Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  “Look of what? There ain’t nothin’ here.”

  “You heard it and I heard it.”

  I waited for them to inch their way into the room before kicking the door shut and shouting, “Aha!” again, this time with better reason. They turned on us, but we were ready—and they weren’t. I grabbed my opponent’s wrist, twisted it until he dropped his gun, and slammed my other hand, a fist of vengeance, into his jaw repeatedly. Bad Boy adopted my techniques to his own talents, sinking his fangs into Elmer’s wrist, sending Elmer’s gun clattering harmlessly to the ground, and then jumping onto him and pinning him to the floorboards, snarling at his face.

  “Call him off! Call him off!”

  My opponent was unconscious, so I consented. “Achtung, Bad Boy! Haltenzie!” and I took over, planting my boot on Elmer’s chest. “All right, Elmer, my friend, you’re going to help us out of here.”

  “There’s no way outta here. You might have me now, Marshal, but I’ll have you soon enough.”

  “Brave words for a man on his back.”

  “You’re gonna get yours—oh, are you gonna get yours.”

  “Your friend downstairs got his—he got his throat ripped out. If you don’t want the same, you’d better think fast, Elmer, because you’ve got one chance to save your miserable life, assuming you want to.”

  “Sure enough, Marshal, I want to live, but there is no way outta here—’ceptin’ through all Boss Larsen’s men. And they’re not gonna let you through no matter what.”

  “We’ll see about that.” I lifted my boot from his chest. “Get on your feet.” We were close enough to the door and far enough from the window that I doubted we could be seen from outside, but I didn’t want to take chances. I bent down, picked up his partner’s revolver, and directed Elmer with its barrel. “Draw those curtains. And if you so much as smile or wink or twitch your head, I’ll put a bullet through your spine.”

  He stumbled over to the curtains, drew them quickly with a satisfying whoosh and then, slowly, with all due propriety, turned to face me.

  “Now then,” I said, “does this canyon have an outlet to the rear, less well-guarded?”

  “No, Marshal, the only easy way out is up yonder. And that’s chock-full of men. Otherwise, you gotta climb—and on that canyon wall you’ll be a big target.”

  “Less of one without you and your partner. You drag your friend here downstairs. We’ll try our luck out back. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay in that basement with him.”

  Elmer grabbed his compadre’s boots and, maneuvering him like a wheelbarrow, dragged him out to the edge of the descending stairwell. There he bent down and hoisted him over his shoulders. He leaned against the wall for support as he descended.

  “Heavy load,” I said.

  “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother,” he replied, making his awkward way down the stairs. Bad Boy and I followed them down. I retrieved the keys that I’d left on the stone floor, hoping one of them fit the door’s lock.

  Elmer dropped his brother to the ground with less care than you might think, and I said, “Sorry to leave you in this house of horrors, Elmer, but duty calls.” I closed the door, found the right key, and locked him in.

  Bad Boy and I then bounded back up the stairs. I had no intention of rushing from Larsen’s lodge and attempting an ascent up the canyon walls—at least not yet. That suggestion was merely to throw Elmer and his gang off our scent. What we needed was a more thorough scouting of our enemy’s position, and for that we ascended a narrow winding staircase—the left of two on either side of the front door. We stepped up and up and up until we were confronted by another door, which was unlocked—and none of the keys would lock it behind me. Next came a short flight of stone steps that opened onto a medieval turret with a wide view of the estate. Keeping low and hiding behind the crenellations, Bad Boy and I surveyed the enemy’s dispositions. His main force was directly in front of us, the men digging trenches and building parapets. To the left, right, and rear (as best as we could see) there were scattered sentries, but it was apparent that Larsen assumed any attack had to come down the tongue of the valley. I scanned the canyon ridge and was nearly blinded by blinking, reflected sunlight on my right. It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t just the sun, it was a heliograph. I waved my hat—quickly, intermittently, and with care—hoping to attract no one’s attention but the heliographer’s, and hoping he was one of ours. I was rewarded with this message in Morse code: “C-R-O-W-G-E-T-C-A-V.”

  “Crowgetcav: what does that mean?” I whispered to Bad Boy—and then it struck me. It was Sergeant Bill Crow. He was going to fetch the cavalry, possibly from Fort Ellis. I was simultaneously elated and perturbed that the U.S. Cavalry might rescue me—and reveal my identity. But there was no way and no time to protest—the sunlight had stopped flashing, and Billy Jack had bolted. Either I could wait, or Bad Boy and I could take on Larsen and his army of fifty or more men ourselves. Naturally I opted for the latter course, calculating that our best chance to evade the enemy was to march right through him out the entrance to the canyon. I looked into Bad Boy’s big brown eyes and said to him in English, because my thoughts were too complicated to capture in my sparse knowledge of German, “Bad Boy, if you wish to stay here and wait to be rescued, you may. I, however, am going to take my chances and escape right now.” He licked my face, which I took as a canine oath of allegiance, and we descended the turret together.

  As we stepped onto the main floor I was surprised that Elmer wasn’t pounding on the basement door. He was, apparently, totally demoralized; I’m sure the sight of Buford’s mangled body didn’t help. I strapped on my gun belt, which was still on the table where Elmer and his brother had once sat guard, and peered out the front. I unpinned my marshal’s badge and dropped it in my pocket. I flipped up my collar, raised my bandana over my nose, and tilted the brim of my hat over my eyes. “All right, Bad Boy, let’s go.”

  We opened the front door and stepped boldly out of the house. The guards on the porch looked at us and I said, “My gosh, Larsen was right, you boys surely do smell!”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “You better mind your manners, boy.”

  “And whatchya doin’ with that dog?’

  “You’re supposed to be keeping guard, aren’t you? Larsen hired me to knock you boys into shape. How’d that Armstrong man get in here?”

  “Up that way,” said one, pointing to the canyon wall.

  “Who are you, mister?” said the other.

  “I’m telling you once, and don’t ever ask me again. Name’s Durango—it gets around far enough without me spreadin’ it. Now you keep a sharp eye out.”

  We didn’t tarry for any further conversation.

  At the gate through the picket fence, I bellowed an order to the guards, “Eyes front. Larsen’s man Durango comin’ through,” and they let us pass without incident.

  We went a little farther and then paused briefly to watch the trench diggers. To my right was a pile of filled bags waiting to be taken to a parapet. I lifted one over each shoulder, further hiding my face from view, and strode forward. Sweaty men with pickaxes and shovels barely gave us a glance. At one partially constructed parapet, a villain called out, “Hey, we could use some bags here,” but I shouted back, “Mr. Larsen’s orders: these go up front.”

  It was as easy as walking down a street in Monroe until we came to the canyon’s mouth. Sentries stood on the high ground on either side of the opening, four others stood idly in our path, and a horseman rode down between them.

  “Whatchya doin’ with those bags up here!”

  “Mr. Larsen’s orders: supposed to seal the entrance.”

  “Seal the entrance? That’ll take a helluva lot of bags. No one told me about it.”

  I dropped the bags I carried. “Name’s Durango; Mr. Larsen just hired me—outta Texas. You mighta heard the name.”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “That’s because most wh
o hear it, don’t live to talk about it.”

  “Mighty big talk—especially for a new man.”

  “Mr. Larsen asked me for that horse of yours too.”

  “What fer?”

  “There’ll be more fellas bringing up bags. He wants me to scout up ahead before it’s all sealed up.”

  “But that’s what I’m fer.”

  “Mr. Larsen reckons he found a better man.”

  “You?”

  “None other—name’s Durango.”

  “You don’t scare me none.”

  “I don’t mean to scare you none. We’re working together, aren’t we? I just want your horse, like Mr. Larsen says.”

  The horseman looked down into the canyon. “What’s going on down there?”

  I could guess. Elmer had broken out. They’d be coming this way soon. “Mister Larsen is probably chewin’ their hides for not getting those bags up here faster. You better get off that horse and get down there and help ’em. Mr. Larsen was getting plumb crazy mad that he didn’t know where Marshal Armstrong’s men were. They’re tough hombres, and I gotta track ’em down—fast. You’re costing me time. Get down—now!”

  “All right, all right,” he said, dismounting. “Whatchya doin’ with that dog? He goin’ with ya?”

  “He’s a tracker,” I said, stepping into the saddle. I touched the brim of my hat. “Name’s Durango—you remember it, you hear? Adios.”

  We sprang up the canyon, my newly acquired horse and I, with Bad Boy keeping a good pace on my right flank. We went hell-bent for leather, because those sentries would soon be alerted and shots would come raining down on us. I cut a path southeast, towards the Trading Post, for as long as I thought the sentries could see me. But once a fold of land and a line of cottonwoods screened us, I cut southwest for Bloody Gulch, aiming for the farmsteads outside of town rather than the town proper; they were closer, which meant I could keep a faster pace. Not often, but occasionally, I looked back, expecting to see a distant cloud of dust kicked up by Larsen’s gang in pursuit, but because I took advantage of every dip and coppice to keep myself hidden, my line of sight did not extend far.

  I approached Miss Johnson’s farmstead at a gallop and rode directly into her barn. Bad Boy trotted in and collapsed, panting and in dire need of water. I put the horse in a stall and directed Bad Boy to a half-filled water trough. He nodded in acknowledgement but still needed to catch his breath before he could even think about moving.

  I, however, was still as spry as a young buck, and trotted to knock on Miss Johnson’s front door. Given that she, like everyone else, had leave to return to her farm, I hoped I might find her returned to her homestead. The door opened, revealing that contumacious Confederate Beauregard.

  “I should have known I’d find you here.”

  “Well, Yankee General, sir, I could be saying the same. Last I recollect you were in the arms of the enemy.”

  “And you, I see, hope to be in the arms of Miss Johnson.”

  “Well, that is a most ungallant thing to say, Yankee General, sir, seein’ as I am here as a matter of duty.”

  “And what duty would that be?”

  “Protecting this young lady from the ruffians you have recklessly directed this way.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “No, sir, but I don’t reckon they set you free. You’re an escaped prisoner of war.”

  “Where is Isabel?”

  “She’s in the kitchen, sir. We saw you charging and she immediately—charming young belle that she is—thought you might like some coffee.”

  “I’d be obliged for that, Major.”

  “And we also noticed, sir, a large black dog that looked as though it were reporting from the battlefield at Marathon.”

  “That would be Bad Boy.”

  Isabel appeared at Beauregard’s elbow. “Why, Armstrong, are you calling Beauregard a bad boy?”

  “I do not have the words at present, my dear, to describe my thoughts on Major Gillette. But I assure you, once I have them, he will hear them.”

  “Are you in trouble, Armstrong?” she said, her tone warm and sympathetic.

  “Yes, Yankee General, sir,” said Beauregard, all mockery and huckleberry, “just how big is your trouble? You were skedaddling like a Yank out of Manassas.”

  I ignored him, and said to Isabel, “Oh, nothing serious, my dear. I merely cut my way through Larsen’s army of gunmen while Major Gillette was having tea.”

  “And that dog, Armstrong; did you bring a dog?”

  “Yes, he’s in your barn. He is the Bad Boy.”

  “But he must certainly have been loyal to follow you all this way.”

  “Yes, quite loyal, ma’am.”

  “Won’t you come in? I have coffee on the hob.”

  “Yes, Isabel, thank you, but I must warn you; you could be in danger. I just escaped Larsen’s men. They’ve made the Delingfold place a fortress; some may have followed me here.”

  “Then again,” said Beauregard, looking out the window, “maybe not. If you’re Larsen, maybe you’re counting on a charge by some hotheaded Yankee General—a charge right down that canyon you’ve got all fixed up for him.”

  “Well, he might get a surprise then. Billy Jack signaled me. He’s fetching a troop of U.S. Cavalry.”

  Beauregard was thoughtful for a moment; then he said: “Yankee General, sir, I reckon we’ve got business in town. Miss Isabel, I’d be obliged if you came with us. I don’t expect pursuit, but it’s possible.”

  She nodded and went to fetch a bag.

  “General, you can leave your horse here. We’ll take the wagon. You can load your Bad Boy in the back if you like.”

  “Are you giving me orders, Major?”

  “Sir, there’s something I need to tell you,” he said, matter-of-fact. “I’ll start by showing you this.”

  He handed me a folded sheet of paper on which was written in a firm, bold hand:

  In life, a man is a man and a woman is a woman;

  And in war, a soldier will honor his dead;

  For their love, a chapel provides for the wedding;

  And from gratitude, the soldier has a crypt for a bed.

  —JMCD

  “And what is this, Major, aside from a very poor excuse for poetry?”

  “That, Yankee General, sir, came from Cousin Delingpole.”

  “Where’d you find it?”

  “In the church, stuck in a Bible engraved with Cousin Delingpole’s initials—and that Bible I found thrown on the floor. Larsen’s boys had ransacked the church. I don’t know what Yankees have against churches; used ’em for stables during the war, which seems a mite unchristian to me.”

  “So, what’s it mean?”

  “When I found it, I poked around that little church; and I’m pretty certain I know where the treasure is. I think that poem’s a clue. And I’m thinking we should retrieve the treasure sooner than later.”

  “I know for a fact Larsen doesn’t know where it is.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that, Yankee General, sir, but even a blind vulture can catch a worm occasionally. I’d rather not take the chance.”

  “Very well, Major, let’s be off.” Isabel returned, as if on cue, and I offered her my arm. “Lead the way.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  In Which I Accept My Destiny as a Knight Errant

  The three of us crowded together on the front seat, Isabel in the middle. I happily consented—indeed insisted—that Beauregard take the reins. Bad Boy jumped aboard. He was still panting, but I ordered him to regain his composure and keep watch behind us.

  I meanwhile kept watch on Beauregard. I hoped that by making him wagon master I would ensure he kept his hands on the reins (which he did), and his remarks directed to the horses (which he did not). As the wagon wheels rolled on, so did Beauregard’s honey-flavored tales of the Old South, as he reminisced to a wide-eyed Isabel about romantic soirées at graceful mansions, belles and beaux strolling arm in arm on immaculate p
lantation lawns beneath the soft Southern moonlight of a Richmond summer.

  Now, Libbie, you know I appreciate the charm of Southern mansions as well as anyone—you might recall my serving as best man at the wedding of a Confederate officer, my old West Point classmate John Lea, at Bassett Hall in Virginia during the war—but Beauregard laid it on as thick as jam on otherwise inedible hardtack.

  He took her imagination dancing to the ballrooms of great manor houses. Then he pulled her heartstrings with piquant stories of the tragic aftermath: the pillared homes desecrated, the luxurious furnishings defaced, the graceful living vengefully stamped into cinders by the Yankee conqueror. He spoke of mansions in ruins; estates vandalized; masters dead in cold graves or crippled by saber cuts and bullets. He lamented the humbling of a high-minded aristocracy—the class of men from which sprang our nation’s founders, the Jeffersons, Madisons, and Monroes—its few survivors financially bereft, their property, finances, and position in society reduced to ashes.

  He talked about the women too—the tearful orphaned daughters and the proud widows, once mistresses of all they surveyed, who, under Reconstruction’s harsh reign, struggled merely to survive. Even I was inclined to wipe away a tear, for, as you know, I always rather liked our Southern foes.

  For a woman like Isabel, living on the frontier, far removed from antebellum Southern ballrooms and cultured men, the nostalgic, bittersweet glamour of all that Beauregard said was intensified. I recognized the excited glow in her eyes, because it had once been directed at me, and naturally I disapproved of her beguilement by Beauregard the Southern troubadour.

  At last, however, his song of Southern sorrow came to its climax: “All that’s left now is our honor, our self-respect, our conviction that the cause for which we strove was a worthy one, the same cause that drew our forefathers to Runnymede; the cause of Washington, whose image enlivened the great seal of our Confederacy; the cause of freedom and independence from a government we did not choose and did not want . . .”

  “That, Major, is irrelevant. I grant you Lincoln was a Republican, not a Democrat, but he was elected president.”