Free The Bells of El Diablo by Frank Leslie

“Forrest’s Rapscallion.”
    “What the hell are you doing here? The war’s still on.”
    “I might ask you the same thing.”
    The tips of James’s ears warmed. He had no cause for self-righteousness, and that burned him further. Still, he couldn’t help adding, “I didn’t run from Napoleon’s cannons and musket fire.”
    That was the story of why Stenck, who’d never been much of a leader in the first place, had deserted the Confederacy, just up and disappearing during some especially bloody fighting in Louisiana—him and ten men from his company, some of whom were likely standing around James now. James thought he might have recognized a couple of the faces, though not well enough to put names to—all, no doubt, Texans, as was Stenck, though the captain was from there by way of Scotland, where it was said he’d come from royalty and great wealth, though the bloodline had thinned considerably and the wealth had nearly run out. That’s why he and several brothers had been sent to Texas to run a cattle ranch and freighting company before the start of the war.
    One of the men behind James said, “Want me to pop him over the head for that, Captain?”
    “No, no, no,” Stenck said. “He was just getting a gibe in. What would you expect from one of Nate’s Raiders?” Stenck smiled again with a combination of flattery and faint jeering, then changed the subject. “One of my compatriots and co-owner of the Overland Stage Company told me a gentleman with a Southern accent, likely a Tennessee hillbilly, had inquired about one Mr. Ichabod McAllister. Then I saw you myself in the Holy Smokes Saloon. We’d met, if you remember, in Richmond before the war.”
    “I remember.” James and his father had been selling cotton to overseas buyers in Richmond when Stenckand one of his brothers had tried hawking interests in their freighting company to Alexander Dunn and several other businessmen from Virginia and Carolina. James’s father, who had no interest in Western speculation, had summarily refused, later telling James he trusted no one who showed red eyes before noon.
    “And I couldn’t help wondering,” Stenck continued, “why Forrest’s Rapscallion was inquiring about McAllister. Then I remembered that the McAllister plantation wasn’t far from your own Seven Oaks, was it?” He arched a pewter brow. “Or…is it still there?”
    “Far as I know.”
    “Why were you inquiring about McAllister?” Stenck asked without further ado, putting a businesslike crispness into his voice.
    “I don’t see how that’s any of your affair.”
    Stenck laughed, showing his little teeth including the gold eyetooth. He leaned forward on the table, swabbing his piss yellow, waterfall mustache with two fingers, then wrapping his pale hands around his shot glass. He looked at James from beneath his brows, his eyes startlingly dead-looking. “You know I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me.”
    “Sure must be important.”
    “Oh, not really. I just don’t like being insulted by the likes of a backwoods roarer. That’s all you Dunns are, all you’ll ever be, what’s left of you after the war.”
    “Now you’re insultin’ me, Stenck.” James hardened his eyes, damned if he’d tell the man what he wanted to know until he knew why Stenck was asking.
    “I’m going to do more than insult you if you don’t tell me why you were asking about McAllister.”
    James stared at him, sat back in his chair, and loosed a sigh of feigned resignation. He would have been happy to tell Stenck what he wanted to know, but he was leery of tipping his own hand. Something was very amiss, and it had him worried about Vienna.
    “His brother had a message for him, that’s all,” he lied. “All’s well back home. That’s it. Now, if you could point me in his direction, I’ll just go relay the message and find me another saloon. That tanglefoot looks mighty tasty, but it don’t look like you’re gonna offer me none.” He clucked