Free High Plains Massacre by Jon Sharpe Page A

terror.

18
    Private Benjamin stood with his fly open and his hand in his pants. His mouth was open, too, and he was shrieking at the top of his lungs. He might have gone on shrieking had Fargo not run up and smacked him across the face.
    Lieutenant Wright and the others got there moments later, the lieutenant holding a burning brand over his head to cast light. “What in the world got into you?” he demanded.
    Private Benjamin pointed and his mouth worked a couple of times before he gasped, “Don’t you see it? I had to take a piss and I came over and there it was.”
    Fargo had already seen, and an icy shiver ran down his spine.
    â€œIt’s not possible,” Bear River Tom said.
    They had buried the man with the slit throat in a shallow grave and covered the mound with rocks to keep the wild things from digging it up. But now the rocks had been scattered and the dirt strewn about, and where the body should be was an empty hole.
    Lieutenant Wright knelt and reached in and stated the obvious. “The body’s gone.”
    â€œWho could have done this, sir?” a trooper asked, ripe with fear.
    â€œIt was the spook,” Private Benjamin said.
    â€œHow would you like another smack?” Fargo said. He shoved Benjamin aside and squatted next to Wright. He reached into the grave, too. The earth was cool and dank to his touch. “This was done in the past half hour or so.” Otherwise, the dirt would be drier and warmer.
    â€œWhile we were off chasing that white thing,” Bear River Tom guessed.
    â€œHave your men conduct a search,” Fargo said. “Use torches.”
    The color had drained from Wright’s face but he nodded and briskly issued commands.
    â€œWhy steal the body?” Bear River Tom wondered when they were alone.
    â€œTo scare us.”
    â€œIt’s working,” Bear River Tom said. “I’m scared as hell.”
    â€œThink of tits,” Fargo couldn’t believe he heard himself saying. “That should calm you.”
    â€œIf it can’t, nothing will.”
    They joined in the search, both of them with brands. Fargo examined the ground around the grave but couldn’t find drag marks. “Whoever took it carried him.”
    â€œWhy aren’t there tracks?”
    That was a good question. The scattered earth from the mound showed their own tracks and those of the troopers clear as day, but no others.
    Fargo moved toward the granite bluffs and raised his brand as high as he could, seeking the telltale dark mouth of a cave. He did it on a hunch that didn’t pay off.
    â€œYou ask me,” Bear River Tom said, “the colonel should have sent fifty bluebellies instead of this pack of infants.”
    â€œThe Sioux, remember?”
    â€œEven so. There’s not enough of us to deal with something like this.”
    They were a solemn group when they reassembled at the campfire.
    â€œNot a sign of the body anywhere,” Lieutenant Wright reported.
    â€œOf course there isn’t,” Private Benjamin whispered to the others but they all heard him. “It was the spook, I tell you.”
    â€œGo guard the horses,” Lieutenant Wright said.
    Fargo had a lot to ponder. He stayed up long after Tom and the soldiers had turned in.
    The wind had died. The gulch was as quiet as a cemetery. Around them, the mountains were another matter. Predator and prey were caught up in the nocturnal dance of death. The cry of a doe told of a meat eater’s success, a snarl of frustration that a bobcat had missed a kill.
    It was pushing one o’clock when Fargo went into the cabin. Stretching out, he tried to sleep. His mind was racing so fast, it was a losing proposition. Toward morning fatigue did what he couldn’t.
    The new dawn came much too soon. Fargo was aware of being shaken, and of Bear River Tom chuckling.
    â€œUp and at ’em, pard. It’s not like you to let the sun rise before you