The Miscreant (9 page)

Garran watched the two overseers out of the corner of his eye. “Get ready to go. I’ll be right behind you as soon as I’ve distracted them long enough for you to reach the trail. Ready…go!”

Colin dropped his axe and ran for all he was worth. His arms and legs pumped in perfect rhythm to propel him down the grassy lane as fast as they would go. He heard the guards shout and hoped Garran was going to be able to buy him the time he needed as well as get away himself.

Garran watched the soldiers’ reaction as Colin sprinted for the trail and found it rather impressive. The two guards standing near them raised a horn to their lips and blew a long, single note. Three mounted men back at the wagons guarding the larger work crew spurred their mounts into motion.

Had the horses been the massive, powerful destriers favored by armored cavalry, Colin might well have made good on his escape, at least until the dogs sniffed him out. Garran felt a little bad about lying to his new friend regarding the protection the water afforded him. It was a simple matter for the dogs and their handlers to follow the stream until they recovered the scent the moment the escapee stepped onto the shore. However, if he had told Colin the truth, he never would have made the attempt and given Garran the chance to see how the soldiers reacted to an actual escape.

The horses were the short but stout hill ponies favored by the highland folks for their surefootedness and unflagging stamina. Although their legs were short in comparison to cavalry horses, they were very strong and agile creatures and more like goats than horses when it came to maneuvering in rough terrain.

The stocky creatures leapt the fallen timbers, able to find purchase for their landing and make another jump in the smallest of openings. Their riders showed equal proficiency in maintaining their saddle throughout the jarring, bounding, and weaving pursuit.

Colin was halfway to the deer trail before the riders cleared the obstacle. Had it been a simple race, he might well have made it, but the soldiers were not without other means of stopping runaways. Two of the riders leveled brainers, weapons looking like crossbows with a wider, deeper flight groove, which launched a clay sphere filled with lead balls instead of a quarrel.

Garran could not possibly hear Colin’s shout or even read his lips at this distance, but the expression on his face made his inaudible words quite clear.

Colin turned his head toward the sound of the approaching horses and saw Garran idly observing the commotion. “Mother fu—!” Colin shouted before the orb struck him on the forehead and exploded in a spray of shattered clay, dust, and lead balls.

Colin’s body went limp, and he tumbled like a thrown rag doll onto the road, rolling to a stop at the head of the deer trail. One rider reined in near Garran while the other two cantered up to Colin’s limp body and slung him over one of the horses’ broad rumps.

Colin lifted his head slightly as he passed Garran, his eyes crossed and out of focus, a thin rivulet of blood tracking down his face from a cut on his forehead. “Sonofabitch…kill you…bastard…”

CHAPTER 7

The morning breakfast bell and rousing shouts broke the camp’s tranquility. Garran reluctantly crawled out of his sleeping roll, made extra comfortable by having the entire tent to himself, stretched, and melted the light dusting of snow at the base of a nearby tree as he relieved himself.

“Garran Holt!”

Startled, Garran spun around and faced two soldiers. “What?”

“Come with us,” the one to his left ordered.

“Can I finish this piss first? It was too cold to get up last night, and I’ve dammed up quite the lake in my bladder.”

Both men looked down and jumped back with a curse to avoid the stream that had already wetted their boots. They quickly sidestepped, grabbed the youth by his upper arms, and propelled him toward the center of camp.

“Hey,” Garran complained, “let a guy get a proper shake. Look, now I’ve spotted my trousers.”

“You’re gonna have a lot worse than spotted trousers in a minute.”

“Why, what did I do?”

Neither soldier answered as they grimly shoved Garran onward. The entire camp was gathered around one of the wagons with Colin and Cyril standing in the bed. Garran’s stomach twisted as he knew this did not bode well for him.

Cyril extended a hand and pulled Garran into the wagon. “Mr. Holt, I’m glad you could join us.”

“What’s this about? I didn’t run.”

“No, but you provided the motivation for Mr. Atterly’s attempted escape.”

Garran glared at Colin. “You snitched on me? That’s pretty low.”

“Lower than throwing me to the wolves?” Colin demanded, his own look of outrage mixed with incredulous disbelief.

“Yes. Ask any of the convicts down there, and they will tell you there is nothing worse than a snitch.”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Holt,” Cyril said. “Mr. Atterly refused to say a word against you.”

“Then how do you know I had anything to do with it?”

“Do you think me a stupid man, Mr. Holt?”

Garran sighed. “No, in fact I find you cleverer than most people I’ve known. It is perhaps your most annoying trait.”

“My wife would debate that with you for hours. Since you did not actually try to escape, I can’t rightly punish you for it. However, your corrosive influence on the naïve Mr. Atterly has caused some disruption to my camp and a challenge to my authority.” Cyril turned and faced the assembled workers. “I laid down the few simple rules I enforce and the punishment for breaking them. Young Mr. Atterly, through the coercive influence of Mr. Holt, chose to break them. Therefore, he shall receive two lashes, serve on kitchen detail, and forgo his breakfast and lunch today.”

The commander turned his eyes to Garran. “Mr. Holt will share the detail with Mr. Atterly, forfeit the first two meals of the day, and, since he enjoys being the conductor of nefarious schemes, shall be the one to administer Mr. Atterly’s whipping.”

“You can’t make me beat him!” Garran protested.

Cyril leaned in and said in a low tone, “You chose to beat him when you filled his head with foolish notions. You will give him two lashes, or one of my men will give him five. It’s your choice, Mr. Holt. Do not fret too much over the one-sided punishment. When you trip up and fall on your face, Mr. Atterly will return the favor, gladly I would guess.”

Garran looked at the leather strap Cyril shoved into his hand. He lifted his gaze and saw the lump the size of a child’s fist just right of center of Colin’s forehead.

“I’m sorry, Colin.”

“Garran, do you know what your apology and a pinecone have in common?”

“What?”

“You can stuff them both up your ass!”

“I’m glad to see you still have your sense of humor.”

“Go to hell.”

“Been on that road from the day I was born.”

Colin pulled his shirt over his head and presented his bare back. “Just get it over with.”

“Make them count, Mr. Holt, or you’ll do them again until they do,” Cyril warned.

The lash was not a whip or a scourge. It was a simple length of leather about seven feet long and frayed at the end, without the cruel barbs sometimes associated with the more sinister devices, but it was capable of delivering a painful beating without debilitating injury. This was a work camp after all, and a man was no good if he could not work. Garran whipped the lash forward and raised a welt on the back of Colin’s thigh.

“Ow, not on my legs, you idiot!”

“Sorry!” Garran shouted and snapped the lash forward once more, this time aiming higher.

Colin slapped his hand to the side of his head and nearly jumped out of the wagon. “That was my ear, you stupid sonofabitch!”

“I’m sorry; I’ve never whipped someone before! I don’t know how to aim this thing! I’ll get it right this time, I promise!”

Cyril grabbed Garran’s wrist and stripped the lash from his shaking hand. “That’ll do, Mr. Holt,” the commander said, quivering from the effort to keep from laughing. “Go get pails from the cook staff and bring up some wash water.”

The two young men retrieved a pair of buckets each and made for the creek, with two soldiers and a dog acting as escort. Colin did not speak. Garran continually glanced over at him as they walked, unable to avoid looking at his throbbing, bright red ear.

“I really am sorry,” Garran tried again as he filled his buckets.

“You’re a real bastard and a sonofabitch, you know that?”

Garran nodded. “I am aware of my less favorable traits.”

“You never had any intention of trying to escape, did you?”

“Not like that, no.”

“Why did you talk me into it then? Is seeing me bludgeoned unconscious and whipped amusing to you?”

“Well…not the whipping part, but the look on your face when that brainer hit you was classic.”

“Oh, screw you.”

“Come on, if it had been me and you saw what I saw, you would have laughed your ass off.”

“Yeah, now, but not then! Why me? I thought we were friends.”

“We are…sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“The fact that this is at all surprising to you is an obvious indication that you don’t know me very well. How can you call someone a friend, a real friend, when you don’t even know them? Maybe I have a higher regard for what it means to be a friend.”

“A higher regard…! I didn’t tell on you even though I was madder than I have ever been in my life! If that’s not a friend, I don’t know what is.”

“So we’re still friends then?”

“No, we’re not friends!”

“But you just said not telling on me was the greatest sign of friendship you know, so obviously we must still be friends or you would have told on me.”

Colin stared into the water as he tried to devise an argument to counter Garran’s logic. “I didn’t have to. Commander Godfrey already knew.”

“I don’t buy it. We’re still friends. Besides, what other options do you have? This camp is mostly violent criminals.”

“At least they might show me a little appreciation after they screw me.”

“You’re just pissed right now, and I don’t blame you. I’m a little pissed at myself for putting you through all that. What can I do to make it right?”

Colin looked around, picked up a fist-sized pinecone, and handed it Garran.

“Pinecone…” Garran said uneasily.

“It’s a start.”

***

Garran and Colin scrubbed the plates and pots while the rest of the camp packed up to begin the next leg of their journey. Colin remained distant and quiet, but Garran could sense he was softening and let him be while they focused on their work. Garran looked up when someone set another iron pot next to him and smiled when he saw it was Rose.

Rose returned his smile, bent down, and whispered, “I left some food in there for you. Sorry, it’s gone cold.”

“It’s fine, thank you.”

Garran watched her walk back to the cook wagons and nudged Colin. “Here, you can have this.”

“Do you want to share it?”

“Naw, I’ll be fine. It’s not like riding in a wagon all day works up an appetite.”

Colin took the pot. “Thanks, but I’m still holding that pinecone in reserve if you screw me over again.”

“Fair enough.”

Colin used two fingers to scoop up the cold, congealed oats. “Why did you put me through all that if you never had any intention of escaping?”

“I needed to see how they reacted. It’s all about knowing your enemy. Simply running for it is a fool’s attempt.”

“Is that why you chose me, because I’m a fool?”

“Partly. You are trusting and just dim enough for me to manipulate.”

“You apologize for getting me whipped, starved, and almost killed yet still have the prickishness to call me stupid. I need to find a bigger pinecone.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.”

“Yet your natural affinity for the task allows you to succeed with remarkable results.”

“Some people are short, some are tall. Some are smart and others…not so much. It’s not an insult, simply an observation of fact.”

“I still don’t know why it had to be me. There are over a hundred men in this camp. I’m certain there are at least a few dumb enough to fall for your manipulations.”

“There certainly are, but few who would trust me enough. Besides, I already have one man who would like nothing more than to kill me. I’d rather not provoke more without good cause.”

“I’m pretty tempted to kill you.”

“Yeah, but you won’t.”

“I’m sure that will change once I really get to know you.”

Garran shrugged. “It usually does.”

***

The camp moved higher into the mountains as they marched onward toward the border. The temperature dropped and the snow deepened enough to leave a slushy, muddy mess as they passed. Garran imagined this would only increase the number of chores they would have to perform as part of their punishment.

Night fell and the workers and soldiers wrapped themselves in heavy cloaks and blankets and stood around campfires and braziers to ward off the highland chill. Garran and Colin cleaned the dinner meal’s pots, and Rose once again sneaked Garran extra food, for which he was grateful.

Returning the scoured cauldron to the kitchen wagon, Garran spied a bucket of bones and meat trimmings. “What is all that?” he asked Rose.

“That’s for the houndsman to feed the dogs. I need to take it to him, but it’s so cold out, and I don’t want to leave my fire.”

“I’ll take it to him. Where’s he at?”

Rose pointed toward the orange light of a campfire. “Over there near where they tether the horses.”

Garran took the bucket of scraps across the camp and approached a group of soldiers gathered around a fire. They watched him closely but did not challenge him until he stepped into the glowing ring of their fire.

“What do you want, boy?” one of the men asked.

“I have scraps for the dogs.”

“Leave ’em there. I’ll take it over once my balls thaw out.”

“I can take them, sir,” Garran offered.

The soldier jerked his head toward the makeshift kennels. “Fine, but don’t get too close. They’ll tear you apart given the chance.”

The hounds began barking and snarling when Garran came close to their pens, but they did not try to break free. These were trained working dogs, not some back-alley strays. He knew he could never prevent them from tracking him down when he escaped, but he could insinuate himself within the pack enough to keep them from raising a ruckus when he came near. He fed the scraps to each dog, a piece at a time, until the bucket was empty. With any luck, the animals would accept him as a friend and source of food instead of an intruder.

His and Colin’s days were long, starting before the sun came up, to make the cookfires, and not ending until they cleaned the plates and pots after dinner. Garran took on the extra duty of feeding the dogs after every meal with any scraps of food he could come up with.

It was midmorning when Cyril brought his mount alongside the wagon Garran was riding in. “Mr. Holt, you have surprised me.”

Garran looked up from polishing the big copper brazier the soldiers used to ward off the cold. “How’s that, Commander?”

“I thought you would give me far more grief performing your punishment detail.” He gave a nod to the three-foot in diameter concave disc. “Instead, you have gone beyond the scope of your duties.”

“What would causing more trouble accomplish other than making my life more miserable? Where else could I go?”

“I knew you were clever, but I didn’t take you for being smart. I guess even I can misjudge a man’s character once in a while.”

“It’s an understandable mistake, especially if you knew my history.”

Cyril nodded. “Keep up the good work. Maybe I’ll consider shortening your sentence.”

“That’s certainly a good incentive for me to work hard.”

Although the weather had been mild thus far, more than a foot of snow blanketed the pass, with even deeper drifts along the slopes, where the wind piled it like deep, white, ocean swells. It was bitterly cold, and several men elected to get out of the wagons and walk to generate some body heat despite the strength-sapping drudgery of slogging through the churned-up snow left by the advance riders.