Only the Gallant (24 page)

“These droppings are fresh,” he told his companion. “The Starks are just ahead.” He tossed the twig aside, stood, and returned to his horse. He’d ridden this road numerous times as a courier in gray. It felt odd to be here in the uniform of a Union officer—sort of like wearing a target. “I think we ought to cut through the woods and ride in from the east.”

Bon nodded in agreement. “We’ll be able to watch the front and rear of the house.” His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. “Before we go on, there’s something you better know,” he said, watching Jesse remount. The rebel hesitated. Why warn McQueen? The man was a Yankee spy. He’d betrayed them all. Let him get what he deserved. McQueen had taken a fool chance in leaving the Union camp; let the chips fall where they may. Somehow the arguments didn’t hold water. Jesse had freed the Gray Fox at the risk of his own career and placed himself in harm’s way for Ophelia’s sake. Bon couldn’t let him ride into a trap.

“What is it, Bon?” Jesse asked. He wiped a forearm across his face, drying the sweat. Red squirrels cluttered at them from the safety of the oak trees. Raucous jays announced the presence of the two men to the rest of the forest.

“Spider Boudreaux said he’d check on Ophelia while I was gone. He might be at Dunsinane right now, with a patrol.” The Confederate looked up the road as if he were envisioning such an occurrence.

“Yeah … ?”

“I’d be duty bound to make you my prisoner,” Bon concluded with a shrug, his cheeks reddened. “I figured I ought to tell you, in case you wanted to turn back.”

Jesse pursed his lips a moment and scratched the back of his neck as he considered the possibilities. In another hour he might be dead or a prisoner of the Confederacy. Neither prospect held much appeal. But Doc Stark was bad blood. It was time to put an end to it.

“Me turn back?” His eyes narrowed and his gaze hardened. “Sorry, Bon, that dog won’t hunt.” He flicked his reins and the horse left the road and started into the woods.

It was a quarter past noon and the kind of warm spring day when the earth seemed alive underfoot. This dark, rich soil could grow anything in the world. Every time Ophelia worked the garden, she marveled at the forces of nature awakened beneath the freshly turned sod. She was happy to be a part of such a renewal. It gave her a sense of purpose.

Milo Stark found her kneeling in the garden, crumbling the dirt beneath her fingertips and indulging in a moment’s reverie that his gruff voice shattered.

“Clean that mud off you and you’d be as pretty as you was in Memphis,” Milo hungrily observed.

Ophelia spun around in alarm and recognized the big man looming over her as the same lout who had assaulted her in the alley in Memphis. Behind him stood Doc and Titus, strangers to her, but from their looks they meant trouble. She was surprised to see Cicero again. He seemed unable to meet her gaze. Milo had left the others by the well and had come down into the garden to bring the woman in. It was a task he enjoyed.

“Even in that man’s shirt and rolled-up trousers, you look fittin’,” Milo added. He waved a hand and motioned for her to join him. Ophelia glanced toward the cabins across on the other side of the cotton field.

“I see something in your eyes I don’t like,” Milo said. “You’re thinking maybe you can outrun me. Well, maybe you can. But this here Colt rifle of mine has you beat hands down.” He leveled the long-barreled gun at her midsection. “The man with the game leg is my brother Doc. The other one is my cousin Titus. Keep clear of him ’cause he ain’t got any idea how to treat a woman.” Milo took a few steps toward her and grinned. “I do.” He cocked the rifle. “Now get your pretty little self up to the house.”

Ophelia shrugged, dropped the hoe, and walked out of the garden. Milo immediately fell into step behind her. His boots kicked up clouds of dust as he tramped over the dry earth. He followed her into the shade of the summer kitchen. The Starks and Titus had discarded their uniforms on the way north and now wore civilian garb, linsey-woolsey shirts and woolen trousers. Doc and Milo kept their army-issue hats. Titus, on the other hand, had stolen a battered broad-brimmed hat off a scarecrow. Even Cicero had reverted to the clothes he had worn as a slave, though he kept the Patterson Colt tucked in his belt.

“Good afternoon, Miss Tyrone,” Doc Stark said, twisting the ends of his bushy black mustache. Perspiration glinted on his scalp beneath the thinning strands of his black hair. “We mean you no harm, my dear.”

Ophelia noticed the men had left their mounts in front of the house. That was why she hadn’t heard them as they rounded the house on their way to the well by the winter kitchen.

“What do you want here?” she asked them. She looked at Cicero. “I never thought you’d be back, Cicero. It appears you have fallen in with bad company.”

“You don’t need to never mind about that, Miss Ophelia. You always treated me good. You can’t help what old Marse Tyrone did. No more’n I can change the color of my skin.” The former slave at last met her gaze. “I reckon I gots as much claim to that gold as anyone. I come for it.”

“What gold?” Ophelia stared at the men in amazement.

“Spanish gold,” Doc Stark said. “A family treasure your father had his father”—he indicated Cicero—“hide in the well. We came to emancipate it.”

“But that’s gone. My brother spent it outfitting his volunteer cavalry troop, and what was left we used to buy medical supplies that we smuggled down from Cairo.”

Titus’s lean, hungry features took on a worried frown. “You mean we come all this way for nothin’?”

“She’s lying like her brother. They never took it.” Cicero looked at his companions. “That chest is still there, hid about fifteen feet down, right in the wall, a black iron chest I seen myself before I left from here.”

“Did you open it up?” Doc asked, his thick brow furrowed and his brooding gaze hardened.

“Well, no,” Cicero stammered. “I—uh—there wasn’t no room. I would have had to carry it up to the top and someone might have seen me. …”

Doc nodded. “Maybe you better go and bring it up then. Milo can lower you down.” Doc patted his gut and sighed. “Why don’t you fix us some food. My cousin will walk you to the smokehouse over yonder. Pick us out a nice ham for dinner. I aim to leave this place on a full belly.”

“C’mon,” Titus told the woman, and his lips parted in a feral smile. Ophelia could see she had no choice and did as she was told. Milo left her in the open-air kitchen and sauntered over to the well. Cicero gingerly climbed over the waist-high stone well and caught hold of the bucket rope. He appeared anxious. Milo flexed his muscles, then gripped the crank with both hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll take it nice and slow,” he said.

“I’m ready,” Cicero told him.

Milo released a catch and began cranking down the bucket. Cicero wrapped his legs around the thick hemp rope, slipped over the side, and planted his feet against the slippery walls. Keeping a firm hold on the rope, he began the laborious task of walking down the inside wall. Doc Stark scratched the back of his bull neck and strolled over to the well. Milo grunted with each turn of the handle as the gears clanked and groaned at the added weight.

“The darkie weighs enough,” Milo grumbled. He continued to turn the crank. Sweat beaded his beard and dripped from his forehead. His broad back rose and fell with each turn of the handle. Sounds of boot heels scraping the wall and of harsh breathing drifted up from the darkness.

“Hold it now. I gots to go slow. Feel right along … here. Yes sir! I got it! Bring me up!”

Doc nodded to Milo who began to crank in the opposite direction. Again the gears protested. Again the man complained that he was having to do all the work. Doc ignored his brother. His attention was fixed on the dark hole in the earth, and the former slave dangling on the end of a rope who slowly came into view, and the iron strongbox he held under his right arm.

Titus slipped a knife from his belt and cut a length of sausage hanging from the low ceiling. He began to eat while watching Ophelia. The inside of the shed was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of pork and beef and smoked hens with dark reddish-brown skin.

“Milo’s right. Dress you up in silks and gewgaws, you’d be a woman to make a man proud.” Titus carved another mouthful from the summer sausage. “What do you think about that, huh?”

“I think that sausage is tainted and you’re fixing to be sick to death,” Ophelia replied.

Titus spat out what he was about to swallow and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He spat again, trying to clear out even the faintest residue of what he had been eating. Then he saw Ophelia laughing at him. He’d been tricked.

“You bitch,” he muttered. He tossed the sausage aside and advanced on her. He brandished the knife as Ophelia retreated toward the rear of the smokehouse.

A gunshot rang out. Titus cursed beneath his breath and stumbled out into the daylight. Ophelia, carrying a ham in a straw basket, brushed past him and hurried across the yard to the summer kitchen. She felt relatively safe from Titus as long as Milo was close by. Not that the big man was any sort of savior, Ophelia thought. She was in trouble and had yet to think of a way out.

A few yards ahead, Doc Stark stared down at the strongbox he had blasted open with his Colt. The gunshot still reverberated over the quiet land. In the warm sunlight, blackbirds circled the garden with keen and watchful eyes. Down by the cabins an old hound lifted its head at the sound of the gun, but the sun’s warmth lay heavy on the land and the morning had brought rabbits and squirrels to chase and the hound was too sleepy to investigate the sound.

Before the last echoes faded, Jesse McQueen caught Bon Tyrone by the shoulder and pulled him down behind a dewberry bush as the Rebel started back to his lathered mount. Bon tried to twist free but Jesse held him fast. They had left their horses well back in the trees east of Dunsinane and crept forward through the thinning shadows until they had a clear view of the plantation house, the rear grounds with the summer kitchen, the tutor’s cottage, smokehouse, and abandoned outbuildings.

“Goddammit Jesse,” Bon hoarsely whispered. “Get out of my way.”

“Wait,” Jesse cautioned.

“That’s my sister over there!”

“And you’ll get her killed, yourself too, charging in. They’ll have a good sixty yards of open ground to shoot your lights out.” Bon slowly relented, seeing the wisdom in McQueen’s words. It didn’t make waiting any easier. Both men were on edge and bone weary. The long ride from the Union camp had been uneventful but grueling. Their horses were about winded, though Jesse felt the animals had one more burst of speed in them, one more run. The Starks’ horses looked in similar condition at the front of the house. No one was leaving Dunsinane, not for a while, and some of them weren’t leaving it at all. Ever.

Doc knelt by the strongbox as Ophelia returned from the smokehouse. He was oblivious of her presence, staring into the box at an assortment of oilskin wrapped documents, deeds to Dunsinane and storefront properties in Richmond and Petersburg.

“I told you,” Ophelia said, setting down her basket. “Smuggled guns and black powder and medicines bring a high price.” She sighed with some regret. “It took everything we had.”

Milo left his place by the well and joined his older brother. When he saw the contents of the strongbox, his bearded features paled. “We joined a damn army and dodged Rebel bullets and got the Yankees after our necks for deserting and all for a worthless bunch of papers.” He trembled as he spoke. Milo’s dreams of wealth had come crashing down and he wanted to lash out at anyone or anything.

“You’re welcome to the ham,” Ophelia told the two men, the equivalent of rubbing salt in their wounds.

“Shut the hell up, you Rebel bitch,” Milo growled. His hairy callused hand caught Ophelia with a vicious slap that spun her around and sent her staggering into the shade of the summer kitchen, where she sagged against the oak table.

“Cousin Milo, you do have a way with women.” Titus Connolly chuckled. His narrow, angular features were flushed with a mixture of excitement and anger.

“No! Stop it. Miss Ophelia ain’t done nothin’!” Cicero blurted out. The sight of the empty strongbox was almost more than he could bear. Bon hadn’t been lying. The gold had been spent. Cicero would begin his life of freedom as dirt poor as when he had labored at Dunsinane. He would end it the same way. The gunshot came without warning.

Doc Stark palmed his Colt and, still kneeling, fired over the top of the strongbox. The slug caught Cicero in the chest, glanced off his sternum, and ripped through his vitals. He fell stiff-legged against the well and sat in the dirt, arms limp against his side. His head dropped forward, his chin touched his chest.

Ophelia was stunned by Doc’s vicious act. Milo had leaned his Colt rifle against one of the oak supports close at hand. She lunged for the weapon, but Titus, behind her, read her intentions and caught her by the hair and hauled her back against the table.

“Take up your rifle, you damn fool,” Titus shouted at the big man. Milo retrieved the weapon and laughed as Ophelia managed to turn and rake Titus’s cheek with her fingernails. He yelped and released her. She bolted toward the rear door of the plantation house. This time Doc Stark limped over to block her path. He caught her by the arm and jabbed his gun in her side and she quieted down.

Back among the trees, Jesse scrambled to his feet. “The hell with a plan,” he growled, and slapped the Confederate on the shoulder.

Bon Tyrone had already reached the same decision. He had the longer stride and the two men reached their mounts and swung into the saddle as one. Neither man spoke, there simply wasn’t time. The horses leaped forward and charged from the forest. Jesse and Bon opened fire as they galloped into sunlight. Bon loosed a wild Rebel yell. Jesse rode low in the saddle and let the navy Colt in his hand speak for him.

“What the hell is going on?” Milo bellowed. Doc glanced up as the riders cleared the trees. “Jesse McQueen!” he roared. “Damn him!” Doc tried to level his pistol at his attackers, but Ophelia continued to struggle in his grasp and threw off his aim. Doc’s arm encircled her. He used her as a shield and dragged her toward the back steps of the house.