Raiding With Morgan by Jim R. Woolard

filled his nostrils and circled the corners of his mouth, said, “Sort of laggardly for Owen Mattson’s son, ain’t he?”
    â€œMore than likely he’s trainable, Cally,” Lieutenant Shannon said. “Ty, we arrived too late for introductions last night. Private Cally Smith here is from Georgetown. He was in the marble business with his father. The two hefty jaspers that wear out horses are Privates Ad and Ebb White. They’re from the Tennessee border and are best known for the quality of their corn squeezin’s.”
    Each messmate nodded as he was introduced. “Corporal Sam Bryant, in the spotless uniform and ruffled shirt, owns a candy store with his family in Lexington. These two bashful Texans are Privates Given Campbell and Harlan Stillion. They followed me into this cussed fighting. They charge blue-belly companies for the sheer hell of it. You already know Private E.J. Pursley. There may not be much of him, and he’s old as dirt, but he’s the finest camp cook in this-here army. He can have your mouth watering with a stalk of rhubarb and a pinch of salt.”
    â€œWhat’s in that skillet, E.J.?” asked Ebb White.
    â€œYou’re mighty lucky this morning, gents. Colonel Johnson’s foragers happened on a gristmill five miles east before daylight. The owner refused payment in Richmond greenbacks, so our boys burned his mill and helped themselves to five barrels of flour. And while the bunch of you sawed logs with Satan, I raided that big chicken coop over behind the hay barn. So you’re about to enjoy E.J. Pursley’s New Orleans ‘waker upper.’ Flour and eggs mixed with water and seasoned with salt and a dab of bacon fat. The Creole girls thought it was the hair of the dog after drinking too much champagne.”
    â€œYou going to talk us to death or feed us, E.J.,” Cally Smith said.
    â€œHe’s right, E.J.,” Lieutenant Shannon said. “If we don’t hurry it up, we’ll be short on time for saddling.”
    The messmates joshed and jabbered throughout their breakfast, eating from tin plates with twined forks. To Ty, they appeared a close-knit mess that avoided fussing with rank or authority when the occasion allowed. They would not readily accept strangers. You were one of them when they invited you to join their mess, not because of an officer’s order.
    Cally Smith said out of the blue, “That a Remington pistol you’re toting, lad? Like to have a look at it, if you don’t mind.”
    Ty hesitated, not certain how best to refuse. He preferred not to be disrespectful to any trooper, regardless of rank, but he wasn’t about to relinquish his revolver to someone who was not a superior officer, and he’d met just fifteen minutes ago, come what may.
    Ty’s hesitation riled Cally, who was seated next to him and saw nothing wrong with what he thought was a harmless request spawned by his natural curiosity about firearms. “Pass it along, pup,” Cally said sharply, thrusting his hand toward Ty. “I won’t steal it, for God’s sake.”
    Almost before he realized what he was doing, Ty reached beneath his tin plate, grasped the butt of the Remington, yanked it from his holster, and cocked it as he aligned its sights with Cally Smith’s chest.
    â€œSeems to me you’ve prodded a young rattlesnake mighty touchy about his pistol, Cally,” Given Campbell said in his burry drawl. “Down Texas way, that can get a man killed right quick.”
    Cally leaned backward, glaring at Ty.
    â€œAsk yourself, Cally,” Lieutenant Shannon said, tone soft and patient, “would you have dared demand that of his father?”
    The anger ran out of Cally Smith fast as water thrown from a fire bucket. The marble merchant raised placating palms and said, “No offense intended. I was out of my pen.”
    Ty holstered the Remington and offered Cally Smith his hand.