Rawhide Chronicles: Greencoats

Greencoats

         He stood on the hill overlooking Bannerpole. The setting sun turned the hills crimson, and its dying light glinted off of the brass colonel’s leaves on his shoulder. A flagpole, bearing the standard of Confederate Columbia, stood on the hill with him. Bannerpole was certainly a perfect name for this town, he though. The flagstaff was the most conspicuous thing about it.
         “Colonel MacFinn! Colonel MacFinn!”
         The colonel growled, wheeling around to his lieutenant, who was clambering uphill towards him.
         “What is it, Lieutenant?”
         His lieutenant gasped for breath, unaccustomed yet to the elevation. “It’s Rawhide, sir. Rawhide Cáit. She just left town. Ranger Mill requests permission to pursue.”
         Colonel MacFinn shook his head. “No!”
         Lieutenant Malt seemed surprised at the vehemence with which his commanding officer answered. MacFinn ignored the surprise. He scanned the horizon with his field glasses, finally spotting the black horse and its draped rider fleeing into the west. He growled.
         “Let her go. The dullards down in Das Phenisran still don’t want to go after her. They still think the Bluebacks want to invade.”
         His lieutenant looked at him confusedly.
         “But sir, what if she escapes?’
         “Lieutenant! Have you informed Alcade Bran of this?”
         “Yes, sir.”
         “Then until Headquarters sees fit to decide that she’s more than just a problem for the local uniforms, she’s not our concern. I don’t care if she killed Alcade Marshall. Hell, I wouldn’t even care if she’d killed General Shortpath. Until then, we do nothing. As soon as they do, we strike. But not until then.”
         Lieutenant Malt took a step back. “Yes, sir. Oh, and one more thing, sir.”
         “What is it?”
         “That Cloak is back.” Malt saluted, then clambered back down the hill.
         MacFinn remained looking to the west for a minute, where only Rawhide’s dust trail remained visible. He growled again, untied his horse from the flagpole, and led it down the mountain.

*

         She had seen the Greencoat on Bannerhill. She knew that he had seen her. Yet no pursuit was forthcoming from town. Perhaps she would have worried less if there had been.
         Cáit had gone to see the man who hired her. Clint was dead, so she would have to deal with Piebald herself. She informed her employer of the delay. He knew that she sometimes hired outside help on her jobs, and he was fine with it. Just so long as the job got finished. He hadn’t been worried by the delay. After their discussion, he warned her after the Greencoats.
         Somehow, in the time between her shooting him and his dying, Clint had managed to convince the Greencoats that Cáit had killed Alcade Marshall, along with himself. Now she was wanted for two more counts of murder – and killing an Alcade was a hell of a lot more illegal than anybody else she’d gunned down.
         So now, she worried. Worried that the Greencoats would catch her. Worried that they were planning. They hadn’t gone after her when they could have. What else would they be doing?
         She sighed and shook her head, hair fluttering, gleaming in the rising moonlight. Coalfoot snorted behind her.
         “Keep quiet, you,” she said. The horse snorted. She shook her head again, then picked herself up and walked to where Coalfoot lay. She took an oat cracker out of her pocket and gave it to him.
         “It’s all right, Coalfoot. I know you’re tired. You’ll be able to rest when we get to Cearn. I know the innkeeper there. He’ll take care of you while we’re there.”
         The horse snorted again as it chewed the cracker.

*

         The man across the table from Colonel MacFinn named himself only as Cloak. His appearance matched the epithet – he wore a huge black cloak, old-styled with a hood. The hood was up, and his face was hidden, save for the gleam of his eyes.
         “So the Bureaucrats down in Das Phenisran are still at it,” he said, in that alien yet familiar voice.
         MacFinn nodded as he took a drink, which Cloak had turned down.
         “Yep. They say that Rawhide isn’t the Army’s problem. Keep her for the local enforcers. In the meantime, while she’s out there killing, we wait for the Union to invade, when they’ve not made a sound in almost three years!”
         Cloak nodded, his hood moving with his head.
         “Figures. One of the generals or other higher-ups wants the reward for themselves.”
         MacFinn paused in his thoughts.
         “Reward? The rules of conduct forbid any Army personnel from taking a reward for services rendered.”
         Cloak laughed, a thin, gravelly sound.
         “Do you think it’d be the first time someone in power bypassed the rules? How do you think General Shortpath became general in the first place?”
         MacFinn didn’t answer, so Cloak continued.
         “Imagine if you got the reward, MacFinn. 2000 gold ones, all for yourself! Think – General MacFinn!”
         The colonel found himself nodding. “Maybe.”
         “No, not maybe! Definitely! And hear this – they wouldn’t even be able to do anything to you when she's caught. You’d be too much a hero in the eyes of the people to punish.”
         This had a ring of truth in it, in MacFinn’s mind. But his mind was still free enough to think.
         “What is your stake in this, Cloak? You come in here every week for two months, feeding me information about Rawhide, asking for nothing in return. What do you get out of it?”
         Cloak laughed again.
         “Only the satisfaction of knowing that Cadera isn’t roaming the dusts anymore.”
         MacFinn doubted this. But after he had sent word to Ranger Mill that the pursuit was on, he dreamed of gold – in his pocket and on his shoulders.

*

Cáit awoke in the morning twilight to the sound of hooves. She sprung out of her dugout, shivering.
         “Cáit!” a voice called, a voice that she knew.
         “Walt! What are you doing scaring me outta my hat? What do you want?”
         Ranger Mill, white horse and white duster, rode out of the darkness as Cáit pulled on her brown Secopasian drape. He was out of breath.
         “Cáit. Colonel MacFinn has ordered his division to pursue you. We’re supposed to set out at first light, and I’ll be leading. But Colonel MacFinn knows where you’re going.”
         Cáit stopped rubbing her eyes.
         “What? How’d he find that out?”
         “Cloak. He showed up again last night. I don’t know how he knew, but he fed MacFinn the information.”
         At the mention of Cloak, Cáit tensed and turned towards the city.
         “No, Cáit! Now’s not the time. If you go into town now, it’s over! There are too many eyes, and all of them are looking for you.”
         Cáit gritted her teeth. He was right. She turned back towards Mill and her dugout. She knelt into the dirt and started packing.
         “Do you have a plan of action for Cearn, Cáit? I can lead them the wrong way for a while – MacFinn doesn’t know much about places – but I need to know what you’re planning. What about Alcade Lemmon? Have you thought about him?”
         Cáit paused in her packing, her drape cloaking her in the color of desert dust. The sun’s first light peaked over the horizon, and her holly-green eyes lit up.
         “How do you feel about being a distraction, Walt?”