The Angel Of Devil's Camp. Lynna Banning

      “Let’s have us a chiv—”

      “Hold it!” a voice boomed from the doorway. Tall and lean, Tom Randall strode toward her, his eyes shooting sparks. Meggy’s heart began to skip beats.

      “Thought I told you not to bother my men,” he said just loud enough for her to hear.

      She swallowed. “I was not ‘bothering,’ Colonel. I was serving potatoes.”

      He turned away from her without a word. “Boys, we’ve got us a problem. Maybe one of you can solve it.”

      A murmur of interest hummed through the room. Meggy noticed how he used his body to shield her from view. Fong was right; one missy and a dozen misters not good! She edged backward toward the kitchen.

      “The problem,” Tom continued, “is this. We’ve got no meat.”

      Meggy stopped still and heard her stomach grumble. No meat? What smelled so good, then?

      “We haven’t had any meat for weeks, Colonel. How long is this gonna go on?”

      “That’s not exactly true, Price. We’ve eaten a rabbit or two, and a squirrel.”

      “And some scrawny little pigeons,” someone ventured.

      She saw what he was doing—drawing the men’s attention away from her—but she was so interested in the meat problem, she hovered near the door to listen.

      Tom reached into his bulging back pocket, pulled out a bottle of amber liquid and thumped it down on the table. “This is fine whiskey, boys. One full quart.”

      Every eye studied the bottle.

      “Now I’m going to tell you how one of you can claim this joy juice. It’s plain we need meat. Fong tells me a deer’s been nibbling his tomato plants at night. I’ll give this bottle of liquid fire to the first man who shoots us some venison!”

      “Hurray for the colonel!”

      “I’m one crack shot,” yelled the Swede. “We haf meat by tomorrow.”

      “A whole bottle for just one deer? Wouldja give me a gallon of rum if I kill an elk?”

      “Elk meat tastes funny,” the man called Price said. “Least it did back in Kansas.”

      “Hell, that weren’t no elk, that were a beef cow. Are all Kansans that stupid?”

      Tom held up one hand and a hush fell. “Let’s get on with supper so we can be rolling into the timber at first light.”

      Fong scurried past Meggy with an oval platter of sliced tomatoes in each hand. He plopped them down to the accompaniment of groans.

      “Not more vegetables,” Price moaned. “I’m gonna turn into a carrot before this season’s half over!”

      Tom slid onto the end of the bench and tapped the whiskey bottle with a ring he wore on his little finger. “Just a reminder, boys. We need meat to go with the potatoes.”

      Meggy had to laugh. The man was a master at guiding people in the direction he wanted. Her father, minister of the Methodist persuasion until his death in the field at Shiloh, had been similarly persuasive. The difference was that Papa fought for men’s souls; Tom Randall cared about men’s stomachs.

      Such a man surely lacked depth.

      She tore her thoughts away from him and tried to focus on the mission she had set for herself. She calculated she would need about ten minutes to do what she had to do.

      She spied two blue china plates loaded with food and set aside on a small kitchen table. First, she decided, she would eat her supper.

      And then she would use the very trick Tom Randall had just showed her to benefit her own cause.

      She did hope that God would forgive her.

      Chapter Three

      Meggy adjusted her position at the small kitchen table so she could see into the dining hall where the men were eating. As she lifted forkfuls of mashed potatoes and boiled carrots to her mouth, she watched Tom Randall out of the corner of her eye.

      He sat facing her, speaking to the tall, dark-haired man across the table, the one who had stopped the freckle-faced boys’ scuffle. Tom’s blue eyes steadily surveyed the dark man’s face; Meggy studied Tom.

      The colonel was a handsome man, she conceded. The skin of his face and arms was tanned from the sun, his features well proportioned. He wore a red plaid shirt, stuffed into dark-blue trousers. Even his mouth was attractive. For a Yankee, that is. Southern men generally sported mustaches.

      The crew laughed and joked as they ate. Tom did neither. He kept his gaze on his men but didn’t join in beyond an occasional word. Many of them eyed the whiskey bottle Tom had set out, and a few even caressed the glass container as they finished their meal and meandered onto the porch for a smoke.

      Fong bustled between the huge iron-and-nickel cookstove and the sink, pumping water into food-encrusted pots, shaving in bits of brown soap and setting the utensils aside to soak. Then the cook stood poised in the kitchen doorway, watching for the moment he could swoop down to clear the dirty plates the men had left on the table.

      When the main room emptied, Fong shot forward, and Meggy laid her fork aside.

      Here was her chance.

      Very quietly she pushed back her chair, stood up and glided to the pantry. Inside, barrels of flour, sugar, salt and molasses lined one wall. Woven baskets stuffed with carrots, potatoes, apples and squash teetered on crude plank shelves, and bunches of drying herbs tied together with string hung upside down from nails in the ceiling.

      She withdrew the tea towel from her pocket, lifted the first barrel lid and scooped up three handfuls of flour. She dumped it in the center of the towel, gathered up the four corners and then moved to the barrel marked Salt. She sprinkled a pinch on top of the flour, then searched for a container of saleratus. There, on the middle shelf!

      She maneuvered the top off the square tin canister, dipped in her thumb and forefinger and added the white powder to the contents of the tea towel.

      In the cooler sat a ceramic crock of pale cream-colored butter. Meggy hesitated a long moment. Did she dare? Papa would spin in his grave if he knew I was stealing butter from a cookhouse pantry.

      She dug her fingers into the crock, scooped out a slippery handful. I cannot believe I am doing this!

      She slid the glob of butter in on top of the flour and wiped her fingers on the towel. “Now,” she breathed. “What else will I need?”

      Her gaze fell on a bushel basket of mottled gold apples by the door. Four went into the tea towel; the fifth and sixth she stuffed into her skirt pocket. Sweeping past the sugar barrel, she hesitated for a split second, then halted and plunged in her clean hand. Her fist closed around coarse brown lumps.

      Fong’s voice rose from the kitchen like a trumpet call. “Missy help wash dishes?”

      Her heart stopped. “Yes, I will,” she called out. She dumped the sugar into her pocket, then jiggled up and down so the lumps would sift down around the apples and collect at the bottom. Satisfied, she dusted off her hands and straightened her skirt.

      Stepping out of the pantry, she slipped the bulging tea towel under her knitted black shawl and turned to the pile of pots and pans in the sink. Fong’s black eyes followed her every motion.

      Trust me, she begged silently. I will pay you back.

      He turned away without a word and dropped an armload of plates into the wide sink. “Fong wash, missy dry.”

      He lifted a whistling teakettle off the stove. Steam arose as he emptied the kettle, then pumped cold water into the enamelware dishpan and pointed to a clumsily hemmed flour sack. Meggy snatched it up and stood ready.