August, 2014

 
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Issue #59



All The Tales
The Rustlers
by James P. Hanley

Alex Colter was awakened by banging, uncertain if it was in his head or coming from the door in his apartment room. Groggily, he got out of bed and heard a voice calling his name and saw the wooden entrance vibrate from heavy pounding. "Open up, Alex, the Captain wants to see you right away and he's furious."

Stumbling across the carpeted floor, he opened the door to be met by the scowling face of a broad-shouldered man in a New York City Police uniform. The cop pushed past Colter and headed toward the small kitchen, rummaging through cupboards until he found coffee grounds and a small pot. "You need to sober up before you report to work. Do you remember the ruckus you caused at the bar last night? That man you hit needed eight stitches and if there weren't witnesses that said he threw the first punch, you'd soon be wearin' a different kind of uniform."

As he drank the strong, black coffee, Alex remembered what had happened, but with chunks of the evening missing in his memory. He recalled the brief fight prompted by a large man who recognized him as a police officer limited by the bottle. At first the man shoved him and then swung a wild fist, but Alex sobered enough to catch him with an uppercut. Everything past that was a blur.

As forewarned, the Captain of the Manhattan Mounted Police was furious. This was not the first time Colter had been reprimanded, and the Captain had covered for the prior indiscretions. After a long tirade, he ended with, "You're one of the best cops in the city, when you're sober. You beat up the son-in-law of a City Councilman, and this can't be made to go away. There won't be any charges, but your career here is over."

Alex went to his apartment, and stopping to buy a quart of bourbon, was unconscious before nightfall. Waking the next morning, he looked in the mirror and was shocked by the unshaven, glassy-eyed image looking back, as unkempt as the vagrants that populated the parks. Gathering any bottles of booze, he tossed them into the refuse container on the side of the building. Sitting on the worn couch, he retrieved a letter from his sister in Kansas and read the correspondence, which like all others, ended with an encouragement to visit there. He smiled as he thought, won't she be surprised when I take her up on her offer.

After telegramming his sister, Alex made arrangements to catch the train from Jersey City, and through connecting lines, to eventually reach City of Kansas. From there, he took a stagecoach to Titus the town nearest to his sister's ranch. When Anne, his sister, met him at the stagecoach depot with a buckboard, she hugged him tightly, and his instincts led him to believe the prolonged embrace was more than affection: there was something troubling her. His sibling and her husband lived on a cattle ranch with a modest herd, a section of field for planting crops, largely for their own use, and some farm animals, also for the same purpose.

"I'm glad you finally came," she said with a forced smile. On the long trip to the ranch, Alex explained his dismissal from the force, and she told him of her husband and child.

"There's something troubling you, isn't there?" Alex asked.

When her eyes filled, she stopped the horse and looked at him. "We've losing cattle to thieves and this year's crop wasn't good."

Alex asked, "Who's doing the stealing? Have you talked to the law?"

"We're not the only ones losing steers, and all the ranchers think it's Arnie Walters who has a spread down the road. He's hired a mean bunch. The Sheriff is too busy to be worried about us folks far from town. He sends out a deputy once in a while, but nothing happens. If we lose more cattle, we won't be able to keep the land. Walters will likely buy up these ranches after we're gone; he's bought some abandoned property already."

Alex assured her that he would do what he could to stop the thefts. Within a few weeks, he settled into a routine with his sister's family and was a favorite of their six year old boy. The physical work added bulk to Alex's frame. As an errand one day, Alex drove the buckboard into town to purchase supplies. Titus consisted largely of a row of stores, a saloon, an apothecary, a boardinghouse and the jail. Just before the main street, a church and a school stood apart as if banished.

After securing the supplies, Alex walked into the saloon. Standing at the bar and putting money on the table, he said to the bartender, "I'd like a bottle of whiskey; pour me one glass then take the bottle away. Give me another shot only if I ask for it, today or any day I return to town."

When the drink was put in front of him by the puzzled barkeep, Alex quickly downed the shot and slammed the thick glass on the counter.

A man standing nearby laughed and said loudly enough to be heard throughout the saloon, "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard. Why buy a whole bottle and have one glass?"

Alex turned to the man and said sharply, "None of your business."

The cowboy, coated in dust and with a week-old growth of whiskers, said, "If you don't want to finish the bottle, I will."

He reached over the bar to the shelf below where the bartender had placed the purchased whiskey. Alex pushed the man until he was spun around, his back to the mahogany top. The cowboy responded with a fist, but Alex was quick, and stepping back to avoid the blow, threw a right that snapped the man's head backwards. Alex's next punch struck the cowboy's jaw and sent him sprawling.

Alex turned to the bartender and said, "I'm done drinking for today. Don't forget to keep that bottle for me."

Just then the Sheriff entered, and looking at the man flat on the floor, he laughed. "Was wonderin' when he'd get what's due." Looking at Alex, he continued, "You the man who did this?"

"I did. Had no mind to fight." When he finished explaining, the barkeep confirmed what had happened.

"He works at the Walters' ranch and there are others nastier than him. They mostly stay out of trouble in town. I don't know what goes on outside the town limits but got my suspicions. You took a big chance and you don't wear a gun," the Sheriff said.

"Didn't think I needed it," Alex answered.

"I advise you to be wearing one next time you come to town."

When Alex returned to the ranch and explained to his sister what had happened, she was frightened.

"I never told anyone I was your brother."

"People know."

"If they're going to steal more cattle to get back at us, I'll be there to stop them. Tonight, I'll camp out and keep watch," Alex said.

Nothing happened that night. The next day at dusk, Alex armed with a Colt and a Winchester waited again. The ground was lit dimly by the half-moon sky and a few clouds had strayed in front of the brighter stars. Alex stretched his bedroll. After midnight, he was awakened from his dozing by the restlessness of the cattle and the sound of horses near the herd. Hiding behind a small mound, he lifted the rifle and watched three men cutting out four steers and moving them away from the others. Alex fired a warning shot over the head of the rustlers but instead of retreating, the men returned fire, only suspecting the direction of the first shot with little chance of hitting their target. Alex knew his next muzzle flash would give away his position so he aimed carefully. The bullet struck one of the men. The other two fired furiously but Alex slid away from the mound and fired again. The remaining thieves took off, leaving the third on the ground.

The next morning, Alex drove into town, the body of the rustler in back of the wagon. Tying up in front of the doctor's office, which also served as a mortuary, he explained to the physician what had happened.

"You'd better talk to the Sheriff." A boy walked by and the Doc Newman called to him. "Go get the Sheriff," he said, handing the boy a coin.

Within a few minutes, Sheriff Bingham arrived, peered into the wagon and said, "Guess he was trying to steal cattle at your sister's ranch. I remembered how Anne talked about her policeman brother back East. Gossip's all over town; everybody knows who you are. I have a wanted poster for the man you shot; he killed someone in Texas and there's a reward. I'll make sure you get it."

"I don't want money for killing, but my sister's family could use it."

"This won't end. They'll come after you, hard. Bad enough you beat up one of their men, but now you shot another."

"Thanks for the warning, Sheriff."

Afterwards, Alex went into the saloon. The bartender recognized him and took out the bottle Alex had purchased. After pouring a drink, the barkeep started to pour another when Alex stopped him, "No more. And I won't be coming in here anymore so you can dump the rest."

Ýou trying to prove something?" the bartender asked.

As soon as Alex arrived back at the ranch, Anne came running out and asked about his trip into town. When Alex repeated the Sheriff's remarks, she began to shake. Alex put his arms around her and said, "I'm sorry I brought this on you."

"Wasn't your doing. Old man Nash from a nearby ranch stopped by when you were gone and said he heard what you did in the saloon to Walters' man and folks were glad."

The wait for retaliation wasn't long. Twelve men rode toward Anne's ranch. All were armed with handguns holstered at their side, and many had rifles in their saddle scabbard. As they neared the house, the horsemen split up and scattered to set a distance apart.

Inside the house, Alex said he would go out to confront them, but Warren, his brother-in-law, stopped him. "I'll go out there and see if I can discourage them from doing harm. You go out they'll start shooting."

"I ain't having you get killed because of what I did," Alex answered.

"Won't do them no good to shoot an unarmed man."

Alex reluctantly agreed but stood near a window with a rifle at the ready.

"What do you want?" Warren asked the cowboy in the lead.

"Our fight ain't with you. We want your wife's brother. He can leave with us and no one else gets hurt."

Warren shook his head, "He's kin and —"

Before Warren could finish the sentence the cowboy had drawn his revolver and was moving the barrel toward Warren when a shot came from the window and blew a hole the man's shirtfront. Anne screamed and her husband jumped back inside the house. The bullets began in a fury, cutting holes in the wood and breaking windows. Alex stayed to the side of a broken pane and fired at any movement he could see, moving back quickly inside to avoid the inevitable return fire. Warren had retrieved a rifle and was shooting from the other side of the house. After the initial flurry, the return fire slowed. The occupants of the house were unharmed. Anne had a pistol and watched at the back of the building for anyone who might sneak around to attack from the rear. Firing occasionally, she held off any effort for a rear assault.

In the brief lull, Alex called out to Warren, "They're not gonna stop and those shots are damaging the house. I'll make a run for the barn to draw their fire away."

"That's crazy; you'll get killed."

Ignoring the comment, Alex crawled toward the door and opened it slowly. Peering out, he couldn't see anyone and slipped out. As he stood in the doorway, the pistol in his hand, he came face-to-face with a man carrying a lit torch about to throw the flame toward the house. Shooting quickly, he struck the man and dove toward the ground just ahead of the shots that followed. Rolling for a few yards, bullets kicking up the dirt all around him, he fired at another man who was moving closer to the house, hitting the cowboy in the stomach. Looking at the distance to the barn, Alex realized he'd made a mistake; he had too far to go without standing to run, offering a big target. Bullets were getting closer, one cutting into the ground just above his head. Looking in the direction of the shooting, Alex could see men standing to improve their aim. He knew that very soon the shots would find him.

The first indication of a change was a loud groan coming from the direction of the cowboys. A shot came from nearby and he saw a man go down. Then a round came from the barrel of a Winchester protruding from a broken window in the house. The next series of shots seemed to come from a third direction, off to the side. Noticing that the bullets hitting near him had stopped, Alex looked around. Near the corral, Sheriff Bingham was extending his rifle; to the other side, two men — one older, one young — were positioned behind a stack of wood drying for winter use. The crossfire kept the revenge-seeking cowboys pinned down. Each time one those men stood to shoot back, he was cut down by bullets coming from three directions: the Sheriff's location, the woodpile and the house. Alex ran toward the barn and once behind cover, added to the shooting. Another man went down until finally the other shooters stood with their hands extended; a few men who were further away from the exchange mounted and took off. Slowly, Alex, the Sheriff and the men behind the woodpile came out, their weapons still pointed until it was clear that the gun battle was over. In a few minutes, Anne and Warren came out of the house. She was the first to speak after seeing the men who'd come to help.

"That's Jeff Scott and his son Luke. They've been having trouble with losing cattle, too."

The elder Scott, a tall, lanky man with a full beard speckled with gray hairs said, "We heard the shooting, so we came. Looked like you needed help."

Just then, the Sheriff approached and explained that he knew there would be trouble. One of the men in the saloon had gathered two other men to leave and the bartender overheard one say that they were headed out to take care of the Easterner. "The barkeep is a reasonable man who doesn't want to see good folks hurt, so he came to my office as soon as they left. No doubt where they were going."

"Thank you all," Warren said, "if you hadn't come, we'd all likely be dead."

Luke Scott said, "You'd have done the same for us."

"I'm heading to the Walters' place and have him come here to collect the bodies. He doesn't have enough men left to be a threat and after people hear what happened, won't be many signing up to work for him." the Sheriff said.

As it neared dark, two wagons kicked up the dirt on the road to the ranch. The first buckboard was steered by a dark-clothed man, who from a distance gave the appearance of a preacher, but close up, the expression of malice in his countenance conveyed otherwise. Alex suspected the driver was Walters. When the wagons pulled up, four men jumped out and in two's, gathered the bodies and dumped them in the back. Warren, Anne and Alex stood on the porch while the men loaded the grisly cargo. As if in a procession, the wagons circled and headed out. Sheriff Bingham, who'd followed the wagons from the Walters' place, stayed behind.

Walking to Alex, the Sheriff said, "You handle yourself well. I could use a deputy and you'd make a good one."

Alex looked at him, surprised at the offer. "You know I didn't leave the police job by choice."

"I know what happened and it doesn't matter to me. I told you the bartender is a good man; he also likes to gossip a bit. He told me about the bottle you bought. I hope you consider my offer."

Anne stepped forward, "You need to take it, Alex. We'll do fine on our own."

In a few days, Alex rode into town and put on the badge.

The End

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The Last Memory of Bally
by Kim Mary Trotto

They had the portrait done, all three of them sitting on Bally's high back, the year Daddy got seven dollars a head for their beef and they were flush. Sonny, a little kid then, sat in Daddy's lap. Mama had climbed up behind and put her arms around Daddy's waist, all the time complaining about what sitting on the big horse might do to her new blue serge jacket and black wool skirt. All the time laughing, too.

They'd all laughed when the photographer stuck his head out from under the cape to grumble about how Bally's fly-swatting tail would put blurs onto the photographic plate.

"Just take the damn picture, Norman," Daddy had said. Sonny was nearly sure she remembered that as she looked down at her lap, at their sober, younger faces shining in the silver frame.

Mama sent away for that frame and hung the photograph on the kitchen wall, where anyone visiting them would see it. When she died from a chesty cold, last winter, Daddy took it down and put in the cedar trunk, next to Mama's blue serge jacket and black wool skirt.

Sonny set the picture on the trunk lid and got to her feet. If she showed it to Daddy, maybe he wouldn't do what he planned. Perhaps, though, he wasn't ready to look at Mama's picture and think about her. Perhaps it would only make him sad again. What she really wanted was to find a way to tell him that Old Bally was part of their family and you did whatever you could for family. It might change his mind, Sonny thought, or not change a thing.

She carried the photograph down from the attic in the pocket of her apron. Her father was out somewhere in the cool morning, likely the barn, but he'd collected the eggs -- usually her chore -- and put them in a bowl on the table. There was fresh cut wood in the box by the stove and the cast-iron skillet sat on its top.

She got a fire going and tested the stove lid's heat with a splashed water droplet, then fried up some bacon from slices she'd cut in the smokehouse earlier. She used the grease for cooking the eggs, ground coffee and set it to boil, and toasted slices of bread.

When she was done and Daddy had still not come in, she filled her plate and sat down to eat. The rising sun threw squares of light across the table. Sonny glanced out the window. Not a single cloud. It would be a hot day. While she chewed, her head filled with words she'd need in the coming argument. She was weighing a few of them when Daddy came though the kitchen door.

She opened her mouth with the idea of saying one, then saw his face was already drawn, the lines deeper in the harsh summer light. He took one of their blue china plates from the cupboard, covered it with eggs and bacon and came to the table. All she finally said was, "Daddy, I'm going out to give Bally his medicine."

Daddy looked at her as he sat, but didn't comment. Sonny watched his sun-browned hand poke a fork at his eggs. There was silver above his ears, streaks of it in the dark curls on his forehead. She finished her own breakfast and pushed her plate to the side, still waiting for a response.

Daddy sat back and wiped at his mustache with one of the big, cloth napkins Mama had saved for special dinners, but Sonny chose to use every day. His eyes, blue as high sky, squinted in the window light.

"You oughta eat more," he said. "There's a heap of chores that need doing today."

"There's a heap of chores every damn day," Sonny told him. There was a sharpness in her voice she hadn't expected. Mama wouldn't have allowed it.

Daddy sat up straighter, his blue eyes drilling. "Think you're in some back pasture, not our own kitchen?"

"Sorry," she said, looking down. She might lose this argument before it even began. Sonny's finger rubbed at the smooth edge of the framed photograph in her apron pocket. It would stay there, she decided. "I'm going out with the medicine bucket for Bally," she told him again, scraping her chair back.

"Might as well not." Daddy reached for his coffee. "You know what I got to do today."

"No, Daddy. Bally's getting better." That sounded like a whiny kid and at fourteen, Sonny usually felt almost grown up. She kept her hands in her apron pockets and waited.

Daddy put down the coffee cup, his hand slow and careful, like he was afraid she'd see a quiver of doubt. He stood and walked out of the kitchen and on through their wood-paneled hallway. Sonny followed. When she saw him take his rifle from its pegs above the fireplace, she stomped back through the hallway and out the kitchen's rear door, slamming it behind her.

It didn't take Sonny much time to get where she was going. Her legs were long, like Daddy's, but she had her mother's white-blond hair and light gray eyes. Not Mama's sweetness, though. Sonny was stubborn and had a short fuse. She kept their house now, could cook and mend, had even sewed the calico dress that caught at her ankles as she walked to the saddle shed.

Sonny liked to think she was wise-headed and responsible. She kept her hair in neat braids, didn't dawdle after school, or waste time mooning over boys like the town girls. She deserved some say in how the ranch was run. She'd have her way in this.

Her spirits lifted in the grass-scented morning. She stopped in the doorway to admire the saddles on their benches and breathe in the warm smell of leather. Then she lifted Bally's medicine bucket from its hook just beyond the shed door. She filled the bucket with water and poured in medicine until the water turned orange. Sonny held the bottle to the light to see how much was left, how long before she'd need to pay a call on the horse doctor for a new supply.

The veterinary doc was new in town, had come all the way from Chicago, and some ranchers held that against him. Even Daddy said the medicine smelled like nothing more than watered-down gin. And the doc had said it might not work. That the best thing for a wound, whether it was on a horse's leg or a man's, was to keep it clean and change the bandages. Sonny hefted the bucket and started down the path to the fenced pasture where Bally waited.

"Hey, Bally. Hey, boy," she called. He stood at the pasture gate, watching her approach. His chestnut coat still gleamed like dark honey from Sonny's last brushing and sunlight made his tail look white as he used it to swat at flies. Bally's ears tilted toward her in welcome, his lips pulled back from long teeth.

Sonny saw how the old horse favored his right foreleg, caught in barbed wire a week earlier. The wire-cut leg was swollen, and really, no better than the day before, or the day before that.

A wave of sorrow passed through her. She reached up to pat Bally's grizzled nose, then lowered the bucket to his side of the fence and climbed over the rails. Her dress caught and she heard it rip. Damn. Daddy didn't care if she wore skirts or a pair of his old trousers, but she didn't like the idea of word getting to the old biddies in town that Sonny McCord dressed herself like a boy.

She'd mend the damn dress good enough to wear to a church social, but later. Now she slapped Bally's neck, then ran her hand over his boney shoulders and sagging back. "OK, old man," she said, "time for your medicine." She bent to set the horse's wounded leg into the bucket. As she straightened, she saw her father coming down the path.

He stopped some way back to lean his rifle against the pasture fence. Sonny watched him stand again, not quite straight after his years in a saddle.

"I bought him cheap," he'd told her. "'Cause the horse trader knew Bally was solid but no one could ride him. Horse took to me though and we've been partners ever since." Daddy came to the gate now, his eyes shifting away from her.

"Are you really gonna put him down today?" She asked a question that had a plain answer leaning against the fence.

"Got to be done. Now's as good a time as any. And you know he's had a good life"

"But, Daddy, he's not near that bad yet. Sure we can't call the horse doctor again?" Sonny was desperate.

"Can't afford it. Probably wouldn't do no good. He's too far gone. You can see that." He turned and looked back at his rifle. "Anyway," he said. "I gotta have this pasture for the mare."

"Lightfoot!" Sonny stepped back without realizing it. "Bally's way more important than Lightfoot, even if he is old. He is to me, anyway"

"That's just the point," her father said. "Lightfoot's a fine young mare, and you know the paddock she's in is too small. She needs running space. I'll break her. We'll break her. She'll be a great ride for you. Bally's old, not worth doctoring now."

Sonny felt her face heat up and her eyes start to sting. She'd known it would be today, had guessed it before she put her feet to the floorboards that morning and she'd promised herself, when the time came, she'd be strong. After all, Daddy often said -- had often demonstrated -- that ranching was a hard business. A man sometimes made harsh-seeming decisions about the animals that shared his land and made his living.

Still she argued, "But he saved your life. You said he..." She stopped, seeing a shadow cross Daddy's face. He remembered, of course. He and Uncle Charlie had been rounding up her uncle's white-face cows one fall. They were driving the herd from mountain pasture to the big corrals where the calves would be separated from their mamas, roped, tied, and branded.

When they got to the canyons that squeezed the land before it opened to the valley and Uncle Charlie's corrals, something went wrong. The cows might have smelled a bear that hadn't yet denned. Or maybe it was the leaning cliffs. You never knew with cattle. But the ones in front pulled up without warning, those behind slamming into them.

Cattle started to bawl, pink-rimmed eyes rolled back, tails slapped about. Daddy, Uncle Charlie, and the cow dogs had moved to keep the herd from stampeding. That's when an old breeding bull slashed open Bally's right shoulder. It was a nasty gash, enough to bring a good horse down. But Bally was a great horse. He'd kept his feet and kept Sonny's father from falling into the mash of cows.

"Yeah, he did save my life." Daddy stretched his hand across the fence to pat the old horse's neck. His fingers trembled a bit and this time, he didn't bother to hide it.

"And there was that time with the mountain lion," he told her, rubbing Bally's neck as he spoke. Sonny knew that story, too. He'd left the horse in a clump of trees while he climbed after a calf-killing lion. A careless misstep tripped his rifle and took a piece out of his left boot that included his little toe.

"You'd think that lion would high-tail it in the opposite direction when it heard the shot. But no. It leaps out of the rocks and heads straight for the trees and Bally. Would have sent any other horse running."

Daddy took his hand away from the horse's chestnut mane. "Bally was spooked but he done no more than jump aside. I got a clean shot at the lion and took it down." The big horse had stayed by him and he'd come home with a lion pelt and without one of his toes.

Sonny thought of how different things might have worked out if he'd ridden up there on a nervous mount, like Lightfoot. Both of them knew he'd never have made it home without Bally.

Thinking of Lightfoot gave her an idea. Couldn't they put Bally in the paddock? Even as she parted her lips to mention it, she realized the paddock was far too small for a big horse like Bally. He'd tear himself more on its close walls.

Daddy pulled at his hat. The day was beginning to smell hot. He reached across to Bally again and the horse nosed his hand. Ears forward, Bally made the soft nicker he reserved for this man, who'd been his friend for more than twenty years.

Sonny removed the medicine bucket. The old horse swung his head to snort at the flies that at once clustered around his wounded leg.

"Can I tend him just a little longer, please?" Sonny begged.

Her father's bushy eyebrows drew down, his eyes winter cold. "And when he don't get better, then what? If he gets worse…" He paused, not telling what his mind pictured. "Harder for him to heal now, Sonny. Not like a young horse, like Lightfoot. Time I put him down."

She swallowed to ease a tightness in her throat. Her father had once shot a stray dog that discovered the thrill of stealing eggs from their chicken house. The dog had been beautiful, with a thick red coat and floppy ears. She'd begged to keep him, sworn she'd break him of egg sucking.

Daddy had shaken his head. "No, you won't. Once they learn that, there's no changing 'em. I'm sorry, Sonny," he'd said. "I tried it when I was a boy. My pa had to do what I've gotta do and it was worse 'cause by then I'd made friends with the dog."

Daddy's cruel, she thought. Didn't he take new calves away from the milk cows, lock them in the barn, and force them to take their dinners from a bucket? Sonny cried when she saw the mama cows wandering the pasture, bawling for their calves.

Her fists clenched and the ache in her throat spread to her jaw. He treats the animals like they don't get scared or sad. I'm not that way, she told herself. Sonny picked up the bucket, dumped the water, and climbed out of the pasture. She went over the fence rails and got another tear in her skirt.

"Don't wear that if you can't open a gate," Daddy said. Sonny swung back in his direction.

"You're treating Bally just like the cows you slaughter for beef when they get too old to give milk. Or that pack mule with the split hoof you shot. I maybe could have doctored him."

Daddy shook his head. They'd already discussed the mule and how bad the damage was. His eyes got narrow, the shadows in them darker.

She ignored the signs and went on. "Oh Daddy, Bally's not like that mule or them cows. He's special. Maybe we can't afford to coddle him, but we got to."

"Shut your sass, girl." He didn't shout. He mostly never did. It was when his words got quieter, like now, that Sonny got more careful. "You don't know how I've been thinking on this. I don't care to destroy a good horse, but a ranch can't make a profit from a lame one. When all's said and done, Bally's an asset to the ranch, or he ain't."

How cold he sounded in his anger. Then his voice settled to something kinder. "I got you to think about, and this ranch. Keeping it for you and the children you might have someday. Got to mind that and not any horse, not even Bally."

Sonny's heart sank lower. She'd done her best but that didn't matter because she'd failed.

"Now," her father said. "You go on back to the house. No reason you should see this."

She swallowed again, but knew she couldn't hold back the tears this time. Sonny turned, stiff-backed, walking up the path toward the house. Then she picked up the front of her skirt and began to run. As she passed the rifle, she thought of taking it, hiding it somewhere, but knew she wouldn't do that. She would hide herself for a time and try to forget what her father would do today. And, maybe, after a while, she would.

Sonny ran nearly all the way to the small paddock where they kept Lightfoot. The copper-colored mare was standing with neck extended over the gate. She tossed her head as Sonny approached.

"You damn beautiful thing," the girl panted. She picked up a pebble near her shoe and threw it at the horse. Lightfoot bolted away from the gate, sped across the short space of the paddock and slammed into the fence boards on the far side.

Sonny gasped. But as Lightfoot turned, she saw the mare wasn't hurt. Her anger fled in the wave of relief. She came to the gate and reached out her hand to calm the horse. Lightfoot, famously shy and skittish, still allowed the girl to stroke her neck.

Sonny leaned forward, talking to the mare, caressing the glossy, red coat. "Sorry girl. Sorry." She kept patting the graceful young horse, so like herself in some ways, until she felt the animal easing under her fingers.

Sonny, too, felt calmer. She watched a fly pass her line of vision, took in the aroma of sagebrush beyond the barn, felt a breeze tug at loose hair on her forehead. But all she heard was a soft snort from the mare and a bird calling from the brush.

Where was the boom of Daddy's rifle? She supposed he was still telling Bally goodbye, working up his nerve. When more time passed with no sound of a shot, Sonny wondered if, just maybe, Daddy couldn't bring himself shoot his old friend.

She waited a little longer before getting down from the paddock fence and walking back toward the Bally's pasture. The old horse was still standing by the gate, but his head hung low. The rifle was where Daddy had left it, leaning against the fence a few yards from the gate and the dying horse. Daddy was nowhere to be seen.

Sonny stared at Bally. He seemed worse than he'd been an hour ago. His bad leg was fly covered up to the knee and the ugliness of it made her feel sick. He didn't stamp the flies away from his wound, didn't lift his head when she came to the fence. And where was Daddy?

He couldn't do it, Sonny thought.

"He couldn't do it," she said aloud. "He couldn't. You wouldn't let him, with all those memories you give him." She started to cry. "You stand there telling him he's not young anymore. He can't have things like they were. You're tearing at his heart."

Sonny hugged her arms to her chest and stared through a blur of tears at her shoes, buttons missing, scuffs across the toes. "It ain't fair."

Bally's breathing was strangled. Behind them a crow gave its scratchy call. In the far distance, a cow bellowed. The world going on.

Sonny took a breath. "You know what Daddy said," Her voice was thick from crying. "We need this pasture." She straightened and walked to the rifle, lifted it, and turned back to Bally. Sonny raised the rifle to her shoulder, aimed it between the horse's eyes. She held up a second to wipe at hot tears. When her vision cleared, she fired.

The End

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The Long Scout
by Jeffrey A. Paolano

The sky drops oceans. Thank you, Jesus. Feet already splashing in water, Joshua jerks on the reins, barely able to make out the horse. He wraps his braids about his head, snugging the shapeless felt cap. Peering into the ink, he appreciates that even the mystically skilled Dog Soldiers can't hound him without light.

He turns towards the height, his moccasins slipping on the slick grass/mud mixture, stumbling over logs, stones and uneven ground, advancing until he discovers a boulder sanctuary in the lightening illumination.

Hobbling the animal, he removes his saddle. Walking the horse into the trees, he drops the reins to stay the beast.

Returning to his outfit, he places the saddle across a space in the rocks and his horse blanket too, affording relief. He spreads his bedroll, levers his long gun, and keeps the pistol in hand.

He stretches out his lank frame, bone and sinew wrapped in brown skin with nary extra. He necessarily shrugs the chill induced by his soaked buckskin shirt. Whilst the night passes, he is attentive to the Cheyenne menace.

* * *

With the dawn there remains but a gentle rain through which he now surveys the country.

Joshua mulls his options. Continuing down the valley is risky but will quickly remove him from the Dog Soldiers' range.

Up and over, while troublesome, especially for the kiuse, will be unexpected by the braves and might provide a head start before they catch on to the act.

He decides to go up and over, reckoning there is no gain awaiting the Cheyenne to sniff out his track.

He manages but three quarters of the distance before the Dog Soldiers fire upon him. He deplores having moved, exhausting his horse.

* * *

What is necessary is to out think the heathens, not to attempt to outfight the nonpareil warriors. Even Joshua Rudenbar's consummate skills, gained through fifteen years of experience in the wilds, will not suffice to prevail in such a conflict.

The primary objective is concealment. This necessitates he not return fire until he observes the expressions on their faces. Only then will the scout fire if he cannot work the trick with his blade.

The second objective is to attain a broad view, assuring he sees them before they see him. To this end he climbs a tree. Swift work is this for a man five feet tall, light as a quill.

They ping away at him during his ascent; notwithstanding, his circumstances are improved.

Third, identify the sachem. If Joshua can wound, not kill, the leader, there is a chance they will break off and remove their wounded compadre to their shaman's medicinal powers.

* * *

Soon the scout espies there are but three; he makes them out as two boys and a man.

The two boys, in their eagerness, edge ahead of the man. Joshua hears the man's guttural exclamations and sees the boys respond by halting their advance. Once they have reorganized, the man signals to resume the approach.

Squirming about on his limb, Joshua attempts to gain a comfortable situation to assure he is at ease which will facilitate his shot when lining up his sights.

Joshua observes the enemy now within fifty yards of the tree; they constantly search the foliage. Imprudently, he edges around the tree. At the instant the savages release a volley, two of the rounds hiss by and the third strikes the tree at Joshua's midriff.

Joshua observes the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers organize their stalk so as to come at the tree from three different directions.

He puts the sight on the man's thigh and pulls the trigger. The report and the smoke cloud briefly obscure the result. The shot a miss, now the three are firing with rapidity.

Joshua feels the searing heat streak across his back, catching at the rear of his upper right arm and burning into the muscle. He questions whether he will be able to manipulate the rifle and cycle another round into the breech. After an attempt he satisfies himself that he is not.

The hail of bullets continues. Two more shots find their way into the muscle of each leg which buckle. He's in danger of falling. He considers dropping amongst the braves thus giving him a chance at close quarter fighting.

Disparaging this idea, with his left hand he draws out his pistol and begins popping in earnest at the man who, in short order, retreats. There is some vocal commotion and although the scout knows the sign language of the plains and a few parley words, he is unable to follow the palaver. In haste the Indians abandon their ambitions and remove.

Joshua drops. He discovers that his horse and outfit are filched. He faces a walk of many miles, on damaged legs.

He fashions two crutches using patches, cut from the buckskin shirt, to cushion the top tees. The rifle is slung on a string about his shoulders. Thus fitted out, he advances.

Rejecting his decision to proceed up and over, he inches down the slope to the valley park and commences, on the easier ground found there, to advance on a course so as to interconnect with the train.

* * *

Mr. Attendoff, Chairman of the Carmona Wagon Train Members Committee, has been deputized by the Representatives Elect assembled to address Mr. Cartoosh, Wagon Master, as to the value of the scout Joshua Rudenbar. "Mr. Cartoosh, you are aware that the Scout Rudenbar has not been seen for days in number?"

"Yes, Mr. Attendoff, I am familiar with that fact," responds Mr. Cartoosh with minutely detectable sub- rosa hostility.

Mr. Attendoff, oblivious, to the ill will, continues, "We, that is the Committee, understands that the absence notwithstanding, Scout Rudenbar continues on the payroll."

"That's a truth," says Mr. Cartoosh.

"You may well understand Mr. Cartoosh we must carefully husband our resources in order to assure the success of this venture. The employment of a personage who is absent a great deal of the time and produces no discernible value is a matter of consternation and concern." So saying, Mr. Attendoff, who having rehearsed the speech in front of his wife several times, believes he presents his case rather well and awaits Mr. Cartoosh's response in an aloof pose.

Mr. Attendoff's raiment is a traveling suit purchased for the munificent sum of seven dollars. The magnificent costume has been reduced to a blemished shirt, a blotchy vest minus buttons; a jacket rended in several locations and stained trousers above ruined walking boots. Amongst knowledgeable sorts, such would not be deemed to have been the shrewdest choice.

Albeit Mr. Attendoff wears the decrepit get-up with the same decadently dignified élan as when purchased.

Mr. Cartoosh considers his response as Mr. Attendoff is in fact his employer and Mr. Cartoosh has a short fuse and suffers fools not well. "The contract we entered into is clear on the question of my being Master until the train disbands, is that not right?" Mr. Cartoosh sardonically asks.

"Mr. Cartoosh, we now speak of the real world not the legalese created by a St. Louis lawyer with shiny pants!" says Mr. Attendoff.

Mr. Cartoosh squats, fills a coffee cup. It's rational to be cordial to the boss. He hands the cup up to Mr. Attendoff, who declines with a curt wave. "Mr. Attendoff, the long scout's job is to range well out from the train with an aim and design to alert me of any difficulties that may lie in our path within a timeliness which will provide me sufficient while to make what revisions I am able, to avert the potential troubles. I believe that Mr. Rudenbar does an admirable job. We have worked together on several occasions and he has my respect and good faith. If there were not a reason for his absence, I am confident he would be in communication with us," so explains a man who conveys himself as if uniformed.

"Mr. Cartoosh, in good conscience, I can't return to my Committee with nothing more than your belief that the long scout is absent with cause, I must have something more."

"What do you have in mind?" asks Mr. Cartoosh, whose interest whets considerably.

"I have in mind that you agree that when Mr. Rudenbar returns, if in fact he does return, he be subjected to an interview by the Committee. If his responses should be found wanting, he is to be released from employment with an appropriate docking," Mr. Attendoff, made this pronouncement with an air of superiority that Mr. Cartoosh found quite disagreeable. A blowhard's bloviating punished his ear. It was a minute or two before he recovered sufficient control of his faculties to enable a civil reply. He unlimbered his six plus feet to posit his retort.

"I'll agree, with the proviso that should the Committee find that Mr. Rudenbar is to be discharged, that at the next town, village, post or fort, I will abandon the train."

Mr. Attendoff says, "Now Mr. Cartoosh you are putting this on a personal basis while I am only discussing the policy of efficiently directing this train. I beg you reconsider."

"You are a greener Mr. Attendoff, no disrespect intended, just stating a fact. You come to me and insult my employee and my friend. In effect you accuse me of mismanaging the train. It sounds rather personal to me. I am afraid there will be no reconsideration." Mr. Cartoosh says it quiet. He flings his coffee into the fire.

* * *

"The long and short of it is if we ask Mr. Rudenbar to leave the train, Mr. Cartoosh will exit as well. Now, you all know his position. If we are forced to buy another six months' worth of supplies in the event we can't find another train boss, we are in real trouble. There are families amongst us without the money." Having had his say, Mr. Attendoff leans against a wagon wheel to give the assembly time to mull that one over.

The group mumbles, fills their cups or stares at the ground absorbing what Attendoff has said. David Matwane addresses the assembly: "Tom, what you say has much sense in it although there is a portion which does not. Allow me to proffer a thought. Many times when decisions are to be made one of the arguments advanced is the one of economics, as you have done this evening. I cannot say the position is without merit. Nonetheless, I can say monetary concerns are not superior to all other affairs. We have an issue before us of effective train management. True there are other matters which may arise that will have to be dealt with, but that should not deter us from exerting our rights. If we allow this inappropriate employment to pass, then other like liberties will be taken, since there is an absence of sanction exercise," Matwane so postulates, then leans down and fills his cup. No mean feat for a man of his bulk.

The murmur continues, gathering strength. No one else rises to speak. After some minutes, Mr. Attendoff steps up saying, "Thanks David, you are right that we must consider this matter from all angles. Does anyone else wish to offer an opinion?" No one else stands too. "In that case I suggest we continue discussion and consideration of the matter at our next meeting."

* * *

Tom sought Ron Cartoosh out the next day, "Well, your pronouncement raised some concerns at the Committee meeting last night."

"Is that good or bad?" Ron asks with a grin and crinkled eyes.

"If nothing else it has us focused on how democracy works. But I am hoping you understand the seriousness of this issue to the Committee."

Ron looks Tom in the eye, and then opines, "I understand that people who have no knowledge of a situation are involving themselves in a matter they signed a contract prohibiting them from getting tangled in."

"I believe we are beyond a question of strict contract interpretation," offers Mr. Attendoff.

"I believe you are wrong. The contract is the compact which governs above all on this train," Mr. Cartoosh says.

* * *

Joshua staggers towards the train. He reckons the wagons will take three or possibly four days to reach a point he can attain in the same time. If he misses, he will be without a rescuer.

He is grateful for his need to travel. He has witnessed wounds to which white men succumb being borne by red men. The white man has a tendency to lie down when wounded and the red man has a tendency to keep moving. The Indians attribute their survival to the shaman's powers. Joshua believes it is the roving. Keeping the wound oozing seems to him to prevent the gang green corruption and rot. He has no opinion as to the curative powers of waving feathers, acrid smoke and chants.

Consequently, he believes his continuing to move, causing his wounds to drain, has good effect. Further, his mobility preserves the limber of his appendages.

Of concern is the smell of gore on the wind. A grizzly or wolf will smell his ichor miles off. They will be after him as soon as they whiff of it. How he might situate himself to ward off an attack troubles him.

Once he reaches the spot where the wagon train intersects his route he might pull himself into a tree, many of which will grow along a stream bed. Having the good luck to be at such a location each evening will be phenomenal. However, he cannot limit his progress to assure being at a tree at the time to rest for if he does he might not make the meeting with the train.

At the first dusk he's at a pothole. Removing his gun belt, he wades into the water, and dredges muck up from the bottom to cover his wounds, obscuring the stench.

There is no place to squirm into for a modicum of cover. He has no tools to dig a fighting hole. His must lie exposed on the prairie. He thinks to lie beside the pool, so if attacked he can jump into the water. This will hold off the wolves. He possesses no notion of the possible impact on a grizzly.

He digs cattail roots for his supper.

Day break finds him hobbling since the longer he is down the stiffer his legs get. He knows he is better served on the march.

The grass is summer dry. The plants seem to be molting and the product chokes him as he walks. The stuff also mingles with his sweat where his skin is not covered, causing profuse itching.

The plain is without structure, causing him difficulty in keeping a course and measuring his travel distance. He uses what he can in the way of hillocks, trees and arroyos. He estimates his progress at about five miles for the day with approximately ten miles more to be achieved.

That night he crowds under a log in a creek bed.

The following dusk finds him in a gulley. There is a freshet and a number of trees. He believes the train must pass close by and this place will water the stock.

He reckons to climb a tree for safety. He drinks all the water he can hold. The wounds are rubbed with mud. There is a modicum of satisfaction in the absence of redness about the lacerations.

The cotton woods he can't manage, as there is a dearth of branches. However, a beech will do nicely. He begins to pull himself into the tree. He has the use of but one arm, no other appendage being of full value. He is able to drape the damaged arm over a limb at the armpit which provides a stabilizing factor.

As he reaches a height where at his legs leave the ground, the pain is so excruciating, he rubs his face against the bark to create a sensation that will keep him conscious. He sags on a branch between each go. The waves of agony wash over him and away. The sweat pours down from his face, head and shoulders, soaking his woolen underwear and buckskin shirt. He breaks off a twig to put between his teeth, not wanting to break a tooth or bite his tongue thru.

* * *

Mr. Cartoosh is annoyed as he settles for the night. The interview with Mr. Attendoff disturbs him. He wishes to handle the thing in the right way but in truth he lacks diplomacy. It is a fact that he is a volatile and his usual response to a situation is with his voice at full bellow or with his fists. However, in this setting, such behavior will not do.

What is foremost in his mind is Rudenbar. He recalls his Army service, 2nd Lieutenant Commission, Third Calvary Regiment, 6th Battalion, Company E, second platoon. General Cravish was commanding officer. Hell of a man Cravish, meaner'n shit, straight up and down fair. Got his start in the Indian Wars, liked it so much he never looked back. Took a bullet through his cheek, knocked most of his teeth out, crushed his jaw, smashed away one eye, and a good part of his nose. Lay abed for eight months before he broke his water glass and cut his wrist. Poor soul is he.

Encamped on the shelf between two creeks the surveyors named Hansen and Gilmore, for a reason with which I am unfamiliar.

We had been maintaining martial behavior for weeks, training the good many recruits, and assembling our truck as the haulers brought forth supplies. We generally readied ourselves for a summer campaign.

Our objective was to subdue bands of Lakota Hunkpapa, in fact western Dakota. General Cravish made it clear that they did not call themselves Sioux and therefor neither should we.

Our quarry was of the Crow Totem council fire. The leaders were Twists his Hair, Antelope Hunter and Kill a Wolf. In the absence of senior officers, we called them Bud, Mike and Tom.

I was informed to report to Major Stenner's tent and upon my arrival Captain Blair, our company commander was present.

"Lieutenant," Captain Blair spoke, as the Major sat with folded hands, "as you know we're preparing to embark on a campaign of several months. We have trained our men and are satisfied with their performance. What we're not cognizant of is the quality of our scouts. We believe it would be of value for a scouting party to make a four-day tour under the leadership of one of our Lieutenants who upon his return will make a detailed report of the episode. We're asking that you take on the assignment."

Although my heart was racing and sweat was beginning to bead on my forehead I bespoke as calmly as possible, "Yes, Sir," hoping to have not given myself away with my emphasis on the sir.

Again Captain Blair spoke, " Assemble your men and leave next day break, take ten scouts with you, three inside, two long, in rotation, any questions?" His look was one of invitation giving me every chance to make my inquiries and forestall gaffe.

"No, Sir," I said with all the confidence and self-assurance of a greenhorn.

"You are dismissed Lieutenant," Captain Blair said as he and Major Stenner saluted.

Returning the salute, I backed from the tent catawampously and almost whistled.

I assembled my scouts of which Rudenbar was one. I was somewhat reluctant to take him given his diminutive stature. One of the points in his favor however, was that he looked more like a scout than any other man. In fact his appearance was more that of a heathen.

The second day, we encountered a buffalo herd. Mr. Rudenbar informed me that prudence dictate we circle the beasts so as not to excite any savages that might misinterpret our behavior as intending to interfere with their livelihood.

In agreement, we adjusted our route to skirt the herd. Unfortunately, for a reason unknown to us, the savages were already excited and ready for war.

Inopportunely, we came along in time to entertain the animated Indians.

Two of our inside scouts encountered the band and returned to us on the run. We now were in the position of having two long scouts and one inside scout on the prowl while the eight of us were grouped together.

In a flash, Rudenbar kicked his Indian pony in the slats commencing a heroic dead run for a gulch. Upon reaching the edge he hauled the reins with all his strength. The pony's fore hooves skidded and its haunches hit the ground. I believed those legs were going to snap like twigs. However, there seemed to be no wear or tear, as the rider flew off and the animal continued down into the ravine and all was well.

We established our line of defense and awaited events.

Singly the braves began riding up to our battle line at break neck speed, whereupon they wheeled repeatedly, shook a stick at us that was covered in leather, bead work, fringe, and arrayed with painted markings. While they waved the stick, they screamed at the top of their lungs.

Rudenbar yelled out to all, "Hold fire, no fire, hold on boys."

So we sat quietly and watched.

In a while the Indians appeared to calm down. They sat in a group, their ponies tethered. After a period Rudenbar came to me and asked, "Lieutenant would ya'll be agreeable to me going out to powwow with those fellas?"

I was in a quandary as to the proper move. I was reluctant to risk the life of one of my charges. Alternatively, Rudenbar had proven himself an able plainsman clearly in command of the situation. I must acquiesce.

"You are confident you know what you are about?" I felt foolish asking the question. He knew more about the matter than I will ever know.

"Yes sir, quite confident," he said with bland honesty, unaccompanied by neither smirk nor sneer at my innocence.

We wait as he sits in the savage group, waving his hands about, they waving theirs until eventually, one brute takes out a long rod, which is resolved to be a pipe and they smoke.

Upon his return Rudenbar says, "Lieutenant, there is to be a ceremony of sorts. If all goes well, everyone will depart cordially. We should cut a stake to tether our horses and take up sitting to one side."

We do as he bids. He takes up a seat opposite one of the heathen. They both have removed their shirts.

Presently, a Lakota Hunkpapa, displaying much in the way of feathers, bead work, and paint upon his buckskins, takes his knife and begins to work it through the arm of the man who sits opposite Rudenbar.

The spew rises in my throat, I taste the bitter acid in my mouth, and the burning sensation causes my eyes to tear. By instinct I am aware that should I vomit or make a sound, our lives are forfeit.

The brave having his arm pierced sits stock still, without the slightest twinge or facial expression. Eventually, the knife pierces through the arm and the feathered butcher pushes a strand of red cloth through so that it hangs from either portal.

The doctor then turns his attention to Rudenbar. I am horrified. Sweat bursts from my forehead, my stomach is as a knot of primal pain, and there is a shrinking feeling in my crotch. I want to scream out, to stop this barbarism. My mind races as I search vainly for an avenue of escape.

The other scouts sit nonchalant, and I realize I must assume this pose and yet am baffled as to how I will achieve it. At this point an avalanche of shame envelopes me. I am observing what Rudenbar is about to endure for the sake of the group. Yet, I cannot manage to just sit still. I achieve the act although the bile remains in my throat. I condemn myself for my cowardice and force myself to maintain the required attitude.

Rudenbar ably sits stoic tholing the piercing and the fabric insertion. After… the two participants rise, clasp each other's arm and mouth an unintelligible phrase.

We ride towards our troop. The inside scout rides up. He had returned during the ceremony, as Rudenbar described it, but hid until it was over.

We can only hope that the long scouts will surmise that we are on the return and join us.

At our first stop to allow the horses to blow, one of the scouts cuts the red flag as close to Rudenbar's skin as possible and then pulls the remainder thru. Once cleared the wound is smeared with grease from a pemmican bag.

The abomination is as a beacon emphasizing my character flaws and delinquencies. I wince at the brown blood splotch adorning that pejorative sleeve.

* * *

Lt. Cartoosh interviews each of the illiterate scouts involved in the excursion to obtain corroborating accounts of events. He develops an extensive report which he has every expectation will be well received. And all the while he racks his brain to discover what gift he might bestow upon Scout Rudenbar for singular service since it is unlikely the Army will do so, given the whiffet position in which scouts are held.

In this regard Lt. Cartoosh was quite wrong. The Army does in fact reward Scout Rudenbar for his actions on the patrol in no small part due to the excellent report submitted by the Lieutenant.

This factor, while gratifying for Lt. Cartoosh, only heightens his dilemma in finding a suitable presentation for the Scout. In the end he is able to realize what he considers the perfect object.

"Scout Rudenbar I would like to present you with a token of my esteem for your courageous action during our patrol," Lt. Cartoosh utters these words with all the military pomp he can muster.

"Lieutenant, it ain't necessary for you to be presenting me with nothing, I done what I am paid to do." One who knew no better would have thought Joshua was an embarrassed school boy.

"Nevertheless," the Lieutenant extends his hand conveying to Mr. Rudenbar a box such as one receives from a jewelry store in Boston, which is in fact the very city, from whence the box and its contents had been ordered by Lt. Cartoosh.

"Well, thanks Lieutenant, I appreciate that," the Scout feared this greener had bought him a gewgaw he'd be expected to wear like a God damn fool. With trepidation he opened the box. Upon the felt within lay a watch, a beautiful watch, to be sure. Not beautiful because it was of gold, which it was not, not beautiful because it was arrayed with etched curlicues and fancy work, such it lacked. No, the beauty derived of its exquisite design and flawless proportions.

Mr. Rudenbar, a man of boundless self-determination and control is stunned. In his life he has never held an item of such magnificence; nay he has never seen such an item. To think that this device of unimaginable worth is to be his is beyond his reckoning. "Lieutenant, in truth I don't know what to say, it's striking."

"Now, Mr. Rudenbar," the Lieutenant's excitement was getting the better of him, his emotions running askew, "although it might look like a watch, it is not, it is a chronometer, as long as you keep it wound it will keep very accurate time for you, much more accurate than a watch." It was all he could do not to grab the mechanism from the Scout's hand and begin a demonstration.

Joshua heard the words of the Lieutenant without appreciation as he has little mechanical comprehension and especially so as to a watch. He said, "Thanks, I'll use it a lot."

"Scout Rudenbar, if I may, if you press this tab (pressing the tab) the back opens (the back opens)," and there appears the words that will bond the two men Always Beholden to Joshua Anthony Rudenbar, extraordinaire from Lt. Cartoosh 1859. Lt. Cartoosh almost erupted with pleasure.

"Lieutenant, I will treasure this always," Joshua reached out to shake the Lieutenant's hand, gripping within the other a prize beyond plausibility.

* * *

Once again Mr. Attendoff addresses the wagon master, "Mr. Cartoosh the Committee is adamant on the question of the long scout. You must make a move and discharge this fellow, now missing these many days."

"There is no way in hell I am going to discharge a man without I hear his side of the story. Adamant Committee be damned." He spat.

* * *

The wagon master sits aside the train, his observant eye taking in all, the drooping team, the loose wheel, and the shredded wagon covers. He takes notice as the cattle and horse herds freshen. He looks to assure himself the cavvy-men and wranglers are taking precautions for stampede.

The Boss wonders why the inside scouts haven't alerted him to the fact of water. I'm gon'a havt'a blister some tails.

In fact the inside scouts have come upon Josh and are assisting him back to the train. They have fashioned a travois and are drawing him over the prairie, to his mind like the King of Spain.

Mr. Cartoosh notices them a ways off and angles his horse to intercept them. When he recognizes who occupies the favored spot, he leaps from his saddle.

"Well, hello! Where you been, why you laid up, God Damn, you shot? God Damn, where you been?" Beside himself with joy, Mr. Cartoosh acts a fool. His scouts, embarrassed, make do to indicate they are heedless of his behavior.

They drag the travois into camp. People push and shove to get a look, as the murmur of the crowd crescendos. The collective of doctor, barber, dentist and pharmacist comes to make an examination.

"You're right lucky not to have got corruption in them wounds," says the saw bones/barber/dentist/pharmacist with his air of superior knowledge, wiping his unwashed hands upon a soiled cloth.

Mr. Matwane, having observed the physical state of the long scout makes presentation to Mr. Attendoff. "It's abundantly clear that Mr. Rudenbar isn't going to be able to fulfill his employment obligations for a time, if ever. I'm compelled to point out that we aren't a charitable organization and cannot continue financing the gentleman. We must press Mr. Cartoosh for his release."

"Mr. Matwane, the man was injured working for us. Have we no obligation to him? We owe him nothing?" Mr. Attendoff inquires more of the assembly, than of Mr. Matwane.

Mr. Matwane looks the Committee over, recognizes that they are tending to agree with Mr. Attendoff and being the whiffler he is twists his position accordingly. "Certainly, I didn't mean that we leave him without the wherewithal for his recuperation, let us bestow on him a sum to that effect," he said, surveying the group in anticipation of his suggestion's approval.

Mr. Attendoff has been met more than halfway. He no longer has a footing. Ample funds to pass the winter at a civilized location should put the scout right by spring. No one could gainsay the Committee with respect to having fulfilled its onuses. Mr. Attendoff commits, "I will take the matter to Mr. Cartoosh with vigor."

* * *

"Mr. Cartoosh, the Committee has considered the matter of the long scout. Given his present physical state, it is clear he'll be unable to fulfill his obligations. Therefore, the Committee has decided to discharge Mr. Rudenbar with a stipend in consideration of his injuries, sufficient to see him through until the spring at which time his wounds should be healed. If you feel you cannot handle the matter, I'll do so in your stead."

Now Mr. Cartoosh faces a new fix. Not only must he deal with the matter of the pressure to release Mr. Rudenbar, he now must also deal with the affront to his authority.



Dissidents amongst the wagon train membership have informed him whence the issues emanate.

The dissonance of the two opposing obligations works on Cartoosh's mind. He cannot imagine a resolution to the matter in any manner or degree that will allow him relief. The fretting begins to affect his appearance as his eyes sink, he loses weight and his face assumes a drawn, gaunt appearance. There is about him the look of pestilence.

* * *

He brings the matter up to his old friend, Joshua. He explains as clearly as he can both sides of the argument.



"Tom, you got to let the thing go, you signed the contract, you can't in good conscience leave these people stranded out here for the winter. The children, the wives, the innocent people who don't even know English who have no idea what's going on, they are all going to starve. Even if they have money to buy food, even if the people who run the post are charitable, there ain't no food to be had. There's none been shipped in, since there was no expectation for this many folks to be wintering. The buffalo are going to move south when the snow comes and then there will be nothing. Just make your mind to it, you have to go on. Hell, I'll be fine."

"That ain't the question and you know it," Mr. Cartoosh looks at this man to whom he is always beholden and resolve forms in his mind.

* * *

He strides through the group of Committee members assembled about Mr. Attendoff. He jostles Mr. Attendoff to one side and at the same time draws his Green River sticker. At that moment he does not know exactly his intention. Cut Mr. Matwane's throat, gouge out an eye, or cut off his ear. Within the time it takes for the knife to rise from the sheath to Mr. Matwane's face he knows. He thrusts the blade up through the soft behind Mr. Matwane's chin, through the tongue and on up piercing the nose.

Mr. Matwane would scream bloody murder if his tongue were free to move but all he can muster is a gurgling sound. Instead he reaches for his face with both hands which come to scratching at his cheeks for there is nothing else they can do.

Mr. Cartoosh pulls the knife handle towards him bringing David Matwane with it and shouts in the skulk's face, "Get the hell off this train, right now. If you're here in an hour I'm gon'a put a ball through your brain." He jerks the knife down and out of Matwane's jaw.

* * *

Joshua sits his saddle, in lank comfort. His pony nuzzles at the head of Ron's… The reins hang down from his fingers. He smiles in the slimmest way and says, "I always reckoned you for a persnickety streak." There is a studied air in the manner in which he draws the piece from his pocket, studies the time and precisely returns the mechanism to its sanctuary. His left hand tightens the rein on that side and the mustang's head turns into the wide, almost unimaginable vastness that awaits the train.

The End

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Stolen Lives, Part 2 of 2
Iragene Jones, New Mexico Sheriff Series
by Jesse J Elliott

Mr. March approached them. He held out two boxes. One held a pink silk blouse so beautiful that Iragene gasped and reached out to touch. There were delicate embroidered butterflies throughout the material. She had never seen anything so beautiful. "She'll love it, I know she will," she said softly. "And the other box?"

Daniel opened it. Inside was a cream colored book, small as books go, but she saw what it was immediately, Shakespeare's Love Sonnets. "Daniel, she'll love both gifts."

"I hope you're right. Cassie was the one that suggested both. Sometimes when you're working so hard with the ranch and the baby, you forget how important it is to feel loved." Daniel smiled as he thought of his wife.

"Who's working so hard? You and Cassie, not Pru!" she said sarcastically.

"Iragene, don't be so mean to Prudence. You know how hard life in New Mexico is on her," he said defensively.

She backed off immediately rather than hurt her brother. "I know, I was just kidding." She looked at her brother adoringly and then remembered why she was there.

"Daniel, I'm working on a case. Several servant girls disappeared, and we don't seem to have a lot of leads. Forgive me while I ask the Marches some questions, will you?"

"Of course, Iragene. Coming home on Friday? Will you bring Cruz too?"

"Yes, unless something comes up. I have to see my favorite nephew, and I miss Cassie something fierce."

"Okay, I'll just pay for these items and head for home. See you on Friday." He hugged her affectionately and walked out the door.

Iragene watched the people come and go, and finally, after about thirty minutes, the store was empty of people. Both Mr. and Mrs. March were behind the counter. No better time and she approached them.

"I'm so sorry to bother you both, but I'm looking into the disappearance of one of the Ortiz's servant girls. Actually, she's the fourth girl to disappear. The other disappearances weren't reported until this one."

"How can we help?" asked Mrs. March. "We don't know anything about missing girls? She probably ran off. Those girls are always running off somewhere, I've heard."

Iragene took a deep breath and managed to contain her anger. She wondered why people like the Marches came to New Mexico if they thought so little of the people that lived there. "No, she and the other girls did not run off, but there is enough evidence to suggest that they were kidnapped and taken away — somewhere."

"Why are you're asking us?" the merchant said rather curtly.

"You were at the Ortiz family party. Do you remember anyone leaving early or acting suspiciously?" She stopped and thought, "Do you remember seeing any men standing around smoking and talking away from the house?"

The husband shook his head, but Mrs. March said, "Yes, I do remember some men standing by a huge tree, smoking. There were several of them. They were quite loud, and I was relieved that they didn't come into the party. I had forgotten about them. It was still light when we arrived and we drove around the property a bit, killing time."

"Can you describe them? Were any of them familiar to you? Had you seen them before?" Iragene tried to contain her excitement.

"No, but I can tell you one thing, they were dirty. I can't imagine why they were there, but I was very happy to know that they were not guests of the Ortiz family. Such ruffians! You don't suppose that they took that girl? Maybe that's who she was meeting." Mrs. March looked at her.

"They may have been the men that took her, but she didn't go willingly. There were definitely signs of a struggle. Do you happen to remember how many there were?"

"There were three or four of them. Really, I don't remember."

At that minute the door opened and several people entered. Iragene knew she had probably gotten all the information that she was going to get from the Marches, so she quietly said thank you and left the store.

"Humph," she said under her breath, "maybe the Marches took them and are using them as slave labor! I wouldn't be surprised." She caught herself and realized that maybe that was what the girls were being used for. Obviously, the way some people felt about those poor girls, it was no wonder that some people felt they could get away with kidnapping. Damn, the first three disappearances weren't even reported.

She crossed the street to the Bush Mining Company and opened the door. A surly faced man with severe acne looked up from his desk. She knew him, but with so much else on her mind, she hadn't thought of having to deal with him

"What do you want?" he said loathsomely. "If you want to talk to Mr. Bush, he ain't here."

"When will he return, Mr. Crane? I have some questions I would like to ask him, " she replied coldly back to him.

"I can't say, and even if I did, I wouldn't. He ain't got nothin' to say to no woman lawman," and he turned his attention to his work.

Iragene turned and walked out, kicking herself for having to deal with such a repugnant woman hater. Ugh, she thought as she headed back to her office.

She opened the door and was relieved to see that Cruz had returned. He had made coffee and brought in some sweets and a jar of cream for her. After her recent experience, she couldn't thank him enough for his thoughtfulness.

She shared her morning's experiences with him, and when he had finished two large sweet breads and a cup of coffee, he started on his discoveries. He had gone back to the ridge and examined the horse. She was a young mare that shouldn't have been ridden yet, let alone with a rider the size of an average man. From the looks of the fall, it appeared that the horse carried not only a man, but possibly Flora as well. The mare was probably overloaded and not sure of her step. She fell and broke her leg badly. The men at least had the sense to kill her quickly, but their lack of knowledge about horses was unusual around here. Also, only one of the men was wearing boots. The others had heavy work shoes.

Cruz had then followed the tracks of the horses. He followed the riverbed until the horses veered off southwest. Their trail passed the home of the banker where their tracks once again joined a main road and they were no longer discernable.

Iragene hated to think it was Benton. Though clueless about inappropriate behavior with the girls, he really seemed concerned about Flora, but she could be wrong.

"Okay, so Benton lives down that road. What else is down that road beside the copper mines?" she asked.

"Not a whole lot. There are the mines, the Navajo reservation, and then not much else. Should we plan on skipping the other hacendados tomorrow and following the trail? We can snoop around the banker's house while he's in town."

"I think that's a good idea. Let's plan on a full day tomorrow. Cruz, why don't you take some money from the till and buy us some vittles for the road. I have some paper work to do." She pulled out her father's old pocket watch. "Let's plan on meeting tomorrow about 7:00. I'll buy breakfast at the hotel. Don't tell anyone we're planning on leaving. Let's hope we can surprise someone and find those girls."

They didn't see Benton or anyone from the list of party attendees, and Iragene enjoyed the wordless quiet of people relaxed with the others company. Though in the case of Cruz, being tongue-tied in his boss's company in such a formal setting was normal for him. But breakfast was good, and they left town about an hour later.

"Let's go over what we know. Those working shoes could be farmers, mill workers, or. . .," she paused, "miners. Heck the kidnappers could be anyone, but probably not someone from a hacienda. No one wore heavy work shoes that I could see. But, now I remember, Mrs. March actually saw the men hanging around the Ortiz home, and she mentioned how dirty they were. That might suggest miners."

"Sheriff, now I wonder if any of the women from the Reservation have been kidnapped. No one would have reported that. There might be more women than we know. Do you want to stop by the reservation and ask some questions?"

"No, I think I would prefer to stay on the trail, hoping it doesn't get colder than it is now. Besides, I don't know anyone well enough on the Res to ask," she replied somewhat ruefully. Cruz acknowledged her decision and rode along side of her, occasionally sneaking glances.

Relieved that the trail didn't turn into Benton's home, they remained on the road. They had ridden for several hours and were now along side of the Navajo Reservation when they decided to stop for lunch. They were out of the tall pines, but there were plenty of pinons and junipers to find some shade. They settled under a large pinon where they ate, refreshed themselves, and sat quietly enjoying the loud cries of a flock of pinon jays. As they sat there resting, they saw a lone rider coming down the road. They waited quietly until they recognized the rider as Benton the banker.

He saw them and rode over to their site. "Howdy, I guess you put two and two together too."

"You knew that the girls might have been taken this way and you didn't share the information with me? Even after I questioned you the other day?" she said incredulously.

"Iragene, I mean Sheriff, I am a man from a different era. I see women playing a different role than sheriffs. I really wasn't sure if I shared this information that you would have acted on it. Besides, I wasn't sure how to tell you this. This is not exactly a conversation I would share with a young woman."

"And what exactly is it that you wouldn't share with a young woman, Mr. Benton?" she said very softly yet sarcastically, trying to hold in her anger. Cruz looked at her, knowing she was very close to blowing up.

"Well," he looked away from her glare, "the other day I overheard two young miners at the bar. They were deciding how to spend their hard earned money. One suggested going upstairs and spending money on the girls at the bar. But the other guy said, 'Why bother when Mr. Bush and Mr. Crane take such good care of us at the mines? We can spend our money there and not have to ride so far after a hard night.' And then he laughed. The other guy never did get it." Here he looked at Iragene, embarrassed as he said too much.

Iragene waited, and Benton continued.

"Well, I walked up to these guys, because I hadn't heard of anything like that at the mines, and they told me that Mr. Bush and Mr. Crane brought some working girls out for them. They said this would help the miners stay close and not have to take their money to town. I asked them to describe the girls, and they said they were all young, pretty, and Mexican or Indian. They sounded like the missing girls, so I thought I'd ride out there and see."

"By yourself? All alone? Not even a gun?" Iragene, could barely contain her anger. "Isn't that what you pay a sheriff to do?!"

Benton looked at her sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Sheriff, I really didn't think you could handle these men."

"And you could?" she retorted. Disgusted she sat and thought awhile. "I've never been to Bush's mines. In the dirt, can you draw me a picture of the lay-out?"

Belton looked even more embarrassed. "No, I've never been there either. I know the area, but I've never bothered to visit the mines."

Iragene turned to Cruz. "Deputy, do you have any idea how the mines are laid out and where they could possibly be putting the women — if the women are there? Surely those men would know that the girls were being held against their wills."

Benton explained that the girls were described as being tired and dopey. The men assumed they were drunk. Maybe they were under the influence of some type of drug?

"I'm no expert, but I would imagine that the mine has unlimited access to laudanum to treat the miners' injuries. Maybe that's what they give the girls to keep them quiet. There's always alcohol. I guess we'll just have to see."

"We could ride into town and get reinforcements," Benton suggested.

"And just who would volunteer to save a group of Indian girls or Mexican servants? No one even bothered to report the disappearance of the first three girls. I don't think we would get much support., besides you are in the company of the sheriff and her deputy, Mr Benton."

They glared at each other briefly, but then Benton realized she was right.

"Okay," he relented, "you're right. Since we'll be riding in the dark, I suggest that we go a few more miles and then find a place to camp for the night. I see you both have bedrolls. I have some food, and I see you both do too. I know a small canyon not far from the mine's turn-out. We could camp in there. No one would even see the camp-fire. We could leave in early light."

"Even better, I'll go alone and scout out the area tonight. I doubt if they have any guards, and I can see if I can find out if or where the girls are." said Cruz. Benton and Iragene nodded.

"If the girls are there, I am assuming that the ones responsible are the bosses. At least that's what they miners said." She paused and looked at Benton. "Mr. Benton, I don't want to put a bunch of miners out of a job. What will happen to them if we arrest Bush?"

"Bush is still owing on the loan for the mine. If he misses a payment, the Bank will take over the mine. Since its income remains consistently in the black, the bank would probably appoint someone to supervise the mine until all legalities are cleared. After that, the bank would sell the mine. That's about the best it can do."

"All right, at least we can tell that to the miners to assuage them if we encounter any problems with them. Let's find that canyon of yours so that we can get some sleep before Cruz sets off. Are you ready to do a little spying tonight, Cruz?"

He smiled at her, saluted, and said, "Aye, aye, Capitana!" The tenseness of the past hour was forgotten and they made ready to start.

A few hours later they entered a beautiful canyon with a small arroyo filled with freshly running water. There had been several days of rain the previous week, and the water was still flowing from the higher ground. In the distance below was a wider patch of water, perfect for refreshing ones self after a long, dusty ride. All of them looked around appreciatively and settled on a flat area a bit away from the water in case another rain caught them unawares. This way they wouldn't be washed away in their sleep. Flash floods in New Mexico were not unusual, and those who lived there or in any desert area slept well away from the water in an arroyo.

They watched the sun set and all sat quietly thinking about the poor girls forced to spend another night drugged and abused somewhere — hopefully at the mining camp. They ate early and then Cruz went to take a nap. Though there was little chance of being spotted or attacked, Iragene took the first watch. She woke Cruz when the moon came up and talked to him briefly about his mission. They both agreed that he should stay out of harm's way and return as soon as he found out if the girls were there and where. Cruz saddled up and rode out quietly.

"Mr. Benton, are you able to relieve me for about four hours?"

"What time is it?"

"About one. I have fresh coffee made. Please wake me at 5:00 or when Cruz returns."

"You amaze me, Sheriff. I think I need to reassess my opinion on women."

"That you do, Mr. Benton." She made her bedroll up and then looked at him. "Mr Benton, you have a large beautiful home, are you planning on marrying anytime soon?" She smiled.

He looked at her and at first said nothing. Then he smiled sadly and said, "I had a family."

"Oh I am so sorry, I didn't mean to bring up anything personal or painful."

"No, Sheriff, it's all right. I had a wife and twin babies on the way. The delivery was a difficult one. Even with my friend, a military doctor there for her, Margaret died in childbirth. The two little girls lived only a few hours." He stopped and she waited to see if he could continue. "We both had twins in our families, so I just assumed I would be having a large family of varying ages and sexes. Who knew that all those rooms would sit empty?"

"Oh, Mr. Benton, I'm so sorry for asking. It was none of my business."

"It's okay, Sheriff, it's been many years. The pain is mostly gone, but not the loneliness. I think about those little girls a lot, though. When I'm not thinking of my Margaret, I'm thinking of those girls and wondering what they would look like now. But you've known sadness too. I know you lost your fiancé last year. We never know, do we?"

Iragene just shook her head, smiled at this man she once thought was a kidnapper or worse, tried to avoid having him see her eyes well up, and went to sleep.

Close to 5:00, Cruz rode into camp. Iragene heard him and got up to take his horse and unsaddled it for him. She brushed it down while asking him about his findings.

"The mining camp is a bunch of shacks and tents. The miners sleep near a large tent. At first I thought the girls were in there, but apparently that is where the food is prepared and served. About a hundred yards away is Bush's house. It's a large, two storied home with roses and flowers all around it, if you can believe. I saw Bush go to the outhouse and then walk over to a long shed behind the house about 3:00. He checked the locks on the shed and then went back into the house. There are no windows. I'm pretty sure that this is where the girls are kept because I heard a female voice shout out when the locks were jiggled. Nothing was guarded, and access to the house is easy. I peeked in the windows and saw a dining area, an office, and a living area. I guess the bedrooms are upstairs. In the barn are a buggy, a supply wagon, and horses. I think I know how we'll be able to transport the girls home." He smiled and asked if he could get in an hour of sleep. Iragene said yes and began to fix a breakfast of coffee, tortillas, and cheese.

After Cruz had slept an hour, he awoke, ate, and helped them break camp. Iragene took an extra gun from her saddlebag and handed it and a box of bullets to Benton.

"I hope I don't have to use this," he said softly.

"I hope not either," said Iragene. "If the girls are there, and they seem to be, I'll need you to talk to the miners. Mr. Benton, most of the miners know you. I'd like you to go to the mine and tell the foreman and the other miners that Bush will be arrested and taken to town to stand trial for kidnapping, assault, and rape. Please assure him that you are there to make sure that the mines remain open. All the men will be paid, and none of the men will be held responsible for the charges that Bush and Crane might face. Although I'm not happy about letting the men off the hook, there is little we can do to the men. On the other hand, hopefully the girls will be able to identify their abductors."

She looked at Cruz. Get the rope and guns. Hopefully Bush and Crane will be receptive to our visit."

When they arrived at the mines, Benton rode over to the shaft and talked quietly to the foreman. The foreman confirmed the presence of the girls. A few other men were there, and they began to get angry, but Benton was able to reassure them that workings at the mine would continue as usual, just minus the girls and the owner. He even offered the foreman and supervisors extra wages to maintain the operation of the mine. He looked over at Iragene and Cruz and waved — the sign that the girls were there. Relieved, Iragene and Cruz approached the house.

They decided not to knock, but entered the house quietly. So well made was the structure that the stairs made no sound as they walked up to the owner's room. Fancy wood paneling on one door made it easy to determine which room was Bush's. Across the way, with its door ajar was the offensive, sleeping Crane that Iragene encountered at the mining office in La Madera. Iragene pointed to Bush's door and then herself, and then pointed to Crane's room and Cruz. He nodded. She put up one, then two, then three fingers.

"YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR KIDNAPPING, ASSAULT, AND RAPE!" Both men were still half asleep and that made it easy to drag them out of bed and tie their hands behind their back in Bush's bedroom. "Mr. Bush and Mr. Crane, I will give you the chance to explain about the women held here against their will."

Crane looked at her with hate and spat out that he knew nothing about no women.

At this point, Bush looked at Crane and shouted, "He knows everything. Taking and keeping girls was his idea. Besides, who cares about a few Mexican or Indian women? You have no right to arrest me! Wait until I get my lawyer." Iragene looked at this hateful bigot and mentally counted to ten to prevent herself from shooting him right there. At that moment an older woman came in to inquire what was going on and just stood there with her mouth open.

"Señora, will you pack a suit and shoes for Mr. Bush and Mr. Crane? Right now, I think I'll just leave them in their night garments because it's less complicated."

"You can't do that you Bitch!" Crane screamed. "You'll humiliate Mr. Bush and me! I'll kill you first." Crane moved and seized a pistol sitting on Bush's night stand. Though he was surprisingly quick, Iragene was quicker, and she drew and shot the gun from his hand. Not even a drop of blood was drawn.

All three of the men looked at her incredulously saying nothing, mouths agape.

"Crane, you're fortunate that I didn't put a bullet in your manhood, but the target was too small," Iragene calmly stated.

Minutes later, Cruz and Iragene dragged the two men down the stairs by their ropes. By the time they brought Bush and Crane out to the front of the house, Benton had already shot the lock off the door of the shed. They followed him to the shack. Six girls, wearing little to nothing stood by the beds, looking dully at their rescuers.

Angrily, Iragene yelled at the two men, "Where are their clothes?"

At first neither would talk, but when Iragene lightly kicked them both in the crotch, Bush spoke out. "We threw their rags away. We figured they wouldn't need them anymore. We were planning on buying them some nice dresses."

"Sure you were, you monsters," Benton said heavily.

"Cruz, could you please go to the housekeeper and tell her we want every clean shirt, every clean piece of long-johns, every sweater, vest, jacket, etc. that these two own as soon as possible." Cruz was relieved to go, embarrassed and deeply disturbed by what he saw and left quickly.

"Yes, Sheriff, immediately."

"Gentlemen, let's leave these poor girls alone for awhile until they are more presentable. Ah yes," she stopped and stepped out and yelled to Cruz, "Please have the housekeeper bring every bit of food available from the house to the girls. If she doesn't have enough for all of them, stop by the chow tent!"

"And now, Mr. Bush and Mr. Crane, what did you give these girls to make them so drugged?"

"Nothing," snared Crane, "those whores brought their own booze and drugs."

"Unlikely," Iragene said as she made ready to kick the men again, this time not so gently in their sensitive areas.

"STOP!" Bush screamed. "We only gave them a little laudanum to relax them. They weren't raped. They were happy to be with the men. They volunteered." Iragene looked at him, hate filled her usually composed face and she kicked each man as hard as she could and then walked away to keep from kicking them again. Each doubled over, however neither had the benefit of laudanum to dull their pain.

Several of the girls appeared to be coming down from the drug, but others started to cry and asked for more. These girls had been on the medication for longer and were now addicted. No one knew who administered the drug at the mine, but the foreman showed them the dispensary, and they removed what they could for the moment to provide the drug to the girls that needed it.

A strange array of disheveled girls left the mines. They were dressed in everything from men's nightshirts to silk dress shirts. Some wore men's long-johns while others wore beautifully tailored pants, cut off at the ankles to fit them. Flora was the first to say something. She spoke to Benton.

"Gracias, Señor, I never thought I'd leave that horrible place." Tears welled up in her eyes.

"It's okay now, Flora, you're free, no one will hurt you again."

"You don't understand. I am soiled. No one will ever hire me or want me. All of us. We can no longer go back to our work or our families. We are now brasuras, trash."

"Flora, you aren't trash. You will always be my flower. Look, I got a big house. I live alone. I'm a lonely man. You, all of you can come to my home and live and heal. You will be the daughters I almost had."

"I don't know, right now, I don't know," and she cried silently and turned away from him.

Benton turned to Iragene. "Sheriff, I want to take these girls to my home. I want to give them food, nice clothes, and a place to rest and heal. Do you think that Father Agustin would be willing to help me with these girls?"

"I know he will help, but are you sure? This is quite a leap."

"I don't think I could stand by and not help," he insisted.

"You know that most of them felt uncomfortable with your touches before. Now, you will have to rein in any sign of familiarity. These girls are physically and mentally damaged by their horrible incarceration. Could you control your fatherly desire to touch or hug these girls?" She looked at him expectantly.

"Yes," he said firmly.

The girls were fed and placed into the buggy and wagon. Bush and Crane were seated on horses, still in their nightshirts and nothing else. A strange train of people left the mines and started back to town.

Later, the wagon and buggy carrying the girls stopped at the Benton house. When Mr. Benton opened the front door, his housekeeper looked in shock at the disarray of young girls.

"Mrs. Brooks, let me introduce our new family. There are six of them, and they all need lots of love and time to heal. I know that this is very sudden, but do you have a problem working with our new family?"

"Mr. Benton, I've been waiting a long time for you to start a new family. This isn't how I imagined it to be, but this assortment of young girls will finally give me something to do around here!" She gently took the girls upstairs. Though there weren't enough beds for everyone, some of the girls laid down happily on the soft rugs. The drugs were still in their systems and for some of them this dependence would last for awhile if not always.

Iragene looked at Mr. Benton. "I can't believe you want all six of them! You know you will have some difficult days ahead. You have addicts, mentally and physically damaged girls, and a variety of cultures and languages."

"I know, but I have the time and the money. However, if you can send word to Father Agustin to come here immediately from Santa Fe and bring his sister, the healer, we will at least be able to give these girls hope."

Iragene said she would and hugged him.

"Sheriff," he said lightly, "I think we are now good enough friends that I can safely call you Iragene without having my head cut off."

Iragene laughed and got on her horse. She and Cruz then took their two underdressed prisoners to town.

The End

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The Ellsworth Tragedy, Part 2 of 2
by Mike Wilkerson

I spent more and more time with Hester over those months from Spring and well into Summer. By then I'd been riding the stage to the point of fatigue on account we were losing good men to the bandits and highwaymen who were murdering and stealing ever'thing in their path. Those stage runs on the Smokey Hill Trail were filled with dead folks both white and injun. The lifeless faces staring out like they ain't real, and then you realize they are real but can't do nothing for 'em. I've seen scalped men and burned up injun children along that trail and white or red a twisted face locked in pain forevermore ain't nothing anybody ought to see. And friend, it wore on this ol' boy. But it was my job to keep folks safe, and so I kept myself heavily armed and willfully ignorant. Ignorance is a first-rate quality in my trade.

Business for Boss Purdy was so good that by mid-summer he'd moved into a wood frame building and brought in a few other gals to take care of hungry customers. But Hester was still busy as all get out on account of how she looked and because fellers had simply become accustomed to her. Yet, she'd manage to sneak out when she knew I was around and I even bought her some store bought goods a time or two. In turn, Hester brought her smile for me on a few rare occasions and seeing her happy made this ol' boy feel like he'd done something right in this here world and I'd forget those dead faces, if only for as long as she held me.

There were problems, though. Galliban was still around and he'd gotten to taking Hester's services on a steady and, some folks said, rapturous basis. She said laying with him was the only time she felt really dirty 'bout what she did. Most fellers who visited her were only boys or older fellers who wanted a gal to mother 'em. Galliban was a scoundrel, she said. Tried to get her to do things she didn't like and which made her feel shameful. I told her I'd take care of him, be glad to do so. But she said no.

Maybe that was her way of sayin': "If you want me, Charlie, then take me. If not, then I got to fend for myself."

I don't know, but maybe.

We'd come off a long, rough and dirty stage run to Denver City and back and I'd had Hester on my mind the entire time I was gone. You get to thinking on those long trips. Life was creeping up on me and I'd of liked to come home and lay with my woman without constraints and without thoughts of other fellers touching her. That's what I thought about. Me and her. She'd of looked good standing out on the windblown prairie in front of our own place with her black hair blustering around like a tumbleweed and the sun in her eyes and the new summer cheatgrass waving around her legs like it was happy, same as me, just to be around her.

I guess I was tired inside my head to be having ideas like that. I was so dern tired and I'm a'guessing so was she, even though she never said as much.

With such thoughts fresh in my head and the money bag slung over my shoulder, I went to the bank, right off, just as I always did. Tom Deckert was clerking at the bank, just as he always was.

"Charlie," Tom said with a nod, but without looking at me.

Tom was a young, spry beanpole of a feller with a bushy brown mustache who was always friendly with a smile, even though you couldn't see it below that there broom on his lip. Today he looked beat and I told him as much.

"You looking like somebody left you, Tom. You ain't married yet so it can't be that, unless you been holding out on me. Why so glum?"

He shook his head. "Charlie . . . " he started, but didn't finish.

I figured he had a case of melancholy. Things can get lonesome out here when you got no one.

Only I couldn't spare the time for Charlie's gloomy disposition and so I said, "Well, good luck," and put one foot in front t'other till I was standing bar-side at Boss's place. I wanted a drink and then I wanted Hester. Not for layin', but for all time.

Galliban was there too, leaning with his back against the wooden plank bar and staring out into the crowd of cowboys like he owned the place. He was wearing a dark, sweat stained and floppy top hat and his hair hung below it like black moss. It was the first time I'd seen him with cover on his head. His checkered shirt was open to the waist revealing a sunken, hairless chest and his trousers were baggy and brown stained in the wrong places. I could smell the smell Hester always talked about and I didn't like it neither.

I sidled up next to him and slapped the bar. "Whiskey. None of that falsified business either — get it out of a new bottle."

Galliban moved a jaundice eye to the corner of its socket and gave me a superior look. I paid him no mind. That ain't true. Lord, I felt an energy inside pert near ready to burst me into pieces and I wanted him to say somethin'. Anything. Then I'd buffalo him but good for Hester's sake. After that, me and Hester were gonna ride outta this burg. I didn't even know if she'd say yes to what I was gonna ask her, but it felt good thinking she would.

Jerry Markley was tending bar and he knew better'n to pass off bad liquor to this ol' boy. He was short and round with dark, slicked back hair which made him look like a little black beetle. Moved like one too. Took him some time to find a bottle of good whiskey. He served me up with a shaky hand and I took a sip and then turning around bumped shoulders with Galliban, spilling my whiskey.

"I'll be getting another'n on you," I said to Galliban with my eyes nailed to his, thinking of how Hester felt about him.

He turned full at me, thumbs hooked in his gun belt right close to those Colt's.

"Fer what? It be yer fault, ya damn fool. You tramps are all as clumsy as the day is long and too stupid to realize it. 'Sides, what you doing here anyhow, Charlie? Your whore ain't around no more for you to be traipsing off with."

I felt my face jerk. Galliban saw it and said: "What? You don't think ever'body in these parts knows how you two be sneaking off and playing patty cake? Why don't you foller her lead and do the same so I don't have to make a scene in front of these good paying customers."

His stink got stronger. I cocked my head to him. "How's that 'bout Hester?"

Galliban spit chewing t'bacca on the floor and a thin stream of juice dribbled down his chin like brown blood leaking from his mouth.

"Done herself in. It happens with whores from time to time due to their lowly predicament." He shrugged and added, "Seen it on many occasion with gals in her vocation. It's what you call an occupational hazard."

I felt something like a tickle start about the middle of my back and then creep up my neck and into my scalp until my whole head felt like it was crawling with red fire ants. Galliban just stood there with an ugly smirk on his ugly face.

"She wouldn't do it," I replied. Only a knot was growing in my chest which made me wonder if I believed my own words; she was prone to low moods and I knew it.

"Wouldn't she?" He leaned back against the bar smug-like and then spread his lips, showing his yellow, bean-like teeth flecked with t'bacca.

I turned to the bar. "Jerry?"

Jerry backed away, blinking his eyes fast and said: "Charlie . . . she-she-she did so. She'd been on a crying jag ever since . . . "

Jerry was talking slow. I sped him up.

"Since what?"

"Since I took this place over from Boss and he made himself gone," Galliban said.

I turned back to him. Galliban lifted his chin and talked to the ceiling.

"Guess she didn't like her new business arrangement and must've got weary of her boyfriend putting her off and always running here and there. She thought you done left for good this time, Charlie ol' boy. Gone for almost a month you were." He looked down at me and shrugged again. "What can you do?" And then he answered his own question. "Nothin', that's what."

I kept my voice calm. "She knows we been short handed what with the bloodshed going on and the fellers we been losing on account of it. She knew I'd be back. She knew it, 'cause I told her so and I ain't never lied to her."

Galliban shook his head. "Well, Charlie, maybe she thought you'd bought it out there on the trail, got yourself scalped or such. Somebody might even of said as much to her as a tease. You know how these rascals are with their tales." He winked and added, "That's prob'ly it."

I turned to Jerry and laughed a fool's laugh, wanting to believe I was in the middle of a put-on. When Jerry's face drooped like wax from a spent candle I stopped laughin'. I knew what happened. I also knew why and because of who.

I pulled my own Colt and put it in Galliban's chest. For a moment, that ol' boy was scared as hell 'cause he ain't the first man I've made scared and he knew us stage boys had seen death up close, done by a people who live by counting coup against those who done 'em wrong for years on end, and if I was still alive after all these years it meant I weren't afraid of putting a man down.

But he was only scared for a moment, 'cause he didn't last any longer. I pulled the trigger and son, when a .44 lets loose that close to a body there ain't nothing or nobody gonna come out of it breathing air.

* * *

I woke up in what constituted the jailhouse with a knot the size of a goose egg on the back of my noggin' and sheriff Kingsbury standing over me. I asked him what the score was.

"Somebody put the grip of a pistol to ya as soon as you finished off Galliban," he said.

"Who done it?" I asked.

"Won't make a difference, Charlie. Not a goddamn bit."

He was right. I let it be.

Still in a haze, I asked Kingsbury about Hester. He said she'd taken her own life, sure enough. Scuttlebutt had Galliban beating her pretty good and making her do things like those ol' French boys do, but they had no proof of his actions 'cause she stayed or was kept locked up in her room and even quit taking customers. Nobody inquired 'bout her. Nobody cares much about the whereabouts or disposition of a whore. Kingsbury said she'd put a derringer to her head and done herself in not three days before I came back to town.

I looked at my blood spattered hands as I told him it was likely the same gun I'd bought to keep her safe from the riffraff. At the same time that smart feller I told you about earlier was in the cell next to mine sobering up. He heard our talk and called it an ironic situation. Kingsbury nodded.

He said when they found Hester she was in real bad shape beyond the obvious. A piece of her ear was missin', her eyes were swollen shut and her jaw broken. There was also a ragged, festering notch in her right nostril. Kingsbury said injuns do that to their squaws when they've laid with too many bucks and I told him I knew all about that sort of thing. There were other things done to her only I won't speak of 'em.

Kingsbury looked grave as he told me all of this. Said when he saw her, he knew what was done by the gun and what was done by the bare hands of that mudsill Galliban.

As far as Galliban goes, Kingsbury said I scattered his chest all over the bar and ever' piece of anything which happened to be situated behind him. Hell of a mess. But they slopped some water over it and in a day or two some other chub would be doing business there.

"Life moves on, Charlie. I don't blame you for what you done, but it's a new day in the territory. Folks want schools and their families to feel safe. They'll want justice of whatever kind they can get for what you done and there ain't much I can do 'bout it. But I don't blame you and I just want you to know it."

I told him it weren't his fault for the fix I was in.

Come my day in court, the judge said I was to be made an example, because I didn't even give the other feller an honest chance to defend himself. Citizens needed to see that the township of Ellsworth wasn't having no more killin', he said. They were ready to shed a bad reputation and the shedding would start with me.

My mouthpiece did what he could. He got plenty of folks up there telling the jury that I was a pretty good ol' boy and about all the lives of stage riders I'd saved over the years. Didn't make much of a difference. I knew where I was headed and I didn't care.

It was a small price for killing Hester.

And that's what I did. I killed her. I killed her by selfishness and fear. I could shoot a man dead without nary a thought of consequence, but couldn't tell a woman how I felt about her, or take her away from a life no lady ought to live. I even thanked the judge and I swear he couldn't look me in the eye.

Guess he didn't like that bastard Galliban either.

I's just about done scribbling when Kingsbury came in a bit ago and exchanged a few pleasantries with me and said I got about an hour 'fore I get to meet my maker. I almost feel sorry for the ol' boy, having to tell folks things like that.

He also said they found Boss Purdy's bloated body on a bank of the Smoky river a mile or so up with a gunshot wound to the back of his head, most likely the doings of Galliban. Purdy was already fat and I couldn't imagine how he looked all filled up with water and such. I asked Kingsbury 'bout it.

"Had to drag him to his grave with a mule. Lord, Charlie, it was a hell of a sight," he said, just before walking out the door.

"I 'magine it was," I replied.

I been writing this here piece for near two weeks and I ain't never put so many words on paper. Didn't think I had it in me, though I will fess up to having a little help from that smart dude, Gray. He's been in here a lot for one thing or t'other and he's helped me with what he calls my prose and to spell a word or two as I ain't had much book learnin'. But he always starts bawling while he reads it and muttering that it's a tragedy in the classic Shakespearian sense and he won't change nary a thing on account of the honesty of it all. Then he starts sputtering out the name "Melissa". I 'spect he has his own problems that go way back. I try not to bother him no more.

So most of my time in here has been spent just writing and thinking and staring at my bum hand. Thinking 'bout how she held it that day and how I felt something inside me even though I couldn't feel her touch on my fingers. Then about four days ago I had the sawbones come in and take off those fingers. They weren't doing me no good and hadn't for years. They were just a reminder, but no longer of John Brown and a sweet girl with a ribbon in her hair. Not anymore. Course the doc protested in a fit. Any reasonable feller would and doc's as reasonable as they come.

"But, why? Hell, Charlie, you waited all this time and now you're getting ready to . . . well, it just don't make no sense!"

"I know," I said. "But they're my fingers and I don't need 'em no more. Don't want 'em no more."

He was getting ready to say some more when I had Kingsbury give him twenty dollars in gold he was holding for me.

"It's the last thing he requested," Kingsbury said. "I ain't one to cheat a condemned man of his final requisition."

And it hurt. I was drunk as ten million injuns and full up with laudanum and I could still feel that saw going back and forth until my digits were gone. Even after doc tied off the bloody stubs and fed me more medicine it hurt.

My days wander by in a medicinal haze.

Gray said that while doc was cutting I cried out Hester's name so loud that it spooked cattle a mile out of town and even with his hands clamped to his ears he could still hear me plain as day. Said I begged for her forgiveness. Don't know 'bout that. People tend to exaggerate out here in these parts.

I asked Kingsbury 'bout it and he said I was paying a penance and what I said was nobody's business but my own and it weren't worth repeatin', 'cept maybe to the man upstairs if I get that far. Anyhow, my stubs don't hurt so much anymore.

Guess I'm hoping that in writing this, in knowing myself that I was wrong in how I treated Hester, things might be better for me maybe up there in the hereafter. If there is one. I hope there is. I pray Hester is there and she'll say it weren't my fault, what she did to herself, and that I'm a good man and I'll believe her. And before she gets to saying something nice about me, like she always did, I'll interrupt her and tell her the things I like about her.

I'll tell her how the lines in her face let me know she ain't a child no more even as her sweet sounding voice says different, but I like 'em both just the same and they're what make her who she is, which is the only person I want her to be. I'll trace those etches in her skin up around her eyes with the good finger on my bad hand and feel how deep they are and she'll close her eyes and tell me ain't nobody ever done that before, but she likes when I do it. Then I'll run my finger across her forehead, down her cheek and over the freckles on her nose until she scrunches it up and looks so purty I'll be fit to bust. When I tell how I was gonna ask her to go away with me, she'll hush me and say she's happier with things this way, 'cause it's done and finished and neither of us have to worry no more 'bout anything ever again.

And once more I'll see her smile lift below those blue eyes and move my good hand to touch her sun stricken and wild black hair while she puts her head on my shoulder. The wind will blow the cheatgrass and everything will smell new and feel right again.

And I'll get my Hester back.

The End

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