“Captain” Fitz McHugh strode through the wreckage of the Union column, surrounded by burning wagons, dead men, and panicked horses. His “command” of raiders had already fallen out to plunder food and arms from the well-supplied Yankees, but McHugh had other notions.

He approached the standard-bearer, the last invader still alive. The man wore an officer’s uniform; he may even have been the commander, shot in the gut while trying to save the colors.

“What…how…?” the man mumbled.

“There’s something you Yankees didn’t reckon on,” said McHugh cocking his big, brass-framed Griswold & Gunnison 1860 Revolver. “This ain’t your Kansas. It’s Arkansas.”

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