The Good Lord Bird

We stayed off the California Trail, the main trail which runs clear through Kansas, and rode an old logging path for about an hour, then veered off to a trail that led toward a group of houses. Not a one of them fellers lost a breath or showed any hesitation as we moved, but I overheard them fussin’ about where Dutch lived, them guessing he wanted to attack Dutch’s, and there was some confusion about where it was, for it was dark, and there weren’t much of a moon, and new settlements was popping up along the California Trail every day, changing the look of things. Course I knowed Dutch’s place and everything within a mile of it, but I weren’t quite sure of where we was, either. I know we wasn’t in his country just yet. Wherever we was, we was off the California Trail, clear on the other side of Mosquite Creek. I believe we would’a ended up in Nebraska if the Old Man allowed it, for he didn’t know where he was, either.

I didn’t say a word while they rode back and forth, trying to figure it, and after a while when I looked over at the Old Captain to hear his word on it, I seen he’d fallen asleep in the wagon. I reckon they didn’t want to wake him. He lay there snoring as the others led us ’round in circles for about an hour. I was happy he was asleep, and thought he’d sleep through the whole business and forget it. I was to learn later Old John Brown could stay up for days at a time without eating a crumb, then shut down and sleep for five minutes before waking up to do any kind of task under God’s sun, including killing man or beast.

He awoke in good time sure enough, sat up, and barked out, “Stop near that cabin in clearing yonder. Our work is here.”

Now he was as lost as the rest of us, and didn’t know his way out of the particular patch of woods and that homestead any more than a bird knows his way out of a privy with the door closed, but he was the leader, and he had found what he wanted.

He stared at the cabin in the dim moonlight. It weren’t Dutch’s place at all, but no one, not even Owen or Frederick, said a wrong thing about it, for no one wanted to back-talk him. Truth be told, Brown’s Station, the farmstead where he and his boys stayed, was within ten miles of Dutch’s place, and some of his boys had to know we was at the wrong spot, but none said a word. They was afraid to cross their father. Most of ’em would speak up against Jesus Christ Himself before they took on the Old Man, except Owen, who was the least religious of all his boys and the most sure of hisself. But Owen too looked unsure, at the moment, for this whole conundrum attack and warring in the middle of the night was his Pa’s idea, not his, and he followed his Pa like the rest, right to the brink.

The Old Man was sure, he spoke with the strength of a man who knowed hisself. “To the cause,” he whispered. “Dismount and tie off the two trailing horses.” The men done it.

It was dark but clear. The Old Man leaped out the back of the wagon and led us behind some thickets, peering at the cabin.

“I do believe we’ll catch him by surprise,” he said.

“Are you sure this is Dutch’s?” Owen asked.

The Old Man ignored that. “I can smell slavery within it,” he declared. “Let us strike quickly with the Lord’s vengeance. Broadswords only. No guns.”

He turned to me and said, “Little Onion, you are a courageous child, and while I knows you wants to strike a blow for freedom yourself, tonight is not the time. Stay here. We’ll be back shortly.”

Well, he didn’t have to tell me twice. I weren’t going nowhere. I stood by the wagon and watched them go.

The moon peeked from behind the clouds and it allowed me to see them approach the cabins, spread out in a line. Several switched to guns, despite what the Old Man told ’em, as they approached the front door.

When they were almost on the front door, and a good thirty yards from me, I turned around and ran.

I got no more than five steps and runned right into two four-legged mongrels who jumped at me. One knocked me down and the other barked holy hell and would’a tore me apart had not something dropped on him and he fell. The other mutt ran off howling into the woods.

I looked up to see Fred standing over the slain dog with his broadsword and the Old Man and the rest standing over me. The Old Man looked grim, and the sight of them tight, gray eyes boring into me made me want to shrivel up to the size of a peanut. I thought he was going to chastise me, but instead he turned and glared at the others. “It’s Lucky Onion here had the mind to look out for watchdogs behind us, which none of you had the mind to consider. I reckon you can’t prevent someone from fighting for their freedom. So come on, Little Onion. I knows you want to come. Stay back from us, and be very quick and quiet.”

Well, he done me a worse service, but I done as he said. They trotted toward the cabin. I followed at a safe distance.

Owen and Fred stepped up to the front door, guns bared, and knocked politely, while the Old Man stood back.