DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Lonesome
Dove:  The Series/The Outlaw Years" are the creations of Rysher Television,
and have been used without permission.  No copyright infringement is intended.

All original material included in this story
are the creations of Donna Castor 

Rated PG-13 for violence and language.

Background:  This story is written as a prequel to the LD episode, FEAR.  I
have taken some literary license with the information we were given in the
episode.  Instead of it being November of 1864 as Earl Hastings tells us, I
have begun this story in August of 1862, just as Lee's Maryland Campaign is
about to begin.  I made this change because Mosby always says he spent the
last year of the war in a Yankee prison camp.  Using that as a guideline, by
November of '64, he would have been in prison.  I have set the story in
Virginia and Maryland, because although Hastings says Delaware in the episode,
I can find no record of an incident or skirmish in that state. 

At the time of my story, Clay Mosby is a young captain in the Confederate
cavalry. Since Mosby never makes it clear whether he commanded an infantry of
cavalry regiment, I have made him a cavalryman. To me, he is perfectly suited
to the dash and daring of that branch of service.  He serves in the 14th
Virginia Cavalry, a unit he will later command as Colonel.  On this day, Mosby
has taken a troop out on patrol. His friend and lieutenant, Robert Shelby, is
with him.

VENGEANCE

     When the gunfire erupted from the woods on either side of the road, he
wasn't surprised.  Enraged, perhaps.  Infuriated. But not surprised, for he
should have known. He had often thought when riding down this particular byway
that it would be the perfect place for an ambush, if only the Yankees could
bring themselves to venture this far into their territory.  Up to now, the
Yanks had never dared, and Clay Mosby had allowed himself to relax his guard.
That had been a mistake, and now he was savagely furious, as much at himself
for becoming too complacent as at the Yankees who poured a rain of fire on his
men.
     "Dismount! Dismount!" he roared, gesturing with his arm.  The road was
slightly sunken, the banks at the edges provided them some cover.  His
troopers leapt from their horses, carbines in hand.  Mosby threw himself on
the ground and took aim, firing into the trees. Beside him, Robert Shelby
grunted and fell heavily, and for the first time, Mosby felt a twinge of fear.
     "Robert!" he cried, looking wild-eyed at his friend.  "How bad?"
     "Not bad. Just through the arm. It's a clean wound, don't worry."  Robert
grasped his arm with his hand, pressing to staunch the flow of blood.
     "Damn them..." cursed Mosby, crawling toward him.  He reached inside his
jacket for a handkerchief, tied it tightly around Robert's upper arm. "Loosen
this in a few minutes, I'm likely to be too busy to do it for you," he said,
and rolling away, lay on his belly again to fire into the woods.  But the
attack was already slackening, the Yankees were slinking away like the
cowardly dogs they were.  It was a perfect ambush, a classic hit-and-run
operation with no purpose behind it except to kill.  From within the leafy
shadows, Mosby saw several men in Yankee uniforms mounting their horses.  He
aimed, fired, missed, cursed.  Ther firing of the Yankees was sporadic now,
meant only to keep his men pinned to the ground. Mosby kept his eyes on those
men in the trees, shooting when he had a clear target.  When they turned their
horses and fled, riding eastward through the woods, he jumped to his feet.
     "Casualties?" he bellowed, looking about him at the men still crouched in
the road. Three men replied, saying they were slightly wounded.  Just beyond
Robert, one man lay motionless, another trooper was bent over him.
     "Carter Bellamy's dead," he announced, straightening. "Shot through the
heart."  He gestured to a tall soldier in gray who lay sprawled nearby. "So's
Horton. There are six more over there," he said, pointing to the spot where
the Yankee gunfire had first erupted from the trees.
     "My God..." muttered Mosby, looking at Robert in stunned dismay.  Carter
had been a boyhood friend to both of them.  Memories of the three of them
riding and hunting over half of Henrico County rose up to haunt him, and
striding over to Carter, he dropped to one knee and laid a gentle hand on his
shoulder. He glanced at the body of Frank Horton, his scout and tracker,
looked beyond him to the six who lay sprawled closer to the trees.  Rage,
swift and terrible, rose up full-blown in his heart, and kneeling there beside
the body of his friend, he made a silent vow.  After a moment, he stood and
beckoned to the corporal who had given the report.
     "Summerfield, detail three men.  Escort the wounded back to camp,"
ordered Mosby.  He pointed to the bodies in the road. "Bury these fellows, but
take Bellamy and Horton back with you."  He raised his voice, it echoed
stridently in the woods. "The rest of you mount up. We're going after those
Yankee sons of bitches."
     Robert Shelby got to his feet.  "I'm coming with you, Captain," he said,
loosening his tourniquet.
     Mosby didn't look at him.  "Lieutenant, I have just ordered the wounded
back to camp. Perhaps you didn't hear me."
     "With all due respect, Captain...this wound hardly deserves to be called
a wound. It's barely a scratch. And Carter was my friend, too."
     Mosby threw him a cursory glance and satisfied himself that Robert was
not much hurt, saw that he was determined to go.  He shrugged.  "Come along
then, Lieutenant.  Find your animal and mount up."
     The horses had scattered during the attack; it took them precious minutes
to hunt them down.  Mosby seethed with impatience while men chased their
mounts, and finally took off into the woods, leaving the others to follow when
they could. It was plain from the broken branches and trodden ground that the
Yankees had gone on through the woods, but this was his own country and he
knew that the trees thinned out a hundred yards ahead.  Whether they were
aware of it or not, the Yankees would break into open terrain almost
immediately, and remain in the open until they reached the river crossing into
Maryland.  He intended to catch them before they made it across the Potomac.

     It didn't work out quite the way he hoped.  He rode hard, but the Yankees
had split up and scattered.  He followed the tracks of six of them, but they
were moving fast and made it over the river before he could catch them. He was
silent and grim-faced; he set a killing pace, driving his men brutally to keep
up. Robert, riding beside him, knew from long experience that Clay was in one
of his black rages.  At times like this his friend was dangerous and deadly;
Robert feared it would go hard for the Yankees when they finally caught up to
them.
     When they reached White's Ford, Robert was surprised to find there were
no pickets posted there.  He had expected the men to have to fight their
way across the river, but Mosby ordered his troops over the Potomac and led
the way up the steep bank into Maryland unchallenged. Once on Federal soil he
motioned for a halt, then rode ahead and studied the tracks in the mud.  When
he picked up the trail of the same half dozen horses, he called for his men to
follow him and they rode off into the Yankee's country.

     *     *     *

     It was close to noon and five miles from the river when they came to a
farmhouse set well back from the road.  Mosby's instincts were screaming, he
was sure the Yankees had turned in at the lane, but he led his men past as if
he hadn't noticed it. A half mile down the road, he veered into a woodlot and,
pulling his field glasses from their case, trained them on the house.
     His patience was rewarded in a matter of minutes. One of the Yankee
soldiers appeared on the porch of the house. He lit a pipe, then started down
the steps and crossed the dooryard, headed for the barn.  He moved with casual
ease, taking his time.  He moved as if he owned the place, Mosby thought, and
he absently stroked his beard as he planned his next move.  His eyes narrowed
in loathing as he watched the man disappear through the open barn doors.
Concealed in the cover of the trees, he waited, but no more Yankees appeared
to follow the first.
     "Think he's the only one there?" he asked, half turning to Robert while
he kept the glasses trained on the house and barn.
     Robert shrugged. "Hell, I don't know.  Haven't you been following their
tracks?"
     Mosby flicked his eyes coolly over his lieutenant.  "What tracks?" he
asked sardonically. "I was lucky to find the ones at the ford. I'm hardly an
expert at tracking, Robert. That's what we had Horton for, and thanks to this
lot of murdering bushwhackers, he lies dead in the road.  He and Carter...."
His voice trailed away.
     "Clay, why are you doing this? You've deliberately disobeyed orders by
crossing the river...and you are exposing your men to capture or worse," said
Robert, his voice low. "You are taking a terrible chance here."
     Mosby stared at him.  "You, of all people, have to ask me that?  You know
why I'm doing it."
     Robert leaned forward in the saddle and hissed, "Vengeance has no place
in war, Clay.  Give this up.  We would have done the same to them, given the
opportunity.  Give it up and we'll make the damned Yankees suffer for it
another day.  War is just business, after all.  It's not personal."
     "It's personal to me," said Clay, and he cut his friend off when Robert
would have continued the argument.  He beckoned to a gray-clad trooper with a
jaunty clutch of feathers in his hat.  
     "Barbour, take a dozen men and circle around the rear of that barn. Leave
the horses and go on foot---and muffle those damned spurs," he said curtly.
"Reconnoiter the barn, look for the rest of those Yankees, but stay out of
sight. Wait for my signal to move, but if you hear any gunfire, come a-
running."  He turned back to the remaining five men and ordered brusquely,
"The rest of you, come with me."
      He waited until Barbour and his men moved off through the trees.  Mosby
backed his horse out of the woodlot and and rode toward the house. At the lane
he turned in, the troopers following behind and raising a cloud of dust.  A
woman and a young boy came out on the porch to watch their approach.
     "I bid you a good afternoon, gentlemen," the woman said. She raised her
hand and shaded her eyes from the sun, looked at them.  The boy beside her was
silent, but Mosby took note of his resentful expression.  He smiled at them
both disarmingly, swept his hat from his head and bowed from the back of his
horse.
     "My compliments to you, ma'am.  I am Captain Francis Clay Mosby,
Fourteenth Virginia regiment.  I wonder if I might trouble you for water for
my men and horses."
     She regarded him warily for a moment, as if trying to decide if he posed
a threat to her.  At last she shrugged helplessly, for she realized the
futility of refusing the Virginia captain.
     "I can't stop you, so help yourself," she said, "but I would ask that
your men refill our trough when they're through."  She placed a protective
hand on the boy's shoulder.  "My son Earl and I are alone here.  It would be a
help to us if you didn't make us extra work to do."
     Mosby still smiled, his teeth showing startlingly white in his beard. He
dismounted, signaling to his men to do the same.  "I will certainly order
them to replace what they use, Mrs....?" He raised his brow, glanced at her
questioningly.
     "Mrs. Hastings, sir."
     "Mrs. Hastings." He inclined his head.  "If I might further impose on your
kindness...?"  He gestured to Robert. "Would you look after my Lieutenant's
arm, please?  I'm afraid we met with a minor mishap on the road today...a
pistol misfired and the bullet winged him. It's barely a scratch, but I'd be
much obliged if you'd bandage it for him."
     She stared at him, her eyes narrowing in suspicion and fear.  She dared
not refuse, for though the captain's manner was polite, there was something
about him that frightened her. She was terrified that he would take it into
his head to search the place and if he did, she knew her husband would be
found out.  She nodded at last and said, "Of course I will.  Sir?"  She
inclined her head toward Robert. "Will you come with me?"  She indicated the
open door behind her and Robert, after a quick frown of warning at Clay,
followed her into the house. The boy made as if to follow them, but Mosby
moved swiftly to block his path.
     "Now then, son. Your Mama will be fine, don't worry about her. Why don't
you come along with us, show us the way to your water?" he said smoothly,
placing an arm about the boy's shoulder and compelling his obedience to what
was not, after all, a request.  He nodded to his men to follow and began to
move toward the barn.  His eyes scanned the fields behind it, but Barbour was
nowhere in sight.
     "How old are you, boy?" asked Mosby, his tone deceptively pleasant, as
they trudged across the lawn.
     "Not much younger than you, I reckon," replied the boy with irritating
impudence.  He stared with undisguised hostility at the Confederate officer.
"I'm fourteen next spring."
     Mosby grinned.  "By my reckoning, that means you've just turned thirteen.
Rushing things a bit, aren't you?"  They were approaching the barn and though
he couldn't see them, Mosby thought surely Barbour and his men were in
position behind it by now.  With lightening quickness, he drew his pistol and
pointed it at the boy's throat.
     "Now then, young man, let's get down to business, shall we?  The Yankee
soldier who went into your barn just a while back...who is he?"
     Though visibly shaken, the boy attempted to bluff.  "What Yankee?  There
ain't no Yankee in our barn!"
     "Oh, but there is."  Carefully, Mosby nudged the pistol into the hollow
of the boy's throat.  "I see that even at thirteen, you're already an
accomplished liar.  Is that how prospective Yankee killers begin their
training...by learning to lie?  Do you plan to join up with those murdering
bushwhackers any time soon, Earl?"
       Terrified, Earl cut his eyes at the barn.  "I ain't lying," he said,
his voice barely a whisper.  "I don't know nothing about no Yankee."
     Mosby tightened his grip on the boy's collar. "For shame...how your sins
do mount up." He smiled at the boy but his eyes were flat and cold. "Tell me,
little sinner.  Where is your father?  Where is Mr. Hastings today?"
     "He's...away.  He's in the army...the Confederate army."
     Through gritted teeth, Mosby said, "This lying is becoming a bad habit,
boy."  He shook him impatiently.  "I know your father is here.  I saw him go
into that barn right there, not ten minutes ago.  Let's just go in and look
for him, shall we?  I'll wager we'll turn him up quick enough."
     He began walking, dragging the defiant boy with him.  Just inside the
barn doors he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. He scanned
the place quickly, but the Yankee was not in sight.  He hadn't expected him to
be and he motioned to his men, indicating that he wanted them to commence a
search.
     His voice rang out into the stillness.  "I know you're in here, Hastings.
Come out now and give yourself up...and I won't shoot your boy."
     Silence.
      Deliberately, Mosby cocked the pistol.  The sound seemed to reverberate
in the quiet air.  His men froze, looking at Mosby in disbelief.  They waited,
all of them as still as statues, but the silence remained unbroken.
     Mosby looked at the boy and shrugged carelessly.  "Say your prayers,
Earl," he said.  He shoved the boy against a stanchion and raising his arm,
pointed the pistol squarely at his head.
     "Stop, damn you!"
     Above them, they could hear rustling and scraping.  Bits of chaff
filtered down from the loft, drifting through the slanting sunlight from the
open door.  The Yankee Mosby had seen appeared at the top of the ladder.
      "Don't kill him," he said.  "I'm coming down."

*     *     *

     They marched him out and tied him to the pasture gate.  Barbour's men
poured around the side of the barn and trained their carbines on the prisoner.
     "Search the place," ordered Mosby, pointing to two men.  "See if the rest
of them are here."
      From the house behind him, Mosby heard the woman begin to frantically
scream her husband's name.  With a detached look in his eyes, he glanced over
his shoulder.  He saw that Robert was holding Hastings' wife fast in his arms
while she struggled wildly against him.  Over her head, Robert was staring at
him.  Their eyes locked for a brief moment, Mosby understood what Robert was
trying to wordlessly tell him. He turned away, deliberately ignored the
pleading look in his friend's eyes.
     He moved close to his captive and began to question him.
     "Where have you been today, Mr. Hastings?" he said pleasantly.  "Took a
little ride into Virginia, did you?"
      "Where I've been is none of your concern, sir."
       Mosby's lips stretched in a smile.  "I admire your brave defiance of
me, sir...but it will do you no good.  What about the others who were with
you?  Where are they?"
      Hastings shrugged negligently, and Mosby's tone suddenly changed, became
harsh and accusing.
     "Do you admit to being a murdering bushwhacker, Mr. Hastings?  Do you
admit to killing eight of my men this morning on the road to Leesburg?"
     "I admit to nothing," Hastings declared.  "I am an honorable soldier of
the Union army, sworn to fight against you and all Rebels."
     Mosby circled him like a wolf.  "I see. You consider ambushing men and
then running away like a chicken-stealing dog to be honorable fighting, then."
He pushed his pistol into Hastings' ear and leaned close to his face.  "Well,
I don't think you're honorable, sir," he said through gritted teeth.  "I say
you're a coward..a damned disgrace to decency.  I say you deserve to die like
a coward, right here and now."
     It began to dawn on Hastings that the Confederate captain intended to kill
him. "You have no authority over me," he sputtered indignantly.  "You're no
judge, you're nothing but a traitor!"  He made a feeble attempt at bravado.
"I demand that you take me prisoner and abide by the rules of civilized
warfare."
     Mosby stared with cold eyes.  "Like you did?" he said, mocking him.
     Hastings regarded him helplessly, the memory of the morning's bloodbath in
his mind.  "You go straight to hell, you bastard," he sneered.  With contempt
and hatred, he spat directly at Mosby.  The spittle splattered on his cheek
and ran into his beard.  Slowly, deliberately, Mosby raised his hand and wiped
it away.
     "Now, that was an incredibly stupid thing to do, Mr. Hastings," he said.
"Such boorish behavior only serves to confirm my already low opinion of you."
      He moved away from the gate and stood to the side.  His voice suddenly
rang out loudly over the field. On the porch, Robert heard Mosby clearly, knew
that Mrs. Hastings was hearing him too.
     "I have considered the evidence, and find you guilty of murder," Mosby
declared, looking dispassionately at his prisoner.  "Therefore, I sentence you
to die for your crime."
    Hastings' wife began to scream hysterically.  Robert clasped her tighter
in his arms to keep her from running to her husband. The boy struggled against
the men who held him and when he could not get free, sagged helplessly between
them.
     Hastings' eyes flashed angry fire at Mosby.  "What kind of man are you,
to kill me in front of my wife and son?" he snarled.
     Mosby looked at him coldly.  "An eye for an eye, sir.  You killed eight
of my men in a cowardly ambush; now I shall kill you. Despite what the Lord
says, vengeance is mine, this day."
     He turned to his men, commanded them to form into line.  Hastings began to
strain savagely at his bonds.  "You won't get away with this, you son of a
bitch!" he screamed.
      "Won't I?" said Mosby quietly.  He raised his arm and looked at his men.
"Fire!" he ordered them.
      On the porch, Clara Hastings fainted in Robert Shelby's arms.

     They left Hastings tied to the gate, his blood dripping into the dust from
a dozen wounds.  Mosby mounted his men and trotted off down the farm lane
without a backward glance at the wailing widow or her dazed son.  The made
their way back to the Potomac and crossed over as uneventfully as they had
come.
     Robert, riding silently beside Mosby, looked over at his friend.  His
face was white under his tan, drawn and mournful.
     "Are you regretting what we did, Clay?" he asked.
     Mosby shrugged.  "It had to be done.  I regret only that war compels us
to do this kind of thing. We're becoming barbaric; God knows what we'll be
forced to do before this is all over...."
     Robert ducked his head.  "You didn't have to.  You could have let it go."
     "No Robert.  I couldn't have," said Mosby, staring ahead at the road.
     "But..."
      Mosby spoke violently.  "Do you think I took pleasure from killing a
man, even a cur like Hastings, in front of his family?" he asked savagely.
"Well, I didn't...but it had to be done.  Examples must be made, these
bushwhacking partisans have to learn we will not be intimidated by them. I
abhor their guerilla warfare; I will not condone it."
     "Your own cousin..." began Robert, thinking of John Mosby and his 43rd
Battalion of Partisan Rangers.  Mosby cut him off.
     "Don't talk to me about John.  I can't help what he does."
      Robert was silent awhile, then said, "You may think that's why this
happened Clay.  You may think you did it as an example to others, but it was
for Carter.  I know you...and you did this to revenge him."
      Mosby turned his head, looked vacantly out over the fields.  After a
moment he said,  "Perhaps there was a need for vengeance in it, yes."
     Robert shook his head sadly.  "I'm afraid this will come back to haunt
you, Clay."
     Mosby said only, "It already has, my friend."
     As if he could no longer stand to talk about it, he kicked his horse and
cantered ahead.  Robert, watching his receding back and thinking of the long
years to come with the memory of this day always between them, shook his head
sadly.  "And I'm afraid it always will," he murmured softly, to no one in
particular.

End

Donna Castor