“Don’t make this concern you, mister.”
The stranger’s smile grew broader and ice rimmed the inside of Folsom’s stomach. He had no idea why, but the man scared the hell out of him. Still, there were the troops to consider and justice to be handled.
“I know you. Henry Folsom. How’s your mother? Ruth, I believe?” The man did not speak. He purred. Folsom felt that cold in his guts spread. His mother had passed when he was only ten. How the man could possibly know her was a mystery. Still, he seemed familiar,
“I do not believe we’ve met before.”
“I know you. I know your father, Alexander. Your mother, Ruth. I knew your sister as well, Loretta.” The lean man looked away for a moment, his eyes staring past Folsom toward something only he could see. Folsom barely remembered his older sister. She’d been involved with a man in Boston. There had been a scandal, of course, though his father did his best to hide it. Loretta died and died badly. The thought was enough to twist his heart into a knot.
“And your name?”
The stranger smiled. “I’m Jonathan Crowley.”
Folsom backed up, his eyes growing wide. That was impossible, of course. He remembered Crowley. The man had seemed a giant to him when he was a child. He’d been tall and lean and he’d had the most terrifying smile.
“Good Lord.” Folsom’s lips barely moved. “How is that possible?”
Crowley’s smiled dropped as fast as it had shown itself. He ignored the question and countered with, “I expect your men might have told you one version of the tale. Why not hear the other version before you decide how to handle the situation, Captain?”
The request was reasonable enough, but Folsom did not like the tone of voice any more than he liked that damnable smile. He didn’t like the fear that seeing the man caused in him, either. “Your friend will have a chance to tell his side of the story when he stands trial.” He wanted to dismiss the man, planned to, in fact, but the man stayed where he was and damned if that smile didn’t come back and grow broader still.
Crowley’s brown eyes regarded him for a moment and then he shrugged. “He won’t be standing trial. He has things to do and so do I.” That was the end of the argument as far as Crowley was concerned. His tone said as much. Folsom looked closely at the man for the first time and shook his head. “Sir, you should take yourself away from this situation before it grows any worse. I have witnesses that say a man with skin as white as snow killed four of my men. I see exactly one man with skin as white as snow in this area, sir. In fact I’d hazard there are no more albinos for a hundred miles in any direction.”
“Would you indeed, sir?” The albino’s face crept into a strange smile as he spoke. His eyes glittered under lids at half-mast.
“Have you seen yourself?” Folsom asked. “Your skin is as white as milk.”
“Indeed it is. Has been my entire life. I did, however, have a conversation with another man not long before I saw your men, and he was just as pale as me.”
The smiling man laughed; it sent shivers down Folsom’s spine. “Well now, I would hazard a guess you might be mistaken, Captain.” His tone was dry and mocking and Folsom found him distasteful in the extreme. That damnable laugh, however, echoed in the back of his mind, brought back thoughts of his sister, and how he’d felt when he found her body.
No. The past was just that, and he’d not let the grinning fool confuse him with what had to be half-truths or blatant lies. How he knew about Folsom’s family was irrelevant.
He had every intention of brushing the nonsensical claim aside, but before he could the man he’d observed pouring shots of whiskey spoke up. “Saw him myself. He’s a little shorter, a lot thinner, and looks like he’s an Indian, but his skin is just as pale.”
“Nonsense.” Folsom shook his head. “Corporal Bridges, kindly put that man in irons.” He pointed toward the gaunt man.
Bridges nodded and took a step forward. The corporal was a burly man, large and heavyset and capable with his hands. He’d knocked several men larger than him down a few sizes in his time and he would likely do so again.
The smiling man shook his head and blocked Bridges. “Let’s not make a mistake here, gentlemen. My friend and I are perfectly willing to leave town right now and end this without any additional troubles.”
“Are you deaf, sir?” Folsom’s voice was as harsh as a whip crack when he spoke. “I have dead soldiers on my hands!”
“Your soldiers died trying to shoot me down.” The gaunt man’s voice remained as calm as ever, but the expression on his face belied his tone. “They were a mite bit offended, seeing as I stopped them from taking a few squaws to have their way with.”
Folsom nearly balked at that. Was that guilt in his chest? He tried to tell himself that it was not, but he also remembered his sister and the scandals she’d been involved in and that feeling bloomed inside him. With an effort he crushed the emotion down. “It is our duty to curtail the growing Indian problems in this area. And in addition to confessing to killing my men, you’ve just confessed to interfering with that duty.” He looked away from the gaunt man and barked at the corporal, “Bridges! Lock that man in irons!”
Bridges nodded and started forward. Before he could take two steps, the smiling man moved forward and struck him a solid blow that dropped the larger man to the ground.
“That’s enough of this!” Folsom grabbed at the pistol strapped to his hip.
By the time he’d drawn, several of the soldiers with him were doing the same, and the two men he was facing had both managed to draw as well.
The smiling man had two Peacemakers. One of the large-bore barrels was aimed at Folsom. The other was pointed at Song, who was crouching slightly and looked like he might well enjoy taking a bite out of the gunslinger.
The albino aimed a heavy shotgun at the whole lot of them. He’d swept the damned thing from under his coat with ease, and was looking hard at Folsom.
“Anyone pulling a trigger might well wish they’d reconsidered, gentlemen.” A round-bellied man walked forward. His voice shook, but he had a pleasant enough smile on his round face. “Might I suggest we put weapons down and come to an understanding before anyone else is killed?”
Folsom didn’t like him. He spoke like a lawyer. Still, he offered a chance to the captain not to get his head blown off by two different men. Outside of the tent several of his men let out bellows of anger and shock. The ground trembled lightly and while he feared taking his eyes off the two men aiming at him, he risked a look around to the entrance of the tent.
“Would someone kindly tell me what the hell is going on out there?”
Private Bronson called out loud and clear from the other side of the tent flap, “Captain! We got injuns coming our way! A lot of injuns!”
The smiling man laughed again. It was a humorless, bitter sound.
There was a point where no more could be tolerated. That point had come a long time ago as far as Alchesay was concerned. His parents had been murdered and scalped when he was a boy. His wife had been taken only a few years ago. His family had been attacked and slaughtered again and again over the years, first by Mexicans and now by the round eyes. Enough.
Several of the tribal elders wanted peace, but that time was past. They came into the area and looked for silver, and when they found it, they started digging. Most of the Dilze’he were already stuck in this desert land, forced here by the white man, and now they were being told to move again.
And maybe they would have. Maybe even Alchesay would have accepted this — though he was not truly sure if he would or not — but now these fools had come and dragged several women from the town. They thought the women did not understand their words, but they were wrong. His sister was among them and she’d heard what the men intended to do.