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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Souls in the Wind
Jeremy Lane
James Briscoe stood looking out the window of his study. He often came upstairs in the midmorning and poured himself two fingers of whiskey. It wasn’t an honorable practice to be drinking this early in the dayhe knew thatyet he found it relaxing. It was his time to think.
On this particular morning he watched as Polly Ann, the daughter of Smoke Jackson, his most reliable and highest-paid farmhand, walked out of the barn, where his son was tinkering with an old wagon. Normally he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, except that James had witnessed several suspicious things of late and was watching with a careful eye.
A man has a way of knowing when something is different within his own universe, and the shy conversations, quick smiles, and fleeting glances between his son and the young girl had perked his attention. He felt no need to forbid his son to speak with Polly, or anyone else for that matter. It was the girl’s beauty that worried him, and her color, which caused a different kind of apprehension.
Something caught his eye as he took a sip from the glass. Along the eastern edge of the cornfield ran a tree line, with a solitary tree one hundred yards to the west. Under the tree were two horses, both riders dismounted, and a third man, who looked to be on his knees. Briscoe set his whiskey on the window ledge and hurried down the stairs, out the door, and into the barn. He pulled his horse from the first pen and mounted with no saddle.
“Where you goin’, Pop?” his son asked as he rode by, his horse agitated at the quick mount. Briscoe knew it wasn’t any of his hands; he could recognize his men from five hundred yards just by the way they stood. He rode at a gallop down into the field and followed the eastern tree line toward the men and horses. A black man, no doubt the one on his knees before, was now standing with his hands tied behind his back. Briscoe approached and spotted the white of a noose around his neck. “Mornin’, Mr. Briscoe,” said one of the other men. He knew the voice right away. It was Hank Aldridge, the overzealous young sheriff of Wichita Falls.
Aldridge was a skinny pencil of a man who’d once chased someone from Wichita Falls to Denton for stealing two tomatoes from a widow’s garden. The sheriff tracked him to a saloon there, bound and gagged the man, and dragged him terrified to the local jail. Upon hearing the man’s infraction, the local lawman agreed to jail the vegetable thief but informed Hank that he would be incarcerated as well for disturbing a local business over such a small matter. The young sheriff left humiliated, and the story traveled back to Wichita Falls quicker than his worn-out horse. He was a laughing stock among most in his town, and James Briscoe was among those with little respect for the man.
“What the hell’s goin’ on here, Hank?” Briscoe asked as he hopped down from his horse.
“Now, Mr. Briscoe, I asked you before to call me ‘Sheriff’,” Aldridge replied, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
“All right, Sheriff, what the hell’s goin’ on here and what are you doin’ on my land?”
Aldridge spit and wiped his mouth with the back of his shirtsleeve. “This boy was caught with a white woman. Lady said he come on strong. She couldn’t fend him off.”
“And I guess you believe that too, don’t you?” Briscoe said with a smirk.
“It’s grounds for a lynchin’, and you know it, James,” the sheriff replied.
“Yeah, I know that. Another thing I know is that” They were suddenly interrupted by an unnatural sound. Briscoe turned to find the black man dangling from the noose, the rope flung over the tree and tight around the deputy’s saddle horn. The deputy held his horse steady while the black man gagged, twitched, then hung lifelessly. Briscoe watched the man die then looked down at the ground and tightened the hat on his head. He turned to the sheriff. Briscoe was a large man, well over six foot, with broad shoulders and a muscular frame. He walked slowly, until his nose nearly touched the sheriff’s.
“Have your man turn loose of that rope,” he said sternly. Aldridge watched him through squinted eyes. He gave his deputy a nod, and the black man crumpled to the ground.
“Now get off my land, and if I ever catch you on my property again, I’ll shoot ya.”
“Doubt you’d shoot a lawman,” replied Aldridge.
“That’s true. You ain’t one.”
The sheriff turned slowly, walked to his horse, and mounted. He rode off in silence with his deputy following behind. Briscoe watched them until they were out of sight then mounted his horse and rode toward home without looking at the body. He looked up to find Jordy several paces away from the barn. He was standing in between two rows of corn and must have witnessed the whole episode. Standing a hundred feet behind him, next to the barn, was Smoke Jackson. James was aggravated that either had seen the hanging. He rode up to Jordy and stopped his horse.
“What are you gonna do, Pop?” the boy asked.
“Dig that man a grave,” Briscoe replied, looking behind him.
“You want me to help?”
“No, son, I don’t,”
Briscoe tied his horse and found Smoke had already brought two shovels.
“Take the rest of the day off, Smoke,” he said.
“Let me help ya dig, Mr. Briscoe,” Smoke replied.
“No need. Spend the day with your family,” he said in a tone that offered no option for rebuttal. Smoke gave a slight nod and walked away. James once again mounted his horse, more gently this time, and allowed the animal to turn a full circle. He watched as Smoke put an arm around his wife and guided her into their small house, then looked over to find Jordy and Polly Ann in an awkward conversation, both looking at the ground rather than each other. He turned his horse and trotted off, intent on providing the stranger in his field a proper grave.
______________
The happenings of the night are most often dependent upon the previous day, and because of this, some nights are not made for sleeping. James Briscoe was a firm believer in rest because he was a firm believer in work, so sitting in the dark of his study well after nightfall caused him to feel something like guilt.
He was unsure exactly what was unsettling him. The stranger was not the first man who had died before his eyes, though Briscoe knew in his heart that the hanging had been needless; Aldridge was far too incompetent to serve anything resembling justice. His mind kept drifting back to Jordy and the young girl, the sum of everything he had seen over the previous weeks, and their melancholy conversation after the terrible event. He wondered what his son had said to her in such a moment, if he had spoken as a boy or a man.
As if on cue, Briscoe caught sight of a white cotton dress swaying in the night breeze, moving away from the Jackson house and into the field. A strong moon allowed him to watch as she made her way into the cornfield, alone and at a quick pace, before disappearing into the shadows of the night. He did not move from his seat, as he did not desire to desecrate what he suspected might be happening, so he did not witness as the young girl spoke whispers of sorrow to the fresh, raised dirt, and as she placed a flower at the head of the grave under the solitary tree. These things he did not witness, though he knew them just the same.
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Despite the late night, Briscoe woke just after sunup, dressed, and walked outside. He enjoyed being the first one out, though he rarely did any work this early. He mostly enjoyed the quietthe sound of the wind shuffling the grass in the field and the rustling of the trees. He stood in the open air and took in the sounds around him. He thought about the day’s work. It was a good feeling to know those he loved were still asleep.
The slam of a screen door shattered the quiet morning, and he turned to see Smoke crossing the yard with a hurried walk. As he drew near, Briscoe noticed a ghastly look on his face. “Mornin’ Smoke,” he said loudly.
“Mistuh Briscoe,” replied Smoke. “Mistuh Briscoe.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Polly,” he said with a faltering voice. “She’s gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“See fuh yourself, suh,” Smoke replied, and offered a folded letter.
His heart nearly stopped as he read the words Polly had written. He stared at the paper long after he had finished reading it, trying to formulate a response, trying to absorb the situation. He had little concern about Jordy’s ability to make it on his own. He was a strong, intelligent boy. It was different for Smoke. Having an attractive young black girl out on the plains was another matter.
He glanced over to Jordy’s window.
“Guess you didn’t check his room this mornin’, Mistuh Briscoe,” Smoke said.
“Nah. Rarely do. Figure I’ll let him sleep while he can.”
The screen door sounded again, and Briscoe looked over to see Smoke’s wife on the porch, her hand covering her mouth to stifle the sobs.
“Go calm your wife. I’ll go and see if the boy left a letter. Then we’ll talk about what we’re gonna do.” He put a hand on Smoke’s shoulder and made for the house.
He opened the door quietly, hoping not to encounter his wife, and heard no movement. A few quick steps took him to Jordy’s door, which he opened. He found an empty bed. Though he had expected it, the sight of his son’s neatly folded sheets had a strange effect on him. On the pillow was an unfolded letter with fifty dollars resting on top.
Pop,
I took a little food and two horses. Here is fifty dollars. I hope you are not angry. I just love her. Kiss Momma for me, and tell her not to worry.
Jordy
It was impossible for him to be angry. James was a reasonable and levelheaded man, yet he had done some stupid things in his life, and nearly every one of them because of a girl. Jordy had the spirit for adventure; it was a trait shared by his father.
The corner of a few papers sticking out of the nightstand caught Briscoe’s attention. He opened the drawer and found a few scribblings, some numbers, and a map of Texas. A route south was penciled here and there, and a note at the bottom read: Galveston, 600 miles.
James leaned back and sighed loudly.
Half an hour later he sat in the family room, listening patiently while his wife and Mrs. Jackson took turns sobbing and railing against the foolishness of their children. His wife’s reaction was just what he’d expectedshe had always been a dramatic womanbut he was surprised at Mrs. Jackson. He had known her for years, and though they rarely conversed, she always appeared stern, though polite, and insistent on proper behavior. James wondered at the power of a child to create such heartache. It was a power held by children alone.
Briscoe’s patience thinned, and he interrupted his wife.
“All right,” he said and sat forward with his elbows on his knees. “We all agree what they did was foolish, and we wish they hadn’t, but they did.” Both women were fidgeting with their tissues and sniffling.
“Now, as I see it, we probably oughta go find ’em. If it was just my boy, I wouldn’t worry so much, but young Polly…”
The mention of Polly’s name wrenched Mrs. Jackson, and she fought back tears. Smoke consoled her with a hand on the knee.
“Mistuh Briscoe,” Smoke said. “I’m all fuh goin’ after ’em, but they could be off in any direction now.”
Briscoe nodded and scratched his neck. “I got a pretty good idea where they might be headed,” he replied. “Believe they may be tryin’ for Galveston.”
His wife gasped. “Galveston? Oh, Lord, what for?”
“All that talk my nephew gave him, I’m sure.” Smoke gave him a confused look. “Word is Galveston’s, um, progressive,” Briscoe said. Smoke shuffled in his seat.
“How do ya mean, suh?”
“Well,” he replied and turned both palms upward. “It’s easier for black folks. Better than most places. That’s what they say.”
Smoke shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t undastand,” he said. “Polly was always treated just fine right here on this farm.”
“I appreciate your sayin’ that. Fact is, though, this is a little farm compared to a big ol’ world. ’Spect they was impatient to see a bit of it.” Silence set in, and Briscoe sat back in his chair.
“When do we leave, Mistuh Briscoe?” Smoke asked after a moment.
“’Round sundown. Horses will travel better out of the sunlight.”
“Won’t they just get farther away?” asked his wife.
“They’re pullin’ a wagon. We’ll catch ’em quick enough,” he replied and rose from his chair. “Y’all sit as long as you like,” he said then made for the stairs. He needed a drink.
James spent the afternoon gathering the things he would need for the trip. He planned to travel light, making it easier on his horse, and to carry enough cash to purchase what he might otherwise need. He gave Smoke his pick of a horse, along with his own suggestion, and instructions to pack light as he had done.
After consoling his wife once more and promising a swift return, Briscoe led his horse out into the evening sun. The farmhands would on any other day have been gone to do whatever it was they did at night, but they sensed something strange and stood around making small talk not far from Smoke’s porch. Briscoe was aware of them watching him; he gave a motion for them to come over. Smoke stood with his horse on one side and his wife on the other, just behind the rest of the boys.
“Me and Smoke are gonna be gone for a few days,” he said loudly. “While we’re gone, Mrs. Jackson will be in charge.” Briscoe caught a look of surprise on some faces.
“She’s got authority to fire you, though I don’t anticipate her needin’ to. Just do what you do when we’re here.” He nodded, and the group dispersed. Smoke and his wife approached slowly.
“You ’bout ready?” Briscoe asked.
Smoke nodded. “Yes, suh.”
“Mrs. Jackson, if you need anything bought, just let my wife know.”
“I’ll take care a’ things, Mistuh Briscoe,” she said. The distraught woman from inside the house had disappeared, and Briscoe recognized her again. “You find my Polly, Mistuh Briscoe. While I’m still myself and can stand up straight.”
“Yes’m. I will,” he replied, and mounted his horse. He trotted ahead to give them time to say good-bye.
Briscoe couldn’t remember the last time he had ridden off into the brush. He began to realize just how comfortable life had become. The sound of Smoke’s horse came from behind, and he fought back a smile. People were worried, and with good reason, but Briscoe couldn’t help but feel glad to be leaving.
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The two men made good time through the evening and into the night. A full moon sparkled on the sides of the sweating horses, yet Briscoe was adamant that they stop only long enough to give the animals water and a short rest. He began to feel that a full moon on a warm night was just what he had neededhe was almost jolly but did not let on as much to Smokeas he conjured up memories of his youth, before fatigue existed for him, riding and hunting and answering to no one.
“What you suppose drives a child to run off, Mistuh Briscoe?” Smoke asked.
“Ah, hell,” he replied. “Lotsa things. Love. Hate. Fear. You name it.”
“Never thought I’d be chasin’ young Polly, though. Always been a good child.”
“Still is,” Briscoe said. “Both are. Can’t hold a little romance against ’em. Had my share, and I’m sure you did too.”
Smoke gave a quiet laugh and shook his head. “Yessuh. That’s true enough.”
Later, the morning hour began to paint a gray light across the countryside, and the cool breeze of the darkness transformed to the muggy still of a July day. The tip of the morning sun reached the horizon, illuminating a small camp about a mile ahead. Briscoe spotted the wagon through his field glasses and nudged his horse.
“There they are. Let’s go,” he said in Smoke’s direction.
Both horses were spent. It occurred to him that they would need a day’s rest before making the trip home. His body tensed as he closed the distance to the camp and caught sight of an extra horse and a third person.
Briscoe knew immediately who it was, and his horse was at a full gallop when he dismounted. Jordy was sitting on the ground with his hands tied behind his back. Polly, her cheeks wet with tears, was at the back of the wagon, and Hank Aldridge stood near the morning fire.
“Aldridge,” Briscoe said through clenched teeth, his eyes wild with fury. He was two strides away when the sheriff pulled his gun.
“Settle down, now, Mr. Briscoe.”
Briscoe hesitated then took another step. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said.
“Seems your boy’s in some trouble,” Aldridge replied. “Kidnappin’ this young girl here. Not good at all.” He shook his head dramatically.
“Nobody’s been kidnapped. They left together by choice.”
“Hmm. Doubt that. Either way, he’ll be goin’ back with me,” Aldridge replied.
“Damned if he will.”
Movement from the side caused both Briscoe and Aldridge to turn their heads. Polly walked quietly to Jordy, fell to her knees, and wrapped her arms gently around his neck. Her tears dampened the collar of his shirt.
“Hey! Get away from that boy,” Aldridge yelled, his gun now pointed in their direction. “Hey!” he yelled again and began walking toward them.
An explosion sent Briscoe stumbling backward, his vision blurred and ears ringing. He looked down at himself, feeling and searching for the wound, but found none. His vision focused, and he saw Smoke standing with a rifle, the smoke still fluttering out of the barrel, and Hank Aldridge’s body crumpled on the ground. Blood poured from a hole in his neck.
Smoke looked over with a trembling face. It was at that moment that Briscoe finally understood the man he had known for so many years. The same unquenchable fire burned within Smoke Jackson as burns within every man, the unwillingness to relinquish those things ordained by God: freedom, the ability to protect those you love, equality in justice, happiness, peace. He felt, as they all did, retribution for the man buried under the tree.
Briscoe gathered himself, gave a slight nod, and walked over to untie his son.
Moments later, the two men stood with their children in silence, each of them exchanging looks of understanding. The events of the morning would belong to their memories alone.
Briscoe walked slowly over to a large, white rock with a pointed edge and picked it up with both hands.
“Where ya goin’, Pop?” Jordy asked.
“Dig that man a grave,” Briscoe replied as a quick, cool breeze brought the smell of an oncoming rain.
“Souls in the Wind” is a story from a larger collection by Jeremy Lane.
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