Boone's Lick (9 page)

“I guess we'll have to get up another posse,” G.T. said.

“Having to educate you is a heavy burden, G.T.,” Uncle Seth said. “We
are
the posse, this time. Be sure there's a cartridge in your gun.”

Then he went loping off. Soon we were past Stumptown and were in the wooded country where the Millers were said to live. Uncle Seth didn't study the tracks much—he just kept going.

“I wish I'd brought a biscuit,” G.T. said.

We were well into the wooded country before Uncle Seth slowed down.

“I believe some of the Tebbits are married to some of the Millers, and vice versa,” Uncle Seth said. “I expect we'll find the bunch of them in camp together. I feel confident we can lick a barnful of Tebbits, but I'm a little worried about Ronnie Miller, who's said to be a good shot. He's the one whose horse flipped, remember?”

I remembered the horse flipping, of course, but I had never had a good look at the rider—I just remembered that he hadn't moved for a while.

“I'll deal with Ronnie, if he shows fight,” Uncle Seth said.

About that time we heard Little Nicky neigh.

“He smells our mules,” Uncle Seth said. “If he runs up and tries to bite one of you, get a halter on him.”

“I smell something cooking,” G.T. said. “Maybe they've killed a beef.”

“Or a mule,” Uncle Seth said.

I knew that some of the families that camped or homesteaded around in the woods lived poorly—the more so since the war, when nobody in the vicinity of Boone's Lick suffered from too much to eat—but I forgot all about being part of a posse when we rode into the Millers' camp and saw all the skin-and-bones people. There were so many children that it might have been a schoolhouse—only there was no proper house, just three or four shacks with no windows or doors. Uncle Seth later said that he counted sixteen children, none of them older than ten and many of them babies, in the crawling or toddling state. Uncle Seth had guessed right when he said it was a mule cooking: Henry Clay, fully skinned out, was hanging from the skinning pole. Parts of him were already in the stew pots and a haunch was spitted over a big campfire. Several women were tending to the pots and campfires, while Newt Tebbit and Ronnie Miller cut up the meat. At our house Ma fought constantly to
keep us fairly clean, marching us off to the creek for baths at least once a week, and sweeping and doing laundry to combat dirt; but the men and women at the Miller camp had long since given up trying to be clean. Most of them were black with filth. Several hounds came out and yapped at us—they were as skinny as the people. It was plain that the Millers and the Tebbits lived off the wild: deerskins and pigs' heads were scattered here and there.

Newt and Percy Tebbit were both there, cutting Henry Clay into strips of jerky. Lester Miller was there—he had been let off light by the circuit judge, and also Lyle and Jody, the two men who had hobbled away after the bear got them pitched off their horses.

Several rifles were in sight, leaned up against stumps here and there, but no one made a move for them, when we rode in. Little Nicky was tied to a bush not far away.

Ronnie Miller, who seemed to be the boss of the family, was sitting on a stump, sharpening his knife on a whetstone. He didn't seem particularly hostile, nor did anyone else. Probably they were all so starved down that all they could think about was eating our mule, Henry Clay.

“It's surprising how quick a knife will go dull when you're cutting up a tough mule,” Ronnie said.

“Yes, or any large critter,” Uncle Seth said, in a friendly tone. “I believe buffalo are the worst—an old buffalo is a damn task to cut up.”

“That's a pleasure I've not had, Seth,” Ronnie Miller said. “You're a little too late to rescue your big mule. As you can see we've got hungry mouths to feed. Besides, you're the man who cost us three horses, including one that nearly broke my neck, it threw me so far. On the other hand, you did us a big favor when you caught Jake—he was a terror to live with—anybody here can tell you that.

“I would have hung the son of a bitch myself, if I could have ever caught him off guard,” he added.

“It's no surprise that Jake wasn't well liked in the family,” Uncle Seth said. “He cursed all of you thoroughly while they were settling the hang rope around his neck.”

Just then there was a screech from Percy Tebbit, who had sidled up beside Little Nicky. I imagine he meant to leap on Nicky and run off with him, before we could stop him, but Little Nicky, who had been baring his teeth at Percy, reached down and bit him right in the hand.

“Dern, he's nearly bitten my hand off!” Percy said, blood spurting from his hand.

“It's unwise to approach this particular mule unless you have a stout club,” Uncle Seth said. “He'll bite anybody that comes in reach.”

He rode over and untied Nicky, an action that drew unfriendly looks from some of the Millers and the Tebbits.

“You see, I told you we should have shot both mules,” Newt Tebbit said.

“We
had
intended to eat both those animals, since we found them running free,” Ronnie Miller
said—still, he didn't strike a very fierce pose. I don't think he expected Uncle Seth to just give him two mules free, and if he had tried to start a fight there were several women and children right in the way.

“Newt's right—if you wanted to eat him you should have shot him,” Uncle Seth said. “Though I despise a biting mule I have to take this one home. I can give you a fine tip about that bear, though—he's got himself a den under that little rocky spur, about two miles west of Stumptown. If I was you I'd smoke him out. A bear is just as tasty as a mule.”

“They can't bite much worse than this son of a bitch bites, neither,” Percy Tebbit said, trying to wring the blood off his hand.

“Did you really see that bear go into a den?” G.T. asked, once we had left with Nicky.

“Mind your own business, G.T.,” Uncle Seth said, and that was all the answer he ever made.

Ma was not happy about the loss of Henry Clay, either.

“How do you know
we
won't need to eat a mule, before we're through?” Ma asked.

If Uncle Seth made any answer I didn't hear it.

P
EOPLE
think Bill Hickok can't miss, but he
can
miss,” Uncle Seth said. We were walking to Boone's Lick. Ma had sent me off to the dry goods store to get a thimble—she was always losing thimbles. Her theory was that baby Marcy was swallowing them, though we could never catch her at it. When he saw me leaving, Uncle Seth fell in with me, although he had no particular errand—none that he mentioned to me, anyway.

“People think Bill always gets his man, but he don't,” he went on—the thought of Mr. Hickok's big reputation seemed to irritate him for some reason.

“Look at what happened when he took off after Little Billy Perkins,” Uncle Seth reminded me. “It
was clear in a minute that Little Billy had the faster mount, but would Bill quit? Not him! Little Billy swam the Missouri River twice and then headed west—he outran Bill all the way to the Smoky Hill River, which is in Kansas—and Bill still didn't get him. They say Bill Hickok wore out three horses before he admitted defeat.”

I think Uncle Seth meant to leave me at the dry goods store, to purchase my thimble, while he went on to the saloon, which was only three doors away, but just as I was about to peel off from him, who should step out of the store but Rosie McGee. She was surely pretty—now that I knew we were kin I could see that she resembled Ma, in some ways. They had the same black hair, and the same gray eyes and long fingers. Of course, Rosie looked more like a town lady than Ma did. There was a time before the war when Ma had gone into town now and then, to socials and quilting bees and that kind of thing; but the war dragged on and life at the freight yard got so hard that Ma rarely indulged in visits to Boone's Lick anymore.

“Hello, Seth—I hear you're leaving me,” Rosie said, with a little smile. She was carrying a fan, although it wasn't hot. The fan looked as if it was made of pearls, or something.

“It's likely—there's talk of a trip to try and locate Dick,” Uncle Seth admitted.

“You could introduce me to your nephew, the wagoner's lad,” Rosie said. “I hope he's quick on his feet, if you're heading into the Cheyenne country.”

“Well, his name is Sherman but we all call him Shay,” Uncle Seth said.

“You can call him what you like but
I
intend to call him Sherman,” Rosie said. “I don't like these little names.”

She offered me her hand and I took it—I didn't know if I was supposed to bow, or what.

“Pleased to meet you—I guess I'm your nephew, besides,” I said—it startled Uncle Seth so badly he nearly fell off the steps.

If Rosie was surprised by my remark she didn't show it.

“Why, so you are,” she said. “You're my nephew, but how did you know?”

“Ma told me,” I informed her. “She said you were her half sister, so that makes me a half nephew, I guess.”

“No halves about it, Sherman,” Rosie said immediately. “You're my nephew and I'm your aunt. This is better than beating Bill Hickok at cards. Or any of these bumblers around here.”

She smiled at me—such a big, open smile—and I felt something lift inside me. Up to then, there had been no one for me but Ma—everything that came from women came from her; but that had just changed. I didn't know how much I'd get to see of my aunt Rosie, but I hoped it would be a lot. Right off I started liking her so much that I began to wish we weren't going on our trip. Of course, I wanted to see Pa, and the wonderful country upriver, but I was hoping we wouldn't have to start too soon, just when I had my new aunt to visit. At
least, I hoped I would get to visit her—and I had hardly made the wish before it came true.

“Seth, you run along now—I see you've got whiskey and dominoes on your mind,” Aunt Rosie said. “I'm going to take my new nephew Sherman home with me—we've got a lot of lost time to make up.”

For some reason Uncle Seth looked discombobulated. The vein popped out on top of his nose and his whole face turned red. The news about Aunt Rosie and I being related seemed to have upset him in some way. Of course, it was no trick for Ma to upset him. She was always doing it. Evidently Aunt Rosie had the same power.

“This boy's been sent on an errand—he'd best not be neglecting his errands,” Uncle Seth said.

“Oh, what errand?” Rosie asked.

“Just buying a thimble—Ma lost hers,” I said.

“Shucks, I've got twenty thimbles right upstairs here,” Aunt Rosie said. “I'll just give your ma one and save her three cents.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Now, this is a mighty hasty arrangement,” Uncle Seth began.

“So what?” Rosie said, cutting him short. “I finally met my nephew and I want to visit with him. What's wrong with that?”

Uncle Seth didn't answer. It was plain that he didn't approve of my going off with Rosie, but he couldn't think of a quick reason why I shouldn't.

“Just remember you've got that harness to polish—now don't neglect it!” he said, before stomping off to the saloon.

I didn't know what to make of Uncle Seth's behavior.

“We never polish the harness,” I told Rosie. “I don't even know what I'm supposed to polish it with.”

Aunt Rosie just laughed. “Seth's so mad he could spit,” she said, and then she hooked her arm in mine and led me down the street and up the steps to her room over the saloon. We were only a few yards behind Uncle Seth, but he never looked back.

“Mad—he's blazing!” Aunt Rosie said, and laughed a deep hearty laugh, like Ma's. If I had nothing else to go on I would have picked them as sisters just from the sound of their laughter.

Aunt Rosie led me upstairs to her room, which was nicer than any other room I had ever been in. There was a settee and a chair, and a little table with a mirror on it, and a fine bed with a pretty coverlet—the coverlet might have been satin, I'm not sure. The windows had curtains—if you looked out one you could see the Missouri River meandering away to the west.

“My, my, you're certainly a handsome youth,” Aunt Rosie said, letting me look around to my heart's content. She went to the table, opened up a little sewing box, and handed me two thimbles to take to Ma.

“One to fulfill your commission, and one to spare,” she said.

I took the thimbles and put them in my pocket. I was thrilled to be talking to Aunt Rosie but I
couldn't quite get Uncle Seth out of my mind.

“I don't know what I done to make Uncle Seth get so upset,” I said.

“Oh, he's just jealous,” Rosie said. “He wanted me to entertain
him
and here I am entertaining
you.
So he's having a little fit, as gentlemen will.”

That puzzled me—I didn't know what to say.

“Seth Cecil will sulk and pout, if he isn't made over constantly,” Aunt Rosie said. “Your pa's even worse in that regard. Do folks tell you you look like your pa?”

“I don't know many people who even
know
Pa,” I admitted. “He's gone so much I can't remember what he looks like myself.”

“Yes, Dick's a rover—I told your ma that, before she married him,” Aunt Rosie said. “You look just like him, only not so devilish—do you like whiskey?”

“I don't know—I've not been allowed any,” I said. “Once Uncle Seth brought home some Rebel beer, but it didn't have much taste.”

“I'll pass on Rebel beer,” Aunt Rosie said. “My weakness is whiskey.”

There was a bottle and a few glasses on the little table by the mirror. Aunt Rosie poured a glass about half full, for me, and one a little bit fuller for herself.