One Rusty Spur

By Linda Cushman

Michael Hall is convicted of treason and sentenced to be hanged. His life is measured by the hours it will take for his executioners to cross the rain-swollen Osage River. He prays for a deliverer, and God sends one—Kate. Will she trust him enough to help him escape? Is it possible for her to outwit his captors or will she be implicated and hanged too?

Kate Douglas led a simple life until a band of Union soldiers and a condemned prisoner stopped at her parent's farm. Kate is drawn to the prisoner, knowing he will die when the flooding river recedes. The soldiers create havoc for the family, but the prisoner sends her heart whirling. Did she find love only to watch him die?

The Warsaw, Missouri Series

One Rusty Spur, by Linda Cushman, which ties to Friends and Foes, by Mildred Colvin
Two Lonely Hearts, by Mildred Colvin and Jonathan Colvin
Three in a Quandary, by Jamie Adams
Four Times a Charm, by Regina Tittel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Cushman
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311602909

Linda Cushman

Linda Cushman and her husband live in rural Polk County, Missouri. Her greatest love is the Lord, who saved her soul and promised a home in heaven. Her children, grandchildren, and great granddaughter are the joy of her life. They have encouraged her to write stories of faith, hope, and inspiration. It is her desire that her writing will help her readers turn to God during life's troubles and trials.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Guilty!

Michael Hall's heart dropped to his boots. Guilty. Dishonor. Shame. Traitor. Traitor. The words reverberated through his mind.

Private Michael R. Hall is found guilty of treason... Across the table, in the crude army office, Union Major John Peterson continued. Michael forced himself to listen... and will be immediately transported to Major General J.C. Fremont at Warsaw, Missouri, for sentencing. Assign a company of three soldiers familiar with this area to deliver Private Hall to Major General Fremont.

Michael stood stiffly at attention and studied Major Peterson. Silver threaded through brown hair at his temples. Dark eyes met his stare. He appeared to loathe the job of ending a young man's life with a single word. Michael's gaze never left the man, hoping he would look at him and see his innocence. In the background he heard the adjunct selecting the men to escort him to Warsaw. His blood ran cold when he heard their names. Lew Bailey. Nathan Bailey. Henry Marshall. Two of them had framed him.

You're dismissed, Private Hall. Guard, shackle him and take him away.

I'm innocent, and you know it. Michael kept his voice quiet, firm, and steady.

Major Peterson studied him with piercing eyes. If this is true, I pray the Lord delivers you, young man.

A guard grabbed his arm and spun him around. The condemning officer heaved a sigh as his chair scraped back from the table. Heavy foot steps sounded then a door opened and closed with a solid thud. His last thread of hope vanished. Numbly he held his arms in front of him, and flinched as the iron cuffs snapped closed. He lifted his head high when the guards led him out to face his fellow soldiers. His friends. His brothers in a common cause. He was innocent, but they didn't know it. What must they think of him?

Hard, cold eyes watched him as he was led from the officer's quarters in chains, through the muddy streets of camp to the Bailey brothers' tent. Michael threw his shoulders back and stared straight ahead. He was blameless, and he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him hang his head like a thieving dog.

Guard him while I pack my stuff and get my slicker, Lew said. He ducked into his tent and soon returned with a pack.

Your turn. Nathan handed the chains to Lew.

Come on, dog. Let me show you off to your mess mates. Lew jerked Michael's feet from under him. He landed on his back in the slop. Haw, haw! You ain't so handsome now, are you, Hall?

You're mighty proud of yourself, Bailey. You framed me. Michael searched the sea of men in Union blue coats, and found his three messmates staring at him. He did, boys. He rolled to his side and got his knees under him so he could stand. Mud dripped from his uniform.

Henry Marshall rode up leading an extra horse. Proof was on you, Hall. No getting around it. That letter you wrote to the Confederate general was in your pocket, plus one from him. He seldom spoke, and his words stung with condemnation.

Planted there by Bailey. Michael surveyed the crowd for a friendly face. There was none.

Mount up, double-crosser. Nathan Bailey yanked the chains that held Michael's wrists. The metal dug into his flesh. He gripped the pommel and struggled to mount. The chain between his ankles was too short. He pulled himself up high enough to hook one boot in the stirrup, then swung his leg across. The chain held his feet about twelve inches above the stirrups.

Might not be such a nice trip for you, Hall, Lew jeered. Your feet should be like blocks of wood after a while. Oh, and sorry about your rain slicker. We sure forgot it. Haw, haw! Now let's get started to your necktie party. It's already mid-morning.

Michael clenched his teeth. He wanted to push his horse close to Lew's, wrap his wrist chain around his neck, and choke him. He fought the urge, knowing it would lead to instant death. He turned in the saddle and took one more look at the army camp in Boonville. The Missouri River churned on its endless journey to the sea. Drab army tents marched in rows as far as the eye could see. His friends were there, boys he had known since childhood. Now they believed him to be a traitor. With a heavy heart he faced the south, and whatever the future held.

Michael swayed easily in the saddle as the horses slogged steadily toward Warsaw. Rain oozed through his coat, through his shirt, and drenched him. He shivered when the chilling wind whipped around his back. His captors were sullen, seldom speaking, which suited him fine. It gave him time to think about his situation. 'Pray the Lord delivers you,' the officer had said. Pray. That was all he could do, and with every step his horse took he asked God for a miracle.

The second day of travel rain had been replaced by sunshine and a brisk wind until late afternoon. The wind ushered in more clouds and another steady rain.

Fog settled over the numerous creeks and river bottoms. The scene matched the gloom in Michael's heart. Two days ago he'd been just another soldier enduring the hardship of war, and makings plans for the future. His dreams had always been owning a small farm, finding a good wife, and raising a family. He would be content with that. It all crumbled when Lew Bailey appeared. Now it was in God's hands.

Are we ever going to stop? We've passed two or three houses where we could've put up for the night. Nathan Bailey wiped rain from his eyes and glared at his brother.

Nate, I'm pushing to get across this river before we stop. Then we'll have one more day's ride to Warsaw. With all this rain the river will probably rise during the night. Quit belly-aching and keep riding, Lew growled.

Nathan flicked the end of his reins at his brother's horse's face, causing the horse to jerk. Michael's wrist irons were connected to Lew's saddle by a long chain. The chain jolted, cutting into Michael's arms. Nathan spurred his horse and disappeared down the slick river bank.

Fool, Marshall muttered.

A shrill neigh cut through the fog. The horsemen urged the tired mounts forward.

Boom!

Gun shot! Lew yelled. What has he got into? Is your powder dry, Marshall?

Always, the other man answered. They held their rifles ready as they approached the crest of the hill.

It's me. Don't shoot. Nathan trudged up the hill, coated in mud, pistol in hand.

What's happened? Lew demanded.

Horse caught his hoof in a root and broke his leg. I shot him. Guess our prisoner will be walking. Nathan grabbed Michael's coat and pulled him to the ground.

Pain shot through Michael's feet. He grabbed for the pommel of the saddle and missed. His knees buckled.

Get up. Nathan gave him a kick.

Feet are asleep. Those shackles cut off circulation. Michael rubbed his legs while sparks of fire shot through them. They regained feeling by the time the men unsaddled the dead horse and packed the extra saddle and gear on the remaining horses.

Let's get across that stream, then we'll find a place to put up for the night. Lew held the chains and led Michael, bound hand and foot by shackles. He trudged along behind the horses, waded the cold stream, and stood with his head bowed in humiliation when they stopped at a farmhouse.

The farmer put them up for the night, and again Michael was chained outdoors with no shelter and no food. Hunger gnawed at his insides as he tried to sleep huddled under a tree. Morning dawned, cold, gray and misty.

Guess you'll be walking, dead man. Lew sneered then mounted his horse. He patted his belly. That woman sure can cook. Too bad you missed it. Haw, haw!

I won't be traveling fast. I haven't had anything to eat in two days. Michael said the words loud. The farmer's wife watched from the door, and he hoped she'd have pity on him. She looked embarrassed, and disappeared. She didn't come back.

All day long Michael concentrated on his feet. Left. Right. Left. Right. One more step. Then one more. His prayers became tangled with memories. He was at his Granny's cabin, back in the Smokey Mountains. She stood on the porch. He could see it clearly. Up three steps, across a narrow, full-length porch, to the front door. A warm, yellow glow beckoned from the windows. Better wipe your shoes on the old rag rug. The front door opened into the living room. To the left, a small bedroom is tucked in the corner, barely big enough for a bed and chest-of-drawers. A spinning wheel sits in the right corner. A table, leaden with steaming food, was spread in front of the fireplace. The kitchen took up the other end of the cabin. Beyond the kitchen was a back door leading to the lean-to where a tub filled with warm bath water waited for him. A ladder on the back wall led to the loft. His bed was there. A feather bed, soft, warm.

His mind grew foggy. Left. Right. Left. Right. Move, foot. Don't stop working, legs. If he could just make it to that log cabin he would find deliverance. His legs were as weak as water in the hundreds of streams he had waded. A boy's shout jolted him. Was he praying? Did he see a house, just like Granny's? And is that an angel hovering in the doorway? She didn't look like Granny.

* * *

Kate Douglas stirred the kettle of stew then swiveled the pot to the edge of the fireplace. She'd made plenty, maybe enough for tomorrow, and it would taste good after she came in from the cold rain. She turned from the fire, her cheeks warmed by the crackling blaze, and glanced around the tidy cabin. Her mother, Stella, rocked while she sewed a gown for the expected newborn brother or sister. Kate's young sisters, Nancy and Liz, played on the floor near-by.

A smile tugged at Kate's lips. The scene warmed her heart, and she sighed. She was nineteen years old, plenty old enough to be married and have a home of her own. Tom Harrison had asked, but she'd refused. She didn't want to be like her mother, and settle for the first man who asked for her hand. She'd wait for a man who swept her off her feet, one who proved he would be a good husband, father, and provider. Ma had settled for Joe Pratt after Kate's father died because she was in desperate need of a husband. Kate shook her head. She'd starve before she married a man who provided for the family like the Pa she had now.

Kate stepped out the back door, into the lean-to shed, and retrieved her coat and milk pail. Pa glanced up from his work. Raining cats and dogs. He cranked the handle on the mill again, then poured cracked corn into a bucket.

She frowned and gave the tail of her soggy coat a flip, sending drops spattering on him. He grumbled, but she turned her back and went into the house. She knew it was raining. Her dress had just dried from working in it all morning. Pa had sent her out to pick corn. She scowled. Corn he cracked and fermented. Corn he would use to make moonshine.

She checked the stew one more time then reluctantly left the warmth of the fire. She walked through the cabin, out the front door, and stood at the edge of the porch. Rain poured in sheets from the wood-shingled roof. She pulled her too-small coat around her shoulders, and surveyed the heavy gray clouds. Rain and more rain as far as she could see across the valley and to the horizon. Wind whipped the rain sideways, and sent October leaves swirling to a soggy death. The swollen river, a good quarter of a mile away, growled a steady roar.

Ain't wantin' to go out there, are you, sis? Her younger brother was settled in a chair, propped against the wall on its back legs. He kept his eyes on the long stick he whittled.

No, but I reckon I don't have a choice. Ma's not feeling good, and Pa's...well, he wouldn't do chores anyway.

I'll help. He snapped the blade of his pocket knife closed.

No need for both of us to get soaked. She ran her fingers through Billy's sandy blond hair. What are you making, Billy Boy?

Mouse poker. Feel that point. The eight-year-old proudly held the stick for Kate's inspection. She gingerly touched the sharp point, and