Katherine

by S. A. Glenn

  “In time, you will know.”

  Samuel was losing his only friend in the world and was about to be alone again. He was unsure of himself, disoriented with misery and angst. He had much to express, owing his life to Oconnestoto. “But, I . . .”

  “Do not fret. Do not look back. Only forward, my good friend. You are now called the Raven. Fly away! Be free! Yaaahhh!” yelled Oconnestoto, slapping the horse’s backside.

  The horse rose onto its hind legs, neighing. Off in a flash, dust arose amid the moonlight.

  WRANGLER

  EARLY SPRING 1868

  Samuel and Ruff returned to town from the lake. Samuel needed an alarm clock; he hoped to put it on credit. He and Ruff entered the General Store. The bell clanged above the door, spooking Ruff, causing him to hurry ahead of Samuel.

  They came upon a clean-cut man with balding hair, heaving a large box up onto the top shelf. The man eyeballed Samuel, grunted, and completed his task. He smiled and nodded at Samuel. Grabbing the cloth tucked away in his shirt pocket he wiped his hands and started down the stepladder. Ruff stood at the bottom, looking up at the man.

  “Ruff!” Samuel called out.

  “Not bad, I’m used to this stuff,” the man replied as he fanned his hand, not seeing Ruff at his feet.

  “Sorry, sir. He’s my dog. His name is ‘Ruff’.”

  “Oh!” said the man, now seeing the dog, displaying a nervous giggle. “I thought you were speaking to me, sir. No worries. What may I do you for?”

  “I’m in need of an alarm clock, sir, but don’t got no money right yet. I just started workin’ for Mr. Oliver Steele… was wonderin’ if I could put it on my good faith?”

  “Of course, sir. Come this way.” He led Samuel down the aisle to the second shelf up that held many timepeices. “Here you are, sir. So, you live in town?”

  “Over at Ms. Sara’s restaurant, been there a couple days,” he clarified as he picked up the simplest looking clock.

  “Oh, yes, yes—good woman—and a fine place to dine, too.”

  “Yes, sir, she is… And she does cook real good!”

  The man slapped his forehead, presented his other hand to Samuel, and spoke with disappointment. “By jove! Where are my manners? The name’s Johnson, Ned Johnson. Call me Ned.”

  “Samuel Lee,” he stated, shaking his hand. “Call me Samuel. It’s good to have metcha, Ned.”

  “Likewise, Samuel.” He straightened out merchandise on the shelf and smiled. “Let’s getcha taken care of. Walk this way, please.”

  As they headed over to the counter, Ned pulled out a hardback book bound with leather. He unfastened its golden clasp and opened it. With a silver pen he scribbled down Samuel’s name and debt owed.

  “Much obliged, Ned.” Samuel tipped his hat. “Be here to settle my obligation as soon as I get paid.”

  “Wonderful! Say ‘hello’ to Sara for me, won’tcha?”

  “I will. And thank you, Ned.”

  Samuel grabbed the clock; he and Ruff strolled out the door. They stood at the edge of the wooden walk. Dark clouds seized the sky. A blinding flash of lightning discharged—the sudden crack of deafening thunder roared across town. Ruff hid at Samuel’s feet, rain then poured down in buckets. Samuel put the clock under his shirt, grabbed Ruff and dashed to the restaurant.

  At the back door he and Ruff entered the kitchen, dripping wet. As they stood there trembling with cold, a pool of water formed at their feet. Sara came in from the dining room and saw the two soaked souls. With surprise on her face she plucked two towels from a stack. She gave one to Samuel then got down on her knees and wrapped the other around Ruff.

  “Good gracious, you two,” said Sara with a grin, fluffing Ruff’s fur dry, “whatever were you doing in that horrible weather?”

  Samuel pulled out the clock and sat it on the counter. He wiped his finger across his nose, sniffed hard and began sopping up water off the floor. “Me ’n’ Ruff found a lake, just messin’ ’round ’n’ stuff. Then we went to the General Store, got myself an alarm clock—don’t wanna be late for work ’n’ all. When we left the store I saw the blackest clouds I’d ever seen, then the lightnin’ struck. I think it hit next to the store. All there was next was that blasted thunder. Had me and Ruff shakin’ in our boots. Then it poured cats ’n’ dogs—oh! Mr. Johnson, Ned, wanted me to say ‘hello’ to ya.”

  “That’s kind of him.” She smiled and stood. “I heard that thunder bolt, too. Scared the dickens out of me. Nearly dropped the order I was carrying.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am. I need to change into dry clothes.” He made his way up the stairs.

  Coming back down wearing a change of clothing, Samuel saw Sara preparing dinner. Because of the bad weather she had closed the restaurant early and cooked something special for Samuel and herself. He helped her by peeling the potatoes, cutting them to size, then cooking them. She fried chicken, made gravy, corn, and biscuits. There was an apple pie for desert that she had made earlier. Once everything was ready they sat and enjoyed the feast.

  Samuel took his last mouthful of mashed potatoes and pushed away his plate. “Mmmmmm,” he exclaimed, “good meal, ma’am. Stuffed full, I am.”

  “No room for apple pie, Samuel?”

  He took a deep breath, puckered his lips and blew out a sigh. He unbuttoned the top button of his trousers and patted his stomach. “There’s always room for that, ma’am.”

  Sara served each of them a piece of pie. As he dug into his morsel, Samuel remembered his mother’s apple pie. In the winter months they would make vanilla ice cream to go along with the steaming hot slice that was fresh out of the oven. He thought about his mother as he finished his final course, feeling the need to contact her to let her know he was alright.

  “I was wonderin’, ma’am. Do you have writin’ materials? I need to write a letter.”

  “Yes, I do.” She grabbed the inkstand from the counter and handed it to him, along with paper, and an envelope. “Go ahead, write your letter. I’ll take care of this mess.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He grabbed the supplies and his clock. He and Ruff headed up the stairs. They entered his dark room. Ruff hopped onto the bed, curled up and laid down. Samuel placed everything onto the table. He removed the lid of the glass container holding the wooden matches. He stuck his fingers into the chamber and pulled out a match then struck it on the table’s edge and inflamed a candle. He eased himself into the chair, took hold of the pen and positioned the inkwell and paper in front of him. He stared endlessly out the window, tapping the pen on the hard oak, hoping to come up with the right words, but it was hard for him: his spelling was poor, his feelings were scattered; nevertheless, he submersed the pen’s point into the ink and wrote:

  Dear Ma’am,

  Sory I hav not rote to u in som time. I had to muv kwik to git away safe. I em vary far frum u now. I think I kin be ok hear tho. I miss u vary much. I wil rite agin soon. I luv u.

  Li’le Carver.

  He folded the letter in half then in half again, then placed it over his heart, pausing for a moment, saddened with being so far away from the only person who loved him and whom he loved. Tears rolled down his cheeks, one after another, dripping off his chin. They tickled his face, but he didn’t bother wiping them off—there was too much grief in his heart to care.

  The antique grandfather clock downstairs struck nine, pulling Samuel out of his affliction. He clutched his clock, wound it, set the proper time and positioned the alarm to clang at 5:30 a.m. He snatched his bottle of spirits, twisted off the cork with his teeth and poured a shot. With his feet resting on the table he placed a cigarette between his lips, nabbed the candle and lit his smoke with its fluttering flame. He drew in the vapor and blew out three thick smoke rings. He realized he was nervous about work tomorrow, frightened that he would get his new life sta
rted, just to have it ripped away again. He only wanted a permanent change for the better. It felt that there might be one this time, that he would not lose his achievements once more. But there was always that dreadful doubt gnawing on his integrity that pulled him down into the depths of his despair. If only he could rid himself of this insidious plague, he could then find true peace of mind.

  Ready for sleep, the bleak outlook of his life had taken its toll on him. He breathed deep, palmed the candle’s flame and blew, killing the light. After undressing he crawled under the covers and smacked the pillow twice with his fist. He rested his head into the indention, visualized Mr. Steele’s generosity comforting him. With Ruff lying at his feet he fell fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 4

  WRANGLER

  Samuel was awakened by the crude clanking of the alarm. He gave out a jumbo stretch and a yawn. He shut off the sound maker, chipper and ready to take on the day. He picked up his clothes off the floor and hurried them on, grabbed the letter to his mother and tucked it into his back pocket. He sped down the stairs, heading for the kitchen as he peeked back at Ruff. “Come on, boy!” he yelled. “It’s morning. We hafta get grub in our bellies so we can work good.”

  Ruff lifted his head off the bed, made a rough grumble, moseyed onto the floor and down the stairs, appearing not to be thrilled about this early rising.

  Samuel stood in silence in the kitchen, scratching his itchy beard, wondering what to feed Ruff. Ruff sat at the back door, antsy. Samuel removed a lid from the porcelain ware and found a piece of chicken covered with salt. He took the meat, wiped off the salt, tore the meat from the bones and put the edible portion into a bowl. He opened the back door, walked over and sat Ruff’s bowl down by his doghouse as Ruff rushed over to the nearest tree to lift his leg to do his business. When done, Ruff trotted over to his doghouse and ate.

  Back inside Samuel saw Sara at the oven. She was toasting bread and had coffee brewing. The smell of the rich aroma of the stimulating beverage had Samuel ready for a cup.

  Sara skillfully cracked open two eggs at once and poured them into an iron skillet. She turned to Samuel with a warm smile as she discarded the shells into the trash. “Good morning, Samuel.”

  “Mornin’, ma’am.” He was excited about working. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table with his hands on his lap, fingers intertwined. “Can’t wait to start my undertaking with Oli, ma’am,” he told Sara.

  “Good, Samuel. I’m glad to see a sparkle in your eye. I have never seen it there before. It seems you’re doing better than when we first met—you looked a bit—adrift,” she proclaimed with a solemn manner.

  “I do feel good about stuff,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe this town’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “It may be!” she agreed, serving him his breakfast.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He grabbed a knife and spread butter and Katherine’s jelly onto his toast.

  “You’re taking lunch with you, right, Samuel?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I hadn’t thought about that.” He stuffed toast into his mouth and sipped his coffee. “Not sure what to take, though.”

  Sara grabbed a cloth sack, reached for food and started loading it in. “How about: two apples, some nuts, a piece of apple pie; and I’ll make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to go along with everything?”

  “Sounds great, ma’am. Thank you much.” He crammed scrambled eggs into his mouth and finished his plate, anxious to get to work.

  Sara put his lunch together and handed him the sack. “I’ll take care of the dishes,” she said as she eyeballed Samuel sternly. “Now you be careful at work, Samuel! Wouldn’t want you getting hurt… that’s dangerous work! Take it easy till you get used to it, okay?” She smiled and patted his back.

  He liked it that she was concerned, making him feel important. “Yes, ma’am. I hope I do good for Oli,” he said with a look of uncertainty.

  “Of course, you will. I believe in you. Don’t ever doubt yourself.”

  Samuel was touched by Sara’s words, wanted to shed a tear of joy, but held it back. He sniffed hard, drawing in the overflow. Sara smiled and led him to the back door, opening it for him and wishing him a good day. He swung by the post office, mailed his letter then headed off to work, arriving there half an hour early.

  He turned the handle on the front door but it was locked. Walking over to the window, he peeked inside and saw very little light. Only a few birds were chirping on this cloudy Monday morning as he strolled around the site to investigate its works.

  The waterwheel out back amused him as he watched each compartment fill with water to make it turn. An idea popped into his head about how to devise indoor plumbing for a lavatory. He took note in his mind of the design and returned to the front of the building.

  There was a lot of debris from last night’s storm at the entrance. He grabbed an old broom that leaned against the building and swept off the walkway, ridding it of twigs and pollen. When he was done he perched himself onto a rickety wooden stool, lit a cigarette and waited for Oli.

  A few moments later a wagon with two powerful draft horses galloped up and came to a halt in front of him. The ruckus nearly had Samuel falling over in his seat. He rocketed up, noticing it was Oli.

  “Don’t just do something, stand there!” Oli said, laughing under his breath at his backward remark.

  “Pardon me, sir?” Samuel scratched his head, not knowing if he should stay or go.

  “Reverse that, boy—twas a joke.” Oli cleared his throat and wiped off his foolhardy smirk. “Come on down, let’s get things goin’.”

  Samuel hustled over to him, holding his hat in place, ecstatic to start the day. “Howdy, sir. Good to see ya, again. And thanks for the job. I won’t letcha down.”

  “You better let me down!” he replied with a serious face. “How’m I supposed to work, then? Ha ha ha ha ha.”

  “Funny, sir,” smiled Samuel, “of course, come on down.”

  Oli eased off the wagon, held his knee and grunted in pain. Turning to Samuel, he said, “15 minutes for a break at ten. 30 for lunch at 12:00. Then another break at 3:00—ya know—work your schedule ’round that. Quittin’ time’s 5:00. You get paid on Mondays.”

  “Got it, sir.”

  “And no more of this ‘sir’ crap. Makes me feel old. Call me Oli, please.”

  “Understood, Oli.”

  Oli looked over to the side of the building, spit out his wad of chew and pointed. “Grab some of them oats from that there container ’n’ feed the horses, if ya don’t mind.”

  Samuel stared at the nasty, black blob of saliva-drenched chew glistening in the sunlight, the sunlight that broke through the clouds; he then looked Oli in the eye. “Right away, Oli.” He ran to the barrel, filled the two feed bags and hurried over to the horses. Removing their bridles he fit the bags over their snouts. Standing in front of them he petted their manes. “Hey, boys,” he said, “looks like we’re gonna work together. Let me introduce myself.” Samuel looked side to side to make sure nobody was around. “My name’s Samuel Lee Simms, but keep that to yourselves,” he whispered. Leaving the horses, Samuel found Oli at the saw ready to work. Samuel grabbed a pair of leather gloves and fit them on, inclined to help.

  “Samuel, take the boards off when they get to you.” Oli switched on the saw.

  The buzzing turned into a whine as sawdust flew about. The smell of the pine took Samuel back to his carpentry days when he and his father would spend hours building structures and tables out of wood for the neighbors. And sometimes they carved out little statues for the kids. Spending quality time with his father meant everything to him, bringing joyous times. Samuel grinned big as the cut pieces came into his grasp. He carried them off and stacked fifty into a pile.

  Oli shut off the machine, removed his gl
oves and glasses and put in a chew. He aimed his finger at two areas, spit. “Take those ones I just cut, ’n’ that pile, too,” he said “and load ’em on the wagon. It’ll take some time. Don’t worry, I got help comin’ sometime this week… it’ll get easier for ya.”

  Samuel heaved a few boards onto his shoulder and walked them out to the wagon. The long, flat slabs bowed and bounced up and down as he bustled. He set the lumber onto the tail of the wagon and shoved it in. As he carried his last load, his strength dwindled. His arms were weak. His legs shook and sweat dripped off his chin. He caught his breath then went for a jug of water on a table. He used his forearm to remove the perspiration on his forehead, then pulled out the cork and guzzled a good splash of cool, clear water. After he quenched his thirst he headed over to Oli.

  Oli, hunched over the desk he built out of oak and stained dark, went through paperwork. He removed his wire-framed glasses, folded them and slipped them into his overalls’ pocket. Oli turned to Samuel, peered up at him, rubbing his bum knee. “All done?”

  “Yes, Oli.”

  “Good!” Oli turned back to the table, fitted his specs back on and grabbed a piece of paper. “You know your way ’round, Samuel?”

  “Not too good.”

  “Can ya read?”

  “Pretty good. My ma taught me.” Samuel struck a match on his boot’s heel and lit his cigarette.

  “I’ll make ya ah map.” Oli took hold of a pen and dipped it into the inkwell. “Alright. First ya come to a bridge,” he said as he wrote it down.

  “I go east, right?” Samuel asked as he puffed on his smoke and leaned over the desk.

  “Correct. Now, cross the bridge. At a fork in the road go right. When ya come to road 12 turn right. You’ll come to a small town called Jasper. Turn left at Sequoia Lane—house is on the right—118’s the number. It’s ’bout four miles out. Should take about an hour to reach. Ya got it?”

  “Got it. No problem, Oli.”