Duke held the pistol for a moment longer, then he found the strength to put it back in the holster. Spitting on Frank, he turned and left the room, even as Frank was screaming at him, begging him to come back and end it.
The bartender’s body was lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Although there had been only three customers when Duke arrived, there were at least a dozen there now. No one was holding a weapon, and no one was wearing a badge, but Duke pulled his pistol again, just to be on the safe side.
A couple of men were bent over the bartender.
“Is he dead?” Duke asked, walking over to the bar and pulling a towel off one of the rings. He wrapped the towel around his left hand, which was bleeding, for the shard of glass had cut both ways.
“Yes,” one of the men answered.
“I had no quarrel with him. But he left me no choice.”
“And Frank?” one of the others asked.
“The girl upstairs can tell you about him,” Duke said.
“The sheriff will be wantin’ to hold an inquest. You goin’ to stick around for that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You got witnesses down here that’ll testify the bartender shot first. And if the girl upstairs will back you on what happened up there, you got nothin’ to worry about.”
“I said I’m not staying,” Duke repeated. He made a waving motion with his pistol, indicating that everyone should move to one side. “Now, clear a path to the door for me. I’ve done enough killing for one day. I don’t want to kill anyone else, but I will if I have to.”
Warily, the men and Marilou moved to one side of the room as Duke started toward the door.
“Mister?” one of the men called.
Duke turned toward him.
“I think maybe you ought to know there’s three more of ’em.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Them two you just killed? Frank and Mingus Butrum? Well, they got three more brothers and they ain’t likely to take what just happened here lyin’ down.”
Chapter Three
San Antonio, Texas
Friday, July 26, 1861:
“It was at a place called Bull Run,” Abner Murback was telling the others. “They say it is named after a creek they got there, but I figure it should be called Yankee Run, what with the way all them Union boys skedaddled.”
“You reckon this war’s goin’ to last long enough for us to get into it?” Johnny Parker asked.
“Nah, it’ll more’n likely be over in a couple of days,” Carl Adams said.
“I don’t think so,” Abner replied. “What I think Bull Run done is to show the world we’re serious about this. There’s no doubt in my mind but that there’s goin’ to be a full-out war now. And when it comes, I aim to be smack dab in the middle of it.”
“Ain’t goin’ to be much of a war,” Johnny Parker insisted. “Hell, if the Virginians can do that to Yankees, just think what we Texans could do.”
“Yeah, sure wish we had been there,” one of the others said.
Abner, Johnny, Carl, and several other young men were in the Oasis Saloon discussing the latest news on what was already being called, by the South, the “War of Northern Aggression,” and, by the North, the “War of Rebellion.”
“Let’s hear it for Texas and the South!” someone shouted, holding up his beer mug. His proposal was greeted by a deep-throated cheer.
“Huzzah!”
“Do you think Bexar County will raise a regiment?” Abner asked.
“Why, we got to get into it now,” Carl answered. “We can’t let the folks back East win our freedom for us.”
“I agree,” Johnny said. “If we don’t get into this war, ain’t no Texan nowhere will be able to hold his head up.”
“If Bexar does raise a regiment, who do you think will command it?” Abner asked.
“Far as I’m concerned, there’s only one man, and that’s Colonel Cason,” Carl said.
“Well, yes, you would say that, seein’ as you ride for Long Shadow.”
“That ain’t the only reason I’m sayin’ that. Ever’body knows Colonel Cason’s got the most experience of anyone. He fought agin the Mexicans in the war for Texas independence, then again when we had to whip ’em a second time.”
“And he kind of pulled your bacon out of the fire when we come to rescue you and them others last month against Ramos Garza,” Abner said. Abner had been one of the men who rode with Colonel Cason in his rescue party.
“That’s for sure,” Carl said, good-naturedly.
“Hey, here comes James Cason now,” one of the others said. “Wouldn’t surprise me none, if ol’ James was an officer when we get our regiment formed.”
“Well, of course he will be, him bein’ the colonel’s son an’ all,” Carl said.
“Yeah, we’ll be salutin’ him.”
“Let’s all salute him now, when he comes in,” Carl suggested.
Thus it was that when James Cason stepped through the door of the Oasis Saloon, every man inside was standing at attention, rendering their interpretation of a salute.
James was taken back by the demonstration, looking around in surprise.
“Carl, what is all this about?” he asked, taking in the group with a sweep of his hand.
“We’re salutin’ you,” Carl answered.
“I can see that. The question is, why?”
“Well, James, we figured that bein’ as you’ll probably be an officer in our regiment, that we may as well get used to it,” Carl said.
“What regiment would that be?”
“The one Bexar County will be formin’ to go off to fight agin the Yankees,” Abner said.
“I see,” James said. He looked at all of them, then he stepped up to the bar. “I’ll have a beer,” he said.
“Ain’t you goin’ to return our salute, James?” Johnny asked.
James turned toward them and rested his elbows on the bar behind him as the barkeep drew his beer.
“No need to,” he said. “I don’t plan to be an officer.”
“Why not? You didn’t fester up none from that wound you got. Hell, you don’t even have a limp. And like as not, your pa will be in command of the regiment when it’s formed.”
“Yeah, and we all agreed he’d want to make his own son an officer.”
“Which is fine by us.”
“There is no Bexar County regiment that I know of. And if there is one formed, I don’t think my pa will agree to command it.”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t believe in this war, that’s why. He doesn’t believe in it, and neither do I. I have no intention of going off to fight the Yankees.”
There was a look of surprise on the faces of everyone who was gathered in the bar.
“Wait a minute. Are you sayin’ you don’t want to go to war?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. I never thought I’d live to see the day a Cason would show the white feather,” Abner said.
Abner regretted his words the moment he said them, and they hung over the crowded saloon like the long-lingering peal of a bell that is too loudly rung. Everyone grew quiet as they waited to see what James would do.
“You got no right to say that, Abner,” Carl said, defending James. “I’ve never known a braver man than James Cason. And I ought to know, seein’ as how I’ve seen him in action and you ain’t.”
James fixed Abner with a cold stare and Abner began to sweat.
Abner ran the back of his hand across his lips. “ ’Course,” he went on, nervously. “I’m not sayin’ that’s what I’m seein’ now,” he said. “The white feather, I mean.”
“What, exactly, are you saying?” James asked, as he took a swallow of his beer.
“I’m just sayin’ that—well, I ain’t never known you, nor no Cason to run from a fight. And I was just wonderin’ why it is that you don’t want to join the regiment?”
�
��If it was the Mexicans, or the British, or the French looking to invade our country, I would fight,” James answered. “Whether I was made an officer or not, I would fight. But the Yankees? They are our own people—our own kin. My ma and pa both have folks up north—brothers and sisters. I see no reason strong enough to make me take up arms against my own kin.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Johnny suggested.
“The principle?”
“Yes. There is such a thing as principle, you know. I mean, that’s what makes us men, the fact that we will stand up for principle.”
“Johnny’s right,” several others responded. “It’s the principle of the thing.”
“Tell me, then, just what principle would we be fighting for?”
“You want to know what we are fightin’ for? All right, how about the fact that the Yankees won’t let us have our rights?” Abner asked. “That’s what we’re fightin’ for.”
“Yeah,” the others said. “We’re fightin’ for our rights.”
“Our rights to do what? To own slaves? Let me ask you something, Abner. Just how many slaves do you own?”
“Why, I don’t have any slaves, James, you know that,” Abner replied.
“And I know Carl doesn’t. What about you, Johnny? Tom? Mitch? Any of you? Do any of you own any slaves?”
“Don’t none of us own any slaves, James,” Johnny said. “Hell, you know that.”
“Yes, I do know it. And neither do I, nor any of my friends, own slaves,” James continued. “So here’s my question. Why would you be willing to fight in a war where you could get yourself killed, and will for sure be expected to kill others, over a principle that doesn’t even affect you?”
“I’ll tell you a principle that does affect me,” Abner said. “It’s seeing all my friends go off to fight in a war, and perhaps die, while I stay here, safe at home.”
James took another swallow of his beer, then nodded. “All right, Abner,” he finally said. “That is a principle I can understand. If you want to go off and fight in a war because you are guided by your conscience to share the danger with your friends, and not in some youthful quest for glory, I can respect that. But I ask that you show the same respect and understanding for my position. I have no wish to kill my kin. Nor do I want to be killed by them.”
“Then, what will you do? Are you just going to stay here in San Antonio and watch the rest of us march off?”
“I don’t know the answer to that question,” James replied. “It is my hope that I never have to find out.”
Wilson Creek, Missouri Friday evening, August 9, 1861:
Outside, the rain drummed against the canvas sides of the tent where General Lyons was making his headquarters. Despite the trench that had been dug around the tent to divert the pooling water, little streams ran across the dirt floor. Duke Faglier, who was acting as a civilian scout for the Union army, was just returning from a patrol behind Confederate lines. Taking his hat off, he poured water from the crown and bent-up brim, before stepping through the opening in the side of the tent to report to the general.
General Lyons, his red hair glowing in the lanternlight, began examining the map as Duke rendered his report.
“And you say they are just north of the Cow-skins, Springfield Road?” Lyons asked.
“Yes, sir,” Duke replied.
“But it is a feint, correct?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. They are there in strength.”
“What is their strength?”
“It could be as high as twenty thousand,” Duke answered.
“Damn that Sterling Price,” General Lyons said. “How could he raise such an army so quickly?”
“Well, he is the governor of Missouri, General,” his aide explained.
“Former governor,” General Lyons replied. Then to Duke, Lyons asked, “Have you eaten?”
“No, sir.”
“Lieutenant, have we anything for this man to eat?” Lyons asked his aide.
“I think so, sir,” the lieutenant said. Then he continued, “I admit that Price is a former governor, but he is as popular with the people now as he was when he held office. And, outside the city of St. Louis, Missouri is strongly pro-South.”
“That is true,” General Lyons admitted.
“Here you go, mister,” the aide said, then, handing a cloth-wrapped parcel to Duke. When Duke looked up, questioningly, the aide continued. “It’s a cold biscuit with a piece of salt pork. Not much, I’m afraid, but it’s all we have here.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant, this will do just fine,” Duke said, unwrapping the biscuit to take a bite.
“Mr. Faglier, you are a Missourian, are you not?” General Lyons inquired.
“I am.”
“How is it you are with us, and not with the Rebels?”
“I will admit that it was a hard decision,” Duke replied. “I don’t want to see the Union dissolved. On the other hand, I’m not happy about fighting against other Missourians. I reckon that’s why I decided to serve as a civilian scout, rather than join the army.”
“We can’t always have what we want,” Lyons replied. “But I would be interested in your opinion of General Price’s army. Are they to be reckoned with?”
“Yes, sir, I would say so,” Duke answered.
“Why? By your own accounts, there is scarcely a modern weapon among the whole lot of them,” General Lyons said.
“Well, sir, General Price’s army may not be well armed. I mean, they are sitting out there right now with nothing but flintlocks, shotguns, squirrel guns, and some of them with nothing more than Arkansas toothpicks. But they are dangerous.”
“Arkansas toothpicks?”
Duke smiled. “It’s what we Missourians call knives,” he explained.
Lyons snorted. “Knives, on a battlefield. What kind of ragtag army are we facing? Do they actually intend to face us armed with nothing but knives?”
“I wouldn’t dismiss those knives out of hand if I were you, General. If the fighting gets to be hand-to-hand, and it probably will, a good man with an Arkansas toothpick is far superior to a soldier trying to use a bayonet.”
“Yeah,” Lyons agreed. “Yeah, you might be right at that.” Lyons walked over to the opening of the tent and stood there, looking out at the rain. “It’s still raining.”
“Yes, sir,” Duke said.
“Somewhere in God’s heaven there is an angel with the sole duty of making war miserable, and rain on the battlefield is one of the ways he does it. I suppose that’s good, though. If war were all flags and bands and glory, why I reckon man would be at it all the time.”
“You think this war is going to last long, General?” Duke asked.
Lyons was silent for a long moment, then he turned toward Duke. The general’s eyes were deep and unfathomable.
“Not for me it won’t,” he said, enigmatically.
Because of the rain, very few people found a dry enough place to sleep that night. Those who did were kept awake by concerns of the upcoming battle.
If Duke had been frightened before the battle, all fear fell away the moment he heard the whine of bullets. He felt only an uncontrollable urge to get into the thick of the fight. There were dead and dying all around him, but they received only a passing thought. As a civilian scout, he was technically a nonbelligerent observer, and he became cool and deliberate, watching the effect of bullets, the showers of bursting shells, and the passage of cannonballs as they cut their murderous channels through the ranks of General Lyons’s army.
It quickly became evident that the Rebels were going to carry the day. In a fulfillment of his prophecy of the night before, the war ended for General Lyons when he was killed while leading a charge. During the course of the battle, several other high-ranking officers were killed as well. The sudden loss of their command structure caused all discipline to break down on the battlefield. The Union lines faltered, then began to disintegrate. A gradual withdrawal turned into a full-scale rout as
the Rebels swept the Federals from the field.
Duke had no choice but to abandon the field with the others. As he withdrew, a Rebel popped in front of him. Reacting quickly, Duke shot him.
“Duke!” the Rebel soldier yelled in a pained voice as he went down.
Startled to hear the soldier call him by name, Duke ran to the wounded Reb.
“Oh my God! Caleb!” Duke gasped, for the man he had just shot was his younger brother. “I’m sorry!” Duke said. “Forgive me, Caleb! Please, forgive me!”
“It’s all right, big brother,” Caleb gasped. “You didn’t know.”
“What, what are you doing here, anyway?” Duke asked. “When did you join the Rebels?”
“I couldn’t let this great adventure pass me by,” Caleb said. He coughed, and flecks of blood foamed around his mouth.
“I’m going to get help for you,” Duke said. He started to stand but Caleb reached up for him and pulled him back down.
“No,” he said. “No, it’s too late. I’ll be dead before you get back.”
“Caleb, my God, oh my God!” Duke lamented. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right, Duke,” Caleb said. “This is what war is.”
“Not for me it isn’t,” Duke insisted. “I had no right to shoot you! I’m not even a soldier!”
Duke looked at his pistol, then with a pained yell, he threw it away, tossing it as far from him as he could. “I don’t want any part of this war.”
Caleb’s breathing was now coming in audible gasps, but he smiled when he heard Duke say that. “Good,” he said. “You’ve got no business in this war, anyway. You are the last one of us now, Duke. Mom, Pop, our sister. Now me. All dead. You are the last one. You have to stay alive for the rest of us.”
Duke nodded but said nothing.
“Duke, Duke,” Caleb said, reaching up to clutch him by the arm. “The Butrums. Don’t let them find you. I ran across them up in Kansas City. They are a mean bunch. They aim to kill you.”
“A lot of people tried to kill me today,” Duke said.
“Yes,” Caleb replied. “But with the Butrums, it’s personal.”
The Bozeman Trail Page 3