Woe to Live On: A Novel Read Online Free

naw,” Cole said. “In a hot place Pitt is a good man to have with you.”
    “I hear you saying it,” I answered.
    We drank then, on into full dark and hooty-owl time, after which the three of us slept, our bedrolls not a rifle’s length apart. Coleman Younger was not a regular part of our band, and soon he left us, but for that one brief period he was my comrade.
    In the morning we shed our blue sheep’s clothing. Our border shirts came out of satchels and onto our backs. We preferred this means of dress, for it was more flat-out and honest. The shirts were large, with pistol pockets, and usually colored red or dun. Many had been embroidered with ornatestitching by loving women some were blessed enough to have.
    Mine was plain, but well broken in. I can think of no more chilling a sight than that of myself, all astride my big bay horse, with six or eight pistols dangling from my saddle, my rebel locks aloft on the breeze and a whoopish yell on my lips.
    When my awful costumery was multiplied by that of my comrades, we stopped faint hearts just by our mode of dread stylishness.
    That morning we dawdled about camp more than usual. Black John squatted up to an oak trunk and consulted long with Press Welch, a rider from George Clyde’s group. We often linked up with Clyde, or Quantrill, or Poole, Jarrett and Thrailkill. By having many captains we kept our bands small for easy hiding, but we could call all together in a few days’ time.
    After Press Welch departed, Black John pinched his cheeks together and looked down, lost in some manner of stern thought. He was older than most of us and had lived in Kansas. When being formal he called us the First Kansas Irregulars, which I never heard anyone echo except in his presence. His head was a riot of black tangling hair on the skull and cheeks both. Long-faced, he had a hollowed look brought on by a steady ration of hard days.
    “Men…” he finally spoke, raising himself from the ground. “Men, there is work to be done.” His voice was low and thick and Baptist-certain that what it spoke was right. “Hampton Eads and seven other of our comrades were took by the militia out of Warrensburg. You had friends among them.”
    This was not a rare sort of news, but we began to pay attention. Something would be done.
    Black John spread his arms wide as if to calm us, although we were yet subdued. “They are all murdered.”
    Oaths were uttered at this, and Black John commanded us to mount. This we quickly did, and soon we were afield, feeling wolfish, searching for victims.
    They were in good supply.
    We made trash of men and places. At Sweet Springs we found the houses of two Unionists who had tried to waylay Cave Wyatt when he had visited his mother there. Both men were unaware of us and smug—but not for long. Cave put amens to their miserable existences after delivering unto them a knotty sermon. Their homes became beacons.
    Several of the boys were from this neighborhood and had scores to settle. A man called Schmidt thought a fox was in his henhouse but encountered a larger thief than he was prepared for. His end was merciful, as he was a good runner and nearly made the woods.
    Following Davis Creek we traveled north by west, swooping on known Union properties and persons. Word of our presence traveled fast, and by midday all we found were empty houses to destroy. Here and there we confiscated silverware or jewelry that had fallen into the wrong hands. But there was not much of it.
    Our devotion to revenge began to dull after that, and we yearned to ambush some food and plenty of it.
    Turner Rawls had family on the creek, so we stopped inthere for dinner. All horses but two were secreted in a ravine behind the house. Turner’s father had been shot in Warrensburg for buying more lead than one man could need, and his two brothers were somewhere in Arkansas with Price. This made him the only protector of his mother and two sisters. He was tender in attitude when about them,