The Everything Gang: A Journey of Friendship Beyond the Civil War

By Ann Kronwald

The Civil War is over and thirteen-year-old Marty now begins the most dangerous expedition of his life. He and best friend Slim travel south to find the gravesite of their truest hero Tip. It might just fix what is broken inside Tip's daughter Lily, who's driving them crazy. But before the sun sets on their first day out, Lily and stow-away sibl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Orchid Lane Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781736215234

Ann Kronwald

Ann Kronwald is a freelance writer whose articles appear in magazines and anthologies in the US and abroad. Among her awards are first place in the Writers-Editors Network International Writing Competition and second place in Today's Christian Living Writing Contest. The back-porch swing is her "happy place," especially if the person gliding next to her shares her love for yellow-bell blooms, dark chocolate, or made-up dances. Ann is native to Arizona but traces her ancestry to the very farm in New York which serves as the setting for The Deyo Hills Series.

Book preview

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FIRST EDITION

The Everything Gang

A Journey of Friendship Beyond the Civil War

The Deyo Hill Series

Copyright @ 2023 Ann Kronwald

AnnKronwald.com

Published by Orchid Lane Press

175 South Hamilton Place, Suite 106

Gilbert, Arizona 85233

Book designed by Multimedia Publishing Project:

480.939.9689 | MultimediaPublishingProject.com

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-7362152-2-7

eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-7362152-3-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023907035

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Printed in the United States of America.

To you who inspire me with your bravery—

James, Lily, Elijah, Emma, Jack, Isaiah, Samuel, Daniel, Kate, and Jude

And to you who choose the hard path because it is right—

Josh, Jaclyn, John, Steve, Jordan, Lindsay, Jamie, and David

You are amazing!

Thank you

—to my critique-group for your writing input and friendship

—to Jaclyn, Jamie, and Janet for editorial feedback

—to David for spurring me on to volume two

—to Mom for your example of how to finish well

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1

Lily’s Boasting

Martin Jude Deyo ogled the mighty Indian bow in his friend’s hand. He grinned. It had to be the greatest weapon on any farm around Broome County, New York. And Marty himself had spent most of last year earning it. In a moment of courage, Marty had given it away to Slim Rozelle, his best friend, who worked at bravery, same as Marty.

Slim took his time muscling back the string of the bow. He and Marty had propped the old scarecrow, Frank, against the barn as a target. Slim squinted an eye toward Frank and pulled hard til his arms shook like aspen branches catching the wind. Then he let the arrow fly.

Marty leapt into the air. Snively snakes! You hit ’im! Marty couldn’t get use to the idea that Slim’s shots flew straight. His own aim with the bow was still sorry at best. It reminded him of learning to milk on Gussy—milk shooting everywhere but in the dad-blamed pail. I can see you been practicin’ in your time off, Slim.

Slim nodded toward his niece, Lily, who skipped rope nearby. Not as much as I’d like. Pappy has me babysittin’ plenty now that school’s out for summer.

Slim’s older brother Tip had died in the war last year, leaving Lily without a daddy. Slim’s pa said it was best for Lily and her mama to move into the Rozelle house with Slim and his brothers, leaving Tip’s house out back empty. Tip’s barn had become the perfect hideaway for Marty and Slim to practice their shots on Frank, the scarecrow.

Slim trotted to retrieve the arrow and hollered over his shoulder. My brothers and Pappy, even Lily’s ma, are all busy with the extra chores of Tip’s garden and fields and goats, so most days I get stuck with keepin’ Lily out of trouble. And on top of babysittin’, I still got my own chores.

Who you callin’ a baby? Lily yelled with her hands on her hips. I ain’t no baby! Inserting an opinion came as natural to Lily as barking came to a dog. And since she’d lost her daddy, most of Slim’s household just let her bark—though it had motivated Slim to give her a few nicknames.

Slim spoke slowly. That’s what it’s called—babysittin’, even when you’re eight years old, He turned and aimed again at Frank.

Lily and her skipping rope started trailing Marty as he paced back and forth behind Slim. She let out words at every turnabout that prickled the nerves in Marty’s neck. Jumpin’ this here rope is tricky. Plenty harder than shootin’ that bow like ’Zaiah. Isaiah was the name most adults still called Slim. But Lily had always called him ’Zaiah.

Marty rolled his eyes. He hadn’t remembered Lily being so annoying. What did she know about bows anyway, especially this bow? Nothing. He turned to pace the other direction. See if you can do it again, Slim.

Lily turned and fell in step with Marty once more. I hit things with the horseshoe all the time. I win at marbles too. I could prob’ly shoot that bow easy.

Marty sputtered. You couldn’t even pull it back. Not strong enough. This here bow takes more muscle than any ol’ horseshoe. It’s fierce—more for grown-ups. Marty went back to studying Slim’s approach.

Lily peeked up at Marty. Got a horseshoe? I’ll show ya my aim. I’m a good aim.

Slim let another arrow soar.

Marty whistled. Jiminy, Slim! You’re gettin’ good.

Lily marched toward the barn. I bet there’s a shoe in here.

Marty turned to Slim. Why’s she so mouthy? She’s braggin’ like she needs to be good at everything?

Slim shrugged. Pa thinks, since Tip died, she’s trying to make sure folks like her. Maybe so they don’t leave her, like her daddy did. It’s irritatin’. And it makes no sense ’cause, at the same time, she’s pushin’ Pappy away, like if she stays close, he’ll leave and hurt her too. He started for the arrow. How come you aren’t takin’ any of these shots?"

I haven’t caught on like you. They both knew that if Marty aimed straight at the side of the barn, the barn would be the one thing he’d be sure to miss.

That’s why we’re out here. Slim handed Marty the bow.

Slim was right. Marty had grown up around Slim’s pa, Billy-James Rozelle, who worked the Deyo farm. Marty still called him Uncle Billy. Near the end of the war, he had called Marty a protector, like Tip—saying that defending ran in his blood. Though Billy-James was only half Indian under that black skin of his, and though Marty was as pale as Gussy’s milk, Billy had initiated Marty into the Tuscarora tribe—into a lineage of courage and self-sacrifice. You’re right, Slim. Uncle Billy would want me to practice so I can watch your back.

Stop doin’ that! I’m fourteen, a whole year older’n you.

Marty huffed. You think a Confed’rat surrender changes what people think overnight? Does everyone now love the color of your black skin? And why isn’t President Lincoln in the White House anymore, enjoying his victory? It’s ’cause some folks are still mad—mad enough to kill.

Slim raised his voice. I’m not the president! You neither. And just ’cause you’re some kinda honorary Indian now don’t mean you’re in charge of everyone. I don’t need no babysittin’.

Lily stepped out of the barn and raised her brows at Slim. See? No fun to know you’re being babysat.

Marty threw up his hands. I’m not trying to babysit. You’re my friend. And why did your pa make me an Indian anyway?

Slim eyed Marty. You don’t need to prove you’re an Indian now. You just are.

Lily held up the horseshoe she’d found to Marty. Bet I can hit Frank before you do.

Marty rolled his eyes. I’m sure that barn needs cleanin’ up since no one has been livin’ here. How ’bout you go back in and set it in order? We’ll know right where you are so we won’t worry none, and you can have fun in there playin’ house for a spell.

Lily eyed Marty. I’m fast too. Wanna see me run?

Marty yearned for the day that practice with Slim didn’t come packaged with Lily and her flapping jaw. He pulled his focus back to the bow. Slim was right. They were here to practice. And if last year’s close calls were a forecast of things to come, then Marty’s accuracy with the bow was of life and death importance.

He turned his side to the scarecrow, planted his feet, and caught up the bow string with the notched end of the arrow shaft. He held the bow straight out with his left arm. Its weightiness made his arm tremble. With his right hand he pulled the bow string and the arrow toward his face. Took all the might he had. He pulled until the string was taut. Until the ends of the bow bent with increased hurling power. Until the string was as tense as his own insides from listening to Lily’s boasting mouth. This shot would hit its mark.

Lily tapped his shoulder. Let’s race. To the house and back. I can beat you.

Marty exhaled like a volcano puffing out smoke to warn those close it was about to blow. He slackened the bow. Perfect shot ruined. Enough was enough. Maybe he could show her up and she’d go away. All right, go!

Lily took off. Marty dropped the bow and sped after her. Maybe defeat would stop that mouth of hers. He passed her up, touched the porch rail, and easily loped back at the barn ahead of Lily.

What was that mouth of yours sayin’, Lily? Marty turned back to her with a smirk. Then he saw big brown watery eyes blinking back the losing like she had desperately needed this win. Of course, it was unfair—a thirteen-year-old against an eight-year-old. But hadn’t she asked for a good whupping? Lily wasn’t as tough as she acted. This was sure a different Lily than before her daddy died. Maybe she needed some of Marty’s defending. And since she was part of Slim’s family, Tip’s own daughter, wasn’t he dutybound to look after her every bit as much as he was Slim—boasting mouth and all?

He smiled at her. You’re fast, Lily. He counted on his fingers. I’m five years older than you. I shoulda run it twice and still beat you. But I couldn’t. That only means one thing. You’re faster for your age.

One corner of her mouth tipped up into a grin as she cocked her head toward him.

Marty continued. And because you’re so dog-gone fast, this here bullseye is dedicated to your speed. He picked up the bow once more and settled sideways before Frank. Squinting one eye, he pulled back again on the string, centering the tip of the arrow on Frank, and held his breath. Then he released.

Lily screamed and dropped into a squat. Slim dove to the side. The arrow hit one of the barn’s wood planks off to the side, and then rotated end over end until it came to rest in a pine branch.

Lily brushed off her britches. Told ya. My aim’s better.

2

Bed Bugs on Deyo Hill

Just outside the Deyo homestead at the top of Deyo Hill, Marty worked on chores with younger brother Sam. He didn’t mind. Chores were a welcome break from Lily’s annoying mouth. She’d irritated him and Slim beyond toleration for the last three days. He coiled a rope and dropped it into a bucket of boiling water, sulfur, and arsenic. He wrinkled his nose. This has to be the nastiest stink in Broome County.

Sam dipped a bristle brush of boar’s hair into the hot bucket and scrubbed each cord-hole along the side of the bedframe. Don’t right care if its nasty. As long as it chases critters from these holes and from that rope. He dipped the brush again. The idea of snuggling with them bed bugs at night gives me the heebie-jeebies . . . I mean the snuggie-buggies. He laughed aloud at himself.

Marty stared at his brother. Someone needed to teach him what was funny and what was not.

Pa brought out another bed from the house. Last one, boys. He began working on the knots in the latticework of rope that had held up the mattress.

Marty unlaced the bed cords from the holes. Good thing we’re almost done. I need to check on Slim.

Pa dropped onto one knee to finish. Lookin’ after another is a good thing. But I bet Isaiah would like some breathing room from your worry. Besides, only the Good Lord is perfect in these things and one day you’re bound to fail.

But I’m part of the tribe now. I can’t let Uncle Billy down.

Pa stopped working on the rope knots. If you watch Isaiah’s back, it’s because you’re friends, not because Billy-James saddled you with the chore of protecting him.

Sam tugged and turned the bedframe he’d been scrubbing so the last side of untreated holes were closer to the bucket. Guess what a bed bug in a schoolhouse is called?

Marty rolled his eyes.

Pa gave in. Don’t rightly know, Sam.

Smart! Sam slapped his knee and laughed like he’d never heard anything so clever.

Mama came from the side of the house. Thank the Lord for borax. Sheets are washed and hung. Emma’s whackin’ the daylights outta the mattresses.

Sam, still chuckling, started in with Mama. What’s a bed bug in a schoolhouse?

Thankfully, older brother Jack rode up on Old Pete just then, stopping Sam’s attempts to entertain. He jumped off the horse, flashed a grin the size of the back forty-acre lot, and waved a paper in the air. I got it! I’m accepted at Albany’s teacher program. I’m one of the youngest ones.

Mama clapped her hands together. I knew it. I just knew it. Well, goodness sakes.

Pa stood up. Professor Jack Deyo. Rolls off the tongue right nice, don’t ya think?

Jack puffed up his chest and held his chin higher. They took in Eli Carver too. He scored lower on his exam but still made it. He’s home tellin’ his folks right now.

Mama moved in for a hug. You and Elijah there together. You won’t be alone.

Mama, I’m grown to fifteen—I’d go with or without Eli. Jack wiggled out of her hug. It starts three weeks before the schoolhouse here—before the corn harvest. He stepped toward Marty and clapped a hand on his shoulder. I reckon the harvesting falls to you, little brother. He clapped his chest with his other hand and his mouth twitched like it was working not to grin. Breaks my heart somethin’ fierce that I won’t be here for the harvest work . . . or spring plantin’ neither. I’m officially handin’ over my first-born duties to the Indian of the family. He grabbed Old Pete’s reins and turned to Mama and Pa. I’ll put this ol’ boy away and then read ya the letter.

Marty grinned because Jack had mentioned his Indian standing. Without thinking much on it, he poked a stick into the bucket of arsenic and fished out a soaking rope. Then he plopped the untreated rope they’d just removed from the bedframe into the same bucket. Then it hit him, and he spoke right out loud. First-born duties! What’s he talkin’ about?

He wasn’t actually asking Pa, but Pa chose to answer. I’ll need more from you with him gone.

Marty had already seen the impossibility of training to be like Tip. He had little time to