Return to Holliday Creek (10)

The Startling Truth

             - By Robert Faulkender ©

Mexican boarder town  1905

They sat at the small kitchen table having supper of warmed over pot roast.  Leitha told of her father’s stroke, how they had moved him to Ma Blanchard’s boarding house for care. Doc Madden did his best and they said he showed improvement when he heard his daughter was coming. That’s when he wanted to see Sheriff Skillman

.

     Ted watched her talking: the high cheek bones, the black eyes, all surrounded by that ivory complexion. Her hair hung loose behind the shoulders; her breast, full and womanly.

     “You must not look at me like that, sergeant.” Blushing lightly she stood, “More coffee?”

     He cleared his mind.  “When did your father take the turn for the worst?”

     Leitha brought the coffee pot from the stove approaching Ted from behind. She casually placed her hand on his shoulders. “When I told him I sent for you, he seemed relieved and stopped fighting. He died a day later.” She leaned over his shoulder to pour; swallowing the lump in her throat summoned by the memory.

     Ted looked up into her moist eyes. “I love you, you know.” He surprised himself, and covered his embarrassment by standing, then gently placed his hands on her hips. She put down the coffee pot and brought both arms around his neck. 

     “I know,” she said. “I hoped you would come for me. I waited.” 

     Ted squeezed her to his body.

      How much time have I wasted? 

     Leitha folded into him for a long moment, cheek to cheek, then pulled back her head and kissed him deeply before returning to her seat.

    He dragged his chair around where he could sit and hold her hand. “After I introduced Sarah and her brothers to my family, I returned to Holliday. I wasn’t sure your father still wanted me for sheriff since I had failed to uphold the town ordinances by not arresting the children. But Jim said I had the better part of ninety days to prove myself.”

     Ted let go of her fingers and reached back for his coffee cup. He cradled it with both hands as he sipped; not looking at her.  “By the end of the ninety days, a couple of things were clear." He lowered his cup to the table and stared at it. "You were not coming back, and my life as a lawman held little promise for wealth or longevity. Your father understood when I headed east with $ 45 in wages.” 

     Ted went silent. He looked back into her black eyes...

Return to Holliday Creek (9)

When Reality is More  Than Memory

                                                        -By Robert Faulkender ©

By late afternoon Ted rode down the main street of Holliday, Texas. Things seemed smaller than he remembered. He stabled his horse, but found no rooms at the hotel. On his way to the boarding house he decided to stop first at the Samuelson General Store. In range of the store he noticed that the name was now Samuelson’s Emporium. 

     Must be doing pretty good.

     Ted entered quietly. He stood just inside the entrance. The smell of the place reminded him of the first time he stepped into the store: how Leitha struck him dumb with her greeting. At the far side of the room a young woman looked up from counting items of some sort. “May I help you?” she said.

     His mouth opened, about to speak, when a second woman rose up from behind the counter. His heart skipped. She smiled at him, but she turned to the girl. He felt his mouth go dry. 

     “That’s enough for today, Millie. You may go. I have an old friend to greet.” Leitha brushed a strand of long black hair behind her ear. Again, she shyly smiled across the room.

     Leitha was more beautiful than he remembered--no feisty young girl, but a woman. Except, where she had been intimidating before, she was inviting now; plain dark skirt straight to her ankles, a plain black blouse buttoned up the neck, pencil stuck in black hair pulled back and tied with a black ribbon. He loved her; always had; just that simple; only he never admitted it.

     Ted nodded as Millie passed by; he stepped further into the store. Leitha fussed around behind the counter for a moment until the shop girl left then she swept across the room right into his face, and with a hand on each of his cheeks, gave him a sisterly kiss on the lips. He felt light.

     “I see that ‘sheriff’ is no longer an appropriate title, sergeant,” she teased.

     Ted studied the smile, the new little lines in the corners of the eyes, still the twinkle. It occurred to him that he should speak. “Hello, Leitha. Came the moment I received your note.”

     She quickly turned away, “Ah, it’s the note that brought you.” She moved thoughtfully toward the front door. “If you will wait a moment I’ll close the store, then we can go back to the house. I’ll fix us a little supper; we’ll get caught up.”

   “Whatever you say, Leitha.” 

   She moved with such grace. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And dressed  all in black, with the black hair; everything accented her ivory coloring .

Return to Holliday Creek (8)

First Love is Never Forgotten

                                   - By Robert Faulkender ©

When Ted surfaced late morning of the second full day at home, he sat in the kitchen with a fresh brewed cup of coffee. As Mattie returned the pot to the stove, she pulled down a smudged envelope from the cup shelf. “This came for you about six weeks ago.” She slid the letter across the table then got busy with the kitchen.

     Now who could possibly know I was ever coming home? 

     He picked up the envelope.  The handwriting was neat, flowing, feminine, addressed to Edward Skillman; return address: Samuelson, Holliday Creek, Texas.

     Instantly he tore off the end of the envelope, pulled the note and read:

Dear Sheriff Skillman,

I had hoped that one day we would meet under different circumstances. I have rushed home from

St. Louis as Father has had a stroke. He is not doing well and indicated he would like to see you.

Should this note reach you, and you are so disposed, we would welcome your visit.

Fondly,

Leitha

     Ted Skillman stared at the letter.  Leitha Samuelson was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His interest in becoming sheriff of Holliday Creek had definitely waned when Leitha moved to St. Louis.

    Mattie sat down at the table, speaking softly, “When you leaving, son? ...Oh, don’t look so surprised; yes, I read it. You think you can go off for near ten years with nary a word; and then comes a letter to you, and I’m not going to read it?”

     Ted swelled with excitement. Had he really buried memory of Leitha? He looked at his mother. “Would it be too upsetting if I left this afternoon?”

    Mattie studied her hands. “Not upsetting at all, if there’s a possibility of grand children sometime.”  She smiled and nervously wiped the corner of her eye.

    “I can be out of here right after dinner.” He paused just long enough to acknowledge his mother’s sadness with a kiss on the cheek.

     Thoughts of seeing Leitha again crowed out any genuine concerns he had for old man Samuelson.

Return to Holliday Creek (7)

Time Warp

                   By Robert Faulkender ©

In less than a minute a young black woman, twentyish, entered. She smartly closed the door behind her, glanced briefly at Skillman, and turned to the old man, “What is it, father that is so important makes you shout like some heathen?”

     To Ted’s surprise the man smiled. “Sergeant here wants a ride out to the Tarbutton place, Sarah.”

     Sarah? ...Oh, my god. Ted was stunned… little Sarah?

     The girl’s fingers came to her lips. With recognition, tears welled in her eyes. “Is it you, Sheriff? Oh, lord we thought you were dead or something.” Sarah ran to him, threw her arms around his neck. She cried; she laughed; she shook him. 

     Skillman’s mind flashed back to the morning he delivered three orphaned black children to his mother and step-father’s homestead. The oldest boy was leading his younger sister and little brother to Kansas; that is, until they ran a muck of Sheriff Skillman. Rather than arrest and jail them for theivery, the sheriff turned the three over to his parents for raising and schooling.

 

     Sarah and Ted, with Josh driving a buckboard, road west out of town to the Tarbutton farm. Josh was the husband of Sarah and the “son” in Clay and Son Transfer Company. The way Sarah told it, Josh had seen her in town with Mattie and Marty Tarbutton and was smitten. He called on Marty twice, and the second Sunday, asked for Sarah’s hand. She was seventeen. 

     The comely girl smiled at Josh. “I knew I could love this man, but it wasn’t that easy to decide. We kids were bound by a dream. And, as different as we were, the Tarbuttons made us feel like family.”  She turned back to Ted. “You did good, sheriff.”

     She continued, “At that point, my older brother made it easy for me. He announced it was time for him to act on the dream. Joseph wanted to go to Kansas alone, establish a home, and send for anyone who wanted to join him when things were in place. Turned out, a year later, he had a mechanic job with a motor car repair shop in Army City, outside Fort Riley, Kansas. He sent for Danny to join him six months later. ”

     By late afternoon, the buckboard topped one more ridge line, and Ted looked down on the ranch where he had spent most of his growing years. They turned off the road onto the wagon trail that led to the farm house. Mattie Tarbutton appeared on the front porch. 

     The moment she recognized her first born son, tears of joy and sorrow ran down her cheeks. The past rushed back: moments of her girlhood in Ohio, of Teddy’s father, Zeke Skillman; her son’s long absence. She couldn’t move. He approached slowly, and when he was within arm’s reach he swept her off the porch steps and hugged her to him. 

She drew back and they studied each other. Ted scanned the time-carved changes in Mattie’s face while she searched for the little boy in the man before her. 

Just a Memory

     “Welcome home, son. I knew you’d be coming; your mail started to arrive.” She laughed through the tears.

   

     He released her slowly. “It’s great to see you, mom. You’re the one true thing I miss about this place.”

    The train ride to Wichita was only a partial wind-down from the fracas in Columbus. Arrival at home to a crowd of relatives, with everyone trying to link past happenings to the present events, further drained his energy. Ted Skillman was exhausted. Late in the evening he fell into bed with the intent to sleep for a week. 

     And what had Mattie said about mail?

Return to Holliday Creek (6)

Homecoming

        -By Robert Faulkender ©

First Sergeant Bill Hicks had received a letter from home that said the family business back in Ohio was failing. Bill’s dad had been ill for a long time and Bill’s older brother had managed things so badly that the family attorney suggested that Bill come home.

     The sergeants had been a good team: Bill the organizer and Ted the operator. And, they became good friends. When Bill Hicks announced his intentions to leave the army, he didn’t have to ask Ted Skillman twice if he wanted join him in the family business. For Skillman the gateway just opened to a life he thought he had missed. 

     Hicks and Skillman exchanged looks that lingered. Daily went on. “You both have furloughs coming; but, Hicks, you haven’t a prayer of taking one before your discharge. The colonel’s screaming for troops down here, and if he gets anything near what he asked for, we’ll need every top kick we have to handle the build up—that would include you Skillman, only, you get a break.”

       Skillman smiled. “I’ve an approved two week leave in my pocket; starting tomorrow.”


      The Captain nodded. “See if you can catch the afternoon train to El Paso today-- can’t obey an order you don’t receive.”

 

    Daily turned to Hicks. “Yours is more complicated. Colonel Slocum has called a commanders meeting at 1300. All first sergeants will attend.”  Looking at Skillman, “That will be all, sergeant. Great initiative and courage showed today—duly noted for the record.”

1890

     Wichita Falls, Texas was no longer a cow town along the Chisholm Trail. It was a bustling growing place, oriented on oil. Ted could see the offices of Panhandle Oil Company from the train station. A livery stable across the street beckoned. The sign read: Clay and Son Transfer Company.  Skillman walked over. He felt excited, perhaps a little nervous; he had been gone from the homestead for nearly nine years without much communications in between. Guilt set in. 

   The black man inside the office of Clay and Son was no young buck, but he moved with agility and looked plenty strong. He appraised Skillman, “What can I do fur ya, Sergeant?”

    “I need to get out to the Tarbutton ranch west of town. Anything going that way I can hitch a ride with?”

     “Tarbutton place, ya say?” The man’s face softened some, and he opened the back door of the office. “SARAH; come front.”

Sarah? Could it be?

Return to Holliday Creek (5)

A Team Is Formed

          -By Robert Faulkender ©

Villa leads his band

First Sergeant Bill Hicks was a solid, practical man with good organizational skills and an eye for talent. He wasn’t the usual top kick who could talk louder, shoot straighter, and lick any man who questioned his orders. He had the quiet self-assurance of infallibility. He didn’t look like much: barely five foot five and, not fat so much as, thick and balding. But his smile was infectious. When he flashed it, even the ugliest orders became a pleasure to obey.

     Hicks had been a platoon sergeant back when Private Ted Skillman—on the run, looking for adventure-- had enlisted. It struck Hicks that this young kid had a lot more mileage on him then others his age. The sergeant finessed Skillman into his platoon. Neither was sorry.

     Hicks groomed the man. He assigned him all the responsibility Ted could handle, to the point of overload. But, along with the missions, Hicks delegated the authority to make decisions, and cut him a little slack in which to maneuver. Ted Skillman shined.

    Now, Hicks watched from the Headquarters stoops while his protégé marched four bandits though the camp gates. He took pride in the leader and his men. “Where the Hell you been, Skillman?  You let Poncho Villa escape, and then you saunter in here as though catching four desperados can get you off the hook.” 

     Ted had learned from Hicks long ago to credit success to your subordinates, and take responsibility for failure as the leader. Skillman came back in the same tone. “It’s all Corporal Grimes’ fault, Top. He got so carried away with that dam French piece of junk; drove away the whole Villa mob before I could get to it.”

   The First Sergeant made a mental note of trooper Grimes. “The Old Man wants to see you when you have turned that trash into the stockade.”

    The troop commander, Captain Daily, was pacing the orderly room when Skillman entered. The smile on the Captain’s face turned up the corners of his handlebar mustache; gave him a happy surprised look. “Seems you’ve had a good day, sergeant. Come into my office.” 

     Daily pointed, “Have a seat, sergeant,” and the captain sat down behind his desk. “You know, this whole thing is going to blow up into something big. The colonel has already sent three telegraphs to Washington. It’s not just a little boarder incident; it’s an invasion of the United States of America and we don’t dare let it stand.”

     Two knocks; the office door opened. “First Sergeant Hicks reporting as ordered.” A salute. Captain Daily waved his right hand in the vicinity of his forehead. His mustache drooped. 

     “Have a seat, Top.” He continued. “You two plan to muster out within the next ninety days, right?” Both men nodded. 

" There's been a change of plans."

Return to Holliday Creek (4)

No Plan Is Perfect

        By Robert Faulkender ©

Sergeant Skillman went up the ladder first. Like he expected the Mexicans were behind the store façade. At random intervals, they hung over the top, fired down the street, and then dropped onto the roof top while Ol’ Grimes shot the store front to smithereens. 

Poncho Villa

    The moment Skimmer crouched at his side, Skillman stood, and with his army colt drawn and cocked, finger on the trigger, he stepped away from Skimmer. He commanded with the voice of a drill sergeant, “You men, cease fire; roll over on your stomachs, hands out stretched. If you move any other way, I’ll shoot you.”  It didn’t need translation.

     Four Mexicans were startled to the point of frozen in place. The sergeant didn’t need to see their faces to know their hearts. 

     He called out, “Spencer, can you hear me?”

     From the darkness: “Yes, Sergeant.”

     “Are all your men in place?”

     “… Uh… Yes, Sergeant...”

     From where the Mexicans were, even if it were daylight, they could not have seen the outhouse. The voice of Spencer came out of the darkness like the voice of God. 

 

     Someone exclaimed “Mon Dio!” And whether from fright or from bravery, the Mexican at the greatest range grabbed for his pistol. Skillman shot him.

     Then Spencer opened up. 

   Skillman ducked. “CEASE FIRE!  CEASE FIRE! “I got this, Skimmer. Get over there and shut Spencer down. 

     By the beginning of morning nautical twilight, the dark patches around them focused into shapes. Sergeant Skillman and his two men marched three Mexicans, dragging a wounded fourth, down East Boundary Road into the machine-gun position in front of the Hoover Hotel. 

  

     At the crack of dawn, Villa and his mob had captured a hundred horses, plus two supply wagons and had raced out of town. He lost 85 men—dead, and 5 prisoners. The machine guns, despite the notorious tendency to jam, had expended over 20,000 rounds of 30 caliber ammunition—mostly attributable to Corporal Grimes. 

 

Return to Holliday Creek (3)

Three men on a Mission

Sergeant Skillman yelled to Private Skimmer, “Get Spencer and meet me at the back of the hotel.” Then he disappeared into the building, pushed his way through the anxious crowd, and broke out into the alley. He turned east. At the alley entrance onto Boundary Road, he stood tight against the building corner, and sneaked a look up the street. The gun fire came from the roof top of a building on the far side of East Boundary Road.

The moment the two men reached his position the three rushed out of the alley, scrambled across East Boundary, circled around behind a row of buildings, ducked between two of them, and then dashed over Broadway, out of sight from the rooftop shooters. They pulled into a narrow walkway between buildings.

Skillman issued orders around deep breaths. Getting...too old for this stuff.

Spencer and Skimmer were breathing heavy, too. “Skimmer, you stay here and count slowly to a hundred, then catch up to us; unless you hear firing. In that case, go around this building and join us from the east. Spencer, you come with me.” He disappeared into the blackness down the path way.

The sound of pistol fire was close, but it boomed without the staccato crack, which told them they were behind the shooter. Skillman stopped when he emerged from walkway into an open area. Muzzle flashes to their left stabbed the darkness. The moment Skimmer closed, Skillman lead them in single file across a back yard of knee-high weeds. They cozied up to the side of the structure that served as the bandit’s shooting platform. Skillman crept along the wall, and discovered a ladder fixed to the building. That explained how the shooters got up there.

He grabbed the first man behind him, “Spencer,” he whispered. “From the stink of things that dark patch about twenty feet from the store is probably an outhouse. Climb on top of it; not a sound. Standing, you should be able to see the muzzle flashes of the shooters. If you can’t, and you hear shooting, join us on the double. But, if you can see their gun fire, be ready to open up. Any questions?”

All Skillman saw was Spencer’s white teeth behind the grin as the kid slipped into the dark.

Return to Holliday Creek (2)

The Corner of East Boundary and Broadway

By Robert Faulkender ©

 

It was March 14, 1916. Sergeant and lieutenant both pitched in alongside the men loading ammo. Still, it took forever for the two-truck convoy to pull through the gates of Camp Furlong.  Lucas rode in the lead vehicle. The lieutenant had ordered Skillman to set up in front of the Hotel Hover.  At Broadway, Lucas turned left. Skillman turned right, raced another hundred fifty yards down the dirt street, and skidded to a halt in front of the hotel. 

Mexican Soldiers 1910

     Civilians jammed the two story brick building. Most were armed and appeared ready to defend to the death the corner of Broadway and East Boundary Road—no place, special just the little town of Columbus on the U.S.-Mexican border. Skillman recruited four citizens to join two of his men for a sweep of the immediate area, then he and Corporal Grimes turned their attention to the Benet-Mercer machine-gun. 

     The weapon was a heavy, awkward piece of equipment, water cooled and prone to jamming. Skillman didn’t know that much about a machinegun, but he did understand fields of fire and he laid in the gun so it could fire east and west along Broadway as well as north up East Boundary. The chatter of automatic fire echoed from their left. Lucas was obviously in position. 

     Corporal Grimes took to the gunner job like a child to a rattle. He immediately fired a burst of rounds west to establish interlocking fields of fire on his left, then swept the gun smoothly to the right sighting for defilade in his grazing fire. 

Lieutenant Lucas arrived a few minutes later to check the position and coach the squad on gun handling. Three more troopers were with him; two he dispatched immediately to fill sandbags for beefing up the gun position’s defense.

     A muzzle flash up East Boundary Road burped from the darkness followed by rounds hitting the hotel. Grimes swung his weapon around and pumped a string of three round bursts in the direction of the flash. He was positively joyous.

Return to Holliday Creek (1)

Viva Villa

The trembling ground woke Sergeant Skillman, and not a split- second later, a defining explosion sat him straight up on his cot. He moved smartly to the front flap of the squad tent. A column of fire and smoke lit up the sky nearly a 1000 yards out on the night horizon; gun fire in the distance. It was just after 4:00 a.m. 

     A voice from behind him. “What in the Hell was that?” 

   Skillman spun around and dashed back to his bunk. “Squad formation, under arms, in the company street; on the double.” Instantly, people scrambled.

    Within minutes his section closed ranks. The sergeant checked each man for his basic load of ammunition then moved them in a column of two’s, at double time, eastward along the tent lined street. They turned left up the center road to the main gate of Camp Furlong, New Mexico. 

In the moonless night the sergeant deployed his squad evenly on both sides of the road.

Someone yelled out of the darkness. “Man coming in… on the run.”

     Skillman stepped to the center of the road, revolver at the ready. “HALT. Don’t make a move. Identify yourself.”

     “First Lieutenant Lucas, heavy weapons troop commander.” He approached Skillman. “I just left the rail station… Mexican desperadoes all over the town… shouting Viva Villa.” Lucas doubled over to catch his breath. “Burning and looting… had to shoot one to get clear of the train… I came in from El Paso.” 

     Skillman lowered his revolver. “We’re from Bravo Troop; I’m Sergeant First Class Skillman, sir.”

     “Sergeant, we’ve got to take my heavy machine-guns into town before those mad men burn the place to the ground. I don’t know where all my troops are, but I’m under strength anyway.  Bring your men and help me deploy right now.”

Robbery at Holliday Creek (18)

New Beginning.

© Robert Faulkender

 When Ted arrived back at his office, sounds of laughter came from the cell in the rear. He could see Clara Maud through the doorway sitting on one of the cell cots; the children gathered around her, all laughing-- in jail. 

     Clara Maud looked up. “Sheriff Skillman, you’re back. I certainly hope you have solved the problem of getting these dear children to Kansas. They told me all about it.”

     “Well, maybe not all in one step, but we need to talk about the next step. Clara, I really appreciate your running meals up to the office, and looking in on my charges.” Ted walked her to the door.

     “You’re welcome, sheriff. It’s all part of the arrangement between my boss and the mayor: serve three squares to the inmates, bill the town treasury.”  

   He returned to the cells and sat down before the sober faces. As he outlined the possibilities for their future, Sarah and Danny came to tears. Joseph was smoldering. 

     Ted spoke. “I know what I said, son. But you can’t take what you need and pay with what you want. Trade doesn’t work like that. You want something from someone; he decides what you pay, or you dicker until you both agree. It’s called free trade.”  

    What the sheriff said made little difference. The children were desperate to stay as a family and to go to Kansas. They had done their best with what they had. And, done it honorably , if not lawfully.

      In the short run, Ted thought, the Samuelson solution may be a winner for everyone and serve the local law. But in the long run, it’s a broken family and a move back to people being property—not justice, not freedom.

     Sheriff Skillman sat up straight, taking a deep breath. “First thing, kids; understand that getting to Kansas is a long way down the pike. You need to get healthy, and grow up some if you’re going to make a responsible life on a homestead.” 

     The Sheriff stood. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He walked over to the desk and pulled out the town by –laws. “I’m taking you to a special family where you can stay as long as you need, but you have to earn your keep.”

     He fanned through the pamphlet. “If you apply yourselves, the Missus will teach you to read and write, and Sarah how to sew. The old man will teach you boys everything he knows about homesteading.” 

     Ted centered the by-laws on the desk. “They have two lads near Danny’s age. You will be filling an empty space in the family, so I’m sure you’ll be welcome.”

     The children watched his every move.  He couldn’t read their faces, but at least they weren’t angry, fearful, or crying. He unpinned his star, fingered it gently a moment; he wasn’t upholding the law exactly, was he? The Sheriff lingered a moment longer, and then laid the star on top of the pamphlet. 

     Ted Skillman walked to the door. “I’m headed down to the livery for a couple of horses. While I’m gone, see to it this office is cleaned up so it looks like we were never here. We’ll leave as soon as I come back. Be ready. You children are about to join the Tarbutton family.”