Natchez Under-the-Hill

by Stan Applegate

  “And your grampa’s name?”

  “His name is Daniel Ryan, sir. Maybe you know him. He—”

  One of the wranglers said, “Why, that’s the man that—”

  The man with the leather hat growled between his teeth. “Shut up! Keep yer stupid mouth shut!”

  He turned to Zeb. “My name is Dancey Moore. I know Dan Ryan well. We’re what you might call friendly competitors. We often bid on the same horses.” One of the men smirked and Moore glared at him.

  Mr. Moore snapped his fingers as if he had just remembered something. “I believe,” he said, “that your grandfather will be down at the docks tomorrow to see about some horses. Get down there early. You’ll want to stay here at the Texada tonight. It’s where he usually stays now.”

  The man appeared calm and friendly, but Zeb noticed a little muscle twitch in his jaw.

  Zeb thanked the three men for their help, moving toward the wooden screen that separated the bar from the rest of the inn. He didn’t want them to see how excited he was. Grampa alive!

  He stepped behind the screen and paused, listening to them arguing among themselves. “‘Friendly competitors’? You’d swap yer squaw fer some a’ the horses he’s bought.”

  “Didn’t that fellah McPhee tell you that Cracker Ryan was dead? Sold you his horse and saddle, didn’t he? If he’s still alive, you got problems. You know what he’s like.”

  “How do you know he’s gonna be down at the docks? No horses comin’ tomorrow, just the cotton buyer.”

  “Shut up you two! I’m thinkin’.”

  Zeb turned away from the screen. It has to be Grampa, he thought. But I wonder why he shaved his head? What was he doing on a cotton wagon?

  He approached a man sitting behind a big desk. “You the innkeeper?”

  The man looked up from the papers on his desk and nodded.

  “You ever have a man stay in the tavern name of Daniel Ryan? Big man with a lot of white hair, or with all his hair shaved off?”

  The man shook his head. “You talkin’ about Cracker Ryan? He ain’t here. Never stays here. He always stays at King’s Tavern. Ain’t seen him for more than a month.”

  Zeb could still hear Dancey Moore and the other two men arguing in the barroom. He wondered why Dancey Moore tried to get him to stay at the Texada.

  He stepped back out onto the front porch, planning to ride Suba over to King’s Tavern, but several men stood around the horse, checking her legs and looking in her mouth. Zeb unhitched her, swung the reins over her head, and climbed up on the horse. One of the men held on to the bridle. “You plannin’ to race this horse?” he asked.

  “Naw,” Zeb said, slack-jawed. “She ain’t never done no racin’. Doubt she could do more’n come in last. Y’all got racin’ here in Natchez?”

  The man holding on to the bridle squinted up at Zeb. “You ain’t as backwoods as you sound. Ain’t no Kaintuck be ridin’ a horse like this one. Besides, that’s a racin’ saddle yer usin’.”

  He turned to the others, letting go of the bridle. “Bet we’ll see this horse tonight.”

  Zeb, remembering the map Dr. McAllister had drawn for him, rode back up Washington Street, the way he’d come in to the Texada, and across to Jefferson, headed for King’s Tavern.

  He looked up. The tavern was just ahead. The dark, weathered wood gave the tavern a warm, welcoming look. He had heard so much about this place from his grampa that he felt almost as if he were home.

  With the bedroll over his shoulder and the small saddlebag in his hand, Zeb stood in the entrance to King’s Tavern. It was as dark inside as the Texada Tavern. A man looked up from a ledger and smiled. “You’re in luck, boy. Every room but one is full. Cotton harvest. Two dollars for a bed. An extra dollar to board a horse.”

  Zeb walked carefully over to the table, trying to keep from marking the shiny waxed floor. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll be wantin’ to stay tonight, at least. Longer, if I can make a little money. I’m lookin’ for my grampa, name of Daniel Ryan. I know he stays here with you when he’s in Natchez.”

  “You Dan Ryan’s grandson? Guess I shoulda known it with that head of hair of yours.”

  He stood up and offered Zeb his hand. He was a stocky man with dark red hair turning gray. He wore a waistcoat over a ruffled white shirt. “I’m Henry King,” he said. “Known your grandfather for years. I haven’t seen him in quite a while, though. Been more than two months.”

  The man turned the guest register around and said, “Sign or make a mark. Here’s a key to the room. Pick out the bed you want. But don’t leave anything valuable up there. The other beds in that room will be taken before dark.”

  Zeb dropped the bedroll to the floor and picked up the quill. “Does the post rider still stop here?” he asked.

  Mr. King nodded. “He should be here in the next couple of days.”

  “I wanna send a letter home.”

  Mr. King pointed to a wooden box with a slot on top. “Just put it in there when you have it ready. You got a horse?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you’ll need this.” He handed Zeb a yellow card. “The stables are guarded. Show that to one of the men when you stable your horse and when you come to get it. Don’t lose it!”

  Zeb put the card in his shirt pocket.

  Mr. King paused a moment. “You’ve never been here before?”

  Zeb shook his head.

  “Listen, son, Cracker Ryan and I are old friends. I want you to be very, very careful if you go down to Natchez Under-the-Hill.”

  Zeb nodded doubtfully. “I know. I can take care of myself.”

  Mr. King sighed. “You heard about the riverside taverns? No? A lot of their second stories hang out over the river. Men try to lure you in there, rob you, and then pull a trapdoor so you fall into the river. And don’t hang about by the docks, because the press gangs might get you….” He shook his head. “Just watch yourself.”

  Zeb climbed the long flight of stairs to the second floor and then walked quietly down a narrow hallway to his room, glad this tavern was up in Natchez and not in Natchez Under-the-Hill. He would have to be careful.

  I wish Hannah could see this place. King’s Tavern is so different from the stands on the Natchez Road! This will be the first time I’ve slept in a bed since I left Franklin.

  A light breeze through the open windows moved the curtains, throwing shadows on the wall. The beds were just like the ones they had at home. Ropes were tied from head to foot and from side to side about six inches apart, making a net to support the straw mattress rolled up at the head. It was tempting to unroll a mattress and try out one of the beds, but he wanted to see the Mississippi River before dark.

  Zeb now had only two silver dollars.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Isuba Lusa

  October 13, 1811

  It was late afternoon when Zeb mounted Suba. He could feel her gather herself, coiling tighter, ready to spring. Zeb pulled her up. She cantered in place, dancing sideways to the slightest pressure of either of his legs. “Easy girl! Easy!” he soothed her. “You’ll have plenty of chances to run.”

  Nothing could calm her, so he let her trot briskly all the way to the river. When they got to the top of the bluff, high above the river, she was wet with sweat and so was Zeb, but she was now willing to walk. “I sure hope you didn’t wear yourself out, Suba. You’re gonna need all you’ve got for what I have in mind.”

  The Mississippi River was much wider than he had expected. Even though he was seated on Suba at the top of the bluff, Zeb could barely make out the other side.

  A cluster of people stood quietly at the edge of the bluff, peering at the western sky.

  “C’mon, Suba, let’s see what they’re lookin’ at.”

  At the horizon, Zeb could see what looked like a shooting star, but much larger. It was like a ball of fire with two tails glowing behind it, and it didn’t seem to be moving.

  Zeb gulped. “Is that the comet?” he whis
pered to the people near him.

  A man looked up at him and then back across the river. “Yep. Been up there, off and on, for a long time. You haven’t seen it before this?”

  “Nope. We live in a valley, and I’ve been travelin’ down the Natchez Road for the last month or so. There’s no place on the highway where you can see the horizon. But my friend Nashoba thinks it’s a bad omen. He says somethin’ terrible’s gonna happen.”

  A woman nearby nodded her head in agreement. “I’ve heard talk of that, too.” She shivered.

  After a while, Zeb drifted away from the river’s edge.

  Lights began to come on in the buildings along the riverfront a hundred feet or more below him. Even at this hour, flatboats moved from upriver into the docks. So that’s the place they call Natchez Under-The-Hill.

  Zeb headed south until he found Silver Street, a steep cobblestone road that led to the docks. Suba slipped on the wet cobblestones. Zeb halted her and dismounted, leading the horse slowly down the hill.

  Someone shouted, “Hey! You there! I’m talkin’ to you, boy!”

  Zeb recognized the four men who had been so interested in Suba up at the Texada Inn. They were just coming out of a tavern. One of the men walked over and patted Suba’s wet neck. “Been runnin’, has she? Thought you said you ain’t gonna race this horse.”

  “Hadn’t planned to. Changed my mind. I need the money.”

  “She fast?”

  “She’s fast all right, but—”

  “What are you hidin’, boy? You playin’ some kinda game?”

  Zeb shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “I just don’t know if she’s got the stamina. Never raced in competition. She’s fast, though, and wants to run. Fought me all the way down here.”

  The man squinted at Zeb, his eyes locking on to Zeb’s the way Zeb’s grampa’s eyes would look at a horse trader he didn’t know. “You tellin’ me the truth, boy? This horse never raced before?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You signed up yet?”

  “No,” Zeb replied. “I don’t know where the track is.”

  “Listen, boy,” he said. “You wait until the last minute to sign up. We may be able to give a little surprise to some folks I know.”

  “Tell me what the track is like.”

  “This race isn’t on the official track. That track’s a straight quarter mile from bluff to river or river to bluff. This race is rough-and-ready. They rope off some of the dirt streets. You ride up a block, shorter than the ones you find in Natchez, across one, down a block, and across another one. You do that twice. The whole race is just under a mile. And one other thing. On the first lap it’s a good idea to stay in the outside lane ‘cause of the sharp turns.”

  “Who’ll I be racin’ against?”

  “There’ll be four or five nags ridden by the local boys. There’ll be one or two fools from the plantations who think they have a chance, and there’ll be a real racehorse from the racetrack up in Natchez, down here to scoop up all the money.”

  Suba lifted her head. “Hear that trumpet, boy?” the man said, pointing to an area downriver from Silver Street. “Race starts in ten minutes. You go on over and enter your horse.” He winked at the other men. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  The organizer of the race sat on a bench on a wooden stand built high enough so that he was eye-to-eye with the jockeys. “That’ll cost you two dollars,” the organizer said to Zeb. “First place wins twenty-five dollars and second place wins five dollars.” He handed Zeb two straight pins and a sheet of paper with the number eight on it. “That’ll be your number, boy. Pin it to the front of your shirt.”

  He looked at Zeb without paying much attention to Suba. “You haven’t raced here before, have you? Two laps around, a little less than a mile. This is the judges’ stand.” He motioned toward it. “And this line,” he said, pointing to a white line chalked across the road, “is the start and finish line. If it’s a close race, judges decide. When the gun goes off, just race your horse. Don’t pay any attention to what anyone says or does. False start is another shot of the gun. Got that?”

  Zeb nodded and rode away. He realized that the big money changed hands through the bets made by the spectators. Too bad, Zeb thought, that I don’t have a little more money with me and I don’t have Christmas to race.

  He circled Suba behind the start line. Five other horses were already there. The boys who were riding them were cussing at each other and shoving, trying to get the position nearest the inside lane. Zeb moved Suba to the outside. He figured she was fast enough to move in once she got the lead. Two horses moved up from behind him, one on either side.

  Someone from the judges’ stand shouted, “Move back, you boys, or you’ll be disqualified! Back behind that white line! All right now … riders ready?”

  The gun went off. In a single movement, all the riders kicked their mounts, and the horses burst into a gallop. Zeb suddenly found himself sandwiched between two horses. He felt a yank on his belt. Someone was trying to pull him off! He was out of the saddle! One more pull and he would be on the ground.

  He lashed out with his arm and felt the hand let go of his belt. Suba was running at a full gallop. Zeb grabbed hold of the pommel, pulling himself back onto the saddle. He couldn’t get his feet back into the stirrups, so he rode Suba without them, his legs clamped around her body and the stirrups banging against his ankles.

  A horse Zeb hadn’t seen before was coming up behind him.

  A racing whip slashed across his mouth. He licked his lip and tasted blood. The two horses had him sandwiched again. One of the boys slammed his fist against Zeb’s ribs. Zeb held on.

  Luckily, Suba took to racing the way Christmas did. She broke away from the two horses and was soon just behind the leader. When Zeb squeezed his legs, Suba edged slightly ahead of the leading horse. As they neared the end of the first lap, it seemed to be a race just between Suba and the leader. The others were lengths behind.

  Suba inched past the other horse. As soon as there was room, Zeb moved her toward the inside, keeping the other horse from passing. When Zeb passed the judges’ stand, he was in the lead for the second lap.

  He grabbed a fistful of mane to steady himself and peered under his outstretched arm to see how close the other horses were. A horse he hadn’t seen before was coming up behind him. Must be the racehorse they told me about.

  The racehorse was gaining on his right. Zeb squeezed his legs, leaned forward, and shouted against the wind and fine dust biting into his face. “Come on, girl! You can do it. Don’t let that pretty boy beat you.”

  Suba sensed the urgency. She lengthened her stride and moved faster than Zeb had known even Christmas to run. They passed the marker in front of the judges’ stand a length in front of the racehorse. Zeb let her take another turn of the track to slow down. Then he sat back, slipping his feet into the stirrups, his body relaxed. He smiled and clapped the horse’s neck. He wished Hannah had been here with him, so she could have seen her horse win. Suba didn’t even seem to be very tired.

  He heard the announcement from the judge’s stand. “The winner is number eight. Second place goes to number six.”

  At first it was strangely quiet. Then, as he rode past a cluster of men standing near the finish line, a man called out to him. “Better not come back here, boy.”

  The four men from outside the Texada Inn were laughing and pounding each other on the back. He grinned at them as he rode by, wincing a bit at the pain in his swollen lip.

  When Zeb approached the judges’ stand, the race organizer reached out and grabbed hold of Zeb’s shirt, pulling Zeb toward him. Zeb halted Suba to keep from being yanked out of the saddle, but Suba sidled away from the man, not yet ready to stand still.

  “I’ll give you a thousand for that horse,” the man said in a low voice. “No questions asked.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Zeb said. “The horse is not for sale.”

  Dancey Moore was sitting just behi
nd the organizer. “I’ll give you a thousand,” he said to Zeb, “and throw in a good saddle horse to boot.” When Moore spoke, he looked away. Zeb had seen horse traders that wouldn’t look you in the eye. Grampa didn’t trust them.

  Zeb shook his head. “The horse is not for sale at any price,” he said.

  Moore smiled at him. “Everything has its price, kid, as you’ll find out sooner or later.”

  Moore seemed to be making an effort to be friendly. “By the way,” he added, “there’ll be bareback racing in about an hour. One turn around the track. Most of the same boys’ll be ridin’. That race shows who the real riders are. You could make a lot of money. Bet your horse against my one thousand dollars. Course, if you can’t ride bareback….”

  A thousand dollars! Suba could beat any horse here. Zeb wondered why Moore was trying to goad him into racing bareback. He must know that Zeb would have no trouble. A thousand dollars!

  He could feel his heart pounding in his ears. A thousand dollars! With that much money, I could buy a small farm! Or five good saddle horses. I’d have enough to offer a reward to help find Grampa.

  He shook his head. The very thought reminded him of what his grampa often said whenever he found out that Zeb was racing Christmas. “One day,” the old man would say, “you’ll bet your horse, and you’ll lose it.”

  No point in thinking about it. He couldn’t bet Suba anyway. Wasn’t his horse. Besides, with all that pushing and shoving, it might be hard to stay on riding bareback. And if he got hurt, who would find Grampa?

  He looked once again at Moore. Maybe that is what this is all about, he thought. Maybe Moore is trying to keep me from finding Grampa!

  Zeb shook his head. “Don’t think I’ll do it,” he said. “Not much good at bareback ridin’. Besides, Suba needs to rest.”

  Dancey Moore glared at him. “Got a lot of your grampa in you, don’t you? We’ll see what good it’ll do you.”

  Zeb shrugged. He pulled his wet shirt away from his chest and unpinned the paper, surprised that it was still in one piece. He wove the two pins back into the paper, handing it to the judge. The judge counted four golden half-eagles into his hand, holding on to the last five-dollar coin until he had Zeb’s attention. “You change your mind,” he said, “you can always find me up at the Natchez racetrack.”