door quietly, hoping not to encounter his wife, and heard no movement. A few quick steps took him to Jordy’s door, which he opened. He found an empty bed. Though he had expected it, the sight of his son’s neatly folded sheets had a strange effect on him. On the pillow was an unfolded letter with fifty dollars resting on top.
Pop,
I took a little food and two horses. Here is fifty dollars. I hope you are not angry. I just love her. Kiss Momma for me, and tell her not to worry.
Jordy
It was impossible for him to be angry. James was a reasonable and levelheaded man, yet he had done some stupid things in his life, and nearly every one of them because of a girl. Jordy had the spirit for adventure; it was a trait shared by his father.
The corner of a few papers sticking out of the nightstand caught Briscoe’s attention. He opened the drawer and found a few scribblings, some numbers, and a map of Texas. A route south was penciled here and there, and a note at the bottom read: Galveston, 600 miles.
James leaned back and sighed loudly.
Half an hour later he sat in the family room, listening patiently while his wife and Mrs. Jackson took turns sobbing and railing against the foolishness of their children. His wife’s reaction was just what he’d expected—she had always been a dramatic woman—but he was surprised at Mrs. Jackson. He had known her for years, and though they rarely conversed, she always appeared stern, though polite, and insistent on proper behavior. James wondered at the power of a child to create such heartache. It was a power held by children alone.
Briscoe’s patience thinned, and he interrupted his wife.
“All right,” he said and sat forward with his elbows on his knees. “We all agree what they did was foolish, and we wish they hadn’t, but they did.” Both women were fidgeting with their tissues and sniffling.
“Now, as I see it, we probably oughta go find ’em. If it was just my boy, I wouldn’t worry so much, but young Polly…”
The mention of Polly’s name wrenched Mrs. Jackson, and she fought back tears. Smoke consoled her with a hand on the knee.
“Mistuh Briscoe,” Smoke said. “I’m all fuh goin’ after ’em, but they could be off in any direction now.”
Briscoe nodded and scratched his neck. “I got a pretty good idea where they might be headed,” he replied. “Believe they may be tryin’ for Galveston.”
His wife gasped. “Galveston? Oh, Lord, what for?”
“All that talk my nephew gave him, I’m sure.” Smoke gave him a confused look. “Word is Galveston’s, um, progressive,” Briscoe said. Smoke shuffled in his seat.
“How do ya mean, suh?”
“Well,” he replied and turned both palms upward. “It’s easier for black folks. Better than most places. That’s what they say.”
Smoke shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t undastand,” he said. “Polly was always treated just fine right here on this farm.”
“I appreciate your sayin’ that. Fact is, though, this is a little farm compared to a big ol’ world. ’Spect they was impatient to see a bit of it.” Silence set in, and Briscoe sat back in his chair.
“When do we leave, Mistuh Briscoe?” Smoke asked after a moment.
“’Round sundown. Horses will travel better out of the sunlight.”
“Won’t they just get farther away?” asked his wife.
“They’re pullin’ a wagon. We’ll catch ’em quick enough,” he replied and rose from his chair. “Y’all sit as long as you like,” he said then made for the stairs. He needed a drink.
James spent the afternoon gathering the things he would need for the trip. He planned to travel light, making it easier on his horse, and to carry enough cash to purchase what he might otherwise need. He gave Smoke his pick of a horse, along with his own suggestion, and instructions to pack light as he had done.
After consoling his wife once more and promising a swift return, Briscoe led his horse out into the evening sun. The farmhands would on any other day have been gone to do whatever it was they did at night, but they sensed something strange and stood around making small talk not far from Smoke’s porch. Briscoe was aware of them watching him; he gave a motion for them to come over. Smoke stood with his horse on one side and his wife on the other, just behind the rest of the boys.
“Me and Smoke are gonna be gone for a few days,” he said loudly. “While we’re gone, Mrs. Jackson will be in charge.” Briscoe caught a look of surprise on some faces.
“She’s got authority to fire you, though I don’t anticipate her needin’ to. Just do what you do when we’re here.” He nodded, and the group dispersed. Smoke and his wife approached slowly.
“You ’bout ready?” Briscoe asked.
Smoke nodded. “Yes, suh.”
“Mrs. Jackson, if you need anything bought, just let my wife know.”
“I’ll take care a’ things, Mistuh Briscoe,” she said. The distraught woman from inside the house had disappeared, and Briscoe recognized her again. “You find my Polly, Mistuh Briscoe. While I’m still myself and can stand up straight.”
“Yes’m. I will,” he replied, and mounted his horse. He trotted ahead to give them time to say good-bye.
Briscoe couldn’t remember the last time he had ridden off into the brush. He began to realize just how comfortable life had become. The sound of Smoke’s horse came from behind, and he fought back a smile. People were worried, and with good reason, but Briscoe couldn’t help but feel glad to be leaving.
________________
The two men made good time through the evening and into the night. A full moon sparkled on the sides of the sweating horses, yet Briscoe was adamant that they stop only long enough to give the animals water and a short rest. He began to feel that a full moon on a warm night was just what he had needed—he was almost jolly but did not let on as much to Smoke—as he conjured up memories of his youth, before fatigue existed for him, riding and hunting and answering to no one.
“What you suppose drives a child to run off, Mistuh Briscoe?” Smoke asked.
“Ah, hell,” he replied. “Lotsa things. Love. Hate. Fear. You name it.”
“Never thought I’d be chasin’ young Polly, though. Always been a good child.”
“Still is,” Briscoe said. “Both are. Can’t hold a little romance against ’em. Had my share, and I’m sure you did too.”
Smoke gave a quiet laugh and shook his head. “Yessuh. That’s true enough.”
Later, the morning hour began to paint a gray light across the countryside, and the cool breeze of the darkness transformed to the muggy still of a July day. The tip of the morning sun reached the horizon, illuminating a small camp about a mile ahead. Briscoe spotted the wagon through his field glasses and nudged his horse.
“There they are. Let’s go,” he said in Smoke’s direction.
Both horses were spent. It occurred to him that they would need a day’s rest before making the trip home. His body tensed as he closed the distance to the camp and caught sight of an extra horse and a third person.
Briscoe knew immediately who it was, and his horse was at a full gallop when he dismounted. Jordy was sitting on the ground with his hands tied behind his back. Polly, her cheeks wet with tears, was at the back of the wagon, and Hank Aldridge stood near the morning fire.
“Aldridge,” Briscoe said through clenched teeth, his eyes wild with fury. He was two strides away when the sheriff pulled his gun.
“Settle down, now, Mr. Briscoe.”
Briscoe hesitated then took another step. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said.
“Seems your boy’s in some trouble,” Aldridge replied. “Kidnappin’ this young girl here. Not good at all.” He shook his head dramatically.
“Nobody’s been kidnapped. They left together by choice.”
“Hmm. Doubt that. Either way, he’ll be goin’ back with me,” Aldridge replied.
“Damned if he will.”
Movement from the side caused both Briscoe and Aldr
idge to turn their heads. Polly walked quietly to Jordy, fell to her knees, and wrapped her arms gently around his neck. Her tears dampened the collar of his shirt.
“Hey! Get away from that boy,” Aldridge yelled, his gun now pointed in their direction. “Hey!” he yelled again and began walking toward them.
An explosion sent Briscoe stumbling backward, his vision blurred and ears ringing. He looked down at himself, feeling and searching for the wound, but found none. His vision focused, and he saw Smoke standing with a rifle, the smoke still fluttering out of the barrel, and Hank Aldridge’s body crumpled on the ground. Blood poured from a hole in his neck.
Smoke looked over with a trembling face. It was at that moment that Briscoe finally understood the man he had known for so many years. The same unquenchable fire burned within Smoke Jackson as burns within every man, the unwillingness to relinquish those things ordained by God: freedom, the ability to protect those you love, equality in justice, happiness, peace. He felt, as they all did, retribution for the man buried under the tree.
Briscoe gathered himself, gave a slight nod, and walked over to untie his son.
Moments later, the two men stood with their children in silence, each of them exchanging looks of understanding. The events of the morning would belong to their memories alone.
Briscoe walked slowly over to a large, white rock with a pointed edge and picked it up with both hands.
“Where ya goin’, Pop?” Jordy asked.
“Dig that man a grave,” Briscoe replied as a quick, cool breeze brought the smell of an oncoming
Souls In The Wind Page 2