"I'm not afraid. I'll manage. If nothing else, I think Tyler will hear me out when I explain how things will be with us now."
"I expect he will at that,” Polly grinned. “You can make Corridon before dusk. Stay the night there, move on in the morning. You'll be home before supper tomorrow."
"And in summer, when my time comes for the baby, can I send for you?"
"You surely can, darlin'. I'll come runnin’ and we'll haul that child into this world together. I'll see you in the summer, Mrs. Randolph, maybe sooner if this madness ends and our boys come home. Meantime, you take care, hear?"
* * * *
Ordinarily Gus was up at first light, but his late-night sending off of Eli Mitchell and his restlessness afterward made him wake later than usual, with the darkness still dogging his spirit as the pale sun chased the timber shadows across his camp. After carefully stowing his rifle and blankets in a rock cleft, Gus used his last dab of coffee to brew a single cup, all the while troubled by the nagging sense of something amiss. Some warning sign he'd overlooked.
His supplies were down to nothing but it would be dark of the moon tonight. He could slink out of the hills to his farm. Somehow Polly always managed to scrape together a few necessaries for him; sugar, coffee. Local news and rumors of war. Enough to see him through another month of hiding out in these hills.
But before he could risk a visit home, he'd have to resolve this nettlesome worry, lest the faceless danger follow him home. Huddled in his blanket beside the embers of his campfire, Gus sipped the bitter dregs of his coffee, trying to put a face or a name to the trouble.
Had there been anything suspicious about Eli Mitchell? Something he'd said or done? Didn't seem likely. Gus had given the deserter his mare freely and had no regrets about that decision. What else could he do? Kill the boy? Drive him off?
True, he scarcely knew the lad, but Gus was a lifelong stockman. He could rank a horse at forty paces and he considered himself a fair judge of people as well. Young Eli Mitchell struck him as an honest young man. He'd promised to return the mare later on and Gus believed he would try to do so....
And that was it! That was the burr under his saddle, the itch that was rankling him.
Eli's promise.
He would try to return the mare because he'd given Gus his word of honor and he was an honest lad. But he'd also given his promise to help that wounded Reb lieutenant. And now he had a fresh horse under him and some food to share . . . Damn it to hell!
Cursing his own stupidity, Gus fetched his rifle from the cache and headed down the trail at a trot. The mare's tracks were easy to follow in the morning dew. The boy had ridden north just long enough to get out of Gus's sight, then he'd turned south, working his way back to the spring to help his wounded friend.
But Gus knew these hills far better than young Mitchell. Leaving the trail, he trotted uphill through the aspens at a mile-eating lope. A horse would have difficulty threading through the brush up to the mountain crest, but a man could manage it, and it cut the journey in half. With luck, he'd make the water hole by noon.
But Gus was running low on luck. And Eli Mitchell's was gone altogether.
As Gus crested the ridge overlooking the valley, he heard a shout, then the thunder of hoofbeats. Walking the mare through the trees at the edge of the valley, Eli Mitchell had been spotted by a Union patrol. Though he was clearly trapped, the boy never hesitated. Scrambling into the saddle, Eli wheeled his mount and he raced down the valley toward the mouth, leading them away from the spring. The patrol fanned out to intercept him, cutting him off easily, encircling him before he'd covered half a mile.
Dropping to his belly on the ridge, Gus fumbled in his pouch for the brass-cased Mexican field glass, his only trophy from that long-ago war. Snapping it open, he hastily homed in on the meadow below, bringing it into focus. It was already over. The Union patrol had Eli surrounded. The boy dropped his reins and held both hands high in the air as the troopers closed in, weapons at the ready.
Gus was too far away to make out faces clearly. Didn't recognize the officer in charge. A captain, tall, gaunt, with a Van Dyke goatee, a cape, and a French-style kepi forage cap. Judging from their mismatched uniforms, the troopers were militia. Probably Hessians from St. Lou or Jefferson City. But their civilian scout...
Damn! Gus recognized the slouch hat and stooped shoulders even before he zeroed in on the scout's face. Aaron Meachum, a Jayhawker renegade who'd been raiding and robbing in Kansas years before the war came, camouflaging thievery and murder with a smokescreen of abolitionist bushwa.
As a Hessian sergeant questioned Eli, Meachum casually circled his mount around behind the boy, looking Eli's horse over carefully.
Would he recognize the animal? Gus searched his memory, trying to recall if Meachum had ever seen his mare. Once, maybe, at the Reynolds County fair. Meachum had tried to goad Gus's youngest son into a fight, but backed off when Gus and two of his boys stepped in. Meachum might have seen the horse then, but that was before the war and—
With a casual, fluid motion, Meachum drew his pistol and shot Eli Mitchell in the head! His hands still raised to the sky, the boy collapsed like a broken puppet, toppling from the saddle to the grass of the valley floor.
"No!” Gus leapt to his feet, stunned, staring. But too far away to be heard. The other troopers seemed just as surprised. Red-faced, the sergeant was yelling at Meachum, his voice carrying across the valley. Ignoring him, the Jayhawker scout dismounted and ran his hands over Eli's horse, stepping across the boy's crumpled body without so much as a downward glance.
Satisfied, Meachum unsaddled Eli's borrowed mare. Tossing Gus's battered rig aside, Meachum transferred his own McClellan saddle to the mare's back, kicking the wind out of her belly as he yanked the cinch taut.
The troopers watched in silence as Meachum swung into the saddle, then the sergeant muttered something and two men dismounted. Hoisting Eli's body onto Meachum's rank gelding, they tied him across its back. Meachum said something to them, a joke, apparently, since Gus could read his grin clear across the meadow. None of the others smiled.
Wheeling his horse, the captain led the troop out of the valley by twos with Eli's body bouncing like a saddlebag on the gelding, blood from his fatal wound dripping down its flanks.
Crouched in the brush, Gus watched them vanish into the distance, then waited another half-hour to be certain.
When he was sure they were gone, he began working his way across the ridge crest toward the spring Eli had described, the one he'd led the patrol away from before they rode him down. Keeping its secret with his death.
Gus was hoping the lieutenant would be dead as well. It would be simpler that way. He could get back to his camp to think, clear his head of the vision of Eli, falling with his hands still raised...
He heard a soft click. A pistol hammer being eared back.
"Stop where you are. Raise your . . . “ The voice faded away. Gus stayed put.
"Lieutenant? My name's McKee. Elias Mitchell sent me to you.” No answer, only a muffled cough. Gus could see him now, concealed in a copse of cedars beside the brook that trickled into the basin. An officer all right, cadet-gray tunic, gilt buttons, yellow cavalry stripe on his trousers. And a .36 Patterson Colt in his fist.
But the gun wasn't aimed directly at Gus. Only in his general direction. And even at that distance Gus caught the sour stench of mortification. Of blood festering, turning rank.
Kneeling beside the boy, who was even younger than Eli, Gus gently took the gun from his hand. He doubted the Reb even knew it.
Mitchell had been mistaken, the boy wasn't gutshot. Not that it made much difference. His lung wound was low enough in his chest to let the blood leak out slowly, draining his life away with every heartbeat.
He'd propped himself up against a cedar bole to keep his lungs from filling. Fighting for every breath. But his war was nearly over now. A lost cause. Like the gray he wore. And the medals on his blouse.
&nb
sp; The lieutenant's eyes were open, but he was gazing into some impossible distance, his face chalk-white, arterial blood bubbling in the corners of his mouth, coloring his lips a livid crimson, scarlet as a painted lady.
After a time the boy slowly returned to his senses, staring up at Gus, faintly puzzled.
"I'm sorry,” he said, licking his crimsoned lips. “I was talking with my mother . . . Do I know you?"
"No, Lieutenant. My name's Angus McKee. Elias Mitchell sent me."
"Who?"
"Elias Mitchell. A boy who stayed with you a few days back?"
"Mitchell, yes. The Yankee boy. He's well, I hope?"
"He's . . . just fine, Lieutenant. He's gone on home. To be with his people."
"I'm glad. He was very kind to me . . . “ The young soldier swallowed. “I haven't much time, sir. I am Lieutenant James Oliver Neeland, of the First Arkansas. I have family in the White River valley. My father is Phineas Neeland, of Clarendon.” The boy coughed, spewing red froth down his shirt front.
"Lieutenant Neeland, I have two sons serving in Arkansas with Sterling Price. Jared and Levon McKee. Have you heard anything of them . . . ?” But the coughing had sapped the last of Neeland's strength. The boy had drifted off again, his lips moving in soundless conversation.
Gus waited for what seemed an age. And realized Neeland was staring up at him, frowning.
"I'm sorry. I . . . seem to have forgotten your name."
"It's McKee, Lieutenant. Angus McKee."
"Mr. McKee. Of course. And you were asking me about . . . ? Was your son Jared McKee? A sergeant with the Missourians?"
"Yes! He and his brother were both—"
"Sir, Sergeant Jared McKee was among the fallen at Westport, badly wounded. I saw him carried to the surgeons. I doubt he survived. Not many do. I shall ask my mother when I see . . . “ He broke off, coughing again. “I'm very sorry. I knew your son in passing. He seemed a fine soldier. I don't recall hearing about his brother. I hope he is well."
Gus looked away, his eyes stinging. It was too much. Eli's death. And now Jared too. Dear God.
"Mr. McKee, I'm sorry to trouble you at such a time but I find myself in a . . . quandary, sir. I am dying. And in truth, I don't mind so much anymore. The pain's not as bad now. And my mother is . . . very near. May I ask, sir, where your loyalties lie? North or South?"
Gus didn't answer. Couldn't. He saw Eli falling, his hands upraised in surrender . . . and then Jared. Falling.
Gus shook his head to clear it. “I have sons in gray, Lieutenant,” he said hoarsely. “I stand with my sons."
"Good.” Neeland closed his eyes. “There's a letter in my tunic. It is to my father but it contains . . . details of our troubles that might be useful to the Yanks. I would count it a great favor if you could place my medals in the letter and pass it to someone sympathetic to our cause. Would you do that for me, Mr. McKee?"
"Lieutenant—"
"Please!” Neeland grasped Gus's forearm desperately, pulling himself up. “For your sons, sir. For the South!"
"All right, boy, take it easy. I'll see to it."
"Thank you.” Neeland fell back, spent. “The letter is in my vest pocket. Take it, please."
Gently, Gus reached inside the lieutenant's coat, found the envelope, then hesitated. He felt no heartbeat. He glanced at Neeland. His eyes were empty. He was gone. Just like that. Dead and . . . gone.
Rising stiffly, Gus looked over the envelope. It was probably as the lad said, only a letter home. But nowadays, passing along such a note, or even possessing it, would be considered conveying dispatches to the enemy.
Treason.
A hanging offense, or a firing squad. On the spot.
No judge, no jury. No mercy.
Swallowing his distaste, Gus quickly searched the boy's body, but the only thing of use was the dress dagger at Neeland's belt, fifteen inches of Damascus steel, double edged with a needle point. A style some called the Arkansas toothpick.
The knife had bright brass pommels and a carved ivory hilt with silver insets, beautifully engraved. 1st Arkansas on one side, Lt. J.O. Neeland on the other. The hilt and the Damascus steel were darkly stained with the lad's blood. He could soak the blood off later, but he'd broken his camp bowie the week before and Neeland had no more need of the dagger. His war was over.
Gus slid the Arkansas blade into his boot, the Paterson Colt in his belt at the small of his back.
After carefully removing the lieutenant's medals, Gus placed them in the envelope and slipped it under his shirt. Then he buried Lieutenant James Oliver Neeland in a sheltered clearing not far from the creek.
He buried the boy deep, covering him over with rocks at the last, carefully camouflaging the grave afterward so no animal could dig him up. Nor any man. There'd be no blood money paid for this Rebel.
Good Lord. He'd spent the better part of two years hiding like a stray dog, waiting out the madness, and now that it was nearly over, he'd finally been forced into making a choice. Eli Mitchell said there wasn't any right side to this but he was mistaken. His own death proved it. And Jared's. And this poor bastard who'd kept himself alive long enough to pass along a last letter to his people. Gus hoped some part of their damned Cause was worth dying for. And killing for. Because he was done running and hiding. Right or wrong, he'd just volunteered. Again.
Maybe he couldn't cure the outlawry in these Missouri hills, but he could rectify one small portion of it. Aaron Meachum was Jayhawker scum. He'd murdered Eli Mitchell as casually as a field hand stomping a vole. Killed him for his horse and a share of a twenty-dollar bounty. And there would, by God, be a reckoning for that.
After a final look around the clearing, Gus set off at a steady lope, heading back to his camp. To pack up.
Leaving the herd untended would be risky, but the horses had forage enough for a week or so in this blind valley and they were well concealed. A straggler might stumble across them as Eli had done, and steal one, or run off the lot, but there was no helping that. He'd just have to chance it.
He chose his own mount with care, a swaybacked gray plowhorse named Nell. Six years old, she had a canted jaw, broken by a kick when she was a filly. Her crooked mouth kept her gaunt and her disposition was on the surly side of rabies. But most importantly, her injury made her nearly mute. She seldom whickered or whinnied. An admirable trait in a companion of the trail, horse or human.
After rubbing soot between the mare's ribs to accent her bones, Gus smeared small lumps of bloody suet on her legs to simulate open sores. It wasn't perfect, but only an expert would spot it. Most stockmen's tricks were intended to disguise a nag's shortcomings, not make them look worse.
Finished, Gus stepped back to admire his handiwork and nodded.
"Nell, old girl, you are just about the sorriest looking piece of horseflesh I've ever laid eyes on, too swaybacked to work and too scrawny to eat. And definitely not worth stealing."
Nell didn't reply, but her glare was so ferocious Gus couldn't help smiling. The last time he'd gone to war he'd been wearing a proud new uniform with brass buttons. This time, his best hope for survival was to pass for a ragamuffin, pride be damned.
Saddling Nell with his shabbiest work rig, he lashed his worn bedroll to the cantle, tossed a few hardtack biscuits and some jerky in a sack, and climbed aboard. He took a long last look over his camp, making sure he'd erased all traces, campfire buried, gear stowed in the rock cleft. He had a half-dozen hideouts like this one scattered through the mountains, moving from one to the other as the horses cropped down the grass or army patrols got too close.
Hadn't been much of a life these past two years, living like a bandit, seeing his wife and youngest boy one night a month during the dark of the moon when he could slink out of the hills without being spotted.
It was a sorry-ass way to live, but it was his only chance to save what little they had. Now he was risking it all for two dead boys he'd hardly known, boys who'd fought on opposite sides. As his own s
ons were doing.
Sweet Jesus. It was utter lunacy and he knew it, yet he'd seen murder done, in cold blood, and there was no backing away from that. Not if he was ever going to face himself in a shaving mirror again.
But being swept up in the madness of this fight didn't give him leave to be careless. It meant the exact opposite. He understood the odds he was facing. A stockman going up against a half-dozen seasoned fighters? His chances were slim to none. It would take every shred of skill he owned and all the luck in the world.
And even with that, it likely wouldn't be enough.
* * * *
He had no trouble picking up the trail of the Yank patrol.
Meachum was riding Gus's mare and he could read her prints like a bill of sale. The patrol had headed northeast, angling from the valley into the forested foothills of the Ozarks. Probably still on the prowl, hunting more bounties. More lost, desperate boys like Eli.
Nell's bony back and plodding gait made for a damned uncomfortable ride and since she tended to balk in the face of rough cover, he was often forced to lead her through it on foot, walking much of the way.
And with every step he saw Eli fall again, his hands raised in surrender, or the blood bubbling at the corners of young Neeland's mouth. Or he'd think back to Jared as a boy, a towheaded kid with a gap between his front teeth.
Jared's brothers often joshed him, claiming Jared missed every other row on a corncob. Jared grinning, saying lunch lasted longer that way...
Dead now. Probably thrown into a mass grave with a dozen others and covered over. Slain in the final throes of a lost war, both sides savaging each other, mindless as wolves in a sheep pen, blood-crazed, lost in the red madness of slaughter.
A contagious disease, apparently.
By early afternoon, Gus was fairly sure he was gaining ground on the patrol. Their tracks were cleaner, more sharply defined. Fresher. He guessed they'd likely lay up for a meal soon, rest their animals, make coffee.
He guessed wrong.
He was threading Nell through a tangle of sumac when he spotted the horsemen ahead. Four—no, five troopers, blocking the trail.
EQMM, September-October 2010 Page 3