Читать книгу Settling The Score - George McLane Wood - Страница 19

Chapter Thirteen

“How far to your farm, Jeff?”

“’Bout twelve miles from buffalo Gap. We’ll be there right after noontime.”

As they topped the last hill, Jeff’s farm house came into view, and there was smoke curling out of the kitchen chimney, and the east field was standing knee-high in cotton. “Who the hell is livin’ in my house? And who is plantin’ cotton in my fields? I’m damn sure about to find out.”

“Whada you mean you own my house?”

“Bought it!”

“You bought it, from who?”

“The county tax man, that’s who.”

“I bought it for the taxes agin’ it, mister!” The little man bowed right up to Jeff. “I asked the tax man in town what he’d take for this place, he said, and then I said, I’d take it. Now hit’s all mine.”

“Show me your deed.”

“Ain’t got no deed, mister, till I pay it off, you oughta know that. I got a bill of sale, though.”

“Show me!”

“I’ll fetch it.”

The little man darted into the house and came out waving it. “Here ya are! I wern’t lying to ya!”

“I’ll go to town and straighten this out. I’ll be back.”

“You come back, it’ll still be mine, mister.”

Jeff and his friends rode back into Buffalo Gap. The town clerk said it was true. Jeff’s farm had been sold for back taxes.

“This town was dead broke, Mr. Nelson. We couldn’t pay our bills, so we sold farms all over this county for the back taxes owed agin’ ’em, yours, your neighbors, and many more. How was we to know you was gonna live and come back from that damn war. Feller comes along after two years, three years, and says I’ll buy that farm for the taxes owed agin’ it. We gladly took the man’s money. You wanted that farm. You should a stayed put and not run off to fight them damn rebels in that damn war.”

Back at the farm, Jeff asked the little man. “What happened to my family’s graves?”

“I moved ’em.”

“You moved them?”

“Yes, sir, I dug ’em up and I reburied them, Mr. Nelson, down by that stand o’ trees by the creek yonder. But I treated ’em with respect, I did. The missus, you see, didn’t want to keep looking at them graves out there every day on the way to her well water, she didn’t. You can understand that, can’t you, mister?”

“Yeah, I reckon I can. I’ll be sayin’ goodbye to you. You better take care of my folk’s graves, ya hear me?” Jeff replied.

“I will, Mr. Nelson, I promise.”

Jeff mounted his bay and rode to the grove of trees and he and his friends buried his papa beside his family. Smitty and Bo mounted their horses and waited while Jeff said his goodbyes.

“Well, you’re restin’ next to Mama and the girls now, Papa. It took me a while to get you here, but I did it. We don’t own this farm anymore, Papa. The tax man in town sold it while we was fighting them rebels, so I’ll be moving on directly. I know you and mama are happy, restin’ next to the girls here in Virginny soil, so I’ll let y’all be. I reckon I’ll go on and find me a place of my own somewhere. You and Mama rest well, Papa. Goodbye.” Jeff mounted his gelding, set his cavalry issue hat square on his head, and touched his heels to his bay’s ribs, and without looking back, he and his three friends rode off toward the late afternoon sun.

Jeff and his friends traveled outa war-ravaged West Virginia, across the poor state of Kentucky’s valleys and hills, and then they decided they’d better spend the cold snowy winter months of 1867 holed up in Fayetteville Arkansas. They spent their days in the nearest saloon, playing dominos nearby the big potbellied stove and their nights sleeping snug in beds at the hotel next door, much to the delight of both Smitty and Bo.

None of the three boys had ever seen snow as deep as it was that year in Arkansas. Even the locals said it was a record winter’s snowfall. Jeff was impatient to get moving, but traveling in so much snow wasn’t something neither one of the three cared to do. None had any experience doing it, so they had no choice but to hunker down and wait until spring.

“We’re over that river on Colbert’s ten-cent ferry ride, boys,” Jeff remarked. “That was the Red River we just crossed, we’re in Texas now.”

“Whereabouts we headed for, Jeff?”

“Southwest, thataway, Bo. Sign back there says Fort Worth is a way west of here, so we’ll stop there. I wanna find me some ranchland to buy.”

They rode into Fort Worth about noon. The first saloon they stopped at had a lunch all laid out on a long table. Different kinds of breads, cheese wedges, hunks of different meats, a bowl of pickles, mustard, relishes, green onions, and some red melon slices. Fellers were crowded around, grabbing this and that, slapping themselves meats and things between two pieces of bread as fast as the assistant barkeep could restock his table.

They’d just had a serious shooting in the saloon when the three Virginia boys walked in. Two lawmen had ahold of a fellow who appeared to be drunk. They were leading him out the saloon by both his arms and walking ahead of two gents who were carrying a body out by its hands and feet.

“Help yerself to the food, gents! Don’t mind a little blood on our floor. I suggest you don’t slip and fall in it. Y’all can eat yer fill fer as long as you buy our beer,” he drawled, smiling with a cinnamon twig sticking out the corner of his mouth.

All three troopers bought beer, commandeered a table, and ate their fill. Then Jeff left to go find the land office while Smitty and Bo decided they’d stay and have more beer. “You two better not get in trouble,” Jeff told ’em before leaving the table.

“Down the street thataway, mister,” the townie pointed toward the land office, “you can’t miss it.” Once there, Jeff asked about good available ranchland to buy for cash.

“Nothing around here no more but some small farms left. All the good land has been bought up by hombres like you coming west after the war. I’s you, stranger, I’d hightail if farther west if I had cash. Heard tell there’s still prime land farther southwest of here. Ranchland is still available this side of the Chamisa Mountains in Casper County. Heard it was prime cattle country too.”

“How far is this place called Casper County?”

“Oh, about three hundred miles as the crow flies. After you pass the wide-open spaces, rivers, arroyos, mountains, a desert, a few Comanche, and a few Apache that you’ll likely have to fight. There’s a wagon train going thataway, day after tomorrow. You might get to ride along with them.”

“Where would I find this wagon train?”

“Try the wagon yard, west of town, that’s where it’ll start from. You’ll find it by its smell, just go outside, face the west, and then follow yer nose.”

“On a wagon train? Fightin’ Comanche? And Apache? I don’t I’d better. I’ve heard those fellers can be a real troublesome bunch, Jeff,” Bo exclaimed.

“Yeah, I’ve heard the same story, Bo, but I’m going anyway. The wagon master said he’d be glad to have our guns if we wanted to come along. He said, and I repeat, just bring yer own guns, food, horse feed, ridin’ horses, plus two extra ones if you can afford ’em. And when we’re besieged by the hostiles, have plenty ammunition, and you’ll be plumb welcome.”