Lynch Read Free Page B

inside the cabin just as a horse cleared the rise.
    Most whites in the Wyoming and Dakota territories heaved a sigh of relief when they saw the U.S. Cavalry. Johnny Pearl wasn’t one of them. He’d spent too many years shooting at blue uniforms—and being shot at by them—to find their presence comforting. He watched uneasily as the squadron of troopers, roughly thirty in all, made its way toward his cabin. As the soldiers drew closer, Pearl stepped off the porch into the dooryard but did not lower his weapon.
    The squadron’s scout trotted his mount forward to where Pearl was standing, lifting his empty hand in greeting. There was something about him Pearl didn’t trust. He fidgeted in his saddle too much, like he had a ferret down his pants.
    â€œHowdy,” the scout said, looking about. “Where’s John Myerling?”
    â€œHe pulled up stakes and went back to St. Paul. I took over his cabin,” Johnny replied.
    â€œThat a fact?” The scout glanced in the direction of the soldiers, but Pearl couldn’t make out who he was looking at. “Have you seen any Injuns?”
    â€œSure, I seen Injuns. See ’em all the time. Now get off my land.”
    The scout twitched in his saddle again, his eyes narrowing. “You sure got a smart mouth for a sodbuster.”
    â€œI said get off my land,” Pearl replied, his voice hard as an iron bar.
    The scout’s eyes narrowed a split second before he reached for his holster, which was all the warning Pearl needed to step forward and jam his rifle directly into the other man’s crotch. The scout yanked his hand back like his gun had turned into a red-hot poker.
    â€œY-you’re bluffing, honyocker,” the scout sneered.
    â€œI never bluff.”
    There was something in Pearl’s voice that that made the scout decide not to push his luck. He licked his lips nervously and fidgeted even more in his saddle.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on here?” boomed an angry voice. An officer dressed in the uniform of a Cavalry captain rode forward. He was a big man, the way trees are big and rocks are big. His shoulders were as wide as an ax handle and his hands could easily hide Bibles. However, the captain’s most intimidating feature was not his sheer physical size, but the wavy mass of red hair that fell below his shoulders, and the matching beard and mustaches he wore combed out over his chest, which made him look like a lion. His stern face was burned by the sun, and his pale eyes were a startling contrast to the darker blue of his uniform and the vibrancy of his hair. “Put that weapon down, farmer!” the captain barked. It was clear he was used to being obeyed, be it by soldiers or civilians.
    â€œLike hell I will!” Johnny snapped in reply. “And who might you be?”
    â€œCaptain Antioch Drake, United States Cavalry. Now do as I say, sodbuster, or I’ll forget I’m talking to a white man and have my men open fire!”
    Pearl glanced at Drake, then stepped back, lowering his gun. What he’d seen looking at him through Drake’s eyes was all too familiar. He’d known men like him during the war: bloody-minded and scarlet-handed, incapable of separating friend from foe, soldier from civilian. Quantrill had been one such monster. If the war had taught Pearl one thing, it was that a bastard’s a bastard, whether suited up in blue or gray. And what he saw before him was a bastard in a blue suit.
    â€œThat’s better,” Drake said. “Now—are you going to answer the question my scout put to you or not? Did you see Injuns pass this way a day or two ago?”
    â€œWhat makes you think there’s been Injuns through here recently?” Johnny asked, trying his best to sidestep the question.
    â€œWe’ve been following their trail—and it lead us to you,” Drake responded. “Now—did you or did you not see Injuns passing