May, 1856— A cool, late-spring dawn had just broken over the Kansas prairie. Monty called Robert’s name, quietly, a couple of times. With everything that had gone on in the past few days, he knew that startling a man sleeping with a loaded pistol at his side was not a good idea.
He saw Robert’s eyes dart open and the instinctive grab for the weapon, stopping when he recognized Monty standing next to the pile of straw that he had been resting on. He and the younger Robert had become close friends after both had arrived in Kansas several months ago.
“Get up, we need to go!,” said Monty. “Something terrible has happened. I’ve already got the horses saddled.” He shoved a cup of hot coffee into Robert’s hands. “Drink fast, and grab your gear.”
“What now? What is it? Where are we going?,” asked a puzzled Robert.
“I’ll tell you once we get going.”
Monty watched as Robert gulped down the weak coffee and pulled on his boots. Having slept in their clothes, both were already dressed. He looked in his saddle bag and the only extra clothes he had brought along, a few shirts, some drawers, and a couple of pairs of socks, were still there. The events of the last few days raced through his mind. It was Tuesday, he was pretty sure. It had been less than a week since it all began. Last Wednesday, the long-anticipated attack on Lawrence, the town that served as the headquarters of the free-state movement in the Kansas Territory, had finally occurred. He had seen it all, crouched beside Robert, as they hid in a shed. Proslavery thugs from neighboring Missouri, with the backing of federal authorities, had stormed into the town. They called themselves a “sheriff’s posse,” but to Monty and others in Lawrence, they were nothing more than an invading mob. They burned the town’s main hotel, destroyed the offices of its newspapers, and looted most of the shops. Monty and Robert had been frustrated and angry, disagreeing with the command from their superiors in the free-state militia to stand down and not oppose the attack. Since then, however, they had come around to believing that it had been the correct decision, as they had been hopelessly outnumbered. Any resistance would have been futile, and would have resulted in many deaths.
In the aftermath of the attack, Monty and Robert had fled Lawrence. The men in their unit had scattered. There was no one to lead, at least for now, and Robert had insisted on getting Monty away from danger. It would have been a coup for the degenerates who attacked the town to get their hands on such a prominent figure in the free-state cause as Monty, a former congressman and a captain in the militia. Several of the movement's leaders had already been captured and imprisoned. Monty and Robert had first headed east of town, but the roads were blocked by the ruffians, forcing them to turn and head south, toward Ottawa. They covered almost twenty-five miles, resting only a few hours in the darkest hours of the night. Early the next morning, they came across a friendly settler, a free-stater living in an isolated cabin with his family, who welcomed them and let them stay in his barn. They had hoped to get on their way the next day, to circle around to the west and eventually make their way back to Lawrence, but the settler told them that slavers continued to patrol all the nearby roads and paths, and that it was not safe to leave. Each day, the settler ventured out as a scout, but he came back with the same news. They had been in hiding for four days, growing more impatient with each. But last evening, Monty had learned of something even worse.
Monty was glad to now finally be on the move, but he was worried. The danger had not passed. They could still be ambushed at any minute. Despite this, whatever the risk, he had to go and see for himself what had happened, if the news received last night was correct. He wanted it to not be, but he had a sinking feeling that it was.
As they rode, he could sense Robert’s annoyance at the lack of information. After their horses had been trotting to the southeast for a few minutes, the inevitable question came.
“Anytime you want to tell me where we’re headed, and why, I’m all ears.”
“We’re going to Pottawatomie Creek,” Monty responded, “About twenty miles away. After you retired to the barn last night, a man stopped by the cabin. Said that there had been an attack around there. Several men hacked to death with swords. I need to investigate and report back to our militia leaders. I doubt any of them are as close to the place as we are.”
“Hacked to death, you say? Goddamn border ruffians,” responded a dismayed Robert. “First the attack on Lawrence, and now this. Have the slavers lost all decency?”
“It’s worse than that,” replied Monty.
“How could it be?”
“If what I was told last night is true, the victims were slavery men and the killings were done by our men, by free-staters.”
“That can't be. I don't believe it,” replied a shocked and skeptical Robert.
“The fella last night seemed pretty sure of it.”
As they rode on in silence, Monty sighed and shook his head in disgust. Another day, and more violence in Kansas. How had it come to this? Americans not only killing their fellow Americans, but now butchering them. Could this have been done by the side that he was supporting, that he was fighting for? Had he been a fool, he wondered, to leave a safe and prosperous life in Ohio to come here and join the fight against slavery? On most days, when such questions entered his head, he eventually answered no, concluding that being part of this cause was worth it. On this brisk morning in late May, as he headed toward the site of a massacre, he was not so sure.
