24 – Marshal’s Plan

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Draft 1 – Updated 28 November 2025 (C024/D001)

A waxing gibbous moon hung low over the valley. The sky over the snowcapped peaks in the east was showing pink streaks of first light. The blacksmith and the sawyer were being pulled forward down the road by leashed hounds eager to follow a new scent and go on a grand adventure. Their first trip to Milton had been fruitless. Something akin to a skunk war had rendered the ghost town inscrutable to the hounds and unbearable for the humans who brought them. They hoped this, their second visit, would be more productive.

It was apparent even before they left the colony road, however, that Milton’s skunk war raged on. Using Sawyer’s hounds to search through charred wreckage or the few standing buildings was going to be a non-starter once again. So they adjusted their plans and decided to search west of the townsite, away from the war’s malodorous epicenter.

It was just as well, the sawmill’s owner argued. If the coffle had been stashed in the old barn, it wouldn’t have been there for long. From Milton they would have moved east or west along the river. The chances they might have gone north, into the Beard were probably zero. East? There was a slim possibility they’d gone east, but that was no country for children. 

But before they could move to the area targeted for scrutiny, something set the hounds off, making Sawyer instantly furious. It was the second time in less than a full turn of day this had happened. It was the third in a week. Dixie, it seemed to him, was the instigator and this was the last straw. He had to regain dominance over his pack.

The woodcutter didn’t want to hurt Dixie. She was his favorite. Young, eager, senses as sharp as Smitty’s best blades, Sawyer had high hopes for this bitch. But a pack without discipline was useless. So he beat her with a length of leash in sight of the rest of the pack as a warning. Her pitiful pleas and yelps—he believed—made it clear to all of them. When master says “quiet”, quiet they must be.

So busy were the two craftsmen with their canine disciplinary issues that neither noticed the approaching column until it was passing on the road behind them. Had they seen it coming, they might have called their hunt off and returned to town before it turned into a stinking waste of time. They might have already been there when Marshal Hilmer had his first big moment before his future peons. And the day might have ended peacefully.

*****

Scouts rode out of the river camp at dawn. Outnumbered as they might be in Three Mills, Captain Croft wanted to be sure his rangers weren’t riding into an ambush. 

At the last moment, young Marshal Hilmer tweaked his plan with a counter order. Instead of Croft, the scouting party would be led by Rooster Caldwell: a dangerously incompetent sergeant distantly related to the Ducots.

Croft didn’t complain. This was the kid’s first major mission. His uncle, Governor Ducot, had picked him to lead. Was he ready for it? Probably not. Young officers are rarely ready for their first missions. At some point superiors just have to calculate risks and roll the dice. By pulling Croft from the scouting party, young Marshal Hilmer was simply flexing his new muscles, making sure that he was not overshadowed.

Croft refused to pout about it. Pouting was bad for morale. Part of him wanted to show the troops how leaders set their egos aside. But mainly, he didn’t want them to see the kid getting under his skin. Doubts cloud the mind. They lead to bad decisions. And out here, doubt is a shortcut to a hole in the ground.

With the scouts due back shortly, Croft went to the paddock to tack up his mount. He enjoyed grooming. So did his mountain pony. The long brush strokes were soothing, satisfying for both. As this first stage of tacking up neared its completion, Croft spotted a familiar shape bobbing through the coral, headed in his direction. 

The big hat made him smirk. Marlow’s father (rest in peace) was a milliner. He’d settled in Eastbranch with a contract to make hats for the Company. This hat was his magnum opus—the perfect tool for a mounted paramilitary force policing a mountain colony. Problem was, it was too good. Too premium. It cost more than the Company wanted to pay and looked too unlike their familiar shine hats for the men to cotton to. So the only one he ever made, the prototype, went to his son, who made it look good.

Sergeant Marlow, the man they called Sergeant Hat, stepped around a horse and came into view. The formal look in his eyes told Croft he had something on his mind.

“Captain Croft,” he said, opening the conversation with military formality.

“Sergeant Hat,” Croft deadpanned, just as formally, swiping his brush down his pony’s haunch.

Marlow raised his eyebrows, suppressing an easy-going smirk. “Prefer I call you Charles?”

“Prefer I call you Willard?”

Marlow grunted and shook his head. “Listen…Chuck,” he said, dropping all military pretense.

“I’m listening, Will,” Croft replied, stuffing the brush into a pocket and picking up his saddle pad.

“Next time you’re gonna do something like that you oughta let us know,” he said, referring to the previous night’s events. “We coulda made some money.”

Croft grinned, throwing the pad across the pony’s back and aligning it “Somebody didn’t think I was gonna make it?”

Marlow nodded a confirmation. “A few of the deputies were prepared to put money on it.”

“Prepared?” Croft was mildly surprised. “I do something to give the rangers doubt?”

“They boys were willing,” Marlow testified. “But Hilmer was watching.”

Croft nodded, walking around to the other side of his mount.

“I don’t think he likes you much,” Marlow added.

Croft did not object.

“But seriously…Captain,” Marlow shifted back to his formal, sergeant’s voice. “What are we doing here?”

Croft shrugged. “Governor wants the butcher brought to the Shadows, Sergeant. We’re going to get him and haul him up the mountain.”

“John Butcher?” Marlow’s tone was thick with skepticism. “The big strong black fella from Three Mills.”

“The very same.”

“He have an accident or something?” Marlow asked.

“Not as far as I know.”

“Good,” Marlow added. “Then I presume he can still ride a horse.”

“I expect so.”

Marlow shot him a skeptical look which he held deliberately for a few heartbeats to underline the truth he was bent on discovering. “Then what’s the wagon for, Captain?” 

Marlow’s tone was pointed, but Croft was not offended. He knew the direction the tone was pointing.

“You’ll have to ask Marshal Hilmer about that,” Croft replied, keeping his own tone neutral and professional.

Marlow glanced around and then stepped in close to keep their conversation private. “Two men”—he held up two fingers—”Middle of the night. While he’s sleeping helpless in his bed. Knock on his door. Bring him to the River Camp. At first light, all three mount up and make for the pass.”

Croft nodded his comprehension.

“Two men,” Marlow repeated, raising the two fingers even with his grimly determined gaze. 

“We have eighteen,” Croft replied.

“And a wagon that seats eight.”

Croft looked him square in the eyes, agreeing with every point the veteran sergeant was making. “Mountain math,” he acknowledged.

“Adds up to no good.” Marlow’s face was grave. “So what are we doing, Captain?”

Croft pulled his saddle off the paddock’s wooden rail and tossed it onto his pony. “We’re following orders, Sergeant.” 

Marlow tipped his head forward and glanced around, eyes partially hidden by his brim’s large drop. “Follow stupid orders; die a stupid death,” he said through nearly gritted teeth. “You taught me that.”

Croft raised his eyebrows and bent over to tug on the cinch.

“So what”—Marlow nearly spat the word this time—”are we doing?”

Croft finished cinching his saddle and stood to face him. “We’re doing what we always do.” His voice was low, ensuring only Will could hear him. “We’re trying to keep our boots above ground.”

Marlow was frustrated. Irritation blazed in his eyes. “The only reason you send an empty wagon down a mountain is if you expect to haul something back up.”

“And you don’t send eighteen men with it unless you expect to have trouble filling it,” Croft agreed.

Marlow looked at the ground, momentarily hiding his disgust with their current situation. “There’s…what…a few hundred people in Three Mills,” he said when he looked back up.

“Bout a hundred men,” Croft confirmed, “give or take. Plus women and children.”

Marlow glared at some distant point over and beyond the backs of the ponies in the coral. “So what are we doing, Captain?”

Stubborn as a thirsty mule. For the first time today, somebody got under Croft’s skin. “Damn it, Will,” Croft bristled low, lifting the bridle from the fencepost. “That boy don’t know shit from apple butter. We’re tryna steer him in a direction that does the least damage to the fewest people. Just like we always do.”

Marlow shifted his feet, placed his hands on his hips, and put his eyes back on his captain. “Let’s say we do that. Let’s say we do whatever idiotic thing Marshal Moron’s got planned and we get whoever’s in the wagon back to the camp. We still gotta get the wagon to the top before sunset. That can’t happen with an empty wagon, nevermind a full one.”

Croft sighed, sliding the bridle’s noseband into place and slipping the crown piece over the pony’s ears. “You’re a ranger, Will. Rangers travel fast. You’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about the deputies. They’re slow. And they’ll be tending the wagon.”

Marlow frowned, searching for understanding. “Why would he do that?”

“Look,” Croft laid it out. “The governor wants the butcher. That’s what the rangers are for. You guys’ll take the butcher up the mountain. The marshal’ll go with you.”

Marlow’s frown deepened. He was still not following.

“The wagon is the Marshal’s little side project. That’s why he brought the deputies.”

The coin dropped and Marlow’s expression changed. Then he frowned again. “He expects them to survive the night in The Beard? At this time of year?”

“I don’t think he cares,” Croft admitted. “His uncle wants the butcher. The kid won’t risk screwing that up.” Croft scanned their immediate area with his eyes, careful not to turn his head. “The wagon? That’s extra. He might lose the wagon. He might lose everyone in the wagon…and everyone guarding it. But that’s a risk he’s willing to take.”

Marlow nodded. Then his eyes narrowed. “And you?”

“I expect I’ll be with the wagon.”

“But you’re the First Ranger.”

“That’s why I expect to be with the wagon.”

Marlow thought it through while Croft slipped the pony’s bit into place.

“I’ll stay with the wagon,” Marlow volunteered.

Croft put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I appreciate the offer, Will, but I’ve done this before.”

Marlow clenched his jaw and tilted his head to one side. “Once,” he pointed out. “And you got lucky.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Croft smirked, reaching for the reins and clipping them into their rings. Marlow was quiet, unhappy, pensive. “It’s better than the wheel.” Croft reminded him.

Marlow sighed and pursed his lips. “He wants your job,” he said, glancing in the marshal’s general direction. “Has for a long time.”

Croft shrugged. “He’s practically a Ducot. It’s gonna happen sooner or later.”

“He won’t get it while you’re alive though.” Malow raised his chin, defiance shining in his eyes.

“Then we oughta give him credit for planning ahead,” Croft teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“The Deadly Ducots.” Marlow sneered, shaking his head. “The only thing worse than being their enemy is being their friend. You think we’ll ever be led by a Ducot worth following?”

“Captain Croft. Sergeant Marlow.” A deputy’s voice called from near the gate. “Scouts are coming. Marshal wants you both.”

There was nothing to worry about, the returning scouts assured them. They were able to ride into Three Mills uncontested. They got some looks, but nobody did nothing to stop them scouting around. 

They had called at the blacksmith’s shop to have a word—as Marshal Hilmer ordered—but Smitty wasn’t there. Just a couple of haffers, chained to the forge, who said their master took the dogs out looking for the missing coffle this morning.

Any new construction? New walls, maybe? Pits? Nets? Crates of arrows or carts in strategic positions? Croft asked a number of questions, probing for detail.

Nope. Didn’t see nothing unusual.

Marlow had questions of his own. “What about ladders?” He singled out one of the two rangers.

Rooster Caldwell, the sergeant who led the party, scoffed. “What are they going to do with ladders?”

“If they’re planning a fight, they’ll wanna get their people to high ground as fast as possible.” Marlow glared the cocky flunky into submission.

“We checked like you said, Sergeant,” the ranger replied, ignoring Caldwell. “Nothing up high. Nothing on the buildings.”

“They got some big ole trees in Three Mills,” Marlow reminded them.

“Yes, sir,” the ranger confirmed. “Checked those, too. Couldn’t see nothing from the ground. No ladders neither. At least…not an usual number—” 

“Nor any in places they ain’t oughta be,” the second ranger chimed in, backing his buddy up.

The redheaded Rooster licked his lips and pushed his way back into the middle of the discussion. “We did see the little school marm ringing her little school bell, though,” he smirked at the mashal before sneaking a quick, timid glance under the brim of his shine hat at Croft.

Croft hadn’t seen them coming, so the words struck him like a punch. He felt Marlow tense beside him while a shit-eating grin spread across the marshal’s lips.

“Tommorow’s a school day, isn’t it?” the marshal asked his captain.

“Don’t know,” Croft admitted, uneasy with the question’s reason for existence. “Won’t matter though,” he said, attempting to reign in Marlow without looking directly at him. “We’ll be in and out before school starts.”

“Actually, Captain—” the marshal started to say.

The back of Croft’s hand shot up instinctively, warning Marlow off. He could feel the sergeant’s anger rising, his breaths deepening, and knew exactly what was about to happen.

Marshal Hilmer was startled by Croft’s hand. In fact, he flinched before realizing it was a gesture, aimed at Sergeant Marlow. 

“We will be timing our arrival,” he continued when he recovered, “to coincide with the school’s activities.”

“The hell we will.” Marlow tried to step toward the marshal, but his captain’s raised arm held him back.

“Shut up, Sergeant,” Croft snapped.

“But—”

“Enough!” Croft raised his voice to a level that Marlow could not mistake.

The sergeant lowered his head and glared at Croft under the brim of his big hat. His lip curled in a snarl. 

“Go tend to the horses, sergeant,” Croft commanded, turning to face him. 

Marlow didn’t move. He stood coiled, jaw set, drawing in powerful, angry breaths through his mouth and releasing them through his nose. Croft held his eyes—battling for dominance—until Marlow found his wisdom and spun away toward the paddock. 

Hilmer watched him go, contempt staining every inch of his face. “That man’s gonna find himself on the wrong side of a court-martial.”

“That man’s trying to save your life, Marshal.”

“From what?” Hilmer laughed, provoking grins from No Account Caldwell and the deputies with him. “School kids?”

From a pissed off town that outnumbers us one hundred to eighteen, Croft thought but dared not say. “People get kind of funny about their kids, Marshal,” he replied instead. If you were old enough to have some, you’d know. 

“They won’t do a damn thing, Captain,” Hilmer mocked. “And if they did try something, my whole family would come thundering down that mountain and piss on their burning corpses.”

Croft searched Hilmer’s face for the faintest sign of humility. 

“We got the whole damn Company backing us,” the young man scoffed. 

“Backing us for what…exactly?” Croft wondered aloud. 

Marshal Hilmer cast a contemptuous glance but looked away immediately, saying nothing.

Croft wanted to punch the little shit stepper in the face. Wanted to knock him to the ground. Wanted to show him how uneven a fight could be one-on-one, nevermind one hundred to eighteen. The kid would remember that lesson forever. It might even make him a better officer. 

“If you ask me, sir—“

“I’m not,” Hilmer interrupted, closing the door and sealing his unfortunate fate.

*****

The barking, which reached Three Mills just about sunset, was not unexpected. While Scout had hoped not to hear it again so soon, she had never stopped preparing for it. The fact that the Shadows were coming down the mountain after the equinox meant they were under pressure. It also meant they were likely to be in a foul mood when they arrived. 

On one hand, this parlous trip might signal that their scouts had found something. Perhaps they were sent to follow up. On the other, it could mean that they had found nothing and were sent back to look harder. The question looming largest in the back of Scout’s mind was if this visit would be brief or if they planned to stay the winter.

The warning barks of dogs, this time, set two streams cascading into motion. The first—calm, calculated, carefully planned—triggered specific acts from specific people who accomplished specific goals. The other—frantic, reactionary, emotionally charged—was kindled by history, stoked by nightmares, fueled by the fires of legend. 

The Shadows are coming! Hoofbeats thundered down the mountain.

When the barking started up again shortly after dawn, council members quickly spread the word. Bolts of panic flashed through Three Mills, sparking a crackling cloud of white hot fear. 

The Shadows are coming! What do they want? 

Men and women, mothers and fathers, the elderly too frail to run, recalled rows of crucified corpses lining the road through Milton for years after that tragic story ended. They remembered, too, the conflagration that took Southport. The poor souls who died in that church.

Surely not that, they said. We’ve done nothing wrong. 

Frightened men concealed weapons. Scraps of armor were hauled out of storage and secreted beneath their fall coats. Women gathered buckets—insurance against fire—filled them with water and stored them safely by. Nobody in Three Mills wanted a fight. But neither would they stand by helpless against anyone who meant them harm.

We’ve done nothing wrong. Of that they were certain. But would the Shadows believe them? And could the truth keep them safe?

*****

His uncle wanted the butcher, but Marshal Hilmer had other plans. Bigger plans. 

He swung his leg over his saddleback and squeezed his mount forward in the morning’s golden light. Confidence rode with him. The sleepy town ahead had no idea what was coming. In fact, few even knew who he was. That he would one day be their master had likely not occurred to them.

Today, he would introduce himself.  And today, he would show his uncle that he—not Croft—should be the man with his hand on the whip.

*****

Croft sensed it. The young marshal was pleased by what he saw as their uniformed column of Company badges trotted up the hill into Three Mills’s bustling town square. Wary citizens stopped in their tracks, stopped trading, stopped talking. Old ladies and mothers with children hustled off the boardwalks. Curtains were drawn. Shop doors were locked. 

As the butcher’s shop came into view, Croft noticed a sly smile spreading across Hilmer’s lips. It grew to match the haughty twinkle in his eye. 

Deliberately, menacingly, provocatively, Marshal Hilmer’s near-white mountain pony sauntered through the center of the square and stopped in front of the butcher’s shop. His uniformed underlings spread outward from his flanks alternating backs and fronts: some glared in through the shop’s windows, others smirked at the gawking townsfolk behind him. The trailing coffle wagon, steered by a cloudy-eyed coachman, stopped on the edge of the square in front of the cooperage. 

Croft’s rangers, bows in hand, moved their horses into positions that created distance but maintained a clear line of sight both to the shop and to the crowd. Two of the rangers circled behind the shop to prevent a backdoor escape while the rest, including Croft, remained in the square. As First Ranger, his highest priority was protecting his commanding officer. So he scanned the rooflines, wary of threats from above.

After stopping in front of the butchery, Hilmer paused, removing his riding gloves one slow finger at a time. When he was done, he placed them neatly on the rise of his saddle, fixed his gaze on the front door of the shop, and cocked his head to one side. Hurry up, kid, Croft urged him silently. Our entrance stirred these folks up. Every moment you sit here peacocking brings another body to the square.

“Mr. Butcher.” Hilmer’s intentionally feigned civility penetrated the walls of the butcher shop and—not coincidentally— the walls of every shop in the square. “You disappoint me,” he said, articulating each word, infusing them with the overstated menace, the way a rich man’s spoiled brat taunts a helpless servant. The shop sat silent, unresponsive. “But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” he continued. “Only cowards sic monsters on sleeping coffles.”

Having issued this challenge, Hilmer waited for the butcher to step out and face his reckoning. What followed, however, was silence: a silence that fanned the flames their arrival had recently kindled. Croft scanned the square. A few curious woodcutters arrived, having climbed the hill from the sawmill, and melted into the crowd. Two—he counted—still had their tools in hand.

“Mr. Butcher,” Hilmer called again.

“He ain’t here,” answered a voice from the crowd. The voice caused Hilmer to turn a little in his saddle. One of the newly arrived woodcutters was addressing him. “He lit out mor’na week ago,” the rough labourer explained. “Heading east.”

Irritation bloomed on Hilmer’s face. He sighed—making eye contact with the deputy closest to him—and thrust his chin toward the butcher’s shop. 

The deputy hopped down from his horse, drew his frontier knife, mounted the boardwalk, and pushed through the shop’s front door. Croft rescanned the rooflines as the deputy stomped around the wooden floors. Moments later, he reappeared, shaking his head. 

Hilmer pressed his lips together and exhaled through his nose. His jaw tensed. Whirling his horse to face the square, he addressed the growing crowd. “Where is the butcher?” he asked, his tone dripping with impatience.

The crowd’s makeup concerned Croft. There were no children here. Few women. And only a fraction of the gathered men had white hair. He wondered if Hilmer was aware of these details. 

“Where is the butcher?” the marshal demanded. His words slowed. His voice pitched higher.

“I done told ya a’ready,” said the woodcutter with a testiness Croft knew the cocky Marshal would not abide. “He ain’t here.”

“Where did he go?” Hilmer demanded. His tone served back an escalated degree of menace that made Croft cringe.

“We don’t know,” said another man, taking a half step forward, backing his friend, matching the marshal’s elevated intensity. 

This one Croft recognized. A conscript sergeant from the war. Johns. Or Joins. Something like that. Croft eyed the axe in his hand warily.

“I suppose he left alone?” Hilmer probed.

“Yes,” Johns-or-Joins replied. “And he didn’t tell us where he was going.”

Marshal Hilmer bowed his head, nodding. “I see,” he said in a low voice. “So if he left alone,” he added, raising his voice with each word until he was spitting with rage, “where…is…his…family!?”

The former conscript was intimidated by the marshal’s outburst. He took an involuntary step back and glanced furtively to his right. Tracking the man’s glance, Croft zeroed in on the fletchery.

“There,” Hilmer snapped, pointing to the shop. “Check inside.”

A murmur rippled through the men in the square. Croft shifted in his saddle. He was becoming uneasy.  With every passing moment, the mob grew larger and Hilmer grew more reckless. 

A quick scan of the rooftops resulted in nothing new. But, as Hilmer’s man crossed the square and blasted through the door of the fletchery, Croft moved his mount alongside the marshal’s, hoping to whisper a few words of warning. Just as he leaned in to speak, the deputy came out empty handed.

“Nothing,” he announced. “Place has been cleaned out.”

Marshal Hilmer’s face reddened. “Take your men,” he snapped at Croft. “ Find the school. Get the butcher’s kids.”

“Marshal, I don’t think…”

“Find the damn school.” Hilmer’s teeth were clenched. Fury burned in his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Croft said, twisting his horse around while scanning the rooftops and signaling two of his rangers to join him.

They arrived moments later. Croft could see the schoolhouse was empty, but he sent one of his rangers inside to verify.

Then it dawned on him. The butchery: empty. The fletchery: empty. The school: empty. Someone knew they were coming. Someone knew—or guessed—what they would do. And if they were that good, they would surely know what was coming next. Suddenly, Captain Croft found himself having doubts about the wisdom of leaving Hilmer alone. Gathering his rangers, he charged back to the square planning to take charge, hoping to prevent a riot. 

Men and boys were running through the streets now, dashing between buildings, pouring toward the center of town from all directions. Most had something in their hands—tools, mainly, wood axes and hunting bows, but there was an assortment of weapons as well, including frontier knives, cudgels, and a few polearms. 

When Croft entered the square, he spotted flames licking up the walls of the butchery. Townsmen were jostling, surging forward, pressing the deputies who were struggling to keep them back. Croft’s guts twisted. He had only moments to get the marshal out of town before things got ugly.

“Get the rangers out of here,” Croft ordered Sergeant Marlow. “Meet us at the river camp.”

Sergeant Marlow balked, confused.

“Go,” Croft ordered, demanding immediate obedience before turning to guide his horse through the sea of bodies separating him from Marshal Hilmer. The growing number of brandished weapons was making Hilmer’s deputies anxious. Their skittish mounts were becoming difficult to handle. Do not draw your weapons, Croft shouted in his head, hoping to stop the forming spiral before it spun out of control. Do not draw your weapons.

Not satisfied by the flames creeping up the wall of the butcher’s shop, Hilmer turned his attention to the fletchery. Torch in hand, he started across the square but found his way blocked by shouting angry men. A woodcutter menaced him with an ax. Hilmer stopped abruptly and cast around for help. He realized that he was surrounded. Where the hell is Croft? he wondered. Then suddenly, a bucket brigade appeared out of nowhere. Water was tossed onto the walls of the butcher’s shop. They were putting his fire out.

“No,” Hilmer shouted. “Stop that.” But the townsfolk refused to listen. So he yanked his long knife out and cut down the nearest man with a bucket. Blind with rage and singularly focussed, Hilmer did not see the rooftop archer taking aim at his back. 

Croft did. In a flash he spun his bow around and nocked an arrow. But as he drew back on the bowstring, a hand reached up from the crowd and tugged on the lower limb of his bow. As the ranger tried to pull it free, a second hand joined the first. Realizing he would not be able to get a shot off, Croft let go his bow and launched his horse forward through the hostile crowd. 

His goal was to put himself between Hilmer and the archer. But just as Croft arrived, an arrow flashed though the square and sunk deep in the young man’s back. The marshal collapsed to his knees, eyes wide, a bloody arrowhead protruding from his chest at a downward angle. Croft leaped from his horse. The deputies drew their long knives in unison and the scene in the square changed instantly from riot to massacre. 

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