Only the Gallant Read Free

tied.”
    The man in the greatcoat reached up and shoved his wire-rim spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. He continued to stare at the torn, mud-spattered figure confronting him.
    “Untie my hands,” Jesse said. Still the man in the coat made no move. “At least take this noose off me. I’d do it myself, but you see I’m sort of at the end of my rope.”
    “Don’t know you. Ain’t none of my business,” the stranger at last muttered. “But I could use your horse.” And with that he brushed past McQueen and ran off after the bay.
    “Son of a bitch,” Jesse muttered. He was alone again, save for the blue-heeler, who continued to growl and bark. Every time the dog came within range to snap, the bound man aimed a kick at its head. At last the dog retreated, finding something new to inspect.
    The blackened, shattered window of the café looked promising. Jesse staggered up onto the porch. The foyer of the café reeked of smoke. Its windows stared vacantly back as he peered inside. The place stood empty, its clientele frightened back to their homes and apartments once word had reached them of the impending arrival of the Union fleet. Jesse McQueen took a moment to catch his breath, grateful for the porch and the shelter it offered from the elements. He wrinkled his nose as the damp, charred smell of the fire-gutted café wafted out through the ruined windows. Jagged shards of glass still jutted from the whitewashed wooden frame like dragon’s teeth. Just the thing, Jesse thought. He backed over to the remains of the window, chose the largest shard, and sawed at the ropes binding his wrists. Suddenly the lynch rope went taut and pulled him off balance even as it constricted his windpipe. The blue-heeler had found the hangman’s rope to be of keen interest. Tail wagging, the dog clamped its powerful jaws around it and began to play tug-of-war.
    “Not now,” Jesse gasped. “Christ Almighty!”
    The dog continued to pull and tighten the noose around McQueen’s throat, enjoying this new game. Jesse held his ground, though barely able to draw breath. Choked to death by a damn dog is a hell of an epitaph , he thought. He continued to saw at his bound wrists. Come on. Come on. He was beginning to lose consciousness. The already murky street was beginning to darken even more at the edges, and slowly … ever so slowly … to tilt. Pain jolted him. He straightened and yelped as the glass shard sliced across his flesh. The bonds fell away and his arms swung free. He worked the slipknot loose, pulled the hemp necktie up past his ears, and tossed the lynch rope into the street. Then he sagged against the nearest post, where the café posted its menu for the day. Tonight’s main course would have been smoked oysters, pork loins in a mushroom sauce, sliced wild onions and tomatoes with a vinaigrette dressing, and scalloped potatoes drizzled with butter. And dog , Jesse wished. He tossed a shard of glass at the animal, who retreated to the alley. Jesse’s anger gradually subsided. He could not imagine anything sweeter than being able to breathe, even with the stench of burned cotton permeating the air. He was bruised and cut and his clothes were torn, but he was alive. He had made good his escape from Colonel Baptiste and his rabble.
    Almost.
    A bullet blew away a fist-sized chunk of the wooden menu board and thudded into the windowsill. Jesse dived for the street as a voice shouted, “Here! I’ve found him, Colonel. He’s here!”
    It was Charbonneau, and he was coming at a gallop, eager to atone for his past mistakes. He had a score to settle with Jesse McQueen.
    Somewhere in the city there were streets that the looting and destruction hadn’t yet reached. There were streets where families waited in the drawing room and parlor, discussing the tragic turn of events that had caused the city’s surrender. Brave words were spoken about resistance to the bitter end, then the children were trundled off to bed, to sleep