Excerpts

 

Shawgo
by
Dusty Rhodes

CHAPTER I

A bullet singed the air only a hairsbreadth from Shawgo’s cheek. He felt the heat a full heartbeat before the crack of a rifle shattered the desert stillness. He jerked a look in the direction of the sound.

The clatter of galloping horses reached his hearing as eight riders boiled out of a canyon no more than a hundred yards to his right.

Comanchero! his mind screamed.

Sombreroed riders and bare-chested Indians were bent low, firing rifles and pistols in Shawgo’s direction from the backs of racing horses. Two whiskered white men led the band. One was an uncommonly large man who wore what appeared to be the skin of a cougar draped across one shoulder and secured at the waist by a wide leather belt. It seemed strange, considering the desert heat.

They’re after my horses, reason told him, as he dropped the lead ropes to the half-dozen horses behind him.

He snatched the Henry rifle from his reverse saddle boot and levered a shell with the flick of his wrist, even as he dug heels into his buckskin’s flanks. The stallion responded and broke into a hard gallop. Shawgo bent low over his saddlehorn to make his back a more difficult target.

Bullets whined through the air like angry bumblebees. Holding the rifle like a pistol, he twisted in his saddle and triggered off a hasty shot at the pursuing riders.

A Mexican was lifted from his saddle when the bullet struck. He reeled sideways in the air, arms windmilling and feet flailing, before disappearing from sight in the cloud of dust behind the charging horses.

Lucky shot, Shawgo breathed out loud. I could use some luck right about now.

King, his buckskin stallion, was racing flat out and belly to the ground across the hardpan desert. Shawgo knew if it came down to a horserace, the mustangs the Comanchero were riding didn’t stand a chance. Still, he hated to lose the horses he was taking to the army over at Fort Stockton, but he had more horses back in his valley. Right now, his main concern was getting out of rifle range of the bandits behind him.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that two of the band had peeled off and were rounding up his six horses, but the remaining five were still coming after him.

Suddenly, a shallow dry wash loomed in front of him.
Maybe I can slow them down a tad, he thought.
Reaching the dry wash, he reined King to a sliding stop and was out of the saddle and belly-flat on the ground before the stallion slid to a full stop.

 

© 2008 Dusty Rhodes - all rights reserved

 

 

Manhunter
by
Dusty Rhodes

CHAPTER I

"IN THE BEGINNING"
(Gen. 1:1)

The blazing sun seemed unusually hot for mid-February. It cooked into Matt Henry's bare back and caused the hundred or more deep, ugly scars that crisscrossed his broad shoulders and back to itch like crazy.

His arm muscles rippled and bulged as he leaned into the heavy double winged breaking plow and felt satisfaction as the point bit deeper into the virgin ground. He liked to watch the chocolate brown soil slide off the plow's shiny silver wings and curl onto itself like the big ocean waves he had seen one time down on the Gulf of Mexico.

"Whoa, mules," he called out and the matched team of big brown Missouri mules responded immediately.

Tugging the red bandanna from around his neck he mopped sweat from his face and glanced up through squinted eyes at the noon-high sun. Amelia and James should be coming soon. They always brought a picnic lunch when he was working in the fields. He liked it when they came out and ate together so they could see what he had done that morning.

Looking back over the line of freshly plowed rows he had laid by that morning he was pleased. He already had eighty acres under plow. This twenty acres of new ground ought to help him bring in a good corn crop this year. Maybe even enough to pay off that little loan he had at the Waldron Bank and still have enough left over to buy Amelia that cook stove she had her eyes on at the general store.

"Get up, mules," he said, rippling the long reins to pop their rumps. He would finish out this row and break for lunch.

A man can do a heap of thinking trudging along in a furrow behind a plow from can see till can't see. It gives a fellow time to think when he's working hard and he had done more'n his share of both in his twenty-six years, that and trouble.

He recalled his ma reading to him and pa about trouble from her good book while they sat around that old pot bellied stove when he was just six. He still remembered the words.

"A man's life is of few days and full of trouble," she had read. Strange he could still remember that after all these years. He had asked his pa about it one time when they were riding along in the wagon together. He could still see his pa's face, how it got all serious, like it did every time he was about to say something worth remembering.

"Son, trouble follows a man closer than his own shadow. It can either make a man, or it can break a man. It's what's inside the man that determines which."

Boy he sure had seen plenty of opportunities to test the truth of that advice in his lifetime.

"Whoa, mules," he called out, reaching the end of the row.

He slipped the long reins over his head, wound them around the handle, laid the plow over on its side and headed for the inviting shade of the big oak tree where he had left his rifle and water jug.

Slouching his six foot-three inch frame down against the tree, he took a long swig of the lukewarm water, rested his tired head against the tree and smiled. He always smiled when he thought about Amelia. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. This past three years with her and his six-year old stepson, James, had been the best years of his whole life.

His heart suddenly leaped into his throat as shots rang out. One! Two! By the second shot, he had already grabbed his rifle and was racing towards the house as fast as his strong legs would carry him.

Three! Four! Five! A hot flush of fear swept through him as he raced up the small hill that separated him from the house. Topping the hill and streaking down the other side, he counted the saddled horses around the yard. Ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, seventeen, no, eighteen. Why would eighteen horses be at the house? From somewhere he found the strength for even greater speed. As he neared the house he levered a shell into his Henry .44 rifle.

That's when he saw James. The boy lay under the giant oak tree in the front yard, near the swing Matt had made for him. Blood still gushed from a deep gash in his throat and stained the dusty ground where he lay. His blonde, curly hair was caked and matted from the puddle of his own blood he lay in. His blue eyes were wide open and a look of terror was frozen there forever as he gazed blankly into the sky. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. He was dead.

A great sob wracked Matt's big frame and welled up in his throat, threatening to choke him. He clamped his jaws shut to stifle the scream that fought to escape his lips. A volcano of rage boiled somewhere deep inside him and surged through his whole being, erupting as a mighty explosion of energy.

One giant leap landed him on the porch. Like a charging bull he hit the partially open front door. His powerful shoulder splintering the wood, driving it inward. Someone had been standing just inside the door. The sudden force of Matt's entry sent the man flying across the room into a huddle of others, sending them sprawling.

He shot the first man he saw standing, jacked another shell into his rifle and sent another bullet square into a second man's face. Something hit him hard in his left shoulder, spinning him half around. Another sledgehammer like blow struck his right side and a third found its mark in his lower chest, driving him backwards, slamming him against the wall.

He saw the floor rushing up to meet him. Even while falling, he strained to work the lever of his rifle but his hands refused to obey what his mind told them to do. It all seemed so strange, like another of those nightmares he still sometimes had. His mind told him he had been shot, but he hadn't even heard the sound.

His face slammed into the floor. Something was wrong with his eyes; they were growing blurry. He squeezed them shut, trying to clear his vision, then opened them again. That's when he saw Amelia.

She lay on the wooden floor near the fireplace, her clothes torn completely off. Ugly bullet holes dotted her beautiful body. She had been shot five times.

A chill swept through him. His body shook from the sudden coldness. The light was fading. Was this how it felt to die? It wasn't that he was afraid of death, he had come face to face with it more than once in his life. He felt no pain, but he was so tired.

What was left to live for now anyway? Everything he cared for had been taken from him. Maybe he should just close his eyes and let death take him too.

His eyes blinked wildly, trying desperately to focus. He saw a big black man standing nearby; his head was completely bald. There was a Mexican. His straw sombrero hung down his back by a neck cord. A knife scar ran from his left eye down to the corner of his cruel, smiling lips. Smiling? Why would he be smiling at a time like this? A long, bloody knife was tucked under his waist sash. Blood dripped from the knife to form little red spots on the wooden floor.

A big man with red hair and beard stared at him from one eye; the other hid by a black patch. The hard, cruel eye bored into him. Somehow, Matt sensed this man was the leader of this band of killers.

At that moment Matt knew he had to live. Somehow, like so many other times in his life, he had to find the strength to survive. Standing there before him were the reasons he had to make it through this. These men had to pay for what they had done.

If the God his ma had told him about was really real and was the God of justice like she said, then surely a God like that would allow him to live long enough to track down every last one of these killers and bring them to justice.

But he was so tired. . .

CHAPTER II

"MY FLASHING SWORD"

"When I sharpen my flashing sword and my hand grasps it in judgment, I will render vengeance upon my enemies."(Deut.32: 41)

Voices, did he hear voices? They sounded so far away, like they were coming from a deep cave. Then they faded away and darkness wrapped its soft arms around him again and he drifted back into the land of nothingness.

"He's coming around, sheriff. Shore as shootin he is. It's a slap dab miracle if you ask me. Wouldn't a give a spit in the wind for his chances of pulling through, all shot up like he was. It's just gotta be a slap dab miracle, that's all it could be."

The strange voice seemed to be getting closer. Was he dead? He strained to open his eyes. The bright light burned his eyes. Vague shapes appeared from the misty shadows and floated in front of him, gradually becoming clearer.

An old man with snow-white hair and tiny spectacles sitting on the end of his nose emerged from the foggy world and bent over Matt. Who was this guy? Matt tried to raise himself up and a thousand sharp needles of pain raced through him.

"Whoa there, young fellow," the old man said. "You best lie back real easy. You've been shot up worse than a watering trough on Saturday night."

When Matt forced his eyes open again he saw another man also. A big man sat in a straight-backed chair near the bed. His salt and pepper hair hung collar length with more salt than pepper. He had a firm-set jaw and a penetrating look about his dark eyes, like they could see right through a man. He wore a friendly smile on his wrinkled, weathered face and a star pinned on his leather vest. Matt felt he had seen him before.

"Welcome back, son," the big man said. "You've been out quite a spell. You likely won't remember me, we've met a couple of times before, but it was some time back. I'm J. C. Holderfield, the Sheriff here in Scott County. Can you remember what happened, son?"

Matt shut his eyes and fought back the painful memories that rushed through him like a raging river, churning his insides, tossing him to and fro, flooding his mind to overflowing, sweeping all other thoughts aside like so many tiny twigs, leaving only the hurt behind. Slowly, he lifted a weak hand and swiped a tear from his cheek.

"I'm real sorry to have to put you through this again, son. I know it hurts to even think about it, but I've got to know what happened out there at your place. I rode out and took a look around and think I know pretty much what went on, but I need to hear it from you."

It took awhile, but the words finally came. Sometimes barely a whisper, sometimes choked back by sobs Matt couldn't swallow back down. When he finished the sheriff leaned back in his chair and pulled out an old, worn out pipe. He produced a tobacco sack from a shirt pocket and poured the pipe full, then used a .44 shell from his gun belt to pack it down. A match struck on his britches leg put fire to it and sent a cloud of sweet smelling aroma wafting across the room.

"If memory serves me right they call you Matt," the sheriff said, drawing deep on the old pipe. "Where you from, son? Before you married the Morgan girl I mean."

"That's a hard question to answer, Sheriff. I always figured wherever I hung my hat was home and I've hung it in more than a few. Never had a real home, at least not since I was six.

"My family's from the boot heel of Missouri. We set out for California when I was six, didn't get far though. Apaches hit our wagon train and wiped out our whole bunch. Killed everybody except me and two other boys about my age. The Apaches raised me till I was fourteen before I managed to escape.

"I signed on with a cattle drive headed for Wichita. After that I spent a couple of years just trailing around from here to yonder."

"Couldn't help noticing them scars you're wearing on your back," the old sheriff said. "Never seen worse on a man. Mind telling me how you got em?"

"Ever hear of a place called Yuma Territorial Prison in Arizona? It ain't a fit place for a man. The day I turned sixteen, a fellow in Tucson pushed me into a fight I didn't want but couldn't get out of. He drew on me and I had no choice. I shot him in self defense but his daddy was a big something or other in them parts and his money bought me five years hard labor and a whipping once a week."

"Is that where you got them scars on your ankles too?"

"Yes, sir. They had a contraption called the Oregon Boot. Looked like a round chunk of iron hollowed out in the middle and split in half. It had hinges on one side and an iron strap that fit under your foot. They weighed sixteen pounds apiece. They usually only put them on runners, but the day I checked in they locked one on each ankle and didn't take them off until I checked out five years later."

"Don't see how you made it, son," the big lawman said, shaking his head.

"Wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for a lifer named Duke Hatcher. Toughest man I've ever seen. He taught me a hundred ways to kill a man with your bare hands. He took a liking to me I guess, said I reminded him of his own son. That's all that kept me alive. The cons were bad, but the guards were worse."

"Sad to say but ever the law's got a few bad apples," the sheriff said.

"How'd I get here, Sheriff? Shot up like I was."

"Fellow named Hawkins brought you in; said he was out hunting along the river and heard the shooting. You know him?"

"Yeah, I met him once a while back. He's got a pretty big spread down the river a few miles. Guess I'm lucky he came along."

"Matt, when I rode out, I buried your wife and the boy on that little hill behind your house. I didn't know what else to do. I put a little cross on their graves. Sure sorry about your family."

"Thanks, Sheriff. I'm beholden to you."

"While I was looking around I found your team of mules still hitched to the plow. I also found two horses I figured belonged to you; they're all down at the livery. I'm afraid that's about all that's left though. What they didn't take, they destroyed. Good thing they didn't spot your horses or they'd be gone too. Can't say I ever seen a finer piece of horseflesh than that black stallion."

"Don't know how or when I can repay you for all you done, Sheriff. Maybe someday I can. Got any idea who done it?" Matt asked.

"Oh yeah, I know who done it all right. You got two of them before they got you. They rode with the Trotter outfit. Remember the one you told me about with the black patch over one eye? That's one-eyed Jack Trotter. Him and his gang's been robbing, raping and killing ever since the war ended. They usually don't leave any witnesses. Guess they didn't figure on you having so much bark on you."

"How come the law ain't caught them before now?"

"Well, fact is, son, there just ain't no law that can stay on their trail long enough to catch them. Take me for instance, I can chase them as far as the county line, but that's where my authority ends. We've got a few U. S. Marshals and the Texas Rangers, but they're both spread so thin and under funded they just can't do it all. After the war ended, so many took to the owl hoot trail, there's just more than we can handle."

"Just don't seem right," Matt said, "that they could do what they done to my family, then just ride off free as you please, with nobody that can do anything about it."

"It ain't right. Ain't nothing right about it, but that's just the way it is. Wish there was something more I could do. Trotter's pretty smart. His bunch rides around doing what they good and well please, then they just ride across the line, knowing we can't follow them. If things get too hot, they just crawl into a hole somewhere that nobody's been able to find. When things cool off, they slither out like the snakes they are."

"Soon as I'm able to fork a horse, I mean to find their hole and set things right, law or no law, either at the end of a short rope, or in front of my gun--and I don't much care which it is," Matt said bitterly.

"Can't say I wouldn't do the same, son," the sheriff said. "Oh, I meant to tell you, the two you rid the world of before you got shot? They both had fliers on them. Five hundred apiece, dead or alive and they both shore fit that description. You've got a thousand dollars waiting on you at the bank."

Their conversation was interrupted be a pretty, young teen-age girl who burst into the room. Her long, corn silk hair hung in platted pigtails down her back with a small white ribbon tied to the end of each. She had a freckled nose and a perky little smile and wore a flour-sack dress that touched her ankles.

"How is he?" she asked before realizing he was awake. "Oh, he's woke up. Daddy! Why didn't you come and tell me he was awake. You knew I wanted to be here when he come to. Is he okay? Is he hungry? Can I get him anything?"

"Whoa there, girl, just calm down a tad," the sheriff told her. "Matt, this little wildcat is my daughter, Molly. Her and Uncle Doc have set with you ever since they brought you in. She's been like a mother hen seeing after you."

"Nice to meet you, Molly. Thanks for looking out for me," Matt told the bubbly young girl.

"It's good to meet you too," she said. "Now maybe I can call you something besides, mister."

"Well, Matt," the sheriff said, pulling to his feet, "I hate to leave you alone with these two but I've got to go. If I was you, though, I'd keep a close eye, they're quite a pair."

"Thanks again, Sheriff. Sure appreciate all you've done. When I get back on my feet maybe I can square it with you some way."

The sheriff was right, Molly and the Doc were a pair sure enough. Molly spent most of every day waiting on him hand and foot. He was getting stronger every day and regaining the weight he had lost, thanks to the meals Molly brought him from the café. The weight mostly came from the fresh apple pies Molly baked him at least twice a week. The sheriff came by every day, often visiting for an hour or more.

Over the next two weeks they all became close friends. More than friends, more like family and yet, the closer they all drew together the more scared Matt became. All through his life, everybody he grew to care for, it seemed like something bad always happened to them.

Matt soon discovered what he suspected all along; J. C. Holderfield wasn't just your ordinary small town sheriff.

"Yes siree, son," Uncle Doc told him one day, "J. C. Holderfield is known in most every town west of the Mississippi as the Town Tamer. He's planted more than a few in boot hill with their toes pointed straight up. Folks that know say he's cleaned up more towns than most can count."

"How'd he come to be in a small town like Waldron, Arkansas?" Matt asked.

"Rode in about three years back, I reckon it was, just him, a sickly wife and little Molly. Said he was looking for a quiet little place to settle down. Town hired him on the spot. Elected him Sheriff the next year. His woman died right after that. He's been raising Molly by himself ever since. Doing a right good job of it too.

"Dirty rotten shame though," he continued, "all them years doing law work, risking his life and all and he ain't got two double-eagles to rub together to show for it."

Matt learned that Molly worked part time at the general store for Mr. and Mrs. Jamieson. He asked if she would mind picking out some new clothes for him.

"Doc said he had to burn all the clothes I had on when I came in. I guess I 'm gonna need everything. Pants, shirt, hat, boots and, well, everything," he told her.

"You mean long johns?"

"Well, yeah, but I didn't want to just come right out and say it."

"Silly," she said, "I wash my daddy's long johns all the time."

"Well, I ain't your daddy. More'n likely if I was I'd take a peach tree limb to you more than he does. How old are you anyway?"

"I'm twelve. Going on thirteen. Most folks say I look lot's older than my age. Do I look older to you, Matt?"

"Twelve going on twenty would be more like it," he kidded her. "Some old boy's going to have his work cut out for him when it comes to throwing a loop over your head."

"I don't like boys. At least not the ones my age, they're all so silly. Besides, when the time comes for roping, I expect I'll do my own, thank you very much. I can see why daddy likes you so much."

"What makes you think your daddy likes me?"

"Probably because you're about all he's talked about for the last two weeks. He says you're like the son he always wanted and never got. Hey! That would make you my big brother wouldn't it? I always wished I had a big brother."

"Tell you what, Little Bit, if you'll make me another of those apple pies, I'll be kind of like your big brother, is it a deal?"

Molly leaped into the air, hit the floor running and hugged his neck so hard it hurt his wounded shoulder.

"Oh, Matt, would you really? It's a deal. Let's shake on it and seal the bargain. I'll be back with that pie before you can shake a stick and I'll pick out the best looking clothes in the whole store too," she hollered over her shoulder as she hurried out the door.

Finally, his coming out day arrived two days later. He must have tried on everything in the store before Molly was satisfied with both the fit and the match. He felt both relief and excitement as he slipped into his new clothes. He stomped into his black, high-heeled boots, stiffed his pants legs down into his boot tops, stuffed the tail of the blue shirt into his pants and tied the dark blue bandanna around his neck.

He adjusted the black, flat crowned Stetson on his head, gazed at his reflection in the mirror and adjusted it again. The silver conches on the hatband caught light filtering through the open window and sent flashes of light dancing around the room. Finally satisfied, he playfully tipped the hat, shrugged and strode from the room that had been his home for the most part of three weeks.

The single narrow street in Waldron, Arkansas still bore deep ruts from recent early rains and the passage of untold wagon wheels. The persistent winds of the last several days had dried the ground and transformed it into fine dust. Today, strong wind gusts pushed clouds of the stinging particles between the flat board buildings that lined both sides of the street.

What few hardy souls that dared venture out, bent into the wind and ducked their heads to avoid the blowing sand. Matt did the same, holding tight to his brand new Stetson.

The door to the sheriff's office was closed as Matt stepped up onto the wooden boardwalk. Before reaching the door, however, it was jerked open by his new friend. A smile as big as all outdoors washed across the sheriff's leathered face.

"Come on in here, boy, before you get blown away. Ain't this wind something? Don't think I'll ever get use to it. Real glad to see you up and around, son. You're a mite taller standing than you are laying."

"Morning, J. C., it's good to be up. Never spent so much time in bed in my whole life. I think I about wore out my welcome at doc's and I could tell Molly was ready to get shed of me too. She hadn't brought me an apple pie in two days."

"What are you griping about? She's baked a half-dozen pies in the last two weeks and I ain't had the first bite of one yet. All kidding aside, Matt, helping nurse you back to health has been one of the highlights of her life. She's taking quite a liking to you. She hasn't talked about much else since you came in. Say, you want some coffee? I made it fresh just a couple of days ago?"

"No thanks," Matt said, spinning a straight-backed chair and straddling it. "I ain't feeling that good just yet. I was hoping you might walk with me over to the bank and see about that reward you mentioned. I'd like to settle up with some folks before I ride out."

"Be glad to, son. You still got it in mind to go after Trotter's gang?"

"Yep. I'll be leaving this morning. I want to ride out to the farm and see the graves and all. Then I thought I ought to ride by the Hawkins place and say a thank you for hauling me in."

"Matt, I know you've thought a lot about what you're setting out to do. It' s a might big job you're setting out to do. Some would call it impossible. By your own reckoning, there's still sixteen of them. They're all out and out killers, Matt. Men who live by the gun. Men that think nothing about gunning down anybody that gets in their way, be it men, women, or children. How you figure to take on men like that. Sixteen to one is mighty tough odds."

"My pa always said if you wanted to move a mountain, you had to do it one rock at a time. The only thing I know, J. C., this is something I got to do. I'll stomp that snake when it rears up its head."

"There's something I want to show you," the sheriff said, opening a drawer of the old battered desk. He lifted out something wrapped in an oily rag and handed it to Matt.

"Go ahead, son, open it up."

Matt slowly peeled away the rag and gazed down at the most beautiful gun rig he had ever laid eyes upon. The holster and gun belt were of black, hand tooled leather. Shell loops were in groups of six with sliver conches separating each group.

Glancing quickly up at J. C. with a disbelieving look, Matt saw his friend' s face beaming with pride. Gently, almost reverently, Matt slid the pistol from its holster. He hefted it in his hand, turning it over and over, admiring the weapon. He laid the weapon crossways across two fingers, testing its balance and found it to be perfect. He stared in absolute awe at the blue steel revolver, amazed at its beauty. A black, striking rattler was embedded into the pearl-white handles.

"It's called The Rattler," the old lawman told him. "It's an Army model 1860 .44 caliber, but it's unlike anything you've ever seen before. Whoever the gunsmith was that rigged it up was a genius. Pull that hammer back till it locks and I'll show you what I mean."

Matt did as the sheriff instructed and heard a metallic click as the hammer locked in place.

"That there is a hair trigger, Matt. You don't pull it; all you got to do is touch it. Go ahead, son, it's empty. Touch the trigger and watch what happens."

Matt swung the nose toward the wall and nudged the trigger. The hammer slammed down, then immediately sprang back to the lock position, ready to fire again. Matt's mouth dropped open. It was amazing. The sheriff was right; he had never seen anything like that before.

"Try it again, boy. This time pull the trigger sever times as fast as you can."

Five times Matt touched the trigger as fast as his finger could move. Each time the hammer shot forward, then bounced back, ready to fire again.

"I don't believe it," Matt said, his eyes as wide open as his mouth. "I never even heard of something like that."

"It's rigged with a special spring mechanism. Once the hammer is pulled back and locked in full cock position, it will fire and return to that position as fast as you can pull the trigger. That eliminates the time and effort it usually takes to pull back the hammer between each shot. That pistol will get off six shots quicker than most others can fire twice. It's that fast," the big lawman explained.

"Over my years of law work, I've taken lots of guns off men that didn't need them anymore. Most I sold to help supplement the starving wages a lawman draws. A while back, I took this rig off a man down in Austin, named Ben McCaskill. He thought he was faster than he turned out to be. It's the only rig I ever hung onto. I couldn't bear to part with it, least wise, till now. It's yours, son, I want you to have it."

"I appreciate it, J. C., but I can't accept that. It's too much. No telling what it's worth. It's the most beautiful rig I've ever seen, but I can't accept it. It's too much."

"It's all settled and done with," the sheriff said, pushing the offered gun rig away. "Strap it on and let's see how she fits."

Reluctantly, Matt slung the belt around his waist and buckled it in place. He adjusted it for height so the butt of the pistol hung just above the natural level of his relaxed hand. He buckled the leg strap to his right leg and stood up straight. The rig fit perfectly, like it was custom made just for him.

"The truth of the matter is, son, it seems to me you've been dealt some mighty poor hands in your short life. Near as I can tell, you've done the best you could do with the hands you was dealt.

"These are might hard men you're setting out after, Matt. I wish I could go with you, but at my age, I'd be more harm than help. Thought maybe I could help by sharing a few things it took me my whole life to learn.

"Most of my life I've made my living, such as it was, dealing with the likes of Trotter and his bunch. I've been up and down the trail a time or two, son. I've seen some mighty bad men. . .and some that just thought they was bad. More'n a few times I've faced men that were faster than me, but they're in boot hill. I'm still alive and kicking because I've learned some things.

"First thing I learned is that most gunfights are either won or lost before anybody ever pulls a pistol. What most don't know and don't live long enough to find out, is that a man's mind has more to do with winning or losing than how fast he is with a gun.

"Now don't get me wrong, son, a man's got to be quick and he's got to be able to hit what he's shooting at or he won't live long enough to learn the rest of it."

Matt stood, entranced at what the old lawman was sharing with him. He listened intently, committing every word to memory.

"Over the years," the sheriff said, "I practiced as hard on working on a man's mind as I did drawing and firing my pistol."

"I don't understand, J. C.," Matt said. "What do you mean when you talk about working on his mind?"

"Most times, a man's only as good as he thinks he is. You gotta do and say things to cause him to start to wonder if he can really beat you. You gotta plant a seed of doubt in his mind. You gotta get to thinking he don't stand a Chinaman's chance in Dixie against you, then, most likely he don't.

"Fear is a powerful emotion, Matt. One of the strongest a man can have and it's awful hard to hide. You can hear it in his voice; it will show up in his movements, but most of all, you can see it in his eyes.

"Sounds funny I guess, but a man's like a dog in a lot of ways. Take a dog when it's young, grab him around the throat with both hands and lift him high over your head. Stare him right in the eyes until he looks away. Right then and there you become his master. He's submitted to you. From then on he 's obey you.

"Practice what I call the death stare. Don't just look a man in the eyes, stare him down until he breaks eye contact by either blinking or looking away. Spend time staring without blinking your eyes. At a bush, a leaf, anything. At first it will burn your eyes. After awhile, you will be able to stare for long periods with blinking your eyes. A good gun fighter can kill you in the time it takes to blink your eyes.

"Watch your opponent for signs of fear. A quick sideways glance. A drop of sweat on his forehead. Licking his lips or wiping his hand on his britches leg. All these are signs that fear is setting in. Never take your eyes away from his. A man's eyes will tell you when he's about to draw.

"When you have to shoot a man, shoot to kill. A wounded man can still kill you; dead men don't shoot back. The only reason to draw a gun is to kill him before he kills you. Never, never, never, shoot him just once. Most times one shot won't kill a man. Just look at your own experience, you were shot three times and here you are fixing to go after the ones that done it.

"When you shoot a man, hit him right here," the one they called the town tamer told him, pounding his chest with his fist. "Would you just listen to me, going on and on. Go ahead, son, shuck it a time or two so you can get the feel of it."

"What's the grease on the holster for?" Matt asked.

"That's beef tallow," the sheriff told him. "Most gunfighters grease down their holsters to cut down on the drag. The friction of the metal gun coming out of the leather holster creates a drag. Just that split second could make the difference between living and dying."

Matt spread his legs apart to a comfortable position and dropped into the familiar gunfighter's stance he had learned when he was just a kid of fourteen and which he had practiced countless hours since. Knees slightly bent, shoulders square, eyes straight ahead, his hand hanging relaxed just below the handle of the pistol.

For a moment he stood motionless, as if frozen in place. Then, in a blur of motion, faster than the eye could follow, the pistol seemed to leap from its holster into the hand that flashed by on its lightning journey upward and outward. Like the deadly rattler from which the pistol drew its name, its mouth struck at the air in front of Matt, ready to spew its deadly venom.

"Holy Christ!" the lawman shouted, his mouth wide open in awe. "I ain't believing what I just saw. Do that again, son. I've got to see that again."

Matt spun the pistol back into its holster. Once again he assumed the position and repeated the draw again and again, each time faster than the time before. J. C. stood speechless, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Son, I've seen some mighty fast guns in my time. There was a time I thought I was pretty salty myself, but I'm telling you like it is, I've never in all my born days seen a man that quick with a pistol. Either you had an awful good teacher, or you were blessed with more natural ability than any man I've ever seen. I'm guessing it's some of both. Where'd you learn to draw like that?"

"After I escaped from the Apaches when I was fourteen," Matt explained, "I signed on with a cattle drive pushing a herd of longhorns up to Wichita. The ramrod of that outfit was a man named Chance Longley. They said he was the fastest gun in Texas. I set in on him to teach me how to use a gun. I reckon he took a liking to me or something, anyway, he finally gave in and agreed every day for three months we rode off away from the herd and practiced. Over the years, when I could, I just kept at it."

"Well, if that don't beat all," the big sheriff said, leaning back against the old worn out desk. "That shore explains a whole lot. So happens I know Longley.

He's a fellow with a lot of bark on him. I seen him take on three pretty salty hombres down in Abilene, Texas a few years back. He left all three lying in the street staring up at the sky and dying of lead poisoning.

"Longley's good, no doubt about it, maybe one of the best, but I'm telling you, kid, he never seen the day he could get his pistol out as quick as you. You're maybe the fastest I ever saw."

Sauntering over to an old cabinet, the sheriff pulled open a screaky drawer and lifted out the scariest looking contraption Matt had ever seen.

"What in tar-nation is that?" he asked.

"I call it the Widow-maker, the lawman said proudly. "I thought it up myself. Had a gunsmith friend of mine down in Brownsville make it up for me. She's a twelve gauge double barrel that's sawed off to thirteen inches. She' s got an oversized pistol grip and its special rigged with only one trigger that fires both barrels at the same time.

"It throws a twelve foot pattern at about ten yards. This baby will blow a hole in the side of a barn that you could drive a team and wagon through. It 's mounted permanently by a swivel to a double thick scabbard with the front cut away. You don't even draw it. You just push down on the handle. That swings the nose of this Jessie up level. Then all you got to do is touch that trigger and hold on, because she'll shore scoot you back a step or two.

"Old Widow-maker here has saved my bacon more'n a few times. She's got a way of evening up the odds, if you know what I mean. With what you're setting out to do, I figure she might come in handy from time to time."

"I don't hardly know what to say, J. C.," Matt told his friend, strapping the weapon on his left hip, "except thanks."

They left the sheriff's office and walked across the street to the Waldron Bank. They were greeted warmly by Mr. Wilkerson, the bank president.

"I'm very sorry to hear about your family, Mr. Henry," the banker said, as they seated themselves in front of his desk. "Terrible tragedy, simply terrible. I certainly trust the authorities will be able to apprehend those responsible and bring them to justice."

Sheriff Holderfield signed the necessary paperwork for payment of the reward and the banker handed Matt an envelope. He accepted the envelope and peered inside. For a long moment he stared speechless. Slowly, he fanned his thumb across the edges of the bills. He had never even seen that much money at one time.

"Thanks, Mr. Wilkerson. I'd like to pay off that little loan we had on the farm. Two hundred-fifty dollars, I think it is."

"I believe that's correct, the banker said, fingering through a file and pulling out a paper. "Yes, here it is, two hundred-fifty dollars. You have a nice little place down there in the valley. Have you ever considered expanding? I've made the decision to liquidate some of my holdings along the Fourche River valley. I have some very desirable land that adjoins your place."

"Just out of curiosity, how much land are you talking about?" Matt asked.

"Oh, I'd have to check my records to be sure. At one time I held fifteen thousand acres in the valley. Of course, I've sold off a few pieces. Off hand, I'd say I still have twelve thousand acres or so, maybe more."

"I didn't know there was that much land in the Fourche valley." the sheriff said.

"Oh, there's much more than that," the banker said. "The government is opening up another five thousand acres further down the valley for homesteading. That's one of the reasons I've decided to liquidate my holdings. It's hard to sell land when the government is giving it away."

"Well, I appreciate the offer, Mr. Wilkerson," Matt said. "But I'm afraid I wouldn't be a very good prospect for you. I've got about all I can say grace over right now. If you'll just sign the release on our mortgage."

"Certainly," the banker said, signing the paper and handing it to Matt.

"Thanks, Mr. Wilkerson," Matt said, standing and shaking hands with the banker. "If I come into a bunch of money I might be back to see you."

"When are you leaving, Matt?" J. C. asked as he and Matt walked up the street together.

"Just as soon as I can settle up some things. I want to pay the doc and I owe the café for all my meals while I was laid up. I'm gonna try to sell my team of mules to the holster at the livery, then I've got to pick up some trail supplies and settle up with Mr. And Mrs. Jamieson down at the store. Lordy, Lordy, by the time I get out of town I'll be as broke as when I came in."

"Ain't it the truth," the sheriff said. Seems like my money runs out before the month does. Be sure to stop by before you ride out."

"You can depend on it," Matt said over his shoulder as he headed toward doc's house.

He paid the old Doc Monroe double what he said he owed, then went by the livery where he sold his team of mules for a fair price and bought a packsaddle. He had it in mind to use his little pinto for a packhorse.

After settling up with the lady that owned the café, he headed for Jamieson's general store. It felt good to be up and around. His wounds were mostly healed up and no longer hurt when he moved.

"How you feeling, Mr. Henry?" Mrs. Jamieson asked cheerfully, as Matt pushed through the front door.

"I'm feeling tolerably well, thanks," Matt told the nice storekeeper's wife. "I need to settle up my bill for these clothes Molly picked up for me and I'm gonna need some trail supplies too."

"What kind of supplies will you be needing?"

"Most everything I reckon. The sheriff tells me those fellows didn't leave nothing at the house that's fit for anything. I'll need a coffeepot, a skillet and a pan for beans. I'll need a couple of tin plates and cups for coffee and something to eat with. Shucks, Ma'am, you likely know more what I'll need than I do, would you mind just picking out what all I'll need and I'd be obliged."

"Sounds like you're leaving the country," Jacob Jamieson said, coming in from the back and overhearing what Matt said, "I sure hope not, we need more folks like you around these parts."

"No, sir. I'll be back. I'm just going after the ones that murdered my family."

"The sheriff said as much. Well, I sure wish you success. It was an awful thing they done. We sure are sorry."

"Thanks. What have you got in rifles?" Matt asked.

"Just got a new shipment of the latest model Henry. It's a big improvement over the older model. Let me show you."

Walking over to the wall rack, the storekeeper took down a shiny new rifle, worked the lever and handed it to Matt.

"That's the improved Henry, model .44-40," Mr. Jamieson told him. "It holds fifteen shells in the magazine and has the smoothest lever action of any gun on the market."

"How much you asking for one of these?"

"They're forty-five dollars and worth every penny."

"I'll take it and I'll need a couple boxes of shells too."

The storekeeper's wife was busy gathering up supplies and piling them in a stack on the counter. The pile was getting mighty high. He began to wonder if it had been a good idea to let her pick out what all he needed. He could make do with less.

"Mrs. Jamieson," Matt said. "I've been thinking I'd like to do something nice for Molly. She's been so good to me and all. Don't know how I could have made it the past couple of weeks without her help. I was thinking maybe you might know somebody I could hire to make her a pretty dress. Do you reckon she'd like that?"

"Oh, she would love it. I just got a brand new shipment of pretty calico, maybe you'd like to pick out something and I could sew it up for you."

"Ma'am, I'm ashamed to say, I'm not much when it comes to picking out clothes. Wonder if you'd mind picking out something you think she'd like?"

"I'd be happy to. There won't be any charge for sewing it though, I'll be glad to do it. Molly's a special young girl."

"Yes, ma'am, she sure is. I'd be obliged if you'd take care of that for me."

After he had paid his bill and told them he'd be back shortly with his packhorse, he strode down the dusty street toward the livery. The sheriff came out of his office, spotted him and hurried to meet him.

"Glad I caught you, Matt. I just got a telegram they sent out to all the county sheriff's. Trotter's gang hit the Butterfield stage down near Tyler, Texas just a couple of days ago. They shot the driver and murdered a whole family that was on board. I thought you'd want to know."

"Thanks, J. C., That will give me a place to start anyhow. Soon as I load my supplies I'll be pulling out."

"The sheriff in Tyler is named Lassiter. Come on, I'll help you load that pack."

"Where's Molly?" Matt asked, as he, J. C. and Mr. Jamieson finished loading and tying down his supplies on the pinto.

"I tried my best to get her to come and tell you good-bye, but you know how she is. She said she couldn't bear to see you go. She'll be okay though."

"That's okay, I understand." Matt said. "Well, adios, partner. Thanks again for all you've done. I won't be forgetting what I owe you."

"I ain't saying good-bye, son, just so long for awhile." the big lawman choked out.

Their big hands clasped, their eyes met and locked--and held for a long moment. Nothing more needed to be said as their look made clear their mutual feeling for each other.

Matt gathered the lead rope for his packhorse, toed a stirrup and swung into the saddle. His black stallion pranced in place and tossed its big head, seemingly anxious to get on the trail.

J. C. leaned against a hitching rail, his gaze intent on his boot toe scraping a line in the dust. Was that a tear Matt saw the sheriff swipe from his eyes? Mr. and Mrs. Jamieson stood side by side on the boardwalk. Down the street, Matt saw the old Doc pause to wave good-bye before stepping into his little black buggy. All along the street, folks stopped what they were doing to watch the rider as he rode slowly down the street. Little puffs of dust rose from the stallion's hooves as he high-stepped sideways. The calm little pinto followed obediently along behind.

Matt rode slowly and watched closely as he passed J. C. and Molly's little house, hoping his young friend would change her mind, but understood when she didn't.

He was well past her house when he heard a door slam and footsteps running. Twisting in his saddle, he saw Molly, her long pigtails flying in the breeze as she ran down the street after him.

Reining up, he reached down and gathered the sobbing girl into his arms, lifting her up onto the saddle in front of him.

"Don't cry, Little Bit, I'll be back before you can shake a stick, then you can make me another of those apple pies."

"Please. . .don't. . .go!" she choked out. "I'm afraid if you go. . .I might not ever see you again. . .I don't want you to go."

I know, honey," he told her, swallowing down a big lump in his throat. "This is something I've got to do for my wife and little boy. I want you to promise me something, okay? I want you to take good care of J. C. for me while I'm gone. I've grown mighty fond of both of you. Will you do that for me?"

"I promise," she said, moving a finger across her chest, "and cross my heart. But you've got to promise to come back to us. Is it a deal?"

"It's a deal," he told her as he kissed her freckled cheek and set her down onto the street. As he turned his horse and rode away, he could hear her beautiful, quivering voice calling out behind him.

"I love you, Matt Henry! . . .I love you, Matt Henry! . . .I love you, Matt Henry!"

Gradually, the tiny voice faded into the distance from his hearing, but would never fade from the memory of his heart. It would be lodged there forever. He clamped his jaw, swiped a tear away with the back of a gloved hand and set his face toward the task that lay before him.

It had been quite a spell since he had spent any time on his horse. The animal tossed its head and pulled at the reins, aching to run. Matt's mind went back to the first time he had seen the big, black stallion. It was in the hills of Arizona, only days after his release from Yuma Territorial Prison. Matt had been coaxing along the broken down nag he had bought with the ten dollars he had been given on release, going nowhere and taking his time doing it.

The sight took his breath away. Standing on the top of a butte, keeping a close eye on its herd of mares in the valley below stood the most beautiful horse Matt had ever laid eyes upon. A stiff breeze lifted its long manes.

The afternoon sun bounced off the coal black coat and set it aflame, casting a golden aura around the big stallion. He knew right then and there, he had to have that horse.

It had taken two months of hard work to capture the stallion and another month of even harder work breaking him to ride, but the reward had been well worth the effort. The big stallion was the envy of every man that saw it.

* * *

The sun was well past noon-high when he topped a pine-covered hill overlooking their little farmhouse in the distant river valley. Reigning up, he swallowed down a big lump and gazed for a long minute at the place that held so many happy memories.

Grassy pastures where horses should be grazing peacefully, lay empty. Their chimney, which should have been trailing lazy plumes of puffy smoke, sending signals of life and activity and a welcoming invitation to all, stood lifeless and silent and cold.

Matt wiped an eye with the back of a gloved hand and kneed his mount forward to a reunion with hurtful memories that flashed to the forefront of his troubled mind.

Riding slowly into the yard, a sadness overwhelmed him. Except for the smashed front door, one would never have guessed the tragic things that happened here.

A soft squeaking sound drew his attention. A gentle breeze pushed an empty tree swing in the big oak tree back and forth, as if lonely for the happy little sandy haired boy that had spent so many hours in it.

For long minutes he sat motionless in the saddle. He stared off into the sky at nothing. Midnight stood quietly, unusual for the big stallion, as if he somehow sensed his master was waging a battle within himself. A battle whether to turn and ride away, sparing himself the hurt that would surely come with going inside, or from somewhere deep within, finding the strength to go inside.

Setting his strong jaw in grim determination, he swung resolutely from the saddle, ground hitched his horse and climbed the three steps onto the porch. He hesitated for only an instant , again fighting off the urge to run away, before stepping through the open door.

An avalanche of painful memories swept over him, flooding his mind, reliving the events all over again. He staggered backwards under the weight of the hurt. His back pressed against the wall.

In his mind the room was again full of men, ugly men, evil men. A surprised look on their faces quickly turned to hatred at Matt's sudden entry. The tangled web of events had played out in mere seconds, but the results of which would last forever.

His gaze swept the room. What he saw was a picture of destruction. Just as J. C. had said, what they hadn't taken, they had destroyed. The table smashed, chairs in broken pieces, Amelia's china cabinet which had held her precious dishes, overturned, its contents broken and scattered about the cluttered room. Everything they had worked so hard for was gone.

The outlaws had taken everything of value, unless. . .unless they might have overlooked the loose rock in the fireplace behind which Amelia had squirreled away their meager savings. His gaze swung toward the fireplace, but in doing so, fell upon the spot he had purposely avoided.

A large, brownish stain still discolored the wooden floor where she had lain. A sharp pain shot through him like a bullet and found lodging in his heart. His strength drained from him as he slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, his head buried in his hands, weeping uncontrollably.

* * *

Sometime later he swiped at his face with a sleeve, wiping away the wetness left by tears stored up over a lifetime of hurt. Even with all he had been through in his life, he hadn't allowed himself to cry since he was six years old. Living with the Apache, he had learned to hold his emotions in check. In their view, crying was for squaws and babies.

He struggled to pull himself to his feet and on shaky legs, made his way over to the fireplace. Unbelievably, the thieves had somehow overlooked the loose rock. Lifting it out, he retrieved the small leather pouch. He knew without looking it contained exactly eighty-two, hard saved dollars, their life saving. Amelia had called it their emergency saving.

Turning on his heels, his eyes fixed straight ahead, he strode from the room.

As he stepped from the porch, he paused and picked two handfuls of flowers from Amelia's little flower bed she had been so proud of. Then, like a condemned man on his way to the gallows, he made his way up the small hill behind their house.

A small wooden cross stood at the head of each grave. The loose dirt still looked fresh and rounded to a small mound. Hat in hand, he dropped to one knee and gently placed a bouquet on each grave.

His mind flooded with a thousand memories. Memories of life--and love-- and laughter. Memories of happy times and quiet times and times of closeness like he had never known before. Memories of dreams shared, of plans made, of small achievements celebrated.

Kneeling there, he realized, perhaps for the first time, these were the moments he must hold on to. He must cherish the good times and live in spite of the bad. Placing one hand on each of the graves, he renewed his promise to them. He would find those responsible and see that they were brought to justice.

Rising, he jammed his hat onto his head and set his jaw in grim determination. Without looking back, he strode quickly down the hill to his waiting horses, swung into the saddle and pointed the big stallion's nose down-river.

© 2001 Dusty Rhodes - all rights reserved

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Shiloh
by
Dusty Rhodes

CHAPTER I

 

APRIL 8, 1865

Camp Douglas Prisoner of War Camp
near Chicago, Illinois -- Known as the
"Death Camp."

The bleeding finally stopped. Shiloh winced and sucked a draft of air through clenched teeth. Searing pain knifed through him like a red-hot poker. He rolled his head and lifted it off the bare, slat-board bunk. His face screwed up into a grimace as he stared in horror at the gaping wound on his left forearm. White bone lay exposed through an opening two inches wide that started just below his elbow and angled down to near his wrist.

"That's a nasty cut," the old Confederate field doctor said, lowering his balding head to peer over the tiny spectacles that sat on the very tip of a bulbous nose. "I'm gonna have to sew that arm up."

Shiloh didn't answer. He resigned himself to what was about to happen and watched the doctor as he withdrew a long curved needle, a spool of black thread, and a half-filled bottle of whiskey from a worn black doctoring bag.

After threading the needle with a shaky hand, the doc doused Shiloh's cut with the golden liquid before tipping the bottle to his lips and taking a long swallow.

"I got nothing to give you, Son," Doc Williams told him. "This ain't gonna be easy but it's got to be done. I can spare a swig or two from my bottle if you like. It might dull the hurt some."

"Thanks anyway," Shiloh said. "Don't see how it could hurt much worse than it already does. Go on and get it over and done with."

Shiloh watched the old doctor stare at the wound over his glasses for a long minute before shaking his head and tightening the tourniquet another twist. Doc poured the open cut full of whiskey. White-hot fire shot up his arm in a paroxysm of pain.

Each stroke of the needle sent a stab of pain racing through him like a lightening bolt, jarring him to the very core of his being. To separate his mind from the hurt, Shiloh tried to think about something else.

He watched the doctor as he worked. The man seemed tired. It was no wonder.

He worked night and day trying to keep the three hundred or so Confederate prisoners of war alive.

A thousand Confederate prisoners were interned in the camp before last winter. Three hundred eighty-seven had been buried in shallow graves hacked from the frozen ground during the month of January alone. Without even a blanket, most had simply frozen to death.

The whole camp knew that the Union commander, Colonel Mattox, regularly stole money that was supposed to be used for food and blankets and medicine for the prisoners; it was an open secret.

The Union called this place Camp Douglas Prisoner of War Camp. The prisoners called it, 'The Death Camp'.

Shiloh laid his head back on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. He bit back the excruciating pain and swallowed screams that welled up in his throat each time the doctor pierced his skin with the shiny needle. As the old doc worked, he mumbled a steady stream of gibberish that Shiloh couldn't understand.

"If you're gonna talk, I wish you'd do it so a man could understand what you're saying," Shiloh mumbled through clenched teeth.

"I said, it's pure-de barbaric. Making two men fight each other like that. Like . . . like some kind of gladiators of something. When this war's over, you can bet your britches I'm gonna see the colonel's superiors hear about what went on in this place."

Shiloh eyed the doctor with an appreciative stare. He had heard it said the doc was from Arkansas somewhere around Fort Smith. Someone that had known him before the war said the doc gave up a successful practice to join up and fight for what he believed in. The man was barely beyond middle-aged, but looked much older. War did that to a man.

His thinning gray hair brushed straight back failed to hide balding spots.

Deep turkey tracks lined bloodshot eyes in a reddish, puffy face. Heavy bags hung loose and flabby under the tiny spectacles and spoke of too many nights with too little sleep.

"You don't really think he's gonna let anybody walk out of here alive to tell anything do you?" Shiloh asked.

"You're lucky this fellow didn't kill you. Who was he? I never did hear his name."

"Jackson. His name was Tom Jackson. He was with the second infantry of Kentucky. He was just an overgrown kid trying to get home and desperate enough to try anything. I don't blame him none. Can't say I wouldn't do the same it they promised I could walk out free as a bird if I won."

"It's down right barbaric," the doc said, tying off the last stitch and pouring what was left from the bottle over the wound. "That bayonet could have opened up your belly instead of your arm. How many is it now?"

"Six," Shiloh replied sadly. "The worse part of it is, even if any of them had killed me, the Colonel wouldn't have let them walk out of here alive. That big sergeant of his would have shot 'em in the back before they got a mile down the road."

"How long you been in here, son?"

"I was captured in the fall of '63; so let's see, this is early April. I guess it's going on a year and a half now. I plumb lost track. Like I say, it don't make no difference, none of us will get out of here alive anyway."

"Why's the colonel so all-fired set on seeing you dead? Never seen a man hate so hard."

"It all goes back to the battle of Shiloh in April of '62. The Colonel had over a thousand Union soldiers under his command. They were dug in at a place called the 'Hornet's Nest.' They had beat back two Confederate charges before General Johnson ordered us to make an all out assault on the Union's position.

"I had just received a battlefield promotion to Captain of the First Cavalry. There wasn't much left of the company. It had a little over a hundred regulars and another fifty misfits from other outfits.

"I'll never know why they picked my company to spearhead the attack because the general himself was killed later that same day. It was a suicide mission from the start. None of us should have survived.

"My horse was shot out from under me before we got halfway up the hill. I managed to jump free and grab a rifle with a bayonet on it from a fallen soldier and led my men in a bayonet charge. I wasn't trying to be no hero or nothing, I just didn't know nothing else to do.

"I tell you, Doc, it was something to see, though. We went charging up that hill, as hard as we could run, right into a hail of bullets, screaming at the top of our lungs like a bunch of wild Indians. We must have put the fear of God in them or something. The colonel's blue-bellies threw down their weapons and lit out. They left their cannons and everything. They just lit a shuck.

"I heard later the colonel was court-martialed for cowardice in the face of the enemy. It was only after I was captured and sent here, that I discovered he had been demoted and put in charge of this prisoner of war camp."

"So he blames you for his court-marshal and demotion," the doc said, leaning back in the straight-backed chair and shaking his head.

"I reckon so."

"So that's why he has that sergeant of his, the one they call the 'Bear', set up these 'Battle of the Bayonets.' He wants to see you die by the same weapon you used to defeat him. Is that when you picked up the nickname Shiloh?"

"Yeah, my real name is Nathan Whittington. I reckon for some folks that's just too much to get out all in one breath, so everybody just took to calling me Shiloh."

"Well," the doc said, picking up his black bag and standing, "that's about all I can do for that arm right now. You best keep it still for awhile so you don't tear it open again. I'll look at it again in a day or two. It ain' t gonna be much use to you for quite a spell. I'll see if I can scrounge up something to use for a sling. The less you move it around the quicker it's gonna heal."

"Thanks Doc, I'm obliged to you," Shiloh called out as he limped out the door on his gimpy leg.

Shiloh lay on his bunk, drew a long, shaky breath and stared at the ceiling, lost in his own swirling thoughts. When would all the killing stop? He had already seen enough in his twenty years to last him a lifetime.

After awhile he heard the supper bell ring. He'd skip supper, he decided.

He couldn't bring himself to use what little energy he had left to walk the hundred yards or so to the mess hall. Besides, the slop they called food wasn't worth the effort.

He rolled to his side and felt his leg touch metal. Reaching his right hand, his fingers closed on the cold steel of a bayonet. It was Tom Jackson' s bayonet-the man he had just killed.

Shiloh lifted it before his eyes, and slowly turned it. He stared at it for a long few minutes. Its edges were honed to razor sharpness. The point had been ground down until it was needle sharp.

The last rays of a setting sun filtered through the open door and skipped off the shiny metal, shooting streaks of light bouncing off the walls of the prisoners' barracks.

Traces of Shiloh's own blood still clung to the evil weapon. Another man had died. A good man. A man with dreams and hopes and plans for a future and maybe a ma and pa waiting back home for their son to return from war. Shiloh 's heart hurt. A tear seeped from the corner of his pale green eyes and slowly traced a wet trail down his cheeks.

The sound of footsteps jerked his mind back to the present. He quickly sat upright and hurriedly slid a small wooden box from underneath his bunk.

Lifting the lid, he added the bayonet to the five others inside.

"How come you weren't at supper?" Lester Posey asked as he tromped through the door. "Some of us was worried sick about you."

Lester was a long and lanky, sandy haired boy from Tennessee, just a few mountains over from Shiloh's own home. His ruddy complexion and peach-fuzz whiskers gave him a boyish look though he was a year older than Shiloh.

Lester had lost his left arm at the second battle of Bull Run, had been captured, and ended up in this hell-hole. He was one of only a few fellow prisoners Shiloh could count as a friend. Most were afraid to have anything to do with him. They were afraid of incurring the wrath of the sergeant or of being selected as Shiloh's next opponent.

"Didn't figure it'd be worth the walk," Shiloh told his friend.

"It weren't," Lester said, flashing a grin that took up most of his face.

"Boy, you shore whipped that old boy good today. Wish I could fight like that. I thought he had you a time or two, especially when he laid your arm open. You was bleeding like a stuck hog. How is it? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. The doc sewed it up. But I'd rather not talk about it if it's all the same to you."

"Good enough for him if you ask me. Good-bye and good riddance to bad rubbish. A man that would go against . . ."

"Lester," Shiloh interrupted harshly.

"Okay-okay, dag nab it. He just shouldn't of done it and he got what he had coming to him and that's all I'm gonna say about it."

The footsteps of several men approaching the barracks halted their conversation. Shiloh swung a glance at the door, expecting to see some of his fellow prisoners returning from supper; it wasn't.

The massive hulk of the sergeant of the guard filled the doorway, blocking out the last remnants of a dimming twilight from outside. He was a thick-set giant of a man. Only slightly shorter than Shiloh's own six foot-four inches but the sergeant would tip the scales at well over three hundred pounds.

His huge head seemed to cling deep-seated on his massive shoulders with no neck in between. Ham-like arms stretched the sleeves of the Union jacket that carried dirty sergeant stripes. Dark, beady eyes peered menacingly from under a heavily bearded face and fixed directly on Shiloh.

The big man shuffled into the barracks and headed toward Shiloh's bunk. As always, he was accompanied by a squad of heavily armed guards. When he spoke it sounded like an angry bullfrog croaking on a quiet summer night.

"You all healed up, Reb?" he asked, a cruel laugh spewing from his throat.

Shiloh didn't bother answering. Lester backed up against the plank wall, trying hard to make himself invisible.

"Stand up when I'm talking to you!" the man roared.

Shiloh rolled his head sideways and sliced his gaze to lock eyes with the giant. For a long minute they glared at each other, competing in a silent combat of wills, neither seemingly willing to be the first to look away.

Slowly, with no small difficulty, Shiloh swung his legs to the floor and pulled himself to his full height before slouching defiantly before the sergeant.

"I got some news for you," the big man growled. "You got another fight tomorrow. Thought you'd want to know since it'll be your last one. This one ain't gonna be no pushover like the others. He come in yesterday with the last bunch of prisoners. His name is Boone Le Feve. He's a Cajun from New Orleans. Supposed to be some kind of expert at knife fighting I hear tell."

"Shiloh's in no shape to fight again this quick," Lester spoke up, his voice quivering with fear. "Can't you see his arm is cut half off?"

"Looks fit to me," the sergeant bellowed, accompanied by an evil laugh. Turning on his heels he wobbled out the door, calling over his shoulder, "You sleep good now, Reb."

Morning came slow. Shiloh hadn't slept a wink all night; he didn't most nights. When he did it was restless sleep--his mind haunted by the familiar nightmare that returned again and again. It was always the same. A long line of those who had died by his hand materialized slowly from the fog of his memory. In the thickest part of the night they returned, as he knew they would; as they did each night, to march in single file through his mind, to stare through sightless, condemning eyes.

Once they had been good men, and now they were dead. Once they had laughed, and cried, and loved, and been loved. Now they only marched silently through his memory. . .and stared at him.

Lying on his hard bunk in the inky darkness, he had re-lived his whole life all over again. It's funny what a man thinks about when he's convinced he's about to die. He thought of all the things in his life he wished he'd done and hadn't; or wished he'd done different.

He should have told his ma and pa he loved them instead of just figuring they already knew. Why hadn't he taken longer to say goodbye? If he could only see them again, he would hug his ma like he knew she liked for him to. He would shake his pa's hand and feel the strength of that work-hardened hand clasping his own. Why did I take all those things for granted?

He thought about Elizabeth Johnson; the only girl he had ever liked. He remembered her long blonde hair with the curls on the ends that bounced and lifted in the breeze when she ran. In his mind he could almost see those sky-blue eyes that seemed to sparkle all the time.

He would never forget the way she had smiled at him at the box supper at the church in Sweetwater, Tennessee. She had laughed happily when he paid the last fifty cents he had for the apple pie she had brought. They had shared it together under the big old weeping willow tree down by the creek. Those times they met under the willow tree were some of the happiest memories of his life. They had made the spot their own special place. Those were good times-happy times.

He well remembered the day he left to join the cavalry; he had ridden by the Johnson place to tell Elizabeth good-bye. He had never seen her look more beautiful. She had stretched high on her tiptoes to kiss him. The memory of the softness of her body when she brushed against him still tantalized him. He would never forget how she had yielded when he took her in his arms and surrounded her with a warm embrace. The picture in his mind of her tears as he mounted and rode away still hurt his heart.

She was the only girl he had ever kissed. Her lips tasted sweet, like a ripe strawberry. He had always kinda figured on marrying her someday. But all that was gone now; all gone.

A Cajun, the sergeant had said. What was his name? Boone? Yes, Boone LeFeve. Shiloh knew he would be no match for a professional knife fighter even if his arm were well, much less now. The others he had fought had known no more about knife fighting than he did. He had been lucky. But an experienced knife fighter? Shiloh knew he didn't have a prayer.

He listened to the other prisoners as they snored. Lester was the loudest of all. His bunk was right next to Shiloh's. He liked Lester. He was his best friend. Shiloh had hoped after the war they could be neighbors or something. Lester got on his nerves sometimes, but he was an okay guy.

The night was long and slow to die. Shiloh turned his head to stare through the door at the first blush of dawn. A new day was being born. Most likely my last. Well, if a man's got to die, guess one day's as good as another.

Something gets born. Something dies. That's the way of it I guess. Well, he'd do what he had done with everything else in his life, he decided. He'd do his best. That was all a man could do.

The other prisoners avoided looking at him as they rousted out and tromped past his bunk on their way to breakfast. Again, he saw no point in making the effort. He never had learned to stomach watery grits and tasteless, weevil-infested corn-bread anyway, especially for breakfast.

"I'll try to slip you out a piece of pone if I can," Lester said, staring at him with a sad puppy-dog look, like he was saying a last good-bye or something.

"Don't bother," Shiloh told him. "I'm not much hungry anyway."

Doc Williams limped in on his stiff leg just as Lester was leaving. The doc carried his little black bag in one hand and a large white rag in the other.

"How's that arm this morning?"

"It hurt all night."

"I don't wonder, that's a bad cut. Let me take a look at it."

The doc pulled a straight-backed chair over close to Shiloh's bunk and lifted the wounded arm. For a long minute he stared at it. Without a word he snapped open his bag and took out a tin of foul smelling salve. He smeared the stuff over the wound and wrapped the arm tightly with a strip he tore off the big cloth.

"I heard about the fight today," the doc said sadly. "Wish there was something I could do. You ain't in no shape to fight."

"I'm obliged for what you've done, Doc."

"Here, let me tie this cloth around your neck for a sling. At least it'll keep that arm still so it won't start bleeding again."

The old doctor adjusted the large cloth and placed Shiloh's arm inside, then paused for a long moment and stared sadly before reaching a hand to pat Shiloh on the shoulder. A tiny silver tear escaped the old man's eye and inched its way along a deep wrinkle. He turned without a word and limped out the door.

Lester burst in and hurried to Shiloh's bunk. A big grin creased his boyish face as he pulled a square of cornbread from his coat pocket and proudly handed it to his friend.

"Here, I stole this for you slicker than a whistle. You need to eat it to keep up your strength. Everybody's talking about the fight. They're saying it's at ten o'clock this morning. I saw that Cajun fellow. He looks more like an Indian than a white man. He's bragging how he's gonna make short work of you. I told him that's what the other six thought too but now all they're doing is feeding the worms. He didn't like that too much. Hey, where 'd you get the sling?"

"The doc came by and fixed it for me. Thanks for the pone."

"GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY!" Lester shouted and spun on his heels, hurrying for the door. "Seeing that sling give me an idea that might save your bacon. I'll be right back"

© 2001 Dusty Rhodes - all rights reserved

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Jedidiah Boone
by
Dusty Rhodes

CHAPTER I

 

A shrill scream pierced the early morning stillness and invaded eleven year old Elizabeth Fargo's dream world. She bolted upright to a sitting position in bed and blinked the world into focus. It must have been just a bad dream, she tried to reason, swallowing the lump of fear from her throat back down to a churning stomach.

Beside her, Rebecca whined and uncurled herself from the covers, rubbing her sleepy eyes and swiping her long golden hair from her face with the back of a small hand. Something had awoken her, too. Usually, you had to pry her five-year-old sister out of bed.

The ear-shattering blast of a gunshot interrupted her thoughts and exploded the air around them and-then another!

Elizabeth's body jerked with each shot and went cold, as terror spiraled through her. Her ears rang. Rebecca screamed and plunged into her arms, shaking uncontrollably. Elizabeth saw her little sister's eyes go wide in a chalky face, blank with horror, blurry with tears.

Elizabeth encircled her sister with shaky arms and drew her close. They clung to each other, too frightened to cry. Elizabeth's own body quivered and her heart thundered against the wall of her chest. Hot tears breached the rims of her eyes. Her chest contracted and a sob squirmed its way up the back of her throat. They waited-straining, shaking.

"What is it, Liz?" the five year old demanded, her panicky voice quivering.

"I don't . . ."

The door to their bedroom suddenly burst open, choking off the rest of Elizabeth's words.

Her eyes rounded white. What she saw sent a chill racing up her spine.

Standing in the doorway was the first Indian she had ever seen.

* * *

Winston Taylor leaned back in the comfortable upholstered chair and drew a long pull on a fat cigar. He inhaled deeply and let the excess smoke slide from his lips in a long, blue tendril that drifted lazily toward the ceiling.

His boss had listened intently as the requested report was given, then, without a word, he had stood and strode to the window. For what seemed like an interminable time, William G. Fargo stared out the window, apparently lost in thought.

Winston waited; he knew a lot about waiting. As the youngest of six brothers, it seemed he had spent half of his life waiting for one reason or another: He had waited until his older brothers ate their fill before he was allowed the meager leftovers from the supper table. He waited for their hand-me-down shoes and clothes until they were so worn out they would hardly stay on.

Even at West Point he had waited to be accepted by the snobby sons of the wealthy or high-ranking officers--it had never happened. To their way of thinking, he was just a nobody that shouldn't even have been there and they never missed an opportunity to make that crystal clear. He waited anyway, and watched, and learned. After graduating with honors and receiving his commission as a first lieutenant ??he waited some more. Then the Civil War broke out and his waiting was over. He proved himself in battle and rose steadily through the ranks to become a full colonel by war's end. At the age of thirty-eight, after serving twenty years in the military, he retired.

He had gone to work for the Wells Fargo agency shortly after his retirement. Mr. Louis McLane, the president of the agency at the time, hired him and put him in charge of the floundering stagecoach branch of the agency.