But then I know what it’s like to struggle for trust.” Steele chuckled. “You see, I’m a New Yorker. My wife is from Mississippi. I’ve put down roots in the South. Still, it has taken almost two years for my own men to trust me. And every time I order a retreat, there are some who will question my loyalties. Morale is dismal enough. I don’t wish to make it any worse.” The general finished his drink. “Any ties Quantrill or his men had to the Confederacy were severed at Lawrence. Your innocence or guilt doesn’t matter.” The general returned to his desk and unfurled a surveyor’s map of the fortifications around Little Rock. His rumpled gray uniform had a lived-in look reflecting the man who wore it. The buttons were dull and unpolished. The cuffs were becoming frayed. Steele was only in his mid-thirties, but responsibilities had aged the man and bowed his shoulders beneath the weight of an increasingly difficult task, the defense of Arkansas with too few men and supplies.
Pacer tried to think of something to say but words failed him; they slipped and slid and drifted away. Jesse might have argued and won the general over to his way of thinking. Jesse had the gift. Pacer Wolf could see no use in trying. General Steele lifted the map and slid the canvas money bag to the edge of the table. “You can take the money if you wish. It is yours, after all.”
“I’m not a thief,” Pacer growled. He had stopped the Neosho stage as an act of war and resented the implication to the contrary. “I took that money for the Confederacy. Keep it.” He turned and, without a salute, started toward the cabin door.
“We retreat,” Steele said. McQueen paused with his hand on the doorlatch. “We retreat and the Union army advances, and on the heels of a Federal victory will come the plunderers, like carrion birds.” The general placed a hand upon the map. “Go home, Pacer McQueen. And don’t look for war. It will find you soon enough.”
Pacer turned to look at the general. In the glare of the flickering lamplight the Confederate officer’s deepset features took on what to Pacer seemed a spectral quality. A gust of wind rattled the shuttered window and moaned through a crack in the log walls. Borne on the breeze came the distant call of a raven. Pacer turned the latch and stepped outside, ignoring the guards in gray who watched him with a mixture of curiosity and resentment etched on their bearded features. Pacer stepped out from under the porch roof and searched the gunmetal sky and at last spied the dark-winged bird circling above the treetops southwest of the Rebel encampment.
Pacer knew then what he had to do. And where he was going. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he caught up the reins of his pinto and left Brigadier General William Steele to his maps and his plans and his gnawing despair.
Chapter Ten
D REAMS…
Lawrence, Kansas, was burning and there was nothing Pacer Wolf McQueen could do to stop it. Once more, he rode through the smoke-shrouded streets, a man dazed by the carnage he had unwittingly become part of. He had followed Quantrill’s black flag into town expecting to battle the Union troops stationed there. So far the only Federals Pacer had seen were a fat old recruiting officer and a pair of grizzled veterans whose crippling wounds had ended their military service. Pacer had discovered the bullet-riddled bodies of all three soldiers in an alley between a hotel and a seamstress’s shop.
“C’mon, Pacer,” said Sawyer Truett, who had joined Pacer along with a dozen other riders from Indian Territory to take part in the battle. “We’re gonna miss out.” Truett was a couple of years older than Pacer. The two had been childhood friends. In fact, Truett had come to the McQueen ranch as an orphan and found a home with the McQueens back in the Kiamichi hills.
Gunfire rattled throughout the town. Smoke churned skyward. Along the streets, guerrillas kicked in doors and crashed through
Pacer tried to think of something to say but words failed him; they slipped and slid and drifted away. Jesse might have argued and won the general over to his way of thinking. Jesse had the gift. Pacer Wolf could see no use in trying. General Steele lifted the map and slid the canvas money bag to the edge of the table. “You can take the money if you wish. It is yours, after all.”
“I’m not a thief,” Pacer growled. He had stopped the Neosho stage as an act of war and resented the implication to the contrary. “I took that money for the Confederacy. Keep it.” He turned and, without a salute, started toward the cabin door.
“We retreat,” Steele said. McQueen paused with his hand on the doorlatch. “We retreat and the Union army advances, and on the heels of a Federal victory will come the plunderers, like carrion birds.” The general placed a hand upon the map. “Go home, Pacer McQueen. And don’t look for war. It will find you soon enough.”
Pacer turned to look at the general. In the glare of the flickering lamplight the Confederate officer’s deepset features took on what to Pacer seemed a spectral quality. A gust of wind rattled the shuttered window and moaned through a crack in the log walls. Borne on the breeze came the distant call of a raven. Pacer turned the latch and stepped outside, ignoring the guards in gray who watched him with a mixture of curiosity and resentment etched on their bearded features. Pacer stepped out from under the porch roof and searched the gunmetal sky and at last spied the dark-winged bird circling above the treetops southwest of the Rebel encampment.
Pacer knew then what he had to do. And where he was going. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he caught up the reins of his pinto and left Brigadier General William Steele to his maps and his plans and his gnawing despair.
Chapter Ten
D REAMS…
Lawrence, Kansas, was burning and there was nothing Pacer Wolf McQueen could do to stop it. Once more, he rode through the smoke-shrouded streets, a man dazed by the carnage he had unwittingly become part of. He had followed Quantrill’s black flag into town expecting to battle the Union troops stationed there. So far the only Federals Pacer had seen were a fat old recruiting officer and a pair of grizzled veterans whose crippling wounds had ended their military service. Pacer had discovered the bullet-riddled bodies of all three soldiers in an alley between a hotel and a seamstress’s shop.
“C’mon, Pacer,” said Sawyer Truett, who had joined Pacer along with a dozen other riders from Indian Territory to take part in the battle. “We’re gonna miss out.” Truett was a couple of years older than Pacer. The two had been childhood friends. In fact, Truett had come to the McQueen ranch as an orphan and found a home with the McQueens back in the Kiamichi hills.
Gunfire rattled throughout the town. Smoke churned skyward. Along the streets, guerrillas kicked in doors and crashed through
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