in Jackson before they could finally return, Mister McCorkle brought them some unexpected news.
Trudging down the muddy street, Mister Mac spotted Lott and Jake sitting out on the front porch of the hotel casually observing a group of children playing on the steps.
“Boys, I’ve got some good news for ya. I got a legal way for you two to get the land you want and to make a little extra. You want to hear about it?” Mister Mac said, as he settled in a chair and filled his pipe with tobacco.
“We sure do want to hear about it, Mister Mac. I’ll be damned if I want to spend another winter here in Jackson. All we do is sit around this flea-bitten shack of a hotel, and Lott won’t give me no money to spend. There is women and plenty of liquor here for the taking but what do I do? Sit and look, and when I get tired of that, Lott tells me to keep on sittin’ and lookin’. I just can’t take it much longer,” answered Jake.
“Jake, just shut up yore complainin. Go on, Mister Mac.”
Their former boss leaned back in his chair and put his arm on Lott’s shoulder. “All right boys, here it is. I’ve got ya the land you wanted and here’s your job. When spring comes, you two go back into the Choctaw lands. There ain’t supposed to be settlers in there for a while. If you find them, run them off. If that fails, report them to the county authorities.”
“Where will they be?” questioned Lott.
“They’ll be located in a camp about seven miles west of your place. Also, when people start comin’ in there, they’s to see you two first. We don’t want no fussin’ and killin’ over land lines. The place is going to be rough enough like it is. There ain’t going to be much law out there for a while,” continued Mister Mac.
“When can we leave? Jake and I can handle it and we know the area better’n anyone,” Lott said, slapping Jake on the back.
“That’s left up to you boys, but you need to get on in there before we have some squatters sittin’ on someone else’s land. Spring will be soon enough.”
“What about Frank? Did he get the piece he wanted?” questioned Jake.
“Well, from what I understand, he wanted some bottom land below your place. The problem is some Choctaws have already taken claim to the place. Can’t say if’n Frank got any land at all. Lott, you boys watch Frank, that is, if’n you ever see him again. I just don’t trust him,” warned Mister Mac.
“I don’t see how them Choctaws is going to make it. We going to tell them that they has to live on a piece of land only one mile square and provide for themselves when they is used to roamin’ and huntin’ and doin’ a little bit of gardenin. I don’t think so. It just ain’t going to work,” Lott said.
Lott and Jake reached their hillcountry on the 26th of March, 1833. For the past two days, they had driven their wagon through torrential rainstorms, some of the worst they had ever seen. They had lost two weeks by having to wait for streams to subside before safe crossings could be made. But finally, they reached the old surveying camp which would now be their new home. They wasted no time constructing a house, because soon the cold winter winds would be upon them.
“Lott, why do I always have to get in the hole to saw, and why can’t we just make us a simple log hut to live in?” complained Jake.
“Well, little brother, we’re going to build us a house that’s going to be here a long time. Maybe our grandchildren will be livin’ here some day, and you’re in the sawin’ pit cause you are the strongest,” replied Lott.
“Damn you. I’ll bet you want a real floor instead of dirt,” answered Jake, as he pulled the saw blade down through the massive log above his head, almost jerking Lott from his position on the top side of the big timber.
“Most folks is satisfied with just a one-room hut, and that would suit me fine too,” continued Jake.
Being frustrated with Jake, Lott sat down and decided to address Jake’s habitual use of profanity. “Jake, why do you always use them words? It’s ‘damn this’ and ‘hell that’ and everybody you don’t like is a ‘son of a bitch’. Mamma never let us talk that way ‘round her, and the church don’t go for it either.”
Jake bounded out of the pit and sat down on the ground below Lott and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Well, Mister Brother, I don’t call ‘damns’ and ‘hells’ and ‘sons of bitches’ as cussing. Has you ever heard me call the Lord’s name in vain? No, you never has. I been to church lots of times in my life, and I do believe in God. And, by the way, saying them words makes me feel better. I can release my tensions, and that keeps my temper down, and when I keep my temper down, I don’t get in fights,” concluded Jake.
Lott had no reply. It was obvious Jake had got the best of him.
Jake began to laugh as he realized his brother was at last speechless and jumped back down into the saw pit, “Hell, Lott, let’s get back to work and build this mansion of yores, and about this house for our grandchildren, I ain’t seen no women around here to start foolin’ ‘round with. What about you, preacher Wilson, you seen any women lately?”
“Jake, just shut up and work. I don’t want to talk to ya for a few days. You make me so mad I could cuss and I don’t ever cuss,” replied Lott, as he shoved the saw blade down through the log toward Jake as hard as he could.
Between working on the house, cutting firewood for the winter, and starting a good size garden, the Wilson boys had little time to venture out into the adjoining property. Only on Sunday afternoons did they take time to saddle their horses and explore the countryside. They tried to stay out of the way of the Choctaws. There was a large village about a mile south of the southern boundary of their property called Bissa Aisha [Blackberry Place]. Jake still remembered how the Choctaws looked at him when their crew had traveled through before. Lott could not entice him to visit and maybe do some trading. Jake still remembered how that Indian had almost scared him to death.
One good thing about the summer of 1833 was that it gave Lott and Jake time with one another, and they became more than brothers, they became friends. They learned to accept the parts of each other’s personality and character that had previously caused conflict between them.
“Lott, when we going to stop this housebuildin, and try to find sump’n fun to do. I’m tired of sawin’ and working” Jake said, as he finished nailing the last of the white oak shingles on the roof.
“You right Jake, and I’m tired too. We’ve worked like dogs for the past five months and I’m about burned out. We fixin’ to slow it down, little brother.”
“Praise the Lord and get out the Good Book. I can’t believe you’s becomin’ a human,” shouted Jake, as he slid off the roof and landed on the ground with a thud.
“I”m going to go get the brew, Lott. We going to celebrate and I does mean have a party,” exclaimed Jake, as he ran down the trail leading to the spring.
“When did you have time to make brew, Jake? What did ya make it out of?” shouted Lott, trying to get Jake’s attention before he was out of hearing range.
Down in the woods, Lott could barely hear Jake’s reply, “Corn! Brother, corn! Ain’t you missed some from our patch? I’m puttin’ it to good use.”
Tired, but now relaxed, Lott and Jake sat down under one of the large oaks growing in front of the new house, sipping brew and admiring their work. It was an unusual sight to see such a fine cabin in the middle of a wilderness with not a single white settler except for them in the area. The house had three rooms down the left side. The first two were bedrooms and the last was a kitchen with an adjoining well where water could be easily drawn. Across an open hall were two more rooms Lott planned to rent out to travelers.
“Jake, it ain’t bad lookin’ is it? I wish Mamma could see it. She’d be proud of us, wouldn’t she?”
“Yeah, she sure would,” replied Jake, as he guzzled the home brew. “Lott, I’m as