Scar and the Double D Ranch

by Jim Cox

  Dancer was a spirited, six-year-old dapple gray gelding who stood nearly fifteen hands. When Thomas entered the stall with the bridle and saddle, Dancer started getting excited. The gelding turned and twisted in every direction, keeping his rear end toward Thomas and his head away, so he couldn’t be bridled. Thomas smiled and grabbed the horse’s ear, giving it a twist. A short time later, he led Dancer down the livery’s aisle and through the door to the outside.

  As Thomas was stepping into the stirrup, he glanced back and saw the liveryman grinning from ear to ear. He knew what the old man was expecting, but he planned to disappoint him. When Thomas’ rear hit the saddle, the horse lunged, then bucked, then fishtailed, and then twisted around and around. The big horse kept his tactics up for several minutes, but Thomas stayed aboard. Dancer rested. His eyes looked wild. After a full minute, the gelding started again. It didn’t last long, however, because the horse soon figured out the man on his back was there to stay, so he settled down and started obeying commands.

  “I thought you said he was wild,” Thomas called out to the liveryman as he rode away. “He’s as tame as a kitten.” Thomas headed for the home his wife grew up in, which was difficult to find because of the changes that had taken place over the years. He was distraught to find the once beautiful two-story house had deteriorated beyond belief, its clapboard white siding weather-beaten and in dire need of paint. Two of the window shutters were hanging, several were crooked, and many of the roof shingles were missing. The yard was overgrown with weeds, most over a foot tall. Thomas noticed most of the other properties in the neighborhood were in similar condition. He dismounted, went to the door, and gave a firm knock.

  Minutes later, a crusty-looking old woman wearing a housecoat and a sour look opened the door. “Is Mr. or Mrs. Summers here?” Thomas asked. Summers was Virginia’s maiden name.

  “I ain’t never heard of anyone by that there name,” the woman said unpleasantly.

  “They were my wife’s parents, and the last I heard from ’em, they were living here.”

  “Could be, but I ain’t heard of ’em. I’ve only lived here going on two months.”

  Thomas thanked the woman for her time, mounted Dancer, and headed for the downtown office building where he had once practiced law. As he rode along, the properties improved a little from the Summers’ place but not by much. Minutes later, he came to the spot where the building once stood. All he saw was a large, single story dilapidated building made of sheet metal. It had a faded sign on its roof, identifying it as Baltimore’s Hat Factory, which was obviously no longer in business.

  Thomas remembered the way the area used to look. Back then, it had beautiful buildings and a lovely landscape. Potted fall flowers lined the streets, and unlike today, the streets were cleared of horse manure. The sight was disheartening, but what disturbed him more was the thick factory smoke and the putrid garbage odor the breeze carried. In fact, an overflowing garbage container was sitting alongside the factory building with rats rummaging through it. What has become of this place? he thought. Then he answered his own question. The lingering effect of the war and the heavy migration of people into the city from destitute countries have taken their toll.

  Thomas returned to his room in the afternoon. With pencil and paper in hand, he started organizing his thoughts for his search. Public schools would be his first avenue of investigation. Virginia would want to educate the children, so that would be a likely place to find leads. He would check with the hotel clerk to locate the nearest school.

  Next would be the courthouse. If she had remarried, there would be a record of the event. He could also check on house purchases while he was there, though most likely she hadn’t bought one because of her lack of money.

  The third place he’d check would be the police station. It was unlikely she had been arrested or had any run-ins with the law, but he’d check anyway.

  Another place to investigate was the hospitals. There were two when he lived in Baltimore, but others probably had been built since. They’d be easy to find; the names of patients, however, might not be available to the public.

  His next two considerations would require a great deal of his time and would be hard to carry out. He would question places of business that hired people, especially women. And he’d conduct a house-to-house search within neighborhoods, asking about Virginia and the kids. Perhaps a city map could be found at the courthouse or police station that would assist him in the endeavor

  It was past Thomas’ normal supper time when he finalized his plan. He was hungry and ready to eat, so he folded the papers of his plan, put them into his inside vest pocket, turned down the lamp, and headed for the dining room.

  He felt out of place when he entered the eating area. In fact, he had felt out of place ever since he’d been in Baltimore. He knew his western clothing set him apart. Today he had on a gray shirt with a black string tie, a black leather vest, and Levi pants. His leather belt sported a large silver belt buckle, and he wore pointed toed boots with heels. And when appropriate, he wore a black, high-crowned western style hat. Other folks wore typical eastern attire. Thomas suspected he stuck out like a sore thumb.

  After he had eaten, he went outside to take Dancer to the livery, but as he stepped out the door, he saw a man starting to mount his horse. “Hey…what are you doing,” Thomas shouted. “That’s my horse you’re about to get on.” The man jerked on the right rein and kicked the horse in the sides with his heels, causing Dancer to quickly turn from the hitching rail, but before the big gelding could start off, Thomas grabbed its reins. It was obvious the thief had an accomplice because as soon as Thomas grabbed Dancer’s rein, a man ran up behind Thomas with a raised club and started to swing. Luckily for Thomas, another man heard the ruckus, came running, and twisted the club away. The two thieves ran off.

  “My name is Walter Smith,” the well-dressed man who had grabbed the club said. “I own this place.” Thomas gave his name as they shook hands.

  “I sure am obliged to you for helping me out back there, Mr. Smith. I was on my way back to the livery when the two thieves tried to steal my horse.”

  The man motioned to a young man who normally helped people with their luggage. “Take this horse back to Wenger’s livery,” he instructed. Then turning to Thomas, he asked, “You were taking your horse there, weren’t you?” Thomas nodded.

  Mr. Smith turned for the hotel door, saying, “Let’s go inside and get a drink. It’s on the house.” Thomas’ stomach tightened. He didn’t want to be tempted, but at the same time he didn’t want to seem unappreciative, so he followed.

  As soon as the men sat down at a corner table, a waiter brought two glasses and a bottle of his boss’ favorite whiskey and filled both glasses. Mr. Smith quickly downed his and poured another. Thomas was in a quandary. His hands were starting to sweat, he was shaking, and his mouth was watering. He wanted to drink the whiskey in the worst way, but he knew he wouldn’t stop with one glass.

  However, as time lingered, he started rationalizing. His eyes stayed glued to the glass. It’s been years since I’ve had a drink. Maybe my old habit is behind me, and I can restrict myself to one. What harm could one little glass of whiskey do? I can drink a little now and leave it alone after tonight.

  “Drink up,” Mr. Smith said as he pushed the filled glass closer. Thomas was shaking, he was sweating, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. He used both hands to hold the glass because they were shaking so much, but even then, nearly half of the whiskey slopped out on the table as he raised it to his mouth. The whiskey aroma filled his nostrils, causing his taste buds to swell in anticipation. He opened his mouth, ready to throw down the brown liquid he craved when a picture developed in his mind—a picture of Virginia and his children. Then a question presented itself. Do you love whiskey more than you love your wife and children? His hand paused in midair as tears welled up in Thomas’ eyes. He sat the glass down.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but I can’t drink that
whiskey,” he said, pushing the glass back across the table. “I’ve been sober for years, but I’m still an alcoholic. If I take a single swallow, I’ll be hooked again, and I don’t want that.”

  With concern showing in his eyes, the hotel owner looked at Thomas. After considering the situation for a few seconds, Mr. Smith got a waiter’s attention and motioned him over. “Take these glasses and bottle away. Bring us a pot of coffee and two cups.”

  Thomas raised his eyes and said, “Thank you, sir.”

  When the coffee was brought, swallows were taken, and the cups placed back on the saucers, Mr. Smith asked, “Where’s home, Thomas, and what brings you to Baltimore?”

  Thomas spent a few seconds collecting his thoughts and then explained to Mr. Smith why he was in Baltimore. He also outlined his plan to find his family. Thirty minutes later, after cups had been filled three times, the story ended.

  “I don’t have time now, Thomas, but I’d like to hear more. Maybe I can help? I have quite a few connections.” With that, the men rose, and Thomas headed for his room. His hands were still shaky.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Over the next several days Thomas visited all eleven of Baltimore’s schools. The first day he had asked the desk clerk the directions to the closest one. After visiting it, he followed up with a manifest of Baltimore schools he received from an administrator there.

  As it turned out, most of the schools were in neighborhoods where average families lived, a few were in high-income areas, and some served the poor amidst undesirable surroundings.

  Thomas was amazed at the cooperation he received from the school authorities. Each maintained a file with records of their students by name, with grade, age, sex, parents’ names, and address included. He was allowed to examine the records once he explained his dilemma.

  After eight days, Thomas had checked off every school on his list, except one. He had found no information about his children.

  There’s probably no need to go to the last listing. I’ll be wasting my time, he thought.

  Finishing his breakfast on Friday morning, Thomas was ready to return to his room and begin on the second category of his investigation plan. As he reviewed his school search, he concluded his wife most likely hadn’t returned to Baltimore. But the one remaining unexplored school kept coming to mind. Why did I decide to skip it? He asked himself. It could be the one I’ve been looking for. Thomas quickly had a change of thinking and started for the livery.

  He followed the city map to the last school in the heart of Baltimore’s slum area. As he got closer to his destination, the neighborhood housing gave way to run down shacks with pieces of cardboard over broken window panes and dilapidated porches. Some screen doors hung from one hinge. Many roofs had dozens of missing shingles. The yards were trampled to bare ground, and many houses were surrounded with piles of debris and uncontained garbage. Thomas saw dogs scrounging through the neighborhood refuge. Stench filled the air.

  The principal was accommodating and led Thomas through his office to a connecting room where the school records were stored, and then he left him to explore on his own.

  Thomas pulled out a file dated 1862. He put it back and took out another, this for 1867. Like files from other schools, the data was categorized by grade and then listed the students’ names in alphabetic order. “Mary would have been six years old and in the first grade,” he mumbled, so he flipped to the first-grade section and went to the column of names. His eyes widened, and he grinned as his finger slid downward to Albright, Mary. He quickly looked for the girl’s age, her parent’s names, and address. Virginia Albright was listed as her parent. Thomas’ stomach tightened when he saw his name had been omitted. He was elated to find Mary but was disappointed no address was listed. Perhaps it’s listed in the next year, he thought, as he quickly retrieved the file for 1868. But Mary’s name wasn’t on the roll. In fact, it was not to be found in any of the later years. Neither was Tommy’s.

  Showing the file to the principal, Thomas asked if he remembered Mary. The principal shook his head and referred Thomas to her first-grade teacher. He waited until the lunch bell rang and then went to her room. She was a jolly lady with pulled back gray hair, wearing a dark blue dress. He guessed her to be in her early sixties. Thomas introduced himself.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Albright?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for my wife and children,” he said. “It’s a long story but…,” Thomas recited the high points of the story and ended by showing her the 1867 file with Mary’s name in it. “The principal said you would have been her teacher and might remember her.”

  The schoolmistress paused in deep thought before she said, “I do remember her.” She smiled. “I recall her because she always came to class dressed very neatly, wearing a pioneer-style dress and always wore those long blond pigtails. At the time, girls around here didn’t wear their hair in pigtails. Your daughter was a very pretty little girl, Mr. Thomas.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He couldn’t help but smile. “There is no address given for her in the file, and she’s not listed in other years. Do you know where she lived or what happened to her?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Albright. I don’t know anything more about her. She only attended class for four or five days as I recall.” The teacher paused and then said, “I often wondered what happened to her.” Thomas was disappointed.

  After thanking the teacher and principal for their help, he headed back to his hotel.

  Thomas readied himself the next morning to search the courthouse for any possible marriage arrangements Virginia may have entered into. After breakfast, he went to the lobby waiting for the morning to come alive. He spotted a newspaper on the table. After pouring himself a cup of lobby coffee, he picked up the paper and found a comfortable chair.

  BALTIMORE’S GARBAGE was the paper’s headline.

  The meeting room was overflowing with concerned citizens at the monthly City Council meeting last night. The entire meeting was taken up with the city’s garbage and odor problem. Any attempt to close the subject and move on to other agenda topics was unsuccessful.

  Thomas smiled. “Apparently, I’m not the only one who is upset with the situation,” he mumbled to no one in particular. The article went on.

  The mayor outlined the reasons the garbage problem was so severe and said once it was corrected the odor would subside. He stated the influx of people into the city over the past few years has made it almost impossible to keep up with the garbage pickup requirements. The city’s population is approaching 350,000, a forty percent increase in ten years. On top of that, we’ve had a boom of new industry which adds jobs and tax revenue, but aggravates the garbage and pollution problem. In addition to the solid waste these factories generate, they’re dumping large quantities of raw waste into our rivers and streams at an alarming rate, which is causing a serious problem.

  Quoting the mayor, “The problem is not easy to solve. We could raise taxes. That would be the easy thing to do, but our citizens can’t afford it. As you know, we’ve been under a financial burden since the war started, and even though it’s been over for thirteen years, the economic hardship continues. Our families aren’t back on their feet yet.”

  The mayor concluded by indicating plans were nonetheless being formulated to correct the situation. Hopefully within a few months. He also said New York City had the same problem, only much worse.

  Thomas returned the newspaper to the table and headed for the livery to get Dancer. The pungent odor was as prevalent as ever.

  “May I help you?” the receptionist asked later in day when Thomas entered the courthouse.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for the area where marriage records are kept.” She directed him to an upstairs room at the end of the hall.

  Thomas introduced himself to the clerk upstairs, who led him down a long walkway with bookshelves from ceiling to floor on one side and tables across the aisle. When she came to a sign marked Marriage Re
cordings, she stopped and explained how the records were kept. The hardbound ledgers on the shelves were extremely large—about two feet square and three inches thick.

  Thomas pulled out the ledger that had 1867 written on its spine and took it to a table. Three columns on the front and back of each page listed the marriage date, the couple’s names, and their age. Thomas painstakingly went up and down each column looking for Virginia’s name. He completed his search only minutes before the courthouse closing and headed for the hotel having searched every ledger, from 1867 to the present, February 14, 1879. It had been a bittersweet afternoon, bitter because he found no record of his wife’s whereabouts, but sweet because she had not remarried—at least not in Baltimore.

  Thomas had skipped his noon meal and was starving by the time he reached the hotel. But before eating, he wanted to take a bath and clean up a little. After visiting the hotel’s barber for a hair and beard trim, Thomas entered the bathing area where three of the four tubs were occupied.

  He lingered in the water a little longer than normal, thinking about the next move in his search. The attendant kept his bath hot by dumping a bucket of steaming water into the tub every so often. It was very relaxing. When Thomas noticed two men waiting to bathe, he got out of the tub, toweled off, and put on clean clothes, feeling rejuvenated. He handed the barber two bits for the hair trim and bath and headed to the dining room. The hot bath had added to his hunger, and the thought of a large fried steak and mashed potatoes got his mouth watering, so his step quickened a mite.

  His coffee had been poured and his order taken when Mr. Smith walked up. Smith was a distinguished looking man with broad shoulders, close to six feet tall with a few extra pounds around his midsection. His dark brown suit was tailored to perfection, and his white shirt collar was highly starched. A gold stud centered his tie, and cufflinks matched the tie stud. His thinning brown hair was parted in the middle. He had a thick mustache hanging down at its ends. Thomas guessed him to be about fifty years old.