Autumn 1861Billy Drury, Farmer
Clay County, Missouri
When the war started, I supposed I’d stay neutral—a foolish notion in retrospect. The problem being that it just wasn’t one of your regular wars out here. No brass bands. No military balls. No parades or other such accouterments. Not even any front lines.
Out here, in the borderlands, it was guerrilla war—night-time, shadow war, bloody and hate filled. Farms were burned and pillaged. Men were dragged from their beds and assassinated. Women were cast into prison and held without trial. Spies and informers were everywhere.
I was up on the roof one pleasant afternoon—an Indian summer day, it was—doing some needed repairs before the onset of winter. I was banging away with my little hammer, when the dogs, down in the yard, started barkin
