Prairie Fire, page 7
“There’s five dead in that sod house back yonder,” Luke said. “I killed them.” He offered a small smile. “I don’t know how slick it was, though. It got a little close there at times, if I’m being honest. They came in expecting just to find Josh and that helped some. They were as surprised as I was.”
The man scrutinized him, sizing him up. There was a tense moment of silence, and then the man seemed to relax. He nodded.
“Well, we’re obliged to you for helping the boy,” he said. “Josh’s pa rode with me in the war. Lost his legs south of Atlanta. I feel mighty responsible for him.” He rolled the lucifer to the other side of his mouth. “I’m Neville Goldsmith, formerly colonel, Army of Georgia. This is my sergeant major, Jeremiah Trask.” He nodded toward the bearded man.
“Sir, he rode with Marshall Cleveland’s boys during the war,” Josh spoke up.
Goldsmith rolled his lucifer back and forth again, seeming to turn that nugget of information over in his mind.
“That so?” he asked.
“Cleveland at the start,” Luke said. “They claim those James boys invented bank robbery, but that’s a damned lie. We were robbing Missouri banks back in ’61.”
“Didn’t his own boys kill Cleveland?” the one called Trask asked. Demanded was more like it. His tone was as surly as his gaze.
Cleveland had been such a ruffian and robber that in fact he had been killed by Union forces, although the circumstances hadn’t been exactly as Trask had indicated. That was part of why Luke had chosen to say he rode with Cleveland. That allowed him to establish his owlhoot bonafides without explicitly mentioning any particular crime.
He grinned. Having had many a hardcase smile at him right before the lead started flying, he knew exactly how to smirk.
“Sure,” he nodded. “Sixth Kansas cavalry caught up with us down around the Marais des Cygnes River. Ol’ Marshall wasn’t so good at reading maps, it seems. Come to find out, the last two banks we robbed turned out to have been in Kansas. Those Union soldier boys didn’t care for that.”
That comment drew rough laughter from the nearby men. It even got a ghost of a smile from Trask. It didn’t last long.
“How’d you escape?” he demanded.
“I didn’t have no truck with killing Union soldiers,” said Luke, who’d killed his fair share of men in battle while serving the South. “I assumed orders was orders when we took them banks. I’ll kill a Johnny Reb if he was eating dinner, but I don’t want to be shooting boys on my own side just because they were in uniform and I was an irregular.”
Just as his joke had elicited laughter, this comment drew mutters and nods of approval from the men around him. Luke paused for a moment to let that comment settle with the group. After a moment he continued.
“When the Sixth Kansas caught up with us, we assumed there was going to be a talking to, or a dressing down. At worst they would escort Captain Cleveland back and maybe break up the group.” He sighed in a what-are-you-going-to-do way. “But the captain was a stubborn man, prone to outbursts. He also liked to punctuate points by drawing his pistols and waving them around.” He shrugged. “They shot him down. So there I was, pretty young. And the next thing I know, Cleveland’s dead and they’re riding us back to what I figured would be a hang rope.”
“So how’d you escape the noose?” Trask asked.
“By the skin of my teeth, if I’m being honest. They needed men in the border region. The West wasn’t a prime concern for the generals back East. We may have been wild as red savages back then, but we could ride and shoot and we’d killed more separatists than any regular unit at that point. Long story short”—which is good, he thought, because I’m just about out of knowledge on this matter—“I ended up riding with Jennison. I was a Red Leg for the rest of the war.”
While Marshall Cleveland’s antics had been criminal from the start, with raids and thievery that had adversely affected both sides, Jayhawkers in general had been more like privateers with Letters of Marque giving them legal standing as long as they stole from the right ships. But of the Jayhawkers who rode the Kansas-Missouri border, it was the Red Legs who were loathed the most. A Red Leg veteran was a perfect candidate for the life of western outlaw; the war had given them all the training they needed.
“Well,” Goldsmith said, “I guess we need to say thank you for keeping our young Josh here alive. And any man who can do for five hostile redskins in one fight is someone I’d be happy to have at my bivouac. Mister, ah, I didn’t catch your name . . .”
“Miller,” Luke said. “Luke Miller.”
For a long time after the war, before Luke was reunited with his family, including twin sons he hadn’t known he had fathered, he had used the name Luke Smith, not wanting the shame of what some considered the sordid profession of bounty hunting to rub off on the Jensen clan. So whenever he needed to use a nondescript alias these days, he had to pick something other than Smith.
“All right, Mr. Miller,” Goldsmith went on. “Why don’t you come on back to our camp? I believe some of the boys have enough good whiskey to knock the taste of that twister out of our mouths.”
“Yes, sir,” Luke said. “I do appreciate the invite.”
As they rode away, Luke felt Trask watching him.
CHAPTER 8
By pure chance, Luke had found the very outlaws he was looking for. But now he was surrounded by them, and his only chance at survival was to gain their trust and acceptance. Providence had delivered them to him, though, and he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.
Still, he figured, it’s not the worst plan in the world. Also, he didn’t really have another choice.
He accepted a jug of corn whiskey and took a slug. He had to keep his wits about him, but he also had to win the men’s trust. Refusing a drink didn’t establish rapport. So he drank. Josh sat beside him at the fire in the outlaws’ camp, and he began to suspect that the kid felt out of place in this gang of hardcases.
They were holed up in an old buffalo wallow deep enough to provide some cover for the light of their campfire. On the plains at night, you could see light for almost unbelievable distances. Campfires could look as bright as stars scattered across the grassland.
The outfit seemed well-supplied, Luke noted. In addition to extra horses for each man, they had a small mule train. Such organization in an outlaw gang was surprising. Usually they kept a hideout somewhere or scattered once a job was done, not regrouping until it was time to pull another robbery.
This group seemed set up like a military force on an extended expedition. They even referred to themselves as a “unit” rather than a gang.
Considering that they were capable of killing him where he sat, Goldsmith’s riders were friendly enough. Still, he was a stranger, and untested.
Quickly enough, Luke found himself alone with only Josh for company. It seemed even more obvious that the kid felt out of place here. He wore a lost, lonely expression as he stared into the flickering flames.
Luke could have told him that it wasn’t wise to do that. Nothing ruined a man’s night vision quicker than gazing into a campfire. Luke never allowed his gaze to rest on the flames for more than a second.
“You don’t mind my asking,” he said to Josh, “how exactly did you end up with these boys? Seems to me the greater part of them rode under Goldsmith in the war. Even those that didn’t are veterans.”
Josh stared into the fire. He sat quietly for so long that Luke thought he wasn’t going to answer the question. Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, moving with undercurrents of emotion Luke doubted the kid himself knew were there.
“My pa, I guess,” he said. He kept his voice quiet. “Like I told you, he rode with Colonel Goldsmith when they marched through Georgia under Sherman. My pa lost his legs at Bentonville. The damn war was pretty near done at that point and he got shot through one leg and into the other. He said them army docs was always quick on the saw.”
“Your pa gone now?”
Josh smiled a little. “No, he’s still alive. Back home in Indiana.” The smile faded. “Though sometimes I think he does wish he was dead. Mama swears he ain’t known a happy day since March of ’65.”
Luke grunted. There were innumerable veterans, on both sides, who felt the same way, he was sure.
“So he sent you to ride with Goldsmith?”
“Colonel Goldsmith,” Josh firmly corrected.
“So he sent you to ride with Colonel Goldsmith?”
“No, it was my idea, I guess, more or less.” Josh drank some corn liquor from a tin cup. “This country turned its back on veterans. They were loyal and then the country wasn’t loyal to them. You imagine a man who fought from Bull Run to Appomattox reduced to begging for the rest of his life? It ain’t right.”
Luke kept silent. He felt strongly, though, that those weren’t the words of the kid himself, but rather an echo of his eternally angry father. A lot of sour plants of hate and rage had grown from seeds of truth.
“One day a member of his old unit came back asking to spend the night and told him he was going west to join up with the colonel again. When he heard Colonel Goldsmith and Sergeant Major Trask were set to ride again like they done in Georgia and the Carolinas, he was pretty damn happy, for once. I thought he’d forgotten how to smile. ‘You watch, son,’ he said. ‘The colonel’s going to bring hell to all the ex-Confederates, draft dodgers, and those that abandoned us after the war who thought they could run away to the frontier.”
There it was again. The voice of the kid’s father masquerading as his own. Josh seemed completely unaware of it.
“I decided I couldn’t pass up the chance. So when my dad’s army friend started out in the morning, I made up my mind and went with him. I figured it was a son’s duty to avenge his father.”
“Your daddy’s friend still here?”
“No, he was killed up to Dakota Territory. But I’d already ridden on three raids by then.”
Luke nodded. He felt sad for the kid. His father’s poison had sent his son down the owlhoot path. That trail ended in gunfire or the rope. Josh’s father thought he’d just lost his legs to the war. In the end, it would likely cost him his son, as well.
Luke brooded. Maybe there was a way he could convince Josh to leave the gang. He’d like to see the kid spared the hellfire that was coming for these men. But the boy was a man, he’d made a man’s decisions and he rode with hardcases. It might already be too late, Luke reflected.
He said good night and settled down in his bedroll. Exhausted by the day’s events, sleep came easily enough to him. But his dreams were troubled.
* * *
Luke knew the men didn’t trust him yet. Especially Trask. He figured they’d test him somehow in an attempt to get him to prove his loyalty and reliability.
The test came sooner than he’d expected, though.
Breakfast was bacon, biscuits, and strong coffee. Luke ate his share. After a bit, the men began drifting off to tend to the horses, swap out pickets set during the night, and pack up their gear. Trask came over and spoke with Luke and Josh.
“Colonel’s got a little mission for us,” he said. “Finish up and let’s go see the man.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Josh said without hesitation.
Luke nodded and tossed the last of his coffee onto the ground. “Sounds good,” he said.
He was troubled that Josh seemed to have been lumped in with him. Maybe they figured that because the kid had brought him in that he was responsible for Luke’s actions. That idea troubled him, because, when push came to shove, these outlaws weren’t going to like his behavior. Not one little bit.
Equally troubling, though in a different way, was the idea that he and the boy had been grouped together because Goldsmith and his men still didn’t trust Josh. That spelled danger for the kid.
He made his bed, Luke told himself, he’s got to lie in it.
But the thought still troubled him.
Goldsmith waited for them. He’d traded his ever-present lucifer match for a cigar. Luke hadn’t grown used to the sight of Goldsmith’s disfigurement yet, so he made a studied practice of looking the man in the eyes when he spoke. It was his practice anyway, but he knew men with facial scars were often touchy about them. Goldsmith’s scars were no minor matter. The left side of his face looked like a melted candle.
Trask stood off to one side, arms crossed over his barrel chest. He wore a regular holster on his right hip, a cross-draw cavalry model on the left, and had a .454 Colt Dragoon stuck through his belt. A sheathed Bowie knife with a nearly foot-long blade hung off his gunbelt, and the bone handle of a second knife stuck up from his boot top.
The burly varmint isn’t likely to be confused for a traveling preacher any time soon, Luke thought.
He also realized that when it came time, Trask was unlikely to surrender. Sooner or later, if he wanted to stop the gang, Luke was going to have to kill the man.
“The sergeant major and I have been talking,” Goldsmith said. His eyes scrutinized Luke as he spoke. “We need to perform some reconnaissance and consider our options before we act.”
“Makes sense,” Luke acknowledged. “What’d you have in mind?”
“You and young Josh here are going to accompany the sergeant major into a nearby settlement called Hatchet Creek. We need to get an idea of how many deputies the sheriff has, how many men are likely to take up arms in an emergency, and where the likeliest places to hit for cash money are.”
“Yes, sir!” Josh said.
Luke nodded to show he understood. “We’re going to hit Hatchet Creek next, then,” he said.
“We ain’t necessarily doing a damn thing, Red Leg,” Trask said suddenly. His voice was basso profundo deep and gravelly as a desert gully. “We don’t know how you handle yourself or even if you’re who you say you are.”
Luke looked him in the eye. “I can handle myself just fine,” he said, voice even. “I’m ready to prove that anytime with anyone.”
The tension between the two men sparked like electricity. Like a building storm it threatened to break loose at any second. Rarely had Luke met a man who pushed him so close to violence so quickly. Abrupt violence was a hallmark of his life as a bounty hunter, but Trask seemed belligerent beyond the norm of even casually violent men.
“At ease,” Goldsmith said. He didn’t shout, but his tone had enough steel in it to catch anyone’s attention.
Trask paused for a moment then looked away. He spat. “Yes, sir, Colonel,” he said.
Luke knew he had to cooperate if he was going to survive. “Yes, sir,” he acknowledged.
“This is a learning experience for young Josh,” Goldsmith explained. “A chance for him to show he can be trusted with jobs harder than watching the horses when the rest of the men go to work.”
Josh looked proud fit to burst. He nodded energetically.
“Yes, sir, Colonel. I won’t let you down!”
“I know, son,” Goldsmith smiled. He drew on his cigar, the breeze immediately snatching the smoke away. He looked at Luke. “You understand we can’t just take Josh’s word for everything. Most of these boys have been together since the war started. The ones who didn’t ride with me for Sherman have been with us a good spell. We know they’re solid. If we’re going to trust you, we need to see how you handle yourself.”
Luke nodded. “That makes sense,” he acknowledged. “I appreciate the opportunity to prove myself.”
“One of the fastest ways to earn our trust is showing you’re able to follow the chain of command. That means listening to the sergeant major.”
Luke let his mouth settle into a hard, flat line. He nodded sharply, playing the role of hardcase trying to earn his way into a new gang.
“I get that,” he said. “I know how to ride with an outfit.”
Goldsmith nodded. “And that’s just what we are, Luke,” he said. “We’re an outfit, a unit, just like the Red Legs. We’re taking our Jayhawking to ex-rebels who think their crimes have been forgiven. We’re taking our Jayhawking to those who turned their backs on us after the war.”
“That sounds all right by me, Colonel,” Luke lied.
Goldsmith smoked his cigar. He looked satisfied. “Good,” he said. “Then get to it.”
CHAPTER 9
As Luke approached Hatchet Creek with Josh and Trask, he realized that he had been through the settlement a couple of years earlier, although as far as he remembered he had never heard the name of the place.
It had been a lot smaller then, too, barely more than a wide place in the trail. As that crotchety old newspaperman back in Carlton had told him, Hatchet City had grown a lot since the railroad reached Ellsworth, not far away. Now it was starting to look like a real town.
Luke hadn’t interacted with a lot of the folks here, just picked up a few supplies at a trading post and moved on. Nobody in Hatchet Creek had any reason to remember him or know that he was a bounty hunter. But after so many years of roaming around the frontier, it was impossible to guarantee he wouldn’t run into somebody who would recognize him.
He had made a few friends over the years . . . and a whole heap of enemies.
He turned this potential problem over in his mind as the three men rode into the prairie town, but eventually he settled on a cold truth.
If things fell apart, he’d kill Trask as quick as he could and then attempt to arrest Josh. Then he would go after the gang. That was what was going to happen sooner or later anyway.
It was probably just as well he made peace with this fact, because things went to hell pretty damn fast.
They made the town by early afternoon. And when things quickly went wrong and spun out of control, it wasn’t because anyone recognized Luke.
It happened because of a girl.
The town was booming. A large company of freight haulers had arrived with supplies. The streets were crowded with people shopping, and the platoons of bullwhackers and muleskinners looking to blow off steam after an arduous and dangerous trip. Muleskinners were freighters who drove wagons pulled by mules. Bullwhackers were those freighters who used teams of oxen.
