The days are long and the sun is hot as burning coal. I ride into town on my old mare kicking up clouds of dirt with each trot. The old girl needs a shoeing but I need to find a watering hole for myself. I see a saloon by the town hotel and I tie up my horse. Before walking in, I grab my pouch of jerky to chew on while sipping on my sarsaparilla. There’s an old man sitting alone at the back of the room with an old gray dog lying under the table. I pick up my drink and jerky and walk over to him. I say, “Have you ever been to Nacogdoches?” The old man replies, “Yea, I was there last winter selling a few head of cattle.” I give him a curious look and ask, “I thought you’d be retired on a ranch somewhere, not holed up in a run down and beer-stale saloon.” The old man chuckles dryly, “Truth is, land dried up and my wife died some years back. Those cows and a skinny horse was all I had left. I sold the cows but I still lost the farm. I’ve got two boys, one died at Antietam and the other took off after the war. I haven’t seen him in twenty years.” I sit down at the table and offer him some jerky and ask the old man’s name. “Ambrose Bennett is the name. Where you from son?”
“Nacogdoches”, I say but I can’t recall where I’ve seen this man before. The name didn’t sound at all familiar. He’s grizzled with old age, unkempt and unshaven for many years. The old man sighs heavily, “My farm was near there in a small community. I lived there my whole life until the farm dried up. Mind if I ask why you came over here? Young buck like you shouldn’t be bothered with an old decrepit like me.” I smile out of the side of my mouth and shake my head. “I’ve been searching for any family I may have left after the war. This has been my first chance to look. May I ask what your wife’s name was?” The old man, Ambrose, looks intrigued at my question and sits up straighter in his chair. The dog whimpers a bit from getting disturbed by the man’s shuffling feet. “Her name was Nora Belle Henry. What’s your family name? I may know some of them.” My mouth falls open and I get a bit teary eyed. “My last name is Henry. James Henry and my mother’s name is Nora Henry. The old man, in his old age and deteriorated mind, didn’t even recognize me as his son. He squints his eyes and finally realizes that I, James Henry, am his son.
He jumps out of his squeaky chair and embraces me tightly. “Where have you been these past twenty years? When your mother and I needed your help with land. Why did you leave us?” While my father wept, I explained that I sent letters but every one of them was returned to me. “I thought you were dead, father. I knew there was hope so I set off searching for sure, to ease my mind. After Tom died, I left before getting drafted or caught for being a coward. It’s a miracle I found you and I’m sorry for ever leaving you and Ma.” I kept holding my father but he released me and touched my bearded face. “I should have never let Tom volunteer and I’m glad you ran. That war destroyed a lot of families. If you like, we can go visit your mother and brother’s graves.” This town was situated about forty or so miles from Nacogdoches but I agreed to go. “We’ll try to get the farm back so all of the family will be buried there.” We hugged once more before departing. Lucy, his old dog, wobbled along behind us. I still don’t know why my father changed his name but we do share blood, that’s all that matters.
©Ashley Yarbrough 12/2012
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