September, 2010

Issue #12

Last Rider: Working the Line
Part 1 of 2
by J. B. Hogan

After his narrow escape from the vigilante mob down in Nopal, Texas, Mose Traven drifted back north into Indian Territory on his sturdy mount Buster, crossing the Arkansas River southeast of Ft. Gibson. Frazzled, hungry, dirty and trail-weary, all he had to his name were the clothes on his back, his bedroll, and the old pistol and twenty-dollar gold piece the Nopal smithy's wife had stolen and pressed upon him when she engineered Mose's jail break.

For days Mose had lived on water and whatever small game he could get—a scrawny rabbit here, a bony squirrel there, anything he could capture or shoot. The old .44 black powder pistol the smithy's wife had given him worked alright, after a fashion, but only five rounds had been loaded into the cylinder and one of those misfired when Mose tried to bring down a fat possum that crossed his and Buster's path one hungrier than usual afternoon.

"Damn it," Mose had cursed, but he didn't fire again at the possum. He figured he better save his ammunition for other kinds of trouble.

"We ain't got much, Buster," he complained to the horse, "nothin' but this old pistol with two shots left, if they fire even, and …wait a minute." He reached into his shirt pocket and felt the $20 gold piece. "We ain't quite done yet, old hoss, if we can just get to Ft. Gibson I got an idea."

Just as Mose had hoped, just south of Ft. Gibson he found what he was looking for: a gun smith shop. It was in a little town, actually more a collection of shacks used for businesses serving the soldiers from the fort rather than a real community. Mose tied Buster to a railing outside the gun smith's and, knocking the dust of the trail off his pants and shirt, walked inside.

"Good day to you, young fella," a friendly old man working behind a counter in back of the shop greeted Mose.

"Howdy," Mose said, taking off his wide-brimmed hat and nodding to the old man.

"Nice weather for a change," the old man chattered, wiping off a glass top in the middle of the main counter behind which Mose saw various separate parts of firearms, mostly pistols, laid out on several small tables. "Been cold of late, stormy. Sunny and warm feels good. You bet."

"I reckon so. I been ridin' mostly these days, tryin' to stay out of it."

"A wise course. A wise course, indeed. Yes, sir."

Mose let the conversation die out. As his eyes adjusted to the dark of the shop interior he saw that the old man had several pistols already converted to the new cartridge-firing cylinders that were catching on all over the region. He hoped there might be a Navy .36 like the one the marshal back in Nopal had taken from him. There had been no time to recover it in his hasty escape from the vigilante mob's noose.

"Lookin' fer a new sidearm, mister?" the old shop owner asked, watching Mose eyeing the display of pistols beneath the glass-covered portion of the main counter.

"Yes, sir," Mose answered, "I am. I have this older one here but I'd like to trade up if you got a good one and the price is right."

"Well, sir," the old man said, "maybe we can do us some horse tradin'."

Mose produced the black powder .44, took the firing caps off the two remaining rounds and then handed the pistol, butt in, to the shopkeeper. The old man took his time checking out the weapon. He tried the action, looked down the barrel at the sights, turned the cylinder.

"Old," he said, when he'd finished his examination, "but serviceable. Not much demand these days what with the new cartridge shooters and all. What are you lookin' to swap it for."

"You got maybe a .36 Navy that's been changed for the new cylinders?" Mose asked. The old man joined Mose in looking down into the case of pistols.

"Don't see one," the old man said. "Wait. Here's somethin' close." He reached into the case and pulled out a long-barreled revolver. "A Griswold .36. Is that close enough?"

He reached the pistol across to Mose, who tried it for weight and balance. It felt pretty good. Comfortable to hold, easy action, smooth-turning cylinder. It would do.

"Might work," Mose allowed.

"Comes with a free box of cartridges," the old man said hopefully.

"How much with the trade?" Mose asked.

"Well," the old man said, scratching the back of his neck, "how about eight dollars?" Mose grimaced. "Seven?"

"I don't know," Mose said, "I only got . . ."

"Six," the old man said. "That's as low as I can go."

"I'll take it," Mose said, "and that box of cartridges."

"Comin' right up," the old man said with a smile, "comin' right up."

Mose paid with the twenty dollar gold piece, leaving him fourteen dollars—in coins. He knew that wouldn't last long but he was so tired of being hungry all the time he decided to stop at the first hotel or eating place he found and get a good, hot meal and then later maybe treat Buster to some oats.

After filling his gullet with a big steak, potatoes, bread and butter, and a grand piece of apple pie—all with a cool, satisfying glass of milk—Mose bought several pieces of thick jerky for eating on the trail and a small bag of oats as a treat for Buster. He then headed north out into the country away from Ft. Gibson, away from people, away from trouble—he hoped, for a change—and looking for a place just to rest for awhile.

He found what he was looking for under a big oak tree beside a small, clear running stream. Letting Buster forage along the creek side, Mose spent the daylight hours casually catching small fish for his meals and simply sitting beneath the big oak doing nothing more than chewing on a piece of straw and absorbing the restful beauty of the unspoiled environment. It was a pleasant idyll and a needed respite from his recent spate of troubles.

Within a couple of days, though, he began to feel the familiar tug of the trail. There was something in him that longed for movement, that needed to follow the unknown road, to find the next thing up ahead—for good or for bad. With that restlessness mildly gnawing on his insides, Mose saddled Buster and headed up the old cattle trail towards Baxter Springs.

It was a warm, clear day: perfect for easy, steady riding. He didn't push Buster but let him take his own lead much of the time, only reining him in if the dependable cayuse strayed too far off the trail in search of the perfect stand of grass.

Towards mid-day, with the sun directly overhead, Mose saw several riders heading down the trail towards him. Instinctively, he felt for the Griswold tucked behind his belt on the left side for a crossways draw. It was a slower draw, sure, but the pistol rode steadier there and more comfortably. As the oncoming riders drew nearer and nearer, Mose rested his right hand on the butt of the .36, at the ready.

When he was still some distance from the approaching riders, Mose heard one of them call out something. Then one of them waved. Then they all began waving and shouting.

"Well, I'll be a son of a gun," Mose whistled to himself. "I never."

"Mose, Mose," he heard his name called.

He recognized the voice. It was Tommy Robison, the waddie he'd defended from Jack Hart, the man who'd followed Mose to Ft. Smith where they shot it out and Hart was killed. Mose could hardly believe his ears or eyes. Chuy the cook was with the others, too, and another young drag rider named Braddock who'd eaten trail dust with Mose and Tommy, and Charlie Wilcox—the trail boss and Hart's kin. Mose slid his hand back onto the butt of the Griswold where it had been before he first recognized his former trail mates.

"What do you say, boys?" Mose said, halting Buster in front of Wilcox's Bay horse. Wilcox saw Mose's hand on the .36.

"No need for that, Traven," Wilcox said. "We heard about Ft. Smith. We know what you done and we know you had no choice. Jack Hart was a hard case and kin or no kin, I reckon he had what comin' that what you give him."

"There was no other way," Mose said. "He didn't give me no choices."

"Fair enough," Wilcox said, reaching his hand out. Mose shook it. Tommy, Braddock and Chuy surrounded Mose happily.

"What'cha been doin', Mose," Tommy asked, smiling. "Where you headed?"

"Just driftin', I reckon," Mose said. "No place particular."

"There's a way station back just a mile or so," Wilcox said, "why don't we ride back and have a meal together. Me and the boys ain't in no hurry to get back home. What do you say?"

"Well," Mose said, a little bit of a smile trying to crease his mostly solemn features.

"C'mon, Mose," Tommy said, "you can tell us all about your adventures."

"Yeah, Mr. Traven," young Braddock chipped in, "it'll be like on the trail again, except there'll be real food and not that chuck wagon stuff." The boy glanced quickly at Chuy, who pretended to be offended.

"You'll think chuck wagon stuff, the next time we go on a trail drive," Chuy said, to general laughter. "I'll cook you a prairie dog pie and flavor it with vinegar and salt."

"Yum, yum," Braddock laughed, "my favorite."

"C'mon, boys," Wilcox said, turning his mount back to the north. "Let's go get some grub and celebrate seein' Mose again."

"Yee haa," Tommy and Braddock hollered, waving their big trail hats over their heads and spurring their horses on. "Last one there's a no count waddie."

After the trail riders treated Mose and themselves to steak and eggs, and listened intently to the stories of his recent travails—minus the specifics of the jail break—with the sun reaching mid-afternoon level they gathered by their horses for a final farewell.

"You boys take care of yourselves now," Mose told his friends, shaking hands with each in turn.

"You, too, Mose," Tommy spoke for the group. "Come see us sometime."

"Sure," Mose said, nodding his head.

"Traven," Wilcox said, "me and the boys did well with the drive and we made a bit more than we thought we would."

"Well, that's great," Mose said, "good for y'all."

"We agreed," Wilcox continued, "that since you was with us over half the way, you ought to share in some of our good fortune."

"Ahh," Mose mumbled, looking down at his dusty boots.

"Sure, Mose," Tommy said, "you deserve it. For sure."

"Mighty good of you to say so, Tommy," Mose replied.

"Here, Traven," Wilcox said. "Enough jawin'. Each hand kicked in a dollar for you. Take it with our blessin'. You earned it."

"I don't know about that," Mose hemmed and hawed.

"Take it," the others insisted. "Come on, Mose."

"You all is mighty good fellas," Mose said, looking at his boots again. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll take it," Wilcox said. "We want you to."

"I truly thank you, boys," Mose said, accepting five one-dollar coins from Wilcox. "I'll always remember this."

"Atta boy, Mose," Tommy said.

"One more thing, Traven," Wilcox said. "If you're set on headin' north, there's a ranch up along the Territory border, up where it runs close to Kansas and Missouri and Arkansas. The Rocking H Ranch it's called. Tell the boss there I recommend you for work. Name's Ben Carson. You get up in that area, just ask anyone about the Rocking H and Ben Carson. They're always lookin' for good hands. He'll treat you right. Tell him I sent you."

"Thank you, Wilcox, boys," Mose said, mounting up. Buster snorted. He was ready for the trail again, too. "See y'all down the line."

"Bye, Mose," the cowboys said to their friend. "Good luck." Mose spurred Buster gently and gave the excited animal a controlled lead. To the sound of his old trailmates cheers behind him, Mose waved his right arm without looking back and rode on to the north, on towards the far end of the Territory.

Ben Carson, owner of the Rocking H Ranch, hired Mose on the spot. He needed a line rider, he said. Especially would need one during the coming winter. Was glad to hire anybody that Charlie Wilcox recommended, he said. Mose could start right away, taking a spare pack horse and supplies enough for a few weeks ahead. Might as well get right to it. No time to waste and plenty of stray cattle to find and drive back to the main herd out in the grassy rolling hills of the Rocking H. Lots of fence to repair and restring. Plenty of work to do.

Mose thanked the stocky, voluble Carson, met a few of the Rocking H boys and with very little ceremony loaded up the pack horse and followed a narrow, but clear trail out to the line rider cabin nestled at the base of several hills near the four corners border in the far northeast section of the Territory.

The cabin itself was not much more than a one-room shack. It looked like it had been thrown together out of scrap wood by men in a hurry to get the job done. Mose's first order of business, after unloading his supplies and settling Buster and the pack horse in a small corral out back of the cabin, was to find a hammer and some old nails and reattach several slats on the roof and side of the shack. At least the place would keep out the rain and wind for the time being anyway.

Inside, it was basic living at best. The place had a dirt floor, which helped keep the inside cool—a benefit in warm weather for sure. There was one chair and a little table and on one side of the room a bed, more of a cot really, with a thin mattress and thinner, down pillow. On close examination, both the mattress and pillow were bug-free and Mose considered that a considerable blessing.

There was a small pot bellied stove for heating the place and a little flat one for cooking, with enough pots and pans to fry some meat, prepare biscuits and the like. In one corner, there was a place dug down and covered with burlap that Mose figured was used for keeping apples and such and there were open, partial boxes of sugar and salt and a little wooden container of pepper.

From the Rocking H larder he was given a sack of flour, a tidy supply of salted meat and jerky, coffee, beans, several tins of vegetables and two of peaches. He looked forward to trying those peaches some evening after a hot day out mending barbed wire. For the fencing, the supply boss at the ranch had handed him a bag with a roll of bailing wire, a sack of staples, a fence tool and some grease. He was told to cut his own sticks of wood for repairing small breaks and to replace broken fence posts with whatever tree limbs he could find for the purpose.

There was a shallow, clean creek nearby, ample small game in the area and, supposedly, wild berries and such to supplement his diet. With all that and a decent place to stay out of the weather, Mose figured he could make do just fine in between supply runs to the Rocking H. And for the first month he did.

Oh, it was a bit lonely sometimes and the job could get downright boring, fixing broken barbed wire all day. Occasionally, he would find a lost stray and that broke up the monotony somewhat. Overall, it was a simple existence, one Mose felt was suited to him and his solitary personality.

One day, about mid-morning, as Mose was fixing a small break in a stretch of barbed wire he heard the sound of a rider approaching. Cocking his ear to catch the direction, Mose saw one of the boys from the ranch pop out from behind a small hill and head towards him. As the man got closer, Mose could tell it was a young 'poke called Meador that he had seen before on a supply run. The cowboy reined in his horse a few feet from Mose.

"Mornin'," Mose said, tapping the brim of his hat.

"Boss want to see ya," Meador said bluntly.

"He say what for?" Mose asked.

"He just say for you to get back down to the ranch right pronto," Meador answered.

"Let me finish up this break and I'll ride on in," Mose said.

"Suit yourself. I done told you what he said," Meador replied laconically.

"Alright," Mose said, not particularly pleased with Meador's terse conversational skills.

"Better get to it," Meador added, turning his horse to ride away.

"I got the message," Mose said, heating up a bit.

"Don't make no never mind to me," Meador said over his shoulder.

"None to me, neither," Mose said, turning to face the cowboy.

Meador laughed and spurred his horse. The animal jumped and broke into a fast trot. In a moment, rider and horse were out of sight beyond one of the nearby hills.

"Dumb head," Mose said in the general direction Meador had gone. "What was eatin' him?"

Mose tied Buster to a post in front of the cowpoke bunkhouse and walked casually towards Ben Carson's big white house that was the centerpiece of the Rocking H Ranch. After grabbing a quick bite to eat back at the cabin, Mose had taken his time riding in. By the sun, he guessed it was going on one thirty in the afternoon.

"Come in, Traven," Carson said, meeting his latest line rider out on the front porch of the house.

"How do you do, Mr. Carson?" Mose said, removing his hat.

"'Preciate you ridin' down," Carson smiled.

"Yes, sir," Mose replied.

The two men stepped inside the big house, which, despite the heat outside, was cool and dark. Mose took a deep breath, smelling the pleasant odors of cooking and such that were so different from the smells of his little ramshackle cabin up in the hills at the far end of the ranch.

"I suppose you was wonderin' why I asked you to ride in?" Carson asked, guiding Mose towards the inner rooms of the house.

"I reckon I didn't really know," Mose said doubtfully. He was hoping he wasn't getting the axe already. He was just getting used to working at the place.

"I have someone here to see you," Carson explained, entering ahead of Mose into a large living room filled with heavy, ornate furniture.

Mose pulled back like he was about to step on a Texas rattlesnake. He instinctively reached for his sidearm and began to draw it from the holster.

"Whoa, there, Traven," a familiar voice called out from across the big room. "No gunplay. I ain't here to arrest you."

Mose stopped with his pistol half drawn. He couldn't believe who it was. It was the marshal from down in Nopal, Texas. The one who had locked him up on the false murder charge. The one whose jail Mose had busted out of.

"Take it easy, Traven," the marshal said, smiling. "It's alright. I've got your belongings and money. Your pistol, too."

"I don't reckon I understand," Mose said, letting his pistol slide back down into the holster.

"Marshal Dacus is here to exonerate you of all the charges down there in Texas, son," Carson explained to his cowhand.

"Marshal Dacus?" Mose said, not quite able to get his mind around the new information.

"I'm awful sorry, young fellow," Marshal Dacus said, offering Mose a small burlap bag. "Here's all your stuff. That nice Navy .36, too."

"That's right decent of you, sir," Mose said, taking the proffered bag, "but what happened? The way I lit out of there, I figured you had to be here to take me back. Even if I didn't do what they was chargin' me with."

"We know you're innocent, son," Marshal Dacus said, "and you've been acquitted in absentia."

"In ab . . . what?" Mose asked, rubbing his chin.

"In absentia," the marshal replied, "means you was freed even thought you weren't in our custody no more."

"I still don't get it," Mose said.

"You're a free man, son," Carson told him. "The marshal has rode all the way up here with your things just to let you know."

"I appreciate that, sir," Mose said to both men, "but how did I get free? I swear they was getting' ready to lynch me when I got busted out of there."

"What happened, Traven," the marshal elaborated finally, "was that a fellow who was a passenger on that stage what was robbed came forward and described the robber that shot and killed Bert Carey. Fellow named W. C. Gilbert testified a few days after you busted out and his description was nothing like you. Me and my boys caught the real shooter. He's locked up waitin' on his own real trial right now."

"Thanks to Heaven," Mose said, sighing deeply. "And I'm awful sorry 'bout the way I busted out of there, but that Carlton fellow and that Enoch, I was sure they was gonna lynch me."

"All charges against you are dropped," the marshal said. "You are free. And, by the way," he added, reaching into his shirt pocket, "here's your $20 gold piece, too."

"And my paper money?" Mose dared ask.

"Sorry," the marshal said, "needed that for the finding of you."

"Fair enough," Mose said, extending his hand. The marshal shook it.

"No hard feelin's?" Marshal Dacus asked.

"No, sir," Mose said shyly.

"Well, there you go, boy," Carson interjected. "All's well that ends well."

"I reckon," Mose allowed.

"One other thing you might want to know," the marshal added.

"Yeah?" Mose asked, an eyebrow raised.

"That Enoch, the blacksmith what turned on you?"

"Uh?"

"He's dead."

"Dead you say? What happened?"

"After his wife helped you get away," the marshal detailed, "Enoch took to beatin' her, beatin' her hard. I went to stop him one day and he come at me with a hot smithy iron. I shot him dead. Damned near cost me my job, but I'm cleared now. As for me and you, we're even."

"No, marshal," Mose said, "I owe you this one and I won't forget about it. I appreciate what you done for me."

"Well, good luck, then," the marshal said, shaking hands again.

"Thank you kindly, sir," Mose said, "and good luck to you, too."

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