Ferris Station

By Larry Boucher

Jim Coker leads an undermanned troop of Union cavalry in the fight against marauding guerilla raiders in Kansas. John Jacobs, a vicious half-breed, with a personal vendetta against the owners of Ferris Station, leads a band of guerillas, against the homesteaders of Southeastern Kansas, both for personal gain and the lust for murder. After several raids are thwarted by the cavalry, Jacobs hatches a plan to make the Arapaho Indian tribe go on the war path. Thus taking some of the army pressure off him and his band. As the viciousness and frequency of the raids by both Jacobs and some revenge-seeking Arapaho warriors’ increases, the homesteaders’ band together to make a stand at Ferris Station. Jim, working with the son of an Arapaho elder, must try to quell the possible Indian uprising and defeat Jacobs and his guerilla band to save the woman he loves and the homesteaders at Ferris Station.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645318897

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jim Coker woke suddenly, his hand snatching the pistol out of the holster beside him. Looking quickly around, he couldn’t see or hear what had wakened him, so he looked over at his horse tethered ten feet away. He could see the outline of the buckskin against the stars, head up, ears forward, looking to the east. Its nostrils were flaring as it tried to catch a scent on the wind. Throwing off the blanket, he shoved the gun into his waistband and scrambled over to the horse.

Reaching up, he put his left hand over the gelding’s muzzle and used the other to scratch the horse behind the ears, speaking low and soothingly, Easy, boy. I’m right here.

Southeastern Kansas in 1862 was no place for a lone traveler to be caught off guard. The Civil War had started border raids back and forth between Kansas and Missouri. The Confederate army and numerous raiding factions were continuously trying to stir up the Indians just south of here in the Indian territories. Any unprotected camper or farmer was a prospective target for attack.

Being a corporal in the Union army, he knew he would be a prime target to any group of Southern sympathizers.

His camp was situated in a small stand of trees about a hundred yards above the Spring River in South East Kansas. On the other side of the river, a frequently used trail wound through the brush and trees along its bank. The night was clear and crisp. Sound carried well, and while far enough from the trail to prevent detection, he was close enough to hear what was happening below.

He was returning to Fort Scott after delivering a dispatch to Fort Gibson, south of the Kansas border in Indian Territory, and had hoped to make it to Ferris Station before dark. Realizing he wouldn’t make it, he’d found a protected spot off the trail and back in the brush. There, he’d settled in for the night.

With the constant threat of guerilla raids and the occasional Indian trouble, he didn’t want to approach the station after dark. Many edgy guards were known to shoot with little provocation.

As he comforted the animal, a gentle breeze stirred his dark hair and the gleam of the moon reflected on his grey eyes. The length and width of the shadow cast by the light of the moon made his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame seem much larger.

Now that he had the horse settled down, he listened intently and, a moment later, heard the distant sound of a horseshoe glancing off a stone. A few minutes later he could make out the distinct sound of several horses and the occasional creak of saddle leather as a group of riders rode along the trail across the river.

Keeping his hand over the horses’ muzzle, he made a mental count as the group passed and determined that between twenty and thirty riders were moving along the trail. Because of the occasional leather noise and an overheard hushed word here and there, he eliminated the possibility of Indians.

Aware that many raiders were former military men, he waited after the last of the riders had passed for about fifteen minutes in case they had a rear guard. He was rewarded with the sound of two more riders.

Once the group had moved a sufficient distance away, he quickly broke camp and saddled the buckskin. Mounting, he sat for a moment to study the situation. He’d grown up in this part of Kansas and knew that the only crossing of the Spring River on the trail the riders were currently following was roughly ten miles north of here. If he could beat them to the crossing, he might get an accurate body count and possibly determine the direction they were heading. He could then start north to Fort Scott to report the raiders entering Kansas.

Swinging the horse northwest and kicking it into a gallop, he started a long, fast circle to reach the crossing ahead of the horsemen.

An hour later he reined in on the bank of the river a hundred yards south of the crossing. He sat for a moment listening for any sound of the approaching raiders, and once satisfied they weren’t near, he nudged the buckskin down the steep bank and into the water.

Walking the horse in knee-deep water along the edge of the river, he found a small stream feeding into it. Turning the buckskin into the stream, he followed it about three hundred yards before finding a small clearing in the brush

Nudging the horse up the bank into the clearing, he drew up and swung down. After tying the horse to a branch, he checked his pistol to make sure the loads in it hadn’t gotten wet. As an afterthought, he dug in his saddle bags, pulled out a spare, and tucked it into his belt. Satisfied he was as ready as he could be, he grabbed his carbine and made his way back down the stream.

Ten yards from the bank of the river, he found a game trail running parallel to it through the brush. Turning into it, he worked his way toward the crossing. About fifty yards from it, he found an uprooted tree that had been blown down by the recent spring storms. Large chunks of dirt still clung to the roots.

Stepping behind the trunk of the blowdown, he was hidden from anyone approaching the river; but by looking out through the gaps between the roots and matted dirt he could see the crossing and where the trail went over the top of the canyon. The wall of brush along the river also hid him from being seen from the other side.

Leaning against one of the upturned roots, he could see the far side of the river through a small gap. Settling in, he waited about fifteen minutes before he heard the riders approach the far side of the river.

Careful to make no sound, he pushed aside a small patch of brush and could just make the riders out in the moonlight.

When they reached the crossing, the lead rider reined in and called out, Okay. Hold up there. Let’s rest up a bit and let the stragglers catch up.

The speaker was a tall man wearing a black hat, a black vest over a light shirt and dark pants. In this light and the position of the moon, the man’s face was shadowed by the hat, and Jim couldn’t make out any of his facial features.

A second man in a checkered shirt, jeans, and beat-up, gray hat nudged his horse up beside the first and asked, How much farther to the Station?

About a two-hour ride, the first replied.

Jim knew the only station around this part of the country was Ferris Station, where he had planned to spend the night. Ferris Station was a gathering point where horses brought in from the west, bound for Union supply points, were held until a large enough herd had been gathered for shipping. The herd was then driven to the railroad depot up north. From there, they were shipped to distribution depots. These drives were held once a month and, if Jim’s memory served him right, the next drive should take place in about three days.

Across the river Jim saw the rider in the checkered shirt shift uncomfortably in his saddle and heard him nervously say, Some of the men are worried about running to Union troops.

No need to worry, the first man stated, his voice full of confidence. The closest troops are roughly forty miles north of here at Fort Scott. Even if they could get here in time, they’re no real threat. They’re mostly volunteers who don’t have any real fighting experience. All the seasoned troops are back east, fighting the war.

The man turned in the saddle, looked back at the group behind him, and said, Well, the last of the stragglers are caught up, so let’s get moving.

The group crossed the river, single file, and followed the trail up over the bank. As they passed over the top, they were temporarily highlighted against the stars.

Watching intently, Jim counted thirty-five riders in all.

He waited until the rear guard had crossed and disappeared over the rim, then quickly made his way back to his horse.

Stepping up to the animal, he stroked its neck soothingly and took time to consider what he’d just heard. Daylight was just three hours away, and the raiders were sure to strike Ferris Station at sunup. Probably while everyone was scattered and doing chores. Fort Scott was a three- to four-hour ride, barring any problems. By the time troops could be assembled and on the way, the raiders would be finished at Ferris Station and headed back to Missouri.

He tugged the reins free of the branch and mounted. Pausing a moment he thought of the times he’d stopped at the station while on patrol, remembering fondly the kindness and hospitality of Adam Greene and his family. They were very generous and always insisted on feeding anyone passing through. Even a military patrol.

Jim had never been much of a talker, so while the others gossiped about current events, he often gave Adam’s grandchildren, Billy and Sara, rides on his horse while the others visited. Thinking of Billy and Sara reminded him of their mother, Hannah.

Hannah’s family had been killed during an Indian raid when she was a child. The Greenes had taken her in and raised her as their own. Jake, Greene’s son, and Hannah had grown up together. Being the only young man and woman in the area, it was only natural that they had fallen in love.

At the start of the war, Jake had gone off to fight for the Union and was killed in Missouri at the Battle of Carthage. He had been the Greenes’ only child. Hannah and the kids were now the only family the Greenes had left, and they fussed over and worried about her as if she were their own.

Jim and Hannah had no formal agreement, but they often went for short walks or just spent a few minutes talking whenever he managed to be in the area. Which was about as often as he could legitimately manage. Without warning, most or all of them would surely be killed.

His mind made up, he turned the horse toward Ferris Station.

Chapter 2

The sentry on duty at Fort Scott stood midway between the Fort’s Hospital and the guardhouse. He listened intently to the sound of a fast-approaching horse as it thundered down the main street of town. Watching, he saw the dim shape of a horse and rider race past the sheriff’s office and continue toward the fort.

As the rider drew near, he pulled his horse to a stop several feet away and excitedly called out, Bushwhackers. Headed toward Ferris Station. I need to talk to the commanding officer.

The sentry carefully took in the scruffy, unkempt look of the rider, the condition of his ragged clothes, and down at heel boots. After a careful examination of the man, he turned and called to the guardhouse. Corporal of the guard.

Corporal Tim O’Leary poked his head out the door. Yeah, Jonesy, what’s up?

Rider out here claims there’s a bunch of guerrillas heading for Ferris Station.

Damn, you don’t say, O’Leary replied. Stepping back inside the building, he grabbed his hat from the rack beside the door, then hurried out and over to the sentry.

Stopping beside him, O’Leary waved the rider forward and led him between the buildings onto the parade-ground. There, in front of the guardhouse, he turned to the man and asked, Now, what’s this about Ferris Station?

The man swung down and handed the reins to the sentry who had followed the two, then turned back to the corporal. I was camped in this thicket ‘bout thirty miles cross the border, when I heard a bunch of horses coming up the trail. They must’a been real confident cause they was talking real loud an’ laughin’ ’bout how they was goin’ to steal this horse herd an sell it to the confedrits.

Pausing, he reached down into his pocket and pulled out a plug of tobacco. Putting it up to his mouth, he took a big bite, then he carefully put the plug back and went on with his story.

Well, one of those gents went and asked, ‘John, where in hell are we goin’ to find horses in this part of the country?’ He gave O’Leary a shrewd look, then continued, I think this John fella is that John Jacobs you hear so much about these days. Well, he says, the only horses around here is at Ferris Station. Bout that time they was a ways down the trail and I couldn’t hear no more.

The man turned his head to the side, spit a stream of brown tobacco juice into the dust, then looked back at O’Leary and asked, So what do yuh think?

I think you did right by coming and letting us know, Mr.—

Donalds. Smitty Donalds, the man replied, rolling the tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other.

O’Leary turned to the sentry. Take care of Mr. Donalds here while I go in and let the captain know what’s going on.

Turning to the guardhouse, he crossed over the threshold and stepped smartly up to the captain’s desk. Captain Richards was in command of the infantry stationed at Fort Scott. He looked up from a ledger he was working on when O’Leary stepped up to his desk, whipped a salute, and stated, Man out here reports a group of guerillas headed for Ferris Station, sir!

Very well, Corporal! Richards responded, returning the salute. Have Lieutenant Webb report to me.

Yes, sir, O’Leary answered.

The Forts Officers’ Quarters consisted of four separate buildings directly across the parade ground from the guardhouse. Each was a three-story structure. The first three, stretching south from the headquarter building, were two family structures. The fourth was a single family building that stood next to the quartermaster and was usually reserved for the post commanding officer.

The main entrance to all four buildings was on the second floor. A stairway at each end of the double dwellings climbed from the parade ground to a shared veranda.

The commander’s quarters had a single stairway.

Leaving the guardhouse, O’Leary crossed the parade grounds. Climbing the stairs, he stepped onto the veranda and strode hard-heeled to Webb’s door, hoping his heavy footfalls would rouse the lieutenant.

Cocking his head, he pressed his ear to the door and listened for a moment. Hearing no sounds from inside, he stepped back, raised his fist, and pounded on the door. Lieutenant Webb, sir! Trouble down at Ferris Station. The captain wants to see you. He waited a minute then called, Are you awake, sir?

From the other side of the door he heard the mumbled answer, Be with you in a minute, Corporal.

Turning away, O’Leary stepped to the edge of the veranda, leaned against the awning post, and looked out across the parade ground. Next to the guardhouse he could see Donalds kneeling beside his horse. As he watched, the man turned his head and spit another stream of tobacco juice into the dust.

Inside Webb’s quarters, he heard the sound of the lieutenant stomping into his boots. A minute later the door swung open, and Lieutenant Josh Webb stepped out pulling the door closed behind him.

Fresh out of West Point, Webb prided himself on his appearance. It had always amazed O’Leary at how with only a couple minutes’ notice the man could look like he’d just spent an hour getting ready for an inspection.

Okay, Corporal. What’s all this about Ferris Station? he demanded, crossing the veranda. He looked across the parade ground and saw the sentry and rider by the guardhouse. Quickly descending the stairs, he strode across the hard packed earth to where the guard and rider waited.

Falling in beside him, O’Leary relayed to the lieutenant what he knew up to this point.

O’Leary finished reciting what he had heard as they approached the newcomer. Webb stepped up to and stopped in front of Donalds. Thank you for bringing us the news, sir, but there are a few questions I need to ask.

Donalds glanced nervously at O’Leary then back to Webb. Why certainly, sir. Only too glad to help.

First, I need to know roughly how many men were in the raiding party you overheard.

Donalds rubbed his jaw and tilted his head, eyes squinted in thought. Well, I didn’t rightly see. I was back in the brush, otherwise I might not be alive right now. He dropped his hand from his mouth and looked cautiously at Webb again. From the sounds they was a makin’, I’d say they was ten to fifteen riders.

Okay! said the lieutenant. Are you familiar with the country to the south of us, Mr. Donalds? Our scout is out on patrol with Captain Johnson, and I’d like you to help us find this group. Then looking at the man’s unkempt appearance, he added, You’d be paid in Union Script, of course.

Donalds slowly turned his head, spit another stream of tobacco juice into the dirt, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then smiled widely and answered, I’d be right proud, sir. Right proud!

Webb nodded, turned, and stepped into the guardhouse.

Captain Richards, sir! Request permission to take twenty troopers and intercept this guerilla band either before they hit Ferris Station or on their way back to Missouri.

Richards studied the man a moment, then nodded. Sounds like a sound plan, Lieutenant. Carry on!

Webb saluted, turned, and rushed out the door.

Corporal O’Leary, he ordered, get this man a fresh mount and muster first and second squad. We’re going to get this Jacobs once and for all.

Half an hour later, O’Leary stood next to the sentry and watched Webb and twenty troopers, guided by Smitty Donalds, leave Fort Scott to intercept the raiders.

Chapter 3

Ferris Station was located in a sheltered valley roughly five miles long and a mile wide. The western grassy slopes tapered up to the flatland, while the eastern rim was a steep embankment cut into the hillside by the flow of Eagle Creek.

The creek had deep holes in several places, which were frequently used for fishing and, during the frequent hot spells, swimming and bathing.

Large old cottonwood trees lined the bank, gradually thinning out and giving way to the rich green grass of the valley floor. A well-used road angled down off the prairie on the southern slope. A mile inside the valley stood the buildings of Ferris Station.

The house, barn, tack shed, and bunkhouse were situated in a rough square. Each building sitting at one corner of the ranch yard. The windows of each building could be quickly sealed with heavy slotted shutters and were positioned so each building could provide cover for the others. The corrals were located between the barn and tack shed, for easy access from either building. In the center of the yard, stood the covered well.

Each of the buildings was made of carefully laid native stone, and all had sod roofs to prevent them from being set on fire during a raid. With the exception of a few cottonwoods left standing around for shade, the area around the buildings had a clear field of fire that extended out into the valley for several hundred yards. Perfect for defense.

Jim reached the