MASSACRE AT BAXTER SPRINGS

Billy put his thumb on the hammer of his Merril Carbine and pulled it back to be sure the copper percussion cap had not fallen off.  A month ago, he was a Wisconsin farmer and had only used a weapon to hunt.  His military training had been brief and he felt unprepared for combat.  He could feel his muscles tightening and blood pounding in his ears.  He turned his attention to his pistol; rotated the cylinder of his .44-caliber Colt, checking each of its six chambers.  Corporal Will Hopper was close on his right.   At least he was among men used to fighting, not a raw volunteers like himself.  Hopper did not seem alarmed at the prospect of action.   Scars on his body testified to battles he had survived during two years in the cavalry.  Billy felt safer with Hopper by his side.

Two troopers fell in behind General Blunt and Major Curtis, one carried the new division flag, the other the Stars and Stripes.  The four rode toward the mysterious horsemen still advancing down the hill at a walking speed.  From somewhere along the advancing line, there was a puff of white smoke, quickly followed by the crack of a pistol shot.  The Union officers ducked as a bullet buzzed a few feet over their heads.

“Back to our lines, gentlemen,” shouted Blunt, as he spun his horse around.  “Prepare for action.”

“Who do you think they are?” asked Curtis as he galloped alongside Blunt.

“It must be Quantrill,” said Blunt as he spurred his horse faster.

“Scouts reported Quantrill was in Texas,”.

“Obviously the scouts were wrong, Major.  It wouldn’t be the first time.”

The small detachment galloped back behind the protection of the eighty-five troopers of the Wisconsin and Kansas Cavalry units.

As they passed, Lieutenant Bannister shouted, “Third Wisconsin.  Are your pieces ready to fire?”

“Yes, sir,” each one answered as the lieutenant trotted passed them.

“We’ll use the carbines first, then go to our pistols,” yelled Bannister.

Once the weapons were checked, the men raised their carbines to show they were ready. Bannister circled his horse around, rode back behind the line, and then pulled his sword from its scabbard.

“Third Wisconsin….  On my order…  Ready to fire,” he raised his sword high.   “Take aim….”

The troopers leveled their carbines, toward the thundering hoard of blue uniforms, riding with fury and now whooping like wild beasts.   Some held a pistol in each hand with reins between their teeth.   Many had rough beards and long stringy hair.

“I don’t understand this,” Billy mumbled to Hopper. “Those soldiers are carrying the Federal flag and some are wearing blue.”

“They ain’t Federal soldiers Billy,” Hopper muttered back. “They ain’t Confederate, they ain’t soldiers at all. They’re bushwhackers.”

“Bushwhackers?”

“Quantrill’s men.  And from the looks of things, they’ve got us outnumbered five to one.”

“What do we do?”

“Wait for the order to fire.   But what ever you do, don’t surrender.  Quantrill don’t take no prisoners.”