by Rod Miller
Richard spent most of the day in the tent sleeping. Sarah awakened him midafternoon with an offer of food.
“Sorry, Ma,” he said, sitting on his bedroll and kneading bleary eyes with thumb and forefinger. “I ain’t got the stomach for it just now.”
“You’ve got to eat, Richard. C’mon. It’ll make you feel better. Give you strength.” She handed him a plate.
He looked it over. “What is this?”
Sarah sat down on a box and tucked stray locks of hair behind her ears then adjusted the bun at her nape. “It’s what I fixed for the Lewises’ supper. Something they gave me the recipe for. Call it ‘bubble and squeak.’ ”
“Don’t sound like nothin’ to eat. What is it?”
“Mostly potatoes and cabbage fried up. A few leftover vegetables stirred in, and some sausages.”
He still looked suspicious.
“It’s pretty good. Try it.”
Richard poked around the plate and forked up a small bite. He sniffed at it, slid it off on his tongue, and finally chewed and swallowed. After a moment, he tried another bite, then another, then emptied the plate as fast as his fork would work. “You’re right, Ma. That stuff ain’t bad.”
She studied her son for a moment, noting his reddened eyes, sallow face, bedraggled hair, unkempt whiskers—and split lip, bruised cheek, and black eye. “Richard, I don’t aim to rant like your Pa does. But the way you’re goin’ leads no place but trouble.”
“Aw, Ma, don’t you be gettin’ after me too. I ain’t a kid no more.”
“You’ve got your growth, for certain. But that don’t mean you’re growed up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sarah waited until the anger left her son’s face. “All this drinking, Rich. It’s no good. From what I’ve seen in my years, most of the troubles that come to men come on account of whiskey.”
“Plenty of men drink. Most do.”
“True enough. But some men, well, it takes ahold of them and won’t let go. They drink too much and too often. I’m afeared that’s the way you’re going.”
Richard said nothing.
“What is it you intend to do, Son? Time’s drawin’ nigh when Pa’s goin’ to be loadin’ the wagon and lighting out for God knows where.”
Richard laid back, turned on his side and curled up. “I don’t know, Ma. Wish I did. If I was to come along, Pa would keep on givin’ me trouble, expect me to take orders from Abel—you know how he is.”
“I know it. But you got to know it ain’t all his fault.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he said as he sat up.
“The thing is, Rich, you’re just as contrary as your Pa is. No matter what he asks of you, you argue with him. If he wants something done one way, you insist on doing it some other way. Sometimes you don’t finish a job. And Melvin—well, you know how he is. He does his best, bless his heart. It’s just easier for Pa to have Abel deal with things, don’t you see? You got to admit, the boy’s reliable.”
“That’s one way of lookin’ at it, I guess.”
“That’s Pa’s way, for certain sure.”
Richard hugged his elbows and shook his head. “I can’t figure how to overcome it, Ma. I remember when me and Mel was little tykes. We’d run and play—even learn to work some—and you and Pa doted on us. Then Abel come along and, well, after that it’s like us older boys was only half there. You folks never had time for me and Mel after baby brother got there.”
“Oh, Richard, we never meant to neglect you. Fact is, I never knowed you felt we did. But a baby—Abel, or any baby—needs near constant care. And you boys liked runnin’ wild. Your independent streak showed even back then.”
“Maybe so. But after Abel it was sort of like I was on my own—me and Mel, that is. Didn’t seem to matter what we did. Abel was the only one you and Pa—especially Pa—ever paid any mind to. He never bothered with me, save it was to remind me I wasn’t good enough.”
Sarah wiped away a tear, smoothed her apron, gathered Rich ard’s plate, and stood to leave.
“Ma?”
She waited.
“What do you think of all this? This talk of Mexico? Askin’ the Lewises along?”
Sarah stared at Richard’s plate, slowly scraping at the food residue with the fork. “I don’t know, Son. I wish I knew what’s come over Pa these past years. He never used to have such foolish notions—at least not so powerful. If it was up to me, we never would have left Shelby County. We left behind a good life for no good reason. I wish we could go back—but from what you boys found, there ain’t nothin’ to go back to. And, with what Abel done, we couldn’t go back anyhow.”
She turned and lifted the tent flap, stopped again. “I just wish I had a stove again, Richard, ’stead of cooking over a campfire all the time. I’m gettin’ so I don’t much care where that stove is at.”
Sarah turned again, stopped again. “And a bed that ain’t in the back of a wagon or a tent would be nice, too.”
Evening was well on its way when Richard left his bed to again meet the world. Stiff and sore, he stepped delicately down to the creek, knelt, and laved water over his head and face. Supper was over, but Ma had put aside another serving of the meal she served the Pates and the Lewises. He chewed the food gingerly with his pained and now stiff jaw and teeth. “Y’know, Ma, a man could get to like this stuff. What is it you call it again?”
“Bubble and squeak.”
“That’s sure a funny name for food,” Melvin said from the stump where he sat whittling a big stick into a smaller stick. “But Rich is right—it tastes pretty good.”
Lee toweled off the plates Sarah handed him from the wash water. “Richard,” he said, “your boss is expectin’ you back at work tonight.”
A sharp glance from Richard was the only response.
“You expectin’ to be there?”
Richard nodded, turned his attention back to his plate and poked at the bits of food still there.
“It would behoove you to show up sober. And you’d be well advised to leave that whiskey flask of yours at home, too.”
The silence was so thick in the camp it seemed to dampen the rattle of the dishes in the pan. Peter sat upright and when he slapped both hands on the table, the others flinched. With a smile, and perhaps louder than necessary, he said, “A delightful meal, Missus Pate. If there are no objections, I believe I shall pay a call on our neighbors.”
“Any neighbor in particular?” Sarah said.
A flush crept up Peter’s neck. “I will be pleased with the company of them all. But I intend to have a word with Daniel.”
The response brought a sly smile to Sarah’s face, but only blank looks from the men.
Abel sat at the table across from Richard, the light from a lantern hanging on the side of the wagon illuminating the family Bible he paged through. The rhythms of its archaic language mesmerized him, but the contradictions in many of the stories confused him. Take David, who swayed from good to evil to good to evil as if swinging from a rope. Then there was Abraham’s bewildering approach to family loyalty, allowing his useless nephew Lot every advantage yet willing to snuff out his own son’s life. And the deceptive and debauched dance between Judah and Tamar.
Unable to come to terms with a grownup version of morality for himself, he determined safety lay in following his father’s course until he could.
Peter watched the boy scrutinize the book for a moment then interrupted his reverie when he said, “Would you care to come along, Abel?”
The boy looked up, startled and surprised. “What?”
Peter smiled. “I am on my way to the Lewis camp. Want to come with me?”
The furrows returned to Abel’s brow. “Why, no, I reckon not. I don’t have any business with the Lewises.”
“Suit yourself. But what shall I say to Emma if she asks about you?”
Abel’s bewilderment deepened as he watched Peter walk away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEV
EN
Like the Pates, the Lewises had finished with supper and were enjoying the break from labors the evening offered. No one stirred when Peter walked into camp. Without a “howdy” or any other greeting, he walked over to where Daniel sat and removed his hat. “Mister Lewis. I wonder if I might have a word.”
“Of course.”
Peter cleared his throat, and glanced about at the attentive, curious girls. “In private, Sir?”
Daniel nodded, stood up and put his arm around Peter’s shoulder and led him a short way from the camp. “What’s on your mind, lad?”
“Sir. I—I—I would like your permission to call on Miss Martha.”
Daniel smiled. “Do tell! Am I incorrect in thinking you have been calling on her for some time now?”
Peter flushed. “What I mean, Mister Lewis, is—well, Sir, I assure you my intentions are honora—the thing is, I hope one day to ask for her hand in marriage—if she’ll have me—with your permission, of course. . . .”
Daniel continued smiling inside as Peter squirmed. “Marriage, you say? My Martha? Why, she is only a girl!”
“I believe she is eighteen, Mister Lewis—not that you don’t know the age of your daughter, Sir. . . .”
With a loud laugh and a few hearty pats on the back, Daniel said he was pleased to give his permission, but could not speak for his daughter. He then turned serious. “Tell me, Peter. Do you intend to follow the Pates westward to the Mexican territories and take my daughter with you?”
Peter pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow as he thought what to say. “I hope to remain in Fort Smith. If possible, that is.”
“And why would it not be possible?”
“Well, Sir, I have certain, uh—obligations—to the Pates. But I intend to broach the subject of my remaining here with them soon.”
“Why do you wish to stay here?”
“I have a good position, Sir, and my employer finds my services valuable. I am confident that in time I will advance in the firm. In fact, I don’t think a partnership is out of the question. Then there’s Fort Smith itself. There are already five companies of infantry assigned here, and I believe there will be more to come as more of the eastern tribes are removed to Indian Territory. The city is bound to grow, and I believe commercial prospects are good.”
“It seems you have thought this through thoroughly.”
“Yes, Sir. I am not inclined to go off half-cocked, as they say.”
“Much like Martha, in that regard.” With another pat on Peter’s back, Daniel said, “Let us go talk to the girls. They have a say in this, as well, I suppose.” He stopped, and stopped Peter with a tug on the sleeve. “Another question concerning the Pates and Mexico and such. Lee—do you think he is barmy?”
“Barmy, Sir?”
“You know, daft. Off his nut. Crazy.”
“Oh, no, Mister Lewis! Lee—Mister Pate—has as good a heart as any man I’ve met. He is somewhat impetuous, I suppose, and perhaps inclined to follow his emotions. And I believe his assessment of the slavery situation is somewhat overblown. But he is by no means ‘barmy’ to use your word.”
“Thank you, Peter. And now into the maw, so to speak. Girls! Martha!” he said with raised voice as they neared the camp. Then, “Peter here has asked to call on you, Martha. On a more formal basis, that is. What do you think? Is he to be trusted, or is he just another ‘Jack the Lad’ with dishonorable intentions, of which there are so many in these parts?”
Martha blushed.
Jane giggled.
Emma smiled.
Mary, arms akimbo, said, “Mister Peter Neumann! What could you possibly see in a girl like Martha?”
“Well, I—I—you see, I—”
“You what, Peter? I suppose a more apt question is, what could Martha possibly see in a man such as yourself?”
Martha’s flush deepened and she tugged her older sister’s skirt. “Mary!” she whispered.
Mary laughed and clapped her hands. “If it is my blessing you’re wanting, Peter, you can certainly have it.”
With a slow release of held breath, Peter extended a hand. “Martha—Miss Lewis—would you care to walk with me?”
“I should be honored, Mister Neumann.”
Hand in hand, the young couple strolled down the road and into the evening.
The evening was over and night well established when Peter returned home. The camp was dark and quiet, save Abel, still sitting at the table by the wagon by lantern light. But rather than reading, one of Ben Pate’s Paterson Colt pistols gleamed on the table, the other scattered around it in pieces. With an oil-soaked rag he cleaned and polished the frame, cylinder, barrel, breech, lock springs, and other parts.
“Ben’s guns,” Peter said as he took a seat on the table bench opposite Abel. “You’ve taken quite an interest in them.”
Abel only nodded. Peter was right. Abel had disassembled and cleaned and rebuilt the revolvers so many times he could likely do it blindfolded. He believed, in fact, that both pistols could be taken apart and left in a jumbled heap before him and he could—aided by Colt’s innovation of interchangeable parts— put together two working revolvers in a matter of minutes. He had long since mastered the task of removing and loading the five-chambered cylinders with his eyes closed. With practice, his accuracy with the handguns had become precise as well.
“You know,” Peter said, “sometimes when I see you in his hat and duster, I still think you’re him. It can be unnerving.”
Again, Abel nodded. He snapped the bolt spring into place and set the pistol frame aside and looked off into the night. “I see him too,” he said after some time, barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I wake up in a sweat. I see in my dreams Uncle Ben hanging off that sidewalk with his throat gaping open.” He shivered, and went back to assembling the revolver. “It don’t hardly seem real, what I done.”
After a time, Peter said, “He was a hard man, your Uncle Ben. Not always easy to work for.”
Abel, head bowed over his work, raised his eyes to look at Peter. “That don’t forgive what I done.”
“No.”
“If I had not killed him, he would of killed me. I know that for certain. Still, looking back, there must of been a better way to get them books Pa wanted.”
“Were—are—those books so important?”
“That ain’t up to me to say. Pa sent us to get them. Might not of been the best way to do it, but when all’s said and done I did what Pa sent me to do.”
They sat in silence for a time and Abel finished putting the pistol together. He gave it a final wipe with the oiled rag and laid the revolver on the table beside its mate, lantern light glimmering off the oil and metal.
“What about me?” Peter said.
“What about you?”
“Well, your father is determined to move on to Mexico. The time for leaving isn’t that far off.”
“What do you aim to do?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
Abel thought a moment.
“What would you like to do?”
Peter squirmed in his seat. “I’d like to stay here. In Fort Smith.”
After mulling it over, Abel said, “I don’t reckon there’s any reason for us to keep dragging you around with us. If you was of a mind to cause me any trouble, you would of done it by now.”
Peter nodded.
“We’ll talk it over with Pa.”
“Good enough. One other thing. . . .”
“What’s that?”
“I spoke with Mister Lewis earlier. And with Martha. We hope to be married, she and I.”
Abel smiled and reached across the table and grabbed Peter by the shoulders, giving him a firm squeeze and a couple of shakes. “That’s fine, Peter! That’s right fine!”
“We believe we can make a good life here in Fort Smith.”
Abel gave him another shake. “I reckon so.”
Peter said, “Let’s hope your Pa agrees.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Every evening found Peter and Martha walking out, discussing the life they hoped to make together. And so several days passed before Peter and the Pate family sat down to talk about that same—or, perhaps, a different—future.
When finally they did find themselves all together at the rough table under the wagon fly after supper, Peter told of his intention to wed Martha Lewis, news met with much delight and little surprise.
“You-all, if course, have much to say about what is to come,” Peter said.
“I suppose that’s true,” Lee said. “You must know we would not wish to upset your apple cart.”
“Sakes alive, no!” Sarah said. “We hope you young’ns will be happy as can be.”
Peter smiled at their enthusiasm, then sobered. “The day is soon to come when you-all will pack up and move on. You have already started laying in supplies for the journey. What is to become of me? Am I to accompany you?”
Lee thought a moment, and said, “You know, Peter, we’ve grown right fond of you, Sarah and me. In some ways, you’re like another son to us. We put you in a hard way, but you never let it get the best of you. Your going on west to Mexico with us would suit us just fine. I do believe Daniel is of a mind to travel with us—and his girls, of course—so you and Martha—”
“—What is it that you-all want?” Sarah said.
“Martha and I, we’re of a mind to stay here in Fort Smith.” Peter went on to explain his reasoning behind his desire. “So that leaves the question of whether or not you will allow it. I— and Martha—hope you will. If not. . . . Well, I don’t know. . . .”
“We appreciate your understanding our worries,” Lee said. “Although we don’t expect it, there is still the prospect of your going to the law. As much as we hold your future in our hands, you hold Abel’s in yours. Maybe more so.”
Richard snorted. “Far as I’m concerned, Peter can turn baby brother in and he can rot in jail.”