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  “Don’ shoot. Pleeeze, don’ shoot us.”

  “Lawdy, mercy, doan kill my babies.”

  “Wait now, Massa, us ain’t armed.”

  All were begging at once, until a fat woman stepped forward and said, “No need fo’ this. Us ain’t stealing nuthin, an’ us ain’t contraband no mo’. War’s over, and us is free.”

  “Where are your menfolk?”

  “They gone to try and find us some food.”

  Dobey took a deep breath, then de-cocked and holstered his pistol. Slowly, Jimmy followed suit. Dobey dismounted, and faced the defiant fat woman.

  “No trouble from us. We’re just getting out of the storm. The war is over, and we’re on our way home—to, uh, Louisiana.” He was interrupted by a nearby blast of lightning and thunder. “Let’s just mind our own business, and we’ll be riding on when this quits.”

  Mollified, the fat woman said, “Dat’s all right, den.”

  One hour after full dark, screams from the Negroes brought both men up, guns out and cocked.

  “Snake. Oh, Jesus—big damn snake!” The Negroes crowded around the armed men and pointed toward the back stall.

  Jimmy eased back there, shotgun at the ready, and heard the rattler before he saw it in a flash of lightning. It was enormous: a blond canebrake rattler, coiled and shaking its tail furiously. Jimmy shot it. It twisted, uncoiled, and recoiled for a full minute before going limp. He grabbed the tail, and stretched it. Over eight feet long.

  “Cap’n, this thing is eighty pounds if it’s an ounce.”

  “You kilt that devil?” asked the fat woman, her eyes bulging like eggs.

  “Yes’m,” said Jimmy. “An’ he’s a big ol’ good one, or a good ol’ big one. Cut off his head, skin him, an we’ll fry him up. Plenty of good meat there.”

  “White folks eat snake meat?” She was incredulous, but hungry.

  “We damn sure do in Texas, ah, Louisiana. Skin it like you would a catfish. Go ‘head. We’ll start a fire.” He tossed Dobey the rattles; fifteen fat ones, three smaller, and the button.

  The storm continued through the night. The Texans, having dozed in shifts through the long night, were saddling up after coffee when the fat woman waddled over. “Y’all heading to the big river, catch you a boat?”

  When Dobey nodded, she continued, “Yassuh. Den you-all gonna come to the Weather’s sto’, at the little river first. Dey good folks.”

  “They? Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Yassuh. Ol’ man Weathers and his fambly. Good folks. Dey hepped us wif some food.”

  Jimmy gave the former slaves some corn bread and fat back, and the two men rode on. As they left, Dobey looked the fat woman in the eye and said, “Y’all might want to try Texas. I believe you’d do better there, though there are a lot of rattlers.”

  As they rode away, Melton jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Ol’ Mammy had some grit, didn’t she?”

  “For a fact, she did.” Dobey smiled.

  “Kind of took me aback, though, coming at us like we was equals.”

  Dobey thought for a few seconds before answering. “Yeah, how could she come to that? Us being so rich and well-dressed, and successful in our profession, and all.”

  “I take your point, Cap’n. But if you’re trying to make me feel better, it ain’t working.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Squatting in the road, Jimmy pointed to several hoofprints. “Looks like three of ‘em, heading west too.” He stood, stretched, and remounted.

  “Probably some more like us, heading home. Too few for a patrol. Still, we get to that store, we’ll go up slow.”

  The tension that they had lived with for most of the last four years had begun to ebb that morning—war over, nearing the Mississippi, heading home finally, a sense of survival started to ease in. All that was now erased again—they were on full alert.

  The road bumped against a river and turned left to follow it west through bottomland. A mile later, some fencing told them that they were nearing the store and ferry. A noisy creek crossed under a bridge, and raced into the river, a hundred yards to their right.

  The road itself continued west, disappearing across a meadow into trees a mile away. But just forty yards on the other side of the bridge was the store. Three horses were tied to a rail in front.

  They broke out their scopes. Dobey said, “There’s a house and outbuildings behind the store, over by the river.”

  Jimmy grunted. “Yeah. Well, those are McClellan saddles, some swords and a Spencer in scabbards, nice and neat. That’s By-God Yankee cavalry.” He unslung the shotgun, and checked the caps on all five cylinders.

  Dobey unsheathed his Spencer, half-cocked it, and levered a cartridge into the chamber.

  “Back off, and hide a while?”

  “Yeah. These ain’t Home Guard.” Jimmy reined his horse around.

  Unintelligible shouting broke out behind the store, freezing the Rangers.

  ***

  The storekeeper, a tanned girl in her teens, realized these men meant real trouble for her. She kept smiling, but eased toward the back door.

  “And just where do you think you’ll be going?” The sergeant moved to block her escape. “Heads up back there, Bailey.”

  Private Bailey, posted in back on watch, shouted back, “Man coming, Sarge. From the house, wif’ a shotgun.”

  The leader, a big man in cavalry pants and a buckskin jacket, grabbed the girl’s wrist. “Quiet now, missy,” he menaced.

  The girl picked up the cup of whiskey that he had set on the counter, threw it in his face, scratched free and bolted past the distracted sergeant.

  The captain shouted, “Stop ‘er, Riley.” He picked up his Henry rifle and moved into the yard, behind his sergeant.

  Private Bailey had tripped the girl and held her down with a boot in the small of her back. She tried to scream a warning to the old man to run.

  The old man, white-bearded, maybe sixty years old, fired one barrel of his shotgun into the air and shouted, “Hey there. Stop that, damn you. Get off my daughter.”

  Sergeant Riley turned and looked at his leader. “Captain Kennedy?”

  Kennedy cocked the rifle as he brought it up, and shot the old man in the chest, staggering him. Bailey fired his Spencer, hitting the old man in the stomach. He dropped the shotgun and fell on his back. The girl wriggled free and scrambled to get to him, screaming. Riley grabbed her.

  There was a stump table about three feet high, behind the store. “Bend her over that table, Riley. Help him, Bailey.” Bailey leaned his Spencer against the back of the store, and grabbed her arm. The big captain grabbed her hair. Shouting at her to shut up, they dragged her to the table.

  Kennedy laid the Henry in the grass and dropped his belt and holstered pistol beside it. He began unbuttoning his pants. “Pull them skirts up, laddies. You’ll have reason to squeal now, missy.”

  Dropping his pants to his ankles, he untied her pantaloons, pushed her legs together and yanked the underpants down. Pushing in between her legs, he grabbed her hips as she screamed and twisted.

  The redheaded sergeant grinned and said, “Tightly, now, Bailey. And will you save us a wee bit, Captain?” He twisted her right arm.

  Private Bailey gripped her other arm more tightly, but could not take his eyes off her twisting buttocks as his captain tried to penetrate her. It would be his last mistake.

  ***

  The shotgun blast, followed quickly by the crack of two rifle shots and screaming, turned the Rangers back toward the store.

  “That’s a girl, Cap’n—I’m going in. You coming? I think they’re behind that store.”

  “Yeah, Jimmy, but let’s do it right. There may still be three of ‘em. You go up the creek til you can cross the road, shielded by the store—I’ll go this way, and come up on ‘em this side. Have ‘em in a cross fire.” Jimmy nodded and plunged down the bank to the left of the bridge, just as Dobey went down to the right.

  The embankment was suc
h that Dobey could just see over it as he trotted downstream. In less than thirty yards, the drama in the back yard unfolded before him—haze of gunsmoke, a man down, a Yankee trooper, a sergeant, and a big civilian in buckskin dragging a screaming girl to a stump table, much like the one in Four Oaks but lower.

  As he watched, horrified, the men pulled up the girl’s skirts, and the big man dropped his guns and his pants. Dobey yanked the horse to a halt, flipped the reins over a branch, full cocked the Spencer, dismounted and went over the bank. Where the hell is Jimmy?, he thought, then, I can’t wait.

  The three men were thirty yards away with their backs to him, and were all focused on the flashing white of the girl’s bottom. Dobey jogged twenty yards at high port before the soldier on the left noticed the movement. The soldier let go of the girl’s arm with one hand and stammered, “Captain—look—hey!” He held up his hand and said, “Stop, there.”

  Dobey brought the carbine to his shoulder and fired. The 385-grain bullet went through the soldier’s hand, then his chest, and left an inch-wide hole in his back. He made a whuffing sound and fell on his back. Dobey re-cocked, and levered in another round, thinking, Where the hell is Jimmy?

  Buckskin pushed off the girl and tried to face the threat behind him, but his trousers tripped him. As he turned, Dobey shot him in the left arm. The bullet broke the upper arm, and shattered the shoulder blade. The impact knocked him sideways onto the girl again, then to the ground beside the table. There was a crunch as his right wrist took the full weight of his fall.

  Startled, maybe drunk, the Yankee sergeant was slow to release the girl’s wrist. At first he tried to hold her with one hand, and unflap his Remington revolver with the other. As Dobey blasted Buckskin, the girl pulled free and scrambled away. Free from the girl, the sergeant stepped away from his fallen captain, yanked the Remington clear and cocked it as he brought it up at the still advancing Dobey. “Damn you, Rebel,” he yelled, “I’ve got you beat.”

  Dobey started to chamber another cartridge, but it was clear that the Yankee sergeant would get off his shot first. Maybe he’ll misfire, Dobey prayed, as he closed the breech and brought up the carbine’s barrel. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

  The blast came from Dobey’s left, and the sergeant’s shoulder and jaw dissolved in a red mist. Shoved violently forward, the sergeant fired his revolver into the ground a half second before Dobey shot him in the left breast. He spun, and went down on his face. Dobey chambered another round and stood over him, but he was finished.

  “Took your sweet time, Jimmy Melton. He had me beat. Thought I was dead, for sure,” Dobey gulped in air. He turned his attention to Buckskin, who was on his side, groaning.

  Jimmy said, “They’s a wagon coming ‘cross the field. Had to make sure they wasn’t hostiles ‘fore I could come in.” He studied Bailey, who was coughing up blood and who had dug a small trench with his heel, his right leg jackknifing spastically. “This one ain’t got five minutes left. Eyes already glazing over.”

  Dobey said, “I think he called Buckskin here a captain, though he might have been addressing me.” He noticed that Buckskin was feebly trying to reach something under his jacket. Dobey pushed the jacket aside and saw the butt of a pistol. He pushed the man over on his back with the barrel of his carbine, and retrieved a Smith and Wesson Number 2 Army revolver from the man’s shoulder holster. He tossed it to Jimmy, then picked up the girl’s cloth pantaloons and carried them to her.

  “Thirty-two caliber rim-fire six shooter,” said Jimmy. “Barrel cut to three inches. Nice gun. Big Jack Talbert had one. Hell, this one’s serial number 555. Ain’t that bad luck, sign of the Devil, sump’n like that?” Jimmy was still breathing hard, starting to calm down.

  The girl had been studying them, crouched against the back wall of the store. She spoke up, “You think of the number 666. And that big bastard is a Yankee captain. They were in the store before they attack me. And Papa—mon Dieu, I forget Papa.” She ran to the old man, then wailed again when she realized he was dead. “Bastard. That bastard, he kill Papa too.” She had some accent, maybe French.

  Jimmy leaned over the Yankee officer and his eyes went hard. He nudged the man’s shattered wrist with his own pistol, and said “So, Cap’n. You like to have young girls, do you?”

  The man yelped, swallowed hard, and rasped out, “No, Sergeant—I’m Captain Kennedy, 15th Massachusetts Cavalry. I’m entitled to proper treatment as a prisoner. Where’s your officer?” He groaned, and tried to sit up.

  “Was my officer that shot you, you baby-raping son of a bitch.” To the girl, he shouted, “Girl—come here.”

  “She’s no baby, now—faith, she begged for it. That was all play-acting—and the old man, he tried to kill us. An’, uh, I can ransom myself, if you give me passage.” He turned to Dobey to plead his case. “Officer prisoners is ransomed, you know.”

  Jimmy shouted to the girl again. “Your daddy’s dead, girl. Come here and finish this.”

  She walked to Jimmy as if in a trance and stared at him, not understanding. Jimmy handed her the Yankee’s pistol, and said, “Finish it. Finish him, or I will. But you should—you’ll feel cleaner.”

  Dobey could see the comprehension override her shock. She nodded, cocked the .32, and shot the man in the groin. He screamed and bent over. Holding it in both hands, she cocked the little pistol again, muttered, “Bastard,” and shot him in the top of his head. He flopped backwards, convulsed, and was still.

  She looked to Jimmy for approval. He nodded, and she shot the dead man again, then again. She sobbed, handed the pistol to Jimmy, and walked back to her dead father.

  Jimmy said, “You’ll be all right, now. You did good.” Turning to Dobey, he spoke. “Might’ve never told you. Two soldiers from my own company beat and raped my baby sister, an’ her younger than this girl. I do hate a rapist.”

  Dobey looked at the dead captain, and murmured, “I’d have never guessed it.”

  The girl picked up her cloth underpants and started for the back door of the store, but the clatter of a wagon coming close at full speed stopped her. They all moved to the far side of the store to face it. Jimmy and Dobey instinctively spread out, and re-cocked their weapons.

  The driver, a young black man, bucketed off the road into the driveway to the home, then veered toward them when he saw them. The girl turned to the Rangers and said, “Do not shoot—is my mama and brother.” A woman jumped clear and ran to the girl, before the wagon fully stopped. She appeared to be a quadroon; light brown skin, mid thirties.

  The driver stomped on the brake, reached behind him and produced a shotgun, which he cocked and pointed slightly over Jimmy’s head.

  Dobey put the Spencer on half-cock, pointed it down, and walked to Jimmy’s side. “Easy, son. We came to help her.” He nodded at the man’s sister.

  The girl, hugging her mother, spoke rapidly. “Oh yes, Robert, is all right. But Mama, the Yankees have kill Papa, and try to take me, but these men have kill them, well, they kill two, but I kill their capitaine. Well, the big one there, he let me kill the bastard, an’ it was he who kill Papa.”

  “Shh, Honey-Marie. We are here now. All is all right, non?” Then in a sharp voice, glaring at the Rangers, the woman asked, “Why are you have your pants in your hand? Eh?”

  “Mama, I am try to tell you, the Yankee capitaine, he try to take me, from behind, the bugger, as the other two hold me, but I fight, I twist, and he don’t get in.” She spoke with ferocity, then added softly, “An’ then these men come and shoot them, but is too late for Papa.”

  The woman, turned to the Rangers, tears in her eyes, and said, “Merci. Merci beaucoup.” Rubbing her daughter’s face and hair, she said, “And now, go in and put those on. Shh—don’t cry. Go.”

  As Honey ran into the store, the woman and her son walked to the body of the old man. She sobbed; the boy knelt and put his hat over the dead man’s face.

  Looking around, Dobey took a cue from the youn
g black man, and walked over to put the dead captain’s hat over his naked bloody groin. As he did so, he noticed a belt under the man’s shirt. “What’s this?” he muttered, and pushed the shirt up with barrel of his carbine. It was a money belt. There was a second one, above it. Good thing I didn’t shoot him in the stomach, thought Dobey.

  He undid both belts, and pulled them free. Turning his back to the mourning civilians, he opened several pouches on each belt. They were stuffed with United States paper money. He walked to the corner of the store nearest his horse and said formally, “Sergeant Major, come here a minute, please.”

  Jimmy, who’d been searching the dead sergeant, picked up on the urgency in Dobey’s voice, and said, “Yes Sir.” He walked hurriedly to join his captain.

  As he turned the corner to where Dobey waited, shielded from the view of the others, Jimmy said, “Jesus, Cap’n, you ain’t gonna believe what I just found.”

  Dobey just stared at him with a dumfounded expression, so Jimmy continued. “That Yankee sergeant had over three hunnert dollars in his shirt. You think they just robbed these folks? I mean,…”

  Dobey tossed Jimmy one of the belts. “Put this on, under your shirt. Quick. Then let’s get the horses and be ready to ride. You bring the pack horse, too.”

  Jimmy opened a pouch, saw the money, and looked even more confused. “What in the hell have we stumbled on, Dobey?” He started to pull out his shirt.

  Dobey already had his belt on, and was tucking his shirt back into his pants. He picked up his gun belt and put that back on, too.

  “There’s thousands of dollars in each of these belts, Jimmy. The captain was wearing them. Must have been the payroll for that cavalry unit we skirted two days ago. I think these men were deserting with it. Let’s get ready to ride, and then we’ll finish the search. Somebody’s gonna be looking for these people.”