"Roof," Hedges snapped, indicating that the man helping him should lift the crate of prepared fire bombs and follow him. "You men, take care of the rest of these and stay put till we come back."
The depot was only one story and the stairway went up in an alcove between the office and the back room. A trap door at the top gave access to the flat roof and a wooden sign at the front provided cover as Hedges and the trooper moved forward. Hedges worked the action of the Spencer to feed a shell into the breech.
"Whatever's left of the other group is in the house right across the street," he muttered. "Reckon you can reach the building next door?"
The man rose into a crouch to peer over the top of the depot sign. He nodded. "The funeral parlor. Think I could get the bank next door to that as well, sir."
"Don't be ambitious till the parlor's burning," Hedges said. "Get fire raising. I'll cover you."
His hip transmitted waves of pain as he went down to one knee behind the sign and rested his cheek against the stock of the rifle, preparing to fire his first shot of the war. As the trooper set fire, to the first bottle and swung his arm in a powerful arc to hurl it across the street, smoke from the saloon billowed up on to the roof, The bottle hit the front wall of the funeral parlor and poured down with liquid fire.
"Try for the windows," Hedges instructed.
The second bottle bounced off the roof but the third smashed through the window with the gold leaf printing on it. A man cried out in alarm and Hedges curled back his lips in a cold grin as he saw the orange glow which told of success. "You just turned the funeral parlor into a crematorium," he said. "Let's see if the bank's got money to burn."
A cheer rose from the troopers in the office below, and, seemed to encourage the fire bomb thrower into giving of his best. There was an iron grill behind the plate glass window of the bank, but it could not prevent the burning whiskey from spraying inside as the first bottle found its mark.
"What’s your name, soldier?" Hedges asked.
"Mantle, sir," the man replied, arcing another bottle across the street as billowing black smoke darkened the sun.
"You're ahead of your time," Hedges said and squeezed the Spencer's trigger.
Like the stage depot, the funeral parlor had a trap door on to the roof. A man escaping from the fire had only got his head and shoulders clear when Hedges' bullet drilled a hole in his temple.
"Heads, you lose," Hedges muttered as the dead man slumped back down the stairway.
The bank had no rear exit and the four Confederate soldiers had no alternative but to make a rush through the double doors at the front. The street was now heavily blanketed with smoke and Hedges got only one clear shot at the escapers. The gray uniformed figure clutched at his chest and pitched headlong into the street. A volley of rifle fire sounded from further along the street and in a fleeting moment when a ray of sunlight pierced the smoke, Hedges saw the three other men fall.
Leaman or some of his men had survived the hail of bullets sent into the livery, and when soldiers began to run from the saloon, the sergeant's group also made their presence known.
"I got one to spare, sir," Mantle reported.
"Light it," Hedges told him, reaching out a hand. He took the bottle with its flaring fuse, leaned out over the depot sign and tossed it down among the still and writhing bodies in front of the saloon as a murderous barrage of gunfire continued to emit from the house across the street. The flames from burning gray uniforms rose high. The screams of the victims went higher, and then diminished as the frantic note of a bugle cut through the acrid, smoke laden air.
"Think that's the general calling," Hedges said.
"Lieutenant?" a voice called from below,
"What is it?"
"You all through burning things?"
"I reckon," he answered as he watched the sergeant lead five men from the house across the street, then looked in the other direction to see Leaman emerge from the smoke with three men behind him. Edge had only seven men left. He didn't do the subtraction. Men had died and he knew a lot more would meet the same end before this war was over. It was not his job to tally. The smell of burning flesh stressed that, in terms of war, the men had not died in vain.
The pain in his hip seemed to bum hotter than any of the fires raging around him.
*****
EDGE spent a restless night. Although he was unconscious his body reacted involuntarily to the pain of the neck wound and the burning heat of the raging fever. His muscles twitched and his limbs thrashed and sometimes his nostrils flared and his mouth came wide in a silent scream.
Margaret Hope and Grace took two-hourly turns at watching over him, to ensure that the fire was maintained at a roaring pitch and each bedcover was replaced on his naked body after he had kicked or pulled it clear.
Outside the warmth of the farmhouse the rain continued to lash from low cloud, sometimes smashing at the stout walls and shuttered windows like an attacking force as a gust of cold wind sprang across the prairie.
Although the mother and daughter shared the night nursing duty, neither of them slept during the two hourly rest periods for in addition to their anxiety over the injured stranger, they were deeply concerned about the progress of Thomas and Allen Hope.
"How's he been?" Margaret asked as she emerged from her daughter's bedroom, rubbing her reddened yes.
"Restless," Grace answered. "Most of the time he thrashes about. I think he's dreaming."
"Wish I could," her mother answered, going to the fire and pouring a cup of coffee from the pot kept warm by the flames. "Bad enough for men to have to look after themselves on a night like this. Fifty head of steer won't make it easier none."
"I don't feel tired," Grace said, and her own tired eyes gave the lie to the statement. "You go back to bed and try to sleep."
The elder woman smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at the pallor of the injured man's face. "Wouldn't be fair on me, daughter," she said. "In here the stranger helps to keep the mind off other things." She sipped at the hot coffee. "Not a bad looking feller when you see him from here."
"I think he's handsome," Grace said quickly, then blushed.
"In a mean sort of way, I guess," her mother answered thoughtfully, then smiled again as she looked at Grace. "Handsome as that young deputy in town?"
The blush deepened in color. "They're different types. I wish you wouldn't keep talking about Billy West, mother."
"You're a young woman now, Grace. Time you started to encourage somebody like Billy."
"Please, mother," Grace pleaded as she got to her feet. "If you're going to go on like that, I'm going to bed."
"It's your turn," her mother answered gently. "It'll be light soon. I'll make breakfast later and then we'll change the dressing and try to get some broth down his throat."
Grace nodded and went through to her bedroom, feeling her face still suffused by a flush. For a long time, as she lay in the bed, her thoughts were distracted from worry about her father and brother as she compared the physical attractions of Billy West and the stranger. And the knowledge that it was the stranger who set her heart beating faster sent the warm glow from her cheeks to every part of her body.
CHAPTER FOUR
THEY were crossing the Appalachians now and morale was high; Reports of the small victory at Philippi had reached Washington and had there been magnified by a jubilant press into a colossal triumph over the Confederacy. McClellan and a large proportion of his men were pleased to believe the wild stories and found it easy to forget the twisted and blood-spattered bodies of their comrades who fell during the battle as they pushed on eagerly towards the next confrontation with the rebels.