Billy and the Knothead

By

W. E. Lopez

©2001

“Billy! Oh, Billy!” his mother called from the seat of the wagon. Forty yards away Bill was plodding across the drying prairie grass under the intense blue sky of an early morning in May. He recognized his mother’s voice and, judging its position in the wagon train, quickly ran to see what she wanted of him.

“Yes’m?” he asked.

“Your father wants you to trot on back to Mrs. Ellenberg’s wagon and tell your brother that he’s to let you borrow that slingshot of his, then come back here right away.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Billy acknowledged with a grin on his young face. That slingshot, brought all the way from their home in New Hampshire, was Joshua’s pride and joy. Billy’s brother had traded a new puppy for that slingshot, made from a seasoned fork of White Birch and genuine surgical rubber tubing. Joshua only grudgingly let Billy touch the slingshot, and now it seemed as though Billy’s father wanted him to use it for some task.

Billy skipped as much as ran down the line of wagons until he came to Mrs. Ellenberg’s wagon. Mr. Ellenberg had been kicked in the head by a horse six days ago, and died two days later when the twenty-five wagons were four weeks out of St. Louis. There had been some talk that she and her wagon should turn back, but it was too far for a widow with two teenage daughters to safely make the trip alone. Mr. Swimmer, one of the scouts for the wagon train, had volunteered to make the trip with her, then turn around and catch up with the wagon train.

The wagon master had vetoed that idea saying the group could not afford to be without Mr. Swimmer’s services for the ten days to two weeks Mr. Swimmer would be gone. Mrs. Ellenberg had stood her ground also, saying that her husband had died trying to make the trip to California, and her daughters would stand a better chance of finding husbands in the new land than they would back in St. Louis. In the end, it was decided that 16-year old Joshua would drive the Ellenberg wagon as well as help with the chores. Joshua was pleased that he had been chosen. Sixteen-year old Frieda Ellenberg had flaming red hair as bright as the sun rising above the prairie, and emerald green eyes that smiled at him in a most pleasant manner. Frieda’s 14-year old sister, Christina was nice to look at also. The thought of spending the next three or four months in close proximity to the two girls made Joshua feel twice as tall as he actually was, three times as wide, and covered with more hair than a black-bear. He swelled with pride every time Christina smiled in his direction, but he was ecstatic when Frieda brought him his evening meal and their fingers would lightly brush as she handed him his plate.

Billy ducked between Frank Tuttle’s wagon and the Gifford’s wagon so as to be on the other side of the column, the side on which Joshua would be seated while driving. Two wagons further back he fell in and began walking along side the Ellenberg wagon.

“What are you doing back here, Billy? Does dad know you’re not with the wagon?”

“’Course he does. Mom told me to come back here and tell you that dad said for you to give me that slingshot you brung from home.”

“What for?” Joshua asked. He hated to let that slingshot out of his sight for a moment, but a command from dad ranked only slightly lower than one of the Ten Commandments.

“Mom didn’t say. She said only that dad wanted you to give it to me.”

Joshua was not about to argue. His dad had told him many times, “Do as you’re told first, then we’ll talk about it later if you think it’s necessary.” Grasping both reins in his right hand, he reached into his back pocket with his left and handed the precious sling to his younger brother.

Waving the sling over his head, as though he were the victor in some feudal combat, Billy trotted up the line of wagons until he was walking along side his dad driving the wagon.

“You ought to be more careful next time, son,” his dad said when Billy fell in beside him. “Horses spook mighty easy when you’re coming up behind them, whooping and hollering that way.”

Billy only said, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I just wasn’t thinking.”

“No harm done, this time, Billy.” His tone mellowed now that he had delivered the necessary caution to his boy. “Now, I want you to take that there shot, and station yourself about fifty yards away on the off-side of the wagon train. There’s a knot headed mule that’s been following the wagons for the past four days. Each evening he comes in close and gets at the grain put out for our stock. I want you to use that slingshot and hit him in the flank enough times to run him away from the train. Okay?”

Billy grinned from ear to ear, proud to be entrusted with this important task to keep the knot head from snitching the precious grain carried all the way from St. Louis. “Yes, sir!” Billy called and made ready to slip between the wagons and off to his designated post.

“You take care you don’t get outta shoutin’ distance, Billy! And mind your step; don’t go spookin no rattle snake takin his mid-day sun.” But Billy was gone, ducking behind his dad’s wagon and in front of the horses pulling the Miller wagon close behind.

Billy found a spot roughly even with the family wagon and about forty yards away.

The small pebbles he needed as ammunition for the slingshot were not plentiful on the grassy prairie, but he found a few and put them in his pocket. He would have liked to practice with the forked stick, but every time they flushed a rabbit it was much too far away to waste a pebble on it.

For the next twelve days, Billy walked on the flank of the wagon train. The weather grew hotter and the grass grew drier. When first leaving St. Louis, the band of wagons had followed the Mississippi River, then turned west and north along the banks of the Missouri River. Though the great prairie did not have mountains like back in New Hampshire, it was not entirely flat. They crossed gullies and streams over and over again and the men and animals worked hard to pull the wagons through the mud. On several occasions Old Knothead, as Billy had now taken to calling the stray, came within range for him to get off a shot. He had actually hit the animal in the flank with five shots, but the pebbles didn’t injure the burro, merely spooked him into putting some distance between himself and the wagon train.

Somewhere on the prairie they had left Iowa and Nebraska and had crossed into South Dakota. They were in the land of the Lakota Sioux now and tensions were high among the settlers. The Sioux were known to be fierce in combat and everyone took extra caution to avoid a surprise attack. Each evening when the wagon train pulled into the camping spot designated by Mr. Swimmer, the wagon master insisted they practice quickly circling the wagons as though they might already be under attack.

On the thirteenth day, Billy again took his post at the side of the wagon train while they continued to move in a northwesterly direction. Just before noon, Billy spotted Old Knothead not more than three hundred yards away from the train. Billy was feeling extra good this morning and pretended he was a Sioux warrior sneaking up on an unsuspecting settler. He crossed one small rise covered with tall grass the color of fried corn mush and headed down into a shallow ravine. He decided to follow this for a few hundred yards before climbing to the top again. If the settler had seen him disappear among the grass, he might not see him reappear in another spot and Billy would be in a much closer position from which to loose an arrow.

Of course, the settler was Old Knothead, and Billy had a slingshot instead of a bow and arrow, but he considered it great fun and good practice for the years ahead in which he too would become a scout and perhaps hunter for a wagon train, or maybe even the railroads which were always building further west.

Billy slipped over the next rise, keeping low among the swaying grasses. The Knothead had moved slightly further away and Billy slipped into the next gully to approach even closer.

The sky was beginning to darken and Billy was unaware how far from the wagon train he had strayed when the first drops of rain began to dampen his face. The weather had not turned cooler as he would have expected if he were still back in New Hampshire. Instead it became hot, humid and seemed thicker than warm honey with every breath he drew. He was still moving along the gully, heading for a gnarled cotton wood tree above him when a tremendous thunderclap exploded in his ears and he was knocked to the ground. His vision became blurred and just as he was trying to raise himself his arm collapsed and he sank back down while blackness closed over him.

+ + +

Billy awoke with a driving rain began hitting him in the face. He managed to sit up and found he had been lying in a small trickle of water that was visibly getting larger. He decided he better get up and climb to higher ground from where he could see the wagon train. He began to pull his legs under him when a horrendous noise struck his ears. Billy had no way of knowing that several miles up stream the rain had been pelting down for several hours. In a short while, the ground had become saturated and the continuing rainfall had begun running down to the lower gullies, each joining with the next, until the collected waters ran into an obstacle of brush, mud, and tree branches left by a heavy rain several seasons before.

This blockade formed a crude earthen dam and caused the water to backup. Hour after hour the rain continued to fall and the level of water trapped behind the dam grew and grew until at last it broke free!

Hundreds of thousands of gallons of water rushed, boiling and seething, to seek a lower level. It wasn’t long before Billy found this torrent of water rushing at him in a flash flood. Such things had never occurred to him in New Hampshire and he had no idea what to do except to run from the muddy waters seeking to engulf him.

He had hardly taken three steps when the brown waters swept past him and knocked his feet from under him. He went down, arms flailing, gasping for air. Something hard struck him between the shoulders and he grunted with pain as he was forced beneath the waters again, but when he came back up for air he found he could grasp the branches of a gnarled log being swept along in the current.

Billy grabbed hold of the log and clung with all his might. He watched the side of the gully, now the bank of a raging river, sweep past him. He had no way of knowing how far he was being carried; he had no way of knowing how long the torrent pushed him farther and farther from the wagon train. He simply held on for dear life, knowing that if he let go he would surely drown.

By the time Billy’s feet began dragging the bottom and the swirling flood began spreading out upon the prairie, the sun was beginning to set. Or perhaps it was just the heavy thunderclouds that made it seem so dark? Billy was finally able to release his grip on the log and watch it slowly bump along further away from him.

He dragged his sodden boots through the squishy mud and slowly climbed for higher ground. He was out of breath when he reached the summit and fell forward on his hands and knees gasping for air. From his position, he could see no sign of the wagon train!

Billy contained his fear, knowing that to give in to panic at this time could mean life or death. He had to force himself to remain calm, to logically evaluate his situation and decide upon a course of action. In a few moments he felt strong enough to stand and look around him, searching for signs of the wagon train. He could see nothing. Had there been any tracks nearby, the driving rain had washed everything away. He was all alone on the open prairie and even though he knew the wagon train, his parents and safety could not be more than a few miles away, they might as well be all the way back in Saint Louis for all the help they could give him.

When it grew darker still, Billy began to hope he would get his bearings just by spotting the dippers, or even the moon. He knew the moon came up in the east and went down in the west. All he had to do was spy the moon, as it began its trek across the sky, then turn around to face west and walk in a direction a little to the right of west. He could walk all night and be sitting by his parent’s campfire when the sun came up and mom would fix him a hot cup of coffee, richly flavored with goat’s milk and molasses. He would be safe again!

Unfortunately for Billy and his visions of hot coffee, dark clouds still covered the sky and he could not spot even a glimmer on the horizon that might indicate the moon was rising. Perhaps the moon was in it’s ‘new’ phase this night and he would not have its illumination to guide him? Or perhaps it would simply be a few more hours before it poked above the horizon?

Billy decided it would be silly to begin walking before he could get his bearings. He might easily be heading in the wrong direction, getting further and further from the wagon train. Then when the moon finally did come up, he might have to turn around and head in the opposite direction.

He sat down and pulled his knees up to his chest. He was still soaking wet and he figured if he could pull himself into a ball, make himself as small as possible, he wouldn’t lose body heat as fast. Billy wanted to cry but was proud of the way dad had always referred to him as a ‘big boy,’ he didn’t want to be accused of behaving like a baby.

Billy was unaware of it when he fell asleep.

Sometime later, he had no idea how long; Billy awoke with a shiver. It was still pitch black and no stars were visible. Somewhere above the moon was shining, for Billy could see the gray clouds covering the night sky. Patches here and there were a lighter gray, but he still had no definite idea just where the moon might lie. It was possible that the moon was even overhead and he could still not tell which direction was east or west, or whether the moon was still rising or beginning to descend.

Billy sat up and hugged his knees to his chest for warmth. At least his sodden clothes were nearly dry.

His ears caught a sound, perhaps nearby, perhaps far off. In the stillness of the night he had no way of knowing. Could it be an Indian sneaking across the prairie? Going where in the middle of this dark night? Should he try and follow from a distance?

“What for?” he asked himself. “You want to walk right into an Indian camp?” Billy stayed low and kept as quiet as possible. He thought if he pretended to be invisible, perhaps the Indian would pass him by. At any rate, he had ceased shivering and decided he would keep awake until dawn chased his fears away.

Or, was it an Indian? It could have been a rabbit scampering among the brush. “Or it could have been a huge snake slithering after a rabbit!” came an unbidden thought. Billy knew that many snakes hunted at night. So did coyotes and wolves and mountain lions. How he wished he had never strayed from the wagon train!

He never found out what the frightening noise had been, for Billy soon drifted to sleep again. The next time he raised his head from his knees he saw bright pink colors washing away the gray of night and the sky was free of clouds. Billy quickly stood up and winced with pain from the cramped feeling in his legs. He had been sitting on the cold ground for several hours, it was no wonder he was cramped.

Billy picked the bright portion of the sunrise and turned his back to it. There was still nothing before him to steer by, but he began walking anyway. In the dim grayness of the dawn he nearly stumbled his way into another gully, but managed to keep standing and was soon wading through a shallow stream again.

He stopped and sunk to his knees. He had an overpowering thirst and he judged it would be prudent to drink his fill before setting off again. Billy used his hands as a dipper to bring the water to his mouth and shortly he was satisfied.

As the sun rose higher, Billy could keep his bearings just by keeping his shadow in front of him and a little on his left side. He walked and walked, oblivious to the sucking sounds his feet made each time he crossed a shallow rivulet, now just a thickening puddle of mud.

Suddenly Billy topped a rise and there was Ol’ Knothead just thirty yards in front of him. Billy reached for the sling in his back pocket, surprised to find it still there, but thought better of pulling it out and aiming at the mule.

“Hi there, fella,” Billy said softly. “Are you lost too?”

Ol’ Knothead didn’t bother to answer. He bent his head to the ground and pulled up a few more strands of grass and calmly gazed in Billy’s direction as he chewed.

“I don’t blame you for being mad at me,” Billy said. “I guess it was pretty mean of me to keep shooting you with Josh’s slingshot, but dad told me to keep you away from the grain. You understand, I have nothing against you personally…” Billy let his words trail off, unfinished.

“Yeah, and some of my best friends are mules also,” he heard in the back of his mind. “You are one silly boy, Billy. Lost and alone out here in the middle of the prairie, with Indians probably just over the next rise, and you’re apologizing to a mule for hitting him with a few tiny pebbles. It’s sure a good thing no one is here to see you ‘cause they’d figger fer sure you’ve gone teched in the head.”

Billy had never been in the habit of talking to himself before either. Maybe he was starting to get a little teched in the head?

Then it suddenly occurred to Billy, this same mule had been following the wagon train for nearly a month. Maybe all he had to do was follow the mule and it would lead him to the wagon train?

“Hey, fella,” Billy said to the mule in a soft and comforting voice. “Do you ‘spose you can find your way to the wagon train again? You know, corn for supper?”

Maybe Ol’ Knothead really did understand him, or maybe he was just getting bored with the conversation. The mule gave a snort and flicked his head in the air and began to walk away. He seemed headed in the right direction, according to Billy’s shadow compass, so Billy decided to follow, all the time he kept up his soothing talk.

“You know, I’ll be really glad to get home again, Knothead. Oh, you probably don’t recognize that as your name, but that’s what my dad calls you, so I just kept calling you the same thing.”

The mule and the boy held to the high ground for a while, then Ol’ Knothead decided to cross another gully, stopping in the lowest part to drink some of the fresh rainwater. Billy cautiously walked closer until he could stop and put his hand in the water and drink also. The mule didn’t seem to be frightened, and he drank his fill before moving off again.

An hour later, Billy was walking side by side with the mule, instead of following twenty paces behind. He still kept up his running conversation but the mule seemed patient and didn’t mind Billy’s chatter. When another hour had passed, they came to a small lake, hardly more than a pond really. Cattails and rushes ringed the pond and made it hard to see from the high ground, camouflaging it until it appeared simply a greener shade of grass than the surrounding prairie.

Billy started to head for the pond, thinking perhaps he might have a nice fat fish for breakfast, but the mule pressed in close to him and pushed him away from the pond.

“Huh? What do you think you’re doing?” Billy asked. It was only after he thought about it for a moment that he realized the mule might just be saving his life. If this pond were the local watering hole, the only dependable source of fresh water for miles around, it seemed logical that local predators, wolves or coyotes, might be lurking nearby and waiting for a suitable prey to approach for water.

“Oh, that’s okay, I guess. I don’t have anything to catch a fish with anyway, but I might be able to whittle a spear if I had a knife. But, since I don’t have a knife, I couldn’t clean a fish if I caught one anyway. And even if I did catch a fish, I doubt that I could build a fire since all the wood is apt to be wet after last night’s rain. Okay, Knothead, you’re just watching out for me and I thank you.” Billy extended a hand and rubbed the mule on the shoulder.

Abruptly the mule stopped and lowered its head until Billy got the idea that the mule wanted to have his ears scratched. Billy did so, much to Ol’ Knothead’s satisfaction.

“Okay, I did a favor for you, Knothead, now how about one for me. Whyn’t you let me swing up on your back since we’re both going in the same direction, and I’ll be higher up where I might catch a glimpse of the wagons.”

Ol’ Knothead, of course, said nothing, but he didn’t shy away when Billy grabbed a handful of the mule’s mane and swung his light body up to sit astride the mule. “Okay, buddy?” Billy said. He stroked the flanks of the mules neck wile pressing his knees into the mule’s sides. Ol’ Knothead set off again, still heading west.

Billy tried not to fidget while making himself comfortable on the mule’s hard spine. As blanket and saddle would have been nice, he thought. Yeah, and might as well add a wagon too!

For the next three hours Billy rocked to and fro as the mule slowly plodded on. When the sun was midway across the sky, the boy caught his first glance of the canvas covered wagons on the horizon ahead of them.

“Oh, boy! There they are, Knothead! Let’s head for home!”

The mule kept his stolid pace putting one foot slowly in front of the other, refusing to hurry, but still heading in the right direction. The wagon train was halted, Billy could see, which was unusual because they rarely stopped for a midday break. The wagon master insisted they eat their fill at breakfast, enough to hold them until late afternoon when they would circle their wagons for the evening. Billy’s mom usually fixed a couple extra sausage patties or bacon strips at breakfast time, and these would make a welcome snack between two slices of bread at midday.

Suddenly a rider on a bay horse broke from the train and headed at full gallop in their direction. When the rider was about two hundred yards away Ol’ Knothead must have taken the notion that the horse and man were heading out to shoo him away again. The mule began to turn and head away from the train at a trot, but Billy held tightly to the mane while pressing his knees into the animal’s sides.

“Easy, boy. Easy there! Nothing to be skeered of, just Mr. Swimmer coming out to greet us.” He continued to hold on in fear of his life until the mule settled down and turned back toward the wagons at a slower pace.

Mr. Swimmer reined in his horse fifty yards away and stood his ground while Ol’ Knothead slowly approached.

“Say, it’s good to see you boy,” Mr. Swimmer said. “Your family has been worried sick about you all night. Some were sure you’d been swept away by that flash flood, but others thought you’d possibly found safety. There’s a party of men out looking for you now.”

“Oh, I was swept away alright,” Billy said, “but I found a log to keep me afloat until the worst of the storm was over, then I spent the night on high ground. I had to wait until the sun came up this morning before I could get my bearings and choose which direction I should head for.”

“And where’d you pick up the knothead?”

“Well, he and I seemed to be headed for the same place,” Billy said, “so we just sort of teamed up and come along together.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Mr. Swimmer said and slapped his leg. “Well, we better hustle up back to the wagons ‘cause I got to head back and call in the search party.”

“I’m afraid Ol’ Knothead ain’t in much of a hurry, Mr. Swimmer. It don’t seem like runnin is his style. You go on ahead and we’ll get there directly.”

“Well, I guess I better do just that, boy. The wagon master is fit to be tied now that the wagons are held up while men are searching for you. Now that you’re found, he won’t want to waste no time getting these wagons on the move again.” Mr. Swimmer grabbed his hat in his right hand and smacked it across the rear of his horse and they took off like a bear being chased from a bee tree. Ol’ Knothead watched them go but didn’t change his pace.

The next hour seemed to be as long as the entire day as Billy and Ol’ Knothead made their way to the wagon train. When they got to within a dozen yard of his folks wagon, Billy stopped the mule and slid down. His mother quickly ran to him and enveloped him in her arms.

“Billy! Billy! You’re safe! I prayed they’d find you and the good Lord answered my prayers.”

“Yes’m, I guess he did. But that knotheaded mule helped some too.”

“I’m sure the Lord sent the mule to you, Billy, for everything in this life is all part of the Lord’s plan. But I don’t think he meant for us to adopt that mule and take him with us to California, so I guess you better shoo that animal away ‘fore your dad gets back with the other men.”

“I don’t rightly think I should, mom.” Billy told her how the mule had kept him away from the water hole this morning, and might have kept him from being attacked by predators.

“And he don’t eat much, mom. Mostly he just grazes on the prairie. Can’t we keep him?” Billy pleaded.

“Well, we’ll leave that up to your dad, son. Maybe the good lord sent that mule to us for any number of reasons and he just ain’t done with us yet.” She led Billy over nearer the wagon where a pot of hot coffee hung over a small fire.

“I know you haven’t eaten since yesterday, so you sit right down and I’ll pour you some coffee and fix you a nice bacon sandwich.”

“Yes’m” Billy said, awfully glad that he was home again. He looked over to the knothead. “Now don’t you go wandering off, Knothead. You might not know it yet, but you’re home too!”