Medicine Bundle

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Say, Mr. Harknell,” Charlie said. “Wouldn’t you make more money if we took the herd to Wichita?”

  “They ain’t give me that much time,” Harknell said. “The last round-up is gonna be for that Injun.”

  “Maybe we could come up with an idee how to stick together somehow,” Charlie suggested.

  Several of the men shouted out their approval of the idea, but Harknell shook his head. “I got to tell you straight out that I’m tired. God above! I ain’t never been so wore down in all my days. I just cain’t start over again.” He repeated, “I’m tired, boys. I hate to admit it, but this latest happening has drained all the gumption out of me.” The cowboys looked at their boss, noting how the skin of his face seemed to sag. His eyes had lost their spark, and only a dull sadness was left. He appeared old and exhausted. Worst of all was his demeanor of hopelessness, like a man who had bet every dime on the turn of a card and lost. Harknell gazed fondly at his men. “I’m gonna have some extry money for y’all that’ll prob’ly come close to three month’s pay.”

  “I thought you wasn’t going to have much money left over,” Charlie said.

  “Not enough to start new, but enough to help you boys out ‘til you find another outfit,” Harknell said. “Now get on back to the bunk house and sort out which horses you’re gonna take. That includes bridles, saddles, and blankets too. They might be a couple of saddlebags as well.” He paused. “I got something for Silsby.”

  “What’s that Mr. Harknell?” Silsby asked.

  Harknell put his feet one at a time on the porch railing and unfastened his spurs. He tossed them over to the youngster. “I hear tell you been having a hell of a time saving money to buy a pair of these.”

  Silsby’s face reddened. “Yes, sir.” He had not yet been able to get through a payday in Kensaw without spending all his money before he could buy a pair of spurs. The young man looked at the gift. They were a fine pair of Chihuahuas.

  Charlie asked, “Mr. Harknell, ain’t you gonna be needing them spurs yourself?”

  “My use of ’em is done.” The gesture of removing the spurs from his boots for the last time was not lost on the cowboys. “Go on,” Harknell ordered. “We got about two weeks to start taking the Rocking H apart.”

  The cowboys, in sullen silence, turned and slowly walked toward the bunkhouse. Silsby stuck close to Charlie, Dennis, and Tommy while the others broke up into small groups.

  When they got inside, the crew made themselves comfortable among the chairs, benches and bunks while Charlie took the floor. He was still the foreman and they waited for his instructions. “Ever’body has his favorite horse,” Charlie said. “So I don’t see no argument about that. When it comes to saddles, most of us have our own. So I want the fellers that don’t own an outfit to get first choice. If they’s any left over, you boys that got worser ones trade ’em in. I don’t want to see nobody getting an extry.”

  “Fair enough,” somebody agreed.

  “Get to it,” Charlie ordered.

  Within an hour, each man was properly equipped with a saddle, bridle and a good horse. All these belongings were put into individual stalls in the barn. After that, the cowboys returned to the bunkhouse where a couple of card games were started. But most of the crew sat around in quiet talk, stunned by the day’s news.

  Silsby was at a complete loss of what to do. He sat down beside Charlie on his bunk. “What’s your plans, Charlie?”

  Charlie snorted. “I don’t know since I wasn’t expecting to be leaving.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ve had a hankering to see Montana.”

  Dennis Nettles glanced over and said, “To hell with Montana. It gets cold up there.”

  “I’m going to Texas,” Tommy announced.

  “That’s for me,” Dennis agreed.

  “Say, Charlie,” Silsby said, “how’s about if I go to Montana with you? Would that be all right?”

  “Sure!” Charlie said. “I’d like to have one of the boys off the Rocking H with me. Especial a good roper.”

  “Yeah,” Dennis said. “You two show them Yankees up there that real cowboys come out of Texas and the Injun Territory.”

  “I’m gonna do my best roping for Mr. Harknell in the last round-up,” Silsby said.

  Charlie shook his head. “I still cain’t believe I won’t be working for him no more.”

  ~*~

  The two weeks following Dewey Harknell’s announcement had been wretched and heart wrenching for the Rocking H Crew. The appearance of the Cherokee rancher and his own outfit heralded the real beginning of the end.

  The final round-up began as the Indian cowboys and the Rocking H bunch searched the different ranges, going into every canyon and gully as they rousted out the spread’s scattered herds. When the bovines were all gathered, the Indians started the eastward drive, taking them deeper into the hill country of the Cherokee Nation. Dewey Harknell and his men sat on horseback and watched the herd go, staying there until even the dust clouds kicked up by thousands of hooves was no longer visible.

  “He paid me in cash money, boys,” Harknell said. “It’s a buyer’s market, but I got enough to give you that bonus I talked about. Let’s get over to the ranch house and I’ll pay y’all off.”

  Most pay days were happy, boisterous affairs, but that particular event was somber as a funeral. Even getting one hundred dollars all at one time did not lighten the mood. As each man was paid, he shook hands with Dewey Harknell and received a personal goodbye and a heartfelt wish for the best of luck.

  Charlie Ainsley held back until he was the last. He walked up to his boss and took his money, stuffing it into his shirt pocket. “Where you gonna be, Mr. Harknell? A feller might like to drop by and say howdy now and again.”

  “I don’t rightly know, Charlie. It all depends on the whim of the Good Lord.”

  “I reckon ever’thing does,” Charlie said. He held out his hand. “You was a fair and square boss.”

  “You was a fair and square foreman,” Harknell said. “You done a fine job for me, Charlie. So long.”

  “So long, sir.”

  The men went back to the bunkhouse and packed up everything except what they would need for sleeping that night. The last evening was a quiet one, and Ben Shaw the cook wasn’t able to provide supper. All the pots, pans and other kitchen utensils had been sold to Joe Dantry for his general store in Kensaw. The cowboys ate the remaining meat from the smokehouse and the final bag of beans from the cookhouse larder.

  ~*~

  It was toward sunset when Lieutenant Grant Hollings and a couple of his soldiers rode into the ranch yard. The officer served the official order to vacate the Medicine Bundle Grasslands on Dewey Harknell. The rancher took the document without speaking. He turned and walked slowly back to the house, and Grant went to the bunkhouse and asked to see Silsby. Silsby was surprised by the request, and went out to see what the army officer wanted.

  “How are you, Silsby?” the lieutenant asked. “Your folks are wondering how you’re doing. They’re hoping you’ll be coming back home now that Harknell has been ordered off the Grasslands.”

  “I ain’t going back there never,” Silsby said. He frowned in puzzlement. “How’s come you been talking to my folks?”

  “Well, I’ve been seeing a lot of them, Silsby. As a matter of fact, you and I are going to be brothers-in-law.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Rebecca and I are getting married.”

  Silsby raised his eyebrows. “Well, I never would have expected that.”

  “I wanted you to be my best man since I don’t have any friends out here unless I send back to Fort Gibson or get one of the fellows farther west on the Cherokee Strip.”

  Silsby shook his head. “I ain’t going back.”

  “I understand,” Grant said. “Rebecca has talked to me a great deal about you.” He shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

  “Sure.”

  They shook hands, then Gran
t led his soldiers off the ranch. Silsby went back to the bunkhouse where the remainder of the evening dragged by. A couple of bottles were produced, and everyone got a little drunk before turning in around midnight.

  ~*~

  The sun had climbed a bit over the eastern horizon when the cowboys threw their saddles over their new horses. As they rode by the house, they waved a final goodbye to Dewey Harknell who stood on the porch.

  Harknell, alone and disheveled, returned the farewells, and watched his men ride away. As soon as they cleared the ranch yard and were out on the range, he went back inside to sit in the chair in the parlor. He spent the entire day there, not moving, eating, or napping. He stared straight ahead, seeing nothing as his mind hosted countless tidbits of memories from his past.

  Later, as the sun was setting, Harknell coughed, and the sound made an eerie echo that bounced throughout the empty house. He thought about his old dog Pal now buried behind the barn. But at that moment, the rancher felt as if the animal was lying in his usual place beside the chair.

  “Well, Pal, you and me has reached the end. I reckon the one thing I never quite learnt was that a man’s dreams is meant to be shattered.” Harknell reached in his belt and pulled out the old Colt Navy pistol. He had loaded one cylinder with powder and ball, and put a cap on the nipple. He gave the ranch yard a final, slow gaze then placed the muzzle of the pistol under his chin.

  One deep breath and he pulled the trigger.

  The .36 caliber ball tore out the top of his skull, and he jerked violently before slumping down. As his body leaned to one side, the chair tipped over under his weight. The corpse hit the floor with a heavy thump.

  A wide rivulet of blood flowed from his shattered cranium. The scarlet stream inched toward the open door, going across the threshold. It finally reached the edge of the porch and dripped down to the dirt below.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Second Lieutenant Grant Hollings and Miss Rebecca Rose McCracken were married on Sunday afternoon, April 7, 1889 at the Methodist Church in Clarkville, Kansas. The Widow Richardson, who had rented her spare room to the couple to occupy after the ceremony, played musical selections on the organ that were appropriate for such a romantic and sanctified celebration.

  An impromptu committee of Boomer seamstresses sewed the bride’s wedding gown over several long evenings of communal effort. The garment, though not costly, was an attractive creation of white muslin with blue bows sewn down both sides of the skirt. The collar was a delicate lace that was closed by a brooch of dark blue with a white rose mounted on it. The pin was an heirloom that had been in Fionna’s family for several generations. The dress was further enhanced by having the sleeves billow from shoulder to elbow, tightening at the wrist. The veil, made of plain tuxedo silk, was store-bought, and the young lady carried a colorful bouquet made up of sunflowers and blue bonnets.

  The groom wore the regulation full dress uniform of a subaltern of cavalry. The tunic was dark blue with yellow facings, sporting a high-standing collar and ornate shoulder knots indicating his rank. His light blue trousers were trimmed with a yellow stripe down the outside of each leg. Grant wore a forage cap and shoes rather than the helmet and boots normally worn for parade ground formations.

  Rebecca was given away by her father wearing his Sunday-go-to-meeting suit that he had begun to feel was permanent attire since Grant Hollings began calling on his daughter. He hoped that in the future he would not be forced to endure the stiff celluloid collar of the shirt except for church services.

  Grant was attended by another lieutenant from his regiment who acted as his best man. The groom hardly knew the fellow, but he was the only other commissioned officer available in the local area. As it was, this subaltern was obliged to leave immediately after the ceremony because of pressing patrol duties down in the Cherokee Strip.

  The weather cooperated for the event, allowing the reception to be held out in the open center of the Boomer camp. The bride, groom, and her parents rode from the church to the bivouac in a buggy Grant rented at the livery stable. The Boomer ladies had baked a gigantic three-layer cake and prepared other delicacies for the refreshments. The men of the camp saw to it that a barrel of whiskey and a couple of kegs of beer were provided to augment the fruit punch.

  Grant did his best to ignore the physical discomfort of the dress uniform. He usually wore the garb only on Sunday morning parades at Fort Gibson. By the time the receiving line was in place at the McCracken wagon, the heavy tunic was unbearably warm, and perspiration began to soak through his white gloves. He did his best to ignore the discomfort as he and his new bride accepted the guests’ congratulations.

  Rebecca’s natural prettiness had evolved into a lovely radiance. She never knew she could be so happy. With her arm entwined with Grant’s she fought back blissful tears on that day when she married the man she loved. Her former frustrations now seemed a lifetime away. Her only regret was that her brother Silsby had not been there to share the day with her.

  Harvey Matthews and his wife Mary were among those who had lined up to make obligatory greetings to the couple. Harvey, like the other Boomers, felt no serious animosity toward Grant in spite of the confrontations with him and his troopers. “Best wishes to you, Mr. Hollings,” Harvey said, pumping the young officer’s hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Matthews.”

  “What’re your plans now? We ain’t heard a word about what you young folks is gonna be doing.”

  “I’ll still be out there keeping an eye on the Medicine Bundle Grasslands, Mr. Matthews.”

  Harvey laughed. “Then we’ll see more of you than Rebecca will.”

  “More than likely,” Grant said. “Rebecca is going to move into my room in Widow Richardson’s home. We’ll stay there until I’m ordered back to Fort Gibson.”

  “That house must be like a second home to you by now,” Mary Matthews said, breaking into the conversation. “I believe that’s where you stayed during your visit last winter.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mary looked at Rebecca. “I reckon you’ll be glad when this land settlement thing is all finished. Then you can set up your own home.”

  “I cain’t wait,” Rebecca said. She gave Grant an affectionate look. “It’ll be so nice to have a place just for ourselfs.”

  “It’ll be a small house on officers’ row at Fort Gibson,” Grant said.

  “At any rate,” Mary remarked to Rebecca, “you’ll soon be a housewife like the rest of us.”

  Harvey took his wife’s arm. “C’mon, Mary. They’s other folks here in line that want to congratulate this happy twosome.”

  The Matthews left and another couple stepped up. Grant and Rebecca endured a solid half-hour of best wishes and small talk before the guests began breaking down into small groups to visit among themselves.

  Luther took advantage of the lull to approach the newlyweds. “I need to talk with this son-in-law of mine for a minute,” he told Rebecca. The two men walked around to the other side of the wagon. Luther faced the young officer. “I got a favor to ask of you.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I sort of expected Silsby to come back since Harknell don’t have a ranch down there no more.”

  “Do you know about Dewey Harknell committing suicide?”

  “Yeah. We heard about it,” Luther said. “I’d give anything if things had turned out better for the old boy. I wouldn’t never wish nothing like that on nobody. Not even a greedy rancher.” Luther went on, “Anyhow, I’d like to find out where Silsby is.”

  “I’d be very happy to ask around when I go back to patrolling duties,” Grant said. “I’ll cover the entire area, so if he’s down there I’ll be able to get some information for you.”

  “When you do, just tell him that his ma misses him bad,” Luther said. He sighed. “And tell him as to how I’d admire to have him back home too.”

  “I’ll certainly do that.”

  “I’m truly fond of my son. I’d just like to put
things right with him so’s we can get on with our life.”

  “I suppose I should consider this a family matter,” Grant said.

  Luther smiled. “I reckon I should call you by your first name, shouldn’t I?”

  “I think that would be proper,” Grant said. “It’s customary where I’m from that I should address you as Father McCracken.”

  “That makes me sound like one of them Papist preachers or whatever they are,” Luther said. “Do me a favor — Grant — call me Luther.”

  “Sure, Luther.”

  They went back to find Rebecca waiting with her mother. Fionna took a close look at her husband and son-in-law and was pleased to note they had just concluded a friendly conversation. She said, “It looks like you two have been planning something.”

  “Grant says he’ll keep an eye out for Silsby,” Luther said. “And try to find out where he might be.”

  Fionna patted Grant’s arm. “That’s real nice of you.”

  “I’m happy to do it, Mother McCracken.”

  “Well!” Luther said, rubbing his hands together. “I reckon it’s time I went over and had me a drink.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Fionna said. “You don’t need to take on too much whiskey. There’s plenty of punch and cake over at the serving table.”

  Luther winked at Grant. “See what happens when you’re a married man?”

  Fiddle music suddenly sounded as a Boomer musician launched into a jaunty jig. A guitar and banjo joined in and within a few moments hands clapped in time to the song. The first dancers whirled out as the celebration picked up tempo.

  Grant, recognizing his social obligations, took Rebecca out to the center area. Everyone applauded and whistled, and the little band changed tempo as they broke into the Anna Bertha Waltz. The bride and groom made several circuits around the area, then others joined them. Grant had never been a good dancer and as soon as practical, he led Rebecca back to the McCracken campsite.

  The celebration continued through the afternoon and into sunset, picking up speed rather than slowing down. The music, shouting, and whistling increased until it could be heard as far as the other side of Clarkville. Most of the men were staggering drunk by then, including the musicians who now played erratically and louder in uneven tempos. They seldom managed to finish a song at the same time.