WAGON TRAILS
by
A.G. May

As the big wagon rolled out of the farm yard Samuel clambered over the side of the box and lay down on the big sacks of barley seed. He loved the bouncing ride of the heavily loaded wagon, and, he had the back entirely to himself. Snow melt and the early spring rains had transformed their narrow road into a couple of long shiny ribbons. Samuel peered over the side and watched the little stream of water flare off the top of the big rear wheel. It spun up and away from the outside lazily as they slowly rolled along. There was a soft sort of squishing sound as it squeezed the muck up and away from the spoked pinwheels. The long snaking pair of tracks and the random scattering of hoof prints were the only marks appearing on the narrow little road, all former markings had been completely smoothed over by the abundance of flowing water.

Samuel stretched out on his back and listened to the medley of sounds sneaking up and over the tall wooden sides of the wagon. Of course there was the sound the wheels made as they squished and squirted mud all over the place. The sound of their heavy horses, sort of a sucking, then a plop, plop, plop, as the shod hooves came up then landed once again back into the dark brown muck. A constant bantering droned on from the seat in front of him too, hardly a second in between the steady stream of words; mostly from his sister he was sure. That girl wasn’t quiet for even a second, likely talked in her sleep. Around the yard it was bad enough, but once trapped in the wagon there was absolutely no escape. They were now a captive audience and she knew it. Oh how he loved the sanctuary the back of their wagon offered.

When they rolled past Peterson’s slough the songs of all the red winged blackbirds were almost a steady hum, each one barely discernable from the other. What busy birds, it reminded him of the racket emanating from this wagons front seat, of course the racket produced by the blackbirds almost sounded like music. What was going on ahead of him most certainly couldn’t be construed as anything even remotely musical.

His mother also used this opportunity to release all pent up verbal matter she had stored away. Since his father worked such long hours it was about the only time she had to talk with him at any length. On the hour and a half ride to town she covered everything from curtains to corn on the cob. Dad nodded now and then, but mostly just set his seat with the reins held loosely in his right hand and stared off down the road. Now and then he’d add some small bit of information, but for the most part just kept quiet since the conversation seemed to carry itself just fine without him.

Samuel thought of Will Peterson, their neighborhood inventor. Last month he’d built a knife that shot its blade with just the flick of a button. A sly sort of smirk was smeared across Will’s face when Samuel had walked up to him; this almost always meant some sort of new gadget. The top-secret device was retrieved from deep within the bowels of a haystack. At first glance as crude as it was Samuel wasn’t entirely sure what exactly this new creation was supposed to represent. Will carefully assembled the pieces and inserted the rough blade into a slot in the one end then, placing the tip on the hard ground it took all his strength to load this new mystery machine. From beneath a pile of hay he produced a small board and jammed it between a couple of hay bales. With all the dramatic flare the boy possessed he lined up on the board and released the pointy little spear of steel. A small metallic clunk was followed a split second later by the blade impacting the board with enough force to send it half way through. What an intriguing little device this was.

The following week, “the shooting spear” as he’d called it had been discovered by Mrs. Peterson. Patches, the family dog had come slinking back up to the house with a big piece of hide missing off its butt. Lucky the mangy mutt wasn’t impaled really, although the switching William got was likely every bit a thorough as if she had.

The wagon bumped onto the wooden bridge anchored to the banks of the Battle River. Samuel leaned over the side and stared down into the swirling water, imagining what things the dark water held. He and Joseph Hildabrant had boiled clams underneath these heavy timbres. The bucket of clams cooked over an anemic fire for well over half an hour. Finally the water came to an almost imperceptible boil and unable to wait any longer the pail was carefully removed.

Those soggy clams were flipped out onto a big rock with a willow stick. Both boys looked long at the strange, partially cooked creatures before prying them open for a taste of the soft sandy meat that clung to the inside. Samuel held onto that first bite only a moment before spitting the entire contents of his mouth out into the lazily flowing river. This Battle river snack had been Joseph’s idea in the first place so he endured this torture only slightly longer, opting for a second and much smaller nip at his soggy, slimy, rubbery clam. Joseph actually danced in place a bit , lips clamped firmly shut, face screwed up into a point before giving up and depositing all that remained into the long grass inhabiting the river bank. It was impossible now to pass this river without looking into the water and thinking about those horrible little rubbery shellfish. When Samuel had relayed the story to his family that night at supper, they’d all snickered, then his father had explained he’d tried the same thing in England as a boy with nearly identical results.

“Samuel, you’re so quiet back there, come on up and tell us what that Will Peterson’s been up to lately,” his mother said as she half turned in her seat. She couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of the mischievous young man.

“Well he almost burned the barn down last week, was an accident, or so he said,” Samuel offered half-heartedly. He really didn’t want to talk about Will Peterson. Every time his name came up they some how worked in something he’d recently fixed, constructed, or blown up. Without fail his mother would slap her knee and laugh, then reply “I say, that young man leaves me in stitches.” His father would muse a bit, maybe chuckle, but most likely wouldn’t utter a single word.

“An accident, sure it was an accident, I’d like to hear old Lester Peterson’s version. Likely as not his story in the telling wouldn’t sound anything like an accident at all,” his mother piped in.

“I heard he took apart a shell from Mr. Peterson’s shotgun and was playing with the powder,” his sister happily offered. She and Will were close to the same age. Samuel constantly harassed her about the crush she seemed to have on their neighbor. At school she’d some how been able to work her way through all the other desks until she sat right next to him. Even at that the silly girl hadn’t been content. The width in the aisle began to shrink almost imperceptibly in an effort to anchor her desk right next to his. Finally the wandering desk along with its small, arguing owner were dragged back into line with the other students, then instructions were given, the desk was to remain in place as if nailed to the floor boards.

“Well that doesn’t sound at all like something Will would do,” his father commented sarcastically.

“If the boy would do something constructive with all that energy just think of all the things he’d accomplish,” his mother said.

Samuel wanted a return to the more sedate state he’d enjoyed only moments before, the shift in topic had now dragged him in and he did truly hate these Will Peterson discussions. They always were the same, what’s Will been up to, then the quick shift to what sort of trouble he’s been in. An old story and he really didn’t want to participate in them anymore. He did know how to stop this however, “Sadie you have such a crush on Will that you’d certainly know what it was that happened.”

“I do not.”

“Oh come on. Did your desk walk on its own all the way across the room to mysteriously end up right beside Will’s.”

“I moved over there to help Margie with her ciphering.”

“Sure you did. I’m curious, did he look better before he singed off his eyebrow with that gunpowder fireball? Or maybe you just happen to like the smell of burnt hair.”

Samuel was cut short by a swinging fist that narrowly missed his nose. With this his father cut in, “Samuel that’ll be quite enough.”

This was exactly what he wanted. He’d been silenced for bothering his sister, funny how it worked so perfectly every time. Samuel lay back and watched the clouds. Big fluffy pastry clouds his mother always called them. With spring the huge white puffy ones came back, a nice change from the gray blanket clouds he’d had to look at all winter.

Samuel was happy the soap in your mouth feeling had almost completely left him. Insulting the milk cows intelligence had proved to be a big mistake, or more precisely the way in which he’d insulted it might have actually done it. He’d been out tending to the animals that morning with his father. The usual stuff, feed the chickens, throw some hay out for the horses and cows. Samuel had taken care of these cursory tasks while his father set about milking the cow. When all his chores were finished he walked around and patted their milker on the forehead. She just continued chewing with the same half-mile stare she always sported. It was as if he wasn’t even there. Samuel climbed up into the wooden feed stall in front of her and looked their milk cow square in the eyes, nothing, not even the slightest flicker of recognition. He’d tilted his head and looked long into the cow’s big brown eyes, then told his father, “you know dad, I’m quite certain if you were to line this cow up just right with the sun and looked into her eyes you could see clear out her ass.”

His father was surprised by this comment for but a second before pinching his ear and hauling him all the way across the yard to the house. Once there the soap bar was inserted into the offending part where it remained until a lengthy lesson on appropriate wordage was complete. Samuel had only recieved the soap treatment once before, it was sufficiently unpleasant as to deter any further use of those types of words. Arse, had he only used the word arse, he’d likely not have such fresh breath now.

Three miles out the wagon rolled onto a smooth dry graveled road. The narrow metal bands crunched as it passed over this new surface, the grinding sound they made were accentuated by the added weight it carried. This sound was music to his ears, no more bouncing, or unexpected holes to shake and jar the lanky teenager. Samuel thumped the bags with his fist to improve the shape of the already deep groove his body had left in them, then stretching out he closed his eyes. Only the sound of the wagon on the road, and the filtered voices of his family touched his ears now. The wind whispered softly as it sifted in over the top board, and finally, nothing but a carefree dreamless sleep.