Death in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  In the background, they could all hear Cecil’s laughter.

  “We shall never surrender! And ever with liberty be. We shall defend the Alamo until the last bit of shot and powder is gone . . .”

  “I think he’s getting confused,” Buddy said.

  Ben looked at his son. “Getting confused? I’ve never known him when he wasn’t confused.”

  “I know how to shut him up, Dad,” Tina said.

  “Quick, tell me!”

  “Is Michelle Jarnot still with Danjou’s group?” she asked Georgi.

  The Russian smiled. “Yes. Good thinking.” He turned to an aide. “For God’s man, get her over here immediately.”

  Emil had fallen elbows over ankles in love with the French-Canadian while helping Ben in the fight against the Night People in New York City.

  Emil rattled on over the miles. “In the words of that great and immoral commander, Montgomery. . .”

  “Immoral!” Dan blurted. “Oh, I say now! He’s gone too far . . .” “I have returned!” Emil shouted.

  “I think he’s got his generals confused,” Georgi said.

  “I think he’s got everybody confused,” Ben muttered.

  Michelle ran into the truck.

  Ben handed her the mike. “Here! Talk to Emil.”

  “Do I have to?” the woman asked. “I still have nightmares about that little man following me around New York City singing ‘Bridge Over Troubled Waters.”’

  “Speak,” Ben said. “Please!”

  “Emil,” Michelle said softly.

  “My poopsie whoopsie!” Emil shouted. “I feared I had lost you forever.” Then he started singing.

  Ben led the parade out of the huge truck, leaving Michelle with the mike. She dug in a pocket of her BDUs for aspirin . . . and silently cursed.

  13

  While Michelle was being treated by Dr. Ling’s medics for a mild case of shock, brought about by Emil’s singing—or attempting to sing—“Some Enchanted Evening,” during which he lost his train of thought and slipped into “Shake, Rattle, and Roll,” ending with a sermon given him, so he said, by the Great God Blomm, Ben was preparing to move against Matt Callahan and whatever forces he might still have.

  Ben looked up as Danjou walked up. “How is Michelle?”

  “The doctors sedated her. She drifted off muttering something about beware the frumious Bandersnatch and the Jubjub bird and the Jabberwock.”

  “A conversation with Emil can do that to people,” Ike said. “That little con artist can drive you up the wall, but he’ll stand and fight . . . I’ll give him that much. When did he first wander into our lives, Ben?”

  “Years ago,” Ben said with a laugh. “He and his group once joined the Ninth Order, Emil thinking Voleta was running a scam like his. Didn’t take him log to discover that he had made a terrible mistake. He got the hell away from that group.”

  “Hours before my mother was to have him burned at the stake,” Buddy said. “I remember that quite vividly. I never knew Emil could move so fast.”

  “All right, people,” Ben said. “Listen up. Ike, you are to assume command and take the column on east. I’ll be cutting south here”—he punched the map—“to deal with Callahan and what’s left of, ah, HALFASS. It might take us a day, it might take a week or more. But I have a hunch it’s all going to be settled very near where Custer and his men fell.”

  “And you want us to wait where for you?” Georgi asked.

  “At the Mississippi River. You’ll be angling south all the time, so let’s make St. Louis our rendezvous point. Stay in contact with Cecil at all times. When Villar makes his move, it’s going to be fast, and we don’t want to be taken by surprise.”

  “You’re going to be in trouble if Ashley and Voleta swing in behind you and box you in about where Custer was trapped,” Georgi cautioned.

  “You don’t know Ashley,” Ben said with a smile. “Before Ashley attacks, it’s got to damn near be a sure thing. He has a yellow streak running right down the center of his back.”

  “There is one thing I have learned about a coward, my friend,” the Russian said. “Corner him, and he’ll kill you.”

  Ben and his column cut off the Interstate when they reached 416. They cut south for a few miles, and then headed due east, traveling right through what had once been a Crow Indian Reservation. They saw no one. Ben halted the column on the Bighorn River at Saint Xavier and sent Buddy and his team south, to check out that a large force that had reportedly camped there.

  Ben bivouacked his people along the river and waited.

  “Nothing, Father,” Buddy radioed. “There is evidence that there were men here, but no more.”

  “Any indications of when they pulled out?”

  “Not more than twenty-four hours ago. If that long. Coals are still hot in cook fires. They headed north, Father.”

  “North?”

  “Yes, sir. I would say we missed them by no more than a few hours.”

  “All right, Buddy. Watch yourself and head on back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben checked his maps. “Yeah,” he said with sigh. “They could have done it. Probably took 313 and cut across to the old Crow Agency and picked up 212. That was chancy on their part, but just about the only route they could have taken to avoid our new outposts.”

  “They might be trying to stay south of the main column, but all the while parelleling them,” Dan suggested.

  “That’s probably it. Ike will know soon enough.” Ben turned toward the northeast, toward the Custer Battlefield National Monument and the Reno-Benteen Battlefield Memorial. Matt was out there, waiting. Ben had been informed by the pilot who had spotted the group on horseback, some weeks back, after Sheridan had fallen, that it was no more than a hundred men. But those would be Matt’s real hardcases, fighters all.

  Ben had no intention of chasing Matt all over the Rosebuds. He had already ordered Scouts out to locate the man. He had ordered the PUFFs at Sheridan to stand by. He was not going to screw around with these HALFASS people, and certainly wasn’t going to risk losing troops to Matt and his followers. He would locate them, then call PUFFs in to finish what he could not do with artillery.

  He turned and headed back to his tent for an early supper. He had a hunch that tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

  He was awakened at two o’clock in the morning.

  “Scouts report a large number of campfires, sir. In the valley of the Little bighorn.”

  Ben shoved out of his sleeping bag. “That damn fool Callahan.”

  “Sir?”

  “He’s telling me where he is and to come and get him.”

  “That’s rather stupid on his part, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Yes. It is. Radio the Scouts and ask if there is any possibility the fires could belong to Indians?”

  “That’s negative, sir. Colonel Gray already did that. According to Sarah, this reservation has been deserted for years.”

  “Corrie?”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Advise Sheridan to get the PUFFs up. Have Dan give them the coordinates for the location of the hostiles. Tell them to cream that valley.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  An hour later, Ben and the Rebels, now all up and dressed and ready to go, heard the PUFFs drone overhead and to the east, heading north.

  “Ask them if they can see the campfires,” Ben said.

  “That’s ten-four, sir.”

  Ben shook his head. “Suicide. But why.”

  “He didn’t think you’d play it this way, General,” Dan said. “He is so far gone, he probably had delusions of you riding up on a horse and challenging him to a gunfight like in the Western movies.”

  “Then he damn sure didn’t know me nearly as well as he thought.”

  When the PUFFs cut loose, the sight was visible for miles in any direction. From the Rebels’ position, it was like a silent fireworks display as cannon and machine gun fire ripped the night.

  To
Matt Callahan, it was an act of betrayal—the code of the West had been ignored by Slim. When Matt had heard the planes coming, he guessed what they were and shouted for his men to hit the trail over to where their horses had been picketed.

  The horses came through the deadly barrage alive; they had been picketed down near a creek. But very few of Matt’s men made it off the ridges.

  The Rebels waited until dawn before moving out. they took the two-lane highway over to the site of Custer’s Last Stand and then followed the old road that wound through the entire battlefield. The carrion birds were already feasting on the dead, sprawled on and along the ridges.

  Ben got out and walked among the silent and mangled dead. There was no one who even vaguely resembled Matt Callahan.

  “What do we do with the horses, General? They’re picketed down there along that creek, or river. . . whatever it is.”

  “Turn them loose. They’ll join up with some of the wild herds we’ve seen out here.”

  It bothered Ben that Matt was not among the dead. For that meant that it was not over. And Ben wasn’t about to go off and leave Matt alive to rebuild.

  He walked back to the main building, which used to house artifacts of the battle and the era. It had long been looted. He sat down on the steps and rolled a cigarette, thinking and smoking. Ben guessed that if he sat there long enough, Matt would make an appearance.

  “Rider coming,” a Rebel called, pointing toward a ridge.

  Ben didn’t have to look up to know it was Matt Callahan.

  “He’s yelling something, General,” another Rebel sid. “Sounds like Jim.”

  “Slim,” Ben said, taking a final puff and grinding out the butt under the heel of his boot.

  “You want me to shoot him out of the saddle?” a Rebel asked.

  “No. That would be cutting against the grain of the code of the West.”

  The Rebel looked at Ben to see if he was serious.

  Tina walked to her father’s side. Matt was still on the ridge, sitting his saddle. “Dad, what cockamamie idea are you thinking of in dealing with that nut?”

  “Cockamamie idea? Me? Daughter, you know me better than that. Get me a bull horn, will you. I’m not going to stand here and shout at that nitwit.”

  Bull horn in hand, Ben clicked it on and lifted it to his lips. “Matt! You think you’re tough? I think you’re as yellow as a damned sheepherder !”

  “What’s wrong with being a sheepherder?” Buddy asked.

  “Cattlemen didn’t like sheep on their range,” an older Rebel said. “They were always fighting with each other.”

  “How strange,” Buddy remarked.

  “Strap on your hoglegs, you yellow coyote!” Matt hollered.

  Ben lifted the bull horn. “Get off that horse and face me man to man, Snake! Let’s settle this with fists, if you’ve got the guts for it.”

  The Rebels had all turned, standing quietly, listening to the strange exchange.

  “Guns, Slim!” Matt yelled.

  “I always knew you were a coward, Snake. Why don’t you get you a sidesaddle?”

  Matt screamed his outrage at this insult to his manhood.

  “Come on, Snake,” Ben taunted him. “Let’s settle it man to man. You’re afraid of me, aren’t you? You damned yellow weasel!”

  Matt slowly dismounted and untied the leather thongs that held his holsters to his legs. He unbuckled his gun belt and dropped the Colts to the ground. He started walking down the hill.

  Ben laid his M14 aside and unhooked his web belt. He took off his shirt and removed his restrictive body armor, put the shirt back on and rolled up the sleeves then started walking up the hill, all the Rebels following.

  “I’m a-gonna clean your plow, Raines,” Matt said as he approached Ben.

  “I doubt it,” Ben told him, and knocked the man sprawling with a hard right to the jaw.

  Ben stepped back, allowing Matt to get to his boots, something that he ordinarily would not do. If he had been taking this fight seriously, he would have kicked Matt’s face in while he had him on the ground.

  Matt jumped at Ben, swinging. Ben blocked the punch and let him have five in the belly, following that with a short left hook to the jaw. Matt went down again.

  He was slower getting up, but he got up, circling Ben warily. He snapped a couple of quick rights and then sneaked a left in, snapping Ben’s head back and bloodying his mouth.

  Ben shook his head to clear away the gathering cobwebs and chirping birdies and waded in, swinging both fists, standing toe to toe and slugging it out.

  Ben was bigger and heavier and his punches held more power. He gradually drove Matt back.

  “Time! Time!” Matt hollered.

  “That’s your ass!” Ben told him, and hit him in the mouth, busting his lips and loosening some teeth.

  “Ungentlemanly!” Matt hollered, shaking his head and sending blood flying from his smashed mouth.

  Ben hit him again and turned the man sideways.

  Stepping in, Ben caught a left to the body and a right to the jaw that stopped him.

  Falsely sensing victory, Matt closed with Ben and that move got him a boot to the knee that sent him to the ground. Rolling, he got to his feet and faced Ben, his fists held high and close.

  Ben faked a left and Matt followed it, dropping his guard. Ben hit him with a solid right to the mouth and a tooth flew past bloody lips.

  Screaming his rage, Matt charged, running into Ben and sending both men sprawling to the hot, dry earth, both of them panting for breath. They rolled on the grass, kicking up dust and cussing.

  “Damn dirty book writer!” Matt panted.

  “You’re a liar, Callahan,” Ben told him, all the while thinking: This is the most childish thing I’ve done in more years than I can remember.

  Matt tried to knee Ben in the groin and Ben blocked the move and shoved him off, rolling to one side, getting to his boots and lifting his fists.

  “Dirty book writer?” Dan questioned.

  “Professional jealousy maybe,” Beth said.

  “I think it’s demeaning,” Corrie said. “The General shouldn’t be rolling around on the ground like a common thug.”

  “It’s stupid!” Jersey frowned.

  “I think it’s funny,” Buddy said.

  “Come on, Pops!” Tina yelled. “Give him hell!”

  Matt knocked Ben down with a solid right to the jaw and then jumped on top of him, both fists flailing away.

  Ben gouged Matt in the eye and that brought a roar of pain as the man twisted away from the painful fingers. On his knees, Ben clubbed the man on the side of the neck and got to his feet.

  Matt tried to tackle Ben and Ben put a boot in the man’s face. The sound of Matt’s nose breaking was clearly heard over the panting and cussing.

  With blood dripping from both their faces, the men circled each other, fists held high.

  Matt closed and Ben hit him a combination, left and right, that jerked Matt’s head back and glazed his eyes. Ben pressed on with a left to the windpipe and a right to the jaw. Matt’s knees buckled and he almost went down, catching himself at the last moment.

  He threw himself at Ben and again, both men went down, rolling in the dust.

  Ben pinned Matt to the ground and started working on his face, both fists pile-driving. He stopped when he realized the man was unconscious, Matt’s face a bloody smashed mask.

  Slowly, Ben got to his boots, his chest heaving. “Clean him up, tie him up, and toss him in a truck. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  14

  “What are we going to do with him, Father?” Buddy asked while Ben was washing his face and soaking his swollen hands.

  “I don’t know, son.” Ben dried his face and hands and put on a clean shirt. “Nearly everything within me says we ought to shoot him. But I just can’t bring myself to do that.”

  “He is a perverted, dangerous man,” the son reminded the father. “And we do not have prison facilities.”
>
  “I am fully aware of that fact. But I do not believe in executing the mentally ill. I just don’t know what to do with him.”

  Dr. Ling walked up and stood looking at Ben.

  “Well?” Ben met the man’s eyes.

  “How are your hands?”

  “Everything works without any crunching or grinding.”

  “You’re lucky. The bare human hand was not meant to be used as a weapon.”

  “How is Matt?”

  “He isn’t going to make it.”

  “What!”

  “He suffered a heart attack just after the fight. It’s massive and there is nothing I can do for him. He probably will not last the hour. He’s fading fast and he’s asking to see you.”

  Ben walked over to where Matt lay, on a field cot, protected from the sun by a tarp. Under the swollen and bruised face, the man’s color was awful. Ben pulled up a camp chair and sat down.

  “Ben,” he said weakly.

  “I’m here, Matt.”

  “I’ve got a lucid moment; they come and go. Mostly go of late.”

  Ben said nothing.

  “Tell me about Megan.”

  “She’s working for Malone. She spun a pretty good yarn there for a time. She fooled me for a while.”

  “She tell you I sexually abused her as a child?”

  “Yes. ”

  “I did. I’ve been sick for a long time. Tried to get help when the world was still in one piece. But I guess I really didn’t want it. I only went for a few sessions, under an assumed name.”

  Ben rolled a cigarette.

  “Roll one for me, partner,” Matt said. “Hell, I know I’m not going to make it. Feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.”

  Ben lit the cigarette and placed it between the man’s lips.

  “You remember Luke Wynne, Ben?”

  “Sure.”

  “I killed him.”

  Ben thought about that for a few seconds. “Why?”

  “He wasn’t a very good writer.”

  “Hell of a reason to kill somebody, Matt.”

  “It’s as good a reason as any. You believe in life after death, Ben?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “I don’t know whether I do or not. Is the light fading, Ben.”