Deadfall by Stephen Lodge Read Free Book Online Page A

him wore a U.S. Army field uniform with master sergeant’s stripes sewn to the sleeves. As he began to climb down from his perch, his silhouette showed him to be imposing in both physical size and color—muscular and black.
    The sergeant moved around to the wagon’s tailgate where he found, placed one beside the other, three olive-drab, padlocked, metal cases with his name and rank neatly stenciled on each.
    Charley, Henry Ellis, and Roscoe stepped out onto the back porch, turning on the electric porch light as they passed the switch. All three were in their nightshirts and slippers.
    â€œIs that you, Captain Sunday?” said Sergeant Stone from across the yard.
    Charley nodded as he came down the steps, with Roscoe and Henry Ellis following close behind.
    â€œIt is,” Charley called out. “And that must be you, Sergeant Stone?”
    â€œMaster Sergeant Tobias P. Stone reporting for duty, Captain,” said the large black man, saluting. He was now standing at his full height.
    â€œI know Fort Clark is less than a few miles away from here, Captain,” said the sergeant. “But after you and your grandson left me today, I was given a lot of paperwork to fill out . . . plus gettin’ my toolboxes off the post proved to be more difficult than I had expected. I finally found a friend with a wagon, and we searched around for a delivery gate that was unattended, plus we waited for night. We used that gate, Captain Sunday. But we still took a roundabout way to get here, just in case someone might have spotted us. Is it really Armendariz?” he added.
    â€œLike I told you this afternoon, Sergeant, I don’t know of anyone else who would be crazy enough to abduct two American citizens in broad daylight, then scurry them off into Mexico without a ransom demand.”
    â€œI’ll be damned,” said Stone. “And here I thought you Rangers had put the last nail in Armendariz’s coffin, years ago.”
    â€œWell, that ain’t true,” said Charley.
    About then the wagon’s driver whipped up the team, turning the wagon.
    â€œI gotta be gettin’ back, Sarge,” said the man.
    Sergeant Stone nodded, and the wagon moved out of the ranch yard, disappearing down the path and into the night.
    Roscoe took a step closer.
    â€œI’m Roscoe Baskin, Sergeant,” he said, “Charley’s pardner. I reckon you got to know Henry Ellis this afternoon. But I don’t think the two of us have met before.”
    â€œSergeant Stone an’ me met one another during the War between the North and South, Roscoe,” said Charley. “I reckon I never got around to telling you that story. Sergeant Stone was wearing blue like he is now, fighting for the Yanks. And I was wearing gray, leading a patrol for the Confederacy. One night I came across some of my men using Sergeant Stone for bayonet practice. I put a stop to it.”
    â€œNearly killed one of ’em, he did, savin’ my life,” said the sergeant. “I owe Captain Sunday a lot for what he done for me that night. That’s why I’m here. I’m on a thirty-day administrative leave stamped by the Department of War.”
    He looked over to the olive-drab boxes, now on the ground where the wagon once stood.
    â€œAnd I got my tools, Charley. That’s all that matters.”

C HAPTER S IX
    Kent Pritchard and his wife, Betty Jean—the parents of Henry Ellis—sat watching as a middle-aged Mexican man dressed in a haphazard collection of mismatched uniform pieces, plus a jumble of glittering gold medals pinned to his chest, had breakfast prepared for, and served, to his two guests by several camp followers.
    A long, wooden table had been set up on the front porch of the abandoned adobe building that was temporarily serving as the colonel’s headquarters. There were rooms inside where he and his officers slept, plus similar accommodations on the second floor where he