October 13, 1811
Zeb stayed close to the dark walls as he moved over toward the man with the big leather hat. The man was now seated at a table, drinking and talking with someone who appeared to be a horse wrangler.
The man with the big leather hat wiped the dust off the table in front of him and turned to the wrangler. “You get everything taken care of?”
The wrangler leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. Drove those horses you bought over to the farm. You did pretty good this time without that old man biddin’ against you.”
“No problems?”
He shook his head. “Naw, just that family goin’ west. Still want their money back. Said that horse you sold ’em is too sick to pull a wagon.”
“Man don’t know a sick horse from a healthy one shouldn’t buy at a horse auction.”
“Says he’s gonna talk to the police constable.”
“Won’t do him no good. Absolute auction. Buyer beware!”
The horse wrangler didn’t look convinced. “You might wanna do somethin’, keep the constable from comin’ around. They’re livin’ in the wagon right now. They’re outta money. Said if they hafta sell the wagon for enough money to eat, they’ll dig one of them caves in the sand bluff to live in.”
“Ha! That’ll take care of the problem. The only people who live in ’em caves got nothin’ to lose. They’re just a bunch of criminals, runaway slaves, renegade Indians.”
“I know, but—”
“Anytime a heavy wagon gets close to the edge of the bluff, some of those caves collapse. The police constable down in Natchez Under-The-Hill don’t even bother goin’ up there anymore. Those people move into a cave and we won’t hear from ’em again.”
Zeb knew that his grampa wouldn’t have anything to do with men like these. Still, they might’ve seen him at the auction. He waited for a pause in their conversation. When another wrangler walked over, beat the dust out of his pants, and sat down with the two men, Zeb stepped forward. “Excuse me, sir? I wonder if I could talk with you for—”
The man waved him away. “Don’t need no horse wranglers. Got all I need. Never hire Kaintucks if I can help it. Bone lazy and useless.”
Zeb’s clenched his teeth. He had made fun of the way Kaintucks talk all of his life. But these people in Natchez thought he was one. He made himself relax. “I’m not lookin’ for a job, sir. I’m tryin’ to find my grampa. Thought you might’ve seen him yesterday during the horse auction.”
One of the men sitting at the table poked the other. “Maybe he’s lookin’ fer that crazy old coot, chased Willie Jones up the street with a bullwhip.” They both laughed. They looked over at the man with the hat. “We didn’t tell you ‘bout that. Would’ve died laughin’.”
Zeb could hardly breathe. An old man with a bullwhip? It sounded like Grampa. He knew that he had to be careful. Those men probably wouldn’t tell him a thing if they thought it would help him. He tried not to show how interested he was. “Old man chased Willie Jones with a whip?” he asked.
“Yeah,” one of them replied. “It was down on the docks. Willie bought him a horse and tried to load it onto a flatboat. You know how those ramps to the boats are pretty steep and slippery? That horse just wouldn’t go—”
The other one interrupted. “Willie started pullin’ on that horse and whippin’ him with a long horse whip. The horse was screamin’ and dancin’ around, but he wouldn’t go down the ramp.”
“Yeah, and then this old coot, must be a hundred years old, bald as a cannon ball—”
The other one interrupted again. “He ain’t bald. Got one a’ them prison haircuts, shaved right down smooth. But you can see the white fuzz. It’s growin’ back.”
“Anyway,” continued the first storyteller, “he climbed down off a big Conestoga-type cotton wagon and took the whip away from Willie, real gentle like. He had his left hand in his shirt like his arm was hurtin’. Anyway, he put Willie’s whip down on the ground and then he led the horse, nice as you please, down the ramp, talkin’ to it the way the Choctaw do. Everybody cheered.”
“Then the old coot came up the ramp. Willie had his hand in his pocket ready to give him a coin. The old coot pulled out his own whip and chased Willie down the street with it. He picked off Willie’s hat without touchin’ his head and then he got him a couple of good licks with it, too. I saw the dust fly outta his britches. Ever’body cheered and laughed. Willie ain’t got too many friends.”
Zeb closed his eyes. Thank you, Lord, he prayed.
The men at the table were silent for a moment. One of them looked up at Zeb. “That crazy old man your grampa? Been in prison, has he? No wonder yer lookin’ fer him.” He poked the other man in the ribs. “Hope ya find him ‘fore Willie Jones does. That man’s mean as a snake. Got a little Monongahela in him.”
Zeb wasn’t sure how much he should tell these men. The man with the big leather hat finally seemed to take some notice of Zeb. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Zebulon D’Evereux, sir.”
“And your grampa’s name?”
“His name is Daniel Ryan, sir. Maybe you know him. He—”
One of the wranglers said, “Why, that’s the man that—”
The man with the leather hat growled between his teeth. “Shut up! Keep yer stupid mouth shut!”
He turned to Zeb. “My name is Dancey Moore. I know Dan Ryan well. We’re what you might call friendly competitors. We often bid on the same horses.” One of the men smirked and Moore glared at him.
Mr. Moore snapped his fingers as if he had just remembered something. “I believe,” he said, “that your grandfather will be down at the docks tomorrow to see about some horses. Get down there early. You’ll want to stay here at the Texada tonight. It’s where he usually stays now.”
The man appeared calm and friendly, but Zeb noticed a little muscle twitch in his jaw.
Zeb thanked the three men for their help, moving toward the wooden screen that separated the bar from the rest of the inn. He didn’t want them to see how excited he was. Grampa alive!
He stepped behind the screen and paused, listening to them arguing among themselves. “‘Friendly competitors’? You’d swap yer squaw fer some a’ the horses he’s bought.”
“Didn’t that fellah McPhee tell you that Cracker Ryan was dead? Sold you his horse and saddle, didn’t he? If he’s still alive, you got problems. You know what he’s like.”
“How do you know he’s gonna be down at the docks? No horses comin’ tomorrow, just the cotton buyer.”
“Shut up you two! I’m thinkin’.”
Zeb turned away from the screen. It has to be Grampa, he thought. But I wonder why he shaved his head? What was he doing on a cotton wagon?
He approached a man sitting behind a big desk. “You the innkeeper?”
The man looked up from the papers on his desk and nodded.
“You ever have a man stay in the tavern name of Daniel Ryan? Big man with a lot of white hair, or with all his hair shaved off?”
The man shook his head. “You talkin’ about Cracker Ryan? He ain’t here. Never stays here. He always stays at King’s Tavern. Ain’t seen him for more than a month.”
Zeb could still hear Dancey Moore and the other two men arguing in the barroom. He wondered why Dancey Moore tried to get him to stay at the Texada.
He stepped back out onto the front porch, planning to ride Suba over to King’s Tavern, but several men stood around the horse, checking her legs and looking in her mouth. Zeb unhitched her, swung the reins over her head, and climbed up on the horse. One of the men held on to the bridle. “You plannin’ to race this horse?” he asked.
“Naw,” Zeb said, slack-jawed. “She ain’t never done no racin’. Doubt she could do more’n come in last. Y’all got racin’ here in Natchez?”
The man holding on to the bridle squinted up at Zeb. “You ain’t as backwoods as you sound. Ain’t no Kaintuck be ridin’ a horse like this one. Besides, that’s a racin’ saddle yer usin’.”
He turned to the others, letting go of the bridle. “Bet we’ll see this horse tonight.”
Zeb, remembering the map Dr. McAllister had drawn for him, rode back up Washington Street, the way he’d come in to the Texada, and across to Jefferson, headed for King’s Tavern.
He looked up. The tavern was just ahead. The dark, weathered wood gave the tavern a warm, welcoming look. He had heard so much about this place from his grampa that he felt almost as if he were home.
With the bedroll over his shoulder and the small saddlebag in his hand, Zeb stood in the entrance to King’s Tavern. It was as dark inside as the Texada Tavern. A man looked up from a ledger and smiled. “You’re in luck, boy. Every room but one is full. Cotton harvest. Two dollars for a bed. An extra dollar to board a horse.”
Zeb walked carefully over to the table, trying to keep from marking the shiny waxed floor. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll be wantin’ to stay tonight, at least. Longer, if I can make a little money. I’m lookin’ for my grampa, name of Daniel Ryan. I know he stays here with you when he’s in Natchez.”
“You Dan Ryan’s grandson? Guess I shoulda known it with that head of hair of yours.”
He stood up and offered Zeb his hand. He was a stocky man with dark red hair turning gray. He wore a waistcoat over a ruffled white shirt. “I’m Henry King,” he said. “Known your grandfather for years. I haven’t seen him in quite a while, though. Been more than two months.”
The man turned the guest register around and said, “Sign or make a mark. Here’s a key to the room. Pick out the bed you want. But don’t leave anything valuable up there. The other beds in that room will be taken before dark.”
Zeb dropped the bedroll to the floor and picked up the quill. “Does the post rider still stop here?” he asked.
Mr. King nodded. “He should be here in the next couple of days.”
“I wanna send a letter home.”
Mr. King pointed to a wooden box with a slot on top. “Just put it in there when you have it ready. You got a horse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you’ll need this.” He handed Zeb a yellow card. “The stables are guarded. Show that to one of the men when you stable your horse and when you come to get it. Don’t lose it!”
Zeb put the card in his shirt pocket.
Mr. King paused a moment. “You’ve never been here before?”
Zeb shook his head.
“Listen, son, Cracker Ryan and I are old friends. I want you to be very, very careful if you go down to Natchez Under-the-Hill.”
Zeb nodded doubtfully. “I know. I can take care of myself.”
Mr. King sighed. “You heard about the riverside taverns? No? A lot of their second stories hang out over the river. Men try to lure you in there, rob you, and then pull a trapdoor so you fall into the river. And don’t hang about by the docks, because the press gangs might get you….” He shook his head. “Just watch yourself.”
Zeb climbed the long flight of stairs to the second floor and then walked quietly down a narrow hallway to his room, glad this tavern was up in Natchez and not in Natchez Under-the-Hill. He would have to be careful.
I wish Hannah could see this place. King’s Tavern is so different from the stands on the Natchez Road! This will be the first time I’ve slept in a bed since I left Franklin.
A light breeze through the open windows moved the curtains, throwing shadows on the wall. The beds were just like the ones they had at home. Ropes were tied from head to foot and from side to side about six inches apart, making a net to support the straw mattress rolled up at the head. It was tempting to unroll a mattress and try out one of the beds, but he wanted to see the Mississippi River before dark.
Zeb now had only two silver dollars.