Riding from Memories

by Jim Cox

  “I have a fair assortment of seed. Do you have money to pay for this order? We don’t sell on credit or take Confederate money any longer.”

  Buck laid a ten-dollar gold coin on the counter and asked, “Will this work?”

  The clerk’s gaze stayed on Buck for a few seconds and then returned to the ten-dollar gold piece. “What can I get for ya?” Buck slowly ordered his mental list of groceries, pausing occasionally as other items came to mind. When the clerk had written down his order, Buck told him of the garden seeds he wanted and then headed for the clothing area. Within minutes he had selected two pairs of pants, a wide leather belt, two plaid shirts, socks, work boots, and a straw hat. Buck purposely picked out shirts and pants a couple sizes larger than his present body size to allow for future weight gain. On his way back to the counter with the clothing, he saw a bolt of material he thought would make pretty dresses for Viola and Helen.

  “That’ll be six dollars and twenty-three cents,” the clerk said when he totaled Buck’s purchases.

  “How much material does it take to make a woman’s dress?” Buck asked.

  “It depends on the woman’s size, but most usually, women buy five to six yards for a dress.”

  Buck thought on the matter for a few seconds. “I’d like ten yards of that there blue and white checked material,” he said, pointing to the bolt of cloth he’d noticed earlier. The clerk nodded. “And when you’re finished with the material, sack-up a pound of that sugar candy.”

  The clerk handed Buck two dollars and a nickel when the transaction was completed and was starting to bag the items when Buck said, “I’ll be picking up these things tomorrow if it’s agreeable with you, but right now I want to get rid of these rags I’m wearing and put on some of the new clothes I bought.” The clerk nodded and pointed to a side room where Buck could change.

  He was nearly to the door wearing his new clothes when he turned and asked the clerk, “Is the horse livery still on the South end of town?” The clerk nodded, and Buck walked out the door onto the boardwalk, where he faced the man in gray who had given him the warning. He looked Buck over from hat to boots, nodded with snarled lips and went back to his bench. Inwardly, Buck was smiling as he untied his horses and stepped into the stirrup while holding Molly’s lead rope. As he headed for the livery, he knew all eyes were on him.

  “You’ve got yourself two mighty fine-looking horses, young man,” the liveryman said when Buck rode up. “I ain’t seen anything like ’em for a couple of years, except for Army stock. I use to have several in the corral all the time, but since the war started, the Army has confiscated everything I can get my hands on. Always paid me high prices though. Now that the war’s over, maybe I can rebuild my stable.”

  Buck started. “I see you have a few mules and several milk cows. How come you have those?”

  “I got the mules a couple days ago from a couple of cotton farmers who were run out of business and didn’t have a need for ’em anymore. They practically gave ’em to me. As far as the cows go, I bought ’em for little-to-nothing because the families needed to be shut of ’em since they were heading west.” Buck was pleased to hear what the man had volunteered. It would come in handy during the negotiations.

  The man had returned to his harness mending when Buck asked rather suddenly, “How much will you give me for this sorrel mare of mine?” The liveryman jerked his head up with a sober expression, hoping his mouth hadn’t put him in a precarious bargaining position.

  Much later, when the sun was about ready to call it a day, the liveryman owned the sorrel mare, the two saddles, and three of the five Winchester rifles. And Buck owned two prime mules with matching harness, two milk cows soon to birth, the best of five large wagons he had to choose from, seven bushels of corn, and five bags of oats. He also got two crates large enough to haul chickens and a few small pigs and a ten-dollar gold coin.

  After the men had shaken hands to consummate the deal, Buck said, “I’ll be back in the morning to get my belongings.” He then mounted Black and headed south out of town to find a place to spend the night.

  As Buck rode down a dirt trail alongside a dense woods, his mind was filtering through the various possibilities he could do with the stock and other goods he had gotten from his trade, when a small stream crossed his path. Buck stopped at its edge, considering setting up camp by the stream. It’ll provide plenty of water and firewood. The only thing missing is grass for Black. Maybe I can find a clearing with grass further down the creek.

  It was rather dark under the trees as he headed west alongside the stream, but soon the trees thinned, and a small clearing opened up with plenty of grass. Buck set up camp under a large, stand-alone oak tree a few yards away from the wooded area.

  After leading Black to a patch of good grass and hobbling him, Buck went for firewood. By the time the fire had burned down to a suitable cooking flame, Buck was dragging in the last of the night’s needed wood. Shortly, he had coffee water on and slices of bacon hanging over the fire on a forked branch.

  As Buck sat leaning against the tree holding his sandwich and coffee, his mind went to his future. I ain’t figured out what I’m gonna be doing with my life but there’s one thing for sure, I ain’t gonna work in Enterprise…the town’s gone to waste.

  It had been a long day, and he wanted to get an early start in the morning, so he readied himself for bed. He had stripped down to his underdrawers and now lay under covers with his head on his saddle close to the big tree. Overhead the half-moon shone brightly through the clear Alabama night air, and the twinkling stars seemed to fill the sky. In the distance, two coyotes were exchanging songs.

  Buck laid wide-eyed. Sleep wouldn’t come, and for some reason, the crusty-looking men that had lined the town’s boardwalk kept surfacing in his mind. He felt they had probably once been outstanding citizens with a bright outlook on the future, but during the war years had turned into men who trusted no one. Who thought the land’s morals had deteriorated to almost nothing. Who thought the country’s government had turned against them. And who thought the country was now a disgrace. And why shouldn’t they think this way? After all, most had lost a son—maybe several, or a brother…maybe even a father. Buck remembered the death of his own brothers with sadness.

  And in addition to the loss of family members, their farms and homes have been ruined, leaving them with no means to support their families. Most are living in dilapidated housing without even the comfort of a good meal.

  Buck started to turn over and put these depressing thoughts from his mind when a concern came to him. What if some of those men who were sitting on benches outside the mercantile decided to follow and rob me because they thought I was carrying money since they saw me buying things? Something kept telling him to play-it-safe and hide his valuables. His money, the envelope with important-looking papers, his rifle, and his saddlebag. After he’d found a good hiding place in the woods, he returned to his bed and was soon sleeping.

  Buck woke and raised himself to a sitting position when he heard Black’s whinny. But before he could stand, a man slipped up from behind, grabbed him, and pulled him up. Buck got a quick look at the intruder. He was huge. Then two more men appeared and started searching his clothing. “There ain’t nothing here but a dime and two nickels. He must have hidden the rest someplace.” Buck had purposely left three small coins in his pants pocket to throw off intruders.

  “Yaw,” said another robber, “he had a saddlebag when he was in town, but there ain’t none laying around here.”

  Buck tried to squirm loose from the big man, but his grip was too firm for Buck’s weakened body to break away. One of the other men walked up to Buck with a snarl and started the interrogation. “Where’s your money?”

  Buck responded, “You found all I have left. I spent the rest of my money in the mercantile on clothes and food.”

  “You’re lyin’!” the man said as he grabbed Buck’s shirt front and backhanded him across the face, causing blood
to splatter from his nose.

  “Where’s your saddlebag?” the man asked with squinted eyes and a wrinkled forehead.

  “I left it at the livery,” Buck said.

  “That’s another lie,” the man said as he threw a hard-right punch to Buck’s mid-section, followed with a roundhouse left to the side of his face, cutting a gash near Buck’s eye.

  During the next thirty minutes, Buck was punched over and over as the thieves tried to beat the information out of their captive, but Buck didn’t waver in his silence. This ain’t nothing compared to what I went through in the prison camp, was Buck’s last thought before he lost consciousness.

  The bright sun was beaming down when Buck opened his left eye. His other was swollen shut. He lay quietly listening for any unwanted sounds, but none came—only the sound of crickets chirping and the cawing of crows. Buck raised himself slightly but was overcome with so much pain that he lay back down on the matted grass which was several yards from his bedroll. Prepared for the pain, Buck raised himself onto his right elbow, and after several seconds climbed to his knees. Soon he was hurrying to his hiding place. Nothing was missing. A smile started, but a jabbing pain erased it.

  Buck looked at his battered image in the stream’s reflection when he went for coffee water. Dried blood covered his face, and his beard was caked in dark red. His face was badly swollen, and his right eye was completely closed with a two-inch laceration under it. Both cheeks had cuts, and his jaw bones were tender when he touched them. Despite his many cuts and bruises, he busied himself bathing, dressing, and packing his belongings onto Black.

  “What in the world happened to you?” the liveryman asked when Buck climbed down from Black. “I fell off my horse,” was Buck’s reply. The liveryman didn’t question his answer, knowing some things were better off left alone.

  Standing to one side of the corral fence were Buck’s mules hitched to his loaded wagon with both cows tied to the wagon’s rear. “Thought I’d have things ready for ’ya when you got here,” the old timer said. “It’s been ready for over an hour.”

  Buck thanked the man, tied Black next to the cows, climbed onto the driver’s seat, and headed for the mercantile looking at the rear-ends of two mules.

  “What happened to you?” the clerk at the mercantile asked.

  It was the same question the liveryman had asked, causing Buck to smile as he repeated the same answer. “I fell off my horse.”

  “I have your purchases in bags over here,” the clerk said, “I’ll be happy to help carry ’em out.”

  “Thanks,” Buck said, “but first I’d like to buy a few other things.” The clerk nodded. Buck reached for his saddlebag he had slung over his left shoulder as he left the wagon, and pulled out his Colt revolver along with the Bowie knife. “I’d like a holster for these if you have ’em on hand.” The clerk nodded, went to the gun case where he retrieved them both and laid them on the counter. Buck inserted the knife and gun—they fit perfectly. I ain’t gonna be taken advantage of no more with these hanging on my side, he thought with a slight smile.

  After the new goods were paid for and everything was carried to Buck’s wagon, he asked the clerk, “I have a document that needs reading and I ain’t able to read. Can you read it to me?”

  “I’m a fair hand with numbers, but I’m awfully slow when it comes to reading. If I was you, I’d go talk with the town’s mayor. He’s an educated man who stays dressed up—be easy to spot—normally goes to the café about this time of the day.” Buck recalled seeing the café when he came through town, so he thanked the clerk with a nod and soon was introducing himself to the mayor. Buck found the mayor intimidating, partly because of the fancy suit and tie he wore, but mostly because of the sophisticated words he used and his mannerisms. However, he was a pleasant sort of man, and after spending a few minutes getting acquainted, Buck became at ease with him. Handing him the envelope, Buck asked, “Can you tell me if these papers are important, Mayor? I ain’t able to read.”

  The mayor looked at Buck for a second or two, and then removed the papers from the envelope and examined them. “There’s three documents here, Buck,” the mayor said. “This one is an old will from Josiah Johnson dated and recorded in 1772. He gave all his possessions to his youngest living son.” The mayor picked up the second document. “This is another will,” the mayor said. “It was signed and recorded in 1814 by John Edward Johnson who was most likely the first man’s son. He also gave his total belongings to his youngest living son.” The mayor’s eyes brightened as he read the third document. “This is a land deed, young man,” the mayor said rather excitedly, reaching for his coffee. “It was written, signed, and recorded in 1772.” There was a long pause. “Where did you get this?”

  “I found it in my pa’s hide-a-way at our farm. Ma and Pa are both dead, so I ain’t got no one to ask, and I ain’t for sure, but I believe Pa got it from his pa.”

  “What’s your Christian name, Buck, and how old are ’ya?”

  “Ma named me after my grandpa, on pa’s side. I’m Josiah Johnson. I turned twenty-one last month, sir.”

  “That’s the owner’s name on this first will,” the mayor said. “It’s obvious you’re his grandson, and since your father is dead, it belongs to you if you’re the youngest son.”

  “I’m the youngest, sir. I had two older brothers, but they got killed in the war. My two sisters live in Birmingham.”

  “The land is yours, Buck, since you’re the youngest living son. It doesn’t make any difference you have living sisters. It’s like most deeds written at the time, the youngest son inherits everything, but he’s also obligated to take care of his mother for the rest of her life.” With that, the mayor put the documents back into the envelope and handed it to Buck.

  Buck sat soaking in what he’d just been told while the mayor drank the last of his coffee. After he had set the cup down, he said rather firmly, “May I offer you some advice, young man?”

  “Yes, sir,” Buck said. “I’d like to hear anything you have to offer.”

  “First off, hide those wills and the deed where they can’t be found when you get home, and secondly, learn to read and write.” Buck hesitated, thinking on the matter. Seconds later he nodded.

  “One more thing,” the mayor said. “When you get home, plant as much cotton as possible. The foreign cotton market will be heating back-up now that the war has ended and the shipping can resume. I predict the price will be extremely high this fall.”

  Buck thanked the mayor as he rose, laid a dime on the table for their coffees, and asked one last question before leaving. “You don’t suppose President Lincoln will try to take away the land from Southern landowners, do you, sir?”

  The mayor’s glare stayed fixed on Buck for several seconds. “Haven’t you heard, Buck? President Lincoln died four days ago. He was shot while attending a theatre play.”

  Buck was shaken with the news and sat back down beside the mayor. Silence gripped both men. Minutes later Buck asked, “Will the president’s death have any ill effects on the black folks, Mayor?”

  The mayor thought briefly, then answered, “Probably not in the long run, but there may be some short-term effects. As I understand, President Lincoln has held in check some radical Republicans who want to punish the South and completely remodel the South’s way of life. I’ve also heard of a Black Code being established that may eliminate black men from voting along with some other restrictions.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that, sir,” Buck said. “I hope the politicians are smart enough to put the country back together so we can all live in peace.” The mayor nodded his agreement.

  Buck went to his wagon and started his long trip back home, wondering what the future held for Southern families.

  Chapter Nine

  Much was accomplished during the first week after Buck returned home from Enterprise. Workdays around the farm started early and went into twilight for Buck and Na’man’s household. Even Helen, with her larg
e pregnant belly, helped out by doing meager jobs like toting drinking water and preparing meals. Morning and evening chores were their first priorities. Milking both cows, keeping the stock watered and fed, and taking care of the small pigs and chickens Buck had purchased on his way home.

  The men built a pig pen at one corner of the barn with a shade structure, suspended on four posts, in the center of the pen. They repaired the corral fence and expanded the fence line to include a couple more acres of grass for grazing. In the meantime, to conserve the pasture grass, especially during dry times, Black and the mules were taken to a nearby grass field and hobbled to graze for a few hours each day. A large garden was planted, and sprigs of lettuce were soon sprouting. Somehow, Viola and Helen always found time to prepare three delicious meals every day, causing Buck’s clothes to start filling out bit by bit. On Monday of the second week, Na’man started plowing a field in the Southwest corner of the farm. When he gripped the plow handles with his massive hands and called out, “Get up.” The traces tightened, and the mules stepped into their pull. Na’man smiled as he walked behind the plow watching the black dirt curl over.

  By the time Na’man made two rounds in the field, Buck rode up on Black. “Looks like you’re coming along pretty good, Na’man. How are the mules doing?”

  “They’re doing a fine job, Master Buck, ain’t never been behind no better. The pull’s a might hard for ’em cause the field ain’t been tended for a few seasons, but it don’t seem to be no bother to ’em.” There was a long pause as both men took-in the freshly plowed black soil. “This here dirt is mighty rich, Master Buck. Ought ’a make you a big crop.”

  Buck nodded his agreement and said, “I’m going to visit Mr. Lambert, Na’man. He’s a cotton farmer south of here that used to gin and sell our cotton for us. Always gave us the seed back. I wanna to see if he has any spare seed left over we can have.” Buck turned Black, and Na’man snapped the lines.

  By the time Buck returned home from Mr. Lambert’s in mid-afternoon, he had decided to find out if Black would pull a harrow. It might be a challenge, but if he would, the planting process could go considerably faster, and they could plant more acres.