Woe to Live On: A Novel Read Online Free Page B

walked to the militia. There was a pinch of dignity to their stride but a peck of pace to it.
    Once the courtesies were out of the way, the militia sent a hurricane of bullets to batter the house. We stayed low and returned the weather as best we could.
    Holes began to be chewed through the thin planks, and splinters flew about plenty.
    It was not a situation we had wanted for ourselves.
    “We cain’t hold them from here,” Turner Rawls said. He reflected the desperation many of us were beginning to feel—mouth agape, skin paled, features gorged with concern.
    Black John was still cool, as always, but he was well known to be sane only in a peculiar way.
    “Stand fast, boys,” he said. “We’ll kill them yet.”
    Just as he spoke, several mounted men charged the house, tossing torches at the roof. They had a ferocious covering fire but we hit two of the riders, one flopping loose to the ground the lovely way they do when dead.
    Flames could soon be smelled and heard on the roof and side porch. None of us cared at all for the crispy end that portended. Smoke had to be wrestled for a breath of air.
    “We’ll just have to take what chances we have runnin’,” said Coleman Younger.
    “They’ll riddle us down! They’ll riddle us down!” a panicky Hudspeth spoke. “Shit, there ain’t so much as a stump out there for cover.”
    A general pandemonium now broke out. We were all on our stomachs, smoke-blind, trying to find a place to go. Starke Helms and a boy called Lawson crawled under a bed. They were quivering from the odds.
    The flames began licking at us like a mad dog’s tongue through a porch rail.
    Black John stood, then kicked at the bed.
    “Come on, men!” he shouted. “Let’s go get it!”
    “No!” said a voice from beneath the four-poster. I don’t know which man said it. “We’re all gonna die out there! We’ll die certain out there!”
    “This is no time for debate,” Black John howled, then booted out the back door and put his long legs to use. We all followed except for the two men under the bed. Their timidity would cost them.
    We popped shots as we ran, hopeless, desperate cries coming from us. There was no chance to aim and our bullets whizzed off in all haphazard directions. Bill House went down clutching his knee, and the ground was monstrous pecked by the militia fire. Pete Kinney reached back for House only to have his head exploded. Lane, Martin and Woods also fell, maybe not dead but as good as.
    I could run with only so much care and I applied it all to myself.
    Several of us were hurting but moving when we reached the woods. Turner Rawls had a hole in the cheek and much blood running from his mouth. Jack Bull Chiles was unhurt and I gained his side as we scrambled pell-mell down the wooded ravine to our horses.
    We hit the downslope of woods with such energy that some were injured from not being able to dodge trees. It was tricky that way, and I popped my noggin on a sly branch myself. A blood egg grew above my eye and there was some agony.
    Jack Bull put an arm about me and led me to my mount. We were quickly in the saddle, flinging shots at the militia, who were coming into the ravine after us.
    “Split up!” Black John shouted. “We’ll meet at The Place.”
    The Place was McCorkle’s farm, which was designated as such for occasions of just this sort.
    The militia came on the trot down the slope, crowding us. Those of us who would turned and exchanged fire with them, reminding them thusly of the frailty of the human vessel.
    But they came on, bold from the advantage they held. The fighting became close in, as there was no good path for us to flee along. Carbines banged about us and our pistols barked back, horses screamed with panic and a chorus of voices cried, “This way, men!” or “Down there, boy!” or “I got one!”
    As we made our way into the woods, men gained on us. A big Yank on a black horse mis-aimed a round, then began to club his carbine at me, but the