by John Jakes
One possibility of profit offset the danger. Banquo Collins knew the two wagons contained something besides guns and provisions. Powell hadn’t told him so, of course. But he suspected from the moment he saw the six powerful horses straining against the traces of the first wagon back in Virginia City. He confirmed the suspicion by discovering the special cross-bracing on the underside of both wagons. The extra weight was not visible, but it was there.
How much precious metal the wagons carried, he didn’t know. But it had to be a goodly amount. Gold bullion, probably. As to its purpose, its ultimate use, he presumed that was Powell’s secret. Maybe it had a connection with the Confederate cause, for which the man was openly keen. All the Southrons Collins had met were fanatics of one sort or another.
The secret cargo prodded him to prepare for various eventualities, for he did fear they were being followed. Had been for three days. Or at least that was when Collins first observed the sign, which he pointed out to no one else until he was sure he was right about it.
He estimated the number of Jicarilla as between ten and twenty. In the event of a hot brush with them, Collins intended to behave like the glass snake, a natural oddity he had discovered down this way. The glass snake was not a snake at all but a legless lizard with the ability to shake off part of its tail when attacked. The tail kept twitching after it separated from the body, and while the attacker was being distracted by the sight, the creature writhed away to safety.
Collins was not only determined to escape with his skin and his hair but with part of the gold. He certainly couldn’t get away with several hundred pounds of it, but even a little would allow him to live handsomely and have fun for a while.
Aye, he would play the glass snake, all right. Having of course made sure, either by observing the Apaches at work or by taking action himself, that Mr. Powell and the lawyer were in no state to tell tales of his thievery, ever.
That evening they encamped among tall standing rocks near a deep gully, part of a line of eroded breaks above a stream they must ford. Collins assured Powell of an easy descent to be found three miles due south, but he preferred this campsite because of the natural fortifications the rocks provided.
“Better here tonight than in the open.”
“You think the Apaches are close?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“How much longer to reach Santa Fe? Three days?”
“Or a wee bit more.” Collins never risked a lie with Powell. The man’s eyes and barely controlled tension warned against it. “Now, sir, I suggest we build a fire and stay close to it. If you take a stroll, make sure it isn’t far.”
“All right.”
“I must go ha’ my dinner now.”
“And we’ll have ours.”
Powell, Huntoon, and the teamsters ate biscuits and jerky, both of which helped relieve the boredom because it took so much time to soften the food with chewing. Collins preferred his own fare, pit-roasted pieces of mescal, an Apache delicacy of which Powell wanted no part.
Powell rubbed a slim hand over his hair. It felt dry, scratchy. He had run out of pomade weeks ago. He disliked hats. The result was more and more gray apparent. He must resemble a scarecrow. An old one, at that. Would Ashton laugh, he wondered. He imagined her naked as he leaned against a wagon wheel.
Huntoon rose, his apologetic expression explaining the reason. He stepped behind a rock. Two teamsters snickered at the sound of water.
Three days to Santa Fe. Apache in the vicinity. Powell decided he had better wait no longer. Huntoon had been useful, performing menial chores and dutifully twitching each time Powell reminded him that no matter how onerous his task, he must carry it out to prove his mettle. The stupid cuckold had done it, too.
Twilight came on rapidly in this craggy, lonesome land, which resembled nothing Lamar Powell had ever seen. He found it magically beautiful if taken on its own terms. As a teamster stood, stretched, and rubbed his rump, Powell left the fire and threaded through the stones to the gully rim, where he looked down. The gully bottom was already hidden in cool black shadow.
He gazed east, toward clouds that picked up the fiery light slanting from the opposite direction. Eastward, Ashton was waiting. He was disarmed and amazed to realize how much he missed her. In his own way, he loved her. She was intensely physical and warm, something her pitiful husband undoubtedly hadn’t appreciated during his short span on earth. She would be an ideal first lady for the new state he would rule and guard from harm for the rest of his life.
He had planned the first steps months ago. Locate an appropriate site, near Santa Fe but not too near. Hire workers to erect a small ranch house and sink a well. Find some Confederate sympathizer to travel into Texas, spreading the word—rallying the disaffected soldiers, who, if not already paroled after a surrender, soon would be.
At first they would ride to Santa Fe singly or in pairs. But before the year was out, they’d be arriving by platoons and companies, shaking the earth with the sound of their coming. He would devise a new flag for them to carry against potential enemies, and write a proclamation establishing the new government on an equal basis with that of mongrelized Washington and all the nations of Europe.
It would be convenient to employ Huntoon as his first herald in Texas, but Ashton made it impossible. Powell meant to live with her from the moment they were reunited. Therefore—
A contented sigh signaled his decision.
Powell shivered; the evening air was cooling rapidly. Tonight was not only suitable; it was ideal, he thought, gazing east. He felt close to Ashton all at once.
Perhaps she, too, was growing excited as he drew near. He had sent a letter from Virginia City, which he presumed she had received by now; the mail surely traveled faster than his overburdened wagons. In the letter, he had described the contents of the wagons, their probable route of travel and approximate timetable. Was she poring over his words at this moment, thinking of the two of them romping on sheets of presidential satin? Delightful vision—
About an hour later, with night settling, he examined his four-barrel Sharps to be certain it was fully loaded. He tucked the gun away inside his frock coat, yellowed by travel dust, and sought Huntoon at the smoky fire. Collins was napping against a boulder on the far side. Two of the hired men still squatted next to each other, chewing jerky. The third had gone to take the first turn at picket duty.
“James, my friend?” Powell said, touching his shoulder. Huntoon’s spectacles flashed with firelight as he turned.
“What is it?”
“Would you come for a short stroll? I have a matter to discuss.”
Pettish, Huntoon said, “Is it important?”
A charming smile. “I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
“I’m infernally tired.”
A level stare, once more demanding that he prove his mettle. “Just five minutes. Then you can have a long rest.”
“Oh, all right.” Sounding like a cranky child, Huntoon wiped biscuit crumbs from the corners of his mouth. He had grown slovenly on the journey. Powell distastefully noted black dirt under the lawyer’s nails.
They moved off among the rocks as the fire crackled beneath the black sky. From the near distance came the cry of an animal, half yelp, half growl. Banquo Collins sat up instantly, raising the brim of his buckskin hat. One of the teamsters glanced at the guide.
“Mountain lion?”
“No, laddie. That animal has two legs.”
134
EARLIER THAT DAY, CHARLES rode north in the Carolina springtime, through green rolling land where bowers of azalea blew to and fro in the warm wind and wisteria bloomed in purple brilliance. He saw little except Gus.
He saw her in the face of a much older farm woman who gave him a dipper of water when he asked politely. He saw her in a cloud formation. He saw her on the backs of his eyelids when he tethered the mule and rested by a roadside tree.
In all the muddle and madness of the past four years, he was trying to
find something of worth. She was all there was. His memory held scores of small, touching portraits of her racing across the grass to greet him, cooking in the kitchen, scrubbing his back in the zinc tub, bending to embrace him in bed.
He had found one thing of value in the war, and out of confusion and some stupid, contradictory sense of duty—the same duty still driving him along these unfamiliar dirt roads—he had thrown it away. The hurt and regret that followed the dawning realization were immense. His physical wound was healing nicely, but the other one—that never would.
While still in his home state, he had chanced upon a rural store on whose counter stood a glass jar containing four old, dry cigars. He had the remainder of one in his clenched teeth at this moment; he had smoked the first half last night. The other three protruded from the pocket of his cadet gray shirt.
He was riding in hot sunshine, the gypsy robe rolled and tied behind him. Suddenly he saw a mounted man crest the next rise in the road and come cantering in his direction. Alarm gripped him until he realized he was still in North Carolina, though damned if he knew where. And the emaciated horseman raising dust in the afternoon wore gray.
Charles reined in the mule and waited. Birds sang and wheeled over nearby meadows. The rider approached, slowing his mount while he took Charles’s measure and decided he was all right, though the man—an officer—still kept his hand near his side arm.
Charles chewed the cigar nervously, a glassy look in his eyes. The officer walked his skeletal roan closer and stopped.
“Colonel Courtney Talcott, First Light Artillery Regiment of North Carolina, at your service, sir. I gather from that shirt and your revolver that you’re a soldier?” He scrutinized the scrap of sword in Charles’s belt and his peculiar, dazed expression. The tone of the colonel’s question hinted at lingering doubt.
Almost as an afterthought, Charles muttered, “Yes, sir. Major Main, Hampton’s cavalry scouts. Where’s the army?”
“The Army of Northern Virginia?” Charles nodded. “Then you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what? I’ve been down on the Ashley, finding this remount.”
“General Lee requested terms from General Grant more than three weeks ago. At Appomattox Court House, in Virginia.”
Charles shook his head. “I didn’t know. I’ve been taking my time riding back there.”
“You certainly have,” Talcott replied, not hiding his disapproval. “You needn’t continue. The army has disbanded. The last I knew, General Johnston and his men were still in the field, though he, too, may have surrendered by now. If he hasn’t, he soon will. The war’s over.”
Silence. A tan female cardinal fussed in a bush when a jay swooped too near her nestlings. The artillery officer looked askance at Charles, who showed no emotion. The colonel said again, more emphatically, “Over.”
Charles blinked. Then he nodded. “I knew it would be. I just didn’t know when.” The officer scowled. “Thanks for the information.”
Frostily: “You’re welcome. I would turn around and go home if I were you, Major. There’s nothing more to be done in Virginia.”
Yes, there is.
The artilleryman cantered past, raising dust. He had no intention of riding beside the listless and slightly mad-eyed junior officer even for a few miles. The fellow had even forgotten to salute. Disgraceful.
The dust settled. Charles sat on his mule in the middle of the road, slumped, as the news sank in. It was official. They had lost. So much blood, suffering, effort, hope—wasted. For a few blindly wrathful moments, it made no difference that the cause was misbegotten. He hated every goddamn Yankee in creation.
Quickly, that passed. But to his surprise, the defeat hurt more than he would have expected, even though it was inevitable. He had known it was inevitable for at least a year. Seen portents, read prophecies, long before that. The horses slowly starving in Virginia. Articles in brown old newspapers about Southern governors defying Davis with his own sacred doctrine of states’ rights. A Union carbine that fired seven shots—
Feelings of relief and despair overwhelmed him. He plucked the fragment of the light cavalry saber from his belt and studied it. Suddenly, while light glanced off the stub of blade, his eyes brimmed with rage. A savage outward lash of his arm sent the metal cross whirling over the meadow, there to drop and vanish.
He knew the only course left to him if he were to stay remotely sane. He must ride on to Virginia and try to repair the damage done by his own foolishness. But first there was duty. Duty always came first. He had to make sure those at Mont Royal were not threatened by occupying troops or other dangers whose nature he couldn’t guess. He would cover the distance to the plantation much faster than he had when riding north. Then, the moment he was finished at home—Virginia.
He lifted the rein, turned the mule’s head and started him rapidly back the way they had come.
135
UNDER A BRILLIANT FULL moon, Huntoon and Powell reached the edge of the gully. Huntoon was glad to stop. His feet hurt. Powell slipped his right hand in his coat pocket.
Huntoon took off his spectacles, pinched up a bit of shirt bosom and polished one lens, then the other, saying finally, “What is it you want to discuss?”
With a cryptic, “Look down there,” Powell bobbed his head toward the gully bottom. Huntoon leaned forward, peered down. Powell pulled out the four-barrel Sharps and shot him in the back.
The lawyer uttered a short, gasping cry. He spun and reached for Powell’s lapel. Powell smacked him with his free hand. Huntoon’s spectacles flew off and sailed into the dark below.
Blinking like a newborn animal, Huntoon tried to focus his eyes on the man who had shot him. Pain blazing through his body, he understood the betrayal. It had been meant to happen on this journey. Planned from the start.
How stupidly naïve he had been. Of course he had suspected Ashton and Powell were lovers. For that reason he had mailed the letter to his Charleston law partner. But later, filled with renewed hope of regaining Ashton’s affection through a display of courage, he had regretted the instructions in the letter. But he had done nothing to countermand them, always assuming there would be ample time later. And what he’d seen in St. Louis had prompted the second letter; the one he’d given her—
Now, as if he could somehow cancel both past and present pain by will and action, he seized Powell’s sleeve. Formed in his throat a plea for mercy and help. But the fiery wound and saliva rendered the words gibberish.
“Let go of me,” Powell said with disgust, and shot him a second time.
The ball went straight into Huntoon’s stomach, forcing him to step back. He stepped into space. Powell had a last brief vision of the poor fool’s wet eyes and mewling mouth. Then Huntoon dropped.
Powell blew into the barrels of his pistol and put it away. Over the strident barking of coyotes across the gully, he heard the clump and thump of Huntoon’s body striking, rebounding into space, falling and rebounding again.
Then it grew quiet. He could hear Collins and the others shouting to him. Was he all right?
With a smile, he stood regarding the high-riding moon. Despite the alarms from the campfire, he lingered a moment, studying the sky above the wind-scoured land and congratulating himself. He imagined Ashton’s dark-tipped breasts, his alone now, together with the wild thatch below. He felt youthful. Content. Refreshed.
Over a hump of rock behind him, a small, skinny man with stringy hair and a waist clout appeared, bathed in brilliant moonlight for a moment. In his right hand he held a buckskin-covered war club consisting of a wood handle connected by sinew to a round stone head. Powell didn’t see the man, or the second one, who rose into sight as the first man jumped.
He heard the man land and turned, terror clogging his throat. He clawed for the Sharps, but it caught in his pocket lining. The stone struck his head, one powerful and correctly aimed blow that broke open his left temple and killed him by the time he dropped to his knees, open-mouthed. Blood rushed do
wn the left side of his face as he toppled forward.
The little Apache grinned and thrust the dripping club over his head, triumphant. His companion leaned down and landed beside him. Half a dozen others glided from behind other rocks, barefoot and light as dancers. All of them stole toward the voices and the fire glow.
The moment Banquo Collins heard the two shots and the teamsters started hollering, he quietly but quickly looked to his own gear. One of the teamsters said, “Who fired? ’Paches?”
“I doubt it. Sometimes they carry stolen pieces, but customarily it’s a club—or a wee knife to slit your throat. Also, they’ll not risk a fight and possible death at night. They believe conditions existing when they die follow them to the spirit world, and they want to rest forever in pleasant sunshine. Nothing to fear, see?”
Throughout the speech, Collins had finished gathering his gear. He tugged his hat over his eyes, turned and started away from the fire at a brisk walk. The teamster was too tense and stupid to compare the guide’s statements with reality: the full moon lent the landscape a clarity and whiteness almost like that of a wintry noonday.
But Collins’s rapid stride woke up the teamster. “Where the hell you goin’?” he yelled.
Head down, the guide kept moving. A few more steps, and he would have cover among the big—
“Collins, you yella dog, you come back here!”
Not a dog, a glass snake, he thought, recognizing hysteria in the voice and flinging himself sideways while reaching for his revolver. The wild shot fired by the teamster missed by two yards, pinging off rock. He didn’t waste a bullet of his own—he might need every one—but his leap threw him against a boulder, bruising his shoulder. Recovering, he lunged on.
After a few steps he turned again, glimpsed part of the clearing between tall stones. He saw the Jicarillas swarm out of the dark beyond the fire and surround the three hired men. Genuinely frightened, Collins fled, leaving behind the capering Apaches and the wild, sharp barks with which they imitated a coyote. The barks were not quite loud enough to drown out the screams.
