We arrived just before midnight, in a little settlement called Buffalo Mills. It had only a trading post, a saloon, and a few other buildings. There were two teepees, and three ramshackle clapboard buildings surrounding the two main structures. Between the Trading Post and the Saloon was a corral with four horses in it. We bedded down next to the wagon, just on the outskirts of the booming metropolis.
As the sun was rising, it created an eerie shadow through several blackberry bushes, picked clean by the birds of the area. Orville suggested that we try to locate something to eat in the settlement, so we mounted up and headed in that direction.
We rode up to the front of the trading post, and the sign read TRADER TOMS TRADING POST. We dismounted and went inside. The man inside could have been an Indian, the way he looked and dressed. He was wearing buckskin trousers and a jacket with lots of beads and bones all around the edges. He wore a top hat that was worn down on one side and couldn’t be defined as a top hat anymore. He weighed probably 250 pounds, stood six feet tall, and had a face full of bushy hair. His nose was very big and very red, and he spoke with a brogue that I couldn’t place.
“What kin I do for you lads?”
“Do you have any grub, or do you know where we might could get some breakfast?”
“Don’t have any fresh fixin’s here, but the saloon next door serves some pretty good vittles.”
“We’ll be back for supplies when we’ve had our fill.” We left the Trading Post, stepped up onto the boardwalk, and entered the swinging doors of the saloon. I squinted as I entered, shifting to the right and letting my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness of the room. There was a long rough-hewn log set up for a bar, with four homemade wooden tables and four wooden chairs for each table.
There was a short, roly-poly Indian woman with a pudgy face, her hair pulled back into a single pigtail the way a lot of Indian women wear their hair. She had rust-colored skin and Obsidian eyes that cut right through a person and seemed to read their every thought. She was wearing a dress made from a bighorn sheepskin that hadn’t been washed recently, and she was sitting at one of the tables close to the bar.
A rotund, bald, elderly gentleman, probably 400 pounds, who was hunched over the bar as if it was keeping him from tipping over onto the floor, was wiping the counter with a dirty rag.
“What will it be gentlemen?” he asked. “Sadie can go in the back with you, if you’ve a mind to, or she can fix some victuals for you. Or I can pour you some rotgut whiskey, and I have warm beer for the young lads, if they don’t want hard liquor.” (Saloons served beer, but in those days the beer was never ice cold. Usually served at 55 to 65 degrees. You had to drink it in a hurry before it got too warm or flat). “Like I said, what’ll it be?”
“We would like something to eat if it’s any good,” I replied.
“Been eating her cooking nigh on seven years, and it ain’t hurt me none. Just take a look-see for yerself.” He grinned with dirty teeth.
“We’ll take whatever the special of the day is, and bring me a whisky and two glasses of sweet cider for these young pups,” said Orville. (Rotgut was often 100 proof, though it was sometimes cut by the barkeep with turpentine, ammonia, gun powder, or cayenne pepper.)
“Sure thing. Sadie warm up that antelope stew that’s back there on the stove, and tote this whisky and cider to the gentlemen,” he ordered.
As soon as Sadie brought the drinks to the table, she hobbled off through a dirty curtain and disappeared from sight. It wasn’t long till we heard the most awful banging, some cursing, and then Sadie magically appeared through the curtain, carrying three tin plates heaped with stew, and a loaf of brown, moldy bread.
I tried not to look her in the eye as her pudgy fingers placed the tin plates on the table, then she returned to her chair at the end of the bar.
“Dig in! Gentlemen, it tastes better than it looks.”
“Well, I have ate worse than this on the battlefield many times, and I survived,” Orville said with a sick look. “Let’s dig in!”
The first spoonful was really slow getting to my mouth, but as soon as it passed over my tongue, I began gobbling it down. I hadn’t tasted anything this good in a very long time. Even the feast we had at Senor Murrieta’s Rancho didn’t compare.
Orville asked for a second helping, and Sadie hobbled off to get it. While he was finishing off his second helping he made a suggestion.
“How about we change Hafado’s name to Half Loaf? It’ll be a heck of a lot easier to remember.”
Hafado nodded and said, “I think that is a good American name, and I will carry it proudly. I will be called Half Loaf from this moment on. Thank you, Senor Orville.”
“Just call me Orville if you please, Half Loaf.” We went next door to buy supplies.
CHAPTER TWENTY
We stepped into the trading post and perused the merchandise. I told Orville he should choose the items that we would need for our trip, and he gave Trader Tom a list of things that we needed.
20 pounds of bread stuff (flour and crackers)
10 pounds of bacon (salt pork)
6 pounds of coffee
6 pounds of sugar
10 pounds rice
2 bushels beans
2 bushels dried fruit
4 front button flannel over shirts
6 wool undershirts
6 pairs of thick cotton drawers
6 pairs of wool socks
6 pairs of cotton socks
3 ponchos
3 coats and overcoats
Plus stout linen thread, large needles, beeswax, a few buttons, a paper of pins, and a thimble with all the sewing products in a small cloth bag.
When he had it all stacked on the counter and Trader Tom added it up, we found that we didn’t have enough to pay for it.
“Is there anybody needs some chores done so we can earn enough to pay for this?” asked Orville.
“You know that is quite odd that you should ask, because the old man who has been supplying our wood was buried just three days ago and we’re needing some wood chopped. Probably four cords would just about pay for yer goods.”
“Where is the wood, and where would you be wanting it stacked?” I asked.
“Two cords behind the saloon, and two cords behind the Trading Post,” he answered.
“I only got one axe. Would you happen to have another?” asked Orville.
“Jest help yerselves to one of the new ones back yonder, and when yer done chopping, add it to yer goods,” said Tom.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
There were a lot of dead trees in a washed out gully about a mile and a half behind the saloon. We loaded all of the chopped wood into the buckboard and carried it right up to the buildings. While Orville and me chopped, Half Loaf carried and stacked the wood in the appointed places.
“I sure wish I had brought my crossbow saw. It would make this job a lot easier,” exclaimed Orville.
A cord of wood measures four feet by four feet by eight feet long, and it took us a full day and a half to complete the task. Orville and me were in fair shape from all the work we had done back at his farm, but Half Loaf wasn’t used to any kind of manual labor at all.
I will say this for him, he didn’t slow down or complain any at all. I do wish we had gotten him a pair of gloves, because he had broken blisters on both his hands. Orville put some horse liniment on them and, in a couple of days, they were looking a lot better.
We had eaten at the saloon while we were there, and I swear that antelope stew got better each time we ate it.
When we had loaded all the supplies that we had chopped wood for, Orville said, “Wait just a minute,” and went back into the Trading Post. He asked Tom how much more wood he wanted for the saddle he had stored in the back of the room. “I may want to get rid of that rickety buckboard and ride like a real soldier.”
Half Loaf and me had followed Orville back inside and, when Tom and Orville reached an agreement for the saddle, Ha
lf Loaf asked Tom if he had any pistols.
“I have one of the finest pistols in this here country. I traded for it from a gambler who was down on his luck, when he passed through here on his way to better things.” He reached down under the counter and pulled out a little pearl-handled .36 caliber revolver that had about a four-inch barrel. “What do you think of this?”
“It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It is indeed the finest of the finest. I must own this beautiful weapon.”
Tom said he also had the holster that came with it, but he didn't understand how it worked. He said the gambler showed him how, but he forgot. It was called a shoulder holster and fit under your arm somehow.
It was then that I learned Half Loaf had money that he had received for his birthday. However, most of it was pesos, and pesos aren't worth as much as US dollars. Half Loaf and Tom agreed on a price for the pistol and holster.
Half Loaf said, “I would like also to pay for the saddle.” Half Loaf settled with Tom, then Orville loaded the saddle in the buckboard and we headed out toward the northeast.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
A little after dusk, the wind changed direction and it looked like a sudden rain shower was coming on this dusty, dry summer day.
Stars like tiny pinpricks sprinkled the heavens, and the softest whisper of wind blew across my body. The steady patter of raindrops came scattering down on my hat as I pulled the new slicker, which I had gotten at the Trading Post, over my head. As the rain pelted down, the faintest purple haze of moonlight hovered over the vast countryside. It was a beautiful sight to see.
We had also bought a tent, and we stopped to set it up to get out of the rain, as it looked like it was going to last all night. There was a grove of Live Oak trees next to where we set up the tent, and there was one big one with overhanging branches that would shelter the horses. It also gave enough shelter for a small campfire to heat some of Orville’s famous coffee. After we drank a couple of cups, we bedded down inside the tent.
The next morning after a cup of coffee, we packed our gear and headed out. About two hours later, we spotted three riders in the distance riding toward us. Orville reached down and placed his carbine across his lap. I told Half Loaf that if there was shooting to slide off his horse and lie face down on the ground. Orville removed his pistol from the Army holster and laid it beside him on the seat. I dismounted, stepped forward, and took a stance facing the men as they approached. I slipped the leather tie off from the hammer, making it ready to be drawn. I heard Orville cock his rifle as he cleared his throat.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
All three men were wearing dusters and sporting tied-down holsters, which meant only one thing, they were up to no good. They stopped about ten feet in front of us. The taller one to the left of the group stepped down off his mount (he was probably six feet two, 180 pounds, and thirty to thirty-five years old, with sandy or red hair that had a little gray in it, and a sandy beard and mustache, his chin beard quite long. He had a red or florid complexion, blue eyes, and a full round face that got very red when he raised his voice). His voice carried a strong flavor of the Deep South. A tiny smile lifted one side of his mouth, turning it into a sneer.
“Where's yer ma and pa? Do they know yer out here this far from home with a Meskin and an old bald-headed man? You know I don't like old bald-headed men, and I sure as hell don't like Meskins.”
I felt the heat rise in my face. My fist trembled as a dark cloud moved across my face. I let out a long breath and winced at the searing glut of pain lodged in my throat as I thought of Pa. I bowed my head as something inside gave way to a sickening realization that I would never see my Pa again this side of heaven, and then something Pa had said one time came to mind. “Our lives are like water poured on the ground, it can't be gathered up again.”
A trickle of sweat inched down my neck as I looked back at the desperados and said in a quiet voice. “These gentlemen are my family, and I don't take too kindly to anyone insulting them like that.” Sheer will and desperation at having nowhere to turn made me stand my ground and face the outlaws.
“Whatcha got in that wagon. You got anything I might could use? Maybe I'll just have me a look see.”
“It would probably be healthier for you if you didn't do that.”
“You figuring on stopping me, Kid?”
“I really don't cotton to being called kid. And yes, if I have to, I will stop you.”
I took a look at the mounted men. One was a mulatto with a gunpowder burn on his cheek. He looked to be close to fifty years old with a long, gray-streaked beard and dark brooding eyes. The other was tall, thin, with light hair, a small mustache, hawk nose, and he wore a rakish look and a bowler. Both men were average height and weight. The mulatto was wearing a large sombrero.
The tall man noticed me looking at his compadres, and said, “The white nigger is called Black-Faced Charlie, and the big-nosed Swede is called Big Nose George, and they’re mean and raring to back my play.” His blue eyes turned nearly black with intensity, and in them welled up anger and hatred swift, deep, and complete.
It seemed the chances of reaching some kind of understanding had come to an end.
I sidestepped to the right as I drew my pistol, and shot the tall man in the forehead before his gun cleared his holster. He crumpled to the ground without a sound. I fell to the ground as a bullet whizzed by my head, and I shot the Mulatto out of the saddle, and he fell onto the dusty ground.
Orville had shot Big Nose George in the neck with his rifle. George died in the dust about ten feet away, as his horse ran from the noise. It seemed that all the practicing I had done out behind the barn all those times had paid off in dividends.
In the hush of the moment, a breeze tickled the hair at the back of my neck and I realized that no matter where I went from this moment on, one thing was certain: my life had just changed and I was headed down a path that I was not completely satisfied with, but I was determined that, in spite of what had just transpired, I would try to live my life in a way that would last and count for something, just like Pastor Colson had told me God would want me to do.
Orville, Half Loaf, and me gathered the outlaw’s horses and unsaddled them, then we loaded the saddles into the buckboard. We also removed their holsters and pistols, and put them in the wagon. We loaded their bodies in the wagon and turned toward a little grove of cottonwood trees off to the east, and dug one big grave for the three of them. I bowed my head and said a prayer for the men, asking God to remember the good things they might have done and let the bad slide. I then asked for forgiveness for us taking the lives of these men, and prayed that this was not going to be a recurring thing in my life.
Orville said justice had been served. “If we hadn’t killed them, they would have been hanged one day anyhow.” We tied the extra mounts behind the wagon, mounted up, and continued our trek to the Northeast.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
As we traveled closer to Angel Falls, I felt reluctant to simply ride into town down Main Street, because I didn’t know if the sheriff might have had second thoughts about wanting me dead after he realized the circumstances surrounding the shooting of his brother.
I suggested that Orville and Half Loaf go ahead to the livery stable and board the horses. I would go around the back way and come up the side street to the Pastor’s house.
As I rode down the side street, I spotted the old peddler that I had talked to many times, pulling his rickety cart behind him, and speaking to each person he passed whether they acknowledged him or not. When he spotted me, a smile creased the lines of his sun-furrowed, bearded face, and he showed that toothless grin of his. He looked as if he hadn't eaten a good meal in days, even weeks.
He exclaimed, “It’s so good to see you, Jed. Boy, where have you been? Did you hear ‘bout yer Pa?”
I stepped off Sugar, clasped the old man’s grimy hand, and said, “It’s good to see you too, Old Timer. And yes, I do know about my pa. Say,
have you had anything to eat today?”
“Had a little bit of stuff I found behind Myrtle’s.”
“Why don’t you take this dollar and get something that will fill you up?” I handed him a silver dollar.
“Thank you, Jed. I appreciate it so much. May God bless and keep you.”
I mounted Sugar and continued on to the Parson’s house on Third Street. When I got to the corner, I turned in the saddle and looked at the old man, and the sight created a lasting picture in my mind of the aged hawker, with his feeble hand raised in a parting gesture, baggy clothes hanging from his frail body, reeking from having gone too long unwashed, and the smile the man wore, even with so little in his possession. I touched the brim of my hat and watched the old man’s face light up. It made me realize that possessions were not all they were stacked up to be.
I rode Sugar up to the back fence of the Pastor’s house and climbed down from the saddle. Then I pushed the gate open and walked to the back of the house, stepped up onto the porch, removed my hat, and knocked on the screen door. I wiped my sweaty hands on the side of my trousers as I waited for someone to answer.
Mrs. Colson answered the door, and her eyes grew wide with surprise when she saw it was me.
“Jedidiah Isaiah Jenkins, my goodness! Son, please come inside. Pastor is at the Church getting ready for tomorrow’s sermon. He’ll be so glad to see you. You’ve been in our prayers every day. Please be seated, and I will get you something to drink.
She returned with two tall glasses of apple cider and a large platter of cookies. I had to hold back to keep from grabbing too many, because oatmeal cookies were my favorite.
I exclaimed, “These are the best oatmeal cookies I've ever had.”
Just as I polished off another cookie and took a long drink of cider, Pastor Colson walked through the back door, hung his hat on a peg to the side, and looked long and hard at me.
“You’re looking mighty fine, Bro. Jed, I’m very pleased to see you.” He stepped forward and shook my hand as he clasped my shoulder.