OVER THE RANGE
THE “STUMPY” WICKS STORY
BY EMERSON HOUGH
STUMPY WICKS WAS DEAD. THE MOUNTAIN FEVER
HAD KILLED HIM A FEW DAYS AFTER HE HAD STARTED OFF INTO THE HILLS, TELLING THE
BOYS THAT HE WOULD FIND THEM SOMETHING RICH, OR NEVER GO OUT AGAIN. HE DIDN’T
FIND ANYTHING RICH; AND HE NEVER WENT AGAIN. THE FEVER LAID ITS GRIP UPON HIM,
AND IN THREE DAYS HE WAS DEAD. HE HAD “GONE OVER THE RANGE,” THE BOYS SAID.
IT BECAME NECESSARY BURY STUMPY WICKS.
AND HOW WAS HE TO BE BURIED? BY HIS
RELATIVES? HE HAD NO RELATIVES. BY THE TOWN? THERE WAS NO TOWN. BY HIS PARD? HE
HAD NO PARD. FORTY YEARS AGO STUMPY WICKS HAD LEFT HIS HOME - NO ONE KNEW WHERE
- AND HIS PEOPLE - NO ONE KNEW WHO - TO WANDER ALONE IN THE WEST. HIS WIFE, HIS
MOTHER, HIS SISTER, IF HE HAD ONE, WILL NEVER KNOW WHERE HE DIED, OR WHAT HANDS
LAID HIM IN HIS GRAVE.
IT WAS THE BOYS. THEY GOT TOGETHER AND
MADE A COFFIN OUT OF A BOX OR TWO AND COVERED IT WITH BLACK CLOTH. THEY PUT
STUMPY INTO IT, WITH A CLEAN FLOURSACK OVER HIS POOR, DEAD FACE. THEY CHIPPED
IN AND HIRED AN EX-PARSON, WHO FOR SOME YEARS HAD ABANDONED HIS PROFESSION, TO
“GIVE STUMPY A SEND OFF.” THEY DUG A GRAVE TO A GOOD AND HONEST DEPTH IN THE
TOUGH, RED EARTH. THEY WENT OUT AND FOUND A FLAT ROCK FOR A HEADSTONE, AND ON
IT, WITH AN ENGINEER’S GRAVER, THEY SCRATCHED THE BRIEF EPITAPH, “STUMPY
WICKS.” THEN THEY FOLLOWED THE
COFFIN-WAGON TO THE GRAVE, WALKING THROUGH THE MUD AND RAIN.
THERE WERE FORTY MEN IN THAT FUNERAL
PROCESSION AND NOT ONE WOMAN. ALMOST NO ONE WAS DRUNK, AND NEARLY ALL HAD TAKEN
OFF THEIR SIX SHOOTERS. THERE WERE FORTY MEN WHO STOOD AROUND THE OPEN GRAVE,
AND NOT ONE WOMAN TO DROP A TEAR, AS THE EX-PARSON OFFERED A SHORT PRAYER FOR
THE SAFE JOURNEY OF STUMPY’S SOUL OVER THE RANGE. THERE WAS NO HISTORY OF
STUMPY’S LIFE. NO ONE KNEW THAT HISTORY. IT WAS DOUBTLESS A SAD ENOUGH ONE,
FULL OF SLIPS AND STUMBLES; FULL OF HOPE PERHAPS, BEFORE HE FINALLY “LOST HIS
GRIP.” THEY FOUND A WOMAN ‘S PICTURE, VERY OLD, AND QUITE WORN OUT INDEED, IN
STUMPY’S POCKET, AND THIS WAS BURIED WITH HIM. THIS WAS PROBLY HIS HISTORY.
THERE WAS NOT A TEAR SHED AT STUMPY’S
FUNERAL. NOT A SOB WAS HEARD. BUT NEITHER WERE THERE ANY OATHS OR LAUGHTER.
WHEN THE TIME CAME TO FILL UP THE GRAVE, READY HEARTS ASSISTED READY HANDS, AND
THE EXPERIECED MINERS QUICKLY DID THE WORK. THEY ROUNDED UP THE MOUND, AND
FITTED IN THE HEADSTONE. WHEN THE EX-PARSSON STEPPED BACK FROM THE GRAVE HE
STUMBLED OVER THE HEADSTONE OF BILLY ROBBINS, THE GAMBLER WHOM ANTONIO SANCHEZ
HAD KNIFED. THERE WERE A GOOD MANY OF THE BOYS RESTING THERE; THE BULLET, THE
KNIFE AND THE MOUNTAIN FEVER HAD FINISHED THEM, EXCEPT THOSE WHOM THE COMMITTEE
ASSISTED. IT WAS THE COMMITTEE WHO PUT ANTONIO SANCHEZ AT THE FEET OF BILLY
ROBBIN’S GRAVE.
THERE WAS NO GREEEN THING IN THIS
GRAVEYARD, NO LIVING PLANTS, NO LITTLE FLOWERS. IT LAY, RES AND BARE, UPON A
RES AND BARE
THERE WERE NO WHITE STONES TO MARK THE
HOMES OF THE SLEEPERS; THOSE USED WERE OF THE ROUGH RED GRANITE.
THE BOYS WERE QUIET. THEY WERE THINKING
PERHAPS. THEY LOOKED UP AT THE SKY, WHICH, STRANGELY ENOUGH FOR A SKY IN
AS THE FUNERAL PROCESSION BROKE UP AND
MOVED BACK TO THE SALOONS, ONE WAS HEARD TO SAY THAT IT WAS THE “D--DEST
MOURNFULLEST PLANTIN HE HAD EVER HAD A HAND IN.” IN FACT, THE CAMP DID NOT GET
BACK TO ITS
From a
booklet bought years ago at Ruth Birdsong’s in White Oaks. Ed.