Fall 1862 The Sequatchie Valley Tennessee

"No, Joe T., surely not," was Mary's distracted reply.

Joe T. responded, "Maybe those tough mongrel Texas boys of Hood and Longstreet's rough bunch will give Bragg some will, some fight." Scout, J. N.'s Indian Yellow Dog, asleep on the hooked rug near the fireplace, lifted his tan, yellow head and his pointed ears perked up. He sniffed and trotted quickly to the closed front door and stood there looking at it.

He looked back at Mary as if to say, "Open it, please ma'am."

She said, "Okay, Scout. I'm coming." Scout jerked his head back towards the door and growled as the hoof beats sounded on the river gravel road that bordered the house's front yard. "Joe T., someone's out there! Get the shotgun, those bloody blue bellies may be skulking around the valley again." Joe T. went to the corner of the room nearest the fireplace and picked up the shotgun, always loaded. Ready. Scout scratched the door. "Easy back, Scout," Joe T commanded in a low voice as he went past Mary to the door, cocking both barrels of his blued 16-gauge scattergun.

A muted "Hello in the place! Mother, it's me," came from the outside. She'd know that voice in a tornado. Mary nearly knocked Joe T. and his shotgun across the room as she bounded to the door, jerking it open. She and Scout raced through the door and into the dark night. The brightness from the opened door blinded J. N. for a moment but he took the ten steps up to the porch two at a time. They were as familiar as his worn brogans.