“You got a map for the next water hole to the west? I think it’s about twelve miles to Mattola Creek if you’re going south or over fifteen miles to La Jolla Rojo Ranch if you’re going northwest.” Sullivan picked up the white towels and put them into a bucket on the floor.
“I’m head for La Jolla Rojo. I think that’s where Griff has me stopping.”
“Griff? Griff Southcott? I know him.” Sullivan’s face lit up in a smile. “He used to come through with stage horses every other week. How is he?”
Stolter nodded. “He’ll be okay. On a trip to Red Springs, he was shot and thieves stole two of his mares. I got him into Rio Mesa and the doc sewed him up. He’s a tough old bird and I managed to get him back to his ranch. I left him the good hands of a friend so I believe he’ll be alright.”
“I’m damn sorry to hear that. I’ll have to send word for him to get well. Thank you for telling me, Nick. I consider Griff a friend.” Sullivan wiped his face on one of the towel and then threw it into the bucket. Stolter gestured towards the open double doors.
###
“You know, maybe you could tell me something about the town. It just feels odd to me that all the buildings are here on the north side of the road. The only building on the south side is the corral and blacksmith. Why is that?” Stolter could see Sullivan avert his eyes away like a sensitive nerve had been hit.
The shopkeeper shook his head. “I don’t like to talk about what the old folks used to say about the town. Most of it I don’t believe. But then again, we don’t know what our neighbors suffer, now, do we?” Sullivan pulled up a tall stool behind the counter and sat down to rest his forearms on the counter. Stolter had a puzzled look on his face.
Sullivan cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together. “Charlotte Kleinhaus, her grandpappy, Hays, was said to one of the original founders. It was a big town back in those days, too. Must have been five or six more buildings. Except back then, it was called Columbia Junction. I still don’t understand why it was called that either.”
“Used to be three, sometimes four stages come through here every day. Two going north up into Nevada. They come up out of Mexico and passengers would change stages here. Couple of the Overland stages used to stop in here to change teams and passengers. That’s how I met Griff. He’d bring in the teams. Back in those days, you might have thought another Dodge City was growing here.” Sullivan’s mouth failed to make a complete grin and he half sneered.
The shopkeeper refilled Stolter’s glass. “Hays Kleinhaus owned everything on the south side of the road. He built up two hotels, five saloons, and a couple of general stores. He had freighters coming straight here off the Santa Fe right from Chicago bringing anything and everything you could ever want. All stretched out over half a mile, I’d say. All the way down to the smithy’s place. Jed owned that. Jed Holtz.” Sullivan looked at Stolter to see if there was any recognition.
“Well, the way it was told me was that Hays’ wife was found up in one of them hotels behind closed doors with a man traveling through. Hays liked to go insane. Forced everyone out of the buildings holding a shotgun on everyone. Dumped kerosene in the rooms. Burned it to the ground. The fire jumped to the saloons and Hays started letting off shots to keep people back.”
“You mean he burned it all down? Because of his wife with another man?” Sullivan nodded.
“They had been married for many years. Their oldest daughter, Charlotte’s mother, was away in Kansas City visiting her in-laws when it happened. Elizabeth came home to find half the town gone. Piles of burned wood. Her mother died in the fire. Elizabeth blamed her father. Hays disappeared.”
“Elizabeth swore that nothing would ever be built on the land again where her mother died. I guess she had her father’s temper. She blamed the townsfolk for not stopping her father. They moved the most part of the town two miles north on the other side of those hills. People just decided to get away from what happened here.”
Stolter stood up straight. “If I remember my history rightly, Columbia was sort of a nickname that the founding fathers had for America. The Roman conquerors never set foot on this land and Columbia celebrated that. Junction is a place with things and people meet. They hook up or share a common existence. How about if it was meant to be called the meeting crossroads of America?”
Sullivan laughed with a nod. “No, but that sounds reasonable for Columbia Junction. At any rate, after Elizabeth died, Charlotte held a meeting and asked everyone to come up with a new name for the town. It’s been called Green Cactus ever since. Cactus Verde for all you types coming north.”
Stolter drank down the last of his drink and picked up his hat and the wrapped parcel. “If I’m ever back this way, I’ll stop in. Thank you, kindly.” Stolter smiled and nodded.
“Safe travels, Nick. I’ll send your regards to Griff when I write.” Stolter waved as he walked to the door. Sullivan followed him to the doorway.
“You’re coming up on La Jolla Rojo. That is the last telegraph until you get into Franklin Valley. I can send word to your family that you are in California and making your way home. If I get a response back, I’ll send it over to La Jolla Rojo.” Sullivan nodded with a concerned look. “It’s the least I can do for you.”
“You are very generous, Mr. Sullivan. I would be indebted to you, if you’d let my family know I’m coming home.” Stolter walked back to the counter and wrote down his ranch name and the children’s names on a piece of paper. He shook hands with Sullivan and left.
Back at the restaurant, Laurie handed him two flat steel pans with steel lids held on by brackets. “You put these at the edge of the fire and let them heat slowly for about twenty minutes. Not too hot or they’ll burn.”
“Thank you, Laurie. You’ll save me from starving.” Nick smiled. “One more thing. Where can I get about a dozen apples or carrots?” Laurie gave him an odd, sideways look for a second.
She took in a breath while she thought. “On the west end of town, about a mile out on the right, there is a driveway about a quarter mile. It’s the old Gregson place. They have an apple orchard but nobody lives there. There might still be a couple crates of apples in the barn, unless someone took them. WE pretty much help ourselves out there.”
Nick touched the brim of his hat and paid for the food. At the corral he stowed both tins into the saddle bags. Goodson seemed to appear like a shadow coming out of the shade.
“You’re right. Them horses are plain feisty. Terwilliger came over to take a look and one of them black yearlings rushed at him. Kicked the fence.” Goodson’s lower lip stuck out as if he were perturbed.
“My saddle blanket is pretty worn. You wouldn’t have another, would you, Mr. Goodson?” Stolter asked. The old man held up a crooked finger to pause and went into the dark shed. It was a closely woven, multi colored wide long blanket that he brought out. It was almost identical to the ones used by the kids on the mustangs.
“I buy these off the Mexicans when they come through. They weave a right good saddle blanket. That one will last you a long time. Two dollars.” Stolter chuckled to himself and handed the coins to Goodson.
“Happy trails, Mr. Nick Stolter. I hope you make it home safe and sound. I don’t mean to sound foreboding, but you don’t have an easy ride ahead of you, going west. If I wake up tomorrow and find you and your feisty horses back in the corral, I’ll understand.” The old man nodded to Stolter.
The ropes were lifted and the latched slid back. Stolter whistled for his horses and they trotted out. Stolter hoped he would not have to backtrack his progress. There was a feeling in the back of his head that everything up to this point, this time, this town, had been the easy part.
Jack Molly and Jeff Sullivan stood on the porch in front of the saloon waving as Stolter rode by. For a small town with few visitors, he had felt welcomed for the few moments. As he rode he flexed his left hand and fingers. Welcomed and avenged.
Chapter 23
Eight miles on west, the map had bee
n accurate. The rows of old apple trees were overgrown and gnarled. Years of branches bearing heavy fruit had broken some of the limbs and leaned some trees over like a tottering old man. On the east side of the orchard were straighter, younger trees with shorter limbs. Stolter figured those were plum trees.
At the end of the orchard was a barren area bounded on three sides by basalt outcrops and clumps of thick, dry brush. At the rim Stolter found an old cattle trail that led him down to the small fifty yards of grass. After about half a mile of exploring, Stolter realized that he’d gotten turned to a dead end and walked back up the trail.
The west side of the old barn had crumbled as it rotted away. The roof was half caved in. Two of the swinging doors laid on the grown with grass growing up around them. The gloomy interior showed a wide plank wooden floor still sound and solid under his feet. To the left against the wall were five stacked wooden crates. Stolter picked up one of the red apples and turned it over in his hand. Chance were these were the last picking before the cold winter set in.
Laurie had been right about the barn. He lifted a crate and took it out into the yard. One by one, he separated out the mushy, rotted fruit from the good. Two of the saddles bags were filled. After he put the crate back in the barn he stood on the edge of the doorway and looked out.
The weather had held cool and sunny. Birds flitted about the orchard trees. Stolter flexed his left arm where the stitches had started to itch. Those would come out tomorrow. The lump on his head had gone down, but he still suffered headaches from time to time. Stolter had grown up standing his ground, resisting those who would push him and seeing through his plans. When he had taken Marianna as his wife, they had become two together facing the world. As much as he did not want to admit it, he felt stronger with her at his side. Now that was gone. He’d have to go on for the sake of his children.
Stolter shook his head as if to push those thoughts away. A couple of quick whistles did not bring any horses. They must have found water or grass somewhere. He started around the side of the bar and that was when he heard the click of the pistol. Rafe Winston and two other men stood with guns drawn in the clearing.
“George, get his gun belt. Mike, go find them horses.” Winston gestured Stolter over to the side of the barn. The man who unbuckled the belt without a word was the drunken man with the wide eyes from Molly’s place. There was a healing scar over his right cheek.
“You do look like a two-bit horse thief.” Stolter saw the gun butt coming and tried to dodge it but it grazed his chin. He got in a hard left up against Winston’s jaw before the other man grabbed his arm.
“Where’d you get them horses? Nobody around here has stock like those. They ain’t carrying any brands either. Where’d you get ‘em?” Winston threw a heavy right hand into Stolter’s midsection and doubled him over with a grunt.
Stolter coughed. George straightened Stolter back up to face Winston. “They ain’t your horses, Rafe. They won’t go with you. Let me give you a piece of advice here. Those black yearlings. They’ll kill you. You catch ‘em, don’t turn your back on ‘em. They’re mean.” Stolter wiped the back of his left hand over his mouth and glared at the blonde outlaw. Mike came running around the corner of the barn. Reddish brown hair over a freckled greasy, complexion with a thin, black beard.
“I found ‘em. We’re gonna need to get ropes on them. Couple of them are mean, biters.” He leaned his hands on his knees panting.
George tightened his grip on Stolter. “What you picking up these apples for? You must have some sweet tooth, mister.” Stolter leaned his weight and kicked hard at the man’s knees. Just as he broke loose, the fist caught him on the chin and the light turned into darkness.
He had no idea how long he’d been out. Winston wasn’t a loner like Stolter had thought. He had been running with a crew or some sort of gang. It was a sniffling, snuffling snort that made him open his eyes. Two of the paint pinto colts stood over him. They backed up when Stolter sat up rubbing his jaw.
“What’re you boys doing? Did you escape the ropes?” Stolter looked around. It was late afternoon with the sun already headed for the horizon. When Stolter got up on one knee, everything started to swirl and turn and he sat back down to rub his face again. After a few moments, the fog cleared and he got to his feet staggering with weariness.
Stolter put his fingers in his mouth and whistled out the call for the horses. Not even a whinny. He picked up a couple of the apples that had been strewn around in the fight and gave them to the pintos. Winston and his men must have taken the others. He could feel the anger building inside him as he knew he wouldn’t go on without his horses.
One of the pintos nickered and tossed its head. Eddie had been working with these two on the way to aunt’s house. A dawning realization came over the horseman as he looked at the young animals.
“Well, boy, now you get to show me what you’ve learned.” No bridle, no saddle, no pad but with a lot of hope Stolter gripped the mane and swung up onto the back of the pinto. All at once, the animal danced sideways and momentary panic showed in the whites of its eyes. Stolter patted its neck and spoke low and soothing to calm it. Then he clucked his tongue and after a moment’s hesitation, the horse walked up the trail alongside the orchard. Quarter mile around sandstone canyon walls it came out into a grassy area.
One of the buckskin fillies, all three of the black yearlings and both pinto paints were left. His own roan, the gray mare, two buckskins, all the chestnut colts, and both Appaloosas gone. Stolter patted the spotted neck.
“We’re gonna have to go looking for your friends. Eddie and Juan kept trying to tell me that you were smart horses. Let’s see how good you are at tracking.”
Stolter urged him to walk back out to the main road. Faint tracks led back to the east and Stolter was happy that the colt seemed to trot well and had settled down. Three miles back along the road the pinto slowed to a walk and then stopped, turning to the right looking at something. Stolter clucked his tongue but the horse didn’t move. On the ground, Stolter looked for tracks and saw nothing. He dismounted and looked at the pinto colt.
“What do you see that I don’t?” Stolter rubbed his head and wished that he had paid more attention to Eddie’s training. Just then, the colt nickered and trotted twenty yards farther east and nosed into the brush. Stolter followed the horse down the bank, around a couple of alders and scrub brush. Both Appaloosas grazed on shoots and lifted their heads when Stolter appeared.
“What? You guys stop in here for dinner or something? You leave me laying back there and just decide to go look for a snack?” Stolter laughed at himself talking to the horses.
He ran his hands over them and they were none worse for the wear and excitement of horse thieves. Stolter knelt down and picked up a couple of twigs. He broke them into smaller pieces as he thought over the situation. He looked back at the pinto colt who stood looking at him.
Stolter stood up and tossed the broken twigs into the brush. “Come on, fella. Let’s go find more of your buddies.” He made his way back up the narrow path up the bank and came out on the main road followed by the colt.
Two miles farther east, the colt stopped at an overgrown driveway. Old wagon tracks had been carved into the dirt, but left unused, weeds and grass had crept in. An old split rail fence had been overrun with rambling rose and vines. The colt whinnied. Another whinny answered and Stolter nodded.
“Hey, you are pretty good at this tracking stuff after all,” Stolter said with another laugh.
Forty yards up the driveway there was an old dilapidated farm house, long and low. It looked like it had been deserted for many years. The colt walked to the left of the house and Stolter followed it out to an old barn.
“Help! Help! Who’s there! I need help!” Stolter frowned hearing a man call out for help. The two chestnut colts and the chestnut mare stood with their heads over the top rail of the corral looking at the man on the ground. It was George.
“Mister, mister, you go
tta help me. My leg’s broke bad. I can’t move! I need help.” His right hand held his right leg and grimaced in pain at the slight movement.
Stolter crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, now you do realize that you got your leg broke because you stole my horses. Maybe this is your reward for trying to run off with another man’s property.”
George shook in pain. “I need a doctor to set my leg. If I don’t, I’ll lose it and be a cripple all my life. I know now that I fell in with the wrong sort. I was just looking to make a couple of bucks and buy a couple of drinks and food.”
Stolter shook his head. “Where’s my other horses? Where did Rafe take them?”
“He’s got that gray mare and a buckskin colt. Rafe’s got a bad bite on his arm from one of them black yearlings. Came close to shootin’ ‘em, he did.”
Stolter asked, “Did he head east? Which way did he run?”
George groaned in pain. “I’ve got your roan out back and these three chestnuts.” After Stolter checked on his roan he walked back out to the barn area.
“I’ll set your leg and put you up on the road to Cactus Verde. I don’t know if they have a doctor there so you’ll just have to take your chances.”
The horses all jumped and spooked when George screamed in pain as Stolter set his leg. Stolter kicked two of the old pickets off the fence and broke them in half for a splint. One of George’s shirts from his saddlebags was ripped and tied into strips to bind the splint.
Stolter looked through his saddlebags. “Where’s my gun?”
George wiped his bandanna over his ruddy face. “Rafe took it. Mine’s in the saddlebags. Take it, if you want. Rafe’ll probably shoot you, he see you coming. I want nothing more to do with him.”
Stolter took the old pistol and shoved in down the waistband of his jeans. He opened the corral and put the pinto colt in with the chestnuts. As he closed the gate, he looked at the shaggy haired George.
“I’m going after my horses. When I get back to pick up these three, I’ll put you up on your horse. You’ll make your own way after that.”
Nick Stolter Page 23
