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A War Slow A-Dying by Ron WUloughby Luke stepped from Virginia into Kentucky at the top of the ridge, the last one he had to cross. From here on he could follow the river home, and as he moved downhill he thought of what he would do when he got there. His daddy would be finished with the plowing by now, but Luke would be in time to help with the planting. And when that was done he was going fox hunting. He would sit around the fire with his friends, sipping corn, telling tales, and listening to the sweet music of the hounds coursing the ridges. Luke pictured the fox running through a shadowy clearing, stretching out for every ounce of speed, and dodging through trees, lather dripping from its lolling tongue. Close behind would be the dogs, their voices describing the chase to the men sitting around the fire in the hollow below. Luke's pulse quickened in anticipation. As absorbed as he was, Luke still saw the two mounted men long before they saw him. They were coming up the steep forest trail toward him, their heavy-footed horses moving slowly. Luke frowned. "One more day will see me home," he thought, "if I can just stay out of trouble." He could have ducked into the woods and hid down by the river until the men rode on by. That would have been the smart thing to do, considering how torn up Kentucky was over the war. But the war was done, and he had been humbled enough at Appomatox. He was damned if he was going to slink off like an old cur dog and hide under a bush. So 22 he kept walking, as he had been for the past three weeks, but his shoulders were tense as the distance narrowed between him and the two strangers. The meri appeared to be father and son, the father bearded and heavyset, the son smooth faced and slender, eighteen or nineteen years old. They were dressed in rough black pants and long-sleeved shirts, with high top shoes and broad-brimmed black felt hats that shaded their eyes. The younger one carried an old rifle. They were only about two hundred feet apart now, and the riders had not yet seen Luke. "Reckon they ain't been in the army," he thought. "Nap like that and you don't live long." Just then the men spotted him, reined in their horses, and watched him silently as he approached. The bearded one spat a brown stream of tobacco juice into a laurel thicket beside the trail. Luke was close enough to see the deep crow's feet at the corners of the man's eyes. "Hidey, Reb," said Crow's Feet. "Hidey," said Luke, still shuffling toward them. He wished he had his rifle, but they had made him give it to some well-fed bluebelly with good shoes. "Looks like you come out second best to a bobcat, Reb," said the young one. Luke ignored the mocking tone. "Been a spell since I had me a bath and some clean clothes," he said. He was nearly even with them now, and he saw that Crow's Feet had a pistol stuck in his belt. "Heading home, air you?" asked Crow's Feet. "Yep," said Luke. He decided to stop and talk a minute. No use to rile them by walking right by. "Figure to get home in time to help with the planting," he said. "My daddy 's getting on, and needs a hand." "Where you from, Reb?" "Oak Branch, maybe twelve more miles. Where you from?" "About three mile back, up Hog Fork." Crow's Feet squinted at Luke from the shadow of his hat brim. "You fight at Cold Harbor?" Something told Luke to lie, but he wasn't going to hide behind a lie any more than he was going to hide behind a tree. "Yep," he said, standing a little straighter. "I was with Stonewall up and down the Valley. We fought prĂȘt' near everywhere in Virginia and Maryland." "They killed my oldest boy at Cold Harbor." Luke looked at the...

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