by Ann Shorey
A pulse pounded in Ellie’s throat. She squeezed her hands between her knees, then drew a deep breath and blurted, “Mr. Beldon, I’m glad you stopped by. I have a favor to ask.”
14
After two days in the saddle, Matthew’s body felt like it had been run over by a hay wagon, reminding him why he’d requested a church assignment following twelve years of riding circuit. The closer he drew to his destination, the more his resolve weakened. If he quit, he’d be running from God just like Jonah did. Tall prairie grass snicked against his boots as the horse followed a narrow track leading to what Matthew hoped was the ten-mile point—a grove of cottonwoods that oriented westbound travelers toward Quincy and the Mississippi River. He began to wonder if requesting a different church would solve things.
His mind shied away from thoughts of Ellie’s reaction to leaving the community where their children were buried, not to mention what she’d say about the prospect of starting anew after they’d worked so hard to build up their farm.
He’d been so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t noticed shadows stretching across the rolling prairie. Fingers of dusk had filled in the hollows. Matthew removed his hat and surveyed the grassland, hoping to spy a settler’s cabin nestling nearby where he might seek shelter. Nothing. He wasn’t eager to spend a night in the open with only a shotgun to protect him from prowling wolves.
When he crested the next rise, he spotted a narrow creek winding its way across the landscape. The horse saw it too, and veered toward the water. Upon reaching the sandy bank Matthew slid out of the saddle, still holding the reins.
“Guess this is as good a place to stop as any,” he said to the sturdy Morgan, patting his smoky mane.
After tethering the horse, Matthew removed his bedroll from one saddlebag and spread it about twenty yards from the creek. In the growing darkness he rummaged in the other bag until his fingers found the package of corn cakes and dried venison he’d tossed in for his supper.
He lowered himself to the ground, using his saddle for a back rest, and chewed his makeshift meal. Tilting his head upward he searched for familiar constellations—Little Bear, Hercules, Leo. I wonder if Ellie remembers when we used to sit together and count stars?
At first, Matthew thought he was dreaming about the big spring on the hill above his father’s farm. Cool water dripped on his face as though falling from leaves that hung next to the rushing cascade he remembered from childhood. But at the first crack of thunder he sat bolt upright, now fully awake. Streaks of lightning stalked through the blackness. Samson. He groped for his boots, then hurried toward the spot where he’d tethered the horse. A flash of lightning lit the area, illuminating the Morgan’s wide, fear-filled eyes.
Matthew reached the trembling animal and laid a gentle hand on his neck. “Whoa now. Settle down.”
Samson shuddered under his touch.
“I’m just going to get my oilskin.” He spoke in a soothing tone as he walked to his saddlebags.
Matthew slipped the waterproof garment over his already damp clothing and stowed his bedroll. The next burst of lightning showed him that the tiny creek had overflowed its banks and now crept toward them. If he stayed where they were, he’d risk getting washed away. But heading for high ground would tempt the lightning. He decided on the high ground.
Samson stamped and circled when Matthew tried to throw the saddle blanket over his back. Gripping the lead rope to hold the head still, he dropped the blanket over the horse. He had to let go of the rope to lift the saddle high enough to place it on Sampson. As soon as he did, the animal sidestepped.
“Blast it, hold still!”
A crackle of lighting flared. Matthew lunged forward and lowered the saddle onto the blanket, then grabbed the front cinch and snugged it around the horse’s belly. After waiting out another flash and boom, he fastened the back cinch and hoisted the saddlebags over his shoulder. Then, keeping a firm grip on the lead rope, he untied it from the stake. Samson pranced and tossed his head, but followed Matthew through the sodden grass to the top of the swale where they would wait out the storm.
Toward daylight the clouds thinned and scudded east. As sunrise flowed over the prairie, Matthew saw he was surrounded by sheets of water. Brooks and rivulets had swollen into roaring torrents. The grass lay flattened on the ground, obliterating the trail he’d followed the previous day. When he stared due west, he saw ragged shapes against the horizon. He tamped down misgivings at the prospect of riding across open prairie with no trail for a guide. While crossing through low places, he’d be out of sight of the grove completely. What if he lost his way?
He put a foot in the stirrup and swung onto the horse, grimacing when he hit the soggy saddle. Turning his back on the sunrise, Matthew rode toward what he hoped was the landmark he sought.
His progress through muddy water and across soft ground took far longer than he’d figured. His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d eaten the last of the venison for supper the night before. Angry at himself for not bringing more food, Matthew kicked a heel into Samson’s side.
“Giddup.”
The horse trotted faster, his hooves splashing fans of mud in every direction. As the sun rose, the cottonwood trees ahead seemed to ascend from the prairie and move toward him.
Encouraged, Matthew settled back in the saddle and allowed his mind to wander to his planned conversation with Elder Meecham. Suddenly the horse stumbled and pitched forward. Before Matthew could grab the saddle horn, he flew over Samson’s head and hit the ground, landing on his right shoulder. For a moment he lay in the mud fighting dizziness, white lights pulsing behind his eyelids. Searing pain tore down his arm and across his chest.
When he tried to stand, his feet slid on the slippery grass and he dropped to his knees in the muck. Drawing as much breath as he could into his lungs, Matthew managed a faint whistle.
“Come here, boy.”
The horse turned his head and looked at him, but didn’t move. He whistled again. “C’mon. Here.”
Samson took a few steps in his direction. By crawling on his knees and using his left arm for balance, Matthew reached the animal’s side and grabbed a stirrup.
He dragged himself upright, gasping as pain wrapped itself around his upper body. Swaying, he waited for a wave of blackness to pass, then shoved his left foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle.
“Aaah!” Cold sweat prickled his forehead. “God, help me. Give me strength.”
He fought the temptation to rest his head on the horse’s neck and sit without moving. Instead, he urged Samson into a slow walk. Every footfall sent knives through his upper body. He had to hang on.
Sunset had flared across the sky by the time Matthew reached the outskirts of Quincy. With gratitude he noticed a sign proclaiming the whitewashed clapboard building directly in front of him to be a livery stable. Once he passed the livestock pen, Matthew gingerly pulled back on the reins to stop his horse.
“This is as far as you go, Samson.” He patted the animal’s neck. “Now you get your oats.”
A husky man wrapped in a stained leather apron met him at the doorway. “By thunder, if ’n you don’t look done for! What happened to you?”
“Fell off my horse out there past the ten-mile point.”
“And you rode all this way? Gol dang! You’re a tough one.”
Matthew slid off Samson’s back. “Not so tough,” he gasped. “No choice.” He cradled his right elbow in his left hand. “Could you take care of my horse? Rub him down, grain him?” He stopped to catch his breath. “And tell me where I might find Barton Meech–am?” Brown eyes peered at Matthew from behind an explosion of beard. “From the looks of you, I’d best take you to him myself.” He thrust a grimy hand in Matthew’s direction. “Name’s Elijah Dawson. Folks around here call me Eli.”
“Matthew Craig.” He surrendered his left hand to the big man’s grip, wincing as pain shot through him.
“You wait there.” Eli pointed at a bench next to a watering troug
h. “Soon’s I get your animal stabled I’ll bring a buggy around.”
Matthew sank onto the wooden bench and rested against the wall of the livery. While he waited for Eli, he looked down the muddy main road that ran through town. Various businesses lined the street, among them a tobacconist, a saloon, and a post office. On a hill to the east he saw a cross-topped church steeple. From his vantage point in the shadow of the building, it seemed to him that the glow from the fading sunlight bathed the spire in gold. Weariness cloaked him and he let his mind drift into a state of semi-sleep. Shadows crept across the road and up the hillside, as though a curtain were being drawn over the town.
Roused by the sound of horse’s hooves, Matthew looked up to see Eli rounding the stable driving a low-slung black buggy.
“There’s a doc north of town. How about I take you there first?”
Matthew shook his head. He was primed to meet with Elder Meecham. Seeing a doctor would only delay matters. “I’m bruised pretty bad is all. Nothing a doctor can fix.”
He staggered to his feet and stumbled through the slurry of mud and horse droppings to mount the buggy step. Using his left hand he hauled himself onto the seat beside the stable owner. His injured side screamed a protest of pain.
“I put your gear in back.” Eli pointed over his shoulder at Matthew’s saddlebags lying on the floor. “Figured you’d need it.”
“Thank you.” Matthew squeezed the words out using as little air as possible. The buggy turned at the corner and started up the hill. After crossing two intersections, they stopped in front of a rambling one-story dwelling that looked like it had been cobbled on to at a whim rather than by any clear plan. It stood near the church Matthew had noted from the road below.
Eli jumped down and picked up the saddlebags. “I’ll tote these for you. Don’t look like you’re in any shape to carry them.”
“Thanks.”
“Want me to wait?”
Matthew glimpsed a lighted window in one of the added-on sections of the house. “No need. Looks like he’s here.” He fumbled in his pocket for a coin, but the burly man held out a palm to stop him.
“We’ll settle up when you come for your horse.” Eli flashed a white smile out of his bushy whiskers and climbed back into his buggy.
Matthew watched for a moment as he drove away. Now that he stood at Elder Meecham’s door the determination that brought him to Quincy fled. He’d pastored in Beldon Grove for so long. He lifted his hand to rap on the doorframe, then hesitated. Did he really want to leave his church? He shook his head. He didn’t see any way he could stay.
A tall, cadaverous-looking man opened the door at Matthew’s knock. Thick curly hair grew low on his forehead, beneath which a pair of dark brown eyes looked him up and down. “Do I know you, sir?”
“My name is Matthew Craig,” he said, conscious of his mudencrusted boots and bedraggled clothing. “I’m pastor of the church in Beldon Grove. I’ve come to talk to you.”
Barton Meecham’s eyes widened. “Craig! You look like you’ve been drug behind a horse. No wonder I didn’t recognize you.” He turned his head and called over his shoulder, “Ma, come here.” Returning his attention to Matthew, he held out his right hand. “We’re not doing any talking until we take care of you. Is that blood on your shirt?”
Blood? Matthew didn’t remember bleeding. Meecham slipped a hand under Matthew’s left arm and guided him to a chair in the warm room. A low fire burned in the hearth. In the shadows he saw that one wall was entirely given over to bookshelves.
Footsteps sounded from the back of the house, and an older woman hurried in carrying a lamp, placing it on a table next to Matthew. Her hair was covered with a white cap, which framed the lines and wrinkles in her face. From her slat-thin build to her dark-lashed eyes, she was undoubtedly Barton Meecham’s mother.
“This is Reverend Craig, from Beldon Grove,” Meecham told her. “Appears he’s going to need a little tending-to, and a hot meal.”
Mrs. Meecham bent over the chair where Matthew sat. “Think you could manage a little beef soup? There’s plenty left from supper.”
Matthew could hardly think beyond the persistent pain in his side, but he mustered a polite smile. “Sounds mighty tasty, ma’am. I haven’t had beef in a very long time.”
After Matthew had eaten what he could, Meecham and his mother insisted that he let his injuries be cleaned and dressed, then he must get a good night’s rest before getting down to the business that had brought him across the prairie. The two of them cleared a space on the cluttered kitchen table for a basin of hot water and then helped him remove his shirt and undergarment.
To his surprise, he learned that the blood on his shirt had come from a sizable gash in his scalp, which had bled down the back of his neck. As gently as she could, Mrs. Meecham sponged his wound with hot water, then smeared it with thick, smelly black creosote. Matthew flinched when the ointment contacted the open wound.
“There, there.” Mrs. Meecham made soothing noises. “It’s bleeding a little. We’ve got to get it to quit. I’ll be done soon and you can get some sleep.”
Blue and purple bruising covered the right side of Matthew’s torso. When he focused on his shoulder, he realized that it hurt too much to simply be bruised. He sucked enough air into his lungs to allow him to speak. “Feels like my shoulder’s broken.”
Mrs. Meecham looked at her son. “You’d best see to it. I can wash him, but I don’t know about setting bones.”
The tall man bent over Matthew, peering at his shoulder in the yellow lamplight. His callused fingertips probed the joint, each touch a jolt of pain.
Then Meecham stepped back, dropped his hands to his belt, and unfastened the buckle. He pulled the leather strap from around his waist, handing it to Matthew. “Put this between your teeth and bite down. This is going to hurt considerable.”
Matthew clutched the still-warm leather in his left hand, wishing he’d accepted Eli’s offer to take him to the doctor before conveying him to Meecham’s. He glanced around the low-ceilinged room, noting food spots crusted on the surface of the cookstove and the stack of unwashed crockery piled on a side table.
He dropped his gaze to the belt coiled in his hand. “Uh, think maybe we should fetch a doctor?”
Meecham leaned against the table, his face a picture of wounded pride. “I set many a woodsy’s bone in the old days when there wasn’t a doc for a hundred miles. You don’t think I’d lay a hand on you if I didn’t believe I could help, do you?”
Two choices lay before Matthew. Leave the house and find a doctor, which seemed an impossibility given his physical state, or submit to Elder Meecham’s ministrations and hope for the best.
He picked up the belt and bit down on it. “Go ahead,” he mumbled around the leather.
Meecham lifted Matthew’s right arm, gripping it above the wrist.
Sucking in his breath against the pain, Matthew waited. The room was so quiet he could hear water bubbling in the kettle on the stove.
Meecham raised the arm the way a blacksmith would open a bellows, then jerked it straight out from the shoulder.
Matthew screamed, the belt dropping from his mouth. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
“Don’t hear no crackling. I think it’s just dislocated,” Meecham said, retrieving the leather strap. “Bite down again. We’re going to put ’er back in place.” He manipulated the arm until the shoulder joint popped together.
Matthew’s eyes swam with tears. He let the belt fall from his mouth and rested his head against the back of the chair. Although his shoulder did feel easier, the throbbing in his ribs intensified and the wound on his scalp burned. “Are you done? I don’t think I can take much more.”
Meecham examined his bruised torso. “You could have some broken ribs.” He glanced at his mother. “Would you fetch a roll of bandages, please, Ma?”
Once they had Matthew’s chest wrapped and his right arm secured to his side, the Meechams led him to a small room th
at opened off the kitchen, and helped him settle onto a narrow quiltpiled cot.
Mrs. Meecham propped the sagging door with a stick of firewood. “I’ll leave this open so’s heat from the fire can get at you. Don’t want you taking a chill.”
The pain in Matthew’s shoulder and ribs alternated between agonizing and unbearable. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift homeward, knowing how worried Ellie would be when he didn’t return by Friday.
15
Ellie sat on the shaded back porch, her mind on the conversation she’d had with Mr. Beldon earlier in the week. She picked up a pencil and stared at the blank sheet of paper on the table next to her. “List everything you can think of,” he’d said. “You never know what might be important.”
Humidity coiled around her like ground fog. Ellie dropped the pencil and wiped sweating hands on her apron. Through the open kitchen window she heard the oven door creak and Maria dragging pans of bread out to cool. A thump told her they’d been set on the worktable. From the cornfield, voices of her sons carried up to the house.
She retrieved the pencil and leaned over to write.
Name—George Long
Born Cape Girardeau County, Missouri. Don’t
know the date.
Had fair hair and blue eyes.
Father—Andrew Long. Possibly living
somewhere in Missouri?
Went to Texas 1821 as part of Stephen Austin’s
company.
Would have married there sometime after 1821.
Children probably 18 to 22 years old.
Died in Brazoria County, Texas, December
1845.
Her hand stuck to the paper and she peeled it free. Eight lines on a page. Loss washed over her. Ellie bowed her head. Her children could fill eight pages about herself and Matthew. She sucked in a breath, glad she’d asked Mr. Beldon for help. When he found her family, they would answer all her questions.
Ellie wiped her tears on her apron, folded the paper, and tucked it into her pocket. Guilt niggled at a corner of her brain. She knew Matthew would be furious if he learned she’d taken her request to Mr. Beldon, of all people. She dismissed the thought by reassuring herself that if Molly could consult him about James, there was no reason he couldn’t help her too. Matthew would never need to know.
