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He
paused, catching his second wind. Then, “Well, after a while, that storm
settled down, some. The rain tapered off to a drizzle and then, finally,
stopped altogether.”
He
smiled, then, like he was remembering a pleasant private experience. Sheriff
Adrian wondered if the long-winded square-jaw would ever get to the point;
Indians were more direct.
“I
had me a good warm wool blanket and was plenty comfortable in that little box-‘home’.
“Some
time after the rain stopped and I had drifted off, again, I kept waking up ’cause
my long frame was cramped in there and I got stiff; anyway, I come out of a
dream when a kind-a ‘squeaking’ sound followed by voices woke me…”
Adrian
listened intently, now; that story was very similar to his encounter with the
saloon ruffians way back when he was just
a green sprout and got himself shanghaied and conscripted into Quantrill’s gang
of cutthroats; that memory caused the sheriff to swallow, hard.
“Somebody
had pulled open a window and the squeaking woke me, I reckon; then, I heared a
woman laugh and say, ‘I’m going out and clean up, some, You boys just leave the
money on the dresser, there, and be gone when I get back.’ She laughed, again;
then said, ‘You boys about wore me out; I need some sleep. Sure hope you all
had a good time; I sure did.’ Then, I heared a door close. Soon as the gal went
out, I heared two men talking; got some of it; I was still kind-a half-asleep
and they was talking real low-like. That’s when I heared your name.
“One
said something about they should get started north right away cause spring
round-up was coming, soon. The other one kind-a disagreed; said he didn’t think
the time was right, or, something along those lines. Said it was too soon;
maybe wait another year, or so.
“Didn’t
make no sense to me; I tried to go back to sleep; kid-a drifted off, again.
“Then,
one of them waked me up, almost yelling. ‘Damn! It! Charley!’ Least, I think he
called the other one Charley, or, something like that. ‘I told you they
murdered him. Then, when Jeb tried to help, they killed him, too. I found his
body in the river a few days later when I was following the river coming down
here to get you. I want you to shoot that damn Sheriff Adrian.’”
He
paused. “Then, that gal came back in the room and she got real mad; threw them
out. I think she had a new customer with
her; she cussed them boys, but good.
“Next
day, I found out that I had slept behind the saloon and that room with the
squeaky window must have been one of the gal’s cribs on the back side; those
two cowboys must-a been her customers.” Square-jaw shrugged. “None of it meant
anything to me, ’til I heared your name over at the General Store just a little
bit ago. Thought I should mention it to you.” He shrugged.
Replacing
his hat to go, he heard the sheriff ask, “What did these cowboys look like?”
“Never
got a look at ’em, Sheriff.”
“How
long ago did this here accidental meeting take place?” Adrian inquired,
interested.
The
Swede thought, momentarily. Then, “Well, about a year ago, I reckon.”
“Hmm!”
Adrian wondered. Then, “When are you leaving town, Stranger?”
“Soon
as the clerk gets my order together and I get ’er loaded up.” Silence.
“Well,”
the Swede began, “Adios! Sheriff. I’ll be on my way; long way still to go.”
He
smiled, “That there story? Might not have even been about you, at all.” He
mused.
“Yeah.”
Adrian agreed, opening the door for the man. “Texas is a long way off. Hell!
You might even have been dreaming the whole thing.” He concluded.
“Well,”
Square-jaw said, stepping through the door onto the boardwalk, “So long.
Sheriff.”
Adrian
watched him cross the dusty street puffing up little wispy tendrils of grey
smoke as the Swede’s big-footed boots plopped through the dry dirt. The news
had shaken the lawman.
“Who
in Hell would know about Frazier? Impossible! Still, somebody did know!
“And---Texas!?
How could that be? Again---Impossible! But, the Swede did have some facts.
“Nobody
could know about the killing of Curly,” he tried to reassure himself. “Frazier
was dead; for sure. And, the ranch hands were all still at the ranch; couldn’t
be any of them that had drifted south.’ He considered. “Frazier didn’t tell
anybody; that was for sure.”
Something
else bothered Sheriff Adrian Van Gangen; he just couldn’t put his finger on it.
All
day, he worried over the enigma, couldn’t put it out of his mind; it kept
nagging him like Rosita when she got into one of her “moods”. Of course, with
his fat wife, he could just walk out and rendezvous with Byrne or one or
another of the gals down to the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon.
Within
an hour, the Swede’s wagon pulled out, headed north; Adrian watched, wondering
if, and, how much, of his tale the square-jaw had repeated to anyone else in
his town.
He
shook his head; not likely; the man wasn’t even sure Adrian had been the right
person. The sheriff certainly had admitted nothing or even showed any hint that
he might be the individual the cowboys had been referring to. The whole thing
made no sense; none at all.
Then,
another possibility struck Sheriff Adrian: Curly had a kid brother at the
ranch!
But,
Ezra had sent him packing right after the killing; Frazier saw him head out,
northwest toward Montana territory. Hmm? ’Course, the kid could have changed
his mind, turned south, to Texas. Good as any place else. Or, it had been a few
years, the brother might have tried Colorado or Wyoming or Montana or Californy
or Oregon, saw “the elephant” and then drifted south.
Too
many “if’s” and “maybe’s”. Probably wasn’t even about Adrian; all just a
coincidence.
On
his next visit to Ezra’s ranch, the sheriff casually inquired around as to
whether any of the hands hailed from down Texas-way. One claimed to have been
born in the south-country but his family had drifted north for better pickings
when he was just a pup; three of the others admitted to having been in Texas
for short periods. None had been there recently. Adrian let it pass.
As
he mounted up to return to town and his sheriff-ing duties, such that they
were, one of the hands intercepted his retreat about a half mile from the home
ranch; the rider came up from a coulee, surprising the lawman. It was Larry
Servile, a hand Adrian had known for about eight years; he had not been in the
group at the ranch when the sheriff had inquired about Texas.
Reining
up, Adrian greeted the interloper. “Howdy, Larry!” coming alongside one
another.
“Howdy!
Sheriff!” Servile returned the affable salutation. “Guess I missed you at the
ranch; ramrod had me out checking on a cow that calved last night. They was all
three alright. Twins!”
Adrian
laughed, thinking silently, “Just like Hyatt; making money when he didn’t even
try!”
“Ole
Barney told me when I come in that you had been out and inquiring about any of
us being from Texas.” The range hand explained, pausing.
“Yeah,
Larry,” informed the lawman. “I thought you hailed from down Missouri-way?”
Servile
laughed, then, began rolling a smoke
“Well,
Hell! I am,” the hand verified the sheriff’s assumption. “But, we had us a pair
of Texans on the place about two years back. Curly and that kid brother of his,
Bow-leg Rob; they come up from down Texas-way, some where’s around the Brazos
River-country, as best as I recall, now.” He eyed the lawman who seemed
concerned over the news. “Any particular reason you might be asking around
about people from Texas, Sheriff?” Larry lit his cigarette.
“Oh,
just curious, Larry.” Adrian lied. “Lawmen always hear and see things they need
to check.” He paused, wondering. “What brings you out of your way to tell me
that information?”
Servile
laughed. “Well, we did have us a shooting back then. That crazy fool Curly got
liquored up and drew down on Ezra; the old man shot him dead.”
“Yeah.
I ruled that ‘self-defense’ on the old man’s behalf. You remember that I
investigated that incident some time ago?”
“Sure,
I know all that.” Larry Servile paused, thinking. Then, “I just got to thinking
that Bow-leg lit out for the mountains, at least, that was the thinking when he
rode out, after Mr. Ezra ordered him off the ranch. Told us hands to shoot him
if he ever showed up, again.”
“Did
he?” Adrian asked. “Show up, I mean.”
“No!
Not that I ever saw or heard of.” Larry paused. Then, “I just got to wondering
why you all of a sudden like started asking questions about Texas boys; seems
sort of---unusual.”
Adrian
eyed the cowboy; what was his interest here? And, his intent? He waited.
“You
know, Sheriff, our ranch foreman at the time, ole Jeb Frazier, he wasn’t none
too happy about Curly’s killing; he didn’t say nothing, but, he was close to
Bow-leg; even helped him bury his brother Curly. After Rob rode out, Frazier
disappeared, all kin-a mysterious-like.”
“So?”
Prompted the sheriff, curious as to Servile’s interest.
“Well!
Hell! Sheriff!” Larry exclaimed, exasperated. “So? Nothing! I just thought you
ought to know about those brothers originally hailing from down Texas-way.
That’s all. Ain’t none of it any of my business; I take care of myself and my
horse. Always did; always will.” He drew a final draw on the cigarette and
tossed the butt in the dirt.
“Okay,
Larry.” Sheriff Adrian finally said, relief in his voice. “Thanks for the
information.”
Dismissing
the cowhand in a gentle manner made Servile smile; he nodded and rode off.
Adrian
watched the cowboy cross the flowing grassland headed back toward the ranch.
“Well,”
he surmised, “that information about the Texas tie to Rob and Curly was
interesting.”
On
the long ride back to town, Adrian considered possible meanings to the new
information. It was just possible that Rob Pelham held a grudge against old
Ezra for the killing of Curly. If so, he might try revenge, somehow, some way.
Maybe he had enlisted help to get the job done?
“The
Swede incident”, as Adrian had nicknamed his strange, brief encounter with the
transient Square-jaw, slowly faded from memory after a month had passed and
from his immediate concern by the arrival of fall round-up when nothing had
happened to arouse further suspicions; there wasn’t much he could do, anyway,
at least not until something happened.
“Just
a fluke!” Adrian managed to convince himself. “Couldn’t have been about me.”
Still?
He realized that conclusion only served to calm his emotions; too much of the
Swede’s information led right to the good lawman. He’d not worry about it, but,
he would keep a wary eye. He wielded a lot of power and authority, yet, it paid
to be cautious.
Through
the following winter months, Sheriff Adrian noticed that Ezra seemed to be
suffering from memory loss. The old man developed a nagging cough which often
interrupted his speech, causing him to go into a fit of choking and gagging of
such duration as to cause Ezra to have to sit in a chair until the attack
subsided. He was still cantankerous and stormed around like he was thirty,
again, but, he was definitely slowing down. By then, Hyatt ran virtually all of
the business operations; he had been slowly taking control for years, mostly,
with the old man’s blessings
Adrian
figured his “command attendance”-visits d to the ranch dictated by Ezra
couldn’t last much more than another year, and, probably, a lot shorter period
of time. Hyatt might allow Adrian to remain as sheriff, once the old man was
out of the way; no reason for him not to.
Still,
Adrian prided himself on being aware of the subtleties of change; always paid
to be aware of what might happen; be prepared. He felt he had covered all the
possibilities.
He’d
have ridden out long ago if the situation had not fit his desires so perfectly.
In his years since returning from Mexico with Rosita, Adrian had managed to
“squirrel” away a tidy little some in a bank in Kansas City and another pretty
fair “grub stake” in a Denver bank. His life with the fat Rosita provided a
nice house, no mansion like Hyatt lived in, but, nicer than any other in the
little burg; he enjoyed eating and his wife saw to it that he was well-fed,
and, she kept his clothes clean. Occasionally, Rosita even provided “wifely”
considerations though those incidents were becoming more and more infrequent;
actually, downright rare. But, he really didn’t mind her vacancy, Byrne and the
saloon gals provided ample entertainment. And, several of the good townsfolk
“ladies” had made their admiration of the sheriff secretly known.
Hyatt
was getting lazy. The ranch, the town, the business enterprises pretty much ran
themselves. Hyatt came to be totally self-absorbed, not that he had not always
been so, but, of late, he seemed to drink too much, carouse too often and too
freely; he was getting fat, and, older;
he seemed to deliberately ignore the beautiful Byrne in a purposely
pernicious manner. Most of his time, when he was in Van Gangenburg, he spent at
the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon.
Spring
round-up was in the offing; soon after---hot summer days! Adrian warmed just
thinking of river-“swimming” with lovely Byrne. He smiled; the warmth spreading
to his cheeks.
Grass
started greening with the receding of the white winter freeze; the range hands
were chomping at the bit for some action after a long season of freezing ice
and plenty of blowing snow blizzards constantly interrupted with routine rousing
from the cozy bunkhouse with mundane ranch chores as steady as long, lonely,
cold nights. Even the “Salvation” of Saturday night at the Albino Prairie Dog
Saloon became a chore with the long ride in bitter wind and cold for a few
hours of “fun”; better to stay home and sleep; cheaper, too.
Ezra
announced that he would make the round-up again this year; opined that it might
be his last chance to raise the devil; he seemed to be getting his second wind;
felt good; looked good.
Soon
as the spring rains subsided, the cowboys would spread out over the enormous
ranch property to search the far reaches scouring coulees and draws, gathering
the spread-out herd and hazing them toward the home ranch where the critters
would be counted for a total tally, separated by gender and age to be utilized
as breeding stock; some of the beef would be sold.
Then,
that early spring morning when Sheriff Adrian stood on the boardwalk in front
of his jail discarding his morning shaving ritual remnants into the dusty
street as an approaching thunderstorm threatened as he focused on the brief
view of a stranger riding into his town, Adrian might have been better served
to venture on down to the livery for questions than letting his lusty nature
define his concentration on the fair beauty, Byrne, as she teased him from
afar.
But,
“Fate” is, indeed, the hunter; sometimes, it seems likely, so can be an early
morning arrival stranger with a long, thin, black leather carrying case across
his saddle. C’est la vie!
Sometime
later that same morning, after completing the over-ambitious delectable
breakfast- fare which Jasper had whipped up, to, once again, perfection, the
High Sheriff Adrian Van Gangen did manage to mosey his way down to the livery
for inquiries as to the business of the wraithlike stranger. Earthy aromas
assaulted the lawman’s senses while he was still a good thirty strides from the
barn; horses, manure, hay, leather odors mixed and mingled in a not unpleasant
“fragrance”. Slipping through the front open double doors, he did not see the
stranger’s horse.
Green
hay flakes fell in a cloud of leafy clouds into mangers in the stalls alongside
the aisle dividing the interior space; an un-seen hostler forked fodder from
the loft above.
“Horsehide!”
Called Sheriff Adrian directing his voice toward the ceiling of the stable.
“Horsehide! That you up there?” He inquired.
The
leathered, craggy face under a once black, now faded and dusty, rumpled vestige
of what had once, perhaps, have been a decent hat, of sorts, appeared above,
peering over the edge of the loft; the framing of the face-image completed with
a scraggly grey-white sparse beard sprouting from his chin; a sharp, beak-like
nose protruding prominence dead center.
“Who
was you expecting, you darn fool?” Came a gruff reply; the old man mopped sweat
from his brow with a ragged, red remnant of a kerchief. “Do I look like some
fancy banker-feller?” Answering his own absent query, he said, “No! I’ll
warrant that I sure enough---Don’t!”
Ignoring
the old man’s intended sarcasm, Adrian prompted, laughing, “No! Horsehide! I
certainly agree: I’d never mistake you for some fancy damn banker-type.” He
thought of Hyatt.
Then,
getting down to the business at hand, Adrian stated, matter-of-factly, “I seen
a stranger ride in about dawn this morning; don’t see his cayuse anywhere
around, didn’t see him ride out.”
Horsehide
stuck his pitchfork into a huge pile of slightly green alfalfa hay, then, made
his way to the end of the loft and surefootedly climbed spryly down the well-worn
rungs of the ladder.
Reaching
the dirt floor, then wiping his glistening brow, once more, he peered up at the
lawman from eyes slipping out from under the ragged brim of his beaten-up hat,
his bent back rounded like a grass scythe from way too many years of way too
much hard labor.
“He
come in here afore I even got my pants on,” the wrangler offered, “he was in an
almighty hurry. Kept peeking out the door, looking up the street,” the old man
squinted to make a point. “Can’t rightly say for sure but, he sure ’nough
seemed to be intent on the area up around your jailhouse; like he was real interested.
Didn’t seem nervous or scared; just, interested-like”
With
that bit of information, now, it was the sheriff’s turn to furrow his brow with
concern. He had just happen to be on the boardwalk when the man rode by; since
he took notice of the stranger, undoubtedly, the man also saw the sheriff in
front of the jailhouse. Hmm!?
“Anyways,”
Horsehide continued, “he wanted some grain for his mount; I sold it to him.
“He
let the animal drink, a little; knew right well how to take care of his mount.”
The
old man paused, then, removing a tobacco plug from a back pocket and tearing
off a chaw with brown-stained teeth; he began to chew slowly, fully enjoying
his demon vice.
“That’s
it!? Horsehide??” Adrian inquired, impatiently, eyes wide with expectation.
The
hostler spat a brown stream onto the hard-pack dirt of the stable floor,
squinting, again.
“Did
I say that was all of it?” He replied, testily; chewing again, then, spitting,
again.
Adrian
waited; no use pushing this tough old bird; he’d tell the tale in his own way,
and…in his own good time. Silence enveloped the scene awaiting more chewing,
and, spitting.
“The
stranger had a Texas drawl; soft spoken-like,” he finally divulged knowing the
sheriff had some particular interest in his early morning customer; Horsehide
prided himself on his extensive knowledge of horse flesh; even, more so, on his
understanding of men.
“He
bought twenty-five pounds of oats and ten of corn; ’nough for two horses for a
couple of days.” Horsehide smiled, shaking his head in an approving manner,
“Any man takes care of his mount like that man does---well…he’s a good man, in
my book.” He paused to chew and spit, again. “he watered that horse of his from
a bucket, didn’t let him drink none too much; he was real gentle with that
animal, too. Good man!” He concluded; Adrian waited, knowing the man would have
more to tell---in his own good time. He did.
“Said
he was just passing through; seems to be the same story for every pilgrim comes
this way, lately.” Horsehide mused. “Going to check out the local ranches for
work since spring round-up is right around the corner.” The old man wrinkled
his nose, smelling the wind. “I’d say he’s dead right on that notion; spring is
on the air; that thunderstorm this morning smelled mighty fresh Won’t be long
a-fore the fish are spawning in the river.” He licked his lips.
Horsehide
eyed the lawman who stood silent, listening patiently; he liked the sheriff;
you could always count on Adrian to pony-up the silver for a drink down to the
Albino Prairie Dog.
Horsehide
let go another brown stream of tobacco juice exploding a crater in the dirt
floor.
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