Jack Tatum
He was a tall man with a spare frame that sported just enough muscle to let you know he wasn't afraid of hard work. His clothes were plain but rugged. A battered old hat shaded his long nose and innocuous face. When the wind flapped his clothes around it wasn't hard to see why some folks called him Scarecrow Jack.
Jack ambled along the dusty trail, leading the docile brown mare the folks in Hannibal had recommended he get for the trek west. Jack was an indifferent rider, and used to traveling on foot; most of the time, the animal served as a pack horse.
Another man may have been more leery of the wilderness or the things that sometimes lurked in the deep shadows of the earth, and especially of the Indians said to be prowling about, but Jack had his faith and his wisdom, and was more concerned with the little tune he was composing as he walked:
With the sun and the mountains
And my pack at my back
I pointed my boots
Down the long dusty track
No comforts I'm wantin'
No courage I lack
With the sun and the mountains
And my pack at my back
"Whaddya think, Killer?" he asked the mare, who snorted in reply. Jack smiled his broad smile and hummed the tune to his song, watching the sun race him to the horizon.
* * * * * * *
When Jack had his hat pulled low to block the glare from the reddening sun, they chanced across a small stream running through a little dip in the land, surrounded by a few trees. It seemed as good a spot as any to camp, and Jack let the horse forage for herself while he set things up.
He managed to scrape enough deadwood together for a tidy little fire, and he strummed a few tunes on his silver-stringed guitar while the beans were boiling with a little fatback in the pot.
As Jack ate, the emerging night bugs were just warming up their nightly chorus – and then a bunch of them stopped, all at once. Jack heard a few uncertain footfalls just outside the range of the firelight.
"Why don'tcha step on over and share my fire, friend?" Jack called out, setting aside his guitar.
Jack did his best to keep the surprise off his face when an Indian loomed into the circle of light. He wondered for a moment how it was the man had made so much noise, since Indians had that reputation as silent hunters, but the wounds on the man's arm and leg quickly made that apparent. The gash along his arm was especially cruel-looking, and blood still dripped from it. The Indian caught the drops in his hand as they fell, but he held a knife in the other.
Jack smiled and nodded. "You speak my language?"
The man made no response.
"Well, even so, you have a weapon and I don't – " Jack held up his hands to emphasize the fact – "but it looks like you could use some help. Would you like somethin' to eat?"
He held his plate, slowly. The Indian's eyes shifted towards it, wanting it, not wanting it. With a quick move, he jerked the plate out of Jack's hands and sniffed it, then took a tentative bite, keeping Jack pinned with his eyes.
"Now, while you're eatin', I might could help you with that arm." Jack pointed to his own arm and pantomimed cleaning and dressing the wound as best he could. The man narrowed is eyes.
"So, I'm a-gonna stand up and get my bag so I can put together a poultice and bandages for you." Jack started to get to his feet, but the man stood up, brandishing his knife.
"Alrighty then," said Jack mildly and sat back down. The Indian put down the bowl and slowly backed away until he was hidden in the darkness.
Jack sat still for a few minutes, then blew out a long breath between his lips. He glanced over at his passive horse. "Well, Killer, that weren't the most friendliest conversation I ever had. Think I might keep the fire stoked for a while yet." He threw a branch on the flames and retrieved his guitar, turning over the words to a new song as he absently strummed.
* * * * * * *
The Indian sat a ways away from Jack's fire in a shallow depression, watching the firelight while he knotted a rag around his arm. He listened to the faint chords slipping through the night air from Jack's guitar. Once he finished with his arm, he stayed for a while before nodding to himself and slipping away into the night.
Fading Memory
