The windmill

Jan15

It had been a long day and I was worn out to the bone. Images of my bedroll rolled themselves across my mind as I headed back to where I had set up my camp in the prairie grass about a mile away. That morning I had vowed to finally finish erecting a windmill on some land I bought years ago to support my growing cattle herd but never quite got around to it. I‘d purchased the repossessed Aermotor windmill at Duggan’s Mercantile and Cattle Supply in town. It had only been up and spinning less than a year so it was still pretty darn new. It seemed the rancher had bought it on credit then suddenly up and died, so back it went to the mercantile to be resold.

Here in Texas, a bit east of the town of Uvalde, there’s not so many water sources as in the town itself so windmills are pretty common. The land here is mostly flat with some hills to the north so a breeze is fairly constant. Sure, we got nice grass and such but without a constant supply of good water your cattle ain’t gonna live but a week or so at most. So this day I decided to attach the air foil wheel to the windmill’s gear box.

After looking at the original assembly prints I thought it looked fairly easy to put back together so I jumped right in to the task. Ha! You ever try to walk around holding a six foot long sheet of tin the shape of a giant slice of pie and doing it in a ten mile an hour wind? I’d rather try and paint a mural of the last supper on a kite while it’s flying! Maybe I should have had the help with a couple of my hands but this was my pet project, not theirs.

So what I thought might take a couple hours at best turned into an all day and exhausting affair. But, I got her all assembled and she’s now attached to the long rod going to the well pump below. In a day or so my new windmill will end up filling the water tank setting beside her and I can bring up the cattle to the new range.

The sun was setting in the west over Uvalde as I shook out my bedroll of ants and a couple of daddy long legged spiders. Call me spoiled or call me by my given name of Joseph One eye looks crooked Smith but I do like my pillow when I’m sleeping under the stars. My Mama (she was of the Black Foot Tribe up in the Empire of the Alturas [Idaho] made it for me when I was a toddler and every few years I got to stuff some fresh feathers inside it so’s it keeps it shape. I took some ribbing from the hands the first time they saw me with it but as time went by I noticed a few others started rolling up a small pillow along with their bedroll behind the saddle.

I was just too tired to bother with making a real dinner so instead I downed an apple and opened a jar of canned peaches instead. For my dessert I took a big gulp of Uvalde honey, the best honey in the whole world!

After I finished eating and watering my horse ( I call Mo, short for Morgan ‘cause that’s her breed) I gave her a good rubdown using handfuls of grass. She never tires from the attention a good rubdown gives her so I make sure she’s pleased as pie before stopping. I never had to hobble her because she’s prone to separation anxiety and rarely leaves my side during the night. Once in a corral or stabled with other horses she’s just fine.

She’s an ex Northern States Calvary horse that was used in the war.

I believe she got her anxiety problems from her service in the war. She saw lots of action yet made it through like a champ so I had no qualms about buying her when she went up for auction. Like most Morgan breeds, she’s extremely sure footed even on the worst mountain trails. I believe she can see even in the pitch dark of night and can smell trouble long before my dog can. She’s not real tall in stature yet she’s got a fine muscular build and stands about fourteen and a half hands tall. When I first got Mo she was all skin and bones but after a bunch load of TLC she filled out just fine.

She’s one of the most loyal horses I ever owned. I believe if I were to be attacked by a mountain lion, she’d try to fend it off unto her death for me! She’s not gun shy and has learned a few important tricks that I taught her, like stay, lie down, be quiet and don’t bite me no more!

As the light faded into complete darkness I happily crawled into my bedroll for the night… or so I thought.

Now we hadn’t had a real problem of cattle rustling for a number of years now. I believe the act was curtailed due to the hanging of four cattle rustlers a few years back. Three of them were only in their teens with the adult being their father. No mercy was shown to the four as they not only rustled the mans cattle they all had their way with the mans youngest simple minded daughter.

But this night all that was to change.

I awoke around two o’clock to the sound of my herd moving to the north and towards me. Since there was yet no water in this part of my range I couldn’t imagine why they’d decided to move out after bedding down a few miles south of where I lay where water was good and the grass was plentiful.

Cows are a funny creature. They sometimes just up and move for some unknown reason but what made me jump out of my comfortable bedroll was the pace at what they were moving at. Cattle move about at a speed that allows them to graze, unless they are being driven or there’s a predator nearby scoping them out. These weren’t running from a predator or a thunder storm but were still moving too quick to be able to graze .

I belted on my holster after making sure the Colt’s cylinder had five live cartilages in it (it holds six but unless you want to accidentally blow a toe off you don’t fill the chamber under the hammer). I thanked the stars for not bothering with a cook fire that night, I was pretty much invisible under the sliver moon night.

What I saw as my cattle drew near was a few riders pushing my herd forward by waving their hats. While they themselves attempted to be as quiet as possible no one told the cattle to keep their yaps shut. A few calves in the herd began bawling as their Mama’s began to out pace them.

This herd was the smaller portion of the much bigger herd I kept on my southern range near Batesville. I had moved these two hundred plus head north of the main herd onto fresh graze as this was the herd I would keep near my new windmill until I sold ’em off.

I could have legally shot the rustlers out of their saddles but being a tender hearted guy I instead placed myself in front of the herd and fired off five quick shots.

The herd’s reaction was predictable.

They immediately turned and began running full steam back to where they had come from. Unfortunately for the rustlers, they had not planned on such an event and were caught unprepared to deal with two hundred plus scared shitless long horned cattle charging straight at them. I saw a couple riders go down when their horses reared up in fright and also heard a horse or two let out screams of pain from being gored.

After the herd had run their course back to the south I was left standing alone holding an empty six shooter in the dim moonlit night. The smell of burnt gun powder faded as the cloud of smoke was carried off in the nights breeze.

I reloaded the empty cylinder and headed off to the dark shapes to the south that made up the injured or dead rustlers.

The first fella was far from alive. I could tell this because his head was not sitting right on his shoulders. He looked about middle age, unkempt and wore canvas sail cloth made pants. He must have been pretty poor when he was alive as most men wore denim now.

I came upon the second man a hundred or so feet away, he too was dead. Him, I felt for a pulse and when I did that I seen the right side of his head had been crushed in. He looked older than the first fella.

I only saw one horse standing upright so I made my way over to where two large shapes lay a few yards from each other. The closest horse was in pain with a ripped open belly. I put that one out of his misery and headed off to the other one. She was lying there blowing heavily and I could see she too had been gored. Even in the dark I could see she hadn’t been cared for very well by her owner. The whites of her eyes were like silver dollars in the moonlight, she was in immense pain so I did her the favor of sending her to whatever heaven horses go to.

I never saw hide or hair of the third fella. He’d lost his horse somehow in the stampede but it’d have to wait till daylight to find him.

I returned to missing man’s horse as she calmly stood there cropping the fresh grass. I quickly checked her over and seeing no visible wounds, led her back to my campsite. When we got there Mo sniffed at her, looked over at me and took a piss. I figured that was a good sign. She seemed content to side up next to Mo so all I did was loosen her cinch, wrap the reigns around the saddle horn and gave her a quick rub her down.

When the Eastern sky began to lighten I made a small cook fire, fried up some bacon to go along with a few biscuits I carried in my saddle bags and ate. After that I went through the first rustler’s saddle bags and found a small bag of ground coffee. I used the cleaned out frying pan to boil my coffee in.

All the time I kept an eye out for that third fella but I still couldn’t see him.

After packing up my gear behind Mo’s saddle, I cinched up both horse’s saddles and trailing the abandoned horse I headed out to where the dead lay.

I went through the deceased pockets and retrieved the other dead horse’s saddle bags. In one bag I found a letter from one of the men’s sister. In it she had begged him to give up his ways and return home to her and his Ma. The problem was, I had no idea which dead man the letter belonged to.

From the three saddle bags I recovered some old clothing, some food items (which I wouldn’t touch) and items for shaving (didn’t look much used) there wasn’t much else. One man had a fifty cent piece in a pocket and nothing else. I assumed these men were down on their luck, unsuccessful owl hoots. How they thought just the three of them would be able to trail a herd even as close as Fort Stockton bewildered me.

Having no shovel, just some wrenches to assemble the windmill with and too few stones around to cover the bodies with, I left them lying in the rising sun.

I headed back south to my ranch house where I’d gather up the two hundred head and bringing them back up to the killing grounds at the windmill. Like good cattle Long horns seem to know their way home with out maps.

By noon my ranch hands had rounded the herd up and drove them once again north. I’d seen the windmill pumping water into the big round water tank before I left so I wasn’t worried about the cattle not having water.

I was trying to convert the herd from longhorns to the short horned breed. Short horns proved just as hearty as the long horns but provided more meat poundage and were a gentler breed. The biggest reason though was the long horn carried the tick that produced the dreaded tick fever, the short horned didn’t carry them but they could catch the actual fever. After the loss of total herds many Midwest meat processors had begun refusing to touch the longhorn because of that.

In response, many ranches like myself began replacing their longhorn with the short horned breeds but it would still take a few years to complete the transition.

When we neared the killing grounds I rode on ahead in search of the third rustler. I finally found his body in a shallow swale. There wasn’t much left to bury but I’d brought along a shovel and did what any man would do. I buried him and said words over his grave. He appeared to be younger but honestly it was hard to tell. Unlike the other two who had brown hair this fella was blond.

I then did the same for the other two. In the letter that I had found inside the one saddle bag, the man’s sister had written that “try as we could, without father here the farm has fallen onto rough times and if you do not return to help run it, Mom will have no choice but to sell it.” She added that if that’s how things end up to be the case, she and her mother were going to live with her mothers cousin in San Antonio. She provided the address of the cousin in her letter.

I had already decided to write just to inform the family of her brothers death. I wasn’t going to tell them he was killed while attempting to rustle my herd. Instead I would just tell them he was killed in a stamped while attending the herd. At least that way they might assume he had turned his life around and died an honorable death.

Upon arriving, the cattle immediately headed for the water tank. It was big enough that at least twenty long horn at a time could drink. Without the six foot horns taking up room, the short horned cattle number drinking should be around thirty.

I climbed back up the windmill and gave it a good greasing before I headed back to the ranch with the hands. I noticed that while I was up there a number of small animals and birds were already getting their fill on the carcasses of the dead horses.

Chapter 2

Satisfied that whoever got the letter, they would know of the man’s death. I also included two paper twenty dollar bills saying that they were found on his possession. It wasn’t much but it might be enough to get them to the cousins home by stage.

Something in the way the sisters letter was written told me they were good people even if her brother had gone bad. The way I saw it, half my hands at one time or another might have been considered bad when they were younger. Youth seems to push the boundaries of what’s good and what’s bad but age seems to finally settle a person down to the good.

I trusted my foreman to post my letter to the family for me when they left for Uvalde on Friday night to let off steam in one of the local saloons there. Uvalde had no actual post office but the mercantile in agreement with the stage line, was where you went to get or send your mail.

I had no idea who the other two men were so I rode up on Saturday to Uvalde and contacted the county Sheriff. He told me since there was no identification on them and since they were buried already not to worry about it. He said if someone comes looking for a missing person he would get a physical description of the person they were looking for and see if it in any way matches the ones I gave him of the rustlers.

Rising from behind his desk he stuck out his hand for me to shake and told me, “Don’t fret none Mister Smith, there’s lots of unmarked graves across Uvalde County and even more missing persons. Go on back home, I got all the information I need along with your statement of what happened here.”

I shook his hand, thanked him and headed back home with a clear conscience.

A month went by and I hadn’t heard anything back from my letter so I put it out of my mind and got down to doing the business of selling off more of my longhorns. At the same time I brought in one hundred and fifty short horn cows and a couple bulls, one bull for each section of the range. The short horns settled in right away and the bulls happily went right to work.

By the end of September I’d noted that my bulls had been busy doing what they do best (besides eating and pooping). I knew I’d made a good decision and planned on transitioning the entire herd over to short horns just as soon as I saw how many calves were born. I’d divided the cows up equally at seventy five per range.

I continued to watch the beef market and was excited when the short horns began bringing in way more money per pound than the longhorns. I congratulated myself and the hands by having a big ‘ol Texas style BBQ. The ‘guest of honor’ was a longhorn.

It was mid November when I started wearing my heavy fleece lined deerskin winter coat. It made me look more like the half breed Indian that I was than my heavy flannel one. I also switched back to wearing winter moccasins as they were less slippery on the ice and were also much warmer than my tall heeled boots.

On December first of that year, I was required to pay my County land taxes. I headed out for the Uvalde County tax assessor’s office, now located in the new County building across the street from the Kincaid Hotel off North street.

After paying my tax bill I decided to stop by the Sheriffs office to see if anyone had inquired about any missing persons or in my case, the missing rustlers.

I was asked to wait outside his office as the sheriff was busy at the time so I plunked down on a solidly built oak hard backed chair commonly seen in banks and government offices. The new overly warm building was steam heated and soon I was fighting the idea of taking a good nap.

I was thrust into wakefulness by the Sheriffs booming voice proclaiming, “Well speaking of the devil, here he is!”

I popped open my eyes and saw the Sheriff escorting two women out of his office.

“I just finished telling these folks how to get to your spread!”

I stood up and removed my hat to grace the two women but still unsure as to why they desired to know the where about’s of my ranch.

I stood confused waiting for any further information and when none came forth I exclaimed, “I’m sorry Ma’am’s but I’m at a loss as to who you all are.”

The younger woman stepped forward and offered her hand to me. I wasn’t sure if you shake a woman’s hand or kiss it so I just held onto it. But seeing such a young beautiful woman I would have preferred kissing it.

“I’m sorry, my name is Keva Lyndi, this is my mother widow Fayre Lyndi.”

I was paying way too much attention to the girls beautiful green eyes and just kind of stupidly mumbled, “You both have such beautiful names are you from Uvalde?”

The girl chuckled in response. “ No, we were originally from England but have lived here in America for over twenty years but we just arrived by stage an hour ago from San Antonio. We started out last month after selling the farm in Nebraska. To be honest, we nearly gave up and turned around. The west is so much larger than can be imagined and my mother is getting too old for such a rigorous travel.”

Suddenly it all became clear to me. “Oh my gosh!” I nearly shouted, “Then you must be the mother and daughter I wrote to last summer.” And just as suddenly, I realized I’d have to tell this woman and her mother that it was I who was responsible for her brothers death. My throat closed up.

“Yes, we received your letter but were involved in selling our farm and couldn’t leave right off. We wish to see where he’s buried so we can pay our respects”

At this point the Sheriff realized he was a fifth wheel on a four wheeled wagon and begged his forgiveness as he headed back into the safety of his office.

“Have you secured a room at the hotel yet? If not you are more than welcome to stay at the ranch. In fact I insist you do. For your mother’s sake there is no need to make the long arduous trip back and forth. If we leave now we can make it there by dark.”

It was then that the mother spoke up. “That would be fine Mister Smith, but would you truly have the room for two guest? I couldn’t help but notice on our way here that many of the homes are just small clay brick adobe ones. We don’t want to put you out.

“Ma’am, the house is a stick and brick one and has four bedrooms. Two that I never use are very large and have walk in wardrobes. I’m sure you’ll find them more than ample for your needs.”

I rented a Studebaker Brothers buggy from the Uvalda livery along with a horse to pull it with. Keva said she was quite familiar with driving a wagon so I had Mo saddled up by the stable boy and off we went after putting a dollar in the boy’s hand..

We arrived at my ranch just after six in the evening. Charley, my foreman, saw us coming through the ranch gate and ran out to meet us. He recognized me and Mo but not our guest.

I made the necessary introductions and saw the color leave Charley’s face when I told him who they were and why they had arrived.

“Uh…I’ll be taking the horses into the stable for ya’ boss.”

It seemed no one wanted to be around when I told them the truth of the matter.

I took what luggage they had upstairs and with Muriel my cooks help, got the two women settled into their rooms. Dinner that night was duck, mashed potatoes and a big old apple pie for desert!

On the way back from Uvalde we had discussed waiting until after breakfast to show them where I buried the bodies. Keva described her brother and I knew then which body was his, the blond, just like her.

I expected the two women to be in mourning but to my surprise they both seemed to have long before accepted the boys death. I was told he was only nineteen and had left home three years prior. He and his father saw life differently so when the boy started rebelling against his fathers wishes his father increased the demands on the boy.

It came to a head when the two butted heads and it became physical. The boy won, packed what belongings he could and left home.

Shortly after the boy left the father was told he had cancer. Within a year he was bedridden and could barely breath. He passed in his sleep after being bedridden for a couple months. The crops had been already harvested so there was breathing time before the two women had to step up and do the tilling and planting. Neither had never plowed using their lone mule. They finally figured out how to set up the mules harness to the plow but had no concept on how to control the mule to plow a straight line. Their furrows looked like a drunken Irishman had done the plowing. It was a sorry sight. It was the last crop they would ever attempt to grow.

They admitted without the boy’s help the farm would fail. If the boy refused to come home then the only recourse they had was to sell the place.

The two women rode in the buggy I had rented to the grave site while I rode on Mo.

Standing there looking over the prairie landscape the mother asked,“So this is where my son Erik lost his life?”

“Yes, the cattle he was driving turned on the three men, they never stood a chance. Your son’s grave is that one over there on the right.”

Keva asked, “Do you know who the other men were? If not, I believe I do.”

“I have no idea who the two others were, they had nothing on them with their names.”

“Well,” she said, “ one was a conniving old man named Bruley. He was the leader of the three. He was just plain bad to the bone. Why Erik ever fell in with him is beyond me. The other one must have been Bruley’s cousin Adolph. Adolph was a follower, couldn’t think on his own.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked her.

“When Erik left we heard he had company with him. Later on we found out Bruley and his cousin Adolph were the company. We knew then that no good would come to Erik hooking up with those two.”

I had hoped seeing the grave would be enough so I turned and began walking off.

Keva yelled after me. “Mister Smith? Can you hold up a moment, I need to ask you something.”

“Sure, just let me set your Ma in the buggy then I’ll come back to you.”

When I had placed her Mom securely in the buggy seat I walked back to where Keva stood over her brothers grave.

“I want the truth Mister Smith.”

“Please, call me Joe.” I told her, “My Pa was Mister Smith, not me.”

“Alright Joe.”

“Now what is it you want to know?”

“When you wrote you said my brother and two other hands were killed during a stampede. Correct?”

“Yes, that’s what I wrote.”

“Was it the truth?”

“Ma’am… Keva I…”

“Don’t answer, I don’t want you to lie to protect my feelings. Let me tell you what I think happened here.”

I took off my hat and held it in both hands in front of me. “You have the floor, go ahead.”

“First off, my brother had no fear of hard work but those other two? They never worked an honest day in their life. Driving cattle as paid hands… really Joe? That would be news to everyone back in Holyoak Nebraska.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Second point Joe, since I know I’m right about them not working for you then the only answer is they were rustling your herd and it went bad on them… Am I right?”

“You have a good head Keva. I was just trying to be nice. I didn’t want to see you hurt anymore than you already were.”

Keva gently placed her hand on my chest and stared into my eyes. It was hard looking at her, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen and I think I may have forgotten to breath because my head started getting light.

“Joe, I’ve always been able to see people for who they really are. Do you want to know what I see Joe?”

“I’m not sure. You’d probably be right and that scares me.”

“I know I’m right. I listened real hard when you were talking over dinner last night. And afterward when we all sat on the porch and you told us how you grew up and all. You got hurt bad once Joe, it shows. But, you never let it stop you from doing what needed to be done nor did it steal away the kindness away you have for others. I’m not sure why you’re alone and not married but you’re a prize Joe, any girl would be proud to stand beside you. Why didn’t you ever let one in?”

“I did, once. I loved her so deep I couldn’t imagine what it would be like living without her.”

“So what happened?”

“We were going to get married but her Ma not wanting to see me made a fool of told me the truth about her. It… she was… my best friend Robby… and her… well, she got pregnant from him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You deserved better Joe.”

“All I knew is I lost my future wife and my life long best friend all in one day. Yes, it hurt but rather than turn bitter and fertilize any hate, I vowed to instead help others when I see them hurting. I call it medicine for my soul. It’s an Indian thing.”

I unbuttoned my right sleeve and rolled my shirt up my arm a few inches saying, “See this small tattoo of a heart on the underside of my wrist? I had it put there to remind myself to always remember that everyone’s got feelings and if I can, I try and lift ‘em up out of their troubles and not hurt ’em because they’s already been hurt enough.”

“So like the old adage goes, you wear your heart on your sleeve, is that it?”

The memories of my tragic first love came unexpectedly back in a rush, and the only response I could muster up was, “Yes, Ma’am, I do.

At this point I was so ashamed of the wetness that had started to form in my eyes that I had to turn away from her lest they began turning into real tears. Once again I turned and started walking away from her. I had not cried openly since that day and I knew if I had stayed there staring at her I would again and she’d think I was just a foolish crybaby and despise me.

“Joe, stay here. Don’t walk away from me, please Joe?”

It wasn’t the voice of anger, but rather one that was pleading.

Against all reason I turned back to her and suddenly found her on her tip toes pressing her lips against mine, hard.

I threw all caution to the wind dropped my hat to the ground and wrapped my arms around her and kissed her back… hard. Oh my God, what wonderful feelings rushed from my insides, I felt redeemed!

Chapter 3

Well, I could stretch this story out forever but I wont. But I will end it this way.

We decided to marry. Now it wouldn’t be proper for us to be lovers and living under the same roof so I moved in with the hands for the next three months. Sure, they made fun of me saying she threw me out of my own house and what not but really they couldn’t have been happier for me.

When we married, we had one heck of a hoopla party. I was so full of love for this girl I coulda’ burst! I dragged her all over Uvalde showing her off to all my friends and anybody who’d listen. She loved the attention too.

Her Mama stayed in the guest room making it her own from then on, that was fine with me. She was actually quite a pleasant woman to have around and couldn’t wait for the day when she could spoil her grandbaby.

On our first anniversary, Keva and I decided to have a picnic up by the windmill where it all began. It didn’t bother her that her brother lay less than a half mile away under the prairie grass.

Sitting there under the windmill, I looked up at the large spinning galvanized blades and wondered what my life would have been like if I’d never vowed to finish building it that day.

As we ate our picnic lunch to the sound of the light clanging of the well pump, we both realized this whole event could never have been just coincidental but had been guided by the loving hand of God. It truly was, can I have an Amen to that?

JW Edwards / www.campfireshadows.com

01/13/2019

Attacked at Silver bluff

Jun25

A short story by JW Edwards AKA Campfire Shadows

Chapter 1

I only had nine cartridges left that fit my Sharps rifle but the dozen or so renegade Apache Indians bent on killing our small group hunkering down in the silver prospectors cabin at Silver Bluff in the New Mexico Territory didn’t know that.

For the last two hours, lead was flying back and forth with both sides receiving little or no injuries.
The Prospector who owned the cabin only went by the name Pick, short for Pick Axe assume. He was still pretty much in the dark as to how this activity had come about. Still, he saved his questions for a more opportune time. He paid little mind to the holes perforating shutters and only door.

I apologized for the damage being done to his place but he just looked at me like I was loony. “It’s only wood, I’ll make new ones soon’s this scuffle’s over.”

I guess I need to expand on my opening statement about the cartridges.

We weren’t short on fire power. As a Federal Marshal along with my three deputies and an ex Texas Ranger who attached himself to us along the way, we all carried more than enough ammunition to last a good Indian siege. I only mentioned the Sharps rifle because the angry group outside wasn’t aware that I had one yet.
Colt hand guns, Winchester rifles and other various makes and models of fire power completed our arsenal. We were fully packed but still trapped inside a one room log cabin.

Before I go any further with this tale I better also explain the who, what, where and why of all this.

Yesterday, as we made our way from the Arizona territory into the mountains of New Mexico we became aware that our back trail had been compromised. By late afternoon we were able to use the new fangled scope on the Sharps to visualize who was trailing us. We were surprised to see it wasn’t part of the rustlers we followed but was in fact a small but determined looking group of Apaches.

As for the retired Texas Ranger, it was his cattle that had been rustled and he wanted ‘em back. It seems after he retired from the Ranger service, he bought a ranch in Arizona and had all intentions of living a peaceful if not boring life raising cattle.

When he discovered his cattle had quickly dwindled in number over night he called upon his ex Texas Ranger boss to see if he could pull some strings in Arizona for some help. That’s when I got the order to gather a few Deputies and see what we could do for him.

My God! If there ever was a typical looking Texas Ranger it was him. Long lanky limbs, thin as a rail and with no ass to speak of that made wearing a pair of leather suspender braces mandatory to hold his pants up. His bow legged brown corduroy pants tucked into his tall heeled boots were outfitted with the biggest silver Mexican rowels I’d ever seen completed his waist down attire. Up top he wore a clean white long sleeved shirt protected by a spotted leather milk cow vest. What some folks have now been calling a wide brimmed western hat kept the sun from his face.
The hat wasn’t really necessary since his giant salt and pepper bow shaped mustache hid most of his face from the nose down any way. With a Texas drawl so pronounced it was common for him to have to repeat himself for our understanding. We ended up nick naming him Mumbles. He didn’t seem to mind this at all, in fact he seemed to revel in his new handle. I guess sporting the name Bartholomew Reginald Bottoms wouldn’t have been his choice for a birth name.

My three Deputies were a mix of two out of work cowboys and a young man fresh off the farm in Nebraska. Nothing made any of them stand out in a crowd, which is why I chose them even though they had little experience in law enforcement.

Young, adventurous and much more physically fit than myself, I used them when I deemed I was too old for this kind of work. Oh, there was a time not too long back that I’d jump from the saddle to tackle a running felon but these days my bones protest too much for such nonsense.

As we made our way through Arizona hot on the trail of at least five rustlers and forty head of ill gotten beeves we were confident this mission would be rather cut and dry. Boy, were we mistaken.

First off, we nearly lost our Nebraska farm boy to the Salt River. Most times it’s shallow enough to even wade across but not this time. The seasonal monsoon rains rose that nearly dry creek to a roaring death trap. How the rustlers ever took forty head across confounded me. It wasn’t till after this near drowning that we found just a mile upstream a ferry operated. The wooden barge carried folks and cattle safely across at a calm spot of the river. We sure felt foolish.

The next day our mounts got spooked by a roar of a mountain lion. Try as we did, we hard reigned up but the dang horses bolted and ran smack into a large cholla cactus patch. After spending the rest of the day pulling out the painful barbed needles with a pair of fence pliers we called it a day and set up camp for the night.

The night proved uneventful and with a stomach full of beans, biscuits and bacon we slept like babies.

Trying to make up our lost time we headed out early the next day. It was before dawn when we found ourselves crossing into the New Mexico territory. Our farm boy Deputy called out saying he had to answer his habitual morning call of nature. I reminded him that it’s always a good practice to relieve yourself way off the trail, even in the dark. Anyone finding his pile could determine how long ago you passed by. At times I even tossed horse apples off the trail for the same reason.

“Don’t you worry Boss I’ll make sure I’m well off the trail but I gotta warn you I got a constitution that takes a while till I can go. It might be full daylight a fore I finish.”

Anyway, I told him, “Ralph, our trail’s easy enough to follow, just catch up to us when you’re done.”

It was nearly forty minutes later that he finally pulled up his drawers and mounted himself back in the saddle. True to his word, the sun was just popping up over the horizon. He sure didn’t exaggerate about him having a slow constitution.

As he was in the process of turning his mount back onto the trail he spotted in the early light of dawn a dust cloud just a few miles behind him.

Knowing how I constantly harped at making sure your back trail is vacant he spurred his mount galloped ahead until he finally caught up to us.

“We got company Boss” He shouted as he neared us.

By the way, maybe this is a good time to say this.
I’m called Boss. Not because I’m in charge but because that’s my name. When I was born I think my parents were either drunk or had been under the influence of loco weed because they named me Boston Cleveland. Rather than calling out two city names every time someone wanted my attention they just shortened it to Boss.

Now, I ain’t been to neither place nor had my folks. Why they stuck me with Boston Cleveland I never had a chance to find out as both of ‘em died early in life from too many arrow punctures thanks to a bunch of pissed off Creeks. It seems they just didn’t like white folk no more’n we liked them.

I was told at the time of the attack my Dad had gently placed my sleeping four year old form in a hidey hole he had dug out under the floor boards of our cabin when he built it. The next day I was found by our neighbors screaming my head off as I tried in vain to push the heavy trap door open. Seems my Mama had fallen dead over the trap door.

Since you all now got the idea of my family an’ how I got my name, I’m taking you back to the cabin story.
I took my Sharps out of its protective leather scabbard and told the rest to keep heading up the trail as I needed to see for myself exactly who was trailing us. I warned them to be on the lookout for an ambush by the rustlers up ahead.

I figured the rustlers may have gotten wise to our trailing them and set up a kind of reverse ambush.They could have split up, leaving half the group to stay put. This way we’d pass them leaving us caught between the two groups. If the group ahead of us turned backwards on the trail they would catch us in a pincer move between them and the rustlers now following us. I admitted to myself I must have underestimated their numbers. Now we had two groups to round up and bring to justice. It sure got complicated quick.

When I rode far enough on our back trail to see their dust cloud. I dismounted and raised the Sharps to get a better look at them through its scope.

To my surprise they weren’t rustlers at all and they now rode at a full gallop.

Chapter 2

I hauled myself into the saddle in less time than it took my heart to beat twice.
Spurring my horse is something I rarely have to do. It seems she has a sixth sense of such things. But, sixth sense or not this time she got spurred.

As I caught up to the group my horse skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust and flying gravel.

“Haul your asses outta here boys” I shouted, “them ain’t rustlers, they’s Indians an’ they’s wearin’ war paint to boot!”

As we all tore down the trail I kept an eye out for a good place to go off trail and either hide or make a stand at. As the terrain began to turn from desert flat to that of having rocky crags I began to have hope of finding a good place to pull over.

There were now some taller trees as we climbed higher. Still, there wasn’t enough of them to hide in.

I turned in the saddle to look behind me and real they were now only a mile or so behind and coming on fast. I started to fear for our lives.

Our group had rounded a large stone outcropping when we spotted the cabin with its smoking chimney. No words were need be said, we all headed straight for it.
A few hundred yards away to the cabins west side rose a straight up and down cliff face higher than any of the other surrounding mounts. The good was, the cliff gave ample protection from the scorching evening sun by its shade and most winds from western born storms. The bad was it’s north face was very climbable. A single man with a rifle could pen down anybody within range of a good rifle.

Whoever was in the cabin was about to have some uninvited company.

Upon our hurried arrival at the cabin’s front yard, the five of us had made so much noise that in no way did it not alert the cabins owner.

Suddenly and without say a word to us, the man opened the front door and stepped out onto the small covered porch. He pointed a bony finger to a corral that backed up to a rock shelf that was part of the hillside. Three sides were fence rails the other the rock shelf.

We dropped off the horses after a quick removal of the saddles and personals. I stopped for a moment and was going to rub my mount down after that fast entrance but then I heard the distant thundering of the Apaches horses and decided it could wait. Attached to one of the rails was a tin feed box filled with what looked like fresh hay. On the way out of the corral I spotted the water tank at the other end, it was nearly full. If anything, the horses were set up pretty well for a few days at least.

Once inside the cabin, the man slammed the door shut behind us and dropped the thick beam across the door to prevent it from being busted inward. He then ran around closing the four thick wooden shutters.

Each shutter had a gun slot in the center and a cross beam similar to the door. It seemed he had previous reasons for building his cabin like a fort.

The wooden roof was covered in a thick layer of dirt and gravel. Not so much sod as just dry desert scrapings. Sod’s a product the desert doesn’t provide much of so dirt was the preferred material.

Before we could thank him, the prospector asked a single worded question, “Indians?”

“You bet” I said, “maybe a dozen or more, look like Apache too.” I replied.

“Yup, figured as much. They’s a break off group a young-uns hell bent on makin’ a name fer themselves. Seen ‘em around here before.”

He wasn’t a man of many words but what he did say answered a lot of questions..

We heard the Indian’s horses pull up a hundred or so yards from the place. Any closer and we could have safely picked them off since there wasn’t much cover for them.

Besides my Deputy farm boy Ralph that I have already mentioned, there was Matt and Larry who had previously punched cows for the J Bar J located near Show Low. None of my Deputies could be called great shots but then most folks with a gun couldn’t hit a barn door at a hundred feet anyway. The Eastern papers wrote as if we could hit the eye of a lizard at a hundred paces. In fact few cowboys had a gun worth more than a dollar that is if they even owned one. As Federal Marshals and Deputies we had guns that out classed most folk.

The problem was that many Indians got their guns from gun runners who stole them from either an armory or right out of the factory. This provided many Indians with high end and recently made arms.

I had Larry take the rear facing window while Ralph and Matt took the windows on each side. One window had a clear shot of the corral. Mumbles and myself covered the front where any attack would most likely come from.

“Coffee Gents?”

I was taken back by the prospectors calm demeanor. I mean who serves coffee when your life is in peril?

I shrugged and said, “Sure, why not?”

He went around giving out and filling the men’s tin cups with hot coffee as if he were a waiter in a cafe. I figured he must be a bit unbalance so he would deserve a close watch. I mean who could tell if he wouldn’t go ahead and invite the Indians in for tea?

“I was up in the tree waitin’ fer a deer to shoot when I noticed you all in the distance runnin’ fer your lives. Right off I could see those racin’ after you like a pack a dogs on your trail. Well, I figured I better get a pot a coffee goin’ an’ put some hay out in the corral ’cause it’s lookin’ like I’m about to have company.”

Maybe he wasn’t as loony as I figured after all.

It was then we heard the sharp rapping of bullets slamming into the cabin’s door and front shutters.

I apologized to the old man for the damage being done to his abode but he just looked at me like I was the one who was loony. “It’s only wood, I’ll make new ones soon’s this scuffle’s over.”

“Does this happen often? I mean your cabin is built to withstand a siege, why is that?”

“ I mine silver. Lots of folks out there would like to get at it. Once I’m inside here, they can try as they will but they ain’t gonna’ get at it, not while it’s inside this cabin they ain’t.”

“Yet you let us inside without question, why?”

“Well, I ain’t seen very many bush whackers wearin’ them bright shiny stars on the chest. Saw ‘em way off, they glint in the sun. Good way to get shot at if you ask me.”

Even a seasoned law dog can learn a new trick. “I’ll have to remember that”, I said.

I told my men to hold off firing unless they got a clear shot. “No use wasting ammo,” I said.

Just then Mumbles went ahead with two rapidly fired shots from his rifle. “Got one good, winged the other pretty good.”

An angry yelling from somewhere outside could be heard.

The prospector moved to the gun port to look at what was going on outside. After a minute of listening he turned to me and said, “Seems like your man just kilt the wounded ones brother. He’s vowing to kill you but not before he cuts off your manhood and forces you to eat it before he slits your throat!”
Turning to the Texan he added, “You sure got him riled up plenty. He’s now vowing to include your father, mother and any brothers you got.”

At that moment the rib caged winged Indian stood up shaking his gun in the air and screamed in a language only the prospector could interpret. A good sized chunk of flesh along with a rib or two was missing from the Indians side. Blood was freely running, soaking his breech cloth. It may not have been instant kill shot but his significant blood loss would definitely increase his chances of not making it through the night.

Once again Mumbles Winchester blasted away.

We all stared at the bleeding Indian until he toppled backwards, now missing a large potion of his head. Each one of us turned away repulsed at the sight of the flying red gore.

Whether or not the Indians sacrifice was planned or not we never knew but it did give two other Apache’s the ability to slip away unnoticed by us into the taller brush. It wasn’t until we heard a rifle bark from the top of the cliff that we realized they had out smarted us.

“I been in this same situation before and was able to wait them out but they never climbed to the top before. From where they was originally hunkered down the horses was safe from their guns, no more now. I’m afraid they kill ‘em off leavin’ us pretty much at their mercy.”

The afternoon came and went with sporadic shooting from both sides. No horses were shot. We assumed they were too valuable to the Apache to just kill them off. As night fell we once again took the time to have a filling meal.

Afterward, we all sat around smoking and enjoying our coffee’s when the old prospector began speaking.“Years ago silver was plentiful and easy fer the takin’. Bands of no goods plied the trails lookin’ fer prospectors too stupid to be well armed. In time they cleaned out the entire area of miners, leavin’ only me. Oh, they tried but I was too smart fer ‘em. I had planted powder kegs in the rocks where they was most likely to hide at. I trailed the one hundred feet per second fuses back inside here. In no more’n three seconds I’d blow the hell out of ‘em. If’n you look close they’s bones are strewn all over the place, ‘specially right where them damn Apache are now a hidin’. I regret that I ain’t had to place no kegs out there for quite a spell now, years even, too bad, sure would come in handy now eh?”

I mentioned how well the cabin was stocked.

“Yup, got a smoke house out back. Still got two butchered deer hanging in it. Got a cold cellar built into the hillside behind us too. Every now ‘an then I make a passage to town to buy coffee, flour other such necessities of life. I once bought a Navajo woman in town before it got civilized law to do my cookin’ and what not but one day she jest wandered off. Seems she got lonely fer her people.”

The night passed without incident.

Just after dawn I used my Sharps scope to glass the top of the cliff. I was surprised to see a well built Apache standing in full view seemingly giving orders to those below still hunkered down in the rocks below. It dawned on me that he felt no fear because he thought he was basically out of gun range.

Even a Winchester would hit him only by pure luck so I lowered my sight to scope out those in hiding but could not see anyone. It was then that it dawned on me that the big guy up top giving orders must be their leader.

Well, I smiled. I doubted these renegades had ever faced a Sharps before.

Taking my good old time, I placed one of the Sharps big cartridges within the breech. When it closed with a loud click everyone turned from their breakfast to look my way.

I adjusted the sight since I was going to be shooting at a steep upward angle. I had to guess at the amount of rise since I’d never shot at that angle before.

I exhaled and pulled the trigger.

Inside the cabin the enormous blast deafened everyone, including me.

Propelled by the tremendous force of the explosion behind it, the huge bullet tore through the air seemingly oblivious to the earths gravity trying to slow the bullet on its upward lethal travel.

Clearly visible in my scope, the chest of the Apache exploded. At the exact moment I pulled the trigger the second Indian in a terrible case of bad luck had approached his leader from behind.

The leader was forcefully blown backwards into the arms of the second Indian. Not that that the second Indian much cared. A fresh coffee mug sized hole where his heart should have been appeared to dampen any sympathy for his leaders demise.

With the two supporting each other it took to the count of three before they fell away from each other.

The leader pitched forward, nose diving off the cliff, the second Indian lay backward staring at the sky but unable to see it.

Those hiding below watched in horror as their leader cartwheeled the three hundred feet downward to where they lay in hiding. Rocks do a funny thing to a body at that distance. Few of the horrified Indians escaped being splattered in their leaders blood and brain matter.

It seemed to dishearten them. For they stood now in plain view lowering their weapons.

Chapter 3

What I took for disheartenment was actually fear.

As I looked to the direction they all had turned to face I realized that they were all now facing the trail up ahead. I soon saw what they saw. A large Apache party headed right our way.

It was my turn to be disheartened. No way could we fend off over fifty hardened to the core warriors.
Their leader rode three horse lengths out front and adorned to the hilt in black and red war paint.

When the troupe of Apache neared the part of the trail that lay directly across from the cabin, they halted.

The proud leader slowly observed the dead laying about the rocks, including the now unrecognizable renegade leader and loudly grunted his disapproval. He then went into a verbal tirade against those left alive making their way out to the open.

To no one in particular inside the cabin I said, “Looks like Chief ain’t very happy with the outcome of those that attacked us. He’s probably pissed they couldn’t take care of a few lawmen locked up in a cabin.”

The Prospector, who’d been listening to the Chief’s rant turned to me saying. “He ain’t mad about the deaths, rather he’s mad that his renegade nephew attacked us without his consent. It seems there had been a deal set up with the Territorial Governor where the tribe would cease any unprovoked attacks in return for this winters supply of Government beef. Now he’s worried the deal won’t go through.”

What the prospector said must’ve been true because to a warrior, each came sheepishly forward and laid down their weapons in front of the chief. The two Indians riding directly behind the Chief dismounted and began gathering up the abandoned weapons. When through, the disarmed group were marched up the trail in the direction the Chief and his warriors had come from.

Meanwhile the group of us held up in the cabin realized our bacon had just been pulled from the fire.

Leaving the dead lay where they fell, the Apache warriors turned away in force, leaving the Chief to sit alone on the trail facing us.

His countenance was no longer that of an angry enemy but one of disappointment.

Before he turned away to follow the others he lifted his right palm to the sky as if to say “sorry fellas, shit happens.”

We never did catch up with our rustlers but we did find the cattle hidden in a grassy box canyon twenty miles up ahead. We’ll never know what happened to the rustlers but my bet is they ran into the Chief and his group. Fearing the worst they most likely abandoned the cattle with plans of retrieving them later on and fled. Won’t they be surprised when they find their box canyon empty.

Along with the herd, we made our way back the way we had come. When we reached the cabin we stopped on the trail and yelled a “Halloo”. True to his word he’d already replaced the shot up shutters.

There was no sign of the prospector but we all knew he was watching us from somewhere unseen. We waved a goodbye to wherever he was and headed home.

THE END

Meet up in Lambey

Mar19

Chapter 1

Sheriff Jeffery Osborn of Lambey Arizona , known as Ozzy by the townsfolk, sat sleeping open mouthed at his desk with his head thrown back. Every few moments from under his large bow shaped mustache came the discharge of a turbulent snort followed by a long sonorous snore. Ozzy was truly enjoying his afternoon nap. There was nothing wrong in doing that, in fact most townsfolk wouldn’t have it any other way. For the last nine years he had been their protector in a frontier that didn’t give a hoot to most law and order.

Sheriff Ozzy had spent much of that time wearing out the old oak chair with his behind. Now fifty two years old, Ozzy stood six feet four inches tall and had a hard time finding a horse that would gladly carry his two hundred and eighty pounds any distance. Ozzy wasn’t fat, not really anyway. He was just big. He was one of those guys that looked more like he was made of boulders rather than flesh and blood. Next to his wife Jessica, who was a perky little brown eyed woman and the love of his life, he was a towering giant. Jessica believed he had a heart the size of his presence.

He carried the long barrel Colt Peacemaker. While the short barrel pistol was quicker to the draw, the longer barrel was more accurate. Although well armed, Ozzy found the best way to come out on top in a gun fight was to talk the other guy out of it before the lead flew. With the huge shadow Ozzy cast, he had little trouble convincing drunks and other no goods that a physical altercation would not be in their health’s best interest. A gun was the great equalizer or so it was thought. When push come to shove though, most trigger happy drunks came to the conclusion that a night in jail sure beat pushing daisy’s up from the grave the next morning. And so being the Sheriff of Lambey was pretty uneventful for the mustached Sheriff.

Most times being a Sheriff of a small town meant months of drudgery followed by a few minutes of crap and pee your pants action. If Ozzy knew what lay down the road for the next couple of days, he would’ve stayed snoring at his desk or at least brought himself an extra change of pants.

Over in Wickenburg, just a day’s ride west of Lambey, Sheriff TJ Lewis finished unchaining the three Bartell brothers from the jail tree. Now Wickenburg was a growing town but even with it’s all its rowdiness it still hadn’t got around to building a real jail yet. An old mesquite tree and chain served as the jail and as it turned out, was one of the few places of decent shade in the entire town.
Once freed, the brothers cast ‘I’ll kill you next time we meet’ looks at Sheriff Lewis.

Throwing the chain over his shoulder he warned the three brothers.“Now you boys just ride on out of here peaceful like. Head anywhere you want but around my jurisdiction. You give anyone any lip or hard time on your way out and you’ll be chained right back up here. We don’t cotton to mistreatin’ women around here. Soiled dove or house wife, it don’t matter. You end up back here an’ I’ll let you rot in the sun until the Federal Marshal makes his way back here to pick your dead asses up. You understand what I’m telling you?”

A grumble from one brother, a nod from the others. “Good, now I already took the money from your belongings to pay the Mexican boy over at the livery for the feed and care of your three nags.”
Then remembering something that made him chuckle he continued, “Oh, I left him a nice tip ‘cause I figured you’d be too cheap to give him one.” Pointing down the road he warned them “ You got ten minutes to disappear from my site, now git!”

The three brothers, Carl, Roy and Jerome Bartell rode as free men out of the town. It wasn’t the fight that folks knew about that proclaimed their evilness, but the paid for murder they performed that no one was aware of yet. They had been paid a hundred dollars each for the killing and they thought the job was performed perfectly. It wasn’t. It would be sometime later that the body of mine owner Clarence Dickson and his near dead wife would be found. By then though, the Bartell brothers would be long gone from town.

Roy spoke up as the left the outskirts of town on horseback, “That was too dang close for comfort! Jerome, what the hell made you think you could manhandle that whore like that back there in the saloon without half them poke starved miners jumpin’ your ass and pounding it silly?”

Spiting some old bloody snot onto the ground, Jerome looked at his two accusers, “You two coulda’ at least shot a few of ‘em to get ‘em off a me! My damn face looks like a mule danced atop it for a while. Lost me a few more teeth too. It’s getting’ mighty hard to chew.” Jerome opened his mouth at the brothers and grinned, showing fresh gaps in the uneven set of rotted teeth.

Roy snorted, “Yup, that right there is why you don’t do the thinkin’ here little brother. You really think we coulda’ shot our way to freedom? Crap, we’d be pig feed right now if we woulda’ pulled iron on that crowd. Miners is like hornets when they’s got the scent of a woman near ‘em. If you pull somethin’ stupid like that again, I’ll blow your brains all to hell an’ be thanked for it. I ain’t never gonna’ let you risk my life ever again over your cravin’ to poke your damn carrot into anything wearin’ a skirt. Carl and I shoulda’ just let ‘em all just tear into you. Good thing for all of us that the Sheriff showed up when he did. He did us a huge favor by placin’ us under arrest for the night. Sometimes it’s safer bein’ in jail than bein’ free. Ain’t nothing worse than a vigilante crowd. On the other hand though, what woulda become of us if they’d found the Dicksons while we was in that saloon or chained up? I’m just glad we’s outa’ there!”

Chapter 2

Once on the trail heading south east towards the Aqua Fria River, Roy mulled the situation over, then he spoke up. “Let’s keep headin’ south east for about sixty or so more miles, we can lay low for a spell in the hills outside of Cave Creek town. There’s some god awful rough territory there about and I can’t see any posse trailing us that far. Wickenburg ain’t got no real posse, just a bunch of drunk miners that are lookin’ for some excitement. They’ll get bored after they sober up an’ turn back.”

It was just after deciding they could hole up at Cave Creek when Jerome’s horse lost a shoe on the rocky trail. “Hold up fella’s, I think she threw a shoe back there.” Dismounting, he checked and found out she had.

Pointing up ahead, Jerome continued speaking, “Lambey’s on up ahead just a few more miles. I passed through there some years back before we all took to the owl hoot trail. It weren’t a big town then but I know they had a livery, saloon and a whore house. I’m purty sure they had a smithy there too.”

Shaking his head, Roy looked over at his brother and told him, “Figures you’d know all about that saloon and whore house now wouldn’t ya? I swear, that ol’ bean pole in your pants is gonna be the death of ya’ yet!” Let’s just hope they don’t find them dead folks back there and form a posse before we get your nag shod.”

Thinking about it a minute, Roy decided. “ We should have a few days at least. It weren’t like there was paid workers to show up for work at that mine the Dickson’s worked behind their place. By the time the shoeing is done, it’ll be getting’ dark. Still, we should be alright if we spend the night since no one was even aware we was headed this direction.”

The three rode into Lambey not knowing they’d never see the hills of Cave creek.
Pointing, Jerome told them. “There’s the Black Smith over there, let’s drop my horse off and head on over to that there saloon down the street.” Trying to muster up a spit, he continued, ” I got that dang Arizona alkali dust dryin up my throat somethin’ fierce. God how I hate Arizona”
Back in Sheriff Osborn’s jail house, Bassa, the Sheriffs dog of dubious origin woke up, stretched out full length and loudly farted.

Suddenly both Bassa and Ozzy’s eyes flew wide open. In one quick motion Ozzy ran to the door, opened it and loudly exhaled his held breath. Turning back to the dog, which didn’t seem to mind the change in the jails aroma, Ozzy yelled insults and futile threats to the mutt which the Sheriff vowed was now smiling at him. “I swear, why I ever took you in is beyond me, I should’ve never kilt your owner. Seems I did him a favor…” His tirade drifted off to vague remarks of the dogs origin as he noticed the three men wearing their holsters low slung and untied making their way on foot down the street to the saloon.

Backing slowly into stinking doorway, Ozzy found cover to observe the men. Looking behind him, Ozzy voiced his concerns to Bassa. “I don’t like those fella’s looks Bassa, why don’t you get on out there and see what how they handle you sniffin’ at ‘em.”

As if Bassa completely understood, He rose up, stretched again and wandered out the door. Crossing the street, the dog, whose appearance was best described as a wolf that someone had carelessly thrown a worn out bear skin rug over, meandered on an angle until he came up on the men.

As if on cue, Bassa lowered his head and sniffed loudly at Carl’s boot. Carl’s reaction was a swift kick that missed by an inch, “Get the hell outa’ here ya’ ugly assed mutt! Dang thing looks like it got skin diseases!”

Watching from the doorway, the good Sheriff figured if anybody was mean enough to kick an innocent animal, even one as shaggy and unkempt as Bassa, then he sure don’t want ‘em hanging around his town. Dogs, especially Bassa he had discovered, were a pretty darn good judge of men.
Stepping into the street, Ozzy made his way unnoticed behind the men while Bassa returned to the jail’s porch for a well earned nap

Chapter 3

Waiting until the men had settled down to their drinking, Ozzy slid in quietly through the saloons batwing doors and immediately stepped to the right. This allowed him to observe the men as he stood in the shadows. It wasn’t long before the trio’s whiskey brought out their true colors. It started by arguing quietly amongst themselves but soon escalated to raised voices.
From what he overheard, the Sheriff figured something bad had gone down over in Wickenburg . The word ‘posse’ was spoken just once but it was enough for Ozzy to take some action. Casting his gaze over the crowded saloon, he soon saw his friend and part time deputy playing a game of poker. Catching the Deputy’s eye, he tilted his head towards the rear door and walked out.

Once meeting outside, the Deputy asked what was going on.

“Tom, did you notice those three men that walked in? They sure ain’t ranch hands or preachers the way they was wearin’ them irons low like. I got a feeling they did something bad up Wickenburg way. There ain’t a reason in the world for the likes of them to be here unless they’s up to no good. ”

The deputy agreed,” Yup, I think we got some bad ‘uns here Ozzy. What you thinkin’ on doin’ about ‘em?”

Ozzy leaned his powerful frame against the wall, “ I need something done real quick. Consider yourself drawin’ Deputy pay as of right now. I want you to high tail it over to Wickenburg and talk to Sheriff Lewis there and see if they caused a ruckus of any sort that they might have the law lookin’ for ‘em. I overheard them talking about Wickenburg and something about a posse. Ride hard ‘cause I need answers mighty quick.”

“Shoot, I’ll be there by midnight and back by morning.” With that, Fred was off to the corral behind the jail. A few minutes later Ozzy heard the pounding of hoof beats leaving town.

Not knowing whether the trio was spending any time or just passing through, Sheriff Osborn kept his eye open for any trouble within the saloon. It was soon obvious that the one named Roy was the leader and the other two Carl and Jerome or maybe all three were brothers. Ozzy had noticed there’s a difference between family and non family when folks drank and argued. Non family arguments usually brought out irons spewing lead to settle a disagreement. Family just fought with their fist or knives. Jerome and Roy soon proceeded to prove the Sheriff right. The fist started flying between the two.
Jerome woke with even more missing teeth and Roy’s left eye swelled shut. Carl had a couple of knots on his head from an upset patron who lost his drink when Carl fell into him. The patron lost the rest of his whisky when his bottle broke across Carl’s forehead. Jerome spent the night in the whore house. Carl and Roy had slept with their horses in the stable.
The predawn light found Ozzy kissing his wife Jessica goodbye at their doorway and told her not to worry. He had told her of the three who rode into town the day before. He tried to lighten her mood by joking, “I got Bassa backing me up.” Then he added softly, “I love you Jessica, there ain’t no one gonna keep me from coming back home to my sweety at the end of the day.”

Jessica leaned against his powerful frame and wrapped her arms around him.

Ozzy had been her savior and true love from day he rode into a saloon in Santa Fe nine year earlier. While enjoying his drink, Ozzy noticed the young dark haired, big brown eyed soiled dove watching him from the other end of the bar. Being a man, and being intrigued at why such a good looking girl would be in the employ of the saloon as a whore, he approached her. It only took a minute of small talk and the two left for the privacy of her room. That night was the first of five nights straight. He was her only customer and it had run him near broke.
In those five days of privacy, Ozzy had found out much about the girl. She had been a mail order bride who’s man was found shot to death in Santa Fe two days before she arrived from Sandy Run South Carolina. With no money, no job and no future, she was left with no option but to do as many women of the day were forced to do. Sell the only thing they had worth selling to survive. Themselves.

Ozzy checked his funds the last morning and saw that they had been depleted to the point that he could no longer even spend one more night with her. It wrenched his heart for he had fallen hard in love.

Ozzy wanted to tell her of his love for her but figured such a pretty girl had most likely heard that same thing from every other cowboy visiting her room. The morning broke and Ozzy spoke of leaving.

“I am supposed to be in Arizona in another week. I took a job of Sheriff at a small mining town. It ain’t much but it’s an honest job. I don’t want to leave here, I’ve grown to…”

Without warning, Jessica threw herself at him and begged, “Please, take me with you! Don’t leave me here, this isn’t what I ever planned for in my life and I swear I would rather kill myself than feel another man atop me again!” By now Jessica’s streaming tears had found their way to the floor as they dripped from her little chin. “I will do anything for you, I’ll clean, cook, wash you and your clothes three times a day…anything! You don’t have to marry me even! Just don’t leave me here, please take me with you!” Jessica had collapsed against him and let herself bawl like a calf.

When Ozzy rode out that afternoon, he was a bit cramped on the saddle even though his Jessica was such a tiny thing.

She still was. As he left her that morning and walked down the street to the jail with Bassa following behind, she couldn’t help but feel her stomach knot up. She was expecting in a few months and began to worry about Ozzy’s safety. In the past nine years, trouble came and went and she had her worries but not like this. Something else was in play and she couldn’t put her finger on it. Shrugging off the unpleasant feeling she felt, Jessica went back inside to finish her morning chores before heading to the China Laundry. Since she announced her pregnancy, Ozzy wouldn’t let her wash clothes anymore. Secretly, she hoped it would continue that way after she delivered.
True to his word, Deputy Tom showed up at first light at the jail house with the news. “It seemed that the three are suspected of a killing for hire. The owner of the Smiling Lady gold mine, a Mr. Dickson, had been murdered and his wife near beat to death. She recovered enough to tell the Sheriff that three men had entered their house and kilt her husband to death over the gold mine. She overheard them while she lay there playing dead that they was paid to do the killin. It seems whoever hired ‘em had plans for the mine when the claim ended with their deaths.” Taking a break to spit on the ground, Tom then said, “They’s wanted over there all right Ozzy, what we gonna do?”

Ozzy’s plate was filling up mighty quick with problems. First was how to safely round the men up. Second was how to legally settle the issue of their freedom since they hadn’t committed a crime in Lambey yet. Thankfully, figuring out who ordered the killings was up to Sheriff Lewis.

“Well, first things first, let’s head over to the livery and see if they stabled their horses there. I figure I can legally hold them in our jail since you said that Sheriff Lewis told you he had issued a warrant for their arrest. We got to keep it legal like if this ends up having a Federal marshal involved. It seems every time a Federal Marshal shows up, a posse of lawyers is on his tail waiting to foil him at every turn.”
Ozzy pulled out his long barreled pistol and spun the cylinder. “when I go to arrest them, make sure you’re ready to draw quick like Tom, that group looks like they know how to use them tied down Colts.”

It took only a minute for Ozzy to find out the two brothers Carl and Roy, had spent the night in the hay in the livery and had recently left. “well, I think when we find the third man we’ll end up finding all three at once. I want you to head over to Mary’s Diner and see if they’s stuffin’ their chops with grub, they gotta eat sometime. I’ll be watching ‘em from next door inside the mercantile through the curtained window.”

Chapter 4
After leaving the stable, Roy pounded on the upstairs door the saloon owner said Jerome had spent the night in.

In reality, most rooms were rented by the minute, not the night. Women deprived cowboys spoke loudly of their ability to make a soiled dove swoon but if you were to ask her, she’d tell you she got about as excited as finding a new hole in her lace stocking. Many cowboys after being on the trail for months, discovered that their manliness had either got up and left ‘em or took to an embarrassing early exit. This ended up making room available only minutes later for the next customer. Jerome was not one of these. The soiled doves he frequented back in Santa Fe had complained they lost money when he showed up so they began to charge him extra. That was alright with Jerome since any money he had was either stolen or ill earned anyway. It wasn’t like he actually worked for it.

Roy’s pounding finally ended with the door opening and Jerome’s sorry black and blue face peered out. “Git your clothes on Jerome. Let’s head on over for some grub and cut on outa’ here. I’m getting antsy.”

The three Bartel brothers ordered their breakfast and sat impatiently waiting for their food. Jerome’s face still hurt from the pounding Roy had given it the night before in the saloon. Rubbing his jaw he looked over at Roy. “Dang it Roy, why’d ya go an’ punch me in my mouth, you know’d I just had it punched up the night before by them miners! I got so many teeth missin’ now that a whole biscuit’ll fit right between ‘em.”
“Then behave yourself ya idiot!” replied Roy. Seeing the food was about to arrive, he ended saying, “Soon as we finish eatin, lets head over to the livery and get back on the trail.”

Not knowing Tom was a Deputy, the three paid no attention to the slender looking cowboy as he entered the diner behind them, grabbed a menu and sat down at a vacant table nearby.

Rushing through his breakfast, Roy leaned back, whipped his mouth with his shirt sleeve and loosened his belt a notch for comfort. “well, anytime yer ready, I am.”
Carl set his empty coffee mug onto the table. “I got a bad feelin’ myself now Roy. I wish now I hadn’t left my long gun with the horses.”
As they stepped outside, Jerome stopped dead in his tracks and pointed.

“Well damn my hide, look over yonder there! I know’d that girl anywhere. She was a whore over in Santa Fe some years back.” Strutting like a peacock, he boasted, “ I had her a bunch a times myself!”

Then before the others could stop him, Jerome swiftly scooted himself across the street to intercept the dark haired girl carrying a load of laundry. Timing himself to catch her between buildings, he caught up and shoved her violently into the shadowed alley. Before she could react, Jerome was on top of her trying to stifle her screams of help. Insane anger welled up in Jerome as memories of her laughed at him.

“Hey bitch! Remember me? I know who you are, you uppity whore! You refused me over an’ over no matter how much money I threw at you back in Santa Fe. And you a stinkin’ whore thinkin’ you was better’n me!”

Jessica fought hard against his attack but Jerome had already pulled his pants down to his knees and climbed on top the knocked down girl, trying to force her legs apart.

Tom heard the screams from inside the diner and ran to the door. Stopping behind the stunned brothers, he realized the screams were of a girl being accosted in the alley across the street. Forgetting his duty to watch the brothers for Ozzy, he ran flat out across the street pulling his gun from its holster.

Being experienced shootist, both Carl and Roy reacted to Deputy Tom reaching for his gun by pulling theirs in a blur.

Not aware yet that the would be rapist was one of the brothers, Tom didn’t look behind him as he ran. Suddenly Tom felt a tug on the back of his flapping wool vest and afterward heard the gunshot. Caught between trying to stop the attack and save himself, Tom dove headfirst into the dirt and fired backwards at the two brothers.

Another bullet plowed its way past Toms head, kicking up dust and blinding his right eye. Recognizing the form trying to rape the girl as Jerome, Tom took as careful aim as he could and using his left eye, fired high on the form on top of the girl.

Two things happened at once. Jerome jerked up, having had a bullet drive its way from Toms gun into his bare ass and up to and out of his shoulder an inch under the skin. It wasn’t a deadly shot, but it sure drove the pain scale to a ten.

The next thing that happened was Ozzy had entered the fight.

Watching the brothers leave the diner from the mercantile and having heard Toms original shot, Ozzy bolted out the door into the street with his gun drawn.

Hearing the scream, he realized it was Jessica’s.

Seeing Jerome lift up off of his wife and begin to jerk and twist from the intense pain of Toms shot, Ozzy remained calm, pushing the rising panic behind him, he aimed carefully and pulled the trigger of the long barrel Colt 45 at the flopping figure. Jerome’s head exploded in a red mist of brains and bone, leaving Jessica to run free.

The two brothers separated making it harder to take them out. Tom had made his way behind a water trough but Ozzy still stood exposed in the street behind the brothers. Lifting his head over and into the horse’s water trough to clear his right eye of dust, Tom barely finished when two bullets punched holes into the wooden planks protecting him. Seeing the water pouring from the holes in front of his face, Tom let the stream flow over his eye, finally clearing it of dust.

Roy swung around and fired from the hip at Ozzy as Ozzy’s barrel spewed a deadly stream of lead and fire into the left arm socket of Carl. Carl’s arm flew backward blown out of the long sleeve shirt and fell to the ground.

Roy’s shot caught Ozzy’s holster belt alongside his hip and harmlessly exploded some of the cartridges from it. Tom had by now regained his sight and composure and began throwing lead once again. Not wanting to hit the buildings or people within them behind Roy and Carl, he aimed low at their feet.

Carl was screaming and holding his pistol against his shoulder trying to halt the fountain of spurting blood from his empty arm socket. Suddenly the heel of his right boot disappeared, then his ankle took on a new angle as a bullet plowed into it.

Roy was still firing at Ozzy. Ozzy felt a jerk at his sleeve as a bullet passed through it plowing a groove up his arm. A second bullet punched clean through his thigh. Knowing it was only a matter of seconds before a deadly load would find it’s mortal mark, Ozzy steadied himself and fired the last of his cartridges into Roy’s chest.

Jerome lay blown to pieces, Carl was out of action, missing an arm and a foot. That left only Roy standing there looking with deadly hate at Ozzy. Slowly blood began dripping from between Roys lips and down his chin. Then as if he had just thought of something funny. He chuckled, coughed up more blood and said, “I told him his bean pole would be the death of him.”

Roy suddenly felt tired, very tired. It seemed his legs could barely hold himself up he was so tired. Then slowly his vision started angling sideways and then stopped as his head lay against the hard dust. His eyes closed and being tired beyond help, they never opened again.

A bit shot up but not to the point of dying, Ozzy limped over to his wife who was now running across the road to meet him.”Are you alright? Did he hurt you?” He shouted.

She flung herself at him crying but not for what had been done to her but for the pain Ozzy was going through. “No, I’m alright,” she cried, ‘ just bruised up a bit and in need of a new dress…” Suddenly her face crumpled and tears flowed.

“I’m so sorry Ozzy, it was my past coming back to haunt us. He recognized me from Santa Fe. It’s going to happen over and over, I just know it, Oh my God, I am so sorry Ozzy, and now you’re all shot up too! You came within inches of being killed because of me” She buried her head in his good shoulder and bawled like a baby.

Ozzy reached his good arm around her and pulled her to him. He could feel her swollen tummy against his. “I love you Jessica, I told you before, there ain’t no one gonna keep me from coming back home to my sweety at the end of the day.”

Glancing around at the dead, Ozzy softly told her, “When I saddled you in front of me and we rode out of Santa Fe, I knew days like this might come up. Then and there I decided you was worth it. I ain’t regretted it yet an’ never will.”

Ozzy looked at the blood soaking his shirt sleeve and pant leg. “C’mon sweety, let’s get me bandaged up.”

Heading towards Doc Simmons place, Ozzy felt a nudge at his feet. Looking down he saw Bassa looking sullenly back up at him. “Big help you were ya’ old flea bag!”

Bassa would have taken offense but he noticed the smile that Ozzy couldn’t suppress as he said it.

As the three made their way down the street, Back where the bodies lay Tom was heard to say. “Well, I better ride on back to Wickenburg and tell Sheriff Lewis he ain’t gotta worry about haulin’ these here no goods in anymore. Hmm, I never asked if they was a reward out on em… wouldn’t that be nice?”