“Ain’t asked for it. I’m just a-leaving. I don’t cotton to the way you do things in this outfit, destroying crops, burning up farms, and attacking womenfolks. I worked to raise a few crops myself and I won’t have no part of such carryin’ on.”
Well, sir, his face was a sight. Behind those dirty whiskers he began to swell up and flush up red like a country girl caught in the back of a farm wagon with a boy. There for a minute I thought he’d bust a gut. Then he spoke up real big. “You got two minutes to git where you b’long or you’ll be court-martialed for refusin’ duty.”
Most accidental-like my carbine was lyin’ across my saddle and pointed right at his heart, and my hand was right over the trigger guard. But I wasn’t leaving those brothers out of my sight, either. “You better get on with whatever you’ve a might to do,” I told him, “or I won’t be around to see the fun.”
Weaver, he made a start for a gun but the
click
of that cocking Spencer stopped him. I never did figure him to have belly enough to stand up to a man. “Now you looka here!” he began to loud-mouth it. “You cain’t—”
“I already have,” I told him, and rode out of camp.
Of course, once I had the camp behind me I lit out of there like who flung the chunk, and when I was well down the trail I lost my tracks in those of the night before, and then cut off across the country.
That was miles ago and weeks ago, and now I was back, almost within hollering distance of the home where I was brought up, the only one I could rightly recall.
Not that it had ever mattered to anybody but me. Those days I was a lonely youngster, shabbier than anybody else and too proud to try to make friends after that first trouble. That was why I started going to the swamp. When a man has no friends he makes up for it sometimes by learning a lot, and I learned a-plenty in those Sulphur River bottoms, and knew all that country away down to Caddo Lake. I knew places even the Caddo Indians didn’t know.
Those days I wandered the swamp trails, hunted and trapped for fur, and I knew where the solid ground was, and the passages a man could go through in a dugout canoe, and the hide-outs of the Indians and a few runaway slaves.
Now I was back. The farm would be there; most folks called it a ranch. There would still be the orchard and the cabin would be standing, and there was land belonging to me that stretched away down to the Big Thicket. Only those days land was not worth much, and everybody had a-plenty of it.
Lying awake staring up into the dark where the rain dripped from the cypress trees, it felt good to be back home. There was nobody anywhere who cared whether I came or went, but I knew the soil, and I knew what I could do with it, given a chance. And I’d been as homeless as a worn-out saddle pony for so long.
My plans were clear and proud. First off I’d break ground and put in a crop, and once I’d earned some cash from selling my crop I’d buy a brood mare and start raising blooded horses. Maybe a man could find a stallion with good lines; there was money to be made with a well-bred stallion.
As a boy in those East Texas swamps and thickets I’d almost never seen anything like a really good horse. Of course, there were some good horses around, but not much of it ever came my way and the horses folks up there had were a rugged bunch, tough stock, and good for working cattle in the brush, but I wanted some horses.
Time had been, right after I took off from home, I’d gone north through Virginia and Kentucky. Talk about horses.
Most of the breeders in the South had been put out of business by the war, so a man with a good stallion, good mares and pasture, a man set up like that could do all right.
Boylike, I’d figured to be rich some time. Every boy at one time or another wants to be rich. He wants to strut it around and make smart with the best clothes and have the girls look him over. He figures with enough money showing the girls will all get round heels when he comes around.
One thing I’d learned was it mattered mighty little how much money a man had as long as he was contented. Me, I wanted enough to eat, my own roof to sleep under, and my own place with crops and horses growing.
Some time maybe I’d find me a woman. Not in this country. I’d go away for that. Hereabouts the name of Cullen Baker was a bad name and nobody was likely to want me.
There would be trouble enough, but trouble begins with people and I would stay shut of them. None of them had any use for me, anyway, and that would make it a simple thing. Run down the way the place was sure to be, I’d have my work cut out for me without traipsing off to town, tomcatting around and maybe getting my tail in a crack.
Longley got up quietly when I figured he was asleep, and rustled an armful of dry wood. If a man can find dry wood after three days of rain he’s a man to ride the river with.
Bob Lee turned over and sat up, reaching for his pipe.
Longley squatted over the fire. “Seems quiet,” he said. “Bob, you reckon them carpetbaggers from up the state at Boston will come into the swamps hunting us?”
“Not unless they’re crazier’n they look.” Bob Lee turned to me. “You awake, Cullen? We should have explained it to you. We had a difficulty up to Boston. Shot a man.”
“Needed it, I reckon. You always were a proud man, Bob Lee, but I never knew you to shoot too quick nor to kill a man who wasn’t asking for it.”
We talked it over some, and they told me more about the country I’d come back to, and none of it looked very good for my plans. There was one thing they forgot to tell me, but I learned it soon enough: my worst enemy was back there, and he was a big man around the country. He was a Southern man but he was thick with carpetbaggers. I would never have believed it of him.
Some time about then we all went to sleep. Bob Lee was right. Any carpetbagger who followed them into the swamps would be crazy. Both men were tired, like men are who have spent sleepless nights of running and riding, and if a man like Bob Lee could be on the dodge, with folks everywhere around, how could I hope to stick it out?
Nobody talked much when we saddled up come daylight. I told them about the trail into the Sulphur Swamps. Unless you know it, I’ll tell you. That Sulphur is a might twisty stream, and there’s bayous running off from it and a good bit of swamp, and those days the thickets were bigger and came closer to the Sulphur. Only a little way south was Lake Caddo, and nobody knew much about the lake but the Caddos and me.
We parted company at the Corners. “Better come with us, Cull,” Bob Lee advised. “You won’t find anything but trouble and knowing you like I think I do, you won’t stand still for it.”
“I’m a man wants to sleep under his own roof.”
“You fight shy of that widow woman. She’ll make you more trouble than all them Union soldiers!” Longley said, grinning.
When they had dusted out of sight I turned that buckskin mule down the grass-grown lane. This was a mighty good mule and he could run the legs off most horses. Maybe he wasn’t so fast for a sprint but he could hold a pace that would kill most horses, and better than any watchdog at night.
Longley mentioned a widow. With the war over this country must be crowded with widows. Far as that went, this here was a widow-making country, and leave out the war.
No decent woman would be wanting to have any truck with me, and if one did it would surely come to a shooting matter with a father or brother. Cullen Baker was a known man, a trouble-hunter they used to say, and a man with a drive to kill, others said. They said, too, I was drunken, but I could give them the lie on that story. I’d little taste for strong drink, and when they thought me drunk it was only with fury.
Besides, there’d be no time for widows. It would take all my time to get a crop in, to work and even get my seed back; by now the whole ranch might have grown up to crab grass.
Drawing my Dragoon Colt I checked the loads—paid a man to be ready, although I was hoping never to use a gun again, except for wild game. Still, I’ve noticed a ready man is often left alone, and if it took that to have peace, then I should be ready, but it took no doing for me. I’d the habits of a lifetime behind me.
Right there in a secret pocket back of my belt there was the margin, a .41-caliber twin-barreled derringer which I carried for insurance. It was my margin of safety. Time was, a hide-out gun had been useful, and such a time might again come to me. Could be I’d never use either gun again, but I was no man to draw my teeth before I knew what the beef was like.
Turning the corner of the back lane along which I’d come, I drew up before the gate.
There it was, then.
Three years I’d waited to look upon it again, and the three years seemed like ten, or even fifteen. It seemed another lifetime, another world than this, and yet I was back. All was the same and yet nothing at all was the same.
The yard, which had been hard-packed earth there at the back of the house, had grown up to weeds and grass. The house itself looked older than it was, weather-beaten, blistered, baked and warped by sun and rain.
The sun, the rain, the wind let nothing alone, but they worry at it, smooth it and rough it again until it is their own. I was like that, myself. A man shaped by storms and hot suns, but most of all by the thousand storms I kept buried inside, all of them crowding at my lips and eyes for expression, working their way down into my quiet fingers, feeding anger through my veins that I’d had to fight back, again and again.
For what they said of me was true. I was a killing man, a man of frightful rages that all my life I’d had to keep back inside me. Once in a while when something would go against me, I’d tear loose and it frightened me, for I had no grudge against any man, nor did I know what it meant to hate. To be wary, yes, for I knew there were hating folks about, but for myself, I hated no man. Only there was a point beyond which I’d not be pushed, and when beyond that point the fury came up in me, cold, dangerous and mighty.
Swinging down from the saddle I opened the gate, taking my time, almost scared to go in, for opening that gate was opening the memories I’d fought back for a long while now.
It seemed any minute Ma was going to open the door and call me for supper, or Pa would come, holding out his hand to greet me. Only they weren’t going to come out, and nobody at all was coming to that door, which had remained unopened these two years now.
Leading the mule through the gate I dropped the bridle reins and walked slowly forward, and in my throat there was a lump.
Nobody was there. The kitchen door hung on old strap hinges, dried and shrunk from the neat fit Pa had given it when he built the place with his own hands, me helping as much as I could. A boy then I’d known little of the slights a man learns by working with his hands, and all I’d had to help was a strong back and arms for lifting.
The boards on the stoop were warped and gray, and brown leaves had gathered in the corner between the stoop and the house. Only the iris still grew along the path where Ma had planted it, and the redbud tree Pa and me dug up from the river’s edge was well-grown now and making like a tree more than a shrub like they usually are. These things can last, I think, the trees a man plants and the wells he digs…I do not know if the buildings last.
The door opened stiffly under my hand, and when I went through the door there were tears down my cheeks like I was a pigtailed girl.
Empty, the way it was, it looked like I’d never seen it. Everything a body could carry off had been toted away except the big copper kettle near the fireplace which was unhandy to load on a horse. The rooms were empty and here and there the chunking had fallen from between the logs in the log part of the house which we had built first. Later, Pa started to build the rest of it with planks, and he was fixing to give Ma a real home at last. He never done it though, and hard work caught up with Ma first; she’d never been real strong.
She was buried out there back of the orchard, where they’d put Pa…somebody told me that; I’d not been here myself.
An owl had been roosting in the kitchen and left his sign around the way an owl does. A body would think there was fifty of them rather than one. There was dust over everything, and when Ma had lived there never was dust. She never had much to do with, but she made out, and that place had been spic and span like I’d never seen another place. It had been a home blessed by care if not by money.
At the fireplace I could see where night-stoppers had left the remains of their meal—only the mice had been at it.
Outside again, not liking the hollow sound of my feet on the board floors, I saw the weeds had grown up among the roses, and I could see there would be a sight of work to keep me busy.
“Well Pa,” I said aloud, “what you wished it to be, that’s what I’ll make it.”
When I went outside once more that old buckskin mule was cropping grass like it was the day before Judgment. Seeing he liked it so much, I picketed him there, and then took my Spencer and strolled down toward the swamp.
Ever go back to a place and walk down the paths you walked as a boy? The old paths, the unforgotten paths? The sun was hot on the green leaves and grass, the path was overgrown, and the blackberries had straggled over it and were choked with grass…many a time I snagged myself on those briars, and tore my shirt, too. The biggest, blackest and juiciest berries always seemed to hang in the places hardest to get at.
Every step was a memory for me, and time to time I’d just stop and stand there, remembering. The mist used to rise off these swamps sometimes in the mornings. The tops of trees in the low ground would be like islands lost in a vast sea of cloud. Here was where the deer used to come to eat the green grass and get into Pa’s corn—many a time I got me a deer down at the end of the cornfield.
It was warm and lazy in the sun and a big bumblebee buzzed fatly among the leaves. Folks are always talking about how busy a bee is, shows they never really watched a bee. A bee makes so much fuss with all his perambulating around that folks think they’re doing a sight of work, but believe me, I’ve watched bees by the hour and I can tell you all that buzzing is a big fraud. The bees I’ve watched always buzzed in the sunniest places around the best-smelling flowers, just loafing their heads off fusting around in the play of sun and shadow at the swamp’s edge. Busy? Not so’s you could notice.