Michael Spradlin: Blood Riders

Pinkerton reached into his satchel and removed a small glass tube with a cork stopper in one end. It held something white, long, and sharp, and when Pinkerton handed it to him and he looked at it closely, he nearly dropped it in alarm.

“I thought as you did, until I found this,” Pinkerton said.

It was a fang. Hollister recognized it immediately. He had seen them on the creatures that’d attacked his men. He handed it back to Pinkerton like it was something hot.

“Might be from a bear or cougar,” Hollister muttered, knowing it wasn’t but feeling like he needed to say it anyway.

“It’s not, Captain. You know it. It must have been knocked loose in the struggle. My examination of the scene was more… thorough. I found it in between the floorboards of the camp saloon.”

Hollister was quiet a moment while he absorbed the details of Pinkerton’s story. He saw the tall white-haired thing standing in the advancing sunlight, his clothes and skin beginning to smoke. Heard the voice speak to him. He shook his head to drive the memory away.

“Still doesn’t answer my second question. Why me? You could send anyone after these things. Why do you believe me now?” Hollister asked.

“There are a few reasons. Aside from young Mr. Declan-”

“Wait,” Hollister interrupted. “The survivor of the attack is the senator’s son?”

“Yes. I thought I mentioned that.”

“No, you didn’t. So, the good senator doesn’t believe his own son?”

Pinkerton shook his head. “The senator and his son are… estranged. And given what he considers to be the young man’s ‘wild tale,’ the president has some concerns. Those concerns must be addressed.”

“I’ve been locked up for four years, Mr. Pinkerton. Explain it to me,” Hollister said.

“Senator Declan is trying to convince the local population that this was nothing more than an Indian attack. I… we know differently. If word gets out about these ‘flesh eaters,’ we’ll have panic everywhere and the good senator will lose a great deal of money. Whatever these things are, this is the first documented evidence we have that they have killed again. We need someone who has seen what they are capable of to find them. And find a way to kill them. Does that answer your questions, Captain?”

It did. As usual, it was about money. Nobody cared that Jonas was telling the truth. Only that they didn’t lose money. He could be bitter about it, but what Pinkerton was offering was a way out. A chance to find the things that killed his men. Vengeance. Redemption. Vindication. All wrapped up in a neat little bow and handed to him with a big fat paycheck. Whatever the reason for Pinkerton’s springing him from Leavenworth, this was his chance.

“Major,” Hollister said.

“I beg your pardon?” Pinkerton replied.

“If I agree, it will be Major Hollister. It will also be a salary of five hundred a month. Plus all of my back pay at captain’s grade since I’ve been in this hole. The back pay will be wired immediately to John and Nancy Hollister in Tecumseh, Michigan. All of it. I’ll want a telegram back from my father confirming he received the money. In the telegram, he’s also to reply with the year I broke my arm in the thresher on the farm. That way, I’ll know he really received it

…”

“Captain, this is outrageous! I don’t have the autho-”

“It’s Major Hollister and I’m not finished,” Hollister went on. “I may report directly to you, but I make the decisions as to how, where, and when we take on these things. Eleven of my troopers were killed in a matter of minutes. I’ve replayed that day a thousand times in my head and I think these things might have some weaknesses, but not many. I don’t want anyone questioning me, or my methods. Are we clear?”

Pinkerton slumped back in his chair, a man not used to being outmaneuvered.

“And one more thing. There’s an inmate in here named Chee. This morning he got thrown in the box for getting the bulge on a tub named McAfee. Whatever he’s in for, he’s to be granted a full pardon, released immediately, and promoted to sergeant major. He will also receive his back pay, to be distributed at his discretion, and is to be placed under my command.”

Pinkerton’s shoulders slumped. “Is there anything else, Captain Hollister?”

“Major Hollister. And no, I think that about covers it.”

“All right. I’ll agree to your terms. But I will need your colonel’s clerk to redraw these papers. It will take some time,” Pinkerton said.

“Fine. I’ve got nothing but time,” Jonas replied.

“Very well.” Pinkerton stuck out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Hollister shook his hand, surprised at the strength of the elderly man’s grip. He didn’t see the pistol until it was right up under his chin and he felt his fingers start to hurt as the grip turned to iron.

“Just two more things, Major Hollister. You may think you have the upper hand here, and given the gravity of this situation, you might be right. But never forget who is in charge. And never, ever, mention President Lincoln to me again. Are we clear?”

Hollister’s eyes rolled downward, looking at the pistol jammed against his flesh.

“Yes. We’re clear,” Hollister said.

“Excellent,” Pinkerton replied, the pistol vanishing as quickly as it appeared. “Excellent. Now excuse me, Major, while I call upon Colonel Whitman’s clerk to make a few changes in these documents.”

Hollister watched the stooped older man gather up the papers and scurry out of the room.

“Huh…” he said to the empty room.

Chee shuffled along until he cleared the gates of the prison and stopped while one of the guards bent down to undo the irons binding his legs. Pinkerton’s papers had made him a free man, something he didn’t understand yet, but the colonel had insisted on proper protocol for the release of the prisoner, and that meant leg irons until he left the Leavenworth grounds.

Chee felt a massive weight fall away when the last padlock was undone. The guard said nothing, merely gathered up the chains and returned inside the prison. Chee heard the giant doors shut and the steel bar snap into place, and for the first time in months felt as if he could take a deep breath. He looked down at the sergeant major’s stripes on his blue blouse and brushed away a piece of lint on his left arm. One more thing he didn’t understand. He’d gone into Leavenworth busted all the way down to private but he‘d only been a corporal when he was arrested and court-martialed in the first place. Now he was Sergeant Major Chee. White people are strange, he thought.

He walked up the main street of Leavenworth, not bothering to look at the shops or glance in the windows. No one paid any attention to him. He looked like a normal soldier on some errand, not a man who had been locked away in a hole for the last nineteen months. He picked up his pace, hoping to meet up with Major Hollister before Colonel Whitman, the army, or whoever was responsible for his freedom changed their mind and locked him up again.

Chee had been thrown in the box after the fight with McAfee. The temperature inside the all-steel four-foot-square box was well over one hundred degrees and it was just about big enough for Chee to sit in if he didn’t stretch out his legs. Chee wasn’t afraid of much, but he didn’t like cramped spaces. A few hours later Hollister had come with two guards to tell him that they were both being released. He thought it might be a cruel joke Hollister was playing on him. Maybe he was a rat bastard like the rest of the inmates. But it seemed to be true. It was like a miracle, and though he hadn’t understood much of what Hollister had said, he agreed right away.