coat and gray and black vest, white shirt, and black string tie. The right-side pocket of his coat bulged from the weight of the navy Colt .36 he always kept close at hand. This “schoolmaster” was a crack shot.
Jesse closed the door leading to the hallway and took a seat on the bed where he’d left his carpetbag and gunbelt.
“Bravo the dashing hero,” Abbot quipped. “Rescuing the fair maid, the sister of Bon Tyrone no less. I couldn’t have planned it better.”
“I suspected your hand in it, Major,” McQueen replied. Peter Abbot had been a close friend of Jesse’s father. Ben McQueen and Peter Abbot had pulled each other out of some tough scrapes in Mexico, and Abbot had been a frequent guest at the McQueen farm in the territory. Jesse had grown up calling the man “Uncle,” but this night “Major” seemed more appropriate. After all, such a clandestine visit could hardly be considered a social call: Abbot had stolen into the room and waited with curtains drawn for McQueen to return. His tone of voice was cordial, but his slate-colored eyes were hard as steel behind the round lenses of his spectacles.
“It was none of my doing. I was damn near tempted to buy the Starks a drink for their help. But Milo was in a ‘pretty pickle,’ and I didn’t want to bother him.” Abbot chuckled, enjoying his own cleverness. Then he became serious again. “I’d watch my back if I were you; the whole Stark family has brought a herd of horses up from—”
“I know,” McQueen said, interrupting his friend. He held up the bone-handled knife. “They’ve already come calling.”
Abbot frowned. He needed Jesse McQueen alive, not lying dead in some Memphis street, the victim of a private feud. Maybe he ought to step in and have Sherman toss Doc, Milo, Emory Stark, and their inbred cousin into the nearest prison stockade. Then again, they had proved useful once, and might again.
Jesse studied the older man seated across from him. He remembered Abbot’s last visit to the Indian Territory shortly after the Confederates had fired on Fort Sumter, plunging the nation into war. Jesse had been eager to enter the fray. He was young and hungry for adventure. He had been reared on the exploits of his ancestors, a father, grandfather, and great-grandfather who had joined their fortunes with that of the country they loved. The Union was threatened and Jesse was determined to do his part. When “Uncle Peter” offered him a field commission, the young man jumped at the chance. But his experience in New Orleans had left him older and wiser. It had taught him something of the reality of war and shown him the dark side of Major Peter Abbot.
“Let me worry about the Starks,” Jesse replied. “Why don’t you tell me why I’m here in Memphis, demoted to a second lieutenant?” He removed his coat and shirt. He thanked the powers that be for the breeze stirring the curtains.
Abbot nodded. He stood and crossed the room and noticed the English coin dangling against McQueen’s muscled chest.
“So the medal’s yours now. When did Ben pass it along to you?”
“Before I left for New Orleans. I like to think it brought me luck.”
“Maybe it did. You’re alive.”
“Were you worried for me, Uncle?”
Abbot met his gaze, quite frankly. He did not waver for an instant. “I never had the time,” he said, his features impassive, even guarded. Jesse was unable to tell just how serious the major really was. The man with the spectacles coughed and reached inside his coat to remove a map of Mississippi and part of Tennessee. He spread the map on McQueen’s cot, forcing him to slide to one end. His index finger traced a line to Memphis then south down to Jackson, Mississippi, and westward, a distance of about thirty miles to the undulating scribble denoting the Mississippi River.
“Do you know the Iliad , Jesse,” Abbot asked, “how the Greeks besieged Troy in a war that cost the lives of many a gallant
Jesse closed the door leading to the hallway and took a seat on the bed where he’d left his carpetbag and gunbelt.
“Bravo the dashing hero,” Abbot quipped. “Rescuing the fair maid, the sister of Bon Tyrone no less. I couldn’t have planned it better.”
“I suspected your hand in it, Major,” McQueen replied. Peter Abbot had been a close friend of Jesse’s father. Ben McQueen and Peter Abbot had pulled each other out of some tough scrapes in Mexico, and Abbot had been a frequent guest at the McQueen farm in the territory. Jesse had grown up calling the man “Uncle,” but this night “Major” seemed more appropriate. After all, such a clandestine visit could hardly be considered a social call: Abbot had stolen into the room and waited with curtains drawn for McQueen to return. His tone of voice was cordial, but his slate-colored eyes were hard as steel behind the round lenses of his spectacles.
“It was none of my doing. I was damn near tempted to buy the Starks a drink for their help. But Milo was in a ‘pretty pickle,’ and I didn’t want to bother him.” Abbot chuckled, enjoying his own cleverness. Then he became serious again. “I’d watch my back if I were you; the whole Stark family has brought a herd of horses up from—”
“I know,” McQueen said, interrupting his friend. He held up the bone-handled knife. “They’ve already come calling.”
Abbot frowned. He needed Jesse McQueen alive, not lying dead in some Memphis street, the victim of a private feud. Maybe he ought to step in and have Sherman toss Doc, Milo, Emory Stark, and their inbred cousin into the nearest prison stockade. Then again, they had proved useful once, and might again.
Jesse studied the older man seated across from him. He remembered Abbot’s last visit to the Indian Territory shortly after the Confederates had fired on Fort Sumter, plunging the nation into war. Jesse had been eager to enter the fray. He was young and hungry for adventure. He had been reared on the exploits of his ancestors, a father, grandfather, and great-grandfather who had joined their fortunes with that of the country they loved. The Union was threatened and Jesse was determined to do his part. When “Uncle Peter” offered him a field commission, the young man jumped at the chance. But his experience in New Orleans had left him older and wiser. It had taught him something of the reality of war and shown him the dark side of Major Peter Abbot.
“Let me worry about the Starks,” Jesse replied. “Why don’t you tell me why I’m here in Memphis, demoted to a second lieutenant?” He removed his coat and shirt. He thanked the powers that be for the breeze stirring the curtains.
Abbot nodded. He stood and crossed the room and noticed the English coin dangling against McQueen’s muscled chest.
“So the medal’s yours now. When did Ben pass it along to you?”
“Before I left for New Orleans. I like to think it brought me luck.”
“Maybe it did. You’re alive.”
“Were you worried for me, Uncle?”
Abbot met his gaze, quite frankly. He did not waver for an instant. “I never had the time,” he said, his features impassive, even guarded. Jesse was unable to tell just how serious the major really was. The man with the spectacles coughed and reached inside his coat to remove a map of Mississippi and part of Tennessee. He spread the map on McQueen’s cot, forcing him to slide to one end. His index finger traced a line to Memphis then south down to Jackson, Mississippi, and westward, a distance of about thirty miles to the undulating scribble denoting the Mississippi River.
“Do you know the Iliad , Jesse,” Abbot asked, “how the Greeks besieged Troy in a war that cost the lives of many a gallant
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