Riding for the Flag

by Jim R. Woolard

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

An epic story of a nation - and a family - divided by fate, love, loyalty, and war....

America, 1861. Battle lines have been drawn between the North and the South, pitting state against state - and brother against brother. For the three young sons of Ohio State Senator Clay Bell, the Civil War would change not only their lives, but the destinies of future generations. Jacob Bell, the eldest, defies his father's wishes to run the family law practice and enlists in Ohio's Volunteer Calvary, a decision that wins him the love of an officer's daughter - and the hatred of a dangerous childhood rival. Judah Bell, the middle son, avenges a brutal Union attack on his uncle's horse farm in Kentucky by joining legendary Lexington Rifles - even if puts a half-breed Cherokee girl and his own family honor at risk. Jarrod Bell, the youngest, lands a job as a cub reporter for the Cincinnati Times-Ledger, determined to learn the truth behind his brother's seeming betrayal - even if it leads him into the bloodiest of battles.

Filled with intense human drama, explosive passion, and stunning historic detail, relive America's deadliest war through the stories of the brave men and women who lived it.

Release date: August 25, 2015

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Dismounted and afoot, they crept from the darkness, the barrels of their weapons glinting in the pale light of the late September moon. Hardly breathing, Judah Bell studied them through the cracked door of the horse barn. His uncle’s prediction had come true. Captain Hunt Baldwin and his volunteer Yankee cavalrymen were honoring their dire threats: They weren’t suffering another public insult from the acid tongue of pro-slaver Temple Bell, not without treating him to a loss he’d regret forever.

What Captain Baldwin and his night-stalking cavalrymen sought filled the stables of the barn and the paddock behind it. Temple Bell’s stock of Denmark Thoroughbreds was the envy of every horseman within a hundred miles. And the burgeoning conflict between Rebel and blue-belly armies made them easy prey as “spoils of war.”

The night stalkers’ boldness shocked Judah Bell. They were intending to make off with marked and registered animals belonging to a highly respected Scott County, Kentucky, horse breeder. It made him shudder that with the coming of the war nothing would ever be the same again. Decades of respected and trusted laws were being cast aside like winged seeds dispersed by the wind.

Straw rustled and Judah felt the heat of Asa Barefoot’s body. Old Asa, half-black and half-Cherokee by blood and solid as seasoned wood, was always nearby, watching over Temple Bell’s favorite nephew. Like Judah, he held a Navy Colt revolver and was fully alert, though it was their fourth straight night on watch. Asa Barefoot was without a doubt the only mixed-blood slave in Kentucky whose white master trusted with a gun. And he was an excellent marksman.

Keenly aware that others might be approaching from outside his range of sight, Judah counted six shadowy forms in the wan light. He rightfully feared bloodshed. Rifle at the ready, his uncle was stationed in a blackened second-story window of his frame home, a structure sitting to the north of the barn at right angles. Hunt Baldwin and intruders had no clue they were sneaking into a potentially lethal crossfire, and Temple Bell wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, if necessary, to protect his prized possessions.

Judah wiped the sweaty palm of his shooting hand on his trousers, waiting for his uncle to challenge the would-be thieves. When it came, Temple Bell’s shout carried far beyond the barnyard:

“Take another step and one of you is a dead Yankee. You have them in your sights, Nephew?”

Judah’s hasty response from the front of the barn was equally loud. “Yes, sir.”

Heads turning toward the unlit house, the shadowy figures halted in unison, their chance of surprising their victims evaporating in less time than a spitting of tobacco required. Judah stared at those he could make out, wondering which one would be the first to move or break the overwhelming silence.

The thickest of them spoke, undeniably the gruff, throaty voice of Captain Hunt Baldwin. “There’s too many of us, you secesh-loving son-of-a-bitch. You might kill some of us, but you can’t kill the eight of us. Not before we have a go at you and your family.”

Judah winced when his uncle let his temper get the best of him and further pinpoint his position. “You’re a bunch of shit-sucking Yankees, Baldwin, attacking at night like your kind always does.”

Any prospect of avoiding the shedding of blood vanished in a moment of outright madness spawned by the long-standing feud that had solidified a hate between Temple Bell and Hunt Baldwin that made backing down a fate worse than death. Eschewing good sense at the risk of his life, Hunt Baldwin screamed, “Shoot the secesh bastard,” leveled his rifle at the second story of the unlit house, and fired.

Ignoring any threat from the barn, three of the Baldwin men raised their weapons and loosed a round in the same direction. Bullets tore into wooden siding with sharp whaps amid the rolling thunder of the shots. A gun boomed from within the house. A red streak of burning powder bolted toward the sky, not toward a target on the ground, and Judah’s ringing ears heard a heavy object bounce with a loud clatter on the metal roof of the porch below his uncle’s perch.

Asa Barefoot clutched Judah’s arm. “Mastuh hurt or dead. We save you.”

A stunned Judah gripped his pistol so hard his knuckles throbbed with pain. “We can’t run,” he blurted. “They’ll burn him and the house.”

“Mastuh say he die, you live. Come,” Asa Barefoot said.

Hunt Baldwin yelled, “Judah’s at the front door of the barn,” just as hinges squealed at the opposite end of the runway separating the stalled horses. Asa Barefoot spun and fired.

Judah heard a shrill yelp of pain, and an intruder stumbled in the middle of the rear doorway and collapsed.

Without hesitating, the half-breed turned about, aimed, and shot at a moving target in the barnyard to freeze Hunt Baldwin and those flanking him in place for a few precious seconds, grabbed Judah by the shoulder before he could trigger his cocked Navy, and yanked him toward the rear entryway. “After me, be ready.”

Bullets thudded into the front door of the barn, imparting the need for quick movement, and Judah, resigned to the fact nothing could be done for his uncle unless they evaded Hunt Baldwin’s vengeful temper to fight another time, clung tightly to Barefoot’s heels. Just inside the rear door, the half-breed slowed, rapped the butt of his revolver against a stall door, yanked his hat from his roached head, and with his opposite hand whirled it into the darkness awaiting them.

A musket roared, the ball whanging the door frame in front of Barefoot, and then they were clear of the barn running between milling horses and scaling the planked fence of the paddock like scampering monkeys. Barefoot was fast on his feet for his age, and Judah was sucking wind when they reached the fringe of the narrow meadow beyond the paddock. As they plunged into the woods beyond it, a volley of bullets snipped the leaves above and around them.

Their destination was a ravine that straddled a never-dry creek. Abiding by Temple Bell’s wishes, Judah and Barefoot had stashed two horses, riding gear, a supply of grain for the animals, and a poke of human vittles in the ravine four days ago in case flight was necessary. Judah marveled at his uncle’s foresight. A veteran Mexican War officer deserving of his rank and medals, Temple Bell never underestimated the enemy, and he never allowed that enemy to take him by surprise or cut him off from a means of retreat. It had made no difference to Temple Bell that his sprung knee made it impossible for him to personally flee on foot. The patriarchs of the Bell family were expected to sacrifice whatever was required to sustain the family bloodline, and did so without hesitation.

Deep within the covering woods, Asa Barefoot dropped the pace to a fast walk. The half-breed negotiated the dark, winding pathway as if it were high noon. Judah seized the opportunity to fill his starved lungs with fresh air. His limbs were shaking from the sheer excitement of what he’d experienced in five short minutes, and it took several deep breaths to steady himself.

Judah mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. Had Hunt Baldwin stationed more of his cohorts behind the barn, the outcome would have been very different. Even then, if not for the shooting skill, decisiveness, and cleverness of Asa Barefoot, Judah knew he’d be lying dead on the barn’s dusty floor.

Yes, he thought with a nod and a sigh, he’d survived, but sadly, everything that had brought him to Kentucky two years ago had amounted to naught. The laming of the sonless Temple Bell had left him in need of trusted help, and Senator Clay Bell had dispatched his middle son from Ohio to assist the senator’s older brother. Until this fateful night, the arrangement had satisfied all parties, especially the horse-crazed Judah, for it had provided him with a legitimate excuse to avoid the career in the practice of law with its vast book learning that his father wanted for each of his sons.

“Will they follow us?” Judah asked Asa Barefoot in a near whisper, concerned, though it was impossible, that he might be overheard.

Without missing a step, Barefoot glanced over his shoulder. “They be after us in the morning.”

That left the question of what was next for Judah and Barefoot the rest of the night?

After the formation of the Confederate States of America in February 1861, support for the Yankee cause had grown steadily in the immediate environs of Temple Bell’s horse farm, and lingering in an area dominated by Yankee sympathizers who had once been friendly, tolerant neighbors to Temple Bell was no longer a wise choice for either Judah or Barefoot.

A widower, Judah’s uncle had relented once the growing tension between Kentuckians erupted in armed violence and shipped his daughters to Judah’s Ohio home for the duration of the war. But given the perils of traveling roads heavily patrolled by homegrown Union cavalrymen such as Hunt Baldwin, Temple Bell had decided to stay put and defend his Denmark Thoroughbreds on familiar ground.

Those same roads would be doubly dangerous for the fleeing Judah and Barefoot. Judah suspected Hunt Baldwin would claim that Temple Bell had fired on his men first, and he was certain the Yankee felled by Barefoot’s bullet hadn’t survived. The devious Baldwin would pin the blame for that death on Judah, making him a Yankee killer and subject to Union military justice.

So, if he’d been branded a secesh Rebel with no say in the matter, in which direction should he travel to save his hide? North to Ohio and his true home was too distant and required him to pass through too many miles of territory where every Union patrol would be on the lookout for him once Hunt Baldwin leveled murder charges against him with his superiors. From reading the local newspapers, Judah was aware that Confederate forces controlled areas of southern Kentucky and northern Tennessee. Those Rebel forces were recruiting heavily, and he knew their cavalry commanders wouldn’t turn down a nephew of well-known secessionist Temple Bell who could provide his own topnotch horse and weapon. South it was then, without delay.

And Judah needed to keep on the move.

The harsh shock and pain of abruptly losing an uncle he loved like his birth father hadn’t struck him yet, but when it did, he didn’t trust his ability to hold the grief at bay and maintain his composure. Mourning had to wait.

A snort and a whinny greeted Judah and Barefoot at the clearing. “That Jasper, he talks more than a flighty girl,” Judah said, drawing a chuckle from Barefoot.

The sorrel stallion’s red hair was so bright it had a dull sheen even in faint moonlight. Judah gave Jasper the expected rubbing of nose and pat of the neck, slipped a bridle over his head, saddled him, tied a bedroll consisting of canvas tarp and blanket behind the skirt of the saddle, and draped a set of saddlebags across the sorrel’s withers, his work quick and efficient from long practice. As he expected, Barefoot matched his speed in outfitting his saddled mare with the cotton sacks containing their camping gear. Judah had never found Barefoot lacking in his handling of horses, guns, and knives.

Judah had correctly assumed that, if all hell broke loose, Barefoot would travel with him. With Temple Bell gone, the half-breed’s sole loyalty was to the nephew of his deceased master. Judah really didn’t think it necessary, but he felt compelled to make certain he and Asa Barefoot shared the same page about how they must conduct themselves on purely Confederate ground, where folks believed the eternal obedience of slaves was inviolate and granting them their freedom was against the will of God.

“Asa, we’re headed south,” Judah said. “We’re going to locate Captain Morgan and his Lexington Rifles and pray he’ll let us ride with him,” Judah said.

A frown wrinkled Barefoot’s deep brown features. “You sure that’s best for you, Mastuh Judah? I heard Mastuh Temple say your daddy back in Ohio wouldn’t have no truck with no Rebels, not now, not ever.”

Judah’s answer was swift and firm. “After what we’ve been through, I couldn’t fight beside any man wearing blue, not now, not ever. A soldier true to his flag doesn’t spill the blood of those not in uniform, not if he can avoid it. My uncle didn’t deserve what happened to him simply because of what he believed. I can only pray Father will understand how I feel.”

Judah paused, then said, “One last thing, much as I hate to ask it of you, you’ll have to play Old Asa every minute.”

His destiny decided, Asa Barefoot flashed Judah a knowing grin. He understood the difference between the world of the Bell horse farm and what happened beyond its fences from decades of negotiating a careful path through the labyrinth of white disdain for those of another color. The absence of whip scars on his sixty-two-year backside was a stark testament to his acting skills.

“Never you worry, I be your head-nodding, do-as-you-asked, do-as-you-told Asa Barefoot till the Lord calls me home,” the half-breed said in a meek drawl, ending his impersonation—with a sweeping bow—of a humble servant who always knew his place.

“I swear, by all that’s holy, tamer than a week-old puppy dog,” Judah said with a knowing smile of his own, fisting Jasper’s reins. He bounced on his left foot and swung into the saddle.

Asa Barefoot mounted his brown mare and Judah said, “We’ll follow the ravine to the east, top out on Bishop’s Hill, and track south down Hanford Creek until we’re past Grayson. I’d just as soon avoid any more shooting.”

“Yes, sir, Mastuh Judah, you the boss.”

Judah took the lead. They crossed the ravine’s shallow creek and wound along the far bank. The walls of the ravine started shrinking within two miles. At a spot where a washout allowed them to exit the ravine, they located the narrow track that coursed over Bishop’s Hill. On the crown of that elevation, Judah spied a bright red glow amid the trees on the western horizon, a sight that riled his guts something awful. The wishful child in him had hoped Captain Hunt Baldwin wasn’t a total bastard. But the roaring fire meant he was burning Temple Bell’s house and his body with it.

There would come a day, Judah vowed, when he would look Hunt Baldwin in the eye and put a bullet in his cold-blooded heart.

How revenge could be sweet was an emotion that had eluded him until now.

The thought of tasting it warmed his soul.

Achill September breeze swept up High Street, ruffling the collar and skirt of Jacob Bell’s knee-length duster as he hustled through the front entryway of the Bishop House. At least he would be warm for the coming confrontation with his father. Twenty-two-year-old Jacob had never before gone against the wishes of State Senator Clay Bell on a matter of great importance to the Bell family. But he had now, and the consequences of his decision might cost him the love and goodwill of his father, which he cherished.

Jacob removed his duster and leather-billed cap and crossed the lobby of the Bishop House. Chillicothe being a fair distance from the Capital Square in Columbus, State Senator Clay Bell occupied the same commodious rooms at the Bishop House through the week whenever the Ohio Legislature was in session, a comfortable morning buggy ride away.

Jacob halted before the door of his father’s room. He could hear voices from inside. Senator Clay Bell wasn’t alone. Jacob’s arrival late in the evening, dressed in cotton twill shirt and trousers, and knee-high riding boots with a linen duster draped over his arm, would signal he had arrived on horseback from Chillicothe. His sudden appearance without prior notice, however, would perplex and quite possibly anger his father. Senator Clay Bell was renowned for his disciplined approach to public and personal matters, and he detested surprises.

Tomorrow wouldn’t be any more favorable to Jacob’s cause than this moment.

No one entered Clay Bell’s private quarters without knocking, company or no company. Jacob bucked up his courage, swallowed a deep breath, and rapped on the oaken door loud enough to awaken half the Bishop House’s clientele. He cursed his nervousness and waited for someone to respond.

The high-pitched voice that acknowledged Jacob’s knock was that of Ramey Knowlton, his father’s senior legal clerk. Ramey opened the door and stepped aside, his thin face showing his shock at greeting Jacob of all people. Clay Bell’s oldest son seldom left the family’s Chillicothe law office and came to the capital city only by invitation; Ramey knew none had been forthcoming.

Fifty-six-year-old Senator Clay Bell was dressed in a silken sleeping robe and seated in an overstuffed chair next to a marble-topped table. A writing board holding an inkwell and a stack of documents, awaiting his signature, lay across his knees. The door to the senator’s left provided access to his bedroom. Glowing coals in a small fireplace heated the sitting room. Made by a Cincinnati weaver from a pattern specified by Senator Bell, a woven rug displaying the head of a golden eagle against a royal blue background filled the middle of the sitting room’s wooden floor.

Senator Clay Bell’s older peers in the legislature envied his broad shoulders, deep chest, and tucked-in belly. He was more fit than most men half his age. Whenever Jacob peered at his father, he felt like he was staring into a mirror. Senator Clay Bell had bequeathed his three sons coal black hair, brows, and eyes; a straight nose; high cheekbones; solid jaw; dust-hued skin; and a mouth full of good teeth, features Grandmother Bell partially attributed to an infusion of native redskin blood back some generations. Many females of the current Bell generation, however, dismissed that contention as whimsical nonsense.

The sighting of his eldest son in the yellow glow of the sitting room’s whale-oil lamps did not wring a smile or a warm word of welcome from Senator Clay Bell. While no one knowing him personally disputed his love for his offspring, in Clay Bell’s mind only a family tragedy justified spur-of-the-moment night rides on horseback, and he responded accordingly. “What’s happened, Jacob? Has your dear grandmother passed away? Have one of the girls or your brother Jarrod been injured?”

“No, sir, none of that.”

Clay Bell’s brow lifted and his black eyes snapped, clear signs that his patience was worn thin after a taxing day on the floor of the Ohio Senate. “Out with it, lad. What could be worse?”

Jacob knew that it was imperative he own up to what he’d done. He had to trust that his father’s love of the unvarnished truth would keep his temper in check. It took every ounce of willpower he had to look Senator Clay Bell square in the eye and say, “I’ve enlisted in the First Ohio Volunteer Cavalry.”

The fiery outburst Jacob expected with his admission didn’t materialize. His father slumped down into his chair, motioned for Ramey to remove his writing board, and said to the clerk, “Pour me a glass of our nice red wine, would you please?”

Jacob stood stiff as a statue with his mouth clamped shut while Ramey removed the writing board from his father’s lap and fetched the requested glass of wine from a sideboard in the bedroom. Worried the excuse for his sudden decision without prior consultation with his father might sound childish and foolhardy, Jacob needed to know how Senator Clay Bell felt before speaking again. A wise bird didn’t foul his own nest in haste and diminish any chance of forgiveness and understanding.

Senator Bell sipped wine from his thin-stemmed glass and stared at the ceiling. When his hard gaze fastened on Jacob once more, Jacob swore his father was fighting tears, a possibility beyond his imagination. “I’m not disappointed with the decision you’ve made to enlist. I’m disappointed that you let your impatience overcome your better judgment.”

Straightening in his chair, Clay Bell cleared his throat, sipped more wine, and said, “I believe we discussed military service as part of the adjutant general’s office or Union staff headquarters where we thought your law degree and experience with court documents could best be utilized. Didn’t we rule out the frontline cavalry and infantry, or am I that forgetful these days?”

The slope on which Jacob was poised grew slipperier than water on ice. Determined to keep his composure and not falter, he quickly said, “No, sir, your memory isn’t faulty. We did rule out arms-bearing duty.”

“And why did we do that?” Senator Clay Bell said just as quickly.

Jacob’s nervous twisting of his cap bill threatened to rip it apart. “You said we don’t know what happened to Judah after Uncle Temple was killed, and you weren’t inclined to put another son at risk, if it could be avoided.”

“And how then, may I ask, with all the intelligence the Lord gave you and your penchant for detail could you possibly forget our understanding and proceed in the opposite direction?”

It was hold his ground for Jacob or fold his cards like a beaten gambler. “I don’t want to miss out on the fighting. I’m afraid the war will end before I can be a real part of it. I’m tired of sitting at a desk week in and week out. I want to taste the heat of battle the same way you and Uncle Temple did in the Mexican War.”

An acute sadness washed over Clay Bell, and his head lowered. This was the payback for Temple and his answering the questions of curious male offspring about their service in the Mexican War with depictions of cavalry charges replete with thundering hoofs, barking pistols, and excitement that threatened to tear your heart from your chest. Charges that ended with the exalted thrill of watching the stars and stripes rise into the sky above enemy entrenchments with not a dry eye in the American ranks.

They had unwittingly portrayed the fleeting joy and addictive danger of combat as eternally rewarding, not mentioning out of respect for young tender ears the dreaded scenes that gave them nightmares for years afterward—comrades with wounds spurting rich red blood, others staring at nothing with blank eyes, and downed horses screaming in agony. No mention was made at family gatherings of their whispered thanks afterward that they had by divine intervention or sheer luck, which did not matter, survived intact for yet another wild ride smack into the teeth of the enemy, wondering where they would find the courage to launch the next charge.

His thoughts sobered by resignation, Clay Bell lifted his chin. “What’s done is done and can’t be undone, and given the passion this regrettable conflict has aroused in men I once considered reasonable by nature and instinct, to renege on your oath would besmirch your name and that of the family.”

The tension that had Jacob’s nerves on edge slackened and he settled back on his heels. Voice quavering with excitement, he vowed, “I will not disappoint or shame you, Father . . . or my country.”

Clay Bell drained his wineglass. “You have always been dependable when it comes to discharging your personal and business responsibilities, Jacob, and I have no doubt that you will attend your military duties in a similar way.”

Placing his empty wineglass on the marble table beside his chair, Clay Bell rose to his feet. The black brows of Ohio’s most powerfully connected Republican senator bunched together. “Now, before we part company, I have a request to make of you. I know you young bucks craving military fame want to do everything on your own accord without any help or interference from old fossils such as doting fathers. Nevertheless, I would like permission to write the colonel of your regiment an introductory letter on your behalf. Contrary to the common belief that this will be a short fight, I believe it will be many long months, perhaps years, before the issues are resolved by a contest of arms, and, in my humble opinion, it would behoove you to start your service with a leg up where your regimental commander is concerned. Will you permit me to do so?”

Knowing he had but a few seconds before he must answer, Jacob ran through his mind what was likely to result from such a letter of recommendation. If the colonel of the First Regiment of the Ohio Volunteer Cavalry was amenable to receiving unsolicited endorsements of a new recruit, it could be of benefit to him. Of course, Jacob’s colonel might decide Senator Clay Bell’s letter was merely another example of an elected official using the power of his state office to promote his own son and trash it, hopefully with no harm done.

Jacob’s greatest concern about such a letter was negated by his knowledge that his fellow Company M enlistees from Chillicothe and Ross County were to choose their officers by ballot after their muster at Camp Chase west of the state capital. Therefore, no matter how flowery the letter, there was little chance Senator Clay Bell’s pen could exert undue influence on what promised to be a highly spirited election. A number of Company M recruits with high aspirations were already campaigning for votes prior to their arrival at Camp Chase, and Jacob didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with any of them.

“Please forward your letter, Father. I appreciate your support and thoughtfulness,” a smiling Jacob said, totally satisfied with events since his knock at the door.

“Fine, that’s just fine,” proclaimed Senator Clay Bell, extending his hand to his eldest son. As Jacob shook his father’s hand, he again spied that misty look in the senator’s black eyes. He had not anticipated how difficult it would be for his father to accept his enlistment in an active battlefield unit.

Senator Clay Ball clung to his son’s fingers. “And perhaps if the First Ohio Cavalry campaigns in Kentucky, you could inquire after Judah. Union officials may have word of him.”

“I will most assuredly make that inquiry, Father,” Jacob promised with utmost sincerity. “I love Judah as much as you.”

With that declaration, a solitary tear escaped the corner of Senator Clay Bell’s eye and his oldest son, astonished by his father’s public anguish over Judah’s disappearance, and wanting to spare him further embarrassment, nodded good night and backed hurriedly from the room.

Acrouching Asa Barefoot lifted his hand and pointed three fingers at Judah Bell.

Seated on the opposite side of their small campfire, Judah peered at Barefoot’s craggy, flame-lit face over the rim of his tin cup and raised a questioning brow. Barefoot touched his lips with the same three fingers, and the curious Judah kept quiet.

Judah strained his ears but made out nothing except the snap and pop of burning wood. If someone or something was out there in the dark, either one was too quiet for him to detect.

The half-breed slowly opened his four-button coat wide enough to gently tug his Navy Colt from behind his belt and motioned for Judah to do likewise. Judah’s senses came to full alert. Until Barefoot determined otherwise, the half-breed considered whatever he had heard or seen a danger to the both of them.

“Hello, the fire.”

The soft hail drifted from the trees and brush at the bottom of the hillside behind the startled Judah. Near as he could tell, it sounded like a young male had spoken. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and watched Barefoot, his Navy Colt pressed against his thigh, slowly rise to his feet, take a step backward, and disappear into the black woods.

Judah mouthed a silent, “Thank you, dear Lord,” when no shot rang out.

He was surprised that he and Barefoot had been discovered so easily. They had chosen the two-acre meadow bisected by a meandering stream and surrounded by hills on three sides as it was a campsite well away from the road that offered fresh water, ample graze for their horses, and a large deadfall that screened their fire from the valley’s open quarter. Yet someone had somehow crept around behind them.

With the hidden Barefoot covering him, there was nothing for Judah to do except call the stranger out. “No need to be shy or afraid. The coffee and meat and beans are hot. We have an extra plate and we ain’t contrary to feeding a guest,” Judah said, talking more than necessary in case Barefoot needed time to gain a better vantage point for what was to follow.

“But,” Judah warned, “if you have a weapon, it better have the hammer down and the barrel aimed at the stars or the ground when you show yourself.”

“I ain’t got no gun and I haven’t eaten for a night and two days,” the youthful voice said. “My stomach would be right grateful was you to favor us with a small serving of your vittles. Steady meals morning and evening of branch water and sassafras root wears thin right quick. Tell your man in the trees yonder to keep his finger off the trigger of that pistol he’s holding. I ain’t aiming to be shot when I mean no harm to you all.”

“No cause for you to worry lest you rile him,” Judah said. “Step out real slow with your hands up where we can see them.”

Judah didn’t move or turn his head. He waited patiently while their uninvited guest circled around him and confronted him the across the fire with his backside aligned with Barefoot’s Navy Colt.

A young male returned Jacob’s searching stare. Judah estimated his age to be about fifteen or sixteen. Of slender build, he was dressed in baggy pants, loose-fitting cotton shirt, and oversized coat, all roug