The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Tenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “Messenger?” Gregg said.

  Sam looked up at Taylor, whose expression was one of mingled anger and disbelief. “Why don’t you say something, Fletch? Didn’t you recognize the boy?”

  Taylor blinked. “What are you yapping about?”

  Sam lowered his hands, put them on his hips, and tried to look disgusted. “Damn it, Fletch, that Missouri boy I met in Lawrence. The one whose father was killed by jayhawkers, and who was kidnapped to Kansas. I pointed him out to you Saturday morning, but I guess you’d gotten too drunk the night before to retain the information.”

  Gregg looked at Taylor. “You were drinking whiskey while you were supposed to be scouting the town, Corporal?”

  Taylor became indignant. “Hell, no!”

  “Then why don’t you remember me pointing that boy out to you?” Sam asked.

  “Well, I do,” Taylor said uncertainly.

  Sam knew he couldn’t let up. “So why didn’t you tell Captain Gregg that the boy promised to come here and warn us if any more Federals moved into Lawrence?”

  Taylor’s eyes looked panicky. “I didn’t recognize the boy. It’s dark.”

  “What’s this about more Bluebellies in Lawrence?” Gregg asked.

  “That’s what the boy told me,” Sam said. “Six hundred troops, four hundred of them cavalry, came down from Leavenworth on Tuesday. They’re all camped on the south side of the river, too, he says.”

  Frank James had his pistol barrel clean now, and he pointed the gun at Sam again. “So why’d you send him away?”

  Sam was so deep into his story now that he almost forgot his fear. “Because he said the Bluebellies have started sending fifty cavalrymen out between five and six every morning to scout the plain between here and Mount Oread. I told him to go keep watch and to come back when he saw them.”

  Cole Younger, stern-faced and narrow-lipped, gestured at Sam with his revolver. “Why would you tell someone in Lawrence who you were and why you were there?”

  “I already said why,” Sam snapped. “Because he’s a Missouri boy, and he hates the Yankees as much as you or me. Maybe more, because he didn’t even have a chance to grow up before they took everything he had. And I didn’t just walk up and take him into my confidence for no reason. Two Red Legs were dunking him in a horse trough until he was half drowned. When they left, I asked him why they’d done it, and he said it was because he’d called them murdering Yankee cowards. My opinion was that we could use a friend like that in Lawrence, and Fletch agreed.”

  John McCorkle, a round-faced man in a flat-brimmed hat, peered at Sam through narrowed eyelids. “So how’d the boy know where we’d be, and when?”

  “He knew the where because we told him,” Sam said. “The Colonel used to live in these parts, and he picked this hill for our overlook when he planned the raid. Ain’t that so, Fletch?”

  Taylor nodded.

  “As for the when of it,” Sam continued, “well, Fletch and I knew we’d be here before sunup either yesterday or today, so we told the boy to come out both days if there was anything we needed to hear about.”

  Younger looked at Taylor. “That true, Fletch? Or were you so drunk you don’t remember?”

  Taylor glared at him. “It’s true, Cole. I just didn’t tell you, is all. There’s five hundred men on this raid, and I can’t tell every one of you everything, can I?”

  Younger started to retort, but he was interrupted by the sound of hundreds of hoofbeats from the slope above. Quantrill had heard James’s gunshot and was bringing down the rest of his men.

  Gregg replaced his pistol in its holster. “All right, then,” he said, sounding weary. “Let’s tell the Colonel what the boy said.” He looked at Taylor. “You do it, Fletch. He knows you better than he does Clemens.”

  Taylor nodded, then shot Sam a look that could have melted steel.

  There was a promise in that look, but Sam didn’t care. Gregg had believed his story, and for now, at least, he was still alive.

  And so was Henry.

  * * *

  Taylor told Colonel Quantrill that a Missouri boy had come to warn the raiders about six hundred new Bluebellies in Lawrence, all camped south of the river, and that a scouting party of fifty of the Federals was likely to spot the bushwhackers before they could enter the town. Quantrill listened without saying a word. He stared straight ahead, toward Lawrence, until Taylor was finished. Then he looked down at Sam, who was still standing before the dead mule.

  Quantrill’s eyes were like chips of ice, but Sam didn’t look away. He was sure that if he flinched, the Colonel would see him for the lying traitor that he was.

  A long moment later, Quantrill turned to Captain Todd. “What do you think, George?” he asked.

  Todd looked as if he had eaten a bad persimmon. “You didn’t see six hundred Federals through the glass, did you?”

  “No,” Quantrill said, “but I couldn’t see the river. If they were camped close by its banks, they would have been invisible.”

  “Then let’s go back up and take another look,” Todd said.

  Quantrill shook his head. “By the time the sun has risen enough for us to see the river, the people of Lawrence will have risen too. We must either press on now, or give it up.”

  “But if there are that many more troops down there,” Gregg said, “we won’t have a chance. I say we fall back to the border, send more spies to take another look at the town, and come back when we can be sure of victory.”

  Quantrill looked at the ground and spat. “Damn it all,” he said, “but you’re right. Even if there aren’t that many troops, the town might’ve heard the pistol shot.”

  The men behind Quantrill murmured. Many looked angry or disappointed, but almost as many looked relieved.

  Sam tried hard to look disappointed, but he wanted to shout for joy.

  Then Bill Anderson shrieked, drew one of his pistols, and kicked his horse until it was nose to nose with Black Bess.

  “We’ve come too far!” he screamed, pointing his pistol at the Colonel. “We’ve come too far and our people have suffered too much! This raid was your idea, and you talked me into committing my own men to the task! God damn you, Quantrill, you’re going to see it through!”

  Quantrill gave Anderson a cold stare. “We have received new intelligence,” he said. “The situation has changed.”

  Anderson shook his head, his long hair flying wild under his hat. “Nothing has changed! Nothing! The Yankees have killed one of my sisters and crippled another, and I won’t turn back until I’ve killed two hundred of them as payment! And if you try to desert me before that’s done, the two-hundred-and-first man I kill will be named Billy Quantrill!”

  Quantrill turned to Todd. “George, place Captain Anderson under arrest.”

  Todd drew his pistol. “I don’t think I will,” he said, moving his horse to stand beside Anderson’s. “We’ve come to do a thing, so let’s do it.”

  The murmurs among the men grew louder.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Gregg shouted at Todd and Anderson. “Colonel Quantrill is your commanding officer!”

  Todd sneered. “No more of that ‘Colonel’ bullshit. Jefferson Davis wouldn’t give this coward the time of day, much less a commission.”

  At that, Frank James, John McCorkle, and Cole Younger moved to stand with Anderson and Todd. Bill Gregg, Andy Blunt, and John Holt moved to stand with Quantrill. The murmurs among the bushwhackers became shouts and curses. A few men broke away and rode back up the hill.

  Sam decided that he didn’t care to see the outcome. He began edging backward, but came up against the dead mule.

  Quantrill looked as calm as an undertaker. “All right, boys,” he said. “I guess you’re right. We’ve come this far, and we’ve whipped Yankee soldiers before.” He pointed toward Lawrence. “Let’s push on!”

  “That’s more like it,” Anderson said, and he and his comrades turned their horses toward Lawrence.

  As soon as they had tu
rned, Quantrill pulled two of his pistols from his belt, cocked them, and shot Bill Anderson in the back. Anderson slumped, and his horse reared.

  The hillside erupted into an inferno of muzzle flashes, explosions, and screams.

  Sam dove over the mule and huddled against its back until he heard pistol balls thudding into its belly. Then he rolled away and scrambled down the hill on his hands and knees. When there were plenty of trees between him and the fighting, he got to his feet and ran. He fell several times before reaching the bottom of the hill, but didn’t let that slow him.

  The trees gave way to prairie grass and scrub brush at the base of the hill, and Sam ran straight for Lawrence. He couldn’t see Henry and Bixby on the plain ahead, so he hoped they were already in town.

  Thunder rumbled behind him, and he looked back just in time to see the neck of a horse and the heel of a boot. The boot struck him in the forehead and knocked him down. His hat went flying.

  Sam lay on his back and stared up at the brightening sky. Then the silhouette of a horse’s head appeared above him, and hot breath blasted his face.

  “Get up and take your pistol from your belt,” a voice said.

  Sam turned over, rose to his knees, and looked up at the rider. It was Fletch Taylor. He had a Colt Navy revolver pointed at Sam’s nose.

  “You going to kill me, Fletch?” Sam asked.

  “Not on your knees,” Taylor said. “Stand up, take your pistol from your belt, and die the way a man should.”

  Sam gave a low, bitter chuckle. He was amazed to discover that he wasn’t afraid.

  “All men die alike, Fletch,” he said. “Reluctantly.”

  Taylor kept his pistol pointed at Sam for another few seconds, then cursed and uncocked it. He looked toward the hill. “Listen to all the hell you’ve raised,” he said.

  The sounds of gunshots and screams were wafting out over the plain like smoke.

  Taylor looked back at Sam. “You saved my life,” he said, “so now I’m giving you yours. But if I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”

  Sam nodded. “Thank you, Fletch.”

  Taylor’s lips curled back from his teeth. “Go to hell,” he said. Then he spurred his horse and rode back toward the hill.

  Sam watched Taylor go until he realized that the fighting on the hillside was spilling onto the plain. He stood, found his hat—the hat that Taylor had given him—and ran for Lawrence again.

  When he reached Massachusetts Street, staggering, exhausted, he saw men in the windows of every building. Some wore blue uniforms, but most were civilians. Each man held either a revolver or a carbine. The sun was rising, and Lawrence was awake. One of the men came outside and pointed his rifle at Sam, but the boy named Henry appeared and stopped him. Then Henry grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled him into the Whitney House.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sam was watching from the window of a second-floor room when a magnificent black horse came galloping up Massachusetts Street. The horse’s rider, wearing an embroidered gray shirt, gray pants, and black cavalry boots, had his arms tied behind his back and his feet tied to his stirrups. His head and shoulders had been daubed with pitch and set ablaze. He was screaming.

  “It’s Quantrill!” someone cried.

  A volley of shots exploded from both sides of the street, and the horse and rider fell over dead.

  Within seconds, a hundred Missouri guerrillas led by George Todd charged up the street. Fourteen of them were cut down in a hail of lead balls, and the rest turned and fled, with soldiers and citizens pursuing. A company of Negro Federal recruits led the chase and killed three more bushwhackers at the southern edge of town.

  When the gunfire and shouting had ceased, a cluster of townspeople gathered around the carcass of the black horse and the charred, bloody corpse of its rider. The crowd parted to let two men in black suits and hats approach the bodies. Sam recognized them as the preachers that he, Taylor, and Noland had encountered the week before.

  The elder preacher held a Bible over Quantrill’s corpse. “Earth to earth,” he intoned.

  The younger preacher raised his Bible as well. “Ashes to ashes,” he said.

  In unison, they chanted, “And dust to dust.”

  Then they lowered their Bibles, drew their revolvers, and shot Quantrill a few more times for good measure.

  “Amen,” said the crowd.

  Sam closed his curtains.

  * * *

  Senator Jim Lane had returned to Lawrence on Wednesday for a railroad meeting, and he sent for Sam at noon on Saturday, one day after the failed raid. Lane was thinner, younger, and had more hair than Sam had guessed from the caricatures, but his fine house on the western edge of town was all that Sam had supposed. It was packed with expensive furnishings, including two pianos in the parlor.

  “How did you come to acquire two pianos, Senator?” Sam asked. He had not slept the night before and did not care if he sounded accusatory.

  Lane smiled. “One was my mother’s,” he said. “The other belonged to a secessionist over in Jackson County who found that he no longer had a place to keep it.” The Senator picked up a pen and wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, then folded the paper and pushed it across the table. “Kansas is grateful to you, Mister Clemens, and regrets the mistake of two years past when members of the Red-Legged Guards mistook your brother for a slaveholder. Had they known of his appointment as Secretary of Nevada Territory, I’m sure the tragedy would not have occurred.”

  “He told them,” Sam said. “They didn’t believe him.”

  Lane shrugged. “What’s done is done, but justice will be served. General Ewing has ordered his troops to arrest all Red Legs they encounter. He believes that such men have been committing criminal acts in the name of liberty, and I must concur.” He tapped the piece of paper. “I’m told that Governor Nye of Nevada Territory is again in need of a Secretary. I cannot guarantee you the appointment, but this should smooth your way.” He leaned forward. “Frankly, Mr. Clemens, I think your decision to continue to Nevada is a good one. There are those in this town who believe that the burning man was not Quantrill at all, and that you are here not as a friend, but as Quantrill’s spy.”

  Sam stared at the piece of paper. “A ticket on the overland stage from St. Joseph is a hundred and fifty dollars,” he said. “I have ten.”

  Lane stood and left the parlor for a few minutes. When he returned, he handed Sam three fifty-dollar bank notes and a bottle of whiskey.

  “This was distilled from Kansas corn,” the Senator said, tapping the bottle with a fingernail. “I thought you should have something by which to remember my state.”

  Sam tucked the money into a coat pocket and stood, holding the whiskey bottle by its neck. My state, Lane had said. What’s done is done.

  “Good day, Senator,” Sam said. He started to turn away.

  “Don’t forget my letter of introduction,” Lane said.

  Sam picked up the piece of paper, tucked it into his pocket with the money, and left the house.

  Henry was standing outside holding Bixby’s reins, and twelve Bluebellies waited nearby. They had an extra horse with them.

  “Mister Clemens,” one of the soldiers called. “Our orders are to escort you to St. Joseph. We’re to leave right away.” He didn’t sound happy about it. All of the Bluebellies in the escort were white, and Sam suspected that this was their punishment for failing to chase the bushwhackers with as much vigor as their Negro counterparts.

  Sam nodded to the soldier, then looked down at Henry. “I suppose you want to keep the horse,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t,” Henry said. “He’s mean, if you ask me. But my pa says he’ll either have Bixby as payment for his mule, or he’ll take it out of somebody’s hide. And since you’re running off, I reckon my hide will do him as well as any.”

  “A hiding would probably do you a considerable amount of good,” Sam said, “but since I no longer have a use for the animal, you may keep him and the saddle as well. I’l
l take the bags, however.” He removed the saddlebags from the horse and put the bottle of whiskey into one of them. A few lumps of brown sugar lay at the bottom of that bag, so he fed one to Bixby.

  Bixby chewed and swallowed, then tried to bite Sam’s hand. Sam gave the rest of the sugar to Henry and took his saddlebags to the soldiers’ extra horse.

  “Goodbye, Mister Clemens,” Henry said, climbing onto Bixby. “I won’t forget you.”

  Sam swung up onto his own mount. “Thank you, boy,” he said, “but I shall be doing my best to forget you, as well as every other aspect of this infected pustule of a city.”

  Henry gave him a skeptical look. “Mister Clemens,” he said, “I think you’re a liar.”

  “I won’t dispute that,” Sam said. “I only wish I could make it pay.”

  The Bluebellies set off, and Sam’s mount went with them. Sam looked back to give Henry and Bixby a wave, but they were already heading in the other direction and didn’t see him.

  On the way to the ferry, Sam and the soldiers passed by the Eldridge House, where eighteen bodies had been laid out on the sidewalk. They were already beginning to stink. A number of townspeople were still gathered here, and from what Sam could hear, they were curious about the dead black man, who had been one of the three raiders killed by the Negro recruits. Why on earth, they wondered, would a man of his race ride with Quantrill?

  Sam started to say, “Because he was paid,” but the words froze in his throat.

  The last four bodies on the sidewalk were those of George Todd, Cole Younger, Frank James, and Fletcher Taylor.

  Sam looked away and rode on.

  * * *

  He spent Saturday night camped beside the road with the soldiers and Sunday night in a hotel in St. Joseph, and did not sleep either night. At daybreak on Monday, he carried his saddlebags to the overland stage depot, paid his money, and boarded the coach. Two other passengers and several sacks of mail soon joined him, and the coach set off westward at eight o’clock.