Tuck

Copyright © 2001 by Luther Butler.

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are the product of the author‘s imagination or are used fictitiously, and

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

DEDICATED TO JO AND LUKE

PROLOGUE

Tuck’s thoughts were broken when a rider, a captain in a blue uniform, rode around the bend in the steep trail. Both riders rode with drawn pistols. The blue coated one fired first and missed. While Tuck’s finger closed on the trigger, he realized he shot his brother Freck square in the face.

Tuck, from that moment on began to wonder if he recognized Freck before he pulled the trigger. The question haunted him. He thought he shot because of his love for Rose rather than for self-preservation. Could he have held his shot another moment until his adopted brother realized he bore the white flag of truce?

When the Union soldiers arrived on the scene, they found an officer in the Texas Rangers holding a dead Union officer in his arms. There was nothing they could do for their fallen leader but bury him and try to wash the blood off the hands of the live one.

CHAPTER ONE

He was born in Kentucky, Middlesboro down in the Cumberland Mountains as far south in the state as you can go. The first year he was born, his pappy died when a tree he was felling went the wrong direction and pinned him under its mighty weight. He lived a few hours and died during the night in a delirious rage. He cursed God and the Devil before he drew his last breath.

Kenneth Reynolds, his first born, wailed in the dark, the noise in the one room cabin keeping him awake. His protesting resulted in only a sore throat. His harried mother was too busy fighting the demons chasing her husband to go and take care of her frightened son. All the rest of his life, he wailed into the empty nights without anyone really listening. His mother never did rightly recover her mind after that night. She ceased caring about her looks. The little boy’s remembrance of her was of a gaunt woman with hair blowing in wandering wisps. Some called her the witch on Lonesome Ridge.

Kenneth’s first recollections were of playing in the shade of a hickory at the edge of a small plot of ground where his mother toiled day and night to make ends meet. At first, they kept alive on squirrel, coon, and what they could raise on the mean, thin mountain soil. There was never another except the two of them. He recalled looking up at blue skies and gray clouds with small leaves on the trees in early spring. The seasons passed until there were the bright-colored leaves of autumn, when his mother put the land to rest for another year.

Gradually, there were more and more pigs in pens built around behind the barn. Chickens cackled in nests built crudely out of rough lumber from a little sawmill down at the fork of the river. Now there was food on the table, big platters of meat and vegetables with butter and cheese in little plates cool from the springhouse.

He remembered a log cabin with rough planks through which pieces of bread would fit between the open cracks. Chipmunks came up under the floor to nibble away at the offerings he held down for them. He was careful one of the greedy animals didn’t draw blood.

At night, their light came from the glowing embers of a banked fire in the long fireplace at the end of the cabin. Somehow she always found time to empty ashes and sweep the hearth. Late on winter evenings, the little boy amused himself by feeding the fire with pieces of bark and shavings while his mother told him about life in early Kentucky, castles with knights and kings blazed up in his imaginary world. It was a life she remembered as a little girl, a life where there were Indians, and where food was scarce in long winters spent in a cabin without floors.

Her grandfather had joined the trek into western Pennsylvania after the Revolutionary War. He settled on land that produced corn—corn too cumbersome to carry across mountains to eastern markets along the coast. They condensed it down into a raw liquid they could carry out in jugs so they could survive even as her and her son survived.

When the western Pennsylvania farmers settled down to farming and hauling fiery liquor over the mountains for ships to carry over the world, President Washington ordered Federal troops into her home village. They were ordered to put down a rebellion of small whisky makers who objected to a tax that made it impossible to compete with large stills.

After the Whisky Rebellion War ended, her grandfather and his family drifted down river. At last they reached Kentucky, with little but their still, clothes, and not much else. They survived.

Among Scotch-Irish and south Irish, their neighbors finally accepted the English family when they found out her grandfather had a knack for witching water wells.

Settlers widely called for his services throughout the mountains.

Her marriage started off well. George Reynolds was from an English farming family, whom all looked on with favor. Quickly, he built a cabin and went to work clearing land for his new wife. After three years of bareness, his good fortune in having a son, led him into a working frenzy to clear more land so his offspring would have even more hopes of a good life. His last tree dealt him his deathblow.

Wispy fog drifted up the mountain valleys that early spring, even more so than usual. There was a coolness in the air long after the time they should have planted their corn. Sarah and her son struggled together to keep the plowed soil free of early spring weeds until warmth would return to the cool earth. That spring the lad was five. Barely able to swing the hoe his mother had acquired for him, he vainly tried to keep up with her.

We must be careful, Son. Indians were reported down on the South Fork last night. One of us should stay near the rifle. Never could hoe and carry a rifle. Now, your father, he could carry that heavy thing and work all day. I never was as strong. Guess we will have to take our chances.

Spring birds sang cheery songs welcoming the morning sun rising over the eastern ridge. There was a magic in the air. Up and down the ridge, smoke crept from numerous hearths. It promised to be a fair day since smoke rose upward in the cool air. All spring, the smoke had swirled downward with more rain falling from leaden skies.

Kentuck, she called him after his pa died soon as this ground dries a bit more, we can plant. Be a relief for something to be growing besides weeds. Diet of hogback and poke salad gets tiresome.

I don’t complain, Ma.

No, you don’t, his mother said. You been like a man every since you learned to walk. I could never have asked for a better one than you. Shame your pa couldn’t have stayed around to see what we produced. Son, we may become separated someday. Remember this, I wanted to raise you so you would stay out of prison and be a good man. Both sides of your families always were honorable people. Poor but honorable.

He went ahead swinging his hoe as hard as he could. It was surprising how dock and thistles could come back so quickly after spring plowing.

Weeds will sap the soil so quickly. Person doesn’t keep weeds out of their field, it will ruin their crop like it will ruin a person’s life if they let weeds grow in their mind. Best thing to do is keep them rooted out. Days when my people came into these hills, weren’t nothing but wild things here then: Indians, deer, buffalo and things like that. Land wouldn’t grow nothing but things not fitten for civilized folks to live on. Took time clearing this land. Way it is with a man’s life, best not to let some things start growing.

Swinging his hoe, he thought on her words. Maybe tomorrow or next day we can hook our mule up to a plow and plant the corn.

Believe you are right. We are getting too far away from our rifle. Better run back and get it, his mother told him.

It always pleased the boy when she allowed him to carry the long barreled flintlock. As yet, his mother had not allowed him to shoot it. There would be a day when with pride, she would allow him to pour the powder in the old muzzleloader. He would let fly at some imaginary target, and then later he would take aim at a squirrel, or even a deer. Powder and lead were always at a premium. They were not for a small boy to waste by firing at tree stumps and knotholes. Sarah rightly judged her son was as yet too small to trust with firing the rifle.

Sunlight beamed down. The sun neared its apex the last time Kentuck carried their rifle. It was to be the last time he would see his mother.

He was halfway between stumps when five Shawnee dressed grotesquely in a mixture of civilized clothing rushed out of the encircling forest. One instantly drew a knife across Sarah’s throat. She made a half-strangled gasp as her blood choked a farther outcry. Her warm body slid to the ground, and she was silent.

Only a breeze caused her dress to flutter in the air, and then even it was silent. The knife slash severed her bonnet string causing it to fall on plowed ground. Her uncombed hair covered her face. Instantly, White Fish was on his knees. His knife grew red with gore from the blood seeping out from under the wild hair he prized.

When White Fish leaped into the air with his prize, Kentuck fired the long rifle for the first time. Instantly with the roar of the rifle, White Fish clutched his throat. Blood gushed from a hole just down from his Adam’s apple. Letting the longhaired scalp go he fell first to his knees, and then still pressing with his fingers to keep the gushing blood in his body, he fell forward on the ground without a whimper.

Instantly, White Hawk was on the little boy. Grabbing the smoking rifle from his tender hands, he raised the rifle to smash the boy’s brains out.

Don’t kill brave warrior of the whites, Star Chief ordered. We will take him with us. His luck with a rifle will stand us good stead.

Better we kill the white-eye. He will but hold us up on the trail, White Hawk growled at Star Chief.

It is I who am chief of this tribe. Let him go with us to the west where we will make our new home far across the Big River.

He’ll bring us nothing but trouble, White Hawk still grumbled.

One so brave at such a tender age can bring us nothing but fortune, the Chief said.

The four remaining Indians searched the log cabin for valuables. Finding only a ten-dollar gold piece and a few glass beads, they soon made the cabin burn with a roar. Knowing other settlers would come up the ridge to investigate, they rounded up the only saddle horse of the Reynolds’. Roughly, they put Kentuck on the gelding’s bareback and snaked into the rough mountain country of Tennessee.

It was a ride with remembrance of terror for the boy. Arms and face still not tanned brown by the weak, spring sun, his skin burned and blistered that afternoon. The four frightened Indians, out of their wilderness far to the north, dared not stop, fearing they would be overtaken and killed. On they rode through heavy brush and trees. Kentuck’s legs bled from numerous scratches.

Barely able to reach his short legs far enough around the horse’s barrel, needed to keep from falling, he held on with his hands. He well knew if he should fall, the Savages would splatter his brains on the rocky trail with one sweep of White Hawk’s tomahawk. His only hope was to stay astride until he could better himself.

Inside of Kentuck’s head there was nothing but confusion. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw his mother’s prostrate body with a savage Indian holding a dripping scalp. Only fear gave him bravery enough to pull the trigger that killed her murderer.

He sensed only Star Chief wanted him to live. It was only his strong medicine over the others that kept him alive with fear coming and going until at last, tiredness of the trail took over and numbed everything but his sense of survival.

They traveled the first day and far into the night in a direction causing a diagonal path toward the setting of the sun. Never hesitating in the darkness, the Indians continued to ride over a trail that was merely a game trail.

At last, after all feelings left him, Star Chief called a halt. Kentuck lay down on the ground without benefit of blanket and slept. It was since before sunrise when he last ate.

Covered with silvery dew, as were the bushes, he woke during the night, wet and sore. It took him some time to realize where he was. All he could see in the pale moonlight were trees and bushes, eerie against the horizon.

Down from them, the hobbled horses cropped the tall grass. They prepared for the following day’s journey through unknown trails.

With consciousness came the realization he was alone in the world except for these four Indians who kept him captive. Never having known his father, he was now bereft of his mother, his only source of comfort.

Not daring to move, lest he wake his captors, he lay on the wet ground, shivering from the coolness of the night air. He couldn’t suppress a cough, deep and raspy. His forehead felt hot and dry. He knew he was going to be sick. Would they knock him in the head and leave him lay?

His cough brought his four captors to an upright position. Unwrapping their bodies from the blankets entwining them, they were instantly on the alert for trouble that might descend upon them.

Figuring there was no one but the small, white captive, they again collapsed into a sound sleep. Kentuck crawled over to Star Chief’s prone body and wrapped himself up in the tail end of a blanket his captor left loose. Fighting to breathe, he drifted off into a troubled sleep.

A harsh kick brought the boy to life, even before the eastern sky gained a faint tinge of pink. In the darkness before dawn, his cruel captors routed him out, gave him a large piece of old jerky and put him again on his horse to ride.

Star Chief, in halting English mixed in with his native tongue to frighten the boy into submission, argued with the other three Indians about keeping the boy with them.

He will do nothing but cause us trouble, White Hawk spat out. Already he grows tired and sick. We travel not on the trail a whole day as the white man measures time.

He stays with us, Star Chief argued. He’ll replace the one he killed.

We should kill him for killing our brother, Stalking Man disagreed. We are too few as it is. Let him go with White Fish to the Happy Hunting Grounds. This one who kills slows us down.

Again Star Chief had his way. Little Bear, surliest of the Indians, rode in silence. It was he, Kentuck knew, that he must fear the most. The boy rode in silence, trying to keep his rapidly weakening body on the fast-moving horse. They moved on a dimly marked trail, always keeping their horses turned at an angle toward the west.

Coming down into a small valley nestled in among the Tennessee hills, he slid unconscious from his horse. White Hawk instantly pulled his tomahawk to finish him off when Star Chief knocked the stone axe flying with an upward thrust of his arm. Leave him, he ordered. He’ll die on the trail. The death of a small child shall not trouble our spirits.

But he is one of the hated whites, White Hawk spat out violently.

He was very brave. The Chief ordered sternly, Let him lie.

All the rest of his life he would remember the sounds of hooves riding away from him while he lay near the point of death.

CHAPTER TWO

After the Indians rode off leaving Kentuck to die on the trail, the first sound he was aware of was bacon frying over a small campfire. Fearful of where he was, the boy opened his matted eyes and distinguished the form of an old man carefully tending a cooking meal. When he realized he was no longer with the Indians, he tried to stand and walk to the man, but his weakness was greater than he expected. He all but fell before the old man caught him. Here, young fellow. Careful there. Person can’t be up and about after being in a fevered coma for three days even if he is as young as you. Just take your time until your legs come back.

Where are the Indians?

Indians was it? he mused. Kind of reckoned it was. Unshod pony tracks and all. Never saw anything of them. All I found was you lying on the ground. Your horse was up the trail. Wonder you are still alive. Kind of a little feller to be off running about the country by yourself. Let me get some of these hot vittles down you so you can tell me all about it. Name’s Ed Rice, Old Ed they calls me. Guess we are kind of stuck with each other. Spot and Baldy and me been getting right lonely traveling around the country by ourselves.

Spot and Baldy? Kentuck asked.

Those two oxen there. Brought them all this way from Virginia. Guess before this is all over, we are going to see the other ocean out west in California. Three of us are going across country. Tell me about yourself. Maybe we can make it four if that’s your plans.

Last I remember was riding down the trail with four Indians. Were five, but I shot the one who killed my ma. The boy’s chest swelled with pride when he told of the killing.

Kind of small to be killing Indians, aren’t you? the old man asked.

Indian they called White Fish, cut my ma’s throat and scalped her. They left her lying on the ground.

Guess for one so young, you saw some bad things.

Yes sir, reckon I have.

Where did this all happen?

Up in Kentucky, right on the Tennessee line.

Reckon you have people up there waiting for you. No problem to swing back that way.

Only people are dead, mister. A falling tree killed Pa when I was a baby, Kentuck told this stranger, whom he trusted.

Not much more than that now. Another thing, you stop calling me, mister. Why don’t you start calling me, Old Ed? That ought to be respect enough.

Old Ed. Does sound kind of nice. Like a friendly dog.

Not going to put up with your impudence, young man. Now, what do we call you?

Name started out being Kenneth J. Reynolds. Ma said Pa started calling me Kentuck; she said it sounded more dignified than Kenneth.

Smart man, your pa. Any other relatives? Grandparents, Uncles and Aunts?

Seems my people were the last of their kind. No, reckon there is no one left but me and old Socks out there.

Socks?

Horse. In case you have not noticed, he has socks.

Course. Man as old as me ought to notice things like that. Know your age?

Five. Last month, Ma baked a cake out of cornmeal. Awful good.

Well, I got a few on you. Guess I will be fifty-one right soon. Been over a lot of ground, most of it on a little worn out farm and teaching school. Children all grown and moved away. Old Woman died last year. I thought I would set out and see what is over the mountains. Man my age won’t last much longer, no use of me sittin’ down to die. Got me two oxen now. All I need. With a boy to keep me company, can’t ask for much more. Guess you and me are partners, want to shake on it?

I do, mister. Ed, Old Ed.

Old Ed, how long have I been lying here in this bed?

’Bout three days now. Weren’t sure you were going to make it when we first met-up there on the trail. Kind of peaked, coughing and all, like you were, clear out of your head with fever.

Don’t remember anything about it. Much obliged. Where is your dog?

Dog died up the trail there a ways. Reckon he ate something that didn’t agree with him. Way he fooled around all those strange bitches, reckon some woman got mad and poisoned him. Never mind, soon as we come to a settlement, we will let you pick out a pup. Boy your age needs a dog.

Reckon Indians killed ours before they killed Ma. She never would have let Ma get killed that way unless she was dead.

Guess both of us need to erase some things out of our minds and start over. Man can’t live in the past all the time. Miss out on a lot of living if a person stays where there was sorrow. Miss your ma?

Somethin’ terrible. Only person I ever knew much. Two of us worked right together since before I can remember.

Old Ed held him in his powerful arms while he carefully wiped tears out of the boy’s eyes.

You go ahead and cry there, young fellow. Youngun who can’t cry for his dead mother, something is wrong with him. Tell you what, soon as we get something inside of you, reckon we’ll mosey on down the trail. Grass started growing under this wagon. Guess for a few days, we can let you ride in the wagon and let Socks kind of trail along behind. Feel up to it?

Don’t you ride? Kentuck asked.

"Not much. I kind of let the oxen trail along with me walking.

Pick me off some game once in awhile, but I never kill more than I can eat. Figure next feller comes ‘long this way will need something, too. Some of these travelers kill everything gets in their way. Want to swing back up by your place?"

Old Ed, if it’s the same with you, don’t reckon I care about going back where they killed Ma.

"Guess your land would be worth something. Figure I will write back up and have someone take care of it for you. Seems like only place up that way with any size is Middlesboro. Sound right to you?

Place was about six miles south of there. Should have been all paid for, Ma said.

Next town we come to, I will write back and take care of it. Since we shook on it, guess we are partners. Agreed?

Agreed, Old Ed. Reckon it is going to be mighty nice having someone to call mine again. Never want to see a dirty Indian again long as I live.

Indians weren’t that way when white man first came into this country. Heard they were cleanest people you ever saw. White men ruined them taking all their land and all. Still and all, doesn’t give ‘em any right to kill a defenseless woman and run off with an innocent boy. Enough of this, let’s eat up that grub and be on our way. Let me help you to the fire. Still cool enough, it should feel good.

After breakfast, Old Ed helped Kentuck back to the wagon and settled him in for the day in some loose blankets. Next, he caught the oxen and yoked them to the wagon, then they set out down through a rough hollow for Nashville. The covered wagon jolted and pitched when its crude wheels ran over rocks and bushes in the trail.

Old Ed had traveled on this route for almost a year, coming from Virginia. He played a fiddle well, and wherever there was a barn raising or a wedding, no matter the occasion, he hired out to play his fiddle. During the winter months he traveled short distances between towns where he could make his hire. There were few slack times, and he didn’t go hungry.

Plodding along by the side of his oxen, he pondered his situation. Old Ed’s travels were awfully lonely, but taking on the responsibility of raising a five-year-old was something to think on. There was not much he could do with the boy but take him on down the trail with him. Kentuck had no people at home to care for him, and there were few decent places along the trail to leave a small child. Even if anyone took him they would work him to death before he even had an opportunity to grow. Few families would take an orphan in and raise him decent, but most would want a servant to help out around their farm or business.

There was not much of a future for a young child growing up along the trail. Anyway, it beat living in an orphanage where people with odd religious beliefs they practiced on innocent children might mistreat him. So Old Ed figured all he could do was keep the boy with him. He knew Kentuck’s company would make time on the lonely trail pass faster. He would have to see he got proper teaching. There was not much he didn’t know about reading, writing and figuring, and he could teach him better than the Indians would have.

While he trudged along all day, Old Ed carried his loaded squirrel gun. He didn’t want Indians to catch them without some means of protection. Though most of the Indians had moved out of the area, there were still some troublemakers around who followed the trails down through the mountain country.

There was talk of sending a bunch of Cherokee out to western lands. Maybe the Indians who killed Kentuck’s mother were going to join up with this Georgia group. Most likely a small band traveling together was looking for trouble. Never could tell what an Indian was thinking. Some of them rode from one tribe to another trying to get help in fights against the whites. It was better to be on the lookout.

Out on the trail by himself, a man had to be constantly watching out for trouble. Not only the renegade Indians, but some white men and women could deal a traveler a lot of trouble. In a country where oxen, horses, and wagons were scarce, it would not be anything for a man to knock a traveler on his head and run off with everything he had.

That morning Kentuck slept most of the time. When he drifted out of his dreams, he looked in wonderment at the white canvas covering the wagon as a protecting canopy. There was a small, cleared area in the back through which he could look at the trail over country they traveled.

They were still in mountains. So far, their route led them downhill along a river. Problem was, they had to brake wheels to keep from sliding their wagon down onto the oxen’s hind legs. On the steep parts of the trail, the wagon slid instead of rolled. Most of the time, Old Ed was able to pick his way through narrow glades running along the river’s edge. The boy needed someone to care for him, so it gave him a sense of security to see the old man occasionally peering in through the canvas flap.

They didn’t stop for their noon meal. The oxen plodded on between rest stops patiently without complaint. They were so well trained, Old Ed put them on the trail and went about the business of watching for dangers and gathering plants and berries for their night meal. Occasionally, he saw a deer, but since he still had plenty of meat, he didn’t shoot.

Dark thunderclouds rolled in along about mid-afternoon. Kentuck looked out through the flap and saw them coming down the valley from the north. They were not gentle shower clouds, but dark swirling kinds producing violent winds and hail.

Socks trailed their wagon on a long rope, snatching bites of grass as the wagon pulled him along. He had a limp, and Old Ed thought it needed to heal before either one of them rode him. With the coming of the clouds, Socks kept close to the wagon, as if he sensed it would give him protection.

Just before they stopped, Old Ed could see lightning slashing across the darkening sky. There were ominous rumblings when thunder rolled above the jagged streaks of approaching flashes.

Trying to make some timber for shelter. Get caught out in this flat pasture, wind is liable to tear the canvas right off this wagon. Looks like there might be a cave up ahead. It should make good protection, in a few more minutes we’ll have it made. You doing all right in there? Old Ed asked.

Seem to be gaining some of my strength back. I am obliged you picked me up like this.

Glad to have you. Think if this storm gets worse, we will take the horse and go on. I do hate to leave our oxen and wagon out here in this, though.

Mighty gusts of wind hit flapping canvas from the back so the boy closed the back flaps to keep wind from blowing in on him. As yet, streaking lightning didn’t bring the gusts of rain that would soon reach them.

When lightning crackled and hissed with one streak after another, there was a smell of brimstone in the air. The oxen hurried as they approached shelter. Pans and tubs banging against the wagon’s side, the draft animals caused it to bounce over rocks and mounds of dirt.

As the worst of the approaching storm hit, they came up into the protection of timber and rocks. Come on, boy, Old Ed said. Get out of there and crawl up in that cave. It’s not big, but it’ll give us some protection. Run for it if you can. I’ll be along as soon as I hobble these animals. Don’t want them getting scared and running off from us.

Still weak from fever, the small boy scrambled over rocks into the cave where it was dry and safe. In one corner there was a spring of clear water where he could drink his fill. Old Ed came running in ahead of a sheet of rain falling almost horizontal from the leaden sky. They were in the midst of a storm threatening the life of anything out in it.

All around them lightning crackled, hitting trees and rocks. Flashes blinded them when they peered out with a sense of awe at the violent storm.

Guess the best thing for me to do is get some fire going. This trash blown in here should burn, Old Ed said.

Taking a piece of flint and steel from his coat pocket, the man chipped at the steel until a spark hit the dry tinder and a friendly flame sprang up in the trash. Before long, there was a blazing fire lighting up the interior of the shallow shelter. Down along a rocky ledge, there were small logs lodged in under the overhang, the debris was the result of a gigantic flood that had sent the rampaging river up into the rocks. Old Ed pulled one of these logs to their fire.

"Should keep us dry and warm until this storm lets up. Come on over here and warm yourself. You need not be afraid of me. I raised some about your size and never ate a one. You like calling