Only the Gallant by Kerry Newcomb Page A

warrior?”
    “Father read it to me,” Jesse replied, puzzled.
    The major placed the tip of his finger upon Vicksburg. “This is Troy. As long as it stands, we cannot control the river. Troy must be taken.”
    “And what am I do in all this?” Jesse pressed further. It was time to lay all the cards on the table.
    “Why … Jesse, don’t you see?” Abbot replied, shoving his wire-rims back upon his nose. “You are my Trojan horse.”

Chapter Five
    T ITUS CONNOLLY DIPPED HIS head in the horse trough and straightened, brushing his stringy, shoulder-length black hair back from his face. He glanced around at Milo and Emory, who waited impatiently for their cousin to tell them what had happened. After all, he’d been gone all night and they had feared the worst.
    Titus grimaced as he noticed the torn right elbow of his coat and cursed the fence that had snagged him as he raced past the Congregational church after hurling the knife at McQueen.
    “Well, did you git him?” Milo blurted out. He’d wrapped the knuckles of his right hand with strips of cloth. Pain continued to etch his features and his eyes smoldered.
    “No,” Titus remarked offhandedly. “Bad luck, there. So I lit out and found Doc at the cathouse. We run us some whores.” He shrugged. “Lost me a good knife, too,” he added. Titus pulled on his short-brimmed hat and headed across the corral toward the barn. The horses they had brought up from the territory parted as the three men headed for the gate. Stallions and mares tossed their manes and nervously stamped their hooves, churning clouds of dust that billowed gold in the morning light.
    Titus took the lead, but Milo, with his long stride, quickly pulled abreast of his cousin as they neared the barn. They followed the smell of the coffee Emory had started brewing at sunup.
    “That’s all you got to say. Bad luck?” Milo shook his head and raised a fist to the empty air.
    “There’ll be another time,” Titus growled. “I didn’t see you doin’ any better.” They entered the shadowy interior of the ramshackle barn. Days ago, they had found the place abandoned with a scrawled note tacked to the door. Goddam the Union and Goddam you, Billy Yank . Look for me in Vicksburg .
    The Starks had understood the note to mean they ought to make themselves at home and had done just that while a Union purchasing agent dickered over the price for their herd. Most of the animals had yet to be saddle-broke, another of the Starks’ responsibilities. Titus Connolly intended for Milo and Emory to bear the brunt of that work. Gambling and knives were his expertise, he thought as he ambled among the slanted beams of sunlight streaming through the weathered shingles.
    Milo brushed past his cousin and headed straight for his saddle and bedroll. A Colt revolving rifle lay atop his saddlebags. Milo took up the weapon and checked the loads as best he could with his bandaged hand.
    Emory had poured a cup of coffee for his cousin, but he changed his course and offered the coffee to the big man with the rifle.
    “Calm down now, Milo. Drink this.”
    Milo slapped the cup from his brother’s hand. The smaller man beat a hasty retreat, tripped over a blacksmith’s hammer, lost his balance, crashed through the side of a stall, and landed on his ample backside amid the brittle hay and dried dung.
    “Son of a bitch!” Emory exclaimed, his tailbone hurt, but his pride had suffered the worse damage.
    “Put your gun down, Milo,” Titus said, standing by the cook fire Emory had built in the blacksmith’s forge. A skillet had been set next to a tin plate crowded with biscuits. Eight strips of thick bacon floated on a sheen of hot grease in the skillet.
    “You had your chance, cousin, now butt out,” Milo said, and headed toward daylight.
    “Milo … when they were handing out dumb, you must’ve stood in line for a double share.” Titus gambled he could knock the brute senseless with the skillet before the man swung