Pvt Luther Crowe (Texas Rangers)

[TedderBear]

Name: Luther Crowe
State of Origin: East Texas
Age: 34 (in 1861)

---

Attributes

• Attack: 4 (+1 modifier)
• Defend: 1 (-2 modifier)
• Logistics: 1 (-2 modifier)

---

Background

Luther Crowe was born in 1827 to a humble family of settlers in the dense pine forests of East Texas. His early years were defined by hardship and isolation, as his family eked out a living on the frontier. By the time he was a teenager, Luther had become a skilled hunter and trapper, providing for his family by harvesting game and furs in the vast wilderness.

Crowe’s solitary nature was shaped by a series of personal tragedies. His parents succumbed to illness when he was just 16, leaving him to fend for himself. Rather than settle in a town, Crowe chose to live a nomadic life, moving deeper into the wilderness and honing his survival skills. Over time, he gained a reputation as a master tracker and marksman, capable of navigating the most treacherous terrain and taking down the fiercest game with his trusty rifle.

Despite his reclusive tendencies, Crowe held a fierce loyalty to Texas. He grew disillusioned with the encroachment of Union laws and sympathizers in the region, particularly as he saw his way of life threatened. When war broke out, he viewed it as an opportunity to fight for the land and culture he held dear, even if he cared little for the politics behind the conflict.

[TedderBear]

March 15, 1861

The woods were quiet this morning, save for the distant chatter of birds. The air carried a cold bite, though spring is coming fast. I went to check the traps I set near the creek, but I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering back to the charred remains of the homestead. I don’t know why I go back there, but I do. It’s nothing but ashes now, burned down by Union sympathizers who couldn’t stomach that a Texan like me stood his ground.

They called me a traitor for refusing to side with their laws. Said I had no right to claim the land if I wouldn’t bow to the Union. I warned them, but words didn’t matter to them. When I came back from a three-day hunt, I found my cabin in flames, my stock driven off, and my pride crushed into the dirt. I wanted revenge, but a man alone is no army.

Today, though, things changed. I rode into town for supplies and found a Confederate recruiter on the courthouse steps, hollering about Texas and independence. He was calling for men to join the Rangers—a regiment to be formed out of San Antonio to defend the South. At first, I had no intention of stopping. This war doesn’t seem like mine; it feels like a fight for politicians and plantation men, not for folks like me.

But then I thought about what I’ve lost and who took it. If men like that are emboldened now, what will they do if the Union comes south in force? And if the Yankees take Texas, who will stop them from taking every scrap of land and freedom we’ve got left?

I signed my name. The recruiter handed me orders to report to San Antonio immediately. No time to linger, no time to prepare. Just enough to pack my rifle, saddle my horse, and ride west.

The road ahead is long, and I don’t know what I’ll find when I reach San Antonio. I’m not a soldier—I never have been—but I can ride, I can shoot, and I’ve got a score to settle. If war is what it takes to protect what little is left, then I’ll ride to the end of it.

-L. Crowe

[TedderBear]

March 20, 1861

San Antonio is a different world from the woods I’ve called home. The streets are crowded with wagons, soldiers, and townsfolk, all bustling about like ants before a storm. The air smells of dust and sweat, with just a faint trace of smoke from the blacksmith’s forge. The Alamo stands as a reminder of what men have fought for here before, though the talk of war now feels heavier than any history I’ve ever read.

I reported to the Confederate office just as my orders commanded. The man behind the desk, a stout fellow with a sharp mustache and a sharper temper, took one look at me and my rifle and seemed satisfied. "You’ll do," he said, handing me the papers that officially marked me a member of the Texas Rangers. He didn’t ask about my past or what brought me here. Guess it doesn’t matter much in times like these.

They’ve put us up in a makeshift camp on the outskirts of town. It’s a patch of hard earth with tents hastily thrown together, but it’ll do. The men are a mix of ranchers, cowhands, and drifters, some of them green as spring grass and others weathered like old saddle leather. We’re supposed to be cavalry, but looking at some of these boys, I doubt half of them have ever fired a rifle from horseback.

The sergeant assigned me a bunk and introduced me to my company—a mix of Texans from all corners of the state. There’s Miguel, a quiet Tejano with a steady hand and a sharper eye than most. Abner, a blacksmith whose laugh is as big as his shoulders. And Jakey, a boy who doesn’t look old enough to shave but swears he’s here to fight.

The training starts tomorrow, and I expect it’ll be grueling. Most of these men have spirit, but they lack discipline. I aim to keep my head down and do what needs doing. I didn’t come here to make friends or tell my story. I came to fight, and when the time comes, I’ll be ready.

For now, I’ll sleep under a Texas sky, just like I always have. But tonight, I’m surrounded by the noise of campfires and the murmur of men preparing for war. It’s strange to think that not so long ago, I stood alone in the woods, and now I stand among hundreds.

-L. Crowe

[TedderBear]

March 28, 1861

The camp stirred early this morning, long before the sun broke the horizon. The sergeants barked orders, and the sound of hoofbeats and rifle shots echoed through the chill air. I’ve seen my fair share of rugged men, but a few of these fellows carry themselves differently—more deliberate, more seasoned. They don’t just talk about what they’ve done; you can see it in the way they move and the weight in their stares.

Turns out, some of the Rangers aren’t greenhorns at all. A handful of them served in the U.S. Cavalry, back when Texas was still part of the Union. These are men who’ve spent years chasing Comanche raiders across the plains and skirmishing in the wilds. There’s Lieutenant McBride, who fought in the Indian Wars and knows more about cavalry tactics than any man I’ve met. He speaks little, but when he does, the younger recruits shut their mouths and listen.

Then there’s Sergeant Coleman, an older man with a limp he got fighting at Fort Chadbourne. He’s sharp-tongued but knows his way around a horse better than anyone. When he saw my rifle, he gave a nod of approval. “You’ve hunted more than deer with that,” he said, like he could read me clear as day.

It’s these veterans who are holding this ragged regiment together. They’re teaching the greenhorns how to saddle up, fire from horseback, and work together like a proper cavalry unit. Watching them, I can see the difference between someone who’s ridden hard for survival and someone who’s fought as part of something bigger.

I’ve kept mostly to myself, but these veterans have started to notice me. Coleman pulled me aside after drills and asked where I learned to shoot. I told him about the years in the woods, living off the land and fighting to keep what little was mine. He nodded again, like he’d heard that story before. “You’ll do fine,” he said. “Just keep your head down and follow orders when the time comes.”

These men know the cost of war, and I reckon they’ve seen what it takes to survive it. I may not have their experience, but I’ve got my own reasons for being here, and I intend to prove my worth. If they can teach us what they know before the fighting starts, then maybe—just maybe—we’ll have a chance to make something of ourselves.

The training grows tougher each day, and I feel the weight of what’s ahead pressing down. This isn’t just another hunt. This is war. And for the first time, I realize I’m not fighting alone.

-L. Crowe

[TedderBear]

May 5, 1861

It’s been weeks now since I rode into San Antonio, and the transformation in this camp is something to see. When we first gathered, most of these boys could barely keep their saddles, let alone fire a rifle without spooking their horses. Now, the greenhorns are starting to look more like Rangers—or at least the makings of them.

The veterans, especially Coleman and McBride, have been working us hard. Every day starts before dawn with drills in formation riding, breaking us into squads and teaching us how to move as one unit. It’s a far cry from riding alone through the woods. I’ve had to unlearn some of my old habits, like keeping too much distance between myself and the next man. "We ride together, or we fall apart," McBride keeps saying. He’s not wrong.

Shooting from horseback has been the biggest hurdle for most of the recruits. It’s one thing to hit a target on foot and another entirely when your horse is at a gallop. For me, it came easier—years of hunting on the move have made me steady, even when the world’s shaking underfoot. Miguel’s taken to it well, too. The Tejano’s got the hands of a surgeon and the eyes of a hawk. He’s even been helping some of the others with their aim in the evenings.

Morale’s been better than I expected, given how hard the sergeants are pushing us. Abner, the blacksmith, keeps the camp lively with his stories and that big laugh of his. He’s taken to leading a few of the newer men, showing them how to care for their gear. Jakey, the young one, still struggles to keep up. The boy’s got heart, but he tires fast. Coleman pulled him aside yesterday and gave him a quieter task tending to the horses, at least for now.

Still, we’ve got a long way to go. There’s talk of movement soon, though no one knows where. The sergeants say we’re not ready yet, and I reckon they’re right. We’re sharp enough to handle a skirmish, but a full battle? That’s another matter. Discipline is improving, but tempers flare when exhaustion sets in. A fistfight broke out yesterday over some petty argument about rations. The officers squashed it quick, but it’s a reminder that this regiment is still finding its footing.

I’m not one for speeches, but I said a few words to my squad last night around the fire. Told them about the land we’re fighting for and what we stand to lose if we don’t hold together. It wasn’t much, but it seemed to steady them. For all our differences, we’re Texans, and that still means something.

Tomorrow, we’re running full maneuvers in open country, practicing hit-and-run tactics and ambushes. The sergeants want us to fight like the frontier men we are—fast, hard, and without mercy. If we can master that, maybe we’ll stand a chance when the real fighting starts.

The sun’s dipping low now, and the camp is quieting. I look around and see men who might not make it through the summer. But for better or worse, these are my brothers now. And when the time comes, I’ll ride with them.

-L. Crowe