Callon wasn’t writing now. He frowned and paced back and forth before the Colonel, thinking. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but it makes no sense to me.”
Ottinger’s jaw did its little clench again.
Callon went on despite an inner voice that urged him not to. “There’s something far too unlikely in it all. Why, after all these years, would a band of former Rebels go to such trouble, all for mere symbolism? Why would they pick a two-bit mining town, known mostly for its sinful ways, as a point of attack? They could better make their point by destroying a railroad, or even sneaking these explosives of theirs under the walls of Fort Brandon itself and setting them off there.
“And about these explosives…do you really ask me to believe, and ask my readers to believe in turn, that anyone at all, particularly a band of stubborn old Rebels, would possess enough explosive power to do this?” Callon waved his hand, indicating the destroyed town, the ruined forest.
Ottinger was not a man accustomed to being questioned, particularly by an upstart young civilian journalist. He scowled fiercely at Callon, and spoke in a colder, even more formal tone of voice. “What you see around you, sir, was not solely the result of the initial blasts. Those explosions were carried out in such a way as to cause extremely severe and fast-moving fires, which spread through this tinderbox town and into the woods around them. The forest damage you see resulted from the fire, not the explosions.”
“Colonel, those trees didn’t burn down, they were knocked down, by an incredible explosive force. They didn’t burn very thoroughly, and mostly on one side, the side facing Gomorrah. They all fell in the same direction. This was no common forest fire, sir.”
“How dare you argue with me! I am in command here!”
Callon was doing the very thing he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do—losing his temper—but he couldn’t stop himself. Nothing roused his ire more than perceiving that he, as a journalist, was being used and lied to. “You may be in command of your soldiers, sir, but I’m a private citizen. A civilian. And I work for the Observor, not for you, and not for the United States Army. And I’m not a fool. I can see clearly what you’re up to here.”
Ottinger stared at him. “And tell me, then, what it is I’m up to.”
Ottinger did an odd thing then: without giving Callon a chance to answer, he turned and walked away, toward the woods, heading for a portion not at the moment being burned. It was darker there, more remote from the town.
Callon hesitated, then followed. “I’ll tell you what you’re up to, sir. You know as well as I do that what happened here was something very strange, something unusual, something maybe we cannot yet explain. Whatever it was, though, it certainly wasn’t the work of some gaggle of old Confederates, and you know it.
“But you also know that this event provides you opportunity. You can use this incident to cast blame on these old Rebels, and have a pretext to move against them, arrest them, whatever. So you keep the people of Gomorrah, who know what really happened here, under your control as long as possible, to keep them quiet. You reburn the forest because you know that anyone who sees the pattern in which these trees fell, and the pattern by which they originally burned, will know that this was caused by an explosion much stronger than any human being could bring about. And you seek to use me, and my publication, to further your lie before the nation. Because once you get the false version in print, you’ve won the day. Most people will never travel up to this mountaintop to see the evidence of the kind of blast that really occurred. And with the fallen trees all burned to ashes, there would be little evidence left to see, anyway. Everyone would simply accept the official story. Any eyewitness or survivor who tells a different story would simply be labeled an exaggerator and dismissed.”
Ottinger faced Callon. “Tell me, then, what did happen here, if you consider my version so faulty. And don’t speak of volcanic activity. I’ve had this site studied by a trained geologist, and that theory has already been ruled out.”
“I don’t believe this was caused by volcanic activity,” Callon said. “To be honest, I can’t guess exactly what caused it…but I think something fell from the sky, and exploded above the town.”
Ottinger laughed. “Fell from the sky? What? Fire and brimstone from heaven?”
“Maybe not fire and brimstone. I’m no scientist, but I know there are objects out there, moving through the heavens, sometimes falling toward earth. Maybe it was something like that. I’ve heard that such things can happen.”
“Well, it didn’t happen here. This was the work of insurgents, and that, young man, is what you will report.”
“The Observor is not under the control of you or the United States government, Colonel. In this nation the press enjoys freedom from such control.”
Ottinger pushed himself into Callon’s face, waving his fist. “Damn you! Can’t you see what I’m doing for you? I’m offering you an exclusive privilege, to report first-hand the way this town was attacked and destroyed, and the response to that attack! Are you going to turn your back on this?”
Ottinger again made his odd move, and turned away before Callon could respond. He walked two dozen more paces into the woods, crossing a small ridge and actually going completely out of Callon’s sight.
Callon hesitated, very unsure about all this now. The thought of turning and running came to mind. But perhaps Ottinger wanted him to do just that. He might even have unseen guards about, ready to shoot him down if he tried it.
Another thing as well kept him from running. He heard something, off in the woods. Movement, as if someone were out there, watching, listening. Perhaps just an animal, perhaps a man…if the latter, a man probably close enough to have heard much of the conversation so far.
“Alex?” Callon whispered. “Alex Gunnison, is that you?”
No one answered.
Callon followed Ottinger over the ridge. It was much darker here; Callon could barely make out the Colonel’s form in the blackness. “Colonel, what ‘response’ are you talking about?”
“Do you agree to write the story? If you will, I’ll tell you.”
“I’ll write the story…but I’ll not have its terms dictated.”
“If you write anything at all, young man, it will indeed be on my terms, and I’ll not allow a word to be sent out by you, in any form, without my prior approval.”
“I’ll not allow a prior restraint on any story I write, Colonel Ottinger.”
Ottinger shook his head. “You’re as big a fool as Kenton. He turned me down as well.”
“It’s only because Kenton follows the ethics of a professional, and will not compromise it.”
Ottinger smiled triumphantly. “Ah-ha! So it is Kenton! I knew it!”
Callon’s heart sank. With no intention to do so, he’d just confirmed Brady Kenton’s identity. Ottinger had outfoxed him.
Callon strode toward Ottinger, made bold by anger. “Don’t you dare harm him! Don’t even think of it!”
Ottinger laughed. “Harm him? Why would I do that? What do you think I am?”
Callon stammered a moment, then said, “I know you and Kenton have a bad history between you. I know you’re a man prone to vengeance.”
“Do you think so? Why? You don’t know me at all, Mr. Callon. All you know of me is what you’ve read, printed by liars like Brady Kenton. He’s probably been telling you more lies there in that cabin. I’m not the wicked creature Kenton says I am, Mr. Callon. And he’s not the great warrior for truth he claims to be.”
Callon wondered if it was too late to backstep somehow. He’d at least try. “Listen, Colonel, I don’t personally know Brady Kenton. Never met the man. I can’t say for certain that Mr. Houser is really him. He just bears a resemblance, that’s all.”
“You needn’t try to change your story now, young man. I didn’t really need your confirmation in any case. That is indeed Brady Kenton in that cabin. One of my soldiers who saw him in the town of Leadville has already confirmed his identity to me. But enough of that: the question between us is whether you are willing to write the story here in the way I wish. I take it that the answer, at this point, is no.”
“Sir, I can’t and won’t write a story I know to be a contrived lie.”
Callon expected Ottinger to explode, but instead he spoke more softly. “I’m not a man without means. I can certainly make it worth your while to reconsider.”
Callon gaped. “You’re offering me a bribe?”
Ottinger, nearly invisible in the darkness, reached beneath his coat.
Callon exclaimed, “You are offering me a bribe!” He laughed in astonishment. “Now that, sir, is a story I am willing to write. Colonel J.B. Ottinger himself, trying to pay a journalist to manipulate the facts for him!”
“Are you trying to threaten me, Mr. Callon?”
“I’m not willing to prostitute my profession, sir, for a handful of cash.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Ottinger said. “I’ve given you every opportunity to make wise choices, but you’ve failed to do so. Now you have become a problem to me. I can’t have you, or Kenton, engaged in trying to further muddy my name before the public.”
“I can’t compromise with you, Colonel,” Callon said. “I intend to write and publish a story, but it will be a story telling the truth.”
Ottinger replied, “I’m very sorry you’ve chosen to attack me.”
“I haven’t attacked you.”
“Yes, you have. You lured me this far, out of sight of witnesses, and attempted to physically harm me. Therefore I have no choice but to defend myself.”
Callon stepped back, wary. “What are you talking about?”
Ottinger pulled a pistol from under his coat, leveled it, and shot Callon through the heart.