Coyote Ugly

by Pati Nagle

  “Who’s that he’s talking with? Longstreet?” asked Buck.

  “I think it’s A. P. Hill,” said Ball.

  “Isn’t Hill shorter than that?”

  “He’s on horseback, it’s hard to tell.”

  The two generals withdrew a bit from the throng. Ball restrained his young friend from trying to get close enough to hear their discussion.

  “They’ll clap you in irons, you fool!” Ball hissed.

  “We mustn’t have that,” Judge Lemmik remarked, joining his volunteers by Hoke’s store. “I believe I’ll need you to run that errand today, Buck.”

  “Right now?” Buck asked, his eyes a-glitter with excitement.

  “Possibly. Let’s see which way the wind blows.”

  They all looked toward the two Confederate generals. As they watched, a third general joined them, tall in the saddle.

  “That’s Longstreet,” said Buck and Ball together.

  The judge nodded, and softly said, “Don’t appear too interested, boys.” He ambled a few steps away to talk with some of the other citizens who were out to watch the show.

  Ball turned his back to the Confederates, shot Buck a glance full of warning, and proceeded to examine the goods in Hoke’s window. Buck took some dice from his pocket and squatted to toss them, but he didn’t take his eyes off the Rebel generals.

  ~

  “Will, your mother doesn’t like you being up here,” Captain Swenk said from the top step of the stairs. Young Mr. Bannister knelt on the floor of the cupola, peeping over the rail at the crowded town below.

  “She wouldn’t mind if she came up here and saw it,” Will said. “I counted thirty-six flags so far.”

  “That’s excellent,” the captain said, placing a hand on Will’s shoulder as he joined him to peer down at the Rebels. “But you ought to come down now.”

  Will looked up at the captain, who wore a slightly strained expression. The boy made no protest, but quietly gathered up his pencils and notebook. Captain Swenk, however, made no move to go.

  Below, in the Diamond, the conference of generals had broken up. General Lee rode forward, the column falling in behind him. In the center of the Diamond, the general pulled on his right rein, and his horse turned eastward.

  “Gettysburg,” the captain murmured.

  A frown creased his brow. Below, Buck McAlexander slipped behind Hoke’s store and started off swiftly through the alleys, heading north. Henry Ball paused to speak to Judge Lemmik, then followed. The captain’s frown deepened.

  “Come on, William,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  ~

  “We should go across country,” Ball said, dabbing at his brow with his handkerchief as he strode along the railroad beside Buck.

  Insects buzzed in the grasses and the tracks glowed dully under a sun dimmed by thin clouds. A haze hung over the valley ahead.

  “This way’s faster,” Buck said. “Judge said get there as fast as possible.”

  “Withers was caught on this road.”

  “We’ll slip off if we see any pickets.”

  “If we see them it’ll be too late,” Ball said crossly.

  “You don’t have to come.” Buck waved his arm westward. “There’s your farm over yonder. Don’t you want to see what the Rebs left?”

  Ball was silent for a moment, then said, “Wouldn’t your mother be alarmed if she knew what you were doing?”

  Buck merely grinned. “She knows it’s for a good cause.”

  No more conversation passed between them for some minutes. Mr. Ball glanced from time to time at his house and fields, but did not stray from Buck’s side. They walked quickly, and Ball was perspiring quite strongly by the time they reached the shade of an apple grove growing close to the tracks. The rail fence that had once bordered it had been torn apart and used for firewood by the Rebels who had camped in the neighborhood.

  “Want to rest?” Buck asked.

  “I thought you were anxious to go on,” said Ball with asperity.

  “Don’t want to wear you out,” Buck replied kindly. “You set a spell, I’ll climb up and look for the enemy.”

  “Get down!” Ball said, but Buck was already into the branches of an apple tree.

  From the south a tall figure was approaching, loping up the tracks. Ball redoubled his entreaties, but Buck refused to budge. Ball turned to face the new arrival, and his expression of displeasure deepened as he recognized Captain Swenk.

  “I’m glad I caught up to you boys!” called the captain, huffing cheerily. “You certainly made good time. Come on down, Buck.”

  “I’m looking for Rebels,” Buck announced.

  “Well, you won’t find any up there,” Swenk said. “Come along, I’m going with you.”

  “Won’t three men be rather conspicuous?” said Ball.

  “More so than two? I doubt it,” said Swenk. He glanced ahead to where the railroad crossed the Conococheague. “There was a picket at that bridge two days ago. We’ll be much better off away from the railroad.”

  “Mighty thoughtful of you to come and warn us,” Ball said, still frowning. “Those aren’t ripe,” he added as Swenk pulled an apple from the tree.

  The captain glanced at it, said, “You’re right,” and tossed it aside.

  A rustling and scraping issued from the tree, followed by Buck’s emergence. He landed in the road so close to Ball it made him jump. In his hand was his Colt revolver.

  “Put that away, you fool, before you hurt yourself,” said Ball.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Buck replied, aiming the gun at Swenk.

  The captain slowly put his hands in the air. Ball looked from him to Buck with an expression of fury.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I believe he thinks he’s capturing us for the Confederates,” said Swenk calmly.

  Buck grinned. “You’re sharper than you look, Captain. That’s exactly right. I’ll have your pistol, the one you keep in your pocket. Nice and easy.”

  Swenk handed over the weapon. Buck relieved Mr. Ball of his own defense—a wicked little knife—then smiled at them both in a friendly way.

  “Now you two walk on up to the bridge there where my friends are waiting. I’ll be right behind you, so no tricks. Ain’t fired this gun in weeks, and I wouldn’t mind some target practice.”

  Captain Swenk looked at Ball, whose fury had turned his face purple. With a shrug, Swenk obeyed and started toward the bridge, a good quarter-mile away. Ball walked beside him, frowning intently at the ground.

  Buck started whistling, which seemed only to increase Ball’s rage. Captain Swenk managed after some moments’ effort to catch Ball’s eye.

  “On three,” Swenk whispered.

  Suddenly alert, Ball faced forward and gave a short nod. A step, another, then he and Swenk turned as one and grappled with Buck, who yelled in surprise.

  The pistol fired into the air, Swenk having made it his business to grab Buck’s arm and direct it skyward. The three of them tumbled to the ground, Buck kicking and squirming.

  At last Swenk wrested the pistol away and placed the barrel against the traitor’s chest, at which Buck lay still. Ball, pinning his legs, looked up at the captain.

  “How did you know?” he asked, out of breath.

  “I only suspected,” Swenk said. “I didn’t know until he tried making a present of us to the Rebel pickets.”

  Buck’s eyes narrowed, but then he smiled wickedly. “Tried and succeeded,” he said, nodding down the valley.

  A half-dozen pickets were running toward them from the bridge. The captain frowned, then looked back at Buck.

  “Sorry for this,” he said, and fired.

  Ball flinched at the sound, then gaped at the awful mess the pistol had made of McAlexander’s chest. The youth’s eyes went blank, and a haze seemed to film them over.

  Ball worked his jaws, but only managed to say, “Wh-wh-”

  “No time,” said Swenk, quickly retrieving his gun
and Ball’s knife from the spy’s pockets. He handed the knife to its owner and dropped the gory pistol by Buck’s corpse, pocketing his own gun.

  “Come on,” he said, and with a glance toward the shouting pickets, took off running down the tracks.

  They sped along the cinders to the bottom of the hill, then Swenk left the tracks and climbed in loping strides up through the trampled fields of Ball’s farm. Ball kept up as best he could, the shouts of the pickets behind them and the occasional whiz of a musket ball serving to speed him.

  “Not my house,” he shouted to Swenk, gasping for breath.

  “I know,” called the captain over his shoulder. “The wood.”

  Ball followed him into a stand of oak that grew uphill of the house. The captain dropped speed, trotting through the wood, still angling uphill. The oaks climbed over the hilltop, affording some cover at least to their flight. Shouts came from behind and beside them now; the pickets were splitting up.

  At last they reached the crest of the hill and the tall, old oak. Both men picked up speed, the captain running, Ball stumbling downhill toward Mrs. Bannister’s house. The captain ran to the cellar doors at the side of the house and flung them open, leaping in. Ball, a hand pressed to his side, halted in the opening, gasping as he peered into the darkness.

  “Come on, hurry,” the captain’s voice called.

  Ball took a step down the sloping, earthen ramp. A jingling sound made him pause, then hurry forward.

  “Your mare’s been here all along?” he cried. “I thought the Rebels had taken her!”

  “Here,” the captain said, thrusting a bridle into his hands. “That’s Dobbin’s. I’ll get the saddle.”

  Ball moved to the plow horse’s head and coaxed him to take the bit. “Was it necessary—” he began.

  “Yes,” Swenk replied, tugging at the girth. “If I’d let him go he’d have betrayed Judge Lemmik and the others, not just you and me.”

  Ball swallowed, and nodded, passing the reins over Dobbin’s head. “Captain Swenk,” he said, and paused to clear his throat. “I’ve been mistaken in you. I’ve not given you the credit you deserve.”

  “I thank you, Henry,” said Swenk, his grin a pale glow in the darkness. “But we’ll sort that out later. You must get to Lemmik’s and warn him. Wait two minutes while I lead the pickets off.”

  “General Couch—” Ball began.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Swenk said, mounting the mare.

  He had to crouch low in the dark cellar. Clicking his tongue, he eased her toward the light of the open doors. A figure appeared to bar his way, silhouetted by sun.

  “Get inside, Will!” the captain called harshly. “Remember what I told you to say if the Rebels come around.”

  “Yes, sir! I’ll close the door for you first,” said the boy.

  Swenk didn’t answer, but urged his mare up the slope. By the time Ball had followed, blinking in the daylight, the captain was galloping over the hilltop.

  Dobbin heaved a sigh and began cropping the grass at his feet. Will Bannister stared at the horse and its rider for a moment, then grinned and tossed Mr. Ball a salute before shutting the cellar doors and running for the farmhouse door.

  Gunfire sounded from beyond the hilltop. Sparing a glance for the house, where the widow’s face peered indignantly from one of the windows, Ball urged his mount forward, riding for Chambersburg.

  ~

  Two weeks later, on July 10th, the only Rebels remaining in town were either residents of the hospital that had been set up in the schoolhouse or prisoners. News of the mighty battle at Gettysburg, a glorious victory for the Union, had set all the bells in town to ringing, and a huge crowd had gathered to watch the 4th of July parade despite its having been delayed a week on account of the Rebel occupation.

  Nearly every person in town was present to view the spectacle. Among the few absent was the grieving Mrs. McAlexander, who remained at home, packing for a visit to her cousin in Clarksville.

  Henry Ball sat watching the parade from a place of honor on the reviewing stand in front of the town hall. Beside him sat Judge Lemmik on the one hand and Widow Bannister on the other.

  Mrs. Bannister, upon receiving Mr. Ball’s abject apology for the peremptory borrowing of her horse, had graciously bestowed her favor on him, expressing the belief that, short of losing her children or her home, she could bear any suffering in the cause of the Union. If thoughts of the convenience of joining his farm to the widow’s—they were adjacent, after all—had occurred to Mr. Ball, he was gallant enough not to voice them.

  “Here they come,” he murmured to Mrs. Bannister, who gave him a fleeting smile in return before shifting her gaze to the parade.

  The grand finale, a hay cart decorated to resemble a row boat, with men pulling oars through imaginary waters as it passed majestically through the Diamond, boasted the proudly waving figure of Captain Swenk, dashing in the parson’s wig and a fancy coat covered in braid. If Washington had not crossed the Delaware in company with two small children—one a young scamp tootling on a fife and wearing a gory bandage about his brow, the other a pretty child in her best Sunday dress—none of the observers seemed to mind. Cheer after cheer rained upon the captain and his two recruits as they were carried through the Diamond.

  “He makes a fine George Washington,” Henry Ball remarked to the widow.

  “He is too broad-shouldered, I believe,” said the widow, but she deigned to smile on him nonetheless.

  Creed of the Ælven

  Walk many paths, leaving no mark behind but of beauty.

  Honor the ældar and spirits who watch over all.

  Serve in good faith, with true heart, those who share the bright journey.

  Live in the world, giving thanks, speaking truth, harming none.

  —Creed of the Ælven, first stave

  First Love

  Eliani stared at the bard Ishanen, drinking in every nuance of his expression, every tone of his voice. One was allowed to stare when a bard was performing.

  At table it was discourteous. She had managed to be a little more discreet during the feast her father, the governor, had arranged to welcome the visiting bard, though not enough for her cousin, Luruthin, who had more than once nudged her beneath the table.

  Luruthin sat beside her now, eating pine nuts, cracking the shells with his teeth while the bard sang. Eliani shot him a glare but knew it would do little good, so she chose to ignore him and returned her attention to Ishanen.

  He was tall and lithe, with a voice like honey. He sat with his back to the great hearth at one end of the feast hall, pale hair glinting gold in the fire’s flickering light. He had his instruments around him—harp, drum, flutes, and the lute in his lap—and his audience, the most honored folk of Highstone and nearby Clerestone, surrounded him in a larger half-circle.

  Eliani had seen very few Southfælders in her short lifetime. All of them had fair hair and rich, brown eyes. Their exotic looks intrigued her, and in Ishanen they were combined with grace and talent. In the space of an afternoon she had gone from being intrigued to being half in love with him.

  He was a member of the Bards’ Guild in Glenhallow, the largest city in Southfæld and the second largest in any ælven realm. Eliani had never visited Glenhallow, or indeed any part of Southfæld save for the Midrange Valley, where her father had once ridden with her when he was teaching her about the Midrange War. Midrange was within a day’s ride of Highstone and only just within Southfæld’s northern border, so Eliani felt it did not count as a visit to the realm.

  She dreamed now of going to Glenhallow with Ishanen when he returned to his home. Unlikely, her more cynical self concluded. She was only twenty-nine come Evennight, and her father would not approve her leaving home so young. He would want her to stay in Highstone until she reached her majority, at fifty.

  She would die if she had to wait that long for love.

  As Ishanen sang, she yearned for him to hold her, to teach her the ways of
love. A bard must know a great deal about love, for it was the subject and the inspiration of so much great music. She wished she could sing, so that she might join Ishanen, her voice blending with his even as their souls met in an understanding of their shared destiny.

  But alas, she had no musical ability to speak of. Her singing was more enthusiastic than precise, and though as a rule she ignored Luruthin’s protests whenever she was inspired to warble out a tune, she knew instinctively that she had nothing like Ishanen’s gift, and had best not demonstrate that lack to him.

  Ishanen concluded his song, and nodded and smiled in response to the gathering’s applause. He set down the lute and took up his harp, a beautiful instrument carved of whitewood, with vines twining up its curved front. Ishanen strummed a chord and Eliani shivered with delight.

  Luruthin turned his head toward her, then laughed under his breath. “This is sudden.”

  Eliani glanced at him and whispered back. “What?”

  “Your interest in music this evening.”

  Eliani glared at him. “My father is partial to music.”

  “But usually you are less so. Perhaps it is more the musician than the music that appeals to you.”

  “Shh!”

  Ishanen had raised his hands to the strings. As he began to play, Eliani breathed a soft sigh.

  His hands danced in the air, pulling rippling waves of sound from the harp. His face, deeply shadowed by the firelight behind him, took on an air of tragedy as he sang of a maiden whose lover went away to war, leaving her to weave a silken robe while she waited for his return. The robe became two robes, then five, then ten, and the warrior lover still did not come home.

  Eliani felt tears rising as Ishanen sang of the weaver’s despair, though she knew the story. When the maiden had woven ten robes, she carried them to the battlefield and learned that her lover had died in the war, whereupon she shredded the robes into ribbons and tied them around the conce that had been placed in his memory.