The Violent Peace

by George G. Gilman

  It was from a stand of mixed timber that Lieutenant Carey and the troopers under his command watched the actions of the bored sentry. They saw him make a circuit of the camp, scratching his armpit as he dragged his feet. Then they watched as he halted and pulled a watch from his vest pocket. They were too far away to see the smile of relief which spread across his unintelligent features.

  Adam Steele, his face and clothes dripping with water, was close enough to see Binns' pleasure that his stint of guard duty was over. He was crouched among the reeds under the bank of the stream, his body braced against the tug of the rushing water, the Colt Hartford resting across his shoulder well clear of the surface. He had waded across, and taken up his position beneath the overhanging branches of the birch, while Binns was making his inspection tour of the camp.

  Now he heard the whispered conversation of the men.

  “Snap out of it, Jack,” Binns hissed. “Your turn.”

  Logan groaned, sat up suddenly and raised his wooden club. Then he recognized Binns and groaned again. “All quiet?”

  “’cepting for the frigging river,” Binns muttered, flopping down on to the blanket still warm from Logan's body.

  Logan stood up, tugging at the crotch of his pants, and glanced distastefully at the white water of the stream. “Crazy idea,” he complained to himself as he ambled over to the tree and sat down, leaning his back against the trunk. “Ain't nobody but us in this neck of the woods.”

  He didn't sound convinced of the fact, and clutched the club in both hands across his bulbous stomach. After a minute or so, his eyelids began to droop.

  Steele snaked his body up on to the bank of the stream, the rush of water masking any slight sound he made. He glanced up at the sky and gave a small nod of satisfaction as he saw scattered clouds scudding together to form a heavy bank in the west. The star-dotted area between the leading edge of the cloud and the bright-near-sphere of the moon narrowed as he watched.

  Lieutenant Carey was also watching the sky, viewing it through a tracery of leaves at the edge of the timber.

  “We going to go and get them, sir?” the sergeant whispered, leaning forward to stroke the nose of his horse.

  “Now's as good a time as any, I think,” Carey replied, dropping his gaze to the campsite at the foot of the slope, some three hundred feet away. “Be pitch black before long - hey, what's that?”

  The sergeant and those troopers who had a view of the camp, craned forward to see what had caught the lieutenant's attention.

  Steele had raised himself on to all fours, then into a stooped shoulders crouch. He moved forward on a curved course, putting the trunk of the tree between himself and the dozing Logan. At the tree, he straightened and side-stepped around it. Logan sensed, rather than heard, the intruder. He opened his eyes wide and looked up, his mouth dropping open to shout a warning to the others. But the rifle was already flashing down towards him. Steele abruptly changed the direction of the blow and the barrel lashed across Logan's exposed throat. A low gasp erupted from the man. Then his head smashed back against the tree trunk and he slumped forward into, unconsciousness.

  Steele grasped one limp arm and dragged Logan's unresponsive form towards the bank of the stream.

  It was this act which Carey saw, and he continued to watch in stunned silence for another few moments, until Steele and his prisoner disappeared over the bank. Then he quickly turned his head around to stare at the sergeant, and jerked his rifle from the saddle boot.

  “Let's go, for Christ sake!” he rasped, thudding his heels into the flanks of his horse.

  He burst clear of the trees and the troopers needed no order from the sergeant to follow him. The downward slope gave added impetus to the charge and it was the vibrations of the ground under the thundering hoofbeats, rather than the sound, which roused the sleeping men.

  “It's the frigging army again!” Binns yelled, leaping to his feet and grabbing his rifle as he stared in awe at the troopers streaming towards the camp.

  “Stay and watch if you like!” Monahan rasped, springing up, rifle in hand, and racing in pursuit of Carstairs, who was first to swing up into his saddle.

  “Where the hell's Logan?” Binns roared, breaking into a run that was fast enough to overhaul Monahan.

  “More pressing problems, old son,” Carstairs replied, ducking as the charging troopers sent a volley of shots high over the campsite. His heels dug hard into the flanks of his mount and the animal snorted and flung itself into a full gallop from a standing start.

  He snapped out a revolver and fired over his shoulder. Binns and Monahan swung into their saddles at the same time, held back a second to fire at the soldiers, then galloped off in the wake of the Englishman.

  The corporal cartwheeled from his horse, blood pumping from his throat. A trooper watched the flailing arms and legs of the dead man in horror, then snarled and sent a bullet low towards the trio ahead. It bit a fragment of flesh out of Binns' right ear and the injured man shouted aloud, more from surprise than pain.

  “High, for effect!” Carey raged. “We need them alive.”

  “What about the other one, sir?” the sergeant asked breathlessly, veering his horse in close to the galloping mount, of the angry lieutenant.

  “Later, sergeant!” Carey snapped, trying to urge more speed from his horse as the wanted men were lost to sight over the crest of a low hillock.

  On the far side of the rise, Carstairs led Monahan and Binns diagonally down a gentle slope and into a gully with sheer sides and a rocky bed. The hoofbeats of their horses resounded tumultuously, directing the troopers towards the mouth of the gully even though they could not see their quarry.

  The gully cut a tortuous course through the centre of a hill, then widened out into a broad ravine with many other gullies leading off it. The ground underfoot was uneven, scattered with small rocks and larger boulders left by some primeval natural upheaval. The three men left no tracks as they turned sharply into one of the side gullies. And suddenly, as if their horses had spread wings and soared into thin air, the sound of the hoofbeats ceased.

  So that when Carey burst out into the ravine he was greeted by an empty silence. Conscious of the danger to horses and men from the scattered rocks in addition to bullets from sharpshooters firing from cover, he signaled a halt.

  “Looks like we lost them, sir,” the sergeant said, spitting.

  “Men just don't disappear, sergeant!” Carey snapped, raking his eyes over the many escape routes from the ravines. “Good chance a lot of these clefts are dead ends. Split the men into groups of four. Move slow and easy - and I want at least one of those civilians left alive.”

  A slow grin spread across the red face of the non-com. And there was a muttering of approval from the troopers as they divided themselves into groups. The lieutenant had changed the orders - offering his men the chance to kill two of the fugitives. They turned their mounts towards the gully entrances, rifles cocked and ready to spit death.

  It was Carey himself, riding slightly ahead of three troopers, who entered the cleft into which the quarry had disappeared. But neither the officer nor the enlisted men noted that one of the patches of heavy shadow against the rock face was, in fact, the mouth of a cave. Deep inside this, Binns made soft cooing noises to the horses as Carstairs and Monahan crouched down in front of him, sighting their rifles out into the gully.

  The horse soldiers clattered by and Monahan let out pent-up breath in a soft sigh. Carstairs' eyes glinted at him warningly. Monahan grimaced and resumed his concentration across the cave. Less than a minute had gone by before the four blue uniformed men rode back the way they had come. Carey's voice floated into the cave, the confined space giving it a ghostly tone.

  “Let's hope the bastards rode into one as short as this,” he said. “There's just no way out.”

  Carstairs continued to aim towards the opening for as long as he could hear the thud of hooves against rock. Then he swung back on his haunches, rested his rifle on the
ground and sat down. His teeth gleamed in a self-satisfied smirk as he looked at the others.

  “What you reckon happened to Logan, Bill?” Binns asked, continuing to caress each horse in turn.

  “Perhaps he had to piss at the wrong time, old son,” the Englishman replied, stretching out on the damp ground.

  Monahan relaxed, resting his back against the cave wall. “Probably spotted the damn army and took it on the lam without warning us, the crud,” he said, disgruntled.

  Binns considered both answers for a few moments, Then: “How we gonna hole up in this place?” he asked.

  Carstairs' voice was sleepy. “I saw one of them go down. Before long, I think a detail of the troop will double back to check on him. After that, we can move out. Until then, I intend to catch up on my sleep which was so rudely interrupted.”

  “Who's gonna keep watch?” Binns asked.

  Monahan's chin was resting on his chest and he gave a low snore.

  Carstairs yawned. “Frank seems to be asleep already, old son. Wake us if you see anything out there.”

  Binns flung down the reins of the horses, snatched the rifle from his saddle boot and ambled reluctantly towards the mouth of the cave. It's Logan's turn, goddamnit!” he growled.

  “Logan is apparently otherwise engaged, old son,” Carstairs pointed out drowsily.

  Binns spat out of the cave mouth. It hit the rock as just another spot of moisture, for the cloud bank had now completely covered the sky and begun to drop the first wet promises of a downpour.

  It was also raining on the dead corporal slumped on the slope above the campsite; on the mounted figure of Adam Steele; and the helpless form of Jack Logan.

  Steele had used the lariat from Logan's own saddle to bind the unconscious man tying his arms close to his sides and clamping his legs together at the knees and ankles. Logan remained unconscious as Steele used the remainder of the rope to suspend his prisoner, upside-down, from a branch of the tree extending out over the rushing stream.

  The rain was moving in from the west - the direction from which the stream ran - and Steele adjusted the rope so that Logan's head was only some six inches above the white water. Then, his heavily stubbed-face set in an expression of indifferent detachment, he retrieved his horse and mounted. He sat patiently, waiting for Logan to return to his full senses, and watching as the level of the water rose at least two inches. It was cold spume lashing against this face which accelerated Logan's plunge into horrified awareness. His eyes bulged from his blood red face as he stared across the angry water towards Steele.

  The rain came down harder, driven by a keen wind. Logan opened his mouth to plead for mercy, but a distant thunderclap masked his words. Steele waited for the sound to die away. But he had to raise his voice to be heard above the spatter of rain and roar of rushing water.

  “Sorry I can't hang around with you,” he said coldly. “But this, animal is a little skittish, Best to get him out of the area before the storm breaks.”

  He jerked on the reins, turning the animal towards the west, then heeled him forward. He heard the start of Logan's terrified scream, but another crash of thunder blanketed the sound. The horse leapt forward into a gallop.

  Logan snapped his mouth tight closed as water splashed into it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HIGH in the mountain's, at almost noon the next day, the storm had been and gone. It had left many pools of clear water behind it and at one of these, Carstairs called a halt so that men and horses could drink. It was a welcome rest, for the sky had been clear since shortly after dawn and the sun seemed to blaze down with renewed intensity, as if resenting the cooling relief provided by the night's rain. ,

  “Damn funny that lieutenant didn't send back men to check on his wounded,” Carstairs muttered, lighting a ready-made cigarette.

  It was the first thing anybody had said for a long time. Carstairs had been morose ever since he woke, giving the impression that he did not believe Binns' report that the night had passed quietly. He had implied, without putting the accusation into words, that Binns had slept during his guard duty and thus had failed to note the troopers' movements. Binns, after an initial angry outburst, had slumped into a resentful silence.

  Monahan was not, by nature, a garrulous man.

  “Shows you can't be right every time, Bill,” Binns replied, with ill-concealed spite.

  Monahan finished drinking from his hat, then poured water over his head. “All it shows is that the army's in a hurry,” he said sourly.

  Carstairs blew out a stream of smoke, then fixed Binns with a cold stare. “My line of thought precisely, Frank, old son,” he said softly.

  Binns unlocked his eyes from the stare, only to find that Monahan was watching him with the same degree of coldness. “What you looking at me for?” he demanded.

  Carstairs' voice became larded with soft menace. “How much did your wife know about Colonel Fuller and the plan, Ed?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Binns shot, back, licking his lips.

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Carstairs said in the same tone. “Ever since we left the cave, we've been following the sign left by those troopers.”

  Monahan nodded. “And they're heading straight up towards the fort.”

  Binns swallowed hard. “Even if she knew, she wouldn't say anything. She'd know what I'd do to her.”

  Carstairs dropped his cigarette. Monahan stomped on it, then turned towards Binns. The latter cowered away before Monahan's threatening expression and stance.

  “You got a big mouth, Ed,” Monahan accused. “Maybe something ought to be done about it.”

  Carstairs raised a restraining hand. “Frank!” he barked. “If he's spoken out of turn, the colonel will punish him.” A smile spread across his handsome features. “You know what interesting methods of punishment he devises.”

  Monahan turned away from the trembling Binns and gave a short, harsh laugh. “Yeah, that's right, Bill,” he agreed.

  “I didn't,” Binns blubbered. “I didn't say nothing to Mona. The army don't know where it's goin. Likely they'll go off at a wrong turn someplace ahead.”

  “Pray that they do, Ed, old son,” Carstairs urged, “There isn't anybody so inventive as Colonel Fuller when it comes to making wrongdoers suffer.”

  “We moving out now?” Monahan asked.

  Carstairs nodded, then swung up into the saddle. “I think so. If the army should find the fort, I'd hate to miss their welcome. I haven't fought a battle proper since the colonel and I left India.”

  “With your friends?” Monahan said slyly, as he slid a foot into the saddle stirrup and swung himself upwards.

  “What friends?” Binns asked, half-curious, half-nervous.

  “If the army gets to reach the fort because of your big mouth, you’ll get to meet them, Ed,” Monahan replied.

  Binns blinked, then hurriedly mounted as the others set off.

  He urged his horse into a canter to catch up with them, then slowed to match their walking pace.

  On high ground ahead and to the left of the trio of riders, Adam Steele sighted down the length of the rifle barrel and drew a bead on the head of Carstairs. He was stretched out full length on sun-warmed ground, in the cover of a huge boulder, with a clear field of fire at the riders and the ground for five hundred feet in front of them.

  He changed his aim to line up a shot on Binns, held it for a moment, then transferred his attention to Monahan. The only rider not in eastern garb had slowed and dropped behind the others, taking time to adjust the fancy California headstall of his mount. Steele lined up a perfect shot at the nape of his target's neck, then abruptly lowered the rifle a fraction and squeezed the trigger. He saw a spout of blood erupt from Monahan's leg, then the flop of the man as he went sideways from the saddle and crashed to the ground.

  The loose horse streaked away and Steele swung the rifle, drawing a bead upon the ground between the horses of the other men. He sent three shots whining into the dirt
in quick succession, causing both mounted horses to wheel and rear.

  “Where the hell are they?” Binns yelled fearfully, trying to look around him and pin-point the sharpshooter as he struggled at the same time to bring his horse under control.

  “If you want to stay and find out, you're welcome,” Carstairs shouted, heeling his horse into a gallop, backing up his demand with a heavy hand and high-pitched yell.

  Steele fired more shots, careful not to hit the men or horses, then quickly reloaded the Colt Hartford.

  “The bastards have doubled back!” Binns roared, urging his horse to chase in pursuit of Carstairs and the loose animal.

  Steele sent a further burst of rapid fire after them, then ducked behind the cover of the rock as a bullet whistled over his head.

  Carstairs and Binns rode out of sight, but he could still hear the thud of their horses' hooves to signal their continued retreat. Another shot sounded from below and he wriggled to the far side of the rock before chancing a furtive surveillance. He saw a large patch of blood soaking into the dirt where Monahan had fallen. Then his impressive eyes followed a thin trail of red until it disappeared over the rim of a small depression. He was forced to duck back into cover as the injured man sent another shot whining up the slope towards his hiding place.

  Far ahead, out of sight of the ambush, but within earshot of the gunfire, Carstairs and Binns slowed their sweating horses to a walk. They heard Steele's rifle explode two shots in answer to Monahan's one.

  “He isn't giving up without a fight,” Binns said breathlessly.

  “He's got nothing to lose, old son.” Carstairs pointed out. “If they catch him, he'll hang.”

  Binns blinked. “The same goes for us, don't it?”

  Carstair's gave a wry smile. “I didn't think you'd want to go back to lend a hand, old-son."