Massacre!

by John J. McLaglen

‘What the hell happened there? He get you in the hand or somethin’?’

  ‘Nope. Bastard took the pistol clean out of my fingers. Bullet must have hit just forward of the chamber. Lucky it didn’t blow up cm me. It’s over there.’

  ‘Plenty of other hand-guns for you to take your pick of,’ said Whitey. ‘Even have the one that hit you. What was it? Colt?’

  Jed shook his head. ‘Tranter. One with that finger-cockin’ lever. Might give it a try. Jesus.’ Experimentally moving his hand and feeling the stiffness from the shock.

  The tall albino stood by him, looking round at the stillness, calming the horses, checking out that the dead men were really dead. They all were apart from the man with the thirty-six in his stomach, and he’d die soon. Whitey bent over him and stood up, looking at Jed and shaking his head. Herne made a negative waving movement with his hand and Whitey put the muzzle of his pistol to the dying man’s forehead, gently squeezing the trigger and taking away all the pain and slow passing.

  After he’d checked his own gun and found it was smashed beyond repairing, Jed picked up the heavy Tranter pistol, checking it would fit into the holster. It was a shorter weapon and the extra trigger looked as if it might foul the draw. But it rested comfortably in the end, and the retaining thong held it firmly in place.

  The dead Confederate soldier had a supply of readymade bullets for the pistol, with their distinctive groove along the base. They were already greased and Jed searched the body of the man and found what he wanted in a vest pocket. A round tin marked “W. Tranter’s Patent Lubricating Composition”. A mixture of tallow and beeswax, for easing the action and helping to prevent a multiple discharge - the curse of most cap and ball pistols.

  ‘Bit like a Savage pistol,’ commented Whitey, watching as his partner tried a few fast draws, fumbling at first with the unusual action.

  ‘No. Cock with the middle finger and shoot with the first finger. Helps to hold it steady.’

  ‘I’d not like it. I want to fire a pistol then I’ll fire a pistol. I want to play a damned cornet then I’ll buy me a cornet. Wouldn’t take to mixing the two.’

  They argued heatedly about the Tranter as they rode away from tide sod-buster’s cabin towards the north again, taking little notice of their surroundings.

  Which was why, a mile and a half further on, they rode straight into the middle of the main column of William Clarke Quantrill’s Raiders.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Truth is, boys, I’m still minded to string you up from yonder tree.’

  ‘But we’ve told you that—’

  Quantrill held up a hand to quiet Herne. ‘Don’t interrupt me, boy. Not ever. I don’t take kindly to beardless boys who do that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, colonel,’ muttered Jed, standing straight in front of the Confederate officer, looking him directly in the face. Wondering how much longer he and Whitey had got to live.

  ‘Truth is, boys,’ Quantrill went on again. ‘That I don’t rightly see how we can spare you a new collar of best hemp and a fine waltz on Missouri air.’ He waited a moment, face expressionless, eyes heavy-lidded and unfathomable.

  ‘May I have permission to speak, colonel?’ asked Herne after a pause.

  ‘You may. After all, my boy, it’s your life we’re all talking about.’

  ‘I say kill ’em quick and sure,’ called out one of Quantrill’s lieutenant’s. A tall young man, nearly up to Jed’s six feet, and heavier built, with curly, auburn hair.

  ‘Now hold on, Cole,’ replied Quantrill, quietly. ‘Let’s look at what we got here. These lads say they want to join us and we seen the bodies of Billy and Enderton and the rest. Ifn they killed them like they say, then we could surely use them.’

  Next to the man called Cole was another tall, strong youth. Long hair and narrow eyes.

  ‘I figure what Cole Younger here says is about right, colonel. Let ’em live and maybe we’re wrong and they get us a load of trouble. Kill ’em now ... well, I surely never heard of a dead man hurtin’ nobody.’

  ‘Why I declare,’ said Quantrill, smiling slightly, ‘I have never seen such bloodthirsty killers as Cole Younger and you, Frank James. Surely hope your young brother’s as ornery when he comes tomorrow.’

  ‘Colonel Quantrill,’ said Whitey, suddenly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I once heard a school-marm say that it was a fine thing to have the strength of a giant, but to use it like a giant was the way of a tyrant.’

  ‘Damn my eyes if that ain’t so,’ said Quantrill, unexpectedly. ‘That is so. I have been a hunted man on both sides of the law and I will vouch for that. Come, boys, let us have your stories one short time more.’

  Calmly and briefly Herne told the guerrilla leader their tale. The pursuit by the Jayhawkers and the run-in with Caleb Thorn and his band of killers’ The mention of both of these groups brought growls of hatred from the listening Confederates, and Jed saw a flash of bitterness in Quantrill’s eyes.

  ‘Who led the Jayhawkers? Was it that spawn of Satan, Jim Lane?’

  Herne wasn’t absolutely certain of that, but it was obviously a safe bet so he nodded. The colonel breathed deep as his men shouted at the name.

  ‘Aye, lads. Aye, we know of Jim Lane. The cur tried to hunt me down with the running bastards of Lawrence, in Kansas. The day of vengeance for that is not far off.’ Then he shut his mouth as if he regretted having said too much in front of Jed and Whitey. With a shake of the head he signaled for Herne to carry on.

  The story of their ambush by the five members of the band was greeted in stony silence, contrasting oddly with the cheers that had been raised for their escape from the Union patrol. Herne played down the deaths as much as he could. Though it was difficult to do that with the five corpses waiting burial on the edge of the camp, brought in by a party of riders that had included the man called Frank James.

  ‘And those horses are Lane’s?’

  ‘Yes, colonel.’

  ‘The coat of blue as well?’

  Whitey nodded, the evening light glinted off his veil of snowy hair.

  ‘You carry that Tranter because your gun was smashed by my men?’

  ‘I do.’

  Quantrill sat back and stretched his legs to the small fire that had been lit at the centre of the camp. His eyes were veiled in deep thought and Herne stood and looked at him. Noting the smartness of the uniform, outstanding when compared with the unshaven ruffians in rags and tatters of light grey with mostly the flannel shirts of red.

  If Herne had heard nothing of the man’s reputation he might have taken him for a polished dummy. A rich young popinjay. But William Clarke Quantrill was not that.

  ‘I’ll decide in one half hour. Take them and keep them under separate guard until I call them back,’ he said, rubbing at the hilt of his saber.

  Herne was marched off without a chance to speak to Whitey, leaving Quantrill by the fire, immediately surrounded by a group of his senior men, including the tall figure of the one called Cole Younger who’d spoken against them.

  Herne glanced back at Quantrill seeing that the soft black hat with the golden cord had been pulled low over the eyes, throwing the whole face into a pit of shadow. Quantrill’s grey jacket was thrown back, unbuttoned, revealing the white shirt of fine cambric that Herne had noticed was ornamented with delicate needlework. And stretched out towards the fire were the gleaming pair of riding boots, buffed to a high polish. Unlike the muddied footwear of everyone else there.

  It was this paradox that occupied Herne’s mind for much of the time he waited. The soldiers would not speak to him, and his three guards stood silent, their pistols drawn and cocked. Whatever else Quantrill might be, he ran a tightly disciplined unit.

  Jedediah Herne knew that in a few minutes he might be kicking out his life at the end of a rope, but the thought didn’t worry him unduly. He’d learned very early in life that there were things that were worth concern. Mainly things that might be altered by his own actions. But his life an
d Whitey’s were totally in the hands of Quantrill. They were so hopelessly outnumbered that any attempt at escape would be absurd. Which didn’t mean that he wouldn’t have a try to kill Quantrill if he sentenced them to die. There was, at least, some consolation in the old settler idea of taking some of the sons of bitches with you.

  Instead of futile worrying, Jed occupied his mind with trying to recall everything he’d heard about Quantrill.

  And most everything told of a man filled to brimming with hatred and bitterness.

  He was around thirty. Come from somewhere up Ohio way, with a father who’d been a teacher. Quantrill himself had travelled west with the wagons into the gold camps of the Rockies. There the word was he’d been a gambler for certain. A thief for probables. And a killer for maybe.

  He’d come to Kansas under the name of Charley Hart. While Herne had faced him, Quantrill had mentioned his dislike of the town of Lawrence, and there was a reason for that deep anger.

  He’d joined the Union cause, helping free slaves to travel north along the underground railroad that existed among the sympathizers of liberation. But there was more money in rounding up the blacks and selling them back to the plantation bosses over the border in Southern Missouri.

  Herne admired a man with a lot of neck, and William Quantrill surely had that. While Charley Hart appeared to aid the slaves in Kansas, Quantrill - under his own name - caught them and pocketed the dollars in Missouri.

  He’d even ridden with the Jayhawkers. Then there was some talk of his courting the daughter of a rich man named Walker. A man who was a target for the Jayhawkers because of the large number of slaves he owned. When the Northerners arrived they were cut down in an ambush planned by Quantrill and most were killed.

  He fled, his double-dealing exposed, but continued to steal and fight along the border, until sometime early in eighteen sixty-one. March or April, Jed thought. When he made the mistake of riding openly through Kansas and was recognized in a town called Paola by a Jayhawker who’d escaped the killings at the Walker plantation. He was jailed.

  The folks in nearby Lawrence, led by Jim Lane, didn’t aim to see Quantrill go free, knowing he had influential friends in Paola. They set off as a lynch mob determined to break the traitor from jail and hang him high.

  They were right to worry. Only seconds before they galloped into Paola, Quantrill was freed by friends and made good his escape.

  Then came the War.

  And Herne’s knowledge of Quantrill was less.

  He’d gathered together a number of local men, most of them in their early twenties or teens, and molded them into an efficient fighting unit. From what Herne had been able to make out at the camp, amid the frequent coming and going, there were now at least four hundred of them.

  Jed had caught word of the way Quantrill trained his band of irregulars. Ride hard and shoot well was all he taught them. Using mainly Navy Colts for lightness and accuracy of fire. There were stories that Quantrill had served with the official Confederate Army, distinguishing himself by bravery at Wilson’s Creek, but after that the Southern forces were forced to retreat and he had left them as they slipped back into Arkansas to fight his own war on his own bloody terms.

  So violent and savage were his lightning raids across Kansas and Missouri that the officers of the Union had demanded and obtained a special order against Quantrill. Called Order Forty-Seven it had been issued earlier in the previous year of sixty-three by General Totton. Under it Quantrill and his Raiders were named as outlaws and were no longer recognized as members of the Confederate Army. They could be shot or hung on sight. This simply made them more desperate in their dealings and made more certain the fate of anyone unlucky enough to fall into their hands.

  But Herne had been told that the situation for Quantrill was even more desperate. Not only had the Union named his as a wolfshead deserving of none of the usual considerations of War. He had made a dangerous trip through the Northern forces to the Confederate capital of Richmond to secure his own rank of colonel and official backing for his swelling band. To his intense rage, he had been refused. Worse, he had been coldly rejected and called a barbarian to his face.

  Across the camp from where he sat, Herne could see that the meeting near the fire was breaking up and there was a young man walking briskly towards where he was being held. He would be bringing news of either death or life.

  Since William Quantrill had publicly declared that it was his intention to raise the black flag against all men, Jed knew well enough that their chances weren’t that good for seeing another sunrise.

  ‘Colonel’s ready for you,’ was all the Reb said to him, turning on his heel and beckoning for Whitey to come along as well.

  ‘What do you figure?’ asked the albino as he joined Jed’

  ‘Don’t look bright, partner,’ replied Herne.

  ‘Button your mouths and keep them buttoned,’ snarled one of the guards.

  It was full dark around the fire. Herne watched the small flames as they crept their way around the logs, catching at the surface. The bark smoldering and smoke trickling up from the ends of the shorter twigs. The men around were quiet, waiting for their leader to pronounce the sentence. Though Quantrill had listened to their thoughts on the two young boys they’d taken, he had never let on to them what he intended to do. It would be as much a surprise to the Raiders as it would to Jedediah and Isaiah.

  ‘Well, boys,’ he began, drawing on a short cigar, and letting the fragrant smoke plume out through both nostrils. ‘I guess you want to know what I have decided for you.’

  The heavy eyes were hooded, and Jed could only see a narrow strip of firelight reflected in them, like seeing a snake under a mossy log. William Quantrill surely didn’t look like a man to be trusted any further than it was possible to throw him.

  ‘There’s a lot of the men who figure you deserve hangin’ for what you did to those five good old boys back by the cabin.’ He saw that Whitey was about to protest and held up his hand. ‘Yeah, I know, Isaiah Coburn. I know just what you’re about to say. And I don’t give a sweet fuck for it. You hear me? I don’t care. They should have killed you both easy as a hot knife through butter. They didn’t and they’re dead now. I always tell my boys that talk comes cheap and easy, but the price of action is colossal. Colossal.’ He repeated the word like he was pleased with it.

  ‘We’d take it kindly if we could do what we came all this way to do, Colonel Quantrill, sir,’ said Herne. ‘And that’s to enlist with you.’

  There was the ghost of a smile on the fleshy mouth. ‘And I have decided that you will both be allowed to do just that.’

  It was life!

  Unless it was a cruel joke. But Quantrill didn’t look the sort of man with a sense of humor. Not any kind of humor.

  ‘We can join you?’ asked Whitey, trying and failing to hide his relief.

  ‘You all can ...’ a long pause: ‘… on a condition or two.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Herne, suspiciously.

  ‘Nothin’ much,’ replied Cole Younger, grinning at them from the other side of the fire.

  ‘I heard a lot o’ “nothin’ much” in my life,’ said Herne. ‘Most of ’em ended up as a whole lot of something.’

  ‘That’s not bad, boy,’ said Quantrill. ‘But Cole here can tell you all about it. He’s goin’ to have you under his wing for a day or so. Just so as we can truly feel that it’s our side you’re on and not the other.’

  They turned to move away from the fire with the tall Younger when Herne stopped and looked back at the colonel. Attracting his curious gaze.

  ‘Colonel Quantrill?’

  ‘Yes, boy?’

  ‘Can I ask you a question on somethin’ that you just said?’

  ‘Ask away, Jed. That was your name, Jedediah, was it not?’

  ‘Surely is, colonel.’

  ‘What do you want to know, Jed?’

  ‘You said to be sure we were on your side and not on the other side. I just wo
ndered what the other side was that we were fightin’?’

  Quantrill sat bolt upright ‘You see these men all around us? Well anyone you don’t see is the enemy. Take that thought with you, Jedediah. Those who are not with us, are most surely against us.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘I stayed a night or two with this English preacher,’ said Herne as they joined Cole Younger, Frank James, and four or five other young men around one of the circles of little fires that had sprung up in the darkness of the guerrilla camp.

  ‘That the one you said had the twin daughters and the wife who all loved up a storm and chanted the Psalms while they done it four in a bed?’ asked Whitey, unable to hide his elation at keeping living.

  ‘That’s the one. Well, he had some books from England and he gave me one about a man who joins some travelling people. Gypsies they’re called.’

  ‘This story better have some point,’ said Cole Younger. ‘Make it short and dirty, Jedediah, if’n you please. We got us some talkin’ to do.’

  ‘Hold your horses, there,’ replied Herne, happy to have the weight of the Tranter pistol back at his belt again. ‘Whitey here asked me if I was glad to be still living. And there was a piece in his book I’m talkin’ about. By a writer called Borrow. Where someone asks him if’n he’s glad to be alive.’

  Jed sensed that Cole Younger was a natural-born leader, with great presence and control. A tall, strong man who looked like he’d be a good friend and a bad enemy.

  ‘What does he say?’ asked Frank James, pushing a coffee pot further into the flames.

  ‘I don’t recollect the exact words, but it goes something like this. That there’s night and day, both good things. The sun and the moon and the stars, and they’re all good things too. There is the wind on the hills, brothers. When life is so good, then who would wish to die?’

  There was a long silence after Jed finished speaking, while the group of men stared into the flames, each locked into their own memories of how things used to be for them. Or how things might have been. It was Cole Younger who broke the stillness, coughing before he spoke.