Katherine

by S. A. Glenn

  “By jove, James!” she expressed, voice raised. “What’re you gonna do? Lock Samuel up?”

  Samuel wrapped his arms around his mother, terrified.

  “Now hold on, Becky. Calm down! I’m not implying anything like that!” he said aloud then softened his voice. “I’m simply trying to get to the bottom of this, looking for the facts—the truth.”

  She lowered her voice and sat back against her chair. “Samuel’s too young to go to jail, especially when he’s innocent! He’s just a guiltless little boy, nothing more,” she assured the marshal, hugging her son.

  Samuel wiped away his tears. Breathing in a faltering breath, he spoke with bravery as he turned to the man with the badge. “Sir, I didn’t mean for that to happen. Tommy’s my blood-brother. I don’t know what I’m gonna do without him. Please, don’t lock me up. I’m so sorry,” he said as he peered up into Marshal Macmurdo’s adept eyes.

  The marshal placed his hand onto Samuel’s shoulder. With a gentle tone, he said, “Look, child. I don’t think you’re a killer, much less a criminal. But I have a job to do. There’s no reason for those girls to lie. Something isn’t adding up here. But rest assured, if you’re being honest with me, you’re most definitely not going to jail. But if I find out otherwise, you’re gonna be in real trouble! Understood?”

  Revealing a smile of hope, Samuel replied, “Yes, sir. I promise I’m telling the truth.”

  “What happens now?” asked Becky as she kissed her son’s forehead.

  Marshal Macmurdo stood and slid his chair under the table. “Gotta hustle up the witnesses again, deal with Tommy’s parents, see if I can calm them down. Maybe send Reverend Ambos over there to help them survive this tragedy. I don’t know. Hopefully, he can get them to reconsider their ill feelings toward Samuel, see that it’s an accident, if that’s the case. I’m not filing charges just yet. Make sure Samuel stays in town, Becky. For now, we’ll play it by ear.”

  “Thank you, James.” She stood with great relief then showed him to the door.

  “Stay out of trouble, son!” hollered the marshal as he left their home.

  Samuel peeked around the kitchen wall. “I will, sir,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Samuel attempted a normal life, but the kids heckled him all day long in school. His teacher could not stop their shenanigans, not sure how to manage the problem. She determined that it would be best for Samuel and the others if he didn’t attend school. His mother agreed and decided she would teach him at home.

  The townspeople were cruel as well. Whenever they saw Samuel they avoided him, whispered, gossiped, and stared at him as they shook their heads in distaste. He tried being polite with them, but they refused to show him compassion. He had fallen into a rut, gave up on any attempt to smile or talk with them. He had been judged as guilty by the ones who used to embrace his company. He withdrew from the world, saddened.

  No charges were brought against Samuel. The three girls changed their stories, not sure about what they had seen. They gave insufficient proof that Samuel maliciously sought to harm Tommy.

  Tommy’s parents were not so feverish after Reverend Ambos preached to them, yet they had not found it in their hearts to forgive Samuel for taking their only child away, accident or not. Samuel tried to pay his respects at his best friend’s funeral, but the Smiths refused to allow him around Tommy.

  All Samuel had left was his loving parents. When he was not being schooled by his mother, his father taught him carpentry. Over the years Samuel became skilled in the trade, putting off his academics to work long hour.

  CHAPTER 6

  JASPER

  1868

  Tom and Samuel were done unloading; Samuel, in more than one way. Samuel’s face showed turmoil and guilt after telling his tale. They were standing in the beaming sunlight, dripping sweat. Tom routed Samuel under an arching branch of an elm. They blotted their foreheads with their forearms, sat against the trunk, looked outward.

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, Samuel. As it says in Psalms: ‘Who can understand his errors? Cleanse thou me from secret faults.’ And you should excuse the others for the way they treated you. As it says in the book of Luke: ‘Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.’ And it says in the book of Ephesians: ‘And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.’ Ask for forgiveness for what happened with Tommy, and let go of the affliction tormenting your soul. Surrender to the Lord our God, let Him heal you. Do you know how to pray, Samuel?”

  “I reckon I’ve prayed more times than I can count, Tom, but maybe I need help, though, cuz it ain’t seemin’ to be workin’ too much,” he said with a forced smile and watery eyes.

  “Give me your hand, Samuel.” Tom reached out to him. “Let us pray.”

  Samuel took hold of Tom’s hand, then they lowered their heads.

  Tom spoke. “O God our Lord, with all your glory and grace. If it be your will, forgive Samuel of his shortcomings and allow him to prosper with your compassion, love, and understanding. Show him his righteous pathway to you; that he shall serve you in heaven when his time comes. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

  “Amen,” Samuel echoed, opening an eye, peeking over at Tom, cracking a smile. “Gosh! I don’t know them big words you used. Maybe you can learn ’em to me so God can hear me gooder.”

  “Big words don’t get the attention of the Lord, Samuel… Lots of praying does… But even through that, sometimes what we ask for isn’t what God has intended. He may assist us in ways not obvious to us. You must have faith.”

  “S’pose so,” he reluctantly said, losing his smile in his deep thought, having difficulty with the latter of Tom’s message. His deep-rooted anguish still dwelled within him, keeping him a prisoner of his past. It would take a miracle to subdue the trauma, to bring him into the immaculate illumination of spiritual success.

  Samuel sat in the wagon ready to depart. Tom’s wife rushed over, holding her dress’ length in one hand, grasping a small sack in the other. “Wait! Wait, Samuel!” she exclaimed, planting her feet next to her husband, slightly out of breath. She handed the sack to Samuel, her voice quieter as she spoke. “Here, Samuel… I’ve got something for you.”

  “Ma’am? What’s this?”

  “Some of my tea. Thought you might want some.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” he smiled big.

  Mary placed her arm around Tom with a grin. Tom accepted her gentle hold with a soft kiss on her cheek. Samuel witnessed their love, wishing he had a caring woman to call his own, to comfort him. His outward look showed happiness; but inward, he was saddened and isolated.

  Back at the restaurant, Samuel eased down into a chair at the table. He removed his hat, ran his hand up over his forehead then around to the back of his neck. He moaned as he straightened out his legs. “Owww! Howdy, ma’am. Sorry for the language… but this first day’s work really kicked my rear end.”

  “I see that! You gonna be alright?”

  “Just needa get used to it, that’s all.”

  “Good. Want some grub?”

  “And how, ma’am—Oh, yeah, Ma’am… a customer, wants me to help him build on Saturdays. Could I be allowed to ride your horse out yonder? ’Bout four miles out? I promise I’ll take good care of him!” he said with a serious stare, crossing his heart.

  “Not a problem, Samuel. Anything I can do to help you…” She placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “Thanks, ma’am.” He looked up at her, laid his hand atop hers, absorbing her kindness.

  The next day Samuel was on course to Tom’s with the last shipment of materials. Just before he arrived to Jasper, he trailed over for a bathroom break. After he relieved himself, he gave ear to a rustling within a briar patch—a cluttering racket spoiled t
he peaceful morning. Samuel, ahead of his schedule, cautiously stepped over to identify the ruckus.

  “Dang nabbit! Tarnations!” an old man’s raspy voice bellowed.

  Samuel viewed a tiny character with a lengthy, white beard, balding on top, wearing long johns with many holes, fiddling with something within the shrubs. “Howdy, sir. Everything okay?” said Samuel, standing behind him.

  The fragile oldster flinched, then toppled over. “Who goes there?!” he demanded, squinting as he reached for his misplaced gun.

  “Samuel Lee, sir… I’m unarmed! Ya needin’ help?”

  “Awww!” the man exclaimed, sitting in the dirt, swinging his fist through the air with defeat. “The dawgone trap didn’t work again, ’n’ my blasted breakfast done hopped away.” The agitated man wheezed, hacked. “Got any tobackee? Whiskey? Coffee?”

  “Tobacco, sir. Need some?”

  “Whydaya think I asked, sonny? Yes, yes, of course! Come… have ah seat.” He got up and plopped down next to a smoldering fire pit, patting the ground next to him.

  “Be right back, sir.” Samuel sprinted over to the wagon, grabbed tobacco, food, and a handful of the mint tea he had left inside it. Hurrying back, he sat next to the geezer and tossed the tobacco into his lap.

  “Thanks, young feller. Name’s Herman Snodgrass. Now put some wood in that there pit if ya don’t mind. Nearly froze my bones last night. Don’t needa catch no numonee!”

  “Pleased to meetcha. My name’s Samuel Lee.” Samuel placed three logs into the pit. “Here, sir. An apple ’n’ sandwich. I’ve got mint tea. Let me get the brew started for ya.”

  Herman took the food, patting Samuel’s knee. “Good man, Samuel Lee! Good man! This’ll do just fine. Now, if ya don’t mind, maybe you can roll me up some smokes, son. Can’t get my fingers workin’ right. Gettin’ harder to take care of myself in my old age.”

  Samuel caught his tobacco pouch back from the man, rolled a few cigarettes and watched Herman devour the sandwich. Samuel handed Herman three roll ups.

  “Dyin’ for a smoke,” Herman claimed, grabbing a twig, catching its end afire and lighting a cigarette. “Good sandwich, too. It hit the spot. Don’t got no front teeth for eatin’ apples, though… Save it for rabbit bait.”

  Samuel grabbed an old dented tin cup stained with coffee, put mint leaves into it, and poured hot water from the boiling pot sitting over the fire. “Are ya homeless, sir?” he asked, handing the cup to Herman.

  “Auwy! Good ’n’ hot!” Herman said as he took the beverage, pointing a finger up into the deep blue sky. “Never homeless! Where I build my fire, that’s where my home is.”

  “Understood! So, what has ya in these here parts?”

  “Prospectin’! I’m headin’ out west for Californee. Figgered I’d get out there before all the gold was found. I’m ah miner lookin’ to strike it rich. Just down on my luck… kinda sick,” he said, drawing on the cigarette, nearly coughing up a lung.

  Herman Snodgrass had had a rough life. His parents died in a fire at a hotel in Virginia when he was nine. He lived on the streets after that, hustled any way he could to make a living. But he got tired of it after decades of poverty. For the last year he had been seeking riches through exploring the land for gold. He was a bit senile, though. People had told him that the only gold left was in Nevada. But he wouldn’t listen to them, thought that they were lying to him so they could steal his wealth.

  “Well, Mr. Snodgrass, it was nice meetin’ ya ’n’ all, but I need to get a move on it. I’ll check on ya in a few days, make sure you’re alright,” Samuel said, reaching out his hand to Herman.

  “Much obliged, son,” he said, lively shaking Samuel’s hand.

  Friday morning Samuel showed up at work, and there was an outsider at the sawmill entrance. The man’s hair was trimmed neat, his clothing traditional, his blue denim shirt was pressed with creases. While the man lit up a cigar, he took notice of Samuel’s approach, stepped off of the walkway and smiled.

  The 21-year-old from Hedgerow (a town outside of Wrangler) extended his arm. “You must be Samuel,” he said, puffing on his cheap cigar. “I’m Jacob Reynolds. Call me J.R. Oli hired me for the other position.”

  Samuel grasped J.R.’s hand. “Howdy, J.R. I’m Samuel Lee. Pleased to meetcha. I sure need the help. That loadin’ and unloadin’s got my muscles hurtin’ somethin’ awful this morning.”

  Oli arrived and had J.R. load the wagon while Samuel fed the horses. Samuel got the animals situated then helped J.R. Together they loaded the materials lickety-split then headed off to their destination.

  Throughout the workday, they learned a great deal about each other, became friends. Samuel asked J.R. if he wanted to hang out together on Sunday, hike up to the garden of fruit and help him plant the mint seeds. He also asked J.R. if he wanted to partake in a ritual of enlightenment and ingest the magic mushrooms with him. Samuel’s explanation of all of that had J.R. intrigued and he wished to attend the arrangement.

  Sunday morning after they tilled a patch of land next to the apple tree, Samuel and J.R. planted the seeds. Just before noon they finished, unwinding under the walnut tree. They sat across from each other, waiting to experience the mystical effects of the mushrooms.

  Samuel was competing with his friend to see who could produce the longest lasting smoke rings in the steady breeze, but J.R. was no match for Samuel. The two of them began having many uncontrollable drawn out yawns. They stared at Ruff lying down between them. Ruff seemed to sense their probing eyes. He lifted his sleepy head, peered at Samuel, grinned big, and said, “Howdy, Samuel.”

  Samuel snorted a laugh at the illusion. “Did you see that?” he asked J.R.

  “See what?” J.R. asked, ready to laugh at Samuel’s silly face.

  Ruff cocked his head over at J.R.

  “Ha ha ha,” J.R. chuckled at the amusing mutt.

  Ruff jolted his teensy thinker toward Samuel then back at J.R., cocked his head, and examined J.R. with perplexity. The two of them burst out with laughter, rolling around on the ground, holding their stomachs—then they looked at each other, not having a clue as to what was so funny.

  During the next five hours they wore permanent grins, roaring with silliness.

  Samuel was braced for sleep, remembering the day with J.R. and how he hadn’t had a blast like that since he was a kid. After his nightly whiskey kicked in he faded off into slumber then drifted into a vision.

  Samuel was driving a golden wagon downward from a silver-inlaid cloud. His hair flowed back as he whipped the reins over the tails of the six dazzling-white horses with wingspans of ten feet. The transport glided like an eagle closing in on its prey, touching down with the wheels of air. The horses carried Samuel to a quaint campsite in the middle of nowhere. An anxious old man awaited his destiny with joy. The old man extinguished his smoky fire that signaled his position then he hurried to his ferry that would deliver him over the ocean of sky. The man’s grimace was hidden as he climbed aboard and sat behind Samuel. The horses leapt into the air with a brilliant burst of fire as they ascended at an incredible velocity.

  “Where to, old timer?” Samuel asked.

  “It’s me, Samuel Lee . . . Herman Snodgrass. You can let me out up yonder. It’s my time, son.”

  At work the next morning, Samuel delivered a small load north of town. On his way back to the mill he stopped to visit with Herman Snodgrass, bearing food, coffee, and tobacco. He wandered over to the campsite, observed the man lying on his side next to the tent. He unhanded the supplies and ran over to aid Herman. Samuel’s body shook with adrenaline as he crouched next to the feeble old man, gently resting Herman’s head upon his palm.

  Herman forced his tired eyes open, gazed up at Samuel, wheezed, and gasped for oxygen. His lips were dried and cracked; his hair was a mess and full of debris. He strived to speak,
but his speech was murmured. Samuel leaned down, placed his ear at Herman’s lips and listened. Herman drew in a short breath, grumbled into Samuel’s ear. “It’s my time, son.” Herman’s chest lowered as he released his last breath of life, eyes open and glazed over.

  Those words sent chills down Samuel’s spine, instantly reminding him of last night’s awakening dream. “OLD TIMER!” Samuel cried out as he held the man’s soulless carcass.

  Samuel grieved, feeling responsible for Herman’s death. He believed that he could have saved him if he had taken him to the doctor instead of trying to heal the man by himself. Samuel only thought that he alone could get Herman back onto his feet like others did for Samuel. Fear engulfed him, seeing himself as part of another death. Panic ran through his veins as he wondered how to handle the situation. He thought about burying the body, but he didn’t have a shovel; plus, it would take too long, and someone might see him, thinking he killed Herman. He calmed down and decided to drop off the body with the doctor back in town. Samuel hoped the doctor would keep the death confidential. Samuel just wanted to do the respectable thing. Samuel found a filthy blanket inside Herman’s tent. He wrapped Herman up with it and placed his drooping body onto the buckboard then headed into town.

  At the doctor’s building, Samuel casually entered it, keeping a low profile. He informed the doctor of the situation; they then carried the corpse into the establishment, resting it onto the cold examination table. One of Herman’s arms fell from its position, spooking Samuel. He backed away, becoming wary of the whole ordeal.

  The MD took hold of Herman’s wrist, placed his stethoscope to the man’s chest and listened. With a soft smile, he took the listening device out of his ears. “He’s a goner.” Putting out his hand, he said, “I’m Doctor Henderson!”

  “Sir,” Samuel said, shaking the doctor’s hand.

  “And you are… ?”