Exempt from Fear

By Nick Wright

Following the Civil War, our re-united nation was booming; a railroad had stitched it together and men of all kinds flooded west by the thousands. Among them, boys in blue who had dreamed of homesteading, and boys in gray escaping the Souths postwar anarchy. The West was wildjust the place for a generation of restless young men who had survived the most bitter war in the countrys history. It was a place where a man might lose himself, and some did. When a man went west, he went with a clean slate.
In this unrestrained setting, Exempt From Fear continues Nick Wrights fictional saga of his great-grandfather, Timothy Barnes as he leads a handful of dedicated men from his former CSA Ranger command in confrontations not only with enemies from their past, but with newly discovered foes as well. The only failure to mar their wartime record has returned to haunt them. Once again, they must join forces to protect their friends and the fascinating group of women to whom they were attracted from villains seeking easy money and others seeking revenge.
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder throughout the War and survived. They believed in standing tall in the face of trouble, in being their own man, and to never let down a friend. These men were not trouble hunters, but when faced with it, they knew what to do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477263853

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© 2012 by Nick Wright. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/23/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6387-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6386-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6385-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012915828

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Exempt From Fear

"Things done well, and with care, exempt

themselves from fear."

Henry VIII, Act 1, Scene 2

William Shakespeare

Acknowledgement

There is an old joke that goes something like this:

A friend is someone who will bail you out of jail in the middle of the night. A good friend will be sitting beside you in the cell saying, We really screwed up this time, didn’t we?

Jokes aside, one of the themes of each of my books has been friendship. I value this attribute and I have been fortunate to have many friends, and more than a few good friends. More of each than I deserve, I’m sure. I considered listing my good friends on this page but decided in the end not to, in case, in a lapse created during a senior moment I neglected to include someone. Some good friends who are definitely on my list are no longer with us, but like Tim Barnes’ Dylan Walker, Craig and Paul will always be a part of me and my story. I hold a special place in my heart and in my memory for all of my good friends, but those were two of the best. The rest of you know who you are—thank you for being there.

The villains, scoundrels, and desperados you meet in my books are figments of whatever imagination I may possess. The reputable characters, those respected by their peers and by me, I hope you recognize. I have intentionally taken the most valued virtues of my real-life friends, good friends, and family and given them to my fictional ones.

And certainly, I would be remiss to not mention Ginger Wright and Bob Cabe, who encouraged me, put up with me, and even more importantly, assisted in the proofreading of this attempt. Thank you Ginger. Thank you Bob. This, as well as my previous efforts, would have never made it to print without you.

Nick Wright

September 2012

Preface

Before the War Between the States men trickled west by the hundreds. Their reasons were almost as numerous as those that took the journey. In 1862 Congress passed the Homestead Act, stating that a head of a family could acquire land consisting of one hundred sixty acres, settle it, and cultivate it for five years. At the end of the five-year period, the head of the family owned the land. The Homestead Act had a dramatic impact on persuading people to immigrate to California and Oregon. Along the way pioneers taking the overland route to these distant destinations sometimes found an area appealing to them and settled there, their migration ending.

After the War, the nation was booming; a railroad had stitched it together. In 1869, the completion of the transcontinental railroad linked the industrial East with the developing West. Wagon train trails like the Oregon and the Sante Fe became obsolete. With the rails came cattle, herded north from Texas; fortunes were made and lost in efforts to get them to Chicago slaughterhouses. With the rails also came the buffalo hunters with their deadly accurate .50-caliber Sharps rifles and the demise of the once-endless buffalo herds.

Many immigrants expressed the importance of escaping from fever-infested swamps of Mississippi, Missouri, and Louisiana. Some claimed to have never seen anyone in California with the fever or ague. Stories from early settlers writing back home extolled the high quality of crops grown along the west coast of North America. Reports of wheat as tall as a man, clover so dense a farmer could barely get into the field to harvest it, and turnips five feet tall, fueled the desire to ‘go west’. Many pioneers from the northeast and Midwest expressed a desire to escape from unpleasant weather conditions.

Following the reunion of states, men flooded west by the thousands. There were all kinds: boys in blue who had dreamed around wartime campfires of homesteading on the prairies—boys in gray escaping the South’s postwar anarchy to start anew. Soldiers from both sides who didn’t want to return to scratching out a living ‘back home’ on rocky farms and dull homesteads. They had been to war; had traveled; had seen and done things they could not have imagined in their antebellum lives. Now, they considered themselves ready for anything, and many of them were.

If something went wrong ‘back home’, a man, often with his wife and family, could go west. It was the answer to unemployment, bankruptcy, drought, and foreclosure. It was a place for the adventurous, the lonely, and the broken hearted. The West was open, full of hope, a refuge for the ambitious and the displaced. At the beginning of 1866, there were thousands of young men, veterans of both the Union and the Confederacy gathered in Nebraska and Kansas waiting for the warm winds of spring to lay track, or to grade, or to survey. They were tough, hardy, and eager. The new continental railroad and the other lines that soon paralleled it over the plains meant much more than a simple saving of time or improvement in comfort and safety for travelers; they meant a spreading and melding of the American people and an acceleration of their commerce.

The West was, of all things, a melting pot. Adventurers came seeking gold, new lands, and excitement. Gamblers, women of the oldest profession, thugs, gunmen, rustlers, horse thieves, miners, cowhands, freighters and drifters, all crowded the wagon-rutted streets of any western town at the any given time. Scoundrels by the hundreds went west seeking easy money.

The wide, expansive land beckoned, offering space and riches to those hearty enough to claim it. The West was wild. Much of it was wide-open country where a man’s life often depended on his horse. When men crossed the Mississippi River and left the settlements behind, the world burst wide open, the horizons spread out, and their world was no longer overcrowded. The vast, boundless plains, and farther west the awesome mountain barriers, attracted men looking for a place to start, or to start over. It was a place where a man might lose himself, and some did. Europeans, who had never owned a square foot of land to call their own, flocked to the American West. Men and their families beholden to the lord of the manor for their living in their native country often died owning more than the lord from whom they fled. When a man or a woman went west, they went with a clean slate. If you had courage, did your job, and were a man of your word, nobody cared what you might have been.

They went into an empty land harried by wind and thunderstorms, ripped by flash floods, beset by summer heat, frozen by winter cold. It was a big country requiring big men and women to live in it. There was no place for the frightened or the hesitant. In the west, it was not enough to be a thinker; one must be a doer. It was not for everyone. It is one thing to talk and plan an adventure. There is room for excitement and enthusiasm. However, it is quite another thing to actually begin a new life, to take one’s family and step into the unknown. For the most part they felt no regret for what they left behind, other than they left familiar fields, families, and the home in which they knew every board that creaked. Some people couldn’t stand it.

The American frontier was selective. It tended to eliminate the weak and the inefficient by one means or another. Civilization is always in transition; it seeks an appearance of order. Society becomes more modern as it loses the innocence of its past. People of all types went west, but for the most part, only the strong—physically and mentally—survived. The West had a way of trimming people down to size or changing them into giants to whom nothing seemed impossible. If many historical characters seem to resemble each other, it is because they—whether good or bad—shared many of the same characteristics required to survive against a backdrop that demanded all they could give—and often more. The frontier demanded self-reliance. The pioneers had to develop acceptable patterns of behavior in a totally new environment, drawing on their pasts but having to adjust to different situations and attitudes. Group thinking and peer behavior only went so far.

Some of the new arrivals had lost loved ones, some had gone bankrupt, and some were in trouble with the law. Many did not fit into any pattern. They were not the kind to become bank tellers, grocery clerks, schoolteachers, or ministers; those professions came later. The early arrivals were born with restlessness in them, an urge to move, to get on with it. Explorers, soldiers, miners, and others came and moved on. But the settlers came to stay. The settlers put down roots and greatly contributed to what the West became.

Western men were men from somewhere else. They came from the East, from Europe, from China. Many were veterans of the Civil War, men who fought for either side, men who were still intensely loyal to the cause for which they fought. Men coming west were poor and rich; beggars, thieves. But whatever else they were, they were strong men, ambitious men, or they did not go west. Of those that did, only the strong survived. It didn’t matter who, or what, a man was ‘back East.’ In the West, it mattered only that a man did his job, that he would stand if faced with trouble, and that he was dependable.

In many instances, the successful westward bound man was a lean and cold-eyed man who knew the risks but took them willingly. He feared God and no one else. He carried his rifle like an extension of his arm—as indeed it often had to be. He was the sort of man who would last in any venture. Often, hard living had already drained the juices of his body until all that remained was toughness and durability. Most would never accumulate much in way of worldly goods; nevertheless, he possessed all the qualities of a pioneer—courage, hardness, and a stubborn will that balked at no problem great or small. In later years, in a more tamed and civilized world, his kind were wasted; often they became itinerant outcast, scorned and betrayed, drifting with their eyes forever searching for new, distant, horizons.

Life in Western towns was at first patterned after that in the Eastern states or in Europe. Out of necessity brought about by shortage of supplies however, informality became more the rule and the new breed abandoned the puritanical attitudes of their predecessors. Improvisation became a necessary part of life. For a long time there was no, or little, law to protect the people—only scattered and limited governments in some towns or the territories. The first western settlements, under loose territorial control, had neither laws nor officers for enforcement. Thievery and violent crimes were generally unknown in the homesteading country, but the mining settlements and cattle-shipping towns often became so lawless that the only solution was a good rope and a short drop. In the East and in Europe, men settled affairs of honor with pistol or blade according to ritual. In the West, where men were often strangers to each other, they settled affairs immediately and with little ritual.

However, contrary to modern depictions, in towns, once settled, the violence and disruptions were usually restricted to saloons, dance halls, and red-light districts. Rarely did the ‘rougher element’ disturb church services, social affairs, or quiet evenings with the family.

The strong went west because it was a place for the strong; but not all the strong were good people. Much of the reunited nation endured a period of unemployment that, in turn, spawned a number of outlaw gangs. Nowhere was this more evident than in the burgeoning cow and rail towns of Kansas.

The West needed men, strong men, men good with a gun. The country had to grow. With growth came growing pains, and all the guns could not be on the side of the lawless. There had to be guns on the right, too. In a land with few law enforcement officials, someone must restrain the lawless. The law was around, but seldom in the way. Men handled their own difficulties, and courage was the most respected virtue, with integrity a close second.

It was all very well for people who lived in the East, or those who came later, to talk of peaceful solutions to everyday problems. But in the burgeoning West, day-to-day results came from men ‘with the bark on’. Men opening a new country: unbroken, uncurried, and fierce. Law slowly came to the West, and at first, it was the law of the gun. It was a time of violence, of men fiercely independent. A time when some men resented every slight and felt their only recourse was the Colt. But because of right-thinking men, who wore guns and were unafraid to use them, women could walk the streets, children could attend school, and families attended church on Sunday.

There was no time in the world’s history like the western expansion. In most ages there evolved a chieftain or a baron who brought peace to an area. In the West, it was often a man with a gun.

A man’s word was his bond. Thousands of head of cattle changed hands simply on the seller’s statement that there was that many. Men would not do business with a man with the reputation of unreliability; they treated him with contempt, or simply ignored him. Few activities in the country were free of danger from one quarter or another, so when a man went into danger he had to know that those with him would stand against whatever came.

No man would have anything to do with a known coward. The implication that a man was a liar or a coward was a deadly insult, and treated as such. A Western man would not run, would not hide. Some, usually unknowing Easterners, might erroneously call that masculine pride, but it was much more than that. In the West, fighting courage and skill were respected social virtues. These people had survived a civil war, had migrated west. They had fought Indians and outlaws and they had built homes where it took strength to build and courage to fight. The willingness to fight was a societal value of the first order.

In the west you didn’t ask, or care, where a man was from; if he proved himself a responsible person, nobody cared. They took a man for what he was and gave him the benefit of the doubt as long as he did his share and shaped up right. They counted a man who stood up when trouble showed. Tradition was important in Europe, even back East. But in the West, men were starting their own tradition, founding families, and building a country. The men who went west were individuals, men accustomed to handling their own problems, and most of them had grown up using firearms. Many were veterans of the Civil and Indian Wars; many were from the Border States, those states that bordered on the wild country: states such as Missouri, Arkansas, Iowa, Illinois, Tennessee, and Kentucky, and of course, Texas. They were often half wild themselves. These men were not trouble hunters, but when faced with it, they knew what to do. Although some only sought quick wealth, others brought the law, brought order, established homes and businesses. It was an exciting time to live.

Following the war there was tremendous increase in the demand for beef in the American East. To satisfy this need, cattle drives, originating in Texas, moved north to railhead in Kansas. In 1872 East Texas was still wild and wide open, with vast thickets of chaparral and good forests. It was lonely country, dangerous to strangers.

In the railheads of Kansas, the cows and the business were welcome, but soon resentment developed between the locals, often from the East and Midwest. Most locals, at least early on, harbored Union sympathies and the wild, brash Texas cowboys, many recently of the Confederate Army, were, at the least, an irritant.

There were many ways a man could die in the West. Work was difficult and hours were long, Often a man was alone for days at a time. Many were killed in Indian battles but many more died from thirst, starvation, or from a wound or injury obtained in an accident that occurred too far from adequate medical attention; if hurt, a man had to treat his own injuries, and survive if he could. The West had a way of absorbing people and leaving nothing to mark their passing.

However, there were those who went West who were simply too tough to die. They were not peace officers, or gamblers, or outlaws, and newspapers and historians often did not notice them. They were simply tough, game people who went about the business of surviving—and making the American West what it is today.

This story is about such men—and women.

1

A tactical retreat is not a bad response to a surprise assault, you know. First you survive. Then you choose your own ground. Then you counterattack.

—Lois McMaster Bujold

The setting sun bore down and the air was heavy with the oppressive heat that so often precedes a storm. Since mid-afternoon, first along the western horizon and then much closer, cumulonimbus clouds had slowly gathered. A current of warm air blew south across the Ohio River from Indiana, close and heavy and bearing the odor of decomposing fish and rotting vegetation. It was quiet. There was only the creak of saddle leather and occasional distant thunder—but not so distant now.

Overhead, a large bird effortlessly rode the humid, rising air, conserving energy. Little more than a black dot against the crowded, steely-gray thunderclouds, its six-foot wingspan remained almost motionless as familiar thermals carried it above the landscape below. Possessing little ability to reason, centuries had taught its species that certain patterns led to food. The bird’s entire existence depended upon this knowledge and it sensed that where such men as the ones below were, death would eventually follow.

Beneath the patiently circling buzzard and ominous clouds rode two well-mounted men, backs straight and heads up and alert in spite of their many hours in the saddle. They were hard men, bred of a hard and unforgiving existence. Their faces and hands were brown from exposure, their muscles heavy with fatigue; yet, they continued on. They had been tired before. Eyes red-rimmed from sun glare, from inclination and habit continuously scanned the changing scenery. They looked for nothing specific, but noted anything out of the ordinary. Each man held the reins in one hand, the other resting lightly on his thigh, never too far from the revolver on his hip. Too many battles, too many tense situations had taught these men that caution improved the odds on living to enjoy another sunrise.

Dust covered the men’s sun- and weather-bleached riding coats, their hats, and their horse’s flanks, but it went unmentioned, although not unnoticed, much like the gathering clouds and the circling carrion-bird overhead; like the increasing wind that moaned through the pines and hardwood trees like a lost dog. Caution replaced conversation.

A sumpter mule followed the riders, content, even eager, to stay in step with the horses. Its lead rope rarely pulled tight enough to force the beast to step faster to keep up. The mule saw the circling bird overhead and sensed the changing weather. It had its own instincts to rely upon.

Precursor of what was to come, a few oversized, cold raindrops fell, dappling the men’s dun colored coats and their felt hats as they reined to a stop. They paused for a moment to survey the two-track farm road with grass growing between the ruts leading into the cloud- and time-of-day darkened clearing that was their destination. It had been a long day’s ride and both men were ready to abandon the saddle for a while. Tim Barnes glanced to his left at his companion, Duncan MacQueen, and noticed the creases across his uncle’s forehead. Something was not right. If he needed further warning, Barnes felt William Wallace bunch his muscles and his ears leaned forward—his nostrils flared. William Wallace knew. Barnes sensed it in every movement of the big horse. William Wallace knew, just as every good cutting horse knows what is about to happen as it approaches a herd of cattle. William Wallace, like his rider, had an indisputable appetite for combat.

The sprinkle of rain gained impetus and grew to a steady downpour, drawing a gray veil across the clearing, limiting vision. Behind the rain came a roaring weight of wind. Both men unconsciously pulled their hats down tighter on their heads and drew up their coat collars.

Barnes’ left hand unbuttoned his duster and checked the position of the big La Mat revolver he wore in a shoulder holster. He had already removed the safety loop from the hammer of his sidearm in its open holster; he never used the flap-over-weapon military style. There was no change in expression on his sun-tanned face other than his eyes becoming more intent and darkened in shade.

Partway through the clearing, a deep, grassy park with forest on one side and the Ohio River on the other loomed an ancient oak tree. Its thick limbs twisted high and wide and provided ample shade on a sunny day; today however, it cast dark, gloomy, frantic shadows as the increasing wind tossed the limbs. Gnarled and twisted roots broke through fertile soil and extended out to force the old road to detour around the roots and the tree. William Wallace, named for the legendary Scottish freedom fighter, cocked his ears forward and Tim felt added tension in the once-wild horse’s body. Tim trusted the big black’s natural vigilance and he instinctively placed his hand on the old Colt on his hip.

With no warning, the menacing clouds sparked with a sudden flash and a shaft of lightning flared across the sky and connected with a tree on the distant side of the river. The tree exploded in a flash of flames and sparks and the odor of ozone, and immediately a deafening cataract of thunder rolled across the river, and then, as if choreographed to coincide with the dramatic lightning strike, Reynard Winslow stepped from behind the ancient oak.

Winslow and a man known only as Sharkey, along with a handful of other deserters from the U.S. Army, had stolen the sole surviving wagonload of arms bound for troops occupying Memphis. Barnes and his Arkansas Rangers were part of a combined force sent to prevent their delivery. During the extended battle at Dyersburg in western Tennessee, four of the five wagons were lost to a flooded river or by cannon fire. Winslow and Sharkey took the remaining wagon containing, at best estimate, one hundred new Spencer repeating rifles along with plenty of ammunition for them.

Duncan MacQueen, special investigator for the Confederate government, recruited Barnes from his position as guerilla leader of the Arkansas Rangers to track down the rifles and secure them for the Confederate States. Carleton Pike, a childhood friend of Barnes’, abandoned a lucrative trade as blockade-runner along the gulf coast to join the pursuit.

Standing in the semi-darkness beneath the giant oak, Winslow gave the appearance of a solo threat. However, his Confederate pursuers had learned enough about Winslow to know he would never face them on his own, alone. He was smart, crafty, devious, and deadly, but he was not a hero, nor was he foolish. Barnes and MacQueen knew Sharkey, and assuredly others, were close by.

They knew their enemy. Others were there, concealed in a rough semi-circle flanking both sides of Winslow, extending almost to the river on his right, across the farm road and almost to the trees on his left. Halfway up a hillock between the former Union officer and the river, two gunmen crouched behind a storm-blown tree that created a natural shooting blind. Another perched on a wide tree limb fifteen feet off the ground, accessible only by standing on his horse’s back to reach the lowest branch. Twenty yards to Winslow’s left two other gang members lay in wait partially covered by a bed of dead leaves in the shadow of a boulder left there by a prehistoric upheaval in the earth’s crust. Sharkey, Barnes reasoned later that it was Sharkey, silently prowled a game trail that ran parallel to the road on the south side of the clearing. Spaced along the trail were a half-dozen additional ambushers. From this vantage point, the scar-faced Sharkey and his squad could easily provide covering fire from three different perspectives. This was his kind of fight. Never lacking for personal courage, Sharkey still preferred to command the high ground, have superior firing lines, and to outnumber his enemy.

In addition to side arms, each of the attackers carried a Spencer rifle, capable of a firing rate of up to fifteen shots per minute. Those weapons were most assuredly from the shipment that disappeared during the chaotic fighting and atrocious weather at Dyersburg the previous summer.

Barnes, MacQueen, and Pike had pursued the missing weapons and the thieves for hundreds of miles: from Tennessee to Kentucky, across the Mississippi River into Missouri, north to Illinois, and then back across the Ohio River into Kentucky. Along the way, and before the pursuers closed the gap, Winslow and Sharkey had recruited a band of former Missouri side hill farmers, who, when the war broke out, had no particular interest in politics, but the prospect of loot interested them very much indeed. Led by Denison Cole, they first rode with William Quantrill’s Raiders, but they were too bloody and undisciplined even for Quantrill. Outlaws and thieves before the war, Cole’s followers took advantage of the protective coloration the conflict provided to release all their rapine, killing, and destruction. Their only regret so far was that they were not with the infamous Missourian when Quantrill raided Lawrence, Kansas soon after they deserted his command.

Cole was a desperate, undisciplined fugitive who fought for the highest bidder, or for the most profit from the least effort. Most of his followers were wanted men, pursued in various states for misdemeanors and crimes ranging from public drunkenness and brawling to theft, rape, and murder. Only Sharkey and Den Cole could keep them in line.

Soon after the recruitment, Winslow’s enlarged force, with the aid of the stolen repeating rifles, successfully attacked an Arkansas Ranger detachment escorting a Confederate shipment of gold, silver, and jewelry donated by Southern families. The loss of the shipment, destined for the treasury in Richmond to help shore up the flagging Southern economy, was a terrible blow to the Confederacy.

The attackers slaughtered twenty-eight of the thirty cavalrymen escorting the shipment; many of the victims were shot through the head or in the back as they lay on the ground—wounded and unable to defend themselves. After the fight, Cole and his henchmen passed among the dead and dying and bashed their heads with rifle stocks. The only two survivors were a recent young recruit named Evan and an experienced Ranger named Montgomery who had taken horses to a distant stream for watering. When the main body of Rangers arrived the following day, the scene was easy to read. Winslow, or more likely his men, wanted no witnesses. The theft was considered an act of piracy rather than an act of war, so Barnes’ commanding officer, General N. Bedford Forrest assigned Barnes to track down the thieves. The intent of the Confederates’ pursuit shifted from chasing stolen rifles to chasing murderers and a king’s ransom in treasure.

The Confederate pursuers, spurred by the massacre and the loss of the extensive wealth, had closed on their quarry often enough to recognize their prey—even to learn the names of the principals—Winslow, Sharkey and Cole. Former Lieutenant Reynard Winslow, U.S. Army, engineered the theft of the Spencers. He was supposedly the leader of the misfits but the truly evil Sharkey, did, and enjoyed doing, most of the dirty work when their recruits, led by the equally malevolent Cole didn’t beat him to it.

It was October 1864, and the Confederate States’ agents, after numerous false trails, unproductive leads, and incorrect and misleading tips, had arrived at this small cove on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River, following the best lead they had had in weeks. Not expecting to catch up with their quarry until the next day, Barnes and MacQueen went to the inlet to camp for the night and wait for Pike to rejoin them. Only when Winslow appeared did they curse themselves for riding into a trap.

Massive black clouds piled high and blocked out the evening’s last feeble light making it difficult for Barnes and MacQueen to distinguish Winslow’s features, but they recognized him. For too many months, too many miles, they had tracked this man. But where was Sharkey? Where was Cole? Where were the other men in Winslow’s outfit? They had heard Winslow now had as many as two dozen followers. Some reports put that number at twice as many—too many for even three highly skilled, highly determined men like Barnes, MacQueen, and Pike. And Pike was elsewhere, following another lead.

The Confederate agents knew enough about their adversaries to know that Winslow would not face them alone; he was ruthless but not stupid. Cautiously dismounting, Barnes’ and MacQueen’s weary eyes searched the broken shadows for potential hiding places on each side of the sunken farm road stretching the short distance between them and the man they pursued. Barnes’ expressive green eyes, which changed color with his moods, were almost black and they reflected the single mindedness demanded by situation.

Winslow, standing alone and feeling over-exposed, resisted an urge to wipe his palms on his pants, and realized he was not as calm as he wished to appear. His thoughts jumped as rapidly as his eyes. Where’s the third one, the one called Pike? He allowed himself a moment to glance behind his pursuers to see if Pike was holding back, staying in reserve. But he did that for only a moment; Barnes and MacQueen were trouble enough and he should concentrate on the enemy he could see. That damn Sharkey. He’s the one that fancies himself a bad man, him and Cole. Why did I allow them to talk me into being the decoy? What if Barnes and MacQueen shoot on sight? Sharkey or Cole should be here out in the open, not me. He watched the Confederates’ confidence and precision as they ground-hitched their horses and mule and wordlessly separated to opposites sides of the lane. Well, it’s too late now. It’ll soon all be over—the running, the hiding, first wondering if they would catch us and then realizing it was when they caught us, not if. They were not going to give up. Those Rebel agents are devils on the trail. It’s better that it ends now.

Following another clap of thunder, Winslow’s thoughts shifted again. After this, I must do something about Sharkey; he’s gone around the bend. I have no control over him, none at all; hell, he has no control over himself, and Cole is as bad as Sharkey. If I can’t control them, they have outlived their usefulness to me. He allowed a small smile. And when they are gone, I’ll have all the gold and what’s left of the guns, to myself. It will be easy enough to lose the rest of the crowd after that.

Winslow! The sudden shout brought the former Union officer back to the present, and the smile froze on his face. He could tell it was Duncan MacQueen, the oldest and most experienced of his pursuers who called his name. The most experienced, but not the most dangerous. The most dangerous was Barnes. These men had pursued Winslow long enough for him to learn that.

The single shouted word hung in the air as lightning flashed. Rumbling thunder and the smell of brimstone filled the glade. Winslow resisted the urge to cast his glance towards his men’s hiding places. He could not resist taking a sliding half step closer to the giant tree: easy, easy. The wind increased and in spite of the rain, a small dirt-devil filled with dead leaves danced toward him along the lane and then disappeared as if it had never existed.

Drop your weapon and…

The bellow of a Spencer drowned out any additional commands and a large .56 caliber slug struck MacQueen and spun him completely around. Almost immediately, the powerful rifle roared again and Tim barely had time to dive for cover before a slug buried into the tree he crouched beside. A volley of shots echoed from the surrounding trees and sent hundreds of woodland birds into panicked flight; they wheeled crazily overhead before seeking refuge across the river. Without delay, additional shots from a half-dozen hidden riflemen in a half-dozen locations joined the initial reports with a long roll of their own brand of thunder. A hail of bullets kicked up dirt, mud, exploded bark, and even limbs from the trees behind which MacQueen and Barnes had sought protection.

And then the storm struck with new fury. It came with a rush of wind and a crash of thunder and the glen became a confusing babel of activity. A blinding flash filled the cove as a bolt of lightning struck a tall pine not far from where they last saw Winslow.

Moments before, Barnes was wishing he had not sent Pike to question local farmers for information about the men they pursued. Now, he was glad his friend was not there. There was no need for all three of them to die; he and his uncle would be fortunate indeed to survive this lethal attack. But we won’t go quietly.

Shadows and the steel-gray curtain of rain saved MacQueen, at least temporarily. In the gloom, The first shooter’s aim was off; instead of hitting Duncan’s chest, the first shot tore away much of his left arm near the shoulder. A second score grazed his left side below the armpit breaking a rib, and violently knocked him off his feet. But Duncan MacQueen was a game man. Face down in the dirt one instant and on a knee with his pistol in his good hand the next, his first thought, as it always is with good leaders, was of his command. His voice already weakening, he called without taking his eyes from the last place he had see Winslow, I’m hit, Tim. I’m losing blood. You’ve got to get out of here, fast. His voice came in ragged gasps, I’ll cover your withdrawal. Using his one good hand and his feet and knees, he dragged himself deeper into the shadows, snapping off two shots at a blurred movement near the large oak. He thought about his rifle and his shotgun, both holstered on his horse, but he didn’t waste time wishing for something that might as well be miles away.

Unsure if the roar in his head was from the thunderstorm, the withering fusillade, or due to his injury, MacQueen’s stomach boiled and for a moment he thought he would pass out, but he fought through the nausea and the pain; he had to stay conscious to cover Tim’s retreat. He glanced across the trail to check on his nephew’s progress. What he saw and heard was discouraging, but not surprising.

Behind a tree too slender to provide protection, Barnes was more concerned with the pain in MacQueen’s voice than in the sudden, brutal attack. Not the tone, his uncle’s tone was the same as ever, calm, calculating, analyzing. It was not the tone but the voice that alarmed Tim; his uncle’s usually strong, self-assured manner was missing—replaced by hoarse, ragged breathing, and unquestionable pain. Tim couldn’t see through the downpour into the shadows where Duncan had crawled, but he had seen Duncan go down. Maybe the shadows will protect him from the attackers. He had seen his uncle twist awkwardly and his arm react as if at its own volition. He knew a slug from a Spencer rifle could knock a man from the saddle from a great distance and leave behind so much destruction that even if it weren’t a kill shot, the victim would often bleed to death. Again, he glanced toward MacQueen, saw his uncle crouched in the shadows, and wondered about the advisability of risking a dash to assist him. It isn’t that far. Tim had little concern for his own safety, but at the same time, it would help neither of them if he died trying to cross over.

I’m not going without you, Duncan.

You’ve got to, Tim. I’m not leaving here. There was no defeat in MacQueen’s voice, only resolve. He shifted his position, trying to make himself more comfortable.

Barnes heard a grunt of pain and then Duncan’s voice came again over the sounds of weather and incoming rifle fire, Get away, Tim. I’m hit bad. Dying can’t hurt any more than this wound. You take off—find Pike. I can hold them off for a while.

I’m not leaving you. Barnes called out loudly, hoping the attackers would hear him over the constant roll of thunder. You stay put. Pike and the others will hear the shots and be here soon. I’ll get to you as quick as I can. He and Duncan both knew that Pike was probably too far away to hear even the powerful Spencers with the constant thunder of the lightning storm. Moreover, there were no ‘others’, but Tim spoke of them all the same, hoping the attackers would overhear and it would give them something to worry about. Something to maybe buy more time. Sparks and flames flared against a dark background of clouds as the tall pine’s dry wood battled to continue burning in spite of the torrential rain.

Movement in Tim’s peripheral vision caused him to glance upward, in front of them. Overhead, a man crouched on a tree limb, dark against the drab, colorless sky, aiming practically straight down at MacQueen’s hiding place. Even in the rain-induced darkness, the rifle looked as if it was right out of the manufacturer’s crate. It’s a good thing I didn’t try to cross over to Duncan. The old, familiar Colt in Tim’s left hand barked and jumped and the figure above slowly crumpled forward, did a half summersault in the air, and fell to the ground. A moment later, a new Spencer rifle landed in the mud, beyond the man’s outreaching, but lifeless hand.

MacQueen had temporarily lost consciousness, but Barnes’ shot nudged him awake. He blinked, remembered his, and his nephew’s situation, and called out again, Get going Tim, I’m not sure how much longer I’ve got. There was a pause as MacQueen marshaled his strength, and then Barnes heard his uncle’s voice for the last time, You and Pike get them, Tim. Get these people, every last one of them.

And then, another murderous salvo from the remaining concealed deserters filled the glen.

2

The sufferings that fate inflicts on us should be borne with patience, what enemies inflict with manly courage.

—Thucydides

Blonde curls framed the classical beauty as her countenance moved, first near his face and then fading back, larger and smaller, in and out of focus. As the returning, refocusing face drew nearer, a bright smile spread across her vivid red lips and lit her sparkling blue eyes. And then, only inches away from his face, the friendly smile turned cold, the eyes grew mocking, and she began to laugh, a high pitched, derisive sound. It was daunting, almost a wail, and Tim felt foolish, embarrassed. Why had he said anything, done anything; why had he demonstrated his feelings? The face disappeared but the laughter continued in his head. He wanted to speak, to explain, to stop the ridicule, but his mouth felt full of cotton, his throat was dry and all he could do was croak her name.

Rebecca…

Rebecca Satterfield. He had had feelings for her at one time, or thought he had. She told him he was too adventurous for her; too easily pulled toward the unknown horizon, toward places yet unseen. Rebecca Satterfield…

He awoke with a start: he was cold—icy, teeth chattering cold. Cold in his wet clothes. Cold due to loss of blood. This was a different kind of cold than that in the nightmare, but he was still thankful that it was only a dream. Only a dream. He had slept as he always did, waking often, listening for a few minutes, and then slipping back into a fitful sleep. Long ago Barnes had established this pattern, and despite his exhaustion, he stirred before dawn. He had lived so long in situations where to sleep too soundly could mean death that he had lost the ability. What would it be like, he wondered, despite his indefensible position, to sleep a night through without concern? Without dreams?

He felt a spattering of rain on his face, and he opened his eyes to darkness. As he did so, he became aware, very much aware, of the pain wracking his body, and Rebecca Satterfield slipped from his thoughts, at least for a while.

His head felt like a keg half filled with sloshing water; difficult to manage and constricted, the metal hoops banded too tightly. Slowly, fighting nausea and fatigue, he battled his way back to full consciousness. There was no movement and no sound other than the dull, heavy beat throbbing in his head. Electric shock waves of agony exploded through his entire body when he tried to move. It was night—cold and black. His eyelids fluttered; nothing registered except obscure shapes in the darkness and the seemingly impenetrable jumble of brush and vines under which he had crawled. He couldn’t remember how he got there but his discomfort was such that he didn’t want to waste energy trying to figure it out.

There was the fetid odor of a river: decomposing fish and decaying vegetation. His eyes closed again—he was too weak to try to force them to reopen. There was nothing but odor, underbrush, and vines; and then the rain returned. It whispered through the treetops at first, and then mounted in an upsurge to new heights of fury. Brilliant flashes charged the atmosphere with electricity and he felt his skin prickle and his hair stand on end. A moment later, there was a deafening crash and with the thunder came hail that pounded him like bullets. Lightening continued to split the dark, boiling clouds followed immediately by cannon-fire thunder that shook the trees. It was like Shiloh all over again. In the brief lightning flashes, he surveyed the unyielding tangle of underbrush into which he had burrowed—and then consciousness went away again—he succumbed to a dark world where there was no thought—no memory, no pain.

Later, unsure how much later, he again struggled to consciousness. He fought the heaviness in his eyelids and imposed them open by sheer force of will, thankful that the dream had not returned. He still lay on his back beneath thick underbrush, but he wasn’t in the same location as before, or was he? Rain fell unceasingly but without its former violence and the thunder was a muted sound, far away. Occasionally a heavy drop of water dripped from the foliage above his face. The cool liquid felt good on dry, cracked lips; it was the best taste he had ever experienced. As he lay there, anxiously anticipating the next drop of water onto his face, he became aware of a stabbing pain in his right arm all the way to his elbow. Below his elbow, his forearm, his hand, and his fingers, were numb; he felt nothing. He shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs packed inside his brain but the action caused an agonizing pain to radiate across his head, shoot down his neck, span his shoulders, and course throughout his body. Shaking his head was not a good idea; any movement hurt.

He lay still, evaluating his situation. He ached all over; some places on his body reacted with excruciating pain when he tried to move, attempted to get comfortable. His body was cold and wet, yet his arm and head burned with fever. In spite of his riding coat, rain had saturated his clothes. Mud caked him front and back from slipping and sliding and crawling away. He couldn’t remember the last time he was warm or dry. He listened to the silence, trying to determine where he was and how badly he was injured.

How did I get here? Where is here?

He searched his memory but recalled nothing. His left hand brushed the empty holster on his hip and realized he had lost his revolver. The old, dependable Colt was gone; the one he had carried since the day in New York when Fearless Fehr killed the Sullivans. The gun he used to shoot Fehr at point blank range. In the face. The first man he ever killed. He remembered that.

Where is Duncan? And Pike? He remembered them.

Little scraps of unassociated events began to worm their way back into his memory. Again, he noticed the recognizable odors of a riverbank but chose not to move his head again to look for it. The Ohio? Yes, he was on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River. Okay—another fact to add to the others. The rain felt good on his face. He was uncomfortable in his wet and muddy clothing, but he had been wet and muddy before—too many times. He remembered that, too.

He recognized that his thoughts were jumping from one thing and then to other, often unrelated matters. I must concentrate, must work this out. He had always realized that he could die—quickly and alone. He was constantly aware that the time could come at any moment. Is this my time? If so, that was acceptable in wartime. War. I’m fighting in a war. In the millenniums of time, one man is a small thing and does not matter much. It is how a man lives that matters, and how he dies, not when. A man should live with pride and die proudly.

Will Duncan come for me? Will Pike? A memory stabbed at him and brought him a step closer to recalling recent events. MacQueen was terribly wounded, possibly dead. Was Pike dead too? Either way he needed to fend for himself.

He closed his eyes for a moment, or was it a minute, or an hour, or was it longer, before he lost consciousness again. He drifted off to troubled sleep and dreamed of a pretty, dark haired girl and a small campfire. Not the blonde-haired woman in the nightmare. He accepted that the girl was Rileigh Whitlow. She silently watched him across flickering, dying embers as she slowly repacked a picnic basket. She shook out and neatly folded an old tablecloth, placing it gently atop the basket’s contents, and then closed the lid. She stood, a sad expression on her face, and took several backward steps, holding his eyes with hers. Turning to walk away, she continued to look at him over her shoulder, as if expecting him to say, or do, something. A few steps beyond that, she turned her head to look at the ground, and walked away with a man waiting there that Tim had not seen. The campfire began to blaze with an intensity that should warm him to the bone and dry his clothes, but there was no warmth.

This dream, with Rileigh Whitlow, in many ways was more disturbing than the one with Rebecca Satterfield. He shuddered and shook in his sleep and ached for the warmth of the dream-fire and for the girl to return.

When, at last he finally awoke once more, the first thing he noticed was that the rain continued to soak him and everything around him. It whispered on the leaves overhead and the whole world was grey and black, shrouded by rain and night. This time he remembered riding into the cove with Duncan, and the brutal ambuscade; a deadly crossfire of men with repeating rifles. The Spencers. There were at least six attackers, perhaps ten or even more. They poured rapid fire into his and MacQueen’s poorly sheltered positions. He recalled the malevolent mixture of thunderstorm and the boom of repeating, high-powered rifles.

Where is Duncan? I know they shot him. He had a brief recollection of Duncan’s arm dangling unnaturally at his side. Where is he now? Does he need me? Yes, he needs me! I must find Duncan.

Tim tried to sit up but the constriction of pain tightened around his head and foul-tasting bile burned his throat. His vision, blurred, cleared, and then doubled before the images came together as one and the edges were no longer indistinct. His stomach rumbled from hunger, but he had been hungry before. His right hand felt as if he held a hot branding iron in his palm, but he had neither the inclination nor the energy to lift it to see what was wrong. He couldn’t do anything about it anyway, he determined. At least there was feeling there now, he still had his hand… His memory jumped back to Duncan MacQueen, crouching in the shadows, something horribly wrong with his left arm, calling to Tim to get away…

Something moved beyond his limited vision. He didn’t see it, wasn’t even sure he heard it, but he did sense it; there was something out there. What? Who? And then… A soft, sucking noise concentrated his erratic thoughts and brought them together as if that was the only event in an otherwise empty world. A foot, or hoof, or paw, pulled carefully from mud? A pause, and the sound repeated. Someone, or something, was approaching…

Trying to ignore the ringing in his head, Tim listened to the stealthy movement through wet undergrowth; occasional brushing sounds as thick foliage impeded cloth or hide or fur. Irregularly spaced, the slight sucking sounds continued as the approacher pulled his or her or its feet from thick mire left behind by the storm. The sounds were getting closer.

Am I too weak to fight?

No, I am not, He quickly answered himself. I can fight, I will fight, and someone will die before I go down. He worked his good hand to his left side holster. Empty. Where’s my weapon? He then remembered he has lost Doctor Sullivan’s Colt. He now had one