South of Little Round Top

Scott Lancer rode the trail into Green River in the late afternoon. The errant bill-of-sale folded neatly in his breast pocket. He drew rein before he reached the mercantile and looked carefully around when a disembodied voice hailed him from the alley.

Thaddeus Kenyon was slightly stooped as a man often becomes from too many hours either in the saddle or over a plow. Scott knew the rancher had done both. Thad and Sally Kenyon had almost as many years in the valley as Murdoch, and a booming horse breeding business, albeit with a smaller ranch.

Turning in the saddle he studied the man with a little frown gathering between his eyes. He swung down from the saddle and tied off his horse to the hitching post.

Thad called out again. "Ho, there, Lieutenant Lancer!"

Scott blanched. The man must be drunk.

When he approached, Thad clumsily swung around and dropped his cigarette. As he caught the man's arm, Scott stepped on the burning point, making sure the dry leaves at their feet didn't catch fire.

Thad looked up at him with bleary eyes. "Come into the saloon with me and get a drink."

Scott shook his head. "I need to get some errands done, Mr. Kenyon. Murdoch is waiting."

The rancher patted Scott's arm. "You're a good son."

"Is there something I can help you with, Sir?"

Thad attempted to stand up straight and gave a half-hearted salute. "Is this how it's done?"

"Sir?"

Kenyon stood tall and poked Scott in the chest. "My son was just eighteen. Somebody said, let's go out and fight for the cause and so he went out and got killed at Gettysburg, just south of Little Round Top, without ever once thinking about the cause."

Scott was in Mississippi when the battle in Pennsylvania happened. Although scraps of information and rumors about the fierce battle flew about camp via official and unofficial channels.

"Pardon?" It was automatic, and he knew Kenyon—like Murdoch—probably hated having to explain himself, but he didn't know where this was all going.

"What where you fighting for anyway? What was your cause? How much cause and whose cause? What the hell does 'the cause' mean anyhow? It's a word like horse or table or any other word. Only it's a special kind of word. A man says horse and he can point to a horse to prove it. But another man says come on let's fight for the cause and he can't show you what it is. He can't prove the thing he's talking about so how in the hell can he be telling you to fight for it? No sir, anybody who went out and got into the front-line to fight for the cause was a goddamn fool, and the man who got him there was a liar." His voice was low, somewhere in the neighborhood of hell.

Scott swallowed down the first spurt of anger.

Kenyon shrugged, shoulders settling defensively around his ears. "My boy should be here, selling horses with me." The shadows in the alley hid the red flush that rose on his cheeks and ears, but the town noise couldn't cover the hurt in his words.

Scott blinked once, understanding. Because he'd heard something similar years ago from the parents, spouses and siblings of the men who had died under his command.

A female voice called out. "Thaddeus!"

Sally Kenyon pulled her buggy to a stop and threw the reins down before scrambling over to them.

"Oh, Thad. Have you been drinking?" Not a question at all. Kenyon's eyebrows lifted then he closed his eyes and pushed away from Scott.

Between them both they managed to get him into the buggy where he sat, leaning forward, one palm pressed against his forehead.

Her face was turned from him, her mouth pulled down. With a breath, she raised her head.

"He only drinks one day a year. Today would have been our son's birthday. You were…in his line of fire. A handy target because you came home, and our son didn't. But he didn't need to take it out on you." She looked at her husband. "I'm so sorry."

And Scott couldn't tell if she was still talking to him or about the man in the buggy. He wanted to tell her that it was all right but couldn't. The words died in his throat.

Instead, he helped her into the buggy and watched as they drove off.

The End