[Continuing chapter sixteen]
The corporal shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “I can’t tell you what’s going on, Mister Reynolds,” he said. “Fact is, nobody here knows. And the fellow we sent up to the fort hasn’t come back. Yet.”
“Well, have you heard from the men at the capitol?” I shouldn’t have to lead this idiot through his paces, Reynolds thought angrily. He’s supposed to be a professional soldier, damn it all.
The corporal hesitated, then said “No,” in a way that made it sound as though the word was being dragged out of him with red-hot tongs.
“I don’t like being uninformed, hear?” Reynolds looked the corporal right in the eye. “It’s Corporal Smith, am I right?” The corporal nodded, caught mid-way between misery and resentment. Reynolds was too frightened himself to take the time for his customary approach, which would be to massage the man’s ego until he felt Reynolds was doing him a favor by demanding his obedience. “Well, Smith, I suggest that you send somebody off to make sure that the capitol defenses are secure. And then I strongly advise you to find an officer, any officer, who can provide your men with a bit of leadership.”
The corporal sloughed off something that presumably was intended to be a salute, and turned to go. “Oh, and Corporal Smith?” The man stopped, shoulders slumped, but did not turn about to face Reynolds again. Reynolds didn’t care. “If you happen to see any of Captain Cooper’s Rangers, send them to me immediately. You are dismissed.”
After Smith had left, Reynolds paced the front hall for a few minutes, trying to decide whether Cooper himself would be of any use in his current state. I’m just wasting time I don’t have, he eventually decided, and picked up a lamp from the small table by the door. Lighting it, he set out for the front parlor. I didn’t have to use this lamp, he told himself sardonically, even though this house is unfamiliar to me. I could find Cooper blindfolded; the man snores like a steam-powered saw.
Reynolds had to step carefully to avoid tripping over the empty decanter Cooper had dropped or tossed into the parlor doorway. The man himself lay sprawled on his back, his garish waistcoat sporting several fresh stains. Cooper’s mouth was open wide, and Reynolds turned away in disgust from the ragged row of rotting teeth that chasm revealed.
“Cooper,” he said quietly. There was no response, not even a change in the volume or timbre of the Ranger’s snores. Reynolds walked, with no small amount of distaste, toward the bulky form, repeating the name a couple of times to no effect.
When he nudged one of Cooper’s revolvers out of the way, however, Reynolds turned to find the other gun pointing at him and Cooper propped up on one elbow, reddened eyes opened narrowly but nevertheless open. “What d’you want?” Cooper rasped. His voice was almost as irritating as his snoring.
“We’ve got trouble, I think. There’s been firing down by the river, near the fort.” Reynolds shook his head. “I can’t find anybody who knows what’s happening.”
Cooper struggled to sit up, eventually placing the revolver beside him in order to be able to use both hands. Reynolds suppressed a sigh of relief as the gun was lowered. “What time is it?” Cooper asked.
“I don’t know. Sometime after five.”
“Just about time for me to be up anyway,” Cooper said. He scratched his head a moment, and Reynolds wondered in passing what creatures that act might be dislodging onto the parlor carpet. “Mebbe some of the officers got out of the calaboose and decided to make trouble.” Cooper lifted a tobacco-stained hand to Reynolds, who, after a moment’s hesitation, took it and pulled the captain to his feet. “Guess I oughta take myself a look,” he said.
Reynolds, who couldn’t avoid turning his face away from the foul reek of Cooper’s breath, nodded his approval. “Perhaps I ought to join you,” he said. “I’m just going to be frustrated sitting here.”
Cooper fixed him with a rough-eyed stare. “You prepared to use a gun?” he asked. “‘Cause if you ain’t, you’ll be staying here. I don’t want nobody dragging me down or holding me back if I gotta do something out there.”
“Of course I’m prepared to shoot if need be.” Reynolds burned at the captain’s implication.
“Sure y’are,” Cooper said. “You’re a Texican, after all.” He stooped to pick up his guns, straightened with an audibly profane effort and holstered the revolvers. “Still, I think you’d best stay here. Wouldn’t feel right putting our new president in harm’s way.”
Reynolds stood, staring into the gloom without seeing anything, for some time after Cooper had brushed past him and left the parlor. Of course it made sense that he not go with Cooper. That didn’t make the man’s implication any less insulting. It’s my duty to be at the point of action if action is required, he told himself. A quieter internal voice suggested that anything would be better than sitting in this gloomy house, surrounded by unfriendly slaves, and waiting for information. There’s just too much at stake for me to sit around waiting, he told himself.
Picking up the lamp, he left the parlor—picking up a bottle as he went—and climbed up the stairs to the president’s—to his—bedroom. Taking great care, he loaded his short-barreled Colt’s Dragoon pistol and his single-shot Currie dueling pistols. The latter he placed in the bag he’d packed for the sort of emergency this looked like it might turn into; the former went into the inside pocket of his coat. Then he went downstairs and walked to the stables. Cooper, the stable boy told him, had left just a few minutes ago. That gives me plenty of time, Reynolds thought, to catch up with him.
Not that I intend to ride alongside him, of course.
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen
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