Riding from Memories

by Jim Cox

  “He’s probably lost a lot of blood, Scott, but I’m thinking he ain’t hurt all that bad, he’s still breathing regular. We need to rouse him awake, stop the bleeding, and get him to camp where we can tend his wounds.”

  “How are we gonna get him awake, Grandpa?”

  “We’ll wet my bandanna with the water in my canteen and wash his face, Scott. Go get the canteen.” When the wet cloth hit his face, Buck jerked his head sideways and opened his eyes, looking up at Scott and Seth kneeling over him.

  “We gotta get away from here. The place is crawling with Indians,” Buck said in a state of delirium as he started to rise, but Seth held him down.

  “You lay still while I take a look at the bullet hole and get the bleeding stopped,” Seth instructed as he reached for his canteen. “Here, Buck. Take a long drink.” Buck held the canteen in his right hand while the old man went to work.

  He cut a slit in Buck’s shirt where the bullet had entered and examined the injury. “The bullet went clean through your shoulder muscle, Buck. It’ll take a week or so to heal-up, but you’ll be all right.” The old man pulled his chewing tobacco pouch out from his shirt pocket and dug out a pinch. “I’m gonna stuff your wound with this tobacco, Buck. It’ll sting, but it’ll stop the bleeding and help keep down the infection.”

  Buck’s wound had been tended, and he was sitting up holding Seth’s canteen when Seth said, “It’s time we’re leaving. You’ll ride Black, Scott, since he’s near done and needs a light load, but first, help me get Buck into Bell’s saddle. I’ll ride behind and help support him.”

  The twinkling fire at the camp came into sight just before midnight. Seth didn’t alert the camp, which was the custom. He simply rode in at a slow walk. The children had been put to bed, but the adults quickly surrounded the horses with a great deal of excitement and full of questions. Mrs. Hastings and Margaret hurried to Scott when his feet hit the ground and embarrassed him with hugs and kisses.

  “Help me get Buck to the fire,” Seth requested. “He’s been shot and needs some attention. One of you men can take care of the horses. They need to be watered and taken to grass.”

  The men took the horses, but no one moved to help Seth with Buck. The Joshling and Maylan families simply wouldn’t give aid to a man who had fought against the Confederacy. However, after Scott told the story to his grandma and sister about Buck saving his life, and being shot in the process, the women went into action. They bandaged Buck’s wound, fixed him two bacon sandwiches and coffee, and then settled him in his bedroll. Afterward, Seth and his family joined hands as they gave thanks to the Lord for safely returning Scott.

  Lying wide-eyed several minutes after going to bed, Margaret asked, “Grandpa, are you awake?”

  “I’m awake, Margaret. I can’t seem to sleep after all of the day’s excitement. Do you want to ask me something?”

  “Grandpa, why would Buck risk his life to save Scott, when we’re his enemy. The ones he fought against in the war?”

  “You’ll have to ask him, sweetheart.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The blackness in the eastern sky was starting to take on a shade of gray when Buck heard the Maylan and Joshling wagons being loaded. Buck realized they were going to be moving on without enough food to hold them over. Earlier on, he had volunteered to help them hunt a couple deer for their journey, but that plan had all gone astray. They probably don’t want help from someone they call a Blue Belly anyway, he thought.

  Buck stared up at the stars for over an hour trying to figure out what to do next. He knew he wouldn’t be traveling for a couple of days while his shoulder healed. After that, should he continue west through the dry desert-like land or angle north where the terrain would offer more suitable travel? His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Mrs. Hastings stirring, helping prepare breakfast for the two traveling families.

  Within minutes after they’d eaten, Buck heard them climb into their wagons, listened to the snap of the reins and the groaning of the wagons as the horses stepped into their pull. He rose onto one elbow and watched the group roll into the gray of the morning. Then he heard Seth going to the fire for coffee. “Pour me a cup, Seth, I’ll be over as soon as I can crawl out of this bedroll,” Buck called out.

  The men were on refills when Margaret and Mrs. Hastings walked up, wearing coats. The two women had filled their cups and were warming themselves close to the fire when Mrs. Hastings spoke up, “I need the fire to be a mite higher in order to fix our breakfast, Seth. Can you put on another log or two?”

  “I saw you serving breakfast a while back, Mrs. Hastings. Didn’t you and Seth eat then?” Buck asked.

  “I only helped the two families who were leaving. Thought I’d wait ’til you were up-and-about before I cooked ours.” Buck nodded his thanks.

  While sitting around the warm fire after breakfast, Buck asked, “How are your vittles holding out, Mrs. Hastings?” Her face became serious. “I’m afraid we’ve eaten most of your food, Buck. It’ll be gone in two or three days. Of course, we still have plenty of deer meat, and hopefully, we can kill another when it’s gone.”

  “What’ll we do when the food runs out?” Margaret chimed in.

  “Don’t worry, Margaret, we’ll figure out something,” Buck said.

  Mrs. Hastings had removed her coat while cooking but after gathering up the dirty dishes, she put it back on and carried the dishes to the river. Seth followed.

  Minutes passed as Margaret and Buck eyed the fire. Finally, the girl asked, “Why did you do it, Buck? Why did you risk your life by going after my brother when he’s your enemy?”

  “He’s not my enemy, Margaret. I consider him to be a friend. I was taught to help anyone who was in trouble. I know you think the Confederate men who I fought against in the war were my enemy, but they weren’t. My enemy was the stigma that kept black folks under bondage. I believe all people should have the same rights regardless of the color of their skin or what they believe.”

  “How about the Indians, Buck? They think differently than we do and have different skin color. Would you fight for their rights? Would you help an Indian out?”

  “Yes, I would, Margaret. If they needed my help.”

  “Would you help the Indian who shot you yesterday, Buck?”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding his head. “I don’t believe a person’s beliefs should be influenced by what another person does.”

  “That’s strange thinking, Buck. Most people don’t think that way.”

  “I was taught to think like that, Margaret. We had strict rules around our house when I was growing up. Both Ma and Pa were God-fearing people who made us toe the line.”

  “Like what?” Margaret asked. “What were some of their strict teachings?”

  Buck smiled as he recalled conversations with his parents. “Pa drilled into us boys a man’s most important duty to his children was to teach them about the Lord. That they must learn to keep Him in the center of their lives at all times.”

  “I suppose he meant their belief in the Lord was the most important thing after feeding and protecting them,” the girl corrected.

  “Not at all, Margaret. Pa believed and taught us our belief in the Lord came first. Nothing else came before it. Not family, not food, not even protection.” The girl looked puzzled.

  Their eyes had been on the dancing fire flames for a minute or two when Buck suddenly said, “I wish you wouldn’t hate me, Margaret. I wish you’d accept what I believe as an individual and not think of me as a murderer.”

  The flames flickered on, only the crackle of the fire was heard.

  After a long pause, she said, “I don’t hate you, Buck. I’m grateful to you for saving my brother and sharing your food with us. It’s just that I’ve never been around anyone who believes the way you do, and it’s hard to forget what it was like during the war when so many Southern men were being killed.

  “I understand how you feel,” Buck paused and then continued, “Thank you
for not hating me, Margaret. That means a lot to me.”

  The girl’s somber expression melted into a smile as she changed the subject by asking, “Has your shoulder been tended to this morning, Buck?” He shook his head. Margaret stood, and her twinkling eyes looked down into his. “Stand up, I’ll help you take your shirt off so I can put a clean dressing on your wound.”

  Margaret washed the wound, put salve on it, and had just finished wrapping it when Seth and his wife walked up. When they saw what their granddaughter had done, they looked at each other with relief and questioning eyes.

  Two days later Buck’s shoulder was feeling much better. The wound had scabbed over, and most of the redness had left. They were all around the campfire eating their noon meal when Buck said unexpectedly, “I’ll be heading out tomorrow. My shoulder is almost back to normal, and I need to get going. It’s obvious you have an itch to leave too. You’re only hanging around here to look after me.”

  Seth’s family was surprised at Buck’s announcement, and Seth responded, “We’ll leave when you leave, Buck. We owe you that much.”

  Buck nodded his appreciation and said, “I’ll try to kill a couple of deer this evening or in the morning. I’ll take a half of one, and you can have the rest. That should hold us both over ’til we come to the next town or trading post where we can restock.” Buck saw Seth lower his head, which reminded him Seth didn’t have any money. It wasn’t too much later in the day when Buck pulled Seth aside and said in a low voice, “I know you’re short of funds, Seth, so I’ll give you a little to get by on. You can pay me back if we ever see each other again.”

  The old man hung his head for a bit, and then whispered, “Thanks, Buck. I’m obliged to you for everything you’ve done for us. For treating us so neighborly, and I’ll consider the money a loan ’til I can pay you back someday.”

  When both men returned to their logs beside the fire with the others later that evening, Buck said, “Scott, I’ll be heading out for those deer an hour before sunset today if you want to come along. You brought us good luck the last time.” The boy grinned ear-to-ear.

  Buck stood and had taken a step or two when Margaret called him back. All eyes turned to her, wondering what she was about to say.

  “Why don’t you travel to Colorado with us, Buck? The climate and traveling conditions will be much better than what we’ve been going through here in Texas, and the likelihood of finding a town in that direction will be greater. Besides, your wound hasn’t completely healed, and you might need our assistance.” She paused and with a smile said, “I’m sure we’ll need yours.”

  Everyone was shocked at her request, even the girl herself. Buck was more shocked than the rest and was slow with his answer. When he did reply, all he said was, “I’ll think about it.”

  When Margaret saw Buck load both of the dressed deer he’d killed into her family wagon the next morning, she knew the answer to her question. Buck would be traveling with them, at least for the next couple of weeks.

  Chapter Twenty

  For five days after they left camp their travel was uneventful. There was a bit of excitement during the first day’s noon break when the two Indians who had kidnapped Scott crossed their path, but they didn’t cause a problem. Buck tried to be upbeat and friendly toward them and even returned their rifle, hoping to eliminate any future trouble, and none came.

  Their travel days lasted about ten hours with three hours set aside for rest periods. Water was no longer a problem as they frequently came across mountain streams in this terrain. As they traveled, the horses and mules kept their bellies full of the rich prairie grass.

  Buck wasn’t sure, but he estimated they were now in Colorado Territory, about fifty miles west of the Kansas state line. At least it’s what he concluded from studying his Confederate map. Buck rode far enough from the wagon’s side to stay out of the dust and Bell traveled beside him, sometimes carrying Scott and occasionally carrying Margaret. Their days were filled with a subtle westerly breeze and a cloudless sky as the bright sun sent down its heat waves, which was a welcome change from the nights below freezing temperature. Two mornings they rose to a dusting of snow. Nightly stops were made beside tree-lined streams whenever possible, which gave them plenty of firewood and water and provided a degree of camouflage.

  After the first week, the temperatures got colder. They wore coats and gloves at all times. Snow accumulated an inch or two every day, adding bit-by-bit to an already whitening landscape. One mid-morning on a dark, cloud-covered day, they topped a small knoll and saw a sizeable herd of buffalo grazing in the far distance. It was a perfect opportunity to add to their meat supply, but Seth and Buck were hesitant to kill one. They still had an ample supply of venison. However, when Mrs. Hastings pointed out they had plenty of room in their wagon and the cold nights would keep the meat from spoiling, they shot a yearling male dressing out to over four hundred pounds of meat.

  By this time all they had to eat was meat, which was becoming a mite boring, but they remembered the desert when water and food were scarce. Their mealtime prayers remained thankful for what they had. They still had enough coffee.

  A week before Christmas, snow clouds were filling the sky almost every day, bringing an occasional snow shower, some in excess of two inches. The snow-covered ground coupled with short daylight hours caused their travel time to be shortened, but they made the best of it by reducing the length of their three daily stops and speeding up a little as they plodded across the prairie.

  Buck noticed cow tracks in the snow one morning, and when he topped a rise an hour or so after their noon meal, he spotted several longhorn cows loosely bunched together digging through the snow for grass. Wonder who those cows belong to, we’re out in the middle of nowhere. By mid-afternoon, the cow sightings were becoming more prevalent.

  Later they saw a large buffalo herd digging in the snow to the South. Not too much further on they came upon prints from a single shod horse heading in the same general direction they were traveling, so they followed. Nearly two hours later the tracks led to a small cabin and barn hidden on a horseshoe bend alongside a stream. They stopped a couple hundred yards away. “You stay here, Seth,” Buck called out, “while I go see about things.” He indicated the same thing to Scott by shaking his head.

  Buck rode to within twenty yards of the cabin and called out, “Hello, the cabin.” Soon the door cracked for a peek and then swung wide. Standing in its frame was an old man holding a rifle.

  “You can ride on up young man, so I can get a good look at ya’, but don’t try nothing. I’ve got my gun aimed right at your belly and I ain’t likely to miss.” Buck rode in and stepped down from the saddle. He could tell the man had seen better days. His dark, sun-tanned wrinkled face looked like leather. His balding head had a fringe of gray hair above a couple days growth of whiskers and a long, gray handlebar mustache. His undershirt was grimy and baggy pants hung a couple inches below the top of his underdrawers.

  “Howdy,” Buck called out, trying to sound like a westerner. “Folks call me Buck.” The old-timer nodded but kept the gun pointed at Buck’s mid-section. “I’m traveling with the wagon and the boy on the horse out yonder.” Buck pointed toward the wagon. “There’s an elderly man and his wife in the wagon and a teenage granddaughter. The boy on the horse is their grandson.”

  “You must be greenhorns traveling in this part of the country this time of the year,” the old timer said in a scolding tone. “We’ve had fairly tolerable weather, but it ain’t likely to last. We’ll be getting’ a foot or two of snow any day now.” Buck started to respond, but the old timer quickly continued, “You can call me Curly, everyone else does,” he said with a smile as he rubbed his balding head. “Wave your wagon on in and tell ’em to put their team and your two saddle horses in the barn. I’ll get some coffee started.”

  By the time Buck, Seth and his family had taken care of their team and walked to the cabin, Curly had the cups filled and waiting on the table in front o
f the fireplace. The table was four-foot-long, a little over two-feet-wide with benches alongside, each long enough to accommodate a couple of people. Against one wall were two rough-hewn chairs made out of three-inch saplings with pieces of cowhide for the seats and backs. Margaret and Mrs. Hastings sat in the chairs while the men sat on the benches around the table. As the men talked, Mrs. Hastings took in the small cabin. It was evident the place was totally devoid of a woman’s touch. It was a windowless, fifteen-foot square room with a three-foot deep, dugout dirt floor. The stone fireplace nearly filled one wall, a bunk bed was against the back wall with several pegs next to the bed to hang clothes. Mrs. Hastings attention returned to the table as Curly rose to top off his visitors’ cups.

  “Can you tell me what in blazes you're doing traveling in this here country this time of the year?” Curly barked out as he sat back down. “You must be greenhorns, or else you ain’t got no sense about the weather in Colorado. If the weather turns bad like it normally does, you’ll be in sub-zero temperature and three feet of snow. You won’t be able to move. You and your animals will be frozen stiff as a poker.”

  Seth spoke up. “We’re from South Carolina, and we’re heading for my brother’s place in Golden. You’re right when you say we’re greenhorns. We’ve never been in weather like this or what you say will be coming. We’re running four weeks behind our original schedule because we were instructed to bypass the Oklahoma Territory due to Indian problems, and instead, we took the Southern route through Texas. On top of that, we were held up for several days due to wagon wheel problems and the lack of food. That’s when we met up with Buck. We followed his tracks to a stream where he’d set up camp.”