Showdown at Dead End Canyon

by Robert Vaughan

  Dorchester took a swallow of tea as he perused the newspaper.

  “It says here that Mr. Dickens may come to America to do a series of lectures,” Dorchester said.

  “That would be nice,” Wilson replied. “It would give Americans an opportunity to meet one of our really fine authors. I’ll just clear this away, sir.” Wilson took the empty plates and withdrew, leaving Dorchester to read the paper.

  The newspaper was actually six weeks old, having made the journey from London to New York by ship, then from New York to Green River, Wyoming Territory, by train. The papers arrived every month in one big bundle, but Dorchester very carefully read them in chronological order, reading only one newspaper per day, and lingering over it during his breakfast.

  For the one hour each morning that he devoted to his breakfast and the newspaper, he could almost feel as if he were actually back in England.

  Five years ago Dorchester had been a man with a title, a 102-room manor house, and a dwindling financial base. His wife had just died, leaving him with a sixteen-year-old daughter and mounting debts. In a move that some called bold, but most called foolish, Dorchester sold everything he owned and came to America to start a cattle ranch.

  Now, his ranch, Northumbria, was one of the largest in the territory, and his twenty thousand head of cattle had made him rich beyond his wildest dreams.

  “Good morning, Father.”

  Looking up from his paper, Dorchester smiled at his daughter. Pamela was twenty-one, tall and willowy, with blue eyes and dark hair. She moved with the easy grace of someone unaware of her own beauty.

  “Good morning, my dear.”

  “Did you sleep on it?” she asked as she took her seat. “Just toast and tea,” she said to Wilson, who stepped up to the table.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did I sleep on what?”

  “Come on, Father, you mustn’t tease,” Pamela said. “We talked about it last night, and you said would sleep on it.”

  “Oh. You must be talking about your trip to Chicago.”

  “Yes. May I go? It’s only three days by train. I’ll stay no more than a week, then I’ll come right back home, I promise. I’ll be gone for two weeks at the most. Please, Father, may I go?”

  “I’ve thought about it,” Dorchester said with a stern expression on his face.

  “And?” The expression on Pamela’s face was one of concern that he was about to say no.

  Suddenly, a big smile spread across her father’s face. “You may go,” he said.

  “Oh, Father! Thank you, thank you!” Pamela said. She jumped up from her chair and hurried around the long table to kiss him in appreciation.

  Poke Wheeler and Gilley Morris stood in the parlor. Neither had ever been in a house this elegant before now. In fact, it had been some time since either of them had been in a house of any kind.

  “Lookie here,” Poke said, running his hand over the back of one of the chairs. “You ever seen leather this soft? What kind of cow you reckon this here leather comes from?”

  “I don’t know,” Gilley said. “Maybe they’s special cows that’s got skin like that.”

  “Ain’t none that I ever seen,” Poke said. “And I’ve saw lots of cows.”

  “Maybe it’s from the kind of cows they got in India or China or somethin’.”

  Poke looked at Gilley. “That don’t make no sense. Cows is cows.”

  “Not if they are over in China or India, or some such place,” Gilley replied. “The people is different over there. I mean, look at the Chinamen with their eyes and all. Why, I reckon the cows could be different too, and maybe one of the things is, they got real soft skin.”

  “I’m goin’ to sit down and see jus’ how soft this is,” Poke said.

  Poke had just settled in the chair when the owner of the house came into the room.

  “Don’t sit anywhere, don’t touch anything.”

  Poke jumped up quickly.

  “Do you know what to do? Do you know where to go and what time to be there?”

  Poke nodded. “Yeah, we know. Why are you helpin’ us?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “And you don’t want none of the money?”

  “No. I don’t want any of your money.”

  “Listen,” Poke said. “Seein’ as you don’t want none of the money or nothin’, then you must have another reason for helpin’ us. That bein’ the case, you reckon you could see your way clear to lend us just a little money till the job is done? I mean, maybe just enough for us to get us a good supper, and a couple of drinks before we go.”

  “I’ll give you five dollars apiece now. But if you get drunk and fail to do your job…well, let’s just say that I will be very disappointed.”

  “You don’t be worryin’ none about us. We’ll do our job, all right.”

  “I’ll be counting on that. Now, please leave my house. You are smelling up the place.”

  “Come on, Gilley,” Poke said. “Let’s go get us some supper.”

  Chapter 3

  AFTER LEAVING COLORADO, HAWKE RODE UP INTO the Wyoming Territory. He was following the Green River north, not sure where it would take him and not particularly caring. The river snaked out across the gently undulating sagebrush-covered prairie before him, shining gold in the setting sun, sometimes white where it broke over rocks, other times shimmering a deep blue-green in the swirling eddies and trapped pools.

  The mountains on the far northern horizon were purple and mysterious, but a closer range of wild and ragged mountains to the east of him were dotted with aspen, pine, cottonwood, and willow. There were bare spots of rock and dirt in between the trees on the mountains, then sometimes gray and sometimes red, but always distant and foreboding.

  Late in the afternoon a rabbit hopped up in front of Hawke and bounded down the trail ahead of him. Hawke stopped his horse, pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard, looped his leg around the pommel, raised the rifle to his shoulder and, resting his elbow on a knee, squeezed the trigger. He saw a puff of fur and a spray of blood fly up. The rabbit made head-first somersault, then lay perfectly still.

  Stopping for the day, Hawke made camp under a growth of cottonwoods. He skinned and cleaned the rabbit, skewered it on a green willow branch and suspended it between two forked limbs over the fire. When it was golden brown, he seasoned it with his dwindling supply of salt and began eating, pulling the meat away with his teeth even when it was almost too hot to hold.

  After his supper, Hawke stirred the fire, then lay down alongside it, using his saddle as a pillow. He stared into the coals, watching the red sparks ride a heated column of air high up into the night sky. There, the still-glowing red and orange sparks joined the jewel-like scattering of stars.

  He had a full belly, a good fire, a good horse, and a nearby supply of water. He was content.

  Dorchester accompanied his daughter to the depot in Green River, riding in a coach and four. The coach was filled with luggage, ranging from the small valise and train case she would carry on with her, to several large suitcases and trunks that were checked through and would make the trip in the baggage car.

  “Now, you are sure you have enough luggage?” her father teased. “I wouldn’t want you to get to Chicago and suddenly find that you didn’t have a dress, a hat, a pair of shoes, or the armoire from your bedroom.”

  “Father, you know all of this isn’t for me,” she told him. “I’m taking some gifts to Carol. She will be the first of our relatives I’ve seen since we left England.”

  Dorchester chuckled. “She’s your relative, my dear, not mine. She is your mother’s niece.”

  “Nevertheless, she is the only relative I have, and I intend to enjoy my visit with her.”

  Dorchester leaned over and kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Of course you do, and you should. I was just teasing you a little. I want you to have a wonderful time. Give your cousin my regards.”

  “It’s not too late for you to come with me.”
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  Dorchester shook his head. “I had better stay with the ranch. But I do want you to send me a telegram as soon as you arrive in Chicago. I want to make certain you got there safely.”

  Pamela laughed. “Really, Father, do you think the train is going to be attacked by Indians? Don’t worry about me. I should be worrying about you. If I’m not there to see that you eat properly, you are quite likely to forget.”

  “Chicago is very large, you know, not like the small towns we have here. You must watch yourself while you are there.”

  “Father, I will be all right.”

  “Board!” the conductor called.

  “Oh, I must get aboard now,” Pamela said. She kissed her father, then hurried to the train and stepped up onto the car vestibule. Dorchester went down to the track as well, and as the cars began to move, he walked alongside, keeping pace with the train while it pulled away from the depot.

  “Remember, as soon as you arrive—”

  “Send you a telegram, yes, I promise,” Pamela said, calling back to him, since the train was picking up speed and opening up the space between them. “And I’ll write to you in a few days to tell you what a wonderful time I’m having.”

  “’Bye!” Dorchester called, waving.

  “’Bye!”

  Dorchester remained on the platform, watching until the train, moving rapidly, receded in the distance. Not until it was a remote whistle and a puff of smoke in the clear, blue sky did he return to the coach. His driver was sitting on the seat, waiting patiently for him.

  “Are you ready to go home now, Mr. Dorchester?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Dorchester replied.

  As the coach pulled away from the station, he fought hard to suppress the strange sense of foreboding that was rising in his stomach.

  It was late afternoon when Mason Hawke approached the little town. From his perspective and distance, the settlement looked little more inviting than any other group of the brown hummocks and hills common to that country. He stopped on a ridge and looked down at the town while removing his canteen from the saddle pommel. He took a swallow, recorked the canteen, then put back. Slapping his legs against the side of his horse, he headed the animal down the long slope of the ridge, wondering what town this was.

  A small sign just on the edge of town answered the question for him:

  SAGE CREEK

  POPULATION 123

  COME GROW WITH US.

  The weathered board and faded letters indicated that the sign had been there for some time, no doubt erected when there was still some hope for the town’s future. Hawke doubted there were 123 residents in the town today, and, despite the optimistic tone of the sign, that the town was still growing.

  In addition to the false-fronted shanties that lined both sides of the street, there were a few sod buildings, and even some tents, straggling along for nearly a quarter of a mile. Then, just as abruptly as the town started, it quit, and the prairie began again.

  Hawke knew about such towns; he had been in hundreds of them over the last several years. He knew that in the spring the street would be a muddy mire, worked by the horses’ hooves and mixed with their droppings to become a stinking, sucking, pool of ooze. In the winter it would be frozen solid, while in the summer it would bake as hard as rock.

  It was summer now, and the sun was yellow and hot.

  The buildings were weathered and leaning, and the painted signs on the front of the edifices were worn and hard to read. A wagon was backed up to the general store, and a couple of men were listlessly unloading it. They looked over at Hawke, curious as to who he was and what brought him to town, though neither of them were ambitious enough to speak to him.

  Hawke dismounted in front of a saloon called the Brown Dirt Cowboy and went inside. Shadows made the saloon seem cooler, but that was illusory. It was nearly as hot inside as out, and without the benefit of a breath of air, even more stifling. The customers were sweating in their drinks and wiping their faces with bandannas.

  As always when he entered a strange saloon, Hawke checked the place out. To one unfamiliar with what he was doing, his glance appeared to be little more than idle curiosity. But it was a studied surveillance. Who was armed? What type of guns were they carrying? How were they wearing them? Was there anyone here he knew? More important, was there anyone here who know him, and who might take this opportunity to settle some old score, real or imagined, for himself or a friend?

  It appeared that there were only workers and cowboys there. The couple of men who were armed were young; probably wearing their guns as much for show as anything, he thought. And from the way the pistols rode on their hips, he would have bet that they had never used them for anything but target practice, and not very successfully at that.

  The bartender stood behind the bar. In front of him were two glasses with whiskey remaining in them, and he poured the whiskey back into a bottle, corked it, and put the bottle on the shelf behind the bar. He wiped the glasses out with his stained apron, then set them among the unused glasses. Seeing Hawke step up to the bar, the bartender moved down toward him.

  “Whiskey,” Hawke said.

  The barman reached for the bottle he had just poured the whiskey back into, but Hawke pointed to an unopened bottle.

  “That one. And a clean glass.”

  Shrugging, the saloonkeeper pulled the cork from the fresh bottle.

  “You’re new in town,” the bartender said. It wasn’t a question, it was a declaration.

  “I’m not in town,” Hawke said. “I’m just passing through. Thought I’d have a couple of drinks, eat some food that isn’t trail-cooked, and maybe get a room for the night.”

  “What brings you to this neck of the woods?” the barkeep asked as he poured the whiskey.

  “Nothing in particular,” Hawke said. “I’m just wandering around.”

  “We don’t get too many of your kind in here,” one of the men at the bar said.

  Hawke paid for his drink, then lifted it to his lips. Taking a swallow, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Is there a place to eat in this town?”

  “Mollie’s, just down the street,” the bartender said. “Nothin’ fancy, but the food is good.”

  “Hey, mister, are you deef?” someone at the bar said. “I said we don’t get too many of your kind here.”

  The tone of the man’s voice was more challenging than friendly, and Hawke turned to look at him. He had a bushy red beard and was wearing a dirty shirt and a sweat-stained hat.

  “Oh?” Hawke replied. “And just what would my kind be?”

  “I’d say you are a saddle tramp,” the bushy-bearded man said.

  “Barkeep,” Hawke said. He nodded toward his antagonist. “Give my new friend here a drink, on me.”

  The bartender put a glass in front of the bearded man. “Here you go, Metzger. Compliments of the gentlemen.”

  Metzger picked the glass up and held it toward Hawke as if offering a toast. Hawke returned the gesture, then lifted his glass to his mouth. Metzger lifted his glass too, but he didn’t drink it. Instead, with an evil smile, he turned the glass upside down and spilled the whiskey on the bar.

  “I don’t drink with saddle tramps like you,” he said.

  “Wait, let me get this straight,” Hawke replied. “Is it that you don’t drink with any saddle tramp? Or you just don’t drink with saddle tramps like me?”

  The others in the saloon laughed, and Metzger, realizing that they laughing at him, grew angry. He pointed at Hawke.

  “I don’t like you, mister,” he said. “I don’t like you at all.”

  “Well, maybe if you had a bath your disposition would improve. How long has it been since you had one? Two years? Three? Ten? I mean, having to smell yourself for that long is bound to get to you after a while.”

  Again, those in the saloon laughed.

  “Metzger, looks to me like this here fella is just a little too quick for you,” one of the bar patrons said.r />
  Metzger, his face flushed red with anger and embarrassment, charged toward Hawke with a loud yell.

  “Look out, mister! He has a knife!” someone shouted, and Hawke saw a silver blade flashing.

  Hawke jerked to one side just in time to keep from being badly cut. At almost exactly the same time, he pulled his pistol from his holster and brought it down hard, on Metzger’s head. Metzger went down like a sack of potatoes.

  Hawke put his pistol back in his holster then picked up his drink.

  “It can’t be all that good for your business if he greets all your visitors like that,” he said.

  “He’s a bully,” the bartender said. “He has the whole town buffaloed. I reckon he figured he needed to take you down just to show everyone else that he was still the top rooster.”

  Hawke nodded. “That’s a plan, I suppose.” Finishing his drink, he put the glass down and slapped another coin on the bar beside it. “I’ll have another.”

  “No, sir,” the bartender said, pushing the coin back. “This one is on me.” He used the new bottle to pour a fresh drink.

  “Thanks.”

  “Now, I’m going to do something I should’ve done a long time ago,” the bartender said.

  Reaching under the bar, he pulled out a sawed-off, double-barrel, twelve-gauge Greener and pointed it toward Metzger’s prostrate form. He handed one of the other men in the bar a glass of water. “Here, Paul. Wake the son of a bitch up.”

  Paul was about to pour the glass of water on Metzger, then put it back down.

  “No, I’ve got a better idea,” he said. Reaching down by the bar, he picked up the spittoon, then turned it upside down over Metzger’s face.

  Metzger came to, spitting and swearing. When he sat up, he saw Paul holding the spittoon.

  “Why you—” he said, getting to his feet angrily. “I’m going to—”

  “Leave,” the bartender said.

  “What?” Metzger looked at him, his face stained with tobacco juice. Little flecks of expectorated tobacco clung to his beard.

  “I was just finishing your sentence for you. You were about to say that you were going to leave.”