by Ray Hogan
“Agreed. You mentioned a token payment … to bind the contract.”
Escobar frowned. “To be sure. However, there was not sufficient time to obtain any large amount. I have with me slightly more than two thousand dollars.”
One of the teamsters swore in disappointment. Adam was silent; he had hoped for more—much more. Not that he mistrusted the Juárez government, but a long trip lay ahead of them, and there would be need for expense money. He had also entertained the idea of advancing wages to the crew; cash jingling in a man’s pockets was always a strong morale builder.
Finally he said: “It’ll have to do.”
Escobar, relieved, removed a money belt from around his waist and handed it to Rait. “You will find gold in the amount of two thousand one hundred forty—”
“Make it an even two thousand,” Adam cut in. “It’ll be easier to keep up with round figures.”
Escobar said, “As you wish,” and, opening the belt, removed the odd amount.
Adam accepted the leather container and hung it over his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about an armed escort. I figure we’ll need it, once we reach the border. You should ride on ahead.”
“Such is my intent. Do you know the village of Tupelo? It is what you call in your language a crossroads.”
“Been there once.”
“I shall arrange for the escort to meet you there. To that end I leave at once.”
“No need for that much hurry. Morning will be soon enough.”
“I am accustomed to little sleep. Also, I am anxious to notify President Juárez. If it is possible to exchange my tired horse …?”
“Sure,” Rait said, motioning to the wrangler. “Polo, pick out a good mount from the remuda.”
The hostler rose and hurried off into the night. Escobar glanced at Sancho, and Rait suggested: “Perhaps a little food for him to carry.”
The cook hustled toward the chuck wagon. Emiliano Escobar brought his attention back to Rait. “Will you cross the border before you reach Tupelo?”
“Not until we meet the escort. It’ll be safer on this side.”
“There is little safety on either side, I fear,” the Juárista said. “I will hasten the soldiers. Perhaps it will be possible to meet you at an earlier date.”
“Be obliged.”
Polo returned leading a fresh horse wearing Escobar’s ornate Mexican gear. Sancho appeared, carrying a flour sack a quarter filled with food and tied it onto the saddle horn. Escobar mounted at once and settled himself.
“There is one matter of caution I must impress upon you. Do not confuse the soldiers of the Royalists with those of the Republic. A large force of the Austrian usurper hides along the border where it preys upon our supply trains and patrols. They wear blue uniforms with much gold braid in evidence.”
Adam extended his hand. “We’ll know the difference. Adios, señor.”
Escobar smiled. “Adiós. Buena suerte.”
When the agent had disappeared into the shadows, Rait turned to the men. “You heard,” he said. “Deal’s all set … and we’ve got two thousand in gold as a starter. I figure to spread it around—” A cheer interrupted him. He waited a few moments, continued. “Won’t be much. Taking on this long a haul calls for more supplies. I’ll stock up at the next town. What’s left we’ll divide.”
Again there were yells of approval. Old Malachi Lee rubbed at his mouth. “Could sure use me some drinking liquor. What’s the next town, and when’ll we be getting there?”
“Jonesburg,” Adam said. “Ought to reach it about dark, day after tomorrow.”
Lee clawed at his beard happily. “Well, how-de-do. I sure am going to get me rolling drunk.”
“Don’t bank on it,” Bill Gannon said sourly. “I’m betting we don’t never see any of that gold.”
Chapter Twelve
Jonesburg was seventeen dilapidated houses, one livery stable, three saloons, a general store, and a half a dozen deserted, hollow-eyed buildings. Adam Rait, an hour or so in advance of the wagon train, pulled up to the sagging hitch rack fronting the mercantile establishment and halted.
An aura of decay clung to the settlement, and while far removed from the theater of war and therefore unscarred by fire and cannon, it lay dying, nevertheless. Isolated and ignored, long-range strangulation had long since set in—and those souls trapped within its confines, powerless to escape, now existed in a sort of parasitic vacuum.
There was no one on the rotting boardwalks of the street. On the porch of each saloon several men lounged, watching Rait narrowly as he dismounted, climbed the two steps to the store, and entered.
The interior of the building was stifling, loaded with stale, trapped air. Flies buzzed noisily about a molasses keg in a far corner, and the shelving on the walls was half empty.
No one appeared and Adam crossed to a counter and rapped sharply on the splintered wood. Moments later an elderly man came from behind a curtained doorway in the rear. He placed both hands, palms down, on the counter, surveyed Rait with flat eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Here to buy supplies,” Adam said.
“What kind of money you got?” the storekeeper asked without changing expression. Evidently news of the Confederacy’s collapse had reached Jonesburg.”
“Gold.”
The storekeeper relented, and he became almost friendly. “What’ll you be needing?”
Adam ran his glance along the dusty shelves. “Lots more than I can see here. There another town close?”
The old man wagged his head. “Dackett … east of here. Next stop west’ll be more’n a hundred mile. Things are hard to get. Been a war going on.”
“I know,” Rait answered dryly. Taking a folded slip of paper from his pocket, he passed it to the storekeeper. “Do the best you can with that list.”
“Powerful lot of eatables,” the man said, slowly checking the items. “You bringing a wagon train or something through here?”
A slyness had crept into the storekeeper’s manner. Adam said: “Or something. How soon will you have my order ready?”
“Couple hours.”
Rait nodded. “Put it in boxes,” he said, and turned for the door.
Several of the saloon bums had bestirred themselves and now loafed on the porch of the store. They pulled back lazily, allowed Rait to pass between them. No one spoke, but that they had overheard all that was said inside was evident. He stepped down into the ankle-deep dust, halted, eyes on the largest of the saloons.
A wariness had grown within him, and he was having second thoughts about turning the crew loose in Jonesburg. With so many idle men hanging around there was more than a good chance for trouble, and while he had no doubt the hard-edged teamsters could take care of themselves, he wanted no undue attention drawn to the train—and there was always the possibility of loose talk.
But Malachi Lee had expressed the needs of all the men. Teamsters were a special breed, and whiskey was as essential to their well-being as the food they ate.
He crossed to the saloon, doing some rapid calculating on the way, and roused the man dozing behind the bar.
“Need ten gallons of good whiskey. Got a keg you can put it in?”
The bartender stared at him as though uncertain of his hearing. “You say ten gallons?”
Rait nodded. “Don’t want any of your red-eye. I want the best you stock.”
The saloon man was suddenly galvanized into action. He hadn’t made a sale like this in years. “Yes, sir, got some of Beam’s best. Bourbon. Been hanging onto it … sort of saving it for special doings. That be all right?”
“How much?” Adam said.
The man considered. Finally: “Reckon I’ll have to get about seventy-five dollars for that much. Good liquor ain’t cheap.”
Rait drew forth his money sack, counted out the stip
ulated amount. “Be back for it in a little while,” he said, and left the building.
He had planned to rejoin the train when his purchasing was finished and send Felipe with the light wagon to pick up the supplies. He was having doubts as to the wisdom of that, also. He could avoid that problem if he handled the matter himself, but that would require his going back for the light wagon.
With the additional supplies an extra vehicle wouldn’t be such a bad idea he decided, and, making up his mind, he recrossed the street to Erdman’s Livery Barn. Here again he had difficulty in rousing the owner. When the man eventually materialized from the gloomy shadows in the rear, Adam made his wants known: a light wagon, canvas top if possible, and a team to pull it.
“Got four secondhand wagons out back,” Erdman said. “Make the price right.”
Adam nodded. “Horses?”
“Might skeerce. Show you what I got.”
Typical of horse dealers, Erdman made no further comment, simply led Rait to a corral on the north side of the barn and waited for his reaction.
There were a dozen or so animals in the enclosure, none of them particularly noteworthy. There were far better horses loafing in the remuda, Rait knew, but they were miles away with the train and being intentionally led around the town by Joe Denver.
Adam spent a half hour in the corral, selecting what he felt to be the best two animals in the lot. Erdman helped him herd them into an adjoining pen.
“How much?” Rait asked when that was done.
Erdman stroked his chin. “You got yourself prime stock there, mister. You’re a good judge of fine horseflesh. Have to have a hundred apiece.”
“I’m a better judge than that,” Adam snapped. “I’ll go a hundred for the pair.”
The stable owner groaned. “God dammit, man. That’s plain stealing!”
“Neither one of those broomtails is worth more’n twenty-five dollars … and you know it. Wouldn’t offer that if I had time to scout around.” Rait paused, drew out his money pouch, and produced several coins. “I pay off in gold, Erdman. Make up your mind.”
“I’ll take it,” the man said quickly. “You’ll be wanting a bill of sale.”
Adam nodded. “And harness … and one of those spring wagons. One with the red wheels will do. How much?”
“Make it a hundred and fifty for the lot.”
Rait counted out the money. “Show me the harness, and I’ll be hitching up while you make out the papers.”
Another hour had passed before he had collected his load. With the bay tied to the tailgate of the new wagon and his pistol prominently displayed in his lap, he rolled out of Jonesburg under the eyes of the townspeople.
Mindful of their attention, he headed due south for the first two miles, and then, well beyond sight of the settlement, cut west. He wasn’t certain why he took such precautions, but somehow it seemed like a good idea.
He caught up with the train about dark, and turning the wagon over to one of the extra drivers, mounted the bay and led the cavalcade into a small grove not far from a small river where they halted for the night.
There was some grumbling when he announced the town was to be avoided, but that dissatisfaction faded quickly when he had the keg of whiskey rolled out and placed on the open tailgate of the supply wagon.
There was a noisy clamor for cups, and then Adam felt a hand on his arm.
Joe Denver said: “We got us some company.”
Rait followed the direction of the teamster’s gaze. Facing them in a semicircle were a half a hundred soldiers. All were dressed in Confederate gray.
Chapter Thirteen
Alert, a strong current of suspicion filtering through him, Adam Rait moved slowly from the rear of the wagon to the center of the camp. Silent, the teamsters began to fan out to either side. Bill Gannon, muttering under his breath, hitched at his pistol belt. Adam stayed him with a lifted hand.
The leader of the soldiers, a lean, hollow-cheeked man with deep-set, glowing eyes, a full beard, and down-curving mustache, spurred his horse forward. A saber hung at his side, and a revolver was thrust into the red sash encircling his waist. He wore the three gold stars of a colonel on his tattered coat that bore the yellow facing of the cavalry. A feathery plume had been stuck into the band of his wilted brim hat, reflecting evident admiration for Confederate general Beauty Stuart, or perhaps the partisan ranger John Mosby.
He halted a dozen paces in front of Rait. Immediately the young lieutenant, who had remained a horse length behind him, motioned to a thick-shouldered sergeant to stand fast, also advanced.
“Kurt Hanover?”
The senior officer’s speech was affected by that usual shibboleth of the South, wherein there seemed to be a dearth of r’s in the alphabet. Thus, the blockade runner’s name came out something like, “Kuht Hanovah.”
“Hanover’s dead,” Adam said.
Surprise and annoyance crossed the Confederate’s features. It was as though he considered the man’s demise a gross personal affront.
“Who’re you, mister?”
“Adam Rait.”
“This is Hanover’s wagon train.”
It was a statement rather than a question. Adam allowed his gaze to slide over the line of ragged cavalrymen. Some held pistols, others rifles or old, muzzle-loading muskets. A few sabers were in view, and the entire company acted as though they were unaware of the war’s end.
“It was.”
The officer nodded in satisfaction. “Permit me to introduce myself, sir. Colonel Zebulon Cook of the Third Missouri Cavalry … Confederate.”
One of the teamsters, Earl Handy, laughed. “Hell, soldier boy, go on home. Fighting’s over.”
Zebulon Cook’s eyes blazed with sudden fire. He made an imperious gesture with a gauntleted hand, barked: “Lieutenant Griswold, I want that man arrested!”
The junior officer goaded his horse forward, then halted. “He’s a civilian, sir.”
“Civilian or not … arrest him!”
Bill Gannon settled back on his heels. His bullet head dropped slightly. Abruptly the moment was charged with the promise of violence. Adam took another step toward Cook, breaking the tension.
“You’re not arresting anybody, Colonel.”
At Rait’s cool declaration the officer crossed his hands on the saddle horn, rested his weight on his arms. “You aware this area’s under military control?”
“Not likely. The war’s ended. Lee surrendered a couple of weeks ago. Must be something wrong with your communications.”
“Lee surrendered, we didn’t!” Cook shouted, stiffening. “The army of the South is still fighting. It will continue to fight … down to the last man!”
“What army?” Rait asked quietly.
“The true Confederate Army! Mine … and General Kirby Smith, camped at Shreveport … Shelby … and many others. We plan to unite … fight on!”
“Crazy as a peach-orchard boar,” Joe Denver murmured under his breath.
“War’s a long way from being over, mister. And don’t you forget it,” Cook continued, his voice rising steadily. “Lee quit, but not us! We’ll never quit!”
Adam shrugged. “You’re fooling yourself, Colonel. It’s finished. The South lost. Face it.”
“You in the army?” Cook broke in.
“Three years. Same Missouri Cavalry you’re talking about. I was with Dixon.”
“Ah, yes, Dixon. Fine officer. Lost in a skirmish near Memphis.”
Got me a little souvenir there, too, right in the leg, Adam thought, but he said nothing.
Cook was staring at him, impaling him with a baleful glare. “You desert?”
“Discharged. Medical.”
“No man gets discharged from the Army of the Confederacy!” the officer shouted. “I order you to report to me at—”
“What
do you want, Colonel?” Rait demanded, impatience finally getting the best of him.
“Want? You have the gall to ask me that? You a thief … a deserter?”
“I’m asking.”
“I want the ordnance Hanover contracted to supply and that you have diverted to your own purpose!”
The missing parts of the picture fell into place for Adam. Kurt’s deal had been with the Confederate Army, so much he knew, but with whom exactly had never been clear. Evidently Cook had been involved, as perhaps were Shelby and Kirby Smith.
He wondered if those two officers were actually with Cook, as he had implied, in his mad plan to continue the war, but Rait decided it was unlikely. It was more logical to assume the colonel was endeavoring to raise and equip a force of his own, and, being aware of the contract with Kurt Hanover, had seized upon it as a means for accomplishing his aims.
Cook’s shrill voice broke into his thoughts. “I demand to know by what right you have diverted this ordnance from its intended destination?”
“The war ended. The Confederacy has no need for it.”
“I repeat, I do not recognize the surrender at Appomattox! The loyal men of the Confederate Army will continue to fight the northern invaders!”
“I doubt that. The war was lost a long time ago. Most Southerners realized that, only the leaders wouldn’t face up—”
“Treason!” Zebulon Cook shrieked, darkening with anger. “I’ll have you before a firing squad for those words!”
“You keep yammering like that and you’ll get yourself a battle right here!” Gannon shouted, pushing by Rait. “Was fools like you that got a lot of good men killed for nothing.”
“Arrest him!” Cook cried. “Instantly!”
Lieutenant Griswold spurred ahead. Immediately there was a stirring among the teamsters. Adam moved quickly, seized the bridle of the officer’s horse.
“Another fool stunt like that and somebody’ll blow your head off,” he warned.
Gannon once more crowded to the fore. “Let him try arresting me. Just let him try.”