by Jim Cox
She smiled and asked, “Are you from Georgia?”
“How can you tell? Do I talk like I’m from Georgia?” Buck said with a grin.
“I’d say so, at least someplace near Georgia,” she countered.
“I was born and raised in south Alabama, Ma’am. Have you ever been to that part of the country?”
“No. But a family from Georgia moved here a couple years back, and they talk like you.”
“I hope you don’t hold that against me, ma’am,” Buck said with twinkling eyes.
She laughed. “Would you like more coffee?”
Buck nodded and watched the young woman go after the coffee pot. As she was pouring, she noticed Buck hadn’t touched his food. “Better eat up, or your food’s gonna get cold.” He smiled, picked up his fork, and dug in. After finishing the meal, Buck laid thirty-five cents on the table and left.
He mounted up and rode past the mercantile and hotel, which he figured would be his next stops after boarding his horses. He heard a familiar banging of iron against iron not far away and followed it to the livery. When Buck dismounted, a huge man turned from his anvil, and in a deep voice said, “I’ll be with ya’ in a minute, mister. I wanna finish this horseshoe while the iron’s still red.”
Not only was the man big, he was muscular. In spite of the cool temperature, he was bare-chested under a leather bib apron tied around his flat waist, exposing broad shoulders and bulging biceps. He was clean-shaven, had green eyes, and his curly mop of red hair looked like it had been cut with sheep shears. Buck guessed him to be in his late twenties. The forge where the man worked was in front of the livery where horses were stalled. The entire area, blacksmith, and livery, looked well-kept with things in their place.
Minutes later, the smithy put his hammer down, turned, and with an outstretched huge hand said, “Howdy. People call me Smithy. What can I do for ya’?”
“Glad to know ya’, Smithy. My name’s Buck. I’m gonna be in town for a few days and need a place to stable my horses.”
The big man cut him short. “You’ve come to the right place, Buck. Got two good stalls for ’em and plenty of feed. Corn, oats, and good leafy hay. Cost ya’ a dollar a day.”
Buck shook his head, “I can’t afford that. It’s way too much. Guess I’ll just have to find me some grazing out of town a ways.”
“What can you pay? I don’t want to get the reputation of being high priced.”
“My horses need new shoes and their hooves trimmed. I’ll pay your price for that service and fifty cents a day for stabling both horses with a generous feeding of corn, oats, and hay—morning and night.”
Smithy stuck out his big paw and smiled, “You drive a hard bargain, young man, but you’ve got yourself a deal. Tie your horses to the hitch rail, and I’ll get started on their shoes sometime later on this afternoon.”
Buck removed the saddles and other gear from the horses and carried them to a tack room Smithy had pointed out. He slung his saddlebag over his shoulder, slid his rifle from its gun boot, grabbed his food bag which by now only contained a few staples along with his coffee pot and cooking utensils, and then started walking to the mercantile.
The sun was casting long shadows by the time Buck left the mercantile and headed for the barbershop for a bath and haircut. He left the barber feeling clean and rejuvenated but at the same time feeling ridiculous, dressed in his new clothes, looking like a western dude. However, the barber said he looked fine, and after a few days he’d blend in. A gray cotton shirt was tucked into black wool pants with a medium width, black leather belt circling through the loops. His western style black boots felt strange and made walking rather awkward. His flat crown black hat had a gray band around it.
Buck was a bit ashamed when the hotel clerk swiveled the registration pad around for him to sign and he could only make his mark. The clerk looked up, nodded with a slight smile, and pointed to the room as he handed Buck the key. As he was heading toward the stairway leading to his room, he noticed a crowded dining room opposite the stairs and thought, I’ll wait for an hour or so and then come down to eat…a big steak sounds mighty good.
The room was adequate. It had a nightstand with a wash-pan and two large pitchers of water. An oil lamp was sitting on a shelf over the nightstand. There were wall pegs to hang clothes on and a bed with a straw mattress. Red curtains framed the window on the outside wall facing the street.
After unpacking and hanging his second set of new clothing, Buck left the hotel and lazily walked down the boardwalk toward the café, hoping to get a glimpse through the window of the girl who had waited on him, but to his disappointment, he only saw the old woman who had first come to his table with coffee.
By this time of day, most folks were home doing evening chores or eating their supper. Buck did pass a few as he walked about town, who turned with a puzzled expression for another look, him being a stranger. Returning to the hotel, he took another peek through the café window, but the girl didn’t show. I don’t even know her name. I’ll ask her for it in the morning while I’m eating breakfast.
That evening, as he lay in bed, his thoughts went to the girl. Maybe I can spend some time with her while I’m staying in Texarkana. Then it occurred to him, what if she’s married? That’s the first thing I’m gonna find out.
Buck’s thoughts concerning female companionship continued. I ain’t ever courted a girl, and I’ll soon be twenty-one. Pa had already been married to Ma for four years and had two babies when he was my age. I want a wife and children, but I can wait awhile for the children. Maybe I can find me a wife and settle down when I get west.
Buck punched up his pillow and thought of Na’man and his family. They were a solid, caring family who loved and supported each other under all circumstances. Nothing could pull them apart—not even slavery.
He considered his ma and pa. He remembered a few arguments they’d had, but they always made up and then acted as if nothing happened. Pa never let the kids argue or talk mean to their Ma. As Buck looked back, he knew his ma was the love of his pa’s life, and even though they struggled and worked hard to meet life’s challenges, they were happy.
“That’s what I want someday,” Buck mumbled, “I want a family like pa and Na’man.”
»»•««
“You sure look different today, wearing all those new western clothes,” the young waitress said as she set his coffee down.
Buck caught her eye. “Do you think I look like some kind of a dude?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she answered, “I think you look nice.”
Buck thanked her.
“I’d like to sit and talk for a spell, but I’ve got three tables waiting on their food. I’ll bring yours as soon as I fetch theirs.”
She started to turn, but he called her back. “My name’s Buck, at least that’s what I’m known by. May I ask your name?”
“My name is Norma,” she said with a wide grin. “I’ll be right back with your food, Buck.”
Norma was kept busy serving customers during the breakfast time, so Buck decided to leave and come back at mid-morning when hopefully she’d have a little slack.
During the interim, he’d go to the livery and check on his horses.
“Got their hooves trimmed and new shoes put on yesterday afternoon,” the big livery man said. “I curried and gave ’em a good brushing down this morning after I fed ’em. Their mane and tails were full of tangles and cockleburs, but I got ’em all out.” Smithy turned back to his shoe-making as Buck went to his horses. The two were standing with their heads facing him as he came down the aisle—their eyes bright and ears pricked forward. Buck scratched their foreheads for several minutes and then went back to talk with Smithy.
He was sitting near his forge with coffee in hand when Buck walked up. “Help yourself to some coffee if you want,” Smithy said pointing to the pot. Buck obliged himself and sat on a bench across from the blacksmith.
“Mind if I asked you something, Smithy?�
� The big man shrugged.
“Is Norma married?” Buck asked.
Smithy laughed. “Naw, she ain’t married. She’s had opportunities but ain’t settled on anyone. I even asked her to marry me a couple years back, but she turned me down.
She’s a nice young woman, works hard at the café and goes to church every Sunday morning, but she’s also a flirt. I think every man that walks through those cafe batwing doors leaves thinking she’s interested in him.” He paused. “She’ll meet her match someday.”
“Did you ever get married, Smithy?”
He shook his head with tight lips. “Ain’t even courting no one. I guess you could say I’m married to this here livery and forge, though, ’cause I’m here from first light ’til way past dark.” The big man chuckled a bit.
“Smithy, I’ll be going west in a couple days, to Arizona or New Mexico. How’s the best way to go?”
“There’s a trail when you leave town heading straight west toward Texas. In a day or two the trail will peter out, but you need to continue riding due west. Be sure you don’t angle north into the Oklahoma territory. That land belongs to the Indians, and they don’t like white invaders. The traveling will be hilly and rough for the first couple of days, and then you’ll come to desert land where the riding becomes a mite hard because of the sand and the scarcity of water.”
That must be the best way, Buck thought, it’s what Slim told me, too.
When Buck entered the café, the place was empty, and Norma was bringing two cups of coffee to his corner table. She sat down across from him. “Glad you’re back, Buck. I was awful busy and couldn’t sit with you when you were here earlier.” He smiled with a nod.
The two enjoyed themselves as they talked while drinking two refills of coffee. When the conversation lulled a bit, Buck asked, “I imagine you had a lot of soldiers come in here during the war?”
“Yes, we did. Whenever a group came through town, the tables would be full, and men would be standing around holding cups. I always enjoyed it, even though it was hard work. That is, as long as they weren’t Blue Bellies. They came occasionally, and I hated it. I would have poisoned the whole lot of ’em if I could have.”
“They were only fighting for what they believed was right, Norma,” Buck said in a calm voice.
“How could anyone in their right mind think a black person should have the same rights as a white person? They aren’t capable of making decisions on their own. They’ll always need white people to give ’em instructions. How would they ever blend in and communicate with whites, they’re not even capable of learning to read and write.”
Buck set his cup down and stood, glaring at her. “Norma,” he said, “black folks are just as intelligent as you and me. Maybe most of ’em can’t read or write, but that don’t make ’em dumb. I ain’t able to read or write either. And another thing, I was a Union soldier—what you call a Blue Belly. I was fighting for what I thought was right. But I have no hard feelings for the men in the Confederate Army because they were fighting for what they thought was right.” Buck paused. “Norma, it’s time for our country to get rid of our bitterness and become one great nation again.” Then Buck tipped his hat, laid a fifty-cent coin on the table, and walked out.
The young waitress was still sitting at the table in a bewildered state several minutes after Buck had mounted Black and rode out of town.
Chapter Fourteen
Three days after he’d left Texarkana, Buck stopped in mid-afternoon at the crest of a tree-covered hill he’d been climbing and took in the vastness of the prairie laying before him. It was breathtaking. There had been no gradual change to the terrain. One minute he was riding through hills and the next minute he had come to a flat, treeless landscape with waving grass as far as the eye could see. There was a slight roll to the land but not much.
Since leaving Texarkana, Buck had ridden straight west. He’d kept in mind the warning Slim had given him about the prairie. There would be a scattering of game for food if I keep a watchful eye, but the water would be scarce. Indians from the Oklahoma reservations would be roaming in North Texas and could be dangerous. Buck checked his three canteens and the large five-gallon waterskin hanging from Bell’s pack rack. They were all full. He also took a mental inventory of the food he’d bought in Texarkana. There was enough to last for at least three weeks even if he couldn’t supplement it by hunting. The Indian warning was another matter. How could he prepare for hostile Indians in the prairie except to ride with caution and keep his rifle loaded?
It was nearly time for an afternoon stop, so Buck took the opportunity to strip the horses and build a fire. He was frugal with the water, not wasting a drop. Coffee water was carefully measured, and the horses were only given a couple of swallows before they went downhill to the prairie grass.
The sky was cloudless, and the temperature was pleasant as Buck sat against a tree with cup in hand looking at the long-stem grass swaying in the breeze, resembling waves on water. When the coffee was gone, he rose, snuffed out his fire with dirt, and whistled for the horses. Buck had been riding Black all day, so he switched horses for the next leg of the journey.
Traveling through the prairie was not like Buck’s experiences in other parts of the country. There were no stones to injure the horses’ hooves, no marshy land to get bogged down in, no sticker bushes, or hills to be climbed. However, Buck soon became aware that walking through the tall, thick grass was very tiring for the horses.
He began thinking about the way he’d build his night’s camp. It would be different out here than what he was accustomed to. Within minutes he saw light brown plumes rising in the sky a great distance to the west. They don’t look like rain clouds, but maybe rain clouds look different on the prairie.
He rode on for another half hour and then stopped for the night in a shallow between two slight rises. It was the best place he could find to hide a small fire. The horses were hobbled close to camp.
Buck slept well and woke a couple hours before daylight. He lay for a spell looking up through Texas’ clear air. A quarter moon shone brightly, and the twinkling stars filled the cloudless sky. Coyotes were still in harmony, just as they had been when he got in his bedroll.
Buck rose, put on his pants, shook out his boots, and stomped them on. Using dried-up buffalo manure, or what westerners call chips, he’d gathered up the night before, he quickly had a fire going with coffee water on. It was over an hour until the sun rose, so in order to kill time he sat with coffee in hand thinking about his travels. He also thought about Na’man and the farm and what his pa would have thought about him giving it away. The eastern sky was turning gray by the time Buck had finished his breakfast, watered, and prepared the horses. It was Black’s turn to carry him.
Buck had ridden for about an hour and was approaching the location where the brown plumes had risen when he started seeing tracks. They looked like large cow prints, which Buck assumed to be buffalo tracks. He’d seen quite a number of Longhorn range cattle and had crossed their paths several times as he rode through the prairie the past few days, but their prints were much smaller than these. As he rode on, the tracks became thicker, and within minutes the grass had been completely trampled down, leaving nothing but dust. “That’s what caused the plumes I saw yesterday,” Buck mumbled. “Buffalo were stirring up the dust when they were traveling through, must have been thousands of ’em.” Riding a little farther, Buck came to a three-foot-deep wallowing hole nearly fifty yards across with a ridge of dirt around its edge. The dirt within the circle was as fine as power. That’s where the buffalo roll to get rid of ticks and other insects. I’ve heard it’s a good place to hide if you’re running from somebody. Buck circled the wallow and continued on through the drab prairie’s fall-colored grass. It was a boring ride. What started out a few days earlier to be a pleasant trip through beautiful terrain was now drudgery, nothing more than a means to get to his destination. Days passed, each one the same as yesterday. Buck no longer knew what day
of the week it was. He wasn’t even sure of the month.
The Texas prairie became a bare, lifeless land of sand that went on and on with an occasional patch of desert plants. Since leaving the buffalo wallowing hole four days ago, the sun continued beaming down its hot rays. Buck rose every morning in hopes the rain would come, but the sky remained cloudless. His water skin and one of the three canteens were already empty. In the past few days, he had made two cuts to his water rationing, and he was about to make another, allowing only a small sip for himself at noon and a half pint for each horse in the evening. Buck was worried. If he didn’t find water or the rain didn’t come in the next day or two, he’d be desperate.
He’d seen tracks of antelope, deer, and herds of buffalo passing through the parched land, probably on their way to water, but he’d not seen a single person. He was hopeful he’d come across someone who’d share their water or direct him to a supply, but to no avail. There was nothing to do but continue his westward travel. The next days passed, and they were extremely long.
By the time he’d been out of water for two days, the horses’ heads were down, and their gait was rubbery. Buck no longer rode but staggered along beside the horses, oblivious to their situation. His mind was foggy, and he was unclear about what he should do. His body told him to sit down and rest, but his mind told him to keep going—that if he stopped, it would be the end, he’d never start out again. Consequently, all his effort was concentrated on taking one more step, and then another and another.
Buck had fallen several times and had always been able to rise, but he now found himself on his hands and knees struggling to get up. His bloodshot eyes were blurry and burning. His lips were nothing more than crusted, bleeding patches of skin. His mouth was dry. So dry it felt like it was full of cotton, and his throat so parched he couldn’t swallow. It’s over. I ain’t gonna make it. Maybe I can go on a little further if I hold on to Black’s saddle horn. Buck mustered up some energy and slowly crawled to the big horse, reaching up for his stirrup. This simple effort caused him to tire, and he had to rest for a few minutes. As he finally pulled himself up by tugging on Black’s stirrup, the big gelding staggered a little but soon squared himself. Buck grabbed hold of the saddle horn, and after taking several deep breaths, he said, “Let’s go, boy.”