Starlight Brotherhood
amid the storms of the winter of 1863
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Jantallian
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A word before reading: this story is an extended version of my short story, 'Starlight Reflections'. It is based on 'The Last Battleground' but does not follow the actual interaction between Jess and Slim in that episode. It explores possibilities which might have happened before they finally met and also brings together some narrative threads from other stories I have written, particularly 'Encounter in Shadows'. The account of the Confederate raid and Matt Sherman's involvement in 'The Last Battleground' contains a number of anomalies. This story doesn't entirely account for them and may pose more!
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The woman closed the door of the ranch house behind her and drew her bearskin coat tightly about her. The skies had cleared since the latest snowstorm, a storm which had so banked the snow around the buildings that they were almost unrecognizable, even to one who knew them so well. There was no moon, but almost no need for one – the stars were so thickly strewn across the depths of the sky.
She had no business standing out here on the porch in the bitter cold. But something drew her. Not fear or loneliness, although she was alone on the ranch. Instead, her heart went out to her man, to her son, and to the sons she never knew she had. So many women would be praying for their husbands, their sons, their brothers, on this cold night. And it didn't matter which side they were fighting on.
Mary Sherman lifted her face to the clear heavens and prayed. She prayed for her son, her eldest named 'Matthew' for the father he had parted from so unhappily. She prayed for her husband, for Matthew the fighter, the resolute, the just. And she prayed for her youngest, the gift-child Andrew, who had come and survived, so long awaited and after so many griefs. She prayed that he, at least, would grow up into a world where men held each other as brothers and strife between them would cease.
Above her the night sky was clear from horizon to horizon and afire with lambent stars. All it needed to honor the holy season was a host of angels: she felt she could almost hear them singing. The winter world, no longer an unpredictable place where the skies were cloven by storm, was transfixed by the unheard harmony and lay in perfect solemn stillness.
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Transcript of parts of an undelivered letter from Sergeant Matthew Sherman to Matthew and Mary Sherman, Laramie, Wyoming:
… After being in the uncertain conditions of the field for so long, we are in winter quarters at Fort Sanders and comfortable for a while. Any shelter that is solid enough to keep out the wind is a blessing after months in tents. Rations are more easily obtained and we no longer have to struggle to find enough fuel to cook. So, Ma, you need not worry about my diet, although if I never have to get my teeth into hardtack again it will be too soon! But I should not be ungrateful. Many of the men we fought were starving, just reduced to sinew and bone. Where will they find shelter this winter in a land which war has torn to shreds? Here men are happy enough to be relieved of the immediate need to fight. Here they can snatch a little imitation of happiness in this false peace …
Making real peace will be great labor. I hope our leaders have a vision of brotherhood to strive for when this weary strife is over and man is no longer at war with man. There are times when this momentary hush in the noise of discord seems uncanny and I have a sudden feeling we are being called to peace by voices we cannot hear.
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The starlit world lay in peaceful silence, unbroken by any voice. Everything was completely still. Still and frozen. Rather like the four young men crouched in the inadequate shelter of a pile of boulders atop a rise above some nameless northern valley. Not so much as a whisper of wind stirred the drifts of snow or moved the ice-bound air. They were no strangers to hardship and privation, but the cold had them in a paralyzing grip so intense it was almost agonizing to breathe.
And their very breath could betray them, misting up into the air like a smoke signal saying 'The enemy is here!'
For they were deep in the enemy fastness, intruders into a territory of quiet and normality, where the weary world of war was only a distant rumor. The sad plains of the South were far behind. They were cut off physically from the brotherhood of their comrades, even though in spirit they were as close as those betraying breaths rising before their faces.
"At least they'll be warmer'n we are!" It was the youngest who spoke, missing the close companionship in which they had all huddled together against the cold that prevailed even in the South. The Ranulfiar regarded him as their good-luck mascot and would be missing his presence too.
They had left the rest of the band holed up in a sheltered canyon, with adequate access to wood and game. It was only an unusual and urgent request for support which had resulted in Lieutenant Warwick, the senior of the four, leaving his men to fend for themselves. He was fully confident they could do so and that they would deal competently with any raids or reconnaissance which arose during his absence. The Ranulfiar were an indivisible brotherhood. They worked as one. They belonged together. They would wait until their four comrades, sent far north of their natural territory, had returned or some word came from them. It was equally unusual that his Second, Callum Harper, accompanied him, although the same could not be said for Cal's cousin and inseparable shadow, Jess. But the request had been for their best scouts and, without doubt, Cal and particularly Jess, were among the best, almost rivaling the fourth member of the party, who, silent and inscrutable, missed nothing with those eagle eyes of his.
"You gonna tell us where we are," Cal whispered, "not to mention what the hell we're doin' here?"
Warwick shook his head. Orders were orders. Even though he trusted his companions utterly, according to the planners of it the only thing which was going to make this endeavor succeed was the total secrecy to which he had been sworn. And Warwick was uneasy, an unusual state of mind for him. He was quite confident he and his men could carry out the role required of them, but he had severe reservations about the irregular temporary band, drawn from several regiments, to which they had been assigned for this mission. Yet it was nothing he could put his finger on. Just an unidentified sense that all was not well and that they were being asked to participate in a venture which was ill-defined and unpredictable.
But his Ranulfiar had created a unique relationship with the unpredictable.
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From Matthew Sherman's personal notebook, lost at Summit Pass:
Never a sure way to predict conditions. Snow up here deeper than I thought. Just one last sweep possible to pick up stragglers. Already moved most stock to lower slopes. Can find their own way down to shelter. Unlike me. Can't take the time to go back to ranch or even Dan Travers' place for night. Mary will worry. But she knows what we've come through together. What's a parcel of snow? Cattle are well out of it down below. They'll do fine. Worth the risk to find them. I've taken worse ones!
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Warwick completed his survey the peaceful-looking town and its fort. The layout was clear in his mind and must remain so if he was to penetrate his enemy's stronghold confidently, as if he had a perfect right. He knew without asking that his companions would have the same information on recall, but he did not intend them all to undertake this risky venture. The appearance of peace was just that and the penalty for spying would be swiftly administered if they were caught. He shifted his gaze to the troops bivouacked in the valley below.
"Get back down there," he ordered his Second, "and see if you can drum some sense of urgency into the Captain. We can't afford to relax even in camp. And remind him how sound carries in this snow. We can hear every time a horse shifts up here!"
Callum Harper nodded grimly. He didn't relish his task but it had to be done. In addition to working with half a troop of men they had never met before, they had been blessed with a young Captain on his first and ostensibly simple assignment. So many captains were young; so many of the experienced had fallen.
"Joe, scout the road north west, please. If the convoy moves in that direction, as expected, I want to know where we can intercept it without being detected. Jess and I will make the contact in the town." A pair of them were definitely needed, then one at least had a chance of getting the vital information back to the troop.
As he expected, this order brought protests from the two older men and a triumphant grin from Jess, who was always impatient for action.
"You two aren't exactly inconspicuous," their Lieutenant pointed out. He was of course right. Cal's red hair and Joe's obviously mixed blood – mostly Cherokee with a good dash of Irish somewhere along the line - would mark them out unmistakably. "Besides, I don't have a Southern accent and we all know how well Jess can mimic me when he wants to!"
This brought grins all round. Warwick cut these short, saying curtly: "And he's going to keep his tongue between his teeth unless I say so." He fixed Jess with a forbidding glare.
"Yessir!" The glare bounced off Jess and he was still grinning when they mounted up and headed for the town with its fort below, which only Warwick knew was Cheyenne Fort and Armory.
True to his word, Jess kept almost entirely silent when they fetched up in the town's main saloon. This was at least partly due to his desire to appear to be a gullible youngster, dumb enough to be fooled in competition with real men. He concentrated on the cards, having inveigled his way into one of the many games of poker. His Lieutenant cast an occasional eye in the boy's direction, but was not seriously concerned about the outcome of the game. Jess was hell-bent on fleecing as much good currency as he could out of his misguided opponents. Warwick had no idea where the kid had learned to play cards, but whoever had taught him, had taught him expertly. Jess was winning steadily, not huge sums, but enough to be well worth the effort.
The saloon was crowded with a mixed company, including many of the garrison who were off duty. Warwick moved from group to group, casually getting into conversation and always making sure that the price of boot-leather was mentioned somewhere. Jess too had been careful to include in his brief utterances plenty of references to the state of his feet and their coverings.
Presently one of the soldiers involved in the game became exasperated and snapped out: "Shut up moaning, kid! If you really need new boots so badly, I'll give you the name of my own boot-maker!"
Someone else at the table laughed: "Hell, Sarg, there's only one leather worker in town, so don't pretend you're doing the boy a favour!"
The man scowled and laid his cards face down while he scribbled on a scrap of paper. "Here! Show him this note and he'll take the trouble to make sure your new boots fit." He thrust the paper into Jess's hand, adding as he did so. "I just hope you can pay for them."
"I guess." Jess quietly scooped up another round of winnings and Warwick decided it was time to extricate him before anyone realised quite how much he was walking away with.
"Come on!" He dropped a hand on Jess's shoulder. "The weather's not going to get any better and if we want new boots, we'd better make sure we buy them before all our feet freeze to the ground!"
A general laugh followed them out of the saloon. The boot-maker's shop was some distance away, closer to the barracks, in a little square just off the main street. Warwick unfolded the slip of paper Jess had handed him and read: Please make sure you fit the bearer as requested. It seemed simple enough, but Warwick was wary. It would be too easy to fall into a trap.
"I'll check the backdoor and stay in the alley alongside," Jess murmured, reading his mind. "If anyone comes round there, I can take them down easy enough. If they go to the front, I'll follow them in and back you up."
Warwick nodded in agreement. "We have to get those details and whoever is providing them will need secrecy as much as we do."
Without further ado, he strode confidently to the shop door and went in. The shoemaker was a lugubrious looking individual who appeared to have the cares of the world on his shoulders. He certainly didn't look the material of which conspirators are made.
Warwick handed over the note and was gestured to a seat. Straight away, the man began to pull off his boots and measure his feet. The surprise was considerable and Warwick only just maintained his carefully controlled relaxation.
The shoemaker muttered to himself, jotting down notes on a pad, then sizing up pieces of leather against Warwick's legs and feet, for all the world as if he were genuinely going to make him a pair. It was not until he was helping his customer back on with his own boots, that Warwick realized there was a piece of parchment inside the left one.
"Twenty four hours," the man said, the first utterance he had made in the whole transaction. "You'll be able to collect then."
He was not referring to boots, Warwick was certain.
Now all that remained was to act on the information he had been given and set up the ambush. He retreated into the alley and joined Jess by the back of the shop. Fortunately a light was still showing from a narrow window and Warwick was able to decipher the closely written scrap of paper.
Reading it over for a second time, he gave a growl of frustration. Jess raised a curious eyebrow and Warwick muttered between clenched teeth: "Are they mad!"
"You mean, like us?" Jess laughed quietly.
"It's no laughing matter - changing the plans at the last minute!" his commanding officer rebuked him. "These idiots seem to think we can just ride into the Armory and steal the gold from under their noses. "
"We'd need to be invisible to do that," Jess observed, still sounding amused.
"We'd need to be impervious to hot lead too!" Warwick agreed. "I don't care who has stolen what keys. There is no way in hell I am going to lead a covert raid on a fully garrisoned armory in the middle of a Yankee fort!" It was obvious the Ranulfiar's reputation, or rather a garbled version of it, had reached allies in the north; the trouble was the 'Raiding Wolves' were definitely not superhuman miracle workers. He read the note a third time, muttering as he did so: "Held until 22nd, prior to shipment north ... number of wagons ... escorting party ... supplies ... next depot ..." He gave a sigh of relief. "At least they've given us all the information they said they would. We can take the convoy on the road without any of these heroics."
"And still dodge the hot lead!" Jess agreed cheerfully.
Warwick scowled at him. "You're looking forward to this, aren't you!"
"I like a good fight." Jess's grin was frighteningly feral on someone so young.
"I'll make sure to remind them of that," Warwick told him. "Now, get into the shop and tell the boot-maker your boss can't hang around waiting for the boots after all. Say he'll be on the road for a couple of days and will collect the goods afterwards. Got it?"
He hardly needed to ask, for Jess's aural memory was excellent. Moments later the boy had delivered the message and the two of them were heading out of town to the dubious shelter of the valley where the members of the Confederate troop were camped.
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From Matthew Sherman's personal notebook, lost at Summit Pass:
It's good to be out of the weather. Taking an afternoon's rest before moving last few of herd. Thank God we built the line shack while Slim was still with us. Could do with the boy's help now. My heart and soul say with all our boys who never … (blot conceals rest of sentence) ... So many sons being lost in this senseless struggle. Wish Slim understood. But he's got to do according to his conscience, else we haven't raised him right. Pray for a just end. Strife between man and his neighbor brings nothing but sin and misery, though what they seek is justice and mercy.
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The attack was silent, sudden and merciless.
The convoy had reached a narrow canyon where the road cut through a spur of the mountains looming down from the west. The wagons looked innocuous enough and no-one without specific and classified information would have guessed the value of their cargo. There were two officers in the lead, a driver and guard on each of the three wagons and ten soldiers riding behind. Wherever the convoy was ultimately intended to reach, there appeared to be little sense of urgency or belief in potential danger about its progress. It was small wonder that the escort was caught unawares and too soon overwhelmed by their implacable enemy.
Probably nobody in the Confederate force really relished such an ambush, where the enemy were annihilated silently, before they even realized what was happening. But every one of the Rebels bore in his heart the gaunt and barefoot comrades they had left behind - men starving for lack of supplies and slaughtered for lack of working weapons. The gold in the convoy would go to purchase precious and desperately needed food, medicine and ammunition. Every one of them had seen friends die for want of such essentials.
It was over very quickly. Cherokee Joe had found and led them to this particular place because it gave the attackers the advantage of height and an enemy constricted below them. Also there was only a scattering of snow reaching the floor of the defile to reveal signs of the attack. Once the wagons had been commandeered and the traces eradicated, they could be driven onward in the direction the convoy had been travelling as if nothing had happened.
The assault was silent because the Rebels had two expert bowmen among them, who picked off the leaders and those on the wagons. The rest of the escort could not see what was happening, even when the driverless wagons began to slow down. By the time they realized what was going on, it was too late - they were grappling in savage hand to hand fighting against superior odds.
Soon fifteen bodies lay in the snow, their blood bright against the pristine whiteness.
A sixteenth nearly joined them. There was a thud of hooves as someone rode into the canyon behind them. Someone wearing a Yankee great coat, but that was nothing to go by, as half their troop wore the same, and those who didn't now busy plundering their fallen enemies.
"Hold your fire!" It was unmistakably an officer's voice, commanding despite being muffled by the bandanna masking his face. Although it hid his identity, it did not disguise the satisfaction with which he surveyed the scene.
"Just as I planned!" They were all momentarily stunned by the appearance hard on their heels of the man who presumably had betrayed the Armory, but he was not minded to waste time.
"Move out!" he commanded, ignoring the right of the Confederate Captain to give orders to his own men. "Right now! You've no more business here!" He wheeled his horse and beckoned to the two surviving Yankee soldiers who, being a part of the conspiracy, had dropped well back as the rearguard were attacked.
All three of them ignored their fallen comrades. They could lie in the road for all the treacherous Yankee informant cared: "Pile them up! The snow will cover them soon enough."
Admittedly the victors were plundering the fallen for coats and boots, but their need was desperate. And they were not totally callous. Warwick corrected him sharply: "But it cannot protect their bodies. I will not leave men to the crows and coyotes."
"Why should they be more than carrion to you?" the other retorted.
"They are all someone's son. Maybe someone's husband – or sweetheart – or brother. There are plenty of loose rocks. It will cost us little labor to cover them. Honor begins with the way we treat our fallen enemy."
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Transcript of part of undelivered letter from Corporal Matthew Sherman to Matthew and Mary Sherman, Laramie, Wyoming:
Despite the relief of being able to relax a little, I find idleness weighs heavy on me, almost as if it were dishonorable. I guess you brought me up to work hard and earn my times of rest. Well, I have labored in the field of battle and even gained promotion. I was made sergeant and Mort too was promoted to captain, a rank he well deserves, as you will know. The circumstances in which this happened, though, arose out of the bitterness of war and its hard decisions. Promotion came at a great cost to others and we both would sincerely have had it otherwise.
The labour we have endured, so different from home, yet causes me to remember our work together on the ranch, Pa, and how your vision has driven you to build something worthwhile in the best country of all. And the thought of such labor reminds me that, being the only grown brother on our spread, I left you with more than your share of the work and I am sorry for it …
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Short work was made of burying the fallen under loose shale and stone from the side of the canyon. Every man except the traitor lent their labor, for each of them could imagine himself left to the carrion eaters on the field of battle. In death, they were all brothers.
Then the convoy moved off again, heading north west on its original route, as if it were not now in enemy hands. Cherokee Joe had already scouted ahead and found a trail which would lead them south west, over the range of the mountains fringing the road, into what various sources of information suggested was less populated country. Once there, they would be able to head south without encountering many settlements. It was imperative that the gold was conveyed as swiftly as possible back to the beleaguered South. If he had been in command of his own troop, Warwick would have split up the gold and the men, sending individuals on different routes to deliver it. But he had no means of assessing how trustworthy these seconded soldiers were and in any case his authority was not final. He had to contend with a young Captain and now a Yankee officer who clearly thought he was in charge of the whole operation.
The going was relatively easy on the road, for the wind had scoured the snow clear in many places and the mountains themselves protected it on both sides, bearing the heaviest falls coming from the north. They made good speed and soon came to a wide shallow river, rushing across a ford, swollen by the fall of rain, sleet and snow higher up. This enabled them to leave the road in a manner which left doubt as to whether they had turned east or west. On the far side, a quite well worn trail west diverged from the road and the convoy was swiftly driven up it and into the arms of the mountains. From the river they climbed up a long valley, always heading west, until they came up over a saddleback at the head of it. There the trail divided again, the most heavily traveled branch bearing away north along the saddleback, while a less worn but still distinct track led on up another long valley. At the junction Cherokee Joe called a halt.
The troop and their Captain took the much needed opportunity for a rest, but the Yankee officer did not even dismount. He sat on his horse, glaring at them all, clearly consumed by the need for speed. But speed had to be married to caution.
The four Ranulfiar gathered a little way from the rest. Cherokee Joe ran an eagle eye over the territory ahead and then over their back-trail. "Need to scout for a good pass," he informed his Lieutenant briefly, pointing to the summits ahead. "Didn't get up there the first time. You 'n Cal take on dealin' with our tracks?" Receiving an affirmative, he added: "You ready, Jess?"
"Yeah!" The youngster was already astride his Appaloosa pony.
"Need you to lead the convoy. Find them a safe path, 'cause the trail's not well used any further on. Keep goin' west, up this valley. It's almost certain the best route. If we have to, we'll traverse north or south of it when we meet up again."
"Ok." Jess looked disappointed that his duties were not more adventurous and his cousin Cal smothered a grin at his reaction.
"See there?" Joe was pointing to the far distant end of the valley before them. "Where the ridge cuts down and three tall pines are just showin'? Round the end of the ridge, there's likely a stand of forest. Pull 'em up there. It's south facin' and you'll have some shelter. Be a good place to rest up. Wait for us. We'll meet you there."
Jess nodded his agreement. The others mounted and rode off towards their objectives, Vin and Cal back to the road, Joe up a valley running parallel to the one he had directed Jess to follow. If any of them had known how they were to meet again, they would not have been so sanguine about splitting up.
The Yankee officer was already hounding the rest of the men to get the wagons moving. It did not please him to see he had only one scout left. And that was a scruffy Rebel kid, thin as a wraith and so badly in need of a hair-cut that the rough locks swept across his face in the wind, despite his hat. Nonetheless, the Confederate Captain appeared to trust him and he seemed to know his business as he carefully picked out a path for them through the boulder-strewn valley and the increasingly deep drifts of snow.
At length they were approaching the end of the ridge. Jess, some distance in front of them, halted his pony and sat looking at something beyond the sight-line of the convoy, which was still straggling along the bed of the valley. He held up his hand to halt them and rode back to the Captain.
"Looks like there's someone up ahead, sir."
"Don't be stupid, boy! Who'd be up here in this weather?" the Yankee officer snarled, even though he had not been the one Jess was addressing.
Jess's chin went up, but he did not speak. He looked over his shoulder towards the ridge. A very faint wisp of smoke was just discernible against the grey lowering cloud above them.
Both the Captain and the Yankee officer rode on past him. They too rounded the end of the ridge and looked down at the lower edge of a forest. To their surprise, there was a rough cabin tucked in under the trees. It was obviously inhabited, not just because of the smoke, but because a single horse was hobbled in the shelter under the eaves.
The Yankee turned in his saddle and waved up the two soldiers who supported him. Not to be outdone, the Captain signaled to his Lieutenant to join him. When they caught up, the whole group rode forward towards the shack. After all, what had six armed and desperate men to fear from a lone sojourner?
Their approach did not go unnoticed. The inhabitant of the shack was on the alert and at his door, rifle in hand, before they had pulled to a halt. They saw a tall, bearded man in his mid forties – his broad physique arguing strength and resilience, his clear direct gaze signalling one who did not compromise his integrity.
Not that the Yankees would recognize anything of the sort. Having sold their own, they had precious little respect for another man's honour or loyalty. This was immediately obvious by the way the officer began to snap out questions without a greeting.
"You! You're local, aren't you?"
The tall man nodded slowly without speaking.
"You know this territory?"
A faint smile lifted the man's lips. "It's my land," he stated simply.
"And you're really familiar with the mountains?"
"As the back of my hand." The man sounded faintly disapproving now, as if he had taken the measure of the officer and found it wanting. His gaze flickered over the three Yankees and took in the Captain and Lieutenant. The situation might have appeared obvious – a Rebel detachment forcing the Yankees to co-operate by superior numbers – but the domineering attitude of the officer gave the lie to that. Finally, the man's eyes came to rest on Jess. For a split second something flashed across his face: pain, regret, longing. Then the expression clarified into a slightly stern paternal frown.
"You could do with a hair-cut, boy!"
Jess scowled back. "Too busy fightin'."
The man nodded slowly again. "Yes." There was infinite sadness in his tone.
"And you?" the officer's voice cut in contemptuously. "You, sir, are busy hiding on your ranch while the rest of us fight to keep you free. I think you owe us the benefit of your expert knowledge!"
The Captain shifted restlessly in his saddle and exchanged a harried glance with his Lieutenant. It seemed as though he was going to intervene, but he was not decisive or quick enough. Before he could say anything, the decision was out of his hands.
"We need an experienced local guide to lead us over a suitable pass and take us as far as the southern road," the officer told the rancher. "You are that man. Get your gear and mount up!"
The man made no move to obey. "Who am I guiding?"
"That's none of your business!"
"If you want to get safely over Summit Pass, it is my business. I need to know how many men, horses, wagons, if I'm to pick the best route."
"Mount up! You'll find out soon enough."
Still the man did not move. It was impossible to tell from his calm features what he was thinking. He might have been contemplating defiance. He might have been weighing up the odds against escaping. He might have been mentally running over the possible routes ahead. He might have been about to invite them all in for a meal.
The latter would have suited Jess fine. Warmth and food would be definitely welcome. But he knew there were still some hours of daylight and they could not afford to break their ascent of the mountain yet, unless this was the best place to overnight. Since the shack had been built here, he rather thought it might be.
"Is there enough shelter for a camp up ahead?" he asked.
The man looked up at him appreciatively, but before he could answer, the officer cut in once more. "Keep your mouth shut! We don't need you now. A local guide will serve us far better."
"A willing local guide," the man reminded the Yankee quietly. He did not look particularly willing.
"Willing or unwilling, you'll do what we tell you."
"I will? Aren't you taking rather a risk, trusting me?" the rancher asked mildly.
"No risk." The officer gave a cruel, confident laugh. "This is your land. It won't be difficult for my men to find your ranch. Left a wife behind, did you? Children, maybe? When they've finished with your family, they'll burn every last thing to the ground!"
The coarse guffaws of the two Yankee soldiers were drowned by a furious yell. In a lightning move, Jess had leapt up to stand on his pony's back. Before anyone could stop him, he launched himself from this height to bowl over the officer.
"You gutless murderer! You'll never do that again! I kill you first!"
Jess's hands were round the officer's throat, ruthlessly squeezing the breath out of him. Strangely the officer did not fight back, but seemed more concerned to prevent the concealing bandanna from being shaken from his face. With a strangled breath, he ordered: "Get him!"
There was a sickening thud. One of the Yankee soldiers had swung wildly at Jess with his gun, splitting a deep gouge along his hairline so that blood poured out. Both soldiers pulled him away from the officer, struggling to control the boy's fury. They proceeded to club him ruthlessly with the butts of their rifles until he collapsed onto the snowy ground.
In a horrified pause, no-one moved. But almost as the beating happened, the rancher strode swiftly forward to stand over the fallen boy, taking the blows raining down himself.
"Leave him alone!"
The officer scrambled to his feet and snarled: "What's he to you? Is he your Rebel bastard that you're so keen to protect him?"
The man stared back at him, his face cold and his voice as bleak as the winter wind which was cutting into them. "He is all the sons who never lived for me to raise them. All the brothers my sons will never have."
The officer shrugged. "He's no use. He can be left here." He turned to his horse. "We're wasting time and light. Get what you need and mount up!"
"No." The defiance was implacable.
"No?"
"No. The boy will die if he's not protected. If you make provision to save him, you have my word that I will guide you as best I can."
"Your word?"
"Nothing else is necessary. I do not break my word."
It had become a stand-off between principled integrity and unscrupulous treachery. Into the charged silence, the Captain finally managed to inject a more forceful order: "He's one of my scouts. You will not treat him with less respect than he did your own dead."
The officer turned and stared at the Captain. "And why should I bother to do that?"
Unexpectedly, it was the Lieutenant who answered: "Because you don't want to fall foul of Warwick's Wolves, that's why."
His reason brought a shocked reaction from the Yankees. Clearly the name meant something, even this far north.
"Yeah, that's where our scouts came from. And the Wolves take care of their own. If anything happens to the boy, be sure Warwick will hunt your guts down – no matter how long it takes!"
"And," the rancher put in, "you will have no guarantee that I'm not going to lead you straight over the nearest precipice!"
"Very well. You can leave him by the shack."
The rancher stooped and gathered the injured boy into his arms. Lifting him securely, he carried him to the shack, but when he was about to take him inside, he was halted by a harsh command.
"Leave him in the doorway! He'll be protected enough there."
The man straightened up, his burden still in his arms.
"I can have you both shot now. Your choice."
Silently Jess was lowered on to the floor of the hut, which at least was clear of snow. No-one attempted to help or noticed as the rancher quickly pressed a spare bandanna over the cut on the boy's head. Nor did they see, when he went inside for his gear, his swift action in scribbling a note on a page of his notebook, which he tore out and slipped into the unconscious one's fist.
"Get a move on in there!"
The rancher squared his shoulders and went out to keep his word. His face remained calm and resolute, but his heart surged with fury against the corruption of duty and humanity which he was witnessing.
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From Matthew Sherman's personal notebook, lost at Summit Pass:
Such rage - in defense of an enemy! Thought the boy was going to kill that bastard. God forgive me, he deserves the name for his threats! Kid reacted like it was his own mother, his own home threatened with burning. Took two of them to pull him off and hold him down. There's nothing of him, either. Been starving too long. Mary'd … (page torn) … stopped the beating before too late. Said I wouldn't guide them if the boy died. They left him at shack for the other scouts to find. Later ordered the four of them to hightail it south. Said now they'd got local guide, didn't need their own any more. Managed to slip page of this book into his hand. With luck it will help him to safety. Told them how to get to … (rest of page illegible)
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It was pure bad luck that Cherokee Joe, riding down from other possible routes he had been investigating, missed the convoy heading up the mountain by a matter of half a mile and half an hour. If he had met it, he could have warned them of how difficult conditions were and advised them to leave the wagons behind before they began to hinder progress. As it was, his first clue that something was wrong came when he found clear tracks of the convoy, going from the sheltered plateau on up the mountain.
Cherokee Joe frowned: What in the world had possessed Jess to move the convoy out before the rest of the scouts rejoined it? He was an unruly cub at the best of times, but he would not disobey an order which he knew made good sense. Without some urgent change in circumstances, something which affected the safety of them all, he would not take such action. Joe grinned to himself as he added the thought: Especially as he knew Vin would have his hide if he did!
Dismounting, he examined the tracks. He saw immediately that Jess's Appaloosa was not leading them. Instead a much larger horse and a heavier rider broke the trail. All the rest of the riders and unmounted horses were accounted for, as well as the three wagons. The tracks showed they had been gone less than an hour, heading south west up the next valley, climbing towards the summit which Joe now knew was their best chance of breaking through to a safer route south.
Joe straighten up and looked back down the valley. If Jess was not with them, then where the hell was he? His heart clenched fiercely at the thought of the only kind of things which would prevent his valiant and indomitable young comrade from fulfilling his duty. At the same time his keen eyesight picked out the cabin on the edge of the forest. He had not seen it before, since he had not ridden up this particular valley. The faint trail of smoke, which had alerted Jess, no longer rose from the chimney. But there was a much more telling piece of evidence. Joe could see the Appaloosa, standing motionless by the door.
Now what? Jess must be in the cabin and incapacitated in some way. The patient waiting of the pony argued that, for Spirit would never leave him – the bond between them was so strong.
Joe's instinct was to ride hell for leather down there and take care of Jess. But he also had responsibility for the safety of the convoy. He had no idea who was leading them and he could not let all their effort go to waste if the convoy foundered in the unfavorable conditions ahead.
Cut one, we all bleed. The Ranulfiar bond was unbreakable. So was their loyalty to the cause for which they fought. If he left Jess now, he might die. If he did not, many others would certainly die. He knew which choice Jess himself would make. The boy would never put his own safety above those he was sworn to care for. And somewhere back on the trail, Vin and Cal would be riding to the rendezvous.
Praying that they would be in time, Cherokee Joe remounted and spurred his horse as fast as he dared along the tracks of the convoy as they led towards the summit.
He had disappeared well beyond the western rim of the plateau by the time two other horsemen breasted the ridge at the eastern end. They too were able to read the tracks of the convoy and were equally puzzled that the planned meeting had been aborted. Like Joe, they knew only dire circumstances would make Jess take such drastic action. And then they saw the pony.
"Hell!" Cal spurred his horse towards the cabin, skidding to a halt a few moments later with Vin close on his heels. He leapt down, but moved quietly towards Spirit, making reassuring noises as he did so. The pony had flung up his head at the approach of the riders, but nothing would make him budge from his vigil at the doorway.
"Easy, now ... gently, Spirit … move over, boy …" Cal could sound almost exactly like Jess and his voice soothed the pony, enabling him to back it up a few paces so that they could see the entrance to the cabin clearly.
"Dear God!" Vin brushed past him and knelt beside the slender body lying half in, half out of the doorway. His hands lifted the bandana from Jess's forehead and explored his body for other injuries. "I let you out of my sight for five minutes …!"
Despite his fear for Jess's state, Cal couldn't help grinning. Vin would never admit how much he cared for this surrogate cousin he had acquired and invariably disguised his affection under terse and exasperated responses, which were not wholly unjustified. But when it came down to fundamentals, he was every bit as driven by deep, realistic affection as Cal was.
Together they lifted Jess's limp body into the shack. He was icily cold and breathing in almost inaudible shallow gasps. Cal hastily unbuttoned Jess's coat and slid it off him. Then he pulled open his own greatcoat and gathered his cousin into his arms, hugging him close in an effort to share body heat. When Cal sat down on the bed, Vin draped Jess's discarded coat over them both and was about to add his own when Cal shook his head.
"Save it. You'll have to take over and you need to keep warm to do any good."
Vin nodded. He turned his attention to the fireplace, but there was scarcely any wood left and the door of the shack had been open long enough to reduce the temperature to a level it would be difficult to raise again. Instead he fetched a water bottle and clean linen from his saddlebag and set about treating Jess's head injury.
"Swap over now," Cal suggested and Vin took his place, enfolding Jess in the warmth of his coat and body, feeling shivers run through the boy as he did so. This was a good sign, an improvement on his totally inert state, which suggested that feeling and response were returning.
"Someone beat him hard!" Cal's voice was filled with anger and disgust.
"No prizes for guessing who," Vin agreed wryly.
"But what made them go on without a scout?"
"Joe's not here," Vin pointed out. "Maybe he led them."
"Joe would never leave Jess like this!" Cal asserted confidently. "He wasn't even inside this shack. Who would leave him in the doorway and not at least put him on the bedding?"
"No prizes?" Vin repeated, controlling his own anger with an effort. "And Joe may not have known. If he did, he would weigh his duty to the convoy against his love for Jess. And he'd know we were coming here, so we'd find him."
"Good job we did!" Cal agreed savagely, stretching out his arms to take his cousin once more into the comfort of his embrace. Jess gave a faint groan, although he did not regain consciousness.
Remembering that they had bedrolls with them, Vin fetched them from the horses patiently waiting outside and wrapped Jess and Cal in them. The two older men continued to try to warm their patient up, rubbing his limbs but avoiding his damaged ribs, as well as taking it in turns to share their own body heat.
After some while, their efforts were interrupted by the sound of someone dismounting outside. It was a shock. Vin, who was not on warming duty, pulled out his gun and edged towards the window. They had not heard hooves coming down the plateau from the peaks above, for all sound was muffled by the snow.
All except the welcome familiar tones: "Vin, Cal? You inside?" Joe was pretty sure they were because their horses were outside, but his recent experience made him even more cautious than usual.
"Come on in, Joe. Just the three of us here."
Joe crossed the threshold and his face went as white as anyone with his genes could go. His breath hissed and he snarled: "I knew those no-good bastards hadn't told me the truth!"
"What happened?" Vin kept his voice calm and authoritative. "Report, soldier."
"Sir! I caught up with the convoy. They've got some local to guide them over the mountain pass. Turned me off as if all we'd done was nothing. Said I should tell you we were under orders to head back south as quick and quiet as we came. Said Jess was waiting at the cabin for us. Didn't say in what condition!" His voice choked with the thought that he had left Jess under a very real threat of death, even though he knew he had made the decision required of him by duty.
Vin's hand dropped to Joe's shoulder, giving him a warm and reassuring squeeze. "It's all right now. And you made the right decision."
"Jess don't look too good, though. Nor does this place!" Joe cast an assessing glance around the primitive cabin, particularly its lack of heating. "I'll find more wood."
"Wait!" Cal interrupted, holding out a small scrap of paper. "This was screwed up in Jess's hand. I only just noticed it. It must be important."
Vin took the note and went over to the window to read in what meager light there was: 'Back to downhill ridge. Round end. Track along forest. Both forks keep left. Ranch 2 hours. Safety. Help.' It was unsigned.
He read it out to his companions and saw in their eyes the light of unspoken brotherhood with the man who had not signed his name. He was their enemy, but he had not been willing to leave Jess to die in such circumstances. He had offered his home, knowing the risk, but knowing that whoever was there, like him, would not turn away an injured man.
"Little light left," Joe reminded them. "Leave now."
"Yeah, ain't keen t' stay!" Jess's voice was a blurred mutter through dry lips.
Cal hastened to give him a drink from the canteen. They all watched the effect of this anxiously. Jess swallowed thirstily, then moaned plaintively: "I'm starvin'!"
"You always are!" Cal told him roundly. "Unlike the rest of us, who are, of course, extremely well fed."
"Just sayin'. 'Case you forget," Jess mumbled and his eyes closed again.
Cal gave him a gentle shake. "Can you ride?"
"Ever seen me when I can't?" Jess responded, sounding extremely grumpy. "Just get me in the saddle. Spirit'll look after me."
Taking him at his word, they got him back into his own coat and steered him outside to mount up. Joe fastened Jess's bedroll efficiently around his body, affording some more protection from the cold. Then, keeping him in the middle of the group, they turned their horses' heads towards the darkening trail through the forest and the unknown ranch.
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From Matthew Sherman's personal notebook, lost at Summit Pass:
We journey into the unknown in more ways than one. What are they all doing here? Sure those three bastards are not Confederates like rest of band. Captain never threatened me. Tried to protect boy. But he's so young too. What country is this that sends children to the battlefield? On such a mission. So little hope. Yet they will not retreat or give up the prize they strive so hard to carry over these mountains.
Three wagons to get over Summit. In this weather! I know it is madness. But gave my word.
More storms brewing. Local guide sure of that! Snow above door height soon. Mountain is no place to stay, even in shack. Much less where we are bound. Bound by my word.
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There was a quiet knock at the door.
It had been snowing on and off all day. Only one or two isolated travelers had passed along the road in either direction for several days. There had been no sound of horses being hitched outside. Mary looked out of the window. The starlight was almost as bright as day and she could see no tracks on the snow-covered road in either direction. She picked up the loaded rifle from the gun rack. She was not inhospitable, but she was cautious.
She opened the door.
Standing on the porch was a tall man. He was lean, knife-honed to hardness, his form just a black outline against the snow beyond. His hat shadowed his face, but he hastily swept it off and accorded her a brief bow. Revealed, his hawk-like features had a chiseled beauty in every line of the bone; his long black hair was caught back with a leather thong, Indian-fashion, and his eyes were so dark they appeared black. His voice was courteous and almost unaccented.
"I'm sorry to trouble you, ma'am, but I have an injured man. We're badly in need of shelter. If you could let us rest in your barn?"
Mary looked beyond him. There were three riders and fourth horse at the corner of the barn. In the clear silver light, she could see they were dressed in some ill-assorted uniforms and one of their number was slumped across the neck of an Appaloosa pony. They must have come down the track from the upper pastures, maybe from the mountainous eastern border of the ranch. Few people would come that way, for it led nowhere except to Sherman lands.
Her heart leapt into her throat. "Has something happened?"
She meant to her husband, but the man answered from his own need. "A head injury, bad cut and his ribs kicked in. Exposure to the cold too." He sounded grimly worried and yet resigned, as if this were not the first time.
Mary gathered her courage and her compassion. She could see that, despite the army greatcoat he was wearing, the man himself was suffering from the bitter cold and whatever rigors he had passed through.
"Come inside to the fire. Bring the others."
He shook his head. "No, ma'am. We can't do that. You must be able to say you did not take us in. Just let us use the barn."
"Nonsense!" Mary retorted briskly. "You can't tend an injured man in a barn and it's too cold out there."
"Not as cold as some places we've slept!" He sounded rueful, as if ashamed of his lack of northern hardihood.
"Very well. You go into the bunkhouse," she told him as firmly as she would have done with either of her sons. "My eldest moved out there when he got more independent and he fixed a stove."
Her voice faltered for a moment, as she thought of Slim and where he might be sleeping this freezing, starlit night. Surely some woman, some mother, would have pity on him if he needed it so far away? Then she found strength to go on: "You can say you broke into it. Fortunately – ," a conspiratorial smile crossed her lips, "my son is a very chilly person and left bedding enough for four!" She shooed him in the direction of the bunkhouse and went to get the blankets. As she did so, she reflected how easily four men could just have used the threat of violence against a lone woman. But they had not.
Inside the bunkhouse, two of the men were busy. As Mary entered, her arms full of bedding, one of them turned from the stove he was stoking and gave her an engaging grin of cheerful optimism, which did not reflect the seriousness of their plight. "With your permission, ma'am, we stole some of your wood," he told her. His hair was exactly the color of the copper flames in the stove.
"You're welcome," Mary told them as she deposited the bedding and opened the basket in which she had put various medical supplies. "Let me see."
The man who had been bent over the patient straightened up. She almost gasped in shock, for he was certainly nearly full-blood Indian and her experiences had not been good. He looked at her gravely for some seconds before addressing her quietly: "Few herbs to be found on the mountain now. I brought Birch Bark and Elder. You have – what d'you call it? – Arnica, Feverfew?"
"Yes. And other remedies."
Mary bent in her turn over the man stretched out on the bunk. Her breath caught again. She had thought Slim was young enough when he rode away to war. This young man could give him several years. And someone had obviously beaten him hard. He was half-conscious, thick dark lashes fluttering restlessly, but his eyes never fully opening. Blood had dried or perhaps even frozen over a cut down his hairline and his hair was wild and shaggy enough to make it difficult to bandage. His breathing was obviously painful and when she loosened his coat and the rough butternut shirt he was wearing, she could see black bruises all down his right side. Like the others, he had the pared-down hardness of a life short on rations and long on endurance.
From their appearance, their wariness and their innate courtesy, there could be no doubt where these men came from. Why or what they were doing was less easy to guess.
Mary treated her patient and, when she and the silent Indian were satisfied, made her way back to the house, her hand automatically running along the rope strung from building to building. Presently the first man, who had been tending to the horses, came to the door again as instructed and she gave him food and supplies for the night and the following morning.
Attending her patient the next day proved unexpectedly hazardous.
When she arrived early in the morning, he was still in a deep sleep. She left the medication she had brought and was about to start the necessary tasks in the yard, but was given firmly to understand that the three older men would see to everything. Thankfully, she retreated to the ranch house to prepare what provisions she had into a decent meal for them all.
Around noon, Mary returned to the bunkhouse. She had barely opened the door when the patient struggled to consciousness of a sort. He sat up, wild-eyed, and his hand groped under his pillow with amazing speed.
"Wolf-cub!" The red-head hurled across the cabin and pinned the boy's arms to his sides in a ferocious hug. "You little idiot! You're safe!"
The thrown knife flashed through the air, its trajectory altered at the very last minute, and embedded itself in the door-jamb.
"Told you not to let him sleep with his knife," the dark man observed with calm resignation.
"He won't sleep without it, as you well know!" the other retorted.
The fourth man, meanwhile, had retrieved the knife as silently as he did everything else and handed it back to its owner. The youngster took it without a word. He rubbed an arm across his eyes and stared round the room, clearly puzzled and deeply wary. Mary was struck by the contrast between his fierce, reflexive skill and whatever harrowing experience made him so ready to use it.
"You're safe," the man who was holding him repeated.
Seeing them right next to each other, their family likeness was striking. They couldn't be brothers – the coloring was too different – but they must be close kin. There was an unspoken, subtle bond too, not just between these two, but binding all four of them strongly. Indeed she would have taken them, impossible as it might appear outwardly, for brothers. In her heart she wished Slim had had the same chance of brotherhood, instead of being the lone eldest for so long. But there was a patient to attend to.
"Lie back down!" she ordered firmly.
His kinsman released his hug and eased the boy gently down until he was flat out once more. As she bent over him, Mary heard a faint, hoarse whisper pass his lips: "Sorry, ma'am. Y' startled me."
He was barely conscious again, the exertion of a sudden awakening having taken its toll. Nevertheless, there was something troubling him, which made him clutch at the red-headed man and mutter feverishly, "Don't let 'em burn her, Cal!"
"Rest easy!" the man assured him. "That's all over now. Besides," a chuckle escaped him, "ain't nothing gonna burn in this snow 'cept the stove."
"Keep guard! You three. Promise me …" The faint thread of speech blurred into troubled breathing.
"Rest easy! You can trust us, y' know that, Wolf-cub."
Sleep came almost immediately and possessed the patient for the rest of the day. He did not wake again until late afternoon when Mary made her third visit, this time with a good savory venison stew, a tray of roasted roots and the last of her bread. It seemed little enough for four starving men.
Little indeed when the patient woke and recovered his appetite with a vengeance! Whether it was a tribute to Mary's healing skill or the power of sleep or just his own wiry resilience, he was definitely on the mend.
Mary was touched to see how much the simple meal meant to her guests. They ate in reverent silence, slowly savoring each mouthful as if it was a very long time since they had had a home-cooked meal. In this fundamental sharing there was no need for words and, under the circumstances, very little they could have exchanged without opening themselves to dangerous charges of conspiracy. So they simply sat together in the golden glow of the lamp and the copper flicker of the fire and were glad for at least a little peace on the troubled earth.
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From Matthew Sherman's personal notebook, lost at Summit Pass:
Trouble – as I anticipated. Valley leads to pass. Trail of sorts. Bad for wagons. Barely half a day and wheels wrecked on one. Not surprising – loaded with strong boxes. Altercation between those three and the young Captain. Something about a key and helping themselves? Southerners drove them off, made it clear they would shoot to kill. Now three men short and good riddance!
Boxes emptied. Bags – gold, I guess – into remaining wagons. Not for long. Horses on second foundered … (rest of page illegible) … deep snow, deeper, much deeper than last wagon and horses can manage.
Can't go on much longer. Storm sweeping ruthlessly up behind us. Men struggling under crushing loads. Bodies bent low. Toiling along the precipitous climbing way. No wagons now. Some horses collapsed, broken legs took others, some sensible creatures bolted back down the mountain. Now only human painful steps and so slow …
Is any gold worth this? Captain says yes - to save starving brothers without medicine or ammunition. Could be forgiven for such a motive. But Summit Pass is unforgiving. No rest on this weary road. Nor shelter. And precious little hope of success. If these were my sons, dying here, what would … (rest of page torn away) … The south calls them. They see the final cleft below the peak which should bring them back to their way home, so they will struggle on. But I am of no further use. We part willingly but with no certainty of shared brotherhood.
Just for a moment, the snow-clouds are riven like a great cleft in the sky and the stars are piercing bright in this savage cold. There are many stars above us, though they may be concealed. Many truths we should know, but they remain hidden. We are being called to peace by voices we cannot hear. My part is to give this country strong foundations on which to build when the present madness has passed, this weary strife is over and … (blot obscures rest of sentence) ... My way is clear. Pray God I do not meet those three renegades, for I do not believe them so easily dismissed. They resented my challenge to them. That I cared enough for the young Rebel to make his life the surety for my co-operation. They will not easily forget, much less forgive. Pray that they return the way they came. Not by the ranch trail. For myself, all I ask is to come once more to my own door and find my dear Mary … (notebook is blank from this entry).
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There was a quiet tap at the kitchen door.
Mary hastily tipped out the bread tin she was holding and deposited the last loaf onto the cooling rack. Wiping her floury hands on her apron, for she had also been in the middle of making apple pie, she hastened to lift the latch and open the door.
The boy was standing outside. The injured one. The one they called the Wolf Cub.
His hat was in his hand and the wind was blowing thick curls of rough, dark hair across his eyes. He pushed them back impatiently, but only succeeded in looking even wilder. A shy smile lit his face, lifting one corner of his mouth a little crookedly. She was caught again by the strange mixture of toughness and suffering. She wondered what he had been through to carve such experience into his face and bury such shadows in the brightness of his eyes.
"I've come to say thank you, ma'am." His voice was husky and deep, mature beyond his years, like his hard-worked body.
"It's Mary," she told him. It was a little thing to give, but it showed she trusted him.
"Mary."
He thought. Then he said. "A good name for the time of year. A good name for takin' in strangers."
"You're welcome. But I wish –"
"I know, but you'd put yourself in danger. We're grateful you saved us from the barn – unlike that other family!" An engaging grin crossed his face and Mary had a desire to giggle. Four young men, brothers in spirit though they might be, were not exactly in the same circumstances as Mary and Joseph.
"I wish I'd more to offer you," she said, glancing back at the warm kitchen and her preparations.
He followed her gaze. "You're makin' bread. I used to help my ma do that –" His breath hitched and he fought for a moment to bring his voice under control. "She said sharin' bread was the holiest and closest thing human beings could do for each other."
Impulsively, Mary reached out and touched his bruised cheek. "She was right. One day all men will be brothers and share bread equally."
He gave a little shiver. "One day." There was a long pause as the smell of new bread drifted from the kitchen and wrapped its comfort around them. "We'll be goin' soon now."
Mary nodded. "That's wise. There are more storms coming. More snow. Enough to block your road."
His eyes widened. "Y' can tell?"
Mary smiled. "I've lived here long enough. Now get along with you. I'll bring you something to eat. Then you can saddle up and I'll see you off."
"Yes, ma'am."
"It's Mary," she reminded him softly.
"Yes … Mary!" It was accompanied by another engaging grin.
As he went back across the yard, his hand on the rope, she turned swiftly, picked up a couple of the new loaves and packed them in a basket with the cured ham she had sliced, cheese, eggs and whatever else would make a reasonably substantial meal. Finally she took another two loaves and secured them in a cloth, leaving them for the moment on the kitchen dresser. Then, in her turn, burdened as she was with the laden basket, she followed the rope, as if it was some surety which would guide them all to a safe future.
Their final meal, like the first, was almost silent. As they broke the bread between them Mary recalled that other mother's words: the holiest and closest thing human beings can do for each other. Her provision of the food and the sharing of it together was equally a silent prayer for peace between their sons and a pledge of two women's determination to foster brotherhood amongst men. And in the sharing, she felt some deep bond was forming between these four, whose names she did not even know, and those who would, sooner or later, return to this place as their home.
One return came unexpectedly soon. They had scarcely finished eating when there was the muffled rumble of wheels outside in the snowy yard.
"Stay here!" Mary ordered as she moved to the window. When she looked out, she heaved a small sigh of relief. It was their own wagon with two dear figures in it, even if their familiarity was somewhat tempered by the amount of warm clothing and rugs they were huddled in.
"It's my youngest son," she told her visitors, "and a very dear friend. I'll go and greet them, but I fear you must go as soon as you can. Children," she added from long experience, "are insatiably curious and very observant!"
"As you wish, ma'am," the dark leader affirmed. "There is nothing we can do to repay your care and kindness, except to pray that you and your family will not suffer any consequences from it."
"Stay here," Mary repeated. "I'll tell you when."
She slipped out of the bunkhouse door and laid her hand on the rope once more, as if she had come from the barn. Fortunately the occupants of the wagon were too busy disentangling themselves from their wrappings to notice her at first. When they did, the young boy leapt down and raced to her, snow flying in every direction as he did so.
"Ma!"
"Andy!" She enveloped him in a strong, loving hug. "I'm so glad you're safely home."
"Yeah, I had a great time at the Mackenzie's and they had a whole litter of new puppies while I was there and when we got back to Laramie, I helped that old sheriff put up some Wanted posters 'cause he can't run round like I can and I was bored stayin' at the Doc's all day and then when the snow came I thought we'd never get back! Jonesy kept sayin' he wouldn't start if he wasn't certain he could finish."
Andy stopped mainly because he had run out of breath.
"But you were safe in town, so that was good," Mary told him, putting down at last the fear which she had been carrying all the while he had been away.
"Yeah, but I wanted to come home. And we just made it. Jonesy says we were runnin' with the storm lickin' our back wheels."
Mary lifted her eyes over his head to the man descending stiffly from the wagon. Her heart was filled with deep gratitude for his unswerving protective love and loyalty to her family. They trusted each other absolutely and Mary had owed her life to him more than once. She never needed that faithfulness more urgently than now.
"Thank you, Jonesy!" She led Andy on to the porch and gestured to their sometime trail cook to follow them.
"Best I unload the supplies now, Mary. Ain't gonna be long before the next fall comes."
"Come inside first." She made her tone as pleading as she could.
Jonesy was never able to resist the urge to fulfil whatever Mary needed and followed them both inside. In truth, he was not reluctant to be in the warm, for his back was plaguing him terribly after the long, rough drive in the cold.
"Sit down." Mary led them both to the table. "I'm going to give you some hot coffee and ask you to sit there quietly and drink it and rest a bit."
Jonesy shot her a quizzical look, but he sat down and Andy followed his example.
"I need you both to do something rather strange," Mary told them, "and I need your promise that you will do as I ask."
"Y've always had my promise," Jonesy told her without hesitation. He did not know what this was about, but he was a shrewd observer and had not failed to notice the boot-prints tracking across the yard between the barn and the bunkhouse door.
"Andy?"
"Yes, Ma, I promise."
"Then stay here until I tell you. Don't go to the window or the door. Whatever you hear, stay inside. Don't fear for me, but do as I ask."
"You know we will," Jonesy assured her, although his heart misgave.
"Thank you!"
Mary brought them their coffee and went back to the kitchen to pick up the parcel of new bread she had secured earlier. Then she left by the back door, making her way for the last time down the rope line to the bunkhouse, to speed her guests on their way.
"Be swift! There's a storm hard on your heels!"
The four strangers readied their horses with practiced efficiency and Mary managed to persuade them to supplement their equipment by taking some oil-proof sheeting and a couple of old leather cloaks with them as added protection against what looked to be serious snowfall. Now they were mounted, hats in hand as they made their goodbyes. Mary came up close to the Appaloosa and the youngest rider. She placed the warm bundle into his hands. "Bread for the journey. You've a long way to go."
He looked up, ahead, at the snow-covered road south. His eyes were set on the future which must be faced and he did not look back at the shelter they must leave. If they should be caught, it was safer for their rescuer if they were not to be able to identify where they had been. He clutched the gift to his heart for a moment, before stowing it in one of his saddle-bags.
"Thank you … Mary …"
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Transcript of part of undelivered letter from Corporal Matthew Sherman to Matthew and Mary Sherman, Laramie, Wyoming:
Now there is no danger of us being caught in enemy territory, I am allowed to tell you that we have been far south, into the plains and almost, it seemed at times, to the edge of the world! It is a harsh and challenging country, like the men who inhabit it, but very beautiful too. At night the stars are so thick across the vast sky from zenith to horizon! It made me think of how I imagined as a kid - if you really listened, you could hear them singing like angels.
There was not much singing on our part; we were a secret mission and trying to stay so. But for silent stealth, we could not match our enemy, who seemed to rise up out of the earth they were born on and disappear into it again just as easily. Yet I have heard them singing – such singing – as they swoop down into battle. I have come to admire and respect their courage and their endurance. Indeed one of them has named me 'brother' and I wish I had other brothers of such quality. Maybe, when this weary war is over and its Babel sounds become sense again, such relationships may grow and heal us all. The encounter with my enemy has made me rethink some of the things I said before I rode away. I understand now, Pa, how dreadful it is to fight against your own family, although it has taken two strangers to make me realize this. Such a decision cannot be undone now, but as the season of peace draws near, I hope to snatch at least a little time with you and Ma. Mort and I have leave due and will try to ride home before Christmas …
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Snow was driving due south along the road from Cheyenne to Laramie, an almost horizontal curtain of stinging white which all but blinded the eyes of the two trying to ride into it. Conditions were the worst they could remember for a long time, but they lived in this land and were well prepared for the worst it could throw at them. Their figures were indistinguishable in their heavy coats and waterproofs. No-one could have told whether they were young or old, tall or short, harmless or dangerous. Under their hats, their faces were completely swathed against the onslaught of the cold and even their own mothers would not have recognized them.
Or maybe they would? Slim Sherman reckoned that practically nothing escaped the gentle but eagle eye of his Ma and he himself had absolutely no chance of doing so, no matter how well he was disguised. It was not up for discussion, anyway: he and his companion, Mort Cory, had barely exchanged a word since they had left Cheyenne. They had not progressed very far on their journey and every mile covered was painfully slow.
Suddenly, like shadowy ghosts, riders appeared out of the tumbling clouds of snow in front of them. They seemed to move like leaves driven on the wind, while for those coming from the south labored foot by foot as if trapped in some nightmare swamp where sucking mud dragged down at every pace.
So thick and fierce was the storm that it seemed the two parties would be blown past each other without time for even a cursory greeting. The brief glimpse Slim and Mort had of the others showed only that they too were swathed against the elements, hats and bandannas masking their faces. The snow had covered their backs and stuck in a thick layer on the material protecting them. Their horses were so coated with snow they might just as well all have been grey.
As the riders drew abreast, one of them leaned towards the two friends, pulled his bandanna down and yelled a warning: "Road's blocked behind us! Best turn back!"
The words were snatched out of his mouth by the wind so that Slim and Mort could scarcely grasp them as the four riders continued to sweep on their way as fast as their weary, stumbling horses could carry them.
The two who were homeward bound exchanged glances in a wordless conversation. They had come so far. This was their only chance to get back to Laramie. This was their last leave for a long time. It was nearly Christmas. They were used to such conditions. Maybe the other riders were not. Maybe the storm would pass swiftly south. Maybe their own knowledge of the terrain would help them past the blockage.
It did not.
Eventually they were faced with a towering wall of snow where an avalanche had poured into a narrow canyon, blocking the road completely. There was no way round. There was no digging through or climbing over.
The storm clouds rolled on southwards, but here the wind dropped and the snow ceased. They were alone in a still white world, cut off from everything they held dear except for their own friendship and brotherhood. They turned their horses without a word spoken and rode south, in the tracks of those other four riders, beneath the shimmering stars.
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Mary closed the door of the ranch house behind her and drew her warm fur coat tightly about her. Standing on the porch in the bitter cold, she could see the rise to the south, but not the track of the road, buried as it was under the snow. The skies in that direction were still clear, but the clouds of the next snowstorm were already looming not very far to the north. A storm that would cover the tracks of four horses on the southern road, but which could so easily block it with deep drifts or even avalanches.
Mary lifted her face to the clear heavens and prayed without words, without names, just lifting her love and her fears and her hopes into the immense tranquility and power of the heavens. The circling years of human life were nothing compared with the vastness of the universe. The struggles and sufferings of the country and its people were just a tiny flicker upon the face of eternity. Yet, just as she had been conscious of the celestial harmony, so she sensed the enfolding presence of many wings, wrapping the world like a splendid mantle whose glories were not the cold crowns of victory and triumph, but the simple, golden warmth of peace, love and brotherhood for all men.
.
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Why, you may ask, write two versions of this story? Mainly because I had such difficulty reconciling the information in 'Last Battleground', and why the Confederates behaved as they did in stealing the gold and afterwards. Not to mention how, if Jess was involved, he and Ellis would not recognize each other, even if it was nearly ten years later. But I knew what meetings and relationships I wanted to create through expanding this incident, so 'Starlight Reflections' was the expression of a purely imaginative response. 'Starlight Brotherhood' follows because I have had time to work out all the tricky details (or most of them, anyway!). And, yes, there is obviously scope for a sequel retelling Jess's involvement in the later search for the gold and his realization that he was instrumental in the events which led to Slim's father's death.
The Ranulfiar appear in: 'Encounter in Shadows', 'Fortress of Darkened Stars', 'My Brother's Keeper' and 'Shirt Tails' (Tale 2, Wolf Brother's Farewell which is about Cherokee Joe's death).
The story draws on the imagery of a well-known carol: It came upon the midnight clear, Words: Edmund Hamilton Sears, in the Christian Register (Boston, Massachusetts: December 29, 1849), Vol. 28, #52, p. 206.
Acknowledgement:
Thanks to fellow writers and historical researchers, JyaGhost, Laramie Station, NokuMarieDeux, Sevenstars and Westfalen for their advice on background, geography, forts and weather conditions. Any mistakes are mine!
For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors.