by Darrel Bird
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 wan
t 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 Cattle
men’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
