way, and a thin, unhappy smile broke from him.
“Yes,” he said. “It is about the only place left. This land is ruined.”
Jack Bull splashed out some more brandy, and silence dropped down. I held the brandy up and studied it as if it might tell me much. Beaten old men were not the right philosophers for young straight-backed boys, who would trade shots and victories, to hear. I watched the liquor so my glance needn’t pause at the aged, whipped face of our host.
“What of the Federals?” I asked to chase off the sorrowful quiet. “What are they doing?”
“Ah,” said Evans. He crouched forward as if intent on me, and his movements creaked. “The militia has taken up your tactics. Iowans and so forth will guard the towns and the militia will meet you in the bush.”
“They have been trying that,” Jack Bull said. “It hasn’t been their best trick.”
“They say it will be. There are plenty of them.” Evans pointed a finger that aimed somewhere between where Jack Bull stood and I sat. “This Quantrill man, this man who sails under the name of Captain Quantrill, has them hornet-angry. He kills and kills. They want his head on a pole.”
“I shouldn’t wonder at that,” I said. “He has lots of boys and they are rough.”
“Do you know Quantrill?”
“Yes,” Jack Bull said. “We have joined up with him for a couple of things. His ideas work.”
“I believe he is trash,” Evans said. “I believe that even if he is on our side.”
A kind of deadly bored look worked into Jack Bull’s face.
“I would watch that talk, Mr. Evans,” he said. “The boys love him. He leads well. He may truly be trash. Maybe you would not have spoken to him five years ago, but those days are gone, sir. Trash that fights mean now make up the best men on the border.”
Jackson Evans nodded at this, as though changed by hearing it, then set down his brandy and pulled himself upright. It was a long process.
“Enough of this war talk,” he said. “Let’s have the ladies join us and think nobler thoughts.”
“A fine idea,” Jack Bull said with gusto. “Some company would be splendid.”
Old Evans cranked his feet up to the pace of a scared turtle, and creaked off through the house to call in the women. This hobnobbing in the midst of war had the quality of fevered thought. It did not fit at all. It was happy memories acted out in forlorn surroundings. There was sentiment in such gestures, like saving the first spoon that was jammed in your mouth as a babe. The thing didn’t fit anymore, and knowing that it once had was no great joy.
“Jack Bull,” I said. I stood to shake my legs loose. “We should be thinking about getting on back. Federals could pass any time.”
“Oh, put a gown on, Jake.” He laughed at my concerns.“It is too cold. They’ll all be in front of the fire examining their plunder.”
The women and the girl joined us. Mrs. Evans was a wide cart of mother with a florid face and blond hair. She wore spectacles. Her chin had extras hanging below it. I liked her on sight. She pleased the eye and heart almost as well as my own mother, or Missus Chiles, could have.
Sue Lee’s hair had been reined in a bit. She went right at the brandy and poured herself a dollop. Allowances were made for women as well as men in such times.
“I have it in me to sing,” she said. “Shall we have a sing-along?”
This Honeybee creature was a seedling version of her mother, destined to grow wide and strong and pleasing.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I like those the best.”
“My voice is not all it should be these days,” Jack Bull said, “but once it was rumored I could carry a tune.”
This was all too much for me. Sing-alongs were the main attraction at socials my whole life, and I never did like them. It could be that I sang without tone or spirit or joy. My voice had an ability to hit and founder at several odd depths in any one chorus.
“I believe I won’t sing,” I said. “Young
“Yes,” he said. “It is about the only place left. This land is ruined.”
Jack Bull splashed out some more brandy, and silence dropped down. I held the brandy up and studied it as if it might tell me much. Beaten old men were not the right philosophers for young straight-backed boys, who would trade shots and victories, to hear. I watched the liquor so my glance needn’t pause at the aged, whipped face of our host.
“What of the Federals?” I asked to chase off the sorrowful quiet. “What are they doing?”
“Ah,” said Evans. He crouched forward as if intent on me, and his movements creaked. “The militia has taken up your tactics. Iowans and so forth will guard the towns and the militia will meet you in the bush.”
“They have been trying that,” Jack Bull said. “It hasn’t been their best trick.”
“They say it will be. There are plenty of them.” Evans pointed a finger that aimed somewhere between where Jack Bull stood and I sat. “This Quantrill man, this man who sails under the name of Captain Quantrill, has them hornet-angry. He kills and kills. They want his head on a pole.”
“I shouldn’t wonder at that,” I said. “He has lots of boys and they are rough.”
“Do you know Quantrill?”
“Yes,” Jack Bull said. “We have joined up with him for a couple of things. His ideas work.”
“I believe he is trash,” Evans said. “I believe that even if he is on our side.”
A kind of deadly bored look worked into Jack Bull’s face.
“I would watch that talk, Mr. Evans,” he said. “The boys love him. He leads well. He may truly be trash. Maybe you would not have spoken to him five years ago, but those days are gone, sir. Trash that fights mean now make up the best men on the border.”
Jackson Evans nodded at this, as though changed by hearing it, then set down his brandy and pulled himself upright. It was a long process.
“Enough of this war talk,” he said. “Let’s have the ladies join us and think nobler thoughts.”
“A fine idea,” Jack Bull said with gusto. “Some company would be splendid.”
Old Evans cranked his feet up to the pace of a scared turtle, and creaked off through the house to call in the women. This hobnobbing in the midst of war had the quality of fevered thought. It did not fit at all. It was happy memories acted out in forlorn surroundings. There was sentiment in such gestures, like saving the first spoon that was jammed in your mouth as a babe. The thing didn’t fit anymore, and knowing that it once had was no great joy.
“Jack Bull,” I said. I stood to shake my legs loose. “We should be thinking about getting on back. Federals could pass any time.”
“Oh, put a gown on, Jake.” He laughed at my concerns.“It is too cold. They’ll all be in front of the fire examining their plunder.”
The women and the girl joined us. Mrs. Evans was a wide cart of mother with a florid face and blond hair. She wore spectacles. Her chin had extras hanging below it. I liked her on sight. She pleased the eye and heart almost as well as my own mother, or Missus Chiles, could have.
Sue Lee’s hair had been reined in a bit. She went right at the brandy and poured herself a dollop. Allowances were made for women as well as men in such times.
“I have it in me to sing,” she said. “Shall we have a sing-along?”
This Honeybee creature was a seedling version of her mother, destined to grow wide and strong and pleasing.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I like those the best.”
“My voice is not all it should be these days,” Jack Bull said, “but once it was rumored I could carry a tune.”
This was all too much for me. Sing-alongs were the main attraction at socials my whole life, and I never did like them. It could be that I sang without tone or spirit or joy. My voice had an ability to hit and founder at several odd depths in any one chorus.
“I believe I won’t sing,” I said. “Young
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