The Dark Land Page 15

  The fog parted, then closed back in again, swirling up and around Brad like some deadly shade. He rode slowly, quietly, using stealth and the fog to conceal his movement.

  Soon he heard voices, fragments of disembodied phrases that he could not decipher. As he rode closer, he found he could make out the words, distinguish between different individuals. He heard the renegades talking about the two cannon and someone he took to be Thorne giving orders. He heard the creak of leather, the snap of reins, the ring of buckles, and the curses of men straining to find objects and tools in the dark.

  Brad rode in very close, then reined up his horse. He sat there, listening for some time, isolating the voices, determining where the men stood closer together. He tried to peer through the fog, but it was too thick. He knew he dared not get any closer, and he had to make sure that, after he opened fire, he could move from his flashes and get away in a hurry.

  He drew in a deep breath and brought his rifle to his shoulder. Then, focusing on the heaviest concentration of voices, Brad squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked and bucked against his shoulder. A streak of bright orange flame spewed from the muzzle and he heard the bullet sizzle through the air.

  A man screamed in agony and Brad fired another shot before squeezing his knees against his horse. The horse sidled away to another position. Brad kept firing until his rifle was empty, then sheathed it in its scabbard. He turned his horse as rifle fire and shouting erupted several yards away. Bullets whistled past him as he rode off, back to where his companions waited.

  Brad rode a zigzag course, the fog parting before him briefly. When he saw the others, he reined to a stop, pulled his rifle out of its scabbard, and began to reload.

  “Hit anyone?” Gid asked.

  “Hard to tell,” Brad replied. “Randy, get started. Move in close and watch yourself.”

  Randy, Gid, and Lou rode off into the fog.

  “Paco, Hollie, follow me,” Brad said, and rode off in the opposite direction. The firing from Thorne’s men continued sporadically and Brad homed in on the sound of gunfire. He turned toward it and began shooting, aiming low, firing from the hip.

  He saw flashes of orange flame, heard the shouts of angry men. Seconds later, he heard Randy and the others open fire and he saw the streaks of flame spewing from their rifles, as well.

  White smoke mingled with the fog as the shooting continued on both sides. Brad and his pair passed Randy’s trio twice more before Brad called for them to pull back. He was relieved to see that none of them had been hit.

  “Fog’s clearing some,” he said. “We’ll wait until we can see.”

  “I think we hit some of them,” Gid said.

  “I know I did,” Lou said, “and I think Randy might have nailed a couple.”

  “I won’t speculate about our bunch,” Brad said, “but at least we put Thorne on the defensive.”

  “We gave him what for,” Randy said.

  “Let’s move back to the brush for cover,” Brad said.

  No sooner had they all started to follow him, when they heard a hissing sound, followed by an explosion. They heard the whoosh of a cannonball slicing the air.

  Hollie and Gid were still reloading their rifles when the ball hit the ground and exploded, filling the air with fire and shrapnel.

  “Come on,” Brad yelled, and spurred his horse.

  As they reached the brush, the second cannon went into action and sent a ball whistling through the fog. It exploded several yards to their rear and left a thin path through the scrim of fog.

  The sun began to spread light through the mist and fog as Brad and his companions melted into the brush.

  That’s when several bluecoats rose up on foot, their rifles all aimed at Brad and his followers.

  Lieutenant Coy stepped up and said: “You’re under arrest, Colonel Chambers. If you resist, my men are instructed to shoot to kill. Now, light down and surrender, sir.”

  Brad looked at the black hole of Coy’s pistol and wondered what he had gotten himself into, and how in hell he was going to get himself out of it.

  23

  * * *

  BRAD STEPPED DOWN from the saddle slowly and faced his captor.

  “Who in hell are you?” he asked.

  Coy identified himself. Brad scanned the faces of the other soldiers and recognized some of them as those who had resupplied him at Little Thicket.

  “You’re making a big mistake, Coy. I’m under orders from General Sheridan.”

  “You mean you’re in the Union Army?” Gid said. He shook his head.

  “Just for this mission,” Brad replied. “I didn’t think you’d come with me if you knew.”

  “Well, I’m under orders from General Granger,” Coy said with authority. “You, sir, are charged with killing a civilian at Hogg’s Wells.”

  “Grimley? We didn’t kill him. He was already dead when we got to Hogg’s Wells.”

  “So you say.”

  The others all affirmed Brad’s statement, including Hollie.

  “You can’t win this one,” Brad said. “Now, I suggest you and your men come under my command. Abel Thorne’s on Palmito Hill and he’s unlimbered two cannon against us.”

  “We heard cannon,” Coy admitted. “Are you sure it’s Thorne?”

  “Positive. We tracked him here from Hogg’s Wells. He’s all stirred up now. Probably has eight or ten men in fighting shape. Your outfit could even the odds.”

  “I don’t believe you entirely, Colonel, but maybe I believe this young woman some.” He turned to Hollie. “Who are you, miss, and what are you doing on a military expedition?”

  Hollie told him quickly about the Coopers, and her pa and brother. There was bitterness and conviction in her steady words. “Colonel Chambers has shown me the only kindness from soldiers since the Civil War began,” she said.

  “Well, Lieutenant,” Brad said, “are you going to make a name for yourself by arresting me, or are you going to fight with some brave men and this woman to help me kill or capture Abel Thorne?”

  Coy looked at Paco, who looked at Hollie, then nodded. Hollie smiled at him.

  “I’m a civilian as well,” Paco said, “and what Brad and Hollie say is true. The fat man was already dead when we see him. We did not kill him.”

  “All right, sir. You make a pretty convincing argument. If that’s Thorne on Palmito Hill, then both General Sheridan and General Granger want him out of action. He’s already done enough damage.”

  As if to punctuate the urgency of the situation, the two cannon roared in succession and the whistling balls landed less than two hundred yards from the brush.

  “He’s getting our range,” Brad said. “You troops load up your rifles and get mounted. We’ll have to attack once this fog lifts.”

  “Yes, sir,” Coy said, and his men began to obey Brad’s order. Brad climbed back into his saddle. He rode up to Hollie. “Thanks,” he said. “You don’t have to mix in this, you know. You can ride deeper into the brush and stay there until it’s all over.”

  “I’m going to fight with you,” she said.

  “I hope you mean that the way I think you do.”

  “I do, Colonel.”

  “Don’t start that. You can call me Brad.”

  “Only if you call me Hollie and not ‘ma’am.’”

  “All right, Hollie. Just follow my orders and don’t get shot.”

  Coy rode up. “What’s your plan, Colonel?”

  “Those cannon are pointed straight at us. We’ll split up into two groups. You and three of your men and two of mine attack on Thorne’s right flank. I’ll take the rest of your men and mine and cover the left flank.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  “Don’t think this is going to be easy, Coy. Thorne’s men are all ex-soldiers, deserters, probably. They’re well-armed and they are probably excellent shots.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” Coy said.

  “Spread out,” Brad commanded, “and ta
ke your positions. Don’t charge the enemy until I give the command.”

  Brad gave one more order before he left to attack Thorne’s left flank. “First, kill all their horses,” he said. “I want Thorne cut off from all escape.”

  Coy saluted and the two groups split up as the sun rose in the eastern sky, burning off the fog.

  Brad led his group from the brush and angled left, counting on the lingering fog to conceal his movements. Soon, he heard the rattle and clank of the cannon as men moved them from their former positions. He heard voices speaking just above a whisper, but couldn’t make out any of the words.

  The ten-pound Spencer repeating rifle in his hands felt light, even with its full capacity of seven rounds loaded into its spring-fed tubular magazine. The rifle was 47 inches long, but it could reach out to two thousand yards and was deadly accurate in its battle range of three hundred to five hundred yards.

  As he drew closer to the voices, Brad lifted his right hand and motioned for his followers to fan out behind him. Then when he saw shadows through the fog, he pointed and looked around him to see if all his troops were in position. When they formed a file on his left, Brad stepped his mount forward, looped the reins around his saddlehorn, and brought the Spencer to his shoulder. He levered a cartridge into the chamber and drew a bead on one of the men standing beside the nearest cannon.

  Brad squeezed the trigger and the rifle barked, breaking the eerie silence of morning. Then he heard the comforting crackle of rifles all along his flank as the others in his company opened fire a split second later.

  The air filled with blossoms of white smoke, and he swung his rifle on the horses gathered behind the two cannon and started firing off rounds into their midst even as Thorne’s men scrambled to mount up.

  In the distance, he heard Coy’s men engage Thorne on the opposite flank and the thrill of battle surged in his veins as he reloaded, a cumbersome task without the quick-loading box with its ten tubes.

  Men in Thorne’s cadre screamed, but soon some of them began to return fire. Brad heard Thorne, or someone, barking commands, and when he was reloaded, he shot a man trying to move one of the cannon around to bring it to bear on his position. He guided his horse with his knees as he rode in and out of the fog, picking off targets of horses and men. The smoke, mingled with the fog, began to form a thick ring around Palmito Hill much as it had been on that last battle of the war.

  He dodged in and out of the gauze of fog, and as horses galloped past him, riderless, he knew that he and his men were winning. Rifles cracked all around him and he rode up on a man from Thorne’s bunch swinging his rifle on Hollie as she rode into the thick of battle. Brad dropped the man and saw him throw his rifle into the air and collapse with blood streaming from a hole in his chest.

  Close range now, and Brad sheathed the Spencer after reloading it and charged back in, a brace of pistols filling both his hands.

  The fog continued to lift as Brad rode back in, close to the silent cannon. He saw the others in his flanking party close by, each following his lead, putting their rifles in their scabbards and drawing their pistols.

  Brad shouted to them as they rode in: “If any of those men talk too fast or move too slow, shoot that man down.”

  The others gave a cheer and, as they rode in, Thorne’s men began to scatter like quail flushed from a thicket. He shot the nearest man with the pistol in his left hand, then swung on another, who threw up both hands and dropped to his knees in surrender.

  “Abe, they’re on us,” one man cried out.

  “Abe, here they come,” cried another, who started running toward the river after he threw down his rifle.

  Hollie rode up close to Brad. “Did he say ‘Abe’?” she asked.

  “Probably what they call Abel Thorne.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said.

  Then Hollie spurred her horse and darted ahead of him before he could hold her back. He charged after her. Suddenly, she reined her horse to a halt and faced down four men hiding behind one of the cannon.

  “You there,” she called, “which one of you is Abe?”

  None of the men moved or replied as Brad rode up to stop alongside her. He was joined in seconds by Paco and Gid. Then Coy and his men emerged out of the wisps of lingering fog and encircled the last of Thorne’s men. Randy and Lou stared at the wounded and those standing with their hands raised in the air.

  “Is this all of them?” Randy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Brad said, “but one of these jaspers is surely Abel Thorne, but with the beards I don’t recognize any of them.”

  “I do,” Hollie said, and stunned everyone there to silence.

  “What?” Brad asked.

  “I know them by their eyes and by their stink,” she said.

  “I don’t understand,” Brad said. “I didn’t think you saw the men who killed your father and your brother.”

  “I didn’t. But I’ve seen those three men before.” She pointed them out with the barrel of her pistol. “During the war, these three were wearing Yankee uniforms when they came to our farm. Pa and Cal were gone. And these men raped me, one by one.”

  “You little bitch,” Thorne said, and reached behind him. He pulled a hideout pistol and aimed it at Hollie as he lunged for her.

  Brad didn’t hesitate. He brought up the pistol in his right hand and cocked it on the rise. He fired, just as Thorne was squeezing the trigger of his small six-gun. Brad’s shot caught him in the side and he twisted into a corkscrew fall. His pistol went off, sending a round into the ground. He looked up at Hollie and raised his pistol for another shot.

  That’s when she took deliberate aim with her own pistol and fired at point-blank range. The ball from her pistol tore through Thorne’s mouth and jaw, leaving his face dripping with what looked like bloody rags.

  Two of the men who had been standing with Thorne, Herbert Luskin and Orville Trask, started to run. Gid and Paco cut them down. The fourth man rushed to Thorne and knelt down beside him.

  “I recognize that one,” Coy said. “He’s Benjamin Thorne, a slave smuggler. I saw his picture on a wanted poster once.”

  “Abe, Abe,” Ben Thorne crooned, holding his son’s bloody head in his hands. Thorne tried to speak, but his mouth was no longer intact, and his face contorted in pain.

  “Look for stragglers,” Coy ordered, and his men moved out, away from the group looking down on Ben Thorne and his dying son. Brad rode over to Hollie and leaned over. He put his arm around her waist. “I didn’t know,” he said.

  “I never told anyone,” she said. “Not even Pa or Cal.”

  “You’ve been carrying a hell of a lot on your shoulders, young lady.”

  Hollie turned and looked into his eyes. “I told you not to call me that anymore,” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  Then she reached over and touched him on the arm. “I know you didn’t mean it in a bad way that time,” she said. “In fact, I know you meant it in a nice way.”

  “I did, Hollie. Come on, let’s get away from here. I need a smoke and you need to . . .”

  “Cry?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I think I’ve already cried it out. Those men got what they deserved. I won’t cry for them.”

  “No. Neither will I. Come,” he said.

  They rode away from the smoke and the smell of death and over the small dunes toward the thicket. Hollie holstered her pistol and smiled at Brad.

  “I liked it when you put your arm around me,” she said. “I never thought I’d let a man do that to me again. Ever.”

  “Not all men are alike.”

  “I know that now. Riding with you, and your friends, I realized that there are decent men, good men. You’re one of them, Brad.”

  “That’s a mighty nice compliment, ma’ . . . I mean, Hollie.”

  They both laughed, and then they dismounted and sat on the ground. They were still talking when Gid rode up on them.

  “We found some
whiskey, Brad. Everybody wants to celebrate. We whupped ’em good, just like before.”

  “I know,” Brad said.

  “Well, you comin’ or not?”

  Brad opened his mouth to reply, but just then Hollie touched him on his arm. It was a soft touch, light as a feather, but it was as strong as if she had clamped him in a vise.

  “We’ll be along directly, Gid. You go on.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of whiskey, but don’t you be too long. I’ve got me a powerful thirst.”

  Brad looked at Hollie, looked deep into her eyes, and felt himself falling into their cool, serene depths.

  “So do I, Gid,” he said. “So do I.”

  Gid cleared his throat in embarrassment. He turned his horse and rode away. He knew damned well that Brad wasn’t talking to him when he said that. Knew it all along, he did, and couldn’t nobody tell him no different.

  He licked his lips. As for himself, he did have a powerful thirst.

  But then, war, a battle, a good scrap, did that to a man, Gid reasoned, and he put spurs to his horse and rode toward the place they called Palmito Hill, gone silent with the sunrise just as it had on that last day of the Civil War.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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