Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book

“Yeah,” he allowed, “those sure were the days---and…nights! Uh, that is, long as they lasted.”

A subtle chortle ran through the audience as they suspected this was going somewhere.

“Abe,” he continued, taking pause in his narrative to purposely accentuate the “important” points of his tale, “timing” always being a telltale virtue of a “good” storyteller, “we called him ‘Double-A’ as that made the initials of his name…” Timmy-boy paused politely for expected laughter; he got his reward.

“Well, anyway. Ole Double-A had him a gal down in town near the ranch. Oh! Maybe? Around five miles, or so, from the bunkhouse. She weren’t nothing but a two-bit ‘hoe—‘, uh, I mean to say, ‘saloon gal’, but Double-A sure had a case for her.” Nervous laughter sparked, then quickly quieted as Curly’s face flushed bright red. Uh-oh! This could be trouble; Timmy-boy needed to tread lightly, here, but he and Curly were bickering more than usual, of late.

Looking around with another perfectly timed pause and noticing Curly’s reaction, Tim continued with his fine tail, smiling like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.

“So---Riding back to the ranch from that dusty little hole-in-the-wall so-called town, Double-A’s kid brother started teasing big-brother about his ‘Love’, the---uh…saloon girl with who Abe, his kid-brother and the rest of our six-man crew had just spent some entertaining time with, spending our monthly pay day coins to the very last penny.

“Double-A told the kid to ‘Shut-up!’ being not too friendly in his request; the kid just laughed and dropped back on his horse so he was a couple of riders behind Abe saying, ‘Sure! Big brother. Whatever you say.’ Double-A gave the kid a stern look.

“As soon as the soft laughter settled down, that there Abe was one big man, and, mean as all get-out, too; well, the kid let out an Indian war whoop, kicked up his cayuse busting through the ranks as we trailed along a deep arroyo ledge.

“Just as he raced by Big-brother, bumping his horse, the kid screamed, ‘that hoe slept with every guy in that there town---’course---It is a pretty small town!’”

Laughter rang among the hands listening to Timmy-boy’s narration; all, save, Curly!

Tim continued, once the laughter subsided. “Well! That damn kid knocked Double-A;s steed right into my nag and we was on the inside edge of that deep arroyo…”

He paused as one of the merrymakers said, “How deep was that there arroyo? Tim?”

“Well,” Tim replied, not bothering to hide his devilment-smile, “I couldn’t see the bottom of it since it was so dark and deep…”

He paused for effect, again; waiting for someone to pick it up.

Someone did. “Kind-a dark and deep with no bottom---like…Double-A’s saloon gal!?”

Another added, “No doubt, well-worn, too!”

Laughter racked the cowboys; they were having a hoot !Curly kicked angrily at the fire coals.

In a few minutes, someone inquired, “So, Tim? What happened to you in that melee?”

“Why! Hell! Jube!” Timmy-boy said with a solemn scowl, pausing---“That fall killed me!”

Laughter began, but storyteller Tim held out his palms to quiet the men, shaking his head.

One of the audience caught on and said, “And---what did the remaining cowboys do, then?”

“Why! Hell! It was so dark---“ he paused, “they went back to town to see if they could get credit until next month payday from that there saloon gal of Double-A!”

As laughter swept the throng with several of the hands rolling on the ground in a virtual fit and the guitar player strummed a crescendo chord and the fiddlers started a lively ditty, Curly quickly jumped up; in one fluid motion he reached across his body with his right and came up with the Bowie, waving it in the air toward his nemesis, threatening death.

So angry that spittle escaped his tight lips, he kicked at the bon fire sending hot coals and embers toward Tim O’Shawnessy who dodged, rolling to save himself; he gained his feet.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Curly?” Tim shouted, now angry, also.

“You know damn well!” Curly shouted. “All of you think you’re so damn smart. I’ll cut your heart out, you bastard Irish pig!” Curly started forward, toward the storyteller, now sobered.

“Curly!” A deep voice called out. “Put that sticker away. Nobody is cutting anybody.”

The crowd looked at Jeb Frazier, firelight flickering a glint off his drawn six-shooter held in a steady hand and pointed directly at Curly’s chest.

“Drop the knife, Curly,” Frazier commanded, “and, that six gun, too.”

Curly hesitated. “Damn! You! Frazier! You heard that idiot; he was making fun of me!”

With that, Curly took a step toward Tim; Jeb fired a shot into the dirt at Curly’s feet.

“I won’t tell you again. And, next time, I won’t fire a warning.” Jeb’s words rang with steel.

Curly flung the Bowie into the ground and dropped his six-shooter at his feet.

Cursing Frazier and the others, he pointed at Tim O’Shawnessy. “This ain’t over!”

With that, Curly retreated into the darkness as Jeb ejected the spent casing and inserted a fresh  one; a few minutes later, they heard a horse race out of the corral across the prairie toward town.

Three days passed; none mentioned the events of that night; “Bow-leg” Rob remained upset, wondering where his brother, Curly, with his awful temper, had gone and if he would return.

Old Ezra mixed quite a bit with the hands as he liked ranch work and enjoyed the youthful men. By mid-morning of the day following the melee involving Tim O’Shawnessy, the patriarch noticed Curly’s absence; he got Frazier aside and inquired as to where the man was.

Jeb recounted the incident of the previous night to the ranch owner explaining that he couldn’t really blame Curly, too much, the insult had been pretty intense and obvious. The foreman concluded that Curly would return to the ranch and work, soon enough, once his embarrassment had subsided a bit. Ezra said to let him know when the man came back, if he did, and to send Curly to find the owner. He allowed that he might just well fire the ranch hand. He’d think about it. Unusual for Frazier to voice an opinion, he said, simply, “He’s a good hand; hate to lose him.”

The hands were putting hay up in the loft of the big barn two days later; a tedious job, and, plenty hard work. The stopped at noon for lunch, all sitting  around a long wooden table brought out from the bunkhouse so they might eat in relative comfort in the shade a huge old silver maple tree. The boys had finished eating, save for a piece of apple pie, a special treat ordered by Ezra as a kind gesture toward the men for their exceptional effort; he had two slices, himself.

As Cookie began gathering the dishes and foodstuffs to take into the ranch house where he would wash, dry and store the dishes and utensils and clean-up the remaining food items for later, the hands gathered to head back to the barn to resume their haying-chore duties. Old Ezra was still seated at the table, finishing his second piece of apple pie.

Hoof beats thundered a staccato cadence from the direction behind the large barn. Curly’s horse came flying around the corner of the building and into the yard where the crew stood, staring. Curly had a peculiar habit of leaning to his left while in the saddle; left his gun arm free. The man was obviously drunk, holding a half-empty pint bottle in his hand, eyes glaring at the throng of bodies, searching for someone in particular. They all knew who that would be.

The ride pulled up, yelling, “Tim! Tim O’Shawnessy! Get out here. I got something for you!”

“Curly!’ Came a commanding voice; it was Jeb Frazier. “You’re drunk. You best get down from that horse, cool him out, wash up and get some food. Whatever you got in mind; forget it!

“Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel better and can get back to work.”

“I ain’t working here, no more,” came the slurred reply. “And, I ain’t taking no orders from the likes you.” He yelled in a drunken slur while trying to dismount from his beleaguered cayuse. He lost his balance and fell unceremoniously into the dust, dropping the bottle. Furious at the turn of events, he flailed the air, knocking his dusty hat free from his tasseled red hair.

Ezra Van Gangen got up and walked toward Frazier; all eyes were on Curly.

Coming up alongside Jeb Frazier, Ezra nudged the man with his elbow, nodded his head downward toward the foreman’s six gun and reached it out of the holster. Curly didn’t see it.

“Curly!” Van Gangen began. The man’s red-haired head snapped around, searching for the speaker. “Curly!” Ezra repeated. “This is Ezra Van Gangen. Now, try to focus on what I say. You’re drunk! I know you think you have good reason; but, I ain’t interested.

“Now, I’m giving you one more chance. And, you can thank Jeb Frazier, here, for that; he thinks you’re worth saving. I agree. You do good work. Your damn temper and that whiskey bottle are your problem. Now, that said, you can get yourself up out of the dust, get washed up, have some decent vittles,” he smiled, adding, “we even got some mighty fine apple pie for dessert, today. As I recall, that’s your favorite.

“First, take care of that fine horse, which, by the way, belongs to me; eat something, then get a good night’s sleep. Your job will be here waiting for you come the sunrise. Or, I’ll pay you off, give you an additional month’s wages, less the cost of a horse, of my choosing, throw in some used tack and you can be on your way---to…where ever. The choice is your own. I’m waiting for an answer.” With that, Ezra looked at “Bow-leg” Rob who stood stock still, his mouth agape.

Ezra tilted his head toward the cowboy sitting on the ground motioning for brother Rob to go to him; maybe his younger brother could convince Curly to abandon his revenge motive.

“Bow-leg” Rob moved toward his brother sitting in the dust next to his worn out horse whose head hung low from neglect and the abuse of a long, hard run; the animal was plum tuckered out.

Rob picked up his brother’s lost hat and placed it atop the shock of unruly red hair; Curly tried to slap it away, but, his aim was off and he merely waved vacantly through the hot air.

“Get away from me!” Curly swore aggressively at the intended kindness of his brother; “Bow-leg” Rob took a step back and away from his angry sibling. The boy wanted to speak, to reason, somehow, with Curly, but Rob was plenty scared and his mouth was dry; if he could just get a drink of water. Curly wasn’t really mean, just confused. Ezra, the boy well-knew, meant exactly what he said; this was his brother’s last chance to make things right. He silently prayed.

But, in a reality of life: Not all prayers are answered; least not in the manner we often expect.

Curly gained his feet, swaying unsteadily under the influence of an alcohol-induced haze.

Straightening himself, trying to gain some modicum of respect but failing miserably at the effort, displaying, rather, a sight of one sorry jackass beyond reason, he yelled, “Damn! You! Van Gangen! Nobody tells me what to do. You can take your offer, your horse and your money and go to the devil with them; the sooner, the better.

“And, when I finish with you, old man,” he pointed a shaky finger at Tim O’Shawnessy, I’ll deal ‘death’ to you like the coward you are; have always been. Then, I’ll kill Jeb and anybody else that wants some of it. All of you! For laughing at me and my girl! Betty Lynette!”

With that declaration of intent, Curly reached for his gun. Ezra fired a shot into the ground at Curly’s feet sending a small volcano of erupting dry dust into the air; Curly froze dead still at the violent crack of the .45’s report on the heat of the afternoon; his hand only an inch from the pistol grips still useless in his holster; his eyes blinked rapidly as Curly tried to register some understanding of what it all meant. Rob ran to his brother’s side, trying to comfort the deranged man who, by then, stood, head hanging, sobbing. Ezra had spared Curly’s life; each spectator knew for sure that the old man’s patience would not allow further insult and bad manners; a quiet harbinger of dread hung heavily over the little drama, its conclusion still to be determined.

Jeb Frazier made a move forward to pass the owner; Ezra put his arm out, halting his foreman’s progress. Jeb paused, giving the owner a curious look confessing utter confusion. Ezra shook his head, sadly, as he cocked the hammer of Jeb’s weapon, indicating a second shot was now in the offing. Frazier couldn’t believe what he was witnessing; he felt sick to his stomach.

“No! Ezra!” Frazier begged, imploring the ranch owner not to do what he surely had in mind.

“You shoot a mad dog-coyote,” Ezra mumbled, seeing his old nemesis, Wounded Coyote.

“But,” Frazier began in protest, “Curly is un-armed! It’d be---Murder!”

The frontier was a rough place, mostly lawless until “civilization” slowly ground its way to the badlands where the quickest gun had generally settled most disputes; men like Van Gangen and Jeb Frazier had done things during their lifetimes which the law might not now approve, things which, in their own minds, they, themselves might not be very proud of; they had shot men, rustlers, thieves, women molesters, had sent many an Indian to their “Happy hunting ground”, had even hanged more than a few men they deemed “guilty” of some infraction, or another. There was no law save what they made “on-the-spot”; it was all they had.

All such manner of thought ran through the foreman’s head, but, cold-blooded murder was plenty hard to swallow. Ezra was the “boss”; he held the gun---and…the absolute authority. Still, Frazier had a moral compass, convictions, beliefs. If Ezra murdered Curly, what would Jeb do?

“No! Mr. Ezra!” Squeaked a raspy-voiced Rob, breaking the tense silence. “You can’t!?”

Surprisingly, Van Gangen made one final effort to save Curly’s worthless life.

Still holding Frazier’s six-gun pointed in the general vicinity of Curly, Ezra barked, “Curly! This is your last warning. Unbuckle that gun belt and let it fall to the ground.” He cocked the hammer of his own weapon; the audible metallic click rang loud in the silence; Curly began shaking as his face flushed a deep crimson nearly matching the natural color of his wild hair.

“Please! Curly!” Squeaked his brother, Bow-leg Rob. “You ain’t got a chance to make it.”

Reluctantly, Curly reached with his left hand to the holster buckle, unfastened it, let it fall.

A collective breath of relief escaped the throng of onlookers; Ezra un-cocked the six-gun. A few smiles broke out among the crowd; nervous relief that a killing had been avoided. Van Gangen did not relax his attention on Curly, keeping a suspicious eye on the drunken viper.

His caution proved to be correct in assessment; he could not believe Curly had relented so easily. Ezra had lowered the weapon, pointing the muzzle toward the ground, but, the hammer remained at attention. Jeb took notice of the subtle caution; it always paid to pay attention.

Unfortunately for all concerned, Curly made the decision verifying Van Gangen’s suspicions; he reached for his sheathed Bowie knife as “Bow-leg” Rob screamed a wild-animal piercing protest, all to no avail. Curly had made his un-wise, evil choice; now, he would reap the whirlwind of what his vile temper had sowed. Everybody knew it as soon as he made his move.

Curly had always liked his tobacco, rolling his own smokes; he kept a pack of fresh papers in his shirt pocket along with a white cotton smallish pouch which held his makings; a thong through the opening of the cloth packet had a pull-string attached around the top opening which could be used to draw the material closed so none of the contents spilled out. That pull-string held a little, round, thin cardboard circle encased in a silver-colored metal band; this “trademark” of Curly, who always seemed to have some fancy “quirk” of one kind, or another, about him, in order to call attention to himself hoping some measure of “importance”, dangled from the left hand checkered pocket of his western cut shirt, thus, placing the tag directly over his heart.

Though drunk, and, angry, and somewhat unstable on his wobbly legs, Curly managed to grasp the handle of the big, shiny Bowie with his right hand in a practiced cross-draw fashion. Standing a bit less than fifteen feet from Van Gangen, he drew the lethal weapon in a backward motion to hold it above his right shoulder; it was as far as ole Curly got in his threatened savagery against the old man standing before him now aiming a cocked pistol at his heart.

Ezra Van Gangen viewed a demon-wraith in his mind’s eye for the second time within a very few minutes; it seemed like a flashed-dream of his final encounter with his ancient nemesis: Wounded Coyote! Without emotion, compunction, thought or regret, he squeezed the trigger of Jeb’s gun. A collective grunt sounded; someone cursed; Bow-leg Rob screamed!

Fire blazed! Curly stood flat-footed in amazed shock. He looked down at his shirt front; a red stain smearing across the material; his tobacco pouch tag sported a dead-center round hole in it.

Curly’s eyes rolled up in his red-haired head as his knees buckled; the Bowie fell harmlessly to the ground like a useless, vacant afterthought. “Bow-leg” Rob ran to catch his brother’s body as it crumpled into the hot dust sending up a grey-white powder-cloud. The boy sobbed into his dead brother’s still chest, burying his face from view of the onlookers standing in shocked wonder; each quiet, trying to understand the savagery and questioning what they ought to do.

Ezra shoved the weapon at Jeb Frazier, shaking his head, a hard look on his own face.

“Kid,” the old pioneer began, “get one of the hands to help you dig a hole and bury Curly.” He paused. “Lay him yonder,” he advised, pointing toward a huge oak tree at the corner of the barn corral about fifty feet from where they stood.

“Get it done, quick,” Ezra added. “Then, you get your gear together, saddle up and head on out of here; I don’t care where to, and, I don’t want to know. Just go. Be off my range by dark”

Ezra paused, then continued speaking to Rob, but, also, to the crew, “If any of you men ever see ‘Bow-leg’ on our range any time after today, you have direct orders from me to shoot him---Dead!” To Rob, the old man added, in conclusion, “I ain’t looking to get bushwhacked, some revenge- day. Your brother got what he deserved; all the hands witnessed it; I had no choice.

“I’ll honor what I said to Curly about the pay; he won’t be needing no horse, now. Jeb will bring the money he had coming and what I owe you for the full month.” He paused, considering.

Then, added, “I’ll give you two additional month’s wages; one for you; one for Curly, like I said.” With that declaration putting an end to the matter, Ezra turned toward the ranch house. To Frazier, he added, “Jeb, come up to the house with me and I’ll get the money for him.”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Ezra,” Frazier began, “I’ll help the boy bury his brother, first.”

Not waiting for permission, Jeb Frazier turned abruptly from the ranch owner and walked over to Rob and Curly; that he did not approve of the killing was obvious to all present.

Jeb Frazier and “Bow-leg” Rob Pelham carrier Curly’s dead body to the oak tree at the corner of the barn corral; there, they labored a hard two hours digging the hole for Curly’s internment.

When the young man was, at last, satisfied that the grave was deep enough, the pair laid ole Curly in the hollow cavity of the fresh excavation, crossing his already lightly stiffening lifeless arms across his chest; Frazier laid the corpse’s hat over the decedent’s pale face. Rob stuck his shovel into the loose dirt extracted from the hole and now in a large pile to begin filling it in.

“Wait a minute, Rob,” Frazier ordered, holding his hand, palm outward, toward the youth.

He went to the bunk house and shortly returned with a blanket from Curly’s bunk which he gently, with utmost respect, spread over the prone body.

“Thanks, Jeb,” came a heartfelt word of gratitude when Frazier had finished; the foreman nodded. In a little over half an hour, the two had re-filled the excavation.