They were on the road by seven o’clock in the morning, and the sun gleamed on the horizon directly in front of them, casting long shadows over the sage. Farmer on, beyond a gradual slope, rose a gigantic rock formation like the supreme monument of a lost civilization. The blue sky was adorned with streaks of silver, and a lone eagle circled high over their heads, a dot in the endless sky.
Stone wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His tongue hung out and he felt like shit. His head throbbed with pain. Why do I keep doing this to myself? With shaking hands, he rolled himself a cigarette.
“You ain’t lookin’ so good this mornin’, Johnny.” Slipchuck flicked the reins. “You look like sumpin’ that’s been shot at, missed, and then shot at and hit.”
“Think I had one too many last night.”
“I’m feelin’ poorly myself. But that was some fine likker and you got to take it when it comes yer way. It’s my belief likker keeps a man fit. Some don’t agree, but I ain’t been convinced.”
Stone lit his cigarette. He felt damn near dead. It was hard to breathe and he was weak. I’m killing myself.
The sun rose in the sky. In the cab, everybody lay with their eyes closed, taking a morning nap, the carriage rocking from side to side on its leather thoroughbrace suspension.
Diane felt languid and lazy, a faint smile on her pretty features. She was remembering how she’d spent the night cuddled against the standoffish John Stone, and how good it’d felt.
A few times, underneath the blankets, their cheeks had touched, and he’d pulled her closer. He’d been drunk, and didn’t know what he was doing, but their bodies had been separated by only a few thin layers of cloth.
Edward McManus was sprawled next to her, dreaming about a network of stagecoach stops throughout the frontier, where the roofs didn’t leak and there were decent sleeping facilities for human beings. He saw settlements growing up around the stagecoach stops, and then villages and towns. There’d be commerce, growth, railroads, factories. A new nation would arise and challenge the world. And he’d be one rich son of a bitch.
Across from him, Priscilla Bellevue was reading the Bible, John 8:7, about Mary Magdalene.
So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.
Priscilla felt a special affinity for Mary Magdalene. Priscilla had to leave the town where she’d been teaching because of rumors about her and a cowboy named Zeke. Decent God-fearing people didn’t want a tainted woman teaching their children. Now she was going to a new town where nobody knew her, and this time she’d stay away from cowboys.
She looked across the carriage at Diane, and knew the Englishwoman was falling in love with John Stone, who, in Priscilla’s eyes, was either a cowboy or a gunfighter, probably both.
She was intrigued by Stone too. He was courteous and obviously a well-educated man, yet carried two big Colts, was built like a lumberjack, and drank like a horse. No man could drink like that and survive.
She wondered what was bothering him, and wanted him to tell her his problems, so she could help him. They could sit quietly someplace and talk about life. She wanted to save him.
In the corner, Maureen McManus reclined on her seat, a frown on her face. She’d married her husband because he was rich and she was poor, but kept comparing her husband to John Stone, and her husband didn’t come off so well.
Her husband was twenty years older than she, with a big potbelly, flabby jowls, and thinning hair. Every night she went to bed with him and made the best of it.
She thought it’d be nice to go to bed with a young man, like John Stone. She’d known a man like Stone once. His name had been Charley Russell and he’d been a gold prospector who’d searched all his life for the mother lode, but never found it, except in her arms.
They’d had good times together, but his future hadn’t looked so wonderful, and then she met McManus, who offered her the moon, and she took it. Now she was a rich banker’s wife, with the best of everything, but every night she had to go to bed with the son of a bitch.
John Stone reminded her of Charley Russell. They both had the same swagger and careless laugh. Each was good-looking, in a rough and ready way. And both were heavy drinkers.
Charley Russell was his most amorous when drunk. He became a naughty little boy. Her husband burped beside her, as he dreamed of cities in the wilderness. Maureen turned away from him. She didn’t ever want to go to bed with him again.
They came to a vast plain of gently rolling purple hills with a distant mountain range on the right. The plain seemed to go on forever, and the stagecoach path was a straight line directly through the middle of it, disappearing into the far horizon.
Stone puffed his cigarette, and little white spots danced in front of him. His stomach was queasy and he swore he’d never touch another drop.
He’d been drinking for most of his life, even when he’d been a teenager back in South Carolina. He’d drunk at West Point and he’d drunk during the war, but he’d never drunk like this. It was getting out of control. He had to take hold of himself.
Everything went back in Arizona. He’d been shot in a saloon, and his shoulder still hurt whenever it rained, like last night. An old Army friend had been mutilated by Apaches. A young cavalry officer whom he’d recently met had been disemboweled by Apaches. His Apache friend Lobo had been stabbed through the heart by another Apache. Stone began to drink seriously in Arizona.
But Arizona hadn’t been a complete catastrophe. In the Sonoran desert he’d met the rancher who thought he’d seen Marie in Texas. Maybe in a month or two he’d find her, and things’d be the way they had in the old days, before the war. Maybe his quest would soon be over, and he could live a normal life again. And maybe not. The woman in Texas might not be Marie, or if she were, what about her husband, the elderly gentleman Stone had been told about by the rancher?
“I think there’s somethin’ out there,” said Slipchuck, leaning forward and squinting.
Stone looked straight ahead and saw dancing dots of light. “What is it?”
“Somebody’s comin’.”
Stone raised the shotgun, cracked it open, and made sure it was loaded. “How many?”
“Cain’t see yet.”
Stone leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. He hoped they weren’t Indians. It’d be a rough go, if they were Indians. All they could do was turn around and make a run for it, but those old nags pulling the stagecoach would be no match for Comanche war ponies. The braves would fill Stone full of arrows and he wouldn’t have to worry about drinking anymore.
“Looks like a wagon,” Slipchuck said.
Stone peered ahead and saw a black dot followed by a puff of dust at the end of the road. He realized now that he should’ve made the trip alone by horseback, but hadn’t felt up to it. He’d nearly got killed by Apaches when traveling alone on horseback in Arizona. There was no easy way to cross the frontier. Indians even attacked trains.
The dot in the distance grew larger, and he saw that indeed it was a wagon. It looked as though one person was driving it, and he was alone.
“Looks like a female,” Slipchuck said.
The wagon came closer, and Stone saw a woman with long dark blond hair seated in front, wearing a gray dress, a farmer’s wife or daughter.
“Wonder what she’s doing out here alone?” Stone asked.
“Prob’ly lives around here.”
There was a load of hay in back of the wagon, which was drawn by two horses. Stone looked around cautiously at the gently sloping hills. He turned his gaze back to the woman.
He could see her white apron, and she wore her hair in pigtails. She raised her hand in greeting as she approached the stagecoach. Edward McManus poked his head out the window and took off his stovepipe hat. “Morning!”
She manipulated her reins, and her horses advanced across the road, blocking the path of the stagecoach. The stagecoach’s lead horses whinnied and raised their front hooves, pawing the air. Stone stood and brought around his shotgun.
A shot rang out, and the shotgun flew out of Stone’s hands, making them sting. He turned to the right and saw a man lying on a hill, a rifle in his hands.
The hay moved in back of the wagon, and three men stood up, masks over their faces, rifles in their hands.
“Hold ’em high and hold ’em steady,” one of them said.
Stone raised his hands. Seven masked men on horseback galloped out of the hills and headed for them, guns in their hands.
“What’s going on!” McManus demanded.
Diane looked out the window, and her hair stood on end. Masked men with guns in their hands were riding toward her. She unbuttoned her shirt pocket, pulling out her derringer.
Priscilla Bellevue reached out quickly and held her wrist. “If you fight them, they’ll kill you and maybe the rest of us too. The only thing to do is give them what they want and hope they leave quickly without hurting anybody.”
Diane hesitated.
“She’s right,” McManus said, placing his hand on her arm. “You’ll get us all killed. Let me handle this.”
Diane dropped the derringer into her shirt pocket and buttoned it.
A voice said: “Everybody git out of that cab, with yer hands held high, and if anybody wants to be a hero, he’ll be a dead hero. Let’s go—move!”
Diane opened the door and saw fourteen masked men on horseback, their hats low over their eyes. Their guns were pointed at her, and she stepped to the side so the others could get out of the cab.
It was hard to see what kind of men the outlaws were, because of the masks. They were all dressed like cowboys, and the man who’d talked had on a black hat and a black and white checked shirt.
“You up there!” he shouted to the top of the cab. “Git down here so’s I kin see you, and I got lead aplenty if anybody wants some.”
Slipchuck climbed down the side of the stagecoach, and Stone followed him. Stone looked at the wagon in front of the stagecoach, and the woman stood with a shotgun in her hands, aiming it directly at him.
Stone and the others lined up beside the stagecoach, holding their hands in the air. An outlaw climbed up the stagecoach to the baggage platform and threw down the bags. Other outlaws dismounted and approached the travelers. The outlaw on the stagecoach threw down the strongbox, and it slammed to the ground. Another outlaw aimed his gun at the lock on the strongbox. The gun fired, rattling everybody’s ears, and the lock exploded. The outlaw bent over and opened the strongbox.
“Chock-full,” he said.
He dumped the bags of coins into burlap sacks. Stone saw his old saddlebags fall to the ground.
“Search the passengers!” said the outlaw in the black and white checked shirt.
Two more outlaws dismounted and walked toward Edward McManus at the end of the line.
“Yer money or yer life,” one of the gunman said.
‘Take the money, but leave the life,” McManus said genially, raising his hands higher.
They frisked him, dropped his wallet into a burlap bag. They took his watch, ring and the diamond stickpin in his tie.
“No matter what a man does,” McManus said, “he has to provide for his future when he’s old. Let me give you my card. Invest your money with my firm, and you won’t have to rob stagecoaches for the rest of your life.”
Maureen screamed as she saw her beautiful dresses thrown onto the ground. An outlaw opened her jewel box and raised a pearl necklace in the air.
“Looka here,” he said.
“Hurry up,” replied their leader.
An outlaw walked up to Stone. “Nice guns you got there.”
“I need ’em.”
“So do I.”
He pulled the Colts out of Stone’s holsters and dropped them in the bag. The other outlaw took Stone’s wallet out of his back pocket and threw it in the bag.
Stone reluctantly threw his coins into the bag. The outlaw moved in front of Slipchuck.
“Ain’t I robbed you before?” he asked.
“Hard to say,” Slipchuck replied. “Cain’t see yer face.”
“You’d better thank God you cain’t see my face, becuzz if you did—I’d kill you. Throw everything you got into the bag, and I’ll take yer gun if you don’t mind.”
The outlaw moved in front of Diane, and a chill passed over her. She reached into her pocket and took out her wallet, tossing it into the bag.
“It’s a girl!” the outlaw said. “Where’s yer jools?”
“I don’t have any jewels.”
“She talks funny too!”
“Hurry up!” said their leader.
Stone stood with his hands in the air, watching the leader of the outlaws, who spoke with a southern accent. Another outlaw moved in front of Maureen McManus.
He grabbed her necklace and pulled it off, dropping it into the bag. She noticed a third outlaw staring at the cleavage of her breasts. He winked, then moved to Priscilla Bellevue.
She was ready and had everything in her hands, dropping the meager pile into the bag.
“You look like a schoolmarm,” the outlaw said.
“That’s what I am.”
“I hate schoolmarms.”
The outlaws slung the burlap bag over the rump of a horse. The rest of the loot already was stuffed into saddlebags. An outlaw detached the stagecoach horses.
“You’re not going to leave us out here without horses!” McManus said.
“’Fraid so,” the outlaw leader replied.
“But we have no weapons. There are Indians . ..”
“Tough shit.”
McManus’s lips turned pale. “You can’t leave us like this!”
“That’s what you think.”
“Yo!” shouted a voice among the outlaws.
They turned around and looked at a tall outlaw wearing a black shirt with a row of buttons on either side of his chest. He beckoned to the leader, who wheeled his horse around and rode back to converse with him. They spoke in low tones, and then the leader rode to where he’d been before. He aimed his gun at Stone. “You’re comin’ with us,” he said.
Stone was astonished. “What for?”
The outlaw leader turned to the man next to him. “Let him use yer horse.”
“What the hell’m I gonna ride?”
The leader pointed to another outlaw. “Ride with him.”
Stone looked up at the outlaw with the checkered shirt. “Why do I have to come with you?”
The leader pointed his gun at Stone. “Do as I say.”
Stone wasn’t about to argue with a gun. He climbed onto the horse and looked back at the outlaw in the black shirt with the two rows of buttons. There was something familiar about the way he sat in his saddle.
“Let’s git out of here,” the outlaw leader said.
The outlaws wheeled their horses around and touched their spurs to their horses’ flanks. The horses leapt forward and broke into a gallop, riding away from the stagecoach, leaving the hapless travelers stranded in the middle of Indian country.
The travelers watched Stone and the outlaws disappear into the sage. McManus took out his silk handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face. “Friends, we’ve been goddamned lucky,” he uttered.
“What about John Stone?” Diane asked.
McManus shrugged. “Maybe he was one of them.”
“I find that hard to believe,” she said, but doubt ran through her now as she thought of his silence, his drinking, his coldness.
Priscilla said, “We’ve got to think of something to do.” She turned toward Slipchuck. “What do you suggest?”
Slipchuck rolled himself a cigarette. “’Bout the onliest thing we can do, I reckon, is go back to that stagecoach stop we was at this morning.”
Maureen McManus widened her eyes. “That’s a long way off.”
“You got a better idea?”
Maureen imagined herself being skinned alive by Comanche raiders. She turned angrily to her husband. “This is your fault!”
McManus ignored her. “At least they left our food and water.” He picked up his overturned picnic basket. “How far do you think that stagecoach stop is?” he asked Slipchuck.
“Fifteen miles.”
Diane looked at the stagecoach sitting forlornly in the middle of the road without its horses. The wagon driven by the woman accomplice of the outlaws was there too. She’d ridden off on a horse with the outlaws, and Diane wondered who she was and what her life was like. What a story she’d be.
“We might as well git a move on,” Slipchuck said. “Ain’t no point hangin’ around cry in’ in our beer.”
They gathered together the food, water, and some of the clothing, making crude knapsacks from shirts and pants. Slipchuck scanned the horizon and wished the sons of bitches had left him his rifle. It was hog-butchery being in Indian country without a rifle.
They hoisted the makeshift packs to their shoulders and began their long walk back to the stagecoach stop. Slipchuck went first, the women were next, and McManus brought up the rear. The sun beat down on them, and somewhere it was beating down on the Comanches. They trudged down the long road, looking fearfully at the hills. Slipchuck thought they’d reach the stagecoach stop sometime in the late afternoon, if the Comanches didn’t get them first.
The outlaws’ horses had slowed to a loping trot, and Stone rode in the middle of them, wondering what the outlaws wanted with him. He had no money, and no one would pay a penny to ransom him. It was a mystery, and he was still hung over. His mouth was dry and he felt a worm boring into the center of his brain. He glanced at the outlaw in the black shirt, and it was clear now that he was the real leader of the group. He rode in front of the others, and evidently the one in the checkered shirt had just been following his orders. Occasionally the outlaw in the black shirt looked back at Stone. No one said a word.
They came to a water hole surrounded by willow trees. Moss, lilies, and ferns overhung its green banks. The outlaws dismounted and led their horses to the water. Stone did the same, and noticed the outlaw in the black shirt walking toward him. Stone stiffened, moving his hands toward his empty holsters. The outlaw chief stopped in front and looked him in the eyes. Stone gazed back, and there was something about the outlaw chief’s dark brown eyes that nagged his memory.
“Don’t you recognize me, Johnny?” the outlaw chief asked.
The voice reminded Stone of the war. The outlaw chief hooked his forefinger into the black bandanna that covered his face and pulled the bandanna down.
“Now do you recognize me?”
Stone’s jaw dropped open. “Beau!”
Beau held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Johnny. It’s been a long time.”
Stone stared at him. It was Captain Beauregard Talbott, who’d commanded Troop D in the Hampton Brigade during the war.
“Aren’t you going to shake my hand?” Beau asked with his old roguish grin.
Stone shook his hand. “By God, I never thought the next time we met, you’d be robbing me.”
“Imagine how I felt,” said Talbott, “when I saw you climb down from the top of that stagecoach. How’ve the years been treating you, Johnny?”
“Just fine,” said Stone, both men knowing it was a lie.
Beau looked at the outlaws gathered around them, and they too were pulling down their masks. “I’d like you all to meet the bravest man I ever knew—Captain John Stone, formerly of the Hampton Brigade. We’re lucky we had the odds on him today.”
The outlaws smiled faintly at Stone.
“These men were with me in the war,” Beau explained. “Bobby Lee surrendered, but we never did.”
The outlaw in the black and white checkered shirt stepped forward, his jowls covered with dark stubble.
“We best git movin’, Beau.”
Beau turned to Stone. “May I present my former first sergeant, Bradford Cavanaugh.”
“It’s a mistake—takin’ him along,” Cavanaugh scowled. “He ain’t gonna be nothin’ but trouble.”
“It’s all right, Cavanaugh. I’ll vouch for him.”
Cavanaugh muttered something incomprehensible as he walked back to his horse.
“He has a naturally suspicious nature.” Beau smiled. “Life’s a little strange when you’re on the dodge. Care for some corn whiskey?
Beau flipped him his canteen, and Stone unscrewed the cap. “What do you plan to do with me?”
“We’ll palaver for a few days, and then I’ll set you lose.”
Cavanaugh spoke from atop his saddle. “I don’t think we should show him where the hideout is. He can bring the law down on us.”
“Johnny, pass Cavanaugh the canteen when you’re finished. I think he needs a drink.”
Stone guzzled a few swallows of corn whiskey, then tossed the canteen to Cavanaugh.
“What’ve you been doing with yourself, Johnny?” Beau asked.
“Drifting and drinking.”
“Times sure have changed, haven’t they?”
Stone looked at Beau and remembered how splendid he’d looked in his officer’s uniform, his cavalry saber at his side. Now Beau was unshaven, had lines of care on his face and weariness in his eyes.
“It’s a new world,” Stone said.
“New but not better.” Beau looked around. “Where’s Gloria?”
The outlaws made way for the woman who’d driven the decoy wagon.
“This is Gloria,” Beau said, placing his arm around her shoulders. “She’s as good a shot as any man in Troop D ever was. We’d like you to have dinner with us tonight.”
“My pleasure,” Stone said.
“Let’s move out,” Beau replied. “We’ve got a long way to go.”
“May I have my guns back, Beau?”
“Sure, Johnny. Give him his guns back, boys.”
“Now wait a minute,” Cavanaugh said.
Beau turned to Cavanaugh, captain to sergeant: “Do as I say!”
A burlap bag was brought forward and dropped in front of Stone. He reached inside, searched among the coins and baubles, and found his two Colts. Spinning the cylinders, he dropped them into their holsters. The other outlaws mounted up. Beau and Gloria rode side by side to the head of the formation, and the outlaws moved their horses back to make way for them.
Beau stood in his saddle and looked around. He moved his arm forward, and the outlaw band rode away from the water hole. Stone closed his eyes, and it was the same sound as a cavalry unit moving to the front, the jangling and snorting of horses, the creak of saddles. Time has turned me around.
Stone sat tall in his saddle and looked ahead at Beau, leading the outlaw band just as he’d led old Troop D. Beau rode with superb form, his shoulders squared, a bandit by profession, an officer at his core.
Stone hadn’t seen Beau since Five Forks in ’65. The old First South Carolina had taken a beating that day, and Beau had been carried back to the medical tents with a bullet in his chest. Later, after Appomattox, Stone heard that Beau survived his wounds, but they’d never seen each other again.
Stone looked at Beau riding at a trot at the head of the outlaw band. Beau’s hat was low over his eyes and tipped slightly to the right. Stone’s mind flooded with memories that he usually was able to keep down.
At Chancellorsville they’d been surrounded by Union cavalry and had to cut their way out. At Antietam they’d been hit with an artillery bombardment that killed one man out of every four. In the Spotsylvania Wilderness they’d been overrun by Phil Sheridan’s cavalry and nearly wiped out.
They’d been like brothers, and there were three of them. Ashley Tredegar was the third. He’d been shot out of his saddle at Yellow Tavern, leading Troop B in a desperate charge against entrenched Union infantry, and the whole damn thing had been for nothing, for a handful of sand.
Stone didn’t like to think about Ashley, and in fact hardly ever let any memory of Ashley penetrate his mind. Ashley had been a fine human being, a real gentleman, and the bravest man in the world. It hurt too much to think of Ashley.
Beau loped along easily on his palomino, his golden tressed woman at his side. The outlaws followed him, John Stone with them, hoofbeats thundering on the ground, bringing the loot home.
They rode across a vast plain and disappeared into the endless rolling hills, a ghostly troop of old soldiers, who hadn’t known how to surrender.
“I can’t go on,” said Diane. “I’m very sorry, but it’s really no good.”
She stopped in the middle of the trail. The heels of her feet were killing her.
Maureen wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m not doing so well myself.”
“Neither am I,” said her husband, soaked with perspiration.
Slipchuck frowned. “A fine bunch you are. Walk a few steps and you’re ready to take a nap.”
Diane sat down by the side of the road. “Just leave me here,” she said wearily. “I’ll get along somehow.”
“So will I,” replied Maureen, collapsing on the ground at the side of the road, her expensive low-cut green satin dress covered with dust.
Priscilla clasped her hands as if she were in a classroom. “We can’t stay here,” she said. “It’s dangerous to be on the desert at night. There are wolves and wild dogs, not to mention snakes and scorpions.”
“I guess they’re going to get me,” Diane said with resignation.
“And me,” chimed in Maureen.
“My ass is dragging,” McManus said. “Begging your pardon, ladies.” He sat next to his wife, reached into his picnic basket, and took out a jug of water.
Slipchuck blew air out the corner of his mouth. He was getting annoyed with these people. They had no sand, no bottom, no nothing. The only thing to do was leave them here and go for help on his own.
He looked off across the sage, wondering what had become of John Stone. He’d liked Stone during the time they were together, though he hadn’t been much of a shotgun guard. “You folks move off the road, into the hills there so’s nobody can see you from the trail. I’ll be back soon as I can.”
Slipchuck turned and walked west on the road, a short slim figure with knobby joints, wearing a ruined cowboy hat. All he had with him was a canteen half full of water and a hide full of bad whiskey.
They watched him go. It was silent all around them, and civilization was far away. “Our lives are in the hands of that little man,” said Diane.
McManus got up slowly, with many groans. “We ought to do as he says. Let’s move away from the road.”
“Help me up,” said Maureen.
She raised her hand and he pulled her to her feet. Diane stood, and her heels felt as if burning coals were underneath them. Only Priscilla seemed unaffected by their tribulations, as God-fearing women sometimes are, to the annoyance of everyone else. But now she gave them confidence, as she walked erectly, carrying her Bible, the bun still neat on the back of her head.
They made their way into the hills and dropped down where they couldn’t be seen from the road.
“All we can do now is wait,” McManus said with a wheeze.
At this moment his investment portfolio seemed far off, but he reviewed his holdings anyway, like beads on a rosary. It was his only form of prayer, and maybe as good as any.
The outlaws rode across the sage, and Stone could hear the clanking and tinkling of stolen jewelry and coins. The men were in a good mood, talking with each other, laughing. They’d seen the money in the strongbox and were looking forward to a celebration at their camp.
They surrounded Stone, but he felt apart from them. He’d always managed to squeak just inside the law, and even had been a deputy sheriff once, but they’d chosen the other side of the law, and their leader was Beau Talbott from South Carolina, and that would take some thinking out.
Stone recalled the vast fields of cotton and his family’s two-storied mansion with four white pillars in front. He, Beau, and Ashley had often sat on the back porch at night and looked at the stars, discussing the great things they wanted to accomplish when they were grown men, but they were hellions and drank anything they could get their hands on. Once they’d been jailed in Columbia for getting mixed up in a saloon brawl. In the Army, fighting had taken them over completely, and then there were no more plans.
Something died inside Stone when he heard Ashley had been shot. He’d found out about it during a lull in the fighting at Yellow Tavern. Word had just been passed down that Jeb Stuart had been wounded seriously and was out of action. There was confusion about who was in command and what to do next, and meanwhile Billy Yank was massing for another attack.
A mounted courier arrived from Beau’s troop with an urgent message for Stone. Stone unfolded the paper, thinking it was relevant tactical information, and instead saw only four words in Beau’s handwriting: Ashley has been killed.
It was as if the sky had dropped on him. They were all soldiers, and knew they might die at any moment, but to have it really happen was something else. Now, even years later, Stone felt his eyes become hot. He’d buried these memories for years, but they had their own life.
He remembered how dizzy and sick he felt, and how his fighting spirit was demolished. He didn’t want to go on.
Ashley hadn’t been a normal human being. He had been more like a saint, always patient, always forgiving, never let you down. Ashley lived by his principles and would charge hell with a bucket of water. The Yankees shot him out of his saddle at Yellow Tavern.
Stone took out his bag of tobacco and rolled a cigarette, which was exactly what he’d done after he found out Ashley had been killed. Then the Yankee infantry launched their attack, and all he could do was mount up and lead old Troop C forward.
When he met Billy Yank on the plain, all he could think of was killing as many as possible, to atone for Ashley’s death. He cut and ripped for a half hour, then had to fall back because there were too many Yankees.
There were always too many Yankees. That was the story of the war. But the war was over now for Stone. He looked ahead at Beau, riding proudly at the head of his outlaw band.
Evidently the war wasn’t over for Beau.
McManus peered over the hill. “Something’s out there.”
Diane joined him and looked toward Santa Fe. She saw riders in the distance, headed in their direction.
One thing’s certain, thought McManus, they’re not investors.
“Think they’re Comanches?” Diane asked fearfully.
“Hard to say at this distance.”
She and McManus ducked down and joined Priscilla and Maureen sprawled in the shade of the hill.
“Keep low and be quiet,” Priscilla cautioned them. “Comanches have sharp eyes and ears, and can smell white people a mile away.”
Diane sat and looked toward the trail. She’d read about what Comanches did to white people. The blood drained out of her face.
“Are you all right?” Priscilla asked.
“I do believe I’m going to faint.”
Diane lay down. It didn’t seem like a great adventure anymore. We should’ve stayed in safe cities on railroad lines, she thought. This was a mistake.
It had been her idea to get off the main railroad lines and into the raw frontier. She’d been looking for the authentic American West. Now she’d found it.
Priscilla climbed to the top of the hill, looked toward Santa Fe, and saw two men on horseback. They were far away, and she couldn’t tell whether they were Indians or white men. She prayed they weren’t Indians, because Indians would kill them without hesitation, and they’d know white people were in the vicinity, because they’d left an easy trail to follow, and maybe that’s what the Indians had done—followed them from the site of the stagecoach holdup.
The Englishwoman and Maureen could barely walk, and McManus was useless. They had no weapons, little water, less food. These might be their last moments on earth.
Priscilla had grown up on the frontier. Many of her friends, neighbors, and family members had died violently. She’d always known it could happen to her. All she could do was fight until she couldn’t fight anymore.
She had no weapons except her hands, feet, and teeth. A person had to have faith in God. He would redeem her in the end.
She looked over the top of the hill again, keeping low as possible. She knew Comanches had sharp eyes, and could see anything that didn’t belong on the sage.
McManus sat on the ground, his big belly hanging over his belt. The corners of his mouth were turned down and he thought he’d come to the end of the road. All his wealth and vast holdings didn’t mean anything now. He felt sick, old, and vulnerable to attack.
They’d told him not to go on the trip, but he’d insisted that the frontier was generally safe for travel. He’d believed his own bullshit, always a mistake, he reflected now.
Maureen gazed at him with undisguised contempt. He looked defeated, tired, bedraggled. His stovepipe hat had a dent in it. I hate him and I’m going to die with him.
Priscilla observed the riders approaching on the trail. They were only a few hundred yards away now, and she thought she saw wide-brimmed cowboy hats on their heads.
Hope leapt in her breast, but then she remembered Indians sometimes stole cowboy hats from dead victims. She strained her eyes as she stared at the riders, trying to see what they were. She saw a plaid shirt, leather chaps, six-guns in holsters. A smile came over her face. They were cowboys! God be praised! And please don’t let them rape me!
She took a deep breath and stood on top of the hill, waving her arms in the air.
Beau Talbott’ s band rode across a vast expanse of rock, bounded by a river that they forded. They passed through a wooded area, and then came to another river. Beau led them up the middle of it, against the current.
Stone knew they were making it extremely difficult to be tracked. He’d noticed the back trailing, cross trailing, and other maneuvers designed to lead pursuers astray. Beau was their commanding officer, with no real military rank. He held them together with the steel in his soul.
Stone heard a roaring in the distance. At first it was faint, like the wind, but then he realized it was rushing water.
The horses plodded up the river. Trees lined the banks, with mountains on both sides. Stone noticed the man called Cavanaugh glancing back at him, and it wasn’t because he wanted to make a new friend.
They turned a bend in the river, and he saw a tall waterfall sending foam down the sides of a cliff. A rainbow arched above the waterfall, and Stone could see that this was where the river began.
Beau rode straight for the waterfall, and the outlaws followed him. A mist arose from the point where the falling water plunged into the river, and clusters of bubbles clung to the branches that lined the river.
“Just keep ridin’,” said a voice next to him. “We’re goin’ right through.”
The outlaws rode toward the waterfall, and pulled their hats tightly on their heads. Beau sat upright in his saddle, bouncing up and down, as if the waterfall weren’t there. Beau’s horse danced a few steps to the side, then walked directly into the waterfall.
Water cascaded down on Beau, and then he was gone. The outlaws followed him into the wall of water and disappeared. Stone could smell the cool moisture in the air, and the temperature dropped a few degrees as he drew closer. He took a deep breath and hunched his shoulders, and then the water pounded him; he couldn’t see anything. It drenched his skin and ran down his legs, and his horse continued through the rippling sheets of water.
Suddenly he found himself in a dark passageway lined with jagged rock. Outlaws were in front of him, and light streamed in from the far end. The horses’ hooves splashed in the water, and ahead of him Beau emerged into the sunlight.
Stone and the others followed him into a wide canyon with steep sides. He saw cattle grazing in the field, and cabins in the foothills, smoke arising from their chimneys. Stone stood in his stirrups and looked around. This was the outlaw hideout, and a damned good one.
The two cowboys rode closer, and were surprised to see what was in the hills just off the main trail.
McManus stepped toward them and removed his dented stovepipe hat. “Afternoon, boys,” he said. “My name’s McManus, and if you get us back to safety, there’ll be ten dollars in gold for each of you.”
“What the hell’re you doin’ out here?” asked Bob, one of the cowboys, covered with dust, a mystified expression on his face.
McManus explained the robbery and subsequent journey down the trail. “Can you go for help?” he asked.
“Why sure,” said Bob. “Wouldn’t want to leave you out here.” He turned to Curly, the other cowboy. “One of us should stay here with ’em. You want to go for help, or should I?”
“Flip you for it.”
Curly took out a coin, tossed it into the air, and caught it.
“Heads,” said Bob.
Curly looked at the coin. “Tails. You go.”
He showed Bob the coin, and Bob turned his horse around. “Be back as soon as I can!” he called as he galloped away.
Curly dismounted from his horse. “You had anything to eat lately?”
“Our food’s gone,” Priscilla said.
“Got some biscuits and jerky.”
He opened his saddlebag and handed them the food. They sat on the ground and wolfed it down. McManus wiped his mouth with his handkerchief when he was finished. “That was mighty good,” he said with a burp. “Glad you came along. We were worried about Comanches.”
‘That’s nothin’ to worry about.” Curly rolled himself a cigarette.
“You’re not worried?”
“I figure I’ll see them ‘fore they git too close, and I’ll outrun ’em. Got me a helluva horse there. Might not look like much, but it’s a helluva horse.”
“Are you a cowboy?”
“Yes, sir. Work for the Double T. Lookin’ fer strays, and found you instead.”
“We’re strays,” McManus said. “Only we walk on two legs instead of four. How soon you think it’ll be before your partner reaches civilization.”
“Hour or two.”
“I feel safer now that you’re here with that gun.”
Curly smiled. “This gun won’t mean much if Comanches see us. Anyway, everybody dies sooner or later. Worryin’ does no good at all.”
Diane stared at him. He was an authentic cowboy riding the range, and her nose started twitching. “Where are you from?” she asked, reaching for her notebook.
They approached a complex of log cabins nestled in the lee of a mountain. Stone saw chicken coops, pens with pigs, and dogs running, barking, and biting each other.
Women and children came out of the buildings to greet the outlaws. Beau dismounted from his horse and then helped Gloria down from hers. Help didn’t seem to be anything she needed, but southern gallantry died hard. Stone climbed out of his saddle and touched his feet to the ground. Women and children gathered around the outlaws.
“Where’s the loot?” one of the women asked.
An outlaw threw a burlap bag to the ground. “How do you like them onions!” Gold coins and jewels spilled out. The women and children rushed forward and plunged their fingers into it, shouting gleefully, like Indians with handfuls of beads.
Beau walked back to Stone. “Let’s have a drink.”
Stone walked beside Beau to the largest cabin in the vicinity. It was L-shaped, with a chimney in the middle. Stone couldn’t help contrasting the cabin with the mansion where Beau had resided before the war. The Talbott slaves had lived in better places than this ramshackle cabin.
Beau opened the door, and they entered a rustic kitchen with a stove to the right and a round table to the left. Nailed to the far wall was a large Confederate flag:
“Have a seat,” Beau said, hanging his hat on a peg. He took down a jug and two glasses from the cupboard, and set them on the table. “Help yourself.”
Stone poured half a glass. So did Beau. They raised their glasses in the air.
“To Bobby Lee,” Beau said.
Stone raised the glass to his lips. He knew he shouldn’t drink it, but he hadn’t seen Beau since Five Forks. It was corn whiskey again, with a kick like a mule. Stone’s eyes crossed as it trickled down his throat.
“You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when I saw you on the stagecoach, Johnny,” Beau said. “You don’t look the way you used to.”
“Neither do you.”
“I was thinking about Ashley on the ride in. Too bad about old Ashley.”
“Too bad about lots of things.”
“You’re a different man, Johnny.”
“So are you.”
“I’m still carrying on the fight, as you can see. It’s only a guerrilla unit, but we don’t take any shit from the Yankees.” He raised his glass in the air again. “To all the straight-out Southern loyalists who never caved in!”
They touched glasses.
“I’ve often thought of you, Johnny. Wondered what happened to you. You’re welcome to join us. You can be my second in command. We could always use another good gun.”
“I’m on the other side of the law, Beau. Not by much, but that’s where I am.”
Beau raised his eyebrows. “Is that the way you see us?”
“Men who rob stagecoaches are outlaws.”
“We’re livin’ off the country, Johnny. That’s the only way we can survive.”
“The war’s over.”
“Not for me.”
“I understand,” Stone said, reaching for the jug.
“Do you really?”
“I think I do.”
“If you understood, you’d join up with us.”
“To rob stagecoaches?”
“I never surrendered,” Beau replied, “and I never will.” He sipped whiskey and stared at Stone for a few seconds. Then he said, “I’d like to show you something.”
Beau stood and walked toward a doorway. Stone filled up his glass, guzzled it down quickly, and followed Beau into the next room. It had a few chairs and an old moth-eaten sofa, and then there was another door. Beau knocked on it.
“Who’s there?” asked a woman’s voice on the other side, and Stone’s heart missed a beat.
“It’s Beau, and there’s an old friend of yours here.”
She opened the door, and Stone found himself staring at Veronica Talbott, Beau’s younger sister.
She looked at him with confusion, and he was shocked by her appearance. Only a year or two younger than he, she already had gray strands of hair, and there were dark pouches beneath her eyes. She wore an old party dress that was torn and patched, and a tarnished necklace around her throat.
“I don’t believe I know the gentleman,” she said in a plaintive voice, her brow furrowed as she scrutinized Stone. “Do we know each other, sir?”
“I’m John Stone,” he said. “Don’t you recognize me, Veronica?”
A muscle twitched in her jaw, and she looked to her brother for help.
“You don’t remember John Stone?” Beau asked. “He was a friend of mine and Ashley’s. You remember Ashley, don’t you?”
“Of course I remember Ashley,” she said with a smile. “You’re always joking with me, Beau. Why, you know very well that Ashley and I are getting married in June. I was just writing the invitations when you knocked. The wedding will be a gala affair, I assure you. Even the Hamptons will be there.”
“I used to bring you begonias from my mother’s garden,” Stone said to her. “I remember a pink dress that you used to, wear, and you danced like a princess.”
Her face became animated, and she took a step toward Stone, her fingers near her cheeks. “Johnny!” she said. “How kind of you to come! I was just having some refreshment— dandelion wine that I made myself. Would you care to join me?”
She led them into her tiny room. There was a bed, a dresser, and a chair. Stone and Beau sat on the bed. She poured them imaginary glasses of dandelion wine, and they pretended to take them from her hands. Then she sat on the chair and picked up her own imaginary glass.
“Ashley came to see me this afternoon,” she said in a lost, vacant voice. “We went for a horseback ride down by the river, and then we had a picnic lunch, just the two of us. We’re getting married in June, you know. I was just sending out the invitations. Everyone will be there, the very crème de la crème of South Carolinian society. We’ve hired a twenty-five-piece orchestra from Charleston, and the governor has indicated he plans to attend. We expect you’ll be coming with Marie, Johnny. You know, Ashley was telling me just the other day how much he valued your friendship. He said there was no more gallant gentleman in the entire South. And by the way, why hasn’t Marie come to visit? Has she been sick?”
Stone looked at Beau, and Beau winked at him.
“Yes, she’s been sick,” Stone said. “Caught a cold.”
“Prettiest girl in the county, everybody says. Never a hair out of place. You’re a lucky man, Johnny. There aren’t many like her. I read in the paper the other day that the Yankees might actually invade South Carolina. What are your thoughts on that matter?”
“All I’m thinking is how lovely you look, Veronica.”
“And you look glorious in your West Point uniform, Johnny. Some men are made for uniforms, and I guess you’re one of them. I was talking with Ashley the other day, and he said he thought you’d be a general someday, but I told him no, you’ll probably end up a planter like your father, isn’t that so, Johnny?”
“I expect you’re right, Veronica.”
“Somebody was telling me something about your father, but I can’t remember what it was. Something happened to him or... I don’t know, sometimes I have dizzy spells. I don’t suppose you ever have dizzy spells?”
“I have them frequently,” said Stone, the corn liquor already hitting him.
“I haven’t been feeling well, Johnny. Sometimes I have strange thoughts.” Her face became serious. “I never remember them afterward, and I get headaches. Somebody was telling me something about your father... now what was it? Your father’s all right, isn’t he?”
“He’s fine.”
Her face became pale, and her hands trembled. She chewed her upper lip absentmindedly. There was a faraway look in her eyes.
Beau arose and took her hand. “Maybe you’d better lie down for a while, Veronica. You look a little fatigued.”
She stared into space and didn’t respond. He led her to the bed and helped her to lie down, covering her with a blanket. She closed her eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Beau motioned toward the door, and Stone followed him.
“Sometimes she’s lucid and sometimes she’s not,” Beau explained in the next room. “She was raped by a bunch of yellow-bellied Yankee soldiers and she saw Daddy get killed.”
They sat at the table. A stout black woman, wearing a bandanna on her head, entered the room.
“Hattie,” said Beau, “say hello to an old friend of mine, John Stone from South Carolina.”
“Howdy,” she said with a big smile. “Hope you’re hungry, because we got a lot of food.”
“I stay hungry,” Stone replied.
Hattie lit the fire. Beau pushed the jug toward Stone and Stone refilled his glass all the way to the top, the sight of Veronica still in his mind.
Beau leaned toward him. “I can’t forgive and forget, Johnny. I’m not made that way.”
“I understand,” Stone replied. He raised the glass and slugged the whiskey down. When he’d last seen Veronica, she was a vivacious girl wearing an engagement ring. Stone wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can’t forgive and forget either. But when Bobby Lee surrendered, that was good enough for me.”
“He should never’ve done it.”
“You used to call him the greatest military mind in history”
“He lost his nerve.”
“I think he did what had to be done. The Yankees outgunned and outmanned us. It was futile to go on.”
Beau shook his head sadly. “I never thought I’d see the day when Johnny Stone would bow his head to the Yankee invader.”
“If Bobby Lee could do it, so can I.”
“Bobby Lee was an old man. He’d lost his belly for war. What’s your excuse?”
“I think he made the sensible strategic decision. The whole South would’ve been burned to the ground if we’d fought on.”
“The coward dies a million times. The brave man dies once.”
Stone looked up at him. “Tell me something—do you think Ashley would’ve joined you?”
“I know he would’ve.”
“Somehow I can’t see Ashley walking up to frightened ladies and saying: ‘Your money or your life.’”
“Maybe you didn’t know Ashley as well as you think.”
“You and he were my best friends in the world.”
There was silence for a few moments as both of them thought of Ashley.
The last night they’d been together had been the night before Ashley had been killed. They’d attended a meeting at Wade Hampton’s headquarters, and afterward drank together from a flask in back of the picket line.
A full moon had been in the sky, and it cast a wan glow on Ashley’s face. Ashley had been tall and lean, with wavy blond hair and a finely chiseled profile. They finished the flask and said good-bye to each other, shaking hands as cannons fired in the distant fields.
Then, out of nowhere, Ashley had given them the paraphrase of a quote from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: “If we meet again, we shall smile,” he said mysteriously, “and if not, this parting is well made.”
Stone didn’t think much about it at the time. Ashley was always quoting Shakespeare, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, or some other literary luminary.
But the parting had indeed been well made, because they never saw Ashley again.
Stone and Beau drank more whiskey, while Hattie prepared a meal at the stove nearby.
“Where’s Marie?” Beau asked.
“When I returned home after the war, she was gone. Have you heard anything about her?”
“She was gone when I got back too. A lot of people were gone. Sherman destroyed everything. There was nothing left.”
“Somebody told me she went west with a Union officer, and that’s what I’m doing out here. I’m looking for her.”
Beau shook his head in disbelief. “Marie’d never go anywhere with a Union officer. She was the truest of the true daughters of the South.”
“Met a man in Tucson who said he’d seen her in Texas, and that’s where I was headed when I ran into you.” Stone pulled the picture of Marie from his pocket and passed it to Beau. “This is all I’ve got to remember her by.”
Beau looked at the picture. “She sure was the prettiest girl in the county. All the rest of us envied you, Johnny. But she only had eyes for you.”
“If she only had eyes for me, why didn’t she send me a message or leave me a note, or something?”
Beau turned slowly and faced his sister’s bedroom. He looked in that direction for a few moments, then faced Stone again.
He didn’t have to say anything. Stone knew what he meant. Maybe Veronica’s fate also had befallen Marie. Maybe Marie was wandering around someplace in her old party clothes, babbling about orchestras and dandelion wine.
Beau filled up their glasses. “There is no justice,” he said. “There is no mercy. People have to choose sides. You’re wondering where Marie is? Well, where am I, and where are you? Where are all the other lost knights who were chewed up and spit out by the politicians?”
“I run into them wherever I go. The frontier is full of ex-soldiers who don’t know what hit them.”
Beau reached across the table and placed his hand on Stone’s forearm. “I wish you’d ride with me, Johnny, like in the old days.”
“Can’t do it.”
“I love you like a brother, and I don’t want to argue with you, but how can you live in their world?”
“It’s the only world there is.”
“What about my world?”
“I’m not an outlaw.”
“We’re not outlaws. We’re guerrilla cavalry.”
“Tell that to Sheriff Pat Butler in Clarksdale.”
“Now there’s a tough old son of a bitch.” Beau laughed. “I bet he’d like to know where we are right now. You won’t tell him when you leave here, will you, Johnny?”
“I’d never betray you, Beau. You know me better than that.”
A strange smile came over Beau’s face. “Do I?”
“You ought to.”
The door opened and a young man with black hair entered the kitchen. Stone stared at him, because he was the same young man he’d seen running away that night in Clarksdale, the one who’d stolen the wallet from Jesse Culpepper in the pisshouse.
The young man looked at Stone, and a flush came to his cheeks.
“You remember my brother Ewell,” Beau said.
“I haven’t seen Ewell since he was a little boy.”
Beau turned to his brother. “Shake hands with John Stone, Ewell. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Hello,” Ewell said, a frightened expression on his face as he extended his hand.
Stone gripped Ewell’s hand tightly to indicate everything was all right; he wouldn’t mention anything about the petty thievery in Clarksdale. “I remember when you were a boy,” Stone said. “You had a red wagon you used to pull on a string. Guess you’re not a boy anymore.”
“He’s still a boy,” Beau said. “Got a long way to go before he can call himself a man.”
The three of them sat at the table, and the room was filling with cooking odors. Hattie banged a pot on the stove and cursed happily. Stone raised his glass and took another swig. He realized he was becoming drunk.
Beau rolled a cigarette. He seemed pensive, fingering the square of paper filled with long shreds of pungent tobacco. “You know, you can say what you want about the war, about all the bad things that happened, but there was something in it that was wonderful. Do you remember Manassas?”
“How can I forget Manassas?”
“Do you remember our first charge?”
“I remember it.”
A smile came over Beau’s face. “It was you, Ashley, and I, at the head of old Troop A, with Captain Willard leading the way, Jesus—I can feel it now as if I’m there.” Beau’s face came to life, and seemed to glow from within. “The excitement ... the thrill... I felt like a god, as if nothing could touch me, and the cannonades were firing, and the bullets were whistling by, men fell off their horses, and horses were hit by cannonballs, blood flying through the air, the incredible booming sounds, the bugles, the flags flying in the wind ...”
Beau’s voice trailed off. He looked out the window at the sky, thinking about the struggle that took place on the grassy fields by Bull Run. Stone took another drink and had to admit to himself that the charge had been rather tumultuous. There was nothing in the world quite like a full-tilt cavalry charge.
Beau turned around and faced him. “We won that one, and it was the first major battle of the war. Do you remember how it felt to be victorious? And they’d outnumbered us—you know they outnumbered us.”
“They always outnumbered us.”
“But we had better leadership. Bobby Lee, Longstreet, Old Stonewall, Jeb Stuart. Has the world ever seen, before or since, anything like them? Even our second rank of officers was first-rate: men like Dorsey Pender, George Pickett, and good old Jubal Early. And our enlisted men fought with more spirit, because they were fighting for their way of life, while the Yankees were just in it for the money.”
“The Yankees believed in something too, Beau. You might not agree with them, but they had their own ideals, and sooner or later men with ideals start killing each other. Funny thing about ideals.”
“You’ve gotten cynical, Johnny.”
“I’ve grown up.”
“I guess you think I haven’t grown up.”
“That’s right.”
“I knew you’d think that. That’s the way your mind works, because you’ve been defeated. That’s the difference between you and me, Johnny. You’ve been defeated and I haven’t. You’re walking away with your tail between your legs, and I’m fighting on.”
“I saw you fighting on today, Beau. You pointed your gun at a bunch of women.”
“We didn’t hurt them. It’s guerrilla warfare. Live off the land. You took the same courses I did at the Point. You know what I’m talking about.”
“All I know is Bobby Lee surrendered, and I want to get on with my life.”
“How can you have a life under the Yankees?”
“I get along all right.”
“I’m sure you do, by licking their boots.”
Stone got to his feet. So did Beau. They faced each other, gazing into each other’s eyes. Ewell went white and pushed his chair back.
Hattie placed a baked ham on the table between them. “Here’s supper,” she said. “Ya’ll better wash yo’ hands. Nobody eats in mah kitchen wif dirty hands.” She turned to Beau. “What’s wrong with you, boy? I told you to wash yo’ hands!”
Beau smiled at Stone. “You see the way she talks to me? Sometimes I think she’s in command here, and I’m her executive officer.”
He led Stone out the back door, and they washed in a basin on a wooden crate.
Beau slapped Stone on the shoulder. “Sorry about what I said in there. The heat of argument, you know. No hard feelings?”
“Hell no,” said Stone, and wondered when the next volley would come, and how strong it would be.
Beau returned to the house, and Stone finished washing. He dried his hands on the same towel Beau had used, and stepped deeper into the backyard, looking around. The outlaws had their own little isolated world in the middle of nowhere, and there was only one way to get in or out—through the waterfall. He wanted to leave as soon as etiquette would allow. This wasn’t the Beau Talbott he used to know. Or was it?
The back door opened, and Gloria walked toward him, wearing a long brown skirt that came to the tops of her boots. She was tall and rawboned, and he guessed her age at thirty-five.
She dipped her hands into the water. “So you’re John Stone,” she said with a smile. “I wish I had a dollar for every night Beau kept me up talking about you and Ashley.”
“Where are you from?”
“Virginia. I met Beau in a hospital in Richmond, after he was wounded. I was helping the doctors there.”
“I thought you were going to shoot me today.”
“If you made one wrong move, I would’ve.”
They returned to the dining room, and Stone saw a man holding a violin, standing against the far wall. Ewell brought Veronica out of her room, and she carried a tattered old fan in her hand. “I’m so glad all of you could come to dinner with us tonight,” she said, her face covered with garish cosmetics. “I’ve made some special dandelion wine for the occasion. Governor Hammond said he might stop by later. Ewell you may tell the band to begin.”
The violinist raised his instrument to his chin and drew back the bow, and Stone heard a Mozart concerto. Beau sat between Gloria and Veronica and Ewell was on the other side of Veronica. Stone dropped down next to Ewell, and Gloria was to his left.
In the middle of the table was a huge ham, sending tiny trails of clove-flavored steam into the air. There also were platters piled high with sweet potatoes, bread, and string beans.
They all bowed their heads.
“Lord,” said Beau, “We thank you for the blessings of this table, and we look to the day that the South will be free again. Amen.”
Beau picked up his knife and fork.
“That little prayer didn’t bother you none, did it, Johnny?”
“No.”
“I thought it might, since I imagine you’re one of those who wouldn’t want the South to be free again.”
“That’s not true.”
“Why don’t you prove it?”
Gloria turned to Beau. “I don’t think this is proper dinner conversation, if you don’t mind.”
Veronica perked up her ears, and her eyes brightened. “Ashley was here this afternoon,” she said. “He brought me a bouquet of roses. We’ll be wed in June, and everyone will be there. Have you tried my dandelion wine?”
She stared into space, and a silence fell over the table. Stone remembered sitting to dinner with this very family in their plantation dining room before the war. A crystal chandelier had been overhead, and white drapes covered the tall windows. They’d been served by uniformed servants, and they all wore their finest clothes.
Now they were in a broken-down cabin chinked with mud. Ewell was a petty thief, Veronica had lost her mind, and Beau was an embittered fanatic.
Stone reached for the whiskey and filled his glass. The dream was over, and the nightmare had begun.
It was dark when they rode into Clarksdale, led by cowboys from the Double T Ranch. They’d been on the trail since late afternoon, and now it was almost midnight.
The townspeople and cowboys watched them pass, for they were a sight to behold: Lady Diane in her rumpled cowboy outfit, Maureen in her torn satin dress, McManus with his broken stovepipe hat, and Priscilla sitting stiffly in her saddle, her Bible underneath her arm.
They stopped in front of the sheriff’s office and climbed down from their mounts. Sheriff Butler came out to see them, chewing a thin cigar, a frown on his face.
He led them into his office and sat behind his desk. “Where’d this happen?”
Slipchuck answered: “‘Bout fifteen miles east of Deadman’s Flats.”
“And you say they kidnapped somebody?”
“The stagecoach guard, name of John Stone.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Hired him the mornin’ we left. Nice feller.”
“Know anything about him?”
“No.”
“Maybe he was in with ’em.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Wasn’t that kind of man.”
Sheriff Butler looked up at him. His silvery hair was thin on top, and he had a nose like a hawk. “How do you know?”
Diane stepped forward. “Now see here. What are you suggesting? A citizen of your country has been kidnapped by desperadoes, and why aren’t you doing something about it?”
Sheriff Butler turned to her. “Who’re you?”
“I’m a reporter for the London Morning Sentinel”
“The what?”
“I’ve interviewed Mr. Stone extensively, and I assure you that he had nothing to do with this holdup.”
“You don’t know that.” Sheriff Butler turned to Slipchuck. “What did this Stone bird look like?”
At that moment the Earl of Dunwich entered the sheriff’s office. “Diane!”
They rushed toward each other and embraced.
“I’ve been so worried about you,” he said.
“When did you get out of jail?”
“This morning. My solicitor took care of it. Just had to pay some money, like England.”
“The sheriff thinks John Stone had something to do with the holdup.”
Paul let Diane go and walked toward Sheriff Butler. “That’s preposterous. John Stone is a gentleman.”
“That remains to be seen,” Sheriff Butler replied.
Edward McManus stepped forward, his banged-in stovepipe hat on his head. “I’m herewith posting a five-hundred-dollar reward for information leading to the rescue of John Stone.”
“Make it a thousand,” Dunwich said.
Sheriff Butler puffed his cigar and looked up at them coolly. “Let me get this straight. You two’re postin’ one thousand dollars reward for John Stone.”
“That is correct,” Dunwich said.
“Dead or alive?”
“We prefer him alive.”
“What if he’s part of the outlaw gang?”
‘That’s utter rubbish.”
“What if he is? Will the reward still be paid?”
“Whoever brings him back will be paid,” Dunwich said.
Stone staggered toward the bunkhouse. The full moon shone down upon him and he could see the mountains in the distance like the high walls of a prison.
Above him blazed the heavens, and a night bird called out from atop a cottonwood tree. All he wanted to do was go to sleep.
He advanced toward the door of the bunkhouse and opened it up, heard men’s voices, then suddenly it was silent.
He stepped into the bunkhouse. A group of outlaws was seated around a table, and in the middle was a jug. The outlaws looked at him, and there was resentment in their eyes.
“Where’s an empty bunk?” he asked.
Nobody said anything. He saw Cavanaugh at the far end of the table, glowering at him.
“If nobody’ll tell me where an empty bunk is,” Stone slurred, “I’ll just lay my ass anywhere.”
“Try it an’ see what happens to you,” said Cavanaugh evenly.
Stone looked at them. “Changed my mind,” he said. “I’d rather sleep outdoors than with a bunch of thieving bastards.”
The outlaws at the table looked at one another. Some were bearded, some had crude tattoos on their arms. Cavanaugh got to his feet and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Who’re you callin’ a bastard, you damned turncoat!”
Stone drunkenly pointed his finger at him. “You.”
Cavanaugh stared at him for a few moments, working the muscles in his jaw. “Maybe you and me oughtta go outside.”
“Let’s do it,” Stone replied.
Stone turned around and reeled toward the door. Pushing it open, he stumbled outside and unbuttoned his shirt. Cavanaugh followed with the others.
The moon shone down on them as the outlaws gathered around the two combatants. Stone threw his shirt on the ground and turned toward Cavanaugh.
Cavanaugh was bare-chested, balling up his fists, cocking his head slightly to the side as he measured Stone. Cavanaugh had a black mustache and was thick around the middle, covered with scraggly hair. He looked strong and mean.
Stone flexed his fingers. The cool night breeze blew over him. He thought Cavanaugh would be armor-plated around the head, but slow in the legs. I’ve got to keep moving on him, and don’t let him bear-hug me.
“We don’t like turncoats and traitors,” Cavanaugh said, raising his fists. “You’re going to git the beatin’ of yer life, boy.”
Stone advanced toward him, holding his fists at chin level, looking for openings in Cavanaugh’s defense.
“Kick his ass, Cav,” one of the outlaws said. “Show ’im who’s boss.”
Cavanaugh and Stone met in the center of the ring and Cavanaugh pawed at Stone with his right fist, while Stone bobbed from side to side, but his reflexes were off and he looked like an awkward fighter.
“Show ’im what we think of cowards,” another outlaw said. “Punch his lights out.”
Stone knew the word must’ve gotten around that he’d refused to join the band, and they didn’t like it, but he didn’t like them either.
Cavanaugh wasn’t as drunk as Stone. He saw that he’d have an easy time of it. He pawed with his left fist, then snapped it out suddenly and hit Stone on the nose.
Stone was stunned, and his nose trickled blood. If he’d been sober, he would’ve been able to get out of the way, but he wasn’t sober.
Cavanaugh dug a left hook to Stone’s ribs, and Stone blew out air, then Cavanaugh cracked Stone on top of his head.
Stone backpedaled, trying to cover up, and Cavanaugh smashed him on the ear. Stone heard bells and went down.
“Stomp ’em, Cav,” somebody said.
A boot whacked into Stone’s head, and he scrambled to his feet. Cavanaugh rushed him, tackled him, and brought him down. Stone landed on his back, and Cavanaugh was on top of him. Cavanaugh raised his fist and punched Stone in the mouth.
Stone knew he was in deep trouble, and went berserk. He exploded off the ground, knocked Cavanaugh away from him, and managed to rise unsteadily to his feet.
Cavanaugh attacked immediately, throwing a left jab at Stone’s eye and connecting. Stone moved his upper body from side to side, looking for an angle, and thought he saw one, but before he could get off, Cavanaugh threw a long overhand right, and next thing Stone knew he was lying on his back again.
He looked up, and saw Beau in the crowd, along with Ewell and Gloria. Then he saw Cavanaugh standing in front of him, his fists down his sides, his legs spread apart.
“Git up, you yellow-belly bastard!”
Stone had been in many fights, and knew all the outcomes. The outcome of this would be his own humiliating, bloody, and painful defeat, unless he could pull something out of the hat.
He knew he didn’t have his usual fighting skill. His reflexes and timing were way off. But he had one asset: his physical strength. It still was mostly there, despite the alcohol, if he could get it focused.
He had a puncher’s chance. Find an opening, or make one, and hit Cavanaugh with everything he had.
“Are you gonna git up?” Cavanaugh asked, “or am I a-gonna kick you in your big, fat yellow-belly head again?”
Stone got to his feet slowly. His face felt bent out of shape, and the taste of blood was salty on his tongue. God, he thought, if you let me win this fight, I’ll never drink again.
Cavanaugh came at him, his fist in the air bare-knuckle style. Stone hunched over and covered up, peering through his guard at Cavanaugh, praying that God would give him that one opening he needed.
Cavanaugh shot a jab at Stone’s head, and Stone picked it off. Then Cavanaugh threw an uppercut, and Stone leaned back out of the way. Cavanaugh rushed in, threw a feint at Stone’s head, and Stone raised his arms to block the punch that never came.
A different punch came instead. It was a solid hook to Stone’s kidney, and Stone thought he’d pass out from the pain. But he held steady and took punishment as Cavanaugh hammered his body again and again. Cavanaugh stepped back and looked at Stone, and Stone was bent over, his guts and ribs hurting.
“There ain’t much to you,” Cavanaugh said. “Never is much—with traitors.”
He moved in more confidently, aimed a jab at Stone’s forehead, and connected. Stone saw stars, and then another fist rammed into his mouth, knocking his teeth loose, and his mouth filled with blood. He went reeling backward fell into a group of outlaws, and with a whoop they pushed him back at Cavanaugh, who was waiting, measuring, loading up.
Cavanaugh shot his fist forward like a rocket, and it struck Stone on the chin. Stone went flying backward and landed on his ass.
Cavanaugh undulated before him, and Stone heard somebody laugh. Blinking, trying to clear out the cobwebs, he saw Beau watching in the crowd. Stone tried to get up but his legs couldn’t do it. He looked at Cavanaugh.
“Stomp him, Cav.”
Cavanaugh stepped forward, and one of his black boots flew toward Stone’s head. Stone lurched forward, tackled Cavanaugh, and brought him down. Both men spun away from each other and got to their feet but Cavanaugh was up first, and he kicked Stone in the chops.
Stone went flying backward again, landing on the ground. Cavanaugh charged and Stone knew he couldn’t get out of the way.
Cavanaugh kicked, and Stone caught his boot in the air, twisting to the side. Cavanaugh lost his balance and fell, as Stone got up, swayed, and raised his fists. Cavanaugh climbed to his feet. They faced each other again, breathing heavily.
Stone didn’t think he could carry on much longer. It’s now or never, he thought.
Stone threw his massive bulk at Cavanaugh, and Cavanaugh stepped to the side. Stone stumbled over his feet, lost his balance, and fell to the dirt.
Everybody laughed. Stone pulled himself up and turned around. It was getting worse. He hurt all over. Just give me one good punch.
“Finish ’im off!” somebody said.
Cavanaugh stepped forward, and Stone knew this was it.
Somehow he had to hit Cavanaugh solidly, but Cavanaugh always landed the first punch, and if Cavanaugh hit him again, it’d be the end of the fight. Stone was groggy and the ground rocked beneath him like the deck of a ship in heavy seas. Cavanaugh inched closer, and was about to let fly, when Stone grit his teeth and cut loose.
Cavanaugh was in the middle of his swing when Stone’s right fist came streaking out of the night at him, and Cavanaugh thought a mountain fell on his head. Everything went black, and Cavanaugh’s knees buckled. Stone took a step back and blinked. Cavanaugh was motionless, his legs paralyzed, holding his hands feebly near his face.
Stone knew it was a good punch as soon as it landed. It had felt solid all the way down to his toes, with all his weight behind it. Thank you, Lord, he thought, and gleefully slammed Cavanaugh in the gut. Cavanaugh expelled air through all his orifices, and threw a wild looping right at Stone’s head, which connected, but had no real steam on it.
Stone recovered quickly, knew he had his man hurt, and went in for the kill. He threw the most devastating punch in his arsenal, a swooping straight right with all his weight behind it, and it landed on Cavanaugh’s nose.
Blood poured down Cavanaugh’s throat, choking him as he tried to breathe. Stone slammed him again, and Cavanaugh fell back against the edge of the corral.
Stone hit him with a left and a right, and Cavanaugh dropped lower. Then Stone took aim and threw his favorite punch again, and it connected solidly with Cavanaugh’s mouth.
Cavanaugh’s legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the ground. He rolled onto his back and lay still, his face a mask of blood.
Stone stood over him, sucking wind. It was clear that Cavanaugh wouldn’t get up for a long time. Then he turned around and faced the outlaws standing solemnly in the moonlight.
“I’d rather sleep with the buzzards!” Stone hollered at them.
Turning around, nearly stumbling over his own feet, he walked off into the sage. They watched the night close around him, and then he was gone.