Was it only a dream? An eighty-five year old recurring nightmare and nothing more?
Old Buck had asked himself that question countless times and as many times had to look no further than his left leg for his answer. There it was! Still! An ugly thing; the open wound that would never heal.
Maybe it all was a bad dream but the bum leg, with its open running sores never healed and modern doctors had no answers. The lonely old man dozed off again, remembering—
There were five riders that first time. He was only five in 1885 on the Tuttle place. In early twilight, after a hot day’s ride, five riders approached the cabin. All wore long rawhide dusters and two were out front.
“Hello—the house,” their leader shouted out. At that, the young farmer came out, armed with a 12 gauge over an under. All five stayed mounted, three held back. Two rode slowly in closer but only the self-assured leader spoke, after studying the farmer closely.
“Two are hungry. We expect to pay. The others will stay mounted in plain sight and off a ways.” That was the most he had spoken all day, and the most he would promise.
“Come on then...and you don’t have to pay.”
The cabin was one big room; temporary quarters while a new two-story farmhouse was going up next door.
A small boy and his little sister took turns peeking from behind their mother’s long skirts as the two men came in. Each set a Remington long shooter beside his plate and began eating swiftly. The farm family had finished eating, so, as the strangers finished, Mary Catherine served each a piece of cherry cobbler. All this time, five-year-old Buck had studied, wide-eyed noticing the older one had been talking throughout their meal but hardly moving his lips, speaking quietly. Only once did the leader answer. “No, Frank,” was all he responded to the last question. All during the meal each kept his eyes on the door as though they might be followed. As they stood to leave, both were polite to the farmer and grateful to his wife. The hurried meal took less than thirty minutes.
Mary Catherine, clearing the table, noticed a twenty dollar gold piece slipped under each plate. She immediately sent her eager little boy, Buck, to run after them to return the money. But the two strangers, who were inside, had already mounted and started slowly down the road, ahead of a pair of riders, leaving a lone teen-age rider in drag.
It was almost full dark now. What happened next took only an instant but it changed the little boy’s life forever and the scene replayed endlessly in the old man’s memory. If only the five year old had yelled out or said something—anything, to the men.
The thin, gaunt last rider heard only the screen door slam. At the sound, he turned in the saddle, reigned in his horse, spinning it around, and in one fluid motion fired his rifle from the hip. Perhaps he intended to hit nearby dirt as a waning that no one was to follow. Or maybe not.
The boy went down!
The leader quickly spun and galloped back.
“Dammit, Sam!” was all he said. Then all five quickly disappeared, riding hard. Little Buck had been grazed on the shin and calf of his left leg. He had passed out, in shock. First blood had been drawn.
The old man still carried on a running conversation with his wife, Maggie. Never mind that she had died years earlier. “Mag, I dreamed again about the horsemen comin’ back. The only thing that’s changes is...this time they’ll be comin’ here instead of over to the big home place on the ridge, south.”
“What’s that ya’ say? Oh, they’re comin’, Mag. But I’m ready this time. Don’t you worry ‘bout that.”
Only Maggie’s wind chimes answered.
He nodded to himself. Yes, that dream of his was a hard dream and those were hard men, no—not even men, really, but something else—something lower that rode, unchecked, spreading terror among the isolated hill folks for all these years. Some say—they still do, he mused.
“When the wind is up and the night is dark—they still do,” he affirmed, aloud.
“And of the four, Death is always in front, now. He rides a pale horse.”
“I saw him clear back then and I’ll see him clear this time.”
“What they want, you ask?”
“I tell you, Mag. They want everybody dead—like them!”
He continued, explaining to the emptiness around
him. “They’re all takers. Sons of the cracker sort; low breds!
“They’re not men at all, but somethin’ less. They have no code. Hatin’ somebody is the only thing they’re really good at...that, an’ bushwhackin’ from behind a tree.”
Grimly, four horsemen pressed on, pursuing a past
they could not change. Out of the half light mist, they had become a living
anachronism, frozen in a lawless time warp of their own making. Still, they
came on—up from Blackwell Station following the
“To hell...and soon but first I got to kill me an old farmer—on the way.”
They climbed the long hill, headed west/northwest to
Driven and twisted from the first with demons of his own choosing, Hildebrand never even stopped to think abut what he hated most; authority, decency or justice.
Yeh, he had another piece of killing to do, north on
“Maybe he’s already dead,” the youngest ventured.
“Not till I say so,” the leader snapped tersely.
“Maybe he don’t live up there no more,” another tried.
“He won’t soon!” Sam cut in to end it.
They were only four horsemen this time, but on they
came into the blowing rain. Electricity energized the pre-dawn clouds; these
cold October clouds that seemed to drape each rider like a shroud. It was still
more dark than light at they now rode due west on the
“Hello the house,” came
Sam’s inevitable call. He too knew of this long-standing tradition among these
isolated farmers in these ravaged heartland hills. He called out before he
cleared the rise of the hill but all he heard were wind chimes. He knew this
part of
The rain stopped suddenly!
Very slowly, this was turning into a cold, slate gray day—the kind of day nobody cares about going back to for remembering.
“Come on out,” the leader growled, “or we’re gonna burn ya’ out, then shoot ya’ where ya’ stand.”
Buck chuckled to himself at that. They planned to shoot him anyway.
Still mounted, all fur had walked their horses into the muddy yard, by now. Three reigned up abreast, behind the gaunt specter that had been Sam Hildebrand. Two riders had rifles casually draped across saddle horns. All were expert marksmen.
“I’m comin’ out!” Old Buck responded. “I been waitin’ a long time for this,” the last part muttered to himself.
“There’s raw mad-dog-evil in what they been doin’ Mag, an’ this ends it right here. Right now.”
Maggie, his wife, had died ten years earlier, just giving up on the hardscrabble life they had.
And, there was still not enough law enforcement, out away from town.
In the still dark house, he pulled on his overalls, loaded the double-barrel twelve gauge and stuck a handful of shells in his pocket. Then, he eased the screen door open, cushioned its closure, silently and stepped outside, still unseen, close to the house.
The ominous sky blackened just as suddenly as the rain had stopped. There was one unearthly crack. Old Buck crumpled to his knees in awe.
The eternal I AM had split the ancient sycamore from top to bottom; and the earth quaked. Horses and riders were taken in an instant.
Immediately, the storm passed and a clear dawn was breaking. Mystified, the old man got up from the still warm mud and went inside. He sat down in his easy chair facing the east and the right.
“They won’t be back, Mag, ever again. It’s been taken care of...”
He dozed off.
“Look at this, Mel; the strangest thing! We got no tire tracks at all. Instead we got four sets of horseshoe prints. Fresh! There hasn’t been a horse on this property in years.”
The law had arrived.
“This whole thing is bizarre! Here we are, investigating this as a probably crime scene; but is it?”
“Is this a crime scene? A send off? Or a stand off?”
“What happened her, anyway?”
“Just answer me this, Mel, the younger deputy, Sid, continued and a barrage of questions followed:
“Why did the old man pull his easy chair over by the bay window?
...and why the twelve gauge beside him with two unused shells outside the screen door?
...and why does he have mud on his forehead, palms and knees—yet nowhere else?”
...“and why the smile?” the older deputy, Mel Boyer, finally joined in.
...”and why don’t I have answers for you?”
Mel continued. “Well, he was ready to go, I’ll say that fer ‘im; even his open Bible on his lap. Looks like he was pointin’ to ISAIAH 41:10. What’s it say, anyway? And look here, Sid, the way he’s dressed. Flannel shirt and tie on—with bib overalls! I ain’t seen that around these parts since the Depression.”
“What did the old man die of anyway?”
“We won’t know that till the medical examiner gets here...but it shor’ looks like he died happy, don’t it!
“What’s that underlined on the envelope that just fell out?”
So I looked, and behold,
A pale horse.
And the name of him who sat on it
Was DEATH...
Rev. 6:8
Even into the 20th Century, because of
wanton lawlessness in the border state of
Mounted male riders were immediately suspect, but anyone who approached any farmhouse knew to dismount or get out of the buggy (later, the car) and approach the house slowly in plain sight. With more than one person in a group, common sense required that only one of any group approached close enough to talk.
Any deviation might be met with sudden and accurate rifle fire from inside.
Because it was assumed that all strangers were “up to no good,” it was practical to state your business from a distance but the initial calling out ‘Hello______the House’ preceded every attempt at communication.
I have been with my dad on numerous occasions when this traditional protocol was used—as recently as 1950.
So, if that seems quaint or even fictional, I invite you to check it out.
Suggested readings:
Giles, Enemy Women
Jones,
Sam Hildebrand was perhaps the most notorious of renegade terrorists who operated out of the Leadbelt section of the Heartland Hills. His raids earned him a hatred, which lasted into the 20th century. He began a reign of cruelty, revenge killings and terror that continued until his death. This psychopath and the vermin who rode with him were considered cowards and unfit for honorable military service in either army during the Civil War.
Unlike the mystique that built up around Jesse
James, decent people in
Hildebrand named his rifle “Kill Devil” and notched the rifle stock for each person he bushwhacked and murdered. It had eighty notches.
He was killed by Sheriff John Ragland in
*Detailed documentation is available.
