Tanner's Law

by Charles G. West

  It was a long journey, with few stops, although he had found it necessary to spend a couple of extra days by a river in Kentucky because the gray was beginning to show signs of weariness. Although the horse was big and strong, it was still trying to survive on grass when it had been accustomed to periodic portions of oats.

  There were long days in the saddle, passing through the hills of West Virginia and Kentucky, skirting mountains and crossing countless rivers. Some of the rivers he identified, the Ohio, and the Mississippi, because he found it necessary to part with some of the small amount of money his father gave him to be ferried across. Being a sizable man, and well armed, he was not subject to many questions from the strangers he met.

  By this time horse and rider were becoming well acquainted with each other’s moods and habits. Tanner decided it was going to be a workable partnership, so he thought it time he gave the gray a proper name. For lack of a better idea, he called the horse Ashes, since its color reminded him of the gray-white ashes of a campfire. “Ashes,” he said aloud, trying it on for sound. “Ashes,” he repeated. “Suit you?” The big horse jerked his head up and down and snorted. “Good. I thought it would.”

  Since he figured to keep the horse for a long time, there was one other chore that he deemed necessary, one that the gray might not appreciate. He took the bayonet he had retained when he discarded his Enfield rifle and placed it in the coals of his campfire. While he waited for the bayonet to turn cherry red, he made sure Ashes’ reins were tied securely to a tree. When the bayonet was glowing hot, he wrapped one corner of his blanket around the shank and withdrew it from the fire. Taking but a moment to study the US brand on Ashes’ flank, he decided there was only one way to alter it. The gelding was not at all pleased with the alteration, and would have bolted, leaving its master on foot, if Tanner had not hobbled it. Working as quickly as he could, he burned over the Union army brand, turning the US into 08. He speculated on the possibility of adding a 1 in front, but the gray was not willing to tolerate further abuse, so Tanner settled for the two-digit brand. When the branding was completed, he slapped a handful of wet mud on it, hoping to ease Ashes’ discomfort.

  Under way again, the big gray kept a cautious eye on its master for the next day or so. But after a while, the sting of the new tattoo was forgotten, and horse and rider became partners again.

  Tanner was well adjusted to living off the land, eating what food was provided in the form of game. His nights, lonely and painful at first, became less and less contaminated with poisonous thoughts of Trenton and Ellie. By the time he struck the Marais des Cygnes River, he was able to sleep at night, free of troubling dreams of her and what might have been.

  He knew when he struck the river that he had been in Missouri for at least five or six days, but he had no idea how far he was from Kansas. Jeb had told him that Mound City was not far over the Missouri border. Tanner had no notion if he was north or south of the town. For no good reason, other than a whim, he decided to follow the river’s northwest course, since it seemed to be the right general direction.

  After riding a mile or so along the river, he encountered a young boy of twelve or thirteen fishing from the bank. In answer to Tanner’s question, the lad informed him that it was the Marais des Cygnes River, and if he followed it for another twelve miles, he would come to a little settlement called Trading Post. “Then you’ll be in Kansas,” the boy said.

  Tanner thanked him and continued on. “Helluva name for a river,” he muttered to Ashes as he left the boy staring after him. Once he reached Trading Post the following day, he was given directions to Mound City.

  Spotting the stable as he rode into town, he guided Ashes toward it. The owner, a wiry little man with a bald pate and a full set of whiskers, laid his tools aside to greet the stranger. “Evenin’,” he said, getting up from the feed box he was building. “The name’s Porter. I own the place.”

  “Evenin’,” Tanner returned. “I’d like to leave my horse for the night and get a double portion of oats.” It had been a while since the gray had eaten anything but grass, so he thought the horse would appreciate it. He dismounted and led Ashes into the stable, where he started to remove the saddle.

  “Cavalry saddle,” Porter commented. “Been seein’ a few of them since the end of the war.”

  “I reckon,” Tanner replied, hesitating before pulling the saddle from Ashes’ back.

  “You musta been in the Confederate army,” Porter said.

  The comment caused Tanner’s eyebrows to rise, and he turned to look at the man. “How do you know that?”

  “That aught-eight brand,” Porter said confidently.

  “Jeb Hawkins come back from the war a week or so ago, and his horse had the same brand. He said the Confederates didn’t put a regular brand on their horses. They just numbered ’em.” Then he paused to scratch his head, as he thought about what he had just said. “How come your horse has got the same number as his?”

  Tanner turned his head back to his horse to keep the stable owner from seeing the grin on his face. “That’s because he was in a different company than I was. He had number eight in his company. I had number eight in mine. I’ll bet he didn’t have the same color horse as mine, did he?”

  “No. That’s right, he didn’t. His was a sorrel.”

  “There, you see, he had the number eight sorrel. I had the number eight gray.” Tanner’s explanation appeared to satisfactorily explain the puzzle for Porter. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Jeb, would you? I know him.”

  “Sure, I know where he is,” Porter replied. “Where he’s been most of the time since he come back—in jail.”

  Even knowing Jeb for no longer than he had, Tanner could not honestly say he was surprised to find that his friend had already gotten himself in some kind of trouble. “What did he do to get thrown in jail?” he asked.

  Porter did not give Tanner an answer right away. Instead, he studied the broad-shouldered young stranger for a few moments as if deciding whether or not he should trust him. Finally he made his decision. “You say you served with Jeb in the Confederate army?”

  “That’s a fact.”

  “Well, it’s obvious to me that you ain’t been around these parts before, so I’m gonna tell you the way things are. You’re in Linn County, son. There’s been a helluva lot of blood shed in this county between Free-Soilers and pro-slavers. It started a long time before the war, and it ain’t cooled down now that the war’s over. Jeb’s daddy was shot down dead in a barroom fight between three pro-slavers and a couple of Free-Soilers. ’Course old man Hawkins didn’t have any slaves, but he believed in the right of the state to decide whether we was gonna be a slave state or not. I doubt if young Jeb cared one way or the other, but them killin’ his pap sure as hell put him on the side of the Confederacy.” He paused to relight his corncob pipe before continuing.

  “I’m tellin’ you all this so’s you’ll know to watch what you say around here. I supported the Confederacy, just like Jeb’s pa, so I don’t want you to get to talkin’ to the wrong people in town. You come ridin’ in here on a Union horse with the brand worked over…” He paused and winked an eye at Tanner. “I ain’t as dumb as I look. Some folks around here might ask you some questions about that. One of ’em is most likely gonna be Jeff Yates. He’s the sheriff, and he rode with the Kansas Jayhawkers, so he ain’t got no love for you Southern boys.”

  “Ain’t you folks heard? The war’s over.”

  “That may be, but there’s still some bad blood around here. I’m just tellin’ you how things are. Just figured you’d want to know.”

  “Much obliged, Mr. Porter,” Tanner said. “I’ll try to stay outta trouble. You never told me what they’ve got Jeb in jail for.”

  “Disorderly conduct, disturbin’ the peace, resistin’ arrest, assaultin’ a peace officer, and I think they’re considerin’ chargin’ him with stealin’ that horse.”

  “Damn!” Tanner grunted. “How long is he i
n jail for?”

  “For as long as they want to keep him, I reckon,” Porter said with a shrug. “Or if they charge him as a horse thief, till they hang him.”

  Tanner thought Porter’s words over for a long minute before inquiring, “Where’s the jail?” It was time to hear what had happened from Jeb’s mouth.

  “Down at the end of this street,” Porter said, nodding his head to emphasize. “It ain’t much more than a shack, a little two-room log cabin. You’ll see it. They’re talkin’ about building a new jail outta stone, but all we’ve got now is a shack.”

  “Much obliged,” Tanner said, tightening the cinch under Ashes’ belly again. “I think I’ll go see Jeb. I’ll be back to leave my horse.” He turned to leave, but Porter stopped him before he got to the door.

  “I ain’t got any idea if you’re interested or not, but Jeb’s horse is in the corral out back. And that fancy saddle is in the tack room. I’m supposed to keep an eye on ’em, but like I told the sheriff, ain’t nobody here when I go home to supper.” He turned then and walked toward the back of the stable before Tanner could thank him again. “You watch yourself, young feller,” he called back as he disappeared from view.

  It was a lot to think about. Jeb had made casual reference to the divided passions over the war in his county, but in mentioning his father’s death, he had simply stated that it was in a saloon fight. Keeping Porter’s advice in mind, especially his comments on the 08 brand, Tanner rode down to the end of the street to the jail. As the owner of the stable had said, the jail was little more than a log cabin with a sign over the door that read SHERIFF. There were no horses tied out front, and when he pulled up at the steps, he saw that there was a padlock on the door.

  Tanner dismounted and looped Ashes’ reins over the hitching post. There was a window on the side of the cabin, so he walked around the building to look inside. Peering through the iron bars, he saw a small room with a desk and a single chair, evidently the sheriff’s office. At the rear of the room, there was a closed door that apparently led to the cells. Moving to the rear of the building, he found a second window, this one smaller and a few feet higher than the one on the side.

  Looking around for something to stand on, he could find nothing in the way of a bucket, a box, or even a log. So he went back for Ashes. Looking up and down the street, he saw no one but a couple of men passing the time of day in front of a saloon about fifty yards away. They seemed to pay him no mind, so he climbed in the saddle and rode around to the rear of the jail. Seated in the saddle, he could easily see in the tiny window. “Jeb?” he called, even though he could not see anyone in the room. “Are you in there?”

  “Tanner! Is that you?” The reply came from directly below the window.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Tanner answered. “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m right here,” Jeb said and stood up on the bunk that was right under the window. The bed was close against the wall, which was the reason Tanner had not seen it from outside. Jeb’s smiling face appeared up next to the bars. “I swear, I never thought I’d see you again,” he gushed, obviously delighted. “What the hell are you doin’ here? Did you get run outta Virginia?” He chuckled in response to his gibe.

  “I came lookin’ for you,” Tanner said. “I was hopin’ I’d catch up with you before you set off for the goldfields in Montana.” He laughed then. “Looks like there was no need to hurry. What the hell did you do to get thrown in jail?”

  “Got drunk. That was what I suppose started it all. But, hell, Tanner, I wasn’t lookin’ for no trouble. Matter of fact, I was feelin’ like I was everybody’s friend until that son of a bitch behind the bar said somethin’ about my pa. Said I was fixin’ to end up like he did, or somethin’ like that. I don’t remember exactly what he said. I was drunk. Anyway, Jeff Yates, he’s the sheriff, he said I broke a whiskey bottle over the bartender’s head. I reckon I did. I don’t remember. Yates sneaked up behind me and hit me up side of the head with a gun butt, and dragged my ass in here. That’s how I got here.” He ended his story with a wide grin. “Ain’t that a fine way to treat a hero home from the war?”

  Tanner shook his head in mock dismay, then turned dead serious. “Jeb, that fellow, Porter, over at the stables, told me they were tryin’ to charge you as a horse thief because of that sorrel you borrowed from the Union army.”

  “I heard about that. Hell, I told ’em I bought that horse at an army auction. Same as you,” he added, “if they ask you.”

  “It didn’t do you much good,” Tanner said.

  Jeb laughed. “Nah, I reckon it didn’t, did it?” Then he abruptly changed the subject. “But I still don’t understand what you’re doin’ here. I thought you was goin’ home to get hitched. What happened? Did you bring her with you, or did she meet another feller?”

  “Yeah, my brother,” Tanner replied. Jeb’s question had been asked as a joke. When he realized that his friend was serious, he sputtered over an apology. Tanner shrugged it off, saying they all thought he was dead. He went on to tell Jeb the story of his homecoming.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Jeb muttered slowly when Tanner finished. “There’s a bright side to it, though,” he said cheerfully. “Now we can go to Montana, and find us a fortune—get us enough money to buy a couple of high-class wives. Hell, we might turn Mormon and have a couple of wives apiece.”

  “There’s not but one small detail that needs to be worked out,” Tanner reminded him. “You’re in jail.”

  “Ah, hell,” Jeb snorted. “They ain’t gonna keep me here long. It’d cost too much to feed me. I probably woulda done been out if it was anybody but me. Ol’ Jeff Yates don’t like me much. He didn’t like my old man, so I reckon it was natural he wanted to throw me in jail for a spell. That horse-stealin’ talk is just that—talk, trying to throw a scare into me.”

  “Maybe so. I hope you’re right. That fellow, Porter, thought they might be serious about it. I’ll go back and see if I can sleep in the stable for a couple of days till they let you outta here. Maybe I can find the sheriff and get some idea from him. Is he ever in the office?”

  “Not much of the time,” Jeb said. “He’s got a farm, like ever’body else around this town. So he just padlocks the door and drops by whenever he feels like it. The good part of it is I don’t have to see his ugly face but now and then. Annie Whatley from over to the saloon brings me two meals a day, so I ain’t been sufferin’ none.” He favored Tanner with a wry smile then. “Besides, I knew you’d come rescue me.”

  Tanner left with the hope that he might find out more regarding the length of Jeb’s stay in the crude jail. Jeb advised him to steer clear of Jeff Yates. He further advised him not to let on that he was Jeb’s friend. Tanner figured the best place to get information was the saloon, so after making arrangements with Mr. Porter to sleep in the stall with Ashes, he walked down the street to the Statesman.

  The evening crowd of patrons had already begun to gather in the dimly lit saloon. When Tanner opened the door, he paused in the entrance to take a look around the room before stepping inside. Off to one side, and a few paces from the door, there was a table with a sign requesting that saloon patrons leave all weapons there. A few men stood at the bar, exchanging conversation over their beer mugs. It was not a large room, but big enough to crowd in four tables beyond the bar. On this evening, only the table in the back corner seemed to be occupied, but there was a group of seven men gathered around it, having borrowed chairs from the vacant tables. Tanner figured that the table no doubt represented the saloon’s regulars.

  He paused at the weapons table to leave his Spencer carbine before proceeding to the bar. His appearance caused a brief lull in the din of conversation in the noisy room as most everyone eyed the stranger. After only a moment, however, the talk resumed its prior level.

  “Howdy, mister,” the bartender, a stocky man sporting a handlebar mustache and wearing a bandanna around his head, greeted him. “What’ll it be?”

  “I�
�ll have two shots of your best whiskey,” Tanner replied and grinned to himself when he realized the bandanna was, in fact, a bandage. It had been a long time since he had taken a drink, and he figured it would probably be a long time before he had another. So he figured he might as well have the best.

  The bartender looked him over while he poured from a bottle taken from beneath the counter. “Ain’t seen you in here before,” he said. “Just get into town?”

  “Yep,” Tanner replied as he paid for his drinks. “I’m just passin’ through.” He tossed the first drink down, grimacing as the fiery liquid scorched his throat. Then he placed the empty shot glass back on the bar, nodded to the bartender, picked it up again when it was refilled, and carried it over to the empty table next to the one in the corner. He pulled up one of the few empty chairs and sat down facing the occupied table.

  His plan was to strike up a conversation with one of the locals and possibly guide it toward the prisoner in the jail. He cautioned himself to avoid being too obvious in seeking information. As it turned out, he found out what he wanted to know without having to question anyone. Jeb became the general topic of conversation at the crowded table when another man joined the group.

  Pulling up a chair, the newcomer squeezed in between two at the table. From the round of greetings the man received, Tanner gathered that he had been away from town for a while. After acknowledging the greetings, he leveled a question at a heavyset man with a dark beard and eyes buried deep beneath a brooding forehead. “So, Jeff, I hear you got ol’ Zack Hawkins’ boy locked up in the jail.”

  “That’s a fact,” the heavyset man replied.

  “I expect there’s folks around here that was hopin’ he wouldn’t make it back from the war.” He shook his head as if puzzled. “I swear, I don’t know why that boy would wanna come back to Mound City.”