BUFFALO WARRIORS

By Moon Jones

Buffalo Warriors is the story of a family of teenage slaves during the American Civil War. Because of unusual abilities given to them by a mysterious water they struggle to find out who or what they are, before escaping to freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369409596

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BUFFALO WARRIORS

Moon Jones

Copyright © 2023 by Moon Jones.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 10/16/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

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FOREWORD

In today’s Me Generation, most teens find a way to survive by getting a job, going to school, or depending on their parents or guardians. Others find off colored ways that will eventually get them into trouble. I decided to draft a story about a family of teenagers, who do not have a choice. A family who depended upon their mother to make their decisions for them. Sounds like mothers of today. Well, this takes place during slavery time, around the American Civil War. These teens had unusual abilities that could set them free, but because of their mother they had to look out for others. I could have called this story The Others, but chose, Buffalo Warriors. The story of unsung heroes. This story goes out to the heroes of the past like Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Fredrick Douglas, and other figures, black, brown, white, yellow, and red, who contributed their minds, bodies and souls to the betterment of others.

A special thanks to my late mother Gladys Clark and recently departed sister Debra Jones. Other thanks go to my brothers Glen Clark, Charles Jones, and late brother and sister Keith and Carmen Jones. A special thanks to Lejend Vega (my right hand) Val Crump (my reader), Kevin Garnier, Billy Kennedy, Chris Lauricella, Khori Williams and Cass Clark (my sponsors), Kevin and Randy Sanders (my advisors), Andrew Orellana (my artist) and the students and staff at ECF Kayne ERAS Center (my inspirations).

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Runaways

Chapter 2 Project Graveyard

Chapter 3 Resurrection

Chapter 4 A Woman for All Seasons

Chapter 5 Gunslinger

Chapter 6 Family Reunion

Chapter 7 Dixieland

Chapter 8 Family Feud

Chapter 9 Smoke Signals

Chapter 10 The Miracle Water and the Green Toe

Chapter 11 Battle Hymn

Chapter 12 Mentally Prepared

Chapter 13 Amen

Chapter 14 Official Orders

Chapter 15 Black Moses

Chapter 16 Simon Says

Chapter 17 A General’s Tale

Chapter 18 Prepare for War

Chapter 19 Stormy Weather

Chapter 20 The Message

Chapter 21 The Reign of The Crimson

Chapter 22 The Battle of Jenkins’ Hill

Chapter 23 Beware the Crone

Chapter 24 Ambushed

Chapter 25 No Rest for the Weary

Chapter 26 Freedom is a Bitter Pill

Chapter 27 Tubman and the Truth

Chapter 28 Where the Buffalo Roam

CHAPTER 1

RUNAWAYS

"Many a thoughts swirl through my head. They caught old man Langford, now he is dead. I escaped the bondage I had been born into. Yet, you called out my name, but I did not know you. The beatings, the brandings, I had felt, made my life… a living hell.

Many a thoughts swirl through my head. They caught little Cyndi... now she too hanged dead. A sweet little girl, I begged her to go home. She said my home now is, is... living alone. The night she got caught, we had all searched in fear. When we found her dead body, we cried so many tears.

Many a thoughts swirl through my head. I fought back the thought... I wish I were dead."

A poem from a former slave known as Ebon Blade, sometimes called, The Green Toe. Rumored hung in the swamps of Louisiana, for aiding and abetting, runaway slaves.

###

On a dark moon-lit night, in a mosquito-infested swamp, near the outskirts of Hammond, Louisiana, came the loud sounds of chirping crickets, croaking frogs... and heavy breathing. A hurried patter of shoeless feet shuffled over the leaf-laden ground below. The strong smell of mold, algae, and a suffocating warm air, made it hard to breathe

As if playing a game of Hide and Seek, two dark clad figures ran and hid behind trees and bushes. They looked to be teenage boys between the ages of fifteen and sixteen years old. As the out of breath fifteen-year-old ran, he touched the live Oak trees and Spanish moss that laced the swamp. With each slight touch of his bare hands, the trees and moss disappeared into a puff of dust and smoke. As they ran, the two boys’ feet and legs became stuck in the mud of the swamp’s green waters. Soon the scared teens could not run no more.

What the... Korpse, I told you we should have left earlier. Now look, we stuck in this swamp water with the Mumford brother’s right behind us! Whined the stout fifteen-year-old boy named Dusty Washington. The swamp’s heat, humidity, and mosquitoes had overwhelmed Dusti’s desire to be a runaway slave. Then again, it could have been the irritating sweat drooling from his body. Like a slow locomotive, it trickled down from the top of his head to his round ebony face. The salty liquid would then drain into his deep brown eyes. Moments later, into the painful open scars on the back of his body.

With both bare hands, the two boys dug deep into the greenish mud surrounding their legs and ankles, but to no avail. Like mounds of sweet black molasses on a hot buttered biscuit, the thick wet dirt stuck hard and would not let go.

Korpse, they say they hung him in this very same swamp? whispered Dusty, as he looked around the dense forest.

Who, who are you talking about? asked an annoyed Korpse.

The Green Toe, I heard his ghost waits to help those who runaway. Korpse stared at the boy in disbelief.

Green Toe is a fairytale for people who are afraid of their own shadow. People like you, who do not know any better, mumbled Korpse as he continued his digging.

"But I heard he killed a grown gator with ... Before Dusty could finish his sentence, Korpse raised his head up high and gave the young boy an angry look. Afterwards, both teens dug harder into the swamp’s thick mud, still getting nowhere. As he dug and threw mud everywhere, Dusty began to hum and sing.

Swing lo, sweet chariot, mamas gonna carry me home. Swing lo, sweet… The more the boy sang, the more Korpse glared at him with an irritated look on his face.

I know what Korpse, get mad. You know how strong you get when you get mad. Then you can pull us out of this stinky mud, yelled Dusty. The teen named Korpse knew his stout friend told the truth. When he got angry, he would get stronger, but weird things would happen. He became a wild animal and lost control. The teenage slave would find him-self biting and clawing at anything or anyone around him. Korpse knew, with Dusty in front of him, he could not take the chance of getting angry. Terrible things might happen.

Shut up Dusty, shut up! screamed the pale-faced boy.

"Korpse, remember that chant? You know the chant that always made you mad. The one the kids would tease you about as a little boy. Ah, his pillow is a tombstone, the dirt is his bed. Korpse is his given name, because he looks dead. Ha, ha, boy, I remember you beating the Jenkins, out of them kids when they sang that. The Master had to lock you up to calm you down." By the angry look on Korpse face Dusty realized he had struck a nerve. Then again, the paleface boy always looked angry, frowned the stout teen.

Are you through? Are you through? Now, try to grab one of those long tree branches. Reach with both hands instead of one, mumbled the sixteen-year-old teen named Korpse Jefferson. He looked to be a tall gaunt boy, with a sickly pale frame. Like ticks on a dog, his dark red hair clung close to his head and freckled face. As a baby, his drunken master gave him the berth name, Korpse, with a K, instead of a C. No matter, it still meant, dead body.

Except for his family, most slaves on the plantation feared the temperamental teen. They would mumble under their breath, Pretty Boy. Saying, he had the looks of a handsome monster. Tired of fighting, Korpse, accepted his slave’s name. Yet, somehow that made people fear him, even more.

Dusty idolized and loved Korpse. They became best friends after Dusti’s mother was hung. With her death, the paleface boy took Dusty under his wing and became his protector and provider.

Do you miss her Korpse? asked the struggling Dusty from the musty waters.

Sigh... Miss who? inquired the red hair teen getting tired of talking.

Who...? You know who, Marybeth Davis, I seen the way yawl looks at each other. Korpse shook his head and looked at the doe-faced boy, as if he had lost his mine.

Dusty, what is wrong with you? We about to drown in this swamp water and you worried about the Green Toe, Marybeth Davis and me.

I am sorry Korpse, I meant no harm. I am just trying to make conversation... because I am, I am scared, mumbled the young boy. There came a long pause, as both boys continued their dig for freedom. Korpse glanced at Dusty and realized how scared the boy was...

You, you really think she likes me? whispered the freckle face teen. A smile came to Dusti’s face, as he realized his best friend might have a girlfriend.

Likes you, she crazy about you, she told that gossiping Wanda Gibbs, about how she dreams about you all the time. Korpse, she got those soft brown lips and she look so fine, hmmm... wow, Korpse got a girlfriend, grinned Dusty.

Shut-up fool, she probably talked about having nightmares about me, mumbled the shy teen.

Nope, Wanda said she wanted to kiss you on those big pink lips of yours, to see what they taste like, huh, sounds like a girlfriend to me, smiled the stocky teen. As he pulled one leg out of the mud the boy who looked like death, gave Dusty a thoughtful but angry look.

Will you please stop talking and try to reach for those tree branches like I told you. With his face turning red, Korpse seemed embarrassed. He did like Marybeth Davis, but thought she feared him like all the other slaves. As he struggled to get loose, a slight smile came across his face. If Marybeth liked him, he thought, I am not so scary after all, at least not to her.

Dusty hesitated to touch the tree branches. They would disappear into a puff of dust and smoke, just like the other plants he touched. Then he remembered the time he pulled a small goat out of a muddy hole with both bare hands at the same time... nothing happened. He wondered how, how did Korpse know that about his secret ability? Master Clark had made him wear those wool gloves, to make sure nobody knew anything of his special talent. When Dusty wore the gloves, nothing disappeared.

In his recent rush to run away, he forgot where he had placed them. He knew he had lost them after eating Miss Gladys’ delicious food. That is the funny thing about the touch, Dusty called it. The only time things would not disappear from his bare hands is when he dressed and ate, or if he touched liquid or metal.

Minutes went by, as Dusty and Korpse tried hard to get out of the swamp’s muddy grip. Instead, they sank deeper and deeper into its’ watery grave. From a distant, rising out of the dark waters, came four glowing eyes. Two unblinking faces escorted by two evil grins. It looked to be the faces of two large alligators. Like runaway steamboats the creatures moved fast towards their two wayward customers. The dark green reptiles looked to be at least nine–feet-long and over two hundred and eighty pounds apiece. Strange as it may seem, the giant smiling beasts had colorful looking butterflies tattooed on the sides of their face. Korpse glared hard at the gators swimming towards him and his unsuspecting friend.

Ah, Jenkins, looks like we got bigger problems, the young teen whispered. The redhaired boy reached behind his back to retrieve an old butcher knife. Its’ old wooden handle stuck-out from the back of Korpse tattered pants. He had taken it from the kitchen’s garbage weeks ago. Korpse knew he would need a weapon for this long journey away from home. Meanwhile, Dusty struggled to reach a nearby tree branch; he had not yet noticed the new danger.

Korpse, what did your mama say about you swearing? You know I must tell her about that, after we get back from the war. As he saw the two alligators swimming their way, Dusti’s eyes opened wide. JENKINS," swore the teen. A long pause came to the two slaves as they looked at each other. The two runaways pulled and tugged hard for a way out of the swamp’s grip.

The young teen that looked like death, turned toward the enormous reptiles headed their way. With a slight smile, Korpse shook his head and let out a small sigh. He knew he could not run from his fate. Trouble always followed him.

I got this, mumbled Korpse. As if a medieval knight in shining armor, the young teen with both hands, raised the long wobbly blade in front of him. He gathered all his strength to leap out of the swamp’s muddy waters. Before he leapt, Korpse looked up to the star lit sky above and howled, Ah-woo. Like a ballet dancer stepping onto a hot bed of coals, the pale face boy jumped high into the air. Seconds later he fell. As he landed, there came a loud THUMP, and groan Ah. The teen had landed belly first onto one of the charging gators’ back. Catching his breath, Korpse used a hand and arm to wrap around the large beast, swollen neck. With his other hand, the rail thin slave plunged his dull knife into the side of the reptile’s tough leather skin.

As if searching for a sunken treasure, both teen and alligator spung into the swamp’s dark waters. Long seconds later, the reptilian beast flung its body back into view. To Dusti’s surprise, Korpse, hung on. The angry gator showed cuts and stab wounds but seemed unfazed by the annoyance of its hostile passenger.

Korpse on the other hand, looked as if he had lost his only edge. The knife was gone. Without a weapon, the fierce young teen improvised. Like a rabid dog, he bit hard into one of the alligator’s defenseless eyes. As he pulled away, spit and blood drooled from the teen’s mouth. While the gator’s’ glazed yellow teeth clutched hard onto an obscure object. The giant beast hissed, growled, and squirmed in pain. Still, Korpse hung on. Like a balding man with a receding hairline, Korpse was determined not to let go.

The teen wrapped both legs and an arm around the cold reptile’s back and neck. To his horror, Dusty saw why his rail thin friend used one arm. Korpse’s left arm was gone. The missing appendage looked to have been torn from the teenager’s bloodied left shoulder, but the boy’s lost body part had not gone too far. The stolen arm dangled from the large reptile’s mouth. As the bloodied teen struggled for his life, Korpse gave Dusty one final look. Like the sea Captain who searched for the great white whale, the one arm boy, and the one eye creature, sunk back into the swamps well-nourished waters. Confused, the other alligator, slowed down its’ assault. It tried to figure out whether to join its’ mate, or get a Happy Meal, of its’ own.

As a shocked Dusty came to his senses, he realized why all the other slaves seemed afraid of Korpse. There had been rumors that the teenage boy might be the devil himself. Dusty thought the boy’s pale face and thin looks made people fear him. Tonight, he was afraid, because the weird looking boy, with the weird sounding name, had become a dangerous monster.

Korpse... if you are still alive out there, I, I think I will hold back on telling your mama about you swearing. Because I do not want you to get mad at me... and bite one of my eyes out, whispered the scared teen. Before Dusty thoughts could get any further, he heard loud voices from the swamp’s dark forest.

Three pale face cowboys appeared one behind the other. One hand dragged their horses, while the other hand carried rifles, or flaming hot torches. The Mumford brothers, former confederate soldiers kicked out of the army for an assortment of reasons, now, runaway slave catchers.

Slow down boys! This is where I heard that dog howl Korpse always use, screamed Brett Mumford a grizzled face man with greasy blond hair. Under all that grease, he had the face of a man in his early twenties.

I hope it is them, because General Clark is going to be plumb mad, if we lose some more of his precious livestock, said Billy Holmes, the Mumford brother’s younger cousin. His baby face and long brown hair made him look to be no older than seventeen years of age.

Both of yawl SHUT UP, before I shoot you dead... hold on, wait, do not step no further, yelled Todd Mumford, the oldest and current leader of the Mumford Gang. A gang he wanted to leave behind. However, he had promised his mother on her deathbed that he would take care of his hothead, little brother Brett. Todd placed his rifle on his back. With a little bit of caution, he stepped forward to see the trapped figure in the mud in front of them.

Well, look what we have here... Dusty Washington, our little runaway slave, murmured Todd as he snatched Brett’s torch to get a closer look. Brett then stepped forward with his gun cocked.

Ha, Todd, looks like he is about to be gator bait to me, shouted Brett. He nodded his head toward the slow swimming alligator nearby.

Wait a minute is that a... a butterfly tattoo on that gator’s face? asked Brett.

What? Brett, I told you about drinking that cheap whiskey before we came out here, screamed Todd.

What are you talking about? I had one sip. I am telling you I saw ah... never mind, mumbled Brett.

Forget about that, this boy has caused us a mighty heap of trouble, said an angry Billy Holmes.

You right Billy, but where, where is Korpse? Ask a stuttering Todd Mumford. As he spoke, he raised his torch up high, to look around. Staring into the night, the unshaven man massaged one side of his face. From the lit torch, a trembling Dusty could see an old wound on part of Todd’s face. It looked chewed on, by, By... a crazed monster, mumbled the wet teen. Dusty nodded his head toward the swamp’s dark waters, where a floating arm came into view.

Well, I will be. Death has met his match, ha, ha, ha, laughed a relieved Billy Holmes. He then pointed his rifle closer to Dusti’s face, as if to taunt the frightened teenager.

Idiot you are too close! Do not let him touch your gun, screamed Todd at the top of his lungs. Out of the darkness, the forgotten alligator leapt toward a sinking Dusty. With separate hands, the teenage boy touched the gator’s snout and a wooden part of the rifle pointed toward his head. A split second later, both gator and rifle disappeared into a cloud of dust and smoke. Afterwards, the rifle’s metal parts, the gator’s skeleton and smiling teeth sunk into the swamp’s littered waters.

In a moment of panic Dusty tried to run. Yet found him-self pulled deeper into the dark waters. With just his head sticking out of the cold liquid, the runaway slave looked for a way out, but there came none. Out of desperation, Dusty screamed Korpse’s name. KORPSE WHERE ARE YOU? PLEASE HELP ME! As he stood there waiting, there came no reply. Not even the noise of croaking frogs or chirping crickets. He heard nothing but silence. The silence replaced with the cackling sounds of the Mumford brothers’ laughter.

Ha, ha, ha, Korpse where are you? Please help me! As if in response to the Mumford’s mocking, Korpse’s floating arm, again appeared and disappeared into the dark waters. Jenkins yawl laughing, but we lost a good rifle. There came a loud THUMP, as Todd slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of Dusti’s head.

CHAPTER 2

PROJECT GRAVEYARD

Dusty awakened to a pounding headache. Fading in and out of consciousness, he thought seconds had passed since he was unconscious. But as sounds of farm animals came from everywhere, he realized three hours had gone by.

Dusti’s wet body lay faced down to the back of a slow-moving horse. He found him-self hogtied to a saddle. The dazed teen could not move an inch. Worse than the noise, came the smell of homemade fertilizer. Cow dung mixed with swamp mud that burned his nostrils. As Dusty began to blackout again, he glimpsed the master’s stone statues of animals and slaves that decorated the grounds.

Eleven miles southeast of Hammond, Louisiana, stood the seventeen-hundred-acre Clark plantation. At its’ peak it owned over two hundred slaves. The Plantation had an all-white two-story main house. Its largeness magnified by four giant Greek columns in the front. A small lake with a scattering of twenty-five to thirty slave shacks and outhouses sat in the back. A large two-story barn sat further east of the house. Fields of cotton, sugar cane and tobacco occupied the west side of the plantation.

In the last five years over forty-five slaves had escaped through a system called, The Underground Railroad. A system used by slaves who migrated to the north.

With the advent of the Civil War a mere thirty-five to forty-one slaves worked on the Clark plantation. Children and elderly women became the cornerstone of the work force. With the little labor it had left, cotton and sugar cane crops became the main staple of the plantation’s survival.

Minutes passed by, as Dusty awakened back to his splitting headache. This time the sounds of plates and forks hitting each other and people talking and laughing interrupted his solace. In a well-lit room with candles and kerosene lamps, the strong smells of fresh flowers began to soothe his senses. The room glowed like a haunted house on a Halloween night. Paintings and pictures both big and small of Master Clark’s family and ancestors hung everywhere.

An exhausted Dusty found himself covered in his own blood, with both wrists shackled. The stout teen kneeled on a solid wood floor rocking back and forward. Just in case he had other ideas, both hands had woolen gloves on