Badman's Pass

by R. W. Stone

Suddenly a man emerged from an alley farther off to the right with a long shotgun in his arms. I put my finger on the trigger and took a closer look through the scope. It was then I noticed the badge on the man’s chest. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Friends, let me introduce you to my new deputy. His name’s Jessie. Been with me just a short time now, but trust me, he’s been using that shotgun of his for a long, long time,” Jake explained, just loud enough for me to overhear. “He’s real good with it.”

  “So Jake’s gone and got religion,” I mused out loud.

  “How’s that?” Betty asked.

  “It’s about time he got some help,” I said to myself as much as to Betty. “This town’s grown too big for just one lawman, and Jake takes too many chances as far as I’m concerned.”

  I adjusted the rifle. Even with the appearance of the deputy, I couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong. Call it a sort of sixth sense. By now those men, even drunk as they were, should have changed their attitude. Facing a Winchester in front and a shotgun to the side would make any man a believer. I knew something was up. There was no back-up at all showing in those men.

  “You go to hell!” one of the group yelled. “And that goes for your play pal, too.”

  Once again I swept the area with the scope that was now mounted on my rifle. It was then that I noticed a sixth man crouched in the shadows back behind the deputy.

  “How about it, boys? Shall we show these citified, town-building peckerwoods how it’s done back home?”

  Everything seemed to happen at once. The man in the shadows stood up, and I held my sights right over his chest as I pulled the trigger. A .45-70 bullet can take down a buffalo at that range, and what it did to that man was more than sufficient to send him straight to Hades with a nonstop train ticket.

  Betty screamed in my ear, and about the same time down on the street, the men facing the lawmen all drew their weapons. Since they were caught between a Winchester rifle and the shotgun, there wasn’t much point wondering if any of them had survived the encounter.

  “What the hell?” Sheriff Finley shouted, spinning around.

  I waved at him from the window.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, looking up.

  “Probably!” I shouted down.

  “Jessie and I sure owe you one, Badger,” he yelled, nudging the bodies one by one with the barrel of his rifle.

  “You sure do!” I hollered down. “You interrupted a right pleasant evening.” Remembering my roommate, I set the rifle down and turned to her. “Now, where were we?” I smiled.

  She looked at me aghast. “You just shot him down without a warning!” she cried. “You murdered him from hiding without giving him a chance!”

  “Just like he was going to do to the deputy,” I observed. “What would you have me do? Mail him an invitation or wait till he blew away the law?” I asked, shaking my head in disgust.

  She picked up what remained of the wine bottle and headed quickly to the door.

  “Well,” I said to her just before she stormed out. “I expect shootings do tend to put a damper on romance.” She slammed the door on her way out.

  I took the sniper sight off the rifle and put it away. Then I took a cleaning kit from a small compartment hidden in the back of the rifle stock and cleaned the rifle’s bore. After that, I washed my face in the basin and went to bed. I guess that particular night, sleeping won out over other activities, after all.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning I rose early and had a quick breakfast of ham and eggs with some extra hot black coffee. Betty was nowhere to be found, but given the prior night’s events, it wasn’t surprising, and that was all right with me. After settling my hotel bill, I headed over to the bank and cashed out the chit for my reward money. At about nine I went over to Murphy’s Saddle Repair.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kershaw,” he said pleasantly. “I have just what you ordered all ready.” Murphy walked over to his workbench and retrieved my belt and holster. He handed them to me, explaining: “It turned out to be a rather simple job, but I have to admit, it is a clever idea.”

  I immediately noticed that he had embellished slightly over my original idea. The belt was no longer straight, but rather over the area of the right hip, he had sewn a thick U-shaped extra flap of leather onto the belt in order to allow the holster to ride a little lower. The Buscadero-style boot-top holster that normally had a leather fold through which the cartridge belt passed had been replaced with a brass stud and bracket attachment that bolted the holster right into the now widened belt.

  I turned the rig over in my hands. The side of the holster that made contact with the belt had an oversize brad, or brass button, pushed through the leather. There was also a small patch of leather sewed on in such a way as to cover the inside of the holster to prevent the metal brad from rubbing, catching, or scratching the scattergun. The actual belt had an indented brass bracket sewn into the flap into which the stud articulated while holding the holster in place. The whole affair was double-stitched and reinforced with a crisscross pattern like you saw on the better grade of saddlery. I couldn’t help but feel that it gave a little class to the whole affair.

  “You polished it up, too,” I noticed.

  “No extra charge. I won’t let leather go out of my establishment without cleaning it,” he commented.

  “Charge or not, it is a very nice touch.” My praise was genuine.

  Mr. Murphy broke into a wide grin. “Actually, it is a nice grade of leather you have there. Whoever made this originally knew what he was doing. Very well made and tanned appropriately. Not urine-tanned like they do down south.” Murphy coughed uncomfortably and added: “Both the holster and belt, however, were rather dirty.” He clearly was admonishing me.

  I must have looked a little sheepish. “I do know better, but I get a mite lazy about saddle-soaping my tack.”

  “Lasts longer iffen you do,” he explained. “Go ahead, put it on. I’d like to check the fit.”

  As expected, the belt and holster, now a one-piece outfit, fit like a glove. If anything, it was more comfortable and rode a little lower on my right hip. “I’m more than pleased with the job,” I said.

  “Some of the stitches were coming apart, so I redid them, and I reinforced the lining,” Murphy explained. “I replaced the tie-down lace, too. It was pretty worn.”

  “I saw that. Very nicely done, too, if I might add. Just what I’d ordered. You must have stayed up all night to finish this on time.”

  The leather smith shrugged his shoulders. “It took a little longer than usual, but I liked your idea. Wanted to see if I could get done just what you wanted.”

  “Well, Mr. Murphy, you outdid yourself, I’ll say that,” I replied sincerely. After paying the man, I went outside and headed for the stable. It was time to leave.

  When I finally rode out of town, I paused a moment to look back. Sheriff Finley was standing in the middle of the street with his hand up as a gesture of farewell. I waved a good-bye and turned back toward the road home. Trailing behind me was the jack mule, that chestnut mare I had recovered, and, of course, Lobo.

  Once we cleared the town, I raised a hand and motioned. “Go hunt.” Lobo looked up at me and then raced off. When he wanted to, he could outrun a horse. Ever since he was pup, that dog-wolf mix had a solitary streak in him, and as soon as he was old enough, he took to disappearing for days on end. At first there were times when I worried he might not ever return, but he always did. Somehow or another he always managed to pick up my scent. Sometimes he’d arrive covered in cockleburs or sandspurs, and other times he’d be dripping wet.

  Occasionally he’d show up with a bloody rabbit in his mouth and drop it on my bedroll like he was bringing home a trophy for me. Always he seemed happy to be back, and I couldn’t help but enjoy his company, especially during long and lonely eve
ning hours. I had a currycomb in my pack, and after dark I’d spend an hour or two brushing him down. He seemed to enjoy it, and it brought me a mindless distraction that helped pass the time.

  Once in a while, Lobo would hear some wolf howl and perk up his ears, but unless I gave him the nod to “Go hunt,” he’d stick around the camp. Funny thing is, even though he was half wolf, the Appaloosa and the mule seemed to get along fine with him. Occasionally I noticed they seemed actually to play with Lobo, with him nipping at their heels and the horses jumping sideways. They never stomped or kicked him, though. Not once. Even when it might look to others that Lobo was roughhousing a little too much in earnest, they all got along. They had grown up together, and after all these years together, we’d all learned to live with each other’s bothersome tendencies.

  The ride back home took three weeks through some rather hard and rocky territory, but finally we were in sight of my ranch. I sat on the Appaloosa, looking down into a small valley nestled in the prettiest foothills you’ve ever seen. I had found the place before the war and had staked it out. It was my refuge, my retreat if you will, a place where I could forget about enemies, danger, or worldly woe.

  Originally I had been riding north in response to a job opportunity I’d heard of. Not many were willing to hire someone so young for anything that entailed any sort of responsibility or willing to offer good pay for that matter. John Eldridge, however, had been different. He’d started West as a young man with Coulter and had eventually gone his own way. He lived as a mountain man for a while, lived with the Indians for a few years, and eventually took up mining.

  One morning during a thunderstorm, he awoke with a start after lightning struck right next to his tent. When he peered out the tent flap, he saw it had hit a small but wide tree a few feet away. The tree had been split right up the middle and had toppled over. Curious, Eldridge went over to the stump and came across what prospectors call a glory hole. There were gold nuggets the size of peach pits all over the stump and in the hole.

  Eldridge, who was never very fond of digging holes anyway, took the money and reinvested it in a horse-breeding operation in Colorado. He had spread the word that anyone who was a wrangler or a peeler was welcome, regardless of age. By then I could sit anything with four legs, and since Eldridge had a reputation for paying well and on time, I was riding to join his spread.

  One day along the way, I noticed a rather large-size elk and rode off in search of some fresh meat. That elk led me uphill and down until I was so turned around I couldn’t tell where we were, where we were going, or how we got there. Then as I crested this hill, I saw the small valley below. It was a secluded sea of grass, and everywhere you looked there was color, whether from primrose plants or shooting stars or purple thistles.

  I liked the fact that it was so secluded and that the land had a lot of possibilities. Cattle or horses could be ranched here, and there was plenty of fertile ground for planting. I eventually was able to stake a claim on it, although it would be several years before I could actually get around to start working there.

  As I sat astride the Appaloosa, I knew it was just a stretch of land, but as far as I was concerned, it was also a small patch of pure paradise. “We’re home, boy,” I said, nudging the horse on.

  Three hours later, in late afternoon, I rode up to the front gate. It felt good to be home where I could finally relax for a spell. At least, that’s what I fully intended on doing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Yo, the house!” I yelled. I leaned over and opened the gate. Lobo bounded into the front yard and barked excitedly. I rode over to the small log-and-branch corral I’d built off to the left of the house and dismounted. I unsaddled the horses and the mule and turned them all loose in the corral. For the moment I threw the saddles and tack over the corral railing and turned back to the house.

  “Yo, the house!” I yelled again. “Hey, Sarge, you around?”

  The front door opened, and an older man wearing a weather-worn army campaign hat emerged.

  “Shut yer yap,” he said gruffly. “I heared ya. Knew ya was coming since you was up on the bluff,” he insisted. That didn’t surprise me much, since nothing ever seemed to escape Sarge’s watchful eye. Or maybe it was some extra sense the older ex-army man had developed over the years.

  Sergeant Richard Hackworth had served in the military in one capacity or another for over forty-some years. He had had a long and highly unusual career. During the 1850s he traveled to some place in the Far East called Bangkok as part of a small military protection detail for one of our ambassadors, a man named Townsend Harris. Apparently he later accompanied the ambassador over to Japan, where in his free time he trained with some of the Emperor’s personal bodyguards.

  Sarge learned to speak the Japper’s lingo and added that to his command of Spanish and three or four American Indian tongues. Apparently he had some sort of natural affinity to learn other languages. When he finally returned to America, he was transferred around to different outposts and eventually ended up as top soldier in our outfit and the brigade’s hand-to-hand combat instructor.

  In the meantime I had grown up migrating all over the West, doing one thing or another until ending up in the Midwest. Even as young as I was, I found jobs loading freight and driving wagons. I hammered railroad spikes for a while and then rode express. I tried my hand at mining for a few months but finally ended up working as an ordinary cowhand.

  I had just finished escorting a small herd to Chicago when the war broke out. I wanted to enlist, but the army considered that at sixteen, I was still too young. I hung around the town for another year, supporting myself by doing such odd jobs as driving ice carts or coal wagons. Then in 1862 I lied about my age and joined the army. I was assigned to the Sixth Illinois Cavalry. It was as fine a unit as ever was mustered.

  I still painfully remember the first time the Sarge and I met. Our squad was sent over to a practice session to learn about fighting hand-to-hand without weapons. We all sat around a circle while the sergeant stood in the middle, talking to us about fighting.

  “Thought we was gonna ride and shoot in this here cavalry,” one particularly big recruit offered, “not wrassle around.” If I remember correctly, his name was Miles. “Besides, I already know how to box,” he boasted.

  “Great,” the Sarge said, pointing to him. “Then thanks for volunteering.” The soldier smiled and, as he was standing up, whispered to me: “Watch this. I’ve never been beaten yet.” Miles walked into the center of the circle, squared off, and put his dukes up.

  “You know all that Marquis de Queensberry stuff?” the sergeant asked innocently.

  “Sure do,” the soldier replied proudly. Miles turned his head slightly and winked at me as if to share a confidence.

  “Well then, anytime you’re ready,” the Sarge said with a come-on gesture.

  The young recruit started to advance and swung a big haymaker at the instructor’s head. Sergeant Hackworth simply leaned to one side to avoid the punch and then kicked the man in the shin with the inside edge of his boot. It sounded like a hammer hitting a two-by-four. Private Miles went down in excruciating pain, face first. From the sound of the kick and the expression on the recruit’s face, I hoped the sergeant hadn’t broken the man’s leg.

  “You kicked me,” the soldier whimpered, looking up from the ground.

  “Sorry, but I never learned all them fancy rules.” Turning to the group, the sergeant continued: “We teach fighting here. We don’t host no sporting events. We are going into battle where there ain’t no rules. Remember, all’s fair in love and war, and where you’re going there sure as hell won’t be any love.”

  Not one soldier laughed. Reflecting on my own weaknesses, I decided right there and then that I’d stick to this man like glue until I learned all his tricks.

  With all my experience out West growing up on the trail, I was soon transferred to the
scouting section of the unit. My group was tasked with riding point and scouting around. We had to avoid leading the brigade into ambushes and were often ordered to find new routes to take the troop into or out of battle. Nobody ever found out about my age, and after a year and a half, I was promoted to corporal.

  It seemed to most of us that the North was having a hard time of things, and eventually the Union army got bogged down around Vicksburg, an armed fortress built on a two-hundred-foot cliff high above the Mississippi. It had huge cannons that would sink any Union vessel on the river, going up or down.

  In February of 1863, General Grant came up with a new strategy to conquer the city. While Union gunboats sneaked past the Rebel gunners at night, General W. T. Sherman would plan a way to coordinate an attack from the south with his troops.

  Up to this point in the war, however, Rebel cavalry, with such leaders as J. E .B. Stuart and Nathan Bedford Forrest, had made fools of us. Confederate cavalrymen patrolled the riverbank area and would sound the alarm if they even smelled a Yankee. General Grant decided he needed a Union cavalry troop to draw the Rebels away from Vicksburg.

  Grant wanted men willing to take risks, to ride hard and strike fast. That described the Illinois brigade to perfection. Colonel Benjamin Grierson was tasked with destroying the Vicksburg and Jackson Railroad at Newton Station, Mississippi. The mission that later became known as Grierson’s Raid commenced on April 17th, 1863. The Sixth and Seventh Illinois rode out from La Grange, Tennessee, joined by the boys from the Second Iowa regiment.

  We tore up the South for seventeen days and marched over eight hundred miles, destroying two railroads in the process. Just as Grant had figured, the chaos we created drew the Confederate defenders away from Vicksburg and thus away from both Grant and Sherman’s attack.

  That’s where my small group of scouts came in. It seems that almost everyone expected that after we hit Newton Station, we would turn back and return the same way we came in. Our colonel, however, reasoned that the Rebs would figure it that way as well, and he did just the opposite of what everyone expected. Since it was just as far down to the Union line in the south as it was back to La Grange, Tennessee, Colonel Grierson ordered us to keep riding south, right on down to Baton Rouge.