Colorado Sam

by Jim Woolard

  The hand Ike Justice offered was ice cold. That this rail of a man was even on the ST payroll revealed much about Seth Tanner. As with his father, loyal employees were never cut loose unless it was of their own choosing.

  The last cowboy was the gent with the clay-colored hair. “My paw named me Brick. My whole moniker is Brick Redman. Ain’t often a young fellow can stand to be laughed at,” the cowboy said, jacking Nathan’s arm up and down like a pump handle.

  Heft Thomas cleared his pipes, hawked, and spat into the fireplace. “Better not wear that arm out, Brick. I can’t picture him eatin’ Spud’s morning fixin’s with but one paw.”

  “Me neither,” Charlie Swain chimed in. “Yuh gots to pin Spud’s fryin’ meat against the plate to cut it with a razor.”

  “Don’t listen to them, Mr. Tanner,” countered Spud Daniels. “They give Annie Britton the same grief.”

  Liege Towers chuckled and said, “Yeah, but we’re just joshin’ with Annie.”

  This time Nathan laughed with the cowboys.

  The stubby cook’s patience deserted him. “Mr. Tanner, seeing as how I’m the last resort around here when it comes to manners, if you’ll follow me, we’ll fetch you a bedroll.”

  “Do that, Spud,” Heft Thomas said. “The rest of us will visit the necessary and then settle in.”

  A door next to the fireplace opened into a square room with floor to ceiling shelves upon which the ST crewmembers stored their personal possessions. There was much empty space on the shelves. “You’ll learn cowboys don’t own much other than what’s on their body or with their horse,” Spud Daniels explained without being asked.

  Enough light from the fireplace shone into the dark storeroom for the cook to locate a particular bedroll wrapped in a waterproof tarp and bound with rawhide thongs. “Hope yuh ain’t squeamish, Mr. Tanner,” Spud Daniels said. “This was your uncle’s. They brought it in with his body.”

  “I’m too whipped to be anything but thankful,” Nathan said. “And please call me Nathan, Mr. Daniels.”

  “And I’m Spud. That “Mister” stuff makes me feel like I’m standin’ before that tough-nut judge over to Alamosa.”

  The bottom tier of the bunk farthest from the fireplace and nearest to the cooking stove had no bed clothing. Spud Daniels untied the thongs of the bedroll and rolled it out on the bunk’s bare mattress. “Not a bad place to sleep,” the stubby cook said. “You may be a tad frosty early on, but in the morning when I fire up the stove, you’ll be the warmest cowboy in the bunkhouse.”

  Nathan looped his shell belt and six-gun over the bunk’s corner post, removed his calfskin boots, and flopped atop the bedroll. The bunk’s wooden slats and mattress were rock hard, but he prayed he wouldn’t have to move a finger for a month.

  The ST cowboys, shaking and shivering in long johns and wool socks, drifted back into the bunkhouse. Heft Thomas occupied the bunk next to Nathan. Before undressing, the foreman retrieved Nathan’s six-gun from its holster and passed the weapon to him butt first.

  “Stash this within easy reach,” Heft Thomas ordered. “No man’s your friend in the dark, not even me.”

  Eight

  A brace of pistols drew bead on Nathan and fired. He cringed. The bullets didn’t strike him, and when he turned to locate their target, he saw his mother and father. Blood began to spurt from holes in their bodies. He sprinted towards them. No matter how fast he ran to get between them and the firing pistols, they floated just out of reach until they suddenly disappeared like smoke dispersed by a strong wind.

  Barking like a dog, a grizzly bear charged from the same blackness that had swallowed his parents. The bear sprang and clamped his whole face in its mighty jaws. His terror was so great Nathan screamed at the top of his lungs.

  The thump of his forehead against the slats of the top bunk awakened him. Once his mind cleared, he looked to see if his outcry had disturbed Heft Thomas and the other cowboys. Apparently, he’d screamed only in his dream, for no heads lifted and the cowboys snored as merrily as ever.

  He sank back into his bedroll and tried to concentrate on the good things that had happened since the loss of his parents: his escape from St. Louis in the middle of the night, the unexpected rendezvous with Heft Thomas, meeting his aunt, dinner with Laura Payne, the friendliness of the ST cowboys. But his uncle’s telegram and Heft Thomas’s orders to keep his six-gun within easy reach during the night hours kept shouldering the good things aside.

  Nathan knew what it was like to be truly afraid. Fear had tied his stomach into cramping knots the afternoon the Scarrett brothers, Frank and Edgar, confronted him in the schoolyard because he’d ignored the advances of their scrawny baby sister, Moline. He was more frightened now, for the bullish brothers had stood before him barehanded and weaponless and the worst thing they could do to him was beat the stuffing out of him. His father’s killers and those who’d shot at him on the waterfront, on the other hand, went armed and had yet to be identified. Nathan worried the same would hold true for his uncle’s killers since there were no witnesses to his death either. He was learning it was the unknown enemy that commanded the most fear, and played the most havoc with a man’s nerves.

  What if the armed killers came after him? Would he have the courage to defend himself? He consistently hit the bulls-eye on a stationary target with his pistol at thirty paces, which counted for exactly nothing if he lacked the fortitude to shoot a fellow human being. What was most frightening of all, he wouldn’t know until he was in that situation whether he could pull the trigger or not.

  He was afraid to doze off again for fear those awful dreams would reappear. God forbid, maybe having a guard dog like the crossbred Sam at the foot of your bed wasn’t such a bad idea after all. At least a scared man could get some sleep.

  Despite his efforts to the contrary, tiredness eventually won out over fear, his eyes hooded, and he slept.

  * * *

  Spud Daniels’ method of waking the ST cowboys was most unique. Disliking the chill of late September mornings, he refused to beat the iron triangle outside the bunkhouse door. He merely pounded on the plank table with a length of firewood until every last cowboy was awake and cursing him.

  The table banging sent cowboys dressed in boots and Levis to the outside washstand and the necessary in a drove. Nathan followed after them.

  The phaeton buggy that had been parked beside the stable upon Nathan’s arrival with Heft Thomas was missing, indicating that Laura Payne had indeed departed the ST at an early hour. Nathan assumed his aunt had helped harness the buggy horse, which didn’t surprise him. Alana Birdsong impressed him as a very capable woman.

  The ST crew were joshing and jabbering and didn’t notice the large black mass lope from behind the hay barn. Nathan watched Sam cross the yard, a jackrabbit dangling from his huge jaws. The guard dog plopped on the veranda of the ranch house and began devouring his breakfast. The sight of Sam on the loose unsettled him, for it meant the beast wasn’t always in the control of his female master.

  Standing in line before the necessary, he became aware of how sharply his white underwear of Egyptian cotton with French collaret and fancy pearl buttons contrasted with the standard-issue red long johns worn by the ST crew. None of the hurrying cowboys seemed to take note of the difference, and relieved he hadn’t poked their funny bone the very first thing in the morning, Nathan lagged behind while they bolted back inside and finished dressing. Once the cowboys were occupied with knife and fork at the cook’s table, he donned his shield shirt in a flash and joined them.

  The denigration of Spud Daniels’ breakfast fixin’s the previous evening was unwarranted. He was far from being a boil and burn cook. A whopping platter of potatoes and diced onions simmered, more than fried, in a skillet greased with bacon fat served as the main dish. Slices of beef pot roast, interspersed with bacon strips, rimmed the platter of potato and onion, leading Nathan to believe Spud Daniels had frequented Annie Britton’s kitchen on more than a few occasions. A k
ettle of pinto beans, complete with serving ladle, set next to the main dish along with bowls of boiled eggs, raw turnips, and peeled onions. Not one, but two tall enamelware coffee pots passed amongst the diners.

  Anxious anticipation rippled through the ST crew as Spud Daniels, hands protected by potholders, placed a Dutch oven on the table and removed the lid. Just the smell of the stubby cook’s sourdough biscuits provoked much lip smacking and feverish grabbing, and before any cowboy could call out, Spud produced clay urns of butter to go with the biscuits. The lavish meal of the previous evening already a distant memory, Heft Thomas and Nathan matched the ST crew bite for bite, Nathan again marveling at the bantam Heft’s prodigious appetite.

  Since breakfast and supper were the cowboy’s only meals of the day, their foreman allowed them to linger over a final cup of coffee. Nathan missed the sly wink Liege Towers gave his look-a-like, Rand Johnson. “Rand, you notice anything out of the ordinary out at the necessary?”

  “Yeah, if he hadn’t been wearing Levis and cowboy boots you’d have thought some dude fresh off the train got amongst us by mistake,” Rand Johnson answered.

  “Them pearl buttons belong on a ladies dress, don’t they, boys?” Charlie Swain stuck in.

  A statement on Nathan’s behalf came from a most unexpected source. Ike Justice, whose average words per day Brick Redman had long sworn could be counted on the fingers of a single hand, exceeded his daily quota by observing, “A Tanner’s a Tanner. Fancy underwear don’t mean squat one way or another.”

  Before anybody at the table could launch a retort, Heft Thomas slid his chair back and stood. “Gents, roundup ain’t far off, and there’s still considerable horseshoeing and bronc busting waiting on you.”

  The cowboys grumbled, but the boss man had spoken and, fisting hats, spurs, and roping gloves, they headed for the blacksmith shop and corrals. When the bunkhouse was empty except for Spud Daniels, Heft Thomas said to Nathan, “Let’s get some horses and we’ll ride up where your uncle was killed. Don’t forget your Colt.”

  Nathan buckled his shell belt around his waist and donned his jacket and cap against the chill of the morning air, though he regretted the cap, which no self-respecting cowboy would be caught wearing on his worst day.

  Heft Thomas selected his Blackie and a steel dust gelding of approximately fifteen hands from the corral. “Your uncle named him Buck after he won him as a colt from Cole Buckman in a poker game at Moss Kaylor’s saloon. He didn’t pan out as a stud. But he’s eight years old and a prime using horse.”

  They bridled the two horses and led them into the stable. Heft provided Nathan a double rigged stock saddle with the ST brand burnt into its horn, skirt, and fenders. Given his experience with the Tanner Mansion horses, saddling was an easy chore for Nathan. He buckled the latigos, pulled on the horn to insure the saddle was tightly seated on the gelding’s back, and led him from the stable. Heft Thomas turned Blackie twice before mounting and Nathan followed suit.

  Mr. Ming burst from the ranch house. The Chinese servant came at a dead run, one hand raised like a signal flag, the other clutching a cream-colored Stetson. He skidded to a halt at Nathan’s near side stirrup. “No give hat,” said the panting Mr. Ming.

  Nathan was all smiles and thanks. He exchanged his cap for the pinch-crowned Stetson and found it fit his head perfectly. Heft Thomas broke into a rare smile. “If you’re ready, cowboy, we’ll light after it.”

  * * *

  They rode through fenced pastures of immense acreage. The pastures gave way to meadows where hay stubble bristled like hair on a hog. Beyond the meadows, rolling terrain covered with bluestem and Grama grass swept away to the horizon. The vista in all directions was broken only by cottonwoods growing on the banks of Rock Creek and far off, snow-tipped mountain peaks. At Nathan’s query, Heft explained that by making extensive use of public lands as well as that fenced by the ST, Tanner cattle grazed clean to the foothills of the distant San Juan Mountains.

  When looking to the horizon, the rolling terrain appeared an unbroken expanse of similar ground. Up close, gullies cut by runoff water zigzagged hither and yon and clusters of low rock stuck up everywhere in the tall grasses. Nathan quickly recognized the value of an alert, sure-footed using horse.

  The sun, arching upward in the vaulted sky, gradually warmed the air. As the morning chill vanished, Nathan removed his jacket and tied it behind the cantle of his saddle without slowing the gelding, it being obvious Heft Thomas had no intention of blowing the horses until they reached their destination.

  The banks of Rock Creek rose with each mile. The jumbled rock and debris at water’s edge soon made a ford necessary if a rider wanted to cross the wide stream without endangering his horse’s legs. After one particularly long stretch of rough bank, Nathan saw an opening ahead in the cottonwoods and aspens. Heft Thomas came abreast of the opening, tugged on his reins, and dismounted. The foreman motioned for Nathan to dismount and said, “We’re there. This is where we found your uncle.”

  A breeze shimmered the leaves of the cottonwoods. The coming of autumn had painted the leaves of the white-barked aspens bright gold. Black and white magpies chirped and flitted from tree to tree, protesting the invasion of their private domain. The current of Rock Creek could be heard purling over its bed of rock and stone. Nathan couldn’t imagine a more peaceful setting for an act of violence.

  Heft Thomas took rope hobbles from his saddlebags and shared a pair with Nathan. “I’m too old and too short in the legs to walk home.”

  The horses hobbled, the foreman walked to the edge of Rock Creek. The bank was steep, but free of rock and debris at nature’s whim. Two large boulders embedded in the bank protruded into the stream, deflecting the current and creating the equivalent of a small cove. Across the rushing waters, the bank was lower, and while the opposite side of the ford wasn’t protected from the current by boulders like the near bank, it was negotiable on horseback.

  Heft Thomas removed his riding gloves and folded them over his shell belt. “It was raining powerful hard that night, thunder booming and lightning striking every whipstitch. Seth was on one of his lonesome scouts, inspecting his property, and got caught up in the storm. We found his body two days later here at the bottom of the ford. We figured that lightning or a branch flying through the dark had spooked his horse. If not that, his pony simply lost his footing on the slippery incline, slid back down the bank, and rolled on him.”

  The foreman removed his Stetson and swiped sweat from his balding head. “That pretty much matches up with what we found—your uncle at the bottom of the bank, back and ribs crushed and broken. We located his loose horse a day later. The pony’s far side was caked with mud.”

  Heft Thomas paused and looked Nathan in the eye. “But there’s one thing that don’t match up with the idea a horse rolling on him is the whole story.”

  “And what’s that?” an intrigued Nathan asked.

  Heft Thomas minced no words.

  “He drew his pistol.”

  Nine

  Nathan wasn’t subject to fits of abject stupidity. Nevertheless, he was having difficulty following Heft Thomas’ train of thought. “How can you be certain Uncle drew his pistol? And why’s that so all fired important?”

  “Your uncle’s pistol was lying apart from his body with the barrel buried in the mud,” Heft Thomas said. “He wore a cross-draw holster like yours and mine. So his holster was on his left hip and the pony fell to the right. When I rolled your uncle over his holster was still in front of his left hip. The tie down thong on the holster wasn’t broken, meaning he slipped it off the hammer so he could draw his gun. What sticks in my craw is, why draw his pistol with his horse sliding backwards down a steep bank.”

  It was as if the foreman touched a match to a candle in a dark room. “He saw or heard something more dangerous than his horse falling,” Nathan ventured.

  “Congratulations, Nephew,” Heft Thomas said. “You’ve roped a winner.”

  “Mayb
e his horse smelled a bear,” Nathan suggested. “I’ve read there’s lots of bears in Colorado.”

  “That’s true,” the foreman agreed. “But if your uncle’s pony smelled a bear, he wouldn’t even start up the bank. No cow pony will go near a bear, not even if you sink your spurs into him.”

  “What else could have scared Uncle’s horse?”

  Heft Thomas let fly. “Somebody was stalking your uncle. The stalker could safely guess he’d cross the creek here at the ford. It was too dark and raining too hard to chance the bank just any old place.” The foreman shook his head and sighed. “Your uncle rode plumb into his sights, head ducked against the rain. Somehow, the stalker fired and missed. I believe the gunshot spooked your uncle’s pony as he was drawing his pistol. Before he could shoot back, the pony lost his balance, fell, and rolled on him.”

  It was a lot for Nathan to accept all at once. He walked to the top of the creek bank and stood next to the foreman, studying the ford. “Mr. Thomas, it could’ve happened just the way you believe it did. But Ira Westfall would say we’re holding a bucket full of warm manure and little else.”

  Nathan’s bluntness didn’t irritate Heft Thomas. Neither did it provoke his temper. “He the fellow sent you out here from St. Louis?”

  “Yes, Sir. He hires the guards for Father’s warehouses. He told me about the murders he investigated when he was a detective with the St. Louis police. Mr. Westfall claims it’s almost impossible to convict anybody of murder unless you have a witness. More than once he was satisfied he’d identified the murderer, but without witnesses, an arrest was pointless.”

  Heft Thomas grinned and spat in the creek. “Nephew, you might do to tip the glass with, you just might.”