The Pistoleer Read Online Free PDF

jump! My old woman was always kind of shy about dancing in front of people she didn’t know too good, but pretty soon she let her hair down and couldn’t stop smiling and blushing with all the swinging around we gave her. My three girls were youngsters yet, but we took turns dancing with them too, even little Sarah, who wasn’t but six years old. Brenda and Lorrie—the one ten and the other eight—were laughing and bright in the face and just couldn’t get enough of the dancing. Joe and John Wesley would bow to them when asking for a dance and kiss their hand afterward. Those two girls weren’t much use at all for the next two days, they were so moony from all the gentlemanly attention they got that night.
    After Joe told us about all those folks keeping an eye out for Yankees and being ready to warn us if any were to head our way, John Wesley took to riding out every day to look for cows. There was wild cattle around there in those days and you didn’t need to be no cowboy to lasso one and tug it on home. You just had to have the time to do it and be willing to get yourself and your pony all scratched up rassling a longhorn through the rough brush on the end of a rope. I’d take the animal to town and trade it for goods. John Wesley helped us out plenty that way. And every evening after supper my children couldn’t hear their fill of his stories about hunts he’d been on with his brother or his cousin Barnett. Those who have anything bad to say about him best never say it around me or my children—and I mean my girls too—if they don’t want a fight on their hands.
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    O ne afternoon, Jules Halas, who had a small spread east of Logallis Prairie, came by in his buckboard with a message from Joe. A half-dozen Yankee soldiers had shown up on the other side of the hollow during the night. Two were keeping watch on Joe’s house, one was watching the schoolhouse, and three were riding around asking folks questions about John W. Hardin. They had to know he wasn’t at Joe’s or they likely would of busted in on the place, but it sure looked like they knew he was somewhere around. Jules had seen the two bluebellies watching the schoolhouse when he went to retrieve his young ones. Joe had asked him to bring the news to John Wesley but to be careful about not being followed. “Joe says you best keep a sharp eye out,” Jules told us. “He says it’s some people around here not above giving the Yanks information in exchange for a piece of silver.”
    The morning after we got word of the soldiers closing in, John Wesley stayed in the house rather than go out to hunt cows and run the risk of being spotted. And then, sometime around midmorning, here they came. I was out in the hog pen and caught sight of them as they came in from the far end of the meadow, about a half mile off, three of them. From the careless way they was coming—riding all abreast and slow and easy, right out in the open instead of staying close to the trees on either side—it was clear they wasn’t expecting to find him here. Likely they were just nosing around, trying to find out if anybody had seen him.
    I looked over to the window where John Wesley had been sitting and keeping watch, but he wasn’t there anymore. I heard a low whinny from the stable and then his horse hoofing off into the woods behind the house, and I reckoned he was heading for the main trace to make his getaway.
    The meadow creek was less than a quarter mile away, but you couldn’t see it from the house because of the heavy growth of hardwoods lining the steep banks and blending into the pine forest to the south. It took the troopers a while to reach the creek, they were coming so slow. There was a small break in the trees where they could cross fairly easy, but they had to come across single file.
    As the first soldier eased his horse down the bank, I heard a shotgun blast and saw a puff of smoke from the clump of sweet gums to their left. The lead rider