Friday, April 21, 2006

INNOCENTS’ MASSACRE:
A GUY PATRICK NOVEL


It is the late 1870’s in Reconstruction America. The southwest of the country is quickly losing its right to be called frontier. In the next four decades the United States would be facing a Great War that would change the scale of how violence and death would be perceived. Humanity was beginning to reach beyond itself in molding a world. Still things existed to confound and capture man’s waning attention to the unfathomable. Things old, mysterious and powerful were enjoying their last days in the world as the focus of man’s imagination. But they were there and they still are… if you look warily out the corner of your eye.



Official telegram message received March 12th to the Office of Indian Affairs: Mister Jason Thomas Ward, Asst. to the Head of Indian Affairs. Reads as follows:

MR WARD
PEACE HAS RETURNED TO TOWN*STOP*DISPUTE BETWEEN TOWNSFOLK AND RESERVATION APACHE RESOLVED*STOP*GUILTY PARTIES HAVE BEEN CAPTURED AND PUNISHED WITH THE AID OF SHERIFF MILES*STOP* DETAILS UPON MY RETURN*STOP* THE NATIVES ARE NO LONGER RESTLESS*STOP*
SPCL AGENT INDIAN AFFAIRS
CPL GUY PATRICK


PART ONE: THE TOWN OF
NECESSITY

A.

MARCH 6TH
The quiet town of Necessity. Birthed nearly thirty-five years ago in privilege. A southwest frontier town that grew with time and its auspicious proximity to the trade routes between California and Houston, Texas. A town froze quiet with fear. Five dead. Five elder statesmen of the town slain brutally by the hands of equally aged Indians from the nearby Apache reservation. A death a week for five weeks without fail- and this was the sixth week. The town feared a war with the, until now, passive Indians. Something had to be done. If this did not end, of what would it be the beginning?
After the third killing, word reached Indian Affairs by way of Fort Piedmont in New Mexico. The Sheriff calmed the town by telling them of the government agent being sent to deal with the situation.
Guy Patrick rode into town to no fanfare. Town’s people sneered at the slight Colored riding a near exhausted horse into their town, if they pondered him at all. Erect in the saddle, his head up and eyes straightforward, Guy rode to the town jail to meet the Sheriff.
“If that don’t beat all! They really sent a Colored to deal with these savages! Well? What’s your name boy?
Guy looked up from tying his horse to the post. He glanced at the Sheriff just long enough to remember his features. Then, looking down, he responded.
“Cpl. Guy Patrick, sir. Sent as special agent to the Assistant to the Head of Indian Affairs. You are sir-?
The Sheriff held from speaking. He stared hard at Guy. The young dark Negro was a compact five feet eight inches tall with a wiry build. Dressed in unmarked military gear he looked to be a man use to spending long amounts of time in the wilderness of the Southwest. He also noticed the man was clean-shaven. The wide brim hat he wore held a single hawk feather in the band. Here the Sheriff’s jaw clenched involuntarily.
“Well boy my name is Sheriff Barrington Miles and I am the law in this little hamlet. Most folks ‘round here call me ‘Stone’, but you… you can call me Mister Miles.”
Guy nodded to the man’s chest. Miles was easily six feet-three inches tall, with the lumbering build of a career soldier and the slight paunch of a complacent warrior. Miles’ eyes were agate blue and the curly hair that fell down his face into thick sideburns was a dusty light brown. The Star on his vest shone brightly in the midday sun. As well taken care of as this little town.
“Yes sir, Mister Miles. While my horse is resting might I be able to see your prisoners sir?”
Sheriff Miles smiled.
“Right this way boy, right this way.”
They entered the small jailhouse with Sheriff Miles leading the way. A small simple wooden building it did not look as if it had too much use. One desk set against the wall opposite a hallway leading to the single small jail cell. Opposite the entrance a door sat ominously closed. Stopping at his desk he searched the drawer for the cell keys.
“Now boy, you understand that since we sent for ya, two more good town folks have been killed. So we got the… er-killers here and we got assurances from the Reservation that these men are actin’ alone, but that two murders ago! You need to go out there and find out once and for all what the hell is going on!”
Guy nodded his face blank.
“Mister Miles you seem mighty unsure of yourself when you say you have the killers. What do you mean?”
Sheriff Miles sat down at his desk. He took a deep breath and pushed his hat back to his hairline. Something outside the window held his gaze.
“Listen this town has been peaceful for years, hell decades. I come here ‘bout five years ago thinking I was gonna have some interesting troubles because of them Apaches nearby. Well damned if Necessity has no problems at all with the Indians. I mean nothing since they formed the town ‘bout thirty years ago!”
“Yes sir. I checked the town’s history before coming. Do you know why there weren’t any problems before?”
“You gotta ask them that! Shit ain’t that what you’re here for? When you see those prisoners you’ll understand. You’ll see why we need someone to talk to them Apache!”
Miles rose from his desk, cell keys jingling in hand.
“’Cause if you can’t straighten this shit out and make things right- there’re folks in the town, me included, that will!”
Guy’s face tightened in determination.
“Then I guess I should meet these killers sir.”

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