A word from Curt Many of our readers, waiting patiently for the sequel to The Wayfaring Stranger and A Good Place are curious about how As the Crow Flies will take our friends Joe and Eliza Moore, Mayo Moore, and Unk Dial. This is a preview of the story. I've purposely left in draft stage so you can get a feel of the steps in the evolution of a novel. Spoiler alert: The synopsis reveals the book's ending. Don't read it unless you really want to know! Sharing stories worth telling, Curt As the Crow Flies A Novel Curt Iles AS OF 4 MARCH 2016 at McDonalds Alex Part I Drifting/Wandering Epigraph I'll choose one of these shortened quotes as an epigraph. What's your favorite? Just a stranger In a strange land. -Leon Russell Don Preston I am a refugee torn from my land Cast off to travel this world to its end Never to see my proud mountains again But I still remember them And I'll be a wanderer feet on the ground Heart on my sleeve and my head in the clouds Eye on a star above some distant shore Wandering ever more -Steve Earle I was born under a wanderin’ star Chapter One Born to Thieves My name is Missouri Cotten, and I was born to wandering thieves. That heritage is the best sentence to explain about me. It’s also what caused our flight to the edge of Louisiana’s No Man’s Land. That day in October 1881 at the Calcasieu River ferry is the best place to start my story of The Westport Fight. As usual, we were running from the law and had taken on a new alias. It was a few weeks before my sixteenth birthday. Standing there with my parents - Pap and Ma— little did I know the next part of our journey would lead to being in the middle of a feud. A feud that changed this whole region of Louisiana. A time that changed me. The river ferry unloaded a wagonload of corn, as well as several horsemen. They avoided eye contact with us as they galloped past. The stooped one-eyed ferryman nodded at Pap, “Where y’all headed?” “Texas. How far is it?” “As the crow flies, ‘bout fifty miles. Normally a four-day wagon trip.” He sniffed at our rickety wagon with its mismatched team of an ox and a mule. “It’ll take a week for y’all, especially with that buzzard bait pair pulling you.” He wiped his hands on his faded bib overalls. “Where you coming from?” “Alexandria. New Orleans before that,” Pap said, not adding that we were on the run from both cities due to cons he’d pulled. The ferryman continued his interrogation. “Why Texas?” “Heard there’s good pickings there.” The ferryman nodded westward across the river. “Well, first you got to pass through No Man’s Land.” “What’s that?” “The lawless region between this here river and the Texas border. It’s also called the Outlaw Strip.” I edged closer to the ferryman at the mention of outlaw strip. “The part of Louisiana you’re entering ain’t got much law or civilization.” The ferryman spat. “By the way, what’s your name?” “Whoa now, feller,” Pap said. “You taking a census or something?” Pap, who’d been drinking early today, was already approaching his surly stage. “No offense meant.” The ferryman put his hands up. “Just my job to know who’s crossing the river.” He nodded at Ma and me. “Need your name if we need to notify your next of kin.” “We’re the, uh, Wh . . . we’re the Cotten family,” Pap said. He wasn’t quite yet used to our new alias. Previous to this, we’d been the “Whitehead” family, and the similarity tripped him up. “I’m Henry Cotten. This here’s my wife, Eula Mae, and our daughter Missouri.” While the ferry loaded, a flock of crows circled our wagon. Ma, using her hand as a sun shield, said, "Those crows are a sign." Pap's hackles rose. "Woman, I don't wanna hear none of that.” She waited until he walked down to the river,then then turned to me. "Missouri, those crows are a sure sign. We oughta go back." Several of the crows landed, cawing and hopping about on the red clay road. Ma nodded. "They been following us for a while. Look at that-there one with the bad wing. It's trying to tell us something." I leaned closer. "Ma, talk softer." "They’re a murder of crows." I shook my head. "I thought crows were called a flock?" Her eyes widened. "That murder of crows is trying to warn us." She knelt, drawing in the dirt with a short stick. "Folks are gonna die." "Where?" She pointed her stick. "Across that river. Listen to that bad-winged crow, it’s laughing at us.” As if in reply, the bird hopped up on a fencepost, cawing louder. As Pap walked back, I grabbed Ma’s arm. “He’s getting whiskeyed-up. Don’t say anything to make him do something crazy.” She stepped toward the wagon. “Whiskey don’t make him do nothing. It just lets him.” “Well, let’s not rile him.” Pap was rolling a cigarette, and I noticed his hands shaking as he said, "We'll be safe across this river.” * * * As you can tell, my parents, Pap and Ma, were a real pair. I said I was born into a family of thieves, but let me drive down a peg and correct myself: Pap, my daddy, was the thief. A gifted con artist and swindler of the first degree. Pap, like all thieves, was always looking over his shoulder, which explained our gypsy-like existence. Pap was a complex man. He had the gift of gab that confidence men possess. When sober, he could be decent. However, when tanked up on cheap whiskey like today, he was mean as a black snake. Ma never stole, but was sometimes his accomplice. Her gift was as a seer and a healer. She was what the Louisiana Cajuns called a traituer. Ma was from a long line of Indian healers. These secrets were passed down through generations: using scripture to stop bleeding, rubbing a burn out, curing poison ivy, and other folk healing methods. She called it her gift. These oft-misunderstood skills caused nearly as much trouble as Pap’s stealing. She swore her skill, which she called The Touch, came from God. Some folks agreed with this assessment, while others suspiciously viewed them as instruments of the Devil. Ma was determined to pass these gifts to me, claiming I was the only one who could inherit her skills. Currently, she was trying to teach me the art of staunching bleeding. I’d rather fought a grizzly bear than to get in the middle of her healings. Ironically, while Ma did the healing and Pap did the stealing. Often from the same folks. * * * So that day at the river ferry, I was standing beside two of the most complicated people in all of North America. Pap nodded at a red sign nailed to a cypress tree. “What’s that say?” I walked closer. “This river is the Calcasieu and the crossing is called Hineston Ferry, and the fare’s a dollar.” I pointed at a hand-scrawled sign below the red one. “That other sign says, ‘Abandon hope all ye that enter here.’” “Sounds like our kind of place,” Pap said. Hope. What a word. I hadn't had it in a long time and had no illusions that the next leg of our sojourn would be any different. The ferryman whistled. “Load up. We’re ready.” Pap climbed up on the wagon beside Ma and me. They sat on each end of the buckboard, each leaning out to look behind the canopy. Ma was trying to see those crows while Pap was looking for a sheriff's posse. He clucked to the team, and they reluctantly pulled the wagon down the riverbank and onto the rickety ferry. Ma, in her full-alert-omen-state, stared at the ferryman, and whispered, “I don’t like his evil eye. We should turn around.” “It’s too late for that,” Pap said. I knew he was right. Once we crossed this river into No Man's Land, there'd be no turning back. We were leaving the open cotton and plantation country of the Lower Mississippi River valley for a different land: a land of piney woods and few people. From the ferry deck, I kicked a pile of dried sweet gum leaves into the muddy river. They floated together, swirled around, and finally disappeared. The ferry eased into the river's swift current, struggling to reach the far shore. As soon as we bumped against the other bank, Pap paid the fare, and hurried our team up the cut bank. The animals strained to get traction and move the wagon out of the loose sand. As we reached level ground, the ferryman waved. “Good luck. Stay on the road and keep moving.” Pap coughed, and as we drove away, said, "Passed ol’ evil eye a counterfeit note." I squeezed in between them on the buckboard. We jostled along the narrow rutted road, our wagon's squealing rear wheel announcing our presence. Pap grimaced. "That back axle’s not goin’ to take us much Soon our wagon passed out of the hardwood bottom into an endless green canopy of towering pines. Their great height was such that their green tops blocked out the sun, casting the forest into cooler shade. The only sound in this majestic forest was the steady wind in the crown of the pines and our creaking wagon rolling on the thick carpet of pine straw. When we’d stop to rest the team, the eerie silence beneath the forest filled me with dread. This was so different from the plantation and cotton country where we'd been for the last year. I fully understood why it was called it No Man's Land. It appeared to be a place where humans were alien and unwelcome. Ma broke the silence. “I'm sure tired of that metal squealing." "No worse than your squealing and complaining,” Pap said. “Some people’d complain if you hung ‘em with a new rope." Squeezed in between them was a dangerous spot when they were sparring, which was most of the time they were awake. "I told you to get some axle grease,” Ma said. “I can smell it burning.” Pap clenched his fist. "Woman . . . shut your mouth." "It would not’ve hurt none to’ve asked a passing wagon for a little grease." "I don't wanna hear no more of your sass." "But I just-- " "Shut up, or I'll shut you up." We rode in relative silence for the next mile or so. Suddenly the wagon jolted to a stop. The wheel had finally frozen up. Pap pulled to the side of the trail near a small creek. After several minutes under the wagon, he said, “This is as far as we’re going.” “We should’ve turned back,” Ma said. As if in recognition of our predicament, dusk fell and a cold rain began. I slipped off the wagon, grabbed a bucket, going to draw water from the creek. Claws, our wagon cat hopped down and followed me. She meowed hungrily. “Yep, you’re hungry too. So am I.” Rain dripped from the trees and the tree frogs croaked in gratitude for the change in the weather. Across the creek, I heard a distant crow’s call. The cat rubbed against my leg. “Did you hear that, Claws?” The crow, now closer, called again. A neighboring bird cawed from near our wagon. I shivered, wondering if Ma had heard it, too. Chapter Two Chapter 2: Two Wagons I arose on our first full morning in No Man's Land to see Ma leaning over the campfire making coffee. She was eyeing a Conestoga-style wagon approach from the west. Pap was sitting on a pine log, his old shotgun, between his legs. A man and teen girl sat on the buckboard, framed by several tow-headed girls peering out from the canvas opening. Pap whispered, "Don't forgit--our name's Cotten." He tipped his hat at the wagoneer. "Morning. Where are ya'll headed?" The man glanced back. "As far from here as possible." He stopped the wagon as a passel of girls piled out. From behind the canvas, a baby’s raspy cough caught my attention. The girl on the wagon, who looked about my age, jumped down, and I followed her to the back flap of the wagon “That baby sounds bad sick." "That's why we're headed back to Alexandria. Ain’t no doctors out here," the girl said. I peered in under the canvas at a sad-eyed woman holding a newborn. The woman wiped her face, then looked away. “Ma’am, my Ma's a healer – she might can help with your baby." "I’m afeared he’s beyond help." Ma’s calm voice spoke from behind me. “I can try." The mother’s voice was desperate. ”We done buried two other boys in this God-forsaken place, and I’m scared of losing another. She glanced at the other children. “I can keep girls alive, but my boys all were sickly. Ma tenderly took the baby. "What's his name?" The woman looked down. “Ain't named him yet--waiting first to see if he makes it." Ma held the swaddled coughing baby to her breast. "I'll try to help, but you must promise to name him. Don't nobody deserve to live--or die--without a name." "What's your name?" The woman said. "Beulah. Beulah Mae Cotten, and this is my daughter, Missouri." Ma winked at me. "We're the Cotten family. We spell it with an O and an E. Not two Os." Writing her name was about as far as she could get. Because our family name changed from town to town, it was a chore keeping her up with spelling our names. The woman was confused. "Two O's?" Ma said, "No, not the cotton you pick. That’s C-o-t . . . ” I helped finish her spelling bee. “t-t-o-n.” Ma nodded. “Right. Ours is C-o-double t-e-n. How long have y'all been here?" "Been here going on two years. My man wanted homestead land. There's lots of free land, jes’ not much of a life." “I'm right sorry. We ain’t done much better,” Ma said. “Where are you all headed?” “To Texas.” “Lady, you’ll never get through this strip. Turn around.” Ma looked at me and whispered, “Crows.” Then she shook herself. “Let's take a look at that baby. The mother handed the baby to Ma. "How you gonna heal him?" "With the help of the good Lord and that fire over there." "Fire?" The mother grabbed for her baby. "Please trust me--I need you to trust me," Ma said. The woman crossed her arms and stepped back. I’d never watched Ma heal with smoke. I moved closer as Ma knelt at the smoldering campfire and pulled some dried herbs and roots from her satchel, tossing them into the smoking embers. The fire flared up, giving off a thick gray smoke. Ma quickly unwrapped the baby from his blanket, and held him in the smoke. He began choking and screaming and the gathered sisters’ curious looks deepened to concern. The baby’s father hurried over. "Whatcha doing to my baby?" The mother waved her hand. "Leave her alone--she's healing him." It looked like Ma was killing him. She hummed in a low voice in the howling baby’s ear, still wafting smoke in his face. Finished, she handed the baby to its mother. "All right, Momma. I'd done my part. Now it's your turn: What are you going to name this fine boy?” The mother gazed at her red-faced sputtering baby. "Cotton. I like that name. We'll name him Cotton. All of my other kids are cotton-tops. His name will be Cotton Nash." She winked. "With two Os.” Ma smiled. “Cotton's a good name for a boy however you spell it. He's gonna grow up to be a fine man." The baby was still wailing, but the mother's jaw had relaxed, and she smiled wearily. "Thank you kindly." Ma patted her shoulder. "You should get to a doctor when you reach civilization across the river, but I believe he's gonna be okay." The woman climbed on the wagon. "Where'd you get your gift?" "From the Lord." "God's blessed you." "Not sure if it's a blessing or a curse." The woman reached into her pocket. "I don't have much, but I'd like to give you something." Ma held up her hand. "Nope, I don't take nothin' for helping. That ain't how it works." I glanced at Pap and wasn't surprised at his wounded scowl. The Cotton-Top-Nash family loaded back onto their wagon. The baby had the dry heaves but wasn’t coughing as bad. I eased beside Ma. "You really think he'll make it?" She nodded. "Yep. I do." I watched the wagon slowly move away. One word came to mind. Lost. They were just as lost as us. Drifting. The only difference was we were going west and they were returning east. Both wagons, full of wanderers were lost. The lady shouted back. "God bless you." Pap spat. "God he'ps those who he'p themselves and we just missed our chance." He grabbed Ma's arm. "Those people wanted to give you something--and you turned them down--and us with a broken wagon and empty pockets." Ma jerked away. "I‘ve never took money for my gift." Pap held aloft a paper. “That fellow on the wagon gave me his homestead deed. Said he weren’t ever coming back and wouldn’t need it.” He handed it to me to read. It was a homestead filing with a bunch of legal terms and descriptions. It was in the name of Graham Nash and from Calcasieu Parish near a place called Sugartown. Pap folded the deed, putting it in his vest. “We’re going to Texas but can check this out if we pass near it.” Turning to me, Pap said, “Mizz, that Nash man mentioned there's a general store about three miles past here. I’m sending you for supplies.” "How will I pay?" He pulled out a wadded bill and a fistful of coins. "Here's a little, but it'll be up to you to get the rest." I held the bill to the light. "Is it real or counterfeit?" "Does it matter?" He led me away from the wagon. “We need wagon grease, some flour, coffee, half pound of eight penny nails, and tobacco, both the smoking and chewing kind.” I held out the money. “This isn’t enough.” He shrugged. “Beg it, steal it, or whatever--but bring it back." Walking away, I rubbed my cheek. The bruise was nearly gone from the last time I'd come back empty-handed from an assignment. I was determined that this mission would be successful. I hurried away before he added another item to my shopping list. Chapter Three A Crooked Smile Not far past our wagon, the road to the store crossed a small creek. I stopped at the sight of an old man fishing on the far bank. He halloed me, then said, "Use that log ri't there for crossin'. Don’t worry, it ain't but knee deep where the log ends." I hiked my skirt up and waded across, warily watching him the whole time. He was Indian-looking and kind of dried up like old men often are: as if he’d blow away in a strong gust. He stood near the end of the log, hand out, wearing a lop-sided grin. For some reason, I sensed trustworthiness about him. Besides, he was so old, I could easily outrun him if he started any trouble. I noticed two things about him: that crooked smile and piercing smoky black eyes that seemed to take in everything. It was obvious he wasn’t right. Back then, we called it being touched. It wasn’t an insult, just a way of describing someone who’s mind was jumbled. He scanned the ragged clouds. "That north wind’s raw. Hog-butchering weather today, ain't it?" I didn't answer so he continued. “Where are you headed, honey?" "The store." "What's your name?" "Missouri—Missouri—uh – “ My mind went blank. "Missouri, uh – Whitehead. I mean Cotten." I needed to get used to this new name real quick. "Well, Miss-Missouri-Uh-White-Cotten, mind if I walk withcha?” "If you’ll tell me your name." "I'm Nathan. Nathan Dial." That's Nate Dial--and it appears I know my name better than you do your'ns." He studied me. "But folks around here just call me Unk. Maybe you're like me--got several names to remember." He winked. "I can remember my name but have trouble with what day of the week it is. Today’s Thursday, ain't it?" I figured on my fingers. "Nope, I believe it's Friday. The 7th of October." He reached out, and I stepped back. He waved. "Oh, don't worry about me. They say I'm touched in the head." We waded out of the creek, and I sat on a stump putting my shoes on. Unk Dial, who was bare-footed, shook the water off his pants. "Cherry Winchie's cold this time of the year." "What's a Cherry Witchie?" I said. "This is Cherry Winchie Creek. Wanna know how it got its name? "Sounds as if you're going to tell me whether I want to know or not." "My grandma said it got its name from a Cherokee woman who lived on the creek. You know, Cherry . . . Chero-kee." I tied my last shoe. “How far to the store?” "As the crow hops, it's three miles." "I thought the saying was 'As the crow flies'?" He shrugged. "Don't matter. It's three miles either way." “What’s past the store?” “Nothing much, but Sugartown. It’s about another twenty miles.” “As the crow hops?” I said. “Yep.” Pap’s land deed had mentioned Sugartown, so my curiosity was piqued. “Have you been to Sugartown?” Nope. My kind ain’t welcome there.” "Your kind?" "Yep, my kind. We’re Redbones. Ten Milers. Sometimes, we jes' call ourselves The People." He placed his arm beside mine. "Child, you and I are about the same skin color.” "I've always been dark." "You part Indian?" "I guess so. My momma's people are called Mulungeons. They come from the hills where Tennessee and North Carolina come together." "Never heard of them. You been there?" "No sir. We've been on the road for all of my life." "How long is that?" "I turn sixteen this month. "You seem pretty smart for a girl that don't know her own name." "And you're pretty nosey for a fellow that's touched in the head," I said. He grinned. "Miss Missouri, I believe you and I are going to get along real well." He led me around the mud holes on the narrow road. "Being touched in the head comes in plenty handy. It kept me out of the war, and people speak freely around me because they think I'm stupid." "Well, Mister, you don't seem stupid to me." "You can call me Unk or Mister Unk. Ain't you a little scared out here on your own? You got a lotta sand being out here alone in No Man's Land." “Sand?” “Yep, sand or grit.” He stared into my face. “Where’d you get those eyes? They ain’t Indian eyes.” I blushed. “People always notice my eyes. They’re not brown like Pap’s or Ma’s.” Unk squinted. “They got a little bit of everything in them. Never seen nothin’ like ‘em.” I was used to it. My mixed eye color was like my mixed heritage. It always drew attention, sometimes unwanted and unwarranted. We climbed up a rise, and the store sat in a clearing that dipped in every direction. As we neared, I read a rough sign above the porch: Moore and Hatch Store General Merchandise. Westport, La. "How long has the store been here?" I said. "About two-year – " Suddenly, Unk Dial stepped behind a tree. "Watch out." It was as if he’d stepped on a snake. He was transfixed by a group of four men in front of the store porch. The tallest one held a rifle in the crook of his arm, and they all sported side arms. Unk grabbed my arm and whispered, “Don't let ‘em see you." "Who are they?" "Outsiders. Timbermen who want our land. The one with the rifle is Watson. The tall man beside him is Musk. He ain’t nothin’ but trouble. “What kind of trouble?” “A feud’s been brewing with our people, and those fellers in the middle of it." He pointed at the men. "I'm a'feared somebody's gonna get kilt 'fore it's over." I visualized Ma and her murder of crows. “This place is jes’ a powder keg jes waitin’ on a spark,” Unk said. I looked at him. "I'm going in the store." He tried to grab my arm, but I was too quick. The men stopped talking as I neared, but made no effort to move out of the way. The tall one squarely faced me. "And who might you be?" "Just passing through." "A girl as pretty as you shouldn't be out here alone." "Who said I was alone?" I glanced back into the woods. The men still didn't move, revealing themselves as the kind of bullies who liked picking on someone smaller or weaker. I readied myself to plow right through them. Just then, a man's voice boomed from the doorway. "Musk, you and your buddies don't have enough manners to let a lady through?" A ruddy sandy-headed man stood on the porch smiling. "You fellows let that girl into my store. She may have some money burning a hole in her pocket." They quietly stepped out of the way. He had a rich Irish lilt, like the kind I'd heard in the Irish Channel of New Orleans. A barking hound bounded up the steps and stopped beside the man. “Now, Sandy, you be nice to our new stranger.” The storeowner was about the age of my parents. He put out his hand. "My name's Moore and this is my store." He winked. "It rhymes, doesn't it? Around here, I’m simply known as the Irishman. And who are you?" "Missouri Cotten. Our wagon's broke down, and my father sent me for some supplies." I pulled out my list written on a scrap. "I need some axle grease, coffee, a handful of eight-penny nails, plus a small bag of flour." "Let me see that list." He scanned it. "You can write?" "Fairly." "It's a rare skill in these parts." Disappearing inside the store, he said over his shoulder "The grease is in the back." I walked into the store and wandered the well-stocked shelves. I was absorbed on the tobacco supplies when I walked right into a man. “I am so sorry." A stocky young man, covered in flour dust from head to toe, stood grinning. From his look, I was sure our collision wasn’t by accident. He doffed his cap. "I'm Mayo Moore. Nice bumping into you." I stammered. "You're kin to the Irishman who owns this store?" "Well, actually, I own it, and he just works for me." Mayo Moore, who looked about thirty, was olive-skinned like Unk Dial with the same high cheekbones, but instead of dark eyes, his were green. "You look different from your father. You're not Irish?" "The inside of me is." "But how ...?" "My mother's a local. I'm a little of both." "Does your mother work here?" He looked away. "She did until she took sick." “What’s wrong with her?” “I’m afeared she’s dying.” There was a pregnant awkward silence, so I said, "Do you run the grist mill?" He brushed flour off his shoulder. "How'd you guess?" I pointed to the line on his forehead where his cap had been. “Your flour line gave you away.” He laughed, touching my shoulder. There was a touch of sadness in his face that I couldn’t miss. It may have been the weight of his mother’s illness but there was something even deeper than that. Behind us, the Irishman coughed. "Mayo, I believe they're waiting for you at the mill." He handed the grease to me. "What size nails do you need?" "A half-pound of eight penny." He disappeared again into the storage room, leaving me on my own for the next few minutes. The Irishman returned and I joined him at the counter, putting my money down. "We need flour with the money that's left over." He counted my money, and then measured out the flour. “Anything else?" "No sir. That's good." I stuffed the items into my tote sack. "Great. If you're happy, we're happy." The way he stared at me made my stomach churn. "Yes sir. I guess I am happy." I hurried out of the store. To my relief, the men were gone. A young man was leaning against a porch post using it like a backscratcher between his shoulders. “Hi yah." He was one of the Redbones. A little older than me and a shade lighter. "Where you from?" "Just passing through." I tried to move past him. "Is that your wagon back across Cherry Winche?" "It is." He stepped closer. "My name's Moon." "That's an interesting name." "Moon Perkins, at your service." I stammered. "It's good meeting you, but they're waiting for me at the wagon." He tipped his hat. "Good meeting you, Missouri Cotten.” "How do you know my name?" "It's my job to know what's going on." "How'd you get the name Moon?" "Look at my face. It's kinda round like the moon." "That doesn't bother you?" "Heck no.” He laughed. “Been called worse. Besides, everyone's got a nickname in Ten Mile." "Do I?" "Not yet. For now, I'll just call you The Wanderer." “My folks call me Mizz. By the way, what’s Ten Mile?” It’s what we call our area. There’s a creek past the store called Ten Mile. Most of our people live up and down the creek.” “It’s nice meeting you Moon, but my folks are waiting. I hurried away with a wave. The store dog, Sandy, padded along beside me. When I reached where Unk Dial had been hiding, he was gone. Sandy the dog sat on his haunches. “So, this is as far as you’re going?” The dog turned toward the store in a trot. I continued apace down the road, determined to get away. I was startled by a horse coming up behind me. Being in the open, I dashed into the edge of the woods. “Come on out." It was the Irishman. He’d dismounted and stood in the road, arms crossed. I stepped out. "Sir, is there . . . something wrong?" "You forgot something at the store." He walked to a roadside stump, sat down, and pulled out a pipe, tapping it against the stump. "I'd sure like a good smoke. Mind if I borrow some of your tobacco?" "Tobacco? I don't have any." He pointed. "It's in your left dress pocket." I pulled out the pack of tobacco and tossed it to him. He methodically filled his pipe, tamped it down, and lit it. I considered running. He puffed contentedly, blowing a fine cloud of blue smoke. "It's not every day that I meet a pipe-smoking girl." "I don't smoke a pipe." "Or one your age who dips snuff." I pulled a tin of Garrett's Sweet Snuff out of my bag and sheepishly handed it to him. "Are you going to have me arrested?" "Maybe." He rubbed his chin. He seemed to enjoy watching me squirm. It reminded me of watching our wagon cat, Claws, torture an injured mouse. He never lost his smile. I noticed his piercing green eyes. They were just like his son’s, except the Irishman’s were what I’d called fierce. Those fierce eyes were doing battle with his smile. I wondered which facial trait really defined this man. "Does anyone else know?" I said. "Nope." I bit my lip. "Are you going to tell Mayo?" "Mayo who?" "Your son." "Well, he did tell you that I worked for him, so I guess I'll have to. He paused. “No, I don't plan on telling him unless it happens again." “It won’t happen again.” “I’m sure it won’t.” He smiled. "Why wouldn't you want Mayo to know?" I felt my face redden. "Oh, I don't know." "Well, child. I'd be careful there. "Why?" He looked away. "He’s a wounded soul.” The Irishman stood quickly. "Now, I promised not to tell anyone, but I do need to talk with your father about this.” I felt hot tears. "That is if you'd got a father,” he said. I studied the ground in front of me. "He's the one who sent me to steal." "Your father sent you to steal?" "A good beating is awaiting me if I come back empty-handed." The Irishman sat back on the stump, puffing rapidly as the embers flared up in his pipe. When he finally looked up, his green eyes were also afire. He tossed the tobacco and snuff at my feet. "You take this on home." As I shuffled away, he added, "And I'll expect to see you at work tomorrow morning at eight." "At work?" "At the store. You'll be working off your tobacco stash." I stared at him. "Are you serious?" He mounted his horse. "See you at eight, and be on time." As he turned for the store, I said, “I’m sorry about your wife being so sick.” He reined in. “So am I.” It was hard to miss the deep pain on his face as he hurriedly rode away. I watched until the Irishman Joe Moore disappear over the hill. I stood a long time looking in both directions down this trail that passed for a road. Two men were on my mind: the Irishman and Pap. It wasn't fair comparing them, but it was hard to avoid. I picked up my contraband and stuffed it in my tote bag and turned for our wagon. I knew one thing for sure: it was time for my life to change. And that was a good thing--it couldn’t get any worse. Chapters 4-50 to be added later Below is a synopsis of As the Crow Flies. Spoiler alert: This reveals all of the twists and turns of the book. Spoiler alert 2: Books change as characters lead us in different directions. The final book will be different from this synopsis. Synopsis As the Crow Flies As the Crow Flies is divided into four sections: Drifting Fighting 3. Healing 4. Running PART I Drifting When MISSOURI COTTEN opens her story with, "I was born into a family of thieves," it's obvious she's no ordinary fifteen-year-old.. Missouri Cotton, known as Mizz by her family, tells her life story with sand, a little sass, Southern humor, and a quick wit--much of it directed at herself. She begins the tale with her family’s arrival on the edgoe of western Louisiana's "No Man's Land" in late 1881. It’s a wilderness area, also called The Outlaw strip, of great beauty and expansive isolation. For most of its history, this border area has been disputed between the countries of France, Spain, Mexico, and the United States. Even though the region is now part of Louisiana, it has retained its frontier lawless spirit. Mizz soon encounters the Redbones, the regions mysterious people. Deeply clannish and isolated, they are proud of their Indian blood. The Redbones are determined to keep outsiders out at any cost. Mizz’s first Redbone friend is an older man named NATHAN DIAL. Called UNK by the locals, he becomes Mizz’s guide, protector, and teacher. Unk, who admits to being “touched in the head”, is full of woods wisdom and kindliness. Unk wins Mizz's trust and becomes her confidant and guide to “all things Redbone.” Missouri, herself an outcast and part Indian, finds kinship among the Redbones. Her famly tree is complicated. She’s the daughter of a con artist. Her father, currently calling himself HENRY “Pap” COTTON, is thief and swindler with the gift of gab and a taste for whiskey. In juxtaposition to Pap, Mizz's mother, BEULAH "Ma" COTTEN, possesses a gift of healing. She can cure burns and stop bleeding, although using this "gift" causes as many problems as it solves. Ma is determined to pass these gifts onto Mizz. On their first day in No Man’s Land, Pap sends Mizz on a shoplifting mission to the local general store. The storeowner, Irishman JOE MOORE catches her and pronounces her punishment: she'll have to "work off" the theft at the Westport Store. In the coming days, the Irishman and his family of misfits and characters befriend her, going as far as hiring her at the store. Through her job, she comes to know many of the White outsiders who are seeking to make a living off the land and timber. This clash and locals and outsiders is erupting into a feud that Mizz is thrust into the middle of. Already feeling rootless, Mizz learns from her drunken father that he’s really her grandfather. Her deceased older sister was really her mother. This disconcerting news further confuses her mind. Mizz, being an attractive newcomer on the frontier, is the recipient of several suitors among both the Whites and Redbones. She falls in love with the storeowner’s son, MAYO MOORE, but his mysterious tragic prior marriage dampens any chance of romance. Missouri Cotton becomes particularly close with ELIZA MOORE, Mayo’s mother. Eliza, a local Redbone who caused scandal by marrying the Irishman, is dying at the age of fifty-two. Mizz becomes her sitter and listens as this woodswoman attempts to pass on her memories and personal faith. Although she has little formal education, Mizz is a voracious reader. Books are her escape and stepping-stones to a better life. . Not able to read the rest of the story, she compiles her own version of where the novel could lead. Two weeks before Christmas, a disputed horse race triggers open rancor between the outsiders and locals. Mizz's father is a suspected accomplice to fixing the race in favor of the local Redbones. On a side trip to the Red River town of Alexandria, Mizz gets a copy of Les Miserables, Book Two: Volume Two: "Cosette." 2. Fighting On Christmas Eve, this feud between the groups erupts into a gunfight and siege at the Westport Store. Four people are killed in what becomes known as the Westport Fight. Missouri is trapped inside the store during this daylong battle and distinguishes herself through a brave rescue during the height of the fight. The events of this day both clarify and complicate the relationship between Mayo Moore and Mizz. The day after the fight is Christmas. It is a sad day in the Ten Mile area. Against the advice of her family and locals, she attends the funerals of two of the men killed. Seeing the raw grief of both the outsiders and locals, she is reminded of how loss and grief knows so cultural or ethnic bounds. As the new year approaches, Redbone guerilla warfare by ambush and burn outs drive out the outsiders. The Westport Store and adjacent mill burn, causing the Moore family to flee eastward. III. Healing Mizz and her family continue westward, eventually stopping in Sugartown, the only settlement before the Texas border. Mizz is broken-hearted over traveling in another direction from Mayo Moore and his family. Just as their romance bloomed, events tore them apart. She tries to reconcile herself to this fate. Her bitterness grows at her family’s constant movement. She realizes her greatest obstacles are always time and place. It’s difficult to make friends, put down roots, and have lasting love. However in Sugartown, known as the “Queen of the Frontier” Mizz finds a new life. Her family moves from their wagon into a donated home. Mizz is able to enroll in the local school and for the first time has stability and the opportunity of a formal education. At her school, the Sugartown Academy, she discovers a full copy of Les Miserables and is finally able to complete the epic story. She identifies with the story’s principal characters: the reformed convict Valjean, Fantine and her underdog daughter Cosette, even the innkeeper schemers, the Thernadiers, who resemble her parents. Several months into Mizz’s Sugartown sojourn, Mayo Moore and his family arrive to open a new general store. Her re-kindled romance with Mayo moves in fits and starts. In the back of her mind, Missouri Cotton fears trouble always lurking at her door. She hopes for the best but fears/expects the worst. The worst arrives in tandem when her father is suspected of involvement in a local killing and Mizz is framed for stealing from the Moore store. 4. Running In the climax of As the Crow Flies, the Cotton family flees westward with the Sabine River and Texas their goal. Mizz leaves a note for Mayo declaring both her innocence and love. Nearing the Texas border, she gives up hope of rescue by Mayo. As border ferry lands on the Texas side of the Sabine, Mayo arrives and calls across to her. Her father and mother attempt to stop her from returning, trying to both guilt trip and physically restrain her. Missouri Cotten faces a Rubicon decision in her life. She plunges her horse into the River, leaving Texas, and embracing her new life in the Louisiana No Man's Land. We solicit your feedback and contacts. Become part of the novel by sharing your input, criticism, and comments. As of March 2, 2016 Word Count 1308/ Word count 1426 MARCH 2 1234 word count
Creekbank Stories Curt Iles, Storyteller
