Before Crowley could get to them, they were lost in the crush of people.
A soldier aimed for the area where they’d fallen and Crowley knocked him aside, throwing off his aim as he waded into the crush of flesh. People moved and thrashed and pushed in and out of his view. Crowley ignored them all, save to push them aside. Somewhere ahead of him, not but a few feet to be sure, but in the press of struggling bodies it might well have been miles, his companion was down on the ground and fighting.
When the bullish thing flew through the air, it was as limp as a sack of horse dung. The thing trailed blood, and as it rose into the air, Lucas Slate stood, covered in the same crimson stains and looking truly enraged.
His shirt had been torn apart and deep cuts ran along the left side of his muscular chest. Those cuts bled, a reminder that he was still at least partially human despite his appearance.
Slate looked around and stooped long enough to grab his fool hat from the ground. That hat had seen better days and likely would have been thrown away by most people, but the battered old thing with its dusty band and the broken feathers sticking from the same went back on Slate’s head before he looked around and the rage faded from his expression.
It was a calmer expression he wore as he reached for his Navy revolvers and started aiming.
Crowley had the good sense to stay well away from the man as he pulled the triggers. The first bullet blew a hole through a white, scaly thing with too many eyes, and also took the hand from one of the Cavalry. The creature flopped to the ground and twitched. The soldier fell to his knees and screamed. By the time those two things had occurred, Slate had turned his attention to the next target and fired with that same dead expression on his face. Boom! The creature fell. Slate’s mouth twisted into a feral snarl and he fired again. The bullets from his weapon were a reminder that death could be sudden and violent. Another explosive noise and the Indians and the soldiers alike were quickly backing away from Slate. He stood taller than any of them and he looked like the Grim Reaper ready for the harvest. The only things that didn’t run were the white nightmares around them. They should have fled but it seemed beyond them to reason that well. Instead they charged toward Slate and he fired again and again until the last of them fell at his feet.
Through it all, Jonathan Crowley watched with his eyes narrowed to slits and a grin frozen in place.
When the final beast had fallen, Lucas Slate looked at Captain Folsom and shook his head. “I do not currently feel inclined to go with you for trial.” Both of the weapons were still in his hands and the barrels of the Navy six-shooters were smoking in the cold air.
Folsom stared at the spectre before him for ten heartbeats without responding and then finally he said, “Currently, I do not feel much inclined to argue the matter, sir. We have all of us had a day already.”
“Indeed.”
Folsom called for his men to gather the dead and the wounded. His voice was weaker than before and his hands shook. That did not make him a coward in Crowley’s eyes. It merely made him human.
He rather envied the soldier that.
Folsom sat in his newly-appropriated office in town. He thought about the day’s events. All told, if you counted the Chinaman — and he did — he had lost seven men, and the number of wounded was higher still.
Somehow he had avoided getting injured himself. The men looked up to him and none of them had missed that he was in the heart of the combat. They knew he hadn’t stood behind the lines and watched them take the damage. No, he had come out to the assistance of all when the damned Indians had attacked.
Being as he was in the middle of town when the attack took place he should have expected some sort of coalition of townsfolk, but he was caught flatfooted. The men who came before him were dressed, as gentlemen should dress, in proper suits with vests and with matching shoes. That was an accomplishment at least half the time; at least it had been since he crossed into areas across the Mississippi from home. That said, they needed a good wash and not a one of them seemed familiar with the idea of shaving. The facial hairs were long and the facial expressions were dour.
They’d been droning on for a while now, long enough for him to get the gist. They wanted the soldiers gone. Or they wanted assurances, or they wanted the Indians dead. Something of that sort.
When he’d heard enough he raised one hand and the conversations stopped. “What exactly do you gentlemen want? Pick one thing. I haven’t the time to listen to every complaint you have. I need to report the deaths of my soldiers and I need to prepare your town for any more possible Indian attacks.”
A black haired man sporting the most impressive mustache Folsom had ever seen, spoke. As his lips moved, his mustache jittered and jumped. It was nearly mesmerizing. “There wouldn’t be any Indian attacks if you’d left well enough alone.” The man leaned forward and planted his hands on the long oak table the captain had commandeered to act as his desk. “We had us an understanding. We didn’t piss on them and they didn’t come along and try to kill us. You notice how they only went for soldiers? There was a reason for that.”
Folsom stood and gave the man his best hard look. It was a good one because the fellow took two paces back, shaking his head. “Do you know who I am, sir? Do you even begin to know why I am here? I’m here because I was called here by one of your own. A telegram was sent to Washington, D.C. and that in turn was considered and then acted upon. I am the result of that telegram.”
“And who the hell sent it?” The mustache trembled with righteous indignation. Folsom knew the man he was speaking to had eyes, but he had not yet been able to focus on them enough to consider the character they might reveal.
“Allucius Sheppard.” Folsom reached into his jacket pocket and fumbled out the original paper. “Says here he’s the mayor of this town.”
The mustache tightened for a moment and then trembled even more. “Al? Al Sheppard not only isn’t the mayor of anything, he’s dead!” Several voices murmured their agreement. “The damned fool drank himself to death. Passed out and choked on his own regurgitation. And besides, he was never in charge of a damned thing around these parts.”
Folsom felt a flush run into his cheeks. “Be that as it may, I have my orders to get rid of the red man in this area and I intend to follow those orders.” He leaned onto the table and heard it creak threateningly under his weight. “I’ve spent time listening to your concerns, gentlemen. Until I hear otherwise, my duty is to remove the Indians from this area and keep your town safe. Good day.”
“We were already safe!” Mustache shook his fist and looked like he might even consider using it against Folsom but decided at the last moment not to get himself shot. “Leave us to our own devices, sir! We have to live here when you’re done with your damned orders.”
The man turned his back and stomped away before Folsom could respond, and after a brief hesitation the rest of the sorry lot followed suit.
Folsom settled back behind his desk and started composing his explanation of the day’s events. Colonel Hartshorn would want to know what had happened and he’d need to offer a proper defense. The loss of so many and that on top of being caught unawares, was not going to sit well. Folsom dreaded the shit storm that would surely be coming his way.
He had no idea.
Lucas Slate squinted at his reflection in the dusty mirror. The clothes were nice, a gift from Crowley, and they fitted properly. The tailor had a suit that was supposed to be picked up and never was — the man had died, apparently — and while it took a bit of waiting while the adjustments were made, the final result was worth the patience.