December 25, 1862

My dearest wife,

Merry Christmas to you, Lou. We have just finished off a fine Christmas dinner and I lay here now in my blanket with a full belly and thoughts of you lulling me to sleep. But I wanted to send you a holiday greeting before I rest, though I know it may be some time before you read it. I fear the ease in which I was first able to send mail through the lines is becoming a scarce thing. There are still those, for a fee naturally, willing to pass along an envelope into the enemy country, but the price is climbing higher every month. I am still waiting to receive my pay. At eleven dollars a month that would make sixty-six dollars I am due, but Murphy tells me he has not been paid in nearly a year. Since I can't count on seeing my wages any time soon, I will be forced to budget myself shortly.

We were fortunate that young Billy spotted one of the few remaining turkeys in the state of Virginia day before last while he was foraging after firewood. You should have seen him Lou! The boy ran back into camp with his arms flapping, so excited he could scarcely tell Murphy and me what he had seen. Billy is a good boy, Lou. I know you'd like him. So Billy hauled us back to where he had seen the bird. A shotgun would have been a better choice over our rifles, but between Murphy and me, we got off a clean shot that didn't tear the meat up too much. I claim it was my shot, Murphy swears the bullet was his - but nevertheless the bird made fine Christmas fare and was ample enough to share with a few of our neighbors in camp. In return, one of the boys offered a sack of dried apples, a carton of biscuits with a jar of blackberry preserves and a handful of real coffee beans sent in a package from home. His family is not far so the treats were fresh. It may sound thin compared to the fine holiday table Rachel sets, but compared to our usual ration of hardtack - and believe me, the cracker is worthy of the name - a bit of salt beef and if we're lucky, a fist of dried vegetables, the meal was a feast! Billy even stuffed a burlap grain bag with the turkey feathers to use as a pillow.

As you might suspect, we are in winter camp now. Because this letter must travel through the North before reaching you, I cannot tell you exactly where we are. Regulations you know. Let me say simply that we are well tucked away. Because we were allowed to stockade our tents, I believe we will be here for some time. By stockade I mean that we built a small - very small - room from posts, like a log cabin, and pitched the tent over it as a roof. The soil of dear Virginia, being heavy in clay, works well as a chink between the logs when made into mud. Though we do have to replace the sealer after a hard rain as it tends to soften and drip away. A town nearby had seen some fierce shelling in the fall, and we were told to take the bricks from the ruined buildings to construct fireplaces. After some number of failed attempts, we built one that works fairly well, so I am warm and dry.

Have I mentioned that we awoke to snow yesterday morning? It is such a sight, Lou! A thick, heavy snowfall carpeting our camp, laying like a blanket over the hills and valleys. The cedars and pines bend under the weight. It is as if they opened their green arms to catch the stuff and now regret it. For some reason it reminded me of Cody trying to impress us with how much wood he could carry! Murphy has just come in and I notice his shoulders are dusted white so it is snowing again. I look forward to the sight of tomorrow morning for I can think of nothing more beautiful than Virginia dressed in white.

We have seen no action since Marye's Heights earlier this month and I am proud to say we sent Burnside and his Yanks scampering through the mud at Fredericksburg. If we can believe what we hear, he was relieved of command soon after. I don't know who his replacement is and right now don't really care. It seems the Federals are just as ready to burrow into a hole for the season as we are. We are blessed in our leaders, Lou. I would wager there are no finer, more respectable men on this earth and I am proud to serve under them. Our new commander, General Claridge, is a good man, if not a bit peculiar in his ways. Though I believe him to be near Teaspoon's age, he has the odd habit of standing on his head after a meal so his dinner won't settle too quick. But it is said that the great Stonewall Jackson keeps perfectly straight posture because he believes to bend over will twist his innards in a bad way. So in peculiarity, our General Claridge is in good company.

Our Billy will be celebrating his fifteenth year next month - nineteenth according to the enlistment records - though he is unsure of the exact date. I can only hope when we see battle again the extra year will have bolstered him up. Through all our engagements thus far, the boy has been unable to squeeze the trigger of his gun. I fear that if found out, he may be punished for cowardice, though I do not believe him a coward. He has stuck like paste to Murphy's side through the smoke and gunfire and never once tried to bolt away. Murphy is a rascal, Lou, yet so protective of the boy. I know you would like him, too. I saw a man who ran from our last encounter drummed out of camp for cowardice. To prevent such a humiliating thing to happen to Billy, Murphy and I have taken to using Billy's issue of cartridges along with our own so that at least the boy looks to be killing his share of Yankees. Sometimes though . . . and I hope you will think no less of me for saying so . . . I know how he feels.

I have seen things that frighten me, Lou. Yes, it is frightening what men can do to each other. But I am resolved to endure whatever hardships or difficulties may come to pass. I hear that General Lee once remarked "These men are not an army. They are citizens defending their country." How well spoke. For this is an honorable fight, Lou, and it is the road we have been forced to trod. What will become of us if the right to think and choose for ourselves is taken away? Pray for us Lou. Pray for this cause, that we may overcome our obstacles and that I will soon be on the road back to you.

I would welcome news of Rock Creek. I try to describe such a flat, empty land to my tentmates and they cannot imagine such a place. I trust Buck is doing well with the stock. Tell him 'hello' for me and thank him again for his help. Rachel, too. Though Billy's turkey made a fine Christmas meal, I did miss her gravy and dressing. Next year I will have a double portion.

I love you, Lou, and would like nothing more than to hold you in my arms and watch the snow fall, but until the day of Liberty allows us to be together again, I will hold you in my dreams.

Faithfully,

Your husband,
Kid McCloud
Company B, 43rd Virginia Infantry

Lou held the stationery, crumpled by whatever contrived path it had taken to reach her, close to her face, searching for some presence of her husband on the paper. Perhaps the scent of leather she paired with him might be tucked into the linen weave. Or the loops and curls of his handwriting might reach out with a soft touch to stroke her cheek. The quality of the paper used for his holiday greeting surprised her for a moment. This surely wasn't standard Army issue, nor was it the simple stock of his earlier letters. No . . . she recognized it now. Kid had purchased a few pieces of the stationery in St. Joseph when they took their yearlings to auction just days before making his proclamation to join the Confederate cause. He had reasoned at the time that correspondence from their upstart business should be made on something more impressive than tablet. He had also insisted that she sit for a photograph while they were there. It seemed that he had been planning ahead. Yes . . . that was Kid. Always planning ahead.

She found nothing palpable of Kid on the paper. Whatever part of him might have been enclosed in the envelope had been sifted away. Not surprising since it had taken the better part of a month to arrive in her mailbox. Her own Christmas had been pleasant enough. True to Kid's recollection, Rachel had outdone herself in setting a holiday table. Her gift to Lou and Buck of ice skates had kept them all occupied for the afternoon leaving Lou little time to reflect on her husband's absence. Donned in Lou's gift of a cream colored wool cape, with her golden hair streaming behind her, Rachel looked every bit an angel floating across the ice. After a brief clumsiness, Lou rediscovered her own abilities, though she hadn't skated for more years than she could remember. Their Kiowa friend, on the other hand, spent most of the afternoon on his backside and proclaimed that walking across a sheet of ice with nothing more than a metal blade to stand on was as unnatural as peddling around on that wheeled contraption Teaspoon bought. Even worse since the ice was less forgiving than the ground. The loneliness hadn't settled on her until later, listening to the last minutes of the holiday tick away, cold and alone in a bed intended for two.

She set the letter aside on the desktop and settled into the curved back of its matching chair. It was a lady's desk. Nothing masculine about it. In fact, their entire bedroom had a feminine air - ruffled curtains, a floral pattern in the wedding ring quilt and scattered throughout the wallpaper. Never having much of a room to call her own and masquerading as a boy for so long, she had leaned toward frills in her own home. Kid must have sensed her long buried need to project her gender and hadn't objected, or if he had, he kept his objections to himself. In those rare moments of her girlhood when she had allowed herself to dream, she had envisioned such a bedroom - her husband's work shirts hanging beside her dresses in the wardrobe, her tortoise shell brush and comb set lying alongside his shaving mug on the washstand, the scents of soap and leather and lavender mingling together in the bedclothes. She had never gone so far as to picture the husband who would share the room with her. Perhaps she had never really believed that a good man could love someone as damaged as she was, so only the hints of his presence were ever imagined. Now here she was years later in her perfect room, still with nothing but hints of a husband.

Lou skimmed over the lines once more, her expression twisting wryly as she read.

. . . I can think of nothing more beautiful than Virginia dressed in white.

Funny, he had said the same thing the winter before about Nebraska.

I trust Buck is doing well with the stock . . .

"Of course he is," Lou muttered, half aloud. "He's here doin' everything you should be doin'."

Lou sighed, straightened in her chair and drew a fresh sheet of paper from the desk drawer. She dabbed her pen into the inkwell and began.

My darling husband,

Wasn't that how a devoted Confederate bride should begin a letter to her soldiering husband? Didn't the ladies of the South refer to their men in such sugary terms? Dear Heart, My Dearest Love, My Beloved. At least such terms of endearment sounded like something Doritha or Samantha would say. She certainly didn't feel like a southern woman, though it was plain from the whispered talk of Rock Creek's busybodies, by virtue of her husband's allegiance, she was thought of as such. Her own beliefs seemed to matter little.

Kid asked her to pray for their cause, but she simply could not. How could she ask a blessing for a cause that defended the right to treat another man like property, like a piece of inventory? Whenever they had debated the topic, Kid skirted around the issue, arguing states' rights instead. He seemed able to absorb the idea of slavery into a great generality of those rights. But hadn't he slept a few feet away from Noah? Hadn't they become friends regardless of Noah's color? Didn't he grieve like a brother over Noah's death? Noah Dixon was one of the most intelligent men she had ever known and the thought that there were people who would have shackled him and burned a brand into his flesh made her blood boil. Certainly, she prayed for her husband, prayed for all good men caught up in this senselessness, but damn their cause.

Lou looked to the beginnings of her letter and wadded the paper into a tight ball. Regardless of Rock Creek's gossip, she wasn't a southern woman, and never would be. Nor would she sound like one to please her husband. Lou pulled another piece of paper from the drawer and began again.

Dear Kid . . .

Part Two
Chapter Twelve

May, 1863

Kid had stopped asking as to where they were headed long ago. He had learned that it really didn't matter anyway. They would march in the direction instructed by General Claridge, who received orders from General Longstreet, who received them from General Lee, who likely received them from the Lord above. And once arrived at the assigned destination, they would do as they were told - which more often than not was to wait. Hurry up and wait. Such was the way of the rank and file.

Their spring had been uneventful. The 43rd had broken winter camp at the first hint of a thaw and trudged through the muddy roads along the Rappahannock for several weeks before even seeing the first sign of a blue coat. Even then, their encounters with the opposition had been little more than skirmishes in the timbered countryside. Weighed down by their mud caked boots, an actual charge would have been a pitiful sight.

Nearly a year in the military had impressed an appreciation of simple things upon Kid - shoes being one of those things. Kid supposed if all the miles he had marched since joining the 43rd were laid out straight, he would have traversed the state several times by now and his shoes were the proof. He had never given shoes much, if any, thought before, but footwear to a foot soldier was every bit as important as the Enfield he toted. Unfortunately, the budget conscious Confederate Procurement Office didn't fully grasp that point. For speed in manufacture, standard issue Confederate Infantry shoes were of limited sizes and no distinction made for the left or right foot. A wad of cloth filled the extra space in the toe of Kid's brogans and after a time he had become accustomed to the awkwardness. Better the shoes be too long than short - Heaven show mercy on a foot soldier with pinched toes. But there was no remedy for the paper-thin soles. Kid estimated that the soles of his brogans were so worn, if he had a coin to stand on, he would be able to tell if it was heads or tails just by the feel.

So it was with a sigh of relief that when the order filtered down from General Lee and God above to move out once more, Kid and his company found a flat car on the Orange and Alexandria line waiting in the twilight at Brandy Station as their transport.

The O&A Railroad Line was a prized possession, claimed by whichever army held the current advantage in the region. To counter that claim, the line was repeatedly damaged, even though its attackers might very well be in need of the rail's services themselves if the tide shifted in their direction. Its track had been mangled enough times to make either army's Corp of Engineers weep. The entire stretch of line was seldom totally usable, but still provided a much needed respite from the road.

The cars that had once served as passenger compartments on the train were already crammed to the brim - soldiers sitting five across on wooden benches intended for three, the aisles between the benches clogged with equipment and yet more men. From Kid's position on the platform, the cars looked a bit like over-stuffed sardine cans and the collective smell of unwashed flesh filtering through the open windows of the cars made the open flat bed seem like a gift.

Several cars ahead, steam and smoke spurted from the locomotive and fiery orange sparks swirled dizzily into the fading light from the balloon-shaped stack. Billy had never seen a train up close, let alone ridden one, and the entire process thrilled him. Kid tried to explain his limited knowledge of the steam system to the boy, but the steady huff of the engine and clanking of iron wheels against the metal track made carrying on a conversation impossible. The constant watch for the enemy's presence - not so much the enemy himself, but barricades left on the track to derail the train - slowed the engine's pace a bit. The beam of the locomotive's headlight cut a white swath through the night, probing the darkness like a cautious finger.

Although just as cramped as the enclosed cars, the openness of the flat bed and the breeze of a Virginia evening made the ride almost pleasant as the train rumbled south down the O&A line. Kid sat with his back against Murphy's, each using the other for support. The novelty of the steam engine had worn thin and Billy curled up like a baby on the metal floor of the car next to Murphy. The light was too murky to make out her face, but Kid reached into his breast pocket for Lou's photograph anyway. It felt good just to wrap his hand around the frame, to think that somehow, hundreds of miles away, she might magically feel his touch.

It didn't really do her justice, but other photographs he had seen of wives and sweethearts were much the same. The stiffly prim and proper pose was, as the photographer in St. Joseph had professed, quite in vogue. Fashionable or not, Kid preferred to picture Lou a bit more animated. Months before, in the dark hours of winter camp, he had created his own mental photographs of Lou and stamped each one in crisp detail onto his memory - Lou's tiny form straddled across Lightning's broad back flying down the Express trail, Lou in his arms dancing timidly in a darkened Sweetwater side street, Lou dressed in a white cotton gown at the Redfern station, Lou walking down the aisle of the church in Rock Creek, Lou cradled in his arms as they crossed the threshold of their first home. Always at the ready, his arsenal of images helped to counter the visions of crimson and gore that flashed across his closed eyelids just as sleep was about to come.

Kid knew from Lou's letters that she was well and their ranch continuing to show small profits even though she and Buck had agreed to turn away military business. With a husband in the Confederate ranks, how could she sell mounts to the Union Cavalry? The mares that had been bred last spring would be foaling soon. Kid closed his eyes and added another image to his collection - Lou drying off a spindly legged, newborn foal. A pretty little roan filly. Yes . . . that was a nice one. Kid let the image go and then quickly pulled it back into focus, making sure the picture was perfect. He repeated himself several times, just to make sure he could call upon the image in a hurry when he needed it.

The brakes of the locomotive began to squeal and the engine slowed, panting, finally exhaling in a huge breath as the train pulled into Culpepper Station. A huge host of men waited on the station's platform, but where they would be put on the cramped train was anybody's guess. Kid shifted against Murphy's back, his sigh audible now that the clanking of the wheels had quieted.

"You're gonna wear that picture frame down to nothin' one of these days you know that?"

Kid half chuckled and turned his head to the side. "How'd you know?"

"Because my dear young friend," Murphy replied, yawning, "you are predictable."

Kid ran his fingers around the edge of the frame once more and slipped Lou's photograph back into his shirt pocket. "You ever thought about gettin' married, Murphy?"

Murphy snickered into the night. "Nope. Ain't got no plans for it neither. Might let a pretty gal catch me ever once in a while, but I ain't never gonna let one tie me down."

"Ah . . . Murph. Bein' married ain't like that. Least ways not to someone like Lou," Kid countered. "I miss her," he added thoughtfully. "It's been a year now since I left."

"You'll be due a furlough soon," Murphy offered. "Maybe you could meet her somewheres."

Kid considered the prospect for a moment. The thought of folding Lou in his arms rather than merely fingering her framed likeness, of floating his hands over the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, instead of searching for warmth in a flat photograph was tempting. But he couldn't cross the line to meet Lou in the North and certainly wouldn't have her travel through a battle zone. The fighting to the west in Tennessee had been hot and would most likely continue to be. Word was some Yankee tomcat named Grant was keeping things stirred up out there.

"No. It's best she stay where it's safe," Kid answered. "God willin', I'll be headed back to her soon. Surely this can't go on much longer. Yanks ain't found a commander yet who can find his way out of a box. I'd think those folks up north'd be puttin' pressure on Washington before long to just let the South go."

Murphy shook his head. "Well, I'm 'fraid I don't share in your optimism. I 'spect we're in the thick of it now. Too much pride on both sides to just admit this was all a big mistake. What if it's another year, another two, another God knows how many?"

"I came back to do my duty and I aim to see it through to the end. I guess it'll be how ever long it's gonna be. Lou will understand." After a moment, Kid added quietly, "She'll have to."

"Well," Murphy began, raising his voice to be heard over the chuff of turning wheels. "I hope when all the shoutin's done, it'll be worth it."

The engine lurched forward once more and a shrieking blast of the whistle covered Kid's answer. "It will be," he mouthed into the darkness, without even considering a lesser answer.

The afternoon shadows had grown long, angled a bit by the tilt of the summer sun. Hesitant to give up its hold on the day, the sun lingered in the treetops behind the barn and the sky overhead was still bright with it, holding onto the heat of the day. Lou stepped onto the bottom rail of the corral and looped an arm over the top board, watching Buck cautiously edge toward the sorrel stallion. It had been a long, hot afternoon for both man and beast and each looked a bit worse for wear.

Buck had tugged the animal home a month earlier after riding upon a wild herd. Born of the plains, the young horse was bred to run, to sire generations of wild-blooded horseflesh. His captor had felt almost guilty altering that course, but the animal was too perfect to pass by. Curiosity had held the horse in place a bit too long and a lucky throw dropped the lasso over his head. Had the bachelor stallion bolted a second sooner, he would still be cropping the tender grass of his prairie home, one eye fixed on the lead stallion, the other trained on the herd's mares, waiting for an opportune moment to steal a mate away for himself.

The sorrel's flank rippled in a nervous tic, bothered by the flies that had settled there. Stiff-legged and nostrils flaring with contempt, the stallion craned his neck toward the metal bucket of grain that Buck offered. A month of patiently coaxing the animal into accepting a human's touch had yielded nothing, so Buck decided stronger measures were necessary. If the horse wanted to eat he would have to accept what was offered him. And Buck had offered plenty. After countless failed attempts - each sending Buck scrambling for the corral railing with the sorrel hot on his heels - the stallion finally allowed his captor close enough that the bucket was in reach. But after it was emptied, the horse showed his ingratitude by trying to bite the hand that fed him. Buck quickly pulled the bucket away from the horse and jumped back from the snorting animal.

"You'd best geld him pretty quick," Lou advised.

"Nope, not him," Buck answered, not taking his eyes off the stallion. The sorrel stood facing his opponent, pawing the dirt floor of the corral with an agitated hoof.

"Buck, if you don't calm that horse down, he's gonna hurt you."

Buck shook his head and eased toward the stallion again. "He's perfect breeding stock, Lou. I just need to work with him a little more. We're comin' to an understanding."

As if to counter his claim, the horse bolted toward his adversary, sending Buck scrambling toward the fence once more. Lou dashed for the gate, but Buck chose a quicker escape route and vaulted over the top rail, landing a bit unceremoniously on the other side. The stallion finally came to a dust-billowing stop at the railing and whirled around to flick his rear hooves at the confining boards.

Lou propped her hands on her hips and looked down to where her friend lay sprawled in the dust. "That's some understanding you got there, Buck."

Buck tossed back a lop-sided grin, then reached for Lou's extended hand and pushed himself off the ground. "I said we were comin' to an understanding. I didn't say we were there yet."

"Just be careful, please. I've gotten kinda used to havin' you around." Lou turned for the house, then remembered what had brought her to the corral. "Oh . . . supper's ready in a few minutes. You are finished out here for tonight, aren't you?"

Buck rubbed his bruised backside and glanced in the stallion's direction. "Yeah. I think we've had enough of each other for today," he answered. "Do I have time to clean up?"

Lou ran her eyes up and down his dusty frame. The dust from his tumble clung to his trousers and dirt muddied the rings of sweat that soaked the underarms and neckline of his shirt. "It'll wait," she teased. "You're not sittin' at my table lookin' like that."

"Now, Lou," Buck began, grinning slyly as he took a step in her direction. "Seems I can remember a few times when you turned up at Rachel's table not exactly lookin' your best."

"Well . . . maybe so, but only because I had to act like the rest of you. That was a long time ago anyway."

Buck's eyebrows shot up. "Above gettin' dirty now are you? Well, I may just have to do somethin' about that."

Lou edged toward the corral as Buck moved another step closer. He opened his arms to draw her to him, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. "Buck . . . " Lou warned and ducked away when he darted for her. A second too late, she found herself folded into his arms, the side of her face pressed against the damp cloth covering his chest.

She had nearly forgotten the scent of a man. The musky scent of warm flesh and honest sweat, of horses and well-worn leather - everything that reminded her of Kid. For just a moment she was back in his arms, sheltered and content, and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. Lou remembered herself then and wiggled free of Buck's playful bear hug. She pointed him in the direction of the pump with a teasingly reproachful finger.

Lou leaned back against the corral railing, a smile creeping across her face as she watched Buck head toward the pump behind the house. When Kid first announced his intentions, she had been upset with him for drawing Buck into their problems. But their business was making strides and, more importantly, it was comforting to have someone so familiar nearby in such an unrecognizable time. She enjoyed his company and he seemed content in the arrangement, too. It was a perfect partnership. At least that much her husband had done right.

She took a step toward the house, but a second look to the pump, stopped her. Lou leaned back against the railing again, watching as Buck stripped the dirty shirt over his head, baring his sweat-sheened back and arms. The pump was a bit stubborn and took a little effort to prime at times. Each stroke of the handle swelled the work-hardened muscles in his arms and pulled the skin taut across his shoulders. Lou had always thought Buck a little on the too thin side, but over the winter she had discovered he had a sweet tooth and a steady stream of desserts had put a few extra pounds on his lean frame. He wore the added weight well, she decided. Buck was a fine looking man. She'd known him for years. Funny she'd never noticed.

The sudden slowing of the train jarred Kid awake and for a moment, swallowed in the darkness, he couldn't remember where he was. He instinctively grabbed for the rifle at his side, but a firm hand reaching out from behind him pushed the Enfield back to the floor of the flatbed.

"Easy," Murphy said quietly. "Prob'ly just somethin' blockin' the track."

Steam escaped from the whistle's choked throat as the wheels of the train gripped the metal track and came to a stop. Moments later, an orange flare of light, swinging lightly from side to side, dotted the darkness from the direction of the engine. As the lantern drew closer, a voice called out for an officer in charge and Kid heard the familiar rattle of General Claridge's sword. He had never seen his commander without the weapon. Some men said he even wore it strapped around his waist while he slept. Peculiar . . . yet so was the General.

The night hummed with the muttering of waking men. Kid wondered what time it was, but the inky blackness overhead offered no ready clues. From the stiffness in his bones though, he estimated they had been traveling for some time.

"Look alive, boys."

Kid couldn't see who had spoken, but he recognized the voice as belonging to Captain Muldune.

"What's goin' on, Cap'n?" came another voice from the front of the car.

"Yanks have barricaded the tracks. Ya'll get with it and we'll have it cleared in short order."

"Why us, Cap'n?" complained another. "What 'bout them boys up'there ridin' in them cars? Ought'n they to help some?"

Even in the darkness, the captain's exasperation was clear. "Those men are not my concern. Our orders are to clear the track. B'sides, they're crammed in those cars so tight, it'd take all night just to get them unloaded and then loaded back up again. We're wastin' time, Gentlemen."

A collective grumbling echoed through the night as the 43rd lumbered off the flat cars. Not fully awake, Billy stumbled a bit on the uneven terrain alongside the tracks. "Easy there, Billy boy," Murphy said and reached for the child's arm. "Just a little while and you can go back to dreamin'."

"Uh-uh. I don't wanna dream no more," the boy insisted, still groggy. "I used to like 'em. Used to dream 'bout Marybeth, but they's bad now."

"I think it's gonna take longer than a little while," Kid said as the barricade came into view. "Musta taken 'em all day to pile up that mess."

The Northerners had piled most anything they could carry or cart onto the track - tree limbs, rocks, fence rails, railroad ties taken from some part of the line, wagons no doubt commandeered from an innocent farmer, the carcass of a dead mule, God only knew what all else. Half of Kid's company drew the task of clearing away the trash dump while the remaining members were posted as pickets along the steep embankment that sloped away from the track.

After an hour, Kid began to relax a little. Surely if the Yanks were going to show themselves, they would have done so by now. He was positioned at the tail of the train, behind the caboose, which pleased him. Ever since he was a small boy, he'd had an affection for the caboose of a train. As a child, he had watched the sleek locomotive engines pull in and out of Manassas Junction, each of the cars weighted with passengers or cargo. Each car contributing in some fashion. But not the caboose. It just tagged along behind without any real purpose that he could see. What a life of leisure the caboose had. It went along for the ride, but never had to work. At seven years old he could think of nothing better and had even dreamed of growing up to be the man in the caboose whose only job it seemed was to wave at the children on the station platform as the train chugged down the track.

Fatigue took over and he closed his eyes to rest for just a minute, dreaming of those long-ago days when trains were something special. There was something marvelous in way the weight of an oncoming train would send those silver lines of track floating on the wooden ties like sticks bobbing on water. And the way the rails would sing in their high-pitched voices, telegraphing an oncoming engine's message, "I'm comin'. I'm comin'. Get outta my way."

Kid dozed for a second, then woke with a start when he felt himself rocking back on his heels. No . . . he wasn't exactly rocking. It was more like a vibration under his feet and he thought that a bit odd. The train had been quiet for some time. The tracks should be still. Kid shrugged off the anomaly and brought his rifle back to shoulder arms. Tired or not he had a job to do and trained his eyes on the darkness.

A thin stream of music floated in the night air. It sounded vaguely familiar and after a moment Kid recognized the song. "I'm comin'. I'm comin'. Get outta my way." A sudden realization hit him like a sledgehammer and he bolted off the track, straining to hear the oncoming chuff of another locomotive.

"Tighten up, there, McCloud!" came an order from the other direction. Kid turned over his shoulder to voice his concerns, but the train had rounded the curve and was coming on fast, the bellow of its engine covering his response.

The oncoming headlamp floated in the night like a full moon, growing larger with every second that ticked away. What was about to happen seemed to settle all at once on the weary soldiers posted at the rear of the train and they took off running down the rocky strip of ground that paralleled the track, shouting and waving their arms in the night. Their cries went unnoticed by the approaching engineer, but did succeed in alerting the others in the company. A chorus of voices lifted into the night, but still the locomotive came on, breathing hard, bearing down like a charging black bull.

Kid shot a quick glance to the caboose. The red globed warning lantern in the rear window was still lit and shined like an unblinking crimson eye in the darkness. The widening beam of the headlamp bathed the caboose in light and Kid held his breath, anxiously awaiting the hysterical squealing of iron that would bring the engine to a halt. But it didn't come. Rather than slow, the locomotive barreled down the track at an undiminished speed. Could the engineer possibly be that inattentive? That careless? Or, God help them, was he asleep at the throttle?

The nose of the oncoming engine plowed into the caboose and threw the car up into the air like a toy. It came down on its side, landing across the roof of the locomotive just as the huge engine slammed into the next car. The force of the blows worked its way through the line of stalled cars, each adding its own weight to that of the next, and the next, and the next, until the momentum threw the engine against the barricade blocking the track. Unable to stop the force in motion, the tender car plunged into the black hulk of metal, the flames from the broken firebox leaping freely into the night.

The passenger compartment behind the tender car, its fastenings broken loose on both ends, sailed off the track like a horse taking a fence, and landed on its nose, slamming itself onto the unforgiving ground before rolling down the embankment. Another car and then another and another toppled off the track, piling up shattered wreckage in a jagged mountain of metal. Cars slanted across the track in a zigzagged line, only to be slammed together like an accordion by the unchallenged weight of the runaway locomotive. A flat car stood on its nose then broke free and flipped onto its back, wobbling on the track like an ill-placed see-saw.

Its energy finally expended, the oncoming locomotive skidded to a stop. Sparks flew from the undercarriage of the train, lighting up the night like fireflies. The trailing cars telescoped into each other, then careened wildly and tumbled from the track, finally coming to a twisted rest in the broomsedge that dotted the railroad bed.

The train's screeching cries of pain quieted to death moans as the wreckage settled upon itself. A thick quiet fell on the scene, almost as if the night held its breath. Kid stood solid as a statue, staring dumbly at a sight so horrific it couldn't possibly be real. Then the cries and frantic pleading of the trapped, beginning to leak from the upended and buried cars, assured him that it was.

Kid didn't tell himself to move, but found himself running alongside his comrades toward the mangled wreckage. He saw the flames beginning to lick up into the passenger cars from the broken firebox that lay beneath them. As he ran closer, he could hear the fire flicking its razor-sharp tongues - saw its ghostly, orange face through the windows of the cars. A huge explosion rocked him as the flames found the ammunition stores, and then another and another in a steady barrage, like a line of artillery opening fire.

The force of the explosions knocked Kid to the ground and he grabbed hold of the earth, though the ground trembled from the percussion of the blasts right along with him. In the illumination, he saw Murphy a few yards away, holding Billy close to him, shielding the boy's eyes from the violent burst. Kid thought to spare himself also, and looked away from the hellish scene, but it was too late. The image of mangled bodies, devoured by a flame-spitting beast, was etched onto his memory just as clearly as developing acid burns an image onto a glass plate. And hard as he tried, he couldn't picture anything else.

Part Two
Chapter Thirteen

July 1863

The reins rested easily in Buck's hands, letting the team know he was in no particular hurry. The pair settled into their traces and plodded steadily, their hooves rhythmically slapping the dark road. The wagon seat creaked under him as he sought out a more comfortable position. Still not comfortable. It was the necktie, he finally decided and pulled on the tail of the string tie until the knot slipped, then loosened the button at the collar of his shirt. Better. Who had decided such a torturous thing was proper male attire anyway? He considered tossing the bothersome tie into the night air - just let the breeze take it - but thought better of it and laid the length of fabric on the wagon seat beside him. Maybe with luck it would still blow away.

Lou had stopped arranging his social life some months before. Kid's absence and the scarcity of news from the southern side of the conflict seemed to be wearing on her. She often seemed lost in her thoughts and Buck could only guess her mind was busy roaming the imagined hills and valleys of Virginia, searching for a sign of her husband. Either that or she had just decided his love life was a lost cause. Rachel, however, was still insistent in her role as match-maker and kept a ready pen hovering over his calendar. War, it seemed, had depleted the ranks of Rock Creek's eligible bachelors and even a half-breed was given a second look by the unattached young ladies of town. Dinner with an Indian was evidently better than sitting home alone on a Saturday night. Rachel meant well, but one of these days, one of these days soon, he was going to say "no".

He hadn't expected much from the evening and he wasn't disappointed. He had arrived exactly on time at the Beatty's home to call for Rose, but of course she wasn't ready. Why were women never ready? If she needed an extra half-hour, why didn't she just say so when the dinner date was arranged, rather than subject him to thirty minutes of her father's scrutiny? Desperation may have made Rose a bit more tolerant, but her father had clearly not followed suit.

It didn't really bother him that she had ordered the most expensive item on the menu for dinner. He had the money and if that was what sounded good to her, then that was fine. But could she please have the courtesy to eat it? All she did was pick at the meal and push it around on her plate. And why if she had declined his offer of dessert did she nibble away at his? He would have ordered one for her. Did she think his opinion of her would be lessened if she wanted her own piece of pie?

Rose was nice to look at, there was no denying that, but was it asking too much that a pretty girl have something going on inside her head as well? How was it possible to converse with a woman if she never stated her own opinion? A Kiowa woman would never embarrass her mate by disagreeing with him in front of his peers, but her opinion was sought out and highly considered in private. A personal opinion was an admirable thing.

And Rose giggled. She didn't laugh - she giggled. A woman's honest laughter was a wonderful sound, but giggling was just plain annoying and not terribly believable either. Perhaps that was the trouble with Rock Creek's young women. They just didn't seem honest.

And this whole business of trying to get to know someone over dinner was just ridiculous. How could you have a private conversation with a woman - providing, of course, she had something to say - when every word could be easily overheard by those seated at a neighboring table? Kiowa courtship was so much simpler.

Arranged marriages were common among the plains tribes, but a bit of latitude for romance was given. If a young man took a fancy to an eligible maiden, he might compose a special song and serenade her with his flute as she went about her chores. If she found him agreeable also, he would be allowed to approach her in the village. Standing together outside the girl's home, the couple would wrap themselves in a courting blanket and engage in whispered conversation. To afford a bit more privacy, the covering might even be pulled over their heads. A popular girl could find a row of hopeful suitors waiting outside the flap of her tepee, each carrying his own blanket, hoping the young woman would allow him a few more minutes with her than she had his competitors. The villagers understood this ritual and for the most part, offered no interference. No one craned to hear the words passed between the young people. Their conversation wasn't offered up as gossip on the main thoroughfare of the village the next morning.

Such quiet moments wrapped in a courting blanket with Little Bird were among the sweetest in Buck's memory. Whispered promises, the timid brush of his lips against hers under the dark covering, the touch of her small hand in his, had given him a glimpse, a brief taste of the happiness and acceptance he had craved for so long.

Little Bird came into his life and all the adolescent worries, all his unvoiced fears that no one would ever love him vanished. Souls out of place, wandering in unison. They were destined to be together. They knew it. Even if the elders of the village hadn't chosen them for each other, he would have pressed Red Bear into arranging his match with Little Bird.

They were so young when they were betrothed. Although Red Bear was a wealthy man in the village, it would have been Buck's own responsibility to amass the ponies and hides to be presented to Little Bird's adoptive family as a bridal gift. It would have been a long engagement, but that was expected. Engagements lasting four or five years were common among the very young. They would have been married for a while by now, though. Maybe have even started a family of their own. The children would have been beautiful - his and Little Bird's. The thought made his heart ache a little.

Well, none of that mattered now. Now he courted giggling, empty-headed women who couldn't tell time and wasted food. Buck realized he was probably being a little hard on Rose Beatty. She was a nice enough girl - just not one he was interested in. Little Bird was the standard and in comparison, no one else quite measured up.

A look to the sky told him the night was still fairly young. A beautiful night, too - the stars crisp against the darkness, their light flaring brightly then softening again, blinking as a breath of wind brushed across their faces. The crickets had never been more in tune. The throaty chorus of the bullfrogs in the pond echoed across the stillness. He wouldn't sleep for a while, never could on a night like this. It was too perfect, too great a gift to leave unappreciated. The only thing that could make such a night any better would be to share it with someone. Maybe Lou was still awake. A cup of coffee and a bit of conversation on the porch swing with a woman who was both beautiful and intelligent would balance Rose's chatter. Buck flicked the reins and clucked the team into a slightly faster pace at the thought. Maybe the evening wouldn't be wasted after all.

Part Two
Chapter Fourteen

August, 1863

No one ever said the word "dead". It was almost as if its mere utterance was something profane, or might possibly invoke a curse against the living. "Mustered out." "Crossed to Canaan." "Bit it." "A goner." "Departed. " But never "Dead".

The departed were always a problem, and the common misery of what to do with them created oddities of war. They showed patience at first, lying quietly, waiting for the eventual outcome of the battle raging around them and the arrival of the burial details who would tuck them into everlasting sleep. But at times, summer especially, battling officers came to the agreement that falling over the tangled and bloated corpses of their comrades was bad for a soldier's morale. Occasionally, under the flag of truce, war had to be put on hold while the battlefield was put back in order.

A few winged scavengers circled overhead, blackly ominous against the flotilla of clouds drifting by. Insects buzzed, multitudes of them, carrying on like excited party-goers anxious to partake of the buffet. While opposing officers debated the amount of ground to be set aside, soldiers from both fronts moved cautiously onto the field, uncomfortable to appear in the open with no greater weapon in hand than a shovel. An area was finally agreed upon and their superiors barked out commands from the side lines, rushing the departed underground. Kid bristled at the order. What kind of strange and wicked thing could make the loss of life so trivial? To make burial a bothersome task to be hurried through, to be swept under the earth so the survivors could get on about their business and kill some more?

It might be a different story if that paunched Colonel had to lift a finger. If that Major with the spit-shined boots had to step in the pools of waste that puddled around bodies left to boil under the sun. Perhaps if that General over there saw the way his artillery's grapeshot turned a man into a sieve, he wouldn't take this task so casually. But as it was, the officers of both armies milled about, hands clasped behind their backs, chatting amiably like distant cousins at a family reunion who hadn't seen each other for a while.

"Blazing hot today, a bit of rain would be a reprieve," Kid heard from one of them.

"My condolences on the loss of General Jackson," sympathized a Federal officer. "He certainly was a burr under our saddle, but a damn fine soldier. Damn fine. West Point you know."

"How about a plug of this fine tobacco?" a Confederate Colonel offered his counterpart in blue.

"Well thank you kindly, Sir," came the reply. "But only if you will accept a bit of this good coffee."

Under a merciless summer sun, the common man began to dig, finding an unlikely fraternity amongst themselves. The ground had been too trampled, too abused to yield easily. Nor was it consecrated to this purpose and seemed to raise its objection at every plunge of the spade. Soil that had once nourished tobacco into healthy stalks would now be planted with the mangled remnants of men. Rather than feed tender green shoots of new growth, spring rains might wash up a bit of blood crusted cloth or expose the tip of a decomposed foot. Future tenants of the property might unknowingly desecrate the burial place and rake up whole skeletons with the tines of their plow. The bodies seemed reluctant to be moved into the shallow trenches passing as graves as if they might understand the unsoundness of their resting place. Uniforms snagged on the slightest obstacle in an effort to hold their wearer's place above ground. Deteriorating bodies simply fell apart, requiring the assorted pieces be snagged by a hook and dragged across the field like cuts of meat in a slaughter house. Those already stiffened were the worst. No matter the amount of respectful prodding, extremities frozen at unnatural angles would not fit into the narrow graves. The sound of bones breaking, straightening rigid limbs back into alignment, echoed across the field.

They all looked alike. Rank had no privilege among the departed. The body of an officer would bloat just as grotesquely as that of a mere enlisted man. Flies clung just as readily. The circling scavengers eyed each man with equal anticipation.

Kid tried not to think about what he was doing. But even as he closed his mind against them, unwanted thoughts edged their way past his careful guard. He understood now why a column of marching infantry so quickly grew accustomed to the taste of the brown bands of dirt that floated around them. They were fed dust as an introduction to death. If they were accustomed to it, the dirt shoveled over their lifeless gray faces wouldn't come as such a shock. And wasn't it odd that a breathless body, bloated with death, could still belch and wheeze if accidentally struck with a shovel?

Kid leaned on the handle of his spade, resting for just a moment, stiff and sore after an afternoon's unnatural labor. He was thirsty and needed a drink. This was hot, miserable, thankless work and he vowed to treat the burial details with an even greater respect in the future. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and made himself look at the soldier. He doubted the boy's own mother would recognize her son with his face smashed in and half his skull gone like that. The rest of him was unharmed though, the bloating not too bad yet. His jacket had been stripped from him by a two-legged scavenger, leaving him clad in an undershirt and faded trousers. The boy lay on his back among the Queen Anne's Lace and bright buttons of Goldenrod that grew volunteer in the field. If not for the bloody mash atop his shoulders, he might have been merely napping after a picnic lunch.

"You reckon he's your'n or mine?"

The voice coming up behind him gave Kid a start and he whirled in its direction. He recognized the voice immediately as belonging to a northerner. The accent, or rather lack of one, was telling. Kid felt a sudden defensiveness well up inside him at the sight of the Federal soldier. Not that the man appeared to be an immediate threat - he was armed no more viciously than Kid was himself. In fact the Yankee appeared almost neighborly.

Kid never had much to speak of growing up. Jed's clothing was passed on to him as hand-me-downs, though they never quite fit right. Jed was longer legged and the trousers had to be rolled up at the cuff to prevent them from dragging the ground. His mother made certain the holes were neatly patched and his school clothes, though faded and worn, were laundered as well as possible. Kid looked pretty much like every other child in the schoolyard. Money was sparse, but when everyone was in the same boat, you didn't really notice. He might have gone on blissfully blind to the reality of poverty for a few more years if not for the new boy. His leather book strap was still stiffly new, his shirt freshly pressed, the fastenings on his suspenders polished to a sparkle, his herringbone-checked wool trousers falling to the proper length rather than rolled into a thick wad. The very look of the boy spoke of money. So did this Federal soldier.

In the papers the Confederate Army was called the "Gray Ranks" but to look at them, you wouldn't know why. Once upon a time they had been smartly outfitted in gray wool but now they wore whatever they could find - faded, tattered, mismatched, bloodied. Little more than rags. Kid counted himself lucky to still be wearing shoes, though the soles had come loose at the toe and were tied to the upper part by a length of twine. Others, not as fortunate, wrapped rags around their feet as meek protection from the rocky terrain. Many were barefoot. The southern economy hadn't proven to be quite as self-sufficient as the secessionists had promised. Provisions of any sort were hard to come by as the Confederate dollar dipped lower in value and the long awaited European support for the fledgling country never materialized. The whole bloody mess at Gettysburg hadn't been so much Lee's daring assault into the enemy country, but rather a search for shoes for his ragged army.

Though his uniform was dusty, the Yankee soldier showed little signs of battle wear. His shoes were still in one piece. Though he was a bit thin, he still filled out his uniform, which was more than Kid could say for himself or the others in his company. He tried to tell himself the man was probably new - he hadn't marched the miles that the 43rd Infantry had marched, he hadn't eaten the dust, hadn't slept in the dirt, hadn't gone without rations for days at a time. Down deep he knew the man was a veteran though. The Yankee carried himself with the confident ease of a seasoned soldier, his skin was weathered and tan. He was simply cared for by a more benevolent entity. The poverty of the Confederacy was crystal clear and Kid felt like he was back in the schoolyard, gawking at the wealth of the new boy.

"Can't tell," he finally answered and turned his attention back to the boy's lifeless body. "Reckon if he had his name on him, it went with his coat."

"Well . . . he don't look familiar to me neither," the newcomer said. "Not that there's much left to recognize."

"Guess it don't really matter," Kid replied. "He's still a goner."

"Yup," the Yankee agreed and extended his hand. "Name's Robert Bettis. 14th Indiana Volunteers. You're the first Reb I've had the fortune to make acquaintance."

Kid thought it a bit odd to shake hands and introduce himself to the enemy, but his mama had taught him manners and to leave a man's hand dangling in mid air just wasn't done. "Kid McCloud," he answered and clasped the Yankee's hand. "43rd Virginia Infantry. I know a few Yanks, though. Couple buddies of mine took up with the North. Billy Cody and Jimmy Hickok. Ever heard of 'em? Cody's a scout last I heard and Hickok is a helluva shot."

Bettis pushed the brim of his slouch hat off his forehead and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "Nope. Can't say as I've ever heard of 'em. It's a big army."

Kid half chuckled. "Don't I know it."

"Well, Kid," Bettis began. "We gonna bury this boy facin' north or south? I'd sure hate to have his soul rise up on Judgement Day and be confused 'bout which country he's lookin' at."

Kid screwed up his face in a grim thought. The south was riddled with nameless graves. "I reckon there's gonna be a lot of confused souls come Judgement Day."

Bettis nodded. "Yeah, I s'pose that's true enough. How 'bout if we face him to the west? I hear that's where opportunity lies."

"Good as any," Kid said and plunged his spade into the earth.

The grave dug and the nameless soldier deposited, the two men sank wearily onto the blistered ground. Bettis lifted his canteen strap from around his neck and took a swig, then offered the container to Kid. "You know," Bettis chuckled. "We heard all you slavers were the Devil incarnate, but I don't see no horns growin' outta yer head."

Kid took a long swallow from the canteen. The water was sweet and chilled as cool as a creek in winter. Kid thought it the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted. Yanks had the best of everything. He poured a bit into his cupped hand and splashed the water on his face to rinse off the layer of sweaty grime. "Well . . . I ain't no Devil. Ain't no slaver either," he added. "I don't uphold slavery. I had a good friend who was a black man."

Robert Bettis scratched his chin and squinted in the afternoon sun. "Curious. Well, if'n you ain't fightin' to keep slaves, whatcha fightin' for?"

Kid stoppered the canteen and passed it back to the northerner. "I figure if southerners want to govern ourselves, then that's our right. I can't see that as any different than the country wantin' independence from England a hundred years ago. Can you?"

"Hell," Bettis answered. "I don't give a rip if'n the south leaves the Union. I know there's a lot of folks who do, but it don't matter to me. But I don't believe keepin' slaves is right, different country or not." Bettis thought for a moment. "Shoot . . . neither of us thinks highly of slavin' and I ain't objectin' to the south goin' its own way. Sounds like we ain't got too much to quarrel about yet we're doin' our best to kill each other. Ain't it peculiar?"

Kid was considering his reply when a familiar voice called to him. "There you are ol' pard," Murphy said. "I was beginnin' to fear you'd fallen in one of these here holes and been buried by mistake. I woulda been forced to dig you up and you'd be beholdin' to me for years and years to come." Noting Kid's companion, Murphy tipped his cap to the Federal soldier. "Pardon the intrusion, Sir," he offered, then turned back to Kid. "Looks like we are 'bout to give this shootin' match another go. There's still plenty of the enemy standin'." Murphy glanced back to Bettis. "No offense intended my dear Yank."

Bettis nodded agreeably. "None taken my dear Reb." The Yankee soldier rose to his feet and propped his shovel on his shoulder. Kid rose with him.

"I'm obliged for the water, Robert," Kid said. "Might I ask a favor of you?"

"You can surely ask," said Bettis.

Kid reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a tattered envelope. "Would it be askin' too much to mail this for me? It's to my wife. Lately I've had troubles findin' someone to carry mail across the lines."

Bettis took the offered letter into his hands curiously, his brow wrinkling at the address. "Nebraska? Thought you were Virginian."

Kid grinned at the man's confusion. "Guess I'm a bit of both," he explained. "It's a long story and I don't believe I have the time to tell it."

Bettis looked as if he might ask more, but didn't. He slipped the envelope into his coat and patted the pocket. "Safe and sound. Consider it done, friend." The northerner glanced across the field to where the Union line was slowly reforming. "Well, Kid. I hope I don't shoot you, but I pray you won't hold it against me if'n I do."

"Don't see how I could, Robert. I'll try to do the same," Kid said.

"I 'spect I'd best be goin'. So long," said Robert Bettis and then he was gone.

Officers on both fronts began gathering up their men, herding them back into their respective folds as if they were shepherding sheep. Shovels were exchanged for rifles once again in preparation to kill some more.

Murphy jabbed Kid in the ribs with his elbow. "So what was you and the blue-belly jawin' about?"

Kid watched the Yankee soldier pick his way to the far side of the field, respectful of the freshly turned graves. "Peculiar things, Murph," Kid answered. "Peculiar things."

"Here you are, Rachel," Thompkins announced and placed the parcel on the counter. "One set of McGuffey Readers, bright, shiny and new."

Rachel eagerly slipped the twine off the edge of the package letting the heavy brown wrapping fall away. She ran her fingertips over the slick cover of the Primer, then flipped through the pages, careful not to break the newly glued binding. Ordering supplies was her favorite part of preparing for a new term. Though the school's doors were open year round, a good many desks sat empty throughout the summer months. With the season drawing to a close, those students who had left school to help on their family's farms would be returning to class. Many of them grumbling about it. Although Rachel loved learning, she could understand their reluctance. Being cooped up in a schoolroom was a chore for many of them after spending the summer outdoors. Though the farm work was hard, the physical labor was often easier than the act of learning. She had discovered, though, that children were drawn to the fresh, clean lines and crisp pages of new books. Perhaps the new textbooks made the lessons appear new, too. A child with a new book might see himself as an explorer of sorts, discovering treasures unknown to anyone else. Hearing the spine of a new book crack open was almost like the sound of a key turning the tumblers of a lock, allowing entry into places brimming with mystery.

Rachel thumbed through the set making sure the order was complete. "All there?" Thompkins asked.

Rachel nodded and began rewrapping the parcel. "Yes. A Primer and six Readers."

"Good," Thompkins replied. "I had to order them from a different supply house this time. I'll just add this to the school's account." The storekeeper pulled his ledger from beneath the counter and touched the tip of his lead pencil to his tongue. "One set McGuffey Readers," he repeated as he penciled in the entry. Rachel's eyes widened at the dollar amount.

"Mr. Thompkins . . . " she began and turned the ledger toward her for a better view. "This can't be right. That's half again as much as my last order."

Thompkins jerked the ledger back toward him and closed the cover. "As I said, Rachel, I had to order from a new supply house. I used to order your schoolbooks out of St. Louis, but that warehouse has been changed into an ammunition factory. I had to get these from Cincinnati, Ohio. I can't control the prices, plus there's extra shipping involved. Prices on a good many things are gonna go up if this war keeps on. It's making things hard on everybody." Thompkins drummed his fingers on the ledger impatiently. "Now do you want them or not? Mind you I'll still have to charge the school for handling if you send them back."

Rachel hesitated for only a moment. "No . . . no don't send them back. We'll just have to cut back somewhere else."

"Cuttin' back and makin' do," Thompkins grumbled. "That's what this war has brought us. I never know from one order to the next where it's comin' from and then it takes twice as long to get here. And it ain't just troubles back east, neither. I had an order of dry goods comin' on the stage from Denver and it ain't never showed up. Probably hauled off along with the scalps of all them folks that were attacked. The governor sent all them troops back east and now who's supposed to protect us from the murderin' redskins?" Thompkins slid the ledger back under the counter. "Injuns and rebels," he muttered. "Gonna be the death of us all."

"Mr. Thompkins, I doubt we're in danger of being killed in our beds," Rachel reasoned. "That stagecoach attack was way out west and Buck said it sounded more like it was a renegade band, not a whole tribe."

Thompkins snorted. "Like he ain't just protectin' his own?"

Rachel squared her shoulders. If it wasn't a full day's trip to the mercantile in Blue Creek, she'd take her business there and never have to deal with Thompkins' prejudices again. "As I recall, Mr. Thompkins, it was thought to be a Sioux party. Not Kiowa. And even if it had been Kiowa, Buck still had nothin' to do with it."

"Now Rachel, I wouldn't be so quick to defend. Lord only knows where loyalties lie anymore. Just look at Hunter and the Kid. They turned on us and I have no doubt that half-breed would do the same given the chance. Speakin' of Cross," Thompkins said and leaned over the counter as if imparting a confidence. "Ain't none of my business, but there's an awful lot of talk goin' round town 'bout him livin' out there at the McCloud place."

Rows of irritation knit across Rachel's brow. "What kind of talk?"

Thompkins shrugged. "Just that it ain't exactly proper the two of them bein' out there alone like that."

"Mr. Thompkins, you know as well as I do that Lou and Buck have been friends for years and Buck is there because Kid asked him to help Lou with their place while he was gone. As you said, this war has made things hard on everyone. And proper?" Rachel demanded. "You're a fine one to talk about proper. Spreading rumors all over town when you know better."

The shopkeeper held up his hands in defense. "Now Rachel, I ain't implyin' anything," he countered and wiped his hands on his apron as if to cleanse himself of any wrongdoing. "I'm just tellin' you what I've heard."

"Well, you can just stop because I don't want to hear any more of it." Rachel snatched her parcel from the counter and spun on her heel. The mercantile in Blue Creek was looking better and better. She took a step toward the door, but stopped and turned back to the shopkeeper. "You were right about one thing though, Mr. Thompkins," she said. "It's none of your business."

Not a day went by that Lou didn't thank circumstance it was Buck keeping her company and not one of the other boys. She loved them all dearly, but Cody or Jimmy would have never been content with the seclusion of the ranch. By nature, Cody craved a faster pace and Jimmy required, as he called it, a bit of 'recreation'. She had once enjoyed the bustle of town, too, but there were too many reminders of the world's upheaval in Rock Creek. Too many boys lined up at the army recruiter's door, too many newspaper headlines urging support of the Union, too much gossip. It was just so much easier to stay away and close her eyes to it all. It didn't make anything go away, didn't bring Kid any closer to her, but it helped to not be confronted with the war at every turn. Buck understood that need for escape better than Jimmy or Cody ever could.

But at times, even the sanctuary of the ranch grew tiresome. When Buck offered to provide fresh meat so she wasn't forced to do business in town as often, she pressed him into letting her accompany him. After he finally, albeit a bit reluctantly, agreed, Lou exchanged her skirt for a pair of trousers and had Lightning saddled before he even had his rifle secured in the scabbard.

They came upon the young buck standing in a small clearing surrounded by sumac and tangled brambles of chokecherries. The light in the timber was dim and dappled by the heavy green canopy overhead. Lou had to strain to see the animal, it blended so well into the backdrop of the thicket. She sighted down the length of Buck's outstretched arm and caught a glimpse of movement, then saw the prongs of antlers, white against the bark of the tree. The deer stood motionless before them, almost posing, and the sight took her breath away.

To encounter a deer in the timber was nothing unusual, but they were generally on the move, startled by the scent of the hunter. This young one seemed to understand his fate, to even accept it, and made no attempt to dart away. It appeared almost tame and Lou wanted nothing more at that moment than to touch its velvet nose, to run her hands over the sleek hide, to look into its golden eyes and find its soul. The deer was slender, yet muscled and carried its head with a proud lift. There was a calmness in its bearing that masked an ever watchful inner being. It moved with an easy grace and Lou was taken by the thought of how well Buck embodied his namesake.

Fixed on the deer, she didn't see Buck level the rifle and take aim. The thunder of the gun shook her and she pressed her eyes tightly closed as the deer stumbled to its knees and in a dying lurch, fell to the ground. She knew this was the way it was done. That the meat on her table had once been a living, breathing creature, but it was still hard. She didn't realize it could be so personal. Even worse was the thought that there were some who would mount that finely sculpted head as a trophy on a wall, a reminder of the supremacy of the hunter like the one in Teaspoon's office. She had seen some of the men in town carting their kills home across the back of a pack horse. She remembered them raising the dead animal's head by the antlers to brag about the number of points in its crown, the deer's once bright eyes sunken, the blood bright in its nostrils.

"Stay here," Buck instructed. He slipped quietly off his horse and leaned his rifle against the trunk of a locust. The deer had fallen on its side with its forelegs tucked under its belly, the hind legs curled in the grass. She watched Buck approach the animal, saw him kneel in the grass and quickly draw his knife across the deer's throat. The smell of fresh blood rose into the clearing and she turned away as he rolled the dead deer to its back and began to cut again.

Lou tried to focus her attention on anything else - the slant of the sun angling through the limbs overhead, the rustle of last summer's dried grasses as a cottontail bounded past - but a soft sound, barely audible, drew her back to Buck and the dead deer. It wasn't a song really, but it wasn't merely spoken words either. After a moment, she realized Buck was chanting. It was a reverent, almost mournful sound. Her curiosity getting the best of her, she quietly slid from Lightning's back to draw closer.

The deer's blood pooled in the grass, a bright crimson against the deep green. Buck continued chanting, soft and low as if consoling the dead animal as she knelt beside him. Her timid hand reached out to touch the deer's nose. It was still warm and softer than she had imagined; the eyes still glossy, trusting even as life ended. Lou moved to the side, out of Buck's way, and sat back on her heels. The chant finished, he pulled a small cloth sack from his pocket and took a pinch of what looked like cornmeal from the bundle, then sprinkled the meal on the deer's nose. Lou opened her mouth to question his actions, but stopped herself. To interrupt seemed as improper as speaking during a prayer in church. She waited until Buck brushed the meal from his hands and placed the bag back in his pocket.

"What were you doin'?"

Buck glanced away for a second and Lou felt a twinge of guilt for barging in on him. His actions were obviously something native to his Kiowa beliefs, and after Cody's meddling with his medicine bundle, Buck kept those beliefs to himself. He had told her to stay back.

"Saying 'thank you'," he finally answered. "Apologizing for causing it pain." When Lou looked puzzled, he explained. "The deer gave its life for us. It's important that we show respect."

Lou searched his expression for some sense of hunter's bravado, some pride in his kill, but saw neither. She smiled. Mistaking her reaction for something humorous, Buck turned away, defensive. "It's what my people believe."

She reached out for his arm to pull him back and felt a knot of tension. "I'm not making fun, Buck. I would never do that. It was nice, kinda like church." She turned back to the deer, its eyes beginning to dull. "What was the cornmeal for?"

Lou felt his tension fade. He reached out to gently stroke the deer's coat with his free hand. "To feed its spirit. To make sure it's strong enough to reach the spirit world." Buck sat back on his heels and turned to her. He seemed almost anxious to teach. "My people believe if we show the proper respect, the deer will give themselves to us. If we disrespect them, they will leave and we will go hungry."

"That makes it seem not quite so bad," Lou said quietly, almost to herself.

A smile of understanding crossed Buck's face and he motioned that she should move away. "Move back a bit now so I can finish."

Buck took up the chant once more as he went back to the task of dressing out the deer. It was an unusual language, throaty yet soothing, the edges of the words distinct but softened by the musical intonation and she wondered what the words meant. Perhaps he would tell her. It suddenly occurred to her how little she really knew of Buck and the newness sparked a flare of excitement inside her. Kid had been so easy to understand. Everything about him was close to the surface. Visible. Kid was like a mountain stream, crystal clear and defined, cutting a confident sure path in the sunlight. But Buck was a still pool of water hidden under aged timber, shadowed and full of mystery. Unexplored. How different these two men were - the two most important men in her life. How well she knew the one and how much there was to learn about the other.

Part Two
Chapter Fifteen

October 1863

". . . a chill inched up my spine, as cold as the hand of death itself reaching out for me. I knew the enemy was near. I can't tell you how I knew for the night was so thick if I'd had a saber I could have sliced it to ribbons. It's a gift I tell you. That ability to smell danger in the wind. I had two choices before me. First, to carry out my orders . . . orders that would have led me away from the danger I sensed . . . or to trust my God given gift and return the way I had just come, risking my life to warn the camp of the advancing enemy. A lesser man might have thought twice . . . I had orders after all . . . but the fate of hundreds of men, their families, their futures lay in my hands. I cast thoughts of my own safety, my own future aside to heed the call. I flew like never before, my razor sharp eyesight plotting my path through the night. I could feel the enemy's very breath on my back, could feel the danger closing around me like a lasso. But I had no fear, my responsibility was too great. I burst into camp like a shot out of the night. Upon hearing my report, the officer in charge bowed and stepped aside, allowing me to take command. Again, trusting my instincts, I formed the men into a line just as the enemy was about to overtake us. The sound of gunfire was deafening I tell you, deafening! But above it all were the voice of hundreds, perhaps thousands of men, thanking me for saving their lives! At last, though the fighting was hot, we claimed the victory! The commander assured me that had it not been for my courageous flight through the night with the enemy hot on my trail, the company would have been slaughtered in their tents. I believe he mentioned something about naming his first born after me. It wouldn't surprise me if I get a medal for heroism. Then you all can claim that you knew me when I was a simple Pony Express rider, a humble servant delivering the mail . . ."

Lou peered over the top of the letter at Rachel. "A humble servant deliverin' the mail?" she quipped. "When was Cody ever humble?"

"Well, it's good to know that he hasn't changed," Rachel laughed.

"Do you think there's any truth in this at all?" Lou asked and passed the letter to where Rachel sat beside her on the porch swing.

"Oh, Lou, I think there's probably a bit of truth in what Cody wrote. It's just that he has a way of seein' things a bit bigger and brighter than the rest of us do." Rachel took a sip of tea before placing the cup and saucer aside on the porch railing. "I've got a surprise of my own to show you," she said and reached into her skirt pocket. "All the way from Texas," Rachel added and passed the envelope to Lou.

"From Teaspoon?"

Rachel grinned. "Do we know anyone else in Texas?"

"Well it's about time he wrote!" Lou's eyes lit up as she pulled the letter from the envelope, then darkened as they fell upon the chicken scratch filling the page. "Rachel," she began. "Can you read this?"

Rachel laughed again. "He does need a lesson in penmanship doesn't he?"

"I'd say so."

"It took a few times through, but I believe he says he's doin' fine, though he mentioned somethin' about takin' to a fever a while back which was why he hadn't written. I remember the summers in the south could do that to you. He said the mosquitoes were fierce. Bigger than crows I believe is how he described them . . . but then Teaspoon is prone to seein' things a bit bigger than we do, too."

Lou smiled. "Can I keep it for a while? Maybe between Buck and me we can decipher it."

"Of course. It's addressed to all of us," Rachel said and then added, "I'd hoped that we would hear from Jimmy."

"Jimmy's not exactly the letter writing type, Rachel."

Rachel nodded in agreement. Jimmy's reading and writing had made steady improvement, but was still behind the others' abilities. To write a letter would only draw attention to his shortcoming and he was too proud a man for that.

"Have you heard from Kid since we talked last?"

"No," Lou answered quietly. "Not since that letter last month. When Marty told me I had mail to pick up, I was certain it was from him, but it turned out to be Cody's letter instead. Not that I don't appreciate hearing from Cody. His letters are always good for a laugh," she quickly added. "It's just that I was hopin'. Guess I won't get my hopes up anymore."

Lou rubbed her hands up and down her arms and wished she had brought a shawl outside with her. Fall was in the air and winter at its heels. She could feel it in the slight northerly shift of the wind, see it in the dull yellows and browns and deepening shadows. Each day was growing a little shorter, every night a little longer than the one before. Another season passed with no end to the fighting. And it was unlikely a resolution would come in the winter either, at least that was what the newspapers said. Their accounts of battles and politics might differ, but all journalists seemed to agree that war wasn't decided in the winter.

And she would have nothing to fill those cold coming days but a months old letter and fears of what had transpired in the time since it was written. In some ways Lou thought the soldiers were more fortunate. They knew who had been lost long before the casualty lists published the names of the dead. Their women at home had no such privilege. Instead they waited for a letter that might or might not come. And when it did arrive, they would hold their breath and mutter a prayer that the envelope held a familiar voice and not some officer's practiced monologue. Rather than dressmaker shops or mercantiles, they would congregate at wire offices, huddled together in a common dread as the names of casualties rattled invisibly across the telegraph keys like a message sent down from the Almighty.

Or perhaps there would be no notice. Perhaps their loved one lay in an unnamed grave miles away without his family's grief to warm his departed soul. Perhaps that shadowed figure who visited dreams would be the one to confirm their fears. Lou had heard women talk of this dark messenger, knew of women afraid to sleep for fear of his visit. While their men tramped across the killing fields, the terrible unknown rooted the women in place, unable to go forward and the way things used to be was a memory just out of reach. Puffed up in their duty and pride and arrogance, did their men know what their war would do to the ones left at home? Did Kid know? Would it have made any difference if he had?

"You know it's kinda funny," Lou said at last. "Readin' Cody's letters make me laugh. The way he writes reminds me of the old days when we were all together. Before all this. But then I remember that when he talks about his enemy, he's talkin' about Kid and Teaspoon."

Rachel wrapped her arm around Lou's slim shoulders and pulled the young woman to her. "I know, honey."

"When you start callin' people your enemy, can you call them your brother again?" Lou asked.

"I guess that depends on the family, Lou."

"We're gonna be all right, aren't we? This will end soon and everything will be like before?"

Rachel sighed and wished for a better answer. "I hope so."

"Me and Kid's anniversary is next week, Rachel. Two years. We've been apart longer than we were together. That ain't how it's supposed to be."

"When he gets home you'll make it right," Rachel said and Lou wanted to believe her. Wanted it badly. But Kid's choice ripped her heart a little more every day and she feared the longer the wound went untended, the harder it would be to heal.

May 1864

The pastor stood at the pulpit, expounding on the virtues of Wesley Stauffer as if the man had led a lily white life. Truth was that Wes's vocabulary was a bit more colorful than most. He readily used every cuss word known to the English language and a few he had authored himself. He liked to tip the bottle every now and then and got a little ornery when he did. Nothing gave Wes a charge quite like setting outhouses on fire. The memory of the good folks of Rock Creek waking to smoldering privies on a cold January morning a few years back made Buck smile. No, Wes wasn't a saint, but if it made his family's grief any easier to bear by raising him to that lofty level, then just let it be. Wes Stauffer was a good man and now he was gone.

Wes was dropped by a rebel minie ball at Union City, Tennessee earlier in the spring. Union City was a minor skirmish not even mentioned in the papers. But to hear the pastor carry on, you would have thought it was the deciding battle of the war and Private Wesley Stauffer of the 7th Nebraska Volunteers had brought it about single-handedly. Well, that was all right, too. Wes was Rock Creek's first casualty of the war and bestowing hero status on their hometown boy was to be expected.

Wes was luckier than most. Being as the casualties at Union City were few, the dead Union boys were actually laid to rest in pine coffins and their graves marked with a measure of respect, rather than hurried underground as merely one more in a number of too many dead from a larger engagement. That and the fact that Union City was just across the Tennessee line and not situated in the deep South, made it easier for his family to bring him home. Still, Wes had laid there under the soil of Tennessee for two long months waiting for the sound of his father's shovel. But he was home now and his family could grieve as they felt proper. Well, almost. Word was that Wes's young wife, Sarah, had insisted that the family should hold a customary viewing of her late husband's body. Either unaware or unable to accept that her beloved's body was already well on its way to returning to dust, she didn't understand her in-law's opposition until Wes's father explained that there wasn't much of her husband left to view. Rachel had said the young widow's cries of unfettered anguish could be heard from one end of town to the other.

Buck looked through the rows of funeral goers seated in front of him to where Wes's widow sat. He could barely see her she was so small. Had he not known better, he might have mistaken her for Lou. The sudden thought that some day it could be Lou seated in the front pew, doubled over in grief, hit him like a strong gust of wind. Lou shifted in her seat beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her raise a handkerchief to wipe away a stray tear. The look on her face echoed the sentiment in his own; grief over the loss of a friend mixed with a guilty relief that it was someone else's husband they were mourning and not hers. He reached for her hand as she lowered it to her lap and squeezed it gently as if to say "I know what you are feeling and there is no need to be ashamed".

After a great deal of eulogy, the pastor offered a final "amen". The congregation rose stiffly as Private Stauffer's coffin was hoisted onto the shoulders of able-bodied boys, who from the looks of them, Buck assumed were relation of some sort. He recognized Wes's cowlick on one of them. Buck looked away as the procession filed down the aisle of the church. No matter how long he stayed in the white world, their burial practices would always be unsettling to him. It was bad enough to think of a body laying under the cold soil, protected from all that crawled underground by only a thin piece of wood that in short order would rot away and not provide any protection at all. But then to be disinterred, shipped half-way across the country, moved into a new box and dropped into another hole was just bad medicine. His eyes were drawn back to the aisle as Sarah and Wes's parents filed past. Old man Stauffer had his hands full supporting both his daughter-in-law and his wife. Each step took effort and Buck's heart ached for them. He knew a thing or two about grief.

The house was a clapboard sided, two story affair sitting a ways off the road. A few trees, newly leafed out, cast dappled shade on the old place. A honeysuckle vine, thick and tangled with years of neglect, wrapped itself around a porch pillar. Its scent was heavy in the damp afternoon air. Kid sniffed and wrinkled his nose. Too much honeysuckle was like walking into a wall of sickly sweet perfume. It could go to a man's head. The house had been painted white once; the peeling paint clung for all it was worth to the weathered boards. It was likely an attractive home in happier days, Kid thought, but now it just looked like an old woman with her makeup fading.

Save for a bird singing in one of the trees, thankful for the morning's rain and the earthworms it turned up, all was quiet. The bird's song was a bit too chipper for Kid's liking. The robin hadn't been made to traipse around in the mud all morning. The bird's breakfast had magically appeared, crawled out of the ground to take a look around once the rain stopped. Kid and his company hadn't been as fortunate. Good fortune ran in short supply.

So what fortune and the supplymasters couldn't offer, a man was forced to find for himself. At first Kid didn't take well to the idea of stripping his countrymen of their livestock and clearing out their pantry shelves, yet how was the army to protect the homeland if it didn't eat? It was patriotism, he decided, and a devout Southern family should understand that the giving up of a hog or sack of potatoes was their obligation in furthering the war effort. Such sacrifice would only bring the day of liberation closer. They never took everything a family had - that would be uncivilized - and the army always reimbursed them for their losses. Kid wasn't sure of the value of Confederate notes in the spring of 1864, but surely it was an equitable payment. And more importantly, if the Southern army didn't requisition the foodstores, the Northern one surely would and not be nearly as accommodating about it.

As they walked closer, he noticed the shutters were open and a length of gauzy curtain flapped in the breeze. The place looked deserted, but one never knew. It wouldn't be the first Virginian home turned into a Yankee hideaway. Not here though, Kid reasoned. Soldiers - North or South made no difference - carried a rank odor of long unwashed flesh that not even a wall of honeysuckle could mask. But still there was something and Kid couldn't quite put his finger on it. He tightened his grip around the stock of his rifle and the familiarity of the piece was quieting.

If the residents had been run off by the Yankees, which had happened to a good many families, chances were they hadn't time to pack their belongings and there might still be supplies stashed away somewhere. The three went around the corner of the house, through the muddy yard toward a cluster of outbuildings in the back. Kid scuffed his tattered, twine bound shoe through a pile of last year's leaves dropped by the big oak overhead and a garden snake slithered from underneath. Kid watched it hurry through the clumps of grass, propelling its long green length forward with a series of quick S's. Aside from the bird garbling in the tree out front, the snake was the first live thing they had seen all day. Well, a fine bunch of foragers they were, Kid thought dryly, if a garden snake was the best thing they could flush out. Billy dropped to his knees in the wet leaves and scooped up the snake. It coiled around his hand, its head outstretched and bobbing as if it was searching for something more solid. The boy moved the snake from hand to hand, as engrossed with the creature as if it were a toy.

"Billy boy, that snake ain't big enough for the three of us," Murphy said and winked slyly in Kid's direction.

"Huh?" the boy muttered and looked up.

Murphy grinned. "Well the way you're eyein' it, I figured you must be sizin' it up for a meal and bein' as me and Kid here are your pards, it would only be right for you to share."

Billy looked at the older man as if he might actually be serious, then Murphy winked again. The boy grinned and turned the snake loose in the wet leaves. "I's only playin' with him, Murph."

"I know, boy, and I am only foolin' with you." Murphy nodded to the cluster of outbuildings. "C'mon. Maybe we can stir up somethin' with a bit more meat on its bones."

The three tramped toward the overgrown pathway leading away from the yard. A sound coming from the opposite direction gave Kid a start and he whirled around, his rifle leveled at the house. He saw nothing though. After a moment he heard it again and realized it was only the drip of rain water in the gutter pipe. Most likely abandoned, he reminded himself, and turned to follow his friends down the path, still holding his gun at the ready.

The brick walk that led to the corncrib was almost hidden under a layer of leaves. To an unpracticed eye it would appear that no one had walked the path for some time, but in their attempts to hold on to what they still had, some families had become rather devious. Stories brought back to camp by the foraging details told of pigs housed in old bear traps dug in the timber, chicken coops left to ruin while the flock was hidden in the brush, their legs tethered on a length of twine to a stake pounded in the ground to keep them from straying. The lengths some families went to were legend. To sweep leaves back over a path was an old trick.

Kid stuck his head through an opening in the corncrib. The sun slanted in white ribbons through the cracks in the boards and he could make out great sweeping festoons of spider webs hanging from the ceiling. The musty odor of old grain was there. The rot of old manure, too, but nothing fresh. An animal had been hidden in the crib, but not recently. A thorough search of the chicken coop and what must have been a barn before its siding was stripped away for campfires yielded nothing either. The creeping tendrils of trumpet vine had all but overtaken the dirt paths leading further away, all except for the one leading to the privy and that realization settled on Kid and Murphy with immediate clarity.

"Hell," Murphy said. "'Stead of trompin' around in the weeds, let's just go find these folks and save us some time. Just watch yourselves if'n they don't take kindly to supportin' our glorious cause."

It didn't take long to find the residents of the house. They were waiting on the porch as the three turned the corner, but they were far from what the trio of foragers expected to find. An order to halt from First Sergeant McCormick couldn't have brought them to a dead stop any faster.

"It's a little early, boys," one of them called out from the porch. "But I reckon we're open for business. I'm Lila, this here's May."

Kid had expected to encounter the usual Southern family - him, a hard scrabble farmer trying to hold a family and farm together in the middle of a war zone; her, a scarred shell of a mild mannered antebellum woman. There were generally a few waifish children, looking like characters from a Dickens novel hiding behind their mother's skirt. The two women on the front porch were definitely a different breed of Southerner.

The one who spoke was a tall woman with black hair piled into an unruly mass atop her head. The other was shorter and a bit on the plump side with auburn ringlets falling to her shoulders. Evidently just out of bed, her curls hadn't been tamed and the tangled spirals gave her the look of a Medusa. Their faces painted up like a sideshow and wearing only pantaloons, camisole, and a corset, it wasn't terribly difficult to determine the line of business they were in.

Murphy was the first to find his feet and moved to the porch steps, propping himself against the newel post. Even from a distance, Kid could see the ornery glint in his eyes glowing brighter.

"Well, c'mon now," May called and motioned for the stragglers to come closer. "Don't be bashful. We ain't gonna bite . . . not less'n you want us to!"

Kid expected Murphy to take charge of the situation, but the older man just stood there, reclining against the post with his arms crossed, a sly grin on his face as if he was already privy to the punch line of a good joke. He made a slight bow and extended his arm in gentlemanly fashion inviting Kid to take the lead.

"So, you gonna go first?" Lila asked Kid and patted a loose strand of hair into place.

"Uh . . . Uh, no, ma'am we're just here to collect- "

"Ma'am," Lila mimicked. "Well, if that don't beat all. I declayuh, May," she drawled, her voice thick as old syrup. "We got us some fine south'rn gen'lemen here."

"As I was sayin'," Kid began again. "We're on orders from General DeLancey Claridge to collect livestock and foodstores. You'll be duly compensated for your trouble."

May laughed. "Now that's a good one, honey. Only thing that scrip you boys trade is good for is linin' bird cages. And what makes you think we got anythin' to collect anyways?"

Growing a tad impatient with her impertinence, Kid asked, "Well do you?"

The redhead shrugged and began chipping away the paint on her fingernails. "Yankees already done been through here last week. But we might have a chicken or two left . . . then again, we might not."

Kid sank onto the bottom step. His belly was grumbling and his feet were beginning to itch where mud had seeped in through the torn soles of his shoes. Not to mention that as the day had warmed and he began to sweat, the lice in his uniform had started scurrying again and it was all he could do to keep from scratching in places he'd rather not scratch in the presence of women. Even these women. He certainly was in no mood to play a game of cat and mouse. "If the Yankees have been here, then how is it that you have anything left?" he asked.

"Made a deal," Lila said. "Gave 'em somethin' they wanted more." She sidled down the porch steps to where Kid sat and helped herself to a place on his lap, straddling his legs. "Maybe we'll make a deal with you, too," she offered and pressed her breasts against him until the whale bones in her corset jabbed at him. "Bein' as you're riskin' your life for our glorious cause, and I'm of a mind to further the war effort in any way I can, I'll do ya for half price, soldier," she said, then dropped her hand between his legs and squeezed. "I'll do ya real good."

Kid's eyes widened at the woman's touch and a stirring he hadn't felt in quite a while sprang to life inside his trousers. Well, evidently patriotism came in many forms. Kid jumped to his feet, upsetting Lila from his lap. He heard Murphy's familiar laughter and May's high-pitched squeal. "Guess that one ain't in a buyin' mood, Lila!" she hooted.

May left her place by the honeysuckle wrapped post and sashayed down the steps to where Billy sat. The boy didn't seem to know quite what to make of the two whores and sat with his neck drawn into his shirt collar so that he resembled a turtle that couldn't decide whether to watch or hide. She propped her hands on her hips and thrust her chest forward, her breasts swelling over the edge of her camisole as she bent over the youngster. If she leaned over any further, young Billy was going to receive a rapid education. "How about you, shy boy?" she cooed and ran her finger down the side of Billy's face. "We could have a good time with you. I bet you ain't even been learned yet."

"Now, ladies," Murphy interjected as Billy's neck slipped a little further into his collar and what was still exposed of his face blushed four shades of crimson. "There is no need to corrupt the boys when I am already corrupt enough for all of us."

Murphy pushed himself away from the newel post and straightened his coat. He puffed himself up and gathered all the gallantry he could muster, then extended his arm to May. Kid grabbed Murphy's other arm and turned his friend aside. "Murph," he mumbled out of the side of his mouth. "We ain't got time for this."

Murphy grinned his widest. "Now we are under orders to forage are we not? And what is foragin' but takin' what a man needs to sustain hisself from where ever he finds it? Hell, Kid," he said and thumped Kid's chest with the back of his hand. "I'm just followin' orders."

Murphy nodded to Billy and winked, then sauntered up the porch steps with May on one arm and Lila on the other. "Now ladies, about that deal . . ."

Kid started to drop back onto the stairs to wait, then changed his mind. Murphy could make whatever deals he wanted, but he was hungry. "C'mon, Billy," he said and started to the back of the house for another look. There were chickens back there somewhere, and he was going to find them.

"Sarah's no older than I am, Buck," Lou said, watching the new widow through the crowd of Wes's family and acquaintances milling around the churchyard. The young woman moved limply, nearly as pale and lifeless as the husband she had just buried. "What's she gonna do now?"

Buck shook his head. "I don't know, Lou, but she's got family to help her. She'll be all right."

"I don't think she and Wes had much to speak of. It must have cost a fortune to bring his body back."

"There's a basket on the church steps for donations," said Buck. "I saw Thompkins over there a minute ago. Hope he was puttin' money in and not takin' it out."

"Buck . . ." Lou chided.

"I know, I'm sorry," Buck said and held up his hands to ward off Lou' reproach. "It's just that the man is so tight, I have a hard time imagining him givin' money to a cause other than his own."

"Hard times can bring out the good in people," Lou said. "Even Thompkins. I think it's a wonderful idea and the ranch is gonna help some, too. I think we can afford a few dollars. Why don't you bring the wagon around? I want to offer my respects to Sarah and then we should be goin'."

It only took a few minutes to bring the buckboard up closer to the church, but in that short span of time something had brought Sarah Stauffer back to life. It only took another second for Buck to realize that "something" was Lou. Lou stood at the church steps with her back to the mourners, her purse open, Sarah closing in on her from behind. Buck quickly secured the brake on the wagon and looped the reins around it. He hopped to the ground and headed in the direction of the church, his strides lengthening as Sarah grabbed Lou's arm and jerked her around.

"What are you doin' here?" the young widow demanded.

"Sarah . . ." Lou said, startled by the brusque treatment. "I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Wes. Buck and I wanted to help," she explained and reached for the woman's hand, pressing the coins against her palm.

Sarah pulled away as if she had been stung. She opened her hand and glared at the coins in her palm with such contempt she might have been holding the scorpion itself. "How dare you?" she spat and hurled the coins against the porch. The clatter of the coins, coupled with the distress in Sarah's voice caught the attention of the crowd and the two young women quickly had an audience. "How dare you come here?" Sarah hissed.

Buck pushed his way through the onlookers and took his place beside Lou. The change in Wes's widow was startling. Just a few minutes before she had barely been able to hold herself upright. Now she stood opposite Lou, her jaw set, her eyes gleaming with righteous indignation. Buck had never seen Lou back down, and she didn't appear to have that inclination now, but there was a wounded confusion in her eyes - like an animal questioning why it was being hunted.

"Wes was my friend, Sarah," Lou began and to her credit, her voice was level. "And so are you. I wanted to pay my respects."

"My husband is dead," Sarah stated flatly. "Where is yours? Kid hasn't been in Tennessee, has he?"

Lou stiffened at the question and lifted her chin a notch. "Kid's in North Carolina," she said, knowing full well it was a lie. Well, it might not be a lie. Truth be known, she didn't have a clue where Kid was. His letters had stopped shortly after Christmas. But she knew the path Sarah was taking and wasn't about to follow her. Union City, Tennessee was quite a distance from North Carolina and if Kid was there he couldn't have been the Confederate soldier who put a minie ball through Wes Stauffer's left eye.

The relation who bore Wes's likeness elbowed his way to Sarah's side. "What's wrong, Sarah?" he asked and for reasons he couldn't quite map out, Buck took an instant dislike to the man.

"She's a Southerner," Sarah answered, nodding in Lou's direction. "Her husband's fightin' with the rebels."

"You got your nerve showin' up here, lady," the man said. "You know, when I go back home to Kansas, I might just have to let the Jayhawkers know there's some South'rn sympathizers up here in Nebraska that need to be taught a lesson. My cousin was a fine man and because of rebel trash like you, he's dead."

The mere mention of the word "Jayhawker", the name taken by a group of Kansans intent on continuing John Brown's holy war against anything south of the Mason Dixon Line, was enough to sound an alarm inside Buck. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck bristling and stepped in front of Lou to confront the man. "You owe the lady an apology."

The Kansan snorted his disgust. "She got a rebel for a husband and an Injun for a protector. If that don't just turn your gut then I don't know what will." The man craned his head around Buck to get another look at Lou. He puckered his mouth and seemed to be tasting his words before he spoke. The cousin grinned and finally asked, "She keepin' your sheets warm while her man's away, Injun? That'd be just like a South'rn bitch."

His kin snickered at the insult, but before the man from Kansas had a chance to soak up the admiration of his clansmen, Buck lunged forward and had his fists knotted in the man's shirtfront. "I said you owe the lady an apology," he fumed. "And I want to hear it right now." The cousin's face began to redden as Buck's choke hold tightened. "Like hell," the man managed to spit back.

Buck made a move to push the man backwards, but Lou's touch on his arm stopped him. "Buck, don't. It's all right," she said, and he heard a quivering in her voice. He hoped no one else heard it.

"No, it's not, Lou."

"Let him go. It ain't worth it," she insisted, but only when he felt the barrel of a pistol pressing against his middle and heard the familiar voice of Teaspoon's replacement did Buck relent.

"Cross, why don't you and Mrs. McCloud get out of here at let these decent folks grieve. Or do I need to haul you in for disturbin' the peace?" said the sheriff. The tone in his voice made it clear it was more than a suggestion.

Buck felt a tug on his arm. Lou's voice was barely audible. "Let's just go home, please."

It wasn't like Lou to give up so easily and her hesitance to defend herself, to explain her position, puzzled him for a moment. But then Buck saw himself in the same situation a thousand times before and understood. Lou was able to separate Kid from the Confederacy in the same way that whenever the headlines screamed of another Indian attack, he could set Red Bear apart. But to those who had been wronged, there could be no such distinction. Kid was synonymous to the South, just as Red Bear was to the Kiowa. Lou couldn't damn the Confederacy without condemning her husband too.

The crowd opened to allow their retreat. Lou held her head up and Buck was proud of her for that. It wasn't an easy thing to do when strangers won't look beyond their prejudice and familiar faces look the other way. In her haste to be out of there, Lou caught her foot in her skirt as she stepped up into the wagon and nearly lost her balance. She quickly grabbed for Buck's outstretched hand, holding on for dear life. When she was safely on the wagon seat, Buck turned back to Wes's family. Lou had said that hard times can bring out the good in people, but they could also magnify the bad.

Buck drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "We're very sorry for your loss," he said and turned away to step up into the wagon, not waiting for their reaction. He took his place on the seat of the buckboard, putting himself directly between Lou and the onlookers, then grabbed the reins and kicked off the brake. He flicked the lines a bit harder than necessary to get the team moving and startled, they lurched forward. Buck took the reins in one hand, wrapped his free arm around Lou's waist and pulled her to him, offering a bit of support. It wouldn't be enough, though. Lou was caught in a circumstance she neither created nor wanted and had been slapped with blind bias. Nothing took that sting away. And no one knew how badly it hurt any better than he.

The spindle back chair was uncomfortable, but that was good. Comfort would lessen his vigilance. The night beyond the porch was clear and sharply defined, the curve of the moon crisp against the dark backdrop, its face freckled in mottled shades of blue. A perfect night for star-gazing or a midnight swim by moonlight. Or sleeping with the windows open so the breeze blew sweet dreams to your bed. Or any of the multitude of different things he would rather be doing than keeping watch from the shadows. Whether Wes Stauffer's cousin had made good on his threat, Buck wasn't sure. But the number of raids on Nebraska homesteads in the weeks following Wes's funeral was too much a coincidence to let pass. The line of violence started at the Kansas state line and had been drawn further north with every new account. Homes had been burned, stock stolen or run off. So he sat in the dark, a twelve-gauge shotgun draped across his legs, waiting night after night for what he prayed wouldn't come.

Buck turned as the front door creaked open. "I thought you'd gone to bed," he said at the sound of Lou's soft footfalls on the porch floor.

"How am I supposed to sleep with you out here alone?" she asked.

"Well, one of us needs to be awake tomorrow," Buck yawned. "And I don't think it's gonna be me."

"I brought you some coffee," Lou said. She dragged a wooden rocker across the porch, closer to where he had positioned himself and sat down. "I made it pretty strong."

"Thanks," Buck mumbled and took the offered cup. He brought it to his lips and breathed in a whiff of the dark aroma before taking a long swallow. His drowsy senses snapped to attention. "That's strong all right."

"Too much?"

"No, it's fine," he said and rested his head back against the clapboard siding of the house. Buck rubbed the grains of fatigue from his eyes and took another drink, then sat the cup on the floor of the porch. "I went through some back issues of the paper when I was in town today. Thought I might find something else the families that have been attacked had in common."

"And . . ." Lou prompted.

Buck shrugged. "Didn't have much luck I'm afraid. All the articles sounded pretty much alike. Each one said somethin' about the family havin' a tie to the South. Some had relation fightin' for the Confederacy directly, the rest were known sympathizers. I happened to run into the sheriff on my way out of the newspaper office and asked what he was doin' about the raids. He didn't act like they were on the top of his list. I believe his words were 'if you're gonna lie down with dogs you gotta expect to get flea bit'. I don't even know why I asked him."

"Buck, you don't have to get involved in this. Workin' the ranch all day and standin' guard all night wasn't a part of the bargain. This is my problem, not yours."

Buck shot her a quick glance that said she really should know better. "I made a promise to Kid to take care of you and the place while he was gone. I mean to keep it."

Lou frowned and turned away. "And if he'd kept his word to me, you wouldn't have to," she said, then turned back to Buck. "He promised that he wouldn't ride out without me ever again. He promised, yet he went off to Virginia to fight his damn war anyway. Had to go protect the homeland. But what about this home?" Lou let out a long sigh, knowing Buck had no better answer to her question than she did, and settled herself back into the wooden seat of the rocker. She was silent a moment longer then quietly asked, "Do you think he had any idea somethin' like this might happen because he chose the South?"

"No," Buck answered quickly. "Kid would never knowingly do anything that would put you in danger. He didn't know when he left and if he knew it now, he'd be on his way home."

Lou smiled weakly and tried to find some comfort in Buck's assurances, but still felt a lingering hollowness inside. An emptiness that all the kind words of Kid's devotion couldn't fill. He had pledged himself to the Confederate cause and only desertion, the end of the war or his death could bring Kid home now. The first two options weren't likely any time soon and she dropped to her knees each night to pray against the latter.

The night wore on a bit, the darkness deepening by degrees. A blur of what might have been movement, perhaps a crouched man raising up for a look around, caught Lou's eye and she drew a quick breath. "Buck . . ."

"Hmmm?"

"Over there by the fence line," she whispered. "I saw something move."

"Where?" Buck asked and quietly moved forward in the chair, his index finger resting on the trigger of the shotgun.

"By the gate. Look . . ." Lou said and gripped his arm. "It moved again."

Buck settled back into the chair and relaxed his hold on the gun. "It's a bush."

"Are you sure?" Lou asked, straining to pull the shape together.

"Yup." A memory worked itself loose and tickled at Buck's thoughts until he laughed.

"What's so funny?" Lou asked, her tone a bit defensive.

"It's not you," he assured her. "Just somethin' I remembered from when I was little."

"So tell me about it," Lou said and drew her feet into the rocker, twisting toward him. "It'll help pass the time."

"I must have been about twelve. Some men from my village had gone on a hunt. On their way back, they came across a band of Utes. Utes are lazy. They'll steal food before they'll hunt their own. I was too young to go on the hunt, but I convinced my brother to let me stay up and help guard the village if the Utes tried to steal our meat." Buck quieted for a moment while the scene replayed in his memory. He smiled. "I thought I was so grown up. But, I guess my imagination got the best of me. Rocks started movin'. The Ute warrior I saw crawling toward the village turned out to be only a coyote that caught scent of the meat. Red Bear isn't all that patient and I guess I made a pretty big pest of myself makin' him check out everything I thought I saw." Buck laughed again. "Turned out I wasn't so grown up after all. After about an hour he sent me to bed."

"So did they ever come?"

Buck shook his head and filed the memory away, safe and sound, for another time. "No. They never came," he answered a bit smugly. "The Utes knew they were no match for my people."

"You know, Buck," Lou began a bit hesitantly as if she was treading on tender ground. "After Ike died and the Express folded up, everybody started takin' off in their own directions, I really thought you would go back. You still call them 'your people' and it didn't seem like there was much to hold you here. I'm glad you stayed," she quickly added, "but I was just a little surprised."

Buck didn't answer immediately, but mulled over her comment for a moment. "I thought about it," he confided. "Thought about it a lot."

"Why didn't you go?"

Buck dropped his eyes to the shotgun in his lap, absently rubbing his hand over the cool barrel. He had a long list of reasons for postponing his return to the Kiowa, each one believable enough to keep him from going back. Well, maybe not reasons - more like excuses. Lou would probably believe any one of them, too, but for whatever reason, he decided on the truth. "Afraid I'd be turned away again I suppose."

"But you passed their test." Buck looked up suddenly, sharper than he intended. "Kid told me," Lou explained. "Maybe he wasn't supposed to . . . but he told me what happened when you went to get Ike."

"I proved myself Kiowa," he answered and went back to busying himself with the barrel. "Had I stayed, I would have been accepted into the tribe, but I chose to leave again. I put my white family first."

Lou reached out to quiet his hand. "Are you sorry now?" she asked.

He was quiet for a moment, viewing the question from all angles. It seemed like forever ago. His new Express family had held such promise then. Regrets? No. It had been the right choice at the time. He could claim disappointment though.

"I'm not sorry, but I hoped for better I guess. I never expected that I would lose Ike. Never thought we'd lose Noah. Never expected a war would tear our family down the middle." He wrapped his hand around hers and gave it a squeeze. "But I've still got you."

Lou's gaze dropped to their clasped hands then on to the shotgun laying across his lap. "I'm sorry Kid dragged you into this mess. How do you feel about all this, Buck?" Lou asked. "You never really say."

Buck sighed and turned to the darkness. Riding the fence was a precarious position and he'd sat there for years, teetering and hanging on for dear life while opposing forces tugged on him. When ties to his blood family collided with his adopted one, he'd barely maintained that delicate balance, tiptoeing along the edge, not choosing a side though his friends demanded it of him. Neutrality was a difficult position to defend whether it concerned his people or this white man's war. He considered his answer, composing his thoughts into something he hoped would support his decision to remain impartial.

"I don't approve of slavery, yet the South is just defendin' their way of life against those who would take it away. Just like my people are fightin' to keep what is rightfully theirs. I agree with the North thinkin' that slavery is wrong and must end, but they're forcin' their opinion, sayin' their way is the only way and that's not right, either. It's not so easy, Lou. They're both wrong, but they're both right."

The candle flame sputtered a bit, searching for more wick and Kid cupped his hand around the flame until it steadied itself. The call for lights out had been sounded hours before. It was likely a sentry making rounds of the camp would order the candle snuffed, but if he was lucky he had a little time before then. A good many of his habits had gone by the wayside after two years in the Confederate ranks - bathing, shaving, donning clean clothes in the morning, eating with regularity - but writing to his wife was simply something he would not let war take away. The fact that it had been a good six months since he was able to mail any of his correspondence mattered little. Each completed letter was bundled neatly with months of others and secured in his haversack until an opportunity to pass them through the lines presented itself, or, God willing, he would soon be able to deliver them to her himself. He ached to hear from her, but the mail routes through the Confederacy seemed to be as crippled as its supply lines. The emptiness he felt was a big thing, broadened by the miles between them, made more solid with the passing of every day.

In the loneliest hours, he would reread his letters to Lou and imagine the words she would write back to him. Perhaps she would write of the flowerbed she had planted or the litter of kittens she might have found in the barn. The church would have held its spring social by now. Maybe she would have written of the endless array of pies and cakes and covered dishes and the games the children played in the churchyard while the men talked of weather and women chatted amiably about babies and yard goods. She would write of how much she missed him and that she daily prayed for his safe return. It was a little silly, pretending to read letters that had never been penned. He knew that. But a man had to have something, didn't he?

Kid sifted through his haversack for a clean sheet of paper, but found none. It seemed there was a shortage of everything these days. Well, that wasn't exactly true. There were plenty of weevils in their hardtack, though there was often a shortage of the cracker itself. There was an abundant number of grayback lice making their home in what was left of his underwear. And there was certainly no short supply of blue-coated infantry steadily worming their way through Virginia. He had already used Murphy and Billy's issue of writing paper. Murphy claimed there was no one he cared to write to and Billy didn't know how, so neither of them had a need for it. He was working on their ration of candles, too, the current one already reduced to a dripping stub of tallow. Well, if there wasn't anything to write on, he'd simply write on the back side of the letters he had already written. Kid slipped off the length of twine wrapped around the bundle of letters and pulled the bottom envelope from the stack. In hindsight, he should have conserved his paper supply and used both sides the first time, but he'd never expected to run short of something so simple as paper. But then there were a good many things about this war that he hadn't expected.

He never expected it to last this long, but it had. He never expected the Union to find a commander who would stand his ground and slug it out with the South toe to toe, but their new man, Grant, seemed more than willing to. He never thought he could ache all the way to his bones at every thought of Lou, but he did.

Kid blindly fingered through the contents of the haversack for the stub of a pencil and shifted to find a more comfortable position. That was hard to come by, too, in a dog tent. The shelter was aptly named he decided since it was sized more for a dog than a trio of soldiers. A small dog at that. The lack of space didn't matter all that much if they were just sitting around, playing cards or whatnot. They were seldom all three in the tent at the same time before lights out anyway. Sleeping, however, was another matter. The three of them had resorted to lying down, spooned together like dinnerware in a drawer, Kid and Murphy on the outside with Billy sandwiched in between. Only problem was that they all had to roll over at the same time. Even then it was a pretty good trick to get settled again without jabbing one of the others with a knee or pinning someone's hair to the ground with an elbow.

He finally situated himself, cross-legged and hunch-backed in the corner by the tent flap and speared his bayonet candleholder into the ground beside him. Surprisingly enough, the shank end of a bayonet was the exact diameter of the standard issue candle and couldn't have made a better support if it had been planned. Perhaps it had been planned that way he thought, then laughed at the idea. That would be unlikely. It was merely a fortunate accident of manufacture. The Confederacy had a hard time just keeping up. It wouldn't have thought that far ahead. Kid pulled the letter from the envelope, laid it open on the ground for lack of a better table and began to spill himself onto the paper.

"Whatcha doin', Kid?" Billy asked.

Absorbed in his own thoughts, Kid hadn't noticed that the boy had awakened and he jumped a bit at the voice reaching for him in the dark confines of the tent. Billy's hair was ruffled and his clothing a bit askew as if he had been in a hurry to get somewhere in his sleep, or perhaps in a hurry to get away from something. Kid knew about those 'things'. They had visited his dreams on more than one occasion, too. Hollow eyed specters wandering the battlefield, great multi-limbed demons skulking through the night. The list of monsters went on and on.

"Just writin' a letter, Billy. What's the matter? Havin' nightmares again?"

Billy nodded from where he sat opposite Kid. "Wisht I was like Murphy. He never has bad dreams." As if to accentuate the boy's point, Murphy rolled onto his back, luxuriating in the extra room his tentmates had afforded him and stretched his long limbs, as content as if he was lying on a hotel featherbed. "Don't think nothin' bothers ol' Murph," the boy said, his voice tinged with envy. Billy drew his knees to his chest and scratched at a patch of chigger bites that had risen up in red welts on his ankle. He drew a swirled design in the dirt with his other hand, then brushed over it to erase the drawing. "Do you have bad dreams, Kid?" the boy asked, then looked up hopefully through a shock of dirty brown hair.

The yellow candlelight cast a sallow illumination on the already pale faced soldier. All of sixteen now, but Billy really didn't look a day older than when Kid first met him two years prior. A diet of parched corn and flour paste crackers hadn't provided enough fuel to spark a growth spurt. For no more change than there had been in the boy he might have been locked in time, his adolescent years put on hold. Perhaps those years were bottled up somehow and stored away for a time when it was safe to be a child again. A time to skip a rock across a pond or make yourself sick on penny candy. To take pleasure in dreaming the day away and the night time, too.

"Sometimes," Kid answered. "Mostly I try to stay awake until I'm too tired to dream."

Still a bit groggy, Billy yawned and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "You writin' to Lou?"

Kid nodded. "You sure do write a lot," Billy commented, his eyes roving over the stack of envelopes lying atop Kid's haversack. "Wisht I knew how. I'd write to Marybeth, too."

"Your town didn't have a school, Billy?" Kid asked.

The boy shook his head and scratched at his ankle again. "We had one, but my pa said schoolin' weren't worth nothin'. I guess it wouldn't do no good to write to Marybeth, 'cause she don't know how to read neither." Billy thought for a moment, then asked, "You reckon I could still learn how?"

"Don't see why not," Kid said. "I had a friend who didn't learn how to read 'til he was older than you. Is there someone who could read a letter to Marybeth?"

Billy thought for a moment. "I s'pose the preacher could, why?"

"If you tell me what you want to say, I'll write the words down for you."

The boy brightened. "That'd be fine."

"All right," Kid said and thumbed through the sheets of his opened letter for a page that was only partially used. He folded the paper and tore it along the crease. "To Miss Marybeth Holm, Copper Hill, Virginia," Kid said as he wrote. "Now, what do you want to say?"

Billy's face went blank. "I dunno. I ain't never wrote a letter b'fore."

"Well, there ain't much to it," Kid said. "Just say what's on your mind. Tell her what you've been doin'. Where we've been and such."

The shadow deepened across the boy's face. "Maybe it ain't a good idea. I told Marybeth I was gonna join up and kill a bunch of Yanks, and I ain't killed any of 'em yet. Maybe we'd best not else she'll know I ain't much at soldierin'."

"You sure?"

Billy nodded. "After I get me one, then we can write her. We'll make it a long one."

Kid inspected the scrap of paper in the candlelight. "Then make sure that Yank you get has a wad of writin' paper on him, 'cause I'm not sure I've got enough left for a long one."

They both laughed and the sound caught the attention of a passing sentry. "Lights out in there!" he barked. Kid reluctantly licked his thumb and forefinger and snuffed out the candle. He heard Murphy's mumbled complaint as Billy nudged him back over onto his side to make room.

"Hey, Kid," Billy whispered into the darkness.

"Yeah, Billy?"

"You miss Lou bad?"

"I surely do, Billy," Kid answered, arranging his haversack into something of a pillow.

"I miss Marybeth, too. Somethin' awful. But it's kind of a nice hurt, ain't it? Knowin' somebody's waitin' for you at home. I mean . . . ain't it better to miss somebody than to have nobody to think 'bout at all?"

The corners of Kid's mouth lifted a bit realizing the boy was right. The mature sensibilities of the comment seemed strangely incongruent with the waifish looking child huddled beside him on the tent floor. Maybe their Billy was growing up after all.

Lou still sat beside him, her head tilted so that it rested against his shoulder. She had wrapped both her arms around his right arm, holding on like she feared he might get away. She was sleeping, dreaming he hoped of something soft and painted in pretty colors. There was plenty of ugliness in the waking hours. A horse was moving over by the barn, but by its easy undisturbed shuffle he knew there was no danger there. Just a horse shuffling the way that sleeping horses do. He shifted a bit and Lou stirred but didn't awaken. He was glad of that. She looked so peaceful, almost doll-like in the shadows. Buck let the shotgun rest across his legs and placed his free hand over one of Lou's where it clamped around his arm. It felt good there and he gave her hand a squeeze.

His eyes roamed the dark yard, past the shadowed fence line to the pale ribbon of road stretching away. The stars that he could see under the lip of the porch roof had shifted in their passage, drawing cooler air across the night as they traveled. It was quiet, the only sound the drowsy murmurings of insects speaking in their strange night language. An hour when even the most restless man took to his bed. The chilled darkness pressed down hard on him amplifying the weight he already felt. Not a conscious thought in his head, but a nagging thing inside him somewhere that would not quiet. Nothing he could draw together and make sense of - more of a knowing without knowing why. Yet there was plenty he was sure of and it was a frightful knowledge.

The bombardment of Fort Sumter may have been the official opening of the war between the states, but hatred between neighbors had risen up in the midwest years earlier - a tug-of-war over slavery in Kansas the catalyst for the feud. Though sparsely settled and leaning toward entering the Union as a free state, when the vote for statehood neared, the territory's population had swelled as outsiders from neighboring slave-state Missouri stepped over the border and established residency. Votes were taken and tallied and the binding consensus of the population of Kansas appeared to be the entry into the Union as another slave state. The only problem was that the majority of those who had cast the deciding votes pulled up stakes and went home to Missouri, flaunting their victory to the abolitionist free-staters as they went. Abolotionists cried foul, declaring the vote corrupt, and there the trouble began. Simmering hatred heated to a rapid boil, passions flamed and, employing the oldest method known to quiet the opposition, people started killing each other. Jayhawkers from Kansas and their polar opposites, Bushwackers from Missouri, had kept the undertaking business a lucrative trade, exacting revenge on atrocities, both real and imagined, for years. A prison housing women alleged to have aided the Bushwackers, collapsed somehow and, citing Jayhawker responsibility for the disaster, a band of Missouri guerrillas lead by William Quantrill looted and burned Lawrence, Kansas to the ground, killing any man standing. The clashes of violence between the neighboring states had gone on and on, one after another, an eye for an eye, year after year, until the border dividing them was outlined in blood. Neighbors to the north in Nebraska simply took a step back and shook their heads in disbelief. The headlines seemed almost too fantastic to be anything but a fabrication of some journalist's gory pen. It wasn't until a newspaper account of Quantrill's recent raiding mentioned the name "Frank James" that the reality of it all hit close to home. And now here it was, knocking on Lou's front door.

Buck had only closed his eyes for a moment, perhaps two, but when he opened them again, he noticed that the fireflies off in the distance had changed color. They seemed more orange tinted than before and he wondered why they had changed. As the curtain of sleep slowly parted and awareness crept back in, he realized the approaching lights weren't fireflies at all.

"Lou," Buck said and straightened in the chair. When she didn't respond, he tried again, shaking her a bit. "Wake up, Lou. Now."

Lou released her hold on his arm and stretched, arching her back like a cat awakening from a nap. She seemed a bit lost for a moment and reached out for him. Her sleep bleary eyes roamed the stretch of open road leading to the ranch, then recognition of the nearing line of bobbing orange flares brought her fully awake and she bolted upright.

"Stay here," Buck ordered, already on his feet. He drew his pistol from his holster and reached for her hand in the darkness, pressing the grip of the gun against her palm. "Stay here," he repeated and headed across the porch to the steps.

"Like hell I will!" she retorted, trying in vain to match his lengthy strides. "What are you gonna do? Buck?"

Shotgun in hand, Buck turned over his shoulder as he darted down the steps. "They'll be after the horses," he called back. "I'm gonna turn them loose. At least we'll stand a chance of finding them again."

"I'm comin' with you!" Lou cried out and holstered his pistol in the waistband of her skirt.

"No!" Buck yelled back, louder than he had intended. "Go inside!"

"But I can -"

"I know you can," Buck interrupted, his tone softened by the wounded pride playing across her face in the moonlight. "But please get in the house. With only two of us we can't protect the house and the barn. The house is more important. I'm gonna turn the stock loose and come back. Go inside, Lou. Please."

Buck sprinted across the yard, his footsteps striking the compacted earth in tandem to the rhythmic hoof beats of cantering horses approaching from the southerly road. He had counted five torches and didn't like the odds at all. He reached the first corral and bolted into the pen, waving his arms. Startled, the mares skittered around him, dust from nervous hooves billowing up in a brown fog before they found the opening. Buck vaulted over the corral railing into the sorrel stallion's corral and rushed across the pen to throw open the latch. The stud eyed the intruder with malcontent, then sensed freedom, raised his head in triumph and charged through the opened gate to join his harem.

Buck was half-way to the barn and the remaining stock when the horsemen rode into the yard. The orange light from their torches lit up the night in a dreamlike color and sent shadows dancing uneasily in the glare around him. Buck eased back the hammer of the shotgun and rested his index finger on the trigger. He didn't level the gun at them, that would give them an open invitation, but held it angled toward the ground. Their faces were covered, hidden under burlap grain bags that were pulled over their heads. Holes cut in the burlap for their eyes, nose and mouth gave the men the look of scarecrows and at some other time, their appearance would have been almost comical. Some other time.

Buck swallowed hard. His sweat slick hand gripped the gun a bit tighter. "You've no business here," he said.

One of the men leaned forward in the saddle and crossed his hands over the pommel. His eyes flared like embers behind his mask. "We find a pile of South'rn trash, we make it our business to get rid of it. By the hand of God Almighty, slavery will not stand, nor will those who uphold it."

"We don't uphold slavery," Buck insisted.

The leader slowly swung his leg over the cantle of his saddle and dropped to the ground. "We hear diff'rent," he said.

"You're makin' a mistake," Buck said and ran his eye up and down the man's frame taking quick inventory. The intruder stood beside his mount, his legs spread shoulder width, arms crossed purposefully across his chest, looking like supreme judge, jury and executioner all in one. Funny thing, though, Buck thought, that his boots were caked with mud and his trousers showed more than one patch. His horse looked more sturdy than fast - more suited to pulling a plow than late night rides. Take off the hood and the man was nothing but an ordinary dirt farmer, likely a family man, barely scratching out a living on some rocky patch of Kansas. But hidden behind a mask the same man became empowered, wielding a twisted ideology like a sword. A purveyor of violence in the name of God.

The leader nodded toward the house. "Her man fightin' for the South?"

Buck considered lying for a moment, but realized it wouldn't help their situation. The man already knew the answer. "Yes," he finally said.

"Ain't no mistake then."

The remaining masked men dismounted alongside their leader, each showing a weapon of some kind. There was something familiar about the one on the end. Something about the way he stood and a cockiness to his bearing not even a mask could hide. Not much doubt about Wes Stauffer's cousin now. Buck stood his ground, estimating the scatter pattern of the twelve-gauge in his hands. He inched the angle to nearly level. "We've no quarrel with you. Leave the way you came. Now," he ordered, running his eye from left to right over the assembled night visitors.

But the picture was incomplete. Something was missing and he quickly took a count. Four. His fear confirmed, Buck spun around to look behind him, but a blow to his forehead from the butt end of a rifle sent the number five and every other thought he had spinning into the darkness.

Buck stumbled sideways, losing his hold on the twelve-gauge as he fell. Gravel dug into the palms of his hands when instinct told him to reach out for something solid. A stream of blood from the open wound flooded across his eye and he thought to raise a hand to clear it away, but a strong grip closed around his wrist and jerked him onto his back.

"I think this reb Injun's a bit hot under the collar, boys," the leader said and nodded to a water trough outside the empty corral. "Cool him off."

Buck heard the words, but muffled as if from a distance and they didn't register. The night sky swirled dizzily overhead, spinning one direction and then the other, then back again. He felt hands grip his arms and legs, lifting him off the ground. Something primal told him to struggle, but his limbs weren't listening. He felt himself suspended for a moment, then falling, dropped like a stone into the trough. Everything inside him came alive as the water wrapped itself around him, holding him fast. It tasted green and burned in his nose when he tried to breathe. Buck struggled for an opening, thrashing left and right, but strong hands held him down, pushing him back below the surface.

Through the blur he could see their mouths moving behind their scarecrow faces, but there wasn't any sound and he thought that a bit strange. Strange, too, that when he grew too heavy to move and stopped thrashing about, drowning really wasn't all that bad. A quieting coolness spread through him, winged and inviting, a mossy green shadow. Awareness dimming to a liquid twilight. All the truths he had ever considered, all the mysteries left unsolved were just a grasp away, hovering up there by the light. It wasn't all that far either. All he had to do was let go. He was floating away and there was nothing hard about it.

But then something changed and the hands holding him down were gone. In their place was a tugging, a pulling, and he felt the upright of the trough dig against his breastbone as he rolled over its rough edge. He landed hard on the ground and gasped for breath, the chilled night air bursting into his wet lungs like an ice storm.

Someone was beating on his back, shaking him, and he wished whoever it was would stop. It had been so quiet before, cool and quiet, and now his muddled brain was banging against his skull like the clapper of a school bell and he was cold. Very cold. He tried to speak, but the words didn't work right. Instead of coming out whole, they got caught up in a rush of water forced up from somewhere inside him and spilled out onto the ground. Buck sputtered and gagged and tried again, but the words wouldn't come and the bell was still clanging inside his head. He pulled his knees underneath him and pressed his head to the ground. His arm reached out blindly, swinging in a wide arc until his hand gripped at something solid.

"Buck?" he heard from somewhere in the muffled distance. Whoever was there was still shaking him and with every shake the sound came closer. "C'mon, Buck," she insisted. "C'mon, Buck . . . please."

Buck rolled onto his side and searched the darkness for the familiar voice, holding onto her hand as if his life depended on it. A soft touch smoothed the wet hair from his face and brushed aside the mud clinging to the gash on his forehead. "Are you all right? Buck, talk to me," Lou pleaded and he tried to oblige, but choked on the words. A nod would have to suffice. Somewhere in the blurred night he heard the nervous whinny of horses.

"Stay here," she ordered. "I've gotta get the horses out of the barn."

Shivering, he pushed himself into a more upright position and watched her run in the direction of the barn. When she moved away, he could make out two crumpled heaps on the ground, their scarecrow faces staring blankly at him. Behind them the night glowed with the same orange tint he had seen earlier and he wondered vaguely why everything was turning that strange color tonight. Buck pressed his hands against his forehead to quiet the ringing and grabbed at scattered particles of thought until they began to hold together. He pushed himself to his knees, then his feet and took a staggering step toward the burning barn.

He had done his best to avoid it, but Kid's war had found him anyway.

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