Rebel Yell (20 page)

“Fort Pardee has never been taken by force or siege, never! So how did it get took? They had a Judas on the inside, a she-Judas.” Otto shook his head over the infamy of it all.

“Who?” Sam Heller asked

“Malvina. Malvina the cook.”

“A civilian cook?” Sam said, somewhat taken aback. The Army made a practice of using its own to get the work done, not farming it out to outsiders. “What's wrong with army cooking?”

“What ain't?” Otto fired back, mustering up a halfway grin to show he was joking. “I take that back, though, Army cooks don't poison you. Not on purpose, that is.”

“Who's this Malvina?” Sam demanded. “I never heard of her.”

“Malvina the Gypsy, the old witch. Malvina the
Bruja
, the Mexicans call her. She may not be a Gypsy, but she sure as hell is a witch,” Otto said. “A devil! One of the Hog Ranch crowd.”

“Ah,” Sam said, beginning to understand. The Hog Ranch! They'd been at the heart of this murky business from the start.

“They were shorthanded in the kitchen,” Otto explained. “One of Cookie's helpers went over the hill, deserted. Another got beat up so bad one night when he was off-post that they had to send him back East to recover. They never did find the one who did it or even a motive for the attack.”

“The motive was to get him out of the kitchen and Malvina in,” Sam offered.

“It's easy to see the pattern now that everything's gone down the way it has, but nobody had a clue that it was all part of a plot. I had a lot of time alone in my cell since last night to think things out, so I can see how it all came together.”

“It was a setup. I'll wager that the other cook's helper was no deserter, either. His body's probably buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in the hills around the Hog Ranch,” Sam said grimly.

“No bet. That's a sure thing,” Otto agreed. “The post laundry was already using Malvina as a laundress so she was right in place to promote herself for the kitchen job.”

Sam nodded. It made sense. In frontier posts, laundress was one of the few jobs traditionally filled by civilian women.

“The hell of it is that Malvina was a pretty good cook,” Otto said. “Better than Cookie, the Army chef. Poor Cookie! I wonder what happened to him?”

“He was probably one of the first to go once the poisoning got underway. Being headman in the kitchen put him in place to see too much, know too much,” Sam said.

“It'd be a mercy if he died before he could see his mess hall turned into a slaughterhouse,” Otto said sadly.

“How did it go down?”

“One of boys bagged a deer while out hunting, so Malvina offered to make venison chili. A real treat for the troops, right?” Otto's laughter was harsh, mirthless. Merciless.

“Everybody was looking forward to it,” he went on. “She even mixed up a special batch for the officers at the staff building. You know how the troops are. A bunch of chowhounds, always hungry. When that chili was served out, they must have dug right in.

“Then pure hell broke loose in the mess hall. Shouts, screams, all kinds of carryings-on. I never heard anything like it before—and I've been in the wars. Civil and Indian. I hope to God I never hear anything like it again. I was in the guardhouse on the opposite side of the fort from the mess hall and I could hear it clearly, too clearly.”

A shiver ran through Otto Berg, causing him to quake for an instant, though the early evening air was still warm. “Remember, some of this I saw, some I heard and some of the blanks I got to fill in by guessing.”

“Go on, Otto. You're doing fine. Tell it,” Sam said.

“The Hog Ranch crowd must have been outside the fort, hiding and waiting. A couple got inside the fort. I don't know how. The front gate was guarded and there were guards on the walls. But the Hogs got inside. I know this, though. The first band were wearing cavalry uniforms. Once they were inside, they were able to approach the guards and get close enough to kill them quietly, probably with knives.”

“That clears up something that's been puzzling me.” Sam told Otto how he had earlier prowled the deserted Hog Ranch, discovering several male bodies that had been stripped of their garments down to their drawers. “They must have been troopers from the fort, killed for their uniforms so the infiltrators could disguise themselves as cavalrymen and have the free run of the fort. As for the dead women at the ranch—maybe they got cold feet and couldn't be trusted, maybe they were too drunk to ride a horse, maybe they were just in the way . . . Who knows?”

Otto continued his tale. “When mass poisoning pandemonium broke out, the disguised Hog Ranchers rushed the front gate, gunning down the sentries. They opened the gate, letting the rest of their fellows in. Troy Madison was there, Hump Colway, Kinney Scopes, Half-Shot, and some others from the Ranch I know in passing. I've spent plenty of time off duty there. None were what you'd call friends, but you could have a drink or ten and some laughs with them, as long as you kept your eyes open and your wits about you. I've gotten drunk with them many a time, bought them drinks, and cadged drinks from them . . . Hell! Let it go . . .

“While they were killing my brothers in arms, where was I? Locked in my cell! My window looked out on the quad, so I had a pretty good view of what was happening. But first, Fritz the turnkey went to the kitchen to pick up my dinner and his ahead of the rush. He thought it was funny to make me wait for my chow. He dug a spoon into my bowl of chili and started digging in, eating it in front of me. Then the thunderbolt hit. I didn't know what was happening. I thought maybe he was choking on a bone stuck in his throat or throwing a fit, until he fell to the floor dead.

“When the Hog Ranch rode in and started killing everybody, I finally figured out what was happening. I kept out of sight as best I could, peeking out of the bottom of the window, not showing myself.

“There were some troops who hadn't eaten because they weren't hungry or were on duty and planned to eat later or maybe they just plain didn't like venison chili. Hog Ranch men hunted them down and killed them, then set to robbing and tearing the place apart.

“They were almighty thorough. A couple came in here to make sure of a clean sweep. I saw them coming and climbed the bars to the top of the cell. I wedged myself out of sight, hanging on to the rafter beams running under the ceiling. I was out of sight as long as nobody looked up. Two came in. Luckily, they didn't stay long. They made sure Fritz was dead and the cells were empty. From what they could see, the cells
were
empty. They were in a hurry. Guess they didn't want to miss out on their share of the looting.

“I was just about finished, played out by the time they left. I thought my arms would tear out of their sockets. Nobody came back though, and it's a good thing. I don't think I could have done it again.

“The Hog Ranch was real big on tearing up the staff building. They took all the paperwork and threw it out the windows, burning big piles of it,” Otto said.

“Probably wanted to destroy any records about themselves,” Sam suggested. “Captain Harrison must have had his intelligence officer keep files on Hog Ranch, a pack of suspicious characters to any commanding officer.”

“About two hours after the Hog Ranch came in, the Free Company rolled in—talk about your suspicious characters! A robber bandit army of marauders that makes the Hogs look like a Sunday school picnic by comparison.”

“Was Jimbo Turlock with them?” Sam asked.

“Not so's I could tell.”

“Big heavyset fellow about fifty. Looks more like a banker than a bandit chief.”

“I've seen pictures of him on Wanted posters, but I didn't see anybody that looked like him.”

“With Free Company around, Jimbo must be near.”

“Not that I could see. Maybe he's keeping out of sight for some reason of his own.”

“Could be,” Sam allowed. “Turlock is a deep player, wheels within wheels.”

Otto shrugged. “If he was here, I didn't see him. That doesn't mean he wasn't here, just that I didn't see him. All I saw was what I could see from my jail cell window.

“When Free Company arrived, they put things on a businesslike basis. They picked the fort clean like a plague of locusts. They cleared horses out of the stables, broke into the armory, and stole all the guns and ammunition. They loaded the loot into wagons, stole food and supplies out of the storehouse, blankets, too. Hell, they even stole our cannon. Hitched a team of horses to the howitzer and rolled it out of here. They're loaded for bear now!

“On the way out a couple of them threw some torches into the staff building. One of their handlers gave them hell for it. For a while, I thought he was gonna shoot a couple as an object lesson to the rest. He didn't, but he reamed them out good. Said it was stupid to burn down the fort because they were the masters of it. They could hold it against the rest of the cavalry unit when they returned from patrol and ambush them. So the fort stayed unburnt after all.”

“But they didn't stay to occupy it. Didn't even leave behind a platoon to secure it,” Sam pointed out.

“Maybe they didn't feel like setting up housekeeping with a pile of freshly poisoned corpses,” Otto said sourly. “I'm minded to get out of here myself!”

“We'll be gone soon.”

“I got the impression that Free Company had something pretty important to do, some mission yet to accomplish. It's just a feeling, but I've been Army long enough to know when a unit is moving out for more action.”

“I trust your instincts, Otto.”

“When Free Company rolled out, the Hog Ranch went with them. They're part of Free Company now.”

“Easier to get into than out of,” Sam said.

“Yeah—like the cavalry,” Otto retorted. He sagged with fatigue and emotional strain, slumping. “Well, that's it. The rest you know.”

“Let's get out of here.” Sam said.

He ran to Dusty and rode outside the fort, quickly rounding up a horse for Otto—one with a saddle still strapped to its back. While he was gone, Otto managed to find a rifle, a couple of pistols, and some ammunition. He wasted no time arming himself.

Sam returned with the horse for Otto, and he mounted up. A quick discussion followed, and they decided to water the horses and fill their canteens at the creek behind the fort since they didn't trust the food or the water supply inside. They discovered a set of scaling ropes rigged with three-pronged grappling hooks at the ends, hung from the rear wall of the fort. Standing outside at the foot of the wall, the infiltrators had grappled the hooks to the top of the wall, climbing up the outer wall and down the other side. That was how they'd breached the fort's outer defenses.

Tasks completed, Sam and Otto hastened away.

Johnny Cross and Coot Dooley were up early in the morning doing some hunting. Manhunting? Maybe, depending on how things fell out. Or in.

It was morning of the third day since Johnny and Luke had returned from Hangtree and morning of the day after Sam Heller rode into Fort Pardee. But of what had transpired to turn the fort into a charnel house, the occupants of Cross Ranch were as yet blissfully unaware.

Johnny and Coot roamed the north section of the Cross ranch. The ranch was the westernmost such habitation in Hangtree County, the better part of a half-day's ride west of town. It lay north of the Hangtree Trail at the foot of the eastern range of the Breaks. The land was well-watered by a stream that took its source in the hills, winding a snakelike course southeast for many a mile before feeding into the north branch of the Liberty River.

It had been claimed and settled by Pa Cross some years before the war, when Johnny was just a lad. He was the last of the family still alive. Frontier life was hard and took its toll through natural causes and violence alike.

Johnny and Coot were breakfasted and mounted up on horseback, making the rounds of the range. The sun was just edging the eastern horizon, slanting long yellow shafts of brilliance across the landscape.

Johnny rode a fine chestnut horse with Arabian and North African blood from some distant equine forebears before the line came to the New World with the conquistadors. The animal was the kind of mount he favored from back in the war days when he rode with Quantrill in Missouri, a horse fast, sleek, with plenty of endurance.

Coot Dooley rode a brown and white pinto cow pony. Swift and nimble, it was a cutting horse.

A half mile north of the ranch house, they rode up a flat-topped knoll that commanded a good view of the surroundings. Knots of cattle wandered, grazing across the range. Looking south from the knoll, the duo could see the north slope of the mound that was an integral part of the old Cross ranch house.

When the family had first staked out the claimed land, Pa Cross dug into the south slope of the mound to build a dugout. He had excavated several rooms, shoring up walls and ceiling with laboriously hand-hewn timber beams, rafters, and braces. The front was walled off by stones cemented with mortar. The front door was made of thick fire-hardened oak planks and beams. The few windows were protected by fire-hardened wooden shutters fitted with loopholes for shooting out of in case of attack. And attacks there were, from Indians and outlaws.

Some improvements had been made to the ranch in the months since Johnny had come home. The stable barn had been rebuilt and refurbished, as had the corral and some of the outbuildings. New wooden wings, square rooms, had been added on to the east and west sides of the dugout to provide elbow room for the new tenants.

Johnny and Luke were partners in the ranch, as well as in several other enterprises including mustanging, cattle raising, and selling their guns for hire. Thus far gun work paid best, though the cattle ranching was starting to come into its own.

The ranch's nearness to Wild Horse Canyon with its numerous herd of mustangs had inspired Johnny to go mustanging—catching wild horses, breaking them to bridle, saddle, and riders, and selling them at market. He had a contract with the procurement officer at Fort Pardee to sell horses to the Army. It paid pretty well.

Being a Texas rancher, Johnny just couldn't help but get involved in the cattle-raising business. During the war, countless longhorn cattle had gone into the brush untended and unclaimed. Thriving there, they were fruitful and multiplied so that at war's end hundreds of thousands of cattle were running wild and free throughout the Lone Star state.

The livestock surplus coincided with a great hunger for beef in the industrial cities of the North. A beef worth five dollars in Texas was worth ten times that much at the railhead in Sedalia, Missouri. Entrepreneurial, ever-hungry, the ranchers of Hangtree County had gotten into the cattle business in a big way.

So great was the demand that visionary entrepreneurs were raising a town in Abilene, Kansas, to meet the transcontinental railroad surging west. But in the summer of 1867, the dawning of Abilene's day lay ahead in the future.

With no neighbors near, the Cross spread and surroundings were thick with wild longhorn cattle. Johnny and Luke often went into the brush, rounding up the ornery maverick critters and branding them. Their brand was the “Cross Bow,” consisting of two arrows crisscrossed in an X shape on a rocker. Their herd had been part of a big cattle drive by the Hangtree County ranchers to Sedalia the past summer. Johnny and Luke had come out of it pretty well.

They had added two ranch hands to their outfit, Coot Dooley and Vic Vargas.

Coot was an old-timer, white-haired and white-bearded with the energy of a much younger man. Tough, sinewy, and leathery, he'd been many things in his day—a day he boasted was far from done. He'd been an explorer, mountain man, Army scout, hunter, trapper, Indian fighter, and soldier. He'd fought in the War for Texas Independence, the Mexican-American War, the War Between the States, and countless “little wars without a name,” as he called them.

Vic Vargas was a powerfully built young man with curly black hair and a fierce mustachio. He was from Mextown in Hangtree, an ace ranch hand with a vested interest and percentage of the profits and a ready fast gun with plenty of guts. His résumé was far shorter than Coot Dooley's, but he'd been alive a lot shorter time. He burned to make his mark on the frontier and his fame fill the minds of men and women.

Luke and Vic had stayed behind to guard the ranch. It was agreed that both pairs not wander off by themselves where they could be picked off more easily by old enemies or new—the Free Company or whomever.

Johnny and Coot hadn't ridden out to admire the view. They had dismounted and were looking around with a purpose and a particular point of view.

The grass of the knoll had recently been trampled down by a number of horses. Discarded butts of hand-rolled cigarettes littered the turf. Hoofprints were thicker at the foot of the knoll on the north side, where they would have been screened from sight from those at the ranch house. Grass and leaves had been heavily browsed where the horses had grazed.

“Like I said when I come in from riding trail yesterday, somebody's been sure 'nuff dogging us.”

Johnny agreed. “You were right, Coot.”

“That's what I like to hear!” Coot said, slapping his thigh to enthusiastically underline his words.

“Why not? It don't cost me nothing to say so.”

“That's what you think. Jest wait till I hit you up for a raise, boss.”

“You wait,” Johnny said. “And do me a favor—wait a long time.”

“Why so tightfisted? You got plenty of money,” Coot said.

“I've got a lot of expenses, including a lazy, no-working, no-account son of a gun on the payroll, not to mention eating me out of house and home.”

Coot tsk-tsked, shaking his head sadly. “Oh, young Vic ain't all that bad.”

“Who's talking about Vic?” Johnny asked.

“Surely you don't mean pore ol' hardworking Luke!” Coot exclaimed. “He does drink too much, though Lord knows he's got reason to.”

“No, I don't mean Luke, and I'm sure not low-rating myself. You figure out who's the party in question.”

“I resent those remarks, so I'll jest pass over them with silence,” Coot said, assuming an attitude of sorely tried dignity.

“A refreshing change, especially the silence part. I'm looking forward to it.” Johnny eyed the horse tracks at the knoll, studying on them. “Three or four watchers, from the look of things. Those are marks of iron horseshoes, so they're not Indians. That and the cigarette butts pretty well prove that. Could they be rustlers, maybe?”

“No sign that any of the stock's been run off, Johnny. And rustlers are more likely to stay away from the ranch house, not close to it. They been watching us!”

“Dry-gulchers, maybe. Ambushers.” Johnny sounded undisturbed by the prospect.

“There's more,” Coot continued. “T'other night while you and Luke was in town, I seed lights in the cut. Torches, I'd say. Been meaning to mention it to you, but I plumb forgot.”

“Better late than never.” Unconsciously, Johnny ran his hands over the omnipresent twin Colts in hip holsters, but for him, it was only the beginning. A veteran pistol fighter in the Missouri Long Rider tradition, he had armed himself with several other revolvers—one worn in the top of his waistband and a smaller caliber gun tucked in his pants at the small of his back.

Coot Dooley had a well-worn .44 at his right hip, a tomahawk-style war hatchet and knife at his belt, and a Spencer carbine in his saddle scabbard.

“The tracks lead over to the Breaks. Let's follow them and see where they lead,” Johnny said.

They mounted up, pointing their horses west toward the hills. No rain had fallen for the last few days, so the tracks remained intact. Sunlight at the riders' backs threw a golden glow on the foothills, the light climbing ever higher on the range as the sun rose.

Johnny and Coot threw long shadows as they neared the vertical rock walls looming ahead. A keen-eyed search unearthed another spot that the unknown watchers had used as an observation post to spy on the ranch. Sets of tracks indicated that the Unseen had made more than one such visit in the past few days.

All the tracks came from the cut—Cross's Cut, as it was called—and returned there. It was a pass running east-west through the Breaks into Wild Horse Canyon, which ran west of and parallel to the north-south range of hills.

They rode into the cut. It was several hundred yards wide and a half mile long. Purple-blue shadows lay at the far end of the passage where the sunlight had not yet reached. The two rode to the cut's western mouth at the opposite end.

The Breaks was not a single range but a group of several ranges of high rocky limestone hills and ridges running north-south. Wild Horse Canyon lay between the eastern range and the next long parallel ridge of the Breaks. It was well-watered with good grazing land. Hundreds of free-roving mustangs lived there, using it as a corridor to access a wide expanse of grassy valleys nestled in the hills. The terrain featured lots of side-pockets, draws, and gaps—good hiding places.

As a place of refuge for the hunted, it attracted not only wild horses but wild men. Indians, outlaws, fugitives, hermits, half-crazed solitary wayfarers, and such had all made the canyon their home at one time or another.

The canyon was cool and hazy, the grass dewy. Chuckling, purling sounds of streams and rivulets could be heard throughout the canyon.

“No mustangs to be seen hereabouts today, Johnny.”

“Could be they were scared off by strangers, Coot. Plenty of comings and goings here lately,” Johnny said, indicating tracks on the turf.

It was easy to tell the difference between the hoofprints of wild horses and those of mounted men. Mustangs went unshod. The horses of men bore the unmistakable imprint of iron horseshoes. Indian ponies were often unshod, but the hoofprints of mounted men dug deeper into the ground due to their heavier weight.

Any number of tracks were laid down over the springy turf. The strangers never traveled alone, always riding in groups of no fewer than three men at one time, and often as many as a half dozen. They not only went back and forth to the cut but south toward the Notch and Buffalo Hump, too far distant to be seen.

“Most of them tracks lead farther north,” Coot said.

“Let's follow them,” said Johnny.

Follow them they did.

The cool morning air was freshened with moisture from the many streams of the canyon. Ghostly fleeting images of horses in the distance flitted in and out of sight, quick and elusive as cloud shadows.

Johnny and Coot rode on for several miles. They were watchful, talking little. Tracks of intruders curved to the left going from Wild Horse Canyon into the pass that ran through the western spine of the Breaks to the plains and the limitless Llano beyond.

A massive rock buttress shouldered deep into the western pass, forcing Johnny and Coot to go around it to proceed farther.

“Looks like that's where them rascals have been coming from,” Coot said, leaning to one side in the saddle for a better look at the horse tracks.

“And here they are,” Johnny declared flatly, his soft-spoken voice quivering with implicit menace. Menace that radiated, not menace felt.

Rounding the blind corner of the rock limb, Johnny and Coot suddenly saw a group of riders coming from the west end of the pass. Johnny's thumbs stealthily slipped the rawhide thong loops at the tops of his twin holstered Colts, readying them for action. He and Coot were confronted by five well-armed strangers.

A stir went through the others at the sight of the duo. Low mean laughter sounded.

Johnny and Coot looked cool, unflappable. And why not? Both had made a longtime habit of riding into trouble and, what's more important, riding out of it. They might have been out for a pleasant Sunday ride, so calm and unaffected did they seem. Unruffled as a clear pond surface on a windless day.

A close observer might have noticed a peculiar change come over Johnny's eyes. Ordinarily, they were hazel in color, a kind of yellow-brownish hue. They were changeable by nature, sometimes shading more yellow than brown, other times more brown than yellow. Their color could depend on many things of the moment—the season, time of day or night, the light or lack of it and, especially, Johnny's mercurial moods.

When he was heading into trouble, the yellow hue predominated, giving his eyes a catlike glow as if shining with an eerie inner light. For more than a few men, those shiny yellow orbs were the last thing they saw in this life.