Which, of course, was why she was so desperate to get to Little Rock. “Last thing I’d ever stomach is one of them rascals from up to the tavern. And sure enough not one of them whiskey-sotted fools. The man I marry? He’s going to be an educated gentleman. Maybe like that lawyer John Mallory that Paw entertained last fall.”
“Him? He’s married!”
“Well, of course, you fool! I said a man ‘like’ him, not him. He had a way about him, graceful and strong. And I liked how he and Paw got on. You could see it. Paw respected him. And there ain’t many men Paw really respects.” She shot Billy a glance from beneath her bonnet. “Word is Mallory’s shot two men in duels.”
“You’re just taken with that talk about his house. Three stories, all brick.” Billy used the back of his shovel to slap the dirt flat where he banked the ditch. “And he’s got slaves, which brings us right back around. That’d set a splinter in Paw’s seat. He never cared much for the notion of folks having slaves.”
“No matter what he thinks, he’s off fighting to save the ‘peculiar institution,’” she shot back. “How’s that for a Union man? Now he’s a major in some Mississippi regiment.”
Billy pulled off his hat and used his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Paw ain’t so tied to a principle as to let it get in his way when it comes to a chance for travel, fun, and adventure.” He shook his head, making a face. “You remember the look on Maw’s face? She knew Paw was just waiting for an excuse, any chance to go ‘chase the rainbow’ as Maw’d say.”
“Paw ain’t done so bad chasing rainbows, Billy.”
She stepped off to the next corn row and hacked a cut in the ditch bank. “But you know what people say about Paw when they’re out of his hearing.”
Billy scowled up at an eagle soaring above the forest in casual circles. “That if he couldn’t steal it, it warn’t worth working for? Yeah, I heard that. I was gonna thrash the last yahoo who said so, but John Gritts held me back.”
“At least someone could. Wish he was still about.”
Billy’s face puckered. “Me, too. Figured he was smarter than joining up with McCulloch and going off expecting to whip the Federals. Ain’t the same, going hunting without him.”
Come back, John Gritts. And take my brother with you.
Billy’s incessant preoccupation with her virtue was nigh onto smothering her. She wanted the damn war over. For life to get back to normal.
Otherwise she sure wasn’t getting to Little Rock.
“So help me, God,” she whispered under her breath, “I’d endure anything to get away from the White River and off to someplace with exciting prospects.”
6
September 1, 1861
The mules shook their heads, rattling the harness and trace chains, flopping their ears as Billy’s wagon climbed Telegraph Wire Road’s tree-lined grade up from the tanyard. At the top, the mules snorted relief and changed from their determined pulling stride to an easier pace as the grade leveled out.
A quarter mile farther down the rutted trace, he pulled up at Elkhorn Tavern and set the brake. Elkhorn Tavern stood on the west side of the road. Erected on a timber frame, the whitewashed structure rose two stories above the ground with dressed-stone chimneys on the east and west sides. The small yard before the long porch was separated from the trampled and manure-spotted plaza by a post-and-rail fence. A cluster of rude sheds and square-notch log dwellings surrounded the place along with chickens and a couple of hog pens. Atop the tavern’s gabled roof perched a bull elk skull with a sun-whitened rack of wide antlers.
A refuge for hardy souls traveling Telegraph Wire Road, Elkhorn Tavern rented rooms, dispensed locally distilled and brewed drink, and offered a hot and filling if not epicurean meal to those so inclined. For the scattered communities and sporadic farms around Pea Ridge, the nearby hollows, and the upper White River Valley, it provided a place to gather, conduct business, and most of all, socialize.
As Billy hopped down, it was to see a dozen or so soldiers in mismatched uniforms—or what he’d come to take for such. Mostly homespun or locally mill produced, the textiles had been dyed in hickory oils: what was called butternut. Some of the men wore battered hats, others were bareheaded, and all were fully bearded or sported goatees and mustaches.
They crowded the porch, tankards or tin cups in their hands. Belts supported the occasional large knife or pistol, and most wore blousy white or gray shirts in need of laundering. Footwear ranged from boots, to worn shoes, and not a few moccasins.
As a newcomer, Billy was the immediate center of their attention. Their hawkish gazes left him feeling oddly vulnerable and awkward.
“What have we here?” one asked. He might have been in his late twenties, with long brown hair pulled back in a way that accented his thin face and hatchet of a nose.
Someone raised his voice in reply: “What we have, gentlemen, is Billy Hancock, hunter extraordinaire, crack rifle shot, brawler, and woodsman outstanding.”
One of the ragged soldiers pushed forward and trotted down the front steps in holey shoes. He stopped short and grinned as he tucked his thumbs into a brown leather belt from which hung a long-bladed Bowie knife.
“Danny Goodman?” Billy asked, a sudden feeling of relief adding a measure of reassurance to his words. He stepped forward, taking the older boy’s hand in a firm shake.
Danny stepped back, looking Billy up and down. “Damn, boy. I swear you got another inch taller. And them shoulders is an inch wider.”
“You cussing, now? Or did your paw lose his willow switch?”
Danny’s grin thinned. “I reckon I don’t
