by Jake Henry
Although Brit had put a huge dent in those who sided with Breen, he was now searching for the man himself.
Ahead to his left, he saw Milt stumble out of a saloon called The Gunfight.
‘Shit, who woulda thunk it,’ Brit murmured.
Breen’s man was followed by a hired killer from the French stable. He was shooting at the unsteady gunman and missing with each shot. Dust flew up from the bullet impacts on every report.
Then Milt gathered himself enough to shoot back. Brit cursed as he saw the man he’d hired, stagger and then pitch forward.
Milt shot him again just to be sure and as he turned, caught sight of Brit.
He raised his six-gun and snapped off a shot at the advancing killer. Brit never even flinched as the slug snapped close to his head.
A second shot roared, and French’s man felt the tug of his shirt material from the passage of the bullet.
Brit raised the gun in his right hand and deliberately shot Milt in the stomach. Breen’s man hunched and rocked back onto his heels from the impact.
The still-advancing Brit shot him again in roughly the same place. Milt fell to his knees. He forgot about his own gun, dropping it beside himself in the dirt as he wrapped his arms across his burning guts.
When Brit came to a stop in front of him, Milt looked up. Pain-filled eyes glared at French’s killer.
‘Damn … son of a bitch,’ he groaned. ‘Screw you.’
Brit gave him a cold smile. ‘That would be you.’
A gunman charged from a building across the street and opened fire at the scar-faced killer. More lead whipped past him as it searched for a target.
Brit gave him a look of disdain, raised his right-hand six-gun once again and shot the erratic shooter in the chest. Then, without hesitation, he shot Milt in the head.
Once the sound of the gunshot died away, Brit realized that the gunfire which he’d heard only moments earlier, was gone too.
He saw four of the gunmen he’d hired emerge from an alley further along the street. He waited until they reached him before he asked, ‘Is he dead?’
‘Couldn’t find him,’ answered a broad-shouldered man with a dark mustache.
‘Split up. Find him. But don’t kill him. I want to talk to him.’
Breen heard the slow, deliberate footsteps coming along the hallway and backed himself against a wall in the room where he was hiding out. In his right hand was an empty Colt Navy.
Outside the door the footsteps halted. There was a drawn-out period of silence and for a moment Breen thought that whoever it was might keep going.
That was when the door crashed back and Brit’s frame filled the doorway.
‘Boo!’
Breen dropped the six-gun and his hands shot up to shoulder height. ‘Don’t shoot! For pity’s sake, don’t shoot! I’ll give you anything you want. I’ve got a lot of money. Anything.’
Brit gave him a mirthless smile. ‘How about fifty percent?’
Savage poured himself a scalding-hot cup of coffee from the blackened pot and replaced it on the edge of the fire circle. He walked back to where Bannister and Mavis were talking between themselves.
The herd had stopped early that day. They’d found an abundance of water and fresh grass on the North Fork Republican River. Another week would see them in Dobson.
Savage sat down and Bannister said, ‘What makes you think we’ll get top dollar in Dobson if Breen is running the show?’
‘He may be running the town, but the cattle buyers are the ones buying the cows. Mavis will get a good price.’
‘What about Breen?’ Mavis asked.
‘When we sell the cows, I aim to settle with him once and for all.’
A pall of silence settled over them and the sound of laughter came from over by the fire. Savage’s gaze drifted to the two men seated there. Llano Sam and the kid.
‘I still don’t believe what I’m seeing,’ said Bannister. ‘It’s as if there was never any bad blood between them.’
‘The kid’s lucky he’s still got his blood,’ Savage commented.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Didn’t he tell you what happened?’
Bannister frowned. ‘No.’
‘Let’s just say that if it hadn’t been for Sam, then he’d be dead about now.’
‘Hello the camp!’
Savage dropped a hand to his six-gun while the other cowhands, Bannister included, all stood and turned to face the direction the voice had come from.
‘Come ahead,’ the Drifter called out.
A thin man leading a dun horse came out of the darkness into the light. ‘Feller out there riding nighthawk said it’d be all right if I shared your fire for the night.’
Nodding, Savage said, ‘Sure. Kid, see to the man’s horse.’
‘That’s right neighborly of you,’ the man said with a smile. ‘The name’s Henderson. Matt Henderson.’
‘Savage. See the cook and get yourself something to eat. We’ll talk after you’ve eaten.’
Henderson nodded. ‘Don’t mind if I do. I ain’t ate since this morning.’
After the kid had taken Henderson’s horse, and he’d walked over to the chuckwagon, Savage gave a slight nod to Sam. The scout returned it and disappeared into the darkness.
‘You expecting trouble?’ Bannister asked.
An alarmed expression came to Mavis’ face and the Drifter did his best to allay her fear. ‘Not especially. But you can’t be too careful.’
Five minutes later, Henderson sat eating a plate of beans and stew. The meat had come from a cow that went down after breaking a leg the day before.
‘Are you the Savage feller that everyone in Dobson is talking about?’ Henderson asked around a mouthful of food.
‘Depends. What have you heard?’
‘Just that a feller by that name is taking a herd there. And that he aims to kill a gent called Breen who runs the town.’
‘I’d call Breen a lot of things. Gent ain’t one of them.’
‘So, it’s true. You’ll be the first herd to arrive. There’s buyers there waiting for these cows of yours already.’
‘Good to hear.’
Henderson shoveled another large spoonful of food into his mouth.
‘Mind you, you’re going to be up against it.’
‘Up against what?’ asked Bannister.
‘About a week or so back, a feller named French and his hired guns hit town and tried to take over. They killed all of Breen’s guns but not him. In the fighting, French was killed, so French’s top gun and those who were left, all joined together.’
‘And that’s going to affect us how?’
‘Well, Breen had a meeting with the cattle buyers when they arrived. He warned them against buying your herd. Hell, any herd.’
‘Why would he stop that?’
‘’Cause he’s going to buy all the cattle when they arrive for bottom price and then sell to the buyers at top price.’
‘He can try,’ Bannister growled. ‘He’ll find we ain’t a pushover.’
Henderson nodded. ‘Like I said. He’s got himself a top gun to back him up. A real mean son of a bitch.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Brit. Brit Foster.’
Savage’s blood ran cold at the mention of the name. Bannister was about to ask another question, but the Drifter saw Llano Sam reappear and cut him off.
‘When you’re finished there, grab yourself some coffee. Mike, a word?’
Mavis followed them over to where Sam awaited them. Savage asked, ‘You find anything?’
‘Nope. Don’t mean nothing, though. There could be twenty men hiding out there and we wouldn’t know.’
Savage thought for a moment. ‘No, I think he’s on the level. Tell the nighthawks to be on their toes anyway, but I still think it’s fine.’
Sam nodded. ‘Okay.’
After Sam left them, Bannister stared hard at the Drifter. ‘All right, what aren’t you telling us?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I saw your face when Henderson mentioned Breen’s new gun. You know him, don’t you?’
Savage hesitated, then said, ‘Yeah, I know him. I killed the son of a bitch at Antietam.’
The Blood-Drenched Corn!
Antietam,
Morning
17 September 1862
All four regiments were roused and moving forward. It was somewhere just after 5.30 a.m. and Gibbon had ordered his men to advance. At that point, the 6th Wisconsin was in the lead with the 2nd behind them, followed by the 19th Indiana and the 7th Wisconsin respectively. Across the west flank, Hooker’s I Corps were on the move, readying for an attack. A bloody thrust which would come up against the Confederates under Stonewall Jackson.
Savage was tired like his men, still shaking off the fog of battle from the 14th. The company, B, was still understrength. They’d lost twenty men last time out and received three replacements. Now, through the early vestiges of an orange dawn, they were moving forward to fight the Rebs once more.
Mud squelched under stomping boots. The previous night’s rain had made for a miserable sleep and nearly all of Savage’s company were still wet having had no proper shelter.
He sensed a presence at his shoulder and turned his head and saw Lieutenant Paul Tally had fallen in beside him. He held something out for Savage to take.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘It is a letter for my parents back in Alderton,’ Tally said, referring to his home town.
‘What do I want with it?’
‘I need you to mail it to them.’
Savage realized what Tally was up to. It was in case of his death. Which meant that he had had himself a premonition.
‘You’re being silly, Lieutenant.’
‘Take it, Sergeant,’ Tally said firmly. ‘I need you to mail it. I’ll not survive this day. When I fall, you will take over command of the company.’
Savage hesitated before taking the letter. He snapped at Tally, ‘I’ll give it back to you after this day is done, Lieutenant. Just concentrate on your damned job and leave the rest up to God. You’ll be fine.’
‘Thank you, Jeff.’
They marched on in silence. In the distance, the rumble of cannon fire grew steadily. The guns had started before dawn, preceding the Union attack.
The regiment stopped for a moment before an order filtered back and the 6th Wisconsin organized for the coming assault.
They, along with the 2nd Wisconsin, would attack the Confederate lines on the left of the Hagerstown Pike. While the 19th Indiana and the 7th Wisconsin would assault along Pike’s right.
The only problem was, they were unsure of the Confederate’s exact positions. The thing that was certain, two armies would slam together in a violent fury which would see one of the single, bloodiest days in American military history.
The Iron Brigade, as it was now known, was going to war.
Low mist had settled in the hollows overnight, another remnant of the rain. Savage’s company pushed into the corn field before them, the wet stalks depositing more moisture on the still-damp Union uniforms.
The corn was above head height and all Savage could see was a thick wall of green before him. To B company’s left was A, to the right was D. B and E were amalgamated into one company because of their losses on the 14th.
In the center of the line was the regimental standard, flying high above the green thicket.
Savage cursed, ‘Shit and damnation!’
‘What is it?’ Tally asked.
‘The standard is showing the Rebs right where we are. A good piece of cover like this and some bastard has got to wave a damned target above his head.’
On cue, the Confederate artillery shifted their aim and the cornfield began to sprout geysers which consisted of dirt, cornstalks, and blue-clad troopers. Canister shot cut down vegetation and men indiscriminately. Holes began to open in the battle lines, craters all that were left of some poor bastards who took direct hits.
The corn seemed to lay down with each explosion and screams of pain filled the morning air. To Savage’s left, a young trooper looked down at the bloodied stump where his left arm used to be, while the man who’d marched beside him, ceased to exist.
To B company’s rear, another explosion ripped the cornstalks apart and a great fountain of sodden earth blew skyward.
Savage adjusted his grip on the musket and glanced sideways to check the line. He noted the gap and shouted, ‘Close up! Fill the damned hole!’
Once more the sky above them seemed to be ripped apart and the pursuant explosion thumped over the ground and Savage felt the concussion rock his body.
‘How much more of this is there?’ Tally asked in a loud voice.
Savage shrugged. ‘What I want to know is, what’s on the other side?’
It wouldn’t be long till he found out. For in the field on the other side of the corn, six regiments of Georgia Infantry waited.
As the 6th Wisconsin broke free of the tall rows of corn, a long line of men opposite, dressed in gray, rose to their feet. Savage halted and stared at the sight before him. His blood ran cold as he heard an officer across the way shout, ‘Aim!’
‘Shit!’ he growled, then, ‘Brace yourselves, boys!’
When the Confederate commander ordered the Georgians to fire, the whole line before the 6th Wisconsin rippled with the staccato sound of musket blasts. A great gray plume exploded forward from over eight-hundred barrels. Lead scythed across the open expanse and ripped great holes in the line of advancing Union troops.
Soldiers fell like bloody, autumn leaves. Some were shot in the body, others in the legs or arms. A trooper who’d filled a hole next to Savage, died in a writhing heap on the ground, his jaw shot away and lead taken to his chest.
High-pitched screams of the wounded and dying blended with the remaining echoes of the devastating first Confederate volley.
Savage had felt the tug of two slugs as they tore through the loose fabric of his tunic. Three more had passed close enough to his face for him to feel their heat.
Even as the order came for the men to bring up their weapons to fire, the B company boys were already doing just that.
Savage brought his musket to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel. He picked his target, a Reb with a campaign cap on his head, and squeezed the trigger.
The musket belched smoke and flame and the distant soldier was obscured. Savage started to reload and as he tamped down the wad with the ramrod, he looked back up and saw that the soldier had disappeared.
Soon the air was filled with the sound of an overwhelming amount of gunfire from both sides. Ranks of men in blue and gray seemed to be thrown back violently by an invisible catapult. Savage felt the burn of another Reb Minié ball as it tore his pants leg.
‘Christ!’ he growled. Then he shouted at his men, ‘Move forward, damn it! Move the fuck forward!’
B company lurched onwards at his urging, bayonets at the ready. Along the front, the rest of the 6th seemed to follow B company’s lead as they too began to move. The Georgian regiments to their front were slowly being forced back as thousands of Union troops, including the 97th, 104th, and 80th New York, along with the 107th Pennsylvania Infantry, pressed forward.
Then the fight took another decisive turn. To the right of the advance, on the other side of Hagerstown Pike, a Louisiana Brigade under the command of Brigadier William E. Starke, consisting of the 1st, 2nd, 9th, 10th, and 15th Louisiana Infantry, took up a position so they could fire into the advancing 6th’s flank from behind a wooden fence. On their left was William Booth Taliaferro’s 2nd Louisiana Brigade.
When they opened fire, it ripped into the 6th Wisconsin and more soldiers fell in a bloody heap.
Commanding the right wing, Colonel Edward S. Bragg ordered the 6th Wisconsin to wheel right to face the new threat. But they weren’t alone. The 2nd Wisconsin also turned as did the 2nd United States Sharpshooters who were advancing with Gib
bon’s “Iron Brigade”.
Savage heard Tally’s voice as he barked orders, and glanced to his right. He saw the young lieutenant standing out in front of the line as he tried to get B company to turn in an orderly fashion. He noted the tear high up in the left sleeve of the officer’s tunic. In his right hand, he held a sword. Savage had once told him to get rid of it. Tally’s answer was, every officer needs his sword.
Once they were set, they advanced as far as the timber fence. Gun fire from the Louisiana Brigades was almost unfathomable, and what was to happen next would be considered one of the most brutal close-quarter battles seen in the Civil War.
With no more than yards and two rail fences between them, the Union and Confederate forces engaged each other with murderous fire.
Savage stood shoulder to shoulder with the men next to him. A hailstorm of leaden death scythed across the Hagerstown Pike to cut down soldiers in an indiscriminate fashion. Both blue- and gray-clad soldiers fell in their dozens behind great clouds of powder smoke.
Along the lines on both sides, officers and N.C.O.’s shouted encouragement to their men, urging them to stand firm in the lottery of death.
Savage lost count of how many times he felt Confederate lead snatch at his uniform. Or how many times the men next to him reeled back with a cry of pain, shot through some part of their body. Some crawled away, others remained unmoving as they died where they fell, and those who filled their places were forced to climb over the bodies.
The musket Savage held, discharged again and another Confederate soldier across the way dropped his own weapon, clasped at his face, and fell, hitting the wooden fence as he went.
Loud cracks sounded as musket balls hit the timber rails of the fence. Large, razor-like splinters were chewed out of the wood and sprayed those who sought shelter behind it.
One Wisconsin soldier screamed when his face grew quills while another died when a large splinter pierced his right eye then moved on into his brain.
It was slaughter on a grand scale and one that was about to have another twist.