Rail's End

By Nick Wright

When the American Civil War broke out, fifteen-year-old Lucas Boone ran away from his home in Saline County, Arkansas and eventually became a valued member of General N. Bedford Forrests renowned Escort Company.

In the spring of 1863, before the battle at Brices Crossroads in eastern Mississippi, General Forrest ordered Boone on a mission with his most talented and trusted scout, Lieutenant Jubal Hazzard. Neither man ever discovered why Forrest selected Boone to accompany Hazzard who preferred to work alone. Attempting to return to Forrests headquarters with indispensable information, a Union patrol discovered them. Hazzard ordered Boone to return with their report; he stayed to cover Boones escape. Boone made it back; Hazzard disappeared.

Following the war Boone returned home fueled by his dream to marry Sarah Ruth Panman and his desire to reconcile with his father and reconnect with his family. He wanted nothing more than to live the remainder of his life as uncomplicated as the war years had been demanding.

It was not to be so simple. When he arrived home he was nineteen years old, highly skilled with most weapons, an able horseman, but all he knew was combat. And he had to amendment his long-cherished plans.

And, there was the nagging issue of Jubal Hazzard. What happened to him? Was he alive or dead? In their short time together Boone felt a kinship with Hazzard, a sense of emerging friendshipif there had been an opportunity for one to develop. He vowed to do all he could to discover what happened to the scout who sacrificed so much for Boones escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504968119

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Rail's End

NICK WRIGHT

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© 2016 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 12/22/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6809-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6808-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6811-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015920701

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover photograph by Nick Wright

Contents

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2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Books by Nick Wright

Spirits Remembered

Dust, Sweat, and Blood

Barnes

Exempt From Fear

Let Them Wait

Rail's End

Lochinvar

Sir Walter Scott

O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,

He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

I wish to again acknowledge and thank, my wife, Ginger, and my good friend Robert D. Cabe for their support and more importantly, their proofreading and suggestions during the writing of Rail's End. Without them I would be truly adrift.

1

I am not afraid ... I was born for this!

---Joan of Arc

You sent for me, sir? He spoke more to announce his arrival than to ask a question. Lucas Boone had as much confidence as the next man---some of the men in Escort Company may have thought he had too much, but they liked and trusted him and depended on him---that counted most. He exuded a hard self-assurance that came from repeatedly measuring his ability and knowing what he could do when all the chips were on the table. However, in the presence of The General he was different. Ol' Bed's black eyes could bore a hole right through a man despite his self-assurance. Some said he did it unknowingly, but Boone suspected that Bedford Forrest knew exactly what he was doing. Why not, he knew what he was doing in everything else.

Lucas would have been astounded to discover the men in the company discreetly referred to him as 'Little Bed'.

Even though Forrest had sent for Boone, Lucas didn't want his commanding officer to get the impression he was eavesdropping or sneaking up on the small knot of officers and their revered leader. They stood close together, their heads bent in concentration so he waited in the misting rain and announced his arrival from outside the small tent's tied open canvas flaps.

At the sound of Boone's voice, all five men looked up from the unfurled map spread across a too small folding camp table; rocks held down two curling corners, the other two were weighted by revolvers. The officers had apparently been studying the map for a long time. Something big was about to happen.

Boone recognized General Abraham Buford, commander of First Division, Colonel Edmund Rucker, a brigade commander in Second Division, and John Morton, Captain of Artillery. And of course, there was the man in command, the man Boone and the rest of Escort Company had sworn to protect, Major General N. Bedford Forrest, CSA.

In contrast to the neutral expressions of the other men in the overcrowded tent, the fifth man, the one Boone had occasionally seen around camp but did not know his name, made no effort to hide the frown creasing his forehead and reflecting from his gray eyes.

Corporal Boone. Forrest didn't offer to introduce the other officers. Instead, he went straight to the reason for Boone's presence, This is Lieutenant Hazzard. He indicated the frowning man with a glance in his direction. I'm assigning you to Hazzard for at least the next twenty four hours, longer if necessary. He paused briefly to allow Hazzard time to voice opposition, but not long enough to encourage it. Instead, his hawk-like countenance returned to Boone, Hazzard doesn't think he needs you, he said with his usual candor. He might not; he does a mighty fine job working on his lonesome. But he's going after information vital to our upcoming engagement and you're responsible for gettin' that information back to me so he can stay in the field.

Lucas Boone had heard of Jubal Hazzard. Everyone had heard of Jubal Hazzard, but until that moment he and most of Forrest's command thought Hazzard was a collective name; a name assigned to the composite deeds of several men. Possibly to the exploits of dozens of unknown, unnamed men. There were too many accounts, too many daring accomplishments to attribute to only one man, and 'Hazzard' seemed an appropriate name for the man or men who accomplished those deeds. But here he was, one man, flesh and blood; a flesh and blood man that continued to frown at Lucas Boone. A man of mythical proportions whom until that moment, as far as Boone knew, existed only in the vivid imaginations of soldiers passing time, and when available a bottle, around the campfire. Most of the stories were so outlandish they couldn't be true. Could they?

But there he was: the fabled Jubal Hazzard---looking more like a general out of uniform than a scout. He was nowhere near as large as Boone had pictured him ... shouldn't a man be as large as his deeds? But still, he was large enough, and he looked like he could handle himself in most situations.

According to the stories, Hazzard was one of Colonel Duncan MacQueen's 'Shadow Scouts', an unofficial moniker given them by the rest of Forrest's command. All of MacQueen's men, and MacQueen himself, were enigmas ... and legends. If the Scouts actually accomplished half the exploits the rumors suggested, they were indeed an exceptional and resourceful unit. No one knew how many scouts Forrest had; or if anyone did know they didn't talk about it. One of the tales currently circulating involved Hazzard and a scout from Major Barnes' Arkansas Rangers named Tremaine. Although semi-officially attached to Forrest's command, the Rangers didn't ride with Forrest too often. The General gave Barnes as much freedom as he gave MacQueen.

The rumor said that, under the cover of a new moon, Hazzard and Tremaine, and a third man from Barnes' outfit identified in the retelling only as 'The Cajun', infiltrated two miles of bog, forest, and finally across open fields to silently cut the throats of every sentry guarding a Union encampment. They accomplished the feat without firing a shot. Their bold act allowed Forrest and his men to ride in practically unopposed to capture one hundred sixty-eight men, their weapons and supplies, four cannons, and nearly two hundred horses and mules. The capture was a fact; as a member of Escort Company, Boone was there when it happened. The events leading to the capture were unclear, but the rumors, true or not, only enhanced MacQueen's men's reputation and the reputation of the obviously very real Jubal Hazzard. Not to mention the reputations of Tremaine and The Cajun.

Forrest's voice brought Boone's attention back to the group gathered around the map. According to Captain Jackson there's no better horseman in Escort Company than you, Boone; as your company commander he should know. I've observed you on several occasions myself and I won't argue the point. He looked at the gathered officers, spending an extra moment or two with his eyes locked on Hazzard, Jackson says Boone has a natural talent for horses; he understands them and they trust him. Plus, I dare say there's no finer shot with rifle or pistol in all of my command.

Lucas blinked with surprise. He had no idea that either General Forrest or Captain Jackson had ever noticed him before and now he discovered they both thought well of his talents. Forrest turned back to Boone who was trying to suppress a smile of pleasure, See the quartermaster for traveling rations for two men for two days and make sure you have ample ammunition. This is a covert operation, but it mightn't remain as such. If you do have a tussle, make sure at least one of you gets back here with Hazzard's report---at any cost. The searchlight eyes flicked again to Hazzard, briefly returned to Boone, and then to the map.

Boone was familiar with Forrest's brusk dismissals. He nodded in the direction of the map table and silently took his leave, pleased that the General had complimented him and admitted he had had his eye on him. He was not so pleased that, apparently, Hazzard was going to have his eye on him as well.

It wasn't strange that Hazzard and Boone had never met. There were several thousand men in Forrest's command---there were hundreds that neither of them had ever seen. On the other hand, both men stood out among their peers---Hazzard as one of MacQueen's men; Boone because he was a member of Forrest's Escort Company. Hazzard and Boone's tasks were quite different, although both were essential. Neither man dwelled on the significance of his duties---that they contributed was enough.

As one of the Shadow Scouts, Hazzard was seldom in camp, rarely participated overtly in campaigns. Often, even Forrest was unsure of Hazzard's and the others' specific locations. MacQueen knew where they were, or at least what their assignments were, and Forrest trusted MacQueen.

Escort Company was essential to Forrest's welfare and the men chosen to serve in Escort took their assignment seriously. The General was, except occasionally while in camp, never out of the Escorts', thus Boone's, sight. Where Forrest went, so went his Escort. They were not merely couriers or guards; they were a select force that rode harder and fought more fiercely than any other. When Forrest fought, so fought the Escort. If General Forrest charged the gates of hell, and there were many who said he would not hesitate to do that, his Escort would gladly, some gleefully, charge with him.

Relentless spring rain the past two weeks had left the encampment a quagmire difficult to navigate for men and horses, impossible for wagon traffic. On his way to the quartermaster, Boone, avoiding some of the larger puddles, considered his brief visit to the General's tent. The presence of so many officers and the introduction to Hazzard confirmed that an important event loomed on the near horizon. And now he, Boone, was directly involved; not only involved, but assigned to assist the most well known of all the scouts. But why was he involved, he wondered? There were plenty of good horsemen in Escort Company although, Forrest's compliment aside, few could shoot as well as Boone---from horseback as well as on foot. Perhaps that was why Captain Jackson recommended him.

Well away from the command tent and the scowling Jubal Hazzard, Boone allowed his face to crease into a pleased grin that did not match the weather. He was going to work with the famous Jubal Hazzard, if only for one day.

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Although Boone and Hazzard were from the same general area of Arkansas, they did not know each other before that rainy day in April 1864. Their backgrounds were completely different, although their predecessors shared many similarities. Like thousands of others, the war threw them into relative proximity, but they came to serve in Forrest's command by quite dissimilar routes and circumstances.

Hazzard was born and raised in Little Rock, the only child of a wealthy landowner and member of the state senate. He attended private schools until he went north to college.

Boone was born farther west, in Saline County, one of four children raised on a hardscrabble farm twenty-five miles from the capital city. He was a good student but attended the local one-room school only sporadically---his father needed him and his brother to help on the farm. Before enlisting, Boone had never been to Little Rock. He had never been more than ten miles from his parents' farm other than on hunting trips with his father and his brother.

Both men shared strong Celtic backgrounds. Although at different times and by different routes, their ancestors journeyed from Scotland to the east coast of the United States, west to Western Virginia, eventually into Kentucky, Tennessee, and finally to Central Arkansas. Those forbearers adhered to a system based on inflexible ideas of class and passed to each new generation their proclivity for finding and following strong leaders---or becoming one.

They were descended from the ancient Picts: wild, combative tribes who stared down the Romans across Hadrian's Wall centuries before. Their ancestors followed Rob Roy MacGregor and William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. Wherever Scots traveled, wherever they settled, they maintained an adamant independence, a willingness to fight on behalf of strong men when properly led, and a stern populism that prevented them from bending a knee or bowing a head to anyone but their God.

However, to the men engrossed in fighting the American Civil War in the spring of 1864, a man's ancestry or where a man was born, or what his father did for a living, was of little consequence to his companions. They respected a man who would stand and fight---a man they could depend upon to defend their flank. Could the man beside them be trusted to hold his ground?

Jubal Hazzard and Lucas Boone had the respect of their peers.

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Upon leaving the sprawling camp the two men rode in silence: each contemplated the mission, their enemies, and his companion. On that gray, misty day they would become well acquainted; over the next twelve hours events would forge an indestructible bond between them.

Boone was somewhat in awe of Hazzard, at least of his reputation. He was exceptionally talented himself, and he was willing to give credit to others for their successes, but those successes seldom overly impressed him. He used an extremely difficult-to-match measuring device for others: himself, although he didn't think in those terms and couldn't have put it into words if asked. However, he had heard so many stories about Hazzard he was naturally curious how much was truth, how much was fiction.

Hazzard was still annoyed that Forrest insisted he bring a messenger with him. He had never needed a messenger before---never. He didn't want or need a messenger. He could get the required intelligence and return with it as he had dozens of times before. To his credit, he was upset at the situation, a messenger forced on him, not the messenger. From what he had observed and what Forrest had said, Boone was an able and capable soldier.

What was it about Boone that Ol' Bed felt he should send the kid along? The General didn't act on whims; he had good reasons behind his decisions. Did he plan to transfer Boone to the Scouts? Perhaps expose him to the job with someone experienced before sending him out alone? Hazzard reminded himself that none of this was Boone's doing. Don't blame the kid for Forrest's decision. Don't jeopardize the mission because he disagreed with Forrest.

The scout was the older of the two, although he was not sure by how much, but he thought of his companion as 'The Kid'. Not because he acted like a youngster, certainly not because he looked like a kid---he didn't. Maybe it was because of his youthful enthusiasm, his confidence. Hazzard liked that in Boone, but somehow it made him feel ancient. Finally he broke the silence. It was time to make his companion aware of the circumstances. "Do you know why you're here?"

Boone's head came up and he chastised himself for allowing his thoughts to wander. His mind was elsewhere, his attention divided between his own curiosity as to why Forrest had sent him on this scout and thinking of Sarah Ruth. Mostly about Sarah Ruth---he often thought about her. Why am I here? Yes, sir. I'm to take a message back to General Forrest once you determine what that message is.

The scout nodded, but said, Not entirely. His head continued a slow swivel as he looked everywhere and, to Boone, seemed to see everything; nothing escaped the scout's keen eyes. You're here because I lost an argument, another argument, with The General. For the first time his face re-creased from the frown to a minute smile, completely changing his appearance---less intimidating, more handsome. I've yet to win one, Hazzard admitted with no reservations. I just argue now to show him that I'm paying attention. The corners of his mouth curled even more. Boone decided that Hazzard had as much respect for Forrest as did the rest of the command.

The scout turned his full attention to Boone, Did he say anything to you before the meeting?

No, sir. I didn't know anything about any of this until he called me into his tent; when he introduced you.

"Not sir, Boone. My friends call me Jubal---you may be more comfortable with Hazzard, but I don't mind Jubal."

Boone nodded. He did not consider Hazzard's remark as a rebuke or an attempt to put him in his place. He interpreted it as an opportunity to earn the man's good favor, which surprised him. He was seldom inclined to seek another man's approval.

They continued riding south along Wire Road, named for the telegraph line along its length, for a few more minutes before the lieutenant broke the silence again, I suppose you've heard the old saying that the cavalry are the eyes and ears of the army. He had a way of making a question sound like a statement.

I have.

Well, that old saying is true. The others and I, the ones the rest of you call Shadow Ghosts, and as you can see I am neither a shadow nor a ghost---we are the eyes and the ears of the cavalry---at least of Forrest's cavalry. You ever stop to think how it would be if you tried to fight a war when you couldn't see or hear.

Boone was already catching on to Hazzard's question-as-a-statement habit and remained silent.

Yes, continued Hazzard, that is what it would be like if MacQueen, Tremaine, and The Cajun, and several dozen others like them weren't out here---now you're one of us---at least until this mission is completed.

The younger man sat a little straighter in his saddle and thought it curious that his companion would mention Tremaine and The Cajun, both scouts not attached to Forrest, but to Barnes. Hazzard must have considerable respect for them.

Hazzard noticed Boone sit up and decided he might have over-stated his own importance. Now, I didn't mean to boast. It's the job that's important. If we didn't do it, someone else would. Maybe you, or others like you. Of course, he added with a twinkle in his eyes that was another new expression to Boone, others might not do it as well, he said with a self-depreciating shrug. Present company excepted, of course.

Lucas began thinking that maybe, if they spent more time together, as if that was going to happen, he might learn to like Hazzard---maybe even become friends. He appreciated the way the man, although imminently qualified to do whatever he was asked to do, had a way of minimizing his own importance and placing the focus on the tasks he performed.

As the corporal considered that, Hazzard interrupted again with an entirely new topic, How old are you, Boone?

Twenty four, sir.

No. You're not twenty-four.

"Not, sir?" Here I go again.

You are not twenty-four years old. I am twenty-four ... an old twenty-four, he added wryly, but still, twenty-four.

To Boone's surprise, the statement didn't come as a challenge, simply an observation. Others had challenged his age---many times, but not as often recently. Those encounters helped others formulate the opinion that Lucas Boone was fearless---he would fight anyone, anytime.

Let me guess, Hazzard continued, you lied about your age when you enlisted and you've been lying about it so long you've almost forgotten the truth.

How did he know that? Boone thought for a few moments. Nineteen, lieutenant.

There was a longer silence, and then, quietly, Nineteen, Boone?

Nineteen in a few months, sir. In six months, sir.

Jubal shook his head. The Kid is barely eighteen years old and has already fought three years under the command of one of the fiercest warriors on either side of this war. Hell of a way to become a man, isn't it.

Boone knew Hazzard referred to growing up while fighting a war, and said nothing at first, but he felt he owed Hazzard a response. Yes, sir, it seemed like a good idea at the time. He gave his own wry smile and added, I'd do it again---I think.

Following a shorter pause, Hazzard said, Look, Boone. As I asked before, don't call me sir; you don't need to call me lieutenant, either. They only made me an officer so I could draw a little more pay. Like that did me a lot of good. It's been so long since we got paid they could have made me general and not lost payroll in the deal. Call me Hazzard---or Johnson. That's the name I use most often when I'm ... away from camp. I'm going to call you Boone. Maybe Lucas ... later. There's rarely a need for rank doing what we're up to---as long as you remember that I outrank you. He actually smiled when he said that.

Yes, sir. Boone's response was automatic after three years of army discipline and he didn't realize for a moment that he had immediately done what Hazzard had just requested he not do. Instead of apologizing he shrugged in agreement, copying the lieutenant. He couldn't remember the last time any of the men received full pay---which was not in scrip---either.

Boone was only fifteen when he ran off to enlist. No one challenged his age at the time; no one in uniform seemed to care how old he was, or how young he was. He could 'shoot the wings off a gnat in flight' and they accepted him. He had enlisted to impress Sarah Ruth Panman, his girl. Sarah Ruth was the same age as Boone but she often acted like he was still just a kid. Everyone said the war would only last a few weeks, two months at the most and they were going to be married as soon as he returned home, although he couldn't remember for sure if he had told her that before he left. Also, there was the fight with his father; it seemed there was always a fight with his father about something. At the time, Boone considered the man a pig-headed tyrant who refused to listen. Now, Lucas realized he was the pig-headed one and he was anxious to get home and apologize---he realized his father was right about most things---but not about Sarah Ruth.

Hazzard had guessed correctly. Lucas had lied about his age so often and for so long he had almost convinced himself he was years older than he was. In fact, he had always felt older than his actual age; some days he felt twice as old ... older than Pa, even, and he was past forty.

Considering all of that, Lucas studied his companion from the corner of his eye. Hazzard carried himself with quiet dignity. Obviously he was competent, and confident. But beneath the poise, the military bearing, Boone recognized there was something very tough and dangerous.

Can I ask what our, your mission is? Boone said, not sure if he should ask questions of a legend, and hoping enough time had passed that Hazzard wouldn't think he was trying to avoid talking about his age---even if he was. He felt twenty-four years old. Heck, maybe even thirty-four, although that seemed terribly old, older even than Hazzard acted.

"Yes, you may ask---ask about anything you want to know---and it is our mission, not my mission. You need to know what we're doing out here. Like The General said, at least one of us has to get back with the information we're after---and we will get it. A lot of lives depend on it. The more you know about what we're doing the more concise your report will be.

The Yankees, led by Brigadier General Samuel D. Sturgis, left Memphis with approximately eighty-five hundred men marching this way. He gestured vaguely toward the northwest in the general direction of Memphis. "We're not for sure where he's going and we need to know. Some say Tupelo. Others think he's going into Alabama and maybe join up with Sherman. You and I are going to find out so Forrest can figure out how to stop him.

From this point on, Lucas, he spoke the younger man's given name as if testing to see how it sounded, "you remember everything you see: the road's condition, its bends, turns, width ... The trees, how close to the road, how thick are they ... Any buildings, houses, stores, sheds, barns ... the fields, size, shape ... even the crops. See everything; remember everything.

Eighty-five hundred Yankees marching this way? Lucas was used to being out-numbered but this was excessive, ... we've got barely a third of that; and no infantry.

Yes. Hazzard smiled again, but that time with little humor, Should be quite a fight.

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Later, as they approached Wire's intersection with Ripley Road angling toward the northwest, Hazzard pulled his rifle from its saddle scabbard. I don't expect trouble, not yet anyway, but that's often when you have the most of it---when it's not expected and you're least prepared.

Boone pulled his own rifle as they stopped just short of where the roads crossed. There were horse tracks and one set of wagon ruts in the mud, but nothing to indicate a large group had come through, at least not since the rain stopped. On their right was William Brice's two-story home, to their left his store across the road. This intersection is marked as Brice's Crossroads on the map we studied earlier. Our best information says Sturgis will advance from Ripley---soon. Hazzard's seemingly always-active eyes studied the surrounding area as he explained. He didn't need to announce that their first encounter would be with cavalry in advance of the infantrymen.

They sat and watched and listened but all they heard was the wind in the telegraph wire. Once they heard the slam of the Brice house backdoor. A few minutes later it slammed again leaving the two horsemen alone in the crossroads with the wind and the mud and over eight thousand Yankee soldiers between them and Ripley.

Boone noticed that Hazzard, like most Confederate cavalrymen, carried a full compliment of weapons. Both men wore a holstered side arm: Hazzard's was in a standard military-style flapped holster. Boone had cut the flap off of his, permitting the revolver to be worn with the handle to the front or the back. Where Hazzard carried a holstered horse pistol on his saddle, Boone had an abbreviated scabbard for the sawed-off shotgun that was so popular among Southern cavalrymen. Both men had a second pistol thrust behind his belt as well as a long bladed hunting knife, akin to the type attributed to James Bowie of Alamo fame. In addition to all of that, each had a carbine.

Nice piece, Boone said, when he noticed his companion's repeating rifle; Southern soldiers didn't see many of the rare weapons.

To his surprise, the scout lieutenant extended it toward him. Only had it a couple of weeks. If we could afford these, we'd win the war in six weeks, he predicted.

Boone, knowing 'we' referred to the Confederacy, took the offered weapon and admired its balance and the lever action. How many shots?

It'll hold sixteen with one under the hammer. They tell me that if a man's experienced at reloading, he can get off twenty-five to thirty rounds a minute. I haven't had time to practice that, yet. Word is, both side's War Departments are leery because ammunition would be too expensive with everybody shooting at that rate.

Neither man looked at the other as they talked. They kept the intersection, the forest crowding the two roads, and the house and store, under constant surveillance. Boone listened to and remembered everything Hazzard said; he was a good listener.

The younger man whistled in admiration. He had heard of, but never seen a repeating rifle. Until that day, like Jubal Hazzard, he only half believed it actually existed; that it was only something else to talk about around camp at night. One man said you could load them on Sunday and shoot all week without reloading ... an exaggeration, but still ...

This was a singular day for Boone---two campfire myths explained. The legends about the questioned existence of MacQueen's scouts in general and Jubal Hazzard in particular were true; as were The Cajun and Tremaine. And now, the improbable rumor about a sixteen shot repeating rifle, also proved true. Another thing added to the specialness of the day---he was nearing enemy lines with one of the vaunted scouts who possessed a repeating rifle.

Henry? Boone ventured, reciting the name he had heard in conjunction with the repeating gun.

Yep. Henry .44 caliber. Rim fire.

You boys, the scouts. Were you issued these? He didn't even try to hide the envy in his voice.

Hazzard chuckled. As far as I know, only Jeff Davis' bodyguards have them for the Confederacy. For the rest of us, the only men to have them are those who have access and the money to buy them for themselves. The Yanks have them; some do anyway. I've heard that they're starting to issue them to cavalry units. He stopped to scratch the back of his neck, That one belonged to a major in a regiment out of Indiana. We were involved in a brief skirmish; I brought it along with me when the fighting ended---the major no longer needed it. He locked eyes with Lucas and added, I hate to predict it, but we're going to go up against these things more and more often.

Boone did not like the sound of that.

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You ready? Hazzard took a last look over his shoulder at the empty road behind them.

I am, responded Boone gathering his reins. And then, You tell me what to do, and I'll do it. I'm more used to thundering into battle beside The General at full gallop. I've had little experience with stealth.

The lieutenant smiled to himself at the younger man's honesty and his preparedness to admit he didn't know everything. Better still, Boone's expression of willingness to listen to, and follow orders impressed him. Maybe this would work out better than he first expected if the younger man continued to listen in order to learn. We're going up the Ripley Road, I'm not sure yet how far. According to the map, there's a bridge over the creek not far along. He made a clucking sound with his mouth and both horses started forward at a slow walk. First lesson: don't trust the accuracy of maps. Investigate everything for yourself. Depend on what you see---your best information comes from your own observations.

As they advanced, one on each side of the muddy road, the ponderous sky, threatening since before they left camp, opened once more and began to pour additional rain upon an already saturated landscape. They donned their slickers without stopping, without taking their searching eyes off their surroundings.

Tishomingo Creek was right where the map indicated, its surface pocked by steady rain. Almost as soon as they clattered across the wooden, rail-less bridge, Hazzard's head came up, cocked to the side and listening. Riders coming! Follow me! Even in his haste he was pleased to note that his companion didn't waste time asking questions or even to look around. He kicked his horse in the ribs and followed the scout into the timber-laced plateau area that closely bordered the creek and the road it crossed. They worked their horses through thirty yards of heavy undergrowth, tied them, and then struggled back the way they had come so they could again observe the road.

Stopping for a moment beside an ancient, lightening struck tree Hazzard took a three hundred sixty degree look around. There, he pointed toward a pine, towering almost twenty feet higher than those surrounding it and almost a half mile away to the south. That tree; the tall one with the flattened top. After you report to Forrest and if he sends you back for whatever reason, we'll rendezvous near that tree. If I'm not there after six hours has passed since we parted, I'm not coming.

At the road, it took so long for the column to arrive that Boone was beginning to wonder if Hazzard was mistaken about hearing approaching riders. The time spent waiting gave him an opportunity to consider what Hazzard had said about the rendezvous, but he didn't want to make unnecessary noise by asking questions in case Hazzard was right.

The appearance of a dozen riders, all in mud-splattered blue uniforms in the middle of the muddy road almost directly in front of them brought Boone back into the moment; his mind had wandered to Sarah Ruth again. Most of the Union cavalrymen dismounted, leaving an officer with a single gold bar insignia on his tunic mounted and studying the road in the direction from which Hazzard and Boone had recently ridden. The officer was pink-faced and clean-shaven, except for a walrus moustache too big for his face, which made him look even younger than Boone's actual age.

They were advance scouts for Sturgis, doing basically what Hazzard and Boone were doing, but without the good sense to stay out of the middle of the road. What do you make of it, Sergeant? asked the young lieutenant, resting his binoculars on his thigh.

The two concealed Rebels were near enough to hear the Yankees' conversation, but far enough away to communicate quietly with each other without the risk of being overheard. The sergeant, old enough to be the lieutenant's father, answered, We should rest tha horses, sir. The mud suckin' at their feet is wearin' 'em out. If this cursed Mississippi rain don't stop an' the sun don't come out soon, I hate to think how it'll hamper our foot-troops an' supply wagons. An' this road's so narrow, it'll take forever to get them troops down here. He motioned toward the side of the road and Boone thought for one sickening moment the sergeant was waving at them, The trees're so close and the brambles so thick, the men'll hafta stay on the road; there ain't no room for' em to spread out to speed up the advance. An' that bridge, he nodded toward the creek, will cause a bottleneck for sure. The men'll hafta use the bridge. The cricks' too deep and the banks on both sides're too marshy for the men to wade. It's gonna be slow goin', he iterated.

Hazzard moved his head and put his mouth near Boone's ear, That sergeant just gave you a big chunk of your report. Did you get it all?

Boone kept his eyes on the Union soldiers and nodded. He had never been that close to an enemy soldier without shooting at him---and the enemy soldier shooting back. Do you see the rifles in their saddle boots? he whispered back.

I do.

Are they ... ?

They are.

Uh, oh. Boone made an addition to his report. Each member of the patrol had a new-out-of-the-crate Henry Repeating Rifle identical to the one Hazzard had in his hands at that moment.

The youthful Yankee lieutenant drew a drink from his canteen and nodded his head in agreement. The best we can hope for is that Johnny doesn't know exactly where we are or how slow we're gonna be moving. If they catch us out here it'll get nasty, quick. He turned, resting one hand on the saddle's cantle, Corporal, get back to Stubbs' farm and inform General Grierson of the situation down here. He'll know what to tell Sturgis. Tell him we'll proceed down and secure the crossroads and wait for him there unless he sends different orders. You wait for a reply and then report back to me at the crossroads.

The corporal remounted and splashed through the muck and rain back in the direction from which they had come. As he drew out of sight the lieutenant said to his sergeant, Grierson'll be about three hours ahead of Sturgis. If he gets down to the crossroads before the Rebs, we'll have enough men to hold it until the infantry troops arrive. That, too, went into Boone's lengthening report.

As the two Confederates began working their way through the dense undergrowth back to their horses the rain slacked to a drizzle, not much more than a fine mist. Struggling through the brambles Hazzard explained, Grierson's in command of Sturgis' cavalry. You've got to tell Forrest what we heard. Be sure to include how far behind the cavalry the infantry will be. And don't forget about those rifles---that's a lot of firepower. And the terrain---pass on everything you have observed. I'll stay and see what else I can learn.

Even as Boone swung into his saddle, he had a bad feeling about leaving Hazzard; the men of Forrest's Escort Company did not leave comrades behind. But this wasn't the Escorts, and this assignment was different than any he had ever had before. His responsibility was to get the report to Forrest: at any cost, were Forrest's very words.

Before Boone got comfortably seated they heard a shout from near the road. Lieutenant! Rebs in the woods.

Get outta here, barked Hazzard. A shot rang out, and then two more. Boone thought of the repeating rifles the Union cavalrymen carried. Eleven men with sixteen rounds each. Over one hundred sixty rounds before they collectively had to reload. He didn't like the odds.

Hazzard spun and began emptying his own Henry toward the soldiers crashing through the scrub toward them, unhurriedly measuring his shots from left to right.

Almost immediately Boone heard a grunt of surprise and looked over to see the butt end of the stock on Hazzard's Henry explode in splinters from an almost too accurate bullet. After the next shot Hazzard released the rifle and dropped to one knee, grabbing his side below the ribs. Blood seeped from between his fingers. At least one of the Yankees was an excellent rifleman; and he was using a breech-loading repeater.

Lucas leaped from his saddle and wrestled Hazzard to his feet and then onto his horse. A dark red spot spread slowly outward from a hole in Hazzard's shirt but he had his belt pistol out and was firing at the Union cavalrymen slowly advancing through the almost impenetrable vegetation. Get back to Forrest, Boone, the scout groaned through clinched teeth. That's an order---that's what you're here for. I'll try to lead them away from you.

Boone pulled his own rifle from its saddle boot and thrust it into Hazzard's hands along with the revolver from behind his belt. Luck, he said as they made brief eye contact. A lengthy, silent conversation passed between the two men in that transitory moment before Hazzard nodded, a gesture that spoke volumes and sealed a relationship between the two like-minded soldiers. Without another word, Jubal leaned forward along his horse's neck and moved away to decoy the Yankee patrol away from his courier.

Don't forget---the tall, flat-topped pine, he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the densely packed trees.

I'll be there, Lucas assured Hazzard, although he was unsure if the scout heard him. He drew his holstered pistol and was about to start shooting at the patrol to cover Hazzard's movements before remembering that Hazzard was supposed to cover his escape, not the other way around. Reluctantly, he holstered the gun and began leading his horse south and east through the woods until he was certain the sounds of gunfire behind him were all centered on Hazzard and no one pursued him. It was then he realized that when he gave his rifle to Hazzard, he had replaced it in his saddle boot with the scout's destroyed rifle he had unknowingly scooped up from where it had fallen.

Wondering what he was going to do with a busted rifle, he slipped it back into the saddle boot and concentrated on survival. Finally arriving back at the road, he waited on the edge of the tree line to check for additional Yankee activity. It was empty in both directions; the patrol apparently was still in the woods searching for Hazzard. He guided his horse to the less deep mud on the outer shoulder and made his way as fast as conditions allowed back toward the Crossroads.

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The misting rain had stopped and Lucas Boone sat beneath a large oak tree as the rest of the camp bustled with activity, preparing for an anticipated call to arms. Men waited in various lines to receive rations and ammunition, others fussed with sputtering wet-wood fires to prepare what could be their last hot meal for the foreseeable future. For some, it would be their last meal.

He had delivered his report to the General's aide and now waited impatiently for a response to his request to return south of the crossroads to rendezvous with Hazzard. No one seemed concerned that the clock was running on the six hours he had to get back to the misshaped pine tree. He was considering the ramifications of not waiting for confirmation and riding back to look for Hazzard immediately. Forrest was a stern disciplinarian but it was he who ordered him to go with the scout. It was Forrest who said he was under Hazzard's command for the foreseeable future. Surely the General would understand if Boone went back without authorization ... wouldn't he?

His mind was so occupied with Hazzard he didn't notice the occasional cold, wet droplets from overhead that found their way inside his coat and down the back of his shirt. He held Hazzard's shattered rifle, turning it over and over in his hands, appreciative of the craftsmanship, examining the damage.

The first Yankee bullet splintered the polished hardwood stock near the shoulder plate. The second, and possibly the one that also wounded Hazzard, ricocheted off the barrel, clipping away a coin-sized chuck of metal six inches from the end, bending it, rendering it unusable. He had forgotten about Hazzard's rifle in his haste to get back with the report. But now, while impatiently waiting, he studied the once finely crafted weapon, now only a piece of junk.

What ya got there, Boone?

Lucas looked up to see Marin Kellogg, another member of the Escort. Kellogg was an older man, one of the oldest in the company ... about Boone's father's age when he last saw him. Kellogg was the primary reason Boone had finally begun to look at his father differently than when he ran away from home.

Kellogg had taken to Boone early on and they had established a friendship. He was a craftsman from Birmingham, able to make or repair practically anything. He was responsible for most of the sawed-off shotguns used in the company, and almost everyone had one. Any time someone captured or confiscated one of the popular weapons, they took it immediately to Kellogg. Hear ya got drafted inta helpin' out tha Ghosts. He made a casual gesture toward the south and Brice's Crossroads.

Howdy, Kell, Boone answered, with a quick glance at the maddening inactivity around the command tent. What was going on in there? Yeah, they needed a courier and somebody figured I was getting lazy and needed something to do, so they sent me.

The older man squatted down facing Boone and sat back on his heels as he bit a chaw from a twist of tobacco. We both know they don't send lazy folks out on missions like that, Boone, he said to let his friend know he was fooling no one. Ya seem down. Diddin ya git what ya went after?

No, we got it. Boone wasn't as enthusiastic as he was earlier after receiving his orders from Forrest. Twelve hours ago he didn't know for sure that there was a Jubal Hazzard. Now he felt responsible for him. I met Jubal Hazzard---he's real, Kell. I went on the scout with him.

I'll be danged. Kellogg spit and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Lucas from the corner of his eye. An' Tremaine, was he along? An' tha Cajun? He laughed to let his friend know he was teasing.

They're real, too, Kell, Boone said enthusiastically, momentarily forgetting his problem. Lieutenant Hazzard told me about them.

I'll be danged, Kellogg repeated. So, why so blue?

A Yankee patrol jumped us. Lieutenant Hazzard, he told me to call him Jubal, took a bullet but ordered me back here with the report anyway. He led 'em away so I could escape. I don't know how bad he was hurt. Before they spotted us he set up an emergency rendezvous spot and a time limit. I need to go back and find him---if I can. Time's running out.

Kellogg nodded. He knew how conscientious his young friend was. Whatcha got there? He nodded at the broken rifle.

Boone handed the useless rifle to his friend and explained what happened and why he still had it. As they talked, Kellogg studied the breech-loading weapon. Lucas was aware of Kellogg's interest in firearms and he knew the man would study the mechanics of the breech-loader. Probably make one now that he sees how they work, he thought admiringly to himself.

Boone! The voice boomed, even over the clamor of the camp's preparations. Lucas looked up to see none other than Major General N. Bedford Forrest standing just outside his tent, staring straight at him like a bird of prey. One of Forrest's fisted hands was on his hip; the other slapped riding gloves against his thigh.

Uh, oh, muttered Kellogg with a quick glance at Boone, I've seen that look before. Luck, he added, a little louder, but not loud enough for anyone else to hear. He got up and walked away in the direction opposite of Forrest.

Yes, sir. Boone had seen that look before, too. It was the look that came over Forrest before he led a charge against the enemy. It was also the look he wore when he was angry---at someone or at a situation. The Escort corporal jumped to his feet, forgetting about Kellogg, the broken rifle, and almost forgetting about Hazzard. He had great respect for the look on Forrest's face. In a few short strides he was facing his commanding officer, offering his snappiest salute and most erect posture.

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In order to avoid another encounter with the Union patrol, Boone took a wide swing to the east of Brice's store, avoiding the intersection entirely. That route cost precious time, but he could do Hazzard no good if shot, or captured, or chased away in the wrong direction. Thick blackjack and scrub oak conspired to slow him even more, but eventually he reached a point half a mile south of where the roads crossed. He impatiently scanned both directions along Wire Road a final time before urging his horse across the muddy track and over a ditch, which put him in a pasture with two milking cows, a sad faced burro, a team of plowing mules, and one pony, all of which must have belonged to William Brice. The animals looked up, noted his presence, and then ignored him, blissfully unaware of the chaos and havoc soon to overrun their tranquil field.

Lucas hoped the Yanks would be as heedless of his passing; time was running out.

More than four hours had passed since he parted with Jubal Hazzard. How bad was the scout wounded? Was he able to ride? Had they killed or captured him? What would the Ghost Scout do at the end of the six hours if Boone hadn't arrived? He shook off a troubling mental picture of Hazzard lying unconscious under the tall pine tree, or perhaps engaged in a gun battle, bleeding and waiting for Boone to return. Somehow the cavalryman knew the scout would not surrender willingly. They couldn't capture a man of Hazzard's abilities and reputation---they could if he was unconscious. Whatever was happening, negative thoughts were counter-productive and Boone forced them from his mind.

Forrest was indeed angry when he had stepped from his tent and called for Boone. Angry not with Boone, but at his aide for waiting to inform him of Boone's return with his excellent report, that evaluation came from Forrest himself, and of the missing Hazzard. You've executed well, Corporal, the general said, after listening to the report first hand. Now, go find Hazzard and bring him back. He's a good man, a good soldier. Do what you must to find him---I need 'im. He stopped and studied Boone's face for a moment, his expression giving no hint as to what he was thinking. I'd send a squad with you but I believe you'll move about better if there is only you. You'll make less noise, attract less attention. He paused for the briefest second, I understand he gave you a time limit. Come back if time runs out. Either way, I want a report on your return. He turned on his heels and reentered his tent. Over his shoulder he called, Immediately on your return.

So now Boone, alone, crossed the pasture on the west side of Wire Road. He thought he recognized the tall, flat-topped pine in the distance, but was unsure because the angle was different than before. There was a good chance it was the right one, though---it was the tallest one he could see and there couldn't be too many similarly shaped trees in the forest.

As was his habit, he inventoried his weapons. He didn't have his rifle or his belt pistol---he had given both to Hazzard. He did have his open-holstered side arm, his belt knife, and a sawed off ten-gauge shotgun, which he pulled free and carried across his body, the abbreviated barrel resting in the crook of his left arm. The sawed-off was better among the closely packed trees than a rifle.

He had less than ninety minutes.

Two long hours later Boone was frustrated, anxious, and confused. He had traveled in a half-circle until he arrived at the correct angle on the tall pine and then approached with vigilance, not knowing what to expect---prepared for whatever he might find.

He found nothing. He heard no sounds of patrols, no reports of gunfire, nothing, except for one raven-winged crow that announced loudly and at length his disapproval of Boone intruding on his territory.

Like most boys of the mid-nineteenth century, Boone had spent much of his youth in the woods hunting game for the dinner table. He was an excellent marksman but did not consider himself a good tracker. He could follow tracks and occasionally other signs of wild animals, but as to reading a scene and determining what may have occurred there, he had much less confidence in his limited abilities. He had dismounted a distance away from the rendezvous pine and approached carefully, trying to determine what had happened to Hazzard. As far as he could tell the scout had never arrived.

He walked a wider circle around the tree, examining everywhere he thought to be a possible hiding place: for Hazzard or for concealed Yankee soldiers waiting for his return. Nothing.

Corporal Boone remounted, enlarged his circle, and again discovered nothing of use. No indication Hazzard ever made it to the appointed location: no sign of a skirmish, no suggestion of a search for Hazzard by the patrol that discovered them. Twice, he was sure he heard horse patrols out on the road, but determined both times the riders were not concerned with anything in the deep woods. He neither heard nor discovered anything else, except the return of the crow with an extremely vocal murder of reinforcements.

He returned to the spot where they shot Hazzard and tried to follow his path through the dense undergrowth, to no avail. Once, he found a blood spot and then a second one. In another place he found where Hazzard had apparently fallen from his saddle and struggled to remount. There was nothing else---nothing with which to work. Disappointed and discouraged, Boone remembered Forrest's orders to return if he hadn't found Hazzard by the end of the six hours. That deadline had come and gone.

Reentering the pasture beside the Wire Road he discovered Hazzard's horse grazing with Brice's mules, burro, and pony. The frightened animal had found a like-species and settled in with them. It couldn't have been there long or Boone would have seen it the first time. Boone's rifle was still in the boot and the big horse pistol was in its saddle holster; his saddlebags were intact. There was dried blood on the saddle but not as much as Boone had seen on other saddles in other situations. Hazzard could still be alive, wounded and afoot. He had Boone's belt pistol, so he was armed. But where was he? Lucas gathered the trailing reins and returned to the woods.

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My apologies for returning late, sir, but... It was well after dark as Boone explained to Forrest why it took him so long to report back after his search for Jubal Hazzard. He gave a detailed account including his return to the