by JR Roberts
Tate reached out with the bottle and filled Clint’s glass, then his own.
“There’s a report that Wirz was seen, alive,” Tate said.
“Where did that report come from?”
“San Francisco.”
“And who saw him?”
“Atwater.”
“Dorence Atwater?”
“That’s right.”
At Camp Sumter, Atwater was a young Union soldier who had been tasked with keeping a record of the names of the dead. When the prisoners of Andersonville were expatriated, his list was suppressed until he got it to Horace Greeley of The New York Times.
“Dorence Atwater saw Henry Wirz in San Francisco?” Clint asked, to make it clear to himself.
“Or thinks he did.”
“Have you talked to Atwater?”
Tate shook his head.
“Telegram. Have you seen Atwater since the war?” Tate asked.
“No, sir.”
“He’s worked as a journalist for a variety of different newspapers.”
“The Times?”
“No, never,” Tate said. “Small newspapers.”
“How old is he now?”
“He’s … in his early forties.”
“And working in San Francisco now?”
“As far as we know.”
“Why not just bring him in?” Clint asked. “To Washington? And talk to him?”
“He won’t come in,” Tate said. “He says he’s going to kill Wirz.”
“Wirz is dead.”
“Not according to Atwater.”
“Then he’s going to kill an innocent man.”
“Not according to him,” Tate said. “The man he says is Wirz is Harlan Winston.”
“Senator Harlan Winston?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s protected, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Tate said, “but he’s not invulnerable. Atwater is determined to kill him.”
“So stop him.”
“We want you to stop him.”
“Why me?”
“He knows you.”
“He knows you, too.”
“He trusts you,” Tate said. “He trusted you in Andersonville.”
“That doesn’t mean he’ll trust me now.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I trusted you in Andersonville.”
“And I trusted you,” Tate said. “And that’s why I want you for this job.”
Clint held out his glass for another finger of whiskey. “Will you do it?”
“Save the senator, stop Atwater, bring him back...?” Clint asked.
“All three.”
Clint drank his whiskey.
“Sure,” he said, “why not? What else have I got to do?” Clint stood up. “When do I leave?” he asked.
“There’s a train to Saint Louis in the morning,” Tate said. “There you’ll board a private military train. It’ll take you the rest of the way.”
“All the way to San Francisco?”
Tate nodded. “That’s right. What will you need?”
“My horse, my gear.”
“Be at the train station at eight a.m.,” Tate said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And thank you, Clint.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Keep in touch by telegraph.”
“To Washington?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
He started for the door.
“Clint?”
“Yes.”
“You knew Wirz.”
“You know I did.”
“Then you’ll recognize him.”
“After all these years?” Clint asked. “Maybe. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Henry Wirz is dead.”
“Well, then,” Tate said, “that’s the other thing you’ll have to do.”
“What?”
“Confirm.”
Private Collins let Clint out the front door, closed, and locked it behind him. Clint stood for a moment with his back to the door. Going in, he’d felt sure of himself.
Going out, he felt bad.
Very bad.
Chapter Five
Camp Sumter, 1964
Clint was shoved into the room. Weakened from his first month in Andersonville, he stumbled and fell to the floor. From there he looked up at the man in front of him.
“I am Major Heinrich Hartmann Wirz,” the man said. “Henry Wirz.”
“I know who you are.”
“Yes, and I know who you are,” Wirz said. He was in his forties, a slight man with a useless right arm. “Clint Adams. I understand they call you the Gunsmith.”
“So?”
“Is that true?” Wirz asked. “You are a gunsmith?”
Wirz apparently did not understand the true genesis of the name. Clint wasn’t inclined to tell him.
“Yes,” Clint said, “I’m a gunsmith.”
“Good,” Wirz said with a slight accent. It was Swiss, which Clint did not know at the time. “I need a gunsmith to work on my men’s weapons.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Why, for extra rations, of course.”
“More slop?” Clint asked. “No thank you.”
“Well, then do it so that I will not kill any of your Regulators.”
“Regulators?”
“Do not take me for a fool, Adams,” Wirz said. “You have formed a group of Regulators to defend against the group you call ‘the Andersonville Raiders.’ Is that not so?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then if you do not work on my guns, I will kill one of your Regulators each day, starting with Lieutenant Tate.”
“You can’t kill our superior officer.”
“He will die of an accident,” Wirz said. “Or perhaps of natural causes.”
Clint thought fast.
“Let’s make a deal,” he said.
“What do you propose?”
“Decent food, clean water.”
“For your Regulators?”
“For all the men.”
“Impossible. I will supply what you ask only for your Regulators. It will keep their strength up in order to deal with the Raiders who have, I believe, superior numbers.”
“That’s true, they do.”
“Then you will have superior conditioning,” Wirz said. “Accept these terms, or we will return to my original offer. I will kill a Regulator each day, beginning with your Lieutenant Tate.”
“All right,” Clint said. “All right, I’ll work on your guns in return for food and water for the Regulators. All of them.”
“Very well,” Wirz said. “How many of them are there?”
There were half a dozen, but Clint said, “Twenty.”
Chapter Six
The first shot struck the door behind him. He dropped to one knee as two more shots went over his head and shattered the glass of the door.
Clint drew his gun, but couldn’t locate the source of the shooting. He stood up, stuck his arm through the broken glass, and unlocked the door from the inside. He ducked into the store and closed the door behind him as more lead struck it.
He looked around inside. No sign of Private Collins. He hurried through the store to the storeroom, down the stairs. The lamp was still burning, but there was no sign of Collins or Tate. They must have left immediately.
He went to the back door and looked out. No sign of any soldiers. Out front he could hear the firing continue, as hot lead wreaked havoc on the interior.
He opened the door and stepped out into the dark alley behind the store. Quickly he ran along the back of the building. He came to an alley that would lead him to the street, but that wasn’t his goal. His goal was to get to San Francisco in one piece. Apparently, someone didn’t want him to make the trip. But he was sure hired gunmen were out front doing the shooting. He could have made his way t
o the street and taken them on, but that wasn’t his intention.
He had to get away, just as Colonel Tate and his men had done.
Clint continued to move along behind buildings until he was far enough away from the store. The shooting had either stopped, or he was too far away to hear it. They probably knew by now that he was gone.
He found his way to the street and retraced his steps back to his hotel. Across the street from the Peach Blossom Hotel he stopped to take a look. He heard something to his right, turned, and drew his gun. A girl stepped from the darkness. She had a shawl covering her head, but he could see she had big brown eyes.
“Don’t go in there,” she said. “They’re waitin’ for you.”
“Who is?” he asked.
“Men with guns.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been waitin’ for you, too,” she said.
He holstered his gun.
“Why?”
“To save you, of course,” she said. “Come this way.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Someplace safe,” she said.
She started to walk and he hesitated. She looked at him over her shoulder.
“If I wanted to harm you,” she said, “I would have let you walk in there.”
She had a point.
“What’s your name?”
“That can come later. Come on.”
“Tell me now,” he said. “So I know who I’m going with.”
“My name is Molly. Now will you come?”
“My name is Clint.”
“Follow me, Clint,” she said, “and you’ll live to tell me your last name.”
He followed.
Chapter Seven
Clint followed the girl through the dark streets of Atlanta until they came to a stop in front of a modest two-story house.
“Who lives here?” he asked.
“It’s a rooming house,” Molly said.
“You have a room here?”
“No, you do.”
“I have a room at the hotel—”
“Which you can’t go back to, or you’ll be killed,” she said.
“My stuff is in my room—”
“Your saddlebags and rifle are here,” she said.
“How did that happen?”
“I moved them.”
“By whose okay?”
“On my own initiative.”
“And my horse?”
“Also moved someplace safe.”
He was surprised.
“Now who accomplished that without losing a finger?” he asked.
“I did,” she said. “I have a way with males—horses or humans.”
“Hmm.”
“Do you want to go inside?” she asked. “It’s safe, and you can get some rest before catching your train tomorrow.”
“What do you know about me catching a train?”
“I know everything about it,” she said, “but do you really want to talk about it out here? On the street?”
She had a point.
“No, I don’t.”
“Then let’s go inside.”
She went up the steps to the front door and he followed. She used a key to get in, then led him up a flight of stairs to the second floor.
“Isn’t there anyone else staying here?” he whispered.
“Not right now,” she said, “so there’s no need to whisper.”
“The house is empty?”
“I thought that would be best.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” he said in his normal tone. “You own the house.”
“No,” she said, “my aunt does.”
She led him to a door, opened it, and stepped inside. She struck a match and lit a lamp that was sitting on a dresser. It lit the room well, showing him a four-poster, the dresser the lamp was on, and a wooden chair with arms and a cushion.
He looked at the girl, who removed the shawl from her head and let it rest on her shoulders. Wavy brown curls fell to her shoulder and he saw how pretty she really was. Big, wide brown eyes, a snub nosed covered by freckles, and a wide, full-lipped mouth.
“Irish?” he asked.
“Through and through,” she said. “Is that a problem?”
“Not for me.”
She removed the shawl from her shoulders and dropped it on the bed, next to his saddlebags. He saw his rifle leaning against the wall in a corner. She was wearing a very simple blue cotton dress that fit her well enough to show the curves of her body.
“Are you injured?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Why would I be?”
“When somebody shoots at you, sometimes you get hurt,” she said.
“How do you know I was shot at?”
“I was there, Mr. Adams,” she said. “I saw and heard the shots.”
“I guess my question is, why were you there?” he asked. “And why were you outside my hotel? And why did you move me here?”
“So your question is pretty much, why?”
“That’s it.”
“The answer is easy,” she said. “It’s my job.”
“Your job?” he asked. “Do you work for Colonel Tate?”
“No, I’m not military,” she said. “I work for the Secret Service. Like your friend, Jim West. He asked me to help you, if I could.”
“Jim sent you?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips. She stood about five-four, was built solidly. “That Jim would trust a woman?”
“Not at all,” Clint said. “I’ve learned over the years to trust Jim’s instincts.”
“Well, he has a little more than instinct to base his confidence on,” she said. “We’ve worked together before.”
Clint studied her for a moment.
“I wouldn’t have known about your meeting with the colonel if I wasn’t on the inside,” she told him. “There’s no need to suspect me.”
“I’m just careful,” he said.
“No harm in that, I guess,” she said. “You should be safe here tonight.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’ll be downstairs,” she said.
“On guard?”
“Sure,” she said. “That way you can get some sleep.”
“I’m not used to being watched over by a woman,” he said.
“Any objections?”
“None.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m armed and I know how to use a gun.”
“That’s comforting.”
She pushed out her pretty jaw and asked, “Is that sarcasm?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I’m too tired to be sarcastic. I appreciate your help, Molly.”
“Well,” she said, “okay, then. I’ll, uh, see you in the morning. I’ll make sure you make your eight a.m. train.”
“Thanks, again.”
She nodded, headed for the door.
“You mind if I ask your last name?”
“It’s Molly O’Henry.”
“Miss?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Miss O’Henry.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Adams.”
As she opened the door, he said, “I thought you said you needed me to tell you my last name.”
“I lied,” she said. “I know everything there is to know about you.”
“Everything?”
She gave him a long look before closing the door behind her, and said, “Everything.”
Chapter Eight
Clint walked to the window after Molly had left and stared down at the area in front of the house. Somebody knew he was meeting with the colonel, and had tried to ambush him. But why wait until he had gone inside? Why not try to kill him before?
Or why try to kill him at all?
It was highly unlikely that Henry Wirz was still alive. It was more likely that Dorence Atwater—who had been a very young man when he was in Andersonville—was mistaken. Maybe he was still looking for s
ome justice after Andersonville.
But if it wasn’t Wirz, who had sent the gunmen after him tonight?
And why hadn’t Jim West or Colonel Tate told him about Molly O’Henry? He had only the young woman’s word that she was with the Secret Service. True, she knew about his meeting with Tate, but then so did the gunmen who’d tried to kill him.
He had only one way to get in touch with Tate again, and that was the same telegraph address he’d responded to in the first place. Apparently, it went to a telegraph key in Washington.
He walked to the bed, hung his gun belt on the bedpost, but kept his boots on. Molly had told him he was safe there, but there was no telling. He didn’t think he’d been followed from his meeting, or that they had been followed from the hotel, but he decided to play it safe by keeping the gun close, and the boots on.
He thought back to Andersonville, where he, Tate, and Atwater were members of the Regulators. The Raiders had been running rampant until Clint got there just as Tate became the superior officer in camp.
Atwater was barely old enough to be in the war and was mostly given paperwork to do. He kept records for them as to who died, who were Regulators, and who were Raiders. For one so young, Atwater had seemed to be very strong-minded while at Camp Sumter. Even after they were released, he did not suffer the same mental problems many of the other prisoners had.
At least, he didn’t seem to. Perhaps it had been working on him for more than twenty years, until now he was seeing Henry Wirz’s face when he looked at the face of Senator Harlan Winston.
Hmmm.
He thought a moment.
Henry Wirz.
Harlan Winston.
Even if Wirz had been Winston, wouldn’t he have been smart enough to change his initials? Clint knew that outlaws and ex-cons very often kept the same initials when they changed their names. Supposedly, it made the alias easier to remember.
But Wirz had been nothing if not an intelligent officer. Surely he would have been sharper than that when it came to choosing a phony name.
But Wirz was dead. He had to be. He’d been tried, convicted, and ultimately, executed. Hanged. In front of witnesses.
But who were the witnesses?
He wondered if he sent a telegram to the colonel in Washington if the man would send him a list of the witnesses to Henry Wirz’s execution.