Cover Page

Dedication

To Donnie Dale,
more than friend, brother.
And to Warren Knowles, Tom Randall, and Jim Todd,
who walked the walk.

PROLOGUE

February 10, 1918

John Power woke to the sound of bells and horses’ hooves. He rolled out of bed, not quite sure what was going on, just that it wasn't right.

“Lion,” his father said. “There's a damned lion after the horses.”

“Lion,” his brother said.

John had his feet on the floor as his brother Tom stumbled over him, rifle in hand, heading for the door.

Jeff, still in his union suit, rifle in his right hand, pulled the door open.

“Throw up your hands,” someone said.

“What the hell?”

John heard the shot then and saw his father take a step back before he lurched forward, through the door and outside.

More shots.

John went to the door where his father had stood only seconds before. There was more shooting, and he could hear bullets going past him. Tom ran behind him and went to the window at the far end of the cabin.

John saw someone move ten yards beyond the cabin door and took two shots, unsure whether he hit anyone or not.

Glass shattered and Tom yelled, “Sons of bitches, sons of bitches.” John turned and saw Tom hunched over against the wall, blood coming down his face. He made a move toward him, and Tom waved him back.

He saw the movement beyond the door, sighted and shot quickly, and saw the body drop like deadweight. Something blew up in front of him, and then his face, his left eye, went to fire. He was blind now, blood in both of his eyes.

John heard more glass breaking, and Tom fired out the window.

There was more fire coming at him from in front of the door, and John continued to shoot blindly until Tom came up behind him. “Got one at the window,” he said. Tom continued to fire out the door, though his face was also a mask of blood.

Then there was no more firing except theirs. Both Tom and John stepped back from the doorway and hunkered down on the floor, waiting for more fire to come.

When it didn't, they moved slowly out the door. The Old Man, Jeff, lay in front of it, face down.

John knelt down. He had wiped blood from his right eye, and he could see now that the Old Man was bad shot. The back of his union suit was thick with blood, and more pulsed out of the wound on his back. He turned the Old Man over. Jeff's eyes rolled in their sockets, and John could see that he was struggling to control his eyes and look at John. The hole in the upper part of his chest whistled, and blood oozed from that, too.

“How is he?” Tom said.

John only shook his head.

“Jesus,” Tom said. “You shot in the face?”