‘No.’
‘It’s only a matter of time.’ Crowe shook his head angrily. ‘Sherlock, how on earth could you be so careless as to let him follow you?’
‘He heard Matty and me talking about Edinburgh before we even set off,’ Sherlock said nervously. ‘He had some kind of listening tube in the cottage.’
‘Ah.’ Crowe nodded. ‘Clever.’
‘He kidnapped Rufus on the train,’Matty added, ‘and then he kidnapped me and Sherlock, but we escaped.’
‘Escaped?’ Crowe’s face twisted into a grimace. ‘Ah doubt it. He let you go.’
Matty was affronted. ‘Sherlock broke the legs of those two men – Fillon and Payne.’
Crowe shrugged. ‘If that enabled him to follow you here, Scobell would consider that a small price to pay.’
‘He was torturing me for information,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘It would have been easier just to keep on torturing me until I talked rather than trade two of his men for the information.’
Crowe didn’t look any less angry, but his hand moved away from the pistol. ‘Perhaps,’ he conceded. ‘Are you sure you weren’t followed here?’
‘Very sure,’ Sherlock said firmly.
‘What’s so bad about this Scobell bloke?’ Matty asked. ‘Apart from the fact that he likes hurting people. There’s blokes in this country who like hurting people. Can’t imagine this Scobell is much worse.’
Sherlock nodded in agreement. Matty’s words put him in mind of Josh Harkness, the blackmailer whom Mrs Eglantine had been working for. Harkness had been a nasty piece of work; could Bryce Scobell be that much worse?
‘There’s a load of different examples ah could give you,’ Crowe replied, ‘but ah’ll let one suffice.’ His eyes seemed not to be looking at Sherlock, or any of the others, but to be fixed on something that only he could see. ‘Scobell was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Confederate Army. He weren’t right in the head, even then. Ah don’t think there’s a word for what he was, what he is. Not evil, exactly, but he don’t have emotions like guilt, or regret, or shame like the rest of us. He don’t even feel things like anger or happiness. He just seems to sail through life with a complete indifference to anythin’ except his own survival. He’s convinced that he’s the most important thing in the world, and that everythin’ else exists to make his life easier an’ better.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Ah first heard about him when he was sent to deal with an uprisin’ among the native tribes. They’d taken advantage of the confusion surroundin’ the War Between the States an’ they were attackin’ families, settlers, anyone they could isolate an’ kill. Scobell was under the command of Colonel John Chivington at the time, and they were sent with a troop of militia to stop the Arapaho an’ the Cheyenne from mountin’ these attacks.’
Virginia came into the room with a tray containing five glasses and a plate of oatcakes. None of them had even seen her leave, so caught up were they in her father’s story. She gave the beer to Crowe and Rufus Stone, then passed glasses of water to Sherlock and Matty. Everyone helped themselves to the oatcakes.
‘This was about five, six years back,’ Crowe went on. ‘Chivington used to be a pastor in the Church, but his forbearance for his fellow man didn’t extend as far as the Indians. He hated them with a passion most men reserve for scorpions an’ rabid dogs. Scobell, his second-in-command, didn’t hate them, but he regarded them as a lower form of life that didn’t belong in his world. Between the two men there wasn’t a single friendly thought. Under Chivington and Scobell, the militia attacked not just the Cheyenne and the Arapaho but the Sioux, the Comanche and the Kiowa as well.
Crowe sipped at his beer. Nobody broke the heavy silence in the room.
‘The Indians were gettin’ the sharp end of the stick,’ he continued, ‘an’ they decided they wanted peace, so a meetin’ was arranged with the authorities. The Indians left the meetin’ thinkin’ they had a peace treaty, but nothin’ had actually been signed. Few days later, a chief named Black Kettle camped his people near Fort Lyon. They weren’t doin’ anybody any harm – they was just followin’ the buffalo along the Arkansas River. They lived off the buffalo, you see – used them for meat, for clothes, for oil, for everythin’.’
Crowe halted for a moment and looked out through the window. His hand moved towards the gun, but whatever he had seen must have been innocent – a bird, maybe, or an animal crossing the open ground – because he pulled his hand back and started speaking again.
‘They reported to Fort Lyon, just like they was supposed to, and then camped on Sand Creek about forty miles north. Their camp was in a dip in the ground, surrounded by low hills. Not long after they arrived, Chivington and Scobell rode into Fort Lyon and told the garrison commander that they was goin’ to attack Black Kettle’s tribe. The garrison commander told them Black Kettle had already surrendered, but Scobell persuaded him that this was an ideal opportunity to rid the world of more Indians. He seemed to be able to influence people like that. Next day Chivington led his troops, most of them drunk, I’ve heard, and surrounded the camp. On Scobell’s advice, Chivington took four artillery pieces with him.’
Virginia slipped into a seat next to Sherlock. Somehow her hand ended up in his. He squeezed it reassuringly, and she squeezed back.
‘Seeing the militia gatherin’ around him, Black Kettle flew a white flag of peace over his tent. Without givin’ any warnin’, an’ without consultin’ with Chivington, Scobell gave the order to attack.’
Crowe paused, and the momentary silence in the room was like something heavy and alive.
‘It was a fire storm of death an’ destruction descendin’ on them from the skies,’ he whispered. ‘Men, women, children – all of them massacred by the artillery fire an’ by rifle fire. They had no chance to defend themselves. An’ when the artillery had run out of shells an’ the rifles had run out of bullets, Scobell led his men into the camp an’ they killed every last one, by beatin’ them with the butts of their rifles, an’ with their knives. Every last one.’
‘Someone must have taken action,’ Sherlock said, shocked. ‘I mean, Chivington and Scobell broke the peace treaty.’
Crowe laughed harshly. ‘What peace treaty? There weren’t any signed bits of paper to refer to.’ When Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else, Crowe raised a hand to stop him. ‘Chivington was hauled up in front of a military tribunal a year or two later and forced to resign from the Army. Scobell went absent without leave, an’ has been on the run ever since.’
‘But . . . children?’ Virginia whispered. ‘Why? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘When he was asked at the military tribunal why children had been killed, Chivington replied, “Because nits lead to lice.” Funny thing is, ah reckon ah can hear Bryce Scobell’s voice there, speakin’ through Chivington. Ah reckon Scobell had much more influence over his superior officer than people thought at the time.’
‘And I’m guessing,’ Rufus Stone said, ‘that you were sent to bring Scobell back to face justice.’
‘That, or mete out some justice of mah own choosin’,’ Crowe said evenly. ‘Ah was given that authority by President Andrew Johnson himself.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah nearly caught Scobell three times, in different places ’cross the States. Ah lost several good men in firefights along the way.’
‘What happened?’ Matty asked, breathless.