“Usually go by my gut feeling,” B.W. said. “Been right so far.”
“You been lucky,” Rance said.
“Maybe.”
A couple hours later, they stopped on a hill and looked down into a valley at a small town.
“What’s that place?” Tommy said.
“Wheeler, I think,” Rance said. “A rebel stronghold durin’ the war. Union never really took control of it. This part of Virginia was mixed. Never knew who was on your side. Might be best to go around and go on to Milberg, considerin’ what happened at the last place.”
“What we going to do in Milberg?” Tommy said.
“The major wanted to visit his family’s graves,” B.W. said.
“Then what?” Tommy said.
“Then what, major?” B.W. asked.
“Don’t know yet,” Rance said.
“Think I hooked up with the wrong people,” Tommy said.
“Probably did,” B.W. said. “You can’t go back, though, they’d hang you.”
Tommy rubbed his neck and swallowed hard.
“Need somethin’ solid to eat, like a steak,” B.W. said. “Before I try to do any serious thinking.”
Rance nodded in agreement.
The dirt streets had turned to a muddy mess from the rain. Two men in Confederate uniforms were thrashing around in the mud, holding a bottle in one hand and firing a pistol into the air with the other, yelling, “We got him!” Loud music and laughter were coming from the saloons. It was the middle of the afternoon.
“They’re celebratin’ something awful early in the day,” B.W. said. “Wonder if they know they lost the war.”
“We won’t tell ‘em,” Rance said. “This Looks like one of those places you shouldn’t be to me,” Rance said.
B.W. nodded. “Does. Let’s go in?”
“I don’t think you know what you say sometimes,” Rance said “Remember the last saloon we was in didn’t turn out so good? And this is rebel country.”
“Won’t know who we are this time,” B.W. said. “Hell, we don’t know who we are.”
B.W. and Rance dismounted and handed the reins to Tommy.
“Take the horses to the livery keep them saddled,” Rance said. “We’ll join you in a little while, bring you some grub.”
“Ain’t nothin’ in there I ain’t seen,” Tommy said. “You just want to get me out of the way so you can get drunk and chase whores.”
“Take the horses to the livery stable,” B.W. said.
“I don’t want to, “ Tommy said.
“I know,” B.W. said, “but I’m bigger than you. Do it.”
Tommy led the horse’s away. They walked in the saloon. The place was filled with a lot of men wearing rebel uniforms, several of them dancing with the whores as the piano player pounded out Dixie.
They walked up to the bar beside a rail-thin man wearing a rebel uniform. B.W. laid a silver dollar on the bar.
“What’s all the hoopla?” Rance asked.
The man turned to Rance, smiling. “He’s dead. Somebody shot that sonofabitch.”
“Shot who?” Rance asked.
“Lincoln,” the man said. “We got a telegram this morning. Shot him at the theater last night, died this morning.
“You hear that, B.W.?” Rance said.
“I heard,” he said. B.W. looked at the man. “Are they sure?”
“Yep, he’s dead alright.” He turned back to the bar and held his glass up for more whiskey.
“Might be time to go,” Rance said. B.W. didn’t answer.
“You hear what I said,” Rance said. “We need to go.”
B.W. looked at Rance, his eyes were glazed. He wiped them with his sleeve. “All hell is goin’ to break loose now,” B.W. said. “There’s another war coming. May not be with guns but it’s coming.”
“Can’t argue that,” Rance said.
A scrubby-looking bartender with slick-down black hair and red garters on his sleeves sat two glasses down in front of them, poured Rance a shot then looked up at B.W., did a double-take and put the cork back in the bottle. “We don’t serve Indians,” he said.
Rance slid his whiskey glass over in front of B.W., picked up B.W.’s empty glass and sat it in front of him. “I’ll have a whiskey,” he said. The bartender looked at the glass and then B.W. “You’re serving me not him,” Rance said. The bartender hesitated, pulled the cork and poured Rance a shot, stuck the cork back in the bottle, picked up the silver dollar and moved away. B.W. didn’t say anything, just picked up the glass and downed the whiskey, and Rance did the same.
A big man with an arrogant look wearing a Confederate colonel’s uniform stepped away from the bar and walked out into the middle of the floor, his hand on the handle of his saber. He was maybe in his fifties, dark eyes with a neatly trimmed gray beard. He looked around the room, drew his saber and held it up over his head. The piano player quit playing and the saloon became still and quiet.
“You see that flag, boys?” he said, pointing the saber at a Confederate flag on the wall. Everyone yelled a rebel yell. “We have been given another chance. The war’s just in a pause now, it’s not over. We need to build a new army and march on Washington. Who will join me?” The crowd roared and they sang Dixie again and drank anything that was put in front of them. A voice from the crowd yelled, “We’re with you, colonel!” and a roar went up again.
“Already started, major,” B.W. said.
“Yeah, all we can do here is get killed,” Rance said.
“You wouldn’t turn on me, major?” B.W. said.
“What makes you think I would?”
“Have a hard time trusting anyone now.”
“War’s over,” Rance said.
The little thin man was listening. “You was a major?” he asked Rance.
”Was,” Rance said. “Forty-first Virginia.”
“I was too,” the man said. “Buy you a drink. The war may not be over?”
Rance looked at B.W., surprised. B.W. grinned.
The thin man looked at B.W. “He with you, major?”
“He is,” Rance said.
The thin man held his glass up again and three fingers, the bartender brought the bottle over and the little man said, “Pour three,” and sat his empty glass on the bar beside Rance’s and B.W.’s. The bartender hesitated, looking again at B.W., then poured the whiskey.
“Thank you very kindly,” B.W. said and gulped the whiskey down.
Rance nudged B.W. “Let’s go, we’ll get that steak somewhere else,” he said and they walked back outside.
Tommy appeared leading the horses. “Wasn’t anybody at the livery,” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Lincoln was shot. He’s dead,” B.W. said. “We’ll find another place.”
The two rebels doing the shooting outside were passed out in the muddy street.
“Figured you would be happy about this,” B.W. said to Rance.
“Nothin’ but foolish talk in there,” Rance said. “Lincoln was our best hope to put the country back together.”
“Yep, gonna be bad for a long time,” B.W. said, “especially for the colored. How ‘bout we finish off our whiskey to relieve some pain.”
“Might be the right time,” Rance said.
“Can I have some?” Tommy said.
“Maybe a sip, huh, major?” B.W. said.
”We’ll find a quieter place,” Rance said and they rode down the street, the horses high-stepping through the mud out of town.
“Lincoln was the president of the Yankees, right?” Tommy asked.
“All of us since they won the war,” Rance said.
“Was a special man,” B.W. said.
“He was,” Rance said. “Got to give him that.”
“What you mean,?” Tommy asked.
“He believed all men should be free,” B.W. said.
“Even the colored?” Tommy said.
“Yeah, but now he won’t get the chance to make it happen.” B.W. said.
/> “That the way you think, major?” Tommy said.
“He was probably the only one that could bring us together. No telling what will happen now,” Rance said. “Could be another war. Not much we can do except always do the right thing.”
“And right now the right thing to do is get drunk,” B.W. said. “Get the whiskey, major.”
7
Several hours later, B.W. sat up on a grassy knoll, two empty whiskey bottles lying nearby. Rance was stretched out on the ground a couple feet away and Tommy curled up on his saddle next to him with his saddle blanket over him.
B.W. started to get up, grabbed his head and sat back down. He heard a moan and saw Rance struggling to push himself upright with his good arm.
“Damn,” Rance said. “Look what you made me do. I’m in even more pain now. Feels like my head is disconnected from my body.”
“I didn’t make you do nothing,” B.W. said.
“It was your idea,” Rance said. “Don’t think anything’s changed and you got the boy drunk! Still got a bottle I hid in Tommy’s saddle bags from you.”
“If you didn’t want me to know why did you just tell me, dumbass.”
“I don’t know, whiskey got me all confused,” Rance said.
B.W. glanced at the rising sun and the horses and noticed Tommy’s wasn’t there. “Tommy’s horse is gone.”
“Think somebody stole him?” Rance asked.
“How the hell would I know?” B.W. said. “Wake Tommy up. I’ll saddle the horses if I can get up.”
“Get up boy, we lost your horse.” Rance said, shaking Tommy. Tommy threw the blanket off and sat up.
“Everything smells like a horse,” he said, wrinkling up his nose.
Rance shook his head looking at him.
“Your horse is gone.” B.W. said.
“Think someone stole him?” Tommy said to Rance.
“How the hell would I know?” Rance said.
B.W. led the horses over to Rance and Tommy. “Double with me, boy. Leave the saddle here, cover it with some brush, we’ll come back and get it when we find your horse.”
“What if we don’t?” Tommy said.
“Well we’ll have to find you another one, won’t we?” B.W. said with a frown.
“Boy, you two sure are grouchy this morning,” Tommy said. “You do have a bad hangover. Used to see that all the time in the saloon.”
B.W. ignored Tommy’s comment and looked at Rance. “He doesn’t have a homing around here so if he just wandered off maybe he’s not too far away.”
“Did you tie him, Tommy?” Rance asked.
“I think so,” Tommy said.
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“No.”
“Don’t make much sense for someone to steal just one when they could have taken all of them and bushwhacked us, too,” B.W. said. “We weren’t in any condition to object.”
“Let’s start making a circle,” Rance said. “Keep widenin’ it for ‘bout a hundred yards out. He’s probably just out there grazing but we got to be ready if trouble comes.”
Rance drew the Colt from his belt, rolled the cylinder across his left arm to check the rounds and stuck it back in his belt.
They worked the circle from their spot about a half mile out, but no horse.
On the next trip, ranging further out, they spotted smoke and rode inside a tree line toward it and came to an opening with an old barn not more than a rock’s throw away.
Three men were sitting by a campfire next to the barn, passing a whiskey bottle around. Three saddled horses were tied to a sapling nearby. None of them were Tommy’s horse. The men had rebel soldier caps on and their Remington .44s in a holster on their hips.
B.W. held up a finger to his mouth to indicate silence to Rance and Tommy They dismounted. Rance and B.W. handed the horses’ reins to Tommy inside the tree line. B.W. made a staying motion with his hand to Tommy. B.W. stepped out in the opening, pointing the double-barrel toward the men. Rance moved up beside him with his Colt cocked.
“Stay just like you are, boys,” B.W. said. “Nobody move, we’re lookin’ for our horse.”
One of the men turned his head toward B.W. and placed his hand on the butt of his revolver.
“You don’t want to do that, hombre, I’ll blow you apart ‘fore you pull it,” B.W. said.
The man dropped his hand from the Colt and started to stand.
“Sit down,” B.W. said and the man dropped back down to a sitting potion on the tree stump.
He still had that boyish look with bushy blonde hair sticking out from under his rebel cap. The other two didn’t move. They looked a little older, similar-looking, same color eyes, about the same height. Maybe brothers. A cooking pot was sitting on the ground by the fire.
“You boys like some grits?” the young one said.
“No thanks,” Rance said and noticed a price mark with Catching’s Trading Post on the grits box by the pot.
“Can we get up now?” the young one asked.
“Feel better if you just sit right there for now,” B.W. said.
“You lawmen?” the young one asked. He may have been the young one but they could tell who the leader was.
“No, just lookin’ for a horse,” B.W. said. “A roan gelding ‘bout fourteen hands, you seen him?”
The brothers were silent and kept glancing at the barn.
“We haven’t seen your horse,” the young one said. “And I’m gettin’ a little nervous lookin’ down the barrels of that scatter gun.”
“Long as you’re looking at it you’re okay,” B.W. said.
“When were you at Catching’s Trading Post?” Rance asked.
Before anyone could answer a scream came from the barn.
The three strangers went for their guns but B.W. cut them down with both barrels of the shotgun as Rance put a bullet in the young one’s chest. He fell on his back, drew one leg up and down a couple of times like he was riding a bicycle, exhaled, then didn’t move anymore.
B.W. reloaded the shotgun and ran into the barn. A young colored woman wearing a tattered blue cotton dress was hanging from a beam in the barn by her hands, her feet dragging the ground, a dirty neckerchief tied around her neck. She was covered in cuts and bruises, blood trickling down her legs. A bloody gag she spit out was lying on the ground in front of her. A shovel lying nearby had blood on the handle.
There was sheer terror in her eyes as B.W. moved toward her. “It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you.” He drew his knife and she screamed again.
“I’m just going to cut the ropes,” B.W. said again. He cut her loose from the beam and she fell to the ground. He untied her hands, slung the shotgun strap across his back, picked her up and carried her outside and sat her against a tree.
He kneeled down beside her. “It’s okay, we’re goin’ to take care of you.”
Tommy led the horses up to B.W.
“Hand me my canteen, major,” B.W. said and Rance retrieved the canteen and handed it to him. He held the canteen while the woman drank and put the cap back on when she had had enough.
“What’s your name?” B.W. asked.
“Camille Brookings,” she said. “They hung my husband and son. Been raping and torturing me. The boy mostly.”
The young one moaned. B.W. turned to look at him, gritted his teeth and handed the woman the canteen, then got up and walked over to the young one. He looked up at B.W., blood running out of his mouth, tried to speak but couldn’t. B.W. swung the shotgun from his back, cocked both hammers and pulled the triggers. The young one was nothing more now than a piece of bloody meat.
B.W. walked back to the woman, propped the shotgun against the tree and sat down beside her.
“He won’t hurt anyone else,” B.W. said and the woman began to cry.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Rance said. “He was gonna die.”
“Was for me,” B.W. said.
The woman cupped a hand, poured water in to it and wiped her f
ace and dried it on her dress, then placed the canteen to her lips, gulped water down and handed it back to B.W.
“We found your kin, buried them,” B.W. said. “Name’s B.W. That’s the major and the boy is Tommy.”
“Thank you,” she said in a whisper. “They did horrible things to me.”
“We’ll get you to a doctor,” B.W. said.
Rance was standing behind B.W. “We’ll find a place for you to get well. We got food if you want it.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Need to rest now.”
B.W. got to his feet, opened his saddle bags and took one of the stained gloves out, walked over to the bloody young one and slipped the glove on his hand, a perfect fit.
“Figured it was his,” he said.
“Blowing him apart was wrong,” Rance said.
“Don’t tell me what to think, major. Ma’am, there’s a big oak tree up on that little hill with a good shade where you can rest. Why don’t I carry you there so you won’t have to look at these varmints.”
“That would be good, B.W., if it’s not too much trouble,” she said.
“No trouble at all, ma’am. Tommy, follow me with the horses.”
“Go on up with B.W.,” Rance said to Tommy. “I’ll get the horses.”
B.W. picked up Camille and carried her up the hill and sat her down in the shade. He got his bedroll and brought it to her. “Take whatever time you need, ma’am.”
“I have been bleedin’ and it’s gettin’ worse, you know what I mean?”
“Yes ma’am. Is there anything we can do?”
“No,” she said and tore a strip of cloth from her ragged dress. “Leave me be while I tend to myself.”
“Wave if you need us,” B.W. said.
She nodded and motion for them to leave.
They walked up to the crest of the hill, sat down and watched the afternoon sun roll shadows across the side of a distant mountain.
“Is it woman trouble?” Tommy said.
“Yes,” B.W. said. “They hurt her bad.”
“Men did that to my mama,” Tommy said and a tear came to his eye.
“Sorry to hear that, boy,” B.W. said.
“We going to get her to a doctor?” Tommy asked.
“She’s not able to go right now,” B.W. said. “Needs to stop the blood first. I’ll check on her in a little bit.”
The Last Good Day Page 4
