Plowman

PLOWMAN

Keith Welch

AuthorHouse™ LLC

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2014 Keith Welch. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/11/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2520-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2519-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014912310

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover Graphics/Art Credit Kenny Priestly

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter One

About The Author

This book is

dedicated to my

Mom and Dad.

Shirley and Noel

Irene, my wife,

and to Sharee, Amber, Jake, and Ashlee my children

and to all 13 of my grandkids.

Dad, you left too soon and I’ve missed you these many years. I know you have been watching over us from the other side and will be waiting for us when we get there. Mom, you’ve made this book possible through your support and love. I want you to know that I couldn’t have had better parents and that all that I am came from the teachings you gave to me as I grew up. I LOVE YOU.

To my wife Irene, thanks for all you’ve done for me and with me in our lives together. I LOVE YOU. To my kids Sharee, Amber, Jake and Ashlee, I love you always. To all my grandkids, always remember Papaw LOVES YOU!!

ALL characters in this book are fictional. ALL names, actions, and situations are fictional

CHAPTER ONE

Pain. Sharp, strident, stabbing, piercing pain as well as the gnawing, down to the bone, aching type which keeps rhythm with the beating of your heart were coursing through his body and yet, oddly, he felt distant from it. Oh he knew he was in trouble, but it was almost as if it was someone else’s pain and he was sharing an intimate part of it with them. He opened his eyes to darkness. He could smell the sharp tang of wood smoke in the room as well as meals that had come and gone here. Where exactly was here? He slowly moved his eyes around taking in the things he could see. He was in a room about 6 foot by 8 foot made from rough hewn logs and the gaps had been mudded in to keep out the weather. There was a simply made coat rack by the door and his jacket, shirt and pants hung there. The bed he was on had a homemade quilt of multiple patches all sewn together. It was thick, comfortable and…not his. This room wasn’t in his house. But where was he? The memory came flooding back then. The warm spring day, sweat running down his face and body as he harried his mules Liddy and Lila, some of the prettiest matched mules the county had to offer, along the row he was plowing. He can remember sighting in on a tree limb so’s he could keep his rows straight. It was a point of pride with him that his fields not only grew good crops but that they looked good too. He can hear the sounds of the mules breathing as they bent into their work. The sounds of the leather harness and trace chains and the ripping of the soil as his plow bit deep into it. He could hear the distant sounds of his wife and son in their house not 200 yards away. He can hear the laughing as his boy runs up to Mary his beautiful wife. He chances a glance in their direction and catches four men riding up on horses. He tries to keep an eye on them as he continues on the row. One thing his pa had always taught him was you never stopped plowing in the middle of the row. It was hard to get the animals restarted and it gave you a feeling of something left undone. So he alternated between the tree limb and his family as the men dismounted. He’d be neighborly as soon as he got to the end of this row. He turned for one last look at the cabin just before the end of the row when he heard a scream and shouting drifting to him from his home. What he saw stopped his heart cold and froze the blood in his veins. One man was holding the horses as the other three men began attacking his wife! He threw off the reins and went charging across the field horror struck as he watched his wife struggling with the men. He could see her scratch one man across the face and she was kicking and screaming for him. He was getting closer. He was only a few seconds’ away.

Babe, hang in there I’m coming he silently prayed. About that time his little boy Ben, who was all of 5 years old and acting like a little man every day, came out of the cabin with his old 12 gage shot gun. One of the men spun towards him and without a seconds hesitation drew his revolver and shot him. He watched in horror as his little boy was flung backward from the force of the bullet and he gave a crazed yell. His wife was fighting to get to Ben and they were tearing at her clothes when the sound of his cry reached them. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. His son falling to the ground, his wife struggling violently to break away from these men. The one just watching and holding the horses, the gun coming up from the bearded man on the left, the sounds of the shots and the sudden blossom of pain in his side and chest. He can remember looking at the dark, plowed earth as he caught himself on his hands and knees, his thinking all of the sudden having gone fuzzy, remembering the shot of adrenaline as he knows he must get up and defend his family. He looks up just in time to see the man in the middle take careful aim at him. He sees the billow of gun smoke, feels a blow to his head and then…darkness.

He stirs at the memory and the sound brings a rustle of skirts from the next room. As she enters the room he can see her outline in the door way and hear the softness of her voice as she replies to someone out of sight.

It appears he may be coming awake now. I’ll get some broth and you can ask him your questions whilst I get it into him.

Fair enough a gruff voice answered.

A voice, if he wasn’t mistaken, belonging to old man Pitcher the local marshal. The woman would have to be the widow Saxton just down the road a piece from their place. So many gaps in his memory. How’d he get here? What had happened to Mary and Ben?

Although he already knew that answer in his heart. He had hardly thought these thoughts when old man Pitcher eased his great bulk into the chair next to the bed.

Well C what can you tell me about what happened? They had called him C since he was a little boy when he was always wanting to see what was what, that and the fact his mama had named him Cleetus after his grandfather and his daddy had hated the name, and hadn’t cared for the grandfather either. So’s C is what everyone had called him for most his life, cept when he was in trouble, then Cleetus Dearborn Mallory was what was used.

His wife Mary would sometimes call him Cleetus Dear jokingly to keep him from getting mad at something or to tease him when they were feeling their love for one another. That thought brought a stab of pain lancing through his heart and then he looked at old man Pitcher.

What he saw wasn’t much different than he had expected. He was a heavy set man wearing overalls and he had a homespun shirt on. His hat had seen better days and the stubble of beard and bloodshot eyes told him that old man Pitcher had spent a few sleepless nights lately. Rightly so, he expected, but old man Pitcher wasn’t town marshal because he was good at it. He was town marshal because no one else wanted the job and he wasn’t much of a farmer, not to mention his health wasn’t all that good.

What had happened? He had lost everything he had ever cared about that’s what had happened. He knew what the marshal was really asking though so he told him his story reliving it as he told it. When he was done he felt cold and empty. Even the pain throbbing through his body didn’t really touch him. The marshal nodded and C knew that much of his story had to have been read on the ground by the tracks left by those that had taken from him everything he had ever wanted.

Yep, that’s the way we figured it had happened. What you may not know is they also burned your place and run off your livestock. Your mules showed up at Willis’s place not 3 days ago.

3 days ago? How long have I been out? he asked.

Well, nigh on to a week now. You lost a lot of blood and the blow to your head didn’t help you much either.

He felt the cold deepen and then looking into the Marshals bloodshot eyes he felt the change settle even deeper in him. The cold seemed to seep into him, the empty feeling almost like an echo through his body. Even the pain seemed to recede and belonged to someone else.

The marshal told him a few other details such as only three of the men had engaged in the attack of my wife and the murder of my family. The fourth one had left the other three not long after the group had left my farm and taken off in a different direction. I didn’t care. They were all going to die. I would kill them when and where I found them and without an ounce of mercy.

I guess about that time Marshal Pitcher realized that something had happened to me. Something more than just my injuries and loss. I had always been a man to live life and to enjoy it. I had always lent a helping hand where I could and generally loved my fellow man as best I could. I went to church of a Sunday and enjoyed the socials that came our way. Since meeting and marrying Mary, my life had been even better and I came to be even more of a God fearing community man, which had continued after Ben had been born. I had been willing to do what I could to get a school into our town and been available the few times the old Marshal here had needed backing. I guess the Marshal must have seen it in my eyes. Must have seen the emptiness. He began telling me in no uncertain terms that they would send out the descriptions of these murdering skunks and they’d be brought to justice. That I should let myself get better and rebuild my farm. When he’d finished speaking his piece the silence between us grew long and I guess uncomfortable for him as he finally excused himself and left the room. The widow Saxton must have been waiting for just that and she bustled in with some beef broth and water.

She nattered on about this and that and the goings on around town the last week as she fed me the broth. Even she grew quite as I failed to respond.

She finally said in a soft voice, C, we don’t know why the good Lord allows these things to happen, but you mustn’t lose faith and you mustn’t give up hope.

I would have laughed in her face,