by Jim Cox
“I’ve got the wagon covered and tied down good, Ma. Rain ain’t gonna get to our belongings, but we’ll get soaked if we don’t cover ourselves. Why don’t we stop and let me get out our ground cloths?” She nodded.
Less than an hour later, the storm hit with swirling black clouds, strong winds, and a sideways downpour limiting their visibility to a few yards. The horses trudged onward through hoof deep mud and stayed their course. The tied-down ropes did their job, holding the wagon canvas in place in spite of the strong wind as the water ran off of the canvas in steady streams. Every exposed surface was drenching wet. In spite of holding the wrapped cloths tightly around themselves, pesky raindrops found their way inside and ran down their backs, getting their clothes wet, and chilling their bodies.
The storm passed, but the rain continued strong enough to keep things soaked. “When are we gonna stop for the night, Ma?” Joan asked, peeping out from under her ground cloth, “I’m freezin’.”
“It’ll be a while, honey. We won’t get there ʼtil dark.” No one saw Joan’s frown.
Time passed slowly. Their trail angled north and grew closer to the mountain with each mile they traveled.
Darkness was approaching as Esther directed her son to leave the trail and head toward the mountain. Before long they traveled up a rather steep gorge, diverting obstacles, to take the easiest course available. The pull became harder for the horses, but they handled the climb all right.
Long dark shadows were being cast when a limestone wall appeared running at an angle to their course. Esther instructed Mark to follow the wall and minutes later they came to a log cabin built into the limestone wall.
Chapter Six
Every table and bar space was taken in the saloon. A piano played loudly in the background and drunks shouted over the music, making hearing almost impossible. Oil lamps reflected the thick cigarette and cigar smoke hanging over the room, and the smell of whiskey filled the air. Bar-maids with cosmetic faces and smelling of lilac perfume, wearing low neckline dresses showing a great deal of cleavage, moved about serving drinks.
John poured himself another shot of whiskey, tossed it down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he threw two discards into the pile and picked up his two call cards—a four of spades and a ten of hearts. He stiffened a little, and an undetectable smile came, at least he hoped his smile had been undetectable. Two men had dropped out, including Norm who sat across the table from him, but four men who had been raising aggressively were still in the game, and the pot was already over five hundred dollars.
More whiskey was downed, and the bidding started to slow. One man tossed in his cards, leaving only John and two others. John sized-up his challengers. They were well dressed, were smoking what looked to be high priced cigars, and seemed calm—their beady eyes focused. John was getting nervous and starting to question his cards. He had never been in a game with stakes this high—his past games had mostly been played for small stakes with the mortgage money. John’s sweaty hands shook as he poured himself another drink and downed it. It was his play—he could fold or throw in his last twenty dollars. Cautiously, his fingers raised the corners of all five cards for an assuring peek. They ain’t gonna beat this hand—it’s a sure winner, he thought. The coins made a clinking sound as he threw his gold eagle into the pot.
“I’ll call,” the man sitting next to him said, “What do ya’ have?” John smiled and laid down a full house. Two tens and three fours and reached for the money, but the man who had called, said with a wide grin, “That ain’t good enough,” and laid down two queens and three eights.”
John quickly stood with a snarled face and shouted out, “You’re a cheat. There ain’t no way you could’ve beat my hand unless you dealt yourself one from the bottom of the deck.” The saloon became deathly quiet. No piano—no talking. People who were standing close to the table which now had over a thousand dollars on it cleared away with stiff faces and darting eyes.
The accused man stood, pulled his coat back to free his pistol, and said, “No one accuses me of cheating at cards and gets away with it. You’re packing a gun, draw when you’re ready.” John’s demeanor took on a different appearance as he looked into the steel gray eyes of the man across the table who he had accused. The man seemed to be calm and sure of himself. John stepped back from the table and lowered his head, not wanting to appear he had accepted the challenge—hoping he’d not put himself into a death threatening position he couldn’t get out of. John’s hands were trembling, he was sweating profusely, and he was getting sick to his stomach, feeling as though he was going to throw up.
“He didn’t mean it, mister,” Norm said as he circled the table to stand by his friend, his tied-down gun looming at his side with its safety loop dangling free. “The money’s yours. My friend’s a greenhorn at cards and ain’t accustomed to playing for such high stakes.” Norm reached for John’s elbow with his left hand and said, “We’ll ease out of here and let you gentlemen continue your card game.”
As John and Norm started backing toward the door, the accused man shouted out, “You ain’t getting off that easy,” and reached for his gun. But before his gun left leather, he froze, looking into the muzzle of Norm’s pistol.
“Don’t let your pride get ya’ killed, mister,” Norm said with his gun leveled toward the man’s midsection. “We’ll be leaving now ʼfore someone gets shot.” No one moved as the two backed out through the batwings.
John and Norm hurried down the boardwalk and entered a dark alley waiting to see if they were being followed. After a few minutes when everything seemed clear, Norm turned to John and said in a firm voice, “Never call a man a cheat, John, unless you want to get yourself killed.”
“I know,” he answered, “but every cent I had was in the pot. The man cheated me out of my money.”
“He was a bottom dealer, John. I caught on to his cheating a couple hands after we sat down. It’s why I folded early when he dealt.” Norm paused and then said with a wide grin, “Don’t worry about your money, we’ll get it back plus a lot more.”
“How’s that, Norm. What do you have in mind?”
The card slick who had cheated John, left the saloon with full pockets an hour or so after the ruckus. He hummed as he walked up the boardwalk where John and Norm waited. He was a bit tipsy, moseying along in high spirits when a hand reached out and grabbed him, pulling him into the alley where a hard object slammed his head sending him into unconsciousness.
“Help me drag him farther back in the alley, so he won’t be easily seen,” Norm whispered, “We need to hurry and get out of here.” It wasn’t long until they sat in their hotel room, splitting more than fifteen hundred dollars.
»»•««
John and Norm were in the livery at first light the next morning in a rush to leave. Their horses were still eating oats while their girths were being fastened, with saddlebags, bedrolls, and other gear already tied on behind.
“You men are leaving awful early. In a rush to get somewhere?” echoed a voice down the livery’s aisle-way. John and Norm turned to see four men standing at the entrance door. One wore a star, and all had pistols hanging at their sides.
John quickly reacted, “I was supposed to meet my family in Albertville several days ago, and I’m in a hurry to get there. Don’t want ʼem to worry any longer.”
The sheriff nodded. “You two mind coming with me to my office? I have a few questions I want to ask ya’.”
“What’s this all about, Sheriff? What kind of questions do you have for us?” Norm asked.
“A man was knocked out last night and robbed of fifteen hundred dollars; he claims it was you two.”
“We don’t know what you’re talking about, Sheriff. We never robbed no one.”
“We’ll get it straightened out at my office…let’s go.”
“Mind if we bring our horses along,” Norm asked. The sheriff nodded, giving his approval.
The group of men had left the live
ry with John and Norm leading their horses when John picked-up on a signal from Norm. All of a sudden the horses plunged into a near gallop, and the two suspects ran alongside, holding on to their saddle horn. They pulled themselves up onto their saddles and leaned forward over their horse’s necks. The horses were soon running at top speed.
The men thought they were making a good get-a-way when a shot rang out. Norm saw John flinch, and soon a large red spot appeared on his back above his belt on his right side.
Norm overtook him and led the way out of town. John stayed close behind in spite of his injury. They weren’t far from town when Norm turned on a faint northern path and headed for some distant rough country that looked to have possible hiding places. Occasionally Norm looked back to see if they were being chased and after riding several miles, he saw a large cloud of dust he assumed was made by the posse. He kept an eye on John from time-to-time, who seemed to be handling the ride fairly well.
Norm slowed his horse to a walk as they entered hilly terrain with large boulders lying about. It wasn’t long until they were riding up a gorge among tree-covered cliffs, some cliffs towering straight up. By now, John was slumped in his saddle with a twisted face, holding his injury, but there was no time to stop. They must continue their upward travel to a place of safety—to a place where they wouldn’t be found and where John’s wound could be tended.
The sun was approaching high noon when Norm saw the posse in the far distance heading back to town. He rode on, and John’s big black gelding followed at his own will—John was oblivious to the happenings but had somehow managed to stay aboard. His arms circled the black’s neck. When Norm saw John swaying in the saddle, he knew his friend couldn’t stay astride much longer—a stopping place had to be found even if it wasn’t ideal. The two men continued while Norm looked for a place to stop. A hiding place offering shelter, where a fire could be built without its smoke being seen. As he looked around, a dark patch caught his eye on the side of the cliff several yards ahead. It turned out to be a sizeable crevasse, four to six feet wide. Norm entered the opening leading the big black. The crevasse extended several yards back and widened out into a sizeable space—Norm smiled—it was the perfect place.
Within minutes Norm had John lying face down beside a fire with water on. Kneeling beside his friend, he slowly pulled up his shirt. The wound looked bad and oozed blood, but it was only an inch or two from his side and had possibly missed his vital organs. Did the bullet go all the way through his side, Norm wondered as he turned John a bit to look at his front for an exit hole—there was none.
“How bad is it, Norm? Am I gonna make it?” John asked with closed eyes and a furrowed forehead.
Norm wasn’t going to whitewash to truth. “I ain’t sure, John. The bullet hit close to your side and may have only gone through muscle. If that’s the case you’ll be fine; if it hit your organs, you’ll be dead in a day or two.” The injured man didn’t react one way or the other.
Norm found a pair of underwear in John’s clothes bag, cut the legs off, soaked them with hot water, and started cleaning the wound. As he was wiping, he said in an apologetic tone, “the bullet is still in ya’, John. After you’ve rested a bit and you get some coffee down, I’ll have to dig it out.”
Chapter Seven
Mark rose early, stirred the fire back to life, and put coffee water on. While waiting for the water to boil, he looked around at the cabin’s various features. The log portion of the cabin was only a few feet deep with a fireplace in its corner; however, it was attached to a dugout hole in the side of the limestone cliff at least thirty feet deep, nearly as wide, and a foot over Mark’s head. Flat limestone slabs covered the entire cabin floor—both the log portion and the dugout. As Mark was taking in the structure, a smile came, wonder how long it took for someone to dig out a hole this size and what became of the diggings?
Not long afterward, Mark was holding a steaming cup of coffee, and his mother sat across the table from him. “Pa ain’t coming back for us, Ma. If he was coming he’d be here by now,” Mark said to his mother. “If he ain’t here by nightfall, we might as well be moving on. There ain’t no future in us hanging around here any longer.” Joan was behind the drop cloth partition listening to the conversation while she dressed.
Esther took a long swallow and then looked at her son, giving him a slight nod. “You’re probably right, Mark, but let’s give him a few more days. We’ve only been here three—maybe he got tied up someplace.”
“It ain’t only been three days, Ma. It’s been over two weeks since we left Idalia, and he said he’d meet us in Albertville when we got there.”
Mark was about to make another comment, but Joan cut him short as she came from behind the partition. “Are you sure he knows where we are, Ma? He might be in Albertville waiting for us.”
“It ain’t likely,” her brother said in a scolding tone as he rose. “I’m going out to take care of the horses and bring in some more firewood.”
“While you’re outside, could you fetch us another bucket of water, son? We’re almost out.” Mark got the bucket, put on his coat and hat, and left in a huff.
As Mark left the cabin and headed for the lean-to horse stable, a cold, strong northerly wind caused him to raise his collar and pull down his hat. Looking skyward, he saw dark swirling clouds that seemed to be coming their way. I’d better carry in extra firewood, he thought, those clouds might be full of snow. Mark hobbled the horses not far from the cabin in a treeless area covered with long stem grass and then headed for the creek.
After carrying in the water and several armloads of firewood, Mark filled his coffee cup and sat down at the kitchen table thinking about the snow storm that might be coming. Not long after filling his cup, his mother sat down across the table. “Thank you for doing the chores, son, and I’m sorry we disagree about your pa. Maybe my thoughts are wishful thinking, but I believe he’ll come and get us.”
“How does he know we’ll be here, Ma? You told the parson to tell Smitty we’d be at the hole…how does Pa know this place is the hole?
She smiled and started her story. “Your pa and I had been married for eight years when we bought and moved onto our small farm only a few miles from here.” she paused with a smile, “It was our dream come true. Your pa had just come inside after a long day’s work of spring plowing, and I was cooking supper when we heard someone yellin’; it was an old man lying on the ground a couple hundred yards from our house. When we got him inside and bedded down, we figured out his right leg was broken a few inches above his ankle. After straightening it the best we could, we put wood slats around the break and circled them with leather straps. He told us later his horse had stumbled over a rock and fell on top of him, breaking his leg. His horse also broke its leg during the process and was thrashing about on top of him before he shot it through the ears. It was a struggle for him to get his leg free from under the dead horse but once he did, he crawled for over two hours before getting to our place.
He was a pleasant sort of a man with a good disposition but was a little hard to understand because of his Irish accent. He was a short man, a bit on the heavy side, and of course, being an Irishman, he had red hair. During the next few weeks, while he recuperated, we became good friends.
He invited us to his home and gave us directions to get there. During our first visit, he explained how he built the place, which he said took him almost two years. Most of the time was spent digging out the hole in the limestone cleft. Over the next couple of years, we visited him a few times. It’s how it got its name. We simply said, ʼlet’s go to the hole for a visit.”
Mark nodded as he took on a smile, now understanding the mystery of the hole. “Whatever happened to him,” he asked.
His mother’s face saddened. “The last time we came to visit, we found him dead. He’s buried in the field where you take the horses to eat.”
The rest of the day was a bit depressing. The weather was gloomy, and there wasn’t much to keep
them occupied. An hour or so before it was time to start evening chores, Joan tagged along after Mark while he checked his rabbit snares he’d set out the day before; all six traps were empty—none were sprung. They did see two sets of bear tracks while checking the traps which surprised Mark because he thought bears would be in hibernation by now. He was sure one set of tracks was made by a grizzly due to their size. I’ll have to keep a close watch on the horses, he thought, a big grizzly could kill one in nothing flat.
Mark woke to the sound of his mother’s sobs in the night and heard her praying. The words were broken and only in a whisper, so he couldn’t make out what she was saying, but he felt sure she was praying for his pa.
A few days later Mark was outside doing evening chores when he saw two men coming up the snowy mountain on horseback. As they got closer and he could make them out, he saw Norm and his pa, who was slumped forward holding onto his horse’s neck.
John was in bad shape when Mark and Norm helped him into the cabin. He was burning up with fever, and he had a wound that looked terrible. Norm said he had been shot accidentally. But one look at his ma’s face and Mark knew it was a lie. Norm said they’d been held up for several days waiting for the wound to heal, but when Pa got to feeling better, he insisted on heading for Albertville, which they figured would be a three-day ride. However, by the end of the first travel day, Pa’s wound turned for the worse. It became inflamed, was full of puss with red streaks around the edges, and it hurt something awful. But they’d ridden on anyway and spoke to Smitty when they got to Albertville, who’d relayed Ma’s words; “we’ll be at the hole.”
Ma pampered Pa for several days. Washing his wound daily with warm water and keeping ointment on it with clean wrappings. She prepared special soup which she believed had healing powers, mainly a thick beef broth, and kept hot coffee before him at all times.
The rest tried to stay busy at something. Norm helped Mark do the chores, Joan did most of the cooking, but mainly everyone played cards or checkers. Norm was good at checkers, and his ability to shuffle cards and do tricks with them was unbelievable. Ma saw him doing his card tricks one day and whispered to Mark that he was more-than-likely a card sharp—a professional gambler.
