THE
LAST GOOD DAY
THE
LAST GOOD DAY
JOHN L. LANSDALE
BOOKVOICE PUBLISHING 2021
This book is a work of fiction. All incidents and all characters are fictionalized, with the exception that well-known historical and public figures are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events within the fictional confines of the story. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
THE LAST GOOD DAY © Copyright 2021
by John L. Lansdale
All rights reserved.
Cover art © Copyright 2021
by Dirk Berger
All rights reserved.
Book design © Copyright 2021
by BookVoice Publishing
All rights reserved.
ISBN
978-1-949381-24-5 Hardcover
978-1-949381-27-6 eBook
BookVoice Publishing
PO Box 1528
Chandler, TX 75758
www.bookvoicepublishing.com
THE MECANA SERIES by John L. Lansdale
#1 - Horse of a Different Color
#2 - When the Night Bird Sings
#3 - Twisted Justice
#4 – The Box
OTHER WORKS BY JOHN L. LANSDALE
Slow Bullet
Long Walk Home
Zombie Gold
The Last Good Day
Broken Moon
Kissing the Devil
Shadows West (with Joe R. Lansdale)
Hell’s Bounty (with Joe R. Lansdale)
Boy and Hog (Short Story)
Boy and Hog Return (Short Story)
Emergency Christmas (Short Story)
Tales from the Crypt (Comic Series)
That Hellbound Train (Graphic Novel)
Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper (Graphic Novel)
Shadow Warrior (Graphic Novel)
Justin Case (Graphic Novel)
What Others are Saying about John L. Lansdale
"Mickey Spillane fans will welcome this page-turner...Lansdale effectively delays revealing the novel’s big secret until the end. Those who like their thrillers with a heavy dose of violent action will be satisfied." - Publishers Weekly review of Slow Bullet
"This is an entertaining, science fiction-historical-horror blend with resourceful protagonists and a solid cast of secondary characters."
- Booklist review of Zombie Gold
"Slow Bullet is a straight-ahead thriller...it's about action, and there's plenty of that. Check it out." - Bill Crider's Pop Culture Magazine
"...the author’s innate ability to spin a complex tale painted with vivid characters and intense suspense provides readers with a well-paced book that they may find difficult to set down...a worthwhile suspenseful ride." - Amazing Stories review of Horse of a Different Color
"Has something for everyone… It's exciting, entertaining and educational. A fun ride." – legendary TV personality/actress/author Joan Hallmark, review of Zombie Gold
"...something unique and comfortable and difficult to put down. Highly recommended." – Cemetery Dance review of Hell’s Bounty
"True to Lansdale tradition, John L. Lansdale has compiled a piece of work that should appeal to a wide range of readers."
– Amazing Stories review of Zombie Gold
“Long Walk Home really touched and gripped me. A great bittersweet story of light and shadow about growing up in a time gone by. I loved it.” – author Joe R. Lansdale
The good thing about the future is it comes one day at a time.
Abraham Lincoln
To leave footprints you have to be willing to back track occasionally.
Author
For Mason
And my long distance friend Bob for our sunset watching.
1
The bullet shattered his arm and made its exit out the back of his uniform’s coat sleeve. He dropped his rifle and fell from his horse to the ground. The sound of hoof beats shook the earth.
He knew the enemy was upon him. He turned his head into the soft green grass that smelled of urine and waited for that final fatal bullet to rip into his body.
Moments later, soldiers’ horses jumped over him, avoiding his crumpled form as they charged up the hill toward his regiment. He rolled over on his back, tore the front of his shirt off and wrapped his bleeding arm with his one hand. He saw the remains of his severed arm on the ground and threw up. He pulled himself to his feet with his rifle and staggered behind a nearby rock and collapsed.
That was the last thing he remembered until he woke up and realized he was in a Yankee field hospital – in a large tent with other patients missing arms and legs.
A tired-looking man with shaggy gray hair and a matching beard with a stethoscope around his neck was coming his way. He stopped at the bed and picked up the left arm stub.
“What happened to my men?” The patient said, propping himself up on his good arm.
“Hello, Major Rance Allison, you’ve been in and out of consciousness for three days now. As for your men, some dead and wounded, some captured. I’m Colonel Jennings, the one who treated your arm and sewed it off. You lost a lot of blood, you’re lucky to be alive.”
“I’m not sure I want to be,” Rance said.
“The war is over, major. General Lee surrendered to General Grant at Appomattox two days ago. Here’s a cable you can read if you think I’m lying.”
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to his patient. He looked at it and dropped it on the ground.
“You can go home,” Jennings said.
“I don’t have a home,” Rance said. “You Yankees destroyed it and murdered my wife and daughter. By now the rest of my family is probably dead, too.”
“I’m sorry. War is war.”
“Killing women and children is murder, Colonel. When can I get out of here?”
“It would be best to stay for three or four more days to make sure you don’t get that arm infected.”
“I’d like to go now.”
“Not a good idea but if that’s what you want to do I’ll release you.”
“That’s what I want.”
“I’ll give you some medical supplies and a bottle of whiskey to numb the pain. Bathe your arm twice a day and keep it clean and dry. I can get you some clean clothes if you don’t mind wearing blue.”
“I’ll keep what I got for now.”
“Expected that, they’re giving officers a horse. The Provost Marshal’s tent is right over there,” he pointed at a nearby tent. “They will process you out, give you back your personal things. The physical pain will go away in time, the memories won’t. Take care of that arm,” Jennings said and walked away.
Rance sat up, placed his legs on the floor and slowly pulled on his pants with his one hand, stuffed his night shirt into his pants and buckled his belt with some difficulty. He propped his right boot against the bed and pushed his foot into the boot, then did the same with the left and stood up. He leaned against a table to keep his balance and slipped on his tattered uniform coat with a major’s insignia sewed onto the shoulder pads.
Something had happened to his hat so he brushed his fingers through his thick black hair several times to smooth it down and made a scoop with his good hand in a wash bowl and splashed water on his face and beard. A nurse brought him a small bag with a shoulder strap and he hung it over his shoulder. The other patients were staring at him. He was definitely out of place wearing a ragged blood-stained Confederate uniform in a Yankee hospital.
He made his way to the Provost Marshal’s tent and went in. A big burly man with a red beard and sergeant stripes on his sleeve was packing rifles in a crate.
“The doctor said the war was over and I can leave.”
“We kicked your ass,” the sergeant said.
“He said I could get a horse and my personals here.”
“Yeah, for some reason they wanted to save your ass. Don’t know why. The only good Reb is a dead one.”
“Why don’t you just shut up and give me my things.”
“I’d rather shoot you,” the sergeant said. “But then I’d have to clean up the place. You have to sign an allegiance form to the Union before you can get a receipt for your things.”
“It don’t matter now. Give them to me.”
The sergeant handed him the allegiance form, receipt and a pencil, and he signed them. The sergeant reached in a cabinet and picked up a small box with Major Rance Allison on the outside.
“This is all we found on you. Officers get their side arms if they had one. You didn’t.” He opened the box and took out a picture, a battle order and a letter. “That your wife and kid?”
“Was,” Rance said. “I had a gold watch my grandpa gave me with my name on it. Where is it?”
“Don’t know anything about that.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Rance asked.
The sergeant stared at him for a second, shook his head no. “I didn’t get it, you must’ve lost it on the battlefield.”
“Maybe,” Rance said.
“You can pick a horse out of the ones we captured. There’s a sign on the gate says ‘rebel horses.’ Had to shoot the ones that were wounded, was harder than shooting Johnny Rebs.”
“What about a saddle?”
“Don’t get a saddle. You’re lucky to be getting a horse. If it was me, I would let you walk home.”
Rance put the picture and letter in his coat pocket, crumbled up the battle order and dropped it on the ground and walked out.
As he approached the corral he saw his buckskin. He was still alive and well. He walked up to the gate and called to him.
“Buck, come here,” he said and whistled.
The horse turned toward him, shook his head and trotted over to the gate and rubbed his nose on the major’s coat.
“Missed you, fella,” he said and patted the horse on the neck. The horse had a bridle on, with the reins folded and tied to the bridle. He pulled them loose and lifted them over the horse’s head and led him out the gate and closed it. He hung the first-aid bag around the horse’s neck, grabbed a handful of his long black mane with his right hand, lifted the stub of his left arm over his back and pulled himself up.
Doctor Jennings appeared and held out a twenty-dollar gold piece for him to take.
“I don’t want your money,” Rance said.
“Don’t be stupid. Take it, you have to eat. I overheard you in the tent. I’m sorry about your wife and daughter. I lost my wife in the war, too. She was a nurse at Gettysburg. We don’t have to be enemies anymore.”
Rance reached down and took the gold piece. “Thanks,” he said. “What you going to do now, doc?”
“Stay in the army, I guess. They still need doctors.”
“I’m sorry about your wife,” Rance said.
Doctor Jennings nodded. “If I was you, I would get out of that confederate uniform soon as I could,” he said and walked away.
It was a bright and clear day under a high blue sky as Rance rode out. A rumbling wind whistled through the leaves on the cottonwood trees and blew the lingering smell of death across the silent battlefield as he rode away from the camp.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to go home. The pain was not just in his arm. Everything he loved was gone.
2
Hours later he stopped at a small winding creek, laid the medical bag on the bank and waded into the creek up to his waist to sooth his horse-sore ass while Buck drank.
As he stood there, a red robin flew to a tree on the edge of the creek. Then another, both perched on a limb overhanging the creek, chirping at each other. No sounds of cannons or gunfire for the first time in four years. The war was really over.
Rance got out of the creek, picked up the bag and led Buck to a large rock to climb on. He heard hoof beats and saw three riders atop a nearby hill, coming his way at a full gallop. There was no way he could outrun them riding bareback with one hand. He drew Buck close and waited.
Two men wearing dirty Confederate uniforms rode in leading a third. The birds flew away. One was a sergeant, the other one a corporal leading the third rider’s horse. The third man was wearing a Union uniform, his hands tied to the saddle horn and a bandana muzzled in his mouth. They pulled their horses up and got off, leaving the other man on his horse. The sergeant hanging on to the reins.
“Where you headed, major?” the sergeant asked.
“On my way home,” Rance said.
“Where’s that?”
“Milberg. In the Shenandoah Valley.”
“Kinda messed you up, didn’t they,” the corporal said, pointing to Rance’s missing arm. “We’ll get even for you with this blue belly.”
The sergeant was tall and thin with a crooked nose and a salt-and-pepper beard. He had a Navy-issued Colt stuck in his belt. The corporal was smaller with shaggy brown hair, cold blue eyes and several days of black stubble on his face. He had a Bowie knife strapped to his belt and a brass spyglass lopped on his saddle horn.
The rider in the Union uniform was an Indian with long black braided hair to his waist and a black feather stuck in the band of his hat, his face bruised and swollen, sitting a solid black horse.
“Do you know the war’s over? Lee surrendered,” Rance said.
“We heard that,” the sergeant said. “We decided to quit some time back.”
“You’re deserters?”
“Not anymore,” the sergeant said and grinned. “You can call me Jake and this is Smiley. What’s your name, major sir?”
“Rance Allison. Why don’t you let the Indian go?”
“Can’t do that, major, we’re going to scalp him,” Smiley said. “The trading post will give us fifty dollars in gold for a Indian scalp. But we’re having trouble deciding if we want to hang him then scalp him, or scalp him then hang him.” Smiley and Jake both laughed.
“Don’t think that’s a good idea either way,” Rance said. “Cut him loose.”
“We don’t care what you think,” Smiley said. “Don’t take orders no more.”
Rance watched as the Indian franticly pulled on the ropes that bound him behind the soldiers.
“You got any gold or Yankee money, major?” Jake asked.
Rance lied. “No,” he said, knowing he had the twenty-dollar gold piece in his pocket.
“What’s in that bag hanging on the horse’s neck?” the corporal asked.
“Medical supplies for my arm.”
“Let me see,” the sergeant said and snatched the bag off Buck, jerking his head back. He opened the bag, dumped the contents on the ground and spotted a half-pint of whiskey.
“Well looky here,” he said and picked up the bottle. “What’s this?”
“For the pain,” Rance said.
“Looks like you been easing your pain some,” Jake said, shaking the bottle. He opened the bottle, took a big gulp and handed it to the corporal, who drank what was left then threw the bottle in the creek.
The Indian pulled his hands free, jerked the bandana out of his mouth and dove off his horse, knocking Jake to the ground, the Colt flying from his belt landing several feet away. Smiley drew his knife and started swinging it at the Indian. The Indian grabbed Smiley’s wrist and they fell to the ground, wrestling for the knife. Jake got to his feet looking for the Colt. Rance beat him to it, cocked and fired.
Jake staggered forward a couple feet and fell dead.
The Indian twisted the knife from Smiley’s hand, grabbed him by the collar and cut his throat fr
om ear to ear.
Rance pointed the Colt at the Indian and cocked it.
“Don’t shoot! I’m done,” he said, dropping the bloody knife on the ground.
Rance lowered the Colt and looked at his bleeding left arm. The bandage was torn loose and a stitch had come out.
“You better do something about that arm, major, before you bleed to death.”
Rance took a couple of steps back, reached down and picked up the bandage and iodine off the ground while hanging on to the Colt.
“You won’t be able to do that with one hand holding that Colt,” the Indian said.
“I’ll manage. Stay where you are,” Rance said.
Blood was running from the stub of his arm at a faster pace. He blinked his eyes and saw two Indians. He dropped the Colt and fell to the ground, out cold.
Sometime later, he woke up with his arm bandaged, his head lying on his bag. He saw the Indian sitting by a small fire, the sergeant’s Colt in his belt. A rabbit was roasting on a stick over the fire, the two dead Confederates lying where they fell.
Rance rose up on his good arm. “How come you’re still here?” he asked.
“Was getting hungry, figured I would eat and wait to see if I needed to bury you.”
“Why?” Rance said.
“You kept that bastard from shooting me, figured I owed you something for that. Want some
rabbit?”
“Yeah, think I do,” Rance said. “Thanks for bandaging my arm.”
The Indian cut a piece of the rabbit off with Smiley’s knife and brought it to him then went back to the fire and sat down. Rance hadn’t noticed before how big the man was. He was over six foot and the Indian was half a head taller.
“Where did you learn to speak English?” Rance asked.
“My mama and missionary school. That a surprise to you?”
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