Revenge and Chameli Gonzales

By Ken Coleman

When a gang of savage outlaws led by one of the worst killers in the west, Jim Singer, torture and slay the parents of an even worse killer than they are. Then rape and defile his 12 year old sister, leaving her die a slow agonizing death, there is nowhere for them to hide as Andrew Hanson, doggedly hunts them down one by one. His determination to inflict the cruellest torture on each and every one of them for the way they butchered his entire family before killing them in the most painful way possible, leads him on a journey that spans thousands of miles and many years as he follows them from state to state and through some of the most lawless towns in the west.
Along the way, he, reluctantly, acquires a travelling companion, who, although beautiful, is, to Hanson's mind, completely unhinged and a crazy woman. Her name is Chameli Gonzales. She has her own reasons for seeking revenge on Singer, but she is the most unpredictable, fiery, aggravating and troublesome woman he has ever met. However, as the years pass, he realises that he needs her more than he cares to admit. Even the times when they are apart for years, she is always on his mind as he travels the great plains of the west.
This is the story of a man’s epic journey to seek brutal revenge on the killers of his mother, father and sister and the many people who cross his path along the way, some of them die as enemies in shoot outs and some of them, he comes to love as family. But always, at the back of his mind, is the woman watching over him like a spectre, Chameli Gonzales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Coleman
• Release date: Jun 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301935086

Ken Coleman

Ken Coleman is the talk radio host of The Ken Coleman Show. Ken's show has been seen on The O’Reilly Factor, Hannity, The Daily Show, Colbert Report, NBC Nightly News, Fox News, CNN, Good Morning America, CBS This Morning, Fox & Friends, and in The Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, and London's Daily Mail. Ken has published articles with The Huffington Post and Success Magazine. Ken has been called a “young Charlie Rose” by legendary Duke basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski, and talk radio superstar Dave Ramsey has labeled him "one of the best interviewers in the country." Ken's invigorating and insightful commentary combine with acclaimed interview skills to make him one of broadcasting’s rising stars. Most importantly, Ken is blessed to be Stacy's husband and Daddy to Ty, Chase, and Josie. Follow Ken on Twitter @kencoleman.

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REVENGE AND CHAMELI GONZALES

Ken Coleman

Copyright 2013 Ken Coleman

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Prelude

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

FOREWORD

I met Andrew Hanson in a St Luis hospital where I had found myself after being injured in an automobile accident. I was over from England visiting relatives who had immigrated to America. The year was nineteen thirty seven and the old man just happened to be in the bed next to mine. He was aged ninety three and was very frail. l told him I was a history student and was interested in the authentic, old west, especially, the period after the American Civil War. That’s when he told me he had a story to tell and wanted to get it on record before he died. I decided to listen to what he had to say out of politeness and to humour him.

I became enthralled by the tale, especially as he swore, everything he told me was true. So as his tale unfolded, I became more and more determined to get it into print. He told me in blunt, no nonsense terms about his life after the civil war and was completely emotionless about his adventures and the many killings he had committed. I realised then, that if he was telling the truth, he was, probably, one of the worst, of all the cold blooded killers to come out of that period in history. I have to say that, many of the people he killed, deserved to die. But just as many didn’t. However, he showed no remorse for what he had done and was completely, emotionless about the manner in which he had performed many of the killings.

It was only when he spoke of the woman who became part of those adventures, that his emotions came to the surface and his voice softened. Her name was Chameli Gonzales and she became a big influence on his life and the direction it took.

I have embellished the story in order to make it less emotionless and more romantic. But apart from that, it is written down, just as he told me. Ken Coleman.

PRELUDE TO THE KILLING

On October fourteenth eighteen sixty one I left the farm where I had been born and raised with the intention of enlisting in the Confederate Army. I was just a boy who, like many of my contemporaries, thought the war would be over in months rather than years. It wasn’t too long before I got a taste of the realities of war and how it came to affect, the hundreds of thousands of soldiers, civilians and women and children on both sides. People who lived through probably, the bloodiest and most horrific period to happen on American soil.

From a naive boy when I made my way to enlist, I grew quickly into a man who learned from experience, that you, either, killed without question or compunction and lived. Or hesitated at the, almost, certain risk to your own life. Although I was involved in many bloody skirmishes and battles during that four year period, I only mention my involvement in the war to set the scene for what was to follow. For it was the years after the war, when I travelled the great plains of the west, taking in the many lawless and wild towns to be found in that part of America, Including the state of Missouri, where I grew up; to Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Wyoming, Colorado and Arizona in my quest to avenge the slaying and defiling of my family in the most horrific and violent way I could ever have imagined in my worst nightmares. This story covers a period of many years and besides the hunt for my family’s killers. It tells of the men, women and children who entered my life during that period, none more so than Chameli Gonzales, who, to my mind, was crazy and without a doubt, the most irritating, hateful, aggravating, troublesome, self-centred, greedy and disturbing person I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Yet, she was also, the most beautiful, endearing and amazing woman ever to have been born to enrich my life, and despite my better judgement and against all my instincts for self-preservation, I grew to love her more than life itself

ONE

I saw the smoke rising from where the farm was situated, long before I could see the buildings that I had known so well as a boy. I dismounted from my horse and led her into some brush and trees where I stood for a long time watching the smoke rising in the distance. I was concerned for my family, knowing that there were still bands of Jayhawkers raiding across the border from Kansas into Missouri. But I was one man with very little weaponry, just a cap and ball, army issue Remington revolver which I had taken from a Union officer who had no further use for it. The only other weapons I possessed were a muzzle loading, cap lock musket and a knife. I felt anxious and nervous for the safety of my family, but, if I had learned nothing else during the war, using caution had been a lesson that had saved my life on numerous occasions. Riding up to the farm with gun in hand like a conquering hero, could, well, have had serious consequences for both me and my family. With just five shots in the revolver and one in the musket, after which, I would need to reload with powder and balls, I would be of no help to my family or anybody else for that matter. Besides, I had never heard of Jayhawkers killing farmers as long as they put up no resistance and I knew my father had more sense than try to resist. We had, had runs in with Jayhawkers before and as long as we pledged our allegiances to the anti-slavery cause and furnished them with supplies, they generally left us alone. Even so, the smoke I could see rising worried me. It was more than a normal fire used to burn old timber or trash; I could even smell the charred wood from where I stood.

I waited for about half an hour, and then decided to make my move. I circled the farm, keeping it within around a half mile of my position and approached from the East where I was able to find concealment in a stand of trees about three hundred yards or so away. Moving into the shelter of the trees, I viewed the farm from my vantage point astride my horse. There was no movement around the place, but the house where I had been raised, had been burned to the ground and was little more than smoking ashes.

I pulled my gun from where I kept it, tucked into a union army issue holster that I had taken from the same soldier as my pistol. I had cut away the holster flap so that I could pull the gun easily without it snagging. I cocked it with my thumb and spurred the horse forward at a walk holding the pistol at my side ready to use if necessary.

The worst experience for my family, would have been, that they had been burned out and left with nothing. In which case, I expected that I would find them wondering around what was left of the farm, trying to salvage what possessions had been left to them by the Jayhawkers. I was not though, in my worst nightmares, prepared to find them dead in the manner to which they had been killed. I was not prepared to find them slaughtered, brutalised and made to endure the worse kind of pain and degradation that inhuman beings could impose on gentle people. All the killing and horrors of war that I had witnessed these past four years, could never have prepared me for the revulsion that began to build up in me when I saw what had happened to my pa and ma and then the rage that reached such a boiling point as to burst my mind wide open when I saw the inhuman torture they had imposed upon my twelve year old sister.

I will not apologise for describing some of the details about the manner in which they had been slaughtered. I need you to understand what drove me to hunt down and murder, in the cruellest and most painful way, the vermin that had committed such a vile and despicable act upon my family. However, what I do describe in the following chapter, doesn’t come close to what was really inflicted upon those poor innocent family members. I have omitted to go in to the more intimate details of what I found on the farm that terrible day as they are totally, unnecessary and should be left to the imagination.

I dismounted from my horse and approached my pa first, for no other reason than he was the nearest dead body to me. He was spread eagled and lashed to the big five bar gate that was the entrance to the farm. He had been stripped down to his undergarments. All his toes and fingers had been shot off as were half his hands and feet as though he had been used for target practice. I guess he must have suffered greatly and for a long time as his fingers and feet were slowly shot to ribbons, before whoever had done this, finally cut his throat.

I cannot really recall how I felt looking at him hanging there. Except that, strangely and despite his horrific injuries, I was struck by how much thinner he appeared than I remembered and he looked smaller and older. He was, almost, unrecognisable as my father. Not only because of the blood that obscured his features somewhat, but because time had clouded my memories of what he had looked like and to be brutally honest, he was just a stranger. Blood from his throat had flowed down his chest, his feet and hands looked like bloody ribbons. But, apart from a simmering anger that I felt building up in me, I felt very little compassion. No sense of loss, no thoughts of revenge. Just sadness and anger that someone could do this to a man who just wanted to work his farm and provide for his family. We had never been close, Pa and me and I had left under a cloud. But he was my Pa and didn’t deserve to die the way he had.

I cut him down and left him lying in front of the gate with just my horse to watch over him while I climbed over the fence and jumped down into the vegetable patch which my mother had always tended so lovingly in the past. At times, I had known her to spend hours looking after her vegetables and although it was good to have fresh produce on the table, I sometimes I thought she gave them more attention than she did her own kids. When pa and I and little Lise came home from our toiling, she would be there, kneeling amongst the vegetables, a wisp of hair hanging over her eye, pulling out weeds and digging in fertilizer. She wouldn’t even acknowledge us and it was left to my little sister to rustle up a meal. Ma hardly spoke during the final couple of years I spent on the farm. She had retreated into her own little world and it almost, seemed that she resented us for the life she was forced to live. She and my pa had met in St Louis. He had emigrated from Denmark to seek a better life while she, had lived in a fine house on the outskirts of St Louis. Her father was some kind of industrialist and very rich. He had wanted his daughter to go to England and mix with the gentry there. My mother never gave much away about how and why she came to end up toiling on a farm in the middle of Missouri instead of living the high life in Europe. I do know that her and my Pa came up the Missouri river on a paddle steamer to find and cultivate land for farming. She never spoke about her father. I often asked her about my grandpa in St Louis and if we would ever get to meet him. But she always changed the subject. When I was younger, she had been really happy and always had time for me. She taught me how to read and write from an early age and made a far better job of it than any school could have. She had brought books with her from her home in St Louis. She had loved Charles Dickens and had many of his books. Then after Lise was born, she seemed to shrink into her own little world, just doing what was necessary to bring up her youngest child, barely speaking to my pa or me except to answer questions with a curt reply. Because of the way she had changed, there came a change in my father also. He spent as much time away from her as was possible, becoming sullen and angry whenever he had been in her presence. Consequently, little Lise and me were left to bear the brunt of his anger. So by the time I decided to leave, it had become an unhappy place, with the only brightness shining on the farm, being Lise and her forever smiling face.

I found her not far from where I had jumped down from the fence. She was lying face up amongst the turnips and at first I thought it was a bloody side of beef. There was nothing to distinguish her as a human being. The only way I recognized the bloodied object, initially, as my ma was because of the small amount of straw coloured hair that wasn’t matted in blood, protruding from her bloody head.

I stared at her with my mind numb. It was difficult to associate what lay before me with a human being, let alone the woman who had given birth to me. But even despite recognizing her, I could not bring myself to feel any kind of emotion. No sorrow, no anger and no pity. Nothing seemed real and try as I might, to remember how she had been in the early years when this had been a happy place, I simply could not. The memories of what had been, had long since, been erased from my mind by the horrors of war. I tried to get angry; after all, this was my mother, the woman who had raised me and cared for me, at least in the early years. The only anger I felt was directed at the senselessness of what had happened here. Why harm harmless people who were no more a threat than a fly on a wall?

When I finally focused my mind and took in the horror before me, I saw that a knife or knives, had been used on her to such an extent as to leave her looking like something one would find hanging in an abattoir. There would be no useful purpose gained by going into detail about her injuries. Suffice to say, that parts of her anatomy had been sliced off and she had been cut deeply in a most intimate place, probably whilst she was still alive judging by the way the turnips and the ground all around had been disturbed by a great struggle. I guessed it must have taken more than one person to hold her still while they did that. I quickly, turned my head away and felt a sharp, pang of remorse for the way I had left the farm four years ago without even saying goodbye to her. Apart from that however, I felt nothing more, no tears, no grief and no thoughts of revenge. All that came later when I discovered what they had done to my little sister.

She had been just eight years old when I left and if there was anyone I would miss, it was going to be my little sister Lise. She was the sweetest, honest and most selfless kid anyone could meet. Even my pa, a stern no nonsense man, couldn’t help but have his heart melted in her presence. She would do anything for anybody and I often thought my ma took advantage of her willingness to do anything asked of her. Often carrying heavy buckets of water from the creek nearly a quarter mile away when the well, as often happened, ran dry, or milking our bad tempered cow and making butter or cheese for our table. Even chopping logs with an axe that was nearly as big as she was. Hard work indeed, for a child so small. But she did all that and more and the smile never left her lovely little face. I had known when I left, that my share of the farm work would fall on her small shoulders on top of what she already did around the place. I knew also, that she would bear the extra load without a murmur of complaint and happily carry on as normal. But still, off I went, leaving tiny Lise to her toils with my conscience clear and not a thought of how such a small child would cope trying to do the work of, an almost, grown man. I should have had, at least, a small feeling of guilt, but I didn’t. That would come later on my return to the farm and my discovery of what had happened to the poor, wonderful child.

About three yards away from where my mother lay, was another bloody patch of disturbed vegetables and earth where someone had obviously put up a struggle. Leading away from it was a wide trail of blood, flattened vegetable stalks and earth as though someone had crawled on their belly to get away from the horror of what was happening to my ma.

It was then that I began to feel emotion. I felt myself trembling inside and all kinds of thoughts crossed my mind. Surely nobody, even the varmints that had done that to my ma, would harm a child, especially one as sweet and gentle as Lise.

I knew I had to follow the trail; I had to look for my sister and find out if she was ok. But for the first time in my life, I was terrified of what I would find. I had always faced problems head on and worked them out for myself, usually with a gun or a cudgel of some sort and on occasions, a knife. I have faced death many times whilst riding with Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson. But the thought of finding sweet little Lise dead, filled me with dread.

I breathed deeply and cleared my mind. If the last four years had taught me anything, it was to face trouble with a clear mind and focus on what you were about to face. Therefore, I forced my trembling legs to move and follow the bloody trail to its conclusion. If Lise was alive and I was optimistic that she would be, we would run the farm between us and build on what my ma and pa had begun. I didn’t even want to think of the alternative.

I followed the trail slowly and deliberately. All around, the vegetables had been trampled by many hoofs. I figured that there had been at least four horses. The trail of smeared blood went on through the trampled vegetables and hoof prints, disappearing round the barn about twenty yards away. I still had the cocked, pistol in my hand and I raised it as I approached the corner of the barn. Slowly I inched my way as silently as I could until I stood with my back to the wall of the barn close to the corner, around which, the trail of blood had disappeared. I listened for many minutes, but no sound came from around the corner. I didn’t believe that the Jayhawkers were still here, but I wasn’t a man who would walk into trouble without weighing up the possibilities first. I inched towards the corner of the barn and peered round with my gun raised and ready for action. I didn’t look to the ground at first, but instead surveyed the area all around for signs of ambush. I noticed that the fence had been torn down across from the barn, leaving a wide gap. Hoof prints were everywhere and carried on across and through the gap in the fence. It would seem that, that was where the Jayhawkers had left the farm and ridden away. Turning my attention to the ground, I saw no sign of Lise. The milling horses had all but obliterated any sign of where she had, presumably, crawled. I broke cover, no longer feeling there was any danger from the Jayhawkers and walked around, heading for the front of the barn looking for signs of my sister. She was nowhere in the open and I felt a bit more optimistic that she had managed to escape and find some kind of cover. The barn door was open wide, which was unusual because that was where we stored the produce we harvested before moving much of it to the great river to be carried down to St Louis, and fruit which we carted to Kansas City where we would also buy supplies to last us until the next shipment. If Lise was badly injured she would not have been able to open the big heavy barn door, therefore, the Jayhawkers had opened it. In my mind’s eye, I pictured little Lise, hurt, unable to walk and crawling to escape her tormenters while they followed her progress on horseback. I could not imagine the kind of inhuman and evil mind that would even think of tormenting a mere child that way. I approached the door slowly, not because I felt I was in any danger, but because I feared what I was going to find. I even considered turning round, mounting my horse and getting the hell out of there, I just preferred not knowing what had happened to the poor child. Then I thought what if she is still alive and needs help? I couldn’t leave knowing I could have saved her.

The area inside the barn doorway was hard packed dirt and the first thing I noticed as I got close, were the many hoof prints going into and out of, the barn. I also noticed smears of blood and my heart began to feel heavy. It was thumping so hard I thought it would break out of my chest and I would die right there. The way I felt just then, maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing.

I entered the barn on feet that were leaden and legs that would barely hold my weight. Never in my whole life had I felt such trepidation. Even before a battle where I knew I could die at any time, had I had a feeling of dread such as I now felt.

A broad shaft of light pushed back the shadows and lit up the barn floor capturing the small still body of the child lying face down in the dirt. The fact that she was naked was almost concealed by the amount of blood and gore that covered her small, broken body. A large knife had been violently, plunged into one of her buttocks, I reveal the detail about the knife because it is important and pertinent to my story. One of her legs was pulled up to her chest as though she had made an attempt to crawl further and then given up, while the other, the one with the knife in her buttock, was stretched out straight behind her, covered in blood. I didn’t even want to imagine what else they had done to her, I just wanted to turn and run in the hope that I could erase what I was seeing, from my mind. Yet I knew from that moment, I would be compelled to live with the horror that was my sister’s tiny, mangled body lying in the dirt of the barn floor. I turned with the intention of leaving her there where she lay. I just could not face getting any closer and having to look upon what other causes of pain they may have inflicted upon the poor child. Until, almost inaudibly, I thought I heard a sound like a cat mewing; it was coming from Lise. I turned back and hurried to her side calling her name as I crouched in the dirt close to her small form.

‘Lise,’ I whispered. ‘It’s me Andrew,’

She moaned and I took her small hand in mine. Another sound came from her as she, painfully, turned her head to face me.

‘Andy,’ she gasped almost inaudibly, but it sounded like ‘Ahgy, for her mouth had been disfigured and was full of blood.

I lowered my head and looked at her once, beautiful, angelic face and I wanted to cry. I did cry, I felt huge tears rolling down my battle scarred face and I began to sob very loudly. Her face was covered in bites and just like my mother, a knife had been used to great effect on her once, pretty, face. As I looked at her, she tried to smile, but what was once the brightest smile in the whole of the west, was now, a bloody mask of horror. Nearly all her teeth had gone and her gums and mouth were a bloody mess. She was still my beautiful little Lise though; I kissed her gently on her mouth and as I did so, I felt her die in my arms. She simply slumped and her small, broken body went limp. In that moment, it seemed to me, that she had known I was on my way home and she had been hanging on to see me one last time before, finally, going to sleep. I am not a religious man, but just in case there was a god, I thanked him right there and then for taking her and ending her suffering. Then, in the same breath, I cursed him for a cruel and heartless god that he would allow a child so small and harmless to endure the amount of pain and torment as had been inflicted upon my innocent and sinless sister, Lise.

I didn’t bury my family. I left them just as I had found them, I figured as they were dead anyway, they wouldn’t really care one way or another. Anyway, I wanted to be on my way before their killers got too much of a head start on me. I did, however, cover Lise’s tiny form with a tarpaulin sheet I found nearby and held it down with rocks from what was left of the farm building. I couldn’t leave her like that in full view, not my sweet little Lise. I headed the way the four horsemen had gone. My plan, was to find them and murder them all. But before I killed them, my intention, was to make them suffer the way Lise had suffered at their evil hands. Only after I had inflicted the worse possible torture I could dream up, would I end it with a slow and painful death for each one of them. The rage in me had subsided after Lise died to be replaced by a cold determination to see those men suffer more than my little sister had. This would not be made easy due to the fact that they knew I would be coming after them, they had planned it that way and it was my fault that my family had been slaughtered.

I now, knew who one of them was and I had a pretty good idea who the other three were. It was certain, now, that they were not Jayhawkers. Before I left Lise lying in the barn, I had pulled the knife from her backside. The handle and blade were bloodied, so I wiped them clean. It was then that I recognised the knife and knew by the initials carved in the wooden handle, to whom it had belonged. I knew also, why it had been left buried in my sister and why they had done what they had done to my family. The knife had been left as a message to me and had probably been plunged into Lise after the men had finished with her. Everything they had done to my family was purely and simply because of me and the reason was revenge.

TWO

Missouri and Kansas had been warring into each other’s territories long before the attack on Fort Sumter that triggered the American civil war. The Jayhawkers from, mainly, anti-slavery, Kansas made regular raids into Missouri, causing many farmers and landowners near the border to set up their own raiding parties into Kansas, they were known as the Bushwhackers.

In September, 1861 a bunch of Jayhawkers attacked and captured the City of Independence Missouri. They murdered many of its citizens, some, so I heard, were women and children. This news didn’t particularly bother me, but my pa had been outraged at such wanton and unnecessary killing and plundering. He had previously, always been neutral in the cross border war, his allegiances lay with neither the North nor the South. I believe, though, that my mother had always had anti-slavery views. Now, though, pa vowed to support the confederacy in any way he could in the escalating war. This was all the excuse I needed to get away. I announced that I was going to join the confederate army and seek to avenge the people of Independence. Pa was furious at my insensitive decision to leave the farm during such troubled times. But after a blazing row with him and much hand wringing and crying from my ma, I set off on foot for Springfield, Missouri, where I hoped they were recruiting. Before I left, Lise came running to me and jumped up into my arms where I held her tight, hugging her tiny, frail body for many minutes.

‘You will write to me won’t you Andy?’ she begged. ‘I want to know all about soldiering and the war and all the places you visit.’

Lise, just like me, only saw the glory in being a soldier. None of us could have foreseen the four years of horror, the maiming and the bloodshed, limbs blown off, men blinded and families left fatherless and homeless in a hopeless war that was far less than glorious.

‘Sure I will Lizzy,’ I replied using the name I had always used to address her.

She wrapped her arms tighter around me and buried her face in my neck.

‘I don’t want you to go Andy,’ she whispered. ‘I might never see you again.’

‘Sure you’ll see me again silly, in a few months’ time when the south have won the war, I’ll be back just to see you and you know what?’

‘What?’ she giggled.

‘We are going to get on a boat and sail down the great river all the way to St Louis, just you and me.’

‘Aww you joshing me Andy, how could we afford to do that?’

‘When I come home from the war, I will be rich you’ll see and I’m gonna give you all the things you deserve for all the hard work you do around here.’

That was when my pa came striding up to us.

‘Put that child down boy and get offa my land,’ he yelled. ‘You are trespassing and if you don’t leave, I will take a switch to you and beat the hell outa your sorry ass.’

I kissed Lise on her cheek and lowered her to the ground. She looked up and smiled sadly. When she did that, I felt as though I was looking into the face of an angel, unbeknown to me at the time, it was to be the last time I would ever see her angel face looking that way.

‘Ok pa,’ I said mildly. ‘I’m going, but there is no need for it to be this way.’

‘Don’t you call me pa; I no longer have a son. You are a stranger and you are trespassing on my land.’

He had stopped just a couple of feet away and I saw that I was taller than he, something I had never noticed before. However, he was bigger and broader than me. I was little more than a boy, who at seventeen, was still growing and had not, as yet, bulked out. I looked past him and saw my ma standing in the doorway to the homestead where I had been raised from an early age. Although quite a way from my position, I could see she had been crying, but strangely, I felt no remorse and wondered briefly, if I actually had a heart. Until I looked down at Lise’s angelic face and knew I had a heart because it began to melt. I knew then, that if I didn’t leave quickly, I would be compelled, because of her, to stay. Only now do I realise the enormity of my decision to leave that lovely child. For if I had stayed, Lise would not have suffered at the hands of James Wesley Singer and his friends. Because he and I never would have met and I wouldn’t have killed his brother. But the death of his brother Henry at my hands, was the sole reason James Singer, did what he did to my family.

I slung a gunny sack containing all my, meagre, possessions over my shoulder and headed for Springfield Missouri where I knew there would be a company of Confederate soldiers. I had no trouble finding the way there, I had driven there many times with our big wagon pulled by the only horse we owned, to get supplies. It would take me a day and a half to walk to Springfield, so I needed to be sparing with the canteen of water and the few biscuits and cheese that Lise had secretly slipped me.

I had travelled about eight or nine miles when I saw horsemen approaching in the distance. There looked to be around a dozen or so of them and my first thought was, Jayhawkers. I was on the road to Springfield and in open prairie land. Apart from the odd bush and small tree, there was nowhere I could hide. So I decided to hold my ground and try to talk myself out of any danger or malice they might hold towards me. I carried on walking until, when they were almost upon me, I stood to one side to allow the horsemen to pass. I hoped they would see, that I clearly, posed no threat and would carry on by, to go about their business with no interference from me. They were 13 in number and all were heavily armed, with pistols, muskets and knives. They were accompanied by several spare horses and heavily burdened, pack mules. The company of men stopped a few feet from me and each one of them studied me with interest. I noticed that, more than a couple of them wore articles of confederate clothing, pants here, a tunic there or a hat. These men were not Jayhawkers that was plain to see. However, I decided that I needed to use caution in my actions.

One of them urged his horse forward until it was standing close and the man was looking down into my upturned face. He was obviously the leader of the band; he commanded respect simply by his bearing and superior demeanour. The other horsemen looked formidable and dangerous. But this man, though normal in appearance, had a way about him that demanded that people recognize his superiority over them. He was a leader and seemed to be so confident in his abilities, that I was sure that the men with him would gladly follow him into hell if he asked them.

‘Where are you headed boy?’ he asked in a mild and almost, gentle, voice.

‘Springfield, sir,’ I replied. There was no point in lying, the trail I was on led directly to Springfield and anyway, his very demeanour compelled me to tell the truth.

‘What is your business in Springfield?’

I hesitated, if these men were Jayhawkers and if I told them I was going to join the Confederacy, I would be in deep trouble. However, they seemed to be returning from Springfield, so it was unlikely that they would be Jayhawkers, especially as some of them were wearing articles of Confederate uniforms. It was more than likely they were Bushwhackers, in which case they would be pro confederacy. I decided though, despite the odds, to tough it out.

‘Sir,’ I said, with all the bravado and authority I could muster. ‘My business in Springfield is my business and mine alone.’

A few of the men in the group laughed, others merely smiled. The leader of the group simply looked down at me expressionless.

‘Your business is indeed your business,’ he replied in that same mild voice which carried so well despite the sound of milling hooves, the creaking of leather and snickering of horses. ‘However,’ He continued. ‘These are troubled times with many desperate men abroad. Missouri is a state where allegiances lie in two directions and it behoves me to enquire of you regarding your allegiances.’

I hesitated, before answering.

‘Well sir,’ I replied earnestly. ‘Perhaps allegiances do lie in two directions, so it would be in my own interest to enquire as to your own sympathies.’

The horsemen were all eying me with greater interest now. Some were grinning, whilst others were looking on with apparent fascination, or maybe, expectation. Perhaps, they were expecting the leader to draw his pistol and shoot me between the eyes for my insolence. Many men in Missouri, during the border wars, had been killed for less, women and boys too, truth be known. So it was, that with baited breath, I awaited his response.

He smiled what appeared to be a friendly smile, but I wasn’t fooled. This man was the leader of a bunch of heavily armed and dangerous men and he had their respect. What would they think of him if he allowed a seventeen year old kid, still wet behind the ears, to get away with disrespect?

‘I asked first,’ was his response to the sound of uproarious laughter from his men.

I grinned, partly with relief that the tension had been taken out of the situation, as I looked up into his smiling face.

‘In that case sir, I will answer your question. I am going to Springfield with determination to join the Confederate forces in the hope that I may strike a blow against the North.’

‘Right answer son,’ he said with a broad grin spreading across his face. ‘I too intend to strike a blow against the north, so it would appear that we are allies.’

‘Yes sir it does and I wish you well in your endeavour. Now, by your leave, I will be on my way as I wish to make Springfield by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.’

I turned and set off the way I had been heading, walking stiff backed as I felt the eyes of every man in the group watching me. I listened keenly for the sound of them riding away, but the sound of hooves never came. Instead, a commanding voice rang out.

‘Wait!’

I stopped and turned to face him. Then I waited nervously, to hear what he had to say.

‘It’s a long walk to Springfield son; I can sell you a horse if you’ve a mind to give your legs some respite.’

I smiled wryly.

‘That would be a preferable option sir, but I have very little by way of possessions and no money at all.’

‘Then how do you propose to get by when you get to Springfield?’

‘Once I join the army, I will be fed and watered and supplied with weapons and a horse and my army pay will allow me to buy anything else I need.’

There were loud guffaws and general laughter from the assembled group. The leader simply sat his horse and looked at me expressionlessly, whilst I in turn could feel my face reddening, partly with anger and partly with the feeling that I was being ridiculed.

‘You are setting your sights high son,’ he said mildly. ‘It is true the confederacy is recruiting, but volunteers are expected to supply their own horses and weaponry, unless you are recruited into an infantry division, in which case you will be expected to march on foot. Even then, you would be expected to supply your own amenities. Therefore, I think you will be turned away until you can fulfil that obligation.’

I stared at him unsure if he was holding me to ridicule or simply telling it as it was.

‘However,’ he continued. ‘I am raising an army and I am recruiting suitable men. How are you at horsemanship and shooting?’

‘I can ride and shoot as good as any man,’ I lied. I could ride a horse, but apart from shooting a few squirrels and occasional wild turkey, I had no idea about shooting, especially at another man.

‘Then you may join us if you’ve a mind.’

There was some muttering and sounds of dissent from his men, but he stared at them one by one and they quickly capitulated.

‘It would be an honour to join you sir,’ I said, though with a feeling of some trepidation.

His name was William Clarke Quantrill and for the next two years I rode with him and his army. I learned how to shoot and become an excellent horseman. Above all, I learned how to kill and during those turbulent years, I killed and maimed many men and boys. Possibly, even women, there were so many chaotic raids where indiscriminate gunfire was normal. I felt no remorse for the killings. Many of them were acts of revenge. The raid on Lawrence Kansas, was a direct response to the despicable act by the authorities, of imprisoning womenfolk and, from what we heard, deliberately causing their makeshift prison to collapse upon them, killing four innocent women.

After Lawrence, most of the, over four hundred strong army led by Quantrill, many of them farmers, returned home where, in acts of retaliation, many were shot and killed and their homes burned down leaving their women and children homeless. At that time, I worried about my own family. But felt there would be little I could do the way things were, because we became fugitives and I fled to and remained in Texas for a while with Quantrill’s army. It was during our time in Texas, that Quantrill’s band of guerrillas began to