Kiowa Vengeance by Ford Fargo

locked in mortal combat. At first glance, a casual
witness to the depicted scene might assume Colonel Magnus McNulty
singlehandedly stopped Pickett’s charge, routed General Lee and
sent the army of Northern Virginia limping home to Dixie.
    In truth, McNulty’s war experience had been
confined to the Quartermaster Corps, and the nearest he had come to
danger was the time a crate of hardtack had toppled from the back
of a supply wagon and landed on his foot.
    “Why Mister De Courcey, I was under the
impression the portrait was completed. Yet here you stand, brush in
hand.” McNulty emerged from the sun parlor at the rear of his
estate and entered his study. Sunlight streamed through
floor-to-ceiling windows, washed the air with a warming glow, and
turned the dust motes into dancing flecks of gold. The former
officer wore the uniform of a successful businessman now—a frock
coat, matching brushed brown woolen vest and trousers. A checkered
cloth had been tucked inside his stiff collar and draped across his
ample belly. The cloth was spotted with egg yolk, coffee, and
biscuit crumbs. McNulty placed his hands on his hips and paused to
bask in the illusion of glory the artist’s skill had brought to
life. His jaw worked slowly as he chewed a morsel of sausage.
    “I always sign my work in front of my
patron, it is a tradition with me.”
    McNulty had no way of knowing the man in his
study was the notorious rascal the authorities were determined to
bring to justice. Sampson Quick had been labeled a murderer. To his
way of seeing things, Major Seth Allison—the Union officer he’d
gunned down—was the criminal. The Major had a sadistic streak, and
vented his twisted nature on his bedraggled prisoners. He was a war
criminal. But the victorious Federal authorities saw things
differently. After the war, Quick had hunted the man down and shot
him dead.
    “Well, I am a man who can appreciate
tradition, yes sir,” McNulty exclaimed. “Show me a man who values
tradition and I’ll show you a man who has breeding in his
background, real breeding.” McNulty placed his hands on his thick
waist and studied the likeness.
    “Ever since I set eyes on the portrait you
painted of Chester Longfellow, the one that hangs in the lobby of
the Missouri Union Savings Bank, I positively coveted it, sir.
Coveted it. I knew from the get-go that you were the man to
immortalize my achievements.” McNulty sighed, ran a hand through
his thinning hair, his mind no doubt filled with fabricated images,
heroic fantasies conjured by one who had managed to stay as far
from the fighting as possible. “We gave Johnny Reb a hiding back in
’sixty-three. Did you serve, sir? No, of course. You’re an
Englishman, the war was none of your concern, eh.” He quickly
appraised the artist. The man he knew as De Courcey looked to be in
his thirties. He was slender, a bit hollow of chest, and plagued
with a nasty cough at times. Curly brown hair hung to his
shoulders. His eyes, dark as autumn leaves, seemed to draw
everything in, as if the man was always watching, ever observant
and poised to react.
    “Longfellow,” Sampson nodded, “I remember
him well. Now that was a lengthy sitting.” Sampson had labored on
the portrait until he had learned everything there was to know
about the bank, its shipment schedule, and the payrolls that were
due to be deposited. Late one night he looted the bank, and took
all the gold…but left the portrait. Robbery was one thing—art
something else, indeed.
    With his share of the haul, Quick had
traveled back through the Shenandoah Valley and repaid those hard
pressed Southern families who had shown him a kindness when he had
ridden with Mosby’s raiders —before General Bragg had requested he
lend his skills to John Hunt Morgan on his famous cavalry raid into
Indiana and Ohio. Quick was captured on that Great Raid, and
imprisoned at the Union camp in Rock Island, Illinois. Upon his
release from captivity he made his way back