this ripe town bare.” Quantrill winked at his Spencer-toting ruffians. “Every man here will make a pretty penny this day.” He started to laugh. At a touch of his heels Quantrill’s black horse started down Main Street. The riflemen filed past Pacer as they fell in behind their captain. The last man to ride past was a dashing young desperado whom Pacer knew as the older of the James brothers, Frank James. James paused astride his horse and said, “You’re either with us or agin’ us, Pacer. Make your choice.” Then he rode off after his heavily armed companions.
He remembered being blinded by the smoke and stumbling God only knew how long. He was a part of the destruction of Lawrence. It was a brand he would wear all his days. A mark he could never wash clean. He couldn’t save the town, but as he rode back through Lawrence fate provided him a single small opportunity to help curb the wholesale slaughter of the town’s young men.
Pacer found three of his friends behind the flaming remains of a two-story hotel just off Main. Sawyer Truett had cornered two young Lawrence men by the stables in back of the hotel. The stables had miraculously escaped the torch until now. Truett brandished his guns while the other mixed-bloods from the Indian Territory prepared to set the structure afire.
Truett’s prisoners could have been no more than thirteen or fourteen years of age, mere lads in dungarees; barefoot and frightened for their lives. Truett cocked his guns and fired in the dirt to stop the two boys from edging along the wall.
“Say your prayers, Yank bastards,” Truett exclaimed. The boys held out their hands as if intending to ward off the gunshots to come. Then Pacer appeared in front of them and placed his body in the line of fire. “What the hell are you doing, Pacer?”
“We’re murdering children now, is it?”
“They’re plenty big enough to carry a gun,” Truett snapped at his friend.
“Please, mister, we ain’t soldiers,” one of the boys pleaded. “Ain’t no one to keep up the farm if’n I was to join my brothers in the regiment.”
“My pa’s the preacher. He takes no side and expects the same for me,” the other boy spoke up, a note of desperation in his voice.
“Step aside, I say,” Truett warned. He was breathing rapidly and his hair was singed. His wide eyes reflected the burning hotel with the excitement of the moment as Pacer walked his mount alongside Truett’s. “We’ve been like family, Pacer. Don’t make me hurt you.”
“I won’t let you shoot them,” Pacer softly said. “It’s nothing but cold-blooded murder.”
Sawyer Truett could only stare in amazement, unable to believe what he was hearing. Then his features turned ugly and he rose up in his stirrups and leveled his Colt revolver at the farm boy and the parson’s son. Pacer drew his D-guard knife. With a flick of the wrist he sliced a crimson streak across the back of Truett’s hand, just behind the knuckles. Truett howled in pain and dropped his gun. Pacer lashed out and caught his friend flush on the jaw with the heavy brass hilt. Truett groaned, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slipped from the saddle and landed on his back in the mud. Pacer glared at the two men with the torches as if daring them to interfere. He knew them to be followers, not leaders. The men with the torches retreated out of harm’s way. Then one of them, Darvis Porter, dismounted and cautiously approached the fallen man.
Pacer turned to the youngsters. “Run to the woods. Hide there until things quiet down.” The two lads looked at one another as if doubting their good fortune. “Run, damn you!” Pacer added, and the two raced off toward the distant line of trees and never looked back. Pacer didn’t expect any thanks.
“When Sawyer comes around, he’ll kill you,” said Darvis. With the Choctaw Kid, he had ridden up from Indian Territory to join the raid. Darvis was more puzzled than ever at Pacer’s behavior.
He remembered being blinded by the smoke and stumbling God only knew how long. He was a part of the destruction of Lawrence. It was a brand he would wear all his days. A mark he could never wash clean. He couldn’t save the town, but as he rode back through Lawrence fate provided him a single small opportunity to help curb the wholesale slaughter of the town’s young men.
Pacer found three of his friends behind the flaming remains of a two-story hotel just off Main. Sawyer Truett had cornered two young Lawrence men by the stables in back of the hotel. The stables had miraculously escaped the torch until now. Truett brandished his guns while the other mixed-bloods from the Indian Territory prepared to set the structure afire.
Truett’s prisoners could have been no more than thirteen or fourteen years of age, mere lads in dungarees; barefoot and frightened for their lives. Truett cocked his guns and fired in the dirt to stop the two boys from edging along the wall.
“Say your prayers, Yank bastards,” Truett exclaimed. The boys held out their hands as if intending to ward off the gunshots to come. Then Pacer appeared in front of them and placed his body in the line of fire. “What the hell are you doing, Pacer?”
“We’re murdering children now, is it?”
“They’re plenty big enough to carry a gun,” Truett snapped at his friend.
“Please, mister, we ain’t soldiers,” one of the boys pleaded. “Ain’t no one to keep up the farm if’n I was to join my brothers in the regiment.”
“My pa’s the preacher. He takes no side and expects the same for me,” the other boy spoke up, a note of desperation in his voice.
“Step aside, I say,” Truett warned. He was breathing rapidly and his hair was singed. His wide eyes reflected the burning hotel with the excitement of the moment as Pacer walked his mount alongside Truett’s. “We’ve been like family, Pacer. Don’t make me hurt you.”
“I won’t let you shoot them,” Pacer softly said. “It’s nothing but cold-blooded murder.”
Sawyer Truett could only stare in amazement, unable to believe what he was hearing. Then his features turned ugly and he rose up in his stirrups and leveled his Colt revolver at the farm boy and the parson’s son. Pacer drew his D-guard knife. With a flick of the wrist he sliced a crimson streak across the back of Truett’s hand, just behind the knuckles. Truett howled in pain and dropped his gun. Pacer lashed out and caught his friend flush on the jaw with the heavy brass hilt. Truett groaned, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slipped from the saddle and landed on his back in the mud. Pacer glared at the two men with the torches as if daring them to interfere. He knew them to be followers, not leaders. The men with the torches retreated out of harm’s way. Then one of them, Darvis Porter, dismounted and cautiously approached the fallen man.
Pacer turned to the youngsters. “Run to the woods. Hide there until things quiet down.” The two lads looked at one another as if doubting their good fortune. “Run, damn you!” Pacer added, and the two raced off toward the distant line of trees and never looked back. Pacer didn’t expect any thanks.
“When Sawyer comes around, he’ll kill you,” said Darvis. With the Choctaw Kid, he had ridden up from Indian Territory to join the raid. Darvis was more puzzled than ever at Pacer’s behavior.
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