A battered, shapeless hat covered his head. It was faded to colorlessness by time and the elements. A bullethole showed in the top of the crown and a few nicks marked the brim.
Luke wore his uniform, what was left of it. A gray tunic, unbuttoned and open, revealed a threadbare, sun- faded red flannel shirt beneath it. Baggy gray trousers were held in place by a brown leather belt whose dulled- metal buckle bore the legend: CSA.
Many extra holes had been punched in the belt to coincide with his weight loss. He was thin, half-starved.
His garments had seen much hard use. They were worn, tattered. His left trouser leg was knotted together below the knee, to keep the empty pant leg from getting in his way. His good right foot was shod by a rough, handmade rawhide moccasin.
Luke Pettigrew was unarmed, without rifle, pistol or knife. And Texas is no place for an unarmed man. But there he was, minus horse, gun—and the lower part of his left leg—doggedly closing in on Hangtown.
The capital of Hangtree County is the town of Hangtree, known far and wide as Hangtown.
From head to toe Luke was powdered with fine dust from the dirt road. Sweat cut sharp lines through the powder covering his face. Grimacing, grunting between clenched teeth, he advanced another step with the crutch.
How many hundreds, thousands of such steps had he taken on his solitary trek? How many more such steps must he take before reaching his destination? He didn’t know.
He was without a canteen. He’d been a long time without water under the hot Texas sun. Somewhere beyond the western horizon lay Swift Creek with its fresh, cool waters. On the far side of the creek: Hangtown.
Neither was yet in sight. Luke trudged on ahead. One thing he had plenty of was determination. Grit. The same doggedness that had seen him through battles without number in the war, endless forced marches, hunger, privation. It had kept him alive after the wound that took off the lower half of his left leg while others, far less seriously wounded, gave up the ghost and died.
That said, he sure was almighty sick and tired of walking.
Along came a rider, out of the east.
Absorbed with his own struggles, Luke was unaware of the newcomer’s approach until the other was quite near. The sound of hoofbeats gave him pause. Halting, he looked back over his shoulder.
The single rider advanced at an easy lope.
Luke walked in the middle of the road because there the danger of rocks, holes and ditches was less than at the sidelines. A sound caught in his throat, something between a groan and a sigh, in anticipation of spending more of his meager reserves of energy in getting out of the way.
He angled torward the left-hand side of the road. It was a measure of the time and place that he unquestioningly accepted the likelihood of a perfect stranger riding down a crippled war veteran.
The rider was mounted on a chestnut horse. He slowed the animal to an easy walk, drawing abreast of Luke, keeping pace with him. Luke kept going, looking straight ahead, making a show of minding his own business in hopes that the newcomer would do the same.
“Howdy,” the rider said, his voice soft-spoken, with a Texas twang.
At least he wasn’t no damned Yankee, thought Luke. Not that that made much difference. His fellow Texans had given him plenty of grief lately. Luke grunted, acknowledging that the other had spoken and committing himself to no more than that acknowledgment.
“Long way to town,” the rider said. He sounded friendly enough, for whatever that was worth, Luke told himself.
“Room up here for two to ride,” the other said.
“I’m getting along, thanks,” muttered Luke, not wanting to be beholding to nobody.
The rider laughed, laughter that was free and easy with no malice in it. Still, the sound of it raced like wildfire along Luke’s strained nerves.
“You always was a hard-headed cuss, Luke Pettigrew,” the rider said.
Luke, stung, looked to see who it was that was calling him out of his name. The rider was about his age, in his early twenties. He still had his youth, though, what was left of it, unlike Luke, who felt himself prematurely aged, one of the oldest men alive.
Luke peered up at him. Something familiar in the other’s tone of voice . . .
A dark, flat-crowned, broad-brimmed hat with a snakeskin hatband shadowed the rider’s face. The sun was behind him, in Luke’s eyes. Luke squinted, peering, at first unable to make out the other’s features. The rider tilted his head, causing the light to fall on his face.
“Good gawd!—Johnny Cross!” Luke’s outcry was a croak, his throat being parched from lack of water.
“Long time no see, Luke,” Johnny Cross said.
“Well I’ll be go to gawd-damned! I never expected to see you again,” said Luke. “Huh! So you made it through the war.”
“Looks like. And you, too.”
“Mostly,” Luke said, indicating with a tilt of his head and a sour twist of his mouth his missing lower leg.
“Reckon we’re both going in the same direction. Climb on up,” Johnny Cross said. Gripping the saddlehorn with his right hand, he leaned over and down, extending his left hand.
He was lean and wiry, with strength in him. He took hold of Luke’s right hand in an iron grip and hefted him up, swinging the other up onto the horse behind him. It helped that Luke didn’t weigh much.
Luke got himself settled. “I want to keep hold of this crutch for now,” he said.
