Missouri Boys: The War Years

Prologue

On the banks of the Missouri River, the Missouri side, after the close of the War Between the States, the Civil War, a Union soldier stirs a sizzling mix of pork-rind and grits over a small rock ringed fire.

From a slit in the rock cliff, up on the hillside, a confederate kepi hat appears. A young man scrutinizes the intruder below and surrounding terrain. He watches as the soldier adjusts his holstered army pistol and smooths out wrinkles on his blue uniform.

The Union scout lifts a U.S. Calvary cap. Reddish hair tumbles down and mingles with eyebrows and eyelashes of the same color. Rolling green eyes upward, annoyed at the hair, a puff sends it flying, revealing a pumpkin-shaped face with freckles. Before his locks can alight again, the cap pops back on and sets firmly between oversized ears.

“Dang! They sent Ethan Robertson.” The rock dweller brushes off pants strapped by a gun belt. Been a year of Sundays since wearing them to church, and the wear and tear of living in the canyon shows. As cautious as a prairie dog, the desperado surveys for any sign of Cavalry, while tucking in a ruffled dress shirt, now soiled and ripped. Stretching suspenders and adjusting a once-colorful bandana gives him time to review options. Latching the last remaining button on tattered suit jacket and stiffening up an aching body, the wanted man notes Ethan stands alone tending the fire.

Ethan nudges the fire embers with his riding boot which ignites the flames under a coffee pot, and the aroma of cooking food permeates the rocky hillside above.

The hunted man scans the riverbank one last time for any apparent backup. Pulling off his gray Confederate Army cap, the ex-Reb shakes it and fans away dust. Pausing a moment, fingers groom lengthy, black hair, and try to settle the gray kepi. The cover floats on top of thick curls keeping it from achieving a tight fit. Cocking his pistol in his right hand, the Grayback finds secure footing on the stony hillside for shredded boots and clambers down.

Ethan’s horse whinnies. Alerted, the Union soldier slips his pistol out of its holster, cocks it, holds the gun down alongside his leg, and mumbles in a slow Southern style, “smarter ta’ lure a skunk out of his hole, than to shimmy in after ’im.” The scout assumes a shooting stance and keeps an eye on the wanted man’s descent, judging the adversary’s intent.

As the fugitive holds his gun down as well, Ethan surmises a peaceful disposition. Confident,

Ethan drawls, “Howdy, Dalton,” and beams the same happy smile as when he was a youngster meeting up with his boyhood pal. However, in the years since last seeing each other, Ethan’s smile reveals chipped, missing, and tobacco-yellowed teeth.

“Hey, Ethan, ain’t that the goodest smellin’ grub this here side of the Mississip’.” Greeting his old friend as if they’d never parted, Dalton waves his left hand, the one not holding the gun, and sings out, “Yessiree, ’bout as hungry as a b’ar in the spring.” Straight white teeth, except for a small chip on the front right one, flash Ethan a return smile.

Cautious, but not yielding, the Yank nods towards the food, and answers in a non-threatening and somewhat sad tone, “Ain’t nothin’ but grits and hog rind. Have yarself a swallow.”

Letting hunger override caution, the ravenous man holsters his pistol, picks up a tin plate, on which he heaps hot food, and sits on a log. Dalton displaying difficulty using his left hand to eat while the right one rests on the pistol does not go unnoticed.

Holstering his pistol, the Union Scout pours his old friend a cup of coffee as a peace gesture.

Relieved, the diner removes his right hand from over the pistol, reaches for the coffee cup, and focuses blue eyes on his old friend. The Bluebelly puts the pot back on the heat, secures an ember from the flames, props himself on a tree stump, and lights his pipe. The ex-Confederate places his cup down, picks up the plate, and eats, thoughtful not to make any sudden moves. After devouring the food, the renegade chews for a moment, swallows, lifts his cup for another sip, and nods up in the direction of the hill. “Ya know … t’was up thar’ … you, me, exploring that thar’ rock canyon, and finding that old cache of weapons. Didn’t we have a kick?”

On the banks of the Missouri River, the Missouri side, after the close of the War Between the States, the Civil War, a Union soldier stirs a sizzling mix of pork-rind and grits over a small rock ringed fire.After adjusting the weight of the holstered army pistol wrapping his US Cavalry uniform, and smoothing out wrinkles, the Union scout lifts a blue kepi cap. Reddish hair tumbles down and mingles with eyebrows and eyelashes of the same color. Rolling green eyes upward, annoyed at the hair, a puff sends it flying, revealing a pumpkin-shaped face with freckles. Before his locks can alight again, the cap pops back on and sets firmly between oversized ears. Nudging the fire embers with his riding boot ignites the flames under a coffee pot, and the aroma of cooking food permeates the rocky hillside above.

A cluster of bushes on the hillside jiggle, twist, and a head appears. A young man scrutinizes the Union scout and surrounding terrain below before emerging from a small crevice in the rocks. “Dang! They sent Ethan Robertson.”

The dweller brushes off pants strapped by a gun belt. Been a year of Sundays since wearing them to church, and the wear and tear of living in the canyon shows. As cautious as a prairie dog, the desperado surveys for any sign of Cavalry, while tucking in a ruffled dress shirt, now soiled and ripped. Stretching suspenders and adjusting a once-colorful bandana gives him time to review options. Latching the last remaining button on tattered suit jacket and stiffening up an aching body, the wanted man notes Ethan stands alone tending the fire. The outlaw scans the riverbank one last time for any apparent backup. Pulling off his gray Confederate Army cap, the ex-Reb shakes it and fans away dust. Pausing a moment, fingers groom lengthy, black hair, and try to settle the gray kepi. The cover floats on top of thick curls keeping it from achieving a tight fit. Cocking his pistol in his right hand, the Grayback finds secure footing on the stony hillside for shredded boots and clambers down.

Ethan’s horse whinnies. Alerted, the Union soldier slips his pistol out of its holster, cocks it, holds the gun down alongside his leg, and mumbles in a slow Southern style, “smarter ta’ lure a skunk out of his hole, than to shimmy in after ’im.” The scout assumes a shooting stance and keeps an eye on the man’s descent, judging the adversary’s intent.

As the fugitive holds his gun down as well, Ethan surmises a peaceful disposition. Confident,

Ethan drawls, “Howdy, Dalton,” and beams the same happy smile as when he was a youngster meeting up with his boyhood pal. However, in the years since last seeing each other, Ethan’s smile reveals chipped, missing, and tobacco-yellowed teeth.

“Hey, Ethan, ain’t that the goodest smellin’ grub this here side of the Mississip’.” Greeting his old friend as if they’d never parted, Dalton waves his left hand, the one not holding the gun, and sings out, “Yessiree, ’bout as hungry as a b’ar in the spring.” Straight white teeth, except for a small chip on the front right one, flash Ethan a return smile.

Cautious, but not yielding, the Yank nods towards the food, and answers in a non-threatening and somewhat sad tone, “Ain’t nothin’ but grits and hog rind. Have yarself a swallow.”

Letting hunger override caution, the ravenous man holsters his pistol, picks up a tin plate, on which he heaps hot food, and sits on a log. Dalton displaying difficulty using his left hand to eat while the right one rests on the pistol does not go unnoticed.

Holstering his pistol, the Union Scout pours his old friend a cup of coffee as a peace gesture.

Relieved, the diner removes his right hand from over the pistol, reaches for the coffee cup, and focuses blue eyes on his old friend. The Bluebelly puts the pot back on the heat, secures an ember from the flames, props himself on a tree stump, and lights his pipe. The ex-Confederate places his cup down, picks up the plate, and eats, thoughtful not to make any sudden moves. After devouring the food, the renegade chews for a moment, swallows, lifts his cup for another sip, and nods up in the direction of the hill. “Ya know … t’was up thar’ … you, me, exploring that thar’ rock canyon, and finding that old cache of weapons. Didn’t we have a kick?”