Luck's Wild. G. Russell Peterman

of thirteen-inch wide and two-inch thick rough-sawn oak plank. The words lovingly cut into the new oak with a sharp knife point read:

      MARTHIE

      DYMOND

      1801-57

      Finally, the muddy grave’s mound holds a second layer of rocks and the stone-boat is empty. Both men stand looking down at the new grave, pull off their hats, and stand bareheaded in the rain with bowed heads. Black hair on the son's head is soon wet and plastered around his head, and the white bearded father stands with drops of rain splashing on his un-tanned baldhead and wet ring of white hair. After a long moment of private thoughts, the old one speaks.

      "Marthie, don't you worry none. We'll be all right. That Farmer’s Bank down in Hartville has done got the farm. Marthie . . . you rest easy; Collin and me are heading out for them gold fields. We hope to find a little and come back. We'll buy this'en farm back … if’en we can." His old work roughened hands rub across his eyes, wipe tears and rain away, as his head bends down until his chin rests on his collarbone. After long moment that ends with a sniffle. Hansel starts again, "But, if that's not to be, we'll locate close by. Marthie, you can rest easy now and look after our young’uns. I'll see you in the bye-and-bye. So long Marthie."

      "So long Ma," the younger one says softly and pulls his hat back on after his father does. Collin Dymond starts to follow his father toward the house.

      His white-bearded father turns, stops him, and gives Collin new orders. "You unhitch Cain and Abel. Leave the harnesses on the stone-boat. Put riding reins on ‘em and bring the pads. I'll get our possibles."

      "Yeah Pa," Collin replies and moves to strip both mules of harnesses and collars and dutifully tosses both sets on the empty muddy stone-boat. The son leads the mules to the barn, ties them to a hitching post, and steps inside their small barn. In a minute, the dutiful son returns with shorter riding reins to snap on the metal rings at the end of their straight bits in place of the longer ones. Collin slowly winds-up each of the nine-foot long leather reins into coils, ties the coils with thin leather strings from his pocket, steps back inside for two leather pads, cinches the pads tight around each mule’s bellies, picks-up the four coils, and leads the mules toward the house. On the way to the log cabin, Collin lays the long rein's four coils on top of the harnesses, and stops briefly to pick up two shovels and a pickaxe out of the mud. Collin looks around as if deciding what to do with them and decides to lays all three tools beside the harnesses on the stone-boat. Looking at the mules he wonders about the bank loan unpaid for Abel, wonders if it’s right to ride away on him. He decides the banks getting their farm and that should be enough.

      At the cabin, his father steps outside carrying their new load, two leather tote-sacks. Hansel calls each one “a poke” tied together at the tops. When Collin stops the mules at the house, he adjusts the pads over Abel’s withers, front shoulders, and loads his mule. One poke on each side of Collin's mule and the rope between rests on the pad. The pad keeps the rope from cutting into the mule's hide.

      Just as Collin finishes his father returns carrying a rifle, a shotgun, two powder horns, and two belts. Each belt has a small leather pouch for carrying an extra tie of powder in a piece of soft leather and lead shot and homemade knives in sheaths. Both firearms have leather wrapping around the flint on the hammers, frizzens, and powder pans to keep their powder dry. In addition, six-inch long leather caps cover the ends of the barrels to keep rain out of the load. Hansel hands his son Collin the rifle, a powder horn, and a belt. His rifle plate stamp reads 1812 with a U and an Eagle, making it an old military weapon. It is an old Springfield .70-caliber rifle with a barrel just short of a full forty-four inches long. The shotgun Hansel keeps, and this butt-plate stamp reads 1807 England. It is a double-barrel ten gauge with two triggers. Both weapons have a frizzen, a piece of steel the flint on the hammer strikes to create a spark, and small powder pan with a touch hole filled with black gunpowder. Both barrels of the shotgun are leather wrapped and wear a single leather rain-cap. Both men are careful to keep the barrels pointing upward as they belt on a pouch of lead balls and powder and a sheath holding an arrow-pointed double-edged knife. Both homemade knives they fired, hammered, sharpened on both sides on the farm's plentiful sandstone supply, and each blade sports homemade five-year-old white oak handles soaked for two months in oil and let dry before sanding. The homemade riveted cowhide sheaths and belts fasten over their leather coats and each one pushes an arm through the sling on a powder horn. Hansel checks the twin pokes and the pad on his son's mule before walking to his own. Collin follows, bends down, and cups his hands to help his father mount Cain's wet back. While his father waits on Cain, Collin leads Abel to a large rock left for this purpose, wipes his wet muddy hands on Abel’s flank, steps up on the rock, and slides a leg over on his mule's wet back. Collin Dymond turns Abel, his mule, to follow his father Hansel Dymond who without looking back kicks Cain in the ribs. At the end of their short farm road Hansel turns east down slope on Pea Ridge Road and at the main road turns south toward Dennis. Down Pea Ridge’s rocky muddy road in a drizzle both mules walk, father leading and son following, on through several showers of cold rain. Through rain and drizzle they keep to this steady pace on toward the upper end of Woods Fork Creek and the Gasconade River. Both would normally be dry, or nearly so, late in most summers, but in a normal spring full and running. Both were at pool stage last week, but now after this long slow rain both are sure to be running.

      Neither one looks back as they ride up over hills and down through hollows, raindrops and gusting wind continuously beating against the left side of their faces, and neither one pretends to notice scattered brown winterkilled clumps of Golden Rod that Marthie so admired each fall. Without a word or a look backward both riders move south on the main trail through stands of stunted oak, black walnut, twisted cedar damaged in the last winter’s late ice storm, persimmons, hickory, and hackberry trees of the area they had called home. Two large floppy, completely soaked, hat brims bends down over the left side of each stern emotionless face by an easterly wind and make it difficult to see very much with their left eyes. From time-to-time, they notice a blackberry thicket, stands of black walnut, white limbed cottonwood, red and white oak, maple, or persimmon trees along draws and gullies. Other times swirling gusts blow the brim back and upward wetting their entire faces. Fingers quickly pull the brim back down and hold it there until the gust passes. In the bottoms both mules splash through standing water, ride knee-deep across the headwaters of Wood Fork Creek, and cross over Lost Wagon Ridge. Down again and turning down long winding Oetting Flats splashing through puddles of standing water in last year’s knee-high dead brome grass, and then splashing across the upper end of Gasconade River. In the upper Gasconade, they drag their boots ankle deep through racing water. Out on the other side again they ride along Oetting Flats, a long winding valley bottom. Collin expects his father to take the easier way down the flats, swing left and then right around Stony Ridge following a wide bowl-shaped lowland almost up into Dennis; but his father reins Cain to the right straight-up and over Stony Ridge. Up they ride through scrub oak, stunted cedars, scattered persimmon, and brush thickets dodging around jutting rock ledges and boulders. His father takes the short-cut and Collin follows as a solitary lightning flash streaks downward ahead of them, almost instantly a peal of ear-hurting thunder cracks loudly a hundred yard uphill, a burnt smell and flame and smoke from a split post oak vanish quickly in the wind and rain.

      In Dennis, a small community of eleven un-painted soaked black buildings on the wagon road out from Springfield that twists and turns southeastward through the hill country everyone calls “the Ozarks” before turning south into central Arkansas. Through the small village of Dennis the Dymonds walk their mules. Curious eyes from windows, porches, and doorways stare out at them. Minds behind those eyes start to wonder where these two riders are going when both riders ride on past all three business places: Claxton's General Merchandize Store, Blankenship’s Boot and harness shop, and Hensley's Blacksmith and Livery. At the west edge of Dennis, Hansel turns Cain around behind a log church to a small-whitewashed cabin, slides off his mule in front of the small log cabin, and drops the reins on the muddy ground. The people living in Dennis call where the minister and his family live “The Manse”. Hansel’s knuckles knock on the new wood of a homemade door of the Manse and shortly it opens. A tall white-bearded man stepped into the doorway wearing store-bought clothes, a white shirt with a boiled and starched linen collar, and black suspenders holding up black wool trousers.