The Stalkers

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Who the hell else you figure I’m waiting for?”

  “You sound testy as a sore-assed bear, Seamus.” Grover slapped him on the back. “If it helps, you aren’t the only one getting sore waiting for Liam O’Roarke. The major had been fixing to be long gone from here by now.”

  “Where would Forsyth go?” Seamus asked.

  “I s’pose back there.” He pointed. “East. Along the Solomon and Saline where the Cheyenne been raiding. Damn,” he muttered angrily. “I was the one myself what told Forsyth and Sheridan I figured the Cheyenne for heading this way.”

  “Round here?”

  “Not really,” Grover admitted. “More north.” He jutted his bare chin in the direction. “Up yonder on the Republican … where the bastards usually go to hunt this time of year.”

  “Thought we looked up there, before coming in here.”

  “We did … that’s the mystery of it, Seamus.” Grover wagged his head, staring at the ground.

  For a moment, Seamus felt sympathy for the scout. “We’re both in a bad way, Sharp. I can’t figure out what’s become of me uncle … and you can’t figure out——”

  “What’s become of Roman Nose!”

  Together they laughed spontaneously, pounding each other on the shoulder. With relief, Donegan sensed part of his tension free him.

  “What are the chances Forsyth will march without O’Roarke?”

  Grover studied the Irishman quickly. “Slim.”

  “Then it appears I’ve got me something in common with the major. I’m not about to budge till Liam rides in. And Forsyth won’t ride out until Liam’s shown up.” He saw something on Grover’s face that he could not decipher. “You got something in your craw that you haven’t begun to tell me, Sharp.”

  Grover stared over the western wall of Fort Wallace, the falling prairie sun casting a red light on the pink-limestone walls. This setting, at this time of the year, ignited the place with a strange fire.

  Astraddle the Smoky Hill stage and freight road stretching between Kansas and Denver, the fort had proven itself the most active of outposts in recent months. Both it and Fort Lyon, to the southwest along the Arkansas, had suffered the brunt of Cheyenne attacks as civilian traffic plied its way into Colorado Territory.

  As commander of Fort Wallace, Col. Henry C. Bankhead oversaw the operations of four companies of the 5th Infantry and one of the Negro 38th stationed at this far western outpost. From time to time, the fort would entertain elements of both George Armstrong Custer’s 7th Cavalry, as well as companies on detached service from the “Brunettes,” Negro 10th Cavalry. In addition to their normal duties of patrolling a vast amount of prairie real estate, Bankhead’s soldiers were responsible for guarding the many stage-line way stations or “ranches,” often called upon to escort the coaches themselves.

  Grover reluctantly stopped, grabbing Donegan’s arm. “Listen, Irishman. I owe it to you to tell you. The season’s late.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m saying if O’Roarke was gonna show up … he’d of come in last spring after the mountain passes broke.”

  “You … you don’t think Liam’s coming—do you, Sharp?”

  Grover’s eyes hugged the ground. He shook his head. “No, Seamus.”

  Donegan grabbed Sharp’s dirty vest in one big hand. “Why didn’t he come, Grover? You aren’t telling me everything, dammit!”

  “I’ve just heard stories across the years, Seamus——”

  “What kind of stories? Something about O’Roarke?”

  He wagged his head, tried out a grin as Donegan released his grip. “No. Tales coming out of Deseret.”

  “What the devil’s Deseret?”

  “Utah Territory. Where the Mormons set up their own private kingdom.”

  “That’s where Liam went to winter—right?”

  “Yes. And that’s why I don’t think you can count on him coming back.”

  “All of it, Sharp.”

  “Men who go to work for Brigham Young’s band, what the Mormons call their avenging angels … those men don’t often leave that bunch.”

  “I was told that this Young was just hiring guns. Nothing more than——”

  “There’s a lot more to it, Seamus. The Mormons—he runs ’em.”

  “This Brigham Young?”

  “And he pays good for protecting what he figures is his.”

  “Bodyguards, is it? Well, many a boy from County Kilkenny spent a year as a papal guard for the Pope——”

  “Young ain’t the Pope, and his band of ‘Angels’ ain’t just guarding their Prophet.”

  Something struck him of a sudden. Like the heel of a boot to the side of his head. Grover had a roundabout way to him, sneaking around in the brush rather than diving head-first at something. But, it was finally coming clear. Like silt settling to the bottom of a prairie pond after a storm had passed. Eventually leaving the surface clear.

  “Them hired guns of Brigham Young’s——”

  “Seamus, it’s the same vigilante bunch tried to arrest Jim Bridger better’n fifteen year ago now.”

  “Arrest Bridger?”

  “Young wanted him out of the way,” Grover tried to explain. “Young sent a hundred of his Danite bunch out to capture Bridger. Never found ol’ Gabe … but they wrecked Bridger’s place. Burned half the fort Jim had him there. Then rode east to where Jim had a ferry on the Green. Killed Bridger’s men there——”

  “In the name of God!”

  “Now you see.” Grover sounded excited. “Young done it all in the name of his god.”

  Seamus wagged his head. “You’re telling me Liam’s mixed up with this bunch … and ain’t likely to return?”

  “There’s no way O’Roarke had anything to do with Young fifteen years ago. But, that Danite bunch is a strange and tight bunch—they’re not likely to let your uncle just waltz out of Deseret on his own hook. He’ll know too damned much.”

  “Unless … Liam’s got smart since he grew up,” Seamus said, watching the last fiery lip of a red sun ease beyond the western edge of the world. “And give that murdering bunch slip.”

  When Donegan finally gazed back at Grover, Sharp said, “I don’t want you counting on nothing when it comes to O’Roarke.”

  “The major is, ain’t he now?”

  “Yes, but——”

  “Good enough for Forsyth to count on it coming true … good enough for Seamus Donegan to pray on it as well.”

  * * *

  “I suppose that’s what I’ll have to do, Colonel,” George Forsyth agreed reluctantly. He waved the paper in front of him that moments before had been handed him by the commander of Fort Wallace. A messenger had just come in from the settlements to the south.

  “I’d send my own troops, Forsyth—if I had ’em to send,” Henry Bankhead replied bitterly. “But I’ve got Captain Graham out with his company of Brunettes chasing a couple dozen warriors now who we figure sacked a supply train coming in on the Denver Road.”

  “And you told me you’ve already sent Captain Carpenter’s Brunettes out to trail another war-party of two hundred.”

  “Their trail pointed west,” Bankhead explained. “Carpenter has his hands full—those warriors are driving better than twelve hundred head of cattle, horses, and mules before them.”

  “A trail headed north and west, Colonel?”

  Bankhead eyed the young major. “Very possibly, Forsyth.”

  George sighed, kneading one fist inside the palm of his other hand. “Just not mine to play out, so it appears.”

  “Don’t feel like your luck’s run out, Major.”

  Forsyth flung the message on Bankhead’s desk. “That messenger just handed you this letter from the governor of Kansas—asking your help in protecting the settlers down in the Bison Basin. I suppose I’ll take my scouts down there and see what we can scare up.”

  “I heard Crawford’s resigning as governor,” Bankhead remarked. “He’s raising some companie
s of Kansas volunteers on his own to get the frontier quieted down.”

  Forsyth wagged his head. “Farmers. And storekeepers. Out trying to do the army’s work.”

  “Phil Sheridan doesn’t have enough men to cover this territory. So if the army can’t protect the citizens … then God bless the settlers for protecting themselves.”

  He gazed long at the aging Bankhead. “Strange for an army man to say that.”

  Bankhead pressed his lips in a thin line before he spoke. He pointed past Beecher and McCall, standing by the door, outside, beyond his office walls at the limestone buildings of Fort Wallace. “Just what the hell have you got out there, Major? Are any of those men riding with you soldiers?”

  Forsyth finally wagged his head and snorted. “I suppose not, Colonel.” He sank into a chair near Bankhead’s desk. “You’re right. Phil Sheridan’s only done what he had to do.”

  “If there aren’t enough soldiers, Major—then hire some civilians to kill these Indians——”

  “Colonel Bankhead, sir!”

  Forsyth turned suddenly, as did they all, when a young soldier tore through the open office door, waving a flimsy telegraph.

  “Gimme that!” the colonel ordered. His weary eyes crawled over the document for a moment before he handed it on to Forsyth.

  When George had read it, he stood and passed it along to Fred Beecher. Sergeant McCall craned his neck over the lieutenant’s shoulder as they studied the telegraph together.

  “That telegram is what you’ve been waiting for, Major Forsyth.”

  He smiled at Bankhead. “By damn, it is, sir!”

  “You’ll go tonight?”

  He shook his head once. “No, sir. Sun’s already setting. We’ll march before sunup. I couldn’t get this rag-tag bunch pulled together to get very far with what light’s left us.”

  “With your permission, I’ll pass word, Major,” McCall said.

  Forsyth saluted his sergeant enthusiastically. “Certainly, Billy. Let the men know we’re riding before first light.”

  They watched the sergeant dash from the office into the fading light watering down the Fort Wallace parade into twilight.

  “What about Governor Crawford’s appeal, gentlemen?” asked the frantic messenger, who had ridden all the way up from the settlements of the Bison Basin.

  Bankhead turned on him first. “This telegram gives the major a fresh trail, Mr. Flanagan. Better that Forsyth follows a fresh trail than mere ghosts on the wind.”

  “Ghosts on the goddamned wind!” Flanagan roared, then suddenly composed himself. “Then, I can tell Governor Crawford that the army assigned to Fort Wallace will not protect the settlers——”

  Bankhead pounded his desk, clearly frustrated with week after week of chasing ghostly war-parties while the death-toll continued to rise. “Dammit, Flanagan! You tell Crawford what the hell you want. He’s no concern of mine.”

  The civilian fumed silently a minute more, then slammed his dusty hat atop his head. “Good day, officers.” He stormed toward the door.

  “Mr. Flanagan?”

  The civilian halted at the open door, turning to find Forsyth addressing him. “What is it, Major?”

  “You’re welcome to ride along with my scouts.”

  “Now, why would I want to ride with your men, Major?”

  George felt his eyes narrowing into slits. “Just in case you really are serious about getting a chance to kill some Indians.”

  Flanagan’s own fiery eyes flared at Bankhead before he wheeled about, sputtering incoherent chips of words, and tore into the twilight.

  “This is great news, Major.” Beecher turned from the door.

  “What do you make of it, Fred?”

  Beecher scanned the telegram. “Civilian freighter’s train … the warriors jumped them in camp on Turkey Creek near Sheridan … killed two Mexican teamsters and ran off eighty head. It has all the marks of a big war-party.”

  “Do you figure we can track them back to their village?”

  “We jump on this at dawn like you say, Major—we’ll stand a good chance of catching the culprits.”

  “No more ghosts, Mr. Beecher.”

  “No, sir.” And young Fred Beecher’s bearded face grinned widely.

  “How far is Sheridan, Colonel?”

  Bankhead turned, considering the crude map nailed behind him. “I’d say fifteen to twenty miles.”

  “More like fifteen, to my reckoning,” Beecher admitted shyly. “I’ve covered that ground a time or two before, Major.”

  Forsyth nodded. “You and Billy McCall will see to it that our bunch is fed and watered well before four A.M. This time I’m not about to let this war-party of murdering bastards disappear like ghosts.”

  “No, Major,” Beecher replied, his young face lighting with that cheery smile of his, “no more ghosts!”

  Chapter 8

  He couldn’t believe he was sweating. Not as cold as these summer nights got out here in western Kansas. Once the sun went down, a man could find himself chilled to the core.

  So why the hell was he sweating?

  Another drop of moisture tumbled down Bob North’s spine. A narrow river of cold between the cheeks of his ass. Waiting here in the dark was enough to give any man the willies, he decided.

  Yet, the darkness felt like a comfortable old coat to him. Like an old friend, if not accomplice.

  Back three days ago now, Major Forsyth had led him and the rest into this piss-poor excuse for an army fort. Once again Bob North wondered how in hell the Confederacy had lost the war to such a rag-tag, poor-digger outfit like this here Union army. From the looks of things, these soldiers were going to have themselves a time of it holding back the Injuns—here, and up north in Red Cloud’s stomping ground.

  That’s just what those Sioux and the rest been doing up there too. Stomping. Beating hell out of them soldiers every turn. Time had come, Bob North to do the same with a certain Irish fella.

  Pains weren’t all that sharp no more. Like a dull burning now. But, North’s belly still troubled him. Lot of the time, he found it hard to keep his food down. Not that he figured he had a hole in his stomach. Just that whatever that bastard mick’s bullet hit, it sure didn’t take much to North eating at all. So he kept his belly quiet with whiskey. Much as he could stomach and not puke up. Kill the pain. Dull the remembering. Soothe his fears about waiting here in the dark way he was.

  Waiting for the Irishman come out for his night-time stroll and stop by the slip-trench before he headed back to that low-roofed limestone barracks where Forsyth’s scouts bedded down. Lord, was that Irishman a creature of habit. What with riding alongside Donegan for the past nine days, North figured he had the Irishman down like a boar-hog going into rut. Leastways, the mick always come here for a pee late after moon-rise. Just before he went to his blankets.

  He heard voices. Two men outside the low wall, muffled a bit beyond the unroofed latrine. But muffled or no, one of the voices was the Irishman. A set of footsteps moved away without any more said. A second set of steps pushed into the moonlight and shadow of the latrine.

  North chuckled to himself. Fitting that he should do here what he had long been planning for the mick. In this place that stank like hell, he was going to send that big bastard straight back to hell itself.

  He waited, fretting. Hoping the footsteps coming to a rest in the shadows over the slip-trench were in fact the Irishman’s. North inched along the wall, hugging the shadows as if they were the only safe places for a soul as dark as his.

  Squinting, the renegade regarded the bulk of the man making water in the trench. He couldn’t be sure. The shadow looked big enough to be the mick. Still … Then the man began to whistle a lively Irish melody. North was sure enough for killing.

  Water splashing in the smelling trench, his head held back as he regarded the stars above in the night-sky, North’s victim never knew what hit him until the renegade was on him. He started a turn as the Confederate looped a left arm
up and worked the long knife-blade in under the ribs.

  What frightened North most was the bulk of the man, the way the muscles came suddenly alive like cat-gut drawn taut on a fiddle, making it hard for the knife at first. But the renegade drove it all the way to the hilt the first time. Feeling the warm gush of sticky blood burst across his fingers. He pulled the knife free and shoved it in again, a rib higher this time. Feeling his victim jerk, trying to kick, mumbling and biting beneath North’s hand.

  They fell over together, landing at the edge of the damp trench in the foul, wet sand where the stench hung strongest and gravity was slow in working its duty.

  His free hand came off the man as they scrambled. North’s cheek landed in the sticky sand. Growling a whispered oath, he turned, eyes squinting in the dark, spotting his victim crawling to hands and knees. The renegade hurled himself on the bleeding, mumbling form once more. Plunging the knife again and again into his victim’s back. Until all fight went out of the body and sank with a grunt in the sand.

  North stood, triumphant, gasping for air. His hands dripping with the man’s blood. As his breathing slowed, became more regular, the renegade listened to the night for more footsteps and other voices. When he was assured no one was coming, Bob North drove his heel into the big man’s body, rolling him off the side of the shallow, sandy trench into the foul muck.

  His victim made no sound landing at the bottom, save for the splash as the huge weight plopped into the thick moisture.

  Stumbling back into the shadows, he caught the wisp of voices approaching. They stepped close, turned along the wall before moving away once more into the darkness.

  North swallowed down his heart. Then knelt beside his victim. Quickly he sliced round the skull and yanked off the scalp with a soft, sucking pop. Only then did he drive the thin-bladed knife several times into the damp sand, clearing it of blood and gore. North carefully slipped it into the porcupine-quilled sheath at his hip, then stuffed the warm, wet trophy inside his long handles, careful not to smear too much blood on his shirt.

  Puffing his chest like a banty rooster, Bob North began to whistle happily as he strode out of the shadows onto the Fort Wallace parade. He’d slip out when he could. Head east, maybe. Perhaps come nightfall tomorrow.