“That’s a direct order!” He was furious, the soldier, but he was not very wise. He came toward Slate with one hand holding to the butt of his service revolver.
Slate spoke softly, his expression remained calm. “I am not now, nor have I in the past, been a part of your army, sir. I do not answer to you.”
“Are you a Confederate, boy? Is that the problem here?”
The man was likely a few years younger than he was. Not that it much mattered.
“In fact, sir, I was on the side of the North in the conflict, though I was not a soldier. I agreed with the notion that all men are created equal. I should think that would include red men, would it not?”
“What?” The soldier scowled and came closer still. Slate suspected he intended to sneak up and attack. He lacked in subtlety.
Slate sighed. “I am not a Confederate. The war is over, by the by. I am a gentleman. You might have run across a few in your journeys, though I fear it is just as likely you’ve never run across anything but gutter trash.”
That seemed to be enough for the soldier. He stepped forward with every intention of pulling Slate off of his horse. His gloved hands grabbed at the reins of the horse and tried to lead it roughly away.
The horse did not move.
“You’d do well to leave my mount be, sir. He doesn’t much like you.”
“Piss on your goddamned horse!”
Slate sighed and climbed down from the saddle. The great grey beast looked at him with only the mildest interest. Rather than bother with the horse Slate took hold of the cavalryman’s ear and pulled savagely. The man screamed as cartilage snapped. While he was howling in pain, Slate punched him across the jaw and broke bones.
The next of the soldiers was already drawing his firearm.
Slate looked at the man and did the same. “Don’t. It won’t go well for you.”
The man did.
It did not go well.
Stinky came back a while later. His actual name was Owen Napier, and he was a man without much purpose in his own estimation. “I come from a family of lawyers. They make a good living and I am fortunate enough to share in that, but I don’t much like the law. Thought I might come this way and find something more interesting to do with my time.”
“So you decided to try mining?” Crowley considered shaking his head at the notion because Owen-the-less-stinky didn’t strike him as a very physical man.
“Lord, no!” Napier shook his head hard enough to rock his jowly face. “I figure if anything I might report on what happens here. Send articles back to a friend of mine in New York.”
“Not a lot of money in that, is there?”
“I have a family. They’ll keep me fed.” He patted his belly. “As you can see that’s not much of a consideration for me. Besides, they’re glad to have me out here. I can’t get in the way and I might have useful information for them, too.” For a man who was carefully not admitting to being sent away from the family as an embarrassment, Napier seemed cheerful enough. When he patted his belly it also showed the bulge in his vest where he was smart enough to hide a small two-shot Wesson. It only took one bullet to kill a man if you were fast enough.
“So where are you from, Mister Crowley? I can’t quite place your accent.”
Crowley looked at his new acquaintance and smiled. “Here and there.” Before Napier could ask any more questions, Crowley turned the tables. “What is it you have against Indians?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing at all. But I keep hearing about raiding parties burning peoples’ homes down and taking their women. That’s a godless thing to do.”
“Are you a scholarly man, Mister Napier?”
“I like to think so.” He nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“Look into your history a bit better and you’ll find that raiding parties, houses being burned down, and women being taken from their families are not at all new notions. I don’t believe there’s a part of the world where it hasn’t happened for as long as there have been people.”
“Well, certainly not among civilized folks.”
Crowley smiled again and Napier got a nervous look on his face. “Whatever makes you think a few buildings brings about a civilized human being?”
Before Napier could answer, Lucas Slate walked into the room, looming over everyone in the place. Most of the conversations died in an instant. Slate’s voice remained as soft and cold and low as ever. Napier looked toward him and blanched. “Mister Crowley,” said Slate, ”I believe I’m going to need your assistance.”
From outside the tent a slowly growing sound caught Crowley’s attention. It was a noise he’d known for many, many years and one he never had much affection for: the sound of many men on horseback. Like as not, they were men in uniforms and their intentions would not be much to his liking.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Mister Slate?” Crowley did his level best not to smile, but it wasn’t easy for him.
“There were a few men in uniform decided they had to take some ladies from this area without their agreeing to be taken. I intervened.”
Outside there were the noises of commands being barked and repeated, horses coming to a halt and whinnying their displeasure, and a few dozen men working quickly to become organized in a chaotic situation. In other words, soldiers in action.
Crowley sighed and placed his hat on his head. “And did your intervention result in injury or worse to the men?”
“Indeed it did, sir.”
“Well now, this should be something.”
The man pouring whiskey looked uninterested. Napier seemed eager to hear more. He also studied Slate with wide eyes. He stopped when Slate turned quickly and stared back just as hard. Might be things would have gone wrong from there, but a collection of Cavalrymen came into the tent before things could get worse.
Of course, them coming in rather took care of worsening matters all by itself.
Folsom looked around. They were an unpleasant lot to be sure. The tent was filled with people, and most of them were unwashed and underfed. Folsom looked at the crowd and found the man his soldiers had reported with amazing ease. The gaunt albino was as tall as he was thin and looked like death. He was dressed like a savage in rawhide, sported a coat made of some sort of animal fur, and carried two large pistols on his hips. Despite his uniform and the men behind him, Folsom hesitated for a moment. Then the Chinaman, Song, moved a bit to the side and a few more soldiers stepped into the tent beside them both.
Having an audience never failed to make Folsom feel the need to be brave. “You!” He stabbed a finger at the albino. “What in the name of God did you do to my men?”
The gaunt man looked at him. Next to him a smaller man with a feral smile looked in his direction with nearly feverish eyes. Most of the people were looking toward him, but what made those two different was simply that they were not afraid of him. Not in the least, and that was a worrisome thing.
The albino said, “I did nothing to your men that they did not provoke, sir.” He had a southern accent. Little existed that was more contemptible in Folsom’s eyes.
“I have four dead soldiers and a handful of men who swear you killed them. Attacking a soldier is a hanging offense.” Folsom stepped forward and Song moved with him, a graceful, silent man with the eyes of a cat. Song always looked like he was ready to pounce, to kill, though Folsom had never once seen the man strike first.
“And I repeat, Mister Crowley, I do believe I’ll need your help.” The albino murmured to the smiling man next to him, seemingly unable to speak louder than a whisper.
The man with him slipped forward and stood between Folsom and his prize.