The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Calm swept over Morgan, the familiar coolness of the battlefield. Time stretched and slowed until the mules seemed to be barely trotting.

  He crouched, knowing he’d only have the one chance. The normally calm mules’ eyes were rolling, flecks of foam falling from their mouths. They brayed again, swerving, and brought the wagon closer to him.

  He ran across the roof and leaped, pushing himself as far as possible into the air. He landed, thudding into the back of the wagon between barrels and half knocking the wind out of himself. He gasped but there wasn’t time to completely refill his lungs.

  He vaulted into the front seat, found the reins, and hauled back on them, shouting at the mules to stop. He didn’t curse them; in his four years of stealing Union Army mules, patience and sweet talk were more useful.

  He slowed them, even got them to curve away from the blaze, but couldn’t make them stop.

  But the black-haired man had caught up. Fearlessly, he ran to the leaders and grabbed the near-side mule’s head, the one Morgan had already noted as the true ringleader. “Whoa, Chicago, whoa,” he shouted in a clear Irish brogue.

  The mule tried to keep running but less enthusiastically. The Irishman began to croon to him, catching the bridle and using his full weight to slow him down. The mules’ ears flickered, obviously knowing and liking this man. The flaming flag and flagpole were only a few yards away. The fellow was either insane or the bravest man Morgan had ever met.

  Morgan eased up on the reins slightly, no longer sawing at the mules’ mouths to force them to obey but rather coaxing them. The team slowed.

  Someone finally had the courage to throw water over the burning flag from the window. Morgan took his first deep breath.

  The Irishman sang a verse of a very sentimental Stephen Foster air. The mules shook themselves out, their harnesses jingling, and did something approaching a prance.

  Eyebrows climbing, Morgan coughed, clucked his tongue, and loosened the reins into a normal driving tension. The mules responded by adopting an extremely sedate air and fell into perfect driving rhythm.

  The Irishman stepped away from the lead mules and swung himself up beside Morgan. “Good afternoon, boyo.”

  “Afternoon, sir.” Morgan neatly turned the team around, avoiding several buggies, and headed back for the docks before he spoke again. “That was an amazing job of calming down those mules.”

  “You took quite a leap yourself.”

  Morgan shrugged, keeping a wary eye on the near-side leader. He wasn’t sure the mule was truly tired enough to be reliable again. “It was the least I could do. I startled the cat, which began the whole affair.”

  Blue eyes flicked over him, evaluating every inch, then returned to his hands. Morgan stayed relaxed, the reins loose between his fingers but ready to instantly take command. He’d driven a great many teams of Army mules over the past four years, in good weather and bad, over bad roads and foul, when his superiors were yelling at him, and when Yankees were shooting at him. He had no concerns on how to handle either an Irishman’s opinion of his driving or powder barrels as cargo.

  “Not many men would admit that,” the Irishman commented, his voice returning to a Western drawl. He was an uncommonly handsome fellow, but he carried himself with the quiet steadiness of a deadly fighter. “Can I buy you lunch?”

  Morgan opened his mouth to proudly decline but his damn stomach chose that instant to express its own opinion, very loudly. He flushed.

  The fellow never blinked. “I’m William Donovan, of Donovan & Sons, and I’d like to talk to you. I’m looking to expand and I’ll need some good men.”

  Old memories flickered, from when he’d journeyed back to Mississippi from Arizona. “Fremont’s contractor, from California? The one who hauled silver ore across the Sierra Nevada in the winter, when everyone said it couldn’t be done?”

  Donovan bowed, a slight quirk to his mouth. “Some overstatement there—but yes.”

  “I’m Morgan Evans and I’d be glad to talk to you.”

  The embarrassed driver came limping up at that moment with two other men, to take the wagon. Donovan sprang down and spoke quickly to one of them, who nodded, his hard eyes running over Morgan.

  A moment later, Donovan was escorting Morgan up the street to a surprisingly clean little restaurant, where they settled into a private booth in the back.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Donovan. Lemonade again?” asked the white-aproned waiter. “Fresh-made and ice-cold.”

  “Yes, thank you, Joseph.”

  “Beer for you, sir?”

  “I’ll have lemonade, too.” Lemonade? Since when did a teamster drink lemonade?

  “The lunch special or order off the menu?”

  “The special will be fine, thank you.”

  Morgan nodded bemused agreement, all the while considering his host, who had the manners of an English nobleman and the attire of a dockyard porter. The attire was necessary for a teamster, but where had the manners come from?

  “I don’t drink spirituous liquors,” Donovan said quietly.

  Morgan flushed again, embarrassed at being caught staring. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Donovan turned the conversation into a variety of unexceptionable topics. Morgan ate his lunch, mostly vast quantities of a superb soup and fresh bread, and easily kept up his side of the discussion. He also had a damn good time with a companion who was courageous, intelligent, and charming.

  Finally Morgan sat, shredding the last piece of bread, too full to move fast. His only regret was that he couldn’t take back some of it to his horse.

  “Are you still interested in talking about employment?” Donovan asked.

  Morgan’s eyes sharpened. “Certainly. What do you want?” He wouldn’t murder or rob, which many men were being hired for.

  Donovan leaned forward, speaking more softly although no one was listening. The lunchtime crowd was gone now and the staff was cleaning up, leaving the tables around them empty. “Donovan & Sons carries high-risk freight into high-risk areas—items like silver ore, gold, payroll, military supplies. We typically travel through areas full of Indians and highwaymen.”

  Morgan blinked, his mind automatically falling into the same ways of thinking he’d have used under Forrest. “Do you want to send men in ahead and clear them out?”

  Donovan shook his head emphatically. “No. That costs time and money, both of which cuts into the profit. We want the client to trust us, which means we must arrive on time or earlier, if possible.”

  Morgan’s eyebrows climbed, thinking back to sneaking dozens of mules past alarmed Yankees. “That’s harder.”

  Donovan shrugged. “We don’t try to hide wagon trains. We travel like a military convoy, with such force that villains don’t attack us. Smaller, more precious cargo is carried so stealthily thieves can’t find us.”

  Morgan was extremely fascinated. “In either case, you’d need excellent fighting men in case you’re attacked.”

  “Exactly. I’m looking for honest, hardworking men who also know how to handle themselves in a fight. I pay very well, including a pension to the family should the worst befall.”

  He named a sum that made Morgan gape. If they’d offered Union teamsters that much, those boys would have broken ranks to come south.

  “I believe Rebel veterans might fit in. Are you interested?”

  Morgan nodded eagerly. The opportunity to travel the West and make money to build a future? He could start building the dynasty that Father had always demanded and try to stop thinking about Jessamyn so much. “Hell, yes!”

  Arkansas River, western Kansas, June 1866

  William Donovan’s wagon train, bound for Santa Fe, was making camp in late afternoon, deep in Indian country. The big Murphy wagons’ wheels had been chained together, creating a stout fortress, while all the mules had just been groomed and fed. The double layer of sentries was in position, with the next shift of drivers sleeping in the wagons. Rifl
e close at hand, the cook had dinner almost ready to serve. Donovan & Sons prided itself on having the best cooks available; in fact, Donovan had been known to pay cooks a bonus.

  Despite the apparent peace on the bluff overlooking the river, William and Morgan were scrutinizing the territory ahead through field glasses as they considered their chances of dodging a Comanche attack. Morgan’s field glasses were a bonus for a nasty expedition through the Mojave Desert.

  Then a sharp whistle went up from the sentries to the northeast, the distinctive warble a signal of cavalry coming.

  William and Morgan spun to look and glimpsed three cavalrymen approaching between the low hills. But given the broad-brimmed hats and the bandannas over their mouths to keep out the dust, they might as well have been anonymous.

  “Good horses,” Morgan commented.

  William chuckled. “Tuck your Rebel prejudices away and give the Yankee horseflesh some credit. Those are damn fine horses and they’ve been well tended, too. What do you think of their military skills?”

  Morgan grunted. “Never said Yankees couldn’t fight. They’re well disciplined and experienced, and especially good at not exposing themselves needlessly to any Indians hereabouts.” He left unsaid what they both knew. The wagon train was too heavily armed and fortified to suffer Indian trouble but three lone riders, especially cavalry, would be an easy target. They’d have to offer them hospitality.

  “You talk to them,” William said, closing his pair of field glasses. “I’ll tell Cook there’s company coming.”

  Morgan shot his friend a mock glare, well aware he’d have to do all the wagon train’s public conversing for the next month, given the bet he’d lost in their last trip to a brothel. Money would have been easier to lose, given the amount he’d made on that half-baked, get-rich-quick railroad scheme.

  William clapped him on the shoulder and went off whistling.

  When the cavalrymen cantered up, Morgan stepped out to greet them, a little wary of meeting Federal soldiers even with friends at his back. Every man but one in this wagon train was a Rebel veteran, as were most of those working for Donovan & Sons in these lawless plains. But some cavalrymen were still fighting the last war, even if their ranks were also swelled by Rebel veterans.

  The lead rider swept off his broad-brimmed hat and pulled down his bandanna. His face was tanned as dark as Morgan’s, his hair a brighter shade of red than Morgan’s. A black patch covered his right eye, although a jagged white scar led to it across his cheek. His good eye was the same clear gray as Morgan’s. He bowed low in the saddle, a Mississippi drawl rolling richly through his hoarse voice. “Good evening—Mr. Evans.”

  Morgan’s jaw dropped. By all that was holy—Cyrus? Here, miles from anywhere? He hadn’t heard that the head wound, which had taken his cousin’s eye, had also been bad enough to carve up his cheek. With an expertise born of four years as a guerrilla, Morgan visualized the saber blow that had caused it—and was astounded his foster brother had survived.

  In an instant, the years rolled away and he remembered their old friendship. “Good evening, Captain Evans. You’ll stay the night, of course.”

  Cyrus nodded acceptance and signaled to his men with a quick flick of his fingers. “Thank you on my men’s behalf. But I actually came to talk to you. You may not want me close by afterward.”

  Morgan stilled, his face hardening. “We can speak privately over here.”

  One of the troopers took Cyrus’s mount, giving Morgan a look that promised bloody vengeance. But discipline held, as Morgan would have expected from Cyrus’s men, and the fellow took both horses away to be tended with the wagon train’s animals.

  They found a small dip, still within sight of camp and its sentries, but out of earshot if they kept their voices down. Morgan turned to face his cousin, the man who had successfully wooed and won Jessamyn.

  Cyrus folded his gauntlets together and tucked them into his belt. “This is our first chance to speak together since the War ended. We need to reach some sort of agreement.”

  Morgan nodded, acutely conscious that he’d never seen Cyrus quite this angry before. Cyrus was cold and deadly with it, his eyes fixed on Morgan as if they could bore through him like an auger. He came alert, ready to fight.

  “I acknowledge my debt to your father, who reared me as his own child, after my parents’ death,” Cyrus continued in clipped tones. “He provided for my education, including my appointment to West Point. I have always felt a full member of your family, a brother in love and in blood. But…” He paused, his throat working and his fists clenched.

  What the hell kind of lecture was this? From the man who’d married the woman intended for Morgan? Morgan barely managed to restrain himself from launching a blow.

  “As your elder, I feel it my duty to say that your conduct was outrageous.”

  “My conduct?”

  “To endanger Jessamyn and Heyward Tyler—when he was on his deathbed!—by taking your spying games into their house. You could have used a common tavern or a low boardinghouse instead. Spying is an acceptable part of war but endangering innocents is not.”

  The truth in that ripped deeper the guilt Morgan still felt, especially when he reread Great-Aunt Eulalia’s letter about Uncle Heyward’s death. He still felt guilty that he might have speeded Uncle Heyward’s death by making him worry about Jessamyn’s safety for a few days. Reflexively, Morgan lashed out in return, attacking the man he’d hero-worshipped since childhood. “Who are you to counsel me on acceptable behavior, when you are married to the woman promised to me from her cradle?”

  “Are you calling me a thief?” Cyrus bellowed and charged. They came together in the middle of the small hollow, landing blows whose ferocity matched their speed. They were surprisingly well matched, fighting toe to toe and usually—although not always—politely. Soon Cyrus had a bruised jaw and Morgan a bloody nose, while the sun was sinking in the west.

  Still they fought stubbornly on. Morgan’s shirt was a bloody, dirty mess and Cyrus’s uniform was ruined. But neither of them had showed any evidence of weakness, although Morgan was holding back slightly, still somehow protective of his cousin.

  “Five minutes until dinner, gentlemen,” came William’s Irish brogue.

  Morgan didn’t take his eyes off Cyrus.

  “After that, if you’re still fighting, Carson the blacksmith and I will wash both of you. We don’t want Cook’s efforts wasted on two heathens.”

  Cyrus landed another punch to Morgan’s jaw, rocking his head back. Morgan thudded a fist into Cyrus’s ribs, making the other back off.

  When the dinner bell rang five minutes later, however, they both stopped and looked at each other. Morgan began to smile at having matched his idol in a fight for the first time. Then he rubbed his cheek, wondering if Cook had made any stew. Venison might be difficult tonight.

  Cyrus was shaking out his hands, eyeing the split and battered knuckles. His head came up and their eyes met.

  Perfect understanding blossomed, as it had so many times during childhood.

  They met in the middle and embraced, hands gripping forearms in the Roman salute, grinning with joy over a good fight. When they walked back to camp, it was side to side with their Colts thumping quietly at their hips.

  Morgan was acutely conscious of how much alike they looked now. Cyrus had always been the steadier element of their childhood triumvirate, with Jessamyn as the intelligence and himself as the prankster. Now Morgan stood a few inches taller, although Cyrus was slightly stockier. He was a captain now, owing to the smaller peacetime army, although he’d been brevetted to colonel during the War.

  “I’m glad you survived that wound,” Morgan said suddenly. Standing in Cyrus’s presence now was like being close to the embodiment of manliness: battered but still deadly. Damn, he hoped he could one day do as well.

  Cyrus didn’t pretend not to understand. He touched the eye patch. “Your boys gave it to me the first day at Gettysburg, where I served with Buf
ord. Losing an eye was worth seeing Lee run, if you’ll forgive me saying so.”

  Morgan snorted. “I’d probably have given both arms to have seen Grant surrender.”

  They laughed together in perfect harmony.

  Natchez, Mississippi, December 1869

  Jessamyn caressed Cyrus’s shoulder, the slightest of movements and one almost improper during a waltz. But here, late in the evening at Cousin George’s wedding celebration, a happily married couple could be forgiven anything. And she did so enjoy touching Cyrus every chance she had, even if it was through his uniform.

  The Natchez ballroom was huge and lavishly decorated, as befitted a Christmas wedding involving two of Mississippi’s greatest families. Flowers and greens garlanded every conceivable surface and projection, while gaily dressed men and women were crammed into every corner, chatting as if society depended on the latest gossip.

  Her husband winked at her and she grinned back. Dearest, dearest Cyrus. Five years of marriage and she was still the happiest of women. If only she could spend every day with him, but that was not always possible when one was married to an Army officer stationed on the bloody Kansas frontier. So she polished her old tomboy skills of horsemanship and sharpshooting, which forced her to concentrate enough that she couldn’t dwell on possible dangers to him. The typical female pursuits of needlework and watercolors, on the other hand, left all too much time for her fertile brain to create a million terrors to threaten him. Seeing her contentment with the more unusual skills, Cyrus had strongly encouraged her to improve them, even if it had made her—and him, for his approval—known as a free spirit.

  She chuckled to herself. Dearest Cyrus was passionate beyond belief and superbly skilled with his lips and tongue. She was a lucky, lucky woman to share his bed, even if he did tend to repeat the pattern of his attentions. Even if she sometimes wondered what marriage to Morgan would have been like, since he’d made her so hot so quickly that last afternoon in Memphis…