The Major was ripping down Belair Road as he spoke, “Prospect Star, Prospect First Class Star, would you like your handle to be Nat or Star?”

Nat looked at the stars on the band about the Major’s hat and declared, “Star, Sir.”

“Don’t Sir me, Son. I’m a sergeant is all. Save your sir’s for the Major here and what officers you serve with. I’m enlisted same as you.”

Nat grinned and answered, “Yes, Sergeant,” as he unloaded the .45 and placed the spare round and clip in his pants pocket.

The Sergeant swerved around a driver that pulled out into traffic and the Major, winced, indeed white knuckled it, which seemed so odd. As ever, the Sergeant noticed and said, “Not the Major’s normal mode of travel.”

Recalling him as the biker picking up Ms. Engle, Nat observed the Major, who shrugged apologetically, “The infernal iron horse was one thing, horse-like enough. But these danged buggies careening like a stage hither en dither, tests a man’s nerve.”

“I suppose we owe Prospect Star here an explanation, Major.”

The Major shrugged, “She’s all yours. The danged mummery has got me out o’ sorts.”

“Mummery?” asked Nat.”

Crook smiled harshly, “We would say, men of this nearly spent Twentieth Century since the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus H. Christ, ‘Mumbo jumbo.’ Our commander here, is from an earlier time frame.”

“What?”

“Major Shayne Pitt of the Texas Rangers, served under General Joe Shelby in the great raid of 1864, and at the defense of Brownsville Station, last battle and final victory of Confederate arms, before heading into Mexico, where he was recruited by yours truly.”

The Major winced, “Rankles a man to lose a war against them that can’t fight.”

Nat grinned, sure he was having a most excellent acid trip, and declared, “So that’s it, you’re time travelers and I’m joining some kind of time force, like time police? Or is this the time marines or time army?”

“Son,” declared Crook, “non of the half-assed above. I called you a civilian for good reason, for until you took up with us in this righteous journey, you were. But neither are you some cuckhold government tool. No siree! Son, there are civilians, ruled over by military and police, then there are the other folks, who rule not at all and battle the Gob-o-ment! Criminals, son! We are Time Criminals—Timejackers to be exact, done come here for a new vehicle to get back to a future gone wrong and to set some matters right! Welcome aboard, Prospect Star!”

The Sergeant took the ramp onto I-695 a bit fast and the Major grumbled, “For the creak of leather or deck, even the creak of boots—I’d rather be in the infantry than in this blasted buggy!”

“Major, as soon as we get our new vessel, we will be under sail.”

“Direct action if you will, Sergeant. The mummery has me worn to a fray of thread.”

“Yes, Sir! Until that fine moment I shall brief Prospect Star. Star, some years from now, certain bad actors out of the Middle East develop a form of malaria that will only afflict people of Indo-European, or ‘Aryan’ racial stock. Some hundreds of years into that future we are bound. By that sorry then America will have been split in an Asian and Mexican West, an African Center, and a Muslim East. Fortunately an ice age has set in and some pockets of Arуan resistance remain in the Rockies, above 7,000 feet. Commander James Bowie is taking it to the enemy West and Central. The General is on the ground in Kentucky, Tennessee, and Mississippi. That great man is in sore need of a distraction to the east. That is where we come in.”

“The General? General who?” asked Nat.

“Son, he is THE GENERAL, the only one we have, and there is none better. We are bound for the Chesapeake Bay of an unspeakable future, where it is known as the Water of Allah!”

The Major spit between his boots.

Crook crowed dramatically, “Prospect Star, do you swear to sail beyond the sunset, into a Towel Head tomorrow, to battle the forces of darkness, to cleanse the sandy taint from the east, to reduce the African race to dust and to drive the Mestizo hordes of a latter day Gomorrah across the Rio Grand?! Nat Star, do you, for the mothers of our once great race, pledge to forever stand against the muddy tide of a vile-begotton history!?”

He felt a swell of pride, such an odd emotion to feel in such a strange dream, and, dreamer that he was, set his jaw, sat up at attention, both hands on that heavy-even-when-empty gun, and declared, “I do. I am your man.”

“What do you say, Major?” asked Crook as he passed a semi doing 90, zooming down towards Back River Bridge.

“Sergeant Crook,” growled the voice of the man with his white knuckles pressed against the dashboard, “I believe he will do.”

Then, the Major turned and looked Nat in the eyes, extended his big right hand on that long chimp arm so that the button on the sleeve cuff pupped as it slid up his arm. Nat took that big strong hand in his and gritted his teeth as the bones of his ground together under that firm but not cruel grip. The Major winked and frumped his blonde handlebar mustache with a bitter twist of his mouth, which Nat could see was stained with tobacco juice and seemed to apologize, “Young Nat Star, you are a man this day. I humble like welcome you aboard this infernal buggy of the good and goddamned. Know ye that promotion is a constant state of our affair, for we are woefully, as in the C.S.A. way, under-manned. Be that as it may, I be Major Shayne Pitt of the late, great, Confederate State of Texas and here swear to God to not abandon ye to a foul enemy or a lee shore.”

The Major let go, seeming serene now after that human hand shake, and calmly commanded, “Now, Mister Star, this havin’ been the rancid womb of your nativity, look ye out sharp for a Yankee Negro to steal.”

…

Continued in A Night Right Yank, #4.B