Legs now logy, each step was harder than the next after slogging for days in a dizzying maze of tall pine trees. They finally exited the maze, and open daylight awaited them where they soon stopped and fell down behind a thicket of brambles. The whinny of horses caught their attention. Douglas parted a section of brambles and peered ahead. John sat on the grass Indian-style and tilted his head back, and drank spring water from one of Billingsly’s flasks. Douglas looked at John and whispered, “Hey, John, come here.”
A short, stocky, middle-aged colored man dressed in a black jacket and pants alighted from the driver’s seat of an ornately designed stagecoach powered by four large bay-colored horses and parked in front of a tavern.
The driver went into the tavern. John and Douglas looked for someone else to emerge from the stagecoach. After five minutes, the colored man pushed open the tavern door and returned to the stagecoach, opened the right door, and nodded. He extended his gloved right hand, which a well-proportioned, thirty-something-year-old woman used to balance herself as she stepped down from the stagecoach. She propped open her parasol and waited for the rest of her family. Her husband, although tall and straight, appeared much older; he had white hair and a well-lined face. He stepped down next, followed by three young children. The woman rested her parasol on her left shoulder, securing it with her left hand while she straightened her husband’s string tie. The husband bent down and pecked her on the lips, then led the way to the tavern.
Douglas moved his hands from the brambles. His eyes glistened and he grew a puckish grin. “Our ride out of here is staring us in the face.”
“What do you mean, our ride?”
“We gonna steal it to take us along. Seems to me we got a long ways to go; we can stand some help.”
Douglas took in a deep breath and told John his plan. After three minutes or so, Douglas said, “Got it?”
“No.”
“Man,” Douglas said, making his eyes small and dark, “we need to do this.”
“We need to do this? You want me to do everything in the plan.”
Douglas studied John’s sprig face for a few seconds. “They’ll trust you.”
John shook his head and said, “No, no, too risky, boss man.”
“Look,” Douglas said and put his hand on John’s right shoulder, “we won’t get many chances like this.”
Damn, John thought. Putting more distance between Richmond and therefore Billingsly, could not be ignored. John nodded, head bowed and eyes closed. He trotted to the tavern, a way of getting on with the plan before he lost his nerve. Standing at the entrance, he breathed in deeply and exhaled, then grabbed the large brass door handle and opened the heavy oak wood door where he was greeted rudely by the hostess at the door.
“No pickaninnies allowed in here,” she said bluntly. “Remove yourself.”
John wondered if the stagecoach driver had gotten the same treatment. He ignored her, turning his head where he saw the stagecoach driver’s passengers eating dinner near the window in sight of the stagecoach.
John needed more time to plan the heist. Turning his attention to the fussy hostess he needed to temporize: “I’m just here to see if you have a room for my boss.”
She frowned, clenched her teeth, and snarled, “Get out of here now.”
John observed the husband from the coach lifting his head and looking in their direction.
The hostess nodded at the husband, turned to John with a scowl, and said, “You’re disturbing the senator and his family.”
Holding firm, John said, “My boss sent me here. He’s needs to know if you have rooms for family he’s got coming to town. He told me to tell the pretty girl at the door that he will leave a big tip.”
She allowed herself a brief, tepid smile. “When does your boss need the rooms?”
“Next Wednesday.”
As she flicked her hand waving him out, she said, “That’s five days away. Come back in two days’ time.” The driver walked toward the tavern door, carrying a large, gray canvas valise. John held open the door for the driver to enter the tavern. He heard the husband call out in a stentorian voice, “Malcolm, take our bags to our room; we’re coming now.”
A good sign, John thought. He rushed to Douglas still ensconced in the bramble hideaway and reported that the family and the driver were probably out of sight of the stagecoach.
“We must be sure. Go over there and look in the window to see if you see any sign of them,” Douglas commanded.
John looked at Douglas askance. But wanting to get the heist over with, he scurried to the large window with Henry’s Tavern stenciled on it. Not seeing them, he darted back to the bramble hideaway and gave Douglas his scouting report.
John was surprised to see a foreboding look in Douglas’s eyes.
John felt the hesitation, but would have none of it “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing Douglas’s left arm. Douglas didn’t move.
“What’s wrong, man?” he asked. “It was your idea to steal the stagecoach.”
“We don’t know how to drive that thing,” Douglas said. “If we can’t get it moving right away, we gonna be in trouble.”
John looked through an opening in the brambles and saw the black points on the horses’ manes, tails, and lower legs. One more thing was needed. “I’ll be right back,” John said. He scurried to the horses to confirm what he believed he’d seen on the horses’ foreheads—white, star-shaped spots. He had his proof.
Confident that he could handle the Cleveland Bays, John said, “Let me handle this.”
They walked to the stagecoach, trying not to hurry or bring attention to themselves. Douglas opened the door, tossed their new leather haversacks inside, jumped in, and curled up on the floor. John climbed on top and sat in the driver’s seat. He closed his eyes and caught a glimpse of himself driving a Billingsly barouche, commanding a Cleveland Bay all the while.
“Giddy-up,” he said and snapped the reins. The horses didn’t move their legs; only bobbed their heads and nickered. “Giddy-up,” he repeated as he snapped the reins again. Still no movement. He felt the sour tang of bile at the back of his throat. His heart rate picked up.
He called to Douglas and asked him to retrieve some carrots from his haversack. Douglas pounded the floor with his left hand, as though he were upset that he had to open his eyes. He passed the carrots to John through an opening in the coach. John jumped down from his perch and shoved the carrots in the horses’ mouths.
“Got any more?” he called as loud as he dared to Douglas.
“Just apples.”
“Give them to me.”
“No, we gonna need them later.”
John’s anxiety grew as he looked around for signs of danger. Nothing, but something could arrive soon. “Look, Douglas, we gotta get a move on. Give them to me.” Douglas handed John the apples. “Thank you,” John said, relieved.
The horses quickly devoured the apples. He rubbed the two lead horses on their foreheads, looking them in the eyes, to let them know he was in charge. He climbed back to his perch.
As the driver walked out of the tavern to retrieve more of the family’s luggage, he saw John sitting in his seat. “Hey, you! Get down from there,” he said, running on stubby legs.
Douglas lifted himself slightly off the floor to see if he could see the driver. He couldn’t, and returned to the floor, curling up to make himself smaller.
“I was just playing. I mean no harm, sir,” John said, sounding sheepish.
As John climbed down, the driver opened the left door to retrieve luggage. Douglas kicked him hard in the stomach, which sent him to the ground and knocked the wind out of him.
John climbed back into the driver’s seat. “Giddy-up!” he screamed as he snapped the reins.
The horses moved slowly at first, then began to trot. The driver looked on helplessly, trying to catch his breath as his stagecoach began to disappear.
k
Sunset was a few hours away, as good a time as any to stop the stagecoach. They’d need daylight to cover more ground for their getaway. “Hey, wake up,” he said, tapping Douglas on the leg.
Douglas sat upright. “Where we be?”
“The compass is pointing south.”
“I gotta hand it to you. I didn’t think you could do it. You got some pretty good skills,” Douglas said, laughing.
John smiled, acknowledging there were good things he learned working for the Billingslys. His familiarity with Cleveland Bay horses had paid off.
Douglas rifled through the portmanteau in the stagecoach. He found a pistol, a wad of cash, clothes, and two full bottles of Jack Daniel’s. As he held a bottle, he knew it was time to ditch the stagecoach; it would be no match for people on horseback who’d come after them. He put the Jack Daniel’s and two men’s pullover shirts into his haversack. He put the money in his pocket and gave John the rest. He threw his haversack over his back.
“Someone’s probably after us. We need to ditch this thing. Let’s go.”
“No, I’m not leaving them.”
“Leaving what?
“The horses.”
“I told Ann that I’d take care of you. I’d hate to break that promise, but if we don’t leave now, we’re dead men.”
Ann’s name lifted John’s mood; He stroked the left lead horse on the side, then unbuckled the leather belts and rods that bound the Bays to the carriage and to each other. He used some tack at the back of the carriage and put them on the two lead horses.
“Fine,” John said. “We’ll take these two and outrun them.”
John then made sure the remaining two horses were no longer fettered to the stagecoach, so they could be free to roam.
They mounted the getaway Cleveland Bays with their accoutrement secure, as Douglas had no time to argue.
John was confident in his ability to ride such a powerful horse. From time to time, John had ridden Monsieur Billingsly’s Cleveland Bay horses in the paddock area of the estate. Billingsly would tell him to take them out to pasture to feed them with vegetation that dotted Billingsly’s landscape and to ride them to give them exercise.
As John sat with confidence astride the horse he mounted, he looked at Douglas and saw eyes filled with trepidation as he sat atop the other horse.
It was like the dog running and barking at the train and not knowing what to do with it once he caught it. “Douglas,” John said, “It was your idea to steal the stagecoach.”
Douglas said nothing, ignoring the obvious comment.
John gave Douglas a quick tutorial about how to ride, which Douglas acknowledged allayed his fear somewhat.
“You good now?” John asked.
“Think so,” Douglas replied with an air of more confidence.
As John was about to snap the reins, he said, “Wait,” he rubbed his horse’s head. “Let’s give them names. My horse’s name is Lightning and yours is Thunder.”
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To make it comfortable for Douglas, the horse thieves started with the horses walking for several miles. To speed up the pace, John told Douglas it was time for their horses to trot, so he told Douglas that he and Lightning would take the lead trotting, and Thunder was sure to follow, which he did. John would look back from time to time to check on Douglas; he seemed to bear it all while frowning, though.
After several hours of riding, they saw a sign that said that Charlotte was fifty miles away. Rick had suggested that Douglas and John go through Charlotte.
They stopped at a lake, where John tied both horses to a hackberry tree. They sat in the woods on soft ground and ate victuals that Rick had given them in Raleigh; they were down to stale pemmican.
John swallowed his last bite, stood, and began to scratch. “Got any more of that crotch powder?”
“Yeah, but use it after bathing in the lake. I think we both could stand to clean up.”
They disrobed and waded into the nearby lake to bathe themselves, a refreshing cleansing they had long needed, removing the dirt and grime that had caked on them ever since they hightailed it out of Richmond. They had found water in nearby streams to wash their faces and hands, and even Carrie had given them a bucket of water to wash. But they had not washed their entire bodies until now.
John floated on his back, looking skyward and wondering about his mother as the soft sunshine caressed his face.
Douglas couldn’t swim, and didn’t care for the lake, so he stayed in only long enough to get clean.
Douglas dressed and waited for John. He yelled that it was time to move on, disturbing John’s quiet contemplative moments while he floated on his soft, watery pillow. John grudgingly complied. He saw a school of tadpoles crowded around a large rock near the shoreline. He hunched down and picked up the rock, revealing more tadpoles. He thought about Blue Pond and how he’d wanted the tadpoles to be free. He realized though he’d brought disorder to those tadpoles and put this rock back. Things were already chaotic enough for him, and he didn’t want any more disorder in his life, just like he wouldn’t bring any to the tadpoles.
John’s experiences at Blue Pond seemed an eternity ago. He was no longer the eight-year-old boy who still clung to his mother’s apron. He was taller, wiser, and had begun to find his own voice, which, as much as he didn’t like it, was attributable in some way to working for the Billingslys. Where he once was shy as a younger boy, he now found his quest to live a bigger life impelling him to take more risks with his young life.
As John donned his clothes, Douglas saw a man on horseback coming in their direction. Douglas sat on Thunder ready to go. “C’mon,” Douglas hissed. “Look like we got company.”
John tied his haversack to his horse’s saddle and mounted Lightning.
“Stop right there!” the man shouted. The man moved in front of them, brandishing a rifle in his right hand. He sat tall on his cinnamon-colored horse, whose coat almost matched the color of the man’s reddish-orange skin. He tilted his black Stetson back on his head, revealing a long scar on his forehead.
“What you boys got in those bags?” the man asked, looking at the haversacks attached to Lightning and Thunder’s saddles.
“We just traveling through,” Douglas said.
“Where?”
“Don’t rightly know,” John offered.
The man kicked his horse with his cordovan boots; the horse edged closer to Douglas and John. “Ain’t you boys got a home?”
“No,” Douglas said.
The man decided to test Douglas and John, to see how they’d act under pressure. “How about if I shoot you right now? Maybe no one will hear the rifle shot out here in the wilderness.”
John was confident enough about his riding skills that he thought about kicking Lightning into a gallop, but he knew Douglas was far less confident, and he just couldn’t leave him in a lurch.
The man ordered John to dismount and to show him the contents of his haversack. “Careful, one false move and your friend dies.” He pointed his rifle at Douglas.
The poke sack was on top in the haversack. John dug below the poke sack that held Billingsly’s flasks, trying to avoid letting the bandit see it. He felt his shirt, and pulled it to the top, causing the poke sack to fall out of the haversack and onto the ground.
“What’s in that white bag?”
“Just a whiskey container,” John said.
“Show it to me.” As John opened the haversack, the bandit said, “Careful,” while keeping aim at Douglas’s chest. John held it up for the man to see. “Okay, now toss it to me.” John complied. The bandit caught it, looked at it, admiring the etching on the front. He put it in his vest pocket. “What else is in that bag?”
“Just another whiskey container.”
“Take it out and toss it to me.”
John removed the other flask and allowed it to fall to the ground.
“Pick it up, boy, and toss it here,” the bandit demanded, annoyed.
As John bent down to pick it up, he grabbed a dollop of sand in his right hand, swung his right arm back, dropped the flask to his feet, and aimed the sand at the bandit’s horse’s nose and eyes.
The horse snorted in the sand and reared high and violently off his front legs.
The bandit fired off a shot at John with one hand as he tried to control the horse with the other. The bullet whistled near John’s head.
The bandit did his best to hold on, but fell off to a hard landing, hitting his head on a nearby boulder. He lay on the sandy ground in agonizing pain, grimacing.
John saw that the bandit’s rifle was a few feet away from where he’d landed. He walked up to the man, who was moaning low, and his eyes were flickering like a burning candle trying to give one last burst of fire.
John picked up the rifle by the long barrel and swung it hard into the lake. He bent down and retrieved the flask from the bandit’s vest pocket, saying, “I think this belongs to me.” As he stood up, he saw the bandit’s Stetson a few feet away on its side. He stepped over the bandit, picked up the hat with his left hand, and dusted it off with his right. He stepped back over the man and looked the bandit in the face, whose eyes were still flickering, and donned his new hat, which fit as if made for him.
John turned to walk to Lightning, but the bandit reached out and grabbed John’s left leg. John shook his leg from the bandit’s feeble grip, turned and looked at him, shook his head as to say he wished it all could have been avoided. He picked up the other flask from the ground and restored the flasks to his haversack.
“John,” Douglas said, “check his pants, jacket, and saddle to see if there is something we can use.”
John complied and extracted some bills and coins and a couple of pewter mugs. They figured he must have been a bandit roaming around looking for the next victim.
John threw himself on top of Lightning, leaned forward, and stroked the bridge of Lightning’s nose, which caused Lightning to nicker.
John sat confidently atop Lightning wearing his new chapeau, a blade of grass protruding from his lips as though he had just defeated the enemy in battle. He looked over at Douglas and nodded, kicked Lightning with his heels, and said, “Let’s go.”