Redemption on the River

By Loren DeShon

Silas Jacobson pulled a trigger, killed his father, and ended up months later face down in Memphis mud, trying to forget the girl who betrayed him.
He buries his father on the farm, his guilt in himself and leaves home seeking to forget past mistakes. He travels on Mississippi steamboats and meets his best friend in a brawl, his worst enemy in a cathouse, and a mentor and lover at a New Orleans faro table. Fighting, fornicating, and cheating at cards are a grand time, but there's another woman, a girl on a mission of her own, who saves his life and offers the opportunity to redeem himself.
Silas staggers out of the mud to go to her, but he finds that she's deceived him from the start. He'll risk his neck for her—he owes her that much—but love is no longer possible. His shot at redemption comes down to his conscience, the two women, a poker game, and the turn of a card.
Redemption on the River is historical fiction set along the Mississippi River in 1848.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Loren DeShon
• Release date: Aug 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985925932

Loren DeShon

Loren DeShon is a graduate of Stanford University and has been a certified public accountant, a US Navy fighter pilot, and a captain for Alaska Airlines. When not researching and writing a novel he enjoys fishing, hunting, prospecting, woodworking, and reading. He can be reached on Facebook, Twitter, and via his blog at Loren DeShon - Author & Stuff.

Book preview

Redemption on the River

Loren DeShon

Copyright © 2012 by Loren DeShon

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in the novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition July 2012

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Map

CHAPTERS

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

Historical Notes

Note to Reader

For Teri

Map

One

The day I killed my father began like any other on our farm in northwest Missouri. A precocious rooster announced the breaking dawn, and I shivered as my bare feet hit the cold floor. I pulled on my clothes, turned to my sleeping brother, and shoved him off the bed in return for his hogging the covers all night. I then slid down the ladder from the loft to the main floor of our cabin, where our sister, Angeline, was just setting steaming platters of breakfast on the table.

Caleb’s just going to watch all day for the chance to get you back, she said, knowing what the heavy thump over her head had meant.

I expect he will.

I don’t know why you do that to— She broke off as our father returned from his morning constitutional. Morning, Pa.

He grunted, sat down, and began to heap food onto his plate. Angel sighed, sat down herself, and soon Caleb came down the ladder, giving me a significant look as he did so. Angel said a short blessing, and we fueled ourselves for the long day’s work ahead of us, the silence broken only by the clank of cutlery on plates.

Pa ate his food, announced that he would finish plowing our creekside cornfield, and walked out, leaving the three of us to finish the meal by ourselves. I told Caleb to help Pa harness our mules, then join me in digging stumps from the field we were clearing. Angel received no work assignment, but she would busy herself with the innumerable chores of the house, yard, and garden.

I cleaned my plate, thanked my sister, and walked out. Ignoring the hammer-on-anvil sounds coming from the barn and oblivious to the beauty of the early June morning, I headed downhill to the new pasture we were wresting from the forest. A half-dug stump waited for me, its roots stubbornly clenched in the earth, and our tools leaned up against it where we had left them the day before.

I spat on my hands, picked up the ax, and began chopping away at a gnarled root thicker than my thigh. I needed to get away from this place before I became as stuck as the stump. I should have gone off on my own long before this, but I had stayed on because of my father.

Our parents had been hit hard when our youngest sister, the baby of the family, had died in an accident, and when Ma passed away the following winter, the light had gone out of Pa’s life. He buried himself in work, from dawn to dusk, and the result was a prosperous farm and three offspring who wondered if they’d ever see him laugh again. I had run the business side of the farm for some time now, and I often felt like an uncle rather than a brother to my siblings.

Sweat streamed as I attacked the root with hard, fast blows. Angel and Caleb were eighteen and seventeen, and once this last field was cleared, the farm would be in full production. Maybe I could leave then—I had recently delivered a small herd of cattle across the river to the Kansas country and had considered not coming back at all.

One last, furious chop and the ax broke through the root. It stayed stuck between the halves, and I struggled, cursing, to free it. I gave up for the moment, straightening my aching back, and a dirt clod exploded against the side of my head.

I staggered, and before I could recover, Caleb hit me with a blindside tackle. This was too much, and my anger surged as we grappled in the dirt. Caleb, half-laughing, heaved me against the stump. By chance, his knee dug into my groin, and I boiled over. I broke his hold, jumped up, and when he scrambled to his feet, I hit him really hard, causing blood to fountain from his nose.

His eyes widened in surprise. He too lost his temper, and he closed, throwing punches as he came.

Hold it right there. It was Pa, unexpected and unannounced.

We both stopped in shock, for he normally didn’t get involved when we fought, or when we did anything else, for that matter.

Let me see that nose.

Caleb pointed the nose at him and held still even as the blood flowed down into his shirt.

I don’t think it’s broke, but get yourself down to Angel to get it stuffed up.

Pa, it’s nothing. I—

Go.

Caleb went, staunching the flow with his sleeve.

Pa then surprised me further by saying, What did you do that for?

What do you care? I answered, my temper still getting the best of me. His eyebrows shot up, and I continued, Caleb and I have scrapped for years and you’ve said nothing. Why put your oar in now? What are you even doing here?

The plow is broken, and we’re out of coal for the forge, so I thought we’d dig stumps together.

Together? We haven’t done anything together for ages. Ever since Ma died you’ve— I stopped, just barely able to keep from telling him how I felt.

Silas, he said heavily, I realize I haven’t been a very good father since your mother passed, but you shouldn’t blame yourself for—

Save it, I snapped. Try being there for Angel and Caleb; it’s too late for me.

He took it and stood there waiting for more, but I turned on my heel and left before I could pour more of my frustration and guilt on him. I passed Caleb on his way back to the field with pieces of rag stuffed up his nose, and didn’t stop walking until I had legged it all the way into St. Joseph. I bought a sack of coal and returned to the farm to spend the balance of the day hammering on heated steel.

I had just quenched the glowing plow blade for the last time when Angel rang her bell to announce that supper was ready. I banked the fire in the forge, replaced the tools, and walked to the cabin, wondering what was in store for me after my outburst at Pa.

I didn’t find out until supper was over. Pa pushed his plate away, eased his belt, and asked if we’d like to go duck hunting that evening. My mouth fell open, Angel dropped her fork, and Caleb jumped up so fast that his chair fell over backward with a crash.

With us? You really mean it, Pa?

I do, son, he said, a rare smile easing onto his face. That is, if you’ll have me.

If we’ll…? Of course, let’s go! Caleb ran for the shotgun that hung over the hearth.

Hold your horses, Pa called after him. The ducks aren’t going anywhere.

And I’ll pack you boys a snack, Angel said, hopping up and hurrying to the pantry. It won’t take but a minute.

Would you like to come with us? he asked.

No thank you, Pa, you know I don’t care for it, she answered. But I’m so happy that you’re going again.

You know, he said, standing and stretching painfully, I expect I smell bad enough to spook even ducks. I believe I’ll go for a quick wash-up.

He went out the back for the rain barrel. Caleb took down the shotgun, slung the powder horn over his shoulder, slung the shot bag at his belt, and stood quivering with impatience. Pa came back in wearing a fresh shirt he had pulled off the line, and Angel handed him a dinner pail.

You coming? he asked me.

Of course, I said, getting to my feet, still astonished and wondering how much of this was due to my words that morning.

We tromped out of the cabin and down the porch steps while Angel fussed at us. You boys take care. Don’t stay out in that swamp so late you can’t find your way back.

Aw, c’mon, Angel, Caleb said with a hoot, I could find my way out of it at midnight wearing a coal sack.

You just make sure you find your way out of it by sundown, sack or no sack, or you’ll get no supper. I’ll go to bed whether you’re back or not.

I snorted at the notion of her going to bed before we returned. Angeline always waited up for us with the stove warm.

We gave her a wave and headed for Dead Horse Swamp, the source of the creek that flowed through our place. The swamp was named for an early settler of the territory who tried to cut through it and bogged his horse to the point where it stuck for good. Some said he shot the horse, salvaged the saddle, and walked out, while others held that both horse and rider sunk out of sight and were never seen again. Regardless, it was a vast, spreading, brooding place, and although it wasn’t on our land we had come to think of it as ours.

We tramped along in the early evening, going over the creek, up a long slope past corn and hayfields, and finally into uncut, undisturbed forest. We followed an old Indian trail that meandered through the ancient trees until the path got soft, then boggy, then petered out as we reached the swamp proper and water began to squish beneath our feet. We reached logs laid end-to-end in the muck and teetered along them to reach our raft.

The raft was simple, really just a bunch of small logs tied in a loose formation, that was originally built by Pa but then maintained by Caleb and me when he stopped coming with us. It was long for flotation, narrow for skinny places, and provided a stable platform that could take us anywhere in our own private inland sea. It looked like a natural part of the swamp, which was good for sneaking up on things.

Caleb bounced aboard and carefully laid the shotgun and supplies on a small platform nailed in the center. I set Angel’s snacks there, and we wrenched the push poles from the mud where they had served to hold the raft in place. Brown bubbles rose from the depths, and the raft bobbed as Pa came aboard and seated himself in the middle.

Take us hunting, boys.

We pushed our way along, and as the rich scent of rotting ooze brought up by the poles filled our nostrils, we adapted to the slow rhythm of the swamp. Slanting rays of early evening filtered through overhanging trees, bullfrogs sounded amid the high whine of mosquitos, and the first fireflies showed as dancing points of soft light. The raft made no sound save for an occasional gurgle of water, and from ahead came the cackle of a feeding mallard.

Pa picked up the shotgun and began to load it. The single-barrel flintlock was a family heirloom, and while percussion cap ignition was available, Pa had never converted it to the modern system. He poured a measured charge of powder down the barrel, then added a wad, lead shot on top of that, tamped home the second wad, and carefully trickled finely ground priming powder into the pan.

He nodded that he was loaded, and we assumed our raft hunting positions. Pa moved to the front and knelt on one knee, shotgun ready in his big hands, still but for his head as he scanned for ducks. Caleb and I took positions at the rear and knelt also, poling the raft along the meandering channels as quietly as any drifting log. We were part of the swamp now, threads in its web, hunters unconscious of ourselves.

A startled quack sounded from behind a stump, and four mallards jumped into the air with heavily beating wings. Pa smoothly mounted the shotgun, tracked the flight, and the old fowling piece belched a mellow boom and a cloud of white smoke. The two lead ducks collapsed and splashed into the water as the survivors disappeared through the trees.

Nice shooting, Pa! Caleb yelped. He jumped over a hummock into waist-deep water to retrieve the birds. It was a hard slog, and by the time he heaved himself back aboard, dripping mud and water, I had the shotgun loaded again.

So went the duck hunt in our old way, as if so much time hadn’t passed since Pa had last gone with us. The shooter got to shoot until he missed, then he became the retriever. The former retriever became the reloader, the old reloader became the new shooter, and the retriever and reloader poled the raft until the next miss.

Caleb and I were fine shots, Pa likely still was, and on a good day we could sit in the front of the raft and shoot like the English lords in stories Ma used to read to us. Of course, after knocking down a few close flushing birds the onlookers would begin to carp about the shotgunner avoiding difficult shots.

Pa picked up right where he had left off and likely could have stayed in the shooter’s position all evening, but he started skipping easy chances and finally missed a high-speed teal that darted through a small opening twenty yards out. After that came the regular rotation of hits and misses by each, with congratulations for fine shots and catcalls for bad.

The shadows were longer and the fireflies brighter in the gathering gloom when it came my turn to shoot again. We had a fine pile of ducks on the raft, almost more than Angel would be able to cook and preserve, and I had passed up a couple of easy shots when I heard the whistling wings of another teal. I froze, swiveled my eyeballs hard right, and spotted a lone drake shifting into a fast getaway straight over our heads. I came out of my crouch, twisted awkwardly to pull the sight bead ahead of the duck and, just as I perceived something round silhouetted against tree branches, I pulled the trigger. The priming hissed, the shotgun fired, smoke billowed, the duck fell, Caleb cheered—and our world changed.

The echoes of the shot scarcely faded before splintering sticks, twigs, and leaves rained down, along with an enormous wasp nest that landed square on Pa’s head and cracked open. The spawn of hell spewed forth in a buzzing roar.

I could scarcely see Pa for the cloud of wasps about him, and for one screamingly stupid moment I wished the shotgun was still loaded as squadrons of furious insects made for Caleb and me. At the first assault my muscles finally twitched into action, and I began to dance and slap at the stinging horde.

Caleb matched my manic motions until Pa roared, Jump! Go for the water! His voice choked off as wasps got into his mouth.

I dove headfirst over the side. The water brought cool relief, but I still had insects all over me, and I writhed underwater trying to crush the little bastards. These exertions soon forced me up for air, and I received more stings as I took a deep breath and submerged again to swim as far as I could. I repeated the process until I was a good forty yards from the raft and finally in the clear.

I pulled myself up onto a little island and flopped down on the other side of a log. My chest heaved, I felt dizzy, and my head, neck, and arms were on fire. I knew what to do, and immediately began to scrape off the stingers and daub the swellings with cool mud. I sat absorbed in these self-ministrations until I heard Caleb holler.

Silas! Silas!

Over here. I stood up, the world spun, and I leaned over to grip the log. You all right?

Something’s wrong with Pa!

I’m coming.

I waded toward the sound of my brother’s voice and found them on another hummock. Caleb stood there, shaking and scared, and Pa … Pa looked like he was dying.

He lay on his back, his powerful body engaged in a losing struggle for breath. His eyes were submerged in a red flesh balloon of swollen cheeks, lips, nose and even ears, while his neck was twice normal size. His back arched, his legs flailed, and his hands clawed at his mouth and throat.

Do something! Caleb cried.

Pa! Pa! I shouted, and slapped his face.

No reaction. I slapped harder and yelled at him to breathe. I thumped on his chest, then stuck my fingers down his throat to try to find what choked him. Caleb called on God as I tried every desperate poor fool thing I could think of, but nothing helped as his face changed from deep red to dark blue. His struggles grew weaker until he reached up and squeezed my shoulders for a few moments, then his arms fell back and his body began to quiver in horrible little spasms.

Breathe, Pa! Breathe! I called until my voice trailed away and there, because of me, our father died before us.

We sat for long frozen minutes on that little hillock as twilight fell and shadows crept in. Caleb stayed crouched, still holding Pa’s hand as tears streamed down his freckled face. I stared disbelievingly, a roaring in my ears, aghast. I had just killed my father. I had been vaguely aware of the round shape of the nest in the instant before pulling the trigger, but I had fired anyway.

As I choked this down the roaring faded from my head, and the familiar sounds of the swamp resumed as frogs croaked, katydids chirped, and an owl hooted in readiness for the night. We needed to get out of the swamp while there was still light enough to see. Caleb draped himself across Pa’s chest, sobbing, and I tugged at his shoulder.

Caleb … Caleb … we have to get going.

Pa’s dead! he burst out between sobs. Pa’s dead!

I know he is, and it’s all my fault, but we need to get out of here before dark. Angel will be worried.

The absurdity of my words struck me—how would we relieve her worry by bringing her this news?

However nonsensical they were, Caleb pulled himself together and stood, wiping his face with a muddy sleeve. What are we going to do?

We’ve got to get Pa back to the house, and it’s going to be a chore.

It would be a chore all right, getting his body out of the swamp, but I’d never be able to get the guilt out of myself. The familiar feeling already clutched at my guts like a cancer.

***

Land sakes, you boys are late! I’m heating some leftovers because— Angel stopped when we reached the light spilling from the porch. What’s happened? Where’s Pa?

Caleb looked at me and I at him. I drew a deep breath and held my arms out to her, an uncharacteristic gesture.

She stayed put, eyes widening as she put her hands to her mouth.

Silas, where’s Pa?

I dropped my arms helplessly to my sides. He’s back in the swamp. We got stung all to hell by wasps. We tried as hard as we could to help him, but he’s gone.

She stood frozen, searching my face, before turning to the shirtless, disheveled Caleb.

Dead? she whispered.

Yes, he answered, choking on the word.

Oh, God.

She swayed and looked around, disoriented. Long moments passed before she straightened and held out her arms. We three embraced for a long time, our muddiness spoiling Angel’s dress. As comforting as it was, I couldn’t stop thinking that we Jacobsons had homesteaded this farm as a family of six but only three of us remained. And now another death was my fault.

She finally released us, went into the cabin, and presently came the sound of her weeping. I went to the door and looked in. She had taken the cook pot off the stove and now sat at the table, her pretty blond hair cascading around her head as she sobbed.

Angel, I …

Leave me be, please, for a little while.

I’m just here to tell you that Caleb and I are going to fetch Pa’s body. We couldn’t do it ourselves, we need a mule.

Yes, you do that. Bring him home.

I picked up two lanterns and beckoned to Caleb. We went to the barn, put Ham into harness and collected an ax, rope, and an old horse blanket. We made the long trudge back to the swamp without a word between us with our dogs quietly following.

We got as close to the landing as we could before it got too boggy for the mule, then Caleb went on ahead after saying he wanted to be alone with Pa. I dropped Ham’s lead rope—he had always been a good, calm mule and wouldn’t wander—and taking the ax, I chopped down two slender young trees and trimmed them into long, stout poles. Fixing the old blanket securely between them, I made a travois that I dragged out through the muck.

I waded out to the hummock where Pa lay, and as I approached I heard a low mumble of words. Caleb was next to the body, the lantern illuminating his kneeling form and bowed head. I had sense enough to stand quiet while he talked, reflecting on the many times that I’d teased my little brother to the point of fisticuffs. Presently he stood and faced me.

What were you doing, Caleb?

I was praying for Pa, and for you and Angel, too.

Really?

All those times I got dragged to church, I don’t reckon I ever prayed for anyone but me. I’d ask for a new knife, or my own rifle, or for you to bust your leg, but this time I prayed for Pa to go to heaven and for God to watch over us.

Pa must be in heaven already so you can rest easy on that. You can pray for you and Angel if you like, but kindly leave me out. I’ll settle up with God myself.

What do you mean?

I mean I’ll go my own way. I don’t need your help or anybody’s.

I don’t reckon that’s going to work, going your own way. You need my help getting Pa back to the house, don’t you?

Words of wisdom from my little brother. I couldn’t stand it.

I’m not going to argue, Cale, let’s just get him home.

It was tough getting Pa onto the raft, which kept sliding away from us, and by the time we were done Caleb was crying. Back at the landing we got the travois lined up alongside, carefully rolled the body on, and lashed it in place. Taking hold of each pole we heaved the travois forward and sank down, pulled our feet out of the sucking ooze, and lunged forward, only to sink again. Mosquitos whined about our heads, sweat poured, and I fought to keep from breaking down.

After struggling for an age, we reached firm ground and stood panting until we caught our breath, then we rigged the travois poles to Ham’s harness and started back home. The mule was level-headed about the whole thing—no jumpiness at the scent of death—and the dogs seemed to understand as they followed in somber escort. Back at the barn Caleb asked what we should do now.

I’ve been thinking on it, I answered. We’ll take him into the house for tonight, get some sleep, and in the morning you can ride out to the neighbors to spread the word. I’ll dig a grave up at the orchard, make a coffin, and we’ll hold a service before putting him in the ground tomorrow evening.

That fast? What if the preacher’s nowhere near around?

It was a fact that the neighborhood had a circuit preacher who might well be forty miles away.

That can’t be helped. You know a body can’t keep in this heat and there’s no undertaker.

Who will say the words?

The preacher if he shows, and somebody else if he doesn’t.

That doesn’t seem right. I hope Reverend Dobson is close enough by.

Let’s just get Pa up to the house, I said, too tired to argue. We need some sleep before tomorrow.

We unhitched Ham, rubbed him down, and turned him into his stall with an extra ration of corn for the night’s work. We unstrapped Pa from the travois and bore him up to the cabin.

Inside we discovered that Angel had moved his bed into the center of the room and surrounded it with candles set on stacks of our mother’s old books. We maneuvered the stretcher in and laid it on the bed, then cut the blanket away. Caleb and I took the poles, the ruined blanket, and such and threw them out behind the barn, then went around the back of the cabin to get out of our dirty clothes and wash. We moved up to the loft to dress, and by the time we came back down Angel had mopped our muddy tracks, bathed Pa’s face, combed his hair and beard, crossed his arms over his breast, and lit the candles.

It was a solemn sight in our little cabin. The swelling had begun to subside from Pa’s face, and Angel’s ministrations gave him a clean, peaceful look. She was kneeling beside him with her hands on his and her head laid on his chest. In the warm glow of the candlelight it was nearer to a truly holy scene than I ever struck in any church.

Angel.

Yes?

We need to get some sleep now. It’s late and there’s a lot to do tomorrow.

More foolish words. I sounded like I was reminding her of another day’s choring on the farm.

You and Caleb go on to bed, I’m going to stay with Pa for a while.

Caleb and I looked at each other, but there was no point in trying to shift her. We each pulled up a chair and settled down with legs outstretched, chins sunk in chests, and kept watch with our sister as the candles burned lower and an occasional moth fluttered at the flames.

Two

I woke with a start the next morning, jolted out of sleep by a dog’s wet nose pressed into my ear. For a long moment I couldn’t figure how things so familiar seemed so strange—I was in our cabin, sure, but why was I downstairs with Caleb snoring in a chair beside me and Angeline curled up on the floor?

It came to me in a rush as I beheld Pa’s body stretched in the middle of the room surrounded by puddles of wax left by candles melted away in the night. The events of the day before came boiling up into my consciousness, along with the scalding realization that it was all my fault. I stuffed the mortification back down deep inside, and the hound nuzzled me again. Time to get up.

I walked out the back of the cabin to the privy house, took care of business, then returned to the back porch for a wash-up at the rain barrel. The dogs followed my every move with the same uncharacteristic solemnity of the night before—there was no rushing about, no sniffing, no eager whining to see what the people of their pack had in store for the day. They could sense death in the house, the Big Dog was down, and they moved about soberly, their heads and tails drooped. Back in the cabin Caleb was still in his chair but awake and gazing at the body while Angeline rustled about up in the loft. I looked at my brother.

Let’s get something to eat, then I’ll start the grave-digging while you go ride out to the neighbors to spread the word.

I’m not hungry.

I’m not either, but it’s going to be a long day and if we don’t eat something, we’ll surely be starving before it’s done.

I suppose.

He unbent from his chair and stretched while averting his eyes from the corpse in the bed. Without another word he went out the back as I set out bread, jam, and a pitcher of well water on the table. I clanked about the stove with some notion of lighting it to fry bacon until Angel called down from the loft.

Silas, you don’t need to be doing any cooking, I’ll be down shortly.

Don’t trouble yourself, sis, we’re not exactly hungry.

That’s right, Angeline, don’t bother over us, said Caleb, coming back in and sitting down. He tore a big chunk out of the loaf of bread and began gnawing at it like a dog with a bone. He slopped some water into a cup and used it to wash down an enormous hunk before tearing off another with his teeth.

There’s a knife right there, and jam for the bread, I said, puzzled.

I know. Don’t deserve better.

What?

We should have done something to save Pa, he said, glaring at me.

Like what?

I don’t know. Something. Anything other than just sitting there watching him die.

I tried everything I could think of.

Should have thought of something else, then.

Yes, well, you tell me what that might be. I thought about it all night and came up with nothing.

Well, for starters you shouldn’t have shot that hive down.

I stiffened and stared at him while struggling to resist my strong desire to kick his damned ass for saying it. He glared back with a mixture of defiance and fear, anger and sorrow, and when I abruptly stood up he jumped out of his chair, fists at the ready.

Well, little brother, I said as I picked up the knife, you got that just exactly right.

His eyes widened, but I just carved off two thick slices of bread.

I’m going to dig the grave. You saddle up Eggs and go tell all the neighbors. We’ll be burying Pa this evening and they can come or not come as they like. Once I get the hole dug I’ll make a marker.

I want to make it.

OK, you make it, I said with a shrug. But you need to get back in time to do it.

I will.

See you later, then, I said, and headed for the door.

Leaving the house I strode across the yard to the barn, where I forked hay to the mules and checked that they had water, then grabbed a shovel and headed out, passing Caleb on his way in. I should have reminded him to have the sense to let the mules eat before riding one around the neighborhood, but after our words in the cabin I ignored him. Let him figure it out.

I walked into a fresh morning, crossed the creek, and traipsed through the hayfield that Caleb and I had raked two days before—the green stubble gave fair promise of a second cutting before long. After climbing the long slope I reached the end of the field where the family graves lay at the head of a small apple orchard that my parents had planted with seed from Pennsylvania. From there I could see the land falling away to the creek bottom, the roofs of the barn and cabin on the other side, and trees stretching away clear to the Missouri River in the distance. Pa would rest here next to Ma and our youngest sister, who lay in a grave I couldn’t bear to look at.

I spat on my hands, grabbed the shovel, and began digging and thinking. I was still here on the farm in part for my sister and brother, and in part for Pa. I had planned to leave once my father had recovered from his long, long mourning, and now the accident I had caused both released me from that obligation and threatened to trap me here with new ones.

The hole grew deeper as I considered. Pa had always been a farmer, but Ma had come from an educated family. She had tried to give us better schooling than the area offered, and encouraged us to look further than our own fence lines, but I could easily stay and make a go of farming. I knew land, crops, animals, and work, and I could pick a local gal and set to making and raising babies. We’d have a comfortably predictable life and end up lying here in the family burial plot—beside graves that would scorch my conscience for as long as I lived here.

I finally stood six feet down at the bottom of the nearly finished hole, and the walls seemed to be closing in. I suppressed a shudder, squared the corners, tossed out the shovel, grabbed the rope I had tied to an apple tree, and pulled myself out. Standing up straight I gazed over the farm, out past the river, and felt the decision take shape. I couldn’t stay here with my guilt. Pa could rest here with the family, but I had to get away.

In early afternoon Caleb rode into the yard on a very tired Eggs. He put the mule up in the barn, woodworking sounds came from within, and I figured that he was making the grave marker. Before long wagons from neighboring farms began to wheel into the yard in response to the news—the Maxwells, Gilmores, Salees, Hundleys, and more. Men dismounted, helped their women down, then walked over to discuss the accident. Ladies pulled hampers from under blankets and disappeared into the cabin where there soon arose a hum of voices and the sounds of cooking and cleaning. Bashful children stared at one another while the bolder ones raced about in play. Visiting dogs stayed under their wagons as ours stalked about bristling at the invasion of their territory.

By mid-afternoon the tide of incoming vehicles slowed to a trickle and the talk in the circle of men had move to the usual subjects—weather, crops, hounds, hunting. They stilled when a fancy town buggy, obviously brand new, pulled into the yard. The driver, a clean-shaven, well-dressed newcomer, dismounted and moved through the people like a politician seeking votes, shaking hands and talking with a bluff heartiness. Upon reaching me he adopted a sober gravity.

Mr. Silas Jacobson, I presume? he said, extending a hand. Please forgive me for introducing myself, but I am Hiram T. Dewey, attorney and general solicitor. I have recently established practice in the town of St. Joseph. Please allow me to extend my deepest condolences for the loss of your father.

Ah, um, yes, thank you, Mr. Dewey, I replied, surprised by the formal address.

He smiled. I do hope you don’t consider it to be an intrusion, but I wish to become part of the community. I hope to do business with established landholders such as yourself.

Established landholder? I was framing a reply to this startling description of me when his eyes slid over my shoulder, did a double take, and the nature of his smile changed. Angeline, visibly upset but still very pretty, walked up and touched my arm.

Silas, I need a word with you.

Um …

Still a little off balance, I could see Mr. Dewey looking in frank admiration at my sister and I didn’t much care for it. Still, I made the introductions.

Angeline, this is Hiram Dewey, a new lawyer in town. Mr. Dewey, my sister Angeline Jacobson.

Mr. Dewey, Angel acknowledged, and she turned me out of the group. We need to get started. It’s hot, and Pa’s been lying in the house all day.

OK, we’ll get going, I said, taking her meaning. Has Reverend Dobson shown up?

No, word just came that he’s two counties over officiating at a shotgun wedding. Will you please lead the service?

Me?

Yes, who else?

I started to tell her that I couldn’t do it, but she just looked up at me with welling eyes. She appeared to be on the verge of going to pieces.

I’ll take care of it, I said, patted her arm, and walked away.

For the life of me I couldn’t see myself standing up in front of the crowd and doing the right thing by Pa. As a devout, churchgoing man he deserved better than hypocritical words about forgiveness from the son who had caused his death. I had in mind someone who might answer, though, and went in search of Horace Sigby—a neighbor, farmer, and lay preacher. I found him sitting alone on the back of his wagon with a whiskey jug beside him. I approached and tapped him on the shoulder.

Brother Sigby, do you have a moment?

Startled, he jumped convulsively from the wagon, tried to shove the jug out of sight, and succeeded only in knocking it to the ground. He knelt to recover the jug, hastily pushed it under the wagon and straightened too soon, crashing his head into the tailboard. Cherishing it with both hands he stood and spoke with as much dignity as he could muster.

Surely, Brother Jacobson. A moment, you say?

I looked at him doubtfully, trying to judge his level of inebriation. Horace was a spare, lanky man in his fifties, a widower and devout Christian. Before the area had grown enough to support a circuit preacher, the need for spiritual guidance and innate Christian forgiveness had led the community to overlook his fondness for the bottle, for the Spirit truly burned in Horace. When he combined his passion for the Word with a boost from John Barleycorn some truly memorable sermons had resulted.

Brother Sigby, I’m told that Reverend Dobson won’t be with us today.

Only too true, Brother Jackolmon, I’m afraid the good reverend is away uniting two sinners in the holy bonds of marriage. Horace removed one of the hands he had clamped to his bald head, observed with horror that it was red with blood, and promptly reapplied pressure to the flowing scalp wound. The blood of the lamb, sir, I do assure you, takes many forms.

I’m sure it does, I replied. He was weaving slightly, but that could well be due to the blow to the head and I decided he would have to do. Brother Sigby, would you do us the honor and favor of saying a few words over my father when we lay him in his grave?

Certainly, certainly my boy, I am happy to attend to your family’s needs in this time of trial, he said, extending his bloody hand to clasp mine and squeeze earnestly. Just give me a few minutes to make myself more presentable, and get into a suitable frame of mind.

I was dubious, but he turned and pulled from under the wagon seat a sober black coat of the type that preachers wore. Somewhat reassured and wondering whether he carried his preaching garb with him at all times, I left to wash my hand and get things going.

Earlier I had designated some of the brawnier menfolk as pallbearers, and after a word to them we walked to the cabin. Seeing us the crowd quieted and formed a respectful arc around the front stoop. In the parlor I affixed the final planks to seal the coffin and we hoisted it up, carried it outside, and placed it in the wagon. I helped Angeline into the seat, picked up the reins and clucked to Ham. He took up the slack, eased the makeshift hearse into motion, and with Caleb escorting at the rear, the neighbors followed behind as we made our slow way past the fields and up the hill to the gravesite. There we removed the coffin, carefully lowered it to earth, my brother, sister, and I took our places, and the people gathered round. Horace Sigby walked to the head of the grave, raised his arms with the Book in one hand, and paused.

He made a startling sight. The frayed black frock coat was draped over his heavily worn overalls, the legs of which were stuffed into an ancient pair of black stovepipe boots with leather so old it crackled when he moved. He had tied a dingy white handkerchief around his neck, perhaps to emulate a clergyman’s collar, but the effect was spoiled because he had also used it on his bloody head and the result looked as if someone had bandaged an attempted throat-cutting. As for the wound itself, he had stopped the bleeding by applying a copious plaster of mud, and the sparse remnants of his hair stuck out at odd angles through the drying, flaking poultice.

A few suppressed titters came from the crowd as he stood there, swaying slightly with his eyes closed, a rivulet of mud trickling down his face. I closed my eyes in silent supplication.

Brothers and sisters! Horace shouted, making everybody jump. Let us join together and sing ‘Rock of Ages’.

The relief was palpable as the congregation drowned out Horace’s mumbled lead, making for a fine rendition of the church staple. The last notes died away and the crowd leaned forward in anticipation of what might come next.

Brothers and sisters! Sigby cried out, and the people jumped again. Brothers and sisters, we are gathered here to lay Silas Jacobson in the ground. Yes, our neighbor Silas Jacobson, a good man, a God-fearing man who has gone to meet his maker.

The crowd murmured at this, eyes sliding sideways to see how I was taking it. I could see Caleb suppressing a grin, but Angeline looked at me with reproach. Neighbor Joe Gladden took it upon himself to sidle over and whisper into Sigby’s ear. Horace carried straight on.

"Yes! We are here to lay a Jacobson at rest, one Jacobson or