December, 2013

Issue #51

A Prairie Christmas Wish
by Tom Sheehan

They were lucky that the mule lasted long enough to haul in all the firewood from the forest before he fell dead in his tracks. And there was little chance that there'd be any presents for the children, two boys. The snow had drifted in some places as high as 8-10 feet, and the path to the barn was treacherous when any wind was blowing. Gerard Fiddler knew he'd have to walk with a shovel to be sure he'd make it out and back, the snow drifts moving, falling, shutting off what was almost a tunnel at some points. He hoped he didn't have to try it again before the storm stopped.

At the stove his wife Muriel prepared another meal of venison and bread, the stove hot and keeping a sense of warmth about them, her and him and the two boys that were still tight under a mixed cover of blankets, old flour bags, winter coats, a few furs he'd traded for. They could stay there for the day if they wanted to, Christmas on the doorstep, one day away.

She had one wish.

Camden Prescott, Gerard's friend, had been here in late September, setting up the wood supply against one side of the cabin, covering much of it with a canvas from the old wagon buried by snow behind the barn. Good old Prescott, who had pulled Gerard wounded from the field at Gettysburg, making sure the doc fixed him, and who had journeyed out here on his own dream and heard Gerard's name in town and looked him up. Prescott would keep an eye on him and the family while he was in the area. Prescott was always on the way to someplace; as he'd say, "Over the rise, and down the skies."

The two days on the wood stacking and covering had been an exhaustive effort and Prescott had made Gerard do his regular chores while "this hired help" does the wood pile. He went at it with a ferocious energy, pausing only for water and a lunch of prairie chicken and beans and bread.

"Muriel," he'd said a few times, "you handle the skillet and the knife better than any woman I ever met, I swear and dare." She'd blushed each time, another man in the house for a short spell, a different outlook on things, her hoping that Gerard would make a good stand against the coming winter. The last one had been difficult. She had high hopes for the next one.

Now, in its ferocity, it was here, and she was as thankful as Gerard about the wood piled against the side of the cabin, enough for the worst winter. She had wondered, at first, as Prescott took down a section of the side wall and put it back up, but knocked it in place from the inside, like another door.

"Why do that, Prescott, put those boards in backwards?"

She was all quizzical until Prescott said, "You can get to the wood right from here if you have to, if the winter is fierce you don't even have to go outside. That's why I'll cover the pile up with the canvas off the old wagon."

"The cold will come in as bad as ever," she had said, shivers running on her arms, Gerard nodding at the same time but saying nothing.

"I saw it done in a miner's place in Montana. It's a good trade-off for a day's worth of firewood, wouldn't you say, in a way?" He smiled that broad grin of his, his eyes lit up, asking for an agreeable answer.

Prescott was always thinking of people, of friends, and she decided he was a real good friend.

Now she knew, as the wind was kicking up again, that Gerard wouldn't have to venture outside for wood or anything . . . at least not too soon. They had flour and beans in the house and a bucket of oats and there was a cache of meat frozen in the box by a window. It was as simple as the access to the woodpile and offered a good trade-off, as Prescott had affirmed.

She only worried about Christmas and something she could make for the boys, but she'd been so busy with the storm on them and worries about Gerard and his state of mind. More than once, looking at the boys sleeping under a pile of whatever, Gerard had said, "What did I come out here for? Why'd I drag you, Muriel? You're the best woman I ever knew."

She worried about that part of Gerard, worried that it might break loose the small chink in his resolve. He was her man and she'd stick with him through it all . . . had done so on several occasions and was apparently at it again, the with the wind moaning outside. But she gave thanks that the roof was covered with snow.

"It's part of winter protection," Prescott once explained, "like bears look for when they go to sleep for winter. Once I saw a bear go into a cave up there in Montana and pile up snow from the inside across the entrance to the cave, so nothing could get in there in the winter and disturb his sleep. That's the most natural protection from snow, using it against itself. The Eskimos way up in Canada make their little houses out of it, and crawl in deep and go to sleep."

For the few days Prescott was there, helping them out, he told stories about everything he had seen. The boys were in awe of him and the stories, coming to them from a man who they believed had been every place and seen everything there was to see. He'd been on the great river and two of the great lakes up north of them, and in the war with their father and had seen the oceans on both ends of the country and told it all . . . in two days, even as he worked like a beaver gnawing down a new home out of the forest and "taking the prize right under your eyes."

"Isn't there a woman in your life?" she dared to ask another time. Gerard was upset at that, but Prescott said, "So far, for me, it's been one woman, and that's Mother Nature at her best and at her worst and I figure I ain't been denied and she never lied."

Muriel looked up at that, the questionable look on her face, and he hurriedly replied, "Not that she. Not to me." And the chuckle touched them both.

Muriel loved how he'd rhyme things when finishing up a story. It pleased her mightily, and she soon realized, in the two days, that he knew it too. He was a most handsome man, with blond hair that sat like a ball of cotton tight and curly on his head, blue eyes that could not tell a lie to anybody on the face of the Earth, muscles that showed on him from wrists up to hidden bulges, and music in his voice every time he spoke. Muriel knew he must have been swayable with some women despite what he said.

But the two days of Camden Prescott were long over, winter was atop them with its week-long fury, and no stopping in view. The aroma of baking bread filled the room, and she looked up at her top shelf. She was measuring what she had put by, what she had used, what she had left. In turn she looked at the small cupboard they had settled in one corner and each visit there was like going to the general store in town; it held much of her hopes for the time being. That was like saying it wouldn't last forever, or for the whole winter. She tried to avoid further thoughts on the matter.

But Prescott was gone and Christmas was coming to sit empty at her doorstep. Sadness hit her and she brushed it off immediately just the way she'd brush away a cobweb or a spider web that drifted down from an upper reach.

The doubts fell away when she recalled Prescott's smile. It was always a pleasant sight. Her gaze fell on the boys still buried in deep covers, probably measuring the temperature and how it would feel on them as they rose to get dressed. Each was smiling at her from their warm covers, their smiles more pleasant than Prescott's, like Gerard's, full of thanks as well as love.

Christmas without presents for them bothered her until she smelled the bread again, and gave thanks for its promise, and the aroma of venison with a burnt edge all of them liked pushed her into quick thanks for her husband's hunting skills and his dogged manner, even if it had brought them here to this place without presents for her children. Gerard, she knew, never needed much more than her in his life. She gave thanks for that, too.

It was in that one thought, in that one minute, that she realized she had forgotten to mark off the last spent day. This was really a day later; this was really Christmas Day. Muriel Fiddler almost fainted. She had lost a day. This was Christmas Day. The boys, without saying a word, knew it. Gerard obviously knew it, and had not said a word about it.

She was crushed. The meal she was preparing they'd had for three days in a row. She had not prepared anything different, anything extra.

As she shook her head, she heard her two sons whispering under their covers. Were they talking about surprise Christmas presents? Was their mother playing a game with them, being so usual in her actions? Was Gerard saying little but thinking much?

She didn't know what to do. Best to continue her day, their day, the way she was going. What else could she do but be the mother of the brood? The mother in the apron, at the stove, at meal preparation, at the real important things in life.

"You two stay under the covers until I tell you to get dressed." Insistence was in her voice, and they did not move.

Spinning on one leg, the knife still in her hand, Gerard looking at her as if he had lost the day already, she said, "Might as well get some more of that wood in here, Gerard, while I have the stove nice and hot. Best bring in a couple of days' worth. We'll use it up. The stove's really hot. Best do it now."

She spun back to her work. The two boys sank deeper under covers because the section of wall would be taken down, wood drawn from the pile, the air coming in like a small blast from the far north.

Gerard Fiddler, dreamer, doer, believer in most things, especially in his wife and his children, thankful for at least one good friend and comrade in this life, hastened to do as bid by his wife.

The wall boards, fully vertical all the way, came loose when he took down the three cross bars that Prescott had put in place. He had done the trick once earlier, just to test it out. The task was easy, and he was thankful for it, thinking of the snow out there. He reached into the pile and extracted the cut logs one piece at a time, sometimes two at a time, his hands feeling the cold come on them with a thick and penetrating smoothness, but no snow coming in with the wood. He almost had a few days' worth piled on the side before he stacked them beside the stove, when his hand, in another reach into the pile, felt something softer than logs.

He withdrew his hand, then reached again, touched again, and made a sound of surprise in his throat that made Muriel jump, fearing he had been bitten by an incredible critter. The boys had come to sitting positions in their bed across the room, tossing off furs, old coats, and flour bags sewed into severe thickness, ready for whatever.

All of them, Gerard Fiddler, his wife Muriel and their two sons, were frozen in place as Christmas, long thought to be absent from this day, came into view as gaily wrapped packages, four of them, one after another, fell into the room at the feet of Gerard Fiddler. His wife looked on in absolute joy, his sons too, all of them realizing that Camden Prescott had done it again, remembered something else he had seen, some special happening that made Christmas the special day it was supposed to be, even as the wind whistled again atop them, winter with a full grip.

Muriel Fiddler had her wish come true and she was sure that Camden Prescott had wanted his wish to be found on Christmas Day, just the way he planned it.

Justice
by Michelle Witte

Seems his parents knew he would be a lawman from the moment they set eyes on his blotchy, misshapen face. At least his mama did. She looked deep into his dark brown eyes, as though she could see straight into his head where his proper name waited to be called.

"Jury," she said.

His papa took one look and nodded. "Jury."

As with any kid who'd been saddled with such a big name, he worked damn hard to grow to fit it. He broke up fights in the schoolyard, and took care to bloody a nose or two while he was at it. Wasn't a boy in town didn't know Jury would not be deterred from keeping peace.

As a runt of a kid, I hid in the shadow of his protection long before he taught me to stand alongside him. But that's exactly what Jury did, though I can't say it was his intention. Even then, that man engendered loyalty, and always through his ever-watchful but intense gaze. The peace of that town belonged to Jury long before the tarnished star of authority rested upon his breast.

He started as a young deputy, but as his confidence and determination grew, so did his reputation. It served him well, for a time, though that reputation nearly cost him a wife.

Some say that old banker should've known not to stand in Jury's way when he wanted something. The fool didn't know any better, so even though he forbade the match, it happened anyway. While some might've eloped and run far from their troubles, Jury saw to it that everything was done well and proper. Even got the stodgy father to give the gal away, though no promise of dowry or money was ever made. Jury didn't care. He had his intended prize and was content.

Now Mabel wasn't an ordinary woman, either. To stand toe to toe with such a man-even on simple domestic issues-required a strong constitution and will. She had both, and plenty more. They were never doe-eyed sweethearts, but there were times when Mabel and Jury looked into each other's eyes from across the room, and you could see a beam of light connect them. Sentimental women called it love, but I think the preacher said it best: "It's a meeting of minds, just like the Good Book talks about. But this is the only time I've seen it so literal."

I reckon he was right, because the farther Jury got from Mabel, off on some search party or manhunt, well past the farthest reach of the county, that lightness in his eyes would start to fade. Came back same way, too: the closer to her, the brighter they got. At times, it was the only reliable way to tell how far we were from home after tracking down whatever was hidden or lost.

Then one manhunt, searching for a bandit wanted for robbery and murder, that light went out completely. We found our man right quick, with Jury turning bloody furious and fuming till the bandit gave himself up from fright. Had he not been sheriff by that time, Jury'd have taken off for home much sooner than that. As it was, we chased a bat from hell in the form of Jury as we raced back to town. But the light, it never came back.

No matter how strong and good and brave Jury was, there was one thing he couldn't stand against: Death. Some say Jury took that on as his mission, after Mabel died, taking with her the little blue boy just pulled from her womb. He became a zealot for justice, in life and Death. There was no justice for him, not on this Earth. But that didn't stop him from giving it to everyone else he protected in that county.

Maybe we should've known his fight with Death wouldn't end quite right. No one took on the destroyer without some damage to body and soul. Even if we'd known, none of us would've seen it coming in the form of quiet Mrs. Turner and her girls.

Her husband had passed some five years before. Together they'd created some fine-looking daughters, three in total. By the time Jury's wife had been in the ground two years, those girls had somehow turned to angels in the form of young women. Each as lovely as her sisters, they were different in body but not in spirit. When the family came to town for church or the occasional festival, the Turner girls captured the awe of every man, woman, and toddling child in those parts.

Maybe we should've known angels don't belong on Earth.

No matter. What's done was done, and the good Lord knows better than any of us what to do about it. Every man within a hundred miles took a shine to at least one of the girls, and more often, all three. While that wasn't a problem by and large, it became one when those Thomas ruffians first saw the girls. They were love struck, but that wasn't an excuse. Those boys were the devil's spawn, pure and simple.

After that first sight, they took to hanging around town more frequently. For years they'd contented themselves to drunken revels with whatever illicit woman they could conjure from the outskirts of town. Rumors of brutality and death followed them about like a half-starved mutt begging for some meat. But they kept those troubles outside the county lines, for though they might not respect the law, they feared Jury all the same. Then came the day those men stumbled upon the beauty of heaven, and hell had less appeal than before.

Jury had eyes on that band of miscreants, but he couldn't do a thing if they didn't do something wrong first. Jury was a man of the law, and he held to it, too, no matter the man or his crime. Everyone in the county knew that. The Thomas men knew it, too. So Jury kept watch and those boys kept to themselves and their debauchery for a time.

The girls, on the other hand, continued to grow in the grace of God, and their beauty rivaled that of all of the other creations. No spring nor mountain nor birdsong could compete with the perfection of these girls, and even God seemed to know it.

The oldest had the voice of an angel, opening the heavens with her righteous strains of a Sunday. Her kind words held even more power, often knitting together the pieces of broken spirit. She was near an age to marry, though her mama was as yet unwilling to part with her, despite the many pleas from hopeful men, young to old.

The middle child had the hands of an angel, tending to the weary with a touch lighter than the sweet air she breathed. It was she who nursed her papa to his grave after a horse threw him down a gully. Hands that holy could heal, and there was many a weary male heart in town that wished a touch from those gentle fingers.

The last, still on the cusp of womanhood, had the soul of an angel. Her bright gaze could bring the truth to the lips of even the most hardened liar. No man withstood her sight without some thought for penance. But no matter the sin, a mortal could not see a bit of heaven in her eyes and not be cleansed.

Death, though. He never likes men to have such treasures for long, and soon enough the blood of those Thomas men churned.

The blacksmith had a son. Big strapping lad with shoulders of iron. His arms beat at boiling metal all the day long, but at night they longed for a softer embrace. After much too long by his reckoning, Mrs. Turner accepted his offer of hearth and home for her eldest. He would continue in the business of his father and take it up completely once the older man passed. As such, he could provide all that was wanted for an earthbound angel.

None can fault him for celebrating, even if it did take him to a tavern and a barroom of drunken men on the seedy edges of town. A king among men for winning such a prize. They all declared him to have the devil's own luck. But the devil doesn't need luck. He has too many eager hands to do the work.

While a foolish boy reveled in success, a posse of the devil's own took to the hills that night. Not far out of town lay the Turner homestead, nestled in its own canyon Eden. A strong creek brought life to that parcel of land, and a pair of farmhands saw to it that the women kept enough cattle and grain for them all to manage the bitter winters. Too bad those hands were holding pints of liquor that night, toasting the blacksmith's son on the acquisition of an angel.

By the time those hands stumbled bleary-eyed to their work the next morning, they knew something was off. More than one something. The cattle had gotten loose. Chickens with necks wrung had frosted the yard with their feathers. The dog had been shot out by the fence, then dragged to the threshold and gutted.

Not even the sheriff could countenance the scene we found in the home. Mrs. Turner had lain hogtied and gagged on the kitchen floor while those devils went to work. Then they'd pointed a gun at her head and fired. Doc still doesn't know how she survived, even if just long enough to commit these scenes to our memories.

Jury held the practically dead woman's hand as life staggered about inside her, screeching for a way to get out. But that woman was stubborn, and she kept it rattling inside 'til everything was told. Stone-faced and solemn, the sheriff squeezed her hand as she spoke of her angels' screams, how they'd called out to their mother for comfort, which she could not give from her stone grave upon the floor. With the last of her stolen breath, Mrs. Turner demanded justice, and by all that was holy, in heaven and hell, Jury promised it to her.

Death came to claim the woman while we went in search of her equally broken daughters. Ever the innocents, those girls had been baptized in blood. Those angels wore their beauty, even in death, though now the veil of it upon them had become a shroud. No terror lined their faces, only the utter sadness that heaven wears as it greets the face of evil.

Our eyes downcast, we left that unholy crypt when Jury bid us go. We didn't question when he came out some time later, veins of red staining the cracks in his roughened hands. Nor did we need any words as we mounted up. Mrs. Turner had given damning testimony. We needed nothing more.

The wrath of God took a good hard look at Jury that day, and then sent him on his way to the Thomas ranch. The deputies followed, dutiful and diligent. A fire burned behind Jury's eyes, but it held no light, only heat and fury and destruction. Jury took the lead, and we were amenable to let him do so. None of us dared cross that gaze.

Always the devoted sheriff, Jury knew every sector of that county, committed it to memory, noted any change. So when he bypassed the main ranch and made instead for a small cabin higher in the hills, we didn't question. The Thomas men might be fools, but they weren't stupid. They'd left a watch at home below while hiding out among the towering pines.

Jury tracked those men more ferociously than any coon dog treeing a bear. Culpability followed them like a stench, and soon we surrounded a ramshackle cabin that offered little protection to the four brothers who would meet their maker soon enough.

God's own avenging angel couldn't have done more to enact the laws of heaven than Jury did that day. The rattling rain of bullets on wood, rock, and tree echoed throughout the hills. Pinpoints of fire burst from each barrel, seeking the spark of life of any vagrant soul it could reach.

A bullet to the leg toppled me to the ground, but even a chest wound couldn't stop justice or its champion. With an almighty roar, Jury kicked down the door to that cabin. Clouds billowed inside from the smoke of so many shots fired. A final crack concluded with a last wail, and then the silence of spent rage took its place.

Inside we found Jury, kneeling with head bowed in supplication, a pistol dripping from each hand as he spoke. "It is done."

Those guns clattered to the ground as we pulled the sheriff to standing. Unsteady but sure, he walked between us as we made our way back to the horses. Soon enough, a second wave of posse clattered up the trail, and we left it to them to clean up the devil's mischief.

Jury broke that day. Oh, he lived a good long while after that, but he passed the reins of sheriff along to me. He kept himself near enough that even a hint of rancor would bring up his hound dog nose and he'd be waiting at the front door as I grabbed my shotgun, ready to ride out. But he wasn't really alive after that. Avenging angels don't live. They seek vengeance, then wait until once again they are called. Dutiful servants to a just God.

Jury was ever dutiful. He was Justice.

A Horse Story
by Willy Whiskers, Constable of Calliope Nevada

In my occupation as Constable of Calliope it was common to make daily rounds. When the years caught up with me and I had to give up my job to a younger fellow, I did not mind much as he was a war hero; had been on San Juan Hill with Mr. Roosevelt. Still, old habits die hard and I still make rounds delivering telegrams and visiting old friends.

Savanna Sal ran her Peachtree Saloon for decades until age reduced her world to a small room above the bar. Her nephew ran the place by then and took care of her horses and carriages housed behind the bar. Even in her debilitated condition occasionally she would manage to make her way to the carriage house, have her great white horses hitched up and be driven about the town and along the lake. She was known for her carriages and that stable of majestic horses.

Always a sharp looking woman, she was meticulous about her makeup and even bed-ridden she put on her face almost every morning. Age is a relentless beast, biting with crippled joints and toneless skin, so in recent days her powders and masks covered less and less.

The one marring feature she had and battled constantly was the scar that ran from her right ear down across her cheek. As her wrinkles drew deeper the scar became more pronounced. The combination of wrinkles and scar gave the impression of a great river system, tributaries and all.

One day Sal was in a memory mood, so I took the chance to ask how she got that scar. Through the years this subject formed the basis of much debate and speculation. Sal always deflected the question with one fanciful tale or another; she got it in a bar fight, in an Indian raid, or some other ridiculous happening. At my question, Sal fell silent and stared out the window and off into the past as she told her tale.

"Whenever I think of our farm in Kansas, I smell the wheat freshly cut before the threshing. It was on a day like that when Papa came home with a bedraggled and emaciated foal in the back of our buckboard. I could not have been more than three, but I can see everything clear in my mind.

"Papa had Cherokee John with him and between the two of them they got this poor horse into the barn. It could barely stand. It had patches of bare skin; its ribs were distinct with deep furrows between each one and its hind quarters stuck out like a pair of spurs.

"Day after day and long into the night the three of us – Papa, John and I – would sit on the long bench in front of her stall. John was a master with animals, horses especially, and he had one Indian cure after another to aid in the healing. Many times I'd follow him as he gathered plants. He'd let me help dry them, mix them and fashion poultices. It was all magical to me and he always knew what to do.

"It took all winter, but by the time of spring flowers that little horse was romping around the corral. She was short for a horse, about 15 hands and not as robust as quarter horses go. Still, I loved her and took her care on as my personal responsibility. Even at four years old I carried her water and feed, brushed her, washed her and made up her stall with fresh bedding. Papa sat me up on her that summer and I was so proud to be so high up, riding along, feeling her move under me. She was mine and we were one.

"In a couple of years I reached school age and there was no question that I would ride her to school. While I was in class she would graze outside and we would catch glimpses of her through the window kicking up her heels or rolling around in a dust bath. When she came to me she was a dark black-gray, but as a grown horse she took on a steel gray color with flourishes of black whips across her flanks.

"How she knew when school was out I never knew, but as the doors swung open there she would be, ready to carry me home. This went on even into winter and on this one very cold day the kids were concerned about her and made such a fuss that our teacher relented and let her come into the classroom to be warm. I was never so proud of her as she held her bowels all day until we let out in the afternoon.

"The next fall or maybe the next Papa was stringing barbed wire in the south forty. It was more than one man could do so some of the farmers got together at the grange and set up work crews that went from farm to farm putting up fences.

"The hardest part of putting up a barbed wire fence was in the corner. The wire had to be taut and so the corner post had to hold a lot of weight. They drove a large post deep and braced it with diagonal poles anchored in the ground. It was very strong.

"We rode out to watch the work after school and on such a cool day I had her stretch out and run, letting her mane and my long hair fly out behind us. Nearing the men we trotted along the inside of the fence until we came to the corner.

"That's where we ran into the rattler.

"She reared up and bucked me off. I fell face first into the wire ripping this gash." She traced the scar with her finger. "She lost her footing and fell into the wire on her left side putting her front leg through the bottom strand. Trying to stand, she tripped and fell on her right side into the other side of the corner tearing a long wound in her other leg. Panicked, she kept doing more and more damage to herself until she finally broke free.

"By then Papa and the men got to me and pulled me up. There was blood all over me and they were worried, but all I could think about was my horse. She staggered around nearby and after me screaming about her some of the men went over to tend her. There was a great commotion among them and they brought the big work wagon around. Letting down the ramp they lead her into the wagon and we all headed home as quickly as we could manage.

"Mama wrapped me up and went to work on my face. The cut was not too deep, but it was ragged and she cried as she dressed it knowing what the disfigurement would mean to me in years to come.

"When I finally got out of the house I ran to the barn. Cherokee John was already there. He and Papa had packed her wounds with John's potions, but she still bled from her deepest leg wounds. We sat on the long bench all night.

"The next day Papa went back to work with the men leaving me and John. She was in pain. I saw it in her eyes and the way she lay quivering quietly. Day after day John dressed her wounds. I would hold her head and talk to her about things we'd done and would do. Then one morning I entered the barn and she was standing, clear eyed and then she gave out with a hearty snort. I was overjoyed; she was better and would soon be well.

"Her wellness didn't last the day and by evening she was down again and feverish.

"A couple of days later John met Papa as he came home from work and led him to the barn. As I watched from the bench, John unwrapped one bandaged leg and then the other. The air filled with the unmistakable stench of rotting flesh – gangrene!

"The two men looked down at her and then at me. If I'd been a city girl I might not have known what they were thinking, but I was a farm girl.

"'NO!' I cried. 'No, No, No, No, No!' I ran to Papa and held him as tight as I could.

"He gathered me up in his arms and carried me back to the house and told Mama. She hugged me close. Supper was on and she insisted we eat before anything else was done.

"I knew Papa would not wait long after dinner, as he did not like seeing animals suffer and he had to be up early the next day. While he and Mama cleared the table I slipped away. Taking the shotgun that leaned against the door jamb, I made my way to the barn. Expecting to see John there, I found myself alone with her.

"We looked at each other for a long while. Then, in the faint light of the single lantern, I leaned over and whispered in her ear. 'I love you and I will never ride another horse again as long as I live.'

"Standing up, I braced the long gun under my arm and pointed it between her loving eyes. The blast knocked me across the barn and before I could get up Mama and Papa were there."

Through her whole story Sal continued looking out the window into the past. Now she turned to me and said, "I guess now you know about the carriages."

Humbled and grateful that she trusted me with her life's story, I still had a question. "Sal, you never told me her name."

She looked at me with the shining eyes of the girl she once was and said, "Savanna."

With that, Savanna Sal fluffed up her pillows, straightened out her comforter and lay back lightly and unburdened on her bed and drifted off to sleep.

A Promenade with the Devil
by Greg Camp

The hot June sun beat down on the stripped landscape of south Georgia, raising the humidity and wetting the lingering smell of decaying wood in the air. But clouds gathered from the south, and rain was coming. Henry Dowland, until recently a captain in the 1st Virginia Cavalry, sat his horse, swaying side to side with the mount's slow walk.

A rail line passed parallel to the cart track for a few hundred yards, but there would be no trains any time soon. The ties had been hacked and burned, and the rails were twisted in knots and stacked athwart the bed.

In the twenty miles he and his horse had covered since dawn, the road had been mostly clear. They had been made to ford one stream where the bridge had been destroyed and go around a dozen trees that Uncle Billy's boys had cut to no purpose other than wanton mischief.

After four years of fighting, the quiet emptiness of the land felt like the inside of a tomb. Two months ago, the Army of Northern Virginia was surrendered, but while Marse Robert may have felt compelled to yield, Dowland recognized no such force as applying to him. He'd folded his shell jacket and stuffed it into his pack, then slipped away, figuring himself to be thus at war with all flags and all peoples.

Except his sister and niece.

He gave not a damn for his parents near Williamsburg, Virginia, who had given him no blessing when he rode off to war, nor for that tomfool that his little Annie had married, but he would see about her welfare and meet Baby Clara – not a baby anymore, since her third birthday was nearing. It had been a year since the last letter from Savannah found him, but surely that was only because messages of peace did not find an easy road to a horseman on the trail of battle.

Not that he had any wish to read words or to speak any beyond the obligatory thanks to the households along the way who fed him when they could. He'd said not a word to another of his own kind since crossing into Georgia. Burned farms and razed houses had no need for another open mouth, and he couldn't feel right about taking food from people he'd been unable to save from the hell of war.

The road turned away from the remnants of the train tracks and around the skirts of a low rise to his right. Angry voices cut through the air. He slowed the horse to listen. This was the right sound for the world. He eyed the Colt's Dragoons in his saddle holsters and nudged his mount to a trot.

A pair of bluecoats stood on either side of an old man. The one to the left had three chevrons of pale blue on his darker uniform and a sneer on his face. The private to the right pressed the muzzle of his rifle into the old man's chest.

"Hallo, there!" Dowland shouted and rode in. He set his right hand on the butt of Alpha, one of the two Navy revolvers in his belt.

The private held still, but glanced at the sergeant, who stepped forward and raised his hand to challenge Dowland.

"What'll be your business here, rebel?"

"I was given to understand that the war is over," Dowland answered. "But however that may be, this gentleman can't be of concern to you two."

"We have orders to question everyone on this road. We were after being settled in our minds about this fellow, but sure, you look quite a prize. You'll have a parole pass, will you?" The sergeant's gaze darted to the Navys at Dowland's waist.

"A parole pass? I have no need for any man's permission to go my way, now this war is over."

"Sure, that'll be your thinking, but I'm the one who's telling you otherwise. Throw down those pistols of yours and dismount."

On the edge of Dowland's vision, the private swung his rifle over to point at him. Dowland drew Alpha and his o ther Navy, Omega. A thunderclap boomed, echoing on the rise to the right. His horse trembled, and the two Yankees fell.

He leapt out of the saddle as his mount slumped onto its side and settled, dead. A small line of blood trickled from a wound above the private's nose, but he didn't move. The sergeant was not so fortunate. He held his hands over his bowels and moaned.

A field of men, dead or dying by the Monocacy River, flashed before Dowland. He stepped over to kneel next to the sergeant. Blood oozed out from under the Yankee's hands, darkening his blue coat.

"You're in pain," Dowland commented.

The wounded man's eyes stared back, wide and glassy. A nauseous odor hovered over him, a spirit of death claiming its own.

"I can ease your passing." He cocked Alpha's hammer and touched the muzzle to the sergeant's head.

Blood foamed in the Yankee's breath, and his lips moved without making words.

Dowland stood and fired, then turned toward the old man, who stared back, as though he looked upon the second horseman of the Apocalypse.

"They were rude."

The elderly fellow backed away.

"Hold on there, Grandfather. I need your help here."

The man stopped.

"Let's start with your name, shall we? I'm Dowland, lately in the service of the First Virginia, but now I care only for one Ann Armstrong and her daughter."

"Your wife and child?"

"My sister and niece."

The old man scratched his head. "You don't mean the wife of William Randolph Armstrong?"

Dowland rushed forward and took him by the shoulders. "The very same. Do you have news of her?"

"No, but I know of them. In times of peace, their plantation is a day's ride to the south of Savannah."

A glimmer of hope touched Dowland, though the afternoon sky was losing its battle against the thunderheads.

"Will you help me?"

"Help you find her or help you with this?" The man pointed at the three bodies.

"With both, if I may impose upon you, sir."

"You did rescue me from their importunate attentions. To answer your earlier question, my name's Hollis. My father served with Francis Marion, and the General himself told me stories when I was a boy. I never thought to see a day when Americans killed Americans again."

Hollis helped Dowland carry the bodies away from the road and into the swamp land near the Savannah River to the east. The two dead soldiers sank into the black ooze amid the cypress trees and disappeared from human sight. Down, down they sank to join the many faces drifting through Dowland's conscience. Would a search party come looking for them? If so, his war might have one more battle and then release.

Hollis took up the private's Springfield rifle and the sergeant's Army revolver, along with their powder and shot. "Their fellows robbed me of mine last year," he explained.

"Be careful the Army doesn't find you with those."

"You heard me when I said I sat at the feet of old Swamp Fox, didn't you? I've earned my daily bread most of my life by getting things past the noses of people who have no business meddling."

Back at the road, the dead horse lay in the middle, bold as the midday sun.

"This will be a problem." Dowland removed his tack and bags and threw them over his shoulder. He carried his Sharps in his hands.

"It's a dead horse. Nothing we can do about it, either way.

"But don't let it worry you too much. We leave the road here." Hollis pointed across a field to a line of beech trees. "My land's a good way on the other side – at least it is till somebody comes around asking for it."

An overgrown field spread out away from the road, untouched in months. What new outrage was the old man hinting at?

"There's no work being done, what with Sherman's boys having set loose all our niggras – that, and all our men of fighting age off in parts north." Hollis led the way into the tall grass, disturbing crickets. The thick green smell of vegetable matter run riot choked the air. "But there's more. We've heard talk from the new governor about our land being divided up and given to the slaves, and I've watched a gaggle of northerners show up with nothing but their carpet bags, all set to take spoils."

The old man swatted a fly away from his face.

"Some black fellow from New Jersey named Campbell is right now handing out land on Ossabaw Island."

Of course, he was. He and many more like him would come south to pick through the bones of the Confederacy. The war was lost, and Lincoln was dead. Vengeance was all that would remain.

Dowland followed the man in silence toward the line of trees stretched out like soldiers of the earth herself. They stood on the parade ground, patient battalions awaiting the passing of this invasion of man on lands that would always remain the property of Mother Nature.

On the opposite side of the beeches stood Hollis's house, two stories of drab white with six matching columns across the front.

"We're a mite off the beaten path, so Billy's crews didn't come around here with their lucifers."

The image of a Georgian brick house came to Dowland, a home away in Virginia built upon the same tower of cards, the same gamble that some few could rest on the backs of many. The wild adventure of the last four years – the flashing swords, the flag-bearing staves, the coins thrown to rich men to buy yet another day's bread, and the host of broken hearts – swirled through his memory like so many leaflets in a hurricane.

"You're lost in thought, young sir."

"I am." The front door stood open with Hollis motioning to him to enter. He had crossed the knee-high lawn and stepped up to the porch without paying the passage any mind. "It's a long road I've travelled."

"Come inside. In days gone by, my house slave would have someone take your tack and show you to a room up the stairs, but the roof leaks, and Old Charlie's run off, anyway."

Dowland took off his hat and followed Hollis through the foyer into a hallway. The old man opened a door to the right.

"I hope you won't take offense at being put up on a fainting couch." He pointed to a red velvet piece with a high back at one end. "I have no one to clean sheets for me."

"It looks softer than the ground."

With a nod, Hollis tottered off down the hallway. Dowland set his belongings on the floor, lighted a candle and stood it on the writing desk, and sat. The stuffing under the crimson fabric sank beneath his weight. He cleaned his pistols, then holstered them and hung his gun belt from the woodwork along the couch's back. A flash of bluish light danced in the room. The storm released itself upon the world outside, its thunder shaking the house. He lay back, telling himself that he'd rest for only a moment.

The next morning, sunlight replaced the darkness and illuminated the humid haze above the ruined back garden taken over by weeds. Hollis sat by a boiling pot over a fire pit, stirring. It was either laundry or breakfast – better if the latter.

He made his way down the hall and out onto the back porch. Hollis and his pot were to the right in the yard, so Dowland slipped to the left and relieved himself.

The smell of hominy grits drew him back to the old man. Hollis filled a bowl and set a spoon in it. A silver spoon. What else might be hidden that the Yankees hadn't found?

"There's no salt and no butter."

"Nothing I'm not used to." Dowland took a taste. It was hot, and the metallic blandness offended his tongue in the manner of tin, but it was food.

"I wish I had bacon and eggs to offer you." Hollis ladled out a bowl for himself. He didn't meet Dowland's eye when he said this.

But what did the man's secrets matter? The war was over and obviously so when Dowland and his company dragged themselves out of Pennsylvania in '63. No purpose would have been served by taking more of his fellow Southerners into privation, and anything held back at this point was kept from the Northern invaders.

"I'm going into town today," Hollis continued. "I'll have to ask you to stay here, since the folks I'm going to talk to don't know you yet. But if you want to go look for your sister, you'll need their help, so I'll see about bringing them around in the afternoon."

Dowland nodded and finished his grits. The old man took the pot and disappeared into the house, and Dowland sat on the porch.

The sun climbed the sky, raising the dew into the air. The old man didn't come back, and the haze on the surrounding fields threatened to turn into the dense gunpowder clouds of memory. Dowland got up to make himself busy.

The walls of a shed away from the house were lined with tools. He picked out a pair of shears and set to imposing order on the garden. This would pay for his breakfast, if nothing else.

Hollis returned after three in the afternoon. He surveyed the pile of weeds and trimmings.

"Mr. Dowland, I've never seen white sweat do more than black before. You sure you weren't born to this work?"

A sneering quality danced about the edges of the question, but what would be the point of speaking to that? "I prefer to pay my own way."

"You've done that, to be sure." Hollis pointed toward the house. "But now you'll want to come with me. I've brought along one of the acquaintances I was telling you about."

The guest sat in a rocker on the front porch, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Despite the heat of the day, he wore a brocaded red vest under his topcoat. His hair and beard were iron grey, and the wrinkles on his face told of some sixty years of living. Hollis poured two more glasses from the decanter resting on the railing and handed one to Dowland. Three horses stood tied to trees in the lawn.

"I've told this gentleman about your purpose here. We'll do without the introductions, if you don't mind. Suffice it to say, he can help you."

The amber liquid in Dowland's hand caught a beam of light and glowed like an ember. He hadn't tasted strong drink in years.

"We don't have any ice." Hollis swept his hands toward the glass. "The shipments out of Massachusetts have been spotty of late." He chuckled. "But drink up."

Dowland took a swallow, the mellow flame heating his throat.

"You're the brother of Mrs. William Armstrong?" the dapper man asked.

"I am."

"A fine woman, married to a pillar of the community."

The man's glib tone concealed something. Hollis displayed his earlier reluctance to meet Dowland's eye. What did these two know?

"Where is she? And what about her daughter, Clara?" Whatever these two frauds were holding back had better come out soon.

"That's something that Armstrong should tell you."

Dowland forced himself to set his glass gently on the rail. He spun around to face the elegant man. "Then take me to him."

"We'll do that," Hollis said, drawing Dowland's glare, "but we have to wait till dark. Those two soldiers have been missed."

"We have already seen to the corpse of your horse. As you find yourself needing another one, I provided the the buckskin you see out there. You served your country and saved my friend here. It's the least we can do to help a gallant young man in return."

And to get him far away before he drew any attention to whatever these two were scheming. That thought didn't bear saying aloud. He picked up his glass and tossed back its contents.

"I'll be back here at dark," he declared to no one in particular and strode down the steps toward a stand of trees at the far end of the lawn.

Candlelight dotted the smoky interior of the tavern on the edge of the town. Dowland swept off his hat and followed Hollis and his friend to a table at the back. A man seated facing the table to the left turned and stared at him – his brother-in-law.

"Henry! I never knew you were coming to visit." The man stood and offered his hand.

"Armstrong," Dowland answered, his own hands at his sides. The popinjay never struck him as a worthy husband of his sister, and too many folks were keeping something from him.

"Come now, Henry. You're welcome here. You're family."

"That's what I've come to see about. Where's Annie? Where's Clara?"

Armstrong took his seat again and waved at an empty chair to his right. "You should sit down for this."

Dowland didn't move. Hollis and the dapper gentleman sat on either side of his brother-in-law.

"Very well. It goes like this. . . ." The man gazed at a spot on the sawdust-covered floor in front of him. "Uncle Billy's boys had the town surrounded."

"I've heard as much already." Dowland balled his fists.

"And they didn't stick at ravaging the countryside."

"You'd best just tell him," Hollis said to Armstrong's ear.

"It seems some of General Hazen's men surrounded our house and set fire to it. Annie and Clara were trapped inside.

The thunder of a thousand cannon pounded in Dowland's head. He clenched his jaw and fixed his gaze on Armstrong. "Where were you?"

"I, uh, I was in town, seeing to business."

Rage boiled over. Dowland held out his right hand, and his brother-in-law stood and came forward, extending his own hand. But instead of shaking, Dowland delivered a blow with his left fist to Armstrong's jaw. The man fell backward to the floor.

"You weren't there!" Dowland shouted, kicking Armstrong in the ribs. "You weren't in the fight, and you didn't save my sister." He kicked again and drew Alpha and cocked the hammer. "You weren't there."

The shaking man covered his head with his arms, and he gasped a faint cry.

Dowland eased the cylinder back around to the empty chamber and lowered the hammer. He spat on Armstrong's face.

"You're not worth a bullet. Live out your days as the coward you are."

He spun around. The crowd surrounding the scene parted to open a path to the door, and he stepped out and went for the stable.

Shuffling footsteps followed him. He stopped and held his pistol in the air.

"I won't feel bad about shooting someone trying to jump me."

"There's no need for that, Mr. Dowland." Hollis came forward.

"Then what is it you do want?" Dowland shoved his pistol back into its holster.

"We never liked that man."

"That's not what your acquaintance said. He called him a 'pillar of the community.'"

"That was keeping up appearances."

Dowland turned and glared at the old man. "I have no need for appearances. I've seen enough that was real in the last four years to satisfy any eye's hunger."

He walked on to the stable and set to untying the buckskin horse. Hollis pattered along with him.

"Mr. Dowland, I know how you feel –"

"You do? You've lived through your own wars, though they look to have passed you by, what with your decanters and silver spoons. How much did you hold back for yourself that could have fed those of us who fought for you? No, Mr. Hollis, you have no idea what I feel."

He led the horse outside. The old man followed.

"I'm leaving. There's nothing for me here anymore."

"I had thought you might stay –"

"And what? Do your bidding? You've lost one slave and need another one – is that it?"

Hollis looked away from Dowland's gaze.

"I had thought of travelling to Scotland. My mother's family, the Cochranes, have interests there. But I grew up on the Atlantic Ocean, and I think I'll see the Pacific before I die."

Dowland mounted his horse and walked it around the old man.

"Your home is in the hands of your enemies, Mr. Hollis, and your days are numbered."

Nudged the buckskin toward the empty road out of town, he turned his face to the heavens and cried for the stars to take him. But they gave no answer.

He faced the road again. It wasn't empty, after all. The faces of his fellow soldiers – some wearing blue coats and others a mixture of butternut and grey – rode alongside, and his sister and niece smiled before him, a ghostly company he knew was bound to him from that day forward.

A Good Life
by Linda Hermes

The sun isn't up yet, too early to move
There's chores to be done, can't lay here and snooze

Crawl out of my blanket, a good stretch and yawn
Have to get movin', it's now nearly dawn

We check on the cattle, throw out some hay
Rolled oats for the horses, same thing every day

But this day is special, with its new-fallen snow
That time of year, when all creatures know

Peace on this Earth, Goodwill to all men
Are needed more now, than they've ever been

It's nearly Christmas, church by candlelight
With a sermon and songs, along about midnight

Lights on the tree, Yule log on the fire
It's been a long day, and it's time to retire

I look for my blanket and head for my bed
A warm place to rest and lay down my old head

The boss stokes the fire, throws on one more log
I know it's a good life, for this old ranch dog