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Toallmyfamily,hereandnow,longgoneorstilldreamed,whodo,did,orwilltakestandsoneverywhichsideofThatOldMountain,withloveandgratitude.
TheauthorwishestothanktheCopernicusFoundationandtheIowaWriters’WorkshopfortheassistanceprovidedbyaJamesA.MichenerFellowship.
FOREWORDFirstoff, letmesaythatmostAmericannovelistswouldnothaveattemptedtowrite this book. They wouldn’t have the courage to tell a story where racialepithets are common and, evenworse, amajor character is a blackmanwhofightsfortheConfederacy.ItwouldnotmatterthattheoffensivelanguagewastruetothetimeperiodandplaceorthattheblacksoldierwasbasedonamemberofQuantrill’sRaiders, amanwho can be seen in a 1904 reunion photograph.These are parts of history a good many people would prefer remainunacknowledged, and those people will resent an author for bringing suchmatterstolight.Readerswishingforaromanticizedlamentfor“thelostcause”willbeequally
resentful. Woodrell’s Confederates are not men of honor who observe thegentlemanlyrulesofwarfare.Thesesoldiersplunder,killunarmedcivilians,andtorturetheircaptives.Theirmodeofwarfareisambushortrickery,evendressinginUnion blue to surprise the enemy. The nobility of Southernwomanhood isseeninlightofacoupleruttingonadirtfloor.Theonlycausethemenfightforisvengeance.Theirloyaltyistoeachother,butwithintheranksthereishatredandkilling.Thepuritanical,whetherontheleftorrightofthepoliticalspectrum,preferaworldwithoutambiguityorparadox.Woodrell,likeallthebestartists,isanoutlier.HisquestinWoetoLiveOnistorendertheworldasitwas,notaswewishittohavebeen.“Warmeansfighting,andfightingmeanskilling,”BedfordForrestsaid.Jake
Roedel,thenovel’snarrator,learnsthetruthofForrest’scommentalltoowell.Jakeknowsthatinsuchtimeseven“mercyhastreacheryinit.”WhichbringsustothecentralquestionraisedinWoetoLiveOn:Isitpossibleforamantoretainhishumanityinaninhumantime,andifnot,atleasttoregainthathumanityafterawarends?AsJakeputsit,“Ourstrugglehadcarriedusintoanewterritoryofthesoul,wherewefoundnewversionsofourselves.”WoetoLiveOnprovidesan answer that is neither nihilistic nor sentimental—and is sometimescontradictedinthenovelitself—butneverthelessisonethatIfindsatisfyingandtruetothecomplexityofthehumanheart.There is so much more to praise about this novel—its perfect pacing, the
memorable characters, the seamless meshing of history and imagination, butwhatIadmiremost inWoetoLiveOn is the language.There isnotamomentwhen thewords feel outside the time and place.Words such as scotched and
codded abound. The similes are colorful but they fit the characters’ ruralbackgrounds:“Thatwasclearascowpattiesonasnowbank”;“Youdonedidthemilkin’,mightaswelllapthecream.”ThesyntaxandformalityinJake’stellingistruetoletterswrittenbyCivilWarsoldiers:“IbelievedIcouldnotbehit,soabsenthadIdecidedmyselftobe”and“…wonderinghowmanyofourdinnercompanionswouldshareourmealsnomore.”Thehorrorofwarisvividlyrendered.Thisisnotabookforthefainthearted.
Menkill andarekilled, and the reader is spared fewdetails.A scenewhere awife’sloveletterisreadaloudtoadyingUnionsoldierisparticularlyharrowing.Butamid thecarnage therearemomentsof lyricalwonderandbeauty.Oneofmy favorites iswhen Jake, hiding out in a barn, observes “the shafts of lightspearingdownthroughcracksandilluminatingallthegrainydebrisintheair.”Itisamoment thatbrings tomindanothersoldier,Tolstoy’sPrinceAndre,who,fallen on the battlefield, sees the sky as though for the first time.Beauty andwonderyet abide in thenovel’sworld.Andabelief that, even in theworstoftimes, we are capable of moments of grace and forgiveness, “that alonenesswouldnotbeourfate.”DanielWoodrellisoneofAmerica’sbestwriters,andWoetoLiveOnisone
ofhisfinestachievements.Thereissueofthisnoveliscauseforcelebration.
—RonRash
BOOKONE
Playingwarisplayedout!—CHARLESR.JENNISONOFJENNISON’SJAYHAWKERS
1
WE RODE ACROSS thehillocks andvalesofMissouri, hiding inuniformsofYankeeblue.Ourscoutswereoutleftflankandrightflank,whilePittMackesonandmeformedthepoint.Thenighthadbeenlongandarduous,thehorseswerelatheredto the withers and dust was caking mud to our jackets. We had been aidedthroughthenightbybustheadwhiskeyandourbreathsblasphemedthescentofearlymorningspring.Blossomshadbegunacautiousbloomondogwoodtrees,and grass broke beneath hooves to impart rich, green odor. The Sni-A-Barflowed to thewest, a slight creekmore than a river, but a comfort to tonguesdriedgamyandhorseshardrode.Weweremakingourwaydowntheslopetoit,through a copse of hickory trees full of housewife squirrels gossiping at ourpassing,whenwesawawagonhaltednearthestream.There was a man holding a hat for his hitched team to drink from, and a
woman,agirl inredflannelandaboywhowassplashingaboutat thewater’sedge,raisingmud.Theman’svoiceboomedtoscoldtheboyforthis,ashehadyettodrink.Thelanguageofhisbarkputhiminperil.“Dutchman,” Mackeson said, then spit. “Goddamn lop-eared St. Louis
Dutchman.”MackesonwasAmericanandhadnouseforforeigners,andonlyalittleforme.Hehadeyesthatwerenotset level inhishatchetface,sothathesawyoutopandbottominoneglance.Iwatchedhimclosewhencrowdsofgunswerebanging,andkepthimtomyfront.“LetusbringBlackJohnup,”Isaid.Iturnedinmysaddleandraisedmyrighthandaboveme,wavedacirclewith
it,thenpointedahead.Themaingroupwastrailingusbysomedistance,sowehadtopausewhileBlackJohnbroughttheboysup.Whentheywereabreastofus the files parted and Black John took one column of blue to the right, andColemanYoungertooktheothertotheleft.This movement caused some noise. The Dutchman was made alert by the
rumbleofhoovesbuthadnochancetoescapeus.Wetightenedourcircleaboutthewagon,madecertainthefamilywasalone,thendismounted.The family crusted around the Dutchman, not in fear, but to introduce
themselves.Ouruniformswerearelieftothem,fortheydidnotlookcloselyatourmismatched trousersandourhats thathadrebel locks trailingbelowthem.Thiswasacommonmistakeandwetookpleasureinpromptingit.Mostoftheboyscouldn’tbeexcitedbyasingleman,sotheyledtheirmounts
to the stream, renewed their friendshipwithwhiskey and generally tomfooledabout near the water. Black John Ambrose, Mackeson, me and a few othersconfrontedtheDutchman.HeofferedhishandtoBlackJohn,whosestiffheight,bristlyblackcurlsandhard-setfacemadehisleadershipplain.“WilhelmSchnellenberger,”theDutchmansaid.BlackJohndidnotextendhisownhand,butspit,asAmericansarewonttodo
whenconfidentoftheirmight.“Areyou secesh?”Black John asked, ever so coaxingly. “Areyou southern
man?”“Nein,”theDutchmanresponded.Hegraduallydroppedhishandbacktohis
side.“Nosecesh.Unionman.”Ispit,thenpawedtheglobwithmyboot.“Dutchman,”Mackesonsaid.“Lop-earedDutchman.”“Areyoucertainyouarenotatallsecesh?”BlackJohnaskedoncemore,his
lipssplitinamannerthatmightbeagrin.“No, no, no,” the apple-headedDutchman answered.His baffled immigrant
eyeswanderedamongus.Hesmiled.“Nosecesh.Nosecesh.Unionman.”Thewoman,thegirlandtheboynoddedinagreement,theboybeginningto
studyouruniforms.Hewasaboutfouryearsyoungerthanmeandlookedtobeasmartsproutdespitehissnubbednoseandloosejaw.Ikeptawatchonhim.Black John pursed his lips and poised to speak, like a preacher caught
breathlessbetweenthegoodnewsandthebad.Someofthefellowswereintheshallowskickingasticktoandfro,tryingto
keep it in the air, whiskey to the winner. It was a poetry moment: water,whiskey,nodanger,afriendlysuninthesky,larksandlaughter.“Aw,hell,”BlackJohnsaid.“Stretchhisneck.Andbesharpaboutit.”ThewomanhadsomeAmerican,andtheDutchmanhadenoughanyway,for
whensheflungherarmsabouthimwailing,hesunktohisknees.Hisheadlolledbackonhisneckandhis facewentwhite.Hebeganmumblingabouthisgod,andIwasthinkinghowhisgodmust’vemissedtheboatfromHamburg,forhewasnotnearhandyenoughtobeofuseinthisland.Mackesongoadedme.“What’shebabblin’?”“HeisprayingtoAbeLincoln,”Ianswered.Aropewasneeded.ColemanYoungerhadagoodonebutwouldnotlenditas
itwasnew,soweusedmine.Mackesonformeditintoanoosewithsevencoilsrather than thirteen, for he had no inclination to bring bad luck onto himself.Thirteenisproper,though,andsomethingsoughttobedoneright.Iraisedthisissue.“Youdoitthen,Dutchy,”Mackesonsaid,tossingtheseven-coiledropetome.
“Badluck’llnotchangeyourcourseanyhow.”TheropeburnedbetweenmyfingersasIworkedtomaketheDutchman’send
aproperone.Thesituationhadsunkinonthefamilyandtheyhadbecomedull.TheDutchmansawsomethinginmeandbegantospeak.Heleanedtowardmeandwiggle-waggledinthatalientongueofours.Iactedputuponbyhavingthustoillustratemyskillinoddballdialects,lestIbewatchedforsignsofprideintheuseofmyparents’language.“Wecarenothingforthewar,”theDutchmansaid.Hehadlosthishysterics
forthemomentandseemednearlysensible.Irespectedthat,butfittedthenoosewiththirteencoilsaroundhisneck.“WeareforUtahTerritory.Utah.ThisisnotawarinUtah,welearn.”“Thiswariseverywhere,”Isaid.“IamnoNegro-stealer.Iambarrelmaker.”“YouareUnion.”“Nein.IamforUtahTerritory.”IgavethelongendoftheropetoMackeson,asIknewhewantedit.Hethrew
ithighupoveracottonwoodbranch,thentiedittothetrunk.JackBullChileswas standing betweenMackeson and thewater; and as he
wasmynearbrother, raisedonthesamebitofearth,hehustledtheDutchmantowardthewagonforme.Someoftheotherboysjoinedhim,andtheyliftedthecenter of attention to the seat of thewagon, startling the team, and settingoffscreechesofmetalonwood,mulesandwomen.Isteppedbackfromthewagon’spath,thenturnedtoBlackJohn.“HesaysheisnotaUnionman,”Itoldhim.Iwasflatwithmyvoice,giving
thecommentnomoreweightthanaremarkontheweather.“Hewascoddedbyourcostumes.”“Surehesaysthat,”Mackesonsaid.“Dutchmandon’tmean‘fool.’”“Nowhesaysheissympathetictoourcause,doeshe?”BlackJohnsaid.He
wasremountedandotherswerefollowingsuit.“Well,heshould’vehungbyhisconvictionsratherthanlivebythelie.”BlackJohnswelledhimselfwithaheavybreath,thennoddedtoMackeson.“He’sjustagoddamnDutchmananyhow,andIdon’tmuchcare.”Mackeson winked meanly at Schnellenberger, then stepped past him and
slappedthemulesontherump.Theimmigrantswung,andnotsummer-eveningpeaceful,butfrantic.“OnelessDutchman,”ColemanYoungersaid.Theyallwatchedme,astheyalwaysdidwhenwrong-heartedDutchmenwere
convertedbyus.Theywerewatchingmeevenas theyfacedaway,orgiggled.Such an audience compelled me to act, so I mounted my big bay slowly,
elaboratelycoolabouttheaffair.Thewomanwasgrievedbeyondutterance,hereyeswideandhermouthopen
andtrembling,asifshewouldscreambutcouldnot.ThelittlegirlwascurledinbehindMutter’sbigskirts,whimpering.TheboyIwatched,asI’dpeggedhimforsmart.Withhishandshanginglimp
athis sideshewalkedbeneathhis father’sdancingboots, thengaveacryandmade amove to loosen the rope about the cottonwood trunk.Hewas close tofourteenandstillforeigntohistoes.I gave no warning but the cocking of my Navy Colt and booked the boy
passage with his father. He did not turn, and the ball tore him between theblades.Hisdeathwasinstant.Myfacewasprofound,Ihoped,whenIfacedBlackJohn.“Pupsmakehounds,”Isaid.“Andtherearehoundsenough.”Black John nodded, then said solemnly, “Jake Roedel, you are a rare
Dutchman.”PittMackesonglaredatmewrinkle-nosed, as if Iwere somethinghogshad
vomited.“Didyouseethat?”heasked.“Shottheboyintheback!Couldn’tshoothim
face-to-face.GoddamnDutchman!Why’dyouback-shoothim?”“I am tender toward boys,” I said. “But I would put a ball in your face,
Mackeson,shouldaffairssodictate.”Therewasasilencethatgaveoffsteam,thenBlackJohnrepeatedhimselfon
thesortofDutchmanIwasandwerodeawayinthesilenceofthefamily’spain.JackBullsidledhisblue-blackmountnexttomineandwerodetogether.My
nearbrotherhada squared foreheadandanarrowchinandmanlybrowneyesatopanuncrushednose.Theeffectwaspleasingtomostfolks.Hisdarkhairhadlength,andhislong,leanbodywascapableofquickness,butonlyaftercarefulthought.“Youwanttowatchthatman,”hesaidquietly.I was positioned so that Pitt Mackeson’s sweat-targeted blades were ever
visibletome.Heseemedtoknowitandtookgreatinterestinwhathehadjustriddenpast.“IbelieveIcan,”Isaid.“Heneedshurting.”“Aw,”JackBull said.“Youexpect toomuchofhim.He isdumbandmean
and snaky, but he is a good Yankee-killer.” Jack Bull had, by virtue of thestation towhich he’d been born, an air of educated understanding about him.“YoumustadmitthatheisafineYankee-killer.”“Heisagoodkiller,JackBull.AndthisseasonhekillsYankees.”“Comradescanbemadeofless,”heresponded.“Keepitinmind.”
Ihadmanycomradeswhoweremadeofnothingbutthesame.Isawthetruthofitandwouldnotsquawkthattheywerenotmadeofmore.
OurcoursetookusintothebottomsoftheBlackwaterRiver.Thelandwasmoistthere, and the roads were heavy. We were unmilitary in our formation butwatchfulofeverything.Nearontonoonwecametoasmallfarmandhalted.Wescannedthescene
andsawnothingofthreatinit.“Some of you boys go make us known,” Black John commanded. Cave
Wyatt,RileyCrawford,BillHouseandSilasMillsrodedirectlytothedoorandhailedtheinhabitants.Anoldwomansooncameontotheporch.Herdresswasgrayandthickand
smudged,andherbootscarriedmud.“Whoisit?”sheasked.MostofthecountrymeninthiscountywereloyaltotheSouthandnecessary
tous,soroughtacticswereheldbackuntilsympathyhadachancetowin.“Why,wearesouthernmen,”Cavesaid.“Andhungry.”“You don’t look like southernmen,” the oldwoman said back. “How do I
know?”RileyCrawfordwas from this county, and being not over sixteen he had a
trustworthy face. Jayhawkers had tortured his father with devilish rope tricksand,thusleftfatherless,Rileyhadgrownintoakilleryoung.He spoke. “Woman, my name is Crawford. One of the Six-Point Creek
Crawfords—doyouknowme?”Thewomanstompedthemudfromherbootsontheplanksoftheporch,then
nodded.“Iknewthefather,”shesaid.“Himandplentymore.Comeonandeataswhat
wehave.”Wewentintotheyardanddismounted.Thenipsofwhiskeyhadbuiltusall
appetites,sowewerelazyaboutpostingpickets.Thiswasoftenthecase.Wenumberedtwenty-onemen.Thewoman,whohadthenameofClark,was
kepthopping.Shebroughtustraysofbiscuitsandmolasses,coffeeandmilk.Iwenttothekitchentoassisther,asIhadnovanityaboutcookingwork.“Areyoualonehere?”Iaskedher.Her facewas roundandpleasant,but agedby the times.Skin saggedather
throat,yettherewastightnessabouttheeyes.“Yes,” she said. Then, jolted by the thought of her lie, “No.Myman is at
ArkansaswithShelby.Mysonisinthebarn.”
“Ishegrown?”“He was,” she said. “He gave up a leg atWilson’s Creek. I keep him hid
away.”Shegrabbedabiscuit trayandturnedfromme.“Jayhawkershavebeenabouthere.Theywouldkillhim.”“Heshouldcomewithus.”“No,”shesaid,andshookherhead.“Hewon’tfight.Heisdonewiththat.”In thefrontroomIatewith themen,allsquattedabout thefloor.Ourmany
pistolsscraped thefloorboardsandmadesitting thusaskill,butnocomplaintswereevermadeofthat.Ihunkerednext toJackBullasusual,andArchClay,BillHouseandCave,
who looked at me from his plate and said, “You are an interestin’ foreigner,Jake.”“Whyisthat?”Iaskedamiably,asCaveoftenhadmeonwithjokes.Hewipedamolassesdroolfromhisbrownbeardandanswered,“Becauseyou
areloyaltohereandnotthere.Uncommon.”MyeyesmetJackBull’s,thenheshruggedandateon,lookingdown.SoonIhadeatenmyfill.ItappedJackBullonthearmandbidhimcomewith
me.“Where?”“Thebarn.Thereisasonhidingoutinthebarn.”Thebarnhadbeenpartburneddown,andonlyonehalfstoodstrongly.Some
haywasputbythere,butlittleelse.“Hallooinside,”JackBullcalledasweentered.“Wearefriends,Clark.Show
yourself.”Fromourbackscamesomesniggeringinathintonethatwaseerie.Weturned
towarditandinstincthadourhandsonourpistols.Thesniggeringcontinuedwhilewesawfromwhereitcame.Asmallishman
layonahaypilebehindthedoor,ashotgunathisside.Theroofhalfthatwasgonefromflameletinplentyoflight.Buttherewasanunwellscenttotheroom.“Bushwhackers,”Clark saidbetweensniggers. “I could’vekilledyouboth.”
Hishandtappedtheshotgun.“Butitain’tevenloaded.”“Noneedofthat,”Isaid.“Wearefriends.”“Yous’poseso,doyou?”Clarkasked.“Idon’t.”Hisleftlegwasabsentfromnearthehipdown.Aredneckerchiefwastiedto
thestump.HelookedahardridebeyondGrim.“YouwereatWilson’sCreek,”Isaid.“Whowith?”“Why, General Price,” Clark said. He had blue eyes. “The fat glory-hound
rebelhimself.”Jack Bull hunkered down and pointed at the stump. “Didn’t see that one
coming,eh?”This set Clark to sniggering againwith such force that it ended in coughs.
Breathingwasatussle.Hisfacereddened.“I saw it comin’. I see everything.Don’t think I don’t. I saw it rollin’ past
littlepilesofkindlin’stuffthatIonceknewbyname.Iwatcheditrollrightuptome.”JackBulllaughedandspit,thencourteouslycalmed.“Youweren’ttooquick
withbothlegs,wereyou?”“Iwasplentyquick.”Clarkstoppedwith themirthand lookeddour.“Don’t
youbelieveIwasn’t.Butnaturebornedmesmartandthatchangesthings.”Inthatwarone-eyed,one-eared, two-stumpedwarriorswerenotuncommon,
soClark’spatheticqualitiesfailedtobeastouchingashesupposed.“General Price is a good man,” I said. “Would you have us fetch you
somethingtoeat?”“I have a mother for that,” Clark said. “I don’t eat anyway. I’m tryin’
somethin’different.”JackBullstillsquatted,staringattheairwherethelegoncegrew,chewinga
strawendashecontemplatedsomething.Soonhepointedafingeratthestumpandslowlyspoke:“Now,tellmethis,Clark.Ifyouwereplentyquickandsawitcoming,howcouldyounotavoidthecannonball?”Clarktossedhisheadbackdeeperinthehay,andgazedupatthesunthrough
thehalfroof.“It looked like good luck. There was arms in trees and rebels dropped in
sectionsallabout.”Hebreathedwhistly,likeasickbirdmightsing.“Weneverbeenwelloffhere.Never.Weneverevenownedsomuchasasinglespavinednigger.Oh,mister—therewasneighborsgonetoKingdomallaroundme.”“Wilson’sCreekwasahotone,wasn’tit?”JackBullsaid.Hethenlookedat
me.“ArchandColewereinit.Theydescribeitlikethat.Hot.”“Yes,”Isaid.Then,“But,Clark—yourleg.”“Aw,”hesaidandpartpulledhimselfup.“IwantedmyfootbrokesoIcould
headhome.Thedamned little cannonballwasgoin’ slower’na fevered rabbit.Doyourespectme?Iwasthere,andIputmyfootoutjusthopin’forabonetosnap.”“Why,youareafool,”Isaid.“Acannonballwillripyourlegright—”“Ho, ho, ho,” went Clark, then followed it up with more of those eerie
sniggers. The sound wafted eloquently about the barn and required noaccompanimentoffurtherconversation.Experiencehadpreparedmeforallmannerofridiculousmisfortunebefalling
aman.Gopherholeskilledgovernorsandtickbitesemptiedneighborhoods.But
thismanClark’smisfortunehadbeentobewhohewasandthinkhimselfsmartinthewrongerafordelusions.“Well,now,”JackBullsaidashestood,nolongerinterested.“Periloustimes
donotmakeusallstronger.Itissadtosee.”IstareddownatClark,acripplebybadchoice,andfeltcertainhewouldnot
lastlong,asdeathofferssomanyopportunitiestonitwits.“Youwill be killed,” I said to him. “Jayhawkers ormilitia, someone or the
otherwillstophereandkillyou.”“Aw,theybeenherealreadyandburnedthebarn.Iwouldn’tevenmovetoput
it out.Ma done it.”He lay down again, hismemories no doubt on the attackbackbehindhisblankface.“Aslikelyyouboyswillkillme.Idon’tmuchcare.”This comment exhausted JackBull’s forbearance, as he had seen toomany
goodmenpassovertheriverwhodidnotcareforthetrip.“Youwanttodie,doyou?”JackBull’svoicewastautandhisexpressionwas
unlovely. He could be mean. I knew this. “Perhaps you would choose to dienow.” He pulled a pistol and held it aimed down. “I have considerableexperienceinthekillingline,Clark.Icoulddoyouafairjobofit,thisminute.”Clark pondered this with wretched concentration showing in his face, then
said,“No.No.Mahasherheartsetonmelivin’.”“Areyousureofthat?”JackBullasked.“Iamhereandnowandloaded.”Afterafewmoreofthosesicksongbirdbreaths,Clarksaid,“Idon’tbelieve
so.IthinkI’llwaitonit.”Jack Bull slowly holstered his pistol and we walked to the door. There he
pausedandturnedtoClark.“Yourmotherisafineenoughwoman.Youmighthelphersome,don’tyou
think?Yougetyourselfasticktoleanonandyoucouldlimparoundagoodbit.”“Uh-huh,”Clarksaid.“Thatcouldbenext.”Hewasstillflatonhisbackand
staringupatthevastness.“Thatcouldbetheverynextthing.”
2
WHEN EVENING HAD been thrown over us, we were camped at a woods on a farmownedbyamannamedSorrells.Abrooksangnearus, andourpicketshadagoodviewfromthemoundweoccupied.Fireswerelit,asweknewthemilitiafearedtotravelinthiscountrybynight.Weruledthedarkroads.ArchClayhadproducedhisdeckofcardsandwastryingtoteachgambling
gamestotheHudspethbrothers.Neitherofthemhadturnedseventeenandtheycameofgoodfamily,sotheypossessednoskillsinidolatrouspastimes.Ididnotjointhem,asIhadnospiritforgames.“Nowwhathaveyou?”Archasked.Archwasaruntish,dandifiedmanwho
killed more jollily than I found well mannered. He was Black John’s closestfriendandsoleconfidant.“Twoofthesehere,”BabeHudspethsaid,holdinghiscardsaloft towardthe
light.“Theblack-heartedones—isthatgood?”“We call them ‘spades,’ ” Arch instructed. “And you?” he asked of Ray
Hudspeth.“Three,”Raysaid.Hewasbeamingfromtheeasewithwhichhehadbecome
asuccessfulgambler.“Allpuppies’feet—doIwinthemoney?”“Puppies’ feet!”Arch exclaimed.He looked atme sourly, though Iwas no
morethanoneyearseniortothebrothers.“Canyoufathomthat?Puppies’feet!”He threwhiscardsonto theblanket. “Them’sclubs,youdamnedchildren.Nomoregamblin’forme.Ican’tenjoyitlikethis.”TheHudspethssharedglances,thenBabesaid,“Justwhodoyouthinkyou’re
damning,Clay?”Archwashalf-sizedoneitheroftheboysbutolderandmorecertain.“DidIhurtyourfeelings,son?”“Well,”Babeanswered,notquite convincedofhowhe should feel. “Itwas
rudeofyou.”“Ha,” Arch snorted, and lay back on the blanket, tipping his hat forward
across his eyes. “That’s the least bad I’ve been for years. Itwas good of youchildrentonoteitforme.MakesmefeelallwarmandChristian.”IlefttheHudspethstotheirownthoughtsandwanderedtojoinanothergroup
ofcomrades.Igenerallywhittledsomethinguselessandstrolledofanevening.Itrelaxedmeandmademefeelathome.I joinedJackBullChiles,ColemanYoungerandPittMackesonon thedark
groundbeneathatalloaktree.Coleregardedmeintensely,watchingasIsatandscrapedatabranch.Hiseyesdidnotleavemewhenhethrustawhiskeybottleforward.Isheathedmyknife, thenacceptedthebottle.Iappreciatedhisgenerosityto
themeasureofaquarterpintonthefirstswallow.“Donotthinkyouareagoodman,”ColemanYoungersaid.“Thethoughtwill
spoilyou.”“Iamasouthernman,”Isaid.“Andthatisasgoodasanymanthatlived’til
hedied.”ColemanYoungerwasreddishinskinandhair,withthetemperamentthatis
wedtothathue,andgirthandgritenoughtobackitup.“Youareasouthernman—thatisproven,”hesaid.“Butarareone.”ForColemanYoungertospeakofmesosetaglowinmethatwhiskeycould
notmatch,nordoubtextinguish.ItwasforthisthatIsearched,communionandlevelnesswithpeoplewhowerenotminebybirth,butmineforthetaking.“Oh,yes,Roedel,”Mackesonsaid.“Youareproventobeasouthernmanwho
eatskrautandkillsboysfromtheback.”“If the boy had freed the rope, the hanging would’ve been scotched and
requireddoingover,”Isaid.“Judasworkedquick,too,”saidPittMackeson.Coleslowlysavoredaswallowofinspirationalpopskull,thensaid,“Youdid
right.Deadfromthefrontisnomoredeadthanfromtheback.Itisaquestionofopportunity.”“So is chicken stealin’,”Mackeson said.His lopsided faceviewedme from
mytopknottomytoesinasteadyglance.“Do you wish you had more often spoken to your great-grandfather,
Mackeson?”Iasked.“Tellme.”My arms ached already from the thought of digging his eternal home, for I
wasthinkinghewouldsoonbeinit.“How could I wish that, Dutchy? I never even knew him.”Mackeson was
confused.“HewasgoneyearsbeforeIwasborned.”Islidmyhandtowardmybellygun,andhunchedovertoshadethemove.“Well,yourintroductiontohimmaybecloseathandifyousowish.”“Now, none of that,” Coleman Younger said. His person and voice had
authority.“Jakedidright.Andthatisthat.Wearecomrades.”“Ihearyousayin’ it,”Mackesonreplied.Hestoodandlookeddownonme,
thenbegan towalkoff.“I’veheardmanya thingsaid thatwasn’tso, too.”Heleftusthen.“I’mtellingyou,Jake,”JackBullsaid,“youwanttowatchthatman.”
Thewhiskeybottlewasoncemoreinmyhand,soItookashareofit.“Perhaps I should put him where he’ll not need so much watching,” I
suggested.“Naw,naw,”Colesaid.“InahotplacePittisagoodmantohavewithyou.”“Ihearyousayingit,”Ianswered.Wedrankthen,onintofulldarkandhooty-owltime,afterwhichthethreeof
us slept, our bedrolls not a rifle’s length apart. Coleman Younger was not aregularpartofourband,andsoonheleftus,butforthatonebriefperiodhewasmycomrade.
Inthemorningweshedourbluesheep’sclothing.Ourbordershirtscameoutofsatchelsandontoourbacks.Wepreferredthismeansofdress,for itwasmoreflat-out and honest. The shirts were large, with pistol pockets, and usuallycoloredredordun.Manyhadbeenembroideredwithornatestitchingbylovingwomensomewereblessedenoughtohave.Minewas plain, butwell broken in. I can think of nomore chilling a sight
than that of myself, all astride my big bay horse, with six or eight pistolsdanglingfrommysaddle,myrebellocksaloftonthebreezeandawhoopishyellonmylips.When my awful costumery was multiplied by that of my comrades, we
stoppedfaintheartsjustbyourmodeofdreadstylishness.Thatmorningwedawdledaboutcampmorethanusual.BlackJohnsquatted
up to anoak trunk and consulted longwithPressWelch, a rider fromGeorgeClyde’sgroup.WeoftenlinkedupwithClyde,orQuantrill,orPoole,JarrettandThrailkill.Byhavingmanycaptainswekeptourbandssmallforeasyhiding,butwecouldcallalltogetherinafewdays’time.After Press Welch departed, Black John pinched his cheeks together and
lookeddown,lostinsomemannerofsternthought.Hewasolderthanmostofus and had lived inKansas.When being formal he called us the FirstKansasIrregulars,which I never heard anyone echo except in his presence.His headwasa riotofblack tanglinghairon the skull andcheeksboth.Long-faced,hehadahollowedlookbroughtonbyasteadyrationofharddays.“Men…” he finally spoke, raising himself from the ground. “Men, there is
worktobedone.”HisvoicewaslowandthickandBaptist-certainthatwhatitspokewasright.“HamptonEadsandsevenotherofourcomradesweretookbythemilitiaoutofWarrensburg.Youhadfriendsamongthem.”Thiswasnot a rare sortofnews,butwebegan topayattention.Something
wouldbedone.
Black John spread his arms wide as if to calm us, although we were yetsubdued.“Theyareallmurdered.”Oathswereutteredatthis,andBlackJohncommandedustomount.Thiswe
quicklydid,andsoonwewereafield,feelingwolfish,searchingforvictims.Theywereingoodsupply.
Wemadetrashofmenandplaces.AtSweetSpringswefoundthehousesoftwoUnionistswhohadtriedtowaylayCaveWyattwhenhehadvisitedhismotherthere. Both men were unaware of us and smug—but not for long. Cave putamenstotheirmiserableexistencesafterdeliveringuntothemaknottysermon.Theirhomesbecamebeacons.Severalof theboyswerefromthisneighborhoodandhadscorestosettle.A
mancalledSchmidtthoughtafoxwasinhishenhousebutencounteredalargerthief thanhewaspreparedfor.Hisendwasmerciful,ashewasagoodrunnerandnearlymadethewoods.FollowingDavisCreekwetravelednorthbywest,swoopingonknownUnion
propertiesandpersons.Wordofourpresencetraveledfast,andbymiddayallwefoundwereemptyhouses todestroy.Hereandthereweconfiscatedsilverwareorjewelrythathadfallenintothewronghands.Buttherewasnotmuchofit.Ourdevotion torevengebegan todullafter that,andweyearned toambush
somefoodandplentyofit.TurnerRawlshadfamilyonthecreek,sowestoppedintherefordinner.All
horsesbut twoweresecreted inaravinebehindthehouse.Turner’sfatherhadbeenshot inWarrensburg forbuyingmore lead thanonemancouldneed,andhis two brotherswere somewhere inArkansaswith Price. Thismade him theonly protector of his mother and two sisters. He was tender in attitude whenaboutthem,aleveloftemperamenthehadneverbeforedisplayed.Itmademefonderofhim.Thewomensetusafinetable:chickenfriedthewaymothersdoit,andham
withsweetpotatoes,biscuitsandcoffee.Iwaszealousaboutthehamandsweetpotatoes,andsoonhadmyfill.Havingmyfillmademesleepy,soIwentontotheporch. Itwasa fine,sunnydayandIdecided tocount thenailheads in theporchceiling.TodothisIlayonmyback,butquicklyIlostthecount.Sneezinghorsesawakenedme.Isatup,buttheywerethere:Fourmilitiamen
staredatmefrombehindcarbines.Agooddistanceofftherewasalargergaggleofbluebellies.Thehousehadgonesilent.“Where’stheother,youdevil?”askedoneofthemilitia.Hehadpuppycheeks
and foam at the mouth. He gestured at the two horses we had left out front.“Speakupandmaybeyou’llliveyet.”Thisbroughthaw-hawsfromhisbrethren,whowereapink-jowledlotofbad
citizens.Mycomfortwasdiminished.Thefullgulletmademefeelslowandperhaps
stupid.“Gethisguns,” the foamymansaid.Oneof theothersactedas ifhewould
comeforwardtodisarmme,buthesitated.“Hallooinside!Comeoutandshowyourparoleorsurrender.”Southernmenwhowouldnotfightcouldpostparolebondstowalkaboutwith
alittlefreedom.Ihadnoparole,andIwasarmed,asnoparoledmancouldbe.Themainbodywasnowcomingforward,andaquickscouttoldmetherewas
fiftyormoreofthem.Thenumberswerenotfavorable.“Iamalone,”Isaid.“That’smydaddy’shouse.Hewasshotoffitthreedays
back.”“Helies,”saidashrewdmilitia.“Let’sparolehimtoJesus,andrightnow.”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 andgrabbedthereinsofourtwohorsesandbegantoruntotherearofthehouse.“Getinhere!”voicescalledtome,butIknewweneededthehorses,though
neitherwasmine.Mycoursewaschangedwhenthetroopofmilitiaopeneduponme.Iheard
theenchantingwhackofbulletonmeat.Bothhorsesscreamedandspasmed,onedropping dead while the other spun in a tight agonized whirl, the rear legsuseless.Thebulletswerecomingingangs,asIwasalonelytarget.Thelittlefingeron
mylefthand,afairlyuselessdigit,wascleavedfromme.Isawitlandpinkandlimpinthedustofthechickenpenbutmadenomovetoregainit.Twomorestridesputmeinthehouse.Ateverywindowthereweregunspointingout.BlackJohnstoodatthefront
one,amancoolandplausible.Thewomenwereonthefloorandnotintherightspiritfortheadventurethat
hadbefallenthem.TurnerRawlscrouchednearbyhisfamily,pistolpulled,asifthecenterofthefloorwashislaststand.“Doyoukillwomen?”BlackJohncalledoutthewindow.“Therearewomen
inhere!”Themilitiawasonthreesidesofusnow,andfromthehousetothewooded
ravineandhorsestherewasaclearpatchoffiftyyards.Runningitwouldbehot.
“Youknowwedon’t,”camebackabossyhonkofaYankeevoice.Youmightfight a voice like that for any small reason, let alone for invading yourneighborhood.“Sendthemoutnowandthey’llbesafepassaged!”Abone-and-pulpnubbinwasallofmyfingerIhadleft.Mybloodspottedthe
floor andwalls. Someone toldme Iwas hit, as if Imight have overlooked itmyself. I tooka ragandwound it firmabout theachingnubbin.Thepainwasshrillenough,buttheideaofafingerofminetwitchingabout, lostinchicken-peckeddust,wasmoreterrible.“Please,Ma,yougottogo,”TurnerRawlswaspleading.MaRawlslookedathimsomewhatberserkly,thenwavedahandinhisface.“We’regoin’, son,” she said. “Youbest believewe’regoin’.There ain’t no
waywe’renotgoin’.”Sheandthesistersweresoonontheporch.Wewatchedastheywalkedtothe
militia.Therewasapinchofdignitytotheirstridebutapeckofpacetoit.Oncethecourtesieswereoutoftheway,themilitiasentahurricaneofbullets
tobatterthehouse.Westayedlowandreturnedtheweatherasbestwecould.Holesbegan tobe chewed through the thinplanks, and splinters flewabout
plenty.Itwasnotasituationwehadwantedforourselves.“We cain’t hold them from here,” Turner Rawls said. He reflected the
desperation many of us were beginning to feel—mouth agape, skin paled,featuresgorgedwithconcern.BlackJohnwasstillcool,asalways,buthewaswellknowntobesaneonlyin
apeculiarway.“Standfast,boys,”hesaid.“We’llkillthemyet.”Justashespoke,severalmountedmenchargedthehouse, tossingtorchesat
the roof. They had a ferocious covering fire butwe hit two of the riders, onefloppingloosetothegroundthelovelywaytheydowhendead.Flamescouldsoonbesmelledandheardontheroofandsideporch.Noneof
uscaredatallforthecrispyendthatportended.Smokehadtobewrestledforabreathofair.“We’ll just have to take what chances we have runnin’,” said Coleman
Younger.“They’llriddleusdown!They’llriddleusdown!”apanickyHudspethspoke.
“Shit,thereain’tsomuchasastumpoutthereforcover.”Ageneralpandemoniumnowbrokeout.Wewereallonourstomachs,smoke-
blind, trying to find a place to go. Starke Helms and a boy called Lawsoncrawledunderabed.Theywerequiveringfromtheodds.Theflamesbeganlickingatuslikeamaddog’stonguethroughaporchrail.
BlackJohnstood,thenkickedatthebed.“Comeon,men!”heshouted.“Let’sgogetit!”“No!”saidavoicefrombeneaththefour-poster.Idon’tknowwhichmansaid
it.“We’reallgonnadieoutthere!We’lldiecertainoutthere!”“This is no time for debate,”Black John howled, then booted out the back
doorandputhislonglegstouse.Weallfollowedexceptforthetwomenunderthebed.Theirtimiditywouldcostthem.Wepoppedshotsasweran,hopeless,desperatecriescomingfromus.There
wasno chance to aimandour bulletswhizzedoff in all haphazarddirections.BillHousewentdownclutchinghisknee,andthegroundwasmonstrouspeckedby themilitia fire.PeteKinney reachedback forHouseonly tohavehisheadexploded.Lane,MartinandWoodsalsofell,maybenotdeadbutasgoodas.IcouldrunwithonlysomuchcareandIapplieditalltomyself.Severalofuswerehurtingbutmovingwhenwe reached thewoods.Turner
Rawls had a hole in the cheek andmuchblood running fromhismouth. JackBullChileswasunhurtandIgainedhissideaswescrambledpell-melldownthewoodedravinetoourhorses.Wehitthedownslopeofwoodswithsuchenergythatsomewereinjuredfrom
notbeingabletododgetrees.Itwastrickythatway,andIpoppedmynogginonaslybranchmyself.Abloodegggrewabovemyeyeandtherewassomeagony.JackBullputanarmaboutmeandledmetomymount.Wewerequicklyin
thesaddle,flingingshotsatthemilitia,whowerecomingintotheravineafterus.“Splitup!”BlackJohnshouted.“We’llmeetatThePlace.”ThePlacewasMcCorkle’sfarm,whichwasdesignatedassuchforoccasions
ofjustthissort.Themilitiacameon the trotdown theslope,crowdingus.Thoseofuswho
wouldturnedandexchangedfirewiththem,remindingthemthuslyofthefrailtyofthehumanvessel.But they cameon, bold from the advantage theyheld.The fightingbecame
closein,astherewasnogoodpathforustofleealong.Carbinesbangedaboutus and our pistols barked back, horses screamed with panic and a chorus ofvoicescried,“Thisway,men!”or“Downthere,boy!”or“Igotone!”Aswemade ourway into thewoods,men gained on us.A bigYank on a
black horsemis-aimed a round, then began to club his carbine atme, but thebrancheswere so bunched that hewas ineffectivewith his blows.My achingheadwasamirageonmyshoulders;itwasnolongermuchofaninstrument,butImanagedtoseehimandshoot.Theballscoredhimsomewhere.Hegaspedandgaveuponme.Myhorse,OldFog,atrustybeast,somehowfollowedJackBull’sblue-black
Valiant.Gunfireandcriesandmurderswenton,butwemadeittoafieldofdrystumpsandscruboak.Wecoveredsomeground,youmightsay—quickly.When distance enough had been achieved, some objectivity reentered our
thoughtsandwehaltedtoseewhowewereandhowbadoff.JackBullChileswasstillunhurt,RileyCrawford’sfootwasbloodiedbuthe
saiditwastrivial,myheadwasnotquiterealbutIlived,andBabeHudspethhadasignificantgashinhisforehead.TurnerRawlslookedanxiousfrombloodlossbuthewasasturdy-mademan.This,then,wasourgroup.“Where ismy brother?” youngHudspeth asked. The crimson flow ran in a
rivuletdownthebridgeofhisnose,encircling,butnotentering,hiseyes.“Didyouseemybrother?”“BockYawn,” Turner told him. Some teeth had been pulled rudely by the
roundthroughhischeek,andairescapedfromtwoholesnowsothathiswordswerelow-noteriddlesratherthanprecise.“Woofim.Alibe.”Staringacross the field throughwhichwehadpassed, JackBullkeptwatch
forpursuit.Thereseemedtobenone.“Thatwassureenoughhot,”hesaid,hisvoiceanoctaveortwomorejaunty
thanIfelt.“IthinkIkilledarunt.Theyleftushurting—that’scertain.”Theagonyofmyheadandforlornfingerhadmeinastatethatcouldbecalled
fearless.Safetywasnotinmythoughts,butreliefwas,anddeathseemedatthatmomenttobearemedy,althoughitwasoneIwouldwaitforotherstodoseout.Thebloodeggonmybrowthrobbedandthrobbedasifitmightcrackopento
revealacondor.“Goddamnmurderin’militia!”RileyCrawfordsaid.“I’llkilltenmenforthis
woundandathousandifI’mcrippled!”Hudspethhaddismountedandwas rubbingmudonhisgash.Turnerwas in
thesaddlebutslumpedover.Iwasmoreorlessthesame.“We’dbestbeonthemove,”JackBullsaid.WhenHudspethwasremounted,wefollowedmynearbrother.Hechosegood
routes and by eveningwewere at a farm pond somewhere deep in LafayetteCounty,moaningabit,butmostlysomber,wonderinghowmanyofourdinnercompanionswouldshareourmealsnomore.
3
ANIGHT’SRESTWENTalongwaytowardcuringme.Butthelossofmyfingermademecry.Tearsjustranovermyface.Idon’tknowwhy.Thedigitwasnotofmuchconsequence tomy life, but I guess I hadbeenmore fondof the useless littlething than Iknew.Thepainwas therebut steady, andmyheadwasakindofcaricatureIwouldlivewith.Food was our main requirement. At a small house well off any roads, we
stopped.RileyCrawfordwentforwardtotestthetrustworthinessofhisyouthfulvisageoncemore.Anoldmanwithashinyskullcameslylyaroundthesideofthehouse.Hecarriedashotgun,thenputitonRileybutwentlackadaisicalwhentheireyesmet.“Whatdoyouwant,youseceshbastard?”“Food,sir.”“Eatdirt,”thestingygrouchspoke.“Please don’t shootme,” Riley responded. He did an excellent mimic of a
pitifulwaif.“Iambutaboyfarfromhome.”Theoldmanstaredandstared,thenshookhishead.“I’llnotfeedyou,butI’llnotshootyoueither.Nowgetonoutofhere.”“That is tookindofyou,”Riley said.Hispistol flushedup fromhisholster
fasterthanagrouseandhepeggedtheoldtightwadtwiceinthehead.Theoldman never saw what happened to him, but went down, bloody and extinct,victimizedbyadullperspectiveonyouths.Weenteredtheman’shomequickly.Itwasbutashack;youwouldnothave
thought it worth dying over. Out the back window I observed an old grannydeer-hoppingacrossafield,heryouthfulbouncesomehowregained.Imadenomentionofit.Wefilledburlapbagswithsuchprovisionsaswefound.Nocoffee,butsome
hardtack,backbaconandpickledcorn.Tolingerwouldhavebeentoovertestthefates,sowesetfiretothedrywood
ofthehouse,androdeontopicnicinsomemoreidyllicspot.
Hog paths became our highway. We stuck to backwoods routes and easedtowardMcCorkle’s. It was several miles distant. There was a shyness to ourpassing,forTurnerwaspoorlyandconfrontationsofnoappealtous.
Allwesoughtwasthesafetyofourcomrades.JackBullandIconversedaswetraveled.“Thisisfineland,”Isaid.“Itis.Itis,”heanswered.“Whenuntroubled.Whichithasneverbeen.”“It may someday be,” I said, for I was yet an immigrant in a few ways,
optimismbeingone.“Nah.Nah,wearenotmadethatway.IftheLordcalledabarndance,Iwould
halttheoldFiddleranddrawHimintoconversation.IwouldaskHimwhatisinstoreforus.Hisanswerwouldsurelybethecommonone—‘Why, trouble,myson.Asusual.’”BleaknesshadneverbeenJackBull’sway,butexperiencewasinstructinghim
thus.“Itisnotthewhat,”Isaid,“butthewhythatIwouldaskHimof.”ThissetJackBulltochuckling,asifIwereafoolorasubtlewit.“Thatisaskingtoomuch,”hesaid.“Waytoomuch.OfHimoranyoneelse.”Itwas a fine region, though. The water was clear and clean and generally
nearby.Thehillspleased theeyebutwerenotsteepenough todauntone.Thedirt was deep and rich, with a scent you would admire in a gravy, and themeadowshadalushnessthatmadeyouyearntobeagrazingbeast.Gamewasabundant to the point of pestiness, and the forests provided all the buildingmaterialsanempirecouldrequire.ItwasaltogetheralandIwasthankfultobein.Thatis,butforthetrouble.
Distancing ourselves from the turmoil replenished our swagger. We becamemore usual as the day aged. Except for Turner Rawls, whose distress wasspellbindingtohim.Therewas littlewecoulddo tocomforthim,butwekepthim in thesaddle
andmoving.Whenwewereyetsomemilesshortofourdestination, thedayturnedsurly
onus.Ablackpuddleofstormralliedonthehorizon.Thewindpickedupandonitsbreezewesmelledbadtidings.Astormwasbutastorm,butoutofdoorsitwasmiserable.Wewatcheditchargedownonus.BabeHudspethspokeupwithasuggestion.“Ibelieve,ifIain’tlost,thatonemileoverwe’llfindMr.Daily’shouse.I’ve
stopped therebefore. IknowIain’t lost. It’sover there.He isa southernmanandgenerous.”
Aswepausedtothinkthisover,Turnerlaunchedintosomesortofspeech,buthispronunciationwasnowsodouble-holedandhalfscabbedthatonlyascholarcouldunscrambleit.ByhisgesturesitseemedthathewassayinghewasentirelyinfavorofvisitingMr.Daily.Sotherewewent.AftersomeinitialcautionDailyadmittedustohishome.Hehadafarmthat
mighthavebeenprosperousoncebutnowwas littlemore thanaweeded-overhideout.Working in the fields was too dangerous when so many bad peoplewereabout.“You arewelcome,”Daily said.Hewas a fair chunk ofmanwith cropped
grayhairandbowedlegs.Hehadawifeedgingaroundandtwodaughterswhowere still in the tyke stage. “Who have you boys worked on lately? I heardSweetSpringswasshotupsome.”“Wewereinonthat,”JackBullsaid.“Theywillrememberusforit,too.”“Aha,”wentDaily.He seemedproudofus. “Iwas toldyoukilledSchmidt
andVealeandOgilvy—isitso?”JackBullshruggedandturnedtome.“Didwe?”heasked.“Iknowwekilledsomemen.Iknowthat.”“Schmidtwasone,”Isaid.“Hewastherunner.”Dutchdeathsalwaysetched
clear inmymemory. “And it seems that themenCaveWyatt tended towereVealeandOgilvy.”“Wyatt,”saidDaily.“Yes,CaveWyatt.That’sagoodfamilyoverthere.The
Wyatts.”Henoddedseveraltimes.“Afinefamily.”Riley’sfootwasnotwoundedmuch,really,soheputourhorsesinthebarn.
Turnerhadalreadylaidhimselfoutonthefloorandwashavingfeverydreamswhile the rest of usmenwatched theheavens crackdownonweak limbs andloosely laid fencerails.Frailbudswerewhisked intoamangleby thewind. Itwasadark,scouring,wetandmajesticeruption,and itmadeonefeel tinyandsquashable.Theuniversesometimesmakeswarseemamerechigger incomparison,but
thatisinnowaysoothingtoonewhohastheitch.Ourhostsawtoitthatwewerefed.Itwasnotmuch,squirrelwithbiscuitsand
thin pan gravy. Nonetheless we ate it all and deluged Mrs. Daily withcompliments.Shewasanervous,unjoyfulwoman,though,anddidnotseemtobelieveusor
care.Perhapsjoydidnotcomeherwaymuchoflate,astheHappyTrainofLifehadlongbeenderailedintheseparts.ItgrewdarkandsoonwasbedtimebutDailyseemedfondofourcompany.
Turnerdrankmilkanddreamedhot,mumblydramasbyturns,whileweallsat
aboutbeingwindy.Thetykessleptoffawayfromus,andwhenthemotherwasgoneDailypulledoutajugofgoodcheer.Webegan topass it andblowharderatoneanother.Daily toldhowhehad
oncebeentoNewOrleansandmetawomantherewhohadn’tahairleftonher;she had shaved herself complete. There was a peeled appleness to her. Thisfascinatedhimandhespokeofitasyouwouldofadogthatsang,andwell.“That is disgusting,” Babe Hudspeth said, although he laughed. “But why
wouldshedoit,anyhow?”JackBullonceagainexhibitedhiseducation.“Why, to set onewhore apart from another, Babe. It is a harlot’s brand of
showmanship.”Dailybobbedhisheadanddrank.“Itisadamnedfineshow,too.Icouldseeit
againandstillbeinterested.”Ireckonwelaughedatthis,forMrs.Dailycameinandsnatchedupthejug.
Shehadplentyofhairherselfanditwasinglumdisarray.“Iwillnothaveyougettin’drunkinmyhome,”shesaid.“IamaBaptistand
drunkennessisnotsomethingIwilltolerate.”ThisembarrassedDaily.Heslumpedforamoment, thenstoodandsnatched
backthejug.“Iamnotdrunk,”hetoldher.“Iamentertainingourcompany.”Sheputherhandsonherhipsinthatwet-henwaytheyhave.“Youaredrunk,Claude.Itiseversoplaintomethatyouaredrunk.”“Nah,”hebleated.Hebentandset the jug in themiddleof the floor.“Nah,
I’mnotdrunk,Sal.I’mbarelyhappyandnotdrunkatall—couldadrunkmandothis?”Severalfeetofbareplankingsurroundedthejug,andDailybegantodanceon
the open floor. He jigged closer and closer to the jug, kicking at it, his toeswhiskeringpast,bigfeet thwokingdown,raisingdust,demonstratinghissobercontrol.As thedancewentonhestampedasnear to theoffendingspiritsasasecondskinwouldhavebeen.Hisbootsbangedoutasteadycadence.Therewasmorespringinhimthanexpected.Thewholehouserocked.Mrs.Dailywatchedhim.Herexpressionwasnowherenearoneofapproval.FinallyDailywasflushedandsatisfiedandendedthejigwitha tight,proud
whirl.“Doesthatproveit?Inevernudgedit.”“Youshameme,”shesaid.“Onlyadrunkmanwoulddancearoundthatway.”Thisstunnedhim.“Aw!”hewent.Hethenliftedthejugandhandedittome.Iinspectedthegift,thensaid,“Itisuncracked,totally.”Therewasapauseandthewomanusedittoleaveusagain.Butherpurpose
hadbeenserved.Wepassedthegoodcheeraroundonemorecircuit,thencalled
itanight.Wedidn’twanttosouramarriagebybadexample.Me and the boys rolled up on the floor butDailywould not go to bed.He
hemmedandhawedfiercelyforawhilethenwentontothefrontporch,withthejug,alone,andmaywellhavedrunkitallinhissulk.It stymied me. I just didn’t understand how it worked with a man and a
woman. Therewas somuchmystery involved. I hoped there could be a wayaroundit.
In themorning every streamwas high and the roadwas deep in cumbersomemud.Wesloppedthrough,allsplatteredandcranky.Ourmoodwasfoulandnotunusual.Gaybirdsperchedaboutonwet, blackbranches, tweetingout their childish
lullabies.Despitethemuck,thedayhadafreshfeeltoit.Theskywaswashedcleanofcloudsandthesunfolloweduslikeasmileydrummerpeddlingcuresathalfprice.Butwewerefoulandnothavingany.PoorTurnerRawlswasswolleninthejaw,bloatedupseverely.Hewasalert
but in constant pain. He would not complain, but as his horse clumsy-footedalonghegroanedprettyregular.My finger root ached and ached still, but I had grown accustomed to it. In
honest fact Iwas fond of the nubbinywound, for I thought itmight heal intosomethingglamorous.I felt a bondwith thesemen.Where theywouldgo sowould I,where they
foughtIwasdangerousandwheretheydiedIwassad.Ididnothaveitinmetoaskformore.Ifmycoffinisbuiltlongerthanfive
feet and ahalf, theundertaker is postingme toKingdom inmyhigh-crownedslouchhat.ForIamnotlarge,butIhaveneverfelttoosmalltobeofuse.IfIwashandsomethen,itwasasecret,butIpridedmyselfonlookinggoodenoughintightspots.
McCorkle’s farm came into view before morning had expired. Picketschallengedusandweansweredcorrectly.“Whoareyou?”“MessengersofGoodWork.”“Yourbanner?”“TheBlackFlag.”In the camp we found a larger group of comrades. George Clyde had
rendezvousedwith us, doubling our numbers.Clydewas a stout, blockyman,withastrongScot face.Hewasexceedinglypopular,ashe foughtat the frontwhengoingthatway,andtherearwhenbackingup.Hisboysweregooddevoutfightersandreckless.BabeHudspethfoundhisbrotherRayandtheyhuggedeachotherup.Rayhad
someslightscratchonhimbutitwasapainlessthing.Afterourhorseswerestakedouttograze,JackBullandIstrolledthecamp,
checking the faces for those that were no longer there. Bill House was dead,killedintherunfromtheRawlses’home,aswasPeteKinney,DaveLane,JimMartin andCassWoods.Helms andLawsonwere fried beneath the bed. Thefightinthebushhadclaimedonemoreman,thoughnotoneIknewmuch.Twomenwerehurtbadenoughtodiebuttheylikelywouldn’t.Theyweretendedtointheshade.TheguesswasthatwehadkilledsixoreightFederalsandwoundedasmany
more.Thatsoundedhightome.Oursurprisehadbeensonearlycompletethatonlydivinegoodfortunehadkeptusfromannihilation.CaveWyattwaswhole,andclappedmyback,generouswithaffection,abig
grinonhisbroadbeardedface.“Sogladyoumadeit,”hesaid.“IthoughtIwouldhavenoonelefttopickon,
butnowyouarehere.”“Manyaren’t,”Ianswered.“True.Buttheydiedinthegoodfight.Thatisthebestwaytogo.”I nodded, for this was the only sort of philosophy a freedom fighter could
haveifhewastoavoidinsanity.“Letushopewedon’tallgo‘thebestway,’”saidJackBull.Hewasglumly
staring about camp, no doubt brooding over the losses this war had alreadyclaimedfromhim.Hewouldbewealthynomore,and,ashehadbeenraisedinthatstate,itwasabitterfateforhimtoaccept.Ithurtmetoseehismanlyfacesoforlorn,butIcouldnotalterit.
AsthedayworeonIfamiliarizedmyselfwithClyde’smen.TheyhadasurpriseforusAmbroseBoys—fourFederalprisoners.TheyhadtakenthemfromamailconvoynearKansasCity.TheFederalsweretiedmoreorlesslikeyearlings,linkedtogetherbyathick
rope,anchoredtoatree.Theytrembledabitandwereskittishwiththeirglances,notwantingtolooktooboldlyintoourfaces.SeveralofClyde’sgroupsatonthegroundwatchingtheprisoners, torturing
themwithbadjokes.
“Arethosegoodboots,Yank?”“Idon’tknow.Couldbe.”“Theyseemtorunamiteslow.”“Thistimetheydid.”“Well,therewon’tbeanymoreracesforthemwithyoustandinginthem,will
there?”“Iwouldreckonnot.”“Ho,ho,ho.Youareashrewdreckoner,ain’tyou?”Oneofthemenwholoungedtherewastheoddestcomradethinkable.Itwas
George Clyde’s pet nigger, Holt. He was always called Holt, and he carriedpistolsandworeourgarb.Itwassaidthathewasanexcellentscoutandausefulspy. He looked about like any other nigger but spoke less and had a narrowqualitytohisfacethatgaveitanaspectofintelligence.Clyde’s reputation served to protect Holt, but the nigger’s actions also
graduallygainedhimsomeesteem.HealmostneverspoketoanyonebutClyde,as he knewhis opinionswould be scorned.Aswithmost niggers his lifewaspuppetedbyslenderthreadsoftoleranceatalltimes.Hewasagoodfieldcook,thatwasproven.“Holt,”IsaidtohimasIstood.Hiseyescameuptomineandheldtheresteady,thenhenoddedonce.There
wasashinyeffectfromhisgaze,asthoughsomeawfulfirewasinhim.Hedidnotspeak.“Jacob, oh,my Jacob,” someone said tome. I slowly looked for the source
andfounditamongtheprisoners.There,hogtiedtohispoorlychosencomrades,wasAlfBowden,aneighborofJackBull’sandminefromnearWaverly.“Hello,Alf,”Isaid.“Youareinafix.”“Itseemsso,”hesaid.“Itsurelydoesseemso.”GusVaughn,anablebushwhacker,saidtome,“Youknowthisman?”“Certainly,”Isaid.IwalkedoverandtouchedAlfontheshoulder.Heseemed
grateful for the display. His face was haunted by accurate expectations. “HislittleplacewasjustdownriverfromtheChiles’place.Hempgrower.”Alf was sunken-chested and twig-thin. It was not uncommon to thus meet
enemieswhohadnotbeensoingentlertimes.IhadhelpedBowdenraiseabarnonce,anddancedwithhissister’tilherfaceflushedandwebothsweated,butIwasnotinhisdebt,norheinmine.ItwasagoodwarforsettlingdebtsviatheMinié-ball payback or the flame of compensation. Many debts were settledbeforetheyhadachancetobeincurred,butthin-skinnedfairnessrarelycrabbedyouthfulaim.IlookeddownatAlf.Itseemedmypresencewasraisinghishopes.JackBull
Chilesthenjoinedus,andBowdenstrainedhispaleface,tryingtosummonupagrin.“JackBull,”hesaid.Looking down his nose somewhat Jack Bull barely raised his chin in
recognition.“Bowden,”hesaid.“Anynewsofhome?”The little man started out shaking his head, but the gesture picked up
momentumandsoonhisbodyshudderedentirely.“No,no,no,”hesaid.“Itallgoeson.Italljustgoeson.Somemayhavedied,
notmost.”“Whatofourmothers?”JackBullasked.“Well, now,well,” saidBowden, his eyes angled down, “they arewatched.
Allthesecesharewatched.”“Andmyfather?”Iasked.Iwasvaguelyinterestedinnewsoftheold,exotic
gent,butnotfrothyaboutit.“Hecomesandhegoes,likehealwayshas.Heain’tbotheredbynoone.No
onehurtshim.But,youknowthis,youmustknowthewholetownknowsyouboysareouthere,BlackFlaggin’it.”Hefinallyglancedup.“Somefriendlinessmayhavebeenlostforyourkin.”“Haveyoubeenfed?”JackBullasked.“Notso’syou’dnotice.”“I’lllookintoit.”Weleftouroldneighborthen,underthewatchfuleyesofHoltandtheothers.
Thecampwasengagedinfrolic.Therewasnorainonthewind,onlythesmellof thawedmud and early blossoms, but the boyswere lazied by the previousdaysandmadeacarnivalofthecamp.Aballofleatherwastrottedout,andmenofbothgroupsbegantobootithereandthere.Theirstompsturnedthemudintoagluethatsuckeddownbootsandheldthemthere.“Willhebekilled?”IaskedJackBull.“The odds are long in favor of it,” he replied. “Unpleasant work, but
necessary.Unlesstheycanbetraded.ItseemsLloydandCurtingotthemselvestookasprisonersatLexington.Aswapmaywellbeintheworks.”“Oh,” I said.Usuallywewere shot on the spot, so the notion of a prisoner
tradehadnotoccurred tome. I lookedbackat thehogtiedUnionists,andsureenough,AlfBowdenwatchedme still. Itwould be sad to see him killed, butsadnesswasontheflourishinsuchtimes.Eachteamofboysbootingattheballseemeddeterminedtowinatthegame.
Theyflungthemselvesintoblocksandshovedeachotherharshly.Isupposethetamenessof such sportwascomforting.But thewhiskeyhad run lowand thisraised tempers. Little Riley Crawford, a mere boy, but one comfortable with
grown-upmoods,threwakickofvigorthathadnochancetocontacttheballbutplentytoshinBigBobFlannery.Andthatiswhathappened.Flanneryyowled,thencuffedRileyontheears—youcouldseethemreddensmartly.Rileykickedhim again, this timewith no pretense of sport at all.After a yowl superior inemotion to the first, Flannery slammed a big, bony fist at the boy’s head.Hemissed, though, and I saw steel inRiley’s paw just as he slashedbeneathBigBob’s armpit. A nice burst of blood patterned Flannery’s shirt and he took astaggerbackward.Rileyinstantlyknewhehaddonewrong.Hebegantowalkaway,hidingthe
knife.“Oh,no,”hesaid.“I’mgoin’tohurtyou,boy!”BigBobshouted.“Youhaveforcedmetoit.”Theyouthturnedbacktohim,hisfaceatorturechamberofsensations—fear,
shameandsomeprideshowed.“I’msorry,Bob,”Rileysaid.“Itwasareflex.Aninstantthing.Andyouareso
big.”“Hah!”wentFlannery.“Youain’tsorryyet!”Big Bob headed toward the campsite, walking gingerly through the mud,
holdinghisarmpit,withRileyhoppingafterhimatasafedistance.Theboywasdesperatetomakeituptohiscomrade.“Inevermeantit,Bob.I’llfixitforyou.I’llfixitmyself—Iknowhow.It’s
just a slash. Just a damn slash, your shirt tookmost of it. Inevermeant it tohappen.”A number of the boys came forth to intercede. They reminded Flannery of
pasttrialsthetwohadshared,andthedevotiontheyhadshownonemantotheother.I watched the spectacle, curious about the outcome. It could be bad or
beautiful.Inafewminutesthepeacemakersstoodback.Icouldseetheboyandthe big man clearly. They stood next to each other, gazing like brothers intooppositeeyes.SoonBigBobpulledhisbordershirtupoverhishead,baringhiswhitechestandthinredwound,andRileyspreadablanketontheground.BigBoblaydown,anditseemedtomethatheenjoyedtheattention.Asortof
smilewasonhisface.Thecutwasnotdeep,moreshowthango,andRileykneltdowntowashitoutwithabowlofwater,hisyoungfingersgentlycleansingtheforgivenslice.Itwas an altogether inspiring scene tome.Proof thatwe shared something,
that aloneness would not be our fate. We could forgive; it was a wonderfulknowledge.AndIwassogladforyoungRiley,forhehaddonewrong,buthadbeengivenachancetoallayhisguiltimmediately.
Would thatmoreactscouldbeallayed thatway.And,yes,would thatmoreactscouldbeforgiven.
4
I HAD AN ODD talent: finescript. Iwas inmuchdemandbecauseof it. Ioftenwrotelettersforthemen,andtheyclaimedminewereanimprovementontheirown.Itwasajustclaim.Thus,whenIwascalledtoBlackJohn’ssideandtoldtotakedownanote,it
wasacommonplacetome.Black John sat drover-style, legs twisted beneath him, near a low fire. Pitt
Mackeson and George Clyde were with him. Holt sat behind Clyde a smalldistance,everwatchful.“Take this down,”Black John said.His lips had spit driedon themandhis
eyesweretiredanddeep-looking.“ItisfortheLexingtonUnionNews,sodoitupfinethewayyoudo.”“Gladly,”Isaid.“DearCitizens,”BlackJohnorated.“Mistakesaremostcommon thesedays
and deadly for it. The Federals are to hang two fine sons ofMissouri namedWilliam Lloyd and Jim Curtin. They are good men, too brave to accept anyinjustice. The rule of Federals is one such depravity they would not endurepassively.Meneither.“ByaprovidentcutofthecardsfourFederalshavebeendealttome.Theyare
Brown,Eustis,BowdenandStengel.Youknowthem.ItistheirhopethatLloydandCurtinarenothanged,astheywouldprovidethesequeltosuchmurders.“IfLloyd andCurtin are released Iwill, as a gentleman, release the above-
namedunfortunates.Allareyoungmenwithmuchpromisebeforethem,orelseashortdancefromastouttree.“Thechoiceisyours,citizens,makeitwisely.”“Wait a minute,” said Pitt Mackeson. “You need to tell the citizens we’ll
comeandkillthem,too.”“Oh, theyknow that,”BlackJohnsaiddryly.“It isunderstood.”BlackJohn
chewedhislipsforamoment,thenadded,“Signed,JohnAmbroseandGeorgeClyde,Commanding,FirstKansasIrregulars.”“Thatisgood,”saidClyde,whowasatleastanequaltoBlackJohn.“Andput
anextranoteonitthatsays,‘Whereyouthinkweain’t,weare.Rememberit!’”I did so. It was a concise document, scripted in superior fashion. It would
makeapointwellenough,Ithought.“Whowilldeliverit?”Iasked.“ThereareFederalsalloverLexington.”
“We could slip a man in there,” Mackeson suggested. “We have done itbefore.”“Wehave,”saidClyde,“butitisalwaysrisky.”Black Johnhummeda snatchof a flat-notehymn, lollinghishead thisway
and that in time to the tune, seemingly adrift fromus. Thatwas not the case,though.“Oh,Ireckonacitizencouldbepressedintoservice,”hesaid.“Ifonecanbe
found.”“Thatmightbeajob,”saidI,“forcitizensarecautioushereabouts.”“You got some better idea, Dutchy?”Mackeson asked. “Maybe youwould
volunteeryourself,eh?”The notions were ill-defined but looming vaporous in the back half of my
mind.AlfBowdenwasall thatIrecognizedinthem,andIknewthatIdidnotwanttoseehimdie.Iscarcelywasacquaintedwiththeman,butevensoslightaknowledgeofhimurgedmetosavehim.Thiscouldbetrouble,forsomemightseemymercifulthinkingasatraitorousbent.“Thereisaway,”Isaid,“toprovemorethingsthanone.”Ipointedtowardthe
hogtiedFederals,andtheywerevisiblehumpsinthedimnight,outlinedagainstaflatexpanseofsoft-lightedcountryside.“Ifwesendaprisoneritwillprovewehaveprisoners,andalsohecanattesttoourintentions.Itseemstomehecouldgetmorequicklytotown,aswell.Andtimeisshort.CurtinandLloydwillbehangedrightquick,Iwouldthink.”ThehymnwasrehummedbyBlackJohn,andalleyespresentbunchedupon
me.ItwasrarethatImadesuggestions,forsomeslightsuspicionofmeworkedagainsttheiracceptance.Abruptly the lyriclesshymnhalted, andBlack John said, “It is agood idea.
There are some fine touches to it.” He grasped my shoulder and gave me asqueeze.“Youshouldspeakupmore,Roedel,foryouarenotnearasdumbasyouleton.”“Aw,”Isaid.BlackJohnpushedupfromtheground.Evenhisposturewasforeboding,asit
wassostiffandstraight.Hewasamanyoucoulddonothingwithbutfollow.“Fetch some straw,” he said. “We’ll have the Federals do a drawing. Short
strawtravels.”This long-straw,short-strawmethodofpressingfate tomakeadecisionwas
judgedthefairestbyboysandmen.Manysmallchoiceshadbeenmadeinthisfashion:whowillhaulthewaterwheniceisonthewindows;whowillaskthestoutgirltodancesohercomelyfriendwillbeavailable.Butthisdecisionwasalargerone,yetthemethodemployedwasexactlythesame.
SavingAlfBowdenwasonlyslightlylikely.TheFederalswerebrought into the lightof a campfire.Their faceswere so
fraughtwithfearsandhopesthatitwasuncharitabletowatchthem.Theygaveoffanodorofcloselivingandnervoussecretions.Itwasamess.ArchClayheldthestraws.Itwouldnothavebeenimpossibleforhimtoleave
all the straws long, as sparing any Federal disgusted him.He leaned over thechoosers,shadingthestrawswithhisfreehand,agrinonhisface.“Pickyourfutures,boys,”hesaid.Bowden chose first.His hand trembled and he nearly drew two straws, but
Archclampedhisfingersandonlyoneslidout.Itdidnotlookespeciallyshort,either.One of the prisoners, Stengel,was a foreigner prettymuch.Hewas one of
thoseworm-browed,darkDutchmenwithstrongshouldersandbulbouscheeks.Hepulledhisstrawcoolly,andIknewthegamewasup, for itwaswinninglyshortandnomistakingit.Thegamewascompletedwith twomoreselections,but itwas justexercise.
Stengelwouldbethecourier.“Jacob,”saidAlfBowdenpitifully.“Jacob.”“Thisman,”Black Johnsaid, restingahandon topofStengel’shead, “will
carry the letter to Lexington.” He then patted theDutchman’s skull and said,“Youarefortunate.”“Ja,”repliedStengel,peeringintothegroundbetweenhisknees.DesperateSamaritanismconsumedme.InudgedatStengelwithmyboot.He
lookedup.Myfacefelttwistedandhotatopmyneck,andmylips,Iknew,hadflexedintoasneer.“‘Ja!Ja!’”Isaidangrily.“ThisDutchboatercan’thardlytalkAmerican.”I
gesturedatBlackJohn.“Howishetopresentourcase?”BlackJohnshrugged.“Asbesthecan,”hereplied.“LloydandCurtinarelostifheisourcourier.”Ilookedaboutmetoseehow
mytheatricswerebeingreceived.“‘Ja,ja’—hell,they’llnotbelievehimforaminute.”“He is right,” PittMackeson said. For once his hatchet face looked onme
fairly.“Agoddamnlop-earedDutchman—whyitdon’tmakesensetofreehim.”Black John slowly spoke. “Well, that is allwell and good.But hewon the
draw.”NearmestoodJackBullChiles.Hisfacehadanemptyexpression,buthislips
wereeversothinlycurlingupasifagrinhidinambushbehindthem.Ithoughthenodded tomeas thoughwehada secret. I couldneverconcealmuch from
him.“Strawpullingisjustagame,”Isaid.“Livesareatstakehere.”Istrodeover
to Alf Bowden, who was hunkered on the ground, and slapped his face. Hegrunted and turned away, so I leaned over and slapped him again. “Why, thismanwouldpresentourcasebetter thana lop-eared immigrant—youknow it’sso!”BlackJohnseemed toget taller.“Youarenot ready tobe tellingmewhat I
know,Roedel.Iwilldothat—always.”Hiseyesburnedintomeandhedidnotspeakforanervousamountoftime.“ButIseeyourpoint.SendtheAmerican.”Withthatheturnedandwalkedaway,asdidmostofthemen.Bowdenbegan
towhimperatmybootsandIfearedhemightlickthem.“Getup,”Isaid.Iliftedhisheadbyjerkingalockofhair.“Getup,you’vegot
travelaheadofyou.”HugedisappointmentwasatworkonStengel.Hegrowledandtriedtograpple
withme,sayingDutchinsultsashedidso.Icurledacrooked-armedpunchthathookedhim in the face.Hisnosewentdownandblood floodedhischin.Thistookthefightoutofhimbuthestillgrumbled.AsBowdenwas being cut totally loose of rope, I felt someone come stand
behindme.IthoughtitwasJackBullbut,no,IfacedaboutanditwasHolt,thenigger.“Iamontoyou,Roedel,”hesaidsoftly,thenwalkedbackward,keepinghis
gazefixedonme.“Get toomuch on tome and I’ll throwyou off,Holt,” I said. “Anigger is
meaninglesstome.”EveninthenightIcouldseeit—heactuallysmiled.Thiswascuriousconversationwithpointsthatwereuncertain,anddisturbing.
Butthen,whatwasnot?
The letter was wrapped in oil paper and given to Alf Bowden. We put himastride a gimpy horse. Now that he was saved, his fright was lessened. Helookedonmewithlessdesperationandmoreanger.“Doyourbest,”I toldhim.“Showsomesandor thesemenwilldiebecause
youdidn’t.”He did not reply, but set off in the deep dark, picking his way toward
Lexington.Therehadbeennosignofthanksinhimatall.Gratitude is suchan infant’sexpectation,always,but it isone Ionlyslowly
outgrew.Hemighthavesaidsomething.
Saltporkandoatcakesfueledthenextday.Theboyssatincomfortableclusters,oiling pistols and limbering jawbones. George Clyde, who had been born inDundee,Scotland, acted as aPlatoorSocratesmighthave, staggeringuswithquestions.“Ifasixteateddogrunstenmilesanhourshittin’splinters,howswiftneedshe
betoshitarockin’chair?”The answers were various, speculative and joyous. A scientific facet was
revealedinGusVaughn,whosaidthedogmustprobablybeswimmingtoshitarocking chair whole, though she might drop it in pieces while napping aftereatingapossumbelly.“Boys,”Clyde saidwhen the first query had been exhausted. “What Imost
want to know in the world is this: who thought up bagpipes anyhow? It is agraveissueifyou’veeverheardoneplayed.”Thedaywentbywiththesestumpers,anditwasasgoodawayasanytopass
thetime.Therewasturmoilinus.IfLloydandCurtinweremurdered,wewouldhave bitter tasks ahead of us, and soon. Silliness provided a sweet andmomentaryrefuge.
InthatonedaytheFederalsmadeupforall thebedtimeprayerstheyhadeverskipped.Therewasaceaselessbabbleofholyhopesandgallopingconfessionscomingfromthem.WecouldnottolerateFederals,fortheyoppressedusinourfightforfreedom.
ManyofthemwerenotMissourimen,orevenKansans,butkillerdupesfromupthecountrytwoormorestatesaway.TheirpresencefreedmaniacJayhawkerstoravageaboutthecountryside,takingallofvaluebacktoKansaswiththem.Jayhawkers said they raided to free slaves, butmostly they freedhorseflesh
from riders, furniture fromhouses, cattle frompastures,precious jewelry fromfamily trovesandwives fromhusbands.Sometimes theyhad somuchplunderniggerswereneededtohaulit,sotheytookafewalong.This,theysaid,madethemabolitionists.Theyweredangeroussneak-murderers,theJayhawkerswere.Theyhadkilled
hundredsofusoneortwobythetime,butneverfacedusinopenbattle.TheykepttothewoodsandfollowedtheFederals,strikinghardwhentheoddsweretrivial.Inthistheyweremuchlikeus—butterrible.
Thehoursof thenight tauntedmebypassingslowly,eversoslowly,anddull.
SleepoutranmeandIhadlittle todobutsquatbeneathgreen-leavedbranchesandpawoverthingsinmyhead.KillingandwarwerenothingIhadexpectedinlife.Before shotsbecame theanswers to thegranddebate, Iwascommonandfortunate.AsaChiles,agoodAmerican,hadbeenfondofmeandJackBull,mynearbrother.Citizenshadnotdarklyspeculatedagainstmycharacter.Now they did. Woof and warp had hit the border. Blood had been let, a
reasonableshareofitbyme.TheDutchboywasatragedyofnecessitylestIbethe actor in amore severe scene.Somewould hold this againstme.Mygoodreputation had no doubt been splattered lately as certain ofmy deeds becameknown.ButIwasnotsopaltryaspecimenthatabitofsullyingwoulddefeatme.Ifallmealswerepecanpie,you’dyearnforacoldpotato.JackBull,my comfort and cause, roused from his blanket besideme.As I
lookedathisfineAmericanface,Ihopeditwouldalwaysbethisway—himandmeandlittleelse.“Youarebrooding,”hesaid.“Dutchmenbrood toomuch.Breakyourselfof
that.”“Youbrood,too,JackBull.”Hesatupwithhislegsbeforehim,elbowsatophisknees.Hisslouchhatwas
shovedbackonhiscrown.Longcurlsofhairnuzzledathisneck.“Ihavesomethingstobroodabout,Jake.”“AndIdon’t?”“InyourwayIsupposeyoudo.WhatIhavelostyouhavesortoflost,asyou
wouldhavealwayssharedinit.Youknowthat.”“True,”Isaid.“Andyourfatherwasnearlymine.”“No,”JackBull saidwitha layerofscrape inhis tone.“No.Hewasakind
andgoodmantoyou,but,no.Hewasmyblood.Anythinglessthanthatislessthanthat.”HisdespairdivertedmefrommyownandIwantedtoputsomehappyback
intohissmartface.Iwantedtosaysomethingaboutgoodcomingfrombadandsoon,butitisaformofSundaySchoollunacytosuggestthatsuchcouldbethecaseinthemurderofyourfather,andthedestructionofyourhome.“We’llsticktogether,”Isaid.“Andgetallofitback.”“Hah!Youareablackmagicianwhocanraisethedead,areyou?Noyouare
not!Nooneis.Daddyisunderthedirttostay.”JackBull’sheadwasflungaboutonhisneckandhegrowled.Itwasanexercisetoshakeofffoulmemories.“Andthat,”hesaid,pointingatmynubbinedlefthand,“isgonetostaygone,too.”“Soitis,”Ireplied.“Anditmakesmenotablebytheloss.”“Yousoundpleased,asifthatfingerhadbeenpesteringyouforrings.”“Well, no. Itwas a fine finger—I’ll not deny it.” I held the nubbin up and
wiggled the stump. “See that?Canyou see that? I’m the onlymanyou knowwhocandothat.”JackBullwasarockforsomeseconds,hiseyesstonyonme.Thenhisdandy
headnodded.“That is true,” he said, his head gyrations slowly changing from nods to
shakes.“AndIdon’tknowanynoselessmenwhospittobaccojuicesoitsquirtsfrombetweentheireyeseither,Jake.Ano-nosetobaccosquirtercouldnamehispriceonthestage,Iwouldreckon.”“Oh, there ismudeverywhereyou lookanymore, JackBull.” Iwiggledmy
nubbinsomemoreandsaid,“I’dratherhavemyfinger,butitwastookfromme.Ithasbeenetbychickensforsure.So,Isaytomyself,‘Whatisthegoodsidetothisamputation?’Andthereisone.”“Nameit.I’lljusthavetoaskyoutonameit,Jake.”“Iintendto.Say,nowjustsay,ifIwasonthemovewithyouandRileyand
Cave.Saythat.AndtwohundredFederalscameontousandmyhorsewasshot.Dead.”“I’dpullyouupbehindme,Jake.”“Iknowit,”Isaid.“But,now,sayyourhorsewasshotandfloundereddown,
andCavewas gone andRiley pulled you up behindhim.And Iwas left. Saythat.”“Hey,” Jack Bull whispered. “I might unload Riley and save you. Those
thingshappen.”“Oh,Goddamnit,JackBull!Thatain’twhereI’mgoing.Willyoulistento
me?I’mtryingtoexplain thegoodthatcomesfrombadforyou.”Istirred thedirtbeneathme, collectingmy thoughts, then rejoinedmyprevious tale. “Andyou escaped, okay?Well, Iwould take to the bush,wouldn’t I?And Iwouldpunch leaks in ten Federals before they killed me in such a thicket. Buteventuallytheywouldriddlemeandhangmefromawaytalllimbliketheydo.Nosouthernmanwouldfindmeforweeksormonths,andwhentheydidI’dbebadmeat.Prettywellrottedtoaglob.”“Thatisscientificallyaccurate,”JackBullsaid.“I’mafraidI’veseenit.”“Iwouldbeaglobofmysterious rothanging inaway tall tree, andpeople
wouldask,‘Whowasthat?’Surely,sometimesomebodywouldlookupthereatmy bones and see the telltale stump and reply, ‘It is nubbin-fingered JakeRoedel!’ThenyoucouldgoandtellmymotherIwasclearlymurderedandshewouldn’tbetorturedbyuncertainwonders.Nowdoyouseethetendernessofitall?It’sthereifyoulook.”Thenightairwaschilledforpleasantbreathing,andtreesrustledjustenough
to soothe. Picketswere out in themoonlight and the faint snores of comrades
dronednearby.IfeltIwaswhereIshouldbe;Ihadbushwhackedmywayintotheseslumberinghearts.“Icareforyou,”JackBullsaidtome.Hethenlaydownandrolledupinhis
blanket.Hishatcoveredhisfacebuthespokethroughit.“Idocareforyou,but,Jake,itissometimesaverynervousthing.”
5
BLACKJOHNAMBROSEhadatough-thunkvisionandtherewerenoquibblesleftinit.WhenthewordarrivedhewentstraighttowardStengel,theFederalwho’doncehadtwominutesofgoodluck.The centerpiece of Stengel’s face was colored ocean blue and lumpy from
whenI’dchastisedhim.Helookedbadenoughbutquicklygotworse.“Dead,dead,”declaredBlackJohn.“Hangedlikedogswouldbeifdogswere
lessrespected.Yes,ohmy,yes.Theyhavewentanddoneittous.”BlackJohnusedhispistolasaclubandbattedStengel in theface,cracking
him open above the brow. An animal-panic chorus of grunts came from theprisoners,eventhoseyettobedamaged,astheysizedupthefuturetobeoneofpain.Weallstoodsilent inthemorninglight,encirclingtheFederals.Manyfaces
were sad, even squeamish, about the necessaries of the day.But several faceswerepoisedwithahungerforthehotplateofrevengethey’dbeenserved.Lloydand Curtin had been hung, then quartered and tossed onto the River Road tonourish varmints. The quarteringwasmeant to disturb us, and in at least onecase,itworked.“Theyhungourcomrades,”BlackJohnsaid.“Andrippedthemtofragments.”
He slapped iron onStengel’s face andStengel hunchedover so as to take theraps on the head. Black John looked down on the Federal, then opened bothhandsandbegantosqueezeStengel’shead.Hisfeelysearchhadhimallaboutthe Federal noggin for some seconds, caressing and patting, then he steppedback. His face exhibited the pleasure of discovery. “Your skull,” he saidsomberly,“willmakeaEuropeanpalaceforourworms,eh?”“Uh,uh,uh,”wentStengel.OneoftheotherFederalsbegantopuffinthejowlsandburp.Hediditrapid-
fireandBlackJohnturnedtohim.“Don’tyouagree,Yank?”BlackJohninquired.Hethendidthemelonteston
Stengel’sheadagain.“Apalaceforworms,eh?”Burping frights racked the Federal but finally hemastered them enough to
speak.“Yes,sir,yes,sir,yes,sir,yes,sir…”BlackJohnrearedbackandkissedStengelhardinthefacewithhispistol.The
nose went different ways, and Dutchy spluttered for breath through a tide of
blood.TheotherFederalsawthisandchangedhislitany.“Oh,no,oh,no,oh,no…”The scenewas not good.A pink spray ofmisery spittled on thewind. The
prisoners were doomed but trifled with. All common sense dictated that theymustdie,butbetterdeathscouldbearrangedinmymind.ItwasalltooneartowhatIexpectedformyself.“Hereiswhatyourpeoplesaid,”GeorgeClydecalledout.Heunfoldedawad
of newspaper and held it flat to read from. “ ‘War is loss, but capitulation isdevastation. Good men will die until all bad ones have. William Lloyd andJamesCurtinwereproventobeworsethanbadcancover.Theyhaveperished.Their deaths illustrate our resolve. I have no doubt that the disloyal terroristshavealreadymurderedoursoldiers.Ihavemuchexperienceofthesevermin.Tonegotiate would have been foolish. Therefore it was not done. Thomas B.Hovland, Commanding First Iowa.’ ” Clyde rattled the paper ceremoniously,then folded itback intoapocket square.“Youshouldhavebetterchosenyourcomrades,boys.Tosaveourown,wewoulddoanything.”Black John raised himself to a stern posture and spit twice. He then said,
“Haveatthem,boys,andmakeitmemorable.Wewantthemtobemementosofourresolve.”Pitt Mackeson and Turner Rawls, whose jaw was still several colors and
swollen,joinedArchClayinadministeringslowdisastertotheprisoners.Ididnotwanttowatch,butIdidnotwanttobeseenturningaway.HowardSayles,JosiahPerry and several othermendid leave the festivities, but theymadenocommentastheylumberedaway.IwassavedbyBlackJohncallingtome.“Roedel,comeheretome.”Hestoodonasmall riseofearthoverseeingtheaction,pacingthiswayand
that,awhitefrothscabbingatthecornersofhismouth.“Takedownthisnote!”“Certainly,BlackJohn.Letmefetchmyimplements.”Iveryquicklydidso,
thensquattedonthedirtnearhisfeet.“Iamready.”“Good,good,”hesaid.Hiseyeswereofapalegrayhueandhadnobottomto
them. “I have three sisters, Roedel. Have you any? They are as good as youcouldexpectthemtobe.Ikillforthem.Theyarewomenandcan’tfight.Ican.TheworldknowsIcan.AndIdo.Idofight.Hard.Iamawfulbutright.Neverdoubtit.”Henudgedmykneewiththepointedtoeofaboot.“Doyoudoubtit?”“No.No,Ineverdoubtit.Ibelieve.”“Doyoubelieveinme,orourcause?”“Ibelieveinmeandyouandourcause.”
“Be leery of where you place your faith,” Black John said. The oaths andlaments,thecracksandsmacks,theprayersandpunishmentswentonbelowthesmall rise.We both looked there. “This is a time of infinitely shaded cruelty,Roedel.Itcannotbeotherwise.Ihavevictoryinmind.”Suddenlyhewhirledandleanedoverme.Hiscountenancehadawrathfulcast,andspitflewfromhislipslike a nasty rain. “Take this down! ‘Citizens, you have stood by for murder.Anotherofyourmistakes,whichyouhavemadeplentyof.Thisruinisyourstoclaim. Look at them and recall it. Remember this, townspeople: you will notescapemeforlong.Youmayfoolmeforaminuteoranhouroraday.ButyouwillnotforestallmelongenoughthatIforgetthepathtoyourtown.No,Iwillrememberit,andatsomegoodmomentpullyoufromyourbedsanduseaninchropetoputallyouoppressorsface-to-facewithmoretruththanyoucantolerate.“‘Youhaveplacedyourbets,nowwaitforthenextturnofcards.’”Thepapertrembledinmyhandandmyhandwobbledmyarmtotheshoulder.
IcouldnotlookupandIlongedforabriefspellofdeafness.“WhatshallIdowiththisnote?”Iasked.“Pinittothebreastofoneoftheunfortunates,inclearsight.”BlackJohnwas
calmedinacoiledsortofway.“Wewilldumpthemontheroadtonight.Itwillgetread,Iamcertainofthat.”BlackJohnstaredoncemoreatthekillinggoingon,hisfaceflatwithresolute
anger. Then he stalked offwithout aword tome or a shout or a glob of spitcomingfromhim.The knot of men, crouched, half bent or standing, who encircled the
unfortunates,parted forme.Thereweremanyheavybreathsbeingdrawn,andPittMackesonsuckedonasoreknuckle.“Ihavealetter,”Isaid.“Anote.BlackJohnwantsitpinnedononeofthem.”I lookeddownat theFederals.Aviolent rapturehadcaughtupwith them.I
hadseenharsherrandsperformedbefore,butnotlikethis.Somedarkappetiteshad been brought forth in this spectacle, and my comrades had revealedthemselvestobenearwizardsatunpleasantries.AndyetoneoftheFederalsbreathed.Itwasanexercisehewasaboutbeyond
performing,andhestrainedintheeffort.Iwasallconfusedupinmysensations.Ijuststoodthere.Archwaskneltdowngoingthroughpockets.Hehadahandfuloflettershe’d
takenfromthedoomed.Hejerkedopentheshirtoftheliveoneandrecoveredaletterhiddenthere,thenthumpedhisfistonthebarechest.“Pinitonhim,”hesaid.“We’llsethimuppretty.Helivedlongest.”When Iputmyknees togroundand leanedover theFederal,he lurchedup
andIrearedback.
“Mywife,”hewhispered.“Writemywife.”Archlaughedandheldinfrontofmetheletterhehadransacked.“Thismustbefromher.Ican’treadtotell.”I pinnedBlack John’s sermon to the Federal’s tunic.Hewas flat again but
breathing.WhenIstoodArchsaid,“Readmethisletter,Dutchy.”“That’shisletter,”Isaid.“Was,”saidArch.“Iwanttohearyoureadit.”“Idon’tthinkIcareto.”“Oh,isthatso?”drawledArch.Hiseyessankbehindhislidsandhismouth
hungopen.“I thinkifyouthinkalittlemore,Dutchy, thatyou’ll thinkyoudowanttoreadmeit.Rightnow,too.”“Yes,”saidPittMackeson.“Why,theremightbesecretsinit.Readitatus.”I scented trouble with my comrades if I showed a dainty spirit here. The
prospectwasnotdelicious.The script on the letter had bold girlish leaps and bounds to it,with circles
abovetheI’s.ItwasaddressedtoCorporalMillerEustis.Ibegantoreadtheletteraloud,andactedasifIenjoyedtheprocess.Thefirst
manylineswerewithoutsecrets,andmainlycontainedayoungwife’sversionofeveryday events inMount Vernon, Iowa. It seemed theMethodists wanted aschooltheretoprosper,andtheCedarRiverhadflooded,andoldBenEustishadsnappedabigtoekickingatagrowlingdog.Anewmoodwas thenhove into the letter, and thewife said she loved this
pinkthingonthedirtbeforemewithadevotionthatwouldnotwane.The boys chuckled at this, as though the love of a Yankee woman had no
merit.ButIwasenviousinaway.Therewasastraight-aheadwomannesstothisauthor,andIfounditadmirable.Eustis,theFederal,hadlostwherehewasandspoketopeoplewhowerenot
nearby.He said friendly things to them. Itwas good that his soul had startedaloft,fortherewasasecretinthisletterthatmademeashamed.“‘Miller,Miller,’”Iread,“‘Imissyouso.Imissyourcoolbrowandwarm
browneyes.Thewayyour cheekscreasewhenyou smile. Itmakesmecrazy,butImostmissyourtenderred-facedturtleheadatopthatsweetlengthofneck.I dream of petting him so special that he drools intomy palm and I lickmyfingersforatasteofyou.’”Theboysaboutshatteredthemselveswithrudelaughteruponhearingthis.“My Lord,” said Arch, all manner of unpleasant glee reflected in his face.
“ThemYankgals!ThemYankgals!Why,onlyawhorewouldsaythat.”The Federal now thrashed about some. He may have understood. It was
pitiful.“Nosouthernwomanwouldsaysuchathing,”PittMackesonsaid.“Ho,ho!I
cain’twaittobeinchargeofIowa!”Icouldn’tstandit.TheFederalgurgledandtheboyssaid,“Tenderturtlehead!
Tenderturtlehead!”realloud.SoIshothimwherehelayandputaperiodtotheletter.Myactwassudden
anditstalledtheboys’laughter.IwalkedoffwithmyColtcockedandmystepsteady.Notawordwassaidtome.
LateronIloungedabout,tryingtodredgeupthetarttasteofajennitonappleinmymemory,andtheperfumed-sweatsmellofrealladieswaltzingallnightwithsomeoneelseataleveedance,andthegushingwarmthI’dalwaysfeltwhenAsaChileshadtousledmyhairandcalledmelucky.Butallthatpastwasasluggishslough,andIcouldnotflowituptomeatall.Mythoughtswerejustofnowortomorrow.JackBullChileswasnearmebutdidnotspeakforagreatstretchoftime.He
hadbeenabystandertothedaybutneveranactivepartofit.“Say,Jake,”heeventuallysaid,“whatareyouknowing?”“IfeelIamknowingtoomuch.”“Ah.Well,forgetit.Throwitdown.”“Onceyouareknowingit,thatishardtodo.”“Oh,hell, Jake.Toomuchknowledge isonlya formof torture.Youcando
nothingwithitbutrecognizeawidervarietyofagonies.”Asaphilosophermynearbrotherwasaimedinalwaysonthepractical.Ifa
notionwillpassthenightforyou,andleadyouintoanotherday,thenbelieveit.“Dogs fight,” I said. “We fight, as well. It could be we settle too many
squabblesbythedogmethod.”“Hah,” Jack Bull said. “Hah, young Roedel, you are sounding like some
terrificallymoustachedoldkrautgroveleratthismoment.”Heslappedahandonmyboot.“Andthatisnotyou.Thatisnotyou.YouareanAmerican.”IfeltlikethismeantIhadthefarmbutnotthecrop.Therewouldbemoreharsherrands tobedone, thisIknew,andIwoulddo
them.Iknewthataswell.Iwasinthisfighttofight.“Wecouldhavemerelyshotthem,”Isaid.“Nogainwouldhavebeenmissed
ifwehadmerelyshottheminsteadofwhippingthemraw.”JackBull called up a glob of crud and spit it out. He rubbed his nose and
lookedaway,thenshruggedandlookedback.
“Thatwasnottheplan,”hesaid.“Theremayseemtobenorhymetoit,butthatwasjustplainoldnottheplan.”WhatelsecouldIsaybut,“Youareright.”
6
THATNIGHTAcertainsortofapology,orsoIchosetoviewit,wastenderedmeasaresult ofmy earlier oration.Arch andPitt andTurner ambled over tome anddroppedatmyfeetalltheletterstheyhadplundered.“Youmightread’em,”Archsaid.“Iwon’t.”“Can’t,”saidPitt.“Won’t’causeIcan’t,”Archadmitted.“Take thesewith ’em,”Pitt said.Hedropped a cloth satchel ofmail they’d
foundwhen they first took the prisoners. “There’s not a thing of use in here,BlackJohnsays.Justhomelettersandrelativetalk.”Thisgiftwasanoutlandishgestureformycomradestomake.“Why?”Iasked.“Whygivetheletterstome?”“Oh,”Archsaid,andstammeredaroundonhisfeetabit.“Oh,wejustfigured
you might find a thing or two of use in them. That’s all. That’s what wefigured.”“Idon’tknowwhatitwouldbe,”Isaid.“Aw,hell!”Pittsnapped.“Read’emorburn’em,Dutchy!Whateveryouwant
todo,youdoit!”Turnersatbesideme then,andArchandPittwalkedaway.Theyseemed to
thinkIhadnotbeengracious.Rustlinghishand in thepouch,Turner founda letter thathepulledout.He
heldittowardme.“Wootdattay,Yake?”Hismouthpartswerestilloutofstep,andhewasagoodman,butmocking
himwasnotasafeidea.Iheldupthepieceofmail.“It says, ‘For delivery to John Plater or Dave Plater, Fourth Wisconsin
Cavalry,Liberty,Missouri.’”IlookedatpoorswollenTurner.Hewastryingtobeacomradetome.“It’sfromWonowoc,Wisconsin,Turner.Everbeenthatfarnorth?”“Uh-uh.” He shook his head and his long hair flopped about. “Neber no
weasontogodatfurnort.”“NorI,”Isaid.“Weedit,”Turnermumble-mouthed.Hehunkeredtowardme,grinninglikea
boy.“Coodooweedidadme?”
Therewas the thick odor ofwoodsmokewafting from clothes and persons.Wehadbeeninthebushagoodlongwhileandourscentprovedit.Perhapsapieceofmailwouldbolsterspirits,butweneverhadanythatwasmeantforus.Wewerenotalonebutlonely,andatriflequeasyaboutwhowewere.“Yes,Turner.I’llreaditatyou.”Ipoppedthewaxsealbackwithmythumb
andunfoldedthepaper.Thescriptwasblackandspideryandspotted.Anunfirmhandhadbeareddownonthisnote.“‘Dearsons,’”Iread.“‘Nowordofyouinsolong.Rightpastfirstfrostoftheyearlast.Fatherworries.Hisfeetarebloatedandhewon’twalkrightonthem.’”AtthispointBabeandRayHudspeth,JackBull,JosiahPerry,Holtthenigger,
Riley Crawford and Big Bob Flannery wandered to hear me read. They allsquattedinaclumpandlookedonmeraptly.“That’s thicked-upblooddoesthat,”Josiahsaid.Hehadjustapatchofface
showing between his beard and hair, and his body was ox-size. “Thicked-upbloodbloatsthefeet.”“Uh-huh,”Isaid,thenreadon.“‘Afirehittheoldchurch.Burneddown.The
new one was just ready so no great trouble was had of it. No pigs was lost.Margarethasmarriedsincethefrostofthisyearlast.Youwouldn’tknowitforhowcouldyou.HerhusbandisWalterMaddox.Heisoutofthewar.OnearmwasbustedupatNewMadridbutitworksfineenough.Thisspringthedirtwasturnedoverandthesmellanddeepnessgavemeheart.It is justblack-richandfeelsgoodinthehand.Youboysknowhowthatis.’”“My daddywas up there,”Riley said.His thin young facewas brightwith
recollection.“Hewasup thereonce longago, longago,waybefore theyhunghim.Hesaidthedirtwassorichyoucouldeatitlikeporridge.”“They have very good dirt up there,” Jack Bull said. “But a short grow
season.”“Itsoundslikerealgooddirttome,”Rileysaid.“Daddytoldmeitwas.”Ireadon.“‘LouettaHinestellsmeBernardLaftonfromoveratSuskannaCreekisdead
inthewar.Blesshissoul.HewasatTennesseeandtickfevergothim.ThatgirlDavegotsweetfor is in townandstillsingleandabout.SheasksofyoubutIhave no news since first frost of the year last.Without news I cannot answerher.’”Theboysweresomberlisteningtothis.Forsomanyofus,homewasnowthe
place where we were most likely to be recognized and killed. This was notalwaysthecase,andevenwhereitwastheoddswereoftenbuckedforagoodstrongmotherhug.“‘Ihopeandfatherhopesyouwillwritemore.Doyouneedanythingjustask.
The seed is in the ground now tho you both are missed there is that to givethanksfor.Littlegreensproutswillsoonpokeupandlookgood.YourMother.’”Themenwerelulledsilentforamoment, thenRiley, theyoungestofusall,
said,“Shesoundsaboutlikemymother,thatoldwomandoes.”“Onemotherismuchlikeanother,”JackBullsaid.“Butdon’tbefooledbya
mother’swords,Riley.Herboyswillkillyouiftheycan.Rememberthat.”“Iprettymuchalwaysdo,JackBull.”Ifoldedtheletterbackup,thentappedthesquareofitonmykneeandmyleg
bouncedasit-downjig,mashingmybootsinthedirt.“Youknow,boys,” I said,and Iwas looking to the treetopswhilemyheels
jumpedontheearth,andallthesehardboysandtheniggerstaredonme,andIheldtheletterupandwaveditlikeabattleflag.“Boys,thisisawonderfulbigcountry.”
BOOKTWO
Equalityofrewardisoutofthequestion.—PIERCEEGAN
7
IWASBORNONacolddarkwave,pitchedhightobedroppedlow,somewherebetweenHamburgandBaltimore.The talewasoften told tome. I squalledbelowdecksandbouncedontheocean,ahungrynewthingsprungontheworld,faratsea.MissouriwasthepromisedlandforGermans.Newspapers in theOldWorld
printed glowing accounts of it and a rush of immigrants headed for the cheapland, thick-wooded rolling hills and goodwater of the state.My fatherwas avintnerandmymotheravintner’swife.Itwasthatsimple.MyfirstmemoryisofsteamboatshootingbyontheBigMuddy.Picnicswere
madeoftheirpassing,Americansandimmigrantsalikegatheringonriverbluffstowatchthemchurnupriverordown.Asthatspringtimeofwarbakedintoahotdangeroussummer,thesethoughts
cameoften tome.Thedayswere filledwith strifeandhurtingand long rides.We galloped up on Federal convoys at Blue Cut and Quick City. In bothinstancestheyfoughtbackalittle.Itwasbraveofthem.Nonewasspared.Bynightmythoughtsroamedwhenpossible.AsaChilesoftencametomind.JackBull’sfatherwasatallman,withhairthe
shadeofiron,andafirmchin.Hismouthwassmallandtight,butitcouldstretchintoasmilethatwaswideenough.Myfatherworkedforhiminthevineyards,as Asa Chiles’sWinzer, for Asa had a dream of great wines being made inMissouri.Theplantationwasmainlyconcernedwithhempgrowing,butagoodchunkofitwassetasideforgrapeexperiments.
In late July JosiahPerrywent tovisithis family inCassCounty.We receivedword thathewaskilledsoon thereafter,murderedbyaUnionistnamedArthurBaineswholivedinthatarea.Itmadeusallsad,andangry,sowewenttothefuneral,seventy-fiveridersstrongbynow,fornewmenweredriventousinthebusheveryday.A fewof the townspeoplewereglad to seeus and thePerry family seemed
proudofthehighregardweshowedforJosiah.Wewereshotintheneckwithmuchgoodwhiskey,buteventhatdidnotmakemefondofthetown.Therewasapinchedlooktothewholeofit,andpinchedwellandgoodithadbeen.Thatwhole half of Missouri was being pinched and put to waste by Jayhawkers,Federalsandmilitia.Thereweresomanyofthemthatwecouldbebutawrong
nailintheirboots,painfultowalkonbutnotcrippling.Wedidwhatwecouldforourpeople.Afterasweet-sungfuneralwefoundArthurBainesathishome.Thenearby
presence of Federals gave him toomuch confidence.We pulled him into theyardashisfamilywailed.“JosiahPerrywas a traitor and a thief,”Baines cried.Hehad some sand in
him.“Youarealltraitorsandthieves,too!”Aballtookeffectinhischest,then,andheinsultedusnomore.ThatwasoneharmfulsceneIwasgladtobeapartof.JosiahPerry,blesshis
cleanwhitesoul,hadbeenafinecomrade,andretributionisnecessarytokeepanybalance.
IntheyearsgonebyJackBullhadhadabrothernamedStoddard,buthedrankacup of badmilk and died at one. Itwas a tragedy to the family, and no newbrothercouldbebornebyMissusChiles.Myfatherhadacabinnottwohundredyardsfromthemainhouse.Therewas
nomorethanoneseasoninagebetweenJackBullandme.MissusChilescameoftheBullsfromFrankfort,Kentucky,andhadadelicatespirit.AftertheburialofStoddardshebroodedforweeks,thenbegantostrolldownthedirtruttoourcabin in the afternoons.My parents spoke almost no English,whichwas stillmore English than theywanted to speak, butMissus Chilesmade her wishesplain.Me.Shewantedtobouncemearound,onherknees,onthedirtandhighintheair,demonstratingawiderangeofrobustaffection, thensoothemewithgurglesandsweets.Itwasaroutinethatwonmeover,andheraswell.SoonIwas at the main house, with its spread of rooms, wide veranda, and houseniggersflutteringabout,fromdawntodusk.Asisthegeneralrulewithbabes,JackBullandmefoundnofaultwitheach
other,butdiscoveredavastworldfullofslobberingadventuresthatwetookbesttogether.Myparentswere treatedwell, and, at night,when Iwas oncemore in their
orbit,staredonmeinastupefiedway.IspokeEnglishlikeajackdawbyagesix,andthisskillannoyedthem.IhadhadababybrothernamedLutherandasistercalledHeidi,butneitherofthemlivedaweekandIrecalledthemonlyasgraves.Myfather,Otto,waskindandmymotherkinder.ButAsaChileswas fascinating.Asfarasyoucouldsee,heowned.Noone
daredpasshiminthestreetwithoutagreeting.Hiswingshotwashellonediblebirds,andherodehorsesinamannerthatwouldputaComanche’snoseoutofjoint.Therewas no one day thatmade himmy idol, but a long succession of
daysinwhichhewasherotothemall.My father grew vines, and grumbled about this and that,most often in the
companyofothercrankyDutchmenwhoworemoustachesdowntotheirnecksandfoundverylittletotheirliking.TheyhadcometoMissouriforafreshstart,butwastedtheirfreetimebyattemptingtomodelthisnewlandontheoldlandtheyhadbeensoeagertoflee.Thegreatsenseinthisneverstruckme.IwasasAmericanasanybody.
Ourmodeofwarfarewasanirregularone.Wewereaslikelytobeguidedbyanagedfarmer’sbreathlessrecountingofadefiniterumor,orbythemoodsofourhorses,aswewerebylogic.Itwasasituationwherelogicmadenosense.Soweslouched about in wooded areas, our eyes on main roads and cow paths,watchingforourfoetopassinreasonablenumbers.Theyoftendid.Thewindyflab-gruntsof thedyingwerea regularsound inourdays.When
the fraywas joined, andblood raced tomyextremities, thingsoccurred tomeand I did them.At RushBottom I blasted down twowagoneerswhomade afeebleattemptonmy lifewitha shotgun. Inoted that their faces floodedwithexpressions of sweet fantasy just as I worked my trigger. Some pleasantfalsehoodhadbeentheirlastthought.As we slithered over hills and down valleys and through great forests, we
actedoutsuddentragediesformanyalucklessoppressor.Noamountoftroopscouldprotectthemall,andwedrovethatpointhome.Wewerewhimsicalaboutdestruction.Bridges,barns,homes—nowyouhave
it,nownoonedoes.Flamesalla-crackleandusinswiftretreatwasacommonscene.Ihadnottheeducationtounderstandallofthis.Icouldread,yes,andwrite.
Some ciphers were known to me and Asa Chiles’s library had sailed me toplaces I would never see. Asa was a huge admirer of Homer, and GeorgeBorrow,WilliamCobbett, Pierce Egan the Elder, Shakespeare and SirWalterScott.TheBiblehadbeenmauledbymyhandsalso.Butthiswasnowherenearenough.Late inAugustwewere on theBlackwater, riding past a sloppy fence that
surroundedtheashesofahomeandastandingchimney.Onthefencepostsweretheheadsoftwoofouroccasionalcomrades.Theywereripeandpecked.BlackJohnsaidwemustburythem.Wesearchedandsearchedbutcouldnotfindthembelowtheneck.Ayearearlierthiswouldhavesickenedmebeyondconsolationfordays.But
wewerehardenedyouthsbythatpoint.Warfarewaswhatweknew.Thoughwewere mostly still boys by civil calculations, we had by now roughed up theswami and slept where the elephant shits. Shocking us would have requiredsomegenius.
Irememberedthis:MissusChilespullingmebytheears,thencuppingmychininherhandsandsaying,“I likehavingyouinthehouse,Jacob,myboy.I justenjoythenoiseofitsomuch.”Suchrecollectionswerenourishingtome.IwasagoodchildandhopedIhad
becomethemanyouwouldhavepredictedfrommytykeversion. It ishard toknow.Gunshadalwaysfiguredinmylife.WhenJackBullwasgivenanoverweight,
aimless shotgun at age eight, onewas soon found forme.Wekicked throughbrierpatchesandshocked rabbitswithour thunder,but it took timebeforewecouldhitany.Thatdidn’tmatter.Evenaswemissedour targets,we imaginedourselvestobekidswhowouldgrowintodangerousmen,perhapsthesortwhohadwhippedMexicoorEngland.Asa tookus in hand and taught us things.We learned to bow to ladies and
touchtwofingerstoourhatbrimsonpassingmen.“Mannerswon’tcostyouathing,”Asasaid.“Buttheymaygainyouplenty.”
Whenthefirstchillwindsblewinourfaces,webecamefuriousinourneedtoputonsomehurtsbeforefullwinterarrived.Thetempoofourdeedsincreasedtoacrescendo.AtLatourwewerefiredon,CaveWyattbeingwounded.Threecitizenspaid
foritandArchdidsomebad-dreamalterationsonheadsandbodies,strivingformorecomical fits.Weburnedhousesandstoleclothes,silverandgarish trash,sometimesoverloadingourmounts,soacquisitivehadwebecome.When the leavesweregiving itupandfalling,GusVaughnreturnedfroma
trip.HesatwithJackBullandme,hisbigredfacelookingsomber.“I have news of home,” he said. “Hank Pattison is murdered. Our old
neighbor,Jantzen,gothimwithhisgangofmilitia.”“Thatissad,”JackBullsaid.“Hewasagoodsouthernmanandfriend.What
ofThomasPattison?”“Oh,” Gus said, “he is murdered, too. Jantzen was on a bloody spree
thereabouts.”“ThatJantzenwasabadmanbeforehewasaman,”JackBullsaidfiercely.
“Wherehashegonewithhismilitia?”“He goes nowhere now. The son of a bitch got what was coming to him.
Thrailkill’sboyslookedhimupandhegotwhatwasbyGodcomingtohim.”“Iwishithadbeenus,”Isaid.“Sally Burgess married a Federal from Michigan,” Gus said. “Her whole
familyhidestheirfaces.”“Anyothernews?”Iasked.“Well, yes,Dutchy.AlfBowden killed your father.”Gus pulled his hat off
andhelditinhishands.“Bowdenshothimintheneckdownbytheriver,thenbootedhimalongMainStreet’tilhedied.”Jack Bull’s hand went to my shoulder and my heart pumped bad blood-
thoughtstomyhead.“Myfather,” I said.“MyfatherwasanUnconditionalUnionist.Likeall the
Germans.AnUnconditionalUnionist.”“Well, yeah,”Gus said. “But hewasmainlyknownas your father,Dutchy.
Yougotareputation.”“IsparedBowden,”Isaid.Mymindwasinawhirl,andamixofunpleasant
ideascametome.“Youknowit.Iknowyouknowit.IsparedBowden.”“Itdidn’tmakeafriendofhim,”JackBullsaid.“Youtaughthimmercybut
heforgotthelesson.”“BothyourmotherswenttoKentucky,”Guswenton.“Bytrain,Ithink.”Ifeltmyfacewarpandwobbleandmyarmsquaked.Icouldhavecried.Gray
headssufferedwhileyoungoneswentunnoosed.“Imightaswellhaveshothimmyself,”Isaid.“Mercyhastreacheryinit. I
needtoforgetIknowofit.I’llputitaside.Iamnottoobrilliantwithit.”“Thatmaybetheanswer,”JackBullsaid.Oh,everythinghappens.
8
WHEN ALL THE treeswere bare,we had trouble.We suffered fearful subtractions.JohnColbertwas killed.LafePruitt,RalphSawyer,RandolphHaines and JoeLoubetwerecutoffinarangeoftreesandhunteddown,thenblastedneutralbya largesquadofFederals.Woundswereas likelyassunup. Itwasamiserableseasontofightin.Whereitwaspossiblewebalancedthings.AtHoldenwefoundahandfulof
militia,andRiley,JackBullandmedidallthebalancing.Fivegraveswouldbefilledwhenever someone took the trouble to dig them.We looted theHoldenstoreandfoundfortypairofboots.Thebootssmelledfinelyoffreshleather,andinacornerofthestoretherewasalsoawhiskeybarrel.Wepunchedholesintheboot tops, strung them togetherwith rope, thenbashed in thebarrel and filledthemwithOldCrow.Wehungthewhiskey-sloshingbootsaboutourneckslikenooses,anddrankbykickinguptheheels.Just intoDecemberBlackJohnandGeorgeClydedecidedwemustdisband
until spring. Our large group was too easily located by larger groups of theenemywhenweweresoslowedbytheseason.Ourplanwastogooffandhideingroupsoffour,survivingthewinterasbestwecould.Ourbreathsgaveoffcloudsthatwaftedintheairandwestampedtheground
towarmourfeet.Therewerenervouslooksinmanyfaces.Smallgroupsmightbemoreeasilyhiddenbutiffounditwouldbeawfulhot.Asthecoldwindslappedredonourcheeksandournervouseyeswenthere
andthere,BlackJohnAmbroseputona’til-we-meet-again-in-the-springspeech.When Black John’s ideas were spelled out plain, it was sometimes less goodthanconfusionhadbeen.Heshoutedabout thecloven footof tyrannyand theFoundersofourNationandbodiless comrades andbluebelliedmurdererswhowereevennowsniffingclose toourwomenandhowwonderful the feelofanoppressor’sbloodiswhenitdriesonyourhands.Itwentonandon.When his speech was played out the boys raised a couple of huzzahs and
hoorahs.Heacceptedtheacclaimwiththecoolnessofanuncaughtcaesar.Thenweallparted,headingforsecretcaves,orfar-in-the-woodsrelatives,or
friendlysouthernstrangers,towaitoutthebadweather.JackBull,me,GeorgeClyde,Riley,Turner,theHudspethsandHoltwentthe
firstlegofourjourneytogether.AtCaptainPerdee’sfarmwesplitup.JackBullandmeandClydeandHoltwentontotheneighborhoodofacertainmissnamed
JuanitaWillard.Clydewas sweet on her, butwe could not stay safely on theWillardfarm.ThisfactbroughtustothenearbyplaceofJacksonEvans.JacksonEvanshadbeenafriendtoAsaChiles.AtonetimetheEvansplace
hadbeenhighlyprosperousandhe’downedmoreniggersthananyoneinthoseparts.Thingshadchanged.TheEvanshouseholdheldJackson,hiswife,asmallgirlcalledHoneybeebut
whose right name was Mary, and a teenaged girl who was the widow ofJackson’s son, Jackson, Junior. Junior had been killed at Independence in thehouse-to-housefightingafteronlyafewweeksofmarriage.ThewidowgirlwasnamedSueLeeandhermaidennamehadbeenShelley.AlltheniggersweregonetoKansasorintotheFederalArmy.Thefarmhada
verylonelyfeeltoit,foritwasplainthatithadbeendesignedfordozenstolivethere.Andtheyhadonce—butnomore.Alayerofhillswereclosedinaroundthefarmlikesomefeminineembrace.
George Clyde and Jack Bull selected a likely spot among the humps and westarted to dig in. To stay in the housewould be ridiculous. Patrols passed byplenty.JacksonEvans loanedus shovelsandapickaxandwewent to it, slamming
awaythroughthethinfrozentopsoil.HoltandIswitchedoffonthepickaxwhileGeorgeandJackBulldidtheshoveling.Thedaywasgray,thoughnotmoist.Itwascool,butagoodcleansweatcame
upfromthework.“It has been a while since we’ve done work,” Jack Bull said. “There is
somethingsoothingaboutit.”GeorgeClydelaughed,hiswide,squarefacesplitting.Hewasnothardtolike
butterribletocross.“Work has never been my main ambition,” he said. He laughed more and
patted Holt on the shoulder. “We have done much work—just look at thesehands—butIthinkI’vespiedaneasierwaytoriches.”“Spelloutthismiracle,”JackBullsaid.“Why,”Clydesaid,“youjustrideupwiththeboysandtakeit.”“Ah, it’s the good old rule, the simple plan,” Jack Bull sang. “Those who
wouldshouldtake,andthoseshouldkeepwhocan.”“Exactly,”saidClyde.“It’saworkablemethod—thatisproven.”GeorgeClydeandJackBullChilessharedthenaturethatadaptsquicklytothe
practical,butitwasstillinconvenienttomymind.ItwasthedifferencebetweenWhat?andWhy?ThoughImightrob,Ididnotbelievemyselfasarobber.“Idon’tknowthatthetimeisyetrightforrobbingwholesale,”Isaid.
Clydescoopedashovelfulofdirt,thenflungitaside.Hegrinnedatme.“Youdon’tknowenough,then,”hesaid.“Ithinkitisasrightastworabbits.”I lookedathisfaceanddecidedthatIwoulddifferwithhimonthisbutnot
makeadebateofit.SomethingofthemasterbuilderrosetothesurfaceinJackBull.Thedugout
wasgoingtobedeepandwideenoughtoholdus,ourhorsesandtheirforage,andarockandmudchimney.Thismeantmuchsweatylaborbeforeanycomfortcouldbehad.Igatheredrocksforthechimneywhennotdigging.Thehillsideswererocky
and angled steeply, impossible terrain for plowing. Under the bare trees Iscrambledabout,heftingstonesandinspectingthemforweightandflatness.Mycompact dimensions allowed me to easily crawl under cockspur bushes andsticker weeds if a good chimney piece was beneath them. A few scratchesshoweduponmyfacebutitwasfun.Thetruthofitis,itwasfuntobebuildingsomething.All of us dughard andblistered andheehawed at joking comments.By the
endof the seconddaywehadworkedoff a bunchofour jumpyattitudes andwerefeelingcalmedbytheeffort.Jack Bull, with his fingers at his chin, paused often to stare at our ever-
growinghole,thenwouldbegintopaceofflinesandshapes,buthediditoftenanddifferenteachtime.Thiswasunsettling.Hehadgrandplansforthisgroundbutmaybetoomanyofthem.“Weshouldfacesouth,”hesaid.“Weallknowthat.Butthehorsesshouldbe
nearestthedoor.”“Whateveryouthink,JackBull,”Clydesaid.“Ijustcan’tgetenoughofthis
sweatywork,soyougoonandfeatureitoutright.”HoltandClydelaughed.LaughsweretheonlysoundsHolthadmadeintwo
days.Hekepthistonguewellrested.“Wewillbeinitforweeks,”JackBullsaid,alittlebittesty.“Mightaswell
doitright.Idon’tseethesenseinnotdoingitright.”“Ain’tnoonegoingtofightyouonthat,”Clydesaid.“Idon’twanttospend
thewintersleepinginmudnomorethanyoudo.”“Good,good,” JackBull said,his fingersathischinagain.“Wecanhavea
doubledoor,oreven twodoors.”Hebegan topaceoffawholenewbunchoflines,andsaid,“Thenputinmudbunksalongthewallsandlaythechimney…”Allwediggers laughedandlistened,andJackBullwentonandonuntilwe
thoughthemadesense.Thenwebuiltit.Itwasright.
JustaftersundownoftheseventhdayHoltcamehuffingintothehole,hispistolpulled.Hespokehisfirstsentenceinaweek.“Ridercomin’thisway.Oneminuteoff.”The dugout was finished and awful cozy. The chimneywas about the best
pieceofwork I’veeverdone, and thehouse ingeneralwasas sweetasyou’dfindundergroundanywhere.Ithinkitraisedsomeproudupinallofus.Wewereslowtoleaveit.“Aw,let’sgoseetoourvisitor,”Clydesaid.Onceoutsideitwascleartheriderwascomingonbold.Therewasnoslinking
involvedinthewayitcamestraightatus.Moonlightshonedownbrightoverthecoldbarelandscape.Thesoftclopclopofhoovesyawnedoutacrossthevalley.Thehorsesnuffledandwhinniedonce,andifthisriderwasaFederalithadtobeageneraltobesoopenandsillyinthiscountrybynight.“It’s just me,” a feminine voice spoke. “Don’t shoot or some dumb damn
thinglikethat.”ItwasSueLee,thewidowgirl.“Why,howdo?”JackBullsaidandswepthishatoffandswoopeditaround.
“Youtalknice,Mrs.Evans.”SueLeedroppeddownfromhermount.Shewasbundledupthickinseveral
piecesofclothes.Theywereallkindsofcolors.Shesmelledgood,orelse theclothessmelledgood,’causeofasuddensomethingnearbysmelledrealgood.“I’vebrungyousomedinner,”shesaid.“Mr.Evanswishesmetoapologize
fornothavingsentyoufoodsooner.TheFederalshavebeenonthemoveandhethoughtitsafestnotto.Anddon’tyoucallmeMrs.Evans.MynameisSueLeeShelley.It’sagoodoneandI’mawidownow,youknow,soIreckonI’llgoonbacktoitanduseit.”“Pleasepardonme,”JackBullsaidinhismostriverboatmanner.Ineverliked
thisparticularqualityofhis.“Andcomeonin,won’tyou,SueLee?”GeorgeClydeheldopenthedirtyplankdoorthatopenedoverthedugout.Sue
LeesteppeddownintoourplaceandClydesaid,“Evenin’,ma’am.”HoltandIstoodsolidandwatchedasClydeandJackBulldidaterrificseries
ofwinks at each other, accompanied by the sneaky slinging of elbows.All ittook was a girlish widow with a bucket of grub to drop by and those boyscommencedtopreeningliketherewouldbesomehuggywaltzestobedanced.“I’lllooktothehorse,”Holtsaidtome.I still did not move. I was not much used to women except for mothers.
Everything I did, they did different. I always felt that in their presence Iwasexpected toswimariverofmudjustso theycouldwatchandgiggle, then tellmeIwastoofilthytobeseenwithonceIclamberedupthebank.Itdidn’tseem
likeanythingIhadtodo.“Roedel,I’lllooktothehorse,”Holtsaidagain.“You’dbettergetoninthere.
Letthewomanseeyourfaceandknowit,too.”Theniggerwasgrinning.He’dgottentowhereheactedawfulfamiliarevenif
hedidn’tsaymuch.Icouldseethathewasstartingtolookonmelikehemightlookonhimself.That’sjustwhathappenswithcloseliving.“IbelieveIknowbesthowtohandlemypersonalaffairs,Holt.”Hekepthis
grinlitupandhedidn’tmoveback.“Whydon’tyouseeto thelady’shorse.IreckonI’llgooninandcheckwhatshebrungtoeat.”Holdnodded,backtohismuteways,andIwentonin.Ihadafeeling.
Therewasredthroughouthercheeks.Onetoothwaschippedinashowypartofher smile.Herhairwas thisbig campofblack stuff fallingout all aroundherface.Littlewinterdripsbeadedathernose,whichwasafine,thininstrument.Apalescarwentaninchorsostraightdownherforeheadandcleavedthroughherbrowalmostoverthenose.Hereyeswereofthisendlessdarkhueyou’veneverseenbefore.“My,”shesaid,“aren’tyoubushwhackersthegentlemen.”We all had our hats in our hands watching her. My head felt cold. An
insensiblebitofmanners,thathatbusinessinwinter.“We try to make the effort when possible,” Jack Bull said. There was a
brightnesstohiseyesviewingthiswoman.Oursociallifehadbeenforagoodwhilerestrictedtomen,andthenoveltyofthiswidowgirlbeinginourdugouthadhimglowing.“Doyouthinkmannersshouldbedroppedintimeslikethese,SueLee?”Iansweredthatquestioninmyownmindrightquickandhungmyhatback
onmyhead,theonlyspotwhereitdidmeanygood.“No,”shesaid.SueLeesatonablanketwithherlegsfoldedbeneathher.She
didthisthingwhereherhandwentrakingsoftthroughherhair.Tomeithadtheaspectofacatclawingafterfleas,thoughIreckonitwasmeanttocomeoffascoy.“ButIdon’tthinkhorsesenseoughttobedroppedeither.It’scold.”Hatswereslappedbackonheads.“Hmmm,”wentJackBull,asmilecreepingslowlyintohisface.Ifhe’dhada
moustache,hewouldhavegivenitadashingtugortwo.Idon’tknowwherehepicked up this paddlewheel rogue approach but he seemed to think it adevastatingone.“Youaresokindtothinkofus,ma’am.”She displayed her chipped tooth then and gawked downward, and by that
gestureyouknewshewasyetagirlinsomewaysdespitebeingawidow.“Youmen thinkof usmore,” she said sincerely. “Youdo the goodwork. I
knowit’sdirtyanddangerous.”Icrouchedbackinmycornerofthedugoutandusedthesatchelofcaptured
mailasastool. Ihadcarried the lettersallsummer long,asnogoodreason todumpthemhadhitme.Itwas theonlygiftmycomradeshadeverdonetomeandIsupposethatiswhyIhoardedthem.“Those aregoodwords tohear,”GeorgeClyde said.His sturdypersonwas
squattedjusttotherightofthegirl.“It’snotalwayswehearthem.”The bucket of grub had not been touched. It was boiled potatoes with wet
bacon and corn bread for variety. I didn’t feel like going through the test ofeatinginfrontofawidowwhomightfindmytablemannersunique.Iusedtoeatright,anddabmylipswithaclothaftereverygreasedribbleandhardlyevershoveapotatointomymouthwhole.ButIhadgotshedofthatstyleanddidnotwanttohearanybadappraisalsoftheoneIhadadopted.“Well, now,” Sue Lee said, “I should be going.Mr. Evans will worry if I
don’t.”“Oh,ma’am,”saidJackBull.“IamawfulsorryaboutJackson,Junior,getting
killed.”“Weallsuffer,”shesaid.“Buthesuffersnomore.”“Ioncemethimandhewasafineboy.”“Yes,”shesaidwistfully.Shepushedupfromthegroundinastrong,springy
way.“Hewasagoodhusbandtome.Forsixweekshewasagoodhusbandtome,buthedidn’tlast.”WhileJackBulldidthisconsolingsortofstareintoherface,thedoorcreaked
openandincameHolt.Hewasslappingawayathimselftowarmup.“Whatishedoinghere?”SueLeeasked.“Oh,ma’am,”GeorgeClydesaid,“thisnigger’swithme.Hisname isHolt.
Hejustaboutdon’ttalkatall.”Asevereexpressionwasonherface.Therewerenottoomanyniggerrebels,
althoughIhadseentwoothers.Itwasanewoneonher.“Heoughttobeoffinafieldplowingwithateamofotherniggers,”shesaid.
“Thisisourrevolution.”Clydehootedandsaid,“Oh,Iwouldreckonnot,ma’am.No,ma’am.That’s
one nigger I wouldn’t try to hitch behind a plow.” He snorted and slappedstandingHoltontheknee.“Holt’soneniggerIwouldn’ttrythaton.”Holtjuststoodthereandsodidthewidow.“Hecomesinrighthandy,”JackBullsaid.“Well,now,”SueLeesaiddazedly.“Itlookslikewe’regoingtowinthefight
andlosethewar.”ThecornerofthedugoutnearestthehorseswasHolt’s,andhewentoverthere
and sat down. He sat with his legs split before him and piled his five or sixpistolsinbetweenthemandgotrealinterestedinhowthegunslookedandfelt.Thewidowstartedforthedoorthen,andIstudiedthewayherlegsworked.
She took a stride in the same fashion a man did. There was no sort of itty-bittyness to her step at all. The Evans family were aristocrats, and she hadmarriedupthehillfromherownkin.Thatwasplain.Icouldnotpicturethisgirlgushingbeneathapinkparasolonanykindofspringtimeoccasion.Thisdidnothurtherinmyeyes.“Oh,yes,”shesaidandjumpedherhandtoher throat inastartledmove.“I
almostforgot.Mr.Evansasksthatyoucometothehousetomorrowafterdark.HeisupontheFederalmovementsandcouldpostyouonthem.”“Why,we’dbehonored,”JackBullsaid.“Willyoubejoiningus?”Shesquintedathimbriefly, thensaid,“Ofcourse.Therewillbe food.”She
thenlaughedpleasantly.“Ihaven’ttrainedmyselftogowithoutfood.”“Lookforwardtoit,then,”JackBullsaid.Allofusmenjoinedherinstanding,includingHolt,whodidnotfaceher.“Iamnotsureabouthim,”shesaidandnoddedtowardHolt.“Mr.Evanshas
hadanumberofbadthingsinhislifethesepasttwoyears.Aniggerwithgunsatthedinnertablemightjustbreakhishealthalltheway.Idon’tknow.”“You got nothing to worry about on that score,” George Clyde said.What
goodmannershehadwerebeginningtobestrained.“Youneedn’tworryaboutHolt.” Clyde had gone plain-faced. “I’ll be taking him with me over to theWillardstomorrow.Wewon’tbecomingtoyourdinner.”“Mr.Clyde,”shesaid.“Ididn’tmeantospeakillofyournigger.”“He’snotmynigger.He’sjustaniggerwhoItrustwithmylifeeverydayand
night.”GeorgeClydewasoneof thedevoutestkillerson theborder,and therecouldn’t be too many sweet spots in his makeup. But Holt was one and Iunderstoodit.“ItrustHolt.That’sall.Andithasneverbeenamistake.”Theredinhercheeksturnedupashadeandshedidthatfleagrabatherhair
again.AllIknewofClydeandHoltwastherumorthatHolthadbeenownedbythe
farmernexttoClyde’splace,andthattheyhadbeenboystogether.Thewayitwassaidtohavehappenedis,intheearlydaysofthewarasquadofUnionistshadcome sneaky-style to arrestClydebutHolt tippedhimoff.When the fraycommenced Holt pitched in with Clyde and afterward they were outlawed intandem.“That’sveryhighpraise,”shesaid.
Clydecrossedhisarmsonhischestandbobbedhischin.“Yes,ma’am.Yesitis.Praisedon’tgetnohigher.”“Isee,”shesaid.Abashfulcoughgavetheexcuseforherheadtomove,and
shecoughedit inHolt’sdirection.Shecouldn’thelpherself.Shehadto takeabetterlookathim.Holtstoodsothatheofferedherasteadyviewofthebackofhishat.Shescanneditquickly,thencoughedherselfintofacingforwardagain.“Well, gentlemen, I really must take your leave. I hope the food will pleaseyou.”“Itlookswonderful,”Isaid.Thisgothertolookatme.Shehadnotpreviouslyfoundmyvisagetooterrific
and still did not, but she flung a great big smilemyway that put the cats toscratchinginmybelly.“Youarenotacomplainer,”shesaid,andthatgreatbigsmileshrunk.“Thisis
notatimeforcomplainers.”“No,ma’am,”Isaid,asbrilliantaretortasIcouldconjureontheinstant.“Iadmireyouforthat,”shesaid.Hertoneofspeakingwasplainandrightat
you.Mostofthegigglygirlsqueakinghadbeenbleachedfromit.“Butwe’lltryfor a better meal tomorrow anyhow. I hope to send out some pork in themorning.”“Youarethoughtful,SueLee,”JackBullputin.Thislandedhimbackinthe
windowwithherandherwholefacestraightenedupathisandIcouldtellthattheridiculousriverboatstylehehadwasworking.“Thankyou,JackBull.MayIcallyouJackBull?”“Iwouldhaveitnootherway.”“Good.Well,I’llhaveHoneybee”—sheheldherpalmfacedownandhalfway
tothefloor—“she’sthislittleyounggirlatthehouse—I’llhaveherbringoutthefoodifIcan’tcome.”“Thatwoulddofine.”“Goodnightall,”shecalledout,andJackBull jumpedaheadofhertoopen
the door.Themanwas fixing to be endless in his efforts to charmher down.Thatwasclearascowpattiesonasnowbank.“Goodnight,”Isaid.“Solong,”saidClyde,whostillsulkedasmidgin.Jack Bull halted and sucked himself up as tall as he could get, which was
plenty.“Holt,”hesaid,“theladysaidgoodnighttoall.Saygoodnightback.”“Hey,Chiles,”Clydesaidhotly.“Youdon’ttellhimnothing!”“Heisbeingrude.”“Ifheneedstelling,I’lltellhim.Youdon’ttellhimnothing!”
“Thentellhim,Clyde!”“Oh,gentlemen,please!”“Hedon’tneedtelling,Chiles!”Holt savedour associationby facingabout and saying, “It’sokay,George.”
Hetouchedhisfingerstohishatbrim.“’Night,missy.”JackBullandClydekeptstaringhardateachotherandthewidowlingereda
lookonthem,thenturnedandstartedpushingatthedoor.ThisbroughtJackBullto,andheopeneditandsteppedoutsidewithher.“I’llseehertoherhorse,”hesaidandclosedtheplankbehindhim.ThehotthoughtswerestillvisibleinClyde’sexpression.“Holt,”hesaid,“youneverhavetobemeekifI’maround.”No attitude of any sort was inHolt’s face, whichwas always theway. He
looked the same in a hot spot as he did sleeping.Anything he thought hardlyevermadeittowhereitshowed.“Itweren’tnohardship,George.”Ididaduckwalkovertothegrubbucketandbowedmyheadclosetoitand
oversniffedtodrawattentionmyway.“Let’seat,”Isaid.“There’splentyforall.Smellsgood.”Clydesquattedintohiscornerandsaidnothing,butHoltjoinedmeatthegrub
bucketandsaid,“Itdoes.Itsurelydoes.”
Idroveamessofpotatoesintomymouth.Iwrappedastringofbaconaroundacorn-breadchunkandsetitchasingafterthepotatoes.Theracetomygulletwasmoreorlessatie.JackBullhadonlystayedoutaminute.HeandClydepickedattheirfoodand
weresilent.Holtandmetookuptheslackandjustslammedawaythegrub.“Holt,”JackBullsaidafterabit.“Doyouwantmybacon?”“I could eat more,” Holt said. He was starting to flourish in the chatter
business.“Good.”JackBullgotupandwalkedoveranddroppedanicemeatybacon
stringonHolt’splate.Itwasameatybaconstringthatwouldhaveusuallybeenmine.Imadenocomplaint.“’Preciateit,”Holtsaid.Clydewatchedallofthisandhisfacerelaxedagooddeal.Hechewedaway
with his big jawmuscles throbbing. Pretty soon he lookedmyway and said,“Roedel,youwantmybacon?”Iwasfull,buthisgesturecouldnotbescorned.Iwouldhavetotoughdown
anotherdoseofbaconforpeace.
“IguessIcouldeatit.”Clydesmiled,andhisfacebrokeupingoodcheer.“Well,I’llshititbehindtheoaktreeinthemorning.Youjusthelpyourself.”Thedugoutfilledwithlaughteratthis,andIfeltfineaboutthat,forweneeded
eachothermoreandmoreinthosetimesandlaughterbinds.“I’lldothat,”Isaid.“Bewareofmystewatnoon.”
The choicest part of a new day is the first of it.Despite the loitering chill ofnight,Isquattedonthemoundabovethedugoutandobservedthegreatsmileyheadofthesundroollightintothecountry.Aquietmancouldwatchadeershufflebyat thathour.Anoisymanmight
startlethebeastandsetitbounding.Ahungrymancouldkillit.Atsuchatimeallpossibilitiesexist.Itisamatterofchoice.Mynostrilswereopenedby thecoldanddrainedmyheadofnight fluids. I
snuffled andwiped and inhaled and spit.At this lonely hour I amusedmyselfwithallmannerofrunoffsfrommyperson.The peacewas stunning and the creep of light, across the fallow fields and
standsoftimber,arevelation.Many haunts roosted betweenmy ears. Theymurmured, they pleaded, they
scolded.SomuchechodidtheyunleashthatIsupposedmyselftobediseased.Ilaughedoutloudatthingsthatneverhappened.Mywholeyoungbodycringedatthebriefestmemoryofthingsthathad.Amongallmytormentorsmyfatherwastakingthelead.Hewasnosingout
evenAsaChilesintheprovocationofunwelcomereveries.Whatastubbornandlucklessmanhehadbeen.IhaddonewhatI’ddone.Wasitmyconcern?
9
THEY RUN ABOUT all over the country,” JacksonEvans said.His old yellowing eyesswiveled to thewindowand sawdarkness. Part of awhite beard hungoff hischin, but there were bare spots on his cheeks. “Waverly, Lexington,Warrensburg,allarethickwithinvaders.”Everythingaboutthismanwaslong:long bony fingers, great stovepipe legs, and arms thatmatched an eagle span.“Wouldthatwecoulddrivethemaway,butwecan’t.”Dinnerhadshownupandbeenwhippedgood.Notacornkernelorchicken
wing survived.Thus soothed,wegathered in theparlor andwent after a stoutportionofapplebrandy.“Wemayyet,”JackBullsaid.“Manyofthemarefindingthatweexactahigh
pricefrominvaders.Theymaynotwanttopayitendlessly.”“No,” Evans said.He shook his head. “No.” Thisman had lost and lost to
wheredefeatseemedalogicalfuture.“Theyaretoomany,Mr.Chiles.Theyaretoomany,andtoofanatictoquit.”The parlor had a few pieces of furniture in it. Evans had not yet been
completelyrobbed.Asamanofsignificanceinthisneighborhoodhehadbeenoffered a deal by the occupation troops. He had been roughed up some andthreatened a lot, but so far he lived. Until they had proof of his traitorousthoughts, they tolerated him. He walked on a thin rail between his truesentimentsandsurvival.“We have different thoughts,” JackBull said.Hewas as slicked-up as you
could get living in a dugout. All the dirt had been plowed from beneath hisfingernails,andwehadtookturnsranchingtheticksfromeachother’shead.Themudhadbeencarvedoffourbootsandwelookednighontodandy.“Westillwanttofight.IreckonIwillalwayswanttofightthem.”All the womenwere in the other room lest we talk too terrible in front of
them.Theyhadseenterrible,andmaybefeltit,butEvansclutchedatoldwaysevenamidsttheawfulnew.“Donotmisreadme, sir,”Evans said. “I havegiven a son to this fight and
wouldgivemoreifIhadthem.No,thatshouldnotbedoubted.”JackBullknockedbacksomebrandyandpursedhislips.Hiseyeswenttothe
floor,thentoEvans.“Youhavebeentryingtowalktheneutralline,Mr.Evans,anditwon’tbear
walkinginthiswar.”
“Iknowit,”theoldbeatengentsaid.“Yourfather,goodoldAsa,hetriedit,too.Butitdon’tbearwalking,asyouhavesaid.”Themention of Asa doused us with a slop of gloom. He had been one of
Missouri’sfinest,butthathadnotsavedhim,orhisproperty,orhisfamily.“MyfathertrustedtheYankees,”JackBullsaid.“Itisamistakehemadeonly
once,butthatwasallshewrote.”JackBulljerkedhimselfupandbegantopace.“Youandhim,Evans,whydidyoutrustYankees?”Evans turned his hands up at this and glanced at all the night the window
showed.Thiswastenderterritorywithusall.“You knowwhy. Not because we were fools. It was because we were not
fools. They promised us all—they called us ‘prominent landowners’—theypromiseduswewouldnotbebothered.Theywouldprotect us andour slavesfromJayhawkersifwepledgedneutral.”Awholerippleofshakeswentthroughhisform.“Itmadeallkindsofsenseatthetime.”“Andnonenow,” JackBull said. “Theydidn’t evenprotectmy father from
theirownmen.Theymurderedhimforhiswatchandhisbootsandhishorse.Thatismurderforcheap.Andhehadnottakenuparmsagainstthem.”“Thatwasthedeal,”Evanssaid.Hislongfingerswenttopickingathisbeard.
Therewas sorrow in his every gesture. “Who killedAsa,Mr.Chiles? I neverknewwhokilledhim.”“ItwasCaptainWarrenandhismiserablegang.Theywereseen.Didyouever
seeCaptainWarren?”“No.”“Hehadafacesolikethatofapigthatyoublinkedandrubbedyoureyesat
thesightofhim.Theonlyexcuseforamantolooksolikeapigwasthatyouwereasleepandhadeatenawrong thingatdinner.”ThepacespickedupandJackBullwent fromwall towall. “Warren followedmyfather from townandrobbedhimontheroad.Hedidn’tneedtokillhimbuthedid.”“We pressed charges,” I said. The recollection of us trying to pressmurder
chargesonaFederalfilledmewithhumiliation.“Theylaughedatus.”“Thatistheirhabit,”Evanssaid.“Jakeandme”—JackBullstoppedandlookedmyway—“thereisalwaysJake
withme—wentforhimonourownhook.Warrenhadawife.Weputragsinhermouth andmet him in his very ownhouse. I never abusewomen, but I put aquiltoverherandsatonit’tilhecamein.”“Well,alltherulesaregonewithmenofthatsort,”Evanssaid.“Theirwomen
aren’tmuchbetter.”“I know it,” JackBull said. “I liked it thatway. I likedusing hiswife as a
chair. She was soft. It was no hard thing to do. CaptainWarren came in for
vittlesandgotservedabitterdish.Hisworldwentsouronhim.Wekilledhim.Wekilledhimseveraltimes,eh,Jake?”“That’sright,”Isaid.“Therewasnochanceleftinit.”“Itwasourfirstrealfight.Everythinggotchangedbyit.”“Youtooktothebush,”Evanssaid.“Allthegoodmenareinthebushnow.”“Those are words that have went south forever,” Jack Bull said. “ ‘Good’
doesn’tmeananythinglikewhatitusedtomean.No,sir,wearenotgoodmen.Butwearemen.They’llhavetowhipus.Wewon’tdoitforthembyquitting.”“Myprayers arewithyou,”Evans said. “Theyhavebecomemore frequent,
and theyarealwayswithyoumen in thebush.”Evansstaredoffandbreathedsadly.Hehadoncebeenamanbestleftunmolested,butnowhewasold.“Wewillbequittingthiscountryinthespring.AssoonastheroadsareclearwewillbetryingforTexas.”“About half ofMissouri has went to Texas,” I said. “Plenty of friends are
there.”Evansnoddedmyway,andathin,unhappysmilebrokefromhim.“Yes,”hesaid.“Itisabouttheonlyplaceleft.Thislandisruined.”JackBullsplashedoutsomemorebrandy,andsilencedroppeddown.Iheld
thebrandyupandstudieditasifitmighttellmemuch.Beatenoldmenwerenotthe right philosophers for young straight-backed boys, whowould trade shotsand victories, to hear. Iwatched the liquor somyglance needn’t pause at theaged,whippedfaceofourhost.“Whatof theFederals?” Iasked tochaseoff thesorrowfulquiet.“Whatare
theydoing?”“Ah,”saidEvans.Hecrouchedforwardasifintentonme,andhismovements
creaked.“Themilitiahastakenupyourtactics.Iowansandsoforthwillguardthetownsandthemilitiawillmeetyouinthebush.”“Theyhavebeentryingthat,”JackBullsaid.“Ithasn’tbeentheirbesttrick.”“Theysay itwillbe.Thereareplentyof them.”Evanspointeda finger that
aimedsomewherebetweenwhereJackBullstoodandIsat.“ThisQuantrillman,thismanwhosailsunderthenameofCaptainQuantrill,hasthemhornet-angry.Hekillsandkills.Theywanthisheadonapole.”“Ishouldn’twonderatthat,”Isaid.“Hehaslotsofboysandtheyarerough.”“DoyouknowQuantrill?”“Yes,” JackBull said. “Wehave joinedupwithhim fora coupleof things.
Hisideaswork.”“Ibelieveheistrash,”Evanssaid.“Ibelievethatevenifheisonourside.”AkindofdeadlyboredlookworkedintoJackBull’sface.“Iwouldwatchthattalk,Mr.Evans,”hesaid.“Theboyslovehim.Heleads
well.Hemaytrulybetrash.Maybeyouwouldnothavespokentohimfiveyearsago,butthosedaysaregone,sir.Trashthatfightsmeannowmakeupthebestmenontheborder.”JacksonEvansnoddedatthis,asthoughchangedbyhearingit,thensetdown
hisbrandyandpulledhimselfupright.Itwasalongprocess.“Enoughof thiswar talk,” he said. “Let’s have the ladies join us and think
noblerthoughts.”“Afineidea,”JackBullsaidwithgusto.“Somecompanywouldbesplendid.”OldEvanscrankedhisfeetuptothepaceofascaredturtle,andcreakedoff
throughthehousetocallinthewomen.Thishobnobbinginthemidstofwarhadthequalityoffeveredthought.Itdidnotfitatall.Itwashappymemoriesactedout in forlorn surroundings.Therewas sentiment in such gestures, like savingthe first spoon thatwas jammed inyourmouth as ababe.The thingdidn’t fitanymore,andknowingthatitoncehadwasnogreatjoy.“JackBull,” I said. I stood to shakemy legs loose. “Weshouldbe thinking
aboutgettingonback.Federalscouldpassanytime.”“Oh,putagownon,Jake.”Helaughedatmyconcerns.“Itistoocold.They’ll
allbeinfrontofthefireexaminingtheirplunder.”Thewomenandthegirljoinedus.Mrs.Evanswasawidecartofmotherwith
a florid faceandblondhair.Sheworespectacles.Herchinhadextrashangingbelowit.Ilikedheronsight.Shepleasedtheeyeandheartalmostaswellasmyownmother,orMissusChiles,couldhave.Sue Lee’s hair had been reined in a bit. She went right at the brandy and
poured herself a dollop.Allowancesweremade forwomen aswell asmen insuchtimes.“Ihaveitinmetosing,”shesaid.“Shallwehaveasing-along?”This Honeybee creature was a seedling version of her mother, destined to
growwideandstrongandpleasing.“Oh,yes,”shesaid.“Ilikethosethebest.”“Myvoiceisnotallitshouldbethesedays,”JackBullsaid,“butonceitwas
rumoredIcouldcarryatune.”Thiswasalltoomuchforme.Sing-alongswerethemainattractionatsocials
mywholelife,andIneverdidlikethem.ItcouldbethatIsangwithouttoneorspiritorjoy.Myvoicehadanabilitytohitandfounderatseveralodddepthsinanyonechorus.“IbelieveIwon’tsing,”Isaid.“Youngearsarepresent.”Thewidowgirlslicedalookatmethatwasmeanttodragmealongintosong.“I’llbetyousinglovely,”shesaid.“Youwouldlose.”
“He really does sing very poorly,” Jack Bull said. “He imitates the turkeyfirst-rate,though.”Hewaspeddlinghissocialgraceshardatmyexpense.Ididn’tevenwantthe
widow.Honeybeetookmyhand,asistheforwardstyleoflonelycountrytykes.“Wouldyoudoagobbleforme,sir?”sheasked.I rubbedHoneybee’s soft littlehead, thengrabbedherby the shoulders and
spunher’tilshefacedinanotherdirection.“Itistoocold,Honeybee,”Itoldher.“WhenIcallturkeys—theycome.They
wouldcomealla-gobbleandcrashrightthroughthosewindowsandwewouldfreeze.”“Oh,”shesaid,pouty,andIshovedherofftowardhermother.“Iwanttohear
it.Iwantyoutogobble,sir.”“Catchmeinbetterweather.”IguessIamusedthewidow,asshesmiledatmeinatinylip-curlfashionthat
Isupposedindicatedminutemirth.Mrs.EvansputherarmsaroundHoneybeeandheldhertohertummy.“Don’t pester theman so,” she said. “We’re going to sing,Honeybee.You
liketosing,don’tyou?”“Ifhewon’tgobble,I’llsing.”Thewide-womanseedlingsmolderedalookat
me.“Hedon’tcareforme.”Thisbanterwithachildwas tighteningmeup.Thesocialwhirlwasnotmy
formoftumult.Allmystabsatitmissedthemark.“Ilikeyoufine,”Isaid.“It’sjustgobblingrightnowisnotforme.”Soon the crowd got over my not gobbling and started singing. They beat
through“Dixie”and“BarbryAllen,”thenworkedover“KissMeKatieOh.”OldEvanshonkedout the lowparts and JackBull stretchedup after notes that hefumbledgamelyandthewomensanginthesoothingcenterrange.Brandywassloshedaround.Ileanedagainstawallandsmiledconstantly,likeanaddlebrain.It pretty well made me jumpy, hooting out songs in a secesh house in a
Federal district. I had not the same capacity for convincingmyself that IwaselsewherefromwhereIwas.IknewexactlywhereIwasanditwasn’taplaceforsongs.Aw,prettyquickIsaidthedevilwithitallandwentoutside.Itriedtokeepa
watchandthemoonhelpedsomebythrowingthatweaklightdownontheroad.Icouldsortofseeagooddistanceandthatrelaxedme.Thenightchillhadroutedanyragtagpocketsofheat.Mynoseburned.Water
beadedinmyeyes.Agrannythinghappenedtomyhandsandtheycouldbarely
clinch. I hopped about inside a blanket and crashedmy hat down aroundmyears.Insidethehousethesing-alongwenton.JackBullChileswouldhaveuskilled
forawidowsqueezeandachancetomanglehighnotesincompany.Thevoicesweremuffledbythewallsandwindandreachedmyearsallsoupedtogether.Ineveryway,andforasmanyreasons,Iwantedtoreturntothemuddugout
andmyrockchimney.But if JackBullChileseverwashurtbecause I lefthim, therewouldbeno
recoveryforme.Iknewthat.Ihadalwaysknownthat.ItwassomethingthatIknewfromtoenailtocowlick.SoIwatchedtheroadandblewonmyhandsandstampedmyfeetanddamn
nearfroze,butnobadluckgainedonus.ItwasaspleasantanightasI’dhadinawhile.
10
INTHECOMINGdaysthewidowfounddailymissionsthatrequiredherpresenceinourdugout.GeorgeClydewasoftenatJuanitaWillard’sandsometimesHoltwasathisside.Sometimeshewasleft inthedugout.SueLeegotfriendlierandmoresisterlytoHoltandme.JackBullwouldnotbemistakenforherrelativebyanybutthemostbackwardsortofperson.Really,shequitseeminglikeawidow.Sheseemedlikeaseventeen-year-old
girl fromCarthage,Missouri,which iswhat shewas.When JackBull startedputtingherpawinhis,shefellfortheploy.Shelikedthatgambit.Ithadworkedonherbefore,Ithink.Onedaywhenthesnowhadfallen,shehustledintothedugoutandbelloweda
howdy,whichhadbecomehergreeting.Twoballsofsnowwere inherhands.ShehurledoneatmebutmissedandsplatteredHolt.Theothershewalkedoverand rubbed in JackBull’s face.Heneverevenmoved toavoid it,butheldhisfaceupandopentoherfingersandthecoldtheymashedallabouthisfeatures.“YousplatteredpoorHolt,”Isaidtoher.“Youraimiswild.”“Itsurelyis,”sheanswered.Thesnowwasmeltingonmynearbrother’sface.
He looked like the boy who has been scolded only to discover that the rightscoldingcanbeapleasantbusiness.She turned fromhimand lookedonHolt.“DidIwhopyougood?”Aswashiswont,Holtmerelynodded.Thewholelongfenceofherteethwentondisplay.Shewasfriskyandhappy
andwallowinginhermood,asonlysomeonewhodoesnotoftenfeelitwill.ShewentoverandshovedHolt.“Holt,”shesaid,giggling.“I’llmakeyouspeakuponeofthesedays.”Helookedupatherandlaidhisheadofftooneside.“Don’tholdyourbreath,missy.”This one sentence delighted her. She busted up harderwithmirth than you
wouldatseveralShakespeares.“Ihavedoneit!”shecried.“IhavemadeoldHolttalk!”Love must be what it was. This mood just crashed right out of her and
slammedaroundthedugout.Ithought,Itmustbeakintoaterriblefever,onlyitraceshappythroughyouandnotheat.Maybethereissomeheat,too.Itisasighttowatchifyouain’tgotityourself.JackBull staredatherkindofsheepish,andshekeptgiddyingabout ’tilhe
said,“Whoa,mule!Settledown,there.”Calling a lovestruck girl a mule in company is not a winning comment. I
learned that quick by theway SueLee’s face twitched straight from giddy togrumpy.SheturnedalookonJackBullthatshowedplainthatshesawnogreatcomplimentinthecomparison.“Mule?”shesaid.“Whoa,mule?”Therewassnowmelttricklingoverhisface,andhewipedatit.Helookedmy
wayasifImightrelayhimagoodliethatwouldslidehimoutofthis.“Justcalmdown,”hesaid.Sheleanedoversoherfacewasjustabovehim.Shepinchedhercheeksand
said,“DoIlookmuleytoyou?”“Well,no.”ThenshedidthisthingthatIwouldhaveplunkeddownfivecentstoseeifI
hadn’tgottenitfree.Shespunabout,putherhandsonherkneesandsashayedher butt practically into his surprised nose. Despite her many garments themovementshowedsomecharms.“That look like amule to you?” She stood straightwhile he looked stupid,
thenshediditagain.Hetookhispunishmentwell.“Thatlookliketherearendofananimalthatheehawsinthenight?”JackBullsmiledatthatanddughimselfindeeper.“Itlookslikeitmightcouldbe.”I amafraidHolt andme laughed.Wewere always loitering in themidst of
their carrying-ons. Romance is a sweet enough enterprise but it makes youlonelytowatchit.HoltgrinnedatmeandIsentthesamebacktohim.“JackBullChiles,” SueLee said, “just because I’m awidow it don’tmean
youcangetthatfamiliarwithme.”“Pardonme,ma’am,butIbelieveitwasyouthatshovedyourrumpintomy
face.”“Oh!”shewent.“Thatwasonlyjusttomakeapoint!”“Youmade it,” he said. He could be rough at the oddestmoments. “I will
always know your rump from a mule’s now. There are several differences. Idon’tknowhowImissedthem.”Now, Sue Lee Shelley was not the sort of plantation belle that would be
contentedbyamereexchangeofrhyminginsults.Shecameofpracticalpeopleinapracticalland.Shesmotehimagoodoneonthechin.TwiceinmylifeIhadalsotakenswingsonJackBull,andherblowsshook
him even less than mine had. She wound up to fling another at him, but hesprangtohisfeetandgrabbedherinclosetohim.Hisarmswereallaroundher.MyLord,Holtandmewantedoutofthatdugout.Somethingsyououghtnot
toeverseeyourbestfrienddoupclose.Loveisoneofthem.MeandHoltwentdirt-quietandfacedeverywaybuttheirway.“Don’tbemean,”shesaid,andthistimeshesoundedabouttwelveyearsold
andlost.“Ican’ttoleratemeanness.”Therewassomebreathysilence,thenwetnoisesweremadeandseveralsighs
accompanied them. Ihavea fragmentof thegentleman inme,but Iditched itand lookedovermyshoulderatall thefriendliness.JackBullwasdoingsomemoistmouthworkonherneckandcheeks and lips.Henuzzledher all about.Prettysoonshewasdoingsimilardeedsonhim.Hehadaslit-liddedlookonhim.Hisarmskepther inthehugandall those
noiseswenton.Inpeacetimehemighthavebeenshotforthis.“Isthattoomean?”hefinallyasked.“No,”sheansweredinatinytone.“It’snotreallytoomeanatall.”Iguessawomanwantsamaninwartime.Whiletherestillareany.Peoplein
hellwantspringwater.Holt found all kinds of fascinating aspects to the dirt between his feet. He
knewhebetternot lookanywhereelse.Anigger’spath is awfulnarrowwhenwhitewomenarearound.Thisbighuggysmoochingmatchchangedthedugout.Ithappenedinablink.
There I was squatting on the dirt with Holt, feeling just about as useful as aChristian impulse at an ambush, while Jack Bull kept up at his new sport ofmashingonwidows.Itseemedhefoundthisnewgametobelessthanheroicallydifficult.Iaboutscreamed.Butfinallythewidowshowedsomesense.Shecrawdaddiedoutofhisarms.
A couple of satisfied humphs came from her as she patted herself back intoplace.Thenshesaid,“Oh,goodness.”“Yes,”hesaid,andhistonewasexactlythatofafarodealerwhoknowsthe
gameain’tstraight.“Goodnessiswhatitis.”“Aw, for crying out loud!” I said. I pointed at hunkeredHolt, thenmyself.
“We’resittingrighthere!Showussomemercy.”Mycommentshadastunningeffect.Allthemushystuffwentupthechimney.
Ididn’tglance to see it,but I could feel JackBull staringhardatme.Nooneknewhimbetter,orevenaswell.“Heisquiteright,”SueLeesaid.“Imustleave.Ihavetoget.Ibettergetto
thehouse.”“Cover your tracks in the snow, too,” I said. “You’ll be leading curious
Federalsrightontous.”
“Now,don’tberude,”JackBullsaid.“Youhavenoreasontoberude.”Ifacedhimafterthat.“Isthatso?”Iasked.Icoulddisplaysomepeskyqualitiesmyselfwhenforced
toit.“Thereisawargoingoneverywherebutbetweenyourears,youdumbox.”IguessIwasmorethanpesky.He kicked me square in the chest. I felt my innards bobble. The next few
breathsIdrewrattledandwheezed.“Dumbox,amI?”Oh,hehadthat lookforamomentthere.ItwasnotthelookImostlikedto
see.Butitpassedasfastasitcame.“I’msorry,Jake,”hesaid.Ithinkhemeantit.“Mylegjustdidthatonitsown.
Therewasnothoughtbehindit.”Irubbedandrubbedattheplacewherehisboothadvisitedallonitsown.It
wasadullthrobbingspot.“Ihearyou,”Isaid.“Ihearyou.Thesethingshappen.ButHoltandmeain’t
dyingjustsoyoucanbekissed.”“Leave me out of this,” Holt bleated. “I ain’t even here, or nowhere near
here.”JackBulllaughed.Hiseyeshadalanternglow.“Idon’tbelieveanyoneisabouttodiefrommykiss.Infact,sheseemstobe
doingtolerablywell.”The widow excused herself swiftly. She got right out of there. I reckon
widowsfeelokayaboutacts thatsomemaidensmightdrown themselvesover.Anyhowthat’sthewayIfiguredit.WhenshewasgoneJackBullsaid,“Hey,lookyhere,boys.”“Where?”Iasked.“Righthere.”Therewasabiglumpinhisbritchessquarebetweenwherehispistolshung.“MyGod,”Isaid.“Where’syourshame,Chiles?”“GonetoTexas,”hesaid,andjustuproaredwithlewdjoy.Icouldn’tchimein.Nothingwasthesame.
Thechimneyfirebrokelightacrossthedugout.Itwasajaggedillumination.Theflames writhed and bounced and a deathly howl of wind blew down thechimney.Itfelthomeytome.GeorgeClydewasback.Hewas ruining JuanitaWillard’s reputation.Often
hestayedwithherallnight.Herfamilyseemedtothinknothingofit.Ifeverwe
wonthewar,itwouldtakeyearstorenovateourhonor.Honorhadcometobeafrivolousvirtueinpractice,butitwasalsotheonethaturgedustobattle.Confusing.“So,now,”ClydesaidtoJackBull.“Youhavebecomequitetheyoungswain,
Ihear.”“Ican’tdenyit.”“Youhavebeenloosewithyourkisses,Ihear.”“NotaslooseasIhopetobe.”“Hah, hah! I know that feeling.” Clyde, by dint of his regular berth at the
Willards,seemedpracticallymarried.“Whatisshelike?”“Oh,sheisfine.Justfineanddandy.Arobustwidow.”“Those are by far the best kind,” Clyde said. “And there are getting to be
plentyofthem.”Thisconversationseemedtwo-sided,soIthrewinmyownoar.“Sheiscoltishofattitude,”Isaid.“Withanungainlygallopofspirit.”“Ho,ho,”wentClyde.“Youaremakingmejealous!”JackBullbeamed.Hechewedata twig,hisstrongcheeksbulgingarounda
smile.Hisskinseemedflushedtoaboutthesamedegreeassixchugsofpopskullwhiskeywoulddo.“Yes,”hesaid.“Thisgalissomeproposition.”“Sheislowlyborn,”Isaid.“Oh, she is. She is lowly born,” Jack Bull said happily, “but highly
fascinating.”Clydewenttogigglingandsaid,“Leaveoffwithit—youboysaremakingme
sojealous.”“Isayagain,”JackBullmused.“Sheislowlybornbuthighlyfascinating.”Ifeltwoundedandleftbytheroadside.Changewasrequiredofme.Ididn’tknowifIwasuptoit.
Thingsgotworse.GeorgeClydehadJuanitaWillardbegSueLeetocomestaywithher,andClydedrugJackBullovertherethenextnight.ThatleftHoltandme in the dugout. The two of them set out like it was a lark. All kinds ofbackslappingandwinkingwenton.Ihopedtheywereshotat,butnothit.Maybetheycouldbehitjustslightly.Itwas kind of glum forme in the dugout. Itwas awful cold out.Winter is
mostlymelancholic.Itisespeciallysounderground.
Holtwasbarelymorecompanythanarock.Hehadtobecoaxedandgoadedtosay“Passthetaters.”Iwasnotexactlywindyofnaturemyself,butIwantedsomeconversation.“Pickatopic,”Isaid.Hejustlookedatme,hisblackskinblackerinthepoor-lightedcorner.“Pickatopic,”Ichorused.“Youaregoingtotalktome,Holt.”Hisheadshook,andhishandsflinchedandhesaid,“It’snotmyhabit.”Everything he said he said fine enough, but he didn’t seem to believe it.
Actually he said things as good as anybody. A lot of niggers I had knownblatheredhoodoononsense towhere youwanted to gag them, but here Iwas,alone,withawell-spokenniggerwhohadaterriblecaseofsilence.Itisalwayssomething.“I’llpickthetopic,”Ifinallysaid.Ihadtolurethisfellowintoconviviality.I
tried to thinkof some topicwe couldbothdiscuss. I didn’twant it one-sided.“Let’stalkabout—dirt.Dirtisourtopic.”Whenhestillfailedtorespond,Ibegantosuspectthathewasnotbashfulbut
ornery.“Dirt,damnit,Holt.Tellmeallyouknowaboutdirt.”Helookedatme.Hiseyeswereshadedtowardtheoriental inshape.Idon’t
thinkIimpressedhimatall.“Dirt isgood,”he said.Fornomoreexercise than it got, his tonewas rich.
“Everywhereisdirt.Dirtisgood.”“Well,now,that’sdandy,”Isaid.“It’sjustyouandmehere,Holt.Weneedto
talkorwe’llbecrazedbythewindmoans.”TherewassomesuspicioninmethatHoltfoundmycompanycomfortable.It
wasaslowthingwithhim,friendlinesswas.SomewhereinhimIfelttherewasagreatgooofwarmththathestoredslyly.“Isthatallyouknowofdirt?”Iasked.Alongresponsewouldnothavepained
me.“It is dark,” he said. You could parade his voice at a songfest and not get
hooted.Itwasthatpleasant.“DoyouthinkGeorgewillmarry?”“Notinthesetimes,”Isaid.“Afterthiswarisgone,hewill.Ireckonwe’llall
haveto.”“Aha,”hehummed.“Thetrickisuspassingthroughthesetimes.”Holtwasasensiblecreaturewithopinionsthatweresuccinct.Icouldnotfail
tonoteit.“Justso,”Isaid.Well,we staredat the shadowson thewalls fora spell to regainourbreath
aftersuchaspurtofchat.Itlookedlikecities.Theshadowspeakedandvalleyed
allacrossthedugoutandforflashesoftimetheydesignedouttallbuildingsandgreat avenues that resembled precisely no city I’d ever heard of, but theydivertednonetheless.“ThereissomethingIlike,”Holtsaid.Hissmartfacestraightenedatme.“Oh,whatwouldthatbe?”“Youmightnotcareforit,Roedel.”“Tryme.Icanbegenerouswhenthecostislow.”Hestudiedmeclosely,thensaid,“Youain’tthesameassomeoftheboys.I
havewatchedyou.It’sathingIhaveseen.”“Howniceofyoutolikethat,”Isaid.“Thatain’tit.NotwhatIlike.”Anexpressionverylikethatofanunfedpuppy
wasonhim.Ithaditsendearingaspects.“Ilikeitwhenyouread.”“Readwhat?”“Themails.When you read themmails out loud it is something the likes I
neverheardbefore.”ThemailpouchwasbaggageItotedthesamewayothersrubquartzrocks—it
waspartofmyluck.IknewI’dhadsometobeyetnearlywhole.ButIhadnotreadtheletters.Thatmightnotbesomethingthatshouldbedone.“Oh, theymight not be too amusing,” I said. “It might just be a bunch of
boringthoughtsonestrangersenttoanother.”Thiscommentmadehim lookdown.Hebrusheddust fromhisbritchesand
staredawayfromme.“Theoneyoureadfromthemotherwasfine,”hesaid.“Iheardthatfromyou
inthespring.Doyourecallit?”“Yes.”“ShesaidthingsIenjoytohear.”Therewasnothingforitbuttoread.Jaggedflameandtheshadowsitthrows
can be amusing for only a while. A letter might almost be as fine as aconversation.Ipulledoutthemailpouch.IopenedtheflapandheldittowardHolt.“Drawone,Holt.”Hisfingersinchedintothepouchandhefeltaroundabit,asifthefeelofthe
notecouldswayhimyeaornay.Aftersomesecondsoftactilescrutinyhedrewoneout.“Thisonedo,”hesaid.I opened the letter. Itwas aMassachusetts scrawl of a thing.Half of rabid
Kansas had come from there with the Emigrant Aid Society. They shippedabolitionistsandBiblesandriflesouttoourareatostiruptrouble.Itwashardtolikethem.ThisletterwasaddressedtoAndrewPritchardinLawrence,Kansas,
the most hated burg on the border, home of the Jayhawkers and their foam-mouthedilk.“Youaresomepicker,”Isaid.Iaboutdidnotreadit,forIknewtheauthorof
itwouldinsultmefromadistance.“Okay,heregoes….”IbeltedoutthecontentsoftheYankeething.ItdevelopedthatfatherPritchard
inWellfleet,Massachusetts, was very proud of youngAndrew for having theplucktocomeouttoourterritoryandtrytoforceusintobeingmorelikethem.Itiswartotheknifeandknifetothehilt,hesaid,whichisexactlythesamewaywesawit.God’swillmustbedone,hesaid,andrebelshadsacrificedtherighttotheloveofanyknownGod,forhedidn’timaginethattheGodheprayedtoinMassachusettscouldpossiblystomachMissourimen.Well,Ithought,thismanfollowsafraildeity.“Idon’twanttoreadthis,”Isaid.“Itismakingmeforlorn,thestinginessofit.
Drawoutanother.”“Iamwithyou,”Holtsaid,ashedippedhisfingersintothepouch.“Iwantto
hearnicethings,andthatmandon’tsaythem.”“You have got that right.” The new letter was folded into a tiny square. I
openeditslowly.“Holt,whereisyourmother?”“Aw,KansasorKingdom.Idon’tknowwhich.”I could tell this was something he thought of often. Anybody would. Sad
deedsweredoneinthisland.Ineverownedaniggerorevenbidonone.“Well,myfatherismurdered,”Isaid,asIundidthetinysquare.“I know that,” he said. “George’s whole family is murdered. Even his
momma,whowasnottoowellanyhow.”“DoesClydeownyou?”Hisheadshook,hislipsturneddown.“Notingreenbacksandcoppers,”hesaid.“Isee,”Isaid,andIdid.The tiny square unfolded to reveal a big sloppy script. It, too, was from
Massachusetts and en route to Lawrence. This one was from a brother to abrother.Arealhardytonewasinit.Theback-eastbrotherhadseenatheatricalin Boston where an Englishman played Othello with bootblack so effectivelysmearedonhis face that he fully expected JohnBrown’sghost towaft in anddouble the ticketprice.TheseboyswerenamedFannin.The letterwriterwentontosaythatsomanyniggerswerenowfreedandinBostonthatIrishmencouldhardlygetjobsonthedocks.Heallowedashowthiswasnotaphenomenonthathadbeenpredictedby theBlackRepublicans,but itwasonehewashaving tolivewith.Hethensaidhelovedhisbrotherandheoftenthoughtwarmlyofhimandthetimeswhentheyhadmissedtheshape-upandgonerowingintheharbor,
andthesweatynightsaftertheyhadhumpedonthedocksalldayonlytodancetoolateatParlan’sBeerGarden.Oh,Jesus,hesaid,lifewasnotsoroughwhenyourfavoritebrotherwaswithyouandthereweredrovesofsinglegalsroamingaboutandbeerwasfreeiftheywereoneofParlan’sdaughters.Here’stoyou,hefinished,andkeepyourheadlowoutthere.“Isthisabetterone?”IaskedHolt.“Agooddealnicer,”hesaidwithanod.“Itcouldgettowhereyoumightlike
thatman.”“Yes,”Isaid.“Inothertimeshewouldnotbesobad.”Whatwesaidwas true. Ihadbarelydislikedanyonebeforewoopandwarp
had comemyway, andnever hated.But I had learned all these emotions thatsomecallnecessaryandnoble.Iwouldneverapologizeforit,yetImighthavethrivedwithoutit.“Holt,doyoureckonthiswarwilleverend?”“No.”“Meneither,”Isaid.“Notunlesswearekilled.”“Oh,yes,”hesaid,andpattedhispistols.“Thatwoulddoit.Ileftthatout.”“Youreckonwe’llbekilled?”“Mmmmm,”hewent,andIreallylikedhim,foranigger.“Oldmenisnota
wayIeverfigureustobe.”
11
FORSEVERALDAYSVenusruled.ThedugoutbecameamerehotelforGeorgeandJackBull, and a dodderer’s home to Holt and me. The romance men preenedthemselves into oily specimens, and leaked out a roughhewn, mocking goodcheer.Theyhadplumbedthesavorywellandwehadnot.Itseemedtomakeallthe
difference.JackBullnowhadprivatetunesthathewhistledforhispleasureonly,buthe
stillslappedmelikeabrotherandsetasideextratimefortalkingtome.Hewaskinder in his comments than usual. That is, when he and George were notstruttingtheirstallionfacets.It allmademy cheeks blanch. He treatedme like an idiot child and I was
neither.By the calendar it waswell into January and not as cold as it should have
been.Ipointedthisout.“Sinceitisnotsocold,weshouldgooutonascoutofsomesort.Thesnowis
melted.”TheVenus-struckpairshowednointerest.“Youarea fountofbad ideas,”GeorgeClydesaid.My,howa little regular
sinhadchangedhisinterests.“Itcouldsnapcoldatanytime.”Later,JackBullChilesandmesatalone,sharingtalesofadventureswehad
takentogether.Wetalkedpurple improbablepatchesofhalf-rightdetailsaboutthe sultry summerdaywhenwehad swum in theBigMuddy, then rattled thefragilecitizensbylopingbare-assedtohome,andof thegray,crispSeptemberday when our first deer fell before us, and similarly unimportant days thatloomed large in recollection.Everybodyhas them.A few thingswedid in thewrongcameup,butwerefashionedthosedeedswithourspeechandcameoutofthem now looking fine. We turned blunders inside out and wore them asvictories.“ThisthingwithSueLee,”Isaid.“Willitgoon?”ByhisfaceandeyesIsawclearthathewouldnotmakeajokeofmyquery.“Iwouldreckon,”hesaid.OurhairhadgottensolongthatIwasalwaysawareofit.Wehadswornnotto
cutit’tilthewarwaswon.Myhandswenttomylongpalelocksandfingeredthemabout.
“Well,now,”Isaid.“Thatisgoodforyou.”“Yes.IbelieveI’llmarryher.”“Butsheisawidow.”“Whatofit?”Heshruggedandlookedhappy.“ShesuitsmeasgoodasIcan
besuited,Jake.”Therewasnoroomforchurlishnessonmypart.IwaslearningtoacceptthatI
wasnotcrucialtotheturningoftheworld,ortheturningofhisworld,andoftennoteventomyown.“Congratulations, JackBull,” I said, dredging up all themastery of voice I
owned.“YouwillmakethefinestpairinMissouri,Icanseethatrightnow.”“She’sawonderfulgal.”“Sheisfineineveryway,”Isaid.“Andyouknow,”hesaid,abigraresmileonhim,andhishandflyingtopat
myshoulder,“shefeelsthesameaboutme!Ain’tthatsomething?”“Oh,itreallyis,”Isaid.“Abigoxlikeyou—well,Iwouldnothavepredicted
it.”“Iknow.”HewassopleasedthatIfeltoverwhelminglyalone.“Butshedoes.”“Thatiswonderful.Youwouldhavetoeatapeachandbringitbackcleanto
topthat.”“Oh,atleast.Atleastthat.”
Well, thewinterworeon.RileyCrawfordvisitedus.Hehadsomenews—evilthingswerewingingoverourcountry.Severalcomradeshadgottenbold fromboredomandwent riding into thenextworld. I knew them, and itwasbad tohear.Rileystayedtwonights,thenmovedon,safelyIhoped.In what must have been late February, Turner Rawls and the Hudspeth
brotherscameoverjusttohearsomedifferentlies,theysaid.Turner’sbanged-upmouth had healed, but not right.A coin size of black torn skin had grownover the bullet hole in his cheek. His teeth did not mesh. He spoke slobber-tongued like a dogwould if a dog could. Itwas sad, and itwas plain that hethoughtso,too.Sometimeshewouldstartoutonasentence,thenkindofdrooloffthetrackandhiseyeswouldwaterandhisfingerstremble.Ihadcometolikehimsomuch.Hisafflictionmademewaywistful,andIwouldwagmynubbininhisface,tryingtocheerusboth.TheseboysrelayedthewordthatBlackJohnwantedusalltorallyatCaptain
Perdee’sfarmassoonastheweatherbroke.Theywereanxioustobeontheprodagain,andthesorrowfuldeathsofwinterhadmewillingtosharetheirmood.Adaylatertheyleft.
InveryearlyMarch,amonthspecialtome,forIwasborninit,Clydeleftthedugout to go to Juanita Willard’s and add some details to his ruin of herreputation.Nothingwaseversaidofthis.HoltwasleftbehindbyClyde.Ithadbecometheway,forHoltwasmerelyan
intrusivespecterattheWillardhouse.OnthisdayIsawathree-leggedbuck,withbatteredantlersandwornfur,drag
off through thewoods.Theproud stag livedonbut, crippledupandworn,hewouldsoonfeedotherbeasts.Thesunwasalloverthesky,nocloudstrifledwithit.Holt,JackBullandme
sat in frontof thedugout, smelling thecleanwindandstaringoutoverall thelandeyesightcansurvey.Ineventhefoulestofweathertherearestillseveralfinepointsofbeautytoa
day. But on a day as wonderful as this the marvels of our existence wereeverywheretobenoted,andanyfaulthardtofind.“SueLeewillbebytoday,”JackBullsaid.“Good,”Isaid.“It’sbeennearaweeksinceI’veseenher.”“Yes. All this warmth has the Federals out for jaunts. That has kept her
home.”“Ah,yes,”Isaid.“Itwon’tbelongbeforewejointhem—outthere.”“No,itwon’t,”JackBullsaid.HewasactingabitmorecasuallysincerethanI
knewhimtobe.“ThatiswhyIwanttoasksomethingofyouandHolt.”“Nameit.”“Well, there, future best man,” he said, “I would ask you to give us some
privacy.”“Oh,youwould,wouldyou?”“It’snotmuchtoask.”“WhatareHoltandmetodo?”Heturnedhishandsupinthatwaythatisthecommonresponsetopointless
questions.“Anything you’d like. Flingwalnuts at squirrels, playmumblety-peg, study
leaves.Whateveryouwant.”Isaid,“Ireckonwecancomeupwithabetteruseofourtimethanthat,eh,
Holt?”“Itisapossible,”hesaid,andnodded.ItwasnowhereneardarkwhenSueLeearrived.Shecamewindingalongup
throughthewoods.Afewsnowbankswerestillthereintheshadowypartsofthelandscape.Over thewintershehadgottenslyandnever tookexactly thesamepath to the dugout twice in a row. Her discretion in this regard was muchappreciated.
Whenshedrewnearus,shesaidhowdyinthatsassytoneofhers.Thattoothwasstillchipped in thecenterofhersmile,and thatpalescarstillcleavedherbrowandherhaircontinuedtogoitsownway,butshehadgottenmuchprettiertome.Thehueoftherosewasonhercheeks.Adoseofserenityhadbeenputtoher,andtheeffectithadwasfineandpleasing.“I brung you two something,” she said to Holt and me. One of her hands
slinkedunderhercloakandsheraisedoutahalfloafoffreshbreadandaspoonofbutterinarag.“Trythisbread,boys.”Shehanded the loaf tome.The scentof itwaswelcome.Freshbread—you
wouldn’tthinkitcouldbeasspecialasitcanbewhenyouain’tgnawedanyforaspell.“Why,thankyou,”Isaid.“Didyoumakeit?”“No,no,”shesaid,andsmiled.“Mrs.Evans’ssisterlivesinthetown.Sheisa
Federalbutasisterstill.Shegaveustwoloaves.”“Thatiskindofher.Thankherforus,won’tyou?”Shelaughed.“Idon’tsupposeI’lltellherwhereitwent.Thatmightnotdo.”JackBullwasstandingatthedugoutdoor,holdingitopen,impatientforhis
privacy.Holtducked inandcamebackoutwith themailpouchanda solemnexpression.“Hmmm,”Isaid.“ThisgoodweatherhasmeandHoltwantingtogooffand
flingwalnutsatmumblety-pegplayers,orsomethingalongthoselines.”“Havefun,”JackBullsaid.SueLeewent down into the dugout. Itwas asmuch her place as anyone’s
now.“Jake,”Mister Romance said. He held his trigger finger up andwhispered,
“Onehour.Onehour.”Inoddedtohim.Thisallseemedlikemoresecrecythananobvioussmoochy
trystrequired.Butitsavedusfromopenlymentioningthings.Thatmightleadtotoomanyinterestingopinionsbeingflaunted.So, as it was as splendid a day as it was, my bachelor partner and me
clambered up the slope above the dugout. We threaded through the trees,walkingonthestiffsoil,Holtluggingourpouchofrecreation.Tohavethisdarkmanaroundmesoregularwasnohardship.Hegrewonme.
Braveryenoughwasinhissturdyframetomatchanyrequirement.Ihadcometothinkthatevenhissilenceswerenotmutetauntsbutmomentsofreflection.Andtheyhadgottenmorerare.Alonewithmehegabbedplenty.Ourfeetslappedonuptoalogfallensidewaysthathadaviewofthevalley.
Wesatonit.TheEvanshousewasoffinthedistance,andthechimneycouldbe
justbarelyseen.Thiswasapleasantspottoloseanhourin.“Jake,”Holt said aswe sat. “I been going over this inmy thoughts. In the
mails theYankeeman say the rebel is a blight but not onwhat.Towhat is arebelablight?”ThishadgottentobeourSocraticstyle.Holtpesteredmewithquestionsand
morequestions,manyofwhichIcouldbarelyhandle.Hehadtakenholdofthenotion that I was a blue-eyed, pale-haired, short-legged immigrant oracle. Hewas curious in several directions but was especially so about Europe andsupposedthatsomehowIknewagreatdealaboutit.Attheleast-expectedtimehewouldasksuchthingsas,“Jake,intheotherworlddotheydothis,orthat?”Ifthetruthwererealimportanttome,Iwouldneedto’fessuptotheleft-out
detail,whichwas,Isortofenjoyedplayingtheroleofamanwhoknewafewoftheanswers.InthebrightnessofthisdayonthehillsideIsaid,“Therebelisablightonthe
Yankeeman’swill,Holt.”“Hiswill?”“Yes, hiswill.” Iwas gesticulating out onto all the hills and timber, and it
seemedthatplentyof foxsquirrelsandfieldmicewere listeningandwatchingwithastuteattention.“TheYankeeisthiscutofman,Holt.Heisthecutofmanwhoifyousaythesunishigh,hewillsay,no,youarelow.Thatisnothinginitselftowarover.Butthenhewillsay,Ibelievemywayandmylifeandpersonhavemorelofttothemthanyoursdo,sobelikeme.”Myhandswerewavingallabout,choppingandweavingtodrivehomemypoints.Ifbychanceacrowdhadbeenthere,Ireckontheywouldhaveelectedme.“Therebelisnotthemanyouwanttosaythatto.Hedon’tcareforit.”“Iknowthat.”“Sureyoudo,” I said. “Andyouknow this, too—the rebelwill fight you if
youtrytoforcehimtoyourway.Anditdon’tmattertoomuchwhatyourwayis,neither.”Holtfingeredhischininathoughtfulmanner.Hislipsbunchedup.“Isthatgood?”heasked.“Holt,tomeitisthebestthatcanbesaidofanyman—hehadhisconvictions
andhebackedthemup.Irevelinthatquality.Itissosweetanoutlookthatitisalmostonlyforyoungsters.”“Idon’tknowmyage,”hesaid.“Itisnottoohighinthenumbers,Idoknow
that.”“Mineneither.Wearetheperfectagefornotcottoningtobeinginvadedand
shovedaround.”For bachelors we were having a pleasant enough time. The sun had crept
behind us, but many minutes of light were left. We had not been quite soeasygoingattimesoverthewinter.TheVenusboysmadeusfeelleftback.Ourflagrant bachelorhoodhad had us in an irritable state.Wehad seemed so dullthatwewereangeredatourselvesandtestywithalllovers.Butnowthatboathadsailed.Really,IwasgladforJackBullChilesandSue
Lee Shelley, as a good woman and a good man is a grand match. Only thedepravedandimbecilescandenyit.“Darkwill fall,” Holt said. I knewwhatwas coming. He had that look. “I
brungthemails.”“Aw, drag oneout.” I knockedhis hat off but he caught it andput it back.
“Don’tactsobashful.Iknewyouwoulddothis.”Readingotherpeople’smailhadtaughtusplenty.Ididnotminddoingit,for
webothlearnedmuch.InCairo,Illinois, thereisamoundthatgivesaviewofminglingriversandthatviewhasinspiredseveralkisses.OhiohasaplacecalledChagrinFalls,whereagristmillgrindsthedaylongandanoldmanjustwisheshis sons would come homewhole and watch the flour sift out. NewYork isjammedwithfolkswhoarenotNewYorkersanddon’tespeciallycaretodieinTennessee, so they riot in the streets and blame it on niggers. Mothers aremothers all over themap. Theywant to send shortbread and new gloves andwarmthoughts.Girlfriendsknowallthesametricksthereashere.Locksofhairare often in their letters, along with faded flower petals and, sometimes, badnews.Holthandedmehis selection. Itwasa letter sent fromSt.Louis toTopeka.
Thepaper itwaswrittenonwasofhighquality. Ihadbeen toSt.Louis twicewithAsaChiles.Thereweremanystorestherethatpeddledgoodsofsuchhighqualitythattheymadenosensetome.Atwo-dollarhatsitsontheheadjustaswell as one that cost twelve, but you saw the twelve-dollar kind all over thestreet.“Readit,”Holtsaid.“Iaminthemoodtohearagoodone.”“I just read them,” I said. “This thing is addressed toMissRuthAnn Jones
and it’s from aMiss Patricia Foote. ‘DearestRuthAnn, I trust this letterwillreachyoubeforewinter.Hereitisalwaysasortofwinter,asfolksaresocoldnow.Therebelsareoutof thecityas farasarmiesgobutcraftyCopperheadsslink aroundperformingmisdeeds.Somuch cruelty goeson.GratiotPrison isfullof rebelsand theyare left towasteawaysopitifully.Theyare traitorsbutalsohuman.Ifyoulookedinonthemyouwouldnotbelievethattheywere,fortheyresemblescarecrowsnow.“ ‘Somuch death and no coffee to be had. I havemademyself forget that
sugar exists, for itmayaswell notunlessyouknowGenerals.Menarekilled
overpoultryhere.There,too,Isuppose.“ ‘I wonder, do you still favor Tennyson? John Greenleaf Whittier seems
more rare to me. Do you remember when we studied Wordsworth at MissFielding’sandyousaidhiswasGod’svoicestrainedthroughaman?Whittieristhesametome.“‘Yourlastletterthrilledme.IhopeyoudomarryMr.AnthonybutIbelieve
thateveninKansashemustfirstaskyou.“‘There isnoonehereformetomarry.Themenall talk toofondlyof this
warforme.Ibelievetheyfinditmuchmoreinterestingthanmewithmypince-nezandpoetry.’”Icuttheletteroff.Thewarwasyeton,acontinuousenterprise.AtanytimeI
mightbe forced toputmy life at auction andbarter theprice ashighasgoodshooting makes possible. I didn’t want any flickers of goodwill toward mytargetstotremblemyaim.“That’senoughreading,”Isaid.“Hasitbeenanhour?”“No.Thehourain’tgoneyet.”Thebreadsatonthelogbetweenus,sowerippeditupandspreadbutteronit
with our fingers. The tastewas all to the good, and the sunwas skulking offbehindthehillsandgloomspreadingbeforeus.HoltsmackedawayatabreadchunkandImimickedhim.“Doyouknowmyname?”heaskedafteranoisyswallow.“ItisHolt.”“No, my whole name.” His tone was low and direct. “My whole name is
DanielHolt.Daniel,likethelion’s-denman.Doyouknowhisstory?”“OfcourseIdo,”Isaid.“Thatmanwasinapinchbutgothisselfoutofitby
standingtall.”“That’sright.Youhaveheardit.That’swhyIamnamedafterhim.”Gloomtookover.Thesun fled theneighborhood.Fulldarksweptawaymy
vision.ColdnesscameuponmequickandIshivered.“Isitanhournow?”Iasked.“Nighontoit.”That is whenwe heard the first shot. The faint crack ambled to us from a
distance,thenseveralmorecameinabunch.“TheEvanses’place,”Isaid.“Gottobe.”Wescrambleddownthedarkslope,usingourhandsasshields,bouncingfrom
treetotreetodirtandupagain,slidingtowardthedugout.I jerked the rough plank door open and jumped into the room. Instantly I
wished I had knocked. They lay by the fire, Jack Bull’s britches around his
anklesandSueLee’sskirtcoveringherface.“GunshotsattheEvanses’place,”Isaid.HoltstartedinandIshouted,“Stay
out,Holt!”Ifacedawayfromthefallen.Theymaderustlingnoisesandmurmured.“Iheardthem,”JackBullsaid.“Iheardthem.Youcanturnaroundnow.”Hewenttobucklinghispistolsonandshesmiledpainfully,fortherewasno
jokeprompting theexpression.Herskirtcoveredwhat itought to.Shewalkedovertome,hercheeksallscarlet,andplacedahandonmyshoulder.“Oh,Jake,”shesaid.Shelookedonmesad—sadforme,Irealized,likeshebelievedshehadjust
boileddownthelastmessofmybaby-fatillusions.Ishookherhandoff.“Youstayhere,”Itoldher.“Outoftheway.There’sgoingtobeafight.”Wedraggedourmountsoutandrodewithoutsaddles.Thebeastshadnotbeen
muchexercisedandmoved sluggishly for such fine animals.Wepickeddownthehilltoadrycreekthatledtowardthehouse.“Canyouputanumbertothem?”JackBullasked.“No,”Ianswered.“Nottoomany.”Thefinehandofvillainysoonhadlightrisingupwhereweknewthehouse
stood.Ihopedthewidecartofmotherwasnothurt,orlittleHoneybee.JacksonEvanswouldbeinpainorpastitall.Iwassureofthat.Whenwedrewcloserwecouldhearshoutsandlaughterandahighkeening
wail.Despitethesedismalsoundswescoutedtowardthehouseslowly.On my left was Holt, a dark, capable comrade, and to my right my near
brother, as reliable a fighter as ever was spawned by a terrible era, and thesensation of being with them on the prod was one of pride and remorselessenergy.Itfeltlikeanoldhabitcomeback,anditwaswelcome.HereIfitin—nay,Iwasnecessary.Beforewequitereachedthehouseweheardthehoovesofthevillainsbeating
off.Thusencouraged,wespedup.The burning house lit the scene toowell. The bottom rooms billowedwith
flamesandchokingsmokerolledout.Evanslayintheyard,peacefulofposebutrippedofbody.Themotherstoodoverhim,herfacetothehouse,gleamsinherspectacles.Honeybeeclungtoherskirts,ahystericalwaif.His bad expectations had proved correct for Evans. He was gone over the
river,blesshissoul.“Oh,boys!”themotherhowled.“Theykilledhim,killedhim,killedhim!”“Howmanyarethere?”JackBullasked.“Heisdead!WhatwillIdo?WhatwillIdo?”
Iheardariderontheroadandthoughtitmightbeastraggler,soIwentouttomeetit.ItwasGeorgeClyde,alloutofbreath.“Iheardthefracas,”hesaid.“Ithoughtyouboysmightbeinaspot.”Hiscomingcheeredme.Nooddsbuckledhimdown.“Howmany?”JackBullshouted.“Oh!Oh!”thenewwidowwent.“Adozenorless.Verminall.”“Well,shit,let’sgetthem,”Clydesaid,andondowntheroadwewent.IcheckedmypistolsasOldFog’sheartthumpedbetweenmylegs.Ihadfour
loadedandready.Ourseveralpistols,andthemanyshotstheyaffordedusoverrifles,wastheacethatallowedustogamblewithmuchlargergroups.Closeinweweremeanwiththem,andmanygoodthingshadcomeofthat.Allkindsoffearandpridewelledinme.Ifthemotherhadsaidtheynumbered
forty, I believe we would still have given them chase. I was awful and mycomradeswereworse,butattimeslikethesewemadeawonderfulcompany.Downthedirtwepounded,hoovesrumbling,nosecrecytocloakusatall.It
didnotmatteriftheyheardus,forafightwaswhatwesought.Thismustalwaysbeadmittedofus—fordesperatedashandcrueltywewereunbetteredmen.The night had no shimmery glow to it, only darkness.Little could be seen.
Thegroundwashardandthehorseslaboredtokeepthepace.Treesloomedoverthelaneandswayingspectralshadowslurchedmyheart.Evenfoulvillainshavesomesense.Theywaitedonusandsuddenlythenight
litupas riflesbangedaway.Wewereas invisible to themas theywere tous.Theroundswhizzedominouslyandwefiredbackat theflashes.Afterthefirstvolleytheyrodeintomix,andthefighttookplaceathuggydistances.Thiswasamistake.“Traitors!”shoutedacitizenvermin.“Killthetraitors!”All the mortal frolic had mounts rearing and screaming, and Old Fog was
caughtupinthemood.Heprancedandbucked.IfiredasbestIcould.Onefellowwasdirectlyinfrontofme,sonearIcouldsmellhisdinner,andI
knowIridhishorseofsomehideousweight.HefellandIpeggedhimwherehelanded.“Aw,hell,”hewhined,yellowedbymydiligence.Aswungriflesplattedmyknee.Ithurt.Shoutsandcriesresounded.Ishotandshotandwilledmyselfintoasmallish
target.IbelievedIcouldnotbehit,soabsenthadIdecidedmyselftobe.Thelanewasnowredone,madeupwithacoupleofshothorsesandmaybe
threevillains.JackBullChileswasthenearestshadowtome.Iknewthesoundwhenhewas
hit.Evenhadhenotcriedout,Iknewbythesound.Hisrightarmfloppedlikeawetragflungonarailtodry.Hispistolfellandhislefthandslappedoverthewound.“Youarehurt,”Isaid.Hemoaned.Clyde,HoltandmechasedtheFederalsalittleways,fortheyhadtiredofus
quick.Mykneealreadyfeltlikeamelongonetomush.Luckilywedidnotchasefar.JackBullwashunchedover.Hisbreathswere fearsomedeep things andhe
shook.Clydewasinastate.Hehaddismountedandwaspumpingmoreleadintothe
dropped.Holtwasstillonhorseback,jerkingaround,lookingforsomethingthathedidnotsee.“JackBullishurt,”Isaid.“I’vegottogethimhome.”I grabbed the reins of JackBull’s horse and turned about, leadingmy near
brothertothedugout.Hismoansandcriesaccompaniedme.
When I dragged him into the dugout Sue Lee was there and screamed. Mymushedlegstraggledbehindme,andtherewaswindblownbloodallover.“Notthis!”SueLeewailed.“Lord,pleasenotthis!”Inthelighthelookedbad.Hisarmwasburstattheelbow,andcrackedbone
and tornmeat and blood all showed. His eyes had crawled back in his head,leavingonlytheflutteringwhitesvisible.“He’llmake it,” I said. Iwas borrowing confidence on credit from faith. It
wasn’treallyanattitudeIhadmuchof.ButIneededitnow,soIgotitwhereIcould.“I’veseenworse-shotmendohandspringsinamonth.”Thetruthwashisarmbonewasinshamblesandabigbiteofmeathadbeen
took—hewasallshottohell.Isetapanofwateronthefire.Itookmybigknifeoutandrestedthebladeon
coals.SueLeehadgrabbedherpanicby theneckandchoked it down to sensible
action.Shetiedhisarmabovethewoundtostifletheflowofblood.MykneeachedandswollupsoIcouldnotbendtheleg.Itisabadthingto
havelimbsthatdon’tmind.TryasImight,Icouldnotmakethethingdoright.Oldfriendagonywasbackwithme.In not too long a time George Clyde and Holt returned. They stamped in,
lookinggrimandanxious.ClydecheckedonJackBullandhisfirstwordswere,
“Thatfirehasgottogoout.”“I’mheatingwater,”Isaid.“Heatitquick.They’llcomebackwithmoremeniftheygotthem.Wecan’t
haveafire.”“Heisbad,”Isaid,noddingatJackBull.“Iseethat.We’llhavetotakethatarmoff.”Thishorrifiedme.“No!”Isaid.“Wecanhealit.He’llneedit.”Clydeshookhisheadatme.“Dutchy,wegotnomedicalitemsordoctorsenseamongstthewholegroupof
us.”Hebegantopace.“Ican’tgoshanghaiusasawbones,neither.Federalsarelikelytobeonusbysunup.”“We’llcareforhim,”SueLeesaid.Therewasasheetoficeoverhereyesand
herlipsflinchedasshespoke.Ithinkshewasstartingtobelieveshewasajinxtoherbeau.“IcannursehimwithJake.”“Asyousay,”Clydesaid.“Butyouwatchoutgreenrotdon’tgetstartedon
him.Onceitdoesit’sover.”HoltsatnearJackBullandwatchedhimclosely.“Itlooksnottoogood,Jake,”hesaid.“Goddamn it!Don’t nobody say that again.” I had about heard all the bad
newsIcouldtolerate.Youlookatabadthingandsayit’sbadsoyouknowit’sbad,thenyouforgetitandgoon.That’stheonlyway.
12
WELL, SUE LEE andme togetherwere about as good a doctor as a blind drunkmoronfromEgyptwouldbe.Ifeltwecameupshyofthemark.Wewashedhismangledrightarm, thenI tooktheredhotknifeandburnedtheraggedwoundclosed.He screamed and jacked up andHolt shoved him down and the smelldon’tbeardiscussion.RoughmedicinewasallIknew.Ihopeditwouldwork.Hope,Iwaslearning,
isahardycomradebutnottootrustworthy.Itwouldn’tdotocountonhim.Thedugoutwasblack.ClydehadsnuffedthefireandHoltwaspostedoutside
keepingwatch.Georgecouldactuallygotosleep,sohedid.SueLeeandmesatovermynearbrother,listeningtohimmoanlowly,readytosmotherhissoundsifFederalscameclose.Ifeltsick.Mylegwasa throbbinglameextremity.TheideathatImightbe
crippled came andwent. It seemed a selfish concern compared to JackBull’scondition.Hecoulddie.Thatpointcamehometome.Todiehadalwaysbeenthetrumpcardoffate,
but it hadn’t seemed likely tobeplayed.Now,withhimon thedirt, curled inpain,shatteredofboneandminussomedecentmeat,itreallydid.Finally Sue Lee fell asleep, one arm across JackBull’s body. That leftme
alone and awake, listening tightly for the next wrong event to come stalkingalonginsquadrons.Longbeforenewlighthit,thedugoutwascold.Icoveredthewidowandthe
wounded,andshiveredinmyboots,observingthewaymyverybreathwispedawayfromme.Itseemedmywholelifewasjammedupandcoughingglobs,andthischokingsoulofminehadtobespitoutinawfullittlespittles.Youcan’trestthatway.Ineverdid.
The world broke new again, and day sounds replaced the black quiet. Thedugoutwashorridwithexpectations.OnlyClydewasrestedwell,andFederalsand death seemed so likely that I just sat where I was, weak and sleepy, soscaredIbarelymoved.JackBullwaswasheddownincolor.Hisbreathsbellowedandhiseyesrolled
around in his head. In daylight the wound was ugly and the signs of idiot
doctoringlookedjustasbad.Holtcameinandsaid,“Theyismenontheroad.”“How many?” Clyde asked. George went about his daily habits almost as
usual.“Several.Buttheyain’tcomeintothewoods.”“Keepawatch.Iwanttofightawayfromhereifwegottofight.”Redhadgotten intoSueLee’seyes.Shewaswanand forlorn.Thegirlhad
pluck,butshewasbeingsorelytested.HowmuchbadshecouldtakeIdidnotknow,but I hoped itwas an awful lot, for that seemed tobeher portion.Thewoundkeptherbusy.Shewashedatit,thenrubbedgreaseovertherip.Sometimes she raised his good hand and kissed the fingers. Her hair fell
acrossherfaceandshewhippeditback,thenliftedhispalmandlickedit.Her deeds often clashed with her face, for they seemed too sweet to be
matchedwithherwildprettylook.“WhatcameofMrs.EvansandHoneybee?”Iasked.Ithadnotoccurredtome
before.Thatmademeblinkwithshameatthenarrowfieldofmyconcern.“TheWillards tookthemup,”Clydesaid.“Ireckontheywillallbeheading
outofherebynow.”“TheWillards,too?”“Oh,yes.Theyare ready togosouth,clear roadsornot.The idea that they
couldbenextwashangingheavyonthem.”Wecouldnothaveafire.Itwasclammyintheground.IstaredatJackBull’s
armeverylittlebit,studyingitfromalltheanglesasifImightunderstandwhatIsaw.WhatcouldIdo?IwasignorantbutIknewit,soIwouldnotplaythefoolbyapplyingmedicinesofmyowninventionjusttoappearsmart.IreckonIlookedwounded,too,draggingmysluggishlegabout.SueLeesat
nexttomeandwhispered,“Heisbad,buthowareyoufeeling?”Herconcernstartledme.Ididnotreply.“Yourleg,”shesaid.“Itmusthurt.”“Oh,itdoes,”Ianswered.“I’vebeenherebefore,though.”“CanIhelpit?”sheasked.Thereweredirtstreaksonhercheeks,andherskin
hadbleachedtoanobleshadeofpale.“No.”Ipattedherarm.“Trytorestyourself.”Herheadshookandshegrinnedtightly.“Idoubtthat,”shesaid.As time passed I thought of many things. Old Evans had went to Heaven
insteadofTexas,andachildishnotioncametome:Iwonderedifwecouldburyhim. It was out of the question, but I thought of it still. Such a Christian actmight have soothed me, but they are so hard to perform when you are
surroundedbycircumstances.
The Federals did not come. This surprised me. They had to know we weresomewhere in theneighborhood.Perhaps they figuredwehad fled.Apleasantthought would have been to think they found us so fierce they would ratheravoidus,butIknewitwasnottrue.Aboutthesameamountofcouragewasinthemasinus,andthereisnouseintall-talkingtothecontrary.But thisdaywasnot tobeour last, forwhateverreason.As is thewaywith
days, thisonepassed.Nightfell.Welitasmallcandle.Thedugoutwentfromtwilightchilltomidnightcold.JackBullwasbuffetedaboutbyagony,andfevergrippedhispersonandmadehimdoramblingtalk.Mostofhisutteranceswerepredictable—moansand so forth—but a fewwhole sentences splatteredoutofhim.“Doyouhearthefish?”heaskedofnoonethissideofEternity.I could hardly stomach it.Hewas bad off, and any improvementwas days
away.GeorgeClydesaid,“MaybeIshouldtrytogetusadoctor.”“Wherefrom?”Iasked.“ThereisoneinKingsville.”“Thatisfifteenmiles.Youcan’tcoveritinonenight.”“Iknowthat,Dutchy.”Clydejustwantedtobedoingsomething.Hisenergy
wasimmense.“ButIcouldlayupnearthere,thentrytodraghimbackthenextnight.”“Hemaynotwanttocome.”“Oh, I reckon he’ll come. I have a special way of asking that works real
good.”“Ah,”Isaid,andnodded.“Thatmightdo.”Wesat in thegloomandpondered thisproposedventure. I didn’tbelieve it
couldwork.ThereweregunsinKingsville,andMissouridoctorswerenotnewtothissortofsituation.“WillyoutakeHolt?”“No,”Clydeanswered.“Lessmen,lessnoise.Besides,ifIcan’tgetthedoc,
I’mheadingontoCaptainPerdee’s.Holt’llhelpyouandthewidow.”“Iwishyouluck,”Isaid.Innotmuchlongerthanittakestotellit,hewasgone.Herodeoffthroughthe
timbertowardKingsville,maybetoshanghaisomemercy.Asheleft,hopewaswithme,butIwasgettingsuspiciousofit,anddidnot
tossabigembracearoundit.
Noneofuswerefinickyeatersbutdirtdidnotsetwithus,soweatepotatoes.Therewasno fire tobake them inorboil themover, soweate themraw likeapplesanddreamedtheywerepeaches.Jack Bull Chiles could not chew. By the morning light I assessed his
weakness. Itwas all hewaswasweak. Thewound needed to be dressed andflushedbyhotwater,buttherewasnone.Hehadtoeat.“SueLee,”Isaid.“Wehavegottofeedhim.”“Iknow,Iknow,”shesaid.Shewasarun-downfemale.“Buthow?”“Theonlywaythereis.Holt,tossmeatater.”Whenhetossedit,Icaughtit.Ibegantochewonthesmalldrything,mashing
myjawoverandover’tilIspitoutakindofwhitepapintomyhand.“Holdhisheadup,”Isaid.SueLee andHolt squatted at JackBull’s side and raised his head.His lips
werecrackedandbigblackhalfmoonswerebeneathhiseyes.WithtwofingersIscoopedthepapandstuckitinhismouth.Hesputteredbutswallowed,soIdiditagain.Littleslobberslitonhischin.Ikeptupthescoop-and-swallowworkaslongashewouldtakeit.Itwasnotforlong.Hungerwasnothismainsensation.Welefthimtorestasmuchashewould.Weirdwordsweremumbledbyhim
andnowhereinthedugoutcouldyouhidefromthem.Theyfoundyou.Iwent outside. Therewas no special thing to see. Thewind smelled clean.
Thewholeworldwasofffromthere,beyondthetreesandsight.ThedugoutplankcreakedandoutcameHolt.He joinedmeon thedirt.He
pattedmyback.Hetookslowbreaths.“Iwonder,”hesaid,“didyoueverwatchtherabbit?Thatisaprettythingup
close.Bigeyesandafacethathaschangesinit,feelingslike.It’sgotbigfancyearsandisjustaprettythingbutIstilleatit.AnditcomestomethatIeattheprettything’causeIamhungry.”“Youtellinterestingtales,Holt.”“Well,that’sallofit.”Hetouchedmyshoulder.“Jake,thatarmisdonefor.”“Oh,Iknowit,”Isaid.Itwastrue.“Ihopeditwouldn’tbe.”“Itisdonefor.”“MaybeGeorgewillbringthedoctor.Hemayseesomethingwedon’t.”“Naw,”Holtsaid.“Ireckonhe’llseewhatwesee.”Possibilities ganged up onme. I felt clabbered by guilt, for onlymydainty
hopeshadkeptthatarmfrombeingtookawaysooner.NowJackBullwasevenweaker.“Notnow,”Isaid.“We’llgiveGeorgeachancefirst.”“Thelongeryouwait,”Holtsaidsoftly,“theharderitgetsontheman.”
“Oh,hellfire,willyoujustshutuponthat?Goddamnitall,Holt,justgivemepeaceforawhile.”Helaughedaroughone.“Whynotthemoon?”heasked.
Morepapwasscoopedasthedaypassed.Ihopedtoraisehisstrength.SueLeetimeditoutandwefedhimregularasababe.MeandHoltswitchedoffonkeepingFederalwatch.I thoughtofTexasand
wishedwewerethereandnotanyofusshot.Ifonlywishingmadeitso,crippleswoulddancewildreelsontabletopsandlotsofgoodtimeswouldbehad.WithnopreambleatallJackBullbegantospeak.“Jake,”hesaid.“Youlooksad.”Iwentbug-eyedathim.Hewasawakeandaware.“We’re taking care of you,” I said, and scrambled to his side. “You can be
mended.”“Don’tlie,Jake.Don’tlietome.Icansee.Icanseetomyownarm.”HisfineAmericanfacewasleecheddryofallemotionandinterestssavethe
drive tosurvive.Thebreathshe tookwereshortandslow,as thoughfastdeeponeswouldbebeyondhiscontrol.“GeorgeClydehasgoneforadoctor,”Isaid.JackBullnoddedwearily,thensaid,“Ialwaysknewwewouldbekilled.One
orbothofus.”“Well,thatchancehasalwaysbeenthere.”“DoyourecallthepiesonMother’ssill?”“Ofcourse.Thoseweregoodeatingtimes.”“That they were.” His big brown sick eyes went steady on me. “I always
thoughtit’dbeyou,Jake.Youdying.IwascertainIwouldhavetoburyyou.”Thisrevelationtantalizedme.“Iwishyouwereburyingme,”Isaid,but IknewI lied. Itwasstrangehow
thathitme, too. I lied tomynearbrother,but IknewI liedand that freedmelooseofsomeoldnotionsIhadfancied.Ididn’twanttodieinanyoneelse’splaceatall.“Me, too,”he said.Hisgoodhandclutched towardmeandpattedmyknee.
Thiswastotellmehejoked,Ithink.“Youain’tdead,JackBull.”Aslackspellcameoverhimandhislipshunglimpandheclosedhiseyes.Ourchathad rousedSueLeeandshecameoverandsaid,“I’mrighthere.”
Hiseyesopenedandhesaid,“Oh,good.Oh,good.”
Aninstantlaterhewentbacktothegonestatehehadgenerallybeenin.Hisrecessfromdeliriumhadbeenbrief.
Hisveinsbecameblack.Theblackbloodincheduptheinsideofhisarm.Holtpointeditoutfirst,thenweallcrouchedoverthearmandwatcheditsomberly.“We’llkeepaneyeonthat,”Isaid.“Itcan’tbeletgomuchlonger.”Ilooked
atthewidowandshewasjustaboutdestroyedbyknowledge.“ImighthavetotakeitoffasbestIcan.”Wesataroundthen,waitingforblackenedveinsofwrongedbloodtoforceme
tosurgery.Thewaitingwasachore.Ifeltmymushedkneetoamusemyself.Isqueezed the kneecap and nothingwiggled or stuck up sharply. Itwas only aterrificbruise.“IwonderhowHoneybee is,”SueLee said.She spokedreamily. “That is a
sweet little girl. Her elbows jiggle still. Maybe she is a little fat, but thatHoneybeeissureenoughsweet.”“Don’t I know it,” I said. “Her voice does pleasantries to any song she
tackles.”“Oh,my,yes,”thewidowsaid,almostbrightly.“ThatchildreadsbetterthanI
everwill,too.”Anawesome responsible streakwas inHolt. I sawhimcheckon JackBull,
thenhesaid,“Now.Ithasgottobedonenow.Theblackstreaksispushinguptothearmpit.”SueLeegrabbedmyhand,herbigwhippedeyespracticallyspearedintome.“Canyoudoit,Jake?Canyoudoitforhim?”I nodded and thought about what must be done. My belly jammed with
nettles.Myheadfelt loosefromme. Iwentoutside.Thesunwasgone. Itwascold,cold,cold,andIkneltonthefrozengroundanditallcameup.It justalljumpedupoutofmeandsloppedtothedirt.IretchedandretchedandthoughtIneverwouldquit—Ihadtocuthim!“Don’t thinkabout it,Roedel,”Holtsaidfrombehindme.“Justdoit.There
ain’tnoslidingaroundit.JustyoudoitorelseIwill.”“Ohnoyouwon’t,” I said. “His family raisedme. I reckon it’llbemewho
sawshisrottenarmoff.”BackinthedugoutIdidthings,butitwaslikeitwasn’tthetrueme.Myhands
werebusyandhalfsmartandlashedaropeabovethespotwhereIwouldcutandreadiedtheblade.“If he screams too loudwemay all die,” I said. “Put a stick in hismouth.
Don’tlethimscreamtooloud.”
Holtputthebitin.“SueLee,”Isaid,“sitonhischestandkeephis jawsclampedon thatstick.
Holt,youshovehimdownwhereverhestartstoflop.”IranmyfingersacrossJackBull’sface,andtheskinhadthefeelofcabbage.I
owedhimsomuch.ThewholelifeIhad.Istudiedthearmandthefouledveinsand laid the blade at the spot. Then, nerved up to the highest pitch I couldsummon,Ibegantosaw.Thejobwasmiserable.Iwasnogood.SueLeeheldontighttohisjawandHoltheldhimdownandIheldtheblade
andeveryonemadenoises.Oh,sweetLordJesus.Itwaswaydowntherepastterrible.
13
THE KNOT ON the ropewas not enough of a bind, and loosened to leak JackBullChiles.Myworldbledtodeath.Icouldn’tgetthecutburnedclosed.Itwastoomoist.Thesmellwasahorriblefact.IguessIwept.Iguessweallwept.EvenHoltwept.It’sauselessreaction.No
comfortatall.Wesatthereallnight.Thewindmadesad,tormentingsounds.Once,SueLee
putherfingerstoherhair,grabbedaholdandbeatherheadaroundlikeshewaschurningbutter.SheshriekedandIlistened.Ihadnothingforher.Wordscan’tmatchit.PastacertainpointIcouldnotsit.Ipickeduptheshovelandcontemplateda
grave.Iwantedittobeinsidethedugoutwherehehadlived,notoffincoyote-prowled timber. I measured a spot in the center of the dugout. There wasn’tmuchlight,butIdidn’tneedmuch.Iventedsomebadfeelingsonthesoftdirt.Theshovelslammeddowninmyhands,gougingoutlittleloadsofdirt,whichIflung to the corners.Theclodspattereddown likevarmint feet scurryingoverleaves.Ibeataholerightintotheground,flingingdirtinthedark.Sweatbrokeoutonme. I relished theevidenceof effort. I hungmy tongue
downandlappedthesaltybeadsastheyfellfrommynose.Thiswasalltherewastodo.The sun ignored our grief and kept to its routine. The lightened scenewas
harrowing.SueLeeappearedawfulandusedup.Holtwas fargone intopiousreflection.Igesturedatthegrave.“Buryhim,”Isaid.“Quick.”For lackofalternatives, leadershipfellonme.Holtand thewidowbegan to
rollJackBulltowardthegrave,spinninghimacrossthedustyfloor.We dropped him down and threw his arm in after him. For some reason I
kickedmysatchelofmailintothepitalongsidehim.IthinkIwasguiltyaboutmyluck.ThenIeasedashovelfulofdirtontohischest.“Wait!”SueLeesaid.“Waitaminute,Jake.Iwanttolookathim.”Shekneltnexttothegrave,leanedoverandkissedJackBull’sbluelips.This act of hers moved me. I went into prayer position at her side. Many
thingshiddeninmewerebeinghintedout,andIstareddownatJackBullChilesanddredgedupall the farewell feelings Ihad. I bentover. I did something to
himdeadIhadnevertriedonhimalive.Ikissedhimgood-bye,rightwhereshehad,justthesame.Holthumphedbehindme.Ilookedupathim,andhewatchedmeoddly.“Didyouseesomethingthatbothersyou,Holt?”Hisfacewassmooth,andheshookhisheadbriskly.“No,no,”hesaidandturnedaway.“Ididn’tseeit.”I finished the funeral. The grave made a mound. No good verses came to
mind,soitwasastoicceremony.“Solong,”Isaid.“Seeyouovertheriver.”Outsideitwasgray.AlateMarchstormwascominginfromthenorth.The
cloudslookedsoiledandthelightwasdull.“Let’sgettoCaptainPerdee’s,”Isaid.“We’llrallywiththeboys.It’stimeto
startthewarbackup.”IclaimedtwoofJackBull’sfourpistolsandgavetheotherstoHolt.Wehung
themfromoursaddlesandputthewidowontopofJackBull’shorse.Iwantedtobemovingandneverinthatdugoutagain.“KeepaneyeoutforGeorge,”Isaid.“Iam,”Holtanswered.“ButIbetheatPerdee’s.”Wekept to the timber.The day got colder, then it pitched snow at us. The
wind shoved the flakes into our faces but we hunched over and rode on. BymiddaySueLeehadsurrenderedtofatigue.Holtandmetookaropeandtiedherintothesaddle.Sheutteredneithercomplaintsnorpraise.Shewaspastthat.Thehorsessentplumesofbreathfromtheirnostrilsandsloggedthroughthe
snow.Someinchesofthewhitestuffhadgatheredontheground.Thewindblewourtracksawayasquickaswemadethem.NoFederalscrossedourpath.Ifyouweren’t desperate, you wouldn’t be out in such weather. I steered us towardCaptain Perdee’s,where I hopedwewould find plenty of comrades. Sue Leewouldbesent tosomesafersouthernhaven.MeandHoltwould fightanotherseason.Thedeedsofwinterdemandedit.I kept us rolling beyond nightfall, and the snow kept blowing and nothing
muchcouldbeseen.Welumberedalongblindlyinthewoodsanddidnotspeak.Aroundmidnightwecameuponaburnedhouse.Someweakcitizenhadlost
allhere.Twowallsstillstoodandwetookcover,huddlingnexttothem.IwrappedSueLee’sblanketaroundherandsheslept.Mybodybidmejoin
her.Sheshiveredinsleep,soIspreadmyblanketoverusbothandlayagainsther.Thiswarmedusbut,tiredasIwas,Icouldnotsleep.SoI listenedtoherbreathe.Thegirlwasgoodasdoublewidowedandonly
seventeen.She’dseenamirrorofhell,Iguess.Herbreathshadaraggedrhythm.Abadsleepcadence.Butherbodywaswarm.
Itwasgoodtoknowher.Curlinguptoherwasasavinghumanexercise,asitremindedmethatIlived,
anddivertedmefromrecollectionsofallIhadlost,whichwasalltherewas.
BOOKTHREE
Manycryintroubleandarenotheard,buttotheirsalvation.—ST.AUGUSTINE
14
ALLTHATYEARweweredying.Thehairbreadthinstinctsomecallluckhadslowedonus. They killed us in groups and pairs and alone.We fell in timber, haylofts,fightingonthefieldandlyingwoundedhelplessinborrowedbeds.Oh,wehitback.Within sight of Kansas City twenty-eight Federals hauling grain made our
acquaintance.Theyknewwe rodeunder theBlackFlag, so they fought to theend.OurreputationforthoroughnessgavetheFederalsakindofforlornferocity.“They know prisoners are not our style,” George Clyde said. This was truewhereverwefought,anditwastrueofuswhentheupperhandwastheirs.When we all rallied at Captain Perdee’s in lateMarch it was clear by the
jumpy look in previously calm faces, the despondent gaze in unblinking eyes,thatourstrugglehadcarriedusintoanewterritoryofthesoul,wherewefoundnewversionsofourselves.CaveWyatt, RileyCrawford, theHudspeths, TurnerRawls andBlack John
welcomedusall.Therewasmuchbackslappingandsharingoftales,whichledtosadnessorguffaws.Severalsouthernmenwouldridewithusnomore,butwedidn’tdwellonthat.SueLeeShelleywasnottheonlyfemalerefugeeincamp.TheFederalshad
gotten in the habit of arresting ourwomen, sowe had a gaggle ofwives andsistersandsweetheartsinourmidst.WeconvoyedthemtothePercheHillsandleftthemthereamongthehiddenpatriotsofthatdistrict.By summer themost commoncommentswere those that roughly compared
Lawrence, Kansas, to Hades. The Jayhawkers operated from that place andoperated meanly. Few lives in western Missouri went untouched by theirdepradations.“Lawrencemust be reduced to rubble,”Black John said.Various echoes of
thissentimentwereheard,andwebegantoponderavisitthere.In July, a hot terrible month, me, Holt, Riley Crawford and Turner Rawls
were riding nearBoneHill, scouting for aUnionistwho called himselfMajorGrubbs. The citizens thereabouts had complained of him and his boastfultreacheries,sowesetofftocounselhimtowardamorehumbleattitude.“Iwanttokillhim,”Rileysaid.Riley’sboyishfaceheldeyesashardasany
demon’s.Theboyhadbeenweaned fromhope, andonlybloodshed raisedhismorale.“Iwanttokillthemall.Anymorethat’sallIthinkabout.”
We followed a slight creek, ourmounts splashing in the shallows.Whiskeywas in itwith us.Lately itwas always in us. Itmade theworld seem slower,morepossibletodefeat.Thiswasanecessarydelusion.WithinsightofBoneHill,aclapboardvillage,weaccostedafarmerdriving
hogsdownalanewithastickandtwodogs.Hewasnervousinourpresenceandgot more so when Turner put a pistol at his head and demanded, “Whar disMadorGroobs?”“What?” the farmer said. The hogs grunted off and about with the dogs
yappingafterthem.“Whatdidyousay?”“WheredoesMajorGrubbsstay?”Iasked.“Oh,”thefarmersaid.Icouldseethetendencytowardslynessintheskittering
ofhiseyes.“Youboysdon’twanthim.He’sadangerousfellow.Youjustleavehimbe.”Turner,whoknewhisownmind,shotthefarmerinthefoot.“Sownbits!”heshouted.“WhardisGroobs?”“Overeast!”thefarmerhowled.Helandedonhisbuttandheldhisbootfullof
rearrangedtoes.“HestaysattheDorrisplace!It’sonahillwithappletrees,Goddamnyou.”Therewas truefright inhimnow.“Youboysdidn’tneed toshootme.”“Shutyourdamnedmouth,”Itoldhim.“Anddon’tyougoraisethealarmor
we’llfindyouandroastyourmotherinfrontofyou.”Ondownthelanewewent,sharingtherotgut,woozilycertainofvictory.The
lane led us up a small rise and past a rockwall that ran in front of a charredhouse.Wewerenoisy.Turnerhadfiredashot.Weweretwostepsintodrunk.Attherockwalltheyopeneduponus.EvendrunkIunderstoodthatwehad
blundered, andwheeledOld Fog about, swinging loosely in the saddle. Thereweretwentyormoreof them,allmountedandmiserable,anditseemedtometheygloated.“Oh,shit!”Isaid.“It’sJayhawkers!”Nodebatewasrequiredoverourcourseofaction—wefled.Theychased.Bullets zingedbyor chimedoff rockorplumedblood froma
horse’sass.Weshotbackwhilefleeing,anexercisewehadgottenprettygoodat.The retreat took us back to the farmer and the hogs and the dogs. Hewas
doingahobbledvariantof thesprint,andIguessedhehadknownJayhawkerswere in the area.Holt sized things the same and called the farmer a son of abitch,thenshothimdownrightinthemidstofthesquealinghogsandyappingdogs.“Kill the secesh!” the Jayhawkers shouted. Their attitudewas one ofmean
confidence, and theyhad a right to it.They lovedmurderingus in small, safeclusters.Wehadn’tgot farwhenRiley caughtone in the soft areabelow the ribs. It
wentfrombacktofront.Theballsplitthatloosefleshwide.Itmadeaninstantmessofhim,butheclungtothesaddlehorn.Holtandmespunaroundandtookaim.Thiscausedthemtopullupabit,and
we blasted away at them, hoping only to stall them long enough for Riley toclearout.Buttheyweretoomany,sowerejoinedtheflight.They thunderedafterus, saying terrible thingsandwinging shots atus.Old
Fogwascreased in thehaunchesandboltedahead inahorseypanic.Downtothesouth,beyondalongmeadow,thetimberwasthick.“Gettotimber,”Holtsaid,saucer-eyed.“Gettotimber.”Hell,wetookoffthatway,buttheJayhawkershungtoughandlittleRileyhad
his hands full.We couldn’t pull ahead of them.At the timberline Turner andHoltandmefacedthemanddisplayedenoughgoodaimtosendthemdownthemeadow,wheretheycouldenterthetimberandhuntus.“Ican’t ride,”Rileysaid.Wrongpartsofhimhungoverhisbelt.Hewasn’t
evensixteenandhewas ruined. “Putmedown,please.Please.Please,putmedown.”Darkwasn’tcomingonfastenoughtohelpus.Wehadtokeeprunning.That
is one thing bushwhackers know. The thick green leaves shielded us for themoment,butrightawaywecouldheartheJayhawkerstrottingintothetimberashortdistanceaway.“Please,please,”wentRiley.I stepped down and pulled the ripped-wide boy off his mount and set him
againstatree.Heheldhishandswherehewasspilling,andthatpalethingthathappenstothemortallywoundedwashappeningtohim.“Leavememyguns,”hesaid.“Don’ttake’em.Leave’em.”Rileywasakid
likenokidIeverknew.“Imightgetone.”Icockedapistolandlaiditnearhim.Turnerwasgruntingsomefierceriddle
andHoltwasprancingabout.Wehadtogo.“Riley,”Isaid.Iputmypalmtohisfaceandsqueezedhischeek.“Yougotto
fireatthem,Riley.Bringthemdownonyou.”“Iwill, Jake.Boys, Iwill.”Hewascrying,and ripplingwithpain.“Iwasa
goodboy,wasn’tI?”“Asgoodastheycome,”Isaid,andremounted.Wetookoff.IlookedbackonceandsawRileyhunchedtothetree,hisfaceto
thesky.A sneak through thewoodswas our plan. It is a hard trick to bring off on
horseback.Noisewasmade. The Jayhawkerswere shouting commands to fanout and flush us. Pretty quick after that Riley’s shots sounded. That was ournoticetolayonthespursandwedidit.Inaminutethereweremoreshots,thensilence.“Toughboy,”Holtsaid.“Buthedidn’tholdthemlong.”Even as he spoke I heard hooves beating the earth, branches cracking and
dangerousvoices.Wewereinalowspot,thickwithbramble,thatranbetweentworises.Agullytwisteddowntowardthesouth.“Followthisgully,”Isaid.“Ifwegotto,we’llbreaktheirline.”Turnerled.Flincheshadcometoroostonhisface,andthewholegamutofhis
features bobbled.Holt took up the rear, and in the undertones of his breath IbelieveIcaughtasnatchofahymn.Beforewe’dgone twohundred feet I saw twomenon the rise to theeast. I
hopedtokillthembeforetheysawus,andthentheydidseeus,andIthinktheyhadhadthesameideainstoreforus,sobothopinionsweredisappointed.Everybodylookedforatreetohidebehind.“Oh,Lor’!”Turnercried.“Dey’sgodus.”“We’llbreakthrough,”Isaid.Allthehorseswerejitteryandjerkingaround,
butfightingonfootwasformorons.“Let’sdoitnow.Attackthosetwonow,it’souronlychance.”Fright may have been our regular pastime, but hesitancy was not a
bushwhacker trait.We tore right into them,and theyploweddownhill tomeetus.Cleanshotswerehardbecauseofthetrees,andbarkflewhitherandyon,andwetrilledrebelyellsforallwewereworth,andyouhadbetterbelievethatwecouldraiseacrythatwouldhaveyoufillingyourboots.Whenweclosedonthem,betweentwospacious,fatoaks, theshotswereso
rapidastobemesmerizing.OneoftheJayhawkershadaredfeatherinhishatandarottenface.HeaimedonHoltbutIgothim.Ibustedhimopenattheneckandtheteatandhefellacorpse.Hiscomradelostheartonseeingthisandretreated,callingwildlyforhelp.Wethendidatacticalmovethatconsistedentirelyofrunningaway.Afteraquartermileofpanickedscrambling,wecame toaclearingand just
about flew across it. I looked overmy shoulders and, oh, shit, yes, there theywere,comingonafterus.Thehorseswerodewereasfineabreedofbeastsastherehaseverbeen.They
hadbottomandsandandsomevaguebeastyknowledgethatwerequiredallofitright then.We ran them hard all afternoon, and the Jayhawkers fell back butstayedinsightuntildark.In thenightwemadeabig loop to the south, then swungwest,west toour
comrades.Thatdayhadbeentoonearathing.
15
ALL THAT SEASON theywere driven to us.Woefulwidowswith hung husbands andsqualling babes. White-haired grannies with toothless mouths and fiercefeelings. Hard-faced farm boys who would now apprentice themselves to thestudyofrevenge.Theyhadbeenrunfromtheirhomes,burnedout,turnedout,andsetadriftto
die.WesternMissourihadapitifullegionofraggedycitizens.“Look at them,” Cave Wyatt said. “The damned Yankees will starve the
childrentosaddenthefighters.Itisameangame.”Anditwas,andwewereitscounterpart.It was in that same terrible month of July that the Federals arrested Black
John’ssisters.TheywereimprisonedintheupstairsofaliquorsupplyhouseatKansasCity.Black John became frantic to exact a price for this breach of the rules.He
rantedandpreachedblueperil,andthreatenedtodowonderstoentirearmies.OnemorningIwatchedBlackJohnholdingahandmirrorwhilecombinghis
hair.Hepeeredathisreflectionandsaid,“Howdoyoudo,BlackJohn?”Thensmiled,andansweredhimself,“Damnedfine,Mr.Ambrose,damnedfine.”
ForawhilewewentbacktowearingYankeeblueuniforms.Theywereeasytocomeby.Thetrickofitwassosimple,butitworkedpeachy.TwentyorthirtyofuswouldrideuptoascoutofFederalsandGeorgeClydewouldsay,“Howisrebel hunting today, lieutenant?” and before an answer could be uttered orsuspicionsraisedoncloser inspection,wewouldcutopenonthempoint-blankandpassthemthroughtothenextworld.Thetreacheryofitwasnottoonoble,butitwasararedaywhenitfailed.
IhadnotseenSueLeeforafewmonths.IknewshehadgonetoHenryCountyandwas livingwith the kin ofHowardSayles. I thought often of her but hadlittlenewsuntilHowardapproachedmeincampandsaid,“ThatSueLeegaliswithchild,Roedel.”Hisexpressionwassomewhatstern.“Sheis?”Isaid.“Ididn’tknowit.”
“Well,nowyoudo,damnit.”Howardspitandgloweredatme.“Youbettergomarryher,boy.Itain’trightnotto.”“Me?”Isaid.“No,notme.Idon’tgottomarrynobody.”“Is that right?” Howard Sayles was thirty or even older, and the youthful
mannersofhiscomradesoftenservedtoannoyhim.“You’rethatkindofman,eh,Dutchy?”I reckonmy face sterned up some, too, and I said, “Iwill take care of her,
Sayles.Andyouhavesaidaboutalltheroughthingstomeyouhadbetter.”Thismansmirkedatme.“Issheyourwomanoflightlove,Dutchy?’Causewedon’twantthescandal
ofitonournamesdownhome.Thatgalneedsahusbandandquick.”“It’llbetookcareofsomehow,”Isaid.“Whenitcanbe.”Hesofteneduponhearingthat.“That’sall Iask,”hesaid.“Iknownowain’t theright time.Hell,wealldo
things.”Hegavemeaplayfulpunchontheshoulder.“Everybodylikesherrealgood,youknow.Idon’twantyoutobelieveotherwise.”“Ineverdid.”Later that night I toldHolt ofSueLee’s predicament.Hepursedhis plump
lips,andgazeddown,weightedbyheavythought.“Couldbeyououghtto,”hesaidfinally.“I’vethunkitfromseveralsides,and
couldbeshe’dmakeyouafinewife.”“But there is one thingwe ain’tmentioning here,” I said. “Itmight be she
don’twanttomarryme.Thatis,evenifIdidwanttomarryher,shemightnot.”Icouldnottellwhetherhethoughtmeapessimistoralame-brain,butitwas
plainhefiguredIwassomethingslow.“Now,howcouldthatbe?”heasked.AtthistimeGeorgeClydeambledover,haulingatinofbeans,andstoodnear
us.Hehadacuriousattitudeonhisface.“Youtwosuregottobepals,didn’tyou?”hesaid.Helookedatbothofus,
andIwonderedifhehadcometofeellikethesparewheel.“Eversincewinteryoutwoboyshavebeenclappingyourgumstogetherregularascrones.”I told him about SueLee.He laughed and said, “Hell, that’sChiles’s baby
she’slugging.Ithinkso,anyhow.”Ijustlookedathimsourly.“Don’ttellmeit’syoursevenifitis,”hesaid.“Itain’t.”“Then don’t be a lunkhead,Dutchy.Marry somegirlwho is pregnant from
you—that’sthefunpart,anyhow.”“Ifyousayitis,thenIreckonitis,”Isaid.“Idon’trightlyknow.ButmaybeI
ain’tripeformarryingupwithnobody.Maybeit’sthebachelorwayforme.”“Ah,”wentClyde.Hebobbedhis chin in approval. “That’s evenmore fun,
Dutchy.Youareshowingsomesense.”HesaidIwas,andIsupposeditcouldbetrue,butIwonderedwhatopinionI
mightshifttoifIwaslookingathersweetbustedtooth,orthatfascinatingscardownherbrow,orthosehotdarkeyes.
TheFederals kept usmoving.Large bodies of bluebellieswould ride into ourarea andwewould scatter to rendezvous at a choicer spot.Often a fewhandswouldnotshowupwhoshouldhaveandwewouldfigurethemdead.InthismannerwesawagoodportionofMissouri.Wholeneighborhoodsof
ashandsplinteredglassawaitedus.Chimneysstuckupalone,theonethingleftsolid by the whirl of destruction. The roads were clogged by refugees who’dbeenrobbedofeverythingbutthegarbtheywore.Itjustletthegreaserightoutofyourhearttoseethem.Wherethechanceofitwasfair,wechastisedtheenemy.Theyweresomany,
though,andwesofew.Ibelievethatbylatesummerweallfeltwewerebeingwhipped.Thisdidnotturnusmeek,butitnumbedourspiritsagradeortwo.Somanyofusdiedrudely.NearAustin, in Cass County, after a draining ride on a skillet-hot day, we
rodeupontwooldwomeningrimedattire.TheoldgalswereheadedforTexasandnotgoingtomakeitfromthelooksofthem.Theyglancedoverus,thenoneofthemsaidtotheother,“Rebels,Isis.Thesemenarerebels.”“SoI see,”said theothergranny.“When it’s too late for them tohelp, they
rushupspoilin’forafight.”Black John nodded down at thewomen and showed some irritation at their
sarcasm.“ShowusYankees,ladies,andwewillhurtthem.”Theoldgalslookedglum.Oneofthempointedoffdownalanethatraneast
andsaid,“Goonthataway’tilyouseeaburnedbarn,misterbushwhacker.Yougoondownpastthebarnandintothetreeline,whydon’tyou?You’llfindaninterestin’thingthere.”“Whatmightthatbe?”BlackJohnasked.“Oh,rebels.Someoftherebelsarehangingaroundupinthere.”Wefollowed theirdirectionsand rode rightunder theirgrannypun.High in
thebranches,seasonedbeyondrecognition,thereswungsevennoosedrebels.Itwasmacabreandaltogethereerie.Thebodiesdrapeddown through the leaveslikerancidbaublesinthelocksofahorribleharlot.
“Ibet it’sCarterMcPhee,”CaveWyattsaid.Cavepointedtohighupin thegreat tree. “I bet it’s Carter McPhee and I reckon some of those others areRaphael McPhee and the Price brothers. I can’t be sure. They all rode withQuantrill.”Timeallowedforit,sowedidsomeChristianspadework.TheYankeeshung
menlikethistotauntandtormentlocalpatriots.Suchmurderswereinspirationaltous.AnysouthernmanordeludedFederalwhowascaughtburyingex-rebelswasshotbythesoldiers.Thishabitledtomanysoutherndeadrottingformonthsinplainsight.In this instanceweset that straight,but I thinkallofusboysgotanervous
previewofourownfutures.Afterawhile, these thingsgot toyou.At times like this Iwasoften feeling
JackBull’sdeadhandonmyshoulder.Itwastheheavytouchofgrimmemory.All it made me was forlorn, but it kept coming back. That is the way withgrievousknowledge,youcannevergetfarenoughaheadofit.
What really ripped itwaswhen thewomen’sprison inKansasCity collapsed.The girls were mashed like rose petals in the family Bible. Unionists hadweakenedthewallsbydiggingunderthefoundation,andthishadgotthemwhattheywanted—thedeathofourwomenfolk.TwoofBlackJohn’sthreesisterswerekilledandthethirdwascrippled.Five
other true southern women perished as well, one of them Riley Crawford’smotherandoneofthemPittMackeson’swife.BlackJohndidnottakeitwell.Ididnottakeitwelleither.Bushwhackersand
fencesittersandevensomeFederals took itbadly.Allalong theborder frothyangerandcrazedplotsofrevengebegantobehowled.TheFederalshadcrossedoverthelastlineofrestraint.Andbelieveyoume,
wewerethewrongtribetotreatinthatfashion.
Riders came and went from all over the territory. Every little nest ofbushwhackers was being called on to rally with Captain Quantrill on theBlackwaterRiver.Wewenttotheplace,andsodidthemenofThrailkill,Poole,Jarrett,Younger,CobbandTodd.It was a sullen and dangerous gathering. The boys of every group were
outragedbythesmashedwomenandthemurdersofcomradesandthehopelesswar.Ourgroup, amixofAmbroseandClydemen,wasoneof the largergangs.
Quantrill’swasthelargest,withaboutahundredandtwentyfamousfighters,butsomeoftheotherswereonlyfamily-sizedbands.CaptainQuantrill had credentials of consequence all over the region and in
manypartsofthenation.Hewasagirlishmaninappearance,withfinefeaturesandheavy-liddedeyes.Hekilledinbulkandateveryopportunity.Hewaslovedbymany.“PatriotsoftheSouth!”heshouteddowntousfromawagonbed.“Itistime
westrikeback!TheYankeesbelievetheycandriveourpeoplefromtheirhomesandkilluswithimpunity.Theyhavegottenthenotionthatsounmanlyarewe,so toothless a gang ofmasculine specimens, that they can kill our women asleisurelyasifitwereasport.Well,itain’tsoandweallknowit.We’regoingtoLawrence,boys,androottheratsrightoutoftheirholes!”Thegrislyaudienceraisedhoorahsatthis,forLawrencewastheplaceonthe
mapwemostwantedtoblotoffit.ButIlookedaroundmeattheminglingbandsofdesperadoesandthought,Sayingitisonething,butpullingitoffisanother.IwentovertoGeorgeClyde,whowasbeamingwithanticipation.“George,”Isaid.“Lawrenceisforty-fivemilesintoKansas.Therearewhole
armiesoutthereandnofriendsatall.”“Yougotit,Dutchy,”Clydesaidjovially.“It’llbeashockarooniofasurprise
tothebastards.Theysleepheavyoutthere,believingtheyaresafefromus.”Well, I didnot argue itwithClyde,but it turnedout thatmanyof theboys
sharedmythoughts.“We’llnevermakeitback,”CaveWyattsaid.“Evenifwecangetthere,they’llchopusdownontheprairies.ButIreckonwe’llgivethattownsomememoriesfirst.”AsIstrolledaboutthecamp,Iheardmanyechoesofthissentiment.Almost
nooneplannedonneedingmoregulpsofairafterthistrip.TherewerescadsofFederalsoutthere,sowethoughtwewereseeingMissouriforthelasttime.Itfiguredtobeabitterkillingspreeinthetown,house-to-housefightingwith
all theYanksout there, then itwould end in a vigorous formofmass suicideonce thearmiescaughtup tous.This frameofmindwas fueledbya floodofwhiskey.Dumbandboldthingsarebestaccomplisheddrunk,wefigured,sowewentdeepintothepopskull.Thenightbeforesettingoutwestayeddrunk,rambunctiouswithanticipation,
andtherebytookamissonsleep.Ifoundmyselfsharingjugswithstrangerswhorodemysideoftheroad,andgotup-closeglimpsesofsomeofourilkwhohadbecomefamous.FrankJamesdodderedaroundwithColemanYounger,andKitDalton staggered about with the Basham brothers and the Pence brothers andPayneJonesandPeytonLong.Thesemenwereallnotoriousaboveandbeyondmostofus,andwaddledaboutthecamp,blinddrunkandnotnoticeablyspecial.
Ridingwithsuchearnestmengavemeconfidence.“Holt,”Isaid,“thisbandwillbetheSpartansinafewhistoriessomeday.”Holt looked at me slack-lipped, flustered by rotgut, and said, “That so? I
wouldn’tknow.”BydawnIwastoowhiskey-wearytocareaboutmuch.Quantrillstartedusoff
forLawrenceearly.Therewereoverthreehundredridersandthesightofuswasawesome: long flowing southern hair beneath slouch hats; broken-in bordershirts; a great harvest of pistols hanging everywhere; and fuzz-cheeked facesbeneathbusthead-reddenedeyes.Ijoinedascoutpartyintheleadofthemaingroup.GeorgeClyderodeatthe
front,forheknewthewrinklesinthatneighborhood,havingbeentherebeforetotanglewithJimLane’sKansans.Hisgazewenteverywhere,lookingquicklyonthis,thenquickeronthat,noddinghisheadatlandmarksthathadnotshifted.Thesunwasamercilessyellowpresence.Heatlappedupfromthebakeddirt
andthehorsesbreathedrattly.Thelandwaslevelprettymuchandlightonshadetrees.BynoonweweresouthofSpringHill,Kansas.CaptainQuantrillcalledahalt.
TherewereFederalpostswithinthenextfewmiles,andhisplancalledforustoslip by them at night. So we fell out around a scummed-over pond and boredownonthewhiskey’tildark.My mind had broken the leash, spurred on by fatigue and busthead, and
draggedback thoughts Ineverwanted.Aquality Ididn’t care forcameout inme. I pitied myself. I pitied myself and my lot in life. That is a mangyintrospection and not one I petted much. But there it was, a weak thoughtlanguishingbetweenmyears.Lifehadbeenabigboohoo.IwonderedifItrulywasdiseasedinthebrain.ThenIlookedatmycomrades:
someof themwere engaged in pegging stones at bullfrogs,while others oiledpistolsorsnuggledtothejug.Thismademewonderthesamething,onlylouder.BabeandRayHudspethsatnexttomeforaspell.Theseboyswerelooking
on the bright side. Babe said, “There’s a store in Lawrence called Bush’sDelicacies and Apparel, Dutchy. It’s packed from floor to ceiling with fineclothesandsmokedhamsandsweetbreads.Weaimtorobitrightoff.Bewithus,whydon’tyou?”“Imightbe.”“Good.Youwon’tgowrong.”Babe’sglazedeyesrolledupandhelaughed.
“Ifwedomakeithome,we’llberichwithdudsandmeat.”“That’sright,”Raysaid.HewasslightlyolderthanBabebutmorereserved.
“Theycan’tcountongettin’everysingleoneofus.”When the world was black enough to travel sneaky in, we got going.We
circled past the post at SpringHill, and though I believe they noticed us, weencounterednochallenges.Myeyesfeltrawanditwashardtoholdthemopen.OldFogsteppeddeftly
enough, but every jolt was a jolt. In the back of the pack drunks sang untilhushed.Oddsnatchesoflaughterdriftedaround.“Iain’thardlyovergettin’shotnearthejewelsatBlueCut,”Iheardsomeonesay.“ButIwouldn’tmissthisforsixchickenwings.”AmanIdidn’tknowtappedmyshoulderandheldabottletowardme. “Take a bracer ofOldCrow,partner,” he said. “Itwon’t keep thegnatsfromyoureyesbutit’llmake’emcutertoyou.”ItriedhismedicineandslidfurtherintodrunkthanIwantedtobe.Lawrence would take all night getting to. By midnight we were lost. The
leaders had a conference and decided to recruit guides.At the next housewesaw, theman of itwas dragged out andmade to guide us as far as he could.Whenhe, too,was lost,abigred-hairedmannamedPringleslithis throatandwegotanewguideatthenexthouse.BeforelongIcouldbarelystayinthesaddle.IhadHoltlashmeinsoifIwent
blankand fell Iwouldn’tbreakmyneck.Manyof theboyswere roped in thesame.Itwashardtraveling.Idozedonhorseback,awakinginflashes,witnessingscenesmoregarishthan
any I’d ever encountered. It was an odd state I was in and my senses werefragmentedandmymindricochetedoffofwhatIdidseeorthoughtIsaw.Thewholelongtripwaspassingstrange.Myeyesopenedtoseeabaldman
onhiskneesbeneathatorch,his tonguegrippedbythedrivinghandofoneofus.Itdidnotkeepmeawake.“Yeah,that’sright,”avoicesaidsoftly.“I’mfromLiberty, with Jarrett. I lived around Liberty ’til I couldn’t no more.” A handshovedmeandIstarteduptoseeCaveWyatt.“Sweetdreams,Dutchyboy?”heasked.“YoulookedsopeacefulIcouldn’tstandit.”Therhythmofthehorse’sgaitcouldbeadjustedto.Ifyouwerereadytodie,itdidn’twakeyou.“Mother,”I said inGerman, out loud or in a dream, “the dishes are in the yardwhere Itossedthem.Iwon’tdothem.JackBulldoesn’tdothem.IwanttotrapbeaverinthemountainslikeJimBridger.”Another torchscenehaltedmyhorse,andtheend of movement awakened me. “Are you takin’ us in circles, you Dutchbastard?”“No,no,” themancried.“Iswear, Idon’tevenknowanycircles.” Isawhimbludgeoned,andwewentbackonthemove.Ijustcouldn’tavoidsleep.Myeyelidswerelikeweightedshades.Someonenearmesaid,“Oh,don’tmesswithhim,Jim.He’saDutchman,butagoodone.He’sbeenwithBlackJohnalong while.” Later, when it was I don’t know, I was nudged awake by Holt.“Remember JackBull?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered. “Me, too,” he said, androde on byme. Iwent back towhere I had been,wondering ifwe’d actually
spoken.Thestepskeptup.IrecognizedthevoiceofBlackJohnashepassedupanddowntheline.“Nosurvivors,”hesaid.“Thetimeforthemisgone.Idon’twantanysurvivorsoldenoughtocockagun,boys.None.”Averyvividfictiongot done inmymind: I sawAlfBowden blastingmy father in the neck, thenbooting his old foreign butt along Main Street, blood spurting in a stream,kicking theold fellowpastAsaChiles and JacksonEvans. I sawmeand JackBullseatedonablanketnearahighstokedfire,playingfarowiththeDutchboyIback-shotandseveralmashedsisters.Thatgotmeconscious. Icameawakeandstayed there. Isearched theranks
forHoltandgainedhisside.Hewasasleep.Hisheadhungforwardonhischestandhesnored.Ishookhimandsaid,“Don’tletthembotheryou,Holt.It’sonlydreams.”Hisheadnoddedslowly,theneasedbacktohischest.AstrangeQuantrillianinaredshirtdrewabreastofme.Hisheadwasshaking
constantly.“Whycouldn’ttheyleaveusbe?”heasked.“Theyhavetheirplace,they didn’t need to come roughshod into ours.Why didn’t they just leave usbe?”Icouldgivehimnoanswerbutared-eyedstare,soherodeuptothenextman
andsaid,“Whydidn’ttheyjustleaveusbe?”
16
CAPTAINQUANTRILL HAD timedourmarchexquisitely.Justas thecockscommencedtocrowwecame in sightof thehatedcity. Itwas spreadoutbeforeus,peacefulandasleep,asconvenientasaone-tablebanquet.“Formintofours,”Quantrillcommanded.MountOreadloomedonthefarsideofthetown,andthere,onthesouthpouty
lip of the Kaw River, were the households of splendor, made so by ourransackedriches.“Burnthetown!Kill,kill,kill!”Spurs dug into flanks andwe came on, all as one, desperate and crazed, in
terrible number, bent on revenge by bloody work, fully expecting to take onlegions,andmyemotionshad therangeofa rainbow.Withmythroatchoked,clottedbyfearandrage,myeyessprangleaks,andIlookedaboutme,tremblingwithsomesortofoccultjoy,forweweremenandunapologetic,dashingdowntheslope,pistolsprimed—oh,therewaswonderinit!Isawthefirstmanfall,adoughty,salt-haired,surprisedman,milkingacow,
andhediedrighttherebeneaththeteat.Yip-yipping for allwewereworth,we ravaged into the town.Men in long
johns,sleepystill,werechasedintotheiryardsandpistoleddown.Isawawhirlofmensplitoffandride intoacampofrecruitsnear thecenterof town.Theywereyetinslumberinsidetheirwhitetents,andwefiredintotheirbedrollsandbrought them crawling out. Itwas all niggers.Uniformed niggers raised extrafrenzy in the boys, and the hectic potshotting and dodgingwent up a notch. Ithink twoor threeof theniggersmade it to thebrushbottomsof theriverandescaped.Idon’tknow.Ithoughttheywereanarmy,andIguessIgotone.Bynowthecitizenrywascomingawakeandwasscramblingorskulkingafter
hidingplaces.Everywhereyouturned,theywerebeingshot.Voicewasgiventomanyagonizedsensations.Thewomenwailed.Childrenscreamed.Therewas no army in sight. The citizens never even fired a shot to defend
themselves. A great many of them stood on the streets and looked on usdumbstruck, as if they couldn’t believewewere just whowe looked like wewere.Whydidn’ttheyhide?Whydidn’ttheyflee?Whyonearthdidtheynotfight
us?Thewomentriedtoshieldtheirmen;then,whenthatfailed,tobegformercy.
It justwasn’tgoing to come.Thisplacewaswellhated, andhad talked toughaboutusforyears,andsentJayhawkersalloverusandours.Thedayhadcomeforustogiveitback.InthemeleeIfoundtheHudspethsatthedelicacyshoptheyhadmentioned,
tying hams and greatcoats to their mounts. Other men had broken open thesaloons,andprettyquickallofusweredrunkagain.Yankeeflagswereknottedonhorsetailsanddraggeddownthedirtystreets.Therewasconstantgunfireandpandemonium.At thenorthendof townIsawabout twentywhite recruitsmoweddownin
the sun.Their riflesweren’t even loaded.Theywerenot set up to fight.Theynevergottheirchanceatus.Prettysoontheplacewasinflames.Quantrill, Black John and Clyde raced all over bellowing brutal strategy:
“Burn’emout,they’llcome!”IsawHoltatTheEldridgeHouse,standingwithQuantrill’snigger,anolder
mancalledNolan.Tomeitseemedallofthisdrunkenrevengemightoverfillthebucket and sloponto them.Theyunderstood that, I think.Theyweren’t goinganywhere.The EldridgeHousewas for some reason special toQuantrill, so he didn’t
wantitburnedyet.IwentuptoHoltandNolan.“Let’susgetsomeeggs,”Isaid.Thetwoofthemweresharingabottle.Holt’seyeswerebloody.“Yeah,Jake.Let’sgetalltheeggstheygotandsomeham.”Wewent inside. The owner and hiswifewere frantic trying to feed all the
boyswhowerealreadyinthere.Customersofthehotelwerelineduptoawalland were being robbed by Arch Clay, Turner Rawls, Payne Jones and someothers.Apairofdeadmenwerecrumbled to the floor.Even ladies’handbagsandweddingringsweretaken.“Give me some,” I said, and took the bottle from Holt. A long pull on it
convinced me I really was there and it really was happening. I said, “I ain’thungrynomore,”andwentoutside.Isawmenflushedlikeratsfromburninghousesrightintotheharshembrace
oftheend.Isawallthevarietiesofrobberytherecouldpossiblybegettingdone.IsawwomenshovedinthedirtofGod’sgreenearth,andlittleboysshotinthehead.Quiteanumberofthemenwerenotjoininginonthefray.Theystoodabout
lookingshocked,stampingtheirfeet,shakingtheirheads.Thisthingwasoutofhand.Iwentandstoodwiththem.
“Theyoughtnottomurderthechildren,”agray-hairedrebelsaid.“Butpupsmakehounds,”Isaid.Ihadtobelievethat.“Ifitwasyourpup,you’dfeeldifferent,son.”Thesemenwerefarmersturnedfightersandnotcomfortablewiththetableau
ofamassacre.Andthatwasallthiswas,easymayhemonagrandscale.“ForGod’ssake,wherearetheirarmies?”Isaid.“Whydon’ttheycomeand
fight?”But they didn’t do it. There were no legions of soldiers to be found and
damned few Jayhawkers were at home. I had come here, as had these otherrebels,foradesperatefight,buttherewasn’tonetobehad.Itwasonlybad-luckcitizensfindingoutjusthowbadluckcanbe.Thegray-hairedrebelnexttomewalkedoff,followedbyafewoftheother
shockedsoutherners.Iwentwiththem.Idon’tknowwhy.Wewalkeddown the street, stepping around looterswhowere strapping all
mannerofplundertotheirhorses.Glasswasshatteredeverywhere.Oathswerescreamed,shotsfired,bloodlet,andadinofloudinsanelaughterkeptup.At a hostelry a freckle-faced woman went to her knees and begged Pitt
Mackesonnottokillherhusband.Istaredrightintoherfaceandshelookedlikeeverywomanyou’deverknown.“I’llshowhimthesamemercytheyshowedus,”Mackesonsaid.Hethenput
thehusbandthroughtotheothersideviaabulletintheear.Aroundacornerfromthemainstreettherewererowsofhouses.Severalofus
walked right into one and sat down.Therewas awrinkledwoman in there, awrinkledmanandaboywhowasoldenough.Allofthemwerecowering.“Feedus,”thegray-hairedrebsaid.Itfellonthewomantoanswer.“Gladly,men,”shesaid,aboutasobviousalieasIeverheard.“I’llfrytaters
foryou.”Iwentovertothetwoshakingmen.Theyweren’tfighters,youcouldseethat.“Youbetterhideyourselves,”Isaid.“It’sgettingawfulrough.”Neither of themmoved. I think they feared Iwas going tomake a sport of
themandtheirattemptstohide.“Asyouwill,”Isaid,whentheyfailedtomove.“Seewhatyouget.”Isatonastickchair.Thereweresixofus in thereplus the threeof them.I
askedmycomradeswhotheywereandtheanswerwasavariety.TwowereClayCountianswhofollowedQuantrill, twowerewithThrailkill,and theother, thegray-haired reb, waswithDave Poole out of the river district. His namewasRufusStone.“I weren’t in it for this,” he said. He seemed to have no fear of uttering
criticisms.“Ihavebeentusslin’withtheseinfernalKansanssinceeighteenandfifty-six.Ithasbeenalongwarforme.ButIain’tinitforthis.”Out of the window it all went on. Houses were plundered, then put to the
torch,andKansasmenofalldescriptionsshotdown.Thewomanfriedpotatoesaswewaited.Thetworesidentmalesstillcowered
inthecorner,onthefloor.“Ithoughtthiswasgoingtobeafight,”Isaid.Noonereplied.Before we could eat, Pitt Mackeson and an impromptu gang of liquored
avengers rodeup to thehouse.Theywanted toknowwhy theplacewasn’t inflames.“We’rewaiting on breakfast,” I said. I didn’t really know thesemen. They
wereuglydrunkandhadhell in theirguts.Pittcame inandsaw thecoweringcitizens.Hisunleveleyesgotbig.“Bring those men into the yard,” he commanded. “I want to show them
something.”MeandRufusStone lookedglumateachother.Afteracoughingsecondor
two he stood and said, “I think not. We’ll see to them once we’ve had ourvittles.”“No,noyouwon’t!Iwantthemintheyardnow,damnit!”ThisspringythinghappenedtomylegsandIfoundmyselfstandingnext to
Stone.“How’sitfeeltowant?”Iasked.PittMackesonseemedrattledbymycheek.Asquintygazewasonhim.“Why,youlittleDutchsonofabitch,”hesaid.“YoudowhatItellyou.”His
comradeshadcomeupbehindhimandweregloweringatStoneandme.“OrI’llkillyou.”Iputmypistolinhisfaceasaresponse.“Whenyoufiguretodothismeanthingtome,Mackeson?”Hebackedupa
step,anditwasthefirsttimeI’dfeltlikeafighterallday.“Isthisverymomentconvenientforyou?Itisforme.”SomeonebehindMackesonsaidtojustshoveinthereandtakethemenout.“No,thatwon’twork,”RufusStonesaid.Twooftheothermeninthehouse
stoodtobackhimonthat.“They’restayin’inhere.”Someangryexpressionsgottriedoutonoppositeaudiences.Istillheldatight
beadonMackeson.“Aw, the hell with it,” he said. “There’s plenty other houses to burn.” He
turnedandtookastep,thenwhirledaroundonme,hislongarmandabigfingeraimingatmyface.“I’llseeyoubackinMissouri,youtinysackofshit,you.”
“YouknowwhereIcanbefound,”Isaid.Afteranunnecessaryextraaddedlookofevil,Mackesonandhiscrewmoved
ontodoseoutsomeflame.Isatbackonthestickchairanddidagreat,jaw-stretchingfalseyawn.“Thatmanisanoaf,”Isaid.“That’sPittMackeson,ain’tit?”Stoneasked.“Ihearhe’dassoonkillaman
asmashatick.”“My,whatascaryfellowheis,”Isaid.“Hawhaw!Ilikeyou,”Stonesaid.Heclappedmyshoulder.“Butthatbastard
willhaveyourscalpifyouain’tcareful,son.”“Sobeit,”Isaid.The older citizenwe protected, a long-nosed skinny creature, said, “Mister,
mister,thereain’tenoughthanksintheworld.”“Aw, you go to hell!” I shouted. “Just keep your damned stinking mouth
closed—youhearme?”
Well, by noon Lawrence was a charred tombstone of a place, and the scoutscouldseeacloudofcavalrydustbuzzingtowardusfromthenorth.Thismadeittimetogo,sowedid.Behindusweleftaruinedsettlementandahundredfiftycorpses.Almosteverybodywasdrunkonwhiskeyandbloodyelation.Amerchanttrait
hadcomeout intheboys.Thereweretrunkslashedambitiouslytohorses,anddresses,coats,hams,rifles,whiskey,chairs, rugsandextrasaddlesdrugalong,too.Wemadequiteabusinessspectacle,luggingsomanyodditiesofsupposedworth.Notlongafterthesunwentstraightinthesky,moresignsofcavalryappeared
intheeast.Wewereawfultired.Thehorseswerejadedandtheheathadrisen.Now that it seemed a fightwas coming ourway fast, all talk of fightingwasover.Flightwasnowthething.IhadtoalwayswatchoutforPittMackeson,andIreckonIworriedhimsome
inthesameregard.Thecavalrybehindusgainedground.Icouldsee them.Theymust’vecome
thunderingdownfromLeavenworth.Therewasenoughofthem,too.Theleaderssaidwemustpickupthepace,somanyofthebrand-newrichhad
toagonizeoverwhichrichestodumpwhenlighteningtheirload.Greedpromptscomicalexpressions,Inoted.ClosetotheMissouribordertheFederalsdrewsonearusthatwehaltedand
formed a battle line. The bluebellies did the same, and both parties just stood
therestaringacrossthefieldlikebashfultwitsatabarndance.I think theyhadcaughtup tousonly to realize thatmaybe thatwasn’t their
truestdesire.Bothsideshootedandbleatedroughappraisalsoftheother.Nothinghappened.ItwasrightafterwegaveuponinsultsandgotmovingagainthatBlackJohn
Ambrose rode alongside of me. Cave Wyatt had said that Black John killedeighteenmeninLawrence,andhelookedittome.Myleaderwasberserk.Thiswastroublingknowledge.“Roedel,”hesaid,hoarsely.“Iheardisappointingwordsonyou.”“Isthatso?”“Someoftheboystellmeyousparedtwomenyoucould’vekilledbackthere.
Isitso?”“Yes.”“Areyouatraitor,Roedel?”“YouknowIain’t.”“Well,youspared,boy.Itoldyounotto.”Ilookedrightathim.HemighthavekilledmeandIwantedtowatchhimdo
it.“Iknowthat,”Isaid.“ButIdid.”Heboredintomewiththosebottomlessinsaneeyes.Iwasmadenervousby
his intensity,but thenhesaid,“Don’teverdisobeymeagain,boy. Icommandandyouobey.That’sthepathtovictory.”Victory,Ithought.Whatworlddidheinhabitanyhow?“Iunderstandyou,”Isaid.
17
WITH BUSTHEAD, POPSKULL and rotgut as our scouts, we straggled home. A handful ofslowpokeswerecaughtbyFederals,butfortherestofusithadbeenapainlessforay.Notthesuicidewehadanticipatedatall.OncewegotintoCassCountywedissolved into small bands. Itwasunderstood that all the armieswouldbeafterus,andweneededtohide.IwentwithGeorgeClyde,Holt,TurnerRawls, theHudspeths,CaveWyatt
andHowardSayles.Clydeslowlyswungustothecenterofthestate,thenuptotheBigMuddy.Therewerestillcitizenstherewhowouldtakeusinandfeeduscorncakesandrumors.Over nearBoonvillewe slept in a barn owned by a family namedRoberts.
Sincethemassacreanairofgloomanddoomhadsettledoverme.Anumberoftheotherboyswerethesame.HowardSaylessaidtome,“YoudidrightinLawrence,Dutchy.MeandCave
didthesame,it’sjustnooneknowsitonus.”“IthinkIlostsomecomrades,”Isaid.Itwas just the threeofus in thebarn, and thedaywas sunny, the shaftsof
lightspearingdownthroughcracksandilluminatingallthegrainydebrisintheair.“Naw,” said Sayles, “they lost themselves. Some of those boys are animals
now.”“I’mnervousofthem,too,”Cavesaid.“Thisthingisonlymurdernow.Why,
Johnson Teague shot Big Bob in a argument over a bolt of cloth. They boththoughttheyhadstolenit.”Heshookhisbighairyhead.“Ithascomedowntosimplemurder,murderonwhoeverisclosest.”“TheJayhawkersmurder,too,”Isaid.“That’sright,”Howardsnapped.“ButIain’tinthiswartoseehowmuchlike
aJayhawkerIcanbecome.Iain’tfightingjusttobethesameasthem.Now,letme tell you, Dutchy. Lots of the boys are sick about this Lawrence trip, andthey’re slipping down toArkansas to join upwith the regulars.Whatme andCavewanttoknowis,doyouwanttocome?”“Whenareyougoing?”“Well,”saidSayles,“that’snotset.Wemightnotdoit.Butifwedo?”“Oh,Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“Theymakeyoubowandscrapetoofficers,Ihear.
IfIwantedtodothatsortofthing,I’djustsurrender.”
“Youknowwecan’tsurrenderandlive,”Cavesaid.“Yes,Idoknowthat.”SaylesandCaveshooktheirheadsatme.Cave,whoI’dknownlongandwell
and joked with many a time, actually seemed sad about me. He said, “PittMackesonandsomeofhiscrowdaregoingtokillyou,Dutchy.Ain’tyougotnodamnedsenseatall?Youputapistolonhimanddidn’tuseit.They’regoingtokillyouforthat.”“Ibeenplanningontrouble,”Isaid.“Butcouldbeit’llcomeoutdifferent.”Mycomradesjuststared,andbytheirexpressionsIknewthattheirthoughts
onmeallhadthewordfoolinthem.
Clyde kept us lollygagging around the river for a few weeks. When the bigpaddle boats tried to pass, we potshotted them so fiercely that they turnedaround.Westoppedtherivertraffic.Ialwayshadlikedtheseboats,andnowitseemedstrangethatIwasrunningthemoff.Butwarisforhurting,Iguess.CountingHoltIhadtwoshadows.Hewasaroundmeevenmorethanhewas
aroundGeorgeClyde.Icouldtellhehadbeenchangedsome.TheLawrenceraidmadehimqueasy.Therearelinesyoucan’tgooverandcomebackthesame.InearlyOctoberBlackJohncalledusalltogether.WeralliedatDover,near
theriver.ThefirstthingInoticedwasPittMackesonwatchingmewithavulturevisage. Igave it back tohimasbest I could,buthewas thebetter at it.CaveWyatt, Howard Sayles and Holt stayed near me, as Pitt had several constantcompanionsofhisown.Holt,whohadlethalaspects,sidleduptome.“Jake,Icouldhaveapistolmishapandtoptheman’shead.Yousaytheword
andIhaveastreakoftheterribleclumsies.”“They’dkillyouonthespot,Holt.Andme,too.”“Oh,yes,”hesaid,andhegrinnedgrimly.“But that threat isgettingtobea
oldone.”BlackJohnledusonafewoutingsintothecountryside.Northoftheriverwe
burnedsomewagonsandbustedupaDutchsettlement.Acoupleofniggersgotin the way, too. All the hearts weren’t in this sort of thing anymore. It wasalways thesamemenwhodid themurderswhile therestofuswentmute,butwewentalong.All the gore and glory of the conflict seemed pointless. The Lawrence
massacre had only prompted Order Number Eleven from the Federals. Thisorder emptied four countiesof every citizen.They just emptied those countiesentirely.Thenewspaperscarriedaccountsofalltherebelwhippingsintheeast,
andwecould see thedamage toourownstate. Itwasonlyaquestionofhowlongwewouldgoon losingbefore admittingwehad lost. Inmany cases thatwouldbeforever,nomatterthecost.Theboysweresplitnow.Somecomradesdidn’tcareforothers.Manywere
merelyrobberswiththebulkofnumberstobackthemup.Toseethiscollapseofpurposewasworsethanbeingwhipped.GeorgeClydehaddevelopedintoafair-to-middlingthiefhimself,butIknew
themanwell,don’tyousee?SoIwasloyaltohimstill.Inthecoldweatherhetooka fewofuson a foray to scoutplaces to layupwhen theweather reallywentcold.ThegroundwashardandIwastiredofthewholething.OntheedgeofFirePrairiewestoppedatanoldgrayhouse.Wehadstopped
there before, and Clyde rode right up to the door in his carefree way. I wasbehindhimwithHoltandCave.WehadYankeejacketson,andtheskywasallclouds.“Halloointhere,”Clydecalledout.“Mr.Mills,youinthere?”Hewasstillsmilingwhentheshotcame.He’dbeenwaitingforthismoment,I
think,anddidn’tevenseemthatsurprisedwhenittoreintohisthroat.Hefelloffhishorse,gagging,andbouncedontheground.MeandHolt jumpeddown todragGeorgeback.Moreshotscamefromthe
houseand tufted thegroundaroundus.Theotherboysshotback,andmeandHoltdraggedourfriendonoutoftheyardandintothetrees.OnelookandIknewClyde’swoundwasmortal.ItwasthetickettoHeaven.
Hiseyeswhirledandhisthroatwasahole.Hediedquick,moistgrowlshislastsounds.“Oh, Ican’tbelieve this,”Holt said. Idon’twant to tellall theemotionshe
showed.“Ialwaysknewhim,Jake.”“It’sashame,”Isaid.Whatelseisthere?Theboys fell back from the house.CaveWyattwas all red in the face and
puffing.“IsGeorgedead?”heasked.Inodded.“Oh, hell!” Cave exclaimed. Then he looked back to the house. “Babe is
wounded.There’stoomanyinthere.”“We’llgobacktoBlackJohn,”Isaid.“Allthisgunfiremightbringmoreof
themaroundhere.Weain’tsetuptofightthem.”IstrappedGeorgeacrosshissaddleandwecarriedhimawayfromthatplace.
Whenwereachedthemaincamp,alotoftheboysweresaddenedbythenewsand theproof.Clydehadbeenaboutasgoodand loveda fighteras thereeverwas.
“Whereshallweburyhim?”IaskedHolt.NoonewasclosertoClydethanhewas.“Wewon’t,”hesaid.Hisexpressionwasleveled.“Iwill.”With all the white fighters looking on and offering no objections, Holt
mountedupandtookthereinsofGeorge’shorse.Helopedoffintothetimber,nodoubtsearchingforsomeflower-fatmeadoworsomehilltopwithapreciousview.For twodaysHoltdidnot return, andwhenhedidhe failed to saya single
wordaboutwherehe’dbeen.
Two weeks later it was too cold. Groups of men split away for the winter.SeveralofustalkedofgoingtoTexas’tilspring.PittMackesonandhiscrowdhootedandsaidthey’dstickitoutwherethefightingwas.“That’swheretheplunderis,too,ain’tit?”IsaidtoPitt.God,hewasanuglycreation.“Whatofit?”hesaid.“Yougotsomethingtomakeofit,Dutchy?”Iwassowearyofthisandhimandallofit.ArchClaywasatMackeson’sside
andtwoborderbuggersbythenamesofDinnyRiordanandJasperMoodystoodbehindhim.“No,”Isaid.“Notanymore.”Mackesondid a coyote sortof laughandhisbugger ilk joined inwithhim.
ArchClaystoodsilentasheandIwerenotenemies,thoughwehadneverquitebeenfriends.IslunkoffandsatwithHoltandCaveandSayles.Theywereembarrassedfor
me.“Tomorrow,”Isaid.“Let’sheadsouthtomorrow.”Theboysdidn’tresponddirectly,andI lookeduptoseeBlackJohncoming
myway.As alwayswith him, his countenancemirrored his stiff insanity. Heleanedovermeandsaid,“Youhavegotproblemsinthiscamp,Roedel.”“SoIgather.”“Well,Georgeisdeadandblackinthegroundbynow,Roedel.Heshielded
youandthatmutenigger,butheain’therenomore.Youhadbestleave.Someoftheboysareturnedonyou.”I feltmyselfgettingweepy, though Iwouldnotweep. Ithadcomedown to
this:Iwasbeingrunoutofabushwhackercampforbeingunsuitable.“I’llbeleavinginthemorning,”Isaid.“Why, that’ll do fine,” Black John said. “Tomorrow is always a finer day,
excepting in the case of my sisters. No, their tomorrow is the same as their
yesterday, playing harps at the feet of Our Lord, pegging Him with peeledgrapes.Yes,theskyisredtonight,Roedel,agoodsignforyoutogo.”Hestooderect andclaspedhishandsbehindhisback in a schoolmarmway. “Dutchy, Idon’tcraveseeingyoudeadatall. I justdon’twant toseeyounomore. I justdon’twantto.Andwhenyougo,youtakeClyde’sinfernalniggerwithyou.I’mtiredofseeinghiswoollyhead,too.”Hewalkedaway,notexpectinganyretort.Holtstaredupatthesky,thenlaybackflatsoastoviewitbetter.“Well,thattearsthat,”Isaidsadly.Iwasalittlesad.“MeandHolt’llbegone
atdawn.”Afteralong,lonelysilence,Cavesaid,“I’mgoingwithyou.”“Imightaswellcome,too,”Saylessaid.“Good,”Itoldthem.Ilookedaroundthecampandtherewereplentyofboys
whodidn’tactliketheyrecognizedmeanymore.Someofthemgavemeroughglances.Even theHudspethbrothers ignoredme.TurnerRawls satwith them,andwhenhesawmestaringhegotupandcameover.Hesquattednexttome.“Igowidoo,”hemumbled.Heclaspedahandonthenapeofmyneckand
squeezed.“Yake,oomahfwen.”“Iappreciate it,Turner,”Isaid.Thismanwasmangle-mouthedandvicious,
buthedidn’tforgetthesharedtrialsofpastenterprises.Therewasdamnedfewthatdidn’t.
When dawn camewewere readying to go. TheMackeson crowd stood alooffromusandlaughedatwhisperedjokestheytold.“Areyouready?”Holtasked.“Iwanttogo.”“Well,goon,”Isaid.“I’llonlybeaminutebehind.”Iwalked into the timber and tiedOldFog to abranch. I had toget shedof
yesterday’sbeans.Itwasaformidableneedatthemoment.Ipickedoutamaplesaplingandhunkeredupagainstitwithmybritchesaroundmyankles.IsawHoltandtheboysstartoffdownthetrail.Iaboutstrainedaguttryingto
bequick,buteventhebodysometimesrebels.Thejobwasjustaslowone.InaminuteIheardbootsandfiguredsomeoneelsesharedmybeanproblem.
Then I saw a limb shake and steel glint. As I reached into the tangle of mybritchestopulllooseapistol,Igotshot.Ithitmeintheleftcalf,flungmylegsoutfromunderme,andIlandedsquishwhereIdidn’twantto.Ithurtrightaway.Theysayitdon’t,butitdoes.Ithurt.Right.Away.“Whoisit?”Iscreamed.Anothershotfleckedbarkjustaboveme.Itwistedaroundthetreetrunk,but
mylegstuckout.Someoneshotat the lame thingagainbutmissedby inches.Thereweremoreenemiesthanoneoutthere.Myteethgnashed,andIhungmypistolhandaroundthetreeandblastedaway
blindly.“Jake!”cameashout,andtherewasoldHoltbarrelingovershrubs,comingin
togetme.Hemadeaprettytargetwhileattemptingsuchabravemove,andhepaidforit.Iheardthatunforgettablethumpandsawhimslumpover.AllthespiritIhadsank.Ipulledanotherpistolandemptieditwithoutaiming,
thenIjustlaythere,loiteringinmyownbloodandmuck,awaitingthefinale.Well, old mangle-mouthed Rawls and Cave and Sayles rode up, showing
morecalmsensethanHolthad.Theywingedacoupleofshotsatshakingshrubsandwhoeverhadbushwhackedmetookoff.Iwasn’ttooconfusedaboutwhoitwas.Cavelookeddownatme,allweepyanddisgusted.“Goddamn!”hesaid.“Goddamnthemtohell!”All my thoughts were simple and focused on pain. This thing, pain, is a
commandingsensation.A ragwas bound about thewound and Iwas hoisted tomy horse. I didn’t
want to see my leg. If it resembled Jack Bull’s elbow in any particulars, Ipreferrednottoknowit.TurnergotHoltovertous.Hewasinthesaddlebutgasping.Thebreathhad
beenblownoutofhim.Therewasbloodseepingoutlowinhisribs.“Areyoubad?”Saylesaskedhim.“Itrattledtheribs,buttheyarestout,”Holtsaidtightly.“Theballdidn’tgoin.
It’sonlytheskinistorn.”Cavewasstillhavingahissyfitandpointedtowardthecamp.“I’dgoafterthem,Jake,”hesaid.“Itrulywould,butI’mafraidthatmightjust
beexactlywhattheywant.”“Oh,no,tohellwiththat,”Saylessaid.“There’llbetimeforthatanotherday.
RightnowwegottogetDutchyandHolttomyfather-in-law’splace.Dutchy’sfiancéeisthereandshe’lltendtothem.”“Hisfiancée,”Cavesaid.“Whatfiancée?”“ThatSueLeeShelleygirl.SheisDutchy’sfiancée.”“Oh.Oh,her.”Andwesetoff.
18
THREE DAYS LATER,orsoIsuppose,wewerethere.Thehousewasasturdywoodonefarinthehills.Mymindhadbeenonafloataswetraveled.SomethingsIhadunderstood.IsuspectIyowledtoomuch.When we arrived it was late in the day. The boys helpedme hop into the
house. There was an old man, built thinly and bald, inside. This was OrtonBrown,HowardSayles’sfather-in-law.Hiswifewasafemininereplicaofhimexceptinregardstohair.HernamewasWilma.“Whoisthis?”OrtonaskedSayles.“ThisisDutchyRoedel.He’sbeentweakedintheleg.”“Oh,sothat’sDutchyRoedel.Well,layhimdown.”Holtfloppeddownnexttome.Hewassomewhatgrayedbyhiswoundbutnot
indangerofdying.Exhaustionplayedabigpartinhowhelooked.Thehole inmy calf itched and ached, but thebonewasnot shattered.That
gaveme confidence thatmy futuremight be awalking one. CaveWyatt hadshown off his nursing qualities and kept the thing clean and bandaged. Holtcouldreachhisownwoundandtendit,asitwasmainlyabruiseandarip,sohedid.“Iappreciatethisofyou,”IsaidtoOrton.“Well,IhaveheardofyouandIamproudtohelpasouthernmannomatter
howfunnyhisname.”“Oh, he ain’t just a southernman, Ort,” Sayles said. “This boy here is the
Shelleygirl’sfiancé.”Ortonraisedhisbrowsatthisnews.“Good,good.Iamgladtohearshehasafiancé,’causesheisinneedofone.”“Hey,now,”Isaid.“InevertoldyouIwasherfiancé.”ThatgotmeacruelexpressionfromSayles.“Aw,goin’backtoyouroldtricks,eh,Dutchy?”hesaid,thengaveasoftkick
atmycalf.“She’swithchildandyouwanttoquibble.”“Sheain’twithchild,”Ortonsaid.“That is for certain,” saidWilma in a sternBaptist tone. “That girl hasgot
childnow.Abrown-eyedbutterballofagirlchild.”When Iheard that, Iwanted tosee thatbaby. Ihada realneed tostudy the
faceofJackBull’schildanddoteonanyresemblance.“Whereisshe?”Iasked.“WhereisSueLeeandthebaby?”
“I’mnotforsure,”Wilmasaid.“Ibelieveshecarriedthelittlegirloutforair.They’llbebackanytime,now.Theywon’tstayoutinthedark.”FromthehouseIhadaviewofasteephillside, thickwithoakandhickory,
andadeep,cleanstreamedvalley.Itwasasoothinglandscapeandonethatmademefeelsafe.Forthefirsttimeinalongwhile,Icouldrelaxandleaveittonaturetoconcoctmycure.OrtonandWilmaandtheboysjawedaroundasthesunwentbehindthehill.
HowardSayles’swifewas inHillsboro,Texas,withhis fatherandmotherandtwochildren.TheBrownshadnewsfromthere,sotheysharedit.MeandHoltwereofftoonesideoftheconversation.Thisconflicthadforced
ustorelyoneachother,andwehadlearnedtodoit.Ifeltobligedtowardthisparticular nigger.He had demonstrated backbone and superb nerve. I hoped Ihaddonethesame.“Afterwegethealedbackhealthy,whatshallwedo,Holt?”“More,Ireckon,”heanswered.Hedidnotfacemewhenhesaidit,anditmay
nothavebeentrue.“Uh-huh,” I said,harnessingmyown thoughts.“More is right,butcouldbe
it’llbemoreofsomethingelse.Iain’tridingwithboysthat’llshootmenomore.Themdaysisgone.”Henoddedbrisklyseveraltimes.“Yougotyourselfanewfamilynow,”hesaid.“Iunderstanditthatyoudon’t
wanttobushwhacknomore.”I’ll tell you, odd events at which I had been a mere witness were now
conspiringtomanagemyfate,andIwasn’tusedtohavingsolittlesay.“Now,Holt,thatain’tmykidandyouknowit.”“Itain’tthatsimple,”hesaid,allpuffedupwithmysteriouslogic.“Whatyou
sayisthetruth,farasthatgoes,butitistoosimple.Andthisain’tthatsimple.”IguessIhavemyselftoblame.Ilistenedtohim.ThenIsatthere,throbbingat
mywoundedcalf,somewhatabsentofinsight,andponderedhisriddle.
Whenshecomein,shereactedlikeshehadseenmeatthewaterholeyesterday.Zero fluster cameoverher face.Shewas calmandbeautiful inher scar-facedway,serenewithmotherhood,Isupposed.“Areyouhurtagain?”sheaskedme.Those were her first words to me. They did not flatter me with a gush of
feminineconcern.“Well,yes,”Isaid,“butIdidn’tdoittomyself,youknow.”Iconjuredupa
forlornlook.“Ibeenshot.”
Shecluckedhertongueandswungthecuddlyarmfulofbabethatshecarted.“Bushwhackershavetoexpectthat,”shesaid.Shethensmiledawideoneand
satnexttome.ThebabymurmuredandSueLeeactuallyleanedoverandkissedmyforehead likeshehad theright.“It isgoodtoseeyou,Jake.Andyou, too,Holt.”“Ihearyousaying it,” Iwhimpered.Myexpectationshadnotbeenspecific,
butwarmthandconcernhadbeeninthemall.“Letmeseethatbaby.”“Proud to,” she said, andyou could tell byher rosyvisage that itwas true.
Man,naturehassomechangesinstoreforusall,andithadworkedagoodoneonher.“HernameisGraceShelleyChilesasfarasI’mconcerned.”Babesdon’tknowanythingbutnipplesandlullabies.Theysplashoutlooksof
wonder on anybodywhether theymerit it or not.This onewas the same, andwhenSueLeehandedtheseedlingcreaturetomeitdidatinypawgrabatmylips, gurgling like it knewme.Grace had eyes that leaned toward brown, andseveralsoftwattlesonherfacethatwouldhardenintofeatures.“Sheiswonderful,”Isaid.“She real pink,”Holt said.He then touched her quickly, andwhen nothing
wrongcameofthatgesturehediditagain,onlythistimehistouchlingered.Abigsmilewasonhisface.“BabiesissomethingInevercanbelieve.”“Whatdoyoumean?”Iasked.“Well,lookatit,”hesaid.“Doyoubelievethatthingwillshoutandhollerand
haulwatersomeday?”To realize that this little handfulwas actually a person is to have faith in a
miracleofdimensions.Iadmitthat.“Iknowwhatyoumean,” I said. IplacedGraceon the floorbesidemeand
grinnedatMomma.“Sheissweet.”“I know it,” she said. She then began to poke at my wound, her brow all
scrunchedup.“Letmeseeyourbadspot,Jake.Iwanttomakesureit’sclean.”“It’scleanenough,”Isaid.She shook her head and said, “No, Jake. Clean enough ain’t good enough.
Youshouldhavelearnedthat.”Iwasrealstokedupwithfeelings.IguessIwantedtobecaredfor.Anyway,I
settledbackandletherdoit.
Turner,CaveandSaylesrestedthemselvesforafewdays.SayleswantedtogojoinhiswifeandchildreninTexasbeforeheavywinterwasfulluponus.“YoucanstayherewithOrtaslongasyoulike,”Saylessaidtome.“Himand
WilmahavetakenashinetoSueLeeandthetinycritter.”
“Mylegisfairlyuselessfornow,”Isaid.“Idon’tknowwhattodo.”“Aw,” Cave said, “get yourself well, then join us in Texas. There’ll be
interestingthingstodoinTexas.”“Lahkwha?”Turner asked. Itwasoneofhis rarecomments.He seemed to
hatespeakinginhisblubberymanneraroundwomen.“Well,now,”Cavesaid.“There isMexiconearbyTexas.Lotsof landdown
thereandnoonetoclaimit.”“There’sMexicansdownthere,”Isaid.“Quiteafewofthem,too,fromwhatI
hear.”“Oh,allright.CertainlythereareMexicansdownthere,Dutchy.Butdamned
fewwhitemen.”“Thatsoundlikeanotherfight,”Holtsaid.“Probably,”Caveresponded.“Probablytherewouldbeafight.Butit’dbea
fightforanewstart.That’sadifferentthing.”“WillyougotoMex?”IaskedSayles.“Idon’tplanonit,”hesaid.“IonlywanttoseemywifeandkidsinTexas.”TurnerRawlscackledandsnortedrudely.“Oh,hellwiddis.AhjineBockYawn.”Hestaredatme,therudelookstillon
hisface.“Oomahfwen,Yake.AhhepoobudnowAhjineBockYawn.”Ilookedathisbadlyangledjaw,andponderedhishaphazardspeech.Wehad
beentogetherinseveralhotspots,butthestringwasplayedout.“Areyousureyouwanttodothat?”Iasked.Henodded.“Dismahwarheah.”IthinkhiscommentsouredCaveandSayles.Ireckonitmadeusallfeelabit
likeskulkers.Iknowthis:theconversationdwindledandweallleanedbackinthe shadowsof the room, lost in individual thoughtsof the future, and Idon’tguessthewholegangofusshowedupinanyofthem.
On themorning after, the boys took off by different routes, Cave and SaylesheadingsouthtonewthingsandTurnertrottingnorthformoreoftheold.ItmademeandHoltsad,butSueLeeandGracesettlednexttous,andtheir
merepresenceliftedthegloom.“Ihaveathingortwotosaytoyou,Jake,”SueLeesaid.There was a cock crowing nearby, and a bright day of light was coming
around.Wilma was rustling up some oatmeal and Orton was out tending thehorses.Ihadaverycontentedfeelingeverywherebutinmycalf.“Well,speakup,”Isaid.
“IthinkIwantawalk,”Holtsaid.Heraisedhimselfandwalkedweaklytothedoor.Banged-upribsareslowtomend.“Thisain’tmybusiness.”“Jake,”SueLeesaidwhenwewerealone.“What’sthistrashIhearaboutyou
beingmyfiancé?”She had thatmess of hair of hers hangingwild over her face, but it had a
roughcharmtoit.Herskinwasclearandpinkandhealthy.IguessIdidlikeherprettywelldespitesomethings.“Oh.Soyouhaveheardthat.Well,itwassprungonmebySayles.”Itrieda
bashful smileonher. “See, theyall thoughtyouwascarryingmykid ’cause Ibrungyouintocampafter,youknow,JackBull.”“Ah,”shesaid,andrearedherheadwaybacksoshecouldstudymeandher
noseinoneglance.“DoyoufigureIoughttobemarried?”“Yes,ifyouwanttokeepfingersfromwagginginyourface.”“Oh,thatdoesn’tbotherme.”“Well, it’s also another thing, Sue Lee. They got a name for kids without
daddies,youknow.It’snotagoodone.”“Iknowthat.So,doyouwanttomarryme,Jake?”“Naw.Nottoobad.”“Good.That’sgoodnews.Iwouldn’tmarryyouforawagonloadofgold.”“I’llbetyouwouldn’t.”“Iwouldn’t.”“I’lljustbetyouwouldn’t.”Gracewasonthefloorbetweenus,flingingherhandsandfeetaroundlikea
back-rolledturtle.“Iwouldn’tmarryyouevenifyouweren’taruntyDutchmanwithanubbin
forafinger.”“Fine,”Isaidhotly.“That’sdamnedfine.Iwouldn’twantawifewhodidn’t
havewhole teeth.Anyhow,beingyourman isbad luck. Idon’tneed tomarryanyofthat.”That commentwobbled her fine face. Her handswent clawing through her
hair.“Well,it’strue,”shesaid.“Iguessit’strue.That’swhyIwon’thookupwith
anymorefighters.Ijustwon’tdoit.”IknewIwassomewhatmeanaswellasaliar.Thatisthewayofthecautious
heart.“You’renotbadluck,”Isaid.“Youhavehadbadluck,that’sall.”WhenIspeakniceIsupposeitdon’tsoundquiteauthentic.Shefaceddown,
hereyesonthefloppingbaby,andshookherhead.“I’dneedconvincingthatyoumeanthat,”shesaid.“ThenI’dneedconvincing
thatyouwereright.”
Iwentonthemendinthefollowingweeks.Thewoundnolongerhurttoomuch,butthelegwobbledwhenIputweightonit.Thedays atOrtonBrown’shad a routine to them.Orton,who I hadgrown
fondof,roseeachmorningintimetomockthecockcrow.Hesloppedhishogsand tended the horses, and by the time that was doneWilma had a breakfastready.Aftereating,IwouldlanguishatthesunniestwindowandHoltwouldgofora
longwalk,nomattertheweather.GenerallyIwouldbestuckwithGracewhileSue Lee pitched in with Wilma at whatever chores the day required. I triedcorralingthebabeonmysunnybitoffloor,butshedidbabythings.Thefloorwas dirty and splintery and new to her, so she licked at it. She tried crawlingaway at my every unaware moment and drove me cranky and practical rightquick.Itookalashofropeandtiedoneendtomyankleandnoosedtheotheronher leg and gained a moment of peace for myself. The kid, anchored or no,pitchedoutbawlingsoundsworsethanagut-shotYankonarealhotday.Ineverdidanythingtoprovokethesebellows,butonceSueLeewalkedbyinthemidstofoneandsaid,“Sweetthingwantssomesuck,butMommaisbusy.”I understand what that meant well enough, but I knew that I could not
duplicatethefeat.Amanjustain’tamotherandthat’sallthereistoit.Butthenexttimeshewentintoaninfantrant,Ihadthatinmind.Itriedmanlyanglesofdiversion on the child. I crooned raspy lullabies andmade carnival faces andattempted various unlearned tricks. None of it worked. The tiny face stayedsouredupandthebawlingbecamedesperate.I pickedGraceup after all her squally prompting.To caress or strangle her
was the question inmymind. I swung her about, swaying onmy gimpy leg,hopingmovementandembracemightcalmher.Itdidn’t,soIranmyfreehandoverhercheeks topinch themandmynubbinpassed those infant lipsandsheclampedrightonto it.Shewentsilenton the instantandgummedawayat thatnubbin.Mystumpwasexactlyacceptabletoacantankerousbabeaftersuck.Istaggeredononewoundandsoothedwithanother.ItwasthesuddensilenceIreckonthatbrungSueLeeintotheroom,hereyes
allsuspicious.Shewatchedmysoothingexerciseforamoment,nottoothrilledwithit,andsaid,“IsupposeI’llfeedher.”“Hell,no,youwon’t,”Isaid.“I’vejustnowgotthisthingundercontrol.”“Sheneedstobesuckled,Jake.”Igimpedbacktowardthefrontroomwitholdspoilsportgivingchase.Iturned
away fromher, andas she turnedaftermemy leggaveoutand Iabout fell. Iwouldn’twanttohurtthebabeforanything,soIhadtogiveheruptoMomma.“Herenow,”SueLeesaid.ShesatinachairbythewindowandcradledGrace
toherchest.Iwasstandingrightthere,butsheunbuttonedherblouseandletabigpink-nippledbreastflopout.Seeingonegavemeagoodnotionofhowthepairwouldlook.Shejuststaredrightatme,asaucy,sassygleamtohereyes,asGraceslurpedaftersuck.I collapsed to the floor. This business had always been kept private before.
Thescenethisprocessmadesortofjoltedme.Ihadtowatchit.Thatwomanhadaholyexpressiononherfacethatmostanygodwouldcovet.I slid across the floor toget closer. I sat ather feet and intently studied the
effectofanippleonasucklingchild.SueLeestudiedmeaboutasintently,butshedidn’tturnawayandshedidn’tsayscat.My nature really rose seeing her thatway. Probably it shouldn’t have, but,
mister,itdid.
At night Holt and me stretched out on the floor. I could tell by the way hebreathed that hewas awake. It hadgotten towhere sleepdidn’t lead to rest. Isupposethataftersomeweeksofsafety,griefandshuddershadcaughtuptous.When I reckoned myself to be in slumber, a number of rude deeds were
embellished in dreams. I had a glimpse of the black tongues on the hanged.Wholesequencesofpistolsandbloodiedheadsplayedout.JackBullChilestriedtopeelanapplewithonlyonearmandadrippingstump.Thisonethinghitmeoverandover:asmartsproutofaDutchboybeingback-shot.Andononenightoffeveredfictions,PittMackesonslinkeduptofinishthejobonme.Thisstartledmeawake.Isatup.“Can’tsleep?”Holtasked.“Naw.Thesequiltsaretooheavy.Theymakemesweat.”“Mine,too.”Therewerealsothelivenightmarestooccupymythoughts.Ortonhadgotten
inthehabitofrelayingrumorsabouttheboysandBlackJohn.Hesaidtheywerebeinghurtby theFederalsbut stilldidsomefighting,a lotof robbingand toomuchscalping.Hehadclaimed thatBlackJohnwasdead,but Ididn’t think itwasso.IcouldwellbelievethattheCausehadbeensetlooseinthelustforloot.Anyonecouldhaveseenitcoming.IwonderedifallthewarIhadsloppedthroughhadgonefornaught,soIsaid
toHolt,“Holt,wasallthatfightingfornaught?”IlitacandlewhileIwaitedonhisanswer.
“Howwould I know?” he said. The little flame flickered and did shadowythingsonourfaces.“WhatitisIdoknowisallthemdeadniggersinLawrence.Ican’ttossthemdeadniggersoutofmymind.”“ItwasalotofdeadtypesinLawrence,”Isaid.“Theydidn’tspareasinglenigger.”“Theydidn’twanttospareanybody,Holt.”“Jake,what I thinkof theboys is this: niggers andDutchies is their special
targets.Whywaswewiththem?”“Why,tostoptheYankeeaggressors.”“Butwedidn’tstopthem.”“No.”“Andtheboysshotyouandtheboysshotme.”“Thatwaspersonal,”Isaid.“Personalain’twar.”Holt chewedon that for amoment.Hehad a proud lookonhis face, and I
knewhewaslostforwhattodonext.“Georgeisdead,JackBullisdead,RileyisdeadandPittMackesonisalive.
Now,wheredoesthatleaveyouandme,Jake?Wheredoesthatleaveme?”ThiswasoneofthosetimesIwassupposedtohaveananswer.Buttherewas
norevelationsonmysideofthecandleneither,soIsaid,“Righthere,Holt.”Hedidastretched-liplookofdisgust.IguessIwasadisappointment.“Iknewwewerehere,”hesaid.“Andthisain’tnowhereforme.”
LateronHoltsnoredandIdidn’t.Itookacandleandslidoverthefloortomysatchel.IhadanerrandtodoandIneededmywritingimplementstobringitoff.ForanaddressIputdown“TheBullFamilyofFrankfort,Kentucky.”DearMotherandMissusChiles,Iwrote.Ihopethisletterfindsyou.Iamonly
guessing as to where you are. Missus Chiles, will you please read this toMother?Thereissadnews.JackBullisdead,slainbytheinvaders,aswashisfather
beforehim.ThethingtosayishediedforhisnationIguess.Actuallyadoctormighthave stavedoff infection,but therewasnoneand this laidhim low.Hemadeasdignifiedapassingaswaspossibleandthereisnoreasontobeanythingbutproudofhim.Ilovedhimasabrotherandyouknowit.Mother,Father’sdeathtormentsmeso.IknowIgavehimlittlebutargument.
HisfascinationwithGeneralSigelandallthingsFederalnevertookholdinme.Igavehimgrief for that. I stillbelievehe iswrong;wedon’thave to tolerateinvaders just because they have uniforms and high-sounding titles. That is anOldWorldtraitandIwon’thaveit.ButIneverwantedFatherhurtoverme.We
allwalkedinthedark.IfeelIkilledhimintoomanyways.Iwon’tbabbleoffthewholelonglistofmyregrets.Ihopetosomedayseeyoubothagain.Itwouldbebestinapeacefulspot,but
itwouldbegoodanywhere.Idon’tthinkitwillhappensoon.There isonemore thing, and I say it only in confidence, and solely togive
hope.JackBullfatheredagirlchildlastwinterandsheisacloseimageofhim.Iwilltrytocareforthebabeasmuchasfortuneallows,forJackBullwouldwishitofme.Ihavetoomuchmoretosaytosayanything.I am wounded somewhat and where I am headed is unknown. It probably
won’tbewhereyouare.Withallmyregards,Jacob.
19
WHEN THE SUN slipped up I was waiting on it. Orton came from his bedroom,rubbingtheyellowcrudfromthecornersofhiseyes.Hecarriedhisbootsandsatnexttometoputthemon.“Howyoufeeling,Dutchy?”“Notsobad.”“Youlooklikeyoufeelgood.Doyoufeelgood?”“Idon’tfeeltoobad.”“Ah,”hewent,thenpulledonhisboots.“Youseemabouthealeduptome.”“Itstillhurtssome,mylegdoes.”“Butit’sabouthealed,ain’tit?”“Isupposeso,”Isaid.“Whyareyousocurious,Ort?”Hecockedhisheadandshrugged.“Justenjoyittoseeamangetwell,Dutchy.That’sall.”Iwatchedhimgotothekitchen,andhecamebackquick,gnawingonapiece
ofcornbread.“IgottogotoHartwelltoday,”hesaid.“Ishouldbebackbynight.”“Youwantmetocomealong?”Iasked.“Naw. You go on and finish healing. I’ll take the nigger withme, though.
He’sahandygunman,Iheartell.”“That’strue,”Isaid.“Postthisletterforme,wouldyou?”He nodded and took the notewhen I handed it to him.He put it inside his
shirt.I shovedHoltawake.Hiseyeswereallbloodyandhedidn’t seem toowell
rested.“Mr.BrownwantsyoutoridewithhimtoHartwell,Holt.”“What?Allright,”hesaid.Inaboutaminutehewasreadytogo.OrtongrabbedhisshotgunandheandHoltwenttosaddleup.Iwobbledout
towatch themleave. Itwasacoldmorning,and therehadbeenasmearingofsnowinthenight.Mylungswelcomedtheclean,chilledair.ThemenrodefromthebarnpasttheporchwhereIstood.“Yougetoninand
rest,now,”Ortonsaid.“Iwantyourested,Dutchy.”“IguessI’lldothat,”Isaid,butIstayedrightthereandwatchedthemamble
offoverthethinsnowandhardearth,outofsight.
During the day I didmy normal thing. That is, I cornered gurglyGrace on ablanketonthefloorandjustreveledinthatchild.MyconfusionamongstbabeshadlessenedtremendouslywhenI’dlearnedthatmynubbincouldcalmthemattheirstormiest.SueLee seemedworried Imight spoilGrace.Shewasalways saying, “It is
time for her nap” or “Don’t fling her in the air thataway, Jake!”Mothers areendlesswiththosecomments.AfterthenoonmealSueLeesuckledGrace.Thiswasmyfavoritepartofthe
day.Iwatched,anditcouldbeIover-watched,forMommy’scheeksreddened.“Areyoualwaysgoingtostarelikethat?”sheaskedme.“LongasIcan.”“Well,you’reprettynearwell,soitwon’tbemuchlonger.”Sheturnedaway
frommeslightly.“IreckonyouandHolt’llbeofftogetshotbysomedifferentfellowshereprettysoon.”Thatwasapredictionthatcouldcometrue.Bodilycalamitiesjustseemedto
beinthecards.ButI thoughtIwasaboutdonewithbushwhackinggangs,andtheregularConfederateshadtoomanyrules.Noneofthatinterestedme.IwasstillloyaltotheCausebutleeryofthepeople.“MaybeIwon’t,”Isaid.“Whatwillyoudo,then?”“Oh, nowmaybe I’ll trek on over to California and catchme a sailboat to
somewheresunnyandfulloflambs.”“Isthatright,”shesaidandlaughed.“Whatgrandspothaveyougotinmind,
Jake?”Thebabygummedawayatthenourishingbreast,andIstretchedmylegsout
straightandleanedbackonmyhands.“InSpartatheyhaveolives,”Isaid.“Igotthatoutofabook.Icouldeatme
someolives,Ithink.”“Olives?Whatareoliveslike?”“Well, Idon’tknowfirsthand. Ineverhadoneyet.But I’veeatabushelof
walnuts,andnothingcanbemoretroubletoeatthanthem.”AlookofdeepthoughtcameoverSueLee’sface.SheswitchedGracetothe
sparenipple,herfingersmovingfast,thensighedasthebabewenttowork.“Iwonderaboutme,”shesaid.“Iain’tgoingsailingnowhereandIknowit.I
wonderaboutmeandGrace.”“Oh,you’llgetby,”Isaid.ThatwasallthehonestyIcouldsummon.Ihateit
whentheyputyouonthespot.Idon’tlikelying,butIhateitworsewhenIdon’ttellthetruth.“Youknow,thatgirlneedsheradaddy.”“Shehadadaddy,Jake,andyouain’tit.”
That commentwas uncalled for. I pushedmyself tomy feet and pointed afingerinherface.“Youknow,girl,”Isaidallhotandbreathy.“You’regoingtohavetogetyour
water from thenearestwell,or else learn to love lugging thatheavybucket ofyours.”AndwiththatIwentoutsideandstoodbeneathaskyofgray,tremblinginmy
efforttoreinmyselfinfrombecomingamushmouth.Thatgirlwasstartingtobringitoutinme.
LateintheafternoonInotedtwothings:WilmadustedoffthefamilyBibleandputitonthetable;thenshebakedbreadandtommyhawkedachickenthoughitwasn’tSunday.“What’swiththespecialfavors,Wilma?”Iasked.Now, this was an older lady and she gave me an older-lady look of
shrewdness.“Why,nothing,”shesaid.“Ortonwillbemightyhungryfromtheride,don’t
youthink?Iintendtofeedhimwell.”Uh-huh,Ithought.InanhourorsoOrtonandHoltrodeupwithafat,pale,dark-dressedstranger.
Iwatchedthemfromthewindow,andwhentheycameinthestrangerlookedatmeandsaid,“Isthistheman?”“That’shim,”Ortonsaid.“DutchyRoedel.”Holtstoodinthedoorway,tryingtochokedownsomesniggers.“Whatisthis?”Iasked.“This is ReverendHoraceWright,”Orton said.He held his shotgun by the
barrelwiththebuttonthefloor.“You’regettingmarriedtoday,Dutchy.You’regettingmarriedoryou’regettingout.”“I’mwhat?”“Youheardme.You’reallhealed.Iwantedtobesureyouwouldn’tdieslow
beforeIdidthis.Ican’thaveitinmyhousethewayitis.”WilmabustledSueLeeintotheroom.Iguessshewasaboutasrattledbythis
asme,butshesuredidn’tlookit.“Holt,saddlemyhorse,”Isaid.Iwasallpuffedwithmyself,liketherooster
inaone-roostercounty.“We’regettingoutofhere.”“No,no,”hesaid.Heshookhisheadseveraltimes,andIwantedtopophim
inthemiddleofhisgrin.“Youshoulddoright,Jake.”“Whatonearthdoesthatmean?”Iscreamed.Thereverendchewedhislipsandlookedonmewithouttoomuchpity.Orton
matched him and the placewent silent. Sue Lee pokedme in the ribswith afingerandnoddedtowardtheporch.“Let’stalk,”shesaid.“IdobelievethatisaroastingchickenIsmell,”thereverendsaid.Meand thewidowmarchedoutside. Idid stuttery stepsandbashful coughs
while thisgirl,whohadbeenherebefore, staredatmesternly.Hell, I’dneverevenwhisperedsweetfolderoltoamaidenI’dliked,letalonegotlegallytrussedupwithawidow.“Areyougoingtoornot?”sheasked.“Beforthright.”“It’sbeingshoveddownmythroat,”Isaid.“Ifathinghasgottobeshoved,I
liketodotheshoving.”Shesmirkedatme,andforaninstantthereIhadagoodideaofhowshecame
bythatbustedtooth.“Well,getoninthereandshove,then,Jake.”Isatonthelipoftheporchandrestedmyleg.Itwasmorethanchillyandthe
sunwassinking.“I thoughtyousaidyouwouldn’twantmeforawagonloadofgold’causeI
amanubbin-fingeredruntofaDutchman.Irememberyousayingthat.”“Well,”shesaid,brightly,“IguessIlied.”“Areyoulyingagainnow?”“No.Iwouldn’tlietoyou,Jake.”“Youjusttoldmeyouliedtomebefore.”“That’sdifferent,”shesaid.“Thatwasromance.”“Andnowiswhat?”She touchedmy forehead and curled an arm aroundmy neck. “Now is the
truth.”She theneasedmy face toher feeders,and twirleda finger inmyhair.“Thisherenowisthetruth.”Thetruthmademyfaceflush.Iwasgladitwashiddenfromher.“JackBullwouldwant that girl to have a daddy,” I said. “Hewas likemy
brother.IguessI’lldoit.”
ReverendWrightwashungry,andfromthepudgylookofhimhewasn’tonetoputupwiththat.Hedidalickety-splitceremonyandsniffedthechicken-soakedairlikesomeridiculoushound.Bachelorhood vanished in a blink, andHolt slammedmy back, andWilma
beamed.Therewasaloadofrighteoushappystuffdone.IstooduptoitandSueLeestooduptoitand,hell,itdidn’thurtornothing.IthoughttoaskOrtonwhatsectthisreverendheaded.
“Oh,heisMethodist,buthemarriesallbreeds.”Thereverendwasoveratthetable,hishaunchesjiggling,rippingoffchunks
ofbreadandmashinghismouth.“Ireckonthatmanwouldmarrystonestostonesiftherewasachickenatthe
endofit,”Isaid.“That’s neither here nor somewhere else,” Orton said. “He donemade you
legal.”Prettysoonweallsatdownandtoreupthebirdandbread,andOrtonhauled
out a jug in honor of the occasion. ReverendWright said hewas opposed todrinkingbutforustopleasegoon.Iguessgluttonyisnotsobadsolongasyoudon’tdoubleuponyourvicesbywashingitdownwithsomethingtasty.Therestofusmumbledafewtoasts,andSueLeegothershare.Thegirlliked
herdrinkfairlywellforagirl.Itchargedherfacewithrosyattitudes.Ilikedthat.Afterallthesegesturesthingsslidbackintothenormalway.OrtonandWilma
retiredearly,thenSueLeeandGracedidthesame.ThereverendsackedoutonthefloorwhereHoltandmehadbeensleeping.Themanhadseveralpistolsonhim,ashewasawarethattheLordworksinmysteriouswaysandsomeofthemrequiretheblastingofothers.“Youafamilymannow,”Holtsaidtome.“Howdoyoufeel?”“Ifeelthesame,Holt.”Isatbesidehimonthefloor,backtothewall.“Hell,
it’sonlywords.”“No.It’saoath,Jake.That’swordsthatyougottobackup.”“Oh,Iknowthat,”Isaid.Holtpulledhisblanketoverhimselfandstartedto
curlup.“Ireckonwe’llbehaulingherandthekidwithusnow.”“Whereto?”“Idon’tknow.Outofhere.MaybeUtahTerritory.”Holtlaytherewatchingme,apuzzledlookonhisface.Ipulledmybootsoff
andspreadmybedrollandlaydown,thenHoltsatup.“Whatyoudoing?”heaskedme.“Iamgoingtosleep.Yougoneblind?Iamfixingtogetmesomesleep.”Hislowerjawdropped,andheshookhisheadsohardhischeeksflapped.“Jake,doIgottotellyouthis?”“Tellmewhat?”“Yous’posed sleepwith thewife, Jake.Forpitysake,yougot toknowthat
much.Yous’posedtoshareherbed,thatwaysomeothermaneverdothatyoushoothim,’causethatbeyourplacebyoath.”“Iknowallthat,”Isaid.“YoubetIknowthat.Buthell,thisain’tsomeregular
marriagesituation.”
“Don’tyoulikeher?”Holtpulledtheblanketupoverhiskneesasifsettlinginforalongspellofchat.“Youain’tgonnalietomethatyoudon’t.”“Ilikeher,”Isaid,andfeltdazedbytheadmission.“She’sprettyenoughand
allthat,butthisthingmarriagehassweptovermesosudden.”“Well,Jake,”Holtsaidinhissombertone,“itisoveryou.Imean,youdone
didthemilkin’,mightaswelllapthecream.”Igazedabouttheroomandwatchedtheswellingandsinkingofthepreacher’s
formas he sawed away, andmoonlight leaked in thewindowwith the hueofsomeweakgold.HoltwasalleyeswatchingmeandIwasmostlynervesmyself.Igrabbedmybootsandslinkedaway.SueLeehadaroomoffthekitchen,and
Icrepttothedoor.Myheartwaskickingupitsheelsandslamminghelloutofmyribs.Icreakedthedooropenslow,andthereshewas,stretchedoutwithhereyes
closedandacandleburningnearby.AsIsteppedintotheroomsheopenedhereyesandsaid,“Jake.”Grace was asleep in a tiny rocking contraption Orton had built. She was
drawingpure,sleepybreaths.Idroppedmybootsandtossedmyhatontopofthem.Iputmypistolsdown.The candle burned on a side table, and she sat up in bed, wearing some
garmentthatlefthershouldersbare.Therewasavastnessofskinshowing.ForasecondIfumbledwiththebuttononmybritches,thenthoughtbetterof
itandstartedintobed.“Hey,”shesaidwitha longsoftdrawl,“takeyourclothesoff.”Therewasa
glow toher and some smiley expectationsplayedoutonher face. “Youdon’tcometobedindirtyduds,Jake.Now,that’sarule.”Well,Ijuststoodthere,whichisoneofmyfavoriteposes,aswheneverIhear
thementionofarulemyfirsturgeistofinditandgiveitashake.Thistraithadnevermademylifeeasier,anditdidn’tdoitnow.“Justhowmanyrulesisityou’vegotlinedupforme,girl?”“Oh,don’tgetmad.”Sheswungoutofbedandbarefootedovertome,and,
damn, therewasn’t a gnat’swidth of cotton between her and nakedness. “I’llhelp you.” She jerkedmy shirt overmy head, then reached tomy button andundidit.Mybritchesdropped.Thatleftmebare-assedinfrontofthiscreature,andthiswasanewfeaturetomylife.Itbroughtsometingleswithit.“There,”shesaid.Shestoodrightbeforeme,handsonherhips,mockingmy
Christian rearing, her lips splayed in a bold smile, then whisked that veil ofcottonfromherform.“Oh!”Iwent.Shesaton thebednext tomeanddida spittykissonmyear.Therewasa
thicketofhaironhersouthforty,andI’lltellyouI’dneverplowedthroughanyofthatsoIedgedmyhanddownthereandfeltofit.“Huh,” she said, her breathwhistling onmy neck asmy hands did clumsy
things.“Areyouvirgin?”“I’vesinnedplenty,”Itoldher.“Buthaveyoueverbeddedawomanbefore?”“Girl,I’vekilledfifteenmen.”Idroppedmygoodhandbetweenherlegs,thenslitheredthosefingersabout.
Shewent“Mmmm,”soIpokedherwithafingerinthatplacewhereawomancanbeststandit.Ikeptthepokesteadyintherebutremainedseated.“Youain’ttooshy,areyou?”sheaskedme.“Iwanttogoaboutitright.”“Well,rightorwrong,honey,goonandgoaboutit.”Ididnotcareforhertone,butmysavoriesbegantoswell.Istartedtoswirl
withmyfingerasthoughitwereasaplingtwiginacreekeddy.Shelikedthis.Thingsgotwet,andmynaturesprangstraightup,andthiswidow,mywife,
easedmeontomybackandshuffledontopofmeandwekissedthelongestoneI’devergonethrough.Andonethingledtoanother.
20
THE NEXT TWOweekswispedalong,withmeshamblingthroughtheminafog.SueLeegavemenightly lessons in gaiety. I found I took to this formof learningfairlywell.After those two weeks of rigorous instruction, I got antsy to travel. It was
funnyhowquicklyIfelthealed.Iwasrowdywithhealth.OnemorningIjustcameoutwithitandsaid,“It’stimetogotoTexas.The
roadsareclear.”“There’salotofbadsortsbetweenhereandTexas,”Ortonsaid.“Ifyouain’t
shotforathief,you’llbeshotbyathief.”“Maybenot,”Holtsaidsomewhatominously.Iknewhewasreadytogo,and
hadbeenforawhile.Thewife I had gotme didn’t say anything, but I knew it wasn’t a strange
notiontoher.IhadbabbledaboutTexasinsoft,nakedmoments,andsaidhowIwantedaplaceforherandthegirl.ImadeitclearthatIwasdonewithfighting,atleastIwasdonewiththisfight’tilitspreadtoTexas.“Tomorrow,”shesaid.“Tomorrowwouldbeagooddaytogo.”Thatsettledit.Severalthingshadtobedone,though,andoneofthemwasfor
me to give up my rebel locks. With bushwhacker curls hanging past myshoulders,itwouldbehardformetolieaboutsomethingsiftroublerolleduponus.Allthathairwaspartofadreadcostume,andIhadtogetshornofit.Orton did the shearing and displayed some gusto about the enterprise. He
snippedmylockssonearmyearsI thoughtheleftmelookingmoonfacedandchildlike.“Dutchy,”hesaid,“youlooktwenty-oneagain.”“I’mjustnownineteen,Ort.”“Oh.Isthatright?Well,you’llneverlookthatyoung.”Allaroundmybootstherewerelongstrandsofpalehair,theornamentationof
myrebellion,andseeingthemonthefloormademewistful.“Wesaidwe’dnevercutourhair’tilwewerefinishedwiththewar.”“Andyoudidn’t,Dutchy.Youdidn’t.”
WepassedonemorenightwiththeBrownsofHenryCounty,Missouri.AtdawnWilmagaveusastartersackofprovisions.ShedotedonGraceandsaidseveral
timesshewouldprayforusall.Ortonshookmyhandabouteverysixthminuteandtoldmetobecareful,likethiswasmyfirsttripfromhome.I did not relish the prospect of saying good-bye. The actual moment of
farewell was a damp one.Wilma trickled and Sue Lee bawled.Mywife hadgrownsoclosetothisthinned-outoldpair.Thewholethingmadehersad.Itcouldn’tbehelped.“Solong,”Isaid,andwewent.Ourjourneywastobealongone,andthisregionwaswrithingwithrobbers
andrebelsandscavengersandYanks.Itwashardcircumstancesunderwhichtoembarkonamarriage.Holt andme revertedquick toourold,wary style, andSueLeelopedalongonJackBull’shorse,Gracestrappedtoherback.KnowingwewereleavingMissouriandmyhard-fought-forhomeshuddered
mewithemotions.EverythingIhadeverknownhadbeenlearnedhere.IknewIwasnotaquitter,butIwasquittingthisplace.Iguessthat’sputtingtoofineapointonthings.Ididnotlikebeingrunfrommyhome,butnowIwonderedifiteverhadbeenthat.Boysdothequickest thingthatcomestomind,andformethathadbeentosidewithJackBullandrebellion,evenagainstmyownfatherandhisilk.Fromloyaltytoaman,Iwouldhavemurderedapeople.Allthisbroughtbackanoldtasteforpietyinme.As we traveled south, we avoided everybody we could. All the elusive
bushwhackerskillsHoltandmeknewwereemployedtododgeGraypatrolsandBluepatrolsandclumpsofbarefootrefugees.Ihadafamilytoconvoyandtheydidn’tneedtolearnhowtroublefeelscloseupandsudden.SouthofElDoradoSpringsHoltengagedmeintalk.“Jake,Idoalotforyou,youknowthat?”“YouknowIdo.It’sequal.”“Oh,don’tsayit,Jake.Igottosayathing.”Hisfacewascomposedandfirm
withdecision.Isawhiminthisgoodpostureandthought,Mister,wehavedonesomethingstogether,thismanandme.“Jake,I’lltravelwithyouandyours’tilwe past them Pin Indians and riffraff in the Nation, then I got to go offsomewhere.”“Where?Wherewillyougo?”“Iain’tdecidedthattoadefiniteaim.ButI’mgoing.”“Why?”Holtswiveledhisstaretomywifeandthechild,thenlookedatmelikeIwas
oncemoreafool,andsaid,“Now,comeon!Whatyoumean,why?”Oh,Iwaswearyofvanishingcomrades,butIunderstoodit.“Goodluck,Holt.Iwishyouwellandmore.”“Itain’tyet,”hesaid.“Iain’tleavingyou’tilyourlittleDutchasspastthem
PinIndians.Itoldyouthat,didn’tI?”
Sue Lee was an uncomplaining traveler. She shouldered every hardship andaskednospecial favors.NearNewportweawokeat sunriseandbuilt a fire toboilchicory.Ilethertakechargeofthetask,andbeforelongthepotgaveoutagoodsmell.Naturally I had heard that my old comrades were stamping through this
neighborhood,butwhenIheardarattleandturnedtoseeArchClaypointingapistolatme,itwasstillashockingreunion.“Why,Dutchy,”hesaid.Heholsteredhispistolandsteppedcloser.“Ididn’t
expecttoseeyounomore.”MeandHoltlookedtightateachother.Ithinkitoccurredtobothofusthat
killingArchrightoffmightbethewisestcourse.Butwehesitated.“Chicoryisboiling,Arch,”Isaid.“Havesome.”“IthinkIwill,”hesaid.HedraggedhishorseinandIsawevidenceofnew
habits,fortherewerethreescalpsdanglingfromthebridlereins.“IthinkI’dlikesomechicory,Dutchy.Howyou,Holt?”“Fairlywell,”Holtsaid.“Areyoualone,Arch?”Iasked.“Naw,” he said. This man had never looked angelic, but now he appeared
totallywonovertothedevil’sside.“Twooftheboysarebackaways.Webeenontherunsortofconstant.”“HowisBlackJohn?”Archshrugged.“That’sabigquestion,Dutchy, ’cause theman isdead.BlackJohn isdead.
Whoain’t?TheygothimatDoverandstuckhisheadonapoleandparadeditdown thestreets.Theyputapictureof it in theirpaper.”He lookedme in theeye.“It’sbeenroughtimesforuswhostuckitout.”“Aw,thewarislost,”Isaid.“Noshit,Dutchy.Whodoesthisgalandkidbelongto?”“That’smywife.”“Huh.Ifthatdon’tbeatall.YougotawifeandIdon‘t.”A thin trail of mud ran a few feet east of us. I hoped there would be no
trouble,andtendedtothechicoryasIwaited.“Whereyouheaded?”Iasked.“Newport.”“Hell,man,themilitiaisinNewport.Youcan’tgointhere.”“Wrong,”Arch said. “I am goin’ in there.” He seemedway gone in spirit,
forlorn and fearless. “I’m for certain sure goin’ in there. Iwant a drink.TheyhavedrinksinNewport.Whiskey.Lager.Iwantsomeofboth.”“Arch,they’llkillyou.There’sacouplehundredofthem.Youneedtoclear
outofthiscountry.”“Idon’tthinkso,Dutchy.Idon’treckonI’llclearoutofwhereIwasborn.I
believeIjustwon’tdoit.Thatthereismyhometown.Iwasraisedinthere,andIreckon I’ll go on in and have me a drink there, too. Maybe more than one.Maybeathousand.”“They’llkillyousure.”“Oh,oh,”hesaidandhis lips turnedupsickly.“Whatahorrible fate.Haw,
haw,haw.Yes,ahorriblefate.”Hiswholeattitudemademenervous.SueLeegavemeseveralshakyglances,
andHoltlookeddownthetrail.“Riders,”Holtsaid.“That’llbetheboys,”Archsaid.“Weallthreedecidedtodaywasthesortof
daywhenwejusthadtohaveadrinkinNewport.”Holt andme stood, and I stepped into the timber to seewhich boys itwas.
WhenIsawthemclear,Idrewapistol.OnewasgoodoldTurnerRawls,buttheotherwasPittMackeson.Bothoftheirbridlesflewscalps.“It’sMackeson,”IsaidtoHolt.HoltunlimberedhisarmsandArchcontinuedtojustsitthere,blowingonhis
chicory.“Mackeson!”Ishouted.Isteppedtowherehecouldseeme,andwhenhedid
hedrew.Ishotfirstandnotwell.Hespurredhishorseintothetimberontheotherside
ofthetrail,andIsnuggledbehindastoutlogonmyside.IkeptlookingforArchtocomeupbehindme,buthenevermoved.Mackeson shot intomy general neighborhood and I paid him back in kind.
Turnerseemedtotakenonoticeofthegunfireandrodeonuptome.“Yake,”hesaid.“Get out of the way, Turner.” I prayed that this mangle-mouthed comrade
wouldn’tmakemekillhim.Myentirelife,suchasithadbeen,narroweddowntothisinstant.“Yake,hekilloo.”“Getoutoftheway,Turner!”OfftothesideofmyvisionIsawArchstand.Holtcoveredhimwithapistol.“Arch,don’tgetinit.”Arch shook his head, all stolid andmysterious, thenwalked right pastHolt
andontothetrail.Hemountedhishorse.“Comeon,Rawls,”hesaid.ThenhelookedtowhereIlurked.“Dutchy,we’re
goin’ontoNewport.Don’tbeafoolandkeepupatthisshootin’business.”Mywifehadbeenhurledintoamood.Shestaggeredabout,withGraceinher
hands,crying,andshoutingachorusofprematurebereavement,“Oh,no,oh,no,I’mbad,I’mbad,butnotthis,notthis!”“Go,then,”IsaidtoArch.“Get.”“Pitt!”heshouted.“Goondownthetrail!”“Hell,no!”cameback theanswer in thatvoiceofhideous tone.“I’mkillin’
thatDutchsonofabitch!”“Heyyou!”Ishoutedrightbackathim.“I’llkillyoufortalkingroughtome
infrontofmywife!”Theencounterwasastandoff.Icouldn’tgetathim,norheatme.“Look,Dutchy,”Archsaid,ashebittheendoffacigar.“Pittiscomin’with
us.Youlethimaloneorthere’llbebadthingshappen.”“Gethimandgo,”Isaid.ArchwentondownthetrailandcalledtoPitt,promisingIwouldn’tfire.After
aminute,damnedifMackesondidn’tcomecleanontothetrailaboutfiftyfeetaway.Hehadholsteredhispistolandwassnortinglikehe’dheardawhaleofajoke.Theseboysworedeath likeagarnish; ithadno terror for them,and thatscaredme.IwalkedoutbesideTurnerandwatchedMackesonclose,butIdidn’twantto
fight anymore. That is what it was, I just didn’t want to fight Americans orYanks or rebs or niggers or Dutchmen or nothing no more. Then that skunkhootedme,infullviewofmywoman.Mytriggerfingeritched,butIstilldidn’tshoothimandIknewIwasn’tthesamewayIusedtowas.ArchandPittlopedaway,nottoofast.“Seeoo,Yake,”Turnersaid.“Aw,no,Turner.Don’t.”Hewouldn’tlookatme.Icouldn’tgethimtodoit.Hismindwasset,andhe
shookhisheadandrodeslowlyaway.“Turner,Turner,”Isaid.Iwalkedfastbesidehim.“Damnit,man,comedown
ourwaywithus.”AlltheresponseIgotwashimslamminginthespursandgallopingoff.Iwent tomywifeand thebabyGrace,andpulled themclose tome. Icried
withrelief fromnothavingbeenpluckedfromthem.Ihad things to losenow,andthatmakesfearlessnessavice.“Oh,SueLee,”Isaid,andsqueezedandsqueezed.Holtpackedusupwhile I lingered in thehug,andwhenwewerecalmed it
was on down the trail for us, and quick. I didn’twant to hear the shots fromNewport.Allthatday,andformanydaystocome,wetrottedmuddymiles,througha
war-sadstateandabeautifulcountry.Iknewittomybonesthatmyworldhadshifted,asitalwaysshifts,andthatabetterorbithadtakenholdofme.Ihadussteeredtowardanewplacetolive,andwewentforit,thisbroodof
mine andmydark comrade,Holt.This new spot for lifemight be but a shortjourneyasawingedcreaturecovers it, that isoftensaid,but,oh,Lord,asyouknow,Ihadnotthewings,anditisahot,hardridebyroad.
ABOUTTHEAUTHOR
DANIELWOODRELLwasbornintheMissouriOzarks,leftschoolandenlistedinthemarinesatseventeen,receivedhisbachelor’sdegreeattwenty-seven,graduatedfromtheIowaWriters’Workshop,andspentayearonaMichenerFellowship.He is theauthorofnineworksof fiction,including thenovelWinter’sBone, thefilmadaptationofwhichwonthe Grand Jury Prize for best picture at the 2010 Sundance FilmFestivalandreceivedfiveAcademyAwardnominations.TheDeathofSweet Mister received the 2011 Clifton Fadiman Medal from theCenter for Fiction, an award created “to honor a book that deservesrenewed recognition and a wider readership.”Woe to Live On wasadaptedintotheAngLeefilmRidewiththeDevil.Hisfirstcollectionofstories,TheOutlawAlbum,waspublishedin2011.Woodrell livesintheOzarksneartheArkansaslinewithhiswife,KatieEstill.
ReadingGroupGuide
WOETOLIVEON
Anovelby
DanielWoodrell
ACONVERSATIONWITHTHEAUTHOROFWOETOLIVEON
DanielWoodrelltalkswithMattBakerofTheOxfordAmerican
SIXHOURSINTOmydriveIhittheMissouriOzarksandDoyleRedmond’s(narratorofWoodrell’snovelGiveUsaKiss)descriptionof the landscapeflaresup inmymind: “Our region, the Ozarks, was all carved by water. When the ice ageshifted,theworldwasnothingbutaflood.Therunoffthroughtheagessincehadslashed valleys and ravines and dark hollows through themountains….Thesemountains are among the oldest on the planet, worn down now to nubby,stubbornknobs.Ozarkmountainsseemtohunkerinsteadoftower,andtheyareplentyruggedbutwithoutmuchofthemajesticleftinthem.”Danielwarnedmethathishousewouldbedifficulttofind,butIbrushedoff
thiswarning,feelingconfidentthatmycar’snavigationsystemwoulddelivermetohisfrontdoor.Butaboutamilefromhishousemyfriendlynavigationvoiceinformedmethat“turn-by-turnnavigation”wasnolongerpossible.IcursedandimmediatelypulledoverbecauseIrealizedIhadnoideawhereIwasorwhereIwasgoing.IhadageneralmapoftheareabutIcouldn’tpinpointhowtogettohis house. I calledmywife back inChicago, and shepulledup amaponhercomputerandguidedme,viaphone,tohisdoor.He was outside, wavingme downwhen I pulled up the small hill. I don’t
knowifitwasbecauseI’darrivedtenminuteslaterthanIsaidIwouldorifheknewthatmydirectionalconfidencewouldbe tested,butheseemed to realizethatheneededtobeoutfront,thatIwouldprobablydrivebyadozentimesifhewasn’t. I was in the Ozarks, a little-known place that outsiders quicklystereotypeandconvenientlylobintothecomedicpunchlines,butaplace,afterall,thatonlynativescantrulynavigate.
This area (West Plains, Missouri) reminds me a little bit of Fayetteville,Arkansas.
Yes,especiallythispartoftownwhereIlive.WeusedtoliveinArkansas—inFayetteville,EurekaSprings,andinJonesboro,fortwosemesters.
When you lived in Fayetteville did you run around with the University ofArkansas faculty and writers and such—Donald “Skip” Hays, DonaldHarington,andothers?
Yes, and speaking of Donald Harington, sometimes you get reviewed bysomeonewhounderstandsyousowellthatitreallycreepsyouout.Hewasthefirstperson touse theword“expressionism” todescribewhat Iwasdoing.HewasinhishospitalbedwhenhewroteaboutWinter’sBone.Hiswifesentittome,acopyofhishandwrittenreview.Hewentoutofhiswayforsomeonehecould’ve regarded as a threat. Some people choose to see other writers fromsimilarpartsoftheworldasaproblemandsomeofthemdon’t.HewasabletosothoroughlygraspwhatIwasdoingandevenarticulate it tomealittlebit. Ihadn’tspokentoDonaldinatleastadecade.IknewSkip,andDaleRayPhillipswasaround.AndwhatIlikedaboutFayettevilleisyoucouldgodowntoRogersRec any afternoon and find at least one or two otherwriters hanging around,sometimesseven,eight,or tenofus.Skipwouldbe there sometimesandhe’dfillthetabletopwithemptybottles,Idorememberthat.
I’veheardthatearlyinyourcareer,agentsandpublishersweretryingtodirectyoutowardastrictgenrestyle.
Theyweretryingto.Myfirstagentreallyfeltthatwasthepathforme.Ifyou’rewriting,andnotexcitedbyitandgettingsomekindofinteriorpleasureoutofit—that’s difficult to explain to peoplewho haven’t experienced it—you reallyshouldn’tdoit.Intermsofamoneymakingprofession,youcanfindfasterwaysofmakingmoney.
ThenyougravitatedtowritingaboutthegreatandmysteriousOzarks.
Thisregionisjustnotreallywelldefinedinmostpeople’sminds.Peopledon’tunderstand that you can go out in thewoods and run into some stained-glassartistfromLongBeach.EurekaSpringshasgottwoorthreeclassicalartistswhohave chosen to live there for one reason or another. Imean, you don’t knowwhatyou’llrunintoouthere.
(KatieEstill,Daniel’swife,walksintotheroom,andDanielintroducesus.)
Youguyshavebeenmarriedhowlong?
KatieEstill:Awhile.
DanielWoodrell:We’vebeenmarried,uh….KE:[Leavingtheroom.]Tellhimindogyears.DW:It’llbeofficiallytwenty-sevenyearsinaboutaweek.Beentogetherthirty.Wemet pretty quickly at Iowa and followed each other. There seems to be asense that you shouldn’t hookupwith anotherwriter, but I think youhave tohavethattalkatthebeginningoftherelationship:Ifyouwin,it’savictoryforus;ifIwin,it’savictoryforus.
YoumentionedearlierthatyouthinkthattheOzarksaredifficulttodefine.Whydoyouthinkthatis?
OneofthebigproblemsforOzarkwritersisthestatelinethatseparatesitintoArkansasOzarksandMissouriOzarks.IfwewereallinonestateIactuallydothink that would make some difference. And there might be one college oranother—as in the case of the University of Mississippi, which is basicallydevoted to keeping Mississippi writers near the public and presented to thepublic,andtheirvirtuesareextolledbyvarioussymposiaandwhatnot.And,too,FaulknerbeingfromMississippi,havinganimpressivetownsquarethatstayedaliveandvibrant,andSquareBooksshowedup,andTheOxfordAmericanwasout of there a long time, andWillieMorris and all of these peoplewho havebeenthereonetimeoranother.
AndyouthinkofHaringtonasrepresentingtheArkansasversionoftheOzarks.
Imentionhimallofthetime.I’mjustastonishedhowfewpeopleknowwhoI’mtalkingabout.AndIdon’tknowwhythatis.He’sgotthework.
Youdroppedoutofhighschool,went into themarines,andthencamebacktoKansasCity.Thenwhat?
Yes,wentbacktoKCandwasonlythereacoupleofmonthsandwenttoFortHaysStateinHays,Kansas,ontheGIBill,in-statetuition—
MuchlikeDoyleRedmondinyourbookGiveUsaKiss.
Exactly. They had rodeos and all of that stuff. I’d never been in the cowboy
world.Big ranches, and reallybigwheatoperations, andbig cattleoperations,too.I’dneverreallylivedanyplacelikeit—thatflat—andIhateditatfirst,andthenaftersixmonthsIsaid,It’sgorgeousouthere.Itjusttookmesixmonthstorealize it. I liked it verymuch, actually. I thought thepeopleweregreat, verylibertarianabouteverything.Theydidn’tnecessarilyagreewithmyhippieways,but they really just observed how you composed yourself and judged you onthat.
In your novels I always sense a true respect for the readers, like you knowthey’rerightthere,lookingoveryourshoulder.
I’malwaysverywellawareofthefactthatI’mtellingastoryandI’mintendingtokeepyouwithme.ThefirsttimeIeverhadastoryupattheIowaworkshopthisgirlsays,“Don’tyouthinkit’ssortacheaptohaveanopeningsentencethatmakesthereaderwanttokeepreading?”ThatwasmyfirstclassatIowaandI’mthinking,Oh, shit,whathave Iwandered intohere? Ioften thinkaboutbards,andImentionbardsallofthetime,because,bygod,theyhadtotellastorythatkepteveryclassofpersoninterested.Thereareprobablyalotofdeadbards,too,whowandered,wentintolengthylabyrinthinedigressions.
Yeah,theydidn’tmakeit.
EvenFaulkner,athismostesoteric,isactuallypushingthenarrative.Heisnotlanguid. Sometimes he makes you confused, but he’s not just lolling around,sniffingthelotusblossoms.
Idon’tthinkyougetenoughcreditforyoursenseofhumor.AbooklikeGiveUsaKissmademe laughout loud.And evenTheDeathofSweetMister,a verydarkbook,isfilledwithwonderfulhumor.
I’m glad you say that because I thinkmost of them have some of it in there.Therearemanypeoplewhosaytheydon’tseeanyofthehumor.AndsomeoftheshortstoriesthatI’vedoneareverymacabreanddark.IrememberPinckneyBenedictsayingtome,afterreadingoneofmyshortstories,“Idon’tknowwhatyouthinkofthis,butIthoughtitwasreallyfunny.”Hellyes,itwasfunny.
I’m sure you get bombarded with questions about the Ozarks from peoplewho’ve never been to this part of the country. Do their questions ever comeacrossasbeingextremelynaiveorsilly?
TheyallwanttoknowiftheOzarksIwriteaboutinmynovelsiswhatit’sreallylike.Noonehaseversaidthatit’salllikethat.Imean,iseveryoneinNewYorka member of the gang inGoodFellas? I don’t think so. People just want tobelievethatyou’reshowingatotaldepiction,andalso,it’salmostliketheideaoffictionisgettingdevalued.Everyonewantstoknowwhat’sthetruthofit.I’mgetting a little bored with that question, because I never said I was anythingotherthanacreativewriter.
You incorporatemanypopular crime fiction themes into yournovelsandasaresultyou’reconsideredawriterofcrimefictionasopposedtoaliterarywriter.
What we call crime fiction now, whether it’s Lehane, Pelecanos, or LauraLippman,essentially is social realistnovels.And Icompletelyagreewith that.WhenIcameoutofIowa,IknewthatIneverwantedtostandinfrontofagroupofacademicsagainandseeiftheywantedtohireme.I’mnevergoingtodothatagain.SoIwouldliketohaveonenovel thathadsomethingyoucouldtaketothe public.You don’t need those colleges or academics to say you’re groovy.Youcanjustrunrightaroundthemandtakeittoanactualreadingpublic.SoIknew I wanted elements of popular fiction in there to give me a chance tosurviveanddevelop.
Other than Winter’s Bone, which novel do people most often cite as theirfavorite?
TomatoRed. It got somenice reviewsbut actuallygot farmorenasty reviewsthanallofmyotherbookscombined.Andmostof themwerefromtheSouth,which Icouldn’t figureout. I thought, Is it thegaykidorwhat? Idon’tknowwhatitwas.
Really?Whatdidthenegativereviewssay?Whyweretheynegative?
Oh,avarietyofreasons.Someweremildlydismissive.Somewerereallyugly—oneactually,Ifelt,wentwaybeyondliteraryreviewing,andIaskedmywife,“I
didn’tgetdrunkandfuckhisgirlfrienddidI?”Shesaid,“Idon’tthinkyoudid.”
TheDeathofSweetMisterismyfavorite.IstillrememberthechillingsensationI experienced reading the final line of that book, “I’d say no dawns ever didbreakrightoverherandmeagain.”
Iactuallyfeltlikethatbookbrokethroughinanotherdirection.ThatwasacasewhereonceIgotinthetuneofit,nothingwasintheway.Andfrankly,ifIgetintunelikethat,ifI’mnotpulledoutofit,Iprettymuchshufflearoundinarobestayinginthere.AndIdon’tcomeout.Thatonewasthatway,andWoetoLiveOnwasthatway,too.Idon’tknowwhatitis.I’mjustrunninghardtokeepupwithit.
Youwroteforquiteafewyearsbeforegarneringanyrecognition.
Iwrote for ten years for nothing.And Iwrote almost every day. I kept goingbecause I liked doing it. If you really don’t like doing it, it’ll show up prettysoon.Ifilledupboxesofstuffthatdidn’tgoanywhere.ButIneededtodothat.And Idon’t thinkofmyselfasan incredibly fast learner. I learnedat thepacethatIlearnedat.ButI’mtoldthattenyearsisaboutright.Ihadtoemotionallydevelop.It’sanemotionalthingaswellasatechnicalthing.AndIhadtechniquebefore I had theother.The emotionalhonesty iswhat really takesyou furtherandfurther.It’sanevolvingthing.
You’vealwaysbeenawriter.You’veneverbeenemployedinaregularjob,notevenasateacher.
IwasnotequippedfortheconventionalworldofemploymentandIdidn’twanttobe—whichhasalottodowithwhyIwasn’tequipped.Ijustdidn’twanttodothat.Iwouldratherliveunderafuckingbridgeandwriteonoldgrocerysacksifitcomestothat.IrememberonceIwasatalibraryanditwasaplacewhereallthe homeless guyswould come in and lay around all day and a guy from theuniversityleanedoverandsaidtome,“Dan,theyallwantedtobewritersonce,too.”
People make a lot about how you write about hillbillies, but most of your
charactersarenothillbillies,perse.
Nope,they’renot.Mostarejustproletariatpronetowardcriminalactivity.Thishouseoverhere,nobodyinthathousehashadajobinlikethreegenerations.
Didittakeyousometimetofindyourwritingvoice?Diditevolveorwasthereamomentwhenyoufeltlikeyouachievedit?
AtIowa,afriendofmineandwriter,LeighAllisonWilson,wassittingaroundwithKatieoneday,laughingatastoryIwastellingthem,andLeighsaid,“Howcomeyouneverdothatinyourfiction?Yourfictioniscoldandhardandstone-facedandchiseled.That isn’tevenwhoyouare inyourprivate life,you’resodifferent from that.” And Katie said, “You know what, that’s true.” That’s acommentfromafriendthatendedupbeingveryinfluential.Idon’teventhinksheknowshowinfluentialthatendedupbeing.
Thefull,uneditedversionofthisinterviewwasoriginallypublishedinJune2011onthewebsiteofTheOxfordAmericanmagazine(www.oxfordamerican.org),andisstillavailablethere.Reprintedwithpermission.
QUESTIONSANDTOPICSFORDISCUSSION
1. WoetoLiveOngivesamuchdifferentperspectiveoftheCivilWarthantheclearer,more regimentedNorth-Southconflict in theEast.What effect, ifany, do you think these irregulars—both Union Jayhawkers andConfederatebushwhackers—hadonthecentralconflictofthewar?WouldJakeandtheothersoldiershavebeenmoreeffectivefightingfortheSouthwiththeregularsdowninArkansas?
2. Inthefirstsceneofthenovel,Jakekillsaboyinamannerthatcatchestheattention even of the brutally violent bushwhackers: shooting him in thebackasheattemptstofreehisfatherfromhanging.WhatdoyouthinkwereJake’smotivations?Pureruthlessness?Adesiretoprovehimselftotherestofthemen?Orastrangeversionoffrontiermercy?
3. JakeactsoutofamoretraditionalsenseofmercywhenheworkstospareAlf Bowden’s life. But after news reaches the regiment that Alf killedJake’sfather,itappearsthatJackBulliscorrectwhenhesays,“YoutaughtAlfmercy,butheforgotthelesson.”DidJakedotherightthing,regardlessoftheoutcome?
4. JackBullandJakearepeersonthebattlefield,butinmanywaystheyareverydifferentmen—particularlyintheirinteractionswithSueLee.WhydoyouthinkJakeissotentativeinhisaffectionswhileJackBullissoforwardwithhis?WhydoyouthinkJakeissoreluctanttotakeSueLee’shandinmarriageattheendofthenovel?
5. JaketellsHoltthat“therebelisablightontheYankee’swill”andthattheNorthernersbelievetheir“lifeandpersonhavemoreloft”thantherebels’.Forthesemen,whatisthewarabout?Slavery?Territory?Orisitjustatestofwillsinwhichyouareforcedtopickonesideortheother?
6. It’s surprising to think of African-American soldiers fighting alongsideConfederatetroops,butHoltisloyaltotherebelcause.Whymightthatbethecase?IshisconnectiontoGeorgeClydestrongenoughtowarrantsuchadecision,orishisaffiliationjustaproductofcircumstance?
7. HowdoesJake’sGermanheritage influencehisstatuswith therestof theregiment?Withwhomdoesithelphim?Withwhomdoesithurthim?DoyouthinkthathispositionintheregimentwouldhavechangedifhewereborntoAmericanparents?
8. Althoughsomewhatreluctanttodoso,Jakeultimatelyseemshappytohave
Sue Lee and the baby in his life by the end of the novel. Do you thinkthey’llmakeittoTexas?Ifso,istherehopeforthemtobuildabetterlifeamidsuchstrife?
9. TheviolenceinWoetoLiveOnisswift,brutal,andomnipresent,butoftenJake’snarrationtreatsatrocitiesascommonplaceoccurrences—justanothermandeadorhomesteadburnedinawarofmany.Whateffectdoyouthinkwitnessing such routine horrors might have on a person’s psyche? Andwhat effect didWoodrell’s understated treatment of the violence have onhowyoureadthenovel?
10. Much ofWoe to Live On is based on actual history of the CivilWar inMissouri andKansas—Quantrill’s raidonLawrencewas a real event, forexample, andmany characters, including Black John, ColemanYounger,andWilliamQuantrill,arebasedonhistoricalfigures.Howdoesthenovelchange your view of theCivilWar and themenwho fought in it?WhatelementsofWoodrell’sdepictionof thewardoyouthinkare true-to-life?Whichdoyouhopearefictionalized?
BYDANIELWOODRELL
ReneShadeNovels
UndertheBrightLights
MusclefortheWing
TheOnesYouDoTheBayouTrilogy(omnibusedition)
Novels
GiveUsaKiss
TomatoRed
TheDeathofSweetMisterWinter’sBone
Stories
TheOutlawAlbum
PRAISEFORDANIELWOODRELL’S
WOETOLIVEON
ANewYorkTimesNotableBook
“Woodrell joinsDouglasC.Jonesand thefewotherswhosenovelsofwesternhistory are mainstream literature…. The violence is fast and understated andbawdyhumorrelievesthestory’sintensity.”
—KansasCityStar
“ArenegadeWestern…thatcelebrates thegenrewhilebushwhacking itsmostcherishedtraditions….JakeRoedelreciteshistaleofwoeinanimprobablyrusticidiom,with amalignant humor and a hip sensibility that arewise beyond hisyearsandwayaheadofhistimes.”
—ChicagoTribune
“Woodrellisonthecuttingedgeofmean…abornwriter.Hisstyleisbothbrutalandtouchedwithpoetry.Andit’sverymuchhisown.Don’tmissit.”
—PhiladelphiaInquirer
“Woodrellpinsitdownjustright…speakstotheuniversalcrueltyofcivilwar.”—St.LouisPost-Dispatch
“Afinenovel….DanielWoodrellhascapturedthedevastationofwarand,moreimportantly,thetwistingofmen’sminds.”
—UnitedPressInternational
“Anabsolutelybrilliantperformance.”—DavidMartin,authorofTheCryingHeartTattoo
“LikeWilliamKennedy’s,Woodrell’sprosehasalyricalqualitythateffectivelyevokesasenseofplace.”
—SanFranciscoExaminer
“Woodrell’snovelisatonceintenselyliteraryandwonderfullycinematic…WoetoLiveOnisinsomewaysacelebrationoftheintertwiningofAmericanwritingandAmericanspeech,oftheway,sinceHuckleberryFinnespecially(writtenbyWoodrell’s fellow Missourian Mark Twain, né Samuel Clemens), Americanliterary prose hears itself in dialogue with transcribed, unschooled, spokenvernacular.But, ironically,whenyoupull that speechoff thewrittenpageandthrow it up on the screen, the results can be oddly ‘literary’—a quality wecarefullyembracedinthescreenplay.”
—JamesSchamus,screenwriter,RidewiththeDevil
Contents
WelcomeDedicationForewordBookOneChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6
BookTwoChapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13
BookThreeChapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20
AbouttheAuthorReadingGroupGuideAConversationwiththeAuthorofWoetoLiveOn
QuestionsandTopicsforDiscussionByDanielWoodrellPraiseforDanielWoodrell’sWoetoLiveOnCopyright
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to realpersons,livingordead,iscoincidentalandnotintendedbytheauthor.
Copyright©1987byDanielWoodrellForewordcopyright©2012byRonRashReadinggroupguidecopyright©2012byDanielWoodrell andLittle,BrownandCompanyCoverdesignbyPloySiripant;coverphotographcourtesyofUniversalStudiosLicensingLLCCovercopyright©2012byHachetteBookGroup,Inc.
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