Worse Than Death Read online

  ‘Stuff and taradiddle! It will stiffen your resolve as to what you must do if the threat of capture looms over you.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You need to ask?’

  ‘I do, Ma’am. I have been told that our fate is not so dreadful as for a man.’

  ‘Pah!’ The driver looked round from his seat at the explosive snort of disgust from the older woman, hurriedly turning his eyes forward again when he met Martha’s basilisk stare.

  ‘But they will not kill us,’ pressed Rachel, hanging on the edge of her bench as the wagon bumped over some frozen ruts on the trail. It was so dark inside the converted field ambulance that she could hardly make out the face of the woman opposite. And it was still early in the day. The sun seeming as though it would never manage to break through the leaden pall that covered the sky from east to west.

  Mrs. Hetherington assumed an expression of saintly calm and folded her narrow gloved hands in her lap.

  ‘I have said it to you and chits like you before, and I shall doubtless have to say it many times more before my spirit finally ascends from this poor shell to sit on the right hand of God the Father where it will dwell in the courts of the morning in perpetual light.’ The long sentence was just too stretched for her to complete it happily in one breath and her voice trailed away at the end. ‘But there is a fate worse than death, child. Much, much worse than the speedy physical suffering of a mere man. Once he is dead, then it is over. For a woman must live the rest of her life in shame and horror. Of course,’ she smiled a thin smile, ‘a decent woman would take her own life rather than to endure her own life after the experience is over. And that is what I would do. And what you too must be ready to do.’

  By the time she finished her diatribe, Martha’s face was flushed and beads of sweat gleamed across her temples. A faint trace of spittle hung at the corners of her mouth and she was panting as though she’d just run a race across ploughed land.

  For a few moments there was silence. Just the clicking of the mules’ hooves on the hard earth and the jingling of the harness. The air was so cold and dry that the men had quickly stopped their singing, riding slumped in their McClellan saddles, hunched against the cold. Seeming all subdued by the miserable and threatening weather and by the vast emptiness about them.

  ‘White woman got brought in down in Colorado, Ma’am,’ interrupted the Trooper driving the wagon, easing his chaw of tobacco to his other cheek, expertly spitting out a narrow brown stream of liquid all over the back of the mule on his right.

  Martha Hetherington was torn by her desire to reprove the soldier for his insolence and her curiosity to hear a little scandal.

  Eventually she compromised.

  ‘I don’t rightly think you ought to be talking to officers’ ladies, soldier,’ she said. ‘But seeing as you’ve begun, and seeing as this is going to be a long ride, then I guess you’d better carry on with what you were saying. But none of your bad language and filth or I’ll get my husband, Captain Hetherington, to take it out of your back.’

  ‘Sure, Ma’am,’ replied the Trooper. ‘Figure you would at that.’

  ‘Go on, then. This white woman down in Colorado that you mentioned.’

  Her breath plumed out in front of her face in the cold.

  Rachel Shannon was feeling sick from the rolling and creaking of the rig, wondering whether she ought to ask the Trooper to stop for a while. But knowing the trouble that such a request would bring. Resigning herself to crawling to the back and throwing up over the tailgate.

  ‘Heard it was three or four Arapaho bucks brought this woman in to a post down there. Woman in her twenties. They said they’d found her days back with a dead husbands and kids. Out of her mind. They’d saved her life. They said.’

  ‘What did she say?’ asked Martha Hetherington, licking her lips with a quick movement of her red tongue.

  ‘She said they took her. Killed her man and smashed in the heads of the babies. Puddled their brains on a boulder, as I recall. Then they kept her with them for nigh on a week. All four of them. Used her, Ma’am. Wouldn’t want to tell you how.’

  ‘Of course not,’ replied the woman, her tone of voice betraying her disappointment.

  ‘But she said they done it together. Sometimes two and three at a time. Made her do things for ’em that no decent Christian woman would even think of.’

  ‘Not in a blackest nightmare,’ said Martha Hetherington, piously.

  Rachel Shannon simply couldn’t understand what the man was saying. Two and three at a time. It wasn’t possible. There was only the one way. Her Mama had told her once about it, in a kind of roundabout way. Only a month before the sickness took her.

  Reassured that the tale was a pack of silly lies, she leaned back against a pile of blankets and tried to doze off.

  ‘They done that every hour, day and night. Laughin’ and mockin’ her.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Didn’t hear that. Whisper she went off to work in a …’

  ‘Trooper!’ warned Martha.

  ‘Sorry, Ma’am, Guess you know what I mean.’

  ‘She should have put her trust in God. What of those heathen devils?’

  ‘Hung ’em, Ma’am. Heard some of the good old boys there on the post funned with ’em some. Kind of broke off this and that. Gouged out here and there. Few cuts and slices from the … from them. Then hung them stiff and cold and left them dangle.’

  ‘Good. Justice done and seen to be done.’

  ‘Why did they bring the woman in?’

  Rachel’s voice was so quiet they hardly heard it. ‘What was that, Miss Shannon?’ asked the soldier, leaning back to catch her words.

  ‘I asked why the Indians brought the woman to the Army post?’

  ‘Why do you ask, girl?’ barked Martha Hetherington. ‘I don’t understand your meaning.’

  Despite the menace of the older woman, the girl wasn’t to be put off.

  ‘If they bad done what the woman said, then why did the Indians bother to bring her to safety? Surely they are not such fools as that.’

  ‘Well …’ began the Trooper, a sudden doubt in his voice.

  ‘Idiot!’ interrupted Martha. ‘You mean that you would have believed some drunken heathen rather than a white woman? I surely hope that isn’t what you mean, girl. If it is then I shall have a word with my dear husband, the Captain, and ask him to speak to your father, the Lieutenant. Let him deal with you.’

  After that there wasn’t a deal more to say and the convoy rolled on in silence throughout the day.

  During the late afternoon there were a few flurries of light snow. Barely a coating, but they were heading on westwards and climbing steadily. The air was so cold that it tasted bitter and metallic.

  ‘Thank goodness we have sent out scouts,’ said Martha Hetherington, feeling that the girl had suffered her disapproval long enough.

  ‘They will report back at the first sign of trouble,’ said Rachel, glad that the other woman had thawed out a little. She knew the way her father suffered from the dreadful Captain Hetherington and had no wish to make his load heavier.

  ‘Pat and Mick O’Hanlon’ll ride faster than this wind, Miss Shannon, if’n they get a smell of a Shoshone within fifty miles of us. They got to ride fast to save their red hair. Look good danglin’ from a lodge-pole would that.’

  ‘Trust is so important. Say, did you ever meet that man who got stripped of his rank and dismissed the service, Trooper? Just before the massacre with the General?’

  Their driver scratched his head at the question.

  ‘You mean Lieutenant Crow, Mrs. Hetherington? He the one?’

  ‘Yes. That was his name. Crow.’

  ‘My Pa mentioned him,’ said Rachel, hesitantly, wanting to know what was in Martha’s mind before she went on. It was a wise decision. Her father had said that the man they just called Crow had been given a rough deal Talked about being betrayed by a man called Menges. Said Crow was the hardest man he�
�d ever met. And the truest.’

  ‘I hope he mentioned him with contempt, my child,’ hissed Martha. ‘Crow was a coward and a traitor and richly deserved what happened. Most right-thinking folks thought he should have been hung.’

  The mules had halted, held up by a wheel coming loose on the leading wagon. The Trooper took the chance to turn round and peer into the gloom. Seeing the upright, corseted figure of Mrs. Hetherington, looking like she was waiting to be inspected. There were jokes made in the lines at night about that. That the Captain would only lay her after he’d checked her over for galls and ticks. Making sure she was polished and greased all over and rigid at attention.

  Now that little Shannon girl was something different. Pretty and blonde and blue-eyed. Plenty of the men made love to the five-fingered widow in their blankets and thought about Rachel Shannon. He sighed.

  ‘Never rode with Crow. First Squadron of the Third, wasn’t it? Guess he’s dead and gone by now. Man alone out here don’t drift for long.’

  In fact, the soldier was wrong.

  Correct in saying that not many men survived on the frontier alone.

  Crow was a survivor. It was a lesson you learned once and never forgot. Surviving meant never coming second.

  He was sitting crouched over a tiny fire of buffalo chips less than fifty miles from where the wagons were readying themselves for night camp.

  And he was wondering why the Shoshone were so far from their usual grounds. And why they were so active so late in the year. Shrugging his shoulders because it was none of his business.

  But guessing that it could mean trouble for someone.

  Captain Hetherington again reminded the train of their safety before allowing the women to get on with their last meal of the day. Buffalo stew, the meat tough and gritty, strands of it jamming between teeth like wiry gristle.

  He’d posted sentries as a good officer should. And there was the additional safeguard of the O’Hanlons’ somewhere out in the darkness of the freezing night.

  ‘The best men,’ he’d repeated. ‘Like those Pinkertons, those boys’ eyes never close.’

  Twenty miles to the west, in a steep-sided ravine, a group of twenty or so Shoshone braves, led by a tall man carrying half a dozen daggers at his belt, were putting the finishing touches to their evening’s pleasure. The two bodies were hideously mutilated, the eyes popped from sockets and the blue uniforms cut from corpses. Tendons and flesh sliced away from white bones, the cold earth puddled with congealing blood. The last touch was the removal of the two scalps. Highly prized by the Shoshone because of their color. Bright red.

  Chapter Three

  On the files of the Third Cavalry there was the personal and confidential report on the man named Crow. Who had once been a Lieutenant and was now a wanderer. It gave his name. Crow. No other name. Nobody even knew whether that was his first or his second name.

  Just Crow.

  Age. About twenty-nine.

  Height. Six feet and two inches.

  Weight. One hundred and sixty pounds. Very lean build.

  Hair. Black. Someone had taken a red pen and underlined the words “and long.”

  Eyes. Dark brown. Crossed through and “Black” written in.

  There should have been a second page on the report. One that amplified the information. Giving date and place of birth. Details of parents. Date of entering the J.S. Cavalry. Previous occupation.

  And a summary of his service career and skills. That second page was unaccountably missing from the file.

  Since Crow had been dismissed from the Army after the Menges affair nobody was that interested in the r port. Nobody ever questioned the missing page.

  Nobody cared.

  Once the Army was closed to him, Crow had been left with no past, no future, and a damned small present. He had certain talents. But not the sort that would have won a position as clerk in a dry goods store. Or a bat manager. Or a locomotive engineer, though he could drive a train with professional skill.

  What Crow was good at was hunting and killing.

  Butchering men with his guns. Knife. Rope or bare hands. It came easily to Crow.

  That had to be the way of life for now.

  A fine way of life.

  And death.

  He sniffed at the air as he rode his black stallion easily along the narrow trail, hands holding the reins light across the animal’s neck. Giving the impression that was hardly in control. But the stallion knew from it and painful experience what would happen to it if tried to do anything but what the rider wanted. A cracking fist would descend between its ears, making it stumble, or teeth would savage its silky ears, drawing blood mangling the delicate flesh.

  It didn’t matter much to Crow. Man or beast came the same to him.

  ‘Goin’ to be bad,’ he muttered, his voice very quite. With the beautiful pitch of an actor or a poet. Yet with sinister quality to it. Like the smoothness of a satin coffin lining.

  The earth under the horse’s hooves rang like iron, and the frost nipped at Crow’s nose and cheeks. He turned up the collar of his heavy black coat, clipping his heels into the animal s flanks to move it on a touch faster.

  Far ahead of him he noticed a flicker of movement high on the rocky walls of the hills. Something that moved in and out of cover. His first instinctive thought was that it might be Indians. Then he decided it was a deer. Fresh meat would be welcome but with the mountains seemingly crawling with Shoshone, It would be a good way of committing suicide. A rifle shot would bring a dozen down on top of him.

  The only time he’d use his guns would be for a final act of self-defense in that sort of situation.

  So the Winchester Seventy-three remained in its bucket on the saddle. Greased and ready. A round in the chamber.

  For closer action Crow carried a Colt Peacemaker in a special holster at the back of his belt.

  But the weapon that had made hint notorious was in a deep, cutaway, oiled holster on his right hip. It was a very expensive, European scatter-gun. A Purdey ten-gauge, dated eighteen sixty-eight. A hand-engraved gun with a polished wooden stock. But Crow had committed the ultimate sacrilege on a Purdey by sawing down the barrels to a bare four inches in length.

  It meant it wasn’t much use for bringing down a flock of duck on the wing at a hundred paces. But it sure as all Hell would stop a man at fifteen feet. Stop him by near cutting him in two messy halves.

  Crow’s theory about the craft of the shootist was simple. Like the spirited Civil War soldier, Nathan Bedford Forrest, he believed in getting there first with the most.

  He was a better than average shot with the Winchester. A useful hand with the pistol. But most gunfights were decided eyeball to eyeball. And for that purpose the cut-down shotgun was first with the most. There wasn’t a whole lot of aiming with it. Cock both hammers and squeeze the twin triggers. The Purdey did the rest for you and all that was left was for someone to corn along and shovel up the remains.

  Crow’s only other weapon hung on the left side of his gun-belt. In a special sheath. At a quick glance it looked like the eighteen-sixty regulation issue Cavalry saber. The sort carried by most officers and men on parade. Though many of the Troopers preferred a heavy butcher’s knife if they were going into the field against hostiles.

  Crow’s still carried the gold braid on its pommel. But the farrier at Fort Buford had done him a favor a honed the saber down to a mere two and a half feet long. Razored edge and a needle point to it. Bit like a Bowie knife but without the chopping weight.

  The only other hint of the soldier that Crow had bee was the yellow bandana at his throat. The sole touch color in his all-black clothes and hat.

  All of his Cavalry equipment had cost Crow twenty seven dollars and fourteen cents. He had ridden aw from Fort Buford with his pockets jingling to the tune eleven dollars and thirty-eight cents.

  Over the last three months or so, since he was the one white spectator of the Custer slaughter at the Little Big Horn, Crow had pic
ked up a few dollars here and there. A little scouting for a bunch of prospectors, backed it with some poker money that gave him a few dollars more.

  He still hadn’t finally decided how he was going make a living. There weren’t many options open to him. Crow considered himself a little like the mediaeval alchemists. The thing he did best was use his gun. Turn lead into gold.

  He could taste snow in the wind. His vague intention was to start moving southwards and eastwards. Aw from the dirty weather that he knew was on the way.

  The hills and high plains weren’t the place for a drifter to be in winter.

  Maybe move on down towards the Rio Grande. Seek out some action down there with the Mescalero and Chiricahua Apaches. Help the ranchers settling down in that red and orange desert. Perhaps even cross the river and see what the action was down in Mexico.

  There was always action across the border in Mexico. But for now the main thing to do was keep on moving and find somewhere to hole up for the night. Too much of the chilling day was passing and he was still locked in the land of canyons.

  Earlier there’d been what he thought could have been the faint crackle of gunfire. A long way ahead of him. And there had been a smudge of darker grey against the light clouds that might have been a fire.

  In that part of the world, a man rode with his hand close to his gun.

  It was a half hour later, with the dim light already easing down into the gloom of evening, when Crow heard the voices. Men singing. Chanting. Sounding like Indians, though the high walls of stone distorted the noise. Crow wasn’t that worried by it. There were plenty of Indians around and only a small number of them were hostile. And those eager to kill the invading whites weren’t likely to be riding carelessly along a main trail bawling out at the top of their voices.

  Apart from anything else, there wasn’t anywhere to run to. The trail snaked in and out, but there hadn’t been a cross trail for three miles or more. Crow wasn’t in the mood for back-tracking just for a few noisy Indians. He flicked the retaining thong off the scatter-gun and the Colt. Whatever might happen, it wasn’t likely that he’d be needing the Winchester.