Bixby followed Taylor’s horse while Sam stared ahead at the man from his dream. The man who had entered the Journal pressroom, killed an unarmed man and boy, and then laughed.
At six o’clock, Quantrill’s raiders crossed the border into Kansas.
Ahead, the Territory grew dark.
* * *
By eleven o’clock, when the raiders passed the town of Gardner, the moonless night was as black as Quantrill’s horse. Gullies, creeks, and fences became obstacles, and some of the bushwhackers wanted to light torches to help them find their way. But Quantrill would not allow that. They were still over twenty miles from Lawrence, in open country, and could not afford to be spotted from a distance. Besides, the torches were supposed to be reserved for use in Lawrence itself.
Soon after midnight, Quantrill halted the bushwhackers near a farmhouse, and the word was passed back along the column for the men to keep quiet.
“What are we stopping here for?” Sam whispered. He and Taylor were riding near the middle of the column, and Sam couldn’t see what was happening up front.
“Shush yourself,” Taylor hissed.
A minute later, there was a yell from the farmhouse, and then laughter from some of the raiders.
The tall form of Captain Bill Gregg came riding back along the column. “All right, boys, we can travel on,” he said. “We got ourselves a friendly Kansan to guide us!” He wheeled his horse and returned to the head of the column.
“Wonder what he means by that,” Sam said.
Taylor chuckled. “What do you think?”
The bushwhackers started moving again and made rapid progress for a few miles, zigzagging around obstacles. Then Quantrill called another halt. The men began muttering, but fell silent as a pistol was fired.
Bixby jerked his head and shied away from the column. Sam had to fight to bring the horse back into place. “What in blazes is the matter with you?” he asked. Bixby had never been spooked by gunfire before. In fact, he had hardly noticed it. “It was just somebody’s pistol going off by mistake!”
At that moment, Captain Gregg came riding by again. “No mistake about it,” he said, pausing beside Sam and Taylor. “Our friendly Kansan claimed he didn’t know which side of yonder hill we should go around. So the Colonel dispatched him to a hill of his own, and we’re to wait until we have another friendly Kansan to guide us. There’s a house ahead, and some of Anderson’s boys are going to see who’s home. We’ll be on our way again before long.” Gregg spurred his horse and continued back along the column to spread the word.
“Well, good for the Colonel,” Taylor said. “Now that Kansan is as friendly to us as a Kansan can be.”
Sam was stunned. When the raiders began moving again, they passed by the corpse. Bixby shied away from it and collided with Taylor’s mount.
“Rein your goddamn horse, Sam!” Taylor snarled.
The dead man was wearing canvas trousers and was shirtless and barefoot. Even in the dark, Sam could see that his head was nothing but a mass of pulp.
It made no sense. This man wasn’t a Red Leg or a Bluebelly. He might not even be an abolitionist. He was only a farmer. Colonel Quantrill had shot a farmer. Just because the man couldn’t find his way in the dark.
Just because he was a Kansan.
Sam began to wonder if the preposterous stories he had read in abolitionist newspapers—the stories about Quantrill’s raids on Aubry, Olathe, and Shawneetown—might have had some truth in them after all.
The column halted again after only a mile, and there was another gunshot. Then another farmhouse was raided, and the bushwhackers continued on their way. But soon they stopped once more, and a third shot was fired.
The process was repeated again and again. Each time, Sam and Bixby passed by a fresh corpse.
There were ten in all.
Sam felt dizzy and sick. This was supposed to be a raid to punish the Red Legs, destroy the newspaper, burn out Jim Lane, and recover stolen property. Some Kansans were to be killed, yes; but they were supposed to be Red Legs and Bluebellies, not unarmed farmers taken from their wives and children in the night.
At the tenth corpse, Taylor maneuvered his horse past Sam and Bixby. “’Scuse me, Clemens,” Taylor said. “My horse is starting to make water.”
Taylor stopped the horse over the dead man and let it piss on the body. The bushwhackers who were close enough to see it laughed, and Sam tried to laugh as well. He didn’t want them to see his horror. He was afraid of them all now. Even Taylor. Especially Taylor.
“Have your horses drink deep at the next crick, boys!” Taylor chortled. “There’s plenty of men in Lawrence who need a bath as bad as this one!”
“Amen to that!” someone cried.
The shout was echoed up and down the line as Taylor rejoined the column next to Sam.
Captain Gregg came riding back once more. “I admire your sentiments, boys,” he said, “but I suggest you save the noise until we reach our destination. Then you can holler all you want, and see if you can squeeze a few hollers from the so-called men of Lawrence as well!”
The bushwhackers laughed again, but then lowered their voices to whispers. To Sam, it sounded like the hissing of five hundred snakes.
He saw now that what was going to happen in Lawrence would resemble what he had imagined it would be only in the way that a volcano resembled a firefly. He had let his guilt over Orion’s death and his hatred of the Red Legs blind him to what the men he was riding with had become. He wanted to turn Bixby out of the column and ride hard and fast back to Missouri, not stopping until he reached Hannibal.
But he knew that he couldn’t. Anderson had told them all how deserters would be dealt with. Sam and Bixby wouldn’t make it more than a hundred yards before a dozen men were after them. And there was no doubt of what would happen to Sam when they caught him.
Besides, his and Taylor’s report from their trip to Lawrence was part of what had convinced Quantrill that the raid was possible. That made Sam more responsible for what was about to happen than almost anyone else. To run away now would make him not only a coward, but a hypocrite.
Another farmhouse was raided at about three in the morning, and this time the entire column broke up and gathered around to watch. By the time Sam was close enough to see what was happening, the farmer was on his knees in his yard. Captain Todd was standing before him holding a pistol to his forehead and telling him the names of some of the men waiting for him in hell.
Quantrill, on Black Bess, came up beside Todd. “We’re too close to Lawrence to fire a gun now, George,” he said.
Sam could just make out Todd’s expression. It was one of fury.
“Goddamn it, Bill,” Todd said. “This man’s name is Joe Stone. He’s a stinking Missouri Unionist who ran off to Kansas to escape justice, and I’m going to kill him no matter what you say.”
Stone, wearing only a nightshirt, was shuddering. Sam looked away from him and saw a woman crying in the doorway of the house. A child clung to the woman’s knees, wailing. An oil lamp was burning inside, and its weak light framed the woman and child so that they seemed to be suspended inside a pale flame.
Quantrill stroked his stubbled face with a thumb and forefinger. “Well, George, I agree that traitors must die. But we’re within six miles of Lawrence now, and a shot might warn the town.”
Todd seemed about to retort, but then took his pistol away from Stone’s head and replaced it in his belt. “All right,” he said. “We’ll keep it quiet.” He strode to his horse and pulled his Sharps carbine from its scabbard. “Sam!” he called. “Get over here!”
Taylor nudged Sam in the ribs. “Go on,” he said.
Sam, almost rigid with terror, began to dismount.
“I mean Sam Clifton,” Todd said. “Where is he?”
Sam returned to his saddle as Clifton, a stranger who had joined the guerrillas while the spies had been in Lawrence, dismounted and went to Todd.
Todd handed the rifle to Clifton.
“Some of the boys tell me you’ve been asking a lot of questions, Mister Clifton,” he said. “So let’s see if you know what you’re here for.” He pointed at Stone. “Beat that traitor down to hell.”
Clifton didn’t hesitate. He took three quick steps and smashed the rifle butt into Stone’s face. Stone fell over in the dirt, and his wife and child screamed. Then Clifton pounded Stone’s skull.
Sam wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t move. This was the most horrible thing he had ever seen, more horrible even than his brother Henry lying in his coffin or his brother Orion lying in the road. He watched it all. He couldn’t stop himself.
Only when it was over, when Clifton had stopped pounding and Stone was nothing but a carcass, was Sam able to look away. Beside him, Taylor was grinning. Some of the others were grinning too. But there were also a few men who looked so sick that Sam thought they might fall from their horses.
Then he looked at Colonel Quantrill. Quantrill’s eyes were unblinking, reflecting the weak light from the house. His lips were pulled back in a tight smile.
Todd took his rifle back from Clifton and replaced it in its scabbard without wiping it clean. Then he looked up at Quantrill with a defiant sneer.
“That suit you, Colonel?” he asked.
Quantrill nodded. “That suits me fine, Captain,” he said. Then he faced the men. “Remember this, boys,” he cried, “and serve the men of Lawrence the same! Kill! Kill, and you’ll make no mistake! Now push on, or it’ll be daylight before we get there!”
“You heard the man,” Taylor said to Sam.
“That I did,” Sam said. His voice was hoarse. He thought it might stay hoarse forever.
The raiders pushed on, leaving Mrs. Stone and her child to weep over the scrap of flesh in their yard.
As the column reformed, Sam found himself near its head, riding not far behind Gregg, Todd, Anderson, and Quantrill himself. It was as if God wanted to be sure that Sam had another good view when the next man died.
* * *
The eastern sky was turning from black to purplish-gray as Quantrill’s raiders reached the crest of the hill southeast of Lawrence. Colonel Quantrill raised his right hand, and the column halted.
Below them, less than two miles ahead, Lawrence lay as silent as death.
Fletch Taylor cackled. “Look at ’em! Damn Yankees are curled up with their thumbs in their mouths!”
Sam nodded, sick at heart.
* * *
Quantrill brought out a spyglass and trained it on the sleeping town. “It looks ripe,” he said. “But I can’t see the river; it’s still too dark.” He lowered the glass and turned to Captain Gregg. “Bill, take five men and reconnoiter. The rest of us will wait fifteen minutes and then follow. If you spot trouble, run back and warn us.”
Gregg gave Quantrill a salute, then pointed at each of the five men closest to him. “James, Younger, McCorkle, Taylor, and—” He was looking right at Sam.
Sam couldn’t speak. His tongue was as cold and heavy as clay. He stared at Frank James.
“Clemens,” Taylor said.
“Right,” Gregg said. “Clemens. Come on, boys.” He kicked his horse and started down the hillside.
“Let’s get to it, Sam,” Taylor said. He reached over and swatted Bixby on the rump, and Bixby lurched forward.
Despite the steep slope and the trees that dotted it, Gregg set a rapid pace. All Sam could do was hang on to Bixby’s reins and let the horse find its own way. He wished that Bixby would stumble and that he would be thrown and break an arm or leg. But Bixby was too agile for that. Sam would be in on the Lawrence raid from beginning to end.
Halfway down the hill, Gregg stopped his horse, and James, Younger, McCorkle, and Taylor did the same. Bixby stopped on his own, almost throwing Sam against the pommel of his saddle.
“What’s wrong, Captain?” Taylor asked.
Gregg put a finger to his lips and then extended that finger to point.
A few hundred feet farther down the hillside, a mule carrying a lone figure in a white shirt was making its way up through the trees. The mule and rider were just visible in the predawn light.
“What’s someone doing out here this early?” Taylor whispered.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gregg whispered back. “If he sees us and we let him escape, we’re as good as dead.”
“But, but a shot would wake up the town, Captain,” Sam stammered.
Gregg gave him a glance. “Then we won’t fire a shot that can be heard in the town.” He turned toward Frank James. “Go kill him, Frank. Use your knife, or put your pistol in his belly to muffle the noise. Or knock his brains out. I don’t care, so long as you keep it quiet.”
James drew his pistol, cocked it, and started his horse down the hill.
The figure on the mule came around a tree. He was alone and unarmed. Sam could see his face now. He was the printer’s devil from the Lawrence Journal.
Henry.
Frank James plunged downward, his right arm outstretched, pointing the finger of Death at an innocent.
And in that instant, Sam saw everything that was to come, and the truth of everything that had been. He saw it all as clearly as any of his dreams:
The boy would be lying on his back on the ground. His white shirt would be soaked with blood. Sam would be down on his knees beside him, stroking his forehead, begging his forgiveness. He would want to give anything to undo what had been done. But it would be too late.
Henry would mumble about his family, about the loved ones who would never see him again. And then he would look up at Sam with reproachful eyes, and die.
Just as it had happened before.
Not when Sam’s brother Henry had died. Henry had given him no reproachful look, and all he had said was “Thank you, Sam.”
Not when Orion had died, either. Orion had said, “Get out of here, Sam,” and there had been no reproach in the words. Only concern. Only love.
Frank James plunged downward, his right arm outstretched, pointing the finger of Death at an innocent.
An innocent like the one Sam had killed.
It had been more than just a dream. He had told himself that he wasn’t the only one of the Marion Rangers who had fired. He never hit anything he aimed at anyway. But in his heart he had known that wasn’t true this time. He had known that he was guilty of murder, and of the grief that an innocent, unarmed man’s family had suffered because of it.
All of his guilt, all of his need to make amends—
It wasn’t because of his dead brothers at all.
It was because he had killed a man who had done nothing to him.
Sam had tried to escape that truth by fleeing West with Orion. But then, when Orion had been murdered, he had tried instead to bury his guilt by embracing it and by telling himself that the war made killing honorable if it was done in a just cause. And vengeance, he had told himself, was such a cause.
But the family of the man he had killed might well have thought the same thing.
Frank James plunged downward, his right arm outstretched, pointing the finger of Death at an innocent.
And Sam couldn’t stand it anymore.
He yelled like a madman, and then Bixby was charging down the hill, flashing past the trees with a speed no other horse in Quantrill’s band could equal. When Bixby came alongside James’s horse, Sam jerked the reins. Bixby slammed into James’s horse and forced it into a tree. James was knocked from his saddle, and his pistol fired.
Henry’s mule collapsed, and Henry tumbled to the ground.
Sam reined Bixby to a halt before the dying mule, leaped down, and dropped to his knees beside the boy.
Henry looked up at him with an expression of contempt. “Are you crazy or something?” he asked.
Sam grabbed him and hugged him.
Henry struggled to get away. “Mister Clemens? What in the world are you doing?”
Sam looked up the slope and saw Frank James picking himself up. James’s horse was standing near
by, shaking its head and whinnying.
Gregg, Taylor, McCorkle, and Younger were riding down with their pistols drawn.
Sam jumped up and swung Henry into Bixby’s saddle. “Lean down close to me,” he said.
“What for?” Henry asked. The boy looked dazed now. He was staring down at the dead mule.
“Just do it, and listen to what I say,” Sam said. “I have to tell you something without those men hearing it.”
Henry leaned down.
“Ride back to town as fast as you can,” Sam said. “When you’re close enough for people to hear, yell that Charley Hart’s come back, that his new name is Billy Quantrill, and that he has five hundred men with him. And if you can’t remember all that, just yell ‘Quantrill!’ Yell ‘Quantrill!’ over and over until you reach the Eldridge House, and then go inside and yell ‘Quantrill!’ at everyone there. If they don’t believe you, just point at this horse and ask where the hell they think you got it. Now sit up!”
Henry sat up, and Sam slapped Bixby on the rump. Bixby turned back and tried to bite Sam’s shoulder.
“Not now, you fleabag!” Sam yelled. He raised his hand to swat the horse again, but Bixby snorted and leaped over the dead mule before Sam could touch him. The roan charged down the hillside as fast as before, with Henry hanging on tight.
Sam took a deep breath and turned as he exhaled. Frank James was walking toward him with murder in his eyes, and the four men riding up behind James didn’t look any happier. Sam put his hand on the Colt in his belt, but didn’t think he could draw it. He feared that he was going to piss his pants. But he had to give Henry a good head start. And if that meant getting himself killed—well, that was just what it meant. Better him than a boy whose only crime was setting type for an abolitionist newspaper.
“You traitorous bastard,” James said, raising his revolver to point at Sam’s face.
Sam swallowed and found his voice. “Your barrel’s full of dirt,” he said.
James looked at his gun and saw that it was true.
Captain Gregg cocked his own pistol. “Mine, however, is clean,” he said.
Sam raised his hands. “Don’t shoot, Captain,” he said. He was going to have to tell a whopper, and fast. “I apologize to Mister James, but I had to keep him from killing my messenger, didn’t I? I would’ve said something sooner, but I didn’t see who the boy was until James was already after him.”
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Tenth Annual Collection Page 69