Quinn’s War
By Joe B. Slater
Copyright 2016 Joe B. Slater
Chapter 1
Dec. 17, 1862
South of Nebraska City
When he picked up the scent, the mule threw his head, took the bit, and bolted. Quinn saw the wolves come up from the west. He tensed in his stirrups and pulled the rifle from the boot. To the east was the river. Ahead were some trees lining a swale or a ravine. “Make it to the trees, mule,” he said. “Make it to the trees.”
Quinn was looking back when the mule swung sharply left and he slipped in the saddle. With his eye on the tree line he pulled the reins back and again looked over his shoulder. They wouldn’t make it. Better to get down and cut the mule loose. They’d go after the mule. Maybe. As he searched the ground ahead for any kind of depression, he saw a roiling dark mass explode from the ravine ahead and race towards him. The mule headed back left for the river and Quinn levered a cartridge into the chamber. When he turned to take aim he saw the two dark clouds collide into a storm of ramping, thrashing fur, throwing snow and prairie grass into the wind.
He bent over the mule’s neck, and the mule kept up the pace for a mile. When he slowed to a stiff canter, Quinn pulled him up and looked back. There was no sign of wolf on the horizon. He let the mule walk, patting his neck and cooing. “We did it, mule. We did it!” He stopped and swung down. His knees buckled and he fell laughing. “Oh, Sweet Mother of God!” He tried to think of some patron saint to thank.
“Good enough, mule. Good enough.” The mule stood with his front legs splayed and his head down, wheezing. He shuddered.
Quinn was afraid if the animal went down, he might not get him up. He ran to pull the saddle and rack from the mule as he talked to him and patted him, promising water and rest when they got to the river. He took the rifle and led him a quarter mile to a spot where they could get down and they both drank.
Quinn pulled the mule out of the water before he had his fill. “Back to the traces, mule. Let’s go.” He led the animal back to where he had dropped the packs and he reloaded him. He found a ravine down wind and built a big fire with an even bigger feeder pile next to it and he set camp for the night. He pegged the mule close and slept sitting against a tree.
The next morning Quinn took the trail leading south. When it split along Three Mile Creek he turned upstream and rode west until he came upon a crossing used more by animals than by men. He swung his legs into the mule and the animal picked his way down and across the creek and humped up the other side without hesitation. Quinn pulled him up and looked at the western sky. The wind had come up and was blowing icy snow into his face. Quinn was thankful for the hat and the buffalo robe coat. He wiggled his toes and felt them in his shoes, Emit Wilkins’ shoes, and he blessed the dead man for his gift. It wouldn’t do, he thought, to have escaped the wolves and die frozen on a mule.
He kneed the animal and guided him south, edging through the low drifts. If he kept his pace he could reach McKissick Island before sunset. He would make camp and get warm and then decide whether to cross the river or continue riding south.
He camped below a cutbank out of the wind and slept curled around the rocks from the fire and woke when they were cold. A faint light was coming up. He ate biscuits and jerky and drank from his canteen. Then he saddled his mule and led the animal along the river looking for a place to cross.
The island beyond looked but a stone’s throw away. He sat his mule and watched the wind dust snow across the ice. If he made it across to the island, there still was the broader channel on the Missouri side to cross. Look for sand on both sides, sand and no snow, he thought. The best chance for shallows. He found a likely spot and dismounted. He took the mule to the edge of the ice and walked him along. When the mule stopped, Quinn decided that this was the spot. He tied the reins over the mane and stripped the bags, saddle, and rack. Then he bundled it all and leashed the rack to his waist with a length of rope.
He ran his hand along the bony ridge of the animal’s back and stroked his neck and thought about their escape the day before. “Mule,” he said aloud. His voice sounded strange to him, so he prayed silently. Take me over the ice, mule. Take me over to the other side. He slapped the mule’s rump and the animal stepped daintily onto the river and Quinn grabbed his tail and followed.
The mule leading the man eased across the ice like a sorry animal dragging its trap. Quinn kept his eyes down, listening. Six feet from shore the mule locked his haunches and hesitated, and then with quick steps to the sand, he levered himself to the shore. Quinn followed and patted him on the rump and walked to the tree line. The mule followed. “Well, that’s a day’s work and then some, mule,” he said aloud and breathed deep. He found a log and sat. “We made it.” The mule walked two steps toward him and lowered his head. Quinn scratched his ears. “We made it, mule.”
Quinn took off the bridle and haltered the mule. He left him tied while he explored the island. When he came back he led the animal through the thicket to the other side and found the spot where he and Marjorie had camped those long months ago and he dropped his pack. He led the animal to the river and walked until he found a running spring. He broke the ice for the mule and filled his canteen. He slipped the halter off and let the animal forage while he collected firewood and made camp. “We’ll stay here and study the other channel,” he said aloud. “Maybe try it in the morning. Maybe wait a day.” In the time they had been on the trail, only the light had changed, dim in daytime and black at night, and the air was only slightly colder in the morning. There was no wind on the east side of the island and for that he was thankful.
The fire ring he and Marjorie had laid out months ago lay undisturbed. The log they sat on was there and the nest they bedded down on. Quinn piled the horse blanket atop it and made a fire. Without proper tools, he thought, it’s going to be rabbit on a stick. Better get gittin’. He pulled his rifle from the rack and spent an hour tramping the island looking for rabbit pellets. Then he started looking up. Even the birds were gone. Itching for game, he shot at a nest high in a tree and missed. Maybe went clean through, he said to himself, but he knew better.
He walked back to camp and started dragging firewood.
He spent the day next to the fire and walking around picking up sticks. In late afternoon he took the rifle and walked toward the heel of the island and sat. South from the island the river receded into the distance and became indistinguishable from the land. A rabbit hopped out of the brush toward the river and froze. Quinn raised his rifle and killed it.
He picked up the carcass and brought it back to camp, where he skinned and gutted the animal. Then he walked down toward the river and threw the offal into the weeds. He walked to the spring and washed the meat and scrubbed his hands. On the way back he cut a branch for a skewer and set the naked animal on the log next to him while he whittled and warmed himself. The mule walked into the camp and stood with his head toward the fire while Quinn threaded the carcass and propped the stick over the fire with rocks. He sat and watched the fire and thought of the last meal he cooked here with Marjorie. When he awoke from his reverie the mule had not moved and it was time to turn the rabbit. The mule shifted his back legs and went back to sleep. Quinn let the meat cool on a rock as he arranged his pack and made his bed closer to the fire. He sat and picked at the meat and longed for salt and the simple comforts.
When he was finished, he went to piss in the weeds. He piled more wood on the fire and sat and watched the fire die. He used a branch to bank the coals against the rocks at the foot of his bedroll and he took off his shoes and socks and put them on a rock and he propped his feet next to
them. When they had warmed, he put them back on and prepared to sleep. With his saddle at his head and his gear surrounding him, Quinn lay covered by the black greatcoat and the buffalo robe. He curled on his side and slept fitfully.
The mule howled in the dark, and Quinn sat up as the mule ran off.
“Stop it! Stay there. Don’t you move.”
There was enough light from the fire to make out the shape of the man standing 30 feet out.
“Move and I’ll shoot ya!”
Quinn sat with his feet twisted in the coat and his hands away from his side.
“Who are ya? What are you doin’ here?”
“Hey, wait, now,” Quinn said. “I’m just here trying’ to get to the other side. We’ll be gone in the morning. We’ll be gone.”
“Damn right, you’ll be gone. You goddamn bushwackin’ nigger stealin’ sonofabitch. I’ll shoot you, and you’ll be gone. That’s right. Now. Get on your knees.” Quinn rolled to his hands and knees. “No! Up on your knees! Kneel up! Hands on your head!” The man walked toward the fire. “Who’s with you? Where are they?”
“It’s just me. Nobody else, just me.”
“You said ‘We.’ You said, ‘We’ll be gone.’ What’s that?”
“Me and the mule. We’ll be gone. Right away in the morning.”
“Where’re you goin’? You got a name? Where you from?”
Quinn looked up at the man. “James Quinn. I’m down from Nebraska City.”
The man on the other side of the fire walked toward him and lowered the butt of the rifle to the ground and waved his other arm. “Well, shit! It’s you, then. Jamie!” The man let the rifle fall and circled the fire. “Stand up, man! It’s me! Rafe! Stand up, now, boy! Stand up! It’s me, goddamnit. Jesus Christ, it’s good to see you!” He grabbed Quinn’s elbows and lifted him. Quinn stood and looked at the man.
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m sorry. I thought you was...”
“Rafe? Rafe, what are you...how’d you...”
“I’m sorry. Jesus, Jamie, I’m sorry! I came to the river when I heard the shots and I saw your fire and came across...”
Quinn drew a deep breath and blew it out. “Well, of all the people I can think I’d want waking me up in the middle of the night....” He laughed aloud. “Aah, shit!” And shoved the man’s shoulders. “Other than a woman, Rafe, it’d be you, Rafe! Mother of God!” He turned to the fire and scrubbed his face with his hands. He turned back. “What are you doin’ here?” Quinn picked up the greatcoat and shrugged into it. “Let me get some fire goin’.” He pulled sticks from the feeder pile and scratched at the coals and fed them.
Rafe stood and walked over and picked up his rifle and wiped it off. “I can tell you the whole story when we got a drink or two in us and I can wave my arms. For now I’ll just say I thought you was a bushwacker. These are bad times along the river and they see us as easy pickin’s. They’re like grasshoppers, like snakes, like everything in nature that destroys, and you can’t stop them from comin’. They don’t care what side you’re on. They’ll shoot you and maybe find out later. I came over to get the drop on ‘em. So, I’m glad it was you. I mean, I’m real glad to see you, Quinn, even aside of the bushwackers.”
Quinn took a deep breath and sighed. “Yup! Me, too, Rafe. Like I said.” Quinn looked toward the horizon. “What time of night is it, you think? I’d cook you some coffee, but I don’t even have a pot.”
“Moon’s gone. About four, maybe later. We can just sit here and get warm until light. Tell me what’s been keeping you, and then we’ll get across and take you to see the little woman. She’ll be worried I been gone, so sooner the better.”
Rafe sat on the log and took off his shoes and propped them against one of the stones. Then he pulled another stone close and propped up his feet and peeled off his socks and laid them up. Quinn crouched next to the fire and fed it as he gave his friend a general picture of his adventures over the last three months.
When he paused, Rafe asked, “And Marjorie? She just disappeared?”
“The last I heard from her she was working in a boarding house in Eastport. I got a letter saying that. I wrote back telling her I was going to ride out to Fort Kearny, and when I got back I’d go look for a place to claim. When I didn’t hear from her, I went looking for her back in Omaha. I saw some of her friends. They said she was there for a visit and then she just disappeared.”
“Did she go back to the boarding house maybe?”
“No, I went back there and asked around and didn’t find anything. I rode back to the farm and there was no sign of her, so she’s gone.”
“Oh, that’s no good. I’m sorry. She was such a nice girl. So much fun. And pretty.”
“I think she would’ve loved coming back to see you and Marion. The whole circle. She would’ve loved to come back, I know.”
“So you were on your way to visit us, huh?” Rafe laughed. On your way to visit and I found you here. Ain’t that somethin’? You got across the west channel, no problem? You and the mule? Sorry I scaired him off. We can get him when it gets light. He can’t go far.”
“He’ll show up. He’s like a pet. The best animal I’ve known. Better than most men, for sure. We worked the docks together south of Omaha and I got him and went out to Fort Kearny and back.”
“I want to get home to Marion soon as I can to put her mind at ease. If the mule don’t show up, we’ll come back and round him up tomorrow.” Rafe laughed. “I can see us both dragging your ass across the ice.” He pulled his shoulders up to his ears and laughed. “Your cold ass on the ice. Pretty good!”
Quinn laughed, too. The picture was funny. Both the men sat staring into the fire and saying little as they waited for the dawn.
“I’d ask you more about your travels, Quinn, but I’ll wait. Marion’ll want to know, and she’ll pry it out of you. She’ll think of things I’d be afraid to ask.” He laughed. “She might even ask me some things. Maybe I oughta hang back and let you go in alone!”
“You and Marion not gettin’ along?”
“Naw, I’m just jokin’. But sometimes she can get things out of me I didn’t even know myself. And I find myself going to confession and telling her things....well, and then that gets her goin’, you know?”
Quinn took on a pastoral voice. “No, my son, I don’t. But why don’t you tell me about it?”
Rafe broke up at that and the two of them carried on and fed the fire until light.
They stacked Quinn’s gear, covered it with the oilcloth, and weighted it with rocks. Then they took the skiff and walked it across the ice and pulled it up.
“It’ll be fine here, no worry,” Rafe said. “Let’s go home, Jamie.”
Marion greeted them on the porch with her arms wide. “Rafe, honey. Rafe! I was worried when you didn’t come back. Who you got there?”
Quinn swiped off his hat and held it in both hands and looked up. “It’s me, Marion. I need a haircut, is all.”
She ran down and wrapped her arms around his. “Jamie! Oh, Jamie! It’s good to see you. Come up. Come on!” She grabbed his arm and walked with him up the steps. “I got coffee and I got eggs I can cook. I know you like eggs, and where’s Marjorie? Did you bring Marjorie? Oh, tell me what happened, Rafe.” They walked into the hotel and Rafe began to tell it from his leaving the night before. When he paused to take a breath she said, “Oh, Jamie, you tell it. Rafe always leaves something out. Come on. Sit down. I moved the table a little closer to the stove, you notice. You remember? We’re not having guests for supper now very often. Come sit.” She pulled out a chair from the table. “Sit. I’ll get the coffee. There’s the cream. I knew you’d be back, Rafe, I just thought it’d be earlier. I wasn’t really worried. I didn’t hear gunshots or anything, so I got up and fried some bacon. I know you like bacon, too, Jamie, and Marjorie.” Marion went to the kitchen and came back with an enamel pot and a fistful of cups. “There.” She poured from the pot, holding the lid on. After she set the pot on th
e stove, she turned with her hands on her hips and said, “Where is she, Jamie? Is she OK? I know she’d come if she could. Is she OK?”
“She’s fine, Marion,” said Rafe. “Let’s just sit and warm ourselves and drink your coffee. Jamie pretty much went through it all while we waited to come over. We can eat some and talk. We got all day. Come on, sit.”
The three of them sat and ate their breakfast and Quinn told his story in some detail, and when he finished, Marion asked him to start over and tell it again, this time allowing for questions.
“Let the man rest, Marion. Let him rest, maybe listen a while.”
“Then you two visit and I’ll get supper on the stove. It’s only gonna be supper today, an early supper. But it’ll be good.”
They sat and drank coffee and Quinn asked about the Landing, the hotel, and Rafe’s farm.
“Nothin’s goin’ good enough to make a living,” Rafe said. “People have left. The war’s comin’ up here. There ain’t many on the river anymore.”
“It’s frozen, Rafe.” Quinn laughed. “Only fools go out on a frozen river.”
“Naw, you know what I mean. I don’t expect it’s gonna get any better when it breaks up, either.”
“Your cousin--Marjorie and I met him. He was at the landing when we came down. Is he still around?”
“He went off to war. The Federals came and got him. It may be only a matter of time before they come after me. I wasn’t paying him. He only worked for food, his room, and what folks on the river gave him for his help. He’s probably living better now.”
“And the piteous people?”
“Oh, they’re safe. They’re pacifists. You know they’ll give you a sermon in the street on how this country was settled by people just like them. The Federals don’t want ‘em. You ever thought about goin’ to war, Jamie?”
“Not on your life, or mine, for that matter, Rafe. If I wanted to fight, I would have stayed in Ireland.”
“I bet there’s a bunch of stories there, am I right?”
Marion came in and sat.
“Marion, you’re just in time for some Irish war stories, am I right, Jamie?”
“You first. I’ve been burning to ask why you came over to the island in the middle of the night, Rafe,” Quinn said.
“I been worried.” Rafe paused and looked at his wife. “No. We been bothered...and others, too, not just us. Riders have been comin’ through and they don’t stop, but when they do, it’s not to give us good news. Not good news. I told you earlier I thought you was a bushwacker.”
“That and you... maybe you thought, ah... let me see...” Quinn searched. “I was a goddamn bushwackin’, nigger stealin’ sonofabitch.” He turned to Marion and smiled big. “He was really wrought up.” Quinn nodded. “That’s what he said.”
Rafe laughed. Quinn held up his hands in surrender. “Yeah, now it’s funny. It wasn’t then. You had a gun on me. I was scared! Jesus, I was scared!”
“I didn’t know.”
“He didn’t know,” Marion said. “He told me he was gonna stop trouble before it started and he went off. He told me not to worry ‘cause he said he was gonna do what they do, and that was to shoot first and find out whose side they’re on after, is what he said.”
“I’m glad he didn’t,” Quinn said. “He was a perfect gentleman about it. He asked my name. And my address. And then...”
“And then I asked him about his ass!” Rafe hooted.
“Goddamn it, Rafe!” Quinn said. He laughed.
“I think it’s time to break out the good stuff. Honey, will you bring in that bottle from Irlbeck’s?”
“I’m gettin’ it. No one’s comin’ and we can sit here all day. And all night, too, if we want.” She pulled her chair around. “Rafe, go get some more wood. Drag that stump over here and I’ll go get the bottle. This’ll be good.” She turned to Quinn. “We’ve been waitin’ for a special occasion to break this out.” She got up and went to the kitchen.
“Glory, she’s a good woman,” Rafe said. “I can’t imagine being without her. But I better get that wood. Before she comes back.” He laughed and shuffled away.
Marion came back and poured whiskey all around while Rafe fed the fire and told her about the walk across the ice. They laughed about Marjorie and Quinn’s visit, the saloon across the street from the hotel that doubled as the church, and the piteous people who prayed there and sometimes crossed the street for supper. Quinn told his story about the stage ride to Omaha and about leaving Marjorie in Omaha to go back to earn money on the docks. He finally got around to telling again what he knew about Marjorie. “I don’t know what happened. I thought I’d come back and we’d go off and stake a claim and settle down and farm. She was good. She knew farming, maybe better than me. I don’t know what happened. I wanted to leave everything behind and start farming. That’s all.” Quinn told the couple of his trip to Eastport and the month he spent at the abandoned farm before setting out for McKissick’s Island. “And I figured I had to go on without her.”
The three were quiet.
Rafe broke the silence. “I know what you mean,” he said quietly. “I got what I want, that’s for sure, and I just hope I can keep it.” He looked at his wife and she smiled.
“That’s my cue to put the potatoes on top of the chicken.” She laughed. “I do have to finish supper, no matter what dreams you men have. Women live for the next meal, you know.” She got up and disappeared.
Quinn stood with his back to the stove. “What is it, Rafe? You live in a secret corner of the world here. Remember when Marjorie and me first came we thought we were in Iowa? Nobody should bother you up here.”
“Jamie, thing have changed. The war, runaways, bushwackers.”
“You telling me you got bushwackers? And slave hunters? What is it? I was on the business end of that rifle. You were worried. What brings those vermin up here?”
Rafe held the bottle out to Quinn.
“Or maybe it’s none of my business,” Quinn said. He held out his cup.
“It’s everybody’s business, Jamie, but this is something I gotta deal with direct, is all. Something I chose and I took all that comes with it.” He poured. “And Marion, too.” He poured his own. “Renegades is renegades. They’ll fight together to bring a man down, and then they’ll fight amongst themselves for the carcass. And slave catchers is all over Missouri, because there’s so many runnin’ north, and it’s a good business. A hawk can catch any negro, and they can return him to his owner for the bounty or sell him in the market. Hell, they can even keep him and kill him, if they want. The negro is chattel, like your mule. Even the Union calls him ‘contraband,’ like he’s property under the laws of war, even in the north. Somebody always hasta own him. That’s the way it is.”
“I can see that happening in the South, but Missouri isn’t the South.”
“And it ain’t the North, neither, Jamie. Missouri ain’t declared in the war, but it’s still a battleground. We didn’t secede, so we’re still Federal. But we got our own Little Dixie smack dab in the middle of the state. It’s always been legal to own slaves in Missouri. We never had a problem owning slaves.”
“In about a month, though, that won’t be the case. The Emancipation’ll take care of that.”
“Whoa! Oh, no, Jamie, it won’t. It don’t apply here. I don’t know everything, but I know ole Abe excluded Missouri and the others to keep ‘em from joining the Confederacy. A year ago outa spite General Fremont freed the Missouri slaves. Emancipated ‘em, just like that, and they fired him.”
“What?”
“He freed ‘em and they fired him. In August Fremont set up martial law and freed Missouri slaves by edict, and when he wouldn’t take back the orders, Lincoln fired him and put Jim Lane in his place and gave him Brigadier General rank. Lincoln didn’t want to upset ‘our loyal friends in the south.’ And you know what Lane did? Whoo! eee!” Rafe slapped his knee. “He took command of Fremont’s units and then went ahead and organized wh
at he called a ‘citizen’s army’ to fight alongside his troops. Then he went ahead and organized a regiment of colored troops.”
“The Kansas senator?”
“God, yes! A real senator-soldier! And then you know what? He organized the renegades and named them The Redleg Brigade. Organized them. God, it’s a mess. Did I just say organized renegades? Jesus!”
“And they brought the border wars into the big one, huh?”
“Been at it for years, and now they’re deadly. A year ago those was just mostly guerrillas raisin’ hell. Lane took his Redlegs and deputized them as Union soldiers. Him and his men murdered and burned Osceola in September right after he mustered ‘em in. Got ‘em blooded, so to speak. Guaranteed instant success. Burn down a town. You think that didn’t piss people off? Goddamn! You think that’s gonna make Missouri loyal to the Union? Damn it! They could just leave us alone!” Rafe took a drink and shook his head. “No. Too late for that.”
“But don’t the bushwackers do the same thing? The same kind of thing was going on in the Kansas wars, and that went on a long time. It was going on when I came over.”
“Yeah, one side, then the other. When Kansas came in as a free state, you’d think that would of settled it. Missouri lost out. OK. Now, Missouri’s bad off. You think the nation’s divided? You read about the War pitting brother against brother. Yeah, that’s true. Some fight for the North and some for the South. But they’re lined up shooting at each other in a civilized sort of way--different colored uniforms and flags and all. You can see it, sort it out. People even come out to watch it. Ain’t that grand? Here in Missouri the sides are mixed up and there ain’t no uniforms. We got two legislatures, for Christ’s sake! Two constitutions and two governors! You don’t know who’s on what side. Hell, there ain’t no two sides! There’s dozens ‘a sides! Ah, Jesus!”
Rafe took a drink and waved the cup at Quinn. “There are slave holders in this state who are unionists and they’d wear blue, if they had to. And there are abolitionists who hate negroes and want them all to go back to Africa. There’s a big bunch of white people who are against slavery in Missouri, so all the black people have to go somewheres else so’s only white people is in Missouri. And that’s just the beginning. There’s people on the same side as you just as soon kill you ‘cause you agree with ‘em, but for the wrong reason! Christ! And that doesn’t account for the guerrillas that fight for a side and don’t wear uniforms goin’ up against honest-to-God troops that fight under a flag.”
Rafe drank and Quinn waited. “And then there’s the gangs that ride and rape and steal and burn and spread the word they’re fightin for a cause when they’re in it for the fun and are beholdin’ to no one. Hell, Jennison’s boys got a regular storehouse where they keep their ‘contraband’, as they call it. It’s the stuff they steal...from anybody. They keep it south of Leavenworth or in Kansas City, and they auction shit off on main street on a regular basis. Put up handbills and auction it off!”
Marion came in. “If you boys are finished fighting the second revolution, Rafe, maybe you can set the table. Jamie, you come wash up in the kitchen and keep me company. I still got a lot of questions.”
They ate and sat around the stove drinking tea and telling stories. Quinn talked about Ireland. He shied away from the painful memories and admitted to putting a coat or two of sugar on his days with the railroad. When Rafe asked about his life before Marjorie, Quinn promised a week of stories in front of the fire.
“I’ll match you on that, Quinn. Marion will just have to sit there and listen and not say a word.” He smiled at his wife. “I met her, and my life’ll never be the same. Life has never been better.”
He told the story of their courtship and their travels west, their move to Missouri, and their dreams of the future. The three of them laughed about the religious group Marion called the “piteous people” and they speculated about the future of Missouri and the course of the war. “We can move on,” said Rafe. “We really got nothin’ holdin’ us here.”
“The hotel?” said Quinn. “Could you sell it? You got quite an investment here.”
“We could walk away from it and start over, couldn’t we Marion? We look to the future, and I think this little corner of Missouri is slipping backwards. When we came here we thought it was the perfect place for a town—the landing, the island, only a few miles from Hamburgh--but the stage line quit us and the landing wouldn’t grow, and then...”
“So we might leave anyway, no matter what happens,” Marion said. “Missouri is Missouri, and it ain’t gonna change. Iowa three miles away is another country. Nebraska across the river is another world. We been thinking of tryin’ Nebraska. The Homestead Act comes in the first of the year and people are linin’ up.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Rafe. “Some are just running, and Nebraska Territory’s got its own problems.”
“We’ll see,” she said. “There’s no reason we couldn’t stake a claim, find something on the Little Blue.”
Rafe turned to Quinn. “We been talkin’ since we saw you in September. You kinda gave us the idea.”
Marion interrupted. “That’s not the whole truth, Jamie.” She looked at Quinn. “Rafe doesn’t want to tell what happened because he thinks he’s to blame, and then we get to talking and I end up thinking I’m the one to blame. And then we...” She stood. “I’m gettin’ the bottle, Rafe. I can’t tell this story all the way through without a drink.”
Marion came back with a full bottle of liquor. “A little of the good stuff.” She poured what was left from the first bottle into the three cups. “And a little of my cooking spirits.” She added an equal measure from the new bottle and sat.
Rafe shook his head. “Quinn, that’s all right. She don’t cook with it. She drinks while she cooks. It’s what passes for whiskey in these parts.” He laughed.
Marion held up her cup. “Let’s drink to mixing the good with the bad.”
The three touched their cups and drank.
“I never refuse a lady’s toast, Jamie, and I hardly ever interrupt my wife’s story, but before she gets started I want to say I should of gone to the courthouse and checked a map. Now, Marion, go ahead and tell it.”
“The railroad’s taking the farm. They showed up one day with maps and a writ from the judge and told us we were squatting on the railroad’s right-of-way. They showed us a plat map with squares drawn on both sides of a line from St. Joe up through Hamburgh, right through our farm.”
“The good thing is we got the crop in and got the money for that, and we didn’t have anything put up except the cabin,” Rafe said.
“But you spent a lot of work clearing trees and grubbing stumps, Rafe.”
“And we got three years of crop out of it, Marion. We learned a lot. And we got this hotel.”
“And we got this hotel, which we just might be giving up.”
“Oh, Marion,” Rafe said. “Come on! Let’s all drink to a new life and to new possibilities.” He poured and the three drank.
“Jamie, we still want to farm,” he said. “To stake a claim. We wouldn’t necessarily have to give up the hotel right away. We talked about goin’ out in the spring and staking out a piece, and me living there and busting sod and her comin’ back here. Only thing, I worry some about her being alone. But we’ll figure it out.”
“I still got my eye on that corner of Nebraska, too,” said Quinn. “But January’s no time to go traipsing over the frozen prairie—hell, you’d have trouble pounding in the stakes!” He laughed. “And sure it’s cold, with the wind blowing and the gray sky, day after day. I am thankful, Rafe, that you didn’t shoot me on the island and deprive me of Marion’s cooking and a night in a warm, soft bed.”
Rafe smiled at his wife. “I don’t take her for granted, do I Marion?” He turned back to Quinn. “It don’t matter what I got, as long as I got her.”
“That might be my cue to find my room and catch up on the sleep I missed last night,” Quinn gri
nned at Rafe.
“Oh, you make me blush, you two!” said Marion. “But let me take you up. You don’t have to turn in, but I can at least show you your room.”
The three of them rose. Rafe gave his wife a squeeze around the waist. “We should get an early start in the morning when it’s cold. I’ll make some noise and we’ll have a quick breakfast before we go get the mule.”
Quinn crawled into a featherbed and found a foot warmer at the bottom. He laid his head on a crisp, feather pillow. As he drifted off he was thankful for a day that began crazy and wild and ended in a hotel so civilized. He thought about his mule and looked forward to the morning.
He woke when he heard feet on the stairs. He fell back to sleep and came up again when he heard voices, whispered voices, and he fell back to sleep, weary, warm, and at peace.
Marion’s soft rap on the door woke Quinn from a sound sleep. He dressed and went down to a plateful of eggs and bacon and toast with a steaming mug of coffee. Rafe was already at it. “I love my mule,” Quinn said, “but not enough to let this breakfast get cold. Marion, you are a good woman.” He picked up his fork and the three of them were silent.
After breakfast Quinn and Rafe walked to the landing talking about crazy ideas, ways to make money during the winter without having to work too hard at it. Rafe suggested they use the mule to pull lumber from the mill across the river on the ice, and Quinn thought they could get the sawdust from the mill and then cut ice from the river and in the spring knock together a raft and float it on a raft down to sell the ice in St. Louis. “When the war’s over,” Quinn said, “we could even float it down to New Orleans.”
“It wouldn’t cost a thing, and it’d be a good ride,” Rafe said. “We could be back by the first of April at least, and then go out and find a couple a places. Leave Marion here and then come back and make a plan. I could bust sod and keep off the claim jumpers, and you could come out when you wanted and help me. I don’t know exactly the requirements, but you don’t have to stay on the claim full time. Who’s gonna know? We got a whole new world ahead of us, Quinn. And a mule to help us tame it.” He laughed.
“Do you think we’ll need the boat this time to get him?” said Quinn.
“It’s best we use it in case one of us goes down. It ain’t much. Let’s go.”
As they pulled the boat onto the ice, Quinn said, “You know a couple years ago the Atchison Topeka railroad ran an engine across the ice. Laid telephone poles down and spiked the ties to the poles and laid the rails. Tryin’ to prove something, I guess.”
“You want to get some poles to put down for the mule, it’ll take a while.” Rafe leaned down to push.
“I’m not kidding. They did.”
Rafe stood. “I’m sure they did. It spread the weight out. And they probably could afford to lose that engine. Let’s go.”
The two men bent to the stern, and as they pushed they tried to outdo one another with more ideas for making money.
When they got to the island, the mule bugled out to them. He put his head down when Quinn approached and Quinn scratched his ears and talked to him as he slipped on the halter. He tied on an eight-foot length of rope and the two men piled Quinn’s baggage into the boat and they eased it onto the ice. The mule followed.
When the boat hit shore, Quinn dropped the rope and grabbed the prow and pulled while Rafe pushed. Quinn walked back to the mule.
“You did it again, mule.” He continued to talk to the mule as he led him carefully off the ice and up the bank.
The mule followed them back and the men’s spirits were high with their success. They looked forward to the day and made plans that included Marion and the mule. “Not an equal partnership,” said Quinn. “I only bring a mule into it.”
“You can joke about it now, Jamie. But we’ll talk seriously about it with Marion. It’s a three-way partnership until you get a wife and I get a mule.” He laughed.
“I agree with you, Rafe. Let’s just say that I’ll bring all I have to it and that’s it.”
“I been thinkin’. We could each claim a quarter section. They allow women to stake a claim if she says she’s the head of the house.”
“You’re serious.”
“I am and I ain’t. But I’ll see how far I can go with this. We’ll talk to Marion. Either way, she’ll get a kick out of it.”
When they got back, Marion met them on the porch. “So this is the mule you worked so hard to get and keep.” She walked down the steps as Quinn hitched the animal to the rail. “He got a name?”
“I call him ‘mule’, but it might be time to give him something a little more personal. You’re gonna have a stake in him, so you should have some say about his name. Hell, if we get another mule, we gotta have names to tell them apart. What do you think? Oh, and don’t pick Jack.” He laughed.” I think that’d be like naming yer kid, ‘Hey You!’”
Marion laughed. “You know him best. You gotta name an animal something that fits him. Rafe, what do you think?”
Rafe leaned against the rail. “I agree with Jamie here. ‘Mule’ fits him. I’m gonna put it on you, Marion. You think on it. Try out a few names, and when you decide, we’ll christen him.”
“Rafe Lewis! That’s blasphemy! Oh, that’s so bad!” She giggled. “If the piteous people heard you they’d start gathering wood for a bonfire.” She walked up the stairs. “You boys come in now. I have dinner ready. It’s early, I know, and we don’t have to eat yet, but cooking makes me peaceful. It takes my mind off anything I might be worried about. Let’s just sit around the stove and I’ll heat up the coffee.”
When the three horsemen rode up, Marion was setting the table and the men were sitting around the stove. Rafe walked out and Quinn followed. None of the three dismounted.
“We’re lookin’ for a runaway nigger girl. We got a fugitive bill and a certificate of removal here.” He pulled a leather folder from his saddlebag and waved it. “We know where she crossed the Nishney, so she’s headed up here, unless she laid off in the bush somewhere. We figger she’s headed for Ioway.”
“If she is, that’s about three miles up the road there, but we ain’t seen her.”
“There’s reward money, if you see her, and more if you ketch her. She’s skinny as a broom and no taller. And you should know, she’s real hard to identify as a nigger, ‘cause she looks so white. The only thing other’n that you got to go by, I would say, is that she’s a stranger and she’s on foot.”
“And that could be lots of folks traipsin’ along the river. You know this is a Mormon route, don’cha?”
“Never seen a Mormon travelling alone, though. You?”
“No, but I was just sayin'. That’s not much to go by. Anyways, we ain’t seen nobody. It’s too damn cold to be out walkin’. Or lookin’.”
“We’ll head north, then. If you can ketch her, lock her up ‘til we come back through. We will be back through, sometime or another.”
“Good luck, then, and see you on your way back.” Rafe waved as they wheeled and rode off toward Hamburgh.
Quinn followed Rafe up the stairs past his wife and into the hotel. “Rafe, you scared the shit out of me when you showed up and pointed a gun at me. But those boys scared me more just sittin’ on their horses. I sure wouldn’t want them chasing me.”
“Go get her, Marion. We got time to take her to the island before they get back. Go.”
Quinn followed Rafe into the kitchen and waited for him to explain. When Rafe began to stuff goods into a bag, Quinn said, “You got that girl here? You got that runaway here? You see that negro? That negro was the biggest man I’ve ever seen! And the guy on that big grey? Sat as high as the darkie. Rafe, what’s goin’ on?”
Rafe stuffed bread and meat into the pillowcase. “We got the runaway and we’re not giving her up. She came to us last night and we promised to get her up to Civil Bend. We done this before and it’s nothin’ to worry about. Only a little closer is all. We can do it.”
“You know these
men? You done this before? What in the hell are you doing?”
“We’re part of the route, Jamie, one of the routes. They come up. Usually we got some notice. Never one just shows up, and we never turn one away. We may not get them where they want to go, but we ain’t never lost one. And we ain’t gonna lose this one.” Rafe lead the way to the clerk’s desk and set the bag on the counter.
Marion brought the girl down. She was scrawny, but clean, and groomed. He had her pegged for 16 because she had the shape of a woman. But she could have been twelve or thirteen. And she was white. As white as Quinn’s sister, as white as his mother. This was no negro slave. The men who rode up were hunting her for a different reason. Somebody thought they owned her, but she was not a slave. No one owned this child.
Marion led the girl by the hand toward the kitchen. Rafe said, “I got some food, Marion. You got her things? Go up and get her things. Jamie, go put the saddle on the mule.”
Quinn had the rack and the saddle on the mule when the three men pulled up in the middle of the road.
The little man turned his horse to Quinn and said, “You thinkin’ about goin’ someplace on that mule?”
Quinn reached under for the surcingle. The little man said, “Didn’t you hear me? I said you goin’ someplace with that mule? You deef?” He walked the horse three steps toward the rail.
Quinn stood straight and draped one arm over the animal’s neck and looked up at the man and shook his head. “I don’t figger it’s none of your business what I’m doing.”
“You don’t, huh? Well, what does your mule think?” The man turned his horse to the rail and dismounted. He took a step toward Quinn and drew his pistol. “What does your mule think, huh? What do you think, mule?” With his eye on Quinn, he shot the mule and it dropped. The man’s horse reared, and Quinn leapt over his mule’s neck reaching for the man’s gun and it flashed.
Quinn woke with a hot poker in his eye and his face on fire. Samson, he thought. Jawbone of an ass, he thought. He went under and came back and his face crackled with pain. He croaked and then he moaned.
A voice next to his head said, “Lay still, now. Lay still.” He felt a hand on his chest. “Open your mouth. I’m going to put some powder on your tongue. Just swallow it.” The hand moved from his chest to his lips and fingers opened them. The powder was dry and his lips were dry, and he tried to lick them. A wet cloth met his lips and squeezed water between them. He licked his lips again and the water trickled to the back of his throat. He moaned and the wet cloth moved lightly over his nose and mouth. More powder and more water came, and Quinn made noises he thought were thanks and then he slept and woke and slept again.
Quinn's War Page 1
