The Legend of Perley Gates

by William W. Johnstone

  “Good luck to you, young feller,” Russ said in parting. “Maybe I’ll meet you somewhere along the way. The stage leaves Cheyenne every Monday and Thursday. It comes back from Deadwood every Tuesday and Saturday. You won’t have no trouble followin’ the road. There’s been so many folks headin’ up that way it’d be pretty nigh impossible to get lost.”

  “Much obliged,” Perley said and stepped back to watch his departure. The big Concord coach, with a full load of passengers inside and four more on top, pulled away from the hotel with a crack of Russ’s whip for encouragement, leaving Perley envious of the time it would make.

  There were ranches contracted all along the way to change the horses, but again at Russ’s suggestion, Perley planned to camp the first night at a place called Bear Springs, about forty miles away. “Don’t fret yourself ’cause you can’t keep up with that stage,” he told Buck. “Those horses are gonna be through in about ten miles. You’ve gotta go all the way to Deadwood.”

  He pushed on, following a road marked with hoofprints and wagon tracks, some left by heavy freighters and oxen, over a rugged corridor of the high plains. The land looked to him to be barren of vegetation and water, yet every ten miles or so, he came upon a creek or a stream with a farm on its banks.

  He didn’t stop to inquire about his grandfather except for at one small farm, where he rested his horses and watered them in a little pond formed by a dam in the creek. The owner came out to pass the time of day with him, but he couldn’t recall having seen Perley’s grandfather. Perley expected as much. He still thought his best chance was at Fort Laramie, where his grandfather might have bought supplies, so he didn’t waste time stopping at every stage changeover station. He ended the first day at Bear Springs, as he had intended.

  Each day that followed was pretty much the same as that first day, until he rode over the Laramie River on the steel bridge into Fort Laramie late one afternoon. Having never seen such a bridge, he took a few minutes’ time to stop and look the impressive structure over. Then he followed the road into the fort, stopping the first soldier he met to ask where the post trader’s store was located.

  “Ride straight across the parade ground,” the soldier said and pointed to a two-story barracks. “That’s the bachelor officers’ quarters. Ride out that road that goes in front of it, toward the cavalry barracks. Before you get to it, you’ll see a sizable building. That’s the sutler’s store.”

  “Much obliged,” Perley said and gave Buck a nudge with his heels.

  The store was easily found with the soldier’s directions, so Perley pulled up to the hitching post and looped the reins over it. Inside, he saw a couple of men behind the counters and one sitting at a desk, shuffling some papers. Perley figured the man at the desk was most likely the sutler, so he walked over and spoke to him.

  “Excuse me, sir. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I was wonderin’ if you could help me.”

  Gilbert Collins looked up from his desk at the rangy young man. “Well, we’ll certainly try. Just tell one of the clerks over there what you need, and if we’ve got it, he’ll get it for you.”

  “Yes, sir, I ’preciate that, but I was hopin’ you mighta remembered seein’ my grandpa if he came through here, maybe a couple of months ago.”

  “Your grandpa?” Collins blurted, astonished by the question. Being a gentle and courteous man, he refrained from answering unkindly. “Why, friend, I don’t know. What’s your grandpa’s name?”

  “Perley Gates,” Perley answered.

  Collins didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he put his papers down and gave Perley his full attention. “Young man, we get folks coming and going through here day in and day out—soldiers, trappers, settlers, Indians. We’re not likely to remember any of their names, except maybe those of the men stationed here.”

  Perley was not surprised by his answer and started to thank him for his time, but Collins continued.

  “But that’s one name I found easy to remember, and I remember the man who wore it. I even gave him a bottle of rye whiskey at no charge. He and I talked for half the night, and he was gone the next morning.” He couldn’t help chuckling when he recalled it.

  Perley was excited. He had actually struck his grandfather’s trail, but before he could speak, Collins interrupted.

  “Perley Gates,” he pronounced, still chuckling. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Perley Gates,” he answered.

  Collins started to tell him he meant his name, but realized then. “You’re named after him?”

  “Yes, sir.” Perley was overjoyed to have found his grandpa’s trail, but he was eager to ask for any additional information Collins could give him. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Grandpa had impressed the sutler.

  Collins gave him further proof of this when he yelled to one of his clerks, “Hey, Jeff, you remember a fellow named Perley Gates?”

  Jeff immediately smiled. “I sure do. Feisty little feller heading up to Deadwood. Said he was on his way to get rich.”

  Perley could feel his heart quicken. It was the confirmation he had needed, to give him faith that he was definitely on his grandfather’s trail. “How long ago was he here?” Perley asked.

  “Oh, let’s see,” Collins replied, stroking his chin while he tried to remember. “I don’t rightly recall exactly, but seems to me it was still cold weather. In the spring, I guess.”

  Perley stayed to talk for a little while, asking any questions that he could think of that might help him, but Collins, although more than willing, couldn’t tell him much.

  Perley thanked him and rode out of the fort to pick up the trail again before choosing a place to camp for the night. After another supper of coffee and venison, he passed a peaceful night and started out early the next morning.

  A day and a half out of Fort Laramie, he was surprised to come upon a collection of rough buildings that appeared to be a small village. Thinking that this might be a place where his grandfather could have stopped, he guided Buck toward one of the larger structures, where he saw a man sitting in a rocking chair on the porch.

  “Afternoon,” he greeted the fellow. “Wonder if you could tell me what the name of this town is.”

  The man got up from his chair and walked to the edge of the porch. “This here is the Hat Creek Ranch and Stage Stop,” he said. “Is that what you were lookin’ for?”

  “No, sir,” Perley answered. “I ain’t really lookin’ for anyplace, just ridin’ through. Wondered where I was. Wasn’t expectin’ to find a town here. I thought if it was a town, there might be a blacksmith. I think my packhorse has a loose shoe.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. We’ve got a blacksmith just beyond that little shack with the flagpole. That’s the post office,” he said and pointed. “We didn’t start out to be a town, but I reckon we turned into one. This here is the hotel. We’ve got a grocery, a bakery, stables—most anything you’d need.” He seemed proud of their progress. “Where are you headed, young fellow? Deadwood, with all the other gold hunters?”

  “Well, I’m headin’ to Deadwood, all right,” Perley answered. “But I don’t know much about huntin’ for gold. I’m goin’ up there to try to find my grandpa, and he mighta gone up there for gold. I promised my mother I would so I could let him know that my pa has died.”

  “Is that a fact?” The man stepped down from the porch. “Come on, I’ll walk down to the blacksmith shop with you.” Perley dismounted and walked along beside him. “What’s your name, young fellow?”

  “Perley Gates.”

  “Perley Gates?” the man questioned, not sure he had heard correctly. “Well, that’s an unusual name. And you’re looking for your grandpa? What’s his name?”

  “Perley Gates.”

  “I shoulda guessed that. My name’s John Bowman. I’m glad to meetcha, Perley.”

  They walked on down past the post office and telegraph office to the blacksmith shop, where Bowman introduced Perley to Ralph Baskin, the blacksm
ith.

  “Perley, here, says his horse might have a loose shoe. I told him you didn’t know nothin’ about shoein’ horses.”

  Baskin laughed, accustomed to Bowman’s japing. “If you’da seen me tryin’ to shoe that dark roan back there, you mighta thought that for sure.”

  “Why’s that?” Bowman asked.

  “The damn horse is crazy,” Baskin said. “He likes to bite. I’ve shoed a lot of horses that wanted to bite me, and I took that right out of ’em quick enough, but that horse is a mean one. I went round and round with him till I said to hell with it. Look at this.” He pulled his sleeve up to exhibit a nasty-looking bruised elbow. “He’da et me up if I’da let him.”

  “You’d better have Marge take a look at that.” Bowman turned to Perley to explain. “Marge is the closest thing we’ve got to a doctor. She’s Ralph’s wife.” Turning back to Baskin, he asked, “Whose horse is it?”

  “One of those two fellers that have been hangin’ around here for the last couple of days—say they’re waitin’ for somebody supposed to be on the stage. They look more like they’re waitin’ to hold up the stage. Anyway, he ain’t gonna be too happy when he comes back for his horse and it ain’t got new shoes.” He shrugged, as if perplexed. “But that ain’t doin’ you much good, is it?” Baskin asked Perley. “I’ll take a look at that loose shoe. Which horse?”

  “The packhorse,” Perley replied. “I expect you’d best check ’em all, but it’s the left front that I noticed.”

  Baskin nodded and took the lead rope from Perley.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look at that roan you’re havin’ trouble with,” Perley said.

  “Go right ahead, but you’d best watch him. He’ll take a hunk outta you before you know what happened.”

  “I’ll watch him,” Perley said and walked to the back corner of a shed over Baskin’s forge, where a black horse was tied to the corner post. Buck whinnied and the blue roan answered with a whinny; then Buck followed behind Perley. John Bowman watched the young stranger, curious as to what he was going to do.

  The roan’s nostrils flared, and he jerked his head back against the rope that held him.

  “Settle down, boy,” Perley cooed softly, and the horse settled down at once. Perley spoke a few more words of reassurance to the roan and then started to stroke its neck. Pretty soon, the horse was nuzzling Perley with its muzzle. Perley turned to find both Bowman and Baskin watching him in openmouthed wonder.

  Bowman was the first to speak. “I thought you said that horse was mean.”

  “Look at my arm!” Baskin retorted. “What the hell did you say to that crazy horse?”

  “It ain’t what I said,” Perley replied. “It’s what Buck told him.” He nodded toward the big bay. “Buck told him to behave himself, I reckon. I expect that whoever usually shoes this horse musta hurt him and he don’t want any more of that treatment.” He reached down and lifted the roan’s hoof, and the horse made no attempt to resist. “Might be a good idea if you came over and introduced yourself again,” he said to Baskin, “so he’ll know you ain’t gonna hurt him.”

  Perley had always had a knack for handling horses. He didn’t know why, and neither did his brothers—he just did. It was another quirk about their younger brother. Although Perley had said it was Buck that told the roan to settle down, he had no notion if that was true. Horses can communicate with each other—he knew that to be a fact—so maybe Buck did let the horse know to be gentle.

  Baskin, still in wide-eyed amazement, dropped the sorrel’s hoof and came to join Perley. Bowman was close behind. Somewhat cautiously, Baskin rubbed the roan’s withers, then gently reached down and picked up its hoof.

  The roan promptly bit him on his behind.

  “Yow!” Baskin screamed in pain and scrambled out of the horse’s reach. Finding it funny, Bowman couldn’t help laughing.

  Perley found it puzzling. He stepped back beside the horse and, after a few pats on its neck, reached down to pick up the hoof. Again, there was no reaction from the horse. After a minute or two, he released the hoof and turned to Baskin. “I reckon he just doesn’t like you, Mr. Baskin.” He glanced at Bowman, who was still snickering, “You wanna try him and see if he behaves?”

  “No, indeed,” Bowman said. “I don’t need that devil to take a bite outta my bottom.” He backed away a little farther. “Ralph, what are you gonna do? That horse ain’t gonna let you shoe him.”

  Baskin was about to answer when an outburst came from the front of the shop.

  “What the hell are you doin’ around my horse?” an angry voice demanded.

  They turned to see a flint-eyed, snake-thin man striding forcefully toward them. He wore a black derby hat that looked too small to contain the coarse black hair it was riding on, and he was packing two six-guns, with the handles facing out.

  “We were just figurin’ out how best to shoe him, Mr. Murdock,” Baskin answered.

  “You ain’t finished with him yet?” Murdock exploded. “I told you I wanted him done by three o’clock, and it’s close to four now. From back there at the store, it looked to me like you was workin’ on that sorrel with the packsaddle. I need my horse and I need him now.”

  His demand was punctuated by the sound of the stagecoach pulling in from the north, on its way to Cheyenne. It seemed to make him even more agitated, to the point of outright aggression.

  “I need a horse, damn it!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Murdock,” Baskin pleaded. “I tried to shoe him, but he bit me—twice, now.”

  “Damn you,” Murdock cursed, while taking frequent glances over his shoulder at the stagecoach pulling into the station. Already, the team of six horses was being unhitched while the new team stood waiting. “I ain’t got time for this! Take the saddle offa that bay and put my saddle on him, and hurry it up.”

  He looked at Perley. “That your horse?” Perley nodded. “Well, he’s mine now—we’re swappin’ horses. You got any objections?” He dropped his hand to rest on the grip of one of his pistols.

  There was little doubt in Perley’s mind that Murdock was involved in some plan that had to do with the stagecoach just arrived—robbery, more than likely. The man already had his hand on his .44., so Perley saw no sense in challenging him when he had Buck to rely on. “No, sir, I ain’t got any objections.”

  He turned and pulled his saddle off his horse and stood back while Baskin picked up Murdock’s saddle and put it on Buck. Since Perley was the only one wearing a gun, Murdock pulled the .44 and held it on him while he climbed up into the saddle.

  “Now, I’ll ask you to draw that weapon out real slow with your left hand and drop it on the ground,” Murdock said. When Perley did so, Murdock smirked. “You ain’t as dumb as you look.” He then wheeled Buck hard and raced toward the hotel at a gallop.

  “He’s fixin’ to rob the stage!” Bowman exclaimed. “And the cavalry patrol left this morning for Rawhide Buttes.”

  “I reckon he musta known that,” Perley said as he cleaned the dirt from his handgun. “We’d best be ready for him when he comes back.”

  Surprised by Perley’s casual attitude, considering Murdock had just stolen his horse, Bowman asked, “Why do you think he’s coming back here?”

  “’Cause he most likely wasn’t plannin’ on makin’ his getaway on foot,” Perley answered. He turned to Baskin. “I figure you must have a weapon here somewhere.” Baskin said that he did. “Well, you might wanna get it.” Back to Bowman again, he said, “You can use my rifle.” He drew the Winchester from his saddle sling and handed it to the obviously befuddled man. “It’s gonna wanna shoot a hair to the left, so you might wanna set your sight a hair to the right.”

  “We need to do something to warn them up at the stables!” Bowman exclaimed.

  “Give ’em three quick shots with that rifle,” Perley said.

  He would have done it himself, but he thought it’d be a good idea to see if Bowman knew how to shoot it. When the man cocke
d and fired three shots into the air, Perley said, “Maybe that’ll let ’em know something’s goin’ on. How many men has this fellow got with him?”

  “There’s just the two of ’em,” Baskin answered, “him and another feller he calls Curly. I can’t believe they’re figurin’ on holdin’ up the stage with just the two of ’em. Hell, there’s four men that work right there at the . . .”

  He stopped speaking when Buck suddenly appeared from behind the post office, carrying an empty saddle.

  “Attaboy, Buck,” Perley said when the big bay walked up to him. He gave him a few affectionate pats, then pulled Murdock’s saddle off and replaced it with his own. “I figure we’d best get ready to say hello to Mr. Murdock any second now. At least, that’s what I think, but you might have a better idea.”

  “Hell, no.” Bowman spoke for both of them. “What do you want us to do?”

  “Find yourself some cover,” Perley said, “and we’ll try to get the jump on him from three different directions.”

  Both of them hurried to take cover in the niches Perley pointed out, never questioning the directions from the young stranger. In a matter of thirty seconds, they were set up in ambush.

  A few minutes more saw Murdock come running into the shop, frantically looking for the bay. When he saw Buck at the back of the forge, he went directly to him, too desperate to question the disappearance of the three men who had been there. He and his partner’s half-cocked plan to take the strongbox while the horses were being changed had come apart when the warning shots were fired. Murdock had been flat on his back when he heard the three shots, having just been thrown from the horse he had stolen. When he looked toward the stagecoach, he saw four men on top of Curly, so there was nothing for him to do but run.