The Adventures of the Lone Jack Kid: A Western Adventure (Western Fiction, by Joe Corso Book 1)

by Joe Corso

  Also by Joe Corso

  The Revenge of John W.

  The Old Man and The King

  The Time Portal

  The Starlight Club Series

  THE ADVENTURES OF THE LONE JACK KID

  By Joe Corso

  The Adventures of the Lone Jack Kid

  Joe Corso

  PUBLISHED BY CORSO BOOKS

  www.blackhorsepublishing.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  All Rights Reserved

  Black Horse Publishing

  www.blackhorsepublishing.com

  © 2013by Joe Corso

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination, or if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  All Rights Reserved

  The Adventures of the Lone Jack Kid

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  CHAPTER 1

  August 16, 1862

  Lone Jack

  Jackson County, Missouri

  The Rebels had complete control of the little town of Lone Jack, which consisted of two stores: a blacksmith shop, a large frame building owned by Lucinda Cave, which had a large sign with “Cave House” printed in large letters hanging under the eave. The town had a few other businesses, including a post office, a saloon, and a few dilapidated shacks that the people moved out of when the war came to Lone Jack. The Cave Hotel was the butt of a number of jokes because it was an anomaly. The big hotel was situated in the middle of the small town and, if you tried, you could most likely fit the entire month’s supply of guests into it in one night. It seemed out of place in Lone Jack, especially now that there was only one person staying there. All the other guests had left for safer pastures.

  While the Rebs celebrated taking control of the town by drinking and carousing,, unbeknownst to them, a large Union force was bivouacked in three separate fields two miles north of them. The Commanding Officer separated his force that way, in case the rebels attacked one unit, then the other two could come to their aid.

  The war was taking its toll on Charles Longstreet. He was exhausted from lack of sleep, and he smelled like a dead fish because he hadn’t taken a bath in a month, but none of the other soldiers complained because they smelled as bad. The one consolation they had was that the saloon was still open. Longstreet stood at the end of the bar by the window, enjoying a glass of good whiskey; not the moonshine he usually drank back home. He happened to glance out the window and he saw a rider riding like hell into town on a lathered horse at a full gallop. Upon reaching the saloon, the rider pulled the reins back hard, causing his horse to dig his hoofs into the dirt, skidding to a halt. The rider leaped off the horse, tied it hurriedly to a post, and bounded into the saloon. He looked around and spotted Charlie standing at the bar, holding a drink in his hand. The rider ran over to him in an excited state. His eyes were open so wide that Charlie could see the whites surrounding his pupils from across the room. The man was breathing hard and talking fast, while at the same time trying to catch his breath.

  “Charlie, where’d the quartermaster move his wagon to? We’re in the middle of a helluva skirmish with some blue bellies just north of here, and Major Forster sent me back for ammunition. We’re running mighty low and he needs it now.”

  Leaning with his back against the bar, Longstreet asked his friend, “Why didn’t the Major send someone for the ammo earlier?”

  “He did! He sent Sturman for it, but he never returned. When he didn’t come back, Major Forster sent me to fetch the ammo, knowing I wouldn’t run out on him like that other sombitch did. Don’t you worry, though. I’ll meet up with that cowardly bastard John Sturman, and when I do, he’s a dead man.” Charlie was aware of his friend’s famous temper and he also knew the honor his friend had; maybe too much honor. Cole was fighting for a cause . . . Something he believed in, and he wouldn’t abide by no cowards. “Come on, Cole, I’ll take you to the ammunition train and we’ll get you all the ammo you need. The quartermaster moved his train around the corner near the alley in the back. He didn’t want to keep it out in the open. He was afraid that a lucky Yankee shot might hit it by accident and set it off. Not to say it can’t happen where it is now, but back there, it’s not that easy to hit. Come on. We’re wasting time.”

  After loading the ammo, Cole tied his horse to the rear of the wagon and rode out. As he sped away, he turned to Longstreet and yelled, “I’ll bring the ammo to the Major and I’ll see you later. Don’t you get yourself killed until I get back - you hear?”

  Longstreet grinned as he waved to his friend. “Don’t worry, Cole. I won’t get myself killed. I’ll wait till you get back.” He shook his head and motioned to the bartender for another drink, smiling inwardly at what his friend just said to him.

  Charles Longstreet was part of Colonel Tracy’s 1600 Rebs who were in Lone Jack, waiting for Colonel Joe Shelby, and Colonels Ward Cockrell and John Coffee, who had entered Missouri in command of one hundred men each and were heading to Lone Jack. Colonel Quantrell had been expected to arrive with his men, but after taking the town of Independence, Missouri five days earlier, he and his men stayed there instead, and looted the town.

  Union Major Emory S. Foster, with one thousand seasoned veterans, had marched from Lexington to Lone Jack. The Rebs got lucky because due to his eagerness to attack the rebels, Major Foster fired his two cannons prematurely, alerting the Rebels to the close proximity of the Union force approaching the town from the south. Now that the Confederates knew that the Yanks were on the verge of entering Lone Jack, they tried to quickly withdraw and leave the town to the Yanks.

  But in their rush to escape, the Rebels found they were surrounded, and the only way they could get out was to fight their way out, which proved difficult. As the day progressed, the fighting became intense, and it soon became apparent to both armies that it was no longer a battle; it had become a slaughter for both sides. The Rebels, realizing that there was no way out, fought with a fury and determination that could only be described in history books. In The Art of War, Sun Tsu cautioned that in battle you should always leave the enemy a way out. The Rebels had no way out. They had their backs to the wall and, with no way out, the weary Rebels had no choice but to fight harder. And even though they were outnumbered and cornered, they fought with a fury and determination that changed the course of the battle. They slowly began to make headway, forcing the Federals back inch by inch and step by step until the Yanks finally broke for cover, with most of them finding shelter in the Cave Ho
use. Others sought refuge behind anything that could afford them cover from the constant barrage of blistering bullets whizzing around them like hungry flies.

  The Yanks got lucky when they took sanctuary in the Cave House. It proved to be a good choice for them because it presented the Rebs with a problem. The Union soldiers found that by luck of the draw, they now had the advantage of height, and were presently sweeping the streets from the upper floor windows with constant volleys of death. It soon became apparent to the Rebs that because of the Yanks fortified position, the only way they could oust them was to burn them out.

  Charlie turned to see who was behind him and he found Cole crouching beside him. Cole saw the surprised look on Charlie’s face. “What?” Cole said. “Did you think I’d let you fight this battle all by yourself? Not on your life. I’m not going to let you take all the glory for winning this battle.” Charlie laughed at the incongruousness of his friend’s remark.

  “Let’s teach these Yanks a lesson, Cole. We’ll give them something they won’t be expecting. Go to the back room and get the turpentine out of the closet and we’ll make us up some turpentine balls and we’ll burn the bastards out.”

  “Good idea, Charlie. I like that. We’ll burn them out. I’ll be right back.” He left and returned a short while later with cans of turpentine. Then the small group of Southern soldiers began the task of preparing the turpentine balls. When they had enough, Charlie yelled loud so every man in the room could hear him. “I’m gonna burn those Yanks out, but I need some volunteers. Who wants to come with me?”

  “Count me in,” said Cole Younger.

  “I’m with ya,” replied Frank James.

  Then, Charlie heard a chorus of voices saying they were with him. Charlie turned away from the fighting and took a head count. Counting Frank James, Cole Younger, and himself, there were eight others. “Come on, boys. We’ll show these blue bellies how us southern boys can fight.” With that said, the eleven men surprised the Yankees by rushing out the door and making a mad dash across the street to the alley at the side of the Cave House. After arriving safely and from a concealed position, they began tossing their lighted kerosene balls through windows and onto the roof, hitting walls and floors, which caused the dry wooden structure to erupt in flames. The Rebs knew right away that the Cave House was doomed. So they turned and ran through a withering shower of gunfire, which unfortunately cut most of the brave young men down before they could make it back across the street to safety. Of the eleven men who made the run, only Frank James, Cole Younger, Charles Longstreet, and Jeremiah Brown returned safely.

  The four boys kept their eyes riveted on the burning building, expecting the Yanks to come running out of the building with their guns blazing. But those blue bellies were brave men and they decided to fight it out rather than leave the burning building and escape to safety. The Yanks earned the respect of the four southern men as they watched the building collapse, taking the brave boys in blue with it.

  When the battle, ended the Rebels counted more than two hundred Yankees dead and five hundred wounded. The downside was, the Rebs had about equal numbers in dead and wounded. Charlie, Cole, and Frank, along with the rest of the Rebel survivors, walked among the mass of soldiers littering the street, lying dead in grotesque positions. It took a little while before the Rebels realized that they had control of the town. They began the daunting ordeal of searching the dead Yankees for anything of value. In the process, the Rebs gained a number of needed firearms, which many of the boys could use, seeing as how they were initially unarmed. At the far end of town, Longstreet came upon a dead union officer lying on his stomach with his arm extended. In his hand, he held the nicest nickel-plated Colt Army he had ever seen. He reached down and pried the dead officer’s fingers from the gun, and pulled it free from his hand and examined it. He turned the cylinder clockwise and counted four remaining bullets, then he pulled the ejecting rod and emptied the two spent cartridges and replaced them with two live rounds. Then, from force of habit, he checked each cylinder again. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the carved ivory grips and the rich factory engraving etched into the gun’s nickel plating. He held the gun in a shooting position to test its balance. Perfect, he thought. Satisfied with his new weapon, Longstreet pulled his old Remington New Model 44 caliber revolver out of his belt holster and replaced it with his new Colt Army 44. Then he took his Colt 1851 Navy, which was a cap and ball revolver, from his shoulder holster and tucked it in his belt. He replaced the Army 44 with the Model 1860 that he took from his belt holster and dropped it in his shoulder holster. Longstreet wore his shoulder holster lower than most men. He adjusted it to a position where he could reach across his chest and have easy access to his gun, which made pulling the weapon easier and faster to shoot.

  Before the war, Longstreet carried one sidearm, but after joining the army, he carried two guns because with a two-gun rig he could fire twelve rounds at the enemy instead of the six rounds one gun afforded him. As Charlie was about to head back to the saloon, he noticed the Yank was wearing new boots. He looked at the ragged and torn boots he was wearing and he decided to pull one of the boots off the Yank to see if it would fit him. To his delight, the soft leather boot fit him like a glove. He put the other boot on and as he walked away wearing his new boots, he silently thanked the dead Union Officer.

  While the other boys were stripping the Yankee soldiers of their valuables, Longstreet walked among the dead Yanks, hoping to find another nice gun, but he had no luck. All of the weapons on the dead soldiers on both sides were old worn out weapons; the Rebs had taken any good ones. Charlie was satisfied though. He owned two of the finest revolvers a soldier could hope for. He started to walk away, but then he thought about the dead officer and he stopped. Officers always rode on horseback and this fancy officer was no different. He must have been on horseback. Maybe he tethered his horse somewhere close, and the horse was still there, waiting for its owner. Charlie backtracked to the dead Yank. He said to himself, “What were you doing on foot when you should have been on horseback? You probably wanted to fight alongside your men, right? So if that were true, where did you tether your horse?” He turned around, trying to figure where he would have tied his horse if he were the officer. Well . . . it would have had to be away from the fighting, so he looked south. That’s where you’ll be, he thought. He walked directly to the southern end of town and walked around the first building, but didn’t find a horse tied there. So he crossed over to the other side of the street and he heard a snort. The horse must have heard him coming. Ah. There’s where you’ve been hiding. He found him. The horse was a black sixteen-hand Saddlebred gelding with grey points. He was strong and quick, not an unusual horse in looks or stature, but as he was to find out later, the horse had exceptional endurance.

  Longstreet tied the horse to the hitching post in front of the saloon and went inside. As soon as he entered, he heard shouting coming from the bar area and when he looked, he saw the deserter John Sturman holding a gun on a rough-looking gentleman. “Well, Mr. Fancy Dan,” Sturman barked. “You insulted me and now you’re gonna die for it.”

  The man Sturman was pointing his gun at was livid, his face red with rage. “You sir, are no gentleman. You are a pig of the lowest type. If you didn’t have me at a disadvantage, I would teach you the manly art of fisticuffs.”

  “Finish saying what you want, loudmouth, and make it fast because those words will be the last words you’ll ever speak.” Sturman wasn’t aware of Longstreet quickly approaching until he was practically on top of him. Sturman suddenly sensed someone, but it was too late because as he turned to see who it was, Longstreet hit him on the side of his head with the barrel of his new Colt, which sent him flying across the room. This was wartime and men lived and died fighting their enemy . . . and sometimes they died fighting each other. These men faced death on a daily basis and they didn’t care if one of them held a gun on a civilian, which was generally not accepted in peacetime. But this wasn’
t peacetime and someone should have stopped Sturman before it got out of hand, and he did something he’d regret. But the men were too tired to give a damn - except this time, something was different. Though tired, they roused themselves to look first at Sturman, then at Longstreet. They instinctively knew there was going to be a fight and they quickly spread out so they wouldn’t be hit by the lead that was sure to fly.

  Sturman had landed on his haunches and after his head cleared, he rose slowly. “I’m going to kill you, soldier. Nobody does that to John Sturman and gets away with it.”

  Longstreet looked Sturman in the eye and said, “I don’t back down from cowards and deserters . . . so if you’re going to jerk that iron, do it now.” Sturman hesitated a moment, and then went for his gun, but Longstreet was faster on the draw.

  Cole Younger, who had been outside relieving the dead Yanks of their valuables, heard the gunshots and rushed into the hotel just in time to see Sturman dead on the floor and Longstreet’s gun, with smoke still seeping from its barrel, being placed back in its holster. “Good, Charlie. You killed the cowardly bastard and saved me the trouble.”

  Just then, the hotel door burst open and three of Sturman’s friends came rushing in. They had been looking for Sturman and now they found him. They turned their gaze from the dead man to Longstreet. “Who killed him? Was it you?” the man said, pointing to Charlie. “Someone has to pay for killing our friend.”

  Cole looked at the men, raised his hand, and said in a voice loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, “Don’t do it, boys. Sturman was a yellow cur, and a deserter, and you don’t have to die trying to avenge the likes of him.”

  The three men were full of themselves and they weren’t having any of it. They spread out, knowing they had the better odds, three of them against the two men.