Bitter is the Dust

Jason McKinney was a survivor. The cards were stacked against him since the day he was born, and now, in his fifteenth year, he was no longer a child; yet not quite a man. Years of hard labor had made him stronger than most kids his age and it had kept him lean. His unruly mop of flaming red hair had branded him a troublemaker from an early age. He did his best to keep the reputation in good standing by bloodying the noses of most of the boys in his school at least once, no matter what the reason. At the ripe old age of twelve he was finished with school, at least, that was what he had been told by those in charge of the operation. He was happy with that to a degree; although it had kept him away from the house and the man who hated him. Now days it was a full time occupation to keep out of his reach.

His mother, God rest her soul, suffered complications during his birth and had died while giving him life. His father, who was in deep distress over the loss of his young wife, decided after a respectful time of grieving, he would move from his home in Wichita, Kansas; and begin a new life further east at Fort Scott. As for his newborn son, he knew nothing of caring for an infant. So, after some serious consideration and at the insistence of his younger sister, Sarah, he left the boy with her to raise as her own.

She named the boy Jason, and from his earliest childhood, the boy’s life was hard. Sarah’s husband, Jim, had no desire to bond with a child that was not his flesh and blood. He paid very little attention to the boy and treated him with contempt at every turn; the resulting disdain all too often unleashed in bouts of intense physical violence. To Jim, Jason was nothing more than another mouth to feed.

Accordingly, as Jason grew older, Jim worked him hard, from sunup to sundown. The way he saw it, the harder he worked the boy the less he had to do, which translated into more time at the local saloon. Everyone in town knew Jim was a gambler and a drunk, and quite frankly, he wasn’t very good at either one. At gambling, he lost more times than he won and his drinking tended to bring out his mean side which translated into the frequent beatings he handed out to his wife and Jason. Jim, however, considered himself a gentleman, justifying his actions as he bragged to the men he drank with, saying such things as “I’ve never laid a hand on that woman with a closed fist,” or “I only smack her around when she deserves it!” And as for the boy, he often boasted, “Strong stick for a fool’s back”, just like the Good Book says, the ungrateful little bastard! But only when he needs it.”

That may have been true in his own drunken mind, but certainly was not fact. Jim held back most of his pent up anger and frustrations for Jason. The boy was the one on the receiving end of Jim’s closed fist. And Jason, being so young, could do little more than take it.

That was until one particular day, in the summer of his fifteenth year, when a solid hickory axe handle turned the tables on the old man once and for all. It would be the last time he ever laid a hand on Jason. The first lick to the side of Jim’s head would have been enough, but with all that pent up anger finally letting loose, it took more than a few good swings before the hickory stick had repaid the old man all he was owed; and with substantial interest.

When the beating had finally ended, the old man was nothing more than a heap of broken, bloody and battered bones. And as for Jason, he was taken quite by surprise, completely stunned and utterly amazed at what he had just seen his adopted mother, Sarah, finally do.

Sarah herself was more than a bit astonished at what had just taken place. She stood silently over her husband, but the look on her face said volumes. Once she caught her breath, she threw the stick aside and looked over at Jason. He could see it in her eyes. Something had changed. Sarah was not the same woman she was five minutes ago...

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