Montana Abbott 2: Montana's Territory

By Al Cody

The War Between the States did even worse things than pit brother against brother, friend against friend, because they were on different sides in the conflict. For when Confederate soldiers were penned up together as prisoners of war, their nerves frayed by inactivity, pal turned on pal, and violence erupted. And it took their leader, “Montana” Abbott, to restore sanity if not tranquility.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Mar 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005463328

Al Cody

Born in Great Falls, Montana, on July 25th 1899, “Al Cody” was a pseudonym of Archie Lynn Joscelyn. Joscelyn went on to become an enormously prolific and popular writer, especially in the western field, but also authoring a number of novels in the detective and romance genres along the way. In addition to the books he wrote under his own name and that of Cody, Archie Joscelyn also used the names A A Archer, Tex Holt, Evelyn McKenna and Lynn Westland.

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The War Between the States did even worse things than pit brother against brother, friend against friend, because they were on different sides in the conflict. For when Confederate soldiers were penned up together as prisoners of war, their nerves frayed by inactivity, pal turned on pal, and violence erupted. And it took their leader, Montana Abbott, to restore sanity if not tranquility.

MONTANA ABBOTT 2: MONTANA’S TERRITORY

First Published by Lennox Hill Books in 1970

Copyright © 1970, 2021 by Running Dog Publishing, LLC

This Electronic Edition: April 2021

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Cover Art by Gordon Crabb

Editor: Kieran Stotter

Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

Chapter One

Cap’n, sir, they’re at it again—Honeycutt an’ Tennessee. The unkempt messenger was gasping with excitement and breathlessness. And this time they’re armed. Somehow one’s got a knife, the other an axe. And they swear they’ll kill each other—

Captain William M. Abbott had been reclining, his long frame stretched on his bunk, watching morosely as a fly buzzed, as trapped and frustrated in the low-ceilinged room as he felt. He heaved like a suddenly hooked trout, boots thudding on the floor, then followed before the message was completed, sliding and splashing across the mucky ground, his plunging run giving a real if somewhat deceptive appearance of effortless power.

Men were gathered in an uneven circle at the far edge of the prison compound, and a glance was enough to tell him that none of the guards were about to try to stop the fight. At such times they were likely to keep out of sight, not caring to interfere.

Through the broken line of watchers he glimpsed the trouble-making pair, circling warily but clumsily in the clinging muck, each clutching his weapon, his face tense with strain, naked hate glaring from black eyes and gray. Splashed with the black, dank mud of the compound, gaunt and ragged, both were giants of men, the only ones to match Abbott in size, primitive in appearance as well as emotion. Abbott knew better than to waste his breath in a shout. This time the clash had gone too far for that.

The fools, he thought. The idiotic, blithering fools!

Each man thought he saw an opening, and both rushed, axe and blade glittering in the thin sunshine. The scarecrow watchers sucked deeper breaths but held back, fearful yet eager, none quite daring to interfere with the pair at such a moment. Abbott, resembling a grizzly bear erect and charging on its hind feet, burst between them. Ignoring the weapons, he reached out mighty paws, the splayed fingers of each hand closing on an arm of either man. The effect was akin to a sprung bear trap.

To the watchers it was like the sweep of an irresistible force as Abbott jerked with a force which staggered both, leaving them limp and gasping from the impact, all but sagging in their captain’s mighty grip.

That’ll be enough! His voice, curiously soft but, as always, with a penetrating quality in moments of stress, slashed at them. Have you nothing better to do than murder each other, instead of remembering that you are soldiers, with another foe to fight?

Honeycutt backed a step as Abbott released his grip on his arm, then stood swaying, yellow hair and beard suggestive of an ancient Viking. He was momentarily dazed by the violence with which Abbott had crashed them together. The knife, a crude, hand-made affair but murderous in its potentialities, had dropped from his grasp. Blood dripped from a thin gash along his left arm, where a deep stroke of the axe had narrowly been deflected.

Tennessee still clutched the axe, chest heaving and eyes like an angry mink’s as he glared from Honeycutt to Abbott. A great dark man, in his present mood he was as dangerous as a mink in a corner, his usual habit of obedience forgotten. Then lips writhed back from gleaming teeth in a snarl.

What other foe, Cap’n? The words were more a challenge than a question. We’re here in this damn Yankee pen, to rot an’ die; and I’d sooner get it over with quick! An’ beggin’ your pardon, sir, this is between me an’ Honeycutt, an’ none of your business!

He shook the axe ferociously, then was left white faced and staring as Abbott leaped, grabbing the handle, twisting it away with an almost bone-cracking violence. He was smiling as he ground it into the mud under a boot—the first smile which any of them had seen on his face in months. Somehow it was more terrible than a scowl. Even Tennessee shrank back.

You’re forgetting yourself, Tennessee, Abbott reminded him. You’re still my company, all of you, and what happens is my business.

Be damned if it is—with all due respect, sir! Tennessee was a man, conscious of his rights, aggrieved by long brooding on his wrongs. We followed you when you was leadin’ us, Cap’n, and would again—to Hell an’ back, if need be. But this is different. I’m Tennessee Owens, named for a big state, and I’m as good a man as draws breath anywhere … and who’s to tell me different?

Abbott’s smile altered, so that his mouth was for an instant as tender as a woman’s. It was for such rugged yet loyal qualities that he loved this pair, trouble-makers though they were.

Why now, Tennessee, you’ve a right to be proud, and I’d be the last man to belittle so fine a state. But if that’s what’s troubling you—why, I’m from a bigger state, Texas, and I’m named for another, my Ma having some romantic notions when it came time for christenin’ me. I’ve heard that a new territory has just been carved out of old Oregon and Idaho, up in the Northwest Montana. And Montana’s my middle name. You wouldn’t care to dispute me on that account, now would you?

Like the others, Tennessee stared. His voice held a note of uncertainty.

I wasn’t really aimin’ to dispute what you say … Montana, sir. Uh … what’s it mean, anyhow?

I understand that it’s a Spanish name, meaning big—big mountains, shining hills. A name to live up to, same as Tennessee or Honeycutt, which is old and proud among the Tennessee hills. Now you boys ought to be big enough to shake hands, to forget a family feud that goes so far back you’ve even forgotten what it was all about.

They eyed each other warily, then sheepishly, remembering how each had saved the other on more than one occasion, when the foe had been the Yankee, and mighty determined. Tennessee was the first to grin. Then he thrust out his hand, and after a moment Honeycutt gripped it.

"Tennessee’s a long way off; and now that the Cap’n mentions it, danged if I ever did find out for sure what the fuss was all about. So I guess that makes sense. Fightin’ Yankees has sure made this Tennessee tough, anyhow. But we need somethin’ to do, beyond just rottin’ in a hell-hole like this. A fightin’ man’s got to fight!"

The sky was clearing, but there had been more rain during the night.

Awakening, as usual, was a depressing experience. Yesterday, in emergency, Abbott had found energy from somewhere to do what needed to be done, but vitality was ebbing like lifeblood from an open wound. Now, as the sun arose, illusion was washed away. The ground steamed like a fetid jungle, and smelled worse. Gazing across the marshy, churned-up yard, he felt anew the misery of his fellow-captives.

Among other things, as they had pointed out, they need exercise, something to do, but that was almost out of the question in ankle-deep mud. The sun seemed to give a false promise, for more rain would follow. Inside the clammy shelters, it was even worse, rank with the smells of unwashed humanity, of slow-creeping pollution.

Sergeant Brian O’Malley approached, boots sucking through the mud, drawing up and saluting, prior to the morning report which he insisted on giving as a matter of course. Nearly as tall as his captain, unwashed and unshaven and curiously gnarled, like a wind-twisted pine, he still managed to retain a military appearance.

Two men had died during the night: Little Jimmy, the drummer boy, who should have remained safe at home; and Lucas, who had been a veteran of 1812, but had insisted on serving again. They had gone quietly, simply slipping away from hardships, hopelessness, disease and the lack of nourishing food.

Subsistence, bare existence, was an increasing problem. There was supposed to be ample food here in the North, free of the hunger problems faced by the beleaguered South. Actually, as Abbott knew, there were shortages without much regard to geography. Indifference and inefficiency, compounded by callousness, were traits common to both Yankees and Confederates.

Just wanted to let you know, sir. Sorry I can’t bring a better report. O’Malley was shaken by a racking cough. Must have caught a little cold somewhere.

He plodded away. Watching him, Abbott ran a hand across the luxuriantly thick beard which concealed much of the cavernous quality of sunken cheeks and scrawny neck. Hair and whiskers – and lice – were about the only things which seemed to flourish under such conditions. He stared at his hand, clenching it to a fist. It looked veined and thin, as if from age.

He had been there for half a year, a prisoner of the Yankees, six months which seemed like as many years. In that time, he’d probably lost half a hundred pounds.

But at least he was not suffering from old wounds or from any of the insidious diseases which infested the compound. Compared with the men of C Company (his company) who were here with him, he was relatively well off.

Judging by reports, jubilantly relayed by Yankee guards but probably reasonably accurate, the war was going increasingly ill for the South. They might hang on for another year, since, like Lee, their commander, they were valiant. Hope, as much as anything else, was keeping them alive now, the chance that Lincoln might be repudiated in the upcoming election. Without Lincoln, the South hoped for a better deal, though Abbott wondered if it might not be worse.

At any rate, they’d go on fighting as long as they could hang on. Probably it was hopeless, the bright cause for which so many had sacrificed so much. They’d hold on as long as they could. To do so had become a matter both of principle and devotion.

The rub was that he doubted if many of the prisoners in the camp could hold out that long. They had given up hope of being exchanged.

Viewed in retrospect, Abbott knew that his decision to quit the Academy short of a commission and side