The Apple Wagon

The Apple Wagon

by

Morgan Locklear

Copyright © 2019 Morgan Locklear

Published by Locklear Books

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

Published by Locklear Books

http://www.locklearbooks.com

info@locklearbooks.com.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019900252

First Edition: January 2019

ISBN 978-0-9978607-8-8 (ebook)

ISBN 978-0-9978607-9-5 (paperback)

Title

Copyright

Dedication

The Apple Wagon

Coin

House Rules

23 Skidoo

Shy

The Wenatchee Kid

Acknowledgments

About the Author

This book is dedicated to Karen Komarinski, who listened to records with me as I wrote these stories, (except for Shy), in the summer of 2018.

Since today is Saturday, I’m getting dusty with Pa on the wagon bench and lulled to sleep by the swishing tails of our two mares, Rita and Regina.

Get up, Pa yells, and clicks his tongue. The horses begin to trot.

I practice the sound. I’m getting better, louder. Not that it matters since the horses ignore my every command. Sometimes Pa lets me drive the wagon, but, the stubborn nags seem to know when the reins have been handed over. They’ll slow down, stop completely, graze on road weeds, and take great big shits in the dirt.

Pa fills the valley with his laughter every time.

Don’t feel bad, he told me just last week. Horses are like people, they respond better if they like you, and they like you better if they think you like them.

The statement does somersaults in my head, but I don’t know what more I can do. I already brush ’em, water ’em, and just before supper every night, pull down a fresh medallion of hay and a bucket of oats for each.

When I call, they come running, unless it’s windy. Horses can’t resist wind-fallen apples. They’ll stay in the orchard until they sniff out every last delicious globe.

My sister and I also get to eat ground apples.

Apples are the reason we’re going to Wenatchee today. The river town is almost twenty miles from our property in Pine Flat. Some might know it as Dryden, that’s what the railroad calls it, but Dryden is just the name of some Canadian fella. We call it Pine Flat. That’s where I go to school most days. My sister and me. She has four more years to go; I have just two. Schooling ends at age sixteen, and I can hardly wait.

After we pass the Ritter farm, where they grow cherries the size of walnuts, Pa pulls on the reins.

Whoa now. The horses slow down and walk. Do you know why I do this? Pa asks.

Do what, Pa?

Run ’em a bit, then walk ’em a bit.

No, Pa.

It’s a soldier’s trick. If you have a long ways to go, and time counts, you run a hundred paces, then walk a hundred paces. Keeps you from getting too tired.

And it works with horses?

Seems to.

We pass the Nesters’ farm. They grow wheat and hay mostly but have enough pear trees in their large front yard to build an ark and feed its inhabitants for a year. They also have three cows that moo at my father when he hollers at them.

Hello, girls.

This always makes me laugh. That’s why he always does it.

One evening, on a return trip from Wenatchee, he spoke like an Irishman and called them, wee lasses. Ma was with us and laughed so hard, her hat fell off. We had to stop so I could jump down and get it.

Only one farm to go now, the Vernon farm, then we’re gonna be traveling through the wilderness of Washington until we get to Cashmere. We’ll stop there to water the horses.

We never really need to stop, Cashmere isn’t all that far, and we have plenty of access to water since we follow the Wenatchee River the whole way. Pa just likes to catch up on valley gossip. He’ll tell Ma tonight as she puts away the supplies we bring home.

The river marks the northern edge of our orchard, but we can’t hear it from the house unless the windows are open.

Pa told me once that we could walk our wagon right into the river and float our apples to Wenatchee if we wanted to.

Why don’t we? I asked him, excited by the idea.

Because it would drown the horses! he said and laughed so loud, he scared the crows off of Mr. Vernon’s scarecrow.

Mr. Vernon grows potatoes now after their green onion crop failed. I miss the smell of ’em. Sometimes, we could smell his crop all the way on our land, but not anymore, potatoes don’t smell like nothin’.

We see Mr. Vernon and wave as we pass. Then, Pa brings the horses to a stop with a quick tug on the reins.

Hey, Albert? he calls with a cupped hand to his mouth. Can we bring you anything from the general store? Pa will stop and talk with everyone we meet on the road today even though he likes to get home afore dark.

Could do with some kerosene, Mr. Vernon says, scratching his cheek. But that’s a might expensive to ask, even for an afternoon loan.

Nonsense! Pa calls. He reaches back and pats the mound of apples we’re haulin’. They’re a good color this year. Light yellow, like dry grass, and they taste like candy.

The large mound has settled a bit in the wagon since we started out, but it’s still impressive and can be seen over the tall wood planks that make up the walls. I heard Pa telling Ma this morning that he expected as much as eighty dollars for the lot.

We’ll pick up a few canisters for you, Pa shouts, and, if you want, you can pay me back with one of those blackberry pies Molly’s so rightfully famous for.

Mr. Vernon takes his hat off and wipes his head. The brim is so wide that it looks like a round battle shield in his hand. "I’ll see that you get two pies for every canister you bring."

My father nearly falls off the wagon at this offer. You’ve got yourself a deal! He flicks the reins. Get up!

We lurch forward as I reach back to grab an apple.

Can I, Pa? I ask.

Sure, he says. Aim high.

I choose a real beauty, as big as an onion, and heave it as far as I can toward Mr. Vernon. He only needs to take a step forward to catch the spinning fruit. I’m getting better.

Much obliged, he calls, and we hear him take a big bite.

Why don’t you grab one for each of us, Pa says, and I instantly produce two more massive apples. We munch as the trees close in on the road. I think the horses can hear us eating. I think they’re jealous.

What are we gettin’ for Ma? I ask.

The usual, Pa answers. Flour, sugar, twine, cooking oil, kerosene, and we’re gonna pick up a few cords of wood in Brown Flats.

From Reuben?

Pa nods. That’s the man.

I like Reuben. He tells dirty jokes.

We ride, mostly in shade. Pa says it’s better for the apples.

A bale of hay will float you know, he tells me as he snaps the reins. at least until it gets waterlogged. Once, when I was about your age, we tied four bales together and made a raft. We floated from Peshastin up to what is now our orchard.

Did you fall off? I ask.

We jumped off, he says. It was a hot day, and we dove on and off the raft. The bridge wasn’t there yet.

It takes us two hours to get to Cashmere, which is much bigger than Pine Flats with almost two hundred people, and a post office. The folks who live there are fishermen mostly, but there are plenty of fruit groves around.

Isn’t a train due, Pa? I ask as we approach the newest building in town. A section house for the railroad.

He nods his head. Should be along any time now.

Can we wait for it to stop?

We’ll see it from the road just fine.

Not always, I remind him. We lose the tracks for a while just east of town.

Pa sighs, but he’s about to say yes.

Well, he looks around. There’s no trough for the horses here, but if you wait with ’em, I’ll see about borrowin’ a couple of buckets from Paul over there. He waves at a man tending stables across the street. The man waves back.

Pa jumps down, and I crane my neck to look at the tracks. The train would be coming from the west. It might be next to our farm right now.

Pa returns with his friend, each of them carrying a bucket of sloshing water. They put them down in front of the horses just as a distant whistle makes the animals’ ears twitch.

Do you remember Mr. Richardson, Jerome? Pa asks me.

Yes, sir. Nice to see you again, sir. I hold my hand out, and he squeezes it, hard. I don’t wince. Pa looks proud.

The train comes in slow, and Pa lets me run over as soon as it stops. The wheels are even taller’n me. And there are four of them. Four big ones, anyway; there are lots of smaller ones.

It doesn’t stay long and when the engineer climbs back into his cab my Pa leans in to me and says, You wanna race it to Brown Flats?

Can we?

Pa laughs. We can try.

We get a head start before the whistle blows again, and at first, we only hear it behind us as Pa pushes the mares to a gallop.

Let me know if we start losin’ apples, Pa shouts.

Okay, I answer as I look back. The pile has only flattened out more.

The tracks are close, between the river and the road. I can see the train behind us now, gaining fast.

Pa slows the horses a moment later as the massive machine passes. He raises his hand to the engineer, who is laughing. The whistle blows again, and my heart leaps with startled excitement. He blew it just for us.

I wave at him, and he blows the whistle again. I have never been so happy in my life.

Pa slows the horses. We walk ’em for the next half hour.

It’s only fair, he tells me.

The walk is nice; we talk about the harvest, and what Mr. Vernon might try after potatoes.

Outside Brown Flats, the river is so close to the road that I can see salmon swimming in the clear water.

Whoa! Pa pulls on the reins so hard that I almost fall into the rigging.

The mares, nicker and scold him and stomp the ground. Pa brushes their backsides gently with the whip, which is just a long stick with a leather tassel on the end. It’s something he rarely threatens them with, which means he’s serious.

Ahead of us, a man is lying face down in the road.

I gasp in surprise. He looks dead. Is he hurt, Pa?

No, son, but he wants us to think he is.

Pa’s eyes scan the trees. Mine do the same.

How do you know? I whisper.

He still has his gun and his boots.

What if he got thrown from his horse and we’re just the first to find him?

Could be, Pa whispers back and pulls his Colt from its holster. But his hat’s in the grass, and he completely avoided the mud. That’s pretty lucky for a man so unlucky.

Pa pulls the hammer back on his Colt. It makes a loud noise and the horses shuffle their feet again.

I’m not buyin’ it, mister! Pa yells. And if you don’t move now, I’ll have these nags trample you on our way by!

Pa scans the trees again. I watch the cowboy. He doesn’t move.

Mister! I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and just put a bullet in your ass. He shoots a bullet into the man’s hat.

The horses jump at the sound. I jump at the sound. The cowboy springs to his feet like there’s a bee in his britches.

God damn it! he yells and grabs his hat. You’re gonna pay for that!

I might not be done puttin’ holes in things, my father tells him evenly. Tell your man in the trees to let us pass, and you’ll live to rob someone else today.

The cowboy grins and dusts off his shirt. Why don’t you tell him yourself.

I hear a click behind us and jump again.

Drop the Peacemaker, comes a voice from the back of the wagon. My father doesn’t take his eyes, or his gun from the cowboy on the road.

It’s not aimed at you, mister, the man behind us says and I can’t help but look. His gun is smaller than my father’s, but the borehole looks big enough to hold a tomato.

I imagine my face disappearing in a burst of agony, and my guts almost release their contents. Quite suddenly, I’m more worried about fouling myself than getting shot. It’s not the distraction I want, but perhaps it’s the distraction I need.

I can’t look away from the man. Time won’t release me. I feel lightheaded.

Okay, my father says and tosses his gun over the side of the wagon. Lower your weapon.

I watch as the man points his gun from me to my father. Don’t move, he says.

You have my gun. My father’s voice is tight. So, please lower yours.

The cowboy on the road rubs Rita’s nose as he walks by. As lead horse, she should have bitten his hand off.

What are you haulin’ there? he asks.

Apples, my father says. Now will you please ask your man to lower his weapon?

The cowboy nods to the man behind us who drops his gun to his side but does not holster it. I bet Pa notices this as well.

Listen, fellas, Pa says. I don’t mean to tell you your business, but this ambush would have been far more lucrative, had you only waited until we were on our way home.

How so? the cowboy asks.

Well, it stands to reason that we’re on our way to sell these apples and that we would have more money on the return trip. Not to mention, we would probably have provisions for the week. Why don’t you boys let us go, and try again later this evening?

How much money is a wagon full of apples worth? the cowboy asks.

About fifty dollars, give or take, my father answers. I know he’s lying, and he’s told me never to lie, but I understand. I would have said twenty.

And since you’re getting provisions anyway, maybe you could pick us up some whiskey and tobacco? the cowboy asks.

If you’d like, Pa answers.

And jerky, the man behind us says.

And jerky, the cowboy repeats.

That’d be fine, Pa responds.

The cowboy walks over to my Pa’s pistol and picks it up. He dusts it off and opens the chamber. Six bullets drop to the dirt.

I could get about thirty bucks for this pretty gun of yours. Why don’t I just take it and call this a good day?

You could do that, mister, Pa says.

"What if I keep it