The Kentucky Side of the River (Chapter One)

The Kentucky Side of the River

When young Haskell Prater heads down the Tug River, in 1855, with a trapper named Old Dan Rawlings, he doesn’t know about the murder upstream on Pond Creek. He also doesn’t know they will soon confront the man who'd just killed Danny Rawlings, Old Dan’s twin brother.

Haskell is the only one that saw the killer’s face, that night on the river, and he’s only one of two people that can identify him. When the other turns up dead, Old Dan knows he should warn Haskell. The problem is… Haskell has left his father’s farm to set out on his own. Can Old Dan find him before the killer does?

The Kentucky Side of the River

By David Claude McCoy

Chapter 1

September 15, 1855, Prater’s Fork, Kentucky

“Haskell, Daddy wants us to get the hogs into the upper lot before nightfall,” Donnie yelled down the bank. “We better hurry too… he’s already started drinkin’ hard.”

“Well shit, Donnie!” Haskell yelled back. “I don’t care about them damn hogs.”

Haskell finished tying the drop line from a low hanging branch, and tossed the big creek chub out into the muddy water. He watched as the slow current took the line out into the deep part of the bend where Prater’s Fork entered the Tug River.

“Come on Haskell, it’ll be dark soon,” Donnie yelled down the bank.

“I’m comin’!” Haskell told him as he made his way up the hill where Donnie waited impatiently for him. He knew it was going to take all of the daylight they had left to move the three hogs up the path to the wooden pen above the house. He also knew his daddy, Hobart Prater, would be half drunk by the time they finished.

It hadn’t always been like that. Haskell could remember, back before his mother died, the way the four of them used to get cleaned up on Sundays and head to the First Presbyterian Church at the mouth of Turkey Creek. He never cared much for all the fire and brimstone sermons, Brother Tate evoked from his handmade pulpit each week, but it was interesting to see how red his face would get towards the end of it. He would always start out slow and steady, with some message derived from a particular scripture that, apparently, weighed heavy on his heart that morning. But after a couple hours in, he was pacing back and forth on the stage with his old bible held high above his head, yelling damnation for those that don’t accept the Lord Jesus Christ as their personal savior. And then quietly… salvation for those that do.

“But Brothers and Sisters, with my hand upon this book, I say unto you…”

And as always, just before he thought the big vein on Brother Tate’s forehead would surely burst, he would stop and bow his head, “Let us pray together.” Haskell never quite understood what he was supposed to be praying for, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before he and Donnie would be playing down on the river bank, waiting for Mom to finish supper.

Daddy would usually wind up out in the barn after he finished the chores around the farm. Hobart was a sober man back then, full of life and ambition. If there was nothing pressing to get done, he would always find something to keep himself occupied. That wasn’t very often, though, there was always something that needed to be tended to around the hundred acre farm Haskell’s grandfather passed down to the family. But that was then.

Doctor Preston told them it was most likely a blood clot that took Haskell’s mother, Mary Anne, that cold winter morning when he was twelve. She had fallen down the steps a month earlier as she came back up from the well. Mary Anne never mentioned to Hobart or to Donnie what had happened just before the accident, but Haskell never forgot.

“Haskell, come fetch some water from the well,” she hollered from the porch. He remembered giggling to himself as he hid behind the barn, thinking she would ask Donnie to do it instead. He heard the door shut, and he listened quietly as the rusted pulley lowered the bucket down into the water. He waited. Finally, the pulley fell silent and there was the sound of the tin cover, scraping against the stone as it slid back across the top of the well.

Haskell listened for the kitchen door to shut but instead there was a heavy thud and the crashing sound of the buckets as they tumbled down the steps and onto the ground. He then heard his mother’s voice, and he ran quickly from his hiding place behind the barn.

Once Haskell made it to the steps, he panicked when he saw his ma’s foot was turned in a way that it shouldn’t be turned. And she was crying hard, but as soon as she saw him, she said in a calm but urgent voice, “Go get your daddy, Haskell… and hurry.” Haskell remembered running as fast as he could, down to the field where Hobart was working.

When the doctor came over, he said her ankle was broken in several places, and she might wind up with a limp. He gave her something for the pain and told her to keep her leg up as best she could. “I’ll come back and check on you in a few weeks,” he said. “And you boys are going to have to help your daddy out around the house,” he told Haskell and Donnie. “Your ma’s going to be laid up for quite a while.”

He didn’t say anything about gangrene or how black and swollen her leg would get before he took it off below her knee. He didn’t say anything about the blood clot or the stroke that caused her to stare up at the ceiling and not eat. And he certainly didn’t say anything about the sermon Pastor Tate would give before they lowered her into the ground, up on the hill behind the house.   

“You better watch this last one, Donnie. He’s the one that bites,” Haskell told him.

Donnie pulled hard on the rope while Haskell urged him along with the big mimosa stick he’d cut. The old hog wasn’t happy about being moved, and he stubbornly pulled back hard upon the rope. Haskell gave him a good whack and yelled “hyah” to get him moving again. It was completely dark before they finally got him into the pen.  

“What took you boys so long… that big one give you trouble?” Hobart asked, when they came up onto the porch. He took a long swig from the jar he was holding before his first attempt to stand.

“Yah, that’s the meanest damned hog I ever seen,” Haskell answered.

“You need to watch your mouth, Haskell. If your mother was here…” Hobart trailed off and fell back into the rocking chair.

“Yah, I know. She’d wash my mouth out with lye,” Haskell answered as he and Donnie moved over next to the rocker. Donnie took the half-empty, quart jar out of his hand while Haskell helped him up. He wanted to go kick old man Diamond’s ass for selling it to him in the first place but then again, Daddy’s a grown man, Haskell thought. “Come on, let’s go in the house and fix some supper.” 

“Y’all’s good boys,” Hobart slurred as he staggered inside.

The boys set him down at the kitchen table where Hobart folded his arms and slumped over on top of them. Their last chore of the night, every night, was to get him to eat something before he passed completely out, and Donnie lit the kerosene lantern and hung it from the nail in the kitchen so Haskell could see what he was doing.

“Go and get a couple potatoes out of the root cellar,” Haskell told Donnie as he lit the fire in the cook stove. Once it was going, he closed the damper and turned to his dad, “We’re going to have to butcher that big hog soon... it’s gonna be gettin’ cold out before long.”

“Hmmmmf,” Hobart mumbled without raising his head. Haskell knew they weren’t going to get him to eat anything tonight, but he knew Hobart would be hungry in the morning when he finally woke up.

“Let’s go ahead and get him in the bed, Donnie.”

Once the boys got him settled in, Haskell finished fixing supper, and Donnie brought in some wood for the potbellied stove in the living room. They would debate, later on, whether to light it tonight, there certainly was a slight chill in the air outside but it wasn’t cold in the house. And “firewood don’t cut itself”, as Daddy always said.

“He’s getting worse, Haskell,” Donnie said, listening to the coughing bout in the next room. “He does that a lot now… every day when he starts drinking hard.”

“Yah I know, I seen blood in the slop-jar by his bed too,” Haskell answered. “Maybe I should go across the hill and talk to Mr. Diamond. Maybe I can get him to quit selling it to him.”

“Old man Jubal aint gonna listen to a seventeen year old boy,” Donnie told him. “Hell, he might even shoot you… you know how him and that bunch is. The law won’t even go up that holler.” Haskell knew he was probably right and let the idea go.

“How’re the eggs and potatoes?”

Donnie smiled at him, “The eggs are good… but you burnt the potatoes again.”

“Well, you’ll get your chance to burn ‘em tomorrow.”

Haskell was up at first light the next morning, anxious to head down and check the drop line he’d set in the river. The air was a little chilly when he walked out onto the porch but not so much that he needed an outer shirt. Me and Donnie’s going to have to get the shellin’ beans all picked and put up before long, he thought as he passed the field. That was going to be a full day’s work plus another to take half of them across the river to Noland, Virginia. He figured on taking at least ten bushels to trade over at Dunson’s General Store. That would give them more than enough to buy the flour, salt, coffee, and sugar they needed for the coming winter.

He also wanted to talk to Mr. Dunson about butchering the big hog they moved last night, and maybe he could even get his Daddy to go with him. Mr. Dunson was a pretty shrewd haggler but Daddy had been dealing with him for years and he knew how to handle him. Haskell was no slouch at bartering either, having watched Hobart all these years. He doubted he would go with him, though. About the only place Hobart went, nowadays, was across the hill to Jubal Diamond’s.

By the time Haskell waded through the dew covered weeds to the top of the bank, his coveralls were soaked through... but that’s not what got him fired up. The man on the raft, loaded with furs was what set him off. He was just about to reach out for the line Haskell set last night, and he could tell by the shaking branch, there was a big one on.

“That’s my drop line, mister,” Haskell shouted from the top of the bank. The man’s arm froze in place and he turned toward Haskell, who was cautiously making his way down to the edge of the water.

“I wasn’t setting out to steal it, boy,” the man said, smiling. “That sycamore branch was shakin’ so hard, I just wanted to see what was on the other end of that line there.”

Haskell measured him up for a second and figured since he hadn’t actually caught him stealing anything, he would have to take his word for it. Besides, Haskell certainly wasn’t looking for trouble, and judging from the big grin on the bearded man’s face… he probably wasn’t either.

“Name’s Daniel,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Everybody calls me Old Dan, though.

“Haskell,” he answered, shaking Old Dan’s dirty hand. “Where you coming from with all them furs?” he asked, trying to discretely wipe his hand on the ass of his britches.

“Up the Tug, above the Mouth of Pond Creek,” he answered. “Left out before dawn this morning… you gonna pull that big catfish in so I can be on my way?”

Haskell didn’t answer but smiled instead as he grabbed the line and started pulling the big fish toward the bank. It fought real hard for a minute or two but then it felt like he was hauling in a big anchor, dragging on the mud in the bottom of the river. Old Dan looked down at the line as Haskell pulled on it and he jumped off the raft and into the river when he saw the big mud turtle break the top of the water.

“Don’t pull him… just hold him steady,” Old Dan told him. “He’ll straighten out your hook or break your line if you aint careful.”

Haskell had caught many turtles out of this deep hole but none nearly as big as the one he had on the line this morning. All of the sudden, he was glad Old Dan was there to help him. 

“Just keep his head pointed toward the bank,” Dan said as he plunged his arms into the water. He grabbed the big turtle by its shell and heaved it up onto the sand in front of Haskell. He didn’t even see where it came from but within a split second, Old Dan was leaning hard on the turtle’s leathery shell with a Bowie knife in his hand. “Stretch that neck out as far as you can, boy.”

Haskell gave the line a good tug and fell backwards onto the bank as Old Dan swung the knife down hard on the turtle’s neck.

“Looks like you got yourself supper,” Dan said with a big grin.

“Looks like it,” Haskell answered and paused. “If you help me clean it, I’ll give you half, seeing as though you already helped me get it in and all. I think that’s a pretty fair deal.”

“What was your name again, boy? Haskell was it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, Haskell… you got yourself a deal.”

“I’ve always wanted to set out down the river one day,” Haskell said as Old Dan started working on the turtle. “I’ve seen folks poling down the Tug, and I always wondered where they were headed to.” Haskell thought for a minute, “Where’re you taking all those furs, Dan?”

Old Dan never cared for sharing too much of his business with strangers, especially when there was money involved, and he looked up at young Haskell and stared at him for a minute or two, measuring him up this time. Dan finally figured it couldn’t hurt to tell the boy, and he was probably just curious anyway. He went back to cleaning the turtle and told him, “Well, I aint sure yet. I reckon I’ll sell ‘em in Louisa… but if they don’t offer me a good price for ‘em, I might just head right on down to Catlett’s Burgh on the Ohio.” Old Dan stopped for a second and looked back up at Haskell, “You ever seen the Ohio River, son?”

“No sir… I aint been that far yet.”

“Well it aint nothin’ like the Tug Fork,” Dan told him. He absentmindedly scratched his beard as he thought about it. “Just imagine a river that’s a mile across and a thousand miles long. That’s the Ohio, boy. They got barges and paddlewheels ten times bigger than a house, and if you get too close to one of ‘em, they’ll suck you in and tip your raft over... especially if you’re loaded heavy.”

Haskell tried to imagine what a river that big would look like. He knew about barges and paddlewheels, but he couldn’t quite wrap his head around one being bigger than a house, let alone ten of them. In the end, he figured Old Dan was stretching his tale a little. Still though, the idea of a river the size of the Ohio excited him. He would at least have to see it one day.

After they finished, Haskell baited the drop line with a piece of the meat and then tossed it back out into the river. Old Dan put his share of the catch into the old pot he’d brought with him and stowed it away under the burlap tarp covering the hides. 

“Say Haskell, you wouldn’t happen to have an onion you could sell me before I head out would you?”

“I reckon we might,” Haskell told him. “I wouldn’t feel right charging you for one onion, though. The house is just up the hill there... you can come get one if you like.”

“That’s mighty nice of you,” Dan told him as they started up the path. “You don’t suppose you’d have a potato lying around somewhere too, do you?”

Hobart had just finished the salt pork and eggs Donnie had fixed for them, and he came out onto the porch to sit in the sunshine for a bit. It always seemed to help the dull pain he felt in the back of his head each morning, especially if he didn’t eat before going to bed the night before. Once he was settled, Hobart heard somebody talking, and he strained his eyes down the hill, trying to figure out who was coming up the path with Haskell.

“Daddy, this here’s Old Dan from up the Tug above Pond Creek,” Haskell told him. “He helped me pull in a big mud turtle I caught on the drop line this morning. He says he’s headed down to Louisa with a load of hides.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Dan said, holding out his hand. “Daniel Rawlings, everybody calls me Old Dan.”

“Hobart Prater… it’s a pleasure,” Hobart replied. “Haskell, Donnie’s got breakfast ready for you. Have you had breakfast, Old Dan?”

“Can’t say that I have, Mr. Prater,” Dan replied. “Not proper like anyways.”

“You boys go get cleaned up and eat… there’s plenty.”

Haskell had never seen anyone clean a plate as fast as Old Dan did. He was acting like someone that was about starved to death. Donnie noticed it too but didn’t say anything.

“You know, Haskell, I could use somebody to help me pull the raft through the shallows. I was just thinkin’, you said you always wanted to take off down the river someday. This would be a good chance for you to do it.”

“He’s got too much work to do around here,” Hobart said from the doorway. “He don’t need to be runnin’ up and down the river sellin’ skins.”

“I’d be willing to pay him, and he’ll only be gone a week or so,” Dan told him. “It’d be worth 50 cents a day. That’s more than he’d make here at the farm.”

“If it’s only a week, I could work extra hard to catch up when I get back,” Haskell said, looking over at his daddy. “Plus we could use the extra money. I really want to pole a raft down the Tug and like Dan says… it’d be a good chance to do it.”

“I don’t know, Haskell. We don’t really even know who this feller is,” Hobart said as he looked Old Dan in the eyes. “He seems nice enough and all, but how do we know he aint gonna stiff you… or worse.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Dan said, reaching into his britches. He laid two fifty-cent pieces on the table. “I’ll give you one day’s advance and pay you for a few supplies to get us to Louisa and back. All I brought with me is some salt-pork and a few johnnycakes and these two boys here look like they eat pretty healthy,” Dan told him, smiling over at Haskell and then Donnie. He turned back to Hobart, “I’d like to give you a little something for the breakfast too, if you don’t mind.”

“No sir, we won’t be chargin’ a guest of ours for eatin’ here,” Hobart told him and then looked back at Haskell. “Well… I guess I might be able to help Donnie with some of the chores.” He paused for a minute in thought. “I reckon you can go, Haskell, but you’re gonna have to get back here as soon as you can, there’s too much to do around here for just me and Donnie.”

“I will and thanks Daddy, you won’t regret it,” Haskell told him and he hugged him strong-like. He didn’t know what gave him the courage to say it, but he whispered in Hobart’s ear, “Don’t let old man Diamond’s poison kill you before I get back.”

Hobart didn’t answer but looked long and hard into Haskell’s eyes. There was concern and compassion there that shouldn’t be carried around by a seventeen year old boy. Those were words Mary Anne would have told him, and for a minute there, he could see her looking at him through Haskell.

Hobart thought for a second and then finally smiled at him, “You best get going.” 

“With two of us poling, we ought to cover a lot of ground before nightfall,” Dan said. “We do need to get on, though. Go ahead and gather them supplies, Haskell, and you best get yourself a blanket too… it’s gonna get a little cold down on the river come nightfall.” Dan turned to Hobart, “I promise you I’ll take good care of the boy.”

“You best,” Hobart replied.

Haskell went down into the cellar with an empty flour sack while Dan set off to find a decent pole to cut for Haskell. He finally settled on a hickory sapling and borrowed Hobart’s ax to cut it. He had it all cleaned up and ready by the time Haskell joined him down on the riverbank.

Hobart walked down with Donnie into the chest-high weeds at the top of the hill and waved at the two of them as they shoved off. He smiled as he watched Old Dan show Haskell how to handle the pole and where to stand on the back of the raft, but he knew it wouldn’t take the boy long to get the hang of it. He and Donnie stood quietly watching until the raft finally disappeared around the big bend of the muddy Tug.

Hobart then put his arm on Donnie’s shoulder as they headed back up the path toward the house. “I reckon me and you are gonna get started on them beans today. You know… they aint gonna pick themselves.”

Donnie looked over at his daddy and grinned, “Yes sir.”

Before they left, Haskell had visions of floating lazily down the river using the poles to steer the raft around sandbars and shallow water. The two were only minutes into the trip when he realized that would not be the case.

“Let’s go, boy, put your back into it,” Dan shouted from the front of the raft. “This aint no pleasure trip and we got time to make up.”

Haskell pushed hard on the hickory pole as sweat dripped down the front of his shirt. Old Dan was up front trying to keep the raft in the best part of the current, jumping from one side to the other with his pole.

Once they had pushed the raft about a half mile downstream, Haskell and Dan could hear the sound of the saws running. They were coming up on Diamond Creek and Jubal Diamond’s mill. All the timber had been clear-cut as far up the bank as you could see and as far downriver as well, leaving big muddy ruts, running all the way down to the Tug Fork. If there’s a hell, Dan thought, this must be what it looks like. And Haskell thought about the still, running somewhere above all the carnage.        

“We got shoals comin’ up, Haskell,” Dan yelled back to him. The bottom of the raft started to drag on some of the rocks in the shallow water and within a few minutes, it came to a complete stop. Haskell looked up toward the front of the raft where Dan stood scratching at his beard. “Time to get your feet wet, son,” Dan told him.

Dan jumped off the front of the raft with the rope in his hand and waited for Haskell to follow. “Just keep the nose up and let the river do most of the work,” Dan said, pulling on the line. Haskell took hold a few feet behind him and pulled too as he stumbled through the current. He was actually surprised at how easily the raft slid over the slick rocks in the riverbed, especially without the two of them on board.

After about an hour of pulling they finally got into deeper water and climbed back up out of the river. Dan told him to take the front for a while and he sat down heavy on the big piece of burlap, covering the hides in the center of the raft. He pulled a tobacco tin out of his shirt pocket and began to roll a cigarette as he watched Haskell navigate.

“You sure you aint never done this before, son?” he asked.

“No sir,” Haskell told him. “Not this part, anyways.”

“Well you’re a natural, boy,” Dan told him and lit his smoke. “Just watch out for the sandbars and big rocks. It’s tough goin’ on the Tug Fork but it’ll get a lot easier once we get closer to the Sandy River.”

“How long will it be until we get to the Sandy?” Haskell asked.

“Sometime tomorrow, I reckon,” Dan answered and then closed his eyes for a minute. The sun felt good on his face and he found himself drifting toward sleep but he knew he really couldn’t afford it. Not now, anyway, with the new, young apprentice at the helm. The last thing he needed was the raft to get busted up on one of the big rocks in the middle of the river. But Haskell seemed to be doing a pretty good job of avoiding them, he thought as his eyelids slowly closed.

Dan found himself dreaming about a cabin just up the hill from a winding creek. He could hear the water trickling in the background as he stood outside on the porch, trying to see past the flour sack curtains in the window. After a moment, he heard a voice shout from inside the cabin. “Old Dan… you hear me, Old Dan?”

Haskell could barely make out the man on horseback; he was in the shallow part of the river a good distance up ahead. When the rider finally saw the raft approaching, he held up his hand in a “stop” gesture. Haskell didn’t know why the man wanted him to stop the raft, and he turned back to Dan and yelled again, “You hear me, Old Dan?”

Dan jerked hard and woke with a start. He was on his feet and had the Bowie knife half unsheathed before he realized he’d been dreaming. “Damn… what is it, boy?”

“There’s somebody on horseback in the river up ahead. And there’s more shoals comin,” Haskell told him.

Dan could see the rifle lying across the man’s arm, and he pulled the burlap cover back a bit. He bent down and eased the old long rifle out from underneath it, never taking his eyes off the rider in the river. “Just bring the raft to a stop… nice and slow-like,” he said to Haskell.

As the raft slowly entered the top of the shoals and came to a stop, Haskell heard what he thought was thunder… at first. The man in the river dropped his hand back down just before the first of the cattle crashed into the water from the Kentucky side. Haskell smiled over at Old Dan and then watched as five or six more head followed the first one down the bank and across the Tug.

Old Dan breathed a sigh of relief as he also watched the crossing. “We’ll just sit here for a bit and let ‘em finish,” he said to Haskell as he pulled his pocket-watch out of his pants. It was close to three in the afternoon, and Dan figured he’d only nodded off for a minute or two.

“That’s a whole lot of cattle,” Haskell said, losing count at twenty or so. Another rider finally entered the Tug Fork and the first one waved “come on through” before they both rode up onto the Virginia side. Haskell and Dan waved back as they stepped over the front of the raft. They both watched as the two riders left the river and disappeared into the weeds above the bank.