Slow John

by Petit, C. J.

  “Is that kind of thing very common? New workers arriving and not happy with the conditions and leaving angry? I’ve been concerned about it since I left, so I stayed well south of the tracks.”

  He nodded. “Too often. The good news for you is that we’ll be out of Nebraska pretty soon.”

  “I heard about North Platte. It’s getting a lot of press back in Omaha before I left.”

  Spooner shook his head. “As the rails moved further away from civilization, some men back in Omaha got the idea to provide entertainment for all of those workers who had nothing to spend their wages on. So, they hired an entire train and filled it with building materials, whiskey, and women and headed west. North Platte was just the first of them, and it’s following west with the end of track. Whenever there’s a place where there’s already a semblance of population, they send out another trainload. They’re making a lot of money, but you can imagine what kind of mess it makes, especially with the Irish and their seemingly endless desire for drink+. No insult intended.”

  John smiled at the apology. “No offense taken. I’ve seen what even married Irishmen do when whiskey is around. I can’t imagine how bad it is with hundreds of single Irishmen and ex-soldiers around. Must play hell with any of the homesteaders.”

  Spooner nodded.

  “So, you’re heading that way to find your family?”

  “That’s the idea. I’ll tell you the story on the way back.”

  Ten minutes later the entourage was returning to Fort Kearny. He knew they wouldn’t be getting back before dark. At least he’d be able to get some food that was better than he could make.

  _____

  Mr. John Flynn was awakened to a bugle call sounding reveille, and had a moment or two when he thought he was back in the army. That dreaded thought convinced him to change into some of his new civilian clothes for the first time.

  Just because it was his now ingrained habit rather than any particular reverence for the uniform, John folded each of the blue wool uniform pieces and put them into his saddlebags, including his cavalry officer’s hat.

  He donned a normal cotton gray shirt with long sleeves and large pockets, a pair of the miner’s denim pants that he thought looked better than the canvas britches he had worn when he worked the farm, socks, a pair of new Western-style boots and topped it all off with a new, dark gray Stetson. He had to admit he felt a little odd after having worn nothing but blue for five years, but at least his denim pants were blue.

  He left his room at the officer’s quarters that the commander had let him use for the night.

  He’d already asked around last night and the only lead he had was that one of the troopers had told him that there were some Irish families living down near Plum Creek, fifty miles west, just south of the Platte.

  That’s where John was planning on heading as soon as he had breakfast and got his horses and mule ready to go. He’d head to Plum Creek rather than cross the river to the Union Pacific fueling and water station across the river that was already growing into a town. Like each of the stations, it was named after the nearest settlement or landmark, but the mapmakers had made a mistake and added an ‘e’ to the name and so, the new town was named Kearney, not Kearny. John wondered why they just didn’t admit to their mistake rather than change the name. Of course, the army had made a much more critical blunder when they had sent that telegram proclaiming his death.

  When he arrived at Plum Creek, he’d just go to the town and ask there. Someone could point him in the right direction.

  He had a normal breakfast and didn’t see anyone he knew, so he returned to the stables, saddled Arrow and the second horse, saddled, packed his mule and slipped his Winchester into the scabbard on one side and the Spencer in the second.

  As he left Fort Kearny, he swung by the sutler’s and bought a new shaving kit, and ammunition for the two Colt New Army pistols. He also picked up two nice pocket knives, so he wouldn’t have to use his big knife for simple jobs.

  If he kept a good pace, he should be able to make it to Plum Creek by sunset and left Fort Kearny around seven o’clock on a fine spring morning. There wasn’t any frost, the sky was clear, and there was only a gentle breeze. It was a perfect day for travel.

  _____

  John Flynn, looking every bit the Western cowboy, despite the only cows he had ever worked with being the family’s milk cows, had already ridden thirty miles by the time he broke for lunch and to let the animals rest.

  While they were resting, he thought it would be a good opportunity to try his new guns. He had held off practicing, so he wouldn’t use too much ammunition, despite the large quantity on hand. He just knew that if he had started shooting the new guns early on the journey, he’d get addicted and wind up using too much. He decided to limit himself to emptying each weapon once, except for the Spencer. He already knew what to expect from the carbine, so he left it in its scabbard.

  First, he tried one of the Remingtons. He was smiling as he picked out a target about sixty feet away. He was familiar with the pistol, except for the double action. He still used a single action on the first shot, cocking the hammer into position manually. He aimed and fired, hitting the small rock squarely. Now, he’d try the double action. He selected a different target, in this case, a buffalo chip at the same distance. He squeezed the trigger, knowing it was tighter when double action was used after dry-firing the weapon. But once he used it, it surprised him by being even more accurate, not less. He had no idea why, but he appreciated it.

  Then, he rapidly emptied the pistol using double action and let the smoke clear. He was thoroughly impressed with the pistol. Both Remingtons were outstanding weapons.

  Then, he tried out his new Winchesters, and found each one to be smooth and almost effortless. The .44 caliber round seemed to be magnetically drawn to the targets. He kept pushing the range and was getting good results all the way out to a hundred and fifty yards. There was some falloff after that, but he felt he could still cause some damage beyond double the range that was listed as the effective range of the rifle. He wondered if it was because this was a rifle and not the shorter-barreled carbine. Again, he had no idea. He wasn’t a gunsmith.

  He took time to clean and reload his guns, as well as the two Colt New Armies, and after they had been put back where they belonged in the saddlebags on his second horse, he set out for Plum Creek.

  John didn’t know if his family had stopped at Plum Creek or continued westward, but he knew he was on the right path, and if they weren’t there, he’d just continue riding west until he left Nebraska. He still had all his money in his belt, and he’d only spent about a fourth of the $400 he had in cash scattered about him for the trip, so he didn’t have to worry about money. His only concern was where his family had gone.

  John intentionally swung further to the southwest as he neared Plum Creek, so he’d come up to town from the south in case he spotted any farmhouses or sod cabins further south. If there were any farms, they’d be south of town where there was better soil. He had found the ground to be more like sand the closer he got to the river.

  After an hour riding southwest, he turned west again, estimating he was going to be about three miles south of Plum Creek, so he should be able to see the town to the northwest soon.

  It was just forty minutes after he had made the turn that he spotted a tilled, but unplanted field in the distance slightly to his left, so he turned in that direction, not even noticing that he picked up the pace slightly. He was surprised to see that no one was working the field in the late afternoon.

  As he closed the distance, his farmer’s eye noticed that there were already some random shoots poking out from the field, but it wasn’t a cash crop. They were nothing but weeds, and the field had been tilled, but not cared for since. But beyond the field, he picked out the roof of a sod house, but it had blended in so well with the plains surrounding it, that he had almost missed it. He knew it wasn’t his family’s place, because it was too small, but h
e figured he’d ask. He had to start somewhere.

  As he reached the front of the cabin, he slowed Arrow to a walk and pulled up.

  “Hello the house!” he shouted.

  After almost a minute of sitting on his horse, he was about to turn west and continue his ride when he heard voices inside – harsh voices. Then he heard a slap and then there was silence.

  John was aware that it was probably a husband and wife situation that was none of his business, yet he removed his gloves, stuck them into his jacket, and opened the jacket, swinging the right side in back freeing access to his Remington. Violent behavior against a woman meant the man wasn’t likely to be friendly.

  He was debating about stepping down and pounding on the door to draw the man out, when the door opened suddenly and a large man in his forties appeared. He was about what he expected to see in a run-down farm like this. His dirty black hair was unkempt, he needed a shave, and his clothes were in sad condition.

  Unfortunately for John, the shotgun he held in his hands seemed in better shape. He did note, though, that the hammers weren’t cocked.

  The disgusting man stepped out of the house a few feet and pointed the shotgun at John before snarling, “What do you want?”

  John stared into his eyes to get a read on the man and didn’t like anything he saw.

  “I was just passing through looking for my family. I thought I’d ask around if anyone had seen them. They were supposed to be homesteading in the area.”

  “There ain’t nobody homesteadin’ in these parts ‘cept me. Why don’t you just get out of here and leave me be.”

  As John was looking at the man, he caught a glimpse of a woman behind him in the shadows, barely visible. She was violently shaking her head ‘no’, obviously not wanting John to leave. In the darkness of the sod cabin, he couldn’t see much of her beyond the movement. She could be anywhere from twenty to forty, but it didn’t matter. She was being abused and even if she was a witch, he’d still have to do something about it.

  “Can you at least tell me where Plum Creek is? I need to pick up some more supplies, I’m just a bit short.” John said to bring attention to his large stock of supplies.

  The man glanced quickly at the still well-stocked mule and the spare horse, and licked his upper lip.

  John could see the wheels of greed churning and used the brief second while his attention was focused on his supplies to release the hammer loop from his Remington – his glorious, double-action Remington.

  The man’s attention was returned to John, as was the shotgun. John’s right hand was innocently hovering over his pistol, at least he thought it was innocent-looking. He would never know if it was the location of the hand or just a decision by the man to make his move. The reason was irrelevant.

  The man suddenly slid his right hand over the top of the shotgun and against the hammers of the shotgun to pull them back as John pulled his pistol. The man’s right hand had already clicked the hammers into position when John’s Remington spouted flame, smoke and its .46 caliber messenger of death.

  At just twelve feet, the large mass of lead blasted through his left upper chest, punching a large hole in his left lung before continuing its downward path through his heart and diaphragm until it lodged in his liver.

  The smoke was still pouring out of the pistol’s barrel as the shotgun-wielding man collapsed to the ground on his face, the shotgun dropping almost noiselessly nearby. He had died so instantly that there was little blood on the ground.

  John quickly dismounted and ran over to the man and gave him a hard kick to make sure he was dead. It was unnecessary, but John had learned early in the war to never trust that a man who had just been shot, no matter how bad it looked, was dead.

  After he had kicked the body, he reached down for the shotgun to release the hammers when the woman stepped out of the house, her eyes wide and staring at what John assumed was her husband.

  As he was releasing the hammers, he said, “Sorry, Ma’am. He was going to shoot me.”

  She never said a word, she just walked slowly to his body, glaring. She began to kick the corpse and after almost a minute, her energy gone, finally just spat on him.

  John had holstered his pistol, replaced the hammer loop, and was standing with the shotgun on his shoulder watching the display. The woman was much younger than the man, but similar in appearance, with dirty, straggly hair, a dress that was threadbare, missing buttons and filthy, and she wore no shoes. He guessed her age was about his own, maybe even younger. The most striking thing about the woman were her eyes. They were bright blue, and they were on fire with hate fueled by disgust and an overwhelming anger.

  When she finally finished her outburst with the hurling of her spittle on the body, she stood back, breathing heavily as she continued to focus those fiery eyes on the filthy dead man.

  “Ma’am? Are you all right?” John finally asked.

  “That bastard! I hope he’s burning in hell right now!” she growled with a level of hate that John had seldom witnessed.

  “I’m sure he is, Ma’am. Was he your husband?”

  She whipped her head in his direction. “Do you think I would ever consent to let that pig touch me? Of course, he wasn’t my husband!”

  John just put his hands in a stop sign to slow everything down.

  “I’ll move him out of there. Where did you want me to bury him?”

  She turned back to look at the corpse and said, “Let the buzzards and coyotes get him. Besides, we don’t have the time.”

  “Why don’t we have the time?”

  “Because his three bastard sons could come back any time now.”

  “There were four of them?” John asked incredulously. One was bad enough, but to live with four men like that was beyond his comprehension.

  John was ready to ask if she was pregnant, but thought it wasn’t the time to ask such a thing.

  The woman’s mood pivoted instantly from hate and anger to supplicant.

  “You’ve got to take me out of here. Please. I’ve got to be gone before they come back.” she begged.

  “Ma’am, I can handle them if they show up. Could you tell me what’s going on here?”

  She glanced at the body and then right back at John.

  “Two years ago, I was on a wagon train with my family. My husband had died six months earlier, so I went with them. Everything was fine for the first two weeks, then one night, as the families were all sitting around the fire, I felt a knife point against my back and a voice told me to come along quietly. So, all I did what I was told. I knew what he was going to do, but there was nothing I could do about it. He took me off about a mile toward the Platte and had me. When he was finished, he must have hit me in the head and that was all I knew until I woke up on the river bank in the morning. My dress was a mess and I didn’t even know where I was. I was soaked, so I think he threw me in the river hoping I would die, but I don’t know how far I had drifted downstream. I wandered for two days looking for someone, and found wagon tracks but no wagons. I was in a lot of trouble. I was lost on the prairie and I was hungry.”

  She sighed, ran her hand through her dirty hair and continued.

  “Then I saw this place to the south and started walking this way. There was a couple living here, Fred and Bertha Willoughby. They took me in and helped me, and said that the wagon train had gone four days earlier. Bertha helped repair my dress and they became my friends. They had almost no money, but let me share their food, so I helped as much as I could. I tried to find some way to go after the wagon train, but nothing worked. I went into Plum Creek to buy some supplies, but when I was there, I was seen by that bastard down there. He followed me back to the farm, but I made it safely. When I told Bertha, she said he, his wife and three sons had a homestead a mile west of here.”

  “Everything was normal for a while, then, six weeks ago, Fred and I were out preparing the fields and Bertha was cooking lunch. I caught sight of four mules at the house, and he began to run
toward the house and I followed when Bertha screamed.”

  She took a deep breath and wiped a sudden tear from her face, leaving a dirty smudge across her cheek.

  “By the time Fred made it to the house, I was still a hundred feet away and stopped because two of them saw me and started after me. I turned and ran as hard as I could, but they caught me and threw me to the ground and raped me. I thought they would kill me like the time before at the wagon train, but they didn’t.”

  She closed her eyes as more tears trailed down her face making clean traces along her skin before falling to the ground.

  “Then the real nightmare started. I had to bury Fred and Bertha because they didn’t want to do it. They kept me here to keep house and keep them satisfied. Not all of them were here at the same time, usually it was either the father, Thomas, who you just sent to hell, or the oldest son, Kevin. The two younger sons, Pat and Joe would alternate between here and their sod hut on their farm, if you could call it that.”

  John was stunned by her story, but finally quietly asked, “What’s your name, Ma’am?”

  She opened her eyes, “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Catherine Walsh, but I go by Kate. What’s your name?”

  “John Flynn.”

  Kate stared at him. Flynn! This couldn’t be true!

  Her newly opened eyes grew much more open as she asked, “John Flynn? You aren’t related to Michael and Mary Flynn, are you?”

  John was now totally flummoxed. First the incredibly sorrowful story and now she knew his family?

  He nodded and replied, “They’re my parents. I have three brothers, Dennis, Patrick, and Jack.”

  She shook her head, and muttered, “That’s not possible. They said you were dead.”

  John asked. “You knew them?”

  “Yes, I knew them. They were on our wagon train. We were in the last few wagons and ours was right in front of your family’s. But how could you still be alive?”

  “The army sent a telegram to my parents telling them I had been killed at Shiloh, but it wasn’t me. It was a soldier named John Flint. I didn’t find out about it until I mustered out of the army. I didn’t know they had gone, either. So, that’s why I’m riding west, to find them.”