Part 15 (1/2)

”Uf course, I remember ze poster uf Herr Robling Loy. He appeardt rezourceful as vell. Quite ze fugitive.”

”Loy's a vicious white devil.”

”Yes. Zere are many uf us.”

”I did not mean--”

”A soldier shouldt zay vat he means.”

”--I mean, this life is mean, Mister Kortsteinen. Colored people been ground to dust worse than anything that millwheel out there could o'mustered. Bein a old Buffalo troop like me, it grinds steadier, but no easier. You're new to this land, Mister Kortsteinen. I can respect your position. You can excuse my candor. I'm self-taught and tired of the learnin. Every day of my life, one day after t'other, I've been slave to white men that takes who they want when they want em from black mams like m'own. Turpitude. Turpitude that don't quit, not for my mam or none other. But nothin like this Robby Loy. That said, mebbe he don't see no shades at all. Mebbe he takes what he kin git, what's easy fer him,” Sergeant sighed, thinking of that fresh pink babyskin. ”Just like the Good Lord above. They say, He be jealous of other G.o.ds. Jealous. So what kind o'G.o.d is it, makes a white devil black with turpitude as Black Robby Loy?”

The German listened with a rotten pleasure the Sergeant did not appreciate.

”He us been--vat is ze syntax?--he us on ze march for some time now, nein? Undt long undt b.l.o.o.d.y campaign?” Kortsteinen folded into his blankets, supporting his wasting skull on an elbow.

Sergeant grunted, untying the squaw pouch; but the pouch felt wrong. ”Mizz Arbogast, she said he hired on as chief hosswhipper. Said he come from Emporia. Turns out, he come from a bushel o'places. But he did not come from Emporia.”

Kortsteinen smiled.

”Zo ve are not his first.”

”Huh?”

”Ve are not ze first to lendt pursuit.”

Sergeant Pritt had no comment. Instead, his dark finger stirred inside the squaw pouch, searching. Someone had stolen his last-charge bullets. There weren't any bra.s.s shots under his millet.

”I only remember zis vaunted man's face, you zee, mit his name on ze underneath,” the German added. ”Undt ze kindt lady's cash bounty.”

Eyeing Ugly Flagg's sleeping dome, Sergeant was thinking about Ugly fingers in his food pouch, thinking about stolen bullets. Thinking about the swill-swimming thief within arm's reach. Stack or Nothin' Bill could have been into his pouch, but they weren't. Sergeant was convinced at this point. That G.o.ddam Flagg would take and push and poke until the Sergeant's b.u.t.tons popped. Flagg had to show his rata.s.s boys who was boss. ”Have you any childern, Mister Kortsteinen,” Sergeant was asking soft, ”you ever been--?”

The cave ggggrrrumbled behind them. Both men turned, peering into the darkness, the deep receding bowels. A strong draft nearly s.n.a.t.c.hed away their flame.

”Vindspouts,” the German said, the gggrrrowl subsiding. ”Most caverns haf vindspouts,” he smilingly insisted, uncapping his flask. Another cough. ”Ze cave us breeeathing.”

Sergeant watched him drink.

”Windspouts. Never heard of em,” Sergeant confessed, his brown hangdog face unflinching.

Kortsteinen didn't care one way or the other. Let this schawrtze complete his education elsewhere. Kortsteinen was a pragmatist. He sunk lower and closed his eyes.

”I believe I'll be cuttin his head off.”

Kortsteinen reopened his eyes. ”Who?”

”Robby Loy. That's how we might tote him back to Mug Jump without discovery. His head ought be sufficient for identification.”

An arch Prussian eyebrow raised. ”Zat is undt intriguing thought. I haf a secondt letter for you, Sergeandt, directingk my funds to my desht.i.tute brother in Bitzbagen. You need not sendt mein head.”

”You'll make it--”

”I am doubting zat zeriously. And ze answer us--nein.”

”Nine?” Sergeant leant toward him, seeing the palpable s.h.i.+vers rippling Kortsteinen, sensing his true frailty for the first time.

”Nein. No wife wouldt haf me. I know uf no son nor daughter. What aboudt you? Where are your childer, Sergeandt Pritt?”

Sergeant dropped his gaze, began donning his gloves. ”Out in the territories, we were ordered to incinerate a deserted Chiricahua wickiup village, just one more among many. Burnt their council house, too. Later, in the ashes, we find a redskin woman's arm and teat huggin two papoose. She'd gone hiding em in that roundhouse, hadn't she? Now, why would she do such a thing? Unless, of course, they was all three dead when I lit that fire. Mebbe they was already dead when I lit it. No, Mister Otto. Never wanted wife or babe after that.”

Otho Kortsteinen sneered. ”But, veren't zay mad savages?” he said, then tipped back his flask.

This did not rate direct response from the Sergeant.

”Am I not ze raging Hun?”

Taking his gunbelt, Sergeant got up to leave.

”Breathe a sight longer if you'd let up on the rye whiskey. Mebbe you just ought let Stackhouse Seals swaller the rest. I'm goin out to relieve his watch.

Before Sergeant could exit the blue lamp, a mirthful Kortsteinen spake, foam upon his lips. ”Oh, but zis us not ze schnapps or viskey, mein friendt.” Eyelids heavy, his flask gave a toast. ”Zis us merely laudanum. Tincture of ze opiate, for ze pains. I never touch ardent schpirits.”

It was nearing midnight. Akando was grossly overdue.

Sergeant left the cave. He climbed up to the horses and relieved Stack, who was pleased to be relieved. Sergeant curried the animals then settled by the fire, secure with his full cartridge belt draped across his knee. He could only wait it out. For morning or Akando, whichever showed first. Sergeant took out his d.i.c.kens, began to read. Stack went down to the cave and joined the others in s...o...b..und slumber. The cave was dark but safe. The German was snoring drunk.

A short while later, the wolves came up from their overrun wolves' den and devoured the sleeping hunters.

Screams. Death screams of Seals.

A shot rang.

Horses. Sergeant remembered them sharply. Five horses racing down at him, down through the watchfire.

Another shot.

Someone had cut the horses loose.

Sergeant quit shooting into the wolfpacked cave--away, he ran--onto the slim suspension bridge; but midway, Sergeant felt the bridge heave, heard screaming horseflesh and he whirled around, whipping air with his gunbelt.

The horses galloped onto the bridge, vicious wolves at their haunches.

His own pony--a paint named Jill--barreled past Sergeant first, almost knocking him over the rope rail. Then, the rush of ice-sheeted water below, the snow nearly blinding him, one horse after another blew by the Sergeant. He clung to the bridge. He took a beating, but managed to snag the saddlehorn of the fifth and final pony, just ahead of the wolfpack. Singlehanded, Sergeant swung up into the saddle then beltwhipped Ugly Flagg's pony across the bridge, toward the burnt millhouse.

Clearing the bridge, Sergeant and pony were quickly swarmed by snarling wolfsnouts. The other four steeds had fanned out, scattering into the blizzard while Sergeant fired shot after shot at his whitefanged tormentors.

Ugly Flagg's pony was in full hoofrearing terror when Sergeant spun the animal, then sprang back across the bridge to escape. By now, the bridge rocked treacherously. Sergeant beltwhipped as the pony balked on the unsteady planks; Sergeant beltwhipped harder, cursing as the wolves tore into the pony's flank. The screaming pony reared up again, almost bucking the Sergeant. For a moment, Sergeant felt sure they'd all topple overboard into the river ice below. He needed two hands to stay in that saddle. A hand for gun and bridlerein; a hand to grip the horn. Another high, hard buck and his cartridge belt went twirling alone into the gorge.