yet subdued. “They are all murdered.”
Oaths were uttered at this, and Black John commanded us to mount. This we quickly did, and soon we were afield, feeling wolfish, searching for victims.
They were in good supply.
We made trash of men and places. At Sweet Springs we found the houses of two Unionists who had tried to waylay Cave Wyatt when he had visited his mother there. Both men were unaware of us and smug—but not for long. Cave put amens to their miserable existences after delivering unto them a knotty sermon. Their homes became beacons.
Several of the boys were from this neighborhood and had scores to settle. A man called Schmidt thought a fox was in his henhouse but encountered a larger thief than he was prepared for. His end was merciful, as he was a good runner and nearly made the woods.
Following Davis Creek we traveled north by west, swooping on known Union properties and persons. Word of our presence traveled fast, and by midday all we found were empty houses to destroy. Here and there we confiscated silverware or jewelry that had fallen into the wrong hands. But there was not much of it.
Our devotion to revenge began to dull after that, and we yearned to ambush some food and plenty of it.
Turner Rawls had family on the creek, so we stopped in there for dinner. All horses but two were secreted in a ravine behind the house. Turner’s father had been shot in Warrensburg for buying more lead than one man could need, and his two brothers were somewhere in Arkansas with Price. This made him the only protector of his mother and two sisters. He was tender in attitude when about them, a level of temperament he had never before displayed. It made me fonder of him.
The women set us a fine table: chicken fried the way mothers do it, and ham with sweet potatoes, biscuits and coffee. I was zealous about the ham and sweet potatoes, and soon had my fill. Having my fill made me sleepy, so I went onto the porch. It was a fine, sunny day and I decided to count the nailheads in the porch ceiling. To do this I lay on my back, but quickly I lost the count.
Sneezing horses awakened me. I sat up, but they were there: Four militiamen stared at me from behind carbines. A good distance off there was a larger gaggle of bluebellies.
The house had gone silent.
“Where’s the other, you devil?” asked one of the militia. He had puppy cheeks and foam at the mouth. He gestured at the two horses we had left out front. “Speak up and maybe you’ll live yet.”
This brought haw-haws from his brethren, who were a pink-jowled lot of bad citizens.
My comfort was diminished. The full gullet made me feel slow and perhaps stupid.
“Get his guns,” the foamy man said. One of the others acted as if he would come forward to disarm me, but hesitated. “Halloo inside! Come out and show your parole or surrender.”
Southern men who would not fight could post parole bonds to walk about with a little freedom. I had no parole, and I was armed, as no paroled man could be.
The main body was now coming forward, and a quick scout told me there was fifty or more of them. The numbers were not favorable.
“I am alone,” I said. “That’s my daddy’s house. He was shot off it three days back.”
“He lies,” said a shrewd militia. “Let’s parole him to Jesus, and right now.”
I was still seated, and that saved me. The house exploded in the militia’s faces, and four saddles were instantly unburdened. I pulled to my knees and grabbed the reins of our two horses and began to run to the rear of the house.
“Get in here!” voices called to me, but I knew we needed the horses, though neither was mine.
My course was changed when the troop of militia opened up on me. I heard the enchanting whack of bullet on meat. Both horses screamed and spasmed, one dropping dead while the other spun in a tight agonized whirl, the rear legs useless.
The bullets were coming in gangs, as I was a lonely target. The little finger on my left hand, a fairly useless digit, was cleaved from me. I saw it land pink and limp in the dust of the chicken pen but made no move to regain it.
Two more strides put me in the house.
At every window there were guns pointing