The Carroll Farm Fight

by Greg Hunt

  He regretted killing these men, especially the boy, who probably hadn’t seen much of life yet, and now would miss out on all the experiences, good and bad, that he might have had. Hess didn’t seem all that bad, either, although Mel suspected he was a blunderer and a little too swelled up with the authority he thought he had. As for Doolin, who had started the row and was actually the one responsible for all three deaths, Mel figured that the world might be a little better off without him in it.

  But what made them think they could come on a man’s land and simply take what they wanted, do what they wanted without any payback? That kind of high-handedness wasn’t tolerated in this part of the country, and the local law would never hold him accountable for the ends they had brought on themselves.

  But the Fourth Arkansas Volunteers might see it differently if they passed by this way, and he understood that he had to make sure no trace of these men remained on his farm.

  He dumped a couple of bags of quicklime that he’d been saving for his garden patch down into the shit hole, then topped it off with a few wheelbarrow loads of barnyard manure and sour hay. They’d probably start stinking in a couple of days even with the lime, but it was a privy. They were supposed to stink. And who else was likely to be around here to smell it?

  As he tipped the outhouse back up, it occurred to Mel that it was a sorry sort of tombstone for any man.

  The three horses the men arrived on were still tied to the barnyard fence, even though their riders were now on their way to perdition. Two of them were pretty respectable mounts, but the third looked like a broken-down old farm animal. Mel figured that was probably the boy’s. There was one nice saddle in the lot, probably Hess’s, but Mel knew he couldn’t keep any of it, not the horses or the tack.

  Riding old Doc, it took Mel most of afternoon to lead the horses deep into the mountainous woods to the west and turn them loose, each a distance apart from the others.

  He stopped on the way back and cleaned himself up in Clear Creek Pond. By the time he reached his farm again, the sun was melting into the tops of the pines to the west.

  All traces of his three unwelcomed visitors were erased, but he still had a dead cow in the barn, and if he didn’t start now, all that meat would be wasted. As he rigged his block and tackle to a beam in the barn and strung Belle up by her hind legs, he planned what he would do to salvage and preserve as much of her meat as possible. He sliced the cow’s neck open so any remaining blood could drain out. It would have been better to bleed the carcass out right after it was killed, but he hadn’t thought of it, so that was that. Then he fell to work on the skinning and gutting.

  Over the next couple of days he’d gorge himself on as much fresh meat as possible, especially the choice parts that couldn’t be preserved like the tongue, liver, kidneys and heart. He’d smoke some, and thought he had enough dry hickory in the smokehouse for that. And he’d slice and jerk as much as he could before his salt ran out. He’d have brain cakes for breakfast one morning, a rare treat at slaughtering time, then use the rest of the brain in a concoction Daddy had taught him to make to tan the hide. There were a hundred uses for well-tanned leather around a place like this.

  He’d have to work through the night and well into tomorrow to finish all of that before the meat started to spoil. There was work in the fields that really shouldn’t wait, but now it had to.

  Once Belle was bled out and skinned, Mel used a cleaver, hand ax, and saw to begin cutting her up into more manageable pieces. Those he carried to the long wooden table outside the smokehouse where he would have room to work. When the sun was down, he brought coal-oil lanterns out of the cabin so he could continue working.

  By dawn he had made considerable progress on the work, and thought he might be finished by midday. He was stumbling tired now, but if he had energy left when he finished, he still needed to put a few hours into the fields before dark. He could rest all he wanted when the sun set.

  Unlike the first three riders who had come upon Mel in the barn unawares, he heard the next bunch approaching a long way off on the other side of the patch of pines that hid the house from the post road. He rinsed his hands at the pump in front of the house, then dried them on a threadbare old shirt that had become a rag. By the time the group of men rode into the yard, he was standing in the doorway of the cabin, his shotgun cradled casually in the crook of his arm. From today on, it would be harder for anyone to ever catch him unarmed.

  But there were too many in this bunch to take on, even if he’d had some reason, twenty at least, Mel thought. They stopped in the middle of the yard, ignoring Mel, and surveyed the lay of the farm as if they were preparing to make him an offer for it.

  But Mel knew they weren’t about to buy anything. They’d take what they wanted, as the first three had tried to do. The head man, mounted on a large, splendid dun, began giving orders.

  “Major Sharp, I want pickets in the woods to the north and west. Two squads in each direction, one a hundred yards out, and the other two hundred yards. If contact is made before we’ve established our positions, their orders are to fight a delaying action as they fall back to the main force.”

  He wore a gray uniform that looked freshly laundered and pressed, decorated with gold embroidery on the sleeves and collar. Like the man named Hess that Mel had shot in the head yesterday, he had a broad-brimmed gray hat with fancy gold braid and an ostentatious plume. Despite the splendor and formality of his uniform, everything he had on looked a size too big for his wiry old frame.

  “Companies C and D will dig in on the west, well past that barn there. A and B will do the same on the north at the crest of the hill, and E will set up their position across that field to the south. Companies F through H will be our reserves here in this open ground where we are, and back along the road. Position sharpshooters in the loft of the barn and as high as they can climb up into those pines. I’ll use that shack over there,” he added, pointing to Mel’s cabin, “as my headquarters, so have my staff start setting up.”

  Almost as an afterthought, he said, “Major Elliott, deal with that man.”

  One of the uniformed horsemen separated from the group and rode over to the porch. He was perhaps ten years older than Mel, with a fine handsome beard and a casual, pleasant air about him.

  “Morning to you, sir,” the rider said. “My name is Major Frank Elliott.” Mel nodded, wondering already what “dealing with him” might mean.

  “Can I assume this is your farm?”

  “It’s mine,” Mel said.

  “And do you live with your family here?”

  “Nope, it’s only me here.”

  “Do you intend to use that shotgun you’re holding there?” the man asked.

  “Sure, I thought I’d do some damned fool thing with it so you can just kill me straight off.”

  The major grinned and chuckled, lightening the tone between them. “Well until you’re ready to start that ruckus, would you mind parking that shotgun against the wall? With our colonel right there in the open, it makes us all nervous to see you holding it.”

  Mel saw no reason not to do what the man said. He stepped inside the cabin door and leaned the shotgun against the wall, then went back out.

  Back down at the bend in the road more men were arriving, walking four abreast in a continuous line. Mel scowled in their direction, shocked by their numbers and realizing that trouble was definitely in the making here.

  “May I ask your name, sir?” the major said.

  “It’s Melvin Carroll,” Mel told him. “What in blazes are you fellows up to here?” Down below the men on the road kept coming and coming, dozens already, maybe hundreds, and no end in sight.

  “We’re the Fourth Arkansas Volunteers,” Elliott told him, “and we’ll be needing the use of your farm for a few days.”

  It was the same unit Hess had mentioned yesterday, but Mel made no mention of it. “And I’ve got no say in things, I figure,” he said.

  “I’m afraid not,” El
liott said. “But with any luck we’ll be moving on soon.”

  “All right, then. But tell your people not to make too big a mess, and don’t go stealing things.”

  “I can’t guarantee that. But let me apologize in advance for any disruption we cause. War, by necessity, is a messy business.” Elliott managed to actually sound regretful of the imposition. “We’ll need you to keep close by here, but stay out of the way as best you can. If a fight starts, find a place to hide and hunker down until it’s over.” Mel didn’t like the sound of that, not the fight part or the hide part.

  “Hopefully at some point we’ll be able to let you leave, or move on ourselves. But not right now. We’ll want to make sure there’s no chance that you’ll alert the enemy to our presence.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Mel said. “This is my place.”

  Some of the horsemen gathered around the leader began to disperse toward the arriving columns of men. Others scattered around the farm, and the rest came forward with the leader as he rode up toward Mel’s cabin.

  “Major Elliott, have someone take Ranger and the other horses over to that barn back there and see what feed can be found for them. We’ll have some of that fresh meat for supper, and divide the rest among the junior officers. I’m sure there’s other livestock around here to meet the needs of the men.”

  “The hell you say!” Mel stormed, taking a menacing step toward the mounted men. Several sidearms were drawn, and Mel stopped in his tracks. These men were soldiers, and he realized that they wouldn’t draw a quick breath before killing him if he gave them reason enough. Killing was what they’d come here to do.

  “Colonel Mayfield, this is Melvin Carroll, the landowner,” Elliott said. He had shown where he stood by drawing his own handgun at the first sign of threat from Mel.

  Mayfield looked down at Mel as if acknowledging some annoying critter. “I regret the imposition, Mr. Carroll,” he said. Unlike Elliott, it was clear that he didn’t regret a damned thing. “But this is war, sir. My first duty is to my mission and the welfare of my men. They must prepare for what’s ahead. We will take what we need and do what we must, and if you don’t like it, then you can be damned, sir.” Mel considered what a pure pleasure it would be to haul this high-toned old man down from the saddle, grab him by that skinny chicken neck, and give it a quick twist.

  Down below they just kept coming. It seemed like the columns would never end. When the open ground around the house, barn, and outbuildings was littered with them, they began to spill into the thirty-acre lower field, oblivious of the long straight rows of corn shoots that had only this week risen a few inches out of the ground. That last rain was what they had needed to make a promising start. But Mel could see that by the time this lot cleared out there wouldn’t be a stalk left standing.

  “You’ll ruin me, mister,” Mel announced simply.

  “Nonetheless, Mr. Carroll,” the colonel told him coldly. There was no need for him to say more.

  Mel did a little quick figuring. It would be too late to replant the whole field, but he might make a late planting in the best soil. But where would the seed come from? He’d used up about all he’d saved from last year’s crop for the first planting. He still had the bags he’d set aside to grind into meal, but that wasn’t nearly enough.

  “And where the devil is Hess?” the colonel barked as he stepped down out of the saddle.

  The question alarmed Mel because at first he thought it was directed at him. Then he realized the colonel was asking his own staff.

  “He should be reporting in soon,” one of the others suggested. “He’s been out four days now.”

  “That’s too long!” the colonel insisted. “We need intelligence right now about the location of the enemy. I’m blind without him.”

  “I’ll send another reconnaissance party out within the hour, sir,” Elliott promised.

  “Make it two, Major. One west and one north. I’ll hand Hess his own head when he does show up. What’s the use of sending scouting parties out if they don’t report back when they’re needed?”

  He’s closer than you’d imagine, old man, Mel thought with a sour feeling of satisfaction.

  The whole bunch stomped into Mel’s cabin as if Mel had handed them the deed to the place. Mel was left alone on the porch, still not quite believing the catastrophe that was unfolding around him.

  Down by the road the last of the foot soldiers seemed to have arrived. They were followed by several cannons, pulled by plodding teams of mules, and behind the cannons came a long line of loaded freight wagons.

  Far down below, Mel spotted a man coming out of the pasture on the far side of the cornfield, leading Justice, Mel’s bull. Justice was so old and fat that he lumbered along behind the man without a sign of resistance, probably hoping there was a bucket of grain in it for him if he came along peacefully.

  In his reckless early teens, Mel used to slip down into the pasture, leap astride Justice’s back, and hang on for dear life. Justice would buck and leap like the devil had hold of him, but Mel always suspected that the bull enjoyed it as much as he did. Now his age and his ponderous size made it impossible for him to perform his duty with the cows, so Mel let him live out his last years in simple tranquility.

  “Poor old fellow,” Mel said to himself. He knew what was coming.

  When the man leading the bull reached the vicinity of the stopped wagons, he drew a revolver and casually shot Justice in the head. Justice stood where he’d stopped for a moment, let out a confused, mournful wail that Mel could hear even from up at the cabin, and sagged awkwardly to the ground.

  But what alarmed Mel even more was the realization that in that same pasture beyond the cornfield were two heifers, five cows, two yearlings, and maybe even two fresh calves that faced the same fate.

  There were hoards of men scattered across the place now. Every one of them had to eat, and the meager bounty of Mel’s farm seemed theirs for the taking. It was baffling to think that all he owned, everything he had worked for, as well as his parents before him, could be taken, eaten, stolen, or demolished so quickly. And he was powerless to stop it.

  Men were busy everywhere he looked, piling up long berms of dirt, cutting down trees for crude barricades, taking over his buildings, arranging their cannons, and laying out their camps.

  The meat he had butchered from Belle’s carcass and piled up on the table outside the smokehouse had been carried off in a dozen directions. They came and went from the barn at will, taking what they needed, or maybe only wanted.

  Every few minutes somebody came out of the cabin and hurried off in one direction or another, and others hurried in to replace them. Messengers, Mel supposed. But he knew that he wouldn’t be allowed in there—not allowed in his own home, in the cabin his daddy and mother built thirty years before with two mules, an ax and a crosscut saw, and their own strong backs.

  And here he stood like dried cow flop, just letting it all happen. Then an idea came to him. He might not be able to save much of it, but there were some things he could do.

  He walked from the cabin down to the barnyard, called Doc to the gate, and let him out. Nobody seemed to notice. The mule had a particular fondness for the acorns that fell from the oaks in the grove west of the barn, and seeing that his owner wasn’t calling him into service, Doc headed straight for the trees. With any luck, he wouldn’t wander far in the next few hours or days, and wouldn’t end up part of a team pulling one of those freight wagons when this lot left out.

  Next Mel entered the barn by the back door. The soldiers’ horses were in almost every stall, some of them fine blooded animals, munching on his stores of corn, oats and hay. He fit right in with the men coming and going from the barn, and nobody paid him any mind. These men might call themselves soldiers of one kind or another, but few of them had on even any pieces of a uniform. Most wore simple work clothes and boots, much like his own.

  He stopped to watch two men with crowbars, his of course, ripping boards off t
he side of the barn.

  “I don’t care what they say,” one of the men grumbled as they worked. With his unruly shock of brownish blond hair, and skinny wrists and ankles protruding a little too far out of frayed sleeves and cuffs, he reminded Mel of a walking, talking scarecrow. “They oughtn’t to split the brigade up like this. One regiment here, another one up north someplace, and two on west. They shoulda kept us together, I say, so we could whup anybody in our way.”

  “I heard there’s ten, maybe twelve thousand of them Missouri boys headed down thisaway,” the other man said. He had a wiry tangle of reddish hair and a face deeply pocked from some childhood disease.

  “More like twenty thousand, so this lieutenant told me,” Scarecrow corrected.

  “And here we are, only thirteen hunnert of us, sitting right astraddle of the road they’re marching down.”

  “Yup. If they head thisaway, they’ll slice through us like a plow through an anthill.”

  Looking around at how full his place was with only something over a thousand men there, it was hard for Mel to imagine what the farm might look like after twenty thousand men fought over it.

  The barn was nearly stripped of tools, feed, tack, and anything else that might be even remotely useful or worth stealing. But they hadn’t completely ransacked the small workroom in one back corner, and Mel found the one tool he needed. The wire cutters were where he always kept them, on the top shelf above the workbench. He dropped them into a trousers pocket and left.

  On the crest of the rise north of the house and barn, crews of sweating men were assembling a long barricade of wood, dirt, and anything else they could lay their hands on. Behind that they were digging a long trench four feet wide and three feet deep. To build the barricade, they had cut down a line of tall, straight pines that Mel’s daddy had planted close together twenty years ago as a windbreak for the cabin. Mel hated to lose those trees, but at least they would provide him with winter wood close to the house. And he could replant the windbreak.

  Beyond the barricade, White Tail Valley stretched away in the distance. It was a beautiful, grass-covered valley bounded on either side by rolling, wooded hillsides. It stretched north from the Carroll farm for a mile or more, then swept west in a long arc, where it continued for many more miles. Before the government cut the road through south of the farm a few years after Mel’s parents settled here, White Tail Valley had been a natural route for folks in these parts to travel from one place to another, as it had been for the Indians before them.