Ghosts of the Past

HIGH CHAPARRAL RANCH, 9 JUNE 1874 

Victoria Cannon sat with a sigh, causing John and Blue to look up, startled at how quietly she had entered and how much noise she had made in deciding to sit down beside John on the couch.

"You sound tired," John remarked dryly, sipping from his coffee cup as he sat watching the fire.  The white stucco walls reflected the soft orange light, and John's blue eyes regarded her carefully.  Victoria blinked, then met his eyes with a small smile.  For all his outer toughness, John Cannon was surprisingly gentle at heart.

"Perhaps a bit," she admitted softly.  "It has been a long day.  And, oh, he is such a young boy."

"You get him all tucked away?"

"Yes, he is sleeping now," Victoria said, pulling at the hem of her skirt as she placed her own teacup on the table before them.  Her obsidian eyes seemed troubled as she thought about Mark McCain.  "He tosses a lot in his sleep, and he does not sleep deeply."

"Not surprising, considering what he's been through," John said, sipping from his cup.

"Oh, John.  He is so young!  To have lost so much at so young an age, it is…"

"Tragic," John finished for her.  "It certainly is.  I can't imagine what that boy has been through.  To see his father gunned down in front of him, then to be given to the Apache like so much raw meat, well…it's a wonder the boy is still sane."

"Are we taking him into town tomorrow?" Blue asked, placing his hands behind his head as he propped his boots on the table beside Victoria's cup.  John scowled at him, and Blue quickly removed his feet from the table.  Satisfied, John took a sip from his cup and nodded.

"Yes, you are.  He's a long way from home, and we need to wire the authorities in North Fork."

"Where's that?" Blue asked.

"New Mexico," John replied.  "The boy and his father had a ranch there, about four thousand acres.  He told me his father was good friends with the marshal there, a man by the name of Torrance.  You can take the boy into town and buy him some new clothes.  Then get a wire off to North Fork and see if the boy has an aunt or uncle who can come for him.  Send the wire to this Marshal Torrance.  His first name is Micah.  With any luck, he'll know someone we can send the boy to."

"He told me he has no mother," Victoria said.  "He said that she died almost two years ago.  He has had only his father since that time, and now he has lost him as well."

"No uncles or aunts?"

"He mentioned an uncle, his mother's brother," Victoria replied.  "He said his name was Johnny Gibbs, but his uncle is a drifter and he has not seen him for a long time.  I feel so sorry for him, John.  He is all alone now."

"Yes, it's a hard thing for anyone to endure, let alone an eleven year-old boy," John admitted.

"Pa, what if this marshal can't find any relatives to take the Mark in?" Blue asked.  "What're we going to do then?"

Victoria's face lightened a little, but she was careful to keep her face down so that John would not notice.  She did not want to let John see how obviously she wanted to keep the boy with them.  It would be nice to have a child's presence at the High Chaparral.  It would be good to add something youthful to the aura of a working ranch.  Built of adobe, wood, stone, tile and desert flora, the High Chaparral was somewhat spartan, for it had been built for cowboys doing men's work.  Nowhere were there the normal things she expected of a family home: toys, laughter, small clothing and such.  No, there was nothing at all small or gentle in the High Chaparral.  The hacienda was big, powerful, and stoic, like her husband.  It was far too business-like for her tastes, and though she had tried very hard to add a woman's touch—most notably in cooking and cleaning—it was still too sterile.  Something was missing, and until recently, Victoria had not known what it was.

The ranch needed the presence of children.

Of course, her husband still thought of Blue as a child, she told herself glumly, and his treatment of the young man reflected that attitude.  The truth was that boys grew into men much faster on the frontier than they did in cities.  By the age of sixteen or seventeen, most boys were already doing a man's work.  Blue was twenty now, well into adulthood by frontier standards, yet John consistently refused to accept this and continued to treat him as a child.

Perhaps he is afraid to let Blue grow up, she thought silently.  He was afraid that because he had been gone in Blue's most formative years, when Blue had most needed a man's guidance, he could never catch up.  He is afraid that he has missed boyhood with his son, precious time for them both, that cannot be replaced. Perhaps he is afraid, too, that Anna Lee mothered Blue too much and that Blue will not be tough enough for this country.

John's previous wife seemed to have naturally understood Blue's sentimental side and artistic gifts.  She had kept him away from the violence and roughness so common across America.  That had made the boy too softhearted for John.  John had spent a lot of time trying to toughen Blue up for the frontier, to bring him up to the standards expected of a man in the West, but Victoria's intuitively knew that it was too late.  Blue had grown into his own type of man, one whose standards would forever be that of his eastern-born mother rather than those of his frontier-roving father.  John had simply been gone too much in war.  Blue had not had a father available when he needed one most, between the ages of six and eleven, and John could never etch himself into Blue's personality because of it.

Perhaps he feels guilty, she thought sadly, watching John's blue eyes as they regarded his son in the firelight.  It was almost as if John realized he had missed out on the most precious years of his son's life, and now was trying to make up for it.  He was struggling to instill the lessons a boy would need to grow into a man. 

The trouble was, Blue was already a man, and John could not accept it.  He stubbornly tried to impose his hard-won wisdom on Blue, who had predictably resented it.  Father and son were alike in their stubborn natures.  As Blue's resentment to such treatment had deepened, John's frustration and guilt had only caused him to be ever tougher and more resolute.

And perhaps my husband is also afraid, she told herself, her eyes watching John carefully now.  Perhaps he is actually afraid to let Blue go.  To admit that Blue is a man would be to admit that he has failed as a father; failed to be there to train his son when he should have been.  Perhaps he is afraid that if he accepts Blue as a man, he will have to admit that he is too late.  Too late to influence Blue in his own making; that he has missed out on being a father and can never recapture it.  Blue has grown into the years of manhood without the shared experience he should have had with his father, and John knows that.  He is afraid that by admitting such a thing, he will have to face the fact that he is getting older, and that there are fewer years ahead than there have been behind.

Afraid was not a word anyone else would use when talking about Big John Cannon, but Victoria knew better.  She knew the heart of the man, the part he protected from everyone else.  The very same part he had protected from her for so long, until he had finally come to trust her.  What John was most afraid of, dreading it even as he knew it to be true, was that by admitting Blue was a man, he would have to finally let him go. To do so, he would also have to let go of Anna Lee.

John's previous wife was dead, and she had been gone for over a year now.  While Victoria knew that John truly loved her, as she did him, she was not so foolish as to believe that John was over Anna Lee.  A single year as husband and wife was not enough to make John let go of a woman he had loved for more than twenty years.  As much as she might wish it were otherwise, as much as she might desperately desire that John were hers alone, it simply would never be.  A part of John's heart would always belong to his former wife; a part forever forbidden to her.  No matter what Victoria might do or say, Anna Lee's ghost would forever haunt the High Chaparral.  John saw her face every time he looked at Blue.

She wished now for a child.  Victoria wanted a child that would remind him of her, the way Blue did of Anna Lee.  It was a secret wish of hers that she could have such a link to the man she loved. 

Certainly, she did not wish for John to forget his former wife.  Anna Lee had been a good woman, and a dutiful wife.  What sort of man could ever forget such a woman?  What she did desire, however, was that John realize he had a new life now, and that he concentrate upon it with the same intensity that he remembered his past.  His new life was no better or worse than his old, but it was definitely different, and one she meant to share with him.

What he felt for his old wife, and what had existed between them, was actually none of her business.  She could admit that intellectually, though she had a hard time accepting it.  She had been curious, naturally, and she had listened whenever John had felt the urge to talk about it.  For the most part, however, she had tried to get John to concentrate on the present and not so much on the past.  Yet, even as she thought this, she had to admit that the past would always be with them.  People had to remember where they had been in order to know where they were.

And to decide where they wanted to go from there.

In that, she was certainly no different from John.

Victoria realized now how much she wanted to have a child.  She could admit she was envious now—jealous, even—of the bond that still existed between John and Anna Lee because of Blue.  The last few hours with the McCain child had also proven to her that she longed to have a small one of her own to nurture and look after.

Perhaps it was simply that life for a woman on a ranch of adult men was not enough for her.  As a student in Paris and Madrid, she had learned to think as an intellectual.  She had later realized she had been happy only when challenged in her chosen field of study.  So, what was her challenge on the High Chaparral?

To win the heart of her husband, of course, and she seemed to have won that fight.  Still, what was her chosen field of life?  What was her life to be about?  What would she leave behind, when her time came?  How would she be remembered?  As a loving mother, or as mistress of Rancho Cannon?  Was that enough?  Could she be content with that?

No, it was not enough.  She wanted children.

As much as having a child would have pleased her father, she had refrained from discussing it with John to any degree.  It was not that John was averse to trying to produce a child, for as uncomfortable as John was in public displays of emotion, he could be wonderfully passionate in private.  It was, rather, that she knew he was not ready for it.  He felt as if that part of his life were already behind him.  The thought of raising another child—and failing again—was very uncomfortable for him.

Instinctively, she knew what his arguments would be.  He was running a ranch, not an orphanage.  The frontier was too dangerous a place for very young children.  He might catch an Apache arrow, or a rustler's bullet, or fall from his horse, leaving her destitute with small children to feed.  That he would be over seventy years old before even their oldest offspring would reach adulthood.  John's arguments would be so truthful and logical, so reasonably constructed.

And they would still be wrong!

Perhaps it was simply her own internal clock ticking, urging her to have children of her own before she grew too old.  She was not old, yet the clock was there, reminding her.  Perhaps the clock was urging her to rush before John became too old.  The thought made her chuckle, for she could not imagine John getting that old.  

Perhaps it was simply maternal instinct, brought forth by young Mark McCain's presence.  Whatever it was, it only seemed natural for Victoria to want to conceive children for the man she loved, and so unnatural to always have to avoid the subject with him.

She noticed that John and Blue were both staring at her, wondering what she had been thinking to cause her to laugh.

"Yes, John," she said, pulling her mind to the present and acting quickly to avoid questions, "what will we do if there is no one who can come to take Mark home?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure," John stammered.

"Could he then stay with us?" she asked.

"Well, I don't know about that…"

"He sure is a cute kid," Blue interjected.  "All full of questions, and those big brown eyes of his.  Boy, can he eat pie, too."

"That's for sure," John said with false gruffness.  "I'm not certain I can afford to keep him on the ranch.  That boy can eat."

"He has been a prisoner among the Apache!" Victoria snapped out, her eyes flashing barbs.  You are being fastidioso!  He has probably had nothing to eat but rats for days, and he has lost his father and his mother!  How can you be so facano?  Mezquino!"

Victoria was quickly off and into a tirade of violent Spanish, snapping out adjectives so fast they made John's head hurt. 

He quickly raised his hands in surrender.

"All right, okay," he said defensively.  "Fine!  If the boy has no relatives and no one comes to claim him, and that's a big if, then we will consider keeping him.  However, I don't want you getting too attached to him just yet, Victoria.  I don't want you to get your hopes up and then have them dashed."

Victoria instantly quit talking and nodded, looking into her teacup so that John could not see her smile.  Her father and his men, including the exuberant Xavier Escobar, had already turned in for the evening.  She and John were alone with Blue in the living room, and their conversation was private.

There was, perhaps, no way to force John into having children of his own with her, and if so, the McCain child would certainly ease the loss.  On the other hand, she reflected wryly, there were still ways she could influence his decision.

"I am tired," she announced suddenly, putting down her teacup and standing to stretch.  "We will be leaving early.  I think I shall retire.  Will you be joining me, my husband?"

"Yeah, I think I'll turn shortly," John answered, his mind somewhere else.

"Good," she told him in a suddenly firmer tone.  "I shall await you."

John's head snapped up at her tone, and she met his eyes knowingly.  He blinked in shock, as she coyly turned and climbed the steps in front of him, disappearing in a flourish of skirts.  John's eyes followed her as she disappeared.

"You going to bed, Pa?" Blue asked.

"What?"

"I asked if you were, uh… going to bed?"

"Uh, yes, I am."

"Good.  Dawn comes pretty early."

"It does that," John replied, standing suddenly.  He drained his coffee cup and looked at Blue.

"What about you, boy?  You staying up all night?"

"Just a bit longer," Blue admitted.  "'Till the fire burns down.  Then I'll turn in, too."

"All right, then," John replied, turning to climb the stairs.

"Pa?"

John stopped and looked back at Blue.

"Yes?"

"Make sure you get plenty of rest," Blue said with a twinkle in his eye.  "It's a long ride back to that north range, and you certainly wouldn't want to be too tuckered out and all."

John scowled at him.

"I'll keep that in mind," John growled, and tromped up the steps.

Blue watched him go, then chuckled.  He placed his boots back up on the coffee table and shook his head with a grin.

II

CAMPSITE, SAN PEDRO RIVER

Lucas stared at the big bore of the Colt, which seemed very large as it held level on a spot between his eyes.  He glared past the muzzle of the gun at the face of the man holding it, regarding him with razor-slitted eyes.  There was something familiar about the man's face, but Lucas could not place him.  It felt as if he should know the man, but he did not, and he was not sure why.

"I take it we've met before," Lucas said after a moment.  The man's reply was anything but pleasant.

"You take it right, bluebelly."

"We met during the war?"

"You might say that, you back-shootin' murderer," Buck snarled.  "I been waitin' a long time to make you a dead Yankee."

Manolito stepped closer to Buck, trying to make sense of the situation.

"Buck, you cannot just shoot this man," Manolito said.

"You just watch me, Mano."

"That would be murder, Buck."

Buck's face contorted a moment, then crinkled with a hurt expression, but Manolito noticed with satisfaction that Buck lessened the pull on the trigger.

"You don't know what this Yankee did," Buck said flatly.  "I swore if I ever saw him again, I'd make him pay fo' it."

Lucas stared, honestly dumbfounded.

"What did I ever to do you?  I don't even know you."

"Maybe not, but I know you, Sharpshooter.  You kilt my best friend."

"When did I do that?"

"'October, it were," Buck replied. "Back in 'sixty-four."

"Where?"

"Belle Grove," Buck snapped.  "Some call it Cedar Creek."

Lucas blinked as he stared at Buck, his mind whirling back through time.  He had served in the Union army as part of the 19^th Indiana Infantry, a segment of the infamous "Black Hat" brigade. He had been on attached duty to the 18^th Indiana infantry during the battle of Cedar Creek, but he did not remember this seeing the man before him.

"Well, I was there," Lucas admitted.  "I was in the army under General Sheridan, but I was detached to Lieutenant Colonel Charles' command.  I take it you were a rebel under General Early?"

"That's right," Buck replied, never taking his eyes off Lucas.  "Army of the Valley, Stonewall brigade.   Fifth Virginia infantry, under Colonel Funk.  We was coming up the valley pike to whip you Yankees that day."

"You nearly did," Lucas admitted.  "You might have done it, too, if General Sheridan hadn't returned."

"We would have whipped you if Old Jube hadn't quit so early," Buck snorted.  "Early!  That was sure a good name for Ol' Jube.  Early to arrive, early to quit.  He weren't nothin' like Stonewall.  Ol' Jube was a sourpuss who quit afore the fightin' was done. 'Enough glory fo' one day.'  That's what he told General Gordon."

"I haven't thought about that day in a long time," Lucas said. 

"I don't 'spect you have, considerin' what you did," Buck replied.

"I don't recall doing anything, at least not to you.  It was war.  There was a lot of shooting.  I take it we met on the battlefield?"

"If you call what you did battle," Buck snapped.

"Maybe you can tell me just what it was that I did?"

Manolito watched the exchange with intense interest, but he was glad to see Buck release the hammer on his Colt and lower the pistol.

"I'd be happy to recollect for you, mister.  Happy enough to remind you the day you murdered my best friend."

Buck's eyes softened as his mind drifted back to a time of hell ten years earlier.

III

SOUTH OF MIDDLETOWN, VIRGINIA, 5:30 A.M., 19 OCTOBER 1864 

Buck Cannon shifted his heavy rifle and scratched the short curls under his kepi cap as he walked through the darkness of the woods.  The moon was still bright in the sky, and he could see the white tents of the enemy in the distance only a few miles away. 

There were only soft muted sounds as Buck's division of seventeen hundred men crossed the beaten trail atop the northern end of Massanutten Mountain and walked slowly down into the fog-lined bottoms of the northern fork of the Shenandoah River.

The Confederate Army of the Valley had come once more to face the Union's Army of the Shenandoah.  Major General "Little Phil" Sheridan was continuing his plundering of the Shenandoah Valley, burning farms and granaries in an attempt to destroy the commissary of the Confederate army.  Now it was up to the Confederate troops of Lieutenant General Jubal A. Early to stop them.

Buck's unit, the 5^th Virginia, was a part of the famous "Stonewall" Brigade, which included several other Virginian units.  It was one of five brigades in a division under Major General John B. Gordon.  Gordon's command was one of seven divisions that Early had brought with him to crush the Yankees and capture General Sheridan.  It had fallen to Gordon's division to lead the right fork of a flanking attack on the Union positions.

The Union forces were camped just south of Belle Grove, a plantation two miles south of Middletown.  The Union commanders had split their army's front across the limestone macadam of the Valley Pike (present Virginia State Highway 11), fortified with earth and log entrenchments nine feet deep, running along the northern bank of Cedar Creek.  The Yankee 19^th Corps, under major General William Emory, had been assigned by Sheridan to hold this front, while the Union 6^th Corps, composed primarily of troops from New York, had gone into camp west of Middletown itself.

Buck could see the Union tents as he walked across the north face of Massanutten Mountain.   The white sides of the tents glowed like rows of teeth in some distant skull.  Enemy campfires were star-like pricks of orange in the distance, littering the dark plain south of the town.  The enemy was resting, confident that the Confederate army had been beaten and pushed out of the Valley.  The Union troops were sleeping, secure in their belief it would be a quiet night.

Buck's unit had received its orders to move a little after 1 a.m.  With the order came the admonishment that all canteens and swords were to remain in camp, for General Early wanted strict noise discipline enforced.  There was no point in conducting a surprise night attack if rattling equipment warned the enemy in advance.  Gordon's men had moved out on cue, as silently as wraiths, moving along the dirt trail between the trees.

They moved down the mountain in the darkness, with two other divisions behind them.  Buck moved carefully, making an extra effort to ensure he did not bump his rifle barrel against a tree trunk or otherwise make unnecessary noise.  Going down the trail was difficult in the dark, for the feet of the men had beaten the mud into a slick morass that made it difficult not to slip and fall.  As they moved down the face of the mountain toward the river, the trees became thicker, and the ground fog rose, blotting out the moon as they entered the low-lying bottomlands.  The soft loam of the Virginian forest gave off a heady fragrance of honeysuckle, the detritus of leaves from thick stands of sycamore, pine, maple and oak, many that loomed nearly a hundred feet in height.

At the bottom of the trail, they came to the shallow ford of the river itself, the water varying between knee and waist deep.  It was cold as they crossed, and Buck shivered as he held his musket high and the cold water sloshed up to his belt.  After wading across, the men continued in silence, the water squishing softly in their worn out footgear as the long gray line continued its march toward the Yankee battlements.  They soon came to a shallow creek and followed its twisting course northward.  Silently, the Confederate divisions spread out to the east and west in the darkness, preparing for battle.

On the right, out in the open field to the east, the division of Major General S.D. Ramseur took up position in flank, while Brigadier General John Pegram's division slowed, forming a reserve force behind them.

Now they took more care for silence as they lay down in front of the enemy's pickets, sweeping in from the south and east in a wide flanking movement.  The enemy had expected that any attack would come from the south, and their fortifications faced that threat axis on either side of the Pike.  To reinforce that belief, Early had sent Brigadier General Gabriel Wharton's division straight up the Pike.  Meanwhile, less obviously, Gordon, Ramseur and Pegram's divisions had flanked them to the east, while Major General Thomas Rosser's cavalry flanked them to the west.

The Yankees were in for a nasty surprise, Buck thought grimly, hefting his eleven- pound Enfield rifle a little higher.  The bluebellies were sleeping just ahead now, resting securely, secure in their belief that no attack would come this night.

"Them blubellies is gonna pay today," Billy Younger grumbled softly, so that Buck could barely hear him, and Buck glanced at his dark silhouette in the fog.

"Good.  I'll be glad when it's over and we can all get some rest," Buck whispered.

"Them Yankees got a lot of food," Billy replied.  "I ain't et me a real meal in weeks.  Soon as we get close enough, I'm gonna gut-shoot me a Yankee and take his breakfast."

Buck scowled at that.  He had been in enough battles to know the foolishness of that kind of talk, but Billy Younger was forever going on like that.  Billy wore the twin yellow chevrons of a corporal on his butternut sleeves, but there were times he seemed to lack the brains God gave geese.

"Mebbe," Buck replied in irritated jest.  "Then again, maybe some Yankee will put a bullet in you and take you prisoner.  Maybeso they'll haul you way up there to that Camp Douglas of theirs in Illinois, and have you make bricks for all them fancy homes in Chicago."

"Ain't no Yankee ever gonna take me prisoner," Billy said, and he spat on the ground.  "I can whip any of 'em to a frazzle."

Billy Younger had been with Buck through some of the toughest battles of the war, and he was Buck's closest friend in the army.  As members of Stonewall Jackson's First Brigade, they had been together since their first fight at Falling Waters, and they shared that close bond that only combat veterans had.

Younger was a lanky, green-eyed kid from the Tennessee hill country, a hillbilly who had walked all the way to Richmond to defend the South.  A crack rifle shot, Younger was also an eternal prankster, who claimed his hero was Davy Crockett, a fellow Tennesseean who had left his mark on history. In fact, Younger often claimed that after the war was over he would follow in Crockett's footsteps and go to Texas, where Crockett had died in 1836.  "Only I won't get kilt by no Meskins," he often added. 

A consequence of his constant practical jokes was that Younger was almost always in trouble with the officers.  Most officers were undecided as to whether Younger should receive a medal for his valor or receive a court martial for his pranks.  Only his skill with a rifle, and the army's desperate need for men, had kept him out of irons. 

Together, Billy and Buck had been through a lot together.  They had fought at First Manassas, through the 1862 Valley campaign, the Seven Days' battle, at Second Manassas, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, and Second Winchester.  Together, they had fought in the desperate fighting on Wolfe's Hill at Gettysburg, and later at Payne's Farm.  In winter quarters on the Rapidan during the previous March, they had participated in the biggest snowball fight anyone had ever seen.  Two months later, they had fought together in the Battle of the Wilderness.  In that engagement their unit had taken heavy casualties, only to have the survivors shot to pieces a week later at Spotsylvania.  They had been together when their illustrious commander, General T. J. "Stonewall" Jackson, had died at Chancellorsville.  They had remained together when what was left of the old Stonewall Brigade reorganized into Terry's Brigade, now under the command of General Gordon.  They had raised hell together on drunken forays into Atlanta, Montgomery, and Richmond.

There had been good times as well as the bad, and Buck and Billy had seen it all together.  They had trudged through rain and snow, camped in freezing sleet and biting mosquitoes, and huddled in holes beside each other as Yankee artillery tore the trees over their heads.  Together, they had walked many a mile in weather fair and fine; shared stories of their families and their private fears. They had often joked late into the night, listening to the soft crackling of campfires and the buzz of evening crickets.

"You won't be whippin' 'em if they hear you coming," Buck warned his good friend.  "They might just put a lead ball right through yo' big mouth, Billy.  If'n Cap'n Laneer don't shoot you first for talkin' and makin' so much noise."

Billy thought of Captain Jake Laneer, their company commander, and he chuckled softly in the darkness.  "That'll be the day," he said sarcastically.

"Yeah, it will, and it might just be today," Buck replied.  "Now, you best just hush up.  Them Yankee pickets is just up ahead."

Billy nodded and lifted his own Enfield to check the load.  The seventy-four inch rifle was a heavy weapon, and difficult to carry.  Most of the weapons in the brigade were of .58 caliber, although a few men carried the British-made .69 caliber muskets.  The Enfield could spit a Minie ball accurately for over a thousand yards, with still enough force to penetrate over three inches of solid pine at that distance.  The conical-shaped Minie balls were relatively slow bullets, moving only 960 feet per second, but their slowness made them extremely deadly, for they tore huge wounds that bled a victim to death quickly.

There was a sudden crackle of musket fire off to the west.  It sounded far away.  Buck tightened his jaw grimly.  It was starting, and someone had made contact over west of the Pike.  There was a faint coppery glow to the fog overhead, as the sun struggled to rise.  The division rose and started forward in a slow walk, in rows line abreast.

In a few minutes, the division emerged into an open field to the southeast of the Yankee trenches.  Gordon had arrayed his division opposite the small headquarters of the Yankee 8^th Corps, while Ramseur had formed to Gordon's right, facing the Yankee troops under Kitching.  From the west came the increasing tin-rattle of musketry that grew until it was continuous.

"Looks like this be it," Billy muttered.

"Yep.  They's lots of boys gonna pay the piper today," Buck replied.  "Yankee and Southerner alike."  He winked at Billy in the growing light, and Younger laughed nervously.

Gordon's distinctive voice called out, followed by the voices of company commanders and platoons leaders as they gave the follow-on commands to attack.  Gordon's division stepped out at a brisk march, parallel with Ramseur's men.

"Come on, Buck.  Let's go kill us some Yankees," Billy said, and then they were walking forward, committed once more into the killing ground.

The heavy booms of Confederate artillery now punctuated the continuous rattle of musket fire to the west.   The attack had begun in earnest.  Buck squinted; looking ahead as the growing light dimly lit the fog-shrouded trenches ahead of them.

General Gordon had gotten his division well east of the Yankee trenches, effectively flanking the Federal troops, who lay half-asleep, trying to see what was happening to the southwest.  They seemed to have no idea that three divisions of Confederate troops were bearing down on them from the east, effectively having made an end-run around their defensive line.

"Commence firing," an officer called out, and Buck brought his rifle up to his shoulder as he peered along the barrel, looking for a target in the shifting gloom.  It was hard to see through the fog, which rolled past, thicker in some spots than in others, ebbing and flowing like smoke.  Buck picked out the silhouette of a dark figure emerging from a white canvas tent, then placed the tip of his foresight blade on the center of the figure's chest, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.

Almost at the same instant, a thousand other rifles roared together as Gordon's men let loose, a withering wall of smashing lead that mowed into the unsuspecting Yankee troops.  Buck felt the Enfield buck against his shoulder, but he had no idea if he hit his target or not, for the white cloud of black powder smoke from the brigade's fire completely obliterated his sight of his target.  He quickly grounded his rifle, as the other men walked past.  He reached into his bullet pouch and removed the waxen paper cartridge, quickly bit off the end, and dumped powder and Minie ball down the 40 inch barrel of the Enfield.  He yanked the steel ramrod from its slot and tapped the load against the breech of the rifle, seating the charge.  Replacing the ramrod in its holder, he quickly thumbed back the hammer of the rifle and replaced the brass percussion cap, then ran ahead to catch up with his own men.

All along the front of the assault the incredible yipping growl of the Rebel Yell began to sound, loud even above the gunfire, as the Army of the Valley struck terror into the Yankees' hearts.  Union artillery awoke, trying desperately to stem the Rebel tide, and Confederate guns replied in kind, their thunder roaring from the crest of Hupp's Hill.  Case and canister whistled overhead, whirring into men and trees with an angry buzz.

Gordon's division was no longer firing, but advancing with fixed bayonets, only their eerie yell driving them on, and the Union troops before them stood shocked with surprise.  Buck could make out a long line of Yankees, lying on their bellies in the ravine ahead, hunkering down to escape the whistling cannon and musketry that sliced the air overhead.  The Yankees were completely unaware the enemy was now behind them.  Gordon and Ramseur's soldiers appeared from the fog at point-blank range, determined and ready to kill.

Buck caught a vague glimpse of a Union regimental flag—9^th West Virginia, he thought—and then the Yankees did something unexpected. Rather than turn and fight, they began to run away as fast as their legs could carry them, racing to the safety they felt was northwest of them.  Many were still in their nightclothes, having been awakened by gunfire, while others stood barefoot or shirtless.  The Union soldiers were reacting in terror, caught completely off guard, and they ran like rabbits, abandoning camp gear and weapons in their mad frenzy to get away from the terrible gray meat-grinder descending upon them from the east.

Instead of the tough Army of the Shenandoah they had expected, the Confederate troops faced with a scared mass of fleeing men.  Gordon's men were now in a foot chase as they raced after the fleeing Yankees, leaping trenches and earthworks.  In the grayish-orange light of the foggy dawn, orange flames danced from abandoned cooking fires, their glow lighting the way as they Early's force madly pursued Sheridan's army toward Belle Grove.

The enemy was in full retreat!

Driving past the now-abandoned earthworks, Gordon's men could see the long lines of Yankee wagons, stretched out not a quarter of a mile to the north.  The wagons were jumbled together in panic as masses of troops ran through them toward the north.

Gordon's men opened up with a steady fire now, sending bullets into the fleeing Yankees as fast as they could reload.  The heavy .58 and .69 caliber lead balls pelted through the Federals like deadly hail before a hurricane, huge leaden drops that maimed and killed.

Buck climbed atop the first trench and looked down, then froze in surprise as he saw an entire company of Yankee troops huddled at the bottom of the ravine.  The Yankee soldiers were not fighting; they were merely huddling in fear.  Buck brought his rifle up along with the rest of the division, and he sighted on the knapsack of an enemy soldier and fired.  His target stiffened and rolled to the bottom of the ravine, as did several others almost in unison.  Many Yankees died in the massed volley, and the survivors quickly scrambled for the opposite crest of the ravine without even attempting to return fire.

Buck reloaded, then sighted his Enfield on the back of one of the fleeing Yankees.  He did not shoot.  This was no way to fight, shooting fleeing soldiers in the back.  Other Confederate troops might not have been as particular, but Buck would have no part of it.  The ravine was littered with enough Union corpses already.

Leaping down into the ravine, Buck followed Billy Younger as he roared after the Federal troops, stopping only periodically to reload.  As Buck cleared the crest of the opposite side of the ravine, Union bullets began to whistle back, zipping through the air and smacking tree limbs.  The fog wafted in again, thick with white powder smoke, and there was a sudden wet smack behind him as a Confederate soldier fell wounded.  Buck winced as he heard the man cry out, gurgling.

Lung wound.  He had heard it before.

Then suddenly, out of the gloom, he saw a horse, silhouetted against the gray light.  The man sitting atop the horse wore an officer's hat, and Buck could clearly make out his beard and saber.  A Yankee officer.*

Quickly Buck brought his Enfield up and sighted on the horse's shoulder.  The rifle boomed, and there was a sickening slap as the heavy bullet plunged into the horse.

The horse made an awful whinnying moan as it tumbled into the mud, spilling its rider, and Buck started to go forward to take the man prisoner.  The officer lay stunned, looking about in confusion.

A spattering of Yankee bullets forced Buck to duck behind a log, and he took the time to reload.  Replacing his ramrod, he slapped a cap on the firing nipple and rose to go after his prisoner.  Buck saw the officer limping away into the gloom, favoring what looked to be a sprained or broken ankle, hatless as he hobbled toward the gloom of a thick stand of trees.

"Halt, you rotten bluebelly!" Billy yelled, and then Younger was up and running after him in a mad dash.  The fleeing officer heard Billy yell, and seemed to forget all about his wounded ankle as he broke out into a flat run for all he was worth.

Another volley of Union fire caused Buck and Billy to dive to the ground, and Buck saw the officer fall as he entered the woods.  The musketry and cannonade were growing continuous, too strong to continue to chase the officer into the woods.

Out of the gloom came a single Yankee brigade, advancing into the Rebel attack, attempting to stem the Confederate advance long enough for the Union's 19^th Corps to retreat.  Confederate soldiers immediately began yelling for the Federal troops to surrender, and Buck clearly heard several Yankees yell "never!" in reply, and the Union soldiers came on to meet the Confederate juggernaut.

The two opposing lines slammed into each other with wild fury in a burst of rifle fire, then intertwined in hand-to-hand combat, a bloodfest of rifle butts and bayonets.

A particularly vicious fight seemed to erupt around one of the Yankee color guards, and Buck saw a soldier stab at the man holding the colors with a bayonet.  One of the guardsmen deflected the bayonet with own rifle, even as a bullet smashed into the shin of the Union soldier holding the flag.

"Take the flag!" the bearer exclaimed, and tried to hand off the flag as he fell.  A gang of Yankee and Confederate soldiers rushed to grab it in an instant.  The fight degenerated into a morass of punching, shooting, kicking, and stabbing.  A burly Union sergeant in front of Buck fired into a Confederate at point-blank range, and Billy Younger returned fire, killing the sergeant.

Buck dodged a thrust bayonet, and knocked the enemy's muzzle down with his rifle stock, twisting violently to the left as he drove his eighteen-inch bayonet into the man.  The Yankee gasped in pain and grabbed for Buck's rifle.  Buck felt himself pulled off-balance.  He tried to yank the bayonet out, but it was lodged in something hard, probably bone.  Buck pulled the trigger, letting the Minie ball shatter the bone above the bayonet.  The soldier screamed and started to fall, and Buck put his foot against the man's chest and heaved.  The bayonet came free, and Buck staggered backward, catching a glimpse of the Union flag as it fell to the mud.  A hundred Rebels and Union soldiers rushed to recover it.  Then the world dissolved into a nightmare of gunfire and bayonets as men on each side killed each other furiously.

A bullet grazed Buck's face, stunning him, but he charged into the mass of Yankees as the fighting blurred into a melee of clubbing rifle butts, stabbing bayonets, and men falling to the muddy ground in death.  The colors came up again, snatched by a Confederate soldier, who was promptly skewered by a Yankee bayonet.  A moment later, the colors were snatched back by a Union soldier.  The snatching soldier's head was blown off when a Confederate officer pressed his Navy Colt revolver against the man's temple and fired.  That Rebel officer was, in turn, bayoneted by three Yankees, and so it went, seemingly on and on, in slow motion.  More and more men died violently as both sides fought for possession of the red and white-striped flag.

A soldier jabbed at Buck with a bayonet, and Buck dodged sideways, slamming his own muzzle down on the soldier's head.  He whipped right to smash the butt of the rifle into the face of another young bearded Yankee, sending blood and teeth flying. 

A huge Yankee sergeant grabbed Buck's rifle and yanked him forward with tremendous strength.  Huge, bear-like arms enveloped him, and the man lifted Buck off the ground and into the air.  Buck was slammed hard into the mud, the breath knocked out of him, and the Yankee sergeant jerked the rifle out of his hands and upended it, intending to kill Buck with his own bayonet.  A bullet caught the sergeant just above his right eyebrow at that instant, causing a halo of red spray to explode around his head.  The sergeant dropped Buck's rifle, half-turned, and then fell amid a heap of bodies.

Buck lay gasping on the ground, and after a moment, he sat up, picking up his rifle.  He looked into the eyes of the dead Yankee sergeant, who lay on his back, with an unfocused open-eye stare aimed up at the slate-gray sky.  The Yankee lay atop a pile of bodies, some in blue and some in gray.  Many were indistinguishable, and all were soaked in blood.

Buck sat against the pile, pulled another cartridge from his pouch, and tried to reload.  His hands were shaking badly, and it seemed to take an eternity to load the rifle, but he managed to do it as the action drifted on around him, gradually moving away to the northwest.  Billy Younger and the rest of the division had gone on without him, quickly lost in the morning fog.  Buck tried to still his shaking hands as he looked around.

Bodies lay everywhere.  The dead were all about, as limp as rag dolls dipped in blood, while wounded moaned or moved limbs in stiff pain.  There were puddles of dark blood smeared into the mud.  The sound of the fighting was drifting father away, though the cannons boomed constantly now.

Despite the coolness of the morning, sweat stung Buck's eyes as he tried to catch his breath.  Bullets still whizzed about like angry bees, making odd buzzing growls as they ricocheted off tree limbs.  Buck suddenly realized he had no idea which side had finally won the possession of the U.S. flag.

What am I doing here?

The thought came unbidden, but was not the first time he had experienced that thought in a battle.  The fear was still overpowering, however, threatening to steal his courage.

How long can men be asked to do this? he wondered, rubbing a dirty hand against his jaw.  It just goes on and on, month on top of bloody month, year after year. 

The artillery drowned out the sounds of the wounded as a line of artillery shells burst over the trees ahead of Buck.  White puffs blossomed, spraying iron fragments through the woods.  The crackle of musketry had become deafening.

He spotted a wounded boy in a Yankee uniform, trying vainly to crawl out from under a pile of bodies.  Buck supposed he should kill the boy, since he was a Yankee and all, and he started to take aim.  After a moment, he lowered his rifle.

Shooting an enemy soldier in a fair stand up fight was one thing; killing a helpless, wounded boy was another.  It was not war.  It was mere murder.  He would not do it. 

The boy flopped about on legs that were crippled, or would not work, and his eyes found Buck.  A look of absolute terror formed on his young freckled face.  Buck forgot all about the whizzing bullets and fragments, and stood calmly, wiping a yellow-gray woolen sleeve across his face.

"Don't worry, boy," he said, looking down at the Union soldier, knowing the boy probably could not hear him over the gunfire.  "Ah won't shoot you, Yankee."

The boy had sandy hair and was slightly bucktoothed. 

He's just a kid, Buck thought miserably.  A Yankee version of Billy Younger.  Buck suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

The loud blast of several artillery shells caused Buck to duck slightly as fragments of shrapnel whined through the trees.  The boy could not hear him, and continued trying to crawl away, his fingers desperately clawing at the black mud.

Spine-shot, most likely, Buck thought sadly.  It might actually be a favor to put the boy out of his misery, but Buck knew he could never do it.  The Union boy was no different than Billy Younger or himself.  He just wore a different uniform. 

Buck turned and walked on, moving northwest, blinking back sudden tears.  Whether they were caused by the sadness of the boy's plight or the clouds of thick, pungent powder smoke, he wasn't sure.

The fog was beginning to clear as the morning sun struggled to burn through.  The fighting seemed to be getting farther away with each moment, though Buck knew he was chasing it rapidly.  Gordon's division was moving faster now, rolling away to the north and west as the Yankees retreated before it in hysteria.  Buck's unit had already crossed the Pike, heading straight into the enemy's 19^th Corps at Belle Grove.

An orange fire winked merrily in the gloom ahead, and Buck walked toward it cautiously.  Several Confederate soldiers were standing around the fire.  Some were warming their hands, while others were going through the equipment left by the retreating Union army.  There were few enemy bodies in the camp, certainly nothing like the carnage he had left behind him in the ravine.  Still, there was Union camp debris everywhere.

Tents stood abandoned.   All about the fire lay piles of discarded kepis, forage caps, haversacks, bullet pouches, canteens and even a few tethered wagons.  A pyramid of rifles stood precisely where they had been stacked the night before.  Apparently, there had been no attempt by the Yankees to retrieve them.  The enemy had left in extreme haste. 

This is something, now, Buck told himself proudly.  He had never seen Yankees run so fast that they left their rifles behind.

Buck spied a familiar-looking lanky figure standing by the fire, and he trudged toward it.   Billy Younger stood stoop-shouldered, drinking coffee from a steaming tin cup.  Billy held the coffee cup in one hand, a half-eaten biscuit in the other, and his rifle was resting against a tree.  Billy was busy looking into the kettle the Yankees had left cooking on the fire.  Billy stood up and sighed, then began kicking through a pile of discarded clothing with his worn-out brogans.

"What do you think you're doin'?" Buck asked incredulously.  The sound of gunfire rolled away, allowing his voice to carry.

"Getting' breakfast," Billy replied casually.  "And I'm lookin' fer some good shoes.  I ain't had a decent pair o' shoes in a coon's age."

"Are you crazy?"

Billy looked hurt by the comment.

"Well, mebbe so.  I've heard tell some say such about me.  What are you all huffed up about?  Them Yankees ain't gonna need none of this stuff anymore.  Besides, Buck, there's plenty enough to go around.  Here, you want some coffee?"

Buck blinked as the artillery boomed in the distance.  He was sorely tempted by the offer of the coffee, and Billy had a good point.  Buck's stomach growled in hunger, but he decided to ignore Billy's offer for the moment.

"Why are you stoppin'?" he said angrily.

"Huh?  I stopped 'cause I'm hungry and I'm thirsty," Billy replied incredulously, as if anyone in the world should have known the answer.  "Them danged bluebellies is whipped.  I reckon they're halfway to Winchester by now."

Buck scowled.  "If Cap'n Laneer catches you stragglin' like this, he's likely to bust you back to private and have you pull work details fo' the rest o' the war."

"Cain't be any worse than fightin' Yankees in the fog," Billy replied scornfully.  "Besides, Cap'n Laneer's way up front with the division.  He ain't gonna catch me stragglin.'  Just gonna rest here a few minutes, grab me a quick bite, and then catch up.  Cain't stand to see all of this go to waste while we're out here starvin' and walkin' around barefoot.  Besides, in this here fog, the right hand don't know what the left is doin' anyway.  And it looks to me you're a straggler your own self."

"I got knocked down in a skirmish back there," Buck said defensively.  "You mighta knowed that if you hadn't run off and left me!"

"What's stuck in your craw?" Billy exclaimed in surprise, gritty yellow particles of a half-chewed corndodger falling from his lips.  "First you're mad 'cause I'm a stragglin', an' now you're mad 'cause I moved ahead too fast.  Make up your mind, Buck."

Buck stared at him, angry, and held his rifle held at port arms.  There was no reasoning with Billy Younger, not once he got a notion in his thick head.  "I'm goin' on," Buck said, looking out into the dying fog.  "You kin stay heah if yo' of a mind to."

"I'm surely of a mind to," Billy replied, turning to pick up his rifle.  "But I ain't no de-serter."  Billy raked a woolen sleeve across his face.  There was a black ring of smudge around Billy's mouth, ample evidence of numerous waxen cartridges he had bitten through while reloading.  Buck felt certain his own face was just as dirty.  "I'll be going with you, howsoever," Billy continued, checking his load.  "But you might as well carry a tin of coffee as we walk.  It's good n' hot, and I cain't stand the thought of them rear-echelon staff officers gettin' their hands on it while we're up there doing all of the fightin' fer 'em."

Buck grinned at that and picked up a campaign cup, dipped it into the kettle of coffee, and took a sip.  It was hot, but it certainly was good.  Leave it to Billy to needle him about those pompous staff officers.  He hung his rifle by its sling and sipped the coffee and he and Billy walked after the war toward the small village of Middletown, momentarily secure in their own little bubble of calm amidst the din of battle.

Finishing the coffee, they tossed the tins aside and they walked across the Pike toward Belle Grove toward the smoke and sounds of fighting, hurrying to catch up with their division.  The day had become bright and warm, burning the fog away.  It was a brilliant morning.  Only the sulfurous cloud of gunsmoke, mingled with the continual crackle and boom of weapons, kept it from being a truly beautiful day.

Within an hour, they had crossed the grassy fields and rolling hills of Belle Grove, taking care not to trip on the gray granite edges that jutted up from the sawgrass and purple clover surrounding the plantation.  Shortly, they were advancing on Middletown itself.  They were nearing a row of houses along the hills of the town's southern edge.  Gordon's division was just ahead, fighting at the northwest side of town, holding their position behind a low stone fence.  The men were shooting at the Union soldiers over the top of the fence, apparently having pushed them completely out of the town.

A Confederate officer galloped past on a beautiful horse.  He had jet-black hair and a dark goatee, and the twin golden stars of a major general upon his gray collar.  Buck looked up with a certain apprehension, recognizing the man as John B. Gordon, their division commander.  Buck was afraid the general was coming back to chastise them for straggling, and perhaps to prefer charges against them.  Gordon paid them no attention, however, but instead galloped past, heading for a knot of mounted men who were just emerging from a street between the row of houses to their right.

Buck and Billy stared in wonder at the mounted group, who were led by a stooped gray officer with a wide forehead, his back hunched as he halted and waited for Gordon to approach.  The stooped man's beard was scraggly and  extended down to his chest.  Its slate gray that matched his overcoat.  The officer had a straight nose and small eyes.  Three stars gleamed on his collar.

"Why, that's Ol' Jube hisself," Billy exclaimed in wonder, and Buck stopped to watch their division commander report to the commanding officer of the Army of the Valley.

"Ah, the sun of Middletown!" Lieutenant General Jubal A. Early exclaimed as Gordon came to a halt before him.  "Well, Gordon, this is glory enough for one day.  This is the nineteenth.  Precisely one month ago today we were going in the opposite direction."

Early's voice was scratchy and nasal, perfectly blending with his perpetually sour expression.  Gordon saluted, and waited until Early returned it before replying.

"It's going well enough so far, General, but we have one more blow to strike.  After that, there won't be an organized company of infantry in Sheridan's whole army.  I need to press the attack upon them."

Early sat silent a moment, regarding Gordon with his small eyes, then shook his head and smiled thinly.  "No use in that, Gordon.  They'll all go away directly."

"Sir?"  Gordon seemed incredulous.  "I beg to differ, sir!  That's the Sixth Corps ahead, General.  They won't go unless we drive them from the field!"

Early looked at the ground while Gordon spluttered indignantly, an his hands rested on his saddle horn.  When Gordon stopped his tirade, Early calmly spat into the grass before replying.  "Yes, they'll go too, directly," he said.  "They're whipped."

Gordon started to argue with Early, and Buck decided he did not want to see it.  On one hand, he had to admire Gordon's tenacity and his understanding of the situation.  On the other hand, Buck would be just as happy not to have to press the attack.  He had pushed his luck enough this day already. 

He tugged on Billy's arm and began walking toward the low white wall where the rest of the division was waiting.

"What's the hurry?" Billy exclaimed in surprise.  Billy was disappointed.  He did not get to watch generals argue very often.

"We need to git," Buck replied with disgust.  "We are definitely stragglin' now.  It's fo' certain we're in the rear when we start bumpin' into generals."

The gunfire picked up as they approached the division, bullets flying overhead.  They made their way to Terry's Brigade, where it held its ground north and west of town, crouching behind the walls and rail fencing as Confederate artillery screamed overhead to pummel the Yankees before them.

The Yankees had halted on a small rise just across Old Forge Road to the north of the town and were trying to form up, but the artillery was falling on them and they were taking a beating.  Shell after shell roared overhead and exploded, knocking many soldiers down.  In moments, the Union troops were retreating again, pulling back toward the relative safety of woods and hills to the north.

"Well, it's about time you two loafers showed up," a burly sergeant growled at them.  "Where the blazes have you been?  The Cap'n thought you were dead."

"Almost was," Buck replied, flopping down in an open spot behind the low stone wall beside Billy Younger.  Buck assumed a kneeling posture and took aim at the troops across the road.

"Had a little tussle with some Yankees, huh?" the sergeant said with a gleam in his eye.

"Yep," Buck said.

 "What happened?

"They lost," Billy replied casually.

"Them bluebellies are hurtin' this day, they are," the sergeant snorted.  "Word is we've taken over a thousand prisoners already, and something like twenty Union field pieces."

"Why ain't we rushin' on in amongst them Yankees yonder?" Billy asked.  "What in tarnations are we givin' 'em time to form up like that for?  We ought not be hunkering' down here.  We ought to be out there after 'em."

A shot spat stone chips off the wall as one of the Union bullets came close.  The sergeant ducked, laughed humorlessly, then looked at Billy with grim eyes.  "Division's tired, boy," the sergeant said.  "We been in a continual fight since we first made contact this morning.  General Gordon wants to have a go at them, but the men are beat, and that's the Union Sixth Corps over there.  They're New Yorkers, most of 'em.  They're part of General Getty's Second Division.  They'll fight, boy, and they'll fight hard, you can be sure of that.  Ol' Jube's giving us a breather while the guns work 'em over a bit.  Rumor is they're bringing up General Wharton's division to relieve us.  They ain't been in a scrap today, and they're still fresh as Sunday daisies.  I heard tell there's some Yankee cavalry movin' around on the east side of the Pike, though.  Wharton might get caught up trying to stop 'em."

"So, what's our orders, Sergeant?" Buck asked.

"Hold here, for now.  We'll likely be sending skirmishers in directly."

Buck and Billy lay prone behind the stone wall as Yankee bullets chipped at its front.  Rebel artillery shrieked overhead in return.  They waited almost an hour as the duel went on.  The sun grew ever hotter, and they watched the Union troops trying to form up in the distance north of Old Forge Road. 

It was a beautiful day, and Buck took a moment to marvel at it. He could not have asked for better fighting weather.  It was Indian summer in northern Virginia, and the grass had long ago turned a lovely yellow.  The copses of woods around them were brilliant with gold and burning russet as the leaves changed with the autumn season.  Soon there would come rain, and later sleet and snow, but on this late October day, it was perfect.  The sky was a shocking electric blue, cloudless, and the bright colors made the scene almost surreal.  It was the kind of day that made a man want to take a lazy stroll along a creek and maybe catch a few fish.  It was hard to believe men could kill each other on a day like this.

The day droned on as they waited, growing impatient. It was hot for October, and the continual shooting kept them pressed low against the ground, where the heat was trapped by the thick grass.  The white stone wall also reflected sunlight into their faces, and they began to sweat profusely beneath their woolen jackets.

Shortly after noon the order came to advance, and Buck stood with Billy as they leapt the stone wall and rushed across the road before them.  The enemy had long since pulled back over the rise and out of sight, and Gordon's division was once more advancing after them.

A sudden fury of shooting to the west caught their attention, but the battle, ferocious by its sound, was still distant, over hills to the west.  There was no way they could see it.  They did not have them time to spare to watch even if they had wanted to, for their immediate enemy was much nearer, to the front of them, just beyond the forest over the next rise.

Guide-on flags flapped in the wind as the line advanced into the woods. Men's steps crunched in the forest, raising the heady aroma of crushed leaves.  There was no need for stealth.  Though they were hidden under the dim shade of the forest canopy, the enemy knew where they were, and knew what direction they would be coming from.  The men of Gordon's division knew this as well, and they moved grimly through the yellow-brown leaves without speaking.  Only the rustle of leaves, the flapping of flags, and the occasional snap of a twig could be heard over the distant gunfire.

Buck emerged on the north end of the forest and gasped.  The Yankees were standing in an open field before him, not quite a hundred yards away, fully formed in a fighting square.  It was as pretty a formation as Buck had ever seen, even on a parade ground.  He suddenly feared that Early had given them far too much time to recover.

As one, Gordon's men fired a furious volley that tore into the Union formation.  Men in blue dropped lifeless or writhed on the ground in agony as the Confederates advanced.  Chalk-white powder smoke obscured them for a moment.  Buck used the time to reload, as clouds of smoke swept by on the wind.  As it cleared, it was the Union line's turn to fire.

An angry hurricane of hot lead swept into Gordon's division, and while not as concentrated as their own fire had been, Confederate men were nonetheless going down all along the line.  Buck and Billy fell prone to return fire, and the fusillades grew continuous as both sides tried to murder each other in the open glade.

The Yankees suddenly advanced.  It was a real counter-attack this time, not a feint.  They stepped across the field to close with Gordon's men, who reacted by putting up a violent curtain of counter-fire.  The Union line faltered as piles of men tumbled to the ground.  The Yankees began to fall back back, but almost as soon as they retreated, they were reinforced by another line of Union troops, and they swept forward again.

Buck fired again and again, reloading quickly after each shot, his eyes burning with smoke, his nose stinging from the rotten-egg smell of black powder.  He lost track of how many times he aimed, fired, and reloaded.  Rifle barrels grew hot and fouled, making reloading difficult, and still the Yankees kept coming.  It was one of the bravest actions Buck had ever seen men perform, even if they were Yankees.  The Confederate fire again overpowered the Union line, however, and it fell back again, obscured by a cloud of gunsmoke once more.

Buck scooted back to a huge old oak tree, using its bole as cover, and he reloaded.  Billy scurried up beside him on the opposite side, aiming around the base of the tree trunk.  A dead officer was lying nearby, his telescope beside him in the dirt.  Billy picked up the spyglass, looking at it with admiration.

"Lookee here, Buck.  Some officer done lost his field glass."

Billy brought the telescope up to his eye and stared across the smoking field at the enemy.  "Them Yankees are forming up again for another charge.  Them idjits don't know when they're whupped.  Couple of fellers over yonder are sitting on a roof, shootin' this way.  They're wearing some kind of green uniforms, though, not blue."

"Snipers," Buck snarled.  "Get yo' head down, Billy.  They see you gawkin' at 'em, they's likely to put a bullet through that big melon head o' yours."

Billy grinned, buck-toothed, wiping grime from his face as he stood up behind the trunk of the tree.  "You always was a worry-wart, Buck," he said.  "Them Yankees is too far away to hit us.  Gotta be a six hundred yards.  They'd be lucky to even get a ball across that distance."

"I seen 'em shoot down artillery men at better distances than that, Billy.  Get yo' head down."

"Ha!  I'll show 'em some real shootin'; some Tennessee mountain shootin'."

"You best get down!"

Billy took careful aim, elevated his muzzle a bit, and squeezed off a round.  Buck used the respite to pick up the spyglass and look at the barn Billy was shooting at.  There was a puff of dust on the roof and the men in green atop it dived for cover.

"Whoa!" Buck exclaimed.  "You scattered 'em, Billy!  That was some shot.  Cain't no one ever say you cain't hit the side of a barn!"

"Did I nail one of 'em?"

"Naw, but you sure scared 'em a mite.  Here, take a look."

Billy took the spyglass and stared through it, moving out from the edge of the tree to get a better look.

"Yessiree, they done all jumped off'n the roof now.  Teach 'em to try to lock horns with a Tennessee boy!"

Billy whooped uproariously, and Buck grinned.

There was a sickening whap punctuated by the distinct tink of metal.  Billy dropped the field glass on to of Buck's head.  Startled, Buck looked up, opening his mouth to complain, when a spray of blood and bits of something like grit blind him.  Billy fell over him a second later, and Buck's eyes widened in horror.

He tried to roll Billy over onto his back, but he had to clear the blood and matter from his own eyes first.  Raking his face with a butternut sleeve, he stared at his friend and screamed Billy's name.  The scream was lost in the sounds of battle.

It was no use.

There was a neat round hole in the center of Billy's forehead, red-rimmed but without blood.  The back of his head was gone, however, staining Buck's arms and legs with gore that spilled out from the back of Billy's head.

"Billy!" Buck screamed, pulling his poor friend close, but he was helpless to do anything.  The lanky laughing boy from Tennessee, known throughout the division for his sense of humor, was gone forever, and Buck suddenly felt more alone than he ever had in his entire life.  Hot tears formed, streaming through the blood on his cheeks, and he held Billy, sobbing, as bullets continued to ply back and forth across the open space before him with terrible intensity, uncaring of his loss.

Buck was not sure how long he held Billy before the anger came.  When it did, it was of murderous intensity, a need for immediate violent revenge.  He laid Billy's limp body back against the soft grass carefully, folding the boy's arms gently onto his chest and closing Billy's eyes. 

Then he saw the spyglass.

There was a dent along one side, a long furrow cut where the bullet had nicked it.  Buck pulled the glass up and stared at the barn again, and his vision centered on a big Yankee in green, who was holding a Sharps rifle with a telescope on it.

Yankee sharpshooter, he thought grimly, and his rage seethed.

The sharpshooter was sandy-haired and strong-looking, with the ice-blue eyes of a marksman and a lantern jaw.  A born killer, no doubt, who had just murdered a boy who had yet to reach his twentieth year.

The world seemed to grow silent and small as Buck's rage overcame him.

"I'm gonna get that Yankee fo' you Billy boy," Buck said through tears and gnashed teeth.  "If'n it's the last thing I ever do, I'm gonna kill that Yankee."

Buck snatched up his rifle and checked the load.  He knew where the sharpshooter was, but there was no cover to use to cross the open field.  To attempt that in the face of sharpshooters would have been suicidal. 

No, he told himself silently, it would best to skirt back through the woods and hook to the east, coming around behind the front line of the division.  From there, he could easily mosey up and kill the man who had just cost him his best friend.

Buck placed a hand on Billy's body for a long moment, then he snatched up his rifle and began running.  As he ran, he zigzagged to make himself a difficult target. He rushed through the trees toward the east.

In less than two hundred yards, he spotted a ravine ahead.  Buck decided that if he could get into the ravine it would likely allow him a protected way to work close to the Union sniper's position.  The Union sharpshooter's position was vulnerable to fire from the end of the ravine, yet would provide Buck cover as he took aim.  He could kill the sharpshooter easily.  Buck decided he could do some sniping of his own.

He did not intend to kill the Yankee quickly, however.  The first bullet would be a belly shot, followed by succeeding rounds into the man's elbows and knees.  Buck wanted this man to suffer.  He wanted him to feel all of the pain he himself was feeling, all of the despair and emptiness, before he died.  If he could get the chance, Buck would finally kill the Yankee with his bayonet, looking right into the killer's eyes.  A blind and hate-filled rage filled Buck as he hopped into the ravine and started running.

The Federal counter-attack began again.  This time, however, Federal artillery smashed into the woods with claps of thunder.  The first few rounds burst above the trees, shredding limbs and leaves as angry bees of hot steel whizzed down, spiking the woods with shrapnel. The second barrage, however, was lower, and crashed down amongst Grodon's men with an awful accuracy. 

Dust plumed and blossomed, mushrooms of dirt and wood erupting as the earth shook and more shells screamed in.  Shell fragments and bits of trees cut Buck's face as he ran, and he was blinded by dirt as a shell landed nearby.  Then the world was strangely silent, and the thought occurred to Buck that maybe his eardrums had burst, but it mattered little.  His entire world shrank down to the single objective of killing the Yankee sharpshooter.  That was all there was.

The end of the ravine came into view, wonderfully empty of Union soldiers, and Buck ran for it as fast as he could go.  Trees and weeds rushed past his tear-blurred eyes with a strange kind of slowness in total silence. 

The air around him suddenly seemed to heat and swell, and the ground dropped away from his feet magically.  An invisible hand of tremendous power swatted him somersaulting into the trees above the ravine.

Buck saw the ground rush up toward him, and then he was swallowed by darkness.

IV

CAMPSITE, SAN PEDRO RIVER, 9 JUNE 1874 

"Artillery shell caught me," Buck said, his eyes still seeing that day as he stood before Lucas.  "Concussion must'o knocked me out.  I guess the Yankees must've thought I was dead, because they went right on past me and pushed our division out of the woods.  We was forced to retreat.  Yankee cavalry got around both sides of us, to the east and west, and Ol' Jube lost the battle.  Sheridan done rode back and rallied his troops while we was hunkered down behind that stone fence. 

"We lost the whole Shenandoah that day.  When I come to, it was well after dark, my ears was ringing and I had a splittin' headache, but there was still firin' down to the south.  Don't know how I avoided all them Yankee pickets on the way back, but I kept to the woods and walked south, staying under cover of brush in the creek banks as much as I could.  I finally caught up with our men down near No-Name Run.  They was runnin' around a jumble of wagons that was stuck on the bridge over the river.  Next day, we pulled out and headed south for Petersburg.

"There wasn't no use in looking for that sharpshooter no more.  He was long gone fo' I came to, but I ain't never forgot his face.  Ah swore I'd remember that bluebelly's face to the end of my days, that square jaw and them blue eyes.  Ah swore I would never forget that Yankee sharpshooter what blew my friend's brains all over me.  Swore I'd kill 'em if I ever saw him again, but never got the chance again…until tonight."

Buck thumbed the hammer back on the Colt once more and brought the muzzle up to point between Lucas' eyes.

"Buck," Manolito warned, but Buck was not listening.  Lucas' jaw tightened as he stared down the muzzle of the big .44.  He slowly focused his eyes above the barrel, into the dark eyes of the man in front of him.

"I don't remember that particular incident, and I don't remember shooting your friend," Lucas said at last.  "You sure it was me?"

"You callin' me a liar?"

"No.  I'm just telling you I don't remember it.  I was a sharpshooter for a while.  Later I was a cavalry officer.  I won my lieutenant's bars near The Angle the morning of Five Forks.  I shot at lots of people during the war.  That was my job."

"Ah was at Five Forks, too," Buck growled.  "Near Pegram's position.  That was war, this wasn't.  You kilt my best friend!"

"It was war!  Men were killed everyday, and they were all friends to someone," Lucas replied evenly.  "Do you think you're the only one who ever lost a buddy?  Do you think you have some kind of monopoly on grief?  I lost friends by the handfuls, mister.  We all did, but it's over now.  The war is behind us.  That was over ten years ago."

"Maybe, but I ain't forgot," Buck replied evenly, and he took careful aim.  "Now, you kin just beg fo' yo' life, Yankee.  You kin beg like poor lil' Billy never got the chance to."

Lucas sighed slowly, then pushed his long hair back with his hands.  Pushing off the sand, he stood tall, towering over Buck against the night, watching Buck's black eyes glint coldly in the waning firelight.

"You'll just have to shoot me then," Lucas said.  "I'm not begging.  I did what I had to do, mister.  There was a war on, and I was a soldier."

"You was a back-shootin' Yankee sharpshooter!" Buck snarled.  "A dirty, dry-gulchin' coward who killed kids who were too far away to have a decent chance at fighting back!  Shot 'em while they ate supper, went to the latrine, or was just sittin' all happy-like around a campfire.  Shot 'em so they never knowed what was comin.'  Shot 'em in such a way they never had a chance to defend themselves or even take cover."

"That's what a sharpshooter does," Lucas said angrily.  "He shoots the enemy at long range.  There were Rebel sharpshooters, too, mister.  They used Whitworth rifles, as I recall.  I was with General Sedgewick at Spotsylvania when a Confederate sharpshooter did the same thing to him that you say I did to your friend.  Rebel sharpshooters hurt us a lot, too, because they were effective.  War was changing, mister.  It wasn't a game of glory, as you Rebels tended to think, and it certainly wasn't a gentleman's proposition.  Napoleon's troops might have stood in square boxes on the open battlefield, but we had newer weapons then, deadlier weapons that changed the tactics.  If you'd reflect on what happened over the course of the war, you'd see that."

"You know what I'm talkin' about," Buck said through clenched teeth.

"I know," Lucas replied softly.  He stood with his hands at his sides.  "I know exactly.  Only I'm not going to try to shoot any Confederate snipers I meet ten years after the war is over."

"Forgive an' forget?  Is that what yo' saying?"

"No.  I don't know if a man can do both," Lucas admitted.  "Forgive, maybe.  The Good Book calls for that.   Forget?  I don't think that's possible.  It was a horrible war.  Most are.  Men do terrible things to each other in war.  I try to forget it as best I can.  It's long past now, but the memories still haunt my dreams on occasion."

Buck's finger tightened slightly on the trigger.  The single-action Army Colt would leave a big hole in the head of Billy Younger's killer.  He squinted.

"Are you sayin' none of it matters?"

Lucas' expression softened.  "It matters," he replied hoarsely.  "It always matters.  It's with me too, every day of the week.  I don't dwell on it, because it's over, but it's always there at the back of my mind, eating at me.  I did some things I didn't like, just like you did.  War is a bloody business, mister.  That's why we shouldn't have them.  It was kill or be killed for all of us.  I'll carry that war with me to my dying day, same as you.  And when the time comes, I'll face the Lord and hope he'll understand what I did.  I fought for the same reasons any man takes to war, and I don't deny that I might have shot your friend. 

"I shot a lot of men during the war, and I usually knew the ones I hit.  Still, there was lots of skirmishing that day.  I don't remember the incident as you describe it, only shooting at the Confederate lines.  I do seem to remember shooting at a flash of light.  That flash might have been the reflection of the sun off those field glasses your friend had.  I'm sorry, but I don't remember shooting a boy in particular.  It does matter, but I can't go back and undo the past.  So, if you intend to shoot me, then get on with it…or else get out of my way!  I have to find my boy."

Buck's trigger finger tightened slowly, and Lucas fought the urge to flinch.  Flinching would not stop the bullet, and he refused to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him cower.

Seconds ticked by for what seemed like forever, and there was a loud click as Buck pulled the trigger.  His thumb caught the hammer, however, keeping the pistol from firing.  Buck gently eased the hammer down on the Colt, but his face was alive with conflicting emotions.  Buck's eyes misted as ten years of bitter hatred boiled in him.

He could not do it.  As much as he hated this man, he could not just shoot him down in cold blood.  That realization made Buck hate himself even more.  He had failed the Cause back in 1865 by losing the war.  His inability to murder this man was also failing Billy Younger in the here and now. 

What kind of friend was he?  He was disappointed in himself.  Buck Cannon was still a loser.  That thought burned bitterly with the acid in his stomach.

Buck lowered the Colt and jammed it into his holster.

"I ain't like you," he said awkwardly. "I cain't shoot an unarmed man who has no chance to fight back."

"Your friend was armed," Lucas corrected, letting out a long pent-up breath.  "I'm glad to hear you aren't going to shoot me, however.  I owe you boys an apology."

"Oh?" Manolito asked in surprise as Buck turned around and stormed to the edge of darkness to throw more wood on the fire.  "After my friend here almost executed you, you owe us an apology?"

"Yes.  I thought you were someone else."

"I am only me," Manolito replied with a quick grin, "but I am relieved to know that it was not us you were trying to kill.  I am Manolito Montoya, and this angry hombre here is my friend, Buck Cannon."

"Lucas McCain."

Lucas held out a hand and Manolito shook it.

"I am sorry too, for striking you with the butt of my gun," Manolito said.

"I'm just glad you didn't shoot me.  I hope your gun is all right."  Lucas grinned.  "Are you related to the Montoyas down in Sonora?"

"Yes, many of them, though there are a few who might not claim kinship with me.  And I would have knowledge of the ones you speak before even I would claim kinship.  A few of the Montoyas are rascals.  I know one of these very well.  How do you know of them?"

"My boy and I were on our way to Sonora, to visit the ranch of a Don Sebastian Montoya.  You know him?"

"Si.  Why are you going there?"

"I was taking a gift to a friend of mine, a man named Xavier Escobar."

Manolito's face lit up in a wide grin.

"Escobar!  I know him well.  He works for my father, Don Sebastian."

It was Lucas' turn to look shocked.

"Well, how about that?" he said awkwardly, and Manolito laughed.

"You want some coffee?" Buck asked coldly, turning back to face them, his expression angry.  He was still mad, but trying to be hospitable.

"Much obliged," Lucas replied with a nod.  "I haven't had coffee in almost a week."

"Ah may still have to shoot you," Buck warned, "but no man comes into my camp and leaves hungry, not while I still have grub."

"Thank you."

"So, tell me how you come to be traipsin' around on High Chaparral in the middle o' the night," Buck said, bending to pick up the pot.  "All without a gun or a horse, and be attackin' people while they sleep."  He poured coffee into a tin cup.

Lucas accepted the cup before answering, then sipped hesitantly.  The coffee was good, strong and black.  A lot better than prickly pear juice.  "Like I said, my boy and I were heading to Sonora.  We came here from New Mexico, headed for Tucson, intending to cut down to Nogales.  That's when we were attacked by Apaches."

Buck and Manolito looked at each other, and Manolito turned to face Lucas.

"When was this?"

"A few days ago, about two days ride west of Fort Bowie."

"If the A-pach attacked you, how come you're still wearin' yo' hair?" Buck asked.

"The Apache only captured us.  They were with a group of white men, who were apparently trading guns to them.  We sort of stumbled across them."

"How many A-pach?"

"Maybe forty, with about ten white men.  Gun-runners."

"Why, that's crazy," Buck said, pouring his own cup of coffee.  "Ain't no white men stupid enough to trade guns with A-Pach."

Buck knew better, but he said it anyway. He did not like this stranger.  He would not give him any kind of advantage, even in information.

"They said they were rifles they had taken in a raid on an Army caravan a while back," Lucas said.  "They claimed they had dressed up as Indians and then stole the rifles."

Buck spat coffee onto the sand and kicked a stone out of his way.

"That figures!  It certainly explains doin's in these parts lately," he hissed.

"Anyway, I put up a little fight when they took my gun and our horses, so they shot me."

"If they shot you, why ain't you dead?"

"I jumped into a canyon. The bullet grazed my head.  When I came to, it was night and they had gone.  They took my son with them.  I've been trailing them ever since.  I followed the trail the next morning, but it split.  One bunch went toward Tucson; the other bunch went south.  I was following the southern trail when I spotted your camp.  I thought you were them."

"That do take the cake, mister," Buck sighed.  "Renegade A-pach out here on our land getting' guns from white men!  Big John's gonna be fit to be tied."

"The Apache have been a problem of late," Manolito explained, and he laughed mirthlessly.  "Actually, the Apache have been a problem forever, but lately there have been many raids into Sonora.  Many families have died.  The Apaches always flee into the United States for safety.  Now, they are crossing our land, and using it to protect themselves."

"You own this land?" Lucas asked.

"No, this is the land of my sister's husband, John Cannon.  He is Buck's brother."

"How old is yo' boy?" Buck said, interrupting.

"Eleven," Lucas replied.

Buck's features softened perceptibly, and he looked into his coffee before staring out into the desert night.  Ten years ago he had come home from the war and found his own home burned, his brother's family gone.  He had gone west to find his brother, his sister-in-law, and their young son.  He had finally found them in Missouri, John, with Anna Lee and Blue Boy.  Blue Boy had only been twelve at the time, a little older than this man's son.  Blue had been a wonder to the war-weary Buck, a tow-headed child full of the amazement of youth, and a constant source of questions.  A wonderful little boy Buck had not seen in five years.  He had grown bigger during the war, and fast, but he was still a young boy at twelve.  Not the age to be crossing the vast parries of Kansas.  A boy that young was still a soft little thing, with no idea of the dangers lurking on the frontier.  This man's son was the same age as Blue had been then.  Now, he was in the hands of the Apache, or maybe a captive of white murderers.

Buck tried to picture Blue Boy in the hands of the Apache at such a young age, and he cringed.  What business did a father have in bringing a boy that young out into Apacheria?  He wanted to growl at the big lunkhead who was the boy's father.  Then he remembered that John had also dragged Blue Boy across Kansas at that age; a Kansas that had been just as dangerous due to the Cheyenne, Kiowa, and Pawnee.  There really was no difference, he admitted grudgingly.

"These men who took yo’ son, did you know them?" Buck asked.

"No.  The leader of the gang went by the name of Chambers.  He's a tall, lanky man with brown hair and an easy-going manner.  He looked friendly enough, but there was nothing friendly about him."

"And this man is operating from the High Chaparral," Manolito said.

"High Chaparral?"

"Si..  That is our ranch, this is our land that you are on.  It ranges from here almost to Tucson, and from the border north, toward the Apache reservation.  Most of our men are out in the ranges working cattle.  They are quite vulnerable if the are Apaches raiding now.  We will have to take you to the ranch house, to warn John Cannon and the others, and to get you a horse.  We will help you find your son, if he is still alive.  You say that the trail split.  Do you think he is with the gunrunners or with the Apache?"

Lucas' eyes darkened.

"I'm not sure.  The group that went to Tucson were white men.  They rode shod horses.  The tracks of my horse and my boy's, as well as the horse we intended to give Escobar, were in that bunch."

"Then you think they took your boy to Tucson?"

"No.  They'd have no reason to do that," Lucas said.  "He knew who they were, he knew what they'd done, and he could identify them to the law.  I think they gave my son to the Apaches.  That way, they wouldn't have to do any dirty work, and there'd be no trace to their crime.  That's why I was following the southern trail.  Unshod horses, mostly, and moving fast.  They were following that dry riverbed yonder, and starting to turn away toward the east.  I had lost their trail in the dark, and that's when I smelled your fire."

Manolito nodded.  What McCain said made sense.  The white traders would have no need to take a white boy along.  If they did not shoot him outright, they most likely would have given them to the Apache.  Apaches loved to torture prisoners, but it was also possible that the boy was not a prisoner.  Always short on people, the Apache would sometimes adopt white children if they were young enough to train.

He stared at the man called McCain.  This man had been alone in the desert for several days now without a horse, gun or canteen.  That he had survived said much about his skills.  There was water in the desert, of course, if a man knew where to look.  This man had survived.  He obviously knew where to look.

"You say you thought we were these Apache," Manolito said at last.  "Were you actually intending to attack an armed camp of Chiricahua with only a knife?"

"If I had to."

"That is either the bravest, or the stupidest, thing I have ever heard," Manolito replied.

"Simply a lack of choices.  They have my son."

"If them A-pach have him, he may be dead by now," Buck said sourly, throwing the dregs of his cup into the sand.  "You ever think o' that?"

"I…I've tried not to," Lucas replied.

Buck tossed his cup into his gear and walked off alone into the darkness.

"It will be light very soon," Manolito said, shaking his head in a kind of apology for Buck's actions.  "At first light, we will go to the High Chaparral.  Once you have recovered, and we have warned our men, we will ride for Tucson.  We must let the authorities know of these men, and of the Apache raiders."

"No.  I have to keep after my boy," Lucas replied.  "I can't let them keep him any longer.  He's probably scared and hungry.  If they've hurt him…"

Manolito placed a hand on the man's shoulder.  He was hurting inside, this one.  It was a father's love for his son, this pain.  And fear as well, a terrible fear, for what they might do to the boy.  Still, they had to approach the problem with reason.

"You cannot find the boy on foot.  The desert will kill you, if the Apache do not.  You do not even have a gun.  We will ride to the hacienda, and we will get you outfitted and fed.  Then, we will help you find your boy.  I speak some Apache, and know many at the agency.  I can probably find him, if he still lives.   John Cannon knows Cochise personally.  He can find your boy, if we cannot."

"You'll have to pair up," Buck said suddenly, appearing from the darkness with his blanket and saddle roll in hand.  "Ya'll only have one hoss."

"What are you doing?" Manolito asked.

"Ah'm getting' saddled," Buck replied.  "Maybeso I kin cut the trail of the A-pach shortly after sunup.  You obviously sidin' with this back-shooting Yankee.  I'm the one that was wronged, Mano.  Not him."

"It was a long time ago, Buck," Manolito replied.  "This man has been robbed, attacked, and shot.  His son was kidnapped.  How can you stand there and say he has not been wronged?  We must help him."

"You obviously already got it all figured out," Buck growled.  "I ain't ready to ride home with that Yankee.  Not to my own house.  But ya'll go on ahead.  I'll stay out a spell, and look around.  Mebbe I can find some sign what'll help us find that boy o' his."

"Alone?  Buck, there are renegade Apaches running loose, looking for white men to kill."

"Ah'll be careful," Buck replied.  "Besides, the way I figure it, they's lookin' mainly for Mexicans to kill, Mano.  Be a whole sight safer fo' you if you just ride on in with Mister McCain.  You kin warn Big John.  If I don't find any sign, ah'll ride in directly."

With that, Buck turned and began to saddle his horse.

"I am sorry," Manolito apologized softly to Lucas.  "He has been very touchy lately.  Something seems to be eating at him.  I think the ghosts of the past are bothering him."

"They bother us all," Lucas replied.  "I'm grateful for his help…and yours.  How far is this ranch?"

"Twenty miles or so, west of here.  A full day's ride, especially with only one horse and two of us.  We will have to walk him some.  You are too big for him to carry both of us all of the way."

"Thank you," Lucas said.  "For me, and my boy."

"You are welcome.  Here, have some more of the coffee."

In the darkness beyond them, Buck finished saddling his horse, keeping the stirrup up over the cantle.  Manolito seemed to be taking up with Billy Younger's killer.  Yessir, just when he needed a friend, Mano up and chose to side with the enemy.  The thought hurt deeply, and Buck's eyes misted.  He knew he was being unreasonable, and he knew he was not doing the right thing, but he just could not bring himself to forgive McCain.  The death of Billy had been bothering him for a long time.  Now, to have his killer come riding into camp, it was too much.

The coincidence was too much for Buck.  He had to get away, to be alone, where a man could grieve without interference.  To get out into the dry lonesome, and maybe explain to Billy why he could not murder the Yankee who had killed him.  Maybe cry a little, away from anyone's view.  And maybe, just maybe, he could actually find the trail of the Apache.  He would have to keep his wits about him, for renegade Apache were truly dangerous, and would likely be watching him every second.  Alone, he would be inviting attack, but perhaps that was just what he wanted.  A real enemy he could fight, not a bunch of phantoms that a man could not touch.  A man could not fight ghosts and hoo-doos, not even ones he had known so well ten years ago.

He finished cinching the saddle and dropped the stirrup in place, turned to add a few pieces of camp gear to his bags, then mounted.

How could Mano ride with that man?  Why did he side with McCain so easily on this?  It was not like Manolito, he thought bitterly.  He had always been able to count on Mano before.  Now, Manolito was a better friend to his old enemy than he was to Buck.  Buck realized he was still loser, and the war was still costing him.  That hurt deeply, and though he knew it was not the true cause of his inner pain, Buck was willing to let that be reason enough to ride away for now.

Spurring his horse, he rode quickly out into the desert night, leaving behind two pairs of eyes that reluctantly watched him go.

 

 

 

*Rutherford B Hayes, future U.S President.

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