"Well and good, Sister, but where do you, I mean we, go? General Wheeler can be anywhere from Knoxville to the Alabama Shoals." Alex had entered the argument so quietly, J. N. paused to take in his words.
"We get some supplies together and head down the valley toward Shellmound, we'll find him. Or some of his horse soldiers. They're all over around here and south, according to Jim up at Coop's Creek store," Lou explained with confidence in Alex's loyalty.
J. N., the veteran soldier and oldest of the three, formerly four cousins, leaned forward in the kitchen chair and patted the table in front of Lou with his good hand. "Listen, Lou, listen to me. You, too, Alex. I know how bad you want to go. I want to get back with my pards real bad. I did some damage in Tullahoma, got a fool officer on a big roan at near 500 yards. Hell, I can't wait for this busted hand to mend. Mama Bear's salve and her tight wrap has taken the throbbing away." He lifted his hand from his canvas sling. It was wrapped and covered in a terribly smelly and greasy cotton bandage from elbow to fingertips. "Still, war is no place for a girl." When he looked deep into Lou's eyes, the light from the lamp and fireplace gave her normally calm brown eyes the flickering look of a wild thing, a mean thing - hard, black and dangerous.
===
Alexander Auburn and Mary Louise Fields were twins of blood and birth, but different as night and day; Lou, night, and Alex, day. She was tall, dark, lean and fine-featured, with heavy-laden brown eyes that looked nearly black. She weighed maybe 110 pounds. Alex was four inches shorter, tending toward fat, fair with pale blue eyes bright and sparkling. He could top 150 pounds. He had shape, but not Lou. She just had angles. Even with all their physical differences, they shared not just blood and birth, but a near mystical connection. She could nearly read his mind and soul and he hers. Together no two or four of the valley boys could best them in "catch and grab" and hadn't been able to since they were six.
She was the mechanic and he the artist. Alex was accomplished on the harmonica and Jew's harp. Tunes came to him and he could copy on his mouth organ any fiddle or banjo music he'd ever heard. His truly special prize was a bull's horn he'd traded a one-blade pocket knife for when they were ten. He'd worked it with deer bone and river sand as his mother, Nancy Bird, had shown him, until it was smooth and shiny inside and out. The point had been filed away and the edges of the hole smoothed with a rock. The horn was nearly fourteen inches long and had a big opening of nearly four inches. Over the months after he'd gotten it, he had practiced and developed many calls for the mules, jacks and horses, and he could even communicate with family when they were out in the fields, up in the cove or on the ridge side. He had become the signal caller for his mother and father, sister and brother. Even his grandfather and grandmother had him call with his horn to family far away from the house or barn. Clear and true, Alex's bugling calls carried across the farm. A neighbor at the bottom of the hill, a half-mile away, said their stock perked up their ears when Alex blew his horn. Some laughed, others thought it was mighty handy and smart.