Chapter 3

Maeve took in the scene. She noticed that the other women were slowly moving toward cover. They most certainly were not working at gathering their possessions.

"It's a trap!" yelled Maeve in Gaelic.

Shaylee rolled sideways off of her wagon and landed on her feet with her wagon between her and the others. It provided some cover. A bullet splintered the seat of her wagon just after she rolled away. The shot had come from the closer of the other's wagons.

Maeve pulled her ten bore from hiding and fired. She then leapt from her wagon too. It was a wild shot, but because it was a shotgun loaded with buckshot, it hit home.

There was a blood-curdling scream from the man who fell out of the wagon. The blood was flowing from half a dozen wounds on him.

Though he landed hard, he continued to scream and writhe in agony. He wouldn't live long.

The other women suddenly pulled weapons from the piles of clothes on the ground. Annie was the first to pull her weapon, a Henry repeater. Maeve fired the second barrel of her ten gauge before the girl could bring her weapon to bear. Annie had been close to Shaylee's wagon and Maeve's buckshot didn't have time to spread out much, when the shot hit Annie full in the face her head exploded!

One of the other women was enraged by the death of the young woman—her daughter—and began firing her revolver wildly, all the while screaming epithets as she walked toward Shaylee and Maeve. Before her revolver was empty the woman died by Shaylee's hand

Maeve reloaded and looked for her next target. Two of the other women were also firing handguns. They had huge cap and ball revolvers that were really too big for them. The size and weight of the guns put their aim and speed off. The two women were standing close to each other and Maeve's next shotgun blast wounded both women at the same time.

The last two women threw down their weapons and raised their hands. Shaylee started to move out from behind her cover, when Maeve spoke in Gaelic, again.

"Wait! There is at least one more man hiding, somewhere."

"How do you figure that?" asked Shaylee, also in Gaelic.

"Because there are two saddle horses tied to the wagons. If we break cover the bastard will shoot us, for sure."

Shaylee hollered out, "You in the wagon! Come out or I'll shoot the women!"

The answer to Shaylee's order was a shot that put a hole in her hat. The remaining women lowered their hands, and dove to retrieve their guns. The battle resumed.

Maeve concentrated on the person in the wagon. She fired, reloaded and fired! Shell after shotgun shell was fired into the covered wagon. Shaylee traded fire with the two women.

One of them was a fair shot, and managed to graze Shaylee's left arm. In the end, though, Maeve and Shaylee were far better marksmen. Their opponents were soon all dead or dieing.

Maeve moved around her wagon to join Shaylee, and the two reloaded.

"Looks like they're all dead, but let's wait a bit before we go out," said Maeve.

Boyd lay in the wagon as his life's blood flowed out through the many wounds inflicted by the splinters of wood from the wagon and the buckshot. The memories of his life began to swim before his eyes. It was like flipping though an old photo album. Memories from his youth, his marriage, and the birth of his beautiful daughter came to mind.

Then the horror started. The memories of the Yankee attack on his farm and being taken prisoner. The worst, however, was being forced to watch as the bluecoats set fire to his house with both his wife and daughter still inside.

At the screams from his wife and child, the bluecoats whooped and danced about like savages. All the while the Yankee Major sat astride his horse with a satisfied smile on his face. He had taken Sherman's march of destruction one-step further ... into brutality.

Boyd's mind flipped to another scene. A scene where the tables were turned, and the Major screamed out his agony of loss and despair.

Once the war had ended and Boyd had been released from prison camp, he had begun his search. It had taken several years to find the Major in western Massachusetts. He was now the fire and brimstone-spouting minister of the Presbyterian Church. Boyd had studied the Major's life for a month before making a move to even the score.

As the blood seeped from Boyd's wounds and his body began to shut down, his mind's vision of how he had taken his revenge became sharper ... how he had turned from a bitter grieving man into a murderer. He had booked a room in the hotel that stood opposite the church. That fateful Sunday, he had taken a very special pistol from his luggage. An Austrian gunsmith had made it for him.

The gun was in a strange looking holster—It could be attached to the handgrip of the pistol to serve as a rifle stock. There was also a barrel extension that fit in a special pocket of the holster. Once both pieces were attached to the pistol it made a very serviceable and accurate mini-rifle.

He sat watching the church all morning, waiting. When services ended the Major/minister came out of the church and stood with his wife and boy at his side, as the Ministry do all over the world, to shake hands and talk with his parishioners.

Boyd remembered how he had altered the soft lead bullets by cutting a cross in the tips. These altered bullets would fragment on entry doing much more damage.

Sitting far back from the window so as not to be seen from outside Boyd leaned forward and rested his weapon on the nightstand that he had mustered into duty as a shooting support. He took sight on the Major's wife, centering his aim on her heart but at the last minute he dropped his aim for a gut shot.

"Let her suffer, just like my beautiful Josey," he thought as he squeezed the trigger. Before the echoing sounds of the first shot had dissipated he fired again, this time gut shooting the boy. They would both die a long slow and painful death and the Major would suffer terribly as he watched.

The major's scream of agony and despair was very satisfying as Boyd quickly dismantled his weapon and returned it to his carpetbag. He calmly walked downstairs to the desk and checked out of the hotel.

He was never caught, and that one act twisted him. It sent him west to become a robber and killer of innocent people. As he traveled, he gathered others to himself that felt just as angry and bitter towards Northerners, God, and the whole world.

At first they pillaged and killed only Northerners. That soon changed to killing anyone that they found vulnerable. In the end Boyd became far worse than the Major.

As Boyd died, the sound of the Major's scream rang in his memory, and brought a smile to his face.

"Well ... what do we do now?" asked Shaylee.

Maeve looked around and thought for a minute, "First let's check and make sure they're all dead."

The two women moved from body to body. Maeve found the women that had been standing too close to each other were still alive but barely.

Maeve asked one word, "Why?"

"Cause you be Yankees an' we kill Yankees!"

"Why just Yankees?"

"Are ya dumb or what? <Cough, cough>" the woman snarled as blood filled her lungs.

This caused her to cough wetly, with blood dripping from her mouth.

"What makes you think we're Yankees then?"

It was too late. The woman was dead.

"Well, Hell's bells! That war'll never be done with," said Maeve. "I wonder if there are more Rebels like this running around?"

She walked off away from the wagons to think and came upon three bodies lying in a gully—obviously a family.

Maeve's heart sank, and she said softly, "The killings just go on and on."

Shaylee came up behind her sister and saw the bodies.

"Well, damn and double damn! That's why they fired at us ... we caught them red handed."

"It would seem so," sighed Maeve.

"I have to ask again ... what do we do now?"

"First, we gather anything of real value. Then we put the bodies in the wagons, and bring them here to this gully. We're going to burn the bodies and everything else, after we push the wagons into this here gully."

"What about the horses?"

"Those we keep."

They walked back to the wagons and began a thorough search. As they found something that they thought was worth keeping they set it aside. The first wagon had obviously belonged to the dead family and had good cookware, fine china, and expensive clothes. These items were transferred to the wagon with the goods from the general store. The next two wagons provided a chest full of money and jewelry and a cache of weapons along with powder, percussion caps with lead and a kit for making bullets and shot. Finally the two women filled the empty wagons with the bodies and the remaining possessions of the dead.

By evening, all was ready and the wagons were then rolled into the gully, and dowsed with kerosene. Just before dark the pyre was set afire.

"The darkness will hide the smoke and the fire should burn out before morning. We'll be long gone by then," said Maeve.

What about some food? I'm starved."

"Let's just have some pemmican, and get moving. If anyone came upon us here I think they would get the wrong idea."

"I s'pose you're right, as usual," sighed Shaylee tiredly.

The two went to Maeve's wagon and grabbed chunks of dried meat from a barrel near the tailgate, and moved on. They had gained some very nice merchandise for the store, and six horses. Two of the horses from the others had been killed in the shoot out.