Edge: Killer's Breed

Rhett executed a limp-handed salute and forced himself to appear humble under the steady scrutiny of his superior. "Begging your pardon, sir. My buddies have captured a Confederate infantry officer. We feel it would be..."

"You've done what?" Jordan snapped, getting to his feet.

"A rebel officer, sir. Up the river in some trees. He's wounded and we think he must have been left behind in the retreat from Beverly or Rich Mountain."

For his rest Jordan had removed only his boots and tunic and now he began to put them back on. Rhett continued with his bogus report. "Since you are our troop commander, we felt it incumbent upon us to report the incident to you, sir."

"What were you doing outside the picket line?" Jordan demanded as he buttoned his tunic with one hand while he reached for his cap.

Rhett hesitated.

"Well, soldier?" It was a bellow in low key.

Rhett stammered. "We heard there were some women up river, sir. And a man with whiskey for sale."

Jordan sneered at the trooper. "What kind of man?"

"My private life is my own, sir," Rhett answered with a touch of resentment. Then he smiled ingratiatingly. "Anyway, I like whiskey as much as the next man."

"You shouldn't ever compare yourself with a man," Jordan came back, as he emerged from the tent, resetting his belt so that the sheathed saber swung more comfortably at his hip. "Consider yourself under open arrest. Rhett, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Give me the names of every other trooper who went with you."

"We captured an enemy officer, sir;" Rhett pretested.

"You arguing with me, trooper?"

Rhett shook his head sadly and began to intone the names of Forrest's group as Jordan led the way through the encampment. 

"Will you look at that?" a voice called from out of the warm darkness of the early July night.

"Yeah," came another. "Rhett ain't so fussy no more, is he?"

Jordan's head snapped this way and that, his eyes boring into the night but finding in the men closest to him nothing upon which he could vent his rage.

"He's run out of the real McCoy," the first voice answered. "Now he's goin' to lay it on a horse's ass!"

"Dirty bugger!"

Purple in the face, Jordan gave Rhett a vicious shove in the back to speed him onwards, along an overgrown turnpike that followed the course of the river out of the camp.

"Who goes there?" a voice demanded sharply.

"Nobody but us chickens," Rhett answered softly.

"Captain Jordan," the officer snapped.

The sentry lowered his musket and threw up a salute, then formed the raised hand into a sign of abuse when the two men had passed. The moon was high and large and refracted light from the calm waters of the river added its own illumination, making progress easy mover the open ground. But then the road turned sharply away from the bank to enter the edge of a small wood and the tall timber crowded in around the men and seemed to spring to life with a thousand moving shadows. Both Rhett and Jordan, although they would have been loath to admit it, welcomed the presence of the other.

"Far from here?" Jordan asked in a hushed whisper, clutching at the hilt of his saber.

"It all looks different now," Rhett answered in a similar tone, looking about nervously, not trusting Forrest and the others.

"That you, Bob?" It was Hal Douglas's voice, from ahead and to the right.

"Yes." Rhett's relief was evident in the single word.

"Show yourselves," Jordan demanded harshly, again using anger to conceal his fear.

"Over here, Captain," Roger Bell called, from a different direction. Billy Seward giggled and Jordan started to swing into a fast turn, suspecting something was wrong as he realized he was surrounded. He stared into the grinning face of Frank Forrest and it was as if he were rooted to the spot by the glittering hatred in the humorless eyes. Seward giggled again and Jordan felt his body begin to quake.

"Where's the captured..." Jordan started.

"Made a mistake," Forrest cut in coldly. "Easy to make a mistake in the dark, Captain. Reb turned out to be nothing but a dead polecat." The lips drew back further, widening the grin, making it more evil. "But now we got us a live skunk."

"He sure enough smells like one," John Scott said, close to Jordan's ear.

The captain snatched a glance around and saw the five men were closing in on him.

"Nah," Forrest corrected. "Real skunks don't smell as bad as he does. Ain't nothing that cures the constipation like a dose of fear."

"Captain's shot," Douglas said, holding his nose.

Jordan swallowed hard and took a step backwards, bouncing into Rhett. The dandy faked a feminine squeal of delight. "You offering, Oliver?"

All the taunters broke into laughter.

"You'll all be court-martialed," Jordan said, his tone rising.

Forrest curtailed his amusement and smashed an iron hard fist into the captain's stomach. Jordan gasped and bent double.

"He is!" Rhett squealed. "He is offering. I don't wish to boast, but how about a foot to start?"