The Guerilla Hunter

He found Mr. Phelps weeding his small cornfield and rode to the edge of the field. Mr. Phelps saw him, picked up his hoe, and walked over.

"Morning Howard. It's good to see you made it back from the war in one piece. Heard about your ma and pa. I'm real sorry that happened. If I'da known I'da gone and helped bury 'em, but I don't hear much way up here and since the church burned down, we ain't had no Sunday services so I can catch up on what's happening. Only way I found out was when Oscar Riley come up and asked if I'd trade him a couple hens for half a bushel of corn. Oscar and his wife was out in the woods pickin' berries when that bunch rode through. Tore up their place pretty bad and killed their whole flock."

Howard said he hadn't heard that but they were lucky they hadn't been at home.

Mr. Phelps nodded.

"Yes, God was a lookin' out for 'em that day. What can I do for you?"

Howard pointed to Mike and Joe.

"They didn't get pa's horses either and I'd like to trade them and the harness to you for that bay gelding and a saddle. Mike and Joe are just eight-year-olds and they got a lot of work left in 'em once they get fattened back up. Your two look quite a bit older."

Mr. Phelps frowned.

"Boy, how you gonna farm without them horses? That gelding rides pretty good, but he can't pull a plow."

Howard's face became a grim mask of determination.

"I'm not going to farm. I'm going to find the guerillas who killed my ma and pa and take 'em to hang for what they did."

Mr. Phelps shook his head.

"They say the war's over, but I reckon it really ain't gonna be 'til the folks that started it all die off. Can't say as I blame you, Howard. If I was younger and my ma and pa got killed, I'd probably think the same way. I'll take your horses but I ain't tradin' you for em. I'm borrowin' 'em from you, and you're borrowin' Daley from me. When you get done what you have to do, you come on back and we'll trade back.

"Daley was born right here to a mare that's a cow horse and I trained him myself. He's smart just like she is and he's fast. He oughta do you good. I'll let you have my best saddle and bridle for him. Just kept it around because I liked how it sits. Got that saddle when I was a young feller workin' stock in Texas. It don't sit so good now that I'm getting' older."

Howard rode Daley back to the farm, rolled up his bedroll, and tied it and his haversack behind Daley's saddle. After putting the Remington on his belt and hanging the Spencer from the saddle horn, Howard had a last look at the farm, then turned and rode back toward Posey Hollow.

The trail was over six months old, so there was no sense in trying to track the guerillas. Howard didn't think he needed to anyway. The key to his search was the man Mason said had called himself "Red". That had to be William O'Malley, a name Howard knew well.

William "Red" O'Malley was a native of Missouri, but his family had come from Ireland and had farmed in Southern Missouri with slaves. He got the name "Red" from his long, red, hair and beard. When the Union had occupied the area around the O'Malley farm, they burned everything and freed the slaves. William wasn't home at the time, so he survived. His mother, father, and younger sister did not.

As soon as he returned and saw what had happened, William sought out and joined Quantrill's band of guerilla fighters. When Quantrill was killed William joined the band led by George Todd. Todd was also killed later that same year, so William and a few of the original Quantrill's Raiders -- the last count was six - struck out on their own. They roamed from Arkansas to Kansas until fall, and then rode to Texas where they continued to raid farms and small towns. William O'Malley's group was a prime target for the First Arkansas at the end of the war, and Howard had been on three expeditions to bring him to justice.

During those three expeditions, the First Arkansas had found where O'Malley's bunch had raided a small town for supplies and they'd found where the group had camped for a few days, but O'Malley seemed to always be a couple days ahead of them.

The reason became known after a private of the First Arkansas named Blake was seen talking to a woman one night when he was on picket duty at the main encampment of the First Arkansas. They were seen by the sergeant in charge of the picket who sent two men to stop the woman and bring her back to the encampment.

Upon being questioned, the woman, Sally Blake, proudly confessed to being the wife of one of O'Malley's guerillas, and also said Private Blake was her brother. Private Blake was questioned at length and admitted he'd been telling the woman of the plans of the First Arkansas. She in turn had been warning O'Malley through meetings with her husband. She was also the conduit through which the men of O'Malley's group received letters from family and returned those letters.

The woman was arrested, convicted of being a guerilla and sent to the women's prison in Kansas City. Private Blake was not so lucky. He was questioned over the next several days and revealed that the woman had told him of several places where O'Malley took his guerilla band between raids. He was then convicted of being a Confederate spy and executed.

As part of Howard's official duties, he'd noted all those locations on his map, the same map he was now following.

Hunting guerillas was a little like hunting turkeys. It was useless to go roaming around in hopes of finding a turkey. Turkeys had good eyesight and hearing, and would just scatter before the hunter could get close enough for a shot. The only way to hunt turkeys was to find a place turkeys were known to feed, then hide and wait for the turkey flock to come to the hunter. This was the method Howard intended to use to hunt the guerillas.

As he rode through small towns, he always asked the people if they'd heard of a guerilla raid. By that time, the guerilla bands weren't bypassing much of anybody who had anything they wanted, Union sympathizer or not. Most people were tired of war, were having to start over, and just wanted to return to a normal life, so they told him what they knew. Little by little, Howard was getting a picture of the route O'Malley was taking.

Howard knew there were still Union troops in Kansas, so O'Malley wouldn't venture far into that state. Instead, he'd turn around and start back through Missouri.

A month later, in the small town of Drexel, Missouri, Howard learned there had been a guerilla raid on several small farms north of town and that when last seen, the band was riding west. That would put O'Malley probably in Kansas, but that would be to throw anyone hunting him off his trail. O'Malley had played that trick before and Howard figured he'd soon turn back into Missouri. On his map, Howard had a spot marked near Archie, Missouri. The spot was in a thick grove of trees that bordered a small river, and there were no roads that went past the place.

Howard had been there a year before with the First Arkansas, and had scouted the place with two of his men. They found a small pole corral around some trees for horses and the remains of a campfire. Howard had cautioned them not to touch anything, and they'd backed out of the campsite. The guerillas wouldn't know they'd been there, and would probably return.

It was to a hill overlooking the campsite that Howard rode. He took the saddle and bridle off Daley and hobbled him, then worked his way down the other side of the hill until he found a downed tree that gave him a hiding place and a clear view of the clearing inside the trees. Then he waited.

After two days, he watched a lone horseman slowly riding beside the river. His head was swiveling from side to side, and Howard knew this man was the scout. Just as any military unit would do, the guerilla leader would send one man ahead to watch for anyone lying in wait. If there were Union troops or a guerilla group that supported the Union waiting, it was likely the scout would be killed. If they heard shots and the scout didn't return, the group would ride on to another place. If the scout rode back to the main group and told them it was safe to continue, they'd camp there for a few days until their food ran out.

Howard waited patiently until the man entered the clearing, then came back out and rode off in the direction from which he'd come. Half an hour later, he watched as six men on horses walked beside the river and then into the clearing. He smiled when he saw the red beard on the man in front. This was the same group that had done the damage in Posey Hollow.

Howard's intention was to let the men eat and then go to sleep. In the darkness, he'd make his way to the camp, wake them up at gunpoint and arrest them, tie them up, and in the morning, tie them to their horses and take them to Kansas City for trial. Unfortunately for him, when he made his way to the camp that night, he saw all but one of the six were lying in their bedrolls. The last man was sitting by the fire with a rifle and watching the opening into the clearing.

Howard eased the hammer back on the Spencer as quietly as he could, and though the metallic click seemed to him to be very loud, the man by the fire didn't seem to hear it. He just shifted position, scratched his arm, and continued watching. He didn't move again until Howard stood up beside a massive maple tree and quietly said, "Put that rifle on the ground and stand up or I'll shoot you."

The man quickly wheeled and pointed his rifle in the direction of Howard's voice. Howard ducked back behind the tree just before the bullet grazed the tree and showered him with bark. Then, he stepped to the side enough to aim the Spencer and pulled the trigger. The man by the fire fell to the ground.

The sound of the first shot had brought the other five out of their bedrolls and when they saw the flash of fire from Howard's Spencer, they began shooting in that direction. As the bullets thudded into the tree or broke the branches of the undergrowth, Howard levered another cartridge into the Spencer, cocked the hammer and stepped to the other side of the tree. Before the men could adjust their aim, Howard put three more on the ground, then ducked back behind the tree.

There were two men left. Those two men had been firing blindly at the side of the tree where he'd shot the three, so Howard crouched down and moved back to the other side and pulled the Remington from the holster, then aimed at the flash from one of the rifles. That man went down and rolled on the ground clutching his shoulder. The other ran for the makeshift corral.

Howard ran into the clearing with the Remington cocked, but he was too late. He did fire as the man jumped the horse over the poles that formed the corral, but the man didn't stop. In seconds, the blackness of the night had swallowed him up. Howard went back to the fire to see if any of the men were still alive. He found them all dead except for the last man he'd shot.

In the light of the fire, Howard couldn't see very well, so he assumed his bullet had just hit the man in the shoulder. At least he'd have one he could take to Kansas City, and maybe he could get some information from him. He approached the man with his Remington still pointed at him.

"What's your name?"

The man groaned, "Jacob Meyers. Who the hell are you and why did you kill me?"

Howard smiled.

"I'm Howard Barlow from Posey Hollow in Arkansas and you aren't dead yet. You remember Posey Hollow don't you? That's where you and your bunch killed ten people and burned the church. My ma and pa were two of those people, so what you deserve is to be shot dead, but I'm not gonna do that. I intend to keep you alive to stand trial in Kansas City."

Howard saw the man's scowl in the light of the fire.

"Yeah, we took care of them goddamned Unionists. Shoulda got more of 'em but Red said we had enough food and wanted to move on to Missouri."

Howard stepped closer to the man.

"Well, you're all done with robbin' and killin' people who didn't do anything to you, all except one. What's his name and where do you suppose he's headed?"

"You can go to hell", spat the man. "I ain't telling you nothin' more."

Howard's voice was quiet but firm.

"Then you can sit there until you bleed to death. Won't matter to me. If you're dead, I won't have to take you to Kansas City. Now, who's the man that got away and where is he going?"

The man looked up at him.

"You won't do that. You're wearin' a Union uniform and the Union troops were all told to take guerillas prisoner, not kill them or let them die."

Howard chuckled.

"Well, that's true. I'm wearing the uniform of the First Arkansas Cavalry, but the thing is, don't you know, the First Arkansas was mustered out over two months ago. I don't think I'm bound by any orders I got before that. You gonna sit there and bleed to death or are you gonna tell me what I want to know?"

The man didn't say anything for a while. He was trying to figure out if Howard was lying or not. His shoulder didn't hurt all that bad, not like when he'd been shot before, but Howard seemed pretty serious. He decided he'd better talk until he could get Howard close enough.

"All right, but you gotta promise to tell the Union I told you."

Howard nodded.

"I'll tell them. Won't do you much good, but they might put you in prison instead of hanging you. You tell me and then I'll fix you so you don't bleed to death."

The man groaned when he tried to straighten up, and then coughed and slouched back down.

"His name is Connor Burns and he's probably headed to Texas. Got a sister there in some little town, Seely I think it was. Now, this shoulder is hurtin' real bad. There's some whiskey in that sack over there by Nate. Can I have a drink?"

Howard walked to the sack and felt inside it for the bottle, then pulled it out and walked back to the man. He seemed to be a little straighter than before, so Howard kept his Remington on the man as he handed him the bottle.

The man frowned and said, "Mister, I can't pull the cork with only one hand. You pull it for me."

Howard lifted the bottle, put the cork between his teeth and pulled. When the cork came free, he leaned down and handed the man the bottle. He almost missed the flash of the large knife as the man swung it at his hand holding the Remington. Howard jerked his hand back, then pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit the man in the chest. He dropped the knife, coughed up some blood, and then fell over on his back. Howard saw the man's arm move a little before it fell to his side. The man took one final breath that slowly gurgled back out when his chest relaxed. Howard didn't have to check to know the man was dead. He' heard that sound too many times before.

Howard fed the campfire until daylight and watched the other four men for any signs of life, but he hadn't expected them to show any. The.50 caliber minié ball from the Spencer left a huge wound in a man, and he'd hit them all somewhere in the chest.

When there was enough daylight to see the men, Howard looked at them all. He found William "Red" O'Malley staring up at the trees with dead eyes. The other four were the same as was the man who said he was Jacob Meyers.

Howard searched the camp for a shovel because he didn't have one, but he found nothing he could use to bury the men. Then, he searched each man and each man's horse and anything else he was carrying. What he was looking for was some way of verifying what Jacob had told him about the man who'd escaped.

He found nothing in the saddlebags of the horses except some powder, balls, and caps for the revolvers the men all carried. He kept the power and caps and any balls that would fit his revolver, then unsaddled the horses and chased them out of the corral. Leading horses would just make noise and slow him down, and the local people could probably use a horse. Between the Union and the Confederacy, the armies had taken most of the horses of usable age and condition. The rest, they'd killed and eaten.

The men had been traveling light which explained a lot of their raids. They were searching for food as well as finding Union sympathizers. Howard didn't find anything except some jerky, some hardtack, a couple more bottles of whiskey and a few extra sets of clothing until he came to the last canvas sack. It was lying beside the bedroll with no body next to it, so it probably belonged to Connor Burns if that was his real name.

In that sack, Howard found three letters from an Abigail June Rector. When he read each letter, Howard could feel the emotions of the woman. She wrote pleading for her brother, the man she called Isaac, to stop riding with the guerillas and come home. Abigail was terrified that Isaac would be killed and she'd never see him again. Each letter was signed, "Your sister, Abigail, Shelby, Texas", with a date.

So, Jacob had lied to him, but that wasn't a huge surprise, not when Jacob had tried to kill him. Howard believed the letters though. He'd ride to Shelby, Texas, find Abigail, and convince her to tell him where Isaac was hiding.

Howard piled all the saddles and other equipment except for the jerky and hardtack on the fire and waited until the fire burned everything down to ashes. He didn't want to leave anything another band of guerillas might find and use. Then, he covered each body with their bedrolls and walked back up the hill to find Daley.

An hour later, he was headed west, except now, he wasn't wearing a Union uniform. Texas had been staunchly Confederate and he was pretty sure they wouldn't appreciate any man in a Union uniform riding through a town. Instead, he was dressed in the trousers and shirt he found in one of the guerilla's sacks. The shirt wasn't decorated like the shirt Red had died in. It was just a plain, man's shirt. Howard would be able to pass as just another man riding along looking for work like thousands of other former soldiers.

It took another week of riding to reach Shelby, Texas, a week of riding through farms that were growing up in weeds because there'd been no men to plow and plant them. The few houses and barns he saw on the way were either deserted or had women working in gardens. He didn't stop at any of them. He was looking for Isaac and that was all that mattered to him.

When he rode into Shelby, he stopped by the general store for information. If there was an Abigail June Rector living in Shelby, the owner or clerk of the general store would know it. When he walked inside, the man behind the counter smiled.

"Mornin' mister. What can I do for you today?"

Howard smiled back.

"I'm on my way to Nacogdoches to see if I can find work and I ate the last of my jerky two days ago. I thought you might have some, maybe some hardtack too."

The man frowned and shook his head.

"Sorry mister. Supplies are hard to come by anymore. I'm having to buy what I can find from the local women who kept the farms running while their men were away. I did get two sides of bacon in this morning. I can let you have half of one...if you've got gold coins that is."

Howard dug into his pocket and pulled out one of the five dollar coins from what he had left of his Union pay. He laid it on the counter and said, "I'll take as much as this will buy."

The storekeeper sliced off about a quarter of a side of bacon, wrapped it in brown paper and handed it to Howard.

"Anything else I can do for you? I got plenty of barley coffee."

Howard shook his head, turned to walk away, and then turned back.

"You know, there is something you can do. I served with the Confederates with a man from Shelby and he said he had a sister. He was killed at the Battle of Nashville, so if she's still here, I'd like to see her and tell her he died a hero because he saved my life. Her name was...let's see...I think he called her Alice...no...that wasn't it. It started with an A though. Maybe it was Arneth...no not Arneth...Ah I remember. It was Abby or something like that."