Contention and Other Frontier Stories

by Hazel Rumney

  He’d read over her, Jeb decided. That would have made her happy and might bring him some peace of mind, or at least give him the feeling that he’d done all he could for her in this bad situation. Back in the cabin, he rummaged around in her scant belongings until he found the Bible he knew she kept there. It was worn and ill-used from being carried along through the hard circumstances Ruby had lived through. She didn’t read it much, explaining once that too many things in there made her feel bad about the sinful life she’d lived and the sorry choices she’d made. It seemed like every time she opened its pages, it brought to mind something that she should have done differently.

  Jeb hadn’t had much truck with the Good Book since he was a boy and his daddy used to read to them after supper. He figured he hadn’t laid eyes on a Bible in ten years or more, and his reading was rusty, but he hoped he could find something in there that would fit the occasion.

  Back at the graveside, Jeb sat down on the edge of the hole with his feet resting on the lid of Ruby’s coffin, which didn’t seem to him to be any kind of sacrilege. He was worn out from all the hard work and badly needed something to eat and a good night’s sleep. But it was dusk now, with the light starting to fade, and he wanted to get this over with while he could still make out the words in Ruby’s Bible.

  He opened the book and began to thumb his way through, trying to find a few words that he could use to send Ruby off with. But he couldn’t find anything that made much sense to him. As the light faded, he decided to go to the beginning and do the best he could. He ran his finger down the pages, finding verses that triggered old, old memories from his boyhood. Finally, he began to feel like he had stumbled onto solid ground. At least he remembered Adam, the first man.

  … but for Adam there was not found an help meet for him. And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof; And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man. And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.

  Jeb halted the team in front of Bradshaw’s Post and looped the reins tight around the wagon brake. In a minute Bradshaw stepped out onto the wooden porch, still sipping his morning coffee from a metal cup. Meadow came as far as the doorway, pausing in the shadows just inside.

  “Mornin’, Jeb,” the store owner said. His eyes scanned the canvas-covered load in the back of the wagon, and he looked puzzled. Usually, the prospectors drove an empty wagon down the mountain and went back up with a load.

  “Good morning to you,” Jeb said. “Right pretty day, ain’t it?” A light coating of frost still blanketed the pasture behind the store, but the sky was clear and the rising sun was warming things up nicely.

  “Yep. Now that I’m an old man, I like to see the spring come because my bones stop creaking.”

  Back behind her husband, Meadow’s gazed was fixed on the back of the wagon, her nose crinkling. Jeb had heard that Indians had a sharp sense of smell, far better than white folks.

  “What’s the word on Silas?”

  “He was still breathing after you left, so I left him on the floor where you put him. By the time Meadow and I got up the next morning, he was starting to come around. Couldn’t remember much about what happened.”

  “That’s good. I wouldn’t have taken no pleasure in knowing I’d killed him. Especially over a woman already dead.”

  “He left out of here kind of woozy and one eye swolled up like a sweet potato. If I was you, I’d keep a sharp eye out, Jeb.”

  “No need,” Jeb said. “I decided I’ve had enough of this life up here in the high country, and I’m heading out.”

  “And you’re taking her with you?” From the smell, it had become obvious to Bradshaw and his woman what cargo Jeb was carrying in the wagon.

  “I’ve got her in a box back there, and I need to salt her down good. I’ll buy all you’ve got. Turns out she’s got a daughter back in Missouri, and an elderly mother, if she hasn’t died. I decided last night that I’d take her home to be near her kinfolks.”

  “And what about your claim?”

  “You can have it. I’ll sign it over. You’ve been a good friend to me, Norman, and I’d like to see you do well. There’s still gold to be dug out of those hills. But I’m just tired of it.”

  “Did you find Ruby’s stash?”

  “Never even looked for it. Maybe that’ll be the icing that will help you get a good price when you sell the claim.”

  “That’ll be downright entertaining,” Bradshaw said with a chuckle. “Miss Ruby’s Treasure. Fools from a hundred miles around will be crawling all over those hills, turning over rocks and ransacking the cabin. Should be good for business, too.”

  While they were talking, Meadow had gone into the store, and now she came back carrying as many cloth sacks of salt as she could handle. She dropped them on the ground beside the wagon, then went to work on the ropes securing the canvas covering.

  Jeb climbed down from the wagon and turned to her. “Meadow, I’d sure be obliged if you’d take care of this for me. I hate to ask, but I figure all her clothes are going to have to come off to do it right, and she had her pride. There’s a pry bar in back to loosen the lid of the coffin.”

  The Indian woman nodded her head and fell to work as the two men went inside.

  Within an hour, Jeb was back on the trail south, which meandered across rolling hills and endless sprawling prairie land that seemed to stretch on forever. He felt good about the decision he made, and only wished she had known before she died that this was what he would end up doing.

  That morning before he left the claim, he had walked up the hillside to the spot where she and the rattlesnake had crossed paths and died. The snake’s fat, headless carcass was gone now, dragged away and eaten by some other mountain creature. While he was standing there, thinking that he would hold this spot in his memory, he saw a curl of string just visible under the edge of a flat slab of rock. He knelt and pulled at the string, drawing out the small bag of gold, her share, that he had given her that morning.

  Forgetting his own rules of survival, he thrust his hand under the flat rock, and pulled out the rest of Ruby’s hoard. It was too much, more than he had ever given her as her share, and he wondered for an instant if she had been stealing from him. Then he realized that it must be Bear Quincy’s gold, not his. She might have killed him for it or gone back and found it after he was dead. Either way, it didn’t matter. All the time she was with him, she had the gold she had come here for, and could have gone on home like she talked about. But she stayed on instead.

  That would give him plenty to ponder over during the long journey back to Missouri.

  Greg Hunt is the author of over twenty Western and frontier novels. His latest novel is The Carroll Farm Fight (Five Star, 2017). He is a native of Missouri, and now lives in Memphis, Tennessee. In an earlier life, he might have been a resident of New Orleans.

  A GRAVE TOO MANY

  BY PRESTON LEWIS

  Would this feud ever end, Parson Martin Gentry asked himself as he watched Tom Blevins push the edge of the kitchen curtain back enough to peek outside into the fading evening light of a late November day. Blevins patted the butt of his revolver as he looked for the trouble that stalked him. The War Between the States had ceased almost eighteen months earlier, but the killing in their part of Texas had continued as old grudges remained and new ones emerged in the aftermath of defeat. Gentry believed Blevins, a known Union sympathizer, had been more sinned against than sinner in the turmoil that had sent four men to early graves and disabled another seven. Doing most of the sinning, in Gentry’s mind at least, was John Wesley, a rabid warrior who had returned from the conflict embittered rather than chastened, but the truth of the vendetta remained as elusive as the peace most folks craved. Gentry feared the feud would never conclude as long as both Tom Blevins and John Wesley su
rvived.

  Too old to fight for the Confederacy, Parson Gentry had remained in north Texas, but four of his five sons had taken up the same cause as John Wesley. Three sons returned. One did not. Samuel, his fifth son, had been too young to fight, but now verged on manhood. Standing by his mother near the stove, Sammy stared across the kitchen table at Blevins, the target of so many of the county’s unreconstructed citizens. Blevins released the edge of the curtain and turned to face the family, forcing a smile and nodding at Gentry’s wife, Susannah, who stirred a pot of stew on the cast-iron stove in the corner. Susannah nodded gently, then placed the spoon in a stove-top cradle and lit two more candles to counter the room’s growing gloom as darkness crept up outside.

  “Sorry, ma’am, for the intrusion,” Blevins apologized, “but today’s my boy’s birthday. I promised him a present, and I intend to deliver it. Must be hard on you Gentrys, living next to my place, me being the most hunted man in the county.”

  “Being sought by the law,” said Parson Gentry, “is the work of God. Being hunted by the lawless, like you are, is the work of the devil. My place is a refuge from the killing for everyone. I’d do the same for the other side.”

  “I know you would.” Blevins nodded and drew the back of his gun hand over his dry lips. “And, I know you wouldn’t tell a soul of my comings and goings, or me of theirs.”

  The parson nodded slowly, sadly. “Only God can sort the good from the evil, Tom. I’m called to minister to everyone, whether it’s you or John Wesley.”

  Blevins’s parched lips tightened, and his hand dropped to the grip of his revolver. “His name grates on my ears, Parson. He and his bunch started it all.”

  “I won’t deny that, Tom, but he’s a creature of God.”

  “So’s a rattlesnake,” Blevins shot back, “but that don’t keep one from biting me.”

  Susannah stepped toward Blevins and motioned at the kitchen table. “You’re welcome to join us for supper, Tom. There’s enough stew to share.”

  Parson Gentry smiled at his wife, proud of her hospitality, even though he knew the servings would be smaller with the added guest, and prouder still that his wife knew when to interrupt his theological discussions when he had no satisfactory answer.

  Blevins again peered outside the window. “It smells mighty fine, Mrs. Gentry, but I’m just a mile from the house, and I’ve a hankering for Emma’s cooking. I didn’t want to approach home in the daylight so I appreciate you letting me stay and hide my horse in your barn.”

  “The Gentry place is a refuge for all until God can straighten this county out,” the parson added.

  Stepping back from the window, Blevins nodded. “I just want it safe for my Emma and my boy.” He nodded at Sammy, still standing by his mother. “I want my boy to grow up like Sammy there and be able to ride the roads without worrying about getting shot in the back by his father’s enemies.”

  Parson Gentry glanced from Blevins to his youngest son. “Samuel’s turned out fine for the runt of the litter.”

  Sammy grinned. “I’m his favorite.”

  “That’s true,” Gentry responded. “Of course, he’s the only one at home with me and his momma now so we don’t have many to choose from anymore or to help us with the chores. How old’s your boy now, Tom? Jacob, isn’t it?”

  “Jake’s nine today.”

  “I bet you got him a fine gift.”

  “Bought it in Fort Worth, I did. A tin whistle.”

  “What about a gift for yourself, Tom? Have you accepted the greatest gift of all? How are you with God?”

  “I’ve been baptized, Parson, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Baptized, not sprinkled, right?”

  Blevins grinned. “Yep, full Baptist, Parson. Got baptized and a bath at the same time.”

  Gentry smiled. “That’s the way it should be done. You sure you won’t stay for a bowl of stew? Mrs. Gentry’s a fine cook.”

  “I know that to be true, but I want to ride on as soon as it’s full dark.” He glanced out the window again. “It’s getting close. Give me a few more minutes, then I’ll fetch my horse and get out of your hair.”

  “I’ll have Samuel get your horse, Tom, so you can stay inside until it’s a little darker.”

  “That’s neighborly of you, Parson, assuming Sammy don’t mind the extra chore.”

  Sammy nodded and grinned. “I’m glad to do it. I can say I helped Tom Blevins in his feud with John Wesley.”

  Parson Gentry stomped his boot on the plank floor. “You’ll say no such thing, Samuel! We don’t mention the comings or goings of any visitors to our home, not with this vendetta still burning hot as a branding iron. We don’t take sides, and we don’t brag about helping one side or the other. We help everyone. Do you understand?”

  Sammy bowed his head. “Sorry, Papa, and Mr. Blevins. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to the barn and get his mount.”

  “Wait just a moment,” Gentry said. “Let’s pray before you go.”

  Blevins removed his hat as Susannah and Samuel stepped to the parson. Sammy took his mother and father’s hands, then Gentry and his wife extended theirs to Blevins.

  “We hold hands when we pray in this house,” Gentry informed him.

  Blevins nodded, then placed his hat on the table and gently grabbed the proffered hands of his hosts.

  After everyone bowed, Parson Gentry began. “Oh, God, see Brother Blevins safely to his family and let this be but the first of many birthdays he will share with his son, Jacob. Protect his son and his Emma from the dangers of the lawlessness that pervades this county. Help him and his enemies see the errors of their ways and come to lie down together like the lamb with the lion. For these blessings we beseech Thee and would be eternally grateful for your gift of them. Amen.”

  “Amen,” repeated the others as Parson Gentry opened his eyes and released Blevins’s hand.

  “Okay, Samuel, fetch Tom’s horse. Make sure he gets some water so Tom won’t have to tend to that when he gets home.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  As Sammy walked out the back door, Blevins picked up his hat and placed it atop his head. “Thank you for your hospitality and your prayers, Parson. I feel safer now.”

  “Just the same, Tom, you keep your eyes and ears open. I think there’s more right than wrong on your side in this vendetta, but God is the ultimate judge of all men’s affairs. Ride with God as you leave here.”

  “I will, Parson. Thank you both for your hospitality in spite of my intrusion, and thank you for your blessings on my safety.” Blevins stepped to the window and looked outside again. “It’s plenty dark now, so I’ll be on my way once Sammy returns.”

  “I’ve a couple of cold biscuits from lunch you can take with you,” Susannah offered.

  “That’s mighty kind, ma’am, but I bet my Emma’s baked some fresh ones for Jake’s birthday,” Blevins replied. “I’ve missed her cooking while I’ve been on the run.”

  They heard Sammy approaching, humming a song with each step as he neared the back of the house. Parson Gentry grimaced as he realized his son was humming “Dixie.”

  “Pay no mind to Samuel’s music,” Gentry apologized. “He means nothing by it.”

  Blevins cocked his ear toward the door, listened, and smiled. “‘Dixie,’ isn’t it?”

  Parson Gentry nodded.

  “It’s a fine tune. I heard tell the night Robert E. Lee surrendered that our martyred President Lincoln had a band serenade the White House with a rendition of ‘Dixie.’ I figure if he was forgiving enough to request ‘Dixie,’ I can listen to it without rancor. I just wish John Wesley was as forgiving.”

  As Sammy neared the back porch, Blevins shook the parson’s hand and tipped his hat to Susannah, then opened the door and stepped out into the night. He took the reins from Sammy, mounted his horse, and rode cautiously around the house, then angled toward his own home. Sammy came inside and closed the door behind him. Susannah stepped to the stove, stirred the stew, and ann
ounced that supper was hot.

  Gentry looked around the room at the four burning candles and blew out the flames of the two farthest from the table. No sense burning more candles than necessary to eat as they were expensive, and money was tight, especially for a parson. Preaching put little food on the table, so he had to farm as well to eat. He wished not only for enough to feed his wife and son, but also for enough to barter for their other needs and an occasional luxury for his dwindling family.

  Sammy fetched bowls and spoons, placing the utensils on the table and carrying the wooden dishes to Susannah so she could fill them with the steaming stew. The aroma of beef, potatoes, and tomatoes tickled the parson’s nose, and he wished he could provide greater fare for his family, but he had a calling as a preacher that always overrode everything else. Despite his successes and failures, he always seemed to have enough of everything, but never too much of anything. At least he didn’t have to ride around the county fearful of being shot in the back or having his family or home attacked. In that way he was certainly richer than Tom Blevins.

  As Susannah filled the three bowls with stew, Gentry seated himself at the head of the small table, propped his elbows on the surface, clasped his hands beneath his chin, bowed his head, and said a silent prayer for Tom Blevins, Emma, and Jacob. His own son sat down to his left as Susannah placed the bowls in front of each, then sat to Gentry’s right. The parson mouthed “amen,” then lowered his hands to those extended to him by wife and son. As his fingers clasped theirs, he dropped his head and blessed the meal, then gave his wife’s hand a tender squeeze, a sign of affection he always shared with her after a mealtime prayer, his way of thanking his partner for assisting him with God’s work.