fret.”
Dianne watched her brothers stiffen. They would be eighteen come June, and she knew they considered themselves every bit a man as Selby.
Jeb Smith chuckled. “You folks don’t have a thing to worry about. Cole is one of the best judges of horseflesh I’ve seen in these parts. Seems to have a natural way with it. He’s good with the rest of the livestock too. You can put your faith in him.”
“I’d just as soon keep my faith in myself,” Morgan muttered under his breath.
At this Cole rose once again. He walked around the wagon, stopping not a foot away. Dianne felt her breath catch at the intensity of his stare.
“You’d do better to put your faith in those animals,” Cole said dryly. “They’ll be a whole lot more durable and reliable after a week on the trail than either of you—or the girl.”
Dianne bristled at this. She was slow to get her anger up, but this man was just plain rude. “Come on, Morgan. Tell me more about milking,” she said, reaching out to take hold of her brother. “You too, Zane. I’m sure to need you both.”
Selby sent the briefest glance her way, and Dianne felt a chill up her spine. There was something about this man that suggested he was not at all happy—not with them … or with life.
CHAPTER 4
T RENTON CHADWICK PULLED THE COLLAR OF HIS COAT UP AND watched the torrent of cold rain as it pounded the Mississippi just up the river from New Madrid. The shack he shared with the Wilson gang, a group of Confederate guerillas, seemed poor shelter from the raging storm.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the river for just a moment. Trenton worried that a flood might ensue if the rains didn’t stop soon. The plankboard cabin was sure to be engulfed if that happened; they weren’t positioned but about twenty feet off the river. Thunder boomed, rattling the only window in the crudely made shelter. Trenton shook his head. Maybe they wouldn’t have to wait to be flooded out—the lightning might well do its own damage.
The tiny porch on which Trenton took cover was of little protection. The wind blew the rain up and under the overhang, pelting his face. Still, being rain-soaked and cold beat having to deal with the drunken stupor of Jerry Wilson, leader of the gang of cutthroats.
Trenton had only teamed up with the men at the insistence of his best friend, Robbie Danssen. Robbie knew Jerry’s younger brother, Sam, and had promised Trenton the men were as bent on revenge against the North as anyone around. Trenton wasn’t sure his choice had been wise, however. Jerry Wilson had such a temper that he was likely to see someone killed just for looking at him the wrong way. Sam Wilson was so jealous of his older brother’s power with the gang that he spent most of his time picking fights with his sibling. Within the last week alone, Trenton had witnessed three brawls, two of which ended with knives being pulled. The brothers were not of a peaceful nature, to be sure.
The rest of the gang was no better. Gustaf Johnson, or “the Swede,” as they all called him, was a twenty-six-year-old silent type who knew his way around explosives. Having come west when the war started up, the Swede was from a mining family in Pennsylvania. Trenton didn’t know what to make of the big man. He seemed reserved and cautious most of the time, but Trenton had seen him nearly strangle a man to death for pouring him a short glass of whiskey when he’d paid for a tall.
Then there was Mark Wiley. He was a hot-tempered gunman who had already earned a bad reputation by the time he was sixteen. Texasborn, Wiley was wanted in two states—his homeland and Louisiana. It was said he had killed as many as twenty men, and Trent could believe it. Just two days past when he’d gone with the Wilsons on a raid for horses and saddles, Trenton had seen Wiley put bullets into three different farmers without so much as a remorseful expression. There’d been no reason to gun down the men, but Wiley seemed
Dianne watched her brothers stiffen. They would be eighteen come June, and she knew they considered themselves every bit a man as Selby.
Jeb Smith chuckled. “You folks don’t have a thing to worry about. Cole is one of the best judges of horseflesh I’ve seen in these parts. Seems to have a natural way with it. He’s good with the rest of the livestock too. You can put your faith in him.”
“I’d just as soon keep my faith in myself,” Morgan muttered under his breath.
At this Cole rose once again. He walked around the wagon, stopping not a foot away. Dianne felt her breath catch at the intensity of his stare.
“You’d do better to put your faith in those animals,” Cole said dryly. “They’ll be a whole lot more durable and reliable after a week on the trail than either of you—or the girl.”
Dianne bristled at this. She was slow to get her anger up, but this man was just plain rude. “Come on, Morgan. Tell me more about milking,” she said, reaching out to take hold of her brother. “You too, Zane. I’m sure to need you both.”
Selby sent the briefest glance her way, and Dianne felt a chill up her spine. There was something about this man that suggested he was not at all happy—not with them … or with life.
CHAPTER 4
T RENTON CHADWICK PULLED THE COLLAR OF HIS COAT UP AND watched the torrent of cold rain as it pounded the Mississippi just up the river from New Madrid. The shack he shared with the Wilson gang, a group of Confederate guerillas, seemed poor shelter from the raging storm.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the river for just a moment. Trenton worried that a flood might ensue if the rains didn’t stop soon. The plankboard cabin was sure to be engulfed if that happened; they weren’t positioned but about twenty feet off the river. Thunder boomed, rattling the only window in the crudely made shelter. Trenton shook his head. Maybe they wouldn’t have to wait to be flooded out—the lightning might well do its own damage.
The tiny porch on which Trenton took cover was of little protection. The wind blew the rain up and under the overhang, pelting his face. Still, being rain-soaked and cold beat having to deal with the drunken stupor of Jerry Wilson, leader of the gang of cutthroats.
Trenton had only teamed up with the men at the insistence of his best friend, Robbie Danssen. Robbie knew Jerry’s younger brother, Sam, and had promised Trenton the men were as bent on revenge against the North as anyone around. Trenton wasn’t sure his choice had been wise, however. Jerry Wilson had such a temper that he was likely to see someone killed just for looking at him the wrong way. Sam Wilson was so jealous of his older brother’s power with the gang that he spent most of his time picking fights with his sibling. Within the last week alone, Trenton had witnessed three brawls, two of which ended with knives being pulled. The brothers were not of a peaceful nature, to be sure.
The rest of the gang was no better. Gustaf Johnson, or “the Swede,” as they all called him, was a twenty-six-year-old silent type who knew his way around explosives. Having come west when the war started up, the Swede was from a mining family in Pennsylvania. Trenton didn’t know what to make of the big man. He seemed reserved and cautious most of the time, but Trenton had seen him nearly strangle a man to death for pouring him a short glass of whiskey when he’d paid for a tall.
Then there was Mark Wiley. He was a hot-tempered gunman who had already earned a bad reputation by the time he was sixteen. Texasborn, Wiley was wanted in two states—his homeland and Louisiana. It was said he had killed as many as twenty men, and Trent could believe it. Just two days past when he’d gone with the Wilsons on a raid for horses and saddles, Trenton had seen Wiley put bullets into three different farmers without so much as a remorseful expression. There’d been no reason to gun down the men, but Wiley seemed
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