A Man Called Scar

by Jim Cox

  Bart and the captain made arrangements to go hunting about two hours before the wagons would reach their evening stop. They hoped to have their kill back to camp in time for a last celebration meal. Bart promised to make the rounds, telling all the wagons of their plan.

  It was an hour before sunset when the hunters tied their mounts to a small tree and crept upwind where they hid behind a cluster of trees on a hillside. Their rifles were loaded, but no shells were in the chambers. Bart was taking extra precautions with his gun, and the captain noticed he was wearing his moccasins for quietness.

  As they waited amidst some spruce trees, the captain whispered, “This is different from buffalo hunting, Bart. Deer and antelope are very nervous animals. They stay alert at all times, even while they’re eating. Their hearing and eyesight are superior to most animals, including ours. From now on we must be extremely quiet and keep our eyes peeled for any movement. We’ll stay together and signal to each other if we see anything. I believe there’s a meadow over the next hill that’ll be a good place to spot deer.”

  As they topped the hill, the captain and Bart signaled simultaneously. Three deer stood in a lush pasture of meadow grass about two hundred yards away. The captain whispered for Bart to load his chamber, take careful aim, and squeeze the trigger.

  Bart was nervous. He quietly levered in a shell and steadied his gun against a tree. He was shaking like a leaf and unable to hold the target in his gun sight, so he slowly lowered his gun, trying to get settled. The captain watched the entire ritual unfold but remained silent. Remembering the captain had taken a long breath before pulling the trigger on the buffalo, Bart again put the barrel against the tree, placed the gun sight behind the deer’s front leg, and after taking a long breath, squeezed the trigger; the deer took a few jumps before falling. “You can breathe now,” the captain said with a smile.

  The fire was burning, and the roasting spit uprights were in place when the hunters returned. The wagons were circled beside a small grove of pine trees near a rippling stream flowing from the mountains.

  The wagon train’s last supper on the trail was prepared against a picturesque sunset of red and orange clouds. By the time the meat was ready, the sunset had been replaced by a heaven full of stars that seemed so close you could almost reach out and touch them. People ate in contented silence. One by one, coffee cups were filled as their thoughts drifted back over the events of the past three months. Bart had imagined the evening would be full of excitement, but instead, people were somewhat subdued. Even the fiddle tunes Mr. Dubia played were slow and a little melancholy.

  The captain was standing off by himself when Bart ambled over. “I thought everyone would be pleased and having a good time,” Bart said. “But it seems like they’ve lost their best friend.”

  The captain answered, “It’s always like this, Bart. Folks understand and anticipate this separation, but it’s not easy. People in wagon trains learn to depend upon each other. There are always some disagreements, but bonds are built among people traveling together. Tomorrow everybody will scatter to their own destinies. Some will stay around Flat Peaks, but most folks will make their way to places unknown. When folks separate, their stories will diverge. They’ll have to work hard and withstand some very difficult challenges, but most folks will find a way to be happy.”

  “Does everyone find their place, Captain?”

  “No. Some don’t make it. Some people come for their health, only to die. Some come because of their past, only to have it reappear. Some come to fulfill impossible dreams, only to be disappointed. There are a lot of families who go back East when Western living overwhelms them. I’ll be guiding four wagons back in two weeks. Those who don’t stay, who don’t make it, will be called weak by those who remain, but that’s not fair. The fact they survived the trip west at all makes them strong. Western living is simply not suited for some people.”

  “Captain, do you think all of the people in our train will make it?”

  After a moment of silent thought, the captain said, “I’m sure they will, Bart, and that includes you. Don’t underestimate yourself. I’ve seen you in action—you’re a stayer. I know you’re young, but I’m sure this country will be a better place because of you. Never give up, Bart. There is always a way ahead if you give a situation your best thought and follow through.”

  Bart nodded and then rose and headed for the creek. The captain’s words kept ringing in his mind, “There is always a way ahead.” It matched what his father had told him a short time after he had returned from the war. Two of the three men he admired most had given him this advice, and Mr. Douglas, the third person he admired, would probably give him similar advice in the future.

  Nearly an hour passed before Liz found Bart sitting on a log by the creek. They looked at each other for a few seconds and then sat in silence as they watched the glistening moonlight reflect off the rippling water. They had spoken very little to one another since the night Bart had returned from the Indians. “I’m sorry I spoke to you like that about dying. I really didn’t mean it,” Liz said. “Will you forgive me, Bart? I’m ashamed of myself for acting that way.”

  Bart could tell from the tone of her voice she was sincere. He could also tell she was about to cry, so he hurriedly changed to a lighter subject. “Won’t it be exciting when we get to Flat Peaks, Liz? We’ll all begin a new life filled with adventure. I’m anxious to see the town and meet the folks, aren’t you?”

  Liz didn’t answer. Instead, she continued to stare straight ahead. Bart knew she was not interested in small talk and wanted an answer to her question. Did he forgive her? “Liz, look at me,” Bart said rather firmly. She turned to face him with a heartfelt expression. “I know you didn’t mean it, Liz. Of course, I forgive you. How could I hold a grudge against someone that’s been so nice to me? Someone who saved my life?”

  “Thank you, Bart.”

  “Liz, I know I’ve been an extra burden to you and your folks. You’ve nursed me back to life. You’ve fed me, washed my clothes, and treated me like a family member, and I appreciate that. But you won’t have to worry with me much longer. When we get to Flat Peaks, I’ll find a job and a place to live.”

  Liz was stunned—totally speechless.

  Bart rose. “It’s time we’re getting back to the camp. Your folks will be worried.”

  Liz had all sorts of ideas swirling in her head by the time they reached the wagon. As she stepped up into the wagon for a warmer coat, she whispered to herself, “You’re not leaving us, Bart Carter, not just yet.”

  Part II: Becoming Ranchers

  Chapter Nineteen

  They rolled into Flat Peaks from the south just before noon. It was a typical, one-street western town with houses clustered on each side of the street. Sandwiched in the center of the row of buildings was the business district. Bart estimated the population to be under a hundred but knew the surrounding ranches would expand this number considerably. The road leading through town was ankle deep in mud in spite of the area’s low humidity and rainfall. There were a few dry spots on the high ground, but the road in front of the business district was especially bad; it had a terrible odor and was filthy from so much horse manure. The log buildings on both sides of the street had overlapping plank boards for the roofing, and a four-to-six-foot boardwalk ran along the storefronts. A hitching rail stood in front of most.

  Bart read the painted signs on the storefronts as they drove through town. There was a blacksmith shop, a mercantile—which also served as the post office, a combined barber shop and bath house, a bank, a seed and feed store, and a hotel that looked more like a boarding house. A little farther up the street, the signs identified a saloon, the sheriff’s office, and a café named Jenny’s Place. In front of many shops, horses stood three-legged, swishing flies, but the tie rails in front of the saloon and Jenny’s Place were the most crowded.

  Men dressed in all sorts of garb sat on benches or tilted back in chairs along the boardwalk. They looked
to be of all nationalities and ages. Most were a bit on the crusty side. Faces were sober with blank expressions as they eyed each passing wagon. Bart especially noticed the cigarettes dangling from several mouths and the guns hanging from a few men’s hips. It seemed to Bart many of the stares were directed at him, a boy with a terrible facial scar wearing a shirt made by Indians, riding a long-eared mule. But they passed through town without much fanfare. The prancing black stallion tied to the back of the Douglas wagon drew the most attention. As the black horse passed, heads turned, and the town folks stared at one of the most beautiful horses they had ever seen.

  On the northern end of town stood a long building with an attached horse corral, which was undoubtedly the town’s livery stable. Several yards past the last house stood a simple church. It had a bell steeple with a cross on top. The road curved a little at this point and followed a mountain stream that flowed north of the town. The bridge crossing the stream was narrow with no side rails, causing the wagon teams to cross with care.

  Bart understood why the town was named Flat Peaks, because in the far distance stood two mountains that seemed to be sheared off, appearing to have flat tops. Snow had accumulated several hundred feet down their sides, indicating their height to be at least fourteen thousand feet. At a lower elevation, the mountains were covered with pine and birch trees that seemed to be reaching for the clouds. The birch trees reflected the sun’s light as though they were signaling to travelers. Rolling meadows with waving grass carpeted the valley’s floor as far as the eye could see.

  Bart felt at peace and thought of his pa as he witnessed the beauty. “Pa,” he said in a low voice, “I made it. I made it to Colorado like we talked. It’s really pretty here, Pa. I wish you could have made it here with me.” He was interrupted by the rattling sounds of wagon wheels crossing the bridge behind him.

  After the crossing, the captain led the wagons another three hundred yards to a wooded area by the stream. It was obvious other wagon trains had camped here because the grass was trampled and fire pits dotted the landscape. The wagons circled from habit, and the usual unloading started. Coffee water was put on and the noon meal was prepared and eaten. Folks sat quietly with looks of what do we do now? One by one, families moseyed off to their new town, stopping occasionally to observe the beauty of this place they had struggled to come to.

  “Are you going to town?” Bart asked Mr. and Mrs. Douglas.

  “No. I think we’ll stay here for a while longer and get things in order,” answered Mr. Douglas. Bart noticed glances between the Douglases and guessed Liz had told her parents he was planning to find a place of his own.

  “I think I’ll go to town and scout around. I want to get acquainted and find a job as soon as possible.” Bart put his cup away and turned to leave, but before he was out of range, Mrs. Douglas called, “Bart, we’ll be eating supper at five thirty. Don’t be late.”

  He stopped and looked back. He had intended to decline her offer but quickly changed his mind in thoughtfulness of Mrs. Douglas’ feelings. “Thanks. I’ll be back in plenty of time,” he responded.

  His first stop was the livery stable. An old man, who looked about sixty, was leaning back in his chair, sound asleep. Bart turned to leave, not wanting to disturb the old man’s nap.

  “Can I help you, young man?” ask the liveryman in a friendly voice.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bart said.

  “That’s all right. If I ain’t workin’, I’m sleeping. Didn’t I see you come through with the wagon train riding a mule?” Bart only nodded.

  The old-timer glanced at Bart’s facial scar, but mostly he focused on the shirt Bart was wearing. “I’m looking for a job,” admitted Bart. “Would you need a helper, or know of someone who might? I’m a good hand when it comes to work. Don’t let my size fool you. I’m a lot stronger than I look.”

  “Don’t your folks need your help, son?”

  “My folks are both dead. My Pa died on the way out here…I don’t have any other kinfolks. The wagon train took me in after Pa died, but I’ll be on my own now that we’ve arrived. I need a place to stay and a job for expenses. If you know of any work, I’d be obliged.”

  “Son, I don’t have enough work to keep me busy these days. Travelers have been scarce because of the Indian raids, and with the fall season coming on, customers will be few and far between. I think you’ll find most folks around here will have the same story. There may be some ranchers looking for someone to winter in their range shacks, but I don’t know of any off-hand.”

  “Thanks anyhow,” Bart said, as he turned to leave.

  “If you can’t find anything better, you’re always welcome to sleep in my hayloft,” replied the old man. Bart nodded his thankfulness. The liveryman was puzzled as he watched Bart walk down the boardwalk toward Jenny’s Place. He wondered how the boy got his terrible scar and how he had come by his shirt. He could have asked, but that was not the way of the land.

  In the West, questions weren’t asked about a person’s previous life—at least not until they had become close friends, and sometimes, not even then. A cross section of people from nearly every nationality and every walk of life had come west, including former merchants, doctors, dignitaries, lawyers, and teachers. The West was full of folks wanting to put their past behind them. The law wanted some for robbery, murder, or other crimes, but most people came west to exchange a lifestyle of boredom for one of adventure and excitement.

  Jenny’s Place was a room about fifteen by twenty-five feet with a dirt floor. There were four, six-foot-long tables with red and white checkered tablecloths; benches lined their sides. In the center of each table was a bowl of butter and a set of salt and pepper shakers. A potbellied stove dominated one corner with wood stacked beside it and a large coffee pot on its top. Bart noticed people were helping themselves to the coffee. The cooking area was enclosed behind a head-high partition with an access through hinged, batwing doors. Bart was impressed by the café’s cleanliness.

  Heads turned his way when he walked in, and all eyes focused on his scar and shirt. Bart sat down at a corner table against the wall and waited for a server to come through the swinging doors. Slowly, the others started new conversations and resumed drinking their coffee. Bart watched a man pull a tobacco string, dangling from his vest pocket, and roll a cigarette. He had witnessed cigarette making before but not with the style on display here.

  Dishes rattled, and a woman carrying four plates of food pushed the batwings open with her behind. She was a hefty woman who reminded Bart of Mrs. Kaiser. A young girl about Bart’s age followed with two more platefuls. He saw the girl give him a quick glance, but she hurriedly turned to serve the food. The men bellied up to the table and prepared to eat by spreading thick layers of butter on freshly baked biscuits.

  The heavyset woman crossed the room toward Bart. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun, and a white apron covered most of the light blue dress she was wearing. “Saw you come through with the wagons,” she barked. “We don’t have a variety here. We cook and serve one type of meal. If you’ve got twenty-five cents I’ll fetch you a plate, and you can help yourself to coffee while you wait—it’s on the stove.”

  Bart turned toward her, causing his scar to come fully into view. The woman’s face took on an inquisitive expression. “I’ve got the money,” he said. “But that’s not why I came in here. I’m looking for a job. I can wash dishes, serve food, or clean up, but to be honest, I’m not much good at cooking. If you need a helper, I’d be grateful for a job.”

  The woman’s gaze met Bart’s for a few seconds, and then she asked in a kinder voice, “Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s on the house.”

  “I’d be obliged.”

  The lady walked to the stove, fetched two coffees, and then returned, sitting across the table from Bart. “That’s cowboy coffee, young fellow. We call it that because it’s so strong, it’ll float a horseshoe.” She laughed at her own joke as she pushed the cup toward hi
m.

  Bart smiled and said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Bart Carter, and like I said, I’m looking for a job. I’ll do anything that needs done.”

  “It’s nice meeting you, Bart. You can call me Jenny. I own this place. As far as a job is concerned, I’d be interested if you were a girl. The young lady you saw helping me is my niece, but she’s going back east in two weeks, and I’m going to need a replacement, but I need a female. You see, most of my customers are men, and they seem to prefer women.” Bart gave an understanding nod and then sat in silence drinking his coffee while thoughts ran through his mind. “Jenny, there’s a woman who traveled west with us that needs work. Her husband is very sick and to be honest I don’t think he’ll last much longer. She can cook and do most anything. I can ask her to talk with you about the position if you want? I know she’d be thankful and she’d be a hard worker.”

  “Thank you, Bart. Have her come by. I’ve got to get busy now, but come back and see me again. I’ve enjoyed our talk.” Bart finished his coffee and left.

  He was headed for the Seed and Feed store when he spotted an old timer slumped on a bench in front of the saloon. Maybe I should strike up a conversation with this old timer and get the lay of the land, Bart thought. The man raised his head when he heard footsteps and turned toward the sound.

  “Good afternoon. Mind if I sit down beside you?” Bart asked. The man waved a hand at the bench. As Bart sat and got a closer view of the man, he thought he was probably wasting his time. The old timer didn’t look as though he could provide any worthwhile information. His clothes were filthy and torn in several places; his boot heels were completely worn down, and he had not shaved in days. To top it off, his greasy, flimsy hat was several sizes too large and was resting on his ears. His body odor was almost unbearable.