John Carter Read Free Page B

been so preoccupied with the locals that he’d failed to watch his back.
    â€œYour presence is requested up at the fort. I suggest you come peaceably.”
    Carter’s hand tightened on his pistol. “Do you, now.” He spun around—right into the butt of an army Remington.
    He had just enough time to register the disgusted face of a sergeant, flanked by three privates. Then he sank into a sleep of spiders, pain, and regret.
    â€œYou’re a difficult man to find.”
    Afterward, Carter couldn’t remember which had come first: the sharp words or the splash of cold water in his face. He sputtered back to the living in a wooden chair, dead center of a spare, makeshift military office. Two guards gripped his shoulders in meaty hands. A gruff, weary, middle-aged colonel stood before him holding a dossier full of papers.
    â€œCaptain John Carter,” the colonel continued. “First Virginia Cavalry, Army of Northern Virginia. Confederate States of America.” He bent down to face Carter directly. “I’m Colonel Powell. Welcome to the Seventh Cavalry of the United States of—”
    Carter lunged forward, head-butting Powell with all his might. The colonel’s head snapped back, trailing blood. Carter sprang to his feet but lurched off balance, still groggy. The two guards moved in, grabbed him expertly, and threw him to the ground. As Powell dabbed blood from his nose, grimacing in disappointment, Carter fell beneath the guards’ blows.
    Twenty minutes later, Carter stood handcuffed to the bars of the fort’s stockade cell. His face was bruised, his eye still bleeding. Powell stood outside, calmly reading from the dossier as if nothing had happened.
    â€œ. . . excellent horseman, fine swordsman. Decorated six times, including the Southern Cross of Honor. At Five Forks, the company under your command nearly turned the tide.”
    Carter sniffed contemptuously, then winced at the pain. Everything hurt.
    â€œIn short,” Powell continued, “a born fighter. And in the eyes of Uncle Sam, a necessary man for the defense of the Arizona territory—”
    â€œNo.”
    Powell looked up from the dossier, his eyes hard. “We’re up to our chinstraps in Apache, son.”
    â€œAin’t my concern,” Carter said.
    â€œI believe it is your concern, Captain. Folks are being attacked in their homes. Slain. They need protection.”
    â€œYou all started it. You finish it.”
    â€œGone native, have we?”
    â€œThe Apaches can go to hell, too.” Carter rattled his cuffs, felt the old anger growing inside him. “Mankind’s a savage, warlike species. I want no part of it.”
    â€œYou’re a cavalryman. That makes you valuable to our country and our cause.”
    â€œColonel Powell. Sir.” Carter pushed his bruised face through the bars as far as he could. “Whatever it is you suppose I owe you, our country, or any other beloved cause, I have already paid. In full.”
    He spat through the bars. Powell faced him down, impassive.
    â€œBut I tell you what I will do,” Carter continued. “I’ll get me out of this cell, claim my gold, trade it in for a fortune in filthy money, and then buy your righteous flat blue behind just so’s I can kick it around the block all damn day long.”
    Suddenly, savagely, Powell gut-punched Carter through the bars. Carter fell back onto the floor of the cell, coughing.
    Powell stared down contemptuously at his prisoner. “Captain,” he said slowly, “I am finding it difficult to reconcile the man in my dossier with the one I’m looking at. I suggest you find the horse sense to accept my offer before I give in to my better judgment.”
    The door slammed and Powell was gone. Carter swooned, on his knees, thinking, Don’t pass out. And if you do, for God’s sake don’t dream of Sarah.
    But of course he did.
    Next morning at