Late for Gettysburg Page 3

  As he rode he looked carefully about him. He was getting into the rougher country now. The ground was broken with thickets of mesquite and prickly pear and outcroppings of rock. It was more difficult to read the sign. The horse droppings, however, were relatively fresh. He had a feeling that he was getting closer to his target. He couldn’t know for sure, but he had a pretty shrewd idea that he wasn’t the victim of a simple case of horse theft. Whoever the stranger was, he was deliberately luring him on.

  Gray had chosen his spot well. It was a place where the trail passed close to a tumbled pile of rocks. The natural assumption would be that anyone wishing to conceal himself would do so behind the rocks. On the other side of the trail, and a little way in advance, however, there was a thick patch of brush. Gray had hidden the horses well behind the rocks but had taken up position in the undergrowth. From there he had a clear, uninterrupted view of the trail. In his arms he cradled a Remington rolling block sporting rifle. It was single-shot but could be fired rapidly if needed. It was a weapon for buffalo hunters and sharpshooters. He prided himself on the latter appellation. His eyes swept the trail. He was well prepared for a long wait if necessary, but he didn’t anticipate having to do so. It could be only a short time before Wyeth realized his horse was missing. If things worked out as he planned, Wyeth would be on his way already. He would ride straight into the trap prepared for him.

  Wyeth was alert to danger. A man on the run didn’t last long unless he developed a feeling for it. It was like it used to be in the war years, riding with Jeb Stuart, when survival often depended on having an instinctive eye for peril. It also often depended on being able to think like the enemy, to put oneself into the place of an opponent. So as he was riding, Wyeth was thinking: What sort of place would I choose to bushwhack somebody? What sort of terrain would I be looking for? When he saw the rocky outcrop up ahead of him, he reasoned like Gray. That was the place someone would naturally choose to hide. But what about the patch of trees and brush opposite it? For someone to conceal himself there would be less expected. Furthermore, the stretch of ground between the bushes and the rocks was completely exposed – perfect for a back shot.

  The trail took a slight dip. Taking advantage of it, Wyeth slid from the saddle and, hobbling his horse, slunk into the surrounding scrub. Keeping very low, he began to creep forwards, circling round the patch of brush as he did so. As he got nearer, he drew his pistol. Using all the craft he had learned while operating behind enemy lines, he inched forwards till he had a clear view of the area. He could see nothing so he shifted position. The change of angle brought him a first glimpse of his would-be assailant. It was an easy enough matter to slither forwards once more. The man was intent on watching the trail and did not hear a thing. When he was almost upon him, Wyeth stood upright.

  ‘Don’t move!’ he snapped.

  There was a brief instant before the stranger reacted. Twisting round, he raised his rifle and fired from the hip. Wyeth staggered back as the bullet sliced through the shoulder of his jacket. The stranger fired again and this time the bullet went whistling over Wyeth’s head, thudding into a nearby tree and sending splinters of bark cascading into the air. Wyeth recovered his balance and, taking a moment to steady his hand, opened fire. There was no reaction from the man and Wyeth squeezed the trigger a second time. Still the man seemed unmoved till, all of a sudden, he toppled forward like a sawn log. Clutching at his shoulder, Wyeth stepped forward and turned the man over. His shirt front was soaked with blood from two bullet holes in his chest. Wyeth unfastened the man’s bandanna, intending to try and stay the flow, but he quickly realized it was useless. The man’s eyes stared unseeing. Wyeth took off his jacket and examined his own shoulder. He was lucky. The bullet had seared the flesh but nothing was broken.

  He turned back to the dead man. Who was he? Why had he set the trap? Wyeth’s first thought was that he must be a bounty hunter. When he felt inside the man’s jacket and produced the Wanted notice, his conclusion seemed to be confirmed. He felt inside the man’s other pockets. There wasn’t anything unusual. He got to his feet and looked around for the man’s horse. He couldn’t see it and a brief look through the brush did not reveal it. He concluded that the stranger must have concealed his horse among the rocks further up the trail. Quickly, he moved back to where he had left his own horse and, climbing into the saddle with some little difficulty because of his shoulder, he rode the short distance to the rocks where he dismounted.

  Sure enough, a brief search revealed the roan. It was restless at his approach but he quietened it down and then looked in the man’s saddle-bags. Inside one of them was an envelope, sealed with the strange symbol of a tombstone on which was written Cemetery Ridge. He weighed it in his hand for a moment before tearing it open. Inside was a skull carved out of some black material resembling basalt. There was nothing more; no letter, nothing that might explain the mysterious image. His brow puckered. He had assumed that the man was a bounty hunter, that his motive had been merely mercenary. Now he wasn’t so sure. The envelope and its contents were so odd that they had to be significant. They meant something.

  His mind flew back to the time he had fought with Jeb Stuart at Gettysburg and that fateful second day. While Pickett’s charge to take Cemetery Ridge was underway, he had been locked in mortal combat on the right with the Federal cavalry of Brigadier Generals Gregg, Custer and Kilpatrick. He had been lucky to come away with his life. Pickett had gone down in legend, but the attack had failed. The next day the grey line began to plod its weary way through mud and drizzle, Stuart’s cavalry guarding the left flank and rear of the retreating Rebels. They crossed the Potomac but the invasion of the North was defeated. The Army of Northern Virginia had made a valiant effort but the writing was on the wall. There were many twists and turns in the road after that, but the road led inexorably to Appomattox.

  His face was grim as he recalled those days. But he had not surrendered. For him, the war continued. He put the skull back in the envelope and slipped the envelope into his pocket. He didn’t know what it all signified, but he was certain now that the stranger’s motive in seeking him out to kill him was not to claim any reward. There was something more to all this, something more sinister, which had to be connected with what had happened at Gettysburg. The stranger had failed in his mission, but somehow that word ‘mission’ summed up the situation. The man had been on a mission. He served some cause. And if that was the case, there must surely be others with the same mission, serving the same cause. As if it wasn’t enough to have a bounty on his head, it seemed he was now also the target of some other group. When they got to know that he had survived, someone else would follow in the stranger’s steps, seeking him out. Come to that; hadn’t his brother mentioned seeing him talking with another man, another stranger, outside the Horseshoe saloon? There was probably nothing to that, but now more than ever he needed to exercise care.

  One immediate consequence was that he couldn’t go home again. To return to Winding would place his family in grave danger. He should never have gone back in the first place. Even without this complication, he had dreaded the act of taking his leave. It was better to just let it go. His mother, especially, would be upset, but there was really no alternative, no option but to move on. It was a lonely, dangerous trail he rode, but he had known that from the moment he had resolved to carry on fighting.

  With fierce determination he climbed into the saddle. He sat for a few moments, undecided about which way to go; whether to carry on into the badlands or turn around and head for Cold Creek. To make for the badlands felt like a retreat. He quickly reached a decision. He turned the stranger’s horse loose together with the one he had hired. Then, setting his spurs to the steeldust’s flanks, he set his course for Cold Creek.

  Chapter Three

  When the peace was signed at Appomattox Courthouse, most of the men who had been fighting on the Confederate side accepted, with greater or lesser reluctance, that they had lost and returned to their
former lives. Others either could not or would not accept it. Wyeth and Rattlesnake were two of them. But there was a third group of people, who, while grudgingly accepting defeat, sought to place the blame on acts of treachery. For them the Union had not won the victory; elements of the Confederacy had lost it. One such man was Kirby Taylor.

  A native of South Carolina, Taylor had done well out of the war, supplying the Confederate army with tents and blankets, boots and shoes. After the war, he was able to buy up land cheaply. The North had stipulated that all animals in the South should be requisitioned. Without horses, Southern farmers were unable to plough their land and reap a harvest. Faced with the problem of paying off their mortgages, they were forced to sell. Taylor had taken full advantage of the situation.

  He had seen no active service, but when the war was over he liked to strike a pose. At such times he would maintain that the Confederate cause was not defeated, but merely subdued. He liked to associate with veterans, especially those still burning with resentment, and it was when he met some of these that he found a tangible target for his claim that the South had been betrayed from within. Gettysburg had been the decisive turning point of the war. Some of the men’s resentment centred round their claim that the cavalry had delayed its arrival on the scene. If Jeb Stuart had turned up in time, the battle might have been won. It served his purpose to develop that theme, and it was only a short step from there to the formation of the Black Skull, a secret organization dedicated to avenging the supposed betrayal by hunting down and killing former members of the hard-riding horsemen in grey.

  On the morning following his brief conversation with Hobbs, Taylor awoke to find that his secretary had already risen. He could smell the aroma of coffee and, presently, the sizzling of eggs and bacon. Quickly getting into his clothes, he strolled through to the living room of his well furbished mansion. Miss Hoskins appeared in the doorway leading to the kitchen.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘but I figured you could probably do with a good breakfast after last night.’

  Taylor grinned. ‘I don’t mind at all,’ he said.

  ‘I was just about to call you. It’s almost ready. Take a seat at the table.’

  Taylor pulled out a chair and sat down. Sunlight was falling into the room through the windows and when he glanced outside he had a view of a well-manicured lawn leading down to a tree-lined stream. It was a nice property. Life was good. Later, when he had enjoyed his breakfast – and Miss Hoskins – he would ride into town and wait for news of the stage. He was confident that things were about to get even better.

  Wyeth had been riding steadily, putting ground between himself and the town of Winding. As he rode he had plenty of time to think about what had transpired, but he was no nearer arriving at a solution to the mystery of the envelope and its contents. He was feeling bad about leaving his family behind. He had considered turning round and going back to Winding, but had resisted the urge to do so. It wasn’t right to do anything that might put them in danger. He thought about Jolie a lot. Maybe a day would come when they might be together, but he didn’t see how.

  On the evening of the second day he rode into a shallow stream and continued down it until he found a suitable place to make camp. He lifted the saddle from the steeldust and picketed the horse on a grassy slope. He built a fire and prepared a meal. It didn’t amount to much because he was running low on supplies. When he had finished eating, he lay back with his head against his saddle. The night was chill and he leaned forward to throw a few branches on the dying embers of the fire. As it blazed up he thought he heard the sound of a footfall. Getting quickly to his feet, he drew his Colt .44 and stepped into the shadows.

  In a few moments the bushes on the far side of the clearing parted and a figure emerged. He was outside the range of the flickering firelight and Wyeth couldn’t discern anything clearly. The man was a vague shadow but as he stopped and glanced about, Wyeth thought there was something vaguely familiar about him; that slight stoop, the set of the shoulders. The man moved forwards and as the light fell on him, with a jolt of surprise, Wyeth realized it was Rattlesnake Jack, the man he had been planning to meet in Cold Creek. Holstering his pistol, he stepped forwards. For a moment the man flinched and his right hand dropped involuntarily to his gun-belt. Then he recognized Wyeth.

  ‘Gene,’ he said. ‘You made me start.’

  ‘You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you. Didn’t you realize the risk you were taking?’ They paused to look more closely at each other and then they embraced.

  ‘What the hell are you doin’ here?’ Wyeth said. ‘I figured you were in Cold Creek.’

  ‘I was,’ Rattlesnake replied, ‘but to tell you the truth, things are gettin’ a mite uncomfortable back there. It wasn’t long after you left that a posse of militia and cavalry showed up. There was a lot of activity. I figured the sensible thing might be for me to get out of town and at least try to warn you. You said you were visitin’ your folks. It didn’t take long to get on your trail.’

  ‘Looks like those carpetbaggin’ Yankee varmints are tryin’ to clamp down on things. You did right to get away.’

  ‘We need to think about where we go from here,’ Rattlesnake said.

  ‘Maybe drop out of sight for awhiles. I don’t know. Maybe we should head for the Nations.’

  Wyeth scratched his chin. ‘I’d been wonderin’ about that myself. It sure needs consideration. But right now ain’t the time. Go get your horse. I’ll build up the fire and put some fresh coffee on to boil.’

  When they had drunk a few mugs of coffee and made themselves comfortable, Wyeth produced his pack of Bull Durham and they rolled smokes. Presently, the conversation returned to the immediate problem of what they should do next.

  ‘Some of the boys have already gone to the Nations,’ Rattlesnake said. ‘We could maybe join forces with them.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wyeth said. ‘There’s somethin’ to be said for ridin’ in a pack, but I prefer to do things differently.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got a point. A couple of men working together can do a lot of damage behind enemy lines.’

  ‘Yup, and that’s just the situation we’re in.’ Wyeth blew smoke rings into the air. ‘I’ve been thinkin’,’ he said. ‘I got no argument against headin’ for the Nations, but isn’t that just what the Yankees would expect us to do? They might have stepped up things around Cold Creek, but I figure they’ll be doin’ exactly the same thing along the Missouri River.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘No, I reckon we should do what we’ve done before, and aim for the place they won’t be expectin’ us.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Cold Creek, of course.’

  ‘You were headin’ that way already?’

  ‘Yup. I guess I kinda got my mind fixed on that stagecoach caper. Sorry you’ve come all this way just to go back again, but that’s the way I figure it.’

  Rattlesnake grinned. ‘Hell, I’m glad you said that, because that’s the way I see it, too. I ain’t been feelin’ right since I left Cold Creek.’

  ‘Appreciate you thinkin’ of warnin’ me,’ Wyeth said.

  From somewhere out in the night there came the sudden cry of a hoot owl. After a few moments they both broke into a laugh.

  ‘I sure hope that means he’s agreein’ with us,’ Rattlesnake said.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Wyeth replied. ‘Ain’t he supposed to be a wise old bird?’

  The stagecoach line ran through Winding, Forestville, Oakchester, St Anthony and Towburg to Cold Creek. For several days, however, it had only carried passengers as far as Towburg. At the depot there it took on board an extra shotgun guard, while inside the stage, instead of passengers, four men armed with rifles took their places. They didn’t ask questions. Although there didn’t appear to be anything to guard, if Kirby Taylor, the new stage line owner, reckoned they were needed, that was his business. They were in his employ and he paid well. It was easy money, especially as th
ey seemed to be getting paid for doing nothing. But if trouble turned up, they were ready for it.

  Wyeth and Rattlesnake Jack sat their horses and looked down from a ridge on the stage route to Cold Creek. If they were right in their calculations and things went to plan, the stage should be coming through soon.

  ‘I hope your informant’s right about that payroll,’ Wyeth remarked.

  ‘I ain’t got any reason to doubt him. He works for the company.’

  ‘You say he’d been talkin’ about it in the saloon even before you got together with him? Seems to me he was bein’ mighty indiscreet. I reckon the stagecoach company wouldn’t be too pleased if they got to hear about it.’

  Rattlesnake shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’d had a drink too many. Maybe he was makin’ it up.’

  Wyeth looked out over the terrain. In the distance a faint cloud of dust indicated the approach of the stage. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘let’s hope he wasn’t lyin’.’

  ‘Hell, even if he was, we got nothin’ to lose. If that stage ain’t carryin’ no payroll bullion, it’s gonna be carryin’ some Yankee double-dealers just waitin’ to be relieved of their loot.’

  ‘Yeah, loot that could be used to help some of their victims. Come on, what are we waitin’ for?’

  They rode down from the ridge and concealed themselves behind a stand of timber by the side of the trail. The dust cloud grew bigger and when they could hear the clatter of hoofs they pulled up their bandannas so that only their eyes remained uncovered. They drew their pistols.