Everyone laughed, including Heck—on the outside at least.
***
Jim Pinto loped along beside the wagon. There were 18 of the wagons, hauling supplies from Columbia to the garrison at Fayette, escorted by a full company of the Third Missouri Militia. Now they were seven or eight miles north of Rocheport, his hometown, and the danger was almost over.
Jim hated militia duty, but with so many raiders running about, they were an absolute necessity these days. Fortunately, they rarely attacked in daylight against well-guarded targets, so Jim, like the others, felt relatively safe.
He shifted his Springfield to his left hand and wiped his brow with his right. It was cooling off now. Dusk had begun, but they were close to Fayette and the garrison there. Another day to escort the wagons back and he'd be home in bed with Jenny Lou, his new bride.
A twig snapping in the bushes was the first sign of the demons lurking along either side of the road. Jim heard it first, then screamed "Bushwhackers!" as scores of heavily-armed pistolmen charged from cover.
Two raiders were upon him before he knew it. He fired his Springfield, but the unrifled ball flew off into the dusky sky without finding a target. Before he could be shot, Jim threw his hands into the air and dropped the weapon. The bayonet was not attached, and it would do him little good against men armed with four or more pistols anyway.
He watched in terror as scores of his fellow militia men-boys he'd grown up with all his life-were gunned down. There was no fight. Those who tried died where they stood. Those who ran were chased down like rabbits. Jim heard the distant shots of merciless pistols for long minutes after the rest of the train had surrendered.
He and 11 others were marched to one side of the road while the raiders ripped through the supply wagons. Jim felt his heart sink when he saw the leader approach-there was no mistaking Bloody Bill Anderson.
"Take off your uniforms, boys," Bill said.
Jim and the others did as they were told. One of them, Garret Marsh from Columbia, then crawled forward to Bill and begged. "Please sir, I got a wife and two little 'uns back home."
"Then I am doing them a favor," Bill said, then shot him through the head. "Finish them, Will," he called to a pale-looking man, then rode off in search of loot.
Pale Willy walked over to the prisoners. "Down on your knees," he grinned. He took a long time reloading his pistols, letting the doomed men spend their last few moments on Earth in dread. Then he calmly walked up to each, put his pistol to their head, and pulled the trigger-smiling all the while.
Jim was the last to die. Just before he fell, he thought of his sweet Jenny Lou. He hoped she would remarry, but not to a Missourian.
***
Heck was at the far end of the train when he heard the shots. He was in shock. He had just watched Bill's men ambush and route an entire company of militia. Many of them had been shot down in cold blood. He had managed to avoid killing anyone himself in the confusion, but he still couldn't quite get over the horror of his first battle-especially one in which he fought on the wrong side. These were soldiers! They were supposed to fight back, but most had run like rabbits. Was there any stopping this demon?
Then he heard the slow, deliberate shots from the other end of the wagon train. Prisoners, he thought. They're killing the prisoners! Heck raced toward the front of the line just in time to see Jim Pinto fall to his knees on the bloody road. Willy stood over him with a smoking Colt, smiling. Blood flecked his face and hands like some sort of childish painting.
Heck felt his guts crawl around inside his body, looking for some way out. His horror must have been obvious, because Willy turned his way and narrowed his eyes.
"Something wrong, Kansas?" he whispered.
Little Archie had pulled out his knife and was already scalping one of the corpses. Now he stopped and looked up towards Heck as well.
"N-no," Heck stammered. "Just, just..." he had no idea how to bluff this time.
Archie cared little whether Heck was shocked or not. He turned back to his work and sawed viciously at a dead militia man's head.
"You don't seem to have the stomach for this kind of war," Willy said, walking slowly toward Heck and reloading his pistol.
"This ain't war," Heck said, then walked away. If he couldn't lie, he'd at least let Willy know he wasn't falling for theirs. They weren't Confederate raiders attacking for a cause. They were dirty bushwhackers, killing for fun and profit.
He knew Willy might put a bullet in his back, but right then, it just didn't seem to matter.
***
The next morning found the bushwhackers regrouped on Bonne Femme Creek, south of Fayette. It had proven an eventful night. The band had scattered after their attack, as usual, but some had been caught by a cavalry detachment of the Ninth. Six were scalped and killed-Heck couldn't help but smile-but one, Cave Wyatt, had been captured and imprisoned.
Anderson was furious. "We shall make them pay!" he swore to his men. "This morning we ride to Fayette and kill the whole Goddamned garrison!"
Frank James and several others tried to argue Bill out of attacking the large, well-armed force stationed there, but Anderson would have none of it. He ordered the men to mount up, and by noon, they were outside the town staring at the fine stone buildings sitting unsuspecting on the Missouri prairie. They also saw something they had not expected, a large force of mounted men moving down one of the sunken roads surrounding the town. Just as Bill was about to order a retreat, one of his men recognized the riders as George Todd's band—another bushwhacker force. The forces met, and it was soon discovered that other notorious raider captains were with Todd, including John Thrailkill, Dave Poole, and a small band under William Quantrill himself. The raiders were quickly brought together.
Heck could not hear everything that was said, but he gathered that Anderson, who had once served under Quantrill, was not willing to serve under him again. He would cooperate, however, in attacking Fayette. Quantrill seemed smarter than most present, though, and refused to attack such a well-fortified town. He and seven of his men rode off and did not return.
The rest gathered up their arms, put on Yankee uniforms, and headed for town around 10:30 a.m.
Heck felt sick. The garrison was undermanned-most were off searching for Quantrill. It would be another massacre, and there was no time to warn them.
***
The first part of the column rode into town along the dusty Main Street, trying their best to look like Union soldiers. The rest waited in the nearby woods, waiting for the first shots to be fired.
Heck had been given one of the coats of the men killed the night before-it felt as if he wore a coat of crawling bugs—and sent in with the first group. He hoped the people of Fayette would realize the ruse—shoot these murderous dogs down before they caused any trouble. But they did not. They were so happy to see Union soldiers after yesterday's massacre they didn't question the ill-fitting blue coats and haggard blue pants of the raiders.
Heck, near the front with Little Archie and Blake Mullins, sat dizzy in his saddle. He could not believe what was about to happen. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw Blake nervously finger his pistol. A black man—dressed in a salvaged blue uniform waved at them from the sidewalk.
"Damn darkies think the Yankees are gonna save 'em," Blake muttered.
Heck said nothing, though Blake's words stoked the fires of hate within him once more.
Blake didn't seem to notice. "Look at that grinnin' fool. Someone ought to blow that smile right off'n his face."
Heck looked at his "friend" and saw something both ugly and pitiful in his face. Blake was afraid. But of what?
"What's the matter, Blake? Just keep your cool. We'll be at the garrison soon." Willy, at the head of the column, was just passing the waving black man. Blake and Heck were just coming up on him.
Blake leaned over in his saddle and whispered to Heck. "I didn't do no killin' yesterday I fired a few shots, but I didn't kill nobody. I think Willy to
ld Anderson."
"That's nonsense," Heck answered. He understood now. Blake's desire to be part of something was so strong that he was willing to anything to fit in—he just hadn't done it yet.
"1 gotta prove myself, Heck. You don't understand. I've beat plenty of men with my fists, but I ain't never killed no one. I gotta show Captain Anderson..."
Heck saw Blake working his pistol free, glancing at the black man on the street. Suddenly he realized what was going through the ignorant Rebel's mind. Blake would sell his soul, but he would do so piecemeal. He would kill a negro first-that was one step below murdering a white man to him.
"Don't-" was all Heck managed before Blake drew his pistol and fired, dropping the unfortunate man instantly.
Somewhere deep in Hell, Heck imagined a smiling Satan holding a contract with "BLAKE MULLINS" stamped clearly across the top.
Blake laughed like a maniac, then looked nervously at the faces of his murderous fellows for approval. He was met only with hard stares—he had revealed them.
For a moment, the world stood still. The people of Fayette, civilians and soldiers alike, stared at the raiders trying to understand what they had just seen. Then, much to Heck's relief, a lieutenant in the militia drew his pistol. "Bushwhackers!" he screamed, and dropped two of the imposters before the rest had drawn their guns.
"Scalp them! Scalp them!" Little Archie frothed. The raiders broke ranks and charged up Main Street. Most ran through town square toward the court house where the garrison was kept, but it was too late. The militia men had already pulled the great doors shut and the stone building was more than adequate protection from pistols. One of the raiders rushed the entrance and emptied his pistols into the doors, but it was no use. His efforts were answered by a hail of rifle fire that cut through the raiders like a hail storm.
Heck milled about with the raiders at the court house, firing his pistols at the stone walls harmlessly. Musket fire took down a man beside him, causing a small, neat hole in his chest and a massive explosion of flesh in his back. Then Heck felt a ball hit his horse in the flank, sending it screaming down Main Street towards the woods. The horse's wild flight carried him nearly half a mile toward a ravine on the north side of town. There another "company" of raiders was making a second charge on a series of log cabins manned by more of the Missouri garrison. One of the cabins was on fire, but the rest seemed to be holding out quite well against the band's attack.
"Get down here in the ravine, boy!" one of the raiders called. It was one of Todd's band, a stranger. "It's a hornet's nest up there."
Heck saw that the horse's blood had coated his leg, making him look as if he were wounded. He was grateful for any excuse that would take him away from the carnage.
The man helped Heck down, then passed off his horse to another raider tending the animals in a patch of rocks further down the ravine. "Name's Simms. Larry Simms. From Cape Girardeau."
Heck hobbled over to a draw in the ravine and sat as if in great pain. Simms helped him down, then ripped off part of his shirt to make a bandage. The spy noticed the raider had a small hole in his shoulder, just above the collar bone. When he bent over to tie the rag around Heck's leg, the much larger exit wound became visible.
"You look hurt, too," Heck said. He didn't really care. One more dead Rebel—especially a bushwhacker—was cause for celebration as far as he was concerned.
"Yeah, there's a mess of 'em up in those cabins. You were in the town?" he grimaced.
Heck nodded and saw something in the guerilla's eyes he didn't quite understand.
"I don't cotton to killing civilians. That's Yankee work. These are soldiers. They can fight, but that Anderson of yours goes too far."
Heck shrugged and looked away. He was so used to being surrounded by insane evil that the slightest hint of reason hit him like he'd jumped into a cold pond.
Simms backed down when he saw Heck turn away. "Look," he shrugged, "I hate Yankees as much as the next man. Red Legs in Kansas raped my Josey. Tore her up so bad she bled to death. But that don't mean we gotta sink down to their level."
Heck just stared dumbfounded. He hated Rebels. The only thing lower was a Rebel bushwhacker, and this man was both. Was it possible some of them had a legitimate cause? Even acted in a legitimate fashion? Legitimate for wartime, anyway.
No, Heck told himself, remembering the way his mother had tended Tom day after day, watching him suffer and die on that long trip from Lawrence to Carbondale. He remembered how his father would come in from the field each night and read a book to his fading son.
The only good Rebel is a dead Rebel he reminded himself.
Larry Simms pulled a flask from his homespun coat and took a swig. "I'm sorry. I just don't agree with the way you boys do things. Drink?"
Heck nodded slowly, then drank deeply.
***
The raiders marched home slowly. Bill was in a foul mood. He had even shot one of his own men who had dared mention Quantrill had been right. Popular opinion in the north was that Anderson and his former master were still close friends. Heck saw the truth was very different. Bloody Bill hated William Quantrill almost as much as he hated Yankees.
The next three days passed badly. Every town seemed to have a large Federal force in it. Close pursuits were common. Huntsville, Paris, Glasgow—every town literally crawled with militia. Heck was grateful. He wasn't sure he could stomach another murder like the one along the Columbia-Fayette road.
Little did he know what was about to happen in a little town called Centralia.
***
It began in a dead calm along Young's Creek. It was September 27th, and a strange mood had set in among the raiders. It was almost like the warm dew that soaked through their clothes and skin was a tangible malaise. It was refreshing to Heck. If the raiders would ever split up for a few days, he might be able to accomplish his mission-which was not warning the 17th of Bill's plans. Heck had already decided he would settle for nothing less than killing Bill himself. And if God could not forgive him for that, his hate told him, then He was an evil and uncaring deity and Heck wanted no part of Him.
Bill was awakened that morning by George Todd. Heck was fortunate enough to be nearby when the two discussed their plan. Todd asked Anderson to go to Centralia to discover if there was news of General Sterling Price's invasion. Bill agreed, not because he cared whether or not Price would liberate Missouri, but because Centralia had a few stores to plunder and a stop on the North Missouri Railroad. With luck, he'd capture a freight train there and provide enough loot to whip his boys into shape once more.
The bloody day began at 10 a.m. Bill's band found no opposition in the town. They looted the stores and several homes before they found a freight car full of whiskey sitting off the tracks. By 11 a.m., the band was mean drunk. When they saw the Columbia stage rolling in, they almost shot each other racing to rob it. It didn't take them long, and to Heck's relief, no one was killed.
Anderson didn't participate. He merely sat at the Eldorado House hotel guzzling whiskey and mourning the lack of blue-uniformed troopers to murder. If he was lucky, the passenger train scheduled to arrive at 11:35 a.m. would provide him with his prey.
The train came right on schedule.
***
The conductor, James Clark, saw the mounted men chasing his train even before he came in sight of Centralia. They wbre blue uniforms, but he knew raiders wore blue too. Clark waited until he had word from one of passenger cars. A young Iowan soldier—heading home on leave—told one of the crewmen that these were raiders for sure. Clark had a bad feeling in his stomach already—there had been rumors of bushwhackers lurking along the tracks from Hannibal to Columbia, so he threw the throttle wide open. The great train screamed and screeched as it raced down the tracks.
As it rounded the bend, revealing tiny Centralia sitting upon the open plain, he saw metal ties stretched across the tracks. He could try to ram through it, but it might well derail the train. Still, if these were raiders,
the several dozen Union soldiers in the passenger car would be killed for sure. Union or Confederate, James Clark had no truck with murderers. He held the throttle open.
He might have made it if the brakeman hadn't already set the brakes.
***
Heck watched in horror as the train screeched into town. It was like the engineer had told the iron dragon to stop but the , train, sensing the carnage that was to come, had refused. But man had won out and the screaming engine finally ground to a halt.
Heck knew Bill would rob everyone on board, and most likely wind up killing more than a few of them. He happened to be near the captain when the train came in. Several dozen raiders had chased it from the woods around the bend, and nearly fifty were already climbing on board to begin their looting.
"Robbin' that train's just gonna get us in more trouble, Bill," Heck offered the drunken bushwhacker.
Bill stood, bloodshot eyes staring right into Heck's soul. "I don't care if they send Cerebus himself against me. Missouri is mine and I shall take what I please. And if there be bluebellies aboard her..."
Heck could not make out the rest as Bill walked off the porch of the Eldorado with new energy. Scores of passengers were piling out with their hands in the air. This would be a rich haul, indeed.
Frank James ordered the conductor to take down the United States' flags flying from the engine's poles. Other bandits moved among the pleading passengers, stripping them of their watches and wallets.
Anderson searched the crowd with wide eyes—looking for soldiers. He saw none, but managed to order his drunken men to leave the women alone. While he waited, one man, who had hidden money in his boots, was shot in the face as his elderly mother huddled behind him. Another raider pointed at one of the passengers and said "This 'un testified agin me in court!" and fired a shot at him. The ball missed and the terrified man ducked into the crowd, but he was quickly pulled out by more raiders and shot dead in a hail of gunfire.
Anderson looked blankly at the two dead bodies. Their deaths meant nothing to him. He had hoped for soldiers. He climbed upon a horse and ordered the depot, a warehouse, and some boxcars along the side of the track to be set on fire, then turned to ride back to the Eldorado.
Deadlands: For a Few Dead Guys More Page 2
