December 18, 1866—Fort Phil Kearny, Dakota Territory
LATER THAT EVENING KOHN SITS HIS PRISONER IN A chair across the table from him in the guardhouse, the prisoner wearing shackles at his wrists and ankles.
Kohn says, “You think you will sit there in silence but you will talk when I make you. Do you understand me, Private?”
Michael O’Driscoll stares at the tabletop. “I will not talk to you. I will talk to the Galway Captain. No one else, by God.”
“God will only watch when I start to work on you.”
A faint smile comes to the prisoner’s lips but there is little defiance in his voice. “You will try it but those boys on guard, they are all C Company boys. They will stand for no wildness with me, Sergeant.”
Kohn studies the prisoner, wondering whether he needs a confession or an incriminating admission to move him from here to Fort Reno or Laramie. Of course, if he could move him to Reno or Laramie, he could more easily work on him, get the confession or statement of evidence he feels he has a right to hear.
“The captain is ill again. He cannot attend you.”
O’Driscoll considers this for a moment. “Then get me paper and ink and I will write my confessions to him and him alone. My brother and I are in his debt. He will be repaid, not you.”
“What debt?”
“That is between myself and my brother and the captain. It does not brook on you, Sergeant.”
“I’ve a mind to hang you now in your cell.”
“You have the makings of a fine constable, with talk like that.”
Kohn stands. “You will have your paper and ink and I will have a confession before the night is out or you won’t see tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is a long way from now, Sergeant. And I couldn’t care a fuck if I see it or not. Get me paper and ink and a lamp. I will need light if I am to scratch out my tale for the captain.”