“I’ll tie it to the saddle, leave you with both hands free,” Johnny said. He used a rawhide thong to lash the tree branch in place out of the way. A touch of Johnny’s boot heels to the chestnut’s flanks started the animal forward.
“Much obliged, Johnny.”
“You’d do the same for me.”
“What good would that do? I ain’t got no horse.”
“Man, things must be tough in Hangtree County.”
“Like always. Only more so, since the war.”
They set out for Hangtown.
Johnny Cross was of medium height, compact, trim, athletic. He had black hair and clean-lined, well-formed features. His hazel eyes varied in color from brown to yellow depending on the light. He had a deep tan and a three-day beard. There was something catlike about him with his restless yellow eyes, self-contained alertness and lithe, easy way of moving.
He wore a sunbleached maroon shirt, black jeans and good boots. A pair of guns were strapped to his hips. Good guns.
Luke noticed several things right off. Johnny Cross had done some long, hard riding. His clothes were trailworn, dusty; his guns, what Luke could see of them in their holsters, were clean, polished. Their inset dark wooden handles were smooth, well worn with use. A late-model carbine was sheathed in the saddle scabbard.
The chestnut horse was a fine-looking animal. Judging by its lines it was fast and strong, with plenty of endurance. The kind of mount favored by one on the dodge. One thing was sure:
Johnny Cross was returning to Hangtree in better shape than when he left it.
The Cross family had always been dirt-poor, honest but penniless. Throughout his youth up till the time he went off to war, Johnny had worn mostly patched, outgrown clothes and gone shoeless for long periods of time.
Johnny Cross handed the other a canteen. “Here, Luke, cut the dust some.”
“Don’t mind if I do, thanks.” Luke fought to still the trembling in his hands as he took hold of the canteen and fumbled open the cap. The water was as warm as blood. He took a mouthful and held it there, letting the welcome wetness refresh the dust-dry inside of his mouth.
His throat was so dry that at first he had trouble swallowing. He took a couple of mouthfuls, stopping though still thirsty. He didn’t want to be a hog or show how great his need was. “Thank you kindly,” he said, returning the canteen.
Johnny put it away. “Sorry I don’t have something stronger.”
“That’s plenty fine,” Luke said.
“Been back long?”
“Since last fall.”
“How’s your folks, Luke?”
“Pa got drowned two years ago trying to cross the Liberty River when it was running high at flood time.”
“Sorry to hear that. He was a good man,” Johnny said.
Luke nodded. “Hardworking and godfearing . . . for all the good it done him.”
“Your brothers?”
“Finn joined up with Ben McCullough and got kilt at Pea Ridge. Heck got it in Chicamagua.”
“That’s a damned shame. They was good ole boys.”
“War kilt off a lot of good ole boys.”
“Ain’t it the truth.”
The two were silent for a spell.
“Sue Ellen’s married to a fellow over to Dennison way,” Luke went on. “Got two young’uns, a boy and a girl. Named the boy after Pa. Ma’s living with them.”
“Imagine that! Last time I saw Sue Ellen she was a pretty little slip of a thing, and now she’s got two young’uns of her own,” Johnny said, shaking his head. “Time sure does fly . . .”
“Four years is a long time, Johnny.”
“How was your war, Luke?”
“I been around. I was with Hood’s Brigade.”
“Good outfit.”
Luke nodded. “We fought our way all over the South. Reckon we was in just about every big battle there was. I was with ’em right through almost to the finish at the front lines of Richmond, till a cannonball took off the bottom part of my leg.”
“That must’ve hurt some,” Johnny said.
“It didn’t tickle,” Luke deadpanned. “They patched me up in a Yankee prison camp where I set for a few months until after Appomatox in April of ’65, when they set us all a-loose. I made my way back here, walking most of the way.
“What about you, Johnny? Seems I heard something about you riding with Bill Anderson.”
“Did you? Well, you heard right.”
