by Tony Masero
Kirby looked off to the blue line of hills in the distance. ‘He got any men with him?’
Clinton shrugged, ‘Couldn’t say. I told you, I don’t ride with him, we’re just related that’s all.’
‘I think you’re playing me for a fool,’ said Kirby suspiciously.
‘No, I ain’t, God’s truth, I ain’t.’
‘Well, if you is, I shall bust you up real good. You bear that in mind, Clinton.’
They rode on until the soft-sloped range of grassy hills loomed before them and Clinton headed them towards the v-shaped cut of a steep sided valley.
‘It’s in there,’ he promised.
‘Lead on,’ said Kirby, drawing his pistol and keeping it to hand at his lap.
The valley rose on each side above them and Kirby watched the heights nervously, he did not like the enclosing press of the walls and was relieved when, after a few hundred yards, the way opened out and they looked down into a wide circular and grass covered bowl. The promised windowless cabin stood in the middle beside a small stream that ran down the slopes of the bowl and crossed the bottomland. Above the cabin on all sides of the grassy inclines, a great number of raw cavities marked the banks. These were the old mine works, not dug deep, the surface mining only penetrating the slopes for a few feet, enough to make small dark caverns that pockmarked the surface.
Smoke rose from the narrow chimney on top the tin roof of the battered cabin.
‘Looks like someone’s home,’ observed Kirby.
‘What you want to do now?’ asked Clinton, his voice tense and nervous.
‘Give call, let’s see what comes out.’
‘There’s a password.’
‘Okay, let him have it.’
‘The black crow flies in from the north!’ Clinton bellowed, his voice rolling and echoing around the bowl.
The door to the cabin flew open and Bart McCoy stepped out, rifle in hand. He was a blocky red headed and red bearded man, bareheaded now, with leather suspenders stretched over a checkered wool shirt.
‘And the bluebird cries from the south,’ he called back, their two voices joining in echoes around the bowl.
‘The bluebird sings sweeter,’ Clinton answered.
‘Whilst the black crow croaks death.’
At the rolling sound, other figures appeared. Each of the mine cavities releasing a grinning armed man. Kirby’s head swung around and counted off forty men all facing him from every side with rifles raised. Amongst them he spotted two snipers armed with scoped Whitworth rifles.
‘Hell! What you got me into,’ he growled at Clinton.
‘Well,’ chuckled Clinton. ‘Ain’t life full of surprises? Got you here, ain’t we Pink?’
‘See you brought a friend with you, Clinton,’ called Bart. ‘He the one back at the saloon?’
‘He’s the one,’ Clinton answered.
‘You want to bring him down here, so me and the boys can say how-do?’
The men on the slopes held their positions and the two snipers kept their sights fixed on Kirby.
‘We been expecting you, mister,’ said Bart. ‘Had this real fine welcome ready and waiting. One way or the other I knew you’d be on my tail.’
Kirby nudged the pinto forward until it was alongside Clinton, the pistol out of sight but aimed at the gunman.
‘Right, you weasel,’ Kirby said quietly. ‘You’re the first one to get it any shooting starts, you hear me? I’ll cut you in half you don’t do as I say.’
Clinton frowned down at the pistol aimed at his waist and nodded.
‘You climb across and mount up behind me, do it fast and do it now.’
‘Why, what you aim on doing?’
‘Just do it!’ snarled Kirby.
Seeing he had no option and with a grumble of resentment, Clinton kicked his boots free of his stirrups and swung his leg across the pinto’s haunches. He sat close up behind Kirby’s back, his legs hooked over the saddlebags.
‘What you up to, Clinton?’ called Bart with a wheezing laugh. ‘You going to bring him in yourself?’
‘Hold on real tight,’ ordered Kirby once Clinton was seated. ‘Hah!’ with a loud cry he whirled the pony and jumpstarted him back down the way they had come with a jab of the spurs. The pinto burst forward into a leaping run and with cries of alarm following them they raced down the exit way between the valley walls.
A few scattered shots followed but Kirby heard Bart call out, ‘Hold your fire, you’ll hit my cuz!’
The wind raced past them as they bounded along the valley and Kirby looked up to see one or two running silhouettes chasing along the heights above. The gunmen shouted in frustration at the nearness of Clinton holding onto Kirby’s back and their inability to bring the Pinkerton man down as a result.
‘You sure pulled that one on me,’ Kirby shouted over his shoulder. ‘You knew they’d be waiting on us.’
‘I didn’t know, really I didn’t,’ Clinton whined.
‘And what’s all that password crap? You all some kind of secret agency?’
‘It’s the Knights of the Golden Circle. Bart’s a member.’
‘Knights of the what?’
‘Golden Circle.’
‘The hell you say,’ Kirby raised his free elbow and swung it back, catching Clinton a blow on the side of the head. The gunman moaned and tipped over, hanging on grimly as Kirby whirled the pony to one side at the valley opening. ‘This old hoss can’t carry the two of us,’ Kirby cried, smacking out again with his free arm.
This time Clinton lost his balance on the twisting pony’s back and slid off, to fall in a rolling tumble as Kirby raced on.
‘I’ll be seeing you soon Clinton,’ Kirby promised, hanging low over the pinto’s neck and urging the beast into a faster pace. He knew that Bart would soon have his men mounted up and on the chase and he headed at full run alongside the rolling hills.
He ran on for a mile before turning back into the hills, riding up to find a hiding place amongst the gullies and small ravines. Kirby knew his trail would be easy to follow over the grass and hoped to find barer soil higher up as he could see rock above him on the crest of the hills. Weaving his way through a zigzag path he worked the pony gradually higher up through brush sided inclines and over the tree-lined humped borders of the gullies.
He could hear the rumble of following hooves as he finally crested the hilltop and wove his way in amongst the boulders. There were distant shouts and flurries of sound as the following pack traced his tracks up into the hills and began to follow. Kirby dismounted behind a high outcrop and listened to the whoops and hollers as the noisy mob chased up after him following the easy trail he had left until reaching the rocks.
He had already mapped out his route of escape, a steep slope down back to the foothills again. It was risky, canting himself and the pony over at an angle that verged on the suicidal. There was little other option though and he had to trust the surefooted pinto, which had been a faithful companion for many years, to carry off the dangerous mission.
Once he heard their muttered comments as the band separated amongst the rocks and boulders searching for his trail over the stony ground, Kirby led the pony to the edge of the drop. He mounted up quietly and with a whispered word of encouragement into the pinto’s ear he urged it over the edge.
Stiff-legged the pony took the first few faltering steps, then, gaining confidence it began to move out. The slope extended for some twenty feet of almost perpendicular cliff and the pony only lost its way halfway down, when it sat down on its haunches temporarily and slid forward before recapturing balance and bravely stepping out again. For a moment Kirby’s heart was in his mouth as he was thrown back in the saddle but he hung on grimly and the agile pony gained the bottom of the drop in a galloping run. The pinto shook its head and puffed a flurry that sounded like self-congratulation and with a pat of gratitude on the shoulder Kirby guided the animal back out onto the plain.
He was free now but Kirby was not done yet.
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br /> With the band all out searching for him, swiftly he made his way along back to their hideout. He hoped to find Clinton and maybe Bart still there. At least Clinton, for he had a debt to settle with that devious soul.
It would be a bold and unsuspected move as he was sure that the gang would not expect such a rash attempt. Kirby reckoned he had maybe an hour or so before the gang gave up the search and returned. Brazenly, he rode again up the valley and entered the cabin’s bowl where the burning stove still tainted the air with its single column of wood smoke. He was almost at the door when it opened and both Bart and his cousin stepped out, obviously hearing the sound of his hoof beats and expecting the successful return of their companions.
Kirby had them under the gun before they could make a move to correct that error.
‘Shed them,’ Kirby ordered, indicating their side arms.
Both men did as ordered and raised their hands in grudging surrender.
‘You are one tricky customer,’ snarled Bart. ‘I got forty-odd men out looking for you and you got the brass to turn up back here.’
‘What better time?’ grinned Kirby. ‘Get yourself mounted, ‘cos you’re coming back with me. You’ve got a date with a hanging tree I reckon.’
Clinton meanwhile watched him carefully, he bore a livid bruise where Kirby had hit him on the cheek and he sucked on his gold tooth and gauged the possibility of escape.
‘You want to try?’ asked Kirby, leaning over the saddle horn and waving his Colt towards the valley. ‘You go for it, ain’t no skin off my nose.’
‘You got no call on me, Langstrom,’ he whined. ‘I ain’t blowed up no railroad.’
‘Get mounted,’ Kirby ordered harshly. ‘Right now! Do as I say or I put one in you both right here. No one will miss your sorry ass’s.’
The two moved over to their horses tied off behind the cabin and slowly mounted up. ‘Get a move on. Lead out and I’ll be close behind so don’t try anything. I’m a regular fine shot and I’ll put a hole in you easy as winking.’
The two men did as they were told and Kirby urged them south away from the cabin and into the wooded hills of east Kansas.
Kirby was taking them to Fort Leavenworth which was a Union administrative fort based north of the Kansas River, one of the chain that lay along the new state’s border in protection against Confederate and Indian raids. It lay some seventy miles off and Kirby intended to drive the two before him though the oncoming night and reach there late or early next morning. With forty men behind him, the non-stop journey was the best alternative.
The darkness would be his enemy as well as his friend; it would be hard to keep the two villains in sight in the encroaching blackness that swept towards them over the land as the sun began to set. He had to think of some way to keep the two with him and avoid them running off in the darkness.
With the coming evening, a sullen glow developed. A venomous pale yellow light that split the horizon whilst ugly black clouds tumbled towards them through the sky. Then, suddenly, there came one of those storms that often rampage across the state without warning and it wasn’t long before all three were soaked to the skin and feeling thoroughly miserable. A blessing for Kirby as it would slow pursuit but he could see that they weren’t making much headway themselves in the thrashing rain.
By the last of the light, Kirby ordered them dismounted. He had one set of manacles in his saddlebags and with these he locked the two together at the wrist. The three then sat underneath their horses Indian fashion, to at least avoid some of the downpour whilst the beasts stood and morosely sheltered them.
‘You really hoping to take us in?’ Bart jeered across from his situation huddled next to his cousin. ‘My boys will be hot on our trail, you realize that?’
‘I’ll get you there, don’t you worry,’ promised Kirby.
‘Where you taking us anyway?’ asked Clinton.
‘Provost Marshal at Leavenworth.’
‘Man! That’s miles away. You won’t do it, Langstrom,’ promised Bart.
‘Head up or feet first, makes no difference to me, McCoy.’
‘Your days are numbered, Pink,’ growled Bart, over the rush of falling rain.
‘What is it with you and this Knight’s thing?’ Kirby asked, his curiosity aroused by all the rigmarole he had heard. ‘I noted all that password poetry back there, what’s that signify?’
‘We’re an honorable society, mister,’ Bart said with a show of righteous pride.
‘You in this too, Clinton?’ asked Kirby.
‘All us Missouri boys are,’ Clinton answered, miserably stroking rain out of his dripping beard.
‘Best beware,’ warned Bart. ‘The Knights of the Golden Circle have friends in high places, Pink.’
‘How’d you get involved with that anyway? Pair of lowdown good-for-nothing’s like you.’
Bart spat into the rain dripping from his pony’s flanks. ‘I joined up when we was bound for Mexico, when General Bickley called for volunteers to invade down there. Now we got a mightier cause though. We’ve got thousands ready to support us, hell! We had an army ready even before the South seceded. All them Kansas Jayhawkers and Red Legs have yet to feel the full force of our retribution but it’s coming, Pink. I swear its coming. You get in our way and we’ll bury you under.’
Despite all Bart’s angry bragging the information troubled Kirby, he had never heard of the society before and was sure that there was something more to it than just a renegade’s wild ranting.
‘You reckon you’re that big, do you? This ain’t just you blowing in the wind, is it McCoy?’
‘We’re organized, Pinkerton man. Better than you’d ever believe. We’re set up with Castles across the country. We got divisions and degrees, a Home Corps and a Foreign Corps. It’s all planned, see? Soon enough, we’ll rise up and all our brother Knights in the north will sweep over Lincoln and his sorry crew. There’ll be death and destruction like you’ve never seen.’
Bart’s voice was raised in a loud paean of loyal excitement and he shouted out his fervor above the sound of the storm that whirled and slashed around them. As his shout died the storm seemed to take its cue from him and the rain began to slow and the wind drop.
‘Sounds mighty scary,’ said Kirby dismissively. ‘But what I’m looking at is just a pair of pissants hiding behind secret words and such,’
‘You mark my words, Pink. The Knights stand with the constitutional rights of the South. We’re legitimate and you’ll see us plain when the time comes.’
‘Until then you keep your subversive little signs and passwords, is that the score? You got hidey-hoodies you wear too. Flour sacks with eyeholes to hide in like any nighthawk rustler or upstart lynch mob. You make me sick, McCoy. No more balls that a herd of sheep.’
‘You’ll see, Langstrom. You’ll see,’ growled Bart, staring hard at the Pinkerton man.
‘Get up,’ Kirby snapped. ‘Get on your horses.’
‘Like this?’ complained Clinton, clinking the chained manacle between them. ‘You expect us to ride like this?’
‘Yeah, like that. So stay together or the pair of you’ll take a tumble.’
The two mounted with difficulty side by side and Kirby took the lead rein of Bart’s pony and led out, pulling the two behind him.
‘Enjoy the ride, fellas. Seeing as you’re Knights an’ all, you should be good at this.’
With that he jerked the rein and set off at a trot.
Chapter Four
From the muddy canal bank, the Tredegar Ironworks was not a prepossessing sight. It lay beyond a small footbridge as a sprawling collection of canted-roofed brick buildings on the water’s edge, the tall chimneys belched smoke and the place had all the grim reality of a factory working to capacity. Wagons ground their way to loading bays and churned a steady path through the damp soil of the access along the riverside. Mostly, Belle had an impression of teeming workers, black smoke and soot stained brickwork.
‘Are you sure about this?
It looks uncommonly uncomfortable,’ asked Bracken.
He had hired an open carriage for their trip as it was a warm day and he hauled the pony to a sliding halt on the slurried approach road. Bugs hummed in the hot air and mosquitoes rose in spirals from the water.
Belle looked across at the guards standing casually on duty, their long rifles were armed with bayonets and she reckoned that was the sharpest thing about them. They looked bored and listlessly disinterested in the duty as they lounged out of the hot sun in the shade alongside the entrance.
‘Drive on Linus,’ said Belle. ‘It’s so pretty here next to the river.’
It was a lie of course; there is nothing pretty about industry in nature. The somnolent slow moving waters of the Haxall Canal were stained with rainbow rings of greasy oil and the riverbanks covered with the rusting remnants of cast-off metal. There was a choking metallic taint to the air and despite her protestations of natural splendor, Belle soon held a small handkerchief to her nostrils.
The two guards came out of their daydream and snapped to attention at sight of an officer.
‘We are come to see the Ironworks,’ Bracken explained as he helped Belle down from the carriage.
‘Sir,’ said one of the guards, saluting.
‘Is the manager about?’ asked Bracken, returning the salute.
‘Down there, sir,’ he said pointing direction to a two-story building with a Dutch-gabled roof. ‘You’ll find him in the offices.’
Belle gave him one of her winning smiles, ‘It must be terribly tiresome for you men out here in the heat.’
The guard blushed at sight of this vision taking an interest in a lowly foot soldier. ‘Why, no, ma’am. We just do our duty,’ he managed with a show of soldierly pride.
‘And where are you from, may I ask?’
‘We’re both from Kentucky, ma’am.’
‘Wonderful,’ sighed Belle in appreciation. ‘Well done, the pair of you.’