Chapter 1
“Moran!” Henry Butcher called out, then waited for the boy to pull his horse up even with his.
Jim Moran nudged his horse into a gentle lope and passed the other riders in the twelve-man raiding party plodding a dusty road that followed the Solomon River. When he reached the head of the column he pulled in and looked expectantly at Butcher. “You call me, Captain?” As leader of the gang of raiders, Henry Butcher liked to be called captain, although he had no rank, and in reality, no military standing in the Confederate army.
“Yeah,” Butcher replied. “Ride on up ahead and see what’s farther up this river. Me and the rest of the boys will stop here for a spell to water the horses.” This was not the first time he had sent Jim ahead as a scout since leaving the remnants of Quantrill’s Raiders behind in Missouri. The young boy, barely fourteen years of age when he had joined Quantrill’s band a year and a half ago, was a perfect choice to reconnoiter the countryside ahead when approaching a town or crossroads. Jim had a sharp eye, and with his smooth cheeks and dark hair, he displayed a picture of innocence that gave no cause for suspicion in the event he ran into the local law or a Union patrol. Adding to that, the boy appeared to be fearless. Judging by the wheat fields on either side of the road, Butcher knew they were approaching civilization of some kind, hopefully a community ripe for the picking.
“Yes, sir,” Jim replied, and pushed on ahead. It had been six months since they had received word that Lee had surrendered and the war was over. Butcher had insisted that General Lee might have surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia, but the war was still going on in Missouri. So they had continued their particular brand of guerrilla warfare—bushwhacking small Union patrols, attacking stage coaches and robbing trains—all of which helped cripple the Union forces according to Butcher. Their activities, though small in perspective, had attracted the Union army’s attention, resulting in a concentrated effort to run them to ground. As a result, Missouri had become too hot for them and was the reason Jim Moran found himself on this late fall afternoon astride a weary sorrel gelding on a dusty road north of Salina, Kansas.
Butcher had sworn that he would keep raiding if he had to ride to Montana to stay ahead of the troops hunting them. Some of the men were talking about calling it off and going back to whatever was left of their homes. Butcher, a flint-hard brute of a man, had suggested that such talk was treason and would be dealt with accordingly. In spite of this, three of their original fifteen had slipped away in the night, leaving them to be a force of a dozen men. Butcher was furious, but because of an increase in Union patrols chasing the raiders, he was reluctant to turn back to search for the deserters.
Jim gave this a lot of thought as he rode along the river road. He was thinking that maybe he should have gone with the three who took off. One of them, Amos Barfield, had told Jim that the real war was over, and they were now no more than a gang of common outlaws, and Butcher knew it. Jim had a lot of respect for Amos. He was a little older than the others and not half so wild when it came to killing and burning. Amos had shown a special interest in the naive young man who had shown up one day near the Marais des Cygnes River in Linn County, Missouri, squirrel gun in hand, to volunteer to ride with Quantrill’s Raiders. Upon talking to the boy, Amos soon learned that Jim held no motives beyond answering the call to defend his homeland after the war had claimed the life of his father at Vicksburg, and he had traveled all the way from his home in Tennessee to find Quantrill. The notorious Rebel guerrilla leader was killed in May 1865, and it had been Jim’s lot to end up riding with a remnant band that had split off from the original. Although young and inexperienced, Jim was welcomed by Henry Butcher to join his ragtag gang of ruffians. The more Jim thought about it, the more convinced he became that he should have listened to Amos Barfield. He was right about Henry Butcher, Jim decided; he was little more than a common bushwhacker and a bully who intimidated his followers with fear. There was a difference between ambushing Union patrols and riding roughshod over small civilian settlements, and Jim had decided that the latter was not to his liking.
Back on the banks of the Solomon River, Butcher’s men took advantage of the time to rest while Jim was scouting the countryside ahead. Joe Coons, a short stocky man of thirty-four years of age, took it upon himself to build a small fire to boil some coffee. Joe was unofficially second in command and had always been the first to back any plan Butcher came up with. “We’ll have us a little coffee in a minute or two,” he announced as Butcher settled himself on the ground beside the fire.
After the horses were watered, the rest of the men gathered around to partake in the pot of boiling coffee. Joe gazed around the circle at the gaunt faces, evidence of their desperate endeavor to stay one step ahead of their Union antagonists. Maybe it was time, he thought. Maybe Amos and the others had been right. It was a treasonous thought and he hesitated to mention it to Butcher, but he was noticing signs from the other men of a definite lack of dedication to the original cause. It had been over three weeks since they had held up that train depot and they were all short of supplies and ammunition. “You know, Henry,” he started reluctantly, “the pickin’s around here is got pretty damn lean. Maybe we oughta forget about the Confederacy and go on down to Texas. I mean, hell, the war′s officially over.”
Joe’s remark brought a squint to Butcher′s eyes and an instant lowering of his heavy eyebrows as he sent a piercing gaze in Joe’s direction. Before Butcher answered, Quincy spoke out. “I been thinkin’ ’bout that myself. Hell, this damn war was over when Lee surrendered. It’d be a lot safer down Texas or Mexico way, I reckon, but Montana’s where the gold is.” His comment captured the attention of the others gathered around, causing some nodding and grunts of agreement, as well as a darkening scowl from their leader.
“Maybe you boys are thinkin’ somebody else oughta be callin’ the shots,” Butcher replied, his voice low and carrying a warning. His words were aimed mostly in Quincy’s direction, for he had pegged him to be the most dangerous challenge to his authority.
“Ah, hell no,” Joe Coons quickly responded, however. “No such a thing, Henry. You’re the boss.” He glanced around him for support. The others were equally as quick to respond with signs of reassurance. No one of them was anxious to challenge Butcher′s authority. “I was just sayin’ that, since we’re really raiding just for profit right now, we might as well go somewhere where the damn army ain’t lookin’ for us.”
“That’s all we’re sayin’,” Quincy added, somewhat indifferently. “You’re the boss. Just thought it’s about time to think about movin’ on to someplace where they don’t know us.”
Butcher continued glowering at them for a minute or two while he considered what Billy and Quincy had suggested. It had in fact never crossed his mind to give up the pretense of carrying on the war, but what they said made sense. He relaxed his scowl and said, “Well, as a matter of fact, I was plannin’ to do just that very thing, but we need one more good raid for supplies first. Maybe there’s a town up the road where we can take care of that.” His announcement was met with approval by all, and an instant lightening of the somber mood.
“Yonder comes the kid,” one of the men called out.
“Good,” Butcher answered, “we’ll see what we’ve got now.”
Jim hopped down from the saddle and turned the sorrel loose to drink. “Come on over and get you some coffee, boy,” Joe said.
Butcher gave him only a few seconds before demanding, “Well, what did you see? Is there a town up there?”
“Nossir,” Jim replied as he held his cup out while Tom Banks poured. “There ain’t nothin’ but a right good-sized farm—nice house and a big barn, but there ain’t nothin’ we’d want to bother with. Just peaceful folks tryin’ to make a livin’.”
“The hell you say,” Butcher responded. “Sounds like easy pickin’s to me—just what we’re lookin’ for. We’ll ride in there and take what we need.”
Jim was not comfortable with the response. The scene he had discovered was a typical family farm—a man and his two sons working to clean out some hedgerows between two fields, his wife and daughter picking late beans from the fall garden. He felt compelled to express his opinion. “They’re peaceful folks. They don’t have nothin’ to do with the war.”
“Well, by God, they do now,” Butcher replied with a wicked smile upon his face.
Seconding his boss as usual, Joe said, “They most likely fed a lot of Yankee soldiers with all the wheat raised in them fields we passed. It’s time they paid for it.”
Jim was suddenly sickened by the gleeful reaction of the men, all anticipating an easy romp over this Kansas family. He remembered then something that Amos Barfield had said. “You watch. Pretty soon they’ll be stealin’, rapin’, and murderin’ with no conscience at all.”
“This ain’t right,” Jim stated. “I don’t want no part in it.”
His comment received an immediate response from Butcher. “I’m the one says what’s right and what ain’t,” he roared, glaring at Jim. “Why, you ain’t much more than a snot-nosed kid. This is war! What the hell do you know about what’s right?”
“I know this ain’t right,” Jim calmly replied, and turned at once to go to his horse.
“Grab him!” Butcher shouted. A couple of the men reached for him, but they were not quick enough to stop him from reaching his horse and galloping away with just one foot in the stirrup. “Shoot him!” Butcher commanded when Jim headed back toward the farm. In the confusion, several of the men scrambled to get off a shot, hoping for a lucky hit, but Jim was already beyond the accurate range of their revolvers.
“Dammit!” Quincy exclaimed in anger when he missed with his revolver. “That damn boy is gonna warn ’em!”
“Get after him!” Butcher ordered. “He might warn ’em, but we’ll be right behind him, so they ain’t gonna have much time to do anything about it.” All twelve were soon on his heels.
“Come on, boy,” Jim implored as the tired sorrel’s hooves pounded the dirt with a steady tattoo, giving the best it had to offer. He looked over his shoulder at the gang of riders gradually shortening the distance between them, their horses fresher than his. He was determined to warn the innocent folks of the hell that was about to descend upon them. At the same time he was reprimanding himself for not choosing to see the obvious evidence before that Butcher′s gang had transformed from Confederate guerrilla fighters to common outlaws. “Don’t let me down, boy,” he encouraged the rapidly failing horse.
The house and barn were in sight now, but Butcher and his men were charging no more than one hundred yards behind him. Galloping into the barnyard, he heard shots from his pursuers and realized that the men he had ridden with for a year and a half were trying to kill him. “Take cover!” he shouted. “They’re comin’!” But he saw no one in the field or garden where they had been before. “Grab your guns!” he yelled. “Raiders! Raiders!” He could hear Butcher right behind him as they poured into the yard.
He wasn’t sure what happened next until some time later. At that moment, he vaguely remembered a glimpse of the barn doors opening and a wave of Union soldiers flowing out and the popping of rifles as the sorrel went down head first, throwing him from the saddle. Unable to move for a few seconds until his brain stopped spinning around in his head, he finally attempted to get to his feet in an effort to gain cover behind the carcass of his horse. He had taken no more than two steps when he was slammed in the shoulder by a rifle slug, spinning him around before landing him on the ground again. Trapped in the cross fire between his former companions and the Union soldiers, he was forced to lie where he was, next to his dead horse, while a swarm of hot lead flew overhead.
Riding at the head of his gang, Henry Butcher was the first to slide from his saddle, fatally wounded. “It’s a trap!” Joe Coons yelled as he backed his horse while emptying his six-gun at the charging cavalry. In the chaos that followed, two of the outlaws fell from their saddles as the raiders tried to retreat. Taken completely by surprise, the outlaws could do little but scatter, every man for himself, but in the confusion of horses bumping into each other amid the cursing and shouting of their riders, they were easy targets for the soldiers’ rifles. Only four of the twelve-man gang managed to escape to scatter across the Kansas countryside, and only one was able to effectively return fire. Quincy managed to get off one shot, killing one of the soldiers before he fled with the others.
Lieutenant Jared Carrington stood over the body of the fallen soldier as his men checked the bodies of the outlaws. He was far more irritated than sad to have lost a man in the ambush. He looked at the unfortunate occurrence as a mark against his ability to take care of his men. “This’un’s alive, Lieutenant,” a soldier called out, and raised his Spencer carbine to finish the job. He hesitated before pulling the trigger. “He don’t look much more’n a boy,” he said after a closer look at the thin mustache and scraggly beard on the otherwise smooth face.
The lieutenant walked over to look down at Jim, whose revolver was still in his holster. He quickly reached down and pulled the weapon and tossed it to a short stump of a man dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt and trousers. “Boy or not,” the lieutenant said, “if he’s old enough to shoot at us, he’s old enough to hang.”
Johnny Hawk turned the Colt Army model revolver over in his hands, examining it before he spoke. “This here weapon ain’t been fired no time lately. It’s stone cold.” He continued to gaze down at the wounded boy, who was now staring back defiantly. “From where I was over yonder by the porch,” he continued, pointing at the farmhouse, “it looked more like he was being chased—and he was hollerin’ somethin’ like ‘grab your guns’—almost like he was tryin’ to warn these folks.”
Lieutenant Carrington gave the elflike scout’s words a few moments’ thought before deciding. “It sure looked to me like he was leading the attack.” He shrugged indifferently. “At any rate, he was riding with them, so we’ll take him on back to Fort Riley for trial.” He ordered two troopers to take Jim over by the barn to guard him while the rest of the patrol chased after the four escapees. He then went back to the house to reassure the Thompson family that they were safe.
An interested bystander to this point, Johnny Hawk studied the wounded boy carefully. He didn’t strike the scout as typical of the trash who rode with the outlaw bands. He followed the soldiers over to the barn. “I’ll take a look at the boy’s wound,” he said. “See how bad it is.”
“Suit yourself,” one of the soldiers said. “I wouldn’t waste my time.”
Jim sat down with his back against the wall of the barn, his shoulder now starting to throb. Still, he had not spoken a word, resigning himself to the turn of events that had placed him in this situation. His two guards made themselves comfortable on one side of him, content to be spared further time in the saddle. Jim glanced up when the scout stood over him for a few moments. “Let me take a look at that there wound,” Johnny said. When Jim made no reply, he asked, “You ain’t gonna bite, are you?” Jim paused for a second, considering the gray-bearded little man before slowly shaking his head. “You was pretty wild lookin’ when you come chargin’ in here,” Johnny continued. “Looked like you was bein’ chased yourself.”
“I was,” Jim said, speaking for the first time.
“Now, why would I wanna believe a tale like that?” Johnny asked, just to test the boy’s reaction.
“It doesn’t make much difference whether you believe it or not, does it?” Jim replied stoically.
Johnny studied the clear dark eyes that met his gaze defiantly, never blinking or avoiding contact. He had a feeling about the boy, yet he was not one to be easily misled. “Why was that bunch chasin’ you?” he asked. “They were all your friends, weren’t they? How come they was shootin’ at you?”
Jim merely shrugged, convinced that nothing he said would be believed, so Johnny pressed further. “It wasn’t like you was tryin’ to warn these folks here.” Jim did not reply, but his eyes confirmed what Johnny suspected. He finished tying Jim’s bandanna across the boy’s shoulder and under his arm, then stood up to fix him with his gaze. “I figure you was tryin’ to warn these folks before that bunch hit ’em. Is that about the size of it?”
Jim’s expression shifted from one of morose resignation to that of mild surprise, causing him to wonder why the scout was even interested enough to question him. “That’s about the size of it,” he replied, and studied the curious man intently. He was an odd little man, standing a hair under five feet tall, Jim estimated. His face was covered from his ears on down with a gray set of whiskers. And his lower jaw protruded beyond his upper lip, causing a prominent display of the lone front tooth on the bottom. Jim was reminded of a picture of a leprechaun in a book his grandfather had once been reading.
“What’s your name, son?” Johnny asked.
Jim hesitated, wondering if he should tell him or not, before finally stating, “Jim Moran, Quantrill’s Raiders.”
Johnny nodded thoughtfully. “Quantrill, huh? How long have you been ridin’ with this bunch that chased you in here?” Little by little he was able to increase the boy’s responses until finally he was successful in piecing together Jim’s history as a member of Quantrill’s Raiders. The conversation was ignored by Jim’s guards, who were unconcerned with the guilt or innocence of the prisoner. Johnny continued, “So you found yourself ridin’ with a gang of outlaws after the war was over?”
“That’s about it,” Jim said, as Lieutenant Carrington came from the house, accompanied by William Thompson, effectively ending Johnny Hawk’s interrogation.
His two guards jumped to their feet as the officer approached and Johnny stepped aside.
“So that’s one of the scum that was plannin’ to murder my family!” Thompson blurted as he marched up to stand over Jim. “Why, he ain’t much older than my boy, Edgar.” He turned to Carrington. “What are you gonna do with him?”
“We’ll take him back to Fort Riley for trial,” the lieutenant answered.
Thompson looked around at the bodies lying in his farmyard before asking, “Why don’t you just shoot him now . . . or hang him? I’ve got plenty of good rope in the barn and a stout beam to string it over.”
“That would be a lot less trouble for me, but I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Carrington replied. “I have to take him back to be tried.” He glanced down at Jim. “I’ve no doubt they’ll hang him afterward for killing one of my men. I can understand how you feel, but that’s the way it’ll have to be unless he tries to escape. Then I guess we’ll have reason to shoot him.” The last comment was for Jim’s benefit, in case he might be entertaining thoughts of escape.
Thompson, staring down again at Jim, goaded him. “Why don’t you try to escape, boy? Just take off runnin’. Maybe they’ll miss.” He punctuated his taunting with a kick to Jim’s leg.
Silent until that moment, Johnny Hawk decided to speak. “I can understand why you got your backbone up, mister, but you’re maybe owing to this young feller more’n you think. He was tryin’ to head them outlaws off and warn you and your family.”
Thompson immediately looked to Carrington for confirmation, but the lieutenant simply shrugged, unconvinced himself. “How do you know that?” Thompson asked Johnny then. “Is that what he told you? Hell, he’d say anything to save gettin’ his neck stretched.”
“Mostly that’s what I saw for myself, since he was so far ahead of the others, and the shootin’ had already started before the soldiers came chargin’ outta the barn.” He reached up and stroked his chin whiskers as if giving the matter serious thought. “Add to that the fact that I just bandaged his wound, and the bullet went in the back of his shoulder . . . tells me he wasn’t hardly hit by a shot from the barn.”
The scout’s comments were enough to give the lieutenant pause, but he was still reluctant to accept Johnny’s version of the events just witnessed in the barnyard. After a few moments’ consideration, he said, “That’s not my responsibility to decide. We’ll let a judge decide. All I know for sure is that he came charging in here at the head of that outlaw gang and one of my men was killed. Somebody will have to pay for that.” He grinned at Johnny Hawk then. “I believe you’re getting softhearted in your old age, Johnny. Maybe that’s the reason you said this was your last patrol for the army.”
“Maybe so,” Johnny replied with a chuckle. He had no intention of scouting for the army six years ago when he passed through Fort Riley on his way back to the high country in Montana. Recognized by the commanding officer, who had employed him as a scout some years before in Wyoming Territory, he had been persuaded to accompany a regimental campaign against a hostile band of Sioux. He had been threatening to quit and head west ever since. This time he had made it final. Now he was asking himself why he gave a damn one way or the other what the army did with this wounded young man. It just struck him that somehow it didn’t seem fair to hang him when he was convinced that Jim had been trying to do what he thought was right. He decided to make one more attempt to influence Carrington’s decision. “You know, Lieutenant, that boy ought’n be treated no different from any other prisoner of war, and most of them has already been let go to go back home. Hell, there was a whole lot of boys—boys younger′n him—that fought with the Rebs durin’ the war.”
“This is different,” Carrington replied, obviously weary of discussing the matter. “This was no military unit he was riding with. He’s no more than a common outlaw, and young or not, he has to answer to a court. Then it’s their decision as to what punishment is justified.”
Johnny nodded, thinking that Carrington’s stance was typical of most military points of view. Like so many officers, the lieutenant seemed incapable of thinking outside the book, when he could just as easily have let the boy go and no harm done. Well, he thought, it ain’t no concern of mine. Maybe Carrington’s right. Maybe if he let him go, the boy might sneak back and take a few potshots at the soldiers. He returned his thoughts to his decision to quit his job as an army scout. “I reckon this little business is finished,” he said to the lieutenant. “You don’t need me no more. You’ll be headin’ back to Riley when your men get back, and I expect I’ll be headin’ the other way. By the way, your prisoner′s name is Jim Moran, in case you wanna know.”
“Jim Moran, huh?” Carrington responded, making a mental note of it. “You sure you won’t change your mind?” he asked. “You’re the best damn scout in the regiment, and you’re not ready to retire yet. What are you gonna do?”
“I’ve got a heavy cravin’ for the high mountains,” Johnny replied. “This flatland gets to a man after a while, and I wanna see some things I ain’t seen yet while my eyes are still sharp enough to see ’em.” He didn’t mention the strong desire to see a wife who waited for him in a Crow village near Fort Laramie. It had been over a year since he had seen her and he wasn’t too old to have cravings in that direction as well.
“I guess there’s no use trying to convince you to stay,” Carrington said, and extended his hand. “Good luck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” He was sincere in his wishes. He had never ridden with a scout as capable as Johnny Hawk.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Johnny said. “Same to you.” He cast one more brief glance in Jim’s direction before turning to leave. The boy nodded in response as if to express his appreciation for the scout’s efforts, and Johnny returned the nod in acknowledgment. Then he walked briskly away to collect his horses, a spotted gray and a sorrel packhorse.
Carrington turned his attention back to his prisoner, who was still sitting quietly with his back against the barn wall. He studied him for a moment, Johnny Hawk’s words still in his mind. Maybe the scout was right about the boy. He quickly discarded the thought, once again deciding there was no alternate course of action for him. “Maybe you’d better tie his hands behind his back,” he told the two privates. Then he changed his mind. “Might be too painful for him with that shoulder wound, though.” He hesitated, thinking the prisoner should be bound in some way. “Tie his hands, just leave them in front.”
“’Preciate it,” Jim said, surprising the lieutenant. His shoulder was already throbbing. It would have been uncomfortable indeed to have his arms tied behind his back.
“Don’t get the idea I’m going to be easy on you because of your age,” Carrington quickly responded. “You’re just a common thief and murderer as far as I’m concerned, and the court will deal with you appropriately.”
It was late in the afternoon by the time the rest of the patrol returned to the Thompson farm, horses hot and weary from the chase. Much to Carrington’s disappointment, none of the four escapees were captured. After the bodies of the outlaws were tied across the saddles of their horses, it was too late to start back to the fort that day, so the lieutenant gave orders to make camp at the edge of the barnyard, leaving the outlaws’ horses to carry their loads overnight. Fires were built and the troopers prepared their supper. Extra coffee and fresh-baked biscuits were provided by Esther Thompson, much to the delight of the soldiers. With Thompson’s permission, the prisoner was locked in the smokehouse behind the barn with one soldier stationed at the door as guard.
Inside the house, William Thompson sat down by the stove to finish his coffee, conversing with his wife about the excitement of the day. “I reckon we can thank the Lord that the soldiers knew that gang was headin’ our way,” he said. “Four of ’em got away, but I doubt they’ll stop till they get to Texas. I hope they’re plannin’ on leavin’ out of here early in the mornin’, though. All them dead bodies might start to stink before long.”
A compassionate woman, Esther Thompson expressed a curious thought about the prisoner. “You said that wounded man wasn’t much more than a boy.”
“That’s a fact,” her husband responded, “maybe a year or two older than Edgar.”
At that moment, Edgar and his younger brother came in from the yard where they had been talking to the soldiers as the troopers ate their evening meal. Still thinking about the prisoner, their mother asked, “Did anybody feed that boy in the smokehouse?”
“I don’t know,” Edgar replied. “I don’t think so—least I didn’t see nobody takin’ no food to the smokehouse. Did you, Peter?” His brother shook his head.
Noticing the look of concern on his wife’s face, William said, “I’m sure the soldiers know what to do about their prisoner. Anyway, it ain’t none of our business. I still think they oughta just shot him and been done with it.”
“Edgar heard them talking about what that funny-looking little man dressed like an Indian said,” Esther went on. “He thinks the boy was trying to warn us. What if he was? And him sittin’ out there in that dark ol’ smokehouse.”
“Esther,” her husband insisted, “it ain’t for us to worry about.”
“I don’t care if he is a Rebel,” she firmly announced. “There’s no reason to starve the boy.”
”Esther . . .” William protested, but she ignored him. Taking a couple of biscuits from a plate on the kitchen table, she then went to the pump, filled a fruit jar with water, and proceeded out the door.
Over by the fire at the edge of the yard, Lieutenant Carrington paused when he saw the woman heading toward the smokehouse behind the barn. Placing his cup on the ground next to his saddle, he quickly cut through the barn to head her off. “Mrs. Thompson,” he called, “we’re holding the prisoner in the smokehouse. Is there something in there you need?”
“I know you’ve got that boy in there,” she answered. “Did you give him anything to eat?”
“Well, ah, no,” Carrington stammered. It hadn’t occurred to him, and the prisoner had not complained.
“Well, there’s no need to starve the boy. Here’s some water and a couple of cold biscuits.” She handed them to the guard by the smokehouse door. “Give him these,” she said, then turned to leave.
“Yes, ma’am,” the private said, and slid the bar back to open the door.
“Thank you, ma’am.” The words came softly from the darkened building, causing Esther to pause a moment before continuing back to the house. She shook her head slowly, thinking of her own son, and how the mother of this boy must be worrying herself sick wondering if her son was safe that night.
Inside the windowless little outbuilding, the object of her concern eagerly accepted the food from the guard. There was no mother worrying about him. She had left him with his grandfather and gone to Nashville when his father went off to war. He had heard nothing from her since, and there was no mention of her in his grandfather′s house. The old man had never had much respect for his daughter-in-law, and felt justified in his opinion of her when she abandoned her son.
Trying to take his mind off his aching shoulder, he thought about how quickly his fortunes had changed—from bad to worse, he had to admit. The words of warning from Amos Barfield returned to his thoughts. He had cautioned him about the designs of Butcher and Joe Coons, but he had told him to be especially careful about Quincy. “That man’s got a black heart,” he said. “He’ll likely move to take over the leadership of the gang, and he’ll probably have to kill Butcher, and maybe Joe, to do it.” Jim remembered then, looking back over his shoulder and seeing the first gun aimed at him in Quincy’s hand. Less than twenty-four hours before this moment, he had harbored no ideas of betraying the band of guerrillas he had ridden with for a year and a half. Even with the turn of events that now placed him in custody of a Union cavalry patrol, however, he knew that what he had done was the right thing. He never considered himself anything less than a warrior, and although he had been slow in realizing it, the war was over. And yet he had no intention of being incarcerated in a federal prison, so escape was foremost in his mind. He resigned himself to wait for the opportunity, for there was none for him under the present circumstances.
The hours passed slowly as he sat in the dark hut, listening to the sounds outside that told him the noisy camp was gradually winding down to sleep. Finally all was silent until he heard the changing of the guard outside the door, and he guessed that it was probably midnight. He could hear nothing but the shuffling around of the new guard for a few minutes; then the quiet returned, broken only a short time later by the sound of snoring. It would have been his opportunity to escape, had not the smokehouse door been bolted on the outside. He settled down once more, trying to sleep.
His attempts to sleep proved hopeless, however, so he sat and waited for morning, hoping there would be some time when he could make a run for it. It couldn’t have been much more than an hour when he heard the bolt slide back on the door. A moment later, the door swung slowly open with a soft complaint from the rusty hinges. Framed in the opening, silhouetted by the moonlight behind him, stood the short, square form of Johnny Hawk. “Come on,” he whispered, “let’s get outta here before the guard wakes up.” He then drew a knife from his belt and stepped into the hut. After making quick work of the rope binding Jim’s wrists, he whispered, “Can you stand up all right?”
Astonished by the sudden appearance of the little man, Jim replied without hesitation, “I sure can,” and got to his feet.
“Be quick and don’t make a sound,” Johnny cautioned, “’cause if that guard wakes up, it’s gonna be hell to pay for both of us.”
Outside in the moonlit barnyard, Jim paused to look at the guard sleeping peacefully by the door while Johnny carefully closed the door and slid the bolt back to lock it. Then motioning to Jim to follow, he led him around behind the smokehouse and across a field. Once on the other side of the field, they headed toward the river where Jim could see the dark forms of horses in the trees. It was not until they had reached the riverbank that Johnny spoke again to the mystified boy following him. “Well, I reckon it’s up to you, but you can stick with me if you’re of a mind to,” he said. “I got you some things you’ll be needin’—a horse and a rifle, some cartridges.”
“Mister, I don’t know how to thank you, and I reckon I don’t know why you did it,” Jim said. “I thought you rode scout for the army.”
“I did,” Johnny replied, “but there ain’t no doubt in my mind that you was tryin’ to warn them folks about that bunch of outlaws. Was I right?”
“You were.”
“Well, then, it don’t make no sense to haul you off to jail. And once them military courts got to hemmin’ and hawin’, they mighta decided to string you up. Hell, the war is over—don’t matter which side you fought for. It’s over and done.”
“Well, sir, I ’preciate it. I surely do, and I’ll take you up on that offer to go with you, as long as it’s away from here.”
“Not a’tall,” Johnny replied. “Come on, we’d best get ourselves goin’ then. Right now I expect we’d best ride till we get to a place where I can take a look at that wound again.” He started toward the trees and the horses. “I took the liberty of borrowin’ a horse from the army for you. I figure it didn’t belong to the army, anyway, so it ain’t like we stole it. We need to unload him first, though.”
In the darkness among the trees, Jim had not noticed that the horse behind Johnny’s saddle horse and his pack animal had a body draped across the saddle. Johnny explained that there hadn’t been time to dump the body, saying that he was lucky just to be able to lead the horse away from the others without being caught. Leading the buckskin out into the moonlight, Jim could not help being startled when he recognized the corpse of Henry Butcher. After Johnny cut the rope tied under the buckskin’s belly, Jim took hold of Butcher′s feet and shoved him off on the ground, causing the horse to sidestep away from the falling body. To Jim’s way of thinking, it was a sign that the animal was expressing its contempt for the bully. Johnny waited for Jim to climb into the saddle, then turned his horse toward the river, heading for the other side.