by Jim Cox
“I’m known by that name, and I did help drive the herd.”
“You’ve built yourself quite a reputation, young man. Stories floated around for over a year about your bravery and how you laid your life on the line to save one of your fellow trail riders. They’ve mostly quieted down now, but folks still talk about you from time to time. What brings you to St. Louis? Have you been on another drive?”
“No, sir, I’ve been in Chicago for the last two years working in a slaughter plant. I’m on my way back to Colorado.” Scar handed the man two bits and headed for the bathing area. After washing, he relaxed for several minutes in the warm water before toweling off and dressing.
The hotel’s dining room was crowded when Scar returned from the barber shop. He was seated at a corner table, and after studying the menu, ordered a large steak with all the trimmings and a piece of apple pie for dessert. Coffee was quickly brought to him. After he had eaten, he went to his room.
The room was large with all the necessities. It had a long firm bed and a reading lamp on a stand by the bed. After putting his hat on a wall peg, Scar hung his gun belt around the bedpost and undressed down to his underdrawers. Then he opened his saddlebags and pulled out one of the Blackstone books. After fluffing and stacking two pillows, he lay down to read.
The next morning, he dressed, ate a large breakfast, drank several cups of coffee, and started for the stores. The streets were lined with shops, but none were opened at this early hour, so he moseyed around reading store posters and looking at displays through the windows. When the stores opened at eight, Scar entered a mercantile and gathered up food items for the upcoming trip. After placing the groceries on the counter, he headed for the clothing area where he selected three complete changes of clothes, including underdrawers. As he was paying, a hat on a rack behind the counter caught his attention. It was a low crown, black hat with a silver band. “What’s the price of that black hat?” Scar asked as he pointed to the hat in question.
“It’s the latest style—it came in yesterday. The price is three dollars.”
Scar went to the rack and found one that fit. “Include this in my bill,” he instructed.
The day passed slowly. He located the livery where his Pa had bought the mules and talked with the teamster for several minutes. Afterward, he ambled about looking in store windows and stopped twice for coffee. Finally, at a loss for things to do, he went back to the hotel.
Lying in bed that night, Scar decided to leave at daybreak the next morning. There’s nothing for me to do here. I’m wasting my time.
Maude seemed ready to go when he stepped into the saddle at daybreak the next morning. As they walked along the city’s streets, Scar noticed most of the houses had lights with folks scurrying about, but a few houses were still dark.
At the edge of town, Scar took the trail heading west toward Kansas City, the same trail he and his father had taken four years earlier.
Day after day, the man and his mule traveled west through Missouri’s midland. Scar had figured the trip to Kansas City would take twelve to fifteen days and they had already traveled four. The weather remained hot, requiring frequent rest stops. He didn’t want to push Maude. Occasionally, he built a fire for coffee.
Scar had veered a little north from the main trail but was still riding parallel to it. His days were lonely. He had not seen anyone since leaving St. Louis. He saw an occasional deer and once saw a bear scamper up a nearby hill. At night time, he chose camps with good protection but depended mainly on Maude to signal the approach of any intruders.
He spent his time daydreaming about his ma and pa or the Douglases, especially Liz. Sometimes he talked out loud to himself or to Maude as mile after mile passed.
He also thought about his future. What was he to do with his life? Ranching seemed a worthwhile life but where would he get the start-up money? He had over a thousand dollars in his money belt, but that was small change compared to what was needed. “What would Liz think about ranching?” he thought. “What kind of a profession would she choose for him?” Scar shook his head, trying to dismiss thoughts involving Liz. After all, there was no guarantee she’d be part of his future. That thought caused his stomach to tighten.
Scar had been traveling for six days when he came to a sign posted at a cross trail—Odessa 4 Miles—with an arrow pointing to the north. “What do you think, Maude? Should we go to Odessa and rejoin civilization for a day or two?” Without any direction from Scar, the mule turned northward as though she understood his question.
Odessa was like most small towns of its day. A single street ran through town with homes at each end and businesses in the middle. Scar stopped at a water trough for Maude and then proceeded to the business area. However, after drinking her fill and taking a few steps from the trough, Maude quickened her pace considerably, which took Scar by surprise. “What is it, girl? You just had a drink? What’s got you all riled up?”
Maude came to the hitching rail in front of the town’s tavern and stopped beside a mismatched team of a mule and horse hitched to a wagon. Maude stretched her head toward the mule. Scar immediately recognized Frankie and the wagon. Frankie was Maude’s teammate, and the wagon was the Prairie Schooner his Pa had purchased in St. Louis. Frankie was in bad shape, washboard thin with a matted coat. Two of his shoes were missing, and his hooves were long overdue for trimming. The wagon was in shambles. The bonnet was torn in several places, the wheel hubs were dry and needed to be greased, and the wagon bed had lost some of its underpinnings and drooped over to one side. Scar’s face twisted. Luke Mills was in the tavern. “What a coincidence,” he said to himself as he stood rubbing Frankie’s neck. His mind went back to the events involving Luke. He remembered the advantage the drunken man had taken of him when he was fourteen years old. The terrible pain Luke had inflicted and the grotesque scars he had been left with from the whipping. He would never forget the incident.
There was no doubt in Scar’s mind that he would be taking Frankie and the wagon with him when he left town. His only concern was how to confront Luke. Scar spent several minutes considering the best approach. Should he take revenge on Luke and be brutal or should he be civil and try to avoid violence? He decided to be civil.
All eyes turned to the entrance as Scar pushed the batwings open. The doorway was filled with a six-foot four-inch man, weighing two hundred thirty-five pounds, without an ounce of fat; his shoulders were wide and tapered down to a narrow, flat waistline. His shirt sleeves bulged against his large biceps. He wore a black leather vest over a red and black check shirt, and his jeans were stuffed into black boots. The saloon patrons paid special attention to his holstered handgun and the facial scar partially covered with black whiskers. The onlookers could tell he was a man to be left unchallenged due to his size and physique. What they didn’t know was he had obtained his build by lifting two-hundred-pound cattle carcasses from morning until night for the past year.
Scar spotted Luke bellied up to the bar at the back of the room drinking whiskey. All eyes watched as the stranger walked toward Luke, who had his back turned. When Luke became aware of the quietness, he turned to see a stranger standing behind him.
“Are you looking for me? What’s on your mind?” Luke growled.
“I’ll be taking my mule and wagon you’ve got hitched to the rail outside. I’ll put your belongings on the boardwalk and tie your horse to the rail.”
“Like hell, you will! Who do you think you are coming in here and demanding my property?”
“I’m the boy you nearly beat to death with that whip hanging from your side. You stole my belongings.”
“Are you the skinny runt of a boy who came to my place a couple years back?” Luke asked with a puzzled expression. Scar only nodded. “You’ve growed some. Ain’t your name Bart?”
“Not anymore,” said the stranger. “Folks call me Scar.”
Scar turned and started to walk out, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Luke reach for his whip, so Scar
turned back to face him.
“I whipped you once, and I’m about to do it again,” Luke threatened as he uncoiled his whip and lashed out. Scar expected his action and stepped forward, allowing the whip to wrap around his body without doing harm. He grabbed the whip and jerked it from Luke’s hand and then pulled his knife from his right boot and proceeded to cut the whip into three-foot lengths.
“I’m going to beat you to death with my bare hands for cutting up my whip,” Luke yelled as he lunged for Scar. But Scar stepped aside, causing the other man to fall face first on the floor. He rose and took a roundhouse swing at Scar’s head, but Scar ducked and threw a hard punch into Luke’s belly that sunk halfway to his elbow. Luke staggered backward, trying to regain his air as he came at Scar again.
This time Scar sidestepped his punch and crushed Luke’s nose with a left hook. He followed with another powerful right blow to the stomach, which caused Luke to double over in pain. Then Scar connected with an excruciating blow to the jaw, sending the man’s unconscious body sprawling to the floor.
Scar was removing Luke’s things from the wagon when a man came from the saloon and asked, “Are you really the man called Scar?”
“Yes, sir, I am. What can I do for you?”
“There’s a trail message going around saying you’re to meet Captain Willard at the Cattlemen’s Hotel in Denver the middle of July. Maybe you’ve already heard about it?”
“No, sir, I hadn’t, and if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate your help in starting a return message saying I’ll be there.”
“I’ll get one rolling as soon as I find someone heading west. By the way, I’ve heard talk about you and all you’ve done. It’s an honor to meet you. My name is John Higgins.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, John, and thanks again for the message from Captain Willard.”
After Higgins left, Scar finished unpacking Luke’s things from his pa’s wagon. He then removed the harness from Luke’s horse, tied him to the hitching rail, and placed the harness on Maude. After hooking her to the wagon, he climbed into the seat and headed south to the combined blacksmith-livery he’d spotted on his way into town.
The smithy came out when the team rolled in and eyed the dilapidated wagon and Frankie’s condition. He shook his head with disapproval. “What can I do for you, young man?”
“I’ve acquired this wagon and the skinny mule on the left. Both are in bad condition. The mule needs his hooves trimmed and new shoes on all fours. Give him a good brushing and rubdown, and feed both mules all the corn they’ll eat. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me when you’re finished. I’ll be at the cafe.”
“What about the wagon?”
“If you have time before the afternoon is over, grease the wheels and fix the undercarriage.” Scar turned and walked to Joe’s Cafe across the street.
Two hours later, the smithy entered the café to inform Scar his request had been completed. Scar paid the bill and boarded his Pa’s wagon and headed south looking at the rear end of two mules—one plump and one skinny. Inside the wagon was Maude’s saddle, a fifty-pound bag of corn, and a bag of oats. “I’ll have you as round as Maude in a few weeks, Frankie,” he mumbled.
Seven days later the team pulled into a Kansas City livery where Scar stabled the two mules. Then he negotiated the sale of the wagon with the teamster. “I’ll buy the harness for fifteen dollars, but I don’t have any need for the wagon,” the teamster said.
“I’ll be leaving on the train for Denver at nine in the morning,” Scar said. “I have to be rid of the wagon. You can sell it to a rancher in the area and double your money. What can you offer?”
“I’ll give you thirty-five dollars for the whole shebang.”
Scar extended his hand, “We have a deal.”
He gave instructions to the liveryman to feed both mules a generous amount of corn and oats from the feed bags in the back of his wagon. Then he gathered his rifle and saddlebags and headed for the nearest hotel.
The next morning Scar and the two mules boarded the train and began a three-day train ride. There was no direct route to Denver from Kansas City because the tracks jig-jagged across country to intersect with large towns. Consequently, the trip required two train changes. Riding a passenger train was a relatively new way to travel in that part of the country. Trains moved at a top speed of forty miles per hour, but frequent water and fuel stops were necessary, which increased the travel time considerably. During the first hour after each boarding, passengers carried on conversations, but as time passed, they became less sociable and kept to themselves. Two tables for card playing were set up on each train, and most of the time each table was fully occupied. Scar spent his time reading Thomas’ Blackstone books or napping. The days passed slowly.
On the twenty-first of July, the train rolled into the Denver station in the early afternoon. Scar saddled Maude and rode down Main Street, leading Frankie behind. He found the Cattlemen’s Hotel without difficulty and spotted a livery directly across the street. After stabling his mule, he crossed to the hotel and registered. “Are there any messages for me?” He asked.
The hotel desk clerk looked through a stack of notes before saying, “No, sir. There’s none.”
“Has Captain Willard arrived?”
“We received his wire last week. He’s scheduled to be here tomorrow,” replied the clerk.
After putting his things away in his room, Scar dressed in clean clothes and went to find a barber shop. His instructions to barbers were always the same. “I want a haircut and my beard trimmed but leave the beard long enough to cover my scar. I also want a bath.” Returning to the hotel, he had an early supper and then retired to his room for the night.
He was sitting in the hotel lobby reading a newspaper the next morning when Captain Willard walked up to the clerk’s desk to register. “I’m hoping to meet a young man sometime today. Please send him to my room when he gets here.”
“I believe your young man is sitting over there.” The clerk pointed toward Scar.
The captain looked up in amazement. “Is that you, Bart?”
Scar walked to the captain with an extended hand. “Yes, sir, it is. Sure is good to see you.”
“I wouldn’t have recognized you with that beard and the size you’ve become. I’ll put my things in my room, and then we’ll eat and get caught up on things.”
Nearly two hours later, after many topics had been discussed, Scar asked, “Why did you want to meet me here in Denver, Captain?”
“I want to introduce you to the governor, Bart. I’ve been telling him about you. I think he has a position for you.”
“What does he have in mind, Captain?”
“I’ll let the governor explain what he’s put together. I’m scheduled to meet him tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, and I’d like for you to join me.”
The two men were greeted when they entered the governor’s reception area. “Good morning, Captain Willard, the governor is expecting you, go right in.”
The governor shook the captain’s hand like a pump handle and carried on like he’d just found a lost brother. Scar stood nearby, not knowing what to do or say.
Finally, the governor turned and shook his hand. “This must be the young man I’ve heard so much about.”
“Yes, it is,” The captain answered. “Meet Bart Carter. And Bart, meet John Long Roull, Colorado’s Territorial Governor. John’s been my friend for several years. The previous governor and friend, Governor McCook, who came West in one of my wagon trains, introduced us.”
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“I believe most people refer to you as Scar. Is that right?” asked the governor.
“Yes, sir, I suppose it is.”
“Why don’t we sit at the corner table, and let me explain why I’ve asked you to come here Scar.” As the men sat down, coffee was brought in, along with a few pastries. “Have you told Scar about any of the details, Willard?”
“No,
I haven’t.”
Governor Roull started right in. “Scar, Colorado is in position to be admitted into the Union within the year, and I’m hoping to become its first governor. However, the news about our territory has been dominated with Indian problems and criminal activities and has given me negative press. Whether or not I get elected, the situation needs to be corrected, so I’ve decided to appoint five special deputies that’ll report directly to the governor’s office. Their purpose is to help bring law and order to Colorado. Scar, I want you to be one of the deputies.
“Our state is growing up, and it’s time to use the latest technology to stop outlaws. Presently, each town has its own laws and doesn’t communicate with the others, which allows the riffraff to go from town to town breaking the law. We’re setting up a telegraph network making outlaws known throughout the state. My five special deputies will be a part of this network and will communicate with me through the wire.”
“Why are you picking me, sir? I’ve never had experience with this sort of work, and I’m only nineteen years old.”
“Willard says you’re the man for the job and I trust his judgment. Besides, I’ve talked around, and you have an unblemished reputation when it comes to high morals and character. I understand you study Blackstone’s books, which will help in your investigation work. It’ll be dangerous work, but I believe you can handle yourself if trouble comes.
“Your territory will be the northeast corner of the state. Flat Peaks is in the center of your territory. You’re to be on call if a problem arises in your area. I’m willing to pay fifty dollars a month.” The Governor paused for a moment and then asked, “What do you think of the offer, Scar? What’s your answer?”
Captain Willard interjected before Scar could respond. “Bart, you’ve asked for my advice several times over the years, and hopefully you’ll accept it now. Take the offer. It’s an appointment that’ll give you a foundation for bigger opportunities in the future.”
