Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings by Heather Graham Page B

exceptionally interesting,” Blade said.
    â€œCome with me.”
    Blade dismounted from his bay and followed the old man. They passed through the wakening camp, men rising, dressing, shaving, washing. They all paused to watch.
    Blade felt their eyes. Felt them roam down his back. Did any of them know him?
    They reached one tent with a middle-aged officer just pouring coffee in front. He paused the second he saw Blade. He had a haggard look about him.
    Blade knew that look well. Most men had worn it after the war. Many men still did.
    â€œLieutenant Gray, this man has come to see General Sherman. Says he has important correspondence.”
    â€œIt’s an old matter,” Blade said. “But an important one.”
    Lieutenant Gray looked at him, scratching his chin. “What’s your tribe, Blackfeet?”
    â€œOglala,” Blade replied.
    â€œI heard about a fellow like you once,” he said. “A half-breed with Mosby. Faster than lightning.”
    â€œHad to be,” Blade said.
    The lieutenant grinned. “The war is over,” he said. He hesitated. “Though they did say this particular fellow had once been with Quantrill.”
    â€œBriefly, so I heard,” Blade agreed.
    The lieutenant turned, still grinning. Blade realized that he hadn’t quite been breathing. He gulped in some air, then let it out.
    â€œI’ll find out if the general can see you,” Lieutenant Gray said. “Help yourself to some coffee in the meantime.”
    Blade did so. It was hot and strong and black, and helped a little against the exhaustion he had begun to feel. But he felt something else, too—eyes upon him. Union army eyes. These were the men he had been fighting not so long ago. Now they were men with faces.
    Lieutenant Gray returned. “This way, sir. General Sherman is quite curious.”
    Blade followed Gray into Sherman’s big field tent. The general was behind his desk. He was a man of medium height and medium build, with a ragged face, helped somewhat by his beard and mustache. A little man, Blade thought, for one who had ravaged so much of a countryside.
    A smart one—a brutal one, in a way. Hell, Sherman had sure helped to bring it all to a close. And now he was bringing his talents and energies against the Indians in the West. There was just no way he could ever be a man Blade would like, he decided wryly.
    But at least he hated Indians openly, and he had made no bones about his plan to bring the South to her knees. He was the right man to bring Harding to his knees, as well.
    Sherman stood, eyeing Blade curiously. “All right, so what is it that sends a half-breed ex-Reb into my camp?” he demanded flatly.
    Blade didn’t say a word. He handed the leather satchel of letters over to the man.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Sherman demanded.
    â€œLetters, sir,” Blade responded. “Read them, General.”
    Sherman sat at his desk. Blade realized that Lieutenant Gray was still behind him. Maybe they had been afraid that he intended to knife Sherman the moment he had been alone with him.
    Sherman glanced through every letter. He looked at Lieutenant Gray. “We just met with a Colonel Harding at the fort, eh, Lieutenant?”
    â€œThat’s right, General.”
    Sherman drummed his fingers on the desk. He stared at Blade. “What’s your name? Who are you? What’s your involvement in this?”
    â€œMy name’s McKenna. I’m working for Dylan’s widow. I’ve left her back in Jackson Prairie, at the boardinghouse there. I came as quickly as I could. I’m sure Harding will come after her if he even suspects she might have found the letters.”
    â€œMrs. Dylan knew about these letters?”
    â€œShe came West to find them.”
    Sherman nodded. “Lieutenant, arrange a party to travel back to Jackson Prairie. See that Mrs. Dylan is safe, then move on to the fort and relieve Colonel Harding