The confederate 3, p.14
The Confederate 3, page 14
“Now?” she asked in a dreamy tone.
“Yes. I need you badly.” He kissed her breasts again, both hands cupping her round, firm buttocks.
“Right here?”
“Why not?”
“I … I’ve never done it in the water.”
“Neither have I. We’ll learn something new together.”
Remarkably, Jennifer giggled. “That’s what I told my children when we started a new lesson in the school at St. Joseph.”
“You’ll find me an apt and eager pupil,” Griffin told her, thrusting his hips forward so that the pulsing tip of his manhood pressed against her.
Water swirled violently as Jennifer changed positions. Once they both had a firm footing, Griffin lifted her slightly while she guided him, her soft touch on his turgid phallus sending maddening sensations jangling through his body. He felt the folds part and the warmth of her inner recesses, then slowly lowered her until he had penetrated to the very core of her being.
“Oh … Griff … Griff … Griff!” Jennifer cried in ecstasy.
They never managed to lay out the picnic spread. Through the long afternoon, they made love in half a dozen inventive ways and had to eat their lunch on the ride back to the fort. Neither of them, they admitted to each other through smug smiles, minded that a bit.
Temple Ames made thirty miles the first day. He was well on the way to doing forty the next, when he came upon the first homestead.
Flames had eaten through the wooden support beams for the sod ceiling and it had collapsed inward. Accustomed to such sights, Temple made no attempt to examine what might lie underneath. A man’s body sprawled in the farmyard, well gnawed by predators and bloated from the sun. He had been scalped. Beside the casement to the well, Temple found the corpse of a small boy of ten or so. He, likewise had been scalped. Arrows festooned his small, thin back. Under a large cottonwood shade tree at the back of the soddy, a girl of twelve or so lay, staked out with rawhide thongs and pegs. A pool of blood between her thighs indicated that she had been raped to death. Her hair, too, had been taken. It had all the right look for an Indian raid.
But did it? Temple examined the ground again. Moccasin prints, all right. And unshod hoofmarks. Arrows in the boy’s back, everyone visible, scalped. Indians, sure enough. Yet, something seemed amiss to the experienced frontiersman. That hole, for instance, in the farmer’s chest with the broken-shafted arrow in it. It appeared a bit round for a steel war point, or even one made of flint. He knelt and looked closer.
No inspiration came. He took time to bury the dead, mound rocks over them and then rode on.
Two miles away he came upon another ravaged farm. In the half-burned barn, where they had apparently gone to hide, three children, a boy and two girls; lay dead in puddles of dried blood. Their hair had been lifted and the lad’s skull smashed with an axe. The girls had their throats slit. The homesteader and his young wife had forted up in the house, Temple observed. They might have made it if their children had not been found by the raiders. Apparently enraged, the farmer made the fatal mistake of opening the door and rushing out. He lay face down on the small porch, his scalp carved and an arrowhead protruding from his back. The feathered ends of two more could be seen extending from under his body. Thinking through that sort of tactic just didn’t fit with Indians, Temple reasoned. He rose from his squatting position and entered the house.
The wife had taken a long time to die. From the signs she had provided considerable entertainment to those who had used her in various degrading ways. Strangely, the house had not been burned. It had been looted, though, Temple noticed. Quite un-Indian to his way of thinking. Yet, all the signs pointed to a raid by Cheyenne. Cheyenne stitch patterns and shapes to moccasin prints. The red-ringed arrows. Wait a minute, Temple told himself. One of the arrows in that little boy had the yellow and blue lengthwise stripes of a Shoshone design. So had two of the ones sticking in the dead man on the porch. The kid in the barn had too much damage to his skull for it to have been a tomahawk.
More like a big chopping axe. Swiftly he went outside and looked around. In a few minutes he located a bloody axe beside the chopping block and stacked cordwood. Now, why would an Indian do a thing like that? The question bothered him. He thought about it while he dug graves.
The day had ended by the time Temple had buried the unfortunate family. He spent the night in the barn and rode on at the first light of dawn. The third place he found destroyed decided him. He turned his horse to the northwest and set off at a rapid pace for the small army post he had left behind.
“It could have been Injuns done massacred those homesteaders,” Temple reported to Damien. Griffin stood to one side, listening intently.
“How do you mean, ‘it could’?”
“Well, this chile has seen a goodly share of killin’s done by the Sioux and Cheyenne. Even the Snakes and Crow. To all outward appearances, these folks had been done in by some hostiles out to avenge the raids on Cheyenne camps.” He paused, shared a knowing look with the other two men.
“Then there’s all that talk about it bein’ Snakes raidin’ an’ the Cheyenne know it. They had that evidence, too. So, if they know it ain’t whites, why raid ’em. And I did see three Snake arrows. Yeller an’ blue they were painted, long stripes on the shafts.
“You ast this chile an’ he’d have to say that it ain’t likely that no Shoshone are ridin’ with the Cheyenne to get revenge on anybody. All the same, this thing needs lookin’ into by more than one man.”
“I’ve already sent a telegram to Fort Kearny for authorization to conduct an investigation. I want you to go with them, Temple. And you, too, Griff. Be ready to ride out first thing in the morning.”
The authorization had come through quickly, somewhat faster than usual. Young Lieutenant Philmore Harding had been assigned to lead the patrol. The prospect didn’t delight Griffin. If anything, Harding lacked even more as an officer and a leader of men than the unfortunate Lieutenant Wagner. Worse, Harding came from a proper Bostonian family, straight from the Back Bay to Harvard and West Point. Why he had ever chosen the army, Griff had no way of knowing. Why the army had accepted Harding was an even greater mystery, to Griff’s way of thinking.
“Do you really have to go, Griff?” Jennifer asked an hour later.
“Yes. Damien wants me to look this thing over. A polite way of saying he wants me to hold Phil Harding’s hand. The boy is still wet behind the ears. He lacks experience and, if this really is an uprising, he is likely to get himself and his entire command wiped out without someone along as a steadying influence.”
“But why you?”
“There isn’t anyone else that doesn’t outrank him. Then it wouldn’t be his command. Temple he considers common trash, below even speaking to except to give orders and take scouting reports. Granted, I am a Southerner, the worst sort of human being to Harding, and a former Confederate officer, which to him makes me more monster than man. Even so, he knows that I have experience and have engaged in a bit of Indian fighting. Asking advice from a civilian, who happens to be a graduate of the Point, is somewhat easier than lowering one’s self to seek assistance from a runaway waif who grew up to be a trapper and frontier scout.”
“You make him sound so … stuffy.”
“Rigid is the word, Jenny. Stiff and unbending. Harding is a self-righteous puritan at his self-convinced worst. It’s funny that they are so confident.”
“Why is that?”
“Did you know that Oliver Cromwell, the founder of the sect that later became known as the Puritans, was once a blood-thirsty pirate? He raided Spanish silver ships off the coast of Mexico. Used his prize money to organize his cult and finance an army to overthrow King James. When the years went by and Cromwell and his Roundheads were ousted by Charles the Second, the survivors were exiled to other countries in Europe. Their habit of mixing subversive politics with religion got them thrown out of every country they entered. Eventually they wound up in New England.”
“Surely they are not like that anymore.”
“On the contrary. There are more Carpetbaggers in the Reconstruction Government with Boston accents than any other kind. It’s their nature to destroy in the name of their own brand of righteousness.”
“If you dislike Harding so much, why are you going with him?”
“To keep him from killing a lot of good men and making a complete ass of himself.”
Dawn laid a pale rose bar along the eastern horizon as Lieutenant Harding’s patrol rode out through the gate of Damien’s earthen encampment. At the head of the column, Harding rode alone, with Griffin Stark and Temple Ames a length behind him. Jennifer Carmichael accompanied them for the first two miles, then blew a kiss to Griffin and turned away to take an early morning ride before breakfast. The platoon trotted away over the rolling prairie and were soon lost to sight.
Jennifer sighed, already missing Griffin’s kisses and his vigorous lovemaking. He was always kind and considerate of her own needs, never rushing and never rolling over to fall asleep after satisfying his own desires. She listened to the trilling of the meadowlarks and mockingbirds and thought that life could never be so complete. She would ride for an hour, she decided, then return.
“That’s the one, ain’t it?” a whiskered-faced hard case said softly to the man beside him in the draw.
Masked by a copse of cottonwood, they could not be seen by the slender young woman who rode in their direction.
“Yep. She’s the Carmichael girl. We’ll wait until she gets right on top of us, then ride out. Two of us could take her easy. With five, it’ll be a snap.”
Jennifer reined her horse to the right to run parallel along the ravine when suddenly five men jumped their mounts up out of the draw and ranged themselves in a tight semicircle around her.
“Hi, there, Missy,” the apparent leader leered. “’Member me back at Fort Kearny?”
“She sure is a tasty lookin’ piece, ain’t she?” drooled a rodent-faced man in greasy buckskins.
“Would you men please get out of my way? I am Captain Carmichael’s sister. It will go hard with you if you don’t.”
“Missy, because you are the captain’s sister is why we’re here. We’re gonna take you for a little ride.”
“In and out of the saddle, if I get my say,” the rat faced gunslinger chortled.
Jennifer tried to reach the revolver in her purse, but she moved too late. The nearest man plucked the small handbag from her fingers and probed inside.
“Lookie here, a real ladylike shootin’ iron. Now you wouldn’t have wanted to use that on us, would you?”
Temper flared and Jennifer’s nostrils dilated as she snapped at them. “You’re damned right I would.”
“Tie her up.” The leader snatched her reins while two others moved in to secure her hands behind her back. Then they kicked their animals to a gallop to put distance between them and the walls of Damien’s outpost.
Chapter Fourteen
“CONGRATULATIONS, COLONEL,” ALBERT Treadwell exclaimed as he held a tulip glass of champagne to the light of a window to study the bubbles rising in the wine. “The Rocky Mountain Railroad has pushed its main line to the Montana border. Your field administrative talents are obviously better put to this project than your previous endeavors to obtain the elimination of Griffin Stark and the Carmichaels.”
“Thank you, Mr. Treadwell.” Chester Braithwaite decided to keep his own counsel on his present plan to capture and dispose of the troublesome trio until it reached fruition.
Albert drank deeply of the effervescent wine and held his glass out for a servant to pour more. He, his brother Arthur, Braithwaite and Partridge of the Rocky Mountain Railroad were seated in the luxurious private car at the rear of the work train, some two hundred yards inside Montana Territory. By the end of the day’s work, the track would be extended for a mile toward Fort Smith. From there it would run at a northwest angle through the territory to the Washington border and, according to their spurious claims with the Department of the Interior, on through the Pacific Northwest. Albert Treadwell maintained his pleasant composure while everyone drank and exchanged compliments on the progress of the line. Then his usual, serious mood took over.
“We will have to accelerate the removal of, ah, obstacles. In particular the Indians and what settlers and miners have claimed land in Montana. Make arrangements accordingly, Colonel, and see that this marvelous progress of yours is not slowed down.”
“What about the army?”
“A mere trifle. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law,’ ” he quoted. “Once we have track down, the army will be obliged to protect us. Our friends in Washington City have seen to it that the line enjoys a sterling reputation among lawmakers. Any question of the legitimacy of our expansion has been rigorously put down. Our stock is high on the board of trade, also. The money keeps pouring in. Fortunately, these financial sheep are unaware that they are helping finance their own shearing, once we control the major source of meat in the country. Yes, our plan goes well. Jonathan Chancellor is doing a fine job in Denver, too. Tell me,” he asked, changing the subject slightly, “at the present rate of advance, how long will it take to cross Montana?”
Colonel Braithwaite thought a moment. “Given good weather, six weeks. Two months at the outside.”
“Fine. Fine. Then we can start moving cattle up here at once. Huge herds, gentlemen. All we can buy in Texas. When we get done, there won’t be a beef cow south of the Nebraska line.”
“What if some of the Texas cattlemen won’t sell?” Arthur inquired.
“Then they might lose their livestock, am I right, Mr. Treadwell?” Chester Braithwaite replied. “Rustlers, disease, poison … there are a number of ways to make sure we have control.”
“Your grasp of the situation is rewarding, Colonel … er, may I call you Chet?”
A warm glow spread in the ex-Confederate colonel’s chest. After the long years of work, much of it unproductive and dangerous, he was at last being made a confidant of the inner circle of the consortium. “Why, yes, yes sir. I’m honored.”
“You’ve too long gone without proper recognition, Chet. As you were told, when work progressed, stock options were being taken up in your name and set aside. It is now my pleasure to announce that you have been made a member… a very junior member, but one of us all the same … of the board of directors of the Federated Rail Consortium, with all the voting privileges thereof.”
“I … I’m overwhelmed. I can’t begin to express my pleasure and gratitude. Thank you, Mr. Treadwell, thanks to all of the board.”
“Keep doing your job as you have the past year and that’s all the thanks we ask. Now, then, I’m sure there are other matters you all have to attend to. There will be a strategy meeting tomorrow morning at nine sharp to deal with these, ah, obstacles we mentioned earlier. Again, congratulations on a job well done.”
The men rose to leave and, as they passed through the door, Albert spoke again. “Ah … Arthur, will you remain a moment, please?”
Alone in the car, brother faced brother. Gone was Albert’s jovial countenance. His smile had been replaced by a grim line, and a stern frown creased his brow. He walked to the sideboard, where the steward had left an open bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild champagne. He poured a glass for himself, but none for Arthur. After an appreciative sip, he whirled suddenly on his younger brother.
“You’ve been a bad boy again, Arthur.”
“I … I was only …”
The elder Treadwell held up a long-fingered hand to silence his sibling. “No excuses, brother mine. I’ve heard them all. At one time I thought sending you out here would end these embarrassing incidents. I sympathize with your affliction, believe me I do. And one day, Griffin Stark will pay for it. What I cannot conceive of is your means of compensating for this, ah, deformity.
“I have learned that you have given instructions privately to some of Braithwaite’s subordinates to provide you with choice specimens from among the homesteader families. One mistake there, my dear little brother, and we could all find ourselves looking at the inside bars of a jail cell.”
“You called him Chet before,” Arthur riposted quickly in an attempt to take the heat off himself.
“I loathe the man. His arrogance is insufferable. But the only way to keep him in line and obedient is to reward him … lavishly reward him. Of what influence do you consider his vote of a thousand shares, compared to my own one hundred thousand, or your fifty thousand, or any of those of our fellow members? His position is a gesture. But it pleases him, so he will work even harder to please us. Let’s return to what I was saying before, eh?”
Arthur blanched and took an unconscious backward step from the fury that radiated from his older brother. The worst thing, he realized, was that he had no idea himself why he did as he did. Suddenly, unwilled, the maddening urge would come on him to hurt someone. No, not someone, some woman, a female of any age or race. He simply had to do it. Tears swam behind his eyelids and he shook his head in resignation.
“Arthur,” Albert Treadwell went on in a kinder tone. “It is your body that betrays you. Perhaps I acted rashly. I should have listened to what the doctor suggested and let him complete the terrible deed. You had already lost the ability. Had I allowed you to be gelded, you would have also lost the urge. You see, I blame myself, in part, for what you have become.”
“W-what do you mean, ‘what I have become’?”
“I’m sorry, Arthur, but there is no kind way to say this. You have become a monster, a fiend. You are driven by the vigorous sap that courses through your veins with no normal means of outlet. If you cannot control yourself, if you cannot conquer this obsession, at least be discreet.
“Every large city has a flock of waifs. Abandoned or orphaned children, many of them, woods colts, born of the lowest prostitutes. None of them would be greatly missed if one happened to survive your attentions. Arrange for some of their number to be provided for your entertainment. That way, rest assured that the power of the consortium will stand solidly behind you to protect you from the consequences. There are enough police officers, prosecutors, and judges who receive their monthly envelope from our representatives to guarantee no official action. Anything short of that, we have enough men like Braithwaite to ensure that nothing will be done. Trust me, Arthur. I am your brother and I care greatly for you and your well-being. I will stand by you, no matter. But we must avoid public scandal. Try it this way and see if it doesn’t prove a wiser course.”
