Chapter 24: Public Service

Harold, the coffee-colored horse trader, proved to be, as reported, a good man who knew his business. I used Jeff's name, and he showed me some animals. We dickered a bit, and he sold me a mare and a decent saddle and set of capacious bags at a fair price for those days when the rebels and Tories had cleaned the countryside of horse flesh more than once.

"Do me a favor while you're here," Harold said as I looked my new horse in the eye and stroked her big nose.

"Certainly," I said, "anything."

"Want you to kill a man," he said calmly.

I waited, feeling my stomach tighten.

"He's a rebel like you, a killer, despoiler, vandal. Got a band of foul men that run all over this area, giving your cause a bad name. Raped and killed my wife, they did, month or so back, good woman."

"I don't go around killing people," I said, well aware of the lie.

"Hm," he said, "you looks like you might."

I shook my head.

"I ain't 'llowed to have no weapons."

"Why'd he kill her?"

"She was white."

I chewed on that a while.

"Could y'think on it?"

"I've got to be going. Get my ass chewed off if I don't get back soon."

"Go have a drink. Look for a tall, red-headed man. That'll be him. He needs killin'. Do the town a lot a'good."

I nodded and rode my new horse into the small town with its single tavern, inn and stage stop. A red-headed man was holding court from the fireplace end of the common room when I entered. I got a beer and watched as he assessed some men fines, slapped one man's face, and then pulled a woman down between his legs, opened his foreflap and kept her head there with one hand while he ate and drank. He was not a very big man, lanky might fit him as a word, but he had bright eyes and a big mouth full of bad teeth. When he let the woman go, she crawled away to a man who comforted her. They left together.

"What's going on?" I asked the inn-keeper.

"Justice day," he said. "Don' poke yer nose in lessen you want t'lose it."

I nodded, and when I glanced back at the table, the red-headed man held my eyes. He smiled.

"Who the shit are you?" he yelled, pointing a long finger at me.

"Nobody," I said clearly, finishing my beer.

"Come here, y'big pissant," he cried, waving me forward.

"Go to hell," I said, hitching my britches and making sure my bayonet was loose in its scabbard.

"Grab him," he yelled. "The stupid fucker."

The man standing beside me at the bar put his hand on my shoulder. I turned and flattened him with a blow to the face, and two more men grabbed me from behind while the first man stumbled outside, holding his bleeding mouth. I backed them hard into the front wall, got my arms around their necks and banged their heads together, hard so it made a solid, cracking sound. One fell and the other twisted away, holding his forehead. I relieved him of his pistol and kicked him back where he had come from. I dragged the unconscious man out the front door and dropped him by the horse trough.

"That ain't neighborly," the red-head said to me, standing only a yard away, a big pistol in his hand, fully cocked and aimed at my stomach. I handed him his man's gun and walked back inside to order another beer.

"Come sit with me," the man growled, putting both pistols in his belt. "If you please," he added.

I paid for my beer, drank off the foam and followed him to a table off to the side. He sat with his back to the wall; I was exposed to the whole room. I felt my skin crawling as I watched him size me up.

"I can use a man like you," he said, making an odd motion with his mouth as if a nerve in his face did not work right.

I drank and leaned back.

"Well," he said.

"Doing what?" I asked. "I got a job."

"Soldiering," he said. "My militia company. We shares what we takes, and we take plenty, plenty of whisky, plenty of tail, lots of fun."

"Didn't know war was fun," I said. "And tell that bedraggled man behind me to go away or I'll kick him again."

The red-head waved and then looked back at me. "Want a woman?" he asked.

"Always," I said.

"Marcia," he yelled. The serving wench came and stood beside him, a young farm girl with dimples and stringy hair, her ample bosom barely covered, laced girdle straining. The man grabbed her around the wide hips. "This here's my friend," he said, waving in my general direction. "Take him upstairs and swive him good."

The girl nodded and looked at me. I stood, offered her my elbow and followed her up the steps. She smelled of sweat and beer. Her clothes were dirty and so was the back of her neck. She led me to a room, closed the door behind us and said, "How d'ye like to do it?"

"Sit down," I said, pointing to the bed. She sat.

"What's his name?" I asked, taking the room's only chair and facing her as she sat with her hands together in her lap.

"Ain't'chu gonna do me?" she asked, tears in her brown eyes.

I found a shilling and handed it to her. She looked at it and sniffed.

"What's his name?" I asked.

"Who?" She put the coin in her apron pocket and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

'The red-headed man down there."

"Oh, Mr. Benson, Rufe Benson's his name. Rufus."

"How come you do what he says?"

"He's mean, he is," she said, nodding in agreement with her own words.

I reached between her lush breasts and tied up the loose strings of her worn shift. "He own this place?"

She shook her head.

"You free or indentured?"

"I'm free, but I has to work. Got no family."