EQMM, September-October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Yanks. And his heart sank as he recognized them. Militia. The same bunch who'd murdered Eli, the Hessians, with Aaron Meachum as their scout. No officer with them this time. One of them was leading Meachum's gelding, with Eli's corpse draped over its back.

  The others were already angling in toward him. No point in hightailing it. Nell couldn't outrun a three-legged stool. He had only a few seconds to act.

  As he passed through the sumac bushes, he let his Jenks carbine slide out of his grasp. Dumped the Colt as well, heard it tumble into the brush, hoped to Christ they landed out of sight. Thought about the Arkansas blade in his boot, but it was too late to toss it. They'd see him reach down for sure. So he left it. As Nell plodded slowly up to the patrol, Gus could feel the sweat trickling down his back—

  God! The letter! It was still concealed beneath his shirt!

  "Who are you, mister? What you doin’ way out here?” the sergeant asked. His Hessian accent was strong as sauerkraut. Red-faced, stocky. His blue wool uniform coat looked homemade and probably was, but his gray eyes were wary. And dangerous.

  "My name's McKee. Got a place over in Reynolds County. I'm headed east to visit a cousin."

  "What cousin would that be?” Aaron Meachum asked. “Robert E. Lee?” The Jayhawker sat lazy in his saddle, shoulders slumped, eyeing Gus from beneath the brim of his sagging slouch hat.

  "Keith Stewart, at Buckhorn."

  "Didn't know the Stewarts were kin to you, McKee."

  "You know this man?” the sergeant asked Meachum.

  "I know who he is. That farm woman that gave the captain mouth yesterday? This is her man. A Reb sympathizer, got boys in gray. Ain't that right, McKee?"

  "Well, he's too old to be a sojer boy so he ain't worth no bounty,” the sergeant said. “Let's move on."

  "Not so fast,” Meachum drawled. “He might be carryin’ contraband. Step down, McKee."

  Gus hesitated.

  "Best do like he says, mister,” the sergeant sighed. “He likes to kill people, this one."

  Forcing his fear back, Gus swung down.

  "Step away from that nag and raise your hands. Search him, Dutch."

  "Come on, Meachum, this bummer ain't got two pennies to rub together. Let's go."

  "The captain left me in charge and I say we search him, Dutch. Now do it! Check his horse, then pat him down."

  Muttering to himself in German, the sergeant swung down, stalked over to Nell . . . and hesitated. Eyeing the oil spots on the strap that had held the Jenks. He gave Gus a look, then glanced back down the trail. But if he spotted the rifle, he didn't say anything. He cast a critical eye on Nell instead, then nodded.

  "You got her lookin’ pretty sorry, mister,” he said quietly in his harsh accent. “Them suet lumps you stuck on her legs? They look worse if you wet ‘em with berry juice. It dries black like blood. Keeps the flies down, too."

  "You know horses?” Gus asked.

  "I had me a stock ranch outside Jeff City, till the Rebs burnt us out. Now I sell dead men."

  "This ain't no Sunday social,” Meachum growled. “Search him, Dutch."

  Sighing, the Hessian quickly ran his hands over Gus's torso. And felt the letter! No question, Gus heard the rustle as the German's hands passed over it. Their eyes met for a split second, then the sergeant stepped away.

  "Nothing,” the Hessian said. “I told you."

  "Looked like a pretty careless search to me, Dutch. We'd best make sure. Take off your clothes, McKee."

  "What?"

  "You heard me, old man. Strip down. Get them duds off. Let's see what you been givin’ that ole woman of yours that makes her so sassy."

  Gus swallowed, hard, wanting to rush at Meachum, drag him from his saddle or die trying. But he couldn't. Meachum would kill him, sure as sunup. He was just itching for an excuse. Gus could see it in his eyes. But if they saw the letter, or the Arkansas blade, he'd probably die anyway. No explanation would satisfy this bunch. He'd be a Rebel under arms, worth a twenty-dollar bounty at St. Lou. And he'd already seen how they transported prisoners.

  "No,” he said. “I won't do it."

  "No?” Meachum echoed. “Strip him down, Dutch. If he gives you any trouble, kill him. Or I will."

  The sergeant turned to Gus, his face a mask. “Don't give me no trouble, mister. He means it."

  "Go to hell!” Gus heard a quaver in his voice and hated it. “You want my clothes, Meachum, step down. Come get ‘em yourself."

  Grabbing Gus by his collar, the sergeant spun him around, pulling him close, ripping at his shirt. Gus struggled against him but could feel the power in the Hessian's arms, knew he hadn't a chance in hell—then suddenly he was free.

  Thrusting him away, the Hessian stalked back to his horse. He said something in German and the troopers roared with laughter.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?” Meachum demanded furiously. “What did you say?"

  "I said now we know why women got no use for you, Meachum. You get hard lookin’ at bare-ass old men.” The sergeant reached for his pommel to mount and found himself staring down the muzzle of Meachum's navy Colt.

  "I told you to strip him, Dutch."

  "And I say there's no bounty on him and no contraband. Look at him, look at his crow-bait horse. You waste our time here.” He said something else in German, but this time there was no laughter. The others were eyeing Meachum warily now.

  "What did you tell them?"

  "You keep that pistol pointed my way, you'll find out.” Swinging into the saddle, the Hessian wheeled his mount around to face Meachum.

  "I don't like you much, Jayhawker,” the sergeant spat. “You're brave, back-shooting a boy, but that farm woman ran you off like a dog. And when this old man says step down, you stay mounted. The captain says you know the land, so in the field, we follow you. But from now on, if you see me in town? You don't talk to me. You cross the street. Verstehen Sie? You-cross-the-gott-dampt street."

  Jerking his mount around, the sergeant clucked her to a trot. He glanced down at Gus as he passed, but his face was unreadable. The others fell into line behind him by twos, with Eli's corpse bouncing along on the last horse.

  But Meachum didn't move. The Jayhawker scout considered Gus a moment, the cocked pistol still in his fist, death in his eyes, then shook his head.

  "You ain't worth my powder today, old man. But we'll have us another day, McKee. Count on that.” Holstering the Colt, he swept off his hat and charged his horse at Nell with a whoop! Driving her off. The old plowhorse took off at a stiff-legged trot, as fast as she could manage, running toward the hills, her empty stirrups flapping as she fled.

  Cackling, Meachum swung his mare in a wide circle and galloped off after the troop.

  Gus could have lunged at him as he passed. Dragged him off his animal, stomped his brains in for Eli, for Jared—but again, he didn't.

  Couldn't.

  Even if he won, the Hessians would kill him, and no part of Aaron Meachum was worth dying for. Not if it meant leaving his family to starve. Or so Gus told himself.

  Or maybe, it was just plain yellow-dog cowardice. Getting old and slow, losing heart, making excuses. That was the worst of it for Gus. Not knowing the truth of his own courage. Or the lack of it.

  Still shaking, Gus McKee waited till Meachum was well out of sight, then he doubled back down his own trail to collect his Jenks carbine and the Colt. No point in trying to catch Nell, she'd be halfway to the horse camp by now. If he had half a brain he'd follow her back to the hills.

  But he didn't. Instead he checked his weapons, shoved the Colt in his belt, then set out after the patrol again. On foot this time.

  Which made their tracks all the easier to read.

  * * * *

  After sending Birgit on her way, Polly spent part of the afternoon cleaning the house, absurdly pleased that Birgit noted how well she kept it. In such matters, only women's opinions carry weight. Men wouldn't notice a slaughtered hog on the sofa unless they had t
o shift its carcass to sit.

  With her home immaculate, she had Jason bring in a load of kindling wood, then sent him down the valley to stay over with a cousin, as was customary during the nights of the dark moon. Every time Gus came out of the hills, there was a risk that he'd be followed, or braced by a patrol. If there was trouble, better if the boy was clear of it.

  Hauling the copper bathtub into the kitchen, Polly lit the stove, getting it ready to boil water. And for a moment, she glimpsed herself in the hall mirror. And couldn't help thinking how fresh and young Birgit looked. Her own face was growing leathery, weathered by the wind and the work. She wondered if Angus still saw her as a woman at all, and wondered if she'd ever truly feel like one again—

  Gunshot! A single blast, echoing down the valley like distant thunder. Polly froze, listening for another. But only silence followed.

  Which might be good. Because she was sure she'd recognized the bark of a coach gun. And not many used them. Banking the fire in the kitchen stove, she took up her own gun, checked the primer, then eased out onto the shaded porch. To watch. And wait.

  An hour crept by. Half of another. Dusk settled softly over the hills like a dark drape and still she waited, standing in the shadows. The last of the light was fading out through the tree line when she heard the distant drum of racing hoof-beats, growing louder as they came, then the clatter of a wagon as the Stanhope buggy burst over the crest of a hill, hurtling madly down the road toward the farm.

  Polly was up and running as the buggy skidded through the gate into the yard. Birgit sawed on the reins, yanking her lathered, gasping animal to a halt. Her face and clothing were mud-smeared and filthy, hair awry, eyes wild.

  "What happened?"

  "A man came out of the woods, grabbed the horse. I warned him off but he won't let go. I struck him with the buggy whip and he rushed at me, grabbed me, tried to drag me down and—” she swallowed hard—"and I shot him!

  "He pulled me from the buggy as he fell and I ran into the woods. Lost. Couldn't find my way. After a while I came out on the road. And I see the buggy. The man is lying by it."

  "Dead?"

  "I—think so,” Birgit said, gulping down a sob. “I'm pretty sure. His head—oh God. Yes, he's dead. He must be."

  "It's all right, girl. You did right. But we're not out of this. Is the body in the road?"

  "By the side, yes."

  "And the gun? Where is it?"

  "I—don't know. I lost it when I fell. I don't know what happened to it."

  "All right, now you listen to me,” Polly said, seizing the girl's shoulders. “We have to go back. Right now."

  "I can't!"

  "You haveto! It don't matter if he was Federal or a Reb, if his friends find him kilt they'll come after us, ‘specially if they find that gun nearby. Too many people know it. I'd go alone, but I might miss him in the dark. Can you find that place again?"

  Birgit nodded mutely.

  "Good. Then gather yourself together, girl. I'll fetch a shovel."

  * * * *

  Gus figured the patrol would likely make camp at dusk, and he only knew of one creek within easy riding distance. He knew a shorter route, and considered pushing hard to get there first. Take them by surprise from the high ground.

  But the risk was too great. If they didn't know about the waterhole, he could lose them altogether. And if he fired on them from ambush, they'd scatter and take cover. Or just ride him down.

  No. Better to trail them, come up on them quiet in the dark after they'd made camp and settled in.

  Gus kept thinking of the Hessian sergeant. The man had definitely felt the letter. Probably spotted the carbine in the brush as well. Gus saw it in his eyes. Yet he deliberately misled Meachum about it. All the Germans were strong for the Union, why had he let it pass?

  The best Gus could come up with was that the sergeant had seen enough dead men in the road for one day. Amen to that.

  The twilight was coming on when Gus spotted the orange glow of a fire ahead in the distance, shadows dancing above it, reflected on the pale bark of the aspens. The patrol had camped at the head of the creek, exactly where he expected them to be.

  He felt a surge of energy, fired by his rage. Slowing his pace, he shifted from shadow to shadow like a ghost as he approached the camp. He could see the men clearly now, clustered about the campfire, washing down salt pork and sourdough biscuits with raw chicory coffee.

  Relaxed. Easy targets, less than two hundred yards off, most of them starkly outlined against the firelight. But if the patrol was in range, so was Gus. Most of them appeared to be kraut-head farmers or townsmen, but he'd underestimated them once, and barely escaped with his life. If they caught him out here now, they'd run him down like dogs on a possum, and sell his carcass in Springfield or St. Lou for the bounty money. Two dollars and change apiece. The price of a life.

  Circling south to put a low rise between himself and the camp, Gus picked up his pace, trotting crouched through purple shadows, feeling the land rising beneath his boots as full dark settled over the hills.

  Slowing to a walk short of the summit, he circled the hilltop to avoid being skylined. Then he dropped to his belly, snaking over the ridgeline in the shadow of a rotted poplar log. Edging into a cluster of gorse, he waited a bit for his heart to slow, then gently parted the branches.

  The Yank camp was spread out below him like a target range, every man clearly visible in the firelight. A somber camp, none of the joshing and laughter he remembered from the Mexican War. God, that seemed so long ago, before his first wife, before their boys—he swallowed hard, remembering his boys. Remembering Jared, with his gap-toothed grin. And Eli, pitching from the saddle with his hands still raised in surrender...

  Settle down, Angus McKee. Get this done. Pulling his Mexican field glasses from his jacket, Gus carefully scanned the camp. The Hessians were already bedding down for the night, weary from a long day in the saddle, rolling up in their blankets near the fire. Gus made a quick count, one, two—

  Shit! There were only five men in view. But there'd been eight this afternoon. Slow down. Count again.

  He spotted one immediately. A picket was on guard near the horses, sitting with his back against a tree, wrapped in a blanket, his rifle across his knees.

  Scanning along the river, Gus stiffened. A second man was bedded down away from the others. Aaron Meachum. His slouch hat down over his eyes, his head resting on the McClellan saddle. Either he was unsociable, or the kraut-heads disliked him as much as his Missouri neighbors.

  Still a man short. And as he scanned the camp again, Gus had the uneasy feeling he knew who was missing. The Hessian sergeant. The only seasoned soldier in the lot. And knowing his man, Gus surmised where he'd be found...

  There! Halfway up the far hillside, well above the camp, with a clear view of the narrow glen and the approaches to it. A perfect spot for an experienced sharpshooter. And the Hessian had the gun for it. Even at this distance, Gus recognized the odd outlines of the .451 Whitworth with its slender telescopic sight. Deadly out to five hundred yards.

  Sweet Jesus. Gus had planned a hit-and-run attack. Pot Meachum, maybe one more, then slink away in the confusion. But the sergeant's position changed all that. He had the high ground, and a long-range gun that gave him the advantage. Resting away from the camp, his eyes wouldn't be dazzled by firelight. Killing Meachum wouldn't disconcert him, it would only bring him to full alert.

  And he could shoot farther than Gus could run, even in the dark.

  If he potted Meachum from here, the Hessian would kill him sure as Christmas. Hell, he might not get clear of this even if he didn't pot Meachum. Depending on how alert the sergeant was.

  He didn't seem to be alert at the moment. Gus couldn't see him clearly at that distance, but he looked relaxed. Probably dozing. So Gus's plan might still work.

  But only if he shot the sergeant first.

  How far away? Two hundred yards, maybe two-twenty. Gus had taken deer in
the hills with his Jenks-Remington at greater distances. The poor light made it tricky, but Gus was fairly sure he could make the shot. Kill the Kraut, or leave him in no shape to return fire.

  The problem was, he had no wish to kill the Hessian. The man had probably saved his life. And if he shot the sergeant first, Meachum would scurry to cover before Gus could reload and fire again anyway.

  Damn it!

  The smart thing would be to back the hell away from this. Survive this night. Try for Meachum another time.

  But Gus was weary of waiting. And border-Scot stubborn. He'd come far, and his enemy was in sight. Scanning the camp again, he looked for some other way to—

  And there it was.

  Maybe.

  The horse herd was picketed at the far end of the draw. The campfire was midway along the creek, with men rolled in their blankets near it. Meachum was bedded down alone between the fire and the picket line.

  From his hillside perch, the Hessian sergeant could see the approaches to the valley, but the slopes were wooded with poplar and ash. Gus doubted the sergeant could see the horses clearly...

  No time to chew on it. The sky was clearing to the west, stars showing through. If he was going to move, it would have to be now. Gus carefully stashed his carbine under the rotted log. If he lived, he'd come back for it later. If not . . . ?

  Dropping to his belly, he began snaking down the hillside toward the picket line, using every clump of brush, every woodland skill he'd learned in his years in the hills.

  Nearing the creek, he was able to rise a little, moving along in a crouch. The brush grew a bit thicker close to water, and there was a well-worn deer trail along the bank. On the far side, he could see the lone sentry, wrapped in his blanket, his head resting on his arms. Asleep? Maybe. No way to be certain.

  The horses heard him coming, of course, but they were as spent as the troopers and accustomed to the sounds and scent of men. Gus posed no threat.

  Drawing Neeland's Arkansas toothpick from his boot, he slid along the picket rope, cutting the horses loose, one at a time. Last in line was the mare Meachum had taken from Eli. But as he reached for her, he stumbled over something and went down, landing hard. The horse beside him spooked, shying away with a snort. Gus whispered to her softly, calming her, and she halted, still eyeing him uneasily. Ready to bolt.