Spike
A flash fiction tall "tale"
He was born a Cherokee quarter-breed in a West Virginia holler in the year of our Lord 1853. At the tender age of ten, his family sided with the Hatfields in what would prove to be a long-winded war with the dirt poor McCoys on the Kentucky side of Big Sandy River. In 1882, he participated in the killing of three McCoy brothers as revenge for the cold-blooded murder of Ellison Hatfield; brother of family patriarch William Anderson Devil Anse Hatfield. He left in the dead of night when a posse of lawmen came to apprehend those responsible.
He took nothing with him but his Colt six-guns, Winchester rifle, and the scalping knife from which he would earn his nickname: Spike.
He found his way to Leadville, Colorado. The town was experiencing a silver boom, and, having spent his early days skulking the coal mines of Appalachia, Spike figured he was well suited to the task of spelunking for the precious metal. Providence, however, had other plans.
On his second day in Leadville, Spike had proven himself such an adept card player that he realized he could make a profession of it. By the end of the first month, word had spread far and wide about the bearded and long haired quarter-breed who was pretty darn good lookin’ for twenty-nine years old, and loved Jesus with all his heart. That last part was known to mystify his opponents. After all, there weren’t too many itinerant gamblers with a mean streak who professed piety.
Spike would always insist he didn’t subscribe to religion. Yet he nonetheless attributed his good fortune at cards to the good Lord’s guidance. He did seem to have a supernatural ability to read the minds of his fellow card players: when they were bluffing; when he’d been outplayed and should fold his hand; when he should brandish the knife that became his namesake, skewering the pinewood tabletops - or a trespassing limb - to intimidate those who thought they could cheat him.
He made a lot of friends in those days, but he made plenty of enemies as well. Spike’s show of aggression with the scalping blade couldn’t deter the more hotheaded antagonists, and he was occasionally forced to reluctantly blow someone away in the packed streets of the bustling mountain town. His shootings were always declared legal, more or less. The townsfolk liked him, which meant the authorities liked him. Which kept him mostly out of trouble with the law.
In 1891, the same intuitive voice that had told Spike to flee West Virginia all those years before spoke to him again; telling him his profitable and freewheeling days in Colorado were over. For reasons he couldn’t fully comprehend, he felt very strongly that he should head east and stop at Kentucky instead of going all the way to his homeland.
So, that’s what Spike did.
He wasn’t afraid of any vengeful McCoys - it could reasonably be said that Spike feared no living man - for he heard tell over the years the blood feud between them and the Hatfields had simmered down. Even so, he was determined to live as mundane a life as he could stand to avoid drawing any unwanted attention to himself. Much to his chagrin, he was lead to the city of Hodgenville, which just so happened to be the birthplace of that no good, arrogant bastard Lincoln. Being from a close-knit West Virginia family that suffered during the four long years of the War of Northern Aggression, Spike’s opinion of the late president was less than charitable. He figured the Lord’s sense of humor must have brought him to that place.
It wasn’t long before he met the love of his life: a brown haired beauty named Grace. All the wildness went out of Spike the day she married him; though he would be boisterous and animated to the end of his days.
In 1910, at fifty-seven years of age, word reached Spike that several young and brash members of the McCoy family who refused to let the old feud die were hot on his trail. He calmly swayed in his chair on the elegant porch of his grandiose farmhouse as he considered what should be done about the situation. Grace’s father entrusted them with his thriving tobacco farm, and the two of them had run her family business skillfully. Grace had borne him three children whom Spike loved with all his heart. He knew there was no choice: He would have to unshackle his old self to save what was dearest to him.
He thrust his spade into the fertile, brown soil at the foot of an ancient and stately hickory tree. He heaved and ho’d that dirt, sweat pouring into his white speckled beard, before the shovel blade finally thunked against solid wood. Spike pulled a small, dirt encrusted chest from the earth. He removed the key from his vest pocket; delicately inserting it into the grimy lock. The hinges creaked in protest as he swung the lid open and peered into the strongbox.
A pair of nickel plated, walnut gripped Colt Frontier Six Shooters were nestled comfortably inside. Their barrels and cylinders were slightly rusted, and he chided himself for not properly maintaining his faithful revolvers. He thrust both pistols into his belt before retrieving the one remaining item in the trunk.
His normally steady hands trembled slightly as he grabbed hold of the artifact, freeing it from exile. The knife had belonged to his father, and his father’s father. The blade had cleaved its share of flesh over the years. However, its work was not yet done.
Spike had one last battle to wage.
Author’s Note: This tall tale imagines my colorful father-in-law as an equally colorful Old West character. However, elements of the story are true; such as his real life nickname being Spike (albeit for an entirely different reason), him really being part Cherokee, and the fact that his ancestors really did side with the Hatfields over the McCoys in the legendary family feud.
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Finally got around to reading this one. I hope your father-in-law was proud to be immortalized here!
You've got the western moxie in your prose. This was great, Josh!