by RW Krpoun
“Probably, but on the other hand you can trade at the fort, and the buffalo don’t fear roads,” Jeff countered.
Rains-in-Sunshine didn’t look impressed. “In my grandfather’s time the Bloody Seep was Celt land.”
“Times change,” Jeff shrugged. “New friends are made.”
Rains-in-Sunshine pointed at Buttercup with his lance. “That is a fine horse.”
Derek grabbed Shad’s arm. “Your horse is very fine as well.”
“Good horses are hard to find on the grassland,” Rains-in-Sunshine locked eyes with the Shootist.
“Unmarked graves aren’t,” Shad jerked his arm free.
The Celt nodded thoughtfully. “You do not take the hides,” he jerked his chin towards the bison carcass.
“Normally we do, but on this journey we have no means to cure them, and no one to trade them to,” Jeff explained. “Normally we just shoot deer or antelope, but there are a great many mouths to feed.”
“Two bison are no bison at all,” the Celt shrugged. He looked at Shad. “You can keep your horses so that you may reach your destination all the sooner. The Tek will solve this problem.”
The Shootist grinned. “We don’t solve easily.”
Rains-in-Sunshine lifted a hand in farewell and led the trio away at an easy canter.
“Can you not have one conversation without threating to kill someone?” Jeff turned to Shad. “It wouldn’t cost a dime to let them posture a bit.”
“Screw him,” the Shootist sneered. “He wants my horse he had better grow Kevlar skin.”
“I think we just saw the essence of the interaction between settlers and Indians played out in a single encounter,” Fred observed, sloshing water from his canteen over his bloody hands and forearms. “Violent arrogance meets homicidal pride.”
“Who is which?” Jeff grinned.
“Take your pick.”
“That was pretty cool,” Derek sighed. “Those guys must be real close to what real Indians were like.”
“You mean horse thieves?” Shad asked.
The Alienist rolled his eyes.
The Colonel doubled the number of guards after this encounter, and the Black Talons took to sleeping with their horses’ picket ropes tied to their left wrists. Small groups of Celts shadowed the Expedition for the next two days, but there was no attempt at contact nor of horse theft.
By the third day after the meeting with the Celts the Expedition entered the region where the Pellin Run faded out into a dozen streams flowing out across the prairie, filling innumerable large ponds or tiny lakes; the ground rose very gently as the column marched along, and tall trees stood on the banks of the shallow, gravel-bedded river.
“I’ve seen bear sign,” Fred muttered as the Black Talons rode back to the Expedition, the trees creating a premature dusk around them.
“What sort?” Derek asked.
“Black bears-they won’t bother us.”
“The Expedition should have reached the fort site,” Jeff said thoughtfully. “How long have we been here?”
“Forty-one days in-country,” Shad shrugged at his shoulder rig. “An hour and some minutes in the real world. I’ve lost enough weight to warrant adjusting this rig.”
“Which brings up my point: we ought to stay at the fort site longer than we initially planned,” Jeff nodded. “This riding business isn’t as easy as Hollywood makes it look.”
“We’re a hundred miles from getting answers,” Fred protested. “We can be there in four days and get a real handle on what is what. Three days if we really push it.”
“We’ve been gone less than two hours real time,” the Jinxman shot back. “Both we and the horses have lost weight, we’re short on sleep, and all our gear needs looking-to. Not to mention it would be useful for this fort to be a going concern if we find out Cecil is full of it and need to double back.”
“Or if we get chewed up and need a place to rest and recoup,” Derek pointed out. “I could sleep for two days straight, I figure.”
“We need some rest,” Fred conceded. “But three days tops.”
“Shad, what do you think?” Jeff asked.
The Shootist shook his head. “I’m weary. We’ve been riding all day every day, scouting, hunting, and watching Fred gut buffalo. Frankly, I don’t get what the cowboys saw in the open freakin’ range. Its cooler under the trees, and I would like to take a decent bath and wash my clothes, and there’s an entire river right there. It wouldn’t hurt to meet a few of the ordinary troops-we’ve been in the saddle from dawn to dusk up to this point. They might be able to fill in a few gaps in our knowledge, and I bought a couple books in Bloodseep that I haven’t gotten to read yet.”
“Me, too,” Derek observed.
“So I’m inclined to hang out here, relax, maybe draw a little more scouting pay.”
“So for how long?” Fred could see he was outvoted.
Shad shrugged. “A week?”
“Yeah,” Jeff nodded.
“OK.” Fred didn’t like it, but there was no point in arguing.
Scouting pay halted at the fort site but the Black Talons were permitted to draw rations; the Colonel was interested in keeping the extra weapons around while the Expedition dug in.
The Sappers quickly marked out the boundaries of the fort and the line troops were put to work leveling the ground and beginning work on the defenses. The plan was to enclose ten acres with a ten foot wall of mortared river stone, well-buttressed with tree trunks and fitted with firing slots. Timber towers were to be erected at each corner and flanking the gates centered in the centers of the north and south walls, which were also the long sides of the rectangular fort.
The troops went to work with a will as the need for defenses was readily apparent, and there was little else to occupy their time until the follow-on wagon trains arrived, bringing alcohol, whores, and trade goods.
The Black Talons avoided actual labor; all rested, and while Derek and Shad caught up on their reading, Fred and Jeff hunted bears, selling the hides and most of the meat to the quartermaster, and the Jinxman and Alienist improved their inventories of powers. During the evenings all four made an effort to meet the rank and file of the Expedition, the better to learn about their environment.
Tek scouts had been seen every day the Expedition had been at the site, spurring on the efforts of the construction parties. The Colonel had ordered that the officers and members of his staff, which were the only mounted men in the Expedition, remain in the fort as a mobile reserve, and that all troops leaving the confines of the ‘fort’ be fully armed.
Early in the morning on their fifth day of rest Shad, freshly shaved and bathed, was walking back to the fort, his shoulder rig slung over one shoulder, a damp towel and his shaving kit in his other hand, when he heard someone call his name. He looked over to see Company Sergeant Major Tosh Whelan hailing him.
Sergeant Major Whelan, the topkick of Company A, was a tough, abrupt man in his late thirties who reminded the Shootist of the Irish drill sergeant in Glory, right down to the drooping mustache. “Sergeant Major,” Shad nodded, changing direction to where the senior NCO stood in combat order next to a harnessed cart. “Heading out for more lumber?’
“Taking a detail to cut tall pines for the towers,” Sergeant Major Whelan jerked his chin towards the north. The cleared area around the fort was growing by leaps and bounds as the trunks needed for buttresses and firewood for nearly three hundred mens’ cooking fires were harvested. “Care to come along? No work required on your part, but we could use an extra set of eyes.”
“Sure,” Shad nodded. “Let me grab my shotgun.”
“I appreciate it, lad. You can ride in the cart, no need to bother with a horse.”
“Where are you going?” Fred asked as Shad stowed his shaving gear and strapped his cartridge belt over his pants belt.
“Wood-cutting detail with Sergeant Major Whelan,” Shad shoved his sheathed Bowie in the small of his back between his cartridge belt
and pants belt and started strapping his shoulder rig into place. “He wanted a spare set of eyes. They’re taking a cart so I don’t need to bother with a horse.”
The Scout sighed and started strapping on his gun belt. “I’ll come along. I’m getting bored sitting around. Jeff?”
“Screw that,” the Jinxman said from where he was lying with his hat over his eyes.
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll go,” Derek decided, pulling on his boots. “I’ve never seen anyone cut down a tree without a chainsaw.”
“Well, hell, now I have to go,” Jeff grumbled, climbing to his feet. “What part of a rest break do you guys not understand?”
“When you start feeling terminally bored is a sign you’re as rested as you’re going to get,” Fred pointed out. “I think we ought to head out tomorrow.’
“I’m ready,” Shad admitted as he hung his bandolier across his chest. “The horses are just about ready, too. How about we shave a day off the plan and leave the day after tomorrow?”
“Might as well,” Jeff sighed.
Shad chose to walk with Sergeant Major Whelan, while Derek (who had taken an interest in driving during the down time) drove the cart loaded with tools and a keg of water. Fred rode beside Derek, and Jeff stretched out in the back. The Shootist and the Sergeant Major had developed a friendship of sorts in the last few days, both being men of dry humor and razor-sharp opinions. Sergeant Major Whelan had recently retired from the Protectorate’s regular army and had signed on with the Expedition for something to do. Like most of the force’s NCOs he was a battled tested veteran; the rank and file, however, were unblooded alumni of the local militias.
“I do not like this,” Sergeant Major Whelan muttered. “The Tek are looking for a fight, and us without cavalry. They know how important the defenses are-get those walls up and they’ll never dislodge riflemen from behind ‘em.”
“And at the rate the details are working that won’t be long,” Shad agreed. “The wall foundations ought to be done by tonight, and the walls themselves within a week.”
“Doesn’t leave them a lot of time,” Sergeant Major Whelan said grimly. “If they’re going to stop the fort, they will have to act soon.”
“Today’s as good as any,” Shad broke his shotgun and replaced the shells.
“You’re not loading buckshot?”
“Modified rounds, called wax slugs. You dump out the shot, mix it with paraffin, and reload the shell. The wax holds the buckshot in a solid lump for about sixty feet.”
“Clever.” Sergeant Major Whelan hitched his rifle forward. He and several NCOs carried what the locals called the Model Twelve and which Shad would have called a Martini-Henry, a single-shot breech-loading weapon that used brass-cased cartridges.
The little troop crossed the shallow river and headed into the trees beyond, grateful for the overcast sky that shielded them from the late summer sun. Besides the Black Talons and the cart there were fifteen members of Company A, one of whom was mounted on a mule.
When they reached the designated stand the Black Talons picketed the cart’s team and stood watch while Sergeant Major Whelan organized cutting and trimming teams and set his men to work. In less than an hour Fred got bored and manned an axe.
Shad sat in a good vantage point, shotgun across his lap; the pines here were dense enough so that very little underbrush grew giving decent visibility.
His many conversations over the last five days with Sergeant Major Whelan had given him a clearer insight into the social aspects of this place. Despite its superficial resemblance to the Old West he suspected that the core of the Protectorate were descendants of the Baltic States. It would help if he knew what language they actually spoke, but to his ears it just sounded like English. From his conversations and reading he suspected that the Kingdom of Fathme’s origins were derived from Spanish banish-ees, either former inmates of the Prison or later groups banished to the Reach from Spain or its colonies.
More interesting was that the retired professional soldier did not seem to view the intrusion of necromancers as an invasion. While it was hardly a comprehensive poll this input heightened the Shootist’s uneasy feelings. Being an unwitting pawn was a role he was heartily sick of playing.
Movement to his left suddenly snapped Shad back to the present; focusing, he caught a glimpse of a sandal-clad foot as the wearer vanished behind a tree. Turning towards the main body he saw Derek, who had been watching the other side, trotting over to Sergeant Major Whelan. When the NCO heard what Derek had to say he looked over at Shad, who held a thumb down and pointed in the direction he had seen the scout. The Shootist settled back into position and checked the pocket watch he had purchased back in Bloodseep: 10:45am.
One by one Sergeant Major Whelan pulled his troops off their work to retrieve their rifles and cartridge pouches from where they had been stacked, returning to their details to keep up the noise of tree-clearing while others in turn secured their arms. As the troops armed themselves Shad spotted two more scouts, and signaled that information to Sergeant Major Whelan when he believed he wasn’t being observed.
The sound of hooves startled him; looking over his shoulder he saw a soldier mounted on the mule galloping back to the fort site. All the troops were armed and Sergeant Major Whelan was directing half his men to move downed trunks into a roughly triangular formation while the rest continued cutting and trimming trees.
At 11:10 the Shootist heard more hooves and looked back to see a body of horsemen approaching at the trot from the south. As they closed he recognized the Colonel, his staff, a couple teamsters, and every officer Shad knew by sight. The Colonel waved at Sergeant Major Whelan’s salute and the force continued past, most looking eager. Five minutes after the Colonel’s reaction force had passed a dozen enlisted men, mounted bareback on mules and dray horses, cantered past looking flushed and eager.
Shad checked his watch when he heard the first shot: 11:24. It was followed with a few more, and then a few more, until a shot or two rang out each minute. At 11:33 at least a dozen weapons fired at once, and then more joined in until it was apparent that the entire reaction force was engaged. The firing continued hot and heavy until 11:41 when a steady decease began until the shooting trailed away to the occasional individual shot. No shots was heard after 11:47am.
“Any scouts?” Sergeant Major Whelan asked, approaching the Shootist’s position.
“Not since I saw the horsemen.”
“Right, lads, no more trees. Trim up what we’ve got.” He turned back to Shad. “What did that sound like to you?”
“Someone had an easy fight. The fifty duro question is which side?”
“That’s what I’m wondering about. Horse detail, hitch up the cart. Step lively, now.”
Ten minutes after noon Shad heard hooves again, and moments later an officer came into view on a winded horse. The Shootist recognized him as Lieutenant Meik, commander of the artillery section. Meike’s face was powder-blackened and he had stuffed a kerchief into a bleeding rent in his tunic. “Over here, sir.”
“Sergeant Major Whelan,” the white-faced officer gasped. “Get back to the fort. I’ll ride ahead and warn them.”
“And where are the rest, sir?” the Sergeant Major’s face was impassive.
“Dead,” Lieutenant Mieke said hollowly. “We were chasing a small group of Tek over a ridge, and when we reached the bottom of the reverse slope hundreds came out of nowhere…the enlisted volunteers were lagging behind, and they dismounted at the crest and gave us supporting fire until a flanking force of Tek over-ran them.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Good luck.” Lieutenant Mieke turned his mount and spurred the tired beast towards the fort.
“All right, stack the tools and your tunics in the cart, and then fall in, two files by the squad. Charge your rifles, leave your bayonets in their scabbards. You,” he pointed to Derek. “Drive the cart. You, sir,” he pointed at Jeff. “Ride in the cart bed, ready to rece
ive wounded. You other two get up by the head of the team and protect the horses.”
“What should we expect?” Jeff asked as he swung himself onto the cart bed.
“Tek footmen-they won’t send in the lizard-riders until we’ve been properly softened up. Right, route march, march!”
The Tek came for them as they re-entered the trees after crossing the river; Shad was grateful that the damned monkeys lacked the brains to hit them while crossing-the infantry’s Springfield rifles would have been difficult to reload with paper cartridges and percussion caps while knee-deep in water. The dusky-skinned humanoids came bounding out of the slender brush to hurl stone-tipped javelins and then dart back into cover. Rifles crashed in response and Sergeant Major Whelan kept the unit moving-they were withdrawing, not looking for a fight. The mustachioed NCO strode between the two outward files of infantry, chiding, encouraging, and steadying the men with his presence.
Up front of the horses the Shootist and Fred were busy, but not impossibly so. If Shad had been in charge of the Tek the horses pulling the cart would have been dead in the first volley, but instead the double file of infantry seemed to grip the imagination of most of the attackers. Shad wondered if Sergeant Major Whelan had anticipated this tendency.
In the cart bed Jeff cursed a nasty gash in his right leg above the boot as he fired his Winchester at the fleeting figures of the Tek. Behind him Derek was working the reins one-handed while deploying hex-sheets with the other, and the Jinxman was determined to keep the enemy off the Alienist, for if the wards failed none of them might make it back.
He got a solid torso-hit on a javelin-thrower when a shout caught his attention: a white-faced private was clinging to the cart’s tail gate with one hand, a javelin standing out from his side. Cursing, the Shop teacher worked his rifle’s action as he scuttled over to the wounded man.