TREASURE

Chapter One

“By this holy unction, may the Lord absolve thee of all and any faults or sins thou hast committed.” The young Jesuit priest daubed consecrated oil on the eyes, ears, nose, lips and outstretched fingers of Philippe and Raul, each in turn, as both knelt before him in the tight space of his cabin aboard Portuguese man-of-war, Conquista. With the threat of death beyond his cabin door, extreme unction seemed the only appropriate rite for seeking God’s forgiveness and protection on such a desperate night.

These two holy soldiers were all that remained of the priest’s once strong brigade. All the others who had survived their ordeal in the new world were chained in the dark belly of the ship. They might not survive this heavy storm. The hold, their dungeon, was a briny swamp in any storm. This storm was the most terrible storm any of them had ever seen. The worst of it; the crew down there had been denied the holy sacrament of confession. Their last rights had been withheld by this ship’s demonic captain.

God, forgive them their transgressions.

The deck rose sharply beneath his feet, as the ship rushed up the face of another monstrous wave. He gripped the vial of oil in his left hand, grabbed an overhead beam with his oily right hand, and waited.

The crest of the wave broke over the ship and slapped heavily onto the weather deck above his cabin.

The ship fell down the steep back wall of the wave, a few seconds of weightlessness that seemed an eternity, while the priest and his two holy soldiers floated in the thick, stale air of his cabin.

The hull slammed down with a thunderous boom and the priest’s bare feet struck the deck hard, bringing sharp pain to his left heel. The ship’s wooden beams and braces screamed like a woman in labor from the forces of wind and water.

The priest’s feet slid on the wet acacia deck and his oily fingers slipped from the overhead beam. He landed hard on his already bruised knees but somehow managed to keep his grip on the vial of consecrated oil.

Thank you, God.

The vial had been filled with precious oil, consecrated by the bishop himself.

Lord, bless those poor souls in the hold, your valiant brigade. Bless and protect this ship, Conquista, if only for those of us who believe.

Their cargo had forever changed the faith of some. Their captain had been corrupted at his first touch of the captured medallion chained around his thick neck, now hanging over his once noble heart. This demon now possessing the captain might kill them all.

The priest’s faithful saints, Raul and Philippe, helped the priest back to his feet. Only these two had managed to escape the captain’s trio of captive souls. With the Lord’s help, these two had overcome their three former comrades and had thrown them over the side, lost forever to the unforgiving night and to the deep, dark sea. They had lost their eternal souls by turning from God to bind themselves to their captain, this demon at the helm. Some powerful force now drove the captain from within, perhaps Lucifer himself. This evil force had become evident in the captain’s angry eyes.

Sufficient time had passed for the captain to know that his three captive slaves had been dispatched. If Conquista survived this storm, he would certainly repay. Hope for the ship now rested with these two faithful soldiers, these two saints, and with the Lord.

If the captain prevailed, the priest would join these two in the deep darkness of the hold. To what purpose, he could not imagine.

The priest looked from Raul to Philippe. “You both know what we must do.” He’d already told them of his plan.

Both nodded.

Using the Latin, he quickly blessed them both. His soldiers stood, and all three braced from the overhead beams, as the ship rose sharply on another giant wave. The ship fell off the backside, another weightless eternity, and thundered into the ocean with such force that he nearly lost his grip again. Her heavy wooden timbers popped, screamed, and squawked, before the shop settled into another valley of water.  She’d been solidly built by Portuguese craftsmen using strong acacia timbers. Thank you, God.

The priest said, “If we fail to overpower the captain and free the crew, this ship will surely be lost at sea.”

Perhaps the captain’s plan was to scuttle the ship near some uncharted island and let Joao III, their king, believe that the ship and crew had been lost at sea.

No matter.

He corked the small vial of oil and returned it to the fold of his cassock, behind the band of his cincture, a place that had proven safe for these many months.

Raul said, “Father, we have prepared for the worst. It is time.”

Philippe removed a necklace of woven human hair taken from savages in the mountainous Brazilian forest and lifted the heavy gold disk from around his neck. He swung it like a mace, intending to use it as a bludgeon. A confident, good soldier.

Raul left his gold disk around his neck, his chattel, his reward for volunteering to join this adventure nineteen months earlier. He still carried his sword.

While still in Brazil, all of the soldiers had melted down and cast gold in their mountain camp, a just reward for the fierce battle they had won. This done with the knowledge of their still noble captain. They all knew that King Joao III would be well pleased with their captured cargo. It would make him the wealthiest king in the known world.

Raul said, “I left heavy rope at the bottom of the stair. If we can subdue him, we can bind him to the wheel. Hemp rope is surely strong enough to hold any man. Of this, I am certain.”

If their plan worked, if they could subdue the captain and free the crew from below, they might yet save the ship.

If not, well . . .

Dear Lord, Thy will be done.

The ship jumped up the face of another wave and they all braced. It fell off, crashed down, and settled into another valley.

The priest silently prayed again, for the courage to do his small part, to incase that blood red crystal skull in the captain’s cabin. One man had already died trying to open the elaborate gold case. A horrible rotting of his flesh had started in his hand and had quickly consumed his whole body. A deadly poison had somehow been injected, possibly snake venom or frog sweat. One could only guess.

When the captain had hung the blood red pendant around his neck, it had settled upon his chest and had instantly changed him. The evil medallion must hold the key. The blood red crystal skull and medallion must be linked by some invisible force. With the skull freed from the box, with the medallion around his neck, the captain’s power had become insurmountable. Only God could overcome such power.

The priest gripped the wooden cross hanging from his neck. He’d carved it from Brazil wood, a tree rich in red die. His hope lay in power only the cross could bring. He took a deep breath and let it slide out, ready now, as were his men.

He nodded and Philippe removed the heavy stick barring his cabin door. That stick and his faith were all that had protected him over the past three days.

They all braced, as the ship rose up the face of another wave and fell off the backside. The heavy crash and downward jolt caused him to again bite his swollen, bleeding tongue.

He slumped back and stared at his bare feet, wincing from pain, blinking back tears. He dared not let them see his fear. He clinched his teeth and stood.

Raul opened the raised cabin door and cautiously stepped down to the narrow passageway. He looked back and nodded, We’re safe.

Philippe and the priest followed Raul down into the passageway, where seawater rushed down the narrow passage deck, lower than the cabins, and out through scuppers to rejoin the sea.

Overhead lanterns swung with the sway of the ship, affording barely enough light to find their way. They hurried aft to where the main mast penetrated this and two lower decks on its way to join the keel.

The acacia mast moaned from the strain of gale force winds.

The rigging whistled from the weather deck above.

The tattered sails snapped and cracked noisily with each gust.

As planned, his soldiers left him, each taking a separate ladder up to the weather deck, where they hoped to remain concealed. Raul’s hemp rope had already been stored near the ladder to the high stern deck.

The ship lurched upward at the bow and the priest grabbed the mast.

The wave crashed over and the ship fell off.

After a moment of weightlessness, the ship crashed back into the sea.

Water spilled down both ladders as the priest rounded the mast, squeezing his wooden cross, hurrying aft toward the mizzenmast.

The stern passageway led to the captain’s cabin and stepped up higher than the rush of seawater.

He rounded the mizzenmast, as the ship rushed up the face of another wave.

Water broke over the bow, the ship fell off, quicker than before, and slammed down, driving the priest to his knees. The severe pain from previous bruises and salted abrasions brought tears.

He climbed slowly to his feet and faced the captain’s cabin door, so close. Evil artifacts and precious gems had been stored within.

The captain hoards it for himself. Why else would he imprison the soldiers and most of the crew, if not to keep this valuable cargo for himself?

Melted down, the gold and precious gems would make Joao III the richest king in all of Europe. Out here in these islands, the captain would become one of the richest men on earth, a king unto himself.

In the mountains of Brazil, the king of those savages had surely been the richest king in the new world.

Their scouts had learned of this mountaintop tribe from other tribes they had already conquered. They’d followed the mythical stories up the mountain into darker and denser forest, seeking a mysterious skull of power and the vast wealth that surrounded it.

They’d heard many stories about its vast wealth and power, too many for it to be a myth. It had turned out to be tangible. It has real power.

He’d seen that power, high in the mountains of Brazil. That morning, after the sun had finally risen, the priest had managed to get the dark crystal skull into that elaborate, white gold box. When he’d closed the lid, the latches had worked as if by magic, both securing the skull and protecting it. In sunlight, he’d been able to touch it, but he feared the night.

Perhaps the box had served those savages as a prison for the beast within. Perhaps the native chieftain had only let this evil out for certain nocturnal rituals, to maintain his power over those who feared the unmistakable power of the skull. The savages would fear his power, as the Portuguese priest feared the captain’s power.

He must set his fear aside. The power of the captain must be controlled. To do this, the skull must first be secured. Its power must be imprisoned.

On that dark night, at the height of this evil power, the priest’s fear seemed impossible to suspend.

I must . . .

The ship jolted upward at the bow and he braced from the bulkheads on both sides. The ship slammed back down and seawater swirled in the passageway behind him.

He crossed himself, kissed his wooden cross, and opened the door.

The dark crystal skull rested on a pentagram chalked onto the deck, close, inside the open door. Hollow eye sockets pulsed red from deep within.

His heartbeat thumped loudly in his ears, pulsing in rhythm with the skull.

He clutched his cross and breathed deeply, slowly, trying to control his heaving chest, desperate to overcome his paralysis of fear.

I must . . .

The bow of the ship lurched upward and the door slammed shut.

After a weightless moment, he braced and waited for gravity to slam the ship back down.

Water rushed down the passage behind him and he clutched his cross. With his other hand, he opened the door again.

Don’t look at the eyes.

Still clutching his cross, he stepped over the threshold and entered the captain’s cabin.

Wooden trunks and cases had been stacked up to overhead beams, leaving no space to move. He looked about the cabin quickly, searching for the white gold box. It sat on the deck, near the captain’s ladder to the high stern deck, to the ship’s helm.

He let go of his cross, stooped, and seized the skull by the horns. His hands sizzled instantly from the touch, bringing pain worse than any he’d ever felt. Smoke from his burning flesh stung his already tearing eyes.

            I must . . .

The ship rose up the face of another wave and the cabin door behind him slammed shut. He held fast, drifting weightlessly as the ship fell off. The hull slammed down and threw him toward the captain’s ladder. His left arm slammed against the white gold box. He rolled onto his shoulder and held tight to the demon horns.

His flesh smoked and burned like fire.

He squirmed up to his elbows and pressed the skull forward, lifted it over the open box, and let go.

His fried skin peeled from his hands and clung to the red crystal horns, disappearing in a flash of white-hot flame.

The skull settled into the box. The eye sockets still pulsed bright red.

The priest’s badly burned fingers curled, useless. He closed the lid with the back of his hand.

The latches moved mechanically, locking the box.

It was done.

Light flooded from above.

The captain stood in the open doorway at the top of the ladder. His eyes pulsed red, in rhythm with the medallion at his chest, in rhythm with the priest’s pounding heart.

Flashes of lightning silhouetted his long black hair, sucked skyward by the wind. His maniacal laugh paralyzed the priest with renewed fear.

Heavy air pushed the priest against the deck, making it impossible to draw breath.

The bow of the ship lurched upward and the captain braced into the ladder. He stepped down toward the priest.

The priest left the deck, weightless with the drop of the ship, unable to grab anything with his badly burned hands.

The ship slammed into the sea and the priest’s face smashed into the deck.

Odd. He felt no pain from his hands or face, only from his aching knees.

The ship rolled and lightning flashed from above.

Philippe’s heavy gold disk cracked into the side of the captain’s head but barely dazed him. He held fast to the rail and shook it off. Blood flowed from under his long black hair and flooded into his ear.

The priest struggled to his feet, as Philippe hit the captain again, maybe harder.

Raul grabbed the captain’s hair from behind and helped drag him onto the high stern deck.

The ship lurched upward and the priest braced between the bulkhead and a heavy trunk, waiting for the ship to fall off the back of the wave. The ship slammed down hard and buckled his knees. He sprang up and slid his shoulder against the bulkhead, climbing the ladder onto the stern deck, where the bite of cold rain chilled the sweat from his face.

Fingers of lightning streaked through the heavens, momentarily lighting a gray-green ghost, a giant mass beyond the ship’s bow, out past the frothy spray of another gigantic wave.

An island?

Very close.

The ship lurched and Raul slid helplessly across the deck, plunging into stacked monkey cages.

The monkeys screamed and held tight to the bamboo bars of their cages, watching the struggle between the captain and Philippe.

Philippe held the captain’s neck from behind, pulling him toward the wheel.

Raul scrambled back to his feet, lunged forward, grabbed the captain’s hair above his eyes and stopped.

The captain’s eyes burned with rage.

“Don’t look at his eyes,” shouted the priest.

Too late.

Raul let go and backed away.

The captain struggled to free himself from Philippe, holding Raul helpless with his angry glare.

The hemp rope lay by the newly broken monkey cages.

The priest dove and grabbed the rope. Hemp bristles stabbed into the skinless flesh of his hands, not bringing any real pain.

Odd. He felt no pain, except in his knees.

Raul fell with the sudden rise of the ship and the priest lowered his shoulder into the captain’s belly.

They floated in space for a weightless eternity.

The glowing medallion sizzled against the side of the priest’s face. He could hear it, but there was still no pain.

The ship slammed back down and all three men tumbled to the deck.

Philippe held tight. Brave, strong Philippe.

Together, they wrestled and dragged the captain to the wheel and lashed him tight. Neither man looked into his eyes.

The ship rose quickly and dropped, with nothing to grab, and they floated above the high stern deck.

Lightning flashed bright and illuminated a tall, green spire, close beyond the bow.

The ship slammed down with the jarring crunch of wood against stone.

Wild screams of chained men drifted up from the hold, men dying in the dark.

Warm water rushed over them, as the ship crunched and slid across a rocky reef.

Heavy waves crashed and seawater washed over the ship.

Screams of men had been replaced by those of the monkeys, and the sea swallowed them all.

*     *     *

Michael Crooke wakened with an upward bolt.

The Boeing 737 out of San Juan, Puerto Rico, had just dropped through an atmospheric downdraft. His momentary weightlessness had been followed with the jolt of wings grabbing air.

Man.

His knees ached from the back of the lowered seat in front of him, and the palms of his hands itched, reliving flashes of his dream, a storm at sea. A chill gripped his back but quickly faded.

The little frog-looking guy sitting next to him in the aisle seat turned toward him and smiled, hard to miss in his Hawaiian shirt, tomato red with big green leaves. They’d departed LAX on the same flight to Miami and had taken the same flight from Miami to San Juan. Michael had noticed him among the other passengers, boarding and getting off. He hadn’t noticed where the little guy sat on the previous two flights, but he couldn’t help noticing him on this flight.

He scrubbed Michael’s elbow with his shoulder. “Boy, were you having a dream. You were mumbling and squirming all over the place, and speaking Portuguese. At least I think it was Portuguese. It wasn’t Spanish. I speak a little Spanish. You have to, living in Southern California these days.”

“I don’t know any Portuguese, and I don’t speak a whole lot of Spanish.” His recent dream had vaporized, nothing left.

“Wasn’t Spanish. Must have been Portuguese.”

Michael had little patience for this uninvited conversation. Exhausted from the long boarding procedures in L.A., Miami, and San Juan, he still needed rest. He asked, “You want the window seat?” He hoped that might keep this little frog at bay.

The guy laid his chubby little hand on Michael’s arm, stopping him from standing. “No. That’s alright. You guys deserve all the breaks you can get.”

Michael didn’t want to be rude but he was tired. He’d been travelling for what seemed a week. He needed a shower. He needed some good food. He needed a bed. He half stood to look for an empty seat. He found none.

He remembered a comment. “What do you mean, us guys deserve breaks?”

“You’re military, right?” This guy already knew the answer, smiling, head bobbing up and down.

“Yes, I am.” Michael looked out the window, trying to avoid the conversation. Blue Caribbean waters blinked up at him from 30,000 feet below. A few scattered, puffy, white clouds floated through the void, creating a great sense of elevation.

The frog tugged at Michael’s arm, demanding attention. “I can always tell. I’ve been watching you all the way from L.A. I mean, you look familiar, but I just can’t place you.”

Michael studied his face, his person, Hawaiian shirt, white shorts, furry legs, tire-tread Mexican sandals. No, he didn’t know this guy. He would remember. “I get that a lot. I have a familiar face.”

The guy shrugged, unconvinced, still searching his memory. He blinked it off and smiled. “What branch you in? I mean, can you talk about it?”

“Sure. I’m a Marine, Marine Corps Reserve.”

“I knew it.” He squirmed, ecstatic. “I can always tell. You’re an officer, right?” His smiling, wide-eyed face bobbed up and down.

Trapped. He’d been taught never to be rude by his parents, taught always to be a gentleman by the corps. “Major Michael Crooke.” Michael offered his hand.

“I knew it.” The guy wrapped both hands around Michael’s and stared into him. “Your name’s familiar, too. I’m sure we’ve met someplace.” He let go. “I’m Dikran Bedrosian. Pleased to meet you, pal. I never miss an opportunity to say, thank you.”

His name sounded familiar. Maybe they had met somewhere. Michael looked closer. No, he had definitely not seen this guy before and his name wasn’t on any terrorist lists. No Armenians were currently on their lists, none that he knew of. Still, the name hung in his brain; Dikran Bedrosian. But from where?

Michael shifted away from the chair in front of him, down in the full back position, very uncomfortable on Michael’s knees.

The obese woman in front of him snored loudly, reeked of booze, and slick with sweat.

Farther forward, other passengers had settled back, getting their rest. Michael put his chair back one click and stretched his legs under the fat lady’s seat, still cramped.

“So . . .” Dikran put his chair back a click, getting shoulder to elbow again. He tapped Michael’s arm. “You seen any action? I mean, can you talk about it?”

“Not much.” Michael didn’t like talking about combat; not here, not now, not ever.

“So?” Dikran spread his hands and smiled, lingering in the here and now.

“We spent some time in the middle east.”

“And?”

“And what?” Michael glared into the little twerp’s smiling face.

He ignored Michael’s irritation. “Did you kill any diaper heads?”

“Sorry. That’s classified.”

“So, where you headed? I mean, are you stopping in St. Marten?”

Michael turned and looked out the window.

Below the scattered clouds, a smaller airplane crossed their path, flying north.

MEADOWLARKS

Chapter One

            I tried to warn them but they would not listen. The white man never listens to the Indian anyway.

Outside my hut, men cried out in the cold night, running for their lives, the glow of their torches and lanterns rushing past, their guns firing from all around. Some of their bullets cracked through the thin walls of my hut, while I sat with my back to the door, afraid to turn and look, crying out to my forefathers for protection, raising my voice against the heavy weight of my fear. It already knew where I was, the dark spirit of that place, protector of the Valley of Wonder, the sacred valley of our ancestors.

            Outside, the cries from the miners broke off one by one, some shrill, others in low grunts. Their gunfire tapered with each taking of a life. When the shooting finally stopped, his triumphant scream filled the air. The shrill laugh that followed sent chills across my shoulders and down my back.

A heavy silence fell over the gold camp, a time of breathlessness I could not measure.

            The waning flames from my small fire rushed higher. A blast of cold air told me the deerskin cover over my doorway had been pushed aside.

            It was there in my hut, standing close behind me. Hot, wet breath touched the back of my neck. It stank of fresh blood. I closed my eyes and continued the ancient chant of our people, even louder maybe.

            I did not turn to look.

*     *     *

Somewhere in his nineties, not sure exactly, John Crow still remembered his great-grandfather’s stories with vivid clarity. He and other children had crowded into his hut on the Washoe County Indian Reservation to listen to stories of the gold rush days in the 1850s. On cold winter nights, they’d turned their backs to the fire, somehow warmer, watching the reflection of the flames flicker in his great-grandfather’s eyes, the way they must have looked that night, so long ago.

His great-grandfather’s shadow from the open fire would sway and skip across slats on the wall behind him, a magical, fearful dance; a sharp, clear memory.

His great-grandfather had told of how he’d warned the miners not to use explosives to tear up the earth, and not to use acids to purify their raw oar. They were fouling the streams and river in this sacred place of the Paiute.

They had refused to listen to a young Indian hired to provide them with fresh meat.

The morning after the slaughter, the few survivors from outlying camps had looked at him with unjust suspicions. Why had this Indian been spared while so many of their friends lay mutilated and headless, frozen into blood-soaked snow? Everybody, including his great-grandfather, had packed up and left, leaving those frozen bodies for the wolves.

Maybe some had received a decent burial. The church cemetery had some very old, unmarked graves. Willis had never mentioned the old graves.

In fact, nobody ever spoke of what had happened only ten years earlier, that night when terror had again entered this valley.

John climbed onto his front porch, near the giant Douglas fir. On the far side of the valley, shadows crept up the face of the mountain, still some daylight, a good time of day for memories; mostly good.

It had been at the annual mustang roundup down in Reno where he’d first met Jethro and Mary Lou Potter. Jethro had asked John’s advice on horses and had purchased all three that John had recommended. They’d hired John on the spot and brought him here to this sacred valley. He had not yet grown to full manhood.

It had taken a few years for John to realize where he was. He could not recall the exact circumstances of his enlightenment.

No matter.

Jethro had purchased the whole valley from the land office down in Sacramento in 1935, not knowing about the gold or about those early miners, the ones from John’s great-grandfather’s stories. That had been the beginning of the Potter Ranch.

In those early days, Willis Donner had been the only other resident, living up on the Perch, a high granite dome that overlooked the entire valley. The Perch and John Crow’s place were separated by a fast-moving stream, impossible to cross from this lofty height.

Around 1940, Jethro and Mary Lou had given Willis clear title to the Perch and about five acres surrounding it, including a small lake and hot spring. Willis had already occupied the Perch since before Jethro and Mary Lou’s arrival.

A year later, they’d given John Crow title to one acre, across the stream from Willis. The reason given had been, for services already rendered.

John could see most of the valley from his front porch.

Willis could see the whole valley from the Perch.

John had never felt the fear described by his great-grandfather, not once in all the seasons that had passed, not even after realizing where he was, not until that night ten years past. Since that night, fear fell over the valley with each coming of the full moon.

We must never forget.

John stepped down and walked out from under the overlapping roof planes of his teepee-shaped house. He turned and looked west, over the top of the sheer cliff into which Willis had set long redwood logs supporting the high point of his steeply pitched roof. It looked like a tepee.

Well, half a tepee.

He’d been angry with Willis at the time, thinking Willis was mocking John’s Indian heritage.

Not Willis.

He swelled with pride, looking at it. It was a fine house. It perfectly fit the nature of this sacred valley.

Home.

The sun had gone behind the mountain.

Time to prepare.

The family of chipmunks downhill from John’s house poked their heads out from their underground homes, saying goodbye to the day, chirping at one another, at the twilight, at John.

A hawk swooped down and they all ducked into hiding. The hawk rose on the breeze, floated over the tall trees near the house, pulled its wings back, and plunged into the forest. The shrill scream of a squirrel announced the hawk’s success. He’d found his supper.

The way of nature.

John inhaled deeply of the pungent odor of wolf bane, those night blooming red flowers Willis had scattered about, thicker near John’s house. They looked native to the terrain, same as his house.

White smoke hovered above the village, five miles up the valley, rising from the big wood-burning stove in Jacobsen’s Emporium, getting ready for the night. The shadow of the mountain had already settled over the village, creeping down the valley toward the Potter Ranch.

Time to prepare.

John climbed back onto his porch, forever amazed by the craftsmanship, the tightly fitted stone and timber of his house, the stone buttress design at the bottom and the way the windows had been so tightly fitted. Willis had a God-given talent, appreciated by everyone but Kidro Potter. Kidro cared only for Kidro.

Getting late.

The full moon rising over the eastern rim stood in stark contrast to the darkening sky, the beginning of a clear night.

Early moonlight on his three-inch thick, solid oak door highlighted the pattern Willis had chiseled into it. The geometric, interconnecting lines resembled a bird in flight, a crow, perhaps, or one of Willis’s beloved meadowlarks.

A chill crossed his shoulders, his humbling admiration for such fine craftsmanship. He crossed the threshold, closed his door, and dropped the heavy oak bar into place, a solid barrier against whatever might come. He moved across the upper stone floor and secured the narrow, thick oak shutters over the windows.

Nothing could get inside.

With his fortress secure, John grabbed a match from over his wood-burning stove and lit an oil lamp. He trimmed and carried the lamp down stone steps into his large living space, where he’d spread Navajo rugs over the clean, white-sand floor.

He set the lamp on a table Willis had carved from a fat tree trunk and knelt to light the kindling in his already prepared fireplace. Dry slivers ignited quickly, spread to twigs, leapt from twigs, and crawled up the sides of heavier logs. Heat grew quickly, forcing him to step back.

He fingered the well-worn Bible on the mantle and wondered if this night was from God, or from something else? He’d found no answers from this Bible, not after all these years.

He’d never been able to understand the nature of a night like the one now at hand; not from any sources known to him. His great-grandfather’s stories lacked any explanation.

Over these many years, it hadn’t come with each full moon. Even after they discovered it would take a young bull calf and leave people alone, it hadn’t always come. Maybe it hunted in different places.

Nobody knows.

Why the residents in this valley hadn’t left held no mystery for John. This valley was an unnaturally healthy place to live.

John knelt in front of the fire, pulled his medicine pouch from around his neck, opened it, and emptied its contents onto the rug. He studied the pile of small sticks, smooth stones, and tiny pieces of bone. After seeing how they lay, he swept up the pile and tossed it into the air, watching the bits and pieces fall again, studying their pattern.

Tonight, it will come.

The hair on his neck stood, with the feeling of an unseen, spiritual force. He threw his head back and lifted his voice in the ancient, melodic chant of his forefathers. Maybe it would help protect him and his lifelong neighbors.

Yes, even Kidro.

*     *     *

Kidro Potter sat at the dining table Willis Donner had built into the wide bay window that jutted from the side of the Potter kitchen. The wood framed kitchen had been built over the top of the stone-walled carriage house which had become his garage. Being so high up, the kitchen didn’t need iron bars or protective shutters. From there, Kidro could see up River Road to the village and all the way around to his lower meadow, where fine, sleek, Black Angus cattle grazed near the brook that wound its way into the tall timber forest at the lower end of his valley.

Down in that forest, the brook took the runoff from the lower hot spring and emptied into the river. Just beyond, the river flowed strong over the falls and down to Pickle Meadow, Leavitt Meadow Recreation Area, and the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center. The Marines had never ventured into Kidro’s valley.

Only a few big trees grew in his lower meadow, those that found deep boulders to hold their roots. The ground was otherwise too soft to support tall trees. Patches of brush hugged portions of the brook and tall grass covered the rest.

His young heifers and steers would be ready for market in another month. The remainder were breeders, sold to canned goods companies when they grew too old.

Every summer he let the Basques drive in herds of sheep to crop grass in both the upper and lower meadows. In return, each year, his family members had received a young lamb and a fine, handmade, sheepskin coat. The trade cost him nothing. The grass needed to be cut. His cattle preferred the feed corn he placed in bins near the brook. Corn produced better beef, anyway.

Yep. Kidro Potter raised some of the finest table beef in California. In the country. In the world.

He poured his second glass of Canadian Club rye whiskey, recapped the bottle, and sipped.

He enjoyed this time of day, sipping whiskey. With the sun long gone, the thin clouds over the western rim had turned pink, orange, and gold. Some might call this a beautiful sunset, those who enjoyed such things.

1. J. enjoyed these sunsets; as had his wife, before she got taken.

A little down from the rim and high up the slope, John Crow’s house was already shuttered and dark. A thread of white smoke swirled and dissipated into the evergreen trees above the cliff. That stinking Indian had already prepared for the night.

Arrogant squatter.

That stupid, superstitious Indian was his closest neighbor. Kidro didn’t have much use for Indians in general, and he’d never liked this one, a real know-it-all when it came to horses.

Across the ravine from Crow’s, above the waterfall, lamplight winked through treetops from the Perch, Willis Donner’s place. The glass reflected sunlight in the daytime and lamplight at night were constant reminders of Willis’s so-called right to be there. Kidro hated that squatter the most.

Kidro’s parents had always treated Willis like a favored member of the family, and Kidro had always resented him for it.

Kidro would never be able to get Willis or Crow out. That knowledge gnawed his gut near every night, looking up at their two properties, both properly registered down in Sacramento. He hated himself for hating both of them and doing nothing about it.

He squirmed on the cushioned bench and turned to look up River Road; still no sign of Nason. He drained the last of his whiskey and looked into the adoring stare of Scooter, his Springer Spaniel, sitting on the polished stone floor, patiently waiting.

He knows.

“Nason’s always late, isn’t he?” Kidro smiled at his dog’s sweeping tail, back and forth across the floor.

“You’re right.” Kidro set the glass next to the whiskey bottle and stood, feeling soreness in his left knee where Gilpin’s horse had pinned him against the lower corral rail. At age sixty-eight, Kidro didn’t heel as quickly as he once had. He’d probably limp for a month, maybe for the rest of his empty life.

Stupid horse.

Kidro forced himself to walk through the pain to the kitchen door. He lifted his lightweight Levi jacket from a hook and put it on. He made it through the living room with only a slight limp and climbed three stone steps to the entry foyer. He dragged his heavy, black Stetson hat from the deer antler rack Willis had mortared into the stone wall before Kidro could remember. He poked the hat onto his head, opened his new factory-made entry door, and followed Scooter outside.

As long as Kidro lived, Willis Donner would never hang another door. Not on Kidro’s property.

Scooter shot down the stone steps and rounded the corner of the garage before Kidro could shut the door.

Pain forced Kidro to use his right leg, limping down the steps, keeping his left knee straight like some kind of cripple. Climbing down steps seemed worse than climbing up. He hated pain any way it came.

That stupid horse cost too much, five hundred bucks and an Angus bull calf.

He wove his way up the rocky path through tall pine and limped out of the woods into his upper meadow, where stubby grass mixed with sagebrush grew in rocky soil. He followed Scooter up the well-worn trail, limping more instead of less.

No stupid canes or crutches for Kidro. He’d work out the stiffness.

“Stupid horse.”

Scooter reached that flat stone far ahead of Kidro, chasing those ever-present meadowlarks, howling and baying until the swirling, yellow breasted birds filled the sky. The dog almost never barked, earning Kidro’s constant gratitude, but he allowed it for chasing these stupid birds, always singing stupid bird songs.

Kidro had never liked noisy things, especially noisy people like Gilpin. He gritted his teeth, hating Gilpin more with each painful step. That was the one good thing about this sore leg. It gave Kidro another reason to hate Bruce Gilpin.

Always late, Nason’s truck sped over the crest in a cloud of dust and slid to a stop near that flat rock.

“What the . . .”

Kidro’s Angus bull calf stood in back, the one he’d just traded to Gilpin.

Broad shouldered and fit for forty, Sheriff Phil Nason stepped out of his four door Ford pick-up and walked to the back.

“Gilpin gave you that calf?”

Nason shook his head with a tired dip toward Kidro. “Pounded on his trailer for five minutes.” He dropped the tailgate, climbed into the back, and untied the calf. “I know they were around. His truck was parked in front and I could smell refer, like walking into a hippy house in Berkeley.” He lifted and carried the small calf to the back of his truck.

Kidro took and set the calf on the ground, gritting against the pain in his leg.

Nason climbed down and picked up the calf. “I found this one in Gilpin’s barn, nursing from his milk cow. That idiot’s got pot hanging and drying everywhere. I should just arrest his ass. If not for his wife and kid, I would.”

“He’s probably got a grower’s permit. I heard his brother owns one of those marijuana pharmacies down below.”

Nason set the calf on the ground, his wry grin admitting the probability of a grower’s permit.

“You know how much I hate this?” Kidro followed Nason and the calf onto the wide, flat, blood-stained rock. The surrounding grass stood thick and green, a perfect place for meadowlarks to nest and feed on bloodworms.

Kidro wished Scooter could chase them off for good, knowing Willis Donner loved the stupid things.

Nason tied the lead-rope to the bronze ring he and Embry had installed at the stone’s center, maybe five years back. He straightened and stared at Kidro, mystified. “Hate what?”

“Oh, you know what I mean; this monthly ritual. I hate paying any kind of tribute to that son-of-a-bitch, offering up a sacrifice like he’s a god or something.”

“Kidro, we both know it’s not him. If he could, he’d probably kill that thing himself.”

“Ah . . .” Deep down, Kidro knew Nason was right, but the hurt from that night, ten years before, seemed like yesterday.

He changed direction, getting to what he really wanted to talk about. “I’m thinking about reopening one of the mines.” Not that he needed anybody’s permission.

Nason thought about it, obviously searching for words. He turned and looked up the valley toward the village. “You still carrying that torch? You still need to do big things, prove something to your father?” He turned back and stepped closer, making sure to be understood. Hard to see his eyes, getting dark. “He’s dead for what, twenty years now?”

“What’re you talking about?” Kidro didn’t need to prove anything to anybody. He could do whatever he wanted on his land.

“Isn’t that what happened ten years ago?”

And there it was, everybody blaming Kidro for what had happened.

Kidro said, “What do you mean? We haven’t taken out any ore since Mother and Dad bought those war bonds during World War II. Willis helped in the mine every day.”

“Kidro, didn’t you have this argument with your mother ten years ago?”

“You saying, I don’t have the right?” He leaned closer to Nason and sharp pain gripped his left leg. “Not even Mother told me I didn’t have the right. She knew I needed to make my own fortune, ever since Dad died. That’s all that bothered her, not that I shouldn’t aught to do it.” He shook his head, remembering. “She always had everything all worked out.” Never needed me.

Nason shook his head, disappointed. “Haven’t you got enough, Kidro?”

“What good is all my money, if I’ve got no one to enjoy it with?”

“You never worry about consequences, Kidro. I’m the one has to worry about what might happen.”

“You want me to get somebody else?” I don’t want that.

“You can take it up with the committee if you want. That’s how your mom set it up, so you Potters wouldn’t have total control over who’s the sheriff, or who runs the bank, or who pastor’s the church and runs the school.” Nason gritted his teeth and clammed up, looking steamed over this.

Not good.

Nason always protected the smaller ranchers but he didn’t understand anything. Kidro said, “I’m tired of being alone. I need an heir.”

“J. J.’s still around, somewhere. He’ll come home. Wait and see.”

“That night, when . . .” Kidro staggered backward and planted his stiff left leg, not willing to give another inch, but the words stuck in his throat like a sideways fishbone.

Shake it off.

Kidro said, “That night, after his mother and brother died, J. J. never forgave me. Then, after Mom died, when I fired John and Willis, he said he never wanted to see me again and left.”

Nason put a friendly hand on Kidro’s shoulder. “Yeah . . . well . . . Kids say a lot of things. I mean, didn’t he cash out that trust your mother set up? I think he was out of the Corps by then.”

“That was over five years ago and we’ve heard nothing since. I’ve been thinking, what if he never does come back? What if he can’t come back?”

“What good will opening the mines do?”

“I can get some new faces up here, you know, interview some folks and hire a housekeeper.”

“What’s wrong with Bee Ralston?”

“You know what I mean. If I can get a nice looking, single gal up here . . .” He looked into Nason. “Maybe get married, have another kid.”

“Can’t you do that anyway? I mean, why open the mine?”

Kidro had no answer for that one.

Nason said, “I always thought you hated having anybody else around, that you wanted this whole valley to yourself.”

Kidro had no answer for that one either.

A blaring horn changed the subject.

Down the slope, Gilpin’s pickup truck turned off River Road and churned dust, climbing up the dirt road toward Kidro’s upper meadow. All but the dust disappeared in the dip behind the crest.

Kidro said, “I told you he wouldn’t like it.” He spit at the flat rock. “I hate this stupid ritual.” He hated the squatters. Without the Potter Ranch, none of them would survive a single winter. And maybe that’s the answer. Why should he help them in the first place?

Nason squared his hat, badge in front, getting ready. “Gilpin’s not like everybody else, is he?”

Gilpin’s truck crossed the crest with a roar. Inside the cab, his round head jerked back, surprised by the nearness of Nason’s truck. Gilpin’s older Chevy hit the ground in a skid, shuddering to a stop in a swirling cloud of dust, not quite soon enough. He bumped Nason’s lowered tailgate and put a crease in the center of the chrome trim.

Not seeming to care about Nason’s truck, Bruce Gilpin leapt from his truck and waddled toward Nason, grabbing at his crotch like he had jock-itch or something.

Kidro grinned at the thought.

Gilpin said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What are you talking about?” Nason pointed at his dented tailgate, angrier than Kidro had ever seen him. “You numb cup of sheep dip, look what you did.”

“So, sue me.” Gilpin stretched out his leg and scratched his crotch.

Jock-itch for sure.

Nason pulled off his hat and used it like a shield, holding Gilpin at arm’s length. “I called you this morning and left a message with Sally. Just now, I banged on your door for five minutes.” Gilpin stepped sideways and they circled one another like two Tijuana roosters.

Kidro smiled, hoping feathers would fly. He couldn’t help it. Gilpin wouldn’t stand a chance.

Bold as can be, Gilpin said, “I was up on my graze getting a calf.”

Kidro and Nason looked to the back of Gilpin’s empty truck. They both knew he was lying. Kidro said, “Needs to be a bull calf.” He looked up at the sky and back at Gilpin “It’s already dark.”

“Why from me? I never understood that. We don’t even live in this valley.”

Nason said, “You attended our school. You shop at the emporium. Like it or not, we’re neighbors.”

“So, I shop at the store. So what? It’s a store.”

Kidro said, “You use my bank and you drive on my roads.”

Gilpin turned on Kidro, eager to tumble in the dust with a much older man. “I just traded you Stoner for that calf. My bull’s getting old and impotent. I need that calf.”

Stupid. “You should have thought of that before you cut your young bulls.” Kidro stepped forward, angry enough to smack Gilpin’s fat face.

Gilpin lunged.

Nason deftly slid between them and grabbed Gilpin’s arm, blocking his attempted punch at Kidro. “It’s getting late.” Nason forcibly shoved Gilpin toward his truck.

Gilpin craned over the top of Nason and shouted, “I’m not giving it up! Not to no grizzly, I’m not. I got my rifle in my truck. I’ll kill it myself.”

“Been tried,” said Kidro, thinking about ten years past, thinking about himself and both of his sons shooting it all those times. “. . . by better men than you.”

Still controlling Gilpin, Nason said, “The Village Committee will take care of it, Bruce. Get back in your truck and go home.”

Gilpin ripped free.

Nason used his hat again, steadily herding Gilpin toward the trucks. After a couple of quick sidesteps, blocking Gilpin, Nason opened the door to Gilpin’s truck, ushered him inside, and closed the door.

Gilpin started his truck and slowly backed away, impossible to read his face in the dark. The fool might be planning something stupid.

Kidro didn’t care.

“What a pud!” Nason propped his hat on the back of his head and fingered his dented tailgate.

Kidro said, “Yeah, those Gilpins are a brood apart.”

Nason chuckled and closed his tailgate with care, no damage to the hinges. He shook his head, pulled off his hat, and climbed into the driver’s seat. He started his truck, smiled, turned on his headlights, and slowly backed away.

Kidro turned for home, snapped his fingers, and Scooter followed.

Those stupid birds rose above the treetops. Their swirling blur nearly blocked the light from the rising moon.

*     *     *

Gilpin smoked a joint and waited on the other side of River Road, backed under the low, wide-spread branches of a giant sequoia, hoping Nason wouldn’t see his truck. He couldn’t let those two pull this kind of scam on him.

Not today. Not this Gilpin.

Those two wimps were afraid to deal with a dumb animal. He took a hit from the fat, sweet tasting marijuana cigarette and set it in the ashtray.

There.

Nason’s headlights moved slowly down the dirt road from Potter’s upper meadow. He turned right onto River Road and sped toward the village.

PURSUIT: The American Way

Chapter One

“I don’t see any Yankees,” said little Melanie, peeking between the drapes at the front parlor window of Winterbridge Manor. “Oh, look! There’s white smoke over at McAdams Hall. Those Yankees must be there right now.” She spun to look at Allison, eyes wide with fear. “Are they coming here?”

“I hope not, honey. I hope we’re far enough off the road so they can’t see us.” Allison Mosby stood behind her daughter and looked out across their cold, baron rows of what had once been cotton. “I so wish your daddy was here.”

“I miss my daddy.” Melanie hugged her mother then looked up. “He’s all I wished for for Christmas.” She looked straight up. “Santa, please bring my daddy home.”

“We won’t have much of a Christmas this year, honey.”

“If Santa brings my daddy . . .” Melany hugged her mother’s legs, eyes wide with hope.

Allison Mosby and her seven-year-old daughter, Melanie, had lost weight during this damnable war, but both had remained healthy, as had their darkies.

What would we do without them?

Before going up to Virginia to join his brother’s regiment, her husband, Franklin, had invested nearly all of their available funds in Confederate bonds. All that remained was a small iron box of gold coins hidden under the marble hearth of their upstairs bedroom fireplace. She’d not touch that. Whichever way this war ended, they’d need something for replanting their fields, for rebuilding their lives.

All the cattle and pigs on Winterbridge Manor had been appropriated over the past three years to feed the brave men of the Confederacy.

Winterbridge slaves had remained. They seemed happy to have been owned by the Winston family, and by Franklin Mosby. Most of them lived in cottages down along the Savannah River.

With cotton exports barricaded by those damn Yankees, she’d allowed their slaves to grow crops for food and to fish and trap for game. They’d brought catfish, rabbit, or squirrel up to the house near every day last summer, along with potatoes, corn, carrots, and greens.

This winter had been leaner and meaner but they still had corn and potatoes.

On cold days, such as that day, she and Melanie spent their afternoons in the west facing bay window where late sun kept them warm. They dared not show those damn Yankees smoke from a fire.

As a precautionary measure, they’d blocked both chimneys in the cookhouse around back. Smoke from cooking filled that big room and seeped through the walls, making it very hard for Yankees to see from the road below. John Jackson Youngblood, their plantation overseer, said the slaves out there complained about smoke burning their eyes and noses, but that they understood the why of it all.

Always keeping busy with useful tasks, Allison and Melanie had been working on a patchwork quilt for Melanie’s bedroom.

“Is that my daddy?”

A stocky, red bearded man in a Confederate officer’s uniform stepped out of the Georgia pine forest near their lower cotton field and walked brusquely into the barn.

“No, Honey. Your daddy’s a mite taller, and thinner.”

Allison’s right hand went to her throat, fearing this man might bring bad news about her husband. He might have been wounded or taken prisoner.

Lord, keep my Franklin safe.

John Jackson always left the barn door open during the day. He’d been born at Winterbridge, and he had an excellent education; better than most white folks. His skill with mathematics made him a natural for overseeing the manor house and generally running their entire plantation.

Most plantations hired white overseers, some of whom whipped their slaves for whatever reason that suited them. Franklin, and the Winstons before him, held whippings to be inhumane. If one of their slaves had turned lazy or spiteful, they’d been sold or traded, straight away. That had always been enough to keep the others thoughtful of place and time.

Allison’s daddy owned only two houseslaves. They’d never been beaten but they’d never received any education either. Her daddy believed them to be inferior to white people. He treated them like he did their dogs and horses. He didn’t treat them mean but neither did he respect them as human beings.

Growing up, she’d never thought about any of this.

Since marrying Franklin and living at Winterbridge, she’d grown to agree with the Winstons. Darkies were people. Like their pastor said, slavery was one of life’s callings. Those who were slaves should be good slaves. Slave masters should, likewise, be good masters. These were God’s creatures under less fortunate circumstance. After all, there once had been a lot of white slaves in these here American states, north and south.

Winterbridge slaves worked hard, worshiped God, held their own Christian services down by the river, and revered their masters. Nobody could ask for better.

John Jackson, with his wife and daughter, shared two rooms in the barn and stayed busy. Right then, he’d probably be in back of the barn chopping firewood, one of his daily tasks. His wife and their infant daughter would be in the cookhouse baking cornbread.

Even during this damnable war, life at Winterbridge had been stable, largely because of John Jackson Youngblood and his wife.

The stocky, Confederate officer marched out of the barn and looked up at the manor house. He stopped and stared at Allison. She hadn’t before noticed a splash of what looked like blood across the hem of his gray coat. He adjusted his tight-fitting hat and marched toward the house.

“Maybe he knows my daddy.” Melanie dashed through the double doorway into the entry hall before Allison could stop her.

A sense of dread had momentarily cemented Allison’s feet to the floor. “No.” Allison rushed after her daughter.

Melanie yanked open the front door before Allison could stop her.

The stocky, red-bearded man filled the doorway. He did not remove his hat. The blood on his coat looked fresh. His dirty face, tight uniform, tangled beard, and large hands spoke a certain truth. This could not be a southern gentleman.

Allison stepped forward slowly and backed Melanie between her legs.

Dirty teeth showed from behind the man’s bushy, filthy red beard. “Well now . . .” He stepped toward them. The knife in his hand appeared from nowhere. “Ain’t you a pair of pretty bells?” His accent was that of a Yankee.

Allison stepped back and pulled Melanie around behind her. “What do you want?”

“I can cut a hog from belly to jaw, slow as you like. I enjoy the squealing.” He took two quick steps and snatched Allison’s arm above her elbow, pinching a painful nerve, so painful it choked her scream. He yanked her close. His stinking breath surrounded him. “Who else is in the house?”

“Captain Franklin Adam Mosby, my husband, is serving with his regiment in Virginia.” She immediately regretted her answer.

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to watch me gut that little girl, you’ll show me where it’s hid.”

She glanced toward the grand staircase.

“You and me is going upstairs alone.” He looked at the coat closet. “What’s in there?”

“No.” Allison tried to pull away but he pinched her arm at the bone, more pain than she’d ever before felt. “Melanie, do you remember me telling you about your uncle?” She forced a smile and pushed Melanie back into the parlor. “We need to go talk upstairs. You go in and work on your quilt. Okay?”

“He’s my Uncle John?”

He grinned. “That’s right, little one. Now, go on.”

Melanie smiled, curtsied, and turned back into the parlor.

The man in the gray, Confederate uniform dragged Allison up the stairs. They stopped at the top, looking down the long hall past four open doorways. “Which is it?”

Allison led him through the last door on the right. “Promise you won’t hurt us, and I’ll give you what you want.”

“Okay. I promise I won’t hurt you. Why would I want to hurt anybody?”

She pointed at the carved marble fireplace. “Lift and slide that stone hearth aside.”

He hurled her onto the floor and closed the bedroom door. He noticed the skeleton key, locked the door, and pointed the knife at her face. “Get up on that bed where I can see you. You make a sound, I’ll go down and gut that pretty little daughter of yours.”

“What you want is under there.” She pointed at the left end of the hearth.

He aimed his knife at her face, motioned toward the bed, and waited.

She climbed onto the foot of the bed and sat, trembling from the cold and from her fear.

He looked back and forth, moved quickly to the fireplace, bent, lifted the hearth, and slid it out of the way, as if the heavy stone was a feather. Seeing the iron box brought a smile. He pointed the knife at her again. “Now, crawl back against that headboard and take them clothes off.”

He pointed his knife toward the head of the bed, grabbed his uniform collar with his left hand, and swiped his knife down the front of his tunic. His brass buttons bounced and skidded across the wood-plank floor. He fanned his knife toward her face. “Sharp, ain’t it?”

“What? Why? You’ve got what you wanted. Take it and go before my brother comes back.”

He shifted and his tunic dropped off his left shoulder. He shifted again and freed his left arm. He switched the knife to his left hand, shifted, and his tunic dropped to the floor.

Allison stayed at the foot of the bed, crossed her arms, and grabbed her shoulders. “No!”

“That’s okay. I’m happy to cut that dress off.”

Allison’s left hand shot out, blocking her view of his face.

He said, “Don’t you make a sound.” He kicked off his boots, dropped his pants, and kicked them aside. He was a powerfully built man.

Allison crawled backward and stopped against the headboard. She had nowhere to hide.

His filthy chest peeked from behind curly red hair. His dirty teeth sneered from behind his matted red beard. He kneed his way onto the bed, grabbed the hem of her dress, and dragged her close. His breath smelled of rotting teeth.

He cut the hem of her dress and slowly cut the fabric away from her legs. He dropped his knife to the floor and stared at her open-crotch knickers. “Oh, I like that.”

He flipped her onto her stomach and tore off her clothing until she lay naked. He bent down, found his knife, and pressed the cold flat of it against the inside of her thighs, slowly spreading her legs. “Lady, you got real pretty skin. Real blonde hair, too.” His husky voice barely whispered.

Franklin . . . Warm tears slid down her nose onto the pillow.

“You make a sound, I’ll do bad things to that little girly downstairs.”

*     *     *

All night rain hadn’t driven off the smell of charred wood from up river, where Yankee soldiers had left a wide path of destruction.

These vindictive Yankees held Savannah intact, too valuable a port to destroy. Savannah had also become world famous for her beauty. Yankees, under Generals Sherman and Geary, had struck a deal with Savanna’s mayor, Dr. Richard Arnold. If the Yankees met with no resistance, the city would not be destroyed. Near everything had been destroyed upriver. According to rumors, the Yankees hoped to break Georgia’s fighting spirit.

Maybe they had.

Georgia’s wonderful rail system had been completely destroyed. Steel rails had been raised, heated, and bent beyond any possible use.

Samuel Greenwood, the long-time manager of Winston Dry Goods & Mercantile, a large warehouse and store near the Savannah River docks, appreciated the mayor’s surrender. Beautiful Savannah, the city of his birth, would not be raised to the ground as Atlanta had been.

Rumors abounded. Sherman would deliver the city to Abe Lincoln as a Christmas gift. It would still be Savannah, still in the great State of Georgia, but Lincoln’s Union Army had taken her.

So be it.

Moses Broadback walked up from the shadows of the warehouse where he’d been sleeping on baled cotton since boyhood.

“Moses, why are you still here?” Samuel pulled open the shade on one of the storefront windows, lighting empty shelves once jammed with trade goods. “Don’t you know the Yankee general set all you Nigras free?”

“I don’t belong to no Yankees. I’m Winterbridge property.” Moses, and others, somehow took pride in being Mosby slaves. And why not? The Winston family of Winterbridge Manor had been educating their slaves for two or more generations, kept them well housed, well fed, and properly clothed. They lived much better than most hired factory workers in northern states. Samuel had read all about it in a Savannah newspaper.

The slaves of Winterbridge Manor had a reputation of being the best kept property in all of Georgia. After the Winston family died off, their relative from Virginia, young Franklin Mosby, had inherited Winterbridge and all that went with it; including Winston Dry Goods & Mercantile, Winston Hotel, money in the bank, and loyal, hard working slaves like Moses.

Out on Fahm Street, a burly man with snarled red hair and beard drove a familiar looking wagon into early morning sun, heading down toward the river. His well tailored suit looked two sizes too small, and, like the wagon, looked familiar. A little girl sat next to him, clutching her coat tight, shivering from the cold of morning.

“Mr. Greenwood, isn’t that wagon from Winterbridge Manor?” Moses leaned closer to the window for a better look.

The burly man driving the wagon turned sharply. His angry eyes immediately focused on Samuel.

A cold chill rushed up Samuel’s back. “Isn’t that little Melanie seated next to him?”

“Yes, sir. I reckon it is.”

“Moses, follow that wagon with charcoal and your sketchpad. Be sure not to let him see you.”

*     *     *

Donald Thorne climbed down from the wagon slowly, being careful not the tear the double-breasted jacket, too tight for his heavy arms and shoulders. Suspenders held up the pants, too tight to button at the top. “You wait here.” He left the girl on the wagon bench and stepped into the shadows of an open livery.

A Yankee corporal strolled from darkness into shaded daylight. Long yellow hair framed his clean-shaved face. Thorne had never seen him before.

Thorne poked a thumb over his shoulder toward the horse and wagon. “How much for the horse and wagon?”

The yellow-haired corporal leaned around Thorne to look at the horse and wagon. “You selling?”

“That’s what I said.” Thorne stepped out of his way.

The corporal walked outside to examine the horse’s legs, hooves, eyes, and teeth. He checked the wagon, racked all four steel-rimmed wheels, and turned back inside. “Give twenty Yankee dollars for the horse and thirty-five for the wagon.”

Thorn’s eyes narrowed. “What you trying?”

“Yeah. I know. Both the horse and wagon are in top condition. I’m not authorized to pay more.” He squared up to Thorne. “Why are you selling, anyway?”

“I never favored this damn war. I grew up in New York. My father died and my mother married a southerner with a small farm. I was twelve when we moved down here to Georgia. We never owned slaves, but you Yanks burned the place down anyway. They clubbed me unconscious, then raped and murdered my wife.” He stared hard into the corporal. “I got no reasons to stay. We’re headed to California.”

“Did we catch the deserters who did such a thing?”

“Not so’s I’ve heard.” He poked a thumb toward the wagon. “Thank God, my little girl’s okay.”

“If they find the ones who did such a thing, they’ll shoot ‘em on the spot, or hang ‘em. You mark my words.” The corporal looked again at the wagon and horse. “Well, like I said, I ain’t authorized to pay more. Wish I could”

Thorne nodded, went out, grabbed the heavy canvas satchel from under the wagon seat, and dragged the child off the bench. He settled her onto his right hip, stiff as a wooden doll, and carried her inside.

The corporal smiled and walked back into the shadows.

Thorne followed him to a small, lamp-lit office in a stable filled with too many horses and very few wagons.

He stood the kid on the floor and bent close. “Stand right here and don’t you move. Keep both them eyes on this here.” He set the heavy canvas bag at her feet. “Guard it real close.” He turned back into the office doorway.

The corporal opened a drawer, pulled out a metal cashbox, and set it on the desk. He fingered into a hip pocket for the key and turned it into the lock.

Thorne reached to the small of his back and pulled his knife, hiding it while the corporal pulled a wad of Yankee folding money from the box. Seeing the money, Thorne stepped close, grabbed the corporal’s long yellow hair, yanked his head back, and stabbed the side of his neck.

He pushed hard and shoved the sharp blade forward, cutting through the corporal’s windpipe. Bright red blood shot from both sided of his severed throat. None of it hit Thorne’s new, tight-fitting suit.

The corporal jerked, sucked air through the open hole in his neck, and his knees buckled.

Thorne flung the corporal sideways, being careful not to bloody the money. He stepped on the corporal’s twitching arm, reflexively moving toward his blood spurting throat, and carefully slid the money from his twitching grip.

He cleaned his knife with the corporal’s yellow hair, pulled the rest of the folded money from the cashbox, and organized it with what he already held. He stuffed the money into his breast pocket, picked up the cashbox, and dumped the coins into his hand. No need counting it, heavy as it was; mostly gold and silver.

He pulled the corporal’s new Navy Colt and slid the weapon into the suspender loop of his unbuttoned trousers. He turned, stepped out of the office, and found the kid backing toward the wagon.

He carefully returned his knife to the small of his back, adjusted his coat sleeves, dropped the coins into the canvas bag, and picked it up. He grabbed the kid’s arm, yanked her up on his way out, and set her on the wagon bench. He set the bag under the seat, climbed up, released the foot brake, and slapped the reins. He guided the horse toward the river, toward the boats, toward his preplanned escape route.

*     *     *

Nearing dark, far down river, speaking to boat people all along the way about buying passage south, he’d finally found a small, sloop rigged fishing boat with a two-man crew. They were loading nets onto the boat, preparing to set sail. Thorne reined in, set the brake, glanced at the kid, climbed down, and strolled toward the sloop.

One of the men turned his way. “Help you mister?”

“Me and my kid need to get on a southbound ship. The Yankees burned our home, raped and killed my wife, clubbed me, and left me for dead.” He rubbed the back of his head and winced.

“We don’t take no government paper. You got silver or gold?”

“I do.” He turned back, reached under the wagon seat, and dragged out the heavy canvas satchel. He set it on the ground, opened it, and pulled out a leather purse, leaving the loose coin from the livery at the bottom of the bag. “How much?”

“Gold or silver?”

“Gold coin from the Georgia Railroad and Banking Company.”

“Take you to Key West for three hundred dollars.”