by AH Trimble
Part Three — The Men from Clear Creek
Memory of the riders snooping around were fresh in their memory.
Three had gone by…just before sunset, Martha heard horses. Not one or two…several…then more.
As she looked out the front window, “Samuel!”
He was sitting at the kitchen table, repairing a leather strap. Something in her voice made him look up immediately. She didn’t have to say anything else. Samuel walked to the window. Men were coming up the road. They weren’t riding fast. But they weren’t stopping at the gate, either.
Samuel recognized Harlan Price at the front. He also recognized two of the other men. One was a farmer named Collins. The other worked at the livery stable. The remaining men were unfamiliar.
Samuel watched them approach…old instincts came flooding back.
Then he turned to his family, “Jacob.”
His son was already standing, “Yes, sir.”
“Take your place.”
“Martha.”
She nodded.
“Children, into the back room. Now.”
Rebecca took Sarah by the hand. Benjamin started to ask a question, took one look at his father’s face, and decided it could wait. Within moments the cabin was quiet.
Samuel picked up his shotgun and stepped onto the porch. The men stopped about twenty feet from the steps. For a moment nobody spoke.
Then Samuel said, “Evening, gentlemen.”
Harlan Price shifted in his saddle, “Evening, Whitaker.”
“Something I can do for you?”
Price looked at the cabin, noticed the woman standing at the door, shotgun in hand. The boy was on the porch about 20 feet to the side of his father, shotgun in hand. “We need food.”
Samuel nodded, “Reckon a lot of folks do.”
“We heard you’ve got plenty stored away.”
Samuel leaned against one of the porch posts, shotgun still in hand, “Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Seems to me it might.”
Price’s expression hardened. “Look, Whitaker…we’ve got families going hungry. Some of these men haven’t had a decent meal in days.”
Samuel studied the riders. He could see it now. Their faces were drawn. Their horses were thin. One fellow looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. These weren’t outlaws. They were frightened men who had run out of good choices.
That didn’t make them harmless. Sometimes it made them more dangerous.
Price continued, “We know you’ve been sending food to the Indians. So we figure you’ve got enough to share with your own people.”
Samuel shook his head, “You’re mistaken about a few things, Harlan.”
One of the men behind Price spoke up, “We ain’t here to argue! We want the food!”
Samuel turned his eyes toward him, “Then you’re going about it the wrong way.”
Another rider moved forward, “We can take it if we have to.”
Samuel straightened. The shotgun was resting across his arms, its muzzle pointed in their general direction. “I wouldn’t recommend that.”
Nobody moved. Then Price said, “We don’t want trouble, Whitaker.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then give us the food.”
Samuel looked directly at him, “There’s no food here for you to take.”
A few of the men began muttering. One dismounted. Another reached for the rifle beside his saddle.
Samuel’s voice changed, not louder, just harder, “Leave that rifle where it is.”
The man stopped. Samuel waited until his hand moved away. Then he looked back at Price, “Harlan, you’ve known me for years. Have I ever turned you away when you came asking for help?”
Price hesitated, “No.”
“Have I ever cheated you in a trade?”
“No.”
“Then why are you standing in my yard with a mob of armed men demanding what belongs to my family?”
Price looked away. For a moment, the only sound was a horse stamping its hoof in the dirt. Then the man who had dismounted shouted, “He’s stalling! He’s got food in there!”
Two others began moving toward the porch. Samuel took one step forward, “That’s far enough.”
The men stopped. Samuel looked at Price, “You want to know what I’ve got?”
“Yes.”
“Then come inside.”
Price blinked.
“What?”
“Come inside. I’ll show you.”
He glanced toward the other men.
“Just you, Harlan. The rest stay right where they are.”
Price studied him, “How do I know you won’t shoot me once I’m inside?”
Samuel gave him a tired look, “If I wanted to shoot you, Harlan, I wouldn’t need to invite you into my kitchen.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Price climbed down from his horse, “All right.”
Samuel stepped back toward the door. As he did, Jacob moved into his father’s position at the edge of the porch, shotgun held low but ready. Martha stepped into Jacob’s now vacant place on the porch. It happened smoothly, quietly, and without a word being spoken.
Price noticed. He looked at Jacob, then Martha, then back at Samuel. Samuel opened the door, “Come on in.”
Harlan Price had been inside the Whitaker cabin before. He’d sat at the kitchen table, eaten Martha’s biscuits, and shared coffee with Samuel on more than one occasion. But this time was different. He stepped through the doorway and immediately noticed the woven blankets hanging on the walls. Then the bow and arrows above the fireplace. And the pottery on the shelf.
He stopped. “Where’d all this come from?”
Samuel followed his gaze, “Trading.”
“With the Indians?”
“That’s right.”
Price walked closer to one of the blankets, “Looks like good work.”
“It is.”
“What’d you give for it?”
“Flour. Salt. Some dried corn.”
Price looked around the room. Samuel continued, “Those folks make things we can’t. We grow things they need. Seems like a pretty sensible arrangement to me.”
Price didn’t answer. Samuel pointed toward the pantry, “Over here.”
He opened the wooden door. Inside were several shelves. A small sack of flour sat on the bottom. There were a few jars of preserved vegetables, some dried beans, a little salt, and two pieces of smoked meat hanging from a hook. The shelves weren’t empty. But they were a long way from full.
Price stared, “That’s it?”
“That’s what we’ve got in the pantry. You can see for yourself.”
Price stepped closer and looked behind the door. He opened a crock, found it nearly empty, and put the lid back. He studied the shelves again.
“People said you had enough food to feed the whole settlement.”
Samuel shrugged, “People say a lot of things.”
Price looked at him, “You mean to tell me this is all you’ve got?”
Samuel held his gaze, “This is what I’m showing you, Harlan. You’re seeing it with your own eyes.”
Price was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “My youngest boy’s been sick. My wife hasn’t had much to feed him.”
Samuel’s expression softened, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Price rubbed his face, “We’ve sold nearly everything we could. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
Samuel leaned against the door frame, “Why didn’t you come talk to me?”
Price didn’t answer.
“Why’d you bring an armed mob to my house instead of knocking on the door?”
Price stared at the floor, “I don’t know.”
Samuel waited.
Finally, Price said, “I guess I was scared.”
Samuel nodded, “Reckon you were.”
For a long moment neither man spoke. Then Samuel reached into the pantry and took down a small sack of beans. He added a jar of preserved vegetables and a piece of smoked meat. He set them on the table, “Take these home to your family.”
Price stared at the food, “Samuel, I…”
“Take it.”
Price swallowed,“What about the others?”
Samuel looked toward the front door, “They’ve got families too, I imagine.”
“Yes.”
“Then they ought to have come asking instead of threatening.” Samuel paused, “I’ll help where I can, Harlan. Always have. But I won’t be robbed in my own home.”
Price nodded slowly, “I understand.”
Samuel picked up the food and handed it to him, “Let’s go talk to your friends.”