“You say not much going on up there?”
“See most folks scared ’cause the Indians were there and buried their dead on the land. But I never saw nothing that scared me ’ceptin’ a bear that was sleeping in the cave near the spring.”
“Think I could squat there for a while?”
“Think you could.”
Buckus thanked the traveler and shook his hand. He offered the man a ride into Springfield, but the traveler declined. “Got kin in Tennessee. Haven’t been back since the war. Don’t know if they’ll want me since I fought for the north. Seems the wounds of war cut deep.” Buckus understood the pain of kin problems. He nodded and went on his way.
When Buckus was close to Springfield he pulled to the side of the road. He jumped from his seat and stretched his weary legs. Unhitching the mule team, cow and horse, he led them to a nearby stream, and then tied them to saplings near the water’s edge. He removed what hay he had and spread it for the animals. The snow fell in earnest now; he needed to find shelter and start a fire before the cold settled into his bones. Searching through the wagon bed, he found a few small limbs and kindling, enough to keep him warm, he hoped.
Nearly two months on the road had given Buckus plenty of time to think. He knew what God meant for him to do. He’d find that spring and cave, bury Hattie and build himself a cabin and a small barn. He’d live out his life in peace where there was no hate. He wouldn’t bother no one.
Chapter 2
The Destination
Springfield was more city than Buckus had seen in his entire life. Buckboards, men on horseback, and enclosed carriages moved along the town’s muddy roads. The boardwalks were crowded with pedestrians—men, women, and children going about their business. In all the hustle and bustle, it took Buckus a while to find a general store. He parked his rig on a snow-dusted vacant lot. He worried briefly about the security of his load and gave a young lad a few coins to sit on the wagon seat.
Buckus returned to his wagon with several store clerks who helped him load his provisions of dried meat and fruit, a few tools for digging, and enough wood posts to build a holding pen for his livestock. He would need other things come spring, like a chicken or two and seeds for planting, but for now he felt he could hold out in a cave just fine.
Sensing his job was finished, the young boy climbed from his seat. “Where you headed with all that stuff?”
“Home,” Buckus said and stepped up into the wagon, tipped his hat to the lad, and picked up the reins.
“Where’s home, stranger?” Buckus smiled for the first time since that awful day. Turning back to the child he simply pointed north and said, “Yonder, son. Home is yonder.”
Unlike the city of Springfield, the road out of town was lonely. He was encouraged as outcroppings began to appear on the landscape—limestone just like the traveler had said. He kept his eyes to the east looking for a significant rock formation jutting from the top of a hill, an overgrown wagon trail and a stand of hedge trees. He began to worry that he might never find such a place. Perhaps the traveler had made it all up. The drifter seemed like a good sort, but you never know.
And then, without rhyme or reason, his mules stopped short, braying loudly. “Giddy up, you dang mules!” But the beasts wouldn’t move. Buckus sighed and put down his reins. Tired, he leaned back on his seat and closed his weary eyes. As Buckus rested, a thundering in the distance echoed against the hills. He opened his eyes and looked toward the sound. There, due north, appeared a soft, brown, low moving cloud. It gained size as it came closer. As Buckus’s eyes focused, the brown cloud became instead a mass of shapes: horses, wild mustangs galloping toward him. As if on cue the horses turned to cross the road on which Buckus and his wagon were parked, one after another, a string of them, taut and beautiful, headed into the hills.
Buckus sat up quickly, picked up his reins and slapped the mules with authority. The team complied and headed to where the mustangs had run. He noticed a large limestone outcropping on the top of a high hill. And then, a stand of hedge trees and a trail, trampled with fresh mustang hoof prints came into view. He turned off the road onto the wagon trail. Confident now that he was nearing his destination, Buckus felt his energy return.
When the trail ended, high up on the hill, he climbed from his seat and looked up at the outcropping. He felt dwarfed by its scale. As his eyes scanned the face of the rock, he felt a surge of vertigo and stepped back. Walking around its base, he came upon the cave, positioned near an artesian spring and natural reservoir. He found the cave to be free of bear, cat, and wolf scat. Feeling quite secure that at least for now the cave was his, he got to work. He fed and watered his animals. Taking
