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Starvation Flats
By Ron Churchman
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 Ron Churchman
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-6684-4
Chapter One
Just Southwest, and barely out of the township limits of Hastings, Oklahoma is a ten mile wide strip of desolation called "Starvation Flats." It begins at the banks of the Red River near Wichita Falls, Texas and follows the tortuous path of the river to a point just southwest of Temple, Oklahoma. The soil at the surface of the flats carries the typical redness of Oklahoma dirt, and the sparse mesquite trees struggle to survive in the poorness of the soil for lack of nutrition and water. Jack-rabbits and rattlesnakes seem to thrive in the area but the only humans that attempt to inhabit the "flats" are those who are attempting to hide or those who just can't afford to squat anywhere else. It's government land and the living is free if a body can tolerate the frequent tornadoes, the intense heat of the summer and the bitter cold of the winter. The pure desolation of this strip of land is unexplainable, as the terrain changes abruptly at Hastings and there is a decided improvement in the weather and quality of the soil running to the North and West. That's not to say that it turns into a "Garden of Eden" at that point ... it's only to say that the living conditions are somewhat bearable for those of pioneering spirit.
Rufus Jackson Coleman brought his wife and two boys to the area in 1926, under the ragged canvas of an aged prairie schooner. The drought around Rhome, Texas and the beginnings of the Great Depression had driven Rufus to a point of desperation. He gathered his clan and their meager belongings into the bed of his rickety wagon in the early summer of "26" and struck out to the northeast. He didn't know exactly where they were going but it was clear as to the why. They just couldn't survive any longer in this land where the Lord no longer shed the blessings of rain ... rainwater to close the cracks in the parched soil and allow the sown seeds to swell and bring life-sustaining greenery to the surface. It just wasn't going to happen in the mind of Rufus Coleman ... at least not soon enough to save him and his family.
Rufus was thin as a rail and tough as a piece of barbed wire from the toil of the long days of hard labor in the hot Texas sun. His wife, Bertha Lou, shared the lean look of a true pioneer, and the deepness of her tan was even darker than that of Rufus from her Cherokee heritage. Rufus Junior was the older of the two boys at eighteen years of age and the family just called him June to avoid confusion. He too was deeply tanned and his hair was black as coal just like his mothers once was before the gray had invaded the blackness of her locks. Arthur was the youngest. He would turn fourteen on August thirty first ... just a few short weeks hence. The two boys had managed to attend the one-room schoolhouse in Rhome just long enough to learn their basics of reading, writing and ciphering. Unlike his healthy older brother, Arthur was a weak and frail boy with a constant hacking cough that often kept the family awake into the wee hours of the morning.. His pillowcase would sometimes be covered with blood in the mornings and it tore at his mothers heart as she feared that Arthur would not outgrow the affliction. "Consumption" ... that's what the crippled old doctor in Rhome had told her. "Not much chance to survive it unless he just grows out of it," Doc Hagan had said.
The morning sun was just beginning to break over the horizon when the last item from the shack was loaded into the wagon. It was a five pound sack of dried beans, and one of the few food items that were left in the pantry when the decision was made to relocate the family. Coleman's two mules, Nig and Choc had suffered right along with the family and their ribs showed through their hides like the arched wagon bows showed through the thin canvas covering of the wagon. The once powerful mules now strained to un-track the wagon as the Coleman family left the dusty front yard of the rundown farm house. Nobody bothered to look back, as there were no fond memories hanging around the two-room shack that they had called home for the past three years. It was barely daybreak, but the wind had already begun to stir the choking dust, and the distant cawing of a half-starved crow brought an end to the sights and sounds of a once hopeful expectation gone bad.
It would be a long fourteen-hour day of bone-jarring discomfort, and the fight for a breath of clean air would be a constant challenge. The chalky white dust from the wagon wheels and the heels of the mules came up through the cracks in the wagon bed and hung inside the enclosure like a stagnant cloud in a windless sky. June sought relief from the dust by walking on the windward side of the wagon, but Arthur could only take short refuge in that way as he would quickly tire from the walking. He would walk until he collapsed, and then be helped by his brother into the choking confines of the covered wagon where he would take up his fits of coughing. Mid-day mercifully came and Rufus guided his mules into the shade of a huge post oak tree for a rest and a lunch of hard-tack and jerky. The water from the cistern was warm but wet, and it helped to clear the chalky dust from the throats of the travelers. "How much farther we got to go Pa," asked June. "Don't know, boy. By my account, we may make it to the Red River and Oklahoma Territory by nightfall, but that's just a rough guess," his father said. Rufus silently prayed that his guess was right. His mules were tiring and they hadn't run across a source of water for the animals since they left the farm. Salty white froth dripped from their hides where the harnesses rubbed their bodies and coaxed the scant moisture to the surface. The cistern water would have to be shared with the mules if they didn't come upon a stream or puddle soon. The family supply of water wouldn't last long if it had to be shared with the animals. This was an unforgiving land and all that Rufus Coleman could do was to hope and pray to God that there was relief somewhere close up ahead.
The blistering hot sun was nearly straight overhead when the family resumed their travel. Arthur took up his position in the sweltering heat of the wagon and June trudged alongside the squeaking left front wheel of the schooner. The wheel would soon have to be re-dressed and greased or the friction would eventually burn away the bacon-rind bearing and the axle would collapse. Junior hoped with all his might that the wheel would last until they came upon some shade and a source of fresh cool water. It would be unbearable to face the labor involved in the wheel re-dress without some form of relief from the relentless sun. Suddenly the weary pair of mules picked up their pace and let out a shrieking bray that completely overpowered the squeaking and rattling of the wagon. They smelled water ... and it was close by.
It was nearing sunset and the light was beginning to fade in the West, but Rufus could make out a steep red bluff rising above the tops of the scraggly mesquites ahead. It was the Oklahoma side of the Red River bank, and he let out a wild rebel yell that further incited the mules into a full trot. June clambered into the back of the wagon to keep from being left behind in the heel-dust of the mules. Another hundred yards and the terrain opened up to expose the wide expanse of the river. The main river bed was fifty yards wide and the muddy red water flowed through half of the width. A clear line of debris and dead limbs on the far bank marked the high-water level twelve feet above the lazy flow of the stream. It was obvious that the river could be a raging torrent a full hundred yards wide and twelve feet deeper at flood stage, but for right now it was a serene and very welcome sight. Rufus guided the wagon to the shade of a tall pecan tree at the edge of the riverbed and quickly unhitched the doubletree from the anxious mules. He led them to the waters edge where they drank deeply of the muddy red water and then waded in to the depth of their bellies to cool their hides and wash away the crusted stains of salty sweat.
Back at the wagon, Bertha Lou Coleman was setting up camp. They would rest here for the night and resume their travels when Rufus gave the direction to continue. Arthur set about the task of gathering driftwood for a campfire, while Junior took the old single-shot Remington rifle from the wagon and set off in search of some wild game to make a meal of. Their stores were scant and some fresh meat along with a couple cans of beans and hard-tack would make for a tasty supper. Rufus tethered the mules nearby where a few patches of dry prairie grass offered some nourishment and he allowed each mule a gallon of oats. He had only a single fifty pound sack of grain, and it was still undetermined how much farther they would be going. The mules would have to stay on a rationed amount until things looked a little more promising. Off in the distance a rifle shot sounded and a few minutes later Junior came into camp carrying a skinny jack-rabbit. It wasn't much, but at this point ... a little was a lot.
The roasting rabbit on the spit put out a tantalizing aroma around the campfire and there was warm canned beans and hard biscuits to round out the evening meal. There was a feeling of togetherness in the Coleman clan and just a tinge of hope for a better life was beginning to creep back into their weary souls ... something that hadn't been there for quite some time. Darkness soon blanketed the campsite and only the dim light from the campfire coals and an old kerosene lamp marked the existence of human life on the banks of the Red River. Sleep came quick and easy after the long day of travel.
Arthur's incessant coughing throughout the night went unnoticed by the rest of the family in the deepness of their slumber. The sun had not yet broken the horizon when Arthur let out a pained cry that was followed by a spate of gurgling cough. He had bolted upright from his blanket on the ground and was clutching his bare left foot when his mother first became aware that Arthur was in extreme duress. "What is it Arthur?" she cried as she scrambled to his side. Arthur was choking on his own fluids and could only point to his left foot where a angry red spot appeared just above his bony ankle. His mother grabbed his foot and lifted it to get a better look in the dim morning light. A black scorpion scurried from under the blanket near his other foot and he again cried out as the creature drove his arched stinger into Arthur's right leg. The mother flailed at the poisonous little insect until he lay quivering in the dust, but the damage had already been done. Arthur lay whimpering and coughing beside the smoldering campfire that had drawn the critter near the warmth of the coals and the darkness of the blanket. "June, get some more firewood and set a kettle of water to boiling," the mother said. "Just stay calm, Arthur. I'll get you some relief in a few minutes, but for now, you just stay as still as you can." She took the kerosene lamp inside the covered wagon and returned shortly with a handful of tea leaves. When the water was near boiling, she submerged the leaves and made a strong brew, and then wrapped the two puncture marks with the wet tea leaves. She then made a gauze wrapping around the wounds and dripped the hot tea on the gauze to saturate the areas. It was an old Cherokee remedy, and she forced young Arthur to drink the rest of the brew in between his coughing spells. Bertha ColemanknewthatArthurwouldhaveahardtimeshakingthepoisonouseffects of the stings in his weakened condition. She was grateful that it had not been a rattlesnake, but the scorpion was plenty bad enough.
The day had broken on a bad note with Arthur's ill fortune, but adversity was nothing new to the Colemans. They would have to lay up here for a while for the boy to recover, but there was now a source of water available and it would give Rufus a chance to scout the area on the other side of the river. He would have to choose a direction to go in search of a new home and a new life for his family, and there was nothing very promising in sight. Starvation Flats loomed on the other side and he had heard stories of the desolation of the "no-mans land" that posed a formidable barrier between Texas and Oklahoma. Beyond that, it was anybody's guess as to the viability of finding a homestead. Added to the quandary was the well-known fact that outlaws and criminals on the run would regularly seek refuge in the "flats". Oklahoma was a fairly new state in the union and lawmen rarely ventured into that area ... for any reason. Rufus owned an old hand gun but his aim with the old relic was poor at best, and he only relied on it for protection within his home. He tucked the Colt "45" in his waistband and lit out to cross the river, leaving Junior in charge of protecting the family.
He took a mental bearing on the sun's position as he left camp, and promised to be back by nightfall. He went up stream to search for a place to ford the river with the wagon. A quarter mile up, he found the shallows that would allow a safe crossing. The water was wide but no more than axle deep, and the bottom was stony enough to support the weight of the heavily laden wagon. The bank on the other side bore only a shallow angle and it tapered into a red desert-like expanse dotted with a few intermittent tumbleweeds and cactus. He walked eastward for three hours and the only form of life he saw was a few blue-bellied lizards and an occasional rattlesnake that slithered from his path and hid in the sanctity of their sand burrows. Another half hour and he came upon the first sign of civilization that he had seen in the flats. It was a one-room shack and a small lean-to that had obviously been there for many years. The shack was perched on stacks of flat red rocks, two feet high at the corners and the stones served as a foundation. It looked as if it could topple at the slightest gust of wind, but it was common construction for prairie houses where building materials are scant at best. There were cracks in the boards of the weathered walls and the roof was missing shingles in a two foot square. The door hung precariously by a single rusty hinge, and an ancient pot-bellied stove stood in the middle of the room. The shack had once supported human life, but it was now just a rotting hulk of a shell. Outside the hovel stood a broken rock structure that had once been a water well. Rufus casually dropped a pebble into the chasm and to his astonishment he heard the faint splash of water. It was a long way down, but there was moisture down there somewhere. Exploring the lean-to, Rufus eyed a familiar looking contraption stacked in one corner of the open-front shed. A copper boiler and a tangle of copper tubing brought back memories of his boyhood in Tennessee where his father cooked moonshine whiskey and bartered it for his family's sustenance. A broken oak barrel and the remnants of a rotting "mash vat" lay strewn about the dirt floor of the enclosure.
Emerging from the lean-to and looking further to the East, Rufus could see a thin spire of smoke that signaled the existence of humanity in some form, and he moved steadily in that direction. Two hours later he could make out the distinct outline of some buildings near where the smoke was coming from. Another thirty minutes in the sand and he strode into the small town of Hastings Oklahoma.
A narrow unpaved street separated two rows of buildings that made up the bulk of the town. There was a grocery store alongside a post office, café, and a two-story general merchandise store towered above the other buildings on the South side of the street. To the North side was a pool hall, a drug store, a doctors office, town hall, and the Security Bank building stood at the corner of the graveled street. A sleek black Model-T Touring Car was parked in front of the bank building, but aside from that lone automobile, the street was devoid of mechanical transportation. There were hitching posts spaced along the storefronts and a single watering trough on each side of the thoroughfare. Away from the main drag was a lumber yard, a livery stable and a blacksmith shop which was the source of the rising smoke that Rufus had seen a few miles back. To the North of the town he could see a span of railroad tracks running through some rolling hills that were lush with a thick covering of prairie grass. A smattering of spotted Longhorn cattle grazed in the distance. It seemed to be a thriving little town, and Rufus got a few friendly nods from passers-by on the wooden sidewalks as he eyed the place with great interest. This is a start he thought, as he turned and began to retrace his steps back into Starvation Flats and toward the river. It would be near nightfall by the time he got back to his family ... and this time he had some encouraging news.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Starvation Flats by Ron Churchman Copyright © 2010 by Ron Churchman. Excerpted by permission.
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