Western Stories: Four Tales of the West

by Ward, Marsha

  Western Stories

  Four Tales of the West

  Marsha Ward

  Western Stories

  Copyright 2015 Marsha Ward

  http://marshaward.com

  Cover Photo Credit: Historic Photos, Tonto National Forest, U.S. Forest Service

  Published by WestWard Books at Smashwords

  All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced in print or electronically, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations for the purpose of critical articles or reviews.

  The stories included herein are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights and hard work is appreciated.

  Collection

  The stories contained herein—Cottonwood Cowboys, The Usual Game, War Party, and No More Strangers—are all previously published work, although they have been slightly edited. This collection brings them together at a reduced price.

  Table of Contents

  Legalities

  Cottonwood Cowboys

  The Usual Game

  War Party

  No More Strangers

  About the Author

  Novels in The Owen Family Saga

  Connect with Marsha Ward

  Cottonwood Cowboys

  The week ran along fine until Thursday night.

  Then the big cottonwood came crashing down on the corral.

  It about ruined my weekend.

  I guess I didn’t mind so much that I was stuck on the two-man saw with Curly, but Saturday afternoon working toward evening was a poor time to pull tree clearing duty, especially this Saturday, with the dance all laid out at the school house, and a new schoolmarm to gaze at.

  I reckon it wasn’t Curly’s fault; there wasn’t a finer hand than Curly, except maybe for me, on the whole Four Rivers, Arizona, spread. It was just that I was itching to get to that dance, having caught a beforehand sign of that schoolmarm when last I was in town.

  The trouble was, Curly was just as anxious to get duded up and out to the school house as I was, and I didn’t want him to get an edge on me.

  I guess it weren’t Amos Ramsey’s fault neither. But I sure cussed him some under my breath while I worked that saw back and forth as fast as I could stand. Old Amos owned the Four Rivers Ranch, and I thought sure he was going to leave that old, rotten tree for another day or two, seeing as how it had been laying there since the storm brought it down on Thursday night, and he hadn’t seen fit to give orders to clear it away.

  Old Amos changed his mind along about Saturday noon, and decided he surely could use some firewood from that stringy tree. “While you’re at it, Slim, you might as well clear the whole mess from the corral. And after that, if you didn’t mind, you can fix the section of fence that got mashed with the tree atop it.”

  “Tarnation,” I said, along with a few other little things, once Old Amos was safely out of earshot and I’d picked Curly to help me with the task. “I reckon I hired on to do just about anything, as long as it could be done from the back of a horse.”

  Curly growled something vehement in reply, and yanked on the handle of the saw.

  “Well, I allow as how I hate to dig postholes about as bad as anything,” I came back.

  Curly wasn’t thrilled, neither.

  We spent a long part of the early afternoon just pulling and pushing on that saw, getting hot under the collar from the work as well as the aggravation. Somewhere about three p.m. we commenced to dragging the cut sections of log out toward the wood pile with the horsepower of Africa and Asia.

  Them horses were a matched set of bays, and good workers where there was a load to pull, but Asia was a mite tetchy about his heels. Let the slightest little thing come against those heels, and he would be off a running, with Africa right alongside, and he’d run like he got spooked, too.

  Well, I’d sat down, taking a breather and letting the horses do the same, while Curly unhitched the rigging from around the last log we’d hauled over to the wood-stack. I was a-fanning my head and chest with my old hat. Mrs. Ramsey and her daughters were all in town helping set up the dance, so I’d long since rid myself of my shirt.

  Curly unwrapped the last turn of the chain and gave it a toss in the direction of the team.

  That chain came down on the heels of Old Asia. One minute he was there, blowing kind of peaceful like and enjoying the rest. The next minute he was tearing up the sod alongside the pasture fence, with Africa keeping step next to him. The harness and rigging were bouncing along behind, liable to catch on any old thing sticking up in the way, and Curly was hoofing it and puffing behind the team, trying to get to where he could catch the ends of the lines, hoping to halt those animals.

  Old Amos Ramsey took pride in those two beasts, and Curly knew he’d be out riding between chuck-wagons if they came to any harm.

  There wasn’t a thing I could do, what with the head start everybody had on me, so I spent my time wisely by rolling on the ground, holding my sides to keep my laughter from busting my gut, and making myself a candidate for cowboy most likely to need a bath in the near future.

  About then, Old Deaf Peters, the cook, stepped out the back door of the cook shack and turned loose a bucketful of potato wash water.

  That bucket load rained down on me, and then I was the muddiest hand in sight. The water did damp down my laughing fit some, though, and I scrambled to my knees to see what was happening with Curly and the team.

  Old Asia was slowing down, but he’d managed to get through the open gate to the lower pasture, where he was circling back from the far fence. Curly was pounding after the team, trying to cut them off before they hit the gate for the return trip.

  I got to my feet to see Asia and Africa turn again to run back the other way, and Curly sprinted across the pasture to intercept them. Tarnation, if he didn’t catch right up to them and skinny up on Old Africa’s back. It was so rare a sight I almost started in to clapping, until I remembered I’d best get myself down there to help Curly, now that he had the team going in tight circles.

  Cowboy boots aren’t the most logical footgear for walking, and they’re a sight worse for running, but I took off anyway, doing the best I could to get down to the pasture in a hurry. By this time, Curly had them two horses slowed down to a walk, and he slipped off Africa’s back and ran around to the front to lead them back where they came from.

  Africa and Asia were a-heaving and a-blowing after that little bit of exercise, and Curly looked about like he would drop right there in the pasture, but they kept a-coming toward me, and I kept a-going toward them, and we met just a tad bit this side of the pasture gate.

  Curly swore at me, and added, “You could of come help me sooner!” His face was all twisted from the effort to get a breath down his lungs.

  I laughed to see his expression, and Curly took a poke at me.

  “Hold off, now,” I said, ducking his fist. “I had a poor start. We best run this race again.”

  Curly glowered and puffed, and kept walking in the direction of the corral. “Damn! Old Amos’ll have my hide for this. Lucky them two beasts found the gate instead of busting through the wire.” Curly puffed some more.

  I looked the team over and w
inked at Curly. “They don’t appear to be hurt none.”

  “I reckon the Good Lord loves me, then,” Curly replied, slogging through the torn-up turf.

  “I reckon we still got a pile of work to do. Some folks will do anything to get out of their fair share,” I chided, grinning.

  “Shut up, Slim,” Curly returned.

  I whistled a tune and tramped alongside Curly, hoping we wouldn’t be too late to the dance.

  ###

  The Usual Game

  The Ford sputtered and died.

  Verl allowed the car to slip backward down the side of the steep mountain road to the almost-flat place where the switchback zigzagged in the other direction, then turned off the lights and set the brake. Night surrounded him with insect chirps and the crisp, tangy odor of creosote as he stepped off the running board of the 1926 Model T.

  I shoulda put in gas at Clarkdale, he thought, and wondered if the gas can was as dry as the tank.

  The young man let his eyes adjust to starlight for a moment, breathing deeply, hoping to cut the concrete dust that filled his lungs with the night air. Even if his was a dirty job, it was honest labor, like he'd promised Betty. Construction work was good for the economy of the young state of Arizona, and pretty well paying for him.

  He felt the wad of bills in his pocket. Maybe his earnings weren't like before, but soon there would be enough money for him to drive down to Phoenix to visit Betty and Ma. He could wire his wages to them, but he longed for some home cooking, and for the sight of Betty's laughing face when he came in the door.

  Verl felt along the running board for the gas can. He untied it, then gave it a shake. Should be a good two gallons in there. Plenty to get him up the hill to his lodgings in Jerome.

  He got the funnel out of the toolbox, uncapped the tank, and slid the funnel into the hole. Pungent fumes rose from the opened can as he lifted it, carefully adding the liquid to the tank. Then he was finished, and a tuneless whistle flowed through his pursed lips as he put away the gas can and funnel.

  "Let's go on home," he said, patting the car.

  Verl fired up the engine with the electric starter and eased off the brake to make another run up the steep road. The car settled into the proper gear and putted into the long ascent.

  The engine died again.

  Verl set the brake and started her up. The car putted a few more feet, then gave up.

  Still whistling, the young man tried again. A few minutes later, the whistle was ragged, and so was the patience. And Verl was back at the change-around point of the dugway. He slapped his big hand against the dashboard. I heard these Tin Lizzies were temperamental, he thought. I got to get home soon, or Fong'll throw out my supper. The moon rose over the horizon of the valley, silvering the car and the road.

  "I wish I had more gas in the tank," he said before he realized he was speaking out loud. "Maybe that's the problem . . . ." His voice tapered off as he remembered what the auto agent had said when he bought the car several months before: "Jerome, heh? Well, keep in mind that she has a gravity feed on the fuel. When you're low on gas and break the vacuum, you might have to back 'er up that steep hill."

  Verl leaped out of the car and sighted up the road. It looked straight enough, and with that moon, he had plenty of light. He restarted the engine, pulled the car into a tight left turn, and backed up the hill.

  The street was dark when Verl steered the car onto the weed-strewn flat spot beside the roof of Fong's boarding house. He turned off the switch and sat silent, pleased with himself. Now to eat, he thought, heaving his long legs onto the running board.

  He descended the staircase that ran alongside the house until he reached the landing outside his room on the top floor. Verl peered over the rail, looking for the patch of light from the kitchen window below. Usually, the lamplight from that one window lit up the side of the hill, but now the house was dark.

  Ah, shoot, he thought, putting his key back into his pocket. I forgot Fong went to Prescott today. I'll have to go up to the Verde Queen to eat.

  He walked, to save gas, and figured if Fong could wait three years for this day to arrive, he himself could wait another thirty minutes for his supper.

  The saloon, which doubled as the town's restaurant, wasn't far away--as the crow flies, provided the crow flew straight up; but the road wound back and forth up the hill, adding many yards to the distance. Verl trudged upward, and thought how happy Fong had been this morning during breakfast.

  "I go today, Verl," he had said, letting a grin steal across his thin face. "I take it all to send to my wife." He held up the bags of bills and coins.

  "Will it take long for her to get here?" Verl asked.

  "Maybe three month, maybe six month. She bring everything with her," Fong replied.

  "I'm real pleased for you, Fong. I'd go crazy waiting three years to see my wife again."

  Fong put the bags on the sideboard and sat down at the table. He waited a long moment before replying. “It been hard, yes.” He fidgeted with the drawstring of a cloth sack laying on the table before him. “We think a long time before we decide I should come.” He looked up at Verl, and spoke, his voice shaking slightly. "You a lucky man, Verl. You most lucky to be born here in United States."

  Verl swiftly flicked his gaze downward and stabbed a sausage. "I guess you’re right.” He chewed the meat slowly, swallowed. “I don’t even think about—” He stopped talking, took another quick bite, felt the flush in his face.

  Fong smiled. “You a good man, Verl.”

  "Nah, I’m just me.” Verl kept his face pointed at the table and fiddled with a biscuit. “You’re the one who’s worked so hard to get your money together.” He buttered the top half of the biscuit. “Won't your wife miss her folks in China?" He took a bite, finally lifted his head.

  "Yes. But we make family here. This is new life for me, and for her." He stood, moved to the sideboard, gathered up the bags, and brought them to the table. He bundled the bags into the sack, then paused and looked down at Verl. "Times hard in China. This a better place, Jerome, Arizona. We make fine life here."

  Verl had left for his job shortly afterward, but the conversation had stayed with him much of the day.

  The Queen was ahead, and its noise reached Verl before its light. He turned the corner around the shoulder of the mountain, and stepped into the oblong of brightness from the front windows. He paused just outside the door to catch his breath, and the odor of steak and beans filled his nose. His mouth moistened up. Then he walked through the doorway. And saw his landlord.

  Fong sat at the round table three yards from the bar, the cloth sack sagging empty in his lap, and a couple of bags on the table. He cradled a handful of cards in his ten fingers, and his head slanted forward, protecting them. Happy Sam—the surly gambler who ran the game—sat across from Fong, looking at his hand of cards. Schultzie, a big hard rock miner, sat on one side, and Dwyer, a laborer on the same job as Verl, sat on the other.

  Happy Sam grunted something Verl didn't hear, and laid down his cards, face up. The other players shoved their money and cards in his direction. Happy Sam picked up the pasteboard cards and shuffled the deck for a long time, then he began to deal.

  After one or two attempts, Verl got his concrete-stained boots uprooted from the floor and walked on numbed legs toward the table. He stopped two feet behind Dwyer and watched, swallowing to get his stomach loose from his throat.

  Fong was getting the raw end of the deal.

  In fact, Verl could see that the cards were coming low to the somber little man with the long queue, not only low in value, but off the bottom of the deck, as well. Happy Sam's usual game was under way.

  It was the usual game, all right, but what was Fong, who hardly knew a king from a joker, doing in it? He was supposed to be in Prescott: broke, exhausted, but triumphant that his long wait was soon to end.

  The young man's anger flashed, and he folded his fingers into fists. Then he remembered the peculiar bulge in Ha
ppy Sam's sleeve, and how once, a small but deadly pistol had appeared in the gambler's hand during a dispute over the honesty of his game. Verl remembered the challenger’s funeral had been on a Saturday afternoon, so the whole town had attended. "Self defense," ruled the county judge, and by the end of the week, Happy Sam had been back in business, a sardonic grin plastered on his working face.

  I got to try something else, Verl thought. Fong's cards lacked merit, and the young man could see his landlord stood a good chance of losing his whole poke very soon.

  The thought of Fong losing all that money made Verl's stomach crimp. The man had spent three years—long, hard years of diligent work—saving up that bankroll. Somebody here must have convinced him he could win more money to send to China by playing poker. Now the bags of coins from the years of scrimping were disappearing like a block of salt at a cattle lick in a pouring rain.

  Schultzie threw down his cards and growled, "I'm out," shoving back his chair and levering his bulky body onto his feet. Verl looked at Fong's face: long and smooth and unreadable, except for the lines of pain at the corners of the eyes. Verl swallowed hard.

  The young man checked his pocket. The wad was still there. The wad of money to add to the poke hidden in the wall back at his room. The wad of money that would get him home to Phoenix and sweet Betty's arms.

  He hesitated.

  He swallowed again.

  His right forefinger twitched as a nerve twanged under the skin.

  Then he slipped into the vacant chair, pulling out the precious bills and setting them on the table.

  "Mind if I sit in?” he almost whispered.

  Happy Sam grunted, his wolfish grin playing over his features. Dwyer dealt the cards, and they were off. Verl won, then lost, then the deck was plunked in front of him to shuffle and deal.

  "Hmmmm, these cards are a mite bent up. Let's have a new pack," he said after he riffled through the deck. Happy Sam grunted unhappily, but obliged, and shoved the new deck toward Verl. The young man picked it up.