Rebel Yell (19 page)

E
IGHTEEN

The voice crying out for help was raw, weak, and cracking with strain. It came from behind Sam. He turned and looked around, scanning for the source of the sound.

A flicker of motion showed on the far side of the square, in a small barred window of the guardhouse.

Sam made his way to it, glad to quit the hell of the mess hall. His rifle was held hip-high, leveled and ready for trouble. The cries increased in volume and frequency as he neared the army jail.

Discipline must be maintained on post. Infractions of the rules brought about forfeited pay, fines, punishment work details, and forced marches. More serious violations put the offender behind the bars of a detention cell in the guardhouse. Major crimes resulted in the offender being sentenced to a period of hard labor at such military prisons as the one at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

The motion which had caught Sam's eye was that of an arm waving through the bars of a small window in the upper left-hand corner of the guardhouse. It was a squat, stubby, flat-roofed, single-story blockhouse set in the northwest corner of the rampart walls. It was made of stone quarried from the foothills of the Breaks, timber being rare on the plains and too expensive to cart overland, especially with all that potential free labor of the garrison troops on tap. The gray-brown limestone blocks were dressed, fitted, and held together by mortar at the joins.

The guardhouse wasn't big on windows, held to be a security risk. Their use was limited to the minimum needed for health and hygiene of guards and secondarily, prisoners. There were enough windows to let in sunlight and fresh air. Cell windows were small square slits placed high in the walls, with iron bars set in the casements.

The guardhouse door gaped open and uninviting. Sam entered, stepping into a large space. The interior was damp, dank, and gloomy, heavily shadowed at the hour of near-dusk.

The front space was taken up by a small office area with a desk, chair, and several filing cabinets. A wall rack with rows of hooks held forbidding-looking sets of restraints—fetters, manacles, handcuffs, and suchlike devices. It held, too, whips, quirts, and truncheons.

A dead man lay on the office floor beside an overturned wooden stool. His uniform identified him as a guard. He was a soldier, big, solid, and stolid with a squat thug-like face. Prison guards needed to be tough and army prison guards that much more so.

A black leather belt four inches wide circled the dead man's waist. Fastened to it were a leather club the size of a belaying pin, a set of handcuffs, an oversized ring of keys, and a holstered gun.

Details of the scene told a tale, revealing the great hidden in the small.

On the floor near the guard lay a metal cafeteria-style tray and an overturned wooden bowl containing some stew-like mess of meat and liquid, most of it spilled. Beside a puddle of the slop lay a dead rat. It lay on its back, glazed beady eyes sightless and staring. Its four legs stuck out stiffly from its body at right angles, twisted claw-like paws clutching empty air.

The stuff in the bowl—some stew-like concoction from the look of it—was
poisoned
.

The toxin must be strong stuff. The mass puddled on the floor, showing that the guard hadn't taken more than a few bites before being struck down dead. His paw-like hand still held a tablespoon, clutching it in a death grip.

The dead soldier's face held an expression of outrage, as though indignant at being slain by poison rather than by some more martial means.

Sam reckoned that the rat must have come out of hiding to sample the spilled chow, and the poison killed it. “So much for the dead guard, dead rat, and poisoned meal,” he told himself, moving on to the survivor.

Apart from the central office area, the rest of the space was partitioned off into cells. Six in all, they were minimal cage-like affairs made of gridded iron bars with inset hinged locking doors. Each cell came furnished with a crude wooden bed, thin mattress pallet, and a wooden bucket for sanitary necessities.

All of the cells but one were empty, untenanted. It held a prisoner, a live one. Sam found it somehow heartening to find another living being in the fort of death. He went to the cell for a closer look at the caged wonder man.

The prisoner was big, hulking, built like a circus strongman. He was a no-neck monster with a head perched atop broad slab shoulders. He wore a red flannel shirt and blue cavalryman's pants with yellow stripes running down the sides.

He was bald, his shaved skull looking like a melon rind, so scored was it with scars, creases, dents, and lines. He sported a big black mustache under an eagle-beak nose and above a lantern jaw.

The prisoner seemed somewhat out of sorts, judging by his appearance. His eyes bulged and veins stood out like baby snakes writhing atop his hairless skull dome. He was sweat-soaked, gnashing his teeth. The wooden frame bed in his cell had been smashed to pieces.

His distress was understandable, considering the circumstances.

“Let me out of here, friend,” the prisoner rasped, voice coarse and husky, the result perhaps of having shouted for help until his throat was raw.

“Friend?” Was he friend, or foe? Sam wondered, thinking the prisoner looked familiar. He might have seen him around the fort on previous visits. Recognition tugged, nagging Sam with a sense of familiarity. The prisoner was a distinct type, not easily forgotten once seen.

“When I first saw you, I wasn't sure if you was one of them or not,” the inmate said. “But when I heard you come out of the mess hall cussing a blue streak, calling down hell's fire on the ones who did this, I knew you were okay.

“I thought I was never going to get out of here. I had some crazy idea of using the bedframe as a battering ram to bust the bars out of the window,” he went on, looking sheepish. “All I did was bust the bed into splinters.”

“You never would have fit out the window anyway,” Sam said.

“Maybe not, but I sure would have tried,” the prisoner said, showing signs of agitation. “Come on, mister, let me out of here!”

“The keys?” Sam asked.

“On a ring hanging on a hook on the wall near the door.”

“Be right back.” Sam turned and went back into the office. He found the key ring where the prisoner had said, an oversized metal hoop as wide across as a cake plate. It held a long solid blue steel key that seemed made for opening cell door locks, and a lot of little lesser keys.

Sam took it and returned to the cell. “A word of advice. I'm not the trusting type. What I've seen here in the fort so far sets my teeth on edge. So don't make any sudden or suspicious moves. I might shoot. I'm the nervous type.”

“You look it,” the prisoner said sarcastically. “Do what you like, but for Pete's sake let me out of here. I've been going crazy since dinnertime last night when the troops started screaming and dropping like flies—” He fell silent, shuddering.

Sam handed him the key ring. “Here, let yourself out,” Sam said, stepping back a few paces. He held the rifle level at hip height, pointing not at the prisoner but in his general direction.

The prisoner gripped the key, reaching through and around the bars to fit it into the keyhole of the cell door lock. He turned it, metal squeaking as tumblers turned and the bolt slid back. He opened the door and stepped out of the cage, shambling down the aisle into the front office.

He paused, looking down at the dead guard, studying on him. “Thanks, Fritz,” he said at last. “You dirty, rotten, no-good son of a—!”

“He's dead, soldier,” Sam Heller said dryly.

The trooper looked up with a crooked, broken-toothed, jack-o'-lantern grin. “Fritz here was having some fun with me last night, making me wait for my dinner while he ate his first. Turned out, he saved my life. He took a couple spoonfuls of that chili, then jumped up like he'd been struck by lightning. He grabbed his throat, let out a holler, and dropped to the floor like a poleaxed steer,
dead
.”

The cavalryman took a close look as if seeing Sam for the first time. He frowned furiously, ridged brow furrowing, thick black brows knitting in concentration. Some of the fierceness faded as dawning recognition flickered in his eyes. “Hey, I know you.”

“Do you?” Sam said.

“Yes, I do—you're the bounty killer, a friend of Captain Harrison's,” the trooper said. “The one who cleaned up on the Harbin bunch. I've seen you come in to the fort a couple times.”

“That's right,” Sam said, seeing no harm and some possible benefit in admitting the obvious truth.

“I knew it!” the trooper crowed. “Thought I recognized you before like I said. Figured I'd take a chance you wasn't one of
them
. I was going crazy in here, scared nobody would come to let me out.” His voice was thick with emotion.

“I've seen you around here,” Sam said, certain now. “You're a corporal.”

“Private now. I got busted down in rank for drinking on duty,” the trooper said. “That's why I'm in here, doing a stretch in the calaboose. Hell, I used to be a sergeant, but I lost my stripes for brawling.” He wasn't bragging exactly but not ashamed, either. “I'm Berg, Otto Berg—Private First Class Otto Berg now. What's your handle?”

“The name's Heller, Sam Heller.”

“Glad to know you, Heller, I owe you for getting me out of that cell,” Otto Berg said, thrusting out an oversized hand. “Shake!”

Sam decided to take a chance, shifting his rifle to the other hand and reaching out to the trooper. Otto had big strong hands, a powerful grip. Sam tightened his own grip. If this was to be a test of strength, he'd be damned if he'd come out second best.

It was and he didn't. Sam stepped up the pressure, causing Otto Berg to break off the handshake first.

“That's a strong grip you've got there, brother,” the trooper said, trying not to wince.

“Is it? I hadn't noticed,” Sam said nonchalantly, smiling to himself a moment later when he saw Otto surreptitiously trying to massage some feeling back into his hand.

“Got any water?” Otto asked. “I'm parched. The last of my waters ran out this morning and I ain't had a drink all day.”

“There's a body floating in the well,” Sam began.

“Mister, I ain't eating or drinking nothing inside this fort,” Otto said feelingly. “No telling what's been poisoned!”

“Good thinking,” Sam said. “I've got a canteen out on my horse by the gate.”

“Let's get out of here. I've had enough of this guardhouse to last me nine lifetimes!”

Sam and Otto went outside, the trooper moving unsteadily.

“I'm a little shaky on my pins,” Otto said, grinning weakly.

“Need a hand?” Sam asked.

“No, I can make it. You said something about water?”

“Canteen on my saddle. Wait here, I'll get it.” Sam crossed the quad to where Dusty was tethered near the front gate.

“Damnation!” Otto whispered, looking around in shocked awe. He went to the storehouse next to the guardhouse, weaving and staggering.

When Sam returned, Otto was sitting on the shallow wooden steps, elbows on knees, head in hands hanging down. He didn't look up when Sam stood over him.

Sam put a hand on Otto's shoulder, which felt like a big round rock under the shirt, and shook him.

Otto started, looking up groggily, bleary eyes coming into focus. “Huh! I must have drifted off.”

“Here,” Sam said, passing him the canteen.

The trooper drank greedily, throat working. Sam had a passing thought about cautioning the other to drink slowly but kept silent. Otto could take care of himself. As for resupplying, there was fresh water in the creek beyond the fort's north wall.

“Thanks,” Otto croaked gratefully, lowering the canteen. His voice was still harsh and rasping. He wiped his wet mouth with the back of a ham-sized hand.

Sam unsheathed his knife, cutting off a chunk of beef jerky. He'd eaten the last of the parched corn earlier that day. “Here. It ain't much, but it's all I got.”

“It looks like plenty to me. It ain't poisoned neither and I thank you for that,” Otto said.

There was no way to eat beef jerky fast. It was too tough. Otto stuffed a chunk into a corner of his mouth and began working on it between his jaws, methodically grinding it. Several mouthfuls of water helped moisten it up. “I'm starting to feel better already.”

“More?” Sam asked.

“I could use a chunk for later if you could spare it,” Otto said.

Sam cut another piece of jerky, then slipped the blade back in its sheath.

“That's some pigsticker you got there,” Otto said appreciatively, his mouth full.

“Gets the job done. Otto, what the hell happened here?”

“We got hit by the Free Company.”

“The Free Company! I didn't think they were this far west.”

“Well,” Otto Berg said heavily, “they are. Two weeks ago, Captain Harrison took most of the company into the Uplands and beyond to look for them. General Phil Sheridan figured Turlock might try making a sneak through South Comancheria.”

“So that's where most of the unit is! I was wondering,” Sam said.

“While the troops are out on a wild goose chase up on the Canadian River looking for Turlock, the Free Company came here.” Otto was thoughtful, brooding. “I should have been with them, but I got written up for drinking on duty. Hell, I wasn't drunk. I'm never drunk . . . but rules are rules. They busted me down to private and gave me thirty days in the guardhouse.”

“And . . . the poisoning?” Sam prompted.