samples9

Résumé About Me Writing Samples Home Rates Contact Happy Clients

The following excerpt finds a group of stage coach passengers heading east in the days just prior to the start of the Civil War. We find an unlikely assembly of strangers seeking comfort from from the harsh realities of road travel so long ago. They are gathering their things after having shared lunch and a short rest.

With both horses and passengers feeling happier for the rest, the group began to gather the food and other items. As everyone walked to the wagon, arms full, Grubb stepped down from the coach.
     “Ah, Mr. Grubb,” the driver said playfully. “How pleasant of you to join us on this fine afternoon. Only thing is, you’re just a trifle late.”
     “Shut yer yap, you simpleton!” Grubb pulled a Colt revolver from inside his shirt and pointed it first at the driver, then at the others.
     “Everybody drop yer stuff an’ put yer hands on top of yer head. An’ don’t do nothin’ cute or I shoot the little girl. You,” he pointed to one of the teamsters, “take that there rifle and toss it way over yonder. And do it like the little one’s life depends on it, cause it does.” The driver did as he was instructed. Katy began to cry. Smith stepped forward.
     “Look here, Grubb, if it’s money you’re after…”
     “Yer damn right it’s money I want, you abolitionist bastard. After hearin’ yer little story yesterday ‘bout how you sold yer spread and you’s out ‘n about the whole goddamn country settlin’ with this one ‘n that one, I figured you had to be carrying gold or bank notes. I was goin’ to take you off in Georgia, but got to thinkin’ last night, why wait? This way, I ken have all the loot on this yer buggy.” He turned to Mrs. Jameson with a menacing grin.
     “After I finish my business yer, honey, how’s about you ‘n me finish off the jug I started last night? We can have us some fun.”
     “Look Grubb,” Smith said. “There’s no need for anyone getting hurt. Just take the money and be on your way.”
     “It wouldn’t be smart to tangle with this little lady no how, Grubb,” said the driver.
     “That so? An’ why not?”
     “Because my husband’s a U.S. Marshall and he’d hunt you down like the dog you are,” said Mrs. Jameson.
     “Mebbe you got a point there at that, missy.” Grubb turned to Smith.
     “Come ‘ere nigger lover.” Smith took a few steps toward the man. Grubb lashed out at Smith hitting him on the jaw with the pistol. “Put yer arms out straight and lean up against the wagon.”

     Smith spit out some blood and did as he was told. Grubb patted him down looking for weapons. He told Smith to lay face down on the ground, and then called for the driver, his assistant, and Marcus to stand to one side. Then he told Mrs. Jameson to strip to her petticoat.
     “I will not!” she said firmly.
     “It’s not yer virtue I’m after, Mamm.” Grubb said with mock civility. “I just don’t want you shootin’ me in the back. You wouldn’t be the first wench I seen a packin’.”
    She folded her arms across her chest and stood firm.
    Grubb cocked the hammer of his revolver and pointed it at Katy.
     Mrs. Jameson hastily began to undress.
     “That’s a good girl.”

     When she finished undressing Grubb instructed her to lean against the wagon as Smith had done. With one hand, he held the gun on the crying Katy, while with the other he slowly and deliberately groped the woman’s form, searching for an unlikely weapon.
     “You contemptible pig!” she cried.
     Grubb laughed. “A sassy wench ey? A shame yer ol’ man’s the law.” He slapped her bottom and pushed her in the direction of Smith. “Take the brat and lay on the ground. And make ‘er stop that goddamn whinin.’ I got me a headache to beat St. Peter.”
     Next he searched the teamsters and instructed them to also lay face down. Finally, he motioned for Marcus to step forward.
     “What have we ‘ere? A pup, I see. A bit young t’be out in the country all alone, ain’t yeh there, pup?” Marcus said nothing. Grubb patted him down, and without warning, threw in a solid punch to the boy’s midsection for good measure. “Take yer place with the rest there, pup.
     “See folks, I ain’t aimin’ to hurt no one,” Grubb said. “Oh no. ‘Cept this yer southern dandy. This goddamn abolitionist.” He pointed to Smith. “I’m a gonna shoot this bastard. Imagine him comin’ off all high an’ mighty telling folks that niggers got souls ‘n they got feelin’s an’ Indians got a right to kill law abidin’ white folks just for takin’ what’s due ‘em. All the while the son of a bitch owns a big plantation. An’ with a few hunert niggers. Imagine that!”
He turned to Smith. “Reckin’ it’s time you made yer peace with God, Smith. Yer a gonna be meetin’ up with him real soon.”
     By this time each of the passengers was lying face down in a triangular pattern. Smith was alone at the top, closest to the wagon, Mrs. Jameson and Katy made up the second tier, and the two teamsters and Marcus, the base.
Grubb mounted the coach and made his way to the strongbox. “How much you carryin’, Smith?”
     “A hundred thousand. Seventy in currency, thirty in gold. Nice payday ey, Grubb? Get on with your business.”
Grubb laughed. “Well, Smith. Never let it be said you begged for your miserable abolitionist life. Iffin’ you did beg, I might just spare yeh.” Smith didn’t answer.
     “I figured as much.” Grubb was silent a moment thinking, then stepped down from the coach. “Everybody,” he said, “there’s been a change of plans. Yes sir. Bein’ missy yer is married to a goddamn marshal. Well, that sorta throws a kink into this yer affair. I reckon it’d be downright dumb of ol’ Roy T. Grubb to leave witnesses. No sir, that wouldn’t do a’tol, four witnesses could swear ol’ Grubb shot this yer nigger lover. ” He smiled, enjoying his position of authority.
     “No, that won’t do. Sorry ‘bout the bad news. But it ain’t all bad. No, not by a long sight. See, the good news is, yer all invited to watch the execution of this yer nigger lovin,’ abolitionist, hypocrite. Then, I’m sorry, but I got to finish off the lot of yeh.” He laughed again.
     Grubb walked up to the group lying face down on the ground and stood over Mr. Jackson Ashcroft Seabury Smith, Southern gentleman. He cocked his pistol, and pointed at Smith’s head. “Said yer prayers yet, Smith?”
     “Get on with it, Grubb,” Smith said.
     A shot rang out.
     Katy became hysterical.
     The Colt fell from Grubb’s hand as the dirty little man dropped to his knees. Another shot was heard.
     Now, both Katy and Mrs. Jameson were crying. Grub fell face down in the dirt alongside Smith. The teamsters scrambled to their feet.
     “What the…?” said the driver. Marcus got up next. He was holding a Derringer.
     “Where the hell did that come from? I seen that skunk pat you down just like he done everyone else.”
     Marcus smiled, uncommonly calm for a boy who’d just shot a man. “I keep it tucked up inside my hat. Not likely someone as dumb as this critter would ever think to look there. He ain’t exactly the first bushwhacker I ever met.”
     Mrs. Jameson finally stood without fully realizing what had happened. She looked around, dumbfounded, and then slowly walked away from the wagon carrying Katy who was crying uncontrollably. Smith was inspecting the lifeless Grubb. There were two small bullet holes in the man’s forehead – one above each eye. He turned to look at Marcus.
     “You saved my life, boy.”
     “Is it true Mr. Smith? I mean, what he was saying. Is it true you’re an abolitionist? See, I’m headed for my uncle’s plantation outside of Savannah, an’ all respect to you sir,” he lowered his eyes. “Well, I’m not sure. An abolitionist. I reckon you got a right to think anything you want. But, I just don’t know about this.”
     “Marcus, you just saved me from a certain death at the hands of this, this bug, and that’s all you can say?”
     “Well, anybody’d done the same.”
     “I’m not so sure.”

Excerpt from "Black Power," The Legend of Kokobono
Copyright 2003 GSP Inc.

eMail For More Info