to his lips. Wes was seeing to the horses, and Simp gives a low bird whistle and waves for him to come over.
He tells us there’s soldiers coming by way of the creek. They’re only about a hundred yards downstream, he says, but they’re coming slow and lazy and probably just doing some routine patrolling. He figures they must of been camped pretty near us last night. His eyes were just dancing, he was so excited about what was coming.
“How many?” Wes wants to know. Simp says three. I’m ready to mount up bareback and get the hell going in the other direction. I hadn’t done a thing to the Yanks since killing some of them in Tennessee before they tore up my legs pretty good with grapeshot. I’d been walking like an old man ever since, but hell, I counted myself lucky to be walking at all. I didn’t want to give them any more reason or chance to do me worse than they already had.
But Simp and Wes are already checking their loads and talking about how to set the ambush. They quick decide to lay for them in the heavy stand of willows at the creek bend about thirty yards downstream. As they start out, Simp takes a look back at me, so I hurry over to my saddle and slide my Henry rifle out of its sheath and head out after them.
Listen. Ever since Tennessee—at a place called Franklin, where I got wounded so bad—I never could stand the sound of close-by shooting. I’m not exaggerating when I say it froze me up to hear a gun go off anywhere near me—large or small gun, either one. Hell, it still does, I ain’t ashamed to admit it, not anymore. And if the shooting went on for more than a round or two, I’d start shuddering like a cottonwood in a stiff breeze. Sometimes it was so bad I’d have to grit my teeth and hold tight to something solid to keep from hollering like a crazy man. It was something nobody around Pisga knew about me except for Jim Newman, who was a good man and who I was sure I could count on to keep it to himself. It wasn’t an easy thing to hide, but I knew that if the boys found out about it I’d never hear the end of it. I would of constantly been made to suffer and look the fool for their entertainment. It’s what happened to me when I got back home to Nacogdoches. It’s why I left there.
But what could I do now except go with Wes and Simp? It was the thing I’d been most afraid of—that the Yanks would catch up to them while I was with them, there’d be a fight, and I’d be seen to be a coward. Simp glanced back at me again as we made our way into the trees, but I couldn’t tell a thing from his face. I was feeling so damned scared I thought sure I was going to dirty my britches.
Just as we reached the creek bend, Simp and Wes suddenly stopped and took cover. I dropped on my belly behind a big rock and peeked around it real careful. My heart was pounding something awful and I couldn’t hardly catch my breath.
Then there they were. Just up ahead and coming at a walk alongside the creek. It was six of them. Damn Simp and his three. They were coming closer and closer and I couldn’t understand what him and Wes were waiting for. Part of me was praying for them to let the soldiers ride on by—and part of me was terrified that if they let the Yanks get any closer they’d sense right where we were. They’d smell us out. And all I’d do is lay there paralyzed while they killed us.
They were close enough for me to see the white scar running through the point rider’s red beard when Wes suddenly jumped out from behind a tree and fired square into his surprised face and knocked him out of the saddle. The others jerked their mounts around, yelling “Ambush, ambush!” and trying to double back. Wes’s Colt and Simp’s Sharps fired at the same time and another Yank fell off his horse and went rolling into the creek. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t stop watching. My throat was as tight as if somebody was choking me with both hands.
Wes’s pistol cracked again and a horse went
He tells us there’s soldiers coming by way of the creek. They’re only about a hundred yards downstream, he says, but they’re coming slow and lazy and probably just doing some routine patrolling. He figures they must of been camped pretty near us last night. His eyes were just dancing, he was so excited about what was coming.
“How many?” Wes wants to know. Simp says three. I’m ready to mount up bareback and get the hell going in the other direction. I hadn’t done a thing to the Yanks since killing some of them in Tennessee before they tore up my legs pretty good with grapeshot. I’d been walking like an old man ever since, but hell, I counted myself lucky to be walking at all. I didn’t want to give them any more reason or chance to do me worse than they already had.
But Simp and Wes are already checking their loads and talking about how to set the ambush. They quick decide to lay for them in the heavy stand of willows at the creek bend about thirty yards downstream. As they start out, Simp takes a look back at me, so I hurry over to my saddle and slide my Henry rifle out of its sheath and head out after them.
Listen. Ever since Tennessee—at a place called Franklin, where I got wounded so bad—I never could stand the sound of close-by shooting. I’m not exaggerating when I say it froze me up to hear a gun go off anywhere near me—large or small gun, either one. Hell, it still does, I ain’t ashamed to admit it, not anymore. And if the shooting went on for more than a round or two, I’d start shuddering like a cottonwood in a stiff breeze. Sometimes it was so bad I’d have to grit my teeth and hold tight to something solid to keep from hollering like a crazy man. It was something nobody around Pisga knew about me except for Jim Newman, who was a good man and who I was sure I could count on to keep it to himself. It wasn’t an easy thing to hide, but I knew that if the boys found out about it I’d never hear the end of it. I would of constantly been made to suffer and look the fool for their entertainment. It’s what happened to me when I got back home to Nacogdoches. It’s why I left there.
But what could I do now except go with Wes and Simp? It was the thing I’d been most afraid of—that the Yanks would catch up to them while I was with them, there’d be a fight, and I’d be seen to be a coward. Simp glanced back at me again as we made our way into the trees, but I couldn’t tell a thing from his face. I was feeling so damned scared I thought sure I was going to dirty my britches.
Just as we reached the creek bend, Simp and Wes suddenly stopped and took cover. I dropped on my belly behind a big rock and peeked around it real careful. My heart was pounding something awful and I couldn’t hardly catch my breath.
Then there they were. Just up ahead and coming at a walk alongside the creek. It was six of them. Damn Simp and his three. They were coming closer and closer and I couldn’t understand what him and Wes were waiting for. Part of me was praying for them to let the soldiers ride on by—and part of me was terrified that if they let the Yanks get any closer they’d sense right where we were. They’d smell us out. And all I’d do is lay there paralyzed while they killed us.
They were close enough for me to see the white scar running through the point rider’s red beard when Wes suddenly jumped out from behind a tree and fired square into his surprised face and knocked him out of the saddle. The others jerked their mounts around, yelling “Ambush, ambush!” and trying to double back. Wes’s Colt and Simp’s Sharps fired at the same time and another Yank fell off his horse and went rolling into the creek. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t stop watching. My throat was as tight as if somebody was choking me with both hands.
Wes’s pistol cracked again and a horse went
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