Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book

To peruse all 12 of my books:

 

visit: Amazon books; search: Carl Schuler

 

 

 

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.