The Midwife of Hope River

Flames, I am sure, are shooting out of the top of my head, and I’m reckless with fury. I haven’t felt like this since the day on Blair Mountain. All the pain and the worry of the last few months, all the sadness and fear gushes out of me like Fourth of July fireworks. It’s a good thing Bitsy is holding the gun, because I would be dangerous!

I work my way further into the throng, causing Star to be more anxious than needed by swinging her head back and forth and making her snort and whinny. The short man with the nasal voice falls on his knees almost under us, and I’d be happy if he was trampled, but one of his brothers pulls him away and shoves him into the Model T.

“That’s right, Beef. Run! You too, Aran Bishop!” I feel like shaking the spit out of them! “Take your friends. Put your sweating coward tails between your legs and hit the road!” The first two vehicles have already turned and are hurtling down Wild Rose. Men are fumbling to crank up the third.

Bitsy nudges me and nods down the hill. In the distance another line of lights moves toward us. Our situation has just gone from bad to worse.

Remember Me

The fence is a circle of fire with the crooked cross still burning as the new caravan of Klansmen gets closer. We should get going while we have the chance, but my righteous indignation is out of control. If more pillow heads are on their way, I’m ready for them!

There are three vehicles speeding down Wild Rose Road while three more labor up, but they don’t pause when they meet each other. The new autos stop just outside our burning fence.

“Do Lord, oh do, Lord . . .” It’s Reverend Miller, Mrs. Miller, Byrd Bowlin, and Twyla from the Hazel Patch Baptist Chapel, singing at the top of their lungs. Behind them are a pickup and a Model T Ford. “When I am in trouble, do remember me.”

Bitsy slides off the side of the horse and slumps on the ground. I slip down next to her, and we both pull off our feed sacks, feeling foolish.

“Everyone okay?” The Hazel Patch folks pile out of their hack. Daniel Hester gets out of his Ford, and in the pickup truck, I’m surprised to see Mr. Maddock and his wife, Sarah Rose. Maddock doesn’t say anything, just jumps down and starts kicking the flaming cross with a viciousness that surprises me. Byrd Bowlin enfolds the sobbing Bitsy.

“Everyone okay?” the reverend asks again, stepping over a flaming board and pulling me to my feet. Daniel Hester in his long veterinarian coat comes up behind him.

“Yeah, we’re all right.” My legs are shaking and I want to throw up, but for some silly reason, I have to act strong.

“It was a close one,” I say, making light of it. “The sight of us on our big horse took the men by surprise. Then Bitsy started pulling their masks off . . . did you see them? They were trying to act like the Ku Klux Klan.” I pick up a discarded mask to illustrate. The vet takes one look at Star’s trembling body, grabs the reins, and takes her away from the fire. I watch as he runs his big hands down her neck, whispers in her ear, and ties her in the shadows, where she can calm down.

“How did you know? How did you know we were in trouble?” I ask Reverend Miller.

“Dr. Hester was on his way back from a call, coming along Salt Lick through the valley, when he saw the vehicle lights in the distance surrounding your house and your fence in flames. He drove to my place and called the sheriff, and then we headed back.” The vet is now letting the howling dogs out of the house. They bound down the steps but find no threat or danger, nothing but friends who reach out to pet them.

“We’re just glad you’re okay,” the pastor summarizes, patting me on the back and moving on to Bitsy. I wander over to the Maddocks’ truck. “Sarah,” I say. There’s a rifle resting across her lap, and I believe she was prepared to use it.

“I was so scared,” she explains. “When I first saw the fire from my bedroom window, I thought it was your house ablaze, but Mr. Maddock heard the mob and could tell it was the fence burning. About that time we saw Hester’s Ford and the Hazel Patch folks coming up Wild Rose. I’m so sorry this happened.” She reaches out the truck window and hugs me with one arm, and I’m startled at the strength of it.

As I go over to thank Mrs. Miller and Twyla, it begins to snow. Too early, I think, but I laugh and raise my hands anyway. Small hard flakes drop straight down to the ground.

“Most people around here aren’t like those men, you know that, don’t you?” Mildred Miller asks me, putting her hands on my shoulders and looking into my eyes. Twyla stands next to her with her baby wrapped tight in a wool shawl. “Most people appreciate what you and Bitsy do.” The young mother nods, and I realize they’re right. Most people do appreciate us. Most, if they’d known what was happening, would have come to our rescue too. The reverend’s wife looks up into the falling flakes. “You could come home with us, honey.”

“No, that’s okay. We’ll be fine. They won’t be back. We let our stock out at the height of the fracas so if they tried to burn the barn down, the animals would get away. Now we have to round them up and get them in.”

“Are you sure?” I nod my head yes. “Well, then.” She takes my hands. “We better get back before the roads get too slick.”

As if by command, Mr. Maddock tips his hat and climbs into his truck. The Millers and Twyla turn to their hack while Bowlin cranks her up. I tighten my mouth when I see Bitsy get in next to him in the front. She lifts one hand and waves good-bye.

From far away, around by the stone bridge over the Hope, I hear the wail of a siren. A little late, Sheriff Hardman is on his way, but the reverend will meet him and have him turn back. It’s all over in minutes. Hester is the last to leave.

“I’ll help you with the animals.”

“Thanks,” I say feebly, suddenly very tired, all the fury drained out of me. Bitsy is gone, and I am alone again.

Within a half hour, we locate Moonlight and her calf down by the creek and get the horse in. There are only the chickens left, but it’s too dark to find them and I just pray they make it back in the morning.

“Nice auto.” Hester motions to the Olds parked in the back of the dark barn.

“It was William MacIntosh’s,” I explain. “Katherine gave it to us, but we can’t afford gas.” He shrugs as if he understands, gives the stock some hay, then secures the doors.