Red Oaks Pass Station had a heavy river rock façade, a jumbled mass of stones pushed in with mortar like an impenetrable quilt from foundation to roofline. Almost as if two separate buildings had been meshed together, part was a long and low old structure on one end with a single pitched sloped roof, sections of shingles missing and in disrepair. The other half a two story broad barn type of lodge.
Stolter saw that the station sat in general dilapidation with more than a few windows patched over like eyes behind a patch to the world. Fresh, new planks are here and there but the decades had not been good to this wooded shelter. The broad stone porch with five wide-plank steps lead up from the flagstone walk. It reminded him of one of those Rocky mountain hunting lodges with whole, log walls and a twenty foot deep veranda.
Red Oaks Pass station had three stagecoaches parked on the sides of the clearing, two dozen riderless horses in the corral and a dozen occupied rocking chairs keeping the porch a busy place. People enjoyed drinks and dinner on the porch. Stolter could see white puffy smoke puffed from the tall chimney at the rear of the building.
Southcott had been very detailed and descriptive about the business done at the station. He had said it was an important hub of activity for the locals and wanderers that moved along the road. Aside from its use as a stagecoach stop, the locals used it as a social gathering place.
Stolter paid for hay in an empty corral for the herd. The mustang had balked at moving in through the gate, but coaxing with a handful of grain convinced him to join the rest of the horses.
Stolter took off his hat as he walked through the main double doors. Inside it was two stories with a broad staircase with a placard offering private rooms for guests. A river rock seven foot high fireplace towered at the end of the room. A saloon piano pounded out a raucous melody and the doorway to a cardroom showed men gathered around tables.
“Johnny Dardaine, bartender.” A congenial smile with slicked back black hair above a smooth, youthful face and brow. The wise cold eyes and the deft, active hands were just a type of man who controlled saloons and bars across much of the west.
“Nick Stolter, cutting horse trainer.” The horseman jumped when the bartender slammed both hands on the shiny wood bar. Stolter frowned. The bartender frowned back at him and gestured to the supplies at the bar.
“Beer.” The man nodded and brought up a pitcher from an ice bucket. He set the mug in front of Stolter.
“You’re gonna want to go see Mr. Metzger in the second room on the right down the hallway. He’s in charge of our wire here.” Dardaine gestured to the hallway near the stairs.
Stolter shook his head. “I don’t need no more bad news.”
Dardaine held out both hands in alarm with eyes wide. “No, sir. It’s not like that. Just go on back and talk to Metzger. I’m sure he will help you.” Stolter leaned both hands on the bar and looked at the floor. As a boy, his folks only got wires when bad news came calling. He’d never known anything good to come from a wire arriving. But now the wire would be coming from his children or the lawyer.
Stolter fished a coin out of his pocket, laid it on the bar, and picked up the cold mug. The bartender gestured towards the hallway.
Mr. Metzger was a shorter, slight man with a long sleeved white shirt, sleeve garters and small round spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
Without looking up from the stack of papers, he said, “Just leave it there on the table by the door. Thank you.”
Stolter cleared his throat. “Mr. Metzger, Johnny said that I should come see you. Something about a wire. Name’s Stolter. Nick Stolter.” The clerk jumped up shaking the table so that some of the papers in the stack fluttered to the floor.
“Stolter. Nick Stolter.” The clerk gasped for air and put a hand on his chest. Stolter took a drink of the beer and looked around the high ceilinged office. Tall six-pane windows grimy with fine silt. Dust mites danced in the sunbeams.
Metzger gathered his wits and pushed an old wooden chair next to the desk. He looked like he had lived a serious life without much imagination or initiative. He gestured as he lifted a leather portfolio off a small table.
“Mr. Stolter, I’m not just the Western Union officer here at Red Oaks. I’m also an attorney. I don’t advertise the fact, but I have found it necessary to be discreet from time to time.” He took off the glasses and cleaned them with a soft, white cloth.
Stolter shook his head. “I don’t understand what this is about. Am I in some sort of trouble?”
Metzger shook his head and pursed his lips. “No, no. Quite the opposite,” said Metzger. “On the contrary. I would seem that you have friends in low and in high places, Mr. Stolter.” From the portfolio, he brought out several sheets of white paper with small black printing. He laid the first one in front of Stolter on the desk.
“This is your receipt for the purchase of fifteen head of horses from a Mr. Cody Parmentier of Santa Fe.” Metzger held his eyes on Stolter. The horseman grunted.
Stolter brought up his hand and rubbed the outside corner of his right eye as he tried to think. Then he blinked three times and smiled with a grimace. It was his not so subtle poker face that he used to stall while thinking.
“That is a copy, Mr. Stolter. I have the original in my safe. Just for security, in case it’s needed.” Stolter nodded.
“I’ve lost my receipt for the horses. I’ve had some difficulties getting this far.” He picked up the paper and folded it.
Metzger cleared his throat. “That was arranged via courier a few days ago. A friend of yours wanted to make sure you were traveling with the right documents.” He paused and looked down at the papers.
“I’ve been acquainted with an attorney named Merle Doyle in Bradford, for many years. We’ve been on opposite sides of a courtroom and a few times on the same side. I want you to understand that he is acting in your interests and the interests of your children right now.”
Stolter sat up straight. “What happened?”
Metzger held his hands to calm Stolter. “I certainly don’t know all the details. What I do know is that your late wife’s father, Glen Richardson, had a stipulation in his will that any lands owned by his daughter would be paid off at the time of her death. It gives the children a place to live without encumbrance.”
“What?” Stolter’s mouth hung open.
“It means that Doyle has filed the petition in Los Angeles court to have Mr. Richardson’s estate pay in full for your ranch you purchased with your wife. Windy Ridge Ranch should be free and clear within the month, courtesy of your late wife’s father.”
“I’m not sure why he would do that. Glenn, I mean.” Metzger slid another sheet in front of Stolter. This one looked like a legal document with a raised seal in the corner. Stolter frowned looking at the document. He rubbed his eyes and gulped down a good portion of the beer.
“This give you options, Mr. Stolter. You can choose to move back to Windy Ridge and lease out Flint Hills. Or you can remain at Flint Hills and lease out or even sell Windy Ridge.”
“What? How do you know all this?” Stolter could not fathom the options and decisions to be made.
“That is the stipulation. Flint Hills Ranch must remain in the possession of a Richardson. Your children are by birth descendants of the Richardsons, being the children of Marianna. When they reach majority, they will own equal shares of Flint Hills Ranch.”
“Wait. I live at Windy Ridge, not Flint Hills.” The wire man let out a long sigh and cleaned his glasses again.
“Mr. Stolter, you’ve been out of sight and out of contact for more than a few weeks now. You probably do not know that your children decided, along with Doyle, to move their home to the Flint Hills Ranch. They live there now.”
“What? Why’d they do that?” Stolter clenched the edge of the desk.
Metzger laid the last white sheet in front of Stolter. It was his last will and testament.
“I’m a nosy man, Mr. Stolter. I look into things. In the event tha
t you meet your untimely demise before you reach the Flint Hills Ranch, this document will protect your children from anyone trying to collect your estate. Each of your children receive a modest monthly sum with a lump sum when they reach eighteen.” Metzger slid a quill and ink well halfway across the desk.
Stolter picked up the quill, looked at Metzger and put the quill down. “What do you get out of this? Somebody paying you to get me to sign this?” Metzger held out his hands palm up as if to ward off the confusion.
“No. You don’t have to sign anything. In fact, I personally would rather you did not. I received instructions and payment to set up this will just in case you traveled through Red Oaks Pass Station. If you had never come through, if you had not walked through that door, I would have held this portfolio for another twelve months. Then the instructions were to send it via courier to an address in New Orleans.”
Stolter stood up and paced to the far side of the room. He rubbed his face hard and shook his head. His children had moved the ranch. How did they do it? Who helped them? Who did he know in New Orleans? Who was this Parmentier? Dozens of questions flooded his mind.
“Are we done here?” Stolter rubbed his face hard.
“Yes, unless you wish to sign the bottom of this document. If not, I’ll sign and record it that I found you of sound mind and body on this date. I’ve got a good argument that it will hold up in court, if needed.” Stolter shook his head.
The wireman stood up and fished a chain with three keys in the end from his vest pocket. He unlocked a roll top desk and revealed a Western Union telegraph machine.
“Mr. Stolter, if you would write out your message, I’ll send it to your children.” With a few twists of the small wires, Metzger attached the wires and the machine tapped out its readiness.
Stolter drank down the last of the beer. “Just tell ‘em I’m okay and trying to get home.” The wireman grimaced and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath and looked at Stolter.
The attorney looked like a coiled spring. “These are your children, Mr. Stolter.”
The horseman leaned against the window sill and looked out. He wanted to say too much. Everyone between here and home would be reading his words, also. Stolter stepped over to the desk and flipped the will over. He scribbled ink and handed the sheet to the Metzger. The telegraph operator’s mouth fell open and he frowned in disbelief.
“If they’re really at Flint Hills, they’ll know what to do when they get that. Send it.” Stolter reached for his hat, picked up the mug, and took three steps towards the door.
“Oh! Wait! There’s one more thing!” Metzger jumped up and hurried around the edge of the wooden desk. From the leather portfolio, he dumped out a handful of coins. Into Stolter’s hand he counted fifty dollars.
“The instructions say to give you traveling money.” Metzger watched Stolter’s reaction.
Stolter laid five dollars on the desk. “Acknowledge receipt of the money, Mr. Metzger. Thank you.”
More than a few sets of eyes watched the tall, lean horseman walk from the hallway into the restaurant. Half an hour later, Stolter’s belly was full and he had four meals packed along with coffee, beans, dried fruit, and sugar.
As he leaned against the corral rail, he thought about the time and distance he had in front of him. It was miles and hours and the more he digested it, the greater it formed into a barrier to be overcome. A figure walking around the side distracted him.
“Mister, those yearlings are right ornery.” It was the smithy.
Stolter chuckled. “Yes, I need to find a sack of apples for them. They like those. Anyone around selling apples?”
“No. Still too early in the season for apples. Horses like carrots, too. I keep a bushel of them handy for horses that don’t take kindly to having their shoes tended. I’ll give you some of them.” The man gestured for Stolter to follow. A few minutes later those ornery yearlings were crunching tasty carrots. All the horses except the mustang nosed around for more carrots.
The big paint sniffed and then turned away.
The smithy smiled. “I ain’t never thought of myself as being something special. I know I’m not. A lot of the horses that come through here are used to being around people. I’ve seen that before. Horses won’t take food from a man’s hand,”
“No, I think he just doesn’t like carrots. He’ll eat apples from my hand just fine. I think he might have been trained that way, though.” Stolter watched the animal walk to the far side of the corral and chew a mouthful of hay.
“Them mustangs can’t be trained. They’re wild. You don’t know when they’ll turn on a man. Can’t be trusted. Good lookin’ animal, though.” The smithy shook his head.
“He’s been following me and the herd since east of Tucson. Keeps right up with us. Beds down at night when I stop. It’s like I happen to be going the same way he is and so he tolerates us,” Stolter said with a chuckle.
“Odd to know a wild one like that finds you amusing.” It felt foolish to even try to respond to that remark. As he rode past the smithy, he lifted a hand in farewell. He chuckled to himself as he looked back at the herd following his whistle. The herd was rested, bellies full of hay and had drank a full trough of water. The map showed the next stop was nine miles.
###
The gray clouds had trailed him since about noon, but now they were right overhead. Cold rain drops hit his face and as he wiped his eyes, the roan lost its footing and began to slide in the loose gravel. The road was covered over by a slide and he saw it too late.
Dirt and gravel lay over the top of moldering slime of dead leaves from winter. The more the horse struggled to climb up the hill, the faster the animal slid down the slope. Seventy five yards to the bottom and Stolter patted the neck of the shaking horse.
When he looked up the slope it was the big Mexican mustang that came charging down the slope flinging rocks and dirt. The other horses hesitated and then whinnied and began to clamber down the slide. Stolter watched in amazement as the stallion tossed its head and whinnied to the rest of the horses.
At the edge of the clearing in the trees Stolter dismounted and strung up the canvas tarp as a shelter. He unsaddled the roan and gathered up twigs and dry leaves and got a fire going. Coffee, cold cornbread and a cup of chili was lunch while he watched the drizzling rain.
Heavy cobwebs drenched with moisture sagged and swayed in the wind. The trees at the opposite edge of the clearing leaned from the force of the wind. The fire hissed and sputtered as Stolter pushed a damp branch into it.
His left wrist was still sore and he rubbed it. His left knee had stiffened up while he had covered the miles earlier and now he noticed the ache. He wasn’t a young man anymore and rough and tumble times were a thing of the past. He looked at the smoking fire and shook his head.
After he poured the last of the coffee into his cup and stepped out from under the canvas, he saw that the horses were not in sight. None of them. Stolter frowned and debated pushing out a whistle but then went back under the shelter and sat down. They had followed him for one hundred fifty miles. They knew where he was.
The horseman threw a couple more chunks of the rotted wood onto the fire. He was tired. He felt like he could sleep for a week. He would have to find a way out and get back to the main road. The watch showed 2:30pm.
There would be hours of hard work when he got back to the ranch. Somewhere deep inside he would have to find the strength to go on, to provide for his children and to live a life in peace. He should have stayed home and found another way, like Marianna had wanted. Grimacing, he rubbed his face with both hands and pulled the saddle blanket up over himself.
It was the sharp crack of breaking wood that brought him awake. Two of the horses had moved in under the trees. His roan snorted and tossed its head. The mustang pawed the ground. Stolter sat up with a groan. The rain had stopped. The fire had gone out.
“We aren’t going anywhere until we find a way out of here, boys,” he sa
id with a voice lacking enthusiasm. Again, as if to understand, the mustang pawed at the ground and whinnied. Stolter frowned.
“Is that where you horses went? You found a way back to the road?” Stolter laughed at himself talking to the horses.
He pointed at the mustang. “I’d bet those kids would know exactly what you want.”
With an old shirt he dried off the roan and saddled up. The watch showed 4:30pm. As best he could figure by studying the map, he was still six miles out of the next water hole at Cactus Verde. But it might as well be hundred miles until he could find his way back to the road. He shook off the water from the canvas and tied it onto the back of the saddle. Everything was packed up and he might have another two hours of daylight if he was lucky.
The moment he swung into the saddle, the big mustang whinnied and wheeled away to the south. Stolter was surprised to find the roan headed after the running horse. The narrow trail went through a copse of trees, around a fall of boulders and then climbed up a slick clay bank. Twice, the mustang cut back to an animal trail higher on the hill.
Stolter looked at the chewed up ground and hung onto the saddle as his roan followed the mustang. About two hundred yards later, the panting horses kicked up loose gravel as they came out on a wide road.
“So you went looking for a way out and left me down there to rest?” Stolter looked at the other fourteen horses who nibbled at grass alongside the road. He shook his head and walked his horse east around the curve and came to the slide area. He turned around and trotted back to his horses.
“My money says you’ve been here before, haven’t you? I bet you and Rio and any number of your wild friends have been through here dozens of times. You just got stuck with me this trip.” Stolter laughed.
The air was fresh and cool. The road damp, muddy in places with pooled water. When he got too close to the trees he got a face-full of wet leaves.
A sliver of reddish orange paused at the horizon and threw golden streaks up onto the clouds. An old fence and tall saguaro cacti flanked the driveway and Stolter turned in followed by the herd.
It was ten foot square lean-to with a wooden floor and a rusty wood stove perched up on bricks in the corner and a shed roof. Two of the side walls were built up adobe that had started to crumble. The last person to visit had stacked up firewood in the dry corner near a long alder pole bench.
Nick Stolter Page 17
