Free The Widow of the South by Robert Hicks Page A

knocking himself to the ground. Blood splattered against the trunk of the tree and dotted the limbs above. He kicked twice with his rear legs, each time almost crushing Theopolis’s skull. Theopolis scrambled off, ran to John, hollering for a leg up behind the saddle.
    John knew they could not escape. He placed his boot in the center of Theopolis’s chest just as Theopolis took hold of the horse, and shoved him violently to the ground, hoping that Theopolis would realize it was just for show and not hold it against him.
    John watched the scouts make their way toward him. He sat tall in his saddle at first, but then he thought better of that posture and decided to slump a little, pretending that not even a Federal patrol could arouse him. He tried to keep his horse from fidgeting, with no luck. Zack’s dying moments—the squeals and honks and thrashing—kept her on edge.
    The man on the piebald horse reached the clearing first. He was short, paunchy, and bald, with a wild, long beard that was matted at the ends. He looked at once like a feedstore clerk and an avenging prophet. His eyes were a light blue, and they flashed from behind puffy crimson-veined cheeks. His men pulled into the clearing and gathered around him in an elaborate choreography of intimidation. They were younger than their master, and they were having various degrees of success with their beards.
    “If you don’t mind, would you kindly get off that horse, sir?”
    He was solicitous, even deferential, to the tall middle-aged Tennessean he had captured at gunpoint: he was a comedian, and this was one of the reasons why his little band of scouts and cavalrymen stuck by him.
    John waited a few prudent seconds before dismounting, trying to decide how quickly he could get down without seeming weak.
    “Why did you chase us? We did nothing.”
    “Why did you run, if you’ll pardon my prying?”
    The other scouts chuckled and eyed each other.
    “We thought you might be Confederates out foraging, or maybe bandits. It’s hard to know who you’re dealing with these days.”
    “We are not bandits, and we are not Confederates, as you can plainly see. Who the hell are you?”
    John stared up, and the scout looked down, his chin lost in a confusion of beard. John decided to take the offensive.
    “Why did you shoot my mule? That’s a good animal, a hard worker. We were only passing through to town. I will want compensation.”
    “Your mule?”
    “The animal should be shot to spare it any more pain, and as you can see, we have no guns. I insist that you complete what you started.”
    “
Your
mule? I don’t think so.”
    John was momentarily flummoxed. “If you are suggesting that I have stolen this animal, sir, you are quite mistaken.”
    His words hung out there in the air between them.
    The scout leaned back a little in his saddle.
    “This here is Union country, whatever you think. And everything in it, that’s Union, too. That mule? How many fields has it plowed these last four years? How many nasty rebels has it worked to feed? That animal there is a weapon of the enemy, and as such is the property of the U.S. of A.”
    Zack had collapsed into a pile, lying on one side, groaning from down deep in his throat. Bloody foam dribbled out of his mouth. John had never much liked Zack as a working animal. When he’d allow himself to be hitched up—which wasn’t often—he had to be hitched up solo. He wouldn’t work alongside another mule or horse, and there were a half dozen animals in John’s barn with scars on their neck and withers to prove it. But he didn’t mind being ridden, especially by Theopolis. Fancied himself a horse, John had always thought.
    “Well, seeing as how this is your mule, sir, my original point still stands. Have one of your men shoot him.”
    The scout shook his head.
    “I don’t think so. I would need to get authorization, you see.”
    “Then I shall do it. Give me a gun.”
    “I am not in the practice of arming rebels.