Chapter 1

I'm a widow, my husband was killed by the damyankees during the defense of Lookout Mountain. After these 4 years, I still hate the bastards as much as I did the first day I learned of Jake's murder. Yes, I say murder, because he was a surgeon and didn't even carry a gun. He was killed by an exploding cannon ball while he was operating on a wounded damyankee soldier.

I had stayed with my pa during the time that Jake was in the Army, so it was easy to stay with him after Jake's murder at his farm and surgery at Willow Run, Texas. My pa was murdered by damyankees, too, and that's why I'm writing this. I don't want anybody to get the wrong idea—I did what I did out of a desire for revenge, not out of any sort of patriotic nonsense. I couldn't care less for the Confederacy—it stole the happiness from my life, but I relish the opportunity to kill damyankees.

My pa was a doctor and trained surgeon, and that's how I met Jake. Jake worked with my pa for two years before the war, and right up until the time he volunteered for the Army. At the time, we had been married a year, and I had settled into the role of housewife in central Texas. I knew how to shoot because my pa had taught me; we all had to know how to defend ourselves because of the Comanche raiders that could pop up at any time. I wasn't a quick draw expert, but I sure knew how to hit what I was aiming at with my Walker Colt.

Anyway, by this time, the formal war was over and most of the boys in the Army had come home, but we were still occupied by the damyankee Army. One day, a man came into our yard with a bullet in his side; he practically fell off his horse as we helped him into the surgery. My pa wasn't one to dilly-dally around—that bullet had to come out, or the man was going to die. I assisted pa in removing the bullet and cleaning up afterward. We had just finished sewing him up when some men came clattering on horseback into our yard.

Pa didn't even clean off the blood before going to the front door. He left me to finish up as he went to see what was going on. He opened the door and stepped out onto the veranda. "What do y'all want. An' git yer hosses out of my daughter's flower beds!"

The leader said, "We're looking fer Emmit Washington. Is he here?"

Pa said, "Who wants ta know, an' I told ya ta git out of them flower beds!"

"I'm Federal Militia Captain Ezra Hawkins. These men are my soldiers. We're chasin' a rebel what shot two of my men an' got away. We know he has a bullet in 'im, an' we're tryin' ta catch 'im soz we kin hang 'im afore he dies from the bullet. Ya're a docter, soz I figure that he'd come ta ya ta fix his wound."

"Yes, Mr. Washington is in my surgery right now. My daughter is cleanin' him up after we removed the bullet, an' he cannot be disturbed. Now you leave my yard, right now!" With that, pa turned his back on the militia and came back toward the front door.

The "officer" pulled out his pistol and shot my father in the back. As he fell from the veranda, the other men pulled their pistols and put innumerable bullets into his body. I don't know which bullet killed him, they were all guilty of murder. I had rushed to the door as soon as I could leave the patient, so I saw and heard most of what went on. When my pa fell to the ground and they had stopped shooting, I rushed to him, although I knew that there was nothing that I could do to help him when he had been shot by that many bullets. I screamed something hysterical to the men and rushed back into the house to get my pistol.

I was just getting to the stairs to go to my room for the gun when I was grabbed from the rear and hurled to the floor. I heard someone shout, "I FOUND HIM, CAP'N! HE AIN'T GOIN' NOWHERE!"

The captain said, "OK, men, let's have some fun." Two men dragged me up the stairs to my bedroom where they threw me on my bed. One man drew his knife and cut my clothes off while the first two held me in place. I struggled as much as I could, but they were just too strong for me. I was raped by all 9 men, starting with the captain. Yes, it hurt, but I wanted to remember the faces, so I just lay there and memorized their faces while they did their thing. I remained conscious throughout the ordeal, but I fainted when it was over; I suppose that was because I finally gave into the shock of Pa's murder and the multiple rapes.

A few hours later, I was able to get up and put on a robe. I went downstairs and found Mr. Washington gone. My pa's body was still lying on the ground where he had fallen. After grieving for a while, I dragged his body into the surgery and managed to get him up onto the operating table. I cleaned him up as best I could and got him ready for burial. The Willow Run undertaker and 2 preachers had all disappeared into the cauldron of war and had not returned, so I buried Pa myself under our favorite pecan tree. I was able to dig a grave about 4 feet deep, I hope that was deep enough.

For a while, a few days, I guess, I didn't know what I was doing, but I came out of my funk with a determination to get even with those murdering butchers who called themselves "Federal Militia." I was sure that they were ex-Union Army soldiers who had moved in to take advantage of our defeat. In any case, I, Amy Esposito Horton, swore vendetta against them!

I knew that I couldn't just go out and start shooting at them, that would just get me killed. I needed a plan. So, while I was planning how to go about my revenge, I cleaned up the mess in the surgery. As I was gathering up Mr. Washington's abandoned clothes, I found a very unusual pistol. After a while, I recognized it as a LeMat, a Confederate cavalry pistol. It was a 9-shot, .40 caliber pistol with a shotgun barrel below the pistol barrel, fired by an adjustment to the hammer and using the same trigger as the pistol. I was lucky to find a bullet mold in Mr. Washington's other pocket, along with some bullets already made and a small powder flask. Ah hah! This was the very weapon to use against those damyankees.

I spent several days learning to use the pistol, and I was particularly taken with the shotgun attachment. It would be good for a range of around 15-20 feet; a very good desperation weapon. It was on the order of 18-gauge and had the effect of a sawed-off shotgun. I could hardly wait to use it against those bastards who had murdered my pa and raped me.

The gun was rather heavy, but no worse than my Walker Colt, which I also took along as backup, on a just in case basis. I quickly realized that a woman's dress was not the way to clothe myself for this project. I altered some of my pa's clothes to fit me, being careful to de-emphasize my bosom, which wasn't all that large to begin with. I made a cloth harness to bind myself and keep my breasts from swaying as I moved. Surprisingly, I found this to be quite comfortable.

I already had a conventional gun belt and holster for the Colt, but I needed something for the LeMat. I decided on a shoulder holster with the gun suspended under my left arm, a little to the front, so that it could be easily reached by my right hand. I was amazed to find that this arrangement turned me into a very fast draw after I had practiced for a few days.

I cut my hair short to mimic a man's ragged cut. Most men couldn't afford to pay a barber a nickel to cut their hair, so they did it themselves. Therefore, my hair did not look abnormal. I was able to wear one of Pa's Top Hats, so I was in fashion that way, but I still needed boots. Pa's boots were too big for me, but I stuffed some rags in them and made my way to the general store to find something suitable to wear.

I took the buckboard to the store, even though it was less than a mile, since I was not sure that I could mount a horse with the very loose boots I was wearing. I pulled up and carefully got down. I was a little wobbly as I made my way toward the store. There was little traffic on the sidewalk, so I didn't pay much attention as I walked unsteadily along. I saw a man coming toward me, so I stepped to the right side of the sidewalk, but the galoot coming toward me remained in the middle of the walkway. There was no way I could avoid it, he bumped me, not hard enough to knock me down, but hard enough to make me feel the jar.