by Jim Cox
The woman looked up with large sad eyes and took the plate, but before she started eating she asked Esther, “Do you believe in God?”
The question took Esther by surprise—a question she’d not thought about for a long time. After searching her thoughts, she answered, “Yes Dora, I believe there is a God who created all things; a God who loves us and is with us every single minute of our lives.” Esther paused and then asked, “Do you believe, Dora? Do you believe in God?”
“I used to, but…” she cut herself short waiting for the right words to come. “How could a God who loves us let terrible things happen to His people—like what they did to my husband today?”
“God didn’t cause those Indians to set your house on fire and kill your husband,” Esther said, “but knowing those brutal acts have been done, He’ll comfort you and help put your life back together.” Dora didn’t reply to Esther’s comments, but she did start eating.
Later on, when Joan was helping her mother prepare the beds, she asked, “Ma, I didn’t know you believed in God. We’ve never even gone to church. How come you’ve never talked to me about religion?”
Esther’s stare at her daughter was penetrating. “My ma and pa were believers and taught me about the Lord, but at some point, I pushed those teachings to the back of my life.” Esther paused with a sober face before continuing, “My ma always told me the most important duty of parents was to teach their children about the Lord.” Esther looked away for a minute, wiped her eyes, and then faced her daughter, “I’m ashamed of myself, Joan, but I’ve failed you and Mark terribly when it comes to teaching you about the Lord.”
Joan reached for her mother’s hand and said, “It’s not too late. You can start teaching me now—tell me about the Lord, Ma.”
Esther’s face sobered as she looked into her daughter’s eyes. “I believe there is an Almighty God who created the entire universe, and who watches over us. I believe in His son, Jesus, and in the Holy Spirit who lives within us, telling us what’s right and wrong.”
“A ghost.” Joan said, “I don’t understand—it sure sounds complicated.”
“Not a ghost like you are imagining, Sweetheart; all you have to know is Jesus is the son of God, and He died for our sins, that He rose from the grave, and that He is the savior of the world.”
By noon the next day, the wagon and six people approached the Fort Gibson stockade which was backed up against a low mountain on the west side of town. Doyle sized up the stockade to be about five hundred feet square and fifteen-foot-high made of upright poles that protected the living facilities and barns inside. There were a few people milling about around the structure. He was surprised at the structure’s size which seemed to overshadow the civilian homes and businesses along a single road some distance away.
As they went down the town’s only street, a few people fell in behind the wagon, and Doyle asked them where to find the law. They pointed him to a small building in the center of the business area with a JAIL sign over the door. “What’s that terrible smell, Mr. Doyle,” Joan asked with a wrinkled-up noise when they stopped. “It smells kind of like rotten meat.”
“I’m not sure, Joan, but the odor could be coming from buffalo hides. I’ve been told there’s a lot of buffalo killed for their hides in this part of the country.” Doyle instructed his fellow travelers to stay with the wagon, and he went inside to talk with the constable.
When Doyle finished telling his story of why he had come to the area and about the situation with Dora and her children, the sheriff responded with a shake of the head and said, “That’s the third homestead that’s been torched by the Indians in the past two weeks, but this is the first killing I know of.”
“I need to arrange housing for myself and the two people I have traveling with me, but we also need to find a place for Mrs. Lankford and her two children. Do you have any suggestions, Sheriff?”
“We don’t have a hotel in town, but there is a boarding house at the north end of town run by a nice lady. I’ve been told it’s fairly decent with good meals and the rooms are clean with good straw beds. As far as Mrs. Lankford and her children are concerned, the Indians at the fort have allowed us to set up quarters in the spare barracks for the two other families who’ve been burn out. They have seven children running about over there. I’m sure arrangements can be made for Mrs. Lankford and her children to join them.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. It’ll be good for her to be around folks that’s had similar problems. And sheriff, she doesn’t have any money. Please count on me to pay for whatever she needs.” The sheriff gave a nod of gratitude.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The next few days in Fort Gibson passed rather quickly for Esther and Joan. They were pleased with Mrs. Steinbeck, the boarding house owner, and her accommodations. As the sheriff had said, the rooms were good, and the food was above average. The women made visits to the town’s stores daily, enabling Esther and Joan to become acquainted with the shop employees and meet several town people in the process. They also made a point to visit Dora and her children each afternoon and began to get acquainted with the other families who had been displaced.
Doyle stayed busy too. He checked with the sheriff daily about new Indian attacks; none had occurred, but the lawman seemed to stay worried. Doyle also stopped at the town café at mid-morning each day for coffee and to get the low-down from a table of town cronies.
The horses and wagon were at the town’s livery which was owned and operated by a crusty old man called Baldy. The name Baldy was descriptive of his hairless head which was never covered with a hat. Baldy said he’d lived in Fort Gibson since the town was hatched, as he described the town’s beginning. Baldy agreed to purchase the horses and wagon at Doyle’s cost as soon as a place was found to empty the wagon; in the meantime, he’d watch the team and wagon at no cost.
On the third day after their arrival, Doyle entered the livery on the pretense of checking on his belongings, but in reality, he was feeling out the market for a horse and buggy as well as a saddle horse for himself. Doyle started out asking nonchalant questions about horses the old timer had purchased for resale and several other non-pertinent questions. Baldy answered the questions, not picking up on the fact Doyle was in the market for horses. That is until Doyle asked him a specific question about a gelding he’d boasted was the best of the lot and cost very little. “You tricked me,” Baldy shouted out, “asking me all those questions, knowing full well you were gonna buy a horse from me. I ain’t giving you no discount—you’ll have to pay full price if you want a horse from me—I ain’t stupid.”
Doyle couldn’t keep from laughing. “I’ll happily pay your full price if you throw in a cup of coffee.” Baldy quickly calmed down when he understood Doyle’s approach had no malice and he took on a big smile as he went for coffee. After he returned with two full cups, the two men had a bit of small talk before Doyle asked, “What do folks around here do to earn a living, Baldy? I’m told a few men hunt buffalo and sell their hides, but that can’t generate much money.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Doyle, there’s a lot of government money involved. Hundreds of buffalo are killed every day in our area and brought here to be counted for reward money.”
“What do you mean—reward money?” Doyle asked.
“The U.S. Government pays two dollars for each buffalo hide brought to a buying station, and Fort Gibson is one of those stations. There’s also a small market for good hides shipped direct to eastern buyers by-passing the government all-together; those bring nearly four dollars a hide.” Baldy paused, “Even the buffalo bones are sold for eight dollars a ton. After the flesh has rotted away, the bones are gathered and brought in to be shipped east.”
“Why is the government buying buffalo skins, Baldy? What do they use them for?”
“They’re not used for anything. The government sells ʼem to foreign markets but loses money on the deal.”
I don’t understand the reasoning behind the slaughter i
f the government is losing money on the sale,” Doyle questioned.
“It’s simple,” Baldy said with firmness to his voice. “The government is trying to run off the Indians in this part of the country, so the white man can take over, and since buffalo are a vital part of the Indians’ way of life—take away the buffalo, and you take away the Indians.”
“The killings don’t seem to have had much effect yet on the number of buffalo roaming the country,” Doyle said. “On our way here, it took us five hours to drive past one herd…there were thousands.”
“Doyle,” Baldy said as he shook his head with eyes lowered, “you were lucky to see that. There ain’t one buffalo now where there used to be five. I had a government man, who was visiting Fort Gibson when the fort was active, tell me people in the know estimate the buffalo in the ʼ40’s must have been between seventy-five and a hundred million.” Baldy paused and took a long drink before continuing, “Because the herds don’t run when they’re shot at, men can lay on their chests for hours shooting animal after animal. They take several guns on their kill because after firing a multitude of times, the barrel gets so hot they can no longer hold it, so they switch guns. I heard a buffalo killer bragging at the saloon one night that he’d killed 120 in forty minutes. If the killing keeps up, there won’t be any left in a few years.” Silence gripped both men.
Finally, Doyle spoke, “Maybe the Indians can find some other food source.”
“The Indians use buffalo for other things than food, Doyle. The meat is the main item, but they also use the hides for clothes and blankets to keep warm. The bulls are huge, some weighing over two-thousand pounds and their hides make excellent shelters. Tepees are covered with their skins. They use the bladders for pouches, the bones for utensils, and the dried manure for fuel. They even use the gall and blood for paint.” Baldy went for more coffee.
“You were asking about people’s livelihood in Fort Gibson, Doyle, and we got off onto buffalo, but ranching and all of its ramifications is without a doubt our largest commerce—ranching keeps most of our town’s businesses alive.”
“Don’t Indians bother the ranchers, Baldy?”
“Not the big spreads. They have enough hands to protect themselves, but like you witnessed at the Lankford homestead a few days back, the small spreads are at the mercy of the Indians. They’ve been largely peaceable the last couple of years, but it looks like they’re becoming hostile again.”
After a few more minutes of small talk about the various means of income in the area, Doyle and Baldy went to the horses, and Doyle picked out two. A buggy horse and a saddle horse. It wasn’t long until the horse was hitched to the buggy and the saddle horse was tied behind. Doyle climbed into the buggy seat, but before he left, he asked, “How often does the mail come to Fort Gibson, Baldy, and how does it get here?”
“It comes by stagecoach,” Baldy said. “Normally every two to three weeks.”
Doyle snapped the lines.
Chapter Thirty
The next two weeks were uneventful. Doyle had mailed a letter to his informer at Cairo concerning the friction between the states, but he hadn’t received a reply. Otherwise, he was becoming a mite restless due to inactivity, but he relished the time he spent with Esther nearly every day. Meals were eaten together, and they took daily buggy rides into the prairie or alongside the mountains, always being cautious of Indians.
Sunday morning church service had become a habit with Esther, Joan, and Doyle. The service was held in the abandoned Fort’s mess hall which was large and could easily accommodate the various church functions, including the meals taking place every two weeks following the Sunday service. After attending a couple services, it seemed as if Joan wanted to make up for lost time because she started reading the Bible daily and sometimes even visited the preacher to get help understanding passages.
March came and with it came milder temperatures and storms. It was also the time of year when gardens were being prepared, and ranchers were busy conducting roundups to brand their calves and castrate the males. Everyone was busy from first light ʼtil darkness, except for Esther, Joan, and Doyle. They were beginning to feel as if they were worthless—good for nothing.
One day when Esther was loafing around in the mercantile, a woman approached her and asked, “Are you Mrs. Taylor?”
“Yes,” Esther answered, “I’m Esther Taylor. What can I do for ʼya?”
“My name is Shelba Winslow, Mrs. Taylor. My husband and I own the Crooked Rail Ranch several miles west of here.” Esther accepted the introduction with a smile and a nod. “I hope I’m not out of place, Mrs. Taylor, but I’ve been told you and your daughter might be available to work at our ranch.” Esther was not prepared for a question of this nature and stood looking at the woman.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Winslow, but you caught me off guard with your question. May I ask what kind of work we’d be doing and how long you’d want us?”
“Of course,” she answered. “Our ranch consists of nearly fifty-thousand acres of land where we graze three thousand mamma cows and two seasons of calves, amounting to twenty-five hundred head of yearlings and a like number of two-year-olds. We have twelve full-time hands and twenty more part-timers during roundup. Your job would be to help me and give cooking guidance to an Indian woman who has worked with me for several years. I won’t lie to you, Esther—the work is hard. Breakfast starts an hour or so before daylight and sometimes supper is eaten after dark.” The lady paused. “I could use your help—we’ll pay each of you fifty cents a day plus room and board.”
“The job sounds interesting, Mrs. Winslow. May I have a few days to consider the offer and speak with my daughter about it?”
Mrs. Winslow responded with a pleasant smile, “I plan to be back here in two weeks. We can discuss the matter further at that time.”
Esther pondered on the employment offer for days, but for some reason, she hesitated to tell Doyle or Joan about it. Time lingered—the first week passed.
It was now the fourteenth day of March, only three days before Mrs. Winslow would be back for an answer, and Esther still hadn’t told her daughter or Doyle about the job possibility.
As had been his habit, Doyle drove his buggy to the front of the boarding house a couple hours after the noon meal, and he waited for Esther—it was time for their afternoon drive.
The day was beautiful. Sunny with white fluffy clouds floating eastward as a subtle breeze swept across the prairie, making the swaying, long stem grass appears to be waves on a large body of water. However, neither Esther nor Doyle noticed the surroundings or uttered a single word as the horse trotted toward the mountain—both minds were contemplating how they would tell the other person what was on their minds. Esther about the job offer and Doyle about the letter he’d received that morning.
Doyle pulled the horse to a stop beside a mountain stream that had large sitting boulders along its bank—one of their favorite stopping places. After he helped Esther from the buggy and they had sat down, Doyle said, “I received a letter this morning in response to the letter I sent off a few weeks ago, Esther. My informant at Cairo says the Union wants me back as soon as possible. They plan to confiscate all of the Mississippi River steamers to haul troops and supplies up and down the river, and I’m to be captain on one of them. Apparently, there is no doubt about a war. Rumor has it President Lincoln has already given orders to move the Carolina Union troops into the Fort Sumter facility at Charleston. I’m told fighting will start within thirty days after this takes place.”
“What are you going to do, Doyle? You don’t have to go back and get involved in the fighting; someone else could navigate the steamer; you can stay here.”
“I have to go back, Esther. I could never forgive myself if I shirked my duty.” Esther nodded as her eyes became watery, knowing what his answer would be to her question before she asked it—he was that kind of a man. “I won’t be gone long,” Doyle said trying to be cheery. “I doubt if the conflict will last more
than three or four months.”
“Will you come back here when it’s over, Doyle?” Esther asked with wondering eyes.
Doyle’s penetrating gaze at Esther lasted for a long minute before he answered. “Esther, I’ve been a lonely man ever since my wife died fourteen years ago. As I told you, I became depressed after her passing and wasn’t my normal self. Then I met you, and you turned my life around—you’re the center of my thoughts now. I love you, Esther. Nothing in this world, short of death, could keep me away from you when this terrible war ends. Will you wait for me, Esther…will you marry me when I get back?”
Before Doyle had gotten the last few words spoken, Esther broke out in uncontrollable hard sobs with tears streaming down her face. Doyle pulled her to him. When Esther’s sobbing had subsided, she pulled away, and with red eyes and streaked cheeks, she said, “I never thought I wanted to be the wife of another man. During my marriage to John, I came to believe all husbands were like him;—that all men treated their wives with hostility and physical cruelty, but since I met you I know better; you wouldn’t mistreat anyone, Doyle.” Esther paused and wiped her eyes before continuing, “I’ll marry you Doyle Owens, and I’ll wait a lifetime for you if that’s what it takes.” With that said, Doyle pulled Esther to him for a lingering kiss. Fact is there were several more kisses. Time lingered as the stream gurgled.
“When will you be leaving?” Esther asked.
“At first light in the morning,” he answered. “I’m going back to New Orleans where I’ll catch a streamer to Cairo.”
