Jeb the Bastard

Copyright © 2014 Paul Quenin.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-0082-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-0084-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-0083-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014900816

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 1/25/2014

CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About The Author

JEB

THE

BASTARD

Dedicated to Miss Q., my Bunny

A story of the American West from the Civil War to the Spanish American War, concentrating on the main character’s life during the turmoil of the period

Upper Arkansas River commercial boat 1850, steam powered with cargo space fore and aft.

FOREWORD

Picture a very old man walking with a cane steadily but slowly down a residential sidewalk, toward a two story house with a large front porch, where another man sits in one of the big comfortable rockers. Notice the old man walking, his gait and upright posture reveal that he is (or was) a man of atheletical ability, as well as one of authority during his day. He is not a handsome man except in stature. He has a beard that rests in a point on his chest, and a scar on his cheek.

As he approaches the house, notice the small five year old boy scampering to a spot on the porch behind one of the brick piers that support the roof columns. He is there to observe the grownup’s principle of not being heard, but he also wants to not be seen. He only wants to listen to the grand stories of the past that will soon be unfolding between two old old friends as they relive their colorful, common past.

What the young boy heard over many such days is the basis of this novel of fiction. A small portion comes from his father who at seventeen years of age wandered the territory carrying a six gun.

One of the two old men was the young boy’s grandfather. He was the one with the heavy shock of white hair and the short body, heavy with fine muscles. The other was Mr. Scott a tall slender man, of aged dignity. Both were born in the Boston Mountain Range of the Ozarks, less than fifteen miles apart, probably in isolated dog-trot cabins.

A dog-trot house of logs

CHAPTER 1

I t was a chilly late November morning deep in the Boston Mountains. In a dog-trot log cabin located on the banks of a stream that followed the base contour of White Rock Mountain, there was a great stir. The year was 1848 and the young couple who had worked extremely hard to establish their homestead were now involved in the birth of the first child in this location. However it was not their child.

Almost a year had passed since a mule train from the south had stopped in the village of Mulberry. The men of the train were all Spanish (or Mexican). They had decided to rest a while in Mulberry before penetrating the dense timberland to the north. There were many rumors, speculations and just talk among the villagers concerning who these men were and why they were traveling with an empty mule train. The mystery was heightened by the lack of meaningful communications. But Lucy King, being young, enjoyed the excitement and even considered it all very romantic, especially when she could quietly move close enough to listen to the Spanish conversations. She had never before heard a foreign language spoken; her formal education was quite basic even though she was a member of the most well-to-do family in the whole area. It was the King family, based on the patriarch in Ozark, that beautiful town resting on the bluff that provides such a magnificent view of the Arkansas River. Lucy’s uncle, the patriarch of the King family, was the leading man of the community. He owned the general store, the livery stable, the bank and was the silent political leader of the area, who based much of his commerce on the river trade.

Lucy’s father enjoyed a similar position in Mulberry, but of course on a much smaller scale than his brother in Ozark. For these reasons Lucy was very much spoiled and had enough spare time on her hands to get into trouble. And so she did.

Her mother was not sure whether she had been seduced by that handsome young mule skinner whose every word was an intoxicating utterance to Lucy, or had she offered herself to him. What young girl could blame her if it was the latter. However brief the encounters they were not lacking in intensity. They occurred in her secret and secluded place on the bank of Big Mulberry Creek near two ice cold springs that gurgled an almost musical melody as they merged together into the main stream, just above the deep blue pool. For the last time in her life Lucy enjoyed happiness. How brief it was.

When her pregnancy was discovered Lucy’s mother was beside herself. The family is ruined. No one else must learn of this tragedy. How can we keep them from even suspecting it? It was one of the Spaniards wasn’t it? How could you? I have to let your father know. Dear Lord in heaven you have been so good to us and now this. Lucy, we must think, think, think. How can we avoid the ruin of the family? First you must not let any worry or sadness show through in your daily activities, but you must not hide, at least for now until we find a solution. I will talk with your father tonight. Perhaps your Uncle George in Ozark can find a way. He is so good at keeping secrets, and at making things seem what they are not.

Through all of this Lucy, with head hanging, responded repeatedly, almost whispering, I’m sorry. But her mother never heard her, being so immersed in her own emotions.

That night Scot King and Ida King had a long, serious discussion but no conclusion was reached except that Scot’s brother George must be consulted.

I’ll leave after breakfast, Scot said, It’s not a difficult ride. I think I’ll take Blue, a female mule is more comfortable. Ask Author to give her a double helping of oats tomorrow morning before he saddles her. And, oh yes, cornbread with blackberry jam is enough provisions for the road. I hope to spend only one night in Ozark and will be back in time for church Sunday morning.

Scot arrived in Ozark in the early afternoon, having had a leisurely ride, but not an enjoyable one. This early in the year offered little beauty to enjoy; besides he had seen it along this route many times before. He had been too immersed in thoughts to even notice the delightful feeling of the fresh spring air.

Rather reluctant to disclose the bad news to his brother, Scot took his time arranging for the keep of Blue at the livery stable. Being family he didn’t offer to pay the 15 cent fee, but was quite specific about how he wanted his favorite mule cared for and fed. Finally he strolled over to the general store where he expected to find his older brother. Ed, the keeper of the store, told him that Mr. King had gone down to check on something about the ferry, but he should be back soon because they were to inventory the back room supplies before ordering new stock from Little Rock.

Since there were no customers in the store Scot chatted with Ed while he waited for his brother George to return. During this time he realized that he must not leave Ed with any appearance of urgency, importance, or even concern if he was to keep secret the reason for this visit. So after George appeared and greetings were exchanged, Scot included Ed into the conversation.

He said, I came to discuss with both of you my concern about a potential problem that might exist for the whole area. I know that you two had experiences a few years ago with a band of Mexicans or perhaps Spaniards, leading a mule train. They are back and have just left Mulberry, heading for I don’t know where. Of course, I couldn’t talk with them. So I have become quite suspicious of their activities, especially since I noticed that their mules were carrying empty packs. What are they up to? Should we warn our customers when they come in for supplies?

At this point Ed jumped in to say, I know who they are and what they’re doing. They’re not Mexican, they’re Spaniards. They came through here about five years ago, heading south with full packs on their mules. They spent only two days here, waiting for the river to go down. It was in late fall and they couldn’t ford the river with those full packs. They paid for the ferry and some supplies with silver coins, not American, but coins like I ain’t never seen before. That’s how I know what they’re doing and what’s in their packs.

George broke in to say, Ed you don’t know that. You are only repeating the rumor about hidden Spanish treasure in the hills.

Oh yes, I do know, I still have one of those funny looking coins.

Well, don’t believe everything you hear.

Sullenly Ed replied, I don’t believe everything I hear. I don’t believe there is a secret silver mine up there, and that they are hauling silver ore back to Mexico.

Yes that would be foolish, George said.

Ed continued his case by saying, But it could happen. After all, the Spaniards were messing around in this area long before we came. In fact before the French.

You’re right, George agreed, and ended the discussion with, but, that is not what concerns us at this moment.

Turning to Scot, George said, I don’t think there is any danger coming from this group whoever they are. We always seem to hear about their presence about every five or ten years, yet in the midst of all the rumors I have never heard of any misconduct, criminal or moral.

George took Scot by the arm and started for the door saying, Come Scot I want to show you my grape vines and how they are pruned. I never knew exactly how to prune grapes until a foreigner came through here last week and showed me. He said he was from Switzerland.

When out of earshot of Ed, and while still walking George quietly said, Scot, you were wise back there. You distracted Ed from your real purpose for coming. I’m proud of you. I learned early in life that people are naturally nosey and suspicious. To counter this trait I’ve learned the best way to redirect a man from trying to learn what I am thinking is by getting him to thinking about a subject of his own, one he thinks he knows a lot about. You handled it well. Now tell me why you came. What’s wrong? I know you are not really concerned about those mule skinners. They have been showing up since we were children.

By this time they had reached the grape vines. To avoid any suspicious eyes, Scot looked at and handled the grape vines while he told his brother the tragic news about Lucy, who the father was, and why he would never be seen again.

George said, I understand. The honor of the family is at stake. Can you stay through tomorrow? Let me think on it tonight. There has to be a solution.

On his way home Scot mulled over in his own mind the solution George had come up with. In concept it was simple. In execution it would be difficult. The key had to be secrecy. Secrecy must not be comprised. But not to worry, George had said he would work out all the details. He said that he would arrange everything personally and that even I would not be kept informed. I know he is good at this sort of thing, being involved in politics and all. I have to trust him.

About a month later a lone rider made his way through the deep timber, away from any known trail, to a dog-trot log cabin located on a stream north of White Rock Mountain. We know it was George. But he didn’t look like George. His mount was old and unkempt, his dress was that of a mountain man and he carried an ancient flintlock long rifle. As he approached the cabin he was suddenly met by the muzzle of a rifle as old as his, held by a young man who had stepped silently from behind a large black gum tree. No words were spoken. George held up one hand with palm exposed to the younger man while he slowly raised his own rifle, held by the barrel, to the level of his open hand. The young man’s rifle didn’t waver so George knew it was up to him to break the tension, which he accomplished with only two words: Cousin David. (David knew from George’s smooth accent that he was not what he appeared to be. Had he been, he would pronounce David as Dievid.) David broke his own silence with only one word: Who. The answer: George King. The response: Prove it. George related how and when Ed’s forefathers came to Arkansas from Virginia, through Missouri, how his own family did not come until Arkansas became a state, and went on to name family members and how they were related. As George talked the young man’s rifle drooped, muzzle down, toward the ground.

Then he said, in his sharp hill accent, Welcome Cousin George, I’ve heard of you. What can I do for you?

George replied, I have a serious matter to discuss that may involve you and your wife. Can we go inside?

As George walked into the dog-trot he could see through the other end a small portion of the lively, crystal mountain stream flowing over the rocks that had become rounded with time. The sight, though brief, was enough to relax George so that within the time required to take the few steps into the east room he completed his evaluation of David and revised his strategy. He walked straight to the table in