Nathan Gould- Gunfighter from Green Mountain

by Bruce Graham

  After a week of inactivity, I was assigned to guard the Mexican wife of Roscoe Philbin, President of the Great Divide Bank and Trust. She was traveling to New Mexico to assert her claim to tens of thousands of square miles of northwestern New Mexico under a Spanish land grant and Philbin feared for her safety, since there was widespread apprehension that her enforcement of the land grant would endanger ranching and mining interests in the area.

  The five of us---Estelle Philbin, son Pedro, daughters Maria and Elena, and I---traveled a circuitous route in two chartered coaches with bales of possessions, furniture and clothes. Estelle Philbin’s looks were classic Castillian Spanish, which from small talk I gleaned was exactly what she was, nobility going back ten generations. Her great-great-grandfather, she said, had received the land grant from the decaying but still extant Spanish government of Mexico, before it became what was now the Southwestern United States. Only her execution of a confirmation of a claim with an Anglo lawyer and filing of the claim with the Federal Court in Santa Fe was necessary to entitle her to enforce the claim, which then eventually would involve congressional action.

  The elder daughter, Maria, was ready to turn eighteen, and, from her face, I surmised that her mother’s beauty had been tainted by the appearance of a much less handsome father. The son, Pedro, was about fourteen and muscular and with features more like his mother. The younger daughter, Elena, not yet in her teens, seemed to have avoided the blight of her father’s apparent bad looks. I surmised that Maria was self-conscious about the contrast between her less than alluring features and her younger sister’s very pretty features, and had even suffered from rejections by young men of her acquaintance.

  I, therefore, allowed sympathy for the homely Maria to have its way. I made it a point to be cordial to Maria, which she reciprocated with some enthusiasm, even contriving, during stops, to be in my company at most times. She even displayed intelligence and good humor. On our final day on the trail she even intermingled her arm in mine while we went about feeding and watering the stock. By the time we arrived at the hacienda I was feeling as if we might become more than simply friends, if I worked at it. I was, however, more interested in completing my assignment and did not want anything to interfere with that.

  We arrived at the almost finished hacienda with an easy view of what Maria described as a dormant volcano surrounded by a vast lava field, many of whose rocks had been incorporated in the house and other buildings. Although I had not expected trouble on the way I was well equipped with Carson’s Henry rifle, my old reliable ’51 Navy and a ’60 Army appropriated from the weapons seized by Carson. We left the possessions and wagons and children with the workmen at the unfinished hacienda. Estelle Philbin and I rode in a buckboard to the nearest large community, Cimmaron, where, pursuant to Philbin’s written instructions we found the family’s designated lawyer in the second story of a ramshackle wooden building.

  The man appeared to be in his sixties and almost surprised to see us. He seemed uneasy and uncertain as to how to proceed. “I was notified to expect you, but still I thought that you might think better of filing your claim in person because it will stir up opposition in the area.”

  “Mrs. Philbin is determined to pursue this claim,” I said. “When the claim is filed, the United States Government will back up her right to see it through. Is the paperwork for the claim not legally sound?”

  The lawyer shuffled through the papers. “A lot of good that will do with the bad men out here on her doorstep.” He held out a long handwritten document. “Read and sign where indicated. You may then dispatch it by coach to the Federal Court in Santa Fe.”

  “Will you take it for Mrs. Philbin?” I asked.

  “My fee for that service is $200 a day, and it will take two days there, a day there and two days return.” He smiled faintly.

  I nodded. “I’m sure that Mr. Philbin will pay it. I have the funds right here by draft on Wells Fargo if you will change it.” I held out a paper to him.

  The lawyer looked at it. “There’s no place here to change it. I can’t. Besides, I’m much too busy to leave for five days. You can cash it in Cimmaron.”

  I studied his almost empty desk and side table with a few thin files. “You may cash it in Cimmaron, Mrs. Philbin will endorse it to you.”

  The lawyer made as if studying a notebook on his desk. “I’m sorry, I have appointments the next few days, I won’t have the time to go.”

  “You mean you don’t want to do it. I see that your name isn’t on this paper.”

  “As you wish. I’m sorry, my fee for preparing the paper is fifty dollars, and you may do what you wish.”

  I stood up and went through my pockets and threw a fifty dollar greenback on the desk and picked up the paper. “I’ll deliver it.” I led Mrs. Philbin from the lawyer’s office and into the street. I handed her my ’51 and gunbelt. “You take the buckboard back home. You can use these if necessary. I’ll deliver the paper and return when it’s done.”

  Mrs. Philbin nodded and climbed into the buckboard and drove away.

  I went to the stage depot and arranged for travel to Santa Fe and back. The trip was boring and painful over the bad ground, the Federal Court office a tedious exercise in bureaucratic delay, the boring time spent waiting while I exchanged several telegrams with the Omaha office explaining that I would be able to conclude my business in about a week.

  The journey back to the hacienda was uninteresting and fraught with vague feelings of unease. At the stage depot the clerk was wearing a strange look. “I heard when you left that you’re here for the Philbins.”

  “Yes.”

  “The sheriff wants to see you.”

  “What about?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what? I’ve been traveling for a week.”

  The man nodded. “The Philbins are dead.”

  I started and was speechless. “How? Who? When?”

  “After you left the hacienda was burned and they were killed. Two or three days ago.”

  I don’t remember what I did or how I made it to the sheriff’s office. The man met me at the door. He led me to a chair before his desk. He went through papers on the desk. “It happened three nights ago. One of the workmen brought word. Several men rode in after dark and ran the workmen off. When they were leaving they heard shots and saw the hacienda on fire. By the time I arrived with what posse I could round up the place was a ruin. When the fire went out we went through the place and found---.” He stopped and glanced around the office. “I need to ask: what’s your interest?”

  “I was hired to---.” I didn’t know how to say it.

  “You were a bodyguard.”

  “The lawyer wouldn’t take the papers to Santa Fe. I took them. Do you have any idea who did it?”

  “There’s been talk. We found two strange corpses, men, but burned beyond recognition. The lady was holding a six gun.” The sheriff pointed to a scorched pistol that I recognized as my ’51. “But nothing we can put our finger on. The ranchers and railroad and even the people here in town were afraid of what would happen if the lady’s claim was honored. So we have as many suspects as people. Even me, if the grant was upheld I might be out of a job. There’s been one newcomer, however, and he stayed at the hotel, name of Courtright. He left on the next day’s train.”

  I stood, uneasy and angry, for several moments, then turned to leave. I paused. “What do you know about this Courtwright?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “As far as I know Jim Courtright isn’t wanted for anything. Besides, we have enough trouble dealing with current problems in our own places without looking for old stuff from other places. I don’t even know where he hangs his guns.”

  I took my charred ’51 and left the office. I went to the depot and prepared a telegram for the Pinkerton headquarters in Denver.

  “You have a wire here, Mr. Gould,” said the clerk. “It came in this morning.”

  The telegram was terse: “Return Denver at once.
Bring information on Philbin family.”

  My wire was confirmation that I’d be back as soon as I could travel.

  The Denver office was quiet when I arrived. A tall, cadaverous man in Eastern garb and a muscular man in Western dress, a mourning band on his left sleeve, were waiting in the inner office. The tall man came out from behind a large desk and introduced himself as Bill Rollins and took my hand. The other man remained seated in one guest chair. He scowled at me and did not rise.

  I offered my hand to the muscular man.

  Rollins shook my hand and said: “This is Mr. Philbin, Nate.”

  The muscular man sat stock still and did not offer his hand.

  “I’ve very sorry, Mr. Philbin.”

  Philbin did not move or change his expression. “I want an explanation.”

  I drew my hand back. I swallowed and paused for several seconds. Then: “How much do you know?”

  “Never mind what I know. Give me your version.”

  Rollins sat back down behind the desk.

  I sank limply down in the second guest chair. “After we arrived at the hacienda we visited the lawyer’s office and executed the papers about the title. We discussed going to file the papers and the lawyer refused to go. I decided to go rather than to subject your wife to the trip. While I was gone---“

  “How convenient that you were gone when the attack took place,” said Philbin.

  I decided that silence was the better part of the argument.

  “Mr. Philbin,” said Rollins, “Nate has shown his bravery and pluck in several situations. How was he to know that the renegades would attack while he was gone?”

  “His job was to protect my wife and children. He didn’t do it. He at least could have waited for things to settle down before he went. Or he could have sent my wife with instructions. He could have asked for directions from me. But all of that is past. You can’t bring them back.” Philbin suddenly burst into tears and threw up his hands to cover his face.

  I wilted. The sight of the Confederate soldiers and the old man at the Texas State Capitol presented themselves. And a feeling of utter worthlessness swept over me.

  “I think that’s all,” said Rollins. “I’ll see you at your hotel later today.”

  I shambled to the door and to the street. I knew what was coming. Pinkerton’s could not have an operative who would bungle things so badly. Rollins met me at the hotel and was short and sweet. He provided a month’s pay as what he called severance and expressed his regret that my first mistake should have been so extreme.

  For the first time I was truly on my own, without some connection by which to utilize my skills with guns. In a couple of days I resolved that I’d try my hand at being a gun hand. And I realized that that was probably the direction in which I’d been headed all along.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I decided to locate in Trinidad, Colorado, centrally situated, out of the way from the cattle and precious metal mining trades, quiet with a couple of family restaurants and a solitary saloon that did not allow gambling in the Great Western Hotel. The major industry was coal mining, which my research told me was likely to be long lasting and conducive to working men interested in a permanent home and likely to have or develop families. I was no doubt influenced by my recollection of my settled home in Bartonsville and my discontent over the frequent changes since I left the Army. Reflecting back, I no doubt felt that I would be more comfortable with a permanent home, rather than to continuously be on the move like I had heard was the lot of so many professional gun hands. I wanted a regular home from which I would travel for my work, in a community in which I would not practice my trade and even be unknown for his real occupation. To this end, I refrained from speaking about my business with people I met, and parried inquiries and subtle searches by acquaintances as to my work.

  I rented a house on Green Street, two blocks from the telegraph office at West Main Street and Chestnut Street. It was in walking distance of the Post Office, the stage depot and the Trinidad Bank and Trust, newly opened. I paid three months rent in advance, but declined to speak of my business. I mentioned at the post and telegraph office that there might be mail and wires for me and to hold them. I opened my bank account with my Pinkerton’s severance draft.

  Over my forty-four years residence in Trinidad it gradually went from a slowly growing coal mining community to a bustling regional trading center, without passing through the intermediate phase of wildness so common in the West of the late twentieth century. For as long as I let myself out as a hired gun I believe that only a handful of my neighbors knew, and many of them did not care, what my business was. By the time I was ready to hang up my guns only the elderly were acquainted with me during my hay day as a gun hand, and they would have long since lost interest. The young were so modern that even owning a gun was a novelty, and whether the old codger on Green Street once earned a living as a fast man with a pistol was of no concern.

  Over the years I became affiliated with the Methodist Church, enrolled with the G A R, installed new windows and furnace in the house, registered to vote and regularly cast a ballot, acquired and sold several chaises and teams, contributed to local charities, acquired a telephone and engaged in other pastimes common to any ordinary citizen. I took most of my noon and evening meals at the local eateries, attended shows at the Bon Ton Theater and served on jury duty, listing my business as “traveling representative.” At the behest of one or more acquaintances I squired several ladies for short periods and had two or three “dates” with a couple of ladies from the Church, in every case with little interest in any long term relationship. Even my mind and feelings were able to distinguish between my status as a law abiding resident of the community while in Trinidad and the turbulent, shady, even bordering on criminality, of my work in the larger world away from home.

  My first quandary was how to find clients. An inspiration came to me while reading the Rocky Mountain News. Among the ads by purveyors of shoes and clothes, freighters, vendors of medicinal items, home repair men and farm machinery was one for a traveling Orthodonturist, who claimed to be able to straighten the teeth of children, using painless techniques, based in Saint Louis. I worked up my own ad that appeared each Friday among the other items:

  HANDYMAN WITH A COLT

  Six shooter, that is. Dangers avoided and problems solved. Contact Nate Gould, Trinidad, Colorado.

  Two weeks later I received my first solicitation, a request to ‘get rid of’ a competing suitor for the hand of a wealthy lady in Wyoming. I sent a terse reply declining the inquiry, but gave no reason. My next week’s ad included another line: “Only lawful actions accepted.”

  The following week I received three requests for help. One note was from the Oxford Land and Cattle Company of Casper, Wyoming. They wanted help with renegades bleeding them to death by rustling small groups of cattle. They claimed to know the renegades’ base of operations but that the local authorities were so inefficient that they could take no effective action.

  A second wire was from the Utah Mining Corporation, of Eureka, Utah, whose operations were threatened by union activity, involving threats against their workers, supported by a group intending to break the company and to buy it out at a low price.

  The third request was from a Thomas K. Thorpe of Missoula, Montana, who believed his wife was planning to have him murdered by a lover on the next trip he made to his gold mine in the wilds of the Bitterroot Mountains, and wanted me to not only prevent his death but to get rid of the lover, in a lawful and proper manner, of course.

  I decided to take on the third offered employment first, since it seemed the simplest and would still allow me to move on to the others. I wrote to the Mining Corporation that I would try to find the time for them after I dealt with another matter first. I confirmed to Mr. Thorpe by acceptance of the work and when I would meet him. I was paid ten days’ in advance, and met my client in Billings, then shadowed him on his stage journey. At a relief stop near Thompson Fall
s a masked highwayman appeared while Mr. Thorpe was in dishabille and before the criminal could do more than get the drop on him I simply plugged him twice. I explained that I happened to be on my way to a business venture in Oregon and moved on, after Mr. Thorpe confirmed that the outlaw was, indeed, his wife’s sweetheart, and slipped me an envelope with a bonus of ten days’ service.

  I wired the Utah people that I was on my way. When I arrived, we made at a deal where I was to chase the agitators, three of whom were the worst, and the union movement would collapse. The three ringleaders were in the habit of waylaying workers on their way from the mine and ‘persuading’ them that going along with the union when it struck would be best for not only the worker but his family and friends. One of their favorite spots was along Dike Street, on the way past the saloons toward the company shanties. I located the three villains and shadowed them to their place of coercion. They grabbed two of the miners and were discussing matters with their truncheons in hand, when I stepped out of the shadows and challenged them. My ’51 Navy was out of sight and they no doubt figured that I was just another worker who could be dealt with easily. I disabused them of that by snapping my gun into sight and plugging one of them through the heart and another deep in the shoulder. I then pounced on the third goon and laced his head with the pistol until he was bloody and begging for me to stop. I grabbed him by the shirt and kicked him and told him and his wounded friend to get out of camp pronto and not to come back and make sure that nobody replaced them. They were glad to do it. My report of self-defense was backed up by the three threatened workers. The company police and local sheriff were glad to give me freedom to leave.

  I stuck around for several days, strutting up and down Dike Street during shift changes and heard nothing more of union organizers strong arming the workers. A miners’ meeting the next week voted down unionizing the mine, and the company awarded a small wage increase. My bonus was in hand when I boarded the stage for home.