Morning in Nicodemus (11 page)

   “The only place above high water up to the rise where you built your soddy is this rock ledge.” No one would have guessed Walking Owl's more than sixty years as he climbed over the ledge as easily as Bruce had. Like Bruce, he poked the stones with the same stick Bruce had left the last time Virgil found him here.

   “The legend is probably two hundred years old. In that time the river could have changed. It probably had a stronger current. In this grassland, the rocky ledge would have stood out. Yes, Liberty, it's possible there was an opening or a shelf in the rock large enough to hide several ingots of gold.” 

   He looked and poked some more. The others watched him silently, hanging on every word. 

   “It's also possible the river could have deposited more soil around the rock. There might have been more rock exposed during that long period of time.” He poked some more. He tried to dig dirt away from the river side of the rock. “I need a shovel,” he said.

   Virgil was on Lady and half way to the house before Walking Owl looked up.

   When Virgil returned, this time with Marcus, he dug around the rock where Walking Owl directed. In the sandy soil around the base of the rock formation, he soon had a shallow trench.

   “So this isn't all nonsense?” Marcus asked.

   Virgil thought he heard some rustlings in the bushes behind him, but didn't look. He was zeroed in on what Walking Owl was saying.

   “No,” Walking Owl replied, speaking a bit louder, “this very well could have been where the gold was hidden.” He waited a dramatic moment then said, “But it . . . ” Without finishing his sentence, he looked around some more before turning to Likes-to-Hunt. “I was going to ask you to take an extra horse and go get Bruce as we need to settle this. But I don't have to.” He turned toward the chokeberry bushes behind him. “I don't have to, do I, Bruce?”

   “No,” yelled a hidden voice. “I'm here!”

   “Bruce!” Virgil yelled just as Bruce stood up, panting from his long run. His face set in determination, Bruce gripped a rifle which he pointed at each person in turn.

   “You ain't gonna get the gold,” Bruce cried out. “It's mine. I figured it out first.”

   Walking Owl laid down his stick and walked slowly toward Bruce. “Take it easy there, Bruce. The story about Spanish gold is only a legend.”

   While Walking Owl held Bruce's attention, Virgil leaned over and took a few steps backward. He slipped around the rocks until he was behind Bruce.

   Walking Owl continued talking as if he were still telling a story to the children at the store. 

   “Everyone loves stories about buried treasure, Bruce, so this story has become popular. Legends may be based on fact, or they can be made up to entertain people. 

   “It is possible that this legend is based on fact, but probably it isn't. There are many similar stories all over the country about buried treasure. Each has details to give it some local geographical or historical basis, like the rocky area on a river.”

   “Get out of my way, Walker,” Bruce yelled. “That there gold you've dug up is mine.” 

   Ignoring Bruce, Walking Owl continued, “I like this story because it fits my ancestors' history. I have told it many times just like I told it to you, Bruce, when you were so ill and depressed. I thought it might cheer you up then. I didn't know you'd would take it seriously and jeopardize your success here in Nicodemus and your relationship with your neighbors.”

   Walking Owl's voice, full of compassion, yet with authority, deterred anyone from interrupting. Bruce continued to point his rifle to each in turn. Virgil crept steadily behind him.

   “Even if the gold ever existed, Bruce, it is not here. The legend refers to the land far east of here. If it were based on fact, which it probably isn't, the hidden gold ingots would be in the Ozarks, not here on the plains. And though this river and this rocky ledge might fit the description, this isn't the location.” Ignoring the rifle pointed at him, he walked around the stone pointing. “See, there's no space here in this small rocky spot to conceal the many, heavy bars of gold ingots. The legend speaks of a train of mules packing the gold. That means several mules.”

   Virgil was right behind Bruce ready to reach for the rifle. Walking Owl shook his head slightly to tell him to wait.

   He pointed to the bottom of the trench Virgil had dug. “In spite of all the reasons I knew the gold wasn't here, Bruce, I had Virgil dig around the rocks. You can see that the rocks are smooth-walled all the way down. There are no recesses or hiding place in them for even one ingot, let alone dozens of them. Come look for yourself.”

   When Bruce didn't move but kept his rifle ready to fire, Walking Owl continued in his soft, deep voice. “Also, if the gold were hid anywhere near this rock, over the past two hundred years, the frequent floods of the river would have washed it out years and years ago. Had that happened, someone would have found the ingots down river, or they would be permanently buried one by one in silt the river brings down at every flood.”

   “You're just saying that. The gold is here,” Bruce said, still brandishing his rifle.

   “Come look for yourself,” Walking Owl said again. He motioned for Virgil to hold back.

   Bruce crawled slowly over the rocks and looked into the holes Virgil dug. 

   “See,” Walking Owl said. “No gold.”

   Bruce's face showed complete despair. He fell to his knees and lowered his head. Virgil grabbed the rifle. Marcus and Hunter stepped beside Bruce ready to restrain him if necessary.

   “I didn't know what else to do. When I seen your ford, Virgil, I just knowed that was the place Walker talked about in his story of buried gold. I figured if I made it hard enough for you, you'd leave. People give up and leave every day. Then I could file on your deserted claim. I'd find the gold. Everything would be fine once Isabel got here.”

   “Isabel is your wife?” Marcus asked.

   Bruce nodded.

   “We figured out that's why you were trying to run us off,” Virgil said.

   “I ain't got nothing agin you.” Bruce moaned as he rocked back and forth. “I'll never see Isabel and Joey again. Never, never more.”

   “Look man,” Virgil said, not knowing whether to pity or despise the cowering man, “this wasn't ever the answer to your problems. Dreaming of hidden wealth won't help you get your family here. But you can do something to make it happen without hurting your neighbors.” He looked hopelessly around at the group.

   Liberty said, “We'll all help you.”

   “Yes,” Virgil said, “we will.”

   “What can anyone do?” Bruce sobbed.

   No one said anything for a few seconds. Then Walking Owl said, “I'll pay the registration fee for you to sign up for a homestead.”

   “I'll take you around to the best farms for you to choose the one you like,” Virgil offered. “I know one that has a house of sorts on it. It's on the main road and not far from Nicodemus. You can keep on working there in the store if you want.”

   “I'll bring your family to you,” Likes-to-Hunt said. “Our new land in northeast Oklahoma isn't far from them. I'll bring them with us when we come for our fall hunt.”

   “And I'll see about getting you a part-time job on the railroad,” Marcus said.

   “I'll help you get your house ready for Isabel,” Liberty said. When she saw that Bruce was no longer sobbing, she added, “and I'll write to Isabel that Hunter will come for her and little Joey. I'll even give little Joey one of my goslings.”

   After Liberty's offer, no one in the little group circled around the dejected man spoke. Virgil took Bruce's hand to help him stand up. He walked hesitantly off the ledge onto the firm ground. 

   Liberty put her hand on Bruce's shoulder. “We'll all help you. This is Nicodemus. We're all in this together. Your darkness will soon be gone as it will for all of us. But, for now, come. Let's all go to our house. I'll fix something to eat, and we can help you plan what to do.”

   She couldn't skip on the rough, rocky ground at the ford, but she bounced around. “Won't that be wonderful? Smile, Bruce, this is a celebration. Isabel and Joey will soon be here and you will have a house for them to live in. I can't wait to meet them.”

 
    “Virge,” Marcus said as he stormed into the soddy, “Virgil, what are you doing?”

   Still seated at the table, the breakfast things still out since Liberty was outside tending to her geese, Virgil was playing some notes on his fife. He blew a few, his fingers flying over the stops. Then he paused and replayed with a slightly different tune.

   Virgil ignored his brother.

   “Virge!” This time Marcus pounded on the table. “Come on, man. We've got to get the ground ready to plant the wheat afore Ma and Pa get here.” When Virgil still didn't look up, Marcus asked again, “What are you doing?”

   “I'm trying to write a song,” Virgil said as if writing a song after breakfast in a sod hut was an ordinary thing to do. He held up his fife and looked at it. “With this fife, I can't sing the words and play at the same time. I'll sure be glad when the folks bring my fiddle.”

   Marcus studied him a minute. “You're hopeless.” He shrugged and walked to the door.

   “Wait a minute, Marc. Listen and tell me what you think.” He blew a few notes on his fife, then laying it down on the table sang:

 

 

   I've fought fires

   I've been in cyclones

   A drought burned up my crop.

   I've out-lasted a blizzard

   And survived scorching winds.

   The fleas in my sod house

   And snakes in my walls

   Live along with me.

 

   “I know pain

   I know despair

   I've seen my sister cry.

   I've burned cow dung

   And eaten coon meat.

   The fleas in my sod house

   And snakes in my walls

   Live along with me.

 

   “I put out the fires

   I outrun the cyclones

   I replant after the droughts.

   I can survive blizzards

   And lean into scorching winds.

   The fleas in my sod house

   And snakes in my walls

   Live along with me.

 

   “For I live in Nicodemus

   A free space in Kansas

   The fires and cyclones are mine

   My blizzards come

   My scorching winds blow

   No one owns me

   Or my fleas and snakes

   That live along with me.

 

 

   He lay down his fife and with a pleased grin looked expectantly at Marcus. “Well?” he asked. When Marcus didn't say anything, Virgil asked again, “What do you think?”

   “It's the truth,” Marcus said. “But it's sad. Why don't you sing about something happy?”

   “But this is happy.”

   Marcus rolled his eyes. “How can blizzards, and living with bugs and snakes be happy? That's just how it is here.”

   “Yes, that's exactly right. You got what I'm trying to say.” Virgil bounded up as if Marcus had praised his song. “You got it!”

   “Well, nobody wants to live with bugs and snakes. That's not happy.”

   “No, it's not happy, but here we own the bugs. These are our blizzards. And we choose to live here. That's happy. It's the whole point of the song. Nothing is forcing us to stay or leave, not even cyclones or droughts.”

   “I think your song's wonderful, Virge,” Liberty said carrying in a couple of goose eggs. “Even the part about the fleas and snakes.” She shuddered. “It's telling it like it is all right, but do you have to put in about me crying?”

   “It shows his love for you,” Marcus said, “and that it's a family thing.” Both Liberty and Virgil looked at him in surprise that he appreciated the song's metaphor. He usually saw things as facts, not symbols. Marcus continued, “I'm not dumb. But I don't have to go around singing and making up verses to understand we're doing more here than simply surviving.”

Liberty hugged him. “Of course not.” Then she glanced at him and grinned.

   “We know that even though you are usually gruff when Virge and I sing.”

   Marcus frowned, a hurt look on his face. “I am not gruff, Miss Smarty. Just because I don't go around singing words, that don't mean I can't understand what they say, even in a song. I know when it is time to sing and when it is time to work. Now's not the time for a party. It's time to work. C'mon, Virge. Let's go.”

   Liberty looked at both her brothers. “Virgil,” she said patting his arm, “you're wrong about what you said about no one forcing us, or making us do what they want. Me and Marc, yes, no one is forcing us. We want to be here. But you? The whole family is forcing you. Just now Marc is making you leave your singing to help him. You hate it here.”

   “No, I don't hate it. I really don't. I'll never go back to Kentucky. Never. I like the West. I never tire of looking at this huge expanse of grass all around us. I love the river and all the birds and animals that live here. I like riding over the plains. Here I'm truly free. It's just me and . . .” He swept out his arm to indicate space. “Yes, this great plain we live on is dangerous. And lonely. And fierce. But more than that, it's grand. It's bigger than all of Kentucky. It's bigger than lots of countries in Europe. And I own part of it.” He shook his head in amazement. “That's the best part of it.”

   When he stopped, Liberty said, “But you don't want to stay here in Nicodemus. ”

   “No, I don't. But I don't want to leave for good, either.

   “You don't want it, yet you want it?” Marcus said. “That don't make sense.”

   “Yes it does,” Liberty said. “He wants the farm for his home, but he also wants to go places, do things, meet the world.”

   “Exactly.” Virgil said.

   “Like Walking Owl?” Marcus asked. “Or Likes-to-Hunt?”

   Virgil thought for a bit. “Yes, like them. Like the Osages.” Then he grinned. “Bethel said once that I'd make a strange-looking Indian.”

   Liberty looked at his black skin, his curly hair on his head and face. She laughed, “You sure would.”

   “I like lots of things about living here,” Virgil said.

   “What don't you like?”

   Virgil didn't have to think about this answer. “Cutting sod. Having to plow and disk and cultivate.”

   “Yeah, the hard work,” Marcus said.

   “No, it's not that. You know I don't mind hard work. It's something more. I can't quite explain it. I don't even understand what I feel or why I hate digging the sod so much. It's not the work.”

   “Then what is it?”

   “Somehow I think as I dig out a square of sod that we are murdering this great country one block at a time. Without stopping, block after block, all of us scrapping them out is destroying the plains. It is a harsh land full of dangers and problems like all the things I have in my song, the fires, the droughts. But I'm up to them. I can handle them. It is also an incredible land. I am proud I can stand up to cyclones, live through a blizzard, and all that nature throws at me. When I do, I'm truly living, or as Walking Owl would say, they make my spirit strong.”

   His glowing face dimmed as he continued. “But stripping off the sod and exposing the soil seems wrong. It is like ripping off healthy skin that protects the being beneath. The soil washes away. Winds blow it like it did during our cyclone. One day this may no longer be a great plain. That scares me.”

   “Me, too,” Marcus admitted. “I'll never forget seeing our top soil blow away. But the soil is deep and rich. It will produce for us so we can live here.”

   “I know. And it is now our land. That's why I'm worried about it.” Virgil smiled, put his fife away on the shelf, and grabbed his hat. “I can live with it when I figure we can help by leaving some of the grass for hay and for pasture. Let cattle replace the buffalo herds.”

   He looked at his brother and sister who were listening open-mouthed at his unusual, philosophical speech. Seeing their amazement, he said, “Enough of that. C'mon, Marc, we've got work to do. You said it yourself. Ma and Pa will be here in just a few days. We got to get ready for them.”

   He jammed his battered hat on his head and jigged out the door singing:

 

 

   No one owns me

   Or my fleas and snakes

   That live along with me.

 

 

   Laughing, Marcus looked at Liberty. “What are we ever gonna do with him?” he asked.

   “Love him and let him go hunting with Walking Owl and Likes-to-Hunt.”

   Marcus nodded and followed his brother to the field, while Liberty, humming Virgil's new tune, cleared the breakfast things from the table.

 

 

*     *     *

 

 

   A few days later, at Liberty's insistence, she and Virgil rode over to Bruce's homestead. Though as he promised, Virgil had taken Bruce to several deserted places and recommended he file on the one on the main road to Ellis, he still didn't trust him. 

   Marcus and Liberty treated Bruce no different from all the other neighbors, being helpful and friendly. They ignored Bruce's continued dark spells of depression and his surliness at times. Liberty chatted with him about when Isabel would come. She encouraged him to talk about little Joey. What was he like? How old is he now? Even when Bruce answered that he'd been gone so long the boy wouldn't even know him, Liberty found ways to cheer him up.

   Marcus chatted with him about farming in Kansas. Bruce's new homestead already had a few acres ready to plant, so Marcus offered to help him get it ready for wheat. Marcus explained that wheat was good in Kansas as the soil wasn't exposed to wind and water erosion for too long and with the new community threshing machines, the labor involved was less than cultivated crops like corn. Their conversations were filled with mutual experiences as farmers.

   But Virgil did only what was his duty as a neighbor. Their meetings were awkward. Their conversations strained. They avoided each other. 

   This day he was willing to accompany Liberty to Bruce's claim mainly because it would be a trial run for Lady and Buck hitched together to the wagon he had patched together. At the end of the month he or Marcus would drive the team to Ellis to meet his folks. In Pa's last letter he mentioned that they had enough money to ship some of their belongings. The wagon was necessary.

   As usual Liberty chatted happily the whole way. Soon having another female neighbor excited her. She brought some things she could spare to help make Bruce's soddy more inviting to Isabel. 

   They arrived before Bruce did. Even though the homestead was now in his name, he still lived in the back of the store and walked the short distance to his place. They were unloading a seat made of a hewed-out log when Bruce arrived.

   “It isn't much,” Virgil said, indicating the log, “but it'll do until you can get some chairs.”

   Bruce nodded. “Thanks.”

   “Then,” Liberty said, laughing, “when you get real chairs, you can chop this up to help keep warm this winter.”

   Bruce walked around the chair. “I don't think I'd ever want to cut it up. It's beautiful. Did you make this,” he asked Virgil.

   Liberty answered before Virgil had a chance to. “Yes, he made it when we first got here. We didn't have a single piece of furniture. We stayed in a tent until he and Marcus put up our soddy so we could live in it. Then he made lots of stuff for us. He can make anything. Look,” she ran to the wagon, “he even made this wagon.”

   “No, I didn't.” Virgil said to Bruce. “She exaggerates things. I got an old wagon and fixed it up.”

   “Well,” Liberty pouted. “Isn't that making it? Don't you think so, Bruce?”

   With Liberty's chatter including them both, neither man could retain his aloofness long. They unloaded the wagon and arranged things inside the soddy under her directions. Frequently she wasn't satisfied and asked them to move something to another spot. They obeyed her without complaining.

   Soon Virgil and Bruce were discussing the weather on the plains, the possibility of raising cattle instead of farming the land, and who they would vote for in the next township election.

   Virgil noticed that Bruce didn't keep his shirt buttoned up to his neck anymore. The scar was in plain view. Also Bruce rarely ran his hand over that part of his neck as he used to do.

   Bruce even initiated some of the conversation. “Walking Owl said that people who have everything easy are weak,” he said. “The strong ones are those that stand up to problems and beat them.”

   “Then you certainly are one of the strong ones,” Liberty said. “No one has had harder times than you've had, but look at you. Now you own a hundred and sixty acres, a house, and your family is coming to you very soon.”

   “Yes, man, that's right,” Virgil said. He started to say that he'd done this without stealing and running people out of the country, but he refrained even before Liberty poked him and shook her head at him. That girl knows me too well, he thought. Then he laughed and said instead, “Let's go to the public ford down here and I'll show you how to set some traps. You might catch a coon or two to trade at the store.”