Gone to Texas

by Jason Manning

  Nathaniel rocked and puffed, puffed and rocked, and eventually said, "You acquitted yourself well today, Christopher."

  Christopher was pleased. Praise from his legendary grandfather meant more to him than almost anything.

  "I reckon Texas will be lucky to have you," added the frontiersman.

  "I wish you'd come along."

  "You know, I've been thinking I just might."

  Christopher was flabbergasted. He couldn't believe his ears. "Do you mean it?"

  "I said it, didn't I?"

  Christopher couldn't restrain a whoop of pure elation.

  "When I was but a lad," said Nathaniel, gazing off into the western sky, "I always had this hankering to see what lay on the other side of the mountains. I was born and raised in Virginia, but the Old Dominion never felt like home to me. When I first laid eyes on Kentucky I knew in my bones I had found my true home. But it just isn't the same anymore, with Amanda gone. And now, out of the blue, I've got that urge to see new country again. First time in nigh on fifty years I've had this feeling."

  "She'd be glad you're going with me."

  "Well, I think she'd want me to look out for her only grandchild, that's for sure."

  Dr. Mattson emerged from the house, carrying a pan of bloody water, which he emptied off the side of the porch.

  "How are they, Doc?" asked Christopher.

  "Was it you shot that man in the legs?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Mattson grimaced. "My God, boy, you would have done him a favor by shooting him right between the eyes."

  "I thought about it. But all he had was a knife."

  Mattson heaved a deep sigh. "I may be able to save one of the legs. I doubt it, but there's a chance. I understand you fought a duel with another of the Vickers clan."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Didn't kill him either, did you?"

  "No, sir," said Christopher, sheepishly.

  "You had better pray that there are only three of them. If there are any more brothers they will be coming for you, my boy."

  "I'm going to Texas. If any more show up here, send them on."

  Mattson grunted. "Texas, eh? Well, if you pass through the state of Mississippi to get to Texas I suggest you keep your eyes peeled and your head down. The Vickers family has a great deal of influence down there, and in Tennessee, too. It wouldn't surprise me if they put a bounty on your head."

  "A bounty! I've broken no laws."

  "Are you that naive? Men like Daniel Vickers write their own laws, and they have the money to pay for its enforcement." Mattson shook his head. "Fighting duels and such. You're becoming more and more like your father."

  "I am not like him," protested Christopher.

  "No?" Mattson relented. "Excuse me, Christopher. I have become a crotchety old man. If I scold you as a father would his son it is only because I feel as though you and all the other young men and women I have delivered are my children. And I must confess to a particular attachment to your mother. She is a brave, kind, wonderful woman. One of a kind. Your father caused her considerable grief, if I do say so."

  "I realize that."

  "I know you do. And I know you don't want to cause her any more grief by your own actions. There. I have said my piece. Now I think I will go make sure she is following her doctor's orders."

  When Mattson tapped on the door to Rebecca's bedroom Prissy let him in.

  "Ah sho' is glad to see you, Doctor," sighed Prissy.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Landsakes! Ah jis' hope you can talk some sense into her."

  Rebecca was sitting up in bed, arms folded, an expression of stubborn resolve on her face. Mattson knew that look. It meant Rebecca Groves had made up her mind about something. When that happened, there was no hope of persuading her otherwise.

  "What's the meaning of this?" asked Mattson. "I told you to get some rest, young lady."

  "I'm not tired," said Rebecca. "I know that tone of voice. Don't waste your time trying to bully me, Doc."

  Mattson ruthlessly suppressed a fond smile. "What have you been saying to Prissy that's got her so upset?"

  "I told her I'm going to Texas."

  "What?"

  "Oh mercy," whispered the distraught Prissy.

  "Texas. T-E-X-A-S. I am going there with my son."

  "But . . . but . . ." Mattson was stunned to the point of speechlessness.

  Rebecca smiled, sensing that she had the upper hand. "Are you afflicted, Doc? I've never known you to be at a loss for words."

  "But you can't go to Texas, Rebecca."

  "Why can't I?"

  "Well, because—because it's no place for a lady."

  "I'm no lady. I was born in a little log cabin and my father is a hunter."

  "But what about Elm Tree?"

  "I would like to leave it to you to sell for me. Of course, I would expect to pay you a commission."

  "Sell Elm Tree?"

  "Yes, Doctor. Sell. S-E-L-L."

  "I do wish you would stop spelling out words for me," said Mattson crossly. "You're just trying to aggravate me—and you are succeeding admirably. You can be so infuriating sometimes, Rebecca."

  "Only when I'm not getting my way."

  "Oh, does that ever happen?"

  "Will you do me that favor? Will you see to the selling of Elm Tree? Or must I rely on someone else."

  Mattson threw up his hands. "If you're absolutely certain it's what you want, yes. But what about Prissy, and the others? What about your thoroughbreds?"

  "I honestly don't think any of the others will be coming back, after what happened here. As for Prissy, she is free to do what she wants. Personally, I hope she will consent to accompany me."

  "To Texas?" cried Prissy. "Oh mercy me! Snakes and scorpions and . . . and wild Indians and such? Texas is a wild country, Miss 'Becca."

  "Then we had better waste no time in taming it."

  "And the horses?" asked Mattson.

  "I'll take a few with me. Jumper and a couple of mares. Sell the rest for a grubstake."

  Mattson shook his head, and felt compelled to make one last, feeble attempt to dissuade her. "I can't believe you're serious. I wish you would take some time and think this through, Rebecca. Don't act on the spur of the moment. When people do that they inevitably regret it. Elm Tree is your home, and has been for twenty-five years . . . "

  "It has many bad memories, Doc."

  "But there are some good memories, too, aren't there? Your son was born here . . . "

  "And I don't want to see him die here. You know how powerful the Vickers clan is. Do you think it was finished here today—this . . . this blood feud?"

  "No," admitted Mattson. "I was just telling Christopher the same thing."

  "There you are. Perhaps he will be beyond their reach in Texas."

  "Perhaps," said Mattson dubiously.

  "Texas is where he is bound," said Rebecca. "And if my son is going to Texas, then so am I."

  "Oh mercy," whispered Prissy.

  Chapter 14

  Sheriff Ainsley had a wagon brought in to transport Morgan and Joshua Vickers back to town. Doc Mattson was preparing to remove one of Morgan's legs as soon as possible. Christopher's bullet had shattered the bone and was lodged among the fragments, and within a day's time Morgan had contracted a high fever as infection set in. Apart from a cracked rib, Joshua was unhurt. Ainsley promised Nathaniel he would try to keep the Vickers under lock and key at least as long as it took him—and Rebecca and Christopher—to get out of Madison County.

  "You reckon they'll stand trial for Isaac's murder?" asked the frontiersman. He had a pretty good idea himself, but wanted to hear the sheriff's views on the subject.

  "Want a straight answer, Mr. Jones?"

  "I'd rather you didn't lie to me."

  The Madison County sheriff tugged on a earlobe as he thought it over. Then he shook his head.

  "I doubt it. If Judge Dunston was still around he'd give it a shot. But them being Vickerses and all
. . . "

  Nathaniel nodded. "Well, just try to hold on to them for as long as you can."

  The next morning, Rebecca was up and around, in violation of doctor's orders, and seeming none the worse for her experiences. Nathaniel was almighty proud of the way she was bearing up. She had plenty of grit, just like her mother. He was glad she had decided to go with them to Texas. That made leaving a lot easier on him. He was sure that were Amanda alive she would want him to go, to look after their daughter and grandson. Of course, he was getting a little long in the tooth, which left him wondering who would be looking after whom. Not that he intended to be a burden to his kin. If it got to the point that he could no longer take care of himself, he had resolved to make one last trek into the wilderness—a trek from which he would not return. No headstone over a hole in the ground for him. He wanted to die looking up at the stars.

  In a way Nathaniel was sorry to leave Kentucky. He had spent the best years of his life here. He had many acquaintances. Not many friends, though. Being by nature a man who kept to himself, he hadn't made a lot of lasting friendships. There was Daniel Boone, and the Delaware warrior, Quashquame. But they were gone now. Gone, too, was the Kentucky he had loved with a passion exceeded only by his feelings for his family. Gone was the virgin wilderness, where a man could travel for days on end without coming across another living soul. Gone were the great herds of bison, the great flights of passenger pigeons—so many that they could blot out the sun for hours as they winged overhead. The deer and bear were even getting scarce, and the beaver were all but wiped out. Seemed there was a cabin perched on every hilltop, a cultivated field in every clearing. Nathaniel was hoping he would find the true wilderness again in Texas. That was where he wanted to spend his remaining days.

  Rebecca asked for a fortnight to settle her affairs. She placed a notice in Madison County's weekly newspaper, announcing that the Elm Tree thoroughbreds were up for sale. This brought a horde of prospective buyers to her doorstep. Christopher helped her make the transactions. In short order nineteen horses were purchased at top dollar. Rebecca kept the stallion Jumper and the two best-looking mares. It saddened her to see the others go, but she refused to entertain second thoughts about pulling up roots and going to Texas.

  The stallion reminded Nathaniel of the horse by that very name which had carried him on the now legendary midnight run to warn Thomas Jefferson, then Virginia's governor, of the approach of Bonastre Tarleton's notorious Tory Legion. This Jumper had similar markings, the same splendid lines, the same indomitable spirit. If Nathaniel hadn't known better he would have thought it the same horse. The mares, Clio and Delilah, were nothing to sneeze at either. "They'll be the finest horses in Texas," declared Christopher, and Nathaniel didn't doubt the truth of that statement.

  They spent several days discussing the best means of travel. There were two options. One was by boat, down the Mississippi to New Orleans. The other was overland, on the Natchez Trace. From New Orleans they could head due west and be across the Sabine and into Texas in no time at all.

  "I went down the Trace twenty-five years ago with Jonathan," said Nathaniel. "Back when we were on Aaron Burr's trail. The Trace was infested with robbers even then, and from everything I've heard, it's worse today."

  "We could probably find other folks to travel with," said Christopher. "There is strength in numbers. And there are robbers on the river, too."

  Nathaniel nodded. "That's true. Morrell's gang."

  John Morrell, known as the Reverend Devil, was the most notorious outlaw of the era. His proclivity for traveling in the disguise of an itinerant preacher had earned him his legendary nom de plume. He and his river pirates were the scourge of the Mississippi River. Rumor was that Morrell had over five hundred cutthroats at his beck and call. His headquarters were located somewhere in the Arkansas canebrakes, a barracoon of thieves and murderers, complete with women and children, ruled by Morrell the way Jean Lafitte had reigned at Campeche. For years Morrell and his henchmen had preyed on the flatboats carrying goods and people down the river to Natchez and New Orleans. But even the big steamboats which plied the Mississippi these days were not safe. It had gotten so bad that a detachment of dragoons had recently been dispatched by the government to find Morrell's hideout and destroy it. But Morrell's pirates had ambushed the dragoons, torn them to bloody shreds, and sent them packing. The law couldn't touch the Reverend Devil.

  "We would be easy pickings for Morrell on the river," said Christopher.

  "What do you think, Becky?" asked Nathaniel.

  "Can we transport the horses on the river?"

  "Of course."

  "Which way would be the quicker?"

  "Barring anything unforeseen," said Christopher, "I suppose we would make better time on the river. But it would not be the safer of the two. Even if we suppose that Morrell will give us no trouble, there are natural hazards to consider."

  "It will be a hazardous journey, regardless," said Rebecca. "I say we go by the river."

  "May I ask your reasons, Mother?"

  "The Natchez Trace passes through Mississippi, doesn't it?"

  "Why yes, but . . . "

  "Then we'll take our chances on the river."

  "If it's because of Dan Vickers . . . "

  "That's precisely the reason," said Rebecca sternly.

  "Your mother's right," said Nathaniel. "I reckon there will be some men out looking for you, Christopher. By taking the river we may be able to outflank them."

  "We'll need a good boat," said Rebecca. "Can you find one for us, Nathaniel?"

  "I can. The only problem, Becky, is that we could use a couple more men with strong arms and stout hearts."

  "First things first," said Rebecca. She was still hoping against hope that the three hands who had fled would eventually show up again at Elm Tree, even though Prissy was firmly of the opinion that they were long gone.

  "Dey's still runnin' skeered," she had told Rebecca. "Dey's prob'ly halfways to Canada by now."

  "Oh, I hope not, Prissy. They have no documents to prove they're free. What if they run into bounty hunters?"

  "Dey can take care of demselves, Miss 'Becca. Doan you fear none 'bout dat."

  "I'll miss them terribly if they don't come back."

  "Dem worthless field hands? Hmph!"

  "Prissy! That's an awful thing to say. And you don't mean it. I know you don't. You miss them, too, but you just won't admit it."

  "Miss 'Becca, was dey to come back dey'd jis' run off again after you tol' dem you was gwine to Texas."

  Rebecca smiled. "You don't have to go if you don't want to."

  "Ah'm gwine," said Prissy grimly. "Ah'm gwine to Texas if you is, Miss 'Becca, and dat's dat. Somebody's gots to look out for you and dat headstrong boy of yours."

  Rebecca knew that Prissy was as devoted to Christopher as she was. In fact, Prissy thought of Christopher as her own son, in a way. And why not? She had spent just as much time and effort as Rebecca in nursing, bathing, feeding, and clothing Christopher during his childhood years. She still fussed over him like he was ten years old.

  Christopher stayed behind at Elm Tree when Nathaniel left to purchase the boat. Now that the thoroughbreds were sold, Rebecca set about arranging for an auction as a means to dispense with most of the furnishings. Nathaniel had warned her that she could take no more personal belongings than would fit in a wagon. The decision was a difficult one for her. She had spent twenty-five years selecting the pieces which filled the rooms at Elm Tree, and there was precious little that she wasn't reluctant to part with. Finally she decided on her four poster bed, an escritoire, the dining room table and chairs, a rocking chair her mother had given her, a trunk full of her clothes and a few mementos. And then there were the books—another trunk filled with books. She had done a lot of reading in the past few years, and had the idea that perhaps she could teach school in Texas.

  Everything else was earmarked to be sold. The auction was a rousing success. It seemed to her
as though the entire population of Madison County was present for the occasion. Rebecca saw quite a lot of people who had once called themselves her friends—before she had so offended southern sensibilities by emancipating the Elm Tree slaves.

  "I'm glad to see they haven't permitted personal feelings to get in their way of acquiring quality furniture at rock-bottom prices," she told Christopher sarcastically.

  "Maybe they're just glad we're leaving, and this is their way of donating funds to meet our travel expenses."

  In what little spare time he had, Christopher struggled ferociously with a letter to Greta Inskilling—a letter which took him a fortnight to write. She had made him promise to write her when he reached home. He was to address the letter to one of her friends—evidently she feared that any letter sent directly to her might be intercepted by her father. Christopher knew the fate which would befall any correspondence from him to Greta if it fell into the hands of Piet Inskilling.

  Christopher was a mediocre letter writer in the best of circumstances. In this instance, as he tried to put his innermost feelings into words, he had an awful time of it. Ever since the levee at the White House his thoughts had been of her. Only then had he been certain of her love for him. She had to love him, to be willing, as she clearly was, to defy her father, risk her reputation, and brave the perils of Texas just to be at his side. Christopher still had a hard time believing he had been so blessed, and he certainly did not feel worthy of her affection. But there it was. Undeniably, Greta truly loved him. And once he was settled somewhere in Texas all he had to do was send word and she would come to him, by ship, down the Atlantic coast, around the tip of Florida, and across the Gulf of Mexico. Calculating the months ahead during which they would be apart made Christopher wretchedly heartsick.

  In the letter, he told Greta that both his mother and grandfather were accompanying him to Texas. He described the sale of the horses and the auction, while leaving out altogether the business with the Vickers brothers. Sharing his expectations of their arriving in Texas and getting settled before winter, he concluded with the fervent wish that come the following spring she would make the long journey to join him.