Beyond This Valley

By Ray D. Morgan

Jacob Kelly is the only white man recognized by his neighbors, the Comanche, as being of one spirit with the horse.

Will his Comanche name Squaw Pony be enough to protect his young family and the families of his closest neighbors?

It's thirty miles to his closest neighbor and his only sister...He can't just holler help!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781684986743

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Author’s Note

The purpose here is to tell a real story about real people. True, the events are fictitious. However, the story was inspired by C. W. Morgan who was an actual person and an ancestor of the author. C. W. served as a surgeon with Waller’s Battalion along the Red River in Texas during its civil war. In civilian life, he was a wheelwright, schoolteacher, and farmer.

Think now of every brave man and woman who pulled up roots and loaded their children along, with everything they might need to start a new life, into a wagon no larger than a modern contractors van. Not only did they have to load all of their household and personal belongings, but they also had to include supplies, food, tools, feed for the animals, seeds, and everything else needed to be able to survive until they reached their destination. After reaching their destination, they had to be able to get by until their first crop came in. Consider also every creek and river crossing that could possibly bring disaster. If you study a map, you will discover that this could occur as often as once or twice a day. A turned-over wagon in a muddy creek bottom always meant disaster, not only the loss of everything they owned but also the possibility of injury or death to someone in their family.

The man in the following story, Jacob Kelly, is not the author’s ancestor but the ancestor of us all. He represents every brave man and woman who packed up and rode out of their old lives headed for a new beginning beyond this valley.

Texas Plains

1848

This rider came over the gray hills briskly driving three weary packhorses ahead of him. It was still an hour ’til sunup, but they had not stopped since leaving San Antonio some ninety miles east. The little stallion stepped tirelessly unburdened by his skilled rider. He knew home was close, recognizing his home range in the October dawn. The man, giving a few light commands, allowed the horse to find his own way. The packhorses would have gladly stopped were it not for the stallion pressing them forward.

The packs carried the winter staples for the rider’s family, and he himself carried some $400 in gold coin, a small fortune in 1848 on the Texan plains. He was two hours from his home ranch and twenty hours in the saddle seemed worth it. They had been away two weeks, and home was close by.

The trips twice a year to San Antonio were always for business purposes. On this trip, he had delivered eight yoke of finished oxen to a trader headed northwest to pick up the Santa Fe Trail. They always wanted more than he could possibly deliver, but training is a slow process. Many hours on a sled for each team plus regular ranch work amounted to endless days in the summer sun. In the spring, he would deliver twenty good horses, completely broke to saddle and harness. Thus, his family was comfortably stable financially, a rare condition on any frontier.

He rode, nodding at times, almost asleep, trusting his mount to take him home by the most direct route. Sleepy, dreamy thoughts of how life has gotten him to this point and place in time rushed through his mind, thoughts of his childhood in Pennsylvania and of his own children waiting at home. Dreaming lustful thoughts of his beautiful Mexican wife, he was definitely ready to be home.

Chapter 1

Jacob Kelly—The Story Begins

Jacob Kelly was born July 12, 1815, near Lake Erie in western Pennsylvania, the first son of Patrick Kelly, an Irish immigrant. More appropriately, an Irish-born groom to an English squire who had joined the British Army hastily in 1811 when he was discovered getting a tad too close with the Squire’s daughter.

Even an army can sometimes make a good observation, and he was promptly put with the Calvary and assigned to the stables. The good-natured Irish boy was a favorite of the officers and enlisted men alike. He soon began training as a wheelwright and farrier and had fallen easily into the world of fine horses. He knew the upfront advantages of gentle and thorough training. He soon knew his life’s work would somehow involve good horses and fancy carriage works.

When word came in 1812 that the colonies were once again raising a ruckus, Kelly’s unit has been one of the first to ship out. Shortly after landing in America he realized he was probably on the wrong side of this war. The beauty and intensity of this country and its people were more than he could resist, he simply shucked off his uniform and stole a fine English bred mare and rode west.

On reaching the western frontier he joined a small unit of local militia who asked few questions, as was the way of the west. The little army defended their farms and skirmished with local Indian tribes and a few British regulars who supplied the Indians with weapons and whisky. Kelly was immediately liked for his good nature and respected for his obvious skills as a horseman and his knowledge of horse care. He was even more popular when he finally told them of the Squire’s daughter and how the King had supplied both an escape and fine horse to ride. The war itself was no more than a great adventure for a twenty-year-old Irish lad full of restless energy.

As completely fascinated as he was with his new country, it could not hold a candle to his fascination with the French storekeeper’s half-breed daughter. Within a year, he had taken up land, set-up shop, and married the beautiful Antoinette Boudreaux, called Shining Flower by her mother’s people, the Seneca.

The Frenchman Boudreaux, the son of a French fur trader, had lived on the frontier since birth and storekeeping had come naturally. He has liked the young Irishman from the start, even thinking that this could be a good match for his spirited daughter. When he had suggested helping the young man get started, his normally silent wife had nodded her approval with a mischievous smile.

Boudreaux owned a small barn scarcely a quarter mile from his store, which had been previously set-up by a blacksmith. Boudreaux had gained ownership of the property after the blacksmith left town three days before a constable from back east had shown up looking for him. It sat empty and unused for two years.

Their community would need craftsmen and business people in order to grow, and Boudreaux had long ago hitched his wagon and his future to the little settlement. Besides, his daughter needed someone to take her attention away from that ruffian, Thor Johansson. He thought this young man, Kelly, might do for both purposes.

Boudreaux worried constantly that his daughter might marry one of the illiterate frontier youths or go Indian with her mother’s people. Such is the lot of fathers cursed with beautiful daughters. He was relieved that he only had one daughter to worry about. What did the man do who had a half dozen? Did he sleep at all?

One month after Pat Kelly arrived in the community, Boudreaux took him aside and told him of the building and the homestead he owned which was next to his own. Granted, the land and the buildings were in poor repair, but it would make a fine start, and Pat could make it legally his as soon as he could make the ride to the government offices some 120 miles east.

Pat visited the property the next afternoon and built a fire in the homemade forge and made new shoes for his mare. Yes, this might just suit his purpose. He imagined corrals next to the barn full of fine horses for sale or trade and possibly a few yokes of oxen to sell or trade to travelers. He could also imagine fine high-wheeled carriages of his own making that people would be willing to pay high dollar for. Yes, this could definitely be his place. He could not, however, imagine planting the fertile fields in the corn that the Frenchman raved about. Someone else would have to do the corn planting; that was all there was to it.

Two mornings a week, Pat drilled with the militia, for which Boudreaux was their elected captain. They had been assigned to local protection and observation on the frontier. Someone rode out every day traveling in a large circle looking for signs of Indian or British activity. Should there be movement of enemy troops, he would ride back to warn the settlement and a courier would be sent to the main body warning the settlers along the way. Having no family or crop to tend, Pat Kelly often volunteered for this duty. It soothed his restless spirit to ride this beautiful country, he soon knew every hill, valley, and settler for miles around. He was well aware that he owned the fastest and finest horse in the area and these forays suited his sense of adventure. Several times, he came upon small patrols and bore the curses and musket balls as he rode away to warn the settlement, leaving them with a defiant and obscene gesture to remember him by.

Real battles were rare and small, usually ending in cuts and bruises with an occasional musket ball to be removed by Boudreaux. The politics of various countries were of little concern on the frontier, while self-preservation was of major concern. Their battles were mostly to protect their families and the lives they had built rather than patriotism to the fledging nation.

The little shop and farm slowly came together; couriers now made it a regular stop knowing a shoe could be reset or made as necessary for their swift mounts. The couriers would sometimes visit for hours with the friendly farrier. Pat always had endless questions about their travels and adventures and about the horses they rode. The horses were sleek and tough, capable of traveling one hundred miles or more between sunup and sundown when necessary. So fascinated was Pat that he could not stop asking questions until he had every detail of breeding and nutrition on every animal.

Thor Johansson kept busy in his spare time bringing in ash and maple logs to be split for wheels and shafts. Pat had little money to pay for the logs, but he had twenty acres of clear cropland Thor could use for his own crops in the spring. Pat thought that Thor’s patient oxen who worked slowly and doggedly for hours dragging logs were much like their owner, and they made a good team.

Pat would split and grade each piece of wood Thor brought in and decide its future then mark it before stacking it in the old barn loft to season and cure. At this rate, come spring, he could possibly begin work on the first of many buggies he had in mind.

In late February, a courier rode in with a message for Boudreaux, which was just a courtesy update. Pat was more interested in the courier’s gelding; he realized it was pretty special. Smaller than most, short back, good legs and feet and a kind but spirited eye. According to the courier, he was bred in Vermont and was the best and truest horse he had ever ridden. Kelly talked for hours with the courier, not allowing him to rest or leave until he had answered every question concerning the horse.

Apparently, his sire was a small stallion that worked the fields or woodlot all week and raced on Sundays. This combination of traits could be passed on as truly as the best English thoroughbreds passed on their speed. A lifetime obsession was born that evening. Pat vowed that he would have such a horse someday.

With having to work in the shop every day now and making regular scouting forays, there was little time for socializing, but he made time to visit Boudreaux’s store almost every day on some pretext. In return, Antoinette found reason to visit the farrier’s shop frequently, a loose shoe on her gelding or a squeaky wheel on her father’s wagon. Any excuse was good enough for Pat to stop his work and spend a few minutes visiting with this beautiful lady. In truth, she liked to watch him work. Whether shaving a spoke or shoeing a nervous horse, she felt real pleasure just being near the Irishman.

By May, a small, sturdy, and handsome two-wheel cart had evolved; and with a little coaxing and borrowed harness, Pat persuaded his mare to pull it. The first person he wanted to see and ride in it was Boudreaux’s daughter. The quarter mile to the store was covered quickly at a long trot and, as had become her custom, Antoinette was watching for him. The new buggy attracted a lot of attention and interest, but Pat’s only concern was Antoinette’s reaction. He was pleased when she removed her store apron and boldly told him she intended to have the first ride.

Not long after the buggy ride she began going on the occasional scout with him. Antoinette was a natural athlete and gifted horse person in her own right. Unlike most women of her time, she rode astride in the male fashion and in the way of the women in her mother’s tribe. She was neither concerned nor embarrassed if she showed an ankle or calf or even a thigh if it meant beating Pat in a spirited horse race. For the most part, she considered the large dresses of the French and English both bothersome and uncomfortable and would have gone to native dress if her father would permit it.

Antoinette enjoyed teasing her father by allowing him to believe Thor Johansson was a serious suitor. Her father thought the big handsome lad a dullard and a ruffian and would very nearly have a stroke when she made a point of openly flirting with him in the store. Thor had long ago caught onto this game and participated actively even though he was courting Greta Schundler, the oldest daughter of Fritz and Marta Schundler, some three miles up the lake road. Thor had talked to Pat about possibly getting married once his crops were in and laid by. Pat responded by advising Thor that his words would be better spent on Greta rather than a blacksmith who had no romantic interest in him whatsoever.

Thor and Greta were married by the circuit priest in late July 1813 and were followed in marriage in March 1814 by the Irish farrier and the shopkeepers half-breed daughter. Life on the frontier pretty much went on in spite of the war between the United States and England. Life itself was a more important war to these rugged settlers on the western edge of civilization.

In July 1815, Antoinette Kelly gave birth to their first child, a son. Pat very much wanted to give the boy his own name, but Antoinette would not hear of it. She insisted that the time had passed to be French or Irish. It was time to be Americans. She chose the name Jacob from the bible saying that one Patrick Kelly was more than enough for such a small settlement anyway. Jacob Aaron Kelly was to begin his journey on that warm summer morning. Much water would pass under the bridge before he would find himself on the prairies of west central Texas.

In the autumn of 1822, Antoinette was expecting their second child and Greta, who had been ill for the past eight months was expecting her and Thor’s fifth. The first four were boys, much to Thor’s delight and Greta’s hardship. They were rough and loud and the absolute pride of both of their parents. As tired as Greta has been for the past eight months, she would not change one thing about her boys. Antoinette, on the other hand, felt that every one of them needed a good sound thrashing and would have gladly done it were it not for the love and pride showing all over Greta at each new mischief these rowdies conjured up. Antoinette and her own quiet son had been helping Greta with laundry and watching the boys, so she could get some much-needed rest.

One late afternoon, two of the ragged Tyler children showed up at the Johanssons as Antoinette was preparing to leave. They were riding a skinny pony that had become anxious when the Johansson boys ran out to greet them yelling and chasing each other. Antoinette always had a soft spot for the Tyler children as they were parented by a beaten and frightened mother and a drunken father. These two Tyler children, Mary and John, were doing their very best to control their frightened, nervous pony who wanted nothing more to do with the loud, rowdy Johansson boys.

Her motherly instincts told her to step in and break up this group and send the Tylers home before one of them was injured. As she walked toward them her own son stepped forward, and touching the pony’s neck, he breathed lightly into the pony’s flared nostrils. The pony stopped prancing and relaxed instantly as Jacob led him away from the other children, talking softly to him. Antoinette and the other six children stopped dead still. Somehow even the rowdy Johanssons knew they had witnessed an extraordinary event.

Later, after seeing the Tylers home safely, Antoinette talked quietly to Pat of what she had witnessed their son do. She had grown up being taught that personal relationships with animal spirits were laced with witches and superstitions. Pat listened intently to her worried talk and finally teased her with a question.

Who is with me this night, Antoinette, the daughter of a French storekeeper, or is it Shining Flower, the daughter of Little Deer, the Frenchman’s Seneca wife? Pat teased.

Still serious, she answered, It is Antoinette Kelly, the wife of an Irish farrier, and I expect an answer without nonsense.

To which Pat replied, I have always heard of such individuals but have never known anyone personally who could communicate on some level with animals. It has been my understanding that it is usually through touch and tone rather than actual words. Most often, they are considered gifted rather than witches. Possibly our son is one of these gifted people. From that day forward, Jacob was allowed free rein with the horses and oxen Pat dealt in. Pat soon recognized that the boy did have some special talent.

Chapter 2

A Talent Developed

The boy worked diligently at whatever he was assigned both at work and study. Antoinette insisted on learning to read and write in as many of the local languages as possible seeing a unique opportunity in the ethnic mix of the settlement. English indeed became the most difficult to master because it was spoken differently in every household. In their own household, Antoinette spoke mixed French, Indian, and English, all accented with her father’s speech, while Patrick spoke English with a heavy Irish brogue. They all effectively managed three or four languages, enough to deal with one another and any traveler who needed supplies or assistance. It was truly a diverse society they lived in.

By the time Jacob was ten years old, he was able to turn a shoe or shave a spoke as well as most men, but his main interest was in the horses and the slow, steady oxen. He progressed quickly and learned everything he could about them until he actually seemed to have his own methods of making them do as he wished. The animals acted as though they only desired to please him. Patrick watched closely, but good as he was with horses, he knew he would soon be second place to his son, and he literally glowed with pride at the prospect.

During the winter of twenty-seven, a rough-looking farmer brought his son, a little older than Jacob, to the shop on business. Be you Patrick Kelly, sir? he asked Pat, who was feeding a pen of oxen.

I am, he answered. State your business, sir. Pat’s tone startled Jacob who was not used to his father’s near rudeness, but this was different.

I, sir, am Zeke Morton. This is my oldest boy, Thomas. I understand you might have work for a strong lad. Morton shuffled his feet under the cold look of Pat Kelly. This lad has nine brothers and sisters at home, thought maybe to hire him out to you.

Pat Kelly gave Morton a colder, harder look and said harshly, Sir, I will indenture no man to this shop. Should he work for me he will hire himself out and receive a day’s wage for a day’s work. It would be his choice whether to send it to you or not, and I would advise him against it. No man should be slave to another or bound in any fashion, whether to this shop or to his father’s sins. It’s true. I could use help, but only if he asks me in his own right and not on these terms.

Jacob watched as the two walked away with their heads down. Then as he turned he saw his father in a new way. He would not forget this day for the rest of his life, though it was never mentioned again by either of them. The spring and summer of 1827 were to prove as milestones in the life of Jacob Kelly. Life for him was about to start changing.

Mary Tyler has proven to be one of Jacob’s closet friends since the incident with the pony five years earlier. Together they had learned to swim in the little creek behind his grandfather’s store, and it has become their meeting place. Together they had ridden ponies back and forth between their houses and past the little store. Together they experimented with a little touching and hand holding and even experimented with a few kisses. Whether or not Mary Tyler was the most beautiful girl in the world, he could not say for she was the only one he knew. Jacob had spent many happy hours with Mary Tyler and saw no reason why they should not continue on as they always had.

On the first warm morning in May, he took his pony and rode to the Tyler home. Mary met him at the door as always, and as always, she did not allow him inside the shabby dirty little house. When he suggested a morning swim, she blushed and said shyly, Sorry, but I can’t.

Maybe this afternoon then, he suggested.

I’m sorry, but I can never swim with you again, ever. Then she closed the door and left him standing alone outside with a dejected look on his face.

The ride home was long and slow and thoughtful. He could not understand why Mary could not swim with him. He was not sure why he was so upset over this new development. He was not sure why he had looked forward to seeing her more now than in summers past. He rode straight to his father’s shop, put his pony away, and began working on a set of shafts he had started, he did not speak to his father.

I thought you were going swimming with Mary, Pat started.

She can’t go swimming anymore was the sullen answer.

Pat knew this was out of his expertise and would need to be handled by the boy’s mother, if at all possible.

Jacob worked silently and alone, avoiding both his father and Tommy Morton, who had returned two weeks after the incident last winter. Tommy had shown up with a broken nose and a black eye and asked Pat for a job.

Is this your own choice? Pat had asked.

Yes.

Tell me about your faces then, Pat insisted.

My Pa tried to send me to work for a tailor down state when I refused he did this to me. I beat him near to death with an elm spoke from a broken wheel, and I left.

Pat thought silently before saying, "Well, it is better use for an elm spoke than putting it in a wheel. Wash up in the barn, and I’ll find