While still in his home state, he had chanced upon a rural store on whose counter stood a glass jar containing four old, dry cigars. He had the remainder of one in his clenched teeth at this moment; he had smoked the first half last night. The other three protruded from the pocket of his cadet gray shirt.
He was riding in hot sunshine, the gypsy robe rolled and tied behind him. Suddenly he saw a mounted man crest the next rise in the road and come cantering in his direction. Alarm gripped him until he realized he was still in North Carolina, though damned if he knew where. And the emaciated horseman raising dust in the afternoon wore gray.
Charles reined in the mule and waited. Birds sang and wheeled over nearby meadows. The rider approached, slowing his mount while he took Charles's measure and decided he was all right, though the man — an officer — still kept his hand near his side arm.
Charles chewed the cigar nervously, a glassy look in his eyes. The officer walked his skeletal roan closer and stopped.
"Colonel Courtney Talcott, First Light Artillery Regiment of North Carolina, at your service, sir. I gather from that shirt and your revolver that you're a soldier?" He scrutinized the scrap of sword in Charles's belt and his peculiar, dazed expression. The tone of the colonel's question hinted at lingering doubt.
Almost as an afterthought, Charles muttered, "Yes, sir. Major Main, Hampton's cavalry scouts. Where's the army?"
"The Army of Northern Virginia?" Charles nodded. "Then you haven't heard?"
"Heard what? I've been down on the Ashley, finding this remount."
"General Lee requested terms from General Grant more than three weeks ago. At Appomattox Court House, in Virginia."
Charles shook his head. "I didn't know. I've been taking my time riding back there."
"You certainly have," Talcott replied, not hiding his disapproval. "You needn't continue. The army has disbanded. The last I knew, General Johnston and his men were still in the field, though he, too, may have surrendered by now. If he hasn't, he soon will. The war's over."
Silence. A tan female cardinal fussed in a bush when a jay swooped too near her nestlings. The artillery officer looked askance at Charles, who showed no emotion. The colonel said again, more emphatically, "Over."
Charles blinked. Then he nodded. "I knew it would be. I just didn't know when." The officer scowled. "Thanks for the information."
Frostily: "You're welcome. I would turn around and go home if I were you, Major. There's nothing more to be done in Virginia."
Yes, there is.
The artilleryman cantered past, raising dust. He had no intention of riding beside the listless and slightly mad-eyed junior officer even for a few miles. The fellow had even forgotten to salute. Disgraceful.
The dust settled. Charles sat on his mule in the middle of the road, slumped, as the news sank in. It was official. They had lost. So much blood, suffering, effort, hope — wasted. For a few blindly wrathful moments, it made no difference that the cause was misbegotten. He hated every goddamn Yankee in creation.
Quickly, that passed. But to his surprise, the defeat hurt more than he would have expected, even though it was inevitable. He had known it was inevitable for at least a year. Seen portents, read prophecies, long before that. The horses slowly starving in Virginia. Articles in brown old newspapers about Southern governors defying Davis with his own sacred doctrine of states' rights. A Union carbine that fired seven shots —
Feelings of relief and despair overwhelmed him. He plucked the fragment of the light cavalry saber from his belt and studied it. Suddenly, while light glanced off the stub of blade, his eyes brimmed with rage. A savage outward lash of his arm sent the metal cross whirling over the meadow, there to drop and vanish.
He knew the only course left to him if he were to stay remotely sane. He must ride on to Virginia and try to repair the damage done by his own foolishness. But first there was duty. Duty always came first. He had to make sure those at Mont Royal were not threatened by occupying troops or other dangers whose nature he couldn't guess. He would cover the distance to the plantation much faster than he had when riding north. Then, the moment he was finished at home — Virginia.
He lifted the rein, turned the mule's head and started him rapidly back the way they had come.
135
Under a brilliant full moon, Huntoon and Powell reached the edge of the gully. Huntoon was glad to stop. His feet hurt. Powell slipped his right hand in his coat pocket.
Huntoon took off his spectacles, pinched up a bit of shirt bosom and polished one lens, then the other, saying finally, "What is it you want to discuss?"
With a cryptic, "Look down there," Powell bobbed his head toward the gully bottom. Huntoon leaned forward, peered down. Powell pulled out the four-barrel Sharps and shot him in the back.
The lawyer uttered a short, gasping cry. He spun and reached for Powell's lapel. Powell smacked him with his free hand. Huntoon's spectacles flew off and sailed into the dark below.
Blinking like a newborn animal, Huntoon tried to focus his eyes on the man who had shot him. Pain blazing through his body, he understood the betrayal. It had been meant to happen on this journey. Planned from the start.
How stupidly naive he had been. Of course he had suspected Ashton and Powell were lovers. For that reason he had mailed the letter to his Charleston law partner. But later, filled with renewed hope of regaining Ashton's affection through a display of courage, he had regretted the instructions in the letter. But he had done nothing to countermand them, always assuming there would be ample time later. And what he'd seen in St. Louis had prompted the second letter; the one he'd given her —
Now, as if he could somehow cancel both past and present pain by will and action, he seized Powell's sleeve. Formed in his throat a plea for mercy and help. But the fiery wound and saliva rendered the words gibberish.
"Let go of me," Powell said with disgust, and shot him a second time.
The ball went straight into Huntoon's stomach, forcing him to step back. He stepped into space. Powell had a last brief vision of the poor fool's wet eyes and mewling mouth. Then Huntoon dropped.
Powell blew into the barrels of his pistol and put it away. Over the strident barking of coyotes across the gully, he heard the clump and thump of Huntoon's body striking, rebounding into space, falling and rebounding again.
Then it grew quiet. He could hear Collins and the others shouting to him. Was he all right?
With a smile, he stood regarding the high-riding moon. Despite the alarms from the campfire, he lingered a moment, studying the sky above the wind-scoured land and congratulating himself. He imagined Ashton's dark-tipped breasts, his alone now, together with the wild thatch below. He felt youthful. Content. Refreshed.
Over a hump of rock behind him, a small, skinny man with stringy hair and a waist clout appeared, bathed in brilliant moonlight for a moment. In his right hand he held a buckskin-covered war club consisting of a wood handle connected by sinew to a round stone head. Powell didn't see the man, or the second one, who rose into sight as the first man jumped.
He heard the man land and turned, terror clogging his throat. He clawed for the Sharps, but it caught in his pocket lining. The stone struck his head, one powerful and correctly aimed blow that broke open his left temple and killed him by the time he dropped to his knees, open-mouthed. Blood rushed down the left side of his face as he toppled forward.
The little Apache grinned and thrust the dripping club over his head, triumphant. His companion leaned down and landed beside him. Half a dozen others glided from behind other rocks, barefoot and light as dancers. All of them stole toward the voices and the fire glow.