Riding from Memories

by Jim Cox

  There was a lot for Buck to do before he headed west. He needed to settle-up his cotton sales with Mr. Lambert. He thought he should also go to Enterprise and talk with the mayor about his financial matters and what to do with the farm, and lastly, he’d tell Na’man and his family of his decision.

  Buck headed for Enterprise two days later by way of Mr. Lambert’s. It was a little out of the way, but he wanted to alert Mr. Lambert of his decision, so he could have his cotton sales tallied and his money waiting for him when he returned home.

  »»•««

  Enterprise was pretty much the same as a month ago, except now there were no men in gray standing around. As he recollected, it was a little past the time of day when the mayor visited the café, but he’d chance it and have a look. Besides, it was time for coffee. The mayor was walking toward the café door to leave when Buck walked in. “Howdy, Mayor,” Buck said, extending his hand.

  “What brings you to Enterprise?” the mayor asked after the handshake.

  “Could you spend a few minutes with me, sir?” Buck asked. “I need some advice.” When the waitress saw the mayor sitting back down at his table with the newcomer, she brought over another cup and a fresh pot of coffee.

  “What’s on your mind, Buck, what can I do for ya’?”

  Buck let the question linger for a few seconds before saying, “I’ve decided to go West, Mayor—maybe to Arizona or New Mexico.”

  Buck’s statement surprised the mayor, and after giving it some thought, he asked, “How about your farm, Buck, what are you going to do with it?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about, sir. I want to give my farm to Na’man.”

  “You mean sell your farm, not give it away, don’t you, Buck?”

  “No, sir. I want to give my farm to Na’man.”

  “But Buck, if you wait a couple years and let the economy pick up, you’ll be able to sell it for a good price, I’d say as much as twenty dollars an acre,” the mayor retorted.

  “I know, sir, but I’ve gotta get away from this part of the country. I’m drowning in bad memories. Everywhere I turn, I relive death or see images of my terrible war days. If I wait two years, I’ll never leave, I’ll be trapped. I’ve made up my mind to leave and to start out within a few days.”

  The mayor’s face looked troubled. “Who’s Na’man?” he finally asked.

  “He’s a black man that’s been living at my place with his family for several months. He’s a hard-working man who’s in his mid-thirties—honest as the day is long.”

  “You said he has a family, Buck. How many are there?”

  “There’s five of ’em, Mayor, counting Na’man. He has a wife, a thirteen-year-old daughter, a son eleven, and a granddaughter only five months old.”

  The mayor looked puzzled. “Is the thirteen-year-old girl a momma already?”

  “Unfortunately, yes, sir,” Buck answered. “She was raped by three white soldiers and nearly died during the birth.”

  After the men had topped-off their coffee and taken a couple of gulps, Buck said, “What I want to know, sir…is it legal? Can a black man own land? And if he can, how do I go about giving my farm to Na’man?”

  The mayor sat in deep thought, nodding his head. “Do you have the deed to your farm you showed me the last time you were here, Buck?”

  “Yes, sir,” Buck said as he took it from his pocket and handed it to the mayor.

  “It’s legal, Buck. Black men can own land, especially since they’ve been set free with all the same rights as white men.” Opening the deed to the last page, the mayor pointed to two lines. “All you have to do to transfer ownership of your farm to Na’man is for you to sign your name here, date it, and record his name on this line.”

  “You know I ain’t able to write my name, Mayor.”

  “I’ll write in Na’man’s name and date it. You can put your mark on the line I pointed to, and I’ll witness it.” After the men had filled in the blank lines and finished their coffee, they stood, shook hands, and departed. Buck went to the livery and then to the boarding house for a good night’s sleep.

  He rose from a soft bed early the next morning feeling well rested. He washed up a bit and dressed, then went to the barn to feed and water his horses. After tending to the horses, he went back inside for a breakfast of pancakes with smears of butter and hot maple syrup and three pieces of sausage—his cup was kept full of strong hot coffee.

  By mid-morning, Buck was riding toward Mr. Lambert’s farm leading a sorrel mare named Bell who had three white stockings and a star on her forehead, a horse he’d bought from the livery the day before. Tied to her back rack were a bag of supplies and a large canvas tarp that Buck planned to use for a canopy or tent when it rained during his travels.

  After completing his transactions with Mr. Lambert, Buck rode within sight of his home, pulled Black to a stop, and took in the view. His thoughts were melancholy. My grandpa settled and claimed this farm when the land was still a colony of England, and that old log house is where he married Grandma and raised his family—all seven of ’em. After Grandpa died, all of his children left home except for Pa, who was expected to stay home and take care of Grandma since he was the youngest son. Pa always said he’d never been more than two days ride from here. Buck looked around at the sprawling fields covered with cotton stalks, but his memories soon went back to yesteryear. Grandma died a couple years after Grandpa, and two years later Pa married Ma and started raising his family. Buck wiped back a few tears. “Since I’m the only son left, I reckon I was supposed to stay on the farm and keep it going,” he mumbled. “Maybe I shouldn’t be going west.”

  Buck was considering his decision when he remembered something his ma had told him a year or so after his pa died. She had called him over to her rocking chair and said, “Son, live your own life. Don’t live in someone else’s footsteps—make your own. Be a respected man, a God-fearing man, and a man folks can depend upon. Son, leave your own mark on the world.” He remembered his ma pulling him down and kissing him on the cheek after saying those words. Then she continued, “If you listen to God, He’ll tell you what to do. Never doubt Him even though you can’t figure out the ending. Once He sets you on a course, follow it through. You’ll be amazed at the outcome.”

  Buck looked toward the western sky with its late evening clouds painted in lovely reds and pinks. As he sat remembering his ma’s advice, coupled with the beautiful sky, a feeling of contentment fell over him, a feeling that his decision to go west was the right one.

  The candles flickered through the kitchen window by the time Buck headed for the house after stabling and feeding his horses. After he had dusted himself and washed his face and hands in the washstand by the door, he entered to see Viola setting the food on the table. “Good evening, Master Buck. We been keeping the vittles warm ’til you get home. I heard you ride in,” she said. Na’man was pouring coffee, and Helen was putting baby June in the highchair. Earl was standing behind his chair ready to eat.

  Seconds after Buck sat down at his normal place and the circle of hands was clenched for Na’man to say the blessing, Buck’s stomach started growling. It was telling him he’d forgotten his noon meal and it was past time to eat. After the food had been passed, Buck dug into another one of Viola’s delicious meals.

  It was after the dirty dishes had been gathered and the cups refilled when Na’man said, “What’s wrong, Master Buck? I can tell something’s bothering you ’cause you ain’t said, but a few words since you come home.”

  Buck dreaded telling Na’man and his family he was leaving, so he stalled. “I wish you’d call me Buck, Na’man. We’ve been together for some time now, and I consider you to be a good friend. Mister Buck sounds too formal. Why don’t you call me Buck?”

  The big man’s black eyes penetrated Buck’s for several seconds as silence gripped the room. Finally, he answered. “Master Buck, I ain’t able to call you Buck, and it ain’t ’cause you ain’t my friend, ’cause you
is. And it ain’t ’cause you is white, and I black. And it ain’t ’cause I been a slave all my life and you been free since you is born.” Na’man’s eyes went to the floor as he paused and then said, “I’ve too much respect for you, and I just can’t, Master Buck.” He looked up and saw an understanding nod from Buck. Time passed a bit before Viola went for coffee. Buck blurted out, “I’ll be leaving tomorrow, Na’man,”

  Na’man was confused. “Where you going, Master Buck?” he asked. “You just got back from Enterprise.”

  “It’s not like that. I’m leaving for good come morning, Na’man. I’m gonna be heading west, probably to Arizona or New Mexico.” Na’man was stunned.

  He protested, “You ain’t got to leave, Master Buck, we’ll be gone before noon tomorrow if we're a bother to you.”

  Buck smiled and said quietly, “You ain’t the reason I’m leaving. If it hadn’t been for me liking you and your family, I might have been gone a ways back.” He pulled the farm deed and two hundred dollars from his pocket and laid them on the table. “I went to Enterprise to get the papers to give you my farm, Na’man. These papers are called a land deed and say the farm’s been signed and recorded over to you, giving you legal title and full rights to these buildings and land—the farm belongs to you now. I also went by Mr. Lambert’s place, and he settled upon the cotton we’ve taken to him so far. He gave us five hundred and fifteen dollars. He said he’d pay you for the rest of the cotton and give you back the seed when the picking is over. I’m leaving you with two hundred dollars of the money to live on ’til next year’s crop. And of course, you’ll have the money coming from Mr. Lambert for the balance of the cotton sales, too.”

  Na’man glanced at his wife with an unbelieving expression and then turned back to Buck. “Are you sure, Master Buck? I sure do thank you for the farm, but I wish you ain’t going.”

  Buck nodded and took a gulp of coffee to wash down a choke and said, “I’m pleased y’all feel that way, but I gotta go. There’s nothing around here for me except bad memories.”

  Viola went for more coffee, and when she returned with teary eyes, she said, “It’s a blessing we got to know you, Master Buck, and we thank ya’ for all you done for us, ’especially giving us your farm, but we sure hate to see you go.” Buck could only nod. “It’s clear you can’t be made to stay, so tell me what kinds of vitals you need on your trip, and I fix ’em for you before you leave.” He thanked her with a smile and said they could pack things in the morning.

  Before going back to the barn that evening, Buck gave Viola and Helen a tight hug, kissed baby June, and shook Earl and Na’man’s hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  Three days later, Buck left Alabama and was in Mississippi riding Black with Bell tethered carrying a loaded back rack. At least Buck reckoned he was in Mississippi after studying the Confederate map. The travel days since leaving the farm had been boring. He’d not come across a town or outpost of any kind. In fact, he’d not seen a single person. The weather had been hot and dry, which was unusual in the middle of November. Normally, it would have cooled down considerably by now with a rain or two.

  Buck rode with a degree of concern. The money belt under his shirt Mr. Lambert had given him when he went to settle up his cotton sales had over nine hundred dollars in it. Three hundred fifteen was from the cotton sales and a little over six hundred from his pa’s hide-a-way. However, his concern was lightened a bit because of the knife and handgun hanging from his sides, along with the Winchester rifle in the saddle’s gun boot.

  He had pushed the horses rather hard the first day through the flat terrain, but when the landscape turned to rolling hills the second day, he slowed down and proceeded rather lazily. An occasional tree-lined creek crossed his path, offering a refreshing supply of cool water was welcome in the sweltering heat. It also offered a relaxing place where he could enjoy coffee while sitting against a shade tree.

  Buck knew his trip would be long, maybe as long as two months, so he didn’t rush things, not wanting to cause any ill effects on his horses. He often switched horses to equal their loads. Days always started with a careful exam of the horses’ overall soundness, especially examining their hooves for loose shoes or injured frogs. They normally made three stops during the day. One at mid-morning, one at mid-afternoon, and a long two-hour stop at noon. When possible the stops were close to water and grass, where Buck removed the horses’ gear and set them free to roll and eat for a spell. By now the horses were accustomed to the routine and always came to him when he whistled. Buck did his best to end the day’s travel an hour or so before sundown, so they would get plenty of rest.

  Near the end of his fifth day, he came upon a tree-lined creek with high embankments and a sizeable patch of grass nearby. “This is a good place to hole-up for the night, Black. We’ve put in our time for the day, and besides, it’ll be dark in a couple hours. Days get short this time of year.” As did most men, Buck believed his horse could understand what he was saying even though it never talked back.

  Black and Bell, stripped of their gear, headed for a nearby field. Minutes later, Buck sat cross-legged on a fallen log, looking into the flames of a small fire with coffee in hand.

  He had set up camp and built his fire on the east side of the creek, hoping whatever breeze existed might help keep the mosquitoes away. There was a fallen log just the right height for sitting and a cluster of trees that would filter the smoke from his fire. His bedroll and ground cloth lay concealed behind a cluster of bushes several yards away from the site, so he wouldn’t be seen or be fire-blinded should someone slip into camp.

  After his second cup, Buck started supper. he sliced four pieces of bacon and hung them over the fire on a forked branch, dumped a half jar of hominy into a small pan Viola had sent along and placed it on the flat rock at fire’s edge beside the coffee pot. While the food was cooking, he fetched several good-sized tree limbs, enough to keep the fire going all night. As he stood on top of the embankment while gathering the firewood, he observed dark clouds gathering in the west. They seemed to be coming his way. “I’d better put up a canopy over the fire. It’ll be raining before daylight unless I miss my guess,” he mumbled.

  Buck put the last bite of his bacon-cornbread sandwich in his mouth and reached for his coffee to wash it down.

  That cornbread is mighty tasty. Viola sure is a good cook. She’s packed me enough food to last three weeks. I still have a piece of those two apple pies she baked for me.

  After a couple more gulps to finish off the cup, he rose to put up the canopy and go after the horses.

  As Buck predicted, the storm hit a couple hours after midnight. He woke to a flash of lightning followed by thunder. The treetops were swaying and twisting from the strong wind, but on the ground between the stream’s embankments, things were relatively still. It hasn’t started to rain, yet, Buck thought, but I’d better take my bedroll and gear under the canopy before it does. Sprinkles had started while he was folding his bedding, and shortly after getting under the tarp, the downpour came. I’m glad I chose to make camp between the stream’s embankments. Otherwise, blowing rain would have me soaked.

  Buck woke to a dull gray morning. The drenching storm had passed, but the rain hadn’t totally let up. It was still drizzling. He brought the fire back to life and then put the ground cloth around his shoulders before going for coffee water and taking the horses to grass.

  The morning under the canvas passed slowly.

  Buck left camp in late morning when the rain stopped. Soon he had covered over six miles, riding in a beautiful sunny day with a cool breeze in his face. The sky was clear with a few lingering clouds, and the sun cast down a perfect amount of heat.

  The nice weather continued for the next few days without any unexpected happenings. Buck stayed true to his course as best he could, but occasionally, in the rough, hilly terrain he was riding through, he’d encounter a lake or a tall cliff and have to detour. In these situations, he let Black have his fre
edom, believing the horse had a better grasp of the solution than he.

  One sunny afternoon the horses topped a hill and stopped, causing Buck to come alert from a daydream. His gaze went to a site in the far distance, which nearly took his breath away. It was the Mississippi River. Buck was surprised because he had figured it would take another day to reach it.

  “How in the world am I gonna get across that?” he mumbled with a furrowed forehead. “It must be a mile wide.”

  Buck had heard tales about the river, but he had never conceived its magnitude. It was almost unbelievable. The current seemed slower than other rivers he’d seen, but it did pick up a mite when it circled around sandbars. Logs and other debris lined the bank fifteen to twenty feet above the water level, indicating the river had been much higher sometime in the past.

  Buck was sizing-up the scene when something caught his attention. It was geese, dozens of them, with their wings set, ready to land on a sandbar. His ear caught the distant honking sounds and looking to the north. he saw the sky filled with string after string of geese, probably thousands. “Quite a sight, ain’t it?” came a nearby voice. Buck quickly turned to face a man standing behind him. “Didn’t mean to startle ya’ like I did,” the man said, “but you was all bound up looking at those geese. My name’s Al.”

  Buck was ashamed of himself for letting someone get within ten yards without being aware of it, but he shook off his embarrassment and responded to Al’s introduction. “Folks call me Buck.”

  Al was an average-sized-man, maybe five foot ten, with a barrel chest. He had light brown hair with a couple of day’s whisker stubble. Buck judged him to be in his early forties. The man wore western attire. His black and white checked shirt was partly covered by a black leather vest with a tobacco string hanging from its pocket. The black belt through the Levi loops was wide with tooled horse heads, and its silver buckle was huge. His pant legs were stuffed inside western boots, accenting his height, but what really made him look tall was the high-crowned, black western hat with a silver band around its crown. Looking down, Buck inwardly grinned at Al’s shiny spurs with large rowels that jingled when he moved. He didn’t grin at the tied-down pistol hanging on his right side. “They always come this time of year.”