by Peter Grant
“Then, if he approves, I reckon you’re all set.”
“Yeah. It’s kinda scary to think I’m gonna be responsible for a wife now, an’ her daughter too. I never thought about that before.”
“I’m here to tell you, if you’ve met a good woman and you both feel like that, don’t hesitate. Rose and I had something real special together. It was worth everything, even though I lost her, because no-one can take away what we had. I’ll always cherish her memory. I hope you and Doli will be happy like that, too.”
“Thanks, boss. That brings up something else, though. I know you wanted me to help you set up your hoss ranch, but… with Doli here…”
“You want to stay with her, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, let’s get some supper, and we’ll talk about it later.”
“All right. We may be a bit short o’ food, though. Feedin’ five Navajo warriors is tough. Damn, they can eat!”
Walt laughed. “We bought plenty of food in Animas City on our way here, enough to last us for a month as we head back to Pueblo. It’s in the wagon. I reckon it’ll feed all of us, including the Navajo, for a few nights. We can buy more on the way home.”
“That’ll be a big help, thanks, boss. What else is in the wagon?”
“Everything we took from Parsons’ place. I’m taking it back to Pueblo with me. I’ll tell you more about it later.”
* * *
After supper, Walt and Isom took a stroll in the bright moonlight. With five Navajo warriors, Doli and Isom, and three visitors, the small farmhouse was far too crowded to allow them to talk in private. The air was cold, but not unbearable, and their buffalo hide dusters and fur-lined mittens kept them warm as they walked.
“Let me tell you the rest of what happened,” Walt began, “the things I couldn’t put in my letter. We buried Jacob and Jack in San Luis, then went to Parsons’ third piece of property, a big place between San Luis and Alamosa. I spent a few days there, going through everything I got out of Parsons’ big cabinet. It was an eye-opener. There were the registration documents and bearer share certificates of all the companies owning his properties, title deeds, a bunch of other letters and papers that I’m still working on, and a lot of money. It looks like he planned to buy more property down here, and was putting aside cash to do it.”
“Just like he did back in Colorado, huh, boss?”
“Yeah, except that he still used banks in Colorado. Down here, it looks like he wanted to pay cash for everything, maybe so he couldn’t be traced so easily. The interesting thing right now is, whoever owns those bearer shares of his, owns the companies, and whoever owns the companies, owns their land. That means…”
“You own everything Parsons did!” Isom exclaimed.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“That’s great, boss! What’re you gonna do with it?”
“I talked about that with Dunnett, the Colorado Ranger, last time I was in Denver. He reckoned I had every right to keep some of it, because I’d spent so much to catch Parsons, and he’d cost me so much in other ways. I reckon I’m going to do that with a few of the properties; but I’ll register them in my own name, or to a company where I’m registered as the owner. No more bearer shares. It’s too easy for someone to steal them.”
Isom sniggered. “That’s somethin’ Parsons learned too late, I guess.”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking about what you said, too. You want to stay here with Doli, right?”
“Yeah, boss, I do.”
“Then how about this? Instead of giving you a part of the horse ranch I’ll set up in Colorado, why don’t I give you this place? It’s five thousand acres, almost eight square miles of well-watered, fertile land, stretching up this valley. We’ll transfer it legally, so you own the property free and clear. I reckon you could farm one part of it, raise horses on another, maybe keep some cows—whatever you want.”
Isom was speechless for a few moments. When he recovered his voice, he objected, “But what about you, boss? Don’t you want part of it?”
Walt laughed. “I’ve got some of Parsons’ land already, a couple of days’ ride from Pueblo. This place is too far from there for me to run it as well. I’d planned to hand over its title deed to Dunnett, along with Parsons’ properties in the San Luis Valley, but this is a much better use for it. It’ll be a home, not just for you, but for Doli’s father and the rest of his family, too. They’ll help you work the land, and it’ll provide a good living for all of you. I reckon that’s the best possible way to make up for all Parsons did wrong, and for what happened to Doli.”
“Can’t argue with you there, boss. The preachers talk about takin’ an evil beginnin’ an’ changin’ it into somethin’ good. That works for me. I dunno how to thank you.”
“No need to thank me. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve earned it, what with all you did to help me. You’ll have to ask Doli and Nastas what they think, of course.”
“I don’t reckon they’ll hesitate for more than a heartbeat, boss. This is too good a deal to turn down.” He hesitated. “Er… about Sam…”
Walt could guess what was on Isom’s mind. “You want him to stay on here, to help you?”
“If you can spare him, boss, I’ll be real grateful. He an’ I go back a long way together. I reckon he’ll be feelin’ Jacob’s death more than he lets on. If I’m here to help him get over it, an’ I give him enough work to keep him busy, I reckon it’ll set him right. Besides, I can sure use his help. Five thousand acres is a lot o’ ground to cover.”
“If he wants to stay, that’s fine with me. I’ve already paid him his bonus, so he’ll have plenty to get by. I’ve got your bonus in the wagon, too, and the last month of your fighting wages. What’s more, I’ll give you another two thousand dollars from the money I took out of Parsons’ cabinet. That’ll help you run this place until it can pay its own way.”
“But, Boss, I can’t take your money for that!”
“It’s not my money. I told you—I took it from Parsons. You helped me get him, and found and helped train every man I hired to help me, so I reckon it’s only fair that you have some of his money, as well as some of his land.”
Walt couldn’t help a covert smile. He hadn’t told any of his men how much he’d found in Parsons’ cabinet, desk and wallet, in gold coins and crisp new banknotes. Judging from his papers, the man had almost emptied his bank accounts, so as to have as much cash on hand as possible. It was enough to reimburse almost everything he’d spent to hunt down Parsons, even after deducting what he’d give to Isom.
Isom sighed. “I’m thankin’ you again, boss. You said you were gonna give the deeds to Parsons’ San Luis Valley properties to that Ranger. Why not keep ’em yourself?”
“They’re too far apart for one man to manage them all, and I don’t want to be greedy. Besides, I want to help Dunnett. He got shut down when he tried to investigate Parsons, and had to take big risks to help me after that. If his boss had found out, he’d have fired him right away. This way, he gets to look real good by recovering several properties—not just in the San Luis Valley, but some in Parsons’ old stamping-grounds, too, all bought with stolen money. They’ll be worth well over a hundred thousand dollars at market prices, maybe double that. There’s also a ledger of everyone Parsons bribed to get information, complete with dates, details, and how much he paid them. Recovering all that evidence should give Dunnett’s reputation a big boost. If I ever need his help again—and there are certain to be more people trying to steal from my wagons, so I may—he’ll remember that.”
“Good idea. Won’t he come after this valley as well?”
“I’ll tell him it isn’t Parsons’ property anymore, but belongs to someone else—namely, you. By the time I see him, that’ll be true, of course. You can travel with us to Santa Fe when we leave, where we’ll hire a lawyer to register the change of ownership. You can bring the title deed back here with you. Dunnett won’t ask questions, not with all the
other properties to hang on his scalp pole.”
Walt smiled inwardly. He’d keep the Wet Mountain Valley property, and the three small parcels of land in New Mexico, that he’d appropriated after learning about them from Furlong’s papers. He’d also take over Parsons’ farm outside Salida, one and a half sections of good, fertile land, and another farm, two sections along the Arkansas River a few miles from Cañon City, to grow horse and cattle feed. Dunnett could have the rest, over a dozen properties in all, including Furlong’s farm, Smith’s house in Pueblo, the San Juan Valley land, and several others.
“What about Nate, an’ Tom, an’ Pablo?” Isom asked.
“Pablo’s going to stay on, working for me. He’s smart as a whip. He saved my life back at Parsons’ place.” Walt explained how the Mexican had discovered the booby trap in the cabinet. “I reckon I’ll need someone like him to watch my back, since you won’t be around to do that anymore. He’ll be a big help when I go down to Mexico to buy breeding stock. He’ll have me speaking good Spanish by the time we leave, and he can help me find my way around down there. Tom’s decided to head back to California. He reckons there’s too much cold and snow here in winter.” They shared a chuckle at the thought. “As for Nate, I’ve asked him to be my manager on the horse and mule breeding ranch I’m going to set up near Pueblo.”
“I reckon he’ll do well for you, boss. He’s a good man.”
“He sure is. You’ll have to come visit us sometime; and if we come this way, we’ll stop by here. If you and Nastas want to raise horses to sell to me, good breeding stock, you can bring them out to my ranch every summer. I’ll pay you the going rate for them, which will bring in money for the rest of the farm.”
“Boss, that’ll be a real pleasure. Mebbe the Navajo can trade breedin’ stock as well—you take some of theirs, an’ they take some o’ yours in exchange. That’ll improve both herds.”
“Sounds good to me.”
They shook hands on it, then turned back towards the farmhouse. Lamps glowed invitingly in its windows, and a roaring fire awaited them in its hearth.
* * *
Walt lay in his blankets late that evening, looking out of the open hayloft doors at the stars above. It was a cold, clear night. His breath came out in little white clouds as he exhaled, but he was warm in a cocoon of blankets, topped by his buffalo robe duster.
His thoughts were still troubled, tormented, preventing him from sleeping as he dwelt on what might have been if he’d walked a different path. Now that the fire of his rage had gone out, now that he’d had his bloody retribution, there was nothing left but ashes. He couldn’t help tracing and retracing his actions, his choices, that had led inexorably to Rose’s death.
I guess I’ll always blame myself for going after those horse thieves at Colorado City. If I’d let them go, I wouldn’t have hanged Furlong’s son, and he wouldn’t have come after me, and I’d still have my hand, and Rose would still be alive… but how could I let them go? Once you get a reputation out here as a man who won’t stand up for himself, others will walk all over you. You’re either strong, or you’re food for the strong. That’s still the only law that counts in the West. Maybe one day it’ll be different, but not yet, not now.
Still, that’s no excuse. Rose is still dead.
He nursed the bitter pain of loss in his heart. He didn’t know whether he’d ever find a woman who could take Rose’s place… but perhaps that wasn’t the point. No-one can take her place, come to think of it, he reminded himself. If I meet another woman someday, she’ll be different.
He sighed. It was too early to think of such things. He’d just have to live with the ache of loss until it became more bearable. He’d thought that killing Parsons might help, but it hadn’t. His heart was still just as empty, just as lonely. The only consolation was that Parsons wouldn’t cause that sort of loss, directly or indirectly, to anyone else, ever again.
That’s worth something. It’s got to be… even if I can’t figure out what it is, just yet.
He rolled over, pulled the blankets up around his ears, and tried to settle down to sleep.
At last, rest came to him.
He dreamed of Rose.
She was smiling.
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. Researching it was a real challenge, involving trips to Colorado and New Mexico, a great deal of reading in histories and contemporary accounts of the period, and a detailed study of post-Civil War Colorado mining camps and towns, many of which have long since vanished or been absorbed by others. Some have become so-called “ghost towns”.
Inquiring readers may be curious about the names of places and towns. In every case, those used in this book are correct for the period under discussion, although some of them changed later. A few examples are:
Colorado City, mentioned in the second chapter, was later absorbed by, and is today a national historic district within, the city of Colorado Springs. It’s designated on some maps of that town as a suburb called “Old Colorado City”. There’s also a modern town called Colorado City, about 70 miles south and slightly west of Colorado Springs, but it has no relation to the earlier town of that name discussed in these pages.
Buckskin Joe was a large and flourishing mining settlement in Park County, Colorado, before and during the Civil War, but by the late 1860’s, it had declined. Most of its population moved to Fairplay, where part of this book is set.
Hartsel’s trading post, mentioned in this book, is today the town of Hartsel, Colorado, named after the trading post’s proprietor, rancher Samuel Hartsel.
Fremont County in Colorado was much larger during the period covered by this book than it is today. In 1877 the southern part of the county, where Walt’s Wet Mountain property was located, was detached and renamed Custer County, in memory of Lieutenant-Colonel George Armstrong Custer, who died at the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876.
Animas City, in southern Colorado, was a small settlement during the 1870’s. In 1880-81 the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad extended its track westward from Alamosa and Antonito, and built the new town of Durango, two miles south of Animas City. Durango flourishes to this day, but Animas City is long gone. However, Animas City Mountain still looks over Durango from the north.
Many people don’t realize how racially mixed the Old West really was. It was normal for blacks, at first mostly former slaves, to make up at least a quarter of ranch hands and trail drive crews, and sometimes more than that. Another one-eighth to one-quarter would have been hispanic, almost exclusively of Mexican origin, either absorbed into the United States with their conquered or annexed territories, or having immigrated subsequently. Their proportions would have been greater in southwestern states, and reduced in more northerly ones. Teamsters such as those employed by Walt were also racially mixed, in similar proportions. Accommodation was usually segregated, but that was dictated more by the preferences of the workers themselves than by deliberate policy.
Racial friction among cowhands, teamsters and the like appears to have been relatively rare, because such occupations could be very dangerous at times. Those engaged in them depended on their fellow workers to keep them safe, and get them out of trouble if it arose. Given such mutual reliance, there was little room for animus; and when it arose, those causing it were usually given their time and sent on their way. Indeed, some interracial relationships were so well-known, they became an inextricable part of the legend of the Wild West. To cite just one example, “Print” Olive, the famous cattleman (or notorious, depending on whose part you take), had a trusted sidekick, “Nigger Jim” Kelly, who partnered him through many difficult and dangerous years. Kelly was at least as deadly as any of the better-known Western gunfighters, if not more so, and is reputed to have killed many men. The two appear to have been as close as brothers.
There was undoubtedly racial tension in the Old West, just as there was in the rest of US society at the time, but it appears to have been more concentrated where c
ompetition arose for jobs, housing, land, and other resources. It seems to have been particularly virulent between American and Chinese railroad construction workers, and between cattle ranchers (and their cowhands) and Mexican and Basque sheepherders in certain states. I hope to address some of those issues in future books.
Peter Grant was born and raised in Cape Town, South Africa. Between military service, the IT industry and humanitarian involvement, he traveled throughout sub-Saharan Africa before being ordained as a pastor. He later immigrated to the USA, where he worked as a pastor and prison chaplain until an injury forced his retirement. He is now a full-time writer, and married to a pilot from Alaska. They currently live in Tennessee.
See all of Peter’s books at his Amazon.com author page, or visit him at his blog, Bayou Renaissance Man, where you can also sign up for his mailing list.
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