by Cameron Judd
Callon wasn’t writing now. He frowned and paced back and forth before the Colonel, thinking. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but it makes no sense to me.”
Ottinger’s jaw did its little clench again.
Callon went on despite an inner voice that urged him not to. “There’s something far too unlikely in it all. Why, after all these years, would a band of former Rebels go to such trouble, all for mere symbolism? Why would they pick a two-bit mining town, known mostly for its sinful ways, as a point of attack? They could better make their point by destroying a railroad, or even sneaking these explosives of theirs under the walls of Fort Brandon itself and setting them off there.
“And about these explosives…do you really ask me to believe, and ask my readers to believe in turn, that anyone at all, particularly a band of stubborn old Rebels, would possess enough explosive power to do this?” Callon waved his hand, indicating the destroyed town, the ruined forest.
Ottinger was not a man accustomed to being questioned, particularly by an upstart young civilian journalist. He scowled fiercely at Callon, and spoke in a colder, even more formal tone of voice. “What you see around you, sir, was not solely the result of the initial blasts. Those explosions were carried out in such a way as to cause extremely severe and fast-moving fires, which spread through this tinderbox town and into the woods around them. The forest damage you see resulted from the fire, not the explosions.”
“Colonel, those trees didn’t burn down, they were knocked down, by an incredible explosive force. They didn’t burn very thoroughly, and mostly on one side, the side facing Gomorrah. They all fell in the same direction. This was no common forest fire, sir.”
“How dare you argue with me! I am in command here!”
Callon was doing the very thing he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do—losing his temper—but he couldn’t stop himself. Nothing roused his ire more than perceiving that he, as a journalist, was being used and lied to. “You may be in command of your soldiers, sir, but I’m a private citizen. A civilian. And I work for the Observor, not for you, and not for the United States Army. And I’m not a fool. I can see clearly what you’re up to here.”
Ottinger stared at him. “And tell me, then, what it is I’m up to.”
Ottinger did an odd thing then: without giving Callon a chance to answer, he turned and walked away, toward the woods, heading for a portion not at the moment being burned. It was darker there, more remote from the town.
Callon hesitated, then followed. “I’ll tell you what you’re up to, sir. You know as well as I do that what happened here was something very strange, something unusual, something maybe we cannot yet explain. Whatever it was, though, it certainly wasn’t the work of some gaggle of old Confederates, and you know it.
“But you also know that this event provides you opportunity. You can use this incident to cast blame on these old Rebels, and have a pretext to move against them, arrest them, whatever. So you keep the people of Gomorrah, who know what really happened here, under your control as long as possible, to keep them quiet. You reburn the forest because you know that anyone who sees the pattern in which these trees fell, and the pattern by which they originally burned, will know that this was caused by an explosion much stronger than any human being could bring about. And you seek to use me, and my publication, to further your lie before the nation. Because once you get the false version in print, you’ve won the day. Most people will never travel up to this mountaintop to see the evidence of the kind of blast that really occurred. And with the fallen trees all burned to ashes, there would be little evidence left to see, anyway. Everyone would simply accept the official story. Any eyewitness or survivor who tells a different story would simply be labeled an exaggerator and dismissed.”
Ottinger faced Callon. “Tell me, then, what did happen here, if you consider my version so faulty. And don’t speak of volcanic activity. I’ve had this site studied by a trained geologist, and that theory has already been ruled out.”
“I don’t believe this was caused by volcanic activity,” Callon said. “To be honest, I can’t guess exactly what caused it…but I think something fell from the sky, and exploded above the town.”
Ottinger laughed. “Fell from the sky? What? Fire and brimstone from heaven?”
“Maybe not fire and brimstone. I’m no scientist, but I know there are objects out there, moving through the heavens, sometimes falling toward earth. Maybe it was something like that. I’ve heard that such things can happen.”
“Well, it didn’t happen here. This was the work of insurgents, and that, young man, is what you will report.”
“The Observor is not under the control of you or the United States government, Colonel. In this nation the press enjoys freedom from such control.”
Ottinger pushed himself into Callon’s face, waving his fist. “Damn you! Can’t you see what I’m doing for you? I’m offering you an exclusive privilege, to report first-hand the way this town was attacked and destroyed, and the response to that attack! Are you going to turn your back on this?”
Ottinger again made his odd move, and turned away before Callon could respond. He walked two dozen more paces into the woods, crossing a small ridge and actually going completely out of Callon’s sight.
Callon hesitated, very unsure about all this now. The thought of turning and running came to mind. But perhaps Ottinger wanted him to do just that. He might even have unseen guards about, ready to shoot him down if he tried it.
Another thing as well kept him from running. He heard something, off in the woods. Movement, as if someone were out there, watching, listening. Perhaps just an animal, perhaps a man…if the latter, a man probably close enough to have heard much of the conversation so far.
“Alex?” Callon whispered. “Alex Gunnison, is that you?”
No one answered.
Callon followed Ottinger over the ridge. It was much darker here; Callon could barely make out the Colonel’s form in the blackness. “Colonel, what ‘response’ are you talking about?”
“Do you agree to write the story? If you will, I’ll tell you.”
“I’ll write the story…but I’ll not have its terms dictated.”
“If you write anything at all, young man, it will indeed be on my terms, and I’ll not allow a word to be sent out by you, in any form, without my prior approval.”
“I’ll not allow a prior restraint on any story I write, Colonel Ottinger.”
Ottinger shook his head. “You’re as big a fool as Kenton. He turned me down as well.”
“It’s only because Kenton follows the ethics of a professional, and will not compromise it.”
Ottinger smiled triumphantly. “Ah-ha! So it is Kenton! I knew it!”
Callon’s heart sank. With no intention to do so, he’d just confirmed Brady Kenton’s identity. Ottinger had outfoxed him.
Callon strode toward Ottinger, made bold by anger. “Don’t you dare harm him! Don’t even think of it!”
Ottinger laughed. “Harm him? Why would I do that? What do you think I am?”
Callon stammered a moment, then said, “I know you and Kenton have a bad history between you. I know you’re a man prone to vengeance.”
“Do you think so? Why? You don’t know me at all, Mr. Callon. All you know of me is what you’ve read, printed by liars like Brady Kenton. He’s probably been telling you more lies there in that cabin. I’m not the wicked creature Kenton says I am, Mr. Callon. And he’s not the great warrior for truth he claims to be.”
Callon wondered if it was too late to backstep somehow. He’d at least try. “Listen, Colonel, I don’t personally know Brady Kenton. Never met the man. I can’t say for certain that Mr. Houser is really him. He just bears a resemblance, that’s all.”
“You needn’t try to change your story now, young man. I didn’t really need your confirmation in any case. That is indeed Brady Kenton in that cabin. One of my soldiers who saw him in the town of Leadville has already confirmed his identity to me. But e
nough of that: the question between us is whether you are willing to write the story here in the way I wish. I take it that the answer, at this point, is no.”
“Sir, I can’t and won’t write a story I know to be a contrived lie.”
Callon expected Ottinger to explode, but instead he spoke more softly. “I’m not a man without means. I can certainly make it worth your while to reconsider.”
Callon gaped. “You’re offering me a bribe?”
Ottinger, nearly invisible in the darkness, reached beneath his coat.
Callon exclaimed, “You are offering me a bribe!” He laughed in astonishment. “Now that, sir, is a story I am willing to write. Colonel J.B. Ottinger himself, trying to pay a journalist to manipulate the facts for him!”
“Are you trying to threaten me, Mr. Callon?”
“I’m not willing to prostitute my profession, sir, for a handful of cash.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Ottinger said. “I’ve given you every opportunity to make wise choices, but you’ve failed to do so. Now you have become a problem to me. I can’t have you, or Kenton, engaged in trying to further muddy my name before the public.”
“I can’t compromise with you, Colonel,” Callon said. “I intend to write and publish a story, but it will be a story telling the truth.”
Ottinger replied, “I’m very sorry you’ve chosen to attack me.”
“I haven’t attacked you.”
“Yes, you have. You lured me this far, out of sight of witnesses, and attempted to physically harm me. Therefore I have no choice but to defend myself.”
Callon stepped back, wary. “What are you talking about?”
Ottinger pulled a pistol from under his coat, leveled it, and shot Callon through the heart.
Chapter 16
Brady Kenton was laboring hard, but paused when he heard the distant crack of a gunshot. He wondered who had fired it, why, and at what.
Spurred by concern, he began working harder, faster, pulling away stones and mortar from the fireplace and gradually opening a hole between the imprisoning room and the dark world outside.
He prayed that no one would detect what he was doing before he could get out, and that once free, he could somehow manage to get out of town without gaining attention from the military guards.
Gomorrah was no longer a place he wanted to be. Ottinger, he was convinced, could be an authentic danger. And the people of Gomorrah, the group he hoped included Rankin, were no longer here. He had to follow them.
It troubled him, however, to think of abandoning young Callon here. His suggestion to Ottinger that he give his story to Callon had been ill-advised and irresponsible, he now believed, a bad call made under pressure.
Yet he couldn’t remain here. If he did, Ottinger would probably arrange for him to die in some convenient “accidental” fashion.
He’d have to hope that Callon was mature enough and clever enough to deal rightly with his own situation.
He tugged at another stone, but it held fast. Blast it all! The mortar was proving more difficult to chip away the deeper he dug into it, and the hole he was making was still not nearly large enough to accommodate him.
Ottinger stared down at the corpse of Callon and sighed. Too bad. He’d not really wanted to harm this fellow. If only the young fool simply had cooperated!
He scuffed about with his boot toe until he found a heavy wooden stick. This he picked up and placed into the hand of Callon.
There would be no questions raised about what had happened. His own soldiers, having heard the shot, were probably charging through the woods toward him even at this moment. He’d simply tell them that Callon had attacked him with the stick, and he’d been forced to shoot him.
Yes, he could hear them approaching now…but no. There was indeed noise in the charred woods, but from the wrong direction.
Someone was out there, nearby. Close enough, from the sound of it, that he might have witnessed the shooting of Callon.
“Who’s there?” Ottinger demanded, facing the darkness, still brandishing his pistol. “Show yourself! I order you under authority of the United States Army!”
He heard movement, going the other direction. Someone scrambling away.
Ottinger swore and raised the revolver, ready to fire into the darkness. But it was useless; whoever it was, was gone.
Ottinger panicked. Who might be roaming about in the dark? Why? He knew that his soldiers had lost one of the townsfolk, some saloonkeeper who apparently slipped out the back of the latrine and ran away. Maybe it was he. Or perhaps it was simply some newcomer, or another cursed journalist, who had sneaked up the mountain undetected. It could even be some spy or scout out of Confederate Ridge.
Behind him, Ottinger heard soldiers coming, calling, scrambling up the far side of the ridge. They’d cross over and reach him in a moment. He could send them chasing after whoever he’d heard in the darkness…but what if they caught the unknown party, and the party told what he’d just seen? He could deny it, of course, but didn’t want to be placed in a position in which he had to.
He turned, pistol in hand, to await his soldiers.
Kenton, sweating and sore, gave another tug at a stubborn chimney stone. It moved slightly in his hands, the mortar around it finally cracking. He pushed hard, then pulled back, and it gave way with even more gratifying results than he’d anticipated.
The stone fell inside the hearth, and several others crumbled down of their own accord. Kenton looked out through a gaping opening. It was now big enough that he believed he had a good chance of squeezing through.
He could see to the edge of town through the hole. There were no soldiers between him and the woods just now, but the woods were filled with huge bonfires of fallen trees, and some of the undergrowth that had survived the initial Gomorrah fire was ablaze, too. Kenton doubted the soldiers were going to be able to contain their own fire.
Kenton pulled the chimney rubble away from the opening. He positioned himself at the hole and started to wriggle through. He noted that it was quite cool outside, though, and remembered the coat Callon had found for him. He fetched it, pushed it out through the hole, then worked his way into the opening himself. It was a tight squeeze.
When he was halfway out, he heard footsteps, and froze. Two soldiers trotted by the cabin, mere yards from him. He lay there, head and torso sticking out of the ragged hole in the chimney, and watched them pass. One side glance in his direction and he would be revealed. But they were distracted, apparently concerned by that same pistol shot Kenton had heard, and did not notice him.
Kenton pushed and wriggled and scratched his way farther out of the hole, but suddenly found himself stuck. He pulled and writhed, but to no avail.
He looked up toward the chimney top, the silhouette of which was a darker shadow against the night sky. Was the chimney moving and swaying a little as he tried to extricate himself, or was it just an illusion caused by the scudding clouds? It would be a ludicrous way to die, he thought, to be smashed like a bug beneath a falling chimney. Even if it didn’t kill him, the clamor of the chimney falling would certainly get him caught.
Kenton gave one more great pull, twisting his body as he did so. He broke free, and was outside.
Rising, wincing at the astonishing soreness of his battered frame and fighting dizziness, he dusted himself off, picked up and slipped on the slightly oversized coat, and made for a burned-out building nearby. There he dropped into the shadows to rest briefly, hide, and assess his situation.
The woods were blazing brightly; out around the bonfires he saw the dark forms of moving soldiers. To the north, however, the woods had not yet been set aflame. It was very dark there. Instinct pulled him in that direction, but one worry stopped him: it was from that direction that he’d heard the sound of the gunshot.
Soldiers passed near, and Kenton ducked behind the remnants of a burned wall, trying to figure out what to do next.
“I’m quite fine, thank you, Sergeant,” C
olonel Ottinger was saying. “He got in a couple of swings, but the stick never struck me. He was quite intent on killing me, however. A shame I had to shoot him.”
“Let us accompany you back to your quarters, sir,” the sergeant said. “Perhaps the doctor should examine you.”
“No need for that,” Ottinger said. “I already told you he connected with none of his blows. Not for lack of trying, however. I can’t quite understand it. I offered the man a fine journalistic opportunity, the chance to write an authoritative account of what happened at this place, and he responded by attacking me! It’s a mystery indeed.”
“I’m glad you’re not injured, sir.” In truth the man would have hardly minded had Ottinger been killed. In the time since he had manipulated his way to Fort Brandon, he had made himself a most unpopular figure among the soldiers he commanded.
“Thank you,” Ottinger said. “See to this man’s body, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How goes the burning operation?”
“Quite well, sir, as best I can tell, if we can keep it under control. The control is the great concern…the wind is becoming a problem.”
“If it spreads, it spreads. The point is to completely burn off this mountaintop. Rest the men in shifts and continue as long as necessary.”
Ottinger walked back toward Gomorrah. He paused to watch the burning going on to the south, his lanky body outlined for a few moments against the flames. Then he went on.
“Let’s get this corpse out of here,” the sergeant said to three soldiers near him.
“Sergeant, may I ask you a question first?” said a corporal, who had the reputation of being too forthright for his own good.
“Go on.”
“What the hell is going on here? Why are we burning off a mountaintop that’s already been burned over once? Are we trying to cover something up?”
The sergeant paused. “We’re following the Colonel’s orders. That’s what we’re doing.”
“Because I don’t know that I like what we’re doing here. This was the hand of God at work, and it ain’t right for us to try to cover up what was done here. You’ve heard those people talking about that fellow who prophesied it all. I tell you, what happened here was intended as a warning to the nation. And now, here we are, trying to burn it all off and hide it. We’ll be held to account for this. It ain’t right, Sergeant.”