Benjamin’s train snaked its way through the Mississippi forest. The European business venture had been highly successful. The three merchant vessels he purchased in Wales were making a handsome profit, but he was not satisfied. Being a successful businessman is not quite enough, he thought, sipping champagne. My millions have made millions and will make millions more. I need political clout to change the deplorable situation in Mississippi, indeed, the entire South. Southern white men must regain control. It’s a matter of pride.
The excitement of seeing the Mississippi River and a stopover in the old hometown just wasn’t there. The conductor opened the door of his private rail car and called out, “Vicksburg, Sir. Next stop Vicksburg.”
In all his travels, Benjamin had never met a woman quite like Holly Randolph. She was consistently the same. A few crinkles had emerged around her eyes, but she had the same creamy white skin, the same scent of lilacs and powder and the same lilt to her voice. She was always delighted to see him.
“You must be immune to time, Holly. Throughout the years you are as beautiful as you were when I was seventeen.” He straightened his tie and placed a hundred dollar bill on the nightstand.
The woman laughed softly and placed the folded bill in her stocking. “I hope you’re back to stay. From the looks of those duds, you must be doing all right.”
“I’ve made some sound investments. I have a lucrative law practice, you know.” He didn’t elaborate on his successes, nor did he tell Holly about the inheritance his mother left. “I just came to check on Larkspur. I’ll be here a couple of days.”
“The town is buzzing with gossip since Larkspur was renovated. Tom said it was completely restored…new stables, new barn, racehorses and registered cattle. Your neighbors and many of your friends are jealous. Their homes are still in need of repair.” Holly’s curiosity showed. “They wonder where the money is coming from.”
“Yes, I suppose they would,” he replied, dismissing the subject. “Have you heard anything from Dayme?”
“Not in a long time. Said she was enjoying getting to know her cousins. Did you know Morgan Edwards is out there? Dayme wrote that he was at a church picnic on the river. Can you picture Morgan going to church?” She chuckled.
Benjamin flinched inwardly at the mention of his old friend’s name but remained casual. “No,” he replied quietly.
“Will I see you again?”
“Of course.” Benjamin’s deep blue eyes tried to smile as his lips brushed her cheek. “Why do you think I came to Vicksburg?”
The Edwards’ estate at the edge of the city was rundown. There was no coachman to park the buggy as in the past and no black servants at all. A pimply-faced girl with mousy blonde, stringy hair answered the bell. She wore a laundry-thin, faded black and white maid’s uniform. “Mr. Edwards is in his room, sir,” she told him politely. He’s been feelin’ poorly since the spell with his heart.”
“May I see him?”
“I’ll see. Please wait.”
Corley Edwards had been a wiry man full of life since Benjamin could remember. Some of the comical things the old man had said over the years ran through Benjamin’s mind while he waited. Like the time Corley winked and told about diddling everything he came across when he was a lad. Benjamin chuckled to himself, recalling the tale about the bees in the rotten cantaloupe. “Diddled everything except a rattlesnake and a guinea. I was afraid of rattlers, and I couldn’t catch a guinea,” the man had said, grinning out of one side of his mouth.
The maid led the way up the stairway and down a long dark corridor. Benjamin wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Corley’s tan was gone. His complexion was sallow. His eyelids drooped with water bags, and his face was puffy. The foot sticking out from under the cover was purple and swollen into a strut.
Corley extended a blotched and weathered hand and gripped Benjamin’s hand in a warm handshake. “It wasn’t enough,” he grumbled, “that I lost my money during the war and my horses to the damn Yankees. That pin-head, simple-minded pimple is the only servant we’ve got.” He coughed, strangling on fluid before continuing. “Mary Margaret steals my cigars while I’m asleep. She wants to torture me to death, Benjamin.”
Benjamin chuckled. “She means well.”
“Hurrump,” the proud old man snorted. “In cahoots with that Yankee doctor. They’re tryin’ to get rid o’ me. Keep pilin’ up pills for me to take. I think that’s why I’m so weak. Mary Margaret manages to put my urinal out of reach when she leaves the room. I have to struggle for it….”
Benjamin smothered an urge to laugh as Corley continued bitching about his confinement.
“I’d get well if they’d leave me be. Let me do what I want to.” His voice turned sarcastic. “Anything I mention, it don’t make a damn what…to hear them tell it, it isn’t good for me. I could at least sit on the curb with Tolly and talk or….” He laid the open book he’d been reading face down on the nightstand. “Wouldn’t have a cigar on you, would you?” His dark eyes twinkled mischievously.
“I have tobacco if you have a pipe.”
Mr. Edwards flipped back the covers and slipped on a pair of spats. He painfully shuffled around the room rummaging through the bureau drawers.
“I can get it for you,” Benjamin offered. “Just tell me where….”
“Naw. I hid it in a pair of socks somewhere. Aha! She hasn’t found it yet.” Triumphantly, he produced the pipe, took the tobacco eagerly and filled it. “Got a match? That old biddy took mine away again.” He continued to stew. “Mary Margaret, I suspect, is tryin’ to prolong my death.”
Benjamin grinned. “Your life, most likely.”
“This is no life, Benjamin. Cooped in this little white room. I get so tired of seein’ Becky and Mary Margaret I could scream. Every time I see Becky lately, I have another chest pain. That poor excuse for a maid is always stickin’ a bowl of chicken soup or a damn cup of warm milk or hot tea under my nose. I hate chicken soup. Mary Margaret warms the milk because she knows I like it cold. I despise tea, and she won’t give me my coffee. Tea is a woman’s drink.”
Corley twisted his mouth to mimic his wife. “Are you comfortable, dear?’
“Hell no I’m not comfortable”, I tell her, not in this prison. I want to go with Tolly down to the corral or set on the riverbank and fish a little. Wouldn’t hurt me none.”
“When did you have your heart attack, Corley?”
“Last July. Got too tired pushin’ that plow.”
Benjamin remembered when Corley Edwards was much of a man. He broke broncos and could outride any man in the county. It must be difficult, he thought, for this proud old gentleman to submit to coddling. Quality of life is more important to Corley than quantity. I hope nobody cares that much for me when I get old and sick, he thought. I don’t blame Corley a bit. A man should retain his dignity.
There was a light tap at the door. “Well?” Corley snapped. “Who is it?”
“Becky, sir,” the maid replied timidly, pushing the door open. Her face flushed when she entered the room for she expected the man to be cross. “Mrs. Edwards sent you some tea.”
“I don’t want any damn tea!” Corley grumbled, mimicking the girl’s speech. “Begone with you! I’m visiting.”
“How about you, Mr. Farrington?”
“Get out of here and leave us alone!” Mr. Edward’s snapped in a gruff voice. “I’m not accustomed to back talk from servants when they’re dismissed!”
Benjamin indicated he didn’t want any tea although secretly, he wished for some. It seemed the conversation would never get off of the subject of tea and around to what was on his mind.
Once Becky left the room, Corley chuckled mischievously. “Want a little nip?” He reached an arm’s length under the mattress to come up with a brandy flask.
“Where did you get that?” Benjamin admired the invalid’s spunk.
Corley’s dark eyes twinkled. “Tolly brings it. Smuggles it in with the newspaper. Brings me cigars, too, but
Mary Margaret got wise to that. She searches the room when he leaves.” He passed the bottle to Benjamin first, before taking a leisurely sip of the nectar.
Benjamin laughed. “Old Tolly. Hadn’t thought of him in years. He used to shoe my horses. Still have your quarter horses, Corley?”
“Just old Nell. The damn Yankees stole the rest. Nell is as dead with old age as I am. I never see her anymore. Harve Wilson took me down to the stables last March. I’m not accustomed to women telling me what I can and can’t do. If Morgan was here, he’d take me.” He picked at a piece of lint on the bedspread. “Don’t ever get old, son. That’s when women take over men’s lives.”
“Heard from Morgan lately?”
“Yeah, last week. He got married.”
Benjamin felt like all the blood drained out of his veins. All he could manage was a mirthless, hollow chuckle. “Really? An Indian squaw?”
“Naw. Married that pretty little red-haired O’Malley gal. The one that sang in Tom Macy’s Saloon and set the gossips all a-twitter.” Corley laughed. “Mary Margaret has tried to die over it. Says Morgan drove his ducks to a poor market and disgraced the family. Personally, I think the boy did a good day’s work to get her. Dayme’s got spark. She won’t bore Morgan to death lookin’ sad-faced and righteous. Ought to upgrade the grandchildren, too. Shorten a few noses. Care for more?” He offered Benjamin the flask, but he refused, said goodbye and left.
The cool crisp breeze felt good after the visit with Corley, forced by ill health to stay indoors. Benjamin felt deflated, drained. The worst had been confirmed. No need to go on to Texas now. It was too late.
At the train station, he scribbled a message and passed it over the counter to Casey Judkins, the telegraph operator. It was foolish of me to think that little sow’s ear would change, he thought. Seems I’d finally come to expect the unexpected from Dayme. Father used to say, “Sometimes, things work out for the best in spite of one’s efforts to the contrary”.
With a steady hand, Judkins sat down at the Teletype and tapped out the message, “Molly. Meet my train in Boston Wednesday at 3:15 p.m. Love, Benjamin.”
Chapter 24
MEANWHILE IN TEXAS
The Floyd family blended in well with the black community from Fort McKavett.
Joe built a log cabin on his land and grubbed mesquite stumps to plant a few acres of corn and a grape vineyard. The twins worked alongside their father harvesting crops. Some of the corn would be ground into meal. Some would go into mash for Joe’s whiskey still downriver.
Lucy tanned animal hides and stitched them into winter coats. A Mexican neighbor taught her to make hot tamales. She used cornmeal, hogshead, deer ribs, cayenne pepper and other seasoning. The tamales were wrapped in corn shucks and delivered weekly to the troops at Fort McKavett. The family kept set hooks baited in the river, and recently, the twins found a litter of domestic pigs gone wild. Jacob shot the sow for fresh meat. They brought the piglets home, made a pen for them and fed them from wine bottles, for they were not big enough to eat mash. Their father was delighted with the boys’ find. “We’ll have the biggest pig farm in the county,” he told them. “We’ll have bacon and sausage and ham to go with our eggs.” He finished loading jugs into the wagon.
THE NEXT DAY
Lavell Silver hunkered down on a bar stool at the Cattlemen’s Saloon. He was a squirrelly looking character, tall and thin with a hind end so flat it appeared to have been struck with a two-by-four. His chin was practically non-existent and his greasy brown hair was slicked straight back.
Silver lived alone in a river shack. He wasn’t a man hankering for a job. Once in awhile Lavell did a little day labor when he was out of drinking money and somebody was desperate enough for help to hire him. Most of the time, he could be found in one of the area saloons, drinking and hoping to get into a poker game. His favorite hangout was “The Water Hole” saloon in Scab Town a few miles from the fort.
“Passed nigger Floyd on the road,” Lavell drawled. “Bringin’ in corn liquor. I sampled it. Damn good whiskey.”
“Bet you didn’t buy any,” Sam Morris replied dryly as he slammed a jigger of whiskey in front of the man. “Floyd better not hear you call him ‘nigger’.” The bartender moved on down the counter to talk with Si Woolsey.
Lavell took the brew in one big gulp. “I got a little sense,” he muttered.
Woolsey snorted. He had an amused grin on his face. “That’s debatable in some quarters.”
Few men in the county had the guts to take Si Woolsey on in a fair fight. Certainly, Lavell Silver didn’t. Woolsey was powerfully built and tougher than beef jerky to a toothless man.
Lavell met Si’s goading eyes in the mirror behind the bar for just an instant. He quickly glanced down at the glass. “Pour me another’n, Sam.”
“That black man is different from any I ever came across…like still water,” Si remarked. “I’d sooner tangle with three of those smart-mouthed buffalo soldiers than tangle with Joe Floyd. I wouldn’t trust him any further than Lavell could toss a two-year old steer. He’s a strange one. Talks like a white man.”
Sam nodded and added, “An educated white man. I haven’t had any dealings with him myself. There’s a deep haunting look in that black man’s eyes. You can feel the ice…that colored boy don’t like white people.”
“I wouldn’t want to be the man who crossed old Joe,” Silver put in trying to join the conversation. “No siree, bobcat. Prob’ly wouldn’t say nothin’, just eyeball you and smile. Then like as not he’d waylay a feller in the dark.”
Knowing full well that Lavell wouldn’t challenge anybody, Woolsey chuckled. He enjoyed needling the man. “When was the last time you crossed any man, Lavell?”
“Now, Si, you’re tryin’ to rile me, an’ it ain’t gonna work. Takes a lot to make me mad. I can be meaner’n a skunk when I get mad. No siree, bobcat, I ain’t the least bit mad.”
The bartender moved closer to Woolsey and lowered his voice so Silver wouldn’t hear. “I remember the day that family rolled into town in that green covered wagon. Joe’s woman looked scared as a raccoon in a tree surrounded by howling hound dogs when they passed here. She was holding onto that buck’s arm tight enough to cut the circulation.”
Si nodded. “His family was a mite apprehensive, but Floyd didn’t flinch. He looked us all straight in the eye.” He spit a cud of tobacco at the cuspidor and missed. He wiped his chin with a sleeve and grinned sheepishly before biting off another chunk. “Guess that sign upset the woman. Old Lester McDoon’s grave has sure paid off. Hope Lavell doesn’t find out about it.”
“Ain’t it so, he’d blab it to everybody.”
Only a handful of trusted villagers knew the real story of the derelict buried in the grave across the road from the cemetery near the Free State of Menard sign. It was the best-kept secret in the county. The man had no kin in the village. In fact, nobody knew where the crotchety old coot came from. He dug in the bottomland of the San Saba River. His holes were circular, resembling shallow wells. All were exactly four feet deep. McDoon reasoned that there was a Spanish tunnel leading from the mission to the elusive mine, and it couldn’t be any deeper than that. The numerous holes were a nuisance to the community. It was dangerous to ride horseback in the area after dark. Cattle often fell into one of McDoon’s holes and had to be lifted out with ropes. Two cows were crippled by the ordeal, and they had to be shot.
Women despised the wretched old man with the hemorrhoidal itch who habitually dug at his backside. Some people said McDoon had fleas. He probably did, considering how many dogs he slept with. Some of the rough and tumble men around town found McDoon to be a source of amusement, the first town character whom they called ‘rotten crotch’ behind his back. The fairer sex crossed the street rather than pass the stinking man on the boardwalk. The only times he got wet was when he was caught in a downpour. The only precious metal he ever had was the glitter in his eyes. He mooched drinks and took the frontiersmen’s guff. He tol
d wild, hair-raising tales and cursed the Lipan-Apaches for changing the river’s course. Somebody always dragged the drunken prospector by the heels when he passed out, to sleep it off out back. By sunrise, Lester would be back on the job, digging and sweating and searching for that tunnel. When the sun went down, the salty old prospector led a donkey named Pearl back into town. He tied up at the Cattleman’s Saloon and drank himself into oblivion again.
One evening in the winter of 1859, the men went too far with their chiding. The settlers sat around the pot-bellied stove drinking, swapping lies and teasing McDoon pretty heavy. Wylie O’Keefe was the man who broke the last straw. Another hotheaded Irishman, he called McDoon a dirty old fool who’d never find the treasure. One word led to another. Finally Lester pulled a pistol and started shooting wildly. It was a fatal mistake. One of his bullets hit the mirror back of the bar, ricocheted and shot the old prospector through the heart.
It was Charlie Shanks idea to bury the man and erect the sign as a warning to would-be outlaws. It would help, he told the men, to deter criminal activity in the community. So far, the ruse had worked. Some outlaws who saw the grave with its ominous headstone and the menacing message tacked beneath the sign circumvented the village all together. Others cut across the hills to Scab Town and Fort McKavett or rode in cautiously, picked up supplies, had a few drinks and rode on.
The word “outlaw” in Menard County meant “stranger criminals” for a few local good ole boys turned outlaw because of the Civil War, martial law and hard times. Some of the Confederate widows and orphans would have surely starved had it not been for good bad men.
Word of mouth spread throughout the state. Grisly details were added about the fate of lawbreakers within the township. Even gunslingers didn’t feel safe there. The fast-trigger men figured they could outdraw the settlers but were not dead certain because the male population walked around so cocky. They were afraid if they caused trouble in this strange little town, an ambush party would be waiting when they departed. That was probably true. The town had a good thing going and intended to keep it that way. When asked why the village had no jail, people smiled and replied, “Don’t need one. We have plenty of trees.” The reputation of Free State of Menard continued to grow. This was attributed to the bluff of the century…that lonely grave and entrance sign.
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