Wildwood Boys (8 page)

 

The only ones to join the family at the wake that evening were
the Berry boys. Jim Anderson had carried the news to Arthur Baker,
who sent his condolences and an explanation that he did not wish to
intrude on the family’s private grief and so would for a time refrain
from visiting. Mary thought he was being overly solicitous, but Will
told her the man was just being considerate and not to trouble herself about it.

 

At daybreak they placed Martha in the coffin and the men carried her out to the grave and settled her in it. Will deferred
to Bill in the reading from the Psalms. He then spaded earth over the
coffin until it was covered and then Bill and Jim took over and finished filling the grave. At the head of the gravemound they
implanted a simple wooden cross which Will Anderson would
replace in another week with a gravestone bearing an inscription he
himself chiseled into it:

Martha Anderson
1823–1862

 

Beloved Wife and Mother

Following the burial the Anderson girls wept and comforted each
other, but by sundown they had quit their tears and were busy with
preparing supper for their father and brothers and the visiting Berry
boys. The men passed the afternoon sitting on the porch and pouring
cups from first one jug and then another and they now and then
spoke in low voices of the war news from the border. When they
came to the table all of them were slackfaced with drink. The Berrys
were not such practiced imbibers as the Andersons and Ike periodically and abruptly would sway in his chair. Butch had difficulty finding his mouth with his fork and portions of his supper streaked his
shirtfront. Despite themselves the Anderson men grinned at the
Berrys’ bewhiskeyment. Even the girls had to bite their tongues
against smiling and all three blushed at their own failure to hold to a
proper solemnity.

Midway through the meal Will refilled the men’s cups and doled
a splash of whiskey to each of the girls, even a wee one for Jenny, and
then raised a toast to the memory of Martha Anderson and they all
drank to her. By the time they were done with supper Will was telling
affectionately funny stories about his twenty-three years of marriage
to Martha and they all laughed at every tale. He was in the middle of
another when he suddenly fell silent and looked all about as if thinking to catch sight of her somewhere in the room. Then stood and
took his jug outside and told no more tales of her that night or ever
again. The others traded looks over the table. Bill raised his brow in
question at Mary. She leaned over the table and whispered, “We
ought just let him be for now.” They all nodded. Soon the girls were
chatting in low voices about Mary’s upcoming wedding and the pairs
of brothers talking of the latest rumors of Quantrill.

And so their lives went on. Mary Anderson wrote a brief letter to
their Aunt Sally in Missouri informing her of Martha’s death. But in
the following days widower Will became less inclined to conversation. He turned laconic, was distant at the family meals, detached
even from talk of Mary’s impending marriage. He had always
enjoyed his jug at the end of a day’s work but he now nipped from it
the day long. They had sold all the horses from their last raid and Bill
and Jim were keen to rustle up some more, but when they asked if
they should get the Berry boys and go on a foray, Will Anderson said
no, they’d wait a while yet, and he gave no explanation. The brothers grew disheartened at his seeming lack of interest in everything
but his jug and his own morose company. Mary said he was still
grieving. She said that whenever she watched him sitting in his porch
rocker and staring out at nothing, she could just about see the sorrow holding to him like a chilly mist. They just had to wait a while
longer, she said, before he’d get back to being his old self. But none
of them had known him for a sentimental man, and so all of them
were surprised by the might of his loneliness in a world lacking
Martha Anderson.

A promise breached

Two weeks after Martha’s burial Arthur Baker still had not come
calling nor even sent word of when he might. With the wedding date
barely six weeks away Mary wrote to inform him that he should
again resume his visits and she looked forward to his help in completing the nuptial plans. Three days later one of Baker’s hired men
arrived with a sealed letter. The horseman spurred off again without
asking if he should wait to carry back a reply.

Mary thumbed off the wax seal right there on the porch and
laughingly spun away from Josie who wanted to read on tiptoe over
her shoulder. But as her eyes sped down the page her smile withered.
She looked up at the others, her face gone slack—and then hastened
to read the letter again, her aspect abruptly desperate, as if she might
have misunderstood it the first time. Then let the paper fall and
rushed sobbing into the house.

Josie picked up the letter but Will Anderson snatched it from her.
He read it slowly, then muttered “Shit” and handed it to Bill. Jim
and Josie pressed in at his sides but Jenny was yet too short to see
that high and said, “Let

My dear Miss Anderson—
me
see,” and he lowered the letter to his
belly so that she might read it too.

This is a most difficult Letter. In this bleak Period of
Mourning, following the sorrowful Occasion of your dear
Mother’s Demise, I have had ample Time to reconsider carefully our Proposal to wed,—and the sore Truth of the Matter,
dear Lady, is that I am as unready for Matrimony as a Man
can be. You deserve the best of Men, which, I readily confess,
I am not. Perhaps, one Day, should Fortune smile upon me, I
might be worthy of the Affections of Someone at least in Part
so fine and noble as Yourself. At Present, however, I lack such
Worthiness. It is, therefore,—and with the deepest Regret,—
that I hereby make formal Renunciation of our Betrothal.

I most deeply and humbly apologize for any Distress this
Decision may impose upon you,—and I beseech you to be
assured that my Affections toward you are, and have always
been, most truly honorable and sincere.

I remain,

 

your humble Servant,
Arthur I. Baker

“What in the

world
is he talking about?” Jenny said.
“The man’s changed his mind about getting married,” Jim said.
“I know
that,
” Jenny said. “But how come?”

 

“Because he’s an asshole,” Josie said.

 

“Mind your mouth, Josephine!” Will Anderson said.
“Worthless shithead,” Bill Anderson said softly.

 

“I believe I’ll go whip his ass,” Jim Anderson said.

 

“Do it, Jimmy,” Josie said. “Go over there and kick him in the

plums—if he’s even

The sooner you drop dead, the sooner you will go to
hell—and the sooner I will rejoice.
got
any damn plums, which I truly do doubt.”
“Josephine!”
Will Anderson said. “I won’t have a woman of this

 

family talking low.”

 

“Well dammit, Daddy, it’s just exactly what somebody ought to

 

do to him!”

 

Will Anderson glared at her. Jenny put an arm about Josephine’s

 

waist and whispered, “Quit now.”

 

Will Anderson hawked and spat. “He’s a weak excuse for a man,

 

all right, and I’m sore disappointed to learn it,” he said. “But I ain’t

 

never in my life held with forcing a man to marry a woman except if

 

he got her in the family way, and all this one’s done is change his

 

mind about getting married. He gave his word and broke it and

 

proven himself for a shithead, and I’m sorry for Mary—Lord knows

 

I am—but it ain’t a thing to draw blood over.”

 

It was the most they’d heard him say at one time since they’d

 

buried their mother. They had grown used to his taciturn and melancholic mood, but his voice now seemed strained, as if he didn’t

 

believe his own words, as if he were uncertain of purpose, he who

 

had not hesitated to impale a man with a pickax for touching his

 

daughter.

 

Will Anderson rubbed his face and sighed tiredly. “I ain’t been

 

keeping out of the war with the Union just to get into one with some

 

peckerwood for crawfishing on a marriage promise,” he said. He

 

fixed Bill and Jim with a stern look. “We couldn’t win it no way. If

 

we kill him we’d have to stand trial or run. The man’s got friends all

 

over and the jury’d be full of them. And I’ve run enough. So that’s an

 

end on it.”

 

Mary Anderson wept all that day and night, but by the following

 

morning she had settled her mind about the situation and penned a

 

brief note to Arthur Baker without salutation or signature:

Thus did the matter seem concluded. Until a Sunday evening two
weeks later when the Berry boys came by with an interesting tale to
tell. They had recently made a visit to Miss Juliette’s house of pleasure in Emporia some thirty miles southeast of Agnes City, an establishment they deemed to be worth every mile of the ride. The
Anderson brothers were known to Miss Juliette’s girls too, having
patronized the place now and again for a change from the Reedy sisters. It was only natural that the whores the Berrys consorted with—
a frolicsome pair named Ida and Brenda—would inquire after Bill
and Jim, and only natural that the girls, vast repositories of gossip
and rumor, had heard of Arthur Baker’s jilting of Mary Anderson.
They thought it was a damn shame, the fella asking Mary to marry
him just because he was having a tiff with another girl and then
throwing poor Mary over when he made up with the first one, who
happened to be the sole daughter of a rich daddy and whose only
brother was a born halfwit. Thus did the Berrys learn of Arthur
Baker’s betrothal to Clara Segur, daughter to John Segur, a horse
rancher in Lyon County. Three weeks ago, Segur had invited all his
friends to his ranch for a picnic in Baker’s honor and there
announced Clara’s engagement to him.

As Ida and Brenda told it, Baker had started courting Clara back
in autumn, but he hadn’t yet proposed to her when they had a quarrel of some kind in February and stopped seeing each other. That was
when he met and began calling on Mary Anderson. The gossip conveying from the Segur ranch was that Clara knew he was visiting
some girl who lived near Agnes City, but she thought he was only
trying to make her jealous. When she heard about his engagement to
the Anderson girl, however, she thought he might be angry enough to
go through with it if she didn’t act fast, so she wrote him a long and
sweetly apologetic letter. Shortly afterward came her daddy’s picnic
and his announcement of the engagement.

“This is the same fella who wrote to Mary he’s unready for marriage as a man can be,” Jim Anderson said sardonically. “Bastard
went and got engaged to that other girl before he’d even broke it off
with Mary.”

“I never met the shithead myself,” Butch said, “and he best hope
I never do.”

A foray

 

They were sitting on the porch, each man sipping from his own
jug, and they were all a little drunk but for Will, who was very
drunk, having been drinking since morning. Now his face was
drawn, his eyes gone narrow and bright and fixed on some outraging
vision in his head.

 

“There’s more,” Ike Berry said. “Somebody asked Baker where
you all were from, and he said Kentucky, but somebody else said you
were from Kentucky like Abe Lincoln was from Atlanta. Said he
knew for a fact you all were from Missouri and so he could hardly
blame you for lying about it. The way the story goes, Baker was
mighty put out. He said marrying into a family of pukes would’ve
been the most shameful thing he ever did.”

 

For a moment no one spoke, and then Jim Anderson said,
“Pukes?”

 

They held silent again for a time before Will Anderson said, “His
wife’s got no sisters and but one brother and him a softbrain. So I
guess everything belonging to his new daddy will be his some day.”

 

His words were slurred but clear enough. The others exchanged
looks.

 

“All that good horseflesh this Segur fella’s got,” Will said, “it’ll
someday belong to Baker, won’t it?” He took a deep pull off his jug.
“Well, I believe we maybe ought slide on down there and lay claim to
some of those horses Baker’s due to inherit. I believe it’d be nothing
but proper settlement for the man’s goddam breach of promise.”

 

His grin was reflected in every face.

They did not wait for a moonless night nor even until they were
sober. Will had intended to accompany them, but he was so rough in
bridling his horse that he frightened the animal and the spooked
horse shied hard and knocked him down. He had to be restrained
from attacking it with his fists. Bill and Jim ushered him back to the
porch and sat him there and put a jug in his hands and assured him
they could manage the rustle without him. Then they were mounted
and on their way.

The Berry boys knew where Segur’s ranch lay and the four of
them rode hard to the southwest under a high half-moon of polished
silver. They passed a bottle among them as they rocked along in their
saddles and they drank and made jokes and laughed into the warm
night wind pushing back their hatbrims.

Just before midnight they crested a low hill and hove up and saw
below them a moonlit herd they guessed to number a hundred head
milling on a grassland the Berry boys said was Segur’s north pasture.
They spied no campfire to indicate a guard camp. Had they been less
drunk they would have scouted for guards more carefully. If they’d
spied any, they would have sent one man around to the far side of the
herd to create a distraction and lure away the lookouts while the
other three swiftly cut out horses from the unguarded side and made
off with them. If necessary, the decoy could have fired in the air to
frighten the remaining herd into stampeding and occupy the guards
in rounding it up while the gang got away clear. That’s how they
would have done it had they not been quite so drunk.