by B. S. Dunn
The hammer fell on Reynolds’ Colt and the weapon misfired. A dry click was all that sounded from the six-gun. The Union officer cursed and thumbed the hammer back again. He squeezed the trigger again and the same thing happened.
Frustration took over. ‘Christ.’
Unable to do anything, Reynolds watched the smiling figure turn away and walk into the mêlée, thick powder smoke enveloping him like a shroud.
‘Captain! Look out!’ Curtis shouted.
Reynolds whirled in time to confront a Confederate soldier about to skewer him with a wicked-looking bayonet.
The Union officer reacted instinctively and brought up the useless Colt he was holding and batted the pointed blade away at the last possible moment. The Rebel’s momentum carried him forwards, close enough for Reynolds to reverse the swing of his gun and club it against the attacker’s head. A sickening crunch was audible and the soldier dropped to the ground, convulsed, and died.
‘They’re falling back! Hurrah!’
The cry travelled along the line and Reynolds looked up to see the remains of the Confederate brigade fading away into the heavy mist created by the constant firing. Most were helping wounded comrades, trying to get back to their own lines.
There was movement beside Reynolds and a voice said, ‘Captain?’
He turned and saw a sergeant. A different one this time. ‘What is it?’
‘The general says to organize your men, sir. We’re pulling back. The 3rd Iowa will lead the way. Follow them through the gap in the lines before the Rebs close it.’
Reynolds nodded. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
After the sergeant disappeared, Reynolds opened his mouth to call out to Frame. He checked himself and sought out Curtis. When he found him, the sergeant was crouched beside a man, checking the severity of his wounds.
‘Sergeant.’
Curtis stood up and eyed his commanding officer. ‘Sir?’
‘We’re pulling out. Keep an eye on the 3rd Iowa boys, we’re to follow them.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Curtis acknowledged. ‘And Lieutenant Frame, sir?’
‘There’s nothing we can do for him, Jim. See to the men and let’s get the hell out of this deathtrap.’
‘They’re coming in on the left, Captain,’ Curtis shouted from behind Reynolds.
The captain cast a glance over his shoulder as another volley rippled along the line in front of him. He could see the Rebs closing in, trying to snap the trap shut to cut off all route of escape for the vastly outnumbered Union troops.
‘Got to hold it open for the rest of them, Jim. If we can’t, the brigades that are left will be in trouble.’
The Confederate forces opened fire and once more the trees sang with lead. One of Reynolds’ men crashed into him, half of his face shot away. In the distance, amid the fog of powder smoke, he could see a Rebel flag waving proudly.
Reynolds had split what remained of the brigade into two almost equal forces when the Confederates had tried to stop the Union troops from escaping. So far, some of the following brigades had made it through, but he knew it couldn’t last. They were outnumbered and almost out of ammunition.
‘Captain!’
Reynolds turned as Curtis ran up to him.
‘We have to go, sir. The men are mostly out of ammunition.’
Reynolds nodded. ‘Move the men out, Jim. We’ve done all we can.’
‘Ahh, shit! We might be too late.’
A Confederate regiment had moved around their flank and was attempting to plug the hole that the Missouri boys were trying to hold open.
‘Damn it. Get them moving. Now!’ Reynolds turned to his men. ‘Twenty-third Missouri! Withdraw!’
Immediately, the call went along the defensive line and the blue-clad troopers started to fall back, firing as they went. But they could only go so far.
‘Sergeant Curtis!’
‘Sir?’
‘If we are to get out of here we have to break through that line of Rebs.’
‘I’ll take care of it, sir!’
He heard Curtis shout orders to the men in his charge and saw them turn from their front. With bayonets lowered, the Missouri men of the 23rd gave a roar and charged at the Confederate line like a human battering ram.
Before they hit the Rebel line it erupted with gunfire, and Reynolds winced when he saw more men fall. The Union troops faltered under the leaden onslaught, and looked as though they were about to buckle and run. Then he saw Curtis in the centre of the line, urging them to move forwards.
For a moment in time, the two lines stood there facing each other, maybe twenty feet between them. The Missourians cut loose with a weak volley that knocked a handful of Rebs over.
The Confederates countered with another of their own, and large holes opened in the line.
‘Damn it!’ Reynolds cursed. He leaned down and scooped up an abandoned musket and then cried out, ‘Follow me, boys. Up and at the bastards!’
Reynolds led the charge forward to reinforce the disintegrating line. The Missourians with him shouted wildly as they ran. They reached their fellow troops and split through the line. As he passed Curtis, Reynolds shouted, ‘Follow us, Jim!’
They punched into the Confederate line before another volley could be fired. To his left, Reynolds saw one of his men drive a bayonet into the eye of a Rebel who had already driven his own into the man’s guts.
A corporal had his thumbs stuck deep into the eyes of a screaming enemy, his own wild with fear as he did anything he needed to do, in order to survive.
A large Confederate sergeant appeared in front of Reynolds. He had blood on the front of his tunic and a bloody tear on the right sleeve. His face was a mass of stubble with a line of blood flowing from his brow.
Using the musket as a club, Reynolds swung it at the snarling face in front of him. It smashed into the Reb’s jaw, shattering it. At the same time the musket snapped above the stock. The sergeant went down as though poleaxed and never moved.
‘Look out, Captain!’ Curtis shouted.
Reynolds whirled just in time to see a Confederate lieutenant swinging a sword at his head. The captain ducked, pulling beneath the scything blow, which would have cleaved the top off his head had it struck home.
Still with the barrel part of the musket in his hands, Reynolds swung what was left at the lieutenant’s knees. The impact was solid and a resounding crack could be heard as the leg broke. A scream of pain was cut short when the bayonet from Curtis’ musket drove deep into the man’s chest.
Reynolds nodded at his sergeant. ‘Thanks, Jim. Keep them moving.’
Scooping up the sword of the fallen Confederate, Reynolds discarded the broken musket barrel. He looked all around and saw that his men were still heavily engaged. Behind the Missourians, he could see the gap had closed. Later he would hear that over two thousand men were missing, most of them captured by the Confederate forces.
Eventually, what remained of the 23rd Missouri broke free of the close quarters’ fighting and fell back with Rebel troops close behind them. They crossed deep ravines and timbered landscape until they reached their lines. The Confederates had pushed them back some two miles. Behind them, Reynolds could hear the ironclads Tyler and Lexington firing on the Rebel lines as they advanced, until they were forced to turn back.
Chapter 1
Curtis was twenty miles shy of Abilene, and the war seemed a lifetime ago when he came to a small town in the middle of nowhere in the year 1868. By the looks of it, it was just a few buildings slapped together in a haphazard manner. Small lines of smoke drifted above some of the hastily constructed shacks, mixing with the oranges and reds of the looming sunset.
Curtis’s horse was tired, not unlike the rider.
‘I guess this will do, horse,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll push on tomorrow.’
He nudged it with his knees and it walked on along the rutted track which led into the town. On the outskirts, he found a sign which read ‘Opal’. Later, when he left, he wou
ld wonder who could have given such a den of iniquity a name that represented beauty.
Curtis found the livery at the other end of town. It was a canvas tent with a corral out the back. It was run by Milt, a short man with a mouthful of blackened teeth. The liveryman studied Curtis, who was unsaddling his horse. ‘Nice bronc you got there, stranger.’
‘I’d like to keep him,’ Curtis said in a deadpan voice. He turned to face Milt.
Curtis stood around six one. His solid frame was packed with rock-hard muscle and his square jaw was covered with a short-cropped beard. The brown pants and red shirt he was wearing were dusty from the trail, and his buckskin jacket was well worn.
Milt eyed him warily. ‘Sure. He’ll be safe here.’
‘Good,’ Curtis said, hoisting his saddle on to the top rail of the corral. ‘If it rains tonight, put this inside your tent.’
Milt nodded.
‘Is there somewhere a man can rest his head in town without getting robbed?’
‘Anywhere outside of town,’ Milt suggested.
Curtis looked to see if the man was joking but there appeared to be no change in his facial expression. He took his Yellow Boy Winchester from the saddle scabbard, grabbed up his saddlebags, and started to walk back along the street.
‘Hey, stranger. That’s three dollars for the night!’
Curtis paused and turned back to face the liveryman. ‘If the horse is still there in the morning, you’ll get your money. If not, you’ll get something else.’
Milt swallowed hard. ‘Sure, that’ll work.’
‘Hey, honey! Wanna give Delilah a good time?’
Curtis sighed. ‘Show me your teeth.’
‘What?’
‘Show me your teeth.’
Delilah opened her mouth. All there, which was unusual.
Curtis looked down at her ample breasts. Her tattered dress was so low cut that they almost spilled out. ‘What about those?’
She grabbed the open neck and pulled it down so they popped out over the top.
The stranger nodded. ‘Not bad.’
‘Well? How about it?’
‘No.’
Delilah’s face distorted in anger. ‘Screw you, asshole.’
‘Not in this lifetime,’ Curtis countered and turned away.
The whore stomped her foot on the earthen floor and flounced off to annoy another customer.
The saloon was made up of a large false front and a canvas tent for the main building. Lanterns hung from the timber rails that held up the ceiling. There were scorch marks above them, and Curtis guessed that it wouldn’t be long before the place burned to the ground.
He approached the makeshift bar, made of planks on top of barrels. The squint-eyed barkeep came over to him and said, ‘What’ll it be, stranger?’
‘Bottle.’
‘Sure,’ he said and turned around to get one from a wooden box behind him. He came back and placed it on the bar. ‘We don’t have glasses at the moment. Or beer for that matter. Hoping they’ll all come the next freight day. We ain’t been open long.’
Curtis placed some money beside the bottle. ‘You might want to order some more canvas too.’
The barkeep was puzzled. He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘If you keep hanging your lanterns up there next to the ceiling like that, it’s only a matter of time before you have a fire.’
An alarmed expression came across the man’s face as he looked up. ‘Oh, yes. I see what you mean. Thank you.’
The man scooped up the money from the bar and put it in his pocket. Curtis stood and waited.
‘Was there something else?’ the barkeep asked.
‘Man puts down that much money for a bottle, he expects he might have some change coming his way.’
The barkeep opened his mouth to say something and then closed it. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins, and placed them on the bar.
‘Could I get something to eat for that?’ Curtis asked.
The man nodded. ‘What would you like?’
‘Whatever you got.’
‘Stew?’
‘That’ll be fine.’
‘Potatoes? Gravy?’
‘Yes.’
The barkeep scooped up the money. ‘Find a table and I’ll bring it out directly.’
While he waited, Curtis observed four men enter the saloon. They were dressed in buckskin pants and wore cotton shirts, and had buckskin jackets to match. Each carried a Henry rifle and wore a wide-brimmed hat.
They were dressed like hunters, but something told Curtis they were anything but. The four of them bought a bottle each and then found a table not far from Curtis’s. They were loud, and as much as he tried to ignore them, he couldn’t help but overhear all they said.
It wasn’t until he was halfway through his meal that things started to turn ugly. Delilah decided to work her wondrous charms on them to see if one would bite. As it turned out, one did. And he bit hard.
It started out harmlessly enough. Delilah came to their table, banter was swapped between them, and then one of the four men slapped her to the floor.
She cried out in pain and surprise. The man who’d struck her came from his seat and stood over her, his fists clenched.
‘Hey!’ shouted the barkeep. ‘There’s no call for that.’
The angry man glared at him. ‘You shut your mouth or you’ll get what she’s about to.’
Curtis shook his head and eased up the Yellow Boy from where it rested against his table. He came erect, worked the lever, and a .44 Henry round slammed home into the breech.
‘You owe the lady an apology, friend,’ he drawled. ‘Be best for all concerned if you do it now.’
The man looked at Curtis. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he snarled.
‘It don’t matter who I am. Just what I’ll do if you don’t apologize.’
He walked around his table and stood near the one where the four had been seated.
‘I suggest you stay out of this, friend,’ said the man Curtis had pegged as the one in charge.
‘Tell your boy to stand down and he might just live to finish his bottle.’
One of the other men made to lurch to his feet. ‘By Christ, I. . . .’
Curtis moved with the speed of an angry rattler. The Yellow Boy suddenly reversed, and the brass butt plate hit the man between the eyes, splitting the skin wide. His legs gave beneath him and he slumped into the chair, stunned, and bright red blood poured down his face.
The weapon came back around just as the woman beater clawed at the gun on his hip. The Winchester in Curtis’ grasp roared, and the slug hit its target hard in the chest. The man staggered back a few steps, shock etched on his unshaven face.
Curtis worked the lever in a fluid motion and fired again. This time the man fell across the table behind him, scattering the bottles left there by patrons who’d not long vacated it.
He moaned and rolled to the side, sliding from the table into a heap on the dirt floor.
The Yellow Boy had been loaded and moved again. This time it was an inch from the nose of the man in charge. He froze.
Curtis said in a low voice, ‘I’m going back to my meal. If you have any objections, speak up. I’d much rather finish it without having to kill anyone else.’
‘Kill the son of a bitch, Vince,’ blurted the bleeding man still blinded by the thick flow.
The man answered in a cool voice, ‘Nope. No problem.’
Curtis lowered his weapon. ‘You might want to teach your boys it ain’t polite to hit a lady.’
Vince stared up at him through pale blue eyes. ‘Who are you, stranger?’
‘Name’s Jim Curtis.’
Vince’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you the one the Mexicans call El Tigre?’
‘I’ve been called that,’ Curtis said, and went back to his table.
He heard the man called Vince say, ‘Murray, get Welsh outta here and then get Bell patched up.’
Curtis had only jus
t restarted his stew when Delilah came across to his table.
‘Thank you, mister,’ she said in a hushed tone. ‘I ain’t never had a feller stand up for me like that before.’
Curtis stared at her. ‘Your boss did.’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, but he don’t belong out here. You’ve seen what he’s like. They would have ate him right up.’
The man known as El Tigre forked in another mouthful of potato and let his gaze linger on the whore. ‘Most probably,’ he agreed. ‘But at least he was man enough to do it. Not like the others in this place who just watched.’
She pulled out the second chair and sat down. She waited for Curtis to say something but he remained silent.
‘Did I hear you say your name was Jim?’
He paused. Ever since the death of his wife, his name being uttered from the lips of another woman always sounded funny. ‘Call me Curtis.’
He kept eating while she watched, pausing only to push the bottle of whisky towards her. ‘Have a drink.’
‘Thank you.’
She picked up the bottle and Curtis noticed the tremor in her hand. She put the bottle back on the table, winced, and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
He put the fork down, clasped his hands in front of himself, and stared at her once more.
Delilah gave him a puzzled look. ‘What?’
‘How come you’re here? You ain’t a whore. I’ve seen my share and you ain’t nothing like them.’
‘How would you know what I’m like?’ she snapped.
‘For starters, you still have all your teeth. Second, most whores I know that have been working on their backs tend to lose the spark in their eyes after the first year of doing it. You still have yours. And under all that grime and crap on your face, I’d wager there’s a pretty lady. So, tell me, what are you doing here?’
‘Long story.’
‘Time is something I got plenty of.’
She remained silent for a long time. He could see her mind ticking over as she fought whether to tell him her life story or not. Then, ‘I had a husband once, you know. I was married to the most wonderful man you would ever meet.’
‘What happened?’
‘He’s buried on the outskirts of this hole.’
