by Pamela Morsi
A woman can't change a man. She can't make him what he's not. But if she can see the good in him, she can nurture that. It's like working in the garden. The weeds grow right along next to the carrots. People do their best to encourage the carrots; if not, the weeds will just take over.
The cabin was clean, as she knew it would be. Henry Lee wasn't a man to let things go. She was anxious, however, to scrub it herself. After a trip to the creek for two buckets of water, she began to make it her house again. The work was not drudgery, but pleasant. Making a home for Henry Lee and herself was a pleasure. A tune came to her lips and she began to sing as she worked.
Tom Quick and his men arrived only shortly after Hannah. But, unlike her, they did not approach the house at first. Staking out their horses about a half mile down the creek, Quick sent Pathkiller to check out the house while he went over the plan one more time. He wanted no slip-ups, no mistakes.
Pathkiller returned shortly. "Watson's not there."
Tom Quick muttered an obscene expletive.
"Only the woman is there, she's cleaning the house and singing up a storm."
"The woman is there?" Quick had heard the woman had left Watson. That had pleased him. A criminal didn't deserve such a fine female. When he'd learned she had walked out on Watson, he'd considered her just the proper woman. But maybe she was not. Pathkiller had said she was drinking whiskey at the Ambrosia Ballroom, and the story told about their wedding indicated that she was no better than she should be.
Quick leaned back on his heels, studying the situation. If she was there in the house, then Watson would obviously be returning pretty soon.
"Is she cooking anything?" he asked Pathkiller.
"Yep," the Indian replied, "smells like turnips."
Quick smiled.
"Then she expects him back for dinner. If we wait any longer, it will be hard to believe that these three have been out drinking all night and just run out of liquor."
The men nodded in agreement.
"We'll proceed with the plan," Quick announced.
He turned his attention to Pathkiller and the other Indians. "If she doesn't sell you the whiskey, just plant yourself in the yard, take a nap or whatever and wait for her man to come home. I'll be watching and I'll have you covered."
His gaze moved to the deputies. "You can spend the time combing these woods looking for that still. It has to be fairly close to the house. I want every inch of ground within a half mile covered."
The deputies set out on foot and Tom Quick followed the creek to get himself into position. He found a bluff, not far from the cabin, with a couple of toe holds up high enough to have a clear view of everything that went on.
The ledge he was sitting on was not much, but it gave him a good perspective. He looked above him and saw an outcropping with a larger ledge, but he knew that was too high. He'd be too easily spotted. So he settled down right where he was, content, not realizing that Watson's still was in a cave hidden not ten feet above him, behind the ledge he thought was too high.
The Indians mounted up and taking a circuitous route approached the cabin from the west, riding fast and hollering.
Hannah heard the racket and was momentarily startled. She hurried to the door to see the three Indians riding up hell for leather and yelling in an obvious state of intoxication. Slightly fearful, she was dismayed at her haven being invaded by whiskey-wild Indians. But, she remembered Harjo as a friend of both Henry Lee and herself and she stiffened her spine and walked to the back door.
Pathkiller saw her at the back door and recognized her apprehension. He immediately dismounted and spoke sharply to the others in their native tongue, warning them not to overplay their hand. He walked toward the back door but stopped before he got too near. Doffing his hat, he gave her a low bow that he hoped was a parody of politeness.
“You are Mrs. Watson," he said to Hannah, his voice was cultured, but his words were slightly slurred.
Hannah nodded. “We've come to do some business with your husband," he said. "Is he at home?"
Hannah shook her head. "He had an errand to run this morning, he should be back anytime," she answered, hoping that it was true.
The Indian accepted this, but then after turning to his cohorts for a consultation, came back.
"Perhaps you can help us, Mrs. Watson. My friends and I have been having a little celebration, and it seems that we've run out of one of the necessary ingredients." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar gold piece. "Could you sell us a couple of jugs of Mr. Watson's fine corn liquor?"
Hannah knew that this was why they had come to the place, but it still angered her that they would think her a party to this evil whiskey business.
"No, sir, I could not," she answered sharply. "You should take yourself and your business elsewhere." She turned and went back into the house, slamming the door primly.
Pathkiller hesitated a moment, a little surprised by her reaction. Then he shrugged. There was really no understanding women. That was one certainty.
Calling through the door he told her, "We'll just wait out here in the yard until your husband returns, ma'am, don't mind us. We're not going to be a minute's trouble to you."
The Indians tied their horses to the hitching post and sat down in the shade of the red oak and waited for Henry Lee Watson.
Tom Quick, in the woods within earshot, lay his rifle across his knees and settled himself also for the long wait. Waiting was one thing a lawman had to learn to do a lot, and Tom Quick was a master at it. Watson would return and sell the Indians the liquor. By that time, the deputies would have found his still and Quick would see that he stayed locked up for twenty years. Tom Quick smiled to himself, justice would be done.
As the morning stretched longer, Hannah continued her work in the house. She no longer sang, and a good deal of the joy had gone out of her return home. She didn't want to go outside, because the Indians were still waiting there under the tree. And their presence was a constant reminder of the distance still unbridged between herself and Henry Lee.
She tried to concentrate on the decisions she had made last night and this morning. How she would learn to tolerate the whiskey business, while continuing to disapprove of it. She would not be a part of it. Somehow, having those men waiting around to buy liquor from her husband made her feel that she was a part of it. That she did condone it. It made her ashamed. She shouldn't be simply ignoring the existence of those men, she should be encouraging them to give up their sinful devotion to strong drink.
Realizing her duty, Hannah filled the coffee pot and put it on the stove.
Pathkiller and his men sat together, occasionally talking, but mostly just trying to outlive the boredom of the moment. Watson could return anytime, and they needed to be ready, but he might not return for hours, so they remained relaxed yet alert. Nothing could have surprised them more than Mrs. Watson suddenly appearing at the back step.
"I'm sure you gentlemen are getting tired and hungry," she said sweetly. "I've got a batch of butter cookies just coming out of the oven and some fresh brewed coffee. Why don't you come in and have some?"
The men were stunned. After her earlier behavior, they didn't figure she would have a word to say to them. Now she was inviting them into the house. The cohorts looked to Pathkiller for guidance.
He quickly considered his options. To refuse would look strange. No man would turn down coffee and food if he was just sitting around, especially if that food was prepared by a woman. And cookies were something that a man couldn't make over a camp fire. They were not a thing to be sneered at.
Pathkiller rose and the other two with him.
"That's plainly nice of you, ma’am. We'd be pleased."
The three tromped into the house and Hannah had them sit at the kitchen table. She poured a cup of coffee for each of them and placed a bowl of sugar and a pitcher of milk in the middle of the table and urged them to help themselves. The kitchen smelled wonderfully, and the men found themsel
ves forgetting the seriousness of their mission as she handed each of them a plate with at least a dozen cookies for each man.
Hannah wanted their mouths full, because she intended to be doing most of the talking. When she saw that they had what they needed and were all busily consuming their unexpected treat, she picked up her Bible from the counter where she had laid it and began reading from the passages that she had marked.
"And they shall say unto the elders of his city, this our son is stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey our voice; he is a glutton and a drunkard, and all men of the city shall stone him with stones. "
Pathkiller stopped chewing abruptly and nearly choked on the tasty morsel he was consuming. He looked at the other two, who were just as astonished as himself. He thought that he had seen everything, but he had never heard of having the Bible read to you when you visited the whiskey peddler.
"But they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way." Hannah continued her reading without pause. These men might not be led away from their chosen path, but she was sure that hearing the words of the Good Book could do them nothing but good.
"They are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the way through strong drink; they err in vision, they stumble in judgment ..."
Tom Quick sat patiently in the woods. He had been as surprised as the others at her invitation and worried that it might be a trick. Now after better than half an hour waiting for them to come back out of the house, he was getting a little concerned.
He heard Miller coming up behind him and turned his attention to the deputy.
"Have you found that still?" he asked.
"Marshal, I'm not sure there is one."
"Of course there is one. Do you think he makes this liquor from thin air?"
"Well," the deputy told him firmly, "it must be in the house or one of the outbuildings. We've searched every inch of ground within a mile. There is no shack, no dugout, nothing."
Tom Quick's face was a mask of displeasure. He had counted on finding that still before they nailed Watson. It would insure that he had no bargaining chips. He looked off over the horizon toward the road. He didn't see any sign of Watson. Perhaps there was time to find it yet.
"The Indians are all in the house. I don't know what they are doing, but they're bound to keep that woman occupied. You and your men scout around those outbuildings."
The deputy nodded as the old man continued.
"Get some long sticks and check for hidden cellars under those buildings. I want everything including the outhouse looked over completely."
"Yes, sir," the deputy replied.
"And get somebody up to have a look in that cabin, they've been in there too long. I want to know what's going on."
"I'll do it myself," he replied and headed off to give the men their orders.
Quick continued to keep watch. Within a few minutes he could see the deputies making their way stealthily to the outbuildings. He saw Miller slowly moving from obstacle to obstacle trying to get closer to the house. Finally he was on the ground near the back door. He remained seated there for several minutes as the marshal watched. Then he made his slow careful retreat in the same manner in which he had come.
The marshal waited patiently as the minutes dragged on, knowing that Miller could not afford to hurry and be seen. Finally he heard him coming back through the woods.
"What's happening in there?"
"They're having a damn prayer meeting!"
"What?"
"She's reading the Bible and they're singing hymns. You wouldn't believe it. Hell, I'd never a guessed that Pathkiller could sing like that."
Tom Quick stared at his deputy, totally dumbfounded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement on the horizon. He turned his attention that way and Miller quickly followed his glance. The whiskey man was returning home.
Henry Lee held the horse at a leisurely pace as he scanned the horizon. He was nervous, but then he had a right to be. There were men out there watching him. Men who wanted to put him in jail. He had better plans for his future than that.
Following his instinct may have saved him, that and a few friends. If he hadn't had such a terrible feeling about the note, he might well have ignored it. That would have been a disaster.
When he'd arrived at Zanola's, her place was just closing up. She was surprised to see him.
"I sent a boy out to your house," she told him. "He says he left you a note."
"He did." Henry Lee pulled the note out of his pocket and showed it to her. "I can't read, so I came to find out what it says."
"You best be getting someone to teach you, this is too dangerous a world to go about it like a blind man."
She invited him into the back room of the barn, which doubled as the office for her business.
"A man come riding in this afternoon from Okmulgee," she told him. "Seems he works for a friend of yours name of Harjo." Henry Lee felt a wave of anxiety wash over him.
"This Harjo fellow's got a boy at Bacone College, and that boy done heard another boy bragging that he was working for the U.S. marshals. The marshals got a big plan, and the boy's to be a part of it. He's going to pretend he's a bad drunk Indian. Going to catch him a whiskey man name of Watson."
Henry Lee listened to the plan, both surprised and not a little concerned. It was not good to have a man like Tom Quick on your bad side. Quick was like a toothless bulldog; he might never draw blood, but once he clamped those jaws on you, he could be a long-term nuisance.
He'd sat up most of the night, thinking, worrying, making plans on his own. He had purposely stayed away from his place this morning, knowing that they would spend the long day in the hot sun, waiting for him to come home.
That was both good and bad. The long wait would make them tired and careless, he hoped. But it could also give them time. The time they needed to locate the still. If they found the still, Henry Lee would go to jail. It was as simple as that.
If he had been his father, he would have ridden over to Guthrie or maybe even further west and waited for things to cool down. But he wasn't Skut Watson. He wanted to have this confrontation, get it over with, for good or bad, and get on with his life. He would as soon spend time in jail as spend time hiding out from the law.
Of course, he would rather do neither. If he could have what he wanted, he'd spend all his days with Hannah. But that was up to Hannah, she had to make her own choice. Right now, Henry Lee just hoped that he wouldn't be locked up in the penitentiary when she decided.
As Henry Lee rode up into the yard, his face broke out in a cold sweat. He expected Quick and his men to be hiding in the woods, but there were three horses tied at his hitching post. That could mean that they had found the still and no longer saw any reason to try to catch him in the act of selling whiskey.
In that moment of uncertainty, when he was trying to hastily reevaluate the situation, a sound from the house captured his ear.
"I have found a friend in Jesus,
He's everything to me,
He's the fairest of ten thousand to my soul;
He's the Lily of the Valley,
In Him alone I see.
All I need to cleanse and make me fully whole.
In sorrow He's my comfort,
In trouble He's my stay,
He tells me ev'ry care on Him to roll ..."
Henry Lee sat on the wagon seat listening in disbelief for several minutes. Then in the midst of the deep male baritone and the poorly tuned tenors, he heard the throaty beer-garden soprano that he loved. Hannah was home.
Henry Lee pulled on the hand brake and jumped down from the wagon. With a lightness of his heart that was inexplicable in the current dangerous situation, he made his way to the house.
From the doorway he surveyed the scene in wonder. Hannah stood at the head of the table, her Bible clasped in one hand, the other moving rhythmically up and down marking time of the music for the singing. At the table sat three disreputable-looking Indians.
Studying them, he easily picked out the young college boy and silently thanked him for his braggart ways and his big mouth. The quartet was mismatched and discordant, but it sounded heavenly to Henry Lee.
"He's the Lily of the Valley,
The bright and morning star,
He's the fairest of ten thousand to my soul."
“Amen!" Henry Lee called loudly from the doorway as the song ended.
All four jumped slightly, but all Henry Lee saw was Hannah's face. Delight at seeing him warred with trepidation for her interference. Henry Lee wanted to set her straight immediately. Ignoring the men at the table, Henry Lee walked directly to his wife and pulled her tenderly into his arms brushing her lips with his own.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Watson," he whispered huskily. "Nothing could make me happier than hearing you sing again in this kitchen."
At his words, the little bubble of apprehension that had been plaguing Hannah for the past few hours burst into warm sparks of happiness. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off him, and she couldn't stop smiling.
Hearing one of the Indians moving uncomfortably in his chair, Henry Lee remembered what he was about and decided that it was time he took charge of the situation.
Releasing Hannah, he turned to the man he assumed to be the leader, a nondescript Cherokee of indeterminate age. He offered his hand.
"Welcome to my home. I'm Henry Lee Watson, you've already met my wife, Hannah."
"Pathkiller," the man answered to the implied question, but didn't volunteer the names of the other men. He didn't like the way things were going here. He'd had a bad feeling about the operation as soon as the woman had invited them into the house. And now, after an hour of Bible reading and hymn singing, he was even more sure that things were going terribly wrong.
"We know who you are, Whiskey Man. Friends have told us that you make the finest corn liquor in the territory, and we've come to buy some." His smile didn't quite make it to his eyes, but Henry Lee knew that he would never have noticed it had he not been warned.
