Dark Stranger sb-4 Read online

  "They've got a set of rotten tempers between them, huh?"

  "Do they?" Kristin crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the young man who had been doing the shooting. Shannon was still shrieking, fighting the hold Malachi had on her. Kristin ignored them both and kept staring at the newcomer. "Why were you shooting at us?"

  "I thought she meant to poke a hole right through old Malachi there," he said solemnly. He had cloudlike blue-gray eyes and tawny hair. He smiled again. It was an engaging smile, and Kristin almost smiled, too, in spite of herself.

  "I take it you're another Slater? Or are you a friend of the family?"

  He stuck out his hand. "Jamie, ma'am."

  Malachi let out something that sounded like a growl. "Damned brat bit me!" he thundered.

  "Shannon!" Kristin implored.

  She might have bitten Malachi, but the bite didn't keep him from maintaining his hold upon her, his arms around her waist. Her toes were barely touching the ground.

  "Ah, Malachi." Jamie shook his head sorrowfully and said to Kristin, "He met Grant at Shiloh but he can't handle a little wisp of a girl."

  "I'm not —" Shannon began.

  "You are a foolish little brat!" Malachi said, releasing her at last and shoving her towards Kristin. She would have swung at him again, but Kristin caught her sister's arms. "Shannon, please!"

  But Shannon was still staring at Malachi, seething. "I am not a brat, Reb. You attacked my sister —"

  "And you attacked my brother," Jamie said pleasantly. "We're all even. And if Cole were here he'd say the entire lot of us were a pack of fools playing around with firearms. But then, Cole isn't here, and that's why Malachi and I are. Maybe we ought to try and start over."

  "Cole sent you, too?" Kristin asked Jamie.

  "Yes, ma'am, he did."

  "I see," Kristin said stiffly.

  Jamie grinned broadly. "No, ma'am, I doubt if you see at all. He had some business to attend to."

  "I told her," Malachi said.

  "My brother is a cavalry officer," Shannon snapped at Malachi, ignoring everything else. "And if he knew you were on his property he'd skewer you right through!"

  He shook his head, looking as if he were about to explode. Then he exhaled in an exaggerated display of patience. "I thought I was supposed to be looking out for Quantrill, not a two-bit piece of baggage!" He shoved his hat down hard over his forehead and started walking toward the house. Kristin, amused, stared after him. Shannon, amazed, placed her hands on her hips.

  "Where do you think you're going?" she called.

  Malachi stopped and swung around. "In. For coffee and breakfast. And if you don't like it, little girl, that's just too damned bad. You take it up with Cole the next time you see him. He asked me to be here, and I'm here, and I won't be leaving, not until he gets back. Until that time, you do us both a favor. You stay clear of me. Way clear." He paused, then swore softly again. "Hell, I could still be out there with the Yankees. It'd be a hell of a lot less nerve-racking than a morning here!" Once again he turned. Kristin saw that Delilah was on the steps, watching them. She was grinning broadly.

  "You must be Mr. Malachi."

  Delilah's voice floated down to Kristin, and Kristin arched a brow at her. She and Shannon hadn't known that Cole's brothers were coming, but Delilah had. Cole had told Delilah what he was up to, and he hadn't said a word to them.

  She gritted her teeth, damning Cole a thousand times over. What was this business he had to attend to? They had made a deal. Zeke was still out there somewhere. She didn't need a pair of baby-sitters. She needed to have Zeke taken care of.

  And she needed to have Cole talk to her, to tell her about his life, not just walk away from her when the sun came up.

  "You come on in," Delilah was saying to Malachi. "Breakfast's on the table, boys. Breakfast's on the table."

  Kristin felt Jamie watching her. She turned to him, and she flushed, surprised by the knowing assessment she saw in his eyes. He had been reading her mind, or else he had been wondering about her relationship with his brother. No, he seemed to know what their relationship was already. She could read that in the look he was giving her.

  Then he smiled, as if he had already decided that he liked her, and so she smiled, too. She liked Jamie. And she liked Malachi. She even liked the war he was waging with Shannon. She had felt like laughing as she'd watched them and she hadn't felt like laughing in a long time.

  "I'm awful hungry, too," Jamie said. He offered her his arm. "Shall we go in for breakfast?"

  Kristin hesitated, then took his arm, and they started toward the house. She paused, turning back to her sister. "Shannon?"

  "I'll skip breakfast," Shannon said heatedly, her bright blue eyes still on Malachi's retreating back. "I don't rightly feel like sitting down with —" She paused when she saw that Jamie was studying her intently. "I'm not hungry." She spun around and stomped off to the barn. Kristin looked at Jamie again.

  "Just where is Cole? I don't need looking after like this, you know. Cole and I had a — an agreement."

  She studied his eyes, trying hard not to flush.

  "You talk to Cole about his whereabouts later," Jamie said flatly. Neither of the Slaters was going to say a thing about Cole's absence, she realized. "And we're here 'cause of your agreement. We know Quantrill and his boys. We're just here to see that you're safe. Do you really mind? Terribly?"

  "No, I, uh… of course not. You're both very welcome," she said, forcing herself to smile. They were welcome, they really were. It was just that…

  It was just that she wondered where the hell Cole had gone. She wondered if it had to do with another woman, and she wondered if she could bear it if it did.

  Don't fall in love with him! she warned herself again. But he was gone, and she was aching, and it was too late. He wasn't involved and she was, and it was gnawing away at her. She forced her smile to remain in place. "Jamie, you are very welcome. Come on. Delilah makes an incredible breakfast."

  He rode southeast the first day. The farther east he went in Missouri, the more closemouthed and careful people were about Quantrill and his gang.

  It was natural, he supposed. It had all turned into such a hideous, ugly thing. The ugliness had taken hold way back in the 1850s when John Brown had come into Missouri with his followers and killed slaveholders. Cole didn't really know what to think of John Brown. He had seen the man at his trial, and he had thought then that old John Brown spoke like a fanatic. But he had also thought that he spoke from conviction, too, when he said that only a bloodbath could cleanse the country of the sin of slavery.

  John Brown and his followers had gone on to raid the arsenal at Harper's Ferry. Robert E. Lee — then an officer of the United States Army — had been sent in to capture John Brown. Jeb Stuart had been with the forces sent to Harper's Ferry, too.

  Cole had been with them himself, riding right alongside Jeb. They had captured John Brown and taken him to Charlestown to stand trial. There hadn't been any Confederacy then. And Cole hadn't known what was to come.

  In the North they had quickly begun to sing, "John Brown's body lies a-molderin' in the grave," conveniently forgetting that even if the man had been a God-fearing murderer, he had still been a murderer.

  And in Missouri men had learned to retaliate.

  Quantrill and his raiders were worshipped by the people here, people who had known nothing but death and destruction from the Kansas jayhawkers. Cole had to be careful. When he stopped at a farmhouse, he quickly made his presence known. He asked for a sip of water from a well, then asked if anyone knew where he might find Quantrill or any of his boys. He was polite, and he smiled, and he used his best country accent, and he kept it filled with respect.

  In return he was pointed more and more toward the south. Finally, in a small town almost fifty miles south of Osceola, he heard that Quantrill was at the local saloon.

  No one was afraid there. Quantrill's boys were in charge. The South had a good grip on its o
wn here. At a farmhouse outside the town, Cole was invited in for a meal, and the farmer assured him that he could find Quantrill at the saloon at about six that evening.

  Cole rode in carefully. If he saw Quantrill first, or Anderson, he'd be all right, but he didn't want to run into Zeke, not now. In case he did, though, he rode in with his six-shooters and two shotguns loaded and ready.

  Things were quiet enough as he rode into town. It was almost as if there were no war. Nicely dressed women with stylish hats stood outside the mercantile. As he rode slowly along the dusty main street, they stared at him, and he tipped his hat. They blushed and whispered to one another.

  That was when Cole realized that the quiet little town was pulsing with an inner excitement and that things weren't really quiet at all. He could hear the sound of laughter and piano music up ahead and saw a sign that read Red Door Saloon. There were at least eight horses tethered out front.

  Quantrill and company do reign here, he thought. He reined in his horse and dismounted, dropping the reins over the post in front of the saloon and dusting off his hands. Then he headed for the red door that had given the saloon its name.

  He opened the door and stood there, blinking in the dim light. Then he swiftly cast his gaze over the Red Door's patrons.

  Zeke wasn't there.

  But William Clarke Quantrill was, playing cards at a round table, leaning back with a thin cigar in his mouth. He was a pale, ashen man with dark hair and a neat brown mustache. He saw Cole just as Cole saw him, and he smiled. He tossed his cards down and stood. He was of average height, about five-foot-nine. There was nothing about the man to label him the scourge of the West. Nothing except his eyes. They were pale blue and as cold as death.

  "Cole. Cole Slater. Well, I'll be damned. To what do I owe this honor?"

  Cole didn't answer him. He'd already looked around the room, and looked hard. Zeke wasn't there, but Cole was certain that Quantrill wasn't alone. He wasn't. Cole recognized the other four around the table as young recruits. The two James boys, Jesse and Frank, were there, along with Bill Anderson and little Archie Clements. Cole was sure, too, that Quantrill had more men in the saloon. It wasn't that he had anything to fear here. He was a hero in these parts. It didn't matter that he made out lists of men to be executed. It didn't matter that his men were rapists, murderers and thieves. All that mattered was that what had been done to the Missourians by the jayhawkers was being returned to the Kan-sans twice over by the bushwhackers.

  Cole hadn't come here to do battle, anyway.

  He strode into the saloon, toward the poker table. The piano player had stopped playing. Everyone in the room was watching him.

  He reached Quantrill. Quantrill had his hand extended. Cole took it. "Quantrill," he acknowledged quietly, nodding to the other men at the table. "Jesse. Frank. Archie. Bill. You all look fit. War seems to agree with you."

  "Bushwhacking agrees with me," Archie Clements admitted freely. He was dark and had a mean streak a yard wide. "Hell, Cole, I couldn't make it in no ordinary unit. Besides, I'm fighting Yanks for Missouri, and that's it. 'Course, now, you aren't so much regular army, either, are you, Cole? What do they call you? A spy? A scout? Or are you still just a raider?"

  "I'm a major, Archie, and that's what they call me," Cole said flatly.

  Quantrill was watching the two of them. He turned to the piano player and said, "Hey, what's the problem there, Judah? Let's have something light and fancy here, shall we? Archie, you and Bill take the James boys over to the bar for a whiskey. Seems to me that Cole must have made this trip 'cause he's got something to say. I want to hear it."

  Archie stood, but he looked at Cole suspiciously.

  "You alone, Cole?"

  "That's right, Archie. I'm alone."

  Archie nodded at last. Young Jesse James kept staring at Cole. "It was good to see you again, Major Slater. We miss you when we ride. You were damned good."

  Damned good with his guns, that was what the boy meant. What the hell was going to be in store for these men when the war was over? If they survived the war.

  "You take care, Jesse. You, too, Frank," Cole said. He drew up a chair next to Quantrill. Quantrill started to deal out the cards. "You still a gambling man, Cole?"

  "Always," Cole told him, picking up his cards. A buxom brunette with a headful of rich curls, black fishnet stockings and a blood-red dress came over. She nudged up against Quant rill's back but flashed Cole a deep, welcoming smile.

  "Want some whiskey for your friend there, Willy?"

  "Sure. Bring over the best. We've got a genuine Confederate scout in our midst. But he used to be one of mine, Jennifer. Yep, for a while there he was one of my best."

  "He'd be one of anybody's best, I'm sure," Jennifer drawled, fluttering her dark lashes.

  Cole flashed her an easy smile, surprised to discover that he felt nothing when he looked at her. She was a pretty thing, very sexual, but she didn't arouse him in the least. You're too satisfied, he warned himself. He found himself frowning and wondering if he shouldn't be interested. At least then he'd know he could be. He shrugged. He was committed — for the moment. And he'd be taking a long ride away soon enough. There'd be plenty of time to prove things to himself then if he had to. That bothered him, too. He shouldn't have to feel the need to prove things to himself.

  He shouldn't feel any of these things. Not when his wife lay dead.

  "Get the man a whiskey," Quantrill said sharply. Jennifer pouted, then spun around. "What's this all about?" he demanded of Cole.

  "The McCahy girls," Cole said flatly.

  Quantrill frowned. He didn't seem to recognize the name, and Cole felt sure he wasn't acting. "I don't know them."

  Jennifer returned with a new bottle of good Irish whiskey and a pair of shot glasses. She was going to pour out the amber liquid, but Quantrill shooed her away and poured out the shots himself.

  "Your man Zeke has been after them."

  Quantrill met his frown. "Zeke? Zeke Moreau? I didn't even know the two of you had met. Zeke came in after you were gone."

  "Not quite. We met. But I don't think he remembered me when we met again."

  Comprehension dawned in Quantrill's cold eyes. "The farmhouse? Near the border? That was you, Cole?"

  "Yeah, that was me." Cole leaned forward. He picked up his glass and swallowed down its contents. It was good. Smooth. The kind of stuff that was becoming rare in the South as the war went on and on. He poured himself another shot. He could feel Quantrill's eyes on him. He sensed that Quantrill wasn't angry. He seemed amused more than anything else.

  "So you came back to beat my boys up, huh?"

  Quantrill poured himself another glass of whiskey, then sat back, swirling the liquid, studying its amber color. Cole looked at him. "No, I just happened by your boys at work, and I'll admit I was kind of sick to my stomach at the war they were waging. They dragged out an old man and killed him. Then they came back after his daughter. Seems the lady had the bad luck to dislike Zeke."

  Quantrill shrugged. His amusement was fading. "You don't like my methods?"

  "You've become a cold-blooded killer, Quantrill."

  "I didn't know anything about the McCahy place."

  "I believe you," Cole said.

  Quantrill watched him for a moment, a sly smile creeping onto his lips again. "Hell, Cole, you're starting to sound like some damned Yankee."

  "I'm not a Yankee."

  "Yankee lover, then."

  "I don't want the girl touched, Quantrill."

  "My, my…" Quantrill leaned back, idly running a finger around the rim of his glass. "Seems to me that you weren't so finicky back in February of '61, Mr. Slater. Who was heading up the jayhawkers back then? Was it Jim Lane, or was Doc Jennison calling the shots by then? Don't make no real matter, does it? They came riding down into Missouri like a twister." He came forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Yessir, just like a twister. They burned down your place, but that wasn't enough. They had to have thei
r fun with Mrs. Slater. Course, she was a beauty, wasn't she, Cole?"

  Cole felt his face constrict. He felt his pulse hammering against his throat. He longed to jump forward and throttle the life out of Quantrill, to close those pale, calculating eyes forever.

  "Nope, you weren't so finicky about methods when I met you first, Cole Slater. You had revenge on your mind, and nothing more."

  Cole forced his lips to curl into a humorless smile. "You're wrong, Quantrill. Yeah, I wanted vengeance. But I could never see murder done in cold blood. I could never draw up a list of men to be gunned down. I could never see dragging terrified, innocent women out of their beds to be raped and abused. Or shooting down children."

  "Hell, Cole. Children fight in this war."

  "And that's the hell of it, Quantrill. That's the whole bloody hell of it. The war is hell enough. The savagery is too much."

  "We fight like we've been attacked, and that's the plain truth of it. You go see the likes of Lane or Jennison. Tell them about innocents. You can't change the war, Cole. Not you, and not anybody else. Not anybody."

  "I didn't come here today to end the war, Quantrill," Cole said calmly.

  "You just want me to rein in on Zeke, is that it?"

  "Well," Cole told him casually, "you can rein in on him or I can kill him."

  Quantrill grinned and shrugged. "You're overestimating my power, Slater. You want me to call Zeke in when this girl isn't anything to you. Not anything at all. She's not your sister and she's not your wife. Hell, from what I understand, Zeke saw her first. So what do you think I can do?"

  "You can stop him."