A Fist Full O' Dead Guys Page 2

  Harrison ran his hand over the US brand. "One more thing, son." The lieutenant couldn't bring himself to look Heck in the eye over what he said next. "Remember, Anderson's no soldier. He's a cold-blooded killer. You're gonna have to do things to fit in and keep from being discovered. Bad things. If you don't take part in the raiding they'll kill you. So do what you have to. Just don't kill anybody. Loot and pillage. Don't rape and murder no matter what." Harrison forced himself to turn towards Heck. "Or I'll hang you myself if you ever come back."

  "I'll get him," Heck lied nervously.

  ***

  Getting into Missouri was easy. The state was occupied by the Union though the majority of its residents were pro-Southern. To make sure one of these Reb sympathizers didn't tip their hand, Harrison and two other troopers ferried Heck and his mount across in the dead of night. They put him on the muddy shore, then Harrison checked to make sure his recruit had plenty of food, water, and ammunition. "I don't care if all the raiders die, Heck, but we want Anderson alive. Killin' him will get you a spot in Heaven, but we hold a trial and hang the bastard, it'll send a message to Quantrill, Munday, and all the other raiders." Harrison paused, then looked out at the dark woods. "Anderson's a bad one, Heck. Do what you have to."

  Harrison stepped back onto the raft and he and his men began poling back to the eastern side of the river. "Good luck," the lieutenant called as he faded into the darkness.

  Heck looked around him. The woods seemed even blacker than before. There wasn't a star in the sky and the moon had sunk long ago. It seemed colder here, too, though it was August and it had been hot enough to soak his homespun coat and pants by day.

  He was dressed as a typical Missouri troublemaker, an off-gray coat, brown pants, and felt hat. He wore a brace of two pistols—both Colt Walker cap and ball revolvers. The Army had bought them for him. Heck had only held a pistol a few times. He was fairly proficient with a shotgun, however, so the latter sat in a saddle holster to his front in the common style of the Missouri raiders.

  Heck knew he could pass for a Kansan on appearance and accent—he'd grown up there after all-but he still couldn't help feeling like a mule at a horse race-someone was just bound to notice something.

  His route would take him from southeastern Missouri up past Jefferson City in the dead center of the state, then to Columbia where it was rumored Anderson could frequently be found. This took three tense days. Heck frequently passed other Missourians, but no one gave him much of a look. Some militia men and more than a few civilians cast a baleful glare upon the shotgun and other accoutrements of the state's raiders, but he otherwise passed unmolested through what he could only feel was a land of his enemies. To Heck, they were Americans, all right, but they had turned their back on the greatest nation on earth. They spoke the same language, had the same awful accent, and even prayed to the same God, but they had betrayed a noble union that thousands of patriots had already died defending. They waited only for Missouri's "saviour," Confederate General Sterling Price, to return and throw the "blue-bellied tyrants" back across the river.

  Every small town Heck passed through filled him with loathing. It galled him to tip his hat to traitorous belles, or stop his progress to allow elders to cross his path. He wanted to tell them all to go to Hell. They had chosen their course. State's rights be damned. They were Rebel troublemakers, slavemongers, and secessionists. Heck so wanted to ride with Custer or Sheridan Back East, slaughtering the dirty Rebs in an honest fight instead of betraying them from within.

  His growing hatred almost got the better of him as he passed through Ashland, just south of Columbia. A mob of mostly young men had an older man backed against a wall and were hurling insults at him. The man wore a white shirt with blackened sleeves held up by garters. His face was stern, but Heck could see even from 20 yards distant that his eyes were full of fear. These men meant to hurt him badly.

  ". . .boys never heard of freedom of speech?" Heck heard the man say as he neared the edge of the mob.

  "That don't give you no right to take up for Yankees!" came a voice from the mob.

  "I didn't write the article, Blake," said the man. "I merely print the editorials."

  "Then tell us who wrote it!" said the same voice.

  "So you and your friends can kill them in the night?"

  A bottle flew from the crowd and hit the newspaperman square in the temple. He sank to his knees, but rose again. Blood dripped from his brow and stained his white pressed shirt.

  Heck looked around for someone of authority to stop this madness. When he saw what had to be the town marshal watching from a nearby boardwalk he nearly drew his scattergun and fired into the crowd. Rage and anger surged within the young man. It was hard to fight these emotions, but he knew if he acted rashly, his mission would be over before it began, the stranger would still be beaten (or worse), and Heck would be buried in hated Confederate dirt. And that was something he couldn't tolerate.

  "Let's get 'im!" said the bully the older man had called Blake.

  The mob started forward with scores of onlookers watching.

  Heck drew his scattergun and fired both barrels into the air. The mob whirled as one and looked up at the stranger sitting aside a US Army horse to their rear.

  "Hold on, friends," he smiled. "I couldn't help but hear what you said about this Jayhawker. I love to watch a Yankee symp get what's comin' to him like anyone else, but this ain't the way."

  Heck waited for someone to bite. They did.

  "You sayin' we should turn him over to the law, stranger?" Blake said. Heck could see him now. He was of average height, but thick as an oak. He wore denim pants and a red shirt with its sleeves rolled up ready to fight. His thick black hair hung in loose curls around his hair, and a single lock stuck to his forehead in a backward "S."

  "Hell, no," Heck said. "I just thought maybe you fellers'd like to see what we do to his kind in Kansas."

  Blake seemed intrigued now. "What's that?"

  Heck looked down at the newspaperman. "Beat the Hell out of him, even kill him, and someone'll just take his place. Let's wreck his place and show every paper in this state that we don't tolerate no Yankee traitors."

  Blake smiled. The rest of the mob looked to him and agreed. As one, they turned their back on the old man and ran across the street to an office labeled the "Columbia Free Press."

  The town marshal had been leaning against a post but now stood up straight. Heck guessed that he wanted to make sure the destruction didn't affect the "loyal" businesses to either side of the print office. The lawman shot Heck a glance, likely wondering what kind of man had managed to sway Blake and his bullies so easily Heck simply shrugged at the marshal and rode on toward the chaos. Then he dismounted and joined in, smashing windows, busting the printing press, and dragging out stacks of current issues plus bundles of past issues to make a bonfire in the street.

  It sickened him to destroy a voice of free speech, but it was better than watching the owner lynched by murderous Rebs. He just hoped the newspaperman was smart enough to leave town before the mob decided to add him to the fire.

  ***

  It was night now. The fire in the street still burned, though it was only the size of a campfire now. Hundreds of issues of the Columbia Free Press had burned, creating an August snow of ash on main street. Some of the "boys" had already brought whiskey out to the celebration. Blake downed a swig, then handed the bottle to Heck. "That was a good idea," he said. "We'll find Evans later and treat him about the same."

  "The newspaperman? Good idea. Can't hurt to make the message plainer. 'Course, he gets away, he tells folks what happens to symps here in Missouri. Then maybe we don't get no more like him."

  Blake nodded. Heck noticed the Rebel was more calm now. Whether it was the whiskey or getting the violence out of his system he couldn't tell.

  "I 'spose," Blake mumbled, staring hard into the fire. "But it ain't the Missouri way. We'll have to finish him. His kind don't shut up easy"

>   Heck nodded, hoping Evans was hauling himself off the eastern shore of the Mississippi by now "You say you're from Kansas?"

  Heck nodded and pushed a burning newspaper back into the fire with his boot. "Yup. Lawrence."

  "Lawrence, huh? Ain't that where those Federal prisoners tried to break out and Quantrill rode 'em all down?"

  Heck nodded. That was one way to look at it. If you call over 150 men and boys standing in line and waiting to be summarily executed "breaking out."

  Blake turned, "You ride with Quantrill?"

  Heck nodded before he could stop himself. '"Til it got too hot. Law was looking for me."

  "Damn. You must be a bad 'un." Blake didn't need to say the rest. The law in Kansas, like Missouri, stayed out of the war-including chasing down raiders-except when one was so bad folks on both sides of the issue called for justice. "You lookin' for work here?"

  Heck shrugged. There was no need to appear too eager. "Maybe. Heard Anderson's keepin' Yankee-lovers in line over here."

  Blake nodded. "That he is. An' he's lookin' for more, I hear."

  "You ever think of joining him?" Heck probed.

  "Sure. Me and the boys have talked about it."

  "This might be the time. Quantrill said General Lee was going to attack this fall and he'd be calling for the draft. Wait 'til then and we might get stuck in some infantry regiment in the trenches Back East. Join up with a raider band and we do what we want. And we keep the loot as well."

  Blake's eyes shun bright from the fire and the greed in his soul. "That's the truth, ain't it? I never thought o' that. An' I reckon Captain Anderson's heard of me, at least. I could probably get us all in."

  Heck knew better than to say another word.

  ***

  Blake Mullins put Heck up at his place for the next week while he searched out a way to contact Anderson's Raiders. It was pure Hell. Heck stayed in Blake's room, slept in his Rebel bed, flirted with his secessionist sisters, and even did the bastard's chores for him. It wasn't hard to see why Blake had turned out the way he had. His father was an abusive man, quick with his fists and even quicker to slug down an entire bottle of corn mash. His three daughters were tramps, and pretty ones at that, but Heck managed to resist their frequent advances. He wasn't saving himself, he just wasn't about to get intimate with a Confederate. No shower had yet been invented that could wash that kind of taint off him.

  As August turned to mid-September, Heck felt he needed a wire brush to scrub his skin free of the family's airs. He was just about to strike out on his own when Blake returned. He rode at the head of five others—men Heck recognized from the mob in town. "We're in," he grinned. "We're meeting the Captain tomorrow night."

  ***

  Blake led the group through Columbia and up into the Perche Hills, a rocky maze of twisting trails and dark forests that served as one of the raider's camps. At the foothills, the group was met by a pale, thin figure with wispy white hair and a beaten Confederate officer's hat. He made everyone uneasy, even Blake. His wan smile revealed a handful of missing teeth, and his pale blue eyes seemed shy of the sun. Blake called him Lieutenant Williams, but Heck later learned he was better known as Pale Willy.

  The near-albino led the group up into the hills, crossing streams and doubling back every so often to throw trackers off their path.. He said very little, but leered at the "new recruits" with his thin, sickly lips. Pale Willy seemed especially interested in Heck. Every time he rolled his weak eyes Heck's way, chills ran down the spy's spine. Did Willy somehow know the truth? Had he given himself away with something he'd said? By his accent? By his demeanor? By the way he sat his saddle?

  "You're fidgety," Willy said. "What's your name, fidget?"

  Heck had a sudden flashback to a day in a small schoolroom in Lawrence nearly seven years ago. He had decided to go fishing instead of reading his assignment, and sure enough, the teacher called on him to tell everyone who the Queen of England was. He felt like that now, though with the added surety that this "teacher" would gut him if he gave the wrong answer.

  "Heck Ramsey."

  Willy continued to stare. "I don't know any Ramseys. Where are you from?" His voice was what Heck imagined a sickly ghost might sound like.

  "Kansas."

  Willy was relentless. "What part?"

  "Lawrence."

  Willy nodded as if placing Heck's accent. Was this frail fiend that perceptive?

  "Spent some time up north, have you?"

  Heck's blood ran cold. His fingers tensed, ready to jump for his pistols at any sudden movement. "N-no. Yes. I had an uncle up in Illinois. I'd stay with him when I bought horses for our ranch outside of Lawrence. I spend most of my summers up there."

  Now Blake got involved. "Southern horses ain't good enough for you?" He looked down at the US Army brand on Heck's "stolen" horse as he said it.

  "Don't blame me boysl I tried to tell my pa we should buy 'em from Kentucky, but my uncle had us a good deal. Cut us a special price. An' of course we stopped after the war started. Matter of fact, we sold all our horses to the Confederate cavalry for next to nothing."

  Willy's smile turned to an evil sneer, but he said nothing. Heck frantically tried to decipher its meaning. Did Willy know he had lied? The war had started four years ago. That meant Heck would have been only 14 when he was conducting such important business.

  Fortunately, Blake seemed satisfied and Willy said nothing else the rest of the trip. Strangely, Heck felt relieved when they finally arrived in the woodland camp of "Bloody" Bill Anderson.

  There were scores of haphazard lean-tos and cook-circles, as if the raiders had been here time and again for years. It was dusk, and a few campfires had been started to cook the gang's supper—no doubt a meal of rustled beeves and stolen pigs. He saw only a handful of the bandits thanks to the thick scrub and rocks, but as the group moved through the camp, he could tell there were well over 40 raiders here. They were dirty and mean-looking, just as Heck had imagined them. There were even a few women mixed in the murderous lot, wearing just as many guns and knives as the men. A few wore ragged dresses, but most wore men's clothes.

  The raiders stopped what they were doing and looked over the newcomers harshly. White eyes peered out from beneath the shadowed brims of hats and dark brows. The September twilight made the guerillas as sinister as was their reputation. Heck saw several throwing axes or knives at a tree, others playing cards, and others cooking or waiting quietly on their rumpled bedrolls for their ill-gotten supper.

  Then Heck saw a sight that nearly made him gag. Strapped to a tree was a dead man. He had been shot hundreds of times, as if the raiders had used him for target practice. A short, red-headed man stood by him, leering maniacally. Heck would later learn this was "Little Archie" Clements. Archie was covered in blood and held a small circle of flesh obviously cut from the victim's forehead. Heck had seen dead men before— who hadn't in this terrible age? But he had never seen a corpse treated so brutally. An image flashed in his mind for a moment—an image of himself tied to that same tree while Pale Willy, Blake Mullins, Little Archie, and the exaggerated form of Bloody Bill himself drew their pistols on him.

  Willy led the group to a thicket beside the camp where they tied their horses up with the rest of the gang's lean mounts. Then he led the recruits to the center of the camp where the largest of the tents was set. "Willy's back," said one of the men watching from nearby.

  Heck saw a silhouette outlined by a fire behind the tent. It stood, stretched, then strapped on a set of heavy pistols. Then the figure set a cavalry hat on its head, pulled at its coat, and walked to the flap.

  Heck had read where some author had met a famous person and was surprised to find how normal he looked. Mark Twain was a quiet little man. President Lincoln was tall but not the giant the papers made him out to be. Ulysses S. Grant looked more like a drunken store clerk than the General of the Army of the Potomac.

  Bill Anderson looked exactly as Heck had pictured him. He had wild br
own hair that tumbled down out of his worn Confederate cavalry hat to his shoulders. He wore a cavalry officer's coat as well, but his brown pants and white shirt were civilian-made. He was tall and lean, and his long, gaunt face and wide eyes seemed permanently shocked at the cruel brain that lurked behind them. His coat, though a Rebel's, had a buckshot pattern and a dark brown stain square in the breast. Heck shivered visibly. Here was a murderer. A murderer of many, and by the look of the coat, an indiscriminate one at that. How could he live with these killers? And if he did manage, what would their contact do to his soul?

  "Is that Blake Mullins?" Anderson drawled.

  Pale Willy nodded.

  "I've heard of you," Anderson's speech was slow and exaggerated, as if he were drunk on corn mash. "Caused quite a bit of trouble 'round these parts, ain't you boy?"

  "Just to Yankee-lovers, sir." Blake looked at the madman like he was his father-not the drunken bully who was his real father-but some long-lost father who had come back to save his son from his long, hard life.

  "Good, good," Anderson swooned, his wild eyes rolling up into the dark canopy above. "See fo it that these boys are well fed, Willy. I'll address them properly in the mornin'." Bloody Bill stumbled around and staggered back to his tent. From the giggles inside, Heck could tell he wasn't alone. This was going to be harder than he thought.

  "Let's go, men," Willy motioned weakly for them to follow him over to Bill's campfire. There he pointed at a burly woodsman with a handlebar mustache and close-cropped hair. "Feed 'em, Gus. Give 'em some o' that sausage you been grindin'."

  Heck looked to the darkness behind the cook. Hanging from the trees was a butchered pig. Dripping from the trees were long strings of meat formed into rough links by hand-evidently Gus had no sausage wraps, though he did have a hand-grinder he had mounted on a large stump. Flies and mosquitos buzzed about the pork. Heck felt his appetite run away with his courage. "I need to water the lilies," he said to no one in particular and wandered off into the woods.