Read Bear Creek Page 2

  ***

  Decades had passed, since I had been the ten year old boy who staggered into their circle of firelight. I was nearly frozen, half naked, and covered in blood. Some of the blood was my own.

  That group of Romani had saved my life, and since I had no one else, become my family. Sasha and Kergi Borostoya, were the leaders of this band of Romani. They had no children, so Sasha became my mother and Kergi became my father.

  We had traveled thousands of miles together. The Romani are travelers, always on the move. Some are horse traders, tinkers, skilled laborers, entertainers, and the like. Over the years, I had learned many useful skills.

  Katya was my first love.

  When I was twenty, I took a job in one of the towns where we had been camped, and persuaded Katya to be my wife. I had tried to make a life with Katya, and she had tried to make it work. We had a son, who we named Nicolai. But life in a town, apart from her people, was not for Katya. She was heartsick and miserable.

  One day, while I was gone driving a herd of cattle to Cheyenne, she took our son and joined a different band of Romani, who happened to be passing through. They were her people, and distant relatives, so they were happy to have her, I suppose.

  By the time I returned to Texas, they had already been gone for a month. It took me seventeen more days to catch up with that band of travelers. When I did, Katya and Nicky were no longer with them. Pleading and threatening were of no use. No information about where my wife and son had gone was given me.

  After months of searching and many false leads, I eventually had to stop looking for them..

  I would go home to Sasha and Kergi, whenever I could, whenever their travels brought them close enough. Sasha always told me she had heard good things, and all was well with Katya and Nicolae, but she did not know where they were. I would leave money with Kergi, and he would see to it their needs were met, somehow. After many years, I eventually gave up any hope of finding them, and got on with my life.

  As I was pondering these things, a man parted the curtains behind Katya, and held them open.

  “John,” Sasha cried, as she rushed into the tent and threw her arms around me. “My son is home again.”

  We hugged, and I held her out at arm’s length. Her hair was more silver than black now, her face more deeply etched, but the tears in her eyes did not mar the beauty and the wisdom there.

  “How long has it been, this time?” she asked.

  “Too long, mother…about three years, I think.”

  “Three years, this month, it was in New Orleans, wasn’t it? Thank God you were there.”

  “I’m so glad to find you here,” I said. “I was on my way to see you; I heard y’all were in Wyoming.”

  “We were, but there were not enough towns, and it is time we are heading south, before winter comes.”

  “Will you be going to Texas?”

  “No, John. We will go down into New Mexico and then head west.”

  She turned to indicate the man who had opened the curtains for her. She introduced us.

  “John, this is Matthew Vilokova. Matthew, meet my son… John Sage.”

  I was aware of the way Katya was watching us.

  We shook hands.

  “Matthew is our leader now, John,” Sasha said, giving me a look I could not interpret.

  “Oh? Where is my father?” I asked, hoping I was reading the whole thing wrongly.

  Sasha put her hands on my shoulders.

  “John, I am so sorry…Kergi was killed in a wagon wreck, coming down a mountain, back in the spring.”

  She put her face against my chest, and I held her. There were tears in my eyes now.

  Katya motioned to Matthew, who silently stepped out of the tent, leaving the three of us alone.

  We spent some moments with our grief, then Sasha sniffed and wiping her eyes, she motioned we should sit at the table.

  She held my right hand in both of hers on the table top, and looked me in the eye.

  “John, everything that has been done, has been done according to our customs, and the Roma Law.” She said. “You have a right to know your son…and you have a right to claim leadership of our people.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “You are the son of Kergi Alexiev Borostoya. You have the right to leadership of our people, by direct succession. Do you understand?”

  “Mother, I was not born Romani…”

  She made a cutting motion with her hand.

  “According to our customs and Roma Law, John, it is your right. Among us, you are ‘Vlad’, a prince. Beyond that, everyone knows you and respects you. You have served and protected our people. What you did in New Orleans has become a story told among us, in every camp. Matthew was only chosen as our leader because you were not home with us.”

  I was again overwhelmed and confused.

  “You need some time to think on this,” She said.

  She looked at Katya, and nodded.

  “John, Nicky is here, with us. He is working now, but you can see him later.” Katya said.

  I looked at her.

  “There is something else…Matthew and I, are married now. We have been for several years.”

  Sasha reached out and turned my face toward hers. She held my eyes,

  “John, you must think and pray about these things. Go away from here, for a while. We will meet again to discuss your decision tonight, after the townspeople go home. Already they are leaving. Tonight, we will celebrate your return home, no matter your decision. Come back tonight and you will see your son.”

  It was the custom of our people, not to allow the “townies” to be among us after dark, nothing good could come of it. Over the centuries, we had learned the dangers associated with staying too long in one place, or of having townspeople get too close. They did not trust us, and we did not trust them. Most of the townies wanted to get home before dark, anyway.

  I left the tent, and as I was leaving the carnival, I was watching everyone with new eyes. We all learned to juggle and walk on stilts. We all learned to operate all of the games. Many of us were trained in a variety of acrobatics, sleight of hand, or “specialty” skills, according to our talents. My son could be any of these Romani. Which one was he?

  As I was pondering this, a commotion broke out in the tent where the girls who did the Kheliben dancing were performing. I ducked inside.

  Roma Kheliben dancing is ancient. It is as old as the Romani. We brought it with us from the Middle East. To some it has been considered scandalous and lascivious. To us it is common and respected as a dance form. To many of the men in the towns, it is an exotic spectacle, for which they are willing to pay. Sometimes they make the mistake of thinking the girls are of questionable morals, or simply prostitutes. They are wrong. They might not make the same assumption about ballet dancers. Regardless; we protect our girls and do not tolerate lewd or offensive conduct toward them, from anyone.

  Inside the tent, two of the Romani men were down and appeared to be injured. The cause of the commotion was the man from the Ox Bow, who had tried to impress me with his toughness.

  He was pawing at the only girl who had failed to escape from the tent.

  “Hey, Bob,” I called as I approached him, “Where’d you find that gal?”

  He crouched over her.

  “Geshur own,” he growled.

  It was obvious he’d been drinking all day.

  He narrowed his eyes when I got right up close to him.

  “You that gummen,” he slurred. “I’ll brekyu laka twig.”

  I slowly held up both my hands, very high, so he could see that I was not reaching for my gun.

  “Now, Bob, you know I’m your friend.” I said, as I looked up at my right hand, just above his head

  He looked up at it too.

  I hit him in the throat with my left hand, and as he started to reach up to clutch his throat, I hit him with two hard blows to the midsection and one to the crotch. He doubled over. I only he
sitated a second, then I brought my knee up hard, into his face.

  He flew over backward, and crashed down on the platform.

  Romani men rushed in, led by Matthew. They had daggers and guns in their hands.

  I don’t like to take advantage of a drunk. Bob was just too dangerous to take chances with. He was too big to fight. I would have had to kill him. The Romani certainly would have killed him.

  I also don’t like to injure my hands. So, if I have to hit someone, I generally hit them in soft tissue, or bend my gun barrel over their head.

  The Romani men gathered around.

  “His nose is broken,” I said. “Make sure he doesn’t choke to death on his own blood. Throw him in a wagon, and drop him off at the doctor’s office.”

  I told them where it was.

  “Tell the doctor I did this to him. Tell him why.”

  I walked out.

  9.

  As I walked back toward town, I noticed it had become cloudy, and the wind was picking up. The weather matched my mood. The horse races were over, and some folks with horses and buggies were headed east on the road, but I was part of a general migration back toward town. Now that all the festivities were over, people were going home.

  I remembered the hotel clerk had mentioned the Governor would be staying out at the Bar C. I hadn’t seen the big fancy wagon go by. I figured it had probably left earlier to get out to the Bar C, before dark.

  Somebody once wrote: “It matters little where we’ve been, or where we’re headed. It matters most, who we are.” Somebody else said: “It matters not what road we take, but who we become, on the journey.” I know the truth; the trail we choose, will greatly determine who we will become on the journey. The Christian life is a narrow trail and few there are who find it. One has to watch their step. Open roads are easy to find, and there is usually a lot of traffic. The road to hell is broad, well paved, and jammed with traffic. The narrow trail can be rough and lonely.

  I had a lot to think about.

  When I came to the Mexican quarter, I took my time and wandered around a bit. I heard beautiful guitar music coming from an old adobe building that had a fresh coat of whitewash. As I approached, I realized I had found the cantina. I listened to the guitar for a moment, but I didn’t go inside.

 

  When I got back to the Marshal’s office, Tom was still there, alone. He said he hadn’t seen Jack, all afternoon. I started to fill him in on my experiences of the day, when the door opened. Jack came in, carrying a covered tray.

  “I stopped at the Bon Ton and had an early supper. Here’s Rawlins grub,” he said nodding at the tray. “Looks like it’s gonna rain.”

  Tom took the tray back into the jail, to give to Rawlins. When he came back out, Jack told him to go on home, and have supper with Becky. He indicated we would both be needed on the street after dark.

  “This town is getting too big, to walk a patrol from one end to another, or be able to get across in an emergency. The city council has voted to pay for two more deputies. I sure would like it, if you would stick around here and be one of them,” Jack said, looking at me.

  There was a knock on the front door, so Jack went over and opened it. Standing there was one of the Romani men. He had a big bruise started under one eye, and the eye was swelling shut. I recognized him as one of the two men who had tangled with Bob. He had his hat in his hand and he was fidgeting.

  “What can I do for you?” Jack asked.

  “Mr. Marshal, the doctor told me to come and tell you, Bob Maxwell will have to spend the night with him, for observation.” He blurted.

  He was staring at me, the whole time.

  “OK, thanks,” Jack said.

  He started to ask a question, but the man turned and left, in a hurry.

  Jack closed the door.

  “I wonder what that was about,” he said.

  I gave him a rough account of my two encounters with Bob.

  “Wow.” Jack said. “That’s good work. Bob Maxwell is one tough teamster, and the best muleskinner I ever saw. He can handle an ox team like nobody’s business. That’s why he’s the foreman of the teamsters working for the Atwater Freight Company. He’s usually not a problem, but when he gets his drink loaded on, he gets mean and somebody always gets hurt. Never him though.”

  He gave me an appraising look.

  “I knew having that damn carnival in town was going to cause trouble. You just can’t trust those gypsies. We’ll have to run them out of town, tomorrow,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I’ll go back out there tonight, and ask them to move on,” I volunteered. “That way, there won’t be anyone to file charges against our Mr. Maxwell. He won’t be tempted to go back out there and start more trouble, either.”

  Jack looked at me.

  “I hate to ask you to do that. It might be dangerous.”

  “Oh, I think I can handle it,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Yeah, you probably can at that.” He nodded. “OK, be careful. It’s Saturday night, and things can get rough on that side of town. I’ll stay here with our prisoner. When Tom gets back, I’ll have him hit the streets.”

  By the time I got back out to the carnival site, all the tents and booths had been taken down and packed up. There were cooking fires going, and the wonderful smell made my stomach growl with anticipation. We would be feasting on the fatted calf, tonight

  Matthew took me to his brightly painted wagon. It was much like a sheepherder’s wagon, only somewhat larger. It had a hard roof and walls, even windows with glass in them. There was a built in bed on each side that you could sit on, and a table with two chairs, even a small stove. The lamps were lit inside. It was getting dark because of the heavy cloud cover. We sat at his table and he brought out a bottle of wine. We talked and drank a little wine. We found common ground.

  After a little while, he left. A moment later, a young man came into the wagon. It took me a moment to realize who he was. It was Nicolai, my son.

  “Hello, sir,” he said, somewhat formally.

  I couldn’t help myself; I got up from the table and embraced him

  “Nicky, you’re a grown man!”

  It was all I could think to say.

  “Father, I am so glad to finally see you again.” He said, as though he were starting a well- rehearsed speech.

  “Nicky, I couldn’t find you…” I interrupted.

  We stared at each other, for a moment.

  “Let’s sit down,” I suggested.

  “I know you were looking for us, sir. When I was a very small child, I never thought about not having my father with us. You know how it is, we’re a tight community and we all raise the children as if each were our own. As I got older, I realized you were somewhere else. I heard stories about you, of course. Mother let me know who you were, and how proud I should be, to be your son. I know the things you have done for our people. For many years, we were with a different band of Romani. When we would occasionally see Grandmamma and Grand poppa, they told me stories of when you were a boy.

  I smiled at the idea of calling Sasha and Kergi, by those childish informalities.

  “Why wouldn’t anyone let me find you?”

  “It is…complicated.”

  He struggled for an appropriate word.

  There are so many times when a single word, must be used to account for all the convoluted subtleties and brutal realities of a situation.

  “I understand, some of it,” I said. “It’s partly my own fault. I left the family. I took your mother with me. I wasn’t born Roma. I…”

  “It was thought it would be best, for everyone, sir,” He interrupted. “You must know, this is not the first time this sort of thing has happened. We are a nation of mixed blood. You are not the property of the Romani. You are not perfect. You are a man. You must do what it is, that God has put into you to do. Mother is not perfect. It is not your fault she could not stay away from our people, and it is not her fault,
you could not stay with us. It is, what it is.”

  I was amazed at his logic and that he had thought it through so well. I was overcome with pride in him, and humility at the fact I had nothing to do with how well he had turned out. I found myself with tears rolling down my face.

  He stood, as if to go.

  “Wait,’ I croaked

  I stood up quickly.

  We embraced. This time he hugged me.

  “Father, I want you to meet my fiancée.”

  There were tears in his eyes, as well.

  “What? You’re getting married? Well, you really are a grown man,” I grinned.

  Her name was Rachel Tullosa, and she was a beauty. She had striking red hair and a dancer’s grace. It was good to see my son had excellent taste!

  We all sat together to eat at a table set up outside. There was a campfire and eventually everyone gathered around it. Some of the children looked at me shyly, half hidden behind their mother’s skirts.

  Soon the musicians began to play their violins, tambourines, balalaikas, guitars, castanets, drums and pipes. It was a magical time. For me it could not last long enough. This music was like the rhythm of my heart. It raced and danced in my blood. It spoke of joy and it spoke of sorrow. It spoke of inner strength and determination. It spoke of things long lost and things yet to be discovered. It was ancient and contemporary, this music of my soul.

  As the mother’s began to gather the little children for bed, I knew it was time for me to address the things which needed to be said. I caught Matthew’s eye and he nodded. At the next break in the music, he stepped forward and motioned for the musicians to put down their instruments.

  When I stood up, a hush fell over the people.

  “I am, John Everett Sage, son of Kergi Alexiev Borostoya. I have the right to claim leadership of our people. After the death of my father, while I was gone, you chose Matthew to be your leader. That is good. He is a good man, and he has been a good father to my son.’

  I looked at Matthew. He had his arms crossed and was looking into the fire.

  “I am honored that you would even consider me for your leader, but I cannot leave this place. Not now. There is a thing I must do. I have asked Matthew to lead you, in my absence.”

  I looked around the group. Many were nodding and I could see relief on Katya’s face.

  “I cannot say when, or if, I will be able to return home to you. Matthew has agreed to lead, for as long as I am unable to. Upon my death, my son Nicolai will become the leader, as is his right as a direct descendent of his grandfather, my father, Kergi Alexiev Borostoya. This is my word and it is done.”

  I looked over at Nicky where he was standing with Rachel. He looked shocked. I looked at Katya, and although she was smiling, she was also crying. So was Sasha.

  “Enough talk. Let’s have some music.” I said, not knowing how to move on.

  There was dead silence.

  Matthew walked over to me, with his arms spread and we embraced. Lightening crackled in the mountains and thunder boomed down through the canyons.

  Then the music started up again.

  Sasha came to me and led me back to her wagon. This was the same wagon, where as a child, I had lived in, played under, and even played on top of. It seemed to get smaller, every time I saw it.

  We went inside and talked about many things. When it was time for me to go, we held each other for a long time.

  “My son, you must be careful, there is a storm coming.”

  “I can see that mother, I’ll be fine.”

  She clutched my hand and looked at me intently.

  “No son, this storm is coming to you, in this place,” she said, waving her other hand in a circle. “There will be bad trouble, soon.”

  “I’m a careful man, mother. Don’t worry about me. You take care, as well.

  I hugged her again and went outside.

  Matthew and Nicolai were waiting for me.

  We started walking toward town.

  10.

  I’d stayed too long. It was late now and about to storm. The wind had picked up and thunder rumbled, much nearer now.

  There is always a storm coming. There will always be trouble in this life. My mother’s warning was not prophetic, I thought, as we walked along. No tea leaves needed. No tarot cards or crystal ball, either. It doesn’t take a fortune teller, to tell you what you already know. The past is a memory, the future is a dream and we only live in the moment. It is how we live in the moment that matters. The future is not to be found in crystal balls or tarot cards. It is determined by the will of God and the choices we make.

  We walked and talked for a while. Finally, as we neared the railroad tracks, Matthew turned to me.

  “As you and I discussed earlier, we will leave tonight. We’ll go directly south from here, to avoid the town, and then work our way down to Denver, then on to New Mexico. I plan to take us all the way to California.” He looked at me. “John, if you need anything, anywhere, at any time…” He trailed off.

  “Matthew, I can never thank you enough, or repay you, for the way you have cared for my family and our people. Go with God”

  We shook hands, and he turned back toward the campsite, leaving Nicky and me alone.

  Nicky and I walked on in silence, for a little while.

  Presently, he spoke up.

  “Dad, I have to go back now.”

  “I know, son. Thank you for spending this time with me. Take care of your mother and grandmother for me.” I paused. “Nicky, I am very proud of you.” I rasped.

  We were hugging, not far from the front door of the Ox Bow, when Tom walked up on us. The look on his face was priceless.

  “I got worried about you.” Tom said. “Jack told me you were going back out to the gypsy camp. When I didn’t see you anywhere, I figured I’d better check on you. I was on my way over there, now.”

  “Tom, I’d like you to meet my son, Nicky.” I said. I was immediately embarrassed, for having called him “Nicky.”

  “Nicolai, this is my friend, Tom Smith.”

  I saw Nicky looking at Tom’s badge, as they shook hands.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Smith. My friends call me Nick.” He said, looking at me.

  I smiled and nodded. “Nick it is. Nick Sage. It has a nice ring to it.”

  Tom smiled.

  “It’s a small world, huh? Were you expecting to run into each other?”

  Nick and I looked at each other, and grinned.

  “…Not hardly,” I said. “I couldn’t have had a better surprise.”

  “Well, it’s a night for surprises,” Tom said. “It’s been real quiet. There’s been no trouble at all. Maybe it’s because of the storm that’s coming, or maybe everybody has had enough fun for one day. Whatever the reason, it’s unusually quiet. I’m about ready to call it a night.”

  Nicky took that as his cue to leave.

  “I’ll say good night here then, Dad. You know where to find us. Don’t be gone so long, next time. Nice meeting you, Deputy Smith.” He started to walk off, but he turned and said. “Dad, be safe.” He held up a hand, in a kind of wave and turned back down the street. In a moment, he was gone.

  I was struggling with many emotions, but one thing was clear. He had called me, Dad!

  “He looks just like you,” Tom ventured. “Taller though,” He added, grinning.

  Tom and I walked over into the Mexican section and swung by the cantina. There was soft guitar music, being played inside, and no other sound. We went in and drank some lukewarm beer, in the soft light of the lanterns, enjoying the peace and the quiet sound of the lone guitar.

  “It’s almost eerie,” Tom observed. “It’s never this quiet on a Saturday night, or any other night on this side of town”

  We left and walked back toward the square.

  When we got to the square, we stopped and looked around. There was no one to be seen. The wind was blowing some trash around, and there was piano music coming
from the Palace. It was subdued, popular music, and there was nothing else going on. It was apparent most people were sheltered from the storm.

  “John, I’m gonna go home and go to bed. Will you do me a favor?” He asked.

  “Sure. What is it?” I asked.

  “Well, we like to go to church as a family on Sunday morning, and Jack won’t leave the jail unattended, when we have prisoners. Would you hang out in the office, while we go to church?” He was very earnest.

  “Of course, I’ll be happy to. What time should I be there?”

  We decided since the church service was at nine o’clock, I should get to the office at about eight thirty, in the morning.

  “What about Rawlins breakfast?” I asked.

  “Jack will get him fed, at about eight o’clock,” Tom said.

  We bid each other a good night.

  I walked on down to the Marshal’s office. It was dark. There was faint lamplight from behind the shade in the window of Jack’s room. The front door was locked. It was starting to spit some rain. I went back to the hotel and found my bed.

  I lay there thinking about the day.

 

  Roma Law was developed as a system of self-governance. The Romani had started out in the Middle East or Asia, possibly northern India, and traveled throughout Europe. Because there was intermarriage, everywhere they traveled, perhaps the Romani were technically Eurasian. Over the centuries we had learned that laws changed with the national borders, even differing from town to town. We also learned, through horrible experience, travelers have no rights.

  So, we have our own law.

  I had only been with the Romani for a little over ten years, and there was far more about Roma Law I didn’t know, than there was that I did know.

  I was in no way qualified to lead the Romani. Oh, I might have learned, as I went along. Sasha and the other elders would have counseled me, but it was not my place. If I had claimed my right to become leader, it might not have been just the leader of our little band of forty some people. A leader of the Romani has many duties and functions. Matthew would be a good leader. He had traveled with other bands and was well known and highly respected. He was qualified, in every way.

  Nick was, in some ways, more his son than mine. One day Nick would lead our people, having earned that right through both succession and apprenticeship.

  Matthew had promised this to me.

  I hoped I had gotten one other thing right. The money I placed in Sasha’s care would be my wedding present to my son. Sasha would see that Nick got the money, and Matthew would help him choose and purchase a good wagon and team for himself and Rachel. There would also be enough money for Rachel’s dowry. Matthew insisted on paying for any other expense. That left me with about five hundred dollars.

  It had been very hard for me to stand in front of my family and all the people, and tell them that yet once again, I could not be counted on. Once again, I would not be with them. Once again, I would choose a different path.

  It was clear to me I was, after all was said and done, still just another “Townie.”

  11.

  The storm hit hard, just as I started to go to sleep. A flash of lightening and immediate crash of thunder rattled my window. Right behind that, a curtain of rain hit the town like a cow peeing on a flat rock. The electric fireworks passed over fairly quickly, but the rain continued in earnest. I fell asleep to the sound of pelting rain, but in my mind, I heard the music of the Roma people.

  A little before eight o’clock the next morning, I hustled over to the Marshal’s office. I wanted to give Jack the option of sending me to get Rawlins breakfast, so he wouldn’t have to run that errand in the rain. Because my slicker was on my saddle in the livery stable I had to race through the rain, from one covered stretch of boardwalk, to an awning, then a porch.

  When I made it to the office, I stood on the porch for a moment and drained most of the water off my hat.

  The door wasn’t locked, so I went inside expecting to find some hot coffee on the stove. I was disappointed. The stove had gone out and there was no coffee. Jack wasn’t there, either. I figured he had already gone to get himself and Rawlins some breakfast.

  I started a fire in the stove. There was some water in a pitcher, so I poured it into the coffee pot and got some coffee started on the stove. I sat behind the desk, putting my feet up on it.

  It seemed odd that Jack had left the door unlocked while he was out…and why would he let the stove go out, when it was wet and cold outside? Something wasn’t right.

  I went to check on the prisoner. When I looked in the cell everything appeared normal. He was lying kind of curled up with his back toward me and he had the shabby blanket pulled over him.

  “Morning, Mr. Rawlins.” I called “Do you need to use the privy?”

  No response.

  I realized he was too still.

  “Hey!” I yelled, banging on the cell door. It was now clear he was not going to move.

  I ran back into the office and got the key off the peg. I ran back to the cell and unlocked it. Throwing the cell door open, I walked over to the man on the bed. When I touched him, he was cold and stiff.

  It wasn’t Rawlins body lying on the bed.

  It was Jack and he was dead.

  He’d been dead for some time, probably for several hours.

  When I pulled the blanket back, it was apparent he had been stabbed, just under the breast bone. His shirt was stiff with drying blood, and the flimsy, straw stuffed mattress under him, was nearly saturated. He was lying in a pool of congealed blood. He’d been put on the bed and covered up, after he was stabbed. I looked at the floor and saw big drops of dried blood. I hadn’t noticed them before.

  I left the cell and wandered back into the office, in a daze. How had this happened? Where was Rawlins? What should I do? How would I tell Becky and Tom?

  After a moment, I went outside, locking the office behind me. I ran to the doctor’s office and raced up the stairs, to his residence. I pounded on his door and he opened it, almost instantly, startling me. He was obviously dressed for church.

  “Doctor Johnson, I’m John Sage…” I began.

  “I know who you are. What’s the problem?”

  I told him what had happened.

  “Doc, I don’t know where anybody lives, except Tom and Becky. I need you to find the Judge and the Mayor and meet me at the Marshal’s office. I’ll go tell Tom and Becky what’s happened.” I said miserably.

  He put his hands in his pockets and thought for a moment.

  “No.” He said. “I’ll send Bob Maxwell to get the Judge and the Mayor. You and I will go to Tom and Becky’s house. Since we have to go right past the church to get there, we’ll pick up the Pastor on the way.”

  I had forgotten all about Bob Maxwell.

  He was downstairs, lying on a bed in a room behind the office, but he was awake. He looked like hell. Both eyes were going black and the doc had stuffed his nose with cotton, and taped it. I knew he was probably sick as a dog. He probably felt like he was going to die, just from the hangover.

  “Bob, you have a bit of a concussion, from your, uh…shall we say ‘encounter’, with the deputy here. You need to take it easy for a few days. You can go on home, but first, the deputy needs you to do him a favor.”

  Bob looked at me and ducked his head.

  “Listen, Deputy Sage, I sure am sorry about last night. I don’t know what come over me. I know I shouldn’t drink, but sometimes I do. No hard feelings?” He asked bashfully.

  “OK, Bob. You were lucky this time. There will be no charges. Will you go to the Mayor’s house and ask him to meet me at the Marshal’s office in about an hour? I also need you to tell the Judge the same thing.”

  Doctor Johnson was looking at his pocket watch. As he snapped it shut, he said, “We’ll find the Judge at the church. Bob, just have the Mayor meet us at the Marshal’s office. That’s all, Bob. Go on now,” he waved Bob out the door.
/>
  “Come along, deputy, we want to get to the church before the service starts.”

  As we headed that way, sloshing through the rain, we could hear the church bell ringing. When we reached the church, Tom and Becky were already going inside with some other folks. With this weather, no one was standing around outside. They hadn’t even seen us. We had to follow them inside.

  That was one of the worst and best times I have ever experienced in a church. It was the worst because we had to tell Becky her dad was dead. It was the best, because the pastor and the entire congregation wrapped Tom and Becky in their love and support. The pastor’s wife, Mildred, latched on to Becky and wouldn’t let her go with Tom and me back to the Marshal’s office. Becky wanted to see her dad, right away, but Mildred and others told Becky to wait just a little while and she could see him at the mortician’s. I was grateful for that. Doctor Johnson stayed there with her, in case he was needed. It was clear he wouldn’t be needed at the jail.

  I hated to have Tom come with me, leaving his wife behind, but he was coming, and that, was that. The three of us, Tom, Judge Tucker and I, walked in silence through the pouring rain to the Marshal’s office.

  Mayor Larkin was waiting on the porch. I unlocked the door and we went inside. Only Tom, the Judge and I, looked at the scene of the murder. The Mayor did not care to see it, and I don’t blame him.

  We heard a knock on the back door of the jail. I walked over and unlocked it. There were two men standing there in the rain. I could tell by the rig behind them, they were there for Jack’s body. The mortician had been at the church.

  Back in the office, we started addressing the issues at hand. I looked in the drawer where Rawlins’ gun had been, it was gone. He had taken Jack’s gun as well. I wasn’t surprised.

  “How did this happen?” Tom asked. “How did Rawlins get a knife and how did he get Jack to open the cell door?”

  I didn’t want to tell Tom. Jack was not as careful as he should have been. When he disarmed us, he had let us touch our weapons. That shouldn’t have happened. When he locked us up, he never patted us down, or had us empty our pockets. Rawlins had a knife hidden on him the whole time. I had one myself. I also had a hide-out .38 in a shoulder holster. Evidently Jack had been unaware of it, or had ignored it.

  Rawlins knife must have had at least a six inch blade and he knew exactly how to kill a man with it, very quickly. He was patient and waited for the right opportunity. He waited and planned. Once the crowds emptied away and the rain came, he had his chance. Poor jack was compassionate, so it had been easy for Rawlins to fake being sick or hurt, luring Jack to his death. Rawlins was a cold and calculating killer. Jack never had a chance.

  “I guess Rawlins had a knife hidden away somewhere. Tom, Becky needs you. You should go to her.” I said.

  “We have to find that son of a bitch.” Tom swore.

  “I understand how you feel, Tom, but he’s probably long gone from here and in this rain, we can’t hope to find any sign of where he went. We’ll find him. Wherever he goes, we’ll find him, but Becky needs you, now.”

  Mayor Larkin cleared his throat. “We have two men dead and a killer on the loose. I hate to bring it up now, but we need a new Marshal.” He paced a little and we waited.

  “Tom, do you feel like you should take over as Marshal?”

  He looked at Tom, solemnly.

  “No sir. I can’t. I don’t think I have enough experience…and, you know…” He trailed off, looking down at the floor.

  “What,” I asked, “did I miss something?”

  There was an awkward silence. Then Tom sighed and looked up at me.

  “I can’t read. I mean, I can, a little. Becky is teaching me, but…”

  He looked back down at the floor.

  I thought about it for a moment. A Marshal had to be able to read and write. Tom was a good man, but he couldn’t really do everything the job required.

  The Mayor and the Judge looked at me. I knew what was coming.

  “Mr. Sage, I can’t think of anyone in this town, better qualified than you. Will you take the job?” Judge Tucker asked.

  There was nowhere else I needed to be, no longer a reason for me to move on. We discussed a number of things, but in the end, I said “yes”, pending approval of the city council.

  We agreed on certain terms, which I hated to haggle over, under the circumstances, but I knew from previous experience that clarity was essential, right from the get go. I had a written list of rules that I always enforced in every town I worked. Back in Texas, my list of rules had come to be called “Sage Law.”

  The Judge looked over the list. He nodded his approval, telling me, most of the rules on my list were already ordinances in Bear Creek.

  Finally, the Judge said, “Raise your right hand and repeat after me…”

  12.

  Tom took off, to go be with Becky. I told the Mayor and the Judge I needed to send some telegrams. I also had a possible lead to follow and I would be gone for most of the rest of the day. I took a moment to write a note, tucking it in my vest pocket.

  The streets, which had been so heavily populated with families enjoying the festivities, were now completely empty, and had turned to mud.

  By the time I finished at the telegraph office, the rain stopped.

  I headed over to the livery stable. Just as I suspected, the latch and lock on the front of the barn had been broken away. Lying in the mud where he had dropped it, there was a long piece of pig iron. Rawlins had taken it from the side of the blacksmith’s shop.

  Inside the barn, I discovered that his horse and tack were gone. Again, this was exactly as I had expected.

  He had ridden out of town several hours ago, covered by the rain and darkness. No one would have seen him go and the rain had erased any hope of tracking him.

  I took the note I’d written at the Marshal’s office out of my pocket. It said simply:

  “Al,

  Marshal Jack Watson has been killed. The killer broke in here and took his horse, to make his escape. I have borrowed Willy’s horse, to pursue the suspect. Any charges for the rental will be paid by the city. Thank you.” I had signed it, “Marshal Sage.”

  I stuck the note in the crack at the edge of the office door.

  I found my saddle and gear where Al had put it, when it was sent over from the freight depot. I took my riata off my saddle and went out to the pens behind the barn. I found Willy’s line-back dun and eased the loop over his head. I petted him some and talked to him quietly for a moment and then I took him back into the barn. I gave him a quick grooming to get him dry and fairly clean before I saddled him. After I saddled him, I checked my rifle, led him outside, tightened my cinch and mounted.

  I walked the gelding up to the railroad depot and turned right. We walked on past the stage depot and the post office, to Omaha Street, and the freight yard.

  I thought about how well the layout worked. The mail came in on the train with the passengers. The mail was sorted at the post office and then the stage line carried the mail and any passengers on to the outlying towns. The stages also brought mail and passengers back to the railroad from those towns.

  We crossed the railroad tracks on Omaha, and I trotted him in the mud, on through that part of town and all the way to where the carnival had been. The dun gelding was relaxed and confident, and he didn’t mind the mud.

  When we reached the place beside the road where the carnival had been, there was no sign it had ever been there. The Roma have learned to leave nothing behind that could cause someone to come after them with a charge or a fine for littering or destruction of property.

  At the campsite, the latrines had been filled in and the sod put back. The stones where the fire rings had been were returned to the creek and where the fires had been the sod had also been put back. Even the manure from the horses and mules had been scattered. The rain had done the rest.

  I thought about Rawlins maybe coming this way in the rain. T
here was no sign of him either.

  I was glad the Roma would have been gone for hours before he passed through here, if he had even come this way.

  As the sun broke through the clouds, I turned the gelding back on to the road and we headed east.

  We passed a couple of farmhouses along the road and then it was mostly open range for about three miles. I love open range. The road was fairly straight, only winding around and through some low hills. Much of the time it ran right alongside the creek. That ended when I came to a corner post of a barbed wire fence. The fence crossed the creek and disappeared off to the north over a hill. To the east, it continued in a straight line parallel to the road. Eventually, the creek wandered off somewhere to the north, somewhere on the other side of the fence and I couldn’t see or hear it anymore. The barbed wire fence continued on for about a mile.

  I hate barbed wire. I had seen it slowly boxing up the range land, all over Texas. It was a great benefit to some of the ranchers, but it changed a whole way of life. Now it was getting harder and harder to travel cross country. More and more land was bounded by barbed wire, keeping livestock in and everyone who didn’t own the land, out. Back in Texas, there had been many men killed in the clashes involving barbed wire.

  Free grazing on the open range was nearly gone. And that wire was brutal on any animal or person who tangled with it. I was glad there was still some open country here.

  There had been range wars fought over the barbed wire fences, in various parts of the country.

  I was thinking about all that, when I came to the gap in the wire at the entrance to the Bar C. It was a fancy entrance. On each side of the ranch road was a big flat stone, standing upright in the ground, with a Bar C brand carved into it. There were two tall poles, holding up a wrought iron sign, which arched over the entrance. Worked in the wrought iron, was one word. “Courtney.”

  “Yep, this must be it.” I thought.

  The barbed wire continued on east, for as far as I could see.

  I turned the dun horse north, down the ranch road, with barbed wire on both sides, following it for about a mile. We stopped at the top of a hill and looked down on the ranch headquarters, at the end of the road. It was a beautiful sight.

  Bear Creek, lined with giant cottonwoods, wandered along below a bluff. On this side of the creek were corrals and barns, and a single story, log and stone bunkhouse with a porch on the front. There was a stone bridge spanning the creek and on the far side of the creek, on the top of a rise, with the bluff towering above it, the big ranch house sprawled.

  It was a two story house, made of peeled, lodge pole pine logs and stone, with a huge porch on three sides. The porch had a rail around it built of smaller pine logs and the roof was supported by stone columns. The house had been built on high ground, at the base of the bluff and there were various out buildings nearby. There wasn’t much activity going on, it being late on a Sunday morning.

  I rode on down the hill.

  As I got closer, I could see there were some cowboys lounging on the porch of the bunkhouse. One of them stood up and walked out to meet me.

  “Howdy,” he said. “Can I help you?” He was eyeing my badge and gun.

  I stayed up on my horse. “My name is John Everett Sage. I’m the new Marshal in Bear Creek. I need to speak to Mr. Courtney.”

  “OK. I’m the foreman, Glen Corbet,” he said, reaching up to shake my hand.

  “Is he expecting you?” He asked, nodding his head over toward the big house.

  “No, he isn’t. Can I ask you a question, Mr. Corbet?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Has a man named Ed Rawlins been here, at any time you can recall?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said, thoughtfully. “Course, I don’t meet everybody that visits.”

  That made sense.

  “Let me ask you this then…did anybody ride in here early this morning, maybe about daybreak, on a big bay gelding?”

  “It was pouring down rain at that time, and we were all pretty much still in bed. A couple of the boys were out feeding and doing some chores. Nobody mentioned a rider coming in. You’re the only person we’ve seen coming down the road today. Now, let me ask you a question. Why are you looking for this fella?”

  I told him the story.

  “We’d better go on up to the big house and talk to the boss. I’ll walk up there with you. You can tie your horse up here or you can put him in that empty pen over there, if you want.” He indicated a nearby breaking pen.

  I never tie a horse by the bridal reins if I can avoid it, so I was glad to be able to turn him out in the pen.

  We walked across the bridge over the creek, then up the hill to the big house.

  13.

  The house was even more beautiful and massive from the bottom of the stairs. It was at least as big as, and probably bigger than the courthouse in Bear Creek. Just standing in the shade on the porch was like being in a pole barn.

  Glen turned the bell crank by the enormous front door. After a few moments it was opened by a man in a tuxedo!

  “Mr Corbet, how nice to see you, we were expecting you,” he said. He turned toward me and raised his eyebrows.

  “Fred, this is the marshal from Bear Creek. He needs to talk to Mr. Courtney,” the foreman said.

  “Oh, I see. Well then, do come in. I’ll go get him.”

  We stepped into a big room with a flagstone floor. It took me a second to realize this was just the foyer. There was a long hallway off to our left, and a pair of double doors off to our right. On the far side of the foyer, was a broad staircase that divided, with one branch going up to the left wing, and the other to the right. The whole staircase was covered with a burgundy colored carpet. The stair rails were elaborately carved. We stood there, with our hats in our hands, on an oriental rug. I was aware of my muddy boots. Directly above us was a huge chandelier.

  The man “Fred” left us there and walked over to the big double doors and knocked. We heard some sort of answer from within. He slid the doors open just enough to allow his entry, then turned and closed them behind himself.

  “That’s Fred, the butler,” Glen Corbet said quietly, as we waited.

  “Yeah, I got that.”

  Glen bobbed his head and chuckled.

  The big double doors slid open and William Courtney came striding into the foyer. He left the doors open behind him.

  “Howdy Glen, you’re early. Howdy, Deputy Sage. Where’s the marshal?”

  He was dressed in jeans and boots, and had a pair of suspenders over a red paid shirt. He looked like he was ready to go chop down a tree.

  “Mr. Courtney, Marshal Watson was killed by a prisoner at the jail, in Bear Creek, sometime last night. The prisoner escaped,” I said.

  “My God, no…not Jack! I can’t believe it.”

  I could tell he was truly shocked.

  After a moment he said.

  “Surely you didn’t ride all the way out here, to tell us that.”

  “No sir. I was hoping to find some sign of Rawlins. He’s the man that most likely killed the marshal. When I got to the ranch, I thought I would come on down and ask if anyone had seen him.”

  It was more or less the truth.

  “Rawlins? That’s the name Jack mentioned yesterday. Didn’t he kill young Willie? I’d never heard of him till then.”

  He turned to Glen.

  “Has he been here? Has anyone seen him?”

  “No Bill, at least not as far as I know. I’ll ask the boys, but I’m pretty certain he hasn’t been here.”

  “Glen has been very helpful, Mr. Courtney,” I interjected. “It was just a hunch and kind of a faint hope, that he might have come this way.”

  “Glen, Deputy Sage, how nice to see you,” Mrs. Courtney said, as she swept into the room. She stopped when she saw our demeanor.

  “What has happened, what’s wrong?”

  She put her hand to her mouth.

  “Gentlemen, let’s
go into the sitting room,” Mr. Courtney said.

  He took Mrs. Courtney’s arm and led us through the double doors into the other room.

  What a room it was. It had a river stone fireplace, so big; a buffalo could have slept in it. The mantle was about eight feet wide, with a lamp on each end and a beautiful gold clock, sitting in the middle of it. Hanging above the mantle, was a big buffalo head. I wondered if they had shot him for sleeping in the fireplace. There were several built in bookshelves that housed hundreds of books. Over near the windows, was a grand piano, at which Lacy Courtney was seated. The floor in this room was the same flagstone, and there were beautiful oriental rugs in each seating area. I say each seating area, because there was more than one. There was one seating area right in front of, and facing the fireplace. Another was over by the piano; a third was at the far end of the room. Each area had great couches and chairs, upholstered in the finest fabrics and leathers.

  Seated in the area by the piano was the Governor, and as I mentioned, Lacy Courtney was seated at the piano. They both stood to greet us as we came in.

  “Governor, you and Lacy know Glen, of course, and you may remember Deputy Sage.” Mr. Courtney said, by way of introduction.

  Glen and I shook hands with Governor McGee and said hello to Miss Courtney.

  “Let’s all have a seat. Deputy Sage has brought us bad news from Bear Creek,” Mr. Courtney said, with a motion toward the furniture.

  When we were seated, Fred the butler appeared from somewhere to offer refreshments.

  “Would anyone care for tea or perhaps some coffee?”

  We all declined.

  “That will be all Fred. Please tell Melba we’ll have one more for Sunday dinner. Thank you,” Mr. Courtney said.

  I attempted to decline, but was overruled.

  “Glen almost always has Sunday dinner with us and it’s a treat to have visitors. It’s unfortunate it has to be under these circumstances. Ordinarily we would have been at church this morning, but the weather was not conducive,” Mrs. Courtney said.

  I thought about that. It would take them the better part of two hours to get to town, and another two hours to get back. Church would have to be a serious commitment. I doubted the weather would deter them. I figured they hadn’t gone to church because they had the Governor staying with them.

  I was especially grateful for the invitation to join them for Sunday dinner. I had only had coffee so far that day, and I was famished.

  “Now tell us the situation, Deputy,” Governor McGee suggested.

  I told them the story from the beginning, including the fact I had been sworn in as the new marshal.

  “Poor Becky,” Mrs. Courtney said. “As girls, her mother and I were best friends. Now Becky has lost her mother and her father. I’m glad Tom is there for her.”

  The Governor had been watching me closely while I was speaking.

  “Are you the same John Sage, who put an end to that mess down in Raton, New Mexico, a few years ago?”

  “I wasn’t alone, sir,” I replied. “That was a long time ago and a long way from here. I’m surprised you would have heard about it in Denver.”

  “It was five years ago, and I was the Mayor of Trinidad, when it happened. I read that before it was over, there was a whole company of Rangers killed, and you were the only survivor.”

  “No sir, there were only five of us Rangers, not a whole company. A company could be anywhere from twenty to forty men. I wish it had been a whole company. The outcome would have been quickly assured. We were only five Rangers, and our tracker, Yellow Horse, was with us. Charlie Goodnight had told us the Murdock gang was hiding out in the Palo Duro canyon. We figured if we surrounded the gang, we could easily take them. We figured wrong. When we went in to surround them, they slipped past us and ran. We pursued them out of the canyon up onto the high plains. We had kind of a running gun battle for six days, as we chased them north. By the third day, they had managed to wound two of my fellow Rangers. We sent them back under the care of one able bodied man. That left three of us, Billy Whitney, Yellow Horse and me, to maintain the pursuit.

  We continued the running fight for three more days. We didn’t know when we had left Texas and were in New Mexico. When we got to Raton, we checked in with the Sheriff there. Since it was his jurisdiction, he came with us. We didn’t have time to waste forming a posse, so the four of us chased the remaining members of the Murdock gang up into the pass.

  Now, when we started the pursuit in Texas, there were only seven men in the Murdock gang, and we had killed Joe Murdock and another man, in the fighting coming north. There were actually only five of them in the pass that last day, and they were shot up some themselves,” I reflected. “They had the high ground and set an ambush. They shot our horses out from under us, killing first Billy Whitney, and then the Sheriff of Raton. Yellow Horse and I had to finish them off one at a time, on foot, and at one point, hand to hand.

  “So, the fact is, two Rangers were badly wounded and they recovered. Only one Ranger was killed, plus the Sheriff, and Yellow Horse and I both survived. You can’t believe everything you read in the papers,” I concluded.

  Fred came back into the room.

  “Dinner is served,” he announced.

  We enjoyed a fine dinner, though I was ever mindful of the reason for the occasion. In fact, our conversation was mostly centered on it.

  “…Well, that’s not surprising, Marshal, a lot of horses around here carry the Bar C brand. Glen can explain it,” Mr. Courtney said.

  I didn’t need an explanation. I had clearly seen how fond Mr. Courtney was of slapping his brand on everything in sight.

  “We sell a lot of horses, but not all of them are branded, same with the cattle. We only brand the better quality animals. The culls carry no brand at all. We used to brand all of our stock, but now that we have fences, we don’t need to. There isn’t much chance our stock will get mixed in with anyone else’s.” Glen explained.

  “Now, the big bay gelding you described sounds like a pretty good quality horse. We breed a lot of bays. How much white did he have on him?”

  “He had two white stockings on the back legs and a blaze.”

  “Yeah, we would’ve probably branded a horse like that. If he had any more white on his legs, we wouldn’t have done it. That’s also why we gelded him. Good horse, just not good enough.”

  “A lot of our cowboys ride bay horses, and as I mentioned, we sell a lot of them every year. Of course, if he was an older horse, going back to the days when we were still branding everything…” He shrugged.

  “Rawlins showed up at the railway station pretty much when the train arrived. He put his ticket and the freight charge for his horse on your account.”

  I wanted see if there was any reaction to that.

  “That’s a nuisance. We’ll have to give the depot agents a list of authorized people. We’ve never had a problem before. I guess the word about us having an account has gotten around. Glen, you go to Bear Creek tomorrow, and get it taken care of,” Mr. Courtney directed.

  “Bill, we’re going to the station tomorrow, to see the Governor off, on the 12:10 to Denver. Perhaps we can do it then,” Mrs. Courtney suggested.

  “Right, I wasn’t thinking. Thank you mother,” he beamed at his wife.

  “Mr. Courtney, you might want to have Glen and a couple of your cowboys ride along with you on the way to town. Tell them to look to their guns. With a killer on the loose, it doesn’t pay to take any chances,” I noted.

  He looked at me.

  “Damned good idea, Marshal! You’re welcome to spend the night, and ride into town with us tomorrow.”

  I was tempted, but I needed to get back to town. I thanked them for the offer, and the lovely Sunday dinner, and took the opportunity to say my goodbyes.

  Glen walked back down the hill with me.

  “Marshal, have you got any idea where that polecat is?” he asked, as we walked over the stone bridge.


  “No, I don’t,” I admitted. “He could be anywhere.”

  I was not happy about the prospect of Rawlins having fled the area. Then again, I didn’t like the thought he might still be around somewhere, any better.

  As I rode back into town, I watched the country around me with care.

  The dun proved a really good mount. I liked him a lot and decided to buy him.

  When I got back to the livery stable, Al was there feeding the stock.

  “Howdy Marshal, I found your note,” he said, as I dismounted. “There is no charge for the rental. You can get the loan of a horse, anytime you need one. Any sign of the killer?”

  I shook my head, as I loosened the cinch.

  “Thanks for the loan, Al. What did Willy call this horse?”

  “Willy called him ‘Dusty’.”

  “I like that name. And I like this horse, a lot. Al, will you sell him to me?”

  Al frowned.

  As I led “Dusty” into the barn, I was thinking, “Oh boy, here we go. He’s going to get every penny he can.”

  “I can’t sell him,” he said.

  I thought about it for a minute, as I unsaddled the dun.

  “OK, I understand. He was Willy’s horse.”

  He smiled sadly, “Yeah, that’s just it. He was Willy’s horse. He’s not mine to sell. I think Willy would have wanted him to go to someone who really appreciated the horse. I can’t think of anyone better than you.”

  “I couldn’t…”

  “I insist. It’s perfect. You were there when Willy was killed. You’re working to catch Willy’s murderer. You have a connection to Willy. You need a horse and I can see you and Dusty are a good match. I think Willy would be proud for you to have Dusty, and I sure don’t need another mouth to feed. He’s yours,” he concluded, reaching out to shake my hand.

  I was humbled and very thankful.

  We arranged boarding for Dusty, and I was glad to know Al would be getting some compensation for his generous gift.

  14.

  I walked over to visit Tom and Becky. They were getting through it. They had arranged to have the viewing at the mortician’s on Monday evening and Jack’s funeral at the church on Tuesday afternoon. Tom told me he would be at work first thing in the morning. I told him to take as much time as he needed.

  When I got back to the Marshal’s office, I took the ruined mattress and bedding out behind the jail and burned them. Then, I scrubbed up the dried blood from the floor of the cell.

  That night I did the rounds, checking locks and making sure everything was secure and quiet. It was Sunday night and quiet was the norm in most towns. Even the saloons were closed on Sunday night. When I was sure there was nothing else that needed to be done, I climbed up the stairs to my room at the hotel and surrendered to my exhaustion.

  Monday morning found me having breakfast alone, in the Bon Ton. I met with the owner, Henri Levesque, to explain the situation and arrange for an account.

  “Oh Monsieur Sage, thees is terrible.” He said that last word like ‘ter reeb luh’, but I knew what he meant

  “We weel mees heem so.”

  Yeah, I got that too.

  After breakfast I unlocked the Marshal’s office. I went into the room that had been Jack’s. It was cozy. There was a sitting area with a bookcase, a table with a lamp and a big wingback chair upholstered in leather. The lamp had burned out. The globe was darkened with soot. Jack’s reading glasses were on the table.

  From the chair, if the shade was up, you could see out the window. There would be a view of the square. The shade was still pulled closed now. There were only two books on the shelf. One was a collection of Shakespeare’s plays; the second was a reading primer.

  It seemed Becky was not the only one helping Tom with his reading.

  On the floor by the chair, a Bible lay open to the book of 1st Corinthians. There was a bed up against the wall that separated this room from the jail. If there was a commotion in the jail, he would have heard it. Against the remaining wall was a wardrobe with a couple of drawers at the bottom. When I opened it, I found some of Jack’s clothes hanging; some more were folded in the drawers. The only other things in the room were a little wood burning stove in a corner and a cowhide rug on the floor.

  The bed was still made. Added to the fact he was fully dressed when I found him, it indicated to me that Jack had never gone to bed. He still had his boots on.

  He might have been reading when I stopped by the office late the previous night, or he might have already been dead. Maybe the storm hitting had roused him to go check on the prisoner. Maybe Rawlins had cried out as though in distress. Maybe this, maybe that.

  In the end, Jack was dead and Rawlins was long gone. I aimed to see he didn’t get away with it.

  Tom came in and found me standing there.

  He looked like five miles of bad trail.

  He surveyed the room and I could see him going through the process.

  “He never even went to bed,” he said.

  I took him back out into the office. We sat down at the desk. I felt awkward sitting behind the desk with Tom in front of me, but there it was.

  “Tom, I want you to keep your eyes open and be very, very careful.”

  “What…why?”

  “Just because Rawlins is gone, doesn’t mean he won’t come back. When he killed Jack, he eliminated the arresting officer. When he escaped from the town, he eliminated the trial. He thinks I was just passing through, and the only reason I stayed in town, was for his trial. He’ll figure I have no reason to stay. He probably believes I’ll be getting on a train to Wyoming. That leaves you, as the only person who’s a threat to him. No one else in this town knows who he is. If he comes back here, he’ll probably be ready, willing and possibly even looking, to kill you,” I added.

  “Why would he even come back here?”

  “I’d like to think he won’t. You might not be aware of this, but criminals often like to return to the scene of a crime they believe they have gotten away with. He’s the kind of man who might do that.”

  “I’ve heard that. It seems kind of stupid though.”

  “He isn’t exactly stupid, Tom. It has more to do with his need to feel powerful. He believes he’s untouchable, smarter than we are. He needs to feel superior. It’s also just possible he might come into town today and attempt to catch a stage, or even get on the train,” I mused.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

  “Remember, he thinks you’re the only lawman left in town. There is no telling what he might try. Just be alert and watch your back. He probably won’t come at you head on. He prefers to kill unarmed men and catch them by surprise, if he can. He will use any advantage he can get. I expect he’s gotten away with this sort of thing before. We have a couple of advantages ourselves,” I added.

  “What are they?” He asked.

  “Well, you’re not alone. We’re ready for him and…”

  The door opened and in walked the giant of a man, who was now the new Sheriff of Alta Vista County.

  “Good morning, Sheriff Atwater. What brings you by here?” I asked.

  “Is it true you beat up my man, Bob Maxwell?”

  “I had to subdue him. He was drunk and disorderly and he had assaulted a couple of people,” I responded. “Do we have a problem?” I leaned back in my chair.

  “There’s only one other man who ever beat him, single handed,” he started.

  I was pretty sure I knew what he was going to say next.

  “That man was me,” he finished.

  “It doesn’t surprise me in the least.” It was exactly what I expected him to say. “So, do we have a problem?”

  “Naw!” He grinned. “I’m just glad the situation got handled. I’ve seen what happens when he gets drunk. He had it coming.”

  I was glad he understood.

  “He might not be so lucky next time. There were no charges filed this time, but there sure could have been. He
would have been facing some jail time and probably a hefty fine.”

  Atwater nodded his understanding and added,

  “I reckon it’s worse than that. One of these days he’s likely to kill someone, or maybe get killed himself.”

  I nodded.

  “So what can we do for you, Sheriff?”

  Tom stood up.

  “I’m going to go do my job.” He held up a hand. “I know, I heard you, I’ll keep my eyes open. Nice to see you, Sheriff,” he said, on his way out the door.

  The Sheriff took a seat in the vacated chair.

  “Well, I’d like to kinda get some direction. I don’t like to go down the wrong road. If you know what I mean,” he said.

  “No Sheriff, I’m not following you,” I said, straightening up in my chair.

  “You know, with the lawman stuff.”

  “Could you be more specific? Exactly what is it you want to know?”

  He looked around the office for a moment, as he gathered his thoughts

  “I come into this part of the country, right after the war, with a good wagon and a team of oxen. I started hauling freight to the mining camps. Pretty soon, I had enough money to buy another wagon and hire some help. I ran mule teams and jerk lines. After a few years, I found myself making a delivery to Bear Creek. The railroad was being built through here then, and I saw the possibilities, right off.

  I decided to make my headquarters here and it worked out, real well. I helped build this town. Now, everybody on the Front Range knows Atwater Freight. I got warehouses in Denver, Cheyenne, even Omaha, now. If it gets moved, in this part of the country, Atwater moves it. I don’t compete with the railroad, we work hand in glove.

  “Yes sir, I’m aware of your success. What are you driving at?”

  “I guess the point is, I won the election because everybody knows who I am, but I don’t know nothing about being a lawman,” he concluded.

  I knew he wasn’t bragging about his accomplishments. He was just stating the facts. I appreciated his honesty. I was also impressed he had the humility to admit his lack of qualifications. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he understood his limitations. He had accomplished a lot, by hard work and determination. He was smart enough to know what he didn’t know.

  “What was your plan? You had to know if you won the election, there would be a lot you had to learn,” I speculated.

  “Yeah, I did. I figure to hire people who know what they’re doing. I’m no great shakes with numbers and books, so I hired a book keeper. He keeps our accounts straight, so I don’t have to. I expect to do the same thing, with lawmen.”

  I nodded.

  “That’s a really good plan and the sooner the better. How can I help you?”

  We talked for a long time. I explained it was vital to get men who could be trusted. There were plenty of experienced lawmen out there, who were only about one step away from being outlaws. Others would be looking to steal his job. We talked about how important it would be, to have deputies manage the jail, placed in some of the outlying towns and patrolling the roads.

 

  The door opened and a man stuck his head around the corner.

  “Howdy” he said “I’m looking for Marshal Watson.”

  When he stepped into the room we saw that he was wearing a tin star.

  I saw no reason to beat around the bush.

  “Marshal Watson has been killed. I’m John Everett Sage, the new Marshal. This is Clay Atwater, the new Sheriff of Alta Vista County.”

  “Well then, I’ve come to the right place.” He grinned.

  15.

  It turned out his name was Tommy Turner. He was the town sheriff of North Fork.

  “I’m looking for a fella that caused some trouble yesterday evening, in our fair town. He rides a big bay gelding with two white socks,” he said.

  “What makes you think he might have come here?” I was thinking about Rawlins.

  “Well, last Friday, when this guy passed through North Fork, he was headed this way. So I figure he probably came back here, after doing what he done.”

  “What did he do?” Sheriff Atwater asked him.

  “He beat up one of my …uh…ladies of the evening, and shot a fella that tried to get in the way,” he answered.

  “You’re telling us that you have a whorehouse in North Fork and he beat up a whore and killed a man last night?”

  “Well, it ain’t exactly a whorehouse. It’s a saloon, with some girls who provide services. The fella he shot ain’t dead, neither,” he clarified.

  I looked over at Clay, where he had moved to lean against the wall.

  “Clay, did you know about Sheriff Turner’s ‘full service’ saloon, in North Fork?”

  He nodded.

  “North Fork is where all the miners from Flapjack City go for entertainment. The mine owners won’t allow any women up there,” he said. “It ain’t legal here in Colorado, but neither the State nor the County, has any real law enforcement up in the mountains. They can do as they please in North Fork. Many of the miners have their families living there. Eventually, the wives of the miners will probably put an end to it.”

  I thought about that.

  It is an unfortunate fact, so many young women with no education and no prospects find it hard to survive out here. Too many are left to make a living, doing what they can. It is a horrible life, mostly ending in sickness and despair.

  “How do you know he was headed here, last Friday?” I asked the ‘sheriff’ of North Fork.

  “The girl he beat up told me. She says he’s some kind of hired gun. He told her he was going to Bear Creek, to catch the train, for some kind of job in Wyoming. But he came back to North Fork, yesterday.” He shrugged. “I figured he ran down here, after.”

  I thought about Tom, out on the streets alone.

  “Does this man have a name?” I asked.

  “Goes by Ed…something. She couldn’t remember his last name. He probably lied anyways,” he speculated.

  I stood up and headed for the door.

  “Sheriff Turner, we’ll have a look around. You hit the streets and the livery stable. See if you can find that horse. I’ll send my deputy back here. If you find the horse, you come here and tell him.

  Clay, you and I will go up to the depot to make sure he doesn’t try to get on the 12:10 to Denver, or catch a stage.”

  I didn’t think to make it a request or say “please.”

  We found Tom over by the 1st National Bank. I told him the situation and sent him back to the office. As we made our way toward the railroad depot, it seemed like every horse in town was a big bay.

  Clay went to the Stage depot and I went up to the Railroad depot. As I walked by the telegraph office, the clerk called me over.

  “We’ve had some responses to your telegrams” He handed me several telegrams.

  The first one was from the sheriff in Cheyenne. It read:

  “Have not seen suspect will be on the lookout Fred Barnes Sheriff Cheyenne, Wyoming ”

  The other telegrams from lawmen all over the area, said pretty much the same thing, except one. It read:

  “Rawlins wanted murder suspect location unknown Maxwell Warren U.S. Marshal Denver, Colorado

  The last telegram in the pile wasn’t from the local area. It made me smile. It read:

  “Yes See you soon Yellow Horse ”

  I asked the depot agent if he had seen Rawlins, but he had not. Clay came up and told me that no one matching Rawlins description had booked a ride on the stage.

  We waited and watched for a little while.

  At about 11:30 we saw a carriage approaching the depot with two riders ahead of it and two behind. Each man had a rifle across the pommel of his saddle. I recognized Glen Corbet the foreman at the Bar C, as one of the lead riders. In the carriage were Bill and Annabelle Courtney and the Governor, with a driver. I noted that the harness horses were a matching pair of bays. One of the cowboys rode a bay
as well. When the buggy got to the station we greeted each other. The riders dismounted and tied their horses while the passengers stepped down from the buggy, then we all went back up on the platform.

  The 12:10 to Denver reached the station at 12:06. The passengers boarded without incident. Once the baggage and freight were loaded, the whistle blew and the train chugged away at 12:17, after only eleven minutes at the station.

  The Courtney group headed back to the ranch.

  Clay and I went by the stage depot again, but Rawlins was nowhere around. We walked back downtown. We found Tom and the sheriff from North Fork, at the office. They had seen no sign of Rawlins, or his horse. The four of us went to the Bon Ton for lunch. It was the first time there had ever been four armed lawmen in the restaurant. We got some looks.

  Later, after another fruitless search, we concluded that Rawlins probably hadn’t come to Bear Creek after all. Maybe he was hiding somewhere in the town, but it was unlikely. He had to know people might be looking for him now.

  The sheriff of North Fork went back into the mountains.

  The rest of us went about doing our jobs, with a heightened sense of vigilance.

  I didn’t go to the viewing that evening. I had seen Jack both alive and dead. I preferred to remember him alive. Also, I was new to Bear Creek and not really a part of the community. I wanted the people who knew and loved him best, to have that time together.

  The next morning when Tom came in, he was in a mood of some kind. I wondered if he might be unhappy I had not come to the viewing. Maybe it was losing his father in law and all the grief and sorrow for both he and Becky.

  I was wrong on all counts.

  We were walking through town together that morning when I asked what was troubling him.

  “People,” he said. “Stupid, small minded, morally corrupt, people.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  He stopped and leaned against a hitching post. We were on the west side of town, down near the creek, in front of someone’s beautiful two story home, with a wrap-around porch.

  He made a gesture with his hand, as if to include the whole area.

  “We serve these people as protectors and enforcers of the law. Jack lost his life at the hands of a vicious killer, and some of these people…” He trailed off.

  I waited and pretended to look around.

  When I realized he wasn’t going to complete the thought, I prompted him.

  “…What about these people?”

  He took a deep breath and rubbed his face.

  “Last night at the viewing, Wilson Monroe,” he looked at me, “you don’t know him. He had the nerve to walk up to Becky and me and ask us if we had considered the possibility that you….had …murdered Jack, to get his job.”

  “Listen, Tom. People are people, wherever you find them. Good ones, bad ones and everything in between. These folks here are no better and no worse than anyone else. We all have our problems. I get it though. I understand how you feel. Let it go. There will always be some who insist on seeing everything through their own twisted and perverse imaginations. It’s best not to dwell on it.”

  I was very close to being completely angry myself.

  The front door of the house opened and a woman came out on the porch.

  “Good morning, Mrs. O’Malley,” Tom called.

  “Hello, Tom. Is everything alright?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. We were just enjoying the view of your garden.”

  The yard was surrounded by a white picket fence. Inside the fence were a variety of flowering plants, and a vegetable patch.

  She came down the stairs and walked out to the gate. She was wearing a light blue dress that was made of a shiny fabric that might have been silk. Her long dark hair was pinned up behind her head. She was carrying a hand towel, indicating that she had been doing some sort of household chore

  I was startled at how beautiful she was.

  “Would you gentlemen like some lemonade or a cup of coffee?”

  she smiled at me.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  I swept off my hat.

  “No, ma’am, I’m quite certain we haven’t. I mean….I would have remembered,” I stammered.

  Tom saved me further embarrassment.

  “Lora O’Malley, may I present John Everett Sage. I’m pleased to report that John has been kind enough to assume the duties as Marshal of Bear Creek.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.” She turned back to Tom.

  “Please tell Becky I was serious last night. I will be bringing food to your house for as long as you need me to. We will have a ton of food left over after the reception today. If there is anything else I can do…if she just wants to talk, I will be there for her.”

  “Thank you. She knows it, and you’ve been very kind,” Tom said.

  She turned back to me.

  “Mr. Sage, can I interest you in some refreshment?”

  “No ma’am, I mean…yes ma’am, but not at this time…” I felt my face going red.

  “We have to get back to the office now, Lora. Right away, in fact,” Tom said, sticking me in the ribs with an elbow.

  “Well then, until we meet again.” She smiled at me again and turned back toward the house.

  Tom kind of pulled me away and directed me up the hill, toward the square.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were interested in her.” He said, grinning.

  “Good night, Tom! She’s a married woman.”

  “Was,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, she was a married lady. Now she’s a widow.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

  He chuckled.

  “Her husband died nearly two years ago. They didn’t have much, except the house and land. She’s had to take in boarders to make ends meet. I can tell you, she’s a great cook.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me.

  “You might want to consider moving out of the hotel,” he grinned.

  “Stop it!”

  “That’s too bad. I think she likes you.”

  “…Yeah? Well, maybe.”

  I’d have to see about that.

  16.

  I was pleased but not surprised to see so many people at Jack’s funeral. Every seat in the chapel was occupied and a great crowd of people waited outside to accompany the hearse to the cemetery. Because I came in with Tom and Becky, I was able to sit with them.

  Bud McAlister, the minister spoke about his long standing friendship with Jack. He reminded us that life on earth is temporary and that it is only a small part of eternity. He told of how he knew Jack had gone home to be with the Lord and be reunited with his lost loved ones. He talked about how our loss and sorrow were nothing compared to the joy Jack was now experiencing. He promised that one day, if Christ was our Savior and Lord, we would see Jack again. He said if we died without a personal relationship with Jesus, we would be dead and separated from God and our loved ones, forever. He invited anyone who was not a believer to come and talk to him or anyone in the congregation, about how to meet the Lord.

  After the service we followed the hearse to the cemetery. We walked through the west side of town, down across a bridge over Bear Creek, and up to the cemetery on the top of a hill, dotted with pine and spruce. Along the way, as we passed through neighborhoods, many people came out to pay their respects.

  I thought about how different this parade was from the one we had seen on Saturday.

  There was a reception after the funeral. Because Tom and Becky’s house was small, Jack had lived at the jail, and neither Tom nor Becky had any family to host it, the reception was held at Mrs. O’Malley’s boarding house.

  She was bustling about, seeing that everyone was taken care of. Tom and Becky were busy with people offering condolences and telling stories about Jack. I went out on the porch and walked around the house. Here on the porch and out in the yard, there were little knots of pe
ople talking and drifting. At the back of the house were two rocking chairs side by side. From here there was a view past the well house and the carriage house, down the hill to Bear Creek with the mountains towering up behind it. Between the house and the creek was a pasture with a couple of chestnut colored horses in it. I figured they were carriage horses.

  “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.