Chapter 1 – The Disciplinarian

Our death in the spring of 1855 a month before our boy turned 15 called a halt to our direct influence, but then good parents allow their son to start finding his own way at that age. Ever since we've been privileged to watch him grow into a fine man, a United State Marshal. Although we haven't been able to interact with him, Alice and I were granted the privilege of observing his life as little or as often as we desire. Recent events in our son's rather dangerous life, thanks to his choice of occupation, set me to musing on how close that life came to ending when he was ten. Death from disease for the white folks in our little town of Seneca, Missouri wasn't uncommon in 1850. Violent death was. It was solely the lot of slaves.

Seneca's an unincorporated farming village in the southwest corner of Missouri on the Arkansas line 35 miles south of Joplin. Back in '50 about half the folks thereabouts believed slavery was just and a few of those families kept one or two slaves. However, the remaining half of the citizens of Newton County were abolitionists like us who worked farms and businesses without the help of slaves even before President Lincoln freed them.

Sometimes arguments over the treatment of slaves became heated leading to fisticuffs. We also had our share of petty crime. Therefore a town meeting was held a few years earlier to appoint a part-time sheriff. They picked me, Thomas Dillon. It could have been any one of us, except maybe our newest resident Dutch George. Although he handled a rifle and pistol as well as the next man, or woman, it wouldn't do for a man who earned his living stealing horses to enforce local law. I reckon they chose me 'cause I'm no goody two-shoes but don't hold with breaking God's law neither. That's why I didn't cotton to our Matthew following George all over. Still, I didn't send the man packin' either. We were all pioneers and George was only following Indian ways. According to their practice stealing the other tribe's horses was simply a way to show you were a better provider and protector.

This particular June day Matthew was quick about his chores and so was free to do whatever he wanted for the remainder of that early summer morning short of courting trouble. I got to admit though an honest boy, he was a bit wild. It's why I was buying supplies for us to take a little hunting trip across Arkansas into Indian Territory. I wanted him to take on some responsibility and learn to respect other cultures, including those of the Indian tribes and the slaves. A good man needs to learn every man and woman is worthy of respect no matter their situation as long as they're honest and hard working.

I missed my gawky, tall for his age boy with dark brown curls badly in need of cutting barely register his friend Rich Beckman handing him a small package as they raced in the opposite directions. Nor did I witness the man whose package it was grab my son and, while holding him by the collar, lift his shirt and pull down his britches. I came out of the trading post that served as our general store in time see him holding my son over a hitching post and thrashing the boy's bare back and behind with a sturdy, wide strap that served as his belt in keeping with his height and girth. I'd say he was as near to my height as it wouldn't matter and weighed in at 250 pounds of more muscle than fat. I sped across the street to pull him off my son while shouting for him to stop.

"Unhand that child!" I yelled, grabbing hold of his right arm, the one wielding the strap. "You've no right!"

"I don't know who you are mister but I have every right. That boy stole from me. Retribution must be swift and by the hand of the affronted!"

I'm a strong man of 45 who stands broad of shoulder at six feet four inches and somewhat over 200 pounds. Years of farming and hunting to provide for my family have honed my muscles. I used that strength to pull his arm back and turn the younger by at least 15 years, heavier man to face me to keep him from further assaulting my only living child. Matthew, of a strong constitution, was the only one of our six children to live beyond infancy. He also, though not the last one born, would be our last. Alice could not birth another, not after the last try a couple years back. Hence we, well mainly Alice, coddled him, but not to the point of neglecting to instill in him a strong code of behavior that would find favor in the eyes of the Lord. I was certain Matthew would strive to do right as he grew to manhood and beyond for the betterment of all.

Sheer determination allowed me to pull the massive man in the frock coat of a preacher completely away from my lad. My actions allowed Matthew to painfully stand up straight and hurriedly arrange his clothes so as to conform to propriety. Since I had such a strong hold my boy's attacker decided it behooved him to hear me out.

"Even if you saw this boy take something from you or anyone else he's not yours to punish. That prerogative belongs to his father or, if it's a serious enough offense, to the law."

"The boy was runnin' the streets instead of at his chores when I caught him. I saw no point in lookin' for either his father or the law until he was primed for further punishment as part of his atonement. I doubt this hamlet has seen fit to appoint anyone to enforce God's law judging from the poor excuse for a church building I see yonder."

"Lack of experience with ten-year-old boys and how they occupy their time on warm sunny days is no excuse. Nor is the state of our church. Despite no effort on your part to find either his father or a lawman, you've found them. You're talking to his father, a God-fearing man, and, as it happens, the local law. I'll thank you to hold your tongue while I hear from Matthew," I added glaring at him as he started to open his mouth. "Son?"

"Pa, if he means this, he can have it back," Matthew said taking the object from the right front pocket of his now pulled up and belted britches. "I stuck it in my pocket without thinkin' when it was given to me." At a nod to him and further glare at his assailant from me, he continued. "Sir, I'd have called after the boy who gave this to me to own up if I'd known he stole it. That hardly signifies now. Here it is, unopened," he told the man thrusting the parcel toward him. "I'm sorry it was taken from you."

I could see my son wanted to say more but he'd been raised to respect his elders no matter their actions, especially with his father standing beside him. He knew, despite sporting an already tender behind, he'd be subjected to a firm hand on a firm bottom through his britches when I put him over my knee for sassin' his elders. However, I was free to express the anger we both felt.

"Preacher, if not for the fact arresting you for assault would hurt my boy more than it would punish you, I'd lock you in the church cellar until Mr. Sayers the circuit judge came through. You have your property. We're done."

"If your little liar didn't steal from me directly, then he helped that other boy," the preacher retorted. "A man who truly holds to the law and raisin' up a son proper would beat him here and now on the street just like I was until he named the other thief. Regular beatins, and keepin' them usefully occupied, is what keeps these young hooligans on God's path."

"Matthew doesn't lie," I responded in the quiet yet menacing tone Matthew dreaded because it meant I was really angry and, in his case, deeply disappointed. "Be grateful the town asked me to wear this badge 'cause it's the only thing keepin' me from laying into you for beating and humiliating my child in the street. However, if you lay a hand on him again, I'll beat you half to death."

The self-righteous prig had sense enough to walk away without another word, free to go about his business. I was glad to see the back of him, unless he grabbed Matthew. Furthermore, I saw no point in trying to get my son to reveal which of his friends might be a thief. The bully disguised as a preacher was probably too full of himself to admit he might have lost it. Besides, it made no never mind. He had it back. Nevertheless, Alice, Matthew and I didn't attend his pro-slavery tent revival meeting at the edge of the Beckman farm, a mile down the road from ours. Gordon and Marigold Beckman's views were somewhat in line with their houseguest, but essentially decent folk. They were good enough to take in their foster child Rich a couple years ago when the eight-year-old orphan stole food from among the crops they were bringing to the general store to sell. However Gordon were almost as hard on him as he was on the three slaves he owned. To him, a judiciously applied whuppin' kept a wife, child and especially slave obedient. As far as I could tell, except in the case of his slaves, the beatings never slipped over into abuse.