Rifles for Watie by Harold Keith Read Free Book Online Page B

never thought my own ma’d go agin me like that.”
    Jeff felt sorry for David, felt sorry for them all. But he was glad to see that David had somehow reached home safely. He walked slowly up to them, feeling embarrassed to interrupt.
    â€œHowdy, Dave,” he said. “Howdy, Miz Gardner.”
    Both of them looked at him, but neither spoke. Jeff walked a step closer.
    â€œYou can go back with me, David,” he offered. “I’m on my way to Leavenworth now. If you came back with me, they might let you off light. I’ll sure talk to them about it. Pretty soon the lonesomeness will all wear off, and then you’ll like it in the army, David. I know.”
    David looked once at Jeff, then at his mother.
    â€œI guess I’ll have to go with you, Jeff,” he said brokenly, his voice still rough with anger. “Nothin’ else I can do.”
    Again he looked accusingly at his mother. Calmly but firmly she met his look and conquered it.
    â€œBetter go down to the crick, Davey, and wash yoreself,” she said, her voice softer but still stern. “Then you can come to th’ house, ef you want. It’s a long walk to the fort. You’ll need a fresh change of clothes. I’ll cook you some breakfast an’ pack you a lunch fer the trip.”
    Obediently David turned and trudged off dejectedly toward the creek.
    For a moment a look of tender compassion crossed her face. He was her own flesh and blood, the only man she had left in the world. Jeff swallowed as he watched her. He knew how hard it must be for her to send David back to the war. But Kate Gardner never hesitated. Chin up, she walked with a firm stride back into the house and began rattling the pots and pans.
    While David washed and ate in silence, Jeff dropped his bundle and pitched into the Gardner chores. He finished milking the cow and toted the filled pails to the springhouse. He turned the cow out and cleaned her stall with a pitchfork, scattering fresh straw on the hard, dirt floor.
    Half an hour later he and David were again on the road. This time there was little talk between them.

   6
    March
    A week later they broke camp and began the long battle march from Fort Leavenworth to Springfield, Missouri.
    The bugles blew at three o’clock in the morning. Jeff didn’t hear them but when the orderly sergeant shook him, he got right up, washed his eyes in cold water, and began to pack.
    Tents were pulled down and rolled up and, with mess boxes and camp kettles, packed into the baggage wagons. Mules were fed and harnessed, horses saddled, cannon and ammunition trucks backed into line. Soldiers hurried to the creek, filling their canteens with fresh water.
    â€œFall in!” barked Millholland, the sergeant, pointing with his arm to indicate the right of the line. Shortest man in his squad, Jeff went automatically to the left end of the line. He had learned long ago that the tall men always took their places on the right and the short ones on the left, so it was easier for each to find his place.
    â€œCount off! Remember your numbers! Don’t swap places!”
    The night was black and still. A cloud bank was rising in the west and when fiery threads of lightning veined suddenly across it, Jeff saw them reflect dimly off the cannon, some of the guns showing black, others brassy bright. Behind him, the artillery gun drivers had their teams hitched and were standing patiently at attention, ready to mount at the word. Jeff felt a flush of excitement. Unlike the bivouac in the Missouri river bottoms, this was the real thing.
    At Grand River the Kansas Volunteers were to join General Nathaniel Lyon. Their combined force of a little more than five thousand men was the only Federal command between Rolla and the new state of Kansas, representing the forlorn hopes of all the Union people in that vast area.
    Jeff knew very well what was at stake. Lyon was hurrying to Springfield to meet the rebel armies of