Prologue

Springfield, Missouri, 1861

“Easy there, Freddy—hold up a minute!” Clint shouted as he saw his friend reach the fence line. The Missouri sun hung high in the sky, beating down mercilessly; even this early in the year, the heat was relentless.

“I got this, Clint!” Freddy Anderson, stretched and gangling, knelt down, awkwardly using his one good arm to manhandle a fence post that had fallen to the ground.

“I got you, buddy.” Clint Dawson rushed up the rise, skidding across the rain-soaked grass, and slid to Freddy’s side.

“Go’ dang it!” Freddy hissed as his right hung uselessly from his side. “If that ain’t all that I need! When today was going so well and all,” Freddy muttered. “If I didn’t have this gammy arm, maybe I could have done something about the rustlers…” Freddy looked desultorily at the fence posts and the skyline.

Clint’s voice dropped as he got to work on the fence, helping his friend. “Don’t, Freddy. It’s not your fault.”

He frowned. Freddy was a horse-trainer, one of the best that Clint had ever seen, and he didn’t like hearing his friend talk this way. Cattle rustlers had been coming past Springfield ever since New Year’s; Clint figured they were taking advantage of the worsening situation between the Confederate states and the North. Missouri was nominally Union at the moment, but in truth, the state was split left, right, and center.

The state was torn. In fact, the entire country was torn—and everyone knew it.

It’s only a matter of time before everything blows up. Clint didn’t consider himself a violent man, but he’d seen plenty of fights in his twenty-three years. Ranches—like Freddy’s— were raided by the rustlers or bandits more and more frequently.

“Everything okay up here?”

Clint turned to see Tessa Anderson, Freddy’s new wife, striding up the hill with a pitcher of fresh lemonade. She was younger than both men, with curly red hair and twin spots of color in her cheeks set off by the viridian kerchief covering her head.

Freddy had done well for himself, Clint had to admit. He’d laughed when Freddy put in an ad for a wife in the Springfield and South Gazette, but Tessa had responded, showing up on the mail coach and Freddy looking like he was a cat with the cream.

Then, just last summer, Freddy had fallen from a skittish colt and injured himself something fierce. Doctors had been called out from Springfield, then some fancy doctor from St. Louis, but it hadn’t done any good. Something in his arm and spine had broken, and now Freddy’s left arm was wasted and practically useless.

“It’s nothing. Just my stupid arm playing up again.” Freddy smiled in a thin-lipped way that made Clint’s heart break.

Clint remembered Freddy showing him how to ride a horse, how to pay attention to the way they moved, huffed, and flicked their ears. It hurt to see Freddy like this.

“Nothing,” Tessa said heavily with acres of frustration and weariness in her voice. Tessa was the youngest and newest of their small crew, arriving only last year as she answered Freddy’s advert in the Gazette.

Maybe they could’ve fallen in love, but…

Even as Tessa walked up to Freddy and touched him on the shoulder tenderly, Clint saw the strain in their relationship. What becomes of a couple when life becomes all hardship and toil? How could Freddy still be the man who had placed that advert, the man whom Tessa had chosen?

The warm sunlight and brisk April wind coming in from the plains brought a vitality to Tessa that made her skin glow. She was striking, though small and thin; Clint remembered a time when she’d had bright eyes and a mischievous look that could set any man’s blood pumping—his own included.

“Best get you in. I’ve got some broth on the stove.” Tessa jerked her head back toward their house, which sat below them on the hill. Freddy, Clint, and their friends Eugene and Mike had built the simple three-room wooden house with their bare hands when the world was still young, the war distant, and the health of youth seemed eternal.

“Nah, Tess—I’ve got to get this fence fixed, darn it! I can’t keep the yearlings cooped up in the small corral, and if the rustlers come back…” Freddy’s tone was brisk, sharp.

Clint rarely saw his friend like this, though he knew the constant pain must be a heavy burden to bear.

“I can stay tonight,” Clint interjected. “I told Evelyn I wouldn’t be down to town today, anyhow.”

He smiled bashfully as he thought about his own fiancée, Evelyn Murdoch. She wasn’t a mail-order bride, but a local Springfield girl that Clint had met on the saloon boardwalks three years ago. They hadn’t married yet, as she was waiting for Clint to ‘properly get his ranch fixed up’—in her words— with enough regular money coming in to make a proper marriage proposal, suit, bended knee, and everything.

Freddy raised an eyebrow. “You got your long rifle, Clint?”

“Nah. Got my shooter.” Clint nodded back to their ranch, where his long-barrel Colt Paterson was stowed in his saddlebags.

Freddy shot Clint a dark look, but it passed like a Missouri storm-head. It wasn’t a stupid question. Long rifles were becoming much more common now. Just a few years ago, there had been a raid against the Kansas town of Baxter Springs, and there was talk of a group of German immigrants called the ‘Forty-Eighters’ running around attacking Southern towns.

“Well, God willing, we won’t need it.” Freddy sighed.

There was a cough behind them, and the men turned to see Tessa raising her chin to indicate the horizon, where a plume of dust rose into the air.

“Isn’t that Eugene’s ranch?” Freddy asked.

Clint nodded, furrowing his brow. Their friend Eugene’s ranch sat right next to Clint’s. Eugene and his wife, Patty, were good, Christian people; they attended church every Sunday come wind, rain, snow or hail.

“That’s wagons, not riders,” Tessa said, surprising Clint. He wondered how she knew how to differentiate between the two, but realized he knew next to nothing about her past before Springfield.

“I can ride over, then get back here and keep working on this fence this evening if you like,” Clint said.

Freddy nodded, and Clint rode off.

***

Eugene’s farm was bustling with activity when Clint arrived; two carriages sat outside the wooden house, each with a team of four horses.

Clint’s stomach dropped when he saw the armed men standing by the coaches. They had a lean, hungry look about them, and all four wore smart, close-fitting gray jackets.

Confederate militia?

Clint reined in his horse as the men eyed him warily. Two of them took up their rifles, but they were still pointing at the ground, not at him.

“Everything alright here?” Clint was answered by a shout as the door opened, and a barrel-chested man with a mustache appeared.

“It’ll be alright, son, it will be!” the man hollered in a voice Clint had only ever heard from boss-men and cattle crew.

The man wore the same gray uniform as the others, but his jacket was decorated with gold braids at his shoulder, and a perky cap with a stiff brim covered his wild black hair.

Eugene and Patty appeared on the porch. Eugene was a portly man at the best of times, with hair short hair and a complete inability to grow a beard. He had a wide-eyed look on him, and Patty clutched at his shirt.

The wild-haired man marched over to Clint and stopped just shy of his horse. “And who might you be, son?”

“Not used to acquainting myself with strangers… sir,” Clint said carefully as he tried to catch Eugene’s eye and work out what was going on.

“William Rogers, lately of the blessed state of Ohio, but now Missouri—if you’ll have me. General William Rogers, that is.” The man’s voice seemed lodged at the ‘shouting at stubborn bull-calf’ level.

Clint held the man’s gaze. “Uh-huh.”

“We’re at war, son. The South has had enough. The recent attack over the Kansas line are the straw that broke the camel’s back. We’ve seen too much of vigilante Union groups attacking God-fearing folks. Of course, that’s against the backdrop of the whole sorry affair—the Union just deciding how everything’ll be for the whole nation and expecting the South to pay for it!”

The general straightened his cap. “I’m here to tell you that we’re going to stand up for what we believe in. We’re going to protect our homes and each other, and we need young men just like you. You willing?”

Clint hesitated. He knew the attacks were bad, that everyone was scared, waiting for the day when the Forty-Eighters or some other Union gang would hit their region. Clint thought about Evelyn, and the life he might never have if he went to war. The children he might not have.

Eugene stepped forward, waving. “I’m signing up, Clint, and Mike has already said yes!”

Clint stared at his friend. He hadn’t taken Eugene for the warlike sort, but the look in his eyes was fierce.

“What choice do we have, Clint? I want a future, and this is the only way I can see of getting it.”

“Mike’s going for it?” The sheriff was as much a part of Clint’s life as Freddy was—perhaps even more so. Sheriff Mike Levis was the eldest of their group of three friends, and he’d taken the wayward Clint under his wing when Clint’s parents had been lost to the fever.

General Rogers was the one who answered. “Every brave son of the South is, son. We have Eugene Smith here, as well as Mike Levis and the Baugartens, and we’re hoping to pick up Freddy Anderson next.”

Clint shook his head. “Not Freddy. He’s got a new wife—and anyway, he’s lame on his left side. Injured in a riding accident.”

The general’s brow furrowed; Clint couldn’t work out if it was from rage or confusion.

The world fell silent. It was one of those rare moments when Clint knew that his life would change forever with the decision that he made.

“Do I have a choice, General, sir?” Clint offered a wry grin as he nodded to the men with rifles behind them.

Rogers paused, then said, “You always have a choice, son—but the war is coming to you, whether you like it or not. You can elect to join freely now, but by winter, there will be conscription, mark my words.”

“I see,” Clint said quietly. His home was about to be torn apart, wasn’t it? All his friends were signing up. How could he not stand with them?

“You’d be in the Springfield First Division, made up of all your buddies—men you know and trust.”

Clint stared over the rolling hills of green around him. He had grown up on this land. He loved this land.

“I’ll do it, sir,” Clint said, leaning down to shake the General’s hand.

***

“I’ll wait for you, Clint Dawson!” Evelyn said in a rush of tears when it came time for Clint to leave just two days later. The Confederacy had coaches traveling all over Missouri, and at least five such large four-horse wagons waited in a little field outside Springfield.

As it turned out, there wasn’t any time to waste; in the intervening day, the last remaining southern senators had resigned, and Lincoln had arrested half the sitting legislature of Maryland. Attacks were only increasing as Union militias struck out at their Confederate neighbors.

“I love you, Evelyn!” Clint hesitated as he picked his kit back up and stared at the auburn-haired woman who, one day, he wanted to marry. Evelyn was beautiful, with sharp features and the sort of looks that would have put her in the musicals if she’d been born in Paris.

Her parents stood behind her, scowling at the young, scruffy recruit that was Clint Dawson. Evelyn’s father, Steven Murdoch, wore a white suit and hat, clutching at the cane he would use to swat at Clint if he ever dared steal a kiss from his daughter.

Well, no need to worry about that for a bit, Clint thought wryly.

“I’ll come back for you, Evelyn Murdoch,” Clint promised, and turned to catch up with his friends where they waited at the coach—Eugene, Mike, and the other sons of Springfield, Missouri.

I wonder what’s waiting for me out there. Clint gave his small town one last look before he jumped onto the coach.

Whatever it is, at least I’ll be with my friends.

Chapter One

Jonesville, Virginia, 1863

“We’ll make it!” Mike hissed from where they’d found shelter behind a fallen tree.

Despite his friend’s determined optimism, Clint had his doubts. It was three days since Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg, and two since the Confederacy had conceded defeat against the grinding guns and higher numbers of the Union in that patch of open, muddy field.

Clint’s ears still rang with the pound of artillery, every breath heavy with the metallic scent of gunpowder. This morning, he’d caught sight of himself in the creek where their three-man crew had camped. His eyes looked hollow, his skin bruised, and Mike and Eugene looked the same.

“You sure Williams said that way?” Eugene murmured apprehensively from a few paces behind them. The last two years of war had cut some of the pounds from his middle, but he still had a fleshy look about him that made others doubt his ability, still had that wiry fluff of under-beard that never seemed to thicken.

Just like when he was a young’un. Clint wiped sweat from his brow and turned to retrieve his Springfield long rifle from where it leaned against the fallen cedar. Mike lay next to him, scanning the opposite tree line where they suspected Union scouts were hiding.

“I reckon the Tennessee state line is just a couple hours that way…” Mike’s voice trailed off as all three men considered the possibilities.

Mike Levis was a solid man, his dark hair giving over to early gray, with a no-nonsense attitude that had made him an excellent sheriff. Clint owed a lot to the man; Mike had taught him to shoot—and hauled him out of saloons more than once.

If not for Mike, Clint wasn’t sure what side of the gun he would be on right now. There had been a time in clint’s life when he’d thought favorably of taking to the roads and joining a gang—anything that would give him some sense of freedom. Mike had set him straight, for which Clint was grateful.

Clint valued Mike’s opinion, and right now, that meant trusting him to decide whether they could make it back to General William’s encampment, or if they should continue to the Confederate muster point in southern Tennessee.

How far is it to Missouri? The treacherous thought flashed through Clint’s mind like a lit fuse. Virginia, Tennessee, then up—that would be all that it would take, wouldn’t it?

Then, we would be home.

“It’s been quiet since dawn. The Union is probably still rolling over drunk after Gettysburg. If we make a move now, with a bit of St. Peter’s luck, we can make it to the muster.” Mike nodded at Eugene as he readied himself to stand up.

“Cover me,” Mike said.

“No,” Clint said quickly. “Begging your pardon, Mike, but I’m quicker than you are. I’ll go first.”

Mike’s brows beetled as he scowled, but he didn’t argue. The three friends had learned much over the last two years; a new respect had blossomed between the sons of Springfield, and Clint couldn’t think of anyone in the world he trusted more.

Clint rose, then scrambled over the downed cedar and jogged through the morning mists. Wet grass slapped at his calves as the distant tree line loomed ahead like a shadowed threat. Four running steps—five—and no gunshots.

Clint ran across the field towards a gap in the trees. All he had to do was to find a position while keeping an eye out for Union soldiers. Most of the Confederate forces had evacuated safely after the Gettysburg tragedy, but some units had fled to the west; General Williams feared they’d be run down and lost in the Virginia hills.

It was Clint, Mike, and Eugene’s job to find them.

Halfway across the field, Clint dared to hope that he was going to make it. Mike was right—the Union scouts hadn’t come this far yet.

Phwip!

No sooner had the hope risen than he heard a sound like ripping paper, and the grass beside Clint’s knee’s flailed.

Another tearing sound—this time, Clint saw a puff of musket smoke burst from the trees. The shot was further away this time, but Clint was already out in the open; he threw his hands up, rifle in air, and hit the ground.

“Clint!” He heard Mike behind him, but his shout was cut off by the sudden cry of a bugle.

Troops emerged from the trees, and they weren’t just scouts. Clint heard the chop of hooves, and he saw at least a dozen riders wearing Union blue through the haze of grass.

“Don’t shoot!” Clint cried, hoping that Mike and Eugene retained their sense. Two men with rifles can’t take out an entire cavalry squad. They’d die if they fought back, but since the Confederates had conceded defeat at Gettysburg, with any luck, the Union soldiers might just capture—or even release—them… after they’d stripped the friends of their weapons.

Clint’s heart thumped as the horses approached, his mind racing with the awful arithmetic of war. He had to make the troops see that he wasn’t a threat while keeping General Williams’ muster point a secret.

If they capture me, they might not find the others. Clint prayed his friends might one day return to Springfield, even if he did not.

“Don’t shoot! It’s just me!” Clint shouted as the soldiers approached. The earth shook with the thunder of hooves; he quickly dropped his rifle and unbuckled his pistol belt, throwing it to one side. The first rider approached, then the next, and the next—and still more after that.

“I got him!” Clint hissed desperately. “I’m unarmed!”

“Don’t move, soldier!” said a strong, powerful baritone. “You on your own?”

Clint found himself looking up at a Union officer with tight black hair and mahogany skin. The officer was clearly a freeman, or perhaps even a freed slave. The officer—a Lieutenant, from the badges on his shoulders—had a pistol trained on Clint and a steely look in his eye.

Clint said the first thing that sprang to mind. “Yes, sir—I’m on your side, trying to get back to lines, sir!”

Another Union rider swung his rifle around, aiming it straight at Clint’s chest. “He’s lying to save his own wretched hide, sir. Let me shoot him!”

“Hold,” the lieutenant barked. From his raised eyebrow, he clearly wasn’t impressed by Clint’s bald-faced lie. “Did you put on the wrong uniform this morning?”

Ah.

“I stole it, sir—trying to evade those godless Confederates. General Grant sent me out to keep an eye on Confederate troop movements sir, but I got turned around.” Clint didn’t have to feign his panic.

“General Grant, huh?” The lieutenant watched Clint with a wry half smile. The mounted unit was spreading out around where Clint knelt, their horses high-stepping through the tall grass.

“Sir, yes, sir. Special Division, recruited out of Missouri. My family was one of them who cheered when Lyon took Jefferson City and drove out the State Guard, sir.” Clint hoped they’d chalk the sweat on his brow up to exertion. He thought he might have a chance, though; Missouri was a swing state, with nearly every town and settlement split down the middle.

“Is that so?” The lieutenant leaned down to stare keenly at Clint’s face. “Even though Missouri’s represented by the twelfth star on the Confederate flag?”

“Governor Jackson is in exile, sir.” Clint swallowed. “A lot of people were angry when he tried to seize the St. Louis arsenal, even if they supported the Confederate cause. We’re one country under God, right, sir?”

The dark-skinned lieutenant leaned back, tapping the butt of his cavalry saber, and pursed his lips. “So you’re claiming you’re a spy for the North, then?”

One of the white cavalry men scoffed. “He’s just trying to save his own skin.”

The lieutenant scowled at the man, and Clint guessed there was no love lost between them.

“If you’re a spy, who were you spying on?”

“General Williams—Confederate Missouri First Army,” Clint replied smartly. That wasn’t even a lie, not technically; he and his friends were trying to find the units that’d fled to the west.

“How many of you are there?” the lieutenant asked.

Clint dared a rough laugh. “Missourians, you mean? Ah, buddy, they’re a ragtag bunch of hicks out of Springfield. Barely a hundred souls all told, and only a third of ’em can read or write!”

They’ll like that detail. Clint was always hearing how the North was so ‘cultured’ compared to the South.

“Huh.” The lieutenant ’s fellow Union cavalry men stifled grins, but his dark eyes studied Clint keenly.

“Okay. Maybe you’re telling the truth. There’s only one of you here, after all, but my mama had a way of reading people, and I’d like to think she passed that onto me. “The officer’s glittering eyes pierced Clint. “I want to hear why you support the Union, Missouri.”

Oh, heck. Clint felt he might be trying to fool the brightest Union officer this side of Kentucky.

“It’s the railroads,” Clint blurted. “The Union promised to spread ’em quick, while the Confederates are dragging their feet. Good rail would mean the world of difference to Springfield,” he said truthfully.

“Railroads? Not abolition?”

This was it. Clint knew whatever he said next would save or sink him.

“In truth, sir, it’s the railroads. I’m a simple man, surrounded by simpletons in Springfield. I want something that would make a difference to me and my community, and as I see it, the Union has the money to deliver.”

“Hm. At least you’re honest.” The lieutenant relaxed a little in his saddle. “Well, we can’t help you get back to General Grant, Missouri. We’re on orders to hunt down Confederate scouts in the area—we can’t nursemaid you back to the gather point, but if you head due north, you should be in Union territory. Just stay clear of Clinch River, past that line of hills. Word has it that there’s a Confederate encampment there.”

Our camp! Clint thought in alarm as the Lieutenant shot him another assessing look, then nodded to the others to move out.

“Come on, men. No time to waste.”

Clint rose slowly and saluted the cavalry riders as they trotted past, then breathed a sigh of relief. He’d gotten away with it!

Clint watched the Union cavalry increase their speed as they reached the gap between the trees, disappearing into the mist. He waited for the sound of hooves to fade in the distance before he turned back to the fallen cedar, waving Mike and Eugene popped up from behind it. Even from this distance, Clint could see the shocked whites of their eyes.

“Weeping heart of Mary, Dawson! What in the gumballs did you say to them?” Mike said, and the three friends broke into laughter.

Clint felt giddy, but his good humor was tempered by what he’d learned.

“We got to get going—Clinch River. The Union is on to General Williams.”