by Nancy Radke
“I’ll stitch you up,” she said, taking a bag off her horse.
“She’s the doctor,” said Trey.
“Thank you. But I can’t pay.”
“Didn’t ask for any. Besides, we owe you, you matchmaker,” she said.
“Worked out all right, did it?”
Trey smiled at his wife. “Well, she is a handful, but when we get kids, we’re naming our first boy, ‘Charles.’”
Trey grabbed his axe and was making it sing, while Mally poured some whiskey on my leg, stitched it up, and put a dry bandage on it. She did it outside, where she could see better, putting her hands under her armpits to warm them up so she could hold onto the needle. She used one of my freshly cut tree stumps for a table.
“As good as any doc could do,” I told her when she finished.
She put her needle away carefully. “I’ve been getting a lot of practice lately, delivering babies and stitching up folks.”
“Where’d you learn doctoring?”
“My mother was sick. I started with her. And I always could sew a fine seam.”
“Thank you.”
“When you change your bandage, use one you’ve boiled in water first. It seems to make it cleaner.”
“I will.”
I went to help Trey. That backwoodsman knew how to handle an axe. He already had my logs trimmed, and together we pulled the trimmings out of the way.
“What happened to you?” Trey asked. “You were almost a month ahead of us.”
I explained how I had bought the land, then went looking for Kimana. “Everything’s slowed me down. I need food and shelter. By myself, I’d make do, but the baby was cold last night. We spent the night holding her to keep her warm. We’ve got to have shelter.”
“Where do you want it?”
“Near the cliff there. It should provide some shelter in itself. I don’t want to be too close to the creek in case it rises.”
Kimana had been clearing the site of brush. She and Mally joined us.
“Fire pit here,” I showed them, “so it will throw the heat up against that rock. I figured to build it where we can use the cliff to help support one wall. I’ll build a fireplace when I get more time.”
“Move it to the right a little more,” Trey said. “You’ll need to level the ground there, but then you’re lined up with that cleft. It should draw the smoke upward, like a chimney.”
“Won’t it bring water down on us?” It was dripping snow melt.
“Not if you do a little work on the cleft itself. Go on top and build a little roof for it. And a water diversion if you need to. You don’t want your baby to be breathing smoke all the time. Ain’t healthy. There’s a man in Walla Walla who does chimneys. You can get him out some time to build you one.”
The women started leveling the ground while Trey and I cut the logs to length. As we worked, I learned what Trey and Mally had been up to, what the weather patterns were like around Walla Walla, and where the best seed could be bought. It was getting dark by the time we finished.
“I’ll be over tomorrow with a team,” Trey said. “We’ll get this up. Then you’ll have time to hunt and fish and get ready for winter.”
“Not much time.”
“No, but they say the elk come down when the snow gets deep, so you should be able to shoot one, even in winter.”
They left. I climbed up to the top of that cleft and figured out a way to divert the water. When we put on the roof, I would build a second one, very small, which would take any water coming down the cleft and throw it out onto my main roof.
We spent one more cold night in that wickiup.
The next morning, Trey was there with his mule team and the wagon. I was busy before he came, using a saw he had left me to flatten the side of some logs to use for flooring.
Alan came over and the three of us put that shelter up, built a fire pit, and a door. Alan suggested a lean-to shelter for my horses, and we put up poles for that. By dark we had things well done.
I chopped up some of the branches and took the wood in to start a fire. After a little smoke, the cleft drew it upward. No water dripped down the cleft, for I had whittled a piece to fit into the deepest crack, and hammered it in, then put my small roof under it.
I looked at what the women had been up to.
Kimana and Mally had built a bed for Sarah by weaving green willow branches, putting in clean, dry moss, then lining it with a blanket. Mally had brought an old goose down mattress someone had given her as payment for doctoring, and they used it and the willows to make a bed for us. They had even made a table and two willow chairs. They were smiling, proud of their homemaking skills, as well they should be.
“I can finish now,” I told Trey, as we hung the door on leather hinges. “I’ll get me in some meat, then make a corral for my horses.”
“Then we’ll be off. Mally will be back next week to check on your leg. We’re just over the hill, that-a-way. Come by anytime.”
“You’ll find the soil is deep and rich, the climate fairly mild, and the rains come down when you need them,” Alan added. “It’s a good place to live.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s what friends do,” Alan said. “Otherwise, none of us would make it.”
They rode off, each going their own way. I went inside and closed the door.
The heat from the fire was already warming the inside. There was no wind tonight, but we’d need to chink the cracks soon. Kimana could start that while I went hunting meat.
She had food boiling in a pot, set on the fire. It smelled wonderful.
We hadn’t eaten for two days and I looked at the pot. Two plates on the table. We didn’t own a pot. We had no dishes.
“Mally brought the pot,” Kimana said, her eyes alight. “With food inside. She wanted to surprise you.”
She had.
“And your neighbor bought us the two plates.”
I took Kimana in my arms and kissed her. She was sweetness to my bones, a blessing to my life. I couldn’t ask for a better helpmeet.
I looked around with thanksgiving. The Lord had been good to me, giving me the best friends in the country. Here I was, a family man. A wife and child whom I loved. A home.
Who would’ve thought it of ole Charlie Web, the wanderer? Not me.
Charlie and Kimana had seven children and their ties with the Trahern family stayed strong. Trey’s youngest son, Gilbert, married their younger daughter, Kim, in 1898. They had twelve children. Barnabas Trahern married Samantha Web, Charlie's granddaughter, in 1925 (The Stubbornest Girl in the Valley). One of their twelve children, Ben Trahern, married the great granddaughter of Gage and Ruth Courtney. The story of Adam and Johnny Trahern, the great, great, great grandsons of Web and Kimana, Trey and Mally, Gage and Ruth, can be found in the modern sweet romance, Appaloosa Blues.
THE END
THE SMARTEST HORSE IN TEXAS
The Traherns #2
by Nancy Radke
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
1
A man should never have to ride bareback on a bony horse. At least not very far. It ‘bout cuts him in two.
I wouldn’t have been riding this way, except some sneak thief stole my mount, saddle and all, and took off, leaving me this bag of bones. I’m a big man and at least the “bones” had long enough legs that my feet didn’t trail in the dirt, but I did have to watch out when we passed rocks and thorn bushes. That was about all the good I could say about him.
The horse stolen from me, named Hero, was a heap better. I would a been right put out, except I stole Hero in the first place, during the war, and it didn’t seem quite right to make a fuss over a horse that wasn’t mine. But Hero was a powerful stallion and more horse than most men ever get a chance to ride, and I missed him. I aimed to get him back.
When the war was over, I rode Hero back to my old home. My ma and pa were still alive and I spent a year there, helping them rebuild and get some crops in. The next spring, I lef
t to make my own way. Their farm could only sustain two people at the most. I rode south through Ft. Smith and down the Butterfield Trail, headed toward El Paso. I figured to find me a place in Texas and build a ranch.
According to my cousin, Trey, there were thousands of longhorn cows running through the Texas brush, breeding like jackrabbits, just waiting for a rope to be dropped on them. He’d put together a herd and brought it up to Independence, Missouri, just after the war broke out. A man with a loop and a running iron could soon have himself a large herd. A few trips north would give a poor man a big stake in a short time.
I’d swapped my tattered Rebel uniform for some clothes at a small Cherokee Indian village. They were delighted with the brass buttons and the colonel's three stars on the collar. I couldn’t be shut of that uniform fast enough, and was happy they wanted it. Many of their tribe had fought with the Confederates, and they were facing an uncertain future.
Of course they wanted Hero, but he and I had gone through the last weeks of the war together. No one got him. At least, he wasn’t for sale.
The pants I’d traded for looked like they’d last a spell, made of heavy cord cloth. I now had a buckskin shirt, and, the best trade of the lot, a sturdy pair of high-topped moccasins which one of the women had made for me there on the spot. Riding boots were made for riding, and I needed to be able to rest my feet now and then. Unlike many horsemen, I liked to walk, but just not in boots.
They thought my red underwear and my worn out army blanket would be perfect, woven into a blanket. I got one of their heavy blankets in exchange for them. I had brought in a fat buck I’d shot, and we all shared the meat. As I left, they offered me some pemmican, and I happily accepted, storing the dried meat in my saddlebags.
I had just crossed a dry stretch of prairie when my fortunes reversed.
Finding a tiny stream that barely had a trickle flowing, I had dismounted to get a drink. I’d loosened my cinch so Hero could rest while I gathered an armload of rocks to dam up the creek and give him a good drink. It had been done before, so I just had to round up the rocks and put them back in their places.
That there thief must have been lying in the brushy rocks all along, for Hero didn’t even raise his head until the gent stood up and demanded I hand him over.
I had my arms full of rocks and my gun in its holster, tied down. He had a gun in his hand. He swung aboard and took off and I stood there watching to see if my loose cinch would spin the saddle on him. It didn’t. I could have tried to shoot him off of Hero, but I valued that horse too much.
Also, being a stallion, he just might be too much horse for a thief.
I put my rocks in the stream, waited a minute, then got a good drink and looked around for something to carry water in. I didn’t have any illusions about trying to cross that desert stretch up ahead without a way to carry water and my empty canteen had gone north with that thief. He hadn’t even taken the time to fill it, making me wonder if he had any bullets in his gun. Well, he now had my Henry rifle and extra ammo in the saddlebags.
A soft nicker alerted me.
It had come from behind a large rocky outcrop, and I walked carefully around to the other side. There lay this thin white horse, half-dead. I ran back and filled my hat with water and carried it up to him. I washed out his mouth and got him to drink a few swallows. Then some more.
I refilled my hat, then helped him drink, cupping the water into his mouth.
So this was how that gent had got here. He probably thought his horse was dead and looked upon my arrival as an early Christmas. If he’d have known he was stealing a horse from a Trahern, he might have reconsidered first.
Our family had no quit in them. Men or women, once we set our minds on a thing, we didn’t stop, even if it took years. My cousin, Trey, was as likely as not hunting me down right now. I needed to have Hero to give back to him. Trey wouldn’t take it kindly if I lost his horse.
The thief’s outfit was also there, an empty tin canteen and an old Sharps rifle with no bullets. The horse had a bridle, but no saddle.
I took that white horse to water and watched as he got himself a drink and then another one. Then he flopped down on the dirt with a groan and rested.
I checked his feet. He had one shoe off and another just hanging, so I worked it off with my knife. Then I got another drink and filled the canteen left by the thief. I screwed down the cap and put it to soak in the stream, so the wet cloth covering would keep the water inside cool.
Then I took me a drink a little upstream, then another, and finally got that horse up and gave him one more deep drink before we started out.
That thief had been mighty dumb, for he had taken Hero just as I’d completed a long waterless trek, and he hadn’t bothered to let him get a drink. He also wasn’t riding with any water, because I’d run out before I reached the stream. I hoped I would find him before Hero was killed. I’d taken a liking to that stallion, ever since I had lifted him from Trey, who was fighting on the Union side.
I’d always ridden carefully and my mounts were always in good shape. I think the white horse must have appreciated the rest and the water, for he started out at a fast trot, and it nigh bounced the insides out of me. He had the roughest trot I’d every tried to sit, and with no stirrups, I couldn’t hold myself away from his boney withers unless I held myself back with my hands or pulled my knees high.
I settled him down into a fast walk and decided he must have some Walker in him, because his gait smoothed out and he walked faster than his trot.
I scooted myself back a mite towards his rump and let him go, following Hero’s trail, which was headed north. Not the direction I had been traveling, but I was determined to get Hero back.
Towards evening, the white started slowing down. I slid off and walked a bit to let him rest. I’d been walking now and then, and my feet were so sore from my high-heeled boots, I could hardly stand. I made an early dry camp in a stand of cacti. I drank from the canteen and gave the white a sip of water from a stem of cactus. It didn’t work all that well, but it did have some water in it. I slept for a few hours while the sand was warm. It got cold, but the moon came out, lighting up the trail and I led that horse out and we walked a good many miles before the sun came up.
Later that morning we were taking another rest when a group of five riders descended upon us, rifles at the ready and looking for bear.
“That’s his horse,” one of the men cried out, spurring his horse to plunge down the slope to where I stood.
I lifted my hands, for they looked to be ready to shoot on sight, and I didn’t want any bullets flying my way.
One youngster shook out a rope and that I really didn’t want to see, although there were no trees nearby. So I was going to get hung as a horse thief after all, for a horse I hadn’t stolen.
Well, I’d give it a good talk. “Before you gents get all worked up, why don’t you take the time to check out some facts.”
The youngster glared at me. “We don’t listen to no lyin’ murderin’—”
Murder was it? So he had been more than a horse thief. “Even if I told you my horse was stolen from me by the man who almost rode this one to death.”
“How come you’re alive, then?” he said with a sneer, making his loop.
“Cause I don’t think he had any bullets in his gun when he grabbed my horse. I didn’t realize it until he rode away. I had dismounted at that small stream back up the trail a ways, and he snuck out of the bushes and took off on my horse. He’s a sorrel stallion with three white stockings and half a star. My name’s on the saddle. It’s a Texas double-rigged. I intend to get my outfit back—so if you folks have cause to want part of his hide, you can stand in line.”
I started to put my hands down, then saw they weren’t accepting me yet. One of them dismounted and took my pistol and the old Sharps rifle. “This is Joe’s rifle, James. Got his name carved into the stock.”
“What’s your name?” the oldest man demanded. He looked to
be the one in charge, so I spoke to him.
“Matthew Trahern.”
“Trahern? I’ve heard of you. Out of Ohio.”
“Not me. But I’ve plenty of kin, so it could easily be a brother or cousin. I’ve come up from Arkansas. What did the man do, who took my horse?”
“Killed my brother. That’s his horse you’ve got.”
“Well, if you hang me, you’re not going to get justice. I can prove where I was the last week or so. When did this happen?”
“Two days ago.”
“Well, six days ago I was at Fort Smith. Having dinner with Major Grannon and his wife.”
“His knees are bad, Uncle Jim,” the youngster said, pointing to the white horse.
“He’s been ridden to the ground,” I said. “But he’s got a stout heart, even if his back is all bone.”
“His name’s Jack,” one man said.
“He got some Tennessee Walker in him, I think,” I said to him. “Even with sore feet, he sure can cover the ground.”
“Put that rope away,” the older man told the youngster. “I’m James Cummings. You come with us while we get this straightened out.”
The youngster scowled, but coiled up the rope, letting me breathe easier.
“Any of you men read sign?” I asked.
“I do,” Cummings said.
“Then lookee here. See that track? That’s my horse. His back shoe has a notch in it. He’s big, purt near eighteen hands. You can see how far apart the tracks are. You’ll be able to spot him right off. I need my horse and gear so I can find work, so I’m following that trail.”
The kid spoke again. “What if we don’t believe—”
“Quiet.” Cummings cut the youngster off. “We’ll follow it. It’s mighty fresh.”
“I’ve been gaining on him. He doesn’t know how to ride this country and save his horse.” Neither did they, for their horses were all lathered and breathing hard. Horses were cheap compared to most things, but a good horse had a value that couldn’t be figured in money.
I gave Jack another drink out of my canteen and I think that sealed my case for Cummings.