The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Tenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “I’m not worried!” Sam called after him. “He’ll ask you to spell it, and you’ll be stumped!”

  Taylor entered the tent, and someone pulled the flaps closed. Sam stood looking at the tent for a moment longer, then struck off across camp in search of breakfast. Why Quantrill and the other guerrilla leaders were taking so long to form their plans, and why they were keeping the men in the dark, he couldn’t imagine. There shouldn’t be any great planning involved in striking a blow at Lawrence and the Red Legs: Ride in hard, attack the Red Legs’ headquarters and the Union garrison like lightning, and then ride out again, pausing long enough to set fire to Jim Lane’s house to pay him back for the dozens of Missouri houses he’d burned himself.

  As for keeping the rank-and-file bushwhackers ignorant … well, there were about as many Yankee spies among Quantrill’s band as there were fish in the sky. Sam had talked to over a hundred of these men, and all of them had lost property or family to abolitionist raiders of one stripe or another. Sam had even spoken with one man whose brother had been killed by John Brown in 1856, and who still longed for vengeance even though John Brown was now as dead as a rock.

  Vengeance could be a long time coming, as Sam well knew. In the two years since Orion’s murder, he had yet to kill a single Federal soldier, let alone one of the marauding Kansas Red Legs. It wasn’t for lack of trying, though. He had fired countless shots at Bluebellies, but always at a distance or in the dark. He had never hit anything besides trees and the occasional horse.

  Sam had a breakfast of fatty bacon with three young brothers who were from Ralls County south of Hannibal and who therefore considered him a kinsman. He ate their food, swapped a few East Missouri stories, and promised to pay them back with bacon of his own as soon as he had some. Then he shouldered his saddlebags again and walked to the camp’s makeshift corral to see after his horse, Bixby.

  Bixby was a swaybacked roan gelding who had been gelded too late and had a mean disposition as a result. The horse also seemed to think that he knew better than Sam when it came to picking a travel route, or when it came to deciding whether to travel at all. Despite those flaws, however, Sam had no plans to replace Bixby. He thought that he had the horse he deserved.

  Sam tried to give Bixby a lump of hard brown sugar from one of his saddlebags, but Bixby ignored it and attempted to bite Sam’s shoulder.

  “Sometimes I think you forget,” Sam said, slapping Bixby on the nose, “that I am the man who freed you from your bondage to an abolitionist.”

  Bixby snorted and stomped, then tried to bite Sam’s shoulder again.

  “Clemens!” a voice called.

  Sam turned and saw that the voice belonged to one of the Ralls County boys who had fed him breakfast.

  “The Colonel wants you at the tent!” the boy shouted.

  Sam was astonished. Except for his friendship with Fletch Taylor, he was less than a nobody in the band. Not only was he a new arrival, but it was already obvious that he was the worst rider, the worst thief, and the worst shot. Maybe Taylor really had told Todd and Quantrill that he was a Yankee spy.

  “Better come quick!” the boy yelled.

  Sam waved. “I’ll be right—God damn son of a bitch!”

  Bixby had succeeded in biting him. Sam whirled and tried to slug the horse in the jaw with the saddlebags, but Bixby jerked his head up and danced away.

  Sam rubbed his shoulder and glared at Bixby. “Save some for the Red Legs, why don’t you,” he said. Then he ducked under the corral rope and hurried to Quantrill’s tent. He remembered to remove his hat before going inside.

  * * *

  William Clarke Quantrill leaned back, his left leg crossed over his right, in a polished oak chair behind a table consisting of three planks atop two sawhorses. He wore a white embroidered “guerrilla shirt,” yellow breeches, and black cavalry boots. He gave a thin smile as Sam approached the table. Above his narrow upper lip, his mustache was a straight reddish-blond line. His eyelids drooped, but his blue-gray eyes probed Sam with a gaze as piercing as a bayonet. Sam stopped before the table and clenched his muscles so he wouldn’t shudder. His own eyes, he had just realized, were of much the same color as Quantrill’s.

  “You’ve only been with us since June, Private Clemens,” Quantrill said in a flat voice, “and yet it seems that you have distinguished yourself. Corporal Taylor tells me you saved his life a few weeks ago.”

  Sam looked at Fletch Taylor, who was standing at his left. Taylor appeared uncomfortable under Sam’s gaze, so Sam looked past him at some of the other men in the tent. He recognized the guerrilla leaders Bill Gregg and Andy Blunt, but several of the others were strangers to him.

  “Well, sir,” Sam said to Quantrill, “I don’t know that I did. My horse was being cantankerous and brought me in on an abolitionist’s house about two hundred feet behind and to one side of Fletch and the other boys, so I happened to see a man hiding up a tree.”

  “He was aiming a rifle at Corporal Taylor, I understand,” Quantrill said.

  “Yes, sir, that’s how it looked,” Sam said. “So I hollered and took a shot at him.”

  “And that was his undoing.”

  Sam twisted the brim of his hat in his hands. “Actually, sir,” he said, “I believe that I missed by fourteen or fifteen feet.”

  Quantrill uncrossed his legs and stood. “But you diverted the ambusher’s attention. According to Corporal Taylor, the ambusher then fired four shots at you, one of which took your hat from your head, before he was brought down by a volley from your comrades. Meanwhile you remained steadfast, firing your own weapon without flinching, even though the entire focus of the enemy’s fire was at yourself.”

  Sam licked his lips and said nothing. The truth was that he had been stiff with terror—except for his right hand, which had been cocking and firing the Colt, and his left foot, which had been kicking Bixby in the ribs in an effort to make the horse wheel and run. But Bixby, who seemed to be deaf as far as gunfire was concerned, had been biting a crabapple from a tree and had not cared to move. The horse’s position had blocked the other bushwhacker’s view of Sam’s left foot.

  Quantrill put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “That was a brave and noble act, Private Clemens,” he said.

  A stretch of silence followed until Sam realized that he was expected to say something. “Thank, thank you, Colonel,” he stammered. It was well known that Quantrill liked being called “Colonel.”

  “You understand, of course,” Quantrill said, “that in the guerrilla service we have no formal honors. However, as the best reward of service is service itself, I’m promoting you to corporal and ordering you to reconnoiter the enemy in the company of Corporal Taylor.”

  “And a nigger,” someone on Sam’s right said. The voice was low, ragged, and angry.

  Sam turned toward the voice and saw the most fearsome man he had ever seen in his life. The man wore a Union officer’s coat with the insignia torn off, and a low-crowned hat with the brim turned up. His brown hair was long and shaggy, and his beard was the color of dirt. His face was gaunt, and his eyes, small and dark, glowered. He wore a wide-buckled belt with two pistols jammed into it. A scalp hung from the belt on each side of the buckle.

  George Todd, standing just behind this man, placed a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t much like it either, Bill, but Quantrill’s right. A nigger’s the perfect spy.”

  The seated man shook Todd’s hand away. “Perfect spy, my hairy ass. You can’t trust a nigger any more than you can trust Abe Lincoln.”

  Quantrill looked at the man without blinking. “That concern is why I’m sending two white men as well—one that I trust, and one that he in turn trusts. Don’t you agree that two white men can keep one nigger under control, Captain Anderson?”

  Anderson met Quantrill’s gaze with a glare. “I have three sisters in prison in Kansas City for the simple act of remaining true to their brother’s cause,” he said. “I do not believe they would care to hear
that their brother agreed to send a nigger to fight in that same cause, particularly knowing the treachery of which that race is capable.”

  Quantrill smiled. “As for sending a nigger to fight, I’m doing no such thing just yet. I’m sending him as a spy and as a guarantee of safe conduct for two brave sons of Missouri. No Kansan is likely to assault white men traveling with a free nigger. As for treachery, well, I assure you that John Noland has proven his loyalty. He’s killed six Yankee soldiers and delivered their weapons to me. I trust him as much as I would a good dog, and have no doubt that he will serve Corporals Taylor and Clemens as well as he has me.” The Colonel looked about the tent. “Gentlemen, we’ve been jawing about this enterprise for twenty-four hours. I suggest that it’s now time to stop jawing and begin action. If you never risk, you never gain. Are there any objections?”

  No one spoke. Anderson spat into the dirt, but then looked at Quantrill and shook his head.

  “Very well,” said Quantrill. “Captains Anderson and Blunt will please gather your men and communicate with me by messenger when your forces are ready.” He nodded to Taylor. “Corporal, you’re to return no later than sundown next Monday. So you’d best be on your way.”

  Sam made a noise in his throat. “Sir? On our way where?”

  Quantrill turned to Sam. “Kansas Territory,” he said. “Corporal Taylor has the particulars. You’re dismissed.”

  Sam didn’t need to be told twice. He left the tent, picked up his saddlebags where he’d dropped them outside, and then ran into the sycamore grove.

  Taylor caught up with him in the trees. “You should have saluted, Sam,” he said. “It’s important to show the Colonel proper respect.”

  Sam unbuttoned his pants. His head was beginning to ache again. “I have plenty of respect for the Colonel,” he said. “I have plenty of respect for all of them. If they were to cut me open, I’d probably bleed respect. Now get away and let a man piss in peace.”

  Taylor sighed. “All right. Get your horse saddled as soon as you can. I’ll find Noland and meet you north of the tent. You know Noland?”

  “No. But since I’ve only seen one man of the Negro persuasion in camp, I assume that’s him.”

  “You assume correctly.” Taylor started to turn away, then looked back again. “By the way, we were right. We’re going to Lawrence. You and I are to count the Bluebellies in the garrison, and—”

  “I know what a spy does, Fletch,” Sam said.

  Taylor turned away. “Hurry up, then. We have some miles to cover.” He left the grove.

  Sam emptied his bladder and buttoned his pants, then leaned against a tree and retched until he brought up most of the bacon he’d had for breakfast.

  “Kansas Territory,” Quantrill had said. There had been no sarcasm in his voice. Kansas had been admitted to the Union over two and a half years before, but none of the bushwhackers ever referred to it as a state. In their opinion, its admission to the Union as a free state had been an illegal act forced upon its residents by fanatical jayhawkers. Sooner or later, though, those house-burning, slave-stealing jayhawkers would be crushed, and Kansas Territory would become what it was meant to be: a state governed by Southern men who knew what was right.

  To that end, Colonel Quantrill would raid the abolitionist town of Lawrence, the home of Jim Lane and the Kansas Red Legs. And Sam Clemens was to go there first and come back to tell Quantrill how to go about the task.

  Orion’s ghost, he thought, had better appreciate it.

  * * *

  On Wednesday morning, six miles south of Lawrence on the Paola road, Fletch Taylor started chuckling. Sam, riding in the center, glanced first at him and then at John Noland. Noland didn’t even seem to be aware of Sam or Taylor’s existence, let alone Taylor’s chuckling.

  Noland was an enigma, both in his mere presence in Quantrill’s band and in his deportment during the present journey. No matter what Sam or Taylor said or did, he continued to look straight ahead, shifting in his saddle only to spit tobacco juice into the road. Except for the color of his skin, though, Noland’s appearance was like that of any other free man of the border region, right down to the slouch hat and the Colt stuck in his belt. He even rode with the same easy arrogance as Taylor. It was a skill Sam had never mastered.

  Sam looked at Taylor again, squinting as he faced the sun. “What’s so funny, Fletch?”

  Taylor gestured at the winding track of the road. “No pickets,” he said. “We ain’t seen a Bluebelly since we came into Kansas. If the Colonel wanted to, the whole lot of us could waltz in and raise no more notice than a cottontail rabbit.” He chuckled again. “Until we started shooting.”

  Sam nodded, but didn’t laugh. It was true that they hadn’t passed a single Federal picket, but that didn’t mean Lawrence was going to be a waltz. The absence of pickets might only mean that the town had fortified itself so well that it didn’t need them.

  “You should carry your gun in your belt,” Noland said. His voice was a rumble.

  Sam was startled. Until now, Noland hadn’t spoken at all.

  “Are you addressing me?” Sam asked, turning back toward Noland. But he knew that must be the case. Both Noland and Taylor had their pistols in their belts, while Sam’s was in one of his saddlebags.

  Noland looked straight ahead. “That’s right.”

  “I thought I should make sure,” Sam said, “since you won’t look me in the eye.”

  “Your eyes ain’t pleasant to look at,” Noland said.

  Taylor chortled. “Whomp him, Sam. Make him say your eyes are the most beautiful jewels this side of a St. Louie whorehouse.”

  “It ain’t a question of beauty,” Noland said. “It’s a question of skittishness. Mr. Clemens has skittish eyes. I prefer steady ones, like those of Colonel Quantrill. Or like your own, Mister Taylor.”

  Now Sam laughed. “It appears that you’ve bested me in the enticing eyeball category, Fletch. Perhaps we should switch places so you can ride next to John here.”

  Taylor scowled. “Ain’t funny, Sam.”

  Sam knew when to stop joking with Fletch Taylor, so he replied to Noland instead. “My gun’s fine where it is,” he said. “Why should I put it in my belt and risk shooting myself in the leg?”

  “If that’s your worry, you can take out the caps,” Noland said. “But it’ll look better going into Lawrence if your gun’s in the open. The county sheriff might be inspecting strangers, and he won’t think nothing of it if your pistol’s in your belt. But if he finds it in your bag, he’ll think you’re trying to hide it.”

  Sam didn’t know whether Noland was right or not, but it wasn’t worth arguing about. He took his pistol from his saddlebag, removed the caps, and tucked the weapon into his belt.

  “Be sure to replace those caps when we come back this way with the Colonel,” Taylor said. He sounded disgusted.

  “I merely want to ensure that I don’t shoot up the city of Lawrence prematurely,” Sam said. But neither Taylor nor Noland laughed. Sam gave Bixby a pat on the neck, and Bixby looked back at him and snorted.

  When the three bushwhackers were within a mile of Lawrence, they encountered two riders heading in the opposite direction. The two men, one old and one young, were dressed in high-collared shirts and black suits despite the August heat. They wore flat-brimmed black hats, and their pistols hung in black holsters at their sides. The younger man held a Bible with a black leather cover, reading aloud as he rode.

  “Well, lookee here,” Taylor whispered as the two approached. “I think we got ourselves a couple of abolitionist preachers on our hands.”

  Sam tensed. If there was one thing a bushwhacker hated more than an abolitionist, it was an abolitionist with a congregation. Taylor had particularly strong feelings in this regard, and Sam feared that his friend might forget that they were only in Kansas as spies for now.

  “Good morning, friends,” the elder preacher said, reining his horse to a stop. The younger man closed his Bible and stopped hi
s horse as well. They blocked the road.

  “Good morning to you as well,” Taylor replied. He and Noland stopped their horses a few yards short of the preachers.

  Sam tried to stop Bixby too, but Bixby ignored the reins and continued ahead, trying to squeeze between the horses blocking the way. The preachers moved their mounts closer together, forcing Bixby to halt, and the roan shook his head and gave an irritated whuff.

  “I apologize, gentlemen,” Sam said. “My horse sometimes forgets which of us was made in God’s image.”

  The elder preacher frowned. “More discipline might be in order,” he said, and then looked past Sam at Taylor. “Are you going into Lawrence?”

  “That we are,” said Taylor. His voice had taken on a gravelly tone that Sam recognized as trouble on the way. He glanced back and saw that Taylor’s right hand was hovering near the butt of his pistol.

  “I see that you are traveling with a colored companion,” the younger preacher said. “Is he your servant?”

  “No,” Sam said before Taylor could reply. “My friend and I jayhawked him from Arkansas three years ago, and we’ve been trying to help him find his family ever since. Are there any colored folks named Smith in Lawrence?”

  The elder preacher nodded. “A number, I believe.” He twitched his reins, and his horse moved to the side of the road. “I would like to help you in your search, gentlemen, but my son and I are on our way to Baldwin to assist in a few overdue baptisms. Sometimes an older child resists immersion and must be held down.”

  “I have observed as much myself,” Sam said as the elder preacher rode past.

  The younger preacher nodded to Sam and thumped his Bible with his fingertips. “If you gentlemen will be in town through the Sabbath, I would like to invite you to attend worship at First Lawrence Methodist.”

  Taylor came up beside Sam. “I doubt we’ll be in town that long, preacher,” he said. “But we’ll be sure to pay your church a visit the next time we pass through.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” the young preacher said. “God bless you, gentlemen.” He nudged his horse with his heels and set off after his father.