Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book

Slim smiled in return, remembering. “Sure did!” He exclaimed. “I need to get to town a lot more often than I do; a man can forget how pleasant a lady’s company can be. Down-right comforting; it is.” Then, he seemed to remember something else of importance.

He patted his pants’ pocket, “’Course, those gals are right hard on a man’s cash hoard!”

He turned his pockets inside-out, showing them to be empty; he gave a silly grin and shrugged. “I reckon it was well worth the cost?” He questioned his decisions of last night.

“Well! Damn! Slim!” Adrian declared. “I’m right sorry about that. I told ole Barney to give you whatever you wanted for as long as you wanted to stay; guess he didn’t figure I meant the gals, too. Well, we’ll drop on over there and get your cash back for you from ole Barney.”

Slim panicked. “Oh! That ain’t necessary, Sheriff.” Slim subtly begged. “Hell! He probably ain’t even there; I doubt if the place is open, this early.” He did not want to seem a vagabond.

Adrian smiled, kindly, reaching into his own pocket. “Don’t worry none about it, Slim.”

Pulling a healthy wad of greenback-bills from his own pocket, he peeled off two sawbucks and handed them to the cowboy. “Here, Slim. This should cover your losses; I’ll collect from Barney.” Then, he laughed, “Hell! I ought to charge him double for causing all the trouble.

Slim eyed the twenty dollars, his eyes widened. “Gee! Sheriff! It weren’t near this much!?”

Adrian waved a vacant hand, “Don’t worry about it, none, Slim. Glad you had a good time!”

The good sheriff spent fifteen minutes shuffling law-business papers around on his desk and fishing around in the drawers, searching for some item, or another. Slim had three cups of coffee.

Finally, just after eight o’clock, they approached the hotel, on foot. Adrian told Slim to go on in and order them some breakfast, that the clerk would know what Adrian wanted and for Slim to choose whatever he desired; the sheriff passed on by, headed for the livery.

“Horsehide!” Adrian called; the hostler stuck his head out the loft window hole.

“You don’t have to yell, Sheriff,” he groused, “I ain’t deaf---yet. What is it?”

“Get my horse curried an tacked-up; that one that came in last night, too. I’ll be back.”

With that curt order to Horsehide, Adrian turned on his heel and re-joined Slim at the hotel.

Time marches on! It waits for no man! Time is the very definition of: Inexorable! C’est la vie!

The old wall clock in the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon ticked off another second; then, again…

The little hand reached longingly for the “10”-call as its “big” brother hugged the “9”-spot.

Slim and Sheriff Adrian mounted at the livery and turned east toward the river; they had not made it out of town by nine, as Adrian had surmised, but, they managed to get across the river by ten. Not too bad a compromise; anyway, “time” was a luxury in those parts, in those days.

Slim paled as Ole Tom stepped into the current following close behind the lawman; the cowboy swallowed, hard, and made a wry face, remembering the near-drowning his “trusty” steed had given him to experience the night before. Damn! Stupid horse!

This time, Slim gave his mount his head, letting the cayuse pick his way across the torrent; Ole Tom simply got on the sheriff’s horse’s tail and followed along. When Ole Tom slipped a mite on the muddy river bed, Slim “yelped” like a scalded dog; Adrian looked back; Slim smiled.

Safely on the other side, high and dry on the bank, and, not drowned, Slim let out a long breath; he could breathe---again…and, still! He reached for his canteen which he had just filled with fresh well water at the livery before setting out. Damn! Sure felt good on his parched throat.

Adrian made a cursory inspection twenty yards up and down the river bank checking for any fresh prints; there were none. Of course, the storm overnight might have wiped them out. Hmm!?

“Don’t see no recent activity along here, Slim,” Adrian allowed to his sidekick. Slim nodded.

Turning directly east, the sheriff took the lead expecting to arrive at the ranch around lunch time. Once there, he’d enjoy some fine food and then have a look around to investigate the shooting. He already had a pretty good suspicion of the culprits; still, he needed proof.

On the two hour ride, neither rider had much to say; Slim drained his canteen the first hour.

While the sheriff and his outrider had crossed the river and Adrian had given a passing search of the river bank for any recent activity, unseen to that pair and a little over a mile to their south, another couple of would-be “hunters” observed the first pair activity, until they rode off, from the seclusion of the thick stand willow trees growing wild along the swiftly flowing stream.

“That’ll be the law dog and one of the ranch hands sent in to fetch him,” Caleb allowed.

Bow-leg Rob nodded agreement with the conclusion. “Sure had Adrian’s ‘round’ build.”

They watched the distant pair climb the slope headed east, toward the ranch, from the river bank; neither of the onward travelers gave even a scant look in the direction of the spies. In five minutes, the eastbound boys disappeared over the crest of the rise. Caleb noticeably relaxed.

“They got two hours to the ranch; should get there around noon, just in time to eat. From the looks of the size of that lawman, he’ll indulge in the lunch meal, for sure. Rob repeated his nod.

“We’ll sit tight, right here.” Declared Caleb. “We can chance a small fire.” He shivered. “Chilly! This morning.” He checked the sky; clear and bright after the storm earlier in the day.

Hunkered around a cozy, but, somewhat smallish, campfire leaning against their saddles, the boys sipped hot coffee and munched on jerky and mini-sword warmed biscuits; their mounts were tethered nearby, secluded within the thickness of the willows. Handy for escape, if need be.

“We’ll wait for that sheriff to return; suspect it’ll be around mid-afternoon; three, or so.” Caleb surmised, laying out the plan he had in mind. He took a bite of hot biscuit and then, a sip of the hot brew and chewed thoughtfully.

Swallowing, he went on. “Here’s how I reckon we’ll lure that law-dog into our snare; it’ll be the last decision he’ll make of his own accord. By God!” He nodded as an exclamation point.

Rob listened, intently. He would be glad when the whole mess was done and over; Rob did not enjoy the planning like Caleb seemed to; he especially detested the “execution” of the plan.

A rough night’s sleep had haunted the young man. He had time to think about old Ezra lying dead at his ranch house, ambushed from long range; he never had a chance. Oh! True enough! The old scoundrel deserved to die; but, even Curly had a chance; he still had his big Bowie knife.

Even Jeb Frazier had agreed the shooting of Curly could be determined to be self-defense.

“But,” Bow-leg tried to reason himself out of his doubt and guilt, silently, thinking, “I found ole Jeb’s dead body two days ride from right here, shot in the back, washed up on a sandbar with that blanket wrapped in a tangle around his head.” He involuntarily shook his own head as he remembered the sight of his friends bleached face when Rob had uncovered Jeb, a sickening, pathetic, horrible picture he would never forget. He sobered, pushing any encroaching shades of guilt, aside. “Adrian deserved to die!” He resolve. “In for a penny; in for a pound!”

Caleb observed his kid half-brother, figuring the boy’s internal dilemma. Killing a man was a  hard thing to do---and…certainly, to live with, afterward. Forever! He “read” Rob’s decision.

“Not much doubt he’ll come back on this same trail; no need for him not to.” Caleb opined.

He pulled his saddle bags from where they lay beside his position.

“We’re going to watch for the good sheriff from that ridge they crossed yonder when the disappeared. Rob, you’re going to be on that ridge---and…you are going to make sure he sees you.” Rob’s eyes widened and he started to object; Caleb raised his hand to “hush” his coming protest. He had a slight smile on his face; his eyes sparkled.

“Don’t worry! Rob.” Caleb assured the young man. “Just hear me out. I know exactly what I’m doing. And, you’ll be at least a mile away from him when he first sights you..

“I want you to ride over there about the time three o’clock rolls round, directly east of our position, here. Keep down below the crest so that you can see over it; he won’t notice just your head sticking up at that distance. Even if he happens to sight you, he won’t know who you are; but, you’re going to make sure that he sees you; hopefully, he will even recognize you.”

This time Rob voiced his concern. “Are you nuts? Caleb?” He nearly shouted, sitting up, so excited at the revelation that he began choking on a piece of tasty biscuit. His eyes blinked.

“Take a good drink of that coffee, Rob.” Caleb advised. Like I said, ‘Hear me out’.”

“Listen. That lawman saw me ride in early the other morning; he had no idea who I was, but, since then, a few days have passed and that sheriff is like every other law dog—they never forget and they never quit asking questions when anything seems out of kilter.

‘Sooner, or later, that there sheriff is going to come to the conclusion that I am probably the one who took care of old Ezra; only stands to reason, especially after he visits the ranch and figures out how it happened.” He paused to bite his biscuit and sip more coffee.

“I know he noticed my rifle bag when I rode in that day.” He allowed a wry chuckle. “Hell! He’d have to be blind and asleep, at the same time to miss it. Damn! The luck! He just happened to be out front of his office when I rode by.” He shrugged, resigned to the ways of fickle fate.

“Anyway, I would have taken notice of such a valise as that. Of course, at that time, he couldn’t have had no idea what it all meant. By now, he’s getting pretty close to the truth of it.”

“You mean you think he knows who we are?” Rob interrupted, incredulous.

Caleb shook his head. “That’d be a far reach. I doubt that he could piece us together. Hell! Far as I know, he don’t even know that I exist, much less, that you and I are brothers.

“’Course, he could be just smart enough to think that you are looking for revenge against old Ezra for killing Curly? I wouldn’t rule that out. And, if that’s right, my relationship to you would be irrelevant, for sure. You could do the deed yourself, or, hire a gunman to do the job. Since he definitely saw me and my little package that morning, he could figure I’m the hired gun.”

Rob absorbed Caleb’s reasoning, agreeing with his logic. “So? Why do I have to let him see me?” Bow-leg was highly troubled by that conclusion, still looking for a way out of doing it.

“If you’ll let me finish, without interrupting me every minute, I’ll fill you in on the plan.”

Caleb didn’t mean to be impatient with his kid brother, but, he wanted to get the tale, told.

‘He’ll be way too far to recognize you, for sure. As soon as you’re sure he sees you,” Caleb paused, thinking. Then, “Be a good idea for you to ride right up on the crest of that ridge; that way he can’t possibly miss you. Soon as you can see, for sure, that he eyed you, turn that horse of yours and hightail it down the slope. There’s no doubt he’ll pursue you; no question about it.”

Bow-leg Rob wondered why Caleb wanted the sheriff to chase him, but, he held his tongue.

Caleb read the young man’s mind; he smiled; Rob was a good kid, and, he learned---Fast!

“I want that sheriff hot on your trail; you’re going to lead him right to me. Into our trap!”

Caleb paused, smiling broadly, staring at brother Rob who offered a questioning look in reply.

“I’ll be waiting in the willows by the river…” Caleb disclosed.

“And, you’ll shoot him, dead!?” Rob tried to conclude Caleb’s unfinished sentence. He smiled, expectantly. Instead of Caleb agreeing, he frowned, confusing his kid brother.

“No!” Caleb decreed with finality, shaking his head at the uncalled for interruption---again.

“You’ll ride right up to the willows where I’ll be waiting. When you get there---Stop!

“The sheriff will still be a good distance behind you; I’ tell you when he gets near. When I say ‘Now!’, raise your hands in the air like you are surrendering. Then, keeping your right hand extended above your head, rein your horse around so you are facing the lawman; do that part real slow and easy. When you are face to face with him, raise your left hand, again.

“He should be somewhat surprised to recognize you; he’ll be feeling real proud and trying to convince himself that he knew it was you behind all this, all the time. Of course, we know that he has been guessing---mostly, anyway. Make sure you keep from getting between me and him.

“He’ll probably tell you to drop your gun; that’s when I’ll call out from the brush to reveal myself and get the drop on him.”

“Then, you’ll shoot him for murdering Curly and Jeb Frazier?” Bow-leg Rob chimed in.

Caleb shook his head. “No! I ain’t planning to shoot nobody.”

He smiled, gently patting his leather saddle bags. “I got a better send-off for our ‘Mr. Sheriff-man’. Something that he’ll get a big ‘bang’ out of; a little surprise sending him to---Hell!”

Rob was totally confused; he shook his head, trying to make sense of Caleb’s words.

Before he could make inquiries of brother Caleb, the older sibling offered some explanation.

“Just go along with whatever I say or do, Rob. Once we got him disarmed and under control, he’ll pretty much have to do anything we demand of him. You’ll see quite a show. Guaranteed!”

“But…” Bow-leg Rob began, not understanding anymore of the plan after Caleb had talked.

“Just follow my lead.” Caleb reiterated, cutting off Rob’s intention to gather additional information; he was, naturally, curious. Caleb gave a single nod indicating the matter was closed.

The pair lounged around until Caleb figured it was getting close enough to the time for Sheriff Adrian to come riding along on his way back to town; he sent Rob on his way; making sure the young man had a good fix on where he was to lead the lawman. Rob had tried to question Caleb some more about the plan during the respite before he finally had to ride off, all to no avail.

Sheriff Adrian van Gangen had arrived at the ranch just as the hands were finishing up their lunch under the shade tree in the front yard of the ranch house; several had already returned to the tasks of branding and separating the cattle into various herds for shipping, breeding and range stock to be gathered at next fall’s round-up where they would repeat the never-ending process, yet once more. A couple of the hands were malingering for another cup of hot coffee, just one more piece of sweet cake or to enjoy a roll-your-own cigarette and to share some news or other with whomever might offer a friendly ear; that they had all heard the stories, bragging’s and complaining’s many times before, did not seem to slow down the gossip, even a little bit. When co-worker ranch hand Slim and Sheriff Adrian rode up, those still present greeted the men who stepped down. Before Adrian could ask if they had left any food for himself, or Slim, the cook came to the front porch with two platters plum full of hot vittles; he had seen them riding in.

Thanking the cook for his kindness and attention, the two new-arrivals dug in; fully half the food on the sheriff’s large plate had disappeared before he began his inquiry. When he opted to begin asking questions, one of the hands suggested, “Mr. Ezra is laid out in his bedroom.”

Adrian finished his meal without plunging into his investigation with a bunch of questions.

Out of respect, he excused himself from the crew which had grown to nearly all the men, save those already returned to the range or which had not come in for the noon lunch as the round-up was now taking the outriders far and wide in search of the winter herd. Adrian went inside.

After about ten minutes, the sheriff returned to the porch; the hands had resumed their duties.

Adrian moseyed over to the branding fire where four of the crew worked on bringing down a big bull, trying their best to subdue the brute and get a hot branding iron on his thick hide.

The sheriff waited until they had accomplished their tortuous task and released the animal which ran off bucking and kicking, letting the men know he did not appreciate their efforts.

“How come that critter wasn’t branded last fall at round-up?” Adrian inquired. “He’s  got to be a thousand mean pounds, if he’s five hundred.”

Jake, the eldest of the four hands present, laughed. “Mr. Adrian,” he smiled, “that ‘baby’ is last fall’s calf. He was apparently born after the herd was turned loose on the range after fall round-up.” He shook his head. “We grow ’em big, here abouts,” He added, proudly.

The sheriff gave a low whistle. “I’s sure agree that you do!” He offered I an admiring tone.

A horseman dragged another beef up to the fire; two men wrestled the heifer to the ground.

“When you boys get done with that critter, maybe I could interrupt your chore with a few questions about Ezra’s demise?” Adrian asked, trying to be polite.

The hands were only too eager to be of service to the law. Nobody had seen anything of the shooting. A big storm was hitting and the hands were retreating to the shelter of the bunkhouse just as it started. Two of the men had heard what sounded like pistol shots off to the southeast right as they were entering the safety of the bunkhouse, but, one of the men only heard one shot; the other thought he made out two, and, possibly, even a third; but, they seemed far off and neither could be absolutely sure of any of it. None heard the shot that had, apparently, got Ezra.

Sheriff Adrian thanked the men for their time, and, on behalf of himself and Hyatt, for their years of loyalty to Ezra. He allowed that they were, to a man, good men. Soon he rode out to the south east; what he might find or discover there, he had no idea. Seemed, so far, that the shooting had been well-planned. The pistol shots had probably been a diversionary tactic to distract any would-be witnesses from paying much attention to the killing shot. It delayed the discovery.

“It had been a good plan!” He thought. Then nodded approval. “Well! It had worked!”

Considering the way things worked out, the storm seemed to be a fortuitous “freak” accident that just happened to occur at the right time to allow the perpetrators to pull off their little crime without witnesses and without leaving behind any evidence. Adrian had visited the ridge where the hands had suspected the pistol shots had originated; he found---Nothing! Hadn’t expected to.

He had observed the surrounding prairie from the front porch of the ranch house before he mounted up to check out the crest of the coolie where the pistol shots the men “thought” they had heard supposedly came from. The only evident “Hiding” place for an ambush of old Ezra sitting on the porch was a thin line of scrub brush about two hundred and fifty yards to the southeast.

“A hell of a long shot? Not---“ he reasoned, “…for a gun hand with a long barreled rifle.” He mused. “Might be one of them fancy miracle shooting contraptions with a long-tube telescope?”

As Adrian rode to the crest of the swale where the hands suspected the pistol shots had come from. Reflecting on the scrub brush line and considering the type of rifle it would require to take such a chance, he suddenly recalled that he had actually seen one such weapon, previously. Years earlier, a gun peddler had come through his town and put on an exhibition of his shooting prowess; the man had been---Good! One of his “tricks” was to shoot a silver dollar at two hundred yards. He had put a huge hole in it---Dead center! Hmm!?

That he had been unable to identify the stranger with the long case that early morning, bothered Adrian. “If” he had just gone on down to the livery, right away? Oh! Well! C’st la vie!

His examination of both the ridge crest and the scrub brush line revealed, as suspected: Nothing! The torrential rain of that fateful morning and the rain last night had erased any clues. He dismounted and walked around the area in each place, but, could find not even a boot print , or horse track; such careful assassins were sure to take any empty cartridges with them, too. These were capable men. And, they definitely were neither---Careless! Or…Stupid!

“I’ll have to have a heap of ‘Luck’ if I’m going to catch these killers; they probably already fled the territory. Might never hear anything of them, again.  Doubt if I’ll ever see hide nor hair!”

The Good Sheriff had spent a couple of hours searching the two areas of interest, without a single clue. He mopped his brow and took a long draw on his canteen. Hot day for so early.

Adrian took a gander at the tortuous sun. “Must be getting on toward three-thirty.” He considered. “To Hell! With this. Ain’t nothing here abouts. Best head for home---and…upper.

 He shrugged and reined the horse in the direction of Van Gangenburg. “Should be home close to dark, or, just after. Damn! Shouldn’t have wasted so much time and effort on a lost cause.” He mused, admonishing himself for his lapse in keeping things in perspective. Damn!

Bow-leg Rob reached for his canteen for the tenth time since leaving the river and Caleb; the water contents was getting low, below a quarter of the interior area sloshed around when he shook it. Better slow it down, at least, a little. “Damn! I hope that lawman comes along, soon!”

He checked the location of the sun in a cerulean sky vacant any clouds, whatsoever. Hot!

Upon arriving at his destination to wait on the arrival of the sheriff returning from the Van Gangen ranch, Rob had checked his back trail. Able to clearly see the huge single maple tree growing amongst the myriad willow trees, his “mark” to aim for to rejoin Caleb to spring the “trap” when he rode like-the-devil for the river once Sheriff Adrian caught sight of him and took out chasing him.

The second thing he checked, which was absolutely necessary because without “it”, the second part became meaningless. Bow-leg Rob peered toward the area of the prairie where the sheriff should come through; he wanted to be able to see the rider at least a mile out. His stopping point had turned out to be an excellent choice, fulfilling both objectives. Now? Wait!

When what Rob judged to be getting on toward five o’clock, he began to question the situation at hand. Caleb had expected the law dog back in the area by three; four, at the latest. Now, he was at least an hour late. He wondered if he should retreat to join Caleb; his older and wiser half-brother had not instructed Rob on what to do if the sheriff failed to show. Decisions!?

Rob found himself reaching for his diminishing water canteen; he stopped his errant hand.

“Oh! Hell! I’ll give it another half hour, or so. Then, it’ll be getting dark; Ill mosey on back.”

No sooner than Rob had resolved to stick it out until dark, he glanced up to catch distant movement on the swale directly in front of him. The horse rider was better than a mile off; Rob might have missed him in the approaching dusk had it not been for the setting sun quite low on the horizon, highlighting the figure moving steadily in his direction. Rob smiled and got ready.

Riding up on the ridge, Rob wondered if the sheriff would even notice him in the fading light.

He needed to have worried. As soon as he rose upon the crest of the ridge, the advancing silhouette paused; Rob could feel the man’s eyes on him. Rob hesitated, feigning a hopeful charade that the far off rider would think that Rob had just sighted the coming man who watched.

The lawman started slowly forward; Rob closely watched his progress. He intended to wait until the sheriff was, what Rob gauged to be a mile. Adrian made up Rob’s mind for him as the sheriff nudged his cayuse into an extended trot moving directly at him. Rob turned tail and trotted down the slope, appearing, he hoped, to be fleeing the law dog’s attention.

As Rob fled his “detection’ by the sheriff, he managed a quick look over his shoulder at the man now in pursuit; his nemesis had kicked his mount into a flat-out gallop. He waved his hat toward Caleb intending to give him a “head’s-up” that the plan was, so far, working. Whether or not Caleb could see the warning in the fading light, Rob could not know, for sure, either way. He worried what the coming darkness might do to their plan; would it be too dark for success?

Caleb peered intently toward half-brother Rob when the young man turned to ride hard toward him; he had climbed into the maple tree for a better view. Rob had closed the distance to a half mile; he would arrive, on-site, in about three to four minutes. Climbing down, he got set.

Rob kept the sanctuary of the maple tree direct in his sights as he thundered across the prairie.

Perring over his should at a flat out gallop, he spied Sheriff Adrian just reaching the crest Rob had fled just a few precious minutes prior. Rob’s horse was laboring from the intense exertion of the run; the law dog had twice the distance to cover. His nag had to be totally winded.

At a quarter mile to the rendezvous point with Caleb at the waiting willows surrounding the giant hardwood, Rob reined up and turned his horse to face his pursuer. He waited as his faithful horse breathed heavy labor; Rob would allow the nag to blow until Adrian got within a quarter mile. Then, he’d turn and trot toward the maple. But, it was getting well-on toward dark as the old sun had set, the last quadrant of its orb descending the horizon. Only fifteen minutes left.

Sheriff Adrian couldn’t believe his luck. Finally! A break for him. Spotting the lone rider on the crest ahead of him had been a pleasant surprise and a godsend. When the rider turned to flee in a hurry, the lawman was convinced that he had “stumbled” into his quarry. He spurred his nag.

 By the rime Adrian reached the spot on the crest where he had first spotted the horseman, the rider had managed to stay a good half mile ahead of him. The sheriff’s horse was broad chested and deep of wind; he pushed the cayuse harder even though his breathing was quite labored.

“Well Hell! I can always get another horse.” He thought. “I want to catch that outlaw.”

The rider ahead of him was slowing; his horse must have “give-out”; the man turned to face the pursuing lawman. He knew that the rider would never make the river before he caught up.

When Adrian had closed the distance between them to a quarter mile, or so, the fleeing man turned toward the river, once more, and totted ahead. At least, he had stopped galloping.

Rob slowed his tired mount to a walk; Adrian was only a hundred yards behind, now trotting.

Caleb moved forward, closer to the edge of the willows, away from the river bank and toward the prairie but still well-concealed in the brushy trees; he got his big Sharps ready for use.

Rob spotted Caleb’s silhouette in the thick copse of willow trees directly in front of the maple. He came to a complete stop; he could hear the labored breathing of the horse coming up behind him. Rob raised his hands and waited for Sheriff Adrian’s order to surrender. It didn’t take long.

“Hold it! Right there! Mister!” Came the law dog’s command. “Turn around! Real slow-like!”

Rob raised his hands, then, while with his left, carefully reined his mount around.

Adrian’s eyes widened when he recognized Bow-leg Rob Pelham. “Well! I’ll be damned!”

“Howdy! Sheriff Adrian van Gangen.” Rob greeted, smiling, seeming almost: Joyous!

“Drop that gun, Rob.” Came Adrian’s second command. He waved his pistol. “Do it, now!”

Rob didn’t move; suddenly, Sheriff Adrian remembered that the kid had a partner. Too late!

A cannon roared and reverberated in the lawman’s ears as his gun arm went limp, the violent force of the horrendous impact ripped his gun from his hand. Screaming pain nearly caused the sheriff to pass out. The last thing he saw was Bow-leg Rob smiling broadly at him; then, he fell.

The unbearable pain in his right shoulder stabbed like a razor-honed dagger when he hit the hard ground. Somehow, he managed a complaining thought that even with all the recent rains, they had not managed to soften the rock-hard dirt of the prairie---very much.

Absorbing the burning pain, he concluded, redundantly: Not nearly enough! He blacked out.

By the time the Good Sheriff regained consciousness, his mount had managed to regain its breath and saunter off to the river’s edge to drink its fill. Rob had led his own mount to the stream and allowed it to have a refreshing drink, too. He collected up both horses, unbridled and haltered the pair and tied them to willow saplings with plenty of fresh prairie grass underfoot.

Adrian’s head swam as he regained consciousness; his right shoulder hurt like Hell! He was bleeding badly. Bow-leg Rob and his partner stood near-by, peering at their captured victim.

“How about a drink?” Adrian inquired. He looked down at his injury. “And, a big bandage?”

Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book

As the violent thunderstorm finally wound down at the Van Gangen ranch, the bunkhouse boys reluctantly terminated the poker game. A few grabbed the last of the thick, black coffee remnants, filling their cups, then hurriedly swallowing the lukewarm “sludge”. On a working cattle ranch, a little rain did not halt the routine, and, never-ending, tedium of chores.

Slogging through the mud, they gathered fresh, dry wood from under the “winter” storage shed, just a lean-to extending the bunkhouse where wood logs were stored for handy use; the hands made short work of rekindling the branding fire, they laid now-cold irons in the flames.

Slowly, but, efficiently, the effort of round-up got back on track; the cowboys were hazing the cattle, separating the critters into smaller groups of sorting determination, roping one individual animal after another to be “cajoled” by pushing, or, even, dragging, each to the branding fire.

Within a half hour of actually beginning the work, they had branded eight of the herd; the pace would increase once the flow of a rhythm, of sorts, was reestablished. A half mile northeast of the men clustered around the branding fire, three riders hazed a dozen head toward the ranch.

Just as the outriders headed their wards into a holding pen to await their turn under the hot iron, the activity abruptly halted when a blood-curdling scream emanating from the ranch house front porch area reached the collective ears of the busy hands engaged in the branding process; they recognized the female voice-of-alarm as that of the house maid who worked for old Ezra.

Looking to one another in total confusion, the cowboys peered toward the porch area.

The house maid, Gertrude, stood before Ezra, seemingly sleeping in his rocking chair; the maid stood frozen, staring down at her boss while clutching her white apron hem to her bosom. She was wide-eyed; her complexion had paled to a ghostly white façade. The hands ran to her.

As the first of the cowboys reached the porch steps, they paused. It was patently obvious that Ezra van Gangen was dead; a pale pallor of grey-white death shading his face announced his demise; a crimson stain like a blooming rose spreading on his chest, staining his shirt, confirmed the obvious. Several of the men had made a passing, cursory observation of Ezra sitting there; their errant assumption was that the old man had come out after the storm to relax in the cool of the aftermath and had fallen asleep; none had given it a second thought.

While they removed the body to the house, laying the corpse on his bed and covering it with a blanket, the foreman, Will Evers, conscripted Slim, one of the ranch hands, to ride into town

 “Slim,” the foreman instructed, once you get there, look up Sheriff Adrian and inform him of Ezra’s death, explain that it clearly appears that the old man had been ambushed with a large caliber rifle and that the law needs to come out here, to the ranch, as soon as he can make it.”

Will Evers added that Slim was to take his time, that there was no rush in the matter---Now!.

Slim tended to be a man of “good” intentions though not always quick of delivery. By the time he had lazed around the bunkhouse, getting his “gear” together, first finding his always absent canteen hiding under his bunk wrapped in several dirty shirts the cowhand had vacantly discarded there, he took his time walking to the ranch yard well to refill the empty container, stopping several time for long minutes of telling the tale to any who would spare the time to listen of how foreman, Will Evers, had chosen him, Slim, for the important task of fetching the town sheriff to the ranch to catch whoever had dry-gulched old Ezra van Gangen; the five minute task took somewhat better than a full half hour. Slim was a born lollygagging procrastinator.

At long  last returning to the bunkhouse with a full canteen of spring-fresh well water, the hand sat on his bunk to contemplate what he ought to pack for his arduous journey, all the while, in serious deliberations, he sipped on the refreshing contents of his now-found canteen. By the time he had decided he would definitely need his rifle, half the liquid contents were gone.

Slim spent another half hour searching out his long gun, then trying his best to remove surface rust from the metal receiver and barrel since he had not bothered to clean the lever action weapon the last time he had used it. “Now? Just when was that?” Slim wondered, considering. “Oh! Yeah!” He finally decided. “Six long months ago, in the early fall when he and his cowboy buddy, ‘Rowdy’ Roger, had gone antelope hunting.” That the pair had ended up in the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon on the day of the hunt around mid-afternoon; he did not want to dwell on it, that is, until his memory settled on the cute little gal with the skimpy dress and big---Personality!

Recalling that delightful encounter brought on a pleasurable episode of more reminiscing; as another twenty minutes slipped away, Slim managed to drain the sweet well water from his canteen, necessitating yet another sojourn to the supply hole replete with the obligatory self-important telling of his coming trek into town to fetch Sheriff Adrian. He even managed to tell the same tale to two cowboys still digesting his recent, original narration of the adventure.

So, to make a long story, short---Yeah! Probably too late for that, now…ole Slim managed to vacate the ranch site just shy of four hours since being handed the important assignment. Well! He did have to round up his cayuse, hammer tight a loose shoe he had been reluctant to undertake, locate the nag’s blanket, saddle and bridle, load up his shiny rifle and freshly filled, for the second time, canteen, mount up, say “Good-bye!” to anyone close by, and, ride out.

And, to be “fair” Foreman Will Evers had told him to take his time; no rush.

A westward-bound afternoon sun shadowed a hinting of around six in the day by the time Slim sighted the south river crossing into Van Gangenburg. There, ole Slim dismounted, just to give his horse a needed rest. Hell! Himself, too. He took a draw on the canteen, surprised to find it nearly empty, once again. Damn! Slim held it above his head to inspect the bottom of the badly dented vessel searching for a hole in it through which had leaked the sweet water. Nothing!

Scratching his head full of thick, greasy, tangled, salt and pepper curly hair, he wondered, with a pained quizzical-look on his scrubby-beard face, completely confused. “It sure enough must have a hole in it,” he considered, in conclusion, “all the water is gone---again! Hmm!”

That Slim had stopped every fifteen minutes, or so, to gauge his progress and check his directions on the lonesome prairie, taking a drink each and every time, did not register with him.

Of course, too, the twelve-mile ride, in any, even imagined, semblance of a “direct” line, should have taken only a bit over two hours without pushing the horse too hard, at all. That ole Slim had managed to meander in every direction around the compass did not dawn on the daydreamer. He had covered at least an additional five miles in his wandering escapade, even following one coulee as it bent back around on itself in a full three-quarters circle; when he exited the long draw, the old sun had shifted its position in the sky to an implausible angle.

Its warm glow fell on Slim’s left cheek!? That just couldn’t be! In that quadrant of the sky, if it was right, the only possible conclusion would mean that he was headed back toward the ranch.

He shook his head, confused, trying his best to make sense of the non-sensical situation.

“Look-ee here, Ole Mr. Sun,” Slim addressed the bright sky as he peered toward the blinding yellow-gold orb, “How in the world did you manage to go and get yourself lost, like that?”

The confusing situation demanded another dismount while the cowboy sorted things out.

After a few deep pulls on the diminishing contents of his reliable canteen and a full twenty minutes of sitting in the shade of the shadow of his mount, he decided that he best turn to his left to get back on the right trail to town; even though it seemed the old sun was, somehow, mistaken, there did exist the slim chance that too long without water might have impaired the savvy cowboy’s impeccable sense of direction. Anyway, Damn! The horsed! It’s his fault!

As he remounted the patient steed which seemed, luckily, impervious to false human accusations, Slim slapped the animal on the neck in an aggravated manner.

“Damn! You! Ole Tom!” He cursed the poor, innocent horse. “Looks like you done got yourself lost; and, me, too!” He added, “From now on, you just let me do the direction-choosing! I am the only one betwixt the two of us that knows where we’re supposed to be going. Hear me!?” Feeling better, with that fiat proclaimed, Slim smiled; Ole Tom just moseyed on, silently..

Since Ole Tom offered no complaint in reply, Slim nodded his own, self-approval.

The “errant” sun was slipping fast into the western sky when Slim, at long last, sighted the river gleaming like an inviting silver thread laying just his side of the town of Van Gangenburg; the shadowed-silhouette of its dark-outlined buildings standing sentinel, close-by the river, and, a bit beyond it. His long sought destination was still three miles away; he’d barely make the town by dusk’s purple dimness. He wished he had a cool drink, but, the abused canteen was---empty!

Fording the rain-swollen river, Slim nearly got caught in a quicksand hollow hidden under the surface of the racing water; the strong current almost caused the horse to fall as it flailed around in the soft bottom trying to secure solid purchase which remained elusive.

The cowboy cursed the “stupid animal” as he spluttered a mouthful of muddy river water; the pair had only just barely averted disaster.

“Damn! You! Ole Tom!” Slim yelled, still choking, coughing and gagging on foul tasting flood water which threatened to drown one, or both, of them; Of course, Ole Tom could swim!

“You damn old idiot! Tom! You know I can’t swim a lick!”

That he had reined the horse into the hazard escaped Slim; the cayuse had better sense! Ah! The exacerbated life of a “dumb” subordinate!? C’est la vie!

Luckily, the swift current swept the horse and rider downstream enough that the cayuse found firm footing on the river bed; Slim straightened himself in the saddle as his mount exited the river torrent by climbing the bank on the western side of the powerful stream where he paused to give himself a good shake like a dog might do under similar circumstances. Slim felt---Sick!

Soaking wet and shivering from cold, and, freight, ole Slim gathered his reins, and, himself, as best he could muster and nudged Ole Tom forward toward the now dark town. His intention had been to go direct to the Sheriff’s office and hunt up Adrian, get the business-at-hand done and over with, then, retire to the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon for a cold beer. He rubbed his throat, dry, at least, on the inside, wishing he had, even, a single drop of water left to drink. He didn’t.

Slim rode past the livery stable; s lantern light glowed warmth and inviting comfort from within. The ranch boys would be setting down to supper, about then; his mouth watered. Damn!

Dripping wet from the swimming lesson Ole Tom had provided the nearly-drowned cowboy, Slim opted to find a place where he could take a bath and get some clean, dry clothes. Hell! It was already dark. Wasn’t much the sheriff could do, now, at least, not before tomorrow. And, offering excuses for his delay, he remembered that Evers had said “to take his time”. Slim rode on until he came to the saloon. Uh, oh! Decision time!? He considered it, then got a whiff of his “fish”-scent and glanced at his dripping attire. Damn! The luck! H groused, moving on.

The barber shop sat on down the Main street past the mansion of Hyatt van Gangen, the bank, the General Mercantile. The two businesses were long-closed for the day, their windows pitch-black. He mosey-ed past the Sheriff office on the opposite side of the street. There was a hotel between the livery and the lawman’s jailhouse, but, Slim had no money for such frivolities.

Riding on, he sighted the red, white and blue twists marking the barber shop; it, too, was dark.

“Am I ever going to have any ‘Good’ luck?” Slim pleaded, aloud. Ole Tom didn’t answer.

Then, like a god-send, there it was. A laundry showed light in its front window. Alleluia!

Slim reined ole Tom to the hitch rail out front, dismounted and went through the door.

A short, squat, funny sounding man with slanted eyes greeted Slim as a bell above the door jingled with the cowboy’s entry; Slim had a very difficult time understanding the proprietor.

Obviously, Slim’s disheveled, soaking wet appearance, along with a few intelligible words shared between the two, laid the groundwork for the cowboy to manage to achieve a sensible understanding that he wanted, and, needed, a bath and his clothes washed and dried.

The man had some sort of tight-fitting “cap” on top of his head; under it, hung a long woven braid of hair. Slim stared at the strange convention, eyes curious. He had seen a rodeo, once, down Omaha-way, when he had been a young sprout. They had a parade before the cowboying events got underway; a passel of pretty girls rode horses which had their tails braided in a fashion resembling the China-man standing before him, now.

The washer-man noticed Slim’s curiosity at his cue. He smiled, proudly.

“Ah!” The clerk smiled, broadly. “You like Wong Ling traditional ‘cue’?” He beamed.

Slim shook his head to jumble the “funny”-sounding words around inside his confused head so as to make some kind of intelligible sense of them.

Frowning,  said, “Sure! I like ’soup. ’Course. I ain’t never had no ‘Long-wing’ kind, a-fore.”

The China-man gave him a curious look; this time, it was his turn to shake his head.

“Ten cents!” The Chinese clerk demanded, firmly, holding forth his hand in demand for advance payment. Slim fished out a nickel from his wet pants’ pocket; the washer-man shook his head and demanded, thrusting the extended hand further toward the cowboy, “Ten cents! Now!”

Slim had no choice, so the deal was struck and ole Slim, reluctantly, ponied up another nickel.

“Might have been the best money I ever spent,” Slim confessed, later, observing the results of the ordeal while peering into a broken piece of mirror at his reflection, slicking back his near-dry hair with a comb missing more than a few of its teeth. He admired his fresh shave, too.

The Chinese man and his wife had obliged Slim’s needs, very nicely. He got the bath he dearly needed, complete with plenty of scented hot water poured over his head and body rinsing the strong soap away; Slim decided that he could get used to living like this. His filthy, smelly clothes, the woman had scrubbed pristine cleaned, dried over a hot fire used to heat water for their business, even placed his boots on iron rods over the coals so that they dried on the inside.

Even his hat had taken on a new-life! The man’s wife, at least, Slim assumed they were married, had sponged his soiled head adornment with a damp cloth and hung it to dry. Very nice!

When the “adventure” had been completed, Slim felt, and, looked, like a new man.

He mounted and rode Ole Tom down to the livery, roused old Horsehide and asked him to curry the cayuse, grain him good and feed him some alfalfa hay. These considerations, Slim did not have to pay for; the horse was part of the Van Gangen remuda and Ezra owned the livery. Well, at least, he used to own it; now, son Hyatt seemed to be the heir-apparent. The cowboy explained to Horsehide the killing of old Ezra as the reason for his venture into town in the middle of the week and at busy round-up time; the livery wrangler was shocked at the news. Slim chatted briefly with the hostler; soon he shuffled off, on foot, headed to the Sheriff’s office.

The route to his destination took Slim past the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon for the third time in less than two hours-time. Temptation! Beckoned---loudly, and…seductively.

Slim suffered in decision. He knew he had delayed his purposed-visit with the sheriff. Still, the lights of the saloon, only twenty feet distance, deliciously invited his attention; he clearly heard the call of the piano music and the sweet giggles and laughter of the pretty saloon gals. Slim paused, dead still in the middle of Main Street in the dark of night. Damn! The luck!

Shrugging, Slim finally decided to do the right thing: He continued on to see Sheriff Adrian, figuring that the saloon, the cold beer and the worm and friendly gals would still be there, later.

Stepping up onto the boardwalk before the Sheriff’s office, an errant thought struck Slim.

“What if Sheriff Adrian is so upset that he wants to return to the ranch tonight?” He gulped.

Standing before the heavy door to the jailhouse, Slim shook his head. That would be highly unlikely to happen. His own horse was plum wore-out; so was he and there was nothing that the lawman could accomplish in the dark of night. Slim knocked on the door and pushed it open.

The office was empty of humans; even the cells had no guests. Slim could---wait…but?

The closer to the saloon Slim got, the more intense the cacophony registered: Fun times!

His mouth was watering when he pushed through the batwings. Surprise! There sat Adrian!

Seated at a table, alone, facing the door Slim had just entered so as to be able to keep a wary eye on who came and went; smart. The lawman’s eyes were on Slim who gave Adrian a wave.

Walking up to the table, Slim greeted, “Evening! Sheriff! Just came from your office.”

Adrian motioned to a vacant chair at his table saying, “Slim. How are you? It’s been some time since I seen you in here.” He whistled. “Wow! You look like man who just got himself all gussied up. Spiffy!” He nodded, approval. Then, “Now? What can I do for you?”

“Aw! Shucks! Sheriff!” Slim mumbled, embarrassed. “Just had a bath, that’s all.” Then, he frowned, saying, conspiratorially, “Say? Sheriff? You have any idea what ‘Long Wing’ soup is?”

Adrian shrugged, confused. Then, he smiled. “Oh! You met our laundry man. ‘Wong Ling’!”

Now, Slim returned Adrian’s confused look. He politely smiled, but didn’t quite know why.

Taking the empty chair, Slim noticed the sheriff’s table fare, bacon strips, a thick slab of ham and three fried eggs presented on a white dinner plate; a mug half full of beer sat near it.

Slim’s stomach growled; Adrian laughed and called to the barkeep to bring another plate of the same food and a cold beer for his friend, Slim. That offer elicited a wide grin from Slim.

“Thanks, Adrian!” Slim expressed his gratitude. “Ain’t had nothing to eat since breakfast.”

The barkeep brought a fresh mug of beer; Slim licked his lips and took a long draw, emptying fully half the contents. “Food’ll be coming right up, sheriff,” the man said; Adrian nodded.

“Oh! Barney,” the sheriff added, “better bring us two more beers.” He laughed; Barney nodded saying, “Sure thing, Sheriff.”

Now that Slim’s throat had been lubricated with cold beer, he felt a little better; the food would be a definite boost. Remembering his assigned mission, he suddenly felt sick, again.

“Uh, Sheriff,” Slim began, reluctantly, “I got some bad news from out at the ranch.”

He cleared his throat as Adrian opined, “Bother Hyatt fire everybody and sell the place?”

Slim gave the lawman a curious look; he did not get the joke, if that’s what it was.

“Uh.  N-no!” He stammered, now confused and unsure of the sheriff’s meaning.

“Uh…” Slim faltered, “Mr. Ezra is dead!” He blurted out. “He got shot this morning.”

One of the bar girls brought Slim’s plate with steaming hot food; suddenly, the ranch hand had lost his appetite. So disconcerted was he that the lonesome cowboy hardly noticed the scantily-clad gal. Well? Almost! Telling Adrian the important news had not gone well, at all.

Slim waited, watching the sheriff for his reaction to the horrible news.

The sheriff stared at the man like he viewed something he did not understand. He sat silent, not moving at all; even his breathing had seemed to stop. Slim did not know what to do.

A myriad of thoughts flooded Sheriff Adrian’s mind: Ezra, Hyatt, Byrne. The ranch. The town. His own sheriff’s job. Suddenly, Bow-leg Rob and the stranger came to his mind. Damn!

“How’d it happen?” Adrian queried in a surprisingly calm voice, intently staring at Slim.

The cowboy was so nervous that he forgot about his half-finished beer and his hot food.

“Uh…” Slim stuttered, “…uh, he got shot---while sitting on the front porch.

“We was branding cattle---We had a us huge storm---nobody missed him---when the rain was over, the housekeeper found Mr. Ezra; she screamed---we all went running to the porch---he was just sitting there, in his chair---he was dead---shot---a big hole in his chest…”

Slim’s words trailed off. Then, he added, “Will Evers sent me in to fetch you to come out…”

He trailed off, again, wondering if he had left anything of importance out of his narrative.

Again, Slim waited, hoping for direction from Adrian as to what he should do, or say, next.

Adrian sat in absolute silence, deep in thought. Then, noticed Slim’s food getting cold.

“Eat!” He ordered, motioning with his hand toward the steaming plate of hot food in front of Slim who nodded and took a bite. With that taste of reality tempting his need to satiate a gnawing hunger, the range hand dug in with greedy abandon. A bar gal delivered the two fresh cold beers that the sheriff had ordered from Barney; just in time, as Slim drained his first glass.

As old Slim shoveled in the tasty vittles, Adrian considered the ramifications of the news.

Ezra was dead! That fact set a whole passel of events in motion. Hyatt had been taking more and more control of the ranch operations, the bank, the hotel, the land holdings. Hell! All of it.

He and Adrian had a “workable” enough relationship: They seldom talked or even ran into each other. Adrian never attended any of the soirees hosted by either Hyatt or Byrne, the latter of which actually threw ninety-nine per cent of the parties; the former could not have cared at all.

Adrian didn’t think his position as Sheriff would be in any jeopardy; Hyatt was hardly ever in town, anymore, always traveling around the countryside entertaining his perverted desires for wind, women and song. Seldom did he and Adrian even see each other in public; never, socially.

His job as Sheriff should go on just as it had for many years; if not, he’d just drift on.

Adrian smiled at that very possibility; he had enough “secret” stash to last him the rest of his days. Rosita was no longer of any interest to him. Hell! He might just go to San Francisco!

Slim had finished his supper meal of breakfast fare; he sat back and drained his second glass.

“Slim,” Adrian opened, having devised a plan and decided how to proceed, “we won’t head out to the ranch tonight; no use having one of the horses trip in a prairie dog hole and break a leg---or, worse…break one of our necks. Makes a lot more sense to get a good night’s sleep and leave early tomorrow morning. Ain’t nothing I can do out there, anyway ,a-fore daylight comes.”

Slim looked at his empty glass, then eyed Adrian; he took the hint and ordered him another.

“Jasper took a wagon down to Omaha this morning; picking up some inventory for the mercantile and a few ‘special-order’ items for Miss Byrne; some finery she ordered from New York. Anyway, he’ll be gone a good five or six days.

“That leaves the jailhouse unoccupied for the time being; you’re more than welcome to stay there, tonight. Or, if you’d be more comfortable, you can go on down to the livery stable, rouse ole Horsehide out bed and tell him I said you can sleep in the hay loft. Either way, you decide.”

Slim took a draw on his fresh glass of beer. After swallowing, he said, “I’ll take the jail.”

The cowboy smiled. Hell! He hadn’t had a night to himself in many years. Great! He would not have to cover his ears to drown out the awful snoring of the other cow hands, tonight.

“Good choice!” The sheriff agreed. “I’ll go on home and sleep there.”

Slim thought it curious that the sheriff made it sound like he did not spend every night at home.

“Oh! Well!” Slim considered, silently. “Sure ain’t none-a my business. I’ll have a private room! All---Quiet!-like!” He smiled at the pleasant thought and took another sip of his beer.

Adrian got up to leave, saying, “I’ll be by the jail around seven in the morning; there are a few things I have to do in the office before we leave. You go ahead and sleep until I come in; I’ll wake you. We’ll go down to the hotel and have a fine breakfast; we ought to be on our way no later than nine, or so. We’ll be out at the ranch before eleven, for sure; then, I’ll have a look.”

Turning, he added, “On my way out, I’ll slip ole Barney the word that he should give you whatever drinks you want for the rest of the night.” He smiled, peering toward the saloon gals congregated at the bar, adding, quiet-like, “The gals look pretty good, tonight, Slim. Uh, you might find them real friendly as the crowd thins out and it starts getting late.” He laughed as Slim’s mood brightened at the thought of some “personal” female company; his hungry eyes naturally drifted to the gals, suddenly even more attractive than they were just minutes before.

By the time it started getting really late, as the tic-tok’s big hand reached close to the nine designation on the large wall clock, a “burning-the-midnight-oil”-tirade for a simple cowboy used to having logged several good hours of sleep by that time of late night, ole Slim had about “howled” himself, plum-out! He did not think he could handle even one more swallow of cold beer; he had lost all sense of whether or not it was cold, or warm, over an hour ago. And, one of them bar gals had sure enough entertained him, in private, he thought it had been the red head, but the beer consumption refused to allow his memory to verify the fact.

Hell! It didn’t matter; he’d had a real time of it. Still, he secretly hoped it had been the red head. But, considering the other two choices, he decided that it really did not make any difference to Slim. The room was beginning to spin, sort of; he considered that he ought to find his way to the Sheriff’s office and try to get some sleep. It had been a very long, and confusing, day. With that decision, he rose, unsteadily, said his “Farewells” and “Thank you”, and, exited.

Stepping off the boardwalk into the dirt street, Slim stumbled forward landing on all fours. His hat flew off getting dirty in the thick dust. Damn! Just had it cleaned, too. Luckily, Slim failed to notice a fresh tear in the right knee of his, until then, clean pants.

Somehow, he managed to head in the right direction and, again, luckily, listed to his right bearing which eventually brought him in front of the Sheriff’s office, his lodging for the night.

He tripped over the step up to the boardwalk cussing the impediment which had attacked his dignity for the second time in---uh…er, Hell! In a short period of time. He fell through the door.

Sometime later, he couldn’t be sure how long, he came to and managed to sit up. Slim was leaning against a heavy wood object; finally he recognized the support as Sheriff Adrian’s desk; then, he reasoned where he was, and, vaguely, why he was there. “Got to get some sleep.”

Crawling into the nearest cell, ole Slim managed, with great difficulty, to pull off his boots; with greater effort and a wrestling match with himself, he removed his pants. Lightning flashed through the bars of the cell’s smallish window as Slim finally laid down on the cot and pulled the blanket close around his neck; somewhere in his fogged mind it registered that rain was in the offing and that it would come long before the morning dawn. He closed his eyes; his head spun.

“Damn!” he mumbled, slurring his words. “It’s too quiet! I must be going deaf; I don’t hear them old bunk-buddies singing. Without that miserable snoring-serenade I’ll never be able to get to sleep. Hell! I’ll probably fall out of the saddle right in front of the sheriff, tomorrow.”

Before the final word slurred through his slack lips, ole Slim was lost to dreamless slumber.

He slept like a baby, right through the thunderstorm crashing through the morning wee hours.

Seven-thirty had come and gone when Adrian finally arrived at the jailhouse. Slim was already awake, dressed and had a pot of boiling coffee going; Adrian stretched, then, sat down.

“Morning, Slim,” he offered. “I see you’re an early riser. Have a good time after I left, last night?” He teased, smiling, not even trying to conceal his merrymaking. “You look pretty good.”