The Warriors Read Online Free PDF Page B

it, boy, you answer.”
    “That’s a hell of a way to talk to a soldier from your own army!” He tried a bluff, lowered his left hand to touch the brown-spotted bandage knotted around his thigh. “I got mustered out. I was hit.”
    A grumble of doubt. “That a fact. Listen, I know they’re sending boys back to service shot up a lot worse ‘n you. You ain’t tellin’ me the truth.”
    The corporal was angry. This ignorant clod couldn’t begin to understand his concept of devotion to duty, could never understand why he was traveling alone across central Georgia, hiding out during the daylight hours, stealing and getting shot up for trying to pilfer a chicken to eat.
    “You say you’re goin’ home—”
    “That’s right.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Kent. Corporal Jeremiah Kent.”
    “Well, now, Corporal Jeremiah Kent, you just tell me where your home’s at.”
    “Mister, I don’t mean you any harm. You wouldn’t miss an ear or two.”
    The pitchfork stabbed out, the tines indenting the fabric of his tunic just above the belt. “Boy, answer the question. Where’s home?”
    Alarmed, he risked a little of the truth. “I’m headed for Jefferson County.”
    The farmer’s face twisted in an ugly sneer. Very softly, he said, “Then you’re tellin’ me lies. You ain’t no Georgia boy. I know by the way you talk. You come from someplace up north. Carolina, mebbe. Virginny. But not Georgia. You run away?”
    The tines poked deeper. Jeremiah felt one pierce his tunic, prick his skin.
    “You’re a goddamn deserter.”
    Furious, Jeremiah didn’t know how to answer the accusation. In a way it was true, yet he’d traveled for miles with no sense of dishonor. Traveled with pride and purpose, in fact.
    “I sent two sons to Mississippi and lost both. Both! I ain’t feedin’ or shelterin’ no damn runaway coward!”
    The last word exploded in a rush of breath. At the same instant, the farmer’s hands jerked back at his right side. Then with full force he rammed the pitchfork forward. Jeremiah jumped sideways. A tine slashed another hole in his tunic. The points hit a crib slat so hard they hummed.
    Jeremiah’s mouth looked thin and white as he laced his fingers together. Color rushed into his cheeks. While the farmer struggled to wrench the tines loose, Jeremiah slammed the back of the farmer’s neck, using his interlocked hands like a hammerhead.
    The farmer staggered. Jeremiah struck again, ruthlessly hard. Time to quit fooling with this old man.
    The man dropped to his knees, his palms pressed against the slats of the crib as he gasped for air. A little of the harshness went out of Jeremiah’s eyes as he whirled and dashed toward the pines, hoping the farmer had no firearm within quick reach.
    Short of breath and dizzy—the sickness seemed to be coming on again—he slowed at a point halfway across the field and turned his head around.
    Lord God! The damned lunatic was chasing him! The raised pitchfork shimmered in the red light. Despite his age, the man ran with powerful strides.
    Jeremiah bolted for the trees. How could you explain anything to a father who’d seen two sons killed in a war that was ending in failure? How could you make such a man comprehend that you were out here alone because you believed, above all else, in honoring promises and obeying orders? Especially orders from someone who’d saved your life?
    Eyes slitted, head back, mouth gulping air, he drove himself. Reached the sanctuary of the sweet-smelling pines and kept going, brambles slashing at his legs, needles on low branches raking his cheeks.
    Finally, deep in the woods, he leaned over to catch his breath, near fainting from the aches in his chest and midsection. Somewhere behind he heard the farmer thrashing in the brush.
    “Yellabelly! They gonna catch you! They gonna hang you! You an’ every other goddamn deserter!”
    The thrashing sounds diminished. Presently the woods fell silent except for the shrieking of a jay.