Medicine Bundle

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Grant was a little taken aback by her reaction. “He’s fine, Mrs. McCracken. Just fine.”

  Fionna sat down again. “When did you see him?”

  “About a week ago on Mr. Harknell’s ranch,” he answered, puzzled. “Didn’t you know he was down there?”

  “Silsby left home,” Rebecca said. “He’s out on his own.”

  “Oh!” Grant said. “Well, he seems to be doing quite well for himself. He’s a cowboy now.”

  Luther leaned forward. “Do you mean for Harknell?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what he was doing on the ranch. I assumed you knew.”

  “I didn’t know that!”

  “At any rate, he’s enjoying good health,” Grant said, hoping he hadn’t upset the family. “You should see him throw a rope over a horse or cow. From the way Mr. Harknell talks, the boy is doing a fine job for him.”

  Fionna, relieved to learn of her son’s whereabouts and well-being, slipped into an even happier mood. “We can talk about Silsby later.”

  “We’ll do that,” Luther said. He could feel Fionna’s eyes on him and knew she wanted him to engage Grant in conversation. He asked, “How’s come you to get all them colored boys for soljers?”

  “Because of my posting to a colored cavalry regiment,” Grant said. “You see, I didn’t graduate from West Point —” He looked at Rebecca and Fionna. “— that’s an army school back east.”

  “I see,” Fionna said.

  “At any rate, the fellows from West Point get first choice on all assignments. Not very many officers wish to serve with Negroes. This regiment was all that was left for me when I applied for a duty posting.” He took a sip of coffee. “I’m happy that I was sent there now. I’ve found the soldiers of the regiment to be as good as any I served with in white units.”

  “I was a Unionist during the war,” Luther said. “I always thought colored folks was as good as anybody else when they’re treated decent.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Mr. McCracken,” Grant said. “The colored men in the Army are fine fellows. Military service is a step up for them and they appreciate it.”

  “It’s a step down for white men,” Luther said. “Only lazy scum and jail birds want to be soljers.” He quickly added, “I don’t mean the officers like yourself, o’course.”

  “Of course,” Grant said. “I’d be among the first to admit that many white men are in the Army because they just can’t get along in civilian life.”

  Fionna didn’t like the serious direction the talk was taking. “Ain’t it a nice evening? I think this is gonna turn into a lovely summer.”

  “Yes, Mrs. McCracken,” Grant said. “It’s quite balmy.” He hesitated, then sat his coffee cup down and looked at Rebecca. “I was wondering if you would care to take a walk, Miss McCracken.” He turned his eyes to Luther. “If it’s all right with you, Mr. McCracken.”

  “Oh, I suppose. Where are y’all going?”

  “I thought a turn around the camp would be nice.”

  “Oh, it would!” Rebecca agreed.

  “Well, you young folks enjoy yourselves,” Fionna said, making a mental note to talk to her daughter about being more demure and retired in the presence of her young man. “We can enjoy the rest of the refreshments when y’all return.”

  Grant stood up and Rebecca joined him as they walked away from the wagon to the open countryside. She happily noted that many of the Boomers were peering at them from their campsites with open curiosity. The couple began a slow circuit without much conversation at first. After a bit of time passed Grant turned to her. “So! You folks are from Missouri, are you?”

  “Yes,” Rebecca said. “Where do you hail from, Mr. Hollings?”

  “Pennsylvania,” he replied. “My people are coal miners. We were pretty poor. That’s why I joined the Army. I made up my mind I wasn’t going to spend my life in those pits like my father and grandfather. My great-grandfather was a miner in England.”

  “It must be dreary.”

  He chuckled. “I would hate to let your father know I’m a white man who served several years as a common soldier. But the army offered me opportunities that I’d never have gotten in civilian life. It took about six years, but I managed to become an officer.”

  “How interesting, Mr. Hollings! How did that come about?”

  “They have annual examinations,” Grant explained. “I’ve always read a lot, so I studied every military book I could get my hands on, including other subjects such as grammar, geography and American history.”

  “I only went to school ‘til I was twelve,” Rebecca said. “I really liked studying, but I learnt ‘bout ever’thing they had to teach in that little school in Missouri, so they wasn’t much sense to keep going.”

  “Do you like to read?”

  “We ain’t got’ny books.”

  “Would you like to have some to read?” Grant asked. “I could lend you one of mine from time to time.”

  “That’d be right nice.”

  They continued their stroll until they reached the farthest side of the camp opposite the McCracken wagon and tent. Grant stopped and turned to Rebecca. “Miss McCracken — or may I call you Rebecca?”

  “If you want to.”

  “Would you call me by my first name? It’s Grant.”

  “All right. Grant.”

  He nervously clasped his hands behind his back. “I don’t know what’s customary for your people, Rebecca. I’ve never done this before.”

  Rebecca’s female instincts suddenly made her wise and all-knowing despite her youth. There was no doubt in her mind about the direction Grant Hollings was headed. “Just say what you want, Grant.”

  “I have a great affection for you,” he said, speaking carefully and deliberately. “More than friendship. I would like to visit you. I mean actually to call on you. If you’re willing, of course.”

  “I think that would be nice.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Grant exclaimed happily. Then his mood sobered. “I suppose I should speak to Mr. McCracken.”

  “That would be the thing to do.”

  He squared his shoulders. “Then let’s go back and I’ll tend to the matter.” Suddenly he grinned. “To tell you the truth, I would rather charge into a tribe of wild Apaches.”

  Rebecca laughed. “Don’t worry. Me and Ma are on your side.”

  “Is that right? Does Mrs. McCracken approve of me?”

  “She sure does.”

  They continued around the Boomer establishment until they were back to the McCracken campsite. When they walked under the canopy where Luther and Fionna sat, Grant did not hesitate. “Mr. McCracken, I’d like to speak to you, if you please.”

  “What about?”

  “I’d like to call on Rebecca.”

  “Why, hell, man! She’s just —”

  “Luther!” Fionna’s voice had an edge to it that could have cut through sheet iron.

  Luther took a slow breath. “Well . . . if Rebecca is willing.”

  “I am, Pa!”

  “All right. I don’t mind. I reckon.”

  Fionna smiled at their visitor. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Hollings? We have plenty of coffee and cookies left. And the candy you brought, o’course.”

  “That would be real nice,” Grant said, happy about Luther’s openness toward him.

  They resumed the evening’s visit, and Fionna had just passed around saucers of cookies when a sudden noise interrupted them. A horse cantering through the camp could be heard drawing closer. It came to a stop at the McCracken campsite, sending a cloud of dust rolling over the carpet and furniture.

  Marshal Nolan Sinclair stepped into the makeshift parlor. He ignored convention and spoke directly to Grant Hollings. “Your sergeant told me I could find you here, Lieutenant. I got a telegram that’s gonna knock your socks off.” He looked at Luther. “Yours too, McCracken.” Now he turned and tipped his hat to Fionna and Rebecca.

  Grant walked over and took the wire. After
carefully reading it, he said, “President Harrison has ordered all white cattlemen out of the Cherokee Nation.”

  Luther grinned. “Would that include Dewey Harknell?”

  “Yes, Mr. McCracken,” Grant replied. “Harknell must vacate the Medicine Bundle Grasslands in spite of the lease he has with the Cherokee Nation.”

  Sinclair said, “They’s big changes in the wind. That’s for sure.”

  Fionna, noting the dust settling over her carpet, glared at the marshal. Then she suddenly smiled as a thought leaped into her mind. If Harknell had to close down his ranch, then Silsby would be coming home. She turned a friendly gaze toward Sinclair. “Would you care for a cup of coffee, Marshal?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The winter of 1888 and 1889 tiptoed onto the southern plains quietly and gently as if reluctant to disturb the climatic status quo. Temperatures lowered gradually enough to delay the cascade of leaves from the trees until well into November. Even in December people had not yet found it necessary to take their heavy clothing out of wardrobes and trunks. A light coat or woolen shirt sufficed even after dark.

  The first snowfall didn’t come until mid-January and the event was quiet and windless with heavy flakes slowly descending to leave a deep white carpet. After only a few days, gulf breezes wafted across Texas and into the Indian Territory to crowd out the chill that kept the clustered crystals reposing across the terrain. The warmth melted the covering, sending rivulets of water gurgling toward lower ground before wending into creeks and gullies. These pleasant conditions went as far north as the mid areas of Kansas.

  The Boomer camp had plenty of time to prepare for the colder weather. Most of the month of October was spent digging sod blocks from the prairie. These dirt bricks were used to construct small shelters to be used in conjunction with the tents as living quarters. The insulating nature of the structures was so complete that small fires provided more than enough warmth for the inhabitants even when frigid prairie winds whipped across the campsites.

  Lieutenant Grant Hollings and his detachment were ordered back to Fort Gibson for the winter as Boomer activity dwindled to nothing. No excursions, other than by hunters and fishermen, penetrated Indian lands. Although President Harrison’s orders for the white cattlemen to vacate the Indian Territory were in effect, the powers-that-be in Washington determined there should be no serious enforcement of the edict until the following spring. This would allow the ranchers ample time to prepare for the cessation and dismantling of their operations.

  The U.S. Army’s activities in the Indian Territory slowed enough for Grant to request a sixty-day leave to run from November 15, 1888 to January 14, 1889. He returned to Clarkville where he rented the back room in the home of Widow Richardson. The lady had earned such a tidy sum on the small bedchamber during the Medicine Bundle hearings that she now kept it ready for travelers or visitors who preferred a boardinghouse atmosphere to the Delmar Hotel’s austere dinginess.

  The young lieutenant made many calls on Miss Rebecca McCracken at the Boomer camp, and the romantic affection between the couple blossomed even under the stern glare of the young lady’s father.

  During the final days of Grant’s furlough, he and Rebecca became undeniably convinced that the love they had for each other would last into eternity. Grant fearlessly approached Luther, and asked formal permission from the father for the hand of the daughter. Luther, under Fionna’s unyielding influence, acquiesced, and when Grant reported back to his regiment, a date had been set for an April marriage. By that time he would be back in the Clarkville area with his small command to renew their vigilance and patrolling across the Medicine Bundle Grasslands and other parts of the Cherokee Strip. This time, however, they would oversee the eviction of ranchers rather than Boomers.

  As the months rolled toward spring, Indian cattlemen in the Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Seminole, and Chickasaw nations happily made preparations for moving their herds onto the large grazing areas that would soon be available to them. The collective moods in their tribal councils, however, were grim. Most Indian leaders were realists who had no illusions regarding the white authorities’ real intentions. The civilized nations clearly perceived the presidential order as a prelude to having great amounts of land stripped from their territories to be opened up for white settlement.

  Just as the Indians suspected, many occupants of smoke-filled backrooms across America had gathered to form political and commercial schemes into workable scenarios for the anticipated availability of those great territorial spaces. It took only a few short months before the presidential order was twisted to their own advantages through politicking, pressures of influence and outright bribery of members of the United States Congress.

  ~*~

  By mid-March of 1889, the first blooms of prairie flowers had begun to appear and the sun’s warmth brought further life to the area. While nature continued the seasonal cycle, railroaders, merchants, and other promoters were primed to roll into the new lands on the heels of the settlers.

  ~*~

  Dewey Harknell sat alone in his ranch house parlor. The room, dimly lit by the setting sun, was empty except for the chair on which the old cattleman had settled his bulk. His shadow stretched across the floor, going up on the opposite wall.

  Harknell looked as if he had aged ten years over the winter months. The rancher’s face was lined and puffy, his mouth sagging into a grimace. His old dog Pal died in late October, and Harknell felt the faithful hound’s death was a bad omen.

  The front door of the house stood open, allowing him to view the empty corral and the bunkhouse where for a dozen years, his cowboys had lived when not tending to the herds. A shutter had already come loose on the ranch hands’ quarters and was banging back and forth as the breezes gusted across the open expanse of the ranch yard. All the buildings, every fence post, and even the windmill had quickly, almost instinctively deteriorated to indicate there was no longer a reason for their existence. This seediness marked the end of a way of life. Everything, including cattle, property, and equipment down to the last pot in the cookhouse, had been sold.

  ~*~

  It had been no more than two weeks earlier when Harknell called his cowboys together to give them the shattering news that the Rocking H Ranch was in its last days. He looked down at the cowpunchers from the porch as the entire crew gathered around him. His eyes roamed from face to face. Charlie Ainsley, Tommy Chatsworth, Dennis Nettles, and Ben Shaw among others who had busted their asses for the Rocking H brand, were all there. They were top hands; the stand-fast bunch he knew he could depend on through stampedes, blizzards, or rustlers. Young Silsby McCracken was now a full-fledged cowhand who had more than proven his fidelity and toughness. They all stood together — a dusty, wind- and sun-bronzed crowd — waiting to hear what their boss had to say.

  “Boys,” Harknell began, “something’s happened and I got to give you the bad news. I been putting it off hoping things would change. But they ain’t a-gonna do it, so here goes. A few months ago, the president of these United States of America give an order that takes me off the Grasslands quick and forever. Even the big boys in the Cherokee Strip Livestock Association has got to get off the land they’re leasing.”

  Tommy Chatsworth scratched his head. “What’s all ‘at mean, Mr. Harknell?”

  “It means the end of the Rocking H.”

  Charlie Ainsley, never one to say die, called out, “Let’s move the ranch to Texas, Mr. Harknell.”

  “It cain’t be did,” Harknell said. “I got no place to go and no money even if I wanted to. Ever’thing I got is sunk into this season’s herd. If I sell them cattle, it’d take ever’ dime of it to get settled somewheres else. That wouldn’t leave nothing left for new critters or any other damn thing I might need.” He laughed sardonically. “The godamn weather couldn’t wipe me out, the godamn Boomers couldn’t do it, and neither could rustlers or bad luck. But a little bit of ink put on a piece of paper by Mr. Benjamin Harrison has did it.”
<
br />   “Who the hell is Benjamin Harrison?” Dennis Nettles asked. “Hot lead pumped into his hide will solve this predicament, Mr. Harknell. They ain’t a man-jack here as wouldn’t do it for you.”

  Harknell held up his hand. “Benjamin Harrison is that president of the U.S. of America I been talking about, Dennis. Shooting him ain’t gonna solve one godamn thing. He’s doing what the other son of a bitches in Warshington want him to do.”

  “I just don’t understand,” Charlie said.

  “I know you don’t, Charlie,” Harknell said. “Double-dealing and back-stabbing ain’t a part of you. You’re a cowboy, and as honest and straight forward as the Bible tells all folks to be.”

  “Well, I’m damn proud of that, Mr. Harknell.”

  “You should be, Charlie,” Harknell said. “But you’d never make a politician.” He looked out over the others. “Let me tell you something, boys. If there’s anything I’ll thank the Good Lord for, it’s fixing my life so’s I could work with the likes of y’all. A good cowboy is the best damn thing a man can be. A cowboy knows what he’s got to do and he just goes at it and sticks to it. He don’t make up rules so’s he can have his way with others. He rides, ropes, shoots, and stands his night watches. The only thing that’ll pull him off a job is a broke leg or a broke neck. Or a rustler’s bullet.” He pointed to Silsby. “Look at young McCracken there. He’s a good example. He’s just starting out, but he’s already earned respect from his pards.”

  “Thank you kindly, Mr. Harknell,” Silsby said, pleased by the praise.

  “You’d think fellers like y’all could conquer the world,” Harknell continued. “But you cain’t ’cause they’s too many rattlers hiding in holes, ready to slither out and sink their fangs into decent men. That’s what’s happened to the Rocking H, boys.”

  “What’re we gonna do about things, Mr. Harknell?” Charlie asked.

  “I’m gonna sell out all I can to a Cherokee rancher I know,” Harknell said. “The land ain’t mine to deal, but the property and cattle on it is. I’ll make sure you boys each get a good horse and as much an outfit as I can afford. I’ll pay you off for the last time, then say goodbye.”