October 14, 1811
Zeb bolted upright. “I bet they sent that man to move the horses! And I bet I know where he’s going….” He looked at Hannah. “I’m gonna need your horse.”
Hannah was staring across the big river. She looked so sad. Zeb hated himself for putting her prized horse in jeopardy.
“I rode Christmas down here, Zeb,” she said a low voice. She pointed toward the rail at the jailhouse. “He’s around the corner of the jail.”
Zeb jumped off the wagon and put his hand up to help Hannah down. “C’mon,” he called up to her. “You can go to the jailhouse to be with Grampa and your father.”
Zeb and Hannah ran down the street toward the jail. “I’ll get her back for you, Hannah,” he said, “I promise.”
When they reached Christmas, Hannah went into the jailhouse. Zeb swung himself up on the big horse and trotted quickly through the crowds toward Silver Street. He shouted to Walter as he passed, “Let Grampa know I’ve gone to the Texada Inn!”
Zeb turned the horse up the cobblestone road, still jammed with cotton wagons and men on foot, all moving toward the docks. Christmas sensed the urgency, forcing his big body through the crowd without slowing down. The rapid clang clang of iron horseshoes against the cobblestones rang out a warning to all pedestrians in the way. Men shouted and cursed at Zeb, shaking their fists.
When Zeb got to the top of Silver Street, the number of cotton wagons had thinned out. He ran Christmas at full gallop up Washington Street to the Texada Tavern.
Zeb rode through a crowd of men on foot, into the stable yard. One of the men, barely jumping out of the way in time, shouted up to Zeb, “Watch what yer doin’!”
Zeb pulled the big horse up, but Christmas pivoted, scattering the men even more. At that moment, one of Dancey Moore’s horse wranglers, the one who had told him about the old man with the whip, came out of the stables. Seated on an Indian pony, the man was leading Suba on one side of him and Andy on the other. Both horses were tacked up, ready to be ridden away. When the wrangler saw Zeb, he dropped Andy’s lead line and reached for a pistol stuck in his belt. “Let me by!” he shouted.
Christmas was still skittering. But Zeb had spent many hours on Christmas at the family farm, rounding up the horses and cutting some out from the herd for branding. And all of the horses on his grampa’s farm were trained to move mostly with leg and seat signals so the arms were free for shooting a musket or for working. The reins were only used to help stop the horse. As Zeb leaned in the direction of the wrangler, Christmas immediately moved sideways toward the man, crowding him and his horse against the stable wall.
The wrangler backed his horse, pulling hard on the reins with his other hand. “Let me by,” he said, “or I’ll shoot you.” He waved the pistol, then cocked it and snarled, “Move out of the way!”
The men in the stable yard backed even further away.
Zeb gulped, looking down the barrel of the gun. He tried to think about what his grampa would do. He knew that Grampa had told him to watch for the men and then to wait for him. But if I back away now, he thought, we’ll probably never see those horses again.
He put his hands in the air and took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax and smile confidently. “You gonna shoot an unarmed man in front of all these witnesses? They already know you’re a horse thief, and you know what the penalty is for that.”
The wrangler looked down the road. Zeb could hear a horse galloping in their direction and, in the distance, the fast clop clop and the metallic grinding sound of four horses pulling a heavy wagon. Zeb kept Christmas moving sideways.
Christmas forced the wrangler’s horse against the stable door. “Looks like we’ve got some extra witnesses,” Zeb said, his hands still in the air. “This may be your last chance.”
The wrangler glared at Zeb. “Yer crazy as that old coot!” he growled. He dropped Suba’s reins, turned, and galloped away on his horse.
Zeb moved Christmas to where Andy was standing near the gate. He leaned over and grabbed Andy’s reins just as Hannah arrived on her father’s horse.
“Suba!” Hannah exclaimed. The black horse stood nervously in the middle of the stable yard, pawing the ground, ready to bolt. Hannah lowered her voice. “Easy, girl. It’s all right.” She eased her mount closer to Suba, talking quietly as she leaned over and picked up the dragging reins from the ground.
She hopped off her father’s horse and put her arms around Suba’s neck. “Oh, Suba,” she whispered, “I’m so glad to see you.” She checked the horse’s mouth and then ran her hands over the horse’s flanks and belly. She ran her hands up and down the horse’s legs. “Are you all right, Suba? Did they hurt you?”
As Hannah was checking Suba, the cotton wagon turned into the stable yard. Walter was driving the team. Dr. McAllister and Grampa stood behind him, holding on to the bench. Grampa had his whip in his hand.
“Zeb!” the old man cried out with relief. “I thought you were a goner! I saw you with your hands up.” Cracker Ryan slapped the coiled whip nervously against his leg. “I was just hopin’ we’d get here before it was too late. He looked down the road where the wrangler had gone. “I thought you might need some help. Looks like I was wrong.”
He held on to the back of the bench for support, then smiled down at Zeb. “See you found both horses.”
“Yup. They seem to be all right.”
As Hannah mounted Suba and started to walk her around the yard, Zeb’s grampa climbed down carefully from the wagon. He checked Andy and started to tighten the saddle girth, but he couldn’t do it one-handed. Zeb tightened the girth and then gave his grampa a leg up. He watched him settle painfully and awkwardly into the saddle. Zeb shook his head slightly. He can’t use that arm at all.
Zeb’s grampa looked at him and nodded. “It’s not much good to me these days,” he said.
The old man turned and looked at the others. “We can’t stay here. This is where Dancey Moore stays when he’s in town. Let’s get over to King’s Tavern,” he said. “We can talk there.”
They rode to King’s Tavern and entered the stable yard. Mr. King came out, shouting at them. “I’ve told you men before! I don’t have any room until after the cotton harvest. You can eat here, but you can’t leave the horses back there. The stables are for the guests only.”
Zeb’s grampa halted near Mr. King and looked down at him. “Henry,” he said quietly, “it’s Daniel Ryan.”
Zeb clucked Christmas forward so he was alongside his grampa. Mr. King looked at one and then the other and then chuckled. “I never would have recognized you with that bald head, Cracker.”
“It’s a long story, old friend. I promise to tell you all about it later. We’ll just be here a few hours. But we’d like to keep the horses in the stables if we can, with our driver and one or two of your people keepin’ watch. Do you mind askin’ ’em to let us know immediately if Dancey Moore or some of his men show up?”
“Not at all, Cracker. Always pleased to have you.”
Cracker Ryan paused for a moment. “And, Henry, please let us know if anyone sees Tate McPhee.”
Mr. King shook his head. “He’s a dangerous one, McPhee is. My men will look out for him. But what makes you think he’s here?”
“Zeb spotted two of McPhee’s men following him on the Natchez Road. They may have passed him when he was off the trail for a few days.”
Zeb slipped off Christmas and then helped his grampa dismount. The old man gingerly picked up his left hand with his right and tucked it back into the bib of his overalls.
Zeb’s grampa put his right arm around Zeb’s shoulders as they made their way through the door of King’s Tavern together. The group gathered around a large table in a corner of the room; everyone seemed to be talking at once. Mr. King came over with a pot of coffee and pewter mugs. Zeb’s grampa stood behind a chair and said, “Let us pray.”
He bowed his head, paused for a moment, and then began, “Father in heaven, we thank thee for all the blessings of this life. We thank thee for the good friends we’ve made on the way to Natchez and here in Natchez, who have played such an important part in all of this…. Bless this food to our use and us to thy service. Amen.”
Dr. McAllister, seated to the left of Zeb’s grampa, murmured, “Amen.” He turned to face the old man. “I hope,” he said, “that you’re not planning to travel anytime soon. Let me take a look at that arm.”
“But we have to get back to Franklin!” Zeb’s grampa protested.
The doctor lifted the arm and touched and prodded. “I’m sure you know that you have had a severe dislocation of the humerus. When did this happen?”
“More’n two months ago.”
The doctor shook his head. “It would be almost healed by now if it had been immobilized. It won’t heal if you keep moving it, Mr. Ryan. You really shouldn’t be riding with it or it might become a chronic condition.”
“I know,” the old man said. “It seems to be gettin’ worse. The doctor I saw put my arm in a sling, but I’m afraid I took it off.”
Dr. McAllister lowered the arm gently to the table. “I’ll put a sling on it before we leave here. You’ll have to keep it immobile for at least another six weeks, maybe longer.”
Mr. King and two helpers came out of the kitchen with rice, fried plantain, and a pot of okra, sausage, and hot spicy fish and crawfish.
Hannah looked up at Zeb. “I hope you do stay at least six weeks, Zeb,” she said in a quiet voice.
A long, narrow loaf of hard-crusted bread was plopped on the table near Hannah. Zeb looked at her just as she turned to look up at him. He knew that she too was remembering that first night they met on the on the Natchez Road. When he found her, she was starving. She had stolen the loaf of bread he had brought from home, and before long, had eaten almost all of it.
“We keep eatin’ like this,” Zeb whispered in his best Kaintuck accent, “we’uns won’t wanna go back.”
Zeb’s grampa motioned to Mr. King. “Please make sure that the wagon driver is well fed.”
“I’ve already sent bowls of food out to him and the two men out there with him.”
Zeb’s grampa served himself as the food was passed around. “So who’s takin’ care of the farm, Zeb?”
“Josh and the two boys are stayin’ at the farm. They can do all the daily chores till we get home.”
“But Ira needs Josh at the print shop.”
Zeb shook his head, chewed, and swallowed. “Uncle Ira said he’s given up on Josh working in the print shop. Josh loves the farm, and he isn’t interested at all in the newspaper.”
“So Ira knew you were goin’ to travel down the Natchez Road?”
“No, I didn’t tell Uncle Ira. I hated to lie to him, so I just told him I was gonna need help on the farm for a while.”
Zeb looked away. “I worry about Mama. When I left, she was holdin’ her little bundle of clothes pressed against her chest, rockin’ in the chair. She thinks we’ve lost the farm.”
“My letter should help. She knows I’m alive. And Ira will help her understand we haven’t lost the farm. I just hope Josh hasn’t had to tangle with McPhee or his men.”
Mr. King returned to the table and handed the old man a folded sheet of paper sealed with a glob of red wax. “Post rider was just here with the mail,” he said. “Had a letter for you. He had to get to the fort in New Orleans in a hurry, Cracker. Told me to tell you he’ll be back in a week, heading north.”
Mr. King turned toward Zeb. “He’ll pick up that letter you gave me on his way back.”
The old man smiled. “A letter to your mama?”
“This one’s from her. I’d know her handwriting anywhere.”
The old man pulled out a coin purse and dropped two coins in Mr. King’s hands. “Is that still the tariff for one page?” he asked.
Mr. King nodded and returned to the front desk.
The old man sat down. He opened the letter and he and Zeb read it together.
Dear Daddy,
I was so glad to hear from you. Thank the good Lord you’re still alive. Tate said you were killed by outlaws. He said the farm was his now, that you two had an agreement. Ira says he’s sure that’s a lie.
I have real sad news for you. Zeb is somewhere on the road to Natchez looking for you. I doubt he’s still alive. I don’t know if I can stand it, losing him, too. First it was Zeb’s daddy, then it was you, and now Zeb. I know he must have felt that he had to go. If only he had waited a few days. He would have seen your letter.
Please come home soon. You’re all I’ve got now.
Love, Alice
Zeb closed his eyes, holding back his tears from having caused her so much pain. I knew she wouldn’t have wanted me to leave, he thought, but I never thought of how painful it’d be for her, thinking that Daddy, then Grampa, and then I were all dead.
The old man patted Zeb’s shoulder. “You did what you felt you had to do. If you’d been a few years older, she would’ve expected you to come down the trail. Your mama will be fine once she gets a letter from the two of us.”
He smiled at Zeb. “You must know that I’m glad you’re here, Zeb. But we’re goin’ to hafta be vigilant if we’re gonna spend six weeks or more here in Natchez. Tate McPhee wants us dead, and it looks like Dancey Moore and the sergeant’ll spend the rest of their lives tryin’ to get even.”
The old man looked at him for a long moment. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Zeb,” he said. “Stand up, boy.”
Zeb stood tall next to him. They were the same height now. The old man grasped Zeb’s shoulder with his right hand. “You’ve gotten a lot taller. Put on some muscle, too.”
He cleared his throat. “You’ve also grown in a lot of other, more important ways. The Choctaw must’ve seen what I’m seein’ now.” He paused. “I’ll be glad to have another man with me on the way back up the Natchez Road.”
He clapped Zeb on the shoulder. “When we get back tonight, I’ll see if John Culpepper has someplace for you to sleep. You could always stay in my room over there, but it’s pretty small….”
Dr. McAllister interrupted. “That’s all taken care of, Mr. Ryan. Martha and I want Zebulon to stay with us. We have a bedroom all made up and ready for him. We’re not far from Culpepper’s place.”