Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book

Sweating profusely from the intense exertion, Rob mopped his brow with a red bandana. Admiring their handiwork and feeling a little better about things, now that the burial had been completed, the boy allowed a half-smile.

“Me and Curly were only half-brothers; had the same pa, but different mas. Our dad and Curly and his younger brother came to Texas after some legal troubles up in Tennessee, some- where’s; I never got the straights of it all. Anyway, Curly’s pa married my ma after his wife had died on the trip southwest. I was born down in the Brazos River country. Pa died when I was just a pup, maybe six or seven, don’t know for sure. Anyway, me and Curly drifted north.

“I been riding…” he allowed a slight laugh, “guess that’s why I’m so bow-legged…anyway, and pushing cattle since as long back as I can remember; this ranch turned out to be just what we needed to get a new start on things.” He paused, suddenly sad, again.

“I guess it didn’t turn out so good for ole Curly.” He stared at the fresh mound of dirt.

“What happened to Curly’s other brother?” Frazier inquired, curious about the boy’s story.

Rob smiled, then, genuinely. “Ole Caleb!” He stated. “Boy! Now there was a real man!

“Caleb cast a long shadow; stands well over six feet. Curly never inherited his height, but, Curly sure was strong, for his size. Anyway, Caleb was a quiet-kind of guy; didn’t say much, just kind of went about his own business. But, we was a close family; watched out for each other, if you know what I mean.”

Jeb Frazier nodded his understanding. This boy came from “good” stock; so had Curly, though he let his temper and evil demon-whiskey call the tune; always a dangerous combination.

Rob seemed to be considering something; Frazier waited, patiently.

“You know, Jeb, Pa taught all of us to look out for one another. Also, how to take care of ourselves. Taught us some from the Bible and said to keep our word and do what’s right.

“He taught us how to survive. To pay attention to the weather, the seasons, how to see humor in things and to laugh easily.” He paused, peering at Frazier. Then, “And, he taught us how to shoot! Curly was real good! Me? I’m okay, I guess. But, that Caleb! Now that boy could Shoot!”

The boy paused as though reflecting on some story; deciding whether to tell the tale.

“Ole Curly!” Rob shook his head, nodding his forehead toward the new grave dirt mound, “he always had an eye for the ladies, ever since I can remember.” He laughed, “Didn’t make no never-mind to that red-head whose brand might be on ’em, either. No! Sir! He liked the ladies.

“Down there in that Brazos River country we had us a fine ranch set-up. Oh! Not none too big; nothing like this here fine, giant spread. The house was plenty small, but warm and cozy in the winter whenever a ‘norther’ blew through and nice and cool in the summer evenings.

“We ran a few head of cattle, sheep, horses, even, some porkers, they sure are good at rooting out pesky rattle snakes; also kept some chickens and ducks. Raised enough garden vegetables to keep us all fat and sassy, too. There’s whitetail deer down in those scrub thickets enough to feed the whole state of Texas for a long spell; sure shot my fair share of them. Yes! Sir! Even saw a passel of antelope; ain’t nothing good as antelope steaks, ’cept, of course, long-horn beef cattle.

“Well, that there river was a road map to Texas lands; people came by our place all the time.

“Pa! He sure liked to talk; had a right good ole time telling tales to the pilgrims. Ole Curly, with that bright red hair growing plum wild out of the top of his head, he caught the eye of many a fine looking young gal. And, he sure knew how to romance ’em.” Rob smiled.

Frazier began to feel that this “memory-lane” trip might last a while; he sat down, resting his back against the trunk of the huge tree standing sentinel over Curly’s new abode. He waited.

“Our nearest neighbor, south about a half mile along the river, was a Mexican named Gorge Mendoza; had a pretty little wife name of Juanita; they had three little kids always running around playing along the river bank. Didn’t take long for Ole Curly to catch sight of the gal.

“Gorge had a job, of sorts, on down to Waco at the livery. Every day, he’d leave early to trek on into town; about, dusk, here he’d come back home. Curly liked that Gorge had a regular job.

“I don’t know if the Mex knew about his wife and Curly, but I sure did. Caught them together one day down at the river, ‘swimming’ in the water. Only, they weren’t swimming. No! Sir-ee! And, ole Curly sure weren’t teaching Juanita nothing about wrestling snappers out of the river.”

Bow-leg paused, showing a goofy-looking smile on his face; remembering. Frazier rolled a smoke, waiting for the drama to play out in the telling of the boy’s tale.

“Well. After about a year, Juanita turned up pregnant. Still, nobody suspected anything.

“One day, Curly came in for supper; he was mad as the devil; fit to be tied.

“Started cussing Gorge unmercifully. Said the low-down scum had beat Juanita unconscious; knocked out one of her front teeth. Said he was going over there and shoot the bastard, dead!

“Pa grabbed him by the shoulder; told him what went on between a man, any man, and his wife was strictly private. Said Curly could not interfere and that was the end of it.

“Caleb allowed that the Mex carried a long, sharp pig sticker and knew how to use it, too.

“Curly gave a derisive laugh and patted the butt of his forty-five. ‘Let him try!’ He said.”

“But, he kept his distance from Juanita after that, I guess, ’cause of respect for Pa, and, Juanita didn’t look so pretty anymore with that gap in her teeth. Also, right after that, a farmer from Missouri moved in just east of our place and he had beautiful teenage twin daughters, blue-eyed and blonde; sure enough, they was pure ‘corn-fed’. I guess Ole Curly sure enough taught them all about ‘swimming’, too. Said the only way to tell them apart was one had a single mole. He never told me where that ‘beauty mark’ might be, but I sure enjoyed puzzling over it.”

He laughed at his conclusion, slowly shaking his head; Jeb Frazier joined the subtle celebration, chuckling at both the contents of the tale and at the young man’s excitement.

Bow-leg sobered, then. “After Juanita’s baby came, Gorge and the family moved out about a week later. Curly had gone to Waco for some supplies; when he came home he said that he had seen the whole Mexican family in town. And, there weren’t no baby with them. Said Juanita wouldn’t even look his way although he was close enough to yell at her, but didn’t.

“Caleb rode by their place a few days later; came home to say there was a tiny new grave behind their old house. I was in the barn hay loft when Caleb and Curly came in the ground-level stall area; Caleb told Curly that he had seen the new kid a few days prior when her rode by and Juanita carried it along the river and that it had bright red hair. Curly let out a long, low whistle at the news, saying ‘Well! I’ll be damned!’ He put fresh-cut Bluebonnet flowers on that grave every Saturday for months, after that. The following spring, the annual flood took Gorge’s ramshackle adobe house and wiped out all trace any of them had ever even been there.”

Rob seemed reflective as he remembered the events within his head.

“That Brazos River sure was good to the folks who lived along her banks. Sure enough!

“We fished and hunted; she provided a grand bounty for poor folks, the likes of us. There was ducks and geese, turtle doves, lots of wild game; and, she sure held a bounty of fruits and berries.

“She had snapping turtles the size of bushel baskets; man, they are good eating. See! We’d go swimming in the river and dive down to the muddy bottom after feeling along with our toes.”

He laughed. “Many a man, woman and kid lost toes to those mean old monsters; snap one or two or more right off; had to be real careful---and…quick! When we found one of those horny-shelled critters, he’d burrow into the mud; we had to go down and pull him loose. That was mighty hard work; but, Man! That was fine eating fare. Caught my fair share of ’em, too!

“Pa was swimming in the river one afternoon afore supper and he stumbled across one of the demons. He whooped and went under; took him three tries and still, no turtle soup meat.

“When he came up that third time for a fresh breath, he was nearly done-in. An old deadfall came floating down the current and he grabbed on to it as he was wore out. Lightning had hit the tree sometime in the past; it was charred out in a hollow depression in the middle, like a boat, sort of, and Pa couldn’t see into it from his low position in the water.

“Now, that mean old river is rife with water moccasins; they ball-up in a writhing mass and float on down the river. Many a man has met his fate when he gets tangled with those devils.

“Pa, gasping for breath, slung his arm over that log; then, just as his eyes got to the level where he could see into the cavity of that burned out tree, a snake bit him in the cheek. I didn’t notice the viper in its den until I saw the strike; quick as greased lightning! Too late! To yell.

“Pa yelped and grabbed at the wound as he slid beneath the water surface. Curly dove in and swam to where Pa had gone under; Caleb grabbed his ole rifle. Curly came up a bit downstream, dragging Pa’s limp body to shore. Just that quick, he surely was stone-cold dead!

“The current rocked that ole ‘snake-pit’ log as it bobbed along; that damn snake’s head sticking up like he was plenty pleased at what he had done to Pa; just sunning himself on that black, half-burned boat; pleased as punch; kind-a proud-like, I reckon.

“Caleb took aim at that evil head as it bobbed along; a single rifle ball took the serpent’s head, clean off.” Rob scowled, then, adding, “Those moccasins can be real aggressive; they sure are ‘deadly’; that’s a self-evident fact, I’ll guarantee it.”

Bow-leg nodded his head, smiling. “That Caleb sure can shoot!” He concluded.

Frazier watched the boy, sure that the youth was concocting a plan of some sort, for revenge.

“Funny thing: We gathered up the stinking carcass of that headless devil-serpent when the ‘snake-den-boat dragged bottom on a sand bar; weren’t no moccasin, at all; it was a dirty ‘ambush’ rattler!” Rob put an emphasis on the ‘ambush’ description.

He made a wry face, then smiled mirthlessly, saying, “Only one way to handle a rattler…” he trailed off, considering. Then, having arrived at a conclusion on the matter, added, “Maybe I’ll just drift on yonder, down that Brazos River Texas-way; look up ole Caleb; spin him a yarn about Nebraska! Rattle snakes.” Rob nodded his head as if affirming his conclusion.

He smiled, “I’ll bet he sure knows how to handle them Yankee-type bushwhackers.”

Frazier caught the drift of the boy’s meaning; still, he couldn’t abide cold-blooded murder.

“You’re a top hand, Rob! Good as any man I ever rode the river with; you got sand. But, for now, I got me a better idea about all this.” He paused, then, “And, it won’t get you hanged.”

Frazier let the conversation lapse; he did not like the direction young Rob was leaning.

“I’ll make a wooden cross out of hickory branches, Rob, and get a flat stone out of the creek, yonder,” he pointed, “to mark Curly’s grave; I’ll scratch his name on it and set it, just right.”

“Bow-leg” Rob couldn’t manage any words, just then. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He nodded his “Thanks”, replaced his worn cowboy hat and turned to go.

”One more thing,” Frazier began. He glanced toward the ranch house and generally all around to be sure no one could overhear. Then, “Rob, that shooting might not have been cold-blooded murder,” he paused as if deciding whether to pursue the matter. Nodding assent to his own conclusion, he continued, “but, it sure weren’t no legal trial, neither.” Rob looked confused.

Frazier placed his hand on the boy’s forearm. “I think we should take this whole matter to the law, boy. Ride right into town and lay it out for the sheriff to decide.” He paused, waiting.

Rob shook his head. “Won’t do no good. Probably just manage to get you fired, too. Sheriff Adrian is some kind of relation to Mr. Ezra. That old man runs this country; he owns the law.”

Frazier considered. “Yeah. I thought of that. But, if you’ll go along with me to town and meet with the sheriff, explain what happened and that the whole crew witnessed the situation, we might convince the law to take some action.” He paused, again. “What happened just ain’t right.”

“Bow-leg” Rob was deep in thought, considering, but, his head was slowly shaking, “No!”

“Look!” Jeb broke the young man’s reflections trying to decide what to do, “If you decide to go along with me, I know it’s dangerous to buck big money, and we may be playing against a stacked deck, but, hear me out.

“Go ahead and pack up your belongings, I’ll go see Ezra and get whatever money he has for you and bring it to the bunk house. You just take it, mount up and head on out of here.

“After grub, this evening, I’ll hang around the bunk house. Eventually, I’ll say I need to take a walk; the boys won’t think anything about that; it’s usual. I’ll saddle up and head for town; I’ll take the north crossing of the river so I don’t have to fight that quick sand at the south end.

“You be waiting for me about an hour after sunset in that jumble of boulders on this side of the river. You know, where the evergreens grow thick. I’ll meet you there and we’ll ride on in to see the sheriff. If he refuses to do anything, we’ll forget it. I think we have a fifty-fifty chance.”

With that plan laid out, Frazier patted the boy’s shoulder and turned toward the ranch house.

With evening vittles out of the way, Jeb Frazier lounged around on his bunk smoking a roll-your-own cigarette and drinking two more cups of thick, black coffee at his leisure while one of the boys vacantly strummed his out-of-tune four-string guitar, the other two wires long-lost and forgotten somewhere along the dusty trail, as he abused the lyrics to some song or another in a hollow-echoed flat-note voice, thankfully simply humming most of the confusing words. Four of the hands took the table for a round of five card stud poker, one selfishly hording a half-empty whiskey bottle while two argued incessantly over anything and everything from the weather to politics to religion to gals to horses and on and on; the fourth sat silent watching the deal, paying attention to the cards and the betting and, in the end, winning nine out of ten hands. If he played his cards right, he might even win a dime, quarter, or fifty cents by the time the game ended.

After about an hour, the cowboy crooner finally tired of his froggy, off-key melodious seemingly senseless soliloquy serenade carefully setting his beaten-up guitar-box in the corner next to his bunk; the pair of card playing debaters silenced themselves when the “sharp” in the game cleaned the table to win it all; the three retired to their respective bunks, joining the “whiskey-breath” who had busted out a half hour earlier, dead broke and dead drunk; he snored a syncopated staccato rhythm punctuating the off-beat with an unconscious smacking of his lips as he dreamt of saloon gals and a back bar lined with spirit bottles tempting his soul.

A half hour later, Jeb slipped out the door, tacked up his mount and quietly rode out.

A dark night portending a late moonrise caused Frazier to carefully pick his way across the Van Gangen ranch land as he headed west toward the namesake town of his boss, Ezra. Jeb should have arrived at the rendezvous in about three quarters of an hour of his departure; that amount of time had already passed plus another good thirty minutes; he hoped Rob would wait.

Spotting the few lights of the cow town across the prairie while a good two miles away as Frazier trekked toward the river, all the while bearing a bit north, to his right, in order to intersect the boulder jumble which was the agreed upon meeting place with “Bow-leg”, Frazier was able to gauge his position and make necessary adjustments to arrive at the appointed place. From a mile distance still to go before hitting the river bank, a faint tinkling floated on a gentle east-bound wind to his attentive ears from the out-of-tune piano hammering away at the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon; even on a week night, regular patrons frequented the establishment to wash down a day’s worth of dry prairie dust with cold beer or warm whiskey, or, both, some to play poker, others to pick up the latest gossip circulating the townspeople, all of which made a circuit hitting the highlights of the “burg” ranging from infidelities to wife beatings to cattle rustling to what the preacher said at Sunday meeting, or, what he didn’t say that he should have, to politics and on and on. None of the subjects “new”, just different names and faces concluding the same old pre-determined argumentative adversarial opinions; mostly, just for the pure “fun” of it all..

Each, of course, very interested, and, attentive, to the young, pretty, well, sort of, saloon gals.

Jeb Frazier shook his head, thinking, “Some things never change.” He continued onward.

Reaching the river’s edge, Jeb pulled up; the town lay just to his south, on the left, across the water. He could clearly make out the building outlines from his vantage point; the rock pile where Rob should be waiting was a hundred yards to his right; his judgment had been that close.

Jeb sat quiet, listening to the rippling of the river, running two feet higher than normal, due to heavy spring rains, recently. Night sounds greeted his waiting ears; a fish subtle-breaking the water’s surface chasing some shadowed bug-food on the silver sheen touched Jeb’s hearing along with a soft wind-song caressing the evergreen boughs of the copse of pine and spruce in the limbs above the massive boulder jumble just upstream where Rob waited. A scant scent of pine and cedar teased his nose as a lonesome coyote howled a melodious lonesome lament at the finally rising moon in the east, half-full. Frazier relaxed, sensing no danger; all was calm, his world at peace; he loved early dark’s reverie as he appreciated each nuance of life.

After a brief respite, allowing his eyes to adjust to the slight light within the town in front of him and the brightening moon light coming over his left shoulder, Jeb, at long last, turned his mount to the right, intending to head to the boulder outcropping. He first heard, then saw, “Bow-leg” Rob Pelham materialize along the river bank like a mid-night whitetail-wraith, riding in his direction. The youth waved a friendly greeting toward his former foreman.

“Howdy! Jeb,” he called from forty feet away; Frazier nodded in return. “Saw you coming along for about twenty minutes, now,” Rob allowed. “Looked like a dark shadow in the night.”

Jeb Frazier laughed, quietly; savvy frontiersmen did not make any noisy, blatant announcements that might reach ears arousing unintended curiosity bringing possible trouble.

“I hope that assessment is not a bad omen for our purpose here, tonight.”

“Bow-leg” looked worn and drawn as Frazier better observed him as he rode closer, the sheltered moon light illuminating the youth’s features enough to see details. The boy’s eyes were red with telltale crying borne of sadness over Curly’s demise but the crystal blues were calm.

“You okay? Rob-boy?” Frazier opened. “You sure look some haggard. Everything alright?”

The kid shook his head. “I just ain’t too sure about going to the law, the sheriff being kin of some kind to Ezra Van Gangen. Just don’t seem like it can turn out alright for us; that’s all.” He paused. Then, “It won’t make no never-mind to Curly, either.” He concluded.

He lowered his head, in respect, and added, solemnly, “God rest his soul.”

Frazier decided to ignore the objection trying to push the boy forward.

“He’s the law, boy! He has to do what’s right; he has no other choice. Just, trust me.”

“Bow-leg” sagged in his saddle; it was a habit-trait he and the late Curly held in common. Probably came from their early years when their Pa taught them to ride. Just, an inane habit.

“Jeb,” Rob began, “I do trust you. But, Ezra is a rich and powerful man in these parts. Hell! He gave that there sheriff’s job to Adrian; nobody objected. He runs this country. Owns it!” He paused. Then, “This whole thing could easily blow up in your face if I’m right about the sheriff.”

Frazier expelled a long breath. “We ain’t going in there accusing Ezra of murder,” he tried to reason with his young friend. “All we need to do…All we can do is explain what happened and ask him, polite-like, to investigate the shooting. It’s the sheriff’s job; he’ll have to make some inquiries if we approach him like that. When he asks questions, some of the hands will tell the truth.” Jeb Frazier clearly laid out his reasoning for Rob; he hoped the boy understood.

The boy’s reply did not surprise the ranch foreman; he had hoped for Rob’s support.

“Look! Jeb!” Bow-leg began. “I got this sick feeling in my gut; had it since Curly got killed.”

He shook his head. “I ain’t bucking the law---or…Ezra Van Gangen. Sorry!

“Anyway, I been thinking about it; Curly reached for that damn Bowie knife he was so proud of, always had to have some kind-a fancy something or other.”

He paused. Then, “May he rest in peace. Still, that fact is going to lead to a conclusion of ‘self-defense’; and, that’s probably the real truth of the matter, in all fairness.”

Bow-leg raised his head allowing the risen moon to light his eyes clearly; Jeb saw a spot of red in the blue orbs, a flicker of angry revenge; he quickly surmised its meaning.

“I’m Texas-bound! Jeb.” With that final declaration, Rob reached out his hand toward Frazier; Jeb shook it in earnest friendship deciding that a man had a right to do as he pleased, maybe, a duty. Rob Pelham was a real man; Frazier respected that; what he did was none of Jeb’s concern

“You’ve been a good friend, both to me and Curly. Thanks for all you’ve done for me, Jeb; I appreciate it. Sorry to disappoint you. Good luck!” He added, smiling, “Might see you, again.”

With that heartfelt fiat, Rob turned his steed south and was quickly swallowed up by the dark.

Frazier watched him go, not fully blaming the boy; that they might yet meet again this side of perdition, Frazier did not doubt, not in the least. And, if he was right, the foreman considered that he would meet “brother” Caleb, too. “Good luck!” he said with a smile, touching the wide brim of his well-worn range hat in silent salute to the youth. Jeb crossed the river toward town.

It was still early by “town” folks standards; eight thirty. Farm families already had their children off to dreamland for an hour, or so, and the adults were yawning widely, getting ready.

Van Gangenburg spread its Main Street westward, away from the river. The livery enterprise took up a couple of acres along its banks, handy for the disposal of animal residual; also, it got a good once-a-year cleaning of the corrals and pens when the old river took to spring flooding. The “business” district, such that it was, defined the width of the boulevard with various buildings flowing onward toward the setting sun on either side of the lane. At the north crossing of the river, where Frazier had forded the impediment, the river made a hard angle turn from southeast to almost directly south which put the north side of the stream concerns bordering the west bank of the water. The sheriff’s office housing the jail sat just up the Main Street from the livery; Jeb spied a faint light through the a window in one of the structures two jail cells facing the water; seemed that “The High Sheiff was ‘in’.

Jeb tied his mount to a stout willow sapling near the river; never could tell when a quick get-away might be in the offing. He full-well knew and understood Bow-leg Rob’s concerns about the good sheriff; he had a short fuse and a violent temper. If he got the idea Frazier meant harm to Ezra Van Gangen, he might take any such reckoning as a threat to his own power and authority; hard telling what he might do. Always best to be prepared, rather than suffering irreparable regrets, later, when any reconciliation was too late; way, too late!

Approaching the jail, Frazier spied a faintly lighted cell window was high up on the rear wall precluding any surveillance of the interior through that exposure; Frazier moved along in the deep shadows of the narrow alley between the jail and the adjacent wooden structure. Three-fourths of the way to the Main Street, he paused at a partially-opened side window. Removing his wide brimmed western cowboy hat, Frazier carefully chanced a surreptitious peek into the interior of the Sheriff’s office.

A single lantern sat on the desk which faced the front door from which position the lawman could watch the street and boardwalk merely by turning his head; also, he gained a purview of the cells affording him ample opportunity to keep an eye on any would-be prisoners; finally, that setting let the peacekeeper observe anyone entering the office through the front door. And, there was another window facing the front boardwalk just left of the desk; the jail cells were deserted; no prisoners. Seemed the law business was, at the very least, slow, at the moment.

Jeb figured that the only disadvantage to the set-up, from the sheriff’s point-of-view, was his back had to face the alleyway window where he, Jeb, now stood taking in the cozy little scene. Adrian sat at the desk, his feet up with muddy boots resting on its surface; his head tilted backward. The High Sheriff seemed fast asleep; his hat tilted at an impossible angle, threatening to fall off his head. Jeb eased forward. When he reached the wooden boardwalk, he carefully placed his foot on the rough plank so as to not make any sound. Testing the step for firmness and any squeaks, he slowly added weight, then followed suit with the other boot.

Jeb slipped past the window taking notice that Sheriff Adrian had not moved; his precariously hanging hat still in place. Three strides from the front door, Frazier intentionally bumped hard into one of two bow-back dusty chairs sitting on the boardwalk, kicking it with his knee so it rattled loudly against the front wall of the jail; then, he walked heavy toward the entrance door.

Arriving in front of the structure, Frazier knocked three loud-sounding raps on the heavy wood planks which made up the construction of the stout door.

“Sheriff!” Jeb called, loudly. “Sheriff Adrian? You in there?” He waited, unable to any longer see through the front window from his angle.

“Yeah.” Came a raspy reply from within; then a throat clearing. “Yeah. Come on in.” The voice quickly stronger, now that the lawman had awakened and gained his full senses.

Jeb Frazier slowly swung open the heavy door; stepping through, he removed his hat. The good sheriff was busily scraping mud and dirt off his desk top while watching his guest’s arrival.

“Sorry, to bother you, Sheriff,” Jeb announced. “Uh, Jeb Frazier. I have some law business.”

Adrian eyed the cowboy recognizing Ezra’s ranch foreman; he wiped his hands on his pants, then, rearranged a holster on his hip so as to make its draw more practical; a habit of gun-totters.

“Sure, Jeb,” came the sheriff’s conciliatory greeting. “Come on in. Just, uh, reading some wanted posters; a lawman has to keep up with things. I heard you coming on the boardwalk.”

He straightened his still askance hat and took his seat in the still warm chair behind the desk.

“How are things at the ranch? Old Ezra treating you alright? Ain’t nothing wrong, is there?”

Frazier pulled the door closed behind him and replaced his hat; he walked up to the desk.

“Well, Sheriff.” Jeb began, “we had us a shooting out to the ranch today. A hand got killed.”

“Really?” Adrian leaned forward in his chair, interested. “Who got shot?” He inquired.

“Curly Pelham.” Jeb stated, flatly. “Ezra done the shooting.” He added, with trepidation.

Sheriff Adrian placed his hands palm down, flat on the dirty desk top. “Ezra?” He asked.

Jeb nodded. “Curly run out for a few days; he came back today, dead drunk and spoiling for a fight. Some ‘Tom-foolery’ over one of them there Albino saloon gals name of Betty Lynette. Curly held a grudge against Tim O’Shaughnessy; they already had a couple of run-ins over her.

“Anyway, Curly came thundering in just as the crew was finishing lunch out front of the main house; the whole range outfit was on hand. Curly was so drunk he kind-a fell off his horse; when he got up, he threatened to kill Tim. Ezra stepped in, quick enough, trying to avoid trouble.

“Curly wouldn’t back down. Ezra pulled down on him, made Curly drop his gun belt in the dirt. That should have been the end of it; but, Curly drew his Bowie, ready to throw it at the old man. Ezra shot him through the heart---Dead!...before he hit the ground.”

Jeb paused, waiting for Sheriff Adrian to absorb all that information.

Sheriff Adrian whistled. Then, “Was old Ezra hurt?” He queried.

Jeb thought it an odd question. “No!” He shook his head. “Only Curly.” He concluded.

Adrian considered. Then, “Quite a long ride just to report a shooting, Frazier. That Curly, he sure was a mean one; always on the prod, always looking for trouble, spoiling for a fight. He had a reputation around the Prairie Dog for a mean temper, especially when he was deinking.

“Guess he finally got what he was looking for---and…more.” Adrian concluded, chuckling.

The sheriff’s eyes came up to meet Jeb’s. “Yeah. I knew full well about that sticker of his; wore it on his belt like some kind of proud badge-of-honor. He sure was a show-off idiot-fool!

“Far as that there saloon gal goes, Betty Lynette, why Hell! She ain’t nothing but trash, just like the rest of them witches. Hell! Nobody owns any of ’em; each one is for sale to the highest bidder, any time.” He paused. “Guess ole Curly’s luck finally ran out.” He shook his head.

“You say all the hands were there? They all saw the shooting? The whole thing?”

“Yup.” Frazier replied, nodding. He could already hear what the sheriff was going to say.

“Well, Jeb. Thanks for bringing me the news.” He stood up, extending his hand to Frazier.

Jeb looked at the sheriff. “Ain’t you going to investigate the shooting” A man was killed!”

Adrian withdrew his extended hand. “Sounds like a clear case of ‘self-defense’, Frazier.”

The sheriff rubbed his jaw with his left hand. “Curly’s kind always get it---in the end.”

Frazier considered the sheriff’s conclusion; he knew it sounded right. Still, Jeb had promised Rob Pelham to see the lawman about his brother’s killing, and he had, sure enough, followed through. Adrian’s attitude seemed to put an end to the matter; Jeb did not feel that it was necessary, or, advisable, to say anything to the sheriff about Rob and his thoughts on the matter.

“Well, I just thought the incident should be reported to the law; guess I done my duty.”

Sheriff Adrian nodded agreement.

Then, apparently remembering something important, “Say, didn’t Curly have a kid brother working on the ranch with him? A bow-legged boy? What did he have to say about the situation? He might hold a grudge against ole Ezra; come looking for revenge.”

Frazier realized that Bow-leg had been right in his assessment: Adrian would protect his own.

“Not much he could say, or do. Like you said, seems like a clear case of self-defense on Ezra’s part; we all saw it. I helped the boy bury his brother. Mr. Ezra ordered Rob off his range; told the men, right in front of everybody, his orders was that if any of ’em saw Rob on Van Gangen range after today, to shoot him dead, ‘on-sight’. Said it was an order cause Ezra didn’t want to get bush whacked some day in revenge.

”He paid the kid his coming wages, Curly’s, too, plus an additional month, each; I gave him the money from Ezra, myself, at the old man’s orders. Rob packed up and rode out.” Jeb noted the law man’s sudden interest in the boy, Bow-leg Rob.

“Last I saw of him, he headed northwest, probably up Montana-way.” He purposely added.

It was a mendacious codicil on Jeb’s part and he hated to lie, but, such an admission might throw the sheriff off the boy’s intentions, and, his trail, should the law pursue him. A lawman generally questioned everything. Frazier doubted that anyone knew about Rob’s other brother, Caleb, and figured that bit of information had been given to him in private. He’d keep the secret.

Adrian slowly nodded his head in understanding, contemplating the new information.