The main group was trailing us by some distance, so we had to pause while Black John brought the boys up. I turned in my saddle and raised my right hand above me, waved a circle with it, then pointed ahead. I watched him close when crowds of guns were banging, and kept him to my front. He had eyes that were not set level in his hatchet face, so that he saw you top and bottom in one glance. Louis Dutchman." Mackeson was American and had no use for foreigners, and only a little for me. The language of his bark put him in peril. The man's voice boomed to scold the boy for this, as he had yet to drink. There was a man holding a hat for his hitched team to drink from, and a woman, a girl in red flannel and a boy who was splashing about at the water's edge, raising mud. We were making our way down the slope to it, through a copse of hickory trees full of housewife squirrels gossiping at our passing, when we saw a wagon halted near the stream. The Sni-A-Bar flowed to the west, a slight creek more than a river, but a comfort to tongues dried gamy and horses hard rode. Blossoms had begun a cautious bloom on dogwood trees, and grass broke beneath hooves to impart rich, green odor. We had been aided through the night by busthead whiskey and our breaths blasphemed the scent of early morning spring. The night had been long and arduous, the horses were lathered to the withers and dust was caking mud to our jackets. Our scouts were out left flank and right flank, while Pitt Mackeson and me formed the point. We rode across the hillocks and vales of Missouri, hiding in uniforms of Yankee blue.
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