Joe Henry's Return

Joe Henry’s Return

Montana Territory

1866

Marcia Melton

Joe Henry’s Return

Copyright © 2017Marcia Melton

Cover art © 2017 Sherril Gold

ISBN: 978-1-937849-43-6

Published by Raven Publishing, Inc.,

P.O. Box 2866, Norris, MT 59745, USA

This work of fiction is a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any event or person, living or dead, other than those documented in history, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without express permission from the publisher.

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For Courtney, Nick, Doug, and Jack,

my adventurers

Chapter One

A Decision

March, 1866

To help us with our farm, Pa hired a young man who had recently returned from the Civil War. His name was Thomas Clayton. There were many returned soldiers in our farming area of Kentucky, but not all could work. They’d lost an arm or a leg, or worse, they’d lost themselves. Thomas Clayton tried to work hard, and we hoped we might get some crops in. Some days, he had what looked to me like hollow eyes. When I worked with him and the hollow eyes would come, he’d say, Call yer Pa over here. I cain’t work today. You just cain’t know what it was like, Joe. Sometimes it takes me over.

I tried to understand, though the ways he acted scared me. One day when he stopped and couldn’t work, Pa was not there. I told him Pa had gone off in the wagon. I was fourteen at the time, but I still had some growing to do. Though I worked right alongside him, Thomas seemed to consider me a kid. This time, I guess he thought I was trying to fool him. He started yelling at me, things I didn’t understand. When I tried to calm him, it didn’t work. He swung at me with his hoe. I ducked down and put my hands over my head. He yanked me up by my arm, grabbed me, lifted me up, and threw me across the field. He wasn’t a real big man, but right then, he had the power of a giant.

Everything went black for me when I hit the ground. I must have flown clear into the next field. When I woke up, Pa was crouched over me and two former slaves of our neighbors—a man and a woman who had stayed on our neighbors’ place even though they’d been freed—were kneeling beside Pa.

We clean thought he was dead, mister, the man said.

I guessed I wasn’t dead, but I sure felt strange. I couldn’t get my eyes to focus right for a while. I felt Pa’s strong hand on my arm. Finally Pa helped me get up. He thanked the couple and helped me walk back across our field.

Thomas had not run away. He sat slumped on the ground. He was crying, with his head in his hands. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed for us to see him crying. He didn’t even seem to know what he’d done to me. His shoulders heaved with sobs. He didn’t look up.

Pa told me to go back to the house. He talked to Thomas for a long time. When he finally came in, he told Grandma and me that Thomas wouldn’t be working with us anymore.

Not long after the Thomas trouble, Pa got it in mind that we’d head back to Montana. He admitted that the farm was failing. There’s nothing for us here, he said. We’ve got to leave.

We’d been in Kentucky less than a year after our big gold rush adventure. Pa always seemed half-hearted about starting over again on the farm, but just as I was getting used to it, Pa was ready to head back west. His reasons were good ones.

When we first went to Montana three years ago, we thought we’d leave Kentucky and the Civil War stuff behind. We sure found out that wasn’t possible. The war was so big and so bad that feelings about it by the people on the two sides stretched all the way out to the prairies and mountains of Montana.

Still, it was nothing like what we found when we got home. Now I’m thinking, where is home anyway? I don’t rightly know anymore. When I was in Montana, I thought Kentucky was home. Now in Kentucky, my missing Montana is something mighty powerful. So when Pa said we’d go back, it felt like we’d be going home there too. The word home is a funny one to put a finger on, I guess. I’m glad now though.

Things have been a mess ever since we returned. Last spring, the horrible war between the states ended. Only a week later, something fearsome happened when the President of the United States was assassinated. It was the worst of times.

When we were in Bannack, Montana, looking for gold, even there it was divided. Some people who had come from the north, Unionist, they called themselves, danced in the streets when each bit of news arrived that the North might win a victory. The southern side, the Confederates, were called Sesech by lots of people because they wanted to secede from the United States. They growled, groused, and were angry. All these raw feelings had seemed dangerous sometimes. Even in far-away Montana, the cannon and fire power echoes of disagreements haunted the hills.

In those days when I asked Pa and Old Charlie, the man we lived with, when they thought it would be over, they each said something curious.

Gotta end, but don’t know when or how, our good friend Charlie had said, puffing on his pipe.

Pa’s reply was, Maybe it won’t ever be over.

Now it was over. Charlie’s forecast had come true, and so had Pa’s. The war ended on April 9, 1865. By April 15, 1865, the President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, was shot dead as he watched a play in Washington, D.C, the nation’s capital.

We’d gotten back to Kentuck in 1864 to find that the farm was as good as nothing. The troops marching through destroyed the fields and the crops. Some of the fields had been burned out. Our house was near to falling down. Grandma had held on while we were gone, but just barely, to keep the stomachs of my little sisters, Hope, and Samantha, filled with some morsels of food. Worst of all, Grandpap had died, gone from pneumonia before we could get there. It was all the things we had feared as we took the return steamboat down the Missouri River from Fort Benton.

We’ve been struggling along ever since. Kentucky brought back the sadness of the deaths of my dear Ma and Stepmother. Pa had lost two wives to illness in his life. Strong, handsome, broad-shouldered, black-haired Pa had dark eyes that looked so serious. He was our rock and our strength to move forward. I hoped so much that things could turn out right for him, something, anything, to bring him hope and a smile. We worked like beavers, but it didn’t do any good. Pa was right. It was time to go.

Pa said nobody was buying farms right now, but we still had some of our gold diggings. There’s a damage here in people and places that can’t be undone, he said. We might as well pack up this whole kit-n-caboodle and head west.

I’d thought about Montana so much since we left. I felt like jumping for joy to go back to that amazing place. Caleb, my friend there, had written me a letter to say that Montana was even a territory all its own now. Montana Territory—great!

I’ve got to admit it, I had plenty of worries about how we would get there. I’m always doing battle with the darn worry bugs. It hadn’t been easy when Pa and I went out there for gold. I was eleven. The steamboat trip, the wagon to Bannack, dangers in the camp, the whole rough life, even living at Charlie’s, was pretty hard. Now we’ve got Grandma, the girls, and John Abel with us.

Once the decision to go was made, Pa didn’t let any grass grow under his feet. It was not like there was any grass anyway. There’s no use trying to plant crops this spring, Joe, Pa said. The ground is torn up and burned in places. We can’t get any help, and we don’t have any market for crops, even if we get some.

At least we’ve got some time to figure it out. Pa says we’ll leave by wagon as soon as the trails west open up in spring. One more thing popped into my mind. Ever since we left Montana, I had beaten myself up about why I hadn’t given my good luck Calico heart to that prettiest girl ever, JoMyra from Fort Benton. I carry it right here in my pocket, ever since I froze up and couldn’t think straight or give it to her that last time I saw her. This flash of a thought popped right out of my mouth. Hey, maybe it’s not too late.

What in the world are you muttering about, Joe? Hope and Sam shook their heads at my craziness and giggled at me. They didn’t know what Montana was like or the people there or what was to come. We’d all find out.

Chapter Two

Packing Up

We had less than two months to prepare for our trip.

The first thing I did was to write a letter to my friend Caleb Dawson in Montana. We’d heard tell some letters never made it. Maybe I’d even get there before my letter, but I had to try.

To Caleb Dawson, Bannack, Montana Territory

Dear Caleb,

I have great news. I’m moving back to Montana with my family. We will come west on a wagon train from Independence, Missouri. By the time you get this letter, we will be on our way. Kentucky is in terrible shape after the Civil War. My grandma and my two younger sisters are coming too, along with Pa and me and John Abel. Do you remember him? I am sure you are surprised. I will tell you why he is with us when I see you in Montana. My Grandpap died this summer. I hope you are fine. I will be very glad to see you.

Your friend,

Joe