Ethel Morgan was staring at the ragged man, although she was no longer conscious of his clothes. She asked, “Who are you?”
He seemed to sigh. “My name’s Jackson — no, Fletcher. Doniphan Fletcher.”
She looked steadily at him. It was obvious that he’d started to give her another name. “You’re from Missouri?”
His eyebrows arched questioningly and she explained. “The name, Doniphan. It’s a Missouri name.”
He nodded. “I guess it is. Yes — my father was with Colonel Doniphan on the Mexican expedition.”
“And you?”
His face sagged and his shoulders seemed to droop. She caught a glimpse of his eyes before the lashes went down over them and a ripple ran through her. She thought she’d never seen eyes so tragic.
He said, “You’ve never heard the name of — Donny Fletcher?”
She inhaled sharply. The full name, Doniphan, had misled her. His appearance too. The Donny Fletcher, of whom she’d heard — well, she’d never thought to meet him. He was just a name — an odious name.
He saw that she knew, now. He repeated his name, as if to punish himself. “I’m Donny Fletcher.”
She nodded, slowly. “Yes, I’ve heard the name. We’re from Illinois. My father was a captain under General Curtis. But you — that is, I thought—” she stopped in confusion. Then she took a deep breath. “After all, it’s eight years.”
“Twelve since Pea Ridge,” he said. “I was there. That was before—”
“You must have been very young,” she said hurriedly.
“I was sixteen.”
“But the war’s been over eight years.”
His mouth twisted bitterly. “Has it?” He seemed aware suddenly that he still held Dave Daggett’s gun and tossed it down beside dead Jim Sutton.
That broke the spell. Ethel turned to her horse. She mounted quickly, took up the reins and said “Good-bye, Mr. Fletcher.”
He did not seem to hear. He mounted his own horse, the beautiful black gelding. Without a word to her, he rode off. Ethel touched the pinto and it started off at a trot. She could not resist looking back, however.
Donny Fletcher was slumped forward in his saddle. His shoulders drooped. He looked, from the back, like a man who didn’t care.
He didn’t.
At sixteen, it had been adventure. And right. Sterling Price was raising an army of 50,000 State Guards. Missouri wasn’t seceding, but neither was she going to fight for the Yankees. She was going to be neutral and protect her own citizens and property.
In Jackson County, everyone who was old enough joined up. Everyone, except the few Boston Abolitionists. And nothing would have happened to them if the hot-headed Lyon hadn’t come with his St. Louis Germans and attacked Missouri’s own State Guards.
After that, it was war. Price tried to hold Missouri for the Missourians. Lyon wouldn’t have it; he’d died. Curtis was a different man, but he was a Yankee, just the same. And things had gone too far. Price had to make the decision. He was a Missourian first, but a Southerner second. And his troops felt as he did.
Then, Pea Ridge — defeat!
Amazing as it was, the Yanks were in Jackson County. They were the victors. And the Abolitionists pointed the finger at every family that had a man in Price’s army. Jim Lane of Kansas came and went. He burned and killed and pillaged. Then Jennison came and purged. And at last, Quantrell.
It was the only way. Price’s army was dispersed. The Yanks were in control. They aided and abetted the Kansas Jay-hawkers and Redlegs. The Southern folk along the border suffered as no human beings should suffer. Quantrell was their only defense. You fed Quantrell and you sheltered him. If you could, you rode with him. Donny Fletcher was seventeen, a veteran. He rode with Quantrell.
It was bloody, savage guerrilla fighting. You fought the torch with the torch. You charged at dawn and you fought by night. You harried Federals and avenged friends and neighbors who had been wronged.
You went to Lawrence, Kansas, and you saw the dusty street soaked with blood. After Lawrence, you no longer cared. You could charge raw recruits at Centralia and slaughter three hundred of them in cold blood.
And then it was over.
Or was it? Official amnesty was granted, but privately — no. The entire civil population had been evacuated from Jackson and three other counties, by Ewing’s Order No. 11. Now you could go back, but the Yanks were there — and they were the victors.
Amnesty had been granted. But if a Northerner coveted a Southerner’s horse or his cow or his farm — well, what good did it do to go to a Yankee judge?
And a Quantrell man? Damned, bloody guerrilla. Everyone of them should have been hanged. Why the devil did they let them surrender like regular soldiers?
Up in Clay County, a dozen men rode down on a bank and robbed it. A hundred men who had fought for the South, suffered for it. Words were said and guns were drawn. And then — flight
Texas. The Carpet-baggers had Texas. Colorado had missed the war and was sore about it. A former Southern soldier couldn’t stay in Colorado without having to fight. Kansas — raw and wild. Nebraska and Dakota Territory, bleak and barren — and lonesome.
Down to Texas, up to Kansas. Down and up. Year and year.
And now — this.
Men who set fire to a house and prevented the owners from putting out the fire. A beautiful girl with spirit. A girl who winced at the name of Donny Fletcher. Well, a lot of men went white at the mention of it. Others cursed.
Quantrell was dead these eight years. So was Anderson and Todd. And brave Arch Clements. Frank and Jesse James and Cole and Jim Younger had taken the outlaw trail. Their names were cursed from Canada to the Rio Grande. Donny Fletcher, whose friends they had once been, wasn’t an outlaw. But he was an outcast.
He rode the lonesome road. He had ridden it for eight years.
II
It was a little town, almost unexpected here in this tiny valley. It contained a short street of false fronted stores and had a permanent population of less than two hundred. Its name was Spring Valley, but Fletcher didn’t know that. He rode down the street and dismounted and tied his horse at the hitch rail. He did it because the towns were so few and when you came to one, you stopped for awhile.
He went into the saloon and ordered a glass of beer. And then the grey fate that had pursued him so long swooped down and touched him with its cold, clammy hands.
A man was sitting at a table in the corner of the room, an empty glass clutched in his fist and a fierce look on his face. Two men came into the saloon, looked around and started toward the man at the table.
“You’re through here, Mitch Johnson,” one of them said loudly. “Get your horse and ride to hell out of this valley.”
“I’ll ride, Pendexter,” retorted the man called Johnson, “when I get good and ready.”
Pendexter and his friend separated and went around the table, making for the sitting man. He promptly shoved the table against them and followed through with both fists swinging.
Mitch Johnson was all nerve, and he used his hands and fists — and feet — like a wildcat. But like the wildcat, he was small. Pendexter and the other man were shaggy bears. They took Johnson’s attack and yelped and cursed. But Pendexter clinched with the little man and held him in a savage hug while his partner buffeted him from the rear.
At the bar, Fletcher watched the fight with casual interest. His code forbade him from entering the fight, on one side or the other.
He remained passively neutral, as he had at the burning of Karl Hawkinson’s house. He did not fight until he was attacked, and then he fought only in self defense. It was an odd code for the range-land — but it was Donny Fletcher’s code. He had fought too much in his years.