Luck's Wild

By G. Russell Peterman

The Collin Dymond story covers 1857 to 1865. Collin Dymond follows his father out to the gold fields and settles in Nevada. When the Civil War starts Collin returns to enlist in the Second Kansas which later become a Calvary unit. Collin fights in the Battle of Wilson's Creek and on through years of war in Missouri, Oklahoma, and Arkansas rising in rank from private to Captain. Late in the war Collin is wounded, released, and returns to Nevada.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456602666

Book preview

University

CHAPTER ONE: GOLD

Two men pick rocks in the rain. Any unknowing passerby would think that strange, but no one passed by. When both Dymond men pause without a word to catch a breath they each glance repeatedly toward a fresh muddy mounded grave under a twisted white oak tree. A passing in any family means change.

Dark low clouds dumping a steady rain come rushing out of the east, cross over scrub white oaks and rocks on Pea Ridge, and create a gray and black wet late spring day. Low gray clouds slowly float over leafless trees and unpainted rough sawn oak and log buildings soaked black by rain. Some locals jokingly call this place Flint Ridge for the hardness of its plentiful rocks. Dark clouds pushed by a moderate southeast wind drip down a steady cold rain. It is the second day of a soaker, as people in the Ozarks call any slow steady rain, and they are pleased with the gentleness of this passing gentle rainstorm. Everyone in Wright County, Missouri knows that any east wind means a bad storm or at least unsettled weather. Instead, this gentle eastern storm has proven a blessing—a steady soaker in an unusually warm and dry late spring. A year of drought followed by a winter lacking normal snow cover or rain had been followed by a cold windy dry spring. All winter the rocky clay ground had been so dry that cracks appeared before this soaker. It is almost unheard of to have cracks in the ground in the spring, creeks in pool stage, new grass turning brown on rocky hills, and farmers selling stock as the last hay stacks fed out. This soaker is delivering a blessing. Bowed heads before every meal these last two days gave thanks. Though to tell the truth, a few will admit before the assembled family and friends that this blessing has been a little slow in coming. After every meal, pleased eyes look out at their blessing from dark porches and glass windows and feel hope again.

It is hard to see a blessing or feel hope on the Dymond Farm. Rainwater runs off the soft red rocky clay of a new grave and off red clay from between the plentiful rocks on their farm, sixty hardscrabble acres. Quickly, rainwater turns milky tan and then dark cloudy reddish brown from absorbed red clay.

On this rocky ridge farm south-southwest of Hartville, Hansel Dymond often laughed in good times, I plow by rolling rocks around, and harvest wheat or corn that sneaks up between the rocks. The gleam in his eye told others of his pride in making a crop on his poor ground. Neighbors with a sense of humor along the Pea Ridge Road laugh about their soil and call it gritty. Scrub white oak split into rails and cedar fence posts keep a Jersey milk cow, calf, and two mules from wandering off to hunt better grass. Times had been thin and extra cash-money came from skidding logs out of the woods in winter for farmers, hauling them to sawmill, and sometimes hauling wagonloads of freight from Dennis to Hartville. Whenever Jeb Collet had more than his two wagons could handle, the Dymonds had work. The chance to haul freight, even on a sometimes basis, made a loan to purchase a second mule necessary. Then, with the loan only half paid the illness of his wife Marthie would not let Hansel be away from home. It cost him his freighting job. His debt remained unpaid and the bank had demanded payment by the end of the month.

Beyond the end of the barnyard fence stands the remains of less than half of a small haystack, this winter's last, on north side of the small half log and rough-sawn-oak barn. On the barn’s west side away from a small one-room and loft log cabin is a manure pile. Both unpainted buildings are soaked black from rain under a second day of dull gray overcast skies, racing black clouds, and blowing rain.

Back toward the farmyard’s lone old white oak tree, a tree to twisted and stunted to make good fence posts that Hansel left standing for shade, a pair of mules pull a stone-boat. An A-frame made from two chopped flat on the top and bottom cedar logs with cross-pieces of white oak three-inch thick planking oak pegged, and topped with an inch thick oak bed. Two tall gaunt bearded men cross the yard behind the stone-boat dressed in old homemade knee-length deer-hide coats with large hand-sawn and whittled wooden buttons held on by leather loops. Their blackened by rain coats have a dull shine and both men wear wet floppy-brimmed black hats. Each man walks along side a full load of rocks heaped on their stone-boat not caring about the muddy gouge the dragged A-frame plows across the rocky mud of the yard.

Whoa! yells Hansel Dymond, the father. His long white beard with the point cut straight across just above the first large wooden button drips rainwater. Whether Hansel stands or walks it is with a hunch in his shoulders from years of hard work. As he yells, the old man pulls back on the long reins roughly to stop his team of mules. The younger man, Collin Dymond, Hansel’s only living son, is not yet old enough to grow a good thick set of black whiskers. His beard grows mostly along his jawbones and a poor crop under a long pointed nose. Collin bends over and lifts the first rock from the A-frame without being told to do so.

With the team of mules stopped beside the muddy mound of a fresh grave, neither man speaks. Both tall thin men work at the task of placing a layer of rocks over the new grave, empty the stone-boat, return to the hillside to load another heaping load, and return to work at a second layer. Beside the new rock-covered grave stands two small headboards newly replaced last winter for Collin’s younger brother and sister. These mark the sorrowful passing of two other Dymond children, Alex 2 and Lizzie 27 days. Neither was able to reach adulthood. Their short lives brought untold joy, anguish, and grief to the Dymond family. Quietly, rock after rock moves to the muddy grave for both want to be sure no man or beast ever disturbs this grave. From time-to-time, one will rest a moment and look with sad eyes at the new headboard of thirteen-inch wide and two-inch thick rough-sawn oak plank. The words lovingly cut into the new oak with a sharp knife point read:

MARTHIE

DYMOND

1801-57

Finally, the muddy grave’s mound holds a second layer of rocks and the stone-boat is empty. Both men stand looking down at the new grave, pull off their hats, and stand bareheaded in the rain with bowed heads. Black hair on the son's head is soon wet and plastered around his head, and the white bearded father stands with drops of rain splashing on his un-tanned baldhead and wet ring of white hair. After a long moment of private thoughts, the old one speaks.

Marthie, don't you worry none. We'll be all right. That Farmer’s Bank down in Hartville has done got the farm. Marthie . . . you rest easy; Collin and me are heading out for them gold fields. We hope to find a little and come back. We'll buy this'en farm back … if’en we can. His old work roughened hands rub across his eyes, wipe tears and rain away, as his head bends down until his chin rests on his collarbone. After long moment that ends with a sniffle. Hansel starts again, But, if that's not to be, we'll locate close by. Marthie, you can rest easy now and look after our young’uns. I'll see you in the bye-and-bye. So long Marthie.

So long Ma, the younger one says softly and pulls his hat back on after his father does. Collin Dymond starts to follow his father toward the house.

His white-bearded father turns, stops him, and gives Collin new orders. You unhitch Cain and Abel. Leave the harnesses on the stone-boat. Put riding reins on ‘em and bring the pads. I'll get our possibles.

Yeah Pa, Collin replies and moves to strip both mules of harnesses and collars and dutifully tosses both sets on the empty muddy stone-boat. The son leads the mules to the barn, ties them to a hitching post, and steps inside their small barn. In a minute, the dutiful son returns with shorter riding reins to snap on the metal rings at the end of their straight bits in place of the longer ones. Collin slowly winds-up each of the nine-foot long leather reins into coils, ties the coils with thin leather strings from his pocket, steps back inside for two leather pads, cinches the pads tight around each mule’s bellies, picks-up the four coils, and leads the mules toward the house. On the way to the log cabin, Collin lays the long rein's four coils on top of the harnesses, and stops briefly to pick up two shovels and a pickaxe out of the mud. Collin looks around as if deciding what to do with them and decides to lays all three tools beside the harnesses on the stone-boat. Looking at the mules he wonders about the bank loan unpaid for Abel, wonders if it’s right to ride away on him. He decides the banks getting their farm and that should be enough.

At the cabin, his father steps outside carrying their new load, two leather tote-sacks. Hansel calls each one a poke tied together at the tops. When Collin stops the mules at the house, he adjusts the pads over Abel’s withers, front shoulders, and loads his mule. One poke on each side of Collin's mule and the rope between rests on the pad. The pad keeps the rope from cutting into the mule's hide.

Just as Collin finishes his father returns carrying a rifle, a shotgun, two powder horns, and two belts. Each belt has a small leather pouch for carrying an extra tie of powder in a piece of soft leather and lead shot and homemade knives in sheaths. Both firearms have leather wrapping around the flint on the hammers, frizzens, and powder pans to keep their powder dry. In addition, six-inch long leather caps cover the ends of the barrels to keep rain out of the load. Hansel hands his son Collin the rifle, a powder horn, and a belt. His rifle plate stamp reads 1812 with a U and an Eagle, making it an old military weapon. It is an old Springfield .70-caliber rifle with a barrel just short of a full forty-four inches long. The shotgun Hansel keeps, and this butt-plate stamp reads 1807 England. It is a double-barrel ten gauge with two triggers. Both weapons have a frizzen, a piece of steel the flint on the hammer strikes to create a spark, and small powder pan with a touch hole filled with black gunpowder. Both barrels of the shotgun are leather wrapped and wear a single leather rain-cap. Both men are careful to keep the barrels pointing upward as they belt on a pouch of lead balls and powder and a sheath holding an arrow-pointed double-edged knife. Both homemade knives they fired, hammered, sharpened on both sides on the farm's plentiful sandstone supply, and each blade sports homemade five-year-old white oak handles soaked for two months in oil and let dry before sanding. The homemade riveted cowhide sheaths and belts fasten over their leather coats and each one pushes an arm through the sling on a powder horn. Hansel checks the twin pokes and the pad on his son's mule before walking to his own. Collin follows, bends down, and cups his hands to help his father mount Cain's wet back. While his father waits on Cain, Collin leads Abel to a large rock left for this purpose, wipes his wet muddy hands on Abel’s flank, steps up on the rock, and slides a leg over on his mule's wet back. Collin Dymond turns Abel, his mule, to follow his father Hansel Dymond who without looking back kicks Cain in the ribs. At the end of their short farm road Hansel turns east down slope on Pea Ridge Road and at the main road turns south toward Dennis. Down Pea Ridge’s rocky muddy road in a drizzle both mules walk, father leading and son following, on through several showers of cold rain. Through rain and drizzle they keep to this steady pace on toward the upper end of Woods Fork Creek and the Gasconade River. Both would normally be dry, or nearly so, late in most summers, but in a normal spring full and running. Both were at pool stage last week, but now after this long slow rain both are sure to be running.

Neither one looks back as they ride up over hills and down through hollows, raindrops and gusting wind continuously beating against the left side of their faces, and neither one pretends to notice scattered brown winterkilled clumps of Golden Rod that Marthie so admired each fall. Without a word or a look backward both riders move south on the main trail through stands of stunted oak, black walnut, twisted cedar damaged in the last winter’s late ice storm, persimmons, hickory, and hackberry trees of the area they had called home. Two large floppy, completely soaked, hat brims bends down over the left side of each stern emotionless face by an easterly wind and make it difficult to see very much with their left eyes. From time-to-time, they notice a blackberry thicket, stands of black walnut, white limbed cottonwood, red and white oak, maple, or persimmon trees along draws and gullies. Other times swirling gusts blow the brim back and upward wetting their entire faces. Fingers quickly pull the brim back down and hold it there until the gust passes. In the bottoms both mules splash through standing water, ride knee-deep across the headwaters of Wood Fork Creek, and cross over Lost Wagon Ridge. Down again and turning down long winding Oetting Flats splashing through puddles of standing water in last year’s knee-high dead brome grass, and then splashing across the upper end of Gasconade River. In the upper Gasconade, they drag their boots ankle deep through racing water. Out on the other side again they ride along Oetting Flats, a long winding valley bottom. Collin expects his father to take the easier way down the flats, swing left and then right around Stony Ridge following a wide bowl-shaped lowland almost up into Dennis; but his father reins Cain to the right straight-up and over Stony Ridge. Up they ride through scrub oak, stunted cedars, scattered persimmon, and brush thickets dodging around jutting rock ledges and boulders. His father takes the short-cut and Collin follows as a solitary lightning flash streaks downward ahead of them, almost instantly a peal of ear-hurting thunder cracks loudly a hundred yard uphill, a burnt smell and flame and smoke from a split post oak vanish quickly in the wind and rain.

In Dennis, a small community of eleven un-painted soaked black buildings on the wagon road out from Springfield that twists and turns southeastward through the hill country everyone calls the Ozarks before turning south into central Arkansas. Through the small village of Dennis the Dymonds walk their mules. Curious eyes from windows, porches, and doorways stare out at them. Minds behind those eyes start to wonder where these two riders are going when both riders ride on past all three business places: Claxton's General Merchandize Store, Blankenship’s Boot and harness shop, and Hensley's Blacksmith and Livery. At the west edge of Dennis, Hansel turns Cain around behind a log church to a small-whitewashed cabin, slides off his mule in front of the small log cabin, and drops the reins on the muddy ground. The people living in Dennis call where the minister and his family live The Manse. Hansel’s knuckles knock on the new wood of a homemade door of the Manse and shortly it opens. A tall white-bearded man stepped into the doorway wearing store-bought clothes, a white shirt with a boiled and starched linen collar, and black suspenders holding up black wool trousers.

Come in out of the rain, Brother Dymond.

Brother Cravens, we'll just be a minute. I'll not make more work for your Misses by needlessly tracking in mud and water.

The minister in the doorway nods his thanks as Brother Cravens starts again. How may I help thee?

Marthie passed away this morning in the early hours. My boy and I have laid her to rest and said our goodbyes. We would take it kindly. If, the next time you're up that way, you would stop and say the Good Words over her grave.

The minister nods his agreement, I'll be glad to Hansel.

Hansel hands him a small folded piece of paper before continuing. My boy and I are going out to them gold fields to try to get a new start. The bank over in Hartville has got the farm. We owe thirteen dollars to Doctor Lawler for visits and medicine. I owe a dollar and eleven cents to Odie Fisher. We could pay them but we need to keep the few coins we have for the trip. I hoped you would pay those two bills in exchange for that there paper.

The minister unfolds the paper and reads:

For one dollar and other considerations I sell to Reverend Elijah Cravens, his wife Ella, kith and kin, all things and critters on my farm other than land, timber, house, barn, and standing fences.

Hansel Dymond

April 10, 1857

When Reverend Cravens looks back up at him Hansel adds, I've a milk cow, newborn bull calf a week old, a three-year-old boar, four sows due to farrow first half of next month, a rooster, eight laying hens, two setting hens in the barn, a dash of hay, a start on a stack of next winter's wood, a few split rails, a farm wagon, two sets harness, stone-boat, a few tools, and house furnishings and wares. The banker takes over at the end of this month. I thought in return for those things you, or your kith and kin, would pay my bill to Doctor Lawler and Odie Fisher.

The minister looks at the paper again for a long moment, nods, and reaches into his trouser pocket. His fingers lifted a silver dollar from several coins and a two-bladed Barlow knife in his left hand. Reverend Cravens puts the dollar in Hansel's outstretched left hand returning the other coins to his pocket and their right hands shake on the deal.

Thank you, Brother Cravens, Hansel tells him warmly turning away.

May, God, bless your journey!

Thank you again, Reverend. So long, Hansel replies, takes four quick steps, leaps belly-first up on Cain's wet back, wiggles, squirms, and manages to sit on his mount. After reaching forward to gather in the reins, his fingertips touch his hat brim as Hansel reins his mule away and back toward the main road. Collin touches his hat brim and turns Able to follow. At the road, Hansel turns west toward Springfield with Collin following and two hours later the wind dies and rain ceases.

Three days later after passing through Springfield both mules plod along northwest toward Lamar in Barton County. The Dymonds stop in Golden City for two large bundles of jerky and a small bag of salt. Outside of town Hansel motions Collin up to ride side-by-side as dusk darkens. A mile further Hansel speaks.

Son, we'd best be lookin’ for a place to camp for the night. Tomorrow morning we turn north in Lamar toward Westport on the Missouri River.

Yah Pa, Collin answers as they top a small rise. Collin points down and to the right toward a small grove of maples, ash, elm, and hickory.

Looks good, replies Hansel turning Cain toward his son’s pointed at grove of trees.

In the woods, they find a small grassy clearing but no water. They make a dry camp. Collin hobbles the mules so they can graze. Hansel unrolls two string-tied patch-quilts that quickly get slightly damp from the evening dew and recent rains as they sit on them chewing jerky. After a quiet time working on stiff dry jerky, they both wrap up in damp quilts to lie watching the last of a red-streaked sunset.

As dark settles down like a deep passing shadow Hansel whispers to his son, Since Golden City, I've had a feeling of eyes watching us.

Those two fellows sitting out on that bench in front of the Rainbow Cafe across the street did seem right interested in our mules, Collin tells his father.

Mules do fetch a high price, Hansel replies while nodding his agreement to his son’s information. Silence for a minute or two settles around them again. The dark camp is quiet while Hansel thinks about what to do. Finally, Hansel whispers to his boy. It's better to be safe than sorry. Son, you fetch some branches quiet like.

With only a slight rustling noise Collin moves through the grove on bare feet bent over collecting limbs and branches. When he brings in one armload, his father sends him after another. Hansel arranges the branches to look like it is a sleeping body, spread his patch quilt over it, and put his hat on one end. The second load is quickly arranged under Collin’s quilt with his hat at same end. Hansel moves both pairs of boots to the other end of the quilts. Both men tiptoe soundlessly back behind a stand of Blackberry barbed reeds and brush to wait. The only sound is three hand-muffled clicks of cocked weapons.

As a quarter-moon crawls up halfway over the tallest treetops two dark bent over shapes ease slowly and quietly on tiptoes from shadow to shadow through the trees. Twice the dark shapes stop to stare in the dim light toward their quilts. At about thirty feet in a long shadow both shadows raised up into the moonlight to stand straight and tall, walk forward quickly on the balls of their feet, and at less than ten steps each points a pistol at a different quilt. One hat nods and each fire two quick shots. The dark pair moves carefully closer to make sure both travelers are dead. Just before the pair touches the quilts Marthie had works so long and hard on a rifle cracks from the brush and is instantly followed by a shotgun’s double boom of two triggers pulled at once. The one hit with the shotgun’s number nine buckshot double-load flies backward, and