by Sean Lynch
“This here’s Major Turner,” the orderly said, as he introduced them to a bearded man missing his left arm at the elbow and left leg below the knee. He was smoking a corncob pipe and was propped up in his cot. “These two fellows are looking for someone from your regiment.”
The orderly took his leave. “Who’re you looking for?” Turner asked.
“My older brother,” Ditch said. “His name is Paul Clemson.”
“Pony Clemson,” Turner said, appraising Ditch. “Damned, if you ain’t the spittin’ image of him.”
“You know him?” Ditch exclaimed, ecstatic to hear the nickname only someone who was acquainted with his brother would know.
“I know him well. He’s one of the best horse wranglers in the Confederate army.”
“Horses are his calling,” Ditch said, “that’s a fact. Do you know where I can find him?”
“He’s with B Company, Fifth Regiment. They’re called Witherspoon’s Rangers. Captain Jedediah Witherspoon, that’s their commander. They just got back into Arkansas from raising hell up in Missouri.”
“We raised a little hell in Missouri ourselves,” Pritchard said.
“B Company is probably somewhere between here and Murfreesboro by now, on their way to Hot Springs. They’ve been ordered back to Kansas, to cause more mischief for the army of Mr. Lincoln. I’m only telling you boys this because it’s common knowledge, and because you, young man, are clearly Pony’s brother.”
“I thank you,” Ditch said.
“You boys plan to join the outfit?”
“We do,” Ditch said. “If they’ll have us.”
“Can you boys ride and shoot?”
“As good as any man they’ve got,” Ditch answered.
“They’ll have you, all right. Good luck, boys. Tell ’em Major Turner, from Tennessee, sends his regards.”
Pritchard and Ditch retrieved their horses and guns and started back the way they’d come. Murfreesboro was only thirty miles north of Washington, and there was still plenty of daylight left. They hoped to meet up with Paul’s unit no later than the following afternoon.
As it turned out, it was shortly after dawn the next morning when they located the company of partisan rangers they were looking for.
The sun was just coming up as Pritchard and Ditch crested the steep ridge over Prairie Creek, a few miles south of Murfreesboro. They dismounted and took cover in some brush, because down below they could see several companies of Union infantry advancing through the woods toward a contingent of Confederate horsemen bivouacked at the creek.
The topography was such that Pritchard and Ditch could easily see the advancing Union forces, due to their overhead vantage point. But it was clear that the reb cavalry hadn’t yet detected them, as evidenced by their seeming lack of awareness. The Confederates were mustered in clumps, tending to their horses and morning toilet, and many were not yet fully dressed and armed. There was a campfire going and an iron pot on a tripod over it.
“Those rebs are fixin’ to get ambushed,” Pritchard said, stating the obvious. “They don’t have a clue about what’s coming at ’em through those woods.”
“Paul might be down there with ’em,” Ditch said, concern spreading over his features. “We’ve got to do something.”
“Give me the Hawken,” Pritchard said. “Then get ready to ride.”
“Those blue bellies look to be at least five hundred yards out,” Ditch said, handing the Hawken to Pritchard. “Ain’t no way you’re going to hit any of them, unless out of sheer luck.”
“Ain’t aiming for the blue bellies,” Pritchard said, lying prone and shouldering the rifle. He cocked the hammer back. “Get ahold of Rusty,” he said. “I don’t want the shot to spook him and leave me stranded afoot.” Ditch grabbed the big Morgan’s reins.
Pritchard exhaled, paused, and fired. Almost a full second after the shot, a faint metallic clang was heard. A blue cloud of gun smoke hovered over them.
“You hit the cooking pot in the reb camp!” Ditch laughed. “That ought to wake those fools up!”
“It’ll also let the blue bellies know we’re up here,” Pritchard said, tossing the rifle to Ditch and jumping on Rusty. “Let’s go!”
Sure enough, as they galloped down the hill, dozens of Union guns fired on them. The distance prevented accurate shooting, but the sheer volume of fire resulted in numerous balls whistling past the two horsemen as they rode pell-mell for the rebel camp.
Within the camp, the alarm was sounded. In no time, the Confederate soldiers took up arms, hastily cleared camp, and mounted. Soon, approximately one hundred horses bearing Confederate cavalrymen were racing east, away from Prairie Creek, and the Union troops behind them.
Pritchard and Ditch took an intersecting path, spurring their horses at maximum gallop, as they rode between the Union attackers and the fleeing rebel raiders. They continued to push the animals at full sprint until the Union balls stopped whistling at them. They closed in on the rebel horsemen ahead.
Just as they caught up to the rebel cavalry, a mile from the creek, the Confederates turned sharply northward and, as one, slowed to a trot. As Pritchard and Ditch entered their formation from the rear, a dozen or more rebs pivoted their mounts sharply and came about, their revolvers leveled, to face the newcomers.
“Whoa!” Ditch protested, his hands in the air along with Pritchard’s. “Don’t shoot. We’re friendlies.”
“Then why are you riding up on us?” a reb cavalryman demanded.
“What’s going on here?” Another rebel cavalryman rode up. He was tall, bearded, and wore a slouch hat with the right side pinned up by a star and feather. “What’s the holdup?”
“Caught these two ridin’ up on us, Cap’n,” the soldier reported. “They might’ve been the ones who fired on us from that hill.”
“We didn’t fire on you,” Ditch said. “We fired on your breakfast. It was the only way to warn you of the Union soldiers coming at you through the woods.”
“You made the shot from on top of that hill?” the captain asked, his eyebrows lifting.
“He did,” Ditch pointed to Pritchard, “with this here Hawken rifle.”
“What do you two boys want?”
“To join up.”
“Bring ’em along,” said the captain. “I want some distance between us and that Union infantry. We’ll sort this out later. Keep an eye on ’em, though.”
They rode until noon, with Ditch and Pritchard riding at the back of the column, surrounded by several rebel guerrillas. This frustrated Ditch, because he couldn’t determine if his brother was among any of the riders ahead.
The company stopped at a copse of trees with a small creek running through it and dismounted. When Ditch and Pritchard came out of their saddles, they were immediately covered again by several revolvers.
The captain approached, with a stocky, bandy-legged sergeant at his heels. “What’re your names?” he asked.
“Davey!” a voice cried out, before either Ditch or Pritchard could answer. Paul Clemson, wearing reb gray, emerged from the crowd of soldiers. He and Ditch embraced.
“You know this man?” the captain asked.
“I surely do, Cap’n,” Paul said. “This here’s my little brother, Davey. Everybody calls him Ditch. And this fellow,” he started toward Pritchard, “is—”
“Joe Atherton,” Ditch blurted, cutting Paul off before he could finish his sentence. He gave his older brother a play along, I’ll tell you later glare and stepped between Paul and Pritchard before the two could embrace.
“I met Joe on the road,” Ditch went on. “His family was murdered in Missouri by Union men. He saved my life, more’n once. He wants to join up, too.”
Paul, who’d known Pritchard since he was born, went along with the charade. He shook Pritchard’s hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Joe. Thanks for saving my little brother’s worthless life.”
“Can your brother handle horses as good as you?” the captain asked Paul.
/> “Better,” came the reply. “He was the best breaker in Jackson County.”
“And what about you?” the captain asked Pritchard. “You’re big as a tree and look twice as stout. You got any skills I can use?”
“I can kill,” Pritchard said. “Is that enough skill for you?”
“He made that shot from up on that hill, to warn your unit,” Ditch offered. “He’s one helluva sharpshooter, with either a rifle or a pistol.”
“That was at least a four-hundred-yard shot,” said the sergeant.
“If Pony Clemson says you’re a horseman,” the captain said to Ditch, “that’s good enough for me. Pony’s the best there is, and I need all the wranglers I can get. But as far as your marksmanship,” he said to Pritchard, “I’m ridin’ with the best riflemen and pistoleers in the Confederacy. Unless you can prove your friend’s bold claim, you’ll have to ride on.”
Pritchard walked over to Ditch’s horse and retrieved the Hawken, ignoring the half-dozen revolvers leveled at him.
“Put me to the test,” he said as he began to reload the rifle.
“Lower your guns,” the captain said. “Sergeant Murphy, have someone ride a target out as far as he’ll let you.”
The squat sergeant took a canteen and handed it to a reb soldier, who mounted his horse.
“Three hundred yards ought to do,” Pritchard said.
“Which direction?” the rider asked.
“Don’t matter,” said Pritchard. “Sun’s overhead.”
“Can you even see a target that small at three hundred yards?” Sergeant Murphy said.
“Been shooting squirrels farther than that since I was a kid,” Pritchard said. “Last I checked, canteens don’t move.”
The rider hung the canteen on a branch at head level, as close to three hundred yards as one could guess. Then he pulled his horse back and waved his kerchief.
“Hell,” another soldier said, “you can’t hardly see the horse and rider from this far away.”
“I can see a tiny bit of metal, glinting in the sunlight,” another remarked.
Pritchard finished loading the Hawken and replaced the rod. Then he knelt and scooped up a handful of Arkansas dirt, letting it filter into the breeze. Finally, he lay prone and thumbed back the hammer.
“At your command, Captain,” Pritchard said.
“Fire when ready.”
The captain no sooner uttered the words than Pritchard fired. The rifle boomed. Nearly a second later, a faint tink was heard. Pritchard slowly stood up. In the distance, the rider gathered the canteen and galloped back across the prairie.
The reb rider pulled his horse up to the company, holding the canteen aloft for all to see. There was a neat hole in front and back. The men whistled their approval.
“Waste of a good canteen,” the rider said.
“I didn’t think he’d hit it,” Sergeant Murphy said.
“You ever shoot anything besides a squirrel?” the captain asked.
“I have,” Pritchard answered. “But not with this rifle.”
“We’ve killed eight men since we’ve been riding together,” Ditch said. “I done in one of them with that Hawken rifle, and Joe killed the other seven: five with pistols, one with a knife, and one with his bare hands.”
“Is this true?” the captain asked Pritchard.
In answer Pritchard took off his hat, revealing the bullet scar on his forehead. The silence that ensued among the rebel soldiers reflected their awe.
“Most men don’t walk away from a headshot,” the captain said.
“I ain’t most men.”
“What do you think, Sergeant Murphy?” the captain asked. “Shall we take on the big one, too?”
“He’s right good with that old Hawken, there’s no doubt,” the sergeant said. “I can only imagine what kind of hell he could raise with a Sharps or a Whitworth in his hands. But we’re mounted guerrillas, Cap’n, not infantry sharpshooters. We do most of our fighting on horseback, up close, where precision rifle shooting ain’t worth a damn. It’s pistoleers we need.”
Pritchard nodded to Ditch. Ditch suddenly snatched the canteen from the reb soldier’s hand and tossed it into the air. With lightning speed, Pritchard lifted his coat, drew one of the Remingtons from his belt, and fan-fired it three times. Each shot struck the canteen before it hit the ground.
“He’ll do,” Sergeant Murphy said.
Chapter 21
“Do you boys swear allegiance to the Confederate States of America, and further swear to lay down your lives, if necessary, to defend her?”
Pritchard and Ditch put their left hands on Sergeant Murphy’s Bible and raised their right hands.
“I do,” Ditch said.
“I do,” Pritchard said.
“Congratulations, boys,” Sergeant Murphy said. “You’re in the Confederate army.” He shook their hands. “Welcome to B Company, Fifth Regiment, of Shelby’s Iron Brigade. We’re known as Witherspoon’s Rangers.”
It was night, and the company was bivouacked on the western bank of Millwood Lake. They’d ridden all day and encountered no other Union forces.
“My name is Captain Jedediah Witherspoon,” the captain said to them. “All you need to know about me is that I rode into Lawrence with Bill Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson. Iffen you boys were lookin’ to fight like proper soldiers, lined up in ranks on the field of battle with bayonets a-gleamin’, you’ll be disappointed. Iffen you came to kill Union men, you came to the right place. Tomorrow we ride for the Oklahoma Territory. From there, it’s back to Kansas.”
Supper was salted pork, beans, and biscuits. Pritchard and Ditch sat with Paul, away from the others, as they ate under a tree. There was a cold wind coming off the lake.
“We’re partisan rangers,” Paul explained to Pritchard and Ditch. “Our standing orders, if that’s what you want to call them, are to travel about at the Cap’n’s discretion and create as much havoc as we can for the Union. We just came down from Missouri, where we killed more Union folks than I could count. We also burned a helluva lot of farms, robbed two banks and a train, and tore up some railroad tracks near Springfield.”
“You fight in any big battles?”
“Only when we can’t avoid it,” Paul said. “We’re guerrilla fighters. We’re supposed to be fast and nimble, and besides, they’ve got cavalry units attached to the regular army for that. There ain’t a man in this outfit, ’cept maybe the cap’n and Sergeant Murphy, who’ve been trained and drilled as regular soldiers. Every rider in this company joined up and signed on the same way you did.”
“The captain said you were his horse wrangler?” Pritchard said.
“That’s my secondary job. Yours, too, Ditch. Most everybody’s got one. Some guys hunt for food, others do the patching up when someone is wounded, others do the cooking. My contribution is to break in the horses we commandeer.”
“Commandeer?” Ditch said. “Ain’t that a fancy word for stealin’?”
“That’s what some would call it,” Paul said. “Others, like Cap’n Witherspoon, would say we’re only takin’ what we need to support the war effort.”
“What do the folks who own what you ‘commandeer’ have to say?” Pritchard asked.
“Nothin’,” Paul said around a mouth full of beans, “iffen they want to stay aboveground. Sometimes we eat lean, like tonight, and other times, it’s beef and whiskey. All depends on what booty we’ve commandeered.”
“Sounds like you’re nothin’ but a band of brigands,” Ditch said.
“Keep your voice down,” Paul said, glancing nervously around. None of the other dining guerrillas paid them any notice.
“There’re times I’d agree with you,” he went on. “We engage Union troops sometimes, but it’s always hit and run. Mostly, we attack civilian forces, supposedly sided with the Union. I’d be lyin’ to you if I said that was always the case. When we’re on a spree, some of the fellows ain’t particular who gets shot or what happens to the women and
kids.”
“I don’t stand for that,” Pritchard said. “Rape, or the killing of those who ain’t fighting, isn’t soldiering and it ain’t right.”
“If you want to stay healthy,” Paul said, “you’ll stand for whatever goes and keep your mouth shut. I ain’t any prouder of some of what we’ve done than you are, but you voluntarily signed on with Cap’n Witherspoon’s company. You came lookin’ for us, remember? You took an oath, and now you’re ridin’ with hard men. Best remember that.”
“You don’t . . . ?” Ditch asked. “You’ve never . . . ?”
“Of course not,” Paul said. “I ain’t never touched a woman didn’t want me to, nor shot an unarmed man. But I’m ridin’ with those that will gladly do both. So are you. Cap’n Witherspoon already told you he stormed into Kansas with Quantrill and Bloody Bill. You know what them boys did to the town of Lawrence?”
“They say,” Ditch said, “women and children were executed right along with unarmed men.”
“They weren’t lying,” Paul said. “That’s the way of this war. Iffen you ain’t the raiders, you’re the ones bein’ raided. I don’t like it any more than you boys, but that’s how it is.”
The trio ate in silence for a while, as Pritchard and Ditch absorbed Paul’s words.
“How come,” Paul finally said, lowering his voice even more, “you’re going by an alias, Samuel?”
“Samuel Pritchard is dead and buried,” Pritchard said. He and Ditch explained what had transpired back in Missouri, and on their journey to Arkansas.
“If word ever gets back to Atherton that Samuel’s still alive,” Ditch finished, “his ma and sister are skinned and cooked.”
“I’m powerful sorry for what happened to you and your family,” Paul said. “Your secret’s safe with me. All the same, Joe, it might be just as well everybody believes you’re dead. Especially if you ever decide to go back to Missouri.”
“I’ve thought of that,” Pritchard said.
* * *
The next morning, Company B broke camp and rode west. Two days later, their column of nearly one hundred Confederate rangers entered Oklahoma Territory. At Broken Bow they turned north and headed for Kansas.