The Legend of Mad Howard

By Rick J. Gunter

Take a wild ride through the dark Ozark hills.

Twenty-year old Howard Chandler dropped out of the seminary against the wishes of his father, pastor of the grandest church in Chicago. In 1886, he traveled to Taney County, Missouri, "to paint the hills, glades, and fair maidens" --to live the l

• Language: English
• Publisher: MoOzark Publishing
• Release date: Apr 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988110507

Rick J. Gunter

Rick J. Gunter was born and raised in the Missouri Ozarks of Texas County, Missouri, where he explored the ghost towns and listened to the stories of the oldtimers who lived there. After college, he spent over 30 years as a Software Engineer in the US Defense Industry, working in Texas, Maryland, New Jersey, Tennessee, and Colorado. Today, Rick is fulfilling his lifelong dream of writing historical fiction and non-fiction stories. He lives in southwest Missouri, researching Ozarks history and collecting antiques, old books, and old photos with his wife, Debra. He is also the Admin for the Facebook groups Ozark History, Families, and Photographs, and Little Town of Marmaros.

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THE LEGEND OF MAD HOWARD

MoOzark Publishing

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, historical events, real places, establishments, organizations, religious or political beliefs, superstitions, stereotypes, or conventional wisdom of the era are intended to promote a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, events, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and are not construed as real.

Copyright @ 2023 by Rick J. Gunter

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in a book review. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

All scripture references in this book are taken from the King James Version (KJV) of The Holy Bible, public domain.

Short excerpts and quotations are taken from The Shepherd of the Hills (The Book Supply Co., 1907) by Harold Bell Wright, public domain.

Stanzas are included from old hymns, including Rock of Ages, and Just as I Am. Also from old folk songs, including Sourwood Mountain, and Ballad of the Bald Knobbers, All these songs are in public domain.

ISBN: 979-8-9881105-0-7ePub

ISBN: 979-8-9881105-1-4Paperback

ISBN: 979-8-9881105-2-1Hardback

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

To Debbie, my wife and lifelong helpmate,

In memory of those summer days in the Shepherd of the Hills Country where we watched the day go over the western ridges, as Harold Bell Wright did long before us.

Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,

while the evil days come not,

nor the years draw nigh,

when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;

While the sun, or the light,

or the moon, or the stars,

be not darkened,

nor the clouds return after the rain:

– Ecclesiastes 12: 1-2 (King James Version)

This way runs the trail that follows the lower level, where those who travel…look always over their shoulders with eyes of dread and the gloomy shadows gather long before the day is done.

–Harold Bell Wright. The Shepherd of the Hills (Chapter XLII, p. 330)

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

In 1907, author Harold Bell Wright published a novel entitled The Shepherd of the Hills. It sold over two million copies in its first few years of publication. It presented the story of a broken preacher who came to the hills of the southwest Missouri Ozarks for reasons he dared not tell. He came to stay in an old cabin on a sheep ranch owned by the Matthews family. In time he became a shepherd to the sheep, the Matthews family, and the folks of the community as well.

My story is even older in the telling. You will find the characters familiar. They are the same folks who lived in those hills when the old shepherd came from the world beyond the farthest blue ridges. Here you’ll find the story of an artist who came down the old trail years before the shepherd. It is the story of the shepherd’s lost son who came searching for greener pastures to paint on his canvas. Some say he took a wrong turn in life and followed the lower trail where those who travel…look always over their shoulders with eyes of dread and the gloomy shadows gather long before the day is done.

Come with me now as we travel back down the old trail nobody knows how old. This is The Legend of Mad Howard.

PROLOGUE

THE THING ABOUT CEMETERIES

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been attracted to cemeteries. You may find it rather dark. Please understand it as part of the world I beheld each day, looking through the bedroom window of my boyhood home in Chicago. The church cemetery lay directly across the street. I was alive, yet the cemetery lay perpetually in view to remind me death always lurked nearby. It called out through voices in my head. It compelled me to take many expeditions inside the stone walls when the shadows grew long. I often pondered what it meant—the difference between living flesh and the spirit crossed over.

Somehow, I felt closer to those in the grave. I struggled to be myself and always fought those who tried to mold me in their own image. A few loved me unconditionally. They encouraged me to fulfill my purpose in life. Those special loved ones were so few, and I lost them, every single one. Now, they rest in the cold ground while I struggle with those who remain in the world.

This world knows me as James Howard Chandler. If you want to know what happened to me, this is my story.

CONTENTS

Part One: In the Ozarks

Howard Chandler from Chicago

Springtime in the Ozarks

Old Matt's Cabin

Old Man Dewey's Place

Keeping House

Painting the Glade

Little Town of Marmaros

The Dance

The Sermon

Incident at Kirbyville

Advice from Mr. Powell

Watching the Rain

My Dear Maggie

Our Little Secret

Capturing the Sunset

Girl at the Spring

Summer Rain

Another City Feller

Ambush

Maggie"s Bed

A Rainy Day

Exploring

Dog Days

My Other Love

Going Back

The Shepherd of the Congregation

Grand Exposition of Art

Who is Mad Howard?

Saying Goodbye to Mother

Crossing the Big Pond

Part Two: Years Gone by

A Dark Place

Where is the Girl at the Spring?

Old Letters

On the Run

Back in the Hills

Back in Old Man Dewey's Cabin

Little Pete

Pete's Secret

Author’s Postscript

Acknowledgments

About The Author

PART ONE

IN THE OZARKS

HOWARD CHANDLER FROM CHICAGO

Stone County, Missouri, April 15, in the Year of Our Lord, 1886:

I’ve read dime novels and wondered about the land of adventure where the outlaws, the hero, the nightriders, and the damsel in distress come to life. As an artist, I have brushed them onto my canvas. I have dreamt of them in my nightly dreams. I’d come to believe they didn’t exist in the real world—and then I went down to the Ozarks.

I came to Galena, Missouri, a stranger from the land beyond the farthest blue ridges riding a dark chestnut horse and leading a pack mule. Night approached as a dark cloudbank brewed in the northwest sky, lightning flashed, and distant thunder rolled. I rode down a dirt street into the little mountain town, buzzing with activity. I’ve often wondered what it would take to drag sinners from a saloon on a Saturday night. Who could have known? All it took was a deer coming to town.

In the moonlight, a doe charged down a steep hillside. It emerged from a pine grove and raced down the alley behind the Saloon. A bottle flew from the hand of a backwoodsman as the doe ran by, knocking him against a clapboard wall. Glass shattered against the foundation stones, and the smell of the whiskey mixed with the damp evening air.

Oh, deer, the man cried as he drew his pocket revolver and aimed upward. Two loud pops came from the gun, and hot tongues of fire streaked into the night sky. A fog of black powder smoke drifted toward the flickering streetlight on the corner as the scared deer dashed down the boardwalk.

A tall board sign advertising a shave and a haircut for twenty-fire cents stood on the boardwalk in front of the barbershop. The doe ran square into the sign, knocking it onto a hitching post where three horses stood.

The terrified horses bucked and reared, with nostrils dilated, eyes bulging, and making sounds like the blast of a screaming whistle. They jerked so hard that both posts and the cross pole ripped from the ground, slinging dirt clods. Two of the horses broke free and stampeded down the dirt street–heads held low as they blew through their nostrils.

The third horse, a palomino gelding, bucked and neighed, dancing up and down in the middle of the street. The horse jolted backward, dragging the remains of the hitching post through the dirt, then tripped and rolled onto its back. The horse struggled against the saddle, legs up and kicking.

The deer galloped down a back street, past a boarding house where someone fired a pistol shot. A loud pop echoed from the building walls, and burning black powder streaked into the night. Across the street, a riderless horse fell on its side, kicking, while blood spilled into the street from the bullet wound in its neck.

In front of the saloon, the doe bounded down the middle of the street, almost colliding headlong into a team of horses pulling a dray wagon full of wooden boxes. The scared horses turned so quickly that the wagon flipped onto its side, and the horses broke free, dragging the cursing driver down the dimly lit street. The deer charged in hops and bounds past the far side of the courthouse square and leaped straight through the plate glass window of a hardware store.

Patrons of the saloon gathered in the doorway to gawk at the commotion. They spilled out into the street along with the raucous piano music and chants of those running the games of chance.

Two men from the saloon ventured across the street and entered the hardware store through the broken window. Soon, the soft glow of a kerosene lamp lit the store’s dark interior. The men followed a trail of blood to a storage room at the back of the store. The wounded doe lay kicking among the nail kegs and stacked boxes of new cross-cut saws. The taller man drew a small, nickel-plated revolver from his vest pocket. A quick muzzle flash lit up the room as he put the deer out of its misery.

Through all the ruckus with the deer, no one noticed me, the stranger who had just ridden into town. Once the anarchy settled, I rode past the crowd at the saloon and made my way to the livery stable to board my horse and mule.

Ten minutes later, I followed the boardwalk to the saloon, wearing my rain slicker. An early spring chill hung in the air, and the weather still threatened. A swarm of activity hovered across the street as the crowd surveyed the damage caused by the deer. Numerous eyes watched me stroll through the saloon door, across the worn oak floor, and approach the bar. It was a place dimly lit by kerosene light and reeked of stale beer and tobacco spit. A haze enveloped the room as individual plumes of smoke curled up from the pipes and lit cigars. A carpet of dirty sawdust covered the wooden floor.

The bartender, in a long white apron, slicked back hair, and sporting a long handlebar mustache, glanced in my direction as he filled shot glasses. What’ll it be, stranger?

Well, I can’t say I fancy the local moonshine. What do you have that comes in a bottle?

The store-bought stuff is back here, he said, pointing to bottles on the shelf behind him. We got your usual bourbon, scotch, and rum. What’s yer pleasure?

Give me a double shot of scotch.

The bartender moved quickly, popping a cork and pouring a glass without the help of a measure. He plopped the glass in front of me. Twenty cents.

I handed him two dimes as I leaned against the bar, studied my reflection in the big mirror, and silently laughed at myself. I stood out from the crowd with my artist’s mustache and goatee. My dark hair seemed a bit long, hanging down beneath my hat. What would Father–the pastor of the biggest church in all of Chicago–think of me now? I lifted my glass and tipped it toward the mirror as if offering him a toast. He frowned from my imagination. No, more like a scowl—as if he would soon be taking me to the woodshed.

Over my shoulder, I observed the saloon patrons watching me. Behind me, a local in a sweat-stained black hat, and full beard, sat sideways in his chair, looking me over. Hey stranger, we was a-wonderin’ amongst our own’selfs where ya might be a-comin’ from, he drawled in a backwoodsman’s high-keyed, slurred speech. We had it figured you might be a salesman of some sort er ‘nother—er even a cattleman. We reckoned ya might be from Springfield or Rollie.

I turned to face him with my drink in hand and leaning back, elbow on the bar. I smiled. No, I am not from Springfield—not the one in this state or the one in Illinois—nor have I come from Rolla.

Mister Black Hat glanced back at his friends—playing cards fanned out in their hands and seated around the little table amidst some hushed discussion. He turned to me again. Aire it Kansas City then, er Saint Louie? Er could it be, yer from down Carthage way, or could be you come up from Texas?

I glanced at the floor, laughing. No, I’m not from Kansas City, Saint Louis, or Carthage. And I’ve never been to Texas in my life. To be entirely truthful, I’m from the big city of Chicago. I’m an artist. I’ve traveled far to paint your hills, spring flowers, and fair maidens.

The corner of my eye caught a flash of lightning through the open saloon doors, and a rumble of thunder raddled the front windowpanes.

Well, I’ll be goll darned, said Black Hat. I reckoned you weren’t from around here. An artist, ya say? Well, how ‘bout that? Whar ya headed to?

I took a sip of scotch and allowed it to linger in my throat before offering an answer. Somewhere around here would be fine. I’ve fallen in love with your meadows and bald knobs—thought I might keep going east for a while to see what I can find.

Someone at the table said something I couldn’t hear over the piano music coming from the corner of the room. The man with the black hat spoke louder to relay the message. He said, ‘Just beware the Bald Knobbers if’n you’re headed over into Taney County’.

Before I could answer, another man walked up to the bar beside me– around thirty years of age in a dark pinstriped suit and a derby hat.

Carter’s the name, he said, turning toward me and vigorously shaking my hand. He held a large flat rectangular suitcase with a painted company name. I’m a salesman of men’s and women’s undergarments– got all my samples in here–and let me tell you, mister, it’s sure easier to lug these wares around than the hardware I used to sell. Where are you headed, mister? We might be traveling the same way.

Oh no, a salesman and what a talker too. I sure hope we are not going the same way. I smiled. I’m an artist on my way down to the White River country, looking for scenery to turn into paintings.

The thunder boomed again. A man entering the door announced, It’s startin’ ta sprinkle.

Ah, you don’t say—an artist, huh? said Carter. Too bad, I’m heading toward Mount Vernon and Stotts City. Ah, but you’ll be going to the right place if you’re looking for scenery. It’s a beautiful country and just the right time of year. You know, I believe everything’s blooming a little early. You’ll love the greenery. The wildflowers are fantastic. He stopped for a few seconds, thinking and waiting to catch his breath. Oh, but let me tell you, you’d best keep your guard up. You’d best beware of the dangers in the hills over there.

That perked my interest. And what sort of danger are you referring to?

I heard what your friend at the table said when I came in—about the Bald Knobbers. Do you read the papers? Outlaws and bushwhackers have been riding wild through the hills and hollows. People end up dead all the time in that country. And those Bald Knobbers are riding the hills. They are always giving someone a whipping or worse–stringing them up from a tall tree.

I remembered reading something concerning the vigilante group in the newspapers, though the location escaped my memory. My mind went back to the woodcut illustrations of men wearing horned masks and meeting around bonfires on barren hilltops. So that’s near here, you say–down on White River?

Excitement swelled around the front door as several saloon patrons gathered. The roar of the approaching rain grew loud, beating down on the dirt street, against the boardwalk, and pattering against the windows. Out on the porch, a man let out a drunken yell. He drew a small revolver from his coat pocket and fired three shots skyward.

Carter shouted over the racket. Heck yeah–in Christian and Taney counties mainly, but folks are having trouble all over the place in that country.

Well, I don’t suppose I’d have reason to worry. I’m not from around here, and there’s no reason they would suspect me of wrongdoing.

Oh, good lord, you are from the big city, aren’t you? Those hill folks are as suspicious as heck about outsiders. They’re liable to take you for a revenuer, sent down by the government. Oh, and they don’t need proof. They might throw you over a bluff or stretch your neck from a high limb if they don’t trust you. I’ll tell you what, if you don’t own a gun, you better buy one first thing in the morning. Guns are the only thing those hillmen respect.

Well, that’s not encouraging news. It’s bad enough to be a stranger in the hills. Now I must worry about being bushwhacked because I’m a city slicker. Well, thanks for the news, friend, I said facetiously.

I patted against my side to feel the revolver beneath my slicker, giving me a little comfort. What a way to brighten my journey–no turning back from here–looks like I’m committed to this now.

SPRINGTIME IN THE OZARKS

April 17, 1886, Taney County, Missouri:

The sun climbed into the blue sky and peeked out behind billowing cumulus clouds as I sat in a folding chair with my artist’s easel. Surrounded by short prairie grass growing among the small outcropping rock layers of the glade and blooming wildflowers, I brushed quick, broad strokes onto the canvas.

The mountain air seemed fresh, laced with a hint of wildflower blooms. My pallet held an array of freshly mixed colors of spring. I dipped my brush into a pale blue and dabbed the foreground as a carpet of Johnny jump-ups, combined with henbit, bloomed across the meadow on my canvas.

Stunted cedars grew in abundance on the hillsides and dogwoods, with their white blossoms waving in the gentle breeze. The red cedar— Juniperus virginiana. The Latin I learned in seminary is still good for something. I marveled at their magnificent appearance, hanging on to life in the barren glade with its thin soil.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the air became warm. Colors changed across the clearing, and the shadows grew small. A small doe entered the glade from the hardwood trees growing around the perimeter, sniffing the air and looking cautious. A cottontail rabbit hopped in the grass bordering small rock ledges. It lifted its head, twitched its nose, and bounded away. I stood up to stretch, removed my coat, and draped it over the chair.

A glint of light reflected from something on the ridge. I glanced over my shoulder and scanned the brush for movement. I heard the distinct snort of a horse from the ridgetop and saw what looked like three men crouched behind trees.

A bright flash caught my eye–a reflection of light from a spyglass or a pair of binoculars. I listened for any parts of a conversation, but the words became garbled in the distance. Why the heck are they spying on me? I searched for details. The men wore dark clothes with black hats. There were horses with saddles and rifles secured in scabbards.

I turned back to my canvas and pretended I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I thought back to the salesman’s warning at the Galena saloon. My imagination worked overtime. Who knows the thoughts of the hill folk? Aren’t they always the superstitious, uneducated rubes tossing salt over their shoulders, saying magic words, and planting seeds by the dark of the moon? I’m sure they view me as an outsider, a stranger, a government man, or a revenuer, perhaps coming to bust their whiskey stills and take them away in chains. Occasionally, I glanced back to see them still watching.

Twenty minutes later, they were gone. Nothing but the foliage of the bushes remained where the men hid before slipping away. I turned back to my painting.

An hour passed. I caught sight of movement from the other direction, along the old trail winding down the sides of the steep White River hills. A few minutes elapsed until I discerned the forms of two riders on horseback. They left the trail, rode across the meadow in my direction, and halted twenty feet from where I sat.

In the saddle sat a middle-aged man wearing a gray shirt with the sleeves cut off and striped suspenders–a flat-brimmed rancher-style hat of a calfskin color. I studied the man’s hat and distinct features with an artist’s eye, noticing his finely chiseled cheekbones, tan skin, huge flexing biceps, dark brown, drooping mustache, and a goatee beard—what a specimen.

At his side, a young woman, about eighteen years old, sat astride the saddle, riding like a man. Her thick, golden hair hung long, wavy, and loose. She wore a long skirt appearing worn and faded, almost white. A dress made from an old feed sack—surely not—but who am I to say? Her dress bunched up around the saddle, raising the hem of her skirt, exposing her firm, tanned legs from her upper calves to the bare feet in the stirrups. Being from the city where girls rode in the rear seats of carriages, wearing long dresses covering their legs and high-top buttoned shoes to hide their ankles from the view of any leering male, the sight seemed shocking— downright scandalous.

Good morning, sir, I shouted to the man, lowering my pallet and brush, and rose to my feet.

Howdy, said the man in a deep voice. We don’t mean to intrude. It’s jes’ that we don’t get an awful lot of visitors in these here hills. My name’s Grant Matthews. Most folks here ‘bouts jes’ call me Matt. This here is my daughter, Maggie. Aire you from ‘round these parts, Mister?

I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Matt Matthews. I glanced at Maggie’s left hand and noticed she wore no ring. And you too, Miss Maggie Matthews. I tipped the brim of my hat and bowed toward the young woman. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is James Howard Chandler, but my friends call me by my middle name, Howard. Where am I from? I repeated the question pointing with the brush in my hand as if painting the sky toward the distant ridge. I come from a faraway land beyond that line of blue hills. It’s a world often referred to as the big city. I purposefully glanced at Maggie. More specifically, I’m from the big city they call Chicago.

Maggie turned away, looking down at the ground as an embarrassed smile appeared on her lips.

Well, I’ll be dad-burned, said Matt. We ain’t always been from here. My kin all live back yonder in Illinois. That’s where we come from. ‘Course, a-bein’ raised on a farm, I never went to the big city. Heard all kinds a-talk ‘bout Chicago when I was a young’un–never did see it though. This here girl was born thar, but we come out to here to file for a homestead. That’s been several years back now.

Ah, I thought I detected the accent of a gentleman from the Land of Lincoln. Say, can you inform me who owns this land? I didn’t mean to trespass, but there were no houses nearby. I’m not certain where I am. I know I’m in southwest Missouri, but I’m not even aware of the county name or what town is nearby.

I couldn’t keep myself from glancing at Maggie, who gazed in my direction with her green eyes, seemingly spellbound by my every word. She seemed childlike and smiled in fascination at me, this man from beyond the ridge she had not yet looked over. The skin of her face, bare arms, and legs all bore a smooth, tanned, peach complexion. Her thick locks of golden hair swayed in the morning breeze.

Matt leaned forward to rest his weight on the horn of the saddle. This here’s Taney County, but we’re jest a stone’s throw from Stone County, thar to the west. He stretched out an arm and pointed. That thar hilltop is Dewey Bald. We call ‘em balds in these parts ‘cause they ain’t got no trees growin’ on the tops of the hills. He pointed back down the trail. "Back thar is whar you’ll find my place. It’s in what they call the low gap on the slope of Boulder Bald. Don’t reckon this land, right here, belongs to nobody. It’s jest government