Wicked Temper Part 15

"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.

The pony kicked, a wolf went over, the pony shot ahead; Sergeant Pritt prevailed. The bridge and millhouse were soon behind them. Upward climbed the b.l.o.o.d.y soldier and wild-eyed mount. Echoes gagged on wind and snow down there--though he daren't glance back--for quite some time, he heard the long echoes of the death cave, the night feasting wolves.

He hated to shoot Ugly Flagg's pony. His thumb clicked back the hammer. He shot the pony.

More blood sprayed across the snow. What else could he do, with a chunk gone from the animal's haunch? They hadn't ascended all that far into deep white forest when Ugly Flagg's pony gave out.

In here, the trees thrashed but cut the wind in half. This fluffy woodland was dark, yet aglow. Leaving the dead pony, Sergeant turned, slogged a few feet uphill and discovered wide-plowed snowtracks. Had Akando seen them as well? It was hard to know in this midnight sheen; Akando's roan was so sleek its hoofprint would be lost if the roan trailed inside a drafthorse's great clods. And these clods here, they were made by a drafthorse. Mrs. Arbogast's stud. Obviously, Robby Loy had driven the powerful stud up through here. Obviously. Sergeant Pritt had blood-slashed legs, his dark face frosted with ice; but he was rock sure of these tracks.

He began to march. He might as well march. He was freezing to death.

Following the big tracks, pistol barrel back on his shoulder, Sergeant marched until his boots could march no more. Then he marched on his knees. Then, frozen and winded, he fell backward in the snowy trough. His march was over. Lying there, Sergeant waited for cold death to take him.

From deep inside his tomb, Sergeant sensed a ripple from a forest of h.o.a.r frost and gla.s.s. His half-sealed eyes looked upslope into dark s.h.i.+ning trees.

A pale man rode naked and astride, a black steed betwixt his pins.

The timber parted. Yes, the timber let them pa.s.s. Soundless, man and beast came back down their trail. The mighty horse blew steam but stopped, hushedly chomping as the naked man slid off the animal's unsaddled spine. Bare feet hit the snow. Robby Loy carried a blanket roll.

Sergeant was stricken. He couldn't move. His eyes shone with hate as the bare white devil knelt over him.

Suddenly--the Sergeant's gunbarrel was square in Robby Loy's brooding face. Faster than a schoolteach's derringer. Part of the Sergeant, part of his bitter being could still snap to attention after all. He c.o.c.ked back the Colt hammer.

Robby Loy held fast.

Sergeant squeezed his trigger. The empty chambers rotated, clicked. Futility fired, again, and again.

Robby Loy covered Sergeant, unrolling the blanket over his Union blues. Sergeant kept tripping the trigger, helplessly, until Robby pried the weapon from stiff fingers. He slid the Colt back into Sergeant's holster.

"Be d.a.m.ned," Robby Loy was burring, "you another black 'n."

Loy tucked the blanket around the frozen soldier. Sergeant felt the woolly fleece beneath his chin. Sleet-lipped, he could not speak. So Loy spake instead.

"Shouldn't o'follered me, soldier boy," he droned, soft as panther breath upon snow. "I kin see you a serious nigra. Man like myself. So I fergives ye fuh follerin me." Loy wiped ice from Sergeant's beard and brow, then whispered closer, "Don't suffer none. Ain't gone slay ye. Ye got troubles enough with that kilmoo to get shed of." Loy kissed proud flesh then closed the stiff hand. Loy stood up, tall and naked in the snow. He chuckled. "Once ye got ye own kilmoo, kilmoo ain't gone let ye be."

Moments later, thrusting a clefted chin, the bloodletter sat high on the black drafthorse. Sergeant's eyes followed as the blackhooved monster pranced full orbit around him, scarcely disturbing a drift. He, Sergeant, was left with a thought.

"So long, icy stripes. We the persecuted. Ain't we?"

Black Robby asked but was already going, man and horse, prancing away. The stolen beast carried Robby Loy up through the timber. Sergeant tried to rally. The bloodletter was slipping loose. Aching to catch and thwart his prey, Sergeant reached out for the fading vision of Robby Loy. But that witchtailed horse carried pale Robby off into the night. Where had the rider gone? Whose babe would his blade kiss next? Where had he come killing from? Why was he? Why was he? Sergeant's limp hand fell back across his blanketed breast.

His fingers landed in slime. A dark, gummy mucous.

Plagued, he lifted the blanket.

The blanket was a skin. Glossy black skin. The black fleece he held--the scalp of Akando's skinned out face.

Reborn in horrors of frenzy, Sergeant shucked Akando's skin. Akando's eyeholes stared blank ungolden holes in the Sergeant. And Sergeant screamed. He sprang away from the tracker's princely human hide. And where, oh where, were those elegant hands?--he screamed, screamed, screamed. Turning away from the abomination, Sergeant clutched again for the figment of the bloodletter Loy. Reborn in hatred, Sergeant chased upward through the snow, first on his brittle knees, then climbing afoot once again. And always, he screamed. For every scattered baby, every hop-to n.i.g.g.e.r, every rank indignity since Creation. He screamed.

Until the studhorse came plowing back at him.

Out of the trees, barebacked and angry, the snorting black beast galloped straight at Sergeant. Sergeant turned, ran, then fell into a heap as the horse leapt over. Eyes clenched, Sergeant clung to Akando's skin, the big horse pounding around and around them, great clod hooves kicking snow. Finally, the mountain stopped shaking. The horse stopped snorting. Sergeant took a peek.

The animal stood there, gently. But he was not the stolen drafthorse, he was no black monster. He was Akando's roan.

The roan whinnied before bursting into flames. Blue flame, then red, in seconds the burst lit up this fairy forest and melted the roan stallion into a hot pool of c.o.ke and tallow.

It was all Sergeant could do to jump and flee, tossing off Akando's empty skin, leaving behind the melted horse. He tumbled down the mountainside, fear giving him a strength he'd given up for gone. As he blindly plummeted through snowy wood, Sergeant heard footfalls crunching behind him. He knew it was Robby Loy--barefeet chasing after poor Sergeant Pritt. Robby Loy would slay him after all. Robby would wear the Sergeant's worn-out hide.

Hairy hands grabbed Sergeant by the shoulders; for a moment, Robby leapt upon the Sergeant's back. Imagine, his mercenary brain told his mercenary lungs. Imagine the turpitude and the glee when Sergeant's woebegone eyes cut back and saw who he was really trying to high, hard buck.

A wee hairy fellow hung upon Sergeant's coat. Breathing weird pig-slurping grunts into Sergeant's ear, the furhumped troll ran naked as a Robby. But, Robby it was not. Its nose was huge, absurd, with swollen nostrils. No mouth. The kilmoo had no mouth.

Sergeant threw off the kilmoo several times, finally shedding his fraidcoat altogether as his a.s.s sledded down plunging slopes. Such abject liverleaking cowardice in the teeth of conflict would have revolted Sergeant Pritt, on another winter's night. Tonight he ran buck agered and scared. And there, below, the burnt watermill stood sentry.

He was alive, in water.

Awaking in water.

Beyond frigid, he felt almost--zero. There was something wrong with his back. He couldn't drive his legs, or feel them. A twinkly sky, stark as a shotgun blast, clear. The snowpowdered bridge, high above him. Awaking, in water, he remembered.

Death. Screams.

A shot rang.

Five horses racing down at him, down through the watchfire. Another shot. Someone had cut the horses loose.

Up on that bridge, horses and wolves stampeding headlong over Sergeant, trampling him. He was knocked from the bridge. He fell. Everything after was delirium.

Now, floating here, Sergeant could see his choices with a stunning clarity. When the rosy cheeked jackals came, they would spot this break in the ice. He could be a frozen n.i.g.g.e.r down in this iceclad river. Or he could be a frozen n.i.g.g.e.r face down in the s...o...b..nk. Sergeant dragged himself across the unbroken ice to the sh.o.r.e. The blizzard had pa.s.sed. The calm made his bellycrawl easier. There was a prize waiting onsh.o.r.e.

Farther up the upgang, his Walker Colt revolver dangled in a shrub crowning the cottony embankment. The pistol hung on a lone h.o.a.rfrosted finger. Sergeant made it to that shrub, and he made it with no help below his waist. Thank G.o.d the pistol had landed with such fortune. Soaking wet, his body useless, Sergeant knew he would freeze to death shortly, but G.o.ddam them all, not shortly enough. He'd rather eat a bullet.

Sensation was returning to his torso. Violent s.h.i.+vers racked his arms, his ribs; nonetheless, Sergeant managed to pluck the gun from the shrub before he rolled out of the gorge onto the open field. He spun the cylinders and found them empty. He dumped millet onto the snow. His last six shots weren't in the millet. Well, who could forget? Ugly Flagg had stolen them. Sergeant had none of his bra.s.s mercies left. No sucking the iron nipple for this trooper. Ugly Dad Flagg had finally popped Sarge's b.u.t.ton. Ugly Flagg, and Black Robby Loy, and Mrs. Arbogast. One b.u.t.ton after another.

He wanted to die. He needed to die. A reprieve for the persecuted. For to end this white world's emanc.i.p.ation.

He looked up, then far and wide, and saw how truly wrong it all was. For all was right. There stood the watermill on a snowy winter's eve. But the mill was not a charred sh.e.l.l; its walls, windows and timbers were intact. Its waterwheel still poured a frozen waterfall into the crystal-locked river below. Alongside this perfectly fine fairy mill, deep drifts lay undisturbed across a swaying bridge.

There was no mistaking the soft crunch, the shuffle of feet. Those furthatched toenails danced around his head. The Sergeant looked up at the mouthless, squat-bodied kilmoo. Kilmoo's eyes made gongs look small. Kilmoo held out his mitt, opened three fingers, and let six s.h.i.+ning bullets spill upon the snow. Whereupon, the kilmoo s.n.a.t.c.hed a fistful of millet and shoved the snack, fist and all, up his double-barreled nose.

Sergeant did not smile. He laughed. He laughed. He laughed.

And laughing, he unfolded his bloodletter so he could read it aloud to his kilmoo. Then he loaded the gun.