Sharpshooter: The Tale of Billy the Kid and the Tennessee Raid: The Mythic West, #2

One

By the last day of saber training, I hated being in the army. I was sure that becoming an army sharpshooter was not the best way to kill giants. I hated army training with the same passion I’d felt when we’d confronted the witch back in Colorado. Of course, on a dusty, well-trodden field outside of Fort Chicago, there were no witches. Just a merciless sergeant, cussing us out every time we did something even the slightest bit wrong.

A sergeant I couldn’t shoot.

Not like giants. Those I could shoot just fine.

It didn’t help that Fort Chicago was humid and muggy in early September. My blue wool uniform clung to me from all the sweat and even that didn’t stop it from scratching. The cap didn’t keep the sun off my neck and left a vulnerable pink gap there when we did formation drills. At least I was comfortable during shooting practice, but that was because I was one of the best. I never missed at two hundred yards or less.

Saber practice was another thing entirely.

Besides the Winchester rifles, the army issued each of us one of the long curving swords. If we ever found ourselves in close combat with the giants, God forbid, we were to chop at their knees and ankles. Once they were down, we could stab them wherever we could reach, but our sergeants said that keeping them from walking around was what really mattered. Upright Jotun were hard to fight. Jotun on the ground were easy pickings.

So my squad of recruits stood in a skirmish line with our sabers extended. We were far enough apart not to smell each others’ stink, which was appreciated, since we’d trod through the cavalry field muck to get to this training ground. We hadn't been allowed to get out of formation, to my disgust.

My right arm ached holding my sword, but the sergeant wouldn’t let us lower it until he’d individually inspected each one of us to make sure we were holding it right. The same inspection he’d done every day for the past two weeks.

But the sabers were heavier and thicker than the ones used in the War Between the States and my wrist felt like it was going to break. I grimaced and held it as best I could as the sergeant worked his way down the line. I knew he was going to yell at me because I couldn’t keep the tip up. Then we’d start slashing practice, and we’d keep at it until he was either happy or convinced we weren’t going to get any better that day.

That could take a long time.

For better or worse, it didn’t take more than a few minutes for him to get to me. He stood a foot from my side and looked out at my blade.

Private McCarty! he barked. Point higher!

I shifted the sword as directed.

More left! Straighter. Get that point up, McCarty!

I ignored the string of curse words that followed. Out of the corner of my eye I’d spotted one of the HQ messengers hastening over to us. The sergeant only had time to make me do two practice slashes, both horrible according to him, before the messenger pulled up huffing in front of us.

Sir! he said. Private McCarty to report to headquarters immediately, sir!

The sergeant nodded in acknowledgement and then tilted his head while he looked at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the envy in the other recruits.

What’d you do? the sergeant asked. Kill someone important?

Yes, sir. Actually I did, but it was months ago. I saluted. Excuse me, sir.

The sergeant stared at me in disbelief for a moment. Fine. Dismissed.

With the glee of the paroled, I followed the messenger back to headquarters.

The sprawling Fort Chicago sat south of the actual city, with fortifications extending all the way to Lake Michigan. The army had expected the Jotun to push north once they’d crossed the Ohio, but instead the giants had targeted Saint Louis, for reasons that were still hotly debated. As a result, the original complex had grown from hastily thrown up earthworks to an immense maze of interlocking walls and buildings.

Which meant it took us over a quarter hour, even at double time, to get from the training ground to General Sanborn’s headquarters. Sweat beaded on my brow and I really wished I had an opportunity to at least wash my face, but the messenger wasn’t slowing or stopping. We just jogged together in silence, pounding up the dust.

But that gave me time to think.

And I couldn’t come up with a single reason the general would want me. He’d been briefed on what happened in Colorado long before I’d turned up to enlist. He hadn’t expressed any interest in meeting me then. There were a few stares and rumors at first, but most everybody treated me as just another soldier.

Which is how I wanted it.

I could help protect the West against the Jotun, like Cassidy had wanted. Before Cassidy had… had died. He’d said I should try to be a sharpshooter instead of a hero like him.

I’d come to believe he was right.

And so did everyone else in Fort Chicago. Heroes got people killed. They drilled that into your head the first day. You followed orders, not your conscience. That’s how you survived.

That was how we’d win the war.

Besides… after Colorado, all I wanted to do was kill giants. I wanted to aim my rifle, shoot them in the eye, and walk away knowing I’d done good.

The army thought that was just fine.

In the outer office, General Sanborn’s aide sat behind a large rough-hewn oak desk. The skinny man, not much older than me, bobbled his head when he saw us enter. The rest of the room was sparse. Battalion flags covered one smooth plank wall, along with a portrait of President Stanford. The Stars and Bars stood on a pole discreetly in one corner. The room smelled of sawdust and coffee.

I pulled up in front of the desk into the stance I’d been taught and saluted.

Private McCarty, reporting as ordered, sir.

He gave me a dour smile and a half-hearted salute in return. Clearly my fervor did not impress him.

Go on in, he said. He gestured toward the door to his left instead of the one behind him.

I took a deep breath and marched on through.

The small conference room was nearly empty. It held a long table, and a handful of wooden chairs. Like the reception room, the walls were smooth oak planks with minimal decoration. A large map covered one side.

McNab, Cassidy’s grizzled former quartermaster, stood in front of the map, casually studying it and rocking on his heels.

I took a moment to look him over. He’d trimmed the bushy salt-and-pepper hair that ringed his bald head and also shaved recently. He wore an army jacket and pants, though the high boots were decidedly his own and not government issue. Best of all, he actually looked relaxed.

He turned and gave me a broad grin.

Billy! Good to see you!

I snapped to position and saluted, and only then glanced at his stripes. Sergeant-Major? When did that happen?

Sir! I said. Private McCarty reporting as ordered!

Oh, knock it off, he said with a wave. They only gave me this, he touched his chevron, because Mosby insisted. He said it’d make it easier for me to get him his whiskey.

I grinned. Colonel Mosby didn’t drink whiskey at all, and McNab and I both knew it. But if McNab could joke about Mosby, that was a good sign.

He looked me up and down and a smirk creased his face.

Looks like they made a regular soldier out of you, he said.

They’re trying. But I can’t stand the army.

That’s too bad, he said with a grin. He nodded his head toward the table. Your orders.

I spotted the small folded piece of paper I’d overlooked before. I picked it up and scanned it. My eyebrows went up as I did.

Assigned to Mosby’s Raiders. I set the orders down and turned to McNab. What is this? Mosby’s leaving Colorado?

He chuckled and waved a hand dismissively. He got his orders, too.

And I suppose he requested me.

You’d suppose right.

I thought he didn’t like me, I said, after our ‘talk’ back at the beginning of summer.

You weren’t exactly forthcoming. McNab’s grin reminded me all too well of Colonel Mosby’s frown.

He was right, I hadn’t been forthcoming, but not because I didn’t want to tell Mosby, but because I didn’t want to think about what had happened at all. Cassidy’s face. The blood seeping from his arm. The knife.

Always the knife.

At least in my nightmares.

McNab picked up on my sudden sullen mood.

It’s okay, he said. I don’t think Colonel Mosby dislikes you for that. He wants you because he knows you’re darned good in a fight.

I looked at him warily, but he just stood there, rocking a bit on his heels, clearly amused at my discomfort.

At least according to his quartermaster. McNab couldn’t hold back the teasing grin with that.

You, I said.

He nodded.

Fine, I said. Who else is assigned to Mosby’s Raiders?

He held up his right hand. Me, he said, ticking off a finger. Jeremiah. He touched the next one. And Luke.

I let out a deep sigh of relief. Then my mind raced.

What about Maria? I asked.

Assigned to Sanborn’s personal medical corps. His eyes twinkled. But don’t worry, you’ll see her once we’re out in the field.

I nodded. It wasn’t that I was sweet on Maria, like McNab implied. I just knew how good her healing skills were and couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather have around. Certainly not the sawbones I’d met here in Fort Chicago. They were way too quick to reach for the amputation saw for my comfort.

Apparently Sanborn thought so, too, if he was keeping her close. I wondered what McNab thought about that.

Well, I said, at least we’ll be together.

Maybe, he said. We’re all in the same regiment, but it’s a big regiment. It’s not gonna be like Colorado.

When it was just the six of us riding together. And Beth, the young girl we’d rescued. That I’d rescued. Of all the things that’d happened in Colorado, that was the one I was most proud of.

Still, I said. It’ll be good to be out killing giants.

His eyes glinted knowingly, but he kept the grin off his face. I knew he felt the same.

But first we’ve got a lot of work to do, he said. Starting with recruiting.

I tilted my head and waited for him to go on.

We got three companies at half strength, he said. If that. We need to fill ‘em with new recruits. Which is where you come in.

Me? I couldn’t help but blink in surprise.

Sure, kid. You’ve been training with ’em. Who’s the best?

Me, I said. Uh… at least in shooting. I’m not so good with the sword.

You the worst?

Uh… no. I immediately thought of this kid from Minnesota. As skinny as he was, I was sure he’d lied about his age to join up. Not that the recruiter probably cared.

Then you’re the test. Any man who can beat you with a sword and come anywhere close to you with a rifle joins the Raiders. The rest can go to the regular infantry.

I shifted uneasily. There were easily three, maybe four, hundred new recruits in camp. And McNab wanted me to fight them all?

C’mon. He strode toward the door. Time’s a-wasting. We’ve got two days to get our regiment into shape before we move out.

Two days? That’s not enough time!

In the first two days, I’d barely learned how to march, much less how to fight. And I’d already known how to shoot.

No, it’s not, McNab said with an unsavory chuckle. But if Sanborn doesn’t attack the Jotun soon, General Lee and a bunch of his men are gonna die.

And if he attacks with green recruits, a bunch of us are gonna die.

You do see the problem.

He went out the door, so I hustled to catch up. As we left the building, he turned and gave me one of his most devilish smirks.

I hope you’re rested, he said. With all the fighting you’re gonna do, you’re gonna need it.

I groaned. He just laughed and kept walking.

Two

The main rifle range stretched out across a broad bare field west of the main fort. A large long dirt mound backed it about a thousand yards from the firing line. Wooden targets shaped like trolls could be positioned at any distance, though they generally sat about a quarter of the way back. Most were splintered and full of holes, though the carpenters did make new ones from time to time. They seemed to like two-headed troll silhouettes, but why escaped me. Everyone knew most trolls had only a single head.

The firing line itself used buffalo hides and the occasional stained sheet to provide at least a little protection from the dirt and the mud. I’d come to appreciate them a great deal on the day the sergeant had insisted we drill in a low drizzle. He’d said we should practice like we fought. I understood the idea, but we’d all complained mightily about the muck. He hadn’t cared. If not for the hides, there might’ve been a mutiny.

As it was, the grounds were mostly dry when McNab and I arrived. Scattered clouds kept it from getting too hot, but it was still too humid for my tastes. I’d been told Chicago wasn’t as bad as New Orleans, which only made me want to never visit New Orleans.

The fifteen shooting stations were filled with boys just old enough to be considered men. My age, really, though green as green could be. Their sergeant was having them practice from standing position. Their fire was ragged—ill timed and not at all on the called mark. Few of the wooden trolls seemed to be in any danger. Their sergeant walked behind them, cursing out instructions with the same words that mine had used during saber practice. I had to wonder if they traded ideas for obscenities after taps, when us privates were asleep.

The ragged roar continued as they all fired their Winchesters again.

Awful young, McNab drawled by my side.

So am I. I gave him a sideways glance. A kid, remember?

He chuckled. Sorry about the nickname, Billy. It’s too late to change it now. Jeremiah’s about done writing.

In three months? I couldn’t help my tone. It felt like just yesterday that I’d used the knife…

Calm down, will ya? He scowled at me. He writes every chance he gets, but in this case he got help. He gave some of the chapters to his friend Sam Clemens in San Francisco to polish up. Jeremiah says he’s a newspaperman, but he’ll do right by it.

Huh. I didn’t like it, but I’d long given up on the idea that I could change Jeremiah’s mind. He said the West needed tales of heroes. He didn’t care that they were a pack of lies. Well, not entirely. But enough.

C’mon, he said, let’s see how these fresh fish shoot.

McNab talked to the range sergeant and arranged for me to shoot with the next group. Then he announced to the crowd that anyone who shot as well as me would become one of Mosby’s Raiders. An excited murmur went through the group—they’d heard of Mosby, even if he hadn’t been at the front for a few years.

I settled into the middle of the range, where everyone could see me. I decided to shoot standing, simply because the hide was torn and I didn’t feel like getting down into the dirt. The breeze was barely there, which made it easier to aim, and the sun was high enough to not give shadows or glint.

As I expected, I didn’t miss with the Winchester at less than 200 yards. I switched over to a Whitworth rifle and nailed every target at 800 yards before missing one at a thousand by an inch.

I bounced the Whitworth in my hand and sighed in disappointment. The Army didn’t have many of them, on account of the plague in England, and the rate of fire was far too slow compared to the Winchesters. But still, it was a delight to use. I joined McNab to watch the others.

None of the recruits in the first two groups came anywhere close to my mark. One kid in the third group managed to hit the 300 yard target twice, so McNab wrote his name down in a little notebook he’d pulled from his pocket.

The fourth group wasn’t much better than the first two, with not a single soldier able to regularly crack 200 yards.

We’re supposed to win the war with this? I asked as we watched recruits in the fifth group miss at 50 yards.

They’ll learn, McNab said. You did.

But we’re moving out in two days, I grumbled.

True. That’s why we take the best. The rest can go in the regular infantry.

I would’ve grumbled more, but I realized he was right. We didn’t have to take ’em all.

So we watched three more groups. They were better. McNab added ten names to his list.

We took a break for water and talked to the range sergeant a bit. Or McNab did. I just listened. Most of the conversation was about the Winchesters and ammunition supply. The army had plenty of bullets but not enough rifles. The new factory up in Milwaukee wasn’t quite at full production yet. They were also having trouble getting iron from further north. The mines near Lake Superior didn’t have enough men, it seemed.

There were never enough men.

The next group of trainees was late, so I decided to shoot again. Enough of a breeze had picked up to make the long distances a bit of a challenge. The bullets wouldn’t blow much, but enough. To make it a bit harder, I set the Whitworth aside and picked up my trusty Winchester once again.

I settled into my stance, feet braced apart, rifle on my shoulder. I sighted at a target at 400 yards. I waited for my breathing to settle, took aim at the troll target’s head, and fired.

A hit. Dead center in the target’s charcoal left eye.

My second shot nailed the other eye.

For my third shot, I decided to target the crudely drawn mouth. I could barely see it at the distance, but they’d smeared the charcoal on thick enough to make the black maw stand out against the wood. Once again I let my breath settle, took careful aim, and fired.

And hit the nose of the target instead.

I lowered my rifle with a snort of disgust.

The next squadron of recruits had arrived, and with them an officer I hadn’t yet met. He stood next to McNab, talking quietly and watching me. So I studied him back.

He had captain’s bars, a neat black beard, long black hair to his shoulders, and a crisp brimmed cavalry hat. His uniform was pressed and fit well over his slim body. I took him to be thirty, though he stood with the confidence of an older man. He gestured with his right hand as he spoke, though his left never left the hilt of the saber at his waist.

His bushy eyebrows rose at something McNab said.

The new recruits were heading into the range, a couple of them giving me curious stares as they filed past. I gave the range sergeant a half-salute and went to join McNab and the newcomer.

Billy, McNab said when I got close, I’d like you to meet Captain Charles Mercer. Captain Mercer, this is Private Billy McCarty.

I gave a sloppy salute, and Captain Mercer frowned. When McNab’s displeasure joined his, I came to attention and gave the Captain a proper salute.

Captain Mercer returned the salute. A pleasure, Private McCarty.

Captain Mercer will be with us under Colonel Mosby, McNab said.

Commander, C Company, Captain Mercer said. The Avenging Angels.

I raised an eyebrow at the name. Cassidy’s crew had ridden with them in one of the books but they’d had a different commander then. And a longer name: Grant’s Avenging Angels.

They’d been the men who survived Grant’s Last Charge.

A shiver went down my spine as I wondered if Captain Mercer had been among them.

Sergeant-Major McNab says you’re a very good shot, Captain Mercer said.

The be— one of the best, sir, I said with a nod.

May I have the privilege of seeing you shoot?

Sure—uh, yes, sir, I said. It hadn’t been an order, but the sergeant had been berating us about how any officer’s request should be treated as one.

Now, uh, sir? I asked.

He nodded and gestured toward the range. It appears there are two openings on the end. If you do not mind, I’ll shoot with you.

I nodded because, well, what could I say?

I’ll watch the rest of the recruits, McNab said. You two go on.

Captain Mercer and I took the last two spots on the firing range. The recruits were all kneeling as they shot, but he stood. He lifted his Winchester to his shoulder and stared down the barrel at his target, which was currently set at 200 yards.

He glanced over at me. Let’s make this interesting, shall we? That target is a bit close.

Sure, sir, I said. When the recruits had finished their round, Captain Mercer signaled the range officer.

Move the targets to 400 yards, he said. Then he turned to me. You first, Private.

I took a deep breath. I didn’t know what his game was, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to play. Did he want to show he was better than me? Was he trying to take me down a notch?

I started to seethe at the thoughts, but forced them back down. I’d faced worse, much worse than Mercer. I’d killed monsters when my life was in danger.

This was nothing.

I took a few more deep breaths to calm myself. Then I picked up my rifle. My target was now at the correct distance and was one of the two-headed troll silhouettes.

I put the first bullet into the far left eye.

Then I shifted my aim, took another deep steadying breath, and watched the rise and fall of the barrel with my breathing. My second shot hit the exact middle of the inner left eye.

With deliberate calm, I targeted the inner right eye and my bullet went true and straight. I moved over to the far right eye and waited for my breathing and arm to steady before pulling the trigger and nailing it perfectly.

Four shots. Four bullseyes.

I lowered my rifle, and looked at Captain Mercer. I dared him with my eyes, but didn’t say anything.

Quite impressive, he said. I believe it is my turn.

The rest of the range had fallen silent. A bird called in the distance and some of the other recruits shuffled in their places, but everyone watched us.

Captain Mercer snapped his rifle to his shoulder. He squeezed off four shots in rapid succession. The first missed entirely. The second clipped the target’s