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Slaugher At Stringybark Creek

Chapter Sixteen

1. Cederwyn Whitefurr

6th September, 2017

All Rights Reserved.

Sgt.MacGoven was beyond livid, as he stormed back and forth in the tavern, berating the men who had failed him. His vile imprecations against their mothers, and themselves, was truly, something to behold – even the most hardened and cruel wilted like reeds before his tyranical diatribe.

"What do you mean," He roared, then slammed his hand down on the nearest table, inwardly, he would have prefered to hit someone rather than something... "You didn't find him? Did you misbegotten maggot's even try looking?"

None one answered, a few coughed and some shuffled their feet, not wanting to be the centre of the Sargent's wrath.

"Incompetent, absolutely incomptent, get out, the lot of you – if I have to call in the soldiers, there's going to be hell to pay! How fucking hard is it to find him!"

Most fled the tavern, falling ove reach other and themselves, trying to get out of eyesight of the Sargent. Some merely shrugged and walked up to the bar, ordering assorted drinks, whilst others just stood or sat where they were, stunned and bewildered by the outburst.

"Where's that slut of a foal – I swear, I'll hang her from her hooves if she isn't found!" Sgt.MacGoven screamed, his fury rising. "You!"

Pointing at a young man who shrank back, trying to make himself look small and insignificant.

"Go find that cocksucker of a Filly, get her front and centre, right fucking now!" Sgt. MacGoven roared.

Quickly, the man turned and fled, as the Sargent stomped over to the bar, then tankard of ale was put in front of him by an overweight barman, who mopped at his forehead with a rag. As he walked away, moving ponderously under his enormous girth, he served another customer, then made his way bac to the Sargent. Wrinkling his nose, the Sargent shot the obese barkeep a scathing glare, as he covered his nose with the sleeve of his uniform.

"Fuck me - " Snorted the Sargent in disgust. "Did you die, or do you usually smell that bad?"

With a grunt, the Barman grinned, revealing black, rotted teeth, as he moved back down the bar, serving other customers.

*

Kelsie wiped her sweaty forehead and back of her neck with her bandana as she slid off her mare's back and began unfastening the tight girth straps. Kelsie alone knew how close they had to come to finding Ironclad – and she paused then shivered as her mind replayed that moment again and again in her mind, before a ripple ran from her groin and up her spine like a warm, pelasant tingle before she blushed and moaned, tilting her head back as her mind began to conjure images and feelings she had never dreamed of – and her revelry was shattered as the young man ran up to her, panting and gasping.

"Sargent...wants you – now - " He wheezed, then staggered to the horse watering trough and dipped his head under the water, then lifted it and let the water soak into the rough tunic he worse.

With a sigh, Kelsie nodded, then reached into the small pouch at her belt and flipped him a single silver coin.

"Thank you," Kelsie replied, as she snorted through her nostrils and hurriedly unsaddled her horse. "There's another silver, if you brush down Jess and stable her – I'll be back to check!"

Nodding, the man took the reins Kelsie offered, then led the inidignant mare towards the stables.

*

Kelsie reported as ordered, sweat dribbling down her neck and making her uncomfortable, as the Sargent belittled her and come within a hairs breadth of physically assaulting her – but Kelsie stood her ground, looking alert and attentive, as she smelt the alcholol on his breath in inwardly, she was disgusted and disillusioned with the Sargent drinking on duty.

"Even you, you cockless whore!" Sargent MacGoven screamed, as he gripped her collar and pulled her close, so her nostrils were almost touching his mouth, flecks of beer and spittle spattering against her nose.

At that moment, Kelsie would have happily taken her pistol, put it against his belly – and emptied all six chambers...but it was only supereme force of will that stayed her hand.

"I swear, you'e protecting that cunt of a foal!" Sgt. MacGoven railed at her, as he grew increasingly aggressive. "All you filthy, furry creatures are guarding him, hiding him whilst he picks us off one by fucking one!"

Kelsie neither confirmed nor denied it, knowing when the Sargent was into his cups like this, often, it was safer and wiser to say nothing at all, as irregardless of what was said, he'd take it and twist it to suit his own cruel, depraved purposes...most of which ended up in cruelty or outright death....

"I fucking swear," Sgt. MacGoven screamed, his face turning a brilliant puce colour, which Kelsie inwardly found both amusing and surprising. "I find out, anyone, has been guarding or aiding him...I'll make them wish they'd never been born! He has killed – how many of us? Answer me you cunt of a Filly!"

Kelsie flicked an near, having switched off her mind as he ranted and railed at her, then she swallowed nervously, before she frowned and thought.

"Last – estimated count, Sir," Kelsie answered, as calmly as she could. "Over thirty dead, restrained with leather thong around their wrists, and shot once in the back of the head."

"You hear me!" Sargent MacGoven shrieked, if anything, his voice growing louder.

"Yes, sir..." Kelsie stammered, her fear starting to climb proportionally as the Sargent's rage build like a gathering summer storm.

"Thirty innocent human men – killed by some cockless wonder of a Colt, with ambitions of grandeur and glory! What do we have to show for it? Thirty new graves in the cemetary – and not one confirmed sighting! It's like he's some ghost or something..."

"Ghost of Stringybark...got a ring to it..." Come the drunken, slurred giggle of a man sitting in the corner.

In the blink of an eye, Sgt. MacGoven spun and unholstered his pistol,. Then there was a deafening crack before the man who had spoken gasped, then slumped over the table, where he gurgled and choked up blood, then slithered to the floor. Kelsie stared wide eyed, the stench of cordite stinging her nostrils and eyes, before she slowly looked from the man to the Sargent, who holstered his pistol and acted as if nothing had happened – despise the deathly silence in the tavern.

"What the fuck are you all staring at?" Roared the drunken Sargent, as he glared at the patrons, none of whom dared speak, instead turned en-masse back to their drinks and stared sullenly at them.

Nobody answered...nobody dared...

*

As the Doctor kept a close eye on Clanton, whose healthy slowly improved under his attentions, Kelsie also regularly kept up the visits, helping the Kangaroo to slowly regain his health and a healthy weight, but there was little she could do to free him, as much as she wanted.

"Thank you - " Clanton whispered one day, as he lay his leathery paw pad on Kelsie's hand and coughed weakly.

"What for?" Kelsie asked, as she wiped at his muzzle with a rag, then held a bowl up for him to drink from.

"For...helping me – for helping...him!" Clanton croaked, then he began coughing in great, wracking coughs that Kelsie feared would never end.

"Helping who?" Kelsie asked, as she wiped at Clanton's muzzle, then glanced from the sickly kangaroo, to the doctor and back again. "I'm only here, because the Doctor needed help and - "

"Not..." Clanton wheezed, and he gripped Kelsie's paw with both of his. "...him..."

Realisation slowly spread across Kelsie's muzzle, her ears flashed backwards and she snapped her head to look fearfully at the Doctor, whose own eyes widened.

"No...you're mistaken - " Kelsie began stammering.

"Relax young one," Grunted the Doctor, as he laid a hand on Kelsie's shoulder, then comfortingly squeezed. "Your secret is safe with me – I already knew, one of your people come to me the other night – he had been waylaid and beaten until the poor thing nearly died. He was delirous and babbling when he was brought to me, trust me, I know – your secret shall never leave this room, only I know, and I'm choosing a side – for the first time in my life! I'm siding with your people, I've seen the Sargent's increasingly violent behavior and outbursts, I'm sick of patching up your people, and I'm particularly sick of him, so I swear, your secret is safe!"

Kelsie didn't know what to say, all she could do was sit there on the crude wooden stool, her muzzle hanging agape, until the Doctor reached out and gently closed it, as he smiled and ruffled her ears tenderly.

"You'e welcome..."

*

Ironclad's reputation grew as more and more, the Anthropomorphic people thought of him as their savior, his generosity from the money he stole from the stage's

he held up, was given to the struggling Anthropomorphic farmholders, shopkeepers and even the Doctor, who recieved a sizable anonymous gift, which was left in a small hessian sack at his back door. There was no note, just a few hundred pounds, which more than covered the cost of the medicines and other stuff which had been stolen months ago...

*

As the crimes continued, the assaults, murders and other offences against the anthropomorphic people fell proportionately, which only infuriated the Sargent and exasperated his slide into acholohic abuse. There was barely a day that passed, six months after Ironclad's last name on his kill list was completed – that the Sargent was sober...

He had deterioriated into abuse of alchohol and it was widely rumoured, other substances, he was disheveled, unkept, bordering on overwight as he barely ate, prefering to drink in the tavern until he was carried home by the few of his compatriots – but as the depravity and abuse grew worse and worse – even they abandoned him, so he spent most of his time alone, miserable and ranting at nothing, as the spiral became a headlong plunge towards an early grave.

Kelsie had watched with sadness as he spiralled deeper and deeper into madness, depraved debauchery – when he could get it up – it was widely whispered in quiet voices, that as he turned more to the drink, he became increasingly impotent – which caused more than a few thankful nights for the ladies of the night, who frequented the upstairs in the tavern. Whilst Kelsie hated and loathed the Sargent, she never expected this – this wreck of a man – so consumed with hatred and his desire for revenge, to decline so badly.

Every day, Kelsie falsified the logs, which once a month were sent by courier to the Capital, but the way she wrote the logs, there was nothing untowards happening – a few localised thefts, the occassional drunken brawl, one or two murders – the criminals caught and punished – but she knew in her heart, if the truth come out, she would spend the rest of her days in the Stockade...if she was lucky...

*

Late one afternoon, Ironclad was watering his mare, whilst he began counting the latest stagecoach robbery, self-congratulating himself for the calmness and apparent ease, in which he had stolen this months wages that were destined for the Police at Stringybark creek. So intent was he at counting the money, he let his guard down – and it almost proved fatal...

*

To Be Continued...