Esther

by Jim Cox

  Nothing much changed for the rest of their first day’s travel. They stopped inside a grove of Maple trees with a small creek running through its upper edge about an hour or so before dark. Stacks of wood had been left by previous travelers, and black ashes spotted the ground where bygone fires had blazed.

  Mark took the stock to grass, hobbled them, and returned to a meal nearly matching what they’d eaten at noon. It had been a long tiring day for all of them, being jostled around on a hard wagon seat with no give whatsoever. When twilight came, they spread their bedrolls under the wagon and slept.

  Their second day was tiring and passed much the same way without incident. However, their third day was filled with trouble. Mark woke a couple hours before full daylight to a chilly morning. He stomped into his father’s hand-me-down shoes, laced and tied them, put on his coat and hat, and then fetched wood to start a fire. It wasn’t long until he was sitting against a wagon wheel with a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

  Mark had just taken a long swallow with his mind on his father when he heard a loud commotion coming from where he had staked out their cow and horses. He quickly grabbed the gun and shells from behind the wagon seat and ran for the stock. As he ran, he heard a thundering growl echoing through the trees, followed by a loud gurgling sound. Horse whinnies filled the air. When Mark got to them, both horses were thrashing against their hobbles, trying to get away, and the cow lay flat on the ground in a puddle of her own blood. A huge mountain lion stood on top of their cow. The big cat eyed Mark and assumed a protective skulking position as it let out a loud growl. Mark loaded the gun, took aim, and fired. The lion ran a few yards and then fell over dead.

  Not long after the shot rang out, Mark’s mother and sister came running toward him. “Are you all right, Mark?” they called out. Their eyes followed his pointed finger, and they looked beyond the spectacle of their dead cow and saw the mountain lion.

  The three were shocked and stood in silence, knowing with the cow gone, a good bit of their potential livelihood had just been eliminated. Joan was in tears. Mark rallied and got them all moving again, “After I get the horses settled, I’ll cut out the cow’s loin and a back quarter; then I’ll bury her carcass along with the lion. You two can fix our breakfast.” As they turned for the wagon, Mark said, “I’ve already made the coffee.”

  Mark’s plate of fried potatoes, bacon, and warmed-over biscuits sat warming on a flat stone close to the fire as he walked up with bloody hands carrying the meat from the cow nearly two hours later. He hung the cut-outs to the side of the wagon to cool down, then took soap and a towel to the nearby stream to wash up. When he returned, his ma handed him the plate of food and a steaming cup of coffee. Words were few while he ate.

  All three were a bit subdued by the loss of their cow, but as the day passed, their travel was pretty much the same as the two previous days. The temperature was comfortable, a slight westerly breeze brushed their faces, and the sun felt warm to their backs. They guessed they’d be in Albertville by late afternoon.

  By mid-morning, the constant rhythm of the wagon and the heat of the sun beaming down caused all three travelers to grow drowsy and their heads to bob. Yet, the horses plodded on—guidance wasn’t necessary, they followed the trail. Joan was the first to hear the squeak.

  “What’s that squeaking sound?” she asked no one in particular. Mark and his mother’s head rose with alert ears—they heard it, too.

  Mark handed the reins to his mother, “You drive the team, Ma, while I walk beside the wagon and listen to where the squeak is coming from.” He jumped down from the moving wagon and walked beside each wheel. “Pull the wagon over, Ma. The left rear wheel is as dry as a bone. It’s where the squeak is coming from.”

  As the three stood looking at the wheel, Esther said, “We ain’t able to travel with a dry wheel, son. We’ll have to pull the wheel and add new grease. If we don’t, the hub will be ground completely away within the hour.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma. I should have checked and greased the wheels before we left home.”

  “No need fretting about what should have been done. All we can do now is unload and raise the wagon with a pole. You go cut a long sapling, son, while Joan and I start unloading the wagon.”

  His mother and Joan headed for the back of the wagon to start the unloading process, but Mark called them back. “We ain’t got no grease, Ma; I didn’t pack it,” the boy said with a lowered head.

  “What are we gonna do?” Joan said.

  “We’ll have to leave our wagon here and ride the horses to Albertville,” her ma answered. “We can come back tomorrow with grease and get the wagon.” She turned to her son and asked, “Got any other ideas about what we should do, son?” He shook his head and started removing the horses’ harnesses.

  While the women were in the wagon gathering a few small personal things in a bag, Mark led one of the horses close to the wagon’s side which made the mounting easy for the women. Afterward, he swung himself up onto the second draft.

  Chapter Four

  They rode into Albertville a couple of hours before sunset that afternoon. The town was situated in the center of an expanse of farmland between two mountain ridges. There were two well-traveled roads. Main Street, which was a continuation of the trail they’d been traveling on and was lined with the town’s businesses. A block south was the primary residential street. As they rode into town, folks stopped whatever they were doing and eyed the bedraggled strangers riding draft horses. Mark nodded to several of the men, and then turned to his mother, “Ma, do you remember any of the folks living in Albertville?”

  “I recall a few, but not many, son. We lived on a farm several miles west of here, and I didn’t get to town very often.”

  “Do you remember where the livery is? I thought we’d stop there and ask about Pa. He most likely has his horse stabled there.”

  “It’s on the right side of the street at the far end of town, son, and used to be operated by a big man who everybody called Smitty. If he’s still there, he may remember your pa and know where he is.” Mark smiled.

  When they came to the livery, they stopped beside a line of horses tied to a rail and got down. Mark heard a banging of iron against iron, so he followed the sound to the livery’s wide open, double doors where a fair size man, wearing a leather apron covering most of his bare chest, was pushing a forge peddle up and down with his foot while he turned a set of tongs holding a horseshoe in the hot coals. Mark watched as the smithy placed the red-hot shoe on an anvil and shaped it with his hammer. After a careful look at the shoe to make sure it was the right shape and size, he submerged it into a barrel of water to cool off before placing it on a nearby table. Then he turned toward Mark and said, “If you want your horses shoed you’ll have to wait ʼtil tomorrow. I doubt if I get all of ʼem done at the tie-rail today.”

  “Much obliged, sir, but that ain’t why I’m here,” Mark answered.

  “Then, what can I do for you, young man?”

  “We just got here; my ma and sister are waiting outside. We were supposed to meet my pa here, and I was wondering if you’ve seen him? He’s a tall man, about my height, riding a black gelding with a fancy saddle. There might be a man with him—he’s short.”

  “Is John Taylor your pa?” the smithy asked.

  “Yes, sir; he’s my pa,” Mark answered with a smile.

  “I’ve seen ʼem both; rode in yesterday about noon. They stabled their horses with me and went straight to the saloon. I recalled your pa from when he lived here a few years back.” The smithy took on a wide grin, “I remember you too, young man—used to come in here with your pa. You’ve done a sight of growing since then.” The big man shook his head and continued his grin. “You’d be a spitting image of your pa, except you ain’t all decked out, looking like an Eastern dude.” The smithy reached out with a large calloused hand, “Town folks call me Smitty, what’s your name?”

  “My name is John Mark Taylor, but I’m called Mark,” h
e said as they shook hands. “You say my pa was wearing Eastern clothes?” Mark asked in a surprised tone.

  The smithy nodded his head. “He was wearing a dark brown suit with a white shirt and tie—had a long traveling coat over it to keep the dust off.” The big man chuckled. “His black derby made him stand out like a sore thumb.” The smithy paused, and his face sobered. “Wearing a strapped-on pistol ain’t allowed in Albertville, but your pa and the other man had one on.” Mark’s brow furrowed.

  “Do you know where they might be, Smitty?”

  “They paid me about noon today and rode out, heading west.”

  “Did my pa say when he’d be back?”

  Smitty shook his head. “He didn’t say, but it looked to me like he was planning on staying gone for a while. His saddlebags were full of grub, and his bedroll and bag of clothes were tied on behind his saddle.”

  Smitty had turned to go back to work when Mark called to him—he turned back. “Our wagon is back on the trail with a squeaky wheel and we ain’t got grease to fix it. We ain’t got a place to spend the night, or a cent to our name, Smitty. Is there a good place close to town where my ma and sister can bed down while we wait for my pa?”

  The big man studied on the question. “There’s an abandon farmhouse at the foot of the mountain about three miles north of here. It ain’t the best, but I can’t think of another place any better, and I don’t believe anyone would object to you staying there for a spell, but why don’t ya’ spend the night here with me. I’ll give you some grease come morning to fix your wagon, and then you can take the women on to the farm.”

  “Thank you, sir; Pa will pay you for it when he gets here.” Mark paused, “Smitty, would you tell my pa where we are when he comes back to get us?”

  Smitty nodded his willingness and then asked, “Do you have enough food to last for a few days, Mark?”

  “Yes, sir; we brought along a good amount from back home, and we added to it yesterday when a lion killed our cow. I cut out a hind quarter and her loin. That ought to be enough to feed us for at least three weeks if I can get it back here before wild animals get at it. I can trap us a rabbit or two for a variety—maybe kill a deer later on, but hopefully Pa will be here by then.”

  They spent the night in the livery, and by mid-afternoon the following day their wagon rolled toward the abandon farm house Smitty had directed them to. All four wheels had been greased, and the meat hadn’t been bothered.

  Chapter Five

  The wagon stopped short of the abandon homestead as the sun was in twilight. The women sat looking at it in dismay. Dried weeds and grass engulfed the place. The front door was open and hung at an angle by a single leather strap. The windows were broken out, and the roof needed patching. The barn looked no better. The only positive thing seen was a nice stream behind the house. That’s where they settled for the night…under the stars, a few yards away from the fast flowing, gurgling mountain stream with their minds wondering when their pa and husband would be coming back to get them.

  The house wasn’t in good shape, but it would have to do. It was a log structure with an overlapping board roof—a couple of the boards were missing. There was a window on each side of the door and inside was a kitchen/sitting area with a fireplace filling the west wall. A small windowless bedroom occupied the back. Both rooms were empty except for a rough-hewed table and benches in front of the fireplace. The floor was dirt but unlike most houses of the time was not dug out. The entire place was filthy with every exposed surface covered in a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs hung in the corners and from the ceiling beams, and animal droppings littered the floor.

  “We might as well get started,” Esther said in a firm tone. “Mark, you can get a fire started and fetch a large kettle of water to heat; I saw some wood stacked by the barn. After that, see if you can fix the strap on the door so it can be boarded shut. Go to the barn and look around; there may be something in it we can use.” Esther then turned to Joan. “You can get our broom and floor rake from the wagon and start cleaning the bedroom while I start in the kitchen. By the time we sweep down the ceilings and walls, the water should be hot enough for us to wash down everything.”

  By late afternoon Mark had made several repairs, including the door strap hinge, and the women had thoroughly cleaned the inside of the house and were ready to move in. However, before they started the moving process, they sat at the table waiting for coffee water to heat. “Why are we doing so much work around here? It looks like we’re moving in for good,” Joan asked. “Won’t Pa be back for us in a day or two?”

  “He should be, honey, but we might as well get things livable; we don’t have anything else to do while we wait.” Joan only nodded.

  After coffee, Mark hitched the team and pulled the wagon alongside the front door. During the packing process back home, Mark had managed to organize the articles tightly and fill all of the possible space in the wagon. He even managed to bring his pa’s cushioned chair and his ma’s rocker; consequently, as they carried in their belongings, the room started to fill and take shape, looking a good bit like back home which caused faces to brighten and enthusiasm to surface.

  A week later the homestead had been brought back to life and looked livable. The weeds had been cut, the split-rail fence around the corral was straightened and re-wired, the barn had been cleaned, and several other jobs were done including the roof repair, but their pa still hadn’t shown. They worried as the days passed and were becoming uneasy.

  During their second week at the place, Mark saw a buggy coming one morning and went inside to alert Joan and his mother. At the thought of having guest, Esther’s face brightened, and she hurried to put on coffee water.

  “My name is Russell Mason, and this is my wife, Hilda; I’m the parson at Albertville,” the man said after stepping down from his buggy. “We thought we’d come out and get acquainted with you folks.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, and thank you for coming. We haven’t had company since we settled here,” Esther said. “My name is Esther Taylor, and these are my children, Joan and Mark.” Joan nodded with a smile, and Mark gave a greeting as he shook the parson’s hand.

  “I have coffee water heating. Won’t you come inside and be seated while I finish making it?”

  When the parson and his wife entered the house, it was obvious to Mark they were uneasy about something, and he assumed it was the appearance of the house, so he quickly said, “Please excuse how our place looks. It’s kind of bare. We just got here from Idalia, and as soon as Pa gets here, we’ll be moving on. We could only bring a wagon load of our belongings. The parson nodded, and his wife smiled, but her eyes didn’t match her facial expression.

  Esther and the parson’s wife were starting a conversation while coffee was being poured when the parson interrupted, his eyes on Esther. “I’m sorry, but I have bad news for you.” Silence gripped the table as all eyes went to him.

  “What is it, Parson? What kind of bad news do you have?” Esther asked.

  The parson cleared his throat. “A young family by the name of Sidwell from Eastern Virginia has bought this farm, and they plan to move out here within the week.” The parson paused, “Smitty told me he had directed you here and he feels bad that you’ll have to move on. He asked me to come out and explain the situation. I’m sorry to bring you the bad news.”

  Esther took on a frown and squirmed a little at first, but then she collected herself, “Don’t feel bad, Parson, it’s not your fault. If you see him, you can tell Mr. Sidwell we’ll be out by tomorrow evening.” Silence gripped the table. Mark looked at his mother who seemed to be calm with the whole matter. But he knew her outward bravery was only for show and that on the inside she was troubled about where they’d go next.

  To his surprise, as the parson and his wife were saying their goodbyes, Esther said, “Would you tell Smitty, if he sees my husband, to tell him I’ll be at the hole.” The parson looked puzzled but gave an affirmative nod. Mark was puzzled too.
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  By noon the next day, the wagon was angling across farmland toward the east/west road west of Albertville. The sun was bright, and the sky was filled with pillow clouds, but the November temperature was chilly, causing coats to be worn.

  “Why are we going this way, Ma? Aren’t we going back to Albertville and wait on Pa?” Joan asked. Mark had been given their travel plans but not his sister.

  “We’re not going to Albertville, Joan,” her mother answered, “We’re going to a place I know of a few miles west of here and wait for your pa there.”

  “Does he know about the place, Ma?

  Her mother looked at her with a smile and said, “He knows, Joan. It’s not far from where we used to live.”

  It was mid-afternoon when they turned onto the road a few miles west of Albertville. Their travel through the farmland had been bumpy and stressful on the horses, but when they reached the packed-down road, their way smoothed out, and the pull eased. It wasn’t long before Mark and Joan’s heads drooped with heavy eyes, but Esther’s stayed wide-awake with nagging thoughts about her husband. Where was he and why didn’t he meet us at Albertville like he said. Why had he started drinking and turned so mean? Why did he rob those stores and steal that horse in Idalia? And then the big question came to her that she tried to push aside but couldn’t. Would he come back and would she still love him if he did? Do I want to be around him—live with him as a wife? The wagon wheel hit a rock and jarred the wagon, bringing her mind back to the present and waking Mark and Joan.

  Esther had not been paying attention to their travel, but after the wagon jolted, she looked about and saw dark clouds in the west coming their way; she called Mark’s attention to them. “It’ll be raining within an hour, son unless I miss my guess, and we ain’t got a place to hole-up in.”