'Get him! Get that varmint in the woods!' Bear ordered.
'Varmint?' Malachi stood up, staring at Bear. 'Excuse me, you jayhawking jackals. Captain Malachi Slater, late of Hunt's magnificent cavalry, and still, my friends, a Southern gentleman. Shall we?'
'It's a damned Reb!' one of the guards shouted.
'It's more than that. It's a damned Reb Slater!' Bear roared. 'Kill him!'
Well, this is it, Malachi thought. Shannon had wanted him to die for honor, and he would just have to go down that way. He stood, firing again and again as the Red Legs raced toward him, trying to fire, but failing. He ran out of bullets as a pair of them charged over the rocks, but he had his saber with him, and he drew that. He charged in turn, and managed to kill the first two men, but more of them were coming for him, more and more…
He was engaged with one fighter when he noticed a carbine aimed his way. He wasn't even going to have time to ask forgiveness of his sins, he thought. No time to mourn…
A blast sounded.
It was the Yank holding the carbine who fell, and not Malachi. Amazed, he looked around.
Hoofbeats! He had heard the hoofbeats! And now the riders were upon them.
'It's a pack of Red Legs!' shouted a man leaping into the scene on a dapple gray stallion. 'Red Legs! Bloody, bleeding, murderin', connivin' Red Legs!'
'Reg Legs!' came another shout.
And they all let out with a sound near and dear to Malachi at that moment.
A Rebel cry went up. Savage, sweet, beautiful to his ears.
He watched as the six horsemen charged the scene. They were in plumed hats and railroad coats, no uniforms, and yet he thought he knew who they were. He was sure that he recognized the young man on the dapple gray mare.
He did. These boys had been with Quantrill. He knew two of them. Frank and Jesse James. Jesse had been a bare kid when he had tasted his first blood, but then lots of boys had become men quickly in the war.
Now this little group was probably headed home, toward southern Missouri. They still seemed young. Even with the war over. But then, Quantrill had depended on young blood, youthful, eager, savage raiders.
Quantrill was dead now. Bloody Bill Anderson was dead, and Little Archie Clement was dead. Archie who had loved to scalp his enemies. Archie had been with the bushwhackers who had so savagely mowed down the contingent of Union officers sent to catch them, the contingent that had included Shannon's fiance'…
Well, Malachi didn't think much of bushwhackers, but these boys had come just in time. Maybe Shannon would accept rescue. Maybe she would keep her mouth closed. But he had to get to her.
He could barely see through the tangle of fighting men and horses, bushwhackers and jayhawkers. He rose, staring over the wavering light of the fires.
He heard a high-pitched scream, and his heart thudded painfully.
He looked between a pair of horses as they danced, a deadly dance for their riders. In the gap he could see Bear. The man was cutting Kristin loose from the tree and throwing her over his shoulder.
Roger Holstein broke away from the battle and joined Bear. Wills, with his bloody toe, ran after them, too.
'Damn it, no!' Malachi swore. Where was Shannon? He couldn't see her. Did the bushwhackers have her, too?
No, they didn't, not that group, anyway. Bear and Holstein and Wills had mounted and pulled away. They were heading fast for the trail, heading west.
'Damn it, no!' Malachi raged again, pushing his way through the warring bushwhackers and jayhawkers, racing toward the Union horses. Bear was gone with Kristin, long gone before he could reach them.
'Malachi!'
It was Shannon. He whirled around in time to see one of the James brothers racing along beside her and sweeping her up onto his mount.
'Hey, you got yourself a girl, Frank!' One of the other riders laughed.
'Not just a girl, Jessie! D'you know who this is?'
'Who?'
'That Yankee-lovin' McCahy brat! Had herself hitched up to one for a while, before we did him in—ouch!' he screamed, looking down at the girl thrown over his saddle, then up at his brother again. 'She bites.'
'Yellow-bellied bushwhackers!' Shannon screamed. But Malachi sensed something different in her screams, in the sound of her voice.
He heard the pain.
She knew now that these men had been there the day when Robert Ellsworth had been killed, and she would never ask for their mercy.
'Shannon!' he thundered her name over the clash of steel and the explosion of gunfire.
'Let's go!' Frank shouted. He fired a number of shots into the air.
Malachi had swung around, racing toward Frank, when one of the Red Legs jumped in front of him, his sword drawn.
He didn't have time for a fight!
The mounted bushwhackers were gathering together. They had come, they had done their damage. Now they were riding away.
The Red Legs with the sword lunged toward Malachi.
'Ah, hell!' Malachi swore, engaging in the battle. The fellow wasn't a bad swordsman. In fact, he did damned well.
He grinned at Malachi as their swords locked at the hilt. 'West Point, class of '58.'
'Good for you, ya bloody Yank!' Malachi retorted. He pulled away, parrying a sudden thrust, ducking another.
The riders were pounding farther and farther away, into the night.
'You're good, Reb!' his opponent called.
'Thanks, and you're in my way, Yank,' Malachi replied.
'In your way? Why, you're almost dead, man!'
'No, sir, you are almost dead.'
Always fight with a cool head…
It had been one of the first rules that Malachi had ever learned. His comment had provoked his opponent. It was the advantage he needed.
The Red Legs lifted his sword high for a smashing blow. Malachi thrust straight, catching the man quickly and cleanly through the heart.
He fell without a whimper.
Malachi pulled his sword clean and leaped away from his fallen foe, swinging to counter any new attack.
But he was alone.
Alone with a sea of corpses.
At least twelve of the Red Legs lay dead, strewn here and there over their camp bags, over their saddles, over then-weapons; some shot and some thrust through by swords. Only one of the raiders lay on the ground. A very young boy with a clear complexion.
He groaned. Malachi stooped beside him, carefully turning him over. Blood stained his shirt. Malachi opened it quickly. There was no way the boy could live. He'd been riddled with shot in the chest Malachi pressed the tail ends of the shirt hard against him, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The boy opened his eyes.
'I'm going to die, captain, ain't I?'
He might have said something else, but the boy already knew. Malachi nodded. 'The pain will be gone, boy.'
'I can't die. I got tobacco in my pocket. Ma would just kill me. That's a laugh, ain't it? But she'd be awful, awful disappointed in me.'
'I'll get that tobacco out, boy,' Malachi said.
The youth's eyes had already closed again. Malachi thought that the boy had heard him, though. It seemed that his lip curled into a grateful smile just as the life left his eyes.
