The Austin Chronicles, Book 1: Boggy Depot Shootout

By Stan Paregien, Sr

The Austin Chronicles, Book 1: Boggy Depot Shootout is the first in a series of novels about the Austin family (Approximately 187 pages and 71,340 words). Long-time residents of Tennessee, the Austins had to cope with the unique challenges of living in the wild West just after the end of America's Civil War in 1865.

The main character in this novel is young Daniel Austin. Both he and his father Henry had served in the Army of the Confederacy for just over a year when the war ended. As war-weary veterans, they returned home to Tennessee only to find their way of life destroyed by a renegade band of ex-Union soldiers. The clan head, Henry Austin, decided to move on to western Arkansas and start over. So Daniel, his father and mother (Veda) and younger siblings (Amanda and David) headed west with little money but a lot of Christian faith and solid determination.

Daniel Austin's uncle, Benjamin Franklin Austin, had acquired a large tract of pine tree-covered land near Gravely Hills, Arkansas. Crusty ol' Frank offered to give his brother, Henry, part of that land in exchange for helping Frank work his cattle and farm land on occasion. And so their new life began.

Soon, however, their joy was tested by the severe realities of frontier life. Then late one night their lives changed forever as intruders forced their way inside and committed unspeakably brutal acts. And when they left, the lawless men took young siblings Amanda and David with them.

Thus began a desperate search to find and rescue Amanda and David, as well as to see that the guilty were punished. Daniel Austin, his uncle Frank Austin and their neighbor Shorty Russell tracked the men deep into the Indian Territory. And it all came to a dramatic and violent climax at the small village of Boggy Depot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stan Paregien, Sr
• Release date: Feb 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310788215

Stan Paregien, Sr

Stan Paregien Sr was born in Wapanucka (Johnston County), Oklahoma to Harold and Evelyn (Cauthen) Paregien. The family moved west the year after his birth and he grew up on ranches and farms where his father worked in southern California.One of those places where Harold Paregien worked was the Newhall Ranch, a corporate ranching and farming operation that stretched for miles either side of the highway from the towns of Newhall (now Santa Clarita) to Piru. Stan was already in love with anything cowboy, mostly by watching those great B-Westerns at the local movie theaters. And then on the Newhall Ranch (officially known as the Newhall Land & Farming Company) he and his sister Roberta acquired horses and rode happy trails all over the ranch.Paregien graduated from high school in 1959 at Fillmore, Calif. He married Peggy Ruth Allen from nearby Ventura, Calif., in 1962. They immediately moved to Nashville, Tennessee for Stan to study Speech Communication (and history and Bible) at Lipscomb University. He graduated in 1965. In 1968, he received his master’s degree from the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. Then he completed all 60-hours of the classwork toward a Ph.D. in Speech Communication at the University of Oklahoma (but did not complete his other requirements). He has taken and is still taking continuing education courses in Life Skills through the University of Hard Knocks.He is a former full-time minister, a newspaper reporter and editor, a radio talk show host, a director of mental health facilities in both Texas and Oklahoma, and a salesman of various products. His hobby since 1990 has been writing and performing cowboy poetry and stories. He performed at the annual National Cowboy Symposium in Lubbock, Texas for a total of some 25 years. Through it all, he has been and is a freelance writer and author.He prefers just calling himself a "storyteller" in the tradition of Mark Twain, Louis L'Amour, Elmer Kelton, Garrison Keillor, Ansel Adams, Norman Rockwell, J. Frank Dobie, Agatha Christie and others. Sometimes he tells stories through narration, sometimes through poetry and often through photography.Stan and Peggy have two adult children, Stan Paregien Jr who lives with his family in the St. Louis area; and Stacy Magness who lives with her family near College Station, Texas. They also have four grandchildren (going on five, with an adoption in progress) and two great-grandchildren. The Paregiens lived in Edmond, Oklahoma for some 20 years before moving to Bradenton, Florida in June of 2013.Be sure to take a look at his other e-books which are also available online, including:S. Omar Barker: Las Vegas New Mexico's Legendary Cowboy PoetHis biography and 50 of his poems.The Cajun Cowdog: 15 Cowboy Stories for Adults**Just that people under age 13 probably can't appreciate it.Cowboy Earmuffs: 15 Cowboy Stories for AdultsA Rainy Day Reader: 100 Poems for Your EnjoymentWoody Guthrie: His Life, Music & MythOklahoma Almanac of Facts & Humor, (Parts 1& 2)The Austin Chronicles, Book 1: Boggy Depot Shootout (a Western novel with adult themes)The Austin Chronicles, Book 2: The Abilene Trail (a Western novel with adult themes)The Day Jesus DiedRootin’ Tootin’ Cowboy Poetry (Stan's original poems)Guy Logsdon: Award-winning FolkloristJim Shoulders: King of the Rodeo CowboysClara Luper: Civil Rights PioneerThoughts on UnityHe also recently published two paperback books through Amazon.com's KDP "Print-on-demand" process. Those two books are:S. Omar Barker: Las Vegas New Mexico's Legendary Cowboy PoetThe Day Jesus Died: Revised VersionOr just Google "books by Stan Paregien."

Book preview

Boggy Depot Shootout

by Stan Paregien

Boggy Depot Shootout is Book 1 in the Austin Chronicles, a series of Western novels featuring the Austin family as they face circumstances requiring heroic action.

Boggy Depot Shootout is a novel, a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events are products of the author's creative imagination or are used entirely fictionally. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to the memory of these Western writers we also counted as friends. They have left the bunkhouse, but are remembered fondly.

Don Coldsmith, M.D.

Robert J. Conley

Francis L. and Roberta Fugate

Richard (Dick) C. House

Elmer Kelton

Mark K. Roberts

Skinny Rowland

C. L. Sonnichsen

Jim Bob Tinsley

Thomas (Tommy) Tompson

Nellie Snyder Yost

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781310788215

Copyright 2014 by Stan Paregien Sr

Bradenton, Florida: Paregien Enterprises, 2014.

Cover design by Stan Paregien Sr

Smashwords Edition, License

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

The Uncivil Civil War

Chapter 2

The Long Ride Home

Chapter 3

The Old Home Place

Chapter 4

Sorrow at Leaving Home

Chapter 5

Misery in Memphis

Chapter 6

An Arkansas Angel

Chapter 7

Snake Bit

Chapter 8

Strong Medicine

Chapter 9

It's a Brother Thing

Chapter 10

New Gun, New Home

Chapter 11

Stove-up by an Accident

Chapter 12

A Neighborly Thing to Do

Chapter 13

Dancing and Death

Chapter 14

Trail to Boggy Depot, I.T.

Chapter 15

Looking for Outlaws

Chapter 16

Baiting the Trap

Chapter 17

Action at Devils Den

Chapter 18

Evening the Odds a Bit

Chapter 19

Boggy Depot Shootout

Other eBooks by Stan Paregien

Stan Paregien's Biography

Chapter 1

The Uncivil Civil War

Oh, yes siree, you can stand upon your military rights, Private Daniel P. Austin of the Confederate States of America, the tobacco chewing Union Army officer said, sarcastically. But one way or the other, we'll find out where your outfit is. Won't we, boys?

The six Union spies, cavalrymen stolen Confederate uniforms and horses and equipment, laughed and began taunting the young Reb who had been captured while foraging for food.

Hey, boy, we've hung officers for talking back less than you have.

You'll be glad to talk after we hold your head under water for a spell. Hot dang, you'll blubber like a newborn baby.

No, that's too good for that Southern scum. If he don't talk, let's turn this stud into a gelding and send him back to his little Southern belle. She'll sure be disappointed when she find out he can't plant nothin' but cotton.

Now, gentlemen, mocked the Union officer, let's not get in a hurry to do serious damage to our young friend. You men tie him to the trunk of that scrub oak tree. Stretch his left arm along that big tree branch there. Tie him tight. We'll see if we can't loosen his tongue with a little puppy dog persuasion.

The officer continued talking as four other Union soldiers dragged the young Confederate over to the tree and tied his left arm out horizontally along a low branch. They snubbed his fingers flat on the branch so tightly that the circulation was nearly cut off. And they jammed a dirty rag into his mouth to stifle any cry for help.

Reb, in cause you ain't familiar with 'puppy dog persuasion,' I'll put it to you plain, the Union officer said as he spat a stream of brown tobacco juice on Private Austin's army boots. "You see, we're kinda like the boy who wanted his daddy to just cut off his puppy's tail a little bit at a time, so it wouldn't hurt it so much.

"Only, what we're going to start with is your little finger. We'll cut off one joint at a time until you decide to tell us where your outfit is. And if we run out of fingers, we'll start on your toes. Believe me, boy, you will talk. Sooner or later.

Now, I'll call these blood-thirsty butchers of mine off right now, if you're ready to talk. Just nod your head and we'll untie you. Make it easy on your own self, boy.

The Union officer saw no movement of the young man's head. He could tell by the fierce, defiant look in the boy's eyes that he would not talk. Not for a while at least.

You're dumber'n I thought, kid the officer grunted. He motioned to the man next to him and said, Sergeant Bradbury, you may begin to carve on this here Private Austin like a Christmas turkey.

The heavy-set sergeant drew a hunting knife from a holster beneath his stolen Confederate jacket. He reached around to where the young soldier's left hand was tied. With one quick slice, he lobbed off the end join of the young soldier's small finger.

The young Rebel's body shuttered and his muffled scream died almost as quickly as it was uttered. Blood freely ran from the fresh wound, and no one bothered to stop it.

Time for a smoke, gentlemen, said the Union officer. We'll give this patriotic Southern trash a few minutes to bleed and to think it over. Then we'll slice off another joint. He sure as hell knows we mean business, now.

The young Confederate soldier fought against the searing pain which seemed to encompass his entire body. Private Austin found he could cope with the physical pain better than he could the involuntary stream of tears flowing down his cheeks. He didn't want to give his Yankee torturers that kind of satisfaction, but he simply could not hold them inside. He was afraid. Afraid to tell where his fellow troops were, and afraid if he didn't talk he would die right where he stood.

The Union lieutenant, after nearly ten minutes of casually sitting around smoking and gambling for the soldier's weapons and horse, signaled to his sergeant that it was time to get back to the fun. The sergeant instantly retrieved his razor-sharp knife, then tossed it from hand to hand while smiling through a droopy black mustache.

How about it, Private Austin, are you ready to talk?

The young soldier simply glared at his captors and refused to cooperate in any way.

Do it, Lieutenant Williams ordered. And his sergeant pressed the hunting knife down hard on the second joint and slowly drew it back. He smirked as the second joint of Austin's little finger on his left hand dropped to the dust. It was immediately gobbled up by one of the camp dogs, excited by the smell of human blood.

Once again, the young man recoiled from the pain. He looked toward the bright blue sky and screamed at the top of his lungs, but it was a sound which never made it far outside of the rag stuffed inside his mouth. He nearly gagged as his nose began to run full with mucus. And his little finger, now missing its second joint, bled freely.

Lt. Williams grabbed Daniel Austin's chin and held his head where they looked at each other, eyeball to eyeball. Boy, we ain't in no hurry. We've got more time than you've got blood. So we'll jest play us a hand or two of poker while you let your tongue loosen up. And when we're through cutting off your fingers and toes, by God we'll slice your balls off and feed them to the dogs. You think about that.

The officer and his sergeant returned to where the other Union spies had spread out a blanket and were shuffling a worn deck of cards.

Some time later, after losing two hands of poker, Lt. Williams' disposition turned even more sinister. He motioned for Sergeant Bradford to accompany him to where the Confederate was spread-eagled against the tree.

Alright, you sorry son of the South, have you finally decided . . . .

The Union officer suddenly stopped speaking, in mid-sentence. From somewhere in the heavy undergrowth thirty yards or so away came the delayed report of a carbine rifle. Lt. Williams' skull burst open like a watermelon filled with firecrackers and he flopped on the ground, his body quivering as he died.

That initial shot was followed immediately by a hail of bullets. Two of the Union spies managed to get to their horses before being brought down to die in their stolen Confederate uniforms.

A Confederate captain rushed over to where Private Daniel Austin remained tied to the tree. He quickly gut him loose and embraced him.

I'm sorry, son. Mighty sorry. One of the scouts back-tracked your trail and read the signs about how you were captured. But we just couldn't get to you any faster.

Pa, I'm just glad you made it when you did. I don't know how long I could have lasted.

You did fine, son. I'm proud of you. Now let's get that finger treated and get on back to our camp.

By the next day, a storm had moved across Mississippi. The savage rain beat endlessly upon the dilapidated army tents, forcing each to sag and to leak in a half-dozen strategic spots.

In Captain Henry Austin's tent, he moved his folding chair away from a new leak. He poured himself another cup of coffee, then he resumed writing in his personal journal. He noted that it had been over a year since he and his older son, Dan, had organized a company of soldiers from among their neighbors in Tipton County, Tennessee. Their military successes had been few and far between. And now the whole company was totally exhausted, both from the physical fatigue of fighting and from the mental depression that comes from being separated from their families for so long.

The steady drone of the rain was broken by the sloshing sound of a rider trotting into the camp and of someone else hurrying through the ankle-deep black mud.

Captain Austin, sir, a messenger just arrived with this here envelope for ya.

Thank you, private, the officer replied as he opened the rain-soaked envelope. He unfolded the stiff, white sheet of government issue paper and read it carefully. Then his powerful fist crashed down on the table before him, spilling his coffee and startling the younger soldier.

Private, tell Sgt. Harthorn to have all the men fall in. At once!

Yes, sir, the private said as he saluted and instantly whirled around. He jerked the tent flaps apart and dashed toward the tent just to the right of the captain's. And the sergeant's barking of orders pierced the damp air like a trumpet blast.

In less than two minutes, the camp was filled with the eerie sound of tired soldiers splashing through the water and mud. Some quietly cursed the miserable weather, but most said absolutely nothing. All of them were inwardly grateful for the lull in the fighting.

The Men are assembled, Captain, announced the sergeant, a string-bean of a man with an Adam's apple that protruded from his scrawny neck.

Let's get on with it, then, Captain Austin said as he put on his slicker and hat, and walked outside his tent. Henry Austin had never made any claim of being a professional soldier. In fact, the only Austin who had ever distinguished himself as a military leader had been Stephen F. Austin, one of the early colonizers of Texas. Henry's grandfather, Josiah, and Stephen's father, Moses, had been cousins, descendants of a prominent family in Virginia. But none of Josiah Austin's lineage excelled in military affairs.

However, Henry tried his best to act like a leader and to instill some degree of pride and professionalism in his troops. But as he looked around him, he would have been hard pressed to imagine a worse looking company of soldiers than the ones who stared back at him with dull, hollowed eyes. For the first time, he was acutely aware of just how tattered their uniforms had become during the last month. And though he did not bother to reprimand them, he was ashamed of the fact that many of the men had not even bothered to bring their hand guns with them to the assembly.

"Men, I am pleased to tell you this war is over. Word just came that General Lee officially surrendered at a place called Appomattox Court House, somewhere up yonder in Virginia. That was two days ago, on April 9th.

Now, men, there's nothing more we can do. So get your gear together and go on back to your homes whenever you're ready. Good luck to each of you.

The ragged, bone-weary men showed no outward release of emotion. They silently and methodically waded back through the mud to their tents. Some came back out almost immediately, with their bedrolls and rifles, and rode horseback down the hill toward the crossroads a half-mile away. Most, however, decided to wait for the rain to stop.

Returning to his own tent, Captain Henry Austin sat down and began writing his final report. He had only finished three paragraphs when the tent flap opened and a familiar face peered inside.

Mind if I bring my things in here, pa? The other soldiers in my tent are headed back to their homes right now. And they want to take the tent with them.

"Sure, son. Put your gear over yonder with mine.

You know, Daniel, if we had just received Lee's message yesterday morning rather than today, you might still have a whole little finger on your left hand. I deeply regret that, my boy. How is it doing?

It sure 'nuff throbs pretty bad, especially if I move around very fast. But at least the bleeding has pretty much stopped. I reckon it won't slow me down none, and it certainly could have been a whole lot worse. Mind if I have a cup of coffee?

Help yourself, son. It isn't nearly as strong as we get it back home, but it helps keep the chill off.

Dan Austin nodded affirmatively. At 5' 8" tall, he was about an inch taller than his father and at about 145 pounds, he was a good ten pounds heavier than his always slim and trim father. And his hair was a dark brown peppered with white. When he spoke, there was no doubt he was the Irish son of an Irish son of a native Irishman.

He watched as his father poured light-brown coffee into two shiny tin cups. Somehow his father looked much older in his grey Confederate uniform than his actual age of forty-four. Perhaps it was the combination of the grey uniform, his father's solid grey hair, and his weathered nut-brown skin.

If the rain stops, we'll leave in the morning, son. You can ride my extra horse. Why, even with the roads as sloppy as they are, we ought to be home by Sunday. Maybe sooner, if this frog-strangling weather breaks.

Henry Austin added two more sticks to the small fire and solemnly stared at the flaming orange-red coals.

Home. Finally going home, he thought to himself. Captain Austin was a man of the soil, and he sorely missed his farm back on the banks of the Hatchie River. But most of all, he missed his lovely wife, Veda, his 16-year old daughter, Amanda, and his 14-year old son, David Paul.

The blood seemed to heat up and flow faster in his veins as he thought about Veda. He couldn't imagine anyone having a better marriage than the one they shared. Night after night he had stayed awake past midnight thinking about her warm and uninhibited way of making love. Now, after more than a year apart, they would be together, again.

The crackling sound of a clap of thunder quickly brought him back to the present.

"I sure don't envy the men who started out in this storm. It'll get dark might early tonight.

Well, Dan, you just stretch out there on my cot. I have to finish this doggone report and send it along with a messenger. I don't care if I never see another army report form as long as I live.

Nearly an hour passed before Captain Austin completed the report. He paused and then, in his best penmanship, signed it: Capt. Henry Austin, CSA. And he dated it, April 11, 1865. He folded the pages carefully, placed them in a brown envelope, and addressed it to Headquarters, Army of the Confederacy.

Only then did Henry notice that his son was still sleeping, a dark grey woolen blanket drawn tightly around him. The captain leaned back in his rickety wooden folding chair and thought of how his nineteen-year-old boy had been forced into manhood almost overnight.

Stubborn old politicians start the danged wars and our brave young men die in them, Henry mumbled to himself. That was something his Aunt Ethel Jenkins said to him while he was recruiting men from among his neighbors. He knew now, after seeing hundreds of young men killed and thousands wounded, that the old lady spoke the truth.

They oughta make the old politicians be the first ones to fight in any war, Henry mused. That would send a lot of them to the peace table, and quick.

Captain Austin's attention turned to his son, again. From their first minor skirmish with a handful of Blue Coats to their encounter with the Union cavalry spies just yesterday, Dan had made him very proud. And there was the time, about six weeks ago, when Dan and another young soldier stumbled into a nest of inattentive Yankees and had captured nine of them without a shot being fired.

That wasn't too bad for a farm boy, the captain thought to himself. But his maw won't hardly believe it.

After all, the plain truth is that Daniel Austin had wanted to stay on the farm and work the crops, rather than going off to war. He had always loved the land and thrived on the hard labor of producing crops of cotton, corn and hay. But Henry had convinced his son they both had to join the army to protect their southern way of life from being crushed by the Federal government. So off to war they went, along with hundreds of men and boys from that general area. Not nearly as many would return.

The tranquility of that moment was abruptly interrupted by gunfire and angry shouts. Henry's first thought was that they were under attack from a roving band of Yankees who hadn't heard the War was over. He had just strapped his pistol back on when Sgt. Harthorn ran in and yelled, Captain, sir! Better come quick! We got one soldier dead and another hurting.

Henry Austin threw back the flap of his tent and stepped out into the cold, driving rain. Dan followed a few steps behind, still rubbing his sleepy eyes.

Forty-yards away, near a large maple tree, lay two Confederate soldiers. One was face down in the mud, a gaping bloody wound in his back. The other soldier lay grimacing in pain. His left thigh bone had been shattered by a rifle ball.

What in blazes is going on here, sergeant?

Well, Captain Austin, me and the other men were jest a-sitting in our tents, playing cards or sleeping, when somebody noticed four men sneaking off with some of our horses. We yelled for them varmints to stop. That's when they started shooting at us. Hells bells, we done shot back and hit these two. The others got away. And I sure 'nuff hate to say it, sir, but one of them stole your extra horse.

Henry Austin shook his head in disbelief. The Confederate Army had fallen onto such hard times, by the time the Austins joined up, that each man had to provide his own horse and most of his equipment. Now they had sunken so low as to steal from one another. It was a bitter end to a lost cause.

Two of you men guard this fellow until morning, then on your way home deposit him in the nearest civilian jail. Drag the dead one off into the brush, for now. If it stops raining before you leave for home, give him a proper burial. But if it is still raining, just leave him be.

And, sergeant, post three guards in camp tonight. Looks like we're not through fighting. Not quite yet.

The next morning the fires of a half-dozen campfires swayed to the rhythm of a cool northerly breeze. Thick, low-hanging clouds obscured the sun, but at least the rain had stopped. Here and there, men packed their meager belongings, while others prepared another monotonous meal of hardtack, jerky and weak coffee.

The distinctive smells of