A Boy, His Mule and Dog

A Boy, His Mule and Dog

1866 - 1871

Sean

Patrick

O'Mordha

A Createspace edition

* * * * *

Tucson, Arizona, USA.

https://celtic-publications.com/

Copyright Sean Patrick O’Mordha 2016

ISBN: 13: 978-1537640037

ISBN: 10: 1537640038

This is a work of fiction within an historical setting. With the exception of geographical locations, historical persons, and events, the names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Dedicated to:

Joshua

Eric

Eden

and

Jay

Novels by Sean Patrick O'Mordha

Incident at Beaver Creek

A Pirate's Legacy: For Glory, Truth, and Treasure

Death by TOP SECRET

A Pirate's Legacy 2: The Urchin Pirate

For All Time and Eternity: Waters of the Deep

A Pirate's Legacy 3: CIC-- The Canary Island Commandos

Man With No Name

A Pirate's Legacy 4: The Lions of El Bayadh

Tales for a Sleepless Night

A Pirate's Legacy 5: Return of the Brethern

COMING SOON

Mariann

With Sincere Gratitude

An author can not create in a vaccum. Writing takes encouragement and profes¬sional help to achieve a respectable end product. In this particular endeavor I have received encouragement from my wife of thirty-five years, who also happens to be an accomplished proof reader with over forty years experience. I also have a son who is an accomplished technical writer. This book dedicated to:

Dr. Jayne F. Moore

and

Christopher B. Moore

In addition, I wish to recognize

Melanie Anne Phillips

my first go-to resource for writing technique, although she didn't know it until now

To each of you -- A Big Thank You

Chapter 1

A Boy, His Mule and Dog

The Journey

The lone kerosene lamp cast a weak, yellow light illuminating a boy kneeling next to his momma's bed, desperately holding her thin, frail hand. As he pray in earnest, she reached up with the free hand to feebly wipe at the steady stream of tears cascading down her son's face.

The pale horse is comin' fer me, Samuel."

No. Hain't so, momma. Please, send 'im away.

Her hand lie upon his tear-stained cheek. Sh-h-h. Hush now. By eatin' the forbidden fruit, Adam brought death into this world, but Jesus, He say that them who believe in Him, when they die and the body returns to dirt, their spirit goes live with God. I'm gonna be with my little ones, Samuel, yer brother Isaac and the ones y'all dint know, and when yer time's done, we'll be together again in a far better place than this.

Placing a hand on the Bible resting on her breast, his momma's words came more weakly. My grandma Buford brought this when she come to this here land. Her momma give it to her when she were confirmed as my momma gave it to me. Keep it close to y'all's heart, Samuel. Let it guide yer feet through this world.

She fell silent as her son's thoughts drift back in time. The pale, white light spreading across April's new moon on the 15th, but that was on a Sunday so the work had to wait until the next day. Working before sun up until the mule was unhitched by landern light, the rich soil was turned so that planting began sunup Wednesday morning, but as good as the warmed earth felt between his toes, and the sun on his back, a dark omen overshadowed their lives. A bird flew through the open door of their cabin as the two finished lunch the preceding week. Once shooed out, they stared at one another. A bird flying into a house foretold of death.

Jist a old wive's tale, Samuel. Give it no never mind, she said and laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.

Sam continued planting, that spectre hanging tenaciously over his mind, refusing to be vanquished no matter how hard he invoked happy thoughts. The silent fear became buttressed that same night when a dog's mournful howl echoed through the trees and across the farmland.

Jist Mr. Clements huntin' coons. Give it no never mind, Samuel, she said.

Friday afternoon, about to finish planting the last row of corn, he looked up to see his momma head for the outhouse, at least her sixth or seventh trip that day. Returning to the house she stopped, wavered, and fell to the ground. Coon, their dog, had been staying close to Sam's momma all that day instead of chasing blackbirds from the field. He barked, and then let a long, mournful howl.

Late Sunday night, April 22nd, the year 1866, Dorcus Buford Terry quietly past from this life holding her last son's hand, at the age off forty-four after twenty-eight years of a hard, poverty-shrouded existence.

His momma's final instructions sound loud in his mind, his actions a vague memory as he spread the last bit of the acrid-smelling kerosene over the broken down, straw-stuffed bed. The intensifying heat felt like a huge hand slowly pushing him backwards out the door and away.

The snap and crackling noises grew louder as Samuel moved further from the cabin, the heat not lessening on his back even after reaching the short, rickety, willow fence thirty yards away. He turned to watch. Flames poked through the roof and curled up out of the windows. Despite the distance, the fire's intensity on his face felt as if standing in July's mid-day sun.

He became mildly surprised how quickly what had been his home became consumed by the inferno until the walls began crumbling in on themselves, slowly turning to white ash. His body felt empty and disjointed, his mind numb. Digging a grave in the wet ground was not difficult except for a couple tree roots. His momma's body cradled in his thin arms seemed to weigh nothing at all. After placing a blanket over the cold body, the first scoops of earth into the grave were difficult as tears again flowed until there were no more.

When the last wall toppled, Sam turned to stare at the tiny cemetery within the fence, now the eternal home to five kin—two girls who died at birth, a brother who lived a year before succumbing to the fever, and brother Isaac who didn't see the cougar until too late.

Focusing on the freshly mound grave he said, It's done, momma, jist as y'all wanted. I'm leavin' now to go find Louis. He struggled to fight down a great knot in his throat as if a hand were trying to strangle the words. Don't reckon I'll ever be back.

Coon rose up from beneath an adjacent tree to place front paws on bony shoulders, whining softly while licking his face, trying to comfort his boy. After a long scratch of the big, floppy ears, Samuel turned away and walked to the mule standing patiently further back from the dying fire. Pressing his cheek against the soft muzzle he whispered, It's time, Rooster. Leaping onto the critter's back, he tapped its flanks with bare heels, and pulled the reins away from what had been his home. Come on, let's git.

Five months shy of his fourteenth birthday, Samuel Terry put his back to the only home he'd known, ignorant of the world that lie ahead. He'd never been further than Clinton, James County, Missouri's seat of government twenty miles away, and then that trip was only twice a year. His momma had given specific instructions on her deathbed.

Bury me with my little ones, burn this miserable place to the ground. There's nothin' left here except unhappiness. Go see Mr. Larkin at the mercantile in Clinton. Use that paper in the Bible to settle our debt, git learn up, then go find Louis in Texas. Samuel had no clue where Texas was exactly. Somewhere to the south.

Coming to the Grand River running along the north side of their property, Samuel looked at the muddy water slowly moving by. There had been a thunderstorm further north last evening so it was running higher than usual, but nothing long-legged Rooster couldn't handle. Coon jumped in and paddled across, coming out on the other side a hundred feet or so down stream. Rooster snorted and slid down the bank. The light brown water came up to his withers at midway, but the two had done this plenty times before as they swam the hundred feet across. From there, it was only three and half miles to the little school the Widow Tackett started when folk began clustering in the area. He liked learning and didn't mind the trip, but the weather, or work, or caring for his momma kept him from going regular.

There were fewer trees on the north side of the Grand and a trail of sorts. Trotting past the cabin where the Widow Tackett taught the three-R's, he felt another wave of sadness. He liked the kindly, old lady. Although he could only attended school the five months from end of harvest to spring plowing, he eagerly made the trip when possible. He would have gone even in bad weather, but those times Rooster refused to come out of his lean-to. As an alternative, his momma brought out the Bible to practice reading, writing, and numbers. It was all in there.

The Widow Tackett's cabin and school set shy of the wagon road running between Clinton and Harrisonville, but she wasn't home. He wanted to say good bye. With a sad shrug, he headed east on the road giving Rooster the opportunity to stretch his legs, something he enjoyed, but was seldom allowed to do. Two hours later the trio rode east on Franklin Street, across Washington Street to the mercantile facing the north side side of the courthouse. Mr. Larkin was leaning on a broom by the door talking to the Widow Tackett.

Why, lands sake Samuel Terry, whatever brings you to town? Nothing is wrong is it? Mrs. Tackett said.

Momma took the contagion three days ago . . . She went to Heaven 'fore sun up.

Oh, Samuel, I am so sorry, she said, putting an arm around his shoulder and drawing him close. He tried to hold back the tears, but didn't succeed. It will be alright. Crying is God's way to let the pain out.

Mrs. Tackett's husband died before Samuel was born leaving her childless and alone which she overcome by adopting near every child on the east end of James County, in particular Sam. He always stayed after school when possible to help clean and receive a little more learning. Nearly as tall as Sam, she was stoutly built, not fat, just filled out a lot more. There was still a lot of dark brown in her white hair, but what held Sam's heart was the grandmotherly face, soft with a beautiful, warm smile, and alert brown eyes that sparkled with joy behind a pair of glasses.

What are your plans now, son? Mr. Larkin said when Sam finally drew back.

When that bird flew in the cabin, we knowd death were comin'. Momma set me down by her bed and said fer me to come here. Momma, she said y'all been hanker'n to buy our place.

I would, but your papa never filed the homestead and it belongs to some one else. You been sort of squatting on the land.

Samuel reached into his shirt and pulled out a folded paper and handed it over. Larkin's brow knitted together while reading it over carefully, and then one bushy, white eyebrow shot up to practically disappear into his thick head of white hair.

Well, I'll be. This here's a certificate of homestead made out to Mr. Jules Buford and signed over to your momma, then she signed it over to you.

He were mamma's papa, Samuel explained.

Then I'd be pleased to give you a fair price, but I'd like to have Mr. Roberts, the lawyer, draw up proper papers.

That's apt to take some time. When is the last time you ate? Mrs. Tackett said.

Yeserday . . . mornin'. Momma, she went down Friday after lunch and I had to tend her.

Mr. Larkin, you see to those papers. Master Terry and I are going to Miss Jenny's and have a bite to eat.

Take yer mule around back and put him in the corral. Toss in a bale of hay, Larkin said, then looking at the dog sitting with his back tight against the boy's leg, he added, I'm sure Miss Jenny'll see yer dog gets something, too.

As Samuel latched the corral gate behind Rooster, Mrs. Tackett thought how the boy she silently loved would come live in her house. It wasn't all that big, but had an extra room upstairs, a sight warmer and drier than where he had lived. She'd get him new clothes, and feed him until he filled out proper, and teach him all the things he needed to know to make it through this world.

Late that afternoon Samuel sat across a small table serving as a desk for Mr. Roberts, Esquire, across the street facing the west side of courthouse. James Larkin sat on one end and Mrs. Tackett on the other, Samuel between them. She wasn't really worried about the men taking advantage of the boy, but determined to be there as his support.

I've drawn up a legal transfer of property as you asked, James, so if you are interested, make an offer.

Samuel, Larkin began, Your Grandpa Buford paid $1.25 an acre for the homestead. According to county records, there's one-hundred acres. The last agriculture census lists forty-acres under cultivation which leaves sixty-acres unimproved. Mr. Roberts tells me that the unimproved ground is worth $1 to $3. It has good timber so I'm willing to offer $2.50. That comes to $150. The improved land is valued at $10, and that comes to $400. So, my offer is . . .

$550, Samuel answered. Mrs. Tackett smiled proudly.

Is that an acceptable offer? Roberts said.

Samuel couldn't wrap his head around that much money and turned to look at his teacher who was smiling. She nodded, yes. Momma, she said we owned at yer store. How much would that be?

Sixty-five dollars and thirty-seven cents, Larkin replied.

Then I can pay that debt and have some left, he said, more to himself.

Quite a bit left, Samuel, Mrs. Tackett said.

Then I reckon we has a deal, he said, stretching out his hand to shake Larkin's."

Roberts filled in the appropriate information on the Bill of Sale before pushing it across the desk where Larkin affixed his name. Make your mark on the line next to his, Mr. Roberts said. Samuel took up the pen in his left hand, dipped it in the small bottle of ink, and carefully wrote his name—Samuel Buford Terry.

Congratulations, Mr. Terry, you have become a rich man, Roberts said.

The bank is closed, but I'll have the money tomorrow. Stop at the store any time after ten, Larkin said.

Where will you stay the night? Mrs. Tackett asked.

Under the stars, I reckon, ma'am.

It's most likely to rain again tonight. You can afford to stay at Pollard's Tavern. It's also a hotel, Roberts said.

I's never slept anywheres exceptin' under the stars or in our cabin which weren't much different. I could see them through the roof.

Then you are in for a treat. They have very nice beds for $1, Mrs. Tackett said.

What about Rooster and Coon?

Your mule can stay in the corral. There's lean-to for shelter, and I'll see he gets a bag of oats. I don't suppose that dog gets far from your side. He can stay with you.

What will you do now? his teacher asked as they crossed the courthouse grounds towards the hotel on the other side.

Find my brother, Louis.

Did he not go to Texas during the war?

Yes, 'am.

Have you heard from him?

Samuel lowered his head. No, ma'am. But I'll git to Texas and look 'im up. He was trying to sound resolute.

Texas is a very large state. How will you ever find him?

Samuel looked up at her face. Momma, she said to ask the Lord help me find 'im. Jist point me in the right direction.

I believe we do need to have a geography lesson while taking supper.

Head and stomach full, Sam stood by the side of the bed, staring at the papered wall, Coon curled by his feet, beginning to snore. He felt much pleased with how the trip to Clinton turned out. Thanks to the Widow Tackett, he understood about the journey he was about to embark upon, but would give all the new wealth to lie his head on his momma's lap and feel her gentle, reassuring fingers comb through his hair. Sliding down to kneel next to the bed as she'd taught, her often-spoke words came to mind.

Always be thankful fer what the Good Lord has blessed us and always seek His guidance and protection, she'd say.

It made no difference they lived in a cabin that did little to hold out the winds of winter or the rains of summer. Somehow, they always managed to have food to eat, no matter how simple or meager, and the crops always provided both food and a little money for necessities.

His momma was the only daughter of Jules Buford, a short man of little weight, but straight of back, strong of hands, and gentle as a doe. He didn't much care for young Moses Terry who come by, and not at all for steeling his daughter's virtue with sweet lies when she was sixteen. Moses was a wild boy, subject to drinking to excess, and mean, even vicious actions. He'd participated in the slaughter of Mormons at Haun's Mill a few weeks before arriving at the Buford farm, bragging how he'd wished it been him instead of 'Ol Glaze who shot ten-year-old Sardius Smith.

Found these three nits hidin' in the shop. Ol' Glaze put 'is musket to 'is head and blew it right off. Moses giggled when telling that part of the story. "We lined up the rest and ended it right there. Shot 'em dead. Buford was neutral of the Mormon's, and he didn't hold with murdering children.

When it was found what Moses had done to his daughter, Jules went for him. Samuel's momma wouldn't say what happened, but Moses Terry feared no man except Jules Buford, feared to the point of shaking and taking extra drink whenever the name came up. The long scar over his left hip likely had something to do with that, but nothing more was said.

Samuel's oldest brother, David, was born short of nine months after Moses spirited Dorcus Buford away in the night. That was the summer of 1839. A daughter was stillborn a year later. Moses was gone a lot, running with others mostly to persecute the Mormons, bringing home just enough money to buy more whiskey. The cabin he built was pitiful and never really finished.

Another girl was born in '42, but died of sickness the same year. Mrs. Tackett told Samuel that's when his momma began showing signs of poor health which seemed to get worse with the years and more babies.

Louis entered the world in '44. Where his oldest brother, David, was a copy of his father and of little or no help around the farm, Louis was a Buford in many ways, something his father saw, causing him to shun the boy. A second brother, Isaac, was born in '50 and Samuel two years later. Basically, whenever Moses Terry put in a short appearance his momma got with child.

As Samuel knelt in prayer, the memory of Isaac invaded his thoughts, something he'd tried to bury deep as possible. Isaac was ten, Samuel eight the spring of '60. The two were planting corn seed while Louis prepared more ground using Rooster, a new mule they'd bought for ten-dollars from a neighbor. It was a lot of money for the Terrys, but the one they had was old and come up lame that winter. Louis cut lumber and did everything possible to scrape the money together. They called him Rooster because of his habit of braying at the crack of dawn every day.

Samuel and Isaac were having a contest to see who could plant fastest and Isaac had surged ahead, finishing his row and starting the next. They passed, teased each other, and went on. Samuel had just started a new row as Isaac neared the end of his when he screamed and began running back. In that instant a cougar leaped out and took him to the ground. Samuel ran to help, shouting and waiving his planting stick. Louis had just unhitched Rooster from the drag and came running as well, but both were far away and the soft ground slowed them greatly.

Louis was almost to Isaac as the cat began dragging his limp body to the trees when Rooster passed on a dead run. The cat loosed the body, but didn't make it to cover as Rooster caught it in his teeth, threw it high into the air, and trampled it into oblivion, but they were too late to save their brother who breathed his last in Louis' arms. His was the fourth cross in the small, crudely fenced cemetery.

Always be thankful fer what the Good Lord has blessed us . . . Samuel struggled with how such a thing could be a blessing. How could the way they lived be a blessing? Yet, he heard his mother say it every night as she knelt by the bed. How could her passing be a blessing? And then, the thought came that had she not died, willed the farm to him with instructions to sell it, and take the money to find brother Louis, he'd still be there fighting every day, every hour to barely exist. Because of her passing, he was about to set out on an adventure into a totally unknown world.

With Amen, he stood and stared at the bed—a real bed. Placing the flat of his hand on the top edge, he pushed down several times, eventually easing down to sit, then bounce a couple times. Gingerly, he lie back, tuckingd hands behind his head and wonder if he really could sleep on something this fine.

Chapter 2

Shopping

Atwo-legged rooster found a safe place to perch, stretch out his neck, and loose a raucous crow shattering comforting dreams. Samuel's eyes popped open to stare at the ceiling. He might be able to see, but didn't immediately comprehend where he was. Not the cabin. Gradually, his mind awoke as he swung feet to the floor to sit on the edge of the bed. Coon moved to lie a big head on his leg. The rooster crowed again. Walking to the window, he looked out. The sun was already half way up the horizon. With a stretching yawn, he dressed and moseyed down to the dining room letting his nose lead to the wonderful smell of bacon.

Good morning, Samuel, Mrs. Tackett called out at the boy with wild, wind-blown hair. Come join me. Would you like some coffee?

Yes, 'am.

I bet you are hungry?

That's a powerful good smell. Despite a grand meal the previous night, the old, familiar scratchy feeling in his stomach stirred up.

This young gentleman would like a cup of coffee, and I think two eggs, some of that bacon, and lay on a slice of ham as well, and potatoes.

Miss Tackett, I can't pay fer that much, he whispered, still struggling to comprehend a new life.

Nonsense. You are about the wealthiest man in town. Besides, breakfast is on me. I have always wanted to put some meat on those bones of yours before the next wind caught you up and carried you to the next county. Did you sleep well?

Yes 'am. I ne'r remember sleepin' a night through. I dreamt of sittin' on a cloud talkin' to momma like we'd do at home. Momma, she were smilin' a lot. I ne'r seen her smile. Said she's with Sarah and Julia. Guess them were my sisters that died. Ne'r knowd their names. Isaac was with her, too. He'd grow'd some. She were right happy, then some rooster crowed and she went. I wanted to twist that bird's neck.

After spending the morning mostly talking about geography and getting to Texas, the two checked on Rooster before meeting Mr. Larkin. Despite seeming content rooting his big nose through a fresh flake of hay, he came to the fence for a morning ear scratch.

Here you are, Samuel, the merchant said, presenting twelve stacks of coins on the counter. There are twenty-seven, twenty-dollar pieces, four one-dollars pieces, four half-dollars, and sixteen quarter-dollar pieces. You'll have more use of these quarters.

Samuel just stood and stared at them. He'd never, ever, seen so much money.

It would not be prudent to keep it all in one place, Mrs. Tackett said.

You are very right. Larkin reached under the counter and produced two leather pouches, the smaller one with a long cord. Put some quarters in this one and tie it about your neck, the rest in this one and keep is hidden.

I owe you for our bill, Samuel managed to say, his throat feeling tight thinking what his momma could have done with so much.

Six-five dollars and thirty-seven cents.

Samuel carefully counted out the amount, receiving thirteen cents in change. He then put one each of the twenty dollar and fifty-cent, along with four quarter pieces in the neck pouch with the change, and tied it around his neck. The rest went into the other pouch which was shoved into his pocket.

Now, what kind of kit do you have for traveling? Larkin asked.

All I's got is my Kintuck and what I's wearin'. Any euphoria began fading fast.

He'd taken the best clothes to wear and left the remaining rags in the cabin, not that what covered him were all that good, but he had to wear something. Aside from the large-brimmed hat, he had a hand-me-down, soiled, linen shirt that once belonged to Louis, and a pair of linen trousers peppered with a couple holes and ventilating tears held in place by suspenders. The shirt was too big across the shoulders and the trousers too short. The soles of his only pair of shoes were loose and not much good unless walking over rocks or through snow, partly the reason Sam was barefoot as usual. They were in a canvas bag with his momma's Bible which he'd carefully wrapped in another piece of canvas, and enough powder for the three rifle balls.

Then you need to spend a little money and purchase what you need, starting with clothes. They don't need to be fancy, starting with a pair of boots, Mrs. Tackett said.

From there she took charge until he had trousers made of real cotton, two shirts, a vest, drawers, undershirts, and socks. Larkin suggested an oiled, cotton duster since they were in the rainy season as it would not be wise to get too wet.

Now, you need other things for the trip, and that's out back. Things I've taken in trade or bought from folk in need of money, starting with a rifle you can depend on. He pulled out a Sharps carbine from its scabbard. This is a .52 cal. The Union used it a Gettysburg. It's real accurate at long range and holds seven metal clad bullets that load here in the butt. You ratchet the trigger guard like this to put a round into the magazine. I'd take your old muzzle-loader in trade and ten-dollars. Sam agreed.

Next, he brought out a Colt Dragoon .44 cal. pistol with holster. Fitting the belt around his bony hips took some doing. He thought to look impressive with the pistol nearly big as his arm hanging off one side, and a knife off the other. Miss Tackett hid a chuckle behind a hand thinking the two weapons together prbably weighed nearly as much as the boy.

You should put a saddle between you and your mule. I have a good, used one. New, it costs twenty-five dollars and that includes saddle bags, but I'll let this go for, oh, let's say ten dollars, and your mule's collar in trade.

That collar hain't much good.

A new one goes for a dollar-two bits, but there's a lad in town that works leather and can probably fix it up some.

They finished shopping by adding food for when he was between towns—bacon, beans, and coffee. Of course, he needed a coffee grinder, fry pan, cup, and utensils. Writing it all down as they went along, Mr. Larkin presented the bill for seventy-seven dollars and thirty-three cents. I had a lot of respect for your momma, Sam. I'll settle for sixty-five dollars.

The boy felt overwhelmed as he deposited all his things on the bed to look at and touch each one until coming to the clothes. Starting to strip down to change, he stopped, grabbed some up, and headed downstairs.

The Widduh Tackett says there were a place I could git a real bath. Where . . .?

The Tonsorial Palace. Six doors up Main Street, the man who owned the hotel said with a laughing smile while pointing north.

"Two bits unless you want hot water, then that'll be thirty-five cents., the barber said.

Samuel hesitated. I's ne'r had a bath with hot water.

"You need a hair cut. Tell you what. I'll