I was born Jefferson Alan, in the Minnesota Territory, in 1845. My father, Joshua, and older brothers Joseph, and James, was hard workin' farmers. My mother Sadie,and little sister Sophie, took good care of our cabin, and fed us all well. Farmin' was as hard a life as any man or woman could have chosen, or be born into. But it was a good life for our family.

Late in the year 1861, the Sioux began stealin' stock, and burnin' homesteads in our part of the country, Willow Creek, State of Minnesota. The Union Army was here, but couldn't stop the killin' that was comin'. Pa was sayin' that the Sioux wanted their land back, this land, our land. The Union Government said the Sioux would be paid for this land, or given other land in trade. But the Union Government lied to them, and cheated them out of the many promises that were to be kept. I blame the Union Government for the murder of my family by the Sioux.

I was fishin' for our supper when they came. I can still hear Ma and Sophie screamin' while Pa, Joseph, and James was surrounded by the Sioux. I hid in a hollow tree trunk, down the hill from our cabin, near the creek. They all died that day, while I stayed hid, too scared to die with them.

The day after I buried my family, on that hill above Willow Creek, I stole the first horse I could find, and left this Union State for Missouri. I planned to become a citizen of the Confederate States of America. I will live as a Reb.

More than a year went by. I heard that President Lincoln of the Union States granted the hangin' of thirty three Sioux in Mankato, Minnesota for their killin' ways. They say those gallows will be the largest ever built.

I was close on to eighteen now, workin' as a hired man on a farm in Clay County, Missouri. I made myself as good with a horse as any man, and better than most with a pistol. I saw Capt'n William Quantrill of the Confederate Army, and no less than two hundred of his men and mounts, ride past as I was splittin' rails. I mustered up the courage and followed them to where they set camp and pickets. Capt'n Quantrill wouldn't talk with me, but he did shove me over on William Anderson, a man with no rank that I know of, but a man every soldier answered to with respect, and fear. I proved myself, signed on, and rode as a Confederate. We were bushwackers, Confederate guerrillas. We kill't Union soldiers, Redlegs, Jayhawkers, and Union sympathizers from Lawrence, Kansas to Centralia, Missouri. We sacked Union towns, captured Union forts, Union trains and river boats.

When the war ended, Capt'n Quantrill lay dead in Spencer County, Kentucky. William "Bloody Bill" Anderson lay dead in Orrick, Missouri. The James and Younger boys stayed on in Missouri, thrashin' on Missouri banks and railroads.

I headed south, and troubles found me right quick. I was ridin' through some devil owned land in west Texas, when a freight wagon with a heavy load came right to me on this two bit road. They was Union Army supplies, with two on the wagon, and two mounted escorts. I was near starved, and they had more than they needed.

It wasn't but an hour or therebouts later when a pair of Texas Rangers must have found that wreck of blue-bellies and riggin', and they came huntin' for me, hard and fast. I headed west, out of Texas, thinkin' they would quit. Those damn Texas Rangers dogged me all the way to the Arizona Territory. When my mount had no more to give me, now on foot, I headed into the rocks. We had a good battle until a Ranger's slug got lucky. Their rifle shots ended, s'pose they thought I was done. The gunfire started up again, but from the north. I saw one Apache workin' those damn Rangers. I'd never seen a wildcat stalk his prey such like this man huntin' them Rangers. He either sent them to hell, or scared them back to Texas. I thought he'd come huntin' for me next, but he didn't. I weren't his enemy.

After time, the Apache medicine healed my wounds. The warrior that saved my life, became my brother. His name, Salvaje. His people learn'd me to listen to his sign, 'cause he had no voice. A saber to his neck had kill'd his words. Over time, we fought many Union soldiers and Arizona Rangers together. We were both bushwackers, guerrillas. He gave me the name Renegade.

I learn'd much about the spirits of the sun, earth, water, and ancestors. Then the spirits of my family began callin' me home to Willow Creek. I asked Salvaje to ride north with me. He may follow me one day. At least there ain't any Rangers in Minnesota. We had our fill of them.

Renegade