The Devil's Rope - Chapter One

The Devil's Rope

         

Late summer.

The month-long heat wave continued to show no mercy. Parker sat in his rocking chair on the partially shaded porch of his cabin. The cabin, built by the previous owner, had deteriorated over the past ten years. The war had spread its misfortunes as well. Some of his neighbors tried burning him out but failed, adding to the harsh winters and unforgiving summers taking their toll. He turned his head and fixed his gaze on his trophy. As if crowning a King, he had reverently placed the last stone on its chimney. The Johnson County War had ended, and his father had been awarded what is now known as Parker's Cabin. He had hoped to have it finished before the arrival of the first snow. That was important to him—Lydia would be his wife come December.

         Parker stood and stretched his arms outward from his sides. He couldn't help but be mesmerized by the vast prairie before him. Though the summer's drought had left its mark, the knee-high brown grass swayed gently in the soft but troubled Chinook Winds, causing it to ripple like the ocean's waves flowing towards and gently embracing the shore. The warmth was cooling as the sun dipped behind the mountains, leaving its last kiss on the prairie and bidding it goodnight.

         The gnawing and growling inside his stomach reminded him that it was close to suppertime. His ma would be setting a place for him to join them. His mouth watered when he thought of her fried chicken, cornbread, and beans. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Rex, his buckskin quarter. Rex had turned out to be a good, reliable cattle horse. He, too, was a trophy. He came with the cabin. Giving a soft whistle, he caught Rex's attention. With one quick tug, Rex had freed his reins from the hitching post and walked over to Parker. Parker took his reins and mounted Rex's back in one smooth jump.

         Following his barbed wire fence line, he headed for the main road to take him to his father's ranch, The Silvercreek. Without warning, lightning and the sun upon the cloud tops were the only brightness left in the day. Darkness reigned. As if the clouds were unzipped, they opened, and the rain, once scarce, began filling the barren streams, turning them into turbulent rivers. Following its ghostly howel, the wind ran like it had been turned loose from its restraints. Rex frantically neighed and reared back, sending Parker to the ground with a thud.

         Still dazed, Parker pulled himself back on his feet. "What the hell, Rex?" he said, rubbing the back of his head. Rex continued to stomp his front hooves, shake his head, and neigh frantically. Parker grabbed the reins and tried to soothe him. "Whoa boy, you've been out in this kind of storm before; now settle down." Patting and rubbing his neck, he realized it was of no use. With the reins in hand, he started to lead the horse.

         Rex jerked the reins from his hand, turned, and bolted back towards the cabin's barn. "Damn!" he said and pulled the brim of his hat down to shield his eyes from the rain. Turning to start down the road, he stopped.

"What—the hell?" In front of him was a black cowboy hat perched on one of the wooden fence posts. Its barbed wire, or Devil's rope, as the Indians called it, had been cut and thrown to the side as if to free any animals within. Parker scratched his head. There weren't any animals to free. The sheep had all been killed, and the cattle hadn't arrived yet from Kansas, he pondered. Puzzled, he looked again at the hat. He plucked it from the fence post and looked inside its crown. "No!," he whispered when he saw them. The initials E.E.. Quickly, he threw the hat down into the mud, turned, and bolted towards the safety of The Silvercreek Ranch

         His heart was beating like a drum. The tightness in his chest and the overwhelming sensation of suffocating left him grasping for air as he pounded on the front door with the strength he had left. His pa opened the door. The smile that was pasted on his face disappeared.

"Parker...Parker...my God, son, you look like you've seen a ghost! Come in, boy..." Pa led him through the door to the social room and stirred the fire until a roaring blaze sprung up. Shoving a whiskey tumbler full of Bourbon into his hand, he ordered,

"Drink up! It'll calm you down. Now—what the hell is the matter!" His voice was more of a demand than one of concern.

The color had drained from his face. Though it was difficult to tell, cold sweat beads streamed down his forehead and face and dripped from his chin between the rain dripping from his hair and face. Parker moved his lips several times, but his voice did not emerge. Again, he tried to speak, and again, his voice failed him. Parker felt as though his vocal cords had been ripped from his throat.

         Shaking like a leaf, he tried to sip the Bourbon. His clothes reaped his efforts with each attempted sip.

"Nah! Nah! Son! You gotta gulp it, ifn' you want the benefits. Besides, I wanna know what got you into this state! Surely...it wasn't the lighting and the thunder." Pa sneered between the refills of his whiskey tumbler.

Parker coughed and choked through the wet fire flowing effortlessly down his throat. He leaned forward, cupped his mouth, and whispered,

"he's back."

Pa turned his back to the fire, "Who's back, boy?" He squinted his eyes and slowly refilled both his and Parker's tumbler.

Parker looked side to side and behind him.

"Ei...pa. Eli's back."

"Have you taken leave of your senses—boy?"

"No, pa, I saw his hat with his initials on the fence post. The wire had been cut..."

"Nonsense, boy! That's impossible! Eli ain't back!"

"But pa!"

"Enough! Eli ain't back...supper's getting cold."

There was no conversation at the table that night. Martha had cleared the table and replaced the dishes with fresh tumblers and the Bourbon decanter. Parker couldn't contain his thoughts nor himself.

"Pa, why are you so sure Eli isn't back to reclaim his farm?"

Pa placed the tumbler full of Bourbon on his lips, tilted it straight up, and let the burning liquid trickle down his throat. Clearing his voice, he replied,

"Cause ole' man O'Keefe shot him and I hung him.




W/C 1091