The Five Dollar Mail Book 3: The Road Home

87: Coup d'état

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Captain Alexander Scarcliff by Laura Hollingsworth. All graphics by me.

Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.

"Damn your eyes, Lieutenant," Scarcliff spat at Collins, slamming his closed fist into the tabletop in his pavilion. "I should court martial you for this." He let himself sink into his chair, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, trying to think. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I had to act immediately, sir," Collins said evenly. He was standing stock-still in front of Scarcliff's table, a stony look of contrite concern on his face. "We were under attack. My scout was shot and died right next to me."

Scarcliff grimaced, fighting hard to settle his temper. He was as close to panic as he'd ever been, and it took a monumental effort on his part to keep his emotions under control. We lost two out of our three scouts in this mess. Now we are sitting here nearly hamstrung. He gritted his teeth. And my second-in-command seems to be losing his damned mind. "That farmstead is where the attack happened, Lieutenant. Where the hell were you? The Sioux village had nothing to do with anything. Hell, most of the attackers at the farm were not even Indian! Peltier says Red Horn was there. He runs with a gang of whites!"

"Sir..." Collins shifted nervously. He was visibly sweating. "We were given bad information by someone I now know had ulterior motives. I acted on it, and I take responsibility for that." He shook his head. "You have to know I wouldn't just abandon you and your men out there alone if I thought you'd be attacked. I believed the fort was the target, so I returned here immediately in an attempt to strike first. I know now that it was a conspiracy to get the Sioux out of the way for the railroad. The railroad representative, Hezekiah Stone, claimed his men were being harassed by Sioux. He knew that would motivate us to attack."

"That wasn't your call to make!"

"Wasn't it?" Collins's mask of restraint began to unravel. "With respect, sir, we were being shot at. Wounded had turned over on us and Stone lied to us. Bad Medicine was dead. There was no way to get a message to you in time for you to return and help us. I acted in the best interest of the fort." He spoke evenly, choosing his words with care. "I had bigger things to consider than protecting a farmstead. The last thing I wanted to do was leave the fort unmanned!" His gaze was sharp, accusing. "Sir."

Scarcliff narrowed his eyes, giving Collins a hard look. Somewhere behind his temple, he could feel his blood pulsing. He's not being entirely truthful. What the hell really happened out there? "What are you implying Lieutenant? Are you suggesting..." Footfalls were approaching the tent flap, crunching in the gravel and dried grass underfoot, and he trailed off, listening. He was surprised when they stopped and he heard Lynch and Peltier talking beyond the canvas.

"Captain?" Lynch growled.

"Enter," he muttered, bracing himself for yet another conversation he really didn't want to have.

"Captain..." Peltier, still wearing his borrowed blue coat, threw back the tent flap and strode into the tent. Mister Lynch was beside him. "Miss Lewis-Smythe's gone. She's out there somewhere in this."

"What?" Scarcliff came out of his seat as if he'd been shoved from behind. "That's impossible!"

Lynch guffawed, a humorless, self-deprecating snort. "No, sir, it ain't."

"What is this?" Scarcliff was suspicious, his mind reeling with the implications of this new piece of information. "Because I assure you, I don't have the time or the humor for jokes right now..."

Peltier interrupted him. "She's gone. Devereaux with her."

Scarcliff stared, stunned. "How?"

Peltier and Lynch exchanged a glance. Peltier shook his head, his eyes focusing briefly on something only he could see. "That's Fiona," he muttered, almost to himself.

Collin's mouth was hanging open, and he snapped it closed. "Devereaux? That slovenly, unshaved half-breed that came in with you?"

Peltier's lip tightened with annoyance, but he said nothing. His eyebrow hitched itself a little higher on his brow.

"He was at the village," Collins sputtered. "I saw him there."

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