by AH Trimble

Part One — The Good Years

The first thing folks noticed about Samuel Whitaker was that he wasn’t much for talking.

Not that he was unfriendly. He’d shake your hand, look you square in the eye, and with sincerity ask how you were doing. If you needed help fixing a wagon, he’d lend a hand and get his hands dirty. If your horse had gone lame, he’d take a look, and do what he could. And if you were hungry, there was a pretty good chance he’d find something for you to eat.

But Samuel didn’t waste words.

He figured most things worth saying could be said once. And if a fellow didn’t understand the first time, repeating himself or saying it louder probably wasn’t going to help much.

Samuel and his wife, Martha, lived with their four children in a sturdy log cabin a few miles outside the little settlement of Clear Creek, somewhere in the western territories.

There was fifteen-year-old Jacob, who was growing into his shoulders faster than his mother could keep him in shirts. Then came twelve-year-old Rebecca, ten-year-old Sarah, and little eight-year-old Benjamin, who had an unfortunate habit of asking questions just when everybody else wanted some peace and quiet.

The Whitakers weren’t wealthy. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Some called them poor.

They had forty acres of fairly good land, four beef cows, a few pigs, too many chickens, a single milk cow, and a pair of horses that Samuel figured were worth more than some of the men in town.

Their cabin wasn’t fancy, but it was solid and dry when it rained. Samuel had built it himself, with help from some good neighbors. It had a broad front porch, a stone fireplace, and a kitchen large enough for the whole family to sit down together. Underneath the cabin was something most folks didn’t know about…a cold cellar.

Samuel had dug it before he’d laid the cabin’s floor. The walls were reinforced with stone, and the ceiling was supported by heavy timbers. A carefully fitted trapdoor beneath the kitchen table provided access. It wasn’t much to look at, but it stayed cool through the summer and above freezing through the winter.

Down there Samuel kept sacks of dried beans, cornmeal, flour, salt, smoked meat, jars of preserves, and whatever else Martha could put away. There was enough food to carry the family through a long winter. Maybe longer, if they were careful.

Samuel didn’t consider that unusual. His father had taught him something when he was just a boy. “Sam, the time to fill your pantry ain’t when your belly starts growling.”

Samuel had never forgotten it. Every harvest, before selling or trading anything, he and Martha set aside what the family would need…then they added a little more.

Some years they had plenty left to trade…other years, not so much. But the cellar was always filled first.

Martha sometimes teased him about it. “Samuel, if you keep putting food down there, one of these days we’re going to have to build another cabin just to hold it all.”

Samuel would grin, “Reckon that’s a problem I’d be happy to have.”

The Whitakers had another habit that some of the settlers didn’t quite approve of. Sam traded regularly with a nearby Indian tribe.

The relationship had started several years earlier when two men from the village came by looking to trade some beautifully woven blankets for flour and salt. Samuel looked over the blankets, rubbed the fabric between his fingers, and asked what they wanted. They told him.

He thought about it a moment, “Seems fair to me.” And that was that.

Over time, the trading became regular. Sometimes it was woven goods other times it was pottery, leatherwork, or baskets. The Whitakers traded grain, flour, preserved vegetables, and other supplies they could spare. There were occasions when Samuel threw in a little extra, particularly if he knew they was having a hard time.

And the Indian families had done the same for him.

Once, when one of his horses went missing, two young men from the village found it tangled in a rocky wash and brought it home. Another time, an old Indian woman showed Martha how to prepare a local plant that helped with an upset stomach.

Samuel considered them good neighbors. Not everybody in Clear Creek agreed. Some settlers were suspicious of the Indians, others resented seeing Indians and their ponies with food heading toward their village.

One fellow at the general store remarked to Samuel he was mighty generous with provisions that might be needed by white families someday. Samuel looked at him. “Those folks trade honest. That’s more than I can say for everybody around here.”

The conversation ended right there.

Inside the Whitaker cabin, the results of those trades were everywhere. Two woven blankets hung against the log walls. A finely made bow and a quiver of arrows rested above the cabin door. Several decorated clay pots sat on a shelf Martha had built beside the kitchen.

They weren’t trophies. They were things the family had acquired through honest trade, and Martha was proud to display them.

Life was good. Not easy, mind you. There was always work to be done. Fences to mend, animals to feed, wood to cut, crops to tend. But the family had enough. And Samuel intended to keep it that way.

Part #2 →