Sycamore Promises

by Paul Colt

  The musket charged. The pony dropped its nose and rolled over a shattered shoulder, the rider pitched into the tall grass. The shot brought the rest of the party to a sharp stop. Rearing and prancing, they danced in a circle, searching for the shooter’s smoke sign.

  Caleb froze at the sound of the shot. He turned wide-eyed to the threat and dropped into the tall grass. Now what?

  Micah laid the musket aside. Five shots in the Colt. Each one might have to count. He knew the gun’s accuracy to be poor in his unsteady hand. The warrior fallen from his pony swung up behind one of his brothers. The band wheeled on him and charged the cottonwoods. Micah let them close. At fifty yards, he risked a shot at the lead horse. The paint buried his heels and bucked, sending his rider skyward. The attack dissolved into a melee of riders fighting to control their mounts. The fallen brave charged the thicket, brandishing a tomahawk with an ear-splitting cry. Micah held his fire until he could make out hot coals burning in the man’s eyes. He fired. The heavy ball lifted the attacker from his feet and dropped him in his tracks. That seemed to settle the issue for the five remaining warriors. They recovered their mounts and galloped off up the ridge the way they’d come.

  Caleb ran back to the cottonwoods. “Thought I was a goner there for a spell. Thank the Almighty you that good a shot. What do we do now?”

  Micah handed him the musket. “First you help me reload. Then you go for the wagon. We’ve still got that bull to bring in.”

  “What if they comes back?”

  “That bunch won’t come back without some of their friends. No sense leavin’ good meat to them.”

  Caleb reloaded the musket to half-cock and set off for the farm.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  * * *

  Hickory Point

  Kansas Territory

  November 21, 1855

  What in blazes is this? Charles Dow inspected the scene. Fresh cut stumps told the story. Someone had cut two mature hickory trees, recently, by the moist feel of the stumps. They cut them up and trimmed them, too, judging by the sawdust and branches left behind. They’d loaded the logs on a wagon. He shrugged deeper into his coat against a sharp northwesterly wind cutting out of gray, cloud-rumpled sky. He let his eye follow the frosted ruts leading away from his property. He stepped into his saddle and eased his horse out after the wagon track. The trail went lost once it joined the well-traveled main road. By then, Dow had a pretty good idea where his trees were headed. He squeezed up a lope for the sawmill.

  He found the wagon parked in front of the mill. Four men busied themselves unloading it. Dow didn’t recognize any but one of them—the Missouri man he and James Lane confronted at Eldridge House the day of the fraudulent election. He rode in and stepped down.

  “Them’s my trees you stole.”

  Coleman lifted a bushy brow under the brim of his slouch hat. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “I’m talkin’ about them trees there you cut off my property. That’s stealin’ in Kansas.”

  Coleman dropped his hands to his side, clenching and unclenching his fists. “You best climb back on that horse and get the hell out of here before I lose my good humor.”

  “Oh, I mean to climb on that horse and ride straight to the sheriff. Then we’ll see about your humor.” Dow turned on his heel and started for his horse.

  Coleman reached up in the wagon box, drew a 10-gauge shotgun, leveled it, and fired.

  The charge at close range pitched Dow face forward, dead before he hit the ground.

  “Now you done it,” one of the other men said.

  “Shut-up, Sparks.”

  “Cuttin’ a couple of trees is one thing. I didn’t sign on for no cold-blooded murder.”

  “What’re you gonna do, Franklin?” another said. “You can’t just wait here for a posse to come out of Lawrence and hang you.”

  “Get the rest of these logs unloaded. I’ll take the wagon and drive on over to Jackson County and turn myself in to Sheriff Jones. If anyone asks, Dow there attacked me. I shot him in self-defense.”

  Lawrence

  James Lane paced the lamp-lit Eldridge House storeroom. Titus Thorne sat on a crate of “farm implement” muskets while Salmon Brown and his brothers followed Lane with their eyes.

  “Son-of-a-bitch shoots poor Charles in the back and claims it was self-defense. Turns himself in to that two-bit Jackson County tin star, and some Missouri judge turns the son-of-a-bitch loose. That’s about as much justice as a free-soil man can expect from them damn slavers.”

  “What’s to be done about it?” Salmon asked.

  Lane stopped his pacing, clasped his hands behind his back, and let his gaze wander the darkness beyond the storeroom window. “I say we pay Franklin Coleman a little visit.”

  Jackson County, Missouri

  November 24, 1855

  Coleman huffed out the lamp, preparing to leave the barn. The sound of horses approaching fast stopped him in the shadows. They rode into the yard, five or six otherworldly apparitions, faces and features masked in shadow and blue steam from their horses’ breath. Red-orange firebrands danced while their mounts pranced and pawed frost-hardened ground.

  “Torch the house and barn!” someone said.

  Coleman ran to the back of the darkened barn and slipped out the stock door. He crossed the corral, hopped the fence, and disappeared into the woods. Hidden from view, he watched the raiders set his house ablaze. Flames climbed the walls, licking the eaves. He watched them crawl across the roof. Two riders broke away to the barn. A blazing brand arced through the barn doors in a shower of sparks. Flames spread across the straw-strewn floor, igniting timbers reaching the loft. Hay went up in a ball of intense heat, slicing through the roof, leaping for the cold night sky. A second rider circled the barn. Coleman recognized him in the instant before he set his torch to the barn.

  Salmon Brown.

  “They burned my place to the ground, Sam.” Lamplight flickered over grim-set, shadow-masked features.

  Sheriff Sam Jones stroked his beard and squinted. “Likely some of Dow’s kin or friends. You recognize any of ’em?”

  “Just one. Salmon Brown.”

  “Him . . . I ’spect they was all free-soil abolition men. All right . . . nothin’ more to be done about it tonight. You can sleep in the jail. There’s bunks and bedding in the cells. I’ll raise a posse in the morning, and we’ll pay Mr. Brown a social call.”

  Osawatomie

  Kansas Territory

  They rode out of a lingering morning mist, horses blowing clouds of steam over heavily armed, dark, nondescript riders. Jones signaled a halt.

  “Yo, the cabin! Salmon Brown, come out with your hands up. This is Jackson County Sheriff Samuel Jones. I’ve a warrant for your arrest.”

  Salmon caught his brother Owen’s eye. “You make sure James knows what’s goin’ on here.” He crossed the cabin to the door and stepped into the cold morning air. Jones sat across the yard flanked by a dozen posse men. “What’s the charge, Sheriff?”

  “Burnin’ Franklin Coleman’s place to the ground.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “ ’Course you don’t. You got a horse to ride, or would you prefer to walk?”

  “Horse is in the corral.”

  “We’ll be pleased to help you saddle it. Give him a careful hand, boys.”

  Three men dismounted to escort Salmon to the corral.

  The road to Lecompton wound through a wooded defile. Cold sun filtered through limbs bare but for a few brown leaves lingering in loss of color. A blanket of fallen leaves covered the path, ruffled by a gusty breeze. The posse strung out to near single file, with Sheriff Jones in the lead.

  “Halt there!”

  The command echoed down from the hillside. Jones reined up and drew his gun.

  “I’d put that gun away if I were you, Jones. You’re surrounded.”

  He scanned the hills. A forest of rifle and pist
ol muzzles peeked out from the trees above his position on both sides of the road.

  “We’ll be relieving you of your prisoner here and now.”

  “I have a warrant for his arrest.”

  “Your warrant ain’t worth the paper it’s writ on here in Kansas.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “Just one of them little ol’ Kansas Jayhawks.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about Kansas Jayhawks. I know jays for noisy thiefs.”

  “I wouldn’t go too far with that if I was you. You’re talking to the hawk wing of us Jayhawks. Now, turn your prisoner loose, and we’ll let you by all nice and peaceful like.”

  “He burned Franklin Coleman’s house and barn to the ground. Likely with the help of some of all you hidin’ in them trees up there.”

  “Coleman lived to tell about it. That’s a sight more chance than he give poor Charles Dow. Charles wasn’t doin’ no more than protecting his property.”

  “That was self-defense. Judge Tucker ruled it that way.”

  “Not much defendin’ yourself needed when you shoot a man in the back. We got no interest in the opinion of your slaveholder judge. Now, pull out of that line, Salmon, and ride on up here. Sheriff, you or any of your men make a move to stop him, we gonna rain lead on your head.”

  Salmon swung out of the column and fast climbed his horse into the hills through the trees.

  “Now, Sheriff, you and your men are welcome to be on your way back to Missouri.”

  “You haven’t heard the last of this, Jayhawk. We’ll be back.”

  “We’ll be waitin’.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  * * *

  Franklin, Missouri

  Jones stood hat in hand in the midst of a two-story entry foyer dominated by a candlelit crystal chandelier. The white-haired black butler’s footsteps echoed down the polished wood corridor, his white coat an apparition floating in the darkness.

  “The senator will see you now.”

  Jones followed the white coat to large double doors opening to a lavish library salon.

  “Sheriff Jones,” the black man announced at the door.

  Former Senator David Atchison rose from a dark-green velvet settee set beside a cheery fire. A light scent of wood smoke flavored the air to the occasional snap and pop of a log. He set the book he’d been reading on a side table and nodded.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Senator.”

  “Nonsense, Sheriff. Always a pleasure. Would you care for a whiskey to take the chill off this evening?”

  “That would go mighty good.”

  “Joachim, two please.” The black man disappeared.

  “Have a seat, Sam.” He indicated a pair of matching wing chairs opposite the settee. “Now what’s on your mind?”

  “Lawrence. Them abolitionists is turnin’ it into an armed camp. I took a posse out after the men who burnt Franklin Coleman’s place. We was takin’ one of ’em to Lecompton when we was jumped by a bunch of them. Claimed they was Jayhawks, whatever the hell that is. Threatened to shoot us all if we didn’t give up our prisoner. We can’t let ’em get away with the likes of that, Senator.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  Joachim arrived with the drinks. He set them on the table and withdrew.

  “That ain’t the whole of it, either. Them abolitionists has organized a Free State party. They’s fixin’ to nominate candidates for a legislature and hold themselves another election.”

  “We’ve overcome that before.”

  “Maybe so, last time. Back then we kinda put it over on ’em before they really knew what happened. That was before they knew what to look for. Now they’ve turned out an armed militia. It won’t be so easy next time.”

  Atchison swirled his whiskey in the firelight and took a swallow. “So, you think they might succeed in holding a free-soil election then.”

  “I do.”

  “We can’t allow that to happen.”

  “I figured you’d see it that way. That’s why I come to see you. I just don’t know what’s to be done about it.”

  “How many men you figure they raised?”

  Jones shrugged. “Hard to say . . . couple hundred maybe.”

  Atchison smiled. “There’s your answer.”

  “What answer?”

  “They raise a couple of hundred men, we raise a thousand and more.”

  “To do what?”

  “March on Lawrence. I’ll put out the call. We’ll put fear of the righteous Almighty before them.”

  Lawrence

  They sat around a scarred table amid the munitions cases in the Eldridge House storeroom. Late afternoon light muted by a thick blanket of cloud seeped through window grime, casting those gathered in somber gray to match the gravity of the mood.

  “Atchison’s got a call out to raise a Missouri militia,” Doc Jennison said. “He’s not just recruitin’ landed men, either. He’s takin’ all manner of riffraff, river men, and ruffians. Some say he means to raise a force over a thousand.”

  “What does he propose to do with a force so large?” Montgomery asked.

  “He plans to march on Lawrence.”

  “What the hell for?” Lane said. “We ain’t done nothin’ ’cept pull brother Brown out of that little scrape with Sheriff Jones.”

  Montgomery folded his hands circumspectly. “There’s more to it than that, James. Atchison has undoubtedly heard of our effort to advance a free-state legislature. Men who resort to stealing elections are certainly capable of resorting to force should peaceful means fail them.”

  “Then there is little else to be done but to raise our own force and prepare to defend ourselves. If you’ll recall, I said from the founding of the party this might well be the outcome.”

  Montgomery nodded. “We knew it could come to this. You said as much in this very hotel last spring.”

  “It’s time to rally our fellow Kansans. If Missouri men are prepared to do battle, we must rise in opposition.”

  “Where do we begin?” Doc said.

  “First, the defense of Lawrence—an earthworks perimeter from which to defend the town. We can move the six-pounder to the upper floor of the hotel rampart. We’ll see how Atchison’s ruffians care for a taste of ball and grape.”

  “Surely we can mount a defense, but how are we to sustain it?” Montgomery posed the pragmatic question.

  Lane smiled. “We sustain our resistance at Missouri’s expense. Like the mythical jayhawk—part bird of prey, part noisy thief.”

  Territorial Governor’s Office

  Lecompton, Kansas

  Wilson Shannon wrung his hands. He resorted to the habitual gesture under duress. These days he had duress aplenty.

  Atchison sat across the desk watching the man fret. President Pierce thought the man suited to territorial governance; Atchison had his doubts. He was a reliable Democrat committed to the cause of slavery, but governing a territory as divided as Kansas took mettle. Shannon might be over-matched governing a girls’ boarding school.

  “Thank you for coming, Senator. I’m afraid I am sorely in need of good counsel. I simply didn’t know where else to turn. The reports out of Lawrence are most disturbing. They are organizing a political opposition to our legislature which would be trouble enough; but, worse still, they are assembling some sort of militia. The president expects me to uphold the results of the election, but I’m at a loss as to what to do with these stiff-necked people.”

  “I’m aware of the problems in Lawrence, Wilson. What you describe has the ring of rebellion about it.”

  “It hasn’t come to that yet, but the kettle is certainly heating to boil.”

  “If the free-state faction means to usurp your authority by force, it seems to me you have no choice but to raise a territorial militia to put down the threat of rebellion.”

  “I can see that. But, face it: do you seriously believe we could raise a sufficient
force like-minded to our cause to oppose them?”

  “I can see how that might be a problem. Perhaps I can help you there. We’ve had some problems spill across the border into Missouri. Jackson County sheriff Samuel Jones has been obstructed in his duties by the Lawrence free-soil faction. He’s raising a rather large posse to deal with the problem. I suspect he and his men might find common cause with your need of a territorial militia.”

  “Missouri men in a Kansas militia? That seems a bit irregular.”

  “A territorial militia need only be sanctioned by the territory. You have the power to do that. Who is to say if a few Missouri men rise to a just cause? Trying times call for stern measures.”

  “Yes, I suppose they do.”

  “Sheriff Jones should be ready to march by the first of the month. Should you approve it, I’ll speak to him on your behalf.”

  Shannon pursed his lips, wringing his hands. “Yes, yes, please do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  * * *

  Sycamore

  Titus Thorne trotted up the lane on the black stallion he called Rogue. Smoke from the sod house flattened out in the winter chill. Someone was home. He stepped down at the crest of the ridge and dropped rein. They’d put in a flight of crude wooden steps down to the entrance level. He rapped at the door. Mason answered.

  “Mr. Thorne, what can I do for you?”

  “A word if I might?”

  “Come in.”

  Inside, the dugout was comfortably warm and dry. A thread-worn carpet covered the dirt floor. The single room was large enough to hold a bed, table and chairs, and a stove in one corner. A single window spilled grayish light. The woman sat beside the bed holding an infant. She was lovely even in these spare surroundings. Mason was a fortunate man. Too fortunate in many respects. She nodded, nervous at his attention.