Killer's Breed Page 8

  "Far from here?" Jordan asked in a hushed whisper, clutching at the hilt of his saber.

  "It all looks different now," Rhett answered in a similar tone, looking about nervously, not trusting Forrest and the others.

  "That you, Bob?" It was Hal Douglas's voice, from ahead and to the right.

  "Yes." Rhett's relief was evident in the single word.

  "Show yourselves," Jordan demanded harshly, again using anger to conceal his fear.

  "Over here, Captain," Roger Bell called, from a different direction. Billy Seward giggled and Jordan started to swing into a fast turn, suspecting something was wrong as he realized he was surrounded. He stared into the grinning face of Frank Forrest and it was as if he were rooted to the spot by the glittering hatred in the humorless eyes. Seward giggled again and Jordan felt his body begin to quake.

  "Where's the captured..." Jordan started.

  "Made a mistake," Forrest cut in coldly. "Easy to make a mistake in the dark, Captain. Reb turned out to be nothing but a dead polecat." The lips drew back further, widening the grin, making it more evil. "But now we got us a live skunk."

  "He sure enough smells like one," John Scott said, close to Jordan's ear.

  The captain snatched a glance around and saw the five men were closing in on him.

  "Nah," Forrest corrected. "Real skunks don't smell as bad as he does. Ain't nothing that cures the constipation like a dose of fear."

  "Captain's shot," Douglas said, holding his nose.

  Jordan swallowed hard and took a step backwards, bouncing into Rhett. The dandy faked a feminine squeal of delight. "You offering, Oliver?"

  All the taunters broke into laughter.

  "You'll all be court-martialed," Jordan said, his tone rising.

  Forrest curtailed his amusement and smashed an iron hard fist into the captain's stomach. Jordan gasped and bent double.

  "He is!" Rhett squealed. "He is offering. I don't wish to boast, but how about a foot to start?"

  Laughing, Rhett stepped back and then brought his leg forward in a fast swing. The toe of his boot landed hard, with a squelching sound, between Jordan's buttocks and as the officer shot forward Forrest stepped to the side and brought the heel of his hand crashing down upon the exposed neck. The captain pitched to the ground, his breathing ragged as he hovered on the verge of unconsciousness.

  "We really gain' to kill him, Frank?" he heard Scott ask. The words seemed to come from a great distance and have no connection with him.

  "Scared?" Forrest's tone was derisive.

  "Won't be us," Douglas muttered. "Be the rebs."

  "What if they don't believe us?" Scott again, still nervous.

  "They will," Forrest answered. "Long as we make it look good. String him up. Gag him, first. Don't want the damn army to come running till we're ready."

  Realization fought through the pain as Jordan felt himself lifted up by the armpits and he opened his mouth to plead for his life, to promise that the men would be rewarded if they spared him. But as his lower lip dropped a vile-tasting sock was thrust into his mouth and fastened there by a kerchief stretched across the lower half of his face and knotted tightly against the swelling on the back of his neck. His leg muscles refused to function and Scott and Rhett had to hold him upright as Seward tied his hands in front of him. He was then carried to the foot of an elm and Forrest drew his saber as Seward tossed the loose end of the rope over the tree's lowest branch.

  "Couple of feet is all," Forrest instructed as Bell scrambled up the tree and out along the branch. Jordan, his eyes bulging, cheeks bulbous over the constricting kerchief, felt himself held aloft by his captors. Bell knotted the rope, whistled, and the hands which had supported Jordan, released him. His arms jerked painfully in their sockets as his body dropped through space and jerked to a halt as the rope became taut. He rotated helplessly in midair, the sounds of his pain mere muffled croaks through the gag.

  Forrest tested the sharpness of the saber against his thumb and grinned when he drew blood. Seward giggled inanely, his boyish features a mask of evil anticipation.

  "What you goin' a do, Frank?" he asked with high excitement.

  "Teach this crud a lesson he won't forget," Forrest answered.

  "Probably because he won't have much time in which to forget it," Rhett suggested.

  Forrest had waited patiently for Jordan's body to stop turning. Now he set the captain swinging with a vicious two-handed shove in his stomach. "Education is a marvelous thing, Bob," he said evenly, watching the pendulum movement of the captive's body. Suddenly he shot out a hand and, as Jordan's legs came forward the saber blade swished. Every ounce of Forrest's strength was behind the blow and the blade cut cleanly through Jordan's right ankle, power and sharpness slicing leather, worsted, flesh and bone.

  The dismembered foot dropped to the ground like a stone. "I went to a tougher school."

  "Jesus," Scott whispered a moment before he retched.

  Jordan's muffled scream was no more than a pathetic gurgle. Seward giggled, waited for the swing to carry the captain back and then launched out with a mighty kick that sent the severed foot sailing into the trees.

  "Turns?" Rhett shrieked in a paroxysm of delight.

  Forrest grinned as he surrendered the saber, and then gave the swinging body another shove as Rhett moved behind Jordan. He raised the weapon and held it rock still, allowing the momentum of the captain's body to bring the flesh on to the point. Jordan's agony was shown by a violent jerking on the end of the rope as the blade sank between his buttocks.

  "Old Bob always gets to the bottom of things," Seward yelled as he snatched the saber from Jordan's flesh, turned the blade edge on to the dangling form and sent a hacking blow into the back of the left knee.

  Merciful unconsciousness snatched Jordan from his torment as Seward's strength failed to completely sever the joint and the leg swung on a few stretched tendons, pouring more blood on the already drenched earth.

  "You can't never do nothing right," Douglas accused, grasping the hanging leg and wrenching it free, then tossing it after the foot.

  Scott, his nausea finished, looked up through the darkness into Jordan's face. The captain's head hung forward between his raised arms, resting on his chest. "I think he's dead, Frank," he said.

  Bell spat. "I never get to have any fun," he complained.

  Forrest snatched the saber from the giggling Seward and tossed it to Bell. Blood sprayed from the blade as Bell caught it. "Finish off the bastard, Rog." He shrugged. "He might be fooling us."

  "Swing him, Frank."

  Forrest nodded and shoved at the dead weight. He and the others stepped back as Bell moved into line, waited a few moments as he savored the kill, then sprang into a short run. The point sank into Jordan's stomach low down and then the curved blade drove up through his intestines and burst out at the small of his back.

  Rhett winced, "Bet that hurt."

  "Only when he laughs," Douglas countered.

  "He ain't even smiling," Forrest pointed out, decorating his own grizzled countenance with an evil grin. "Reckon that's it. Captain Oliver Jordan won't be throwing his weight around and then riding out on us no more."

  "How we goin' a tell it, Frank?" Seward said when they had all looked at Jordan's body, slowing in its swing, for several moments. "You didn't tell us about that part."

  Forrest turned his glittering eyes towards Rhett and the others followed the direction of his gaze. The dandy suddenly realized he had become the focus of attention and swallowed hard as he recognized the omen in Forrest's expression.

  "Guess some of the guys saw you leave camp with the captain?" His tone was even more ominous.

  "Hey, Frank," Rhett stammered. "You said you had a plan to arrange this so it would appear the rebels were responsible."

  Forrest nodded. "I have, Bob. But it needs a guy with brains to act it out so it'll be believed. Why I picked you, buddy. It might hurt you a little, but you ain't so yellow as he was, so you don't
have to die..." The grin was wiped away, to be replaced by a hard-faced scowl. "...not unless you don't act your part right and make McClellan believe it was the rebs attacked you and your sweetheart. You tell it like this..."

  It was very quiet in the wood now and since they were upwind of the Union Camp it was just possible to pick up the occasional sound—a burst of laughter or a rattle of tin bowls. But the men only had ears for Forrest's quiet words, each one of which sent a new spasm of trembling through Rhett's thin body.

  "Get the point?" Forrest concluded, his eyes boring into those of Rhett.

  The New Englander swallowed hard and nodded. Forrest grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. At this signal Douglas stepped in close behind Rhett and drove a knife hard into an area just right of center between the shoulder blades. As Rhett opened his mouth to scream, Forrest landed a vicious uppercut, turning the cry into a hiss of escaping air. The unconscious man fell into his arms and he tossed him roughly to the ground.

  "Yeah, he got it," Douglas said softly.

  "Not dead?"

  Douglas shook his head. "Dead men tell no tales. He better get found quick, though."

  "So let's go find him," Forrest said, and led the men away from the hanging, mutilated body of Jordan and the crumpled figure of Rhett.

  The Union army was as inept at sentry duty as in any other facet of war and getting back into camp unseen was no harder than it had been getting out.

  It was less than an hour later when Hedges was roused by a corporal on McClellan's staff and summoned to the commander-in-chief’s quarters. There was a litter resting on the ground close to the large tent, with a blanket thrown over it, following lines which were unmistakably those of a human form. It was not the first such draped body Hedges had seen. In the nearby field hospital tent he could see several figures moving about, their shadows thrown against the inner canvas by oil lamps. Then the corporal held open the flap and stood side to allow Hedges access to the general. The commanding officer was seated behind a small table covered with maps and papers scrawled with ciphers. He looked smaller than Hedges remembered him: and older. His eyes were red with fatigue and his response to Hedges' salute seemed to require a disproportionate amount of effort. His expression was grave.

  "At ease, Hedges," he murmured. "I'm afraid I've got some bad news. Unsavory and sad."

  The lieutenant felt he was expected to offer a comment, but confined his acknowledgement to a mere nod. McClellan cleared his throat.

  "Captain Jordan is dead. He was murdered in a most horrible fashion by a Confederate raiding party. He met his death whilst preparing to take part in an unnatural act with a soldier in his troop."

  Hedges showed emotion by narrowing his eyes a fraction more as he recalled Rhett's mincing progress through the camp earlier that night. McClellan seemed irritated by the lieutenant's silence. "Do you understand what I'm saying, man?" he barked.

  "Yes, sir," Hedges answered, snapping back to ramrod attention.

  The general nodded. "Good. The trooper was wounded but survived. A search party of the Headquarters Troop discovered the man and Jordan after they had been reported missing. The man is of no consequence. His wound will render him incapable of active service for some time to come and I have already dismissed him from my mind. Captain Jordan will be buried without military honors."

  "Yes, sir," Hedges said again when McClellan paused.

  "I am telling you this, Hedges, because the more senior the officer in my regiment, the more he must understand my thinking. I am promoting you to captain and putting you in command of D Troop—replacing Jordan. I am not a puritan, but there are some facets of the darker side of human nature which revolt me. You will convey to the men under your command that any trooper discovered engaging in unnatural practices, will receive the severest punishment it is in my power to impose."

  "Does that mean you'll shoot them, sir?" Hedges asked.

  McClellan allowed the tiniest smile to angle up the corners of his mouth. "You catch on quick, Captain Hedges. Any questions?"

  "No, sir."

  The general delved beneath the papers on his desk and held out the insignia of the new rank. Hedges took them without changing his impassive expression. "That's all, Captain."

  "Obliged." He saluted; executed an about-turn and left the commander-in-chief's tent. Outside he glanced down at the blanket-draped form of the dead Jordan. "It's an ill wind," he muttered before he moved away, thinking that Jamie would be able to put the extra money to good use at the farm.

  *****

  "I OUGHT to go and get the sheriff, mother," Grace Hope insisted. It was midday and the rain was still lancing from a low, slate-grey sky, exploding into beads against the windows, screening their view of the yard and the surrounding plainsland which had been turned into a sea of mud by the incessant downpour. The girl was at the stone sink, peeling vegetables while her mother stoked the range fire to roast the meat.

  The elder woman sniffed. "If there's a horse in the country couId haul a buggy through a storm like this, we ain't got it, child," she answered.

  "But you do agree that he's Josiah Hedges?" Grace asked.

  "Not you nor me can be sure of that, Grace," came the reply. "Neither of us ever saw a wanted poster for that feller. All we know is that the stranger keeps rambling about Jamie and a farm."

  "He's wanted in two states, mother," Grace pointed out. "He killed a man called Rhett in that very yard out there and then he shot a man named Tombs in Kansas."

  Margaret Hope was sweating as the fire burned hotter and she drew the back of her hand across her shining forehead. "I ain't disputing that a man named Hedges done that," she said. "And you could very well be right that the stranger is that very man. But he ain't in no fit state to cause any more trouble for awhile. He ain't even been through his crisis yet."

  "But he's getting better."

  Margaret nodded. "Yes, he is, child. Nature will have her way and try to drive him to his limit when she figures he's least likely to fight it. But he's stronger already and he'll win."

  Grace sighed and went to the window, rubbing at the smear of condensation with a clenched fist. By pressing her face hard against the damp pane she could just make out the oak tree with the mound and grave marker beneath it. When she had last looked, the rain had veiled every feature more than a few feet from the cottage.

  "I believe it's brightening a little," she opined.

  "About time it did," her mother answered.

  "As soon as it stops, I'm going to town." The girl's tone was brittle, challenging.

  "We'll see. Now get those peas shelled, child. Then attend to the bedroom fire."

  Grace took a final look out into the yard, feeling that the tree and the grave beneath it became sharper in outline as she watched. Then she returned to the pre-mealtime chores. She wanted desperately for the stranger to be taken away from the house, for every second he remained, naked and helpless a few feet from her, she felt her emotions drawn towards him with a powerful, invisible force.

  In the next room, unaware of the ambivalence his presence aroused in the mind of Grace Hope, Edge approached the high point of his fever as the angels of death gathered. It was not the first time they had hovered above him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HEDGES was heading a six-man patrol over the Blue Ridge, out of the Shenandoah Valley. It was mid-July now and the Virginia summer was proving it could be as hot as that which turned the wheat from green to gold in Iowa. The men who rode in a column behind Hedges—Forrest, Douglas, Bell, Scott, Seward and a youngster named Haskins—were valuable, if in a muttering key, in their low opinion of the heat and the harsh pace set by the newly promoted captain. Hedges chose to ignore their complaints, recognizing the need for them to express their discontent and deciding that harsh words provided a harmless outlet for their resentment.

  And resentment there was in full measure among the men comprising D Troop for although they saw in their new captain qualities of leadership far
superior to those Jordan had possessed, he had proved just as much a disciplinarian as his predecessor. More so, in fact, because he was not content simply to insure the men were smartly turned out. Hedges insisted on regular attention to the horses and supervise daily drill parades and target practice.

  It was said by the men of D Troop, that when next the enemy was engaged they would be sitting ducks, blinded by the gleam of buttons and shine of their horse harness. Certainly, as the patrol started down the eastern slope of the Ridge, the men and their mounts had never looked so clean and well turned out, with shaven jaws incongruously pale minus the protection of several days' growth of beard.

  D Troop was one of a number of units which had been dethatched from McClellan's army and ordered to push eastwards in all haste, towards a point known as Manassas Junction on the southwest bank of a Potomac River tributary called Bull Run. Intelligence reports indicated that a Confederate general named Beauregard had massed an army of some twenty thousand men in the area, squarely across the railroad route between Washington and the rebel capital of Richmond.

  The splintering of McClellan's army into small units, with instructions to take separate routes across the mountains and thus attract less attention from rebel agents, had been synchronized with the movement of thirty-five thousand Union soldiers south from Washington towards Manassas Junction.

  The briefing session had been as disorganized and handled as incompetently as every other aspect of the war so far. But from the maps he had seen spread upon McClellan's table, Hedges gathered that a rather unbalanced pincer-movement was planned, with the scattered troops coming down from the mountains to harass Beauregard's left flank while the army moving out of Washington under General McDowell hit hard at the front. He could recognize the basic soundness of such a plan but was concerned at the lack of co-ordination and his speed over the Blue Ridge was aimed at reaching Manassas before the battle commenced, perhaps enabling him to confer with McDowell's staff on tactics.