Father unto Many Sons

by Rod Miller

  The captive collapsed in a rumpled heap, unaccustomed to so much strenuous walking for so long a time or so far a distance. Head hung low, he swayed slowly where he sat.

  “What the hell’s he doin’ here?” Richard said.

  “Had to bring him along,” Abel said. “Otherwise, we’d have the law on us by now.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got Pa’s books. That’s all that matters.”

  “The hell you say! What about the law bein’ after us?”

  “I don’t believe they will be, yet. But they’ll be coming.”

  The steam whistle on the ferry boat sounded from the landing.

  “Mel!” Abel called. “Drop that wood and get on back here.” To Richard, “We had best be on that ferry.”

  Richard bristled at the orders coming from his baby brother. But, sensing a ticklish situation, he set resentment aside and the brothers gathered their camp goods and rolled them into bundles, piling the plunder on hastily cinched saddles atop the mules. Richard and Melvin grabbed the lead ropes and set out for the landing.

  With the toe of his boot, Abel prodded his listless hostage. “Get up!”

  Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Peter looked his way and said, “What? You’re making me go with you across the river?”

  “Get up. We’ve got to get going.”

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  Abel hoisted him to his feet by the collar and shoved him along after the mules. “We ain’t got time to worry about that right now. Light out for the ferry and don’t dawdle.”

  Once the brothers and Peter were settled on board, questions came in a torrent. Abel told how he had stumbled upon Uncle Ben in town while on the way to his house. How Ben, so drunk he could barely stand, attacked him nonetheless and came within an inch of slitting his throat. How he managed to get the best of him and return the favor.

  The telling made salt and bile rise once again in Abel’s mouth and his stomach turned. He interrupted the story and sat with head bowed between his knees, waiting for the nausea to pass. Peter, sitting near enough to overhear Abel’s account, looked as white and disturbed as the foam in the paddle wheeler’s wake.

  Impatient and edgy, Richard urged Abel on. “Good Lord, Abel. That was nothin’ short of murder.”

  Abel’s head jerked upright at the accusation. “It was him or me! You didn’t feel the steel of that knife blade against your throat.”

  “ ’Course not. I got better sense than to keep after a man who already told me no. God knows what kind of a fix we’re in now.”

  Abel stewed on that for a moment. He pulled the Bible and journal from the pocket of the duster. “Pa sent us for these books. We come all this way for them. I meant to carry out Pa’s wishes, and I did. You-all ain’t nothing but cowards and quitters.”

  Richard swatted at Abel with his hat, but Abel snatched his wrist and turned the blow aside. He continued twisting the arm until his brother cringed, then cast it aside. Rubbing at the offended wrist, Richard said, “You had best watch yourself, little brother. Fact is, you killed a man. Even as far gone as Pa is, I don’t reckon he’ll take kindly to you killing his brother.”

  “I did what he asked me to do,” Abel said, then stood and stomped off down the deck.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  By the time Richard and Melvin unloaded the mules and made the Arkansas shore, Abel was waiting.

  “Where’s Peter?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Richard said. “Come to that, why the hell would I care?”

  Without a word, Abel ran up the stage onto the boat. After a few minutes, he returned, Peter in tow.

  “What do you want him for, anyway?” Melvin said.

  “Think it over, big brother. He stays on the ferry and gets back to Shelby County, what’s the first thing he’ll do?”

  Melvin pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow, but came up with no response.

  Abel said, “He’ll go to the law, that’s what.”

  “You mean to keep him with us?” Richard said.

  “Well, sure. Leastways till we’re out of reach of Shelby County law.”

  Peter witnessed all this in silence, but could hold out no longer. “Wait a minute! I do not intend to go one step further with you-all.”

  “You don’t have any choice in the matter,” Abel said.

  Richard said, “Aw, hell, Abel. Let’s let him go. We don’t need him draggin’ along with us all the way across Arkansas—feedin’ him and all!”

  “Think about it, Rich. By now somebody’s probably found Uncle Ben’s body—if not, it won’t be long. I hid it best I could, but it ain’t like it will be hard to find, bein’ as it’s right on the main street of town. And once they find him, him being who he was in Shelby County, they won’t waste a minute looking for who killed him.”

  “They will find me missing!” Peter cried. “The blame will fall on me!”

  “Maybe, maybe not. If they do, that’s not such a bad thing to my way of thinking.”

  Peter’s breath came in short gasps and his face turned pallid; Richard provided contrast with his complexion tinged with red. No one spoke as the men studied one another in turn.

  All but Melvin, who appeared disconnected from the whole situation. He swayed slowly back and forth for a time, then broke the silence, and the spell. “I’m hungry. When we goin’ to get something to eat?”

  After breakfast in a Hopefield eatery, the brothers set about planning their return. With the three gold eagles Richard held back from the money offered Ben, he allowed they would make the trip without going hungry. They purchased beans, bacon, flour, cornmeal, salt, rice, dried fruit, coffee, a cooking pot, skillet, coffeepot, and a tin plate, cup, spoon, and fork apiece. Packed in canvas sacks hung from the saddle skirts and slung across the seat and atop it, the provisions left no room for riders.

  Richard tugged the last leather tie tight. “Looks like we’re all a-hoofin’ it all the way this time, boys.”

  Melvin said, “I don’t mind, long as I get something to eat regular-like.”

  Abel looked things over, smiled and shook his head.

  “What is it, baby brother?”

  “Well, Rich, it’s these mules of Pa’s.”

  “What about ’em?”

  “By the time we get back to Ma and Pa, they won’t know if they’re draft mules, saddle mules, or pack mules.”

  Even Peter thought the observation worth a chuckle and joined the chorus.

  “We had best get a move on,” Abel said. “The law likely don’t know who they’re looking for or where to look as yet. I’d as soon we were long gone and forgotten before they figure it out. Any luck, they never will.”

  “We’ll go, all right,” Richard said. “But don’t you be gettin’ in the habit of givin’ orders around here. It might have slipped your mind that you’re just a kid, but I ain’t forgot.”

  Step by step, mile by mile, day by day the brothers and Peter followed the old Military Road across the swampy lowlands of eastern Arkansas, towing the laden mules along. One evening by the campfire, Peter massaged blistered feet, soothed somewhat from a long soak in a stream feeding the Arkansas River, but still sore and worn from the unaccustomed walking. “We are a long way from Tennessee, gentlemen,” he said. “How much longer do you intend to hold me captive?”

  “You really want to be turned loose to fend for yourself out here?” Richard said.

  “No. Not really. What I meant to ask, I suppose, is what you intend to do with me.”

  Richard kneaded his whiskery chin as if he could work out an answer that way. “Don’t know. We ain’t far from Little Rock. We’ll see about it then. For all we know, first thing you’ll do is set the law on us.”

  Abel walked out of the woods, silhouetted in the fading twilight. Peter lurched upright.

  “What’s the matter?” Abel said.

  Peter relaxed and settled back into his stoop. “It’s that hat and coat. I thought for an instan
t there you were Mister Pate. Ben, I mean.”

  Melvin said, “Gives me a start myself now and then. You aim to keep them clothes of Ben’s?”

  “Don’t see why not. It’s a good hat. And I like this here duster. Lots of pockets and whatnot.”

  Richard said, “What you got in them pockets, anyway?”

  Abel pulled a bundle from one side pocket and unwrapped the cloth he had wrapped around the Bible and diary, then rewrapped them and put them back in the pocket. “I reckon these is as safe here as anywhere.” From the opposite pocket he pulled one of Ben’s Colt revolvers.

  “Holy hell!” Richard said. “Where’d you get that?”

  “It was Uncle Ben’s. Got another one, too,” Abel said, pulling the other revolver from an inside pocket. “They was hanging on the wall in his office there, so I borrowed one to persuade Peter here to cooperate.”

  “That so?” Richard said.

  Peter nodded, and told the brothers how he had been fooled by Abel’s disguise into opening the safe. “Once he had obtained those books, he held me at gunpoint and forced me to come along.”

  Abel laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Melvin said.

  “What he don’t know,” Abel said with a nod toward Peter, “is that that gun wasn’t even loaded. Wasn’t then, isn’t now, ain’t never been.”

  Peter reddened at the revelation.

  Richard, equally florid, said, “You’ve had them pistols all this time? You ought to’ve give them to me!”

  Abel’s only response was a questioning look.

  “Damn it, boy! I’m the oldest one! You got no right deciding who gets what around here—that’s mine to decide.”

  Abel shook his head. “If you wanted something from Uncle Ben, you should have went yourself and got it. I’m the one that got what Pa sent us for, not you. These here pistols helped me do the job, so I helped myself to them.”

  Richard sprung to his feet and stood toe to toe with Abel. Locked eyes blazed. Neither brother backed off.

  “Aw, c’mon, Rich,” Melvin said, wilting under the tense heat of the encounter. “Leave off. We’ll let Pa decide once we get back.”

  “Right. And Pa’ll say to let Abel keep them. He’s Pa’s pet, you know.” Richard placed a hand on Abel’s chest and gave him a push—enough to make a point but not enough to elicit a response—then walked away.

  Melvin said, “Y’know, Abel, there’s two of them pistols. Seems like you could give one to Rich.”

  Abel did not reply.

  “Shut up, Mel,” Richard said from across the fire. “Go check on the mules.”

  Abel squatted by the fire next to Peter. Peter said, “When do we get to Little Rock?”

  “Tomorrow, maybe. Maybe the next day. You think them feet of yours will make it?”

  “Oh, for certain. They still pain me, but they are toughening up. The reason I ask, is, your brother thought perhaps you would release me once we arrived in Little Rock.”

  Abel mulled it over. “Wish I knew, Peter. Wish I knew.”

  Across the fire and at the edge of its light, Richard rustled around in the supply sacks. He found what he was looking for, rolled in a bag padded for protection. He sat in the dark, uncorked the jug and took a long, slow draught of whiskey, all the time eyeing Abel.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sarah Pate knelt and lowered the bucket into the creek, tipped the open mouth upstream and watched it sink as it filled. She hefted it out of the water as she stood and listed into the weight as she carried the heavy pail back to camp.

  As she stepped into the clearing four men and two mules trailed in from the opposite direction. Water geysered out of the dropped bucket when it hit the ground, but it remained upright. “Lee!” she said in an attempt at a yell, pinched off by her caught breath. “Lee!” she said again.

  Her husband backed out of the bed of the wagon with axe in hand. He had crawled in to fetch it, bent on replenishing the wood pile. “What is it, Sarah?”

  “The boys! The boys are back!”

  Lee followed the direction of her pointed finger. “Land sakes! We was startin’ to wonder if you boys would ever make it back,” Lee said.

  Finding herself, Sarah rushed into Richard’s arms. He lifted her off her feet and spun her around in a hug. She tore herself away and clinched Melvin and kissed his cheek. Then it was Abel’s turn, and he embraced his mother then held her at arm’s length. “Ma, you look fine! We sure been missing you—Mel, well, he ain’t much of a cook.”

  Lee stood back, watching the welcome. “Boys,” he said, “it looks like you come back with more than you left with. Who is this fellow?”

  Richard and Melvin looked at each other, then at Abel. Abel looked at Peter, then at his father. “That’s Peter, Pa.”

  “Peter?” He squinted his eyes and wrinkled his brow and studied the man. Recognition dawned. “Peter—ain’t you the office man who works for Ben?” Peter removed his hat and nodded. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Abel said, “It’s a long story, Pa. I’ll tell you-all about it later.” He pulled the wrapped bundle from the pocket of his duster and offered it to his father. “Here’s something else we brought back that you’ll be more interested in.”

  Lee stared at the bundle in his hands, found his way to a stump that served as a camp chair and sat. Carefully laying the bundle on his lap, he unwrapped it slowly and deliberately. He smoothed the cloth wrap against his thighs, eyes locked on the little journal. He opened the cover and thumbed through the pages of the slim book then slid it under the Bible and did the same with it, running his eyes over the names and dates recording the history of his people. Rewrapping the bundle, he stood and set it on the stump.

  “Boys,” he said, wiping the dampness from the corners of his eyes with the ball of his thumb, “I don’t have the words to thank you.”

  Sarah had plenty to say about the supplies the mules still carried. She fussed and fluttered about the sacks and bags of food as the boys unloaded them. Knowing their folks had had no way to replenish their scant stores in their absence, and having grown accustomed to a more abundant diet, the brothers restocked supplies in Little Rock. They, as much as Ma and Pa, would appreciate having a little something to put in the pot.

  Humming tunes and occasionally voicing snatches of song, Sarah flitted about the camp and the fire and her few cooking pots like a honeybee. She told the boys to get on down to the creek, declaring that if they expected a seat at her table—knowing full well the family lacked the luxury of a table—they had best clean themselves up.

  The brothers finished unloading the mules, unsaddled them, led them down to the stream to drink and staked them out to graze, then pulled off their shirts and scrubbed up as best they could—paying particular attention to the parts that showed. Peter did the same. With fresh-shaved faces they trooped back to camp.

  The boys settled into their accustomed places along the log, Pa on his stump, and Peter making do cross-legged on the ground. Ma scurried around, filling and refilling their plates with bacon, boiled rice smothered in gravy whipped up from flour and bacon grease, corn dodgers, and topping off the meal with refilled cups of coffee and stewed dried apples.

  “Sorry I didn’t have time to make a pie crust, or even batter for a cobbler,” Ma said. “And I lack cinnamon spice. Still, you-all got the best part of an apple pie.”

  Lee tried, with limited success, to stifle a belch. “It was right fine, Sarah. Don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a meal more.” He stretched and yawned and squirmed into a more comfortable seat on the stump. “Now, suppose you-all tell me about your visit with your Uncle Ben.”

  None of his sons seemed eager to tell the story, looking from one to the other expecting someone else to start. Lee waited, sipping his coffee, but the tin cup clattered to the ground when Melvin finally burst out with, “Abel killed him, Pa!”

  Once Pa caught his breath, the story unfolded. Richard told how Melvin went to see their uncle
and asked for the books and took a beating for doing it. He told how they recovered the stash of gold eagles from the farmhouse and offered them— most of them—to Uncle Ben in exchange for the books, and how he had run them off and kept the money.

  “We’d of let it go at that, Melvin and me. But Abel was determined to go back and I couldn’t stop him no matter what.” Richard neglected to mention how he and Melvin attacked their younger brother but got the worst of it.

  Lee sat quiet for what seemed a long time but could not have been more than a minute or two. Then, “Abel, I guess you better tell me about it.”

  Abel told how he had set out in the night from their makeshift camp on the river, skirting most of Memphis on the way to the town where Ben lived. He told how, by sheer luck—good or bad—he found his uncle drunk in the empty street.

  “I wouldn’t of done it, Pa, had I seen any other way. Uncle Ben was so drunk he couldn’t hardly stand up, but he mustered the strength to almost kill me. I guess seeing that knife blade so near my throat, I just kind of lost my head. I feel awful bad about it, Pa. Real bad.”

  With that, Abel hoisted his pants leg and pulled Ben’s heavy knife from the shaft of his boot and handed it to his father. “That there’s the knife that nearly killed me—and did kill Uncle Ben.”

  Lee studied the knife, turning it over and over and admiring the fancy carving and inlays on the handle. “I remember this knife,” he said. “Ben was right proud of it. Carried it around in a belt scabbard all the time, like he was fixin’ to skin out a deer—even when he was sitting at his desk in town.” He studied the knife some more. “Well, Son, it’s a fine knife. I reckon you’re the one to keep it if you want to, what with what you went through to get it.”

  Melvin said, “That’s it, Pa? That’s all? Abel kills Uncle Ben and all you got to say about it is he gets to keep the knife?”

  Lee’s brow wrinkled at the question. “I don’t get what you mean, Melvin—Mel. I sent you boys to get them books and Abel done it. What else is there to say?”