Hel Morgan

Four

Morgan rode quickly, the grulla mustang between his knees full of fire and a horse that liked to run. The trail was getting cold, but Morgan followed it with a practiced eye and moved swiftly. He was gaining! Clinging doggedly to the trail for over a week, the gap between them closed with each hour, the thirty in front of him not expecting pursuit.

He came upon them on at night, seeing the twinkling light of their campfires on the far, darkened horizon. Slowing the mustang to a walk they kept on, until he had only a mile to go. From here he'd walk. Ground-hitching the horse he slid his rifle from the bucket, careful to make no noise.

Moving off cautiously through the trees, his approach was downwind of the horses. The buckskin would catch his scent and raise an alarm, though well-intentioned. The horse was as faithful as a hound and would be eager to reunite with him.

The Reb's were broken into three groups, roughly eight men at each fire. They were talking and laughing among themselves, eating a fare of baked beans, griddle cakes, coffee, and fried bacon. Completely unaware of the danger nearly in their midst.

Morgan spotted the sentry closest to him and crept up on the man. In a smooth, experienced move he clamped a hand across the man's mouth and neck, giving a sharp twist, feeling the man sag against him. He lifted the body in his arms and pulled back, tucking the Reb beneath the cover of brush. He took the man's Arkansas Toothpick, revolver and rifle, tucking the gun into his waistband, slinging the rifle over his shoulder by the strap. A few other deft moves had the unconscious soldier hog-tied.

He moved away without a backward glance, circling around the glowing campfires, his eyes adjusted to the darkness of shadow. Finding the second sentry Hel dispatched him with brute force and deadly silence. He stripped that man of his weapons as well, keeping his eyes out for the other guards. He knew there'd be at least two more, probably three. While the Confederate soldiers ate and laughed in ignorant ease, Hel Morgan was steadily diminishing their numbers, hiding the bodies away, collecting their weapons.

He settled down at last, careful to keep the rifles from clanking together, and studied the enemy camp. Three fires, perhaps fifteen battle-hardened soldiers, two officers, a handful of competent-looking men and a few fresh-faced boys who seemed to not know this was a life and death situation.

Hel considered the scene, his keen eyes attentive to detail, the mind working behind them experienced and creative. He'd never before attempted to take on thirty men single-handedly, but he'd already cut their numbers and managed to remain undetected. It gave him a wild drive to face them all out and finish what they'd started.

As he watched them move about, an idea formed in the back of his mind. A wild, unorthodox, with a next-to-impossible chance of success. Grinning wickedly into the darkness his eyes glinted with a savage light. It was just crazy enough to work!

Easing up he backed away and set about putting his plan into motion. Sighting along the musket barrel, aiming it directly into the group of soldiers closest to his position, then carefully pulled the supple branch of a green sapling down, tying it to the ground, the running a string from the trigger to the branch. Using the Arkansas toothpick, he cut just less than halfway through the line holding the sapling bent before sliding away.

Hel put ten such contraptions in place, using all the muskets and revolvers he'd picked off the dead rebel sentries. Each trap he set Hel cut the line thinner and thinner, knowing his time was less, and he wanted the surprise to be complete. Like any well-ordered army, he knew the first watch of the night would be relieved shortly, and the missing watchmen would soon be discovered. Careful to stay out of the line of fire from his set traps, Hel took a breath and stepped from the shadows, the rifle up and ready. It was pointed at the man whose strips said he ranked a Colonel. His voice rang clear and loud.