Michael Spradlin - Blood Riders

“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.

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.”

“All the same, I’d prefer to stand, sir,” Jonas said. He felt completely in the dark. He had no control over whatever was happening, and so he was determined to hold on to those things he could control. He wasn’t going to let this strange man gain any advantage if he could avoid it. At least not until he knew what was going on.

Pinkerton shrugged and turned to another page in the ledger. “Very well. You’re correct in your assumption, Captain.” He said, looking up at Jonas.

“Which assumption would that be?” Jonas asked.

Pinkerton let out a big sigh. “Captain, I can assure you, I am here as your advocate. However, if you can’t at least listen to what I have to say with an open mind, we’re not going to get very far.”

Jonas said nothing for a moment. “Pinkerton.” He paused, thinking. “Weren’t you in charge of President Lincoln’s security?”

“I was,” Pinkerton replied.

“That sure worked out well,” he said.

Pinkerton’s eyes clouded and Jonas watched as the man’s mouth straightened into a thin line. His color changed from pale to bright red and Jonas set his feet, half expecting the detective to launch himself over the desk and pummel him into the floor. Yet the fury subsided as quickly as it had risen, and Pinkerton composed himself, settling in the chair again.