Incident at Apache Canyon
A chance meeting provides an ex-soldier with a chance for redemption.
1862, Apache Canyon, New Mexico
The Hanging
Tom Jeffords sat on a horse, his hands tied tightly behind his back, and a rough, scratchy noose chafed against his neck. The full moon hung high in the night sky, casting a spectral light over the scene. The Confederate soldiers stood on either side of him in a loose huddle, their hands hanging idly at their sides like in stick figure drawings. Idle hands, idle moments — but not for long. In a moment, one of them would smack the horse, sending it galloping away and leaving Tom to dangle from the gnarled oak tree overhead. What were they waiting for? For their leader to give the command, of course. In war, some men choose when others die. It had been so for Tom when he was a soldier, and now he accepted this grim reality.
Tom’s mind, however, was elsewhere. He looked up at the sky, the brilliant blue of day now replaced by the deep, velvety blackness of night. The full moon scattered its light across drifting, wispy clouds, creating a surreal glow that softened the harshness of the moment. The air was thick with the scent of piñon and juniper, mingling with the prickly dust that clung to his skin. His throat felt raw and parched. He could sure use a drink of water, but he guessed it was no use to ask. The soldiers had given up taunting him, their cruel words lost to the silence of the night. Now, they milled about aimlessly, their faces blank as they waited for the gruesome task to be completed.
How did it all start? he wondered, his thoughts drifting back through the haze of exhaustion and fear. He remembered the peacefulness of his small ranch outside Santa Fe, the warmth of the sun on his back as he worked in the yard. The quiet, the simplicity of that life, seemed a world away from the nightmare he found himself in now.
The Visitor
Tom Jeffords was splitting wood on his small ranch outside of Santa Fe. The sun was already high in the sky, and the once-cool morning had given way to the relentless heat of a scorching New Mexico afternoon. Tom had always found solace in the repetitive task of splitting logs. The feel of the worn axe handle in his hands, the sharp crack as the blade met the wood, and the satisfying split as the log cleaved in two all served as a welcome distraction from the ghosts of his past.
Sweat dripped from his brow, and he paused for a moment, wiping it away with the back of his hand. The heat pressed down on him like a heavy blanket, the sun’s rays unforgiving as they beat against his back. The pile of firewood was growing steadily, a testament to his efforts. He adjusted his stance, selecting another log and setting it on the chopping block. With a practiced motion, he raised the axe high above his head and brought it down in a powerful arc. The log split cleanly, falling into two neat halves.
Just as he was about to reach for another log, a movement at the edge of the yard caught his eye. A stranger staggered into view, his steps unsteady and his clothes dust-covered. The man seemed to be swaying on his feet, the oppressive heat taking its toll. Tom dropped the axe and rushed to the man’s side just in time to catch him before he collapsed.
“Water,” the man gasped, his voice barely audible.
Tom didn’t hesitate. He ran to the well, cranking the handle furiously, the effort bringing fresh beads of sweat to his forehead. He drew up a bucket of water and filled a ladle, hurrying back to the man, who had slumped against a fence post. The stranger seized the ladle and drank greedily, water spilling down his chin as he gulped it down, desperate to quench his thirst.
Tom watched as the man drained the ladle, his eyes focused on the soldier’s gaunt face. The more he stared, the more familiar it became. The lines of exhaustion and the dust couldn’t disguise the features of his old comrade. Slowly, almost involuntarily, the name rose to his lips. “Daniel?” he said, his voice tinged with disbelief.
The man looked up, his eyes still glazed with the overwhelming need for water. For a moment, he didn’t seem to recognize Tom, his gaze unfocused and distant. But as he took another sip from the ladle, the fog of exhaustion and thirst began to lift. Recognition dawned in his eyes, and a slow, incredulous smile spread across his face.
“Tom? Tom Jeffords?” Daniel said, his voice cracking with surprise and relief.
Tom stepped closer, unable to contain his astonishment. He reached out, placing a steadying hand on Daniel’s shoulder, feeling the bones just beneath the thin fabric of the uniform. The soldier’s frailty struck him, a stark contrast to the strong man he had known.
“It’s really you,” Tom said, his voice barely above a whisper. He could see the subtle changes in Daniel’s face — the deeper lines, the hollow cheeks. Yet the spark in his eyes remained, kindling memories of their shared past.
Daniel blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear the haze from his mind. He glanced down at Tom’s hand on his shoulder, then back up at his face. A shaky laugh bubbled up from his chest, spilling across his cracked mouth. “What are the odds?” he agreed, his voice gaining strength.
Tom couldn’t help but laugh in return, a sound that was echoed by Daniel. The absurdity of the situation — meeting an old friend under such desperate circumstances — brought a rare moment of levity. Their laughter was a release, a momentary reprieve from the weight of their histories.
But Daniel’s legs buckled slightly, and Tom instinctively tightened his grip, helping him to a nearby stump. He guided Daniel to sit, their shoulders touching in a silent reaffirmation of their bond. Daniel leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, the lines of tension in his face softening.
Tom crouched down beside him, the ladle still in his hand. He dipped it into the bucket once more and held it out. Daniel took it with a nod of thanks, sipping more slowly this time.
“You look like hell,” Tom said with a wry smile, his eyes studying Daniel’s worn features.
Daniel chuckled, the sound raspy but genuine. “You don’t look much better,” he replied, the corners of his mouth lifting in a grin.
Tom shook his head, the surprise of seeing Daniel still settling in. “I haven’t seen you since the Battle of Boonville,” he said, his voice tinged with the weight of the past. He hesitated, glancing down at the ground before meeting Daniel’s eyes again. “After that battle, I had to leave the army… I wasn’t right in the head. I had to get away where things felt clear.”
Daniel nodded, his expression softening with understanding. “I understand, Tom. This war…” He trailed off, his words fading into the oppressive heat. He seemed to be struggling to form coherent thoughts, his exhaustion pulling him into silence. Reflections didn’t travel far in the kiln-like atmosphere, where the air hung heavy and still, as if reluctant to move.
Tom sighed, the confession lifting a small part of the burden he carried. “So, what are you doing out here?” he asked, curiosity mingling with concern.
Daniel took a deep breath, his face growing more serious. “We’re trying to stop the Confederate westward expansion,” he explained. “The Rebs are making a push for Glorieta Pass. If they take it, they could move on to California, the gold fields there, use that money for uniforms, factories, slaves…anything to drag this war out even longer. We can’t let that happen.”
Tom looked around, his eyes scanning the fringe of the woods, deep in thought. The heat shimmered off the distant trees, making them appear almost fluid in the distance. “If you can cut them off…” He paused, the gears in his mind turning. “I wonder if they’d let me work as a scout.”
“That’s what I was doing, but I got off course,” said Daniel. He rose slowly, wincing as he straightened up, his legs still unsteady from exhaustion. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Wait,” said Tom, a sense of urgency in his voice as he stepped forward. “Maybe… maybe I could help. I know this pass better than anyone. I’d like to be of service.”
Daniel looked at him, a mixture of surprise and gratitude in his eyes. “That’s kind of you, Tom,” he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I’ll talk it over with the captain. But if I were you… I’d leave. There’s likely to be heavy fighting.”
“But this is my home,” protested Tom in disbelief, gesturing around at the modest house and the rugged landscape he had grown to love. “I can’t just up and run.”
“You might not have a choice,” said Daniel, his expression turning serious as he placed a firm hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Good to see you.” With that, he turned and walked back into the woods, his figure soon blending into the shadows of the trees.
Tom watched him go, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He turned and headed back to his house, the familiar creak of the wooden steps under his boots grounding him momentarily. The quiet life he had tried to build now seemed threatened by the encroaching conflict. He glanced around the room, taking in the simple, sturdy furniture he had crafted with his own hands, the well-worn tools hanging on the walls, thinking of the small garden outside where he had planted corn and beans. Each piece of his home was a testament to the life he had fought to create away from the horrors of war.
Yet the sense of duty he thought he had left behind was now calling him once more, pulling him toward a path fraught with danger but also with the possibility of redemption. He remembered the friends he had lost, the battles fought, and the weight of the uniform he had once worn with pride. The scars on his soul, invisible yet ever-present, ached with the memory of battles past.
He knew the terrain around Glorieta Pass intimately — every rock and crevice, every hidden trail. If he could help the Union forces, perhaps he could find a way to reconcile his past with his present. But the thought of leaving his sanctuary, of stepping back into the chaos of war, filled him with dread.
Tom couldn’t take Daniel’s advice. The stakes were too high. He knew he could take note of the Confederates’ position. He would speak to the Union commander, offer his knowledge of the land, and do what he could to stop the Confederate advance. His heart pounded with a mix of fear and determination. The quiet life he had sought might be over, but perhaps, in fighting once more, he could find the peace that had eluded him for so long.
Night Watch
Tom crouched low behind a cluster of boulders, his breath barely a whisper in the cool night air. The jagged rocks provided decent cover, and from this vantage point, he had a clear view of the narrow trail. The moonlight worked as a pretty fair lantern. He strained his eyes, scanning the terrain with the vigilance of a man who knew the gamble he was taking.
For a long while, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the faint breeze and the distant howl of a coyote. But then, just as Tom was beginning to think the night might pass without incident, he heard it — a faint, rhythmic crunching of boots on the crusty desert paths. His pulse quickened, and he pressed himself closer to the ground, his body tensed and alert.
At first, the shapes were nothing more than dark smudges against the rock, blending into the shadowy backdrop of the canyon walls. But as they drew closer, the outlines became clearer, resolving into the forms of soldiers, their movements purposeful and cautious. They moved in single file, just as he thought they might, each man keeping close to the one in front of him, their rifles slung across their backs, the muzzles glinting in the lunar mist.
Tom could make out their uniforms now — Confederate gray, dulled by dust and wear. The men moved stealthily, their eyes shifting from side to side, constantly scanning their surroundings as if expecting trouble at any moment. Their faces were begrimed and dusty, and many were unshaven. He sensed their apprehension and fear.
He counted them silently — ten, fifteen, twenty men — each one stepping carefully to avoid loose stones that might give away their position. They carried themselves with the weary determination of soldiers who had been on the march for days, their faces formless and darksome under the brims of their slouch hats. Tom noticed a few mules at the rear of the column, laden with supplies, their hooves clopping softly against the rocky path.
The rocky walls on either side loomed high, creating a natural choke point that could be a deathtrap if they were ambushed. Tom’s gaze scuttled to the ledges above, noting the strategic advantage those heights could offer to a well-placed sharpshooter or an artillery piece. The Confederates were vulnerable here, and they knew it, and Tom knew they knew it.
Tom remained perfectly still, barely daring to breathe as the last of the troops passed by his hiding spot. He focused on remained small and still, blending with the rocks, stones, and trees about him. As they melted into the darkness of the pass, he could hear the faint creak of leather and the soft jingle of bridles as they guided their mounts and pack animals through the narrowest part of the trail.
His heart pounded in his chest, but his mind was clear, methodically taking in every detail. The direction they were heading, the size of the detachment, the supplies they carried — all of it painted a picture of an enemy force on the move, preparing for something significant. He knew that this small group was likely just a vanguard, a forward element of a larger force poised to push westward.
Tom waited a few more minutes, ensuring the soldiers had moved past his observation perch before he carefully began to slink backwards through the underbrush in a careful retreat. The moonlit pass, so quiet and still before, now seemed fraught with the unseen danger that came with the knowledge he had gained. He needed to get this information to the Union forces as quickly as possible. This wasn’t just a skirmish; this was part of a larger strategy, and the fate of the Southwest could hinge on what happened here in the coming days.
As he crept back toward Coyote Hollow, his steps were even more deliberate, his mind racing with the implications of what he had seen.
Intercepted
Tom’s heart raced as he made his way back along the dirt path, eager to reach the Union forces with the vital information he’d gathered. His mind was a whirl of thoughts — strategies, possibilities, and the burning desire to redeem himself by aiding the Union once more. The landscape around him, usually so familiar and comforting, now felt charged with a new sense of urgency. He moved quickly, but carefully, trying to merge his form with the shadows cast by the cottonwood trees.
Suddenly, figures emerged from the darkness, blocking his path. Startled, Tom froze, his hand instinctively reaching for the revolver at his side, but before he could draw it, a sharp voice cut through the night air.
“Hold it right there.”
Tom’s eyes widened as he recognized the man who stepped forward from the group — General Henry Hopkins Sibley, the Confederate commander leading the push into New Mexico. Tom recalled him from previous skirmishes… a greying figure with a receding hairline, light brown hair tousled, a prominent chin that later would shift forward and upwards when he lost more teeth, but for now maintained its position like his scattered but determined band of soldiers. His brown eyes were unsurprised, but Tom suspected it was a posture. Habitual, theatrical assurance was something he had come to expect from those in command, but it had not fooled him for many years.
Dressed in the gray uniform of a Confederate officer, Sibley’s coat bore the insignia of his rank, its brass buttons polished to a shine. His tall black boots were scuffed but well-maintained, a testament to both his pride in appearance and the rigors of the campaign. He strode to Tom’s side with confident steps.
“Out for a midnight stroll, are we?” Sibley asked, his tone deceptively calm as he studied Tom with a predatory gaze. The soldiers accompanying him tightened their grip on their rifles, ready to act at a moment’s notice.
Tom forced himself to stay calm, masking the anxiety that surged through him. “Just passing through, sir,” he replied, feigning ignorance. “Didn’t mean to intrude on anything.”
Sibley’s lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. “Passing through? At this hour? On this particular path?” He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “I find that hard to believe, Mr. Jeffords.”
Tom’s stomach twisted at the sound of his name. The general knew who he was. Any hope of bluffing his way out of this evaporated in an instant. He kept his face neutral, but his mind raced, searching for a way out of the tightening noose around him — figuratively and, soon enough, literally.
“I know you by reputation,” Sibley continued, his voice low and dangerous. “An ex-Union soldier, now playing the part of a simple rancher. But you and I both know where your loyalties lie. Tell me, what brings you to Glorieta Pass tonight? Did you think you’d sneak a look at our operations and report back to your Yankee friends?”
Tom didn’t answer, his silence speaking volumes. Sibley’s smile faded, replaced by a steely resolve. “It seems you’ve seen more than you should have,” he said, his tone final. “We can’t have you running off to alert the Union troops, now can we?”
With a quick gesture, Sibley signaled to his men. They moved with swift precision, surrounding Tom and forcing him off the path. His protests fell on deaf ears as they bound his hands behind his back, the rough rope biting into his skin. Panic surged through him as they led him to his horse, their intentions becoming all too clear.
“No need to make this harder than it has to be, Jeffords,” Sibley said, watching as his men secured the noose around Tom’s neck, the other end of the rope already tied to a sturdy tree limb overhead. “You understand the position we’re in. We can’t afford to take chances.”
Tom’s heart pounded in his chest as he was placed back on his horse, the noose tightening slightly around his throat. The realization that he was out of options, that his desperate mission had led him to this moment, hit him like a blow. The cool night air suddenly felt suffocating, the scent of piñon and juniper tainted by the bitter taste of impending death.
He looked around, the world around him sharpening in stark clarity — the moonlight filtering through the trees, the silhouettes of the Confederate soldiers watching with grim detachment, and Sibley standing a few paces away, his expression unreadable.
“This is how it ends, then?” Tom forced the words out, his voice strained. “On a horse, with a rope around my neck, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night?”
Sibley met his gaze, his eyes cold and resolute. “It ends how it must,” he replied. “Better than the end for many.”
The general gave a curt nod to one of his men, who moved to slap the horse’s flank. Tom braced himself, every muscle tensing as the inevitable moment approached. The horse shifted beneath him, sensing the tension in the air, and Tom’s breath caught in his throat.
He had one final, fleeting thought — of the quiet life he had built, of the chance for redemption that now seemed impossibly distant. And then, with a sharp crack, the horse bolted forward, leaving Tom to hang in the cold, still night.
As Tom sat on the horse, the noose tightening around his neck, the world around him seemed to sharpen into stark focus. Every sound, every movement, was heightened by the sheer desperation of the moment. He could feel the rough fibers of the rope digging into his skin, the tension building with each passing second.
The plan that had formed in his mind was born out of pure desperation — a last, wild hope that he could cheat death one more time. If he could throw himself sideways just as the horse bolted, maybe, just maybe, the rope would snap under the sudden strain. He knew it was a long shot, a gamble that could just as easily end with him dangling lifelessly from the tree, but it was all he had.
Tom tensed, feeling the horse’s muscles bunch beneath him, sensing the animal’s growing unease. The Confederate soldier was moving closer, raising his hand to deliver the final slap that would send the horse racing forward and Tom into oblivion. Tom’s breath caught in his throat, his pulse hammering in his ears, every muscle coiled tight, ready to spring.
Then it happened. The soldier’s hand came down with a sharp crack, and the horse surged forward with explosive speed. Time seemed to slow as Tom threw his body to the side, every fiber of his being straining against the inevitable pull of the noose. He felt the sudden, brutal tightening of the rope around his neck, the air being forced from his lungs as it constricted. For a split second, he thought it was over, that he had miscalculated, that the rope would hold.
But then, with a sharp, splintering sound, the rope gave way. The fibers snapped, frayed from the stress, and Tom was suddenly falling, tumbling to the hard ground below. He hit the earth with a jarring thud, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs, but he was alive. The noose hung limp from the tree, a broken remnant of the death that had almost claimed him.
For a moment, there was stunned silence — an incredulous pause as the Confederate soldiers processed what had just happened. Tom didn’t wait for them to recover. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain that flared in his side from the fall, and bolted into the underbrush, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and adrenaline.
“Get him!” one of the soldiers shouted, breaking the spell of shock. The men erupted into action, rifles snapping up to take aim as they tried to bring Tom down before he could disappear into the night.
Gunfire cracked through the air, sharp and deafening. Bullets whizzed past him, close enough that he could feel the wind of their passage, but luck — or something more — was on his side. Tom zigzagged through the trees, ducking low and weaving to make himself a harder target. The terrain was rough, the ground uneven, but Tom knew it well. Each step was placed with practiced precision as he darted between the piñon and juniper, the branches clawing at him as he passed.
The shouts of the Confederate soldiers followed him, harsh and angry, their voices rising in frustration as they realized they were losing him. “Don’t let him get away!” one of them bellowed, and the gunfire intensified, bullets tearing through the night, but still missing their mark.
Tom’s breath came in ragged gasps as he pushed himself harder, his legs burning with the effort. The underbrush snagged at his clothes, the sharp thorns scratching his skin, but he didn’t slow down. He could hear the men crashing through the woods behind him, their heavy boots trampling the undergrowth, but they were losing ground. The deeper he went into the wilderness, the more the terrain worked in his favor. He knew every twist and turn, every hidden trail, and he used that knowledge to his advantage, slipping through gaps in the rocks, diving into narrow ravines that the soldiers hesitated to follow.
The night was alive with the sounds of pursuit — the pounding of boots, the crack of rifles, the frantic shouts — but gradually, those sounds began to fade as Tom pulled further ahead. He darted through a dense thicket, branches snapping against his face, and emerged into a small clearing, his chest heaving as he fought to keep moving.
The adrenaline that had fueled his escape was starting to ebb, replaced by a cold, steady determination. He couldn’t afford to stop, not yet. Not until he was sure he had lost them completely. He pushed onward, his senses on high alert, every rustle in the underbrush, every whisper of wind through the trees, keeping him on edge.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, Tom slowed his pace, his ears straining for any sign of pursuit. The night had grown quieter, the distant sounds of the Confederate soldiers fading into the background. He paused, leaning against a tree, his breath ragged but steadying, his heart still pounding in his chest. He managed to get his hands free, partially by running the ropes against the tree bark.
He had done it. Against all odds, he had escaped the noose. The rope that was meant to end his life now lay broken and useless behind him. But Tom knew the danger wasn’t over. He had to get to the Union forces, had to warn them of what he had seen. The fate of the battle, perhaps even the war, could depend on it.
Mickey Free
Tom pushed on through the underbrush, each step taking him farther from the Confederate soldiers and the death he had narrowly escaped. He meditated on his luck…the broken rope, the chance to live another day. But as the adrenaline began to fade, a new, unsettling realization settled in; the realization that he was hopelessly lost.
The familiar terrain that had guided his flight now seemed alien, the twists and turns of the landscape disorienting him in the darkness. He paused, trying to get his bearings, but every direction looked the same — an endless maze. The moonlight, which had once illuminated his path, now only deepened the sense of confusion, throwing out mirages and blurring outlines, with more artful concealment than a harem girl out to enchant a Sultan.
Tom forced himself to stop, to calm his racing heart. He listened carefully, straining to catch any sound that might help him orient himself. It was then that he noticed something — a faint, distant glimmer of light flickering through the trees. He held his breath, focusing on the sight. He discerned the darting flames of a campfire, and with it came the low, melodic sound of a Native American song, carried on the night breeze.
Creeping closer, Tom moved with caution, each step deliberate as he approached the source of the light. The song grew clearer, a haunting melody that spoke of the land and the spirits that watched over it. As he drew nearer, the campfire came into view, and with it, a figure seated by the flames.
Tom’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized the shaggy-haired silhouette — Mickey Free, the notorious Native American scout. The man was known across the Southwest for his cunning, his ability to navigate the harshest terrain, and his often-unpredictable loyalties. Mickey sat alone by the campfire, singing softly as he idly carved at a stick, the blade of his knife catching the firelight with each slow, deliberate stroke.
Relief washed over Tom, dispelling the last remnants of fear and confusion. Mickey Free was someone who knew these lands better than anyone, a guide through the wilderness who could help him find his way. Without hesitation, Tom stepped forward, his movements hurried and eager.
“Mickey!” he called out, his voice breaking through the quiet night as he stumbled into the small clearing.
Mickey Free looked up, his dark eyes gleaming in the firelight as they fixed on Tom. For a moment, there was silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the distant rustle of leaves. Then a slow smile spread across Mickey’s face, a mixture of amusement and curiosity.
“Tom Jeffords,” Mickey said, his voice low and calm, as if he had been expecting him all along. He set the stick aside and sheathed his knife, rising to his feet with a fluid, easy grace. “You’re far from home, my friend.”
Tom let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders sagging with relief. “You have no idea,” he replied, moving closer to the fire. The warmth of the flames was a welcome comfort after the frantic escape through the cold night. “I thought I was done for.”
Mickey chuckled softly; the sound was almost lost in the crackle of the burning twigs. “The spirits must be watching over you,” he said, his tone cryptic. “To bring you to me on a night like this.”
Tom nodded, still catching his breath. “I need your help, Mickey. The Confederates — they’re moving through Glorieta Pass. I have to get to the Union forces and warn them. But I got turned around… I’m lost.”
Mickey Free sat hunched over on a fallen log, his silhouette almost blending into the darkness beyond the fire’s welcome gleam. His shaggy hair fell around his face, obscuring his features, but the wavering light occasionally caught the angle of his sharp cheekbones, and the deep lines that were etched into his weathered skin. His hands, rough and calloused, moved with a practiced ease as he carved at the stick, each deliberate stroke of the knife a reflection of the internal struggle that Tom could sense but not fully see.
As Tom spoke, pleading for Mickey’s help, the Native American scout’s gaze remained fixed on the stick in his hands. His dark eyes, partially hidden by the wild strands of hair, were focused intently on his task, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his inner turmoil. The rhythmic scrape of the knife against the wood seemed almost meditative, a way for Mickey to channel the conflicting emotions that Tom’s words stirred within him.
Mickey’s face, illuminated by the firelight, was a mask of contemplation. The flames highlighted the deep lines of his brow, furrowed in thought, and the tightness around his mouth as he considered Tom’s request. He let out a slow, measured breath, the sound barely audible over the crackling of the fire, and his hands stilled for a moment, the knife resting against the wood as he weighed his response.
“This fight,” Mickey began, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience, “is not for you and me. It’s a fight for others — those who still believe in the things that men like you and your people bring with you: lies, betrayal, and death.” As he spoke, his eyes remained fixed on the stick, but his expression softened slightly, as if the words themselves carried a sadness too deep to fully express. He shook his head slowly, his hair shifting to reveal more of his face, now bathed in the warm hues of the fire. “The White Eyes have brought nothing but sorrow to these lands. My fondest wish now is to live alone, far from all this… in the mountains and canyons I know so well. To leave the whites to fight their own battles.”
Tom watched as Mickey’s posture shifted subtly, his shoulders hunching forward as if the weight of his words was a burden he had carried for too long. The firelight caught the moisture in his eyes, reflecting a sorrow that went beyond anger — an exhaustion born of too many betrayals, too many broken promises. For a brief moment, Mickey’s gaze lifted from the stick, and his eyes, dark and weary, met Tom’s. The connection was fleeting, but it was enough for Tom to see the pain in Mickey, and the weariness from a life that had started from his abduction as a child, two races running in his blood, always against each other, and outside of that skin, always men of one color or another, one tribe or another, trying to hire him, trying to wheedle him, trying to kill him.
When Tom mentioned his friend Daniel, Mickey’s knife paused mid-stroke, the blade hovering over the wood as his eyes narrowed slightly, the tension in his face growing more pronounced. The name seemed to pull him back, grounding him in the reality of the situation. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he let out a slow, measured sigh, his shoulders slumping further as he leaned back, shifting his weight on the fallen timber that he rested upon.
Mickey’s expression hardened as he considered Tom’s words, the skepticism evident in the way his jaw tightened and his eyes grew sharper, more calculating. He asked, “For how long will I walk these hills with only the coyotes as my companions?” his voice carrying a note of bitter realism, as if daring Tom to offer a false reassurance. His gaze bore into Tom, demanding honesty. “ Not long. One moon, maybe two. The Whites will this land, and there is nothing we can do to stop it.”
Tom’s shrug and admission of uncertainty seemed to both frustrate and resonate with Mickey, who stared at him for a long moment, his knife forgotten in his hand. His eyes flittered back to the fire, the flames reflecting in his pupils as if he were seeking answers within the unsteady arcs of illumination. His fingers resumed their slow, deliberate carving, though his movements were now more thoughtful, less automatic, as if the act itself was helping him process the gravity of the decision before him.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mickey looked up again, his expression resolute but tinged with a weariness that spoke of too many battles fought and too many scars left behind. “I’ll help you find the Union camp,” he said, his voice steady but quiet, as if he were conceding to a fate he had tried to avoid. “But that’s all.”
Tom could see the resignation in Mickey’s eyes, the reluctant acceptance of a choice that felt inevitable. He breathed a sigh of relief, gratitude washing over him. “Thank you, Mickey,” he said sincerely, recognizing the sacrifice that this decision represented for the man before him.
Mickey nodded slightly, the movement almost imperceptible, and then turned his gaze back to the fire, his hands resuming their slow, methodical work on the stick. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting his reflective profile. He seemed to retreat inward, his thoughts his own, the fire his only companion in the quiet night.
“Rest for now,” Mickey said after a long silence, his voice carrying the finality of someone who had made peace with his decision, at least for the moment. “We’ll leave before dawn.”
Tom, still feeling the warmth of the fire and the relief of Mickey’s agreement, settled back, letting the tension of the night begin to ebb away. But as he watched Mickey, still carving, still singing softly under his breath, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of the path they both now walked — a path that led into an uncertain future, but one they would face together, if only for a while longer.
The Journey
The morning sun rose higher, its heat becoming more oppressive with every passing hour. Tom felt the relentless rays bearing down on him, draining his energy and turning each step into an ordeal. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through with sweat, and the dry air seemed to sear his lungs with every breath. His legs felt like lead, each movement an act of sheer willpower. The landscape around him blurred in the shimmering heat, the rocky terrain unforgiving beneath his tired feet.
Mickey, on the other hand, moved with an easy grace, seemingly unaffected by the rising temperature. He walked ahead of Tom, his steps light and sure, navigating the rugged terrain with the practiced ease of someone who had spent a lifetime traversing these lands. Mickey’s soft, melodic singing drifted back to Tom, a constant, calming presence, even as the landscape grew more treacherous.
Tom’s weariness gnawed at him, and he found himself lagging further behind, the distance between him and Mickey slowly increasing. His muscles screamed for rest, and his vision swam with exhaustion. “Mickey,” Tom called out, his voice rough and hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I need to rest… just for a minute.”
Mickey glanced back, his expression unreadable, but the subtle tightening of his brow suggested concern. He slowed his pace slightly, allowing Tom to catch up, but there was an urgency in his movements. “We can’t stop now,” Mickey said, his tone calm but insistent. “The heat will only get worse, and we need to put as much distance between us and those soldiers as we can. Trust me, Tom. We need to keep moving.”
Tom nodded weakly, though doubt gnawed at him. The landscape was unfamiliar, the landmarks he had relied on lost in the maze of rocks and scrubland. “I don’t recognize this country,” he admitted, a note of unease creeping into his voice. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
Mickey’s gaze softened, his dark eyes steady as they met Tom’s. “Trust me,” he repeated, his voice firm but reassuring. “I know these lands. We’re on the right path.”
Tom swallowed hard, pushing down his doubts as he forced his tired legs to keep moving. The sun beat down mercilessly, turning the rocky ground beneath his feet into a furnace. Every step sent a jolt of pain through his aching muscles, but he kept his focus on Mickey’s back, using the scout’s quiet determination as his guide.
The terrain began to change as they moved deeper into the wilderness, the flat expanses giving way to rocky outcroppings and shallow ravines. The path narrowed, hemmed in by steep walls of rock that offered little shade. Tom’s breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. But then, up ahead, he saw Mickey suddenly slow, his posture shifting as he raised a hand, signaling Tom to stop.
Tom’s heart pounded as he followed Mickey’s gaze, his eyes widening in alarm as he spotted two Confederate soldiers further down the trail. The men were walking slowly, their gray uniforms dusty and worn, rifles slung over their shoulders. They looked weary, their faces lined with exhaustion and streaked with dirt, but they were still alert, their eyes scanning the terrain for any sign of trouble.
Mickey’s hand shot up again, urging Tom to retreat into the cover of the nearby rocks. Tom obeyed without hesitation, ducking down behind a boulder, his heart racing in his chest. He peeked out cautiously, watching as Mickey moved forward, his posture relaxed and unthreatening, as if he were just another traveler on the road.
Mickey angled his face sideways, the brim of his broad hat veiling his expression. However, Tom could see the soldiers’ reactions as Mickey approached — initial wariness quickly gave way to a kind of casual disdain. The soldiers exchanged glances, their expressions bored, clearly not thinking much of the man before them. Tom felt a surge of anxiety as he watched, wondering if they would recognize Mickey or grow suspicious of his presence.
The soldiers, one tall and lanky with a rough stubble covering his chin, the other shorter and stockier with a scar running down the side of his face, seemed to size Mickey up. The taller one shifted his rifle slightly, though more out of habit than any real threat. “Who are you, then?” he drawled, his voice laced with indifference.
Mickey didn’t hesitate, his voice low and steady as he responded. Tom couldn’t make out all the words, but he caught enough to understand that Mickey was playing the part of a local guide, someone who knew the land and was simply passing through. The scarred soldier squinted at Mickey, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the man’s appearance, but whatever suspicion he might have felt was tempered by the obvious boredom that colored his expression.
The taller soldier let out a sigh, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if eager to be done with the encounter. “You seen anyone around here?” he asked lazily, his tone almost dismissive. “Maybe some grizzled old ex-Union soldier wandering about?”
Mickey shook his head, his hat brim dipping slightly with the motion. “Ain’t seen anyone,” he replied smoothly. “Just me out here.”
The soldiers exchanged another glance, this one filled with a mixture of resignation and disinterest. They seemed satisfied, or perhaps just too tired to press further. “Alright then,” the scarred one grumbled, gesturing for Mickey to move on. “You best be on your way.”
Mickey nodded, tipping his hat slightly as he turned and made his way back toward Tom’s hiding spot. The soldiers watched him for a moment longer before continuing on their way, their boots crunching against the gravel as they disappeared around a bend in the ravine.
Tom let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as Mickey reached him, his heart still pounding in his chest. “We can go now,” Mickey said quietly, his expression calm, as if the encounter had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Tom struggled to his feet, his legs trembling slightly from the tension. “What did they say?” he asked, unable to keep the curiosity and lingering fear out of his voice.
Mickey shrugged, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “They just asked who I was and if I’d seen some old white guy wandering around these parts,” he replied, his tone light and almost amused. “I said they needed to be more specific.”
Tom let out a shaky breath, still incredulous at how easily the encounter had passed. “It’s a miracle they didn’t spot me,” he said, shaking his head, the relief palpable in his voice.
Mickey’s smile widened slightly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Maybe,” he said, his voice taking on a more thoughtful tone. “Or maybe the spirits are on our side after all.”
Tom met Mickey’s gaze and nodded slowly, feeling the truth in the scout’s words, whether he fully understood them or not. “I’ll trust you, Mickey,” he said, a note of resolve in his voice. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
Mickey nodded, satisfied with Tom’s response. “No, you don’t,” he agreed. “But we’re almost there. Keep going, and we’ll reach the Union camp before nightfall.”
Tom’s exhaustion had become unbearable. The relentless heat of the day had sapped his energy, and every step felt like a monumental effort. His vision blurred with fatigue, and his legs trembled, threatening to give out beneath him. The landscape around him seemed to stretch endlessly, a cruel joke played by the unforgiving desert. He glanced up at Mickey, who continued to move with steady determination, the man’s soft singing the only sound in the oppressive silence.
The End of the Rope
Finally, Tom couldn’t take it anymore. His voice was hoarse and weak as he called out, “Mickey… we’ve got to stop. I can’t go any further.”
Dusk was falling. The temperature had dropped slightly, but the coolness brought little relief to Tom’s aching body. Ahead of them, a low hill rose up, its slope gentle but seeming like a mountain to Tom’s weary legs.
Mickey had turned, the firelight of dusk reflecting in his dark eyes. He had smiled a little, a small but reassuring gesture, and pointed ahead. “Just over this hill,” he had said quietly. “Look.”
Tom had summoned the last of his strength, his willpower the only thing driving him forward. He forced his legs to move, each step heavier than the last as he pushed himself up the slope. The ground had seemed to sway beneath him, but he had kept his eyes focused on the top, determined to see what lay beyond, wanting to believe him.
Finally, he had reached the crest of the hill, his breath coming in ragged gasps. And there, nestled along the riverbank below, was the Union camp. The sight was almost surreal, drenched in a gold and amber aura. Rows of white canvas tents dotted the landscape, their tops just visible amongst the low rolling hills. Smoke curled lazily from a few scattered campfires, adding a hazy aura to the scene as the scent of cooking food drifted up the hill. The murmur of soldiers talking and the clinking of pots and pans created a sense of normalcy, a stark contrast to the turmoil Tom had just escaped.
The river itself sparkled like a ribbon of silver, catching the last rays of sunlight as it wound its way past the camp. The water rippled moodily, its surface dimpled, its peaceful vibrations seeming to echo the quiet calm of the camp. It was a tranquil scene, one that felt almost like a dream after the hardships of the journey.
Tom’s gaze had scanned the camp until it landed on a familiar figure — Daniel, bending down by the river, his hands cupped as he splashed water over his head. The droplets sparkled in the air, catching the light before falling back into the river. Daniel seemed at ease, his posture relaxed as he rinsed away the dust and weariness of the day. The sight of his friend, alive and well, had filled Tom with a wave of relief so powerful that it nearly brought him to his knees. He had done it. They had made it.
As if sensing something, Daniel had straightened up, his movements slowing as he turned to look up at the hill. His eyes had found Mickey first, and then Tom. Recognition had dawned on his face, and in an instant, his expression had transformed. A broad grin had spread across Daniel’s features, and he had raised his hand in an enthusiastic wave, his voice carrying up to them. “Tom! Mickey! You made it!”
Tom’s heart had swelled with triumph, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He had turned to Mickey, his voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and joy. “We’ve done it! We made it!”
But then, in an instant, everything had changed. The sensation had been sudden and terrifying — a sharp, choking pressure around his neck, as if the air itself had turned to iron. Tom’s triumph had turned to horror as he felt the noose tighten, the ground vanishing beneath his feet. He was no longer standing on the hill, no longer gazing down at the camp. He was dangling in the air, the rope cutting into his throat, his vision swimming with black spots.
It had all been a vision — a cruel, fleeting glimpse of a hope that was never real. The Union camp, Daniel’s smile, Mickey’s reassuring presence — it had all been a figment of his desperate mind. Tom’s body convulsed as the noose bit deeper, the reality of his situation crashing down on him with brutal clarity.
Below him, the scene had shifted, the illusory camp fading into the harsh reality of the barren landscape. General Sibley sat astride his horse, his expression cold and detached as he watched Tom’s final moments. He nudged his horse forward, his voice carrying over the desert air with the casual indifference of a man accustomed to death.
“Let’s move on,” Sibley had commanded, his eyes flicking to his troops as they began to assemble. “We have ground to cover.”
The soldiers had moved with practiced efficiency, indifferent to the body swinging lifelessly from the tree. Tom’s final vision had faded entirely as his world went dark, the dream of redemption and survival slipping away into nothingness.
