The Highbinders

by F. M. Parker

  The fiddle went in under his chin and he settled his head. The bow stroked across the metal strings and the man’s fingers walked about in a skillful manner on their ends.

  Tom saw the man’s eyes tracing the broken lava rock at the top of the ravine, and his music rose and fell in sharp abrupt tones, presenting the outline as if in a picture. He played and drew the blades of grass dancing in the wind, the trickling brook chasing through the rocks at his feet.

  The fiddle strings moaned with the wind, gloomy and cold. The man noted the somber expression come onto Tom’s face and he intensified the sorrowful tone, playing with the youth’s emotions, pulling them to the surface.

  When he saw Tom’s eyes become misty with some remembrance, the old fiddler relented. He launched into “Buffalo Gal,” giving its normal fast pace an additional lilting quality that soon had Tom patting his knee.

  Tom glanced into the fiddler’s eyes. He understood the old man had been toying with him. He smiled his comprehension and nodded his acceptance of the trick.

  “You can come with me,” said Tom. “What is your name?”

  “John Kelly. And what is yours?”

  “Tom Galaway.” He put out his hand and shook the man’s.

  “My horse is old and I have no food,” declared John.

  “How did you get into those straits?”

  “Men often stop working at what they do best to try new adventures. Almost always the change is a mistake. I was at Mormon Basin digging for gold when I should have been playing my fiddle. Working in the cold water of the creek made my old bones ill. For weeks I could not rise from my bed. When at last I could stand and the weather turned somewhat warm, I decided I would go to California with its balmy winters. I struck out on the road. My horse got into deep water on the Malheur River and I lost my food supply. I have no money to buy more.”

  “Tough luck,” said Tom. “I have enough for two until we can find a place that has provisions for sale.”

  “Good,” replied John. “What town do you go to in California?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “I go to Los Angeles. It is located in a wonderful land for an old man to spend the rest of his days. It is south of San Francisco so we can travel together most of the way.”

  “Then shall we be off and riding?”

  “A little food would be nice to start our trip,” John said.

  “Why sure,” said Tom. He untied his grub bag from behind the saddle and spread enough for two.

  * * *

  Tom and John rode long that day through rolling hills with Cottonwood and willow in the draws. They made silent camp in the edge of night.

  John was trembling with fatigue as he unbound his two blankets, both thin as an old woman’s skin.

  “I have an extra covering you can use,” said Tom, handing John his blanket. “I have my wolf-skin sleeping robe. It will be enough for me.”

  “Thank you. The storm is getting worse. It will be a cold night.”

  “I will build a fire out a few feet in front of that big, square rock,” Tom said. “Put your bed there between the rock and the fire and the heat reflecting from the rock will help keep you warm. There is plenty of cottonwood. It burns up fast, but I will drag in a big pile of it before darkness comes.”

  “I think I will lie down now,” John said.

  “Sure, go ahead and rest.”

  Often during the night, Tom awoke to shove the long poles of wood farther into the fire as the ends were consumed. Each time he would look upward expecting the storm, but all he saw were the stars glittering like ice shards flung across the ebony sky.

  In the small hours of the morning, the wind became a violent blast and shadows rippled through the night as clouds chased across the heavens. The clouds thickened and a dense overcast came in beneath the moon.

  All the next day, the north wind shoved Tom and John across rough hills. Heavy-bellied clouds weighted down with snow scudded above them. The end of the day came early and the darkness was so heavy it pressed snow from the clouds to fall upon the two horsemen.

  They were up and riding with the first coming of dawn. As the day lengthened, the storm gathered madness and fury and the snow thickened and streamed down. Drifts formed and grew in the lee of every rock and bush. They climbed up a mile-high ridge where the sky was an ocean of swift white wind.

  Tom was worried about the old fiddler man. He glanced backward, squinting into the storm that roared over them. John sagged in the saddle. Some of his long, white hair had escaped from under his hat and was dancing and flicking into the wind. The web of wrinkles was imprinted so deeply in his sallow face they looked like scars. Wind tears were ice upon his cheeks. Shelter must be found soon or the man would die.

  “Your horse needs rest,” Tom told John. “Ride my black and I’ll walk for a way.”

  John stared at his young companion for a long time. He nodded his understanding at the kindness being given him. He dismounted and with Tom’s help pulled himself astride Tom’s horse.

  Tom could see nothing beyond a couple of hundred feet. He thought the wind still blew from the north. He put it to their backs and descended the slope to the bottom.

  Another hill obstructed their path. Tom guided the way up to its round top. In that exposed elevation the wind clouted them and diamond ice, hurled against his bare skin, stung like flame. He rested but a moment on the hill, then mounted John’s horse. They went onward down from the hill with snow plastered to their faces and wind pounding their backs.

  Where the land flattened, Tom halted and his frozen eyes wrestled with the drifting phantom forms of snow. Unbelieving, he saw a house. In front stood a stagecoach, its hulking one-ton bulk rocking to the slam of the wind upon its tall side.

  He checked the chimney. Smoke rose up, barely clearing the chimney top before it was shredded to bits by the wind.

  Tom walked close to John. “We have found a house. They have a fire.”

  John raised his head and looked. He exhaled a fragile breath into the frigid air. In a voice thin as a ghost’s he said, “It’s a stage station.”

  They sat their horses in the lonely gloom of the blizzard, not yet fully believing they had found shelter.

  Saddle leather creaked as John took hold of the pommel and tried to dismount. “Tom, I’m going to need some help. I don’t think I can walk,” he said, his teeth chattering with the cold.

  Tom lifted him down in his arms and carried him to the entrance of the stage station. He kicked the door. In a few seconds, someone moved aside the protective block on a gun port cut through the wooden portal and stared out at him. The door swung open and Tom entered with his burden.

  The room was large. Low benches were stretched along one wall. Four small tables, handmade of wood, were placed on the right side of the room. A large dining table was in the center of the room just off an alcove where a cooking stove could be seen. Through an open door at the rear of the room, a man was visible sleeping on a bed. All the windows were shuttered with thick wooden planks.

  Groups of people were scattered here and there at the tables and on the benches. Tom ignored all of them. He carried John straight to the big, pot-bellied iron stove next to the side wall. Gently he set the old man on the earthen floor.

  Within the stove fire crackled. Flickering flames cast yellow light out through the draft hole to dance on the floor.

  John leaned forward and breathed a lung full of the warmth radiating from the fire. He shivered once more, gave Tom a kindly look from those faded old eyes and smiled. “I think I’ll live a little longer now and be able to keep my promise to play you some tunes on my fiddle.”

  “That’s good,” responded Tom. “You rest. I’ll take care of the horses.”

  Torn faced the room. “Who’s the manager here? I’ve got two horses that need to be gotten into cover and given a ration of grain.”

  “You got any money?” questioned a square built man at a table containing some papers and a cash box.
He gazed doubtfully at Tom’s dilapidated clothing.

  “Got gold,” replied Tom.

  “All right, then. Round back is a long shed with plenty of stable space. Find a place there for your animals. You can get grain from the sack in the corner near the manger.”

  “How about food for my friend and me?”

  “Pot of hot beans and beef there on the stove. Part of a roast chicken on the table. Plenty of tea and coffee there. Some boiled eggs left, too. My woman is baking more bread. She’ll set you a plate when it’s done. You can spread your blankets right there where the old man is.”

  Tom nodded and went outside the door. He led the mustangs into the long, low building and gave each animal a full ration of grain and an armload of hay. As they greedily crunched the grain between their broad teeth, he stripped saddle and bridle from them. Carrying John’s bedroll and gear and his own, he headed back to the station.

  Tom stopped at the stagecoach and circled it, examining the vehicle stoutly built of oak and iron. The leather curtains were drawn and he could not see inside. Promising himself a more complete investigation of the coach later when the storm let up, he walked to the station building.

  The building was of two types of materials. The older section, and the largest, was of wood. An addition on the right was of stone. Gunports showed in strategic places on all sides Tom could see. A solid little fortress. He went inside.

  “Find everything you need?” asked the manager.

  “Yes. What’s the name of this place?”

  “Rattlesnake Station on the Hills Beachy Stage Line.”

  “Big crowd of people. All passengers?”

  “Stage had to lay up because of the storm. Be moving on, probably by tomorrow. The driver is catching up on his sleep now. My woman says she is ready to feed you.”

  John and Tom ate a hearty meal and then spread their beds on the floor. The old man instantly went to sleep.

  Tom looked around at the other people in the room. Three soldiers in cavalry uniforms sat talking at one of the small tables. Three men in miner’s clothing were playing poker with a pack of frayed cards. Two cowboys and two young women laughed and conversed with each other in high, good spirits. In one of the corners, an Indian lay flat on his back, sleeping and snoring in a low rumble.

  The wife of the manager was visible in the kitchen alcove in the old section of the station. The manager was silently making entries in his ledger.

  “This stage heading south to Winnemucca?” Tom asked the manager.

  “Yep. About one hundred and eighty miles. You’re a strong looking fellow. You looking for a job? If so, there’s plenty of work there, for the town is booming since the railroad arrived last year. The pay is three dollars a day for carpenters in Winnemucca and four dollars at the new gold mines in the Tuscarora Mountains.”

  “Nope. Not looking for work. Just passing through. I’d like to buy two tickets.”

  “You’re in luck. Only two seats left inside the coach. Looks like your old friend couldn’t ride another mile in this cold and snow. That’ll be sixteen dollars apiece for a total of thirty-two.”

  Tom brought out his gold and the man carefully weighed out the correct amount on a small scale. “Here are your tickets. Keep them and show them to the driver at each stop if he asks to see them.”

  “How much to board my horse for a month or two?”

  “Didn’t you come on two horses?”

  “One is old and not worth anything. I’m just going to turn him loose.”

  “The Company does allow us to help people who take the stage and need a horse waiting for them when they return. Charge is two bits a day. They get grain and hay.”

  “It is a deal. My name is Tom Galaway and I’ll pick the horse up myself.”

  He returned to John and stuck one of the tickets in the band of his hat. He put the second one in his shirt pocket.

  * * *

  John awoke in the evening. He threw off his blanket and grinned at Tom. “I’ve had food, a fine sleep and I’m warm. You provided this for me. How would you like to hear some music?”

  Tom smiled back at the old fiddler man. Only the heartwood of him remained, all else whittled and wasted away. But he endured. “Don’t play anything sad,” Tom said.

  “How about a rendition of a world classic?”

  “You must explain what that means one day, but for now play one.”

  John’s blue eyes laughed and his mouth curled into a happy smile as his practiced hands drew the bow so beautifully across the strings of the violin.

  CHAPTER 13

  The music of the fiddle came softly and pleasingly. Tom was relaxed, leaning back against the wall and letting his mind bask and revel in the lovely tones.

  John finished the piece and Tom opened his eyes. “Why does music always cause a person to remember things of the past?” Tom asked.

  “I hadn’t thought of that before, but I believe you are correct and most tunes do recall old memories. Are you ready for another?”

  “I can listen longer than you can play.”

  John began. Several of the other people in the room had ceased talking and craned their necks to listen.

  “Louder,” called one of the cavalry soldiers. “Play louder so all of us can hear.”

  The fiddler increased the volume and everyone became very quiet. The bow moved in his practiced hand for several minutes without stopping. When he finally ceased, the women clapped approval. The men joined in.

  Tom knew the applause was well earned. He was stirred in a way never before experienced. He was glad he had found the old man and they traveled together. What other pleasant mysteries waited for his discovery?

  The manager’s wife lit the coal oil lamp on the dining table and smiled at John. “Now you can see to play your fiddle some more for us.”

  “Thank you for the light, but I need none. My fingers and the bow know the notes of the pieces of music so well they can play them equally well in the dark.” He chuckled. “And if that wasn’t so, I would simply compose my own.”

  “Don’t all people play music they make themselves?” questioned Tom.

  “Very few have the artistic touch to create their own music. Some of what I have played for you was written by others.”

  John spoke to the assemblage of men and women. “Something to dance by, would that meet with your favor?”

  “Great idea,” said one of the cowboys. He arose and put out his hand to gently pull one of the young women to her feet.

  At that moment, the outside door swung open and two men in heavy sheepskin coats, with hats pulled low against the storm came into the station. The wind flickered the lamp and snow swirled inside with them in a little blizzard before they could shut the door.

  They were rawboned men with full beards. As they unbuttoned their coats to receive the warmth of the fire, tied down six- guns were exposed. They held their hands to the heat and stared in a measuring manner at every man in the room.

  John played a lively tune with a beat. The manager and his wife, and the two cowboys and their women danced in the lamp-shine. The cavalry men and the men in the miner’s clothing patted their feet in rhythm.

  Tom watched the movement of the men and women to the music and the smiles upon their lips. A pleasant emotion caught him. One day he would learn to step in that peculiar fashion.

  The time ended. The dancers looked at John to see if he was going to play some more. But the rough strangers, who said not a word and stared about, had somehow put a damper on the festive mood that had prevailed in the room. John seated himself on his blanket and placed his violin beside his hat on the floor.

  Tom closed his eyes. He was tired after fighting the storm for hours. He dozed off, replaying the last tune in his head.

  The manager reseated himself at his table and his wife went into the kitchen. The cowboys and their women found seats and soon a flow of conversation started.

  One of the new arrivals approached the manager. �
��Two tickets to Winnemucca,” he said.

  “Sure,” said the manager. “But you’ll have to ride outside the stagecoach.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All the inside seats have been sold.”

  “It’s too damn cold for a man to ride outside. It’s below zero out there.”

  “The driver does.”

  “Maybe so. But he gets paid and dresses for it. Me, all the clothes I’ve got with me are what I got on. I want to ride inside.”

  “The stage runs three times a week. If you want to wait, there’ll be another one in two days.”

  “I’m not going to wait. How about the Indian? Is he going on the stage?”

  “The Paiute, that’s old Broken Horn. He’s going to Fort McDermitt.”

  “Then we’ll take his ticket for one of us,” said the man.

  “The Indian rides for free and he rides on top,” replied the station manager.

  “Then just sell me two tickets for inside.”

  “There are no seats, like I told you.”

  “You don’t understand. You sell us the tickets and we’ll trade with somebody who will wait for the next stage,” said the man.

  “No one will trade with you,” said the manager.

  The man put his fists on the top of the table and leaned over the seated manager. “Hear me for the last time. Sell me two tickets.”

  “Sure,” muttered the manager and handed over the tickets.

  The man returned to his comrade and said a few words to him. Both turned to cast a calculating stare around the room. Their eyes roamed over the three cavalrymen, the miners, and the cowboys.

  The first man spoke in a quiet voice. “Stokes, I’m sure the old man and boy wouldn’t mind swapping tickets and riding outside.”

  Stokes chuckled a wicked laugh. “You’re right, Terpin. And it wouldn’t make any difference if they did.”

  “Watch the others and back my play,” said Terpin. He strode up to John and bent to remove the stagecoach ticket from the band of the hat lying on the floor.

  John had been watching the pretty faces of the young women until the man had drawn near. Now in surprise, he grabbed Terpin’s hand to prevent him from taking the ticket.