The Violent Peace (6 page)

LIEUTENANT Carey used only a hand signal to halt the troop at the crest of a rise, then raked his eyes over the small farmstead nestling in a shallow valley ahead. It was full night now, but the moon was at the three quarters and shed more than enough silvery blue light to illuminate the scene. There was a small, single storey house with a buckboard parked in the yard out front. To one side was a long barn with an empty corral behind it. All around were fields, most tilled for wheat, two given over to pasture. A single lighted window showed at the front of the house; the only sign of occupation. For in every other respect, the spread had a rundown, deserted look. And this impression was heightened by the solid silence which lay heavily across the valley. Against this stillness, every slight sound made by the soldiers or their horses seemed amplified out of all proportion.

“That must be the place,” Carey whispered.

The sergeant finished his survey of the unmoving scene below. “Reckon you're right, sir. We come at least ten miles from town.”

“I think we'll dismount, fan out and go in carefully,” Carey said reflectively.

The sergeant was not impressed by the plan. “If you think that's best, sir.”

Carey looked at the sergeant harshly, showing his distaste for a man who would question his orders. “It's what I think, sergeant,” he hissed. “This isn't a battlefield. There's a woman in there. Maybe some children. Apart from which, it's necessary to take these men alive.”

“Whatever the lieutenant says,” the sergeant acknowledged, his tone suggesting he was still against the plan, but was prepared to go along with it because of the younger man's higher rank. He turned in the saddle and beckoned the troopers into a tight group so he would not have to raise his voice. “All right, we spread out in a line along the front of the house,” he instructed. “We go in on foot, leading the horses. Nobody gets trigger happy unless the lieutenant or I give the word.”

His eyes suddenly narrowed and he did a double-take at the faces of the troopers. “Where the hell is Clancy?” he hissed.

The young trooper who had ridden beside the deserter was suddenly aware that all eyes were turned towards him. He cleared his throat nervously. “He got an ache, sergeant,” he said. “He held back to relieve it. Says he'll catch us up.”

The sergeant's coloration turned from red to purple. “I'll have the bastard court-martialed,” he rasped. “No, first I'll skin him alive and have what's left of him court-martialed.”

“Save it, sergeant!” Carey ordered. “We have more pressing business to attend to. Form up and let's move.”

Leather slapped and harness jingled as the troopers slid from their saddles and spread out in a line across the ridge of the hill. Carey waited with mounting impatience and nervousness for the formation to be completed, then drew the Henry rifle from the saddle boot and started down the slope. On either side of him the men set off, in a straggled line of advance.

They had reached the side of the yard when the door of the house was flung open and a woman's voice sounded.

“Far enough, soldier boys!” she called harshly. “No man gets any closer to me unless I tell him he can.”

The troopers saw her as a silhouette against the yellow lamp light. The shotgun she held against her shoulder in a steady aim was just as clearly defined against the bright background. The men looked towards Carey and pulled up short as he halted.

Mona Binns was a handsome woman of almost thirty. She had long red hair and green eyes which were filled with grim determination as she surveyed the line of uniformed figures. Her dress was crudely made and tight-fitting, emphasizing her ample curves as she stepped out into the yard.

“Good evening,” Carey greeted, struggling to keep nervousness out of his tone. “You're Mrs. Binns?”

The woman had been raking the gun back and forth along the line of men. Now she drew a bead on the lieutenant. “If that's all you want, I'm Mona Binns,” she replied. “You get that for free. Now get off my property.”

A wan-faced corporal thought he heard a faint scratching sound and shot a glance-towards the barn at the side of the yard. It was rotting away. The roof was lop-sided and there were many holes in the side where lengths of timber had fallen or been torn off. Even from a distance of several yards it was possible to smell the musky odor of decay. It was not possible to see the four pairs of eyes peering through the holes.

“It's not quite as easy as that, Mrs. Binns,” Carey said, his voice a little hoarse from trying to keep it pitched at an even tone. “We've come for your husband and his three companions.”

Four gun muzzles were rested on the time-softened wood surrounding the holes.

“I haven't seen Ed in weeks,” Mona shouted.

Carey looked at the sergeant, who shrugged, indicating that the officer had called the initial action and would have to follow through on his own.

“You've only got to look at the place,” Mona went on. “Easy to see Ed's got more important things to do than take care of the farm. Go look for him somewhere else, soldier boy. And when you find him, tell him to call in at the cat house on his way back. He'll need a replacement.”

In the fetid darkness of the barn, Carstairs grinned behind his pointing rifle. “She almost sounds as if she means that, old boy,” he whispered.

Binns, only a few feet from Carstairs' position, did not allow himself to be distracted from his aim as he drew a bead on the red faced sergeant. “If she gets rid of those troopers, she can say whatever the hell she wants,” he replied with soft-voiced conviction.

“Looks like it's gonna take more than words to send 'em on their way,” Monahan muttered.

Logan sweated and tugged at the crutch piece of his tight pants.

“Government business, Mrs. Binns,” Carey said. “It's necessary we search the house.”

He injected authority into his voice. Mona matched his tone.

“What's in it is my business, mister.”

Carey swallowed hard and took a step forward. Many of the troopers followed his example, palms sweating as they gripped reins and rifles.

“I warned you!” Mona screamed and squeezed one trigger of the shotgun. Buckshot exploded from one of the two barrels and dirt showered up a foot in front of Carey. A yell of anger erupted from her mouth as the recoil of the gun thudded her back against the doorframe. Horses reared and the troopers struggled to hold them.

“Come on!” Carey shouted, letting go of his own mount and, racing full-tilt towards the doorway. The troopers followed his example, lumbering across the yard, rifles positioned to pour lead into the house but not daring to fire until the order was given.

“Saddle the nags, Ed,” Carstairs instructed.

“The hell with that,” Binns retorted angrily, leaning forward and firing through the hole. “It's:
my
wife those guys are goin' after.”

A trooper pitched forward, blood gushing from the side of his head, and the charge faltered as men whirled to face an attack from the flank.

“I told you!” Monahan yelled. “I goddamn told you. We should beat it in the first place!” He fired out into the yard and another trooper was hit, spinning away beneath the trampling hooves of a panicked horse. A hail of bullets thudded into the timber of the barn as Logan fired a wild shot.

“Horses, Jack!” Carstairs ordered.

“Aw, I can shoot good as the rest,” Logan complained, pumping another shot through his hole.

"You hit the lousy buckboard again, stupid!” Monahan barked. “Get the lousy horses.”

More bullets thudded into the side of the barn, some penetrating the areas where the timber was completely rotten. Logan scuttled quickly to the stalls at the far end of the barn, where four horses snorted and stamped in fright as shots exploded in the dark air, pungent with the fumes of burnt powder.

As he struggled to calm the frightened animals, Carstairs, Binns and Monahan alternately fired through the holes and ducked down low. Three uniformed figures were sprawled in the dust of the yard, one of them wailing his agony as he clutched at the spongy red pulp where his nose had been. Loose horses charged into each other as they raced to get away from the noise and smell of death. The side of the barn was pocked with yellow scars where bullets had splintered the wood and more appeared by the moment as the troopers poured lead towards the decaying building. Answering fire was exploded towards them, but they were no longer easy targets. They crouched in cover, behind the corner of the house, fences, a water barrel and the buckboard.

“What about those horses?” Carstairs demanded as he pumped out a shot, silencing the screams of the wounded man. His bullet entered the trooper's open mouth and burrowed deep into his brain.

“Bastards won't stand still,” Logan whined.

“Maybe we should ask the soldier boys to hold of 'til you quieten them?” Monahan suggested wryly, firing a shot which punctured the water barrel.

“Some of 'em made the house!” Binns yelled hysterically.

“But not Mona, Ed,” Monahan pointed out. “They got other things on their minds.”

He and Carstairs fired simultaneously, and a uniformed form rolled into view from behind the barrel. Blood from two gaping wounds in his forehead poured out to tint the pool of spilled water.

Carey leaned out from the lighted doorway and fired three times in quick succession, seeing wood splinters fly. Then the Henry's pump action jammed and he drew back with a curse.

A trooper behind the buckboard emptied his rifle arid fumbled to reload as an answering volley of shots thudded into the tailgate. He whirled around, naked fear on his face, as he heard running footfalls. He brought the rifle up and almost squeezed the trigger at the ample frame of the sergeant as the non-com dropped down beside him.

“Christ, I thought you was one of them!” he said fearfully.

“That why you keep following me to the latrines?” the sergeant asked wryly, peering towards the barn.

“Sergeant, why don't we—” Three shots had sounded together. The trooper looked at the sergeant in surprise, then toppled forward. Blood bubbled up through an enormous hole in the back of his head. The sergeant looked ruefully at the smaller hole in the side of the buckboard.

“Nothing but matchwood,” he said softly. “Don't make nothing like they used to.”

Carey worked the action of the Henry loose and started to lean out to aim at the barn. But he froze as the muzzle of the shotgun was pressed against the nape of his neck.

“You stop it, or I kill you,” Mona ordered, not shouting, but her words and the menace of the tone were clearly discernible against the background of gunfire.

“You tried once before, ma'am,” Carey said throatily, cursing himself for ignoring the danger of the woman.

“A person's luck can change,” she replied. “Tell them to stop.” She applied pressure to the gun and Carey had to brace himself against the door frame to keep from being pushed out into the open.

"You must love, him a whole lot,” Carey said tightly, stalling for time to think.

“I hate his guts,” Mona answered venomously. “But if I don't help him, he'll kill me."

“He won't get the chance,” Carey promised hopefully.

Mona eased up on the pressure; then rammed the gun muzzle hard into Carey's flesh. “I'm not taking that chance, mister,” she hissed. “Tell them to stop!”

Carey had used up all the time he was going to be allowed, and he had decided he was not brave enough to become a dead hero. “Sergeant!”

The sergeant pumped off a final shot. “Sir!”

“Cease fire.”

The non-com started to turn. “Cease what?”

“Do it!” Carey ordered, fear feeding strength to his anger. The sergeant completed his turn and saw the helplessness of Carey's position. “Cease fire!” he yelled. “Cease fire!”

The shooting continued for a few moments, then faltered and finally trailed away to distant echoes. There were a few seconds of eerie silence, made more intense by the sudden stillness from the barn.

“What now, ma'am?”
Carey asked.

He wanted to turn around, but didn't trust the woman's state of nerves. Any unasked for gesture might panic her into squeezing the trigger of the pressing shotgun. Had he been able to see her confused expression, he would have realized she had thought no further ahead than this point. But abruptly, she reached a decision.

“Ed!” she shouted.

In the barn, Logan was saddling the fourth horse. He had been so intent on the chore that he failed to realize the gunfire had stopped. The sudden shout against the silence startled him.

“That's Mona!” Binns rasped in surprise, peering out across the slumped forms of the dead troopers, trying to, detect a movement in the lighted doorway of the house.

“Sure sounds like a woman,” Monahan muttered wryly, feeding fresh shells into his rifle.

“Unless we shot the balls off a trooper,” Carstairs suggested.

“Finished,” Logan whispered, tightening the final cinch, then tugging at his pants.

“Mona!” Binns roared at the top of his voice.

“Saddle up and move out!” his wife called.