9 Murder Mysteries: volume 3 (eBook)

WESTWARD

Jeb Powell slumped in the saddle of his exhausted horse and stared with disgraced eyes at the Appomattox Court House, where Robert E. Lee was surrendering his army. Jeb had fought for four years and had lost many things, including friends, innocence and sometimes even hope, but he never lost his belief. Until today.

The court house door opened and General Lee came out with Grant next to him. Jeb turned his horse away. He hated Lee now.

A movement caught his eye and he saw George Armstrong Custer stride onto the porch. Golden-haired, always dandy Custer with thigh-high cavalier boots, black velour uniform and all. Custer flashed his victor’s grin as he urged the Union band to play Dixie for his defeated foe. Jeb tried to ignore him but could not. He hated Custer too.

Jeb joined the stream of beaten Confederate soldiers trudging away between the Union ranks. I wish I was in Dixie, Hooray! Hooray! He glanced at the enemy troops. There were so many of them and he saw the difference in the armies. The Yankees all wore boots while the remnants of Lee’s army were barefoot. In Dixie’s land I’ll take my stand, to live and die in Dixie. Four years of fighting and dying boiled down to that. Victor, boots; vanquished, barefoot. Away, away down south in Dixie.

He nudged his horse apart from the conquered army and turned south as the band continued. Away, away, away down south in Dixie. He was going home.

But it no longer existed.

Sherman’s army had swept south like a biblical plague. They burned the big house, ran off the livestock and desecrated the cotton fields. They shot Jeb’s father and scattered his family. They left nothing. Perhaps, one thing. He ran to the springhouse where his father had a strongbox hidden in the brick walls. The springhouse door had been wrenched off and all the perishables looted. A blackened hole showed where the strongbox had been blasted open. It was empty, save for a few charred Confederate bills. Nothing remained of his life and the family’s slaves, their ungrateful nigger slaves, had stood by and watched it all happen and then ran away.

Jeb climbed into his saddle. He was heading west with a cancerous hatred in his heart for Yankees and niggers.

Henry Stevens had a dream. He wanted to be a hero. In his dream he held the regiment battle flag in one hand and a glittering saber in the other as he led his faithful troops in a glorious charge. They slaughtered the cowering Rebs and his admiring men hoisted him on their shoulders and shouted his praise. He was a hero-warrior - in his dream. The only part that was a little vague was the actual killing of the enemy. Henry was a good Christian. He wanted to do his part to help abolish slavery. He was a fearful person who believed military service might help him overcome this weakness. He tried to enlist in a front-line regiment but was turned because he did not have the physical strength to do so. But with his impressive educational record and family connections in Washington, the department of the Provost Marshal General took him. The result was Henry became, in effect, a policeman overseeing the troops. They didn’t like policemen and didn’t like Henry, but he learned to love his job. This came easy to Henry because he had a great affection for order and delighted in writing reports. A good report made the world a safer place.

Once the war was over, to his surprise Henry was assigned to the 9th Cavalry as an aide to Colonel Edward Hatch. It was a colored regiment, Buffalo Soldiers, who according to legend were named that by the Indians because their dark skin and nappy hair reminded them of the skin and hair of a buffalo. These Negro soldiers were fierce fighters when sober and commanded by white officers.

With a great flood of people leaving the devastated south, the 9th was given the task of guarding the dangerous San Antonio-El Paso Road. After initial months of training in New Orleans, the 9th Cavalry along with Lieutenant Henry Stevens was heading west.

Colonel Hatch did not have much use for an aide, so he put young Henry Stevens in charge of the regiment’s self-policing activities. The lieutenant’s prior service in the Provost Marshal unit seemed reason for the assignment. Henry hoped doing a favorable job here would eventually lead him to become more than a policeman in the future.

Not long after Henry arrived at the fort, a half day’s ride from San Antonio, the colonel summoned him and said, ”We have a situation on our hands, Lieutenant.”

“Sir?”

“One of our troopers is missing.”

“Absent without leave?”

“Worse than being AWOL, his sergeant suspects foul play.”

“Part of a drunken spree?”

“No, the soldier in question does not drink.”

“Why does the sergeant believe foul play is involved?”

“That’s what I want you to find out. Select a volunteer from the troops to help with your investigation, and give this your complete and undivided attention.”

“I won’t need an assistant for this assignment, if that’s acceptable to you, Colonel.”

“You’re new to the ways of the Buffalo Soldier. These fellas are good fighters but are often difficult to keep in line. Much of this is because of cultural differences. They don’t like authority, even from the Negro noncommissioned officers. So a white commissioned officer is the last person they’ll trust. You need someone of their own color to help get to the real truth.”

“As you wish, sir.” Henry saluted and left to find a man from among the ranks to accompany him on what he believed was a wild goose chase rather than a serious investigation.

“How can I help you, sir?” the First Sergeant asked when Lieutenant Stevens approached the man’s desk.

“I’d like to see the files of your ten smartest troopers.”

“May I ask why?”

“You reported a soldier is unaccounted for.”

“So you want these men to help search for the man?”

“I was ordered by Colonel Hatch to get someone to assist me with the investigation.”

“Nobody in my ranks is a detective.”

“I need someone to help me with the questioning.”

“Oh, you want an interpreter to explain what the Negroes are really saying. Why didn’t you say so?” the top NCO said in a slightly sarcastic tone punctuated by a knowing smile.

“I do not appreciate your manners, sergeant,” Stevens said.

“Sorry, sir. It’s just that we don’t have much in the way of files and nothing to show who might be smarter than the others. The boys we picked up from the South can’t read or write because slave owners wanted it that way. And those from the North claiming to have some education never made it past the sixth grade.”

“Who would you pick?”

“Willie Washington,” the sergeant said without hesitation.

“Why?”

“The boy has commonsense. If he were white, he’d be an officer. And Willie knows how to fight too. He’s been through several campaigns with us and showed real courage under fire.”

“Bring him in.”

When Washington arrived, he exchanged salutes with the lieutenant and stood at attention while Stevens studied him.

“Heard you operate well under fire, trooper,” Stevens said.

“I had excellent training, sir.”

“You like soldiering?”

“It allows me to serve my country, sir.”

“You think killing Indians is the best way to serve your country?”

“If that’s what I’m called to do, I’ll do it with honor, sir.”

“Understand you read and write.”

“I do. Reading has taught me a great deal and helped me improve my writing skills as well, sir.”

“Our assignment won’t require any fighting I expect, but it will call for the ability to communicate and apply some critical thinking to the task at hand. Can you handle that?”

“I believe I can, sir.”

“All right, you’ll do. Pack your gear. We leave tomorrow at daybreak.”

“May I ask what the assignment is, sir?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Stevens said and left for a final meeting with Colonel Hatch.

“Did you find your man? The colonel asked.

“I believe I did, sir.”

“This dispatch just came in. It’s now a murder case,” Hatch said as he handed the message to Stevens. “Our man was found in a ditch on the outskirts of San Antonio a few hours ago.”

“Indians?”

“Maybe. See the sheriff as soon as you arrive. He’ll tell you what he knows. I don’t want rumors in here or out there to get out of control, so bring this thing to a conclusion fast. Good luck, and keep me informed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stevens said and saluted.

“One more thing, if you suspect this to be a trooper-on-trooper crime you must be discreet. We can’t have the men thinking white officers are trying to pin anything on their kind. Nor do we want the locals becoming more skittish than they already are with armed Negro soldiers patrolling the area.”

The sheriff was leaning, arms folded, against a post on the boardwalk outside his office when Stevens and Washington rode up. He looked down at them from his height and did not seem impressed.

“Greetings sheriff,” Stevens said as he and Willie dismounted. Stevens saluted. He got nothing back in return. “We’re here to investigate the murder of a US Army trooper.”

“That right?” The sheriff spat a long stream of tobacco juice across Washington’s...