Chapter 3: Schemes and Ghost Stories

Daniel and I sat in silence. We both knew now—there was a conspiracy behind all this.

The air in my tent felt thick, the canvas walls holding their breath. Daniel paced, boots creaking on the rough wood planks we’d scrounged from a barn.

If the Chief was behind this, what was his real reason for marching on Pine Ridge?

Just then, a scout I’d sent to the Chief’s camp returned with news. At the Chief’s war council, Wyatt Evans had offered a plan.

Wyatt said: "Charlie Monroe’s nothing but a spoiled rich boy—soft as butter, never seen a real fight."

"I’ll take five hundred of our best, slip out through Baker’s Crossing, head up the east Ridge Trail, and hit Silver Valley from the north. In ten days, we’ll be in Capital City."

"The Chief can bring the main army through Cedar Pass. If we do this, everything west of Fairview is ours."

Daniel unrolled the county map, squinting at Silver Valley and Baker’s Road in the lantern light.

He traced possible routes with a battered pencil, his hands moving quick with nerves.

If the Chief took Wyatt’s plan and surprised Silver Valley, Red Bluff would be just a decoy.

All the Union’s forces were here, led by Zachary Hall and Carl Jensen.

Losing Red Bluff would let the Chief’s main force walk into Capital City and unite the land.

Daniel and I locked eyes, both unsettled. He gave me a long look before heading back out, pulling his collar up against the wind. I watched him go, wondering if we were just pawns in a much bigger game.

On the third day, Hall’s vanguard reached the foot of the mountain, just as I’d guessed.

Hall ordered his men to surround us, not attack, hoping to cut off our water and force a surrender.

It was a slow siege—one that ate at body and mind. Our well ran low by noon, and the men started rationing every drop. The Union banners outside snapped in the wind, silent and watchful.

The Chief only ordered me to hold out, so I didn’t risk a breakout, just kept sending out scouts.

By noon, one scout came back and reported immediately.

“General, I’m not sure if Wyatt’s Silver Valley plan was used.”

“The Chief’s main army is still at Tannersville, but a thousand-man vanguard under Wyatt has vanished.”

The mysteries just kept piling up. No, I had to find the Chief and ask him myself.

I figured Hall’s men wouldn’t attack for a few days, so I disguised myself and hurried along the mountain path to the Chief’s camp.

I borrowed a battered pickup from the quartermaster, threw on a flannel shirt and cap, and headed out after dusk. The woods were thick, the road barely there in the moonlight. Every snap of a branch made my heart race.

By the time I reached the camp at Tannersville, it was late. The Chief was lying in a sickbed, barely alive.

He looked frail, skin drawn tight over his cheekbones, an oxygen tank hissing softly at his bedside. An old army blanket lay across his chest, the same one he’d carried since his first campaign.

"Marcus, you finally made it. Looks like it’s time you knew the truth about this land’s history."

His voice was just a rasp. I pulled up a folding chair, the room thick with the smell of iodine and burnt coffee. All our unfinished business felt heavy in the air.

The Chief spoke with effort, his eyes clouded by exhaustion.

Since the late President’s death, the Chief alone held the country together.

Once the attendants left, he began his story—a conspiracy that would shake everything I knew.

It all started with the famous three visits to the farmhouse…

The Chief was just a farmer in Long Meadow. The late President, searching for wisdom, visited him three times at his old farmhouse.

But the Chief, watching the stars at night, already knew the nation’s fate was spent and a new era coming.

The first two times, he refused to leave the countryside.

But when the President came the third time, he brought a bottle—wrapped in black cloth. No one knew what was inside.

A farmhand delivered the bottle to the Chief. When he opened it, he agreed to leave the farm on the spot.

After that came the famous Long Meadow Plan to split the land in three…

The story sounded like a ghost tale from rural America—a bottle wrapped in black, a choice that turned a farmer into a leader. It sent a chill through me. What could be so awful that it changed a man’s fate in an instant?