also knew what he had to do.

  Pritchard led Rusty to the edge of town where the church was located. It was a beautiful structure, two stories tall, with a belfry topped by a cross. He tied the Morgan to a tree in the woods behind it and approached the ranger standing guard at the front door.

  “I’m your relief,” Pritchard announced as he walked up. “You’d better head on down to the saloon before all the whiskey’s gone.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice,” the elated ranger said. He went off toward town as fast as he could walk.

  Once the sentry was out of sight, Pritchard opened the church doors and entered. More than two hundred frightened faces looked up at him. Most of them were women.

  The church was lit with lanterns, and Pritchard surveyed the congregation. There were only a handful of males, and those who weren’t children were old or infirm. He expected as much, since most towns in the territory were devoid of able-bodied men of fighting age due to the war.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Pritchard asked.

  “I am.” An ancient man stepped forward. He was bent over with rheumatism, and one of his eyes was white with cataract. “I’m Pastor Milburn Greer.”

  “They’ll be coming soon,” Pritchard said, “for the women. You haven’t got much time. Just long enough for those boys to get a good drunk going.”

  “You’re one of them,” an older woman snapped. “You’ll be joining them in the raping. The killing, too.”

  “No, ma’am,” Pritchard said, “I will not. I have killed, sure enough, but only when I had to, and only armed men who were trying to do the same to me.”

  “Then why did you come down here to the church?” another woman asked. She was quite pretty, and about his mother’s age.

  “To stave them off,” Pritchard said, “iffen I can.”

  “Why should we believe you?” yet another woman asked. She was about Pritchard’s age, and was holding an infant.

  “You don’t have to believe me,” Pritchard said. “All you have to do is wait a few more minutes, and about seventy-five drunk and horny rebel guerrillas will come marching down the street and put truth to my words.”

  “We could run and hide in the woods,” still another woman offered.

  “You wouldn’t get far,” Pritchard countered. “A group this large would be easily tracked.”

  The women looked at one another. “What choice do we have?” one asked.

  “All right,” the pretty woman said. “What do you want us to do?”

  “Is there a cyclone cellar in this church?”

  “There is,” the pastor answered. Evidently his hearing was better than his vision. “Biggest one in town.”

  “Will it hold everyone?”

  “It’ll be tight, but we can cram ’em all in.”

  “Then do it,” Pritchard ordered. Someone opened a floor-hatch at the rear of the church, and the older woman began to herd everyone down. “No matter what you hear above,” Pritchard admonished, “do not come up out of that cellar until I say so.”

  “We understand.”

  Pritchard addressed the pastor. “How do I get up to the belfry?”

  “I’ll show you the ladder,” the pastor said. “What, exactly, do you propose to do with my bell tower?”

  “Same thing you do with it,” Pritchard said, opening the Sharps’s action and inserting a paper cartridge into the breech. “Lead sinners into the arms of Jesus.”

  Chapter 23

  Pritchard fired as the mob approached. The reb guerrillas paraded down the street, hooting and laughing. Most carried bottles. It was nearly a full moon, and he could easily make out his targets.

  The shot shattered a bottle carried by one of the lead guerrillas. The mob stopped.

  “That’s far enough,” Pritchard called down from the belfry. He opened the rifle’s breech, reloaded another paper cartridge, and replaced the percussion cap.

  “What the hell are you doing up there, Atherton?” the reb who’d had the bottle shot out of his hand yelled from the street. “You could’ve killed me.”

  “And I will,” Pritchard said, “if any of you come one step closer. My next shot hits meat.”

  “What’s got into you, Joe?” another reb said. “We’re just comin’ down to visit the ladies, that’s all. Ain’t like your ma or sister’s in that church.”

  “She may as well be,” Pritchard said, his thoughts momentarily drifting to Dovie and Idelle. He couldn’t help but imagine they were hiding in the cellar below. “What you aim to do is wrong, and
you know it. Go on back to the saloon and leave the womenfolk be.”

  “You go to hell!” a drunken voice replied.

  “It’s one thing to shoot Union men who are shootin’ at you,” Pritchard said. “That’s war. It’s another to molest their women and kids. That ain’t what soldiers do.”

  “We ain’t regular soldiers,” a different reb challenged. “We’re guerrilla fighters. We don’t have to follow no rules. We take what we want. Besides, we ain’t gonna do nuthin’ to them gals their men wouldn’t be doin’ iffen they was around!” The company burst into laughter.

  “Nobody’s doin’ nuthin’ to these women,” Pritchard said. “You’d best take my word on that.”

  “We don’t give a damn about your word,” the ranger said, drawing his pistol. Others drew as well. “Who the hell are you to be tellin’ us what to do with our peckers? You ain’t been ridin’ with us but a couple of weeks. Come down from that bell tower, boy, and I’ll kick your Missouri ass!”

  “Ain’t gonna do it,” Pritchard said. “Last warning. Go back to the saloon. Leave the women be.”

  In response, ten or fifteen rangers fired their pistols at the belfry.

  No bell rung, however. Before the mob arrived, Pritchard had taken the liberty of removing the heavy bell from its mount. He set it aside on the roof and tied one end of the bell rope, which led all the way down to the church, to a post before tossing it over the side.

  Pritchard took aim with the Sharps, as pistol shots struck the heavy wooden belfry all around him. He fired, and the ranger who’d threatened to kick his ass fell dead with a bullet through his head. Pritchard levered open the action and had another cartridge in the breech, and a cap on the nipple, in an instant. His next shot dropped another reb with a .52 caliber bullet to the skull.

  Pritchard commenced systematically firing. The men of B Company, Witherspoon’s Rangers, most of them well on their way to being blind drunk, foolishly stood like a herd of cattle in the street and fired their revolvers up at him.

  Pritchard had fair light, high ground, excellent cover, a superb rifle, more than one hundred cartridges in his coat pocket, along with that many percussion caps, and multiple targets of opportunity bunched up below him like ducks in a barrel. Confederate guerrillas dropped left and right.