The Colonel's Lady, Part 2 of 2
by Steve Myers
That evening Wethers arrived with two other men, both old mountain men who knew every trail and pass through the Rockies. I told Wethers I'd like to leave at dawn and he agreed. He and the two men went to the tavern next to the store room and I spent my last night with the Brickers.
We had a good meal and played checkers and dominoes after. Once the girls had gone to bed I told Sam and Bess that I would be leaving in the morning.
Bess said, "Annie will be destroyed but it is best she doesn't know. But, John, I do hate to see you go."
Sam said, "I'll see you get off to a good start. I know Wethers. He's an honest man. You just be careful. I see you have a carbine. Can you use it?"
"I can hit the side of a barn."
"Well, there won't be too many barns along the way. Try to stay clear of a band of Indians. One or two won't give you trouble, but if there are four of five and there's no women or children with them, that's something else again."
In the morning Bess gave me a poke filled with rolls and gave me a kiss as I went out the door. Sam carried my gear and my folded tent to the stable and helped load the mule. He said, "Those lumps in your sack is somethin' I slipped in last night while you were snoring to beat the band. The one is to sip and remember me; the other is a loaded Army Colt."
I gave him two large envelopes, each one holding the full face drawing and copy of my pencil portrait of Abbie. I said, "One of these goes to the Colonel's Lady and the other to Lieutenant Zwick."
"I'll take care of that. And you, John, you take care."
Wethers and the two mountain men, all three not feeling so fine, appeared.
Wethers said, "Well, I see you keep your word. Looks like the sun is near up already."
They saddled their horses and loaded a pack animal and we set out in a line with me and my mule in the middle. I looked back and waved to Sam. I don't know how long he stayed watching because I never looked back again.
The sun was rising fast and we turned away from it and headed west.
* * *
This is not the place to recount the details of my adventures on the long, twisted trail to the Pacific. Somehow that path went through Fort Laramie and down into New Mexico. Wethers was killed on the way by Deacon Lynch, a whiskey peddler, in a fight over a young squaw. One night the two mountain men disappeared with my mule. Eventually I reached California.
* * *
On an evening in late September in 1880 I happened to find myself in Red Ridge, California. I was on assignment for The Californian to interview a local millionaire named James Randall. He supposedly was the future of the new California. I had to wait until the next morning for the train to Showdown, where Randall lived and owned nearly all the property and industries.
I obtained a room at the hotel and then went out to find a good restaurant to have dinner. As I walked along the street I came to a place with a sign that read "Bricker & Dugan, Food & Drink." I entered to find a small tavern with several tables to one side and a bar along the other. Behind the bar was a man with black hair parted down the middle and a mustache that curled up at the ends. Two young women, in white lace caps and white aprons, were carrying plates of food to a table with four customers. All the tables were full and there were only a few places at the bar.
I sat on a stool and when the bartender came over I asked, "Is it possible to have a sandwich here at the bar?"
"Of course, sir. The sandwich menu is posted there above the mirror, but the special today is hot corned beef."
"I'll take that."
"Fine. And what will you have to drink?"
"Whatever beer you have on tap."
He went to call my order through a window and then filled a mug of beer. When he set it before me I asked, "Could you be Bricker?"
"Oh, no, sir, I'm Dugan. The place was my father's before I partnered with Bricker."
"There is no chance that Bricker is Sam Bricker, once sergeant in the U.S. Cavalry?"
"It certainly is. Why, do you know him?"
"We met maybe twelve years ago at a fort on the Missouri. Is he anywhere about?"
"He certainly is. He's in the kitchen taking his ease. He tends bar most of the time. Do you want to see him?"
"He might not remember me, but could you tell him that a John Worth is here. Tell him it's the sketch artist."
"I will do that very thing."
He passed a man asking for a refill, raised an index finger and said, "In one moment," and called through the window: "Man says he's John Worth, an artist. Says he knows you, Sam."
A loud explosion of sound came out of the window: "John! John? Here?"
The swinging door to the kitchen flew open and out came Sam Bricker, as big and as loud as ever, with only a little gray in his hair. He came down along the bar and stopped in front of me. He reached over the bar and grabbed my hand and nearly crushed it. "Ah, John, it's good to see you alive and breathin'. I worried many a nights about you travellin' like you were. Bess, too. Oh, how she chewed my ear off complaining about me not making you stay. She said she'd never forgive me if anything happened to you. Now, what's that you're drinking? Beer? Not in my establishment, my boy." He turned around and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He poured a double shot and said, "Now you drink that down. In fact, although it's against my principles-I mean Bess's principles-I'll have one with you."
He wanted to know what I'd been doing and I covered it as quickly as I could. My sandwich came and as I ate he told about the last five years at the fort. He said he got out of there before the worst of it and the disaster at the Little Bighorn. He had nothing but contempt for Custer and felt it was a shame the fool got his men killed. He and Bess and Mary moved here to Red Ridge, where he bought into this place with Jimmy Dugan, who's Mary's husband and a decent man.
I asked, "What about little Annie?"
"Ah, John, let us not talk about her. It was a bad winter that year and she didn't make it through. She wasn't strong, you know. It was hard on my Bess, terrible hard. We don't ever mention it. Too many times I saw her sittin' there staring out the window, holdin' the child's book, and crying. It's too sad to speak of."
"Where is Bess now? I'd like to see her."
"For certain you will, John, for certain you will. She's looking after Mary's little one, a boy not yet four but with the grip of a man."
"Which he got from his grandfather."
He laughed. "He has hands, the boy does, and the Irish temper to go with it. He got that from Bess and his father. I'm only half Irish-on my mother's side-but my gentleness comes from my mother and these mits from the old man, God bless his cantankerous soul. Anyway, drink up. We've a long night ahead of us."
"Sam, I'll have one more but I can't throw them back like you."
"Well, you can switch to beer if needs be, but I'll drop a shot in it."
"Then I best just sip it. I have a question, Sam, whatever happened with that Charles Gordon the Third character? He was a strange man."
"Ah, my man, it was terrible, I'm tellin' you. A bad business."
"What happened?"
"Well, you know, in a way it was because of your picture."
"My picture? What picture?"
"The one of the Colonel's Lady. I gave the one to her and the other, on the sly, to Mike Zwick . . . like you asked. Well, somehow the word got around that Zwick had a drawing of Abigail and one day, when he was out on a detail, some no-good swiped it. That would be bad enough, you know, but somehow or other it got into the hands of that Gordon. I suspicion he was the one behind the theft and probably paid some private to steal it. So this Gordon goes to the tavern and takes chalk and draws the shape of a naked woman on the wall. Of course all the lowlifes are cheerin' him on, you know. Scum, they are. More than once I took my fists to their like. Then Gordon pins the face of Abigail above his chalk drawing. Well, I tell you, there was a howlin' and hootin' from that drunken scum you could hear all over the fort. Then Gordon buys drinks all around and tells all he'd been doing with the lady. Oh, it was a bloody awful deed, I'm telling you, John.
"Well, Zwick hears of it and runs to the tavern. He goes to remove the lady's face from the wall and Gordon grabs him by the collar and says to let it alone. Zwick tears the picture from the wall and hits Gordon smack on the nose. I came into the place just when that happened. Blood was pouring out of the son of a bitch's nose and drippin' on his fancy white shirt. He was about to hit Zwick when I stepped in and said, 'That's enough of that.' The place got so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Gordon takes a handkerchief to his nose and says, 'I want satisfaction.' Zwick says, 'Any time.' I says, 'That's enough of that. The only one getting' satisfaction is myself.' Gordon says, 'Tomorrow at dawn, in the grove.' Zwick says, 'Agreed.' I says, 'The hell it is. I'll lock you up in the guardhouse.' 'No, you won't, Sergeant Bricker. I'm an officer and this is a matter of honor. He dragged a lady's name into the dirt.'
"He had me there. The damn fool was going to fight a duel-at dawn yet-what stupidity! So I said nothing to Bess about it and I agreed to be there to see all would be fair and square. Of course, there was nothin' fair about it. I'd seen that Gordon shoot. Anyway, the next morning Zwick and Gordon and two enlisted men as witnesses and me met out in that grove of trees by the stream to the east of the fort. I tried to talk them out of it, but there was no way. Poor Zwick's hand was shakin' as he stood there with his revolver at his side. Twenty paces away Gordon, in his hat with a feather and wearing his red hipboots, was smiling. He said to me, as he cocked his revolver: 'Sergeant, toss a stone into the air. When it hits the ground it begins.' God help me I did that and no sooner did the stone land that Gordon fired as Zwick brought up his pistol. The bullet hit his hand, knocking his gun away and rippin' through his palm. He yelled and grabbed his hand with his left. Then Gordon cocked his revolver and brought it up to fire again. I said, 'You do that, you low son of a bitch, and I'll beat you to death with my bare fists.' He laughed at that, don't you know, but he turned and walked away. We took poor Zwick to Doc Porter. He saved the hand but it wasn't much use. Zwick never even tried to play the piano after that. The Colonel called me to report and I lied and said it was an accident. Of course, he had to know otherwise. Zwick was sent back to a camp outside of St. Louis."
"And after that? What happened to Gordon and Abigail?"
"You would think she'd be through with him, but she just was more open about it. Everyone knew where she was spending her nights and she'd be seen crossing the parade ground in the dawn as she went back to the Colonel's bed. It was as if she didn't give a damn who knew. All the time the Colonel acted like he didn't know a thing. He was in a tough spot. What was he to do? Challenge Gordon to a duel? Admit his wife was a slut? Of course, everyone had contempt for him and laughed behind his back."
"What about you, Sam?"
"I felt sorry for the old man. It's true he should've taken a belt to her and sent her back to Cincinnati. Then he sure as hell should've visited Gordon with a shotgun loaded with slugs."
"But he couldn't do that."
"No. The Colonel was a sorry soldier-that's why he was put training recruits after Shiloh. You need to be hard in a way he just couldn't be, I suppose. Anyway, he didn't have to do anything to Gordon. A month or so after the duel Gordon went out on one of his excursions. He was gone over a week and nobody thought too much about it. Abigail would go to his room and then stand there inside the gate looking, waiting to see if he was coming. Then Corporal O'Malley was out on a wood cutting detail with four men and they came back with a body. It was Gordon. O'Malley found him laying there in the woods with his throat cut. His hat and hipboots were gone but he wasn't scalped. Indians, for certain. I suppose they wanted his horse-it was a beauty-and couldn't pass up those boots or the hat with the red feather. I don't understand why they didn't scalp him."
"Maybe it wasn't an Indian."
"Who else? A trooper would've put a bullet in him. That'd been my way."
"So that was the end of it."
"Almost. Abigail saw them bringing back the body and her face went white and she turned away. By then, too, she was startin' to show and the situation was clear to everybody. So the Colonel resigned and by the end of summer the two of them were gone and a Major Reynolds came to replace him. He got along well with the men. I guess because he drunk near a quart a whiskey a day. Which reminds me, let me pour you another."
"Sam, is it possible that I could see Bess before the morning?"
"Possible? It's as good as done. Jimmy, you're in charge for the rest of the night, I'm takin' John here to see Bess."
* * *
We went out through the kitchen where Mary was busy cooking and cutting corned beef. I said hello and she even hugged me. I asked how she'd been and she turned sideways.
She said, "Just fine. I have a boy now near four years and another in the oven."
Outside Sam said, "She's a grand girl, that one. Spittin' image of Bess at that age. Her man Dugan's a good sort-honest, hard working, and worships the little one."
It was a comfortable night with no moon and only a slight breeze. We went a short way down the street to a two story house. The light shone through the curtains of the windows in the front and I followed Sam up the steps to the porch and to the front door. He eased the door open and called, "Bess, my darlin', we have company."
She was quickly at the door and said, "Shush shush. Little Jimmy has gone to sleep. Now, who is that with you?"
I followed Sam in and Bess, wearing spectacles and with gray hair in a bun, stepped back and put her hand to her mouth. "I don't believe it. Sam, I don't believe it."
"Bess, don't you recognize John?"
"Of course I know John." She grabbed me and gave me a warm hug, stepped back some to look at me, and then hugged me again.
"He showed up at the tavern, come out of nowhere and big as life."
"Oh, John," she said, "I was so worried about you. You out there with the wars starting up again. I let Sam have it, I'm telling you, for letting you go."
"That's the God's truth," he said.
We went into a parlor.
"Sit, sit, John. Can I get you anything?"
"No, thanks. I've been fed and have drunk enough already." I sat in a chair by a window.
She gave Sam a look and then the two of them sat down on a hard-backed couch.
"You in town for some time?" she asked.
"I just got in this evening. I have to catch a train out tomorrow morning."
"Oh, that's not much of a visit. I wish you'd stay longer."
"I can't. I have to make a living."
"As an artist still?"
"I do illustrations but write articles too. I get by."
"It's been such a long time. Twelve years, I think. Yes, nearly twelve since . . . " And she looked away.
"Yes. I was asking Sam about what happened after I left. About the Colonel's wife and the man Gordon."
"I can't think of a word low enough for that man. I was tempted to cut his throat myself. So help me God, I was. And poor Abbie, the poor forsaken fool. What could she do? He knocked her off her feet with his ways and fancy clothes and air of excitement. And her man a cripple with no fire in him at all. That's how it was. And poor Lieutenant Zwick . . . A woman needs a solid man, someone like my Sam."
"And a man needs an honest woman," Sam said.
"And what about you, John? Do you have yourself a woman?"
"Not an honest one, I'm afraid. But I'm not a solid man."
"Pshaw, I won't hear none of that. You stay around here long enough I'll find a good woman for you. I'm serious."
We talked for some time about what I'd been doing and how things had gone for them. Then we were quiet, just sitting there, and Bess stood up. "I've something to show you, John." She left the room.
Sam looked down at the floor.
She came back carrying a small ledger. She crossed the room and handed it to me.
I opened it to pages of a child's drawings. They had labels: Mommy, Daddy, Mary. Mommy and Mary had long lines for hair around circle-faces and triangle-shaped dresses. Daddy was large with long thick legs and arms. All of the faces wore smiles. There was something that looked like a coffee pot and several drawings that seemed to be fields full of flowers. There was a fine drawing of a running horse. The details and proportions were crude but I got the sense and feel of motion. There were pages of dried flowers held by spots of glue. Then many pages of drawings of flowers that gradually became accomplished. Those were followed by outdoor scenes where she tried shading and cross-hatching to suggest shadows. She had not grasped perspective but I'm sure that would have been coming soon. The last page had this sentence written in an elegant script: "I love morning and sunlight." Underneath was a circle behind trees with lines shooting out like rays of light.
I closed the ledger quickly and walked over to return it to Bess.
"I would let you have it, you know, but it's all I have now."
I nodded. "I think I best go and get some sleep."
Sam walked me to the door. "You will come back to see us won't you, John?"
"Yes, I will."
The walk to the hotel seemed very long and I didn't sleep for more than an hour or so the whole night. I caught the train that morning and I never went back.
End Part 2 of 2
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The Cripple of Pioche
by Edward McDermott
On December 28th, 1872, men fought by candle light under the ground in the cut that lay somewhere between the Raymond and Ely, and Pioche Phoenix Mines. No one was quite certain where the boundary between the claims lay down here in the twisted passages that followed the veins of silver and zinc.
Four days earlier a blast shattered the stone and filled the shaft with ore to muck and joining the two mines' shafts. That led to accusations, and counter accusations. Lawsuits were threatened by the company lawyers, and the mine foremen refused to share a glass of Christmas cheer. Instead the two mines hired guards, and now men with shotguns and pistols patrolled above and below ground. That night Thomas Ryan was killed at Pioche in an underground fight. The next day Charles Swanson was fatally shot at Pioche by some unknown person as he went to work for the Raymond and Ely mine.
Pioche, the wildest mining town in Nevada, wilder than Virginia City, wilder than Tombstone, was grinding up miners and guards at a maniacal rate.
None of this mattered to Jack Wheelock as he lay on a bed in the Overland Hotel. When the blast joined the two mines into armed conflict it, dropped part of the drift down on Jack and his leg. His helmet saved his life, but the rocks broke his leg in at least six places.
The doctor peeled back a bit of the bandage that held the splints in place, dropped his head down to the spot and sniffed like he was doing snuff. He shook his head and sniffed again. "Bad, bad. Look miner. You'll have to lose the leg. Mortification has set in."
"I rode through the war with Picket with nary a scratch, when every man around me died, and no drunken saw bones will tell him that he's going to cut off my leg," Jack replied. He snatched his pistol from the holster beside the bed, cocked it and pointed it at the Doctor. "I'd rather be dead than half a man."
"Son," the Doctor said, as he pulled out a Mexican cheroot and began to light it. "Put that gun away. If you want to keep that leg and die, it is fine by me. I've already been paid for setting the leg, and I don't much care for surgery anyway. I spent three years cutting off mangled limbs after chain shot had done its job. You just rest, nice and easy. In a couple of days the stench will be so strong it will turn your stomach, but by then it won't matter what anyone does. I'll see that you get a nice spot up on the hill for your grave."
"You don't scare me."
"I'm not trying to. Here, have a smoke. Think about it. You can keep the leg, or keep your life."
Jack remembered the men coming home from the war, some missing arms, some missing legs, some missing more. He had returned to Georgia to find the farm destroyed, his father dead, and his mother living with neighbors, glad to eat turnip greens and poke sally. Now, just as he had put together a stake to start a ranch, this had to happen.
"What can a one legged man do? Can you fit me with a peg leg, Doc?"
"Sorry, son. I'll have to take if off at the hip. You'll need a crutch for the rest of your life."
John H. Ely stepped into the hotel room. "Sorry to hear about your leg, Wheelock. I'd talked to the owners of the Phoenix about this, but after they murdered poor Swanson last night, I know that's no good. You'll stay on the payroll until you're better, and there's a job waiting for you. It won't be underground, but it'll be a job."
Miners' wages were three times any topside job, even shotgun on the four stages that ran through Pioche. Jack thought for a second about putting his gun to his head and ending it all, but who would send money home to mother then? No, he had to live. If the Doc said it meant losing the leg, he'd have to do that too.
"O.K. Doc, cut away," Jack said, holstering his gun. "But just in case I don't make, would you ask the Judge to come over. I need to make up my will."
* * *
January brought raging winds and snow to Pioche as the town huddled into the mountains above Meadow Valley. The dispute between the mining companies continued to simmer, and Ely had hired Thomas Welch, and Jeff Howard. In response the Phoenix hired Charles Sanbourn and Gus Wright. Miners took to wearing pistols, and some bars had men sitting in chairs on the bar with shotguns to keep the peace.
Jack Wheelock limped up the hill, using two crutches to replace the missing leg. One of the crutches slipped on a spot of ice and nearly tumbled him to the ground before he reached his shanty. The fire in September of 1871 had destroyed the houses and possessions of nearly two thousand people, and construction hadn't replaced those buildings yet. Jack knew he should feel happy to have a tent house. It was a canvas tent boarded up around the sides about three feet high to keep out the cold. He had been hoping to buy some boards to put a more substantial roof onto the sides before the snow hit, but the construction of the new court house had driven the price of boards through the roof, even for a boom town. How they planned to pay for that courthouse was beyond Jack, but they must have it now that Pioche was the county seat.
True to his word, Ely gave Jack a job, a job as night watch man inside the mine, making sure that Phoenix miners didn't come through the cut in the middle of the night to still Ely mine ore. That was a job that wouldn't last, but at least it paid for food and whiskey.
They hadn't laughed at him at the Wells Fargo office, but you didn't laugh at a man wearing a gun in Pioche. Men had been shot for less. They hadn't given him a job either.
Jack worried. He wanted to send his mother some money, but the stages were robbed so regularly that the mines had started to melt the silver down into two hundred pound bars. That stopped the robbers from taking the silver shipments, but they could still clean out a miner's pockets. "I wonder how many other miners are in the same spot."
The next day, Jack sat in the Overland Hotel beside the Pioche Bank, with a sign on the table before him. "Parcels delivery to the railhead at Milford, guaranteed."
A miner stepped forward. "How can you guarantee that?"
"I rode with Picket for four years. I'll make it or die trying."
"You a Reb?"
"I'm from the fair state of Georgia. My word is my bond. Do you have a problem with that?"
"No. Not meaning to question your word, but there are stage coach robbers. How can you be sure to get through?"
Jack motioned to his crutch and his missing leg. "I don't have much choice in the matter. I can't run from trouble or run out on you for that matter. As for the stage coach robbers, I'll give them fair warning before I kill them."
By nightfall Jack had twenty customers.
* * *
The next morning, before the sun was up, Jack took the Gilmour & Sullivan stage out of town. It ran Bennett Springs, Bullionville, Clover Valley, Desert Springs, Mt. Springs, Sulpher Springs, Minerville, Adamville, Greenville to Beaver and then to Salt Lake City. He sat in the rocking coach, bracing his body with his one leg and holding a scatter gun under the buffalo robe he wrapped himself in. The stage coach robbers were lucky and stuck a different coach outside Jackrabbit.
A week later he returned to Pioche with receipts from the U.S. postal services in Salt Lake City. In the spring he made another trip. When the robbers tried to stop the stage coach, Jack fired one load of buck shot out the window and the other into the roof the coach. "If you boys up there plan to stop, then think again. I'll kill you just as fast as those highway men."
After that incident, Jack couldn't buy a ticket on a stage coach in or out of Pioche unless he promised to leave his scatter gun at home. That put an end to the courier business.
As he was sitting in the Overland, nursing a glass of whiskey and trying to think of a new opportunity, Special Officer Shea of the Pioche police department sat beside him. "Here you're at loose ends, Wheelock."
"Yep."
"Ever thought of pinning one of these on? Yes, I know about the leg. Men with two good legs and guts and brains are all down the mines, or robbing the miners. I need a man with no give in him. You don't need to run, or dance, or ride. Interested. It pays almost as well as mucking in a shaft."
"Yes."
Jack did well as a deputy. On the first day he walked into the Overland with his badge on, and his scatter gun strapped to his crutch. By this time, he could get around with just one.
"Boys," he said to the miners, and guards, and gamblers sitting and drinking. "Boys. They made me deputy, and told me up hold the laws of the Pioche. I'll tell you all right off that I'll do it, and I won't be bribed, I won't be bought, I won't be scared off and I can't run. So if you have any trouble with me, then let's get it over with now."
No one wanted to face that scatter-gun, even in the hands of a one legged man. Nobody ever gave Jack any back talk. The same couldn't be said for his boss. James Butler made the mistake of threatening and insulting Special Officer Shea who shot him dead on the spot.
Jack discovered that people liked him and trusted him. They trusted him so much they elected him county assessor in 1875 and in 1882 he was elected county commissioner and served one term of four years. After that he had held other positions of honor and trust, became a member of the board of trustees of the town and a justice of the peace. The silver mines closed, but Pioche remained the country seat for one of the largest counties in all of Nevada.
* * *
The new century was ready to blossom, as Jack Wheelock, justice of the peace stepped out of his house and limped down the main street of Pioche. The new bank manager was sitting in his office as Jack entered.
"Yes Mr. Wheelock, This is a considerable sum that you've accumulated over the years. Are you sure you want you will to read this way?"
"Lindsay, I've got no kin, and I've outlived pretty much all my friends. I have no where I'd rather be. When I die plant me up on Boot Hill, put up a monument and spend the rest on the best party the town's ever seen."
"Mr. Wheelock, I can't help wondering. Given all your success with one leg, I wonder where you'd have gone if you'd had two good legs."
"Heck man, I know where I'd be if I had two good legs. I'd be down in some mine, mucking out the shot."
The End
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Desert Justice
by Ben Winter
Miniature dust clouds swirl around the little-traveled desert trail, further encrusting the two sweat-stained intruders exposed to nature's unforgiving measure of man and beast.
"Trouble with you, Millie, you're jest too dang slow," grizzled Hank Cantwell complains to his accompanying pack-animal. "Reckon if'n hell's fire was alickin' your heels, you'd manage only a flop from your big long ears."
Hank squints against the burning sun and guesses the time about noon. Soon, he figures to rest at the mesa's shaded spring-waters. Due to Millie's habitually slow gait and his equally sluggish zeal to press for greater economy of time, the oppressive heat has taken its toll. They should have been out of the hot sun by now. He mops a sweat-streaked brow and surveys the sweltering slope descending to desert flora below.
The inhospitable panorama reflects endlessly repeated vistas of shifting sand, thorn-covered flora, and an occasional mesa distantly outlined. Two black specks wheel on the winds high aloft. At Hank's feet, a lizard shuffles from flora shade to rock slab refuge. Other than these benign beings, no visual inhabitants stir except Hank and the placid Millie.
Quenching an ever-present thirst from the canteen removed from Millie's pack-yoke, Hank pours a generous portion into his hat crown for the eager burro. Replacing the canteen, he stiffens with foreboding at a distant reflection; his eyes sharp despite 60-odd years, he catches a repeated glimmer through the shrub covered terrain. Unappreciatively, he laments: "Millie, reckon we got company sooner or later."
Clucking to the complacent Millie, Hank tugs the lead shank and continues, "Try to get away from people for a while and ever dad-blamed rock seems to crawl with 'em."
Cautiously picking his way to the desert floor, Hank keeps watch on the party now obviously intended to intercept his line of progress. Apprehensive, Hank alters course to abet an inevitable meeting and to divert attention from his former beeline toward the waterhole. It didn't pay to be too friendly with strangers out here.
Occasionally, Hank glances to his right, measuring the three men's bisecting angle to intercept his line of progress. The trio advance, within easy shouting distance, and voice no salutation. Although Indian days were past, a man still had to be on the alert: lest he fall victim to an ailment commonly called lead poison. Wasteland obscurity still attracts desperate men living outside the law.
The sun still beams high overhead when Hank corrects his course to almost a right angle from the destined waterhole.
"Might be hi-jackers, Millie," Hank mutters. "Things are all-fired peculiar."
Scarcely had Hank cautioned his plodding burro, when the old prospector is surprised by a plume of sand and dust rising from the sandy promontory just ahead; simultaneously, he knows what the glint seen earlier had represented. The rifle discharge resounds flat across the unfriendly expanse—and disturbingly near.
"Fat's in the fire now, Millie," Hank advises. "If'n that feller took pains, reckon he could pick off either one of us. We hafta go on in."
Hank measures each of the trio as they emerge from a mesquite screen and stumble toward his restraining hold on Millie's halter rope. The one with the rifle is tall, a tough looking hombre in good condition. He is in better shape than the other two: the fat man and the kid. The tall man's dark complexion severely contrasts with the fat man's freckled countenance and the skinny kid's sallow color.
A sweet looking crowd, Hank decides: the tall one's a gunman; fat man's a strong-arm type; and a knife looks to be the kid's speed. Hank almost immediately recognizes the three, from a newspaper likeness and the cold-blooded crime reported three days earlier in Salt Fork—bank robbery murder of the girl cashier and two men besides, even drilling an officer of the law in their successful getaway—last seen near this very Arizona desert. It was this callowness of offense and the ineffectiveness of law and order prompting his immediate flight to clean desert air and solitude away from the failings of civilization.
Nearest road is forty miles away and used only occasionally. Forty miles is a long way, afoot in the desert, and without water. A long and waterless haul could account for their beat and impoverished condition.
Treating the old prospector as least of threats, the tall man approaches Hank, loosely brandishing the rifle in one hand. "We need water, bad, old-timer," he demands.
"You got a right unhealthy way of askin' Mister," Hank growls. "Mind the time I'd have answered you jest as unhealthy."
A heavy silence covers the dusty group: Hank belligerent but a little uneasy. The trio exude desperation, determined to have water.
"No use getting all worked up grandpa," the tall man threatens. "If necessary, we'll just take it."
"Reckon you've another think acoming if'n ye got a brain," resists Hank. Spry for all his years, he whips a knife from its sheath and slashes the canvas water-bag secured to Millie's pack yoke. Bag contents gush forth and instantly disappear into the thirsty sands.
The trio force Hank to the ground, in their rush to save the remaining dribbles. Hank leans back on an elbow, where he has fallen, still grasping Millie's halter rope and restraining the fractious burro. Incited by the bickering and shuffling, Millie emits a hoarse bray and begins to lash out with hard-rimmed hoofs: kicking, whirling, and pawing all at the same time. In short order, she routs the trio and sends them scurrying to a respectable distance.
The tall man levels his rifle and would have downed the enraged beast had it not been for Hank's taut, urgent voice:
"Shoot that critter and you'll all die right here in the desert. It's a right fur piece to the nearest water!
Without me and Millie, you'll never make it."
Slowly, the tall man lowers his rifle. "All right grandpa! We need water. We'll let the jack-ass live but no tricks. Understand?" He lashes
out with a heavy shoe and Hank sprawls backward. Edifyingly, he kicks the prostrate old man. "That'll
teach you to get fresh, grandpa," he snarls. "You're getting off way too easy. Get us to water or it's too bad for you and your flea-bitten jack-ass."
Hank painfully gains his feet and a welcomed breath. He and Millie appear safe for awhile. Evidently, the desperate gang are unaware of his secret water source not too far distant.
"Reckon there's one thing you ain't had experience in Mister—and that's deserts," Hank suggests. "Jest
you keep in mind: if'n you kill me, you kill your chances for water. There's a water hole not far from here.
But I'm tellin' you now: 'fore this day is done, you fellers will be draggin' your own tracks out; tomorrow
it'll be worse if you can last that long."
"All right, okay! You've said your speech," responds the tall man. "I've got the rifle, and before I go I'll
insure you go with me. Now, get hold of that jackass and lead us to water."
Hank tugs at Millie's halter and heads toward a distant landmark. The well-used bandana again wipes sweat,
dust, and blood from the old prospector's face as he contemplates the time and resources necessary for a
reprieve and perhaps an upper-hand over his dangerous captors. He cannot understand their neglect to
search Millie's pack. His old .45 rests there along with the spare canteen. He smiles
inwardly and vows to outwit his heat-affected foes.
Hiding his resentment until he can gain an advantage, Hank leads the way with reluctant Millie. The tall man comes next, the fat man follows, and the kid trails at the rear. Hank carefully evades the secret waterhole, though the terrain forces a traverse closer than intended. Millie's gait perceptibly quickens at the fresh water scent, but Hank jerks the halter shank and diverts her away from the tantalizing odor.
"I'll teach them jaspers," Hank mutters to the resigned Millie. "I'll make 'em wish they never heard of Hank Cantwell."
In lowered tones, on the heels of Hank's currycomb impoverished burro, the trio converse in subdued voices. Hank tries to eavesdrop, but noisy footwear scuffs the rough ground and Millie's measured cadence sounds a mournful dirge, prohibiting voice interception in the life-suppressing heat. Above, the two black shadows of death constantly monitor the party's progress—sifting the wind—waiting.
"Think we'll make it, Duke?"
"Sure, Kid," whispers the tall man. "That old geezer knows these rocks and sand like the palm of his hand. What do you think, Abe?"
"I'm not so sure about his intent," wheezes the fat man, laboriously trying to keep pace. "How can we know? I heard once: if you turn a horse loose it will head for water. It ought to work equally well with the burro. Let's drop the old man."
"Yeah, Duke," intoned the kid. "That's a great idea. He probably knows we have all this dough. He might be trying to lose us so he can have all the loot."
"Dumb idea, Kid," snarls Duke. "We're already lost! Besides, you couldn't drag that old desert rat's evil-tempered beast away with a block and tackle."
"Sorry, Duke. Just an idea!"
"That's enough talking, Kid," Duke snaps. "You and Abe sound better in pure silence. I can hardly think with you two yapping all the time."
The kid clams up; only Abe's wheeze violates Duke's dictatorial call for silence.
Later, the kid falls a few paces behind the formidable Duke. Not one to miss a golden opportunity, Abe hastens to gain the kid's ear. "Listen, Kid," he speaks in lowered tone: "We don't have to take Duke's bullying any more, do we? What's to keep us from bumping Duke and taking over? Remember how you used to brag on that knife of yours? Tonight would be a good time to show your stuff."
His oily face aglow with perspiration, Abe drops back and watches the Kid for effect. He knows the suggestion planted will take root and grow until it finally blossoms and bears fruit. The remaining daylight should allow time enough for the fruit to ripen—before nightfall requires a halt for badly needed rest. By tomorrow, Abe figures to be much richer and free of Duke's ill temper. Reminded of Duke's temper surges, Abe experiences a sudden panic; his body screams for relief, for water's soothing hydration. In desert disdain for panic or urgency, time ticks a critical requiem.
The strange entourage wearily struggles toward Hank's uncharted destination; relentlessly, the sun-baked desert saps their very last vestige of energy. Solar intensity grows with afternoon lethargy, and the passing hours affect not only physical performance but mental capacity as well.
Hank notes the trio's survival ineptness, imbued from possibly sheltered environs. Hatless, with baked scalps and skins burned a deep red, the trio struggle against the hostile habitat. Without water for thirty hours or more, the three fugitives suffer from the abnormal elements heavily weighed on mental and physical resources.
Abe was right, reasons the kid; why take Duke's bullying any longer? Just one quick slash, like the old man did to the water bag. Why not Abe too—then the old man? He'd be easy. As the heat increases, the kid's idea grows. He could turn the burro loose and follow him to water. But he foresees the need to be careful—Duke first and get the rifle—then, it'd be simple.
Engrossed in his nefarious plan, the kid stumbles close upon Duke's heels. "Watch where you're going, Kid," Duke snarls, his arm menacing the lesser stature.
"Okay, Duke, okay," the kid repeats, defensively. His eyes glisten with anger as he returns to the strangely ordered queue. He clenches his fists, resisting the silent rage surging through his weakened body. Tonight!
Not unmindful of the odyssey transpired ahead, Abe imperceptibly nods in agreement. Things were working out; however, the hot sun sends a tremor racing through his dehydrated body. Swollen lips demand relief, and he carefully runs a thirst-starved tongue over their cracked and peeling exterior.
Abe mumbles, half of fear and of pain: "Boys, I'm totally dried out. My lips are cracked and skin's on fire! We got to have water soon."
Duke responds with a stumble and almost falls. "It looks like we're all about done."
The old prospector forges stolidly ahead as Abe conducts a rambling discourse: "Even Duke—Duke the tough guy—thought maybe he staggered again. Can't see so good!"
The illogically composed and ill-fated party pushes onward across the burning desolation, skirting outcrops of rocks, cacti, and widely grown mesquite clumps, stumbling over the inhospitable residue of deceased flora, and anxiously seeking a date with the life giving water. Relentlessly, the solar nemesis cuts its routine swath across uncluttered skies, burning an exit toward western pathways.
As the sun dips over the horizon, Hank sees the diamond-marked critter slide off a rock slab and slither out of sight. He memorizes the terrain and carefully marks the spot.
Advancing purple shadows stretch long, before Hank brings Millie to a stop and begins to unhitch the packsaddle.
Purple hues merge into darkness, interrupted by a full moon partially dispersing the reluctant shadows. Then, Hank addresses his weary entourage. "A water hole's jest the other side that heavy brush, yonder, down in that swale. Careful y'all don't founder."
With wild abandon, the trio rush through entangling brush to the slight depression; they pull up just short of the expected water source. Where once cool water seeped into welcoming wetness, only a residue of cracked and peeling mud remained. A rank odor around the blackened spring advertises javelina bones strewn beyond the sink edge, bleached white by the relentless sun. Dispirited and silent, the trio returns to yet another dry camp.
Hank busily prepares for the deceptive dry camp; he raises his reserve canteen, and drinks, deeply. He quickly returns the life-saver to its hiding place, not daring to risk water for the gaunt burro. He chuckles to himself at the sound of disturbed brush as the bandit trio return from nature's dried-up waterhole. Reaching into Millie's pack once more, Hank retrieves the .45 and slips it into his waistband. "Jest let that big string-bean slam me one more time," he mutters to the shadows. "Best he don't get too rambunctious."
The old prospector reassuringly pats the concealed hog-leg. He has half a mind to shoot it out and be done with it, but he remembers the reclusive rattler a couple hundred feet back down the trail.
Duke decries Hank's dried-up spring. "You said the spring had water—and I'm reminding you who has the rifle."
"Been a severe drought," Hank responds. "But another waterhole exists not too far distant. Maybe we'll have better luck there."
"There's one guarantee," Duke waves the rifle. "No more dried-up waterholes."
Before the night fully cools, Hank checks Millie's tether; then, he slips down the trail, to the rock marked earlier. The trio camped ahead of Hank have fallen in their tracks, dejected over the recent and most fruitless quest for water.
The rock slab looms ahead. Hank carefully positions himself and obtains a firm grip on the slab's edge. He flips it over, and the rattler defensively coils. He draws the .45 and slowly weaves it before the reptiles pitted face. Mesmerized, the snake focuses on the hollow gun barrel. In Hank's other hand, a handy mesquite stick serves to pinion the serpent's venomous head.
Snake rattles buzz, and sweat beads accumulate on Hank's brow as he continues the dangerous game. With a swift motion, he grasps the diamondback's dangerously pivoted section just behind venom sacs on both sides its triangular head. With the angry animal's lengthy portions crawling and lashing about his arm, he firmly consolidates his advantage. Breathing heavily, he wastes little time retracing his steps to camp. His arm tires; yet, he grits his teeth and holds to the task.
Millie snorts displeasure when Hank approaches with the foul-smelling rattler. With an oath, he tumbles onto his tarp-spread bed, rattler and all.
"What's going on over there," Duke yells from a few yards away. "Don't try running out on us, grandpa. Another thing, I'm a pretty light sleeper."
"Don't be worryin' about me, Duke," Hank advises, as his hand numbs from its unrelieved grasp on the serpent's body. "I plan on being around a spell yet. Best you boys get some rest—long time 'til daylight."
Hank reposes for what seems an eternity before camp sounds die in the desert-insulated stillness. Satisfied with the ripeness of time, he stealthily crawls toward the three figures sprawled amongst their brushy domain. He positions himself, the heavy .45 in one hand, and a maddened five-foot rattler in the other. Duke lies close, with the kid a few yards further on, and the fat man fitfully snores a short distance to the right.
Placing the hog-leg for quick retrieval, Hank rolls to one side and uncoils the resisting rattler from his arm. A deft motion with both hands tosses the snake over intervening bushes to land amongst the sleeping trio. He grabs the Colt .45 for any emergency.
Evidently, the long desert trek had so fatigued the bandit trio, as to make them insensitive to the slight thump in their midst. Even Duke, boastful of light sleep, fails to stir. A moment later, the rattler slowly inches toward Duke's sleeping form, the tall man attractive as a warm spot in the cool desert air.
Hank returns to his blanket and lies back with a sigh of relief. A few minutes later, an uneasy sleep claims his awareness.
Far out on the expanse, a coyote wails his mournful song, joined by another, and still another, until the night comes alive with their familial chorus. Another group, further distant, answers their nightly serenade.
Duke stirs, restlessly. The kid, on a villainous mission, drops to his belly and lies still; he purposefully clutches the gleaming, steel blade.
Across the way, Abe awakens with a start. Raising his head, he suspects the kid's errand. The kid, on hands and knees, resumes his crawl toward the resting Duke.
Despite cracked lips, the fat man smiles. One more share, and one less Duke. The kid has nerve, he thinks. But when I rid myself of him, I'll own the whole bankroll. Abe lies back and begins to figure angles on bumping the kid: Kid or Duke, which ever happens to survive the night. Lying back and feigning sleep, he watches through anxious eyes as the kid moves ever closer to the sleeping tall man.
The kid, resting on his knees a scant two feet from Duke, raises the knife to plunge it home into the tall man's neck. Against Duke's warm body, the rattler's heat-sensors register motion within their infrared receptors. Natural to instinct, the rusty gray bundle of death leaps out and sinks hollow-curved fangs deep into the kid's moving forearm. The knife drops of its own accord as the kid screams and tumbles backward.
Duke rolls to his feet, clutching the rifle and ready for a quick shot. His sleep-numbed senses take a moment to focus on the frantic scene. Suddenly, he realizes the kid's betrayal; instinctively, first, he fires point-blank at the dangerous diamondback. The rattler writhes and twists in its death throes as Duke turns to the kid and prepares to even the score.
Duke raises the rifle to his shoulder. The kid's eyes bulge with the strain of incredulity, begging Duke for mercy as a violence prone finger moves to the trigger. "I'm snake bit, Duke. Don't shoot! Please, I . . . "
A shrill scream follows the rifle's flat retort. Then, the kid sighs resignation as crimson froths his mouth; he straightens and lies unmoving.
Hank awakens, jumps to his feet, and hurries to the sound of activity. He arrives in time to intercept Abe's admonition.
"You're a hard man, Duke. The snake-bite would have killed him soon enough."
Duke counters: "He was trying to kill me, wasn't he? If I was real smart, Abe, I'd put one in you, too."
Hank turns away from the exchange and walks back to his camp site. He is sorry for the kid—but that's the desert way—survival of the fittest. One down and two to go! He hears the tall man and his fat compatriot rehashing the night's turn of events as he stows the pistol away in Millie's pack. The blanket again accepts his weary body, a body uncertain of the coming dawn.
Following daybreak and even before the pack tightens secure on Millie's reluctant back, the relentless sun beats back night coolness and reestablishes its oven-hot dominance. With few words, Hank leads Millie out, single file; the dehydrated bandit duo follow Millie under the sky's radiantly intolerable burden.
Hank glances back from time to time, at the exhausted emblems of life plodding and struggling to cope even with Millie's slow pace. As Hank pushes onward, careful to distance the secret waterhole but insuring easy access, his thoughts drift over a past life without real direction: beating about the empty desert, and always just another day's journey to a lucky strike, riches, and rest for his bone-weary body. But the lucky strike was always out front somewhere, over the next dune, around the next mesa—like the desert's elusive mirage of water dancing on shimmering heat waves and ever in the distance, always just ahead, retreating until sentience loses all perspective.
Getting old, Hank realizes. Old and tired! He breathes a deep breath and resolves to see justice done. "Me'n the desert will see it done," he growls to the empty habitat.
Hank chooses the roughest terrain in efforts to tire the two bandits further. He knows it's their second full day without water, maybe longer. The fat man is almost finished, evidenced by his staggered gait and occasional fall; Duke reels erratically, also. It is just a matter of time until the hostile climate extracts its final toll.
Hank hears a hoarse shout from Abe and stops. He ties Millie to a thorny manzanita and proceeds to the distraught sound. The fat man sprawls on his back, in a shallow ravine. Duke stands over him; roughly, he holds a thorn-scarred boot against Abe's chest. "Abe—you're not worth a bullet; I'm leaving you for the buzzards."
Hank feels no compassion as he observes the cringing hulk with sun-reddened eyes begging consideration. He accuses: "You fellers are your own worse enemy. Jest a mite further is all the water y'all could ever want."
A chubby fist offers a wad of greenbacks. "Take this," Abe hoarsely whispers. "It'll make you rich back in town. Just get me some water." The fat man's body quivers with his intense pleading.
"No! No," Duke rasps! "The money's mine if it's anybody's." He grabs for the money. Weakened by the grueling march, he sprawls beside the obese body given so little regard.
Abe pushes against Duke's offending presence. "No, I . . . "
Hank turns a deaf ear on the contemptible scene: Abe desperate to hang on to his meager fortune, and Duke eager to relieve him of the envied portion.
With a quick tug on Millie's halter shank, Hank pulls the resistant burro forward, still pursuing a false trail. The water would have to wait. "Human buzzards," he growls, urging Millie forward.
Peripherally, Hank notes Duke's efforts to strip the fat man's pockets; then, Duke staggers onward. Abe's desperate cry only minimally disturbs the empty expanse.
A short while later, Hank looks back, through the shimmering heat waves, to see Abe stagger to his feet and lurch up the trail. A moment later, he checks again and sees the fat man no more. The desert has claimed another to keep company with the myriad of others gone before.
Despite his lively confrontation with Abe, Duke fast exhibits a body desperate from dehydration. Abe's cries and curses have ceased some time before; now, the only sounds escape from labored breath, rasp of shoe leather, and the thorny clutch of desert flora.
"Looks like there's jest us two left, Duke," Hank wheezes. "Your pards have run out on ya."
"Good enough for them," Duke disdains. "Now, let's get to the water. Remember this—before I go, I'll make sure to take you with me."
"You ain't shootin' nobody, Duke. Your tongue is dryer 'n burnt cork and you're afraid to die. Me an' Millie are your only chance to reach the spring."
The blazing orb overhead completes its torturous route and poises on a hazy horizon. As the golden globe slips further west, Duke utters a guttural sigh and drops to his knees almost on Millie's heels. For once, the cantankerous Millie is too weary to kick.
Hank waits a moment, waiting for the tall man to recover; instead, Duke remains still. Hank squats beside the almost lifeless bandit and savagely jerks the rifle from Duke's weakened grasp. Securing the deadly weapon to Millie's pack, he returns to the prostrate gang leader.
Hank's scarred boot prods the inert body. "There's a cold spring of water scarce two miles from here. A stout feller like you ought to could make it. That water is cold and clear as a crystal."
With Hank's help, Duke raises to his knees and sways there, unoriented.
Hank points to obvious landmarks. "See that big chimney rock sticking up yonder, against that rocky mesa. Right there's the coldest drink of water this side of Salt Fork and Shorty's beer parlor. Recognize them rocks?"
"You double-crossing old geezer," Duke snarls through swollen lips. We're right back where we started. We've been wandering around, going no place at all." He lunges, with his last ounce of strength but Hank easily avoids the attempt and responds with a leather soled boot. He catches the tall man full in the face. Spent, Duke lies on his back, gasping.
"That's for kicking the tar outen me," Hank grumbles. "Never could stand someone slammin' me in the face." He lashes out again, with the boot and an emphatic snarl: "And that's for hittin' me with the rifle. Reckon if ye can make it to that mesa, I'll let you live. Even if you do, the law will probable catch up to you—if'n you don't, the buzzards will. Ain't nothing lower than a woman killer, but I reckon buzzards don't care."
Seeing the futility of protest, now the sycophant, Duke abdicates his former status and pleads in mere whispers. "Help me to the spring, and you can have all the money—enough to make you rich."
Hank takes the proffered money. Carefully, he stores the several packets in Millie's growing pack. "Figure I'm more entitled to it than you, Duke. Revenge is pretty sweet."
Duke cries out, hoarsely, as Hank sets his jaw and leads Millie toward the distant monument carved by time, sand, and the desert winds. He never looks back. He knows Duke will try to follow but not far on his hands and knees. Unconditioned to the hostile environment and too emaciated for survival, Duke will gain the end so richly deserved.
In a short eternity lasting into the towering formation's welcoming shade, abundant water, and his first cold drink, Hank surveys his back trail. Nothing stirs, and the two black objects unceasingly aloft over the past days are now ominously absent.
Hank in his usual address to apathetic and unresponsive Millie, remarks: "Ye know Millie, seein' as how there ain't no law out here, I guess we could—well, kinda call it desert justice—'course, we helped out a bit."
Carefully, Hank removes a faded photograph from his breast pocket and rubs the photo as if to erase memories of what had been. A lump swells in his throat, as residue wipes away to reveal the faded image. To Millie and the unresponsive emptiness, he intones: "My Billie was just like her mama, Sallie. And Sallie was the purtiest wife a man could hope for. Billie was her spittin' image."
"Billie," he recalls, softly, "I allus wanted the best for you—that's why I sent you to the city—after yer mama crossed over the divide—figured bank employment would set ye on a goodly path. Reckon I'll have to live with yore misfortune, but I took care of them that mocked my good intentions."
Hours later, in the night coolness, Hank leads Millie across the moon-swept desert, toward Salt Fork and civilization. "Reckon we won't be comin' this way no more, Millie," he advises the complacent burro. "I've aged a plenty on this trip and finally hit that lucky strike; now, I sorta favor the city for a spell."
Impatiently, Hank tugs the lead rope, reminding the slow-moving burro: "Trouble with you Millie, you're jest too dang slow."
The End
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Back to Home
Rogue
by Callie Smith
I don't know what woke me. There was no strange scent or sound, and the night was as quiet as ever. I sensed the flock still huddled in the lower field, and heard their peaceful cud-chewing. Still, something was wrong.
I was on all fours in an instant, and trotting for the trees. If danger lurked, it would be there.
Only then did I hear him coming. Dead leaves crunching, mouth panting— even a master's dull ears could have made that out.
When Bull appeared from the dark woods, I was waiting for him. Spotting me, he halted just outside the trees. The moonlight outlined his stocky build, muscular as the cattle he herded. He didn't look surprised to see me.
"I were wonderin' if you'd show, or if you're as scared as them sheep," he said.
I demanded, "What are you doing here?"
He showed his teeth. "I'm thinkin' I'll finish what I started."
He was referring to the last time we'd met, when he and that hound had near about chewed my hide off. That was the day my master had filed his claim in town. Bull and his master had been there, and when our masters argued, of course we did too. If my master hadn't broken up our fight, I don't think I'd have gotten out in one piece . . . at least, not without sacrificing my honor. Though inwardly cowed by the memory, I tried to sound jaunty. "Fight me alone? That's new."
I shouldn't have egged him on. He stalked toward me. "Maybe I'll chew yer tongue out. Then we'll see who talks pretty."
Resisting the urge to back away, I warned, "Come a step closer and I'll bark. You know what my master will do if he spots you."
"Oh, scary. I'll shiver soon as winter starts." Then he charged.
I was taller than the cattle dog, but not as heavy. And Bull knew how to throw his weight around. I snapped where I could, but couldn't get a firm hold on his tight skin. However, Bull soon clamped his jaws on my neck, his teeth burrowing through my thick fur. His bite was vice-like. I knew he wouldn't let go, even as I desperately struck for his throat. Missed.
The sheep were dully watching us. Only one summoned the courage to bleat, "Help! Murder!" Not very helpful.
I struck again, and this time my fangs snagged something. Though Bull's death bite panged my neck, I ground my own teeth into what I'd caught, determined not to give way . . . even if Bull's teeth met my spine in a few more seconds.
A gunshot pierced the night. At the sound, Bull released his hold, but I kept mine.
He was trying to tug away. Through my teeth, I grunted, "Now who's scared?"
His answer was to jerk so hard my incisors nearly left my mouth. A snap followed, something broke loose, and he was free. And I stood there, holding his leather collar in my jaws.
Over his retreating stub-tail, he snarled, "I'll come back . . . when yer boss ain't around to coddle ya."
My master's running gait sounded behind me, and another shot rang out. But Bull's brindled coat was already lost in the treeshadow.
My master came up beside me. I could see his nightshirt hastily tucked into suspenders, which were hastily tucked into his boots. So much trouble the masters go through, just to go outdoors. He barely looked me over before he raced to the clustered sheep. Following him, I sensed his relief when he saw they weren't harmed. For a moment we stood beside the tiny flock— only eight ewes and a spindly ram. Then Tom looked at me again, and this time he spotted the leather strap I still held between my teeth. Crouching down, he grasped it. I let him take it, and he straightened again, squinting at it in the moonlight. He muttered, "Darn those McKeons!"
"Land sakes, Tom, watch your mouth! Esther's here."
I turned around, as did Tom. Mistress was walking up, her night dress flowing in the breeze. Little Esther trailed behind, clutching Mistress' skirt.
Tom frowned. "Ma, why'd you bring her out here?"
"What could you expect, with all the noise? Did we lose a sheep?"
"No, ma'am."
A moment later she and Esther reached us. Esther, being still a young thing, was barely my head height, and her pale hand reached for my neck. "What happened to Kep?" she cried.
"Esther!" Mistress pulled her back. "Don't. That wolf could have had hydrophobia or some such."
Tom snorted angrily. "Wolf? It wasn't a wolf."
Esther was watching us with worried eyes. "What's hyderphoba?"
"Never you mind, dear," said Mistress.
"I'm telling you, it was no wolf, and it didn't have hydrophobia." Tom brandished Bull's collar. "This was on Nial's dog. Bet he turned him loose out here just to spite us!"
That wasn't true, for I'd caught no scent besides Bull's tonight. Of course, I didn't say so, for it wouldn't do any good. Our speech is too subtle for masters to grasp.
But maybe I didn't need to say anything after all. Mistress gasped, "Surely the McKeons would do no such thing. We're neighbors."
"You heard old McKeon that day, when we filed our claim." Tom began reloading his rifle. "He as good as said we don't belong here."
Mistress seemed uncertain how to reply. But Esther spoke up in her tiny voice, "Ma, was that the day we went to town, and you got me candy, and Mr. McKeon started talking and you told me to cover my ears, and . . . "
"Yes, dear." Mistress cleared her throat. "Sometimes folks forget their manners."
Tom snapped the chamber shut. "I'll say."
Mistress cast him a look, then said, "Well, this place is ours— fair and proper."
Tom just silently bored his eyes into that collar.
In the quiet, Esther said, "Well, if it don't have hyderphoba, can I pet Kep?"
"'Doesn't,' Esther," corrected Mistress. "And yes, you may."
Smiling, Esther ran back to me and stroked my head. When she held out her open hand, I gladly licked it. Esther's hands tasted warm and sweet. Tom's tasted salty— I remembered this from the last time he'd let me lick his palm. That was a good few weeks ago, before we'd settled here and the trouble with the McKeons had started. Since then, he'd only had a mind for giving orders.
Now he sighed and rolled his eyes. I heard him mutter, "Who cares for grammar right now?"
"What was that?" asked Mistress.
"Nothing."
His answer didn't seem to satisfy Mistress. But she didn't say so, only joined Esther, tentatively stroking my ears. I wagged my tail, and couldn't help wishing Tom would scratch my ears too— the way he used to do. She said quietly, "For now, we can keep the sheep penned up beside the shed . . . "
"We shouldn't have to!" Tom burst out. "Someone's got to see that mutt doesn't come back."
"Mind your tone." Mistress drew herself up tall, maybe to remind Tom that although he'd reached her height, he was still a pup. "You may be the only man here, but I'm still your mother."
"But don't you see? I need to to talk to them."
She drew a resigned breath. "Maybe so."
"Then I'll go first thing this morning— soon as chores are over."
"Very well. I'll go with you."
He looked annoyed. "No, Ma. I've got to go myself."
"Mr. McKeon has respect for a lady. I'll soften things for you."
"I don't need you to soften things for me. Besides, someone's got to stay here and keep an eye on the place."
She said slowly, "All right, Tom. But for now, we get the sheep in. Then I'll put turpentine on Kep's cuts."
"All right. And I'll take Kep with me. Show them what their dog did."
I would be going with Tom alone? I wagged my tail harder, for this was good news . . . even though I wasn't looking forward to confronting the McKeon clan. Or Bull.
* * *
Tom took the old mule, and I followed at its hocks. No one made a sound. Tom looked too thought-heavy for speech, the mule never spoke unless the subject dealt with grain, and I wasn't about to talk to myself. A half hour and a swift gait brought us to the McKeons' house.
Houses, I should say. All three of them out-sized my master's soddy, easily. The largest building was the barn, and a maze of corrals and catch pens barricaded it. The second house must have been for extra store space, and it overflowed with different bladed plows, foundry tools, and at least two wagons. The smallest house held the McKeons. I knew this because as soon as the hounds lying on the porch challenged Tom and me, the front door started spilling its occupants.
Two rowdy young ones came first, jumping from the porch and shouting like wild things. A tight-faced woman, who I assumed was mistress of the house followed. Descending the stairs, she scolded the young ones and the dogs, while brandishing a cast iron skillet in one hand. Behind her came McKeon himself, wiping grease from his whiskers and onto his trousers. Nial came out the door last. Seeing Tom, he narrowed angry eyes and leaned against one of the porch poles.
Mistress McKeon shook her skillet at the hounds. "Git down! Hush up! Whadoya want?" Her last sentence was directed to Tom.
Tom halted the mule before the porch and dismounted. I took my place at his heel, the way all good shepherds must do. Tom did what all good masters must do, and touched his hat at Mistress McKeon. "Ma'am."
"Yeah. What is it?"
"Woman, I'll do the talkin'," McKeon interposed. "Whadoya want, boy?"
I could sense Tom grow stiffer at these words. But he said sturdily, "I must talk with you . . . "
"Oh, he must talk with us," Nial sneered. Though it was a poor imitation, I could tell he was mimicking Tom.
"Quiet, son," said McKeon.
Nial went quiet, but stuck a derisive tongue into his cheek, still eyeing Tom.
Tom took a deep breath. "It's about your dog. 'Bull' is what you call him, I'm thinking."
"Yer thinkin' right. Well, go on, boy. We ain't got all day."
"Yes, sir, well . . . " Tom looked around him, for a moment seeming off-balance. But then he looked at Nial, and regained his voice. "He was in our sheep last night."
I knew this wasn't true. Bull wasn't after the sheep. He was after me. For the first time, I realized Bull was being accused of something he didn't do. I didn't like the uncertainty it planted inside me.
Mistress McKeon crossed her arms, still holding the skillet, and glared at us. The young ones took advantage of her distraction, and pulled each other's hair. Nial straightened, and his heavy arms looked ready to strangle someone. But McKeon barely blinked. "You sure 'bout that? There's been talk of a panther in these parts. Mighta been a missight."
In reply, Tom produced the collar he'd saved in his pocket, and tossed it lightly to McKeon. As the man caught it, Tom said, "Dead sure, Mr. McKeon. I found this after our dogs tussled." He gestured toward me, indicating my cuts as if I was just another piece of evidence. I tucked my ears back ashamedly, feeling the marks Bull had made on me more sharply.
At the satisfaction in Tom's voice, Mistress McKeon seemed to weigh the consequences of turning her skillet into a projectile. Nial marched from the porch, parking himself beside McKeon, and studied the collar. He spat on the dusty ground. "I say this don't mean a thing."
Tom cocked a scornful eyebrow. "Maybe that's why I'm not talking to you."
Nial grew red-faced. "Well, I'm talkin' to you!"
"Won't you hush?" McKeon said again, and Nial shut his strong jaw. Then McKeon let out a whistle, and Tom started slightly. Another whistle.
A scuffling sound among the corrals, and moment later Bull had planted himself beside McKeon. Bull's beady eyes ground into mine, and I noticed that he was scarcely marked from last night. Perhaps the only part of him I'd managed to tear was his collar.
His thick neck was bare.
Tom nodded smugly toward Bull's collarless scruff. "See there? How'd he manage to lose his collar on our place?"
"Why don't you show some respect fer yer elders, boy!" spoke up Mistress McKeon.
"Want me to run him off, Pa?" Nial suggested hopefully.
Tom glanced around him quickly, maybe trying to locate a favorable escape route or a loose stick he could use for a club. Or both.
Then McKeon cleared his throat, and everyone grew still. "Look here, boy. I don't know how folks do things back east. But this side of Texarkana we mind our own place, and keep our nose outta each other's affairs."
"But—"
"My dog ain't got a mark on 'im, from what I can see. Your dog's plum whooped, and I'd say he tangled with something else."
Tom spoke through his teeth. "Your collar was on my land."
"Yer land." McKeon glowered. "Thanks to you folks squattin' on the best side of the branch, I have to go to extra trouble to see my cattle get water. As for the collar . . . " He tossed it at Tom's boots. "How do I know ya ain't made it to look like mine? Keep it."
"That's absurd. It has your brand . . . "
McKeon repeated flatly, "Keep it. And git off my land."
Everyone waited the longest second I've ever known. I saw Bull twitch a smirking ear at me, and thump his stub of a tail. After that, I didn't mind so much that he was falsely accused.
Finally Tom turned away, leaving the leather strap on the ground and walking stiffly back to the mule. But his hands had barely grasped the saddle before he swung back around.
"If I see your dog on my property again, I'm not waiting for him to down one of my sheep. I'm shooting him on the spot."
Before any of the other McKeons could react, Nial stalked up to Tom until their faces were inches away. Nial was as heavy-built as his dog, and Tom had to look up to hold his gaze.
Nial growled, "Touch my dog, and I'll kill you, Benson."
I gathered myself, just in case Nial decided to act on his threat right then and there. But he didn't, and stood still as Tom slowly turned away and mounted the mule.
As we left the homestead, I could feel them all watching us.
And I could feel Tom's unease. But it wasn't until we'd put a mile between us and the McKeons that Tom showed it on the outside. He breathed a shaky sigh, then said, "It is what it is, Kep."
I looked up at him, surprised. Since we'd moved west, he'd rarely spoken to me but to say, "here," or "away to me."
His hands gripped the reigns much tighter than necessary. "Now it's done, and I can't go back."
The rest of the ride was wordless, and Mistress and Esther greeted us as we reached the shed beside the sod house. Esther slipped me a couple of hot cakes left from breakfast.
And when Mistress asked, "What did Mr. McKeon say, Tom?" he replied quickly, in a voice that had lost its earlier shakiness.
"His dog won't be troubling us anymore."
* * *
I didn't understand just what he meant until that night.
The sheep were penned in the makeshift corral beside the shed, and I was lying close by, when I heard the sod house door stealthily open and close. My nose told me that the shadow drifting toward the field belonged to Tom. I followed him to the knoll overlooking the pasture, saw him sit down in the tall grass and lay his rifle across his knees.
I approached Tom cautiously, knowing he might not like that I'd left the flock. But when he spotted me, he didn't scold. When I stood beside him, he even reached out a hand to rub my chest, and I felt a gladness I hadn't known in weeks. But he kept his eyes trained on the treeline— the treeline Bull had disappeared into that morning— and he kept watch over it all night.
This happened the next night, and the next. I knew Tom required more sleep than I did, so I'm not sure how he managed. But whenever I walked my night route, I checked on him. He was always wide awake, eyes stuck on the trees. Once he spoke to me, but I believe he meant the words more for himself.
"He came once, Kep." He gave the empty night an equally empty grin. "He'll come again. Pa used to say all rogue dogs do. It's . . . it's a mathematical certainty."
He almost sounded hopeful, as if he wanted Bull to show up. As if he was hunting instead of guarding.
But Bull wasn't rogue, and he wouldn't come again . . . I hoped. For Tom's sake more than for his.
* * *
"Tom!"
Tom jerked his head up, and I moved aside as he shoved himself from the corral gate. It was evening, the chores were done, and Mistress was giving Tom news from town. I hadn't listened closely, just watched the sheep as they bedded down inside the rickety fence. But now I watched anxiously as Mistress placed her hands on her hips. "You were nodding off."
"No I wasn't."
"Fine. What was I just talking about?"
He cast about a moment. "Mrs. Meriwether's morning sickness."
"That was almost five minutes ago."
"Well, I was thinking. The Meriwethers aren't all that interesting, you know."
It was a poor lie, and Mistress seemed able to tell. She canted her head at him. "Tom, I saw you go out last night and didn't hear you come back in."
Tom settled sullen eyes on the ground. "You had no call eavesdropping on me."
"I was worried, I'm your mother, and I had every call. Now, what's all this about?"
"I think you know. I'm not letting the McKeons run us off this place."
Her voice sank lower. "The visit didn't go well, did it?"
He shook his head. "I told them their dog was dead if he set foot here again. Mr. McKeon sent me packing, and good riddance 'cause I don't care to see their place again."
Sighing, Mistress said, "I knew I should have gone with you."
He crossed his arms. "Ma, I can take care of this! And I'm doing what Pa would've done, anyways."
"Your father didn't rouse his neighbors,"
"But he never backed down, now, did he?"
She hesitated, just as Esther came running from the soddy. "Ma! It's boiling! What do I do?"
"Just go back in, dear, I'm coming." Mistress sighed again as Esther obeyed. She started toward the soddy, then stopped and turned back to Tom. "I was saying earlier— when you were drifting— that I'm going out tonight. Mrs. Meriwether's close now, and I've made enough bone stock for both her family and us. It might turn out I stay the night— just depends on how she's doing."
"Yes ma'am. I can do fine alone."
"And tell Esther her bedtime story. Make sure you do."
"Yes ma'am."
Her face softened. "You know, sometimes backing down a little is a good thing. You don't have to prove anything, Tom. Not to me, or . . . to anyone else."
He only shrugged, and I watched them both disappear into the soddy.
* * *
Just before dark, Mistress took the mule and the cart to the Meriwethers' place a few miles away. And not long after the stars had formed, Tom took his place on the knoll once more. I watched him wearily from beside the corral, then a couple hours later I rose to make my nightly patrol. I didn't go far, just circled the soddy, the shed, then finally wandered to the knoll.
He didn't greet me, and I soon realized why. Still sitting cross-legged, gun over his knees, he cradled his head in his propped up hand, sound asleep. The position didn't look comfortable, so I guessed he hadn't intended to nod off. No. Sleep had just sneaked up on him and caught him unawares. Not about to wake him, I turned back to the shed.
Then I heard it. That clumsy trampling, that careless panting. Bull was coming back.
Barring my teeth, I loped silently to the treeline and met him at the pasture's edge. Like before, he planted himself a few paces away.
I spoke first. "You shouldn't be here."
"Not surprised ya think so, seein' as I licked the stew outta ya the other night. But I didn't have time to clean you up proper."
"I didn't mean that . . . "
"Scared, are ya? Well, that's too bad, 'cause—"
"We don't have time for this!" I broke in, feeling my hackles rising. "Don't you see what you're doing? If we fight, my master will kill you. If he kills you, your master will kill him, and then we'll all be in a mess— don't you see?"
He put his ears back contemptuously. "To bad ya don't fight as good as ya talk."
"My master's on that knoll, and he'll hear us. Take a sniff if you don't believe me."
He tested the air, and his look changed. He sounded less sure when he said, "Maybe you're weak-kneed, but I ain't. I ain't runnin' from your boss again."
"Look . . . why fight me anyway? I would just be a waste of time, because you'd win."
He caught his lip between his teeth. "What?"
I'd struck the right spot. "You'd win, that's what. You've always been better than me, so why try to prove anything?"
"You're beggin' out?"
I swallowed back my sense of honor. What use was it to me, if it brought Tom harm? "Yes. Just go away, please."
He looked me over, confused. Finally he said, "You sheep dogs are well named. More sheep than dog, though."
His insult didn't sink into me this time. Bull was wrong about me, and it was all right if I was the only one that knew it. I watched with satisfaction as he turned away.
As I trotted back to the shed, I felt certain I'd seen the last of him. He was a bully, yes. But he wasn't rogue, so he wouldn't come back . . .
A sound from the corral. A scuffling, then a stifled bleat. Fear saturated the air.
I raced for the shed as I caught the scent. As the smell of wild things mingled with sheep's blood, I lost all reason. Furious, I reached the corral, then,
"No, Kep! No!" called Tom voice.
Whining with rage, I obeyed my years of training and scuffed to a halt, even though I saw the panther straddling the now dead ewe. I needed to charge. Why wouldn't Tom let me charge?
He was running down the hill, dropping on one knee, aiming. "Move, Kep!"
I backed away. The panther looked up, screamed at us, then jumped into the air as Tom fired. Another shot rang out, then the wildcat dove from the corral, vanishing into the shed's open door.
I bounded after it, but Tom again called me back as he panted to my side. "Why'd he go in there?" he gasped. But he didn't pause as he led the way to the shed.
He'd reloaded by the time we reached the opening. We peered inside. But for a patch of moonlight near the entrance, the place was pitch black. Though I couldn't see the wildcat, my other senses told me where it was. I begged Tom, "I'll kill it! Let me kill it!"
He gave me that vague look masters get when they almost understand us. Then he shook his head. "No . . . no, wait."
He was reaching for my collar, but I couldn't let him hold me back any more. I bounded inside, sensed the panther leap from a haybale, heard it scream in that voice of the wild things. Diving into the moonlight, it bowled me over, fighting in that sickening cat-like way— all at once teeth, claws, and writhing muscle. There wasn't much I could do, but I latched onto its shoulder and tried not to let go.
Tom shouted, and I glimpsed him aim. But no discharge followed. I heard him fuming, "Stupid hunk of metal!" just as the panther left me.
I wheeled around, knowing where it was going. But I wasn't able to stop it as it pinned Tom to the ground. I think I yelped, although not a sound came from Tom. Throwing myself onto the panther's back, I wondered if I was too late to help. All I could smell was blood— the panther's, Tom's, and my own. I dug my fangs into the wildcat's sinuous neck, hoping I would deflect its fury.
I did. As it turned on me, I hoped I'd been able to save my master. If not, the least I could do was die too.
A flash of brindled fur, and the slashing teeth left me. Looking up, I saw the panther wrestling just a couple paces away. And what was that compact ball beneath it?
It was Bull. Though the cat shredded at his tight hide, Bull hung on to its throat with his signature death grip.
I rose unsteadily, then saw Tom doing the same. Though his arms and shoulders were bloodied, he didn't seem much harmed, and I was relieved to hear him gnashing words— even if they were the kind Mistress wouldn't have approved of. He took up the gun, worked it over hurriedly, then aimed again.
This time the gun didn't misfire. In the stillness that followed, the panther twitched a moment, then lay still.
Tom staggered to the dead panther and shoved it off Bull. Moving it didn't look easy, for the dog still had his teeth buried in its throat. But as I approached, Bull let go and showed his teeth at me. I think he was grinning, but it was hard to tell. His jaws were as bloody as the rest of him, and he wasn't able to get up.
Esther appeared in the doorway. She quavered, "What happened, Tom?"
"Esther!" Tom called sharply, "Go on outta here!"
But she was crying, so Tom ended up having to gentle-talk her before carrying Bull to the soddy. I limped after him, and Esther walked beside me. As the the three entered, I waited at the door. But Tom said, "Come on, Kep," so I disobeyed my training and entered the masters' home.
"Put on some water, Esther," Tom said as he laid Bull beside the kitchen table.
"All right!" Esther seemed glad to do something, and stopped crying.
Tom said, "Gollee, he'll need stitches."
While Tom and Esther rifled Mistress' sewing basket, I went up to Bull. "Why'd you come back?"
He grunted, "I was bent on fightin' something tonight. Might as well be a panther."
Tom and Esther tended Bull until dawn, cleaning the cuts, stitching the bad tears. Bull barely twitched during the whole procedure, and told me proudly that he'd seen worse. But I think he was lying. By the time they finished, Bull was too spent to do anything other than sleep. He'd earned it.
Just as Tom rocked back on his heels and sighed, "Not pretty, but it is what it is," hooves clattered outside.
We all looked up. Before Tom could push himself off the floor, Esther had opened the door. A foreboding sense made me rush outside ahead of everyone else.
I had to swerve to miss the horse's hooves, and she snorted with irritation. As the horse stopped before the soddy door, one of the McKeon hounds trotted past.
McKeon.
I looked up at the horse's rider. Nial scowled down at me, then jumped to the ground and stalked to the door. He called, "Benson!"
His scowl turned to confusion when Tom stepped into the doorway. I took my place at my master's heel, then felt Tom's fingers rustle my ear. Despite the tense atmosphere, I flopped my tail on the threshold.
Nial asked, "What've ya been doing?" He then shook himself. "And where's my dog?"
Tom knit obstinate eyebrows. "What makes you think he's here?"
Nial nodded at the hound, which had flopped down beside the horse. "Followed the trail."
"If your dog is here, what do you think he came for? To bid us all 'good morning'?"
I wondered what Tom was doing. If he wanted to make Nial sock him, he seemed dangerously close to getting his way.
Nial was huffing, "If you didn't look beat up already, I'd . . . " when Esther appeared in the doorway. In a milder voice, he said, "I want to know where my dog is, all right?"
Then Tom's back lost some of its stiffness. He said, "Your dog's all right, but . . . you'd best come inside."
It took only a few minutes to show him Bull, then to hash out the whole story while sitting at the table. As Tom spoke, Nial darted incredulous eyes from Bull to Tom. But he never once touched Bull, and by the end of the account he asked, "You sure it happened thataway?"
Tom bristled. "I didn't hurt your dog. If you don't believe me, the dead cat's in the barn and the dead ewe's in the corral. You'd have seen them already if you'd ridden a little farther."
I noticed Nial looked a little sick. "It ain't that. It's just . . . "
"What?"
"It weren't natural for a wild thing to hole itself up inside a barn like that panther did." He hesitated as his words settled into the room. Sensing his rising horror, I caught his drift, and my scruff stood on end at the very notion. Nial cast an awkward look at Esther, then a worried look at Tom's cuts. "You don't figure . . . ?"
Esther broke in, "What?"
"Nothin' kid," Nial said hurriedly.
"You weren't saying 'nothing.' You were talking about the panther Tom shot."
Nial shifted uncomfortably, but Tom said, "Esther, remember how to make porridge?"
"Yes. Ma taught me."
"Why don't you . . . do that."
"All right!"
As Esther tended the stove at the other end of the room, Tom said in a low voice, "I looked at that panther really hard. It wasn't mad. I think my first shot grazed its head, momentarily confusing it, making it seek shelter in the nearest place it could find. I've heard of such things."
Nial's forehead wrinkled. "Yer sayin' ya winged it, then it got addled."
"Right. Addled."
Relief took over Nial's face.
Then Tom sighed. "Truth is . . . it would have finished either me or Kep, if not for your dog. I don't know what he was doing on our land, but I'm glad he was here. I'm in your debt."
"You ain't beholden. That's just the way things panned out." Nail shrugged. "Maybe I see where you were coming from the other day, and maybe I got too fired up. But I figured you for a pink-skinned Eastern feller . . . what's more, you got a highfalutin' way of talkin' what rubs me the wrong way."
"Oh." Tom's brow furrowed. But then he smiled thinly. "Yeah. Guess I ought to work on that."
"Stay here long enough, and it'll file down."
"Porridge is boiling, and soon it'll be ready!" Esther called from the stove, where she stirred the pot.
Nial stood up. "I'll help ya burn the panther and the . . . er, sheep it killed."
Tom stood too, heavily. "Yeah. Thanks."
"Then I'll be takin' my dog on back."
"You know . . . you can stay for breakfast. Just porridge, but it's not so bad."
Esther protested, "'Not so bad?'"
At her shrill voice, Nial suddenly grinned. "Porridge'll be jest fine, kid."
As the two filed from the soddy, I followed. But Bull's faint growl halted me, and I turned back around. He didn't raise his head or open his eyes as he said, "You sure can't fight worth anything."
I wagged my tail.
The End
Back to Top
Back to Home
Too Much of a Kid
by Robert Gilbert
It had been at least two years ago since I was up that direction. It was high country, Twin Fingers, and it had me looking down into a canyon divide most call Bitter Creek Run. In the summertime, the area along Border Ridge burned with valley heat. Waves of scalding temperatures would eat away at a man's skin like hot grease bein' licked away by a fire—just plain, damn awful, and that's a truthful fact if there ever was one.
Now, though, fall was beginning to set in. The last embers of warmth had passed on for another season, and daylight was shorter. A cool breeze filled my lungs as I made my way to Dillard Sapp's homestead, which faced Danber Pass.
Dillard continued chopping wood as I approached at a steady gallop. I eased back on the reins, and my roan moved no farther. I glanced around Dillard's property, searching for what had lured me there in the first place.
Dillard stopped his work momentarily, but not once did the man look in my direction.
I'd always been good at reading people, especially their reactions to the U.S. Marshal badge pinned on my shirt. Sometimes the silver emblem was hidden beneath my leather suspenders. If the air had a bite to it, I'd wear my duster, but on that day, my shiny identification was in full view. Dillard knew exactly who I was, whether he looked me in the eye or not.
"Mary!" he said, calling to his wife. He leaned his axe against the pile of chopped logs.
I dismounted and walked over to where he stood. When I glanced toward the house, I saw Mary's wide eyes as she stood in the doorway.
"Marshal Brothers?" she said, stepping out onto the porch. "What brings you up this way?"
I looked at Mary for a moment, hesitating with my answer. She could have passed for an attractive young woman, even though there were streaks of gray in her hair and her face was lined with wrinkles that betrayed her age.
"He knows very well why, don't ya, Warren?" Dillard said, finally turning to face me. He had far more noticeable wrinkles than his wife. His hands were strong and callused from hard work. His unshaven facial hair had to be at least three days' growth.
I tied the reins of my horse to a nearby hitch rail.
"He ain't here," Dillard said, slowly glancing at his wife.
"Robbie Joe's of age, Marshal," Mary said. "We can't keep 'im home."
"Sure wish he'da stayed here to help with the chores though," Dillard said, using his shirt sleeve to wipe away some sweat from his brow.
"Melton Price from the mercantile in Holcomb City sent me," I finally said.
"That boy's a son-of-a-bitch ta deal with," Dillard said.
"Dillard!" Mary said in a scolding voice. "There ain't no need for swearin'. No matter what, he's still our son."
"Melton claims Robbie Joe sold 'im some wolf pelts," I said. "Him and another man came back once the deal was settled, demandin' more money than they were paid. They roughed Melton up a bit, and he tried to go for a gun. The man with Robbie Joe shot Melton in the skirmish, and then both of 'em run off. Now there's money a-missin' from ol' Melton's cash register, presumably stolen. The way it looks, yer boy and his partner got their extra money one way or another. Since Melton wouldn't give it to 'em, they just took it."
"Is Melton alive, Warren?" Mary said, wearing a worried look on her pretty face.
"He's lost some blood, but doc says he'll make it," I said. "They just got 'im in the wrist."
"Nadum Cole, Marshal," Dillard said.
"Cole?"
"Yup," Dillard answered. "That's who you oughta be lookin' for. He's the man you want."
"Robbie Joe met up with Cole 'bout a year ago," Mary said. "He was kind of a loner, till he met our boy. When the two of 'em became friends, Cole's disposition about life seemed to . . . well, he really changed."
"Them boys like to hunt together?" I said.
"Why wouldn't they," Marshal?" Dillard asked. "They's friends, after all." He then looked at the dirt beneath his feet and shook his head. "I always knew that Cole was no good. I tried to warn my boy to keep his distance, but Robbie Joe don't listen to nobody."
"Melton said Nadum did most of the talkin'," I said. "He blames Cole more than Robbie Joe."
"That's what I been tryin' to tell ya, Marshal," Dillard said. "That Cole's a bad seed."
I looked at Mary, and she nodded in agreement. "Where's Robbie Joe now?" I said.
"My guess would be that they're holin' up at Bitter Creek Run," Dillard said.
"You sure 'bout that?" I said, a bit suspicious and arching my brow at him. "That's miles into the canyon, a partial day's ride."
Dillard shrugged. "That was the only place they mentioned when we saw 'em last. They're always huntin' in the canyon. Robbie Joe tells me there ain't nobody else who goes there. Course, I can't say for sure what their plans are."
"Would you like to stay for dinner, Marshal?" Mary invited. "It's gettin' late, and you'd better rest up if you're gonna head in that direction. I got fresh-killed chicken and just-dug taters cookin' right now. We got plenty o' room for one more plate. I still ain't used to cookin' for only two."
"Much obliged, ma'am," I said, nodding at her. "I could use a home-cooked meal, and it sure smells good, even from out here." I untied my roan, then walked him to the barn, where Dillard showed me to a stall and gave the horse plenty of feed and water.
Dinner was enjoyable, and we made small talk about everything except Robbie Joe. Mary was overjoyed to have company, and she even pulled out her fine china that had been passed down through the generations of women in her family—a matched set of delicate dishes she only used on special occasions. I didn't want to hog all their delicious food, but I couldn't help piling on heaping second helpings.
After dinner, Mary and I drank coffee while Dillard sipped whiskey. He and I enjoyed cigars, filling our lungs with smoke. They talked me into spending the night, but it felt strange sleepin' in Robbie Joe's bed; I wondered what he would have to say about a lawman lying on his pillow and blanket.
Morning seemed to come early. As the horizon began to brighten and come alive, Dillard readied my horse, while Mary shuffled about in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. It started with coffee and shared company.
After another fine meal, I thanked them for their hospitality and saddled up. I turned to both of them, my voice husky as I said, "I'll let y'all know when I find yer boy."
"Bet ya that Nadum Cole won't be too far from him neither," Dillard said.
"Be careful, Marshal," Mary said. "Nadum don't seem that friendly, 'specially when he's in trouble."
* * *
I edged away from their spread and rode down into Cimarron Ridge country, through the descending foothills of Black Mesa. As I made my way to the flatlands, it was apparent that my search for the two men might extend into the next day or the day after, but I really had no idea. The trail had been carved out by the Butterfield Stage Line, but flooding in the area had rendered it unusable for stagecoaches years ago. What remained of the previous stage line went off in a different direction, only to be lost somewhere in the distance.
I was miles from nowhere and had spent hours in my saddle. I momentarily stopped, pulling on the reins to still my horse, and I nursed from my canteen. The warmest part of the day was looming ahead of me, and I had to make sure I had plenty to drink before I made it to Job Cobner's cabin. He had a liking for fishing and had retired from being a deputy lawman for Byers Newman in Branson, along the south border of Colorado. Both men were friends of mine, and I hadn't seen Job since he'd given up his peace officer position.
I moseyed along and soon reached the split of Folsom Town and Sunset Ridge, a shaded area in Hardin Canyon, divided by the shallow Cimarron River. I coaxed my roan along an open path that ended in scattered terrain. Farther along, I rode parallel to the river.
When I finally neared Job's cabin, it looked as if the place had been ransacked. I saw Job from a distance, facedown about a foot from the riverbank, his clothing drenched and muddy. A Colt .45 was lying nearby. I came off my hard saddle to check on my old friend.
"M-Marshal Br-Brothers?" he stuttered when he saw the glint of my badge in the sun. He seemed to regain some of his strength after I turned him over.
"Easy now," I said, noticing a gunshot wound. Fortunately the bullet had only grazed his shoulder.
"It was two of 'em, Warren. They wanted my money and anything else they could find."
"Job, you're gonna be all right. Just barely knicked ya."
"Lucky you came along. Them coyotes woulda found me and had my tough ol' hide for dinner, to be sure."
"C'mon. Let's get you to the cabin. I've got some bandages in my saddlebags."
I looped his good arm over my shoulder, and we made our way inside, where I helped him sit on the edge of his bed. I retrieved what was necessary to patch the bleeding. When I returned to his side, Job had already removed his bloody work shirt. The wound didn't look so bad, but he might have lost a considerable amount of blood had I not found him in time. Once his shoulder was wrapped tight in gauze and cotton, I was sure he was on the better side of recovery. Job was a big, broad-shouldered man, a bit heavyset but a powerhouse of strength. His dark eyes stared back at me after he glanced around and saw what a wreck they'd made of his humble cabin. "Look at this place, Warren," he said. "Absolutely fuckin' torn to pieces."
"I'm sorry this happened to ya, Job," I said. "I guess you're too gullible, even if you were just tryin' to be friendly."
"I seen those two men before, Marshal. They hunt here sometimes, then skin what they kill and sell the pelts. From what I hear, certain skins fetch a decent amount. Seems ta me they'd be makin' enough of a livin' that they wouldn't have to steal another man's property. What are you doin' down here though?"
"Well, I'm lookin' for Robbie Joe Sapp and Nadum Cole."
"That was them, Warren! When they was a-jawin' back and forth, I heard 'em call each other by those names. I'm guessin' they thought I had some money hidden. A scuffle broke out in here when I told 'em I didn't have nothin'. I can usually handle myself, and I thought I had 'em beat, but they got the best of me when it ended outside."
"How'd you manage to get yerself shot, old friend?"
"I was on the ground when they mounted up. I keep a Colt hidden in my woodpile, so I grabbed it and chased them fools down to the river. I don't know one from the other, but the older one turned in the saddle and shot twice before I could raise my gun. It was the second shot that got me. The other man looked to be a youngster, not more than twenty."
"Musta been Cole who shot you," I mentioned. "I've got a pretty good hunch where they are. A couple years ago, I was after Moses Rickter, wanted for murder in Volls, Kansas. He ran pretty far."
"Rickter? I heard o' him," Job said. "What a bastard! There was wanted sheets of him hangin' in every lawman's office for miles."
"I chased 'im past Quincy Ridge, but he still didn't give up. Point is, I know that part of the country pretty well, and I got a serious hunch where I'll find those two who did this to you. I just hope they're smarter than Rickter and wanna give up peaceful-like."
"You want me to come along?"
"Nope. You work on mendin', and I'll be back to help ya sort this place out once I take care o' my business with these people."
I checked old Job's wounds once more, then mounted up. He stood in the doorway and waved at me with his good arm when I left, smiling like he was sure I'd be returning real soon. As I reached the bend in the river, I turned once more to look back at him, but the doorway was empty.
* * *
Beyond Quincy Ridge were hideouts and caves that ran together in an underground labyrinth for several miles. Every track of land had to be searched. If I was lucky, I would find the ruffians in the first cavern. Knowing I'd be riding into the warmest part of the otherwise cool day, Job had offered me an extra canteen, and I refilled both after crossing the river.
The shallow trail downward remained rugged, and ahead of me, the canyon walls stretched higher, coaxing my roan to move slowly. I was surrounded by hushed sounds, and I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched by someone high in the distance. Feeling uneasy, I let up on the reins, listening carefully as I retrieved binoculars from my saddlebag. I held them up to my face and moved my head in a slow, half-moon direction, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary.
I did a slow turn again and saw them. There, almost hidden in the entrance of a place known as Devil's Den, the two men were standing next to each other, off their horses and conversing. Near them was a pack mule, burdened with a pile of various animal pelts. My guess about their location had been correct, because we were about three miles east of Quincy Ridge. As far as I could recall, there was only one way in and out of Devil's Den. I knew they were armed, and at least one of them wouldn't hesitate to shoot a man. Regardless, two against one would be a challenge, even for an experienced lawman like me.
I moved my roan through some brush and along a pebbled trail that finally ended in front of some sizeable boulders. I eased off the saddle and quietly retrieved my Winchester. The largest boulder provided plenty of shade and shadow for me to take cover in as I made my way into a small clearing. There, even closer than before, I had a much better view of the two.
With the rifle butt resting against my shoulder, I used the front sight to check the distance, hoping I could get off a clean first shot if I had to. As I tried to balance and lean forward on the boulder for support, my boot accidently kicked some gravel, giving my position away. I quickly ducked down, hoping I was hidden from sight, but when I dared to look back in their direction again, I saw that both men had heard me and scattered like terrified mice from a barn owl.
"Pruitt!" a voice said from above. "You don't need to hide."
I held my ground and slowly lifted my Winchester, then squinted up at the place where the voice was coming from.
"Can't you find your way up?" the voice said matter-of-factly. "Damn, just take the short way around, ya clumsy oaf."
I adjusted my rifle and leaned forward on another large rock. I aimed upward, to the location of the voice that was coming from yards in front of me.
"Pruitt, don't be hidin' on me," the man said in a commanding tone.
"Nadum Cole!" I yelled. "This is Marshal Brothers, from Cheyenne River."
Immediately after he heard my introduction, Cole ducked for cover. A shot from a Colt struck the edge of the boulder, whizzing over my head.
I yelled his name again and let him know why I was in pursuit.
"Ya got the wrong fella, Marshal," he said. "I ain't who ya think I am."
At the same time, another shot was fired in my direction, slicing off a piece of rock. Just like that, Robbie Joe Sapp had joined in the conflict.
"Marshal," Nadum said, "you best turn around. It's two against one here, and the odds ain't in yer favor."
I carefully took up a better position and waited. I could see enough movement to indicate where Cole was. With the Winchester butt against me, I let out a shrill whistle.
Caught off guard by my whereabouts, Nadum Cole lifted his body from the shaded location where he'd been hiding.
With him clearly in my sights, I squeezed the trigger.
Cole momentarily stood, with a shocked look on his face, then fell forward.
Silence settled in for only a moment before another bullet zinged by my hiding place.
I quickly moved away, creeping along another secluded formation of canyon rock that seemingly stretched to the sky. As if God had put that rock there on purpose to save my butt. I was concealed in shadow, almost invisible, as I made my way upward to where I thought Robbie Joe was hiding.
I finally reached a small path that dropped down from Devil's Den, and I clearly saw Robbie Joe's silhouette crouching behind a smooth boulder. I leaned the Winchester against a rock formation and removed my Colt .44. Robbie Joe remained in place as I slowly approached him from behind. With my gun in hand, each step forward was quieter than the previous one.
The boy began to move in another direction, until he felt the pressure of my cold Colt barrel against the back of his skull.
"Drop it," I ordered in a stern voice. "Just put it down, and the vultures won't be nibblin' on you later, Robbie Joe."
He froze for just a moment, then began to stand. "You're the marshal, ain't ya?" he said.
"I am. Now drop the gun, or I'll take it however I have to."
"You know what Nadum and I done, don't ya?"
I worked my free hand forward, trying to remove his Colt.
Suddenly, he turned in my direction, pointing the gun directly into my chest.
Before he could say another word or squeeze the trigger, I immediately fired a single round that sliced into his shoulder. His gun dropped away, he fell to the dirt floor, and he instinctively pulled his free hand up to cover the gushing wound.
With my Colt back in the holster, I lifted Robbie Joe, cradling him with my hand to stop the bleeding as it slowly oozed over his skin.
"My parents know about me?" he said as I nursed his shoulder.
"Yes."
"And now this," he stated. "I guess I'm guilty, but I didn't shoot Melton. I just . . . I guess I was drawn in, started hangin' around the wrong kinda man, Marshal."
I buried Nadum Cole and covered his body with rocks at the base of the canyon, deep enough that the coyotes wouldn't be able to dig him up.
I should have cuffed Robbie Joe to his saddle horn, but I didn't. We made our way out of Devil's Den, with the pack mule in tow.
On our way back to Dillard's spread, we stopped long enough at Job Cobner's cabin. I was glad to see that his gunshot wound was already healing up a bit. Job stood next to us as we remained mounted.
I could see tears in Robbie Joe's eyes when he said, "Mister, I'm sorry. I ain't a bad person. I'm just . . . a dumb kid."
Much later, we finally arrived at Dillard's. I told him and Mary that I'd convince the judge to go easy on Robbie Joe, just sentence him to probation so he could stay with his ma and pa.
As we rode off, heading to Robbie Joe's judgment day, my thoughts kept me company.
It's comin' on winter, and there'll be snow across the high country real soon. I'll be back this direction by summer maybe, and keep company with these folks. Robbie Joe is alive and will be raised to be a good man. I'm gonna hear stories of him time and time again, and I know he'll be raised right, doin' his chores like his parents want him to. I guess he was just too much of a kid to know any better . . .
The End
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