• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“I’m tired,” Walker said.

Beckwith stared at him without expression, coldly. “Listen,” he said after a moment. “Every day that man stays alive, the Yankees get more to fight with. Not just beef and remounts, but recruits he sweet-talks into joining Sam Grant—” Beckwith paused.

“You’ve heard of a place called Five Forks—in Virginia?”

“Go on.”

“A week ago Pickett got his pants beat off there. Fitz Lee’s Cavalry was cut to pieces.”

“Then it’s nearly over,” Walker said quietly.

“Hell no it ain’t! Kirby Smith’s still holding out in Mississippi. We got more land than just Virginia.”

“And how many more lives?” Walker said.

“Quitting?”

“All of a sudden I’m tired.” Beneath the table his hand rubbed the knee.

“Or is it scared?” Beckwith said.

“Leave me alone for a while.”

“1 asked you a question.”

Walker’s face hardened. “Where’ve you been for four years, Beckwith—del Norte? Or did you get over to Tascosa once. Tell me what you do to keep from getting scared?”

After a moment he said, “My knee’s turning stiff.”

“That’s too bad,” Beckwith said.

“Everything’s too bad.”

“You haven’t answered me,” Beckwith said. “What are you going to do?”

Walker drank off the brandy and dropped his arm heavily. “Kill him,” he said finally.

HE TOOK A ROOM at the hotel and stretched out on the bed without removing his clothes, just his coat and boots. He hung his shoulder holster on the foot of the bed, but took out the handgun and placed it next to his leg; and he was asleep before he could think of the war or of Beckwith, the Confederate agent who’d never seen a skirmish, or McGrail, who had to be killed because he was a valuable Yankee officer. He did think of Barbara, Risdon’s daughter, but it was only for a few minutes.

It was early morning when he awoke and before he opened his eyes he felt the stiffness in his knee. Without moving his leg he knew it was swollen: then, when he raised it, it began to throb.

It was the same leg a year ago. No, he thought now. Yellow Tavern was eleven months ago. He had been with a Texas Volunteer company assigned to Stuart’s Cavalry. The defense of Richmond.

They could have stayed in the redoubts and waited, but that wasn’t Stuart. He came out and threw his sabers in Sheridan’s face at Yellow Tavern—straight on into the Whitworths the Yankees had captured and turned on them—and it wasn’t enough. Sheridan wasn’t McClellan. Walker remembered Stuart going down, shot through the lungs, and then his own mount was down and he was conscious only of the scalding pain in his right leg.

It was during his stay in the Richmond hospital that the civilian had come and asked him strange questions about how he thought about things, and finally began talking about soldiers without uniforms. “Spying?” he’d asked. Call it what you want, the civilian said. There’s more than one way to fight a war.

They had picked him because he was a Texan, could speak some Spanish, and his war record was good. Three months later he was in Paso del Norte, with Beckwith’s organization, buying guns for the Cause. Ed Risdon guided for them. Risdon had traded goods down through Chihuahua and Sonora for over fifteen years. He knew the country and he brought them through each time. About one trip a month.

His daughter, Barbara, waited in del Norte, watching for Lou Walker. Between trips they were together most of the time.

Then one day, that was two weeks ago, Beckwith told him what had to be done about McGrail. For only two troops of blue-bellies his command was doing a mountain of harm, getting men and supplies headed east safely. That would have to be stopped.

Beckwith is a strange man, he thought. He can become fanatical about the Cause, though he’s never been east of the Panhandle. That’s it, he thought now. That makes the difference. He didn’t see the Wilderness, or Cold Harbor, or Yellow Tavern.

The morning wore on and he began to feel hungry, but his body ached and he remained on the bed, smoking cigarettes when it would occur to him, not moving his leg. He wasn’t worried about the knee.

He was dozing again