BUSHWHACKERS
by
B. J. LANAGAN

                                  Jove Books
                                   New York
                             Copyright (C) 1997 by
                            Jove Publications, Inc.
                             All rights reserved.


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Printing history
Jove edition / July 1997

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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                               DON'T MISS THESE
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                       FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP


THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts
     Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies.  They called
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LONGARM by Tabor Evans
     The popular long-running series about U.S. Deputy Marshal Long--his life,
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SLOCUM by Jake Logan
     Today's longest-running action Western.  John Slocum rides a deadly trail
of hot blood and cold steel.

BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan
     An all-new series by the creators of Longarm!  The rousing adventure of
the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled--Quantrill's Raiders.


                                       1


                        Jackson County, Missouri, 1862

     As SETH COULTER LAY HIS POCKET WATCH ON THE BEDside table and blew out
the lantern, he thought he saw a light outside.  Walking over to the window,
he pulled the curtain aside to stare out into the darkness.

     On the bed alongside him the mattress creaked, and his wife, Irma, raised
herself on her elbows.

     "What is it, Seth?" Irma asked.  "What are you lookin' at?"

     "Nothin', I reckon."

     "Well, you're lookin' at somethin'."

     "Thought I seen a light out there, is all."

     Seth continued to look through the window for a moment longer.  He saw
only the moon-silvered West Missouri hills.

     "A light?  What on earth could that be at this time of night?" Irma
asked.

     "Ah, don't worry about it," Seth replied, still looking through the
window.  "It's prob'ly just lightning bugs."

     "Lightning bugs?  Never heard of lightning bugs this early in the year."

     "Well, it's been a warm spring," Seth explained.  Finally, he came away
from the window, projecting to his wife an easiness he didn't feel.  "I'm sure
it's nothing," he said.

     "I reckon you're right," the woman agreed.  "Wish the boys was here,
though."

     Seth climbed into bed.  He thought of the shotgun over the fireplace
mantel in the living room, and he wondered if he should go get it.  He
considered it for a moment, then decided against it.  It would only cause Irma
to ask questions, and just because he was feeling uneasy, was no reason to
cause her any worry.  He turned to her and smiled.

     "What do you want the boys here for?" he asked.  "If the boys was here,
we couldn't be doin' this."  Gently, he began pulling at her nightgown.

     "Seth, you old fool, what do you think you're doin'?" Irma scolded.  But
there was a lilt of laughter in her voice, and it was husky, evidence that far
from being put off by him, she welcomed his advances.

     Now, any uneasiness Seth may have felt fell away as he tugged at her
nightgown.  Finally she sighed.

     "You better let me do it," she said.  "Clumsy as you are, you'll
like-as-not tear it."

     Irma pulled the nightgown over her head, then dropped it onto the floor
beside her bed.  She was forty-six years old, but a lifetime of hard work had
kept her body trim, and she was proud of the fact that she was as firm now as
she had been when she was twenty.  She lay back on the bed and smiled up at
her husband, her skin glowing silver in the splash of moonlight.  Seth ran his
hand down her nakedness, and she trembled under his touch.  He marvelled that,
after so many years of marriage, she could still be so easily aroused.



     Three hundred yards away from the house, Emil Slaughter, leader of a band
of Jayhawkers, twisted around in his saddle to look back at the dozen or so
riders with him.  Their faces were fired orange in the flickering lights of
the torches.  Felt hats were pulled low, and they were all wearing long
dusters, hanging open to provide access to the pistols which protruded from
their belts.  His band of followers looked, Slaughter thought, as if a fissure
in the earth had suddenly opened to allow a legion of demons to escape from
hell.  There was about them a hint of sulphur.

     A hint of sulphur.  Slaughter smiled at the thought.  He liked that idea.
Such an illusion would strike fear into the hearts of his victims, and the
more frightened they were, the easier it would be for him to do his job.

     Quickly, Slaughter began assigning tasks to his men.

     "You two hit the smokehouse, take ever' bit of meat they got a'curin'."

     "Hope they got a couple slabs of bacon," someone said.

     "I'd like a ham or two," another put in.

     "You three, go into the house.  Clean out the pantry: flour, cornmeal,
sugar, anything they got in there.  And if you see anything valuable in the
house, take it too."

     "What about the people inside?"

     "Kill 'em," Slaughter said succinctly.

     "Women, too?"

     "Kill 'em all."

     "What about their livestock?"

     "If they got any ridin' horses, we'll take 'em.  The plowin' animals
we'll let burn when we torch the barn.  All right, let's go."



     In the bedroom Seth and Irma were oblivious to what was going on outside.
Seth was over her, driving himself into her moist triangle.  Irma's breathing
was coming faster and more shallow as Seth gripped her buttocks with his
hands, pulling her up to meet him.  He could feel her fingers digging into his
shoulders, and see her jiggling, sweat-pearled breasts as her head flopped
from side to side with the pleasure she was feeling.

     Suddenly Seth was aware of a wavering, golden glow on the walls of the
bedroom.  A bright light was coming through the window.

     "What the hell?" he asked, interrupting the rhythm and holding himself up
from her on stiffened arms, one hand on each side of her head.

     "No, no," Irma said through clenched teeth.  "Don't stop now, don't ..."

     "Irma, my God!  The barn's on fire!" Seth shouted, as he disengaged
himself.

     "What?" Irma asked, now also aware of the orange glow in the room.

     Seth got out of bed and started quickly to pull on his trousers.
Suddenly there was a crashing sound from the front of the house as the door
was smashed open.

     "Seth!" Irma screamed.

     Drawing up his trousers, Seth started toward the living room and the
shotgun he had over the fireplace.

     "You lookin' for this, you Missouri bastard?" someone asked.  He was
holding Seth's shotgun.

     "Who the hell are ..."  That was as far as Seth got.  His question was
cut off by the roar of the shotgun as a charge of double-aught buckshot
slammed him back against the wall.  He slid down to the floor, staining the
wall behind him with blood and guts from the gaping exit wounds in his back.

     "Seth!  My God, no!" Irma shouted, running into the living room when she
heard the shotgun blast.  So concerned was she about her husband that she
didn't bother to put on her nightgown.

     "Well, now, lookie what we got here," a beady-eyed Jayhawker said,
staring at Irma's nakedness.  "Boys, I'm goin' to have me some fun."

     "No," Irma said, shaking now, not only in fear of her own life, but in
shock from seeing her husband's lifeless body leaning against the wall.

     Beady Eyes reached for Irma.

     "Please," Irma whimpered.  She twisted away from him.  "Please."

     "Listen to her beggin' me for it, boys.  Lookit them titties!  Damn,
she's not a bad-lookin' woman, you know that?"  His dark beady eyes glistened,
rat-like, as he opened his pants then reached down to grab himself.  His
erection projected forward like a club.

     "No, please, don't do this," Irma pleaded.

     "You wait 'til I stick this cock in you, honey," Beady Eyes said.  "Hell,
you goin' to like it so much you'll think you ain't never been screwed
before."

     Irma turned and ran into the bedroom.  The others followed her, laughing,
until she was forced against the bed.

     "Lookit this, boys!  She's brought me right to her bed!  You think this
bitch ain't a'wantin' it?"

     "I beg of you, if you've any kindness in you ..." Irma started, but her
plea was interrupted when Beady Eyes backhanded her so savagely that she fell
across the bed, her mouth filled with blood.

     "Shut up!" he said, harshly.  "I don't like my women talkin' while I'm
diddlin' 'em!"

     Beady Eyes came down onto the bed on top of her, then he spread her legs
and forced himself roughly into her.  Irma felt as if she were taking a hot
poker inside her, and she cried out in pain.

     "Listen to her squealin'.  He's really givin' it to her," one of the
observers said.

     Beady Eyes wheezed and gasped as he thrust into her roughly.  "Don't wear
it out none," one of the others giggled.  "We'uns want our turn!"

     At the beginning of his orgasm, Beady Eyes enhanced his pleasure by one
extra move that was unobserved by the others.  Immediately thereafter he felt
the convulsive tremors of the woman beneath him, and that was all it took to
trigger his final release.  He surrendered himself to the sensation of fluid
and energy rushing out of his body, while he groaned and twitched in orgiastic
gratification.

     "Look at that!  He's comin' in the bitch right now!" one of the others
said excitedly.  "Damn!  You wait 'til I get in there!  I'm goin' to come in
quarts!"

     Beady Eyes lay still on top of her until he had spent his final twitch,
then he got up.  She was bleeding from a stab wound just below her left
breast.

     "My turn," one of the others said, already taking out his cock.  He had
just started toward her when he saw the wound in the woman's chest, and the
flat look of her dead eyes.  "What the hell?" he asked.  "What happened to
her?"  The second man looked over at Beady Eyes in confusion.  Then he saw
Beady Eyes wiping blood off the blade of his knife.

     "You son of a bitch!" he screamed in anger.  "You kilt her!"

     "Slaughter told us to kill her," Beady Eyes replied easily.

     "Well, you coulda waited 'til someone else got a chance to do her before
you did it, you bastard!"  He started toward Beady Eyes when, suddenly, there
was the thunder of a loud pistol shot.  "What the hell is going on in here?"
Slaughter yelled.

     He was standing just inside the bedroom door, holding a smoking pistol in
his hand, glaring angrily at them.

     "This son of a bitch kilt the woman while he was doin' her!"

     "We didn't come here to screw," Slaughter growled.  "We come here to get
supplies."

     "But he kilt her while he was screwin' her!  Who would do somethin' like
that?"

     "Before, during, after, what difference does it make?" Slaughter asked.
"As long as she's dead.  Now, you've got work to do, so get out there in the
pantry, like I told you, and start gatherin' up what you can.  You," he said
to Beady Eyes, "go through the house, take anything you think we can sell.  I
want to be out of here in no more'n five minutes."

     "Emil, what woulda been the harm in us havin' our turn?"

     Slaughter cocked the pistol and pointed it at the one who was still
complaining.  "The harm is, I told you not to," he said.  "Now, do you want to
debate the issue?"

     "No, no!" the man said quickly, holding his hands out toward Slaughter,
"Didn't mean nothin' by it.  I was just talkin', that's all."

     "Good," Slaughter said.  He looked over at Beady Eyes.  "And you.  If you
ever pull your cock out again without me a'sayin' it's all right, I'll cut the
goddamned thing off."

     "It wasn't like you think, Emil," Beady Eyes said.  "I was just tryin' to
be easy on the woman, is all.  I figured it would be better if she didn't know
it was about to happen."

     Slaughter shook his head.  "You're one strange son of a bitch, you know
that?"  He stared at the three men for a minute, then he shook his head in
disgust as he put his pistol back into his belt.  "Get to work."

     Beady Eyes was the last one out and as he started to leave he saw, lying
on the chifforobe, a gold pocket watch.  He glanced around to make sure no one
was looking.  Quickly, and unobserved, he slipped the gold watch into his own
pocket.

     This was a direct violation of Slaughter's standing orders.  Anything of
value found on any of their raids was to be divided equally among the whole.
That meant that, by rights, he should give the watch to Slaughter, who would
then sell it and divide whatever money it brought.  But because it was loot,
they would be limited as to where they could sell the watch.  That meant it
would bring much less than it was worth and by the time it was split up into
twelve parts, each individual part would be minuscule.  Better, by far, that
he keep the watch for himself.

     Feeling the weight of the watch riding comfortably in his pocket, he went
into the pantry to start clearing it out.

     "Lookie here!" the other man detailed for the pantry said.  "This here
family ate pretty damn good, I'll tell you.  We've made us quite a haul:
flour, coffee, sugar, onions, potatoes, beans, peas, dried peppers."

     "Yeah, if they's as lucky in the smokehouse, we're goin' to feast
tonight!"

     The one gathering the loot came into the pantry then, holding a bulging
sack.  "I found some nice gold candlesticks here, too," he said.  "We ought to
get somethin' for them."

     "You men inside!  Let's go!" Slaughter's shout came to them.

     The Jayhawkers in the house ran outside where Slaughter had brought
everyone together.  Here, they were illuminated by the flames of the
already-burning barn.  Two among the bunch were holding flaming torches, and
they looked at Slaughter expectantly.

     "All right, burn the rest of the buildings now," Slaughter said with a
nod of his head.

     One of the torch-bearers went to the smokehouse, the other went to the
main house.  They touched their torches to a few places here and there, and
the dry wood caught as quickly as tinder.  Within moments, every building on
the place was completely enveloped in flames.

     "All right, men," Slaughter ordered.  "Mount up!  Let's get out of here!"

     The raiding party rode away as the house, barn, smokehouse, and even the
outhouse burned furiously.  Behind them, the bodies of Seth and Irma Coulter
lay where they fell, the blazing house their crematorium.


                                       2


     The Elite House was one of the most popular saloons in Warrensburg,
Missouri.  The owner had brought in a fine crystal chandelier to complement
the bar of polished mahogany.  He had solid brass spittoons, a brass foot
rail, and, on the wall behind the bar, a three by six foot oil painting of a
nude woman reclining on a golden couch.  She appeared to be contemplating a
letter she held in her hand, while her young nubian servant poured water into
a large golden tub behind her.

     Joe Coulter was at the bar, having a drink and studying the whimsical
expression on the face of the woman in the painting.  He wondered just what
was in the note she was reading.  He wondered silently, however, for there was
no one nearby to talk to.  At six feet, three inches tall, and with shoulders
the width of an axe handle, most people tended to give Joe a lot of room.

     Joe's brother, Win, was at one of the tables, playing cards.  Although
older, Win was somewhat smaller in stature than Joe.  Women considered Win
very good-looking, but there was a quality about him that frightened them, as
if they could see a flash of hellfire in his eyes.

     Although Win wasn't having a phenomenal run of luck, he was winning more
than he was losing, and now he had just been called on a rather modest bet.
He spread his hand out on the table, face up.

     "Three jacks.  Looks like I win again," Win said, easily.

     "The hell you say!"

     The loud, hoarse curse exploded from the throat of one of the players in
Win's game.  His outburst was followed by the crashing sound of a chair
tipping over as he stood abruptly.  A woman's laughter halted in mid-trill,
and the piano player pulled his hands away from the keyboard so that the last
three notes hung raggedly, discordantly, in the air.  All conversation ceased
and everyone in the crowded saloon turned toward the cause of the disturbance.

     A tall, lanky man with a drooping black moustache and cold fish-like eyes
stood in front of the chair he had just overturned.  He pointed a long
accusing finger across the table at Win Coulter.  The reason for his anger was
Win's winning hand, and the money in the pot amounted to twelve dollars and
eighty cents.

     "You son of a bitch!  Where'd you get that third jack?"

     "Mister, all three of them came in the deal, fair and honest," Win said
mildly.  He had just been all but called a cheater, and he had to struggle to
keep his voice calm.

     "You expect us to believe that?"

     "Take it easy, Billy," one of the other players said.  "This is supposed
to be a friendly game."

     "And it has been until now," another said.  "What you gettin' all worked
up about?  This here fella ain't won any more'n any of the rest of us has at
one time or another."

     "You two stay out of this unless you're fixin' to buy in to the trouble,"
Billy snarled.  He looked at Win again.  "Now, I'm askin' you a second time.
Where'd you get that third jack!"

     This time, Win didn't answer.  The saloon suddenly grew deathly quiet, as
everyone strained to hear every word spoken.  The large clock standing against
the wall by the coatrack, which normally marked the passage of the day
unnoticed, now seemed to proclaim each syllable of passing time loudly.  A
customer came into the saloon then, and, sensing that something momentous was
about to happen, checked his pocket watch against the clock, the better to fix
the time in his mind so that every detail would be accurate for the later
telling.

     "I told you, I got it in the deal," Win said, still managing to keep
control over his anger.  Although he was the one being challenged, he was
showing even less nervousness than Billy himself.

     "Mister, if you try to rake in that pot, I'm just goin' to have to kill
you," Billy said, his hands hovering menacingly over his pistol.

     "What are you talkin' about, Billy?  That wouldn't be no fair fight,"
someone in the saloon said.  "You're standin' up, and this feller is sittin'
down."

     "I don't reckon it is fair," Billy agreed.  "But that's the way of it
sometimes.  Life ain't always fair."  His smile grew broader, and his hand
hovered over his pistol.  "Now, mister, if you're aimin' on defendin'
yourself, this would be as good a time as any for you to pull your gun."

     Win made no move toward his own gun, nor did he attempt to improve his
own position.  Instead, he smiled up at the tall man, and his smile was even
colder and more frightening than Billy's snarl.

     "That won't be necessary," Win said.

     Billy was obviously confused by the strange answer, and his face twisted
into a scowl.  "What do you mean?"

     "Well, since you agreed that this wasn't a fair fight, then maybe you
ought to know that I already have a gun in my hand ... under the table."

     "Mister, who you trying to kid?" Billy asked.  "Your gun is in your belt!
I can see it."

     "What I got in my hand is a hold-out gun," Win said.  "A derringer, two
barrels, forty-one caliber.  From here, I could put a hole in your chest big
enough to stick my fist into."

     "You're bluffin'," Billy said.

     Again Win smiled, a cold, unnerving smile that made Billy shiver.

     "Then go for your gun," Win said.  "Unless you would rather not try the
experiment."

     Billy stood for a moment longer, trying to decide whether or not he would
call Win's bluff.  His eyes narrowed, a muscle in his cheek twitched, and
perspiration beads broke out on his forehead.

     "All right," he finally said.  "Only this ain't gonna stop here.  Like as
not, I'll run into you again sometime."

     "Like as not," Win agreed.

     Billy looked around at the others, then turned and left.  Everyone in the
saloon watched him leave, then they turned back toward Win, who was still
holding his right hand under the table.  Finally, he brought his hand up, and
everyone saw that he wasn't holding a derringer as he had claimed, but a
cigar.  He put the cigar in his mouth, smiled broadly, lit it, and took a
puff.  He had just run a monumental bluff, and they had all seen it.  When
they realized what he'd done, they burst out laughing.

     "Whoowee, mister, did you ever jerk a cinch in ol' Billy boy."

     "Yeah, puttin' him down like that with nothin' but a cigar in your hand?
You really took a chance."

     "Oh, I don't know," Win quipped.  He looked at the end of his now burning
cigar.  "What you gentlemen have to understand is that this is quite a
remarkable cigar."

     Again, everyone in the saloon laughed.

     "Hey, Win," Joe called.  Joe had stepped over to the front of the saloon
to follow Billy out onto the street.  "Looks like somethin' is goin' on out
there."

     "Is he waiting for me outside?" Win asked.

     "Looks like that."

     Win walked over to look out through the window with Joe.  The street,
which had been busy with commerce just a moment earlier, had suddenly become
deserted, except for Billy, who was standing in the middle of the street about
one hundred feet away.  Billy had his gun in his hand, pointing toward the
saloon door.  He was obviously prepared to fight.

     In the meantime, men and women were scurrying down the sidewalks,
stepping into buildings or behind them, to get out of the line of fire, while
at the same time taking up observers' positions in the doors and windows so
they wouldn't miss the action.  Even the horses had been moved off the street,
as nervous owners feared they might get hit by a stray bullet.  Only Win and
Joe's horses remained tied to the hitching post in front of the saloon.  They
whickered and stamped their feet nervously, as if sensing that something out
of the ordinary was going on.

     "Win, you don't have to do this, you know," Joe said.  "He's just a
little hot under the collar right now.  I could go out the back, sneak around,
and come up behind him before he even knew what was going on."

     "No.  I thank you, little brother," Win said.  "But this is my fight.
I'm going to have to fight it my way."

     "The thing is, Win, 'your way' always gets someone killed."

     "Long as it ain't me gettin' killed," Win said.  He hitched up his gun
belt then stepped through the front door outside.  Billy was standing in the
middle of the street, his gun already in his hand.

     "Well, now, you did have guts enough to come out here, I see," Billy
snarled.

     "I don't plan to be here long," Win said.  "Just long enough to take care
of a little business."

     Billy fired first, and his bullet fried the air just beside Win's ear,
hit the dirt behind him, then skipped off down the street with a high-pitched
whine.  Win dropped and rolled to his left, drawing his gun as he did so, even
as Billy got off a second shot.

     Win, with the instinct of survival, had rolled to his right so that
Billy's bullet crashed harmlessly into the wooden front stoop of the
Warrensburg Cafe.  A woman inside screamed with fear as she realized how close
the bullet had come to what she had assumed would be a safe vantage point.

     From his prone position on the ground, Win fired at Billy and hit him in
the knee.  Billy let out a howl and went down.  He was still firing, and Win
felt a bullet tear through the crown of his hat.  Now Win took slow and
deliberate aim and pulled the trigger.  He hit Billy in the temple, and he saw
a little pink mist of blood spray up from the impact of the bullet.

     Billy was stopped instantly and, for a moment, the town was deadly quiet
except for the dying echo of the shots.

     "It's over!" someone yelled.  "Everyone can come out now!  The fight's
over!"

     "And the best man won!" another yelled, and, within a minute, the street
was flooded with people, more people even than had been out before the fight
began.

     The street was alive with activity and noise as people described the
fight they had just witnessed, each one telling it from his own vantage point.

     "Best shot I ever seen!" someone was saying.  "Hell, that had to be fifty
yards or more."

     "I seen it from over there.  I was that close, I was," said another.

     With the excited babble still going on behind him, Win went back into the
saloon.  As he walked over toward the bar, he saw that his brother had already
poured him a whiskey.

     "Didn't want to do that," Win told his brother, as he tossed the drink
down.  "I gave him every chance to back out."

     "Yeah, well, maybe you're ready to go home now.  You know, we've been
gone nigh on to a week.  Ma and pa are goin' to start worryin' about us.
Especially ma, the way she is."

     "Yeah," Win said.  He poured himself another drink, then smiled.  "But
when they see I won enough money to pay for all the seed we bought, don't
figure they'll be too mad."

     A dark-haired blue-eyed, well-dressed man stepped up to the bar then.

     "Mr. Coulter?"

     "Yes," Win and Joe replied simultaneously.

     "Which one of us do you want?" Win asked.

     "Both, actually," the man replied, smiling at the two.  "My name is Frank
James."  He stuck out his hand, and first Win, then Joe, shook it.

     "What can we do for you, Mr. James?"

     "Mr. Coulter, I'm on a recruiting mission, you might say.  You are aware
that there is a war on?"

     "We're aware of it," Win replied, then added, "but we ain't interested in
it."

     "Why not?"

     "'Cause it don't have anything to do with us."

     "Patriotism doesn't have anything to do with you?  The willingness to
stand up and fight for the rights of a state to be free to do whatever it
wants, without the Yankees telling us what to do?"

     "Well, we don't have much truck with the Yankees," Joe said.  "I'll give
you that.  And we don't much like other folks telling us what to do."

     "That goes for the Yankees, or the state," Win added.  "And we sure don't
have anything in common with folks who own a lot of slaves.  Me and Joe and pa
work the farm our ownselves."

     "Right," Joe said.

     "The way I look at it, this is a war better fought in the east," Win
said.

     "It can't have escaped your notice, Mr. Coulter, that we Missourians have
had quite a bit of our own war," Frank said.  "Jayhawkers coming across to
raid our towns, burn our farms, rape our women."

     "And you're doing something about that, are you?" Win asked.

     Frank James smiled.  "I reckon we're putting a few things right, yes,
sir," he said.

     "Who, exactly, is we?" Win asked.

     Frank James looked around the bar before he spoke again.  "The men I ride
with.  Some folks call us Quantrill's Raiders," he said.  "Maybe you've heard
of us."

     "I've heard of you," Win said.

     "What have you heard?"

     "Pretty much what you just said.  That you've been givin' the Jayhawkers,
what for."

     "And what do you think about that?"

     Win held his drink up.  "I think you are probably a pretty good man, and
I'm willing to drink a toast to you.  If me an' my brother was the joinin'
kind, why, Quantrill would be the one we'd join.  But for now, we're willin'
to let you folks fight your battles, and we'll fight ours."

     The sheriff came through the door then, and Frank James, seeing him come
in, spoke quickly.

     "Looks like the sheriff's goin' to be askin' you a few questions," he
said.  "And I don't need to be around while he's doing it.  If you change your
mind, Mr. Coulter, and decide you'd like to come ride with us, come to Blue
Springs and look me up.  I'll introduce you to the Chief."

     "I'll keep that in mind," Win said, as Frank turned and melted back into
the room.

     "You the fella that shot Billy Hargiss?" the sheriff asked, coming over
to Win.

     "I reckon I am."

     "Sheriff, my brother didn't have no choice," Joe Coulter said.  "Soon as
he stepped outside, that fella was gunnin' for him."

     "I know, I know," the sheriff said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Ever'one who saw it has done told me the same thing.  I ain't plannin' on
makin' no arrests or nothin'.  I just need a statement, that's all.  What's
your name?"

     "Coulter.  Win Coulter."

     "Mr. Coulter, did you know Billy Hargiss?"

     "Never met him before I sat down to play cards with him."

     The sheriff chuckled.  "I can believe that, or you probably wouldn't have
played with him.  Hargiss is about the sorest loser I ever knew.  He was
always gettin' into fights, but always before he's been able to bully people
into seem' things his way.  Reckon he just ran into someone he couldn't bully.
All right, Mr. Coulter, that'll be all.  There will be a coroner's inquest,
but I don't figure you'll be called.  It's just as well you killed the son of
a bitch.  Makes it cleaner all the way around.  But do me a favor, will you?"

     "What's that?"

     "Next time you come into town, don't get into any card games."


                                       3


     Win and Joe Coulter stopped at the gate which led onto the Coulter farm
and looked at the sign:


COULTER FARM
Established, 1835:

"The truth is, all might be free if they valued freedom and defended it as
they ought."
-SAMUEL ADAMS


     A grasshopper was clinging to the faded lettering and a clump of weeds
had grown up in front of the sign.  Win dismounted and pulled the weeds so
that the sign was clearly visible.  "I thought pa told you to repaint this
sign," Win said.

     "I thought he told you."

     Win tossed the weed aside, then brushed the dirt off his hands.  He
tilted his head to one side and squinted.  "It's not all that bad, is it?  I
mean, you can still read it."

     "I can read it," Joe said.  "'Course, I could read it even if the words
weren't there.  Pa used to bring me out here and read it to me.  It's the
first thing I ever learned to read."

     Win laughed as he remounted.  "You weren't reading it, little brother,
you were memorizing it."

     Joe laughed as well, then he said, "I reckon you got me there.  And when
are you goin' to quit callin' me little brother?  I'm near twice as big as you
now."

     "But you're still my little brother in spirit, Joe," Win said.  "Come on,
it's gettin' on time to eat.  I want to make sure ma knows we're here in time
to cook for us."

     The two brothers rode through the gate and started up the long road.
Although they were back on their own farm, they wouldn't be able to actually
see the house until they topped the hill.  Their horses frightened up a rabbit
which bounded down the lane in front of them for several feet before darting
off into the safety of the tall grass.

     Joe sniffed the air.  "Pa must've been burnin' some brush.  I can smell
it."

     "Yeah," Win agreed.  "I can smell it too."  He laughed.  "Seems to me
like that was somethin' else we was supposed to do.  I'm afraid pa is goin' to
be some put out by us missin' all the work."

     "Yeah," Joe agreed.  "It's a good thing you were lucky in cards.  When we
tell pa that we've got a whole wagonload of supplies comin', all without it
costin' him a penny, why he's goin' to be pretty forgivin' of our stayin' out
a couple days longer, I think."

     "He must've just burned the brush.  I can still see a little wisp of
smoke up there," Win said.

     They reached the crest of the hill then and looked down toward where the
house, barn, and other outbuildings should be.  But there were no buildings
there.  Instead there were several blackened piles of burned-out rubble, all
that remained of what had been the barn, smokehouse, outhouse, and house.  Two
lonely brick chimneys marked each end of what had been the house and, from the
charred skeletal remains, wisps of smoke still curled up into the bright, blue
sky.

     "Joe!" Win shouted.  He slapped his heels against the sides of his horse,
and it broke quickly into a gallop.  Joe did the same with his horse, and they
covered the last hundred yards in just a few seconds.

     "Ma!  Pa!" Win yelled, leaping from his saddle and looking around.  Joe
was right behind him.

     "How'd they let the place catch on fire?" Joe asked.

     "It didn't catch on fire," Win answered.  "This fire was set."

     "How do you know?"

     "Look around you, Joe.  Every building on the place is burned down!
There's no way something like this could happen in just a regular fire."

     "Oh, my God, Win!  Look!" Joe said, pointing into the jumbled heap of
charcoaled boards and frames that was once the house.

     What Joe was pointing to was the charred remains of a body.  Win took a
couple of steps forward, then stopped and spun around, unable to go any
farther.  "It's pa," he said in a tight voice.

     "Where's ma?"

     Win took several deep breaths in order to get control of himself.

     "If pa's in there, ma is too," he finally said.  "And if she is, we are
going to have to go in there and find her."

     "You mean find her like that!" Joe choked.  "No, Win, I can't do that!"

     Win put his hand on Joe's shoulder.  "You have to get hold of yourself,
Joe," he said, quietly.  "Ma and pa deserve a decent buryin', and there ain't
nobody but us goin' to do it."

     Joe nodded as tears slid down his cheeks.  "Yeah," he finally said.
"You're right.  We have to do it."



     Win and Joe were driving in the two crudely made crosses at the head of
the fresh mounds of dirt.

     "We need to do better by them than these homemade crosses," Joe said.
"These markers won't last no time."

     "They're just temporary," Win promised.  "We'll go into town and have a
couple of tombstones done.  Real marble."

     "With an angel carved on ma's," Joe said.  "She would like that."

     "And roses," Win added.  "She was always partial to roses."

     When both crosses were in place, the boys stood back and looked down for
a long moment at the two fresh graves.  Both had red-rimmed eyes and throats
that were sore from holding back the sobs.

     "Don't you think we ought to say somethin'?" Joe asked.

     "Say what?"

     "Hell, I don't know.  You're the one that's read all the books.  There
ought to be somethin' you could say.  We ought not just bury 'em without so
much as a by your leave."

     "I can only say what I believe," Win said.  "The death of a good man, and
a good woman, is not a matter of indifference to God.  He will keep them in
His hands."

     At that moment, they heard the sound of hoofbeats, and they turned to
look back up at the top of the hill.

     "Who's that?" Joe asked.

     Win shielded his eyes with his hand and looked toward the riders.

     "It's Sheriff Paige."

     Tossing aside the spades they were still holding, Win and Joe walked out
to meet the sheriff as he and two men arrived.  Though the others remained in
their saddles, Paige dismounted.

     "Sorry you had to find them this way," Paige said, nodding toward the new
graves.  "I brought a couple of men out with me.  We were going to have your
folks buried for you before you got back so's you wouldn't have to see them
this way."

     "Who did it, Sheriff?"

     "Well, the fire ..." the sheriff said, pointing toward the
still-smoldering ruins of the house.

     "Bullshit the fire!" Win exploded angrily.  "In the first place, there's
no way ma and pa would've just stayed in the house and burned up like that
unless they had been shot first.  And in the second place, this kind of fire
doesn't just happen.  It was set.  I mean, look at it!  Every building was
burned!  And I want to know who did it."

     "As near as we can make out, a bunch of Jayhawkers came through here last
night," the sheriff said.  "This isn't the only farm they visited, but it is
the only one they burned out.  They killed a couple of folks over in Platte
County too.  They say it was Emil Slaughter and his bunch."

     "So, what are you doing here?  Why aren't you out chasing them down?"

     "Come on, Win, you know how things are now.  Things like this"--he took
in the burned-out farm--"are no longer in my jurisdiction.  There's a war
going on.  This is somethin' for the army."

     "Which army?  From what I've heard, Jayhawkers are supportin' the Union.
That means the Federal Army is on their side, doesn't it?"

     Sheriff Page shook his head sadly.  "I'm sorry, boys, I truly am," he
said.  "But you have to know that you aren't alone in this.  You're just lucky
you've been spared up 'til now.  Things like this have been goin' on here
along the Missouri-Kansas border since even before the war started.  And I
reckon it's going to keep on until the war is over.  And who knows?  Maybe
even beyond."

     "What you're sayin' is, any bunch of murderin' bastards as might want to
can just come over here from Kansas and do anything they want?  And there's
nothing we can do about it?"

     "That's pretty much the way of it," Sheriff Paige agreed.  "But don't
forget, for every gang of Jayhawkers, there's a gang of Bushwhackers.  I
suspect the decent folk over in Kansas are going through the same kind of
thing."

     "There are no decent folk in Kansas," Win said bitterly.  "Not if they
can spawn people who will do something like this."

     "Like I said, boys, I'm truly sorry," Sheriff Paige said, remounting his
horse.  He looked down at them.  "But under the circumstances, there is
nothing that can be done about it.  You understand that, I hope.  Nothing."

     Paige clucked at his horse and pulled it around, then he and the men who
had come with him rode off.

     Win watched them ride away for a long moment, then he turned to Joe.
"What was that fella's name?" he asked.

     "What fella?  You don't mean Sheriff Paige?"

     "No.  I mean the one who came up to speak to us in the saloon last night.
What was his name?  Jones?"

     "Are you talkin' about the man who was tryin' to recruit us for
Quantrill?" Joe asked.  Suddenly he smiled, and snapped his fingers.  "Yes!"
he said.  "That's an idea!  By God, Win, if we joined up with Quantrill, we'd
get a crack at these bastards, there's no doubt in my mind."

     "I don't think it was Jones," Win said, still trying to remember the
recruiter's name.

     "It was James!  Frank James," Joe said.

     Win smiled for the first time since the gruesome discovery.

     "Yes," he said.  "Frank James."

     "How do we find them?" Joe asked.

     "He said come to Blue Springs.  I guess we'll do that and just start
askin' questions.  If we're lucky, he'll find us."



     With no house to stay in, Win and Joe moved into a hotel room in Blue
Springs.  Word spread quickly as to what had happened to their parents out at
the farm, and several people managed to stop by and express their sympathy.
Some were very open in their support of the Union cause, but even they were
quick to condemn the Jayhawkers.  Others were openly sympathetic to the
Confederate side and they hinted, darkly, that "what goes around comes
around."

     "What, exactly, do you mean by that?" Win asked Tom Poe when he passed
that very remark in the saloon.

     "Well, I mean that there are those who do more than just talk about what
should be done.  There are some people who are actually doing something."

     "Such as?" Win asked.

     Tom Poe was a lawyer, and he had a lawyer's way of obfuscating his
remarks.  He took a drink and studied Win for a long moment before he
answered.

     "Well, for example, there are those who join the Confederate Army," Poe
said.  "From what I've been told, General Sterling Price is actively
recruiting new men.  I think something big is brewing down in Northern
Mississippi, around Corinth.  I understand that General Johnston is looking
for men.  Of course, since Missouri has been kept in the Union by martial law,
you would have to be careful about letting your plans be known."

     Suppose someone wanted to fight for the Southern cause, but he didn't
want to go off to some place like Mississippi to do it?  Suppose he wanted to
fight right here?" Win asked.

     Poe studied the liquor in his glass.  "Yes, given the unique set of
circumstances which have impacted upon you and your brother, I could see how
the two of you might have more interest in fighting a Missouri-Kansas border
war, rather than in Mississippi."

     "I've heard there is a group of men, Raiders, I think they call
themselves, who are fighting just the kind of war we're talking about," Win
said.

     "I think you would be talking about Quantrill."

     "Yes.  Do you know anything about Mr. Quantrill?"

     "Suppose I did know?  Mr. Coulter, you must understand that I am a
lawyer," Poe said.  "I cannot be perceived as an open advocate for the kind of
guerrilla activity in which someone like Quantrill and his Raiders are
engaged."

     "I understand," Win said.  "And as far as I'm concerned, we are just
having a conversation here.  You are sharing what you know about certain
elements of this war.  You aren't suggesting that I join.  But, in this same
spirit of just sharing information, suppose a fella wanted to ride with
Quantrill?" Win asked.  "Suppose a couple of men, brothers, say, who have a
personal reason for wanting to keep their fighting here, wanted to ride with
Quantrill?"

     "I would say that depended upon whether or not Quantrill would be willing
to have them ride with him," Poe replied.

     "Would their cause be helped any if Quantrill had already tried to
recruit them?"

     Poe looked up quickly.  "Quantrill tried to recruit you?"

     "Not me, you understand.  I'm talking about these fellas that I know,"
Win said.  "Two brothers who had their parents killed and their farm burned by
Emil Slaughter and his band of Jayhawkers."

     "Just like you and Joe."

     "Yes, just like my brother and me."

     "Who contacted ... uh ... these two brothers you're talking about?" Poe
asked.

     "A man by the name of Frank James."

     "Yes, he's ... that is, I have been told, that he's one of them."

     "Frank James said that if anyone ever wanted to contact him, they could
do it here in Blue Springs.  You got any idea how he might be contacted?" Win
asked.

     Poe laughed.  "Mr. Coulter, believe me, an awful lot of people would like
nothing better than to have that information.  There's a sizeable reward out
now for Quantrill, as well as several of the ones who ride with him.  You can
see, I hope, how information of that type isn't so readily shared."

     "Yes," Win said.

     Poe stood up then, and looked back down at Win and Joe.

     "I'll tell you what," Poe said.  "If I were giving information to these
two brothers you are talking about, my information would be this.  I would say
to them, 'Just sit tight.  The chances are very good that you'll be contacted
again.'"

     "I'll tell them you said that," Win said.



     The next evening, while Joe was over in the saloon having a whiskey, Win
told the hotel clerk he would like to take a bath.  A large brass tub was
moved into his room and the clerk's young son made several trips up to the
room, carrying buckets of hot water.  When the tub was sufficiently full, Win
dismissed the boy with a dime, then took off his clothes and slipped down into
the hot water.  He picked up the bar of soap and began washing.

     The door to the room opened, then closed.

     "Hey, Joe, you're just in time," Win called back over his shoulder.
"I'll finish here and you can have the water while it's still warm.  You're
getting seconds, but I paid for it."

     "I'm not Joe, but that is an interesting idea," a woman's voice said.

     Startled, Win turned so quickly that he splashed a good portion of the
water onto the floor.  His visitor was a strawberry blond with blue eyes and
dimples.  The dimples were deep when she smiled, and she was now smiling
broadly.  "What the hell?" Win asked.  "Who are you?"

     "My name is Penny."

     "What are you doing in here, Penny?  Can't you see that I'm taking a
bath?"

     Penny came over to kneel down on the floor beside the tub.  "Oh, yes,"
she said.  "I can see that."  She picked up a washcloth, wrung it out, then
started scrubbing his back.  "I just thought you might need someone to wash
your back.  It's part of the ... service ... you might say."

     The warm water cascading down his back from the hands of this beautiful
woman began to have its effect on him, and Win could feel himself "rising to
the occasion."

     "What else does the service provide?"

     Penny leaned forward and kissed him.  Her mouth opened, and their tongues
met.  She put her hand down in the water, then moved it toward the hard shaft
of his throbbing penis.  That was when Win stood up.

     Penny looked at him with confusion on her face, surprised by his sudden
move.

     "I'll be damned if I do this in a bathtub," Win said.  "The bed is right
over there."

     Penny smiled, then handed him a towel.  He wrapped it around himself for
the walk over to the bed, then they kissed again.  This time Penny pressed her
body hard against his, and she opened her mouth hungrily to seek out his
tongue.  Win's arms wound around her tightly, and he felt the heat of her body
transferring itself to his.  Penny pulled the towel to one side, then ground
her pelvis against his huge erection.

     "Get out of your clothes," Win demanded, and Penny stepped back from him,
then smiled as she removed her clothes, garment by garment, until she stood
before him as naked as the day she was born.

     "Do you like what you see?" she asked, turning and posturing before him.

     "Too damned much talk," Win said, pulling her to him.  He felt her naked
breasts mash against his bare chest as they kissed again, then he picked her
up and deposited her unceremoniously on his bed.  He climbed on top, and she
threw her arms around his neck, writhing and squirming beneath him.  She
spread her legs to receive him and when he entered her he felt her buck
against him with the sudden rush of pleasure.

     "Yes," she said, matching her rhythms to his in eager counterpoint.

     Penny was soft and pliant beneath him, and her skin was as hot as if it
were burning with a fever.

     Finally, Win could hold it no longer, and he burst inside her.  Penny
felt it, and she cried out with the pleasure of it and clasped him tightly to
her as if unwilling to let him go.

     Sated at last, Win collapsed atop her, staying there until his breathing
returned to normal.  He felt good, and he let out a sigh and rolled off her,
then lay beside her, listening to the receding sound of her raspy breathing,
touching her soft belly.

     "Thank you, Mr. Coulter," Penny whispered.

     Win raised up on one elbow and looked down at her.  The breasts, which
were small and hard when she was standing, were now gentle curves.  Only the
nipples, hard and erect, interrupted the smooth lines of her body.  He reached
down to touch one, and she shivered in pleasure.

     "Who the hell are you?" Win asked.  "A whore?  Because if you are, I
don't think I've ever run into one quite like you."

     "Did I ask you for any money, Mr. Coulter?"

     "No," Win said.  "That's why I say I've never run into one like you."

     "That's because I am not a whore," she said.

     "But this," Win said.  "I don't understand."

     "Didn't you enjoy it?"

     Win smiled.  "Hell, yes, I enjoyed it!"

     "Then I have done what I set out to do," Penny replied.  "Let's just say
that this is my contribution to the war.  I give comfort and pleasure to those
men I consider patriots."

     Win chuckled.  "How do you know which side I support?"

     "Since you are looking for Quantrill, I would hope that you are a
supporter of the Southern Cause," Penny said.

     The smile left Win's face.  "How do you know I'm looking for Quantrill?"

     "It's my job to know."  Penny got out of bed then, and began dressing.

     "What do you mean, it's your job?"

     "You and your brother meet me tomorrow morning behind the livery stable,"
Penny said.  "At dawn.  Oh, and take everything with you.  You won't be coming
back here.

     "How do I know I can trust you?" Win asked.

     Penny smiled.  "That goes two ways, you know.  I have to trust you as
well.  That's why we did what we just did.  I don't know any better way to
prove that a person is sincere, do you?"

     "Now that I think about it," he said, "I don't guess I do."

     Dressed now, Penny went over to the door.  She turned and blew him a
kiss.  "Dawn, behind the livery," she said.

     Win stared at the door after she left.  "Well, if that's not the damndest
..." he started, then he let the sentence hang and began laughing.  It was the
first good laugh he had enjoyed in several days, and it felt almost as good to
him as what he and Penny had just done.


                                       4


     The next morning, just before dawn, Win and Joe checked out of the hotel
and, with their saddlebags tossed over their shoulders, walked down to the
livery stable.  They rustled the hostler from his slumber and, after paying
him, retrieved their horses.  Mounting, they rode out the back end of the
livery just as the sun peeped over the copse to the east of town.  A rider
came toward them.  The rider was dressed in a man's shirt and trousers, but as
the distance closed, Win saw that it was Penny.  He smiled.

     "Right on time, I see," he said.

     "I've been here for an hour," Penny replied.  "I watched the two of you
walk from the hotel."  Her demeanor was much more businesslike this morning.

     "You did say dawn, didn't you?"

     "Yes.  But I wanted to make certain that you weren't setting me up."

     "I thought we settled that last night," Win said, and, for the first time
this morning, Penny smiled as her cheeks were touched by a flash of pink.

     "We have no time for small talk now," she said.  They'll be moving right
after breakfast, and I won't know where they are."

     Penny urged her horse into a canter and Win and Joe followed.  They
maintained that ground-eating pace for nearly an hour until, finally, Penny
held up her hand as a signal for them to stop.

     "Are we there?" Joe asked.

     Penny didn't answer.  Instead, she took a mirror from her pocket, caught
the morning sun, then projected a flash of light on a rock just on the other
side of a protruding ridge line.  She moved the flash of light up and down.  A
moment later, another flash of light appeared on the rock, this one moving
from left to right, so that the effect between the two mirror flashes was a
cross of light.  Penny put the mirror away.

     "All right," she said.  "We can go in now."

     Win and Joe followed Penny into Quantrill's hideout.  A rider approached.
He had long hair and a full beard.  The brim of his felt hat was pinned to the
crown and had a gold star.  He wore a Confederate-gray jacket over an
elaborately embroidered shirt.  He rode up to Penny and kissed her, and Win
wondered just how free Penny was with her "services."

     "Bill, this is Win and Joe Coulter," Penny said.  "This is my brother,
Bill Anderson," she said to Win.

     "Bloody Bill Anderson?" Joe asked.

     Anderson said, "That's what the Yankees call me.  I reckon I've given 'em
enough cause.  Come on in, I'll introduce you to some of the boys."

     As they rode in, Win noticed something hanging from the halter of Bill
Anderson's horse.  At first he wasn't sure what it was, but when Bill saw him
taking covert looks toward it, he smiled, then reached down and grabbed a
single piece with his hand, holding it out so Win could get a better look.

     "Yep," he said.  "It's what you think it is.  These are scalps.  I took
this here'n off'n a red-haired Yankee captain."

     Win thought the notion was a little disquieting, but he forced himself to
show no reaction to it.

     "It's a little vain, I admit," Anderson said.  "But the idea of maybe
havin' one of their scalps wind up hangin' from my halter scares the shit out
of the Yankees, and that sometimes gives me an advantage.  When it comes to
killin', or gettin' killed, you can't afford to be a little squeamish.  You
take ever' edge you can."

     "Yes," Win agreed.  "I reckon so."

     They continued on into the meadow.  When they reached the campsite, Win
and Joe saw that there were fifty or sixty men, all in various stages of
breaking camp.  Most of the tents had already been taken down, though a few
were still standing.  There were at least a dozen fires, and the area was
permeated by the aroma of frying bacon and boiling coffee.

     "Have you folks eaten?" Anderson asked.

     "No," Penny replied.  "We left Blue Springs before breakfast."

     "You'd better eat fast," Anderson said.  "We're moving out soon."

     "There's Frank James," Win pointed out.

     "Who's the young girl with him?" Joe asked.

     Bill Anderson laughed and Penny gasped.  "That ain't no young girl.
That's Frank's brother, Jesse.  And you'd better not let him hear you say
that."

     "What's a kid like that doing here?"

     "That 'kid' as you call him," Anderson said, "is the best pistol shot
I've ever seen, and as cool as they come.  He can kill a man near as easy as I
can."

     They dismounted and Frank James extended his hand.  He said, "I'm glad to
see you have joined us, though I'm sorry to hear about your folks."

     "But don't you worry," Jesse said, his voice not yet changed.  "We'll pay
'em back, double."

     Jesse's features were soft, his brown hair hung in a roll down his back,
and his eyes were large and liquid blue.  He looked like a choirboy, except
for the brace of pistols stuck in his belt.

     "Come on," Frank said.  "Let me introduce you around to some of the
boys."  He pointed.  "That fella over there is Little Archie Clement.  Don't
let his size fool you.  He's killed many a six foot tall Yankee."

     Archie Clement was barely five feet tall, and the low-crowned hat he wore
seemed to accent his smallness.

     A couple of men came over toward Win and Joe then, smiling broadly, and
extending their hands.

     "These are my cousins, Cole and Jim Younger," Frank started, but Cole
interrupted him.

     "Hell, Frank, no need to introduce us to these boys.  Their farm is next
to ours.  We've known each other purt' near our whole lives," Cole said.

     Jim Younger added, "In fact, Cole and Joe here wrestled at the Cass
County fair for the county championship a couple of times."

     "Who won?" Jesse asked, his boyish enthusiasm coming through, even in
this situation.

     "Near as I can recall, he won one, and I won one," Joe said, shaking
hands with the Younger brothers.  "It's good to see you boys."

     "The only way I could beat him though, was to bite off part of his ear,"
Cole said, laughing.  The smile left his face.  "I was real sorry to hear
about your ma and pa."

     "I promise you, we'll get even for them," another man said, coming over
to join them.  "We may never find the actual ones who did it, but if you take
my point of view, all those Yankee bastards are just alike anyway, so it
doesn't make any difference which one of them you kill."

     The speaker was about five feet nine, slender of build, pale
complexioned, and with a sweeping mustache.  He was smiling a greeting at Win
and Joe, but the smile didn't reach his cold, pale-blue eyes.  Drooping
eyelids gave the impression of a snake waiting to strike.  He was wearing a
Confederate officer's jacket, with the single gold star of a major embroidered
on his collar.

     "it makes a difference to me," Win said.  "The son of a bitch I am
looking for is Emil Slaughter."

     "Ah, yes, Emil Slaughter.  I know him.  Mark my words, we'll meet him one
of these days.  My name is Quantrill.  I'm glad to have you boys with us."

     "Charley," someone called.  "You want to look at this?"

     "Excuse me," Quantrill said.  "I'd better see what he has."

     "Did that man call him Charley?" Win asked, as Quantrill stepped over to
see what was wanted of him.

     "He uses the name Charley Hart sometimes when he doesn't want to be
known," Frank explained.  "So he likes for people to call him that so he knows
to answer to it."

     Win studied Quantrill as he talked with the man who had summoned him
over.  Quantrill couldn't be more than twenty-four years old, yet he had
already gained such a fearsome reputation that even the mention of his name
made the people on the other side cringe in terror.

     "Here, thought you might want this," Jesse said, and Win saw that the boy
had brought him, Joe, and Penny biscuit-and-bacon sandwiches.  "Thanks," Win
said.

     Bill Anderson had to have been pulling his leg, he thought.  There was no
way this almost puppy-like boy could be the cold-blooded killer Anderson
described.

     "Men!" Quantrill called out loud.  "Gather 'round!"

     From all over the little camp, men came to stand around and listen to
Quantrill.  Their leader climbed onto a tree stump to elevate himself above
the crowd.

     "George Todd has just come back from a little scout he took over into
Kansas," Quantrill said.  Quantrill was holding a little cloth bag.  "It seems
that the folks over in Shawnee Town are getting some really good bargains on
such things as clocks, furniture, silverware, and china.  They're getting
bargains because they got a real good bargain from Emil Slaughter, if you know
what I mean."  He reached down into the little cloth bag and pulled out a gold
candlestick.  "Win and Joe Coulter, have you ever seen this before?"

     "That's one of ma's candlesticks!" Joe said in surprise.

     "Where did you get that?" Win asked.

     "Like I told you," Quantrill replied.  "It came from Shawnee Town,
Kansas."  He looked over at George Todd.  "You want to tell them about it?"

     Todd, who had been a stonemason before the war, ran his hand through his
dark hair as he talked.

     "I was in a saloon over there, trying to see what I could find out," Todd
said, "when I heard a store clerk braggin' that he had some new stuff that he
had just picked up from Slaughter.  The way he was talking, I knew it had to
be from that last raid the Jayhawkers pulled, and that meant when they burned
the Coulter farm.  So, I went there like I was really interested in getting a
good bargain, and he showed me this candlestick."

     "There are six of them," Win said.

     "He only had this one candlestick, but you can bet that the other stuff
is over there somewhere," Todd said.  He looked at the others.  "And not just
from this one raid.  They've got a whole town that is full of bounty they've
stolen from our people."

     "I say we take it back!" Little Archie Clement shouted.

     "Oh, we're going to do that," Quantrill said.  He smiled broadly.  "But
we aren't going to stop there!  We're going to take everything they got!"  The
men let out a loud cheer.

     "Now, finish breaking camp and get your horses saddled.  We're riding out
of here in half an hour!"

     With another cheer, the men separated, then hurried to break the camp and
saddle their mounts.

     "What do you think about this?" Joe asked his brother.

     "What do you mean, what do I think?"

     "I mean, raiding a town like this.  It's not right, is it?"

     "Was it right what they did to ma and pa?"

     "No, but ..."

     "There are no buts about it, little brother," Win said.  "The sons of
bitches who did it must live in Shawnee Town."

     "But what if they don't?  I mean, how will we ever know?" Joe asked.

     "It doesn't matter.  The people in Shawnee Town who buy these good deals
know where they came from.  In my book, that makes them just as guilty as the
ones who did do it."

     "Yeah," Joe said.  "I guess you're right."



     Quantrill halted his band of raiders about three miles out of town.  It
was his belief that the best time to strike was at dawn, so he had the men
make a cold camp and sleep on the ground without even pitching tents.  The men
didn't complain about eating hard tack and drinking water, but those who
smoked were a little put out about not being able to light up.

     "What would we accomplish by not having fires to cook food or make
coffee," Quantrill asked, "if you're going to give away our position by
smoking?"

     If the men didn't like it, they at least understood the validity of it,
so no one violated Quantrill's orders that night.

     AT DAWN THE NEXT MORNING QUANTRILL DIVIDED HIS men into two groups.  He
sent one group around to come into town from the west end, while he kept one
group back to enter from the east.  Win and Joe, the Younger brothers, and the
James brothers were with the group that circled the town.

     "Win," Cole said.  "If you or Joe get into more trouble than you can
handle, look to Jesse."

     Win snorted a laugh.  "You expect me to have a boy pull my ass out of the
fire if the going gets too rough?"

     "Yeah, I do expect that," Cole said without further explanation.

     It took half an hour for both groups to be in position, but they were
there just as the sun peeked up over the eastern horizon.  From the other end
of the town, Win heard two shots fired.

     "Let's go!" Frank James shouted and, drawing their pistols, the raiders
rode at a gallop into town, firing into the air and through the front windows
of the not-yet-opened stores.  Several people ran out into the street to see
what was going on, then, seeing that it was a raid, they turned and ran back
into the buildings.  A few came out with rifles or shotguns in their hands.
That was a mistake.  They were cut down where they stood by half a dozen or
more bullets.

     The two groups of riders met in the middle of town, laughing, shouting,
and still firing into the air.

     "All right, you people!" Quantrill shouted out loud.  "Turn out!  Turn
out into the street so we can see you!"

     When no one showed up, Quantrill nodded at Bill Anderson and Anderson lit
a torch, then tossed it onto the shake roof of an apothecary.  The dry shakes
caught fire quickly.

     "You may as well come out!" Quantrill shouted.  "Because we're going to
burn every building in this town, whether anyone is inside or not!"

     At that, several doors opened, and people started coming out into the
street.  As it was just dawn, most were still in their nightshirts and
nightgowns.

     Some frightened, some angry, and all confused, the townspeople gathered
in a group in front of the Wells Fargo office.

     "Ladies and gentlemen, I sincerely thank you for showing us such courtesy
this morning," Quantrill said with a sweeping wave of his hat.  "Now, I have a
few requests to make.  They are quite simple, really.  I want the manager of
this Wells Fargo office to open the bank and empty his vault and his money
drawers into sacks.  I want all the storekeepers to select their most valuable
merchandise and put it into sacks, as well.  In addition, I would like the
restaurant owner to prepare breakfast for me and my men."

     At that moment a shot rang out, startling in its loudness and in the fact
that it was unexpected.  Win looked around quickly and saw that Jesse James
was holding a smoking revolver.  The expression on his face was as calm as if
he were sitting in a school classroom.  But the result of his pistol shot was
a man tumbling out of the second-story window of the nearby hotel.  The rifle
the man had been aiming slid across the porch roof and fell to the ground just
one moment ahead of the man himself.

     Win saw that the man didn't feel the fall, though.  Jesse's bullet had
hit him right between the eyes, and he was dead before he even dropped his
rifle.

     "Well, now," Quantrill said, easily.  "We can't have any more of that,
can we?"  He looked over at Bill Anderson.  "Burn the hotel now," he ordered.

     Nodding at the Younger brothers to help him, several flaming torches were
tossed onto the roof and into the windows of the hotel.  There were some loud
shouts from inside the hotel, and three men came running out into the street,
firing their pistols.  Win was one of the earliest to react, and he shot down
the first one.  The other two went down under a hail of gunfire.

     "I believe you see by now that resistance is futile," Quantrill said to
the horrified townspeople.  "Now, about my demands."

     "Quantrill!  Surely, you aren't going to burn the houses as well?"
someone shouted.

     "Well, now, let me see," Quantrill said, stroking his chin.  "Were there
ever any houses burned over in Missouri?  Yes, I think there were.  I guess
that means we're going to burn the houses as well."

     Win felt a little queasy about seeing the civilian houses go up in
flames, but none of the women or children were harmed, and, so far, the only
men shot were those who had offered resistance.

     He thought of the charred bodies of his mother and father, lying
underground back at the burned-out Coulter farm, and he was able to push the
queasiness aside.  So much so, that he grabbed a torch and set fire to a
couple of the houses himself.


                                       5


     All six of Win and Joe's mother's candlesticks were recovered in the
Shawnee raid, and Quantrill graciously presented them to the Coulter brothers.
Win noticed, however, that no effort was made to find the rightful Missouri
owners of the other stolen items.  Instead, they were divided up among the
band as bounty, to be disposed of in any way they wished.

     "The distribution of such loot is the only way we have of paying our
men," Frank James explained when Win commented upon it.  "Besides, there's no
way we could find the rightful owners.  And the stuff is already stolen.  We
didn't steal it from the innocent, we just stole it from the guilty."

     At first Win was appalled by Frank's rationalization.  It wasn't too
long, however, before he, too, began to see the logic of such a procedure and
set aside any last vestige of conscience he may have had.  After riding with
Quantrill for three months, he was able to justify practically any act they
committed, by blaming it on the war.  By late fall, he was the consummate
Raider.  Justification was no longer needed.



     Although Quantrill's reputation was that of a murderer and plunderer of
towns and innocent civilians, Win quickly learned that Quantrill's hatred for
the Yankees included Union soldiers.  To that end, Quantrill frequently
engaged in battle with patrols, platoons, and companies of Union soldiers,
even though there was no immediate payoff in terms of loot for him or his men.

     "Look at it this way," he told his men when someone told him that they
could see little advantage to attacking armed bodies of soldiers.  "The more
of them we kill, the less of them there will be out looking for us.  And, if
we attack them, we'll be fighting them on our own terms."

     Fighting on their own terms was what they were doing this morning as Win
and Joe, along with at least twenty more men, waited patiently for an armed
Yankee patrol.

     The Yankee patrol was platoon-sized in strength, meaning that there would
be twice as many soldiers as there were guerrillas.

     "You have to give the little son of a bitch credit for guts," Joe
whispered as they waited.  "He sure don't let numbers impress him."

     Win said, "That's because he's smart enough to know that the odds are
actually on our side."

     "How do you figure that?"

     "Well, think about it, Joe.  Every one of us is armed with at least two
pistols ... that's twelve rounds apiece.  The soldiers are all carrying
muzzle-loading rifles.  They'll get off one shot at best."

     Joe said, "Yeah, now that you explain it that way, I see what you mean."

     As Win sat in his saddle waiting for the Yankees to approach, he looked
down the line at the other Raiders who would be taking part in the fight.

     Frank James was sitting perfectly still, staring straight ahead.  Of all
Quantrill's Raiders, Frank seemed the most withdrawn.  He was a brooder who
would go for long periods of time without speaking to anyone.

     Jesse was watching some squirrels cavorting in a nearby tree and seemed
totally consumed by them.  He was, by far, the most fascinating of all
Quantrill's riders.  He could shoot, without remorse, a man who was begging
for his life.  On the other hand he was extremely deferential to women and the
elderly.

     Cole Younger was, like Joe, a big man.  He had a great sense of humor and
kept the others laughing with his jokes.  Jim Younger, who was four years
younger than Cole, was fiercely loyal to his brother and to his cousins, Frank
and Jesse.

     Bloody Bill Anderson and Little Archie Clement were also on hand.
Eighteen-year-old Archie Clement had begun decorating his own horse's harness
with scalps, just as did his mentor, Bill Anderson.  Archie seemed intent upon
matching Bill Anderson, bloody incident for bloody incident, so that he was
becoming as feared among his adversaries as was Bloody Bill himself.
Recently, Archie had killed and scalped two soldiers, then left a taunting
note which read: "You come to hunt bushwhackers.  Now you are skelpt.  Little
Archie Clement skelpt you."

     And then, of course, there was Quantrill himself.  Quantrill had, by now,
established himself as the most infamous of all guerrillas operating along the
Missouri-Kansas border.  Quantrill could fire both pistols with deadly
accuracy from the back of a galloping horse.  He was a natural leader and a
man of daring and ingenuity.  And though he was regarded by his foes as a
brigand, outlaw, and murderer, Win was convinced that if he were in a regular
army unit at the head of cavalry, he would distinguish himself as much as Jeb
Stuart, Jeff Thompson, or any other Confederate leader.

     Quantrill had just ridden to the top of the crest of the little hill
behind which the mounted riders were waiting.  Now he came riding back down.

     "Get your guns out, boys," he said.  "They're no more'n fifty yards over
that rise.  We can cut 'em down in about two sweeps."

     Win, Joe, and the others pulled their pistols, then waited for the word.

     Quantrill rode to a position in front of them, then stopped.  Putting the
reins of his horse in his teeth, he pulled two pistols, and without a word he
slapped his heels against the sides of his horse.

     The horse bolted forward, and the band of Raiders followed.

     Win saw the Yankee soldiers as soon as they crested the hill.  They were
riding along at a plodding pace, obviously unaware that Quantrill was anywhere
near, though, in fact, their mission was to look for him.

     "My God!  It's Quantrill!" Win heard one of the soldiers shout.

     Having been seen, the Raiders gave a loud yell as they galloped down the
hill toward the soldiers.

     The Union soldiers raised their weapons and fired.  Win heard and felt
half a dozen bullets going by him.  Two of the Raiders were hit and unseated,
but the main group continued its charge down the hill toward the Yankee
patrol.

     The soldiers, having fired their one round, panicked at the sight of a
body of men riding down upon them unchecked, firing their pistols as they
came.  Several of the soldiers leaped down from their horses and converted
their rifles to clubs.  They swung at the Raiders as they rode by, but their
efforts were ineffectual and, to a man, they were shot down.

     The remaining soldiers scattered to every direction like a covey of
flushed quail.  Win and the others galloped after them in hot pursuit.

     "Go!" Quantrill screamed at his men.  "Go, get them!  Kill the Yankee
bastards!"

     Win looked to the riders all around him.  The horses were magnificent,
with their nostrils flared, their teeth bared, their manes flying, and their
muscles working in powerful coordination.  The Raiders were bending low over
the animals' necks, the brims of their hats rolled back by the breeze, their
eyes narrowed, their faces tautly set.  It was a thrilling moment.

     LATER, WHEN THE BATTLE WAS OVER, QUANTRILL learned from one of the dying
soldiers that this was the garrison that occupied Independence, Missouri.
That meant that, for the moment at least, Independence was unguarded.
Quantrill made the decision then and there to go to Independence and
"Recapture it for the Confederacy."

     "Yeah," George Todd said.  "We'll clean that town out!"

     "We'll do no such thing," Quantrill insisted.  "Independence is a
Missouri town, and its citizens are loyal to the Confederacy.  We will enter
the town as liberators, not as conquerors."



     When Quantrill's raiders reached the edge of Independence, Quantrill
halted his men and had them form up in a column of twos.  Then he broke out
the Confederate flag and gave it to Joe to carry.  Moving to the front of the
column, Quantrill buttoned his gray tunic, then gave the order for his men to
ride into town.  They entered, not in an aggressive attack formation, but as
an army on parade.

     The sight of Quantrill riding boldly down the main street of Independence
at first startled the town's citizens, then thrilled them.  Most of
Independence was composed of Southern sympathizers, so much so that many of
the men were away fighting for the South.  The Union occupation of the town,
though it had been accomplished without incident, was nevertheless abhorrent
to them, and now they cheered the Confederate flag being, once again, in their
midst.

     Quantrill halted the column in front of the town hall.  There, he was met
by Mayor Hawkings, Sheriff Paige, and a delegation of city officials and civic
leaders.

     "Major Quantrill, on behalf of the loyal Southern citizens of
Independence, I welcome you," Mayor Hawkings said.

     Chuckling, Quantrill leaned over to Win.  "Well now, I've just been
promoted from captain to major," he said.  "What do you think of that?"

     "Quantrill, Anderson, all of you men," Sheriff Paige said then,
addressing the group.  "There are federal warrants out on many of you.
Obviously, I'm in no position to serve them, even if I wanted to.  So, I'm
going to ask you to strike a bargain with me.  Don't break any of the laws of
Jackson County, or the town of Independence, and I'll consider your stay here
to be a time of truce.  Can we have such a bargain between us?"

     Quantrill looked to his riders.  There were more than a hundred men with
him, all armed, desperate men.  Sheriff Paige had only one deputy.

     "I'll give you this, Sheriff," Quantrill said, putting his hands on the
pommel and leaning forward in his saddle.  "You got grit.  All right, any of
my men that breaks one of your laws while he's here will have to answer to me,
first, then I'll turn what's left of his miserable carcass over to YOU."

     In appreciation for their liberation from Yankee oppression, Mayor
Hawkings declared Independence an open town for Quantrill and his men.  They
were to be given free food at any of the town's restaurants, free drinks in
all the bars, and the hotel would put them up, free.  This was to continue,
the mayor told them, for as long as they stayed in town.

     Mayor Hawkings was generous because he knew that Quantrill could not
possibly remain longer than overnight.  And, as he explained it to the
merchants who complained of the mayor's giveaway of their goods and services,
this was much better than being sacked and burned.

     "But he is fighting for the South," the saloon owner said.  "He is on our
side."

     "Yes.  And I propose that we keep him that way," the mayor suggested.
The mayor's suggestion was accepted without further dissenting remarks.

     To COME INTO A TOWN WHERE THEY WERE WELCOMED, rather than shot at, and to
have drinks and food thrust upon them, was a stark and welcome departure from
their experiences of the last several months.  Joe found it particularly
pleasant because a great deal of the welcome mat that the little town was
rolling out for them seemed to revolve around food, and good home-cooking was
one of the things Joe missed most.

     Thus it was that when Maggie Depro approached Joe to tell him, shyly,
that she had just baked an apple pie, and asked if he would like some, he
accepted the offer immediately.

     Maggie was a big though well-proportioned woman.  She was nearly six feet
tall, therefore most men never got around to seeing that she was actually
quite a pretty woman.  They saw only her size, and as she was generally bigger
than most of them were, they were intimidated by her.  On the other hand, Joe
was so big himself that he never even noticed Maggie's size.  He did notice,
however, that she was a very pretty woman.

     "I can bring the pie to you," Maggie said.  "Or," she smiled,
seductively, "you could come down to my place and eat it there."

     "Only if you'll eat a piece with me," Joe replied.

     "Oh, well, I fully intended to do that," Maggie said.



     Win watched his brother leave with Maggie, then he looked at the other
men he rode with.  Many were with women, their own, or those acquired for the
occasion.  Most had a bottle, and all were streaming toward one of the cafes
to take advantage of the free food.

     Win decided to take his pleasure in a somewhat more subdued way, so he
went into a tobacco store.  There, he filled his shirt pocket with at least
six good cigars, then lit one of them and, puffing contentedly, sat on an
upturned oaken bucket out in front of the leather-goods store, and watched the
play of men who, but a few brief hours before, had been engaged in the deadly
business of killing.



     At about the moment Win was lighting up his first cigar, Maggie was
leading Joe into a house which was located at the far end of the street.  It
was a small frame house, consisting of a living room, kitchen, and bedroom.

     "Sit there, at the table," Maggie invited.  "I will cut the pie for you.
Also, there is coffee if you want it."

     "Thank you," Joe said.  Looking around the room, he saw an oval-framed
picture hanging from the wall.  The subjects in the picture were Maggie,
wearing a dress with puffed sleeves and a high collar, and a man who looked
uncomfortable in the jacket and tight-collar shirt he was wearing.

     "That was my husband," Maggie said, when she saw Joe looking at the
picture.

     "Was your husband?"

     "He was killed at Shiloh, last spring," Maggie said.

     "I am sorry to hear that."

     "Yes, he was a good man," Maggie said, wistfully.  She sighed.  "But, as
they say, it does no good to cry over spilt milk."

     As she was talking, she put a big piece of pie in front of Joe, and he
saw that the pie had been covered with a slice of cheese.

     Joe smiled.  "How did you know that I liked cheese on my pie?"

     "Because you look like a man with a good appetite," Maggie said.  "And
men with good appetites enjoy cheese."

     Joe helped himself to a big bite, then he closed his eyes and grunted in
satisfaction.

     "Uhmmm," he said.  "I think I have died and gone to heaven."

     Joe ate the first piece of pie very quickly, then accepted the offer of a
second piece.

     "Joe," Maggie said as she put the second piece of pie in front of him.
"You will excuse me?  I will only be a moment, I promise, and then I will
return.  Go ahead, enjoy your pie."

     "Thank you," Joe said, forking another bite into his mouth.  "I will."

     Joe had just finished his last bite of pie when he sensed, more than
heard, Maggie return.  He looked up to tell her how much he had enjoyed the
pie, then he gasped in surprise.

     Maggie was wearing a black camisole and nothing more.  The nipples of her
breasts protruded through the silk.  "Maggie?" Joe said.

     "Joe, it has been so long," she said.  "So long since I had a man."  She
walked over to him and, putting her arms around his neck, leaned forward so
that her silk-encased breasts pressed against his face.  "A real man," she
added.

     Joe reached up to touch her nipples and they grew harder.  Maggie
shuddered, then slipped the camisole over her shoulders and let it fall to the
floor.  Joe stood up and pulled her nude body against him.

     Maggie reached down to touch the bulge in front of Joe's pants, then she
began opening the buttons.  A second later, Joe felt his organ spring free as
she pulled it out.

     "Please do not think, Mr. Coulter, that I meet everyone in this way,"
Maggie said.  Her long cool fingers moved across his organ.  She kissed him,
and her tongue came out serpent-like to dart into his mouth.  She raised one
leg to the side of him and took him inside her.

     Joe was taken completely by surprise and as his knees weakened, he had to
move over to lean back against the wall.  He put his hands on her hips, not to
push her away, but to move her to him.  As she hunched against him, his mouth
moved down across her naked shoulders to her distended nipples.  He bit them
gently, and flicked his tongue against them.

     Joe heard a couple of men laughing as they passed by in the street in
front of Maggie's house and, because he was afraid their proximity might make
her nervous, he tried, gently, to disengage from her.

     "No!" she gasped urgently through clenched teeth.  She continued to hump
against him.  "Don't you dare stop!  Not for a minute ... not even for a
second!"

     Joe started to explain why he nearly stopped, but the sensations he was
feeling were too strong.  He smiled.  To hell with it.  If it didn't bother
her, it didn't bother him.  He stood there, letting her have her way with him
until he rocked back on his heels and shuddered, then put both his hands on
her ass and pulled her tightly against him.  Finally, long moments after the
last tremors were gone, Maggie dropped her leg and pulled away.  With a
contented sigh, she smiled at him.  "Another piece?" she asked sweetly.

     "What?"

     "Of pie," she said, chuckling.

     "Yes," Joe agreed.  "I think that would be very nice."


                                       6


     Despite mayor Hawkings's offer of free food, liquor, and lodging,
Quantrill allowed his men to eat free, but he insisted that they pay for all
the whiskey they consumed and any nonfood item they got from the merchants.
As a result, the next twenty-four hours turned out to be an economic boom for
the businesses of Independence, and the merchants who had been anxious about
Quantrill's presence in their small city became Quantrill's greatest
supporters.

     At mid-morning on the next day, a scout brought Quantrill word that an
entire Yankee battalion was approaching Independence, so Quantrill ordered an
immediate evacuation.  As they left, the Raiders were given a warm and genuine
send-off.  The volunteer fire department band provided them with music, and
Quantrill's departure turned into a street fair.

     Many of the men had lived in and around Independence before the war, and
they had wives and children, parents and siblings, and sweethearts and friends
who were still here.  Others had made new liaisons just within the last
twenty-four hours, so that the street was lined with people who were genuinely
saddened to see them go.  The women cried and waved handkerchiefs as the men
rode away.  Maggie Depro was in that number.



     Less than an hour after Quantrill left town, sheriff Paige was making his
rounds when he saw a body of men approaching.  At first, seeing the
undisciplined way they rode, and the number of riders who weren't in uniform,
he thought Quantrill was coming back.

     The prospect of Quantrill returning wasn't a welcome one for Paige,
although there had been no incidents while he was here before.  Paige
considered himself lucky, and he didn't want to press his luck.  He also
didn't want Quantrill in town when the Federal troops returned.  That could
bring about a battle right here in town, and Paige didn't want that.

     He walked out to the edge of town and waited, hoping to be able to
persuade Quantrill to change his mind about returning.  As the body of riders
drew closer, though, he realized that it wasn't Quantrill.  At first he was
puzzled as to who they might be, then he recognized them, and he stiffened.

     "My God, it's Emil Slaughter," he said under his breath.  He turned, and
started running back up the street, shouting a warning.

     "It's Slaughter!  It's Emil Slaughter!" he yelled.  "Get your guns!  It's
..."  The sheriff's words were cut short by a sudden fusillade of shooting as
a dozen or more of Slaughter's riders broke into a gallop and left the
formation to run him down and shoot him.

     When those first shots were fired, the rest of Slaughter's Jayhawkers
began firing, shooting up the storefronts and into the fronts of houses,
gunning down anyone they saw on the street regardless of age or sex.  A woman,
with a baby in her arms, was killed as she stood on the front porch of her own
house.  The blacksmith was killed when he ran out into the street carrying an
old muzzle-loading rifle.  An old man was run down and trampled, just because
he couldn't get out of the way quickly enough.

     Slaughter halted his riders in front of the general store.

     "Go inside and take whatever he's got," Slaughter ordered.  He saw a
wagon parked out front, the bed of the wagon covered with a tarpaulin.
"What's in the wagon?" he asked.

     One of Slaughter's men climbed onto the wagon and pulled back the canvas.
He laughed.

     "What is it?"

     "Ain't nothin' here but a bunch of hymnals," he said.

     "Take 'em."

     "Hymnals?"

     "Maybe we can sell 'em somewhere," Slaughter suggested.  "If we can't
sell 'em, we'll use 'em as firewood."

     Slaughter stood in the stirrups and looked up and down the now-deserted
street of the town.  "Whereat is the mayor of this town?" he shouted.

     When no one answered, Slaughter pointed toward the nearby Methodist
church.  "Burn it," he ordered.

     Laughing, a couple of men lit torches, then tossed them onto the church.
Within a few moments the church began to blaze.

     Slaughter cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled loudly: "Next
place we're goin' to burn is the school building, 'lessen the mayor comes out
to talk to us right now!"

     A front door opened on a building just down the street from where
Slaughter had halted his men, and Mayor Hawkings came out, moving nervously,
haltingly.

     "I am Mayor Hawkings," he announced.  He licked his lips and looked into
the faces of the second group of guerrillas to invade his town in less than
two days.

     "Well, Mayor Hawkings, my scouts tell me that for the last twenty-four
hours the Confederate flag has flown over this town.  Now, how can that be,
what with Independence being the good, loyal Union town we know it to be?"

     "We had no choice," Mayor Hawkings insisted.

     "Is that a fact?" Slaughter asked in a tone of voice that indicated he
didn't believe what the mayor was telling him.

     "It's true.  Quantrill was here, as I'm sure your scout also told you.
As long as he was here, he was in charge."

     "How is it that he was in charge?  Didn't you just tell me you are the
mayor?"

     "Quantrill was at the head of a large body of armed men," the mayor said.
He looked around at the men with Slaughter.  "Surely, you can understand
that."

     Slaughter leaned forward in his saddle and looked down at the mayor.
"Tell me, did Quantrill shoot any of your people?"

     "No, he did not," the mayor replied.

     "Then you relinquished command too easily," Slaughter replied.

     By now, seeing the mayor engaged in what appeared to be a peaceful
discussion, several of the townspeople had moved cautiously into the street.

     Without another word, Slaughter suddenly turned his pistol on one of the
more adventurous of these citizens, a man who had come close enough to see
what was going on.  Slaughter pulled the trigger, and the heavy lead slug
buried itself deep in the man's chest.  The man died with a quick expulsion of
breath and a look of surprise on his face.

     "My God!" Mayor Hawkings shouted in alarm.  "What are you doing?"

     With his pistol still smoking, Slaughter turned his attention back to the
shocked mayor.

     "Mr. Mayor, I believe you cooperated with Quantrill because you wanted
to.  But you are going to cooperate with me because you must.  Otherwise your
streets will be chocked with your dead.  Do you understand me?"

     "Yes," the mayor said, quietly.  "I understand you."

     "Good, I thought we might be able to come to some sort of agreement.
Now, you tell your people to stay back out of our way.  We'll tend to our
business as quickly as we can, then we'll be out of here before the army
arrives, and your lives can go back to normal."

     "No one will resist you," the mayor promised.

     Slaughter smiled, then put his gun in his holster.  He twisted around in
his saddle and looked at his men.

     "All right, boys, you know what to do.  Get busy."

     A dozen men dismounted and, carrying large cloth bags, began to fan out
through the town on a mission of looting.  The other riders remained mounted,
holding their weapons at the ready, their watchful eyes busily scanning every
storefront, roof, and alley for anyone who might be foolish enough to threaten
them.



     Sally Paige was on the front porch of her house when she saw her husband
shot down.  She started to go to him, but gunfire from the thundering riders
drove her back inside.  As soon as it was safe to do so, she moved back to the
window of her house and stared out into the street toward Ed's body which lay
about fifty yards away.  He had not moved a muscle since he fell and she knew,
in her heart, that he was dead.

     She was about to go to him when she saw one of the Jayhawkers coming up
toward her house.  He was a small man with a narrow nose and dark, beady eyes.
In one hand the Jayhawker was carrying a sack that was already half full of
treasure looted from her neighbors' houses.  In the other hand he was carrying
his pistol.

     Quickly Sally looked around her house to See if there was anything she
could hide from him.  The first thing to come to her mind was the music box
her mother had given her when she and Ed married.  She grabbed it and stuck it
in the back of the fireplace, hoping that, because a small fire was going, it
wouldn't be seen.  She was just straightening up when the Jayhawker kicked her
door open and came in.  The Jayhawker waved his gun around.  "Where's your
man?" he asked.

     "Dead," Sally answered in an accusatory voice.  "He's lying out in the
street.  You killed him."

     "Yeah?  Well, the dumb son of a bitch should've had enough sense to stay
out of our way."  The Jayhawker's dark eyes darted around the house.  "What
have you got for me?"

     "Nothing.  My husband was the sheriff here.  He didn't earn a lot of
money."

     "The sheriff?  You mean that old man out there in the street was your
husband?"

     "Yes."

     The Jayhawker examined Sally more closely.  Uncomfortable under his gaze,
she clutched at the neck of her dress.

     "I don't hardly see how an old man like that could measure up to someone
as young and as pretty as you.  You ask me, someone like you needs a real man
around, not someone old and half-dead.  You know what I mean?"

     "No, I do not know what you mean.  My husband and I had a wonderful
marriage," Sally said.  Suddenly she realized, as if by hearing the word "had"
spoken, that her marriage was a thing of the past.  Her husband was dead.  And
with that realization, some of the numbness began to wear off so that tears
formed in her eyes.  The Jayhawker put the sack down and started toward her.

     "No need to cry, honey," he said.  "You know what I'm goin' to do for
you?"  He began unbuttoning his pants.  "I'm goin' to show you what you've
been missing."

     "No," Sally said, whimpering quietly.  "No, don't do this."

     "Oh, yeah, I'm goin' to do it.  And you're goin' to like it," the
Jayhawker said.  "You're goin' to like it a lot."



     Not quite fifteen minutes later, the Jayhawker heard three shots fired,
the signal for everyone to return.  Getting up from the woman, he pulled his
trousers up and began buttoning his pants.  As he looked down at the woman, he
could see his semen scattered in the dark tangle of hair at the junction of
her legs.

     The woman hadn't bled as much as he thought she would.  But then his
knife had made a quick, easy thrust into her heart, killing her almost
instantly.  She hadn't even cried out, she just shuddered, took a couple of
labored gasps, then stopped breathing.  Her eyes were open, but the fright he
had seen in them earlier was gone now.  Now they were dull and vacant.

     The Jayhawker joined the others.  With their sacks full of booty and more
than a dozen stores and homes burning behind them, Emil Slaughter and his men
rode out of town, leaving the weeping citizens to bury their dead.



     The commanding officer of the Federal troops cursed under his breath as
he led his men into the burning town.

     "Quantrill," he said as he looked around him.  "Only Quantrill would do
something like this."



     One week later, with their horses secured and the guards posted, Win,
Joe, and the others were gathered around a fire at their campsite.  In
addition to providing a fire for cooking and making coffee, the fire provided
much-needed warmth, for by now the nights were becoming quite cold.

     A little earlier that evening George Todd had joined them, bringing them
news of Emil Slaughter's raid on Independence and of Sheriff Paige being shot
down in the street.

     Todd also brought a stack of mail for the men.  Since Win and Joe had no
one left at home, they had no one from whom to receive any mail.  As a result,
they sat beside the campfire drinking coffee and watching the firewood turn to
glowing coals while the other men enjoyed their letters and exchanged the
latest news and gossip.

     "Here, listen to this," someone said, looking up from his letter.
"Accordin' to my wife the damned Yankee army is sayin' it was us who come in
and robbed and burned Independence.  My wife says that ever'one in town has
done told the Yankees it was Emil Slaughter who done the robbin', killin', and
burnin', but the Yankees don't believe 'em.  They think the townspeople are
lyin' to protect us."

     "They don't think any such thing," Quantrill said.  "They're just sayin'
that, 'cause they don't want folks to know what kind of a people the
Jayhawkers really are."

     "Oh, shit.  They killed Sally," the man reading the letter said.  He let
the letter drop and pinched the bridge of his nose for a long, quiet moment.

     Win looked at one of the men nearby, mouthing the question, "Who is
Sally?"

     "His sister," the man answered, quietly.  "She was married to Sheriff
Paige."

     "Win, didn't Sheriff Paige say it was a fella named Slaughter who was the
one who burned our place and killed ma and pa?" Joe asked a few minutes later.

     "Yes, that's what he said," Win answered.  Then to Quantrill, "Why don't
we go after that bastard, Slaughter?"

     "Don't be frettin' about it," Quantrill said.  "We've got more important
things to do, now, than worry about Mr. Emil Slaughter."

     "What's more important than killin' that son of a bitch?" Win asked.

     "We're goin' to catch up with him one of these days.  And when we do,
I'll let you kill him.  You can count on that."

     "I am counting on it, Charley," Win said.  "If you recall, that's the
whole reason my brother and I joined up with you in the first place."

     "Oh, oh, look at this," Bill Anderson said, pulling a piece of paper from
the letter sent to him by his sister.  It was a printed poster.

     "What is that?"

     "It's trouble," Anderson replied.

     "Read it, Bill," Quantrill ordered.  "Read it aloud."

     Bill Anderson cleared his throat, then began to read:

     "The commandant of the Missouri-Kansas border district believes that
order can never be established in the area until Quantrill and other raiders
like him are brought under control," he read.  "And, as long as their women
provide them with help and a safe-haven, that control can never be attained.

     "Therefore, from henceforth, any woman who gives aid and comfort to the
enemy, in any form, even though she may be his wife, will be charged with
treason against the United States Government.  With the suspension
of"--Anderson had trouble with the next two words, and he pronounced them very
slowly--"ha-be-as cor-pus ... mere suspicion shall be considered enough for
"--again he had to sound out the word--"in-car-cer-ation.  Those convicted of
treason, be they male or female, will be executed."

     "The hell you say?" someone said angrily.

     "You don't think they'd actually do that, do you?" Cole Younger asked.

     "I think there's not much those Yankee bastards won't do," Frank James
answered.

     As the conversation about the Yankee threat to their women continued,
Quantrill called Win over to talk to him and to George Todd.  The three men
stood just outside the bubble of light cast by the fire.  There, Todd, who was
the one who had brought the mail, was just getting around to having his
supper.  He was gnawing on a pork chop bone, and a piece of fat dangled from
his chin.

     "Win, Todd's been sniffing around to pick up some information for us, and
I think he has come up with something that will be very useful to us."

     "You know where Slaughter is?" Win asked, hopefully.

     Quantrill waved his hands as if dismissing that subject.  "No, and I told
you, all that'll come about in due time.  No, sir, the information Todd has is
somethin' we can use right now.  But we're goin' to need you to make it work.
I want you to take the coach to Raytown next week," Quantrill suggested.

     "All right," Win replied.  "What do I do, once I get there?"

     "Why, you take the coach right back," Quantrill said, with a laugh.  "I
think we are all going to find this very profitable."


                                       7


     Win shifted in his seat, the better to restore the circulation in his
sore and cramped legs.  He pulled the curtain back to peer through the
stagecoach window at the blanket of white on the ground outside.  The snow,
which had started as a light powder when he boarded the coach in Raytown this
morning, was now coming down in large, heavy flakes.  It was falling so
steadily that the line of woods to either side of the road was all but
obscured.

     The information Todd brought back to Quantrill was that this stagecoach
would be carrying a payroll for the Yankee soldiers who were at Kansas City.
Win's job was to find out if that was true, and if so, to leave the coach at a
predesignated spot where his horse would be waiting, ride quickly to a place
where Quantrill and the others would be waiting, and tell them.

     "If it is, we'll hit the stage and take the money," Quantrill said when
he was giving Win his instructions.  "Nothing would be sweeter than for me to
be able to pay our men with money that was meant for the Yankees."

     At the present moment, Win was one of five passengers in the coach.
Sitting directly across from him was a very pretty young woman who had, from
the glint in her eyes and the hint of a smile on her lips, discovered him, as
well.  "And what about you, Sir?" someone asked.  As Win had not been
listening to the conversation, he didn't even realize he was being spoken to
until there was a tug on his sleeve.  He looked around.  "I beg your pardon?"
he asked.  The person who had solicited his opinion was a short, rotund
drummer.

     "I said this war is all but over now, only nobody else in here seems to
agree with me," the salesman said.  "I was just wondering what you thought
about it, and if you would share your opinion with us."

     "I haven't given it much thought," Win answered.  "Therefore I don't have
an opinion."

     "But, surely you do, Sir!  How can you not have an opinion on such an
important issue?"

     "In a place like Missouri where you have folks on both sides of the
issue, it is sometimes best not to have opinions on the war," Win answered.
"Or at least to keep one's opinion to oneself."

     "That's where you are wrong, sir.  We all have a constitutional right ...
no ... make that an obligation, to make our opinions known.  And, I'll tell
you mine."

     "I'm sure you will," a rugged-looking man in a sheepskin coat and fur
collar said.  Earlier, he had identified himself as Mason Sanders.  The two
other passengers, the pretty woman and the uniformed Union officer, laughed.

     The drummer leaned forward, confidentially, as if sharing a war secret
with the other.  "You may joke about it if you wish, Mr. Sanders," the drummer
said to the big man.  "But I was in the St. Louis office last week and I saw
dispatches that clearly showed that the Federal troops are now pushin' the
Secesh all over the place.  Why, at Antietam a couple of months ago, we killed
Rebs by the thousands.  And that's not even countin' what we did to them at
Shiloh."

     "I was at Shiloh," the Union officer put in.  "And I have to say, in all
candor, that the Rebels did as much to us as we did to them.  We lost a great
many men there, and when it was all over, not a thing had been accomplished."

     "You'll excuse me for saying so, Lieutenant, but you were probably too
close to everything to know the end result.  You, no doubt, saw several of
your friends killed and as a result you became ... disheartened," the salesman
said.  "But believe me, Shiloh, like Antietam, was an overwhelming victory for
the Union."

     "If you say so," the lieutenant said.  By way of dismissing the drummer,
the lieutenant looked out the window and, like Win, began contemplating the
falling snow.

     When the drummer realized that he would not be able to sustain a
conversation on the war in general, or military tactics in particular, he fell
into a sullen silence.

     An hour later, the coach stopped at a way station to change teams and to
afford the passengers an opportunity to stretch their legs.  Win left the
stage, then walked over to lean against the corral fence to watch as the old
team was unhitched.  As he stood there, the young Union lieutenant came over
to speak to him.

     "Too bad they don't have a railroad through here," the lieutenant said.
"It would make our trip a lot easier."

     "Yes, I suppose it would," Win replied.  He was glad the officer had
opened the conversation, because his reason for being on the coach in the
first place was to determine if the payroll was being shipped.  If so, surely
this officer would know.

     "Metzger is the name.  Lieutenant Lee Metzger."

     "John Parker," Win replied, using the alias he had chosen for himself.

     "Mr. Parker, what brings you out on a day like this?" Lieutenant Metzger
asked.  "What I mean is, it's not exactly the best kind of weather to travel
in."

     "I reckon not," Win agreed, easily.  "But my brother and I own a small
farm near Kansas City.  I went to Raytown to see if we could get a contract
furnishing pork to the army."

     "Yes," Metzger said.  "Well, I suppose that while most of us are in
uniform, a few have to continue doing business as usual."

     "You have something against the army eating?  Or just farmers making a
profit?"

     "No.  nothing like that," the lieutenant apologized quickly.  "I was
making an observation, not an accusation.  I meant no insult."

     "No insult taken," Win said.

     The new team was brought out at that moment.  They were anxious to get
going, and they tossed their heads and breathed clouds of vapor into the cold
air.  One man held the reins, while two others ran alongside to keep the team
together.

     "What about you, Lieutenant?" Win asked, as he watched the horses brought
out.  He feigned indifference to his question, though the answer was very
important to him.  "What are you doing riding a civilian stagecoach?"

     "I am the payroll officer for the Fifteenth Missouri Infantry," the
lieutenant said.  "This coach is carrying the payroll, and it is my duty to
accompany the money."

     Win smiled at how freely the information had been provided.  "Payroll,
huh?  Well, the army must have a lot of confidence in you to charge you with
such a responsibility."

     "Yes, I suppose they do," Metzger said, obviously pleased by Win's
flattery.

     "Henry, you want to check the right foreleg on that off-lead horse?" the
driver suddenly called out to the hostler as the new team approached the
coach.  "Damn if it don't look like he has thrown a shoe."

     Henry stopped the team, then squirted a stream of tobacco juice between
his teeth, leaving a brown smear atop the snow.  He nodded to one of his
employees who had been running alongside the team.  "Check it out, will you,
Pete?" he asked.

     Pete, who was near the off-lead horse stepped up to the animal, then
lifted his right foreleg.  He examined the horse's hoof, then he called back
to Henry.

     "The shoe's gone, all right," he said.

     "Damn!" Henry swore.  "When did that happen?  We don't have another horse
ready to go.  I'm afraid we're going to have to re-shoe this one."

     The driver sighed in frustration, then looked at his passengers, four of
whom had already left the coach.  "All right, folks, you may as well all go on
inside and get yourselves out of the cold.  Looks like we're goin' to be here
for a while."

     The woman had been the only passenger to remain in the coach, but now
she, too, started to get out.

     "Looks like no one is going to help the lady down," Win said.  "Excuse
me, Lieutenant Metzger, I'll go offer my services."

     "You call her a lady?" the drummer said with a smirking laugh.  "Hell,
that's no lady, mister.  Didn't you hear 'em talkin' back in Raytown?  The
only reason she's comin' to Kansas City in the first place is because the army
run her out of Raytown.  She's a whore."

     Win glared at the drummer.

     "I'm only sayin' what's true," the drummer defended.  He looked quickly
toward the Yankee lieutenant for confirmation.

     "I'm afraid he is right," Metzger agreed.  "I was told, myself, to keep
an eye on her to make sure she didn't get off the stage before it reached
Kansas City."

     "That may be so, but right now she's a lady trying to get down from the
coach in slippery snow," Win tossed back over his shoulder.  "And I'm going to
help her."

     Win was at the side of the coach by the time the woman was ready to step
down.  He offered his hand and, with a charming smile, she accepted it.

     "Why, thank you," she said, a little surprised by the offer.

     "Let me walk you into the building.  Otherwise, you might slip and fall
in the snow."

     "Aren't you the gentleman, though?" the woman declared, sticking her arm
through Win's.  She pulled a fur stole about her as they started toward the
building.

     "You can put a silk dress and fur stole on a whore, but she is still a
whore," Sanders said, as they passed him by.

     Win had his pistol out in a flash.  He cocked it, then held it less than
six inches from the big man's face.

     "No, no!" the woman said, quickly.  "Don't shoot him!  He's ... he's only
telling the truth."

     "Ma'am, there's a difference between fact and truth," Win said.  "The
fact is, you might be a whore.  But the truth is, you're still a lady.  And
any lady who happens to be on my arm shall enjoy my protection."

     The woman smiled broadly.  "Well, then, it would be most ungracious of me
to refuse your protection, wouldn't it?  But, please don't shoot him."

     Win turned his attention back to the big man.  "The lady doesn't want me
to shoot you, so maybe you would like to apologize to her before my thumb gets
tired of holding the hammer back."

     "I ... apologize," the big man said.

     "I thought you might."  Win eased the hammer down, then put the pistol
back in his holster.  There was a collective sigh of relief from the others
who had stopped all activity to see how the moment was going to play.

     Win escorted the woman into the way station and they walked over to warm
themselves in front of the fireplace.

     "By the way, my name is Belle Amberly," the woman said.  Then she
laughed.  "Well, I'll admit, it's not the name I was born with, but it is the
name I use now because I wouldn't want to get back to the folks in Kentucky
what I do for a living.  I don't expect you to understand such a thing, Mr.
Parker.  I mean using a name other than the one you own."

     Win chuckled.  "Perhaps I understand better than you think," he said.

     The other passengers came into the way station then, and Win noticed that
they all stayed together on the opposite side of the room.  Even the drummer,
whose chatter had been barely tolerated in the coach, now seemed to be
preferable company to the others, than that of Win or Belle.

     "When I get ... settled ... in the Kansas City area," Belle said, "you'll
have to come see me."

     "I might just do that," Win agreed.

     "All right, folks, we're all ready to go now," the driver said a few
minutes later, coming into the room and stomping his feet to get rid of the
snow.  "Should warn you, though.  It's goin' to be some jarrin' once we get
started.  I've got a little time to make up and I'm goin' to be pushin' the
team pretty hard."



     They had been under way for the better part of an hour when, from outside
the coach, a pistol shot brought them to a sliding halt.

     "What is it?  What's going on?" the drummer asked in a frightened voice.

     "I'm afraid it is a ..."  the lieutenant started, but the man in the
sheepskin coat finished the sentence for him.

     "A holdup," Sanders said.  He smiled at the other passengers, and that
was when Win noticed that he was holding a pistol.  He pointed his pistol at
Win.  "Now, Mr. Parker was it?  How does it feel to have a gun sticking in
your face?" he asked.

     Win looked outside the coach.  He knew that Quantrill and the others were
supposed to hold it up, but this wasn't where they had agreed to be.  And, as
he saw the men outside, he realized that he didn't know any of them.
Ironically, someone else was robbing the coach before Quantrill could get to
it.

     "I'll trouble you for your pistol," the robber in the coach said, looking
at Win.  "You too, Lieutenant."

     Win took his pistol out from beneath his coat and handed it over.
Lieutenant Metzger pulled his pistol from his holster.

     "You won't get away with this," Metzger said.

     The big man smiled.  "Hell, Lieutenant, I already have.  Now, everyone
outside."

     When Win and the other passengers stepped down from the coach, they saw
at least half a dozen riders, all of whom were holding pistols.  None wore
masks, though their faces were wreathed in the little clouds of vapor that
issued from their mouths and noses.

     "Driver, you want to throw down that there strongbox you're a'carryin'?"
one of the riders called up.

     Win noticed, then, that most of the riders were wearing the blue coats of
the Union army.

     "Here, wait a minute!" Lieutenant Metzger called to them.  "You men are
all wearing blue.  I think you should know that this is a U.S. Army payroll!
You're taking money away from your own fellow soldiers."

     "Hell, they ain't our fellow soldiers no more, Lieutenant," the big man
said sarcastically.  He opened his sheepskin coat so his own blue uniform
jacket could be seen.  On each of his sleeves were the three stripes of a
sergeant.  "We've already given up on the army."

     Metzger glared at them.  "You, a noncommissioned officer, would join up
with these deserters?" he asked in disbelief.  "I am absolutely shocked."

     "Don't be so shocked," Sanders said.  He pointed toward the stripes.
"Truth is, I got busted a few weeks ago, only I just ain't got aroun' to
takin' off the stripes."  He laughed.  "So you see, in a way, this here money
does belong to me and the others, after all."

     The strongbox was on the ground now, and two of the riders dismounted to
open it.  One of them fired his pistol at the lock, but missed.  The other
fired and missed as well.

     "You dumb shits couldn't hit a bull in the ass with a spade," Sanders
said.  He aimed and, with one shot, knocked the lock off.

     The two men on the ground put their pistols away, and knelt by the box to
examine the contents.  The four other deserter-robbers, who were still
mounted, were looking on in great interest, and even Sanders momentarily
diverted his attention at the sight of the money.

     Win knew that if he was going to save the payroll for Quantrill, now was
his chance.  What the big man didn't realize was that Win had surrendered only
one of the two pistols he was carrying.  Like all of Quantrill's riders, Win
carried two pistols, and the second one was concealed by his coat.  Without a
moment's further delay or consideration, Win pulled his spare pistol and shot
Sanders.  The big man was Win's first target because he was on the ground,
holding a pistol in his hand, and had already demonstrated his marksmanship.

     "What the hell?" one of the riders shouted in quick surprise.  He swung
his pistol toward Win but Win had already turned his attention toward him, and
Win shot first.

     Lieutenant Metzger's own reaction had been surprisingly fast and, almost
instantly, he bent over to grab the pistol the big man had been carrying.  He
turned it on the two men who had just opened the strongbox, and pulled the
trigger.  One of them went down, but the other fired back, just as Metzger was
firing, and Metzger went down as well.  Win dropped that robber with his next
shot.

     "Come on!  Let's get the hell out of here!" one of the three remaining
robbers shouted, slapping his legs against the sides of his horse.  The other
two went with him, and what had started out as a robbery, wound up as
panic-stricken flight by the three who were still alive.

     "You did it!" Belle shouted in excitement.  "You ran them off!"

     "How's the lieutenant?" Win asked.

     "He's dead," the drummer replied.  The salesman had knelt beside the
young lieutenant and was now holding his hand over the lieutenant's heart.

     "What are we going to do with him?" the driver asked, nodding toward the
dead officer.

     "I'll help you lift him.  We'll put him up on top of the coach.  When you
get to Kansas City, give him to the army.  They'll know what to do with him."

     "Wait a minute!" the drummer protested.  "You're going to put this man's
body on top of the coach?"

     "Yes."

     "The same coach we are riding in?"

     "Yes."

     The drummer shook his head.  "I'm not riding on any coach with a dead
man."

     "That's all right," Win replied easily.  "You can wait here.  I'm sure
the driver will be willing to pick you up when he comes through the next
time."

     "Be glad to," the driver said with a chuckle, as he reached for the
strongbox.

     "No, no, I'll ride with you," the drummer said, quickly.

     "Thought you might change your mind," the driver said.

     "Maybe you'd better give that strongbox to me," Win suggested.  "I'll
carry it inside."

     "All right.  That's probably a good idea," the driver agreed without
question.

     A few minutes later, with the four dead would-be robbers lying in a row
alongside the road, with a note explaining what happened to them, and with the
dead lieutenant on top of the coach, the driver snapped his whip at the team
and they got under way.

     "Poor Lieutenant Metzger," Belle said.  "To have fought in all the
battles he has fought in, then be killed by robbers.  And to think it was by
his own soldiers."

     "They weren't soldiers," the drummer said.

     "They weren't?" Belle asked.

     The drummer shook his head, confidently.  "No.  They just wanted us to
think that they were soldiers.  Union soldiers at that."

     "Who were they?"

     "Isn't it obvious to you?  They were Quantrill's men, of course," the
drummer said.

     Win smiled.  "Not much gets by you, does it?" he asked with a touch of
sarcasm that the drummer didn't notice.

     "Well, when you've travelled as much as I have, you get to where you know
your people pretty well," the drummer bragged.

     "I'll bet someone as smart as you even knows that I am a Pinkerton
agent," Win said.

     "I knew it!" the drummer said, excitedly.  "The moment you got on the
coach I said to myself, 'That man is a Pinkerton agent.'"

     "Well, I'm glad you didn't give me away in front of the robber those men
had planted on the stage," Win said.

     "Oh, you needn't have worried.  I figured you were here to protect the
payroll."

     "You knew about the payroll as well?"

     "Of course," the drummer said.  He pointed to his own eyes.  "Not much
gets by these eyes, I'll tell you.  But I have learned to be pretty quiet."

     Looking out the window of the coach Win saw that they were approaching
the spot where he had arranged to have a horse waiting for him.  By plan, he
was supposed to do nothing but leave the coach right now.  But circumstances
had changed and Win, ever resourceful, took advantage of the newly presented
opportunity.  Now he reached down to the strongbox, and started putting the
money in his pockets.  When he had all the money extracted, he tossed the
empty strongbox out the window.  It hit in the road beside the stage, bounced
once, then disappeared into a snowbank.

     "Why, I'll just bet I don't even have to explain to you why I'm leaving
the stage now, or why I'm taking the money with me."

     "No, sir, not at all," the drummer said.  "I agree, there has already
been one attempt made to rob this stage.  It is probably a very good idea to
hide it on your person."  With the newly acquired money securely in his
pockets, Win tapped on the side of the coach and yelled up at the driver.

     "Let me off here!" he shouted.

     The driver called to his team and stood on the wheel brakes.  The coach
jerked and slid to a halt.  When it was completely stopped, Win opened the
door, then stepped outside.

     From his position on the ground, he looked back inside the coach at Belle
and saw, by the hint of a smile on her lips that she wasn't being fooled for a
moment.

     "And you, Miss Amberly," Win said.  "I have a feeling you know all of my
secrets as well."

     "I ... do have my suspicions," Belle said, smiling broadly.

     "Perhaps I'll stop by and see you sometime," Win suggested.  "I think we
could do a little business together."

     "Do stop by, Mr. Parker," Belle replied, her eyebrows raised
provocatively.  "But with you, it won't be business."



     Less than fifteen minutes after Win left the stage, he met Quantrill and
the others.

     "So, what's the word?" Quantrill asked anxiously.  "Are they carrying the
payroll?"

     "No," Win replied.  "There is no money on the stage."

     "Damn!  I was certain my information was correct," Quantrill said in a
frustrated voice.

     "Oh, your information was correct, all right," Win said.  "When we left
Raytown the payroll was on the stage, just as Todd said it would be."

     "Look here.  Are you saying the money was on the stage when it left, but
it's not there now?  Where is it?"

     Win smiled, then pulled out one of the packets of money.  "It's right
here," he said.

     Quantrill laughed at the unexpected turn of events, and he took one of
the packets of money and examined it closely.

     "Mr. Coulter," he said.  "In case no one has ever told you this, you are
becoming one fine guerrilla fighter."

     "Why, thank you, Mr. Quantrill," Win replied.


                                       8


     TRUE TO HIS WORD, QUANTRILL HELD A "PAYDAY" USING the money Win took from
the stage.  After everyone was paid, he announced that he was suspending
operations for the rest of the winter.

     "I'm tired of the cold weather, so I'm goin' down into Texas," he said.
"Any of you that wants to go with me are welcome.  The rest of you are on your
own 'til next spring, when I come back.  You can go back to your families and
get the crops in, or just lie around and get fat.  It doesn't matter to me.
Goodbye and good luck."

     With no further announcement, Quantrill walked over to his horse,
mounted, and rode off.

     For several moments afterward, the men stood around just looking at each
other, as if unsure of what had just happened.  Then someone said, "I don't
know 'bout the rest of you boys, but I'm goin' with 'im.  I always had a
hankerin' to see Texas."

     "Not me.  I'm goin' into the first town I can find and spend me some of
this money."

     "I'm goin' back to the farm," another said.

     Their movement energized the others so that, within less than five
minutes, what had been an active camp of over one hundred Rebel guerrillas
became an empty field, marked by horse droppings and blackened fire-rings.



     It was mid-afternoon when Win and Joe reached the Coulter farm.  They
crested the hill on the road that led up to the place, then rode sadly down to
where the house, barn, and outbuildings had been.  There had been no effort
made to clean up any of the rubble, so that burnt boards and charred bricks
made ugly black scars in the snow.

     "We're goin' to have to get us a plough and a team of good mules," Joe
said.

     "Then, come spring, we'll need to get some seed," Win added.

     "What'll we put in?  Corn?  Wheat?" Joe asked.

     "I reckon," Win said.  He sighed, then ran his hand through his hair.

     "How we goin' to get our crop out?  We'll prob'ly be ridin' with
Quantrill again."

     "I don't know," Win admitted.  They were silent for a moment.

     "Joe," Win started, but whatever question he was going to ask died on his
lips.

     "What is it?"

     "Do you really want to do this?"

     "No, not really," Joe said.  He took in the burned-out farm with a sweep
of his hand.  "It reminds me too much of ma and pa."

     "Then, if you don't want to do it, and I don't want to do it, let's don't
do it."

     "If we don't do this, then what will we do?"

     "Why don't we go to Texas?"

     "Sounds like a good idea to me."

     "I have another good idea," Win said.  "Before we go, let's take a day or
so off to see some friends."

     "Friends?" Joe said.  "Win, what friends do we have to see?  We ain't got
no friends."

     "Oh?" Win asked with raised eyebrows.  "You mean you don't consider
Maggie Depro a friend?"

     "Oh!" Joe said, now seeing the light.  "You mean that kind of friend?"

     "Yes," Win said.  "That kind of friend."

     "Well, then, what are we waiting around here for?" Joe asked.



     To see Maggie, Joe had to go to Independence, while the woman Win wanted
to see was in Kansas City.  Making arrangements to meet at Blue Springs the
following afternoon, the two split up to go their separate ways.

     Win reached Kansas City just after dark.  False-fronted shanties and a
few substantial two-story buildings competed for space along both sides of the
street.  Subdued bubbles of soft light shined from the windows of houses that
sat back off the street at the edge of town, while further down into town,
half a dozen saloons spilled bright golden light onto the boardwalks.  The
street was alive with the cacophonous symphony of six pianos and two dozen
lusty voices.  Win could hear a man's hoarse guffaw and a woman's high-pitched
cackle.  Someone broke a glass somewhere and the crashing, tinkling sound was
supreme for a moment.

     There was also the sound of hollow hoofbeats on the street as Win rode
between the buildings.  He passed in and out of light and shadow so that his
face was now glowing, now dark.  Two Yankee soldiers came out of a saloon and,
at the sound of his horse, looked up at him.

     "Hey, you!" one of them shouted at Win.

     Had he been recognized as a rider for Quantrill?  Slowly, Win moved his
hand to hover over his holster.  He tensed his muscles, ready to shoot his way
out of here if need be.

     "If you plannin' on gettin' anything to drink in there, you can forget
it," the soldier yelled.  "Me an' Jimmy here has done drunk it all up!"

     Both soldiers laughed at the declaration, then they started toward
another saloon just a few buildings away, so drunk that they could barely stay
on the boardwalk, their boots clumping loudly and awkwardly on the boards.

     Win stopped in front of the saloon, got off his horse and tied it to the
hitching rail, then went inside.

     The Missouri House was one of the more substantial buildings on the
street.  A gilt-edged mirror hung on the wall above a long, handsomely carved
bar.  Several large jars of pickled eggs and sausages provided snacks for the
customers, and towels, tied to rings every few feet on the customers' side of
the bar, provided the patrons with a means of wiping their hands.  Behind the
bar was a big sign which read: "This is an honest gambling establishment.
Please report any cheating to the management."

     There were about two dozen people in the saloon.  Most of them were
alone, or in pairs, but one table had six soldiers playing poker.  These
soldiers, like the two who had left earlier, were all drunk on cheap whiskey.
A cloud of noxious smoke hovered overhead.

     One of the soldiers won a hand, and he let out a happy whoop, then got up
and started doing a little dance.  He got his feet tangled together and fell
flat on his back.  The others around the table laughed heartily, and Win
chuckled with them, then turned back to the bar.

     "What can I do for you, mister?" the man behind the bar asked.

     "A shot of whiskey," Win said.

     "Bartender, that whiskey's on me," someone called.  When Win looked down
toward the end of the bar to see who his benefactor was, he saw a man in the
uniform of a U.S. Army sergeant.

     The shot glass was put in front of Win and he picked it up, then held it
out toward the sergeant in a salute before he tossed it down.

     "Another one," Win said.  "And this time, give the sergeant what he is
having."

     The sergeant moved down the bar toward Win.  "I've seen you before,
haven't I?" the sergeant asked.

     "Could be," Win answered.  "I've been around here all my life."

     "Not me.  I'm from Ohio," the sergeant said, killing his own shot of
whiskey.  "By God, I don't know how you people stand this place.  As far as
I'm concerned, the goddamned Rebels can have the goddamned state.  Or you can
give it back to the Indians, I don't care, one way or the other."  He studied
Win more closely.  "You sure we ain't never met?"

     "Like I said, we could have," Win said.  "But I don't recall meeting
you."

     Win was beginning to get uncomfortable now.  There was really only one
place this sergeant could've seen him, and that was during one of the
engagements between Quantrill and the army.  And, if the sergeant ever put
that together, it could spell trouble.

     "You're not in the army, are you?"

     "No."

     "Militia?"

     "No."

     "Mister, how the hell can you be in a place like this, and not be in the
army or the militia?  Unless you're a Rebel?"

     "Listen, Sergeant, it's been nice talking to you," Win said.  "And thanks
for the drink."  Win started toward the door, but the sergeant called to him.

     "I will remember," he said.  "It might take a while, but it'll come to
me."

     Win went to two more saloons before he found what he was looking for.
Actually, he didn't find it at all.  It found him.

     "Your name John Parker?" a man asked.

     For just a moment, Win was puzzled, then he remembered that John Parker
was the name he used when he was riding the stage with the payroll.

     "Yes," Win said.  "I'm John Parker."

     "Belle told me to give this to you," the man said, handing Win an
envelope.

     Win gave the man a quarter, then opened the envelope to read the letter:


Mr. Parker,

I saw you ride into town and took the liberty of writing you this note.  I do
hope you remember me.  We recently shared quite an adventure during a
stagecoach ride.  If you are interested in seeing me, I have a very small
house in the alley behind the hardware store.

Your friend,

Belle


     Win finished his drink, then stepped outside and walked down to the alley
opening.  There were very few windows in the back of the buildings, and all
but one of those that opened onto the alley were dark.  There was a full moon
out, however, and it reflected brightly off the few remaining snowdrifts from
the last snow.  That helped show Win the way.  He moved toward a golden glow
of light that shined from the little house behind the hardware store.  When he
stepped up onto the porch, the door opened at the first footfall.

     "Good evening, Mr. John Parker," Belle greeted from just inside the
house.  She smiled, then stepped back away from the door.  When she greeted
him, her voice had the same low husky quality he remembered from their meeting
on the coach.  Even then there had been promise in the voice, but very little
chance to deliver on that promise.  Now, the opportunity was there.

     This opportunity was not marked by preliminaries, courtship, or sexual
teasing.  Instead, the moment Win was inside, Belle met him with a kiss.  She
pressed her body hard against his, then opened her mouth hungrily to seek out
his tongue.  Win's arms wound around her tightly and he felt the heat of her
body transferring itself to him.  His blood felt as if it had changed to hot
brandy as she ground her pelvis against his huge erection.

     Belle stepped away from him for a moment.  She was wearing a simple
housedress which she quickly pulled over her head.  Because she had on nothing
beneath the dress, this action exposed her nudity to him.  Her perfectly
formed body was golden in the soft light of the dim lantern.

     Belle got down on her knees in front of Win, then looked up at him.  Her
eyes glowed so brightly that Win could almost believe they were lighted by
some inner fire.  She put her fingers on the bulge in front of Win's pants,
then began opening the buttons.  A second later Win felt his organ spring free
as she pulled it out.

     Belle gasped, then chuckled as she looked at it.  "My God," she said.
"How can you carry something that size around?"

     "I manage," Win replied.

     "I want you to know," Belle said, as she reached up to wrap her hands
around it, "that I don't do this for just anyone."

     Belle was close to the head of it now, and as she spoke her warm breath
moved across the skin like the most delicate silk.  Her tongue slipped out
from between her rose-red lips.

     Win put his hands down to her head and gently moved her to him.  Her lips
opened to take him.  As she worked on him with her mouth, his hands moved down
to her distended nipples, causing her breasts to ignite fires of desire that
swept through her body.

     Win tried gently to push her away so he could get undressed, but she
protested and reached for him again.

     "No," she said.  "Let me do this for you.  I want it this way."

     Win rocked back on his heels and shuddered, then he put his hands in her
hair and held her as he exploded.  Finally, long moments after the last
tremors were gone, Belle stood up and started for the living room of her small
house.  She stopped and looked back over her naked shoulder.

     "Oh," she said.  "Where are my manners?  Won't you please come in?"



     Win was finishing his glass of champagne and was a quarter of the way
through his cigar.

     "Those men who tried to rob the stagecoach, they weren't really
Quantrill's men, were they?" Belle asked.

     "Why ask me?" Win asked, examining the tip of his cigar.

     Belle smiled at him.  "Who better to ask than Win Coulter?"

     Win looked at her in surprise, then he smiled.  "I see that you know my
real name."

     "I also know that you ride with Quantrill," Belle said.

     "What makes you think that?"

     "I've heard that.  Is it true?"

     "You don't see me with him now, do you?"

     "No, and you weren't with him when you robbed the stage," Belle said.
She poured him another glass of champagne.  "But I believe Quantrill got the
money."

     Win laughed.  "He didn't get all of it.  I got some," he said, sharing
with her information that he had shared only with his brother.  He had held
back one thousand dollars.

     "I knew it.  Even before I knew your real name, I knew you were with him.
But what are you doing here, in Kansas City?  Are you about to make another
raid?"

     "No," Win said, shaking his head.  "Quantrill and most of the others have
gone to Texas for the winter.  He won't be around for a while."

     "You should've gone with him."

     "You mean, you don't want me here?" Win asked.

     "I do want you here.  But it would be safer for you to go.  I wouldn't
want to see you hurt or killed."

     "Maybe I am planning to go," Win said.  "But I didn't want to leave until
I told you goodbye."

     "Oh, that's sweet."

     "What I need now, though, is a safe place to spend the night.  Do you
have any suggestions?"

     "Oh," Belle said, running her fingers through Win's hair.  "I think
you'll find that I have more suggestions than you'll ever be able to handle."


                                       9


     The next morning Win was sitting at the table in Belle's small apartment,
enjoying a breakfast of fried potatoes and eggs, when he heard a series of
gunshots.  This wasn't one or two shots, this was a small war, and Win was on
his feet in an instant with his revolver in his hand.

     "What is it?" Belle asked anxiously.

     "I don't know," Win replied as he started outside.  "But I plan to find
out."

     Win ran down the alley, staying close to the side of the hardware store.
When he reached the front of the building, he stopped and looked out toward a
gathering crowd.  What he saw, and what had gathered the crowd, was two men
lying in a pool of their own blood in the middle of the street.  On the far
side of the street a soldier, in uniform, was lying facedown on the boardwalk.
Farther up on the boardwalk, two more soldiers were dead, one sprawled on his
back, the second sitting down, leaning against the wall of the apothecary, his
gun still in his hand.  These were the two drunk soldiers Win had seen come
from the saloon the night before.  A fourth soldier was a couple of buildings
down the street, draped across a hitching rail.

     Nearly a dozen people were crowded around the two men in the middle of
the street so Win wasn't able to get a good look.  He moved out for a closer
examination.  Because many were standing around with their guns drawn, Win
felt no need to replace his own pistol.  When he got close enough to them, he
recognized them as being a couple of Quantrill's riders.  Both were married,
and had decided to winter in Missouri to put in crops next spring.

     "I seen who they was the moment they come out of the farmers' supply
store over there," a sergeant said, standing over the two dead Raiders.  This
was the same curious sergeant Win had encountered last night.

     "That's Abner Calley and his brother," someone said.  Win recognized the
speaker as the same man who had given him the note from Belle.  "They're a
couple of farmers that live about five miles out of town."

     "Maybe they was farmers before the war started," the sergeant said.  "But
what they been doin' is ridin' with Quantrill."

     "If that's so, what was they doin' in town by themselves?"

     "Probably gettin' ready to come in and sack the town," the sergeant said.
"I seen another one last night in the saloon.  Didn't come to me who he was
'til sometime later.  If I see him today, he'll be just like these two."

     "Or, you might wind up like your soldier boys over there," someone said.
"Looks to me like Abner and his brother give a pretty good accounting for
themselves."

     Several of the others laughed.

     "I know you Rebel bastards are probably happy to see a few boys in blue
lyin' dead in the street," the sergeant said.  "But just remember.  We control
Kansas City.  And as long as we're in control around here, this is what's
goin' to happen to ever' Rebel I see."  He pointed to the two dead guerrillas.

     Not wanting to take a chance on having the sergeant see him, Win moved
cautiously through the crowd to the livery stable where his horse had been put
up for the night.  A few coins to the stablehand brought his horse out to him
and, a minute later, he was saddled and ready to go.  He rode out the back
door, avoiding the crowded streets and another encounter with the curious
sergeant.



     Joe had his own story to tell.  One of Quantrill's riders had been a
native of Independence.  When he went home to visit his family, he was
recognized.  Unlike the Calley brothers, however, he didn't get a chance to
have a gun battle with the Yankees.  Instead, he was taken to the edge of town
and summarily hung from an elm tree.

     "I'll be truthful with you, big brother," Joe admitted.  "I'm just as
glad I got out of there when I did."

     There were two men waiting for the ferry at the Osage River.  Win and Joe
approached them warily, then a broad smile broke out on Joe's face.

     "Why, that's a couple of our boys," Joe said.  "The tall one is Tate
McGee, the one with the beard is Ethan Kelly."

     "So it is," Win said, "so it is."  The four men had a friendly reunion.

     "I thought you boys were goin' home," Tate McGee said.

     "We changed our mind," Joe said.  "What about you?"

     "Well, we sorta got our minds changed for us," Tate explained.

     "We was picked up an' put in jail," Ethan Kelly added.  "We busted out
last night, only we wasn't able to get our guns."

     Tate chuckled.  "We ain't got nothin' but a pocketknife betwixt us."

     "We was some glad you was friendly when you come up," Ethan said.  "I'll
just bet you were," Joe said, laughing.

     "So, tell me, you boys goin' down to Texas," Tate asked.

     "Thought we might," Win replied.

     "Wonder if you'd mind if we rode along with you, so's we'd at least have
your guns?"

     "Sure, we don't mind," Win said.  "But we'd all be better off if you had
weapons too, don't you think?"

     "I'll go along with that.  You got any idea where we might get some?"
Tate asked.

     "The best place to get a gun is to go where the guns are," Win answered.
"What we need is to find us a Yankee militia outfit somewhere.  Then we'll hit
their armory."



     West Plains, Missouri, filled the bill.  It had a company of militia that
was loyal to the Union and a large armory located out on the edge of town.  It
was well after midnight when the boys arrived, and not one light shone from
any of the buildings along the sides of West Plain's single street.  A sign on
the outside of the large white building read: 140th Missouri Militia, U.S.
Army.

     "Yankees," Win said.  "All right, boys, this is what we want."

     The armory doors were padlocked and the windows barred, but there were no
guards standing by the doors.  The boys tied their horses to a stand of poplar
trees near the northwest corner of the armory.

     Somewhere in surrounding woods, an owl hooted and it was answered by a
dog in town.  Atop the armory, a weather vane squeaked as it turned with a
freshening breeze.

     "Ethan, take a look all the way around the building to see if anyone is
here," Win ordered, and neither Ethan, nor anyone else, questioned the fact
that Win had just assumed command.  It was as if it was expected of him.

     Ethan started around the building, running swiftly in a low crouch,
darting from shadow to shadow.  In this way, he went all the way around the
building, returning a couple of minutes later.

     "I didn't see a soul," he reported.

     Win smiled.  "All right, boys, what do you say we help ourselves?"

     Joe took an iron tent peg from his saddlebag, then put it through the
hasp of the lock.  With his great strength he was able to break it open with
one jerk.  After that, it was just a matter of opening the door and walking
inside.

     Win found a lantern and lit it, then let out a low whistle.  The armory
was full of all kinds of weapons, from pikes to artillery pieces.  There were
scores of rifles and pistols of every size and caliber.

     "Look at this, boys, look at this!" Tate said.  He began going through
the pistols, hefting several different ones to test their balance and feel
until he found one that suited him.

     Ethan also found a pistol to strap on, then all four started looking
around for additional weapons to give them an edge.

     "Holy shit, look at all these guns!  There's enough to fight a war!" Joe
said.

     Win laughed.

     "What's so funny?"

     "Goddamn, little brother," Win said.  "What the hell do you think they're
doin'?"

     "Yeah, I guess you're right," Joe agreed sheepishly.

     "Come on, boys, let's fill up a few bags with ammunition, then get the
hell out of here," Win suggested.

     "What about lookin' around for some food?" Joe asked.

     "I don't want to take the time.  We've been here too long now.  If anyone
saw the lantern we lit, they'll be on us soon, like stink on shit."

     "Come on, Win, ain't nobody even awake," Joe pleaded.

     Win looked all around the building, searching the shadows.  "All right,"
he agreed.  "We'll see what they've got.  But, Joe, you get back outside and
keep an eye open for us."

     "All right, Win.  But, if they got any canned peaches, be sure'n get
some, all right?"

     "If they got any," Win promised.

     Win, Tate, and Ethan started filling up a burlap bag with tins of food
while Joe waited with the horses outside.  After a few moments, Win whispered
harshly to the others.

     "All right!  We've got what we need!  Let's go!"

     Joe led the horses over to the door, and they were just throwing the bags
across the saddles when someone called out from the darkness.

     "All right, you Reb bastards, jus' throw your hands up, right where you
stand!"

     Win heard half a dozen metallic clicks as rifles were cocked in the
shadows.

     "Get ready, boys," Win whispered.  He put his hands up, then called out
loudly, "Who's there?"

     In the pale moonlight, shapes began materializing from the trees, and a
moment later Win saw a Yankee sergeant with six soldiers.  The sergeant was
about six feet two, with a long brown beard, and he was holding a pistol
pointed at the boys.  The soldiers with him were holding rifles.

     "I seen your lantern," the sergeant said.  "So I got me a squad together
and come on down here to see what was goin' on."  The sergeant squirted a
brown stream of tobacco juice, then wiped his chin.  "I reckon when my cap'n
sees the bodies of you four Secesh in the mornin', me an' all the boys here'll
be gettin' a little reward.  On my order, boys," the sergeant said to his
squad.

     The soldiers started to raise their rifles.

     "Now!" Win shouted, and his pistol was in his hand as fast as his shout.
He shot the sergeant first, hitting him right between the eyes.  The sergeant
died with the evil smile still on his face, never even realizing that he was
in danger.

     The soldiers fired, but just as Win had figured, they were surprised and
frightened, and hurried their shots so that not one of the bullets struck
flesh.  The soldiers didn't get a chance for a second shot because Win and the
others cut them down in a blaze of gunfire.

     Thick gun smoke formed a billowing cloud, then drifted away from the
scene as the echoes of the shots rolled back from a distant stand of trees.  A
nearby dog began to bark and a dozen others in the town took up the chorus.

     "What was that?" a voice shouted from the back of one of the houses.

     "It came from the armory!" someone answered.

     "Let's get the hell out of here!" Win growled, thrusting his smoking
pistol into his holster.

     The four men mounted, then Win yelled at them, "Pull your guns and shoot
up the town as we ride through!  We're goin' to make these folks think all the
demons from hell are comin' through!"

     "Demons from hell?  Well, shit, that's what we are, ain't we?" Joe asked
with a laugh.

     Not bothering to look back at the seven bodies their carnage had left
dead, the four men slapped their legs against the sides of their animals.  The
horses bolted forward, then galloped down the main street of the town,
followed by half a dozen barking dogs which ran and nipped at the pounding
hooves of the running horses.

     "Yahoo!" Win shouted, and he was joined by all the others as they gave
the Rebel yell.  Win fired at the windows and doors of the buildings to
discourage anyone who might have an idea of ambushing.  The exit was so
terrifying that not one shot was fired in return.

     They rode out of town at a full gallop, pushing their horses hard.  When
they had gone about a mile, they turned in their saddles and looked back.

     Not one person was making an effort to follow them.

     "Son of a bitch!" Tate shouted enthusiastically.  "That was a hoot!"

     "Did you see anyone stick their heads up?" Joe asked.  "'Cause I sure's
hell didn't."

     Ethan was strangely quiet.  "What is it, Ethan?" Win asked.  "Were you
hit?"

     "No."

     "Then what is it?  What's wrong?"

     "The soldiers back there?  The ones we killed?"

     "Yeah?"

     Ethan ran his hand through his hair.  "I been ridin' with you boys for a
couple of months now," he said.  "But, back there was the first time I ever
kilt anyone.  Leastwise, anyone that I actually saw.  I have to tell you, I
don't feel none too good about it."

     "We killed them," Win said.  "Not you."

     "I kilt one of 'em myself," Ethan said.  He stopped, then dismounted and
stepped over beside a bush where he began to throw up.  Win, Joe, and Tate
waited silently, and without censure.

     Finally, Ethan finished retching, then he climbed back into his saddle.

     "I'm sorry about that," he apologized to the others.

     "Didn't mean to be such a baby about it.  It's just that, well ..."  He
couldn't finish his sentence.

     "No need to apologize, Ethan," Win said easily.  "I reckon we've all been
through it."

     "Does it ever get easier?"

     The others were silent for a long moment, then Win answered for them.

     "Yeah," he finally said.  "I wish to God it wasn't so, but the more you
kill, the easier it gets."


                                      10


     Well-armed now, the four men pushed hard across Arkansas and down into
Texas.  One week later they found themselves in Brushy Creek, a small Texas
town that consisted of little more than a two block long main street with
flyblown unpainted frame houses on either side.  They stopped to stable the
horses and to give them oats and a rubdown, then they walked across the street
to the only saloon, where they had supper and a few drinks.

     Supper was steak and beans, which were liberally seasoned with hot
peppers and washed down with mugs of beer.

     "Them beans'll flat set your mouth afire," Ethan said.  "But, damn me, if
they ain't about the tastiest things I've put in my mouth for a while."

     Joe smiled at one of the bar girls, and she caught his smile and returned
it.  He pushed away from the table.

     "Boys, I do believe I have a little business to take care of," he said,
starting toward the girl.  The girl was a pretty redhead who, though she had
been "on the line" for a while, had managed to retain her looks.  Only in her
eyes could one read the story of three years of going upstairs with men of all
ages, sizes, and dispositions.  Some treated her as if she were a queen, some
were rude, and some were cruel.  It was a risk every time she went up with a
new man.

     Joe smiled disarmingly at her.  "You can trust me," his smile said, and
the apprehension left the girl's eyes.

     Shortly after Joe went upstairs with the bar girl, a man came into the
saloon and stepped up to the bar.  He stayed down at the far end where he
could see the whole saloon, and he examined everyone through dark beady eyes.
He was small and wiry, with a narrow nose and thin lips.  He used his left
hand to hold his glass while his right hand stayed down near the handle of his
pistol.

     Only Win had actually noticed the man, and he studied him quietly while
he ate his supper.  There was the look of sudden death about this man.  He was
a killer, as clearly as if he had been dressed in a black robe, carrying a
headsman's axe, and wearing a death's mask.

     The front door to the saloon opened a moment later, and two men came into
the saloon.  Both of them were wearing badges, and they stood just inside the
entrance for a moment, looking around the room.  One of them had eyes to match
his gray hair and moustache.  He was the sheriff.  His deputy was much
younger.

     "Win," Kelly said uneasily.  "It's the law."

     "Easy, Ethan," Win said quietly.  "Don't reckon they're after us."

     Win watched the sheriff look around, then his gaze found the man at the
bar.  The lawman's muscles stiffened.

     "Mister, was you at Dunnigan's General Store in Stedman yesterday?"

     "I don't recall that I was."

     "I got a telegram from the sheriff over there this mornin'.  The man they
described fits you pretty good," the sheriff said.  "About your size, wearing
clothes 'bout like them that you got on, and carryin' an Arkansas toothpick
with a deer horn handle."

     "Lots of men my size, lots of clothes like these, and lots of knives with
deer horn handles."

     "But you was there, wasn't you?" the sheriff asked.  The sheriff took
something out of his pocket and put it on a table.  "I know you was, 'cause me
'n my deputy just took this sack of coffee outta your saddlebags.  As you can
see, it's marked right on the sack, 'Dunnigan's General Store, Stedman,
Texas.'"

     "Yeah, now that I recollect, I guess I did come through there yesterday
afternoon," the man said.  "I bought some coffee and some beans, too.  Ain't
no law against that, is there?"

     "No law against that," the sheriff replied.  "But there's a law against
murderin' the storekeep and rapin' his wife."

     There was a collective gasp from the others in the saloon.

     "You got the wrong man.  All I done was buy some coffee and beans."

     "I might believe you, mister, if you woulda told me that in the first
place.  Now, I think I'd better hold you until we can get this straightened
out."

     "How you goin' to get it straightened out?  If the storekeep and his wife
are both dead, you got no witnesses."

     "I didn't say anything about the wife bein' dead, did I?" the sheriff
asked.  "Oh, the fella that raped her, he stabbed her, but the blade missed
all her vitals.  The doc says she'll be all right, and she can identify the
varmint who did it."

     "I told you, it wasn't me."

     "Then you won't have anything to worry about.  Come on up to Stedman with
us, let the woman have a look at you, and it'll all be over."

     "I ain't goin' nowhere with you."

     "Mister, you can come peaceable, or belly down across a saddle," the
sheriff said.  With those words, the others in the saloon began backing away,
giving the belligerent room to operate.

     The man put his drink on the bar, then turned toward the sheriff.  The
sheriff's deputy stepped several feet to one side then bent his knees,
slightly, holding his hand in readiness over his own pistol.

     "Well, now, I don't think you can force me to go where I don't want to
go," the man at the bar said.

     "You don't want this, mister," the sheriff said.

     "Maybe I do want it."

     Win watched the sheriff's eyes: the narrowing of the corners, the glint
of the pupils, then the cold fear.  Telegraphing his move, the sheriff made a
desperate, awkward grab for his gun.

     The man at the bar had his out first.  By the time he had his pistol up,
it was already spitting a six-inch finger of flame from the end of the barrel.
It roared a second time, even over the shots fired by the sheriff and his
deputy.  and a large cloud of smoke billowed up to temporarily obscure the
action.  When the smoke drifted up to the ceiling a few seconds later, the
sheriff and his deputy were both down, dead or dying on the floor.

     Win heard footsteps running upstairs, and when he saw the gunman at the
bar whip around, Win drew his own gun.

     "Hold it!" Win called.  He thumbed the hammer back and the deadly click
of the sear on cylinders filled the room.  He raised his pistol so that it was
pointing at the man.

     When the gunman looked over toward Win, he saw that Win had the drop on
him.

     "You plannin' to get in on this, mister?" the gunman asked.

     "I had no such plans," Win replied.  He nodded toward the man at the top
of the stairs.  "But that fella standin' up there is my brother, and I can't
say as I would take too kindly to you shooting him.  So, why don't you just
put your gun away?"

     "And if I don't?"

     "Then I'll just kill you where you stand," Win said easily.

     The gunman slipped his gun back into its holster.  "Look, it wasn't me
who killed that storekeep.  I just happened to stop there yesterday, that's
all."

     "Mister, it don't mean shit to me whether you did it or not," Win said.
He nodded toward the stairs.  "I'm just protectin' my brother, that's all."

     "You got any objections to my leavin'?" the gunman asked.

     "None at all, long as you keep your hands out where I can see them," Win
replied.

     "All right, all right, I'm going," the gunman said, holding his hands out
as Win suggested.  He glanced over toward the two dead law officers.
"Probably wouldn't be too healthy for me to stay around here much longer now,
anyway."

     "No, I wouldn't think it would," Win agreed.

     "On the other hand, we may run into each other again."

     "Could be," Win answered.

     "I'll be lookin' forward to it," the gunman said.  Backing carefully
across the floor, he put his hand behind him, and pushed open the doors.  With
one last look around, he stepped outside.

     "Whew!" Tate said, letting out a long sigh.  His sigh was followed by the
collective expulsion of breath of everyone else in the room as all realized
that the drama was now over.  There was an explosion of disconnected dialogue.
"Let's have a drink!"

     "Whoowhee, wouldn't you like to have seen them two boys go at one
another?"

     "Somebody better go get the mayor.  What with the sheriff and his deputy
dead, there ain't no one else to report this to."

     Joe stood at the top of the stairs looking down toward his brother.  He
had only heard the shooting, he hadn't seen anything until he saw Win brace
the shooter.  The obvious question in his mind was, what should he do, now?
He asked the question aloud.

     "That all depends.  You finished with your business up there, Joe?" Win
answered.

     Joe grinned sheepishly.  "To tell the truth, big brother, we was just
gettin' started."

     The woman Joe had gone upstairs with now appeared beside him, wrapped in
a robe.  She stepped up to the rail and looked down toward Win.  Then, seeing
him, she smiled, broadly and unashamedly.  Feeling her beside him, Joe draped
his arm around her, letting his hand rest lightly over her breast.

     "Then go on back and finish," Win said with a laugh.  "We don't need you
down here for a while."

     "That is, if you're up to it!" Tate shouted with a guffaw.

     "Honey, believe me, he is up to it," the woman called back down, and
everyone who heard her laughed as well.

     It was at that moment the mayor arrived, thus it made an incongruous
scene with everyone laughing while the two peace officers lay dead.

     The mayor buzzed around talking to several people to get the story on
just what happened.  Finally he came over to talk with Win.

     "These folks are all sayin' you braced the fella who did this," the mayor
said.  "Is that true?"

     "It must be true if they're all sayin' it," Win said easily.  "But before
you get carried away, let me tell you that there was really nothin' to it.  He
was lookin' the other way at the time."

     "Nevertheless, what you did took guts."  The mayor watched some men as
they were carrying out the bodies of the sheriff and deputy.  He rubbed his
chin, then looked back at Win.  "How'd you like the job?"

     "What?  You mean you want me to be sheriff?" Win asked.  He laughed, then
shook his head.  "No, I don't think so."

     "It pays thirty dollars a month and found," the sheriff said.

     "I appreciate the offer," Win replied.  "But my brother and my friends
and I need to be getting on our way."

     "Too bad," the mayor said.  "Brushy Creek could use someone like you."



     Tired of sleeping on the ground, the boys decided to take hotel rooms
after supper.  Win and Joe took one room, while Tate and Ethan took the other.
When the hotel rooms were taken care of, Tate and Ethan returned to the saloon
to find a card game.  Joe ordered himself a second supper.  That left Win
alone, so he decided to take a walk around to have a close look at Brushy
Creek.

     It was dark in town, and the street was lighted only by spills of yellow
from the open doors and windows of the saloon.  High overhead the stars winked
brightly, while over a distant mesa the moon hung like a large silver wheel.
Win could hear music, the thrum of guitars, and a lilting song in a language
he couldn't understand.  He knew that it had to be Spanish, for though he had
never personally encountered any Mexicans, he knew that they were thick down
in this part of the country.

     "Well now," a voice said from the dark.  "I was hopin' you'd come
outside."

     At the same time the words were spoken, a gun was cocked, and Win felt
the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

     "Turn around, slow," the voice demanded.

     Win turned.  It was no surprise to him that it was the man from the bar.

     For a long moment the two stared at each other over the end of the
pistol.  Then, inexplicably, the man put his pistol away and smiled.

     "Sorry about that," he said.  "But I wanted you to know what it feels
like for someone to have the drop on you."

     "I've felt it before," Win said.  "I didn't like it then, either."

     "You're one of Quantrill's riders, aren't you?" he asked.

     "What makes you think so?"

     "I saw you, back in Independence.  The name is Hunter.  Luke Hunter."

     "Why the interest in Quantrill, Hunter?" Win asked.

     "I want to join up with him," Hunter said.  "I heard he'd come to Texas.
I thought I'd come down here."

     "They tell me Texas is a pretty big place," Win said.

     "That's why I'm comin' to you.  I want you to help me find him."

     "What are you going to do if you find him?"

     "I'm going to join up with him," Luke said.  "As far as I'm concerned, he
is the only one doing any real damage to the Yankees.  Will you take me to
him?"

     "Why would I want to do that?  Whether you killed that storekeep or not,
they're going to be lookin' for you after the little fracas back there.  We've
got enough troubles of our own without bringing in another wanted man."

     "Hell, mister, you think they're goin' to start lookin' any harder for
Quantrill, just because another wanted man joined up with him?  Anyhow, I
didn't think Quantrill was looking for Sunday school teachers.  Now, what
about it?  Will you take me with you?"

     "All right," Win agreed.  "I'll take you to Quantrill.  Whether or not he
lets you join up with us is up to him, but we'll take you along."

     "'Preciate it," Hunter said.


                                      11


     Back in Kansas City, in the middle of that same night that Hunter joined
up with Win and the others, a couple of wagons stopped in front of a liquor
store.  The store was in an old, leaning, dilapidated three-story building,
the brick walls of which glowed orange in the reflected light of half a dozen
flickering, smoking torches.

     The wagons were filled with women, the result of a sweeping raid made by
General Ewing's Federal soldiers on the day before.  Some of the women were
brought in from adjoining farms and neighboring towns, others were taken from
beds in their own homes, while still others were picked up from hotels,
saloons, and whorehouses.  Penny Anderson, Bloody Bill Anderson's sister, was
one of the prisoners picked up from a farm.  Maggie was in her own house over
in Independence when the soldiers broke in on her.  They didn't have to go far
to capture Belle Amberly.

     Her "crib" was only two blocks from General Ewing's headquarters, and
when the arresting party arrived, one of her customers, a Union officer,
managed to slip out of her bed just before they came for her.

     This disparate group of women, ranging in age from fourteen to
seventy-seven and consisting of housewives, sweethearts, sisters, mothers, and
whores, were put into the back of wagons and brought to the liquor store
without so much as one word of explanation as to what was happening to them.
Now they were here; most whimpering in fear, some cursing in anger, the rest
stoically quiet.

     "All right, this is it," Captain Parnell shouted to the exhausted,
confused, and frightened women.  General Ewing had ordered that the women be
delivered to Captain Parnell, so he found himself suddenly in charge of them.
"Everybody out of the wagons!"

     Prodded by the armed guards, the women started climbing down from the
wagons.  They found themselves standing between a double line of armed
soldiers that led from the wagons to the building.

     "Move it out!" Captain Parnell shouted.  "We haven't got all night."

     "Captain, have you no compassion?" Penny asked.  "You are being very
demanding, and some of the older ladies aren't very strong."

     "Ladies?" the captain replied with a smirk.  "What do you mean, ladies?
I don't see any ladies here.  All I see is Rebel trash."

     "What is this place?" one of the older, and more confused, women asked.
"Why are we here?  I want to go home."

     "Get in there and keep your mouth shut, you toothless old crone," Captain
Parnell snarled.  He pointed to the old building.  "From now on, that is your
home."

     "You can't be serious," Maggie gasped when she looked at the old
building.  It was leaning so badly that there were actually timbers in place
to hold it up.  "You're putting us in a liquor store?"

     "Upstairs, top floor," Captain Parnell said.

     "But look at that building.  It's about to fall down," Maggie complained.

     "It's good enough for the likes of you.  Now, either go through that side
door there and climb up those stairs, or I'll have one of my men carry you."

     "I'm afraid to go in there, it's so dark," the older woman said.  "Please
don't make me.  I'm terribly frightened."

     "I'll help you," Belle offered, extending her arm.

     "You don't need to do that," Captain Parnell said.  "She can go up on her
own."

     Belle glared at Parnell with such intensity that he wasn't able to meet
her gaze.  Parnell glanced away from her, then cleared his throat.

     "Sergeant Berry, take them up," he ordered.

     "You women follow me," Sergeant Berry said to them, holding up a lantern.
Belle took the confused old woman by her arm and started toward the stairs
with her.

     Just as they stepped up onto the plank walk, Sergeant Berry spit a stream
of tobacco, getting some of it on Penny's skirt.

     "Please, sir, watch where you're spitting!" Penny complained.

     Sergeant Berry smiled, his crooked teeth looking even more yellow than
normal in the flickering light of the lantern.

     "Miss, I always watch where I'm spitting," he said.  To prove his point
he spit again, this time hitting, dead center, a spittoon that was on the
corner of the porch.  "And I always hit what I'm aimin' for," he added.

     The sergeant laughed at his joke, then he stepped through a door that
opened onto the stairs leading up to the third floor, the lantern splashing a
pale light before them.

     The top floor of the building was illuminated by two more dimly glowing,
smoking lanterns, which hung suspended from posts.  The place where the women
were being confined was a large open room, broken up only by several
four-by-four timbers which, while obviously not a part of the original
construction, had been called into service to help support the ceiling.  It
was from a couple of these posts that the additional lanterns were hanging.

     "Here you are.  Make yourselves comfortable," Sergeant Berry said, taking
in the room with a sweep of his hand.

     "Why have you brought us here?" Penny asked.

     "General Ewing's orders," Berry explained.  "He has decided that if we
can't get the bushwhackers then we'll get their whores."  Berry spit another
stream of tobacco, this time on the floor.  "That's you," he said.  "All of
you.  You're Rebel whores."

     "Sergeant, for some of us ..."  Belle paused for a moment, then pulled
herself together.  "For some of us the accusation is true.  I am a ... a woman
who earns a living by selling herself to men.  But not just to Rebels, I
hasten to add.  I am available to anyone who has the price, a fact to which I
am sure many of your officers can testify."

     At first there was a gasp of surprise from the other women.  They weren't
surprised that Belle was a prostitute, their own grapevine had already told
them that.  But they were surprised to hear someone actually admit to being a
whore.  Then, when she mentioned the Yankee officers, they all laughed in
spite of themselves.

     Belle continued.  "But these other women are responsible citizens: wives,
sweethearts, sisters, and mothers of men who happen to be fighting for the
Confederacy.  You have no right to accuse them of being prostitutes and no
right to bring them to a place like this."

     "I don't give the orders," Sergeant Berry said.  "I just follow 'em.  And
you're goin' to follow 'em too."

     "Sergeant Berry, would you please tell us just how you expect us to stay
here?" Maggie asked.  "You've made no provisions for us.  Why, look around
this place.  There aren't even any beds."

     "Beds?  You don't need any beds.  Go down there and get yourselves a
blanket and make your bed on the floor.  One blanket," he emphasized, holding
up his finger.  "We'll prob'ly be bringin' in some more of your sisters pretty
soon, an' we don't want you people of the gentler sex to start fightin'
amongst yourselves over blankets."

     "I protest," Maggie said.  "These accommodations are totally inadequate.
One blanket to be used for a bed?  That's inhumane."

     "There's prob'ly good Union boys out fightin' somewhere right now that
would love to have one of these blankets," Sergeant Berry replied.  "So quit
your complainin'.  One blanket is all you Rebel whores are goin' to get."

     "What about, uh, our, uh, needs of nature?" a woman asked, too
embarrassed to form the question.

     "There's a couple of chamber pots over there," the sergeant answered,
pointing toward them.

     "But they're out in the open," Maggie protested.  "Surely you don't
expect us to use those."

     "If you are all that modest, you can use one of the blankets to make
yourself a privacy screen," Sergeant Berry consented.

     "How very ... decent ... of you," Maggie said sarcastically.

     "How can General Ewing hold us here like this?  He has no right to hold
us unless we have been charged with a specific crime," Belle said.

     "Ha!  You think whorin' ain't a crime?"

     "But I haven't been charged with that.  And you certainly can't make that
claim about these other ladies."

     "As far as I'm concerned, any woman that has anything at all to do with
Rebel trash is a whore," the sergeant said.

     "You don't actually think our men are just going to let you keep us here,
do you?" Penny asked angrily.  "They'll come get us out!"

     Sergeant Berry smiled.  "Well, now, that's exactly what the general's
a'wanting them to do, miss.  Because when they come to get you, we'll get
them.  Oh, and, by the way, I wouldn't get any ideas about tryin' to escape if
I was you.  There will be guards posted around this place twenty-four hours a
day and they have orders to shoot to kill, if they have to."

     When Sergeant Berry left, Belle heard him slip a heavy bar-lock across
the door before he tramped back down the stairs.

     "What do we do now?" someone asked.

     "I don't know about the rest of you," Maggie answered, "but I'm going to
get myself a blanket and make myself as comfortable as possible."

     "Good idea," Penny said.  "I'm going to do the same."

     Belle joined the queue with the other ladies at the pile of blankets,
then with blanket in hand, she found a spot near a window.  As she spread the
blanket out on the floor, she peered out through the window and saw several
armed soldiers standing sentry duty in the dark street below.  Sergeant Berry
had not been bluffing about the security.

     Across the street, standing near a lantern, Belle saw Captain Parnell
staring up at the top floor.  She had the feeling that he was looking right at
her, though she knew that he wasn't, that there was no way he could be.

     She wondered what was going through his mind right now.  Had he willingly
carried out General Ewing's orders?  Or was there a tiny hidden spark of
decency which screamed out at the injustice he was being asked to perform?



     Win and the others located Quantrill at a place called Snipe Creek,
Texas.  This was a strongly pro-Southern area whose men were away, fighting
with General John Hood.  There were no Union troops anywhere around nor were
there any Union sympathizers.  Unlike Missouri, where no place was safe, Snipe
Creek was a haven, a long way from the war.  It was for that reason, as much
as for the warmer temperatures, that Quantrill had brought his men to Texas to
wait out the rest of the winter.

     Quantrill, George Todd, Bill Anderson, Archie Clement, and the other
officers of Quantrill's Raiders had found a tailor to make fine uniforms for
them.  As a result they were now parading around town, resplendent in gray and
gold, enjoying the accolades of the population.

     In this part of Texas, Quantrill was not regarded as an outlaw, nor even
as a bushwhacker.  Here, he was regarded as the commanding officer of a
cavalry troop, an irregular unit to be sure, but a band of men who fought
against overwhelming odds, and yet scored victory after victory over the
Yankees.  Because of this perception, Quantrill and all of his men were
treated as heroes by the citizens of the town.

     George Todd was the first one Win saw.  The big stonemason was sitting in
a chair on the front porch of the town's only hotel.  His uniform tunic hung
open, and his chair was tipped back.  He was eating from a large joint of
meat, and a bottle of whiskey sat on the floor alongside him.  Todd was
watching the people move back and forth on the main street, and he saw Win
before Win saw him.  "Win!" Todd called.  "Joe!"

     Upon being hailed, Win led the others over to the front of the hotel.
They stopped, but didn't dismount.

     "What are you boys doin' down here?  I thought you two was goin' to stay
on your farm back in Missouri to get your spring crops in."

     "We changed our minds," Win said.

     Looking at Tate and Ethan, Todd nodded.  "McGee and Kelly, isn't it?" he
asked.

     "That's right," Tate said.

     "Good to see you boys come down."

     "Where is ever'one?" Joe asked.

     "Same place they are ever' night, 'bout this time," Todd replied.  He
pointed.  "They're all down there at the saloon, drinkin' whiskey and layin'
up with the women," Todd replied.  He picked the bottle up from the porch and
took a long drink.  When he pulled the bottle away from his lips, he wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand.  "Who are you?" Todd asked.

     "The name is Hunter.  Luke Hunter," Luke replied.  "I've come to join
you, if you'll have me."  He dismounted and walked over to extend his hand.

     Without taking his hand, Todd took another pull from his bottle as he
studied Hunter.  "You vouchin' for 'im, Win?" Todd asked.

     "Nope," Win said.  "He just tagged along with us."

     Todd took another bite from his meat.  "You don't say," he said.  "Well,
Hunter, it ain't my place to say you can join up with us.  You're goin' to
have to take that up with Charley."



     The saloon was alive with activity and bright with the light of two dozen
or more lanterns.  It was noisy with laughter and song, and except for a few
older men, nearly everyone in the place was one of Quantrill's men.  When they
saw Win and his group come in, they greeted them warmly with much
back-slapping and handshaking.

     There didn't seem to be a shortage of women.  They were all over the
place, leaning on the piano, sitting in on the card games, hanging onto the
men.  A couple of them came toward the new arrivals.  One of them was clearly
aiming her charm at Win, but he stepped aside and let Tate handle her.

     Frank and Jesse James were sitting together, alone, at the back of the
room.  Win went over to join them.

     "Take a load off," Frank invited, sliding a chair out with his foot.

     "Where's Charley?" Win asked.

     "I saw 'im go upstairs with a woman a while ago," Frank said.  "Why?  You
got something for him?"

     "Run into someone who wants to join up with us," Win said.

     "What do you know about him?"

     "Don't know anything at all," Win replied.  "But if I was choosin'
friends, don't think I'd choose him.  I can't quite put my finger on it, but
there's somethin' about him that I don't much care for."

     "What'd you bring him along for?"

     "He was planning on coming anyway," Win answered.  "Figured I'd rather
have him with us, so we could keep an eye on him, rather than following us."

     "Sounds reasonable," Frank said.

     Win looked back and saw that Hunter was leaning on the bar, watching what
was going on.  "Hunter," he called.  He made a motion with his hand.  "Come on
over."  Hunter ambled over to the table.

     "Luke Hunter, this is Frank and Jesse James."

     Hunter laughed.

     "Something funny?" Frank asked.

     Hunter pointed toward Jesse.  "That boy's still wet behind the ears.
Don't tell me that Quantrill is so hard up for men that he lets pups like
that'n ride with him?"

     Jesse's smile turned to a frown, then his face grew cold and impassive.
Slowly, and without fanfare he stood.

     "Mister, I'm going to kill you where you stand," he said in a flat dry
voice.

     Hunter laughed again.  "You are going to kill me?" he asked.

     "I reckon so."

     Though Jesse said the words very quietly, they were powerful words.  And,
like a pebble cast into a pond, awareness of what was going on spread out in
concentric circles through the rest of the saloon.  Conversations halted,
women's laughter stopped in mid-trill, the piano fell off in a ragged coda.

     "Don't be a fool, boy.  You don't want to fight me," Hunter said.

     "I didn't say I was going to fight you," Jesse said calmly.  "I said I
was going to kill you."

     "What if I kill you, instead?" Luke asked.

     "I don't give a shit who kills who," Jesse said calmly.  "As long as one
of us is dead, and this is settled."

     As Win watched the confrontation playing itself out in front of him, Luke
Hunter underwent an amazing transformation.  The man who had been so cold and
deadly back in Brushy Creek when he faced down the sheriff and his deputy was
now showing fear and indecision.

     What was it?  What did Hunter see in this boy that frightened him so?
But even as Win studied Jesse's totally impassive face, he realized what it
was.  Jesse James was a rarity among men.  He had a total disregard of death,
whether it be his own or another.  He had no more compunction about killing a
man than he did about stepping on a bug ... and if the bug who happened to be
stepped on was himself ... so be it.  On the other hand a man like Luke Hunter
depended upon engendering a fear of death in others to provide him with his
edge.  When he came face-to-face with a man who was as completely
dispassionate on the subject of living or dying as was Jesse James, he lost
that edge.  Luke Hunter became the one who feared death, fearing it at the
hands of a boy who was barely past puberty.

     Realizing that the situation was reversed, that Jesse James had suddenly
become the predator and he the prey, Luke Hunter began to sweat.

     "Coulter," Hunter said in a desperate plea.  "Coulter, stop this."

     For a moment, Win thought to let it go on.  But he realized that he was
considering it only because of the dislike he had developed for Hunter.
Finally he sighed and stepped in between Hunter and Jesse James.

     "Dingus, wait.  There's no need to do this.  He's new.  He doesn't
understand."

     "Listen, all I said was ..." Hunter started, but his comment was
interrupted when Win spun around and backhanded him sharply across his mouth.
"Keep your damn mouth shut," Win said.

     "What the hell?  Why did you do that?" Hunter asked, surprised by the
sudden move.

     "Hunter, if you open your mouth again, I'm going to kick your ass up
between your ears," Joe said coldly, from close by.  "In case you don't
realize it, my brother just saved your life."

     As if having suddenly lost interest in Hunter, the way a boy will tire of
a game, Jesse sat down again.  Hunter remained by the table for a moment
longer, staring at his would-be adversary, whether trying to decide to test
him or trying to save some face, it was difficult to tell.  Win looked at
Hunter with narrowed eyes, and sullenly Hunter slinked to the bar where he
poured himself a drink.

     Almost instantly, the conversations were reanimated, women found more
things to laugh about, and the piano began, once again, cranking out a tune.

     At the bar, Luke Hunter sulked over his drink, but Jesse James didn't
show the slightest bit of emotion over what had just happened.


                                      12


     For the next several weeks after the confrontation between Luke Hunter
and Jesse James, there was more animus between Win and Hunter than there was
between Hunter and Jesse.  As far as Jesse was concerned, the incident was no
more annoying than a pesky mosquito, and he let it drop.  And Hunter, having
learned his lesson, maintained a comfortable distance from Jesse, not wanting
to run afoul again of the dangerous youth.  Instead, he transferred his rancor
from Jesse James to Win Coulter.

     "I was just funnin' with the boy," he told those who would listen to him.
"Win Coulter had no business buttin' into it like he done.  He coulda got
either me or the boy killed."

     Although Hunter wasn't quiet around those who would listen to him, he
said nothing around Win or Joe, and Win, taking a page from Jesse's book,
tended to ignore Luke.

     "Let him shoot off his mouth all he wants," Win told Joe.  "It gives him
something to do."

     Quantrill, in the meantime, was having his own problems with both his top
lieutenants, Bill Anderson and George Todd.  Once, during a card game, the
disagreement grew so hot that Quantrill and Todd actually drew on each other.
Cooler heads prevailed, however, and the two men were separated without shots
being fired.

     Within the ranks the men began to allocate their loyalties.  There were
some who gravitated toward Todd, others toward Bill Anderson, while still
others remained loyal to Quantrill.  There were divisions within the divisions
as arguments developed over card games, women, whiskey, even such minor things
as to whether they preferred to call themselves "raiders," "bushwhackers," or
"guerrillas."

     "The boys are getting in a really ratty mood.  We've got to get out of
here and back up to Missouri," Win said.

     "Yeah," Tate agreed.  "I'd hate to run into any Yankees now.  There's so
much fightin' goin' on among ourselves that the Yankees could just stand by
and laugh at us."

     Not to be left out, Win, Joe, Tate and Ethan had formed their own little
group, with Win as the natural leader.  Frank and Jesse James and the Younger
brothers, all related, had formed their little sub-group as well, and though
they were not part of the Coulter group, both clans got along quite well with
each other.

     "Trouble is, we're getting fat and lazy down here," Cole Younger said.

     "And we ain't doin' much to help the folks back home," Ethan added,
"Unless you call struttin' around in a pretty uniform as bein' in the war."

     "It's not just that," Win pointed out.  "You see how we've become."  He
made an inclusive gesture with his hand.  "We are friends, but we've reached
the point to where we pretty much trust only each other.  When we go into
battle again, we're all going to have to depend on everyone ... not just those
who have formed close friendships.  If we stay here too much longer, it's only
going to get worse."

     The conversation was suddenly interrupted by someone coming into the
saloon, shouting in anger.  "They did it!  The sons of bitches did it!" he
yelled.

     "Did what?"

     "The goddamned Yankees have picked up all our women!"

     "What women!  What are you talking about?" someone asked.

     "Our women, goddamnit!" the man shouted angrily.  "Any woman that has
anything to do with us ... our wives, sisters ... our mothers even, has all
been picked up!  The Yankees is holdin' 'em all in jail!"

     This bit of news, bad though it was, acted as a tonic.  Groups who had
been moving apart now came together again, united in their outrage against
what they were hearing.

     Quantrill appeared at the landing on the top of the stairs.  He was
wearing his new gray trousers but no tunic, and his golden galluses hung down
to intersect with the broad gold stripes on the pants.  A woman, her nudity
barely concealed by a sheet, stood just behind him.

     "Where did you come by that news?" Quantrill called down.

     "Over to the telegraph office," the messenger answered.  "It just come in
over the wire."

     "Charley, what are we going to do about it?" someone asked.

     Quantrill rubbed his chin for a moment as he studied the angry faces of
the young men in his command.  Finally he made a decision.

     "Not a hell of a lot we can do right now," he said.  "The Yankees have
already got them.  But when we go back, we'll make them pay dearly for
treating our women like this."

     "Well, goddamnit!  When are we going back?"

     "Soon, now," Quantrill answered.

     "Soon?  What does that mean?"

     "It means soon," Quantrill said.  When a rumble of discontent began to
rise, Quantrill held out his hands.  "Boys, don't you understand what this is?
It isn't the women the Yankees are after.  The only reason the Yankees did
this in the first place was to get us all riled up."

     "Well, by God, it worked.  I'm plenty riled," someone said.

     "Yeah, so am I.  I want to go kill me a few of the Yankee bastards."

     "We're goin' to," Quantrill said.  "Trust me, boys, we're goin' to.  All
I'm askin' now is that you show a little patience."

     "But they've got our women, goddamnit!"

     "I know they do," Quantrill said.  "But think about it.  They'd be
foolish to let any harm come to our women.  They aren't in any real danger.
The Yankees are usin' 'em for bait, and I don't plan to fall into their trap."

     Win knew that Quantrill, personally, had no women close to him.  His
mother and sister were back in Ohio.  He had no wife and no sweetheart, and so
far all his liaisons with women had been temporary ones.  He wondered if
Quantrill would show such patience if he had someone of his own in the Yankee
jail.  He also knew, however, that Quantrill was right.  The Raiders would not
be well-served by heading back to Missouri, so hell-bent to rescue the women
that they wound up riding into an ambush.



     Back in Missouri, however, General Ewing fully expected Quantrill and his
men to come riding in the very next day in an incautious attempt to rescue
their women.  And in order to set his ambush, he transferred two battalions of
regular soldiers into the area where he kept them on around-the-clock
readiness to meet Quantrill when he arrived.

     Quantrill didn't come, so the immediate effect of General Ewing's
transfer was to lessen some of the pressure on Confederate generals Price and
Van Dorn in the southern part of the state.  Frustrated because Quantrill
didn't appear when he was expected, General Ewing kept additional units of the
Union army in and around Kansas City for an indefinite period of time.  The
decreased pressure on Van Dorn and Sterling Price allowed them to utilize
their own forces more efficiently.

     "By staying away and avoiding General Ewing's obvious trap," one
newspaper reported, "the guerrilla Quantrill has realized his first real
strategic victory for the Confederacy.  Because of him, so many Federal
soldiers have been positioned to catch him that the Rebels in the southern
part of the state are able to run rampant."



     It was late April and by now the rebel women had been held prisoner for
three months.  Still, there was no sign of Quantrill nor of any other
guerrillas coming to the rescue.

     Belle knew, from conversations she had had with the other women, that
Quantrill was in Texas.  And while some of the women were convinced that he
would come back for them as soon as he learned of their plight, others hoped
that he wouldn't.  Like Quantrill, they had already surmised that should he
return, he and the loved ones that he had with him would be riding into a
trap.

     Because of Belle's background there were some women who didn't want to
have anything to do with her.  However, Belle was a good worker who not only
did her own chores, but willingly did the chores of others who were ill, too
old, or too weak to work.  She began to win over some converts.  Her two
closest friends, Penny Anderson and Maggie Depro, had declared their
friendship in the earliest days of their confinement.  Over the several weeks
that the three women were together, they even became close enough to share
their most treasured secrets with each other.  It was in this way that both
Belle and Penny learned they each had been bedded by Win Coulter.  And, they
both admitted with a ribald laugh, Win Coulter was "the best they'd ever been
with."

     Let in on the secret, Maggie confessed to the others that she had been
with Win's brother, Joe.  "And I tell you now, ladies, there is no way Win
Coulter could do more for a woman than his brother."

     "Oooh, ladies," Belle said, fanning herself, "I swear, we're going to
have to quit talking about this.  It's pure-dee giving me the vapors."

     All three laughed.  Under normal circumstances, the three women would
probably have never met.  And even if they had met, such personal
conversations as these would have never taken place.  But here, in the
artificial world created by their imprisonment, all inhibitions against frank
talk were removed.

     One afternoon they were gathered near the window talking.  Belle was
sitting on an upturned bucket, looking out toward the sky in the west, when
she noticed that over the last several minutes the sky had changed from a
bright blue to a rather strange greenish color.  Curious about the
transformation, she stopped the conversation to examine it.

     "What is it?" Maggie asked, noticing the expression on Belle's face.
"What do you see out there?"

     "I don't know," Belle replied.  "The sky ..."  She pointed to it.

     On the western horizon great banks of clouds were beginning to build,
then darken.

     "Oh, my," Penny said gasping and bringing her hand to her mouth.  "Oh my,
that does look bad, doesn't it?"

     By now, Maggie, too, was looking through the window.  "Those clouds look
awfully black," she said.  "And, look at the way the light is coming through.
I don't believe I've ever seen afternoon light quite like this."

     Penny turned to call over her shoulder to an old woman who was sitting on
one of the few chairs they had finally managed to acquire.  "Miss Addie,"
Penny called.  "Miss Addie, would you come over here and look at the sky?"

     Miss Addie got up and walked over to the window, then peered through it,
brushing a fall of gray hair back from her face.

     "Uh huh," she said, calmly.  "Looks like we're gettin' ready to have us a
twister."

     "A twister?  My God!  Do you mean a cyclone?" Belle asked.

     "Looks like it to me," Miss Addie answered easily.  Showing no sense of
alarm, she returned to her chair.

     "Surely we aren't going to have a cyclone," Maggie said.  "The soldiers
wouldn't keep us in here if we were going to have a really bad storm, would
they?"

     "I don't know about the soldiers, but Miss Addie knows storms," Penny
said.  "She's lived through a heap of cyclones over the last forty years, and
if she says one is comin', then one is comin'."

     "My God, we can't have a storm," Belle said.  "Penny, this building can't
stand up to a storm like that!"

     "What we need is to get everyone into a cyclone cellar."

     "So, how do we do that?"

     Belle looked toward the door and saw a guard standing just on the other
side.  "Let's go talk to the guard," she said.  "Maybe he'll let us talk to
Captain Parnell."

     "Oh yes," Penny said sarcastically.  "Captain Felix Parnell.  Now,
there's a real compassionate man for you."



     "Only one of you can get out of here to see Captain Parnell," the guard
said in answer to their request.  He pointed to Belle.  "That'll be you.  You
other two, get on back inside."

     "Listen, why don't you let all three of us speak to him?" Belle
suggested.  "He is more likely to listen to three of us than one."

     "Look here, I'm stickin' my neck out as it is by lettin' even one of you
go," the guard explained.  "Now, what about it?  Do you want to see the cap'n,
or don't you?"

     "if only one of us can go, let it be one of the other ladies," Belle
said.  She looked at Penny.  "You go, Penny."

     "I'm Bill Anderson's sister," Penny said.  "Captain Parnell's not going
to listen to me."

     "What about you, Maggie?"

     "No, no," Maggie said.  "I'd be much too nervous.  You are the best one."

     "Look, are you goin' to go or not?" the guard asked impatiently.  "I'm
not goin' to stand here all day."

     Belle sighed.  "All right," she said.  "I'll go."

     Waving goodbye to Penny and Maggie, Belle extended her hands so the guard
could put on cuffs.  Then, securely cuffed, she followed him down the narrow
rickety stairs and out into the street.

     Once she got outside, she saw that the sky was even more ominous looking.
At the moment there was absolutely no wind and the air hung as heavy and
oppressive as a wet blanket.  Horses, tied to the hitching posts, stamped
their feet nervously and tossed their heads, pulling against the reins.  A few
people were standing in the middle of the street, looking toward the west,
while a few buildings down, in preparation for the impending storm, someone
closed the shutters, then began nailing boards across the outside of them to
protect the windows.

     The guard led Belle up the steps to the front porch of Tom Poe's office.
The lawyer's Southern sympathies had been discovered, and he had been run out
of town.  His office was now being used by Captain Parnell.

     "Get inside there," the guard said roughly, pushing open the door.

     Sergeant Berry was sitting at his desk working on the morning report when
he was distracted by the loud entrance made by Belle and her guard.

     "What is this?" he asked.  "What is that prisoner doing here?"

     "She insisted that I bring her over to talk to the captain," the guard
said.

     "Oh, she insisted, did she?" Berry said.  "Has she been promoted to
sergeant in our army?  Maybe she got a commission and I didn't hear about it?"

     "No, Sergeant, nothing like that," the guard insisted.

     To the private's relief, Sergeant Berry turned his attention from the
guard to Belle.  "And you.  You're getting pretty uppity, aren't you?" he
asked.  "Why do you think you have a right to be insisting on anything?"

     "Sergeant, have you looked at the sky?" Belle asked anxiously.

     "Yeah, I've seen it.  So what?"

     "Miss Addie says there's a cyclone coming."

     "Could be.  I hear-tell they do come through here from time to time.
What's that got to do with you comin' over here?"

     "Do you realize that there are forty-four women on the top floor of the
ricketiest building in town?  If a cyclone does come through here, that
building will be blown down."

     "It's an old building," the sergeant said.  "I'm sure it's gone through
cyclones before."

     "Perhaps so, but that doesn't mean it can go through it again," Belle
said.  "Sergeant, you've got to get us out of there.  We aren't asking that
you let us go free, only that you move us to a safer place."

     Sergeant Berry shook his head.  "You're talkin' to the wrong person.  I
got no authority to move you ladies.  It ain't my responsibility."

     "Then, please, let me talk to Captain Parnell," Belle begged.

     Outside a horse whinnied.  It was a long eerie sound, as if the
frightened horse were shouting a warning.

     Sergeant Berry stroked his chin for a moment, then nodded his head.

     "All right, wait here," he said.  "I'll see if the cap'n will see you."

     Belle waited while Sergeant Berry went into the inner office that was
Captain Parnell's.  A moment or two later, Berry stuck his head back out.

     "You can come in and talk to him now," he said.

     Belle looked down at the cuffs on her hands.  "Do I have to wear these
things?"

     Berry turned to the guard.  "Give me the key," he ordered.

     The guard gave the key to Berry, and Belle held out her hands expectantly
to allow the cuffs to be opened.  "No," Berry said.  "I'll give the key to the
cap'n.  If he wants to uncuff you, he can do it himself."  In the distance,
there was a long, deep-throated roll of thunder.  It was the first thunder of
the impending storm.

     Belle followed Berry into Captain Parnell's office.  She saw Parnell
standing at the window, looking outside.  Over his shoulder, Belle could see
that it had begun to rain, and the stillness was replaced by a sudden wind.
In fact, the wind was blowing pretty hard, as evidenced by a hat that was
rolling quickly down the street, chased after by a hatless soldier.

     It thundered again, this time a protracted peal which sounded like a long
melodic roll of timpani.

     "This here's the woman I told you about, Cap'n.  The whore who wanted to
see you," Sergeant Berry said.  "I've got the key to her cuffs."  He held it
out in front of him.

     "Put the key on the desk," Parnell said without turning around.

     Berry set the key down with a little snap.  "She wants to talk to you
about ..."

     "Leave us, Sergeant," Parnell interrupted.  He still had not turned
around.

     "Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n, but she's a prisoner and someone ought to be
in here with her.  Me or the guard, one."

     "I said, leave us," Captain Parnell said again.

     "Very good, sir," Sergeant Berry said.  "I'll be just outside the door if
you need me."

     The sergeant withdrew and Belle was left standing in the room with the
commandant of the makeshift prison.

     Outside, the wind began to howl.


                                      13


     With her wrists still cuffed in front of her, Belle stood in absolute
silence, waiting for Captain Parnell to turn around, or at least to speak.

     At the apothecary across the street, a sign blew down, crashing loudly
onto the plank walk.

     A woman carrying an umbrella started to cross the street from the general
store to the millinery, but a sudden gust of wind grabbed the umbrella and
turned it inside out.  She fought it for a moment, trying to hold it and her
dress together.  Finally she let the umbrella go.  It bounced and careened
down the street as she retreated back to the general store.

     Finally, Captain Parnell turned around to acknowledge Belle's presence.
"Have you told anyone?" he asked.

     "I beg your pardon?" Belle asked, not knowing what he meant.  "About us,
I mean."

     "No."

     "Why not?"

     "I could see no purpose in telling everyone that you are the one who ran
from my bed on the night the soldiers came for me."

     Captain Parnell's eyes were hard and challenging.

     "You are smart not to try and make trouble for me.  Because if you did, I
would only deny it, and believe me, there is no question but that my word
would be accepted over yours."

     "Oh, I do believe you, Captain," Belle said.  "I'm sure that if I would
say anything, my words would fall on deaf ears."

     "I'm glad you understand.  That makes things easier all the way around.
For both of us," he added.  "Now, why did you want to see me?"

     There was another crash of thunder, this time much closer than before.

     "I want to ask a favor," Belle said.  "Not for me," she added quickly.
"For all the ladies."

     "I see.  And why did they choose you, a whore, to represent them?  Is it
because you convinced them that out of some sense of obligation and gratitude
for your silence, that I would grant any request you might make?"

     "No, it's not like that," Belle insisted.  "I told you, I've told no one
about that night.  Not even the other women who are being held in that awful
place with me."

     A streak of lightning lit up the green sky.  The thunder that followed
was so close that it was there almost before the light receded.  In addition,
the roar of the wind was now nearly as loud as the almost constant crash of
thunder.

     "And what is this favor that you want?" Captain Parnell asked.

     Belle nodded toward the window.  "Have you seen what's going on outside?"
she asked.

     "Of course I have.  I am neither blind nor deaf," Parnell replied.

     "There's a cyclone coming," Belle said.

     "The storm isn't coming, it's already here," Parnell said.

     "No, I don't mean just a storm.  I mean a twister, a tornado."

     "Why are you telling me this?  I know you think I have a lot of power,
Miss Amberly," Parnell said.  "But I don't have the power to stop a cyclone.
Not even General Ewing can do that," he added, laughing at his own joke.

     Even as he spoke, he looked outside at the rain which was, because of the
ferocity of the wind, being whipped by in horizontal sheets.  "The storm seems
to have taken hold now.  And it could be that there is a twister in it."

     "If there is, we are in great danger," Belle said.

     "We?"

     "The women and I," Belle explained.  "We are on the top floor of a very
old building.  That's why I've come to you.  Captain Parnell, you've got to
get us down from there!"

     "If you are frightened, you can stay down here until the storm has blown
over."

     "What?  No, I couldn't do that."

     "Why not?  Isn't that why you are here?  Because you think the building
is unsafe?"

     "Yes, it is very unsafe.  But, Captain, I couldn't leave my friends
exposed to danger while I am down here on the ground, safe from the storm."

     Parnell laughed, a short bitter laugh.  "Why not?  Is it because you feel
that it might be some kind of betrayal?  Do you really think those women are
your friends?" he asked.

     "Some of them are, yes."

     "I hate to disillusion you, Miss Amberly," Captain Parnell said.  "But
your friends signed a petition asking that you be removed from their midst.
It seems they don't want a whore's presence screwing up their martyrdom."

     "I'm sure some of them would just as soon see me go," Belle said.  "After
all, we didn't exactly move in the same social circles."

     Parnell grinned evilly.  "Not some of them.  All of them," he said.  "The
petition was unanimous."

     "All of them?" Belle asked in a small voice.  She was a little surprised
by the news, and she took a sharp intake of breath before she regained her
composure.  "Miss Anderson and Miss Depro as well?"

     "Them too."

     "All right, so what if they did?" she asked.  "The fact remains that
those women are in the path of a storm that could destroy the building and
kill them all.  And I can't stay down here safe, while they are in danger.  I
have to do something for them."

     "And just what do you think that you, a handcuffed female prisoner
completely in my power, can do?" Parnell asked.  The harshness left his eyes,
to be replaced by a look that Belle had seen all her life.  She could see tiny
red lights, deep in his eyes.  It was the look of lust.  The way was being
shown to her.  All she had to do was take it.

     "Surely," Belle said in a practiced reaction to that look, her voice
growing husky, "I can do ... something."  She let the word "something" slide
out seductively, and she shifted the weight on her feet so that her hip jutted
out.  Her eyes became smoky, and her tongue slipped out to wet her lips.

     "How badly do you want your friends moved?"

     "I beg of you to move them, Captain.  If you do, you will find me most
appreciative."

     "Huh," Parnell said, shaking his head.  "You do first, then I will move
them."

     The roar of the wind grew even louder, and Sergeant Berry, without
knocking, stuck his head in through the door.

     "Cap'n, we got to get out of here!" Sergeant Berry yelled, his voice
barely audible above the roar of the wind.

     "Then go!" Parnell yelled back at him.  He pointed outside.  "Be gone
with you!"

     Surprised at Captain Parnell's reaction to him, Sergeant Berry blinked
once, then turned and left, closing the door behind him.

     "Captain, please!  Get the women out of that building now, before it is
too late!" Belle begged after Sergeant Berry left.

     Parnell picked up the key and unlocked one side of the cuffs which held
Belle's hands together.

     "Thank God!" Belle said, but to her shock and consternation, instead of
releasing her, Parnell snapped the open cuff onto the leg of his desk, forcing
her down to her knees.

     "What?  What are you doing?" Belle asked, looking up at him in fear and
surprise.

     "You want the women down from the building?" Parnell yelled.

     "Yes!"

     Parnell stepped in front of her, then opened his fly.  He took out his
penis.

     "Then you know what to do," he said, thrusting his penis in front of her
face.

     "Captain, this is crazy!  The storm ..."

     "Suck my cock, goddamn you!  If you want those women out of there, there
is only one way you can do it!"

     "All right!  All right!" Belle answered.  Desperately, she reached for
him, wrapping her hand around his already hard organ.  She began moving her
hand back and forth.

     "No!  Not like that, you bitch!  Like this!" Parnell screamed.  Putting
his hand in her hair, he pulled her head to him, pushing himself angrily and
fully into her mouth.

     Belle's mouth was so filled with him that, at first, she nearly gagged.
Then she managed to get control of her involuntary muscles, and began sucking.

     The roar of wind sounded like a hundred freight trains passing at once,
but Belle was hardly able to discern the difference between what she was
hearing in her head and what she was hearing from outside.

     "Make me come, bitch!  Make me come!" Parnell was screaming at her.

     Belle had been with many men, some of whom were so unpleasant that she
could barely stand their presence long enough to service them.  But there had
been some, like Win Coulter, who had excited her, and with whom her "services"
hadn't been business, but pleasure.

     In order to make this moment pass, and in order to bring him off quickly
enough to rescue the women, Belle resorted to an old trick she had learned
when she first went into the business.  Physically, the man she was with right
now was Captain Felix Parnell.  But in her mind, and in her fantasy, it was
Win Coulter.

     As a result of her fantasy, an amazing transformation took place.  No
longer was what she was doing unpleasant.  With her eyes closed, she thought
of the last time she had done this very thing for Win Coulter.  And now, far
from being an invasion, the feeling of her mouth being filled with a hot
throbbing penis, the silken sensation of her tongue sliding along his skin and
caressing his testicles became very enjoyable to her.

     Parnell sensed the difference right away, though he didn't know what had
brought it about.  He knew only that her mouth felt like a perfumed cauldron
of warm wax, and he was feeling pleasure like he had never felt before.  His
knees grew weak, there was a tingling in the small of his back, and a rolling
in the pit of his stomach.

     "What ... are ... you ... doing?" he gasped.  "No!  No, it will be over
too fast!"

     Spurred on by his words, Belle increased her activity, sucking him in,
then pushing him back out, sucking him in, then pushing him back out, flicking
her tongue across the head, alternating the pressure along the entire length.

     Suddenly Parnell put both his hands in her hair and pulled her head to
him, thrusting his hips forward as hard as he could.  He felt it beginning,
starting in the souls of his feet, dropping down from his scalp, and meeting
in the small of his back where every muscle and nerve ending in his body fired
with pleasurable sensation.

     "I'm ... coming!!!" Parnell gasped, now pumping furiously as the muscle
spasms gathered.

     Belle took her mouth away and began a frenzied pumping of the skin.

     Parnell ejaculated then, sending a white-hot stream of jism jetting
forward for several inches, most of it falling on the floor, but a few white
pearls landing on Belle's chin to gleam softly in the rain light.

     Belle continued to whip the skin back and forth as two more squirts
gushed out, then she slowed her motion as, gasping for breath, Parnell fell
forward, and would have fallen entirely had he not saved himself by grabbing
the corner of his desk.

     "That was incredible," Parnell wheezed.

     "Captain," Belle said.  "Your promise?"

     "All right," Parnell said, putting his penis back into his pants.  "I am
a man of my word.  I said I would let them ..."  Parnell's words were suddenly
interrupted by a terrible crashing sound.  That was followed by the screams of
women, screams so loud that their awful sound penetrated even through the roar
of the tornado that was, at that very moment, cutting its destructive swath
through the middle of Kansas City.

     "What is that?  What's happening?" Belle shouted, fearing the worst.

     Parnell hurried over to look through the window.  What he saw outside
made him put his hand to his forehead.

     "Oh, my God!" he said.  "Oh my God, no, it can't be!"

     "What is it?"  Belle started jerking on the cuff that held her fastened
to the desk.

     Parnell came back to her then and released the cuff from her other wrist.
Rubbing her wrist, Belle moved quickly to the window to see what was going on.
She looked toward the three-story brick building where the women were being
held.

     There was no building.  There was only a pile of rubble, twisted boards,
and here and there a few incongruously bright patches of color, the dresses of
the women who lay injured, dead, and dying in the wreckage.



     Within minutes after the storm passed through Kansas City, the rain and
the wind stopped.  Now there was a breathless calm as soldiers and civilians
alike emerged from their shelters, as if in a daze, to walk down the street
and gaze upon the destruction wrought by the tornado.

     Ivers' Saloon was gone.  It was completely gone.  Absolutely nothing, not
one stick of lumber, remained on the empty lot where the saloon had once been.

     The apothecary right next door was still standing, but it was without a
roof.

     The leather goods store had only two walls still upright.  The millinery
was completely untouched.

     The converted women's prison was totally destroyed, consisting only of a
heap of broken brick and board from which issued a few piteous cries and
whimpers.

     "The women!" someone shouted.  "The women were in there!"

     Quickly, the citizens of the town gathered around the collapsed building.
Despite their personal sentiments as to whether or not the women inside should
have been held prisoner, they worked rapidly, tossing aside the remains of the
building and searching for those who were still alive.  Belle worked with the
rescuers, for neither Parnell, nor anyone else, made any suggestion that she
should be cuffed again or put once more into custody.

     "What do we do with the ones who aren't bad hurt, Cap'n?" Sergeant Berry
asked as he saw a handful of dazed, frightened, but otherwise uninjured women
milling around.  "Where do we put them now?"

     "Put them nowhere," General Ewing said, arriving on horseback at that
moment.

     "General Ewing, sir, you didn't have to come down here," Parnell said.
"We have everything under control now."

     Ewing swung down from his horse and looked at the wreckage of the old
liquor store building.

     "Good Lord, Captain, why did you leave them in here during the storm?"
Ewing asked.  "Didn't you realize that this building would be unsafe during
such a storm?"

     "It ... it all happened too fast, General," Parnell said.  "We didn't
have time to evacuate the women."  Parnell looked over at Belle.  She was
working in the pile of rubble, and her arms, hands, and face were covered in
mud, but she stopped long enough to glare at him.

     "It's all right, Captain," Ewing said.  He put his hand in his gray hair
and shook his head as he watched the rescue operation.  "It's all my fault.  I
never should have authorized their incarceration in the first place."

     "What about the survivors, General?  What are we going to do with them?"
Parnell asked.

     "Nothing," Ewing replied.  "Let those who are uninjured go home.  For the
others, we'll do what we can.  How many were killed?"

     "We don't know yet," Parnell admitted.  "We are still digging through the
rubble."



     It was belle who found Penny Anderson and Maggie Depro.  Both women were
dead, crushed by falling debris.  But Miss Addie, the woman who was lying
under Penny and Maggie, survived.  Frightened and dazed, though otherwise
unharmed, she crawled out from under the two women when enough rubble was
cleared away to allow her to do so.

     The positions of Penny and Maggie's bodies told the story, later verified
by Miss Addie when she was sufficiently recovered of her faculties.

     "When things started tumbling down, they wrapped themselves around me,"
Miss Addie said.  "Those two brave women saved my life.  What a foolish thing
for them to do."

     "Foolish?" Belle asked.

     "Yes, my child, very foolish," Miss Addie insisted.  "They were young,
with their entire lives ahead of them.  Mine is nearly over.  It wasn't a very
good trade."

     THE FINAL REPORT SHOWED FOUR WOMEN DEAD, INCLUDing Penny Anderson and
Maggie Depro.  There were sixteen injured: four gravely, eight seriously, and
four not seriously.  True to his word, General Ewing let the rest of the women
return to their homes.  They walked away, still dazed and too thankful over
surviving to allow the anger and hate to show.

     "Wait until Bloody Bill finds out his sister was killed," the people
whispered among themselves.  "Just you wait.  There will be hell to pay."


                                      14


     When Win held up his hand, the two advance scouts with him stopped.  They
were on top of a fairly prominent hill, but just below the crest so that they
wouldn't be silhouetted against the background of a bright sky.

     "What is it, Win?" Tate asked, noticing that something had caught Win's
attention.

     Win dismounted, then walked out onto a promontory and took out his
binoculars to look down onto a road that wound through a cut about a quarter
of a mile away.

     "Yankees," he said.  He stared for a long moment, then lowered the
glasses.  "I don't believe there is anything to worry about, though.  There
are just two of them, driving an empty wagon."

     "You think I should go back and tell the others?"

     Win put his binoculars back in the little case he carried around his
neck.  "I expect so," he answered.

     "The Chief said he wanted to be told about anything we came across.  You
go ahead, Tate.  Ethan and I will wait here."

     Tate turned his horse and started back toward the main body of men.

     After spending the winter in Texas, Quantrill's Raiders, who were now
fatter, better dressed, and in many cases, better mounted than they had been
before they left, were returning to Missouri.  They may have been better fed
and better equipped, but the morale of the unit had been badly shattered by
internal dissension.

     Ethan got down from his horse, as well, and the two horses began to
nibble on the grass while their riders stared down at the road below.

     "Win, do you think Anderson is going to go off on his own?"

     "I don't know.  I know that things haven't been going very well between
Bill and Charley.  But why do you ask?  Has he said that he might start his
own group?"

     "No, he ain't said nothin' like that," Ethan replied.  He pulled up a
long stem of grass and started sucking on the cool, sweet root.  "But, like
you said," he continued "Bill and the Chief haven't been getting along.
Anderson blames Quantrill for his sister and the other women gettin' killed."

     "I know he does, but I don't think he has any cause to."

     "Why not?  It's true, ain't it?  If Quantrill had come on back to
Missouri when we first heard the women was took, why Anderson's sister and
them others would be alive today."

     "Ethan, you can't say that for sure.  We don't know whether those women
would be alive or not.  But we do know that if we had come, some of us
wouldn't be.  The Yankees were laying a trap for us, you know that.  And if
Bill Anderson had had his way, we would have ridden right into it."

     "We been in tight spots before.  Seems to me like we coulda fought our
way through it.  Most especial' if we was lookin' for it, like we woulda
been," Ethan suggested, not wanting to give up his conviction.  "If we'd'a
just come on then."

     "Yes, and if a frog had wings, he wouldn't bump his ass every time he
jumps."

     Ethan laughed.  "if a frog had wings, he wouldn't bump his ass.  That's a
good one.  I'll have to 'member that one."

     Shortly after that, the main body rode up with Quantrill in the lead.
"What do you see?" Quantrill asked, swinging down from his horse and walking
out onto the promontory with Win and Ethan.

     "Nothing to worry about," Win answered easily.  He pointed down to the
road below.  "Just a couple of soldiers driving a wagon is all.  The only
thing we have to do is wait here for a moment or two, and they'll be gone."

     "Wait here, hell," Anderson snarled.  Slapping his legs against the sides
of his horse, he bolted ahead of the others and pushed his horse into a gallop
down the long slope toward the road.

     "Where's he going?" Win asked.

     "I expect he's goin' to kill the soldiers," Quantrill said calmly.

     "Why?  They aren't any danger to us."

     Quantrill spit out a stream of tobacco, then straightening back up, he
wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

     "We've all got our devils to fight, Mr. Coulter," Quantrill explained.
"You, of all people, should understand that, being as you want to go after
Emil Slaughter."

     Win thought of the man who was responsible for the death of his parents,
and who was still out there, mocking him by just being alive.  "Yes," he said.
"I guess I do understand that."

     They watched as Anderson, riding alone and bending forward in his saddle,
galloped toward the soldiers.  They saw Anderson draw his pistol, then point
it forward.

     For just a moment, the wagon continued on at its normal pace, the two
soldiers in it blissfully unaware of the danger they faced.  Then one of them,
hearing something or perhaps just sensing it, turned around to look behind
him.  That was when he saw Anderson bearing down on them.  Even from where he
was, Win could see the quick expression of shock and fear register on the
soldier's face.

     Urgently, the soldier punched the driver on the shoulder and the driver
looked around for just a moment as well, then turned back, quickly, to give
his attention to the team.  The driver slapped the reins against the horses,
and the horses, reluctantly it seemed, broke into a gallop.

     Anderson screamed out his rage at the two soldiers, his yell floating
back up the hill to Win.  From this distance it was thin and high-pitched,
like the call of a distant hawk.

     It quickly became obvious that the two Union soldiers had no weapons with
them.  Their only defense would be the speed of the team they were driving,
and since the team was encumbered by the heavy freight wagon, there was
pitifully little speed.

     Win watched as Anderson closed inexorably on the wagon.  From the gun in
Anderson's hand, there was a flash of fire and a puff of smoke.  The recoil of
the pistol made Anderson's hand jerk up, and a moment later the dull, flat
sound of a pistol shot rolled back up the hill to be heard by those who were
waiting and watching, like the audience of a macabre play.

     Anderson's first shot missed, but his second did not.  Even before the
sound of the second shot reached Win, the driver slumped forward, dropping the
reins as he did so.  Now the remaining soldier sat helplessly on the seat
beside the driver, a prisoner of events he could not command, as the runaway
team galloped in frenzy, no longer under control.  The surviving soldier stood
up, as if getting ready to leap from the wagon, just as Anderson fired again.
This bullet, too, found its mark, and the soldier tumbled backwards across the
seat to land belly-up in the wagon bed.

     Anderson put his pistol away and continued the chase.  It took but a few
more seconds to catch up with the team and when he did so, he leaned down to
grab their harnesses and pull them to a stop.

     "What's he doin' now?" Tate asked.

     Win turned away, because he knew what Anderson was about to do.  The
scalps of the two soldiers would soon join the scalps of the others that hung
from Anderson's bridle.

     Anderson collected his bloody scalps.  Then, with another loud shout, he
came galloping back toward the main body of men, holding the grisly trophies
out before him.

     "Here's two for my sister," Anderson said when he got back.

     "Anderson, them two boys prob'ly didn't have nothin' a'tall to do with
your sister gettin' kilt," Ethan said.  "They wasn't nothin' but a couple of
soldiers."

     "A couple of Yankee soldiers," Anderson corrected as he held up the
scalps.  "And now they are dead, which makes them good Yankee soldiers," he
added with a wild laugh.



     It was just before sunset when Quantrill, and his band rode,
unchallenged, into Blue Springs, Missouri.  At Quantrill's orders, all had
drawn their pistols and were prepared to fight, if challenged.  All eyes were
alert and all muscles tense as the riders entered the town.  They were ready,
but no one mounted a threat.  Then someone ran out to the edge of the street.

     "Hey, ever'one, it's Quantrill!" the citizen shouted.  "He's come back
from Texas!"

     Although Quantrill and several others swung their weapons in the
direction of the citizen who yelled, it quickly became evident that the man
represented no threat to them.  On the contrary, his shout was one of
greeting, and it was picked up by another, and by another still, until soon
much of the town had turned out to run and cheer alongside the men as they
rode into town.  Despite their readiness when they entered town, this was more
in keeping with the reception Quantrill had expected for, like Independence,
Blue Springs was strongly pro-Southern.  And, unlike Independence, Blue
Springs had no permanent Union garrison.

     Win thought they made quite a spectacle as they rode in, smartly lined up
in columns of fours, most wearing the glittering new uniforms they had picked
up in Texas.  Evidently the town did as well, for several young boys came out
into the street to run alongside the body of riders.  Then, as they moved
farther into the town, young women also joined the welcoming throng by
throwing flowers.

     Quantrill stopped his riders in front of the post office.  Here, the
Stars and Stripes floated from the top of the flagpole, and glancing up at it,
Quantrill ordered it hauled down.

     Two of Quantrill's men jumped down from their horses and quickly pulled
the flag down.  One of them attached the Stars and Bars to the lanyard, and
amidst cheers, rendered with equal enthusiasm by Raider and citizen alike, ran
the new flag up the pole.

     "Major Quantrill," a gray-haired, overweight man said stepping forward
from the crowd.  "On behalf of Blue Springs, sir, may I welcome you to our
city."

     "It is now Lieutenant Colonel Quantrill," Quantrill said, pointing to the
two small stars on his collar.  It was a self-appointed rank, attached to the
collar by the seamstress who had made Quantrill's new uniform for him.

     "I beg your pardon for my error, sir.  And I offer you my most sincere
congratulations on your promotion."

     "Who are you?" Quantrill asked.

     "My name is Botkin, sir.  J.C.  Botkin."

     "Are you the mayor?"

     "I am a businessman," Botkin explained.  "Our mayor is in jail in Kansas
City, placed there by the Yankees for refusing to sign a loyalty oath."
Botkin smiled.  "It is a token of our resistance to this unlawful order that
we would rather continue our town without a mayor, than to select one who
would give in to the Yankees' demands."

     "Well, good for the town," Quantrill said.  He swung down from his horse,
then tied it to the nearest hitching rail.  "And yet, the Union flag was
flying when we arrived."

     "It was," Botkin admitted.  "But our resistance can only extend so far,
and no farther.  The Yankees have ordered the Stars and Stripes to be flown
and thus it has.  We are grateful to you for pulling it down."

     "Wasn't hard to do," Quantrill said.  He nodded toward the flagpole.
"All we had to do was haul down the Yankee flag.  There are no soldiers here,
are there?"

     "No," Botkin said.  "That is, none who are billeted here.  Although they
do come through town frequently," he hastened to add.  "And, uh"--he coughed
to cover his selfconsciousness--"they left me responsible to see to it that
the Federal flag is treated with respect."

     Quantrill stroked his chin as he studied Botkin.  "Now, let me see if I
understand this," he said.  "They left you responsible for the flag?"

     "Oh, yes.  It is a most odious task, I agree.  But they were most
emphatic about what they would do to me if I disobeyed."

     Quantrill smiled.  "You aren't tryin' to tell me to put it back up, are
you?"

     "Oh, no, sir!  No, sir, not at all!" Botkin replied quickly.  "You see,
with you bein' the one that took it down, why there's nothin' anyone could
expect me to do.  What you have done is to let me off the hook, so to speak."

     "Burn it," Quantrill ordered the two who had taken the flag down.

     "You got it, Charley!" one of them answered with a wild giggle and, a
moment later, the flag was going up in flames.

     "It's good to have you back in Missouri, Maj ... uh, that is, Colonel
Quantrill.  We weren't sure when, or even if, you would be back.  Some
suggested that you had moved to Texas."

     "We were in Texas, but only temporarily," Quantrill confirmed.  He paused
for a moment, then continued.  "We were performing a needed service there by
providing defense against any Yankees who might attempt to attack Texas during
the absence of General Hood and his army."

     "And so now, your duty performed, you have returned to Missouri," Botkin
said.  "We are most pleased to have you with us once again."

     "We're tired and hungry, so with your permission I intend to confiscate
some grub and a few supplies," Quantrill said.  He laughed.  "In fact, I
intend to do it whether you give your permission or not."

     "But of course you have our permission, Colonel.  We are here for you!
All of us!" Botkin shouted.  "Take anything you want!"


                                      15


     With cheers, the raiders dismounted and began moving through the town,
surrounded by genuine well-wishers.

     "Me, for some whiskey," Joe said as he dismounted.  "You comin' along,
Win?"

     "Not just now," Win replied.  "The thirst I've got can't be slaked with
whiskey."  Joe, Tate, and Ethan laughed.

     "I know what you mean," Joe said.  "All right, you go about your business
... we'll go about ours."

     Tying off his horse, Win started down the alley behind the blacksmith
shop.  According to Tate's cousin, Boykin McGee, Belle Amberly had moved to
Blue Springs from Kansas City several weeks before.

     "After the storm, she had a real hard time of it in Kansas City," Boykin
told Win.  Boykin was one of those who had remained in Missouri, rejoining
them when they returned, and as a result was up on all the latest news and
gossip.  "There was talk about where she was while the storm was goin' on, and
how she managed to get out of the buildin' while all the other women had to
stay there," Boykin explained.  "Some folks thought that was just real
strange."

     "What do you think about it?" Win had asked.

     Boykin had already been told that Win had a special interest in Belle, so
he couched his answer.

     "Why, I don't think nothin' 'bout it, one way or the other," Boykin
answered.  "Like the Bible says, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged.'"

     According to Boykin, when Belle arrived in Blue Springs, she moved into a
house very similar to the one she had lived in back in Kansas City.  That
wasn't too unusual, for the tiny houses, called "cribs," were the most common
quarters for prostitutes.  And, because those who lived in cribs were not
accepted in polite society, the cribs were invariably located either in an
alley somewhere or at the outskirts of town.  Here, her house was in the alley
behind the blacksmith shop.  Win stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the
door.  "Belle!  Belle!  Open up!"

     Win waited for a moment, listening for any sound of life that might come
from within.  He knocked on the door again.

     "Belle Amberly, it's me, Win Coulter!"

     He waited for another long moment, listening without hearing anything.
Finally, with a sigh of disappointment, he turned to step down from the porch.
That was when he heard her.  He turned back toward the door as it opened.

     The apparition that greeted him from the other side of the door made him
gasp.

     "Win, it is you," a raspy voice said.  "I thought you were gone.  I
thought all of you were gone."

     It was Belle, the voice told him that.  But the beautiful, robust woman
he had known before he left for Texas was no longer there.  The woman standing
just inside the door of this tiny house was pale-skinned and as thin as a
rail.

     She also had on a nondescript dress, and her hair hung in a stringy mess,
a condition in which the Belle that Win knew would never allow herself to be
caught.  As if aware of Win's silent condemnation, Belle put her hand weakly
to her hair.  "I must look a mess," she said, understating the obvious.

     "I've seen you look better," Win admitted.

     Belle took a step back from her door.  "Won't you come in?" she invited.

     Win hesitated for a moment.  His first inclination was to turn around and
walk away, but he felt a sense of compassion for this woman who had once been
so young, so vital, and so beautiful.  "All right," he said.  "Thanks."

     Win followed Belle inside.  When he had been in her little house in
Kansas City, he had noticed that, though very tiny, it was kept spotlessly
clean.  She had also made her crib homey by little decorative touches here and
there.  But this house, like Belle, was a mess.  The bed was unmade and flower
vases either stood empty or displayed long-dead bouquets.

     "Do you, uh, want to do anything?" Belle asked, making a casual wave
toward the bed.

     "No," Win answered quickly.  "No, I just dropped by for a visit."

     "Are you sure?"  Belle tried to smile.  "There wouldn't be a charge.  Not
for you."

     "No, thanks," Win said.  "We've ridden a long way today, I ..."  Win
paused in mid-sentence.  He had come to her exactly because he did want to do
something.  But seeing Belle like this deflated his ardor.  "Belle, what the
hell happened to you?  Why are you"--he paused, then took a breath and went
on--"this house and you ..."  He couldn't finish the question, but it wasn't
necessary.  Belle knew what he was talking about.

     "I am sure, by now, that you have heard about what happened to the women
the Yankees were holding prisoner.  The 'Rebel women' as they were called."

     "Yes.  They were in a building that was destroyed by a storm."

     "They didn't have to keep us in that building," Belle insisted.  "They
had every opportunity to move us."

     "Us?  You were with them?"  He remembered that Boykin McGee had suggested
that she wasn't with them.

     "Yes," Belle answered quickly.  Then she paused and took a deep breath.
"No," she said.  Win looked confused.  "Yes?  No?  Which is it?"

     Belle made another futile attempt to brush her hair back before she
answered.

     "Just before the storm," she started in a hesitant, apologetic voice, "I
went to see Captain Parnell, to plead with him to move the women out of the
building where we were being confined.  I begged him to let us go somewhere
safe until the storm passed."  She stopped and ran her hand through her hair
again.  "He ... he put a price on my request.  He said he would do it, only if
I ..."  Again she paused, and Win could see how difficult it was for her to
tell the story.

     "You don't have to go on," he said, gently.  "I think I can guess what
the price was."

     Belle sighed.  "Yes, and so did the whole town.  I was, uh, doing things
for him, when the storm hit.  The building collapsed, and four women were
killed.  Somehow, everyone in Kansas City learned that I was having sex with
Captain Parnell during the storm.  They knew what I was doing, but they didn't
know why I was doing it.  They all think I did it to save myself."

     "But that isn't true," Win said.  "You were trying to save the others."

     "I know, but who do you think is going to believe that?  Except for Penny
Anderson and Maggie Depro, the women never wanted me anyway.  The other
prisoners, in fact, all the Southern sympathizers, were upset that no
difference was drawn in the minds of the army between them as Southern
patriots, and me, a whore.  I had nothing to do with that distinction, of
course, but they held it against me.  Now, add to that the fact that I was
spared while Penny and Maggie were killed by the cyclone, and I became the
most hated person in Kansas City.  I was even more hated than Captain Parnell
or General Ewing, and it was their orders which caused the deaths in the first
place."

     "I see.  They think you sold them out."

     "Yes," Belle said.  "The Southerners hated me because they believed I
betrayed their women.  And those who support the Union hate me because they
know I didn't.  And when you start from the fact that whores don't have that
many friends anyway, it left my social calendar pretty bare."  Belle laughed
weakly at her own joke.

     "I can see where it would be pretty bad for you," Win said
sympathetically.

     "It was so bad that I left Kansas City, and I moved here."

     With a wave of her hand, Belle took in the little crib and the town.
"It's funny.  I thought that here I could escape the hate.  But it hasn't
worked out that way.  The hate has followed me.  Only it's even worse here,
because there are no soldiers around.  That means that not only do I have no
friends, I don't even have any customers."

     "You still have one friend," Win said, putting his arms around her.

     "Oh, Win," Belle said, moving into his arms, then sobbing on his
shoulder.  "If only things could have been different.  If there wasn't a war,
if I weren't a whore, if we had met at a Sunday picnic ..."

     Win chuckled.  "You're describing a storybook world," he said.  He pulled
away from her far enough to look into her eyes.  "By the way, when is the last
time you had a decent meal?"

     "I ate something this morning."

     "I don't mean just eating.  I mean a real meal," Win said.

     "I ...  I don't know.  I don't pay much attention to that these days."

     "Well, it's time you started.  Brush your hair and get yourself into your
prettiest dress.  We're going out on the town."

     "Oh, Win, are you sure you want to be seen with me?  The people in this
town ..."

     "Can all go to hell," Win finished for her.



     The sign painted on the window advertised Lambert's Cafe as: "The finest
eating establishment west of the Mississippi River."  In fact, Win had eaten
here before, and he had eaten in other restaurants west of the Mississippi.
And, although Lambert's claim was a little exaggerated, as he recalled, the
meal was pretty good.

     Despite Lambert's grandiose advertisment, not one of Quantrill's men was
present when Win and Belle stepped inside.  That was because the various
saloons in town also served food, in addition to drink and occasional female
companionship.  And, for the recently returned Raiders, drinks and women were
enjoying a much higher priority than the quality of the food.

     Despite the absence of any of the Raiders, or perhaps because of it,
Lambert's was filled with diners from the town.  And, by their mode of dress,
Lambert's clientele represented the more affluent citizens of the community.
Their smug sense of security was upset when Win arrived.  The normal buzz of
conversation stopped as Win and Belle entered, and the faces of the diners
registered the chagrin at having their social haven invaded by such upstarts
as Win Coulter and Belle Amberly.

     A waiter hurried over to them, clearing his throat as he approached.

     "Sir, I'm sure you have made a mistake by coming into here," he said.  "I
believe you want the Yellow Dog Saloon, which is next door."

     "You serve food in here, don't you?"

     "Yes, but ..."

     "Then we're in the right place."

     "Waiter, ask them to leave," one well-dressed diner demanded.  "I would
prefer not to eat with a Raider and his whore."

     "Hear, hear," someone else said, and there was a general, though more
subdued, sense of agreement.

     Win walked over to the table where the diner sat with the overdressed,
overbejeweled, and overfed woman who was obviously his wife.

     "I beg your pardon, did you say you would rather not eat with us?" Win
asked.

     "I did indeed, sir," the diner answered stiffly.  "I find your presence,
and the presence of that woman who is with you, to be an affront against all
that is respectable."

     "Then I suggest you leave," Win said coldly.

     "I beg your pardon, sir," the diner said indignantly.  "Our meal has just
arrived."

     "Take it with you, or leave it on the table," Win said.  "But I want you
out of here.  Now."  The diner, who was a fat man with a walrus-type
moustache, sputtered a couple of times, then he stood up.  "Come, Cynthia," he
said.

     "You can't do that," one of the other diners complained to Win.  "You
can't just throw out a paying guest like that."

     "I can, and I did," Win said.  "You get out too."  He looked at all the
diners who had been following the sequence of events in shocked silence.  "As
a matter of fact I want all of you to get out.  My friend and I want some
privacy.  Get out, now!"

     For a moment the diners all looked at one another, as if unable to
believe what they were being ordered to do.  But one glance toward Win's hard
eyes was all the convincing they needed.  Quickly, and without one more
dissenting voice, they began to get up from their tables and file out.  But
not before the fat man with the walrus moustache took all the fried chicken
from his and his wife's plate and slipped it down into his jacket pocket.


                                      16


     Luke Hunter was standing at the bar of the Yellow Dog Saloon when some of
the men Win had run out of Lambert's Cafe came in.  They were still angry over
what had happened to them, and they were complaining loudly about it.

     "Who the hell does that fella think he is, running us out of the cafe
like that?  And in our own town!" one of the men said.  "I'll tell you this.
I thought about not leaving.  I had half a mind to call him down.  It was only
because I don't want to be a party to such boorish behavior that I didn't do
it."

     "Be glad you had only half a mind to do it.  Win Coulter is a killer,"
the other answered.  "And killers aren't people you want to challenge."

     "Well, he had no right, coming in there like that with that whore on his
arm, ordering everyone out."

     "She's the one I'm going to have a reckoning with," the other answered.
"The very idea of a whore being uppity enough to come into a decent place like
Lambert's.  Especially with a killer like that."

     "She will get her comeuppance once Quantrill and his men leave," the
first said.  "I can guarantee that."

     The two men had been standing at the bar by Hunter while they were
talking, but when a table opened up at the back of the room, they moved away
from the bar to take it.  Hunter watched them for a moment, then he slid his
glass across the bar to signal to the bartender that he wanted another drink.

     "You have any idea what them two are talking about?" Hunter asked.

     "I believe so, yes, sir," the bartender answered as he poured the
whiskey.  "Another gentleman came in a few moments ago with the story.  It
seems that Win Coulter, one of your compatriots, I believe, went into the
restaurant and ordered all the diners to leave."

     "They said somethin' about a woman with him."

     "Yes, that would be Belle Amberly, I believe.  She is a ..."

     "I know who Belle Amberly is," Hunter interrupted.

     The bartender studied Hunter for a moment.  "Yes," he said.  "I'm sure
someone like you would know her."

     Hunter started to have his glass refilled, but he decided to buy an
entire bottle instead.  Then, with the bottle in hand, he went outside,
crossed the street, and sat on the porch of a darkened building to drink and
to keep his eye on Lambert's Cafe.

     The sounds of revelry floated up the dark street toward him as the others
in Quantrill's band celebrated their return to Missouri.  He could hear a
piano.  A woman's high-pitched laughter penetrated the night.

     A man cursed loudly.

     A horse and rider came down the middle of the street, the hoofbeats
sounding unusually loud in the dark.  Luke continued to drink, feeling the
warming and somewhat numbing effect of the whiskey as it spread through him.

     Finally a man and woman came out of Lambert's and Hunter stepped back
into the dark so that he could watch without himself being seen.

     Win and Belle moved down the walk on their side of the street, passing
now and then through the squares of light that splashed out onto the street
from the buildings they passed, so that sometimes they were illuminated,
sometimes they were not.

     Hunter followed them, staying always in the shadows on his side of the
street.  He watched them go down the alley behind the blacksmith shop, then he
moved quickly and silently across the street to get into position to see them.

     Standing in the shadow of the cave of the blacksmith shop, he watched
them go inside.  Then, because he knew what was going to happen inside, he got
an erection.  He reached down to feel himself.



     "Win," Belle said.  "I can't remember when I have ever had a better
evening.  Thank you for taking me to dinner."

     "We could make the evening even more complete if you are interested," Win
suggested.

     "More complete?"

     Win nodded toward the bed.  "You made an offer earlier tonight.  Does
that offer still stand?"

     "You know it does," she said.  "But I thought you didn't ... that is,
when I offered earlier, you turned me down.  I thought you didn't want me."

     "Not true," Win answered.  "I just didn't want to take advantage of you."

     What Win didn't say was that cleaned up, with her hair done and with the
awful look of hunger assuaged, Belle was much more attractive now than she had
been earlier.

     "I wouldn't consider it taking advantage of me.  I would consider it
succumbing to my seduction," Belle said, and the genuine smile she flashed him
did wonders for her.  She was almost the same woman he had met on the
stagecoach the year before.  "And it makes me happy to know that I still have
some seductive powers remaining."

     "Some?  Honey, I've got a hard-on now that could drive nails," Win said.

     "Well, then we will just have to see what we can do about that, won't
we?" Belle replied.  She lit a candle, then turned toward him to begin
undressing, doing it slowly and teasingly.  As she slipped out of her dress,
Win saw that she had lost none of her appeal.  Somehow, even the somewhat
smaller breasts made her more attractive.

     "Well?" she asked, holding her arms out invitingly.  "Are you going to
just stand there?  Or are you going to get naked too?"

     "Well, now, I reckon I just got caught up in the watching," Win replied.
"I guess now I'd better get naked too."

     There was no subtlety to Win's getting out of his clothes.  A tug here
and a yank there, and he was standing in the golden glow of the candlelight as
naked as was Belle herself.

     Belle stepped over to her bed, then knelt on it so that her small round
breasts were at Win's eye level.  She shivered as Win's fingers traced the rim
of the globes, then she sighed as his lips touched first one then the other
nipple with kisses.  With each kiss he let his tongue circle the nipple as his
hands kneaded the pliant breasts.

     I 'It's just as I remembered it," Belle whispered, writhing and moaning.
"I knew it would be like this with you again."  She let herself fall backwards
as his mouth continued to move from nipple to nipple, inducing each of them
into stone hardness.

     Win moved his tongue to the area between her breasts, then down across
her stomach where it lingered for a moment to make patterns on her belly,
before it was drawn to the musky aroma of her forest.  It tickled, but he
probed the bush with his tongue until it slid through the slackened nether
lips to the little quivering button inside.  He began to massage that
sensitive piece of flesh with his tongue and lips, telegraphing jolts of
pleasure throughout her body.

     Win used his mouth and tongue as Belle writhed in pleasure, the palms of
her hands circling her own nipples to keep them taut.

     "You," she said, pulling on him.  "I want you."

     Win raised up to look at her.  Her hair was fanned on the pillow, and her
eyes were smoldering with the knowledge of what was to come.

     "Put it in me," Belle said.  "Let me feel it ... all of it!"

     Win felt himself slip into the moist box as her pelvic muscles tightened
and relaxed and tightened again.  Belle was practiced in the art of making
love and, as he entered her, she squeezed herself down on inch after swollen
inch to produce greater sensations.

     "All of it!" she panted, clasping tightly on his butt cheeks.  She cooed
a rhythm into his ear and moved her body so that he would match it.  If she
was an artist, Win was her canvas as together they stoked the sexual inferno.

     Belle nearly bit off his earlobe as she rose to a shuddering climax, then
she kissed him passionately to bring him along with her.  Her hands kneaded
his shoulders and back until his lean form quivered in convulsive orgasm as he
spent himself in her.

     Win collapsed across her, breathing hard for a few moments before,
finally, he rolled to one side.

     "Oh," Belle said breathily.  "If I died now, I would die a happy woman.
That was wonderful!"

     Laughing, Win sat up and began putting on his clothes.

     "Well, let's don't be planning on dying anytime soon.  But this would be
a good time for me to go," he said.  "That way, I can leave you happy."

     "No," Belle said.  "Don't leave me.  Stay here."

     "Belle, you know I can't do that."

     "I don't mean stay with me forever.  I mean, stay the night with me.
Just tonight.  You have to have some place to sleep, don't you?"

     "I'm tempted," Win said smiling.  "But I need to get back with the
others.  You never know what Quantrill is going to do.  He could pull out in
the middle of the night and leave me here."

     "Would that be so bad?"

     Win put his hand on Belle's cheek.  "During ordinary times, no, it
wouldn't be bad at all," he said.  "But I am a Raider, Belle.  The Yankees
would like nothing better than to catch me alone."

     "I understand," Belle said reluctantly.  "Win, will you come see me
again?"

     "Sure," Win said.

     "Promise?"

     "I promise."

     Belle slipped into a thin wrapper, then walked to the door with Win,
where she kissed him goodbye.

     "Thanks for coming to see me," she said as he stepped off the little
porch and out into the night.  "You'll never know how much I needed that."

     "Good night, Belle," Win tossed back over his shoulder.



     Win found Joe in the Catawba Tavern, one of the saloons which graced the
streets of Blue Springs.  Joe and Cole Younger were engaged in a arm-wrestling
contest, and there was a crowd gathered around the table to watch.

     Both Joe and Cole were big, powerful men and the veins in their forearms
bulged and their muscles flexed as they pushed and strained against each
other.  "Get 'im Joe, get 'im!" someone called.  "Come on, Cole, you can do
it!" another exhorted.

     The rooting wasn't based upon personal favorites, for both Joe and Cole
had easy outgoing personalities that had won them many friends.  They were, in
fact, good friends of each other.  The rooting was grounded upon more
compelling reasons, that of greed.  Several dollars had been wagered upon the
outcome of this particular event, and the men held bills clasped in their
fists as they urged their champion on.

     "Hi, Win," Joe said, his voice straining from the effort.  "You got here
just in time to watch me teach Cole a lesson."

     "Ha!" Cole responded, his voice showing as much strain as Joe's.  "Wait
until I tie your arm in a knot, then we'll see who is the teacher and who is
the pupil."

     "Yeah, well, it doesn't matter to me," Win said easily.  "I'm going to
have myself a beer."

     "it should matter to you, Win," Joe said.  His arm was beginning to give
way, and he had to put on a super effort to hold it short of going all the way
down.

     "Why?  Because you are my brother?" Win teased.

     "No," Joe replied.  "Because I bet one hundred dollars that I could beat
Cole."

     "Little brother, that sounds like your problem to me."

     "Yours too," Joe wheezed.  Now his arm was nearly horizontal.  "Fifty
dollars of it is your money."

     "What?" Win asked.  It was at that precise moment that Cole won the
match, putting Joe's arm all the way to the table, followed by an outbreak of
cheers from those who had bet on him.

     "Got you!" Cole shouted triumphantly.

     "Shit!" Win shouted.  "There goes my fifty bucks!"

     Joe rubbed his shoulder as he smiled across the table at Cole.  "I have
to give you credit," he said.  "You beat me fair and square."

     "It's about time I won one," Cole replied, raking in his money.  "I've
lost the last three to you."

     "Yeah," Win said disgustedly.  "Well, he fought harder then, because it
was his money he was losing.  This time it was my money."

     "Only fifty dollars of it was yours," Joe said.  "And I thought I would
beat him."


                                      17


     When Belle heard someone step up onto the front porch, she thought it
must be Win coming back to spend the night with her after all.  With a happy
smile she jerked open the door.  As soon as she saw who it was, however, the
smile left her face.

     "What are you doing here?"

     "I came by for a little pleasure," her visitor said, laying a finger
alongside his thin nose.

     "I'm not in the business anymore," Belle said.

     Her visitor snorted.  "That's bullshit.  Once you're in the business,
you're always in the business.  At least, as long as someone is willing to
pay."

     "As I recall from our last visit, you weren't all that willing to pay,"
Belle said.

     The visitor held out a twenty dollar gold piece.  "It's been a long dry
spell for me.  I'm willing to pay now."

     "Twenty dollars?" Belle asked in disbelief.  "You're willing to pay
twenty dollars to go to bed with me?"

     "Yes.  That is, if you think you can show me twenty dollars worth of
pleasure."  Belle smiled, a practiced, seductive smile, and she put her hand
down to the front of his pants to grab him.

     "Honey," she said, pulling him into her little house.  "I can show you
pleasure like you've only dreamed of."

     Once inside, Belle's visitor slammed the door behind him.  Then he
grabbed her shoulder and spun her around toward him.

     "Honey, don't be so impatient," Belle said, trying to make a joke of it.

     "Shut up, bitch!" the man said, slapping her so hard that she tasted
blood in her mouth.

     "No, what ...?"  Belle started to scream, but it was cut off when he put
his hand across her mouth.

     "I know all about you, missy.  I know how you screwed your way out of
jail to save your own skin."

     Belle shook her head no, and tried to speak, to tell him that it wasn't
so.  But his hand cut off not only her scream but any words she might say as
well.

     "Well, now you're going to screw me," he rasped, pushing her back against
the bed.  She felt the side of the bed against the back of her legs, then,
instantly it seemed, she was on her back and he was on top of her.

     Belle tried to speak, to reason with him, but his hand stayed so securely
over her mouth that only a few squeaks could emerge.  She looked into his cold
beady eyes and had the mental image of a giant rat.  She was being raped by a
giant rat, and she nearly passed out in revulsion.

     She wished she could pass out, for next, the rapist spread her legs, then
thrust himself into her.  And the action that had brought her pleasure only a
short while earlier in the evening, now brought her pain.  Calling upon all
her powers, Belle forced herself to relax, to quit fighting against it so that
the pain would subside.

     The rat grunted over her, and his breath came in raspy wheezes as he
thrust into her.  Finally, she felt him stiffen, and she gave a sigh of relief
that it would soon be over.  Then she felt something else, a sharp, pricking
sensation just beneath her left breast.  The pricking sensation suddenly
erupted into a white-hot pain, more intense than anything she had ever felt
before.  She felt an unfamiliar pressure inside her chest, then as he raised
up from her, she saw him pull back a bloody knife.  Her eyes grew wide in
horror, and, as his hand was now removed from her mouth, she tried to scream.
Despite her best efforts, the scream emerged only as a rattle.

     "Ssshhh, hush, now," the rat said, laying his finger across his thin
lips.  "Be a good girl, and die quietly."



     "If you're upset with me, big brother, I'll pay you back soon as I get
some more money," Joe promised.

     Win laughed, then punched his brother on the shoulder.  "Ahh, don't worry
about it.  I seem to recall losing a few dollars of yours once or twice in a
poker game."

     "Yeah.  Yeah, that's right, you did, didn't you?" Joe said.  "Damn!  I
still haven't forgiven you for that time over in Liberty.  I had me a whore
all lined up when you came to get my money."

     Win, Cole, and several others laughed, as suddenly someone burst
excitedly through the front door.  "Fire!" the intruder shouted, running into
the saloon.  "Hey, ever'body, they's a house a'fire!"

     "Where?"  Several started toward the door.

     "Behind the blacksmith shop!"

     "Behind the blacksmith shop?  Is it Belle Amberly's house?" Win asked.

     "Yes, it's the whore's house!"

     "Joe, come on!" Win shouted, starting toward the door.  "We've got to get
over there!"

     Not only Joe, but everyone in the saloon jumped into action as they
rushed outside then down the street where, behind the blacksmith shop, they
could see sparks and billowing smoke climbing into the night sky.  The walls
of the blacksmith shop, as well as the building next to it, glowed orange in
the reflection of the flames.

     From the far end of the street a clanging bell signaled the approach of
the fire wagon.  A team of horses brought the apparatus at a gallop, while
from all over town volunteer firemen were converging on the scene, carrying
buckets and axes.

     "Get some water on those two buildings!" someone shouted, pointing to the
blacksmith shop and its neighbor.  "Never mind about the house!  It's too
late!"

     "Belle!" Win shouted.  "Where's Belle?"

     Win ran up the narrow alley between the two buildings, toward Belle's
house.  By now, however, the house was totally immersed in flames, and the
heat was so intense that Win was forced to stop several feet away.  He held
his arms up in front of him, shielding his face from the intense radiated
heat.  "Has anyone seen Belle?" he asked.  There was no answer.  "Belle!" Win
shouted again.  "Has anyone seen her?"

     "I been watchin' that fire nearly since it started, and ain't nobody come
out," someone said.

     "Belle!" Win shouted at the top of his voice.

     "Maybe she wasn't in there," Joe suggested.

     Win shook his head sadly.  "She was in there," he said.  "I just left
her.  I shouldn't have.  She begged me to stay the night with her.  My God, if
I had been here ..."

     Win's lament was interrupted by the collapse of the roof over the front
porch.  When it fell, flames shot up farther.  Then, with a whoosh, the roof
of the house itself fell in.  That was followed by the walls tumbling in,
until there was nothing left of Belle's little house but a fiercely blazing
bonfire.

     In the shadows, some distance away, Luke Hunter sat drinking his whiskey
and watching, silently.



     Quantrill and his men left Blue Springs the next morning.  A subdued Win
went with them.

     "She begged me to stay with her," Win said to his brother, as the two men
rode together.  "She begged me, but I said no."

     "That fire wasn't your fault," Joe said, trying to ease the guilt he knew
his brother felt.  "Folks are saying that a spark must've flown back there
from the blacksmith's forge."

     "Maybe I didn't start the fire," Win said.  "But if I had stayed with
her, it wouldn't have happened."

     "Or, it might have happened just the way it did, and both of you would
have been killed," Joe suggested.

     "No.  I would have been able to do something," Win said.  "I know I
would."

     THAT NIGHT QUANTRILL CALLED HIS MEN TOGETHER.  His band was larger now
than it had been while he was down in Texas, larger even than it had been when
he left Blue Springs this morning.  That was because word had gone out that he
was back, and he was rejoined by those who had not made the trip south.

     Quantrill climbed up onto a rock and stood in the wavering light of the
campfire to address his men.  Sparks from the fire climbed high into the night
sky, joining the little red stars with the blue ones that already peppered the
vault above them.

     "Men," Quantrill said.  "I don't have to remind you of what happened
here, while we were gone.  You know about General Ewing's orders and our
women."

     "Yeah," someone said.

     "And you know how he sent soldiers out, armed men to terrorize and round
up innocent women, for no more reason than that they were our loved ones."

     "Yeah!"  the response was louder this time.

     Quantrill's voice also grew louder.  "And you know how those murderous
bastards," he said, pointing in the general direction of Kansas City, "those
sorry sons of bitches murdered our women, by leaving them in an unsafe
building during a cyclone!"

     "Yeah!"  Now the response was shouted by scores of Raiders.

     Quantrill's voice dropped, as he played his audience.

     "I know that there are some among you who questioned my decision not to
come to their rescue, when we first learned of the situation."

     There was reaction to this statement as well, but it was a subdued
mumbling, as opposed to the earlier shouts.

     "Believe me," Quantrill went on.  "There is nobody here ..."  He looked
directly at Bill Anderson before he went on.  "No one," he repeated
emphatically, "who wanted to come back worse than I did."

     Quantrill paused for a moment, to let his words sink in.

     "But," he continued, raising his index finger to the heavens.  "I knew
that the Yankees were lying in wait for us.  They took our women for bait and
they wanted us to take the bait, the way a mouse will try and snatch cheese
from a trap.  The mouse is always caught.  And, if we had taken the bait the
Yankees set for us, we would have been caught too.  That means the women would
have remained their prisoners, and they would have died in the storm, just as
they did.  The only difference is, some of you, many of you, would be dead as
well."

     "It would've been worth the chance!" someone yelled.

     "No," Quantrill replied, holding up his hands to quiet them.  "No, it
would not have been worth the chance.  If we had tried and failed, if we had
allowed our band to be cut up in a futile attempt, then we would not be able
to do what we are going to do now."

     "What are we going to do now?" someone asked.

     "We are going to pick us a town ... in Kansas, where we know that
everyone is a Yankee," Quantrill said.  He paused for a moment, then he took a
deep breath and literally shouted out the next line.

     "And we are going to have our revenge!"

     Quantrill's words were met with a deep-throated cheer from the men, so
loud that it reverberated back from the nearby hills.

     "As far as I am concerned," Quantrill went on with a snarl, "what those
Yankee bastards did proves we are fighting against hypocrites.  They raise
hell about our outlaw ways, but have we ever harmed any of their women or
children?"

     "No!" the men shouted.

     "Did we ever round up all their women and put them in a deathtrap
building, then collapse it on them?"

     "No!"

     "Well, by God, the Yankees did!" Quantrill shouted.  He pointed to Bloody
Bill Anderson who was still grieving over the loss of his sister.  "Ask Bill
how he feels about the Yankees right now."

     "I'll tell you how I feel," Anderson shouted back.  "I feel like riding
into Kansas City right now and killing every goddamned one of them!"

     "We can't kill ever'one in Kansas City, Bill," Cole Younger said.  "Some
of us got kinfolk there.  Not ever'one in Kansas City is a damn Yankee."

     "Cole is right," Quantrill agreed.  "Not everyone in Kansas City is a
Yankee."  He smiled.  "But everyone in Lawrence is."

     "Where is Lawrence?"

     "It's in Kansas, about forty miles on the other side of the border,"
Quantrill answered.  "It's got a nice fat bank, several rich stores, and it is
all Yankee.  And, get this," he added, looking over at Win and Joe.  "Lawrence
is where Emil Slaughter lives."

     "Slaughter lives in Lawrence?" Win asked.

     Quantrill nodded.  "I just found out," he said.  "What do you have to say
about that?"

     Win climbed up onto the rock beside Quantrill then looked out over the
faces of the men who were gathered.  "I say that anyone who finds him had
better not harm a hair on his head.  That son of a bitch belongs to me!" he
shouted.

     The men replied with a loud cheer.

     "What do you say, men?" Quantrill shouted.  "Do we go to Lawrence?"

     "Hell!"  Anderson shouted.  "Let's do it!"

     "Yahoo!" Jesse James shouted, and he took a shot at a nearby tree.  That
opened up a fusillade of shooting, and for the next few minutes it sounded as
if a battle were under way as the Raiders, whooping and hollering, banged away
at the tree, from which chips of bark began to fly.


                                      18


     The long column of horsemen, riding in rows of fours, snaked its way
across the Kansas plains under a star-filled but moonless night sky.  Win and
Joe were near the head of the column and when Win turned to look at the men
following along behind them, it looked like a monstrous snake, creeping down
upon its prey.

     "Win," Joe said after they had ridden for several miles in silence.  "You
still thinkin' about Belle?"

     Win sighed.  "I reckon not," he replied.  "You're right.  I'm not the
cause of it.  But I sure am wondering why she didn't just run out of there
when the fire started."

     "Hell," Luke Hunter said, barging uninvited into the conversation.  "They
found her on the bed, didn't they?  She was prob'ly asleep and never knew what
was goin' on until it was too late.  I mean, if them sparks fell on the roof
and started burning up there, why the whole house would've been on fire by the
time she woke up."

     "But why was she still in bed?"

     "What do you mean, why was she on the bed?  Beds is where most folks
sleep," Hunter replied.

     "Even if she had been asleep when the fire started, she must've awakened.
And if she woke up, why didn't she get out of bed?  I can understand that she
might not make it out of the house, but I can't understand her just lying in
bed, waiting to die."

     "You know what I've been wondering about?" Joe asked.

     "What's that?"

     "How did the sparks get out of the blacksmith's forge and onto the roof
of Belle's house without setting the blacksmith's shop on fire?"

     "Yeah, I've been wondering about that too," Win said.  "Besides which,
the blacksmith swears that he left his forge cold."

     "He was just saying that to shift the blame away from himself," Hunter
pointed out.  "Don't forget, they found coals in his forge."

     "Yeah, but that's another thing.  He says the coals weren't the way he
normally laid his fire.  And the man that works for him says the same thing."

     "What are you saying, Win?  That someone just made it look like sparks
from the blacksmith shop caused the fire?" Joe asked.

     Win nodded.  "If someone deliberately set the fire, that would answer a
few questions, wouldn't it?" he said.

     "Like what?" Hunter asked.

     "Like why she didn't get out of bed when the fire started," Win said.

     "You mean you think she might've already been dead?" Joe asked.

     "That's what I'm thinkin'," Win said.

     "But, who would do a thing like that?  What reason would they have for
killing her?" Joe asked.  "You said yourself she had fallen on hard times,
that she didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of."

     "That's where I'm stumped," Win replied.  "She wasn't very popular,
that's for sure.  But she'd been there for several weeks without anything like
that happening.  Why now?"

     "Maybe it's your fault," Hunter suggested.

     "What do you mean?" Joe asked, bristling at the suggestion that his
brother was at fault.

     "She was a whore, remember?  Only your brother took her into a restaurant
and shoved her down ever'one's throat."  He chuckled, insensitively.  "That
couldn't have set too well with the good people of the town."

     "Watch what you're saying, you son of a bitch, or I'll ..." Joe started,
but Win stuck out his hand to interrupt him.

     "No, Joe, hold it," Win said morosely.  "I don't like to admit it, but
Hunter may be right.  Belle could very well be dead because of me."

     "Yeah, well, even if that's true ... which I don't believe, by the way
... he doesn't have to shove it in your face," Joe said.  He glared at Hunter
with such intensity that Hunter shrugged, then moved on back along the column
to get away from the Coulter brothers.

     "You know something, Win?" Joe said.  "You should have killed that son of
a bitch when you threw down on him, back in Texas."

     "Little brother, that thought has crossed my mind," Win admitted.



     The men rode all through the rest of the night.  Then, just before dawn,
Quantrill held up his hand, stopping the long column on the top of a hill
about a quarter of a mile out of town.  They sat quietly for a moment,
studying their objective.  Here and there in the little town before them,
golden patches of light shined from the dark houses, indicating those who were
early risers.  The smell of frying bacon drifted up the hill toward the men.
Some roosters crowed.

     They could hear the yap of a dog.

     A door slammed, and they saw a man walking toward the outhouse, fitting
his galluses over his shoulders as he hurried across the backyard.  A mule
brayed.

     "Look at that," Quantrill said.  "They don't have the slightest idea that
we are here."

     "I don't know, Chief," Hunter said.

     "What do you mean, you don't know?" Quantrill replied, without looking
back at him.  Quantrill had not taken his eyes off the town from the moment
they had arrived.

     "Don't forget, we been on the trail for two days now.  Could be someone
seen us and sent word back to these folks that we're comin'."

     "Take a look.  Does it look like they're waiting for us?" Quantrill
asked.

     "No," Hunter replied.  "But, if it was a trap, if they was plannin' an
ambush, they wouldn't be dumb enough to let us see 'em.  Maybe you'd better
let me ride in and have a look around first, just to make sure everything is
all right."

     "We have come this far to attack Lawrence," Quantrill said.  "And, by
God, that's exactly what we are going to do."

     Without further discussion, Quantrill drew his revolver, spurred his
horse into a gallop, and started down the hill.

     "Charge!" he shouted at the top of his voice.

     Quantrill's abrupt move galvanized the others into action, and as one,
the entire column, including Luke Hunter, had no choice but to go with him.
They thundered, four hundred riders strong, down the hill then onto the main
street of Lawrence.

     "Kill!  Kill!" Quantrill was shouting as the horses pounded into town.
"Lawrence must be cleansed, and the only way to cleanse it is to kill!  Kill!"

     At the house nearest the extreme edge of the town, a man was just sliding
a bucket into place for the morning milking.  He grabbed the cow's teats and
started to pull when he was startled by the sudden appearance of a column of
men.  As Lawrence was too far from Missouri to have ever been involved in any
of the frequent border clashes, Confederate guerrillas were the last thing on
the man's mind.  More in curiosity than fear, he stood up.  One of the riders
closest to him fired, and his bullet crashed into the milker's forehead,
slamming him back, overturning the milk stool and splattering his blood on the
freshly turned straw.

     The hooves of four hundred galloping horses raised a thunder as Quantrill
led his men on into the heart of Lawrence.  The riders fired their guns
indiscriminately and screeched like demons from hell, waking even the deepest
sleepers.  Several of the town's citizens, many still in their nightshirts,
stepped into the front doors of their homes to see what was going on.  It was
a foolish move on their parts, for the moment they stuck their heads through
their front doors, they were shot down, not by one bullet, but by fifteen or
twenty bullets.

     Lawrence was the home billet of a small detachment of Union soldiers,
most of whom were awaiting orders to join the Army in the East, none of whom
had ever seen battle.  A makeshift army camp had been created right in the
middle of the town, where, on Main Street, the soldiers had pitched their
tents.

     Seasoned soldiers would have reacted quickly to unexplained gunfire by
perceiving it as a possible threat to them, and they would have had their
weapons at the ready.  But these weren't seasoned soldiers.  They were green
troops who had never been any closer to the war than the thrilling stories
they read in the newspapers, and to them, gunshots at the edge of town were no
more than a curiosity.  They were still drowsy from sleep and just crawling
out of their tents when Quantrill and his men suddenly appeared on top of
them.

     Thinking it might be a detachment of their own cavalry, the soldiers
watched Quantrill and his galloping riders with excitement.

     "Yankee soldiers!" one of Quantrill's riders shouted, noticing the young
men in blue.  "Kill them!  Kill them!"

     Several of the riders broke free of the column then started toward the
just-waking soldiers.  When the boys in blue realized that the wild-eyed
riders coming toward them had hostile intent, they turned and tried to run.
Some were clubbed down, some were killed by saber thrusts, some were shot, and
others were trampled under the pounding hooves of the horses.  Only a few
managed to escape.

     When they reached the front of the Lawrence Hotel, which was the most
imposing building in town, Quantrill held up his hand, signalling a halt.
Four hundred men, all brandishing guns, and mounted on steeds that were
breathing hard and sweating foam from their morning gallop, filled the street.
It was such a sight that, despite the danger, several townspeople were drawn
to the scene to satisfy their curiosity.

     One of the townspeople recognized one of the riders, and he called out to
him.  "Luke Hunter!  Luke, is that you, riding with these men?"

     Hearing his name called, Hunter, who was in the front rank, looked toward
the man who was hailing him.

     "I can't believe that you, of all people, are riding with Rebels," the
man said.  "Last time I heard about you, you was ..."

     A gunshot stopped the man in mid-sentence, and a spray of blood formed a
halo of pink mist around the man's head as he tumbled back, dead, even before
he hit the ground.  Win saw the man go down, then he turned and saw that
Hunter was pointing his pistol toward him.  Smoke was curling up from the end
of the barrel of Hunter's pistol.

     "What the hell did you shoot him for?" Win asked.

     "Goddamnit, we're shooting everyone, aren't we?" Hunter replied.  "And
the son of a bitch was shouting my name out all over the place."

     "He seemed to know you.  Makes a body wonder what he was going to say,"
Win said.

     "Hell," Cole Younger said, laughing.  "Whatever it was, it wasn't going
to be good.  There ain't anyone who knows Luke Hunter can say somethin' good
about him."

     Those who were close enough to hear what was being said, laughed, and
even Hunter seemed to enjoy the joke told at his expense.

     At that moment a frightened, dignified-looking man appeared at the front
door of the hotel.  He had taken the trouble to dress fully, and he was still
fastening the buttons of his vest as he stepped out onto the hotel porch.  He
looked at Quantrill and those with him, then he glanced down the street where,
already, several people were gathering around the half dozen or more bodies
the Raiders had killed during their wild entrance.

     "Sir, may I enquire as to who you are?" the well-dressed man asked.

     Quantrill smiled, and looked at those around him.  "He's a polite little
son of a bitch, isn't he?" he asked.

     His riders laughed.

     "I am William Clarke Quantrill, Lieutenant Colonel, Confederate States
Army," Quantrill said pointedly.  The man gasped and turned pale.  "My God!
Quantrill!"

     "Well, it looks like he's heard of us," Quantrill said to his men.  Then,
turning back to the well-dressed man.  "Who are you?"

     "My name is Mr. Jones, sir, and I am the concierge of this hotel," the
man answered.

     "Concierge.  Does that mean you are in charge?" Quantrill asked.

     "It does, sir," Jones answered.

     "Well, Mr. Jones, I want you to bring breakfast," Quantrill ordered.

     Jones looked around.  "Good Lord, sir?  To all of you?" he asked.

     "No, just to me," Quantrill said.  "I'm sure the others can find
breakfast for themselves."

     "Very good, sir," the concierge stammered.  "What do you want for your
breakfast?"

     "Eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, ham, whatever you have.  I want the best
you have, and I want plenty of it!" Quantrill ordered with an impatient wave
of his hand.

     "Yes, sir, I'll get on it right away."

     Quantrill stood in the stirrups and shouted out to his men.  "All right,
you men, you are on your own for breakfast.  Get it from the citizens of town.
If anyone refuses, kill them.  Then I want you to bring in everything of
value: money, jewels, anything we can carry with us, to me, here in the hotel.
After we've cleaned everyone out, burn the town.  From now on, whenever
someone says the name Quantrill, I want them to say it with fear."

     "You don't think the people of this town are just going to stand around
and let you burn their town, do you?" one of the nearby citizens shouted up at
him.

     Archie Clement was the closest to the challenging citizen, and he shot
him down from nearly point-blank range.  The others looked on in horror for
just a moment, then even the bravest ran so that, very quickly, the street was
cleared of all the townspeople.

     "Bill, you want to come in and have breakfast with us?  Or you want to
take care of business out here?"

     An evil grin spread across Bill Anderson's face.  "I can eat anytime," he
said.  "I'd rather take care of business."

     "All right," Quantrill replied.  "You know what to do."

     "You men," Anderson shouted.  "Spread out into small groups and start
riding up and down the streets of this town.  Leave the women alone, but kill
any man you see who is old enough to carry a gun."

     "What if he ain't carryin' one?" someone asked.  "You want him killed
anyway?"

     "Look around you," Anderson said.  "Do you see anyone outside now?  There
ain't no one goin' to come out, 'lessen they're up to no good?" Anderson
asked.

     "I guess you have a point."

     "Damn right I've got a point.  Coulter, I want you and ...!"

     "Don't bother giving me any orders, Anderson," Win interrupted.  "If Emil
Slaughter is anywhere in this town, I'm going to find him and kill him.  And I
don't aim to be put off by you or anyone else."

     Anderson glared at Win for a moment, then looked over at Quantrill, as if
seeking support for his order.

     "Leave the Coulter boys out of it, Bill," Quantrill said.  "They'll be
busy enough."

     "Thanks, Charley," Win said.  "Come on, little brother, let's get busy."

     "Where do we start?" Joe asked.  He waved his hand.  "I mean, he could be
anywhere in this town."

     Win halted for a moment, pondering Joe's question.

     Then he saw something that made him smile.  "What if we started there?"
he asked, pointing to the newspaper office.

     Because it was still early in the morning, the newspaper office, like
most of the other business establishments in town, was closed.  Win opened it
the same way the other Raiders were opening the other businesses.  By kicking
in the door.  Once inside, he stood for a moment, looking around to get his
bearings.  On the other side of a counter, in the back of the room, a
Washington Hand press loomed large in the shadows, while along one wall there
were boxes upon boxes of lead type.  "Damn," Joe said.  "Look at all this
stuff.  I don't even know what I'm lookin' at, let alone what we are supposed
to be lookin' for."

     Suddenly Win smiled.  "We're looking for that," he said, pointing to a
ledger book.  On the outside of the book was the word Subscriptions.  Win
opened the book and started leafing through the pages until he came to the
letter S.  Then he ran his finger down the list of names.  "Here it is," he
said.  "Emil Slaughter, two-one-five Third Street."  He slammed the ledger
shut and started back toward the front door which was now hanging at a crooked
angle by only one hinge.  Outside they could hear the bang of gunshots,
sometimes singly, sometimes in clusters so that the rhythm of the shooting was
somewhat like corn being popped in a pan.  They could also smell smoke, and
when Win and Joe went back into the street they could see that several
buildings had already been set ablaze.  Just as they reached Third Street,
someone with a rifle appeared on the roof of one of the houses.  The rifleman
fired and his bullet whined by Win's ear, kicked up dirt from the ground
behind him, then skipped away erratically.  Win returned fire.  His bullet
found its mark and the shooter dropped his rifle and grabbed his chest.  The
rifle bounced down the shake roof of the house, then fell to the ground,
followed by the man who slid along behind it, facedown, before tumbling over
the edge to land face-up on the ground below.

     The smoke from all the burning buildings was getting thicker.

     "Looks like we've set fire to a lot of houses here," Joe observed.

     "We're just giving it back to them," Win said.  "The way I plan to give
it back to Slaughter."

     "We going to burn his house?"

     "Yes."

     "What if he is married?"

     "Ma and pa were married," Win said, bitterly.  "That didn't stop him from
burning our house."

     "Yeah, but he did it, not his wife.  And what if he has kids?" Joe asked.

     "Any woman that would marry a son of a bitch like Emil Slaughter has to
be as mean as he is.  And any kids he might have will grow up to be just like
him."

     Joe looked at Win in shock.  "Win, we aren't going to kill his wife and
kids?"

     Win stopped for a moment, then he pinched the bridge of his nose in
contemplation.  "God in heaven," he said.  "I'm getting as bad as Slaughter
is."  He sighed.  "All right, if he's married, I'll give his family a chance
to come out of the house before I set fire to it."

     "What if he comes out too?" Joe asked.

     "I intend to shoot the bastard," Win replied simply.

     "Win, there's the house.  See the number?  Two-one-five," Joe said,
pointing to a white frame house across the street.

     There was a white picket fence around the house and a rather large elm
tree just on the street side of the fence.  The lawn was well-tended, there
were flowers in window boxes, and the house was neatly kept.

     "I don't know," Joe said.  "Win, are you sure this is the place?"

     "Two-one-five," Win replied.

     "But look at it.  It looks like a storeowner's house or the house of a
banker.  It doesn't look like the house of a man like Slaughter."

     "Joe, you don't expect him to hang a sign out that says: 'I am a
murderer,' do you?"

     "No, I guess not."

     "This is the house," Win said.  He pulled his pistol.  "I can feel it."

     Win and Joe moved quickly to the tree, using it to provide them with
cover.

     "Slaughter!" he shouted.

     When there was no answer, Win fired a shot through the front window.

     "Emil Slaughter!"

     "What do you want?" a muffled voice called back.

     "I want you, you son of a bitch!" Win said.

     "I'm not Emil Slaughter!  You've got the wrong house!"

     Joe looked at Win, as if questioning him again.  Then, suddenly, Joe
broke into a large smile and he nodded toward the fence.  When Win looked in
the direction Joe had indicated, he saw a brass nameplate on the gate.  The
nameplate read: "Captain Emil Slaughter, Seventh Kansas Cavalry."

     "Sorry I questioned you, Win," Joe said.

     "That's all right.  I'm glad you found the sign," Win replied.  "I was
beginning to question myself."

     "Go away!" the voice called out to them.  "I'm not the one you are
looking for!"

     "Come on out with your hands up.  If you can prove you aren't Slaughter,
I'll let you go."

     "You go to hell!" the voice from the house called.  Suddenly a shot rang
out from the front window, and the bullet snapped off a branch just above
Win's head.

     Win and Joe returned fire, their bullets crashing through the glass
windowpanes and causing the curtains to pop backwards.

     There was another shot from the house from one of the other windows, and
this, too, was answered by Win and Joe.  Then there was a moment of silence,
followed by a white flag tied to the end of a pole being poked out the window.

     "Stop your firin'!  Stop your firin'!" the voice shouted from inside.  "I
got my wife and kids in here with me."

     Win and Joe held their fire.  "What do you want with me?" the voice
asked.

     "Are you Emil Slaughter?"

     There was a moment of silence, then the question was answered.  "Yeah,
I'm Slaughter," the voice called back.

     "Come on out, Slaughter.  Come out with your hands in the air."

     "Why should I come out?  You're going to shoot me down as soon as I step
outside."

     "If you care anything about your family, come on out.  Otherwise they're
likely to be caught in the cross fire."

     "All right, all right, I'm comin'."

     Win and Joe kept their eyes on the front door.  This was the man who had
led the raid against their farm.  On his orders their parents were killed, and
their home was burned.

     What did he look like?  Win wondered.  Did he have horns and a tail?

     The door opened, and two young girls and an adult woman stepped out onto
the front porch.

     "All right, you people get off the porch and out of the way!" Win
shouted.  "I'm not after you."

     The woman and children didn't move, so Win stood up and stepped out from
behind the tree to make certain they could see as well as hear him.

     "I told you, get out of the way!" he shouted, waving his hand.

     Suddenly a shot came from the front porch and the bullet took out a chunk
of Win's earlobe.  He felt a burning pain, along with a sticky wetness.  He
put his hand up to cover his ear, then pulled it away, red with blood.

     "What the hell!" Win shouted.

     A second shot came from the porch, and that was when Win saw Slaughter,
crouched down behind his family.  He was using his wife and kids as a shield,
while he was blasting away at Win and Joe from behind them.

     Quickly Win bolted to get back behind the tree.

     "Slaughter, you son of a bitch!  What kind of man would hide behind his
own family?" Win shouted.  He raised his pistol, hoping to get a shot, but no
opportunity presented itself.

     Continuing to use his family for cover, Slaughter maneuvered to the side
of the porch.  When he reached the edge, he pushed them aside and jumped down
to dash to the rear of the house, putting the side of the house between
himself and Win and Joe.

     "Win, he's gettin' away!" Joe shouted.

     "The hell he is!" Win replied, stepping out into the open so he could see
Slaughter.  Standing sideways, Win raised his pistol and took a long, careful
aim, sighting down the barrel.  He touched the trigger and the gun boomed.

     Just as Slaughter was reaching the outhouse, nearly seventy-five yards
away, the bullet slammed into the back of his neck.  He stumbled forward, lost
his balance, then crashed through the outhouse door.

     Holding his pistol at the ready, Win ran up to check on him.  He stopped
as he got close, then continuing to hold his gun on Slaughter's still form,
advanced the last few feet very carefully, ready to react to any sudden moves
on Slaughter's part.  From here Win could smell the heavy stench of the
outhouse, and he could hear the big green bottle-flies as they buzzed about
noisily.

     Slaughter was absolutely motionless, his head and shoulders through the
door of the outhouse, the rest of his body outside.  The gun Slaughter was
carrying was lying on the ground alongside.

     Win reached out to grab Slaughter by the back of his shirt.  He pulled
him out of the toilet, then let him fall onto his back, his arms flopping out
to either side of him.

     "Shit!" Joe said, arriving at that moment and seeing Slaughter's face.

     The expletive was appropriate, for when Slaughter had fallen into the
toilet, his head had gone down through the hole, burying itself in a foot of
nightsoil.  It was all over his face, in his eyes, nostrils, and mouth.

     "All I can say is, I hope the son of a bitch was alive long enough to
enjoy some of that," Win said.  When Win looked back toward the front of the
house he saw Slaughter's wife and kids standing at the corner, looking back at
them, their faces contorted with terror.

     "We going to burn the house, Win?" Joe asked.

     Win looked at Slaughter's family for a moment longer, then he sighed and
shook his head.  "No," he said.  "I'm satisfied."



     When Win and Joe returned to the dining room of the hotel, Quantrill was
just finishing his breakfast.

     "Did you find him?" Quantrill asked, shoving a sausage patty into one of
the biscuits before taking a bite.

     "Yes," Win answered.

     "Kill him?"

     "Yes."

     "Good.  If there was ever a son of a bitch that needed killing, it was
him.  Did you boys get a chance to eat breakfast?"

     "No," Joe said.

     Quantrill picked up a couple of biscuits and tossed them up to Win and
Joe.  "Here," he said.  "No sense in letting them go to waste."

     "Thanks," Win said, taking a bite.  "Damn, these are good."  He looked
around.  "Where's that fancy-dressed man, I'd like to tell him."

     "Don't worry none about him," Quantrill said.  "He's been taken care of."

     "Charley, wait 'til you see it!" Bill Anderson shouted, coming into the
hotel then.  "We've made quite a haul!  Bring it in here, boys!" he called.

     At Anderson's order, men began bringing in money boxes, jewelry cases,
watches and rings, candlesticks, and silver and gold goblets.  Quantrill had
finished eating by now, and he made a place on the table for the booty by the
simple expedient of pushing everything, dishes, uneaten food, and half-full
coffee cups, onto the floor.  Then, using the table as a desk, Quantrill began
taking inventory of the spoils.

     "Look at it, boys!" Quantrill said.  He scooped his hands through the
pile of small jewelry and gold coins, then lifted them, palms up, to let the
gold, sparkling in the morning light, spill through his fingers like water.
"Did I tell you this was a good idea?  Some of you didn't believe me."

     George Todd came in with blood on his shirt and face and smelling of
smoke.  His eyes blazed wildly.

     "Charley, we just got word that some Federal troops are on the way here."

     "All right, get the boys together and let's get out of here," Quantrill
said.

     "What, we're leavin'?" Anderson asked, surprised by the order.  "Hell,
we've only got a little bit of the booty in this town.  There's lots of places
we haven't even been in yet."

     Quantrill opened his watch and looked at it, then he snapped it shut.
"It's half past eight," he said.  "We've been here long enough, especially if
there are troops coming.  Now, have the boys load up as much food as they can
carry, and let's get out of here."

     "Colonel Quantrill," Anderson said, making a mockery of the rank, "would
you mind tellin' me why the hell we are running?  We've got nearly four
hundred men here, now.  That's the biggest our outfit's ever been.  Why don't
we just wait for the soldiers and ambush them?"

     "Why would we want to do a damn fool thing like that?  We've done what we
set out to do," Quantrill answered.  "We should leave while we are ahead."

     "Charley, I have to agree with Bill on this," Win said.  "If we could
defeat a regular Union army unit here, in Kansas, it would legitimize our
raid."

     "Legitimize?  Legitimize?" Quantrill said.  He threw his arms out, then
let them fall, disgustedly, to his sides.  "Goddamnit, am I the only one here
who is not stupid?  Don't you understand?  We don't want to be legitimized.
If we are legitimate, we have to follow all the rules of war.  And if we were
following the rules of war"--he ran his hand through a stack of gold coins,
picking them up and letting them drop back on the table with a clink--"we
wouldn't get to keep any of this."

     "Yes, but think of the trouble we could cause for the Yankees by
defeating some of their regulars here.  We could force the Yankees to bring
some of the war into Kansas, and that means they would have to bring in fresh
troops from Missouri and Arkansas to handle it.  That would relieve some of
the pressure on our people in general, and on General Price and General Van
Dorn in particular."

     "To hell with Price and Van Dorn," Quantrill said, as he started stuffing
money into his pockets.  "Let them fight their own goddamn war.  You know,
they always figured they were a little better than us, anyway.  Well, by God,
they won't be getting any help from me.  Now, come on, let's get out of here."

     Without waiting for them to follow him, Quantrill stormed across the
floor, then out the door.

     When Win and Joe went back outside, they were faced with so much smoke
and flying ash in the street that it was actually difficult to breathe.  By
now, more than three-fourths of the buildings, both commercial and private,
were burning fiercely, including even Emil Slaughter's house, though neither
Win nor Joe had set fire to it.  Win didn't know if the Slaughter house had
been set afire, or if it was ignited by flying firebrands, the cause of at
least half a dozen fires in their own right.

     In addition to the burning buildings, scores of bodies lay sprawled in
the street, most of them shot more than once.  One of the bodies, Win noticed,
was the well-dressed corpse of Mr. Jones, the concierge of the hotel.
Evidently, that was what Quantrill meant when he said that the concierge had
been taken care of.  It was, truly, a scene from hell.

     Win left the front porch, and walked down into the street to move among
the dead.  He had seen this many dead before, especially after battles in
which they had participated where armed men were locked in desperate struggle
against other armed men.  But the dead here had not been killed in battle.
They had been murdered in cold blood; in some cases, hauled out of their beds
while still in their nightshirts and hacked to pieces or shot down in front of
their horrified families, while their wives and children pleaded for their
lives.

     Among the victims were some very young boys, no more than nine or ten,
and some very old men, including a few who Win was sure were eighty or more.

     And, standing in the street, crying bitter tears over their loved ones,
were the women of the town.  By Quantrill's orders, no woman had been molested
or physically injured.  But Win knew that the pain inflicted upon these
women's souls would never diminish, and he could feel the heart-chilling
loathing in their stares.

     Win wanted to tell them that he was sorry.  He wanted them to know that
when he rode in here this morning, he had no idea that killing of this
magnitude would happen.  But he couldn't tell them because he knew it would be
a lie.  He had been with Quantrill for well over a year, and by now he
understood, fully, what kind of man Quantrill was ... what kind of men the
Raiders were, and ... he was forced to admit to himself ... what kind of man
he was.  What did he expect would happen when four hundred armed men descended
on a defenseless town?

     "You leaving with us, Win?" Jesse asked.  "Or are you going to stay and
greet the Yankees when they get here?"  Jesse laughed at his own joke.

     It wasn't until that moment that Win realized he was the only one who had
not yet mounted.

     "I reckon I'd better go with you, boys," Win said, climbing into the
saddle, then looking again at the weeping women.  He looked at his brother,
Joe, and saw that Joe was having as much difficulty handling the situation as
he was.

     Quantrill stood in the stirrups to address his men.  "All right, men, we
have accomplished our mission!" he shouted.  "One hundred, maybe even two
hundred years from now, men will speak in awe of what we did here today!
Let's go!"

     At Quantrill's order, the four hundred men left Lawrence the same way
they had entered it ... at a gallop.  When they reached the top of a hill
about a mile out of town, Win stopped.  Twisting around in his saddle, he
looked back toward the town.  From here it looked as if the billowing black
smoke from over a hundred burning buildings had collected into one huge column
to roil and surge into the sky.  And though there was no sound, in Win's mind
he could still hear the wailing sobs of the grieving wives, mothers, and
daughters of the slain.

     "What was the name of that town, again, Win?" Joe asked, stopping beside
him to have the same vantage point.

     "Lawrence," Win answered.  "Lawrence, Kansas."

     "Lawrence," Joe repeated.  He was silent for a moment.  "I want to
remember it."

     "Why?"

     "Because," Joe explained.  "I want to remember where it was that I left
my soul."

     Win was glad to hear that his brother was fighting the same devils he
was.  That meant that he wasn't alone.


                                      19


     "You sent for me, General?" Captain Parnell asked, reporting to General
Ewing in his Kansas City headquarters.

     "Yes," Ewing answered.  "Have you seen this?"  He handed Parnell a
newspaper.  In dark print, at the top of the left hand column, the headlines
leaped out at Parnell.


QUANTRILL RAIDS LAWRENCE, KANSAS

150 MEN AND BOYS BUTCHERED

MANY HOUSES AND BUSINESSES BURNED

BANK, STORES, AND HOMES LOOTED.

CAPTAIN EMIL SLAUGHTER MURDERED


     "I haven't read the article in the newspaper yet," Parnell replied.  "But
I have seen the official report."

     "What are you going to do about it?"

     Parnell gulped.  "What am I going to do about it, General?"

     "Quantrill is making a mockery of us, Captain.  The Federal army has
become a laughingstock.  Do you realize that?  Not only that, when he murdered
Captain Slaughter, he killed one of the most effective countermeasures we have
against the bushwhackers."

     "if you ask me, General, we're just as well off to be rid of Mr.
Slaughter," Parnell said.  "He and Quantrill were cut from the same cloth."

     "That is precisely my point, you idiot," General Ewing snapped.  "But now
Slaughter is dead and making no trouble for anyone, while Quantrill is still
alive, still a bone in our throat, and still at large."

     "Yes, sir, I know.  He has been our number one mission around here for
some time, now, but, as you know, we have been unable to catch him."

     Ewing sighed.  "Captain Parnell, you must forgive me.  I'm sorry for
taking my anger and frustration out on you.  In truth, I am more to blame than
anyone else.  I should not have let their women go when I had them in my
hands," Ewing said.  "Damn me for being so soft-hearted."

     "General, we really didn't have any choice; we had to let the women go,"
Parnell said.  "We already had most of the people around here against us for
that.  And, after some of the women were killed in the storm, nearly everyone
turned against us.  Why, if we hadn't let the women go, we would've had a
revolt on our hands."

     Ewing flashed a disgusted look at Parnell.  "We've already got a revolt
on our hands, Captain," he said.  "It's called the Civil War.  Or, don't you
know what we have been doing these past few years?"

     "Why, yes, sir, of course I know that we are fighting a Civil War,"
Parnell replied, stung by Ewing's criticism.

     "Wait a minute," Ewing said.  "You may have something there."

     "I beg your pardon?"

     "A revolt," Ewing said.  "If the people are in revolt, then the people,
themselves, are our enemy.  They are as much our enemy as Quantrill.  So, if
we can't get to Quantrill, we'll get to the people."

     "I don't understand, General," Parnell said, shaking his head in
confusion.

     Ewing smiled and rubbed his hands together.  "Captain, I am going to
issue orders, effective immediately.  I want you to remove every Missouri
resident from the following counties: Platte, Clay, Jackson, and Cass."

     "Remove, General?" Parnell replied, asking for clarification.

     "Remove, as in force them to leave.  And that means every resident,
regardless of what loyalties they claim," Ewing insisted.  "Then, once you
have moved them out, I want you to render their property undesirable enough to
discourage them attempting to re-enter."

     "And, how am I to do that, General?"

     "Easy enough," General Ewing said, off-handedly.  "You just burn every
farmhouse, barn, granary, toolshed, hogshed, chicken-coop and outhouse you can
find.  Close the wells, burn the fields, destroy the bridges, sink the
ferries, blow up the trains and tear up the track.  Once that's done you will
have your soldiers conduct daily patrols of the area and, if you find anyone
in there, man, woman, or child, you will hang that person to the nearest tree
or telegraph pole."

     "My God, General, if we do something like that, it will turn those four
counties into little more than desert," Parnell said.

     Ewing smiled.  "Yes, it will, won't it?" he said.  "That is exactly what
I have in mind.  Don't tarry, Captain.  I want you to get started on that
right away."



     From their position on the hill, Win and Joe could see as many as six
columns of smoke, climbing like ropes into the sky.  Each plume of smoke
represented another farm family that had been burned out by Ewing's soldiers.

     "Seems to me like instead of splitting up and going around to warn
people, we'd do better to stick together and stop the Yankees," Joe suggested.

     "Suppose we did stop them today," Win replied.  "Then what would we do?
We can't stay there and wait for them to come back.  No, we're doing the best
we can do, and that is just to warn them that the soldiers are coming.  The
Yankees aren't allowing them to take any wagons, carts, or pack-animals with
them.  They are being forced to flee with what they can carry on their backs.
This way, at least, they can get some of their things out of there before the
Yankees come."

     "Win, have you ever stopped to wonder how it all came to this?" Joe
asked.

     "What?"

     "The war," Joe said.  "I mean, how can neighbors, sometimes even kinfolk,
do somethin' like this to one another?  I look at what the Jayhawkers did to
our people, what we did to them in Lawrence, and what the Yankees are doin'
here, and I wonder why God allows it.  Seems to me like an awful lot of us are
goin' to have some explainin' to do to ole St. Peter when we come up to those
Pearly Gates."

     "I reckon so," Win agreed.  "But that's somethin' we'll just have to
worry about when the time comes.  For now, we've got more folks to warn."



     Like Win and Joe, Luke Hunter was also out visiting the area families.
Hunter was riding alone, in part because there were few who wanted to ride
with him, and in part because he preferred to be alone.

     When Luke came out of a little thicket of trees, he saw a small house,
set back in the clearing.  The smell of cooking food made his stomach growl,
and he realized that he had eaten nothing since a piece of jerky earlier in
the morning.

     As he approached the house, he saw a woman drawing water from the well.
She appeared to be in her late thirties, though the lines around her eyes
showed signs of a lifetime of hard work.  She met Hunter with an unflinching
gaze as he rode into her yard.

     "Who might you be?" she asked.

     Hunter started to tell her his name, then he stopped.

     "Coulter," he said.  "My name is Win Coulter.  And you would be?"

     "I am Emma Rittenhouse.  Is there somethin' I can do for you, Mr.
Coulter?" Emma asked, totally unafraid.

     "I came to warn you that the Yankee soldiers are comin' this way."

     "Yankee soldiers, Rebel soldiers, don't either one of 'em mean nothin' to
me, anymore," Emma said dryly.  "Mr. Rittenhouse was kilt at Shiloh."

     "Which side was your husband fightin' for?" Hunter asked.

     Emma stared at him for a moment.  "Seein' as how he's dead now, I don't
reckon that's any of your business," she answered.  "Anyhow, far as I'm
concerned, the war's over."

     "It may be over for you, Mrs. Rittenhouse, but not for General Ewing,"
Hunter said.  "He's movin' ever'one out of Cass County.  Ever'one, lock,
stock, and barrel.  When the Yankee soldiers come find you here, they're goin'
to make you leave, and burn your house and barn behind YOU."

     "Why would they want to do somethin' like that?  Like I told you, I got
no quarrel with the Yankees or anyone else."

     "Yankees are Yankees," Luke said.  "They don't need no reason to do what
they do."  Hunter sniffed, pointedly, then smiled.  "Smells like I'm just in
time for supper," he said.

     "Don't recall invitin' you," Emma said.  She sighed.  "But I reckon it
would be unchristian to send a body away hungry when you've the vittles to
give him.  Wait here, I'll see what I can rustle up for you."

     "Much obliged to you."

     Emma nodded toward a nearby tree stump.  "Sit you down over there," she
invited.  "I'll send my girl out with a plate."

     "Can I have some water for my horse?"

     "Help yourself," Emma said.  "There's the trough."

     Emma went into the house where her seventy-five-year-old father and her
fifteen-year-old daughter were sitting at the table.

     "Who is it, Mama?  Who are you talkin' to out in the yard?" the girl
asked.

     "Just some man," Emma replied.  "He says the Yankee soldiers are goin' to
come move us out of our house."

     "The hell you say," Emma's father said.  He stood up.  "I'll get my gun."

     "They ain't here now, Papa.  This here fella just come to warn us, that's
all," Emma said.  "And even if they was, you couldn't fight 'em off with no
one gun."  She went to the stove and started filling a plate.  "Laura, I want
you to take some food out to him.  I told the fella I'd feed 'im."

     "All right, Mama," Laura answered obediently.

     Suddenly the door opened behind her, and Hunter came in, uninvited.

     "What are you doin' in here?" Emma asked, surprised to see him.  "I seem
to mind that I told you to wait outside."

     "I decided to come in," Hunter said.

     "If you are told to wait outside, you wait outside," Emma's father said
angrily.

     "Who do you think you are?"  Emma's father started toward the fireplace.

     "Where you think you're goin' old man?"

     "I'm goin' to get my gun and run your sorry ass out of here," the old man
said defiantly.

     Without another word, Hunter pulled his pistol and shot the old man.
Emma's father was slammed up against the fireplace mantel before he fell.  He
lay for a moment on the hearth, his breathing coming in ragged gasps.

     "Papa!" Emma screamed, running to him.

     The young girl said nothing.  She sat frozen to her chair in shock and
fear, looking on as her grandfather's final breath was expended in a
deep-throated death-rattle.

     Hunter walked over to the table and grabbed a piece of meat from the
platter.  "This looks good," he said.  He took a bite.

     "You ... you didn't have no call to come bustin' in here like this," Emma
cried.  "What'd you shoot him for?  I told you I would send you out some
food."

     "Yeah, well, maybe I want me a little somethin' more than food," Luke
said.  He walked over to Emma and, in a sudden and unexpected action, ripped
her dress down the front, exposing her breasts.

     Emma emitted a short scream, then, quickly, she recovered.  "Laura, get
out of here," she ordered.

     "Mama, I ..."

     "Get out.  Now."

     "Wait a minute," Hunter said, looking toward the daughter.  "I might want
to change my mind, here.  Why have the cow, when I can have the calf?"

     "No, please," Emma said, her defiance replaced now with fear and
pleading.  "Laura's just a fifteen-year-old girl.  You don't want nothin' to
do with her.  She don't even know what it's about."

     "Ah, but you know, don't you, Emma?  You said your man was kilt in
Shiloh.  Shiloh was what?  Two, three years ago or better?  Why, I'd be
willin' to bet that you ain't had no man since then."  Hunter giggled.  "Truth
be told, I expect you'd like me to screw you, wouldn't you?  You're lookin'
forward to it."

     "Better me than my daughter."

     "I don't know," Hunter replied.  "Let me see what she's got."

     Hunter grabbed the front of Laura's dress and jerked it down to her
waist.  Her just-forming breasts were topped by protruding little nipples.

     "Well, now, ain't that pretty," Luke said.

     Laura crossed her hands over her chest to cover her breasts.

     "Sorry, Mama, but you lose," Luke said.  Without so much as a blink, he
brought his pistol down on Emma's head, and she went down, knocked cold.

     "Mama!" Laura cried.

     "Don't be worryin' none about your mama, girl," Hunter said.  "All I did
was knock her out for a spell.  She'll have a knot on her head when she comes
to, but that's all.  If you do what I say, I won't hurt her any more.  If you
don't do what I say, I'll kill her now."  Hunter pointed his pistol at Emma's
prostrate form, and pulled back the hammer.  "It's up to you, girl.  Which
will it be?"

     "Please, don't shoot her!" Laura begged.

     Hunter eased the hammer down on his pistol and smiled, evilly.  "Are you
going to be good to me?"

     "I'll ... do ... whatever you want me to do," Laura promised.



     A hard rain began shortly after dark, slashing down on the small
weatherbeaten cabin in the middle of the clearing.  Carrying a smoked ham and
a side of bacon with him, Luke Hunter stepped outside and walked toward his
horse which stood stoically in the rain, some thirty yards distant from the
house.

     Subconsciously, Luke reached down and felt himself.  He was spent.  The
girl had lain absolutely still, accepting without protest his shoving,
grunting, and slobbering over her.  Since he had given a false name, he let
both of them live.  He couldn't help but think of how much more he would have
enjoyed it if he had killed them.



     It was almost sunset and several scores of campfires were cooking suppers
in the camp of Quantrill's Raiders.  The campsite was large and spread out,
following along the edge of a meandering river, which provided them with an
abundant supply of fresh water.  Quantrill had chosen the place, not only for
the river, but also because of a well-constructed and abandoned log cabin
which he immediately took over as his own headquarters.

     Quantrill didn't live in the cabin alone.  Recently, he had acquired a
girlfriend.  The girl, named Kate, was only sixteen years old, and since
coming into his life, she occupied so much of Quantrill's time that he lost
all interest in the war.  His inactivity brought all operations to a halt and
Frank James wondered, only half-kiddingly, if she hadn't been sent here by the
Yankees.  "Let's face it," he said.  "She has done what General Ewing and the
whole Yankee army hasn't been able to do.  She has stopped us in our tracks."

     "Hey, Win," someone called from just upstream of Win and Joe's site.
"The Chief wants to see you."

     "You know why?" Win called back.

     The messenger shook his head.  "Don't have any idea.  I'm just passin'
the word down to you, is all," he said.

     "What do you reckon he wants, Win?" Joe asked.  "You think, maybe, he has
somethin' in mind for us to do?"

     Win, who had finished his supper, tossed out the rest of his coffee.  "I
guess there's only one way to find out, and that is to go see."

     When he reached the log cabin, Win knocked on the door.  "Come in,"
Quantrill called.

     Win stepped inside.  "What's up, Colonel?  Do you have another raid in
mind?"

     The cabin was dark, except for the burning kerosene lantern on a table.
Quantrill was sitting behind the table and when he raised his hand up, Win saw
that Quantrill was holding a pistol, and he was pointing that pistol directly
at Win.

     "What the hell is this?" Win asked, surprised by the unexpected move.
"What's going on here?"

     "Is this the man, Mrs. Rittenhouse?" Quantrill asked.  His cold grey eyes
didn't leave Win's face, and the gun didn't waver.

     Win heard a sound to his right.  Looking around he saw three women,
standing so deep in the shadows that he couldn't make out their features.  He
did recognize Kate, however, by her general size and outline.

     "I don't know if it's him or not," a woman's voice answered.  "I'll need
to take me a closer look."

     "Pick up that lantern, Coulter, and hold it close to your face,"
Quantrill ordered.

     "You want to tell me what this is all about?" Win asked.

     Quantrill cocked his pistol.  "I said pick up the goddamned lantern," he
growled.

     Win picked up the lantern, and the woman moved out of the shadows.  One
of them stepped up closer to Win, then examined him, carefully.  Finally, she
shook her head.

     "No, this ain't him," she said.

     "Are you sure?" Quantrill asked.

     "Yes, I'm positive," the woman answered.  "This ain't him."

     "What about you, girl?" Quantrill asked.  "You ever seen this man
before?"

     A girl, who was just a little younger than Kate, stepped up close enough
to study Win's face.  Then she also shook her head no.

     "Ma's right.  This ain't the man what come by our place," she said.

     "You are sure?  Both of you?  You don't have to be afraid of him now, you
know.  I'm not going to let him hurt you."

     "I'm real sure.  This ain't the man that, uh, done it," the girl
insisted.

     "You ladies said it was Win Coulter," Quantrill said.  "Well, this here
is Win Coulter."

     "This may be Win Coulter," the woman said.  "But this ain't the man that
murdered my father and raped my daughter."

     "Raped?" Win shouted, hearing for the first time the charge he was
suspected of.  He looked back at Quantrill.  "Colonel Quantrill, I have ridden
with you for nearly three years now.  Are you telling me you don't know me any
better than to believe I could commit rape?"

     "I don't know what I believe," Quantrill answered.  "Accordin' to what
this woman told me, her daughter was raped, and you was the one who done it."

     "And you were willing to take her word for it."

     "What are you so hot under the collar over?" Quantrill asked.  "Soon as
she saw you, she said you weren't the one."

     "That's not the point," Win replied.  "The point is, there should be
enough trust between us that it wouldn't even have gotten this far."  Angrily,
Win turned and walked out of the cabin.



     Win Coulter walked out of Quantrill's cabin, but George Todd, Bloody Bill
Anderson, and Little Archie Clement walked out of Quantrill's camp.  The
animosity that had been steadily building for the last two years between
Quantrill and his top lieutenants finally erupted in a splitting of the band
when Quantrill seemed to lose all interest in any further guerrilla activity.

     Todd, Bloody Bill and Little Archie rode off to form their own groups,
and when they left, a little over half of the men rode off with them.  As a
result, Quantrill's Raider Company enjoyed only a fraction of its former
strength.

     With men abandoning camp every day, Win, Joe, Ethan, Tate, and Boykin
discussed the issue at some length.  They were trying to decide whether they
would stay with Quantrill or leave with one of Quantrill's dissatisfied
lieutenants.

     "You boys can do what you want," Win finally said.  "But as for me, I
joined up with Quantrill and I intend to stay with him."

     "I thought you and Quantrill wasn't gettin' on any too good now, what
with him accusin' you of rape and all," Ethan suggested.

     "Yeah, well, whether you like someone or not doesn't have anything to do
with loyalty.  If you don't have loyalty, you don't have anything, and it
seems to me that leavin Quantrill now would be disloyal.  So, I'm goin' to
stay."

     "And I go where my brother goes," Joe said.  "I reckon you boys are just
going to have to make up your own minds."

     Tate, Ethan, and Boykin talked it over among themselves for a few
minutes, then Tate came back to speak for all of them.  "We are going to stay
with you, Win," Tate said.  "Tell 'im the rest of it, Tate," Boykin urged.

     Win looked confused.  "What rest of it?" he asked.

     Tate smiled.  "We ain't goin' to join up with Todd and we ain't goin' to
join up with Anderson," he said.  "But we've decided that if you ever want to
start your own outfit, well, me 'n Ethan 'n Boykin would be proud to go with
YOU."

     Win was surprised, but pleased, to hear their vote of confidence.  "I
appreciate that," he said.



     Several weeks later, as Win was tending to his campfire, he looked up to
see someone approaching the camp.

     "Shit, look who's comin' back," he said, when he recognized the lone
rider.

     "Who is it?" Joe asked, sticking his head out of the tent.

     "The bad penny," Win answered, nodding toward the rider.

     "Damn, it's Luke Hunter," Joe said.  "When he rode off with Todd, I
thought we were rid of the son of a bitch for good."

     Ethan, Tate, and Boykin also came out to meet Hunter.  They weren't any
fonder of him than Win and Joe, but they were curious to hear any information
as to what was happening with some of their friends who left the group to go
with Todd.

     Hunter swung down from his horse, reached back to rub his ass for a
moment, then accepted an offer of coffee.

     "Thanks," he said.  "I come through a cold rain this mornin' and I
haven't been warm since.  This will help."

     "What are you doin' back here, Hunter?" Boykin asked.  "We thought you
was with Todd."

     "You mean you fellas haven't heard about Todd?" Hunter asked.  He took a
swallow of hot coffee, sucking it in through extended lips to cool it.

     Boykin and the others looked at each other.  Finally Boykin responded for
them all.

     "No," he said.  "We ain't heard nothin'."

     "Todd is dead."

     "Dead?"

     "Shot through the neck outside Independence," Hunter said.

     "I'll be damned."

     "We got into a fight with a bunch of Jayhawkers," Hunter explained.  "We
got whipped pretty good and, when it was over, Todd was dead."

     "I'm sorry to hear that," Win said.  "Todd was a good man.  I didn't like
it that he and Anderson broke up our company, but I thought he was a pretty
good man."

     "Yeah, well, Anderson is dead too," Hunter said, nonchalantly.

     "What?  How do you know that?" Win asked.

     "I was with him when it happened."

     "You was with Anderson?  I thought you was with Todd," Tate challenged.

     "I was," Hunter said.  "But after Todd got hisself kilt, I went off to be
with Anderson.  It was less than a week later when we run into a bunch of
militiamen up north of Kansas City.  They had us outnumbered pretty good, and
I figured Anderson would run.  But he didn't run.  He put the reins of his
horse in his teeth, pulled both guns, and charged anyway.  He got shot right
through the head."

     "That would be the way Bloody Bill would do it, all right," Joe said.
"He always did figure there was only one thing to do when he got into a
battle, and that was charge ahead."

     "Hunter, do you mean to tell me you was with Todd when he was killed,
then you was with Anderson when he was killed?" Boykin asked.  "Who are you?
The angel of death?"

     "Well, like I said," Hunter replied, defensively, "it was less than a
week after Todd was kilt before Anderson got it too."

     "So you got Todd killed, you got Anderson killed, and now you are here
with us?" Win asked.  "I think we would all feel better if you would just
mount up and ride off before you get anyone else killed.  Your kind of luck,
we don't need."

     "You may be joking, but I don't think that is funny," Hunter said.

     "Neither do I," Win replied.


                                      20


                                 Spring, 1865

     "Shit," Ethan Said, using a burning brand from the fire to light his
pipe.  "I could understand stayin' here for the winter.  But winter's over
now, and it's time to get off our asses and do somethin'.  I swear, if we
don't do somethin' soon, I'm goin' to light out of here."

     "You wouldn't be alone.  There's quite a few men already done that," Joe
said.

     "Yeah, well, I can't say as I blame them," Tate replied.  "I don't know
what's got into Quantrill.  He ain't like he was before Todd and Anderson
left.  Now he seems awful content to just stay holed up here and do nothin'."

     "What do you mean, do nothin'?" Boykin asked.  "Ole Quantrill's doin'
plenty, I'll tell you.  Ain't you ever heard that little ole sixteen-year-old
gal of his squeal at night?  Damn if she ain't got him so chained to that
little pussy of hers that he don't get more'n ten feet away."

     "Yeah, well, if I was chained to that little old pussy, I prob'ly
wouldn't get more'n ten feet away neither," Ethan said.  He laughed.  "But I
ain't.  All I got to comfort me at night is Rosy Palm and you ugly bastards."

     "Ugly?  Why, Ethan, you never told me you thought I was ugly before,"
Tate teased.  He picked up his skillet and began mugging at his own
reflection.

     "I'm serious, though," Ethan said, after he laughed with the others.
"I'm tired of scratchin' my ass and pickin' my nose.  I am ready to do
something."

     "I know where there's a bank to be robbed," Luke Hunter suggested.
Hunter had been sitting by the fire listening to the conversation, but this
was his first contribution to it.

     "Are you talking about another Lawrence?" Win asked.  "Because I'm not
interested in doing anything like that again."

     "No, it ain't nothin like that, believe me," Hunter said.  "The place I
got in mind is a real fat easy bank.  It's just hangin' out there like a big
old ripe plum, waitin' to be plucked."

     Hunter got up and moved over to the coffeepot, where he poured himself a
cup.  He turned back toward the others, holding the cup with his hands wrapped
around it to warm them against the cool April night.

     "And this nice juicy bank you're talkin' about is just waitin' for us,
huh?" Tate asked.

     "That's right," Hunter insisted.  "There's thousands of dollars sittin'
in those vaults, just waitin' for us to come get it.  That's more money than
we ever got anyplace else."

     "Damn," Ethan said.  "That would be somethin', wouldn't it, Win?"

     "I doubt that it's as easy as Hunter says," Win insisted.  "If they have
that much money in the town, then they probably have a couple of regiments of
troops there to guard it."

     "No," Hunter replied, shaking his head.  "That's the beauty of it, don't
you see?  There ain't no soldiers there at all.  Believe me, it will be real
easy to rob.  I've got it all worked out."

     "What do you mean, you've got it all worked out?"

     "I mean I've been there.  I know the town.  I know how to get in, rob the
bank, and get out before anyone has time to react to our being there."

     "Hunter, you've never been this helpful before," Win said.  "Where the
hell are you gettin' all this information?" Win asked.

     "From around," Luke said.

     "Around where?"

     Hunter shook his head.  "Uh, uh," he said.  "I don't give away all my
secrets."

     "What do you think, Win?  You think the Chief will hit this bank?" Ethan
asked.

     "I don't know," Win answered.  "You've seen him.  Like you said a while
ago, except for his woman, he doesn't seem interested in much of anything
these days."

     "He might be interested if you talked to him," Joe suggested.  "Quantrill
listens to you 'bout as much as he listens to anyone in the group."

     "Not really.  Not anymore," Win said.  "It hasn't been the same since
..."  He started to say since his confrontation with Quantrill over having
been accused of rape, but he held his tongue.

     "Since Kate came, we know that," Boykin said.  "But you could still talk
to him," Boykin insisted.

     Win didn't answer.  Instead, he walked away from the others, down to the
bank of the little stream where he stood looking at the water that was winking
back at him in the moonlight.

     He was alone for a few minutes, then Joe came to stand beside him.

     "Win, maybe going after this bank isn't such a bad idea," Joe said.  "I
mean, look around you.  The men that are left are getting damned restless.  If
we don't do something soon ..."  He let the sentence hang.

     "I know.  You have a point," Win agreed.  He sighed, and picked up a rock
to toss into the water.  "And a nice fat bank sounds awfully tempting.  If
it's really there," he added.

     "You don't think it's there?"

     "I don't know.  I guess I would have more faith in the idea if it came
from someone besides Luke Hunter."

     Yeah, I know what you mean.  Well, Hunter is a son of a bitch, we all
know that," Joe agreed.  "But this doesn't really have anything to do with
him."

     "Except that it is his idea," Win said.  "And I don't trust him."

     "It may be his idea, but he's not going to be in charge of it," Joe said.

     Win looked back toward Quantrill's cabin.  Quantrill's girlfriend, Kate,
stepped to the door then tossed out a pan of water.

     "I don't think Quantrill has enough ambition left to be in charge of it
either," he said.

     "Well, what the hell?  Even that might work out better for us," Joe said.
"This way, you can lead us.  And if you have Quantrill's permission, it won't
be disloyal."

     "If I have his permission."

     "What?  You think he's not going to give it to you, if we rob the bank
and bring the money back here?" Joe asked.

     "I guess you're right," Win said.  "All right, let me think on it for a
moment or two."

     Win looked over toward Quantrill's cabin.  The door was open, and
Quantrill's hand reached out to pull Kate toward him.  A moment later, the
door was closed.

     Win turned his attention back to the campsite.  In the past the campsites
had been orderly gatherings of the Raiders, with equipment clean and
accessible, weapons loaded, and tents ready to strike in a moment's notice.
But that wasn't the case now.

     The problem, Win realized, was that this camp had been in existence since
early fall.  It was mid-spring now, and the camp was still here.  The longer
the men stayed, the more entrenched they became.  And, the more entrenched
they were, the less interest they had in moving at all.

     Quantrill was living in a cabin to which Kate had added extras like
curtains, tablecloths, and other such niceties.  It was no longer a field
headquarters, it was a comfortable home.  Taking their cue from Quantrill,
most of his men had brought about improvements in their own living conditions.
More and more the campsite was beginning to resemble a village, with living
quarters made of mud-chinked log walls, furnished with tables and chairs, the
canvas tents became the roofs.

     The men paid more attention to their quarters than they did to taking
care of their equipment.  As a result, weapons were dirty and rusting, powder
was wet, and saddle and tack were mildewed.

     "Look at this place, Joe," Win said, disgustedly.  "Do you remember the
first day we joined Quantrill?  He gave the order to ride out right after we
got there, and the entire campsite was struck and gone in less than fifteen
minutes.  Hell, this Sodom and Gomorrah couldn't be taken down in anything
less than fifteen hours."

     "If they would take it down at all," Joe said.  "If you ask me, about
half the people here have decided to homestead here.  The more comfortable
they are, the less likely they will leave, even if they were ordered."

     Win stroked his chin for a moment.  "All right, suppose we do go after
this bank?  How many of these people do you think we could get to give up the
good life and go with us?"

     "We could round up enough to pull it off, I know," Joe said, showing his
enthusiasm over the fact that Win was beginning to lean in favor of it.
"Tate, Ethan, and Boykin will go, that's for sure.  And probably half a dozen
or so more.  Not everyone is content to just lay around on their ass day in
and day out.  The problem is, this was Hunter's idea, and he will want to go."

     "Hunter's going is not a problem, it's a necessity," Win replied.  "I'd
rather have the son of a bitch with us than behind us.  I want to keep my eye
on him."

     Joe smiled.  "So, does that mean you'll do it?"

     "Yeah," Win answered.  "I'll do it.  I need to talk to Quantrill about
it, but I'll take care of that.  In the meantime, you round up the men."

     "How many do we want?"

     "No more than ten," Win replied.  "And that includes Hunter, you, and
me."

     "I'll get them together," Joe promised.



     The bank they were going after was located in Springhill, Kansas, and
they were about five miles out when they stopped to go over their final plans.
Win found a little stream-cut gully that offered his band of riders
concealment from anyone who might be coming down the road, and he called for a
halt.  While they were resting the horses and men, Win had Hunter draw a map
of the town in the dirt.

     "This here is the main street," Hunter said, pointing out the features of
the town with the stick he had used for drawing the map.  "It comes into town
this way, and leaves that way."

     "Does it run east and west, or north and south?"

     "Sort of north and south," Hunter explained.  "This here is the north
end."

     "Any other way in and out of the town?"

     "No, not really," Hunter answered.  "This here is the only road."

     "All right, fine.  Tate, you take half the men and go around so you can
come in from the south," Win ordered.  "I'll bring the other half in from the
north.  If all ten of us rode in together that would like as not arouse
suspicion.  But five can ride together without getting anyone too curious.
Now, show me what buildings there are on either side of the street."

     "Well, uh, this here is the bank," Hunter said, drawing a square.  "It's
on the west side of the street.  I think this here's a saloon, or maybe a
general store.  There's a livery stable here, somewhere, and maybe a hotel,
but I don't recollect all that well."

     "I thought you knew the town.  You said you had it all worked out," Win
challenged.  "Now you say you aren't sure."

     "Well, I didn't have no idea you'd be gettin' so particular about such
little things," Hunter replied.

     "Paying attention to the little things is what takes care of the big
things," Win said.  "Now, what about army?  Any troops there?"

     "No, I don't think so," Hunter said.

     "You don't think so?" Win repeated.  "First you were sure there was no
army, now you say you don't think so."

     "I'm pretty sure there is no army," Hunter said.

     "What about the law?  The town marshal's office?" Joe asked.  "Where is
it located?"

     "I don't rightly recall," Hunter said.

     "How many deputies does he have with 'im?"

     "Don't know."

     "Shit, Hunter, what the hell do you know?" Win asked in disgust.  He
stood up from the drawing on the ground and walked away, heading toward the
stream.

     "I know that the bank is full of money," Hunter called after him.  "That
much I do know."

     Joe followed his brother to stand at the edge of the stream with him.

     "You all right, Win?" Joe asked.

     "Joe, I got a awful bad feeling about this," Win said.  "If you ask me, I
think we ought to turn around and go back."

     "We've come this far.  Seems to me like we ought to go through with it,"
Joe said.

     Win looked at his brother.  "Are you telling me you aren't the least bit
nervous about it?"

     "No, why should I be nervous?  That's not my job," Joe answered.  Then he
chuckled.  "You're in charge here, it's your job to be nervous.  Besides, I
figure if we get into any kind of trouble, you'll take care of it."

     "Yeah, well, thanks for the vote of confidence," Win answered dryly.

     "Listen, why don't we ask the others what they think about it?" Joe
suggested.  "If they want to go through with it, we go.  If they want to back
out, we back out.  What do you say?"

     Win nodded.  "All right, fair enough," he answered.  He and Joe walked
back up to where the others were, and got their attention.

     "My brother's got somethin' he wants to say to you," Joe announced, and
all turned their attention to Win.

     "Boys, we are here on Hunter's word," Win said.  "He says there's money
in the bank, and he says that the bank isn't that well-guarded.  He may know
what he's talking about, or he may be as full of shit as a Christmas goose.
But we've come this far, so I'm going to leave it up to you whether we go on
or not."

     "I say we go on," Hunter said.

     "You stay out of this, Hunter.  You've got no say," Win said, sharply.
"This is for the others to decide."

     "If we decide to go on, you'll still lead us, won't you, Win?" Ethan
asked.

     Win nodded.  "Yes," he said.  "If we vote to go, I'll go, and I'll still
lead you."

     "Then I say we go."

     "Me too," Tate pitched in.

     To a man, everyone else voted in the affirmative.  Win looked at them for
a moment, then he nodded his head.

     "All right, we go," he told them.  "All I can say is, you fellas are
going to have to be on the alert at all times.  This won't be like any of the
raids we've ever been on before.  This time we're going to be badly
outnumbered, and we are going to be in a place where we have no friends but
each other.  So, look out for each other, and if we have to scatter when it's
over, then make your way back to the main camp best you can.  Good luck to
you."

     "Good luck," they all replied in one voice.



     Springhill, Kansas, was a busy little town, built around a square.  When
Win and his group rode in from the north they saw half a dozen wagons parked
along both sides of the street.

     With Win and Joe were three men, named Phil, Ed, and Curly.  Coming into
town from the south, Tate had Ethan, Boykin, Hunter, and a rider named Johnny
with him.

     "What the hell are all these wagons doin' here?" Win asked.

     "You still some worried?" Joe asked.

     "Too late to be worrying now," Win replied.  "Now's the time for doing.
You boys see Tate anywhere?"

     "Ain't seen 'im yet," Phil answered.

     "There he is down there, just comin' in," Joe pointed out.

     "Yeah, I see him," Win replied.  He squinted his eyes.  "Damn!  Where's
Hunter?"

     "What?"

     "Hunter," Win repeated.  "The son of a bitch is not with them."

     "Maybe his horse threw a shoe or something," Joe said.  He snorted.
"Hell, as far as I'm concerned, it's good riddance."

     The two groups of riders met in front of the bank.  "Where's Hunter?" Win
asked.

     "Hunter?"  Tate seemed surprised by the question, and he looked around.
"Hell, I don't know," he answered.  "He was with us just a moment ago, when we
come into town.  Any of you fellas see what happened to him?" he asked the
others with him.  No one had seen him leave.

     "We're down to the nut-cutting now.  Maybe the son of a bitch just showed
the white feather," Phil suggested.

     "That would be about like him," Boykin agreed.

     "Yeah, well, it's too late to worry about him now," Win said.  "Phil, you
and Johnny mind the horses.  Joe, you and Boykin post yourselves just outside
the door and keep your eyes on the street.  The rest of you boys, inside with
me.  All right, let's go."

     All but Phil and Johnny dismounted.  Joe and Boykin took up their
position just outside the door, while Win and the others went inside.

     As soon as they were in the bank, Win took a quick look around, making a
mental note, not only of the layout, but also of how many were inside.  Along
the left-hand side of the bank was a counter, behind which were two teller
cages.  There were two men on the teller's side and four men on the customer
side of the counter.

     On the wall opposite the counter there was a chest-high table, around
which stood three more men.  There were no women in the bank.

     A half wall formed an office at the rear of the bank, and when Win looked
in that direction, he saw Luke Hunter.  For just a second, he thought Hunter
had sneaked around and come in the back way in order to help them.  Then he
realized that Luke Hunter's presence there had to be something else.

     "That's them, boys!" Hunter yelled.  "Quantrill's men!"

     "Shit!" Win shouted to the others.  "Hunter's betrayed us!  It's a trap!"

     "We're U.S. Marshals!" one of the men standing outside the teller's cage
shouted.  "You bushwhackers throw down your guns!"

     Win swung his pistol toward the man who had yelled at him.  The marshal
fired first and his bullet went wide, hitting an inkwell on the table, and
sending up a spray of ink.  win returned fire and his bullet found its mark.
The marshal went down with a wind-sucking hole in his chest.

     Curly, who was carrying a sawed-off shotgun, let go with a blast that
shattered the shaded glass around the teller cages, driving the men behind the
counter to the floor.

     Win turned his gun toward Hunter, fired, and missed just as Hunter jumped
through the back door.

     One of the men at the table fired and Curly went down.  Another bullet
cut a hole in Win's jacket.

     "Let's get the hell out of here!" Win shouted, pulling Ethan with him,
and firing back into the bank as they ran out front.  When they got outside
they encountered four more marshals on the roof of the building opposite the
bank.  One of the marshals opened up with a shotgun but he was too far out of
range to do any real damage, so the blast merely sprayed a pattern of pellets
that barely penetrated the skin.  A shot from one of the others on the roof
caused the front window of the bank to come crashing down.  A third shot
killed Joe's horse just as he got to it.  Phil, who was minding the horses,
realized that Curly wasn't coming out of the bank, so he offered that horse to
Joe.

     Win saw a man kneeling behind a water trough, taking slow and deliberate
aim with a rifle.  Win fired, and the man fell forward, his unfired rifle
sinking in the water.

     As Ed was swinging into his saddle, he raised up at just the right time
to catch a bullet between his eyes.  He went down.

     With Ed and Curly dead behind them, Win led his men at a gallop toward
the end of the street.  Before they got there, two loaded wagons were pushed
out into the street to be used as barricades, and half a dozen men started
firing from behind them.  This time, Phil went down.

     Despite the fact that he was fighting for his life, Win couldn't push
back the dispassionate thought that arose over the quality of his leadership.
This was his first test and in a little less than a minute he had managed to
get three of his men killed.  Not a very auspicious beginning.

     When Win turned away from the roadblock, he saw that the road behind them
had been blocked as well.  Now, both ways out of town were closed.

     "We've got 'em!" someone shouted.  "We've got 'em trapped in the street
like fish in a barrel!  Kill 'em, boys, kill 'em!"

     "What'll we do, Win?" Boykin shouted in fear and confusion.  "What'll we
do?"

     Looking around in desperation, Win saw a large window--a dress-making
shop.  "This way!" he shouted, and he rode straight toward the window, urging
his horse to leap through it.  The window, which consisted of dozens of small
squares held in place by thin strips of wood, collapsed inward under the
weight of the leaping horse.  There was a tremendous crash of glass as the
horse leaped from the walk outside onto the wooden floor inside.

     The other riders, with the window taken out of the way, urged their
horses through the open space behind him, though Johnny, who was the last to
make the leap, took a hit in his shoulder.

     Win and those who were still with him clattered across the wooden floor,
past three women who were crouching in fear at the rear of the store, then out
the back door and into an open field.  It was a brilliant move.  None of the
townspeople were mounted, and by the time the marshals did reach their horses
and came around the edge of town, Win and his men had completely disappeared.

     The boys rode hard for nearly half an hour before they came to a road.
Behind a little hill just to the side of the road, they stopped to let the
horses recover their wind.

     "Who's hurt?" Win asked.

     "I've got a few shotgun pellets in my ass," Tate said.  "Nothing
serious."

     "Yeah, me too," Boykin said.  "Ain't none of 'em deep, though."

     "I've got a ball in my shoulder," Johnny said, his voice more strained
than the others.  "Hurts like hell, but it didn't hit none of my vitals."

     "We'll get you taken care of soon as we get back," Win promised.  "Might
take a few days, though.  We can't go back the same way we came 'cause they'll
be lookin' for us.  Think you can make it?  All you have to do is hang on to
your saddle.  We'll lead your horse."

     "Don't you fellas worry about me," Johnny said.  "I'll make it."

     "Win, what the hell happened in there?" Joe asked.  You boys weren't in
for more'n a second or two when all hell broke loose."

     "Luke Hunter happened," Win said.

     "Hunter?"

     "The son of a bitch was in there, Joe.  He turned on us."

     "What do you say we go back and get the son of a bitch?" Ethan suggested.

     Win shook his head.  "No, that's just what they are wanting us to do.  If
we go back now, they'll be waiting for us.  We're going to have to let it go
for now."

     "Let it go?  You mean, we're going to let Luke Hunter get away with
this?" Joe asked.

     "I didn't say that.  Don't you worry about Luke Hunter getting away with
anything, little brother.  I promise you, one way or another, I'll catch up
with that son of a bitch.  And when I do, he is dead meat."


                                      21


     Luke Hunter knew the route they had used to come to Springhill, and he
knew the way they had planned to return.  That meant that he would be able to
tell the Yankees where to set up ambushes for Win and his men.  In order to
prevent that, Win took his men back by a very circuitous route, avoiding any
possible encounter with marshals or soldiers.  Going back that way, however,
meant that it took several more days than it would normally.

     SOME DRAMATIC CHANGES HAD TAKEN PLACE AT THE campsite during the few days
Win and his group were gone.  The most noticeable thing was the decrease in
the size of the campsite.  There had been nearly a hundred men there when they
left, now there were fewer than twenty.  They looked as if they were getting
ready to leave.

     "Ben," Win called out to one of the remaining men.  Ben ambled over to
him.  "What is it?" Win asked, taking in the nearly deserted campsite with a
wave of his hand.  "Where is everyone?"

     "They've all gone for the amnesty," Ben answered.

     "Amnesty?  You mean from the Federals?  Why would they do that?"

     "Hell," Ben said.  "Ain't you heard?  We're all Federals, now.  The war's
over."

     "When did that happen?"

     "A couple of days ago.  Lee surrendered to Grant at some place down in
Virginia."

     Behind Win, Johnny moaned, and Win remembered his wound.  "Is there
anyone still around who can take care of Johnny?"

     "What happened to him?" Ben asked.

     "He's got a ball in his shoulder."

     "Hank's still here," Ben said.  "'Course he's better with horses than he
is with people, but I reckon he can get a bullet out."

     "Boykin, you and Tate take him over to Hank, will you?"

     "Sure thing, Win," Boykin replied.  "Come along, Johnny."

     "How'd it go with you fellas?" Ben asked.

     "Not good," Win said.  "Not good at all.  We lost three men.  Charley's
not going to like it that the whole thing was a failure, but it was a trap,
and Luke Hunter led us right into it."

     "Hell, it won't matter none to Quantrill," Ben said.  "He ain't here."

     Win looked up toward the log cabin that had been Quantrill's headquarters
and saw that it was deserted.

     "I'm surprised that the Yankees offered amnesty to Quantrill."

     "Ha," Ben laughed.  "They didn't.  They got reward posters out for him,
dead or alive."

     "Where'd he go?"

     "Nobody knows for sure.  But the word is that he went to Kentucky.  He
took the girl with him."

     "Tell us about this amnesty, Ben," Joe asked.  "What is it?"

     Ben ran his hand through his hair.  "It seems simple enough, I reckon.
All you gotta do is go into Kansas City and turn in your guns, then swear that
you will be loyal to the United States government."

     "And then what?"

     "And then they let you go, like nothin' ever happened.  You can go back
to farmin', or clerkin', or whatever it was you was doin' before the war."

     "Are you going to do it, Ben?" Win asked.

     "I tell you the truth, it galls me havin' to take the oath ... havin' to
say I'm sorry for all that I done while those Yankee sons of bitches gloat.
But, I reckon I'm goin' to do it.  I still got me some land I can work.  Got
no house, the Yankees burned that, but I ain't lived in no house for the last
four years anyhow.  What about you boys?  You goin' to take it?"

     "I don't know," Win said.  He sighed.  "I never gave this day much
thought.  I just sort of figured I would go on fighting until ..."  He let the
words trail off, leaving the sentence incomplete.

     "Until you got yourself kilt?" Ben asked.

     "Yeah," Win answered.  "Something like that, I suppose."

     "I know what you mean.  I reckon we was all thinkin' the same way.  But
now, with the war over maybe we can stop thinkin' about killin' and dyin' and
start thinkin' about livin'."

     "You know, Win, we still have our land too," Joe said.

     "Is that what you want to do, Joe?  You want to take amnesty and farm the
land?"

     Joe nodded.  "Yeah, I think so."

     Win looked at the others in the camp and saw that they, too, were getting
ready to leave.  "You think we can do that, Joe?" he asked.  "Be farmers
again, I mean?  Seems to me like we've come a long way from that over the last
few years."

     "I don't know if we can be farmers again or not," Joe admitted.  "But I
think we owe it to ma and pa to at least try."

     "All right," Win said.  "As soon as we see how Johnny's getting along, me
an' you'll ride into Kansas City and take the oath."



     Kansas City was a city transformed.  The streets were full of wagons,
buckboards, and horses.  Hotels and restaurants were bustling, including the
new restaurant which had been built on the lot left vacant when the storm
destroyed the women's prison.

     Wearing long dusters and black hats pulled low over their eyes, Win and
Joe rode into Kansas City with the same sense of caution they had entered
every town for the last four years.  They automatically checked roof lines,
open windows, and alleys for potential danger.

     Glancing up one of the alleys, Win saw that the little crib Belle had
occupied during the time she was in Kansas City was now gone.  Whether it had
been destroyed when the storm had hit the town, or whether it had been torn
down by reformers since that time, he didn't know.  What he did know was that
he felt a twinge of grief thinking about her.

     "That must be the place, there," Joe said, bringing Win's attention back
to the street.  "Look, up ahead."

     Stretched across a building at the far end of the street was a large
painted banner that read: AMNESTY HEADQUARTERS.

     "Yeah, I reckon so," Win said.  "Joe, you sure you want to do this?"

     "It's our only chance to start over," Joe replied.

     "All right," Win said.  "Let's give the Yankee bastards their pound of
flesh and get it over with."

     As they rode toward the amnesty building, Win began to notice the
reaction they were getting from the people on the street.  Men stopped to
stare at them, and women whispered to each other as they passed by.  Joe
evidently saw it as well, because he commented on it.

     "Win, does it seem to you that we are getting an undue amount of
attention here?" Joe asked.

     "Yeah," Win said.  "But they probably do that to ever'one who comes in
for amnesty."

     "How do they know we're comin' for amnesty?" Joe asked.

     Win chuckled, then caught their reflection in the front window of a
millinery shop.  He nodded toward it.

     "Look at us in the window there, little brother," he said.  "Do we look
like we're comin' in to sell eggs?"

     THEY TIED THEIR HORSES OFF AT THE HITCHING RAIL IN front of the amnesty
building, then went inside, where they were met by a sergeant who was standing
behind a counter.

     "I'm Sergeant Berry," the sergeant said.  "What can I do for you boys?"
he asked.

     "We've come to get amnesty," Win said.

     "All right, let me just fill out a paper here," Sergeant Berry said,
reaching for a form and a pen.  "Now," he said, dipping the pin in an inkwell.
"Now, who were you boys with?  General Price?  General Van Dorn?"

     "No," Win answered.  "We were with Quantrill."

     Sergeant Berry looked up in interest.  "You were with Quantrill?"

     "Yes."

     "Uh, would you two boys wait here for a moment?" Berry asked.

     "What for?  Is there something wrong?"

     "No," Berry replied.  "It's just that I can only do amnesty for men that
was in the regular army.  The irregulars have to get their amnesty from Cap'n
Parnell.  Just wait here a moment.  I'll be right back."

     Sergeant Berry stepped through a door that led into a room in the back of
the building.  That left Win and Joe alone.

     "I don't like this," Win said nervously.  "There's something wrong."

     "Maybe it's like he said, Win," Joe said.  "I mean, we have to at least
give it a chance, don't you think?"

     Win stroked his chin and looked around nervously.  That was when he saw
several wanted posters on the wall.  "Joe," he said.  "Look over there."

     "What are those?"

     "Wanted posters," Win said, stepping over to look at them.  "Here's one
for Quantrill, and one for Archie Clement," he said, looking at them.  "Oh,
shit."

     "What?"

     Win jerked the poster off and brought it back to show Joe.


                                    REWARD

                                     $500
                                 In Gold Coin
           Will be paid by the U.S. Government for the apprehension
                               DEAD OR ALIVE of
                              Win and Joe Coulter

                      Wanted for Robbery, Murder, Treason
           and other acts against the peace and dignity of the U.S.

                                 Thomas Ewing
                          General, United States Army


     "Son of a bitch!" Win said.  "They aren't going to give us amnesty.
Let's get out of here!"

     At that very moment, Sergeant Berry returned with a captain.  Both were
holding pistols in their hands.

     "Hold it right there!" the captain ordered.  "Put your hands up."

     Two more soldiers came in through the front door at the same time.

     Win and Joe had no option but to comply.  They stuck their hands up.

     The captain called through the open door to someone in the back room.

     "You want to come out here and see if you can identify these men?" he
shouted.

     Win waited for whoever it was the marshal was speaking to in the back
room.

     The man who emerged was Luke Hunter.  Hunter smiled broadly when he saw
them.

     "Congratulations, Captain Parnell," Hunter said.  "You've caught yourself
the Coulter brothers.  That would be Win Coulter, and that is Joe."

     "Thank you, Mr. Hunter.  All right, men," Parnell said to the two
privates.  "Get their guns and shackle them."

     "Yes, sir," one of the soldiers answered, putting down his rifle to tend
to the task at hand.

     "I'll just bet you boys thought you would never see me again," Hunter
said to the two brothers as they were being divested of their weapons and put
in handcuffs.

     Win shook his head.  "Oh, no, I figured I would see you again," he said.

     "Really?" Hunter replied.  "Now, how is that?"

     "Because, I'd have to see you again in order to kill you," Win said.

     Hunter laughed.  "Oh, you were going to kill me, were you?" he said.
"Well, too bad for you it's not going to work out quite the way you had it
planned."

     "That's all right.  Maybe we won't get you, but someone will, you
traitorous bastard," Joe insisted.

     "Funny that you would call me a traitor, when you are going to be hanged
for treason," Hunter said.  "The truth is, I was a part of the Kansas Militia,
all along.  I was spying on you boys, for the whole time I was with you,
providing information on where you were and what you were doing.  Todd?
Anderson?  They were killed because I set them up.  Just like I set you up
with the bank robbery."

     "That's enough, Hunter," Parnell said.  "We'll take it from here."

     "What about my money?" Hunter asked.

     "I'll give you a voucher."

     "Money?" Win asked.

     Hunter smiled.  "I get one hundred dollars for ever' one of you Quantrill
bastards I identify.  I figure about the time that hangman's noose is snapping
your neck, I'll be somewhere enjoying myself with a couple of whores.
Goodbye, boys.  I'll see you in hell."

     Hunter laughed fiendishly as he left through the back door.

     The soldiers piled Win and Joe's weapons on the table.  There were a
total of four pistols and two knives.

     "Sergeant Berry, check their horses out front," Parnell ordered.  "Look
for a saddle scabbard in their saddlebags and their bedroll."

     "Yes, sir."

     "You two men have anything to say?" Captain Parnell asked.

     "What happened to amnesty?" Win asked.

     Parnell chortled.  "You didn't really think we would give people like you
amnesty, did you?"

     "Why not?  We were soldiers."

     "You were criminals and butchers," Parnell snarled.  "Did you men really
think you could sack Lawrence and get away with it?"

     Neither Win nor Joe answered, for they knew they couldn't defend
Lawrence, even to themselves, let alone to anyone else.

     "You know, men, there is a way to save your necks," Captain Parnell said.

     "How is that?" Win asked.

     "You can tell us where Quantrill is."

     "I don't know where he is," Win answered.  "But even if I did know, I
wouldn't tell you."

     "Oh?  Well, we'll see if your tongue gets any looser when you climb those
thirteen steps to eternity."


                                      22


     Captain Parnell waited at the Kansas City railroad depot for his
prisoners to be delivered to him.  General Ewing had personally selected
Parnell to escort Win and Joe Coulter to St. Louis.  "ONCE WE GET THEIR SORRY
HIDES THERE," EWING HAD told him when he gave Parnell his orders, "we'll have
a big trial, covered by all the newspapers.  Then we'll build a gallows on the
banks of the Mississippi and invite the whole country to witness their
hanging.  That will loosen their lips.  They'll be begging to tell us where
Quantrill is, before all that is over."

     "General, we aren't going to let them off the hook, just because they
cooperate with us, are we?" Parnell had asked.

     Ewing had smiled and replied, "Hell no.  We're going to convict them for
more than one murder.  If we let them off the hook for one, they'll still hang
for the others."

     Parnell had laughed.  "I'm going to enjoy seeing the expression on their
faces when they learn that."



     As it had been for several days now, the depot was crowded with men in
blue and men in gray, for soldiers from both armies were going home.  It was
easy to tell the difference, even if the men had shed all or part of their
uniforms, for the Union soldiers moved with a bouncy step and jaunty airs,
whereas the Confederates were much more melancholy.

     Three veterans of the failed Confederacy, in dirty gray uniforms, sat on
an unused baggage cart, watching the activity.  One of the soldiers had an
empty sleeve, another an empty trouser leg, and all three had empty spirits.

     A couple of black men, freed by the war, were earning a few pennies by
carrying baggage or loading cargo onto the train.  A wagon carrying three kegs
of gunpowder stopped at the platform.

     "Here, you, nig'ra.  You want to make some money?"  One of the blacks
looked toward the man who had called them, a red-faced well-dressed, heavyset
civilian.

     "Yes, sir."

     "Load these here three kegs of gunpowder onto that last car there."

     "Hold on there!" Parnell called, overhearing the transaction.  "You can't
load powder in that car.  That's where my men and I will be riding."

     "Sorry, Cap'n," the civilian said, showing the captain some papers.  "But
that's the rules of the Frisco Railroad.  They won't carry gunpowder in the
baggage car."

     "But it's only three kegs."

     "That don't make no difference.  They won't carry no amount a'tall."

     "All right," Parnell said after reading the papers.  He handed them back
to the civilian.  "But they'll be hearing from General Ewing, soon as I get
back from St. Louis."

     The civilian chuckled.  "You tell your general.  You tell him to write
'em a good letter."  The civilian signalled to the black man, who started
loading the kegs of powder onto the front end of the passenger car that was
attached to the end of the train.

     "I seen 'em," a young boy shouted, running up to the platform.  "I seen
'em comin'."

     "You see who, boy?"

     "Why, Win and Joe Coulter," the boy said excitedly.  "They got 'em in
chains in a wagon.  They're comin' this way."

     "Win and Joe Coulter?  Who are they?" one of the nearby civilians asked.

     "Who are they?  Why, where was you durin' the war?  They was just two of
Quantrill's most ferocious guerrillas, that's all.  You heard of Bloody Bill
Anderson and Little Archie Clement?"

     "Yeah."

     "Well, these here boys made them seem like Sunday school teachers."

     "They prisoners of war?"

     "No such a thing.  These boys is goin' to St. Louis where they're goin'
to be hung."

     Parnell smiled at the interest already generated by the Coulters.  He
planned to stay on in the army, and his part in capturing the Coulters would
have to bode well for his career.

     The wagon arrived at the edge of the platform and Sergeant Berry and two
soldiers jumped down.  Holding their rifles at port arms, the soldiers watched
as Win and Joe, bound together by a heavy iron chain, climbed down from the
wagon.

     "Sergeant Berry, get them into that last car," Parnell ordered.

     "Yes, sir.  This way, men," the sergeant said.  "Oh, Captain Parnell,
will you be riding in the car with us?"

     "Absolutely," Parnell replied.  "I've chased these boys for the entire
war.  I don't intend to let them out of my sight from now until the moment the
rope is put around their necks.  Now, get 'em on board.  We don't have all
day."

     "Yes, sir."

     On board the train Win and Joe were seated in two facing wooden benches.
An iron bar ran across the floor between them.  Their chain was unlocked,
passed through the bar, then locked again.

     "You two boys get real comfortable," Berry said, jerking on the chain so
that the leg irons dug deep into their legs.  Joe grunted in pain.  "But not
too comfortable," he added, laughing as he moved to the front of the car to
join the soldiers.

     Parnell got on board then and, with a sidelong glance at Win and Joe, he,
too, went to the front of the car where he took a seat across the aisle from
Berry and the other two soldiers.  Shortly after that the train rolled out of
the station in a series of jerks and squeaks.

     Once they were under way, Parnell found a newspaper to read, while
Sergeant Berry and the two privates began playing cards.  No one was paying
any attention to Win and Joe.  "Joe," Win whispered.

     "Yes?"

     "Look, there.  You think you can do anything about that?"

     Win was pointing to one of the bolts that held the iron bar retaining
plate.  The bolt was loose.

     "I'll see what I can do," Joe said.  "You keep a lookout."

     The way they were sitting put Joe's back to the front of the car.  Win,
who was sitting just across from Joe was facing the front, so he could see
their guards.  With Berry and the two privates playing cards, and Parnell
engrossed in his newspaper, no one was paying any attention to what Joe was
doing.

     By the time the train was twenty miles east of Kansas City, Joe had
worked the bolt loose.  After that it was easy to slip the chain out from
under the bar.

     "Captain Parnell?" Win called.

     "What do you want?"

     "Could you spare a cigar?"

     "A cigar?  Now what makes you think I would want to give a cigar to
Confederate trash like you?"

     "I can pay for it."

     "How are you going to do that, Coulter?" Parnell asked.  "We already took
everything you had."

     "I got some money hidden."

     Parnell laughed.  "So, you're going to tell me where it's hidden, so
that, someday, I'll be able to find it.  Is that it?"

     "You can get it today, on the way to St. Louis," Win said.

     Parnell put down his paper.  "Keep talking."

     "How about the cigar?"

     "What if you're lying?"

     "I guess you've got to trust me," Win said, smiling.

     "Do you think I really believe you would tell me where all your money is
hidden, just for one cigar?"

     "Oh, I'm not telling you where all of it is.  Just a little, like a few
hundred dollars from a job we did at Sedalia a couple of months ago.  When we
stop for water you could jump off the train, get the money, and get right back
on the train.  If I'm lying, you can settle with me when you get back on."

     "All right," Parnell said.  "Tell me and I'll look for it.  If I find it,
I'll give you a cigar."

     "No, I won't do it like that.  Suppose I tell you, and you don't give me
the cigar?  I'd be out the money then, and no cigar."

     "What difference does it make?  You're going to hang anyway."

     "Hell, Cap'n Parnell, if you ain't goin' to give him a cigar, I will,"
Berry said.  "Then he can tell me."

     "No you aren't, Sergeant.  It's my deal."

     "Don't you other boys worry about it," Win said.  "I think Captain
Parnell is a sharing man.  Otherwise I'm sure you would tell the general how
Parnell made a deal with his prisoners."

     "Damn you," Parnell said, angrily.  "Keep your damned mouth shut!"

     "Cap'n, he didn't tell us nothin' we ain't already been thinkin' about,"
Berry said.

     "All right, all right," Parnell agreed.  "We'll share the money.  I'll
give you your damn cigar, Coulter.  But you only get one between the two of
you."

     "One's enough," Win said.

     Captain Parnell walked back and put the cigar in Win's mouth, then lit
it.  Win took several puffs, letting each puff out in a loud, satisfied sigh.
Finally, when a substantial cloud of blue smoke had been raised, he reached up
with his manacled hands and pulled the cigar out of his mouth to pass it over
to Joe.

     "Now, where's that money?" Parnell asked.

     "You were with her, weren't you?" Win asked.

     "What?"

     "Belle Amberly."

     "What are you talking about?"

     "She begged you to let the women go, but you wouldn't do it unless she
... did ... things for you.  She wasn't buying her freedom, she was trying to
get you to move the other women to safety.  She told me all about it.  That's
true, isn't it?"

     "So what if it is?" Parnell asked.  "Were you sweet on her, or
something?"

     Win didn't answer, and Parnell grinned, evilly.  "Son of a bitch!  That's
it, isn't it?  You were sweet on that whore."  He laughed.  "Well, Mr.
Bushwhacker, I'm not only taking you to St. Louis to hang, I also screwed your
woman.  I screwed her because she begged me to screw her.  Do you like
thinking about that?"

     "Cap'n Parnell, he's just trying to get out of tellin' us where the money
is," the sergeant said.

     "Sergeant Berry is right," Parnell said.  "I gave you the cigar, now you
tell us where the goddamned money is."

     "When you stop for water, go to the northeast leg of the water tank," Win
said.  "Look up under the bottom of the tank, and you'll see a shelf.  The
money's in a burlap bag on that shelf."

     "How much is there?" Berry asked eagerly.

     "Well, Sergeant, this may just be the most expensive cigar I ever
smoked," Win said.  "As near as I can recall, there's a little over eight
hundred dollars in that bag."

     "Son of a bitch!" the sergeant said, smiling broadly.  "Think of that,
boys.  That's two hundred dollars apiece!"

     Parnell went back to his newspaper, not happy that he was getting two
hundred dollars, but upset that he was losing six hundred.  Sergeant Berry and
the two privates got into an animated discussion as to how they would spend
their money.

     "Win, there's no money there," Joe whispered.

     "Doesn't matter," Win answered.  "We'll be gone long before the train
gets there."

     "You got a plan?"

     "Pass me the cigar."

     Win took several puffs on the cigar until the end was glowing cherry red.
He looked toward the front of the car, and seeing that no one was paying any
attention to him, flipped the cigar toward the three kegs of gunpowder.  The
cigar landed on the cracked top of the nearest keg.

     For a minute, nothing happened.

     "It caught," Win finally said.  "I can see smoke.  We'll give it ten
seconds, then we have to duck behind these seats."

     "Why, that's three kegs of powder.  We might get blown all to hell," Joe
suggested.

     "So what?  It's better than hanging," Win answered.

     "Yeah, I guess you're right at that," Joe agreed.

     Slowly and quietly Win counted.  When he reached ten, he yelled, "Now!"

     They stood up quickly, then jumped around behind Win's wooden bench.

     "What the hell?" Berry shouted, rising to his feet and pulling his
pistol.  "They're gettin' away!"

     Berry fired at them, and the bullet crashed through the back of the seat,
then fried the air just between Win and Joe.

     "Goddamn!" Joe shouted.  "When's that son of a bitch going to blow?"

     Suddenly one of the Yankee soldiers saw the smoke curling up from the
gunpowder.

     "Cap'n Parnell, look!"

     "Shit!" Parnell shouted, and he started toward the window.

     It was too late.  At that moment the powder went off with a blinding
flash and a deafening roar.  The front half of the car, where the soldiers
were, was completely blown away, separating the back half, and leaving it
slanting down toward the track bed from the rear wheels.  The back of the car
was filled with smoke from the charge.  The train had been running at better
than thirty miles per hour when the gunpowder exploded, so the severed car
continued under its own momentum for a while before coming to a rough stop.
The main body of the train went on for several hundred feet before the
engineer realized what had happened.  When he saw that he had lost the
rear-most car, he applied the brakes, bringing the train to a screeching dead
stop.

     Win and Joe were coughing furiously, trying to clear their throats,
nostrils, and eyes of the acrid cordite.  When the smoke cleared, Win looked
around the car.  It was as if some giant had cut it in two with an axe.  The
front half was completely gone, and so were Captain Parnell, Sergeant Berry,
and the two privates.

     "You all right?" Win asked.

     "Yeah."

     "Come on," Win said.  "We've got to get out of here before the train
backs up."

     "We won't be movin' very fast like this," Joe grumbled, rattling the
chain that joined them.

     "We'll take care of that later.  Now we've got to get out of here."

     Win and Joe jumped out of the open end of the car, then ran down the
coal-and-cobble-covered berm to hide in some brush by the track.  They watched
as the train backed up.  Several people got off the train and ran up to the
wreckage to look around.

     "I said all along, we ain't got no business carryin' gunpowder on the
same train as passengers," the conductor said.

     "What d'you think caused it?" someone asked.

     "Hell, it coulda been anything," the conductor said.  "Maybe one of 'em
was smokin'.  Maybe a spark flew in from the engine.  Who knows?  All I know
is, six men are dead."

     "Six?" Joe whispered.

     Win held a finger to his lips.

     "Hell, for them poor Coulter boys, it's prob'ly just as well they went
this way, 'stead of hangin'.  Leastwise, this way, they never knew what hit
'em.  Come on, folks, we have to get back on the train.  We've got to get to
Sedalia and send a telegraph so they can get the track cleared."

     The train crew and curious passengers reboarded.  Then, with several
chugging puffs of steam, the train began rolling again.  Win and Joe waited
for several moments until the sound of the train had faded in the distance.
Now there was only the whisper of the wind and the flutter of grasshoppers.

     "They think we're dead," Joe said.

     "Yeah," Win said.  "And if we stay in Missouri and someone who knows us,
sees us, it's only a matter of time until we are."

     "So, what do you think we should do?"

     Win held out his arms.  "Well, the first thing to do is to get out of
these chains."

     "You have any ideas on how?" Joe asked.

     Win smiled.  "Nope.  You're more resourceful than I am when it comes to
things like this.  I'm going to let you handle that part of it."

     "All right," Joe said.  "I'll get us out of the chains.  Then what?"

     "Then, little brother, we're going to get the hell out of Missouri."


                                      23


                        Western Kansas, one year later

     Win and Joe had never been in the little town before, but they had seen
several just like it since the war.  They dismounted in front of the livery,
and a gnarled old man came shuffling outside.  He waved his hand at the flies
which were buzzing around his head.

     "You boys wantin' to board your horses?" he asked.  "Fifty cents a night.
That includes the feedin'."

     "No, we won't be staying," Win answered.  "Just give em some water and
oats, then tie 'em off over in front of the saloon."  Win gave the old man a
couple of coins.

     "I'll take care of 'em.  You boys come into town to see the sight, did
you?" the old man asked.

     "The sight?"

     "Over in the saloon," the old man explained.  "Folks been comin' in from
all over to see it for two, three days now.  I keep tellin' ever'one, them
boys is goin' to get ripe pretty soon, never mind that they pack 'em in ice
ever' night."

     "Mister, I don't know what the hell you are talking about."

     "Hmm.  Don't know where you been the last couple days that you didn't
hear about it," the old man said.  "But it seems that last Monday mornin'
three boys come ridin' into town, plannin' to rob the bank.  Only thing is,
our marshal got word they was comin' in, an' near 'bout the whole town was
waitin' for 'em.  They was shot down 'fore they ever got off their horses."

     "Wait a minute," Joe said.  "Are you telling me they were shot down
before they went into the bank?"

     "Hell, they wasn't even halfway to the bank when the shootin' commenced,"
the old man replied.  "I told you, the marshal got word.  He had the whole
town waitin' for 'em."

     "But if they hadn't done anything yet, how did you know they were going
to rob the bank?  Hell, they might've changed their minds and decided to just
ride on through," Joe said.

     "Coulda done that, I s'pose, but the marshal never give 'em no chance to
change their minds.  He know'd about their plans, and he took care of 'em.
Now them three boys is over to the saloon, strapped to boards, standin' up
against the wall.  Marshal Hunter says that if they don't get too ripe, he's
goin' to keep 'em there for two whole weeks as a warning to any other outlaws
as might think our town is fair pickin'."

     Both Win and Joe reacted to the name.  "Did you say Hunter?" Win asked.
"Your marshal is named Hunter?"

     "Yep.  Luke Hunter," the old man replied.  "He rode with Jim Lane and
Captain Emil Slaughter durin' the war.  Reckon you heard of Emil Slaughter."

     "I reckon we did," Win said.

     "That's what makes it so ironic about them three boys that rode in on
Monday," the old man explained.  He chuckled.  "You know what the word
'ironic' means?  I had to ask the newspaper fella what it meant when he put it
in his story.  It means a joke that's not really funny."

     "What about the three boys do you find ironic?" Win asked.

     "Well, accordin' to Marshal Hunter, they was once riders for Quantrill.
What do you think about that?"

     "I think I'd like to have a look at them," Win said.

     "Figured you'd want to," the old man said.  "Like I said, it's a mighty
interestin' sight.  You go on over there and take a look.  I'll have your
horses fed and in front of the saloon in no more'n five minutes."

     "Thanks," Win called back over his shoulder as he and Joe started across
the street.

     THE SALOON WAS SO CROWDED THAT THEY HAD TO TURN sideways to pick their
way through the crowd to the bar.  There was a particularly large gathering in
the rear, near the piano.

     "You want to go back there?" Joe asked.

     "Not yet," Win said.  "I think I need a drink first."

     "Yeah, me too."

     They found an opening at the end of the bar.

     "What'll it be for you gents?" the bartender asked, sliding down to greet
them.

     "Two whiskeys," Win said.

     The bartender nodded, and started to turn away when Joe said: "And I'll
have the same."

     The bartender brought out four shot glasses and filled them.  "You boys
strangers in town?" he asked.  "Don't think I've seen you before."

     "We're just passing through."

     The bartender nodded toward the back wall.  "Well, you don't want to miss
the sight," he said.

     "It looks a little crowded over there right now," Joe suggested.

     "It ain't goin' to get any less crowded," the bartender said.  "It's
drawin' people from all over."

     "How long does the marshal plan to keep them there?"

     "Oh, they'll stay 'til they're so ripe that folks won't come in and see
them anymore.  They've been great for business, and I'm givin' the marshal a
percentage of ever' drink I sell.  I reckon he's in no more of a hurry to bury
'em than I am."  The bartender laughed, and looked toward the ceiling.
"'Course, I'm gettin' that all back too, since he spends so much time with the
girls that work here."

     "He's up there now, is he?" Win asked.

     "Went up with the new girl about five minutes ago," the bartender said.

     "Bartender, how about a couple drinks down here!" someone called.

     "You boys excuse me, I got to get back to work," the bartender said.  He
nodded toward the back wall.  "Now, don't you forget to go over there and take
a look.  It's somethin' worth seem'."

     Win and Joe downed their second whiskies, then with a nod to indicate
that they were ready, moved through the crowd to the back of the room.  They
were halfway there when they recognized the dead men.

     "Win!" Joe said with a quick intake of breath.

     "I know," Win replied quietly.  "Don't say anything."

     The bodies were those of Ethan, Tate, and Boykin.  Tied to boards, they
were standing up against the back wall, pistols clutched in their stiffened
hands, mouths set in a snarl, and their eyes open and sightless.  There were
half a dozen or more bullet holes in each of them: little black punctures in
their chests and heads, arms and legs.  Three or four of the men closest to
the bodies were drinking heavily, laughing and "toasting" the dead men,
bragging as to whose bullets made which holes.

     "Yes, sir, I'll just bet them boys was mighty sorry they chose our bank
to rob," one of the men said.

     "Joe," Win said under his breath.  "Get the horses.  Bring them to the
alley around back."

     Joe nodded, then left without questioning Win's order.

     Moving slowly, so as not to call any attention to himself, Win slipped
back through the crowd, then up the stairs.  When he reached the landing at
the top of the stairs, he looked down.  Not one eye was on him.

     Win moved down the hall, stopping outside each room to listen.  Then he
heard Luke's voice.

     "Do it, bitch!  You know what I like!"

     Win opened the door very quietly, then looked inside.  Luke was standing
by the bed with his back to the door.  A woman was kneeling in front of him.
Her eyes were closed and her mouth was full.  Her hands were holding onto
Luke's naked butt.

     "Ah, that's it," Luke cooed.  "Suck it, baby, suck it."

     Still unnoticed, Win moved up behind Luke.  Pulling his pistol, he stuck
the end of the barrel just barely into the rim of Luke's butt-hole.

     "Oh, yeah, baby, that's good!" Luke said.

     Win jammed it in, hard, about an inch.

     "Ouch, what the hell?" Luke shouted in sudden pain.  It wasn't until that
moment that the woman opened her eyes.  They grew wide when she saw what Win
was doing.

     "You want to take his cock out of your mouth and step away, ma'am?" Win
asked quietly.  "Oh, and don't make a sound.  I wouldn't want you to get
hurt."

     Luke started to move but Win shoved the pistol in a little deeper.  "Not
you, you son of a bitch.  You stay where you are," he said.

     Quickly, the woman moved over to sit, naked, on the side of the bed.  She
looked at Win with frightened eyes.

     "Take your gun out of my ass, you bastard," Luke ordered.  "You know you
can't shoot me.  This is my town.  You shoot me and the folks downstairs will
tear you from asshole to teakettle."

     "The folks downstairs are all drunk," Win said.  "They are celebrating
killing Ethan, Tate, and Boykin."

     "Yes, and they'll kill you too if you try anything," Luke insisted.

     "Maybe I'll just take my chances."

     "What do you want to kill me for, anyway, Coulter?  Because of what we
did durin' the war?  Hell, we was on opposite sides," Luke said.  "And when
you get right down to it, I don't figure either one of us can be proud of what
we done.  You shot Slaughter down in front of his wife an' kids.  Did that
make you feel proud?"

     "What happened downstairs didn't have anything to do with the war," Win
said.

     "Yeah, well, I didn't kill those boys by myself," Luke answered.  "Half
the town was in on it.  After you shoot me, what are you going to do?  Take
them on?"

     "Maybe."

     "Listen, maybe we can work something out.  You got any money?  I'll bet
you're broke, aren't you?"

     "What are you going to do, Luke, pay me not to shoot you?"

     "Why not?" Luke said.  "I've got twenty dollars in my pocket."

     Win laughed.  "Twenty dollars?  Yeah, that's probably a pretty good
price, considering that's about all you're worth.  But it's not enough."

     "Wait, wait, I've got somethin' you might be interested in," Luke said.
"I've got me a gold watch that I carried through the whole war.  It's real
gold.  Hell, the gold alone is worth a hundred dollars or more.  It's all
yours, if you'll put that gun away and walk on out of here."

     "Where is the watch?"

     "It's in my pants pocket."

     Win looked over at the woman who was still sitting, naked and frightened,
on the bed.  "Get it," he told her.

     "You want to take that gun out of my ass now?" Luke asked.

     Win jammed it in a little harder.

     "Ouch!"

     "Not yet," Win said.

     The woman emptied Luke's pants pocket, pulling out a knife, a few coins,
and a pocket watch.

     "Take a good look at that watch," Luke bragged.  "I took it off some dumb
dirt farmer, right after the war started.  Can you imagine a dirt farmer
having a watch like that?  There's no tellin' what that watch is worth, and
it's yours, if you let me go."

     Win held out his hand and the woman gave him the watch.  Even before he
touched it, he knew that it was his father's watch.

     "What happened to the farmer?" Win asked in a choked voice.

     "Are you kidding?  We killed the son of a bitch," Luke replied.  "Him and
the scrawny-assed woman too.  You don't have to worry about anyone comin'
aroun' tryin' to claim this watch."

     At that precise moment the grief Win felt over his mother's and father's
deaths was as intense as it had been on the day he and Joe discovered the
burned farm and the charred bodies.  He almost gave in to the grief, then he
felt the white-heat of anger.  He let that anger build until it washed
throughout his entire body.  The anger had the effect of pushing the grief
away.

     "Look, Coulter, are you going to take the deal or not?" Luke growled.  "I
ain't got all day.  Either shit, or get off the pot."

     "Shit, or get off the pot," Win replied.  "Yeah, that's a good idea."  He
pulled the trigger.