Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book

Sitting around a cozy fire just to the side of the spring, the boys enjoyed a sparse meal of pronghorn steaks with biscuits skewered on Caleb’s short-sword warm-toasted over the flames.

“Rob,” Caleb began, “I figure we got about two days, at the outside, to get this job done.”

Bow-leg gave him a curious questioning look. “Why hurry it?” He shrugged.

Caleb took a swig of fresh, cool spring water from his canteen which he had just filled from the natural spring. “If we take too long, we run the risk of being spotted; there are a whole lot of savvy eyes down at that ranch. The next couple of days, they’ll be plenty busy out gathering strays to bring in for sorting, branding and separating for shipment; those cowboys will mostly be out on the prairie locating and hazing the brutes back to the pens. But, there’ll be at least a half dozen hands at the ranch doing branding chores along with their other tasks.

“If we can catch old Ezra in the ranch yard, I ought to be able to get the shot I need.”

He paused, considering things. Then, he continued, “We’ll need some kind of a diversion, something to get the hands that are working around the ranch to ‘look the other way’, sort of.”

Rob gave his older brother another of his questioning glances, unsure of his meaning.

Caleb clarified his plan in a general sort of way. “Tomorrow, we’ll take up residence at the brush line where we was today, try to get a better read on the comings and goings; that crew is about to get real busy with everything at once. The outriders will start bringing in hundreds of head of beef each day; he branding crew will never be able to keep up. Once the round-up ends, the other boys will join in the work around the ranch.” He paused.

Then, “This is important, Rob, we need to be done with our business and well out of this part of the territory; I recon there will be some pursuit, after the shot.

“If we can get a read on old Ezra’s habits, in our surveillance tomorrow, depending how long it takes us to figure out his routine, we might make the attempt, then. If not, if things don’t pan out to try it tomorrow, then we definitely got to go the next morning when most of the cowboys first ride out. We got there late yesterday; I didn’t even see an old man any where’s about.”

“No,” Rob piped up. “He wasn’t anywhere to be seen; not that I noticed.”

“Well,” Caleb allowed, “tomorrow is another day; things can change. We’ll be early in the morning; hoping something breaks, our way. So far, what with that nosy law dog and all these hands running around the prairie searching for strays, we been lucky to remain un-noticed. We just don’t want to push our luck to the point that it runs out. I ain’t answering no questions.”

Rob nodded his agreement in the dim firelight of the campfire; Caleb sure knew his business.

Caleb laughed, slightly. “Might be a bit embarrassing trying to explain what we’re doing here; could easy enough lead to a necktie-party with us as guests of honor. No! Thanks!”

“Yeah,” Bow-leg Rob agreed. “Old Ezra told the hands to shoot me ‘Dead, on-sight’.”

“I ain’t taking a long drop on a short rope just to ‘dance’ my death song,” opined Caleb.

By nine the following morning, the spies were already on-site, having arrived at daybreak.

“Smells like rain is in the offing,” Caleb allowed, sniffing the cool morning air; lightning jags flickered in the black western sky promising to validate the older brother’s savvy intuition. It seemed a long way off as they could not yet hear the thunder rumble following the display.

They witnessed activity in the dark ranch yard as ghostly-shadows lighted branding fires; riders could be heard fleeing the confines of the complex well before first light. The hidden boys couldn’t see their progress but clearly heard the myriad hoof beats thundering north and east; those hands would be gone most of the morning, some returning with rounded-up strays around mid-day lunch. Other groups might be out till near dark, depending on how far afield the ventured. With their mounts tethered in a smallish copse of trees in the bottom of the coulee behind them, they settled in with handy, full canteens to observe the goings-on at the ranch.

Time dragged as the pair was slightly entertained, poorly, by the tedious, boring activities of a working cattle ranch; they, themselves, had done it all before; pretty insignificant.

“Must be getting on about eleven,” Bow-leg groused, stretching out kinks in his shoulders.

“If Ezra don’t show soon, I’m going to the horses and get some vittles for lunch.” He added.

Roughly grabbing his impatient younger brother’s arm, Caleb whispered, gruffly, “Be still!”

Rob gave him a questioning look. Then, seeing Caleb’s intense gaze, Rob froze: Dead still!

As each of the secluded spies peered intently at the ranch house, Ezra stood on the porch.

He watched his hands working the captured cattle, branding and sorting the critters. He yelled something at one of the cowboys, but the spies couldn’t make out his words at their distance. Finally, after three or four minutes, Old Ezra seemed to tire; he took a seat in a porch rocker seeming to enjoy the fresh breeze blown up by the coming storm which was moving toward the ranch, and, had been, since daybreak. It threatened “Hell’s fury” within the hour.

“This is it!” Caleb declared, excited. “Come on!” He said, backsliding down the hill.

Rob followed, immediately. Once far enough behind the crest where the brush line had concealed them that they would not be observed from the ranch hands, Caleb got to his feet and roughly pulled Rob up, urging him to follow. In a few seconds, they arrived at their horses.

Caleb retrieved his black leather case from the saddle horn. Laying it on the grass and carefully opening the clasps, he explained to Rob. “I want you to check the shells in your six-gun; make sure they’re loaded and ready for action.”

He took out his Sharps rifle with its long, thin scope, gently caressing it like some paid-for dance hall girl on Saturday night at a saloon. He opened the action, gave it a quick, good look and, satisfied with his inspection, inserted a fresh cartridge into the breach chamber. Ready!

He looked at brother Rob who was checking the last of his gun’s shells, snapping closed the loading gate and slowly lowering the hammer on the weapon from its half-cocked “safety” position. “You ride east, fast, but, don’t run your horse into the ground; you’re going to need her for a quick return trip. Hurry,” Caleb laughed, “in a sort-s slow way.

“Stay in the bottom of the coulee. This one turns north about a half mile from here; ride beyond there another half mile. I checked this all out, yesterday. That’ll put you almost a full mile from here. I’ll get back to our hiding place, set up, and, be waiting. Should only take you about fifteen, or so, minutes to get to that spot.

“I want you to carefully ride up that slope ,but, be careful not to ‘skyline’ yourself; you’ll be able to see me while you’re still well-back from the crest and should also remain sheltered pretty well from the view of all those at the ranch. If old Ezra is still on the porch where I can get a clear shot, I’ll give you a wave with my hat. When you see that, you wave back; soon as I see your acknowledgement, I’ll know to get ready, soon as I am, I’ll take my shot.

“Don’t waste no time. Spur that nag into a full gallop heading at an angle down that slope and start shooting those six cartridges as you go, a few seconds apart, into the air. That confusion should send those ranch hands scrambling around behind the house to see what’s going on. That ought to give me my shot. I won’t miss!” He concluded, in a cold-blooded, emotionless promise.

“I’ll be waiting, mounted, right here when you get back. Then, we’ll high tail it out of here.”

 Just then, lightning flashed in the not-too-distant western sky, now a dark mottled green-black of roiling, ugly, mean looking clouds; the storm was close; less than half an hour away.

“If we’re real lucky, Rob,” Caleb allowed, “that thunderstorm might be a ‘god-send’!”

He turned toward the slope. “See you back here in about a half hour,” he called to brother Rob’s back who was already heading up the coulee as Caleb raced up the hill clutching his rifle.

The wind was kicking up as the storm approached the ranch; branches of the scrub-line where Caleb again secreted himself from observation from the ranch were swinging to and fro; he’d have to make allowances for his single shot with the front wreaking havoc. For sure, he wanted to get the shot before the full brunt of the rainstorm hit. It would be another ten minutes until Rob reached his assigned position nearly a mile east and north of where he, Caleb, waited.

Removing his hat, Caleb wedged it in the stout fork of one of the bigger scrub shrubs; then, he cradled the Sharps into the slot balancing in such manner as to make it slightly off-kilter, front to back, that way, with the extra weight to the rear, he could bend forward, into the butt of the stock. That way, and by planting his feet slightly wider than shoulder length and turning his feet an additional inch outward at the toes, he could “hold-the-mark” by leaning into the stock.

He gauged the wind strength as moderate and its direction as quartering toward him slightly from his left, he figured the heavy lead projectile would “drift” to his right roughly two inches at two hundred and fifty yards; he adjusted the crude windage knob three clicks. The elevation was “right on” as he had ranged it for that distance after attaching the scope and sighting it in, way back before they had vacated Texas. On the trail, he had checked its accuracy numerous times.

Caleb was ready. He sighted through the glass objective lens of the scope and clearly viewed Ezra van Gangen still sitting in the rocking chair on the porch. Through the 4-power view of the scope, Adrian concluded that the old man had fallen asleep. He surveyed the ranch yard finding the hands running wildly here and there, apparently suddenly realizing that the storm was not only imminent, but, virtually, at hand.

Caleb glanced to Rob’s expected position. He was there, waiting.

Ezra van Gangen had sat at the breakfast table to vacantly pick at the fine fare prepared by the cook; he just could not muster an appetite. Round-up was within two or three days of concluding as the hands had scoured the ranch’s holdings, far and wide. The result had been overall “Good”; calf count was up, the stock looked to be in fine shape, fat and sassy, a pleasant omen for a prosperous market sale and wonderful news as far as growing the herd size was concerned. Giving consideration to the harsh winter which the cattle had survived, they had done quite well.

“Ah!” The old man smiled, “The rich get richer!” He should have been in better spirits.

It was that “Damn!” recurring nightmare that troubled him the most; just couldn’t shake it.

The troublesome dream concerned his ancient nemesis from his early days: Wounded Coyote!

Around Christmas, Ezra had fallen ill to some kind of ailment which had affected his lungs; one morning he awoke with terrible lower chest pains which made the simple act of breathing, difficult and very painful. He spent three full days in bed, unable to find the strength, or the will, to even get dressed. He felt that he had drunk enough soup broth to float a ship; slowly, over another seven days, Ezra recovered enough to begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Finally showing some evidence that he had turned the corner on his ailment-torment as the recuperation brought the old man more strength each day, Ezra began anticipating the annual spring round-up. Ah! The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Riding proved to be too much.

The patriarch took to sleeping late, past nine in the morning, and to enjoying loafing in his front porch rocking chair after a leisurely breakfast which he managed only to pick at.

On the morning of a brewing storm promising to be a real frog-choker, Ezra retired to the porch for his morning siesta thinking that the freshness of the storm’s cool air might revive his spirit and aid in the problem with his lungs which had not fully been redeemed. He had always loved the change of seasons, relishing Mother Nature’s “moods”, as he liked to refer to them.

On this particular pre-storm morning, the old man seemed a bit more agitated than normally; it became difficult to be friendly and upbeat when every ragged breath reminded him of the man he had once been teasing him that he would never be that robust, again. Damn! The luck!

And, too, the now nightly recurring nightmare pitting him against his long-ago arch rival, the wraith, Wounded Coyote, brought him closer to defeat as the ghost came ever nearer Ezra’s chest with that gleaming knife flashing death and glinting terror in each newborn dream.

As Ezra van Gangen sat in his old rocking chair on the front porch of his ranch house enjoying a respite after a Spartan breakfast and with the wind ever-freshening in a prelude to the coming symphony of an early spring thunderstorm, he took in the vastness of the prairie panoramic vista. Life had been, for the most part---Good! He savoreded a satiated spirit.

Lightning flashed close behind him, just off to the west of the ranch. Before rolling thunder could manage to echo the arrival of the jagged yellow-white streak, Ezra’s eyes caught a glint out on the vast prairie where no metal or glass ought to be; he blinked his tired eyes, untrusting of their vision. Only briefly did the errant spark appear. Maybe he was seeing things?

There! That brush line yonder on the empty vastness of his land, about two hundred and fifty yards out; that was the very spot where the phantom flash had occurred. But, it could not be!

Then, a hat waved from the brush! He must be going mad! His eyes had betrayed his senses.

Then, his ears decided to join the old, deceitful eyes: pistol shots reverberated off to the east, further north than the errant glint he thought that he had witnessed. As the storm’s escalading wind whipped away the staccato muffled shots, Ezra’s eyes darted back to the brush row some distance away. There, terror struck his senses as a grey-white miniature cloud erupted to be immediately swept away by the swirling winds leaving in its wake a long-dead demonic Devil!

In its shadow appeared his nemesis: Wounded Coyote! His torment-nightmare resurrected.

Ezra visibly flinched as the Indian wraith flung his razor-honed knife at toward him. The flying missile found its true mark and tore into the old man’s chest exploding the rancher’s heart.

All of this occurred as Ezra’s witness from his own perspective; Caleb saw it another way.

Caleb took one, last quick glance at Ezra; still there, seemingly being ignored by everyone.

Caleb waved his hat toward Bow-leg Rob; the kid-brother gave the agreed upon return wave as his charger lunged forward, headed down the ridge in the direction of Caleb’s hiding place.

Within the four to five seconds that it took Caleb to steady his rifle and find his target through his long scope attached to his heavy Sharps rifle, Rob’s pistol shots started reverberating in his ears. With the wind, the reports sounded hollow and farther off than they actually were; still, Caleb was sure they could be clearly heard from the ranch yard. He sighted the crosshairs “dead-center” on old Ezra’s chest as the target remained sleeping, sleeping in the porch rocking chair, slouched back, slumped down with his head tilted forward, his chin on his chest.

A half-pound hunk of lead in that wind might drift two up to two inches to Caleb’s right, give or take a half inch, at most, either way. Allowing that consideration, Caleb then adjusted the point-of-aim an inch and a half left of dead center, trusting his experience that it was correct.

Caleb took a slightly deeper than normal breath, exhaled half of it, settled the sight on the target’s chest and began applying steady finger-pressure against the crisp trigger. Crack!

A cloud of grey-white smoke very briefly clouded the scope field-of-view but was quickly dissipated by the brisk wind gusts. As the visual perspective cleared, Caleb got a look at Ezra.

A slight smile hinted the shooter’s satisfaction as he observed the deceased Ezra van Gangen, pioneer, frontiersman, Indian fighter, rancher, cattle baron, town-founder, builder, businessman, husband, father and boss of men and enterprises, a man of ruthless reputation, owner of a fortune in ranchland and stock holdings, vast real estate tracts, an enviable, an enormous ranch and a money fortune to rival most king’s, still seated on his front porch in a rocking chair, seemingly sleeping, slightly slumped against the backrest, a crimson stain spread across his shirt.

The previously presumed perniciously pathetic potentate of the prairie was patently plotted.

“The ‘King’ is dead! Long live the King!” Entered Caleb’s mind as a vacant thought.

He ejected the spent brass casing, catching it, not wanting to leave evidence, he then secured it in a shirt pocket, then he inserted a fresh metallic live cartridge into the rifle’s chamber, just in case he needed another round, should any ranch hand come his way. None did so.

A quick, but careful, survey of the ranch grounds through the Sharps rifle telescope revealed the hands busy gathering tools and running for the bunkhouse. Only eight, or so, of the crew were on hand at the time as most were out on the range gathering Ezra’s cattle; they would weather the storm sheltered as best they could find cover in the open, mostly hugging the lee side of steep slopes or among sparse tree thickets hunkered down in their rain slickers to wait it out.

Two of the hands stopped at the bunkhouse door as the rain began to fall with a vengeance; they pointed in the direction of where brother Rob had been when he fired his six shots; the pair exchanged a few words, each shaking his head, one shrugging; both quickly entered through the door which closed behind them. The ranch yard had been vacated within a few minutes. Caleb smiled and relaxed, somewhat; it seemed that there would be no immediate pursuit. The rain gained momentum in its intensity; they might not find Ezra’s dead body for hours.

By then, Rob and his deadly shooter-brother would be many miles far removed from the area with just one more job to do.; hopefully, fully completed by noon, tomorrow. That, would wait!

Caleb gathered up his heavy Sharps rifle. He replaced his hat on plastered-down hair as rain pounded with a fury. Then, throwing caution to the wind, literally, he rose and turned to run down the slope toward his picketed horse; once there, he secured the Sharps in its carrying case; he wanted to dry it thoroughly and oil it good, but rain precluded any such foolish notions; he’d find time to do the job right and tidy, later. Rob should be along in about ten minutes, probably, less. He intended to be ready to ride like the devil when Rob arrived; the kid had done Good!

“Did you get him?” Bow-leg Rob queried as he came to a sliding halt beside Caleb.

Through the pelting deluge, Caleb responded, almost yelling to be heard over the roar of the torrent. “Yeah. We’re done here; so is old Ezra van Gangen. For good!” He allowed a smile.

“Let’s make quick tracks out-a here,” Bow-leg declared. “They might be coming!”

Caleb grabbed his kid brother’s reins. “Take it easy, Rob,” he ordered, “we got time. Those boys took cover in the bunkhouse soon as the storm hit; about when you started firing. I think they heard your pistol shots, at least, the very first one or two. They didn’t seem to notice my cannon going off.” He laughed, thinking the declaration a joke since the Sharps was so loud.

“That cayuse of yours needs a breather.” Caleb warned. “We’ll just walk along for a while.”

They rode for an hour through the terrific thunderstorm often checking their back trail; there was no sign of pursuit. It was doubtful anyone else was even out gallivanting around the prairie; also, Caleb surmised, offering his assumption to Rob, they probably hadn’t even found Ezra, yet.

Another half hour passed with the boys making progress toward the river as they veered south so as to come up on the stream about ten miles well-south of the town of Van Gangenburg; the storm began to relent, slowly. By the time they reached the river bank in a little over another hour, they expected that the afternoon sun would be blazing.

They could have been: Meteorologists! Just as imagined, the rain ceased and the sky cleared.

Back at the ranch, the storm raged for a full hour, then seemed to relent in an effort to give up its fury and move on. But, after an indecisive half hour, nature reinvigorated the storm’s tirade and she howled brimstone and Hell-fire for anther forty-five minutes. The cowboys didn’t mind the work reprieve, they built a toasty fire, brewed coffee, some rolled smokes and five of them gathered a poker game of five card stud; life seemed to be treating them pretty good. As soon as the spring fury was past, they’d gather dry wood and re-start the branding fire, heat the irons and pick up right where they had left off. In the end, the slight delay would matter little, if any.

An hour before dusk, the Texas-“gang”, as the pair of killers had branded themselves in a bravado-show of self-aggrandizement horse-play inexperienced indulgence, lounged around a cozy campfire secreted in thick river willows half-budded with spring greenery. They sat on their slickers to ward off the cold mud of the wet ground not wanting to dirty their freshly donned pants and shirts. Their previously worn garments hung on branches slightly down wind of the toasty fire where they dried in the heat of the blaze; they’d smell a mite “smoke-y” in flavor, but the “gang” wouldn’t notice; they might even find opportunity to wash the clothes somewhere along their coming journey down the river while headed to Texas and the Brazos River country.

“You think somebody might have found old Ezra’s body, by now?” Queried Bow-leg Rob.

Caleb sipped at his steaming cup of hot brew, nodding. “Likely.” He opined.

Since the shooting, the elder brother had become noticeably reticent growing even more quiet than usual. Rob figured that killing another human being could easily cause a man to reflect on what he had done and what it all might mean, about himself. It sure would bother Rob, himself.

“Ya know, Caleb,” Rob began, “we done the right thing. Curly deserved vengeance.”

Caleb remained stoic; he simply nodded, obviously lost in private thoughts.

Finally, he eyed brother Rob, smiling, acknowledging the boy’s intended help for him.

“Yeah, kid.” Caleb said, “We sure enough got revenge on that old man for Curly.

“Get some sleep, Rob,” he advised, adding, “either tonight, or, first thing in the morning, they’ll send somebody into town to get the sheriff; nobody takes murder lightly.
“He’ll rush out to the ranch, listen to the story of the hands who were there. They’ll spend some time speculating on who might the shooter be; they won’t arrive at no conclusions worth spit ’cause there ain’t no clues as to who done it.

“Oh! That law dog will ride out to the ridge where them boys heard some shots, look around, a bit, make some guesses he can’t substantiate, then, he’ll give up. That storm erased any trace.”

Caleb sipped at his cup, shifted his weight on a cramped elbow, then, looked at Rob.

“You did real good, today, kid. I’m proud of you.” He bragged on his kid brother who smiled.

Caleb sobered. “Kid,” he began, seriousness in his tone, “I figure that the sheriff will be along the trail up yonder at the south crossing of the river any time from noon, on, tomorrow. We’ll be ready for him when he shows.” His eyes took a “far-off” look. “It’ll be his last ride---forever…”

Rob listened intently as brother Caleb laid out the plan; the kid could envision it in his head.

By the time an orange-yellow bright glow from the edge of the morning sun-orb kissed a thin line of grey clouds on the eastern horizon in a sky quickly adopting azure blue as the color of the day, the “Texas-gang” had munched a Spartan breakfast of “short-sword” warmed biscuits, hardtack jerky and strong, hot coffee; they had rolled and packed their dried smoke-embedded clothes, now dried, retrieved from the sapling limbs. Caleb rechecked his Sharps, making sure that he had thoroughly dried the weapon and oiled it properly the evening before after they had set up camp; just for good measure, he tenderly rubbed the metal parts, once more, with an oil cloth. Rob clean his six-gun, then, carefully replaced the cartridges with fresh ammunition.

They curried the horses, good, and picketed them in fresh, lush, green prairie grass to forage for an hour or so; they would let their mounts drink a little water about mid-morning, then, again just before they rode out to the north to intercept the sheriff at the Van Gangenburg river crossing. If everything went well, the “Texas-gang” would earn another “notch”, that very day.