This is the first draft of the first chapter of my exciting new YA series. Let me know what you thin.
Chapter 1
My life was just fine before Uncle Isaiah died. Then it wasn’t. Uncle Isaiah raised me. My folks died when I was real young. I don’t even remember them, just my uncle. He was a snake oil salesman, sometime preacher, sometime gambler, whatever paid. We had a wagon, not like yer Conestogas with a canvas top and such. This thing was real stout, made of wood. We had bunks and a stove inside and windows, of course, storage places for Uncle Isaiah’s snake oil ingredients and our gear. We travelled all over. We talked about everything under the sun. We read. He taught me to read, and I’d read to him as we rolled along or he’d read to me. We had many books from time to time that we’d borrow from this one or that and then returned them, but I really learned to read from the Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress, a dictionary, and my uncle’s recipe book, the one he used to make his concoctions. Those four he owned, and we never went anywhere without them.
Those were sweet ol’ days, ramble down dusty roads at a snail’s pace, behind Jasper, Uncle’s old Belgian, reading from one book or the other, discussing Socrates, politics, whores, just whatever came to mind, and I was just a kid then. He also had a great black stallion, John the Baptist. Him and me were the only people who could get near that horse. I’d get tired of just sitting on that wagon, and I’d untie John the Baptist from the back and go racing across the prairie, whooping and hollering like a crazy Indian.
We’d stop at night, hobble the horses and give them a little grain before letting them graze. We’d build a nice cozy camp fire. If it was before dark, I’d take the rifle and go shoot something for supper. If it was too late, we’d just whip up some beans and biscuits and bacon. We’d wash it down with a little whiskey—well I’d have a little whiskey with a lot of coffee in it. Uncle Isaiah drank his coffee and whiskey half and half.
I loved that life. Free as the wind. No cares. No worries. Just Uncle Isaiah and me and the horses. And then, he died. Uncle Isaiah up and died. We were camped one evening about a mile out of this little town down south out on the prairie, sitting at the fire after supper sipping our whiskey, when Uncle Isaiah suddenly grabbed his chest and started gasping and moaning, He was sitting on a rock, and he fell off writhing on the ground. I went about nuts. I panicked. “Uncle Isaiah, Uncle Isaiah, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?” I screamed.
He looked at me wild-eyed and mumbled something I didn’t understand. Then he went limp. I rushed to his side and shook him. He didn’t move. “Uncle Isaiah,” I sobbed. “Uncle Isaiah, what’s wrong. Get up. Wake up. Wake up. Uncle Isaiah.” I was crying like a baby, half out of my mind. I didn’t know what to do. I kept squeezing his arm, pushing at him. Finally, I realized that he wasn’t going to move. He was dead. I got control of myself, covered him up with a blanket, like it was going to keep him warm, which was stupid, I guess. Then, I threw a bridle on John the Baptist and tore off to town. Forget the saddle.
It was still early, and a lot of people were about. I raced down the street, everyone looking and me, and pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office. I crashed through the door, breathless, “Sheriff, Sheriff, it’s my uncle. Something happened to him. He…he just fell over and died.”
“Hold on, youngun. What are you talking about?”
“Yessir, me and my uncle are camped about a mile out of town. I’m sure you know him, Doctor Isaiah, Biblical Cures.”
“Oh, yeah, I seen you here before. Now, what’s this about your uncle?”
“Yessir. We were sitting around our fire, and he grabbed his chest and he just…just fell over and died.”
“Okay, son. Let’s go out and see what’s going on.”
We rode out at a trot. Didn’t seem to make much difference whether we hurried or not, and it was only a mile, so we rode out to the camp at an easy pace. The fire was still burning brightly. Jasper was standing there wondering what was going on, I guess, and Uncle Isaiah still lay on the ground. It was deathly quiet. I had to choke down my sob. The sheriff got off his horse and went over to Uncle Isaiah, felt his pulse, looked up at me. “I’m sorry, son. He’s dead all right.” I slid off John the Baptist and stood there, staring at my uncle.
The sheriff stood and patted me on the shoulder. “Come on, boy. Let’s get him on that draft horse and take him into town. Ain’t solving anything out here.” I walked over, grabbed a halter from the wagon, and buckled it on Jasper. The sheriff wrapped Uncle a little better in the blanket, and we gently lifted him up on Jasper, mounted ourselves and ambled slowly into town and to the undertaker’s. I was numb with grief. People shuffled me around. Men came up and took Uncle Isaiah into the undertaker’s. I just sat on the steps outside.
“Boy. Boy.” I looked up. The sheriff was standing there talking to me. A lady was next to him. “Come on, son. You go with Miss LaVerne here. She’ll take care of you tonight.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stood and followed her across the street. She put her arm around my shoulders, and it felt pretty good. I didn’t sob, but I let a few tears out with my head hung low, so she wouldn’t see me. Miss LaVerne had a boarding house across the street. She took me in and back to the kitchen.
“How about a nice glass of warm milk, darlin’? Would you like that?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I sure would.”
She fixed the milk and handed it me while I sat at the kitchen table. “Well, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but you can stay here with me, until the judge decides what to do with you. Do you have any relatives? Anybody you know of?”
I was suddenly alarmed. A judge was going to decide what to do with me? What was she talking about, I wondered. And what am I going to do. I wasn’t going to live in some town somewhere with people I didn’t know. I wasn’t going to do that. I started to panic again, but I controlled myself. Without looking at her, I said, “No, ma’am. I don’t have any relatives but my uncle.”
She sat there, thoughtful, looking at me with kindness all over her face. We were both silent. Then an idea came to me. “Ma’am, when I’m finished, I’ve got to take care of my horses.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. The sheriff will do that.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t think so. John the Baptist, that’s my stallion, he won’t let nobody near him but me. I’m serious.”
“Well, okay, but hurry on back. I’ll get your room ready.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I really appreciate it.” And I hurried out and across the street. Things had died down. Nobody was around now. John the Baptist and Jasper still stood in front of the undertaker’s. Careful not to make any commotion, I unhitched them, climbed on John the Baptist, and moved slowly down the street and out of town. As soon as we got well away, I kicked John the Baptist into a canter, and we made for the camp.
The fire had burned low, but I threw a couple of logs on for the light and quick as I could hitched Jasper to the wagon, packed everything up, tied John the Baptist to the back of the wagon, and lit out north, back to wandering. The following morning the first town I came to I sold the wagon and everything in it but a few items, cooking utensils, some clothes, and such. I also kept Uncle Isaiah’s Bible, recipe book, dictionary, and Pilgrim’s Progress. I couldn’t part with them, though I couldn’t think of any reason to keep the recipe book. I also traded Jasper for a younger horse, one that could halfway keep up with John the Baptist. Broke my heart almost. Jasper had been a good old horse, but it wasn’t fair to expect him to live up to the rigors of the trail, and he would have slowed us. I named the new horse, Little Jas.
My name is Tom Lee. I’m fifteen, and my life hasn’t exactly been swell since Uncle Isaiah toppled off that rock. I’m sorry I missed his funeral, but I wasn’t going to get stuck in some town. I hope they gave him a nice send off.
I’ve made a few changes. I’m packing a .45 now, and I’ve gotten pretty good with it. I wear as many of my uncle’s clothes as will fit. That’s not many, but just his ol’ hat adds years to me, and I started acting as old as I could. Quit acting like a kid. I reckon I could pass for nineteen or twenty.
