The Irregulars

HENRY C. ROWLAND

ENNETH GORDON was looking over the expense account of his plantation  for the month of April, when he heard the rattle of hoofs on the drive without. He laid down his pen and stepped out on the veranda. Two horsemen had reined in before the house, and one of them had dismounted and was ascending the steps.

"Evenin', father," he exclaimed. "Here's Mr. Walker, who's going to stop the night with us."

"I wish ye good evenin'," said the planter. His accent was a curious mixture of rough Scotch implanted on a Southern drawl.

"Evenin', seh," replied the guest. He swung from his horse with a lithe grace. The elder Gordon's eyes passed from him to his son's mount.

"Donald, lad," he said, "where got ye that horse with the U.S. brand to him?"

The young man's florid face flushed under its tan.

"I bought him in Nashville, seh."

"Indeed? And how long, think ye, has the Government been in the stock business?" He shook his head doubtfully.

Donald and his guest exchanged glances. As an old negro led the horses off, the planter saw that both bore a Government brand.

Walker spoke up, a trifle aggressively:

"I've been a Union man right along, Mr. Gordon, but it ain't saved me nary hoof on my farm so far. The Yankees haven't left stock enough on this Tennessee Ridge to breed from!"

"I'm fearin' there's enough left to mak' trouble," replied the planter shortly.

Walker scowled. He was a tall, fine-looking man, if one passed over the somewhat sinister face and the long, drooping mustache that failed to hide a cruel and sensual mouth. His eye was keen and fearless, and his tawny hair fell in clustering curls about his straight, sunburned neck.

"I declare, Mr. Gordon, I'm beginnin' to change my views about the rights of this yeah war. If I can make a dollar out o' the Government I'm goin' to do it, jes' to even up."

Gordon seemed about to make a sharp reply, but checked himself. He courteously asked his guest to be seated while his son went into the house to fetch refreshment.

"We are forced to wait on ourselves, Mr. Walker," he observed. "Most of our blacks have left us."

Walker scowled. "My negras hev tried to leave from time to time," he said, "but so far I hev cot them an' fetched 'em back again. A good dose of black-snake whip is shore to be a fine tonic for discontented negras!"

Gordon made no reply, and for a moment both men looked out across the peaceful prospect, where it was hard to believe the gaunt form of famine already strode. From where they sat they saw a vista of growing grain fields, and, dotting a distant swale, the evenly distanced specks that marked an orchard of tender years. All seemed peace and the promise of plenty, yet something was needed; something was gone. The silence was too absolute; the stillness had a note of death. No crow of cock nor cackle of poultry marred the evening quiet. One missed the lowing of cattle, the squealing of swine, and the shouts of the field hands as they drove in the mules.

At the far end of the veranda lay an old hound with a deep-lined, thoughtful face. All at once he heaved himself upon his feet and paced slowly to the head of the steps, where for a moment he stood, nose in air, nostrils twitching, and ears alert.

"What is it, Trumpet?" asked Gordon.

A deep growl rumbled up from the dog's throat. He slipped down the steps, and, laying his nose to the ground, racked off toward the gate. On the turnpike he paused, sniffed the road, then raised his head, and a clarion note rang through the evening stillness and came echoing back from the adjoining woods.

"Listen!" said Gordon, raising a warning hand.

From far down the valley came a swelling chorus of sound; deep-toned rumblings borne on a muffled thunder which seemed to rise from the ground beneath them. A fresh breath of the wind brought faint cries, then the bellowings rose in crescendo, and died away again.

"What's that?" cried Gordon, starting up.

Walker's face had lost a bit of its swarthy color, and the lines about his mouth hardened.

"I'll tell you what it is. That's shore to be a cattle train; a thousand head of prime steers from Danville, Kentucky, on its way to Nashville to feed Sherman's army!" He picked up his hat, paused a moment, then turned to Gordon with a cunning look;

"This is our chance, Mr. Gordon. Theah's many a one of those steers that can't stand the pace; and they bring $200 in gold, brand or no brand!"

Gordon's heavy brows dropped lower.

"But, man, ye can't traffic in Government property. Are ye no loyal? Are ye no for the Union?"

"I'm for myself jes' now, Mr. Gordon; and I reckon you'll be, before you get through. I'll be going along."

Gordon started to speak, then checked himself, scowling angrily. Walker ran down the steps and started for the barn, but before he had gone a dozen steps there came the crash of many hoofs, and a troop of horsemen came down the road at a brisk canter. At their head rode a captain of United States cavalry, and beside him a young man in a nondescript uniform between that of a cowboy and trooper. Behind rode twenty troopers in columns of fours.

A sharp order was given and they drew rein at the gate. The man riding with the officer swung from his saddle and approached the house.

"Mr. Gordon?" he asked with a salute.

"At your service, sir," replied the planter.

As the younger man was about to speak there came a clatter of hoofs from the barn, and Walker dashed for the gate at the far end of the drive.

"Halt!" cried the captain; then to his sergeant: "Stop that man!"

Twenty carbines flew up, and the first squad sprang forward.

"Halt!" yelled the sergeant in the lead.

Walker had a start of forty yards, but the range was too close. With an oath he pulled his horse back on his haunches and sat eying his captors sullenly.

"Dismount, sir!" ordered the captain curtly.

"Captain, I protest. I am a Union man, sir."

"Dismount!" The order was sulkily obeyed.

"Sergeant, is that horse branded?—Yes? Where did you get that horse?"

"I bought him over on the Kentucky side. I can show you my receipt."

"It is worthless. Government horses are not negotiable. Sergeant, give the gentleman his saddle and bridle. Why were you trying to escape?"

"I was not. I heard your cattle coming up the valley, and I was ridin' home to station men where my fences were down."

"Indeed. Where did you get that revolver?"

"I bought it in Nashville," snarled Walker.

"Sergeant, take the gentleman's revolver. Now, sir, please remember what I have told you about United States property not being a legitimate purchase. That is all, sir. Sergeant, deploy your men over the premises and seize anything bearing a Government brand."

Walker strode fuming down the road. Gordon, who had watched the incident in silence, turned to the man before him.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"Mr. Gordon, I am Mr. Arnold, Deputy Quartermaster, United States Army. I have about a thousand head of cattle coming up the road, for which I must provide forage for the night."

Gordon's face darkened, and he shook his head.

"I am a Union man, sir," he answered, "but I cannot provide for your stock. We are stripped clean of everything; in fact, I have hardly grain enough to feed my household. I would put my grazing land at your disposal, but the fences would never hold those steers of yours away from my grain fields."

"I am sorry, Mr. Gordon, but my cattle must be fed. They are dropping along the road from weakness now. I am authorized to pay you for their forage, and I will do my best to protect your planted land."

"Thank ye kindly," replied Gordon. "And how much does the Government allow per head, might I make bold to ask?"

The deputy quartermaster flushed. "Five cents is the outside limit, but you can put in your claim"

"Can I, now?" interrupted the planter sarcastically. "That'll be $50 for the lot. Man, those hungry beasties would eat up my farm, fences and all. Look at yon fields; crops half grown, and a fruit orchard that will bear this year for the first time. How long, think ye, would those wastrels o' yours hold that herd in check? It's simply reedic'lous!"

"I am sorry, Mr. Gordon, but this is a military necessity. The army has got to be fed, farm or no farm."

Gordon's cold gray eyes blazed with anger.

"I wull not permit it, sir!" he thundered. "If you turn those cattle into my farm you do it under my direct protest. I wull not tak' a cent. If this Government of ours weeshes to ruin its loyal citizens, then go ahead!"

He turned on his heel and strode into the house. In the meantime the sergeant had searched the outbuildings and seized his son's horse, which was being led away despite the bitter protests of the younger Gordon.

The swelling chorus from the valley rose higher, and soon the head of the column appeared over the brow of the hill, accompanied by a pandemonium of bellowing and shouting, the pistol-like crack of the savage herders' whips and their clamorous cursings mingled with the ravenous cries of the steers. Now and again a half-wild brute, its great eyes glaring bloodshot through a thick mantle of dust, maddened at the sight of fresh fields that flanked the road, would lunge against the zigzag fence, throwing the heavy rails like straws to right and left, and only checked in its frenzied rush for food by a massed attack of the herders. Beaten and buffeted with butt and lash the crazed steer would back away, shaking its branching horns, and finally stagger into the road, moaning pitifully.

Half a mile from the house the head herder rode up to Arnold. The man was beside himself from his frantic efforts to hold the cattle in check. His hat was gone, trodden to fragments under countless hoofs; his matted hair hung tangled over his dripping face. His temper had gone, and with it his small sense of discipline. He blurted out an oath.

"How much longer hev we-all got ter keep these infernal critters on the move? Yere's forage a-plenty!"

Arnold looked sadly at the verdant promise of the smiling fields, then at the herd, and realized the utter futility of any effort to save the crop.

"Turn 'em in!"

Turn them in they did. The stout fences wilted like straws before a flood. Under the rolling waves of dust that overhung them like a lurid cloud there poured a seething mass of tossing backs and slashing horns. Some stumbled and fell, others poured over them; the earth trembled as if from the shock of an avalanche.

The fresh green of the fields grew brown before the eye. They reached with eager mouths for the tender shoots, browsed on the fresh foliage and succulent twigs of the youthful orchard, eating some of the trees almost to the ground. What they did not eat they trod into the mire. In four hours the farm was barren as Sahara.

Up at the house the two Gordons had locked themselves in, declining any communication with the weary men whom the fortunes of war had forced into what they could not but themselves admit seemed a crying injustice. At sunset it began to rain, and such as could be spared from the herd assembled gloomily in the barn, where they dejectedly munched their cold, scant rations, then rolled themselves in their blankets and slept.

At daybreak the unwieldy cavalcade was once more put in motion, the great steers lumbering heavily into the road, still weary, for many had fed the night through without lying down to rest. As they filed away down the road the head herdsman approached the deputy quartermaster:

"Mr. Arnold, they's a dozen head o' them critters ain't fittin' to travel nohow." He looked aslant at Arnold, and his coarse voice assumed a wheedling tone. "Mr. Walkeh was 'raoun' ter see me this mawnin', an' he allowed ter give fifty dollars gold a head fer them pore, wore-out, dyin' critters."

"Well?"

The man tore off a piece of tobacco in his yellow teeth and affected an air of casualty.

"I tole him I reckoned it 'ud be all right, an' he'd best see you."

"You did, hey? You mean you told him it would be all right, and he thought he'd best see me! Now I'll tell you something. Those steers don't belong to me and they don't belong to you, and if they can't travel they'll be boarded out at the Government expense until they're sent for. I think I've said something like this to you before, and if I ever have to say it again I'll march you down this pike in irons to the nearest guardhouse! D'ye see? Now get along with you and chase those steers out onto the pike. Your business is to drive 'em—not to sell 'em!"

Arnold tried to see Kenneth Gordon to arrange for the care of the worn-out cattle, but the farmer would not speak with him. He then gave orders that the jaded brutes be driven on with the others until they dropped.

Late in the afternoon Arnold was riding on ahead in search of forage for the coming night. With him were the captain and four troopers. The rest were detailed as herders.

A shot rang out above their heads and a bullet passed through the captain's hat. They dismounted quickly, and, slipping into the bushes, climbed up the mountain side stealthily, as men might stalk a buck, but the wary game had disappeared.

The futile quest abandoned, they returned to their horses. As they remounted, the captain turned to Arnold:

"What was that for?"

"That," said Arnold dryly, "was the receipt for one cavalry horse and one United States Army Colt revolver."

"How about the farm that you fed on?"

Arnold shook his head. "If I am any judge of human nature, that had nothing to do with it. Gordon is a different type of man. If he had wanted personal revenge he would have taken it across his doorsill and a troop of cavalry would not have stopped him. We have made him an enemy to the Union, perhaps, but he will look for satisfaction through the Federal courts. This Walker is different; he is what we call, down here, a guerrilla, and is neither for North or South but strictly for himself. There are a good many of his sort through these mountains. Most of them are rich planters owning a great many slaves, and during the present unsettled state of affairs they take the road like the feudal barons or robber knights of old."

The captain, who was new to this especial detail, whistled softly. He broke a black-birch twig from an overhanging bough and for a few moments chewed it thoughtfully and in silence. Presently he turned to Arnold:

"I don't much envy you the job of taking this outfit back over this ridge with about ten thousand dollars gold in the place of your cavalry escort. You must be fairly unpopular by this time, if to-day was a sample of your usual methods," he observed.

Arnold smiled. "It isn't often quite as bad as that, still, I'm not as well liked as I'd wish to be. However, I guess I'll be safe enough. The Government has provided an antidote for the bile of these Tennessee Ridge rattlesnakes. I'll show you something in a little while that not many people know about."

About an hour later they came to a crossroad which cut the turnpike at right angles.

"Tell your men to wait here," said Arnold, "and ride down this road a piece with me."

The captain gave the order, and he and Arnold rode quietly into the heart of the woods. Before long they struck a footpath, down which Arnold turned, the captain following, and shortly they saw through the tangle of vines and foliage a small log cabin.

Arnold stopped short and whistled thrice.

There was a rustle in the leaves behind them, and there emerged a gaunt, bearded man who bore a long Kentucky rifle.

"Mawnin', cap'," he said laconically.

"How are you, Saunders?" replied the deputy.

"Tol'ble t' middlin'."

"Saunders, I'm coming back over the ridge in a few days without my escort. I'll let you know when I start, so just scatter the boys out along the road."

"M'hm."

Arnold reached in his saddlebags and handed the mountaineer a small packet.

"Here's some army plug for you."

"M'hm."

"Well, good evening."

"Evenin'."

The horsemen headed back for the turnpike, the captain marveling in silence.

"Who is that fellow?" he asked presently.

"That man is not much to look at, but he represents one of the most efficient corps in the pay of the United States. He is a Kentucky mountaineer, and is one of a good many who have been sent down here and scattered through the woods to neutralize the guerrillas. He's a 'pore white,' and he hates these rich planters, who consider him beneath a negro, more than a Johnny reb hates a Yank. He is called a bushwhacker."

The captain looked skeptical. "Just the same, I'd hate to bank much with a crowd like that. They've got no organization."

"Haven't they, though?" cried Arnold warmly. "Don't you make any mistake about that, captain. Of course, I suppose you army people think that there can't be organization without brass buttons and gold lace; but how about the Highlanders under Bruce, and William Tell's Swiss, Robin Hood's outfit, and Roderick Dhu's band of mountaineers? Or, for that matter, there were the Texas Rangers in the Mexican War. I'll bet that man Saunders knows now who shot that hole in your hat and where to find the man when he wants him. By this time to-morrow the grapevine telegraph will have passed the word through these hills, and any son of a gun of a guerrilla who rides down the big road to meet me when I come back will have to pass more than one rifle that doesn't miss. Well, it's getting late. Let's push along."

A week later a small cavalcade wound up through the woods that clothed the summit of the Tennessee Ridge. They rode in silent watchfulness, each man alert, carbines unslung, revolvers loose in holsters, keen eyes searching glen and thicket, ears sharpened to catch the jar of hoof or the snap of twig.

It was a small band, less than a score in number, not one man of which wore the insignia or carried the commission of his flag.

Their names did not go down on the honor rolls of patriots. Their dangerous service over, no honorable discharge was awarded them. They were paid their wage and told that they might go. These were civilians, and their mission was to feed the army.

They were nearing the dead line, the critical part of their route where nature had connived to form a trap for the unwary. Below them yawned the gorge; above, the inaccessible flank of the mountain. They did not know what dangers lay ahead or what foes prowled stealthily upon their track. Yet few as they were, they did not mean to give their lives away.

The ravine darkened and the foliage met above their heads. The woods were strangely still. At the right a squirrel broke into a scolding chatter, and at the sound each man started; grasp on weapons tightened.

Suddenly the leader paused, motioning silence.

Beyond a bend rang sharply the clank of iron on stone. There followed the muffled shock of many hoofs. Quickly around the turn of the road swept fifty horsemen, glittering with hate and weapons.

These were the guerrillas.

The leader of the band threw back his tawny locks, and, swinging in his saddle, yelled to the others:

"Yeah they are, boys! Kill the Yankees!"

The little band of civilian employees slipped from their horses, aiming across the saddles. A pistol barked, and one of their beasts leaped.

Then from the screen of bushes that flanked the mountain side there peered a bristling array of long brown barrels, with here and there an unkempt bearded face. A yell of dismay arose from the guerrillas. Savage as trapped wildcats and led by their daring leader, they spurred straight for the thicket.

Flashes leaped from the green clusters of laurel, and at every flash a saddle was emptied. An instant they paused, then wheeled, wilted into confusion. Turning in their tracks, they dashed back whence they came, and at every bound another horse ran riderless.

From the bushes slipped the tall, gaunt mountaineers and fell silently in beside the little company which they had saved.

"Good evening, Saunders," said Arnold. "You boys were just in time."

"Ca'lated ter be."