Sinclair said, “There’s more to all this too, Mr. McCracken. A hearing has been set up in Clarkville. You’ll be appearing there. I got a subpoena and I’m going to write your name on it.”
“What’s a soopeena?”
“It’s another court order that says you got to appear at a certain place at a certain time and answer questions,” Sinclair said. “If you don’t do what it says, a judge will issue a warrant for your arrest.”
“I don’t want no trouble with the courts.”
“Now that’s real good, Mr. McCracken,” Sinclair said. “What’d y’all do with them cowboys that was shot?”
“We buried ’em where they fell the same as our own dead,” Luther answered. “They went into the ground without coffins ’cause we didn’t have no spare wood.”
“All right,” Sinclair said. “Now I want to talk with ever’ man in this camp.”
“They’s more’n thirty of us.”
“I got time.”
“Why don’t you come with me, Marshal?” Luther suggested. “It’d be easier if we just walked to their wagons and tents and talked to ’em that-a-way.”
“Sounds like a good idee.”
“I’ll wait with the troops, Marshal Sinclair,” Grant said. “I wish to stay close to Sergeant Whitcomb and the men.”
“It’ll take two or three hours,” Sinclair said.
“Fine,” Grant replied. He watched Luther and Sinclair walk away, then turned his horse. He was about to ride off when Silsby McCracken walked up to him. The boy had been looking at the soldiers in the distance. “Are them soljers all colored fellers?”
“Yes,” Grant answered. He looked closely at the boy, surprised he hadn’t referred to them as niggers or darkies. “You talk respectfully about colored people.”
“My pa don’t like nobody calling ’em niggers.”
“Your father seems a tolerant man,” Grant said, “and I can tell you truthfully that those colored men are excellent soldiers.”
“Yeah?” Silsby said. “Are you and them colored fellers gonna make us leave?” Now Rebecca had come closer, and Grant was aware of the pretty girl’s presence. The last thing he wanted to do was antagonize her. “There seems to be a problem here and the government is concerned,” he said, choosing his words carefully. He nodded and smiled at her. “My real responsibilities are the safety and comfort of all you nice folks. We don’t want anybody else hurt.”
“They was kilt not hurt,” Silsby said. “All four of ’em. Two of us and two cowboys.”
“Well, we don’t want anything like that to happen again,” Grant said. “Everything should be put right after the hearing in Clarkville. You folks will have your say, the cattleman will have his, and even a representative from the Cherokee Nation will be there to make a statement.”
Fionna joined her children, standing between them. “Where are you from, sir?”
“Fort Gibson, ma’am,” Grant answered. “It’s southeast of here on the Arkansas River.”
“Did they make you come over here on account of us?”
“Why, yes, ma’am,” Grant said. He swung his gaze back to Rebecca. “We’re going to help out. I hope if there’s anything you require of me, you’ll let me know.”
“We will. Thank you kindly,” Fionna said.
Grant smiled at Rebecca, then rode off to rejoin his command.
Chapter Six
Dewey Harknell did not dispatch any of his ranch hands back to the scene of the gunfight to dig up the bodies of the slain cowboys. Nor did he bother to take any markers out to the graves. It would have been a useless gesture. The plaques wouldn’t have lasted long, and nobody at the Rocking H was certain of the two dead men’s names anyhow. One was a Mexican everyone called Pancho, and the other was hailed as Rusty. They didn’t remember for sure if his last name was McDonnell or O’Donnell. It wasn’t unusual for a ranch hand to be wanted by the law somewhere and those with problems in their pasts were disinclined to use their real names.
At any rate, Harknell had seen other cowboys buried in unmarked graves during long cattle drives from Texas up to Kansas. This was the only thing that could be done for a dead trail hand in the merciless toil of bringing herds through primitive country. Civilized customs and practices seemed not only pointless, but ludicrous in those circumstances.
No ceremony marked these lonely burials. Cowboys weren’t eloquent speakers, and the services consisted of no more than putting the corpse into the grave, then standing around with hats in hand as the dirt was shoveled in to cover their dead pard. If anyone happened to know a prayer it would be recited at that time, but few cattle drovers could recite any sort of invocation. Thus the departed was sent to his final reward in silence other than perhaps “so long” or “adios,” murmured by his taciturn colleagues.
The closest thing to a coffin was usually a kerchief over the dead man’s face. It would have been a waste to wrap the corpse in a blanket. That was something the living had use for. If no one knew of the deceased’s family, his other belongings and money were divvied up among the crew. The boss kept any back wages owed the dead cowboy for himself.
The Boomers, on the other hand, were farmers and family men with different attitudes toward their departed ones. It seemed disrespectful and uncivilized to leave a person in a grave that would eventually be forgotten and ignored. Since they would be returning to Clarkville, they disinterred Ed Byron and Bob Ratner for proper Christian burials in the town cemetery.
When the army officer Lieutenant Grant Hollings issued the official order to vacate the Grasslands, they were given time to take care of the unpleasant task. Four men took on the job, and opened the graves. Both corpses were found to be ripe and putrid as was expected and, since no one wanted to touch them, they were removed by putting ropes around the corpses and hauling them up.
Tom Ralston the bachelor had a bit of extra room in the rear of his wagon, so he volunteered to haul the dead men back to Clarkville. He followed at the rear of the wagon train to spare the others the stench of decaying flesh. It was so bad that Tom tied a kerchief soaked in lavender water around his face to endure the smothering odor. Unfortunately, the stench got into the canvas cover of his vehicle and had to be burned later.
~*~
The early afternoon sun had just passed its zenith over Clarkville, Kansas when the double funeral for Ed Byron and Bob Ratner came to an end. The pallbearers gently lowered the dead boomers into their final resting places, and the minister of the town’s Methodist church presided over the affair, making it a proper Christian burial. Afterward, the preacher spoke a few words of comfort to Bob’s widow before returning to his regular duties.
The bodies were contained in simple pine boxes constructed by a local carpenter. He would also be making hand-carved markers bearing the names and the dates of birth and death of the two deceased men. Proper tombstones were too much of an extravagance when there were better uses for cash money among the boomers.
The ceremony had been over for almost a quarter of an hour and the mourners were already heading back to the nearby re-established camp west of town. The mood was grim because of the ordeal Esther Ratner faced. With six children, it was the end of the family as a unit. Fionna McCracken and Esther stood arm-in-arm at the foot of Bob Ratner’s grave. Esther could not bear to leave the gravesite, and had asked Fionna to stay with her. The widow, gripping her friend’s arm, was emotionally drained. She was silent for several long moments before speaking. “Ever’body has been so kind,” she said in a low, trembling voice.
“I hope it comforts you some to know that it was our loss too. You ain’t grieving alone,” Fionna assured her, knowing that the words were useless and empty in light of the ordeal ahead for Esther.
“I got to tell you God’s truth, Fionna,” Esther said. “The only thing that’s keeping me from laying down and dying myself, is having to worry about the young’uns.”
Fionna slipped an arm around her waist. “I pray they’re not apart
long.”
“I’m afraid they will be,” Esther said. “The baby and I will live with my aunt and uncle in Ohio. Bob’s brother and wife can take Danny and Mary.” Her voice caught and for a moment before she could speak again. “The three oldest are gonna have to go to an orphanage. They ain’t no way out of it.”
“Put your trust in the Lord. He’ll watch over your children.”
“I pray that he does,” Esther said. “But I’ve known others to go through this. Before you know it, brothers and sisters is apart for so long they just forget each other. The family and all the love that held them together goes away like smoke up a chimbly.” She clenched her fists. “I got to figure out something, Fionna! I got to keep my children together! Maybe if I married again —” She stopped speaking. “Listen to my wickedness! My man has just been put into the ground and I’m talking about marrying another.”
“You’re just thinking of your children.”
“Anyway, what man is gonna want a wife that brings six extry mouths to the dinner table?”
“You never know, dear,” Fionna said. “Maybe they’s a man out there who never had a chance to have a family before. Or who lost his own.” She gave her friend a fond look, tightening her arm around her. “Would you like to go back now?”
“Yes. I’d best tend to the young’uns.” They walked slowly out of the cemetery where Luther and Silsby waited in the wagon. Silsby hopped down to help the women up onto the seat for the ride to the camp.
When they returned to the Boomer site, Luther drove directly to the Ratner wagon. Several of the men had seen to it that everything was set up properly for the widow and her children. Fionna asked that they be situated next to her own family. During the funeral, Rebecca had stayed back to take care of the Ratner kids.
Fionna looked at Esther. “You and the children will have supper with us this evening.”
“I don’t want to trouble you, Fionna.”
“It ain’t no trouble.”
“Ever’thing on this earth is trouble of one kind or another,” Esther said. “It’s such an ordeal.”
“Trust in the Lord,” Fionna urged gently.
Esther made no reply.
~*~
Luther walked over to the Ratner tent late the next morning. He stepped under the canopy and removed his hat. “How are you, Mrs. Ratner?”
“Hello, Mr. McCracken.”
“I hate to bother you right now, but me and a couple of the other men is making arrangements for you,” Luther said. “That is, if you still want to go back to Ohio.”
“I’m afraid I ain’t got a lot of choice.”
“Well, the feller that owns the gen’ral store in Clarkville says he’ll buy your property lock-stock-and-barrel,” Luther said. “That includes the wagon and your mule. We talked to him and got a good price.”
“Thank you kindly.”
“Harvey Matthews will take you and your young’uns up to Wichita to catch the train for Kansas City,” Luther said. “You’ll have to change there for another to take you directly to Cincinnati. And —” He reached around to his hip pocket and pulled out a heavy envelope. “— all the folks wanted to help out some and they gave what they could so’s you would have an easier trip.” He handed her the packet. “It’s thirty dollars and change. We wish it could be more.”
Esther was genuinely grateful. “That’s very nice and it will be so much help, Mr. McCracken. Will you thank them all for me?”
“I sure will,” Luther said, not mentioning he had dipped into the proceeds from the sale of his Missouri farm for ten of the greenbacks. “You should have another fifty dollars when the gen’ral store feller buys your belongings.” He stood there awkwardly for a moment regretting that he couldn’t think of something comforting to say to her. He gave it up. “Well…I’ll leave you now. If you need anything, just let me know.”
“I thank you most kindly, Mr. McCracken.”
Luther went back to his wagon where Fionna waited for him. She asked, “Are you hungry, Luther?”
“Not right now,” he answered. “W.R. Dunbar has told me that Marshal Sinclair wants to see me in town.”
“Oh, Luther! Will he put you in jail over that shooting?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But they ain’t no way out of it, so I got to go see the man. You wait here. If something happens, you’ll know about it soon enough.”
“Lord have mercy!”
“I won’t be riding the mule into town,” Luther said. “Just in case things don’t go our way, you won’t have to send Silsby to fetch it.”
“How’ll you get there, Luther?”
“Good God, woman! It ain’t no more’n a mile or so. I’ll walk it.”
Fionna felt foolish. “O’course. I just cain’t think straight. None of my thoughts make a lick of sense right now.”
“Don’t worry,” Luther said. “If the Good Lord is willing, I’ll come back the same way.”
“Do you want Silsby to go with you?”
“He’s off fishing for tonight’s meal,” Luther said. “I got to tend to this.”
“I’ll have supper ready when you get back,” Fionna said. She thought that by acting optimistic the Lord might favor the show of faith with his blessing. “I’ve got some greens that’ll go good with them fish that Silsby catches.”
“Is they any taters?”
“Yes. I can fix some.”
“That’ll be fine.”
Luther felt that further talk would eventually upset Fionna more, and he made an abrupt departure. When he reached the edge of the camp, Harvey Matthews and several of the other men waited for him. Harvey said, “I’d still like to go with you, Luther.”
“That ain’t a good idee,” Luther said. “If that marshal is in the mood to arrest somebody, he might just grab up ever’one he sees. If I ain’t back by evening, then send in one man to find out what’s happened.”
“That’ll be me,” Harvey said.
“I appreciate that.”
Luther walked across an open area that was cut deep by crisscrossing tracks of wagon wheels. A slight breeze bearing the odor of dusty grass gusted across his face, making him think of the deep fertile soil he yearned to farm. He hoped he wouldn’t be lingering in a prison cell on the day the Grasslands were finally opened for settlement.
Almost a half hour later Luther reached the outskirts of Clarkville. That side of the town facing the Boomer camp had no residences. It consisted of only some smaller, less prosperous businesses such as a livery, a wheelwright’s shop, and storage sheds. Luther made his way through the hodge-podge of cheap frame buildings and shanties until he reached the main street. After going two blocks he found the town sheriff’s office where Marshal Nolan Sinclair had set up his headquarters. Luther stepped through the door and stopped in front of a battered desk where a bored peace officer sat sipping coffee. “I’m looking for Marshal Sinclair,” Luther said.
The sheriff was a powerfully built man with a nose crooked from having been badly broken. His eyes were narrow and cold, and his voice hoarse. “Well, mister, I’m looking for Marshal Sinclair to get the hell out of my town.”
“I’ll vote for that,” Luther said. “I ain’t overly fond of the marshal myself. But I got a message to meet him here.”
“I don’t know nothing about that,” the sheriff said. “But if you want to wait, take a seat. Are you one of the Boomers?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I ain’t got any idee where he is or when he’ll be back.”
“I ain’t got all day,” Luther said, reluctantly sitting down.
“Then leave,” the sheriff said. “I don’t give a damn. I got no jurisdiction over what happens down in the Injun Territory anyhow. Hell, you could shoot folks down there ‘till the cows come home, and I couldn’t do nothing ‘bout it.”
“I don’t reckon you know what he wants with me.”
“I reckon I don’t. I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m Lu
ther McCracken.”
“Oh! You’re the new leader of the Boomers since Ed Byron got kilt, ain’t you?”
“As long as they want me to do the job.”
“I’m Sheriff Blevins. I’m rooting for you Boomers.”
“Nice to have some support.”
“I been hankering for a hunk of them Grasslands myself.”
“Maybe when we got a legal Boomer City you can be the sheriff.”
“No thank you! I just want to open up a store or something like ‘at,” Blevins said. “I’m tired of enforcing the law. It don’t pay nothing and one of these days somebody is gonna put a bullet in my carcass where it’ll do the most damage.” He snorted. “And I sure as hell don’t like it when some pushy damn Fed’ral marshal comes around and takes over my office like he owns the place.”
“It don’t sound like much of a job.”
“That’s right,” Blevins said. “If you —”
They were interrupted when Marshal Nolan Sinclair walked through the door. He nodded to Luther and gave the sheriff a wave of greeting. “This here town is getting crowded.”
“What’s going on?” Blevins asked.
“They’s a bunch of jaspers showing up for that hearing about the Medicine Bundle Grasslands.”
Luther stood up. “I got word you wanted to see me.”
“Yeah,” Sinclair said. He helped himself to the sheriff’s coffeepot, then walked over beside the desk and took an available chair. “I turned all the information I had ‘bout that shooting to the Wichita Fed’ral court. Judge Ross sent me back a telegram saying they ain’t sufficient grounds to charge nobody with nothing.” He took some noisy slurps from his cup. “I got to agree. Conflicting testimony about who did what first and who to, is gonna get nothing but a hung jury.”
“I think Dewey Harknell should be charged,” Luther complained.
“Well, I don’t think he should be, so he ain’t gonna be.”
“Hell of a way to enforce the law.”
“You’d best watch your mouth, McCracken. I can still hang a Fed’ral trespassing charge on you.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
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