Natchez Under-the-Hill

by Stan Applegate

  As Zeb and his grampa hurried toward the little river-edge tavern, the old man told him that the tavern belonged to Dancey Moore. “I consider him to be the biggest rascal in the horse trading business. Gives all the rest of us a bad name.”

  They pushed open the heavy tavern door. At one end of the bar stood Lonnie Champ. The crowd of men seemed to be giving him as much room as he wanted. When he saw Zeb, he roared, “I told you to git, boy. I can’t be responsible fer you in here. Dancey Moore and that sergeant’ll be back any minute.”

  Zeb looked around the room. “But where’d they go?”

  “Said they were gonna take care of a couple a’ horses. Heard him tell the bartender they’d be back within the hour. You’d better git, boy. That sergeant may have a bad right hand, but he could easily kill ya with the other.”

  “Let’s go,” Zeb’s grampa said. He motioned to Zeb, and they turned and hurried out of the tavern.

  Outside they found the wagon being unloaded. When the last bale was rolled off, the old man asked Walter to drive it to the tavern and hitch the horses to the rail in the alley. Three other wagons were there, and more were at the other taverns. While the owners were inside getting a drink, the drivers waited outside, guarding the wagon and horses.

  Zeb’s grampa waved to Hannah. “Get into the wagon bed. Zeb, you climb up to the wagon bed, too,” he said. “I’m goin’ to talk to the constable. Then when Dancey Moore and the sergeant return, we’ll find out where the horses are.”

  The black man leaned over. “I know what Mr. Moore looks like, Mr. Ryan. I’ll keep an eye out up here.”

  About a half hour later, Walter turned around to where Zeb and Hannah were talking quietly in the bed of the wagon and said in a low voice, “Here comes your grampa now. You two had best keep your heads down.”

  The old man climbed into bed of the wagon. Zeb watched him struggle to climb up, using only his right hand. When they were all settled in the wagon, Zeb hugged his grampa again. “Did you talk with the constable?”

  “No. He’s out lookin’ for you. And Hannah, I told your father that you’re with us. I left a message with him for the constable.”

  Zeb’s grampa wrapped his right arm around Zeb’s shoulders and squeezed. “I’m surprised to see you, Zeb, but I’m glad you’re here.” He leaned back against the side of the wagon. “We’ve probably got as much as a half hour to wait.” The old man rubbed the fuzz on his head.

  Zeb watched him. “When did you shave your head?” he asked?

  “This turned out to be the best disguise I could’ve had,” his grampa said. “Nobody recognizes me. Passed right by Henry King. Known him for years. He didn’t say a word. I’ve been stayin’ with Culpepper on his horse breeding farm up in Washington.”

  “Culpepper!” Hannah whispered. “Suba stays at his farm. We were there yesterday.”

  “Suba must be a fine animal. Culpepper doesn’t deal with anything but the best.”

  Hannah patted the wagon bed. “So this is the Culpepper wagon. I thought it looked like it.”

  “Shavin’ my head was Culpepper’s idea,” the old man said. “Everybody knows me ‘cause of all that white hair. With it shaved off, and wearin’ these overalls, I was just another farmer.”

  Zeb’s Grampa turned suddenly and grasped Zeb’s arm. “That must’ve been you Culpepper was talkin’ about. Said he met a young fellah with hair just like mine, who talked the way I do about horses. Said his family raised horses for the army. Not many doin’ that. I never thought it could be you. There was no way you could be in Natchez.”

  “I heard he was comin’ to talk to me at the McAllisters,” Zeb said, “but I left for Natchez before he came. Wish he had said something to me when we met. If he had, I wouldn’t be down here now, wouldn’t have lost Suba.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get Suba back. They haven’t had time to hide her far from here. And we’ll get Andy, too.”

  Zeb looked up and down the length of the big wagon. “Why were you ridin’ in this big cotton wagon? I’ve never seen one like this.”

  “It’s a local copy of a Conestoga wagon, used for freight back East. Belongs to Mr. Culpepper, but these horses are our first-class draft horses. Culpepper already bred ’em with some of the draft horses he brought over from Ireland. I bought ’em the first day I arrived.”

  “You bought them?”

  “I had funds. McPhee only got the money from the sale of the six horses. I keep most of our horse trading money in a local Natchez bank. The rest is up in the bank in Nashville.”

  “But why were you drivin’ that load of cotton?”

  “I needed a way to get into Natchez once or twice a week without bein’ noticed. So I arranged with some plantation owners to bring their cotton into town.”

  “You needed to get into Natchez?”

  “I knew I’d be more likely than the constable to spot Tate and his men. I also wanted to find Andy.”

  Zeb reached across and touched his grampa’s left arm. The old man winced. “What happened to your arm, Grampa?”

  “Nothin’ to worry about,” he said. “Hurt it when I fell off the horse and rolled down that bank. The doctor told me I’d dislocated my shoulder. He got the bone back in its socket, but it keeps comin’ out. It’s a bit painful. He told me to wear a sling and to lay off ridin’ for a while, but I didn’t want anyone to know about my arm, so I’ve taken the sling off.”

  “You fell off the horse? But when you said Tate McPhee shot you, I thought he wounded you in that arm. I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

  “Bet McPhee will be, too. I suspected that McPhee and those men he had with him were plannin’ something. So while they were sleepin’ off a wild night in Natchez Under-the-Hill, I took the pistol balls out of their pistols and replaced ’em with paper wadding.”

  Zeb grinned. “Paper wadding?”

  “When McPhee shot me, he was right behind me. He hit me with a wad of paper. The pistol made a loud noise and the horse reared. I went off the horse and down that steep riverbank, headed for the river.”

  “They didn’t see you?”

  “No. They must’ve chased Andy. He had the money belt, and he’s a valuable horse. By the time they looked over the bank, I’d caught on to some bushes and was hidin’ behind ‘em. Must’ve thought I had gone into the river.”

  “So they don’t know you’re alive.”

  “If they’ve checked their guns and found the pistol balls are missing, they may be worried about whether I’m alive or dead.”

  “So McPhee and his men may feel they hafta finish the job. If they don’t and you tell anybody what they did, they’re in real trouble. Stealing horses is a hanging offense.”

  “That’s why I wrote to Ira, and I hope at least McPhee is in jail. But you said he and his men may be here.”

  “If you do see ’em, what’ll you do?”

  “I have it all set up with the constable, just in case. He knows what happened, and he knows Tate McPhee.”

  He looked at Zeb and Hannah. “I’m really surprised that you made it all the way down the Natchez Road. I’m proud of you. Thank God you made it safely.”

  Hannah told Zeb’s grampa about Zeb’s being made an honorary Choctaw brave.

  “Zeb, I’m very impressed. The Choctaw rarely make anyone an honorary member of their tribe. That’s quite an honor.” He looked at Zeb proudly for a few moments before he spoke again. “Zeb, earlier you said you found Hannah on the highway?”

  Hannah piped up, her face grim. “I was kidnapped by an outlaw gang, what’s left of the Mason gang. They used me as bait on the highway. I was supposed to stand on the highway and say, ‘Please, mister, I’m lost.’ If the traveler stopped, the outlaws would rob him.”

  “That must’ve been terrible, Hannah. But how did you escape from the gang? How did you and Zeb meet? And how did you come down the Natchez Road?”

  “Well,” Hannah replied slowly, “when the outlaws went north to try to steal a bunch
of money, I hid. I had planned it for a long time. I was still hiding when I met up with Zeb.”

  She grinned at Zeb. They both began to talk, telling and remembering, correcting each other and laughing at the different ways they recalled what had happened. They told him about two of Tate McPhee’s men, Big Red and the Fiddler, following Zeb that first night. They talked about crossing the violent, swollen Duck River, doubting they would survive. They told him about the outlaws who tried to stop them. If it hadn’t been for Hannah’s warning and her whacking the man on the shoulder with her club, they probably would have been caught. They told him about the bet with the sergeant and the sergeant’s vow to have revenge.

  “If I hadn’t made that bet with the sergeant,” Zeb said, “and then kinda rubbed his nose in it, we wouldn’t have him as an enemy.”

  “Rubbed his nose in it?”

  “He wanted to bet me ten dollars I couldn’t stay on Harlequin for five minutes, bareback. I bet him the horse against everything I had.”

  “The horse? You didn’t bet Christmas!”

  “No. I bet my rifle and saddle and the two old pistols against Harlequin. And I won.”

  “So he’s your enemy because he bet and lost?”

  “It wasn’t only for that. At first, I thought the soldiers, who were dressed in dirty old clothes, were outlaws and that they had killed you and stolen the horses. I called ’em yellow-bellied cowards. That’s all he seems to remember about me.”

  Hannah wouldn’t let it go at that. “I think you were very brave. You called them those names, trying to keep all of their attention on you, so I could run away.”

  Zeb looked at her soberly. “The sergeant is still after me. He tried to kill me in that tavern, but Lonnie Champ, a big flat-boat man, told him I was his partner. The sergeant backed off, for now.”

  The old man turned to Zeb. “How did the sergeant steal Hannah’s horse?”

  Zeb sighed. “It was my fault. I knew that Mr. Moore was interested in her. He offered me a thousand dollars for her.”

  “A thousand dollars for a horse he’d never seen before? Doesn’t sound like Dancey Moore.”

  Zeb hated having to tell Hannah what he had done. “He knew how valuable Suba is. Everybody does,” Zeb said, looking at his hands. “I raced her last night down here in Natchez Under-The-Hill.”

  “You raced Suba?” Hannah cried. “Oh, Zeb, she might’ve gotten hurt.”

  Zeb’s grampa nodded. “I’m surprised you did that, Zeb.”

  “I know,” Zeb said, looking up at Hannah. “I was runnin’ out of money … but it was the wrong thing to do. I’m sorry, Hannah.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine! She won first place, even against a Natchez racehorse.”

  “First place!” Hannah exclaimed.

  “She really is fast, Hannah. She takes to racin’ the way Christmas does.”

  “Then the sergeant stole her to sell to Dancey Moore.”

  “I should never have ridden her down here this morning when I was lookin’ for Grampa. Dancey Moore had told me he’d be here…. Then the sergeant showed up and swore out a warrant for my arrest. Said that I had kidnapped Hannah.”

  “Kidnapped?”

  Zeb nodded. “Nothin’ I could say would convince the constable. And when the constable arrested me and threw me into jail, the sergeant stole Suba.”

  Zeb’s grampa slowly shook his head. Then he turned to Hannah. “How’d your father find out that Zeb was in jail?”

  “He didn’t know about that. He came down to talk with the constable about McPhee and the sergeant and to see if Zeb needed any help finding you.”

  Walter interrupted. “Mr. Ryan, here come two men on horseback. One of ’em looks like Mr. Moore.”

  Zeb’s grampa peeked over the edge of the wagon. “That’s Moore, all right. Must be the sergeant with him. Looks like they’re headed for the tavern. We’ll wait a few minutes, give ’em a chance to get settled.”

  How will Grampa be able to force Dancey Moore and the sergeant to give up the horses? Zeb wondered. I always thought of Grampa as invincible. But now, with his bad shoulder….

  Grampa nudged him. “Let’s go, Zeb.” He turned to Hannah. “You stay here. I need you and Walter to watch the back door. If they come out, watch where they go.”

  When they walked into the tavern, Lonnie Champ looked up and shouted, “I told you to stay out of here, boy. This aint no place for you.”

  Zeb’s grampa ignored him. He walked over to the table where the sergeant and Dancey Moore were seated. “I want those two horses now, and I want the papers for Suba.”

  The sergeant reached for his pistol. Cracker Ryan stepped back and, in one fluid motion, snaked his whip out with a terrible explosive crack. It snapped the pistol out of the sergeant’s hand and slammed it on the floor. “The next time,” he said, “it may be your hand lyin’ there on the floor.”

  He turned to the other man. “Moore, do you want to try for your gun, too?”

  Dancey Moore cursed under his breath, putting his hands flat on the table.

  The old man demanded again, “All right, where are those horses?”

  Dancey Moore snarled, “There’s no way yer gonna get that black horse. I got her from the sergeant here. How he got her is none of my business. And I bought your horse from Tate McPhee, fair and square. Got the papers to prove it. He’s legally mine. I’ve got ’em both now, and you’ll never find ‘em.”

  The old man stepped back again and snapped the whip next to Dancey Moore’s hand, taking a chip of wood out of the heavy oak table.

  Dancey Moore whispered something to the sergeant.

  “All right. All right,” the sergeant said, glaring at Zeb and his grampa. “We’ll tell you where the horses are.” Moore and the sergeant stood up.

  Zeb and his grampa moved closer to the table. Dancey Moore shouted, “Now!”

  He and the sergeant flipped the heavy table over. Zeb shoved his grampa aside and jumped back. The heavy table landed where Zeb and his grampa had been standing. Moore and the sergeant ducked through a low door hidden behind the bar. “C’mon, Grampa, let’s go after them.”

  Cracker Ryan snaked his whip out with a terrible explosive crack.

  Lonnie Champ shouted, “No! That’s what they wantcha to do. They’re probably waitin’ fer ya jes outside the door.”

  Zeb’s grampa nodded. “He’s right.”

  Lonnie Champ said, “I know who you are, sir. Yer Cracker Ryan. I ain’t never seen no one handle a whip like that. I sure would like to learn how to do it.”

  Zeb looked around the room. “What are we gonna do, Grampa?”

  “First, Zeb, we’ll try the law again.” He nodded to Lonnie Champ as they stepped out onto the rickety porch, then turned to Zeb. “I’m goin’ to speak to the police constable. He should be back by now. You get up in the wagon and watch. Silver Street’s the only road out of Natchez Under-the-Hill, so keep your eye on that road. I’ll be right back.”

  Zeb climbed back into the wagon. He told Hannah what had happened. They waited quietly, listening to the music and bursts of laughter coming from the taverns. Zeb looked at Hannah and they both smiled. In a way, it was just like so many days they spent on the Natchez Road, sitting quietly together, hidden in the forest, waiting for travelers to go by.

  Suddenly, the driver called down to them, “A horse wrangler just ran out of the tavern and jumped on his horse! He’s gallopin’ up the road to Natchez.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Stand off

  October 14, 1811

  Zeb bolted upright. “I bet they sent that man to move the horses! And I bet I know where he’s going….” He looked at Hannah. “I’m gonna need your horse.”

  Hannah was staring across the big river. She looked so sad. Zeb hated himself for putting her prized horse in jeopardy.

  “I rode Christmas down here, Zeb,” she said a low voice. She pointed toward the rail at the jailhouse. “He’s around
the corner of the jail.”

  Zeb jumped off the wagon and put his hand up to help Hannah down. “C’mon,” he called up to her. “You can go to the jailhouse to be with Grampa and your father.”

  Zeb and Hannah ran down the street toward the jail. “I’ll get her back for you, Hannah,” he said, “I promise.”

  When they reached Christmas, Hannah went into the jailhouse. Zeb swung himself up on the big horse and trotted quickly through the crowds toward Silver Street. He shouted to Walter as he passed, “Let Grampa know I’ve gone to the Texada Inn!”

  Zeb turned the horse up the cobblestone road, still jammed with cotton wagons and men on foot, all moving toward the docks. Christmas sensed the urgency, forcing his big body through the crowd without slowing down. The rapid clang clang of iron horseshoes against the cobblestones rang out a warning to all pedestrians in the way. Men shouted and cursed at Zeb, shaking their fists.

  When Zeb got to the top of Silver Street, the number of cotton wagons had thinned out. He ran Christmas at full gallop up Washington Street to the Texada Tavern.

  Zeb rode through a crowd of men on foot, into the stable yard. One of the men, barely jumping out of the way in time, shouted up to Zeb, “Watch what yer doin’!”

  Zeb pulled the big horse up, but Christmas pivoted, scattering the men even more. At that moment, one of Dancey Moore’s horse wranglers, the one who had told him about the old man with the whip, came out of the stables. Seated on an Indian pony, the man was leading Suba on one side of him and Andy on the other. Both horses were tacked up, ready to be ridden away. When the wrangler saw Zeb, he dropped Andy’s lead line and reached for a pistol stuck in his belt. “Let me by!” he shouted.

  Christmas was still skittering. But Zeb had spent many hours on Christmas at the family farm, rounding up the horses and cutting some out from the herd for branding. And all of the horses on his grampa’s farm were trained to move mostly with leg and seat signals so the arms were free for shooting a musket or for working. The reins were only used to help stop the horse. As Zeb leaned in the direction of the wrangler, Christmas immediately moved sideways toward the man, crowding him and his horse against the stable wall.