THE OLD SAVAGE

“God for his mercy! What a tide of woes comes rushing on this woeful land at once!”- William Shakespeare, King Richard II  

     Carpentry, above all other skills, has kept the Osterhouts and Jennings from perishing. I’m sorry to say it still does. My brothers and I all work for wage. I work way less. No matter what my varied creative pursuits, or questionable doorman skills have been, my only real monetary exchange value has been as a carpenter. With age, bad knees and failing eyesight, even that marketable skill is abandoning me. Or more honestly, I’m abandoning it. Once again, genetics are to be blamed for my lack of financial success, while credited for my ability to conveniently ignore my financial obligations, and write this book. Notifuckation: “Your job is rewarding. Just not financially.”

    I can relate to the doomed gold prospectors, lousy cops, conflicted missionaries, rabid communists—and sometimes even the murderers. All our rebellion, prospecting, and soul-saving efforts usually come to naught. We are still sinners, intemperate or sober, lost at 6am; pouring another cup of coffee with a shaky hand.

Jack Hodges sworn

By AG Martin Van Buren:

Q. Where was you on Sunday?

A. I got up at sun about an hour high, chopped wood, and staid about the house all day. Mrs. Teed went to a meeting. When she returned I asked her if she saw the man, (Jennings). She said he was at the meeting.

Q. Did you have liquor on the Sabbath?

A. I had my bitters in the morning and drank frequently through the day. When Mrs. Teed was going away she said the jug of whiskey was for me, and that I must help myself when I wanted.

Q. Where did you sleep Sunday night?

A. In the same bed I did the night before.

    Jack stayed one more night with Hannah. James Teed was thankfully still gone. Hodges could hear David and Maggie Dunning snoring on the other side of the thin partition wall; burrowing deeper into the feather bed in Charlie’s room, not wanting to move. Finally, the sailor threw the blanket off, got up, and stoked the bedroom stove. It was snowing lightly, and the windows were covered with an icy glaze. Hannah was nowhere to be found. He rousted  Charlie and called to the girls to get up and get dressed, then went down to the kitchen to make coffee. That morning, Jack was to help young Charlie Teed drive a cow to the neighbor’s and return with the money. He was anxious to get it done. Once the neighbor, John Weadon, had paid for the cow, Jack and Charlie came back by way of the village and spotted Ira Jennings crossing the road, swinging a bucket. 

     Charlie went off to play with his sisters, and Hannah, now back from another church meeting, set a plate of eggs and a glass of bitters in front of Jack. He’d barely touched his breakfast before Dunning burst through the door. “Forget luring Dick into the woods.” Dunning sputtered. “The old savage is coming up the road.”

      The plan had changed. Their intended victim was coming right to them on a string; heading straight to the ambush spot. Dunning rushed out of the room, pulling the reluctant Jack along. Through the Dunning door, they could see Richard Jennings walking quickly up the road, unarmed. If this was going to work, they had to act fast. 

     Jack grabbed Conklin’s shotgun and stood frozen in the Teed doorway, looking at Hannah for encouragement, hoping she would tell him to forget it, sit down, and have another glass. Instead, she smiled coyly, lifted the shot bag and powder horn off the wall peg, cocking her head towards the door. As Dick passed, unaware of the conspirators, Dunning slipped off the porch and ran across the road. Hannah Teed, knowing Jack needed a splash of courage, pushed the bottle across the table and handed him the ammunition.

       After one last drink, Jack left the kitchen and ran across the road, following Dunning’s footprints in the snow down the hill to the still house; ducking under the fence at Howell’s woods. He cut across to a big cedar tree on the backside of Knapp’s field and stopped to catch his breath. Jack’s heart was pounding as the wind kicked up, sending cold snow cascading down his neck. He’d been questioning this for days, but suddenly something had switched in his head. He was on automatic—hunting—ready to kill. Now every foot step was measured, each breath controlled. Crossing Seely Road, Jack jumped the stone wall and ran silently into the woods. He caught a glimpse of the two men’s shadows flickering through the pines; stopped, checked the powder and prime in the pan, then continued, silently, creeping up on the slowly walking men; shotgun slung low, parallel with the ground in order to keep the wet snow from fouling the pan and barrel.