Quinn's War

by Joe B. Slater

Chapter 16

  In the dim morning light Quinn saw the black man leaning against the bench across from the door and the white man sitting on the floor to the left with his knees up and his head down.

  “Ah din wan ta star witchout you,” he said. “Whachu wanna do?”

  The little white man stood, knees bent, with his palms against the wall. “You goddamn sonofabitch! You let me outa here.” He took a step. “You’re gonna die, you know that? Do you know who I am? Do you?” He took three steps and was in Quinn’s face.

  Quinn put his palm on the man’s chest and walked him back. “Yes, I do. Do you know me?” He pointed to his patch. “You’re the man who took my eye.”

  “I don’t know you, and I didn’t do nothin’ to you. You’re crazy.”

  “My name’s James Quinn.” Quinn pushed him. “You shot my mule.” Quinn pushed him again. “You shot me in the face in front of the Lewis Landing Hotel. Now you know me.” Quinn pushed again, pinning Walker against the wall.

  The man swiped Quinn’s hand away and made a move to the door. The slave was in front of it before he took a second step. Quinn threw a forearm around his neck from the rear, swung him around, and bulldogged him to the floor. Then he sat on his back and pushed his head against the floor. “My name’s James Quinn. You shot my friend on the steps of his hotel and set fire to it lookin’ for a runaway slave. Do you remember me now?”

  Quinn rose and stood astride the man. “Sit up.”

  The man turned over and skittered back against the wall and looked up. “I remember. I remember. I’m sorry about your eye. It was just automatic, you understand? You came at me and your friend put his rifle on me. If I didn’t get him Hawk woulda. We stopped by earlier lookin’ for her. We said we were comin’ back and we did. He had the girl.”

  “The girl. Did you get her?”

  “Yeah, we got her. We still got her.” He pushed himself standing against the wall. “I can’t fix what happened, mister, but I can get her for you, if you want her. If that would help make things right.”

  Quinn walked over to the bench and boosted himself up and sat.

  “And I can get you some other things,” the white man said. “What can you use?”

  “My friend here wants his wife and daughter back.”

  “Aw, Jesus Christ! He’s a nigger. The woman and the girl don’t belong to him. She’s ours.”

  “And you own him, too. Just the same, he wants them back.”

  “He knows I can’t do that. They’re gone. I can give him his papers and some money and send him south. Maybe he can find them, but I can’t.”

  “Give him his papers? You think a black man with papers can do what you can’t do? You could, but you won’t. How about your daddy? You think your daddy could find them?”

  “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know if he would.”

  Quinn paused. He repeated the man’s words and added, “If it were a matter of life and death, you think?”

  “Aw, Jesus!” The man sank to the floor. “I’m a dead man!”

  From the door the black man growled, “He right. Evabody know Massa Jeffery nebah gibe up no ting ta no body. Dey gone. I know dat.” The black man picked up the whiskey bottle from the workbench. “Dis be in de wagon.” He waved it at Quinn and turned to Walker. “Massa Elliott, you bes be drinkin’ some mo a dis.” He extended the bottle to the man on the floor. Walker waved it away.

  “Mista Quinn, dere be a dubbatree in de stable ta git fo me, an de roll a de tallygrab wi’ah dere, too. Tote back dat, an den hitch up de pony an we go fine daddy.” He looked at Quinn and nodded. “I git dis boy likker up an we tak ‘im home.”

  Quinn walked back to the stable. The pony had been brushed and fed and tied in a stall. The ambulance had been backed into a second stall, and Walker’s horse was tied, bridled and saddled, in a third. He found the doubletree and the wire in the tack room and brought them back to the shed. Walker was sitting on the floor against the wall and the black man was standing over him with the bottle.

  He waved at Quinn. “Obah dere on de bench, be good.” He turned back to the man on the floor. “Massa Quinn git us ready fo a ride, Massa Elliott, so you hab some mo a dis.” He set the bottle between the man’s legs.

  Quinn laid the doubletree on the bench and dropped the wire on the floor and left.

  He dressed the pony and hooked up the rig and pulled it out into the alley. Then he led Elliott Walker’s horse out and tied it to a wheel of the hack.

  Quinn opened the door to the shed and nearly stumbled over the black man, who was sitting on the floor inside the door. His clothes were bloody and he looked up. “We be ready now.”

  Elliott Walker was propped up against the opposite wall. He was blood-soaked and his head hung to his chest. His arms were spread wide across the wooden strut and his legs and torso were wired to a board.

  The black man stood. “We be ready now.” He held out a bloody knife. “He not dead. You go bline ‘im now an we tak ‘im ta daddy an we see whut de daddy do, huh.” The slave smiled and raised the knife toward Quinn. Quinn shook his head.

  “No mo playin wit de mouse, Mista Quinn.”

  Quinn shook his head again.

  “Doan matta. Massa Elliott no lib to see his chillun. I tuk his seeds. I lebe his gun an tuk da bullets.” The black man laughed. He wiped the knife on his pants and stuck it in his waistband. “Me an Massa Elliott, we be ready, Mista Quinn.”

  Quinn walked to the ambulance and didn’t look back. He sat in the box and gathered the reins and waited for the black man to load the body and tie the horse to the tailgate. The slave stepped up and sat next to Quinn. “We be goin now. Les go ta daddy. Les go home.”

  The slave directed him and Quinn was quiet. He drove the cart through the open gates and up the circle drive and stopped. “You not be needin ta come wit me, Mista Quinn. I be doin dis mysef.”

  Quinn looked at him and nodded.

  The black man swung down from the bench and tied Elliott Walker’s horse to the wheel. Quinn looked back as he pulled the man out of the ambulance and propped him up against the other wheel and went back to tie the horse to the tailgate. He circled the rig and put his hands on the bench and looked up. “I go now, Mistah Quinn.”

  He turned and put his shoulder under the little man’s arm and lifted. As the big man walked up the steps with his load, Quinn turned the rig around and drove down to the gate, where he met a buggy coming through to deliver another child to the Walker mansion.

  Chapter 17

  Quinn rattled the hospital door and waited, then rattled again. When Lawrence opened it he asked to see Elizabeth. The old soldier looked down at the steps. “Sorry, Mr. Quinn. She says she’s busy.” He looked up. “Is there something I can do for you? Give her a message?”

  Quinn shook his head. “You’re a good soldier, Lawrence. I hope you never see battle. Just tell Mrs. Stiles that the ambulance is waiting.”

  Lawrence stepped out and looked at the rig. “You stay safe, Mr. Quinn.” He brought his hand up in salute.

  Quinn gave a short wave. “You, too, Lawrence.” He walked down, untied Walker’s horse, and rode off.

  Back at the inn Quinn gathered his baggage and his guns and tied them to Walker’s saddle. Mounting his horse, he pulled on the lead and trailed the horse away from the river.

  Quinn rode to Rolla and took a room at the inn. Next morning he rode to Fort Dette. He trailed Elliott Walker’s horse up the berm and down into the old fort and saw what could have been the same two men working their shovels along one side of the camp. “Is Anthony around this morning?”

  The men looked up. “No, suh,” both said in unison.

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Yes, suh,” one said. “He ovah at de new fort. He work dere now.”

  “Does he come back at night? After work?”

  “No, suh. He not be back.”

  Quinn got off his horse, shucked his glove, and held his hand out. “I’m Jamie
Quinn.” He shook their hands and the men said nothing. “I’d like to leave some things for him.”

  He handed his horse to one of the men and Walker’s horse to the other. Quinn stripped his packs and weapons from Walker’s horse and loaded them onto his gray. He left one bag.

  “When he comes back tell him the buckrah found his little white man and that this is his horse. The gentleman’s clothes in the bag are mine and tell him I hope they fit.”

  “Yes, suh,” the two men said.

  Quinn swung into the saddle and rode up the berm and down into Rolla and then north toward the river.

  This book is dedicated to all the Quinns, Smiths, and Slaters. Special thanks, again, to Dave Slater and Susan Cooper for their criticism and their encouragement. I appreciate you both.