BEAR CREEK (SAGE COUNTRY Book 1) Read online

“Alright, what do you want me to do?”

  “Go back to the headquarters and keep your eyes open. You were smart to pull your cowhands in close. Ya’ll have to protect the home place.”

  “I’m no gun hand, none of us are,” he said.

  “I hope it won’t come to that. This looks bad though. Somebody wants to see the Bar C damaged or even shut down. I intend to find out who, and why.”

  I swung up into the saddle, and with a wave, I headed back toward the shooters hill.

  25.

  It didn’t take me long to get on the trail of the bushwhacker. There was little he could have done to disguise his tracks on this range land. That worried me because he would know how easy he was to trail. He would be expecting to be tracked.

  I sure missed Yellow Horse. He was the best tracker I had ever seen. He would know far better than I, what to expect and how to prepare for it. He could think like the man or animal he tracked. I could read trail sign, but that was about all.

  The trail I was following turned east. It skirted around behind the Bar C headquarters and went down into Bear Creek. I expected to lose it there, but I found it again fairly quickly on the opposite bank. It wandered to the south, where I found a section of the barbed wire fence had been cut. The tracks went up onto the road and headed due east. I followed them as best I could, but there had been too much horse and wagon traffic on the road, since the day before. Most of the time all I could be sure of was the tracks I was following never left the road. It bothered me to think the rider could have just turned his horse around and gone back west. I wouldn’t have any way of knowing. I’m not that good at tracking.

  There was nothing else I could do, so I kept going east.

  After about two hours, I came to the little town of Waller. Here, I knew I had lost the tracks for good.

  Waller was nothing special. It was a stage stop and rest point for freight haulers. It served the few farms and small ranches in the area with the essential supplies and little else, other than the saloon. Everything available in Waller came from or through Bear Creek.

  They had a one room school house and a town sheriff.

  Recently, Waller had been abandoned when the Sioux and Cheyenne had attempted to fight off the white invaders. Now that the threat of renegade Indian raids was pretty much over, it had been reclaimed. I had heard some talk that there was a medicine man up in the Dakotas who was getting the Indians up that way all excited again. He had some weird religious thing going on. It was called the Ghost Dance.

  Waller had another distinction. It was the last town in the eastern part of Alta Vista County. In fact the county line was right on the east side of town.

  I got off Dusty at the hitching post right in front of the sheriff’s office. I try not to ever tie a horse by the bridle reins, so I just draped them over the rail. I was curious to see if Dusty would stand there.

  I went inside.

  The office was dark and empty.

  It took me the better part of half an hour to find the sheriff. I met several of the local citizens before I finally went into the saloon.

  I was concerned my quarry might be in there, so as I came inside, I stepped immediately to my right to clear the doorway. I didn’t want to be silhouetted in the light from the doorway and blind to whoever was inside. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I could see this place was a dump. It was dark and plain. It stank of tobacco smoke and stale booze. There were no stools or rail at the bar. There were several tables with chairs and I was surprised to see that many were occupied. The bar tender was not to be seen, so I went up to the bar and leaned back against it, facing the room.

  A chair grated against the floor and a man stood up from one of the tables. He had his thin hair plastered over the top of his head with some kind of hair grease. The dirty apron around his waist suggested he was probably the bartender.

  “Yeah, what’ll it be mister,” he said as he approached. He looked startled when he saw my badge.

  “Howdy. I’m John Everett Sage, the Sheriff of Alta Vista County,” I said, smiling

  “That’s nothing to me, mister. What do you want?”

  “I see you have a sheriff’s office, so I was wondering if you might know where the town sheriff is.”

  “I’m the sheriff,” a voice called from one of the tables. There were four men sitting there.

  I waited but nobody moved. I walked over to the table. It was apparent they were deep into a poker game. There was a pile of silver coins and three gold coins in the pot, with some paper money. Each man had his cards breasted.

  I started over.

  “I’m John Sage…”

  “Yeah I know who you are. What do you want with me?” The speaker was sitting a little to my right, He had his left hand on top of the table, holding his cards, but his right hand was somewhere out of sight. That’s bad form in a card game. I took a step to my left, putting a seated card player between us.

  The sheriff of Waller smiled and brought his right hand up onto the table top. He was wearing a black leather vest over a pale blue shirt. There was a tin star pinned to the vest.

  “You’re a careful fella.” He said. “I can respect that. What do you want with me?”

  I was watching him and the whole room.

  “There’s been a shooting out at the Bar C. I’m looking for the man who did it.”

  “Did somebody get killed?”

  “That isn’t the point. I believe the shooter came here.”

  It was dead still in there. Nobody was moving or speaking. I had the full attention of everyone in the saloon.

  “Yeah? Well, this is a busy place, lots of traffic passing through. When did this shooting happen?”

  “Sheriff, this is a matter I don’t care to discuss here. Can we go to your office?”

  “No. As you can see, I’m busy at the moment.” He looked back around the table. “Whose deal is it?” he asked.

  “Just to make this clear, I’m asking for your cooperation in the investigation of a crime.”

  “No problem, Mr. Sage, you go on and investigate. I’m giving you my best cooperation, unless or until you cause trouble. Then we’ll see what happens,” he chuckled, and the other players joined him in the hilarity.

  I waited for the laughter to stop.

  “I don’t believe I got your name, Sheriff,” I said.

  “My name is Jack Sloan. What’s that to you?”

  “I just wanted to know who to address the ‘thank you’ note to.”

  Nobody laughed.

  “You know, Sheriff Sage, you’re a long way from Bear Creek. Out here we don’t need you coming around and bothering folks. You go on back to the big city and there won’t be any fuss. You leave the law enforcement in Waller to me. Deal the cards, Hanson,” he addressed the man to his right.

  “Waller is in Alta Vista County. I have jurisdiction here.”

  Sloan took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

  “Sage, you’re not welcome here. I don’t give a rat’s ass about Alta Vista County. That’s just some lines somebody drew on a map. Now, you git!” he spat.

  Clearly Jack Sloan was used to scaring people. I knew there wasn’t much he could do. He was sitting down, with his hands on the table, where I could see them.

  I figured he was bluffing, but if he moved a hand…

  “I’ll leave when I’m ready. If you’re feeling lucky you go ahead and try to push me. I’m standing right here…I’ll call your bluff. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “Hold on now, everybody just calm down. I’m stuck in the middle here and I aint looking to get shot,” said the man seated in front of me. “Sheriff Sage, I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m real nervous having you stand behind me like that.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. I was still trying to watch Sloan and everyone else in the room. All I could see of this guy was the top of his head and his hands on the table.

  “I’m Spencer Wilson. This is my place and I
’m the Mayor of Waller.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Wilson, we did get off on the wrong foot. Call off your dog.”

  I looked Sloan in the eye. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t move a hair.

  “Jack, let it go. I don’t want any trouble with the Sheriff here.”

  “OK, Mr. Mayor.” Sloan sneered, “Whatever you say.” He relaxed in his chair.

  “Can I stand up?” Mayor Wilson asked.

  “Certainly,” I said. I stepped away from the table out into the center of the room, watching, always watching.

  Mayor Wilson pushed his chair back from the table, and walked toward me. He was a fat man wearing a blue shirt with no jacket or vest, over tan pants. He had some leather suspenders holding his pants up, while his belly tried to push them down. I could see he wasn’t armed. He extended his hand. I hesitated because in some situations it isn’t a good idea to tie up your gun hand. He smiled and nodded, indicating he understood my reluctance to shake hands.

  “Seriously, Sheriff, we don’t want any trouble. Hell, I voted for you myself,” he smiled again.

  “OK. Thanks for the vote. I don’t suppose you can offer any help with my investigation?”

  “No. Not really. Jack’s right, we have people passing through here all the time. This town is just a place to stop, on the way to somewhere else.”

  “Maybe somebody saw my man yesterday morning. Maybe he stopped here”

  “Might be, but unless he was wearing a clown suit, I doubt anyone would have noticed him.”

  I could see it was a dead end. I couldn’t even be sure the shooter had come this way. I thanked the Mayor and made a careful exit.

  I was glad to find Dusty, half dozing, exactly where I had left him.

  26.

  “I can’t believe I haven’t gotten one positive response to any of my telegrams. I guess I’m going to have to advertise for deputies,” I said.

  It had been nearly a month since I had sent telegrams to nearly everybody I knew who might be available. I had sent them as soon as I knew I had won the election.

  “Well that’s not unusual John. I’ve done it myself,” Hugh rasped. “The hard part is interviewing the candidates,” he chuckled.

  His chuckle ended in a cough. Hugh’s health was in question. He was probably too old for this job, and he had aged even more over the last year. He had given me my very first law enforcement job more than twenty years ago, in Arkansas. I hadn’t sent for him because of his physical abilities, but because of his experience. Six terms as a County Sheriff, was a hard won education. I knew he was far wiser than I could ever hope to be.

  After my fruitless search for the man who shot Bill Courtney, the day before, I needed to address some of the issues with my office. I had been gone to the other side of the state, on the Governor’s errand for more than a week. I’d left immediately after I was sworn in. This morning I was starting only my second full day on the job as Sheriff of Alta Vista County.

  “OK. I’ll do that, but I don’t like the idea of hiring strangers or people with no experience.”

  “Oh, really? I seem to remember hiring you, when all you had done was drive cattle. I think it worked out pretty well,” Hugh rasped, grinning.

  We heard someone coming down the stairs from the courthouse above. A moment later, ‘”Buckskin” Charlie Owens walked into the office. Now that I was the County Sheriff, he had come along as my only other sheriff’s deputy.

  Before Buckskin Charlie could say a word, Hugh pointed at him and rasped;

  “People’s exhibit number two, your Honor. I rest my case.”

  I laughed.

  “OK, I said I would do it and I will.”

  “Do what?” Buckskin Charlie asked, looking perplexed.

  “I’m going to advertise for deputies, so y’all don’t have to work twelve hour shifts.”

  He snorted.

  “That’ll be the day. If there were ten deputies, you’d still have us all working twelve hour shifts. You are a heartless and relentless SOB,” he grinned. “I know because I read it in today’s newspaper.”

  I saw he was carrying a copy of the Bear Creek Banner. He tossed it on my desk.

  I read the headline.

  “RELENTLESS MAN HUNTER TO PURSUE SUSPECTED ASSASSIN.”

  I read on.

  “John Everett Sage, the celebrated Sheriff of Alta Vista County (best known for his cold blooded and heartless treatment of miscreants), has pledged to personally hunt down and bring to justice, the man who shot noted rancher and philanthropist, William Courtney. This reporter has learned that the ruthless man hunter, Sheriff Sage, has taken up pursuit of the subject only yesterday. No word at this time as to the outcome, but we anticipate bloodshed.”

  I think I probably said something colorful and inappropriate.

  “Yeah, I figured you’d feel that way,” laughed Buckskin Charlie.

  “The thing is, I don’t have a clue where to go from here,” I sighed.

  “I think you do, John,” Hugh rasped.

  “The Thorndykes?”

  “Yep. You told us the Bar C has had trouble with them. That’s where I’d start.”

  “I don’t have any jurisdiction in Chaparral County,” I pointed out.

  “Chaparral County has a new Sheriff, too. He’s just been the County Sherriff over there for a few months. You could check in with him, as a courtesy, and kind of get a feel for the lay of the land.”

  “Hmmmm, I hadn’t thought of that. The governor has asked me to look into it. I’ve been trying to think of a good cover story. That’s actually a pretty good idea.”

  “Surprise, surprise!” Hugh rasped, raising his eye brows.

  Buckskin Charlie laughed again.

  I had promised to take Lora to supper at the Palace. This was kind of a big deal, because Lora ran a boarding house. As I said, she is a highly appreciated cook. Consuela would be cooking and serving the food at the boarding house tonight.

  The Palace Saloon was a gemstone, set in granite and brick. It was no ordinary or typical saloon. It was a landmark and a destination. I had heard people came all the way from Denver and Cheyenne, just to visit the Palace of Bear Creek.

  To be sure, alcohol was available at the Palace, just as one might expect from a saloon. Every imaginable whiskey, wine, champagne, and liquor known to man could be found in the Palace Saloon. They even had COLD beer. I knew that for a fact. I was told the bartenders there could make any kind of cocktail. The Palace was by no means a typical saloon. It was very different in other ways as well.

  In most of the frontier saloons I had been in, women were not allowed, unless they were employees. Most saloons either didn’t serve food, or it was basic, greasy fare.

  The Palace was cosmopolitan and refined. The clientele was mostly ordinary folks who had a lot of new money. They were attempting to appear and become more sophisticated. When the Palace had begun serving a full lunch and dinner menu, a few months earlier, they’d become even more popular. Most folks didn’t know what I knew. The Palace had stolen the chef from the Bon Ton Café. In no time at all, the Palace had become the finest restaurant on the Front Range. They even had electric lights, powered by batteries. They got those from Cheyenne, by train. Everybody who was anybody visited the Palace Saloon.

  On my earliest visits to the Palace I had always felt as out of place as a skunk at a picnic. Dining with Lora made me feel like the Grand Duke of… somewhere or other. With her on my arm, I knew I was the envy of every man in the room. For us locals, it was second only to church, as a place to meet friends and socialize. Also, like at church, when dining at the Palace, we dressed in our Sunday best and tried to mind our manners.

  For this and other reasons, the Palace was the place I had chosen when I proposed to Lora.

  27.

  Lora and I had just been seated at the Palace. The waiter had come to take our drink order.

  “I’ll have a …Why, hello, Bob,” I interrupted myself in mid order. “Excuse us a minu
te,” I said to the waiter, as I stood up.

  The man who had been walking by our table stopped and studied me for a moment.

  “As I live and breathe, if it isn’t John Everett Sage! You’re a long way from home. What brings you to Bear Creek, Colorado, and who is this vision of loveliness?

  We shook hands.

  “Bob Logan, may I present my fiancée, Lora O’Malley. Lora this is Bob Logan, a man I know from Texas.”

  I didn’t mention his nick name, “Bloody Bob” a moniker he had earned in his line of work. Bob is a gun hand for hire. He prefers to be called a range detective or private investigator. He had worked for the Pinkerton agency, prior to going into private practice.

  “Enchante, mademoiselle,” Bob said.

  He took Lora’s offered hand and kissed it. I was glad she was wearing gloves.

  A giant loomed up beside us. It was Clay Atwater, the owner of Atwater Freight and former Sheriff of Alta Vista County.

  “Good evening, John, Mrs. O’Malley.” he said, eyeing Bob.”

  “Hello, Clay. Bob Logan, meet Clay Atwater. Clay is the owner of Atwater Freight.”

  They shook hands.

  “Would you gentlemen care to join us?” Lora offered, to my annoyance. I wanted her all to myself.

  “Can’t,” said Clay. “I got business with them fellers over yonder. John, a couple of my teamsters were in the saloon over in Waller, yesterday. They said you made Jack Sloan back down. That true?”

  Clay is not a sophisticate.

  “Uhhh...no. Not really. He and I had a little misunderstanding and the Mayor intervened.”

  “Not what I heard. Nobody ever made him crawfish before. See ya later. You folks have a nice meal. Nice to meet ya,” he added as an afterthought, nodding at Bob.

  Clay wandered off to his business dinner.

  “I, on the other hand, will be delighted to join you,” Bob said.