[Continuing chapter fifteen]
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve
For a moment he was sure he’d made too much noise—damned boot hit too hard, he told himself—but as he silently caught his breath he could hear a murmur of conversation from the farthest point of the parapet. Better than I expected, he thought. Though he got to his feet he kept himself crouched over as he moved to the upper floor of the timber gatehouse. He drew his revolver only when he’d reached the shadows thrown by the gatehouse.
Inside, tucked into a corner and snoring softly, was a man in an officer’s uniform. Likely a lieutenant, and he’d done Stewart the favour of removing his gun belt, which hung from a peg driven into the wall beside the chair in which the man slept. With his free hand Stewart carefully lifted the belt from the peg; draping it around his neck and re-holstering his pistol he moved to the ladder and climbed down, marveling at the workmanship that prevented the ladder from making any sort of noise as his weight pressed onto it.
Nobody watched the inside of the gates, and apparently nobody heard the thump as Stewart withdrew the bar and pushed one of the large doors outward. In the second or two it took McCulloch to slip inside Stewart saw the soldiers Cleburne had called Judas goats shuffling across the street; from overhead he heard a guttural question whose words he could not make out.
Then McCulloch was on his way up the ladder—handing him his rifle as he passed—and Cleburne and John Patton had slipped in as well and followed him up. Stewart caught Secretary Travis’s eye and waved him forward, jerking his hand to show urgency. He buckled the liberated gun belt around his waist, just above his own belt, and picked up the rifle with one hand.
Then he stepped into the fort’s small courtyard, looking for the most secure-looking building. And there it was: every armory Stewart had ever seen seemed to look like this one did. There was a man standing by the door, but from the way he leaned into the wall he could easily have been asleep. Adopting his most serious parade-ground posture, Stewart marched toward the armory, trusting on military discipline to let him get close enough to the guard before having to draw a revolver.
In the event he did have to draw his revolver, but only to use the long barrel to smack the sleeping sentry more deeply into unconsciousness. Stewart was just straightening up, after an unsuccessful search of the man, when he heard the clomping of boots and jingling of buckles and musket-slings signifying that Miller’s men were inside the fort. A moment later Miller, Travis, Cleburne and the elder Patton were before him, staring at the crumpled, white-clad sentry at his feet.
“I think the men we want are in here, sir,” Stewart said. “This fellow”—he nudged the unconscious sentry—”doesn’t seem to have the keys to the lock.”
Travis looked around; the fort seemed deserted to Stewart, so he could easily imagine how it must look to the secretary. Behind Travis clustered Miller’s men, almost vibrating with unspent energy as they waited for someone to direct them. “Has the alert been sounded yet?”
“Nope.” McCulloch looked at Stewart. “Will be any second now, though.”
Stewart nodded. “All right,” he said after a pause. He had been waiting, he realized, for Travis to take command—but it appeared Travis was waiting for Stewart or Cleburne to do so. Well, command is something you wanted, he told himself. Let it all be on himself, then; he felt a curious completeness in having surrendered himself to the moment. “Captain Miller, I want you to take your men and make prisoners of everyone you find in the commandant’s quarters and the barracks. If you can find rope or chains, bind the officers, sergeants and corporals. Mister Patton, you and the marshal and I will open this armory and liberate the prisoners. Let’s go, before someone sounds the alarm.”
He stood and watched a moment as Miller, his ridiculous sky-blue and gold uniform seeming to glow in the starlight, took his men at a dead run toward the commandant’s quarters. Then he turned to McCulloch. “How do we get this door open?” he asked.
McCulloch’s mouth curled up in a toothy predator’s grin, and he produced a Colt revolver from the waistband of his trousers. “Stand back, captain, and I’ll show you.”
“In my experience,” Stewart said as McCulloch placed the muzzle of his pistol against the big padlock, “that method never works. And it sometimes hurts the man pulling the trigger. Have you ever actually tried this before, Marshal?” When McCulloch shook his head, smiling sheepishly, Stewart nodded, saying, “We wanted to avoid raising the alarm, remember?”
“Any second now, Miller’s boys are going to be rousting traitors out of the commandant’s quarters and the game will be up anyway.” Carefully lowering the hammer and revolving the cylinder so an empty chamber stood under the hammer, McCulloch trotted away, leaving Stewart to stare at the obstinate door. From inside he thought he heard the sound of anxious voices.
Then McCulloch was back, with a heavy iron spike and a wooden mallet. “Want to tell me this won’t work?” he asked. Stewart laughed and waved him toward the padlock.
The noise the hammer and spike made as McCullock splintered the padlock was nearly as loud as a series of gunshots. “If they didn’t knew we were here before, they do now,” he said. He flung the door open, and stepped inside.
Inside, tucked into a corner and snoring softly, was a man in an officer’s uniform. Likely a lieutenant, and he’d done Stewart the favour of removing his gun belt, which hung from a peg driven into the wall beside the chair in which the man slept. With his free hand Stewart carefully lifted the belt from the peg; draping it around his neck and re-holstering his pistol he moved to the ladder and climbed down, marveling at the workmanship that prevented the ladder from making any sort of noise as his weight pressed onto it.
Nobody watched the inside of the gates, and apparently nobody heard the thump as Stewart withdrew the bar and pushed one of the large doors outward. In the second or two it took McCulloch to slip inside Stewart saw the soldiers Cleburne had called Judas goats shuffling across the street; from overhead he heard a guttural question whose words he could not make out.
Then McCulloch was on his way up the ladder—handing him his rifle as he passed—and Cleburne and John Patton had slipped in as well and followed him up. Stewart caught Secretary Travis’s eye and waved him forward, jerking his hand to show urgency. He buckled the liberated gun belt around his waist, just above his own belt, and picked up the rifle with one hand.
Then he stepped into the fort’s small courtyard, looking for the most secure-looking building. And there it was: every armory Stewart had ever seen seemed to look like this one did. There was a man standing by the door, but from the way he leaned into the wall he could easily have been asleep. Adopting his most serious parade-ground posture, Stewart marched toward the armory, trusting on military discipline to let him get close enough to the guard before having to draw a revolver.
In the event he did have to draw his revolver, but only to use the long barrel to smack the sleeping sentry more deeply into unconsciousness. Stewart was just straightening up, after an unsuccessful search of the man, when he heard the clomping of boots and jingling of buckles and musket-slings signifying that Miller’s men were inside the fort. A moment later Miller, Travis, Cleburne and the elder Patton were before him, staring at the crumpled, white-clad sentry at his feet.
“I think the men we want are in here, sir,” Stewart said. “This fellow”—he nudged the unconscious sentry—”doesn’t seem to have the keys to the lock.”
Travis looked around; the fort seemed deserted to Stewart, so he could easily imagine how it must look to the secretary. Behind Travis clustered Miller’s men, almost vibrating with unspent energy as they waited for someone to direct them. “Has the alert been sounded yet?”
“Nope.” McCulloch looked at Stewart. “Will be any second now, though.”
Stewart nodded. “All right,” he said after a pause. He had been waiting, he realized, for Travis to take command—but it appeared Travis was waiting for Stewart or Cleburne to do so. Well, command is something you wanted, he told himself. Let it all be on himself, then; he felt a curious completeness in having surrendered himself to the moment. “Captain Miller, I want you to take your men and make prisoners of everyone you find in the commandant’s quarters and the barracks. If you can find rope or chains, bind the officers, sergeants and corporals. Mister Patton, you and the marshal and I will open this armory and liberate the prisoners. Let’s go, before someone sounds the alarm.”
He stood and watched a moment as Miller, his ridiculous sky-blue and gold uniform seeming to glow in the starlight, took his men at a dead run toward the commandant’s quarters. Then he turned to McCulloch. “How do we get this door open?” he asked.
McCulloch’s mouth curled up in a toothy predator’s grin, and he produced a Colt revolver from the waistband of his trousers. “Stand back, captain, and I’ll show you.”
“In my experience,” Stewart said as McCulloch placed the muzzle of his pistol against the big padlock, “that method never works. And it sometimes hurts the man pulling the trigger. Have you ever actually tried this before, Marshal?” When McCulloch shook his head, smiling sheepishly, Stewart nodded, saying, “We wanted to avoid raising the alarm, remember?”
“Any second now, Miller’s boys are going to be rousting traitors out of the commandant’s quarters and the game will be up anyway.” Carefully lowering the hammer and revolving the cylinder so an empty chamber stood under the hammer, McCulloch trotted away, leaving Stewart to stare at the obstinate door. From inside he thought he heard the sound of anxious voices.
Then McCulloch was back, with a heavy iron spike and a wooden mallet. “Want to tell me this won’t work?” he asked. Stewart laughed and waved him toward the padlock.
The noise the hammer and spike made as McCullock splintered the padlock was nearly as loud as a series of gunshots. “If they didn’t knew we were here before, they do now,” he said. He flung the door open, and stepped inside.
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen
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