I do not recall the incidents of the trip home. I do not remember the road or how we crossed the river or anything about it, though I have tried very hard to recall them. I only know that we went from Des Arc to Dover, Arkansas, and that somewhere on the road Henry Gibson and Harold Shultz joined us and that we all reached home together. Henry Gibson is dead. Schultz is insane and confined at State Hospital No. 2 at St. Joseph, and Brother James is in Idaho, so I have no way of refreshing my memory, and as the trip, although it covered nearly four hundred miles, was made forty-eight years ago, my foot steps have grown cold. It is more than probable that a single hint would rescue the entire journey and its incidents.

I recall events after we reached home with perfect distinctness. We remained out in the brush most of the time. Brother James, at such times as he could, met all those who wanted to join the army. Besides the boys on the east side of Platte River, he enlisted John and Wash Lynch, two of the Greenwood boys, Jack Smedley, Jim Reeves, William and John Reynolds and Richard Miller from the west side. In all there were some twenty-five or thirty. We secured a tent and pitched it in a secret place in what was then and now sometimes called "the hackle," about a mile east of Garrettsburg. We had scant provisions, some flour, sugar, coffee and bacon which we kept hanging in a tree. During the day we managed to partly satisfy our hunger on this diet, but at night we went out to see the girls and get good meals. In spite of the constant fear of discovery, we had a good time. During all this time the boys were collecting guns and ammunition. These they got wherever they could. Most often from friends who gave or loaned them, but sometimes from a straggling soldier or militia man who was caught away from camp.

Everything was ready and the night fixed for our departure. Doc Watson had informed us that there was a company of militia camped in his yard about three miles distant from our camp, cooking, eating and sleeping on his blue grass. Our plan was to march up near them during the night and wake them at daybreak and bid them goodby. During the entire time our camp remained there, we took no pains to conceal it from the negroes, for the most of them—and we thought all—could be trusted as far as our white friends. We made a mistake in one of them. He turned traitor and told the company at Doc Watson's that about two hundred "bush-whackers" were camped in the Hackle. They informed the authorities at St. Joe and the night before we proposed to execute our plans they marched two regiments—one infantry and one cavalry—down close to our camp and next morning surprised us by calling about sun up. It was clear they had a guide for they followed the trail through the thick woods directly to the tent.

The tent was stretched in a little valley and over beyond a deep gulch, so that it was impossible to approach nearer than fifty yards of it on horseback. This was too close to be comfortable to the eight men who were in it sound asleep. Without a moment's warning they fired into it. The aim was high and not a man was hit. They jumped and ran for their lives and all escaped. It was our good fortune that more of the boys were not in the tent. As it was to be the last night at home, most of the boys had gone to bid their friends goodby and had remained with them for the night. Brother James and I had gone home with Charley Pullins, who had joined our company, and, in place of returning to the tent, we all took our blankets and slept in his rye field.

Early next morning we were awakened by the barking of Pullins' dog. We jumped up and looked and listened. A regiment of infantry was passing along the road. They had a six gun battery with them and I could not mistake the creaking of the old truck-wheels. We picked up our blankets and ran to the house and threw them in at the back window, and then stepped around in front to watch them go by, some two hundred yards distant. We had no idea they were after us with all this equipment, but supposed they were simply marching from Easton to St. Joe and had probably missed the road. We knew nothing of the attack upon the tent, nor did we know that at that moment the cavalry regiment had divided into squads and was galloping from house to house all over the neighborhood, looking for the Gibson boys.

While we stood watching the procession pass we heard a rumbling noise behind us, and back of the house. I turned and saw the cavalry coming under lash. We ran for the front gate which led away from the infantry that was passing. A few rods beyond the gate lay a heavy body of timber and we made for it. As I went out I passed my fine saddle mare grazing in the yard, and I threw the yard gate wide open. By this time the soldiers had galloped around both sides of the house and commenced firing at us. At the first shot my mare threw up her head and tail and made for the gate. She was safe in the timber almost as soon as we were. When we reached the timber bullets were flying after us pretty thick, but I stopped and threw my double barrel shot gun to my shoulder. Brother James called to me to save my loads, but as we each had two six shooters and a double barrel shot gun, I thought I could spare one load so I gave it to them. They, like all soldiers at that time, were dreadfully afraid of the brush, and, whether it was my shot or the fact that we had reached the timber, they stopped firing and started around to the farther side of the woods. I lost sight of Pullins and James, and when I saw the soldiers start around the timber I ran back towards the house and into a cornfield on the opposite side. When I reached the fence at the farther side of the cornfield, I ran directly upon two of the infantry soldiers who had apparently become lost from the regiment. They were as much, if not more surprised than I was, for I had presence of mind enough to use the remaining load in my shot gun and they tore through the brush like wild deer.

I went up to the tent expecting to find the boys there. Instead, I found the tent riddled with bullets and several old guns which the soldiers had destroyed by hammering the barrels around a tree. I was, of course, greatly surprised, but after looking over the situation I was gratified at finding no evidence that any of our men had been killed. I learned afterwards that but one man had been killed in the whole raid. That man was George Reynolds. After the attack upon the tent the soldiers rode over to Reynold's house and found him, an old gray haired man, carrying a basket of corn to his hogs. They shot him where he stood and rode off and left him for the women of his family to bury, as the men in the community didn't dare come out of the brush to their assistance. One man, Rich Miller, who knew of his death, ventured out and helped bury him.

The raid scattered our little band of volunteers and all hope of gathering them together was abandoned. On the evening after the raid my saddle mare—the one I had let out through the gate at Pullins', after remaining in the woods all day, came up to the gate at the old home, as though she knew—and I believe she did—that it was not safe for her to be seen on the road in daylight. During the night that followed I located Brother James and he, Pullins and I decided to go back into the Confederate lines. Within a day or two we left expecting, as upon our preceding trip, to cross the river at Richfield. We passed through old Haynesville on the line between Clinton and Clay Counties, which was then a thriving village, but which I am told is now abandoned as a town, and then on directly toward the river. There was considerable Union sentiment about Haynesville and some one there must have suspected our purpose and informed a company of militia that happened to be in the neighborhood. We rode leisurely along, not suspecting that we were being followed, and, when we reached the home of Reuben J. Eastin, some six miles south of Haynesville, stopped for dinner. Eastin was related to Pullins and the family were all glad to see us, and invited us into the house and the old gentleman directed his son to take our horses to the barn and feed them. I told him we had better go to the brush and feed our horses and have our meals sent to us. He said there was no danger as there were no soldiers in the community.

We all pulled off our belts and threw them, with the navies in them on a bed and prepared for dinner. As I stepped across the room to a looking glass to comb my hair, I glanced out the door and saw a company of militia coming up the road from the north under whip. Brother and I sprang for our navies and buckled them around us and ran out at the back door and into a corn field, which was on the south side of the house. Pullins, who was not accustomed to warfare, was so frightened that he forgot his guns. It was August and the weather was very hot. We ran down between two rows of corn as fast as we could, Pullins in front, Brother James behind him and I in the rear. I got hot and called to them not to run so fast, but they did not hear me and kept going. I stopped and sat down. I could then hear the horses galloping around to the farther or south side of the field, so I turned and ran east toward the main road which ran in front of the house, and along the east side of the field. When I got to the fence I looked both directions and saw no soldiers. They had evidently anticipated that we would all make for the heavy timber which lay south and west of the field, and had undertaken to head us off in that direction. There was a woods pasture just across the road, with only large trees in it, but I saw beyond the timber a thicket which seemed to skirt a draw or gully and I made up my mind to cross the road and take my chances. I remember thinking that if I should be discovered while crossing the open pasture there would probably be no more than four or five men in the squad and that I could get behind a big tree and wait until they came close to me, when with my skill in the use of the navy, I could protect myself against them. I jumped over the fence and made good speed, taking no time to look back, until I reached the thicket. Not a man of them saw me. They had left a gap open, and I was out of the trap. I followed the brushy ravine some distance and came to another cornfield. In passing through this field I came upon a water melon patch, completely surrounded by the corn. I decided this would be a good place to stop and wait for developments. I took a big ripe melon out into the corn and proceeded to supply as much as possible the dinner the soldiers had caused me to lose. I knew I was safe, but I was not so sure about my companions. In a few minutes I heard two pistol shots. They were from Brother James' navy. I had heard the report too many times to be mistaken. This assured me that he had not at that moment been captured. In about five minutes I heard two musket shots, and this alarmed me. I felt perfectly sure if they had fired at Brother James they had not harmed him and he had escaped without returning the fire, but I could not be so sure about Pullins as I knew he had no weapons with him. No further shots were fired.

I remained in the corn field until nearly night and then started for the home of my sister, Mrs. Wilson, who lived about three miles north and east. I reached her house about nine o'clock at night, but did not go in. She brought food to me in the timber near by and remained with me waiting and watching for Brother James and Pullins. We were both very uneasy and greatly feared they had been captured. We knew either or both of them, if alive and not captured, would come to her house to find me before attempting to go on to the south. About midnight Brother James came in. He knew nothing of Pullins. We watched for him all night but he never came. Next morning Mrs. Wilson saddled her horse and rode over to Eastin's to see if she could hear of him. When she returned she told us they had captured Pullins and taken him to Liberty. The last word Pullins' young wife had said to me as we left home, was, "Take good care of Charley." There was little that could be done for him now, but in the hope that we might be able to do something, or that, as he was a perfectly innocent boy, making his way south for safety, he would be paroled and released and allowed to return to his home. We remained in the brush a week waiting for him. During this time Brother James gave me a full account of his escape.

He said when he and Pullins reached the south side of the corn field they could hear the horses coming and decided it would not be safe to attempt to get out into the timber, so they put back into the field and became separated. In a short time men were all around the field and in the field riding through the tall corn. When James discovered that men were in the field he crouched down beneath a bush and remained perfectly quiet in order that he might hear the approach of the horses through the rattling corn. He had remained in this position but a short time when he saw a single horseman coming toward him. He drew his navy and lay still. When the man got very close he arose and shot him in the leg. He then shot his horse and ran. He could easily have killed the man, but did not want to do it. At the sound of these guns all the pursuers started in the direction of the supposed fight. James heard them coming and decided to go back toward the house in the hope of finding it unguarded. In that case he would secure his horse. When he got to the fence near the barn he set his foot upon a rail and raised his body to look. At that moment he saw two soldiers on guard and they saw him. They raised their guns to fire, but James threw up his hands and said, "Don't shoot." They thought he had surrendered and dropped their guns. In the twinkle of an eye he fell back off of the fence and put back into the heavy corn. The soldiers both fired at him but he had the fence as a shield and their shots were harmless. The guards then yelled, "Here he is," and the remainder of the soldiers in the field and out supposing the musket shots had killed one or more of us, all galloped for the barn. James heard them going from all directions and kept close watch that none who were in the field might come near enough to see him. When they were all well on toward the barn he made quick time back through the field and into the woods beyond. He had not gone far in the timber when he heard them coming again, and, as he was almost worn out and feared he would not be able to get out of reach of them he climbed a tree that had thick foliage upon it and remained there the whole afternoon. He could hear the soldiers riding around the field and through the corn and in the timber near him. When night came they gave up the search, and James climbed down and made his way to Mrs. Wilson's.

By the end of a week we had the full story of Pullins' fate. They had taken him to Liberty and there pretended to try him, found him guilty, but of what crime no record will ever show and no man will ever know, sent him back to old man Eastin's, where he was shot by twelve men. They then plundered Eastin's house, took his horses, harness and wagons, bedding and table ware, provisions and everything movable and moved him, a blind and helpless cripple, out of his house and under the trees of his orchard, set fire to his house and burned it to the ground.

We could do nothing but go on, so with sad hearts and without horses or blankets, with nothing but our trusted navies and plenty of ammunition, we skulked our way to old Richfield again, some fifteen miles from Mrs. Wilson's. We reached the river just about dark and lay in the bluffs all night, without food or shelter. Early in the morning we ventured down to a house and asked for breakfast. We knew by the way we were received that he was a southern man, but we were too cautious to make our wishes known at once. By the time breakfast was over we decided we could trust him, so we asked him if he knew of any way we could get across the river. He told us there was a man on the other side of the river who had a skiff and made a business of setting southern men across, but he was very cautious and would not come to this side except upon a signal. We then asked him if he would assist us and he said he would, but we must be very careful to evade the northern soldiers on guard and not let them see him as if they suspected him they would probably kill him and burn his home. We assured him that we were discreet, so he went with us. He took us a short distance above Richfield and into a timbered bottom, and when we got to the road which paralleled the river he told us to stop and wait for him. He passed across the road and out into the willows that grew between the road and the water. While we stood waiting a man and woman approached through the timber from the west singing Dixie at the top of their voices. We knew this was a ruse to deceive just such men as ourselves. Federal soldiers were so near that no sincere southern person would sing Dixie at the top of his voice within their hearing. We ran back into the timber and lay down behind a log. The couple passed, still singing, and went on toward the town. In a few minutes our man came back. We left our hiding place and followed him to the river. The man was there with his boat waiting for us. We jumped in. Our friend shoved the boat from shore and put back into the willows. Our boatman told us that soldiers both above and below the town had been trying to get him to come across all morning, but they did not know his signal and he would not come.

Our man in crossing towards us had taken a course which kept his boat out of view, and as he went back he kept behind an island until well toward his own shore and out of range. As the boat passed out from behind the island they discovered us and commenced shooting, but we were too far away to fear their bullets.

We landed safely and then, having passed over what was considered our greatest difficulty, began to think about other troubles still ahead. Independence was full of Federal soldiers. Lone Jack and Pleasant Hill were no better. Roving bands of foragers and scouts kept the country between closely patroled. We had but one hope and that was that we might chance to fall in with Quantrell on one of his raids. William Hill, a cousin of ours, lived near Pleasant Hill, and if we could reach him, we felt sure he could tell us when Quantrell might be expected in that locality. We left the river and walked cautiously through timber and fields, stopping at farm houses for food only after night, sleeping on the ground without blankets and finally reached Hill's place. He was at heart a strong southern man, but had managed to deceive the Union soldiers and his Union neighbors. We asked about Quantrell. He informed us that some of his neighbors belonged to Quantrell's band, and that Quantrell was at that time in camp about three miles away. We did not know Quantrell nor any of his men and asked Hill to go with us to the camp. He objected. Said that he had acted the part of a northern man so completely that Quantrell had threatened him, believing him to be in earnest. We told him if he went with us he would have nothing to fear. He seemed not to understand how this could be if we knew neither Quantrell nor his men. We then explained that Jesse and Frank James were with Quantrell and that they lived in Clay County near the home of our sister, and were well acquainted with us by reputation.

Hill finally consented and saddled horses for all and took us to the camp. He introduced us to Quantrell and then in turn we met Frank and Jesse James, Cole Younger and his brothers and other leaders of the company. We explained Hill's relation to us; that we had known him from his birth in Tennessee and that he was with us at heart. They told him to go home and fear nothing from them. Hill took his horses and left well satisfied.

The whole company remained in camp some days, and during the time one of Hill's neighbors gave Brother James a fine mare, bridle and saddle. I have always thought that Hill furnished the money for this equipment and gave it in the name of a trusted neighbor. It was not long until a fine outfit was presented to me. I took it and said nothing. I liked the horse, but did not like the saddle. It was an old dragoon government saddle with brass mounted horns both before and behind.

About this time a detachment of Shelby's men came north on a scout. Quantrell joined them and attacked Pleasant Hill and drove the Union forces to Lone Jack. He followed and defeated them at Lone Jack and drove them out of that section of the country.

We returned to Pleasant Hill and were received with great cordiality by the people. The women baked cakes and pies and sent them into camp, which were fully appreciated. At the pay office which had been maintained by the Federal officers we found large quantities of greenbacks of small denominations lying on desks and tables and scattered upon the floor. It was counted of little value at that time and in that community. One dollar of Confederate money was worth five of the governments' greenbacks.

After a rest, the scouting parties that had joined Quantrell in the attack upon Pleasant Hill and Lone Jack, started south. Quantrell traveled with us about three days, and I seriously contemplated joining that band and remaining in Missouri. I mentioned the matter to Brother James and he discouraged the idea. He said winter was coming on and the camp equipment was inadequate, besides he preferred that I should go into the regular service. I took his advice, and have since had many reasons to be thankful to him for it. We finally reached a place in Arkansas called Horsehead, where winter quarters had been established. At that time I did not belong to the army, as my term of enlistment had expired, but at Horsehead I enlisted for three years, or during the war. My horse, saddle and bridle belonged to me, hence my enlistment was in the cavalry. During the early part of the winter the officers decided that as horse feed was so scarce, the horses should be sent into Texas to graze through the winter, promising that each man's horse should be restored to him in the spring. I parted with my horse reluctantly, but of course, after enlistment had to obey orders. I never saw him again and when spring came I was compelled to enter the infantry. Brother James and many others were in the same condition.

We were assigned to a company of Missouri troops. Our captain's name was Miller. His home was in northeast Missouri. Our first lieutenant's name was Miller also, and his home was in Burr Oak Bottom, Kansas.

The first business in the spring was the guarding of the line across Arkansas from Fort Smith to Helena. We had our portion and did our work. Later General Holmes was given command and marched us across the state and, I have always thought, very foolishly attacked the fortifications at Helena. The river was full of gunboats and if he had been successful he could not have held the place. He was repulsed, however, and his troops badly cut up. The Missouri troops declared they would serve no longer under Holmes. Whether for this or some other reason, he was removed and command given to General Drayton.

I do not remember that Drayton did anything but keep us lying in camp, drilling every day, with now and then a dress parade, with all the women and children in the country invited to come and see us. This was very distasteful to us. We felt that we were not there to be raced around over the hot sand in the hot sun just to be looked at. Aside from this we had a pretty good time cock-fighting, horse racing and playing seven-up for tobacco.

General Price came back to us about Christmas and the Missouri boys planned a great celebration. Christmas day about five hundred took their guns and marched around to the headquarters of each colonel and made him treat or take a bumping against a tree. We then marched up to General Drayton's headquarters. His negro cooks and waiters were getting supper. They were soon cleared away and the general was called out. He backed up against a tree as though he expected to be shot, but he soon found we were only bent upon a little fun. The boys produced their fiddles and set to playing. Then they sang and danced and now and then we fired a volley just to make the woods ring. The General seemed to enjoy the fun and told the boys to play on the bones. One quickly replied that we had been playing on bones all winter and pretty dry bones, too. The General saw the joke and smiled good-naturedly.

We next moved up and took possession of a six-gun battery. The muskets were not noisy enough. The first round brought Drayton. He ordered us to stop, but we told him it was Christmas and paid no attention to him. He sent for General Price, and as the General and his body guard rode up we ceased firing and set to waving hats and cheering. "Pap," as we called General Price, told us we could have our Christmas fun but we must not disturb the battery. That was enough. We always did what "Pap" told us to do. If he said fight we fought, and when he said run we ran.

It was too early to stop the fun, so we decided to go over and see the Arkansas boys who were camped about two miles away. We found on arriving that the boys who wore straps on their shoulders had organized a dance in a big tent and invited the girls for miles around. The dance was in full swing. The guards around the tent halted us and asked if we had a pass. We said "Yes, this is Christmas," and passed on. We made no noise or disturbance, but walked quietly up around the tent, and each man cut himself a window so he could look in on the scene. The shoulder straps were furious and came swarming out like hornets. We laughed at them and told them to go on with the dance, but they would not do it and sent for General Price. We learned this and started back, and met the General going toward the Arkansas camp and cheered him wildly. He passed on and said nothing, though I am sure he knew we were the boys he was after. We went into camp and nothing was ever said about our frolic.