Alta Vista: Sage Country Book Two Page 3

  Until now, neither the State nor the County had any real law enforcement up in the mountains. They could do as they pleased up in North Fork. As the Sheriff of Alta Vista County, North Fork and Flapjack City were in my jurisdiction.

  North Fork did have a town Sheriff named Tommy Turner, but he owned at least one of the saloons and controlled most of the “working girls.”

  His law enforcement duties mostly involved keeping the miners under control, by any means he felt appropriate. He would lock up the drunken miners and assess steep fines or charge exorbitant bail.

  Sheriff Tommy Turner was getting rich by taking advantage of the miners, the mine owners, and anyone else he could, raking in huge profits from the open gambling—all the while collecting fees and fines from the miners and the mine owners.

  Tommy had run against me for the office of Sheriff of Alta Vista County, but I won by a landslide.

  The Governor asked me personally to address the problem of lawlessness, gambling, and prostitution in North Fork. He told me that since Colorado had become a state, it was imperative to bring the rule of law to the wild places.

  I believed he honestly cared about establishing some law and order, but I also suspected the mine owners were getting tired of being stung with the outrageous fines and fees. I’d met a couple of those gentlemen at the Governor’s mansion in Denver.

  ***

  Dusty seemed glad to see me as he greeted me at the gate to the outdoor pen he stayed in most of the time. Maybe he just wanted the sugar lumps or dried apple I usually brought with me. It wouldn’t be long now before the local apples would be ripe, and I could bring him fresh ones. I took a few minutes to groom him and work the snarls out of his mane.

  I saw Alexander Granville Dorchester, III, the proprietor of the livery stable, approaching. “Hey, Al,” I said; my usual greeting.

  “Howdy, Sheriff, I’m glad to see you got back in time for the wedding.”

  “Was there ever any doubt?”

  He grinned and chuckled. “Well, you wouldn’t be the first groom who got cold feet.”

  “I believe you’ve met my fiancée.”

  “Of course I have.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him. He thought about it for a moment, and then he grinned and said, “Oh, good point!”

  “I understand there’s been an increase in petty crime and theft since I left for California. I see my saddle and all my other tack and gear are still here. Have you had any problems with theft, Al?”

  “No. Not here at the stable. It looks like most of the petty theft has been from the grocery store, the general store, and people’s homes—mostly from their window sills.”

  “That seems odd.”

  “Not when you consider what was stolen.”

  “Which was ….?”

  “Food, mostly; now who steals food?”

  I thought about it.

  “Hungry people, I guess.”

  He nodded. “Brilliant deduction, Sheriff; I expect you’re part way there.”

  He was annoying me now.

  “Al, do you know who’s doing the stealing?”

  He looked down at the ground and scuffed his foot in the dirt.

  “Maybe. Now, I don’t know for sure and certain, but I figure it’s the kids.” He said it very quietly, almost in a whisper.

  “What kids? Do you mean your kids?” I found myself whispering back.

  He shook his head. “My kids are grown and gone. You come back later and we’ll talk about it some more. I’ve got chores to do, and I figure you’ve got some catching up to do.” With that, he walked off.

  A few minutes later, as I approached the Marshal’s office, I noticed a new sign above the door that simply said “Police,” indicating this was now the police station. When I went inside, I found my old desk was occupied by a beefy uniformed officer with a thick black handlebar mustache and heavy mutton chop sideburns.

  Seeing me, he offered a gruff greeting from behind the desk.

  “Good morning, sir, how may I help you?”

  “Is Tom here?”

  The policeman looked at me skeptically. “Who might you be, that’s asking?”

  “This gentleman is John Everett Sage, the former Marshal of Bear Creek and current Sheriff of Alta Vista County,” Tom said, walking in behind me.

  “Saints be praised,” said the policeman, blanching white and leaping to his feet. “I meant no disrespect, sir.”

  I held up a hand. “No, I understand; it was a fair question. You’re just doing your job.”

  Tom was grinning.

  “John, meet Thaddeus O’Rourke, lately of the St. Louis police department.”

  We shook hands. “It’s a great honor to meet you, sir,” he said pumping my hand vigorously. “I’ve heard of you, of course, sir.”

  I don’t shake hands with many people, almost never with a stranger. That’s why I had hesitated with Wes Spradlin. He’d understood my reluctance.

  I carry my Colt .45 butt forward on my left hip, cross draw style, and I generally pull it with my right hand. I don’t let too many people hold onto my right hand.

  This guy was wearing out my arm.

  I managed to get free of him.

  “Come on in, John. You’ll have to tell me about California.” Tom said.

  We went through the door leading into what had been my living quarters, back when I was the town Marshal. Now there was a glass panel in the door with gold lettering on it declaring it was the office of Tom Smith, the Chief of Police.

  We made small talk about California and the wedding plans. Becky had finished sewing Lora’s wedding dress. It seemed like everybody in the county was planning to come to the wedding, the reception or both. We had only invited a grand total of about twenty people, including all my deputies, because neither of us had any family anywhere close enough to come to the wedding. Apparently, being invited wasn’t that important to some folks. They were planning to come anyway. I could see I was going to be paying for a lot more victuals and ale than I had planned for.

  “Don’t worry about it, John. This reception is going to be catered by both the Palace and the Bon Ton. Local folks will want to pitch in and bring desserts and what not. We’ve got it covered. We haven’t had an occasion for a good old fashioned shindig like this for a while now.”

  “Okay, but speaking of food, what’s this story I heard about kids stealing food here in town?”

  Tom frowned. “Bear Creek has a problem with ‘sage brush’ orphans. Some have lost their parents to the hardships of the west; others are the unwanted children of prostitutes up at North Fork or wherever. The city has grown and so has the population of orphans. It looks like the older kids are stealing to feed themselves and the littler ones.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “What can we do about it?”

  “Well, the churches are trying to get the county to build an orphanage. We’ll have volunteers from the churches do all the cooking, cleaning, and caring for the kids, but we don’t have anywhere to house them.”

  “How many children are we talking about?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know for sure, John. No one does. It could be as many as a dozen or more.”

  ***

  I’ve never been fond of the term “sage brush” orphan. After all, that’s how I got my name. People had referred to me as that “sage boy” for nearly as long as I could remember. The term was commonly used all over the west to refer to children who had been found alone after their parents had died or otherwise gone missing. I was one of those foundlings. I was very little when I was orphaned and I knew my name was John. I remembered that sometimes, when my mother had gotten particularly mad at me, she had scolded me and called me John Everett. I was too little to know if our last name was Everett, or if it was my middle name or what. Regardless, I was known as John Everett, the “sage boy.” Eventually I became John Everett Sage. I’d been about five years old when I was taken in to be a part of an already oversized family. I was one of elev
en children, living in a family that traveled a little too far into the unknown frontier.

  I’d lived with them for about five years when the Indians attacked and killed everyone but me. John Everett Sage was spared and managed to stumble his way into the camp of a band of traveling Romani.

  Kergi and Sasha had known me as John Sage, and, even though they adopted me as their own son, and I came to love them as my parents, I never used the name Borostoya.

  To this day, whenever I hear my name I’m reminded of where I came from and curious as to whether or not I may have some unknown kinfolks somewhere. The Romani are my people, but I figure I’m also kin to every other “sage” orphan out there.

  6.

  I rode out early the next morning headed for North Fork. I loved this ride. The road followed Bear Creek up into the mountains. It was only about thirteen miles, but it was up hill nearly all the way. Even on Dusty, it would take me at least four hours to get there.

  The city of Bear Creek is situated on a hill right at the edge of the front range of the Rocky Mountains. The railroad runs North and South. To the East, Bear Creek (for which the city is named) drops out onto the plains. As you follow Bear Creek to the West, you gradually climb first through a series of canyons between tall mesas and buttes dotted with pinon and pine, then up other canyons between towering mountains covered with pines, spruce, and aspen groves. Eventually, you come to a series of switchbacks over a low pass and get a view of North Fork, sitting in a hanging valley.

  North Fork is a typical raw boned frontier town. The commercial part lines both sides of the road for about three blocks, on fairly level ground.

  Businesses in town include a small stockyard attached to the livery stable, a general store owned by the mining company, a hardware store, also owned by the mining company, a post office, barbershop, stage depot, and three saloons/hotels/casinos and brothels.

  Clearly, the principle reason for the existence of the town was as a service center for the miners up at Flapjack City, and the people who frequented and profited from such towns.

  The primary buildings were all built of timber or logs, the older buildings warped and darkened with age. The newest ones had yellowish pine board siding with false fronts and bright paint.

  The road went right through the middle of town, crossed a bridge over the north fork of Bear Creek, and continued on up the pass toward Flapjack City.

  In the winter that road above North Fork was often blocked with snow for days, occasionally weeks at a time. In the spring, during the big snow melt, at the far upper end of the valley, the north fork of Bear Creek cascaded down in a beautiful series of water falls.

  The homes of the residents, some of which were surprisingly large, were scattered along the edges of the meadows by the creek, and glimpsed through the trees up on the mountain sides.

  At first sight, North Fork was a pretty, little town set in a spectacular location. It wasn’t until you got right into town that you saw it for what it really was.

  North Fork was wide open and bound for judgment. There wasn’t a single church in the town. No banks or schools either. All the money went into crooked and greedy people’s pockets.

  I could imagine what went on in North Fork, on any given night, especially a Saturday night.

  I’d seen it all before.

  ***

  Sheriff Tommy Turner was sitting in a poker game in his saloon. The sign on the building called the place “The Jubilee House, Hotel and Saloon”.

  There would be no jubilation today.

  The saloon was dingy and the windows didn’t let in enough light, so some lamps were lit directly over the tables. Someone had made an attempt at an imitation of class with shoddy and cheap décor. However, the stink of old tobacco, spilled liquor, and sweaty bodies was completely genuine.

  Even though it was the middle of the day in the middle of the week, there were a dozen men loitering around in the saloon; two at one table, five where Tommy sat, two standing at the bar, one man sitting on the stairs, and one man sleeping face down at another table. A single bartender stood behind the bar. No one sat in the “high seat” where a lookout could watch the room. None of Tommy’s “working girls” were in evidence yet, this early in the day either.

  Tommy, his tin star pinned to his vest, remained seated at a round table with four other men. He had his back to a corner of the room, so he saw me come through the swinging doors.

  I stepped to my left so I wouldn’t stay silhouetted in the doorway.

  Tommy noticed and smiled with understanding.

  I smiled back.

  “Okay boys, I gotta go see a man about business,” Tommy said, standing up. He reached down and started gathering up his money.

  “Like hell you will,” one of the men said. “You got thirty five dollars of my money in your hands there. You sit back down, and give us a chance to win it back.”

  Tommy punched the man squarely in the face. Both of the man’s hands flew to his face. Blood was streaming down his chin and between his fingers. Tommy’s right hand now rested on his gun butt. The other men at the table raised their hands and leaned back from the table.

  “You broke my damn nose,” the man spluttered, spraying bloody spittle.

  “Yeah, well you’re lucky I didn’t break your head. Nobody tells me what I can or can’t do in my own saloon. Besides, I left my ante and my bet money there in the pot. Maybe your luck will change and you’ll win something.”

  Tommy looked over at me. “Can I buy you a drink, Sheriff Sage?”

  When they heard my name every head in the room whipped around to look at me, with the exception of the man asleep with his face in a puddle of spilled liquor.

  “No thanks.”

  “Well then, let’s go back into my office so’s we can palaver.”

  Sheriff Turner’s office was just a room at the back of the saloon, behind the stairs, with a beat up old desk, a big steel safe, and another round table with six chairs. There was a door that looked to lead outside and one window with the shade drawn.

  Tommy grabbed a couple of the chairs for us to sit on. He lit the lamp on the desktop.

  “What brings you all the way up here, Sheriff Sage?”

  “It seems you must have been expecting me. I imagine that little demonstration out there was for my benefit.”

  Tommy grinned. “Yep, I’ve been expecting you. I hear things from time to time. I heard you were planning to bring law and order to North Fork. Is that why you’re here?”

  “Now how could I do that, if you don’t let anybody tell you what you can and can’t do in your saloon?”

  He chuckled. “You got that message huh? Well then, why are you here?”

  “You got it right the first time. Tommy, this town has raised a stink all the way down to Denver. I can’t and won’t have gambling and prostitution, not to mention graft and corruption, openly displayed and celebrated in any town in Alta Vista County. I’m hoping you and I can come to terms on this.”

  Tommy Turner sat very still, staring at the floor.

  “I get it. How much do you want?” he asked, looking up at me.

  I sighed. “Tommy, it isn’t negotiable and I’m not trying to shake you down. You can’t buy me off.”

  “Every man has his price, Sage. Let us make you an offer.”

  I shook my head.

  “The Governor himself has made it clear that he intends to see to it the wild days are done here in North Fork. Try buying him off.”

  “Wild days! What the hell does the Governor know about the wild days? I’m the one who’s made it safe for the sporting girls. I put a stop to the killings and fights and stopped the crooked card games. I had the support of the mine owners. They wanted the miners back in one piece to do the work.

  You can’t imagine the hardship and suffering they endure up there. Some winters it will get down to twenty below. They can be snowed in for weeks. It’s only natural that those men want some fun and comfort now and again. Th
ey have some money to spend, and this is where they spend it. What’s so bad about that?”

  “Most of that ‘fun and comfort’ is illegal in the State of Colorado,” I said.

  He was silent for a moment. Then he scowled at me.

  “Look, I know you have the reputation for being a dangerous man with a gun. We all know you shot down Ed Rawlins in a straight up gunfight, but do you really think you could take on the whole town?”

  “No, and I don’t want to have to. Times have changed; it’s time to change with them. Y’all don’t have the support of the mine owners any more. I’ve come to you so that you can spread the word among the other saloon keepers and brothel owners. I’ll give you and the others thirty days to clean up this town.”

  He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do to talk sense to the hotheads, but you’re talking about stopping the flow of money. Nobody will like that.”

  “They wouldn’t like being arrested and sent to prison either. Look, Tommy, there will still be a chance to make an honest living here. The saloons don’t have to close, but there can’t be any open gambling. There can’t be a single casino in North Fork. The hotels don’t have to close, but there can’t be any open prostitution.

  I’m on my way up to Flapjack City. I’m going to let them know up there that North Fork is about to change.”

  Tommy shook his head, then glanced at me.

  “I knew this day would come, but some of the others will want to fight.”

  “If they want a fight they’ll get it. They’ll stay here all right, but I’ll see them planted in boot hill.”

  He stared off into the distance for a moment. “You’re a hard man, Sage, but I appreciate you coming to me and talking about this. Another man would have ridden in with a posse and hammered some placards all over town, giving us all notice to pull out.”