Let Them Wait

By Nick Wright

I am a man with sorrows behind me, and battles, too. I have regrets of which I seldom speak, nor too often think. For me, danger became a way of lifean accepted facet in the natural order of things. There is no bravado in wearing a gunit was, at the time, a necessity of life. A man could no more survive without a weapon than he could live without a horse or food.
I was fourteen years old when they attacked me under cover of darkness and while I was in my own home. The only weapon I owned was a big, double-barreled eight-gauge shotgun that we used for small game and varmints; so, the night they came I killed my first two men with a borrowed pistol. That started my crusade.
My search for justice, or maybe it was only for justification, led to more men joining the first two. Soon after, I began to acquire an unwanted and I felt, undeserved reputation as a gunman. I did not want to shoot peopleexcept one, I truly wanted to shoot him. But the others kept coming for me and I had wrongs to right.
In the end, I hunted them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491865798

Book preview

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgement

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

About the Author

Preface

This story, like my others, is a work of fiction: fiction interwoven with actual places and events and occasionally with real people. The statistics concerning Saline County, Arkansas used are actual numbers; they represent the real Saline County of the post-Civil War era. For instance, approximately thirteen hundred men did march, or ride off to fight for the Confederacy during the Civil War. Only about two hundred sixty returned. Less than two hundred men felt obligated to fight for the Union, but they were no less dedicated to their cause than were the Confederates. A forty percent decline between the 1860 and 1870 censuses reflects the county’s tremendous loss in population.

At the time of this story, there was a racetrack and Jockey Club in Benton. The café mentioned in the story is fictional. For nostalgic reasons I gave it the name, and approximate location, of a café that was a hangout for local teens when I was growing up. There was not a saloon across the street. Union officers actually commandeered the Soppach House as a place to live while stationed in Benton. Fort Bussy and the Union earthworks west of town are, or were, real.

I have inhabited my very real Saline County with fictional people. Any similarity in characters’ names, descriptions, or characteristics with actual people is unintentional.

Before the Civil War, except for military use, holsters for side arms were not widely used. One reason for this was the expense of holster and gun belt. Men usually stuck their pistol in their waistband where it was easy to get to; the fast draw and fast draw ‘artists’ were only beginning to immerge. Most historians agree that the fast draw first came out of East Texas, possible because of the numerous feuds between returning factions that fought for both sides during the war. The talent, and the need for the fast draw, spread across the West as young Texans, and men from every other state of the newly reunited country, wild and restless after the war, traveled west looking for… whatever they looked for… fame, fortune, future, adventure, anywhere not ‘back on the farm’.

That was a good thing for our expanding country. Expansion required men of all natures. For all their violence, their occasional heedlessness, and their desire to go their own way, they were men building a new world in a rough and violent land where everything tended to extremes. Mountains were high, prairies wide, and the streams seemed to be either roaring or dust-dry. It was a land where nothing was small; nothing was simple. Everything, the lives of the men and the stories they told, ran to extremes. The women were just as tough and strong and ambitious as the men they encouraged, and often accompanied, to follow the sun.

Acknowledgement

Once again I want, and need, to thank Ginger Wright and Bob Cabe for their assistance in finishing this project. In addition to constant encouragement, they provided editing, proofreading, and storyline suggestions. Any mistakes in this effort are mine; Ginger and Bob are responsible for many of the improvements.

In addition, I want to thank another friend, Bill Filer for the very helpful and often used book The Illustrated Book of Guns. It has saved me considerable research time on many occasions on this project as well as previous ones. I’m not a ‘gun person’ and the book has been invaluable. Expressing my appreciation to Bill is late in coming but no less sincere.

Waiting are they? Waiting are they? Well—let them wait.

—Ethan Allen

These were the last words of the commander of the Green Mountain Boys in response to an attending physician’s attempt to comfort him in his final moments by saying, General, I fear the angels are waiting for you.

~

Vendetta

: An often prolonged series of retaliatory, vengeful, or hostile acts or exchange of such acts.

—Merriam-Webster Dictionary

: A blood feud in which the family of a murdered person seeks vengeance on the murderer or the murderer’s family.

: A prolonged bitter quarrel with or campaign against someone.

—New Oxford American Dictionary

1

Some natural tears they dropp’d but wip’d them soon; the world was all before them, where to chose their place of rest, and Providence their guide. They hand in hand, with wand’ring steps and slow through Eden took their solitary way.

John Milton: Paradise Lost

It was one of those days that started out like most other days but now, looking back, I think of it as one of the three or four most pivotal times in my life—of course, at the time I had no idea it would be so significant. As a matter of fact, it was not until recently that I did realize it. But, when you’re fourteen years old and have a hatful of problems, you don’t spend much time looking back; or, looking forward for that matter. You have no time for such luxuries, even if it occurred to you. For me, I was too involved in the uncertain present to dwell on past or future events. But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

I was adjusting to Ma being gone. Ma and I were close. Maybe because it was just the two of us, but I believe we would have been close even if we had lived in town surrounded by other people. I still grieved for her, and Pa hadn’t come home yet; I was anxious about that. He had been gone so long, I hoped I would recognize him—and that he would recognize me.

A handful of soldiers, mostly wearing gray, but some blue-clads too, occasionally stopped by the cabin for a drink of water from our well on their way home. I found out later that although most folks in Saline were Confederate sympathizers, the county also raised two companies of Union soldiers. Well, a man has to do what he thinks is right, even if it goes against the grain of his neighbors. I also found out later, when statistics started replacing names and faces that only twenty percent of the men from Saline who joined the Confederated Army survived the war. That’s four out of every five of the best and brightest who didn’t come home—that Saline County had to reconstruct without.

All of the men returning, both the blues and the grays, said the war was over. They said Ol’ Bobby Lee surrendered over in Virginia and the damnyankees sent everybody home, mainly because they didn’t know what else to do with them.

The end of the war was difficult for me to digest; I could hardly remember when it wasn’t going on. The news gave me something else to prepare for. Pa was finally coming home. How was I going to tell him about Ma?

Regardless of the color of those soldiers’ uniforms, they all looked tuckered out, gaunt and hollow eyed. Bone weary but pleased to be home, or almost home, and apprehensive at the same time. They were aware of the changes to their body and to their spirit, and they were curious if the same things had happened at home—or even if their homes were still there. I thought maybe I recognized a few of them and I did know a lot of the family names. Practically every one of those men had a far-away look, as if they had survived for too long on short rations and little sleep—like they were old before their time. Like they had seen and done more than a man was supposed to see or do; things he would never be able to forget—or even talk about except to others who saw and did the same things. It was a look I would get used to seeing over the months to come. That look is easier to recognize than it is to define. It seemed to be a peculiar blend of liberation and relief, with a sense of loss, and a ‘what do I do now?’ expression. It made me sad, but that could have been partially because I missed Ma and was anxious about Pa. Would he wear that look when he got home?

Of course, there were graybacks around. At least that’s what folks called them in those parts: marauding bands of unprincipled men who showed allegiance to neither side and stayed home from the fighting and generally terrorized the countryside with all the able-bodied men gone. Some of them acted under the semi-official name of Home Guard, supposedly keeping the slaves in line and seeing that folks observed peace and order. Since there was a scarcity of slaves, the ‘Home Guard’ in Saline County used their power to do anything they wanted to do. Some were deserters, some were Northern sympathizers—all were opportunists. Mostly, they were the older men in the county. Those sorry excuses for men had a different look in their eyes and it was easy enough to identify: greed and scorn, with some never-admitted self-loathing mixed in for most of them.

Razor Blaylock was commander of our local Home Guard.

Ma and I had had a few run-ins with Razor and his cronies. Usually it was some type of general harassment as they threw their weight around, wanting to show how important they were and to remind the rest of us of the threat they posed if they chose to act on their mostly self-appointed authority.

The graybacks knew the countryside—knew the roads, hiding places, and the people. They operated in gangs often little more than family clans. One time Razor and some of his people rode into our yard and announced that we were hiding a runaway. They tossed everything from the barn and the loft into the yard and then ransacked the house. While his men tore our home apart, Razor forced Ma to make him a pot of coffee. He drank it sitting at our kitchen table like he was in a parlor on a polite social call. Except the way he talked to and looked at Ma it was neither polite nor social.

Whatever they searched for, I’m sure it wasn’t an escaped slave. They didn’t find a runaway or whatever else they wanted. If those men were slave-hunters, I decided right then that if I ever had the chance, I’d hide a slave from them.

Another time, a gang of the younger ones came to the cabin. They called themselves the Home Guard Auxiliary, although I doubt any of them knew what auxiliary meant. They were drinking liquor like the older Guard usually did, and they said they were going to ‘borrow’ Buck, and we didn’t have any say in it. They were laughing and joking around with each other and making discourteous remarks about Ma.

Buck was my saddle horse and the most precious thing I owned; other than my clothes, he was about the only thing I owned.

At the time, we had an old hound we called Dog and he really wasn’t much use hunting any more. He was Pa’s and Dog was old when I was born. His hearing was gone, his eyesight was limited, and since he couldn’t hunt any more, his main purpose in life was to provide the chickens with something to avoid as they pecked their way around the yard. The chickens didn’t mind, and the point is, he was our dog and nobody had the right to do him harm.

Dog was old, but he was still a keen judge of character, and he sensed the malevolence in those Auxiliary boys. He stood his ground between Ma and them, snarling and barking like he would take them all on. I expect he would have, too.

Eli, Razor Blaylock’s oldest boy, was the Auxiliary’s leader. Like father, like son. He had an old muzzle-loader pistol stuck behind his belt and he swaggered around like he thought he was somebody important. He put up with Dog’s barking for a minute or two and then he pulled that muzzle-loader, walked up, and shot old Dog for trying to protect Ma and me. Our old dog let out a sort of yelp and he fell over, dead. Eli looked at Ma with a leer and said something inappropriate. I wasn’t sure what exactly it meant but I knew he was being rude. I let out a screech and took after Eli like I had good sense, although he was six to eight years older than me and outweighed me seventy-five pounds or more. At that moment, none of that made any difference.

One of Eli’s brothers, Leon, stepped out and tripped me to the ground. He easily caught me in a hammerlock, and as he dragged me to my feet he bragged he was going to break my arm—if yore lucky that’s all I’ll do to ya, he said. With his mouth next to my ear he sneered, Yer pa whupped our pa wunct an’ I’m gonna get even fer that right now, an’ there ain’t nuthin’ you kin do about it. He was right about that.

Old Razor Blaylock was, by most accounts I’d heard, the sorriest excuse for a grown man in all of Saline County—maybe including some surrounding counties, too. Eli and Leon were two of his ten kids, most of the ten were boys, and every one of those boys were as worthless as their father. There were a couple of Blaylock girls, too. I didn’t know much about the older daughter, but Edith Ann was my age and I figured her for an all right person. It seemed a shame that folks painted her with the same brush they used to color the rest of the family. I had seen her from time to time with her mother and sister, sometimes at church, sometimes at the general store. I also saw her the few times I went to school.

By my count, all the Blaylock boys were at our cabin that day, even Skeeter the youngest. There were also a few no-account cousins and hangers-on mixed in with them. I know Charlie Bob Rogers, a cousin, was there and I recognized Albert Blaylock, another cousin. The woods of Saline County were full of Blaylocks and their kin.

I struggled against Leon’s grip but I couldn’t get away from him; he was only a couple of years older than me but quite a bit bigger—and stronger. At the time, everyone was bigger than me, even Edith Ann. I remember Leon’s stale breath against my cheek when he laughed at my pain. As he started pushing my hand up my back, I wondered miserably how was I going to help Ma around the farm with a busted up arm.

That’s when Ma, she was having one of her better-feeling days, sprayed a load of birdshot into the lot of them. I don’t know if it was because of Dog, or of Leon twisting my arm, or the things Eli said, or something else entirely but she grabbed the eight-gauge that leaned just inside the front door and let bird shot fly. Nearly all of them got a dose except for Leon who had dragged me over to push my face into the rough side of the cabin. She missed Leon, but I know he wet his pants as he squealed, let go of me, and dove for cover with the rest of them. As Ma pulled the second hammer back, the Saline County Home Guard Auxiliary decided that maybe they’d go borrow somebody else’s horse.

I wish that had been the end of it.

Word must have gotten around, because we weren’t bothered for a while after that. However, I remember the face and the name of every one of them. That confrontation took a lot out of Ma and I’ll never forgive them for that—or for shooting harmless old Dog. I’ll especially remember Eli and Leon Blaylock. There’s a special place in hell for folks like them and I planned to see that someday they occupied the ones reserved for them. The plans I began to make as I buried Dog that day have a lot to do with the telling of the rest of this story.

~

I could hardly wait for Pa to get home; it seemed to be taking a long time. It weighed heavy on my mind how to tell him about Ma, but it needed doing and I was the only one to do it. I was thinking about that as I came out of the woods behind the cabin carrying a pair of rabbits, back legs tied together with a length of old twine and tossed over my shoulder so I could use both hands to carry the old shotgun Ma had used on that Blaylock bunch. I wouldn’t have admitted it, but that gun was heavy even though it was part of my everyday wardrobe since the Auxiliary came to call. Counting the stock, body, and its thirty-six inch twin barrels, it was almost as tall as I was when I put the butt down by my feet. I rarely went anywhere without that gun. Even though I was a fair shot with it, I had caught the rabbits in snares that I kept set and baited. It was a good thing that I was handy with snares and traps because I only had two shells left—I wasn’t sure what I would do when they were gone, but even then I figured I would work it out one way or another. Besides, Pa would be home soon and he would know what to do.

Like I said, I came out of the woods and there he was, standing out on the little knoll just up from the smokehouse. My heart sank when I realized it wasn’t Pa, I could tell right off from his build that it wasn’t him. I remembered that much about my father. The man wore threadbare homespun trousers, worn out riding boots, and a gray Rebel coat over a faded, sweat-stained plaid shirt, so I didn’t peg him for a bushwhacker, at least not yet. In addition to a flap-holstered revolver belted on his hip, he had a big pistol stuck behind his belt, so it never hurts to be cautious. The stranger had a full, thick beard, the kind I had seen on almost every returning soldier regardless of the color of his uniform. He held a weathered, shapeless hat in one hand and there was something familiar about him—I’ve got a good memory for faces and most other things. His horse, ground-hitched nearby, grazed like he had lived on our farm forever.

I slung the rabbits over a nearby tree limb so some critter couldn’t sneak behind my back and drag them off, then I checked the load in the old shotgun. You learn to be cautious of strangers that just walk up into your yard without ‘helloing the house’ to announce their intentions. On the other hand, he might have called out and I didn’t hear, since I was out in the woods collecting supper. Either way, I figured it best to err on the side of caution, which is what Ma would have wanted.

Mister, I said, with the best grown-up voice I could muster, I hope you have friendly intentions, because I do not plan to waste ammunition firing a warning shot. I will consider it neighborly if you would turn around this way and keep both your hands on your hat. It will be in your own best interest to not make me nervous. Most folks would think that was mighty high talk coming from a boy only fourteen years old, but even though I was young, there was no ‘only’ in front of my age. Looking back on it today, I still cannot see the ‘only’. I may have been fourteen, but we were on my property until Pa got back from the war, and I was going to protect it the best I could until he returned; my age didn’t have anything to do with it. It was all about responsibility and Ma was keen on accepting responsibility.

Somewhere a mockingbird rehearsed its endless songs and a frog croaked down by Wolf Creek. Both sounds only emphasized the stillness. The fellow just stood there for another moment or two; looking down at the improvised cross I’d made and had cut ‘Ma’ into the crosspiece with my belt knife. It wasn’t much, but it was the best I could do with what I had at hand. It isn’t an easy thing to bury your Ma by yourself when you’re ‘only’ fourteen years old.

Did you do this? He was careful to follow my directions and he kept both hands on his hat, but he motioned with it toward the rock-covered grave—now not so freshly dug, but neat. I pulled weeds everyday; it gave me a good reason to be close to Ma, and that was a comfort. He turned to face me and there was something familiar about him, but I didn’t have time to figure that out right then.

Yes sir, I did. I kept the barrels of the shotgun pointed in his general direction although it was beginning to show its weight. The consumption got her finally, I continued. She knew she was dying—she fought with all her strength to hold on until Pa got home. But… I dropped my head, swallowed hard before clearing my throat, and decided it was easier if I changed the subject just a bit. I figure when Pa gets home, and I expect him anytime now, we will do a better job of it when there are two of us to do it right.

Why didn’t you get your neighbors over to help?

Our closest neighbors are nearly five miles away. I realized I wasn’t telling the whole truth and somehow I knew I should tell this man the truth. If I had asked, some of them would have come over. There are mostly good folks around here. But I wanted to do it myself. She is my Ma; it was my duty.

The stranger looked at me with grave, serious eyes set in a sad face; he cut those eyes toward the cabin and then back to Ma’s grave. I could almost see him measuring the distance and wondering how a little fellow like me could get her all the way out there by himself. And then, one of his shoulders rose and fell like he shrugged the wondering off; like it wasn’t important to him how I did it, only that I did it. You did a tolerable job by yourself, but I’ll help if you want to go ahead and get it done. Your ma would be proud of the marker you made, but we can make a different one if you like. He cleared his throat and paused, and then in a soft voice he asked, as if my answer was important to him, Did you read the Good Book over her?

Yes sir, I did that, too, I answered, and shifted my aim so the gun didn’t point so directly at him. "Ma set considerable store by reading and learning and she saw to it that I read every day. She had me read from either the Bible or from Pilgrim’s Progress before bedtime, too."

We also had a leather-bound copy of Mister Webster’s An American Dictionary of the English Language. It had an introductory dissertation on the origin, history and connection of the languages of Western Asia and Europe, with an explanation of the principles on which languages are formed. I didn’t know what all that meant when I first read it, but over time, I have reasoned most of it out. Those were the only books we had. Ma said Pa could read and I was going to learn, too. She also made me mind my grammar. She stayed after me to speak correctly, telling me I had a better chance to make something of myself if I spoke well. There are many things I can’t do, but I did learn to speak well.

I read some Psalms and some of her favorite verses. ‘Being better educated than those around you will give you an edge,’ she told me. ‘Never underestimate the advantage an education will give you. You will not often have schoolteachers and schoolbooks, but you can learn from almost everyone. You make every book you pick up a school book’. I remember wondering why I was telling this stranger all of that.

The corners of his lips turned up in a sad kind of way, like he was recalling something pleasant that was never going to happen again, Are you Ryan… Rye?

Well, he sure did look familiar to me, and he knew the nickname that folks used for me, so I reasoned he must be from around there. I think I was about to figure it out on my own when he continued, I’ve been here before—a long time ago. I’m your uncle, Cullen Tremaine. Your Ma is… was my sister.

No wonder he looked familiar. The one person Ma talked about nearly as much as Pa when she wanted to cite a good example to me was her brother Cullen. He and Ma looked a lot alike once I knew what to look for. Ma was a pretty woman, especially before she got sick, and Cullen Tremaine was what some might call ruggedly handsome under that bushy war-beard. Anyway, he was usually, but that day he was fatigued, tired to his bones, and four years of combat showed on his face. He looked like he had seen too much, traveled too far, and slept too little for a long time. I saw all of that in his eyes and in the way he stood, but I did recognize him once I knew who he was.

He was exhausted and I didn’t know what else might be wrong with him, and he had just learned his sister was dead. I didn’t know much about comforting others, but I felt like I should try. I was feeling awkward holding the shotgun on my own uncle so I put the butt on the ground and held the barrel in my left hand. She died in her sleep. The morning it happened I somehow knew her time was close so I stayed with her in the cabin, skipping my chores. I was dabbing her face with cool water when I felt her last breath leave her. My voice caught a bit when I said that last part, but Cullen Tremaine was kind enough not to notice.

If it was possible, he looked even sadder than he had before; but not for him—the sadness was for me. He nodded solemnly, felt it was safe to put his hat back on, and began walking down the knoll toward where I stood.

~

Now is a good time to fill you in a little about me, although there are a lot more interesting people in the story I’m telling. My name is Ryan Tyree. My Pa’s name was Ryan, too, so to keep it simple, they called me Rye for short, and although Pa wasn’t around all that long, Rye stuck, like that sort of thing often does. Ma used to say I looked like my Pa, but I have to take her word for that because, I’m embarrassed to admit, I hardly remember how he looked except that he had broad shoulders and was tall. I never considered that I was all that much to look at but that doesn’t bother me; I don’t have to look at myself all that often—just when I comb my hair, or later when I started shaving. My Pa was a good man though; I do remember that.

I’m a shade less than six feet, now, but I was not always this tall. When I was a boy, back when this story actually started, I was a little fellow, smaller than all the boys my age, and the girls too for that matter, even Edith Ann Blaylock. Not that there were all that many boys, or girls, or even families, back along the four forks of the Saline River.

Pa took Ma out to the four forks as soon as they married; he called it ‘God’s Country’ and I guess Ma agreed. The rivers and forests seem to go on forever, and in the not too far distance, you can see the Ouachitas. There was plenty of game in the woods and fish in the rivers and the soil was rocky, but fertile. Since leaving that cabin, I’ve traveled to a lot of beautiful places, but down inside me, in the part where I admit my failings and I’m always honest with myself, I know that someday, even if it’s a long time from now, I’m going back to Saline County, Arkansas to stay. It’s hard to get ‘home’ out of your bones. Ma, who was more inclined to the Good Book than Pa, said it was like another Eden. I don’t know about that because I don’t recall any apple trees even though we did have our share of serpents.

I don’t know where my folks came from; it never occurred to me to ask, and now it’s too late. Looking back, there are an awful lot of things that I wish I had asked about.

Anyway, Pa found what he considered a perfect spot and he built our small cabin along Wolf Creek. It was durable and big enough for us, and he set out to make a farm and a living for himself and his new bride. He picked a special place for the cabin; actually, Ma picked the spot.

Soon enough, I came along, and according to Ma, they were proud to welcome me to the family. Thinking about it, I’m surprised they didn’t name me Cain or Abel to live in their Eden. Surprised, but thankful, too.

Except for Ma’s health problem, which wasn’t too bad until after Pa left, things went along fine; the farm and the forest and the river provided well for us. And then the war came along. I was only a boy when Pa left to fight in the name of the great state of Arkansas and the newly established Confederate States of America. For a long time after that things were not so good.

~

That evening, Cullen Tremaine and I skinned and gutted the rabbits I trapped earlier and tossed the meat in the stewpot with some vegetables from the dwindling supply left over from Ma’s garden. That garden was another thing on my ever-increasing list of chores I needed to get to. I did not want Pa to see that I had let the place run down; at least not too bad.

We had run out of coffee before Ma passed, but Cullen had some chicory in his saddlebags, which was something new for me. Now, don’t think I’m being disrespectful—he told me to call him Cullen—Uncle Cullen didn’t have the right ring to it for either of us. And, I can’t remember him ever calling me ‘boy’. For us, it was Cullen and Rye from the start.

We spent the preparation time and the meal beginning to get to know each other, but the most I could come away with was that Cullen was a man with a lot on his mind, and he wasn’t one to try to carry a conversation. I found out the reason for part of it when he mopped his plate with the last of his biscuit from Ma’s Dutch oven, and leaned back with a heavy sigh. I had already noticed that he sat with his back to the wall where he could see the door and the only window in the kitchen, and that big old horse pistol was never far from his hand. He kind of sighed again and I could tell he was studying on something.

How old are you, Rye? He didn’t ask it in a rude way, only like he was trying to get around to something by asking a question he already knew the answer to.

I’m fourteen, almost fifteen. That didn’t sound like enough of an answer so I added, Ma said I was fourteen going on twenty. I thought that was funny when she said it, but now it took on a whole new meaning with her gone. Still, I didn’t fully realize what it meant until later—I had plenty of opportunities to figure it out. I thought I was maturing fast up to that point.

Cullen didn’t seem to notice the humor. That’s good to hear, because I’ve got something to tell you and I don’t know any way to make it easy for a youngster. His voice was raspy and even I could hear the weariness in it, Rye, your Pa isn’t coming home. He took a Minie ball in the gut about two weeks before we heard about the doings at Appomattox Courthouse. Your Pa and I had occasion to run into each other from time to time during the war and we both took the occasional nick and scrape, but nothing too important until that last battle; actually, it was more of a skirmish than a battle. I happened to be with your Pa when he was shot; it might comfort you to know he died with friends.

Cullen was looking toward the widow but I realized he was not looking through it. He was looking at a battlefield where his friend lay dying. My newfound uncle breathed another heavy sigh and continued, Just like you were holding my little sister in your arms when she died, I was holding your daddy in mine. I promised him I’d check in on you and your ma and tell you what happened to him. We gave him a decent Christian burial. His last words on this Earth were about you and your Ma. His voice sounded like it came from that distant cornfield, or orchard, or crossroads, or wherever it might have been that he had to leave his friend, my Pa.

I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I had based everything I did since Ma passed, everything I planned, on surviving until Pa got home. Now, Pa wasn’t coming home! I nodded, swallowed a mighty big lump in my throat, and knew I couldn’t speak even if there was something worth saying. I remember looking at Cullen and feeling sorry that he had to be the one to tell me the bad news. He was upset enough over finding out his sister was dead. I grabbed the old shotgun out of habit, walked outside, and continued across the yard to the barn. It wasn’t much of a barn, more like a big shed with a hayloft and a pole corral attached.

Inside, I checked on Buck, which I did every evening. Now that Ma and Pa were gone, he was the only friend I had left. The day before Pa rode off to fight in the war he took me over to our nearest neighbor’s place. When we got there, Mister Westerman had five or six horses in his corral, and after we looked at them for a while, Pa said for me to pick out the one I wanted. That surprised me; I was going to get to pick out my own horse.

Excited, I crawled through the bars of Mister Westerman’s corral and examined every one of those horses carefully before settling on a high-stepper roan with a blaze face that seemed to have plenty of spirit.

Pa studied the sorrel and said, "that filly looks lively enough, but she won’t have any stayin’ power, Rye. You want a horse that’ll carry you all day and into the night. Pick your horses and your friends for staying power. Take another look at that buckskin gelding. He’s young, but he’s tough and he’s smart. Don’t pay attention to the showy kind, in horses or in people. Pick ’em to last. Pick ’em to go all the way.

I picked the buckskin and Pa was right.

On the way home, he joked that when he came home after the war, which would only take a few months, he wanted to see me riding like an old hand. That was over four years ago and Pa was never coming home. I could ride now, and I’m not much for bragging, but I was darn good, even if I had to say so myself. Standing there in the darkened barn, Buck nuzzled my neck; he could tell I was upset so I gave him half a carrot from the stash I set aside for treats. Molly, our old sorrel mule, took the news much better. She seemed more concerned about her supper than she did about other events.

After giving Buck the bad news and consoling Molly although she didn’t seem to need it, I took off up the hillside through the pine and pin oak and hickory behind the house. I stumbled along, my body and my mind numb to everything around me. I knew all the paths and game trails and my feet just naturally followed one of them until I wore out. Then, in the dark, I sat down under a cottonwood tree with that old long barreled shotgun across my lap.

And then, it all hit me like I stepped out in front of a runaway team of six; I was completely alone in the world and I had no idea what I would do next.

I put my face in my hands and I cried like a child.

~

The morning sky was still gray when I shuffled back down to the cabin, embarrassed by my behavior and regretful that I had walked off and left Cullen alone in a strange house. Ma, and Pa, too, would have chided me for doing that—regardless of circumstances.

I had cried myself out the night before and dropped off to sleep with the eight-gauge still across my lap, and I slept through the night. I didn’t realize how exhausted I was due to recent events until everything caught up with me. Although feeling somewhat better in the morning, my heart was heavy, knowing I would never see Ma or Pa again. The truth is, I was feeling sorry for myself.

I have heard that things always look better in the cold light of day. I don’t know if it’s always true, but it seemed to be that morning. I was unsure of what lay in my future and I was concerned about that, but there were two things of which I was convinced: the first was that things had to get better, and the other was, I was never going to cry again. I didn’t have much experience around other children my age, so not having much to measure by, I figured by the time a fellow reached fourteen, he was a man, and men don’t cry. At least I had never seen one do it.

It was still early as I approached the house but I heard noises coming from the kitchen as I walked across what we called a back yard, and I remembered I had a houseguest; well, he was more family than a guest, I reckon. The back door was partially ajar so I peeked into the kitchen, knowing I couldn’t put it off forever—facing Cullen after breaking down and crying like a baby.

~

Perhaps I should tell you more about Cullen. He never mentioned that night to me, ever. We talked about my parents, sure, but he never mentioned the death of either one of them. He never mentioned me breaking down and boo-hooing, either. He saw me peeking through the back door that morning and without turning all the way to face me he said, Better get washed up. Breakfast’ll be on the table in a couple of minutes. I was growing a fondness for Cullen Tremaine, and I was beginning to realize that Buck was not the only friend that I had.

Cullen had milked the cow, been out to the hen house, and found four eggs to fry up. That was good because the numbers in our flock of Rhode Island Reds had dwindled over the last few months. At the rate at which they were disappearing, they would soon all be gone. He had the last of the ham in the skillet, but I didn’t mind. It needed eating and sharing with company was a good way to do that. We had the eggs, and he’d warmed up leftover biscuits from the evening meal. Eating someone else’s cooking was a pleasant change.

As usual, Cullen was quiet for most of the meal, but I was already getting used to his silences. I was also beginning to notice that at the end of a long silence he often had something important to say. As I cleared the table and started to wash the utensils and the plates, he cleared his throat and began filling his short-stemmed pipe with tobacco from an old deerskin pouch made for that purpose.

I’ve been taking orders from others for four years now, he began, and I was never partial to doing that. It was my good fortune that I had excellent officers or I might have slipped away one night. My plan for after the war was to go out West to see what all the excitement is about. Of course, that was before I found out your ma had died and you were here all alone. I harbor no plans to get into farming, at least not until I’ve looked around the country some, but I’ll stay here until we can find a good family to take you in. This farm belongs to you now, and it has some value; at least it will someday when the country gets back on its feet. I’ll do what I can to preserve it for you. It may have to lie fallow for a few years and it’ll be some effort to get it going again after that, but it’ll be worth it.

I continued to scrub the skillet but I admit I was concentrating more on what Cullen had to say than what I was doing. It sounded to me like he was planning for my future more than I was, and that wasn’t right—I ought to be more involved.

To this day, I don’t know where it came from, because I had given it no conscious thought at all, but I blurted out, I do not want to be a farmer. Ma talked about me seeing the distant lands. She often told me I was born for big spaces—she said I was not always going to be small like I am now and that I would need a lot of room to grow up. I am not sure exactly what she meant by that, but she had plans for me to go yondering when I became of age. Well, she is gone and Pa is not coming home, so that makes me of age.

Cullen sat there, looking at me and smoking his pipe. He looked so hard that I was beginning to wonder if he had heard me right and if he was trying to decide exactly what he had heard me say. I wondered the same thing. After a while, he cleared his throat and said, That sounds like your ma, alright.

~

How well did you know Pa? I had a hundred questions I was bursting to ask Cullen. However, he was such a reserved man, which I didn’t understand at the time, even at my age I realized I should pick the timing of my questions carefully. I especially wanted to know more about my father so Cullen was a good place to start. I knew he didn’t care to talk much, but he could move on at anytime and I wanted to know some things before he left.

He pulled off one glove and reached for his short-stemmed pipe like he usually did when he wanted a moment to think before talking. That’s a trait too many of us don’t possess; I certainly didn’t. But Cullen had enough patience for both of us. He tamped tobacco into the bowl until he got it the way he liked it, struck a match, and held it over the bowl before finally looking over the flame at me. As it turned out, my parents were two of the few things he seemed to enjoy talking about. Your Pa and I were friends long before we were your age, Rye. Only then did he puff to ignite the tobacco. Our families lived one farm over from each other out east of here, and given the sparseness of folks, it was lucky for both of us that we got along from the beginning. There weren’t that many others our age to pick from.

I knew what he was talking about. I didn’t have any friends from around here. There were the Blaylock boys but they were anything but friends. I had even sworn to hunt down Eli and Leon someday, and as many of their brothers as I could find. There was their little sister, Edith Ann, she was about my age, but she wasn’t really a friend, although she had been friendly on the few occasions that I was around her. Moreover, she was the only girl anywhere near my age that I knew of. Her older sister was the next closest. Seems like newborns in our neck of the woods ran to boy babies.

Cullen and I were adding stones around Ma’s grave, and if I say so myself, it looked nice with the new wooden marker he had made and carved into it her full name, Sarah Tremaine Tyree, and the two dates that marked her short time on this earth. Telling about his and Pa’s relationship was a long speech for Cullen so I figured he was finished talking for the day. Once again, I had him figured wrong.

Your Pa was all a man could ask for in a friend. He was a just and fair boy and grew to be a just and fair man, with a strict sense of what was right and what was wrong. He couldn’t stand to see anyone or anything mistreated. I’ve seen him in more than a dozen fistfights to right some wrong and he’s yet to lose one. I was happy for both of them when he took up with Sarah. He looked off into the distance like he could maybe see the past and gave a little chuckle like he was laughing at himself before he continued, I guess, at the same time, I was jealous because she was getting some of the time with him that he once had for me. On the other hand, it was worth it to see them so happy. Those two were born for each other—I was best man at the wedding and almost as proud as they were.

He puffed on his pipe and got that far-away look I was beginning to get used to. When word came that Arkansas had seceded from the Union with the others, I tried to talk him out of enlisting. I reminded him he had a family to take care of, but he’d have none of it. ‘How’d I face my family afterwards if I didn’t do the right thing?’ he asked me.

A lot of things I have learned about my Pa have stuck with me, but I think that maybe the one I remember best is what Cullen had just told me. ‘Do the right thing,’ my Pa said, so I have always tried to do that, although I often wonder how to tell what the right thing is. It gets tricky at times. I once asked Cullen about that and he said I was asking the wrong man, but since I was Ryan and Sarah Tyree’s son, I’d figure it out. I’m still working on that.

I suppose all that talking wore him out although long days and hard work never bothered him. He glanced toward the west where the sun was only an orange glow beyond the Ouachitas and said, Let’s call it a day. You see to the animals and I’ll rustle up something to eat. He gave a short nod as if he agreed with himself and then he moved off toward the cabin. After a few paces he turned back and said, We’ve got some talking to do.

Walking toward the shed, I wondered about that. It had to be important or he would have waited until an appropriate time and just start in on it like he often did. Was he going to leave? He was only passing through to give Ma the news about Pa. Now he had decided it was time to