by Jim Cox
After retrieving the mortgage ledger, he cleared his throat and said in a soft tone as he opened the book, “Mrs. Taylor, there must be a misunderstanding—we’ve not received any money whatsoever from you toward your interest or principal since we loaned you forty-eight hundred dollars for your farm three years ago.” Sympathetic to her surprised expression, he turned the mortgage book toward her, showing her there’d been no entries.
“There must be some mistake, Mr. Niles. We’ve been making payments every fall. I’ve given my husband the money to pay on our mortgage from my savings. He was in here yesterday with a payment.”
The banker shook his head. “He was in here yesterday, Mrs. Taylor, but he didn’t make a payment…said he didn’t have any money. There have been no payments during the last three years.” Esther’s stare at the banker was penetrating. “I’m sorry we’ve taken this action, Mrs. Taylor; we really don’t want your farm, but we have no other choice.” The two sat in silence. Finally, Mr. Niles said, “Please take your money, Mrs. Taylor; I couldn’t accept it under the circumstances.” She stood, picked up the money she’d placed on his desk, thanked him for his time, and left.
The trip home was almost wordless. Mark could tell something was said in the bank that had upset his mother terribly, but he left the matter alone, and so did she.
When they returned home, Mark dropped Joan and his mother off at the house and continued to the barn to care for the horses and start the evening chores. He had done the feeding, gathered the afternoon eggs, and had finished forking the manure from the stalls when Joan came running toward him shouting, “Come quick, Mark! Pa’s killing Ma.” Mark grabbed the pitchfork he’d leaned against the aisle wall and ran for the house with Joan following.
Chapter Two
The first thing Mark saw when he rushed into the house was his mother getting up from the kitchen’s dirt floor with her arms covering her face for protection. Her dress was torn in several places, and her hair was a total mess. His pa had his arm back with a clenched fist ready to swing again. “You hit Ma again, and I’ll ram this pitchfork to its hilt in your belly,” Mark shouted with the prongs of the pitchfork aimed at his father’s midsection.
His father turned, facing his son with a snarled face and wild eyes. In a flash, he grabbed the pitchfork, threw it aside, and backhanded his son across his face, knocking him to the floor with a bloody nose. “That’ll teach ya’ to meddle in affairs that ain’t none of your business.”
Mark hurriedly sat up with blood trickling from his nose. “What’s wrong with ya’, Pa? You’re acting like a wild man and you ain’t even been drinking,” Mark blurted as he wiped blood from his nose with his knuckle.
“Your ma’s been talking to the banker about me behind my back and I ain’t having it. Any talk with the bank needs to come from me, not your ma. I’m the man of the house. She ain’t got no sense about money matters.”
“Your pa’s been lying to us, son.” his mother protested. “Mr. Niles at the bank told me that none of the money your pa’s been taking from me every fall to pay on our mortgage has got to the bank—that’s why they’re taking our farm away from us.”
“They’re taking our farm away…we gotta move again,” Mark said to no one in particular.
“That’s right, son. Your pa went crazy when I told him I’d found him out.”
“Damn you woman,” John shouted as he started for his wife with a cocked fist. “It ain’t your place to tell our young’uns we’re movin.” But before he could swing, Mark lunged for his pa’s legs and knocked him down. Mark was as tall as his father but not nearly as strong. His pa easily rolled atop him and slapped his son twice, ready to make another blow, this time with his fist.
That is until he felt the sharp prongs of the pitchfork on the back of his neck. “You hit that boy one more time, John Taylor, and I’ll ram this pitchfork clean through your gullet, and I’ll have no remorse when I do it.”
John stiffened and released his son. When he started to turn to face his wife, the prongs took a firmer bite. “I ain’t kidding, John,” Esther said firmly. “You’ll be in a grave covered with dirt ʼfore nightfall if you hit my son again.”
The pitchfork stayed firm against John’s neck for what seemed to be minutes—no one moved. By the time his pa’s expression settled and his eyes returned to normal, Mark’s shirt sleeve was covered in blood from wiping his nose. Finally, his pa said, “Okay, you can put the pitchfork down—I ain’t gonna hit nobody.” Esther looked at her son and nodded, indicating for him to be prepared and move away from his pa when she pulled the pitchfork away. He nodded back.
After the pitchfork was lowered, everyone stood, wondering what was to happen next. When nerves had settled a bit, John stepped to the kitchen table, picked up the tin money box, and headed for the door. Minutes later they heard the sound of their plow horse leaving at a gallop. When the sound of the running horse had faded, Mark turned to his mother, “Are you all right, Ma? Pa hit you more than usual today. Your nose is bleeding, and he split your lip.”
“I’ll be okay. I’m used to your pa’s bad treatment.”
“Ma, why is Pa so mean? He scares me,” Joan asked. The question remained unanswered as Mark and his mother’s eyes connected.
»»•««
Mark slept that night, but it was a restless sleep because he was waiting for his father, but he never showed. By the time the eastern sky was turning gray, Mark entered the kitchen and saw his ma bending over the fireplace placing a skillet of sliced potatoes on the grid. When she stood with the coffee pot and faced him, he was sickened. Her left eye was swollen closed and engulfed in purple and black. Both of her cheeks were beet red, and a two-inch laceration split the skin over her right cheekbone. Her lower lip was twice its normal size.
Mark hurried to his mother. “Give me the coffee pot, Ma. You look much worse this morning and you ain’t in no shape to be fixing breakfast or do any kind of work for that matter. You go sit down. I’ll fix breakfast.”
“I’m okay, son. I look much worse than I feel. You sit down and drink your coffee while I finish cookin’.”
“I ain’t about to, Ma,” Mark said as he took the coffee pot and escorted her to a kitchen chair.
After she was seated, Mark filled two cups and returned the coffee pot to the fireplace hanger. Neither spoke as they sat wondering what was to come. Finally, Mark asked, “What time did Pa get home, Ma? I didn’t hear him come in.”
“He didn’t come home,” she said with lowered eyes.
Mark reached across the table for his mother’s hand. “He took your money tin, Ma. I imagine he got so drunk he couldn’t make it home and had to stop someplace to sleep it off. He’ll be coming home ʼfore long.” There was a long pause. “How much money was in the money tin, Ma?”
“A little over eleven dollars; it was every cent we had to our name, son, and we won’t be going back to town to do our peddling for a week.”
Just then Joan walked in still wearing her nightgown. “Is it time to cook breakfast, Ma?” she asked, rubbing her sleepy eyes. But when she looked up and saw her mother’s face, she said in a shocked tone, “You look terrible, Ma. Does it hurt bad?”
Seeing the embarrassment in his mother’s eyes, Mark said, “We’ll be doing the cooking this morning, Joan. Ma needs to take it easy for a day or two. We’ll have bacon, potatoes, and warmed-over biscuits. I’ll put the biscuits on to warm and slice the bacon—you can fry it—the potatoes are cookin’.”
The day lingered on. It was a pleasant day, but no one at the Taylor household noticed; their minds were occupied with personal matters and about their pa or husband’s whereabouts. Was he hurt or perhaps even dead—he had always come home before. They also had thoughts about moving. Chores were done as if everything was normal—what else could be done. The stock was tended, wood was chopped, and meals were prepared and eaten. When bedtime came, John still wasn’t home.
Their next day was spent in much the same way as
uncertainty and worry mounted. Mark was finishing the evening chores, ready to head in for supper, when he heard the footfalls of horses. He hurried outside, and to his surprise, his pa was riding up on a fine looking black gelding with silver trimmings on its bridle and saddle; their plow horse was tethered behind. Next to his pa was a man riding a sorrel mare. The two men dismounted and his father’s first words, acting as if nothing had happened two days earlier, were “son, I’d like for ya’ to meet Norman Kilroy.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” Mark said extending his hand.
As the two shook hands, his pa said, “Norm, this is my son, Mark—he’s a fine boy.” During their handshake, Mark noticed Norman’s pale blue eyes surrounded by a dark sun tanned, clean-shaven face. He figured the man to be in his early thirties. The handgun hanging from his side gleamed in the light of the low sun. After a short pause, his pa continued, “Let’s take care of the horses and go to the house for a bite to eat, I’m starved.”
As the two men stabled their horses Mark sized-up Norman. He wore eastern style clothes which was strange for this part of the country. He was short compared to his pa—close to a half foot shorter. The black, high-crown derby hat he wore helped some, but its narrow brim only accented Norm’s oversized stocky body and barrel chest.
The boy hung back as the men entered the house. His mother and sister were sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. Again, John acted as if nothing had happened two days earlier. “Norm, I’d like for ya’ to meet my wife, Esther, and my daughter, Joan.” When Esther turned, exposing her battered face, Norman’s smile turned to a frown. John hurriedly stepped in when he witnessed Norman’s expression, “Esther fell off the wagon a couple days back, and bruised up her face.” Esther’s eyes went to her husband and then back to Norman.
“Please be seated, Mister…” Esther stopped short, not knowing his last name.
“My name’s Kilroy, ma’am…Norman Kilroy, but most folks call me Norm.”
“Please sit down, Mr. Kilroy, while I get the coffee,” Esther said.
“While you’re at it, fix us something to eat, Esther. We’re both starved,” ordered her husband.
Mark quickly spoke up, “Joan and I were going to be doing the cooking, Pa. Ma ain’t up to it. We’ll cook potatoes and fry some bacon.”
“Your mother and Joan can do the cooking. I want you to start loading the wagon with our belongings.”
“What do ya’ mean, Pa? Why should I load the wagon? We ain’t moving out for a week or two, are we?”
“We’ll be leaving at first light in the morning. Things need to be packed and ready to go ʼfore bedtime.” Mark looked at his mother.
Chapter Three
It was still dark the next morning when Mark woke to the smell of coffee. After dressing, he went to the kitchen expecting to find his mother cooking breakfast, but she wasn’t there. Two dirty plates and cups were on the table, and the door was wide open. He found his mother standing by the barn in tears.
“What’s going on, Ma? Did Pa and Norm leave?” he asked with the echo of hooves running in the distance.
After wiping her eyes with her apron, she answered, “I ain’t sure, son, but I believe your pa’s in trouble with the law. That’s why he and Mr. Kilroy lit out so early.”
“Did he steal that horse, Ma? I’ve been wondering where he got it.”
“Your pa didn’t say, but I suspect you’re right,” she said raising her apron to her eyes again.
“Did he tell you where to meet up with him or if he’ll be back after us?” Mark asked, but his mother couldn’t answer because of her sobs. Mark continued, “I finished loading the wagon yesterday just before dark. We could head out after them anytime we want. The wagon’s full…won’t hold another thing except for a few kitchen items I thought we’d need.” Mark paused. “I’m sorry, Ma, but we’ll have to leave a lot behind—there ain’t room.”
“I know, son. We can’t take everything. Maybe we can replace it when we get settled,” she said with a forced smile. A minute or two passed. “Your pa said he was gonna take us with him this morning, but something changed his mind. He and Norm were in a big hurry when they got up, and he said traveling with the wagon would slow ʼem down too much. We’re supposed to stay around here for a day or two and then meet up in Albertville—that’s where we lived before we moved here. Your pa said we’d travel together from there on.”
“I remember moving here from Albertville, but I ain’t sure how far it is.”
“It’s about fifty miles west of here, son. Not far from the Kentucky state line. It’ll take us a good three days to get there.”
“Did he say anything else, Ma?”
Her brow puckered, “Norm said there might be some men coming around looking for ʼem. We’re to say your pa ain’t been here for several days.”
“The men he’s talking about are most likely lawmen. We ain’t gonna lie to the law, are we, Ma?” Esther turned for the house and didn’t answer her son’s question.
»»•««
The morning passed slowly. Their normal routine had been discarded, and only a few chores were done. They had finished their noon meal and were still at the table drinking coffee when they heard horses coming. “Maybe that’s Pa coming back for us,” Joan said excitedly. Mark and his mother knew better. They sat with sober faces trying to make out what they were going to say.
Five men on horses were in their front yard when Esther and her two children walked out. They were well-dressed men riding quality horses; two of the men wore badges. Esther put both of her hands to her forehead, pretending to be shading her eyes from the sun, but in reality, she was trying to hide her battered face. “What can we do for you gentlemen?” she asked.
“We’d like to talk with your husband if he’s around, ma’am,” said one of the men wearing a badge.
“He ain’t here,” she answered.
“When do you expect him to be coming home? We need to ask him a few questions.”
“I ain’t sure when he’ll be back,” she answered. “It might be several days.”
The two lawmen looked at each other and then the same one asked her another question. “Was there a second man with him when he left, ma’am? A man by the name of Ben Hopkins?” She shook her head. “He goes by other names too. Jeff Bridges, Don Simmons, Norman Kilroy.” She remained silent, but one of the lawmen noticed a slight change to Mark’s expression when Norman Kilroy was voiced.
“What’s your name young man?” the lawman asked.
“John Mark Taylor, sir, but folks call me Mark.”
“Was there a man here with one of those names?” Mark looked toward the ground.
“Don’t lie to me, young man. It’ll only get you in trouble,” the lawman said firmly.
“Yes, sir—he was here. He and my pa headed out early this morning, and they ain’t planning on coming back,” Mark said.
“Do you know where they went?” the lawman asked.
“Pa told Ma they were heading for Albertville.” The two lawmen looked at one another and shook their heads.
“Are we going after ʼem, Sheriff?” one of the men without a badge called out.
“Albertville is out of our jurisdiction,” he answered. “They can’t be arrested there for crimes committed in our county. We might as well head for home.”
The horses were turning to leave when Mark called out, “What did my pa do wrong, Sheriff? What’s he wanted for?”
“He stole a horse and robbed two stores in Idalia at gunpoint.” Mark shook his head with tight lips and looked at his mother.
A long minute passed before Mark asked a second question of the lawman, “How about Norman Kilroy, what did he do?”
The lawman shrugged his shoulders. “He has a long list of crimes against him, Mark…a mighty long list.”
»»•««
By first light the following morning, Mark had finished packing the wagon with the remaining items he’d left room for. A few
kitchen things, a sack of food, and some personal things. Afterward, he covered the wagon’s contents with a large canvas and tied it down snug with a rope. Fastened to the side of the wagon were a barrel of water and a coop of chickens. The last thing he did before they boarded the wagon was tie their cow to the back and put his pa’s gun and shells behind the seat. Joan climbed up and sat in the middle of the seat, Esther sat on the right, and Mark sat on the left holding the lines. When all three had settled themselves, Mark snapped the leather lines, and the big drafts stepped into their pull, leaving behind their home where memories had been built during the last three years; some good—some bad.
Their morning went without incident as they traveled through rolling terrain in a northerly direction, occasionally stopping to rest the team. The landscape was in its late October colors, presenting a lovely setting of reds and orange. The weather was a comfortable temperature with a slight westerly breeze. They rode in silence.
When the sun reached its high-up noon position, they stopped alongside a fast-flowing stream for their meal. After Mark had gathered wood and started a fire, he unhitched the team, took them to water, and then hobbled them in a patch of grass. Afterward, he took care of their cow.
By the time he returned to the fire, coffee was ready to be poured, and the bacon and sliced potatoes were beginning to turn. “It’ll be a bit ʼfore we’re ready to eat, son,” his mother said as she tended the two skillets, “but the coffee’s ready, help yourself.” Mark filled cups and handed one to his mother and another to his sister.
After eating they repacked their things in the wagon and relaxed for a spell while the horses ate. It was mid-afternoon when they came to the well-traveled, east/west trail they’d been seeking, and after turning west toward Albertville Esther and Joan lowered their bonnets, and Mark pulled down his hat to protect their eyes from the bright sun. As they journeyed, they appreciated how the trail followed the easiest course available, avoiding steep hills and other hazardous terrain. Onward they went.
