Cavannaugh: West From Appomattox

[Forty Rod]

I was dead. I lay on my back and couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel.  There was no sensation at all, but yet there seemed to be a thought:  “I am dead!  I am dead…and my head feels huge.”  I slowly tried to reason this out. If I could think, was I really dead?  Did the dead have thoughts?  Did it really matter?
     Maybe if I could see. Maybe if I concentrated I could force one eye open. If I could see, then I surely wasn’t dead. Was I? It seemed to me I saw a tiny bit of light, dark red light, and fought to get an eye open. My right hand moved slowly and uncertainly over my face, and it occurred to me that I could move my hand, and if I could move my hand then my arm must also be moving.  If I could move my hand and my arm...!!!  Sudden pain washed over me and I gasped at the intensity of it. If I could feel that much pain, then I wasn’t dead. The dead cannot possibly feel that kind of pain.
     My head began to throb heavily, there was a loud ringing sound in my ears, and a sharp, ripping pain ran from the top of my head to my left hip.  Again, I was startled by the intensity of the pain and gasped.  My right hand continued to move over my face, working at my eyes, trying to get sight restored. Just a bit of sight, I thought, to let me know I was alive and where I was. Maybe if I knew where I was, I might remember who I was and how I came to be dead.
     No, wait…I wasn’t dead. Didn’t I decide that already? My mind was refusing to focus and I had trouble trying to stay alert. Alert is alive. I wasn’t dead yet.
     My right eye finally opened with a sticky dragging of a painful eyelid, just a slit, but open. I rolled my head carefully to the right and saw the sun through a hazy overcast.   Was the sky overcast or were my eyes overcast? Rising or setting? The sun. It was close to the horizon, but I didn’t know which direction I was facing. I lay there for an eternity and watched, but the sun never seemed to move.  After eons I thought I detected some movement away from the ground….sunrise! The sun was rising and I was alive. Not far from my face was a pretty blue flower, beautiful flower, growing through a crack in the rocky ground. I wanted to reach out and touch the flower, to touch something else that was alive, something beautiful. This thought was in my mind as I passed out again.
     When I came to again, I went back to working to get my eyes open. I was as thirsty as I had ever been and my ears still rang.  The pain was something to be fought against, to tolerate, to be borne, but it distracted me from thinking clearly.  After a bit I could see somewhat better. It was then that I noticed that my hand was covered in blood, some dark red and caked, some more that was brighter and still wet. I worked that over in my sluggish mind. Whose blood was it? Was it mine? Yes! Mine. My blood!. Why was I bleeding? Had I been shot? OH MY GOD, I’D BEEN SHOT! I snapped to a new level of alertness, not much, but somewhat more than I had been seconds before. I tried to sit up. If I’d been shot, then the men who had shot me might still be out there someplace and could come back at any moment. They may be sneaking up on me at this very moment. I had to move NOW!
     I passed out again.
     When I woke up the sun was higher and I decided that the danger was past. I’d been out long enough that anyone still trying to kill me would have been able to walk right up to me an finish me off with a stick. My head and body still hurt, but I was able to manage the pain a bit better. I tried again to sit up, but my legs were not working. Struggling around until I could see down toward my legs showed me my horse lying dead across my thighs. Damn. That was the best horse I’d ever owned. This was no place to be afoot and wounded. Or maybe it was. I wasn’t thinking very well and I still had no idea where I was. Trying to free my legs exhausted me and the thirst finally demanded some action on my part.  I looked around for my canteen. I soon found it, partially under the horse, smashed flat and its soldered seams split. Useless.
     I pulled again and again until I finally felt one leg slip a bit. Within a few minutes I had it free and used it to push against the horse to help free the other. It seemed to take hours to get both legs from under the horse, but a look at the sun showed it had only been an hour, maybe less. I squirmed around to see where I was. Moving hurt like the very devil, but I needed to get my bearings. Finally rolling onto my belly I was able to push myself up and gain my knees so I could see all around. Dizziness threatened to put me out again, but I fought against unconsciousness and nausea.  I was on a small hill not far from a stand of trees, cottonwoods, I thought. Just below me I saw the shine of water through the tall, dry grass and I started to crawl that direction, when I thought of my weapons. I checked.  My guns were gone and so was my knife. I reached for my belt pouch and almost screamed from the pain, but it, too, was gone, and along with it my powder and ball, cap and matches, and other small essentials. That meant that I had no weapons of any kind, no way to start a fire, and no way to carry water. I couldn’t walk and could barely crawl; I had lost blood, and may have a concussion and other damage. I didn’t know how many times I had been shot, nor how serious my wounds were, but I was a bloody awful mess.
     And I hurt all over.
     I hurt a lot!
     I only managed a few yards before I faded out again.

[Forty Rod]

 It took me until mid-afternoon to gain the little creek.  I scooped the cool water into my mouth and swallowed deeply, only to retch violently.  As I rinsed my mouth afterward I reflected on the fact that any dried out animal will founder on too much water, too quickly and forced my self to take small sips until my body accepted this marvelous nectar.  I carefully washed my face and hands, clearing away dried blood and a bucketful of dirt, eventually getting both eyes open.  The pain was still severe, but I had grown accustomed to it in a strange, detached way.  My mind was clearing, too and the roaring in my ears was less than it been.
     I surveyed my injuries.  My scalp was torn and sore, but aside from the obvious concussion, didn’t seem too bad.  I couldn’t find any broken bone there and the bullet hadn’t penetrated my skull.  Bullet?  Had I been shot in the head?  How did I know that?  Yes!  The red- headed man…the thought went away before I could get a grip on it.
     I had a bullet hole in my upper left arm, but it, too, had not broken any bone.  I tore my shirt and bandaged these wounds after carefully washing them, noting that the bleeding had stopped in both.  The worst was a long, jagged tear in my back.  It ran from just to left of my left kidney up and across to the center of my back, a hand span below the nape of my neck.  I couldn’t reach it and couldn’t see how much damage had been done.  I finally took a long piece of the shirt and wet it.  I leaned to my left and draped it over my right shoulder, caught it after several tries with my left hand, and scrubbed the wound as well as I could.  The pain nearly put me under several times, but I managed to hang on until I was done.  I washed the long piece of cloth and set it in the sun to dry to be used as a bandage later.
     I lay on my side and began to take stock of my situation.  I still couldn’t remember what had happened, where I was, or who I was.  The latter seemed of no great importance at the moment, and how I had come to be here didn’t seem to be terribly pressing right now, either.
I decided that where I was could also be postponed for a while.  My most urgent needs were to treat my wounds and find a way to survive while I worked out the rest.
     I began to gather the dry grass and to build a bed under a pair of trees nearby.  I was exhausted and hurting worse by the time I finished, and I had blacked out twice more.  I drank again and crawled onto my makeshift pallet and watched the sun go down.
     Sleeping in fits and starts I was once awakened by an animal prowling nearby, but it went away, and I drifted of once more, only to find rain soaking me.  I curled myself into a ball and finally slept again.
    I crawled out into the morning sun, washed myself the best I could at the little stream, and drank as much as I dared.  My eyes still would not focus and I hurt all over, but now I had a new enemy: hunger.  It tore at my stomach like a rat inside me.  I stood up… I STOOD UP!!!... and staggered a couple of amazed steps, then sat heavily on the damp grass.  I laughed briefly, noting that my voice was no longer the dry, rasping thing from the day before.  Within a handful of minutes I was chewing on the few grass seeds that had cured on the stem and had not fallen during the summer.  Now, how did I know it was summer?  It had been April when we left…  The thought would not come together.  We?  Who was” we”?  Where had we been?
     I began to work my way back up the slope to where my horse lay.  I didn’t recall making any decision, but found myself moving with purpose.  I stopped every few feet to rest, and to take stock of my situation.  I passed out only once.
     The horse had fallen on his right side, pinning me under his shoulder as we had fallen.  I could tell from the way we had been that I had dismounted before he fell and that he had been shot in the side of the head and twice more in the stomach in such a way that I must have been using him for a shelter.  I crawled around gathering what I could.  The people who had done this had been in a hurry.  They hadn’t taken the saddle or bridle, and had cut off the left pocket of my saddlebags when they couldn’t drag the whole thing out from under the horse.

In a very short time I had removed the bridle, picked up the remains of the canteen, and begun to dig the saddle pocket out using a stick I had picked up.  Near noon, I decided I had best get back down to my shelter.  My saddlebag had contained a small bag of dried apples, an onion, and two stale biscuits, along with a table knife, fork, and spoon.  There was a tin of percussion caps, seventy rounds of ammunition for my Henry rifle, and a sack with a piece of flint and a steel striker.  I had thirty feet of catch rope and a saddle blanket, too, and I had two clean shirts and two pair of socks.
    Putting the smaller pieces in the saddle pocket and wrapping all of my treasures in the blanket, I tied it with the reins and proceeded to tow the entire lot back down the hill.   I couldn’t walk yet, but was able to make better time crawling and was soon back under the shelter of the trees.   I picked a better spot with a more impenetrable umbrella of branches overhead, and proceeded to make a new bed of the dried prairie grass.  I’d spent many a night on just such a bed.  How did I know that?  Where had I made a bed of grass before?
     I rigged the blanket over the bed to give me some protection from the rain and laid out my belongings.  The canteen was useless as a canteen but I managed a bowl from the one side least damaged and the flatter side became a plate.  The canvas strap and cloth cover were set aside for later use.  I built a small pile of grass and sticks in a hole I dug with my trusty stick…my favorite stick… and laughed again at the though of having a “favorite stick”.  The grass had dried during the day and I found dry sticks and bark under the trees.  I hesitated before trying to build the fire.  Suppose someone should see, or smell, the little comfort I was about to create.
     I needed the fire more than the security.  It wasn’t likely the men who had attacked me would return and animals would shun the fire.  All else would have to be taken as it came.  I picked up the flint and a small bunch of dry grass in one hand, the steel striker in the other, and proceeded to reintroduce fire to the world.
   

[Forty Rod]

The third day of my rebirth dawned grey and damp.  The little fire I had started the afternoon before was still alive, thanks to my great fear that it would go out.  I felt hot and my hands shook constantly.  I allowed as this was likely due to hunger.  I managed to kill a small ground squirrel with a stick and, using the dull table knife roughly sharpened on a stone, managed to clean and skin it.  As soon as it was reasonably well cooked, I feasted on the few bites it provided.
     I had to move.  This place wasn’t going to meet my needs for more than this one last day.  I made my way back up to the hill slightly above the body of my horse.  I felt I had to go west, but I didn’t have a concrete reason.  It was only a feeling, something inside that told me that west was where I had been going when I was attacked.   My memory gave me only tiny bits of information in this regard, and I still had no idea of who I was, where I was, or any other piece of information of any value.
     I looked to the west and found a likely landmark to aim for: a stand of trees about a mile away.  Could I go a mile?  I had to.  I had to at least try.

I went back to where the horse lay and made another search for anything of value.  I found a bottle nearby, not one I recognized.  Some passer by had dropped it at some time in the past.  I took it along to serve in place of my destroyed canteen.  Finding nothing else of use, I turned back down the hill to make my preparations.  My head still ached and my eyesight was faulty.  I very nearly missed the gleam in the grass thirty feet off to one side of my path.  I stopped and tried to decide if it was worth the effort to check it out, and found myself walking that way without any conscious decision.
     I stared down at the object, smiling as widely as my damaged face would allow.  There, almost hidden in the tall grass, was my Henry rifle.  I sat down and dragged it into my lap.  The magazine still held six fat reddish-yellow cartridges.  The sling was wet and the barrel was showing rust, but it seemed to work as designed.  I stood back up and slung the heavy weapon over my shoulder, only to quickly remove it again when it bumped my wounded back.   I carefully hung it across my chest in front and headed down the hill.  Let my attackers come back now.  I was ready for them.  I almost laughed aloud at the thought.  I was fooling myself.  I could barely walk, the rifle seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, and my hands and eyes were in no shape to aim and fire a gun of any kind.  Still, it was a comfort.  By mid-morning I was ready.  My bottle was washed and filled, and had been fitted with a makeshift stopper. The rifle had been loaded to its full capacity.  All of my meager treasures had been carefully packed away in the single pocket of the saddlebags or rolled up in the saddle blanket.  As I set out toward the trees to the west, I regretted not being able to take the fire with me.  The best I had been able to manage was a large wad of dry grass and bark to serve as tinder.
     I set a schedule to get me to my goal.  I would walk twenty steps, rest for a count of a hundred, and walk twenty more.  At the end of a hundred steps I promised myself a longer rest.  I had a branch from one of the trees as a crutch, and I marked my progress by sawing a notch with thee not-quite-sharp dinner knife at each point where I stopped to rest.
     The day wore on endlessly, the sun rose and cooked off the dampness and overcast, and I struggled on.  My mind wandered and my head pounded.  I drank from a small pool that I came upon, not wanting to drink from my own precious bottle unless necessary.  Hunger caused me to weaken.  Many times I fell and many times I fought my way back to my feet.  Bu dusk I was within two hundred yards of the trees.
     I fell.  I was tired.   So tired.  I couldn’t continue any further.  I sagged back and rested.
     I found myself under the trees.  It took a long time to get my bearings, but I realized I was on the saddle blanket and the Henry was beside me.  I sensed someone else there and tried to turn my head, but couldn’t manage the task.  Suddenly I was looking into black eyes in a bronze face surrounded by a wreath of black hair streaked with grey.  A baritone voice spoke words I couldn’t understand, and then the face went away.
     The soup that the old man gave me was wonderful.  He spooned it into me until I could hold no more.  Finally I sat up and discovered my injuries had been treated and bandaged.  A short distance away sat and old woman who would not look my way.  The man spoke slowly and with many hand gestures, but my mind couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was trying to communicate to me.   
     Finally he brought wood and moved the small fire closer to me.  He cleverly stacked the wood so it would feed the fire constantly without any attention from me.           
     He placed dried meat and some wild onions near by, added some crude bread and a small clay bowl full of berries, and stood up.  He looked down at me, turned and walked to the woman.  They talked for a minute before she came to me carrying a worn blanket, which she spread out over me.  They stood looking at me for a moment more.  He spoke a short sentence, raised a hand, and they walked away toward the south.  I heard a horse blow and then they were gone. 
     
   

[Advertising]

[Forty Rod]

  I woke with the sun, hungry and thirsty again.  My head was pounding and I was nauseous.  I tried to get up and it took forever to gain my feet.  I couldn’t focus a thought and my wounds hurt terribly.  After a time a found that I had gathered my few belongings and was once again walking west, having no memory of starting, or even of having thought about it.  I was light-headed and I couldn’t feel my feet, although their rhythmic impact on the sod was a constant pounding in my head.  I began to laugh, coughed, and started to sing a little ditty I knew.  It helped my spirits and gave me a cadence to walk to.   I was on my way west.  I wasn’t dead yet, and I was on my way…someplace.
     “I found him!  I found the Cap’n!”  The kid on the lathered black gelding raced into the camp and hit the ground running, leaving the tired horse to go on alone to join the others in the remuda.  Someone grabbed the trailing reins and began to walk the exhausted animal down, to cool him off.  Men came in from the perimeter where they had gone when the wild-eyed horseman had first approached.  The boy slid to a stop in front of a huge giant of a man.
     “I found him, Jim!  C’mon!  He’s hurt bad!  Real bad!  We gotta go fetch him back!  What’re you all waitin’ on?”
   “Now calm down a bit, Son.  Where did you find him?”  The speaker was a thin whip of a man in buckskins.  He was bearded and carried an old Hawken rifle like it was growing on the end of his arm.  Around his waist rode a wide belt bearing a tomahawk, a Colt’s Dragoon revolver, and a knife as long as a man’s forearm.  A careful search of his person would have uncovered four more knives, an Allen’s pepperbox, and a ‘derringer’ with a huge bore.  He was gray and weather-worn, sharp of eye and reflex, and much tougher than his thin, frail appearance would indicate. 
     This was ‘Pop” Schramm, former mountain man and former Confederate scout, part time wolfer and buffalo hunter, and currently scout and trail boss for the group of men in the camp.
     “He’s about six or seven miles back north east of here, Pop.  He’s been all shot to hell and he’s out of his head.  I left my canteen and one of my six-shooters, but I don’t think he’s able to use ‘em.  C’mon.  We gotta go get him.”  The kid turned to go get his horse when the giant grabbed his arm.
     Billy, calm down.  We’ll go in a bit, but your horse is about used up an’ so are you.  We need to go, but we need to be organized, too.  Tell me exactly where you left him, just like a scoutin’ report, Billy.” He pushed the boy to a log and forced him to sit.  Billy Calhoun sucked in air, held it, and let it out slowly.  He repeated this three more times until his breathing and heartbeat approached normal.  Within a minute he had given a clear, concise description of exactly where he had left the injured man, then insisted on returning with the rescuers in spite of his own fatigue.
     Exactly where Billy had said he’d be, they found the Captain.  He was back out of sight under some trees, a pistol and canteen at his side.  He lay upon Billy’s rubberized ground cloth and had a blanket spread above him, hangings from the branches arching overhead.
Big Jim Deal stepped down and moved quickly to the injured man and began his ministrations.  Jim Deal was six foot five and, when fed properly, weighed nearly three hundred pounds.  Powerful even for his great size, he was also gentle enough to hold a baby bird without harm.  Before the war he had been a veterinarian and blacksmith.  It was quickly apparent that he was as good at patching men as he’d been at doctoring horses and mules.  In short order he had cleaned and bandaged the wounds, given the man water with honey and a pinch of salt, and had set Billy to starting a fire and heating a broth.
    Pop Schramm walked a half mile or so east, backtracking the invalid’s path.   When he returned he stood staring down at the sleeping figure and shook his shaggy head.
     “Amazin’, Jim.   Plain amazin’.  His trail goes back clean outta sight in the grass. At least a couple o’ miles that I could see.  Prob’ly more.”  He continued to stare at the downed man.  “How is he, Jim?”
     The big man looked up at the old mountaineer.  “He’s sick, Pop, real sick.  He’s full of infection and dried out somethin’ awful.  I think he’s concussed and he ain’t in his right mind.  We’re gonna have to lay over here for a day or more, ‘til   we can move him.”
    Lying on the bed beneath the trees, Frank Cavannaugh, formerly Captain of the Georgia Cavalry, CSA, stirred and woke up enough to realize that he was among friends.  He smiled at a returning memory.  Billy Calhoun had found him, and Jim and Pop were there.  The others wouldn’t be far away, either.  As he slipped back into unconsciousness, the though expanded even more; “I’m alive.  Billy found me and fetched the rest and I’m still alive.  I’m Frank Cavannaugh and I’m not dead yet.”
 
     
     
   

[Forty Rod]

Just before dark the rest of the party arrived and made quick work of re-establishing an orderly camp.  The cattle were set to grazing below the trees.  The grass was good and they weren’t inclined to wander, but a single rider stayed with them anyway.  Between the cattle and the camp the horses were picketed in grass and scrub trees, also with a man watching over them as a precaution.
     Out from the camp a hundred yards were two perimeter guards, riding a constant circle, quietly keeping watch.
     Even before the rest were settled in, the four Negro women had a cook fire going and food warming.   Joseph Goss, the old patriarch of the Negro party, walked over to where Frank Cavannaugh lay sleeping.  He set up a tapestry covered folding wood chair and sat down with his Bible and a double-barreled combination rifle and shotgun across his knees.  He looked up at big Jim Deal and smiled.
     “I’ll watch over him, Mister Deal.  Momma will spell me after a while.  You need to get some rest and I’ll wake you if you’re needed before morning.”

Jim rose and stretched, ran his fingers through his hair, and walked by the old man.  Pressing a hand gently onto the stout shoulder of Joseph Goss, he nodded and muttered a thanks before going to his bed.
     Out of sight under the trees, Pop Schramm silently smoked his pipe.  Humming softly to himself, he rested there and surveyed the entire campsite, his old, experienced mountain man’s eyes taking in everything.
     Billy Calhoun sat near the cook fire and whittled a piece of wood into a passable toy horse for young Jeremiah Goss, the youngest member of their party, while across from him Hans Bruner carefully cleaned and reloaded his long Whitworth target rifle.  Not far away Frank Cavanaugh stirred and rolled enough to look around.  Joseph Goss came instantly to his side, gave him a drink of cool water, and gently help the injured man back down onto the bed.  As he walked back to his chair, Joseph could not see the smile flicker across Cavanaugh’s face.

It had been eight days since he’d been shot, although he had no way of knowing that.  His eyes fluttered once as he drifted off to healing sleep, and a though, ran across the surface of his mind: “Billy found me.  Joseph is here.  The others must be close.  Billy found me and I’m not dead yet.”       

[Forty Rod]

  I sat straight and tall in the saddle and glanced quickly around at the three men beside me, checking their appearance.   We had quickly borrowed bits and pieces of uniforms and equipment from everyone in the unit in order to put up a proper military appearance for this meeting.  Behind and above us in the thick woods were the last twenty-four of our troopers, anxiously waiting the outcome of the encounter about to take place in the clearing before us.  I saw Hans Bruner, a German sharpshooter and master wood carver, stretched out along a limb some ten feet above the ground, his long Whitworth target rifle and its accompanying telescope sight stretched out in front of him.  As I watched, he pulled the butt firmly into his shoulder and nestled his cheek down onto the smooth comb of the stock.  Although I couldn’t see him, I knew Scott Flammer was similarly equipped with an Enfield rifle and in an equally appropriate position well to my left.  Dixon and Halloran were with the horses, and the rest, save we four sitting here, were in positions all through the woods along a hundred and fifty yard front, watching and waiting.
     Over our heads was a brilliant blue sky and a very few large wooly clouds.  The day was mild for a change and the meadow was green and small blue flowers dotted the grass.  Somewhere a horse snorted, another stomped, and a breeze gently blew.
   “Here they come, Cap’n”, Trooper Jeff Gaines said quietly from directly behind me.
     “Time to go, Sergeant Deal.  Let’s give ‘em a show.”
     “Right, Cap’n. Gaines, you stay right behind Cap’n Cavannaugh.  Corporal Doyle, you’re to my left, parade style.  Calmly, lads, calmly.”
     We moved out in a line of three across and the bugler behind, riding slowly into the open right toward the Union delegation crossing toward us.  Sixty-five yards away rode eight Union officers, the leader wearing a star on the shoulders of his immaculate uniform.  His horse was nearly snow white and the others were as well turned out and mounted as the general in front.
     “Purty, ain’t they?  Looks like they been out borrowin’, too.”
     “Quiet, Sarge.  This is serious.”
    We drew up near the center of the meadow, twenty feet from the Yankees.  I saluted.  “Sir, I am Capatin Frank Cavannaugh, Tenth…”
     I was cut off by the general who barked, “Captain, I am here to make a formal demand for the surrender of you and your unit.  You are hopelessly outnumbered and out gunned.  Do you not agree, Sir?”
     I hitched myself into a more comfortably position in my saddle.  “General, you are probably aware that General Lee and General Grant are in conference not five miles from here.  They are no doubt discussing surrender as we sit here.  Should General Lee agree to surrender the Army of Northern Virginia, he will make it known to me through proper channels.  Until that time, Sir, I decline your offer.”
    “You decline?  Captain, if you resist I shall wipe you and your men out totally.  You cannot stand against my force.  You must surrender to me here and now.”
     “No, Sir!  Not until General Lee…”
      “Now, Captain!  This instant!  Do you understand?”
     I leaned back and looked directly into his eyes.  This was a man who was so angry that he was no longer rational.  “Sir, I understand what it is you are trying to do.  You are trying to build up your own reputation by gathering one more surrender, and I decline…I refuse to be your marker in this game, General.”
     “By God, Sir, you WILL turn over your weapons and give yourselves up to me personally this very…”
     “Sergeant Deal, I believe we have one good old cavalry charge left in us before we go under.  Assemble the troops.”
     As Deal turned to the bugler I sat facing the man on the white horse.  His face was red and his hands were clenched on the pommel of his saddle.  “Captain, you are insane!  Stop this madness this instant and surrender.  You will be treated fairly!”
  “General, I am going to have my bugler sound assembly.  If you persist in this foolish demand your force will be answered with a cavalry charge.  You will not see that charge, Sir, because the second you attempt to take us by force I will blow you out of your saddle.  If I should fail in that, one of the finest marksmen in this country will do the job for me.  None of these finely attired gentlemen will leave this clearing alive.  Am I understood, Sir?”
   The man’s jaw was locked and his eyes bulged from his face.  I noticed that his hands were white, clenched tightly over his pommel.  His yellow hair seemed stiff and brittle, and a bit of spittle ran from the corner of his mouth.
     “Very well, Captain, I will wait, but you may be assured that if General Lee does not surrender I shall overrun you and destroy every remnant of your insignificant band.  Do you understand THAT, Sir?”
     “I hear you, General.  Perhaps you will destroy us, but you will never have the satisfaction of our surrender unless it is ordered by General Lee.  Your permission to return to my command, Sir?”
     “Someday we will meet again, Captain, and I will remember you and what has happened here, regardless of what happens at Appomattox Courthouse this day.  You may be certain of that.  We shall meet again!”  He was coldly furious now, his blue eyes narrowed to mere slits, his jaw clenched tightly.  I saluted and was spurned of a return salute.  I shrugged.
     “ I think not, General.  Good day, Sir.”
     The ride back to out line was a long and tense one.  Dismounting, I turned back to look at the Union lines and could clearly see more than a hundred cavalrymen.  How many more there were I could only guess, but we were going to be shredded if it came to a fight.  All we could do was prepare and make it costly for the blue bellies if they came.  We were spread well apart, had too little ammunition, and were in good defensive positions.  Sergeant Deal and I checked and rechecked our positions and waited for the attack.
     It never came.

[Forty Rod]

Several hours later a dispatch rider raced into the area we were occupying.  He reined in his tired horse and called out, “Cap’n Cavannaugh!  I’m lookin’ for Cap’n Cavannaugh!”
     “Here, Corporal.”
     “Sir, Gen’l Lee’s respects, and will you meet your senior officers as soon as possible.  This is a general order, sir.”
     The young man’s eyes were red and tears streaked his cheeks.  I looked at the fatigue and despair on his face.
     “It’s over, then?”
     “Yessir, it’s all over.  I got to go on, Sir.  God bless you all.”  He spurred his mount and was gone.
     “Sergeant Deal?’  The big man appeared at my elbow.  “Sarge, General Lee’s given it up.  Keep the men here, keep them in position, and keep them quiet.  Don’t tell them anything yet.”
     “Cap’n, I don’t know anything yet.”
     I grinned at him.  “Lieutenant Halloran, with me.  We’re going to see General Lee.

We returned just at sundown and I had Sergeant Deal gather the men.
     “Boys, General Lee formally gave his surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia to General Grant a few hours ago.  In the morning we’ll go down to Dunn’s encampment and turn ourselves in, sign paroles, and give up our guns.  They’re lettin’ us keep our horses for plowin’ an’ such.  Any of you need a doctor will be cared for.  They’ll give us food an’ blankets if we need em’.”  After a long pause I couldn’t think of anything else to say, except, “You’re all good men, good soldiers.  I couldn’t ask for better friends beside me, ever.  Thanks, an’ God bless al of y’all.”
     I looked at silent, grim faces, and saw more than a few with tracks of tears running through the dust and dirt there.  My own eyes burned and I knew that there were tears on my face, as well.  My throat was dry and felt like a clod of dirt.  Toward the back of the group someone coughed and, almost silently began to sob.  Another cursed softly and fervently.  Then one man, T. K. Jeffers from Hopewell, began, “I wish I was in the land of cotton.”    Another picked up,  “old times there are not forgotten.”  Still others chimed up with “Look away.  Look away”..and in seconds the song grew, swelled with pride and defiance.
     From over on the Union side we heard laughter and yells and we sang still louder and then the Rebel Yell was heard, not only from our group, but from up and down the lines.  The woods rang with the stirring strains of Dixie, punctuated with the chilling Rebel yell.
     Later, after the men had tired and quieted down for the night, I walked among these fine, mostly young, soldiers.  As I walked I listened to the soft voices of my men.
     “Too late now for an early crop…”
     “Reckon there ain’t no point in me goin’ back.  Ma died after Pa got kilt.”
     “…goin’ north an’ find me a factory job…”
     “…hiring mercenaries….”
     “I hear California’s a comin’ place.  Lot’s of land…”
     “The Argentine…”
     “…Mexico…”
     “Ain’t nothing left of the home place.  We fought right over it back in…”
     “Mebbe I’ll take a look at them Rockies.  Pop says that’s the place…”
     I listened to men whose hopes and dream had been worn away by battle, blown to pieces in many an engagement, killed alongside their friends and brothers.  They had lost their homes and families, lost their vision.  Many had no past and few had any semblance of a future.  A very small percentage could look forward to a new adventure, a great unseen and unknown experience yet to be tasted and felt.
     Though spirits were low, each man made within himself plans.  My own were clear…had been for over a year.  I had been raised for part of my life in the Rocky Mountains.  I would return to what were now the Mormon settlements near The Great Salt Lake and north and east to Bear Lake and Cache Valley.  I’d make my way among the Mormons, much as my Pa had done years before in Missouri.  I could raise horses or cattle, do some farming, search for minerals, cut timber, or whatever else would be needful to live.
     I knew something of the Mormons, a wary folk.  They had been badly used in many places and had no reason to trust outsiders, yet I knew from Pa’s experience that they were an honest, hard-working, and friendly people who pretty much wanted to be left alone by the rest of the world.
     I turned to my meager belongings and began to make what small preparations I could for tomorrow.
     

[Forty Rod]

          “Uh, Cap’n Cavannaugh, suh?”
      I was startled, realizing I’d dozed off.  I swung my legs around and stood up from where I’d been laying on the log and stretched.  The sun was still not up, but the sky was lightening over in the east.  “Mornin’, Billy.  Anybody got coffee this mornin’?”
     “Yessuh.  Cap’n, can I talk to you about somethin’?  Somethin’ important?”
     I looked at my young Corporal and saw something I’d seldom seen before in three years of battle and hardship: I saw confusion and a bit of fear.  Billy Calhoun had joined up at sixteen and come to us at seventeen.  He was a good soldier, courageous and bold, if somewhat hasty at times.  I’d promoted him to Corporal only eight weeks earlier.  As I poured coffee for both of us I marveled at how young he really looked.
     “What’s up, Billy?”  He looked uncomfortable at my use of his first name, so I explained.  “The war’s over, Billy.  The Army of Northern Virginia won’t exist past this day. I won’t be a Captain and you won’t be a Corporal.  You’ll have to get used to that.”  I stuck my hand out to him.  Let’s start all over.  Hi.  My name’s Frank Cavannaugh.”  He hesitated, then shook my hand and laughed ever so little. 
     “Man, that feels real pee-culiar.  Guess It’ll take some getting’ used to.”
     I agreed that there would be some adjustments to make, then asked, “What did you want to talk to me about, Billy?”  We had gone back to the log and sat straddling it facing each other.  I sipped the bitter, coffee laced chicory…should have been the other way abound, but coffee was a might scarce right now… and waited while the lad started.
    “Well, Cap’n...uh, FRANK…I don’t much know what to do now.  I got no home to go back to.  See, Pa died at Petersburg and my brother wasn’t ever seen again after Cemetery Ridge.  He’d gone down to join up with the Louisiana Tigers, cause they had such fancy uniforms   I got a letter from a man who lived down the creek a piece, told me Ma hadn’t got over Pa being killed and she wasted away ‘most a year ago now.”  He looked even younger and scared.  “Well, suh, you an’ the boys here is all the family I had for some time, an’…well, all I got back there is twenty-odd acres of rocks.  Never was worth much an’ I don’t reckon it’s worth nothin’ at all any more.”
     After a minute he went on.  “See, Pop Schramm an’ the Sarge are talkin’ about goin’ out west to the Rockies.  They asked me if’n I’d like to go along, but I don’t know what to tell ‘em.”
     “Billy, you do what your heart and gut tell you to do.  If it feels right, go ahead on an’ do it.”
     He looked at me and nodded.  Then he smiled.  “I’ll be goin’, I reckon.  Sarge, he told me to ask if you’d come, too.”  They’ll be meetin’ after we get back from surrenderin’.”
     I agreed I’d think on it until we got ‘back from surrenderin’ ‘.  My Lord, how awful, how terribly hollow and awful…that sounded.
     We formed up and rode to the place we had been told to assemble.  I noticed that Pop Schramm had simply disappeared into the thick woods.  Not being a soldier on either side he had gone to wait until we returned.
     I was surprised at the array of plain old garbage that my troopers tuned in as weapons.  A broken Tarpley carbine, a flintlock rifle, a broken Enfield musketoon, a bent and battered saber, a dozen miscellaneous old pistols, a long fowling gun, and a whole array of like trash.  Not one turned over the guns he’d been using.  The old adage about good soldiers making do was coming to light again.  Sergeant Deal turned in a Spiller revolver with the frame wired together so it would hold a hand carved grip made of split pine.
     The Yankees didn’t turn a hair, though some smiled knowingly.  My boys were fed and a few were doctored.  Some got fresher blankets, and one old Union cavalryman gave Bruner a home made sweater that someone had sent him from home because Bruner didn’t have a suitable shirt to wear.
     We were allowed to keep our horses ‘for the planting’, but a couple of our recent enemies brought up a half dozen of their own remounts and gave then to my men whose horses were completely played out.
     When we left that little valley I think we all had a different view of the Blue Bellies that we had started with.  I guess they could afford to be generous.  They had won.   
 

[Forty Rod]

   During the night six men rode away without saying anything.  The feelings ran too deep for many to share them, not even with those who had been so close for so long.  As we formed up for one last time I felt totally out of place, as though I no longer belonged.  Later, as we were saying our brief goodbyes, I was overcome with the feeling that I was about to take a part in something important.  What it was to be I had no inkling, only this feeling that….well!  I guess I’d see as it all unfolded.
     “Cap’n?  Billy said he talked to you about joinin’ up with us to go west.  Pop, he knows the way to some places he figgers would be what we’re lookin’ for.”
     I looked at Jim Deal and saw a giant of a man with hands so powerful they could bend mule shoes, yet gentle enough to safely pick up a fallen bird’s nest and place it in a tree away from immediate harm.  He had a gleam in his eyes, an anticipation of something new, yet I saw uncertainty there, as well.  I nodded and he continued.
     “Well, Sir, we’d like to hear your answer.  A lot is ridin’ on if you’re comin’ with us or not.”
     “Let’s go talk to the others, Jim.”  I saw the startled twitch in his eyes when I used his given name, but he fell in beside me as we walked to a group of bedraggled and exhausted men standing together beneath the trees.
     That evening, shortly after sundown, we set out.  We were a strong and fairly well equipped party.  Eight belted, heavily armed men, seventeen horses, five mules, and a small wagon.  We made sure we each had a copy of our signed parole.  Being cavalry and mobile, my group had foraged and stolen from the enemy, enabling us to eat better than the average Rebel soldier and to put aside additional food against future needs.  Not far from the place we had encountered the Yankee general who had demanded our surrender, we made our first camp as the sun was rising.  Pop Schramm was waiting for us.  He had come here and moved our cache of goods to a better place for us to load them.  He also had a second wagon, a battered blue farm wagon with many unpainted patches and a ragged canvas top.  His grinning, weather-beaten old brown face was a sure sign that we were in good hands as far as a guide went.  Making a quick, secure camp for the day we posted pickets and held a meeting to organize the rest of the trip.  I was unanimously selected as the leader, Jim Deal was second in command, and Pop was chief scout.  We picked Cory Skabelund, a Tennessee schoolteacher, to be the group historian as soon a she mentioned that he thought we should have one.  Cory was also a skilled leather worker and was a fair blacksmith, backing Jim up on those duties.  Hans Bruner was unanimously, and boisterously, elected cook.  His recipes, adapted at most times to the food at hand, had made him one of the most popular men in old Dixie.
     During the day we slept, ate, and cleaned our gear, making repairs as needed.  Pop Schramm had pulled the new wagon up next to the first and signaled for me to come over to the tailgate.  He flipped a corner of tar-treated canvas aside and grinned slyly at me.  “Well, whaddaya think, Cap?”  I found myself looking down at a case of twelve brand new Henry repeating rifles.
     “Those can get us hung, Pop.  Where do we find ammunition for them?”
     “In the front of the wagon.  Got a case of o’ ca’tridges for ‘em.”
     I stood grinning at the older man.  Finally I told him, “Keep ‘em hidden for now.  Wait until we’re further away from all these Yanks, Pop.  Pop?  Are they gonna be sought after?”
    “Not likely, they ain’t.  I found ‘em mixed in with the guns we all turned in.  They was supposed to be set afire an’ burned up last night.”  He looked almighty pleased with himself.

We spent that night and the next day in the small clearing, seeing the end of the war flowing past all around us, blue uniforms with joyful, loud men and grey and butternut uniforms with quiet, sullen men.  All the men who had scant days before been engaged in a violent struggle, now trying to avoid any further encounters, careful to avoid one another for the most part.
     At sundown of the second day we set out, following Pop Schramm’s plan to move slowly north and west toward Saint Louis and a crossing of the Mississippi River.  We planned to lay over there to visit people I knew. Get the lay of the land to the west, and to re-provision if possible.   
       

[Forty Rod]

     We moved very carefully, only going out at night, for Yankee soldiers were everywhere and many of our former Confederate troopers still wandered all over the countryside, trying to get home or to find a new life.  A lot of hard feelings were riding with men heavily armed and nervous.  These were hazardous times and we rode wary and ready. 
     As we settled in on the morning of the fourteenth, a passing rider told us of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, the President of The United States.  We were told that he’d been shot in the head by a man named Boone, an actor.
     “Ol’ Abe, he done give us hell for a long time, but there ain’t nobody deserves that kinda shootin’.” The stranger said.
     “I sure as sin hope that Boone weren’t no southren boy, Cap’n.  It’d sure go hard on the folks in Dixie.  Wouldn’t do us no kindness, neither.”
     I looked up at Jim Deal and shook my head.  “Jim, we aren’t goin’ to get any bargain, no matter what, but you’re right about that.”  I chewed on a stick for a bit.  “Has it occurred to you that this war is going to keep on causing hard feelin’s for many a year?”
     The big man looked about as mournful as a man could.  “Sure enough right about that, too, Cap’n.  This war’s only gonna be over in an official sense.  Folks’ll be fightin’ it over an’ over again for the next hunnerd years.”  He walked slowly away to take the first watch while most of the rest of us settled in for what relaxation and sleep we could manage.
     Arriving outside of Lynchburg, we made camp on the north side of the James River and spent three days resting and patching up our gear.  It was here that another traveler told us of the capture of President Davis.  Some Michigan cavalrymen had caught him trying to escape dressed as a woman.  We’d come up against some of those Michigan boys a time or two, and they were mighty good soldiers. 
     It was here, too that we learned that Bill Quantrill had been wounded.  I had known him before the war in Kansas, and felt no sadness over him being injured.  I never met a man I liked less.
     There were thousands of men and a handful of women moving around the country during those confused days after the war.  We generally followed the route of the Virginia and Tennessee rails, skirting Marion and Abingdon and anyplace else where people were likely to congregate, until we turned westward through the Cumberland Gap.  We were on the west side of the mountains on the morning of June first, again well hidden in the woods.  We had been moving slowly and cautiously until then.
     “Which way from here, Cap’n?”
     “When are you going to stop callin’ me ‘Captain”, Jim?”
     “Well, suh, we been callin’ you Cap’n for so long it’d feel a might peculiar to call you anythin’ else.”
    “Well, work on it, will you?  Practice callin’ me Frank until it’s set in your head.  Tell the others, too.  I’m not a captain anymore.  As to which way from here?  I’m for talkin’ it out an’ callin’ for a vote.  I’m not in charge here, but for what it’s worth, I’m for Bowling green and up through southern Illinois, then west to Saint Louis and over the Mormon Trail from there.  That’d be my vote, but you take it up with the others and I’ll go along with the majority.  Let me know what you all decide.”  I leaned back against the bole of a tree and shut  my eyes.
     
     
       

[Forty Rod]

     Morning.  A very pleasant morning. A man shouldn’t have to live like this, sleeping during the day and traveling at night like an owl or a bat.  Activity around our camp was almost continuous.  The men slept when it suited them, worked at whatever needed doing, and ate when it was convenient.  We rotated the guard every two hours and allowed only a few people close enough to actually see the camp in its entirety.  At this camp we took in a tall young man who was trading odds and ends that he had collected.  We traded a small bag of coffee beans and an ax for a beautifully tanned cowhide suitable for saddle repair, belts, holsters and the  like.  Cory Skabelund, our Tennesseean, was also a “right pert hand” working with leather.  He laid out new holsters fro several of us using a pattern he’d seen some of our Mexican boys make.  The whole thing was a single piece of leather laced together to form a pouch, which was then passed through slits in a folded over skirt.  It was simple, easily repaired, and very durable.  It was also open at the top instead of closed by a flap, and much easier and faster to draw a gun from.  A thin lacing thong looped over the hammer held the gun in place when riding or working.
     I ended up with a pair of partially cut down holsters for my sawed off Colt’s Army sixguns.  Several months before, Jim and I had cut the barrels to five inches and modified the rammer to fit.  He carefully cut dovetails to mount the front sights and I was ready to go.  Swinging the new leather around my hips, I drew first one gun and then the other while Cory stood watching critically.  After several attempts, he walked over and produced an awl, punched holes through the toe of each holster, and through the “skirt” in back.  He then took two lengths of lacing and threaded then through the holes before instructing me to tie them around my thighs.  Once done, I drew again.  Faster.  Much, much faster.  The holsters, tied down as they were, no longer rode up when I pulled the guns.  I nodded my thanks and walked away.
     Vance Kelso had been standing nearby, watching carefully, as I drew several more times.  Kelso was a quiet youngster with almost white blonde hair and very pale blue eyes.  A hard worker and not given to talking, he had proven himself on several occasions by his vicious and deadly actions in battle.  He had twice broken the Union lines by his ferocity, and seemed to revel in the violence and heat of close combat.  He stood there as I drew a half dozen times from each holster, the turned and walked to where Cory was drawing out holsters on the hide.  They talked for a while with Kelso obviously giving directions on how his holsters were to be made.  When he was finished he turned and looked at me for a long moment, a strange look on his face, before walking away.
       

[Forty Rod]

When we left the Gap I had been elected leader of the group, which suited me because I was already used to the role, and we were bound for Bowling Green, Kentucky.  Our second day out found us camped once more in the trees along a riverbank.  Cory finished two sets of holsters, including a radically cut down pair for Vance Kelso.  I watched as Kelso dropped his Starr Navy revolvers, a self-cocking gun that I had never taken to, into the holsters.  For a long time he checked and adjusted the hang and position until they were to his liking, then he hefted the guns in and out a few times.  Suddenly his hands flashed down and back up with the guns appearing to come level almost magically.  He repeated this practice for a half an hour.  When he was finished he carefully holstered the guns and gave me a smirking, appraising glance before disappearing into the trees.
     The two weeks from the Cumberland gap to Bowling green passed uneventfully for the most part.  We traveled quietly, camped quietly, did everything quietly.  We often saw Union soldiers and always avoided them.  Our experiences as cavalry raiders had taught us well the lessons we now put to use.  Once a man came upon us unexpectedly and asked us to move on.  He was in no way hostile toward us, but explained that he didn’t want anyone on his land and didn’t want trouble from the bluecoats who roamed the countryside.  Jim Deal finally convinced the hesitant farmer to let us stay the day and gave him a spare pair of boots for his generosity.  Before leaving, the man told us that Lincoln’s assassin was named J. Wilkes Boothe, not Boone as we had been told, that the man had been an actor, and had been captured along with some other conspirators.  They were sympathetic to the Confederacy, much as we had hoped against and feared.
     A week later we stumbled upon a camp almost at dawn.  Two men on their way home, they invited us to share the large clearing they occupied.  One, a short, gaunt man with a bad scar through his right eye volunteered that he was Ed Mellon and that his companion, a tall, spare man with a limp was Jim Taylor. Both Mellon and Taylor had ridden for General Sterling Price.  Mellon, it turned out, was a fine cook and we gratefully shared our food in exchange for his talents, a more than fair trade from our standpoint.
     Taylor appeared to be a lonely man, and over the remnants of our first meal, began to talk.
     “I was a Sergeant for General Price.  He was a fine man.  He made me a scout until I took a minnie ball in the hip.  My leg don’t work very good no more, but the general wouldn’t cashier me out.  He ast me to be a recruiter for ‘im an’ I done ‘er.”
     “Goin’ home, Jim?’
     “Yessir, I am.  I got me wife an’ three boys I ain’t seen in a long spell.  Got a nice place down here in Kentucky, a good little farm.”
     Jim Deal joined us.  “You look to be a farmer, alright.”
     “I sure am.  Been farmin’ since I was big enough to stomp a bug.  My Grampa was one of the first farmers in Cooper County, Missouri.  He was a  right wealthy man.  Bought land from the Injuns when he could.  Proved up on it from the gummint, too.  Owned a bunch  of slaves, forty or fifty mules, some mighty fine horses, wagons, and houses.”  His voice trailed off.
     Deal leaned over and poured more coffee.  “Any of that ‘wealthy’ rub of on you, Taylor?” he asked.
    The farmer’s eyes crinkled up in a smile.  “Not to where a body’d notice, it didn’t.  Pa was a proud man an’ wouldn’t take nothing’ from Grampa.  Guess I’m the same.  What I got I got myself.  Had me a dozen slaves and just a corner of land down near Henderson, Kentucky.  Growin’ tobacco and corn.”  He shook his head.  “If I ain’t bein’ too nosy, where you all goin’?”
    I told him, “We’re going west, Jim.  None of us got families or property, no places of our own.  You’re a lucky man Jim Taylor. A fella should have a wife and sons and daughters.  Maybe someday I’ll find me a woman who’ll have me, and I’ll settle down, too.”
    “Sure you will.  My Marry, she always says there’s somebody for ever’body.  The she grins at me and says ‘Even mule stubborn, cantankerous farmers.’  Then she goes on back to whatever she was doin’.  I sure miss her an’ the boys, but I’ll be home in another three or four days.”
     “What about Mellon?” Jim wanted to know.
     “He’ll be goin’ his own way come dark.  Goin’ to miss his cookin, but we wasn’t ever very close.  He’s a good soldier, but I don’t reckon he’s gonna make much of a civilian.  He got to where he liked to fight too much.”
     I glanced across the clearing to where Vance Kelso was leaning against the wagon.  “Kelso, the white haired kid, is like that.  Fancies himself with those sixguns.  Practices every chance he gets.”
     Taylor didn’t even look that way.  “Seen that right off.  Sorta struts like he wants ever’body to notice him an’ those pistols o’ his.  He’s bound for trouble some day.”

[Forty Rod]

Folks, I finally found a publisher for my previous story, Legend.  I have to some work on editing and cleaning up a place or two, so this yarn might get bumped back a bit.  I'll try to keep it up at the top far enough that it doesn't disappear.

Thanks for being patient.

[Old Top]

Forty,

Make sure you let us know when it is published and where it is published I for one would like to read it.

Old Top

[Forty Rod]

     I knew he was right, and I didn’t want to think about it right then.  “Jim, tell me about your family.”
      “Wait!  I got pitchers.”  He was back in a minute with four cardboard-framed pictures all carefully wrapped in waxed paper and oil cloth.  “This is my Mary.”, he announced proudly as he handed the first to me.  I looked at a pretty young woman in dark clothing and a lace collar, a fancy bonnet on her dark curls.  “This one’s George Washington.  He’s…uh, lessee…he’s seven now.  Charlie Lee is six, an’ this is John Keyser  He just turned four.
     Just then Ed Mellon walked over.  “Taylor, I’ll be goin’ now.  Take care of yourself.”
     “You, too, Ed.”  They gravely shook hands and Mellon mounted his mule and rode off toward the east.
     “Sorry to see him go.”  I looked over at Jim and saw a long, grim face.
     I thought you two weren’t friends.”, I said.
     Taylor grinned crookedly.  “Well, we weren’t, exactly, but I’ve known him for better’n three years.  It’ll seem strange, him not bein’ around.”

     The next night Jim Taylo came over and told us, “I’ll be on my way now.  I reckon you all will be movin’ out soon, too.”

I stood to shake his hand.  “In another hour, yeah!  Jim, look out for yourself and that family.”
     “I’ll do that.  If any of you boys get down in my neck o’ the woods, you stop by.  We always got room for neighbors, no matter how far away they come from.”
     “I appreciate that, Jim, and if you ever get out west, ask around Great Salt Lake City.  Someone there will know where we are.”
     He rode away south, an honest, hard-working man, wanting only to be home.  He asked only to be friends with everyone and to enjoy his family.
     I hoped I would some day see him again.

[Forty Rod]

CHAPTER 4

     Along about the middle of July we found ourselves approaching Saint Louis, Missouri.  With two days to go the men all looked forward to a short rest while Pop Schramm and I went into the city to visit some people we knew and to arrange for supplies for the next leg of our trip.
     The masses of people going west had thinned considerably and we often went for up to a day without seeing or hearing anyone but our own little group.
     We had just made camp for the day and I was scouting the area around with Cory Skabelund when we heard shots.  Shooting wasn’t new to us, but the trip had so far been relatively quiet and uneventful, only the occasional, far away shot from a hunter to be heard in three months.  This was not an “occasional” shot, but heavy firing, and it was not far away.  Not nearly far enough.
     “Cap’n, hadn’t we oughta see to that?”
     “Carefully, Cory.  Very carefully.  The others will have heard it, too.”
     “Sounds like quite some battle, Suh.”
     “Sure does.  Let’s go slow.  You move off to the left through those trees and I’ll ride over this way.”
     We moved forward being very cautious.  I moved into a shallow wash and several times rode up until I could barely peer over.  A scant quarter mile away I came out into a wide shallow basin.  Near the middle, and with no cover whatsoever, were a wagon and two large carts all drawn by eight big fine mules.  I saw no other animals, but could make out a number of people moving about near the carts.  Out around these three men could be seen in the growing light, hiding in the grass.  A shot and I found a fourth man because of the smoke, then another near him.
   The people with the wagons retuned fire and I watched as two men I hadn’t seen before rushed from one side.  One was hit and fell thrashing into the grass as his partner dropped from sight.  A long two minutes of silence before the attackers rushed again and another of them fell to the fire from the wagons.
     Vance Kelso and Billy Calhoun crept up beside me.  “Jim and Bruner are moving around them toward Cory.  We heard the shootin’ an’ figured you run into trouble.  The rest are guarding camp.”, Billy explained.
     Kelso was carefully scanning the area in front of us as he was wont to do.  I glanced toward the left and said, “Looks like somebody thought to take what those folks have.”  I watched a bit more, noting the fine condition of the animals and equipment.  “I’m goin’ to wait until the other boys are in position, then I’m ridin’ down to lend those people a hand.  You don’t have to join in unless you feel the need.”  I send Cory to meet with Jim and Hans and let them know what we were doing.
     Kelso spoke in a near-whisper.  “There’s women down there an’ I’d swear I saw a little kid, too.”
     “Shoot, Cap’n, I’m in, an’ I ain’t never seen ol’ Vance here pass up a chance to get in a fight.”
     As the morning grew lighter we were able to see four more men hidden in the grass and brush.
     “Pick your targets, boys.  I’ll take the two on the right.”  We opened up and dropped three men right off.  I vaulted to the saddle and we rode over the rim at a charge.  A man turned and fired from the ground, missed and was ridden down as we went through them at a run.  I saw Calhoun on my right, riding hard and firing as he went.  I knew Kelso was beyond him.  From the far left, Jim Deal, Skabelund, and little Hans Bruner broke from the trees and hit the ambushers on that flank.  The men gave it up and ran for cover of a draw and their horses.   We rode over the area and found six that we had killed, including the one who had been run down by a horse, and four killed by the folks with the carts.  We estimated eight to ten had escaped.  Before riding up to the wagons we pulled back a ways and reloaded our guns, checked out animals and each other, and caught our breath.
     A man cautiously walked out from the wagons and Jim and I rode down to meet him.  The others followed at a short distance.  As I got closer I could see that he was a young black man, maybe twenty-five years old.  He was wearing worn clothing that was carefully cleaned and expertly mended, and he carried a sporting rifle of the finest type.
     “Mister, you came at just the right time, and we want to thank you.”
     From behind me I heard Vance Kelso’s voice.  “Hell, it’s a nigger.  A whole passle of niggers.  I wouldn’t‘ve move in on these fellers if I’da knowd they was shootin’ at…”
     ‘Shut up, Kelso!”  Deal had spoken before I could
     “You tellin’ me to shut up?”

I spoke without taking my eyes off of the black man in front of me.  “Vance, I’m tellin’ you to shut up.  These folks needed help.  We helped.  I’ll see no one ambushed for their belongin’s.”  I spoke to the man standing in the grass.  “Are you folks okay?”
     “We got a man took a bullet, but my Mam is a fair hand at doctorin’ folks.  We’ll be fine.”
     “Well, Deal here’s a doctor.  If you need help, say so.”
     “No, Sir.  Thanks, anyway, but we’re alright.”  The young Negro looked uncomfortable.  “Look, Mister, I don’t want to seem ungrateful for what you did, but we have no reason to trust white folks.  This isn’t the first time we’ve been set upon.  I hate to return your help this way, but we’d be a sight more comfortable if you would leave now.”
     Kelso’s face grew dark, his eyes narrowed down, and his hands moved back to hang above his guns.  “Boy, you mind you place now!  We just saved your bacon.”  His voice grew softer.  “Maybe we should take what you got.  Your women, too.”
     I turned my horse in front of Vance’s.  “That’s enough, Kelso.  You can shut up or leave, but I’ll hear no more of that talk.”  His eyes burned into mine, but he quieted down. 
     The man on the ground spoke softly to me.  “You seem to be in charge here, Mister, but if your man wants to try to take our women or property, well Sir, we’ll just see if he can do it.”  I noticed that the rifle was ready as it could be.  I also knew that Kelso could beat the drop and kill the man if he chose.
    “No need for that, friend.  We’re leaving. If you need Deal, send someone.  We’re yonder a quarter mile.”
     We turned and rode away without looking back.

     Kelso was surly and dark, practicing with his guns for more than an hour.  Later, as we ate, he started in on me.  “Cap’n, why’d you take up for them niggers?  They ain’t no good for nothin’ now.  We can’t own ‘em, can’t work ‘em, an’ they ain’t good for nothin’ else.”
     I sat back and looked at the boy while I chewed my bread.  Finally I swallowed and said, “They’re people, Kelso, and they’ve never had a chance to show what they are able to do, what they can be.”
     “Naw, they’re like a horse.  They need a master to tell ‘em what to do an’ how to do it.  They need to be harnessed an’ worked, an’ once in a while, whipped to get the most out of ‘em.  They need somebody to take care of ‘em to keep ‘em from starvin’.  God didn’t intend it to be no other way!”
     I looked up at the pale eyes of Kelso and saw a light that I’d not noticed before.  “Kelso, I never met anyone that God had told what his intentions are.  You don’t seem like the sort of man god would have talked to about the matter.”
     He turned and started to walk away, stopped and turned back.  “Don’t you talk down to me, Cavannaugh!  I won’t stand for it!”
  I lost my temper.  “You won’t stand for it?”  Kelso, I was elected to lead this group.  If you don’t like it, call for another election and I’ll step aside if the group changes their mind, but until that time, I’m in charge.  We don’t need any more enemies than we have out her, black, white, brown, or red.  You’ll hold your tongue and cause no more trouble, or you’ll answer to me.  Do you understand me?”
     He stepped forward until his face was inches from mine.  “I don’t answer to NOBODY!  Not to you or any other man, ever!  If you think I will, you just try to make me.  You’re wearin’ a gun.  Just stand up here an’ we’ll see do I answer to you.”

     There it was.  It had been building for weeks.  Kelso had been going bad right in front of me, but I hadn’t seen it, not for sure.  Maybe I hadn’t wanted to see it. 
     I sat on a log with my tin plate on my knees, a cup in my left hand and a fork in my right.  My rifle leaned against the log near my right side.  I carefully set the cup down, put the knife and plate next to it, and carefully stood up.  As I came erect I caught the rifle by the barrel and threw it at his face.  His hands came up reflexively to block the gun and I hit him under the heart with all my power.  He folded forward and I clubbed a hard left to his exposed cheek, then another to his ear.  He fell to his knees, his hands clawing automatically for his guns.  Jim stepped behind him and slipped the guns from their holsters and lifted Kelso to his feet.  The others had gathered around and stood waiting.
     “Kelso, gather your gear and get out.  Jim, see he gets his share of everything before he goes.  We don’t need you any more, Vance.  You have a problem that we don’t need and can’t tolerate.”
     “Give me back my guns, you son of a bitch!”  Vance Kelso was furious.  “You done that so’d you wouldn’t have to face me.  You know I’m better than you.  You know I can take you.  Give me back my guns.”
     “You can have your guns when you leave, Kelso. Not before.  And Vance, don’t you ever call me again.  I’ll kill you, Vance.  I’ve seen you draw and we’re about even, but I’d kill you.  I wouldn’t give you any kind of a chance at all.  Take your stuff and get out!”
     
     Within minutes he’d taken his horse and one other, and his share of our supplies, riding off to the south.  Everyone took a second to look at me before retuning to what they had been doing.  Pop Schramm walked over and stood easily, lighting his pipe.
     “You done right, frank.  The others think so, too.  The boy had gone bad on us someplace back along the way.”  He stood puffing quietly for several minutes before saying anything else.
     “I think, though, you’re gonna wish you’d ‘ve killed him someday.  He’ll remember the fist an’ the shame an’d the challenge, an’ it’ll eat away at him until he has to do something about it.  He’ll come for you, Frank.  You’ll still have it to do, soon or late, you’ll still have to kill him.”

[Forty Rod]

Just a quick note:  I have recieved several comments about Jim Taylor, and a dire threat if I should allow him to be killed off.

Rest easy. 

Jim Taylor had one more son and two daughters after he returned home from the war, and died peacefully in his mid seventies.  Because his birth records were missing, his exact age is inknown.  The son, William Archer Taylor was born in 1868 and had eight childen. 

The youngest, Thomas Alva Taylor, born in Almon, Missouri in 1908, was my father.

[Forty Rod]

CHAPTER 5

An hour before sundown John Gilliam came to me with a small Negro boy maybe six or seven years old.
     “Cap’n, this here’s Mister Jeremiah Goss.  He says he’s got a powerful important message for my ‘boss’ an’ his granny told him to deliver it personal.” 
     “Howdy, young fella.  My name is Frank Cavannaugh.  What message do you have for me?” 
     The boy’s face was full of fear and curiosity, his eyes huge.  He was barefoot, his clothing worn without being shabby, and there was no dirt visible more than a few hours old.  He swallowed hard and stepped right up to me, pulled his shoulders back as far as he could without tipping over onto his back, and jerked his hat off and held it in front of his chest.  He was afraid, but tried hard not to show it.
     “Cap’n Frank, sir, my gran’ma says to ask you if your doctor can come.  My Uncle Jeremiah who is named after me is shot, an’ Gran’ma says she doesn’t have the experiments…”
     “Experience.”
     “Yes sir, experience to fix him up right.  Can your doctor please come, Sir?”
     “Deal?”
     “Right here, Cap’n.  Billy’s bringin’ up the horses.  Can you ride, Mister Goss?”
     I looked at the boy.  He was staring around at everything, his eyes wide and his smile huge.
     “Yes sir, I can ride.  Most as good as you can, I imagine.”
     “Do tell,” Jim laughed as he hoisted the kid up onto the horse that Billy brought up.  “You just might, at that.”
     The little boy smiled at me and asked, “Does this mean you’ll come, then Cap’n Frank?”
     “Of course we’ll come, Jeremiah.”
     The kid’s shoulders relaxed and he leaned forward to pat the horse’s neck.  “Oh, praise the Lord, Sir.  Thank you.  I’m so glad you’re comin’ ‘cause gran’ma said to bring you back no matter what, an’ I didn’t know how I was gonna make you if you didn’t want to.”  As we rode away, Jeremiah told me, “Gran’ma said you’d come.  She said she could tell you were good folks, but Pap…well, Pap wasn’t so sure.”

     Jeremiah, Jim and I rode the short distance to the Negro’s camp where we found the wagons and two carts pulled into a rough triangle.  Jim went straight to the wounded man laying on the tailgate of the wagon, and started working on his injuries.  He’d been shot in the side and the old woman was having a hard time getting the bullet out.  Jeremiah stood watching intently while holding onto a fine looking young woman, his eyes never leaving Deal’s big hands while they worked.  I stood behind them and watched as well, though I’d seen Jim do the same sort of thing many times.  I overheard the boy tell the young woman, “Momma, they treated me real fine over there, just like I was a grown up man.  Momma?  Some of the men even called me MISTER Jeremiah Goss!”  I glanced at the woman’s face and saw her smile.  She glanced my way and mouthed the words “thank you.”

     We had nothing for the pain and the injured man laid chalky gray and sweating as Deal worked.  I added that to my list of things we needed to get in St. Louis.  Finally I heard Jim mutter, “Got it, by God!”  He wiped the gray slug and held it out to the man on the tailgate
     “You want to keep it?”
     “Yes, Sir, I do.  I want to return it someday to the man who shot me.”
     Jim said, “That’s the spirit, son.  You get some rest now.”  To the old woman he said, “Ma’am, you try to keep him quiet for a few days.  Wake him every two hours an’ get some broth in him.  He’ll be needin’ the nourishment and lots of water or coffee.  He’ll prob’ly be fevered for a couple of days and then he’ll eat everything he can lay a hand on.  Do you think you can handle it from here?”

     “Jim, Pop an’ me are goin’ into Saint Louis for a day or so.  You can stay here and look in on Goss to make sure he’s okay.  If we aren’t back before, we’ll meet you south of town in five days.”  I stopped and looked over at the people by the wagons.  “Jim, these are good people, real fighters.  You might want to think about askin’ them to come along on with us.  They can use the protection an’ we can use the help.  Think about it an’ ask the other boys what they think.  If you all agree, go ahead on an’ invite ‘em to join up.”

[Forty Rod]

     “Sounds good.  I’ll ask the fellers and we’ll meet you across the river, with or without ‘em.  We’ll find a spot about five miles west of the river, an’ five south.”
     I stood up and stretched.  “Alright, let’s get on back then.”
     Jim didn’t move, but said, “You go ahead on, Cap’n.  I’ll sit with my patient a spell.  You just go ahead and I’ll be over later.”

     After explaining what Jim and I had discussed and where he was, Pop Schramm and I saddled up and rode off toward St. Louis as soon as it was dark.  Without the remuda and wagon we made better time and rode until well after daybreak.  We rested and cleaned up a mite and entered the town before noon.
     Before the war St. Louis had been the supply point for the mountain men, fur trappers, and other frontiersmen.  St. Joe was further west, but these half-wild men felt more at home in “Saint Looie”, and here were found the gun shops, outfitters, and entertainment they knew.  Here it was that they could meet old friends, swap information, trade goods, and equip for the journey to “The Great Shining Mountains”, the Rockies.  It was into this place of wonder and excitement, even after the war, that Scramm and I rode to buy supplies and learn of the trails west.  Pop had hoped to find friends and acquaintances, and I set out to find the gun shop of my mother’s younger brother.  His shop had been in the city for many years and he was known and respected as a maker of first-rate mountain rifles.  These guns were recognized as large, unlovely, big caliber, accurate, and powerful weapons of rugged and reliable construction.  I had not heard of him since late in 1863.
     I left Pop to go his own way, agreeing to meet the next day at the same place.  I rode to a saloon near the address of the gun shop and bought a drink.  I kept it close, but didn’t taste it, for I was here for information and a man without a drink in his hand was suspect.  A saloon in those days was a kind of men’s club, a clearinghouse for information of many kinds, a place where deals were made, where games of chance were available, and a social gathering place.
     In the first few minutes I learned of animals for sale, “good strong Missouri mules.”  When Missouri mules were mentioned it was always with a large amount of pride and admiration.  I mentioned this to a man leaning against the bar.
     “Well, there’s mules, and then there’s Missouri mules.  There’s good mules raised just about everywhere, but Missouri mules ain’t good.  They’re great!   They’re bigger, tougher, an’ smarter than ordinary mules.  They can go farther an’ longer, an’ get back on the trail sooner than just plain mules.  Mister, you get a Missouri mule an’ you got the best there is.”
     Another man chimed in with his own observation.  “The onliest thing better than a Missouri mule is a Missouri woman.  Why stranger, we got the best of ever’thin’ in Missouri, our dogs are meaner, our birds fly higher, an’ our fish swim faster.  Hell, even our water is wetter an’ our dirt is dirtier than anyplace else.”  We laughed together and I mentioned that I’d heard some Texicans say pretty much the same thing about Texas.
     “Well, you know how them boys from Texas are.  A Misourian might josh you a bit now an’ again, but them Texas lads are just plain uninformed!  Besides…an’ I’d not say this to their faces for fear of shamin’ em…but some of ‘em are just tellin’ some turrible bodacious whoppers about Texas.

[Forty Rod]

 After a bit I was introduced to Jake Silvers, a local businessman, and in fairly short order was the proud new owner of four mighty fine “Missouri mules”. I had also arranged for flour, coffee, tobacco, salt, beans and a host of other items we were needful of.  I bought powder, caps, and ball, as well, and a dozen new blankets.
That night I camped alone outside of town.  I had left my purchases with Silvers, and slept well, trusting to my horse to warn me of anyone getting close.  I’d found a good horse to be as good as a dog, and this chestnut had been with me a long spell.  We knew each other very well.
Early the next day I sought out J. E. Vogel, Gunmaker.  Old Joe and Uncle Cyrus had known each other for many years, and even though competitors, had been close friends.  When some of Uncle Cy’s workers got the wind up and headed for California seeking gold, Joe had his foreman and barrel maker go over and help out until new men could be hired and trained.  Uncle Cy had run Joe’s business for a couple of months when Joe broke his arm.
At the Vogel shop I met Harry Schreiber, the foreman.  He told me Joe had gone down to the bank and would be back before long.  “He doesn’t need to go down town much any more.  It’s just gotten to be a habit.  He’ll make small talk with folks at the bank an’ then drop over to see the boys at Gemmer’s.  He’s the man who took over Sam Hawken’s place down on Washington Avenue.  He’s done right well rebuildin’ Sharps an’ Spencers an’ the like, an’ repairin’ and freshin’ out muzzle loaders.”
Is the gun business still good, Harry?” I asked.
“No, it ain’t.  It’s fallin’ off pretty fast these days, Frank.  Nobody much wants a single shot front loader anymore.  They’re lookin’ for cartridge guns an’ a lot of them are lookin’ for repeaters.  I notice you got none of them Henrys yourself.”  He stopped and looked out the window at nothing in particular.  “No, Frank, it won’t be too long until we see a whole new breed of guns, ‘specially out here…and west.  Joe hasn’t got a competitive design an’ he’s getting’ too old to fight it any more.  He’s been talkin’ about retirin’ for years.  Prob’ly would have, if Cyrus hadn’t beat him to it.”
I stood there feeling old and tired at twenty-eight years old.  Finally I took a deep breath.  “That’s too bad.  Those two weren’t ever as well known as Hawken or Dimmick or Leman, some of the others, but they were every bit as good as could be had.’
“They were all that an’ more.  Why I’ve seen Joe, an’ your uncle, too, turn away a customer who wanted something that they didn’t think was right.”
I grinned at that.  “The guns last almost forever, too.  Saw one of Joe’s just before the war.  The man who had it told me his pa bought it new at the old shop in Philadelphia in twenty-four.  Brought it here right after Joe moved to Saint Louie and had it converted to a percussion lock.  That was in forty or forty-one.  This man got it from his pa in fifty-one and had Joe “fresh out” the barrel.  It had been a forty-four caliber and he had it opened up to a fifty.  Could be a sixty by now, but I don’t know how much metal was left in that barrel.  Might not be able to open ‘er up any more.”

“Yeah.  We still get a lot of ‘em back for work like that, some of ‘em shot totally smooth.  We replace a lot of springs and small parts, too.”
“Do you ever see any flinters any more?”
Harry turned and pointed to a rack against the rear wall.  “Got a couple of ‘em in right now.  One needs a new frizzen and the other needs springs and a top jaw.  These old boys will tell you that percussion is a passin’ fancy an’ cartridges wont last.  They say as long as flint an’ steel make sparks, they won’t go wrong.  One of ‘em explained that the Blackfeet an’ Utes don’t carry caps and cartridges in their general stores.