Read an Excerpt from Last Stand at Bitter Creek
Prologue
Elk County, Pennsylvania
The Union Army officer considered indiscriminate killing distasteful and not a part of his moral makeup, but expediency—and reward—often dictated the course of events, even when his mission involved ambushing soldiers of the same army he served and fought for. He sat astride a black quarter horse, waiting for the soldier riding toward him.
"They're headed our way, Sir," said the approaching rider.
"How long?"
"Half and hour, or so, I'm guessing. You'll be able to see 'em down where the road kinda curves," he said, pointing his finger.
The colonel swiveled in the saddle and scanned the timberland behind him where his handpicked band of cavalrymen had positioned themselves along the hillside bordering the winding ravine below.
"Head up-top with the others," he told the soldier. "Let's get this over and done with and move out of here."
He had forged his reputation on the ability to surprise the enemy, a tactic at which his men excelled, a tactic that served as the linchpin for most of their victories. The men waited, the snare in place, their backs against the sun.
The only difference today was the quarry. He glanced down at the trail awaiting the small convoy his men had been shadowing. Soon, soldiers of the same Union army would find themselves trapped.
* * *
Lieutenant Castleton rode point, leading two wagons equipped with false bottoms, fortified by iron support frames, that carried their hidden cargo along a rocky ravine trail surrounded by rugged and untamed woodland. Flanked by towering black maples, the trail they followed for several hours narrowed and gave way to a sharp bend. As he slowed the wagons to negotiate the curve, the guide riding beside him raised a hand in a signal to stop.
"We have company, Lieutenant," said the guide, motioning to the tree line above them. "You expecting a special escort or something?"
Castleton looked up and raised a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sunlight. Union soldiers on horseback—he couldn't tell how many—were fanned out along both sides of the gorge. A supplemental military escort made no sense, since it would call unnecessary attention to the expedition. Eight soldiers seemed sufficient for this assignment. He turned in the saddle, ordered his men to wait, and then called out to the soldiers flanking the ridge above him.
"Who's in charge up there?" he called out.
No one answered. Seconds later, he heard the rhythmic clicks of cartridges racked into the chambers of carbines and a chill crawled along his spine.
"Hold your fire!" said the lieutenant. "We're Union! Hold your fi—"
Both sides of the steep ridge exploded. Castleton yanked back on the reins, trying to steer his horse out of the line of fire, but the gunshots spooked the animal and it jerked sideways, bucking him out of the saddle. A volley of bullets ripped into the earth beside him as he landed, and rolled into thick foliage, taking cover behind a piece of rotted timber. Three of his men sprawled face down in the dirt, bleeding. Another screamed as he toppled from the nearest wagon, holding his stomach, hands soaked in blood.
Castleton burrowed against the ground, wishing he could disappear into it as the men above rained down more gunfire. Bullets ripped through tree limbs, scattering leaves that danced in the air before fluttering to earth. Baffled and frightened, he glimpsed the boots of another soldier running past him, cowered at the sound of more gunshots, and then saw the trooper spin like a tangled marionette before collapsing.
Somehow, he had to get away from this killing ground. He slipped the gun from his holster, crawled out of the bushes, and pushed himself along the ground, inching closer to one of the wagons where he could take cover. The crack of another gunshot startled him, just before hot metal drilled into his thigh, The impact slammed him face down, and he choked out blood. Dizzy, disoriented, and battling off nausea, he hugged the ground, holding his breath, trying to stay motionless.
Seconds later, a stillness fell across the bullet-riddled ravine, the odor of gunpowder \ in the air. He heard what sounded like horses and wagons moving through the foliage, their hooves crunching against twigs and dead leaves. There were voices. Maybe help was near.
"Get everything out of those wagons. Don't waste a minute. I want us out of here by nightfall." The man spoke with authority, someone accustomed to taking charge.
"You two," said the same man, "search their pockets, satchels, saddlebags. You know the drill by now."
Perspiration soaked Castleton's woolen collar, making him want to scratch. His thigh felt as if a metal band had been tightened around it. He craved water; just a taste, a few drops. Anything. Seconds later, he sensed the presence of someone standing over him, so close he could sniff the man's stale breath.
"Sergeant Kincaid."
"Yes, Sir?"
"Tell me, Sergeant, do dead men breathe?"
"Don't think so, Sir," said the second voice, followed by a soft snicker.
Castleton kept his eyes closed and, for some reason, remembered his mother once telling him, as a child, What you can't see can't hurt you.
"Make sure everyone here is dead."
Castleton froze and his eyes snapped open. An inch from his face he saw a mud-splattered military boot. And heard the sound of a hammer being cocked, followed by a distant click…
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