December, 2014

Issue #63

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 . . .