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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.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, thescanning,uploading,andelectronicsharingofanypartofthisbookwithoutthepermissionof thepublisherconstituteunlawfulpiracyandtheftof theauthor’sintellectualproperty.Ifyouwouldliketousematerialfromthebook(otherthanfor reviewpurposes), priorwritten permissionmust be obtained by contactingthe publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of theauthor’srights.

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