‘I stayed a night or two with this English preacher,’ said Herne as they joined Cole Younger, Frank James, and four or five other young men around one of the circles of little fires that had sprung up in the darkness of the guerrilla camp.
‘That the one you said had the twin daughters and the wife who all loved up a storm and chanted the Psalms while they done it four in a bed?’ asked Whitey, unable to hide his elation at keeping living.
‘That’s the one. Well, he had some books from England and he gave me one about a man who joins some travelling people. Gypsies they’re called.’
‘This story better have some point,’ said Cole Younger. ‘Make it short and dirty, Jedediah, if’n you please. We got us some talkin’ to do.’
‘Hold your horses, there,’ replied Herne, happy to have the weight of the Tranter pistol back at his belt again. ‘Whitey here asked me if I was glad to be still living. And there was a piece in his book I’m talkin’ about. By a writer called Borrow. Where someone asks him if’n he’s glad to be alive.’
Jed sensed that Cole Younger was a natural-born leader, with great presence and control. A tall, strong man who looked like he’d be a good friend and a bad enemy.
‘What does he say?’ asked Frank James, pushing a coffee pot further into the flames.
‘I don’t recollect the exact words, but it goes something like this. That there’s night and day, both good things. The sun and the moon and the stars, and they’re all good things too. There is the wind on the hills, brothers. When life is so good, then who would wish to die?’
There was a long silence after Jed finished speaking, while the group of men stared into the flames, each locked into their own memories of how things used to be for them. Or how things might have been. It was Cole Younger who broke the stillness, coughing before he spoke.
‘That’s real pretty, Jedediah. I’ll allow that. Real pretty. But it don’t signify much when you ride with Colonel William Quantrill and his Raiders. Not with the hand of every man turned against you. There’s killing at night and in the day. Under the sun and the moon, brother Jed. I’ll allow you that too. And as for the wind on the hills … I figure we know more about ridin’ with that wind than most folks ever do.’
‘And nobody wants to die, Jed,’ added Frank James. ‘But there’s things a man’s got to do that you just can’t ride around and close your eyes to. We all believe what we’re doin’ here. That’s why my little brother’s comin’ out in the morning to ride with us.’
Herne leaned forwards to help himself to the coffee, pouring it into a mug that someone had handed to him. Feeling the warmth of the liquid blaze through him against the growing chill of the evening.
‘The colonel wants us tested. That it?’
Younger nodded, his wide-set eyes fixed on Jed’s face. ‘That’s the length and the breadth of it, boy. You and … what do they call you? Whitey, is it?’
Herne stiffened, allowing his hand to drop to the butt of the Tranter in what he knew would be a futile gesture of help. Isaiah Coburn was damned touchy about being ail albino. There’d been times when he’d ripped the throat out of a bully in a bar in Wyoming for joshing him about his pale skin, red eyes and white hair. Then Jed relaxed as his friend answered in a quiet voice, not even looking up from the ground where he was cleaning his knife against his boot.
‘That’s what friends call me. The name’s Isaiah Coburn. I’ll answer to Whitey, but I’ll not take more on what I am and how I look.’
Cole Younger nodded, hearing the clear note of warning in the lad’s voice. Being old enough and experienced enough as a judge of men to see that these two young boys were not the usual bullet fodder who came to join Quantrill for the glory and the death. Herne and Coburn were different
‘Likely that’ll be how it rests, Whitey.’ he said to him. ‘Now, there’s the plans for tomorrow.’
‘Where and how many of us?’
Frank James grinned at Herne’s enthusiasm. ‘Regular fire-eater, ain’t you? Hold on back and let Cole do the talkin’ ‘bout it.’
It was a simple operation for their test. It was clear that Quantrill had something big in the wind, but if Cole knew what it was he wasn’t letting on to the new and unknown recruits for fear of treachery.
Cole would be in charge of a visit to a small settlement nearby, called Strafford Springs. It was only a few houses, a stable and a saloon, but it was close by to some of the main trails used by the Jayhawkers. Quantrill wanted them to go in and spend a couple of hours there, finding out what information they could, and then ride out again.
‘Simple, ain’t it?’
‘Who do we say we are?’ asked Herne.
‘Who?’
‘Sure. I’m not stupid. I know we don’t wear no uniform nor nothing. But I figure they might be suspicious if’n half a dozen men ride in from nowhere askin’ a load of questions about Jim Lane.’
‘Sure. But there won’t be that many. You and Whitey. Frank here with his little brother. That’s all. I’ll be waitin’ a few miles out for you.’ he paused. ‘Frank?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What’s the name of your young brother? Never did get to know it.’
Frank James sniffed, flicking a fly away from near his mouth, ‘J. W. James.’
‘What’s the J.W. for?’
‘W’s for Woodson. It’s some kind of a family name.’
‘What about the J. then?’
Frank sniffed again. ‘He ain’t over-fond of it, though it comes from the Bible. It stands for Jesse. Jesse Woodson James.’