Esther

by Jim Cox

  “That goes for me, too,” Joan added. Esther gave a thankful smile.

  Mr. Hendrix thought it would take at least a couple months to sell the mercantile, but within three weeks a buyer had been found, the deed had been signed, and his payment accepted. The buyer’s last name was Baxter. He had a wife and three children ranging in age from eight to thirteen.

  Mr. Hendrix purchased two large draft horses and a mid-sized wagon with a bonnet, and in late September 1859, the wagon was loaded with needed traveling items and a few of their personal things, including many of his books, as they prepared to join a wagon train headed for New Mexico the following day.

  Hugs and kisses were given with watery eyes in the early hours as Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix prepared to leave. As Esther pulled back from her embrace with Marie, she said, “Be sure and write to me when you get settled and keep me posted on Mr. Hendrix’s health.”

  “I will, and if you move on from the new address you gave me, let me know.”

  After climbing aboard, Mr. Hendrix snapped the lines, and the big drafts stepped into their pull, heading for the trail at the city’s west edge where the wagon train members were to meet.

  When the Hendrix wagon disappeared from their sight, the Taylor family finished loading their cargo into a buggy they’d hired and headed for their new home—it was a sobering trip down empty, Sunday morning streets.

  »»•««

  The two rooms Esther rented were on the second floor of a run-down and dirty boarding house. Four other renters occupied the boarding house with them. A family of three lived in the upstairs unit, and an old couple had the unit next to them on the second floor. The two units on the first floor were occupied by middle-aged men. Esther had met all of the renters during her negotiations, and she judged them all to be a bit crusty as evident by their dress, body odor, and speech. But the rooms were inexpensive and would have to do until she found employment and figured out what she could afford.

  Within a week their new living quarters had been thoroughly cleaned, and everything put in its place. But more importantly, all three Taylors had found jobs. Esther and Joan had both been hired by a small riverside café nearby. Esther worked daily, but Joan was limited to four days a week. The café wasn’t upscale like the one Esther had previously worked at, and she wouldn’t earn as much, but it was close to their lodging and would do for now. Mark found a job loading and unloading cargo at a shipyard where he worked ten hours every day except Sundays. The pay was a dollar a day.

  Days passed without much future. Occasionally Esther and her children spoke of their father, wondering what had become of him. Esther had written to Mrs. Taylor, her mother-in-law, concerning John but she’d not received an answer. She had received a letter from Doyle, and it raised her spirits.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  John took the sheriff’s advice and left town an hour or so before noon in mid-February 1858, on the old hag of a horse he exchanged for his gun and holster with the town’s smithy. He headed north out of town on a matted-down trail through the rolling Kentucky hills which were not overly stressful, even so, the hag John was riding required frequent stops. He was headed for Blue Ridge, a small settlement about thirty miles northwest he’d heard about in the saloon. Unbeknownst to John, the trail he was riding up was the same one his wife and children had taken to the barge.

  The sky was covered with eastbound clouds, and a cold breeze caused John to pull his coat tight and raise his collar. As he rode hunkered down in his coat, his mind was absorbed with plans as he contemplated. How will I get back on my feet and regain the pleasures I once had? How will I get my hands on some money? As John considered the question, he mumbled, “The fastest way to get back on my feet and have some money is to rob someone for gambling money. Then with any luck, my gambling skills will kick in.” He smiled at the thought, but then reality set in making him aware the only thing he possessed at this point in time was the clothes he was wearing and the pitiful horse he was riding. He no longer possessed the items he’d come to take for granted. A gun, extra clothes, a bedroll, food, liquor—he didn’t even have matches to start a fire.

  Noon came, but John didn’t stop—there was no need. The day finally passed with the sun lowering itself into hiding. As long shadows were being cast John started looking for a place to hole-up for the night. The sun was completely gone with the only light coming from the sun’s reflection off of the clouds when John stopped beside a stream along a valley floor with a thick grove of pine trees alongside and a good-sized patch of long stem grass close by. After taking his horse to water, he hobbled it in the grass with its bridle rein and returned to the pine trees where he raked up a pile of pine needles with his hands and then spread them out into a bed.

  The night was too young for sleep, so John found a tree away from the wind and sat against it. Even though he was chilled to the bone, he was sweating, and his stomach was churning. John looked at his shaking fingers and thought, I need a bottle of whiskey in the worst way; I’ll have to find one tomorrow.

  Nighttime was long—terribly long—he nearly froze. Sometime during the night, he remembered the saddle blanket which he placed over his upper body that helped considerably. He woke before daybreak in a fetal position craving whiskey. Food never entered his mind as he laid there; only the thought of the brown liquid filled his thoughts.

  Morning started out like the previous day as John stepped into the stirrup. A cloudy sky with an eastbound wind stronger than yesterday. He figured he’d ridden twelve-miles the day before, maybe a mite more, which left him with twenty miles to go before he’d reach Blue Ridge. He hoped to be there before darkness set in.

  John rode north for most of the morning, but then the trail forked, and he followed the westward trek instead of the northern trail leading to the river. The clouds had thinned, and the sun beamed down as John started looking for a rest stop. He topped a hill and saw smoke rising in the distance. Someone’s cooking their noon meal, he thought. Maybe I can get something to eat, or better yet, something to drink.

  “Hello, the camp,” John called out. He was waved in. There were three crusty looking men with tied-down pistols sitting on logs around a fire with cups in hand. What got John’s attention was the half-full bottle of whiskey they had leaning against one of the sitting logs. Their horses were grazing a few yards away. All three were quality horses with fancy saddles, tied down bedrolls, and rifles in the gun boots. John was handed a cup of coffee and motioned to a sitting place on one of the logs. Words were scarce.

  Even though John used both hands to raise the cup, most of the coffee slopped out of his shaky hands. He was unable to get the cup to his mouth without spilling the coffee on his clothes, so he sat it down and looked toward the men who glared back at him with questioning eyes. One of the men asked, “What’s wrong with ya’ man? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

  John hesitated for a second or two and then answered, “I need a drink in the worse way—ain’t had one for three days.” Eyes circled the camp and then settled back on the drunk as John quickly made another begging plea, “Could you let me have a swallow or two of your whiskey?” He asked pointing to the bottle.

  The oldest of the three men gave a nod and shortly afterward, the brown liquid had been poured and drunk. In a few minutes, his cup was topped off with hot coffee which John could now hold without spilling.

  The camp was silent for a few minutes before one of the men spoke up, “Where did you get that derby you’re wearin’? I rode with a man a spell back that wore one like it. In fact, he wore clothes like you have on.”

  “That’s strange,” John said, “I teamed up with a man a few weeks back wearing clothes like these. I liked the way he looked, so I copied my outfit after his.”

  “What was his name?” the man asked.

  John set his cup down and looked into three pair of penetrating eyes. “He went by different names, but I knew him as Norman Kilroy.”

  “How come you split up? Do you k
now where he is now?” the older man asked.

  John cleared his throat and reached for his cup which gave him a few seconds to think on the questions. It appears they knew Norman and may have had a bad run-in with him, John thought, I’d better be careful what I tell them. “He got caught dealing himself a hand from the bottom of the deck in a card game a few weeks back and was stabbed with an Arkansas Toothpick—died within minutes after he was stabbed.”

  “How do you know that? Were you around when he was killed?”

  John only nodded.

  “That story is hard to believe. Norman was the best man with a gun I ever saw,” one of the men said, “I don’t see how a man at the card table could’ve gotten to Norman with a knife before Norman shot him.”

  “The accuser didn’t stab him,” John said. “While he and Norman were in a standoff, the accuser’s brother slipped behind Norman with the knife.”

  “I suppose you took care of his body?” a man asked. John nodded. Then the older man said, “We stake claim to all the money he had—it belongs to us because he ran off with over five thousand dollars we were to split four ways from a robbery we made in Virginia.”

  John thought fast before he responded. “I arranged and paid for his burial, but he didn’t have any money. Fact is, he was gambling with my money—owed me over a thousand dollars when he was killed.” John looked at the men’s expression, hoping they had believed his lie.

  “You don’t look like a man who has money to me…someone who could stake a card game.”

  “I ain’t got a cent to my name right now, but I had over a thousand dollars before Norm died and the sheriff took it and all of my belonging, including my horse and gun, and ordered me out of town on that nag of a horse over there. He said it would take all of what they took from me to pay for repairing the damage I’d caused in the saloon. He claimed I started a fight which resulted in broken furniture, mirrors, and other items. Of course, it wasn’t true, but the sheriff said if I wasn’t out of town by noon he’d hang me, so I high-tailed it.”

  The three men sat drinking coffee with doubtful expressions, but John put on his charm and continued, “Do you men need an extra hand? I know I don’t look like it, but I’ve had a good bit of experience at your line of work and would be an asset to you—I’ll pull my weight plus some. Besides, I’m in need of work to replenish my holdings and would be beholding to you.”

  The three men eyed one another and then lingered over coffee for a spell. Finally, the oldest man said, “Get yourself a gun and a good horse and then look us up—we’ll be in Cairo.” John nodded with a wide grin. The oldest man continued, “Get rid of those clothes you’re wearing, especially the derby; you stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “What kind of a job will we be making in Cairo?” John asked.

  “That’s none of your concern—you ain’t part of us yet.”

  The men finished eating and after drinking their coffee, they snuffed out the fire and prepared to leave. However, before mounting, they left John with two hardtacks and a long swallow of whiskey.

  The sky was still bright when the three men left the camp, but the western horizon was filling with black clouds. I’ll be raining before I get to Blue Ridge unless I miss my guess, John thought as he stepped into the stirrup.

  Travel went fairly well for a spell, but then the horse’s gait became slower; the old horse had used up what little endurance he had. He had to stop more often and rest several minutes. John finally dismounted and walked to ease the horse’s stress as they kept moving.

  By mid-afternoon, the dark swirling clouds closed in, and the wind became stronger and much colder. It wasn’t long before sprinkles started and then came a downpour of sideways rain. John was soon soaked to the bone, cold, and cramping all over from the want of whiskey. However, in spite of all his discomforts, he kept on. He was excited about the potential job he’d be in on once he got to Cairo and met up again with his three new friends. John knew he’d need to get equipped with new clothing, a quality horse, and a gun before meeting the men in Cairo, but his plan was to get some of these needs in Blue Ridge.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was dark, and the rain was still coming down when John came to Blue Ridge. Like most side-by-side, two street towns, the main road was lined with businesses, and the homes sat on a street running parallel. John guessed the population to be around a hundred, a hundred-fifty at the most. As he rode down the business street, he noticed a walk-through between the buildings leading to an alley behind the businesses. The town seemed to be buttoned up for the night with only a few lights showing, but from a saloon, music was banging loud, and light shone through its two large front windows casting a shadow across a string of eight horses tied to a rail. John rode on through the empty street and stopped in a grove of trees at the far edge of town where he tied his old horse to a tree branch. He was cold and soaked through-and-through from the falling rain. His craving for whiskey hadn’t eased, but he was determined to follow his plan and steal one of the horses at the saloon’s hitching rails and get out of town.

  John snuck back and watched for street activity for several minutes. When none appeared, he started walking down the alley behind the businesses. When he came to the rear of the saloon, he slipped down its walk-through to the front edge of the saloon and peeked around the corner at the horses. They stood three-legged with their heads hung down, subdued because of the rain. A big roan gelding with four white stockings caught John’s attention. He looked to be a quality horse with staying power. John looked up and down the street; all was clear, so he eased out of hiding and slowly walked toward the horses. After untying the big roan, he led it down the saloon’s walk-through and back up the alley to the trees where he’d left his old horse. He waited for a spell in the trees to determine if he had been seen, and then John mounted the big horse and headed off with the old horse tethered behind. It didn’t take long for John to acknowledge he’d chosen a good horse; the big roan stepped out lively with a high head and a smooth gait.

  John was cold riding through the rain and still craved a drink of whiskey, but he continued on, wanting to get away from possible pursuers. He figured the rain would most likely wash out his tracks leaving his trail difficult to follow, but he didn’t want to take any chances, so he rode on, hour after hour, through the black rainy night.

  He judged it was well past midnight and that he’d been riding the big roan for at least five hours when he came to a straight-up, limestone cleft with a good size overhang. It was extra dark underneath, but somehow he managed to get the horses under and began to remove their gear, starting with the old horse. As he untacked the roan, he found a large canteen, a braided lariat, a rifle in the gun boot, and saddlebags with a bedroll tied behind which had been kept dry wrapped with a ground tarp. John hoped the bulging saddlebags contained food, so he quickly unfastened the straps and reached in. His findings brought a big grin, and after digging further, his fingers came upon a tin of matches.

  From a lighted match, he kicked together a pile of wood and debris toward the back of the overhang shelter and soon had a little fire burning. He sat down close to the fire to warm his chilled body and pulled the saddle bag to his side. John was all smiles as he pulled items from the bag. There was hardtack, a half side of bacon, a few other food items, and several feet of a rawhide strip. There was also a small coffee pot with a cup and coffee fixings inside. When John opened the other side of the saddlebag and reached in, he was flabbergasted as his hand felt the handle of a pistol. John examined his find in the flickering firelight. It was a Colt Dragoon Revolver with pearl handle grips. Its black leather holster had a steer’s head tooled on its side, and the belt’s shell-loops were full of ammunition. Reaching in the bag again, in hopes of finding a bottle, John pulled out a Bowie knife in a leather scabbard.

  Within a half hour, John had coffee water on, sliced bacon hanging over the fire, and his wet clothes were hanging on branches next to the fire to dry. He stil
l wore his wet underdrawers, and they steamed next to the fire.

  As John sat close to the fire absorbing the heat with a full stomach and cup in hand, he considered the loot he’d stolen and the kind of man who might have owned it. Most likely he was a traveling man with considerable wealth. The quality of his horse and gun would support that belief. John was taking a long swallow when another thought came. The town must have had a law prohibiting guns to be worn; I bet it’s why his gun was in his saddlebags.

  John fell asleep next to the fire and woke to bright sun spilling into the overhang the next morning. He quickly dressed and brought the red embers back to life. When the new wood was blazing, he removed the horse’ hobbles and led them to a patch of grass not far off and replaced their hobbles so they could graze while he had coffee.

  The horses grazed for nearly an hour before John went after them. He’d eaten two hardtack-bacon sandwiches, drank coffee, and readied his gear. After saddling and packing the horses, he stepped into the big roan’s stirrup and headed off with the old horse following behind.

  »»•««

  Two days later, John’s travel took him away from hill country onto a fairly flat landscape. There were a few small hills, but the land was mostly treeless with fields of long stem grass. He’d not ridden far across the flat land when he came upon a well-used trail heading north—he followed it and several hours later came to the Cherokee River and a nearby barge crossing to Paducah. By late afternoon John and his horses were stepping onto the city’s dock.

  John stayed busy after arriving at Paducah. He’d sold the old horse and its saddle to a livery for thirty dollars, had gone to the barber shop for a bath, haircut, and shave leaving him without a beard and mustache, and had bought new clothes at the mercantile. He now stood leaning against a saloon bar with bottle and glass in hand with plans to join a table of cards after a few drinks; however, after downing two long swallows, a barmaid ambled up to him, put her arm across his back and said, “You’re a stranger to these parts; what brings ya’ to Paducah?” John set his glass down on the bar and turned, taking her in from head to toe. She’s right pretty, he thought as a wide smile surfaced. She wore a red dress with a low neckline that tightly fit her tall, slender body. Her sandy-red hair had a slight curl and was piled on top of her head, making her look even taller. Her pale skin seemed to accent her green eyes that seemed to sparkle. John guessed her to be in her mid-twenties.