Pa followed me out to the pump. "Come on," he said. "Let's have that little talk down at the barn."
I put the pot down by the pump. The snow scrunched under foot as we walked to the barn. When the wind was shut out of the barn by closing the stable door, our breath made a cloud around us. Sue looked at us without comprehension. I was dreading what Pa would say to me.
"This probably won't go like you think it will. It was OK by me to keep that code key a secret. We couldn't have cracked it without it the key, so it will be a benefit to them. Let me take this a different direction."
Pa continued, "We will likely lose the farm in the spring. Prices for crops barely pay for the seed. We are up to our neck in debt. We haven't made a payment to the bank in 3 months and we have had several expenses like the well last year and now, your Mom’s funeral. Now the bank doesn't want the farm and there are not exactly people standing in line to run a farm in Oklahoma, but when it is time to put crops in and catch-up on payments both hitting at the same time. Well, you get the idea. We don't have the money and they will want to take the farm to close the books on the loan."
"You and I and Pete and Sam could each make it on our own if we had to. Izzy will still need some taking care of for several years. He and I can go alone if we need to, but it would be better if we could keep the farm. It would let us stay together until each of you boys go into the service or find a bride."
"This coded message points to a pile of money that could bring us 10% of it from the insurance companies that are on the hook for the whole amount. It could come just in time for the farm or let us make a start somewhere else. Either way, it'll be a help." "This is my plan if you are of a like mind. We will give the plain-text rotary code to the sheriff the day of your mother's funeral. If they can crack it from there, OK. We will check the address in Bokoshe to see if it is truly there. Mrs. Corrigan will help with that. We will find the insurance companies and make sure they would pay a reward for the return of the money. We will get a post-office box in Hackett to communicate with the insurance companies. I want Sam to do that because he is in town less than any of the rest of us."
When Pa had stopped talking, I said, "Whatever you think is right, Pa. Whatever I can do to help the family is what I want to do."
Pete had come out to the pump to fetch the water when I did not bring it in. He grinned at me as we walked back in the house. "Will you be able to set at the table with your ass chewed like that?" he cracked.
"Hush-up," Pa said, but Pa was smiling at his joke.
"Boys," Pa announced when we were all back inside, "We are changing our jobs. I want everyone to take part of a stack of old newsprint and find me anything that has to do with Baby Face Nelson or his gang or Indians spending a lot of money."
"Izzy,” Pa continued, "I am putting you in charge of that big bird. If there are any of us that you need to help to get it on the table tonight, you can draft that person anytime. We will have an early Thanksgiving this year."
We all kind of cheered at that last announcement. Then we set about our task of finding what was going on in the under-world and the world of high finance.
Pete soon had on dry socks and shoes and pants and his hunting clothes were drying by the fire. He made Duke mad when the melting snow from his pant cuffs dripped on Duke's head. Duke had to rouse himself and change spots where he could still catch some warmth from the fire.
"Pa," I asked, "Why does an Indian have a French name? What does Bois D'Arc mean, anyway?"
"It is just like American English. Indians have their native language name. Perhaps the Kaw name for 'Silent Wolf.' But they use the English name when they introduce themselves to a Yankee. They say something like 'I am Isaac Silent-Wolf' in English. In Wisconsin and Minnesota and north of the Canadian border, the French trappers were who the Indians were talking to. In this case, our unknown Wisconsin Indian is named 'wood of the bow.'"
"So the word for 'bow' is pronounced the same for both French and English?" "No," Answered Pa, "'Bois' in French is the word for 'wood'. 'D'Arc' is the word for bow. You know how some around Hackett say 'de' instead of 'the', they are likely French Arcadian in extraction. In French 'D apostrophe' is the definite article word for 'the.' 'Arc' is the French word for 'bow'. So, our missing J Bois D'Arc is really J 'Wood of the Bow' in English."
"What is the wood of the bow," I asked.
"Believe it or not, that trashy tree, the Osage Orange, is the tree Indians used to make their bows. I have heard some call it the Ironwood tree, but I think that is misnamed. I think there is a tree called Ironwood in Arizona, though I have never seen one."
"Anyway, Osage Orange wood, cut green and shaped into a bow without knots or waves in the grain, will give a serviceable bow that can be flexed and shot hundreds of times before breaking. When it is dry, it is too hard to shape further without a steel chisel and mallet. The wood is worthless for kindling or fuel because it so resists splitting with a maul and the usual crackling fire sounds like a gunfight when fueled with that green colored wood from Osage Orange. Also, those mini explosions from the fire launch burning embers out into the sleeping area. Cabins have burnt down because of embers propelled into a straw mattress from that wood. The trees are not even much good for a kid to climb or swing in. Those huge thorns make being around the tree a painful experience. Finally, it is the only fruit of a tree that I know of that can neither be eaten by man nor beast. Since we rarely make bows anymore, I can't think of one good reason to use the tree."
Pa was amazed an hour later when he read Washington bureaucrats had picked the Osage Orange tree to grow huge hedges around American farm fields to quell the scourge of dust storms that were beginning to ravage the plains states. "Why didn't they pick an apple trees or something as useful?" Pa asked nobody in particular.
We were interrupted by Sam, "Look at this," he called. He held up a Tulsa Courier headline, "Jeremiah Bowdark Donates School to Tribe." The story told how a fellow named Jeremiah Bowdark had given money to build a one-room school building on tribal land near his home in Bokoshe Oklahoma. "I think we found our guy," Sam said.
"Here's one of Baby Face's trial. It has how the crimes were done and the sentence was like you said, Pa." Pete added.
Later, Sam found an article that said Baby Face had escaped from jail after serving only a year of his sentence. "I am not surprised," said Pa. "If he were still locked up, our authorities in Hackett and Fort Smith would know our local dead man was not the real Baby Face.
“But,” Pa added, “I saw the guy passing as George Nelson at a lodge meeting well before this escape. So, we now know he definitely was not the real George (Baby-Face) Nelson."
Pa added this. "If Baby-Face escaped and disappeared, let’s think about where he might go. He is likely coming to our neighborhood to seek a rogue member of his gang and to lay hands on a substantial part of his loot that has gone missing."
"Hey, I need help to pluck this turkey bird," Izzy said. "I will need some help giving this here bird a bath."
The big pot was a simmering, just on the verge of scalding. I took hold of the legs and put the bird in head first. The hot soak loosened the feathers to make plucking less messy and much easier.
"Hey, Pa," I said, "We need a two minute soak to loosen the feathers. Can you time it?" Izzy took out a sand-glass egg timer instead and tipped it over. It was a three minute timer but Izzy had it marked for one, two and three minutes. He let me know when the time was up. I retrieved the bird and we let it cool for a moment before we each took a handful of steaming feathers. Steam filled the whole kitchen area.
We saved the feathers in a flour sack. "Waste not, want not," Mom always said. I missed my mother. The dried downy feathers would be a warm addition to a quilt one day. The best thing about the wet feathers is they don't fly all over the place. Each handful went into and stayed in the bag.
I took the now bald turkey outside and took its head and legs and wing tips off with a hatchet. I gutted the bird and saved the heart and liver and gizzard to make soup-stock. I hollowed out the inside and pumped cold water through it body cavity. Duke came out and trotted off with some of the bloody guts. I decided I did not want to know what he planned for those.
Winter had badly depleted our stock of fresh vegetables. We would soon start opening jars of canned vegetables to get us through the winter. We had to cut bad purple spots off potatoes now and the carrots were getting pretty soft. But we had enough for this meal and some of the leftovers to come. The turkey would take all afternoon in the oven, but I was starving now. I got by on a honey sandwich and several of the others did likewise. The smell of the turkey cooking was grand.
When we finally sat down for supper, Pa outlined his plan and explained what each of us must do and what we could tell the sheriff what not to mention. Izzy asked why we would turn in a man doing good work with stolen money. "Well, it's not his money. Just because the insurance company paid it doesn't make it right. The money he is giving away belongs to everyone that ever bought insurance from those companies and people in the future will have to pay more for insurance because of his actions. We couldn't afford insurance for your mother's funeral because it was too expensive. It is convoluted, but what’s right is right. We should do the right thing and maybe we will be rewarded for it." Pa went further, telling how he expects the bank to take the farm back in spring if we can't catch-up on the payments. Sammy, ever helpful, says maybe it's time to move on from the hard life of Oklahoma farming. Pa asks him, "With what? To where? We have a worn out wagon and a persnickety mule. We can barely fit in the wagon as a family. How would we take our few possessions worth owning?" Sam sat quiet for a moment then Pa added, "If we decide to walk away from here, at least we would have a little pocket money to get us started in whatever town we settle in."
After supper, we worked to clean up from the big meal. The house got dark quickly as the sun dropped behind an adjoining hill. The snow had stopped and the sky was clear and stars looked down brightly. I decided to take a little time out by the barn. Pa came down later. "When it gets clear like this after a snow, the temperature plummets during the night. Clouds are like a blanket that keeps the earth warm at night."
"Yes," I said, "It is cold, but God, it is beautiful!" The band of the Milky Way ran overhead. Taurus was looking down with the bull's big red eye. Orion, the hunter, was on the eastern horizon starting make his climb into the sky.
I showed Pa the bull's v shaped face and long horns and red eye named Al-Deberon and told him it was Arabic for "the eye of the bull." I told him the Arab nomads named most of the bright stars because they were first out under their glory. They also needed the knowledge to use the stars for navigation across the desert when traveling at night to stay away from the heat of the sun. "The Arabs have the prefix 'al' as their definite article, just like the French 'D apostrophe.' That's why so many star names start with the letters A - L like Aldeberon and Alcor and Algol and Altair." Pa looked a little amazed. "Hey," I told him, "You're the one who taught us to read and told us how important it was." I grinned at him. I noticed I was getting cold as Pa's prediction of the night was coming true. "Hey, Pa, How come you never invited me to any of your lodge meetings?"
Pa answered, "To be one, ask one. It is our Masonic slogan that reminds us 1.) not to recruit and 2.) to welcome any that come seeking the knowledge we might have. Are you asking?"
I had been amazed all day at my father's wealth of knowledge beyond what an Oklahoma farmer would have. "Yes, I guess I am asking." I said.
We both loaded up with an armful of fire wood as we went back in the house. We knew it would be a cold night.
“C’mon Duke,” I hollered before shutting out the cold for the night.