“Ii, yes, I fear for my family, as well,” Dancing Cloud said somberly. “But we shall both know soon. We have almost come to the intersection that marks our departure. You will go your way. My warriors and I shall go ours.”
“Joe, you served well for the South,” Boyd said, reaching over to give Dancing Cloud a fond pat on the shoulder. “You are a splendid specimen of Indian manhood. I trust and admire you more than one hundred white men put together. Your father taught you well. He has a son to be proud of.”
“Wa-do, thank you, Boyd.” Dancing Cloud was humbled by how his white friend felt. “Your words reach my heart with pride. They will live there, i-go-hi-dv, forever, in a corner always reserved for my feelings for you.”
Dancing Cloud then followed Boyd’s lead and drew his steed to a stop where a road sign had fallen, which had at one time given directions to towns in four directions. The sign, destroyed during the ravages of the war, lay in a heap of mud and debris.
Boyd gave an order over his shoulder for everyone to dismount.
Dancing Cloud looked over the weary men. For so long they had been continually drenched with rain, seldom able to dry their clothes. The nights had been bitterly cold, and blankets had been as scarce as tents. Sickness pervaded the unit.
Taking a black cape from his saddlebag and draping it around his broad shoulders, Boyd gazed at length from one man to the other. He then began to talk in a tone filled with emotion.
“Soldiers, it is with much pride and affection that my heart has accompanied you in every battle of this war,” he said, a hush having fallen over everyone.
The men did their level best to refrain from coughing and sneezing so they could listen to this great leader who had been forced to bow down to defeat, yet very heroically.
“You men continually rendered a service that displayed the highest quality of devotion and self-sacrifice, which proves your character of the warrior-patriot,” Boyd continued. “Your battle cry will forever ring loud and clear through the land of the enemy, as well as your own.”
Boyd paused and bowed his head toward the ground, then looked once again at his quiet, devoted followers. “But the time has come to part, to go our separate ways,” he said thickly. “The war is over. Let us begin anew. Hold your chins high to those who will mock you as losers. In our hearts we must always remain the victorious ones, for we never failed at what was expected of us. Soldiers, one and all, I bid you farewell. Should we meet again, it will be my pleasure.”
Everyone remained quiet.
There was a sudden commotion at the side of the road. A man stepped into the open from the fog that was just creeping in over the rain-drenched land. His red hair shone like the sun. His eyes were cold and blue as a leaden sky just before the first signs of a storm on a summer day.
Everyone grabbed for their weapons, but the man held his hand up in the air and shouted that he was a friend.
The color of his uniform gave them cause to doubt that. Through the mud and grime that covered it they could see that it was blue.
Boyd and Dancing Cloud stepped slowly and cautiously toward the man. Dancing Cloud’s eyes looked warily on either side of the stranger for others to follow out of the fog.
“Lieutenant Boyd Johnston of the Twelfth Tennessee Regiment, sir,” Boyd said. “And where do you hail from?”
The red-haired, blue-eyed man paused. “My name’s Clint McCloud,” he said in a low, guarded voice, obviously not saying which regiment he hailed from. “I’ve lost my way from my troops. Might you allow me to travel with you for a while? Might I even travel on horseback for a few miles? I’m bone-weary. I doubt I can travel another foot.”
“You’re a Yankee,” Boyd drawled out suspiciously.
“As you are a Rebel,” the man drawled back, his eyes narrowing into thin, blue slits. “But the war’s over. The colors of our uniforms no longer matter. Right?”
“In most cases,” Boyd said, his voice low and measured.
“And why would mine be different?” Clint asked, his hand inching toward the pistol holstered at his right hip.
“You tell me,” Boyd said, taking a step away from Clint.
Boyd looked past the Yankee, into the rolling fog. He was sure that he had seen movement. This man wasn’t alone after all.
Dancing Cloud had also seen the movement in the fog.
But before he could react quickly enough, the red-haired, blue-eyed Yankee had drawn his pistol and was aiming it straight at him.
When Dancing Cloud saw the flash of the pistol’s report, he thought that he was experiencing his last moments on this earth.
He was stunned speechless when Boyd stepped in the way and was shot, instead.
Dancing Cloud gasped when Boyd’s body lurched with pain as the bullet made contact in his left shoulder. He grabbed for his friend and held onto him. He turned and watched in disbelief when several Yankees came from the cover of the fog and began an attack on his regiment.
Bloodshed erupted on both sides. Bodies fell right and left. The screams of pain were like shocks of white lightning bouncing through the air.