Crack of the Whip: Saga of the Old West

By Lawrence Wilson

A cruel and sadistic father beat his son with a whip from his early age through his teenage years. Anger, bitterness, and hatred grew as he grew. He developed a use for the gun, becoming proficient with speed and accuracy. He traveled west, meeting good people along the way who turned around his thinking about good against evil. He used his gun to help good people and law enforcement as he traveled through Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, and finally settled in Wyoming—the state he longed to see—and started a family. But he wasn’t satisfied. With tireless energy, ingenuity, and the help of his family and good friends, he developed an empire that stretched from Wyoming to California.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781984569790

Lawrence Wilson

Lawrence Wilson attended classes at the University of Cincinnati in English composition, business writing, literature, and other electives to broaden his scope that were not in his major of engineering. The skills he learned along with personal experiences and a vivid imagination emboldened him to tell an interesting story, albeit fiction combined with facts in most cases. He is the author of other books: Ole Buford, Crack of the Whip, and Chopper Chaplain. He is a widower and a veteran living in southwest Ohio.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Somewhere in the farm country of Central Indiana, in the middle 1850s, a small farmer was trying to scratch out a living on his small farm. His name was Chester Wilson. He had two sons, George and Charlie. His wife had died some years earlier of the fever. The two boys, who were absolutely of no use, and the least thing on their minds was working. Chester’s day would begin at the first crow of the rooster and end at dark. Chester had a 10-foot black-snake whip and he didn’t hesitate to use it to get just a little effort out of the boys. He cracked it across their backs and butts, and they did their work while he was in sight; when he got out of sight, they quit. This went on from day to day, week to week, month to month, and year to year; it was a routine that never ended. The boys grew and, when they became old enough, they started going into town and drank and brawled and became destructive. They began coming home late and wanted to sleep late in the mornings. Chester had other ideas, so he wailed them good with the whip, arousing them from the bed, grumbling and cursing.

One night they went to town and got extremely drunk and got involved in fights and practically destroyed the saloon. They came home in the wee hours of the morning in a very foul mood and flopped into bed and passed out. So, when the rooster crowed, Chester started his routine and took his whip to the boys’ room and started beating on one and then the other. This was the wrong day to do that, so the boys got up and took the whip away from their Pa and beat him to death. Charlie said, Brutha, now we’s dun it. That Sheriff in town has been wantin’ to git sumthung on us fur a long spell and when he’s finds out we’s dun killed our Pa, he’ll hang us fer shur; we’s gots to run. George responded, Bin hearin’ folks bin packin’ up and headin’ west; thas whut we’ns needs to do. Charlie agreed, so they saddled their old mules and took what guns and money they could find, tied bed rolls behind their saddles, filled their canteens, and George took his Pa’s whip, and they lit out. Charlie suggested they better stay off the main roads and go across-country because the Sheriff and a posse would be coming that way as soon as it was discovered that they killed Chester.

They worked their way to St. Louis, Missouri. Nevuh seen so many folks and lawmen all in one place, Charlie remarked, whut we gonna do now? George answered, matter of factly, We’s gonna git a haircut, at a barber shop. Whut? Charlie responded. We’s ain’t never bin in no barber shop before; why’s we gonna do that? Cuz, Dummy, if yous wants to know whut’s goin’ on, the best place to find out is in a barber shop. They’s knows everthung, George responded, like he knew what he was talking about; so, they struck up a conversation with the barber and the other people in the shop. We’s heerd that folks are moving west. Which way they’s headin’? George asked. One of the locals answered, They are forming wagon trains up in St. Joe (St. Joseph, Missouri) and most of them are headin’ northwest toward Oregon and California. I hear there’s a lot of wild Indians up that way that attack them, and they have to fight ‘em off. You boys could be a big help to ‘em. Fightin’ Injins? Charlie remarked. Thas sounds likes fun. After informative conversations in the barber shop, they walked out onto the sidewalk. We’s gonna fight Injins, George? Charlie asked. Nah! George replied. If ’n folks are headin’ northwest, ah’s headin southwest. They’s probly posters out on us by now and we’s heading to parts that has very few people and lawmen.

CHAPTER 2

They traveled cross-country on wagon trails and animal paths; it was slow going through wilderness and undeveloped country. At the end of the day they would look for campfires and invite themselves in for a possible meal and coffee with other travelers. Afterwards they would spread their bed rolls near the fire and sleep, and in the morning, they arose and ate whatever breakfast was available and then showed their appreciation by robbing the campers of their money. If they resisted, George would take out his whip and beat them into submission. This became their routine, but they were careful not to kill anybody, else the law might be alerted. Do’s kill ‘em, George, Charlie directed. We’s do’s needs no US Marshalls doggin’ our tail. One night they were surprised when they rode into a camp of a Sheriff with a posse. The Wilson boys had to be on their best behavior. The Sheriff asked, Where you boys bound for? George responded, We’s heerd that folks ahr moving west. We’s bin traveling fer days and ain’t seen nobudy. The Sheriff laughed and said, That’s because you’re going in the wrong direction. They are going northwest and you are traveling southwest. Charlie tried to act surprised and looked at him big eyed and exclaimed, Uh-oh-ok! Then George asked, Yous fellers huntin’ sumbody? Yeah! The Sheriff responded. We’re tracking two killers. We know where they’ve holed up and we should catch up to them sometime tomorrow. The next morning the posse shared some flapjacks and coffee and the boys saddled their mules and Charlie said, Thunks fer the vittles. We’s hopes yous fellers catch them thar killers. We’ll get ‘em! The Sheriff said, sounding positive. They rode off in the same direction they were going. One of the posse members said, Sheriff, they are still going in the wrong direction. I know, he answered, they’ll figure it out. That was the least of his concerns.

The brothers traveled for about two weeks. Charlie said, George, we’s gots to settle sommers. Ah’s gitten tard of travelin’. Me too, Brutha, George agreed. They later rode into the yard of a small farm. An old man and woman came out to meet them. George could see they were old and feeble, and he offered, We’s the Wilson Bruthas, George and Charlie, and we’s traveled a long way and we’s tard and hungry. We’s would be pleased to cut wood and do the heavy liften if ’n yous would feed us and let us sleep in yonder barn for a few days. That sounded like a blessing to those old people. Their days of swinging an ax or hatchet have been long gone. We’s the Todds, Ben and Betty, the old man responded. Sounds fair; yous fellers can step down and look the place over and we’s call ya when suppa is ready. Then Charlie asked, Is theys a town near hyar?

Yeah! Ben said. The town of Pineville; it’s really growing fast. We’s now have a Sheriff and a Mayor and once a month a Circuit Judge is supposed to come through town. The boys cut a sizable pile of wood and got plenty of rest. They worked for a few days and did all they said they would do. Charlie saw Ben sitting on the porch in his rocking chair and he approached him and asked, Bin seein’ smoke comin’ thru them thar trees over yonder. Is they makin’ moonshine whiskey ova thar? Yeah! Ben replied. That’s xactly whut they’s doing. Is they a still near hyar? Charlie continued. If you go about a mile thru them woods, yous would come to Old Man Clemmons Place, Ben answered, everbudy calls him Clem; he claims to make the best ‘shine around. If yous go over thar, when you see his house and barn, you better start yellin’, so he won’t shoot ya. Or if yous go up this road to the fork and cut back at the Y in the road, then yous can go that way, but it’s a right smart piece. Charlie told George and they agreed to go see Clem; they took the shortcut through the woods. The house and a barn and some outbuildings sat in a clearing and, as they approached, they started yelling, like Ben suggested. An old coon-hound started howlin’ and, as they rode in, a big mean looking man in bibbed overalls stood in front of the porch with a shotgun. The boys stepped down off their mules and Charlie said, We’s the Wilson Brothus and we’s heerd yous makes the best ‘shine anywhar. The old hound kept howling and Clem picked up a stone and threw it and hit the old hound in the butt. The dog yelped and slinked off toward his dog house with his tail between his legs. He’s a good old dog and lets me know when someone comes around, but he doesn’t know when to shut up. Can’t hear a thang when he’s howling, Clem remarked. Wilson boys, eh? Whar you’ns from? We’s rode in from St. Louis and bin stayin’ ova at the Todd Place for the last few days, George answered, bin helping them thar old folks with the heavy work. Old Ben told us how to find ya. Yeah, but we’s gonna have to stop that thar workin’ stuff, Charlie responded, ah’s gittin’ blisters on my hands. Then Clem said, Ah’s gots some fresh squeezin’s; let’s go up on the porch and sample some. They sampled some from several jugs and George commented, Clem, that thar’s the best thay ever was. That really pleased Clem and he said, Drink up boys, ah’s got plenty. And they did. By the time they rode back to the farm they were feeling mighty good; more like half plastered. Old Ben said, Boys, we’re running low on wood.

George said in a slur, We’s ain’t cuttin’ no more wood. If yous wants wood, cut it yurself. In fact, we’s ain’t doin’ no more work. That upset old Ben and he said in an angry tone, That’s not what we agreed to; we’s not able to cut wood. Yur more able than yous think, George replied, and he got out his whip and started snapping it at the old man’s feet. The old man started jumping like his feet were on fire. The Wilson boys laughed like Hell. They thought that was the funniest thing they ever saw. The old woman came out of the house screaming at the boys and George proceeded to snap the whip at her feet too, and she danced like she was on hot coals.

For the next couple weeks, if George didn’t think the old people were working fast enough, he would crack the whip across their backs. They both wept miserably and begged for mercy. Finally, George said, If ’n yous will sign the farm over to me, then ah’s will stop beatin’ ya and yous can live the rest of yur days right chur. The old people felt that they had no other choice, so they agreed. They hitched up the wagon and the Todds and Wilson Brothers rode to town. Betty told the clerk what they wanted to do. He looked at her very seriously and asked her, Is this what you really want to do? The Todds had lived in this area all their lives and were highly respected by everybody that knew them. The clerk could read the fear in her eyes, but he had to honor her wishes. After he transferred the deed, he went to report his suspicions to the Sheriff. The Sheriff, Roy McDaniel, said, Everybody suspects what’s happening out on that farm, but I don’t have any witnesses and, the Todds have not filed a formal complaint, so my hands are tied because officially no laws have been broken. George refrained from whipping them for the next couple weeks. They decided they needed an eye-opener, so they made a trip to see Clem and downed a couple jugs of ‘shine. It must have been high octane because it seemed to burn their brains. When they got back to his farm, George got his whip and brutally beat the old people to death. There was nobody, ever, that was more rotten to the core than the Wilson Brothers. They buried them on the farm and never mentioned anything about what happened. They stayed quiet for the next several weeks to see if somehow the word got out and the Sheriff would be out for a visit, but nothing happened.

When they felt safe again, they made a trip to see Clem. After downing a jug, they started running their mouths and revealed to Clem that the old people had danced themselves to death. Clem laughed and said, I really like you Wilson boys. Clem yelled into the house for his daughter, Oma, to bring out a fresh jug. She came out and set the jug by his chair and he said, Boys, this is mah baby girl. She turned and went back into the house. Charlie asked, Clem, ain’t yous got no woman? Oh, I had a woman, Clem said, this girl’s mama. She would help me make the sqeezins’, but she started drinking it faster than we could make it, and I told her if she was drinkin’ it, ah couldn’t sell it, so I run her off. They all laughed, and Charlie remarked, Clem, yur the man! Then Clem said, George whut yous needs is a woman, like my Oma here, she can cook and slop the hogs and tend the chickens and milk the cow and churn the butter; and she’s never been with a man. At that, George’s eyes bugged out and he yelled out, Whoa! Then Clem said, Yous won’t have to do no work. She knows how to do everthung. Then George said, Sounds good to me. Ah’s ready. So, Clem yelled for Oma and she came out and he said, Put on a clean dress in the morning. We’s all going to town and yous and George is gittin’ hitched.

CHAPTER 3

The next morning George hitched the team to the wagon and he and Charlie rode around by way of the fork in the road to pick up Clem and Oma. She came out of the house wearing her best dress and a flat hat on her head with flowers on it; it looked like a pancake on her head. She had two feed sacks filled with all her belongings in them and threw them into the wagon. Clem took a jug with them to celebrate. They found the Preacher and he performed the vows. Clem asked the Preacher what he owed him, and he said a dollar. Then Clem asked him if he would take a jug for payment. The Preacher just smiled and said, Not hardly. They passed the jug all the way home and went straight to drop off Clem and then went to George’s farm, where Oma got out of the wagon and took her two feed sacks and went into the house. Charlie sat down in one of the rockers on the porch and George followed Oma into the house and, without hesitation, threw her down on the bed. Charlie sat outside and listened to all the moans and groans and the squeaking bed springs; the house was definitely not sound proof. After it all got quiet, George came out and sat on the other chair and all he could say was, Wheew! Then Charlie said, in a low tone, George ah’s thunks ah’s gonna be movin’ on. Yous gonna be settin’ up house keepin’ and yous gonna be rearin’ a family and ah’s needs to find somethung else to do. George asked him, Whar yu headin’? He answered, Ah donno. Ah’s knows it when I sees it. They shook hands and George watched him till he was out of sight. Then he turned around and went into the house and threw Oma down for another round; and then again; and again. He was like a wild animal.

Oma was everything Clem claimed she was; she did all the work, from tending the garden to slopping the hogs. George never lifted a finger to do any work or help her with anything. One thing he did well was drag her to bed and treat her absolutely with no respect; less than a human. After a couple months she informed him that she was going to have a baby. Yous means we’ns gonna have ahr own little youngin? he questioned. Ahr ye sure? She answered him, Ah’s pretty sure. He said, Ah gots to go tell Clem he’s gonna be a Granpappy. So, he rode over and found Clem was sitting on the porch. Guess whut Clem? he asked all excited, yous gonna be a Granpappy. Halleluiah! he shouted and jumped out of his chair. That calls for a drink. Over the next few months, Oma started swelling up and, at the same time, she began slowing down and wasn’t doing as much work as she had been doing. George noticed it and thought she should keep up the chores or, worst case, he might have to do some of it. So, he got out the whip and snapped it across her back to get her moving faster. After a few days of that, she told him, If ’n yous keeps doin that thar, yous might kill the baby, and maybe even me. That got him to thinking. He didn’t care about her but for some reason he didn’t want to kill the baby. And worst of all, he would have to do all the work. So, he let her be and started doing some of the work that she wasn’t able to do.

She started having labor pains and she told George, Go gits Lizzie, the Negro Mammy, up the road and tell her ah’s about to have mah baby and ah needs her hep. So, he got Lizzie and she came to the house. Now, he wasn’t gonna stick around for something like that, so he rode over to Clem’s. He told Clem, She’s about to squirt out ahr youngin’. Clem said, Well don’t yous think yous should be thar? Nah! he answered. Ah gots that Black Mammy up the road to come hep. She’s got four or five little crows of her own, so she knows whuts to do. Clem said, Well that calls for a drink. And drink they did. They drank all day, and finally it got near dark, and George decided it was probably over, so he better go home. He was so drunk, Clem had to help him get up on the mule. It was a good thing the mule knew his way home or no telling where George would have ended up. The mule stopped in front of the porch and George fell off onto the ground. He wobbled and staggered and tripped and fell, landing with half his body on the two steps going up to the porch and half his body on the porch. There he lay unconscious; not a muscle twitched. Lizzie came out and said, Ain’t yous wantin’ to see yur new baby boy? He managed to move his lips and all that came out was, Ar, ar, ar. Lizzie told Oma she had to go home and feed her youngins and she would be back tomorrow. She stepped over and around George, shook her head, and just said, Shameful! Just shameful! Just shameful! And she could be heard saying it over and over as she walked up the road toward her house. George lay there all night and finally came alive the next morning, and then went into the house and looked at Oma nursing her baby. Wal, whut ya have? he asked her, while he was still teetering from his drunken episode. We’s had a baby boy, she answered. Then he asked, Whut da name it? Ah’s named him Lawrence, she replied. Whar da Hell did ya git a name like dat? he continued. That was the name of my Great Granpappy on my Momma’s side. He was a good and decent man, treated everybody right, and this boy is gonna grow up to be just like ‘im, she insisted. So, whut happened to ‘im? he pressed on. He always rode big white stallions and one day one threw him and stomped him to death, she explained. Wal, thar you go. If ’n he’d a whupped dat no good horse, he nevuh woulda dun dat, he responded, and staggered outside.

George never called the boy by his name. He always addressed him as Boy. Oma gradually regained her strength and began doing more of the chores. For the past four months, George had slopped the hogs and was milking the cow, he realized it was time for da old lady to do her own work. Oma was working in the garden. George retrieved his whip, went to the garden and proceeded to beat her unmercifully. He told her from now on he wasn’t gonna to do any more of her work. So, like before, she started doing all the work again. After returning from his regular visits to Clem’s, he would proceed to beat her with the whip till she bled. This went on until the boy was about three years old. Then one time he beat her so bad, she went down to her knees and almost passed out; her dress stuck to her back when the blood dried. She decided that, if she was gonna live, she had to escape this monster. She packed what she thought she would need in one of the feed sacks, put it where George wouldn’t notice it, and planned to leave during the night. There was no way she could take the boy and carry her sack too. Besides that, up until now, George had never bothered to harm the boy. At midnight she kissed the boy and whispered in his ear that she loved him and slipped out into the night. She went through the woods and into the hills. The next morning, when George went to the kitchen to get his usual breakfast, there was nothing there. He looked around and no Oma. The boy walked into the kitchen, still sleepy eyed and was expecting his breakfast too. George said, Wal, Boy, yur Ma has dun rund off and left us. It’s just me’n and youn! But she’ll be back when she gits cold and hungry. She knows she ain’t nevuh had it so good.

The boy grew fast and was learning to do some chores. When George went to see Clem, Clem ask him, How’s that boy doing? How old is he now? George said, He’s six yars old, he’s can milk the cow and churn the butter and tend the chickens. He’s gittin big and strong. He’s can almost carry the slop bucket to the hogs; he’s gits half way and needs to stop and rest. He’s gits a char up to the stove and cooks the bacon and eggs. He can’t do no warshin yet; of course, we’s don’t do much warshin. Ah’s larnin him a lot. Clem responded, Yur a good daddy George. When George got home, he saw the boy playing with a stray dog that came into the yard. He took his whip and snapped it on the dog’s butt and he ran yipping into the woods. Whuts the matter with yu boy? Yous will git ticks and fleas on ya and drag em in the house. He then snapped the whip across the boy’s back. That thar will larn yous to do whut ah’s tells ya, he scolded. That was the first time he ever laid the whip on the boy. The boy didn’t understand and just sat down and cried. He cried for an hour, or so. George then said, Git up from thar and stop that thar snivelin’. Yous wants to be a man? Men don’t cry! Then George threw together something to eat and told the boy it was supper time.

The boy went into the house and went straight to bed. Hungry! What George didn’t know was he had planted a seed of pure hatred, anger, and bitterness in the young boy that would grow over the years as he would grow. The abuse continued over the years and the boy also continued to grow fast and strong.

By the time the boy was 12 years old, he could do practically everything. Up until that time, George would hitch the team to the wagon and the boy would go to town to the general store and get supplies. The boy was now capable of doing it on his own. Mr. Masters, the owner of the store, really liked the boy. He was quiet and polite and worked hard carrying the supplies to the wagon. He would try to talk with the boy, asking him questions, trying to have a conversation. The answers he got was as few words as possible. He thought the boy showed signs of abuse and he also pitied him. He put his hand on his shoulder one time and the boy winced, like it was painful. He tried to talk to Sheriff Roy and all the Sheriff would say was he couldn’t do anything unless he had witnesses.

One day the boy took the wagon to town and, as he approached the general store, he saw a crowd of excited people lining both sides of the street. He pulled up to the store, but not being able to see over the crowd, he climbed upon the wagon seat. There were two men facing each other in the middle of the street. The one man that was standing in the street, just in line with the wagon, started to draw his gun from his holster, but was too slow. The other man shot him dead. The Sheriff went out to the dead man and took the gun belt off him and slung it to the side, which rested under the boy’s wagon. The Sheriff yelled to the people that the show was over and for them to get on with their business, so the crowd dispersed as if nothing new had taken place. The boy went into the store, bought what he went for and carried them out to the wagon. He noticed the gun belt, with the gun still in it, laying under his wagon. He nonchalantly picked it up and hid it in the wagon under his sacks. He then drove home, but never mentioned to his Pa anything about what happened; he hid it in the barn.

When the opportunity was right, he got it out and strapped it on but it was a little big, so he had to tighten it to the last hole in the belt. He tried drawing it like the gunman did and it went off shooting a bullet into the ground next to his foot. That scared him, so he took all the bullets out of the gun and decided he should practice first with an empty gun. Every chance he got, he practiced drawing and snapping the hammer on the empty gun. It took weeks of practice before he was comfortable enough to load the pistol. He took a big piece of bark from a tree he was cutting for firewood, turned it inside out, so the smooth side of the bark was facing out, and nailed it to a tree about the height of a man. He took a piece of charred wood from the fireplace and, using it as a marker, drew a circle about the size of a man’s head on the bark. He drew circles for eyes and nose and a straight line for the mouth. He started drawing and shooting at the piece of bark and he missed badly, at first. He was shooting up his cartridges he had with the belt, but his Pa had the same caliber pistol and he sneaked a few of them; he practiced every chance he got, until he was about 14. He went to town to the store and Mr. Masters was unloading a shipment that he had gotten from St. Louis. He pulled out of a box a big brand-new shiny pistol with a pearl handle and a matching belt and holster. The boy saw that, and his eyes bugged out and he remarked, Mr. Masters, ah gots to have that gun. Mr. Masters said, Boy, you can’t afford a gun like that. That’s a brand-new Colt .44 Cal. He had never seen the boy come alive like he just did. Ah’s gots a .45 pistol ah will trade ya and I’ll make payments. If I miss paying ya, then yous can have it back and keep the money; the pistol ah gots shoots good and true. Where did you get a .45 pistol? Mr. Masters asked. Oh, ah’s had it a long time, the boy answered, ah’s use it to shoot rattlers and rats and varmints that try to steal the chickens. Ah’s do anything to git that new .44. Mr. Masters said, after a little thought, I would probably have trouble selling that new gun, but I can sell your .45 pretty easy. It’s a common pistol everywhere. Ok boy, I’ll take a chance on ya. Better take a box of cartridges with ya. The next time in town, he gave the .45 Cal to Mr. Masters, as promised.

CHAPTER 4

The boy was now well into his fifteenth year. He had grown and developed to the point where you had to look closely to see he was still a boy. He could very easily be mistaken for a full-grown man and his hatred and bitterness and anger grew along with his body. George never noticed or gave it a thought. The boy practiced and practiced and practiced. He visualized the target was the face of his Pa and shooting the bark face on the tree soon was not a challenge anymore. He would draw and fire his .44 putting a hole equally between the eyes that couldn’t be measured any closer. If he shot more than once, it was hard to tell where additional holes were hit, so he started practicing shooting the heads off rattlers, a moving target. His thinking was the rattler was going to get him if he didn’t get the rattler first. It took two or three shots at first, but soon he began drawing his .44 hitting the snake with the first shot every time. He told Mr. Masters how he could kill rattlers with every shot, which really impressed Mr. Masters, who then explained, A rattler almost got me one time and it scared me to death. I hate ‘em. I would be willing to give you a box of cartridges for every ten rattles you bring me. Now that really excited the boy because he was always low on bullets and never had much money to buy more. The rattlers soon became scarcer around the farm, so he ventured out a little further into the woods to find what he needed. In other words, now, he had to hunt them to fill his quota of ten rattles.

George hitched the team to the wagon to go see Clem because the mule was getting so old he would stumble as they rode through the woods, so George didn’t trust him anymore. He just left him in the corral except when he used him to plow the garden. He arrived at Clem’s and Clem was sitting in his chair on the porch. He began, Clem, ain’t seen yur ol’ hound fer a spell. Wal ah’s no’s, he responded, he’s come home wit his’n leg all swolled up. Figured he was bit by an ole Copperhead; musta crawled off and croaked. Sorry, George, Ah’m too weak to git up. Ah thinks mah time is up. Can’t even git to mah still to make ‘shine, so ah’m out of the ‘shine business. A feller rode in last week wantin’ ‘shine but had no money, so he offered to trade his horse for a couple jugs; said he needed the ‘shine more than he needed the horse, probly stole it. It ain’t got no brand on it. Take yur wagon and go git it out of the barn. Thars a saddle and everthung with it. So, George pulled the wagon up at the barn doors, went in and brought out the horse and tied it to the back of the wagon. He then brought out the saddle and bridle and threw them in the wagon. He then returned to the front of the porch. He said, Clem, that thar looks to be an army saddle. Yous reck’n he’n was a deserter? Wudn’t be surprised, Clem answered. Now all them jugs is half empty. Go pour them all into one or two jugs and take ‘em wit ya. So, George did that and ended up with two big full jugs. Now thar’s a baking soda can on the shelf over the stove in the kitchen; git it and take the money out of it. So, George got the money and put it in his pocket and went back out on the porch and said, Clem, thar’s several hundred dollars thar. Yous sure yous don’t need it? Nah, George, Clem continued, ah’m about to give up the ghost. Ah won’t be hyar till sunrise. George shook his hand, said he was sorry to lose him, and bid him farewell and drove off.

As George rode back to the farm, he tipped the jug more than once. Arriving at the farm, he stopped the team, and got down from the wagon, he saw the boy coming out of the woods, and he had the big .44 Colt strapped on, but George never noticed the gun. Whar yous bin boy? he asked, with anger in his voice. Bin playin’, shootin’ rattlers, the boy answered. George snarled, Yous ain’t done yur work? Ah’s teach ya. The whip was laying on the wagon seat with the handle hanging over the side within reach of George. He started to reach for it and the boy ordered him, Don’t touch that whip, Pa! You ain’t gonna whip me no more. George made a motion toward the whip handle and, like a flash of light, the boy drew his .44 and shot a hole through the handle. The whip flew into the back of the wagon. He then holstered the gun. Told ya yu’v whipped me for the last time. This really infuriated George, Why’s yous no good worthless brat; Yur just like yur no good Ma. Now yous got a big fancy gun so yous wants to shoot yur Pa. Ah’s show yous ‘bout shootin’. George made a motion like he was going to draw his own pistol, but the boy yelled at him, Don’t go for that gun, Pa, or I’ll kill ya right where ya stand. George went for his gun, but never cleared his holster. He received a bullet hole right between the eyes, just like the bark on the tree. The seed of hatred George sowed in that six-year old boy, when he whipped him brutally for the first time, took root, and had grown to his destruction.

The boy took the saddle from the wagon and put it on the new horse. It had a bed roll and saddle bags and a canteen; everything a person would need to go on a trip. He took George’s long gun and inserted it into the rifle boot on the saddle. He went through George’s pockets and got what money he had and went into the house and looked for any more money, and then took what food he could carry. He unhitched the team and turned them loose in the corral with the mule. He then coiled the whip and hung it on his handgun. He put a rope halter on the milk cow and led her down the road to give her to Lizzie on his way to town. He went first to the general store and told Mr. Masters he was paying off the gun. He gave him the bag of rattles and said, This’ll be the last of the rattles. I’m leaving! I just shot my Pa! Sheriff Roy was standing there and asked, Is he hurt, or did you kill him? He was gonna use his whip on me and I told him he whipped me for the last time, he explained, I shot a hole in the whip handle before he could grab it. He removed the whip that was hanging on his gun and showed it to the Sheriff and Mr. Masters with the hole in the handle. He went for his pistol and, I warned him not to draw, but he didn’t stop, so I shot him right between the eyes. So, there’s no amount of doctoring that’s gonna save him. If we don’t have a problem, Sheriff, I’m ridin’ out. You can do whatever you want to with the farm and the stuff out there. I took everything I wanted. Sheriff Roy responded, There’s no problem but, I only have one question, what took you so long? We’ll ride out and take care of everything. Mr. Masters asked, Where will you be going boy? Oh, I donno, just see what’s around the next curve and what’s over the next hill, he answered, as he walked out the door. He got on his horse and rode down the road. Sheriff Roy said to Mr. Masters, I told ya that boy would grow up some day. Masters added, There goes a good boy just filled with hate and bitterness; so sad! The Sheriff and some men from town rode out to the farm. They looked at the body and one commented, That was one Hell of a shot. While looking around, one man discovered two mounds of grown-over earth with a rock at the end of each one. This must be the Todd’s graves. He probly killed them and buried them here. The Sheriff said, Let’s dig a hole next to them and bury Wilson there. Maybe they’ll haunt his spirit while he’s in Hell! He was being facetious. One man found the pile of bark, with faces drawn on them, under a tree. Look at this! he exclaimed. The bullet holes perfectly spaced between the eyes, like he was practicing for the fatal shot. One man searched the edge of the woods and said, Wow! Look at all these rattlesnakes with their heads blown off. And their rattlers were cut off. One man took the jugs from the wagon and they all sampled the sqeezin’s. One said, Wow! That stuff will knock your socks off. The Sheriff arranged for a big sale and they planned to auction off everything. One of Clem’s regular customers went for a jug and found Clem had died. They buried him the same day as George and combined his farm and everything he had in the same auction. The man that owned the woods connecting the two farms bought both farms.

CHAPTER 5

The boy traveled west entering the northern tip of Oklahoma. He didn’t know, or care, where he was going just as long as he was moving away from all the bad memories of his childhood in Missouri. His food was just about depleted, so he would stop at a farm or in a little settlement and offer to work for a meal, where he found the people in Oklahoma gracious and obliging. He traveled about 20 to 25 miles a day. One evening he pulled into a camp of an army troupe and asked if they could spare a bite to eat. The Sergeant said, Sure, get a plate from the chuck wagon. One trooper checked his saddle real close and asked, Where’d ya git that saddle? That’s a McClellan army saddle. The other troopers looked up and waited for his answer. I donno; it belonged to my Pa; he died and left it to me. That seemed to satisfy them. Which way are you traveling? The Sergeant asked. I donno, the boy answered, as long as I’m moving; I want to see what’s around the next curve and what’s over the next hill. Well, you are headin’ toward the Osage Indian country, and it’s not safe, the Sergeant replied. I don’t intend to bother them, and I hope they don’t intend to bother me, the boy responded. He ate his fill and, not feeling comfortable with this bunch, he elected to move on; so, he thanked them and rode off. He traveled through an area where he saw an Indian or two and just waved and acted unconcerned. They would just wave back and paid him no mind. He rode up to the bank of a large lake, stepped down from his horse and got a drink and let his horse drink. He noticed a young Squaw washing clothes and she had a papoose nearby in a carrier. He waved to her to let her know he meant no harm. She waved back and continued her washing. He sat down to rest a little and, all at once, she let out a blood curdling scream. He looked over and saw a rattler crawling toward the baby. He ran over, drew his .44 and blew the head off the snake. Out of nowhere five Indian braves appeared and were about to grab him when the young Squaw waved them off and showed them the dead snake. They said something in their language, but he had no idea what they said, and they motioned like they were grateful for what he had done. He couldn’t believe how tall they were; they were more than a foot taller than he was. He just bowed to them and mounted his horse and slowly rode off.

He lost track of time and guessed he had been traveling at least a couple weeks. He was feeling pretty tired and could use a good meal when he rode onto a farm that was well kept and looked productive. An elderly couple met him as he rode in. I would be glad to work and cut wood, or whatever you have, for a good meal, he requested. They looked at him and the lady said, Of course. You look like you haven’t eaten in days; step down and wash up. Supper will be ready d’rectly. My name is Marion Brown, and this is my husband Avrel Brown. What are you called? He blurted out, not knowing how to answer because he only answered to ‘Boy’ all his life, Whip Wilson! He took off his shirt to wash at the watering trough and they noticed how badly his back was all scarred from obvious whippings. They looked at each other and shook their heads. Mr. Brown said, I’ll put your horse away. And he led the horse to the barn. Mrs. Brown said, Don’t put that shirt on. It looks like it could use a little washing. I have some that belonged to our son that looks like they should fit ya. Mr. Brown returned and noticed the fancy .44 Whip was wearing and asked, That’s a purty fancy gun you’re wearin’; are you a gun fighter? No! he quickly responded. Not at all! I shoot rattlers and varmints and stuff like that. A gun like that will get you killed, he commented. Are you running from the law? I like to think it will keep me from getting killed, Whip answered. No, I’m not running from anything. Just then Mrs. Brown yelled out of the door that supper was ready. When they walked into the house, she handed him a shirt; it fit perfectly.

It was more than a meal to Whip, it was more like a feast. She fixed pork chops, mashed potatoes, fried corn, green beans, and corn bread. She said she had apple pie when he finished eating the meal. Mr. Brown blessed the food. This was a brand-new experience for him and he ate till he thought he was going to burst. That meal was the best that ever was, he praised. Mrs. Brown then said, Now get you a good warm bath and brush your teeth and you’ll sleep better. Do you have a toothbrush? Uh, no! he responded. He never heard of a toothbrush. I have an extra I’ll get ya, she offered, maybe you better go to the outhouse first, so you won’t have to get up during the night. That was music to his ears. He had been holding it for hours and practically ran to the outhouse. Mr. Brown carried hot water from the cook stove and poured it into a large oval copper tub in a little room off from the kitchen. Mrs. Brown handed him a towel, wash cloth, and a bar of soap, and told him to wash his hair too. She talked to him like he was one of her kids. She told him to put on the night shirt she laid out when he finished bathing. She mixed baking soda and salt in a small pudding dish and told him to dip the toothbrush into the dish. Get all those back teeth, too. You have to save your teeth, she instructed.

He awoke when the rooster crowed. He just lay there for a bit perusing the bedroom. He had never seen anything like this in all his life. It had wallpaper covered with fall flowers, curtains on the windows, and a clothes closet. He sat up and found a set of clothes laying on the foot of the bed. He felt truly grateful and vowed he was going to work as hard as he could to please these kind and loving people. The sound of the coffee grinder pulverizing the coffee beans energized him to hurry and get dressed. He went into the kitchen and she was frying ham and potatoes and ask him, How do you like your eggs? Well done! he answered. Is two enough? she continued. Yes! he answered, although he felt like he could eat five or six. Where’s Mr. Brown? he questioned. Went out to feed the stock and milk the cow, she answered, the stock eats while we eat.

They sat down to eat, and Mr. Brown blessed the food. Then Mr. Brown began questioning Whip to learn more about him. How old are you, Whip? I was 15 last May, but don’t ask me what day; I don’t know that, he responded. Mr. Brown questioned further, Where do you hail from? Pinevul, Missouri, he answered. He felt comfortable with these people and he was going to be completely honest with them. You traveled all that way? Mr. Brown asked, That must be 250 miles. Did you cross through Indian country? I saw some Indians, but I just waved to ‘em and they waved back, Whip explained, there was one thing that happened; I stopped at a lake to get a drink of water and a drink for my horse. A young Indian Squaw was washing clothes in the lake and she had a little baby nearby. I waved to her and she waved back. I just sat down to rest a bit when she let out a scream. I went over to her and a big rattler was crawling toward her baby. I shot his head off. Five braves showed up and they looked kinda mean. I didn’t understand what they were saying, and I thought I was gonna have to fight em. Glad I didn’t, they were more than a foot taller than me; I have never seen men that tall. The girl motioned to them and showed them the dead rattler and they just walked away; so, I got on my horse and left. Never seen many after that. I’ve heard there was a tribe of Osage Indians that grew to six and a half to seven feet tall. Did you hear drums beating in the distance? Mr. Brown asked, curiously. Yeah, but they were a long way off, Whip answered. That’s their way of talking, Mr. Brown explained, they were telling other Indians not to bother you and let you pass safely; you were lucky. People have been known to have gone through there and were never heard from again. Then Mrs. Brown asked, Is your Ma living? "Nah! I don’t