Legend of the Lost

by Dicksion, William Wayne

  Alex and Morning Flower spent their nights cuddled in each other’s arms. Morning Flower gave herself to him completely leaving no doubt that she truly loved him. She knew she could never replace Cindy and someday Alex would go away, so she cherished every moment she spent with him, and he treasured her love.

  The Ute were mountain people, and his friends taught Alex the secrets of the mountains. His life with the Ute was one of the most rewarding times of his life, but after several months, he decided it was time to go home.

  The last night he and Morning Flower spent together was so sweet, even the night birds were silent.

  * * *

  Alex went alone to swim in the pond at the base of the waterfall and think of the times he and Cindy had spent there. He walked by the place where he had hidden the gold before he heard Cindy scream and then remembered that he had not recovered the gold piece that had started the deterioration of their love for one another. Many things had happened, and most of them were bad.

  Alex swam in the pond and then lay on the rock to dry where he and Cindy had lain together, and listened to the echoing sounds of children playing long ago in the veil of rainbows. Slowly, ever so slowly, the wound in his heart began to heal. he also thought of the wall of gold hidden in the lake and wondered what he should do with it but could think of nothing appropriate.

  The hundred gold coins and the mold that was used to make the coins were still buried under the rock that was their rendezvous. They were there for Cindy to use should she want them. he would approve—they were as much hers as they were his. he knew that Cindy would never reveal their secret. As for the gold piece he plucked from the bottom of the river, Alex decided to bury it along with their secret treasure.

  Alex lived in the old house at the mouth of Thunder Canyon for about a week. Vard and Eva had moved to the Bar H since the ride from Thunder Canyon to the Bar H each day was too time-consuming. Paid workers now tilled the fields that he and his father once tilled. Frank Fadden moved into the room by the office.

  * * *

  Eva knew that Frank liked her, and thinking about it made her smile. She tried to fight off her mischievous thoughts and kept reminding herself that she loved Vard. But Frank brought back memories of her first love; soon she was encouraging him with a smile and a nod. one day, when Vard was away, Eva succumbed to the temptation and went to bed with Frank.

  Eva meant for this to be no more than a casual affair, but Frank was so wonderful that after that first time with him, she found herself impatiently waiting for the next time, and the next. Frank was eager, and his appetite for her was insatiable. Lying with him was so exciting that it took control of her mind.

  Vard suspected that something was going on, but he never saw them do anything to confirm his suspicions.

  When it became obvious to Marian that Frank had chosen Eva over her, Marian moved back in with Marl. Their old home wasn’t the same. Vard and eva were gone, and Cindy was gone, so Marl hired workers to tend his fields, and he and Marian moved into the big house on the hill that was built by the founder of the town.

  * * *

  Alex spent his time wondering about Cindy, and even though he had enjoyed his time with Morning Flower very much, he couldn’t forget Cindy. Where is she? What is she doing? Thinking about Cindy was driving him mad; he wanted to do something completely different and get away from this area. He still wore his gun, but it felt strangely heavy and burdensome. He decided to put the gun aside and live where he wouldn’t need it. So, taking his father’s suggestion, he applied for admission to a college on the east Coast, took the exam to prove his aptitude, and was accepted.

  * * *

  It was an all-male school; the few girls who visited showed an intense interest in Alex, but he had no time for girls. He studied day and night for his law degree; his classmates called him The Quiet Man.

  Alex shared a room in the dorm with a young man named Jeffrey hamilton. Jeffrey was the son of a wealthy man and would never have to earn a living. Jeffrey studied archaeology and wanted to write a paper on ancient Indian cultures. Alex told him about the Anasazi and the stories he relayed by the Ute elders fascinated Jeffrey, and he wanted to know more.

  Because of Alex’s size and strength, the school wanted him to play football. He informed the football coach that he didn’t like team sports but would like to learn the art of boxing.

  The school assigned him a trainer—a pugilistic Irishman, tough as nails. Alex was a natural and won every boxing match. He brought fame to the school and won a sweater with the college name on it.

  One day after a training session, Alex said to his trainer, “You’ve taught me to box, now teach me to fight.”

  “I’m surprised that a rich man’s kid would know the difference,” the Irishman replied with a grin.

  “My father is wealthy now, but we’ve known hard times,” Alex explained.

  The Irishman’s name was Shawn Tully, and when he first came to America, he had been a street fighter. He knew it all, and he taught Alex every trick in the book. one night, after two hours of practice, Shawn Tully said, “There’s nothing more I can teach you, and I pity any man who crosses you.”

  Chapter 14

  Four years passed. Alex graduated and looked forward to returning home.

  The day after he got his law degree, a letter came from Eva telling him that Vard had been killed by a sniper. The letter had traveled by train, boat, and stage, and it was a month old when he got it. Alex felt that he had failed his father, but he vowed to avenge his death. He quickly posted a letter telling his mother when he would arrive. It would take him weeks to get home. he bought passage on a riverboat to St. Louis and a train for the rest of the way.

  When he arrived in Timberland, no one was there to meet him, so once again he walked the dusty street of Timberland and looked into the Trail’s end Saloon where, years before, four men had died. he was a boy then, but he had returned a man. he was now twenty-two, clean-shaven, and in his east-Coast duds, no one recognized him.

  A silver strike had been made in the mountains, and the Ute were fighting for their existence. Timberland had become a boomtown. The Trail’s end Saloon smelled of whiskey, smoke, and spittoons, and it was filled with hard-drinking gun-toting miners and cattlemen. Ladies of the night were doing a brisk business, but the wives and daughters of the farmers and merchants were afraid to walk on the street. The townspeople were frantic. No sane man would take the job of sheriff.

  Timberland was the raw West at its best, and Alex loved the town. It felt good to be home. He had luggage to carry, so he rented a horse and buggy from the livery stable and drove to the Bar H. When he arrived, his mother and Frank were sitting side by side in a porch swing. They jumped to their feet, and Eva straightened her dress as she ran with open arms to welcome him.

  Her greeting was genuine, but her smile seemed strained, as though she had been caught doing something naughty. Her behavior reinforced Alex’s less-than-favorable opinion of women. Eva certainly hadn’t mourned his father’s death for very long, but she was still his mother and he loved her. He tied the horse to the rail and walked to the porch.

  “You look wonderful and so grown up in your new clothes!” Eva said as she hugged him.

  “Why didn’t you meet me when I came in on the train? I sent you a letter,” said Alex.

  “I didn’t get the letter,” Eva said, shaking her head.

  Now Alex understood why Frank and Eva had not expected his visit. he stood awkwardly, wondering what he should do with his luggage. He could go to the house on Thunder Creek or he could get a room in town. Frank came over and put his arms around Eva, letting Alex know that he was the head of the house now.

  “This is a big house,” Frank said. “There are plenty of rooms—choose one you like.”

  Gray Wolf and Soaring Eagle had taught Alex to read “signs,” and these signs were plain.

  “I have to return this buggy anyway,” Alex said, “so I’ll go home to Thunder
Creek, stay there tonight, and then get a room in town tomorrow.” Eva sighed and lost some of her tenseness.

  “Mother,” Alex said as he searched her eyes, “I’d like you to tell me how Father was killed.”

  Alex sat in one of the swings, but it made loud, creaking noises, so he moved to a chair opposite his mother.

  Eva hesitated, so Frank spoke for her. “When your father didn’t come home, we searched for him, but it was already too dark. Someone found him the next morning. he had been shot one time from behind.”

  “Who found him?” Alex asked. “Did anyone check for tracks? Does anybody know who did it?”

  “A rider from the Flying W found him and said he was afraid to bring him here, so he took him into town. By the time the rider showed me where Vard had been shot, all of the tracks had been wiped out,” Frank explained. “Old Doc Bailey cleaned him up,” Eva said, wiping her eyes, “and we buried him on a knoll beside Thunder Creek. That’s where I thought he would want to be buried.”

  “I know the knoll,” Alex nodded. “he liked to sit there and watch the animals. It was his favorite place.”

  “I’m sorry, son,” Eva said.

  Alex got up, kissed his mother, and said, “Good-bye, Mother, I’ve got a lot to do. I’ll see you later.”

  “Good-bye, son, come back when you can.”

  * * *

  With tears streaming down his face, Alex got into the buggy and drove to the house at the mouth of Thunder Canyon. He wished his father was there; they would have so much to talk about. He unhitched the buggy and tended to the horse. He looked all around and was sad to see that the place was run down. Then he went up to the house, unlatched the door, and walked in. The furniture was all in place, and his clothes still hung in his closet as he had left them. He removed his city clothes and dressed in his buckskins. His boots had dried out—the leather was too stiff to be worn. He found a pair of moccasins that Morning Flower had made for him and put them on. He strapped his holster around his waist and checked his guns. The revolver and the rifle both needed cleaning, so he took the time to clean and oil them carefully.

  He had been glad to leave this place four years ago, but now he was glad to be home. The revolver had felt heavy when he hung it on the hook; now it felt good. He walked up into the canyon and fired twenty shots to get the feel of the revolver again. He smiled. I haven’t lost my touch.

  Alex walked to his and Cindy’s secret place and sat there thinking of all that had happened. With the exception of Morning Flower, every woman he had ever known had proven untrustworthy.

  “Even the original Eve was seduced by Satan, and together they betrayed Adam,” he muttered to himself with a grimace. Should I be angry at the seducer or the seduced? What about Morning Flower? Would she also fall victim to a charming scoundrel?

  The mountains to the west stood like fortresses against the evening sky. Patches of sunlight gave way to encroaching shadows; something rustled in the brush. Since the wind was too soft to move the underbrush, it meant that night animals were already searching for food.

  Alex had waited here for Cindy many times; he wondered where she might be tonight.

  * * *

  He was up before the sun and visited his father’s grave. He sat there for more than an hour, telling his father what had been going on in his life, and vowing that he would find his killer. He was talking only to himself, but it helped ease his grief somehow. Then he went back to the house, hooked the horse to the buggy, and drove into town. All the way, he was thinking about finding his father’s killer. Anger confused his mind, and rage filled his heart. Now, dressed in his western clothes, people recognized him.

  “Alex Vanor is back!” someone shouted.

  Most had heard the story of the shoot-out four years ago, but a group of rowdies who hadn’t, blocked Alex’s way. A foolish showoff stood in the street with his legs spread and his hands over his gun.

  “You don’t look so tough to me,” he sneered as he drew his pistol. Alex shot the gun out of his hand as casually as one might swat a fly, then drove on.

  Two merchants were watching; one of them said, “That’s the man we need to clean up this town.”

  “He’s come back to find the man who killed his father,” the other merchant said, “and he won’t do anything until he gets that over with. May God help the man who stands in his way.”

  “If what we just witnessed is any indication of how he goes about doing things, it won’t take him long. We’ll talk to him when he gets it done.”

  “You talk to him if you want to, but I’m going to wait until he’s in a lot better mood. he was just a straight-shooting boy when he left here, but that’s no boy driving that buggy. Did you see the shoulders on him? You’d better stand aside when you see him coming.”

  When Alex went to the stable to return the horse and buggy, he asked to buy their best saddle horse. Sandy, the stable master, offered him a half-mustang, half-Arabian raised at the McBain Ranch in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

  “Alex,” Sandy said, “this is the finest horse in town. Someone rode him here, but the rider took sick and died. Now the horse needs a new owner.”

  “Yes, he’s a beauty, Sandy, just what I want,” Alex said and paid him handsomely.

  The horse was black, so Alex called him Midnight. After he bought a new hat and boots, he rode Midnight to the place where Fadden said his father had been shot. The shooting had occurred more than four months ago, and it had rained several times since, so no sign was visible. he looked for the place he would have waited if he were going to shoot someone. he found a likely spot in a draw and stirred around in the sand with the toe of his boot until he came up with the hull from a cartridge that had been fired from a Henry rifle. The hammer point had hit the brass at a slant. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was something.

  Alex rode back to Timberland and found Toby, the gunsmith. Alex knew guns well, but he wanted to know what the gunsmith knew. “Do you know what kind of rifle uses cartridges like this?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s the shell of a cartridge from a Henry rifle. If you know how to use a Henry, it’s a good rifle.”

  “Do you know the owner of this rifle?”

  “Several men own guns like this. Why do you want to know?”

  “Notice that the firing pin hit the casing at an angle?” Alex asked, showing him the cartridge and ignoring his question. Alex saw that Toby recognized the identifying feature but didn’t want to mention any names.

  “That does narrow it down a bit,” Toby said.

  “Can you name the men who own Henry rifles?”

  Obviously hedging, Toby said, “Not offhand, but I’ll be watching, and I’ll let you know.”

  “Who sells cartridges for rifles like these?” Alex asked. Toby studied his face for a moment and answered, “Only two places that I know of. one is the general store and the other is the supply depot.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check with you later.”

  * * *

  John Johnson, the owner of the general store, met Alex at the counter. Alex handed him the spent hull. “Do you sell these?” he asked.

  “I have ’em in stock, but I don’t get much call for ‘em. Why, d’ya wanna box? Ya don’t own a Henry—ya carry a Winchester.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to buy a box—I asked if you carry them.”

  “By golly, that’s right. Yer a lot like yer father,” Mr. Johnson chuckled. “Vard and I were good friends, ya know. I know why ya asked about them shells. Yer looking for yer dad’s killer, ain’tcha?” He looked at the shell again. “Where’d ya find that hull?”

  “In a draw about a hundred yards from where Frank Fadden said Father was killed.”

  “Frank Fadden, huh? That’s strange—Frank don’t own a Henry. The last box of these I sold was bought by Pete Cayman, the foreman of the Flying W.” He stroked his whiskered chin. “He bought ‘em about three or four months ago. Now don’t ya go ridin’ out thar looking fer trouble. Hank Tyler�
�s son, Joe, got that ranch when yer pa killed hank in that shoot-out. Joe’s a good man; he ain’t like his pa. Ya can’t blame Joe if he’s a little sore ‘bout yer pa killing his.”

  “I’m not blaming anyone—I’m looking for the man who fired this shot,” Alex replied, holding up the empty shell.

  “I hope ya find him. By the way, how’s yer maw? I hear she’s still living at the ranch. There’s a lot of rooms in that big old house.”

  The insinuation was thinly veiled, and Alex was surprised that Johnson would make it until he remembered that Johnson had been a good friend of Vard’s. “Mother’s doing fine, thank you,” Alex answered, ignoring the gossipy comment.

  “Let me know whatcha find out,” Johnson nodded. Flies were biting Midnight’s ankles, and he was stomping his hooves and swishing his tail, trying to scare them away. The horse was in a hurry to get moving. Midnight gave Alex a little shove with his muzzle when he mounted. A rapport was developing between horse and rider.