“I reckon so. Then y’all can ride along with me and help retrieve my papa’s bones.”
After breakfast, the three men rode west and headed toward Staunton, Virginia. About ten miles east of Staunton, after spending all morning looking for trees, Jeff recognized the grove of huge oak trees near the small creek and he headed his gelding in that direction.
There Jeff spied the shovel, still upright where he’d left it in 1861. He’d finally got to his papa’s grave. The three men dismounted from their mounts and stretched. Jeff walked over to his papa’s grave and bowed his head. “I’ve come back for you like I promised, Papa,” he whispered. “Soon I’ll have you restin’ next to Mama.”
Bo had gathered some rocks and arranged them in a circle. He gathered some firewood and lit a small fire. Smitty grabbed up their coffeepot, walked down to the creek, and filled it with water. Bo added some coffee and sat the blackened old pot on the edge of the fire to begin brewing. Then Smitty took his rifle and walked into the woods. In a few minutes, Bo heard a shot and Smitty came walking back swinging a large rabbit by its ears. He handed the hare to Bo, who dressed it and placed it on a spit. While the rabbit was grilling over hot coals, Bo got busy slicing potatoes for his frying pan.
Jeff and Smitty began taking turns digging up the remains of Jeff’s father. When they’d lifted his bones from the ground, they rolled his remains up in the tarp, and Jeff secured both ends with a heavy cord. When the morning came, Jeff and Smitty would load his papa’s bones over the back of Jeff’s packhorse for the short ride into Staunton; there they’d find a blacksmith who’d put a new shoe on Smitty’s lame horse. After Jeff and Smitty washed in the creek, they sat by and watched Bo finish cooking supper while they savored a cup of coffee.
“What is your first name, Smitty?” Jeff asked.
“Don’t use it, I go by Smitty.”
“Well, we oughta know it.”
“Why?”
“We might have to post it on your tombstone someday.”
“It’s Messmoor, but don’t y’all never call me that or I’ll shoot ya in yer foot. Call me Smitty, that’s what I go by.”
“Let’s eat this rabbit, fellers, he’s done, I reckon!” Bo hollered.
Chapter Twelve
Right after noontime, the county sheriff watched three ex-Union soldiers slowly ride into his town of Staunton, Virginia. He recognized the yellow stripes running down their pants legs. One man was leading a packhorse carrying what looked like, a body? They stopped at the town water trough and allowed their horses a long drink. One man pointed toward the saloon, another motioned toward the blacksmith shop, the third motioned toward the mercantile store; they separated and went three ways. The sheriff, a suspicious man by nature, decided he’d better close-up his office and go have a look-see, so he lit out for the store and observed the lean feller quietly ordering some vittles, so he hightailed it through the swinging doors of Angie’s saloon.
Jeff had bought a slab of bacon and some taters, onions, some tobacco for his friends, and another big bag of coffee beans. He also bought a sack of grain for their horses. Then he led his tired bay gelding over to Angie’s saloon hitch rail, tied up, and walked into the saloon, eager for Smitty to buy him a cold beer and just in time to hear the sheriff ask, “You fellers gonna be in my town very long?”
“We don’t plan to, Sheriff,” Smitty politely answered. “Why are you asking?”
“Because we’re suspicious of strangers in this town, fella, especially Yankee soldier scum.”
“We just happen to be southern boys, Sheriff, home from the war, fightin’ them rat-eatin’ rebels,” Bo Jenkins replied, his neck hackles already standing straight out! “All we want in this shithole town is a cold beer, Sheriff, and then we’ll be ridin’ out of your cesspool.”
“Easy, Bo,” remarked Smitty, “remember what happened the last time we met up with a rebel-loving Dixiecrat.”
“Easy, boys,” Jeff answered softly as he stepped up to the bar. “I’ll have a beer, barkeep.” The barkeep never moved.
“What’s that supposed to mean, fella?”
“Not a damn thing, Sheriff.”
“He called me a rebel-lovin’ somethin’. What’d you call me, fella?”
“He didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Sheriff!”
“You three Yankee scumbutts, git the hell outa my town right now, or I’m gonna lock y’all’s sorry asses in my jailhouse, y’all hear me?”
“Like hell you will,” echoed Bo.
“What’d you say?”
“He said likely you will, Sheriff, and I surely will agree,” Smitty quickly answered.
“Y’all better move yer asses.” The sheriff braced his legs and dropped his hand down to his gun butt.
“We hear you, Sheriff, loud and clear,” Jeff answered, downing the last half of Smitty’s cold beer. “Come on, fellas, let’s be gone. We’re biddin’ good day to you, Sheriff.”
Three ex-Yankee soldiers collected three horses, mounted ’em, collected Smitty’s horse from the blacksmith shop, and rode out of Staunton, Virginia, post haste.
“To hell with that lawman’s lousy town, his damn beer wasn’t all that tasty nohow,” Bo hollered back toward the town.
“I agree. But we’ll come to another town soon,” replied Jeff. “The people in Western Virginny are not all as unfriendly as them Staunton people are.”
“Yeah,” said Bo, “that sheriff musta got a cocklebur up under his saddle blanket over something that went on before we arrived there, and he was just taking it out on us. Don’t y’all reckon that’s so?”
“Maybe so. We three tired old troopers sure didn’t do nothing to stir his soup kettle, now did we?” Smitty replied.
One of the bloodiest engagements fought in the Shenandoah Valley had taken place on June 5, 1864, called the Battle of Piedmont, a Union victory that allowed the Federal Army to occupy Staunton, Virginia, and destroy many of the facilities that supported the Confederate war effort. Augusta County suffered again during General Philip H. Sheridan’s burning, which destroyed many farms and killed virtually all the farm animals. All the Confederates living in and around Staunton well remembered the Yankee Army.
Buffalo Gap came into view just before sundown. That small town wasn’t much to look at, but it had several saloons, a hotel, a mercantile store, a blacksmith shop, a livery stable, and three eating places, and most likely two or three whorehouses. “Let’s eat a steak at the saloon and sleep in that hotel tonight,” Smitty proposed.
“I’ll vote for that,” Bo answered.
“You two go ahead and sleep in the hotel. I’ll sleep in the stable next to my horse so I can watch our goods,” Jeff replied.
“Let’s eat our steak at the saloon and then all go sleep in the stable,” Smitty suggested.
“Good idea, Smitty, why didn’t I think of that,” Bo answered.
“Well, it’s plenty all right to see your blue soldier britches instead of gray uns. What’ll y’all soldier boys have to drink?” the barkeep drawled.
“Three whis—”
“Three cold beers,” Smitty interrupted as he punched Bo in his rib cage.
“And have the cook fry us up three beef steaks with some spuds for our supper, will ya, barkeep?”
“Y’all set yerselves