Rogue River by Kerry Newcomb

Author:Kerry Newcomb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2011-03-14T00:00:00+00:00

12

Corporal Philippe DuToit had once been a captain of infantry in the Franco-Prussian War. The fall of Paris had dashed his dream of a military career in his native country. Fleeing Prussian domination, DuToit had landed in New Orleans. From there he had wandered north with the river. Depressed, and missing the military life, he had enlisted in the Dakotas. Corporal wasn’t much of a rank, and there were times Philippe grieved on account of his personal plummet from the vaulted heights of military aristocracy. At such times he tended to drink too much. Now was such a time. It softened his fall from prominence, soothed his damaged ego. And one thing more: He drank to forget how frightened he was. For Philippe DuToit had lost more than his rank, he had lost his nerves as well. Fear gnawed at his vitals, leaving him a wrecked shell of a man, a hollow man desperately trying to overcome his cowardice.

DuToit was a man of average height, but broad-shouldered and with coarse thick features. A thick black mustache covered his lower lip and flowed up to curl across his cheeks. He was forever twisting the tips of his mustache, an action he assumed whenever he was telling a story. He enjoyed being the center of attention and he milked such moments for all they were worth. Now he leaned back against the bar, a stoneware cup of home-brewed whiskey in his hand. He sloshed the contents onto the floor with each broad gesture. His booming voice filled the room.

“Busby never knew what happened,” DuToit said. “I saw him myself drop to the ground with one, two, three arrows in his heart.” He mimicked the sound of the arrows striking home and his eyes rolled back in his head as he gasped.

He paused to allow for effect and took the opportunity to gauge his audience. The Hammonds were seated at one table, watching the Frenchman with disinterest. Sam Dollard stood at the bar, wolfing down a plate of stew. He gave no indication of listening to DuToit’s account.

Cole was standing near a shuttered window, a slab of meat and bread in one hand, strong black coffee in the other as he peered through a peephole, keeping a constant check on the meadow. He didn’t trust the Red Shields to remain at a distance, even though he felt certain the braves wouldn’t try anything until night.

DuToit turned to the only audience who seemed to be paying him any mind: Ben Wheatley, Journey, Sergeant McKane. The two men were already on their second bowls of stew while Journey was nursing a drink, taking little sips and casting hooded glances in Wheatley’s direction. Behind them at another table, Silas Dean drank and fumed.

“The savages were among the tents in an instant. Sacre, such slaughter!” DuToit gave a dramatic shudder. “The Prussian may be a wretched animal but at least he is a Christian. These red devils, red like demons from Hell. What manner of foe is this? And how they enjoy their butchery.

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