“What is it, lad? Are you all right?” Quantrill sprang to his feet, rushing to Alistair’s side.
“Did …?” He tried to think. Thoughts swarmed through his head in all directions. “Did Darius bring this?” His chin pointed at the cup.
“Darius? What? Who? Are you sure you’re all right?”
Alistair pointed at the cup. “Where did you get this?”
“This cup? Thunderation, boy.” Quantrill laughed. “From a damnyankee, no less. Lawrence, perhaps. I disremember.”
Alistair reached out, saw his hand shaking, and fingered the small cup, tracing the gold rim. The laugh that came coughing out held no joy, and he looked up, tears now filling his own eyes, and he heard himself saying, his voice cracking: “You are a damned liar.”
Quantrill stepped back, his face dropping, his right hand reaching for that huge pistol tucked inside his sash.
“You stole that from Beans Kimbrough’s house.” Alistair stood. “Remember? After Wilson’s Creek.”
“I freed this from a redleg’s home in Baxter Springs!”
Alistair rose, shaking his head. “No.” Though it could have been. Hell, it wasn’t like the Kimbroughs were the only wealthy folks who owned gold-rimmed china. He was guessing. But, no, his gut told him the truth.
“It came from Beans Kimbrough’s house.”
“What if it did?” Quantrill spun, found his own brandy, tried to drink, but his hand shook, too. He threw the glass against the fireplace, where it shattered. “His father was no patriot to our cause. He was a coward and a traitor. Worse than that miserable reprobate who I unfortunately called my own father.”
Alistair took a step.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving,” he said.
Quantrill moved to block his path. “You will not, I say. Sit. Drink. Please, let us not quarrel.” When Alistair refused to obey, the colonel exploded. “Look at you! In poor man’s clothing. You do not even don a bushwhacker shirt. Have you forgotten all I have done for you, Durant? I showed you Richmond. I showed you Saint Louis. I bought you the finest clothes. I made you what you are. I taught you …”
It was too much. Alistair shoved Quantrill aside, headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
Alistair pulled the latch string, pushed the door open.
“Don’t you turn your back on me, you insolent bas—”
Alistair spun, saw Quantrill bringing the LeMat from his sash, but the Navy leaped into Alistair’s own hand, and he had the hammer eared back, the barrel level, before Quantrill had his gun up.
In the corner of his eye, Alistair spotted Kate Clarke looking up. She appeared to be smiling.
“Toss that gun on the table,” Alistair said in a deadly whisper. “If you don’t, I’ll kill you. And killing’s one thing you’ve taught me how to do too well.”
Paling, Quantrill moved to the table, dropped the gun beside a plate of fried chicken, and stepped away, hands at his side.
“I’m leaving,” Alistair said. “But there’s something I must do first. And if you stick your head outside that door before morning, I’ll kill you.”
“Alistair,” Quantrill begged. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
Alistair backed outside, slamming the door shut.
“To hell with you, Alistair Durant!” Quantrill screamed at the door, but he made no move to come outside.
* * * * *
He moved methodically back toward the cook fire. What did it matter? Truly matter? William Quantrill had stolen a china mug—something else, too, what was it? Silverware? Yeah, silverware. Who cared. And maybe Beans’ father had been a coward. Maybe he had tried to stay out of the war. Did it matter? Was Quantrill’s brother’s name Thomas Henry or Franklin? Who cared? Had he really been killed by jayhawkers, or was that another lie? Did Quantrill even have a brother? No, nothing mattered. Not really.
Beans Kimbrough had called Quantrill one of his only friends. Would he have been so loyal had he known that Quantrill had stolen from his own home, where he had spent the night as a guest? Honestly Alistair didn’t know the answer. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to leave, to quit Quantrill. Since he’d started riding as a Partisan Ranger, he had felt dirty. Now, he felt used. Betrayed.
No, all that mattered was Alistair’s conscience, his soul.
He stepped over the log, and slammed a fist into Darius Kimbrough’s face. Beans’ kid brother, who had been standing, sharing a joke with Jim Cummins, dropped. Frank James and Cole Younger stepped up, eased away from the fire.
In a neighboring camp, someone called out excitedly: “Fight!”
Darius came up, wiping his nose, starting for the Starr revolver in his waistband, but Alistair hit him again, and, when Darius folded, Alistair jerked the .36 out, quickly tossed it over a stump. Then slammed a fist into the kid’s temple.
“You’re going home,” Alistair said. “Your mother needs you. Especially now.”
The kid was on hands and knees, crawling, spitting blood and snot, trying to stand. Alistair’s wound throbbed, but he ignored it, and kicked Darius in the ribs. The boy rolled over, curling up into a ball.
“You didn’t even like your brother.”
“I did …”
Alistair reached down, grabbed Darius’ hair, jerked up his head, slammed it into the dirt. “You’re going home.” He was sweating, his heart pounding, his breath ragged. “This isn’t … starting again. You get … to your horse … right now. You saddle up. You ride. Back to … Osceola.”
“But …”
He kicked the kid in the thigh. Darius cried out. “Are you going?” Alistair roared. “Or do I … carry you back?” He moved as if to strike the kid again.
“Don’t hit me!” Darius wailed. “I’m going. I’m going.”
* * * * *
After Darius Kimbrough had filled his war bag, saddled his dun, and ridden out of camp, Alistair sat by the fire again, coffee cup in his hand, watching the flames, seeing Lawrence burning again.
“What come over you?” Jim Cummins asked. “To give that boy such a whuppin’?”
Alistair saw the Johnson House. He saw the gun shop. He saw the Eldridge. “I’m leaving, too,” he said to no one in particular.
“With Bloody Bill?” Cole Younger asked.
His head shook. “I don’t know. Sibley, maybe. Somewhere.”
“You’re welcome to ride with me, Durant,” William Gregg said. “My horse is ready. I leave in a few minutes.”
“Regular army, eh?” Frank James chuckled.
Alistair looked up. “Why don’t y’all come with us?”
Frank’s laughter died, and he spit again. Jim Cummins decided to finish his rye.
“I know something’s come betwixt you and the colonel, kid.” Cole Younger spoke softly. “The reason ain’t none of our business. But I reckon we’ve floated our stick with the colonel all this time. He’s got his faults, but …” Younger shrugged.
“It’s a hell of a war,” Jim Cummins said after a lengthy silence, just to say something.
* * * * *
It was midnight when he saddled the black gelding. A fine horse, too good for the even trade Frank James had made for the buckskin, but Alistair knew better than to argue with Frank James. He shook Cole Younger’s hand, then Frank James’, even Jim Cummins’.
“You ready?” William Gregg was already in the saddle.
Alistair swung up. The black fought the bit, wanting to run. Soon Alistair would give the horse plenty of rein.
“It’s a hell of a war,” Jim Cummins, well in his cups, said again.
Alistair tipped the brim of his hat. William Gregg eased his horse out of the picket. Instead of returning to the woods road, he moved through camp, and Alistair followed. They would steer clear of roads, of people, of towns, until they h
ad reached Arkansas, where they would try to find Jo Shelby or Sterling Price or anybody in a gray or butternut uniform. Anyone who was not commanding an outfit of Partisan Rangers.
Gregg rode with a revolver in his right hand, the hammer eared back. For now, until they were out of camp, Alistair did the same.
The path they took led them straight past Quantrill’s cabin. From inside, Alistair heard the sounds of a man sobbing, and he almost lost his resolve. But he kept riding out of the camp’s light, into the darkness, through the trees.
“A hell of a war,” he heard himself whisper.
Higginsville
Epilogue
Every year about this time, they’d flock to the Confederate Soldiers Home of Missouri like mosquitoes. Pesky little ink-slingers, wanting to hear all about Lawrence. Wanting some scoop. To learn one more tidbit about William Quantrill or Bloody Bill Anderson—God’s truth or shameless falsehood, it mattered not. This year, 1923, being one of those big anniversaries, Alistair Durant knew they’d come out in droves, and they had. He had told all of them: “Go to hell.”
Which he was about to tell this curly-haired gent in a straw hat and high-waist jacket, till the reporter said he came from the Osceola Tribune.
Craning his head, Alistair looked the bespectacled young man in the face, and said: “I didn’t think Osceola had a newspaper.”
“It’s small.” The kid smiled. Tried to, anyway, nervous as he was. “But one of the best papers in the state.”
Missouri brag.
Alistair snorted, and went back to watching the birds and the trees and looking at the tombstones. He sat on a bench, in the shade, near the little chapel, with a good view of the cemetery. That boneyard kept growing. He pointed.
“I’ll be buried there, too.” He nodded in satisfaction. “One day.”
To his left, Henry Wilson said: “You’re too ornery to die, Durant. Hell, you’ll even outlive Comrade Cummins.”
To his right, Jim Cummins spit tobacco juice, and stroked the hair of his pet raccoon. “That’ll be the day,” he said.
The reporter cleared his throat. “Can I talk to you gentlemen?” His voice creaked nervously. “About Lawrence.”
“Never been there.” Jim Cummins chortled.
“And I promised that good-lookin’ gal from the Star that I’d give her an exclusive,” Henry Wilson said. “Wouldn’t say nothin’ else to nobody.”
“Looks like it’s up to you, Durant,” Cummins said.
Turning, staring at the ink-slinger, Alistair asked: “Why do you always wanna know about Lawrence? Why not Osceola? Or Nevada City?”
The reporter fumbled to retrieve his notebook and pencil from his coat pocket. “Well … Lawrence sells newspapers. Especially this year, sixty years ago and all. And we’re doing a story on Osceola, too. In conjunction with your reunion. But my assignment is Lawrence. And … er … Quantrill … and … er … Well, can I ask you about Lawrence?”
“No.” Alistair looked at the graveyard. He had been to another funeral just last week.
“Will you be attending this year’s reunion of Quantrill’s band?”
“He has,” Cummins answered for him, “since the first one back in ’98.”
“Not so many of us left these days, though,” Henry Wilson added.
The first reunion of Quantrill’s survivors had been held at Blue Springs. They had been meeting one weekend in September ever since, though death kept depleting the number of survivors. Even Frank James and Cole Younger were gone now. Of old age.
“What did Jesse James do at Lawrence?” the reporter asked.
“Killed fifty men,” Henry Wilson lied.
“Nah, it was only forty-seven,” Cummins added.
Alistair shook his head, decided to talk a little. “They’re funning you, kid. Jesse wasn’t even there.”
Jesse had joined up after Alistair had left Quantrill in Texas, in the spring of 1864, but wound up fighting mostly with Bloody Bill. He’d learned well, too. After the war, he, brother Frank, and Cole Younger had made quite the name for themselves, robbing banks, trains, before Jesse had been shot dead in 1882. During the late 1860s and early 1870s, Alistair would let the outlaws sleep in his barn, even swap horses with them, but that was because of a loyalty to Frank and Cole, not Jesse. He had barely known Jesse.
Tired of staring at the backs of the bushwhackers’ heads, the reporter moved around. Looking down at Alistair, he asked: “You are Alistair Durant, aren’t you?”
He stared at the reporter. “What of it?”
“They say you saved a lot of Kansans’ lives that day. In Lawrence.”
“Hell, no,” Jim Cummins said. “He killed all seven hundred that day.”
Added Henry Wilson: “Exceptin’ the fifty Jesse shot dead.”
Seven hundred? Not hardly. More like one-fifty, maybe two hundred. Still a massacre. What had Cole called it? “A grand day of butchery.”
“Who says I saved lives?” Alistair tried to push off the bench, but it was too damned hot, and he was too damned tired, to move. Till the nurses came for them.
“Maura Shea Morgan, the Florence Nightingale of Lawrence.”
Henry Wilson wiped his nose. “Hear her son’s got a good chance of becomin’ lieutenant governor of Kansas. She was a good-lookin’ petticoat, I tell you that. Wonder if she still looks so fine.”
“Don’t get yourself lathered up, ol’ comrade,” Jim Cummins said.
“You interviewed Maura?” Alistair asked.
“Yes. At her home in Manhattan.”
Alistair reached inside his shirt, felt the scar underneath his ribs.
“I had a pillowcase full of plunder,” Henry Wilson was saying, “and she come up to me, and made me hand it back to this sobbin’ woman. That was in Lawrence.” He quickly shot the reporter a nervous stare. “But I didn’t kill nobody in Lawrence. Nobody at all.”
“Only ’cause Durant killed ’em all,” Jim Cummins said, and chuckled. The raccoon on his lap growled.
“I thought I was giving this interview!” Alistair snapped.
“Well, hell, tell the boy somethin’,” Henry Wilson muttered.
“Something good,” Jim Cummins said.
“Tell me about Quantrill.” The reporter scribbled in his notebook, and flipped to a new page.
William Clarke Quantrill. Friend and mentor. Manipulator and opportunist. Turns out, he hadn’t been born in Kentucky, but hailed from Ohio, had even ridden with Yankees in Kansas before siding with the Confederacy. Somehow, despite the discontent in Texas during the winter of 1863–64, he had managed to keep some semblance of a command. George Todd and Bloody Bill Anderson had pulled out, struck out on their own, only to be shot down by Federals in the fall of 1864. Quantrill almost survived the war. Did live, in fact, after the regular Confederate generals had started to surrender, only to be shot down in 1865.
Over those long decades, many had formulated theories on what Quantrill was planning. That he was running for his life. That he wanted to save his men, hoped they would have a better chance of not being executed as bushwhackers if they surrendered with a regular Rebel Army back east somewhere. That he was bound for Washington to kill as many Yankee leaders as possible. That he wanted to lend his capable services to Robert E. Lee. You could even find a few who thought he wasn’t dead at all, that there was no way in hell a Yankee could have ever captured and killed William Clarke Quantrill.
But he was dead. Alistair knew that. His group—Frank James had been with him, but by then Quantrill’s ranks had thinned down to maybe twenty raiders—had been ambushed, and Quantrill caught a ball in his spine, paralyzing him from the shoulders down. He had dropped facedown in the mud, his assailants stealing his boots, his watch, his dignity. An ignoble end. Or maybe a fitting one. Quantrill withered away for almost a month, dying in Louisville on June 6, 1865.
He was twenty-seven years old.
Some of Quantrill’s boys, like Arch Clements and Oll Shepherd, were gunned down after the war. Clell Miller died riding with the James-Younger gang. Others, like Henry Wilson, Jim Cummins, and even Alistair Durant, merely got old.
“Quantrill was the best by-god general in the whole Confederate Army,” Jim Cummins said.
Henry Wilson added: “He was a horse’s ass.”
Alistair shook his head. He gave up on trying to keep those two old codgers quiet.
The reporter paused to wipe his sweaty brow. A cardinal landed on a hedge, and began singing. The raccoon began to snore. Or maybe it was Jim Cummins.
“Quantrill?” the kid prodded.
“Everything’s been written about Quantrill that can be written,” Alistair said.
The reporter tried another approach. “You left Quantrill, though? Right? Was that because of Lawrence?”
He thought about telling the kid to go to hell, but said: “Left for my own … private, reasons.” He was going to stop there, but, instead, kept talking. “Joined up with Jo Shelby around Clarendon, Arkansas, in spring or summer of ’64. When the war ended, Jo Shelby took some troops south to Mexico. Planned to fight for Maximilian, but I’d had my fill of war. I went home.”
“What did you do after the war, sir?”
“Went back to farming,” he answered, the words flowing comfortably all of a sudden. “Wasn’t much else I could do, what with carpetbaggers running the state, and all. Met a woman at New Hope. That was my church. I’m Baptist, you see. Married her in ’71. Lost her in ’09. But we had a good life. I have no complaints. Gave my oldest boy the farm, moved into the Home here back in July of ’11. My kids come to see me on Sundays. Most Sundays, anyhow. And grandkids. They don’t ask impertinent questions about what I did during the war.”
He looked left, then right. Cummins’ and Wilson’s heads had tilted forward. They were sleeping. Or faking it.
“From what I’ve heard and read,” the reporter said, “you were driven to become a bushwhacker.”
“We all claimed that.” Taciturn again.
Wreaths of Glory Page 19
