This story takes place during the era of the cowboy, ca 1870s-1890s. Texas was largely unsettled and wild. The central families in this story have settled in a farming and ranching area a half-day ride (15-18 miles) south of San Antonio.
All four of my grandparents were born a few years either side of 1890, and some of their friends well before that, so they spoke of those days with familiarity. Herding, branding, and driving cattle, raising crops, the wonder of the windmill and indoor plumbing were subjects they loved to discuss, and I loved to listen. They remained mystified by rural electrification, radio, and television, even until their deaths in the 1960s.
Their opinions and prejudices were shared without guilt; they had lived through a lot of heartbreak and change, and their beliefs were forged in fire. As a child of the 50s, I considered them 'old fashioned', but I respected their right to believe as they did.
They and their friends were storytellers; each story reminded someone of something similar, or opposite, and when they got together, they often talked until well after dark, which was their normal bedtime.
I tried to stay true to the language of the times in this story, or at least that of my grandparents and their friends, and added some of the historical events of the times. One-armed Elijah Hays and his gang are figments of my imagination, but the events associated with them are events that occurred around south Texas during that era.
The Sutton-Taylor Feud and the Mason County / Hoodoo War are factual, as are most of the characters and places mentioned. If you want perfect accuracy you'll have to go elsewhere, because I did fudge a date or two by a year or two, but close counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and government work, right?
NO ONE under the age of 18 is engaged in sexual activities or in viewing sexual activities; in fact, there is no sexual activity in this chapter. Your comments are welcome, but civility is appreciated.
Hardscrabble -- Chapter 1
His dirty, sweat-stained straw hat pulled as low on his head as possible, Silas belly crawled the last twenty-five yard across the crown of the rocky, brush-covered hill. He ignored the thorns on the ground sticking in his hands, and those grabbing at his denim brush jacket and jeans as he crawled through the brush. The rifle in his left hand complicated the crawl, but he might need it suddenly.
He felt confident that the shouting and shooting he heard last night came from somewhere close to this hill and he suspected it was just the other side. He stopped and untied the string holding his pistol in place, tucked his head like a turtle, and crawled across the crown. Sure enough, there was a house down below, and something that looked like a body was lying on the ground in front of the house.
He lay still for ten more minutes, making sure there was no movement in the area. It was early, but the sun was already creeping into the clear Texas sky, and he knew he needed to get down there and see if there was anything to be done. The mules and wagon were waiting back at the camp, and today was the day he was supposed to make it to Dogtown to buy supplies.
Whatever happened last night was really none of his business, but on the southern frontier in Texas, anyone not a bandit, outlaw, or renegade was a neighbor, so, regardless of the danger, he felt he had to take a closer look before he moved on.
His model 1873 Winchester rifle was chambered for the same 44-40 cartridge his Colt Peacemaker fired. There were 11 cartridges in the rifle and six in the revolver, plus eighteen in the ammunition belt, so he could engage in a sustained battle if necessary; however, he didn't believe any hostiles were still there.
Regardless, he took his time, darting quickly from bush to bush, but waiting after each move to see if anyone down there moved... or if he drew fire.
By the time he reached the cleared area around the house, he was confident the homestead was deserted. Nonetheless, being wrong meant being dead, so he shucked his pistol, carried his rifle in his left hand, and ran to the barn. The large double doors facing the house were open, but he had noticed an unopened side door. Entering that way would give him an element of surprise if he were wrong.
Pausing only long enough to throw the door open, he crouched, stepped quickly inside, and then stepped sideways along the wall. His pistol was extended and ready to be fired, but nothing stirred. Straightening, he searched the barn and hayloft before deciding on the best way to enter the house.
There was less open ground to the back, so that was the route he chose.
Silas sprinted across the clearing and slipped in the back door. He carefully searched the house, moving from room to room with his pistol drawn. He found a closet in the larger bedroom with clothing for both a woman and a man, and a second bedroom with clothing for a girl.
Like the barn, the house was well made, and it was immaculate. The kitchen was well stocked and the rooms were nicely furnished. One wall of the main room had a built-in bookcase that was filled with rows of books, many of which he had read, and even more he had not. He touched the book backings covetously; he loved books and the knowledge they held.
Silas knew he was in the home of a family: a well-educated and cultured family, based on what he had seen. Yet there was only one body outside, and he was sure it was a man.
Keeping clear of the glass to keep from presenting a target, he surreptitiously moved from window to window, and then stood beside the open door. Having seen nothing of concern, he walked onto the front porch, looked around carefully, and stepped down to the body.
Just as it appeared, it was a man. Even in death, he appeared young, fit, and handsome. An old double-barrel shotgun lay by his side. Silas put himself in the man's shoes and surveyed what he had faced. Based on the way the ground was broken up, the three horses were standing about 8-10 feet apart. That was not a friendly way to approach a house, especially at night. All three had fired into his body, yet the shotgun beside him was unfired.
Hindsight is always right, but Silas wondered why the man went outside carrying a shotgun to face three mounted, armed men who were spread out too much for a scattergun to be helpful. That made no sense, especially with a wife and child inside.
He couldn't make himself leave the body lying there, so he fetched the shovel from the barn and looked for a site to dig a grave. He picked a spot in the shade of a big Pecan tree on the edge of the clearing, propped his rifle up against a nearby bush, took off his shirt, and started digging in the sandy soil.
When the grave was four feet deep, he retrieved a sheet of canvas from the barn, gently wrapped the body in it, and pulled it to the gravesite. Just before he got there, he caught a glimpse of something white in the nearest brush that hadn't been there before.
Pretending he hadn't seen anything, he aligned the body and grave, turned sideways, and wiped his brow with his left hand.
That movement covered his draw, and he turned to the place he had seen the apparition. "Come out, or I'll start shooting." The apparition hunkered down further under the bush, and Silas identified it as a small person; perhaps the missing girl!
Pistol still drawn, he walked quickly toward whoever it was and announced, "I believe you know I'm not one of them, but I need to see you right now or I'll no choice but to open fire. I'm giving you three second: one....two...."
The apparition stood and stepped around the Huisache bush. "Don't shoot. I'm unarmed!"
It was the girl whose clothing he had seen inside the house. She looked to be about 11-12 years old, with a thin body, shoulder-length, wavy red hair with golden highlights, and eyes that seemed both blue and green; she was wearing a nightgown and sandals.
"What's your name, little girl?" Silas asked.
