shop windows in an orgy of looting and destruction. Sawyer Truett was anxious to join in the fun. A half-breed Choctaw, Sawyer was of average height, built broad and strong. A scraggly goatee covered his chin, the wispy strands blown as was the long hair poking out from beneath the brim of his battered gray felt hat. With a wild Rebel yell on his lips, Truett spurred his horse past his friend and charged into town, and the mixed-blood Choctaws behind him raised their own war cries and drowned out Pacer’s attempts to stem the tide. They ignored his protests and charged after Truett. Pacer had to wrestle his own mount under control to keep the pinto from racing off with the other horses as they trampled the bodies in the alley and disappeared into the fire and smoke.
Find Quantrill. The men will follow his orders. Pacer knew it was his only chance to put an end to the slaughter. He had glimpsed the black flag on the opposite side of town. Quantrill was never far from his color-bearer. Pacer rode clear of the alley. He was determined to circle the town and find the enigmatic guerrilla leader. A touch of his heels against the pinto’s flanks and the animal plunged forward through the smoke and carried its rider away on his mission of mercy, a quality Captain William C. Quantrill kept in short supply. The image itself faded and dissolved into a montage of burning buildings and a confusion of townspeople rushing from one conflagration to another. At one point Pacer saw a handful of older men herded against a wall by a pair of Quantrill’s men. The guerrillas leveled their pistols and proceeded to shoot their prisoners. Pacer charged into the gunmen and sent them sprawling, allowing the townsmen to scatter and head for home. Pacer never broke stride. He spied Quantrill sitting like a statue upon a black charger at the west end of Main Street. Half a dozen men in gray waited nearby like an honor guard. Four women stood before his horse, pleading for the lives of their husbands as Pacer approached.
Quantrill was a dashing, fair-haired killer dressed in a blousy gray shirt trimmed with gaudy black stitchery. A black slouch hat was tilted back on his forehead. He kept four Colt revolvers tucked in his belt. When he saw Pacer approach, he shushed the desperate women with a wave of his hand. “Ladies, you’ve met Bloody Bill Anderson, well, here is another of my lieutenants who doesn’t have to dance in any man’s shadow. None other than the Choctaw Kid himself, Pacer Wolf McQueen. Best beware, he aims to have your scalps dangling from his belt.”
Quantrill and his men laughed aloud as the women fled, screaming. With memories of Quantrill and the Choctaw Kid forever etched in their minds, they ran weeping toward the nearest church. Destruction and death had descended on Lawrence, turning wives into widows and leaving mothers to mourn their butchered sons.
“Damn you, Quantrill!” Pacer shouted above the gunfire. “Call your men off. You lied. I’ll wager there never were Union troops quartered here!”
“I’ve given orders to kill every man big enough to carry a gun,” the guerrilla leader calmly replied. “I aim to teach these damn abolitionists a lesson they’ll never forget.”
“Sound retreat,” Pacer snarled, and dropped his hand to the Colt at his side. The men surrounding Quantrill trained their captured Union-issue carbines on the Choctaw Kid. They held their fire out of respect for the color of Pacer’s uniform and the fact that he didn’t pull his gun. Pacer Wolf searched their faces, hoping to catch a glimmer of conscience among Quantrill’s guard, but like their captain, the guerrillas had been hating for too long: their hearts had become empty shells devoid of tenderness. If war indeed could be said to hold a mirror up to hell, then such men were the devil’s own reflection to whom the flames of carnage had become a way of life and a source of joy.
“In good time, Kid. Just as soon as we pick
Find Quantrill. The men will follow his orders. Pacer knew it was his only chance to put an end to the slaughter. He had glimpsed the black flag on the opposite side of town. Quantrill was never far from his color-bearer. Pacer rode clear of the alley. He was determined to circle the town and find the enigmatic guerrilla leader. A touch of his heels against the pinto’s flanks and the animal plunged forward through the smoke and carried its rider away on his mission of mercy, a quality Captain William C. Quantrill kept in short supply. The image itself faded and dissolved into a montage of burning buildings and a confusion of townspeople rushing from one conflagration to another. At one point Pacer saw a handful of older men herded against a wall by a pair of Quantrill’s men. The guerrillas leveled their pistols and proceeded to shoot their prisoners. Pacer charged into the gunmen and sent them sprawling, allowing the townsmen to scatter and head for home. Pacer never broke stride. He spied Quantrill sitting like a statue upon a black charger at the west end of Main Street. Half a dozen men in gray waited nearby like an honor guard. Four women stood before his horse, pleading for the lives of their husbands as Pacer approached.
Quantrill was a dashing, fair-haired killer dressed in a blousy gray shirt trimmed with gaudy black stitchery. A black slouch hat was tilted back on his forehead. He kept four Colt revolvers tucked in his belt. When he saw Pacer approach, he shushed the desperate women with a wave of his hand. “Ladies, you’ve met Bloody Bill Anderson, well, here is another of my lieutenants who doesn’t have to dance in any man’s shadow. None other than the Choctaw Kid himself, Pacer Wolf McQueen. Best beware, he aims to have your scalps dangling from his belt.”
Quantrill and his men laughed aloud as the women fled, screaming. With memories of Quantrill and the Choctaw Kid forever etched in their minds, they ran weeping toward the nearest church. Destruction and death had descended on Lawrence, turning wives into widows and leaving mothers to mourn their butchered sons.
“Damn you, Quantrill!” Pacer shouted above the gunfire. “Call your men off. You lied. I’ll wager there never were Union troops quartered here!”
“I’ve given orders to kill every man big enough to carry a gun,” the guerrilla leader calmly replied. “I aim to teach these damn abolitionists a lesson they’ll never forget.”
“Sound retreat,” Pacer snarled, and dropped his hand to the Colt at his side. The men surrounding Quantrill trained their captured Union-issue carbines on the Choctaw Kid. They held their fire out of respect for the color of Pacer’s uniform and the fact that he didn’t pull his gun. Pacer Wolf searched their faces, hoping to catch a glimmer of conscience among Quantrill’s guard, but like their captain, the guerrillas had been hating for too long: their hearts had become empty shells devoid of tenderness. If war indeed could be said to hold a mirror up to hell, then such men were the devil’s own reflection to whom the flames of carnage had become a way of life and a source of joy.
“In good time, Kid. Just as soon as we pick
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