Hard Way Out of Hell

by Johnny D. Boggs

  When it was over, we went inside the house that had become the home of our sister Belle, her husband, and their three-year-old boy. But one thing stands out more than anything else. I can see it just as if it were happening as I write these words.

  I held the door open for Ma and Pa, and all the others. The last to come in was Bob. He gave me the most pained look, and his words cut to the quick.

  “You’ll never be Dick, Cole,” he told me. “Don’t you even try.” He was only six years old, and he was speaking to me like that.

  “Don’t you trouble me, Bob,” I said. “I won’t take no guff off you, no matter how old you are.”

  “You will, Cole,” he said, and turned to go inside. “For all your days.”

  I didn’t think anything of it, chalked this up as some hurting boy who had to vent his pain and anger out at someone, and that someone had to be me.

  Bob was right, though. I’d take his guff for the rest of his life.

  Chapter Six

  Oftentimes I have lain awake wondering how different things might have been had our world not been torn asunder. We Youngers barely had time to grieve for Dick, except for Bob, who never stopped hurting, I guess.

  You know what happened. Abe Lincoln defeated Stephen Douglas, and anybody else foolish enough to run for president that year. Southern states began leaving the Union. The men of Charleston, South Carolina, fired on Fort Sumter. Mr. Lincoln called for volunteers to put down this rebellion. War came quickly, especially to Missouri.

  The nation divided? Ours was a state divided, and the war fired up Jayhawkers to increase their depredations, especially when that Kansas rapscallion, Jim Lane, was elected to the United States Senate. By May of 1861, men were flocking to Jefferson City to join the Missouri State Guard, if they leaned toward the South, commanded by General Sterling Price. Missourians who supported the Union signed up with “Home Guards.” Early that summer, Governor Jackson fled to set up a provincial government in Neosho, and a Yankee captain named Lyon led bluebellies in pursuit. St. Louis had always been pro-Union, and that mealy-mouthed pathfinder himself, John C. Frémont, was promoted to major general to command the Department of the West. Jefferson City fell in July, so Lyon managed to get Hamilton Rowan Gamble appointed governor. That meant we had two governments, Jackson heading up the South in Neosho, and Judge Gamble sitting on his Northern throne in Jeff City.

  Battles—if you could call them that—came at Boonville and Carthage. Then our boys whipped the bluebellies and killed Lyon at Wilson’s Creek, and soon forced the Yanks to surrender at Lexington.

  In Harrisonville, we heard war talk, but never gunshots. Even when a Yankee captain named Irvin Walley set up a camp in town with a bunch of bluebellies who called themselves the Fifth Regiment, Enrolled Missouri Militia, we got along with those boys. Before war came about, we had known many of those new soldiers. I had gone to the Academy with Robert Jefferson, and I had raced horses against two others. To most of us, these soldiers were friends. We did not, however, care much for Captain Walley’s big mouth and pushy behavior.

  What was I doing during all this excitement? Still escorting mail for Pa, helping Ma—who still had not gotten over Dick’s passing—and …

  * * * * *

  “You’re still sitting on the fence, Cole?” a voice ahead of me asked.

  As I walked down the boardwalk in Harrisonville, glancing with sadness at the livery my late brother used to own, I stopped and found myself staring at my old schoolteacher, Stephen Elkins. He held a grip in his hand, and another sat at his feet. This was near the hotel where the stagecoaches stopped. His eyes did not appear to be friendly, and, remembering that he hailed from Ohio, I figured him to be a Union man.

  “It’s getting harder and harder to do,” I told him. “Jayhawkers raided us three nights ago. Took forty horses. Including Robinson Crusoe. Plus five good saddles, four wagons, and two carriages.”

  George Clayton, John Jarrette, the Brown boys, and I had trailed them as far as we could, till we lost the trail along West Line Creek near the Kansas border.

  “I heard,” Elkins said, and his eyes softened, “and I am sorry. Yet the South has men just as callous. I’m sure you have heard of this plunderer named Quantrill?” When I did not answer, he added: “Whether they pledge allegiance to North or South, those are not soldiers, but brigands, and I would not dare join up with men of that ilk. They care not one whit for anything except their spoils. But there are real armies taking the field, with morals, and the will to see to their duties with honor.”

  I straightened, surprised. “You’re joining the fight?”

  “I must.”

  I knew which side he would join, but I held out my hand, and we shook. “Good luck,” I told him.

  Elkins said: “Do you remember when you bet Jack Brown that he could not walk across the top rail of the corral by the school near Big Creek?”

  The memory caused me to laugh. A circus had come to town, and little Jack Brown had been so fascinated and enthralled by the high-wire walker—all the circus had was a bear, a bobcat, two trapeze performers, two high-wire walkers, and a stupid clown—that he kept bragging that he was going to join a circus. So Tom, Jack’s brother, and I dared him to try to walk across the top rail of the corral. He almost did it, too, but he slipped about two rods from the finish.

  I mean to tell you when he landed on that top rail, you never heard such a wail from a boy or such cackling from the rest of us kids. Once Jack toppled into the dirt, he pulled himself into a ball, and clutched the area between his legs. When the girls began blushing and turned and ran, we boys laughed even harder.

  As I recalled the incident, Stephen Elkins said: “That’s what happens, Cole, when you try to straddle the fence.”

  * * * * *

  In late September, folks started drifting in from Osceola, a good two– or three-day’s ride southeast of Harrisonville. Jim Lane’s Redlegs had raided the town, shot dead a number of fine citizens, looted everything they could, and burned what they couldn’t. I had never seen such distraught men, women, and children, and that vacant look in their eyes has remained with me all these years. They’d been cast out of their homes with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They had no town left when Lane took off. Just ashes.

  One night Mammy Suse had already started cleaning off the table, Ma had gone to her rocking chair by the window, and the rest of our brood played checkers or were reading books. Only my father and I remained at the table.

  “I’ve written the authorities in Jefferson City and Westport about those brigands,” Pa said. “I have asked to be reimbursed for our losses.” He looked troubled. His hair used to be blacker than a raven’s wing and thick as an eagle’s nest. Now it was thin and gray, and he looked pale.

  I considered asking him if maybe I should join up with one of those fighting outfits. The Brown boys had. Even George Clayton, our wrangler, kept talking about it. John Jarrette preached hellfire and brimstone against the Yankee rule. Since Mr. Elkins had left, I felt sometimes that only our family remained loyal to the Stars and Stripes. Seeing Pa, hearing his feeble voice that night, stopped me from saying anything. I helped Mammy Suse with the dishes.

  * * * * *

  News came through newspapers and gossips about the fights back East. Talk around Harrisonville and up near Strother suggested that the war would be over by Christmas, and that the South would prevail.

  Life went on, and in late October, Brother Jim and I escorted our sisters Sally and Duck to the home of the Mockbees in town. I didn’t know Martha that well, but Pa knew her parents, Cuthbert and Sarah, and Duck told me that the Browns were coming, which meant Lizzie would be there.

  It was a fine party. Tom Brown secreted some good rye whiskey into the barn. John Jarrette sawed his fiddle. Mrs. Mockbee played the harp like an angel when we slowed down for waltzes. We danced through “Dixie’s Land
,” “Buffalo Gals,” “Barbara Allen,” “Hey, Betty Martin,” and “Old Folks at Home.”

  Lizzie Brown came up to me when the band struck up “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.” She curtseyed, and I bowed, handing the cup of spiked punch to her brother.

  “This is our dance, ain’t it, Cole?” Lizzie asked in that sweet voice.

  “Why, Miss Elizabeth Brown,” I said with a facetious grin, “I thought you were a Baptist.”

  Those beautiful brown eyes batted, and she gave me the most devilish of looks. “Not tonight, I ain’t.”

  You would never have known a war was going on what with all the merriment going on at that party as I took Lizzie’s hand and led her onto the dance floor—till the bluecoats came in. Oh, like I’ve said, most Yanks weren’t that bad. Tom Brown even handed Robert Jefferson a cup of punch doctored with rye. But Captain Irvin Walley had to join the party, too.

  “Pardon me, Lizzie,” I said just as we commenced our waltz. Leaving her standing beside Charity McCorkle and Jack Brown, I strode past the table of grub and grog where Captain Walley had a firm hand on a girl’s arm. The girl was Duck.

  “You mind letting go of my sister,” I said. It was not a question.

  Walley turned his attention to me, but kept his hand on Duck. “Your sister could learn some manners, Younger.”

  “He asked me to dance,” Duck said, “but I told him that I had betrothed this dance to … you, brother.”

  It meant I’d have to waltz with Duck instead of Lizzie, but it was just one dance and the night was relatively young. As I reached for my sister’s hand, Walley yelled: “She said more than just that!” The bluebelly’s ears had turned crimson, and I figured Duck, being Duck, had added on a few choice words in her rejection.

  And she still wasn’t done. “I didn’t know they let pigs in this barn,” she said, “did you, Cole?” Although Walley had finally let go of Duck, now he snatched her arm again and pulled her close.

  “Let her go, Walley!” I snapped.

  Releasing his grip, the red-faced brute turned to me. “You shall address me as Captain Walley, you piece of Southern filth.”

  My first thought was to break his nose, but there were a lot of bluecoats here, and the flap of Walley’s holster remained unfastened. Besides, this was the Mockbee barn, and I meant to cause no trouble.

  “There are plenty of ladies here to dance with,” I told him, praying he would not choose Lizzie Brown.

  “Indeed,” my sister Sally said as she stepped up beside Duck. I knew she was just trying to prevent a fight. “I’d be honored to dance with you, Captain Walley.” She curtsied as she made her proposal.

  The band started into “Old Dan Tucker.”

  It could have ended there. Should have ended there, but Walley’s dander was up, and he saw his men grinning at him.

  “Where is Quantrill?” he asked me.

  “I don’t know where Quantrill is,” I told him. “I don’t even know who Quantrill is.”

  Which was true, sort of. The man I had met more than a year ago had called himself Charley Hart, not William Quantrill.

  “You are a damned lying son-of-a-bitch.”

  My fist slammed into his jaw, and he fell backward, and as he tried to climb back to his feet, I sailed atop him. You do not insult a man or his mother, and you do not swear in front of ladies. The music stopped. The women began backing away, a few screamed. Walley and I rolled across the hay until strong hands pulled me off the bleeding, sniveling coward.

  “Bud!” Tom Brown yelled, using my nickname and pulling me up and away from Walley. “Settle down, Bud. Settle …”

  “Drop it!”

  Duck and Martha Mockbee gasped at the same time as I heard a noise I would often hear in the years to come—the metallic cocking of a revolver. Quickly, Tom and I turned back to see John Jarrette aiming a Baby Dragoon revolver at Walley, who was sitting on the barn floor, his blue uniform covered with hay, his face bloody from a busted nose and split lips. His revolver was pulled out halfway from the holster.

  “I’ll blow your damned head off, Walley, if you don’t drop that pistol,” Jarrette said.

  Walley shoved the revolver back into the holster, and Bobby Jefferson and another bluebelly rushed up to pull him to his feet. Cursing, the captain pulled away from them. “Back to camp,” he snapped, and his left hand reached inside his blouse to withdraw a handkerchief.

  As the Yanks hurried out of the barn, Walley turned at the door, pointing at me.

  “This is not finished, Younger,” he said. “And I’ll see you later, Jarrette. I’ll see both of you … in hell.”

  Chapter Seven

  Pa was fifty-one years old; Ma, forty-five. But they both looked ancient that night as Jim, John Jarrette, and I told them what had happened at the Mockbee barn.

  “Hardin!” Pa called, and the old slave appeared. “Saddle the best two mounts those Jayhawkers left us with.”

  “I don’t think your son Jim is any danger, Mr. Colter,” Jarrette said.

  “It’s for you, John,” he said. “You’re going with Cole.”

  “I got a horse, sir.”

  “One of mine is better.” That was one thing few people would deny. We Youngers had more prime horseflesh than anyone in western Missouri—even after that raid by Doc Jennison’s sorry lot.

  Jim hurried upstairs to our bedrooms, and I figured he just didn’t want anyone to see him cry. Ma told Mammy Suse to fill a sack full of jerky, corn dodgers, and any leftover food we might have from supper, along with some coffee.

  Worry and dread showed on their faces. I wet my lips, but found no suitable words.

  “Hide out on the farm in Jackson County,” Pa told me. “We’ll get word to Belle and Richard when it’s safe for you to return. I’ll find this Walley’s superior officer. It shouldn’t take long.”

  I hugged my sisters—those downstairs—and told Ma to kiss Retta for me and maybe say good-bye to Jim, John, and Bob, even though I doubted if my kid brother would miss me much. It pained me something awful when I shook Pa’s hand.

  The door opened, and Hardin rushed inside, saying we needed to hurry because he saw torches coming down the road.

  That’s when Jim ran down the stairs, holding my gun rig with the Navy .36 still holstered.

  When I buckled the belt around my waist, Pa objected. “Son,” he said, “you know General Frémont’s orders. You ride out of here with a weapon, and the Federals can shoot you down for insurrection.”

  “If he don’t takes that gun,” Hardin said, “he might gets hisself shot down right here and now. Boys with ’em torches be soundin’ right heated.”

  I didn’t have time to kiss Ma farewell.

  * * * * *

  At the farm near Strother, Pa got word to Belle that Walley had accused me of riding for Quantrill, which Pa denied. That blowhard of a Yank bragged that he would track me down and see me hanged.

  “Pa,” Belle told me as tears welled in her eyes, “says you and John should take to the bush.” She was clutching her little son in her arms. “It’s not safe for you … even here.”

  I felt as if a mule had just kicked me in the stomach.

  “It won’t be for long, Bud,” Belle’s husband told me. “War’ll be over before you know it.”

  “They’ve posted me?” I asked.

  Belle shrugged, but Richard said: “Captain Walley certainly has.”

  “All right,” I said as I turned to John Jarrette before turning back to address Richard. “You reckon I can borrow that shotgun of yours?”

  * * * * *

  We rode east, then west, and took to the bottomland woods along Sni-A-Bar Creek, where you just about needed a crosscut saw to get through the brush and brambles, and where the only fish you could eat were carp and gar. I remembered old Hardin telling me a joke about gar a number
of years back.

  You stuff it with pig dung, then bake it, throw away the gar, and eat the pig dung.

  The weather had turned cold, and we sat in what we called tents, a fire between John Jarrette’s shelter and mine, Jarrette drinking from a pewter flask, and me taking a liking to tobacco in a long meerschaum pipe.

  “What you thinking, Bud?” Jarrette asked.

  I blew a smoke ring that the wind smashed into a thousand pieces. “Same thing you are,” I answered. Nothing more needed to be said.

  The next morning we rode to an inn along the road that cut through the thick woods. We ordered ham, eggs, and coffee. And waited.

  A couple of men came in, each packing four Colts, two in shoulder holsters and two in their waistbands. They eyed us with intense purpose, and never let a hand get too far from one of their pistols. They spoke only to the innkeeper.

  I glanced at Jarrette, but, when he did not acknowledge the men, I remained silent. After our breakfast we sipped coffee for two more hours. During that time one other rider came in, but he seemed to be just a farmer, buying a jug. He nodded in our general direction before climbing back onto his mule.

  The innkeeper kept glaring at us, but he made no vocal objections to our sitting there. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that a shotgun was lying on the table alongside John’s Baby Dragoon. An hour later, horses stopped outside the inn, but we only heard one pair of boots pounding across the porch, and only one man came through the door.

  He was big enough, though, for six or seven men, and when he saw me, he pushed back the brim of his battered slouch hat and laughed.

  “Howdy, Oll,” I said.

  Oliver Shepherd, known as Oll, was one of the Shepherd boys—Frank, Martin, Ike, and George being his brothers. Missourians by way of Kentucky, they had settled in Jackson County in the early 1850s. I had seen George and Oll around a lot, though never in school. Their pa had died in ’53, so they had been working ever since. Working … when not fighting or stealing.