AWAY … ALWAYS AWAY
By John J. Klobnak
©2023
The Civil War tore apart the country, families, too. Not just which side they chose, it ripped apart their souls. It took their upbringing and redefined it. Christian boys who knew every major Bible verse turned to the dark side after seeing what war had wrought. Others who had no religious training found God on the battlefield and never let go. The Lucas family was no different.
Clem Lucas was a good man. He raised his family to work hard and be respectful of others and others respected him. Lucas was a second-generation blacksmith in Dyersburg, Tennessee a growing settlement on the Forked Deer River a days’ hard ride north of Memphis. The Lucas family didn’t favor the war. They were merchants, lived in town and were God fearing people. But, like General Robert E. Lee, when war came, they chose state over country and the two Lucas boys dutifully enlisted on the Confederate side. The oldest, Clem, Jr. went first joining the 15th Tennessee Infantry Regiment under General R. C. Taylor and went on to fight with distinction until wounded at the Battle of Chickamauga in 1863. Micah, a year younger was set to join his brother’s unit and had left early one morning in 1862 after a tearful parting with his parents. About an hour into his ride toward the unit’s last reported bivouac in Corinth, Mississippi, Micah’s horse twisted a leg, and he turned around for home to get a new mount.
As Micah neared Dyersburg, he saw a company of confederate soldiers had arrived in town. Some were hanging around the saloon. Others just sitting along the Market Street. He cautiously skirted around Main Street fearing he might be conscripted and forced to fight in a unit other than his brother’s. That had been known to happen. As he came around behind his parents’ house with its attached blacksmith shop, he heard a shot. Then another. He quickly made his muzzleloader ready to fire then crept closer only to see his mother and father dead on the ground entangled in death. Three confederate soldiers, two mounted and one with a smoking Colt pistol in his hand stood over his parents. Neighbors were running to the scene demanding to know what happened. A young captain with the pistol told them to stand back. “These people refused to accept our credit for the horses we need for the war.”
“Those there horses t’wern’t Clem’s. He was just a shoeing them for customers. You had no right to take ‘em.” Said Reverend Jones who lived next to the church across the street. “Why’d you have to shoot his woman?”
“Unfortunate,” said the pompous blond officer, she jumped in the way when he came at me with that hammer. But the needs of the army must come first, and you people need to …”
A shot rang out and the young captain’s brains splattered on the pastor’s coat. All eyes turned toward the rear of the blacksmith forge and the two mounted soldiers took off in that direction. Others who were in the main part of the town followed. After taking the shot, instead of running away from the scene Micah moved closer and jumped in the family’s root cellar behind the house. He waited there for several hours and then ventured out to find the soldiers gone. He saw two neighbors digging graves on the rear of the family’s six acres, behind his mother’s vegetable patch and others standing around mournfully. A local carpenter had quickly begun hammering together boards for a dual casket.
When he was certain the soldiers were gone, Micah ventured out. Several women hugged the boy who let his rifle drop to the ground and fell to his knees at the foot of the two bodies now covered with bloody woolen blankets. He sobbed uncontrollably, the pastor kneeling next to him.
After the quick burial, Pastor Jones advised the boy he needed to leave town. The army would not abide a citizen uprising. Too many people had seen Micah and it wouldn’t take long before they’d be back with a noose. Micah went into the family house, quickly gathering supplies, he took out the strong box from under the floorboard and took half the money his father had saved. His father was a hard-working and frugal man. It was a tidy sum. He asked the Pastor to give the rest to his brother when he returned and rode northwest toward the big river where he caught a ferry crossing over to Caruthersville, Missouri before heading toward Jefferson City. Missouri was a border state that couldn’t make up its mind on the war, but he knew enough to keep his mouth shut as there were some with strong opinions on both sides. He rode slow, hunted game when he could and when he’d come to a town, he’d buy a meal and supplies with the money he’d taken from home, always careful not to flash his bankroll.
At dusk, Micah was still about an hour’s ride from Pilot Knob and decided to rest and water his horses and being in no hurry and still not sure where he was heading decided to camp for the night. At seventeen he was a man in the eyes of the world. He was also still a boy, although his physical presence, built by years of heavy labor at the family blacksmith shop, gave him the strength of a man years older. Like most boys in Dyersburg, he’d been in his share of scraps. Most with his older brother who he idolized. He wasn’t afraid in the unfamiliar woods. Just cautious. When a stranger came out of the brush toward his encampment, Micah was happy to see another person in the wilderness. The trails were mostly unmarked, and he welcomed the man who rode a horse with a pack mule tethered behind.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Same to you, young fella. You alone out here, boy?”
“Yes, sir. I’m headed for St. Joe.”
“Long ways off.”
When he met people along the way he was careful not to connect himself to the murder in Dyersburg. He had no idea about the reach of the Confederate Army, so he concocted a story about meeting his parents in St. Joseph, which everyone knew was the starting point for venturing into the western territories.
“Yes, sir. My father and mother are already there. They’ve got a homestead in western Kansas. I’d been staying with my uncle until I finished school and I’m heading out to meet up with them.”
“Where you from?”
“Harrisburg, Illinois, sir. I come across the river near Cape Girardeau.” He always said he was from Illinois to disconnect himself from the murder in Tennessee. The man said he was prospecting, there being a lot of minerals in the area. Micah shared a plate of beans he’d brought with him from home, and they agreed they’d spend the night together and then move on at first light. They told stories for a while and then Micah fell asleep until he heard his pack horse whinny and he saw the prospector going through his saddle bag. He jumped to his feet, “what you lookin’ for, mister?”
The man turned and pulled his gun, a Colt revolver, exactly like the one that had killed his parents.
“I ain’t buyin’ that story about St. Joe, boy, there’s something else a goin’ on here. I’m thinkin’ you must have some money on you.”
“And that gun you’re totin’ tells me you’re a deserter. Only soldiers have that new Colt model, and I don’t see no epaulets on your shoulders. So, you a Yankee or a Reb? Or should I say were you a Yankee or Reb?”
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“Think you’re smart. Let’s have the money. I ain’t gonna play no games here. Give it up.”
“I think you’re a coward, what I think. Otherwise, why’d you run? You want it, come and get it.”
The man was getting flustered and demanded the boy’s money again. He’d thought the boy would be so afraid he’d just turn it over and run. Micah glared at the man, while standing at the edge of the campfire. The fire had died down and he reached down and grabbed a thick stick and stirred what was left of the fire.
“What you do that for?”
“Fire’s dying down. I’m going to need it going for breakfast.”
“You ain’t gonna be needin’ any more breakfasts …”
Micah, still holding the stick, whipped it through the fire throwing glowing ashes and embers at the man who put his hands up to shield his eyes as Micah leaped over the fire, grabbed the man’s gun hand with his left and used his right hand to slug the man in the temple. A struggle ensued and ended with the gun going off sending a .44 slug into the man’s chest and the prospector to heaven or hell, Micah betting it was hell.
Micah stood over the man dispassionately. He was seventeen and had killed two men in the past week. He didn’t feel any remorse over either of them. He wondered if he should, but he didn’t.
Micah used the man’s shovel to bury him in the woods. He unpacked the man’s horse and mule and set them free.
The boy didn’t sleep the rest of the night and when the sun came up, he got on his horse and followed the trail toward the town. He didn’t keep any of the deserter’s gear … except the Colt .44 which he strapped around his waist, and he noticed he felt different somehow as he rode away.
Micah had been told to keep Pilot Knob Mountain in sight as his guide and as he neared the town of about three hundred, he kept thinking about the man he’d just killed and buried. The deserter. Then he remembered he had officially been sworn in as a Confederate soldier and failed to report. That made him a deserter too. He didn’t feel good about that, but it couldn’t be helped. He convinced himself he was a victim of circumstances. He took off the gun belt and stored it in his saddle bag in case anyone would have recognized it and removed only what money he thought he’d need so as not to show-off his wallet and rode into town. He fed and watered his horses, had a good mean, then went to the general store and bought provisions, enough to reach the state capital which was still a week’s ride away. He also bought three boxes of .44 shells and ammunition for his muzzleloader which he’d still need for hunting. He got a few looks from local residents, but figured all strangers got those and he got back on his horse and continued northwest, stopping for about a half hour just after leaving town to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He wasn’t.
Micah stopped several times to get accustomed to the pistol. He went through two boxes of cartridges, finding the gun very accurate. After passing Jefferson City where he bought more supplies and ammunition, he had decided to follow the Missouri River west. As he rode, he started thinking about where he was going. Away stopped being a good enough answer. When he met people along the trail, he was always cautious after his run-in with the prospector. He remembered the last words Pastor Jones had told him when he fled Dyersburg: “you need to find forgiveness in your heart, Micah.” He still had not found any for the soldier who’d killed his parents or the man who’d tried to kill him in the woods. It was a side of himself he’d never known, he wasn’t sure he liked it, but it hadn’t been his doing and he kept going.
He stopped at a farm near Sibley, Missouri, just south of the Missouri River to water his horses. The farmer was friendly and offered him a meal. The family was nice. A shy, comely daughter a few years younger was especially interested in his stories. Micah stayed at the farm for two weeks, sleeping in the barn and helping the man with chores always sitting next to the daughter at supper. He enjoyed being around the family and for a short time thought about settling there until one day when two riders came to the farm demanding fresh horses. Micah had heard about Quantrill and his raiders who terrorized Union forces and civilians alike. When the farmer objected to the men taking his horses, one pulled a gun and fired a few shots at the man’s boots. The two raiders laughed as the farmer jumped each time a slug hit inches from his toes. The thoughts of what had happened to his parents was too much for Micah who’d been watching from the barn. He strapped on the pistol he’d taken from the deserter and walked around the house as the argument was getting hotter. When the men saw him, the argument stopped.
“Y’all can just move on now.”
The farmer was stunned the likable young boy who’d been staying with his family had suddenly appeared and seemed so cool in the face of two renown killers. The boy showed no fear. None. As the first raider turned his gun toward Micah, the boy drew his gun and shot the man dead. Micah fanned the hammer twice more putting down the second man. He put his gun back in his holster and without missing a beat said, “I guess I’ll be movin’ on now, sir.”
After helping the farmer bury the two thugs, Micah packed up and headed west now having taken four lives within a month of leaving home. He’d heard Atchison, Kansas was booming with the new railroad and thought he might head there. A man with blacksmith experience could always find work. He crossed the river at Sibley and headed northwest. Again, moving away. Always away.
By the time he was twenty-seven, after ten years of roaming the western territories, Lucas had killed over twenty men. Most of those killed had brought it on themselves. A couple of times he wasn’t so sure it wasn’t his idea, but he figured it really didn’t matter. The press credited him for more kills than he really had. Gunslingers sold newspapers. There may have been more shootings when no one was around to see, and Micah was not one to brag. Bragging wasn’t necessary, however, as the name Micah Lucas became widely known in at least five states as one of the fastest draws you’d never want to face. He got rid of the Colt .44 in Leavenworth and bought a newer model. He’d never liked the gun as it reminded him, he was a deserter and that he hadn’t been there for his parents. Even after the war, that still bothered him. Micah worked his way around the frontier often finding work with a local smithy other times people would hire him as a bodyguard. He went on a few cattle drives from Abilene to the train tracks in the north. Banks trusted him to move gold as one banker said, “The boy is a killer, not a thief.” But what he loved most was farm work. It reminded him of his time in Sibley and the shy girl who’d cried when he left. He wrote to her a couple of times — told her if she wanted to respond to send it in care of general delivery, Atchison, Kansas. She did, faithfully. Sometimes it would take months before he rode through the city to collect his mail and over time the memory of the sweetness of her face began to fade and the frequency of letters sent and received declined. The only other person he contacted was his brother who had returned to Dyersburg and reopened his family’s blacksmith business. After recovering from a bullet wound, Clem Lucas, Jr. had spent a year in a theological seminary in Nashville before returning home. He served as an assistant pastor at the church across from their home then took over after Pastor Jones, who’d helped Micah escape, passed away from the consumption. He gave his brother the same instructions how to contact him.
Atchison was full of strong Union supporters, the notorious Jayhawkers, who terrorized Confederate sympathizers in Missouri were based there. Micah often hired out as gun muscle and several of those he shot were Jayhawker guerrillas threatening Missouri farmers. He was still sought by Quantrill’s raiders for killing the two men on the farm in Sibley. Now, the Jayhawkers put a bounty on his head. Both sides wanted him dead. After the war, Micah hoped the need for running and hiding would end. It didn’t. He learned from his brother there was still a warrant and a reward for his arrest in Tennessee for killing the solider who’d killed his parents. He learned the captain he’d killed was the son of a wealthy lawyer in Memphis who would not rest until his son’s killer was in the ground. He was also distraught to receive a letter from the daughter of the farmer he’d saved from Quantrill’s men in Sibley saying she was marrying the son of a neighboring farmer. She said he was a good man and she hoped he would understand, not that there’d ever been any understanding between them. That was one of the few times Micah went out looking for trouble. Then he calmed down and realized he’d made no moves to claim the girl. It was his own fault. When he’d get to the post office in Atchison, sometimes there’d be four or five envelopes from his brother, it just depended on how long he’d been gone. He’d read the letters over and over and wish he could be back in Dyersburg running the forge with his brother. He’d always write back, buying paper and an envelope and a stamp from the postmaster. He’d sit on the bench in front of the post office and compose his reply to his brother, hand it to the postmaster then disappear until the next visit.
The occasional appearance of Micah Lucas at the post office always puzzled the postmaster. When one letter arrived with the gummed flap open, the man read the enclosed letter from Rev. Clem Lucas in Dyersburg. Also enclosed was a wanted poster offering five hundred dollars for the capture of Micah Lucas … dead or alive. The postmaster’s son who’d fought for the north had lost his life in the Battle of Tullahoma in 1863. When he read Micah was a Confederate, deserter or not, he knew what he had to do.
While the war may have ended in 1865, to some Jayhawkers it would never end. One such man was Melvin Potter. The postmaster met with the local merchant and former guerilla and showed him the letter and a plan was hatched once the two men agreed to split the reward. When the former guerilla heard who the target was, he had second thoughts knowing he had no chance against Micah Lucas face to face and the tactics were changed. When Micah showed up a few weeks later to check for mail, the postmaster sent word to Melvin Potter, the former Jayhawker guerilla who operated a dry goods store down the street. As Micah sat on the bench composing his reply to his brother, Potter carried his rifle to the top floor of his store, opened the window, took aim, and shot Micah Lucas through the heart. When the sheriff read the wanted poster, no charges were filed, and a telegram was sent to the lawyer in Memphis demanding payment.
When word of the killing of his brother reached Dyersburg, Clem was inconsolable. He closed the blacksmith shop and went across the street to pray in the church. He’d prayed for the redemption and safe return of his brother so many times. Circumstances had turned a good boy into a killer. He had deserved a second chance. He didn’t deserve to be shot down by a coward from a block away.
That Sunday, when Pastor Clem Lucas announced to his congregation he’d be stepping down as pastor for a while the folks in the pews were stunned. One woman stood up and said, “Where you heading, pastor?”
He tilted his head toward the door and whispered. “Atchison, Kansas. Then away.”
