Wicked Temper Part 14

For the moment, he had Stack's attention.

Ugly Flagg spat a sour raisin into the fire.

"I vuz many tings," Kortsteinen continued, frosty throated. "Ze tailor, ze tackidermist, huntsman, der rattejager. I eefun toiled in ze grinding mill such as tis, very briefly. In ze North of England. Tis vuz after ze Austro-Prussian War, my millwurk vuz."

Flagg leaned across low flames. "Mens like you is n.o.ble stuff, ain't you now, Pritt? We real lucky dat Mizz Arbergast done writ out West fer sich a soldierin man--"

"It was a telegram." Sergeant set down his pouch.

"--her lettin us ride posse with n.o.bleness like you and dat perty n.i.g.g.e.r-- "I would've crost h.e.l.l fer Major Arbogast."

"--dat's right. You woulda crost h.e.l.l. But he's done, ain't he? An she's done. An everbody round Mug Jump knowed no white laws weren't gone go after Black Robby. What's a n.i.g.g.e.r baby er two? s.h.i.t, Mizz Arbogast's housegal Sally kin jist git another n.i.g.g.e.r baby, s.h.i.t, Mizz Arbogast kin jist git another housegal. But fortune shined--din't it? Lady gits t'pityin dese po n.i.g.g.e.r chilren an we gits you."

Foolhardy, Stack had to jump into the act. "Ain't dat a ho-dee-ho-ho? Black Robby, he jist a dirty White Robby? White folks calls him black fer all dem black ribs he et? Reckons you and Sir Akando might wanna string dat Robby y'ownselfs. Yep, dat Robby, he best beware."

"Best beware o'dat kilmoo," Nothin' Bill told his spoon.

Sergeant took off his blue cap; ready, if need be, to kick bejesus out of father and son. The horses shifted. Snow no longer blew betwixt their hocklegs.

"Vere dit you hear zat vord?"

"Whut word?" Flagg asked, still grinning, he and son Stack still trading fiery eyes with the Sergeant.

"Kilmoo," Bill said, scarf polishing the spoon.

Kortsteinen hacked, but spake with new gravity, "Vy do you zay kilmoo?"

"Down dat hoecake house," Nothin' Bill idly explained, "hoecake man tell me, look sharp fer boint millhouse. Look sharp fer dat kilmoo. He say, kilmoo likes to play. He say, kilmoo ain't got no mouf to eats wif." Then Bill licked his prize spoon, polishing some more.

"No mouth? Whud a kilmoo live on?" Stack asked, drawn to the idea.

"Nuffin..." answered Nothin' Bill, "...I s'pose."

The German looked cold hard into the dying fire.

"Only undt heathen beliefs in life witout sustenance."

Nothin' Bill lifted his eyes from the bent reflection. "Ah ain't no heaben."

"Nein?" Kortsteinen smiled strange, withdrawing his flask. "I am. Most certainly. Ze poet says: heathen vastrals commen ze nacht, ze dance is all zat matters..."

Ugly Flagg whistled, eyes easing up on the Sergeant. "Gawddam, listen dat Mistuh Koatstiney, preachin poems at us. Bet yo Lady Akando kin talk dat poetry too, Saaargent. You?"

"I've read my share." Sergeant would just let Ugly Flagg, Stack, the whole lot of them, he'd let them skate. For now. The bloodletter must not escape. Sergeant took up his squaw pouch again.

His fingers found raisin pits in his millet. Fresh raisin pits.

"...I slafed in ze mill for a very nice gentleman. I vuz twenty-two years uf age. A time when only ze trickster kilmoolis couldt disturb my sleep. Heathen lore, I swore. No longer. But I needt no kilmoolis. I haf heard bombs, screams in my sleep since I vuz thirty-two, Officers Corps, ze Siege Of Paris."

Sergeant flicked out the pits from his millet. He gave everyone the once over. They were listening to the German now. Ugly Flagg chewed his raisins. And somebody had spat pits into this Sergeant's grain. Sergeant was losing patience. He cupped the pouch, felt the six bra.s.s shots hidden inside.

"...zo I only descended to schoolmeister after failingk my way aroundt ze vorld. Mathematics and Greek literature vere my princ.i.p.al studies at Academy. Uf course, I also excelledt at ze fencing, but I'm too oldt und zis country iz too youngk for fencing skills."

"But dis country be old," said Nothin' Bill.

"Almos' old as Saaargent Pritt," Flagg added.

Disgusted, the Sergeant tied his pouch.

"...but ein trickster liffed in zat dark millhouse, ven I vuz a boy, aaaaaaaaakkkk-kkk." Rib cracking, Kortsteinen coughed, unstoppered his flask.

"Gimme some o'dat d.a.m.n juice," Stack blurted and went for the flask-- --quickly, there was a four-shot Rupertus derringer at Stack's black throat. "I vould not care to kill another schartze," the schoolmeister whispered.

Sergeant grabbed his cap and stood.

"Done had my bellyful of you, Stack," the Sergeant barked, "you too, Flagg Seals. We kin do this job like the hard labor it is or we kin go to killin each other. But make no mistake. The next man who messes with my feed--" Sergeant slapped his cap on his head; the cap dumped snow down his face.

Flagg laughed. So did Nothin' Bill. So did Stackhouse. The German's derringer fell, for even he was amused.

Flagg rose up, one big grin into the Sergeant's wet face.

"Somebody thowed snow in yo cap, Saaargent. Ain't dat funny? Don't dat funny yo bone?"

Flagg was caught across the jaw by Pritt's longironed Walker Colt revolver. Flagg flew backward through the horses. The horses shrieked as Flagg hit the open snow. Drawing his Bowie knife, Sergeant came out after Flagg. Flagg crawled an inch or two before the blade was at his scalp.

Sergeant knelt. "You mudshuckin African--" he began to seethe--just before, whack, Billy Seals uncapped Sarge's blue cap with a rifle b.u.t.t.

"Who you thinks you is?" Nothin' Bill stepped over the felled Sergeant, brought his barrel sight down onto Sergeant's nose.

Akando laid an elegant hand across the barrel.

The hand brushed away Bill's aim. Nothin' Bill looked up at doefringed Akando; Akando standing quiet beside him.

"You ain't no kilmoo," Bill said, simply.

Akando smiled, said nothing. He offered the Sergeant a hand up. But Sergeant was already up.

"I've found exceptional refuge across the bridge," Akando reported, "a cave."

Sergeant yanked Bill around by the collar, forcing Bill's gaze. For a split-second, Sergeant saw himself bent in Bill's spoon. "What'll it be then? Bullets? Knives? Call it, call it now, G.o.ddam you!"

By now, Bill had lost interest. He cradled his long rifle. "Nuffin. I don't know..." Bill muttered, shrugged, and dropped his head. Stack closed in. Angry Flagg got off his knees.

Otho Kretschmar Von Kortsteinen the Fourth still sat by the fire, sheltered by horses and a mill in ruin. Suppressing his spasms, the German heard the Negro Sergeant challenge the Seals family. Would they apprehend Loy or would he, the Sergeant, duel each of the Seals Negroes in turn? This Sergeant took sobriety to new lengths. Kortsteinen had never enjoyed sober men. Kortsteinen broke open his derringer, double-checking his four-bra.s.s load, listening. Aha. Father Flagg Seals was blooded, but prepared to finish the task, or so the schwartze was saying. The Negroes' boorish oaths sounded blunt as mallets to Otho, like stupid carpenters in the upswelling blizzard. The wind was coming back. Bitter winter on the Schleswig Holstein Province came to mind, epic casualties, the frozen agonies of those months, a squandered lifetime. The oaths continued. Apparently, Father Flagg did not think they stood chance one of returning Loy's corpse, or so he said. Their ransom went unmentioned. But, the swine-faced elder Seals was a crafty black. Kortsteinen felt certain Father Seals would wait and kill that Sergeant on their returning journey, or try to. The derringer slid back into the German's wrist holster. Strange company. Strange, and yet...out there, apart from the rabbling coloreds in the snow, stood a very cultured fellow indeed. Akando had returned. Now he was speaking, so precise, so well-spaken. Kortsteinen might enjoy Akando, given the chance. Apparently Akando had located a cave, and even some nearby seclusion for their threadbare horses.

A cave.

Always the vestiges of mercy, thought Kortsteinen, b.u.t.toning his leather gaiters. There was no G.o.d, so, such a fickle mercy must be fool's balm for the heathen.

After the men were settled inside the deep rock seam, Akando drew the Sergeant aside. The Sergeant was duly impressed when the pathfinder led the party across the bridge, then a scant hundred yards up the opposite bluff, beneath an ascending lip of pine. Here was a cave's mouth, barely visible, but here; the broad sheltered ledge overhead was suitable, so they tethered their horses upon its rock.

Now, in a cubby of hooves, Sergeant lit a new fire for the German or Stack--whoever would sit first watch. Then Sergeant Pritt joined Akando in the milkshadows behind the horses' rumps, where they would go unseen. Echoing from the cave below, Ugly Flagg threw out curses and invocations that cut louder than all this slashing wind.

Akando untied a blanket roll from his roan's saddle. His elegant fingers shook, they shook, but discreetly.

"I'd rather the other gentlemen not see this," Akando said.

Sergeant was surprised at the perfect new fear in this perfect Negro. Kneeling, Akando unrolled his find like a high holy priest. On the blanket lay a small skin. A baby's skin.

Eyes glazing, mouth set, the Sergeant soon crouched over the hide.

"Awful pinkish," Sergeant judged, softly.

"It's white, sir. It's a white child."

Akando was true, without fault or hesitation. Anyone could see the blond wisps, the little rosefleshed mask, and more.

"A boy?" Sergeant asked, seeing.

Akando was nodding, yes, a newborn boy. Like all the little gutted abominations they'd seen before, like every sample Mrs. Arbogast displayed upon their enlistment, yet, unique. Unlike any of the little horrors either man could recall: this pelt being the first pelt not dark nor tanned.

"Up there, sir, several meters into the trees I found fresh furrows--too wide to be anything but the Lady Arbogast's drafthorse; the studhorse stolen by Loy. He had ridden the animal under a lightning-split oak." Akando laid a fine glossy finger on a flaxen curl. "This was tacked to the bark."

"How long?"

Akando met the Sergeant's eye.

"Ten, maybe fifteen minutes, sir."

"He's close at hand."

"Possibly too close, from my perspective, Mister Pritt."

The Sergeant understood. The babyskin was already collecting thick flakes.

"Be a good night to come callin unbeknownst, you mean. Us in the cave. Only one gun out here."

"I've a proposal, sir."

"Yes, Akando?"

"I've another half hour's light, maybe more with snowshine. I'll go as far up as seems reasonable, time permitting, then I'll scout a rough perimeter to ascertain that Loy has not backtracked toward us. This is certainly your command, Mister Pritt. But, all considered, I'd prefer this fellow got farther afield until we've proper conditions for safe capture. He can't make much progress before daybreak."

"Irregular..."

"What's irregular, sir?"

"Look. There. And there. He skins out the feet, but carves off the hands."

"Hands."

"He carves em off, see?"

There wasn't much to see. Both had seen enough.

"Akando?"

"Sir?"

"They'll think we did this."

"This child's mother and father?" asked Akando, already aware of the equation.

"Bury this poor thing. No blanket. For G.o.d's sake, be sharp-witted and be back down here within the hour. Our bloodthirsting companions ain't qualified for night patrol. Lose em to the storm 'fore we lose em to Robby Loy."

Gingerly, Akando rolled the skin again. He almost forced a smile. "I should heartily concur, Mister Pritt."

Sergeant's gauntlet took his tracker's doeclad arm.

"Course, Akando, I might just afford him a Seals or two. It's you I can't be losing."

"Though I'm something less than a kilmoo, sir?"

"What?" Sergeant frowned.

"Isn't that what young William Seals has ascertained? Apparently, I am no kilmoo."

"Fergit about that mumbo dung."

Akando rose, began lashing his grizzly pa.s.senger to his roan stallion's rump. "Lest you worry, Mister Pritt, I'm from north country. From north country people. We acquire quick respect for ice and dank. And frigid spirits."

Blue flame cupped in his hand, Kortsteinen carried his foldable Belgian alcohol lamp to the back of the cave. Or, as far back into the maw as he and the Sergeant dared to bed. Bent under a low rock ceiling, stepping lightly over the snores of Seals, Kortsteinen was glad to be out of the cave's snowflown door. Predictably, he found the Sergeant lying awake.

Akando was overdue. Hours overdue.

Sergeant Pritt looked weak in the thin, blue glimmer. Still, the Sergeant came upright when the German set his wee lamp betwixt their pallets.

"I have zeen Herr Stack. He us very hoppy up by ze fire. Ze lifestock, zay are hoppy. My bladder us hoppy. I ham not yet in-con-tinent." His wheezy chuckle soon had Kortsteinen strangling on a cough.

Sergeant could not see the humor. "You think Akando's froze dead out there?" he whispered back.

Kortsteinen recovered, spruced his moustache. "Who can tell? He us a very rezourceful creature."

Sergeant threw taut eyes at the sleeping bundles of Flagg and Nothin' Bill, the flurries outside. He could only nod yes.