Wellington's Quest by Robert F. Clifton (feel good fiction books .TXT) 📖

opportunity and since you have turned down politics as a vocation, let me submit to you another idea I have. Come into business with me. Sit on my board of directors. By doing so, your reputation here in Minnesota will draw business to our many enterprises. I suggest that you invest your,”soon to be riches” by purchasing stock certificates in our operation. Right now stock is selling at a dollar per share.. Buy, say three thousand shares. By doing that you send a message to our board members that you are a legitimate investor and at the same time persuades the average citizen to purchase shares”, suggested Wilcox.

“I was a farmer. True, I knew how to run the business end of my farm, but I don't know a thing about big business and corporations. I'm not a business man”, said Jim.

“As a farmer, how much money did you make in a good year?”, asked Wilcox.

“Probably, three maybe four hundred dollars”, answered Jim.

“As a member of the board your salary is two thousand dollars a year. When our business enterprises prosper so do the directors. Happy shareholders love to give raises and benefits to those who give them a nice return on their money”, said Milford.

Their conversation was interrupted when Ed Barnes entered the room.

“Excuse me gentlemen, but I just returned from town. I thought that you would like to know that the people are mutilating Black Bears body”, he said.

“Why? Why in the name of hell would they do such a thing?”, asked Jim in anger.

“Revenge. They remember seeing the bodies of their loved ones. Even little boys are involved. They're placing firecrackers in the ears of the corpse”, Barnes continued.

“Real good Christian people. People who go to church on Sunday. They pray to Jesus then act like barbarians with a dead man's body. It's been three years after a disaster caused by cheating traders and government officials and now they take revenge on a lifeless man. I should have left him in the Black Hills. Now, I'm sorry that I didn't”, said Jim in disgust.

“I told you sometime ago that the Indian is in the way of progress. Now, the victories of Sibley and Sully have proved that they are no match in combat against the white man”, said Wilcox.

“Milford, you're wrong. Before they are defeated and forced on to reservations the United States Army will be defeated many times. Many white scalps will hang from the lodge poles of the plains Indians. Trust me”, said Jim.

“Oh well. Thank you Ed for bringing us the information. Now Jim, what do you think of my offer?”, asked Milford.

“I haven't got the money yet. If I do your offer is mighty generous”.

“Think about it my friend. Think about it. Now, the hour grows late. Nothing like good brandy followed by a good night sleep', said Wilcox as he got up out of his chair and walked towards the stairs.

Tozer drained the brandy sniffer in his hand and placed the glass on the whiskey cabinet. “Time for me to go. I'll see the town solicitor in the morning. Good night Jim”.

On a Saturday morning Jim walked into the barbershop of Edgar Tilley.

“good morning sir. You must be Jim Wellington. It is sure a pleasure meeting you sir. What can I do for you today, haircut, trim the beard or perhaps a shave?”, asked the barber as he shook Jim's hand.

“Both, I want the hair short. You know, like what's in style now. Trim the beard, but I want it close to the skin”, Jim requested as he took a seat in the chair.

“Yes sir, no problem. So, tell me, what was it like when you killed that fella, Matosapa?”, asked Tilley as he placed the cloth covering most of Jim's upper body.

“How do you know that it was me that killed him? Maybe I found him dead on the grassland, Jim suggested.

Tilley laughed. “Shucks, everyone here in town knows that there are three bullet holes in that Indian, George Maxim, the local undertaker dug two forty four caliber lead balls out of the Indians chest. Lots of people saw you ride into town dragging that dead body in tow. And, you had a Colt forty four revolver on your hip. There aren't too many of those that belong to the average citizen. Military? Yes. Average citizen? No”, said the barber.

“Interesting. Just where is this undertaker located?”, asked Jim.

“Next block over. You can't miss it. He has a large coffin in the window, along with other samples.

Men passing by and looking through the large plate glass window of the barbershop and recognizing Jim suddenly needed a haircut, using that need as an excuse to enter the shop. They anxiously took a seat in the hardback chairs that lined one wall, then sat patiently waiting for Jim to talk about his exploits as an army scout and Indian fighter. Soon, young boys stood outside, looking, some staring through the shop window.

Jim kept quiet, not saying anything. When Edgar Tilley was finished brushing loose hair from Jim's clothing Jim stood up, put on his hat and coat and paid the barber. Those who did not know him noticed his limp and began the story that James Wellington had been wounded in an Indian fight. He still carries an arrow head in his leg, causing him to limp.

Once outside he walked to the next block, crossed the street and found the undertakers place of business. He stood looking at the salesman samples and the variety of coffins available from the manufacturer. When he entered the morticians parlor a man came through a black curtain that concealed what ever was in the back room.

“Good day sir. May I be of service?”, said the man.

“Are you mister Maxim?”, asked Jim.

“Yes sir, and you are?”, asked George Maxim.

“Wellington, James Wellington”.

“Ah yes, the local Indian fighter. How may I serve you, Mister Wellington?”

“First, let me advise you that I dislike the title, Indian fighter. I'd appreciate it if you just refer to me as Jim or Mister Wellington.”

“Of course sir. I had no intention of insulting you. Please accept my apologies, said Maxim.

“Fine, fine. Now, you have several small coffins in your display window. I would like to buy one, said Jim.

“I am sorry sir, they are not for sale. They are salesman samples. Made for display only.. answered the mortician.

“I see. Sorry to hear that. Nevertheless, a wise man once told me that every man has his price and for the right price, everything is for sale”.

“Allow me to explain. These samples do not belong to me”, said Maxim.

“I understand. Now, name your price”, Jim replied.

“One hundred dollars”.

“Now, we're making progress. Try again”, said Jim with aggravation appearing in the tone of his voice.

Beads of sweat began appearing on George Maxim's forehead. “Fifty dollars”.

“Much better, but I'm thinking more like thirty dollars. I find my offer to be more than fair, since you and I both now the sample coffins are only worth five dollars.

“Yes sir, which sample would you like?”

“That one there in the window. It appears to be made of rosewood with the white lining containing bits of blue”.

“An excellent choice sir, excellent”.

“Do you happen to have a box for it?”, asked Jim.

“Yes sir. Would you like me to pack it for you?'

“Please. Now, tell me, where is Matosapa's body?”, asked Jim.

“It is being cremated now as we speak”, said Maxim.

“Where?”

“My crematorium is out back”.

“I will want his ashes and make sure that they are his. Place them in a nice urn. Nothing cheap. I'll pick them up tomorrow”, said Jim.

“Tomorrow is Sunday. I'm closed'

“Let's say tomorrow, about nine o'clock in the morning. You'll be open, I get the urn and ashes and you can still make it to church in plenty of time. I know how much church means to you, you a good Christian man. By the way, I will find out how much the town is paying you for your services, so make the price for the urn a fair price”.. Jim suggested.

“Very well. I'll see you in the morning”, said Maxim as he handed the wrapped coffin to Jim.

“Yep, nine o'clock. Now prepare my bill. I will sign it in the morning. Then, I want you to send it to my attorney, Sidney Tozer. May I say mister Maxim that it has been a pleasure doing business with you”, said Jim as he left the funeral parlor.

That night, in the privacy of his room Jim placed the strawberry blond scalp with the blue ribbon in the small coffin.

The next morning he walked to the livery stable and rented a horse and carriage. At five minutes past nine he received the urn containing Matosapa's ashes. With the small coffin in one hand and the funeral urn in the other he handled both with reverence. He placed them carefully in the carriage, climbed up into the seat and began his ride.

He passed families heading for church. Some waved. Children pointed.

Eventually he made his way out of town and into the country side. The first stop he made was at the Martin Farm. Jim climbed down from the carriage, removed his coat while ignoring the chill. Then, he took a shovel he had borrowed from the liveryman from the rear of the buggy and walked to the two graves that held the remains of Virginia's mother and father. He pulled the weeds that had grown in and near the neglected grave sites. Then, selecting a place next to her parents, he began to dig.

Jim dug, making a small grave. He wanted it to be deep. That way the small coffin would not be disturbed. Standing in the burial place he reached for and took the miniature redwood casket in his hand. He held it close to his chest, knowing that now, he had to let her go. He bent down and gently placed the petite coffin at the bottom of the grave, then climbed out of the opening. And, standing and with tears in his eyes he prayed and said his farewell to her. For the ten thousandth time he told her how much he loved her. The, he began to fill the grave.

The noon day sun beat down on the frozen snow covered grassland as Jim rode out on to the prairie. He set the brake of the carriage, got out and then picked up the urn containing the Dakota War Chief's ashes. He walked well away from the carriage out into the open plain to a place where the wind constantly was blowing. He looked up into the heavens and in a loud voice said, “Matosapa, your body should rest on a funeral scaffold as it is the custom of your people. This, I would have done, but others interfered”. Jim then turned, facing, east, west, north and south. Then, speaking the Dakota language said, “Black Bear, my brother, I am the one who killed you. Forgive me, for your death and the death of our people is caused by evil in our time. Now, I am the one who honors you with prayer. Me, James Wellington”.

 

He opened the urn and as the winter wind blew it picked up the fine ash contained in the vessel. Jim looked up at the heavens and still speaking Dakota said, “Wakan Tankan, hear me great spirit. I send you a mighty warrior. Here is Matosapa. Carry him on the four winds, to the place of souls”. When the urn was empty he placed it on the ground, then climbed up on to the carriage seat. He sat looking at the sky then with a flick of the reins he had the horse drawn buggy turned and heading back to town.

Back at the house owned by Wilcox Jim sat in an overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace. A fire was burning. It seemed that all he had done lately was to sit and stare into burning fires, most of them camp fires. Hypnotized