August, 2010

Issue #11

As Walking Owl paddled around the bend in the icy Osage River, he was surprised to see a woman wrapped in a faded comforter fishing from the river bank.

Quietly, the Osage nosed his canoe into the soft mud bank and stabbed his paddle into the river bottom to arrest his movement. He did not want to startle her by his sudden appearance.

Back on one of his infrequent trapping trips to the Blue Mounds area to visit his ancestral grounds near the grave of his grandfather, he was traveling upstream to check his catch.

So that the woman would not think he was an outlaw or a Jayhawker, he shed his wool coat and felt hat and searched through his knapsack for his Osage headband and leather jerkin. He reasoned she would not be afraid of an Indian as White-Osage relations in this area had always been amicable; the Osages had peacefully moved to Kansas and only occasionally returned to trap. He had been careful this trip to avoid notice because of the troubles between the Missourians and the Kansas Jayhawkers over whether Kansas would enter the Union as a free or slave state. Preacher Jim Anderson and John Brown often raided these western border counties of Missouri to kidnap slaves and take them back to Kansas. Encouraged by the growing hostility and unrest, other men used slavery as an excuse to raid, rape, and kill.

The borderland in 1858 was not a safe place for anyone, let alone Indians and Blacks.

As he purposely rattled the steel traps in his canoe, Walking Owl paddled around the bend in full sight. The woman jerked up, stumbled in the folds of the comforter, and dropped her pole.

"Don't be alarmed," Walking Owl's soft voice came from the opposite side of the river. His English was perfect. "I am Walking Owl of the Osages on a trapping trip. I met Caleb Watson here two years ago and he gave me permission to trap." The woman's rigid pose relaxed as soon as she heard his cultured voice. "Are you Watson's wife?" he asked.

"Yes." She expelled her pent up breath. "I'm Etta Watson. Caleb spoke about you."

Walking Owl remembered that Watson had just built his house, and with the help of his two slaves, had broken some of the prairie sod on his farm. He knew the richness of the area. His people had lived for generations on this borderland of the eastern hardwood forests and the western prairie. He was a child when his chief moved the tribe to Kansas.

He remembered something else from his casual meeting two years ago. Watson was letting his slaves pay for their freedom by their labor. The couple should be free by now.

A bite on the line pulled Etta's pole down the mud bank. She grabbed too late. The pole hit the water and, tugged by the fish, started down the river. With dexterous strokes from his paddle, Walking Owl retrieved the pole. In seconds, a bass flopped on a pile of pelts in the canoe. He beached in an inlet downstream from Etta and handed her the fish as he rose to his full six feet ten inches.

Both of them laughed. Etta's eyes sparkled at sight of the four pound fish.

Their pleasure was cut short when they heard two rifle shots from the Watson house.

"Caleb and the children!" Etta cried. She saw smoke coming from within a cabin near the barn, "They're after Ned and Tillie!"

She dropped her fish and comforter and raced through the marshy lowland onto the field of corn stubble. Walking Owl sprinted after her, cut in front of her, and forced her out of the open field into the trees. They crouched together hidden behind an oak trunk.

From near the smoking cabin came repeated piercing female cries. At Walking Owl's questioning look, Etta whispered, "Tillie."

"Your slave?"

Etta nodded and then moaned, "She and Ned are free now."

Walking Owl counted two mounted men with rifles who circled the big house; they yelled as they made a game of dodging the sporadic shotgun blasts from the house. In front of the smoking cabin a bearded man on foot stood guard over a middle-aged Black couple. The outlaw's bay horse, tethered to a post of the empty corral, pranced around afraid of the fire. White smoke poured from the open door of the cabin. Fingers of orange fire flickered across the back window. Suddenly the whole cabin was in flames.

"Jayhawkers are burning Ned's house," Etta cried. "And the barn."

"Any horses?" Walking Owl asked as he remembered that Watson owned several horses and a substantial herd of cattle.

"All stolen!" Her teary eyes looked at Walking Owl. "Nothing left to steal. Except Tillie and Ned."

"I'll swing around and try to reach them," Walking Owl said. She nodded. He handed her a Smith and Wesson pistol. When she smiled her appreciation and gently ran her finger over the cold metal, he knew she was familiar with guns. "At the main house, will your husband keep the two men busy?"

"Yes. I'll get behind the shed to pin them in Caleb's crossfire." At Walking Owl's surprised look, she continued. "We've had other attacks. We know what to do. Jeremy and the little girls, they help."

The two parted. With the barn blocking him from the outlaws' sight, Walking Owl ran noiselessly through the corn stubble, skirted the barn, and squatted behind a wood pile. Downwind from the fire and partially hidden in the smoke, he was within range of the man holding Ned and Tillie. He pulled his kerchief over his nose and waited for Etta to get into position.

Tillie's screams subsided; Ned's deep voice tried to calm her. They were bound back to back to prevent their escape. Tillie's dress was torn at her waist. Mud covered Ned's shirt and trousers; blood dripped from a cut on his cheek. When Ned and Tillie tried to side-step away, the bearded captor struck them with the butt of his gun.

"Ain't ya had enough?" the outlaw asked, his attention distracted by the commotion at the house.

"Yee-e-e-hi-i-i!" the black-coated attacker yelled. He shot at the house as he circled it.

Ignoring the blood on his face, Ned struggled to loosen the ropes while the bearded man watched his partners. "Stupid fool," the captor said as he struck Ned again, "cain't ya see we're freein' ya?"

"We're already free," Ned cried. "We own land here."

"Yeah," the bearded man sneered, "and I'm president of the bank." He shoved Ned so hard that he fell, dragging Tillie with him.

Lying on the ground, hands tied and unable to get up, Ned used his feet. When the outlaw leaned over, with the barrel of his gun in the air ready to strike again, Ned kicked him in the groin.

In agony and holding himself with one hand, the outlaw swore as he hopped around doubled over. Ned and Tillie worked together to stand up. Just as they were erect and side-stepping to escape into the smoke screen, the bearded man shot above their heads and at the ground at their feet. One bullet struck Ned's leg. Ned looked in disbelief at the hole in his trouser leg and the redness that oozed out.

"Don't ya move," the outlaw hissed, "or I'll shoot yer damn black feet clean off."

The couple froze.

In position by the shed, Etta signaled to Walking Owl. They each fired at the two men who circled the house. The shots from inside the house increased.

"Let's git the hell outta here," the black-coated leader yelled. He galloped his roan toward the bearded man. "Git them two and let's ride."

His stout partner fired a parting shot at the house and followed. He jumped out of the saddle and cut the ropes that bound the couple together, and while the bearded man wrestled with Ned, he grabbed Tillie around her waist. He ignored her blows and kicks as he tossed her like a sack of meal on his horse and remounted.

Walking Owl stepped into the open, his tall figure materializing out of the smoke. When he saw the Osage, the bearded man gasped and abandoned Ned. He vaulted on his gelding and mercilessly spurred after his two partners.

Ned struggled out of his bonds and stood up just as Walking Owl reached him. With a powerful lunge in spite of his leg wound, Ned tackled the Osage.

"Hold on, friend," Walking Owl said, "Save your strength to get your wife back."

Ned noticed the Osage's headband and jerkin, and calmed by his voice, he paused long enough for Walking Owl to grab his hands and explain who he was.

"Well, come on," Ned cried, and then jumped up and limped down the road after the vanishing outlaws. "Tillie!" he screamed.

Walking Owl blocked his way. "Easy, friend. We'll get her back. Better have a plan first."

A young boy and two smaller girls burst out of the house into Etta's arms. Ill and weak, Caleb Watson steadied himself against the door jam while he still held a twelve-gauge shotgun. "We're not hurt," he said as Etta ran to him. Her children hung on to her, all three talking through their tears as they re-entered the warm house.

"Papa made us hide under the bed," one of the girls said.

Supported by his wife, Caleb turned to the Osage. "Walking Owl, welcome." The two men shook hands. "We are grateful."

"They took Tillie!" Jeremy cried, as he looked at the four adults in turn.

No one answered him. Trying to hide a cough, Caleb fell weakly into his chair. Etta examined Ned's leg wound.

"Just nicked you," she said. "Didn't hit the bone, but you've lost some blood. Need to stay off of it."

"Can't," Ned said. With much difficulty he stood erect even though he swayed slightly. "Gotta git Tillie."

"Mrs. Watson is right," Walking Owl said. He stepped up to the doorway. "I'll go after Tillie while she dresses your leg."

Both Ned and Etta shook their heads. "I'm going with you," Etta said to Walking Owl. All three men objected. "Yes, I'm the one to go. Walking Owl needs help against three men. And Ned, we need you here in the house in case the outlaws come back." When his pain made Ned sit down, she turned back to the Osage. "Caleb can doctor Ned's leg better'n I can."

Walking Owl studied the determined woman. She had demonstrated her quickness and skill with a gun. "You're right," he said. "Everyone can help. Jeremy, you run to the river and get the bass your mother caught. Girls, get the stove going to fry it. I don't figure you've eaten in a while. Caleb and Ned can watch the road in case the outlaws return."

"They won't return today," Caleb said. "Nothing left here for them. They came for Ned and Tillie. They'll have to take Tillie to their camp first." A spell of coughing doubled him over.

Ned groaned and again tried to stand up.

"What'll they do to Tillie?" Jeremy cried.

"Nothing," Walking Owl said, "because I'll get her back." Then he asked Caleb, "They didn't come here to free the slaves?"

Both Caleb and Ned shook their heads. "No," Ned said. "They'll steal anything that'll bring 'em money. The burnin' and killin' is jest for fun."

"So they won't take Tillie to Kansas?" Walking Owl asked.

"No," Caleb said. "They'll take her to Independence to sell at the slave auction after they...."

Ned groaned and slumped into his chair with his head in his hands.

Etta disappeared into a back room. Still wearing her stocking cap, she returned dressed in her husband's coat and trousers, with Walking Owl's pistol thrust in her belt. "We're wasting time," she said.

Walking Owl nodded. "They'll have to cross the river?"

Caleb nodded. "At Freedom Ford."

Walking Owl did not remember a ford of that name.

"Tillie named it that," Ned said, "when Caleb brought us here a few years ago and promised us our freedom."

"Good name. Could we beat them there if we paddled up the river?"

"If we hurry," Etta said. "The road swings back east for a few miles and is crooked and rough all the way."

"They won't hurry since we don't have any horses to chase after them," Caleb said.

"We'll get Tillie back," Walking Owl assured Ned. "You stay and protect the family." He did not wait to hear Ned's agreement, but disappeared out the door, tailed by Etta.

By the time Etta reached the river, Walking Owl had removed his trapping gear and pelts and was ready to push off. He put on his wool coat and felt hat. He folded Etta's old comforter and laid it on his knapsack. She pushed the canoe to dislodge it from the bank, jumped into the front, and grabbed the extra paddle.

Walking Owl avoided the strong current in the center of the river. He paddled the canoe the three miles to the ford. When possible, he stayed under the bluff for added cover in case the outlaws would spot them.

Silently the canoe moved upstream. Tillie's periodic screams reached them when the twisty trail on the bluff came close to the river.

"She's letting us know where they are," Etta said.

Walking Owl nodded agreement, his body tense from listening to all the sounds. Over the soft lapping of the water against the canoe and the almost imperceptible gurgle of the water as the paddles cut into it, he distinguished the voices of the men. He caught a few words before the trail veered away from the river.

"You said they was only one sick man there," came the words of one of the men.

"Where'd that there giant come from?"

"Sell her in Independence." This was followed by Tillie's screams.

Walking Owl paddled with powerful strokes. In the quieter water along the banks, he avoided logs, overhanging branches, and the icy rim along the bank while his eyes missed nothing. He listened for sounds to judge the outlaws' location and speed. Caleb had surmised correctly. The men were in no hurry. Tillie's screams and the outlaws' voices, along with the horses' hoof beats, told him that he and Etta would reach the ford before them.

Etta's back was rigid as she held the paddle in her mittened hands. Neither said anything though she occasionally turned to look at Walking Owl. He smiled encouragement and nodded approval. "I won't let them harm Tillie," the position of his body seemed to say. Gradually, Etta relaxed.

Walking Owl recognized the ford ahead, a shallower channel where the water ran over a rocky shelf-like outcrop. He paddled to the western bank to a tree-covered cove. He backed in, breaking the thin ice coating on the still water. Holding to overhanging limbs, he stepped onto solid ground, and pulled the canoe up the bank to steady it for Etta to step out. In the twenty-five degree weather they were careful to keep dry.

"The man that has Tillie is in the middle," Walking Owl whispered. "They'll cross the river in that order, one at a time." He pointed across the river where the men would soon appear. "After the black-coated man crosses and goes on down the road, there," he pointed behind him where the road continued in its northwesterly direction through the trees, "when he gets across, can you deal with him?"

Etta held up Walking Owl's pistol for answer.

The Osage heard the horses approaching through the trees across the river and motioned for her to follow him. They hurried the two hundred feet upstream through the underbrush, as they dodged the trees and avoided the swampy regions to Freedom Ford. They crouched behind a huge oak where the trail emerged out of the river. Across the stream the road entered an easy slope down to the rocky ford.

When the outlaws appeared, their horses stepped cautiously onto the rocky approach. Walking Owl whispered, "When the second man with Tillie crosses the river, I'll cut her free and take care of him and the third fellow."

Walking Owl cocked his head toward the west to tell Etta it was time for her to get into position. He clasped her hand in encouragement. Both crept out of sight.

Following the black-coated leader came the stout outlaw with Tillie tied behind him. The rope that bound her hands together was fastened loosely around his waist. She sat upright, alert for any opportunity to escape. Her body trembled with the cold. Last came the bearded man, who muttered while he slumped in his saddle, his head down.

The leader did not see the Osage on the side of the trail behind a sycamore tree. Nor did he notice on the other side of the trail Etta's brown coat or her black wool stocking cap that protruded above a fallen log.

The bearded man continued to grumble.

"Shet up," the stout man said. "It's yer fault. Easy, ya said. Jest one sick man."

"Well, it was when I freed his hosses and cattle and all his grub." He laughed at his own wit. "I didn't figure on the slaves fightin' us."

"And ya didn't figure on two more guns," the leader said. "Ya 'most got us killed."

"Where'd they come from?" the stout man asked.

"From outta the smoke." The bearded one looked around nervously. "I seen a giant ghost."

"Ever heerd a ghost shootin' a gun?" The leader laughed.

"It come floatin' outta the burnin' barn, rollin' along the ground with the smoke. Then it stood up. Eight, nine feet tall. I seen it."

While the men were distracted, Tillie worked at the cords around her wrists. When her captor pulled tighter on the rope connecting them, she cried out at in pain. "Cheer up," he said to the bearded man, "We done good. Giant ghost or not, this 'ere gal'll bring five, six hundred." He grinned and patted Tillie. Since Tillie could not kick him, she spat at him. As he ducked, the outlaw laughed. "Freed 'em from their owners," He laughed and patted Tillie again. "Then we sell 'em."

"And we git the money." The bearded one began to cheer up.

"So quit yer grumblin'. If you wasn't so clumsy, we'd have the big buck, too."

The outlaws failed to distinguish among the natural river sounds, a soft "Bob, bob white," and after a pause, another call. They were so preoccupied with their greed that they did not spot a black stocking cap that waved above a rotting moss-covered log.

Walking Owl did not miss either sign. Nor did he miss Tillie's actions. She looked quickly in Etta's direction, jerked herself upright in her seat behind the outlaw, and increased her struggles.

The leader urged his roan into the cold water. When he reached the western side, he spurred his horse to make him leap up the mud bank. From the top, he waved the others on. Then he spurred his roan on down the trail.

The stout man's big mare stepped gingerly into the water. More slowly than the leader's roan because of her double load, the mare carefully placed each hoof down on the slick rocky bottom as the current swirled around her legs.

The stout man had difficulty encouraging the mare and holding his seat while Tillie constantly fought him. The mare slipped several times, going down to her knees once.

The diversion was what Walking Owl needed. With his rifle slung across his back, and his knife unsheathed, he waited. The mare reached the mud bank, paused, and then scrambled up the slippery bank with her two riders. Tillie lunged against the outlaw's back with the whole force of her body. He jerked the reins; the mare slipped back.

Walking Owl leaped. He landed between Tillie and the outlaw. His force knocked mare and riders to the ground. At the same time two pistol shots rang out in the woods west of him.

With his boot heel dug into the mud bank for anchorage, Walking Owl grabbed Tillie's arm and quickly cut the ropes. Caught unaware, Tillie started to struggle, until she recognized him as the one who rescued Ned. Freed, she grabbed a tree root. The mare quickly righted herself, jumped the bank, and galloped upstream through the trees.

The enraged outlaw rolled over. He kicked Walking Owl's legs out from under him. Both men struggled as they slid and rolled down the bank. When they reached the water line, the outlaw was on the bottom. As he splashed into the cold water, he called out in pain, giving the Osage the advantage. Walking Owl jumped back; his boots sunk several inches into the icy mud along the water's edge. His powerful shove pushed the stout man farther into the river. He sunk out of sight for a few seconds before emerging with a gasp that turned into curses.

Tillie pulled herself to level ground and disappeared behind some logs and bushes. With Tillie safe for the moment, and the stout man temporarily out of action—his horse gone and his gun wet and useless—Walking Owl had only the bearded man across the river to contend with.

In action now after his initial surprise when the Osage dropped from the sky, the third outlaw had pulled his rifle from its case and took aim. Walking Owl leaped to level ground. He rose to his full height as he reached over his shoulder for his rifle and leaped behind an oak just as the bearded man's first shot struck the bank. There was no second shot. Still seated on his gelding, a perfect target for Walking Owl, the outlaw seemed frozen in fear of the tall Osage.

Walking Owl fired at the ground in front of the horse. The gelding reared. The bearded man hit the ground; his gun flew from his hands and slid over the rocky surface. Snorting and bucking, the horse fled back down the road he had just traveled. Swearing loudly, the outlaw scrambled for his rifle. Walking Owl's next shot struck the gun. It bounced a few inches into the air and slid over the wet rocks closer to the river.

With his peripheral vision Walking Owl saw the stout man wading toward the bank. The Osage sent a shot in his direction, not at the man, but between him and the bank to force him to stay in the river. After a few minutes in the icy water, he would be no threat for a long time.

The Osage melted into the trees. The stout man muttered curses as he pulled himself out of the water. On foot with wet and damaged guns, the two outlaws were harmless for the present.

But the leader...?

Since the two pistol shots, he had heard nothing from Etta, nor from Tillie after she climbed the river bank. He heard the hoof beats of the bearded man's fleeing gelding. He cocked his head upstream to listen and thought he recognized the movement of the stout man's mare through the trees.

But there was no sound from Etta's direction. He hesitated, debating whether to go down the road to see about her and the black-coated leader, or....

A call of a bobwhite came from the direction of his canoe. Reassured, Walking Owl sprinted d ownstream. In the hidden cove, the two women were seated in his canoe, Etta at the bow, Tillie bent over in the middle wrapped in the comforter.

"We're all right," Etta whispered in answer to his unspoken question as he glanced at both women. Though Tillie's short hair and face was plastered with mud from the roll on the mud bank, the only change in Etta was that her stocking cap had been pulled on carelessly.

Walking Owl climbed into his seat. He thrust his paddle against a tree root and gave a powerful push. Silently the long canoe glided into the current.

A pistol shot knocked Walking Owl's hat from his head into the canoe. Another shot splintered the back of the canoe above the water line. Tillie gave a muffled scream and fell forward to lie in the bottom of the boat. Walking Owl glimpsed the figure of a man on the bluff behind him. He was too far away to distinguish which outlaw it was. Walking Owl and Etta leaned over to avoid the bullets and paddled rapidly to get out of pistol range. A third and fourth shot splatted harmlessly behind them.

When out of range of the sniper, Walking Owl asked Etta, "Was that your man, the black-coat?"

"No." Her voice and the stiffness of her body left no doubt.

"Then the bearded man had a pistol."

As he continued to paddle rapidly, and taking advantage of the current in the center of the river, Walking Owl seemed to make the canoe fly through the water. Tillie sobbed softly. Her shoulders shook; her whole body trembled.

"We're safe now, Tillie," Etta said. Though she did not cease her paddling, she turned to look at her friend several times to give her encouragement. "This is Walking Owl."

Tillie twisted her upper body to face him. "Thank you," she said in a voice hoarse from her screams. Walking Owl inclined his head in response and handed her a blanket from his knapsack; his eyes searched the bluffs for the outlaw. She wrapped the blanket around her, leaving only her face exposed.

When Tillie's tremors stopped, Walking Owl asked gently, "Did the men harm you?"

"No." She studied this tall man who had stepped out of the smoke to save Ned at the farm and dropped from the sky to rescue her at Freedom Ford. "You really are a giant. One of the outlaws thought you was a ghost. He was too scared to shoot straight when he seen you back there at the ford."

"I was counting on that."

They continued rapidly. Though uneasy about the outlaws attacking them on the river, Walking Owl was more worried about the people at the Watson house. If the bearded man caught up to them so quickly on the river, it was possible he might return to the house. And he was concerned about Tillie's long exposure without a coat. His toes were beginning to stiffen where his boots had leaked. Etta missed a few strokes in her paddling to blow on her hands to warm them up. They must reach the house quickly.

He had miscalculated back at the ford. He figured they would be safe from pursuit at least until the stout outlaw built a fire to dry his clothes and until both outlaws could catch their horses. He should have killed both of them, but to avoid any possible repercussions against his tribe, he never shot to kill White men, even outlaws.

Tillie examined Walking Owl, from his muddy, leather boots up his long, lean body to the hole in his hat, which once again was on his head. When she caught his black eyes looking at her from under his wide hat brim, she asked, "Where'd you come from?"

Walking Owl grinned for the first time; crinkly lines appeared around his eyes. "Actually, just a few miles from here." He swung his arm to the east. "Blue Mounds." When Tillie opened her mouth in disbelief, he added. "That was a long time ago. I'm from Kansas back on a trapping trip."

"Oh." Tillie wrapped Walking Owl's wool blanket tighter around her. "Why'd you leave here?" she asked.

"My grandfather moved us to our Kansas lands. It was the only way for us to survive."

"It's crazy," Tillie said. "White men got your people off of this land and then brought us coloreds in. And now they want us out too. Don't make sense."

"Caleb and I want you here, and we want Walking Owl, too," Etta said.

Tillie looked back at Walking Owl's immobile face. "I didn't want to come here in the first place, but now I don't want to leave."

"I didn't want to leave." The women had to strain to hear Walking Owl's words. "I'm trying to find a way to return."

Tillie shook her head sadly. "You can't return. And Ned and I must leave." Walking Owl nodded as they turned the last bend of the river before reaching Watson land.

"No, Tillie," Etta said. "You don't have to leave. This trouble will soon be over."

"Tillie is right." Walking Owl said. "What's happening on this border is just the beginning."

"But, Walking Owl, you can pass for a White man."

"But Ned and I can't," Tillie said. "Though we're no longer slaves, we still ain't free."

After a careful search of the area for hidden men, Walking Owl directed the canoe into the Watson cove. "No one in this borderland is free, Tillie, not you and Ned, not me, or the Watsons."

Etta tied the canoe to an exposed root. "It'll be better one day, and Freedom Ford will represent what you named it for, Tillie."

As Tillie extricated herself from the folds of the blanket, she looked at Walking Owl and shook her head sadly.

All was quiet at the homestead. Smoke curled from the chimney. As they crossed the corn field, Tillie repressed a sob at the sight of the pile of embers that was her home. "The outlaws will be back," Tillie said.

"Probably," Walking Owl agreed.

"But not right away," Etta said. "We won't let them harm you."

Tillie shook her head. "Can't live like this. Gotta leave. They'll be back, or others will."

When they were halfway across the field, Jeremy and his sisters burst out of the house, running toward them. This time they crowded around Tillie; they hugged and kissed her.

"The fish is ready," Jeremy said to Walking Owl. "Papa ate some and feels better. He doctored Ned's leg. It's gonna get well." As proof he pointed to the doorstep where Caleb and Ned stood.

Though assured by the men that there was no sign of outlaws, Walking Owl was worried about the one with the pistol. He excused himself to scout out the trail.

"They are gone," he said when he returned. "The tracks say that the bearded man caught his bay and crossed the river. There's nobody on this side. Keep a constant lookout for them. Now I must return to Kansas."

He shook hands with Caleb and the children. As he turned to Ned and Tillie he asked, "You'll come to me when you get to Kansas?" They both nodded. "Don't wait too long."

When he reached Etta he looked into her eyes for a few seconds. "You didn't tell us what happened to the black-coated outlaw on the roan."

"No."

Caleb took her hand. "Do you want to tell us?"

She looked long into her husband's fever-bright eyes. She glanced at young Jeremy and at her two little daughters. She looked at her undamaged house and to their rich prairie acres behind the still-glowing ashes of the barn. She glanced over the sooty blotch on the land where once stood Ned and Etta's cabin. Then her eyes settled on Ned. A scab was already forming on the cut on his handsome face. His bandaged leg was propped up on a footstool, and his torn shirt exposed his bruised arm. His right hand covered Tillie's hand on his shoulder. Tillie stood behind him, her dress stained with mud from the ford.

Etta then turned back to Walking Owl. "My dear friend, today you saved the lives of everybody here. All you asked me to do was, 'to deal with the man on the roan.'"

"And...?"

"I dealt with him." She handed Walking Owl his pistol.

Walking Owl held up his hand in an Osage farewell. When Jeremy and his sisters crowded to the window to wave goodbye, he was not in sight.

Water flowed from the slanted roof, splashing in the torrent of the once dry dirt street. Stray drops nestled in the wood, seeking out the nicks and depressions in the material to ebb into the interior of the structure.

Nick Taylor stood in the down-pour. He stared at the body swaying in the howling wind. Edgar Clifford twisted on the length of rope, driven by the strong air currents. Several kerosene lamps illuminated the porch and lower portion of his body. An occasional lightning flash highlighted his face. Edgar's swollen tongue protruded from the frozen lips; his eyes bulged to the point of bursting. A dark mottled purple spread over Ed's face, where the blood pooled beneath the skin.

Eight men killed Ed a short time ago, hanged him from the porch support outside his own store. Only Nick remained to watch the rain cascade from the merchant's feet and splash on the rough wood. Most of the others returned to their homes, anxious to get some sleep or find solace in a bottle and forget the dirty business of burial.

Jackson Chambers left a short time ago. Nick brushed water-soaked hair from his eyes. He licked his lips, hoping for Jackson's quick return with the wagon and shovels. He too felt anxious to put the day's business behind him.

I only hope we did the right thing. I hope we did the right thing. Ed killed the Caldwell girl. Several people saw her talking to him. Ben Meyers found her body in Ed's cold house.

During the winter, Ed hired men to harvest the ice from frozen ponds. He stored it in a huge thick walled building. The heavily insulated walls kept the ice through most of the summer and turned him a tidy profit.

Meyers found Reba's body when he was pilfering free ice. It was a hot day. Ben was putting up winter hay for his cattle and wanted cold water for the field. The sight of Reba's blood soaked body scared the hell out of him. Ben dropped his jar and ran down the street screaming. Within a few minutes, the whole town knew about Reba. It didn't take them long to seize Edgar Clifford and tie him up like a yearling waiting for the branding iron.

The preacher took control of Reba's remains. He and the women ushered her body to the undertaker where they all supervised old Tucker's work on the girl. That left Edgar to the mercies of the men folk.

"Let's hang him!" Kelso Johnson shouted. "Let's hang him and get it over with. Man like this doesn't deserve to live another minute."

"My daughter Edith disappeared last year." Bob Lynn pulled his skinning knife from the scabbard. He ran his thumb along the blade. "Ed probably killed her too. Let me have him. I'll get the truth out of him, before I cut his throat."

Jackson tightened his grip on the ropes holding Edgar. "We can't kill him yet."

"Why not?" Kelso demanded.

"Why should we wait? Let's kill him right now," Bob Lynn said.

"We have to tell Emmett. He needs to know what happened to his daughter," Jackson said, "and we should send for the sheriff."

"Sheriff, hell!" Kelso spat a stream of tobacco juice to the ground. "The county sheriff is fifty miles away. The nearest deputy is over at Clarkton. He'd be over half a day getting here, maybe longer."

"We're a state now," Jackson argued. "We have laws to go by and officials to carry out those laws."

"We dealt with lawbreakers long before we became a state." Kelso stared up at the thin man. "What's wrong, Jackson? You lost the stomach to do what's right?"

Bob Lynn pulled Kelso away from the crowd. "We need to wait for Emmett. He should see his girl's killer."

"Have you lost your mind, Bob?" Kelso yanked himself free of Bob's grip. "Emmett won't be here for two hours. I say we hang him now and let justice be done."

"We wait for Emmett." Jackson stared defiantly at Kelso. "I sent Ben after him. He'll be here shortly."

The crowd mumbled among themselves. Bob Lynn and Kelso stood away from the mob over to the side talking the loudest. "Alright! Alright," Kelso said. "We wait for Emmett."

"Taylor," Jackson shouted. "Get down to Miller's road. That's the most likely route they'll take. Bring them here double quick."

Taylor nodded, as he climbed aboard his mule. He desperately wanted to say something to take control of the situation, but fear of the crowd stilled his tongue. He pointed his mule toward Miller's road and touched it lightly with his heels. The breeze grew harder, swirling the dust around him, a cool wind heavy with the promise of rain.

The young farmer fumbled for his tobacco sack. He stuffed the bowl of his crudely-made pipe. Nothing like a good smoke, he thought, as he scraped the match over the brass knob on the saddle. The wind sucked the flame away before he could fire the tobacco. He succeeded on the third attempt and puffed away at the strong mixture.

The steady clomp of hooves over the Widder's Creek Bridge came to his ears. I won't have to go all the way to Miller's road. A smile of relief split his face.

"Ben, Emmett, that you?" he shouted, pulling his mule to a stop.

"Yeah, Taylor," Ben answered. He waved as the pair rode into view. "We came as quick as we could."

Emmett sat straight backed in the saddle, his knuckles white on the reins of the blue roan. "Why did he kill Reba?" he asked. "Has he said why he killed my girl?"

"He won't talk." Taylor shook his head. "He hasn't said one word."

"Come on Emmett, let's get to town," Ben said, tossing his head at the building clouds. "It's gonna come a toad strangler in a little while and I ain't anxious to get soaked."

Taylor gazed up at the swollen black clouds that filled the horizon. "They're moving fast. We can't outrun it, that storm will be on us before we know it. Ben's right though, we need to get moving."

He settled the mule in line behind Ben's mount, as the first drops began to fall. The rain quickly grew in intensity, driven by a fierce unforgiving wind, soaking the trio within seconds. Words were useless, carried away with the wind and drowned out by the downpour. Taylor wiped the water from his face, careful to keep the lead horse in sight. A man could get lost easily in a storm like this. Familiar things took on an unreal quality.

A blob of light appeared in the distance. Taylor knew it came from Edgar's store. As one the small group aimed for the unspoken promise the light offered. Taylor caught glimpses of men moving within the warm glow ahead. The blob broke into six separate kerosene lamps. Jackson had the place lit up like a big city saloon. Five men waited under the shelter, watching the drops slap into the earth. Ed sat in the center looking down at the porch.

Is that the look of a killer, a child murderer? Taylor stared at the squat figure of the merchant. His eyes scanned the faces of the other men on the porch. He didn't have an answer.

Water splashed around Taylor's boots, as he slid from the saddle. It made little difference, as he was drenched through to the skin. Emmett pushed past him, his boots banged on the porch boards in his haste. He walked straight up to Edgar. The grocer got to his feet and met the farmer's gaze as he approached.

"Why did you kill my daughter?" he demanded. "Why did you kill Reba?"

Ed stared at the older man. "I didn't kill her, Emmett. I didn't kill your girl. You've known me for years. We're friends. I didn't kill Reba."

Emmett spit in the merchant's face. The thick wad of tobacco juice trickled down his jaw and dripped from his chin.

"Hang him," Emmett said at last. "No need to keep something like this alive any longer."

"Yes Siree." Kelso jumped to his feet. "That's what I've been saying all along." He grinned; showing a mouthful of brown tobacco stained teeth, as he fitted the rope over Ed's head and settled it around his neck. "You're getting what you deserve."

"Mr. Caldwell, are you sure about this?" Taylor found the courage to speak. "Maybe we should get the Sheriff, let him deal with Edgar."

"Shut up, Nick," Bob Lynn shouted. "Emmett's made his decision. Let's string this killer up and be done with this."

"Let me have the rope." Emmett held out a tough work scarred hand. "Reba was my daughter. It falls to me to finish this."

"Emmett," Edgar pleaded. "Don't kill me. I didn't harm your girl."

Kelso passed the coil to Emmett. The mob watched, as he wound the rope through the porch headers and tied it off to his saddle horn.

"Think about this, Mr. Caldwell." Taylor stepped in front of the older man. "If we hang him without trial, are we any better than he is?"

"Emmitt, please listen to me. I didn't kill Reba," Edgar begged.

"Edgar," Jackson stepped up to the merchant, facing him eye to eye. "This is your last chance to give your side of the story."

"I didn't do it. I saw Reba this morning. She rode her little buckskin into town to get some nails. She said Emmett was working on the barn."

"What if he's innocent?" Jackson shouted. "We don't want to hang an innocent man."

"She never came home." Emmett swung up in the saddle and pulled back on the reins. The roan responded easily, one step back, then two taking up the slack on the rope.

Nick grabbed the bridle. "Think about this, Mr. Caldwell. What if he didn't kill Reba?"

"No more talking," Emmett shouted, as he kicked Nick away from his horse. "I'm ending this now."

Ed stood ramrod straight, up on his tiptoes. He glared at the grizzled sodbuster. "I didn't kill her," he croaked. "I didn't kill Reba."

The horse took a third step back, then a fourth. Ed's face began to flush. His legs kicked out wildly, his feet seeking solid purchase. Within minutes, Edgar Clifford kicked his life away.

Taylor searched for words, hoping to justify what they had done. He couldn't take his eyes away from Ed's body, swaying in the breeze, twisting on the rope. It's a terrible thing to watch a man die this way, a terrible thing.

Jackson wouldn't look up at the body. "I'll be back shortly," he said as he turned toward the livery.

Taylor stared up at Edgar's purplish face. Eight of us killed Edgar Clifford a short time ago. He thought. Everyone else has left. It's just me and Jackson now. We need to take Ed to the cemetery. I hope we did the right thing. God, I hope we did the right thing.

Jim Craig ran a weathered hand through his sweat soaked hair. He held his hat above his head shielding his eyes. Standing in the stirrups he watched the cowboys pushing the dust covered cattle through the canyon. The place was called Guadalupe Canyon. Here he witnessed the cowboys driving wagons and a small herd of cattle until they stopped for the day to camp. Their camp was in a deep depression near a “rock-built” monument marking the borders of Arizona and New Mexico Territories as well as the Mexican states nearby.

Craig rode in to their camp and introduced himself to the cowboys. He asked if he could stay at their camp, just for the night. He was just passing through the region on his way to buy some clothing at a nearby town. The cowboys stated, “Heck; we reckon so.”

Upon darkness the cowboys sat around a campfire, although it was a hot summer in 1881, it still got very cool at nighttime in the desert. The cowboy’s swapped old-time stories and spitted tobacco juice into the fire---interspersed with a few high pitches of laughter from their vulgar talk. Craig thought they were probably bandits or possibly cow thieves, but he had no evidence at the time of that. One of the cowboys, Dick Lang, stated he had a ranch near Cloverdale, New Mexico Territory, and was taking his herd of 100 to market. Another cowpoke, named Terrence Manning, was a dairy farmer while a teenager, Dixon Gray, along with his friends; Billy Snow and Charley Byers, were helping to get Lang’s herd through the mountain passes. All of the men would soon be guilty of one thing for sure---being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As the hot burning rays of the morning sun awoke the cowboys, it stirred up the pre-positioned Mexican troops hiding in the higher ground. They had waited all night, not making a sound to stir the unsuspecting soon-to-be victims. As daybreak came they set their sights, as they were a rifle squad, on their targets.

As the cowboys got up they noticed their herd was somewhat restless. This usually meant someone or some carnivores were nearby.

One of the men stated, “They’re sure uneasy, watch out as they may stampede.”

Lang called to Manning, who was guarding the cattle, “Terrence, get your weapon; I think there’s a bear in the hills, kill it.” Terrence galloped his stride up one of the hills to see what was exciting the herd when the Mexican troops opened fire. A bullet slammed into his torso and he fell off his mount onto the hot desert sand. He was dead before he hit the ground. At the time of the first burst of gunfire, three of the cowboys were just getting dressed while Craig and the others were completely taken off-guard.

“Oh my God;” Craig exclaimed, “there going to kill us all!”

Some of the startled cowboys thought Terrence and some of the others had found a bear, and were firing at it.

Craig looked for his rifle but could not locate it as the bullets kicked dirt around him. He then grabbed for his Colt revolver. But upon seeing his newfound comrades falling all around him, he decided to take-off running. Craig hadn’t ran but forty yards when he felt a bullet hitting his back, blasting a large wound; blood squirted all over the ground, but he kept running. After a few more steps, another bullet smashed into his arm. The force of the bullet knocked him down. His pistol fell from his hand. As he lay on the desert sand he saw Gray and Snow running past him.

Gray yelled out, “Come on---let’s get out of here!” Snow screamed, “We’re all going to be killed!”

At that moment Gray fell, shot through the legs. He rolled over turning his pistol loose, killing one of the Mexicans and wounding another. He was one hell of a pistolerer. Gray had actually been one of the only cowboys that had done any damage to the Mexican force who had assaulted the lonely cowboy camp.

Due to their positions, high above the camp, Craig could only see puffs of smoke from the Mexicans firing from their excellent offensive positions.

Soon, Craig could see the Mexican troops running down from their previous hidden positions. They were wearing large sombreros that initially hid their weather beaten faces. They began stripping what they could from the dead carcasses of the cowboys. They took boots, belts, clothes and weaponry.

Thinking he needed to do something immediately; Craig immediately took off what clothes he was wearing, even a ring on his finger. He rested stretched out on the sand with his face in the ground. He was completely covered in fresh blood from his own wounds and felt the Mexicans would pass by thinking he was deceased, and already undressed. Thankfully Craig was not mistaken, for they never touched his lifeless body.

One of the Mexicans rode his horse close to him as he wanted to make sure the cowboy was truly dead. He drew his handgun, fired one shot, which grazed his head. Then he fired several other shots all around Craig’s prone body, but the figured never stirred. So the Mexican rode by and Craig whispered to himself, “thank God.”

The other Mexicans stripped the deceased cowboys, cut open the valises, taking all the horses and saddles, and anything else they could see. Total count would be around $2,000 in cash. They also gathered the herd of cattle after some had ran-off due to all the gunfire.

As Craig watched the Mexicans riding off in the sun, he decided to wait long time, thinking they may come back. Finally, he felt safe enough to move, so he crawled over to his pistol. A sound reached his ears, thinking it was another bandit that had returned, he rolled over and pointed his revolver at a startled man standing over him. Luckily it was a nearby rancher who had heard all of the shooting and came to see what had occurred.

The young man put Craig on his horse and took him to a nearby canyon. “I’ll have to come back for you at night, when it is safer,” he explained, but he didn’t return. So Craig started for the ranch and was finally found the next day.

Pauletta, a young good looking Spanish woman, entered the room the wounded cowboy was resting in. Craig had lost a lot of blood and thought for sure his life was over. Pauletta poured clean water over his wounds, placed some ointment on them, and then wrapped bandages on them. Craig asked for the young lady to see the man of the house so he could retell his adventure. She hesitated and told him to rest. Just then a bushy headed man entered the small adobe room. The man stated he was the owner of the place, but never mentioned his name.

As he listened to what had happened to Craig, the man knew that these Mexicans were just returning the favor to the cowboys. Apparently they had stolen their herd of cattle from another group of Mexicans a few days before.

The border battles between the local cowboys and Mexicans went on until the 1890s. Craig was just a lucky witness to one of these incidents as he lived to tell his tale for years to come.

"Shadows are getting shorter."

"Yep, it's about noon."

"You think there's any place in the world where there is no shadows at noon?" said David Morgan.

"Suppose so. Just about any day that's real cloudy don't have no shadows," said Cletus Jones.

"You know what I meant. Can't you just answer questions straight up? Or is it just because you are a lying Arkansas Yazoo," said David.

"Most questions got more than one answer. You and I done both got our shadows and it don't make me no mind how long they are. When I don't see no shadow on a sunny day that's when I start to worry." said Cletus.

The two privates were interrupted as Sgt. Rhodes walked up to them, "I'm looking for two volunteers and that means you two."

"Why us? We been in that wood choppin' detail for three days runnin'," said David.

"Because I'm a sergeant and I'm bigger than you. Any other questions?"

"No sergeant," they mumbled together.

"Good, that's what I wanted to hear." He straightened up his kepi and motioned toward the officers' tent. "Get your butts over there. You are both runners for General Van Dorn." He turned quickly and walked purposely over toward the campfire where some other men were cooking.

"Damn, you're always getting' me in trouble. I don't know why I hang around with you," said Cletus.

"You ain't got no choice. I'm the only friend you have and besides you ain't nothing but a dumb Yazoo from the Arkansas bayous," said David.

"Rather be a dumb Yazoo and married to a three-legged gator than bein' a egg suckin' hillbilly from Tennessee."

They continued arguing as they walked over to the tent were Major General Van Dorn was briefing his fellow officers.

General Earl Van Dorn was a firebrand of the old order. His men called him 'Old Hot Damn', but never said it loud enough for him to hear. It was rumored that President Jefferson Davis had personally appointed him to command the Military District of the Trans-Mississippi.

"You think we should go inside and report to the general?" asked Cletus.

"I'd rather suck a rotten egg than go in there with all those officers," said David as he slipped his 69-caliber musket off his shoulder and rested the butt between his feet.

Cletus didn't say anything, but he nodded his head and then he assumed his position on the other side of the flap leading into the tent.

They could hear the general's voice booming inside the tent. "Gentlemen, here is the plan. I'm going to split our forces. In most military situations, this would be a poor idea, but not this time. We outnumber the blue bellies almost two to one. We also have more artillery. We are going to smash them and assure that Arkansas and all land west of the Mississippi belongs to the Confederacy. The blue bellies are having trouble with Missouri. I plan to make certain that Missouri will come to the aid of the Confederacy. The outcome of this battle will make that bearded monkey from Illinois sit up and take notice. General Lee will be able to concentrate his efforts on smashing the Army of the Potomac."

A round of, "Hear, Hear's" resounded from inside the tent.

The general continued, "We missed our chance at the battle of Little Sugar Creek; that will not happen again. This time we will attack the Union forces from the rear. General McCulloch, you will take your forces around the western edge of Pea Ridge and come up behind the federal troops. General Price you will take your army and take the Bentonville detour around Pea Ridge and then down Telegraph Road where you will meet up with General McCulloch at Elkhorn Tavern. Are there any questions?"

"Sir, how soon before we attack? The men are worn out and need a few days to rest. Our supplies are lagging way behind and there is question about the amount of ammunition we have for the artillery," asked Major Brown.

"I'm aware of the situation and have taken it into consideration. It is my decision that we will attack tomorrow morning, March 7. The longer we wait, the stronger the federal forces will become. We will have surprise, numerical superiority and heavier artillery. We will triumph." He straightened up from the big map before him, "Gentlemen, return to your units, tomorrow victory awaits us." After all officers had left except his adjutant Major Lafon, he said, "Attach runners to General Price and General McCulloch."

Major Lafon stepped outside the tent and directed Cletus to act as a runner for General McCulloch and David to act as the runner for General Price.

The two privates had been together for almost a year now and even though they constantly argued, there was a strong bond between the two. Cletus put his hand on his friend's shoulder and said, "Take care hillbilly, I want to see your ugly face again after this is over."

"Who's calling who ugly? You're so stupid you don't know which end of a canoe goes first." But he was smiling and also put his hand on his friend shoulder. "Take care of your shadow."

"You too."

Both men shouldered their muskets and moved off with their respective officers.

The next morning was cold and a slight mist floated on the fields as the attack began. The federal forces fired the first shots in an effort to find the strength of the attacking force. The Rebel forces were pushing ahead when disaster struck. General McCulloch decided to reconnoiter the federal position. Cletus was standing beside the general's horse when he heard a sound he had heard too many times before. It was the sickening splat of a bullet meeting flesh. He looked up just as the general fell across his body. He twisted to the side and looked into the general's face. McCulloch's eyes were open but they would never see another thing. Cletus had seen enough dead men to know that he could do nothing for the general. Keeping low to avoid the bullets that whizzed around him, he called to an officer, "The general is dead, and I have to get word back to command." Without waiting for a reply, he crawled over the small ridge and then rushed back toward the camp.

When he got there, he had no difficulty locating Brig. General James McIntosh. He rushed past the guard and into the tent where the general was working on a map. "Sir I have terrible news, General McCulloch has been killed."

"Are you certain?" asked the General.

Cletus looked at the general for a few moments before answering, then he ran his fingers over it still wet blood on his jacket and held them out to the general and said, "Yes Sir, I'm certain."

"Damn damn damn," said the general as he stalked from the tent. "This is a hell of a way to run a war. It can't get much worse than this." But just then, it did. A 69 caliber mini ball removed the general's head. Cletus was on his belly before he heard the sound of the shot echo across the camp. Damn Yankee snipers, he thought.

Two corpsmen rushed over and picked up the general and carried him back into the tent. Cletus followed them and closed the tent flap. They gently lay the general's body on the map table. "Any chance for him?" asked the taller of the corpsmen.

"Nope, he's gone. Somebody better get the word to Old Hot Damn, he's ain't gonna like this."

"I'll get over to his tent right away and tell him," said Cletus. He worked his way quickly across the sprawling camp until he found the general's tent. He could hear voices from inside the tent, but another worried looking private was waiting outside to see the general. "Y'all mind if I see the general first?" asked Cletus.

"Don't think that's a good idea. I got some really bad news for the general. I was back with Colonel Hébert, we had attacked the blue bellies with about 2000 troops. We done real good at first, but we got all mixed up in the woods. Them Damn Yankees captured the Colonel, I done nearly got kilt myself," said the private.

"Damn. It sure ain't looking good. I done seen two generals get shot just today. Makes me mighty proud not to be an officer today," said Cletus.

Major Lofon stepped out of the tent and looked at two privates, "If you men have anything to report, come into the tent."

They stepped in and saluted the general; Cletus spoke first, "Sir, I was the runner assigned to General McCulloch."

The general interrupted him before he could continue, "What the hell do you mean was assigned?"

"He was shot and killed early this morning."

The general became extremely angry, "Get word to General McIntosh I need to speak to him right away."

"You can't do that general," said Cletus.

The general gave him a hard look, "I may be mistaken private, but in the armies I command, generals tell privates what to do, not the other way around."

"Beg the general's pardon Sir, but General McIntosh is also dead. A blue belly sniper done killed him right outside his tent."

The general looked over at his adjutant, "Who's next in line to command after McIntosh?"

"General Albert Pike sir."

"Damn it all to hell. Pike is not near as aggressive a man as I need right now." He stood silently for a few moments and then said, "I want Colonel Louis Hébert put in charge of those forces. He's a good man and aggressive."

It was the other privates turn to be the bearer of bad news. "Beggin' the general's pardon. Colonel Hébert has been captured by the Yankees."

"What the hell is going on today? Do I have any officers left to command? You privates get out of here. I don't want to ever see your faces again."

Both privates did an about-face and gratefully left the tent. "Damn, I think I'd rather kiss a snake afore I go back in there again," said Cletus.

The adjutant had followed them both out of the tent, "I agree with you private, but I have to go back in there. I want both of you to report to General Price's Army. I want you both to know that you've done a good job." With a sigh, he turned and reentered the tent.

They found their way over to General Price's Army and were soon hunkered down in a ditch along Telegraph Road with the rest of the troops. They had been in position about an hour when Cletus saw some horsemen coming. Someone farther down the line called out, "It's General Price, hooray!" As the horsemen rode past, Cletus recognized David trailing the officers.

"Hey hillbilly, look over here."

David reined up, and looked over the gray-coated soldiers crouched in the ditch alongside the rail fence. Finally he spotted Cletus and rode over to him. "Well if it ain't the Yazoo. You doing okay?"

"Fair ta middlin'. How about you?"

"Bout the same." He looked back at the other horsemen who were far down the road by this time. "I gotta go now. See you later?"

"Y'all can bet your life on it."

On March 7 and 8 in 1862, the fields on and around Pea Ridge soaked up the blood of three thousand three hundred and eighty four men. The soil wasn't concerned about the blue or gray uniforms. It accepted all of the blood that was offered.

Lady luck smiled on Cletus and David, they both still had their shadows as the sun set. They were not among the 2000 Confederate soldiers that died in this battle.

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