No Good Like It Is Read online

  Leaving Walls in that position for a moment, Matthews nodded to the grinning Sergeant Melton and said, “Jimmy.” He then turned back to Walls, gave him a casual salute, and said, “I’m glad somebody is impressed with the task I have. I was just sitting here, studying on it.”

  Walls dropped his mock salute and produced a sandwich from behind his back. He’d made it by putting some bacon between two thick slices of hard cheese. He now broke it, and handed half to Captain Matthews. “You so busy and important, you probably ain’t had time to eat. Make me your deputy commander, and me ‘n Jimmy will take good care of you all the time.”

  “That’s you, Dobey. Give, give, never take.” He grinned at his own sarcasm, then continued. “Want some brandy? Jimmy?” He poured both men some in their own cups, and studied them while they sipped.

  Captain Thomas McDougall Walls, U.S. Military Academy Class of 1858, was the twenty-seven years old deputy commander of the regiment by default, but in Matthews’s opinion he should be commanding it. Dobey Walls had more combat experience than any other officer in the Rangers. He’d grown up fighting Indians; his father had been a career cavalry sergeant, killed by Kiowas in ’52. After West Point Dobey had served three years in the cavalry out west before the War of Northern Aggression. When it started, he’d resigned his commission and rode south to join Terry’s Rangers as a private. A former U.S. Cavalry corporal named Jimmy Melton rode with him.

  Sergeant Melton was now thirty-three, nearly six feet tall, and weighed about 200 pounds when well fed. Just now he was about 180. He took a sip and said, “What’s up, Cap’n?”

  Matthews blew smoke and said, “Little while back, my daddy wrote and said since the Yankees left north Texas, the Kiowas was acting up again. You hear that?”

  Dobey replied, “I heard that, Doc, and I worry. My ma and my brother are still out there somewhere, if they’re still alive.”

  Matthews nodded. “I heard something else, too. My daddy said he was in Fort Worth, and some Mexicans was talking about trading with some other Mexes at a little post up in the Panhandle, on the Canadian River.”

  “So?”

  “Said they was a old white woman and a crippled man that owned it. Said some folks called the place Canadian Fort; others said Canadian Ford.”

  “Doc, you just trying to get my hopes up?” Dobey was pacing the porch and fidgeting now. “How many little stores in Texas is run by some old woman and a crippled man? Fifty? A hundred, maybe?”

  “Maybe. But Daddy said the locals called the place Balliett’s Post. Now, Dobey, that was months ago, but . . .”

  Dobey stared at Doc, stunned. Doc nodded, then continued. “Here’s the thing. Within a month, we’re gonna be ordered to join the rest of the Army of Tennessee, and go lay down our guns. They may take our horses.”

  Dobey looked away. “It’s over, then? All done? They’ll take our guns and horses?”

  Matthews said, “It’s over.”

  Jimmy Melton muttered, “Jesus,” and drained his brandy.

  Matthews sipped again. “Now, if someone was off to the west on a recon patrol, he wouldn’t know about that surrender order. Even if he heard about it, he wouldn’t know where to go. I expect he’d just keep heading west, trying to avoid blue suits and big towns. Maybe drop down into South Carolina, pass north of Atlanta, and pick up the Tupelo road north of Birmingham. I got a cousin in Tupelo might tell him how to get to the big river, and then get a boat down to the Arkansas River, and up it to the Canadian.”

  Matthews paused and handed each man a cigar. “Captain Walls, you are ordered to take a patrol consisting of Sergeant Major Melton and yourself, and recon to the west. Take what extra ammo and food you can put on a spare horse. I’ve written down a suggested route on the back of this map, along with my cousin’s name. He’s on the Corinth road, just outside Tupelo. Don’t report back til you hear from me. Tell Billy Johnson that I’ve promoted him to captain, and he’s to take over your duties. Sergeant Major, who should replace you?”

  “Patch Dunphy, from ‘B’ Company, but wait a minute. Why me?”

  “‘Cause I said so, Jimmy. You brought him to the Rangers, you take him home. Hell, he needs help finding his own butt with both hands.” The men smiled; everyone knew Dobey was the best map-reader in the regiment. Matthews continued, “Y’all leave as soon as you’re packed. My cook will give you all the jerky you can carry, with beans and extra canteens. We’ll be eating good for at least two more weeks on this captured Yankee stuff. Get moving.”

  Dobey stood, wiped off crumbs, and shook Matthews’ hand. He tried to say thanks, but couldn’t speak. Melton stood fidgeting, obviously agitated. Matthews said softly to him, “Listen, Jimmy, you’re not gonna miss any fighting. I’m gonna keep us out of contact til they order me to come in and quit. There’s only two hundred and fifty of us left out of eleven hundred, and we’re all from around Houston. We already whipped our Indians. Go help him with those Kiowas.”

  Jimmy said, “Yessir,” and turned to leave.

  Matthews said, “Jimmy?” Melton turned back. “I heard the shots. What did you do with the bodies?”

  “Medicos tried to save the girl, but they’d beat her too bad. I had the Yankees bury her and the old white couple. Put the Yankees in the well.”

  “Jesus, Jimmy. The well?”

  Melton flared, then took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “It’s dry, Doc. And if Yankee cavalry finds them two bodies, they won’t care was they deserters, murderers, or what. They’d hang some civilians or Rebel prisoners as pay-back. You know that,” he added as if speaking to a child. “Do you know the first one said they didn’t kill the old couple, and that the girl was ‘only a nigger’? Whose side they supposed to be on?”

  Two hours later, Dobey and Melton rode southwest.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  They were relieved to be heading home after four years, but they were not at all relaxed. The war was not over, and they needed to get through about 1,200 miles of Union patrols, Regulators and Home Guard looking for deserters, deserters looking for anything they could rob or steal, and farmers—angry old men tired of being robbed by both sides. As they got closer to home, there would be the added excitement of hostile Indians, bold after years of the white army’s absence.

  Though a small force, they were a force to be reckoned with. Under Dobey’s leg was snugged a Spencer carbine, and on his pommel was holstered a Navy Colt revolver. On his hips were two more of the .36 caliber Colts. In a shoulder holster hung a fourth Navy. The loading lever was removed, and the barrel had been shortened to four inches. It was a gunfighter’s pistol, his face had been scarred by it, and he was never, ever, without it.

  Jimmy Melton also carried a sawed-off Colt, but his was a bigger 1860 Army model, and he wore it butt forward on his left hip. He had another .44 caliber Army on his right hip, and in his pommel holster was a Dragoon Colt, an old four-pounder. The newer Colts were lighter and easier to handle, but it was a good spare, and God only knew how many times the Confederate cavalry had turned the tide in fights because of their extra six-shooters.

  In addition to his revolvers, Jimmy Melton had his Sharps carbine in a saddle scabbard. Like the Dragoon Colt, Jimmy had carried it and fought with it for ten years. His new main gun though, was a Colt revolving shotgun, and he wore it slung over his back, barrel up. It was a 10 gauge, five shot model 1855 Sporter, that until recently had been a hunting weapon for a Union brigade commander. After liberating it on their last raid, Jimmy had the Ranger armorer cut the barrel down to 22 inches; each chamber was loaded with “Buck-and-Ball”—one ¾-inch round ball, and six .31 caliber buckshot, on top of a huge charge of powder. At thirty-five yards or less it was a devastating weapon. The armorer had named it, “The Avenging Angel.”

  Both men wore gray jackets, and brimmed hats with the “Lone Star” emblem of the Rangers; their pants were light blue with a yellow stripe, acquired at Monroe’s Crossroads, along with their new plaid shirts.


  Draped across their bodies were leather slings, which could be quickly attached to sling-rings on the left side of their carbines. They carried large knives on their pistol belts; there were bedrolls, ponchos, canteens, tin cups, forage bags, and saddlebags on their individual horses. In the saddle bags were jerky, extra cartridges, tins of primer caps, powder flasks, razors, soap, curry brushes, hammers, horseshoes, nails, rags, socks, spare shirts, and matches. On the spare horse were a bucket, axe, shovel, two shelter halves, stakes, rope, more forage, sugar, hard cheese, bacon, a ham, jerky, coffee, a pot, a pan, apples, tobacco, rice, some potatoes, canned tomatoes, and more canteens, brandy, and ammunition. And a nice break-down fishing pole, with all the trimmings, another gift from a Union colonel.

  They were as well set-up as they could be, much better than for most of the last four years. Wounded several times, each had healed; they were hard and sound. Dobey Walls learned basic hygiene at West Point, and insisted on it for his troopers. Jimmy Melton long ago noticed that Dobey was hardly ever sick, and that his men suffered less sickness than those in other units, so he became a believer too.

  They could cover twenty-five to thirty-five miles per day without pushing. Sometimes they did better, but mountains and rivers and Union patrols slowed them down. Both men had captured some U.S. currency and coins on the last raid, and started with almost sixty dollars between them. By occasionally buying some eggs or corn dodgers from poor locals, they stretched their supplies and usually received excellent intelligence on that area.

  They had ridden and fought together for over seven years. They seldom had long conversations but when they did talk, they used an abbreviated patois, common in the South and West. Words considered unnecessary were simply dropped.

  “If he wants to talk to me, then he will have to come here,” became, “He wants to talk, he better come here.”

  And “Are you finished?” became, “Through?”

  “I’m not certain that he’s completely sane” became, “He ain’t right.” Or “This isn’t working so we’d better try something different,” might become, “Ain’t no good like it is.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Eleven days into their journey found them in northern Georgia, near the Alabama line. April was still cool in the mountains, and the smell of smoke late in the day brought them to a farmhouse.

  From sixty yards out, Jimmy yelled, “Halloooo, the cabin.” Ten seconds later, an old man sidled onto the porch with a long double barreled shotgun, and said warily, “We ain’t got nothing left to take.”

  Jimmy stood in the stirrups and yelled back, “We ain’t gonna try to take nothing. We’re pretty well set, but our horses could stand some grain. And if you got somebody can cook real food, we’ll pay for it.” Dobey saw movement behind the house.

  “War’s about over, and Rebel paper ain’t never been worth a damn no how. Y’all jes’ ride on back to Tennessee. My grandson’s in the barn by now, with a rifle, an’ my boys will be here in five minutes, if shots are fired. Jes’ ride on. Better for all of us.”

  “We are not Tennessee raiders,” Dobey shouted. “I’m Captain Walls, and this is Sergeant Major Melton. We’re the advanced element of our regiment, heading home to Louisiana. We have captured Yankee dollars. You don’t want ‘em, we’ll buy food at the next farm.”

  There was some debate with someone inside the house, and Jimmy muttered, “Damn, you talk good. So, we still saying we from Louisiana?”

  “Yup,” said Dobey. “Nobody needs to know where we’re heading, less they’re trying to capture us. The boy is behind that shed, with a squirrel rifle. You make him?”

  Jimmy nodded, and yelled again. “You listen—That boy does hit me with that pea-shooter, it’ll only make me mad. I’ll kill him, you-all, your dogs, and burn your house. Tell him to point it away while we yell at each other.”

  The old man made a decision, nodding his head to the person inside and leaning his gun against the wall. “All right, y’all come on in. Billy, come back round here and don’t aim at ’em no more. You hear me?” A barefoot boy, maybe twelve years old, came trotting to join the old man, who put his hand on the boy’s head and said, “You done good, Billy.”

  “Durn, Pap, lookit all them guns.” Billy was wide-eyed.

  The old man patted him again, shushed him, and said, “I’m sorry for being unneighborly, but them raiders has ‘bout wiped us out three times. Smokehouse emptied, taters, corn, my pigs—hell, they butchered my milk cow. I don’t know whose side they’s on, though they wear the gray.”

  Billy piped up, “Yeah, we had to get another cow, and keep her hid,” then yelped as his Pap pinched him.

  Dobey smiled. “No worry—we don’t kill or take milk cows. I might eat some buttermilk biscuits, though.” He dismounted and handed the reins to the boy. “Would you feed these horses for ten Yankee cents?”

  The boy looked to his grandpa, who nodded, so the boy said, “Yessir. Yessir.” He took the reins for Dobey’s horse and the spare, then looked up at Jimmy, who had not dismounted.

  Jimmy took one more long look around, fixed the old man with a stare, and asked, “No surprises here tonight, old man?”

  The farmer stared back, eye to eye, and said, “No, sir. Y’all will be fine. You can stay in the barn if’n you want.”

  Dobey believed him, but Jimmy pushed, “What about your boys who listen out for you?”

  The old man looked down for a second or two. “They’s both dead. One died of fever in camp, and this boy’s daddy was kilt riding with General Forrest in Tennessee, a year ago.”

  Jimmy softened, dismounted, and handed his reins to the boy too. Billy’s head bobbed, and he said, “Yessir. He were a hero.” A confused look came over his face, and he added, “But he were kilt by some niggers in a pillow fight.”

  Jimmy and Dobey both turned to stare at him. “Do what?” said Jimmy.

  Dobey just murmured, “Pillow. Last April.”

  The old man shushed Billy again, and told him to get on with the horses. Turning back to the Texans, he said, “He don’t understand. It were Fort Pillow, and they was a bunch of niggers in the fort, and my boy got kilt there. My sister’s boy was there too, and he came by an’ tole us.”

  He thought a moment, then continued. “Said he ‘uz wounded, but I seen no sign of it. I think he jus’ run. Said my Bill was kilt goin’ over the wall, so he couldn’t help with killing all the niggers when it was over.” Swallowing hard, he said, “Though I doubt my Bill would’ve helped kill prisoners no how.”

  Jimmy Melton stiffened again. “Even as they was only niggers?”

  The old man didn’t notice that Jimmy’s hackles were up. He shrugged, “Don’t know how y’all feel ‘bout ‘em. They ain’t never bothered me. I wisht I had one or two to help here, with my boys dead. But we din’t kill prisoners when I was in Texas, in the Messican War. Damn Messicans, they did, but we din’t. And I don’t think Bill would’ve, either.”

  “So—you fought in Texas. Against the Mexicans,” Dobey said. “You remember where?”

  “Saint Jack-Ass, or somethin’ like ‘at. Whupped ‘em, too. Took a passel of prisoners, and their general. Din’t kill ‘em, though.”

  Dobey smiled. “San Jacinto. Y’all whipped them good. Caught ‘em taking siesta, didn’t you?”

  “Tha’s right, by damn. Nobody ‘round here knows ‘bout it. They’s all sure I’m lying, or crazy. How come you know?” The old man was beaming.

  The excitement in his voice finally brought his wife, a skinny shy woman, onto the porch. Nervously picking at her apron, she whispered, “Is ever’thing all right, William?”

  Bobbing up and down, old William said, “Yes, Lottie Mae, it’s all right. These men know ‘bout that big battle I was in, one where I got shot an kilt some Messicans.” Turning back, he asked again, “How do you know?”

  Dobey started to answer, but Jimmy interrupted, saying, “The captain here was trained at West Point. He knows all the famous battles. Talk
your head off about ‘em, if you let him. But we’re both from Texas, and everybody there over six years old knows about San Jacinto.”

  Dobey nodded, looking at the old woman. “That was almost thirty years ago, and it was the beginning of the state of Texas. The general your husband help beat and capture was Santa Ana, and he was also president of Mexico. It’s a famous fight, all right.”

  The old woman just clucked and whispered, “Well, I never…”.

  William pulled up his pants leg to show a scar on his left calf. “Seventy-five caliber ball, from a damn old Brown Bess musket. I kilt the one who did that, though. Pistol ball in the chest. Famous, huh? Y’all are true?”

  ***

  After a meal of ham, beans, corn mush, honey, and buttermilk biscuits, old William said, “So which is it—Louisiana, or Texas?” He was grinning.

  Dobey pushed back and smiled. “It’s hard to live a lie. You caught us. Louisiana, if anybody asks.”

  “Home guard is all right, around here. But I’ll still tell ‘em y’all went due south. Wisht y’all could stay a few days and tell some o’ my friends about San Jack-sento, but the main thing was for Billy and Lottie Mae to hear it. You don’t know how much that means. An’ you ain’t paying for the meal.”

  “Are, too,” said Jimmy. “You’re too old and small to argue with me about it. I said we’d pay and that’s that. They wouldn’t likely even be no Texas, if y’all hadn’t come and beat Santa Ana back then. This here is a Yankee silver dollar. Let’s go outside and smoke a fine Yankee cigar.”