BEAR CREEK (SAGE COUNTRY Book 1) Page 9

  “Are you enjoying the view?”

  I turned at the sound of her voice.

  She had come through a screened door at the back of the kitchen.

  Her dark hair had just a tiny sparkle of silver. It was pinned up in a bun, but some of it had slipped loose and dangled beside her face. She was aware of it and attempted to put it back up, but it fell down again. She blew at it in frustration.

  “Yes, I am,” I said.

  Obviously I was looking at her.

  “Why Mr. Sage, are you being forward?”

  “No ma’am,” I smiled. “No offense intended, Mrs. O’Malley.”

  I held my hands up.

  “None taken Marshal”

  “Please call me John.”

  “Thank you, John. I will.”

  “I must say, you have a lovely home.”

  “Mmmmm.” It was a thoughtful sound.

  She went over and rested both hands on the porch rail. She was watching the horses.

  “I never thought it would be turned into a boarding house, or that I would have to cook and clean for strangers. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the work. These things have to be done. I just wanted a family… I guess I’m just lonely,” she frowned.

  “Why Mrs. O’Malley, are you being forward with me?”

  She laughed.

  “No offense intended, John. Please call me Lora.”

  “Thank you, Lora. I will”

  “Well, if you will excuse me, I have to get back inside.”

  She turned back to the screen door and paused. She looked back over her shoulder at me.

  “I am very pleased to meet you, John.”

  “And I you,” I said, bowing slightly.

  A couple of days later, Tom packed up Jack’s clothes. He told me he knew I needed to move out of the hotel and this room was available.

  “If I was you, I’d be tempted to move to the boarding house though,” he suggested, again.

  “This will be more than adequate Tom. Thank you very much.”

  I glared at him.

  He picked up the books and Jack’s glasses.

  “How’s your reading coming along?” I asked.

  “A little better all the time, I can mostly read the headlines in the newspaper and pick my way through some of the stories. I get stuck a lot, but Becky helps me along.”

  “Tom, that’s great.”

  He shook his head. “Not really. Have you seen today’s Bear Creek Banner?”

  “Yeah, what can I say? They’re right. We haven’t found the man who murdered Willy and Jack. At least not yet,” I added.

  “I really liked the way they wrote about the funeral, though. It was a nice tribute to Jack.”

  Tom looked down at the books he was holding.

  “I could leave these here, if you’d like.”

  “No thanks, Tom. Those were Jack’s, and Becky should have them, especially his Bible.”

  “I want to be able to read the Bible myself, someday,” Tom said. “I really have a hard time with it.”

  I thought about his statement. I thought about the fact so many people owned Bibles, knew perfectly well how to read, but didn’t bother to read their Bible. Many other people had tried to read the Bible and just couldn’t understand it. I figured I knew why that was. Most of them were unfamiliar with the author. For them it was probably like trying to read someone else’s mail.

  We heard the front door open, so we went out to see who had come in.

  It was Yellow Horse.

  17.

  Yellow horse is a bear of a man. He’s only about five feet, nine inches tall, but massive through the shoulders, with a barrel chest. He wears his hair long, in the manner of the Comanche.

  Yellow Horse nodded when he saw me.

  “John,”

  “Hello, Yellow Horse.”

  “You owe me for the train”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He nodded again. Then he grinned, white teeth flashing in his sun darkened face.

  I grinned too.

  He looked over at Tom.

  “Tom Smith, meet Yellow Horse.”

  They shook hands.

  “Tom is and has been, a deputy here in Bear Creek,” I said, by way of further introduction. I was thinking about how to explain Yellow Horse to Tom.

  ***

  Yellow Horse was born half Comanche and half Cherokee. His mother was stolen from her people by the Comanche. Like many Cherokee, she was fair skinned and had light brown hair with blue eyes. She was a great prize.

  Yellow Horse has dark brown hair (now going grey) and grey eyes. He is darker than most white men, but there are some white men who, having been sun darkened, are darker than he is. He can pass for a white man.

  He is not.

  Because of his lighter hair, skin and eye color, he was seized by the army in a raid on a Comanche encampment. They thought he was a white boy that had been stolen by the Comanche. He was twelve at the time.

  When no white family would claim him, he was sent to an orphanage run by the Roman Catholic Church. They tried to make a “decent” white “Christian” out of him. He ran away. They brought him back and gave him the name “James”. He ran away. He was captured and returned. They taught him to speak English. He ran away. This process went on for a couple of years. He learned to read and write.

  There was a war being fought among the white people. One day, he ran away and this time they didn’t get him back.

  He was far from his home and his people. It took him a long time, but he worked his way back toward home, passing for a white boy.

  Right after the War Between the States, a couple of men in Texas decided to round up some wild cattle and drive them to New Mexico. There was no market for cattle in Texas, but they needed beef in the big cities. Those entrepreneurial men were Charles Goodnight and Oliver Loving. I was young, and needed work. They put me on the crew. They still needed a scout.

  James Yellow Horse was able to convince Goodnight and Loving he had traveled that way with the Comanche, spoke the language and would be a valuable scout. That’s how I first met him. We drove nearly two thousand head of cattle to New Mexico, together.

  A couple of years later, we all set out to drive a herd to Wyoming. One day, when we were still somewhere in New Mexico, Yellow Horse and Loving were far ahead of the herd, intending to make trade agreements with the Comanche, for passing through that country. They were attacked by a party of Comanche hostiles. Loving was badly wounded in the fight. Yellow Horse fought beside him, being gravely wounded himself. He managed to get Loving to Ft. Sumner, but Oliver Loving sickened and died there.

  When Goodnight and the rest of us brought the herd to Ft. Sumner, we found Yellow Horse had been seized by men who intended to lynch him. We didn’t let that happen. He and I have been friends ever since.

  Yellow Horse and I took a few herds up the trail together, before the railroads reached Texas. My life eventually took me in other directions. We didn’t see each other for some years. Yellow Horse was back among his people. He fought beside Quanah Parker at the second battle of Adobe Walls. I heard he was instrumental in getting the great chief of the Comanche to seek peace with the white man. When the last of the Comanche were all moved to the reservation in Oklahoma, Charlie Goodnight took Yellow Horse under his wing. When I found myself in Texas again, I looked him up. Yellow Horse was scouting for the Rangers. I joined up.

  ***

  “Yellow Horse is the best tracker I know. He’s my friend and I’ve asked him to help us find Rawlins.”

  “Outstanding,” Tom said.

  I looked at Yellow Horse.

  “I guess there’ve been a lot of changes, since you and I last saw this country together.”

  “More white people, less of mine.”

  I nodded.

  He slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  I told him how I had come to Bear Creek and met Rawlins in the street. I told him
about the murders. When I finished the story, Yellow Horse said nothing.

  I was used to that. I knew he was considering the possibilities.

  “Where do I sleep?” he asked.

  As I indicated, Yellow Horse has had trouble in some towns, with some white people. He doesn’t like hotels.

  “I have arranged for you to have a bed at the livery stable. It was where Willy Walker lived.”

  He nodded.

  “He won’t go far, John. He is hiding and waiting.”

  I knew he was referring to Rawlins.

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  The next man to show up, within a couple of days, was “Buckskin Charlie” Owens. He was a colorful character I had worked with many years ago. Lately, he had been performing in some “Wild West” shows, back east. He was the real deal though. When he had still been little more than a wild kid, he and I had worked together to tame a couple of towns.

  He was fond of wearing a buckskin jacket with fringes, over a maroon shirt with a bright yellow scarf. He wore a broad brimmed white hat, set at a rakish angle. He sported a walrus moustache and a narrow beard on his chin. If anyone thought of him as being a bit frivolous, they would be wrong. He was the best shooter with either a handgun or a long gun, I had ever met. He was ready, willing and able to shoot the eyes out of anyone, or anything that threatened him. Because of his flamboyant stage persona, his fans didn’t think of him as a former lawman.

  I knew better.

  He had probably made more money entertaining, but he was ready to be “useful” again.

  I made him a deputy Marshal of Bear Creek, Colorado.

  At the end of the week, Hugh Lomax arrived. Hugh was the man who gave me my first job as a deputy, and rescued me in a tight pinch in Arkansas. He was steady as an anvil. When the War started, he was a no-nonsense, hard working farm boy, in Missouri. When it ended, he was a one armed Lieutenant, in the Union army. He left the army and moved to Arkansas.

  I had been his deputy, when he saved my bacon. At that time, he was the Sheriff in Cherokee County, Arkansas. We had followed a train robber named Billy Bob Johnson, into the Ozark Mountains. I was as green as a sprout. I was foolish enough to corner Billy Bob in a dugout cabin. His cronies got the drop on me. I had gotten myself trapped between the dugout and three of Billy Bob’s hooligans.

  When the shooting started, the one armed man came running down a hill, firing his .36 caliber, Colt Navy revolver, and saved my life. We captured Billy Bob and one surviving member of his gang. I had not seen Hugh for many years.

  Those years had not been kind to him, but it didn’t matter to me. I introduced him to Clay Atwater.

  “Hugh, I’d like you to meet the Sheriff of Alta Vista County, Clay Atwater.”

  They shook hands a little bit awkwardly.

  “Clay, Hugh managed to get himself elected to… Was it five terms?”

  “Six,” he rasped.

  “…Right, six terms, as Sheriff in Cherokee County, Arkansas. He can advise you on anything you might need to know. I suggest making him your chief deputy and putting him in charge of the jail.”

  “Done,” Clay said.

  “Have you had any success finding other deputies?”

  “I’ve been busy with the freight line, but I looked around. I can’t find none with any real experience as law men, but there are a couple of guys I trust who work for Atwater Freight. They have experience as guards. They’ve brought the ore down from the mines, secured the warehouse and guarded the payroll.”

  “Good,” Hugh rasped. “We have to start somewhere. They know that part of the county and the roads into the mountains. They are comfortable with their weapons. They can learn to wear the badge. No reason they can’t continue to guard the ore as well.”

  “I thought I might get Bob Maxwell to be a deputy, too,” Clay said.

  “I don’t know about that, Clay. Can you trust him? What about his drinking?” I asked.

  “Aww, he only does it once in a while, and never when he’s working.”

  “I hate to see you pulling so many people from your company. You’ll have to hire people to replace them. Also, there is the public perception, you should consider.”

  “Waddya mean?” Clay asked.

  I looked at Hugh. He just shrugged.

  “The Sheriff’s office can’t be seen as a private company or personal empire.” I said.

  “Huh. I’ll have to think about that.”

  I nodded.

  “You’ve made a good start, Sheriff. If you’ll get me settled in, we can discuss some options.” Hugh managed.

  As they were leaving, he rolled his eyes at me.

  Now that I had two deputies, Yellow Horse and I were able to scout around. We rode up into the high country, hoping to cut Rawlins trail. Yellow Horse was concerned that Rawlins might be in one of the nearby towns, so we headed for North Fork.

  North Fork proved to be a typical raw boned, frontier town. The road went right through the middle of the town, as the main street, and continued on up to Flapjack City. The commercial part of town lined both sides of the road, for about three blocks. There was a general store, hardware store, post office, barbershop, stage depot, and several saloons. It appeared the principle reason for the existence of the town was as a service center for the miners up at Flapjack City. The homes of the residents were scattered through the trees, on the mountain sides.

  We found Tommy Turner, the sheriff of North Fork, in one of the saloons. He was the owner of that establishment. It looked to be the “full service” saloon he had told us about. I was pretty sure the other saloons in North Fork worked the same way.

  He told us he hadn’t seen Rawlins or heard any more about him. I had no reason to believe t he was lying, but we decided to search the town. A couple of saloon keepers and clerks said they had seen a man matching his description, there in the town on occasion, but not lately. The “working girls” said the same thing.

  After we had searched the town pretty well, we headed home, sensing our man was still somewhere nearby.

  18.

  All of our searching and all of our vigilance, had not helped us find Rawlins.

  It turned out I had been right about him coming to us. Rawlins and I found each other on a Saturday morning.

  I shot him as he was getting off his horse.

  I’d just had breakfast with Tom and Becky, at the Bon Ton, and was walking out the door. I barely noticed a man at the hitching rail, just starting to step off a big bay horse. I wouldn’t have paid any attention to him, except his body language changed the minute he saw me. When I turned my head to look at him, he was reaching for his gun.

  All in a flash, I realized he was Ed Rawlins, and we were firing at each other.

  His first shot went past me, through the open door of the Bon Ton. My first shot went through his chest and hit the saddle on his horse. The horse jumped sideways, but Rawlins was already firing his second shot. It splintered the wood of the door frame, right by my ear. He didn’t fire a third shot because when the horse jumped away, it caused Rawlins to fall on his butt in the street. He had barely hit the ground when I fired my second shot. I put that second bullet through his head. The big bay gelding had taken off, galloping down the street.

  I didn’t go after it this time.

  Tom flew out the door, with his gun ready. I walked over and kicked Rawlins smoking gun out of his lifeless hand.

  “Are you OK?” Tom asked me.

  “Yeah. You?”

  I emptied the two spent shells, reloaded and holstered my gun.

  “We’re all OK. Say, that’s Ed Rawlins isn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  Fortunately no one in the Bon Ton had been hit. That was a relief. Becky and Mrs. O’Malley were among the people inside.

  Tom turned and kept the people from crowding out. I asked for a tablecloth and covered Rawlins body with it. By now, people were coming from everywhere.

  Buckskin Charlie and Hugh Lomax arriv
ed on the run. I noticed that Hugh looked ashen and was having trouble catching his breath. He looked at me and shrugged.

  “Not as young as I used to be,” he rasped. “I’m OK, though.”

  I left them to handle the crowd.

  I went over to the Marshal’s office and washed my face. My hands were trembling.

  The door opened and Clay Atwater came in. Yellow Horse slipped in behind him and closed the door.

  “Well you got your man,” Clay said.

  “It was a near thing.”

  “Didn’t look that way to me, I saw his body, you shot him twice.”

  “It was his horse that killed him. If he had been standing on the ground, I don’t know.”

  I shook my head and rubbed my face with the towel again.

  “Who fired first?” He asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might. Maybe you shot first and he was just attempting to defend himself. For all we know, he was coming into town to surrender to authorities,” he said.

  I saw Yellow Horse’s head whip around at that comment. He gave Clay a hard stare.

  “I can tell you he drew first. I can tell you he probably came back here to kill someone. He was probably looking for Tom and was surprised to see me. He was armed and ready. It was a near thing. If his horse hadn’t jumped, he probably would have killed me.”

  “That’s your story, but there were no witnesses. By the time anyone realized what was happening, it was over. You’ve shot a man to death.” Clay was glaring at me.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Sheriff Atwater, do we have a problem?”

  “You’re damned right we do. I know for a fact, you and this half breed,” he glanced at Yellow Horse, “went hunting for Rawlins out in the mountains. You went to North Fork. You had no authority to do that. It’s my juris…my…my area of duty.” He concluded angrily.