Excerpt from "Billy Box"

"I must have been a real bastard."  Billy Box --  near the end of his life.

CHAPTER ONE

The time was September 8, 1855. The place, an old shack-of-a house located on the edge of a cotton field near the Delta town of Tumpie, Mississippi. The hot, grueling days of summer were over and the crop was delivered to the gin. It was time for the tenant farmers to rest.

But, that was not the case for the Tommy Box family, for today their oldest son Billy was leaving home.

Eighteen year old Billy Baldwin Box had been up since before dawn packing his few belongings in a calico bag for his trip. He walked out to the front porch and set the bag down. Daylight was beginning to show in the east.

His father was leaning against a support post, dressed only in his overalls without a shirt or shoes. It was obvious that he was agitated by the way he blew the cloud of smoke from his corn-cob pipe into the still morning air. He looked at his oldest son and observed in an impatient tone, "So—you're bound and determined to leave, are ye, boy?"

"Yeah, Papa, I’ve made up my mind. I'm goin’."

"Do you know where you're a-goin'?"

"I'm headin' west That’s all I can tell you. I'll stop when I find a place with work that ain’t got nothin’ to do with pickin’ cotton and dirt farmin’. When we finished pickin’ that last bale, I said to myself that I’ll never pick another boll of cotton as long as I live. There’s got to be a better way to make a livin’. Nobody will get rich doin’ that, and I plan to get rich."

"But you don't know where you’re goin yet,--- do you?" Tommy persisted.

"Just out west. That's all I can tell you now. I ain't gonna' see the sun go down another day on a damn cotton farm. You can bet on that. To hell with cotton. I've seen enough of it to last a lifetime."

The old man scolded, "Hush-up that cussin’, boy. You know yo mama don’t allow no cussin’ in this house ‘cause it goes agin’ the Book." His tone changed as he continued his behest, "Besides, all you know is farmin’. What makes you think people are gonna’ hire somebody like you when you get out there? You ain't got no education or trade to speak of."

Billy didn’t respond, because he didn’t have an answer.

The older man’s tone turned sarcastic. His voice was higher than normal now, threatening, yet there was fear hidden in it. Billy could feel it. "You'll wind up a drunken bum in a cow-town grubbin’ out livery stables or moppin’ up cowboy puke in some bar---you wait and see."

There was a long pause when neither father nor son said anything. The old man tapped his pipe on a porch post, knocking the burning tobacco into the yard, and shifted his weight from foot to foot and not looking at his son, like he was ashamed of his remarks.

Billy said, "No sir, I guess I'll work at somethin’, but it ain't gonna be on no cotton farm and I ain't gonna be no bum in a livery stable or saloon either. But that don’t say that I won’t own a livery stable or saloon one of these days."

His father’s contemptuous tone continued, "I'll bet I can tell you what you're gonna do. You'll wind up just like your grandpa on your mama’s side, gettin' yourself shot by some drunk cowboy in a poker game."

"No, sir, I can guarantee that ain't gonna happen neither. I ain't gonna gamble or take to drink. It don't make no sense for a man to do that. I've seen what it does to a body and I made up my mind that it ain’t gonna’ happen to me."

Tommy looked at the floor for a long moment before he said in a lower, mellowing tone, "I guess I know how you feel, boy. I did the same thing when I was about your age. I left home. You get restless feet sometimes on a farm. I guess you’ve got to travel til you get it out of your blood. You’ll settle down when you find a wife. Just don't forget your mama," he pleaded, " try to send her a letter once in a while to let her know how you're gettin’ along. Women worry about their children. As for me,--- it'll mean a lot of extra work, but I'll make it. Your brother and sister are getting along toward grown now and they can fill in some. I guess we'll get along just fine."

Tommy was silent for a long moment, then he smiled at his son, pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly. With a hitch in his voice, he said, "I'm sorry, boy. I didn’t mean to say them things about you gamblin' and drinkin' and all that stuff. I guess I’m scared for you being out there all alone where I can’t come to help if you get in trouble. You’ve always been a good boy, so you'll do just fine,---I know you will. I just wish I could give you some money to help get you started, but you know I ain’t got none. I might have a little after I settle up the share, and even then I won’t have any to spare. It takes every penny we make to live and get the next crop in the ground. You know that."

Billy looked at his father, old before his time, a bent and broken man from the many years of hard labor in the cotton fields. A wave of compassion swept over him. He wanted to put his arm across his father’s rounded shoulders as a show of affection, but quickly dismissed the idea. It just wasn't done in the Box family.

He nodded, "I know how it is, Papa. That’s the main reason I’m leavin’. I’ve got to get y’all off this place and in a decent house of your own. I promise it’ll be better than this share-cropper’s cabin. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get along just fine. I don’t need no money. I got me thirty-five cents I saved up. That’ll do for a start."

His mother called that breakfast was ready. They went inside, just as they had done every day of their lives. Billy didn’t say a word as he sat down in his regular place at the table. His mother delivered the hot biscuits and a plate of ham and fried eggs before she spoke. This was to be a special meal. Trying to sound cheerful, she poured coffee in his cup and said, "You’re gonna have to cook your own food now, son. I reckon you know enough about cookin’ not to starve to death."

She handed him a small packet wrapped in cloth. "There’s a little salt and pepper in here, in case you have to catch a bird or animal and cook it. There ain’t nothin fit to eat without a little salt on it. If you should catch a rabbit, you be sure and cook it good and done, otherwise you might get the rabbit fever. Cook it til it’s nearly burnt to a crisp." Then she handed him another small sack. "This here is some beef jerky. It’ll hold up in the heat. Save it for emergencies. It’ll carry you over for a while."

He smiled feebly and put both packets in his pocket. The tension was high. His younger brother and sister came in and joined the group at the table. The family finished breakfast without much conversation.

"You about ready to go, son?" His father asked.

"Yes sir. I guess I am. ... Mama, I’m gonna write you as regular as I can about where I am and what I’m doin’. I might be able to even send a little money along once and a while. We’ll have to see how things go. But, you’ll hear from me, I promise you that."

Within a half-hour, he had said goodbye to the family and walked away to a new life. The last he saw of the little tenant farm was when he reached a bend in the road and stopped to look back. The scene would be indelibly etched in his memory forever, the little house with smoke rising from the kitchen chimney and the family gathered on the front porch in the breaking daylight. He waved, and they waved back, then he turned away with a lump in his throat and walked fast.

For the next two days he walked nearly fifty miles, planning to join a wagon train out of Memphis. When he arrived, he went directly to the stockyards area where most of the wagon trains spent a few days stocking up on supplies before continuing their trip.

Billy spoke to the manager, "I hear tell that a feller can catch on to a wagon train out of here. Is that right?"

Two laborers working nearby giggled. The manager glared at them to shut them up. He had seen these farm boys come out of the Delta before. He had been raised in the Delta himself, so he was sympathetic to their plight.

"Yep, it’s true, son, but the last one has been gone over a week now. Winter will be comin' to the prairie soon and a wagon train ain't no place to be in a blizzard out there." The manager was looking the boy over as he talked. "You a fast walker, boy?"

"Yes sir, tolerable fast. I came from Tumpie, Mississippi in two days. It's nearly fifty miles they tell me."

The old man spit a wad of tobacco juice in the hay at his feet. "Iff'n you was to walk a pretty good clip every day like you just done, and the weather holds up, you could probably catch that train in about a week or ten days. The wagon master was complaining that he had over thirty yokes of oxen this time and they're slow. Them steers ain't gonna' walk nowhere near as fast as a horse or mule train."

Billy thanked the man and walked to the well to get a drink of water. He looked up at the location of the sun in the afternoon sky and figured he had about three hours of daylight left, so now was as good a time as any to start. He filled his canteen and waved to the manager. The old man waved back and pointed to the trail. Billy started walking.

His ragged clothes were clean and patched, and his old felt hat was floppy and wet at the band from his sweat. He was slim, nearly six feet tall, with long hair reaching down to his collar. He was not necessarily handsome because his stern, fairly narrow face made him look older than his years. His forehead protruded to the front slightly and shaded his eyes more than it did on most folks. The large eyelashes made his eyes look like they set back in his head, still anybody who looked into his eyes would see a look of devilment, like that of a small boy about to play a trick. He had a warm, generous smile, accented by a well-shaped nose over a wide mouth and ample chin. As he shaved only once a week, he nearly always had a stubble of a beard.

His equipment was simple. The only item of value he carried was his grandpa's old 44-caliber revolver. Of course, he also had his homemade hunting knife in a leather sheaf on his belt and his bull whip coiled around his left shoulder. He knew how to use them all very well. His papa let him shoot the old revolver at Christmas-time when the relatives came around for the traditional family dinner and the shooting contest afterward. The knife and gun were comforting, but he preferred his bull whip. With it rolled around his left shoulder he could grab the stock with his right hand and it would roll off of his arm into a ready position out in front of his body. He had made this one himself last winter after curing part of a cow hide. The leather was thick and pliable.

He had walked for four full days and this was the fifth. Now, nearing noon, the sun seemed to be getting hotter by the minute. His shirt was hot to the touch and sticking to his skin. He was still walking at a good clip, just not quite as fast as earlier. He only paused long enough to dampen his mouth with a little water occasionally. The water was hot.

His mind kept drifting back to the Delta, wondering what the family was doing now. He satisfied himself that he was sure he knew, because they did the same thing, day after day, year after year.

He heard a loud squall from a strange bird, one that he had never heard before. He was concentrating on the bird call when he was startled by the terrible sound of a rattlesnake’s rattle. That stopped him in his tracks. He froze in place. The hair on his neck stiffened. His entire body tightened as fear raced through it. He instinctively knew that death was very close at hand. He was deadly afraid of rattlesnakes. Moving only his eyes, he searched the ground before him very carefully. The snake rattled again. His eyes settled on it instantly.

The big snake was coiled about four feet in front of him in the same wagon-track. The snake had his head pulled back into his coil, ready to strike One more step and he would have been within range. He very slowly backed up two steps and lowered the calico bag to the ground, never taking his eyes off the snake, nor it him. He carefully unwound the whip from his shoulder. The snake tightened up its coil at the activity and raised his head, ready for a fight. With an easy, wide, mule-skinner’s swing of the whip, he cut the snake's head off as clean as if he had used a butcher's knife. He watched the headless body turn and twist on the hot sand. He looked around carefully for another snake. He knew they occasionally traveled in pairs in the fall just before going to den for the winter. He walked over and kicked the dead snake's head off the road very carefully. Every country boy knew that a snake’s head can still bite and was just as poisonous as if still attached to the body because the poison sacs were in the head.

He took out his hunting knife and cut fourteen rattles and a button off the tail of the dying snake’s body. That was worth keeping. He figured he could trade it in town for food. His papa had once told him that Chinese men thought ground up rattlesnake rattles had magic powers for their manhood. He understood what that meant. He thought to himself that there might be a Chinese merchant in the next town. He dropped the rattles in the calico bag.

He continued walking. It was really getting hot, and he was paying a lot more attention to the trail now. His thoughts were randomly drifting when he was startled by a human voice coming from the shade of a large rock about a hundred feet off the road.

"Hey,---you boy," the voice yelled, "come over to the shade for a spell. Where you goin' in such a hurry?"

Billy stopped and pushed his hat forward to cut the glare from his eyes. He stared at the rock for a moment. He saw a man sitting on a smaller rock in the shade.

"I'm heading out west." Billy answered in his pleasant drawl and started walking toward the rock. He said, "Don't look like you headin' no place sittin' in the shade of that rock." Billy grinned at his own little joke.

"Don't get smart-ass with me, boy. Who're you and where’re you from?"

The stranger’s tone made Billy's temper bristle momentarily. Try as he might to appear calm, his voice had an edge to it as he answered, "My name's Billy Box and I'm from the Delta country near Tumpie, Mississippi. Who're you?"

"Name's Bob Willis," the stranger said, this time calmly.

Willis knew by the tone of the young man's voice that he had better not push this fellow. He didn’t appear to be in the mood to take any bullshit off a stranger this hot morning. He smiled and said, "I'm a ginner by trade. I'm headin' back to the Delta where they got cotton to gin. There ain't nothin' out there where you're a-goin' except Indians and rattlesnakes and both wanna kill ya."

Billy had calmed down. "I know, I killed a big rattler back yonder a ways. You'll see it." He walked into the shade, took off his hat and wiped his head with his shirt sleeve.

Willis asked, "Your folks still farmin' in the Delta?"

"Yeah, you might know my old man. His name is Tommy Box."

"Naw, I don't know no Tommy Box. You're the only Box I ever seen." His laugh was an irritating, high-pitched, a sort of screech.

Billy didn't like this fellow. His temper flared again. "Well, you know a Box now, and don’t you forget it."

Willis got serious in a hurry. "Wait a minute there. I didn't mean to rub you, boy. I was just funnin’."

"Well, Bob Willis, I ain't lookin' for no fight, but if it comes down to one, I don't run from no man. I don't like for no man to make fun of my family neither."

"I'm sorry, boy. I swear I didn't mean no harm," a now serious Bob Willis said calmly.

"No offense taken." Billy said as his temper settled down quickly. He thought it best to be on his way. This meeting hadn't started out right.

"Well, Bob Willis, I gotta go. I'll be seein' you."

"Suit yourself, but you ought to sit down here in the shade for a spell. It's gettin' awfully hot and you don't look like you're carryin' no water."

"I got a canteen in my bag. I got to go. I got a long way to make before the sun goes down today. How far it is to the next town?"

The older man shrugged, "That'd be Woodly. There ain't nothin' there but a store and saloon by a creek with no water in it. They ain't even got a lawman. It's three days walk for folks like me. If you keep up that pace you was makin’ while I watched you come up the road, it'll be two days or maybe some less."

Willis suddenly showed some concern in his voice as he said, "You better slow down some, boy. You ought'a know better'n anybody what this prairie sun can do to ya."

Billy caught the concern in the older man's voice and responded, "I know, and I plan to be careful. I appreciate your concern, but I got to catch up with a wagon train. I was hoping you passed it along the way."

"Shore did. She's a biggun all right, maybe fifty or sixty wagons, I'll guess. They was makin' fair time. The oxen looked to be in good shape. They ought to make about ten miles a day at the rate they was a'movin."

The older man pulled a twist of tobacco from his pocket, cut himself a chew and offered one to Billy.

"I don't chew, but I thank ya," Billy replied to the gesture.

"You ought to try it, boy. It'll keep your mouth from goin’ dry. If’'n you ain't goin' to chew, get yourself a little flat rock and put it under your tongue. It’ll make spit to keep your mouth wet."

"I know all about that. I learned it on the farm. Guess I'll be goin' now. How far ahead is that wagon train?"

"I passed it yesterday afternoon. They're turning south sometime today."

Billy looked surprised. "How come they doing that, did they say?"

The wagon master said that was their plan. " They’re heading for the panhandle of Texas."

Ed note: The story continues with exciting action for the young Billy Box.  Boone, by speaking the language of the old South and the Western plains, delivers a colloquial gem.  As time goes on and Billy becomes more sophisticated, his gift for adapting to any situation shows itself masterfully.