I’ve shared segments of my novel, “Tom
Named By Horse” as I’ve polished and edited for publication, but I’ve remained
concerned for the first pages, and never shared them before ... Not sure if I wanted to open the novel with page
5, (to see that go HERE,)
and lose all the information that comes before it, or open as I originally wrote
it. I invite you to read this, my original opening, and let me know your
thoughts. Is this an opening that compels you to read the novel? ~ Gitty Up, Dutch Henry.
 | |||
| Writing With Kessy |
Tom Named By Horse - Pt1 (The beginning)
-Spring 1850-
It
was a miracle that either survived the birth. She knew it was morning because a
sliver of gray light peeked through the old blanket they had hung for a door. It
had blown open with the driving rain a day ago but she could not afford the strength
to close it. Why, oh why, won't this awful rain and howling wind stop? Lying in
the dark, cold dugout, she shivered so violently her newborn son trembled in
her arms.
Oh
darling, where are you? Please hurry back. Theses old blankets are wet and so
very smelly. You promised you'd return soon with more blankets. Two days ago
now I think, maybe three. I can't remember. I'm cold, darling. I'm wet and so
cold. It's so dark in here. Our little baby can't get warm. He can't stop
crying.
The new little baby found her cold breast and
suckled … Soon her shivers stopped.
********************************
The
rolling grasslands spread before him as far as his eye could reach, as broad as
the universe itself. Each rise gave way to the valley beyond it. Every valley
was the beginning of the next hill. Rain, falling hard from the hands of
Grandfather Mystery, soaked Grandmother Earth.
Chief
Red Cloud sat on his favorite war pony all that dark day, and allowed the skies
to beat him with raindrops pounding like rocks. He had told his uncle, Chief Smoke
of his terrifying vision. With sad eyes he looked into the rain. Today Red
Cloud knew, even Grandfather Mystery could not wash away the change about to
sweep over their ancestral hunting grounds. His tears, mixing with cold rain,
he turned his faithful pony toward his village.
-Early fall 1865-
''Boy! Fetch me that knife, and do it quick or you'll feel my
lash!''
The
boy handed the knife to the grizzly bear shaped buffalo hunter, and watched as
the great beast was stripped of its dignity. He stood out of reach of the
hider, knowing he should be skinning the buffalo, but was still sore from last
night's beating. It hurt to move. When the hider finished his work, he left a humbled,
naked carcass. Not at all resembling the magnificent animal it was moments ago.
The boy always felt pity for the buffalo. But it was what they did.
The
boy knew he was fifteen now. He didn't remember his life before the hider
bought him. Not much anyway. Some town folks claimed they had found him in a
dugout, with his dead mama. They had never
liked him much. He never liked them. At least with the hider he was never
hungry. Never hungry, but too often kicked and beaten.
''Get
over here and pull on this hide, you stupid kid.'' Struggling together, they
stretched the heavy wet hide and staked it for the sun to dry with the others
dotting the landscape for a hundred yards around the wagon. Then the hider
crawled on the seat, grabbed his long whip, and beat the horse and mule. The
drunken fool struck them so hard they took off at a near gallop, throwing him
down in the seat, evoking a string of cuss words and more lashing. The boy ran
behind, as he had been taught by the hider's lash to do.
For
days on end they wandered the plains searching for buffalo. The man rode the
wagon, the boy followed a safe distance behind. Like a whipped dog with nowhere to go except
back to the master who brutalized him. At
night the hider sat under the wagon sheet lean-to, and drank whiskey until he
fell asleep. Most nights when he woke he found a reason to beat the boy. For a long
time now he had thought of running, and had run twice, only to be found by the
hider. Those nights were the worst beatings.
Tonight
was no different. He didn’t mean to kill him, but as he tried to shield his
legs from the lash, his hands found the skinning knife. He only wanted to stop
the beating. The fat drunken hider would never beat him again, or slobber his
whiskey fouled spit on the boy's face.
As if
skinning a buffalo, he tore the clothes from the dead hider, propped the naked
body against the wagon wheel, then sat cross-legged starring at what he had
done. Some things were just too horrible. ''But you're a horrible man,'' the
boy muttered. Numb in mind and body, with the same skinning knife he’d plunged
into the hider’s chest, he cut loose a slab of the dead man’s scalp. Just as when the hider had beaten him, it was
as if he was watching himself from a distance. He could not feel the knife in
his hands. He'd never cut a scalp before. He had seen some naked, scalped bodies
of settlers and he hated the practice.
By
the meager light of the dying campfire, the stars, and sliver of moon, the boy
took his time and gathered canteens, hard tack, and dried buffalo. He searched
the wagon, and in a tin covered box under the seat found the 52 caliber bullets
and primers for the Sharps rifle, and the Henry’s 44 rim-fire shells. The
forty-four's for the Navy Colt were in a soft leather pouch deep down in the
box. In its own little can was the leather pouch that held the hiders coins.
The boy had learned to count gold and silver coins from the old man, and found
the pouch held nearly three hundred dollars.
It
had been the boy's job to run the camp so he knew how to prepare for his new
journey. He gathered saddle bags and the wagon sheet, loaded the Henry and Colt,
carefully wrapped the ammunition in canvas, and stuffed it in the saddlebags. With
pieces of wagon sheet from the lean-to, he made two packs and strapped them on
the mule. The first he filled with the jerked buffalo, hard tack, a bag of
coffee beans, and sack of flour. The knives, pots, and other supplies he
crammed into the second pack.
Satisfied,
he saddled the horse with the old McClellan, and slipped the Henry in the
scabbard. He would carry the Sharps. The Navy revolver he strapped on over his
ancient tattered shirt. Finally the boy stepped onto the tall gray horse and
rode away, the mule in tow. There was no emotion, not loneliness or joy. The
boy was free at last to go his own way. Whichever way that might be.
********
He
sat poking life back into his tired campfire the next morning. With no one to answer to, and no lashings to
avoid, the day seemed strange, empty. Even frightening.
The
rising sun urged him to start his life anew.
The horse and mule had not strayed far, and when he gave a loud whistle,
the handsome gray came at a run. They had been friends a long time.
''Mornin'
Tom Gray,'' he stroked the long mane, ''Ready to find out what's out there?''
The young man smiled when the horse nodded that he was. Over the years Tom Gray
had been his only friend. They understood each other. Both had feared and hated
the old hider. They had leaned on each other to survive. The gray had even defended the mule from the
old hider on several occasions.
He
caught the mule, gathered his things, and was ready to head out, when a funny
feeling washed over him. A warning
perhaps? He wasn't sure. But it was the same feeling he got before the
old hider would beat him. ''Let's keep
our eyes open, Tom Gray.'' He told
himself as much as the horse.
Before
starting out he made a pouch from wagon sheet scraps, and fashioned a leather string
around it so it could dangle from his neck. In it he placed a half dozen 52
caliber bullets and primers, then stuffed another in the rifle's breech. With the Sharps across his lap, and towing the
mule behind Tom Gray, they started west. He could see treed hills far in the
distance and set them as today’s only goal, knowing there would be game and shelter
there.
The
years spent with the drunken buffalo hunter had been of some benefit. The boy
had developed a keen sense of awareness, and self preservation. He was quick to
sense danger, and equally quick to notice opportunity. As he rode toward the
far hills the boy sensed he was riding toward danger. He argued with himself,
trying to convince those worried thoughts that the only danger to him, Tom Gray
and the mule was laying dead, leaning against a wagon wheel.
Longer
shadows cast by Tom Gray meant darkness was on its way, so he hurried the horse,
hoping to spend the night under the cover of the distant trees. Even at a fast
trot it was well past dark by the time they rode into the first small grove, and
found a suitable campsite for the night. Old ashes and bones lying in a fire
pit, told him he was not the first to find the grove inviting. He hobbled the
horse and mule, dined on jerked buffalo and a piece of hard tack, washed down
with a swallow of hot water from the canteen, then went to sleep.
The
mule’s loud braying woke him in the morning. He paused a moment blinking into
the rising sun, admiring the golden horizon, then with a start realized the mule
and Tom Gray were gone. He followed the tracks of the hobbled horse and mule, and
found them peacefully grazing on tall, dew covered grass by a wide stream.
Bent
low, inspecting the hobbles, he noticed trout in the shallows of the stream. “I’ll
have to work harder for my breakfast than you.” He patted Tom Gray on the neck,
jumped in the stream and began slapping the water fast and hard, to stun a fish
or two. He slapped the water so violently the horse and mule spooked and fled
as fast as the hobbles would allow. In less than a minute he crawled from the
stream wet and cold, holding a wriggling trout in his hands. As his excitement
began to temper he realized he heard laughing.
Looking
toward the laughter, the boy saw a small group of Sioux braves. The buffalo
hunter and boy had sometimes been harassed by Sioux hunting parties, and
whenever the old hider had the chance he would shoot them. ''Always kill an
Injun afore it kills you,'' the hider told him. ''Any hider that don't kill
Injuns, is just plain stupid!''
The
brave closest to him was wearing the hider's vest and hat, laughing the loudest,
and pointing to the boy. The young man knew,
they knew, he belonged to the buffalo hunter. He also knew they meant to kill him
for the hunter's deeds. Then it hit him, he had foolishly left his camp
unarmed. All his weapons lay carefully hidden under a blanket back in camp. His
only weapons now were his wits and speed. Years of running behind the wagon
made him strong legged and fast. He tossed the fish in the air and started to
laugh and dance, flapping his arms and squawking like a wounded prairie chicken
and kicking high. The braves, surprised at first, began to laugh, point, and
jump about as if to mimic him.
That
was the very reaction the boy had hoped for, and he took off in a flat run for camp.
The braves gave chase, but he had so out maneuvered them he beat them to camp,
and stood straight and tall, holding the scalp of the dead buffalo hunter high.
He offered the scalp to the three still laughing braves. If they had found the
buffalo hunter's wagon and searched it, they surely saw he had been scalped.
The
first brave cautiously accepted the scalp, and the young man took a step back.
The brave studied the scalp and showed it to the others. They passed it around,
hooted and laughed. The young man was slowly inching back away, and was just
about to run when the three braves looked his way. The brave wearing the hider's
hat made hand gestures the boy had seen before. He was asking him to follow.
Clenching
his fists by his side, the young man stood and stared at the braves, uncertain
as what to do. They stood in silence for several more seconds, but the boy was
still unable to reason it out, and stood firm. Finally the first brave took the
scalp, tucked it in his waist band, turned and walked away. The others followed.
The
young man stood rigid until they had run a safe distance away. Still shaken, he
set about finding the horse and mule again. He gathered his things and started
out, holding the Sharps rifle across his lap and chewing on hard buffalo jerky
as he rode. That odd feeling from the day before still bothered him. Not having a plan, he allowed Tom Gray to slowly
follow an Indian trail through the woods and drifted deep into thought. He
pondered the fact the braves took his fish, but left behind Tom Gray and the mule.
''Braves have no use for mules I reckon, Tom Gray, and maybe they thought you
too tall.''
Rifle
fire from beyond the next rise tore him from his thoughts. He slid from Tom Gay
clutching the Sharps and scampered to the top, dropped to the ground and crept
through the grass. In a heartbeat he knew the story.
At
the bottom of the hill a buffalo hunter sat on his wagon shooting at Indians. The
boy recognized this hider. He would often stop at their camp. This man was even
meaner than the other, and would help to do awful things to the boy. Things he
could never forget.
The
braves huddled in a low wash while the buffalo hunter had clear and safe
shooting. They returned fire, but their arrows lacked the range to match the
hunter's rifle.
The young man watched as arrows hit the dirt,
far short of the hider who sat cross legged on the wagon seat, laughing and
jeering, then carefully taking aim. Each of his rounds found their mark in the
rim of the wash sending dirt and dust flying high in the air.
The
old hider had marveled at how rapidly the boy became a crack shot. Not only
with the Sharps, but the Henry too, and even the Navy 44. Many times the old
hider had gambled on the boy's shooting talents. Many times he had won the old
man large sums of money. But the times the boy had lost the hider money, those are
the times the boy remembered most. Most likely he would carry the scares of the
hider's lash all his life.
Lying
on his stomach, the young man raised the sight of his Sharps, just as he had
been taught by the old buffalo hunter himself. He could see at least one of the
braves lay dead. So could the hider and he jumped from the wagon and began
dancing and hooting. After a brief celebration
the hider leaned against the wagon and raised his buffalo rifle, taking aim to
send death toward the helpless braves one more time. The boy knew the hider
would not stop until all the trapped braves were dead.
The
boy touched the trigger on his own rifle, and watched through the high sight as
the bullet plunged into the hiders back. Silence floated in. Nothing moved, no
one cheered. Calmly, he gathered his things, mounted his horse and rode to the
dead man.
He
rode slowly around the wagon, studying the scene. Plenty of supplies in the
wagon, tarps and sacks, too. Two mules stood patiently waiting their commands.
A dead man lay sprawled by the wheel. The man he'd just killed. It felt like a
world within a world.
He jumped
from Tom Gray, and promptly removed a large slab of the dead man's scalp. He
would offer the hair to the braves. Then yanked the hunter's boots, and took
his pants, and shirt. This hider was more his size, and except for the 52
caliber hole, in the front and back of the shirt, these were nearly new
clothes.
The
young man was busy rummaging through the contents of the wagon when the two
remaining braves, one injured, one not, came to the wagon. They waved their
hands in friendship. This time he responded in kind, wondering though, what
might have just happened here if he had accepted their offer earlier, and had
been traveling with them.
At
the boy's wordless urgings, they laid the injured brave on the wagon atop the
canvasses. He and the other carried dead brave to the wagon, and tied his own horse
and mule to the rear. Together they set out for the brave's village, sitting
side by side on the wagon seat. Leaving only a dead, naked, scalped, buffalo
hunter behind. Naked as any buffalo
carcass.
As
two mules plodded along, the boy tried to understand the past two days. For
years he had only known the mean buffalo hunter, a few of his kind, and a rare
visit to some wild camp town. The only person that had ever wanted him was the
old hunter. But what the hider wanted the boy for was unspeakable ... now the
boy had killed the drunken, slobbering, old no-good. Not just him, but he'd
killed one of his friends too. The young
man wondered why it had been so easy, and why the feeling he had was a good
feeling. Almost satisfying. The boy knew there was one more of the three hiders
that were mean to him for years. Maybe
he’d see him through his rifle sights too one day. He hoped so.
(This
would be the opening if I started on Page 5)
They
guided the wagon west, never speaking, both lost in their own thoughts. The day
faded as they trudged along. Occasionally the brave would offer an outstretched
arm, pointing the way. The glow of campfires became visible on the horizon as darkness
began to descend upon them. The boy kept the mules stepping out at a good pace
and soon they drove into the Sioux village. When the wagon stopped they were
quickly set upon by many interested Sioux, braves, children, and women. Two
Sioux women helped the wounded brave from the wagon. A small group of women
carried the dead brave away.
********
You'll find Pt 1 HERE
You'll find Pt 2 HERE
You'll find Pt 3 HERE
~~ Thanks for your help! Dutch
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