Major Amos Solon Stevenson sat in the large yard of Spring Place under a huge spreading sycamore tree twenty feet from the troopers' fire. He held a hot cup of real coffee between his gloved hands. After waiting five days longer than it should have taken for the general to show up, the major had rode out to find General Wheeler. He and half of the general's escorts had doubled back hoping to find sign or notice of the general, ambulance, Lou and escorts. He'd arrived at Spring Place two hours ago and found the wayward detachment and sick general. Sergeant Maddox was here too. This was the beginning of the second week of the general's convalescence. Miss Vann and the farrier youth were caring for the general's wounded foot. Damnedest story he'd ever heard from this mighty peculiar woman. She declared that she is the descendent of a Cherokee and the Field's kid tells her once the kid got over her fear of the crisp old maid, that she, the Field's boy, has a grandmother who is a Cherokee healer. Hell, the kid even had some Indian medicine his grandma'am had sent along for any cuts or wounds. The boy cleaned the wound, lanced the festered wound with a pocketknife, administered some Indian medicine and the general was on the mend.
The major shook his head, "God Almighty." From what the troopers told him, the general was in as awful bad way before those Indians got hold of him and his sour wound. Now the general was getting anxious to get back to his troops and away from Miss Vann.
The morning was a little chilly but bright, sunny and clear. As the major blew on his cup of real coffee courtesy of Miss Vann's tiny black slave cook, he thought of the softness of the occasion. Weeks, no months, of whirling around hills, splashing through creeks and rivers, slipping and sliding on mountainsides in all sorts of weather, cold and hungry and more scared than any self-respecting horse soldier admitted, and now here he sat in this quiet beautiful place with the loyal sun warming his fatigued body and wasting soul. Life was 'interesting', at least.
The major stretched his neck and twisted his head. He was so relaxed and away from the present and into his past, that he had lost all sense of his surroundings. Taking a deep breath and stretching his arm wide, he noted with his eyes, a bird two branches from the lowest limb on the old oak. It was singing as if it was the first day of creation. A clear sweet song weighed gently on the seasoned warrior's soul. The major had felt the darkness of his soul often. He knew the depth and breadth of a rage from hell. In a hot fight it came forth and occupied his soul and body. He called it the "wolf". Lots of blood and other men's souls were on the "wolf's" soul, on Stevenson's soul.