West of Appomattox

THE YELLOW TEXAS PRAIRIE, for all its hidden dangers, was an old friend to Dan Kilbourne. Long before the first rumblings of a war some people thought had finally stopped two months ago at Appomattox Court House, he had come to know the endless, sometimes malicious tricks the vast land could play with the aid of sun and shadow.

But the silent wagons semicircled about the small stand of cottonwoods and willows were real. Now he could make out, in mottled shadows, the "CSA" markings on rough canvas covers. He rode closer, uncomfortably aware that the blue of his uniform stood out stark and shiny against the sere grass, a prime target for a whistling minnie ball.

He pulled up behind the rear wagon, listened, heard nothing but faint wooden creaks caused by the warming air.

A man could take little for granted in this country, but it seemed a fair bet that he was alone. More than likely, he reasoned, the five vehicles had simply been pillaged and abandoned when some stray rider had brought word that two weeks ago Kirby Smith had surrendered the last of the three great Confederate armies. The troops had taken the mules and whatever else was loose, and started the long trek to Shreveport to add their arms to Smith's sword; or maybe they had gone instead to join the Missouri brigade which formed the core of those who intended to fight on.

Dan began to poke into the rear wagon. He was a tall man, two inches over six feet and appearing taller because of his gauntness. At twenty-eight the strength of his wide shoulders and big, hard hands was rightly mirrored in his taut angular face. Deepset black eyes, burning now with a fever that came intermittently, scanned the contents of the wagon from beneath solid black brows.

Nothing. Only empty boxes, thoroughly ransacked of the tinned foodstuffs they had contained. Supplies against the coming hard times? Or supplies for a fighting army?

He rode on down the line, remembering the words of the old teamster who had shared his campfire yesterday morning.

"Most of the Rebs are stragglin' in to give up, right enough," the old-timer had admitted.

"But some are swarmin' together like yaller jackets and wavin' their guns like tommyhawks. This feller Shelby's the ringleader - him an' part of his Missouri outfit. They're figgerin' on don' some fast recruitin' - afore Texas gets occupied - an' then goin' to Mexico. Say they'll fight on from there, however best they can...

-Harley Duncan, West of Appomattox