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“Because they were not properly trained, either, only slightly better than most of our soldiers in butternut and gray.”

  “So how do you train your soldiers, Colonel? How do you do that?”

  The Colonel leaned forward and spoke in a savage whisper. “Exactly as I have been training you, suh.”

  Fallon blinked. He shook his head as if he had not heard Justice correctly, but the Colonel laughed and smoked his cigar again.

  “You are a natural-born fighter, Harry Alexander. You have shown your worth, your ability. You have earned a place to ride to glory—but more than glory, to Southern victory!” He slammed his fist against the desk, laughed again, and tossed the cigar into the brass cuspidor.

  “Training me?” Fallon said, trying to figure out what the Colonel meant. “You mean today’s fight with Moeller?”

  “Yes. But not just Moeller. I thought Moeller was a good man, but you showed me how weak and inferior he was. He was not fit to wear the new gray. He was a fool.”

  Fallon felt sick. He started sweating again.

  “You chose your soldiers . . . like some gladiators in Rome?”

  “No, confound it,” Justice roared. “This was not a do-or-die deal. It was a test. But not the first test. Even a fool can win one poker hand, but over the course of a long evening, the professional will win, hands down, every time. You won . . . hands down . . . every time.”

  He shook his head. It was confusing. His head rose, and his eyes trained on Justice’s. “The attack at the prison cemetery . . .” Fallon started.

  “No. Well, yes. That was a test, at least it was supposed to have been a test, but not for you. I wasn’t even aware of you until after that little incident. I arranged that attack to see how . . . well . . . the man did not pass, and he died. But then word came to me of how you handled yourself. Some other matters . . . well . . . I don’t know what those men were thinking, but they—those leading the assault—did not follow orders, either. They died. You killed them. And you survived the test today. Plus, your record that I have seen says you still believe in our lost cause.”

  “I believe in the South, sir,” Fallon said, and felt the bile in his stomach. The damned war had ended almost thirty years ago, and here Fallon sat on the veranda of a wealthy plantation that was owned by a raving lunatic.

  “Do you want to fight for the South, Private Alexander?” Justice rose. “Do you want to avenge every Yankee transgression? Do you want wealth beyond your wildest dreams?”

  “Yeah,” Fallon said, and tried to look as crazy as Colonel Justice.

  “Then you must join us.”

  Fallon looked skeptical.

  “Well, that sounds mighty fine, Colonel, but I am still in prison. For ten years. And this little venture working for you can’t last forever. I’ll have to go back to The Walls. Unless I escape.”

  Justice laughed. “If you escape, Mr. Alexander, the bounty hunters, the lawmen, the army, everyone will be looking for you. Bounty hunters even are not restricted by international boundaries. Say you made it to Mexico. They could track you down. Bring you back. Force you back inside The Walls.”

  Which, Fallon figured, would be better than serving a sentence at this god-awful plantation.

  “I don’t understand,” Fallon said, but he was beginning to figure it all out. What he did not know was how Justice’s insane scheme tied in with The Mole, the convict at Jefferson City who had murdered Fallon’s precious family. But now he started thinking that if Colonel Justice planned to restart the Civil War, then . . . well . . . that was a much more pressing fight than avenging Rachel and Renee. That thought left Fallon’s hands shaking. For years all he had dreamed of was getting out of Joliet and then finding the men who were responsible for ruining his life. Now he thought something different. It tore at his soul.

  And where did Chris Ehrlander, that double-crossing lawyer, fit in?

  “We are forming a new legion, a new country, a new army. In Mexico.” Justice’s voice rose. He sounded like a fanatic, like a monster. He even looked like one as he stood waving his arms, about to break into some Southern war song. “You can come with us. You can take part. We are on the brink of something great. We—I—a new confederation of Southern states—we need your help, suh. Can we count on you, Mr. Alexander?”

  Fallon smiled. “And the money?”

  Justice sank into his chair, laughing without control. “The money. You are a man after my own heart, Harry Alexander. Yes. There will be money. More money than you ever dreamed in your penny-ante career. Confound it, man, this is your chance. Are you with us?”

  “I’m with you, Colonel,” Fallon heard himself shout. “But I don’t see how you get me out of Huntsville.”

  “Because, you dumb cockroach. Harry Alexander is DEAD!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Fallon let the comment sink in while also making certain that Colonel Justice was not joking. Finally, understanding just how insane Justice must truly be, Fallon said: “I didn’t know I was sick.”

  The Colonel laughed again, slapped his thigh, and shook his head. “You are a man filled with tremendous wit, Harry. Yet you have a head on your shoulders but more than that, you think fast on your feet.”

  “I’m alive,” Fallon said, “even if I am dead.”

  “Which is why you’ve been invited to take part in the greatest rebellion, the greatest fight for independence, the world has ever seen.”

  “So I’m dead . . .” Fallon said, hoping that Justice would take it from there.

  Which, after another gulp of brandy that had been made for sipping, Justice did.

  “Harry Alexander died of natural causes—probably from the stress of living such a hard life—while working in the fields at my cotton operation in South Texas. ‘Hell on the Brazos’ as the jealous newspaper journalists like to call it. The heat, you see. He just keeled over dead. No one will think much about it. Another prisoner dies. Who is there to mourn for him? This is the perfect plan. With Harry Alexander dead, no sheriffs or marshals or bounty hunters will be looking for him. That is fine payment, do you not think?”

  Fallon merely stared.

  “But don’t worry, Harry. You will be wealthy beyond your imagination once our rebellion, our war for independence resumed, is under way.”

  Money wasn’t on Fallon’s mind then. His stomach started twisting from a fear. He thought he was hiding it, but Justice noticed the stress on Fallon’s face. Fallon tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

  “Yes, Harry, I know about your wife. From the reports I heard, she was quite a woman to look at. But I also heard that you told her you never wanted to see her again.”

  Images of Renee, of Rachel, and now of Christina Whitney raced through Fallon’s mind and pulled at his conscience.

  “You were wise to send her away. Now, if you still have feelings for her, you must pray that she does not desire to look upon your mortal remains. And if you hate her guts, just say the word. I can dispatch one of my most trusted associates to Huntsville.”

  Part of Fallon wanted to leap out of his chair and choke that cocky muttonhead to death, but something stopped him. He had a job to do. Fallon did not have to close his eyes to picture Christina again. He saw her clearly, and he heard her voice.

  * * *

  “Here’s the one thing you have to understand, Harry,” Christina Whitney had told him during their training in Alabama. “The mission we are on is more important than me. You. Dan. Anybody. It’s more important than Malcolm Maxwell or anyone else in the Texas government.”

  They had been sitting in the hotel lobby, exhausted from their work.

  “If I get killed, you keep doing your job. Remember that. What’s at stake is bigger than our petty lives. We’re talking about the lives of hundreds, thousands, of our fellow Americans. We’re talking about the future of our country. Think about it, Harry. If Maxwell’s theory turns out to be true, if there is some sort of treasonous rebellion in the works, if Texas zealots try to pull Texas o
ut of the Union once again, do you think Spain will just sit back and watch? With ships and troops just a few miles from Florida in Cuba? My God, England might see an opportunity to get her colonies back. It’ll be war, maybe the entire world at war. My life does not matter.”

  Fallon had said: “And if I get killed?”

  Christina had shrugged. “I’ll avenge you if I can,” she said, and Fallon had smiled, but the smile faded when she quickly turned away. “But I’ll miss you, Harry. I’ll miss you a lot.” With that, she had quickly risen from the chair and headed for the stairs that led to her room.

  “She’s out of my life, sir,” Fallon told Justice as the vision, the memory, faded, and Fallon saw the white-coated old fool on the veranda at his home in Louisiana. “I don’t think she’ll bother us.”

  “Good, lad. Good. For my contacts say she checked out of the hotel where she was residing in Huntsville, fighting for your . . . parole or pardon!” Justice laughed. “And she gets your sentence reduced and you toss her out like bad milk. My God, Alexander, you are hard and cold—exactly the kind of man my army needs!”

  Fallon saw his hands, balled into fists, were shaking.

  “My associate was ordered to kill her only if absolutely necessary. I hope your wife has decided that she hates your guts.”

  Fallon nodded. “She does. Now.”

  “Then there’s no need for concern. But if you change your mind, let me know where you were living, or where her mother lives, or where anyone you would like the world to be rid of lives.”

  Fallon wet his lips, struggled to relax his hands and keep from balling those fingers into fists again. Tried to tell himself that the mission was the most important thing.

  “Who’s your associate?” Fallon suddenly asked.

  “Mr. Alexander,” Justice answered with a frown. “You shall meet everyone in due time.”

  Justice wasn’t going to give away the name, but Fallon knew who it was. Chris Ehrlander. Who had experience at seeing wives murdered in cold blood.

  “Are we going to have a problem, Harry?”

  Fallon made his head shake.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No problems, Colonel,” Fallon said. “As long as we kill Yankees. As long as I get paid.”

  Justice laughed.

  “A wise man.” But Fallon knew that Justice had his doubts.

  “You were laid to rest in the cemetery at my plantation. Hot as things are down there, much like here, well, it is usually not wise to open a casket after only a short while. I don’t think we have anything to fear.”

  “So what happens next?” Fallon asked.

  “In a few hours, a coach will arrive. You will take it. The destination is not important. You will be trained for the next battle that will lead to our destiny, our new nation. Then you go to our next camp for more training. Where these camps are is unimportant. What is important is this: Training is imperative. Execution is imperative. But what is most important is this: In a few months, we shall oust the Yankee tyrants from Texas. Texas first. Maybe Louisiana second. Or your home state of Arkansas. When the president and the blue-belly Congress understand that we will not be defeated this time, then peace will settle on our new nation.”

  Justice finished his drink.

  Another question dogged Fallon. “What about the inmates here? They saw Harry Alexander fight here. Not die in your Hell on the Brazos.”

  “They know to keep their mouths shut,” Justice said. “You died here. You died in Texas. No one really cares about another dead convict.”

  * * *

  The only person in the coach with Fallon was a leathery gent in a frock coat and black hat, with a drooping gray mustache, who said not one word on the bouncing, jarring, miserable ride to wherever the hell they were going.

  When they arrived—it could have been Texas, but it sure felt like the End of the Earth—Fallon was escorted to a Sibley tent. There he slept a good straight ten or twelve hours, only to be awakened by the earsplitting scream of a bugle.

  He had never served in this man’s, or any man’s army, and it did not take him long to learn that he was not cut out to be a soldier. But he did what he was told, and he tried to figure out what the hell he could do to help the Texas attorney general, Christina—if she was still alive—and the American Detective Agency, his country, and himself. He sought out ways he could get word to the authorities, but dismissed every idea he came up with.

  After two days, Fallon understood his situation.

  By now, the American Detective Agency, the superintendent at The Walls, and everyone else—including Christina—thought he was dead, buried in some graveyard, never consecrated, in the region called Hell on the Brazos. He was alone. Completely alone.

  After two weeks of intensive training, Fallon had figured out something.

  His instructor, a hard-edged man who had lost some fingers on his left hand at Chancellorsville, knew that Fallon had figured it out, too.

  “So what do ya think?” the old man said in a thick Texas drawl.

  “We’re taking a train,” Fallon told him.

  “We are takin’ a train? Or we’re tryin’ to take a train?”

  Fallon shrugged. “It’s a good plan. But good plans don’t always work.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And while I’m fairly certain I can do what you have me doing . . . there’s . . . well . . . this job might be a bit much for just one man.”

  “Who said there’s just one man?”

  Fallon let his head bob. “Shouldn’t I know what the other man’s doing?”

  The Texan’s head shook. “I don’t think so. You just concern yourself with what we’ve been training you for. You swing into the express car, dynamite the safe, go to work.”

  “And while I’m working?” Fallon let the question die off.

  “The other men training for this job do what they’ve been taught.”

  Fallon shook his head. “And if we manage to take this train?”

  “Then the other men will show up and do what they’ve been trained to do.”

  Fallon chuckled. “You don’t trust anyone, do you, Merle?”

  Merle laughed. “Well, to answer that question, I guess the first thing you ought to know is my name ain’t Merle.”

  Fallon grinned. “Since we’re being honest, my name’s not Alexander.”

  “Never figured it was, bub.”

  They worked five more hours, timing the fuse time and time again, seeing how it burned in the wind, in rain, in sand, when it was cloudy and when the sky was pure, pale, not blue. They tested matches to see which ones were the most reliable, how each brand fared in multiple conditions. Fallon had to guess that they had spent about ten dollars in matches alone. This team was thorough.

  And every evening Fallon stood outside his Sibley tent and stared into the nothingness, and he tried to think of a way to let Dan MacGregor, or Attorney General Maxwell, or anyone know what was happening. The problem was that Fallon knew they would be robbing a train. But he did not know what they would be robbing from the train. The safe probably meant money, but express cars carried gold, silver, currency, bonds. He was being taught to blow open the door of an express car, if needed. Others were being trained to unload whatever they were stealing.

  Maybe that was how Colonel Justice had commanded his legion back during the late War for Southern Independence, or as Fallon wanted to call it, the War of the Rebellion. Train his men for just one part of an operation. Like the blind leading the blind. No wonder the South had lost the war, if commanders like Colonel Justice outnumbered the minds of men like Robert E. Lee, Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, and J. E. B. “Jeb” Stuart.

  Two nights later, someone kicked his feet in the middle of the night. Fallon rolled, reaching for the Colt revolver he had been issued.

  “Use the six-shooter later,” his trainer, Merle, said. “On the enemy. We’re moving out. Now. Get your gear and meet us at the corral. You got that, Alexander?”


  “I got it,” Fallon said. Once he was dressed, he stepped out of the Sibley and stared at the stars. There was no moon on this night, not yet anyway, and Fallon recalled a conversation he had had with the Texas attorney general—when they happened to be alone and not near the eavesdropping ears of Dan MacGregor, Aaron Holderman, or even the beautiful and charming Christina Whitney.

  “Why hire a detective agency?” Fallon had asked.

  Malcolm Maxwell had smiled. “You mean why the American Detective Agency and not the Pinkerton National Detective Agency? I think I’ve explained—”

  Fallon was shaking his head. “I mean any detective agency.”

  Malcolm Maxwell tilted his head, curious, and not understanding.

  “You have the Texas Rangers,” Fallon said.

  That the politician understood. “I see.”

  “The Rangers have a great reputation. I worked with a few now and then, and they take an oath.”

  “You took an oath, too,” Maxwell had said.

  Which caused Fallon to feel that blood rushing, the tension returning. “But I was innocent.”

  “And I believe you,” Maxwell had said, “and I think the MacGregors believe you, as well, or they wouldn’t have hired you. I know Miss Whitney believes in you. I can see it in her eyes.”

  Fallon had to steer Maxwell back to the question.

  “The Rangers?” he reminded the attorney general.

  Maxwell started to give a politician’s answer, but he stopped. “I don’t know for certain how high this conspiracy, this act of treason, reaches, Mr. Fallon. The Texas Rangers—at least some of them—might be part of it. I needed to bring in someone from the outside.”

  Which Fallon understood. He didn’t know whom he could trust, and now he was completely alone. The camp buzzed with action. Men were excited. The new war was about to begin.

  And Fallon still had no clue what was going to happen—or how he could do anything to stop it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Fallon was a Missourian by birth. He had driven cattle up from Texas, but had never been much farther south than San Antonio. Since the American Detective Agency had sent this operation into motion, Fallon had seen Huntsville, Austin, a bit of Houston, and other parts of the sprawling state—not to mention parts of Louisiana, Alabama, a sliver of Mississippi, and the Panhandle of Florida. He didn’t know where he was now, except that they were in Texas. He knew they had traveled too far to still be in Louisiana, and he knew they had traveled south and west.