My Sweet Kathy by Reggie McCann (the rosie project TXT) 📕

time to go over and kneel down beside my Ma that morning. I'd leaned over and kissed her goodbye, before I’d left for town. I'd have the memory of that come back to me many times over the next few years.

When I got into town, the first thing I did, was stop by Doc's and tell him what Pa said. Doc told me he might be able to get out there a little bit later on. He had to go out to the Baker's cabin, anyway to check up on their little boy. He'd broken his leg a couple of days back.

I had to take more time than usual in getting our supplies, because for some reason, a goodly number of other folks were in the store getting things. More people than usual. Talk of the war, which everybody was expecting to come, was just about the only thing they were talking about.

As I went about picking out the things I needed to get, I had to listen from time to time. The war talk really didn't bother me all that much, because I had no interest in fighting on either side. I was content, just being at home with my Ma and Pa, working our little farm.

I must’ve been gone for at least four hours, by the time I finally rode back through the gate leading to the cabin. What I saw there made my heart begin to race. There was the body of a man lying in the front of the cabin. He was wearing the uniform of a Yankee soldier. His fancy blue uniform stood out in sharp contrast to the brown dirt he was lying in.

Pushing the mules harder, I could see Ma and Pa lying crumpled up together on the porch. Jumping from the still moving wagon, I ran up onto the porch. Pa was lying face down, four bullet holes in his body. Ma was on her side, one arm across Pa's body. She’d been shot nine times. I know this, because I counted each and every bullet hole.

Looking around through my tears, I could see the bodies of some of the slaughtered animals lying scattered everywhere. A pure and bitter hatred entered my heart at that moment — a hatred, which would stay with me for a long time — a very long time.

I buried Ma and Pa out behind our cabin, side by side. There were six old oak trees there, and they were covered in a flowering jasmine, which had a smell all its own. My Ma simply loved the beauty and the aroma of the jasmine. It took me the last of the remaining day and deep into the night, to finish digging the hard ground there. It took that long just to get the graves deep enough to hold my loved ones.

I left the dead soldier right there where he lay. Hell—he wasn’t gonna get up and walk off during the night

.

The next morning, I saddled up one of the mules, which had straggled back to the ranch. Looping a rope around the dead Yankee's ankle, I mounted up on the mule, and slowly dragged the man’s body deep into the woods. I didn't feel any pity, certainly no mercy, as I pulled him through the creek, through the mud. I felt nothing but pleasure, when his head would bounce up, and, then slam back down hard, onto the ground.

A couple of times, his other leg, which I hadn't tied with the rope, would find itself on the wrong side of a tree. I'm sure if he'd still been alive, that leg getting broken and pulled out of joint would've been a little painful. Probably, that tree trunk slamming into his manhood wouldn't have felt very good, either. Unfortunately for me, he didn't get to enjoy any of those nice things

When I’d judged we'd come far enough, I halted and jumped down from the mule. There wasn't much use in kicking a dead man, so, I just removed the rope. This oughta be far enough away so he don't stink up our land while he rots. I took the gun belt and pistol from his body, strapped it on and started to climb back up on the mule.

Hesitating, I walked back over to the dead man. I went through his pockets. He had about ten dollars in his pockets, so I took it.

Hell—he no longer needed money for anything, but I did. You can't buy your way outta Hell, anymore than you can buy your way into Heaven. That made the money kinda useless to him. Me? I wasn’t interested in buying my way into Heaven, so I could make use of his money, for him.

Looking down into his face, I noticed a huge grin on his face, which his death mask had created for him. Seeing that grin, my mind just sorta snapped. I kicked him just as hard as I possibly could, right in the middle of his grinning face. Why the hell not? Probably didn't hurt him very much at all. But it sure helped the hell out of me.

When I tired of this, I simply walked away from him and climbed back onto the mule.

When I got back to the cabin, I went inside and got out the money Pa’d been saving over the years. There was maybe three hundred dollars in all. Little else of any value did we have. After all our years here, three hundred dollars was all we were worth. Knowing I'd never return to live here again, I poured kerosene all over the cabin and tossed in a match. I stood there watching, as it burned.

Yeah, it burned almost as brightly, as the hatred in my heart right that moment.

I rode back into town, stopping by Doc's office to tell him it was just as well he hadn't made it out to see Ma the day before. “You needn't bother with going out to the cabin after all, Doc. Ma, she just don't need you no more.”

After walking the mule down to the livery, I picked out a fine looking horse. I traded the mule and a couple of dollars more for the horse; placed my saddle on him, climbed up on his back and rode him down to the store. Inside the store, I picked up some supplies, such as a frying pan and a fork; walked around, gathering up some beans, bacon, salt, coffee and sugar along with a few other little things.

I bought three boxes of .44 caliber bullets to go with the new Colt pistol, which I chose—the pistol fit well inside the holster of the used gun belt, which I'd also bought. All in all, after trading the dead Yankee's holster and gun, I got the new one pretty cheap. Then, I left that town, and it would be many years before I next saw it.

I rode back out to the cabin. Of course, by then, it'd already burned to the ground, but was still smoldering. Picking up the tracks of the soldiers who'd killed my folks, I began trailing them. I counted the tracks of at least eight horses which bore the weight of a man. There were four horses carrying no weight. My Pa’s horses.

It wasn't difficult tracking at all. What with all the horses, mules and hogs leaving tracks, I could follow them just about without even looking for them.

I followed the tracks, day and night, not stopping for sleep. I did stop one time, just long enough to heat up some beans and eat. Then, I continued on their trail. I don't know how many days passed, but there came a morning when I noticed the men had separated.

Six men continued on to the north, two of the riders broke off from the others and headed east. You could tell they'd probably made the decision to split up, the night before. They'd butchered a hog and had themselves a big feast. This was the first time they'd killed one of the hogs.

Three nights later, I found the two who’d separated from the others. They had themselves a huge fire going.

Sitting there, without a care in the world, they were drinking from a bottle of whiskey, which they passed back and forth. They'd earlier cooked, and were now eating what looked like chickens, several of which were still hanging over the fire. Leaving my horse tied to a branch of a tree, I walked towards them, forty-four in my hand.

Both men were drunk—wearing their shiny blue uniforms like they thought they were some kind of little gods or something. They were laughing, just having themselves a real good time; telling each other about all of the things they'd done in their lives. About the places they'd been and the women they'd had. They were so sure they were safe; so sure nobody could ever bring any harm to them—they were very badly mistaken.

Stepping out, into full view of the men, I should have been easy to see in the firelight, by anybody wanting to notice me. Still, it took them a few minutes to realize I was even there. Finally, one of them looked up in his stupor, and saw me.

"Hey, who’re you, Boy?"

The other one looked at me then and asked, "Whadda ya want?"

"You boys," I told him, through teeth clenched in hatred.

Both of them stood, hands trying to take out their pistols. I killed one of them outright, a bullet through his head. The other one was hit in the shoulder. His pistol fell to the ground and he stood there, holding his arm. I shot him in the leg simply because I didn't want him standing up. He went down, yelling. Walking up closer to him, I put a bullet into his other leg and he screamed even louder.

While he was lying there screaming, and rolling around like a baby, I picked up his pistol and the bottle of whiskey and walked over to their fire. I sat myself down on the log they'd been sitting on. I took one of the chickens off the stick and began eating.

I don't know how many of the chickens the men had eaten or how many they'd killed altogether; but I ate the two that were left. I ate ‘em both, while the man watched me. Let him watch—hell, truth be known, they were probably my chickens anyway. With frequent cups of whiskey, poured from their bottle, I washed the chicken down.

Finished filling my stomach with their nicely cooked chickens, I got up and walked back over to the man. He watched my every move. His eyes were wide open and they were filled with terror.

"Wh-why’re you doing this? We did no-nothing to you."

Looking over at Pa's horse, I waved the Colt at them and, turning back towards the man, asked, "Where'd you come by them horses over there?"

"Bought ‘em from a farmer. Couple a days ago."

"Got a bill of sale?"

"Well, no—we paid him good, hard-earned cash."

"Really?"

"Yeah—six dollars."

I shot him in the other shoulder and he screamed again.

"Why? Pl-please, why are you do-doing this to me?" he asked, again.

"Why? Why am I doing this? Because those are my Pa's horses you have there. Because you didn't pay for them. Because