Freedom's Song
Freedom’s Song
The morning sun lit up the sky above the blue hills in a joyous fiesta of orange and red. The hour was still very early, and a warm breeze tossed the sparse grass and dry brush along the rocky trail. It was desolate country, empty as the bottom of a wino’s jug. But there was a sense of something big here and a certain beauty could be seen in the low hills, rolling prairie and especially in the big Texas sky.
Even after a good night’s sleep the young cowboy was tired. The ride from Abilene to Martinsville took almost fourteen days and he was growing weary with camp food and sleeping on the hard ground. For mile after mile he had seen nothing but rocky hill country, scattered with cactus and dry brush. This was a place for wolves and rattlesnakes, but Freedom had a dream.
He also had four hundred dollars in his saddlebag and another fifty dollars stashed in his boot. His father had given him two good pieces of advice when he left home. He told him to always expect the unexpected and to never put all his assets in one place.
On the early side of thirty he had spent ten years wrangling cattle around Abilene. A quiet young man with an idea and a dream. He’d never had much but he’d worked hard and saved his money, he wanted a little ranch of his own.
He pulled off his hat and wiped his brow with the rough sleeve of his cotton shirt. His horse hadn’t had water since they had broke camp the day before and he knew the little Cayuse would have to have water soon. He reached down and patted Hatchet’s neck, the horse was as much a friend as he was anything else. He’d bought Hatchet for a good price when he was just a little scrub colt that nobody else seemed to want to pay attention to. It had taken a lot of love and careful training, but he’d turned him into one of the best cattle ponies in all of Texas, or at least he thought so. Hatchet still didn’t look like much; his thin legs were a little to long for the rest of him and his coat was a mottled mat of brown and grey. But Freedom had learned a long time ago that looks were the least important thing when judging an individual, be he horse or man.
The horse snorted and Freedom stroked his long neck. “Take it easy,” he spoke in gentle, soothing tones, “That’s a good boy! That’s my good hatchet!” Freedom was getting a little concerned. He knew he would have to find water soon.
Freedom Morgan wasn’t a big man, but he was muscular and strong from years of hard work. His skin was brown from the Texas sun and his chest and arms were thick from working fence lines and wrestling unruly steers. He couldn’t be called handsome in the ordinary sense of the word, but he had honest blue eyes and, on his head, danced an unruly mass of dark red hair. He looked like any saddle tramp covered with dirt from the trail and almost two weeks growth of whiskers. His thick dark Mustache hung limply over his lips still heavy with the morning’s beans and coffee.
Ever the practical man his Papa had wanted to name him Jed. But his Maw was Irish and a bit of a dreamer. When his Paw had carried him out to introduce him to his kin he said his name was Jed, but his Maw had interrupted to ask why he called him Jed when Freedom was his name. It caught on and people called him Freedom all his life, even though all he ever wanted to be was Free.
His folks had been poor, dirt farmers, picking a living out of the dry West Texas soil. Farming was all his Father understood. Though they never had much in the way of worldly goods, they were happy, decent, hard-working, God-fearing folks. He remembered his Momma’s beans and cornbread and the nights they sat around the fire singing and telling stories. But Freedom had a different dream, he wanted more out of life than to be a poor farmer. He would have his own land and be a stockman and rancher.
His Great Uncle Bud planted that dream in his head. Bud Morgan never amounted to much, but he liked to talk and sometimes he would stay with them for a while. One-night over a plate of peas and biscuits, Bud planted a seed in Freedom’s mind that soon began to bear fruit. “A man can’t make nothing off the land” he said. “He can’t ever get ahead just digging out what he can eat. A man’s got to do something more than that, if he is ever gonna make something of his self.”
Freedom left home when he was fifteen, he started out helping the cook on a trail drive and worked up to be a first-class wrangler.
He hoped to buy cattle with his savings and to homestead a little ranch near Martinsville not far from the Pecos River. People told him it was to big a dream for someone like him, but he’d worked hard and saved his money, others had made their dreams come true, He didn’t see why he couldn’t too. He’d saved enough for a good stake and he planned on building a nice little house and starting a family.
He tested the air. Could it be? He thought he caught the faint scent of bacon wafting on the wind from somewhere up ahead. He stood up in his stirrups and tried to catch the scent again. Yes, it was bacon and he eagerly moved his Cayuse farther along. Maybe whoever was cooking breakfast could tell him where to find water.
He followed his nose and in a little while he came upon two cowboys camped among the rocks a little way off the trial.
“Ho pilgrims” he called out, and they answered him with friendly waves and gestures to join them. In a few minutes he had tethered Hatchet and was squatting with them near their fire.
“My name’s Fred Johnson” volunteered the older of the two men with an outstretched hand. “This here’s Sully, my top hand.” He gestured toward the large burly fellow tending a large pan of bacon. “We’re just headed home to Martinsville from a trail-drive to Abilene. Most of my hands stayed up there for a while, a few will be coming back behind us in a day or two.”
He seemed fit for fifty, even though he was a heavy man. But he fidgeted nervously on his seat by the fire. He removed his hat several times and ran his hand over his short stock of thinning grey hair. Freedom hesitated to tell them his name and realized later that they didn’t ask.
Both men were dirty and unshaven and there was something about them that Freedom found a little unsettling, but he wanted information about land near Martinsville and he still needed water for his horse.
Sully sat quietly watching the bacon while Mr. Johnson plied Freedom with questions. He seemed open and friendly and despite his better judgement Freedom found himself sharing more about his dreams than he planned. But somewhere deep in his mind he heard his father’s warning. “Expect the unexpected.”
Mr. Johnson prattled on through breakfast, but the moments passed Freedom noticed he suddenly grew quiet, though his dark eyes darted here and there over the landscape as if he was looking for something. He signaled to Sully who was strangely stooped beside the now empty pot of boiling bacon grease. “Well,” Johnson said as he glanced at Sully. “I suppose it’s time to break camp.”
“Expect the unexpected” echoed once again, this time from the pit of his stomach as Freedom struggled to get to his feet.
In an instant the hot grease that Sully aimed for his head hit his chest and upper arms instead. Freedom screamed in pain, as the two men fell on him like dogs on a rabbit. Sully pinned his arms and over and over he was blanketed with a cascade of blows from the older man. The two rascals laughed and shouted with the Devil’s glee until at last they released Freedom’s plummeted body and he fell in a bloody heap. Sully kicked him soundly in the side then paused for a moment and held Freedom’s own revolver to his head. “Why don’t we just kill him now Boss? Just like the old days.”
Fred Johnson didn’t answer at once, he was to busy going through Freedom’s pockets and saddle bag. In a few minutes he found the money that was hidden there. “Hey Sully! Look at this!” He said with unmitigated satisfaction. “This drive was profitable indeed.”
Entirely to eagerly Sully asked again. “Why don’t we just kill him now Boss”? It seemed that his blood thirst had dimmed his excitement over the money. He cocked the pistol and moved the barrel closer to Freedom’s head.
But Mr. Johnson wasn’t sure. “We haven’t done anything like that in a long time Sully” he said, “I guess I’m getting older; I don’t seem to have the stomach for stuff like this anymore.” He looked around, the sun was getting higher in the sky, “He won’t last long out here in the sun anyway, the wolves will clean this up for us tonight.” Sully laughed, and stuck the pistol in his belt, “Whatever you say Boss, you always were all heart.’
It was high noon when Freedom regained consciousness, he was lying alone in the hot sun. For a moment he forgot where he was, then the memory of his ordeal returned as the pain came crashing down upon him. He struggled to move, but the agony of the burns and the beating caused him to scream once again as the darkness mercifully closed in.
It was night before he opened his eyes again, and when he did, he was greeted by the sight of a pair of well-worn beaded Moccasins. Slowly his gaze traveled upwards over the buckskins into the faded face of an old Indian. “White man lazy, sleep all day.”
As Freedom eyes adjusted to his surroundings, he found he was by a campfire in some sort of cave. There was meat roasting over the fire and a tiny stream nearby. The Indian said nothing else and Freedom studied him for a while, through half-closed eyes. To Freedom he seemed like an old man, perhaps in his early sixties, but he seemed very strong and agile on his feet. Down his back flowed an uneven river of grey hair, sprinkled with black and adorned with a scattering of beads and feathers. A pale blue thumb print of paint decorated both his weathered cheeks and forehead.
In spite of his predicament Freedom was unafraid, there was something comforting about the presence of the old man sitting by the fire. The Indian seemed to be alone, except for a couple of spotted ponies tied by in entrance of the cave. Freedom thought wistfully of the stolen Hatchet and
wondered if he would ever see his friend again.
After a few minutes Freedom realized that his shirt was missing and that the burns across the upper part of his body were smeared with a greasy white substance not unlike bacon fat.
“Bear Fat,” the Indian said in answer to the unspoken question. At this he shook his head and clicked his teeth. “White man say, Indian wicked heathen.”
Freedom studied him a long moment and thought of the story his Mother used to read to him sometimes out of her old Bible. It was about a man who was beaten, robbed and left for dead. The story went on to tell about how a man who was hated, “The good Samaritan” he thought they called him. He remember how the man spent time and money to help the injured man till he was well again.
The Indian cared for Freedom for several; days, he learned that the man’s name was Red Bull and that he was an Apache healer, but he learned little else about his benefactor.
Red Bull’s kindness and Freedom’s youth and general good health worked together and in time what had seemed to be a hopeless situation turned around and Freedom began to mend.
“Indian, tend white man like squaw tend papoose.” Red Bull volunteered one day, in a rare talkative mood. “Papoose grow up soon and make his own way.”
Freedom laughed, “I don’t understand why you did this for me, but I will forever be in your debt, Red Bull. What can I do to repay you?”
The Indian shook his head, and it crossed Freedom’s mind that he had received something at the Apache’s hand that was not unlike Christian kindness.
The next day the Indian approached Freedom where he was sitting by the stream. “Red Bull must go now, I have left you meat and wood, stay here a few more days than take the spotted pony and go back to your people.”
“I will repay you!’ Freedom said recklessly! “Some day I will bring you many horses.”
“I am old,” Red Bull replied. “I have seen to much. You are still young, just remember all your life that a dead Indian is not the only good Indian.” With that the old Indian extended his hand to Freedom, they exchanged a warm hand shake then Red Bull was gone.
The next morning Freedom hobbled to the mouth of the cave and inspected his little spotted pony. In all his life he had never received such a generous gift. She seemed like a good horse and he immediately tagged her with the name Lilly.
His heart was still heavy at the loss of Hatchet. But he knew he had lost more than his horse. He was now a man on a mission, to retrieve his stolen dream. Fortunately, he still had the fifty dollars stashed in his boot, he was thankful for his Papa’s advice. “Don’t put all your assets in one place.” Now that he had the spotted pony a plan began to form in his mind. Freedom was a peaceful man, he had never taken a life and hadn’t planned to, but he knew he had to do something about Fred Johnson and Sully.
Freedom stayed in the cave a few more days, he washed his clothes in the stream and slowly moved about on his painful limbs until he felt ready to travel. Red Bull had left him only a rope and a blanket for Lilly, but he gingerly mounted the little horse and rode her into Martinsville Indian style.
It was late in the afternoon when he got into town, and no one seemed to think it strange to see a dirty disheveled young man limp in on an Indian pony without a saddle. But he was thankful that he had the setting sun to hide his face. He left Lilly at the livery and quickly made his way to the Barber’s shop. The man was leaving for the evening, but the promise of a bonus persuaded to be late for his supper. Freedom knew his wild mop of red hair would make him hard to forget but thankfully his face and lower arms weren’t burned and if the Barber his hair short enough and cut off his beard maybe he wouldn’t be recognized. They thought he was dead anyway so Mr. Johnson and Sully probably wouldn’t know who he was. He didn’t want anything to interfere with the job he knew he must do.
After a shave and a haircut, he found the hotel for supper and soaked his scared body in a hot bath. Early the next morning he made his way to the dry goods store. “I need a saddle, and a gun and holster, also two changes of clothes, soap and a razor.” He paused as he left the store and spoke again to the young man behind the counter as he made a list. “I think you’d better include a new Winchester rifle too, and some shells.”
Lilly wasn’t used to a saddle and it took Freedom two days, working in a pen behind the livery stable to persuade her to tolerate it.
“Wouldn’t another horse be better?” The Smithy wanted to know. But Freedom told him that Lilly was a gift from a friend and no other horse would do. He paused a moment when he said it, remembering Hatchet. When Freedom asked the Smithy what he knew about Fred Johnson the man smiled. “Finest fellow I ever knew.” he said. “He has a ranch outside town called the Lazy K. I do a little work for him sometimes.”
Freedom was silent, apparently things weren’t always what they seemed.
He hadn’t splurged on new clothes in some time, but he needed to do everything he could to keep from being recognized, he even topped his new haircut with a brand-new black Stetson hat. When he looked in the mirror at the Hotel, he hardly knew the clean-cut young man who looked back at him. “It’s to fine a hat for someone like me.” He mused, wavering at the purchase, but he’d lost his other hat in the fray with Johnson and Sully. Everybody knows a cowboy needs a hat. So he stashed what remained of his money in his boot, squared his jaw, and soldiered on to the task ahead.
Freedom asked around town to see what else he could find out about Johnson and was amazed at how much the townsfolk liked him. Mr. Johnson owed a large ranch outside of town and had just returned from a very successful cattle drive. Yes, he was always in need of good hands and it was quite possible that he might be able to find a job at the Lazy K. Seems that a lot of his crew stayed behind in Abilene so surely, he was looking to hire some new men.
“You know how cow hands are?” The fellow he was talking to nudged him with a grin “Their pockets are full, and the girls are fun.” Annoyed, Freedom saddled Lilly and bid the Smithy goodbye. But the Smithy mentioned one more thing, “If you work for Johnson you might need to watch out for crazy Margaret!” Then he laughed as if he’d told a great joke. Freedom had heard other people mention “Crazy Margaret” but he paid it no mind, he had other, more important business to transact with Johnson and Sully.
A few miles out of town he came upon an attractive group of freshly painted white buildings. The main house was located behind a large double gate down a long lane a good way back from the road.
Freedom’s heart beat faster as he turned the spotted pony toward his adversaries’ house. He wasn’t a person who was used to feeling hate, but the pain in his body still reminded him of what had happened with every movement.
He didn’t even have much of a plan, Freedom Morgan was no hot-headed fool. He knew that Fred Johnson was a well-liked, respected man in Martinsville and if he did what he felt like and waltzed in and blew his head off he would end up on the end of a rope. He would have to bide his time and wait for just the right moment to act.
Surprisingly he found the place was empty except for a little stock confined to pens. He paused at on of the corrals and took a chance as he whistled for Hatchet. To his delight the little Cayuse came running. He stopped a precious to offer his old friend a cube of sugar moment while the horse nuzzled his arm. But he was afraid of detection, so he moved quickly on. “Ho, “he called as he walked around the house.
Then strangely he heard the sound of singing. Freedom hadn’t heard singing in a very long time, and he was amazed after a moment to find he could make out the words od John Newton’s old hymn.
“Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me, I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see.” The voice was lovely, like a bird warbling praise on a bright summer’s morning.
“Ho,” He called again.
“Here,” he received in answer as he rounded the corner behind the house. There he was surprised to find a young girl in a light blue dress bending low over a wash board.
He noticed at once that she was very pretty, long dark hair crowned her head and traveled in damp ringlets down her back. She was just a little plump, but not unpleasantly so, blossoming out in all the right places. An old Blue Tick hound dog lay happily at her feet, but strangely the dog seemed to take no notice when Freedom approached. As he got closer, he heard her whisper something to the dog, but he didn’t understand what she said, and paid it no mind.
“Excuse me please, Ma’am” he said with hat in hands. “Freedom Morgan is my name and I was just looking for the Boss Mr. Johnson”. When the girl stood up and turned in his direction, Freedom was shaken by her beauty, but shocked when it seemed that she looked at him through pale blue sightless eyes.
The corners of her full lips traveled upward to form a lovely smile, and Freedom noted that her skin was the color of the sweetest cream. “Hello there, Freedom. That’s a wonderful name. I’m the Boss’s daughter Margaret, can I help you?” A sick feeling swept over Freedom, to the point he had to steady himself at the corner of the house.
“Papa and Sully took most of the hands out to mend fences.” She smiled again and Freedom began to take hold of his emotions. “But they will be back by suppertime.” She took a step toward him and held out her soapy little white hand. “Cookie’s in the house and so is Minnie the housekeeper, come in and we’ll get you something to eat.”
Freedom found the house as well as his hosts to be warm and friendly. By the fireplace stood an upright piano, and a bright yellow canary sat in his cage by the window. Freedom watched as Margaret lightly ran her figures over the side of the cage. In a moment the bird burst into glorious song. Freedom was impressed and figured the bird was trained.
Cookie and Minnie escorted him to the table, and he wolfed down a big bowl of hot Texas chili while Minnie plied him with cornbread and biscuits. “He ain’t much to look at Missy,” Cookie teased, “But I think he’s got a hollow leg. Margaret giggled and if she could have seen him, she would have noticed that Freedom had turned a rather unusual shade of red.
After a few minutes Freedom took a chance and asked about the ugly little Cayuse he’d seen in the pen.
Margaret brightened visibly, “That’s the little horse my Papa brought for me when he came home from Abilene this time. They did say he ain’t much to look at, but that don’t matter to someone like me. I can’t ride him unless someone leads us around. I do like to go talk to him, and I feed him and brush him, he’s a sweet fellow.
“Yeah” said Freedom bitterly, “I bet he is a good horse, I knew one just like him once upon a time.” Minnie and the Cook glanced at each other at the sudden change in his tone, but Margaret gave no indication that she noticed.
Mr. Johnson came back early that afternoon accompanied by a gaggle of boisterous cowhands. Freedom’s knuckles turned white as he squeezed the arm of his chair when Johnson and Sully walked in. But Johnson only nodded when Margaret introduced them. He was annoyed at Cookie and Minnie for letting a stranger into the house but gave no sign of recognition when he saw Freedom. “Dag-nab-it! Cookie!” He said, “You just can’t trust everybody, with us gone some Yah-hoo could have come in, robbed you and burned down the whole place.” Freedom felt a little sick at his stomach, but he remained silent. Later Freedom thought about how the ranch-hands ignored Margaret, there was no flirting or teasing, they didn’t speak to her at all. He marveled about this because she was so pretty, but he supposed her Papa might have something to do with that.,
Finally, Mr. Johnson turned his attention to Freedom, “So, you want to work for me. Can you handle cattle?”
“I am one of the best!” Freedom said without returning Johnson’s steady gaze.
“I like a man with confidence, come by after Church tomorrow and we’ll see what you can do. What did you say your name was again?” “Freedom Morgan” the Cowboy answered, and Fred Morgan laughed, “What kind of a fool name is that?”
It wasn’t hard for Freedom to do the work expected of him. He was truly a good wrangler, and before long he was a respected member of the Lazy K establishment. The other cowboys considered him quiet but competent and for the most part just left him alone.
Fred Johnson was not pleased when Freedom and Margaret became good friends, but he allowed it for reasons of his own, perhaps he knew his daughter was lonely, in spite of his misgivings there was something he trusted about the red-headed cowboy.
Margaret was excited and assured Freedom that he would be happy working at the ranch. “Papa always takes care of his boys” she told him, and Freedom said he’d heard that somewhere else before.
Sully eyed him suspiciously from time to time, but that was how Sully looked at everyone. As the day and weeks passed Freedom became a bit more relaxed, but he remained watchful as he waited for his opportunity to act.
All the while he was becoming more and more attached to Margaret Johnson. Sometimes the other cowboys snickered about him spending time with “Crazy Margaret” but he could never figure out the joke. It was obvious there was something they weren’t telling him. But he found himself inventing excuses to see her.
Every evening he would find her sitting alone on their front porch or out in the yard. She had an amazing way with animals and sometimes she would have a fat rabbit in her lap chosen from the dozens she kept in her rabbit hutch near the stable. At other times he would find her whispering softly and stroking Hatchet’s long nose. Freedom remembered what Uncle Bud had said about Blind people, that sometimes they had special gifts, that it was God’s way of making up for them being blind. “They tell me secrets.” She would say, about her animals, but nobody paid attention, she was just Fred Johnson’s crazy little blind girl.
Freedom couldn’t understand how a man like Fred Johnson could be Margaret’s father. Her smile left him breathless, and her ready laughter reminded him of the tinkle of silver bells he heard at Church one Christmas. She was always laughing and singing. Freedom wondered how she could be so happy and still be blind? He wondered to why no one else seemed to know or care about how special she was.
Fred Johnson did love his daughter, but the sight of her reminded him of her Mother so he left her to spend most of her time with Cookie and Minnie. He had a strict hands-off policy where she was concerned with his Cowboys, but for some reason he let her relationship with Freedom slide.
One day Freedom asked Cookie about Margaret and why some folks called her crazy. “I guess the girl is just plain lonesome with nobody but Minnie and me and a few old hardheaded cowboys.” At this he paused and knocked the loose tobacco from his pipe. “When she was little, she started to imagine things, nobody paid attention, we just figured she was playing pretend, I guess it just sort of got out of hand over time.” That was all he seemed to want to say about it, so Freedom decided not to ask anymore questions.
It was a comfort to Freedom that Margaret had Hatchet; he knew she would be kind to him. Sometimes he would set her on Hatchet’s back and lead her back and forth around the pen. One day she surprised him when she said. “Oh Freedom, I wish I could ride, that’s what I hate most about being blind, it must be wonderful to sit on a horse and ride like the wind.” There was a longing in her voice that he had never noticed before.
“Do you really want to ride Margaret?”
Breathless she said “Yes!”
So, he swung up on the horse behind her and pushed open the gate. The strong little Cayuse had no trouble carrying them both and seemed glad to finally have his true Master on his back. He took out over the prairie like a big bird in flight. She leaned back against Freedom and he buried his nose in the dark sweetness of her long hair. She was silent but with his arms around her he could feel her sigh. A wicked thought passed quickly through his mind, but he dismissed it as quickly as it came. He could have his revenge, he could easily take her, Fred Johnson would pay for his crime. But he would only be trading one evil for another and he was not that kind of man. And he knew from somewhere deep in his heart that he loved her.
When they galloped back to the enclosure an unhappy Fred Johnson was waiting for them. Freedom had pushed his luck by taking Margaret out alone. Fred grabbed his arm as he was mid-dismount and flung him to the ground. “I don’t know what you’re doing Goat!” He screamed! “But you’d better think about it long and hard. You don’t know who you are dealing with here.”
Johnson had put his hands-on Freedom once again and this time there was no Sully to pin his arms. But Freedom clinched his teeth and said nothing, though Johnson didn’t know it, Freedom knew very well the kind of man he was dealing with.
Freedom debated long and hard what to do, Johnson had forced his hand and since he was in love with Margaret, he really shouldn’t wait around to much longer anyway. He would pretend to pack up his gear and make his move tonight after the rest of the crew turned in. He saw no recourse, so late that night he walked into the study where Fred Johnson was bent over his desk inspecting some paperwork and pointed his 38 pistol straight at his head. “I think you owe me something!”
Unshaken Fred Johnson leveled an angry gaze at the young man. “And what would that be GOAT???”
“I’m the red-headed cowboy you left to die on the trail home from Abilene, and I think you have my money. What kind of man are you anyhow?”
Johnson blinked in surprise, but after a moment he let loose with a wicked laugh. Just then Sully entered the room and pointed his pistol at Freedom. “What makes you think you will ever see your money again? Sully, take him out into the desert.”
The air was tense for a moment then there was an odd noise as Margaret stumbled in with Freedom’s Winchester. Sully laughed as if it were some great joke, till he caught his breath when she turned the rifle toward him. “She’ll never hit anybody, she’s blind as a bat!” But then he jumped because she let loose a shot into the wall beside his head.
Freedom was amazed, but he tried to play it cool, “She’s got very good ears, and I don’t know if I would want to take a chance if I were you.” Sully lunged to grab the rifle and she fired again, leaving him in a pool of blood on the floor.
Losing Sully seemed to take the wind out of Johnson’s sails, and he sat down heavily. “Okay Son, you win, I won’t fight Margaret.” But then he turned and asked her the burning question, “But how did you know?” With tears in her poor blind eyes she answered, “Hatchet told me, and I know he wouldn’t lie.”
His father’s words played once more in Freedom’s head as he took her in his arms. “Always expect the unexpected and never put all your assets in one place,”
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