BEAR CREEK (SAGE COUNTRY Book 1) Read online

  “To man the jail, we’ll need at least three men. That’s one man for each eight hour shift. We have that now, but we’ll need to be able to send deputies wherever they’re needed, whenever they are needed. There are some patrol responsibilities we should start right away. That’s one way to address the problem with Waller, North Fork and the others. When they know a Deputy Sheriff will be coming through every now and then, it should put them on alert to clean up their towns.”

  “I like it. So how many do we need to hire right away?”

  “Could we have four? With those of us already on the payroll, that will make a total of nine.”

  “No, I don’t think the current budget will accommodate that many. It’s a big county but it seems like every department is demanding more money or more staff. Hire three. I can sell that to the commissioners. They know we need more men.”

  Hugh coughed and cleared his throat.

  “I was hoping for one!”

  “If you get enough good quality candidates, Tom needs deputies too, and his budget is set by the city. I got them to authorize three new deputies, before I took the job as town Marshal. Now that he’s the Chief of Police, I guess the new hires will be called ‘police officers’ I saw that in Chicago.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

  “I still need to go out to Thorndyke. The bushwhacker who shot Bill Courtney is still around, somewhere, and the issue with the cattle theft has to be resolved. Bob is over there waiting for me now.”

  “I reckon you probably got the shooter, when you killed Jack Slade,” Buckskin Charlie said.

  “No, Slade was just a coward. He knew I would be coming for him eventually, and he just didn’t want to face me straight up. He was riding a different horse, he was firing a different rifle, and he wasn’t as good of a shot as the other man. He fired at me three times, and he still couldn’t kill me. For sure he knew about the other shootings, or at least Bill’s being shot. He probably read about it in the Bear Creek Banner. He probably figured to get away with killing me, because my shooting would be chocked up as just another victim of the polecat we’re searching for.”

  “John, you’re not in any shape to be chasing a killer.” Hugh rasped.

  “I’m getting a little stronger every day, Hugh. If I leave tomorrow, I won’t even get to Thorndyke for two days. I’ll take it easy and I’ll be fine.”

  To prove the point, I took the sling off. I kept my arm partially bent though, because it hurt too bad to straighten it out. I knew I wouldn’t be able to lift anything with it, not even my saddle. I would have to get Al to saddle Dusty for me.

  That afternoon I walked over to the office of the Bear Creek Banner. I wrote out an advertisement for deputies, and had a handbill laid out for printing.

  I met with Alexander Granville Dorchester III, at his place of business, the livery stable. Al told me he would be happy to have Dusty saddled and ready to go at daybreak. He’d be sure to have a full canteen and three days’ worth of travel rations tucked into my saddle bags. From there, I wandered over to the general store and bought a new hat.

  I figured I was better off on the road. The situation with Lora was precarious. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” or so they say. Besides, a couple or three days of riding to Thorndyke would give me some time to heal and toughen up.

  That’s my motto.

  “Get tough or die.”

  34.

  It was a little after eight o’clock in the morning by the time I got to the livery stable. It had taken me awhile to drag myself out of bed. Then, it took me a long time to get dressed. I was so proud. I dressed myself! Dusty wasn’t impressed; he’d been standing around saddled and waiting for about two hours.

  I was stronger by the time I got to Thorndyke. It only took me the better of three days to make the two day ride. The first morning on the trail, my breathing was labored and I sweated through half an hour, just to recover from grooming and saddling Dusty. He was patient, but he looked at me a couple of times, like he didn’t know who I was.

  When I finally did get to Thorndyke, I was nearly back to normal. It still hurt to work my left side, but I could do it. There was a painful pulling on the stitches, but I was able to do all the things I normally did. Things like pulling on my boots.

  The last day and a half of riding, from the moment I left Alta Vista County, I had been on the Thorndyke Ranch. I wasn’t even sure when, or where, it had happened.

  I wasn’t impressed with the county seat of Chaparral County. In the beginning, this town had been the original Thorndyke ranch headquarters. There had been little or no attention to detail when the older buildings were built. Nearly all of the buildings were built of wood. It had gradually become a good sized and reasonably civilized town, an oasis on the plains. Thorndyke did have a courthouse. It was a single story wooden building, right next to a dry goods store. I could tell some effort was being made to gentrify the place, but it still had the look and feel of a company town.

  Everyone who worked at the Thorndyke Ranch in the early days had to buy everything they needed from the company store. They spent their hard earned wages buying the essentials at exorbitant prices, from the only store available, which was owned by their employer. The High Times Saloon was owned by the Thorndykes, as was the one across the street, The Diamond T Saloon.

  The Thorndyke brand was a diamond with a T in it. It was called the Diamond T. It was on display, all over town. I found the livery stable and arranged for Dusty’s board.

  It appeared to me as if the Thorndike’s owned just about everything in the town. I had been told it also included the County Sheriff.

  The Sheriff’s office was right across the single main street from the courthouse. Like the Marshal’s office in Bear Creek, it was a stand-alone building. Unlike the Marshal’s office in Bear Creek, it was made entirely of wood. It had a wide porch on the front with two windows facing the street. There were a couple of benches on the porch, but no one sat on them.

  I went inside.

  “Can I help you?”

  The man asking the question was seated behind a desk, on the other side of a low partition. The partition was like a railing you might find on a staircase or around a porch.

  “Thank you, yes. I’m John Everett Sage, the County Sheriff of Alta Vista County. I’m here to see Sheriff Holden.”

  “I see. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  He rocked back in his chair. He made a show of considering how to respond.

  I liked it. I liked the railing, and the deputy right out front. It was a good set up. It made me want to get a railing for our office. I wondered where you could hire a jackass like this guy.

  He rocked forward.

  “Please wait here. I’ll see if he has time for you.”

  He stood up and stretched. Then he moseyed over to a door behind his desk and knocked.

  There was a vague reply, and he went inside closing the door behind him.

  I thought pleasant thoughts about butterflies and bunnies

  After a moment, the door opened and another man came out, with somewhat more energy than the man who went in.

  He came right over to the rail and opened a gate in it.

  “Sheriff Sage, I’m so glad to meet you. Please come in. I’m Joe Holden.”

  We shook hands.

  The other man came wandering out.

  “John Sage, meet Curt Watson, my deputy.”

  We shook hands.

  When we were seated inside Joe Holden’s office, we got down to brass tacks.

  “I’ve heard of you, Sheriff Sage. I read the story about how you shot down that Rawlins fella, in a stand up gunfight in the street, when you were still the town marshal of Bear Creek.”

  “You can’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

  Curt Watson snorted.

  Joe Holden nodded and gave me an appraising look.

  “What brings you to Thorndyke?”

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p; “I’d kind of like to talk to you about that in private.”

  “Whatever you want to talk about, I don’t have any secrets I need to keep from Curt here. After all, he is my deputy.” He gave me an odd look.

  “Well, it might be I have some secrets I need to keep. Meaning no offense to you, Deputy Watson,” I added, looking over at Curt.

  “I don’t know you, mister, but I already don’t like you,” Curt sneered.

  “OK, Curt. That’ll be all. Go back to your desk.”

  When Curt had left the room, closing the door behind him, Holden leaned forward over his desk. He spoke loudly enough so Deputy Watson could hear.

  “Make it quick, Sheriff Sage.”

  He held up a hand to stop me from saying anything.

  “Look, I apologize for his behavior. This is just part of the cross I bear. What can I do for you?” he asked quietly.

  “I need to ask you some questions about the trouble between the Thorndike’s at the Diamond T and Mr. Courtney’s Bar C.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Courtney came in here and talked to me about three weeks ago. He said he thought the Diamond T boys had run off his cattle. He wanted for me and him to go out there and look for them. I wouldn’t do it. He told me if his missing cattle were not returned, he would file a rustling charge against whoever had them cows. I guess this visit means he thinks he knows who stole his cattle and he has filed charges in Alta Vista County.”

  “Actually, no, he told me he doesn’t know for sure who stole the cattle. He’s not looking for trouble. I just want to get a better idea of what’s going on.”

  Joe Holden managed to look both relieved and very tense at the same time.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on. All hell is about to break loose.” He gave me a pointed look.

  “…In what way?”

  “We’ve got settlers moving into the county and the big ranches like the Diamond T don’t want them here. The Diamond T is not really any bigger than the Bar C; I’d say sixty five thousand acres or so, but the Thorndykes are controlling twice that.

  They’ve put together this ‘Stockman’s Association’, which is really just them and a couple of other big ranches, trying to gain total control of every inch of this county. Right now if a single cow goes missing from a herd grazing on any land controlled by the Stockman’s Association, they call it rustling and they’re putting together a list of suspected ‘rustlers’. If someone finds their name on that list, they’d better skedaddle, or face the consequences.”

  “What ‘consequences’?”

  “There have been two people shot.”

  It took me a moment to realize he might be referring to two people I had not heard about.

  “Who was shot, and where did these shootings happen?”

  “The first one was about two weeks ago. His name was Joe Clancy. He showed up just a few months ago and settled over to the south east, by Needle Rock. He was found shot, lying just outside his own outhouse. His name was the first one on the list. The second one was just yesterday. Rusty Jones, he and his family have been here for years. They have a small ranch of just a couple hundred acres, a few miles outside town, on the north side. They raise horses mostly. His name showed up on the list just recently. It seems somebody claims to have seen him changing a brand with a running iron. He was shot from ambush. I guess the message is, if you are not welcome here in this county, for any reason, you’re gonna get dead.”

  “Tell me about the ambush, and I’ll tell you a couple of things you might find interesting. You do know Bill Courtney was shot don’t you?”

  “I read it in the papers, I understand he’s recovering. A surveyor who was working on his ranch was also shot, right?”

  I nodded.

  “…And killed.”

  “Do you think there might be a connection?”

  “Tell me what you know about how the men over here were shot.”

  He told me both men were bushwhacked from about seventy yards with a rifle. At the scene of each shooting they had found a single 44-40 shell casing, sitting upright on a rock.

  “What did you learn about the theft of the Courtney cattle?”

  “Nothing, they had been gone for days by the time I learned of the theft from Mr. Courtney.”

  “Did you ask the Thorndykes if they had any information?”

  “No, you’ll have to do that yourself.” He stood up and called for Deputy Watson.

  “Why is that?” I asked as Curt Watson charged into the room.

  “Because I’m the Sheriff of Chaparral County, that means I do what Mr. Thorndyke wants me to do.”

  I was startled by the sudden change in his attitude. Was this simple theater for the benefit of his deputy, or a shift in personality? I stood up as well.

  “I see then. I’ll take it up with Mr. Thorndyke. I guess I’ll be in town for a while. Perhaps you could give me directions to the hotel?”

  “Certainly, Curt, show the Sheriff where the hotel is and tell him where he can find Mr. Thorndyke. Nice to meet you, Sheriff Sage,” he dismissed us.

  Out on the street in front of the Sheriff’s office, I repeated my request for directions.

  “We got a couple of places you could stay. How long you gonna be here?” Deputy Watson asked.

  “Gee, I’m not sure. I need to meet with Mr. Thorndyke.”

  “Which one?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Which Mr. Thorndyke do ya need to meet with?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. How many are there?”

  “Six, old man Thorndyke and his five sons.”

  “OK. Which one does Sheriff Holden answer to?”

  “All of um,” he laughed. “What kinda room you want?”

  “That’s not important to me.”

  “Well, it’s important to me,” he laughed again. “You can get a room with or without a woman. Which one you want?”

  “Do you have an ordinary hotel?”

  “Course, two blocks down, on the right.”

  “Thank you, now how do I go about finding the senior Mr. Thorndyke?”

  “You mean old man Thorndyke?”

  “Yep”

  “Hell, that’s easy. Just look for the biggest house on the highest hill.”

  He was chuckling to himself as he walked away.

  35.

  To my surprise, the hotel was called the Paradise Hotel and Saloon. I was surprised that it wasn’t called the Diamond T or Thorndyke. This saloon made three I knew of, within just a couple of blocks of each other. The good thing was the hotel entrance was separate from the saloon entrance, although there was a hallway connecting them. The bad thing was that the hotel occupied the second floor above the saloon, and it was one noisy saloon.

  I decided to go in search of Bob. I went downstairs and into the saloon to get some supper. The place was filled with cigar and cigarette smoke. The piano player was asking to be shot, because what he lacked in talent he made up for in volume. Since he was so loud, all the men in the place were yelling at each other, by way of conversation.

  There was no sign of Bob, but I had a pretty decent ham sandwich with a mug of warm beer. I stood at the bar with one foot on the brass rail, while I ate.

  Since I had no idea where Bob might be, I decided to go saloon hopping.

  I found him playing faro in the second place I looked, the High Times Saloon.

  Posted on a sign board right beside the front door was a handbill. It stated:

  “RUSTLING of livestock is a crime PUNISHABLE BY DEATH. The following people are hereby notified to leave the county.”

  There was a list of nine names. Two had been crossed off.

  This High Times Saloon was a reasonably clean and well-polished place. The clientele was typical of this type of saloon. There were drovers and cowboys, local business types, some I suspected were travelers and some who looked to be the kind who pretty much lived in s
aloons. There were two attractions here. One was the girls. Some were dancing in scanty costumes, on the stage that ran down the side of the place, and some were making an attempt at seducing the customers. There was a little band playing banjo, fiddle, piano and guitar. They were pretty good, and they made me feel like dancing a little myself.

  The other attraction was the gambling.

  Nearly every table had a faro, stud, or draw poker game going.

  Watching over it all was a man sitting up on a high chair with a shotgun across his lap. He was wearing a tin star.

  I ordered a beer and wandered around as if I were interested in getting in a game. There were others doing the same and some were just staggering around, one man was pawing at the girls.

  When I came to the table where Bob was playing, I didn’t recognize him right at first. He hadn’t shaved since I last saw him and he had his hat pulled low. There was a cigar stuck in the side of his mouth. He wore no jacket, vest, or tie and his shirt was partly unbuttoned. There was a girl sitting in his lap, rubbing his chest. He didn’t appear to be losing, at either game.

  It took two trips by that table before he noticed me. We made eye contact, and then I headed back over to the bar and got another beer.

  I was pretty sure nobody in the place had any idea who I was.

  After a little while Bob came over to the bar and ordered a beer. I turned to face the room and he continued to face the back of the bar.

  “What brings you here?” he joked.

  “I’m looking for the guy who stole a horse and buckboard from Mrs. Poole’s.”

  “I know exactly where it is. I’ll meet you at the livery stable at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” Bob said, as he walked away, headed back to his games.

  We were standing behind the livery stable the next morning, talking.

  “It worked out just as you had envisioned it would, John. When I arrived here with Jack Slade’s body in the buckboard, I checked in with Joe Holden to collect the reward. Sure enough, he’s heard of me. He wired for the money, and I received the full reward yesterday. As far as he or anybody else knows, I’m just another bounty hunter gambling with my blood money, which is rightfully yours if you want it. I may have been uh…temporarily divested of a small portion of it, due to the vagaries and inexact nature of games of chance.”