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.