Heart Of A Lawman
By
Darrel Bird
Copyright 2010 by Darrel Bird
Smashwords Edition
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Heart of a Lawman
On that Friday evening, seventeen-year-old John Shay fed the pair of mules and turned them out to pasture for the last time. It was the sixth of March, 1874. The trees were greening in the mountains of Kentucky, where the Shay farm lay a few miles east of Louisville. He gave each mule a pat, and a little treat of sugar.
John was five foot nine inches tall, and he had begun to put on weight. He was quick of movement, and hardened from a life of farming.
He turned, closed the wooden gate, and headed toward the house. His grandpa was nodding on the back porch, and John gave him a shake as he walked past.
“Wake up, Grandpa, and come inside.”
His grandpa snorted and came awake. He was getting feeble. John knew it would be the last evening he would be with the old man.
His father was seated in the living room reading his Bible, and he looked up as John and his grandpa came into the room.
His mother came in from one of the bedrooms and pulled off her apron, an apron she had worn as far back as John could remember. Her worn face and graying hair spoke of long hours of hard work on the Kentucky hill farm. His mother never said much when the men folk gathered in the living room to talk about the day’s events. But she listened intently, and she put up with no foolishness from them.
John’s father carefully closed his Bible, laid it on the table beside him, and said, “Did you git that field plowed, John?”
“I got ‘er plowed, Pap.”
“You goin’ to leave in tha mornin’?”
“Soon as it comes light.”
“I reckon I won’t be seein’ you agin, Appie,” his grandfather said, looking at him sadly. His grandpa had called him that since the time John, then only six years old, had eaten too many green apples, and had had to run for the outhouse all night long, and all the next day.
“You never know, Pa. You might live to be a hunnert and fourteen,” John’s father remarked.
John knew that his grandfather was probably right, but he felt he had to go. He just had to see the western lands. His future was there.
He looked over at his mother and saw a tear in her eye. He dreaded leaving her most of all – his mother who had nurtured him, taught him to read and write, and to believe in the Good Book. Her nurturing had instilled in him a sense of kindness, fairness, and justice.
John looked down at the calluses on his big hands, and at his protruding knuckles caused by working long, hard hours on the little Kentucky farm. The Shays had eked out a living on the farm for fifty years. They had carved it out of the wilderness with their own hands. John had never shirked his duty, but rather always gave his best. Most evenings they talked of farming and pasture, but this night they talked of John’s leaving.
“I’m giving you the old mare, John,” his father spoke. “But you know she won’t stand up to much hard riding.”
“I know that, Pa. You sure about me taking her?”
“I’m sure, Son. You got a right to more than that old horse, but she’s all we got ta give ye, boy.”
His mother said nothing as she got up to go into her bedroom. She came out with a bundle wrapped in a cloth, and she handed it to John. It was a pair of new buckskins; a pair of moccasins was sitting neatly atop them.
John looked with awe at the tan buckskin shirt and pants with the long tassels running down each side. “When did you make those, Ma?” he asked.
“Never you mind, Son. I won’t be takin’ no credit fer them buckskins, seein’ I didn’t shoot them deer thet wore ’em.” His mother was like that; she would never take credit for what she did. But John knew that she had spent many hours tanning and softening the deer hides.
“Try ’em on boy! Let’s see ye in ’em,” said his grandpa, as he spat a long stream into the fireplace.
“Grandpa, how many times have I told you not to spit in thet far place?” his mother grumbled at the old man. “You shouldn’t chew thet tabbaccer in here no how!” she scolded. She ran the house, and the old man knew it.
I think he does that just to get her riled up, John thought, as he took the shirt and pants toward the bedroom to try them on. He came out a few minutes later wearing the buckskins, for them all to see. His grandfather let out a whoop as he walked back into the living room.
“Now you is a fine lookin’ specimen thar, boy, if I ever seen one.”
They talked late into the night, with his grandfather telling tales of first coming to Kentucky. After the talk was done, John went into the bedroom and took off the buckskin shirt and pants, folded them neatly on the foot of his bed, and went to sleep.
Before dawn the next morning, he was up and dressed in the new buckskins. He washed his face and hands in the pan on the back porch. John usually shaved with his dad’s straight razor, but this morning he did not. He didn’t have a razor of his own, and he figured he’d just let his beard grow, as he would do out on the trail. He wiped his face on a sacking towel and went into the kitchen.
His mother was busy making biscuits and frying eggs and fat back in the big iron skillet.
She came over to him and hugged him close to her. She looked up at her son with tears in her eyes.
“John, I want you to be careful out there where you’re a goin’, an’ I want you to get me a letter somehow to let me know how you are doin’.”
“I will, Ma,” John said as he hugged her and kissed her cheek, now wet with a tear. John knew this was a special time with his mother, as she would never carry on that way in front of the men folk. Even though she put on a stern front, John knew his mother’s heart was as soft as a golden summer’s dawn. She loved her God and her people as few loved.
As she went back to her cooking, John went into the living room and started packing his remaining things in his bedroll.
He went out and saddled the sleepy mare. “Whoa up, Rosie,” he said, as he yanked on the cinch band. The mare took a breath and he tightened the cinch some more. He led the mare to the porch and tied her to the rail as day began to break in the east. A sleepy whippoorwill gave its final call at the tree line.
He went into the kitchen and sat down at the table as his mother brought over the plates of eggs, bacon, and biscuits. His dad was already sitting at the table, and his grandpa was still asleep.
“Go wake yer grandpa, boy,” his dad said.
“You ought to just let him sleep. He’s all tard out from last night’s gab, and he is gettin’ real feeble,” his mother said, as she scooped three eggs onto John’s plate.
“Yeah, just let him sleep,” his dad said as an afterthought. “Pass me them biscuits.”
After breakfast was over and done, John walked out of the house, with his dad and mother trailing him out onto the front yard. The sky was beginning to glow a bright pink over the mountains to the east. John gathered the reins of the mare and stepped into the old saddle. The new buckskins felt soft to his backside on the slick saddle leather. His mother handed him a sack of food, and his dad reached up to shake his son’s hand.
“You be careful now, boy. I’ve done the best I kin by ye.” His dad went back into the house and came out with the fifty caliber Hawkins rifle that had hung over the fireplace since before John was born.
“Take this here gun, boy,” his dad said, handing him the rifle.
“I can’t take that, Pa!” John exclaimed, as he looked at his dad.
“Listen, boy, you are goin’ to need this where yer goin’, so don’t give me no back talk, you hear? We can make do with the thirty caliber just fine.”
John took the long rifle in his hands and laid it across his saddle. “That thirty caliber won’t bring down game like the fifty will, Pa.”
“She’ll still shoot, boy. And there ain’t much left to shoot at around here no how, so you just go on with you.”
John gave his parents a worried look as he gathered the reins and gave the old horse a gentle kick.
“Good bye, Pa, Ma,” and he turned the mare down the road that led west toward the Mississippi river and St. Louis.
He made about 15 miles that first day in the saddle, and stopped just before dark. He built up a fire with his flint and steel. It would be the first of many nights at a lonely campfire.
The next day he followed the Louisville road without incident. He hunted his food as he rode. The mare was not gun-shy, and he shot a deer from horseback. He stopped, built a fire, and began jerking the meat. The deer meat would last for many days.
He rode on through the town of Louisville, and stopped at the trading post just outside town. He used the few coins he had to buy salt, powder and lead, and a small iron cooking pot. He tied the pot to Rosie’s saddle, and tucked the salt in his bedroll.
A few days later John dropped out of the hills to the Mississippi Valley and the banks of the Mississippi River. When he came to the trail that would lead him to the ferry over to St. Louis, he stopped beside the track and made camp beside a little creek that made its way down to the river. The punky wood he used for his campfire put off a smoke that helped to keep away the swarms of mosquitoes.
John sat by the fire and wrapped his blanket around his shoulders against the evening chill. He thought about the past few days since he’d left his home, and homesickness nearly overtook him, but he fought it down.
“I got to get that outta my head,” he muttered. He knew that if he did not, it would keep him from thinking clearly. He washed his face and hair in the creek with the lye soap his mother had put into the sack, and he felt better. His mother had taught him to keep clean. As he finished washing up, he heard a voice coming from the direction of the trail.
“Hello tha fire!” And two men appeared through the trees. One was on foot, and the other was riding a good-looking stallion.
“Come on in,” John said.
The men came into the camp. The one on foot was short and ugly, and dressed in tattered homespun. He was missing three teeth in front behind his tobacco-stained beard, and he looked as if he hadn’t bathed in years. He wore a skinning knife on a leather belt, but didn’t appear to have any other weapons.
The other one had on a store-bought suit coat that didn’t match his pants, and a dirty hat. He was tall and had a rather good-looking face, though there was a long scar on his right cheek. Both of them looked seedy to John, but he said nothing as the men sat down across the fire from him.
The short one’s eyes kept shifting around the camp, from object to object. Then his gaze shifted to Rosie, hobbled a few feet away munching serenely at a tuft of grass.
John offered them the bag of jerky, and the men took it without speaking.
“Where you hailing from, boy?” the tall man asked, after he had chewed a while on the jerky.
The short man scratched his beard and eyed the Hawkins leaning three or four feet away against a tree.
“The other side of Louisville, about 30 miles,” John answered.
He was growing more and more uneasy, and he sensed the men were up to no-good. The short man continued to take in everything about the camp. His hand was nervously hovering near the pig sticker in his belt. The tall man tried to put on an amicable demeanor, but it only put John even more on edge.
The short man didn’t try to hide his hostility. He jumped up and pulled the skinning knife out of its sheath.
“Enough of this, Clyde. Let’s get the horse and get on.” Now he was glaring.
The fake amiable look left the tall man, and he jerked to his feet, fumbling with a derringer.
John grabbed a log of firewood with an iron grasp, and he came up swinging it with all his might. He hit the short man upside the noggin, and laid him out cold. He leaped on the tall one and rode him to the ground. He managed to get his legs clamped around Clyde’s head, and he yanked it twice. Clyde’s tongue was protruding from his mouth as John squeezed his legs tighter around the skinny neck.
“You just lay there, mister, and get yer hands up where I can get holt of ’em!” John gave another jerk with his legs, and Clyde put his hands out to John. John fished in his pocket for the rawhide string he kept there to hang game up with, and he quickly wrapped it around Clyde’s hands and tied them snuggly. Then he pulled the long rawhide string between Clyde’s legs, and up around his neck. His face began turning blue, but John was mean mad, and didn’t really care.
He walked over to the other fool and tied his hands behind him with more rawhide string. The man batted his eyes a little, but otherwise never moved. He was still out cold.
John began to break camp and gather his things. He loaded the Hawkins and saddled Rosie. He found the derringer the man had tried to shoot him with and put it in his pocket. Then he saddled the stallion and put the short man on it. He figured Clyde could walk faster than the short one and keep up, so he tied him to the stallion’s bridle. He intended to hand them over to the authorities in Jefferson Landing, some ten miles up the river.
He made the town about four o’clock that afternoon. The town wasn’t much, just three stores, a trading post, a church, a stable, and a sheriff’s office. He was encouraged by the sight of the little church with a wood cross atop it. He figured there would be law-abiding, decent folk there.
The sheriff came out of his office as John rode up leading the two men.
“What you got there, Son?” the sheriff asked.
“My name is John Shay, lately of Louisville, Kentucky, Sir. These two men tried to rob me and take my horse.”
The sheriff looked up at John with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, Mr. John Shay, lately of Louisville, that there is Clyde Turner, a gambler that shot and killed a man near here in a robbery. And the other one is Shorty Tate what escaped from prison down near New Orleans. We been lookin’ fer ‘em both. Git off that horse.” He reached up to pull Shorty off the stallion, and Shorty kicked at the sheriff. The sheriff looked at him sternly.
“Won’t be long till you be kickin’ at the end of a rope, mister. Now you best behave if you want to eat until you do.” And the sheriff yanked him to the ground.
John helped him get them into the sheriff’s office and back into the jail. After they were locked up, John talked with the sheriff a while. He liked the amiable lawman.
“I can see yer a decent sort, Son. Today is Sattidy, and tomorrow we have a real preacher over at the church, if you would like to stay through. You can stay here in tha bunk over there tonight.” The sheriff pointed to a bunk standing against a back wall.
“I would like that, Sheriff. Could I get some feed for my mare? And what do I do with the stallion Clyde Turner was riding? He ain’t mine.”
“You might as well keep him, Son. He ain’t got no brand on him. Clyde most likely stole him, but there ain’t no telling where, so ’less some body claims him, you just tell ’em I said you could keep him and I’ll give you a letter. If somebody comes looking for him I’ll tell ’em about you. You go on over to the stable and tell Burt I sent you and they ain’t no charge fer the feed and stable tonight. And you can pick ’em up after church and be on your way.”
John shook hands with the kind man. “Thank you, Sir.” The next day John went to the little church. Every seat was filled, and the people all made a fuss over John, but he didn’t mind.
The circuit pastor gave a long sermon. It was about Jesus feeding a whole passel of people who et it all up exceptin’ a few pieces. John wondered where he got the money for so many people. Guess He used part of His inheritance that the preacher talked about.
“Sure is something,” John mused. “The preacher said we got an inheritance too, but Pap ain’t got much, so mine won’t be much.”
The sheriff invited John to lunch with him and his wife, so John took him up on it. They had a simple meal, while the sheriff talked about the state of things political. He seemed to know a lot about politics. His wife kept shoving food at John until John finally threw up his hands and quit.
About two o’clock John announced he best be getting along, and stood to go. The sheriff’s wife went into the kitchen and came back out with a big sack and shoved it at John.
“No need for that ma’am, I got plenty.”
“Now you just go ’long and take that, young man. You got to eat on the trail. I’ll have it no other way.”
“Take it, Son; they ain’t no arguing with Beth. I ain’t won an argument in twenty-five years.” The sheriff’s eyes twinkled as he looked fondly at his wife.
John headed for the stable and saddled the stallion, and loaded Rosie with the rest of his truck and his bedroll. The stallion was a little skittish as he put his foot in the stirrup to mount, but settled down once he was in the saddle.
He stopped at the sheriff’s office. The sheriff was sitting outside the door, with his chair tilted back against the wall.
“What will happen with those men, Sheriff?” John asked.
“They gonna hang Clyde fer sure, and probably Shorty, too. This country has got to maintain some kind of justice,” the sheriff told him.
“Good bye, Sheriff, and thank you.”
“So-long young man, and may God ride with ye. It’s been a pleasure knowin’ ye; if you get back this way stop in.”
“I will.” And John headed the stallion toward St. Louis.
John thought about the strange turn of events. He now had more than he had started out with, what with the stallion and a whole sack of grub, plus the derringer. He didn’t figure it was much good in a fight. It had certainly done Clyde no good.
He would sell the extra saddle in St. Louis, and perhaps Rosie, too. He needed cash money. He figured to find a job in St. Louis till he got up enough supplies to head on west.
He rode steadily for the rest of the afternoon, and made camp late, just as the sun went down. This time he pulled way off the trail to camp. He had learned something from his experience of getting waylaid by highway robbers, and he certainly didn’t want a repeat. He made a small fire in the trees to help break up the smoke. After he ate he put it out, tethered the horses close to him, and went to sleep with his rifle at his side. He made the rest of the trip to the St. Louis ferry without further incident.
The little settlement had sprung up around the trade of people using the ferry. John rode down the main street gawking at all the wagons and horses and people. The sound of a fiddle and foot-stomping came through the open door of a saloon. Inside, the men were clattering around, stomping, holding on to scantily dressed women.
As he passed the saloon a shot rang out, and a man came staggering through the door holding his chest. John saw blood running between his fingers as he clutched at his chest. The man staggered and fell to the ground.
No one came out of the saloon. He rode over to the man and got off the stallion. He moved the man’s hand so he could see the wound, but the man was no longer breathing.
Another man came out of the saloon. “What was that about, Mister?” John asked the man.
“Card shark. He cheated at cards,” the man told him. “Just leave him lay and the undertaker will get him. He gets a half dollar from the gov’ment and what’s on the corpse fer puttin’em under.”
John got up slowly and looked around. The people continued to pass by, paying no attention to the dead man. Just like that, he thought, over a card game!
He gathered the reins of the stallion and headed out of town. This is not a good place to stay, he thought. I’ll camp outside town, and come in when the ferry runs tomorrow.
That night he made dry camp. He wrapped himself in his blankets, and lay close by his horses. He thought about the wasted life he had just witnessed.
The next morning he rose before daybreak and struck a small fire with flint and steel. He ate hurriedly, then packed up and headed back to the ferry, getting there just past dawn. The ferry was already loading for a trip across the Mississippi to St. Louis; John paid ten cents fare for himself and the two horses.
When the ferry docked on the St. Louis side, John led his horses off and decided to walk through the town. The streets were crowded, hub-to-hub and stirrup-to-stirrup, with men, horses, and wagons. He passed the blacksmith shop, where there was a line of horses waiting to be shod, and wagons needing wheels banded and axels repaired.
John had never seen anything like it. Everywhere, it was a feverish melee of humanity. John didn’t stop as he led his horses down the street to the other side of town.
About a quarter mile outside town he came on a group of six wagons beside a small creek that ran back toward the Mississippi River. The folks looked more like his kind of people, as women worked around campfires and kids ran and played among the wagons.
He stopped by the creek, fairly close to one of the wagons, to make camp. He had to go a ways to find wood, as the previous campers had used everything that even resembled wood, anywhere in the vicinity. As he sat eating, a man came over from the wagon nearest him. The man looked like a farmer in his homespun clothes and high-top shoes, and he appeared to be about forty. He had a friendly face.
“Howdy, Mister. Might I ask where ye be headin’?” the man asked.
“Out to the western lands,” John replied. He talked with the man a while about farming, then the conversation came around to talk about the lands west of St. Louis.
“Say Mister, where is everybody headin’ in these wagons?”
“Hayes, Kansas is where we are headed, day after tomorrow. We done been here three days now. Three of the wagons are going further out to Wyoming. We aim to homestead.”
“I’ll be roped and hog-tied, you mean to tell me all these people are a going west?”
“Yes, Sir. Can you shoot that rifle, Son?
“Yes, Sir, I reckon I can. I been shootin it all my life.”
“If you was a mind to hunt for us, we would each take turns feeding you and your horses if you would consider going along with us, at least as far as Hayes, Kansas.”
“I might just do that, Mister.”
“Good, I’ll see what the others think.”
John saw the group of six men and a boy of about fifteen gather around, talking and gesturing. After a while the farmer came back over to his camp.
“They all agree to the offer, if you decided to take us up on it.”
“I reckon I would, Sir. And who might you be?”
“My name is Jack Wallis; I reckon I plumb forgot my manners.”
“The name is John Shay of Kentucky; I reckon I forgot mine, too.” The men grinned at each other as they shook hands.
“I guess we been subjected to more excitement than either one of us is used to. Come on over to the camp, and I’ll introduce you to the other folks.”
All of them seemed to be kind and gentle folk as they gave him a warm welcome.
“Would you eat with us, Mr. Shay? We’d be honored to have you.”
“No thank you, Ma’am, I got my own food already cookin’ on the fire.”
A girl stared at him openly, and he felt a blush go through his face. He turned quickly back toward his camp. He later learned that the girl was the daughter of Mr. Josh Morgan, who was in the party heading on to Wyoming.
John lay by his fire, and was soon asleep.
The next day he rode the stallion into St. Louis, leading Rosie. He stopped at the blacksmith shop and livery stable.
“That horse for sale, Son?” the livery owner asked as he appraised the stallion.
“I aim to sell the mare and saddle, Sir.”
“I’ll give you twenty-five dollars for the both of them.”
“Twenty-five dollars?”
“Yep, horseflesh is getting hard to come by, so I need that horse and saddle.”
John took the money and filled out a bill of sale for the man. Then he browsed through some of the stores a while, and found a black Bible.
“How much for that Bible?”
“A nickel,” the storeowner said, as he appraised the buckskin-clad figure. John gave the man a nickel and tucked the Bible into his shirt. Guess God’s word ain’t worth much around here, he thought.
The next morning he arose a little before dawn. He fed the horse some grain, knowing that the stallion would not otherwise have the strength to keep up the pace John intended to set that day. He rode out ahead of the group of wagons, cutting the trail. He would have to range back and forth across the trail to find game, and then be waiting on the wagons when they caught up.
He was lucky enough to find plenty of game over the next week to keep everyone in the party fed. They eventually arrived in Hayes, Kansas, without much incident, except for a couple of busted axles, which they repaired. The group camped just outside of Hayes.
Jack came over to John’s camp again. “We sure are much obliged to you, Son. We’ll be splitting off from the rest tomorrow morning, to go to our government purchase land.” He shook John’s hand, and left. That night before he slept, John sat thinking about these decent people, and he prayed for their safety.
The next morning there were teary farewells all around from the women, and sober farewells and handshakes from the men. The three wagons bound for Wyoming left at noon for the long trip through Colorado to their destination.
That night John ate with Josh Morgan and his family. Again, he found the girl staring boldly at him, and it made him uncomfortable. “Melinda, quit staring at Mr. Shay and find something to do,” Josh ordered.
As the weeks rolled by, the little band began the gradual climb that would take them through Denver to Cheyenne. John continued successfully supplying them with meat for most of the trip. Upon reaching Cheyenne, the long trek was finally over for them.
That evening the families rested three miles outside Cheyenne. The stock was worn and tired, and so were the people. John made his camp a short distance away from the main camp, as was his habit. That night he thought about his parents, and the trip so far. He wondered what they would think of the vast prairies and mountains that lay beyond the Mississippi. This land was growing, and he decided that he wanted to be part of that growth. He would find work in Wyoming Territory. He intended to leave the wagons the next day.
“We strike off to our homestead tomorrow, Mr. Shay, and we would be pleased if you wanted to accompany us.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan, but I shall look for suitable work around Cheyenne. I hope I will be seeing you. I understand your homestead is twenty miles out; I may be able to drop by and visit sometime.”
“Well, good luck to you, Mr. Shay, and God protect you.”
John had become better acquainted with Melinda Morgan during the trip, and she looked at him teary-eyed as he broke bread with the family one final time.
Early the next morning, John headed out, turning his horse toward the town in the distance. As he came to the edge of town, he noticed that many of the buildings were new. He looked with interest as he passed a saloon, the Cattlemen’s Association, and a hotel. At length he found the general store, and dismounted and walked inside.
“Howdy, young man. What can I do for you?” the clerk behind the counter inquired.
“Apart from supplies, I am looking for suitable work to do, Sir. I was wondering if you might know of some.”
The man pursed his lips and thought a minute.
“Well…I heard the owner of the Circle J has been looking for a hand lately; can you work cattle? You look like a hunter to me.”
“I can learn. How can I find the place?”
“You go to the west end of town and take the first road going north and you follow that road fifteen miles until you come to the ranch. Ask for Jake Halstead, and tell him Angus McClure sent you.”
As John walked out of the general store, a man with a star pinned to his barrel chest met him.
“I am sheriff Jode Benson; may I ask where you got that stallion, Son?”
“Yes, Sir, I have a letter from a sheriff in Jefferson Landing, Kentucky, in case someone asked.”
“You don’t say. Let’s walk over to my office so I can read your letter.”
The sheriff fumbled around in his desk, produced a pair of spectacles and gazed at the letter John handed him.
“Says here you brought in two men all by your lonesome. Now I just happen to know that sheriff, and he is a mighty fine man. Son, any friend of his is a friend of mine. I could offer you a job as a deputy if you was so a mind.”
“Sir, I am headed out to Jake Halstead’s ranch with word from Angus McClure for a job. But I would keep it in mind in case the job doesn’t work out.”
“Well… Jake Halstead is a fine man to work for, Son. If you get back into town, look me up.”
“I’ll do that, Sheriff, and thank you again.”
The next day, along toward sundown, he arrived at the ranch. There was a long log house, a barn, several smaller outbuildings, and four pole corrals. He rode his tired horse up to the house, where a man who looked to be in his late sixties stepped out onto the porch and greeted him.
“Howdy, young man. We don’t see many riders out this way; step down if you’ve a mind to. We just et, but the cook may have something left over.”
“I have already eaten, Sir. I came with word from Angus McClure you might be looking for hands.”
“Well, I might be, Son. You don’t look like a cowhand to me, though; you look more like a hunter or a trapper.”
“My name is John Shay, of Kentucky, and I hunted for a group of wagons headed west. We left three in Hayes, Kansas; the rest were headed for Wyoming.”
“Homesteaders? Where did you leave them?”
“Just outside of Cheyenne, Sir.”
The old rancher looked away in deep thought, and John waited patiently for him to speak. The old man shifted his cud and spat at a bug crawling across the ground, hitting the bug dead center. They both watched the bug as it wallowed around, trying to free itself from the tobacco juice.
“I reckon there is going to be trouble for your party out there, Son. Red Jenson don’t take to homesteaders, nor Easterners of any ilk, for that matter. I aim to let ’em alone, but he ain’t, and that’s a fact. Red owns the Bar S, which borders this ranch.”
“Why would he want to harm them, Sir?”
“Well… ya see, Son, this is cattle country, and that’s all it’s fit for. It takes a lot of land to run cattle, and Red figures that’s a hundred acres less to raise cattle on. The homesteaders start cutting up the land and building fences around their farms, and Red Jenson ain’t a man to go around. He’s going to be madder than a wet hen, and you can count on it.”
“Lord, I ain’t seen one of them old rifles in a coon’s age. Can you hit with that old muzzle loader, Son?”
“Yes, Sir, I can hit with it.”
“Son, you can shoot snakes, coyotes, and wolves with a Kentucky rifle, but you cain’t work cattle sporting that thing. I got an old forty-four I can lend you if you’re a mind to work. An inexperienced man ain’t my first choice, but I got cows all over hell’s half acre, and no way to tend them without hands.”
“I’ll learn, Sir.”
“I’ll just bet you will,” Jake said, as he appraised him again. “Turn your horse into the corral over there, and go on up to the bunk house and stow your gear. And we’ll get to work in the mornin’. You don’t let those men run roughshod over you, or there’ll be a continual hell to pay.” He grinned at John and extended his hand. John shook it.
John rubbed the stallion down with a tuft of grass and gave him some grain. He knocked on the door of the building indicated. A man who looked to be in his late forties, opened the door and glared at John.
“My name is John Shay, of Kentucky, Sir, and I just got hired to work.”
“Well, get on in here and shut the dad-blamed door, boy!” the man snarled.
John walked into the warm bunkhouse. Three other rough and dirty-looking men sat around a table, with cards spread out before them. They all stared at him but said nothing.
“Pick an empty bunk boy. As you can see, they is plenty empty.” One of the men chuckled at the remark.
“Looks like we got us a mountain man here. What you doin’ here, Mountain Man?” The other two snickered and stared at John with sudden interest.
“Boys, you better lay off. You know how mad the boss was when you run that other feller off.”
“Mr. John Shay of Kentucky, that rascal over there showin’ two aces is Butterball Thompson. The other one is Rag – he ain’t got no other name. And that one is Cherokee Jones; he’s half Injun, as you kin see. My name is Dan Wilson. Do you play cards?”
“No, Sir, I never learned.”
“Well, I hope you kin ride line better than you kin play cards, ’cause you will have to ride line while we do the cowboyin’.” The other three guffawed as if he had just told a joke. “You better turn in early boy; you milk tit sprouts is gonna need it come mornin’.
John spread his blanket on one of the empty bunks, and lay down on the corn shuck mattress; he soon drifted off to the sound of the low talking as the men played cards.
He awoke to the sound of iron on iron, as the cook rattled a bell over at the main house. The men began to curse as they sat up in their bunks, yawning and scratching. They pulled on their boots and hats and filed out of the bunkhouse; John hurriedly pulled on his moccasins and followed the men.
There was a pan of water outside the kitchen and a single sacking towel hung nearby. Three of the men lined up to splash water on their faces, using the same water and the same towel. Rag just walked on into the kitchen without washing.
“Git your dirty carcass out there and wash up before you come to table, you heathen!” John heard, and Rag came stumbling back out the door.
“Ol’ Rag don’t take to water much,” one of the men snickered.
The men sat down at the long table. Jake Halstead took his place at the head, and John was introduced to the never-ending meal of beef and beans.
John bowed his head for prayer, even though the rest of the men had already started eating.
“Bow your heads, fools, cain’t you see the man’s a prayin’? And take your hat off, Butterball!” Jake yelled.
The men looked a little sheepish, and bowed their heads. It made John feel self-conscious, but he went ahead with his silent prayer. The men watched him out of the corner of their eyes till he was done. When he picked up his spoon, the men did likewise and started wolfing down the food.
“I don’t care what you say, Boss, I cain’t be thankful fer no beef and beans. Now if it was apple-pie, I could get some grateful up, but not with no beef and beans!”
“Shut up and eat, Cherokee, or you won’t even get that!”
The men discussed the merits of beans, and the orneriness of cattle and unbroken horses, as they ate. After they finished the boss got up and walked outside, and the men followed suit.
“Butterball, you and Rag get back to branding the steers. Cherokee, Dan – start gathering cows off the north range. John Shay, you stay here till I get you fixed up; you ride line.”
“Told you!” Rag hollered throwing his hat into the air; he had ridden line for two years.
John watched the men rope the horses in the large horse corral. They were expert at this, and he watched with admiration as the cowhands began their day. When the rancher turned back toward the kitchen, John followed. Jake poured himself a second cup of coffee, and poured one for John and handed it to him. Then he spread out a map of the vast ranch.
“John, the men don’t like to ride line, but this job is just as important to me as the rest. They is a cabin here, here, and here, see? If you beeline these cabins in a triangle, that will be your territory. You will cast back and forth across this imaginary line and drive any of our brand you find back across the line and the other brands back toward their line. The other ranchers are to reciprocate with their line-riders.”
“Fences is fast coming to this country, Son, and you’re watching the days when open range will be no more. I sense a steadiness in you that don’t come this way often, and you may just live to see the end of ranching as we know it.”
“Ching Lo, our cook, will guide you out there to each cabin. Good luck, Son.” The rancher stood up.
During the following year, John went at the business of learning to shoot with the forty-four the way he went about everything – with determination and hard work. He got to where he could draw the weapon and fire almost simultaneously, and hit what he was aiming at.
He never went into Cheyenne that year. One of the cowboys would leave his supplies at one of the cabins on the line, and the solitude suited him. He had his Bible to read during the long winter nights he spent alone in the line cabins.
One Saturday morning in the spring, Rag met him and told him to go to the ranch house. By the time John got there, the boys were getting ready to go to town with their pay.
The rancher paid them, and then instructed them, “You boys go on into town and get it out of your system. You better be here, sober, come Monday morning, or you won’t have no job, you hear?”
The men answered with a whoop and threw their hats into the air.
“John I want you to go with them and keep them out of jail, or worse. You need a break from just having cows for company.”
John agreed. And he wanted to check on the Morgans to see how they had faired.
When he got to town, he walked into Sheriff Benson’s office, and found the sheriff sitting behind his desk.
“Well, I’ll be if it ain’t Mr. John Shay of Kentucky. Come on in boy, and set down.” He shook John’s hand warmly and motioned him to the empty chair in front of the desk.
“Good to see you, Sheriff. I wanted to see if you had news of the Morgan family?” The sheriff’s face suddenly looked troubled, and the smile disappeared.
“I’m afraid it’s all bad news, Son. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were shot down in front of their home. The girl ended up a prostitute in the saloon, and she was strangled to death in her room over the saloon. It was one of the men by name of Kirk Wilhelm, who works for Red Jenson. I know Red had the Morgans killed. I just don’t have the help I need to imprison them. The Cattlemen’s Association owns this town, and no man will lift a finger to help me.
“I sure hate to be the bearer of such bad news of your friends, Son,” the sheriff said sadly.
John sat there in shock at this news. “The Morgans were good and kind Christian people, Sheriff.”
As he sat there, cold anger pierced his heart. “Sheriff, would you still consider deputizing me?”
“Son, if you are planning on going out there after that bunch, they’ll kill you!”
“Sheriff, this country is a young country by Europe’s standards, and if there is no justice, we are in trouble. There has to be justice. And besides, they have to come here don’t they?”
“Yeah, but if you get into a gunfight here in town, innocent bystanders may get hit.”
“What if the fight is contained in the saloon? That would lessen the chances, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, I reckon it would, boy. But how you going to do that?”
“I don’t know, Sheriff, but something has to be done, one way or another. They come in on Saturday to whoop it up and get drunk, don’t they?”
“Every Saturday,” the sheriff said.
“If you’ll deputize me, I’ll either arrest Kirk or kill him.”
The sheriff looked at him with a steady gaze. “I believe you would, Son. Here is the badge, and raise your right hand.” The sheriff tossed a deputy’s badge on the desk.
“I, John Shay, swear to uphold the law to the best of my ability.”
“I, John Shay, swear to uphold the law to the best of my ability,” John repeated.
“You’re sworn in, Son, and may God help us. That old forty-four your totin’ shoot, Son?”
“She shoots good and straight, Sheriff. I been living with this thing the past year.”
“Well, go on over to the general store and tell Angus I said to put your ammo on the county’s tab. Pick up five boxes of forty-fours for you, five boxes of forty-fives, and two boxes of twelve-gauge double-aught.”
“Ok, I have to go find the boys and send word to Jake I ain’t coming back to work for awhile.”
“Ok, Son, get done what you have to get done, then come on back.”
“I think I will look Red’s men over tonight if you don’t mind, Sheriff.”
“Good idea, just don’t start anything. Next Saturday will be quick enough.”
John walked into the busy saloon and leaned against the bar. He watched as the men staggered, drank, and gambled at the poker tables. He committed faces, bearing, and dress to memory.
Then he heard one of the men call out, “Kirk, you leave that red-head alone; she’s mine.”
A black-haired man with a full beard answered back, “The hell you say, Curly” and the men guffawed at the drunken parley.
So, you’re the man I want, John thought. Yes, Sir, I’ll get you, too.
At length he spied Butterball, and stood beside him at the bar as Butterball worked on his drinking. “Butterball, will you tell Mr. Halstead I ain’t coming back to work for awhile?”
“Why ain’t you?”
“I have something I have to take care of here in Cheyenne; it may take a couple weeks. Will you tell him?”
“Sure, but Rag ain’t gonna like that; his heart is all set on workin’ with us.”
“Tell Rag I’ll be back. He’ll keep, and maybe he won’t have to ride line.”
“Ok, John, but you be careful here in town. Town ain’t no place for a kid.”
“Butterball, I am turning nineteen in a few months, and you’re only twenty-two yourself.”
“Yeah, but older women have give me the wisdom of years,” he mumbled drunkenly, “an’ you know what? I’m gonna’ puke to prove it.” And puke he did, all over John’s new boots.
“Aw, Butterball, why’d you have to go and do that, ya sorry gut roper? Come on, you’re drunk enough now; let’s go find your horse.”
He led the staggering man out of the saloon, found his appaloosa tied to the rail and dumped him down beside the horse. He went back in and found the rest of the crew, all, with the exception of Rag, in about the same condition as Butterball.
He looked at Rag in surprise, and said, “I figured you’d be drunk along with the rest, Rag.”
“Naw, I don’t drink that rotgut, John. I just come in with the boys.” And for the first time John saw a quietness and a watchfulness he had never noticed about the man. His eyes were like black glass.
“Would you help me get them on their horses?”
“I reckon they’ve had enough. Let’s get to it.”
They gathered up Cherokee and Dan and got them outside, picked up Butterball and got them situated on their horses. Rag put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up.”
“You comin’, John?”
“No, you go on ahead; I have to stay in town for awhile. I told Butterball what to tell Mr. Halstead, but I’ll tell you in case he forgets. I won’t be back for a couple weeks. Take this twenty dollars to Mr. Halstead, and tell him I need to buy the forty-four he lent me last year.”
Rag looked at him oddly, but said nothing. He turned his horse and led the three swaying cowhands out of town.
Sunday morning was quiet. A few of the men from the Bar S had stayed over to sober up and were walking their horses out of town, one of them holding his forehead.
John was wearing the badge as he walked the main street on down past the livery, where he came to the church. Buckboards, wagons, and horses were left standing outside. He walked into the church and sat on a rough-cut pew in the back row. The minister was preaching on responsibility.
John slipped out before the service broke up and walked slowly back to the sheriff’s office, where he found the sheriff leaning back in his chair, dozing. He spread his blankets on the bed and walked down to the saloon. There was a dealer at a table, dealing cards to himself, and the bartender was polishing glasses behind the bar.
“You sure have a nice building here, Sir. I have done some building; how many rooms are there?”
The bartender beamed with pride at the young law officer. “There’s the big room here and four rooms upstairs, plus the boss has his office over there. Then there is the storage rooms in back. She is a beaut’.”
“She has a back door, doesn’t she? Seems to me someone could break in through that.”
“Oh no, Sir, the back door is two-inch-thick oak, and it is kept barred and locked during business hours. The drunks and the cowhands have to come through the front door. That keeps them from stealing us blind.”
“I see. Well… thanks for showing me. Good day, Sir.”
“Good day to you, Sir,” and he went back to polishing glasses.
John figured he had a good idea of the layout of the saloon; he walked outside and around the building. It was clean of debris except for a pile of cans out back. Satisfied, he went on patrolling the town and committing to memory every detail. He would do this many times over the next week.
They jailed one out-of-work cowpoke the next Tuesday, who had decided to unload his gun into the ceiling of the saloon. But other than that, and the usual complaints from the townsfolk, it was a quiet week. They turned the cowboy loose on Wednesday morning so he could go look for work on the ranches to make enough to pay the twenty- five-dollar fine.
“That cowboy may end up clear up in the Grand Tetons before he stops,” the sheriff said, and chuckled at his own sense of humor. “Don’t ’spect we’ll ever collect that fine.”
By Thursday John had a plan laid out in his mind, and he approached the sheriff with it.
“Sheriff, they keep the back door of the saloon locked during business hours, and it’s two-inch-thick oak. If you would be willing to stand at the door of the saloon with that twelve gauge double barrel, I will go in and arrest Kirk. If shooting starts, you and I both can contain them in the saloon. If people not of the Bar S brand want to come out, let ’em out. Does that sound OK to you?”
“Sounds good to me, Son. I ain’t near good enough nor quick enough to stand in the way of that bunch of snakes, but I can hit anything with that twelve gauge. They won’t get past me.”
“Then it’s all done but the doing. Could I ask you for a paper and pen? I promised my mother I would get a letter off, and I would hate to go and get killed without doing it.”
“Sure, John, just sit right here and use my desk. It’s time for me to go get some coffee anyhow.”
Saturday afternoon a group of riders with horses wearing the Bar S brand came riding into town; all six of them tied their horses to the saloon rails and went in. The sheriff and John watched through the office windows as they dismounted.
“OK, Sheriff, we’ll let them get good and drunk before we go in.” He rolled the chamber in the forty-four and stuffed a hand full of bullets in the pocket of his short jacket.
The sheriff calmly breached the double barrel shotgun and injected shells into the chambers.
“Sheriff, you got an extra pistol I could borrow?”
“Got a thirty-eight right here in the drawer; it will do at close range,” he said, handing John the pistol.
“Reckon I am ready then,” John said, stuffing the pistol under his belt. He made a couple practice runs jerking out the pistol and dry firing, then loaded it and stuck it back in his waistband.
They sat in silence for the next two hours. “You ready, Sheriff?”
“Ready as I’m ever gonna get.”
“All right then.” And they stepped out the door. They walked to the door of the saloon, and the sheriff stopped out of sight of the door and motioned John to go on in. John went in and stood in the middle of the floor. Kirk was playing cards at one of the poker tables on the far side of the room, his face toward John.
“Kirk Wilhelm, you’re under arrest for the murder of Melinda Morgan!”
Kirk looked up from his card game. The room got quiet.
“I am Deputy John Shay, and Sheriff Benson is right outside the door with a shotgun. If anyone makes a move toward a weapon, you will be shot. Anyone but Bar S crew is free to leave this room. If you want to leave, walk around the side of the room; keep your hands where I can see them.” “The sheriff will let you out the door. Keep walking and don’t look back.”
“I want no part of this,” one of the men said, and started easing toward the door. Others began following him. The sheriff looked coldly at them down the barrel of the shotgun.
“You and that old sheriff figure to take down six of us, kid?” Kirk asked.
“You got one more to contend with, Kirk.” Rag walked out and stood beside John. Out of the corner of his eye John saw a different Rag than he was used to seeing. Instead of the old snub-nosed thirty-eight Rag always carried, he wore a polished, low cut holster with a forty-five. His hand hovered over the weapon.
“I thought you went back to the ranch, Rag.”
“I took the boys home, all right, but I figured you had a good reason for staying in town. So I took it on myself to find out why.”
The fight started so quickly that John could hardly keep track. Kirk reached for his pistol, and four of the Bar S crew followed. The roar of gunfire was deafening in the room. John shot Kirk through the throat and the chest, Rag shot two of his men, and the sheriff shot one. When the smoke cleared, four men lay dead, the other two begging for their lives. The sheriff walked into the room with his pistol drawn.
“You men had better answer my questions, or I aim to turn this man loose on you, do you hear?”
“Y-y-yes, Sir,” one of the men said.
“Did this man kill the girl?”
“Yes, Sir, he said he did.”
“And did Red Jenson have the Morgans killed? Now think carefully before you answer me. You will only get one chance.”
The man looked at his partner, then spoke again.
“Yes, Sir, he had Kirk and them three kill them. I tell you for a fact, Mister, I haven’t liked none of this. I just needed the job bad is all.”
“Me, too,” said the other man.
“I know you boys need to work to survive, but you have become an accessory to a double homicide, which brings a life term in this territory. I’m not going to hold you boys if you will sign a statement to what you just told me. Then I’ll let you out of Wyoming. Do you boys think you might like to do that?”
“Yes, Sir, Sheriff, we sure would, wouldn’t we, Duke?” The other man nodded his head vigorously.
“You march right over to my office in front of me, then. Disarm them, John.”
The men led out with the sheriff; John and Rag followed. In an hour they had the affidavits signed. They got on their horses and left town, following the Denver road.
“Why did you let them go, Sheriff?” John asked.
“They are just cowboys. Most cowboys are like children; they go where they are ordered. Ain’t no point in taking their lives away from them for working for the brand.”
“Those boys will be more careful who they work for in the future.”
“What do we do about Jenson?”
“We watch and wait till he comes to town. He’ll come because he is short six riders, so he ain’t got nobody to work his cattle. He’ll think they just got lazy, and he’ll head for that saloon over there. That’s when we pick him up. Say, Rag, would you care to be a deputy for a short while?”
“I could do that, Sheriff, but only until Jenson is behind bars or dead.”
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