President Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation sent a wave throughout America. To some it was a wave of elation and joy. To others a wave of terror and horror. There were those convinced of the opinion that, if ever freed from bondage, blacks would spontaneously transform into rampaging Vikings or Huns! Of course no such nonsense ever occurred. It was near the end of summer, after the tragic news of Gettysburg had reached friends of the South in Missouri, that a column of Yankee Cavalry of African descent galloped down a wooded path on route to Arkansas. About a company's strength and armed with the new-fangled Spencer Carbines. And how they sang the ballad of "John Brown's Body," they must have thought themselves more than ready to prove their mettle against their oppressors. The stern, but proud white officer at the head of the column seemed to agree with them.

As did Johnny Grey as he sighted the officer with his Henry Repeater atop a fallen log, Capt. Adam Jackson beside him. The other twenty of their band were scattered in the trees nearby. All awaiting Johnny's shot, the signal to open fire. As the best shot among them, Johnny had quickly risen to be a kind of sergeant, if such a rank could apply to a band of guerrillas. He had fought beside Jackson and the others in many scrapes and scraped through many a narrow escape with them. Yet for the first time in two years he hesitated to pull the trigger. Johnny had wisely elected not to mention his politics or beliefs. The others simply assumed he was of their number, given they found him in a bloody heap after a scrape with some Red-Legs. The murdering varmints having gunned down Johnny's wife left little doubt in his hatred for them. None had paused to question his love for "The Cause." There was none to be lost. Johnny was a Republican, a Lincoln-lover, a scalawag, a "damned Yankee!" some would call him. But his die was cast and all he could do was stick with the men who hadn't tried to kill him. Men whose cause he did not believe in. With a whispered curse, he exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

The captain flung limp from his mount with a hole in his head in the wake of the gunshot. Instants later a volley of hot lead ripped into the column of black in blue. Bullets tore through man and horse. Mutilated cloth, fur, skin, and bone alike. The guerrillas levered their Henrys before sending another volley seconds later. What few black "blue bellies" were not already down dove to the dirt. Cries of agony went up from the wounded as they writhed. Some cried out in panic at the deafening roar of enemy rifles and horrible silence of dead comrades. Others cried out in defiance, daring the wrath of those who would deny them freedom. The latter took cover on the roadside behind fallen soldiers and horses, and returned fire with their Spencers. Some of the panicked and wounded managed to find their courage along with their weapons to fire back at their attackers.

Bullets pelted the trees and bushes hiding the rebels. Some hit home, toppling several gray and brown-clad guerrillas. Johnny ducked below his log in the nick of time, was sure he felt the searing heat of a bullet as it grazed his hair. But couldn't bring himself to grasp his head. If a river of blood came trickling down into his eyes, he'd know to visit Doc. The old country physician was already at work on the down rebels. Soon roars of fury and indignation rose up from the rebels, which joined to form the iconic "rebel yell" that was the rallying cry of the Confederacy. The rebel renegades resumed fire with renewed vigor. Raining hellfire and lead down on the desperate cavalrymen. Scant few still shot back, but this only enraged the rebels further. One fresh young lieutenant, Claudius Frost by name, drew his gold-trimmed-sword and leapt in front of the rebel picket so his flashy gray uniform and yellow cape could be seen. His plumed hat with wide-brim reminiscent of the English cavalier. "CHARGE, MEN!" he cried in his boyish voice that almost sounded feminine. "LET'S GIVE 'EM A THRASHING!" The men followed with a feral roar, surging from the trees and down the slope upon their battered foe. What ensued was not a melee so much as a butchery. Some rebels couldn't even find a live enemy to bludgeon with their rifle-butts or stick with Bowie knives, instead landed blows upon the dead and dying. Johnny's stomach heaved as he gazed down in horror behind his log.

"My God!" exclaimed Jackson beside him. Johnny was relieved that he wasn't the only one who saw the insanity of it.

"Shoot!" spat Jack Carver as he slung his Henry across his shoulder. "They sure is making a whole lot of fuss over a half-dead passel of varmints!" Johnny didn't know whether to be even more relieved or disgusted. "Hell, them black blue bellies was on their last limb anyways! We could just as well have hunkered down up here and let them spit lead till they bled out! Why does that rich-boy always gotta do things the hard way?" he finished with a harsh laugh, his leathery skin put a villainous edge on his features that made Johnny's skin crawl. He'd ridden with him long enough to know he wasn't what you'd call a bad man. But Carver's cynical nature and morbid humor rubbed many the wrong way. Nearby Doc looked up from his work at the wanton barbarism downhill only to shake his head with a mumbled curse.

"Alright, that's enough!" Jackson growled as he stomped down the slope with Johnny and Carver in tow. The rebel rabble continued to rampage atop their long-dead foes as their commander closed in, levered his Henry and fired a shot at the heavens. All eyes were on him in an instant, Frost's nearly shot from his skull. A shudder rippled down his body, which he visibly tried very hard to pretend was not fear but excitement.

"Captain, must you interrupt the men's fun?" Frost whined, trying very hard to give his voice a cool, intellectual tone and failing miserably. His fancy sword dripped blood, clearly it wasn't the men's fun that concerned him.

"CAPTAIN, indeed," Jackson seethed. "I am in command of this here company, LIEUTENANT Frost! NOT YOU!"

"Of course, Captain," Frost feigned submission with a delicate bow, rather than a salute. "Pardon my eagerness to remind this lot of their place," he coolly gestured to the mutilated corpses underfoot.

"Shoot! You ain't reminded nothing or nobody of any manner of place!" cackled Carver! "Why that lot's so dead they'd need a map to find the road to Hell!"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!" Jackson roared. "What matters is that I'm the one who decides if and when we charge! Or does SOMEONE think they're gonna challenge me on that?" he glared daggers at Frost's perfumed skin. This time the Louisiana socialite was more convincing.

"Certainly not, sir!" he shrank back in a gasp. "But surely I'm not to be disciplined for my zeal? Least of all as my brother's blood still cries out to me for revenge?" Jackson's anger cooled, the boyish charm had worked. Everyone knew that Frost's older brother had died a Border Ruffian at the hands of John Brown. Most of the men, watching the confrontation with anticipation, bowed their heads in mourning for the lieutenant's loss. Any man slain by John Brown was looked upon as a martyr by the South. Regardless of the torment and indignity the said martyrs inflicted upon any white who dared NOT to advocate slavery. Johnny, like many southerners, knew full-well that most men slain by the butcher Brown were themselves butchers. Though few were fool enough to voice such opinions.

"I suppose not," Jackson conceded. "But from now on, you'll clear such maneuvers with me first. Is that clear, lieutenant?"

"As you command, Captain," Frost saluted with a smile just crooked enough for Johnny to recognize it. Having seen such insufferable facades before. The worst kind of bully was not the big and strong kind. Those you could dispatch with one solid punch. It was the weaklings with parents in high places that boiled Johnny's blood. Frost was from a prominent planter family in New Orleans. But for all the sugar crops their slaves raised, there was little sweetness to be found in that family. Hence their oldest son left home to terrorize free-staters in Kansas and the little one, deemed too weak for the regular army, traveled north to Missouri to throw his family's weight around! In his full uniform, which he rarely disrobed, he stood about five-foot-6. Not uncommonly short. But on the rare occasion he bathed, usually at night, a calculating eye would peg him for no taller than five-foot-four. Never had Johnny seen such a big ego on such a small man!

A flash of momentum caught Johnny's eye and he turned to see a blue uniform trampling off towards the adjacent treeline. A survivor was making a run for it! Johnny narrowly bit off his instinct to cry out. It seemed fair that at least one should survive this horror. At least he could say he had only shot their commander, though as the thought occurred to him he realized how little it did to numb the pain in his gut.

"LOOK, BOYS! WE GOT A RUNAWAY!" shouted one of the rebels. A shot cracked off instants later to strike the dirt by the runaway's feet, spurring him on even faster. Without thinking, Johnny dropped his rifle and sprinted after the fugitive. Another shot snapped overhead before Jackson snapped at the men to hold their fire. Just as Johnny hoped, he wouldn't let them risk killing his best shot! He closed in on the blue-belly quickly, the poor devil must have been exhausted.

"Stop!" Johnny huffed as he came within arms-reach. "You'll never make it on your own out here, don't be a fool!" He wanted to shout louder, but knew if he betrayed even the hint of tenderness towards a black man his comrades would turn on him. Probably even Jackson. He didn't even want to think of what Carver would say, or do!

The pursuit dragged into the forest. The upward slope and the narrow spaces slowed the cavalryman down. Johnny knew the others would be hot on their heels, some might even run for their horses. This had to end! With a burst of momentum, he sprang forward and tackled the runaway to the ground with a painful thud. A high-pitched gasp went up from the blue-belly. Johnny figured he was just a young-un, he smirked that it might make it easier to get them to spare the kid. The smirk vanished as the fallen figure sprawled and kicked like a wild hog. But Johnny was bigger and pinned him down after a moment's struggle.

"Easy there, boy! I ain't gonna hurt!" he said with a gentle sternness as he rolled the soldier over. His breath caught in his throat and, despite the summer heat, froze like a statue in surprise. The figure pinned beneath his knees had the slight frame of a boy, but the uniform jacket was open and the shirt beneath unbuttoned to reveal decidedly unmanly shapes. Not only was the soldier's neck and chin of a narrower mold, but the trooper's hat had fallen off in the struggle to reveal hair longer and more delicate than even the least disciplined soldier could be expected to have. "Hey!" Johnny blinked with realization. "You ain't a boy at all!" In an instant the girl hissed and clawed at his face like a cornered cat. Johnny brushed off the scratches and flailing slaps with some minor difficulty before grabbing both her wrists and pinning them down on her chest.

"Take it easy, I said, I ain't gonna hurt you!" She growled like a panther and sank her teeth into Johnny's hand. With a growled curse he shook it free of her maw and pressed her down by the shoulders. "Bite me again and I swear to God I'll bite back!" His piercing blue eyes blazed down into her hazels. Tears began to flood and flow down her cheeks. She squeezed them shut and began to squirm and wail, defiance mingled with futility and humiliation. With a gasped curse he shoved a hand over her mouth. "Will you cut it out? You want the others to find out you're a girl?" she stopped to gaze up in confusion. With a deep sigh, Johnny removed his hand from her mouth, shoved her hat back on and clumsily buttoned her shirt and jacket. Brushed himself off as he stood up and held a hand down to her. "Listen, just stick close to me. No more fighting, no more BITING, and no more running off, and I'll do what I can to keep them from hurting you. Got it?" The girl's eyes began to dry, but her face contorted in distrust. After a moment's hesitation she gave a sharp nod. "I'll hear you say it! Got it?"

"I got it!" she hissed before stomping to her feet unassisted.

"Good," Johnny snapped. "Fix that hair better as we walk." She obeyed as he grasped her shoulder and began walking her back the way they came. Barely a minute later they emerged from the trees to a round of applause. Cheers went up for Johnny, curses and threats for the girl.

"Shoot, Johnny! You gone and run you down a runaway!" Carver chuckled.

"Well done, Sergeant!" Jackson nodded.

"Indeed," Frost cooed. "Thank you for returning our prisoner," he paused to turn to Jackson. "Captain, shall I have the men prepare a noose?"

"What for?" Johnny blinked. A few laughs went up. Frost blinked back in astonishment.

"Surely you'll remember, Sergeant, that by order of our congress and President Davis any black man captured taking up arms against the Confederacy shall be put to death?"

Johnny swallowed hard but recovered quickly. "Seems an awful waste to me."

"What was that?" Frost challenged, with a hint of apprehension.

"The whole point of this here war is to keep them as our workers," Johnny sighed, as if his objection should be obvious. "They can't very well work if we hang them all, can they?"

A harsh laugh howled from Carver's lips. "Shoot! And reading the latest papers outta Richmond, you'd think this whole thing was all about State's Rights, or something more Enlightened!"

Frost glared. "Our government softens its rhetoric to appease bleeding-hearts in Britain and France! Anyone with half a brain knows we fight for the 'property we gained by honest toil'," he smugly quoted the famed Bonnie Blue Flag song.

"Is that it?" Carver gasped. "Shoot! Most of us ain't never owned no slaves! Hardly even seen 'em except in rich folk's fields myself!

"We lose slavery, the white man loses his place! His dignity!" huffed one of the rebels in the crowd.

"Dignity? Place? Shoot! Unless we's one of them big planters we ain't got no place nor dignity, you damned fool! That's why I took to the mountains as a young-un!" Frost's face turned beat red and looked as though it would explode.

"If the planters go down our whole society is dead in the water!" Jackson stomped between Carver and Frost. "Unless Mr. Lincoln is gonna reimburse everybody their bondsmen, he'll be freeing them just to live in destitution and squalor with the rest of us!" A sullen silence settled among the men. Frost's face cooled but still burned.

"More reason for us to make an example of servile insurrectionists," Frost turned his glare on the girl.

"What if his enlistment don't count?" Johnny asked. The others grimaced in confusion. "If he enlisted illegally, legally it don't count, right?" he smirked awkwardly and prayed his ploy would work.

"How you figure that?" Jackson's eyes narrowed. Johnny swallowed hard and snatched the girl's hat off. Mouth's dropped, eyes bulged, and soon whistles went up. The girl bowed her head and sniffled. "Cheeky little wench!" Jackson huffed.

"Shoot! Look at you! The Joan of Arc of Missouri!" Carver laughed. Some of the men grimaced in confusion at the reference, Johnny among them. He wondered how Carver would have learned about a French warrior-maiden. "Shoot! I suppose that means she ain't a real soldier then!" Carver shrugged. Johnny was almost relieved, then he saw the carnivorous smile that split Frost's lips and braced himself for what was to come. The girl noticed Frost's gaze and trembled.

"On the second thought, I'm inclined to agree with you, Sergeant," Frost stepped towards her with an outreached hand. "I'd say she's fair game." His hand, groping for the girl's chest, struck Johnny's as he stepped between them with a glare to melt steel and shook his head. "This was MY charge, MY victory! To the victor goes the spoils, SERGEANT!" Frost hissed. Johnny showed no sign of backing down.

"This is MY company, Lieutenant!" Jackson snapped. "I thought we had settled this earlier. And I say; he caught her, she's his!" the rest of the company grunted in agreement with Jackson. Frost scanned the men with disapproval but bit back his glare with a nod.

"Then perhaps the sergeant would name his price?" Frost's tone softened considerably.

"I'll take her to market for that," Johnny huffed. He turned to grab the girl by the shoulder and dragged her up the opposite slope towards where they left the horses on the other side of the hill. "I got your permission, sir?" he stopped to look back at Jackson, who nodded.

"Splendid!" Frost cheered. "Then I shall escort him." Johnny and Jackson both frowned in suspicion. "Well, if the sergeant won't sell her to me, someone else will. What's more I could do with a reprieve. A leave of absence to recharge in . . . something resembling civilization. What's more there's safety in numbers. The sergeant might run into some trouble along the way, and that fiery gal might make trouble for him. With your permission, of course?" he smiled coyly at Jackson, who again nodded.

"Nearest friendly town is Stephensville, three day's ride." Jackson turned to Johnny. "Take the road north, and mind the fork in the road; the sign's been torn down."

Johnny nodded, "I know the way."

"Good! You'll remember I am a newcomer to these parts," Frost chuckled. His crooked smile never left the girl.

"Got a name, girl?" Johnny huffed to the hand-tied figure at his side. Her eyes had grown fierce as the day's ride dragged on. Even as the sun set, her eyes kept blazing silent hatred.

"Best be getting back in the habit of speaking when spoken to, girl!" Frost snapped from across the flames. Johnny turned to glare at him when the girl spoke.

"Daphne!" she grunted. Johnny blinked in surprise, he recognized the character from Greek mythology. His mother had insisted on giving him a classical education, or as best she could manage in a log cabin.

"Ah! Apollo's irresistible nymph!" Frost sighed, the red silk suit jacket he had swapped out his uniform for gave him a devilish look. Johnny shrugged, of course he knew the legend too! "But I'm afraid there's no escape for you, girl. Unless you can turn yourself into a tree, like your namesake, of course," he giggled menacingly and took a swig from his hip-flask. Johnny rolled his eyes, at least the fool would be asleep soon. Frost fancied the facade of manliness that gulping down hard spirits gave. But it put him to sleep in a matter of minutes.

"Have some beans," Johnny scooped a spoonful of baked beans from a can he had opened a moment ago. He waited for her to open wide, she only glared. "You need to eat," he growled, still she clamped her mouth shut in defiance. He tried gently holding the spoon to her lips, she only turned her head away with a huff. With a huff of his own, Johnny stabbed the spoon back into the can and firmly sat the can down on the ground in front of her. "Feed yourself then, you damned fool!" Again she glared in defiance but, after a moment of sullen silence, she reached down with her tied hands and began drinking the beans from the can. Frost managed a spatter of drunken laughter.

"Why do you waste your kindness on this little tramp?" he challenged.

"My mother didn't raise no misanthrope," Johnny grunted.

"Misanthrope? Big word for a country bumpkin!"

"Nor did she raise no halfwit."

"Where were you raised anyway?" he gulped down another swallow of whiskey.

"South, down near Cherokee country."

"Ah, carousing with the savages, eh?"

"What I'm doing now," Johnny muttered.

"What was that?"

"I said go to sleep!" Johnny turned to the girl. "You too," a splash of beans to the face cut him off. A swift kick in the head followed. The blow stunned and toppled him, but he kept enough of his wits to enjoy the sight of Daphne kicking a burning log at Frost before running off. The pampered fop shrieked in pain but slapped away the wood to rush after her. Johnny was on his feet in seconds and lit out after them. Even without their boot-steps trampling through the trees Johnny could hear Frost plain as a cavalry bugle. All manner of insults and obscenities burst from his mouth after the girl. Johnny had figured rich folk would have a more delicate vernacular.

As the chase went on, Johnny was impressed with Frost. He must not have been that drunk. The rich boy strode through trees and bushes with ease. Most likely got plenty of practice running from bigger bullies with richer parents. The thought of it amused Johnny until Frost tackled Daphne to the ground and proceeded to roll her over and slap her repeatedly.

"Leave off her!" Johnny cried as he closed in. With the next blow Frost gripped her shirt and tore it open, prompting a horrified cry from his victim. Johnny didn't slow down, but plowed into the lieutenant like a mad bull. The two of them rolled in the dirt. Frost squirmed free and brought up his fists, Johnny stood and took the same stance. About time someone blew some air up that stuffed shirt of his!

"I caught her this time, boy!" he sneered. "She's mine!"

"NO!" Johnny growled. Frost slammed a punch home in his face. Johnny shook his head with surprise at how hard the little man's fists were. He caught the next punch and pulled the lieutenant in close for a firm jab to the stomach. Frost bent over with a painful howl and turned away with a hand up in submission.

"You've been drinking, Lieutenant!" Johnny sighed. "Let's just get her back to camp and we'll forget it," he offered, taking a step closer. That step saved his life. Because an instant later, Frost spun around with a drawn revolver and fired. Johnny dropped to his hands and knees just in time to avoid the bullet. Then sprang with the fury of a wildcat upon the drunken fool and pinned him to the ground. Summoning all his might and rage, he slammed his fist into Frost's temple with full force. The drunkard slumped down into oblivion.

With a growled curse, Johnny righted himself. Picked up the lieutenant's gun and turned to check on Daphne. Still whimpering on the ground. The tear in her shirt left her indecently exposed. Johnny averted his eyes.

"Make yourself decent, and come back to camp with me!" he growled. Daphne looked up and snatched her jacket closed around her chest. "You'll never make it out here alone. There's wolves, bears, coyotes, rattlers! Even if another Confederate band doesn't pick you up. You'd best come with me," he paused to thumb back the hammer of the pistol. "Now, grab one of his arms and let's get back to camp.

The next day passed in unparalleled sullenness. Johnny had tied Daphne's feet as well upon returning to camp. She rode a spare pony, tied to Johnny's saddle, in a lady-like sideways position. Frost insisted he had no memory of the night's struggle but somehow Johnny knew he was lying. And despite hours of pleading, begging, cursing, and threatening, the sergeant refused to return his lieutenant's revolver. They reached the fork in the road about midday, Johnny led them to the left road without a word. As the day dragged on, Frost switched up his tactics. Insisted he understood the situation. "I am your superior, but we are on a leave of absence. Which means we are not on duty and neither of us has any immediate obligation to the other. We are just two men traveling together to market. Please, good sir, upon my word you can trust me again."

"Never trusted you to begin with," Johnny huffed. In an instant Frost's head could have been an apple.

"We are off duty but I am still a superior officer!" he hissed.

"No, merely a higher-ranking one," Johnny grinned. A barrage of vulgarity and obscenity loosed from Frost's mouth so deafening Johnny swore Presidents Lincoln and Davis could hear it from their front porches. He wished they could, maybe they'd both be more reasonable from then on. Through it all Daphne remained silent. No longer glaring, but brooding in despair. Johnny wanted to reassure her but knew she wouldn't listen. And Frost would only get even angrier. All he could do was hope the man's anger didn't win over his fear.

Camp that night was equally sullen and awkward. Again dinner was a can of beans for each of them. Daphne numbly consented to being fed this time. Frost seemed to be taking smaller sips of his flask than before. His expression was more coy than indignant and grew more devilish with each sip.

"If you're so afraid of me, you'd better not sleep," Frost giggled darkly.

"I ain't afraid of you. Never was," Johnny said. "And I'm a light sleeper," he winked. Frost only stared and sipped his flask. A menacing, carnivorous grin blazing from the other side of the campfire.

It happened, Johnny wasn't so light a sleeper. In fact it took a heavy kick to the gut to wake him up. Instinctively he felt for his revolver, gone! Frost's chuckling shadow loomed over him.

"Looking for this, are we?" the lieutenant dangled his Colt Navy above him. "I warned you not to go to sleep. I actually ran out of whiskey the night before last. Figured you'd think I was drunk again," he paused to laugh.

"Well played, you cheeky varmint!" Johnny growled while bracing for the kick he knew was coming. Again the boot hit, bracing did little to ease the pain.

"Like that insufferable abolitionist Ben Franklin once said, 'early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,' wiser than you, bumpkin. And I advise you not to follow us. There will be plenty of friends of The Cause in town. Who is to say that the lone rider coming up the road isn't a Yankee?" he laughed as he mounted his horse, grabbed the reins of Daphne's pony and rode off towards the town. The tied girl looked back momentarily then numbly turned towards her fate.

"Yankee, is it?" Johnny laughed as he stumbled to his feet and scrambled to his horse, his Henry Repeater laid smashed in half against a boulder. He calmly flipped up his saddle to find his spare Colt Dragoon tucked in the saddle blanket. Moments later he was on the road in pursuit. He knew not to catch up too quickly. Frost would be wary. The town was about a two hour ride away when they made camp. They'd made good time on the trip but he saw no sense in arriving after dark.

Johnny kept the pair barely in sight as they went. But two hours later he began to close in, especially as the town came into view. Kicked his mount up into a gallop as he saw Frost jerk them both to a halt. He seemed mesmerized at the proud flag flapping in the breeze on a tall pole. Or maybe it was the cavalrymen emerging from the town, the color of their uniforms not to his liking. Or, more likely, it was the large sign post he had stopped in front of. The one that read "Welcome to Freeland Borough!"

Frost turned to the sound of Johnny's oncoming stallion and drew the stolen Colt Navy. "YOU TRAITOR!" he roared. Johnny, already aiming his Colt Dragoon, fired first. Frost dropped dead in the dirt. The sight and the shot prompted the Union cavalrymen to come along quicker. Johnny reined to a halt and held his Colt high by the barrel.

"HOLD FIRE, FRIENDS!" he cried. "Just saw this here varmint accosting the little miss here," he explained with a nod to Daphne as they closed in. The poor girl's eyes turned on him, nearly bursting from her skull.

"This man your master?" asked the Yankee captain, with a nod down at Frost. Daphne looked from the captain to Johnny and back again before nervously nodding.

"Shoot!" Johnny chuckled at his impression of Carver. "Must have thought this was the road to them rebel heathens in Stephensville! Road sign's been down for over a year now!" The Yanks enjoyed a hearty laugh before cutting Daphne's bindings and leading her pony towards town. She looked back to see Johnny Grey give a smile and nod before turning his mount to ride back the way he came.