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"If you're not back in a day or two, I'll be over to Shelbyville." "Drive on, drive on!" ordered Bill, the old black revolver in his hand. The crowd was impressed by that weapon, knowing its history, as everybody did. Greening's more or less honorable father had carried it with him when he rode in the train of Quantrell, the infamous bushwhacker.
It is to Major Foster’s surprise of the command at Lone Jack that Kansas City owes its escape from being the scene of a hard battle August 17, 1862. Quantrell was not in the fight at Lone Jack at all, but Jarrette and Gregg did come up with some of Quantrell’s men just at the end and were in the chase back toward Lexington.
"This place is starting to depress me. You?" Alan shot a glance at Quantrell, who made a face and shook his head. "I guess I'll skip it," Alan said. "Not just now." "Count me out too," Quantrell said. Roger looked sourly from one to the other, and shrugged. "I think I'll go all the same. I'm in the mood for a good show. See you around, Alan."
There, indeed, was a border soaked in blood, a country torn with intestinal warfare. Quantrell was beaten now and then, meeting fighting men in blue or in jeans, as well as leading fighting men; and at times he was forced to disband his men, later to recruit again, and to go on with his marauding up and down the border.
"Just for a day or so?" he asked, at last. "We'll just go out, and have a look around, just to see what it's like out there." He fell silent again. Alan saw a little trickle of sweat burst out on Quantrell's cheek. He felt strangely calm himself, a little to his own surprise. Then Quantrell smiled and the confidence returned to his tanned face. "I'm game. Let's go!"
Charles William Quantrell swore an undying revenge; and he kept his oath. It is not necessary to mention in detail the deeds of this border leader. They might have had commendation for their daring had it not been for their brutality and treachery. Quantrell had a band of sworn men, held under solemn oath to stand by each other and to keep their secrets.
My sister refused to dance with him, and he picked a quarrel with me. “Where is Quantrell?” he asked me, with a sneer. “I don’t know,” I answered. “You are a liar,” he continued, and as he went down in a heap on the floor, he drew his pistol, but friends came between us, and at their solicitation I went home and informed my father of what had taken place.
The Red-Legged Scouts, while they coöperated with the regular army along the borders of Missouri, had for their specific duty the protection of Kansas against raiders like Quantrell, and such bandits as the James Boys, the Younger Brothers, and other desperadoes who conducted a guerrilla warfare against Union settlers. We had plenty to do. The guerrillas were daring fellows and kept us busy.
“You have heard the report,” said Quantrell when the lieutenant finished. “It is a long march; we march through soldiers; we attack soldiers; we must retreat through soldiers. What shall it be? Speak out. Anderson!” “Lawrence or hell,” relied Anderson, instantly.
At this time it can be safely said that nowhere, outside of hell, was there such a horrible condition as prevailed in Missouri. Singly and in squads a good many of Price's men returned from the South, and with local sympathizers forming guerrilla bands under such leaders as "Bill" Anderson, Poindexter, Jackson, and Quantrell, soon had practical possession of the greater part of the State.
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