waldopaper

Approaching the Foul   

“Please, my General.  They are your cards, and you dealt them.” 

–VonHeiss

Guderian turned in the hatch,  took off his headphones , and looked down at Russian peasant.    It was all very specific.  There was no fear, only curiosity.  “Who are you?”  The Russian was looking at the PzK IV Panzer.

“We are German soldiers.”

“Does the Czar know that you are here?”

The year is 1941.  Princes were a thing of the past.  So were trenches.

“Prince calls his proposal “A Strategic Economy of Force.” It entails sending 5,500 contractors to Afghanistan to embed with Afghan National Security Forces, and appointing a “viceroy” to oversee the whole endeavor.”

Henry couldn’t tell if James Shadetree was an indian dressed as a white man, or a white man dressed as an indian.  But he knew about the Dutchman and he knew several boys in cavalry.  That’s important.  Because indians will steal damn near anything.  Not your gold.  That’s what white men want.  Gold is what white men steal.  Indians steal horses.

This horse tells me you are people.

This fine Walker revolver tells me you are looking for the Dutchman.

You are not Jacob.  You are a Dutchman like Jacob.  I did not steal your horse.  Your horse stole me.

That’s how it went.  That was a few years ago back west.  Pony would go where she damn well pleased.  She would laugh at old Jubal Early.  Old Jube would laugh right back.  Neither would do what you want or take your advice. Both could be trusted to not try and cheat you.

York Bank had plenty of gold and greenbacks, and old Jube took them.  The question was: how much of each.  Jube loved to play cards.  And Jube loved information.  Fine whiskey, my General.  From Scotland.

Sit down, Dutchy.  What else you got in the bag?

Henry threw down a hundred dollar gold piece with a clink.  Jube pulled out a deck, fanned and shuffled just like a riverboat professional. Slammed deck on the door-top table, and fished out a wad of greenbacks.  The dutchman don’t play for no papersheiss.  You know that.  Throw down in kind and stay in the game.

Goddam cut.  You better be goddam serious Dutchy.  Whatcher boy Carl up to out there?   Ask yer goddam horse.  Haw!  Jube slammed gold on the door with a smile. Snarl.  Wham fappity fap and the cards were in hand.  Henry studied them carefully, peeled out five hundred dollar greenbacks.  To hell with you, Jubal scowled.  I’ll give you ten.   Jubal piled on the gold in tens.  Henry raised with hundreds in paper.  Pleasanton knows you are here.  Longstreet is coming up from Cashtown.  Little Powell is here already and he’s about to start a big game.  Are you ready, old man?

Careful Dutchy.  I’m gonna knock yer goddamyankee dutchmen aside like tenpins.  Again.  Whatcha you got behind them.  Old maid Hooker?  Do not know, General.  But you have not tasted Carl’s big guns.  He is hauling them into place at Gettysburg now.  Indian Pony told me so.  And here is a royal flush for you.

You goddam cheating dutchbutt sonofabitch!  You lying, thieving goddamyankee Hessian son of a nigger whore!  You…

Please, my General.  They are your cards, and you dealt them.  Please keep the bottle… and keep all the paper pot.  I must go now.

Witches in the forest know things.  Things you would never tell anybody for whatever reason. They are very curious about science.  Machines and speeches fascinate them.  If you tell them something they like, they will ask for more.  Bring me bread.  Bring me meade.  Then I may give you what you need.  They will tell you nothing.  They will show things you wish you never knew.  And you sure as hell wouldn’t tell anybody about it.  Nobody would believe you.  Trying to show anybody can get you murdered.   Playing royals is easy.  Family business for a thousand years.  Nobody plays witches.  Out west, witches can send a skinwalker after you.

It is starting to get dark.  Pony can run, but not far.  Not like cavalry horses.  Henry never put anything on Pony’s back that Henry couldn’t carry all by himself.  Pony was strong enough to carry Henry and his things.  But she did not like to do both.  Not like cavalry horses.  Not like the Baron’s big carriage horses.  Or race horses.  Or war horses.  Christoph rode like a gentleman.  Henry rode like a plowman.  Kit and Henry played with sticks on the estate.  Many is the time… Kit cracked Henry’s knees or arm or head… and then Kit would cry.  Gentlemen are forbidden to cry.  Heinrich took the punishment instead.  Kit went to Heidelberg.  Hen went to Glasgow.

Pony nickered and laughed when she heard the guns.  Henry did not hear them until long after sundown.  They stood in the dark and listened.  A stupid dutch farmer stumbles out of his house and macht toward the barn, snorting as loud as his huge draft horses. Not thunder weather, old man Baurmann.  Carl’s 12-pounder Parrott about two kilometers away.  Not Pleasanton’s popguns.  Solid shot whistle getting the range this direction up York Road.  Carl keep a wagon on the grave. Below in a coffin are six of the finest Sharps rifles in the world.  Three with telescopes by Zeiss.  Tuned like Stradivarius by Baron VonHeiss, another stage name for Henry.  Each rifle is worth eight hundred dollars gold…  with telescopes, twelve hundred.