Notch 5
a western short story by CE Wills
copyright 2011 by CE Wills
published on Smashwords, Inc. by CE Wills, 2011
This ebook is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is purely coincidental.
This ebook contains adult language and situations. It is intended for mature audiences, 18 years of age or older. All characters in this ebook are 18 or older.
Thanks for reading this ebook. It is licensed for your private use and may not be resold. If you enjoy it, please return to Smashwords.com and try other books by this author.
This is the 5th book in the Notch Series, featuring the gunman, Cedric Gant. You can certainly enjoy it as a 'stand alone' story, but it would doubtless enhance your enjoyment if you read the series in order.
The Last Notch
Notch 2
Notch 3
Notch 4
Notch 5
Chapter 1
My name is Cedric Gant and I'm a gunman. I have a ranch in Colorado. I am a part owner, the majority owner, since my wife died. Her name was Melon Brown when I met her. She died as she gave birth to our son, Mel. Melon's grown daughter, Abigail, who is the same age as I am, recently got married and left the Circle B Ranch. Our lives were changed. My son, Mel, was just a toddler and Abby was the only 'mother' he had ever known. She was his sister, though she had a different father than Mel did, of course. When I was 23, I had ridden into Melon Brown's ranch one rainy night while she was burying her husband, Dub Brown. Dub was Abby's dad.
Those of you who have followed my story know that a Texas Ranger by the name of Elwood Hastings had swept Abby off her feet. She was now in Texas. Though I loved her, I realized that this was for the best.
All of us at the Circle B Ranch finally started to get used to being without Abigail Brown. Life, by its very nature, goes on and western life in particular, goes on. This is due to the fact that people usually work from daylight to dark. Or as my Pa used to say, "From can see to can't see". So we just don't have the luxury of mourning.
The spring after Abby married the dashing Texas Ranger, Captain Elwood Hastings, my cowboys and I slapped the Circle B branding iron on the flanks of 4,000 new calves. Our herd was now running close to 20,000 head. It was a happy, prosperous ranch for the most part.
I determined to drive some steers to the railhead at Dodge City, Kansas. Outhouse Jones, my foreman, suggested we sell our older stock, about 5,000 head. On our return trip from Kansas he thought that we should buy a small herd of a few hundred cattle that were made up of cattle that were two to three years old, with a goodly number of bulls.
Vick Brown, my step-son, who was a year older than me, had done just fine since I had saved him from the noose. He had been clean and sober for almost a year and nobody worked harder than Vick. He avoided going to Winslow for the most part because he didn't want to be tempted to drink. I did ask him to go with us on the drive to market, however.
It was a long tough trip for the herd. One night during a lightning storm, the herd was restless and on the verge of stampeding. Bill Anderson, the Virginian, started to sing a song he had written for his girl. It is a beautiful song called Shenandoah, and the cattle settled right down. I think I can remember the first verse.
"Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you.
Away, you rolling river.
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you,
Away, I've gone away, 'cross the wide Missouri."
We also had a brush with Indians, but we had sufficient riders to drive them off. Unfortunately, we had to bury one of my cowboys. He was an agreeable lad called Skinny Rivers. He was rail thin and mean as a striped snake, but he was a sure-enough man. It was an honor to have ridden with him. We buried him there on the lone prairie, nothing but a simple cross to show he had ever lived.
When we were within two days of old Dodge, we were approached by some herd-cutters. What these fellows did was quite common for that day. They would ride into a camp and claim you were driving your cattle across their range. Then they would insist on a 'payment' of cattle. It was rustling, plain and simple. They rode into our camp during the noon meal one day. Most of the boys were still with the herd, which left about five of us in camp. There were ten of the herd cutters and things looked dicey. One thing I particularly didn't like was the fact that all of the riders had a rifle in their saddle scabbard. They could make things tough for us, all right. They could shoot us from cover as the cattle grazed along or start a stampede. Perhaps this knowledge caused their leader to be a bit cock-sure. He identified himself as Jim Rafferty and went through his spiel of us crossing their range. I laughed in his face.
"Mr. Rafferty, you're a damn liar! You're a bunch of rustlers, plain and simple. Here's my deal for you, and you won't find a better offer today. Ride out of here right now and stay clear of us. If you don't. I'll bury your carcass here on this ground."
Well, he sputtered and cursed a moment or two and glanced at a little weasel who rode beside him. This fellow was a gunman; I could recognize that breed. When the weasel's hand flinched, I drew and shot him in the face. Pretty well ruined his day. Then I fired on the big leader, Rafferty, and blew him out of his saddle. My men, who were lined up beside me, pulled their guns. The intruders on horseback threw their hands in the air and the fight was over. Funny how the sheep follow the shepherd, however bad he may be. To make a long story short, they rode away, glad to escape a hanging. Did they change their ways? Hell no, but they didn't pull any more tricks on my cattle drive.
When we finally drove our herd to the stock yards outside Dodge City, I was grateful and weary. I haggled with the government buyers and got a good price, I thought. Then we made our count together, the buyers and me, with Outhouse Jones in attendance. They counted 5,067 head of beef, which was close enough for me. With cattle selling for $35 a head, we settled for $175,000. I had to ride into town to collect my money.
Old Dodge was a hell town. It was a boom town in more ways than one. Not only was it busy but the boom of guns was all too common on its streets. I had shot my way out of that burg not too long before I had met Vick's mother, Melon Brown. There were people in Dodge who would remember me as a wild cowboy. They knew I was a gunman. It is not a title that I'm proud of. I was just a product of the times. I did take pride in the fact that I was not a four-flush gunman, that loud- mouth trouble maker that wanted another notch on his Colt. They seldom had the goods, the toughness to endure. In this manner they were like a man that had four cards of the same suit but tried to bluff others into believing that they held a flush. They were a walking lie.