by JR Roberts
“I thought we were taking a private military train?” she said when they were seated.
“Not from here,” he said. “We’ll pick it up in Saint Louis. Then we’ll have a whole train to ourselves. For now, we have to be careful.”
“I understand.”
“Can you use that gun?”
She looked down at the gun in her holster.
“Yes.”
“It’s pretty small.”
“It suits me. I can hit what I shoot at,” she assured him.
“Okay,” he said, “but don’t shoot anybody unless I say so.”
“I know my job, Clint.”
“I’m sure you do,” he said. “But you’re here to assist me. I’m in command. Got it?”
She firmed her chin, suppressed what she was originally going to say, and instead replied, “I got it.”
The train jerked, and then started forward.
“Good,” he said.
He put his head back against the seat cushion and found himself drifting back to Andersonville...
Chapter Fourteen
Camp Sumter, 1965
The Regulators were originally looked upon as saviors in Andersonville. However, after Clint’s deal with Henry Wirz to work on Confederate guns in return for water and food, Clint was looked upon by many of the prisoners as a traitor.
In truth, while there only six members in the Regulators, Clint had arranged for food for twenty men, and then divvied it up among more than fifty.
The men who didn’t get the food and water were men who were beyond help, or members of the Andersonville Raiders.
Fortified by what little of the food and water they were actually consuming, Clint and the Regulators continued to combat the Raiders. Henry Wirz had been correct. While the Raiders were superior in numbers, the Regulators were superior in condition.
Clint, Tate, and the Regulators patrolled the camp at night. It was after dark when the Raiders usually hit. The Regulators were still trying to find out who the leaders of the Raiders were. If they could catch them, they were determined to try them in a prisoners’ court.
As the Regulators patrolled at night, they carried whatever weapons they could find or fashion. Clint had a club he’d made from a thick tree branch he’d found near the polluted creek. He had used a sharp stone to trim the branches from it, and even strip the bark.
Tate carried a piece of wood he’d pulled free from the base of their barracks. It had a few nails sticking out the end, which he put to good use against Regulators.
Dorence Atwater patrolled with Clint and Tate, carrying a flat board he’d found somewhere, but he was not very much help in a fight, his specialty being paperwork. In his unit he had been the commanding officer’s clerical worker. But he insisted on being part of the patrol.
On this particular night it was unbearably hot. Even though he had been eating somewhat better than most of the prisoners, Clint was still filthy, his clothes in tatters, his skin covered with lice and other insect bites. When he was first brought to the camp, his boots were taken, so his feet were wrapped with rags and tree bark to try to protect them.
Tate and Atwater had been there longer than him, so the condition of their health and their clothing was even worse. But that wouldn’t stop the Raiders from trying to steal what they did have.
“Clint?” Atwater said.
“Yes, Dorence?”
“Are you really fixing the Confederate soldiers’ guns?” the younger man asked.
“I am,” he said. “It was the only way to keep you and Tate and some of the others alive.”
“Can’t you do somethin’ to them?” Atwater asked.
“Like what, kid?” Tate asked.
“I don’t know,” Atwater said, “somethin’ that would make them explode when they tried to fire them?”
“That’d be great,” Tate said. “And the first time that happened, they’d kill Clint, and then you, and then me.”
“Can’t do it, Dorence,” Clint said, “but they won’t be firing their guns unless we give them a reason to.”
“Like tryin’ to escape?”
“That’s right.”
“But isn’t it our duty to try?”
“It’s not our duty to get killed,” Clint said, “or do I have that wrong, Lieutenant?”
“Not in my book, Adams,” Tate said. “Our duty is to try to get out of here if we can, but to get out alive, and not feet first.”
Being on patrol was tricky. You still had to stay pretty close to barracks or risk some armed guard thinking you were trying to escape. However, if Regulator met Raider and a fight ensued, the Confederate guards usually stood back and watched and, in some cases, made wagers.
Clint, Tate, and Dorence were outside their own barracks when the Raiders hit. They came in a swarm, screaming as they did to try to terrify their prey. The tactic worked with Atwater, who shrank away, but Clint and Tate both turned to meet the onslaught with their weapons.
They were outnumbered nearly four-to-one, but the Raiders were as emaciated and weak as any of the other prisoners. Clint and Tate were almost able to shrug them off. They swung their weapons, Clint’s club landing solidly, the nails at the end of Tate’s board tearing flesh, and yet they did their best not to kill. They were, after all, fighting their own men.
Two Confederate guards stood by with their rifles in their arms, watching the action, pointing and laughing. By the time the Raiders had had enough and retreated, dragging their wounded with them, one guard shook his head and handed the other guard some money.
“You okay?” Clint asked Tate, panting from exertion.
“Not hurt,” the lieutenant said. “Damn, I wanted to try and grab one of them.”
“No,” Clint said, “they always manage to take their wounded with them. Where’s Dorence?”
They both turned, saw Atwater rolled up into a ball on the ground.
“Dorence?” Clint said, bending over him. “You all right? Are you hurt?”
“N-No,” Atwater said, uncoiling and staring at Clint, wide-eyed. “I’m not hurt. I’m just … a coward.”
“Never mind,” Clint said, helping the boy to his feet. “It doesn’t matter.”
Clint turned, saw the look of distaste on the face of Lieutenant Tate, but the officer kept his opinions to himself.
“Come on, kid,” Clint said. “Let’s get you inside. Time to get some sleep.”
Chapter Fifteen
Clint woke with a start, turned his head, and saw Molly staring straight ahead. She sensed he was awake and looked at him.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, even though there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I’ll stay awake for a while. You get some sleep.”
“Okay,” she said without argument. She closed her eyes, and fell asleep immediately. He studied her profile for a few moments. He hoped that when this was all over, she’d turn out to be exactly what she claimed to be. He still wasn’t able to trust her completely, which was a shame.
But did he even trust Tate? He hadn’t seen the man since they were expatriated from Andersonville. After that experience they had each gone their separate ways, had not kept in touch in any way. As a matter of fact, over the years Clint had not seen any of the men he was at Camp Sumter with. This had been the first time he’d heard Dorence Atwater’s name in all that time.
Atwater had been a coward, there was no doubt about that. It shamed him, no matter how much Clint tried to convince him that every man couldn’t be brave. But his cowardice had cost no one except himself, which made it easier for Clint to forgive.
Now, however, these many years later, Dorence Atwater was suddenly convinced he had to kill the man he thought was Henry Wirz? Wasn’t this much, much too late to suddenly show some courage?
Clint craned his neck to study the other passengers on the train. He was still only concerned with two, the two armed men he had seen on the platform. They were paying no attention
to him, but that meant they were paying no attention to Molly, which he found odd. Of course, since she was obviously with him, that might have explained why the two men were not looking at a pretty woman on the train.
The conductor walked by, nodding at Clint and giving Molly an appreciative look. There were no other young women in the car, which was far from filled. Clint decided he had to continue watching the two men until they parted ways at some point during the trip.
Chapter Sixteen
They took one train north and another east before they arrived in Saint Louis and climbed aboard their private military train. It consisted of an engine, a stock car, a caboose, and a passenger car that had been specially outfitted for comfort. He knew his friend Jim West sometimes used a train like this, but this was Clint’s first time to travel in such comfort.
“Real beds?” Molly said. “And a kitchen?”
“But no cook,” Clint said. “We’re not that lucky.”
“I’ve seen the train Jim sometimes travels on with his partner, and they do have a cook,” she said.
“That’s okay,” Clint said. “I don’t think we’ll be on this train long enough to need a cook.”
They made themselves comfortable on a sofa, waiting for the train to start moving. The passenger car had a stuffed sofa and armchairs, and a table large enough to eat or strategize on, all of which were bolted to the floor so they wouldn’t shift. They had met the engineer and the conductor, who were apparently armed with the proper code words, which they exchanged with Molly. If Clint had completely trusted Molly, that would have eased Clint’s mind somewhat, but he was determined to remain at a heightened state of attention. At least the two men he’d been watching when they left Atlanta were out of the picture.
They were still waiting for the train to begin moving when the back door of their car opened suddenly. Clint stood, ready to draw his gun if necessary, but it was Private Collins who entered, followed by Colonel Frederick Tate. Both men were in full uniform.
“Colonel.”
Molly stood as the superior officer entered the car.
“Stay outside, Collins,” Tate said. “And be alert.”
“Yes, sir.”
Collins left, and Tate turned to face Clint and Molly. “Congratulations on making it this far,” he said. “I understand there were some problems.”
“You couldn’t have been gone very long after our first meeting,” Clint said. “You must have heard the shots.”
“I had confidence that you’d be able to handle it,” Tate said. “After all, that’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“I don’t like getting shot at,” Clint said. “I don’t care how often it happens,”
“I’m sorry,” Tate said.
“Do you have any idea who was shooting at me?” Clint asked.
“No.”
“Any idea how they knew where I’d be?”
“None.”
“Do you think they knew I was meeting with you?” Clint asked.
“I don’t know, Clint,” Tate said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how—”
“Who knows what I’m doing for you?” Clint asked. “Besides you and the private?”
“I know.”
“No one else?”
“No,” Tate said. “The private knows nothing.”
“And the Secret Service?”
Tate looked at Molly.
“I only told her bosses I needed you,” Tate said, “and I wanted Jim West’s help in finding you. Do you mind if I sit?”
“Be our guest,” Molly said.
Tate sat in one of the chairs. Clint and Molly sat back down on the sofa.
“Do you have news to share?” Clint asked.
“Some,” Tate said. “Dorence Atwater is still in San Francisco.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Molly asked. “With the senator in Washington?”
“The senator is not staying in Washington,” Tate said. “He’s going to San Francisco.”
“When?” Clint asked.
“In about a week.”
“Can you stop him?”
“No,” Tate said. “The senator is not the kind of man you stop from doing anything he wants to do.”
“Not even to save his life?” Clint asked.
“Especially not then,” Tate said.
“Then he’s a fool,” Clint said.
“That may be, but he could well become president of the United States one day.”
“He won’t get my vote,” Clint said.
Tate stiffened and glared at Clint, who thought for a moment that the man was going to take him to task, but then Tate seemed to relax.
“Nevertheless,” Tate said, “we can’t let him be killed.”
“Come on, sir,” Clint said. “This is Dorence Atwater we’re talking about, remember? Do you think he’s changed after all these years?”
“I think,” Tate said, “even a devout coward may change if given one last chance to redeem himself.”
“And that’s what you think this is?” Clint asked. “An attempt at redemption?”
“What else could it be?” Tate asked. “Vengeance? It’s not like Atwater had many friends in Andersonville, if I remember correctly. His cowardice kept him from making any friends.”
“That seems cruel,” Molly said.
Tate looked at her as if noticing for the first time she was there.
“I’m sorry, if you find that cruel, Molly,” he said. “I can’t help that. None of the men suffering in Andersonville appreciated Atwater’s cowardice.”
“And none of them were cowards?”
“None of them seemed to revel in it,” Tate said.
“That’s unfair,” Clint said.
“I don’t agree,” Tate said, “but that’s neither here nor there. It’s past. We have to deal with the future.”
“And Senator Harlan is the future?” Clint asked. “Of this country?”
“He may very well be.”
“I don’t like politics much, sir,” Clint said.
“Nobody’s asking you to become involved in politics,” Tate said. “You’re just being asked to keep the senator alive when he goes to San Francisco.”
“How do you expect me to do that?”
“That’s your business,” Tate said. “Meet with Atwater, dissuade him, do what you have to do. No questions will be asked.”
Clint leaned forward. Molly could feel the tension in his body.
“Are you telling me that no questions will be asked if I decide to kill Atwater?”
“I’m not condoning murder,” Tate said. “I’m just telling you, your methods are your own, and no, they will not be questioned.”
Tate stood up.
“Watch each other’s backs,” Tate said. “Molly.” He touched his hat, and left.
Clint sat back.
“He wants you to kill Atwater.”
“He wanted to kill him when we were in Andersonville,” Clint said.
“And you wouldn’t let him?”
“Oh, he never really tried, but I could tell in the way he looked at Dorence,” Clint said. “He wanted him gone.”
“And you kept Atwater alive?” she asked.
“I suppose.”
“Then you should be able to talk him out of this madness,” she said.
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “If what Tate says is true and Atwater sees this at his last chance at redemption … that will be hard to talk him out of.”
“You wouldn’t kill him, would you?”
“Not to save a politician’s life,” Clint said.
Chapter Seventeen
The ride from Saint Louis to San Francisco was made in the lap of luxury, but the meeting with Tate had cast a veil over it.
The conductor came in at one point and said, “We’re a half an hour out, sir.”
“Thanks,” Clint said.
“You’ve been quiet most of the way,” Molly said. “Thinking.”
“About Atwater?
”
“Atwater, Tate,” Clint said, “and the senator. Have you heard of him before?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t really pay attention to politics. I just do my job.”
“I’m the same,” he said. “I know the names of prominent politicians, but I’d never heard of Harlan until this.”
“What does that mean to you?”
“It makes me wonder,” Clint said, “how the man got so important.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“I suppose,” Clint said, “I’ll do what I did the whole time I was in Andersonville.”
“What’s that?”
“Keep Dorence Atwater alive.”
When the train pulled into the station in San Francisco, it attracted some attention. Clint wasn’t happy about it, but what could he do? Curious onlookers watched as he walked Eclipse out of the stock car.
“What’s first?” Molly asked.
“I want to send some telegrams,” he said. “I have friends who might be able to help me with several questions.”
“Where are we going to stay?”
“I have a place in mind,” he said. “Not as luxurious as the train, but we want to keep a low profile.”
Clint had been to San Francisco many times, more often than not staying in one of the big gambling palaces in or near Portsmouth Square. But not this time.
“The Barbary Coast?’ Molly asked.
“Nobody will look for us here.”
Molly glanced around as they walked down the street. “Everybody’s looking at us,” she said.
“They’re looking at you,” he said. “A pretty woman is a valuable commodity on the Coast.”
“Now you tell me.”
“Once we get a room, we’ll do something about that,” he said.
“Like what?” she asked. “Break my nose?”
“No, nothing that drastic,” he promised, “but we can do something to make sure you’re not shanghaied.”
“Shanghaied?” she asked. “I wasn’t even thinking about that. Thanks a lot.”
