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Michael Spradlin: Blood Riders

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Michael Spradlin Blood Riders

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“No excuse, sir,” he said, hoping it would save him from the lecture on the importance of an inmate’s personal hygiene. The colonel remained at the window, looking out on the prison grounds. This was unusual as he normally was all business, sitting at his desk and dispensing whatever orders he needed to in a clipped and efficient manner.

The colonel’s body language made him look bound up and angry, as if he had been forced to swallow something and could not bear the taste. Hollister then noticed the other man, sitting in the corner. Medium height, thick chin whiskers and a hard, granitelike face, which implied he knew a thing or two about trouble. He sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. Hollister noticed the rough, scarred skin on his hands, especially on a few broken fingers that had never healed right. Whoever he was, he’d been in few scraps. Hollister remained at attention and turned his eyes to the practiced middle-distance stare of a prisoner, and waited.

“You have a visitor, Inmate Hollister,” the colonel said, his back still turned to Jonas. Jonas saw Whitman’s stance go straighter as he spoke, and he clasped his hands behind him. Neither man said anything, as if waiting for Hollister to speak.

“Yes, sir,” he finally replied.

The stranger stood up, striding confidently across the creaking office floor to Hollister and stuck out his gnarled right hand.

“Captain Hollister,” he said. “My name is Allan Pinkerton.

Chapter Three

Hollister knew the name. He reluctantly shook Pinkerton’s proffered hand, but returned quickly to attention. Whitman turned around to look at him, and he was determined not to do anything that would bring the colonel’s wrath down on him. At least not yet.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain Hollister,” Pinkerton said, with a trace of a Scottish brogue.

“ Private Hollister,” the colonel corrected.

Pinkerton glared at him. “For now, Colonel. For now,” he said. He stomped back to his chair, picked up a leather satchel, and placed it on Whitman’s desk.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hollister saw Whitman blanch and press his mouth into a straight line at Pinkerton’s growing list of violations of proper procedure.

“Please, Captain Hollister, at ease, at ease,” Pinkerton said as he rifled through the satchel. Jonas glanced at the colonel for approval before allowing himself to go to parade rest, his posture relaxed but on the alert. He was concerned. This wasn’t about McAfee and the fight. This was something unfamiliar. One of the most famous men in America was here to talk to him. But not knowing why made Hollister edgy.

“Yes… yes here it is,” Pinkerton said, pulling a small ledger out of his case and thumbing it open.

“Jonas P. Hollister, captain, United States Army. Born in Tecumseh, Michigan. Graduated from West Point in 1864, assigned to the Seventh Michigan Cavalry under the command of General George Armstrong Custer. Awarded medals for valor at Cold Harbor, Petersburg, and the Winchester Campaign. Received a field commission of lieutenant colonel directly from General Ulysses S. Grant. Court-martialed for assault on a superior officer, found not guilty but reduced in rank to captain in March 1865.” Pinkerton paused. “What exactly happened there, Captain?”

Hollister was quiet for a moment. He squinted at the man. He still didn’t know what this was about. The colonel had returned to staring out the window, giving him no indication as to how he should proceed. All right, then.

“I punched George in the face, sir, because he was responsible for the death of thirty-seven of my men.”

“When you say George, you mean General Custer?” Pinkerton asked. Hollister nodded.

“General Custer was your superior officer and you assaulted him

…” Lieutenant Colonel Whitman said, staring in disbelief. Pinkerton held up his hand and he stopped talking.

“Go on, Captain,” Pinkerton prodded.

“General Custer, sir, was a glory-seeking jackass,” Hollister said, making sure he was speaking directly at Pinkerton. Knowing full well the colonel still held all the cards as far as his future was concerned.

“I see. What is your opinion of Custer’s performance at the Little Bighorn?” Pinkerton asked.

“I wasn’t there,” Jonas said.

“But you must have an idea. Some thought about your former commander. An opinion?” Pinkerton went on.

“From what I heard and read, sir, he divided his command against a far superior enemy with a clear tactical advantage. It’s no wonder he got everyone killed. I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner,” Hollister stated. He saw Whitman’s shoulders tense.

Pinkerton said nothing, looking down at the ledger again.

“Tell me about Wyoming, Captain,” Pinkerton said.

“No, sir,” Hollister replied.

“God damn you, inmate, you will answer his questions,” the colonel turned from the window and roared at Jonas as he stormed around the desk.

“It’s all right, Colonel,” Pinkerton said. He had a tone about him that both shut Whitman off and took him down a peg or two. Whitman was about to say something else but decided against it, choking on the words, and spun around, returning to his spot at the window.

“I might be able to help you, Captain,” Pinkerton said

“Help me with what, sir?” Hollister asked.

“Get out of here. Permanently, I might add.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. But I need to hear from you what happened.”

Hollister smiled. Then laughed. He wasn’t sure why he was laughing-and he saw Whitman’s face redden, which only made him laugh more. His nerves were jangled, and he felt as though he might burst if he didn’t laugh. It was the only thing he could think to do. In Leavenworth, dark humor was one of the few things that could keep you alive, and for Hollister it was all he had right now.

“Is something funny, Captain?” Pinkerton asked.

Hollister calmed himself. “Yes, sir. I’d say it borders right on hilarious. You know what happened in Wyoming. You’ve read my testimony and my regimental commander’s report on the incident. Out of nowhere, the most famous detective in America shows up at Fort Leavenworth Military Prison and asks me what happened on that ridge three years, ten months, and eleven days ago, which, I might add, I never dreamed would happen. So I’m thinking there’s only two things that could have happened. One, you’ve suddenly decided I wasn’t lying, which I doubt, since no one else has ever believed me. Or two, it’s happened again.”

Pinkerton’s eyes narrowed and he studied Hollister. Something washed over his face. It was only a flicker, but Jonas saw it, clear as day. Pinkerton had arrived at a decision. Jonas didn’t know what it might be, but he clearly had reached some determination of vital importance. Hope stirred in his chest.

“Colonel, I’d like to talk to the captain alone, please,” Pinkerton said.

“I’m afraid that’s not allowed. It’s against regulations for any prisoner to be-”

“Colonel, when I first arrived, you promised me full cooperation, did you not?” Pinkerton asked. “Here’s hoping I won’t have to send a cable to General Sherman requesting…”

Without another word, Whitman threw up his arms and stomped out of his office, slamming the door.

“Pompous jackass,” Pinkerton muttered. He strolled casually around the desk to Whitman’s chair and sat down. “Please, Captain, sit. Let’s talk.”

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