The group was not a hundred yards down the trail now, close enough for Jamie to discern clearly the triple chevron on the arm of the leading rider. The boy moved forward a few paces, manhandling his lame leg, then halted, all excitement draining from his features to be replaced by a deep worry. Now that the riders were a mere stone’s throw away his anxious eyes fastened upon each face in turn and he knew Joe was not among them.
They reined in their horses just short of the gateway where the boy waited and the sergeant looked down at him wearily, and then dismounted. Like the others he had an unkempt beard many days old and red-rimmed eyes from riding into the sun all afternoon.
“Hi there, boy,” he said. “You must be Joe’s little brother Jamie.”
He was big and mean-looking and, even though he smiled as he spoke, his crooked and tobacco-browned teeth gave his face an evil cast. But Jamie was old enough to know not to trust first impressions: and the mention of his brother’s name raised the flame of excitement again.
“You know Joe? I’m expecting him. Where is he?”
One of the riders still mounted let out a sound that could have been a snigger, but Jamie’s entire attention was riveted upon the sergeant.
The smile was gone now and the man looked grave. He glanced over Jamie’s shoulder, at the house and barn and backdrop of waving wheat. He spat into the dust and Patch growled.
“Well boy,” he drawled, shuffling his feet. “Hell, when you got bad news to give, tell it quick is how I look at things. Joe won’t be coming home today. Not any day. He’s dead, boy.”
Jamie fought back the tears that threatened to humiliate him in front of the newcomers. He screwed up his eyes and when he opened them again the air seemed to be tinged with a dark mist. But then Patch growled again and launched himself at the sergeant’s legs and Jamie saw with perfect clarity the vicious kick which sent the senseless dog several yards across the dusty yard.
“One thing I can’t stand is unfriendly dogs,” the sergeant said flatly. “Ought to train him so he don’t act like that, boy.”
Jamie’s mind was in turmoil, but he saw a movement among the riders, and realized too late what was happening. “Don’t,” he yelled as the Springfield came clear of its boot and in a single fluid action was aimed and fired, the big .58 caliber bullet almost lifted the injured dog into the air.
“Oh, Billy,” the sergeant said. “You didn’t ought to have done that to the boy’s dog.”
The marksman commenced to reload the musket, showing no sign of remorse. “That little old dog most likely had a broken back,” he drawled. “Been cruel to let him live.”
The snigger came again and the sergeant spoke quickly, as if trying to conceal the man’s amusement. “Like I said, boy. Joe caught one. War was all but over when a damn Louisiana sharpshooter shot poor old Joe right between the eyes. Me and Billy Seward here, why we filled him so full lead they had to get a horse to drag him to his grave. But weren’t no good as far as Joe was concerned. We buried your brother in a fitting manner, boy.”
There were murmurs of agreement from the others, which to Jamie sounded even less sincere than the words of the sergeant. He felt numb with shock, wanted the men to turn and ride away so that he could go into the house and give vent to his emotions in private.
“Hey, Frank. Let’s get on with it.” The words had an impatient ring to them, as did further murmurings of agreement with the comment.
“We didn’t only come here to give you the news, boy,” the sergeant said. “Hardly like to bring up another matter, but you’re almost a man now. Probably are a man in everything except years—living out here alone in the wilderness like you do. It’s money, boy.”
For the first time since he had seen the riders as a cloud of dust on the horizon, Jamie experienced real fear. It gripped him like an icy hand, freezing the sweat of the day to his body. There was a Starr rifle and a pair of Colts in the house, with any number of knives. But a boy did not go armed to meet his only brother. Jamie’s hands shook as much from frustration as fear.
“Money,” he said and the word emerged as a hoarse whisper.
The sergeant nodded, spat again and looked his gaze on the boy’s. “Yeah. Joe died in debt, you see. He didn’t play much poker, but when he did there was no stopping him.”
Liar, Jamie wanted to scream at them. Filthy rotten liar.
“Night before he died,” the sergeant continued. “Joe owed me five hundred dollars. Right boys?” He looked behind and was rewarded with a great nodding of heads. “Right. He wanted to play me double or nothing. I didn’t want to, but your brother was certainly a stubborn cuss when he wanted to be.”
Joe never gambled. Ma and Pa taught us both good.
“So we played a hand and Joe was unlucky. Three aces don’t beat a flush, not in poker nor any game I know.” His gaze continued to be locked on Jamie’s, while he discolored teeth were shown in another parody of a smile. “I wasn’t worried none about the debt, boy. See Joe told me he’s been sending money home to you regular like. And you know what your brother’s dying words were, boy?”
Jamie did not mean to shake his head, but he did so, felt compelled by the insistent stare of the sergeant.
“He said to me, go and see my kid brother out in Iowa and he’ll give you the money, Frank. That’s my name. Frank. Frank Forrest. So if you’d just get me the money, boy. A thousand is what Joe died owing me and I’m sure he won’t rest easy in his grave until the debt is cleared.”
Jamie felt stunned, rendered speechless by the soft tones of Sergeant Frank Forrest. But he was finally able to drag his eyes from the other’s face, and he saw the inert form of Patch, a swarm of flies already covering the congealed blood of the dead animal. His anger exploded as a red mist before his eyes and the words poured in a torrent as he limped awkwardly over to his dog.
“There ain’t no money in this place and you’re a lying son-of-a-bitch. Joe never gambled. Every cent he earned went straight into the bank so we could do things with this place. Big things. I don’t even believe Joe’s dead. Get off our land.”
He knelt down beside Patch, turning his face away from the men so they could not see the tears of sadness and anger on his cheeks as he swiped a hand at the flies.
“Hey, Frank,” the rider named Seward called. “You ain’t going to let a kid talk to you like that, are you?”
Another of the men, a stripped corporal with a lighter patch on his sleeve where the chevrons had been, dismounted and looked at Jamie with a steely glint in his eyes as he licked his dry lips.
“Specially a lame kid with only one good leg, Frank,” he urged. “Kid like that shouldn’t talk back to a man.”
“Which leg’s the lame one,” Forrest asked flatly.
“His right one.”
“Stand up, boy,” Forrest demanded, raising his voice a mere shade. “And then turn to face me.”
Jamie wiped the back of his sleeve across his face and he rose and turned around. Defiance was a sheen in his eyes and a firmness in his mouth line. The expression did not alter when he saw Forrest draw an Army issue .44 Colt from its holster, to hang it loosely by his side.
He spat into the dust. “I’ve tried to do this nice and peaceful, boy. A thousand would have been enough. Where do you keep the money?”
“It’s in the bank. I don’t think Joe’s dead.”
“Joe’s dead and he didn’t trust banks. Once more. Where is it?”
Jamie shook his head.
“Walk over here, boy.”
Jamie was certain he was going to be gunned down, knew there was not a chance of making a run for it, and anyway decided it was best to be shot from the front than to take a bullet in the back. As he took a pace forward, towards the big sergeant, there were suddenly six gun muzzles trained upon him as the other men aimed muskets and revolvers, their expressions as menacing as the man who led them. But only one report sounded as Jamie reached down to swing forward his crippled leg and for an instant he stared in mute surprise at the blue smoke curling up from Forrest’s Colt, his brain striving to figure out why he was not dead. But the instant was gone and a scream of agony burst from his lips as the pain made itself felt and he pitched forward, his good leg folding under him like a straw as the smashed kneecap gushed more blood for hungry flies.