She laughed high and haughty. “So he thinks.”
“As is done, ma’am. There will be a battle here soon enough.”
“And my husband will win.”
“Your faith is well-placed, but this will not fall in his favor,” Wolf said.
“Then you don’t know him.”
“We know him very well.” Wolf let his eyes do the talking. She had to realize the truth of his words. Everything they’d done so far was because they were familiar with how the dashing Stuart operated. He was a man that would never let his wife’s kidnappers go unpunished. A man who frantically and aggressively searched for her made mistakes. He should be setting up defenses not galloping around from town to town.
She blinked and averted her eyes away from him.
“Did you see Shugart or James?”
Hogan’s eyes read his for an answer. “Can’t say I’d see James unless he wanted me too.” Hogan gave a short grin that disappeared. “Where’d they go?”
“I sent them to scout the area.”
“It’s good you sent James with them.”
“I know, but they should be back.” Wolf went to the window and peered between the boards. “We can only wait.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Evening, May 10, 1864
Near Yellow Tavern, Virginia
Tracking was a slow and precise business and Scott had lost the trail for most the day. The dense woodlands had foiled him for hours before he located the trail again, and it led them here to a rural country road. Payne sat atop his horse, watching the scout with disgusted impatience as he tried to find their scent like an overused bloodhound.
Scott walked lightly over the road, holding the reins to his horse as he studied the ground. The man would walk one way then drop to his knees eyeing the earth, sometimes even sniffing it like an actual beast of the forest. Then he’d stand and either follow the tracks farther or turn back around and tread his steps back to the group before starting the whole process anew.
“What can you see, Scott?”
“It’s hard to tell. You see, this is a common road. Many riders have gone through here. It’s hard for me to say which way our prey went.”
“Let’s spread our net.” Payne waved forward Lieutenant Fickles and Sergeant Turner. “Take your men north then split covering east and west. I’ll take the rest south. Let’s run down these wild pigs.”
The men parted ways in a cloud of dust. He kept Scott, the best tracker of the group, to guide his men. They traveled south down a forested road toward Richmond. He didn’t understand why Northern raiders would travel deeper into Southern territory, but Scott seemed sure enough about the possibility. They stopped at a few homes and talked to the people there, asking if they’d seen any groups of men. They came up empty-handed.
“Well, Scott?” Payne demanded.
The scout eyed the road ahead. “Don’t know, sir. Thought we’d have run into ‘em by now.”
“Yet we haven’t.”
Scott eyed Payne for a moment, a mountain lion sizing up an alpha wolf. He knew the scout wouldn’t strike first. He would adhere to the military hierarchy. But if he did, Payne would bring the wild man down with calculated saber strikes. If the man wanted to shoot it out, it would happen close. In that case, he would beat the Scott on the draw, solidifying his own victory. He was prepared for the conflict but was sure Scott would not act.
“Let’s return to our rally point. Perhaps Mr. Scott can take up the trail again.”
Scott’s lips quivered in anger, and Payne ignored him. His men turned their horses around. “Let’s walk ‘em back. Give our mounts a rest.”
Their horses’ hooves tapped out a muffled drumbeat along the packed dirt road, and his men were quiet. Even though his men wouldn’t complain, being in the saddle for such a long hard pursuit was surely wearing on them. He’d hate to lose such fine horseflesh for no cause. Despite their excellent breeding, the animals and his men weren’t tireless.
In the distance, riders appeared like lonely ghosts. Payne regarded them for a moment. His men must have found something. He raised his hand in a wave.
The other riders drew their horses to a stop.
He gave Scott a side-eye. “Must be Fickles or Turner’s men.” He waved again over his head.
“There’s only three of them,” Scott said.
The two groups watched one another from afar. Payne let his hand fall to the pommel of his saddle. He peered over his shoulder for a moment. The road was clear. The forest on either side of them buzzed with insects. Both parties judged the threat of the other. Must be Turner. Can’t be them. Can it? His nose twitched and he squinted, letting his hand embrace the familiarity of his pistol handle.
The horsemen twisted in their saddles, spinning their mounts in the opposing direction. Tails swished and dust clouded as they galloped away.
A quick grin flashed on Payne’s lips. He pointed with his reins. “Those be our wild piglets.” He raked his horse’s flanks with his spurs. “Let’s get ‘em!”
The rolling thunder of hooves drummed in pursuit. Shouts and whoops came from the men around him. It had been too long since his hounds had been blooded. The wind whipped his long hair and tugged at his open officer’s coat. Gracefully, he drew his pistol from its holster in one fluid motion.
The riders ahead turned down an intersecting road and disappeared from view behind trees and shrubs. Unable to see the prey drove his men on even harder. Payne gave his horse an extra kick.
Never let the foe from your sight. His men crouched low on their mounts as they turned the corner. They would run down the cowards.
Every stride closed the distance like wolves hunting newly born fawns. It was only a matter of time before they were caught.
A pistol flashed a fiery report back at them, the shot flying harmlessly overhead. The rider lacked natural equestrian skill. The shot was so poorly aimed that Payne’s men didn’t even duck.
Fighting on horseback took practice. Hell, riding a horse took practice let alone engaging the enemy accurately while in motion. His men, who had grown up in the saddle, had mastered the skill. Their horse tactics could rival any of the tribes of the Great Plains.
As they drew even closer to the fleeing horsemen, Payne took aim. It took skill to hit anything atop a horse, at a gallop even more so, but it could be done if the horse was excellently trained and the rider confident. In his case, he had both at his disposal.
Patiently, he waited for the wavering of his pistol to fall in line with the rider’s back, all while prepping his trigger ever so slightly. It was really a matter of hurrying up and then waiting for the precise moment to release the tension. Bang! The bitter smoke from his shot instantly dissipated behind him.
The rider ahead arched his back with a scream, instinctually pulling his reins hard. His mount reared on two legs and sent the rider tumbling from his horse. He emitted a loud huff as he hit the ground.
The front rider didn’t glance back, only demanding more from his poor beast. His partner slowed his horse, spurring it back toward the fallen man. Ah, yes, a bleeding heart for his fellow man. Finally, a little contest.
The rider galloped in his direction, charging Payne’s men; his pistol blared at the rebels. A soft whizz tickled at Payne’s ear as a bullet passed by. He beat Payne’s men to the fallen and struggled to dismount his horse as he reached his comrade.
“Hold your fire!” Payne shouted. His riders threatened to run the men over with their mounts, but they slowed and encircled the men, pointing their guns at them.
“What about the one ahead?” Private Matthew Gordon said, his pistol in hand. Gordon came from a family who owned three mills near Charleston. Handsome lad with a dimpled chin.
Payne studied the escaping rider as he got farther away, kicking up dust as he went. “Later, Gordon. We have all we need,” he said, mouth twisting into a smile. “I will accept your gracious surrender, gentlemen.” He emphasized his words by cocking his pist
ol.
The two men froze. The old man with a beard like white hanging moss strained with the effort of holding the injured man beneath his armpits. He struggled to simply keep the younger man in his arms, and they both sank to the road in defeat.
“We are loyal Confederates,” the old man said.
Payne’s men laughed. “Is that so?” He eyed their mounts. Cavalry saddles. Fine long guns strapped to the sides. The younger man gritted his teeth, trying to hold his back with his hand. His chest shook, and he whimpered in pain. The elder stared at them defiantly.
“You will pay for what you’ve done. We will go to your commanding officer.”
“Do not threaten me with false bravado, old man. You are the ones in my possession. And by the looks of you, you are just the men I was searching for.”
A distant crack of a gun sounded off like a firework faraway. It drew one’s eyes upward as did any gunshot. His eyes had less than a second to locate the perpetrator before warm wetness splashed across his face: a summer rain. His cheek twitched and he raised a hand to wipe it away. The liquid smeared between his fingers like crushed berries. Blood. Thicker bits of tissue congregated in rugged globs. But not his own.
Next to him, Private Gordon teetered in his saddle as a drunk man would before he collapsed on the road. His men took cover, and Payne quickly hopped from his horse. He scanned the road over his mount’s back.
A rider stood faintly in the distance barely visible to the naked eye. Much too far for a shot. From the saddle? Much too far.
He turned and peered down at Gordon. He lay in the road, coughing blood on his chest that was masked by his crimson-colored shirt. His hands flapped uselessly as he tried to stay moving. His mind hadn’t caught up to the reality of his impending doom. He had no chance at survival. Death would come quick.
The distant rider turned his horse and fled. He shot that from atop a horse at that distance? A lucky man indeed. He would take pleasure in cutting the man down. Maybe he’d take his fingers before he died. Or would he take his eyes instead? Hard to tell which one meant more to a man like that.
Most men wouldn’t survive that long in a battle, but when he did catch that rider, he would make sure to take him alive. That way he could be assured he would die screaming. Then he would see what the man valued more. Eyes or fingers. He bet on eyes, but who knew? Sometimes men surprised him.
“Get him.” Payne pointed at Gordon. A few of his men hustled to his body, hauling him by his arms toward the brush. Blood bubbled from Gordon’s mouth, his eyes wide with fear. The man left a dark stain on the ground like a horse had pissed.
“That was a mistake.” His eyes regarded the two men sitting in the center of the road.
“Sir, you should take cover,” shouted Corporal Thomas Cook. He was a blond freckle-faced young man from Spartanburg. His family owned modest lands and only twenty or so slaves. Payne almost hadn’t allowed him entry into the Red Shirts, but as the war wore on, his entrance was all but assured. He was a crafty fighter, an expert with a hunting shotgun.
“He’s gone, Corporal.”
“Could be more?” Cook tried to peer down the country road.
Payne made a grand gesture of bending down near the two men. He scanned over their heads. No man, no matter the shot, would try it over the heads of his two comrades. “Can’t be too safe now.” He gave a charming smile. “Now who are you two?”
“We aren’t anyone of note,” the elder man said.
“My man is bleeding out on the side of the road bound for a date with our heavenly father. Do not tell me you’re nobody. Nobody’s don’t shoot my men.”
“We’re true Southerners. Loyal we are,” the elder man said. “Thought you were Yanks. They’re all over these roads.”
Payne gave an understanding nod. It was an expected response. Lie, lie, lie, make counterarguments. “You’re right; they are.” He lifted his eyebrows. He supposed he would entertain them for a moment in time. “So you originated in these parts?”
“Yes, we’re from Hanover,” the young man cried.
“Really? What’s the name of the church right on the outskirts of town? Can’t miss it. Nice white steeple.”
The young man blinked. “Methodist.”
Payne pretended to believe them, watching the boy’s eyes light up, only to shake his head in disappointment. “Close, but wrong. You sure you’re from these parts?” He tried to give them an unalarming smile. “Boy, I can ease your suffering. I know a good doctor around here. About three miles up this road, lives next to a tobacco plantation.”
The young man’s eyes lit up. The elder man shook his head vehemently. “Don’t say anything, Pratt. These men aren’t going to treat us fairly.”
Payne’s cold eyes watched them without feeling. “Of course, we will. We are all Southern gentleman here. We’re honorable. Men of high standards and moral code.”
Pratt held up a hand soaked in blood. “I yield. We’re Union soldiers. Please take me to the doctor.”
“Really?” Payne said sarcastically. His men chuckled from the trees.
The older man sighed and eyed the ground. “We’re lost from our command.”
“No, you’re not.”
The young man frantically shook his head. “We’re on a mission.”
A grin formed on Payne’s face. With enough suffering, a man would talk and talk. Tell you anything you wanted to know. He was almost disappointed with how easily they’d broken. “Are you? Do tell me more, boy. Doctor ain’t far.”
Pratt blinked at his companion. “I need help. I been shot,” he beseeched. “Uncle, the pain is fierce.”
Shugart grabbed him by the shirt. “They ain’t going to help us, boy. So keep your mouth shut and die a loyal man.”
Payne drew himself upright in front of them, holstering his pistol. “Let me tell you. You boys seen better days.” He showed them his weaponless hands. “See? No harm.” He tried to smile again like he would at a friend. “Where is she, boy? You tell me, and I’ll take you right over to the doctor.”
Shugart lunged for him, swinging his fist as hard as he could. Payne had seen it coming a mile away. His backhand cracked a bony cheek and sent the old man onto the ground. “Now, you be careful, old-timer.”
“Oh, God,” Pratt said. He had collapsed on the ground, emitting a high-pitched moan. “It’s so bad.” His chest heaved. The old man crawled to him, placing a hand on the scarlet flow escaping Pratt’s body. “It’s okay, boy. Keep breathing.”
“I do declare this is unfortunate. Let me assist you, boy,” Payne said. His hand eased a knife from its sheath.
“Yes, thank you.” The boy moaned, struggling to stay still. Payne slipped his dagger into the boy’s neck. His eyes bulged, and blood spilled from the wound like an unblocked spigot.
Shugart held his convulsing body. “You killed him!”
“I helped him on his way.”
“There’s no doctor,” Shugart said, tears forming in his eyes.
“No doctor.”
Payne wiped the blade on the dead man’s coat and sheathed it. Blood could corrode a blade if one wasn’t careful. The boy would have never lasted long enough for a full interview, but the old man would. He held the same information. “Let’s get to know each other, old one.”
Shugart studied him with fearful eyes. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“But you will.”
***
The light from the fire danced across the hanging man’s thinning head of hair. His flop of hair reminded Payne of some sort of malting bird, unruly and wild. He wiped his blade on the old man’s brown jacket, darkening the shade.
He didn’t hang in the traditional sense, by a rope or tether around his neck. He wanted the man to be able to speak, so hanging was counterproductive. No, he needed him to stay in place while in massive amounts of pain but still be lucid. So he simply nailed the man’s hands to the tree above his head.
Soft chatting from his men drifted from around
the campfire. Turner was telling the story about when he killed a bear with only a knife. The part he always left out was that he’d shot the beast three times before he “slew” it with his blade. He danced and jabbed and dodged imaginary swipes from the animal to the other men’s delight.
The men had distanced themselves from Payne while he worked. Most men didn’t have the stomach for this kind of thing. But Payne was sure of one thing. He’d always had a stomach for it. Ever since he was young, he had felt different. He had this extra spark that other men didn’t have. The spark of a killer.
Having been raised as a hunter and horseman, it had been easy to disguise his glee at the kill. When he entered the war, it was harder to mask his pleasure with the opportunity for it all around. It was like giving an alcoholic uninhibited access to a bar that was restocked daily.
Some men liked fighting and thrived at it, viewing it as a contest. Other men had that extra piece, the one that helped them turn off their brain and slog through the dirty gory work until it was done. But few took as much pleasure in it as much as he did.
He enjoyed it enough to where he could excel in other areas like interrogation. The suffering of others gave him a sort of ecstasy far greater than any sexual encounter. Not like with a woman. No, not like that, but similar. It was more like ultimate control over another: control where he could flick his wrist, the blade would bite, and the man would die. Control over every bit of relief they had from the pain. Control to escalate a man’s pain to the point where he would say anything to escape its fiendish grip.
They were always defiant at first, much like this old man. The next phase was the crying and bemoaning. The mind was a far worse enemy than the blade during this phase. A man would piss himself before Payne had done much of anything to make him cry. Then the poor man would start the begging and pleading.
It was a pitiful sight, but it was in this phase that he’d procure most of his answers. The key was to not stop when they begged. No, no. When the man begged, they were close. The man’s ego searched for a way to save his own skin and his pride with empty words of promise and faith.
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