I

The winter leading into 1863 was every bit what Emmett Landry had hoped it wouldn’t be. Temperatures were low, the soil was hard, and the skies mostly covered. Caroline had been hoping for a white Christmas, and Emmett was sad to see it happen.

It was around that time Emmett had decided that the children of the Landry clan were all grown enough to be helping around the homestead. The 150-acre parcel was designated as a tobacco farm, and his eldest son would soon start preparing the fields for sowing. Matthew was almost a man now, and it was about time he started taking the responsibility off his old father’s shoulders. He decided early on to have Matthew work the new hands—Wiley and Clyde—in the fields. After the previous two ran for the north, Emmett let Matthew pick out the new ones, and it was only fair that he be the one to teach them properly.

On this early March morning, Emmett resigned himself to the barn. He’d built the upper floor addition when the fighting first broke out, figuring that the river would create a natural divide between north and south. In the rafters hung a large bell—just smaller than a church’s—that he would ring in case of Yankee movement. He sat on an old stool, stretching his back as he tried to work out the ache, his rifle leaning against the upper barn doors and the pullcord hidden just behind him.

If he leaned out that door he could see Eveline, just a few years younger than Matthew, running back from the creek through the garden with buckets of water. She stumbled as she tried to carry three, but Emmett thought she could get away with one more. Matthew ran over and helped her up, taking the buckets from her and leading her back home.

His attention was drawn to a clamor from below. Neighing and laughter. Lee’s high-pitched squeal, intertwined with Hosea’s low grumble. Emmett remembered what Caroline used to tell him—a boy who could hardly grow hair on his chest had no business handling a wild horse. He knew better, but agreed to have Hosea accompany each of their children as they learned how to care for the animals.

Emmett looked back out the upper barn doors and found Matthew stepping off the front porch. The boy waved to his sister and began walking back towards the fields. They had gotten an early start on the crop this season. Emmett and Matthew had collected additional seed for the year from Fredericksburg’s markets in December. Gerald Hoffsteder accompanied them after one of his hogs needed replacing. He told the Landrys there was a trail of blood leading from his pen to the woods of the Allegheny Mountains. That told Emmett one thing: the wolves were back.

Emmett allowed Matthew to steer the wagon. His first time. The trio made the trip there and back in just under a day, and just before the battle started. Emmett was glad to be gone, but Matthew was sorry he missed his chance to fight. By the time word had reached their farm, the bloodshed was over.

“Why in the hell would you wanna get yourself involved in that?” Emmett had asked his son.

“I want to defend my home,” his son stated flatly. “It’s only just that I fight for my country, the same as everyone else.” Emmett brushed him off, and instead had him tend to the hotbeds.

About a month later Mr. Thompson’s milk cow went missing. His only one, and by that point all the nearby markets were under careful watch or closed. Mr. Thompson wasn’t willing to risk his life by making the trip out to Fredericksburg—both for the realities of warfare and age—or willing to leave his family for Richmond. Instead, he struck a deal with Emmett—a colt for a milker—and it was Lee’s turn to drive.

“Which one you want, son?” Mr. Thompson asked Lee. He had two Morgans and a Narragansett, the latter would have been a first for the family. One Morgan had a copper color, the other was black with spots of grey. The Narragansett was a roan, and it was obvious Mr. Thompson was breeding it for sale; he had sheltered the animal behind the other two. Both Morgans were strong, calm, whereas the Pacer had a wild buck to it.

“The Morgan is a sturdy horse, Lee,” Emmett said. “It’s a good workhorse, you’ll need one soon.”

“I don’t like the black,” Lee said. His eyes kept wandering to the back of the barn, where the Narragansett snorted for attention.

“This one here is well-trained,” the breeder said, putting his hand on the copper Morgan. “He’s a heavy young lad, firm, and follows direction kindly.”

“I like the grey one,” Lee said. His father knelt down to whisper logic in his ear, and Lee tensed. “But we’ll take this one.”

Mr. Thompson, of course, was pleased. Emmett and Lee left with the horse and gave up their milk cow. Lee rode the Morgan back to the farm, struggling to keep it aligned with his father. He named it Dog, after their late dog. Emmett renamed it Mo, after its breed.

January left little mark after that. The rain came in drizzles, and while farmers spoke of late winter snows the Landry clan continued to work. The land froze through February, and was just now beginning to thaw. Emmett kept himself busy watching the Rapidan River.

So busy, in fact, that he hadn't heard the young Thomas Sheckle calling his name until Matthew fired his rifle.

“What in the—” he started.

“Sheckle boy’s been calling for you,” Matthew interrupted. He stood at the base of the northern edge of the barn, looking up at his father, smirking.

“Don’t mean you gotta put a hole in the dirt, boy.” He turned to Thomas Sheckle, about the age of Lee. A little more frail, perhaps, and a little less adept, but a good lad all the same.

“Mr. Landry,” the boy huffed. If not for the sprinkling of rain Emmett would have been able to see the sweat pouring off his face. “My daddy sent me, he needs you by the Fletcher house.”

“Why’s that, son?”

“I dunno, sir. He just told me to run. Quick as I could.”

“Well, all right. Why don’t you head on into the house, get yourself warmed up a bit.” He turned to yell down into the barn. “Lee! Take Thomas to the house! Have your mother fix a plate!”

There was no reply, but Emmett heard Lee’s scampered run. By the time he descended the ladder, Hosea had already brought his horse out of the stable.

“Figured you’d be heading off, then?” he asked.

“Yeah, get Opal for me too,” Emmett replied, taking the reins.

“Matthew as well, sir?”

“I think so. It’s time for him.”

—

They rode hard through the rain, covering the firearms as best as they could underneath their wool overcoats. Emmett’s hand remained firm on his pistol, his heart sinking with each stride closer to the neighboring farm. Matthew’s rifle remained slung over his shoulder, the barrel poking out over his head.

It took less than a quarter of an hour to make the ride. Sheriff Sheckle met them where the main road met the property, just as Emmett knew he would.

“Sheriff,” he nodded.

“Emmett,” replied the sheriff. “Thanks for coming out.”

“Anytime. Brought my boy with me. What are we looking at?”

“Probably better that I show you.”

They rode past the barren fields meant for corn and clover to the main house. Just like Emmett’s, it was built by the Fletchers with hand-hewn logs. Wooden shingles lined the roof and the smell of smoke permeated the air. Emmett and his son tied their horses—Buckeye and Opal—to a post just outside the front door, and as the late-winter wind whistled through the gap between the window pane and the logs, Emmett watched Sheriff Sheckle remove his hat and clutch it.

He swung the door open, and Emmett retreated, covering his eyes and nose with his sleeve. Blood soaked the walls. Streaks of red lined the wood-paneled floors and still ran damp against the single rug in the keeping room. Candles, pots, and blankets were strewn around the floor, while a stench of rotting meat filled the room. Emmett turned to see Matthew stepping deeper into the house, bending over to pick up a knife sticking up from the ground.

“Is there anybody here? Hardy? Sheryl?” Emmett asked through his shirt. The sheriff shook his head, and Emmett dropped his arm. “I take it they’re both dead?”

“Hardy is.”

“Show me.”

Sheriff Sheckle maneuvered his way across the room, stepping over red lines, careful not to repaint the bottom of his boots. He made his way to the fireplace and removed a fresh log, showing Hardy Fletcher’s mutilated face.

Matthew, standing right next to the fireplace, turned around and heaved into the corner. His breakfast came back to the world between gasps for air.

Emmett walked over and knelt down. He removed the rest of the firewood and pulled Hardy’s body from the furnace. His arms were covered with scratches, his belly with deep gashes. One of his eyes looked as if it had been clawed out, and he was completely naked.

“You didn’t strip him?” Emmett asked.

“And stuff him back inside? Hell no.”

“So what do you make of it?”

“I was hoping you would tell me.”

Matthew continued to gag in the corner as Emmett tore a chunk of wood off a log and hucked it at his son. Matthew raised his hand in obedience, and silenced himself after stifling one more surge.

“Wolf? Bear? Mr. Hoffsteder lost one of his hogs to a wolf late last year, could be that we should’ve hunted them down.”

“I found him in the hearth, Emmett. Wasn’t no wolf.”

“He was placed?”

“He was placed.”

“What about Sheryl?”

“You see that woman crying? You hear her screaming?”

“When’d you find the body?”

“Sent Thomas out for you first thing.”

“You mean to tell me that you found him just this morning? Look at him! He’s half eaten by slugs already.”

“I found Mr. Fletcher just this morning, just the way you did. Poor bastard.”

“My God, this stinks,” Matthew said.

“Watch your mouth, boy,” Emmett turned to him. “Why don’t you wait outside, keep that rifle handy but shout if people come calling.”

Matthew turned and walked away, but not before sneaking a glance at the dead man lying before the fireplace. Emmett let him, resolving to deal with the curiosity later, and the knife still in the boy’s pocket.

“All this blood—” the sheriff started.

“—too much for one person, I oughtta say,” Emmett finished. “Look at the walls, Jim, they’re almost completely covered. One man can’t cover the walls completely.”

The sheriff nodded slowly, and Emmett watched his eyes struggle to hold back tears. “I’ve been meaning to come up here and visit. Ever since Polly left, these two been lonely.”

“You don’t think this was either of them, do you?”

“No, boys loved their parents too much. James may have suckled at the teat for a little too long, but otherwise he’s harmless. I heard Polly died last year in Fort Darling, one of the fifteen. Poor bastard. Could’ve been one hell of a sheriff.”

“You always took a liking to that kid. James ran north?”

“Yeah, said he didn’t wanna fight. Last I heard he was somewhere around Chicago, but that was at least a year ago from Sheryl.”

“Any idea where she is?”

“Not one. Like I said, no cryin’, no screamin’. If that woman were alive she would’ve been kicking my door in first thing. By the looks of it, man has been dead for a few days. Smell of it, too.”

“So why bring me out here?” Emmett asked, rising from the body. “What do you need from me and my boy?”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to bring your boy along, first. Second, mind helping me dig the hole this afternoon? Third, I’d like to find Sheryl, bury them together.”

“Is that all?”

Sheriff Sheckle hesitated, rubbing the top of his bare head. “No, I don’t like this. He was tucked up in the fireplace, no fire. Why? Where’s Sheryl? Place is covered in blood, but the body is mostly intact. You really want to try to tell me this wasn’t murder?”

“You want to tell me that it was?”

“Not yet, but it wasn’t no animal neither. A bear would’ve torn him limb from limb, and look close, no bite marks from wolves…”

“There’s something else. I know you, Jim.”

“Yeah, there’s something else.” The sheriff reached over the hearth and ran his fingers along the wall, swiping at the red that leaked down them. He reached out to Emmett, displaying his newly colored palm. “You see that? This morning, when I walked in, these walls were dry.”