Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book

Then, Frazier had another thought. “Might be I ought to telegraph the U. S. Marshall down to Dodge City-way about all this; I believe he has jurisdiction up this way,” he mused.

With that declaration, Adrian’s fleshy face blanched, pale white, through its reddish hue.

“Well, “ Adrian began, “that, of course, will be entirely up to you, if you think it’s necessary.

“’Couse, I can do any investigating that he might conduct. But---still…”

Adrian waited, carefully eyeing Jeb Frazier; he let his obfuscated challenge hang; curious.

Jeb rubbed his chin, as though considering. “Yeah.” He said. “Guess the marshal isn’t really needed. He’d just wire you, ask if he should make the long journey; and, you’d re-assure him of your abilities and that it was ‘self-defense’, anyways.  Right?”

Frazier sounded dubious, playing “cat and mouse” with the lawman, issuing his own dare.

Sheriff Adrian nervously shifted his weight, listening intently. Had that been a threat?

He wisely decided to let the veiled accusation as to his integrity slide; just for a moment, anyway. That flagrant disrespect by Frazier had concluded Adrian’s decision---and…Jeb’s fate!

He said, coldly, “Thanks again for bringing me the news. I don’t see no need in bothering the marshal; I assure you, I can handle this matter, completely. I’ll come out to the ranch, real soon.”

As Frazier turned to leave the office, the sheriff cleared his throat and said, “You know, Frazier. you did the right thing. Coming to me; the law should always know what’s going on in its jurisdiction. Thanks for coming in, I appreciate your effort. Tell Mr. Ezra I said ‘Hello!’.”

He reached out his hand; this time, Jeb took it and they shook, man to man. Adrian smiled but noticed a clearly troublesome expression on the foreman’s face; he was just too damn honest!

As Jeb started to turn, again, Adrian added, almost as an afterthought, “When I come out to the ranch, I’ll have you round up the witnesses to the shooting and I’ll question them. Okay?”

Jeb Frazier allowed a half-smile; Rob had been dead wrong about the sheriff and his protective affiliations for Ezra Van Gangen, the lawman was coming out to the ranch to investigate the shooting by talking with the range-hand witnesses. There was always the distinct possibility that his “interest” was only a disguised sham; still, Jeb could fathom “self-defense”.

Jeb Frazier nodded and kept turning toward the door. He discerned a rustling sound behind him, obviously coming from Adrian; an audible metallic click alerted him to danger. Too late!

Deputy Jasper and the bar gang were whooping it up down to the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon.

A whiskey drummer was throwing money around for drinks-on-him and the boys were literally lapping it up. The bar gals were extra friendly when the coins came rolling in and they were making the rounds, working the crowd; not one man was left out of the fun. For a week night, the silver jingle played a very seductive tune, much better than the out-of-tune, beat-up piano being pounded on by the back-up bar keep trying, in vain, to perform a passable rendition of “Golden Slippers”. Nobody seemed to notice, or, to care. As the booze kept flowing, the gals kept getting friendlier and more tolerant; they even started to look “good” through whiskey-eyes.

Jasper thought he should go get the sheriff to join in the festivities, but, he was having a good ole time with the gals and just couldn’t bring himself to vacate the fun; might miss something. And, that there pretty little vamp, Helen Overton, always did say that she especially liked the deputy; at least, each end-of-the-month payday time. Jasper sure enough was enjoying her kisses.

The sharp report of a shot, followed closely by a second, pierced the cacophony of merriment.

Immediately, the piano ceased its off-key melody and the crowd silenced itself.

Jasper broke his embrace with Helen Overton, holding her at arm’s length as she pushed forward, desiring more of the handsome deputy’s attention. The deputy moved toward the door.

At the batwings, Jasper paused, peering down the main street. No more shots; no movement.

“Huh?” He said. “Nothing I can see out there. Sounded like it came from the sheriff’s office.”

He waited a full minute. Nothing. Then, over his shoulder, he said, “I think I’ll mosey on down and make sure everything is alright down to the office. Sure ’nough is a curious thing.”

Jasper made his way through the batwings followed by four of the saloon’s regulars forming an impromptu self-appointed citizen’s committee to investigate the strange occurrence. Yes! Sir! Quite some scene: Van Gangenburg’s finest citizens hell bent on keeping law and order. Yeah!?

They raised a small dust storm in the lane of the Main Street as they strode bravely toward the jail; coming abreast of the building next to the sheriff’s office, they came to a halt as the heavy door of the jail opened flicking a dim frame-of-light from the interior office onto the rough plank boardwalk; Sheriff Adrian came out onto the crude walkway extending his hands toward them.

“Mr. Adrian,” began Jasper in an excited voice, “we heard shots. Did they come from here?”

“Easy, boys,” the sheriff said, smiling. “I sure am glad you all pay close attention and are so worried about my well-being.” He laughed, continuing, “Yeah, I fired two shots. Damned ole rat came running across the jailhouse floor, right in front of me; I got him on the second quick shot.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the citizen’s committee as the members found relief.

“Well. I never.” Jasper allowed. Then, starting forward, he offered, “I’ll just come on in there and clean up the mess that ole rat made; you boys go on back down to the Albino. I’ll be along.”

Adrian stepped off the boardwalk and into the dust of the street.

“No! No! Jasper! That’s alright; I’ll take care of it. You go on along with the men and I’ll come on down and have a drink with you all.” He reached into his left shirt pocket retrieving a couple of coins which he tossed, one at a time, to his deputy.

“You boys go on and get the show started; Jasper’s got two shiny silver dollars for drinks.”

The committee-men turned in unison to retrace their steps to the beer, whiskey and gals; all, save Deputy Jasper. “Gee! Sheriff. I sure don’t mind taking care of that dead rat.” He protested.

“No! Jasper!” The lawman ordered, strenuously. Then, smiling, added, “I already got a start on it; anyway, the boys will be plenty unhappy if they have to buy their own drinks. You run along.” He closed the argument by waving his hand in a “shooing” motion coaxing Jasper to go.

Still somewhat reluctant, but remembering Helen Overton’s sweet kisses, Jasper mumbled, “Well---” while peering over his shoulder at the distant sin-den. Then, he smiled, turned and quickly retreated. Adrian went to the jail door and waited until the deputy re-entered the saloon.

“Damn! Nose-y, busy-bodies!” He absently cursed, locking the heavy door behind him.

Quickly, he removed Jeb Frazier’s gun belt from the decedent’s body and replaced the six-shooter, which lay idle beside the dead foreman’s right hand, into its leather holster. Searching the corpse, he found two silver dollars and several lesser coins in the foreman’s pants’ pocket.

While searching the dead foreman’s body like a despicable vulture-scavenger, Adrian reflected on the necessity of killing the man; sometimes, he could be too impetuous. He suffered no moral qualms over the unpleasantness of the incident other than the inconvenience of having to clean up the remnant mess and dispose of the corpus delicti, a legal term he had learned.

“Well…” he reasoned, silently, thinking it through, trying to give himself an alibi for the killing, not that he especially needed one, if things worked out, chances were good that no one would ever know what had happened; just that, any plausible excuse could come in handy.

“If I did an investigation, it might raise suspicions against Ezra; some of them ranch hands don’t always agree with his rough handed treatment; might make trouble if given the chance.

“When Frazier threatened the federal lawman getting involved---well…I just had no choice.

“And,” he concluded, with a wry smile, “we don’t need no damn federal marshal nosing around here, we got a good set-up. Don’t need, or want, no interloper messing things up.”

With that rationalization, Adrian satisfied and justified his cold-blooded murder of Frazier.

 Jeb had managed to get off a shot, but, it had slammed harmlessly into the wood floor of the jail a second after Adrian’s bullet had found its mark; the lawman was a good shot. Adrian deposited the gun and holster, after removing the spent casing and replacing it with a fresh round, in his lower desk drawer. Next time he went to Denver or Kansas City, he’d sell the rig for a tidy profit; some “romantic-dreamer” pilgrim with stars in his eyes for the adventure of the wild-west frontier would pay a handsome dollar for some famous gun fighter’s killing weapon. Adrian would make up a good tale about how he had gotten the gun; something the buyer could later brag about when showing-off the rig. Damn! Fool! Probably shoot himself in the foot.

Taking a blanket off one of the cell bunks, the sheriff rolled the dead body into it; there was only a little blood on the floor; could have come from a dead rat. He pulled a bucket of water from the well behind the jail and sloshed it across the stain; with the broom, he scrubbed it clean.

After checking the street and observing no prying eyes, Adrian hefted Frazier’s body onto his shoulder, took the boardwalk to the alley and turned left toward the river where he tossed the heavy encumbrance into the fast moving, swirling muddy waters of the swollen stream. He watched until the shadow on the water disappeared in the distance. Good riddance!

Adrian found the foreman’s tethered horse, easy enough. Tying the reins together and loosely looping them over the saddle horn, he led the cayuse to the river’s edge with its head pointed east. Taking a whippy, green willow branch from one of the trees, he savagely whacked the animal across the rump giving a yell and waving his hat.. The horse dashed across the river at a flat-out gallop; Adrian watched him head toward the ranch. If he did not go home, one of the hands would find him out on the range, soon enough.

Should anyone ever bother to report Frazier’s sudden disappearance? Well! The law would most certainly “look into the matter”. Of course, the sheriff knew, nothing would ever be found.

Back in the office, Adrian checked the blood stain on the office floor. He fetched another bucket of well water and broom-ed the telltale trace until it vanished; once it dried overnight, sometime tomorrow, when Jasper was nowhere around, the sheriff would get a couple of handsful of dust from the street and grind it into the wood with his boots, then sweep it clean, good as new; no one would ever know. It always paid to be careful---and…to clean-up!

He allowed a smile; all-in-all, everything had turned out quite nice. In the back of his devious mind Adrian would conceal what he knew of the shooting making a veiled threat against the old man that if he ever crossed the sheriff, the evidence of murder might turn up with the real law.

And, tomorrow, he would go to the Van Gangenburg General Mercantile and get a fresh woolen blanket to replace the one he had conscripted from the cell cot to wrap Frazier in.

Satisfied with his handiwork for the evening, he headed for a drink at the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon with the good towns-people; after all, it was his money buying the rounds they enjoyed.

Thursday mornings were reserved for Adrian to visit the Van Gangen ranch to meet with Ezra. The old man kept a close watch on all his myriad concerns which were ever-expansive; he owned the biggest cattle spread in the entire state, it spilled over into the South Dakota country to its north and a fair piece into Iowa on the east. It seemed to some that the baron wanted to own the entirety of these here United States of America all the way from Canada to Mexico.

His town was growing by leaps and bounds. All of it added handsomely, and, enormously to his vast fortune. No one, save Hyatt, knew everything. Being young, ruthless and educated with natural business acumen, the rancher-banker entrepreneur amassed a great personal fortune unknown to his father; slowly, though he was always extra careful in his dealing, inexorably Hyatt grasped a choke-hold over all of the various extended ventures of the business megalith. Ezra trusted his son with the handling of the enterprises, seldom questioning anything he did.

A few days after the incident with Sheriff Adrian causing the demise of Jeb Frazier, the lawman had ridden out to his surrogate father’s ranch house for his “demanded” weekly, Thursday visit. And, too, one of the hands had come into town to report Frazier’s curious disappearance.

While the hand was there, he reported the killing of Curly, too, being completely assured by the sheriff that he would definitely look into both matters.

The rancher and the lawman casually talked over the “shooting” accident which had caused the untimely death of Curly Pelham; all in an “unofficial”, cursory and friendly discussion. Adrian assembled the ranch hands at the bunkhouse after the luncheon meal and made “inquiries” into the shooting. Toa man, they all claimed that the killing had been justified as Curly had come in drunk and feisty, looking for supposed revenge against Tim O’Shawnessy for stealing Curly’s girl, Betty Lynette. They repeated Frazier’s story about the shooting though Adrian had to feign ignorance of the facts since no one knew that Jeb had ventured in to see him.

“Well,” the sheriff began after hearing all the pertinent “evidence” relating to the shooting, “sounds to me like a pure case of justified ‘self-defense’.”

He paused, looking over the faces watching him. Then, “Anybody got anything to add?”

He waited a long minute while most of the men nodded silently and a few peered downward.

“That being the long and short of it, I reckon, I officially declare the shooting ‘self-defense’.”

Adrian started to turn away from the crew of range hands when one spoke up.

“What have you found out about Jeb Frazier’s disappearing so sudden-like?” He inquired as a few of the other attendees murmured, apparently disgruntled “Yea” and “What about it?” moans.

The good sheriff turned back to the crowd, a stern façade on his heavily-fleshed face.

“Look boys,” Adrian started, “Jeb Frazier is a good man; he’s a friend to me, just like to you. So far as the law is concerned in this matter, there ain’t nothing legal I can do about him being gone. Hell! He might have had enough of cows and ranching and just plain rode out.”

Several heads shook a negative response to that conclusion; nobody was buying that tale.

“Not Jeb,” one of the men stated, flatly. “No Sir! Something had to have happened to him.”

“Yeah.” Another sounded up. “I agree with Slim. Jeb wouldn’t just leave; something bad happened. I ain’t got no idea what that might be, but, I’ll wager some skunk bushwhacked him.”

“And,” the lawman interrupted, “just who had any grievance with Jeb?” He paused, searching the faces for a reply; none was forthcoming. “Right! Everybody likes Frazier; he doesn’t have an enemy in the world.

“Now, I’ll sure keep an eye peeled and an ear to the ground for any information that comes my way about Jeb, but, for now, there ain’t no crime, no body, no accusations, no cause..

“Until there is some evidence of a crime, my hands are tied.” He shrugged his shoulders.

Adrian turned to retrieve his horse, again. This time, he paused of his own accord.

“If any of you men come up with anything, you bring it straight to me and I’ll look into it.”

With that declaration, Sheriff Adrian mounted his cayuse, reined the animal around, and left.

On a fine Saturday night at the end of the month, pay day, the lawman ventured over to the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon for a drink and to check on the rowdy cowhands---and, of course…the more-than-friendly bar gals who were kept plenty busy with company-hunting lonesome men with silver jingle filling their pockets just hankering for female companionship.

“Pay-day” saw beer go from five cents a glass to a dime; two silver dollars bought a lonely cowhand up to a full hour with his choice of the gals. The money free flowed “happy times”.

Standing at the bar with a beer in his left hand and his right elbow on the polished mahogany, Adrian spied two of the Van Gangen ranch hands looking at him, then coming directly his way. He waited. One of the pair was older and always on the watch for a free drink.

“Howdy, boys,” Adrian greeted, affably, with a pleasant smile. “Buy you gents a drink?”

“No! Thanks! Sheriff!’ One of the two began; the other looked disappointed. “Just wondered if you heard anything about ole Jeb’s disappearance. None of the crew has found hide nor hair of him ’cept his horse was seen grazing out on the range a day after your visit, that first time.”

“Yeah, Sheriff,” the second man interrupted his cohort, “them there reins were tied together and looped over the saddle horn.” He paused. “There was a small drop of red on the seat. It had rained, a bit, but most of the boys figured it to be blood.” He squinted his eyes, awaiting an answer. Both hands stood silent, expecting some reaction to the news from the lawman.

“Well,” Adrian began, pausing to take a sip of his warm beer, “I reckon that might be important. I ain’t heard nothing around town; this is the first I knew of the horse showing up.

“Did you boys, or anybody, look around for Jeb in the area where you found his mount?”

The pair took a step back, surprised. “Why! No!” One said. “I mean, yeah, we looked. Nothing.” His partner nodded agreement to the first hand’s declaration.

“Well,” Adrian continued, “I’ll be out there next Thursday; I’ll talk to the men, again, then. You have the one who found the horse come see me at the noon lunch; we’ll go take a look.”

With that, Adrian nodded in dismissal of the cow boys who shrugged and walked away.

One turned back, smiling. “Sheriff? Is that free drink offer still open?” Adrian obliged.

Considering, deep in thought, Adrian wondered at the “red stain”. It couldn’t have been Frazier’s, he had been deposited in the river before the sheriff had located his mount.

Sheriff Adrian smiled; then, frowned. Maybe he had inadvertently gotten blood on his hand and accidentally smeared it onto the saddle leather; that was a distinct possibility, though, he decided, not very likely. There had not been much bleeding; still, the night had been dark and Adrian had been in a hurry to be done with the deed. Damn! He shouldn’t have been so hasty.

He shrugged, thinking that the chances were slim the cowboys had found a blood spot on Jeb’s saddle; even if it turned out to be true, that clue would lead nowhere, only to more questions. Things happen out on the prairie. And, the rain obfuscated the hands’ conclusion.

He ordered another beer, still worrying at the news.

Shrugging again, he concluded to examine the saddle and, somehow, excuse it as “nothing”.

His visit that next week revealed exactly “nothing” and the incident passed without further question. There was absolutely no evidence that anything untoward had even happened to Frazier. Nobody had heard or seen anything; and, there was no dead body. Case: closed!

Three months passed without another word to the sheriff about the Jeb Frazier matter.

Then, six months more; then, a full year; finally eighteen months; the incessant prairie winds forever active across the verdant green grasslands of the Otoe “Flat-water”, Nebraska, country offering a constant reminder of the lonesome howl which eastern city-dwellers certainly would have found quickly bordering condition for a visit to the local asylum for rest and rehabilitation. Western frontiersmen farmers and ranchers thrived in the solitude of the vacant landscape satiated with a simple life, content in the loving arms of family and friends, living an exemplar life under the strict guidance of their holy Bible commandments, for the most part, and love for their cherished Constitution of these here United States of America.

It was the demon cities in the east, and, in general, responsible for turmoil, tumult, unrest, war, even, all manner of evil sin, in their “unsophisticated” collective opinion. If Washington got out of their way, the hard working “simple” masses would perpetually thrive. In 1873, during, yet another, national “monetary crisis”, so the erudite newspapers proclaimed, a Kansas farm wife was quoted in a paper as saying, “Farmers need to raise less corn and more hell!”

Indeed! A pilgrim well over a century ahead of her time! Amen! To that sentiment---Always!

The little “Flat-water” dust spot on the Nebraska map churned along with immigrants coming for a “fresh start” in the Great American West; romances flourished, marriages ensued, babies were born, a cemetery blossomed tombstones in a marble orchard of pristine white markers. Life ebbed and flowed in the cadenced rhythmic cycle Mother Nature had intended. C’est la vie!

Sheriff Adrian presided over a quiet little “burg”, for the most part, save the habitual Saturday night eruptions down to the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon. In the year and a half since his “deadly” encounter with the late Van Gangen Ranch foreman, Jeb Frazier, there had been no deaths in the peaceful town due to violence perpetrated by one citizen against any other; quite a record for a “wild-west” frontier town experiencing prosperous growth. Everybody loved the good lawman.

Then, nearly two full years after the saloon inquiry by the two cow hands, Adrian was sitting in his office mid-afternoon when a pilgrim knocked on the door and wandered in as Sheriff Adrian looked up to see a broad-shouldered “farmer”-looking young man approach..

“Sheriff Adrian?” Inquired a square-jawed, clean-shaven man with a wide forehead below thick blonde hair, a near-white complexion and sporting a pronounced Swedish accent. “I beg your pardon, Sheriff. But, I was just over to the mercantile getting stocked up on supplies for my journey north to join my kin in Minnesota country. I was talking with the merchant over there and I heared him mention you by name.” He paused.

Sheriff Adrian, seated behind his desk, leaned forward in his chair. “And…?” He coaxed.

“Well, Sheriff.” The Swede continued, “I heared your name on the trail when we was down Texas-way. Someone, I don’t remember who, said your name. I didn’t rightly recall where we was at the time; didn’t mean nothing to me; I don’t even know exactly what was said about you.”

He paused as the lawman came to his feet, a curiosity on his face. “So? Go on.” He said.

“I didn’t think any more about it, until now. We tried Texas for farming; found it too dry and too hot. My brothers and sister and their families had set out for Minnesota right away from the east. I thought they was wrong;  heard some big tales about ‘glorious’ Texas and just had to see for myself. Turns out, the family is doing fine and they invited us to come join them; got word by the telegraph.” He shrugged, sheepishly, embarrassed by his original bad decision.

Impatient, Adrian interrupted his self-ridicule. “So, what brings you to see me?” He asked.

“Anyway, the merchant over to the mercantile mentioned your name. It sounded kind-a familiar; then, I remembered where I had heared it before. It was down in Texas when we had first got there.” He frowned, seemingly trying to recall the exact incident.

“We come into a town called Waco along the Brazos about sundown on a cold, wet day. It was storming something awful; raining cats and dogs. We needed supplies, but the General Store was done closed for the day. They had them a nice warm-looking, cozy two story hotel, but…” the Swede cast his eyes downward, apparently embarrassed, “…we didn’t have no extra money for nothing that extravagant.” He gave a nervous little laugh, “So I pulled behind the buildings into a kind of alleyway, where the structures kind-a protected the wagon from the storm.

“It’s plenty crowded in that there wagon and I grew a bit long,” he laughed at his own inane joke as he stood a mite over six feet in height, “so my wife and kids made room in the wagon box, out of the weather; I found a pretty snug wood crate that was empty behind one of the buildings and crawled in to keep dry and get some sleep. It had a few empty whiskey bottles in it and I threw them out. ”He smiled, then, stating proudly, “I don’t drink alcohol, myself.”