Quiet-Jubilees

Richard Harris walked disconsolately. He was still dressed in his wedding suit. Top hat and all. He held A nearly empty bottle of whiskey loosely by the neck. There had been no wedding. At the last minute the bride ran. No explanation.

Waiting in a room at the church, Richard had heard the whispers and frantic coming and going in the hallway. He had leaned out the door and suddenly there was quiet. The maid of honor and his best man stopped and looked at him. Their eyes showed fear. The rest of the wedding party was jammed in the hall, all of them had a haunted look.

Finally, the best man spoke, “she is gone.”

Richard said, “What do you mean? Has there been an accident?!”

The bride’s maid and best man shook their heads. The brides maid extended a hand, “Oh, Richard. She has just left. Gone on the train. Said she couldn’t stand the prairie. Went back to Ohio.”

After a year of courting and a year engagement there should at least be an explanation. In person. Shouldn’t there?

So, now Richard walked along the river by himself. Lightning flashed in the distance. The river laughed and played on its way downstream. Richard looked heavenward and cursed God. He cursed the world and heaven and hell. Richard cursed himself for still loving, even though his heart was broken. There was a knot in his stomach and his throat felt like he was choking. He wanted to throw up and cry all at the same time and could do neither. So he cursed at God and men and women and the world. But mostly he cursed God. For leading him to love and for allowing the love to continue even after it was broken.

Then lightning struck. Literally. The only thing that saved Richard was that the tree he was standing by took the main bolt. One of the thousands of smaller bolts connected with the top of his hat and streaked down his temple and cheek. It curved around his jaw, down his neck and ripped a long scar down his side, down his leg and exited through his pinky toe. It blew two toes off and blew the toe out of his patent leather shoes. The blast lifted Richard in the air and threw him twenty feet. He landed in the river, unconscious. Fortunately the river was shallow here and the current was swift. The gentle water pushed him onto a sandbar on his back, or he would have drowned. His top hat had landed in the water up right and drifted against a limb. Richard Harris was baptized by both fire and water.

Flames flickered along the trunk of the tree. Most of the leaves were gone, two main branches remained. Some smaller branches and leaves were left at the crown. The whole thing was silhouetted against the dark sky. Even though the branches were at slightly different levels, and both angled up, it gave the impression of a cross. Or perhaps an Angel with arms outstretched, or with the flames and smoke, an avenging angel. It presided over the scene. Lightening still flashed with distant rumbles and closer cracks.

He lay half submerged on the sandbar. The whiskey bottle bobbed downstream, a drunken boat. The water caressed and held him. It gently rocked him as if the hand of God was comforting him. Like a parent that holds a child close after scolding them. Richard fell awake. You know that sensation. Like leaning back in a chair and losing your balance. He sat bolt upright flailing his arms and gasping. He rose unsteadily, his vision swam. The soft gravely sand made it even harder to balance. He waded over to the bank and retrieved his hat. On the right side, running from the crown, curling around the brim and ending at the band was a white scar. He touched his temple and ran his finger down the corresponding brand in his skin. “Thank you” is all he said. He put his hat on. He leaned back and blearily looked at the vision of the tree. He climbed up on the bank and headed toward the lights of a town far out across the prairie, in the opposite direction from which he had come.

The town of Quiet was abuzz. Sherriff Hunnicutt stood nervously on the porch of the jail. He had no one to back him up. The streets were empty at the moment, but the town was at a high level of anxiety. Arthur Hunnicutt’s Jail was the center of attention. That is, the young man in it was. There was a large group in Drawel’s Saloon on the south west corner of Main and First. Art knew that they were working up to whipping or even lynching the young man in his jail. Art looked west down first street. A summer storm was rolling in. At the other end of the street stood the church. The town was laid out with Main street running north and south. First street runs east/west and crosses Main at the center of town. At the east end of First was the jail. At the west end was the church. The two buildings were four blocks apart. Art had often reflected on that. One building of salvation and one of punishment facing each other at opposite ends of the street and flanking the town, as it were.

In the distance the sun’s rays broke out and the clouds were splashed in orange, purple, red and yellow. The church stood framed in the oncoming storm. Art went back into the jail to check on his prisoner. Randy sat on the cot with his head hanging. Art stood and looked at the young man. He felt that there was more to the story than was being told. He pulled the keys off his belt. The jangle made Randy jump. He sat back on the cot as if trying to get as far from the door as possible. Art held up his hands, “It’s ok. I just want to talk to you.”

Randy looked fearfully toward the jailhouse door, “They‘re not coming?”

Art shook his head, “No, no not yet.” Art opened the door. He pulled a stool over and sat down in the cell doorway. Art gathered his thoughts and said, “Now Randolph. You are accused of stealing a horse from Nathan Braddock. It seems to me that there is more going on here.” Art stopped talking and watched Randy. The older man waited for the young man to speak. A gust of wind shook the jail. Rain began to hit the windows. It was dim in the jail and when lightning flashed it caused shadows to jump around the room.

Randy sat on the cot with his shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Art said, “Let me help you start.”

Randy looked at Art with a pained face.

Art said, “How can I say this … Well, Ah let’s just say that it’s pretty well known that Mrs. Braddock, ahhh, well likes an occasional adventure.” Art paused. Randys shifted and squirmed. Art said, “Well, were you and Mrs. Braddock up in the bedroom?”

Randy nodded then finally opened up. He said, “She wouldn’t leave me alone. She kept looking at me and smiling. Honest sheriff, it went on for weeks. Finally I gave in and she took me up to the bedroom and well, you know.”

Art smiled and leaned back, “I thought there was more to this. Now what about the horse?”

Randy swallowed, “We, me and Emily, I mean Mrs. Braddock.”

Arts eyebrows went up at Randy using her first name. This had been going on for a while. Art kept silent and waited.

Randy went on, “We didn’t hear him come home. All the sudden the bedroom door busted open and he was shouting and she was shouting and I was scared out of my mind. I jumped up and grabbed my pants and she threw something and he was waving a poker from the fireplace. I fell and got my pants on somehow. He got a lick in on my shoulder, then she jumped on him and was hitting him. Not like a girl either, she was using her fists like a man, and she was buck naked too. Somehow I got my boots on and my shirt part way on and then I was running down the hall and jumped the stairs and I was by God out the front door.” Randy paused and took a breath.

Art leaned back and tried not to laugh. That was a scene he would’ve liked to see. “So what about the horse?”

Randy looked straight at Art for the first time in the conversation, “That’s the thing Sheriff Hunnicutt. When I came out of that door his horse was right there, still saddled. I just jumped on and rode for my life. I didn’t mean to steal. I was going to send it back. I just wanted to get out of there.”

Art leaned forward and nodded. He considered all of the story and the current situation. He got up and walked to the front window. It was dusk now and the rain had temporarily slowed. There was still intermittent lightning and the clouds rolled and churned.

Art stood on the porch of the jailhouse. It was dark now. Spatters of rain still fell and lightning flashed. The mob had spilled out of Drawel’s Saloon and was milling in the square of the junction of Main and First. Even in the darkness Art could make out Nathan Braddock in the center of the mob. Several of the men were cowboys from Nathan’s ranch. They had lanterns and torches as they started down the street. Art braced himself. He hoped he could talk them down. These were all men he knew, went to church with, played cards with, raised barns with. These were men he did not wish to use a gun against.

As the mob got closer Art could make out a bullwhip in the hands of one of Braddock’s men. At least they didn’t mean to hang him. But still, many men died from a whipping. To be lashed with a bull whip is a brutal, gruesome ordeal. The mob halted in the street in front of the jail.

Nathan Braddock stepped forward, “Now look here Art. We don’t aim to kill him. We’re just going to teach him a lesson.”

Art surveyed the mob. He had taken note of Nathan’s use of his first name. Art spoke loud but calm, “As Sheriff of Quiet I will not allow this to happen.”

Nathan took another step forward, “Now you listen to me. We will not allow horse stealing.”

Art allowed a smile to spread across his face, “Nathan, everybody knows, including all you men.” Art gestured at the mob, “This is not about horse stealing. Nathan you may have had a mare stray, and not the first time, but there sure wasn’t any stealing.” There were a few chuckles in the mob. Art had hoped to take some of the fire out of Nathan.

Nathan stepped to the edge of the plank side walk and the mob pressed up behind him, “Give me the keys and step aside.”

At that moment lightning flashed. It struck the church steeple lighting up the whole town in a brilliant flash. The crack was thunderous and shook building walls and rattled windows. Everyone hit the ground and some actually ran into buildings for shelter. Everyone looked down the street. There was a black scar running down the church steeple, across the roof and down the side. Little flames licked at the edges and smoke hung in the air. But the most amazing thing was the figure of a man outlined against the scene. He was wearing a black top hat and black suit. Men slowly got to their feet. The man walked forward and they could see that he had a scar like the one on the church steeple. The mob spread out and parted to allow the apparition through. Later some would claim that there was smoke coming from the man’s clothing.

The man spoke, “You must stop. No man has the right to administer judgment. God reserves that privilege, and God appoints earthly agents to carry that out. You are not appointed. You must take leave of this abominable act.”

It was later much disputed as to exactly what the strange man said. Some claimed he said go in jubilation of the lord. Some say it was more like I am the jubilation. Others claim it was more elaborate, something about the trumpet of the lord will sound in jubilation all across the land. Whatever he said he became known as Jubilees. When the mob departed he went into the church to pray. There was no parson at the time and so Richard Harris became Jubilees and the parson of Quiet. Art told Randy to make himself scarce. Randy did. He would later end up at the Little ranch.
CAYates