Cain (Ben Blue Book 5)

by Lou Bradshaw

  And so I rode, following any trail that was going in my general direction. When I came to Oro City, which folks were starting to call Leadville, I found a boom camp. It didn’t take much for me to bypass that mess. They had found silver and thousands of miners were coming from all directions, all of them looking to get rich. At over ten thousand feet they had better at least think about what it’s going to be like come December.

  After weeks of travel, I decided to follow the wild geese of fall and just go south. The divide is a fine thing to follow, but it wiggles more than a room full of snakes. Although it’s a mighty pretty bunch of country, I figured, at that pace it would take me till I was too old to ride this Injun pony to get to Arizona. Of course, by that time, this pony would be too old to haul me around.

  So just south of that fourteen thousand foot monster, San Luis Mountain, I turned south toward the Rio Grande. Now that was some wild country. It made me want to stop and start building myself a cabin in about a hundred different places, but I kept on moving south.

  When I figured I was getting pretty close to the river, I ran smack into the town of Creede. It wasn’t much of a town, but it was a town. The stage had started running in there about once a week, with it came homesteaders looking for land. They were mostly farmers, although I had no idea what they might be growing in those plowed up fields. The town had been a mining town at one time, but they couldn’t make it pay, so it had all but dried up. Whenever I saw this kind of country, all I could possibly think of was cattle or sheep. I wouldn’t figure anyone could make a living and support a family farming in these mountains, but what do I know. All I knew about farming is what pa and me did back in Tennessee, and that wasn’t much. I guess we were more woodsmen than we were farmers or anything else.

  A little time in Creede was a nice change of pace for me and my horse, which was finally getting used to me and the saddle. Now I needed to pick up a bridle. All that Indian boy had on that pony was a hackamore, which was alright, but if you get a little heavy handed you could do a lot of damage. Wait till he tasted that steel bit… that’s when the fun would begin. Horse shoes were something else he was going to have to get used to. That pony was gonna be in for a few changes and none of them would be to his liking.

  I was able to get me a couple of good meals, some supplies, a good night’s sleep under a roof, and I was on crossing the river the following morning. Civilization was a fine thing, but I like to take my civilizing in small doses.

  Back into high country again, I reckoned that I was in the San Jaun’s at that point. So I just pointed the nose of that tender gummed cayus to the south and moved on down the trail… when there was one. He was taking to the bit a lot better than I had expected, but he still wasn’t very happy with it. I figured to drop down to Wolf Creek pass and work out my next move from there.

  The country south of the river was all I’d hoped for, rough, high and green with ponderosa pine and Douglas fir. What wasn’t covered with green, was covered with rocks. There were cliffs standing a thousand feet above the shoulder of the mountain on which they rested. The San Jaun’s weren’t as tall as some of those over to the east, but they were every bit as much fun to look at, and often they were easier to navigate.

  But if you’re climbing over the shoulder of a twelve thousand foot mountain, is it really any easier than climbing over a shoulder of a sixteen thousand foot mountain. Unless you got up above the tree line, there ain’t a whole lot of difference. At the lower elevations, a rock is a rock and a tumbling stream is a tumbling stream.

  I’ve known people who wouldn’t think about going into the high country for fear of falling off of something. I always figured that falling down a hundred foot rock faced cliff would kill a fella just as quick as falling down a thousand foot cliff. The only difference is you’d have a few more seconds to think about it from the higher one.

  All I knew was, these mountains suited me, and I tended to think I suited them, so I decided to kinda take my time and look this layout over real good. So I just sorta roamed around and considered every angle and every possibility. Believe me, there were many many possibilities. I didn’t want to build my nest up on some bald rock peak, but I didn’t want to be down in a valley either. Those valley meadows were fine for hunting or grazing, but come time for snow melt and your cabin, horse and barn could get washed clear down to the Gulf of Mexico. No, I was looking for something in between.

  On the fifth day of just roaming around, I stumbled onto my spot. I just knew it when I saw it. On the south flank of Marble Mountain, I found a shelf with plenty of room for a cabin and stable as well as a good stream not a hundred feet from the middle of the shelf. So there was water and access to it from almost anywhere on the shelf.

  The shelf was probably a little over five acres in total coverage, but there were game trails in three directions. You’d have a hell of a time getting a wagon up here, but I didn’t have a wagon, so I wouldn’t be bringing one up. It sat in amongst the pines with aspens down below and meadows scattered all over down in the valley. But what it had that made it ideal to me was a sure ‘nuff cave against the back wall.

  Now some of these mountains in this area were riddled with caves, but most of them were high up and unusable for my purpose. I could envision building a dugout with little or no effort… well maybe some effort but not as much as building a cabin. All I’d have to do was bring the front out a ways and block off the back, and I could live there in comfort.

  There was plenty of elk, deer and probably not a few bear around, so a fella who knew his way around a rifle and a skinning knife would neither starve nor go naked. I couldn’t see bringing in cattle. You’d lose most of them just getting them in here, but sheep were a possibility. Sheep ain’t as easy to raise, but a good dog can go a long way toward making them less a burden. I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to be a sheepherder, but it was something to think on.

  I camped on what I was beginning to think of as “My shelf” that night, and I started cutting trees the next morning. I dropped enough to give me a good start on the dugout before I went into Creede, which was only about twenty rugged mountain miles away. I needed some tools, another horse, some rope, and I wanted to file on my land.

  It was funny, thinking of this mountain side as “my land”, but that’s what I was thinking. I’d never had anything worth more than the horse I was riding at the time, and some of those horses weren’t worth a whole lot. I was already feeling at home here on the south side of Marble Mountain. I hadn’t really had a home since I left our place in the Smokies, and that really wasn’t mine. It was Pa’s, I was just living there till I was grown enough to be out on my own.

  Chapter 6

  What I found in Creede, was that the Postmaster was the one who registered homestead claims, and then he would send the papers off to Washington City where they were probably put in a great big box never to be seen again. Or at least that’s the way I had it pictured. He told me what I was expected to do, as far as proving up my claim. It wasn’t much. Mostly, he said to build a dwelling, live on the land, and use it somehow to make a living.

  At this point in time, I didn’t know what I was going to do there. I wasn’t planning on plowing the mountainside, which would have been near impossible even if I wanted to. So it came back to cattle or sheep. Sheep would be cheaper, but I understood cattle better. In the meantime I’d just do some hunting and fishing to keep the flesh on my bones.

  The general store had just about everything I needed or wanted. I’d have to forgo putting in a kitchen garden this year, as I had too many other things that needed doing at this time. I picked up a one man cross cut saw, a double bladed axe, a real shovel, along with some wedges and a maul. There were other things too numerous to make note of, but things I would need to build a proper shelter for me and my horse… or should I say horses. When I got everything together it seemed that there wasn’t any room for me on that horse, so I went looking for a horse trader.

 
I was lookin’ to buy a pack horse, but I found that in this country, work horses and mules were at a premium, and good saddle horses were a glut on the market. I found a good looking blue roan that came from mustang stock for less than I’d planned to spend for a pack animal. So that Indian pony was relegated to carrying packs. He seemed to like that a lot better anyway, and he happily swapped the bit for a lead rope.

  With my shopping and horse dealing done, I went to what passed for a cantina. No one in there spoke a word of Mexican, and the barkeep had yellow hair, but they served food and drink like a cantina. So I had me some beef and beans with some cold beer brought in from a clear cold mountain stream just outside the back door.

  After soppin’ up the last of my meal, I fell to talkin’ to an old timer by the name of Percy. He gladly accepted the drink I offered, and when I told him where I’d located my claim, he nodded his approval and said, “Yessir, that’s some mighty purtty country around that big marble. If I was younger and smarter, I’d go out there to be your neighbor. But when I was young enough, I wasn’t as smart as a two day old jackass…. You take care though, sonny, ‘cause there’s a bad bunch out there. They’re running somewheres south or west of you.”

  “Well now, what kind of bunch we talkin’ about, Percy?” I asked. “They be white, red, brown, or Chinee?”

  “Oh, they’s white ‘uns, but they’s mean enough to be Paches. They go out as far as Monte Vista and the tother way up to Silverton, an do some robbin’ and killin’ an surely some rapin’…. They’s been some Mex gals hauled off and never seen again. From time to time some of them’ll show up here in Creede, but nobody wants to say nuthin’ bout ‘em… to they faces that is.”

  “You mean the law here just let’s ‘em come and go as they please?” I asked.

  “Oh, they’s no law here in this town.” He said. “Besides, they don’t cause no trouble here…it’s bout the only place they can go to spend they money, besides Silverton, so they jus hoop it up in the saloon and the whore house.”

  I told him that I’d keep both eyes open, bought him another drink and headed out of town and back into the high country. Old Percy was a leftover from better times in Creede, back when there was gold in the pans… before the color ran out. I had to take his stories with a generous amount of salt, but there was probably a good deal of truth in what he said. Well, I wasn’t looking for any trouble, but I weren’t no pilgrim neither… I’d deal with it if it came.

  That roan was a pretty good horse; I don’t imagine he was too far removed from running with a wild bunch. He was long and lean with a big chest and well muscled limbs, and he took to the high country like he was born to it. I was happy with the deal.

  Getting back to my claim, the first thing I did after unloading and giving the horses some water, was to put them to work snaking the young pine logs that I had already cut to where they’d be needed. After that, the horses were out of work for a while because the work fell on me then.

  A couple of weeks of chopping, sawing, splitting, notching and cussin’ had me a pretty nice if not elegant little dugout cabin with two windows and a door. Of course there wasn’t any glass in those windows, and there wasn’t a door in that door hole. It was just a framed up opening. I did my cooking outside in a fire pit, which was something I was familiar with, from having lived more years out of doors than under a roof. That open fire would have to do me till I could get a hearth built. But the next thing I needed to do was put something together for my horses to keep them out of the weather.

  After the stable, the next order of business was to clear out the brush and thin out the trees in front of the cabin, so I’d have a better field of fire if I needed it. Not being a trusting man, I made myself a rat hole in the back wall where it covered the cave entrance. I’d used split logs on that wall and as I was putting it up, I had sawed out a section of a three log stack that was smaller on the cabin side and bigger on the cave side. That way any critter that might want to come in from the other side couldn’t push it out of the way, but I could push it out from the inside.

  Before I closed that off, I put some tallow candles, matches, a length of rope, and a box of .44 cartridges on the other side. Then slipping my fingers into a well concealed cut out groove at the bottom of the middle piece, I pulled it shut. I made myself a promise to explore that hole in the mountain, but that could wait.

  I spent another week, building a stable next to the cabin and put up a rail fence around a small corral. Then I went hunting. I still had a good supply of jerked elk, but man cannot live by jerky alone. Browsing around most of the day, I was looking for likely places for deer and elk to feed or bed down. I didn’t want to hunt too close to the cabin. I had a couple hundred square miles at my pleasure, so it only made sense to save the close up hunting grounds for when the deep snows higher up drove the game down into the valleys.

  Over the last few weeks, after the daylight work was done, and the sleeping hadn’t begun yet, I’d been carving on a bow and fixing up a few arrows. The only bow I knew how to make was the Smokey Mountain kind… the kind that the Cherokee preferred. They were longer than what you’ll see out here, and they were more unwieldy, but they were stronger and could carry an arrow a good long way.

  Finding a likely spot near a stream, I sat back and waited for one to come for a drink. Just before dark, a young buck showed up. He wasn’t more than fifty yards, but that would be a tricky shot in the failing light. I watched as he drank and then looked up, and then he drank again. As soon as his head started to lower, I took three quick strides and stopped stark still. He looked up again and looked around… I stayed absolutely motionless. The head dipped again and I was another three yards closer. That put me at about thirty yards, and gave me a much better shot, which I took.

  As quickly as I could, I dressed out that muley and carried it back to my horse. I was getting ready to put my foot in the stirrup when I saw a twinkle of light well below me down the slope… I may not make it home tonight.

  I had an idea what I’d find there, and I wanted to introduce myself and send a message. So I moved on down the slope working my way between the pines and boulders, trusting my horse not to walk off a cliff…. He didn’t.

  When we were within sight of the campfire, I dismounted and went the rest of the way on foot leading my horse. With the smoke from the fire and the lack of wind, I wasn’t much worried about their horses getting a sniff of mine, so when we were close enough, I got ready.

  Walking into the firelight it was like I had appeared out of the smoke. They hadn’t heard or seen me until I was standing in the middle of them. They were a five man Ute hunting party, and I had slipped in on them… they had to respect that. Several of them must have been sure I was a spirit. I could see it in their faces, but the others took me for a mortal who had bested them and that was one thing they hated but respected.

  I dropped the joint of deer meat from my right hand, then I walked to the fire and cut a slice of meat from what was cooking. Chewing it until I could swallow and speak, I stood before them… the center of attention. When I spoke, I spoke in Spanish. Four of them looked to the fifth, who responded in Spanish. I told him who I was and where my lodge was, and I had great respect for the Utes, as fighting men, and I wanted to share these mountains with them, but I was also a fighting man. He nodded, and I faded into the darkness.

  I knew that I hadn’t made any lifetime friends back there in that Ute camp, but I’d put them on notice that I was here and I wasn’t to be trifled with. I didn’t ask for their friendship, all I wanted was to be alone. Some of them were sure that I was a ghost, and I’d be just as happy as a puppy with two tails if they got that story spread around.

  Over the next few weeks, I fashioned a door and shutters for the windows with rifle ports cut in them… same with the door. I built me a fireplace for heat and cooking, but for the time being, the smoke just went out a hole in the roof. I’d have that finished before I’d need a heating fire.

  I
made another trip into Creede, hoping to buy some sheep, just to see if they would survive out there, and to see if I’d take to sheeping. They might just be more trouble than I thought.

  Creede it seemed was made up of a bunch of nay sayers. Just the mention of sheep brought frowns to faces and in some cases outright rudeness and ridicule. “You don’t look like no greaser to me.” one of them said… He’ll be alright when the swelling goes down, and he can have that nose straightened.

  I reckoned that the way things lay were, the whites plowed straight long furrows into a hillside and planted wheat and corn, which dried up and got ate up by the birds and deer. Whereas the Mexicans grew a little corn and raised sheep and goats, which ate grass and gave them milk, meat and wool… now, who had the better plan? Neither bunch was making any more than a bare living. Growing crops in this high up country can be done, but you need to grow the right crops and don’t be thinking that because it’s dirt… it’s the same as Mississippi bottom land.

  I was kinda dejected when I walked over to the saloon, there I found my friend Old Percy sitting on the boardwalk.

  He followed me in hoping for a sip or two of the house’s private stock, which was made out back in a shed. He wasn’t disappointed. “Percy,” I asked, “what’s the matter with these farmers around here? They’re all busy plowin’ up the ground and ignoring all that free grass out there. There’s enough grass around here to make up some dandy ranches, but they insist on puttin’ down seed.”

  “Waal,” he drawled, They just doin’ what they know about… they know about corn not cows… an besides, if this wus cow country, there wouldn’t be enough room for about three quarters ov ‘em.”