“That hateful sonsabitch!” Goose Peltry yelled, standing up as his men opened fire on the troopers below. “He shot Otis Hirsh before Hirsh could bat an eye!” Goose jerked up his rifle from the rock beside him. “I will personally carve that Yankee bastard's heart out and eat it before it cools!” Rifle fire from the soldiers below zipped past Goose's head like mad hornets. He jacked round after round into his rifle chamber and fired until the gun barrel was too hot to touch.
“Get down there and kill every damned one of them!” Goose bellowed at the men along the firing line. The men looked at one another and rose up from the ground. But Moses Peltry stopped them with a raised hand as they headed back a few feet to their horses.
“Wait, Goose! Damn it to hell!” shouted Moses above the exploding rifle fire. Keeping his hand raised toward the men as if holding them in place, Moses turned to his brother. “Did you even see Hirsh's signal? Are you sure they were even carrying a Gatling machine rifle?”
The six riflemen stood staring, anxious to get under way. Moses Peltry wouldn't let them go until he heard something from Goose. Along the ridge, six other riflemen kept a steady barrage of gunfire on
the trail below. Goose Peltry stared back and forth wild-eyed, outraged that his brother had contradicted his order. “Yes, damn it, I saw Hirsh's signal!” said Goose, his words broken up by the steady explosions. “He raised his hat and rubbed his forehead right before that Yankee put a hole in his belly! The Gatling gun's there! We just got to be bold enough to get it.”
“You better be right about this!” Moses said in a threatening tone. “I ain't risking these men for an empty wagon! We're short of men as it is.”
From below, one of the troopers had managed to get inside the gun wagon and swing the Gatling rifle upward along the ridgeline. Bullets ripped up a long line of dirt and rock twenty feet below the edge of the ridge. “Well there, brother Moses!” shouted Goose. “Does that tell you anything?”
“All right, men,” Moses shouted. “Let's get down there and cut them to pieces!” The riflemen seemed to come unstuck. They bolted toward their horses. Goose growled under his breath, “Damn it to hell, I can't stand it when he does me that way!” Then he hurried to his horse along with Moses and the six other men. “Keep us covered!” he shouted to the riflemen firing down from the ridge.
On the narrow trail, a young trooper named Doyle Benson swung the Gatling gun back and forth, beating the rear of the mechanism with his fist. In the cover of the wagon blocking the trail, Sergeant Teasdale called out through the barrage of rifle fire raining down on them, “Damn it, man! What's wrong now?”
“Sergeant, it's jammed again!” shouted Benson. “I can't get it angled up to where they are, and now the damn thing's gone and jammed on me!” He
stepped back and kicked the Gatling gun stand as bullets whistled past his head.
“Then get yourself down out of there and listen to Hargrove, you fool,” shouted Sergeant Teasdale from his stooped position behind the broken-down freight wagon thirty yards away, “before they shoot your eyes out!”
The young trooper dropped from the wagon, but not before a bullet sliced through the sleeve of his blue wool shirt. “Who's up there, Hargrove?” he asked the older trooper huddled against the side of the gun wagon beside him. “Think it's Apaches come to steal that broken-down freight wagon?”
“No, you mallet-head!” Trooper Lyndell Hargrove replied, firing upward as he spoke. “They're white men! Ambushers! The freight wagon isn't broken down! It's a trap! Didn't you hear the sergeant say the wagon driver gave them a signal? You best start learning to pay attention if you plan on seeing your next birthday!”
“How am I suppose to see and hear everything going on at a time like this?” Doyle Benson asked. He jerked a pistol from beneath his holster flap and checked it as he glanced around at two dead troopers on the ground. Nearby, a big bay lay mortally wounded, raising its head in a pitiful whinny as blood flowed from its wounded flanks. “Can you believe this is the first action I've seen?” Benson said through the melee.
“I can believe it all right,” said Hargrove. Hearing the thunder of hooves clamor down from a steep path leading up toward the ridge, the older trooper jacked a fresh round into his rifle and said, “Careful it's not your last.”
Behind the cover of the freight wagon, Sergeant
Teasdale also heard the thunder of hooves. He looked at the dead, staring eyes of Corporal Burnes. Blood ran down from a bullet hole in Burnes' cheek. Then he turned to Trooper Frieze and asked, “How bad are you hit, Trooper?”
“It's in and out, Sergeant,” Frieze replied. “I've got some fight left in me, if that's what you want to know. To hell with that border trash. They're not about to kill me.”
“Good man,” said the sergeant. “Benson and Hargrove are under the gun wagon. Everybody else is dead. They're coming down now to finish us off. We're making a run for it. Get ready!” Sergeant Teasdale looked around for any live horses but saw none. He shook his head.
“A run for it?” Frieze looked all around. “A run to where?”
“Over this edge and down into the rocks,” said Teasdale. “It's steep and too rough for horses. If they want us, they'll have to dig us out of there. I'm betting we ain't that important to them once they get their hands on that machine rifle.”
“I'm with you, Sergeant. Just say the word,” Frieze replied, touching his fingertips to the wound in his right shoulder. “I hate the thought of dying without taking some of them with me.”
“That's the way to think, Frieze,” said Teasdale. “It'll keep you alive.” He turned and called to Benson and Hargrove through the bullets raining in from over their heads. “They're coming down for us! Get ready to follow me!”
Benson looked confused, but Hargrove understood. “He wants us to follow him down the slope and into the rocks,” Hargrove told Benson. “He thinks they won't take us on down thereâit'll cost them too much.”
“How do you know he thinks that?” asked the young trooper.
“Because that's how a good sergeant thinks. That's how I always thought when I was a sergeant.” He gestured toward the darker blue area on his sleeve where three stripes used to be. They watched Sergeant Teasdale point his rifle barrel toward the steep rocky slope over the edge of the trail.
“Is it the right thing to do?” Benson asked.
“If the sergeant's game for it, so am I,” said Hargrove, hearing the hooves draw closer. “As long as he leads us right, I've got no complaints. But the minute he makes a bad move, I'll take over then and there. Are you with me if I have to?”
“I'm all for staying alive,” said Benson. “Whatever that takes, count me in.” He looked around quickly, then added, “Think I should make a grab for the Gatling rifle?”
“Why?” said Hargrove. “The damn thing keeps jamming. It's not worth dying for.” He saw Teasdale and Frieze make a run for it, bullets from the high ridge stitching a trail behind them until they dropped out of sight into the cover of jagged rocks. “Stay close to me, Benson,” Hargrove said over his shoulder. As soon as he heard Teasdale's rifle and saw the puffs of smoke rise up from the rocks, Hargrove jumped from the cover of the gun wagon and ran zigzagging back and forth like a wild hare, bullets licking at his heels.
Trooper Doyle Benson ran right beside him but split away just as they cleared the edge of the trail and ducked down into the sheltering rocks. “Are you hit, Benson?” Hargrove called out.
“No, I'm all right. You?” Doyle Benson asked.
“I'll do,” said Hargrove, a hand squeezing his side where a bullet had grazed him. He looked toward
Teasdale's rock a few feet away. “What about you and Frieze, Sergeant? Either one of you hit?”
“Frieze took one through the shoulder. I'm good.” On the trail above them, the horses' hooves fell quiet, replaced by the sound of men's voices. “Let's work our way farther down this slope, Hargrove,” said Teasdale, keeping his voice in check.
“Right away, Sergeant,” said Hargrove, taking his yellow bandanna from around his neck and pressing it to his bleeding side. He glanced over toward Doyle Benson. The young trooper sat staring at him, awaiting instructions. Hargrove nodded farther down the slope, then watched to make sure Benson understood. When Benson began crawling down the slope, Hargrove followed.
On the trail, Goose Peltry reined his horse close to the edge and shouted down into the rocks, “Come back, you yellow-bellied bastards, and take what's coming to you! You've murdered a fine man in the prime of his life!” He drew his Confederate saber from its sheath and waved it in a circle above his head as he reared his horse high in the air. “Come taste the temper of my steel!”
“Goose! Get down!” Moses shouted, circling his horse a few feet behind his brother, near the gun wagon. “We've got what we came for!”
But Goose would have none of it. He kept his horse reared, his saber still flashing, and shouted, “If there's a real man among you cowards, you'll turn and fight!”
A shot from Sergeant Teasdale's rifle exploded up from among the rocks. Goose's hat spun upward. The shot left a long red gash across the top of his head. His reared horse staggered backward in fright then crumbled to the ground. In a desperate leap, Goose Peltry managed to keep his horse from falling
on him. “God almighty! They've kilt my poor horse!” Goose raged.
Moses Peltry jumped from his saddle and ran to his brother on the ground, looking him over. Goose's horse rolled up and shook itself off, its saddle having slid halfway down its side. “The horse is all right, you idiot!” Moses yelled. “Your scalp's grazed!” He dragged Goose a few feet farther back from the edge as he spoke, then jerked him to his feet. “What kind of lunatic would do something like that?” he asked. He slapped Goose across the face with a rough hand. Goose staggered backward. His hand went to his pistol.
“That's it, you fool. Draw on me,” said Moses. “See if I don't take that gun and whip you senseless with it!” Moses' eyes locked onto his brother's until the force of his stare caused Goose to drop his hand from his pistol and step sideways to where his hat lay in the dirt. He picked his hat up, dusted it against his leg and examined the fresh bullet hole, poking his finger through it. Moses Peltry kept his stare on his brother but spoke to the men. “Metts, ride out and round up any loose horses. Catch up to us along the high trail. The rest of you get that gun wagon turned and headed up the trail. Throw that wheel back on the freight wagon and get it ready to roll.”
“What about poor Otis?” asked Goose, trying to overlook the shame of his brother slapping him in front of the men.
“Otis knew the risk of being a soldier,” Moses said. “Leave him where he laysâ¦. He might have wanted it this way.”
“We've got no way of knowing if he might have wanted it that way or not,” said Goose. “We at least owe him a few kind departing words.”
“Then you go think of some kind words and get
them said,” shouted Moses. “I'm just trying to run an army here!”
“What about them murdering bluebellies down there?” Goose asked, nodding at the edge of the trail. “Ain't we going after them?”
“Hell no,” said Moses. “They got in those rocks knowing what an awful task it would be for us getting them out. Forget about them. They're on foot, probably shot all to pieces. I count this quite a victory for our side.” Moses closed his hand around his long beard and squeezed it down.
Goose considered it and grinned. “I agree, brother Moses.” He leaned forward and called out down the rocky slope. “Anybody asks who done this to you, tell them it was the Peltrys:
Devil
Moses and the
Goose
himself! Tell them we said, This war ain't over by a long shot!'”
Crawling farther down the hill, Sergeant Teasdale and Trooper Frieze met Doyle Benson and Hargrove behind a large boulder. Trooper Lyndell Hargrove shot a glance up toward the sound of Goose Peltry's voice. “The Peltrys, eh? That figures. They were never Confederate soldiers. I doubt either of them have ever been down South.”
“If they're not soldiers,” Benson asked, “then what are they?”
“Damn it, Benson,” said Hargrove. “Don't make me sorry I saved your hide up there.”
“I can't help it if I never heard of them,” Benson said. “I'm the newest man in the company. If I don't ask questions, I'll never learn nothing.”
“You might not anyway,” Hargrove said.
“They're freebooters, Benson,” Sergeant Teasdale cut in. “Low-down cutthroats that should have hung long ago.”
“They're thieves wearing army uniforms, is all
they are,” Hargrove added. “Before the war ended, even the Confederate states had a price on both their heads. They like to think of themselves as border guerrillas, but they wouldn't make a good scab on a Southern guerrilla's ass.”
“That may be so,” said Trooper Doyle Benson, “but we're the ones down here hiding in the rocks, and they're the ones with our Gatling gun.”
Sergeant Teasdale gave the young man a hard stare. “That's all going to change just as soon as they clear out of here.”
“Don't start talking crazy on us, Sergeant,” said Hargrove, giving Teasdale a wary look. “There's only four of us. Frieze is bleeding like a stuck hog. We don't even have horses.”
“I saw which way our horses ran. They haven't gone far. Now the shooting's stopped, they'll stop too. I heard one of the Peltrys send a man after them.”
“Then I say we get on back to the fort and tell what's happened out here,” said Hargrove.
“You don't
have
any say, Hargrove.” Teasdale's voice was filled with determination. “The lieutenant's dead. That puts me in command. We're going after this bunch of vermin.” He looked at Trooper Frieze and asked, “Are you in any shape to ride?”