Chapter 10
Petra woke instantly alert to grey skies telling of a sun already up if hidden, anxiety riding within. His intent had been to rise early and begin hunting, to complete his mission by killing Marshal this day. Forehead wrinkled, eyes flickering angrily, he slipped from beneath warm blankets then gasped at his bruised knee screaming after catching a concealed root.
Inhaling deeply, he lay a second longer as the pain subsided, unconsciously scratching over the swelling in his hand becoming aware it was less so than before. Feeling his arm, he noted the poultice worked there also, ending the throbbing while leaving only a slight itching sensation. Squirming to sit, he shoved into his boots and took up his hat, setting it on his head before half standing, peering over the campsite and past into forest cut by broken trees and rock falls. Head swiveling, he saw no movement and heard nothing to bring alarm, morning noises creaking through undergrowth all normal so slipped from his sleeping area, poking twigs into embers to raise only enough flame to boil coffee.
Gathering blankets while water heated, Petra settled in a darkened corner until smells of coffee reached him, quickly snatching the pot from the fire to fill a cup. Sitting again and gnawing dried meat, staring through the gloom, he drank deeply just as an acrid aroma assaulted his nose, head snapping forward when he spit the liquid to the ground while a loud gagging noise erupted. Glaring at the cup, he sniffed suspiciously while feeling his tongue prickling sharply then slapped the cooking tin, dumping its contents. Fingering the steaming pile, he felt the moss, a retching sensation rising from deep within as he angrily hurled the pot and cup into the forest.
Squatting, Anton scowled, morning light brighter than recent creating dim outlines. He snarled, unbelieving Marshal found his camp but not able to locate Petra, artfully concealed as he was, resorted to poison, unable to confront. Scorn simmered, feeling men not capable of facing their own certain death unworthy, Petra eased to his gear alert to the woods surrounding and hoisted his saddle, stopping midway staring at a flapping shred of white on a branch not present the day prior.
Carelessly dropping the load, he hopped, landing alongside thick brush, snatching the note from its holder. Raging, he read,
‘AP
Enjoy your coffee?
AP’
Wadding the paper viciously, he cast it aside, lowering to his heels while surveying the country. Taunts were ways of weak men, he believed, snorting at Pike, eyes relentlessly searching higher ground for any sign of his enemy. Finding nothing, seeing no tracks leading to camp or from it, Petra growled hatefully, determined to find Marshal this day and serve vengeance on him.
Certain none could see, he slapped his bags and saddle to the horse, mindlessly tying his bedroll behind. Grabbing his canteen, he took a long swallow, hoping to wash his mouth free of bitter tastes left by the soured coffee before snaking to the stream to refill it. Shielded by twisted branches, he loosened the cap and laid it to catch cool flowing water, shaking away a small spider crawling onto his still itching hand. Raising the container, Petra set the cap in place as the water carrier was savagely torn from his grasp, an echoing rifle shot filling his ears.
Diving, he rolled behind a boulder, anxiously scanning the mountainside, face darting in every direction quickly returned to watching water bubble out a hole in his canteen. Staring, eyes wide, breeze chilled sweat on his neck, his arms quivered as he clutched his rifle, knuckles white.
A bullet whined. Petra’s canteen kicked high, landing on rocks yards distant, the sound of Pike’s gun bouncing off stone faces shattering Petra’s calm. Squirreling himself deep into fallen leaves, Anton grimaced, face pale, hands shaking, knowing fear now by its proper name. Scarcely able to breathe, his gaze flicked to the horse, saddled and ready only a few feet away. A short dash, he could be on its back, riding from these cursed hills.
‘Marshal is lucky’ he thought, ‘too lucky. Beehive was luck. Finding girl was luck.’ Exhaling slow, Anton struggled to regain control, nerves twanged by every sound and wind scraped branch. His mind galloped. ‘Petra not lucky, was never lucky. Petra is good, needs no luck but cannot fight luck.’
Hatred fought caution. Anton’s instinct for survival enveloped his anger, enclosing it firmly. Gaze resting on his saddlebag, a grim smile stretched thin lips. ‘Coin is still there.’ he remembered, ‘Marshal coin will call Petra back to finish later.’ Recalling all the times he switched bags, how each change meant removing that coin and sewing it safely away again, his nostrils flared. ‘Is no fighting Pike luck. Petra will come back, finish then.’
Decision made, Anton pivoted, judging the distance while surveying the landscape. Slightly over his left shoulder, a band of bright sun burst through thinning clouds, illuminating a swath of brush. Petra stared, gasping, seeing Pa shaped by shadows, slumping dead against their cabin wall, a pinprick a light squared exactly where he’d been shot.
Rage blew apart caution. ‘Today Marshal must die!’ his mind screeched, his body responding with a scurried leap from cover behind trees to a shallow between two boulders. Face contorted, Petra bared his teeth defiantly upwards, seeking from each inch of bramble, brush and forest a single hint, one clue where Pike hid from him. Keen hunter’s sense tingled proof his quarry was as close on the ground as his father’s visage was in mind, all his thinking on stealing from Marshal what Pike stole from Pa, just as Pa stole from banks which stole his land, home and hope.
Inching forward, Anton arrived at a wide flat of stone, scanning it carefully. Above, the entire mountain was in view under skies lighter than before while past a waist tall rock at the ridgeline open brown prairie showed. Thirty feet wide, the far side offered complete protection from anyone overhead. He glanced back to his horse, furiously choosing to leave the animal, to stalk Marshal on foot, to hunt as he did when young then kill as done for years, quickly and surely. Studying the hillside, he felt a prickling sensation, halting movement until recognizing what was seen.
Upslope, forty yards or less, a profile barely rose above a stony elevation. Chin quivering, Petra’s eyes narrowed, realizing abruptly the outline of a hat with a gun barrel angling up from the place Pike cowered. Snarling, Anton worked his gaze back from the spot, identifying a safe path beneath towering pines that would bring him behind the Marshal. Silently slithering, he passed into protective trees, each move carefully considered to raise no noise, ascending inches at a time closer to his target.
Minutes past as Petra ducked under dancing barren branches among tangles of brush, peering out gingerly to assure himself Pike had not moved. Reaching an outcropping a dozen feet above his quarry’s outpost, he raised his rifle. Aiming at the back of Marshal’s head, Anton exhaled, squeezed the trigger then halted, head cocked.
The hat was wrong, not the same. Uncertain, rifle lowered, he stared, remembering a new, well shaped one Pike wore the previous days in town. Finding a rock, wary of traps and tricks, he tossed it, knocking the head gear from its position without reaction. Edging around, he viewed it lying in weeds, a battered old hat long abandoned, what seemed below to be a gun barrel revealed to be only a branch. Neck swiveling, he considered stories telling of many men dying in this stretch of mountain, believing then the hat was testimony of yet another murdered by Marshal during battles over control of this land.
Leaning back, Petra peeked past forest covering for views of the area, frustrated. Nothing could be seen past heavy growth, aggravating him further. Open sight needed, he began worming down, the small clearing he crossed giving the expansive vista needed with little exposure for himself. Taking no chances, Anton slipped from tree to bush to rock, coming ever closer to a position permitting him to find his hated nemesis, dropping finally from behind a broken stump to the flat, crouching under cover of tumbled stones, examining the area.
Moving soundlessly, he watched shadows created by spotty sun emerging then disappearing, dancing contours unwilling to settle long enough for clarity. Mind tumbling, battling to contain fear driven anger
shaking every muscle, he skirted a dry wash running to unbroken ground below, rising to his full height alongside the boulder sitting at the cliff’s edge. Looking over, Petra exploded in disbelief, seeing Morale spread out below bathed in morning light.
Gaping unbelievably at the town, Petra shifted his gaze slightly left, spotting the hollow where he laid waiting for Marshal to come rescue his girl and somewhat lower, the grassy flat outside the cave where she was held. He shook his head almost unmovingly realizing the entire two days of chase hadn’t covered a mile along the ridgeline.
He’d been led to this place, led! Like a schoolchild or dumb farm animal, Anton Petra had been led. But why? Considering, kneeling alongside the massive round stone, he could find no answer. ‘Why hadn’t Marshal taken a shot?’ he asked, twitching, now feeling only fear undisguised.
Pike watched, sensing the uncertainty then eased over a downed tree trunk, dropping lightly to the ground. A whispered scrape of moccasin froze Petra, his shoulders hunched high against a shot in the back he knew was coming but did not.
“Pretty little town, isn’t it?” Adam observed conversationally, drawing no response. “Is what I fought for all these years, that little town.”
Waiting, Anton giving no sign of hearing, Pike continued, “Best to do now, Anton, is lay that rifle careful to the ground and turn to face me.”
“Why?” Petra growled, “So you can shoot Petra in front and claim fair killing?”
Pike sighed quietly. “Don’t intend for any shooting, Anton. If was my thinking, I’d four or five clean shots already. Back when I spooked that buck, then when I speared your hat with the arrow. Could have done it when I punched a hole in your canteen or even last night while sneaking about your camp. Could have blown you off this ledge only a minute ago, for that matter. All I’m wishful doing is talk.”
For a second, Petra pictured throwing himself to one side, rolling and firing, taking Marshal by surprise and finishing his work but saw no chance of winning, certain a gun was already aimed. Staring at clouds over the horizon, heart pounding, he knew all Pike said was true. If murder was intended, he would have done it before. Slowly he held the rifle out to one side, hesitating a last moment before releasing it then swiveling his reptilian head, moving no other parts.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Marshal leaning slightly against a tree with hands empty but poised over those hated twin pistols only a blink away from shooting. Stomach twisted, his best chance missed, Petra eased around, palms down and wide but kept low.
“Talk about what?” he hissed, lidded eyes flickering.
Adam stared at the man blankly. “Willing to have you climb back on your horse and ride west, never coming back.” he answered, hearing words coming out more harshly than was wanted. “Will have to follow, natural, for a time so if you turn around, I’ll shoot to kill without thought.”
The hunter glared at Pike, Adam almost seeing a split tongue flicking, testing the air for truth. With a guttural laugh, Anton snapped, “You trust Petra not come back?”
Pike nodded. “All known of you tells you’re a man of honor. Look at me direct and tell me you’re gone for good, I’ll accept that.”
Petra’s lip curled, Marshal maybe being a greater fool than expected, listening then as Adam went on. “Know as well, should you return or kill me up here, there’s a passel of men down below waiting for you and no good way off this ridge but the way we came up. Only one choice there is unless you like the notion of dying today.”
“Like you killed Pa.” the man spat, rising rage driving fear out as his arms drifted to his side.
“We both know there was no helping that, Anton.” Adam answered softly. “If arrested, he knew he’d hang. Seems he wasn’t wishful for that so made a choice.”
Nostrils flaring, Petra’s jaw tightened. “Didn’t have to be shot dead.”
“Doesn’t work that way, you know that. Man goes to slapping iron, he or the other are going to die every time. Just how it is.”
The two men stared wordlessly at each other for over a minute, Petra calculating value of living to fight another day while Adam felt a glimmering of hope killing could be avoided. Finally, Anton said blandly, “You let Petra just ride off.”
Pike nodded. “But if you’re still thinking of drawing against me, there’s one question needful of answering before you do.”
Thin brows furrowing, Petra looked at Adam warily. “What’s that?”
Giving a small shrug, hoping mention of money waiting to be claimed might clinch the deal, Pike replied, “The name of your bank in San Francisco.”
Sneering, Petra’s eyes narrowed. “So you can steal Petra earnings!” he barked.
“Don’t want your money, Anton.” Pike laughed, surprising both men, “Have all I need and more than am knowing how to spend, every dime earned honest. Would hate, tho’ to see California or some bank snatch yours as surely will when unclaimed so unless you’ve kin, will have to make arrangements.”
Instantly, Adam felt heat radiating from Petra, believing it from talk reminding of Pike’s success and knew he failed for using careless words boastfully.
Anton heard nothing, saw nothing except Pa, his only family, laying dead.
“Have no kin, you know that.” Anton answered quietly giving Pike a final spike of hopefulness, adding after a pause, “Bank information is in my bags but you…” yanking at his pistol in mid-sentence.
Adam drew at the flash in Petra’s eyes, firing once, his bullet driving Petra to sit on the boulder behind, his own gun not yet clearing leather.
Anguished and astonished, Petra glared at Pike wide-eyed. “They said you were fast, Marshal. Never said that fast.” he gurgled, perspiration pouring from his forehead as blood gushed from under fingers clenching his chest. With a final heave, Anton jerked his gun free, willing his arm to lift as Adam’s second shot smashed him back, the gun clinking musically as it fell.
Pike straightened. “They most likely did, Anton.” he told the dead man, “Reckon you maybe should have listened better.”
Walking across, Adam loosed Petra’s holster then picked the body up by his buckle, sliding the gun belt free before releasing him, arms and legs splayed wide over the stone. Picking up the abandoned rifle and unused six-gun, he holstered the pistol then set all aside before walking heavily uphill to find Petra’s horse.
Picketed only yards away, Adam found it easily, checking first Petra’s saddlebags, one holding nothing but usual supply so dug deep in the other, locating the bank information as said. Glancing through entries in a ledger, Pike frowned.
“Men paid much for killing, Anton, and far more often than we believed.” he said aloud, flipping to a final page where the killer had totaled his deposits, bringing a low whistle from Pike at the sizable fortune now ownerless.
Stashing the papers back where they’d been, Adam brought the horse to the clearing, spreading Petra’s oilskin poncho and blanket over the saddle wishful of not ruining good leather with blood stains. Bending over the body, he lifted careful not to sully his own clothes either then laid it over the animal’s back. With deft, practiced moves, he bound Petra’s feet to one stirrup and hands to the other before gathering his own Winchester and pack from where he stowed them. Switching back to his miner boots, stuffing the moccasins into his pack with more anger than seemed proper, he shrugged into the straps then picked up Petra’s weapons.
Leading the horse west, he teased their way past sweeping limbs through underbrush slapping his thighs. Twenty five yards lower, he halted at the edge of a long rock slide, studying a best way down. His first time, given no time for thought by Hawkins men chasing close behind, he’d simply ridden to the edge and slalomed, his horse’s haunch atop roaring stone until feet hit a solid place at the bottom and they leapt away. The two pursuers, either being less capable or less lucky, were left under hundreds of tons of rock alongside carcasses of mounts deserving better.
Keeping to the edge, miner boots giving traction
, he kept firm grip on the reins, knowing Petra’s horse would like nothing of their footing. Moving a few feet at time then resting while rocks underfoot settled, Adam worked his way cautiously, arriving near the end where firm earth met their chaotic path and stepped off. Pausing for a long swallow from his canteen, Pike let his breathing return to normal while stretching legs tightened by an hour of careful walking and modestly pleased to see skies growing lighter, the grey overcast thinning.
A few minutes later, he strode around the bend of the mountain, spying Step where expected. Seeing his brother spot him, Adam relaxed his pace some until Step arrived, Pike’s horse trailing. Pulling up and handing Adam the reins, Step said nothing until Pike swung into the saddle.
“Couldn’t persuade?” he asked sadly, understanding how Adam had felt but, speaking honest, not surprised or sorry by the result
Pike shook his head. “Came close.” he answered, “Just not close enough.” spurring to a canter.
Swinging toward town after the trail crossed the river, Adam saw three riders headed their way, recognizing two of Step’s deputies behind with John Wells leading, comforted to have men such as these on his side then slowed as a throng of horsemen began to emerge from beyond the tall outcropping, a few others trotting as well down the trail leading toward Angela’s cave. Slowing to a stop, Adam’s eyes widened, counting near forty men, cocking his head at Step as they approached.
His brother shrugged. “Told a couple we’d be looking tomorrow morning for help.” he offered, failing to hide a smirk cutting his face open. “Seems some weren’t so willing to wait.”
Sitting, Pike felt heaviness within that any of these men might have been hurt or killed coming to his aid before smiling faces trotting to a stop close to him relieved him of that burden falsely carried. A dozen riders from the 5PL and their foreman Dave Camp sat to one side jovially. Swinging his horse near, Camp gave Pike a lopsided grin.
“Boys tried telling they’d rather slog out cow ponds and bale hay in the rain then take a peaceful ride to the mountains to help a friend, Adam, but somehow a bunch tagged along this morning.” he said as Pike nodded, swallowing a choking sensation, distracted then as Mack Judson, who’d recruited Pike in the Conyers chase, moved up. Leading ten or more Oxbar hands, some Pike knew well and others barely met, Mack stuck out his hand.
“Oxbar ain’t bein’ lef’ out, Adam, feelin’ you as much one of us as any.” he said giving a firm shake that said more than even his words, “And needin’ you as we do to work them Army contracts for next year’s delivery of beeves.”
Swallowing hard, Adam could say nothing, nodding through a sideways smile as the throng near Judson separated. Bulling his way past the horses, Mandano pushed forward, a contingent of townsmen behind, each with a story known to Adam and many he helped at some time or other. Mickey Bouchard, who rode most of a month as a twelve year old to Morale with a plea for Marshal Pike’s help freeing his grandfather falsely imprisoned for burning down a cathouse west of Casper was there, beaming. Frank Jensen, more loyal a man than Adam ever knew, was also and wearing a belt gun for the first time in all the years since Pike found him lying on the Yampa Plateau of Utah.
Beside Jensen, Clint Sola sat quietly, the taciturn owner of Morale’s stage operation and Pike’s most vocal critic since Adam spearheaded efforts to bring a rail spur to town and constant opponent in all matters of the town’s running. Catching Clint’s eye, Pike nodded, surprised at a small smile received from one who never showed such and more when Sola gave a wink before wheeling his horse around. Of the others, Adam recalled many days debating, arguing or agreeing on some petty issue or another, usually counting few as colleagues but overwhelmed now, seeing them here.
“Sheriff said you’d a plan to bring ‘im back alive” Mandano said, glancing at the draped body whose two pistol holes told all needful then back to meet Adam’s gaze, “an’ we respected your thinkin’ for a day.” Swiveling in his saddle for a look across those surrounding him, he faced Pike again, adding, “Seems patience wore thin mighty quick, them knowin’ one of ours might use some help.”
“Am grateful.” Adam squeaked, staring into the sky to keep moisture in his eyes from showing, then offering a shake to one he’d never considered a friend.
Taking Pike’s hand in his own large paw, Mandano nodded, lip twitching upward in what passed as a smile. “Folks all know, Pike, you made our town real, made our dreams real too, an’ how it cost you. Without what you’d done, none here would have work or peaceful days an’ they’s grateful, too.”
Adam pressed his lips together, jaw clenched as he fought to say what wouldn’t come, finally settling for, “Good words, Mandano, and I’m appreciative of hearing.”
With a bob of his head, he let loose Mandano’s strong clasp, hearing then the man mutter with a rumbling chuckle, “Don’ get used to it, Pike, likely never’ll happen again.” continuing with eyebrows raised, “Course, could be iffen you stop by with ideas for a new saloon I’m wanting to open down in that town of Larskpur you started down past Denver.”
Laughing, Adam waggled his head as Step shuffled his horse around. “We wishful of talking all day or should we head in, get some work done?” he asked no one, setting his horse to a trot while the company of men fell in around either side and behind in classic protective formation. Nearing town, Pike watched as small groups broke off throwing waves as they did before he swept off toward Big Injun’s livery while Step led his deputies to the Sheriff’s office.
Walking the horses into the shadowed interior, he halted, sliding from the saddle while glancing around the seemingly empty building, still trembling from the reception received. Stooping, Pike untied Petra’s hands and feet then grabbed the body, tossing it unceremoniously into the back of Big Injun’s wagon, the Ute suddenly looming over him. One of the largest men Adam ever met, by far the biggest Indian and dwarfing Pike in height and girth, Big Injun had buried every person dying in Morale since before Pike first arrived.
“Unknown outlaw?” he grunted, assuming their usual graveyard label would apply.
Adam shook his head, muttering, “No.” as he took the near empty pad from his pack. Scribbling quickly, pausing only to think back calendar pages to what he believed was Petra’s birth year, he handed the paper to Big Injun.
Looking at it, the Ute mumbled unhappily, “Many words.”
Pike shrugged, releasing Petra’s saddlebags then felt a hard circle under the leather. Fingering the spot, he waggled his head, knowing immediately the form of a twenty dollar gold piece not believing for a moment that Petra had kept it all those years. With a shake of his head, he held a moment then slid his knife from its holder and carefully cut away stitches keeping the coin pouch closed. Releasing it into his palm, he pondered it a moment incredulously before tossing it to Big Injun.
Greedily snatching the gleaming coin from midair, Big Injun glowed until Pike said, “Bury it with him. Must have meant much to him to have carried it all these years.”
“Bury?” Big Injun responded, crestfallen. “Is much coin.”
Adam pressed his lips together, silently agreeing while placing Petra’s bags on his own horse, turning when Big Injun asked with concern, “Bury east side?”
Tossing his friend a look, Adam responded quietly, “No, west.” then inquired, “How long before he’s planted?”
Mouth separating in what passed as a smile, Big Injun grunted, “Half hour.” adding in answer to Pike’s quizzical look, “Sheriff say you go. I dig. Know what end will be.”
Adam chuckled despite himself, understanding Big Injun would have prepared the grave on the west side of their cemetery knoll guessing Pike chased an outlaw but a full name provided for the grave marker was used only for decent folks buried on the east. Glad the man didn’t have to dig a second hole, Pike stepped into his saddle, gazing almost straight into Big Injun’s eyes.
“Be sure to check his pockets. Likely some cash there.” Adam instructed, “What you do with
any or his horse and gear is your doing. I want none of it.”
Face brightening considerably, the gear worth plenty, the horse some and cash always welcome, Big Injun shrugged. “Half hour.” he said, grabbing a shovel as he turned, tossing it over the dead man.
Trotting through the wide door onto Morale’s main street, blue splotches of sky visible to the south, Adam rode past the hotel, dismounting in front of the Elliot’s small barber shop wishful of tidying up a mite before seeing his family. Entering, he sat in the leather covered chair, asking only for a shave and shampoo then said no more.
Refusing to permit thoughts into his head, Pike listened to sounds made as his hair was washed, liking for no reason the scraping noise telling him three days of whisker growth would soon be gone. Of all things he despised, being unshaven with dirty hair neared the top of the list, particularly during years as Marshal when, in his mind, he represented more than just himself to everyone he met. After, habits of a lifetime favoring cleanliness stayed with him both in respect for his upbringing and knowledge that he lived as the face of their 5PL brand, Best Connected Cartage, the Packer-Pike Colorado Mine Company and a handful of other operations related to the family name.
Finished, his face wiped clean with a hot cloth and Elliot paid with a coin greater than the cost of his work, Pike stepped out to the boardwalk. Peering up at a big clock tower erected by the courthouse a year before, he was startled to see the day was still young. Partly to satisfy a desire for cleanliness, his visit to the barber was also to fill time until his children would be closer to ending their school hours. It was poor practice, he believed, to interrupt their study to satisfy his yearning to see them but this time he’d compromise.
Riding past four shops on First Street, named for being the original road leading off Main Street, he waved at several people walking or riding past then paused as Ezra Bouchard shuffled to the porch of his gunsmith shop, waving a spindly arm frantically at him. Dismounting, he hopped up next to the man whose teary face was carved with remorse.
“When they said men were needin’ to help, Marshal” the man wheezed, “every inch of me was wantin’ to from thanks for what ya’ did but you’re knowin’ I ain’t ridin’ so well no more an’ cain’t shoot a long gun much neither.”
Wrapping the elderly man in a kindly arm, Adam pulled him close, feeling tremors wracking his frail frame. “Ez” he answered softly, “you raising Mickey so well and being a good man for our town is all the thanks I’m needful having.” holding him for a few moments longer before edging back, a warm sensation rising from the man’s gleaming expression returned with a gentle squeeze on his shoulder.
Remounting, doffing his hat to Ezra and Mickey who watched through the store window, Adam spurred his horse to a loping run toward the school. Hopping from the saddle, he tossed the reins across the railing and stepped up to the door, pushing it open quietly hoping to cause no disturbance. Inside, Ray Hassan stopped speaking when Pike poked his head in, gleefully recognizing the man.
“Mr. Adam!” he boomed happily, “It is good to see you today.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Hassan,” Pike replied, grinning, his tone respectful, “but am needful of the Pike youngsters to come home.” Lawson instantly leaping from his chair, squealing, “PA!” and launching up into Adam’s arms. Close behind, Angela and Adele gathered books in packs as Step and Kate’s children scrambled to leave as well, being Pike children equally, returning disappointed to sitting upon receiving a denying nod from Adam but displaying great happiness at seeing their uncle despite that. Reaching the porch as Pike finished swinging his son in two swirling loops, the twins gave hugs as Adam knelt, setting Lawson down, wrapping all three in a joyful embrace.
Standing, an arm encircling Angela with one hand on Adele’s shoulder while mussing Lawson’s hair with the other, he sparkled at them explaining, “Wishful of you heading home early today. Let Ma know I’m back and will be there prompt after one more doing here in town.”
Angela smiled brightly. “We’ve still an hour of studies, Poppa.” she reminded him, taking a jab on the thigh from Lawson who’s two greatest pleasures, having Pa home and being released from school early were both satisfied. Gently pinching the boy’s ear, punching his sisters or anyone other not being permitted, Adam nodded, wondering suddenly when Adele had grown a half inch taller than her sister and how it was Angela abruptly lost pudginess in her cheeks so had her mother’s lean, high-cheekbone look. Through fresh eyes, he snuck a glance at Lawson, the boys muscled chest and arms seeming larger, more firm than he recalled and knew, whatever the weather or work duties faced, more of his attention and time should be given these three lest they abruptly become grown before he realized.
“I’m knowing, Ang, but Ma should hear prompt it’s over so we’ll make up learning time later.” he replied, waving his band toward where the buggy and Brandy stood. “Adele” he continued, “when Ma mentions supper, ask if she’s the makings of fresh biscuits and tell that I’ve a hankering for some if she does.”
“Will ask, Poppa.” the girl agreed, giggling when Lawson whooped, “Everything’s better with biscuits, even Ma’s cooking!”
Pike laughed, the youngsters knowing as he did that his wife’s meals were said to be the best prepared in the Territory while never confiding that nothing she cooked tasted better than fluffy biscuits which reminded him so dearly each time of his own mother’s kitchen. In his own saddle, he watched the three ride off through town as would now always be their way pleased his wife held them from school only one day, relying on 5PL riders to provide safety on the trip and believing fully in Adam’s promise to resolve difficulties posed by Petra.
Leaving the school, Adam rode west past Big Injun’s, stepping around mud puddles as he walked his horse up the lonely trail to the town’s cemetery. He stopped at the entry, surprised to see a cast-iron archway with a short fence running off to either side. Town Council had talked long about getting such a decoration but he didn’t realize they’d done it, wondering when it had been put up. Store bought, the archway was likely shipped from Denver on one of his own freight wagons but the sign was homemade, surely by the town smithy, declaring the town and its birthday.
“Morale, 1865” he read as he dropped from the horse and shook his head. They’d argued that point before and he’d lost then, too. In his mind, Morale had existed over two years when he arrived in ’64 with Hutch, Kate, German, and Mandano already here and Big Injun’s arrival date unknown by any including the man himself, having no calendar training and less interest in counting years. Disagreeing, others pointed out their State charter recognized the community in ’65 and so it was.
Pike strode to the east side where decent, honorable people were buried. The first had been German’s wife who passed shortly before Adam’s arrival. He recalled hearing they discussed cemetery layout then with it suggested the west side be used to represent a setting sun of folks lives but German was adamant. “Dis las’ day of life here is firs’ day of life for her der’ wit’ her Lord,” he declared. “We bury her on eas’ side for da’ risin’ sun of her life der’” and so it was also.
Nearby her last resting place, Pike knelt by the grave of the first friend he buried here. Santos, who brought the original 5PL herd up from Santa Fe and nurtured it closely, had watched Adam’s back and saved his bacon a couple of times until murdered by an outlaw rifle. Pike took a pebble from ones collected and held in his pocket, placing it among many others in the earth above Santos. A habit now, he began placing pebbles the day he buried the man in a reminder of Indian ways to honor a friend.
The two sites missing he was wishful to have were those of his parents, Ma and Jessup Pike. As they’d been buried back home and he expected never to visit them there, he had a bronze plate made giving their names and dates of their lives. This he set off to the side of the cemetery and now lowered himself beside, wondering like he always had if they would be happy with his life or proud of what he had become and done. He pla
ced a pebble on the plaque atop a pyramid built over the years hoping, if not fully believing, they would.
Ignoring muddy ground, he knelt with one knee touching each corner of the plate honoring his parents and gazed around. A couple of other good men were buried nearby too, a pair of Oxbar hands, killed in accidents so common on ranches and one 5PL hand, Carter. They worked out his horse spooked, maybe a snake or a varmint jumped up, and he’d lost his mount, head hitting a rock as he fell. They had found him the next day and buried him with proper readings and a sign declaring him ‘A Good Hand’. All these men rode good trails, made decisions useful to them and their community giving rise in Adam wholesome feelings for having known them.
Every carved headstone here represented a man or woman willing to challenge fate, to move away from what security or safety they might have into lands unknown, dangerous in ways none could predict. German’s wife accompanied him from Europe, trading persecution brought by principles her husband vowed to uphold for frontier country where few existed and lived almost long enough to see her dreams fulfilled. Santos swapped safe hacienda living for daring opportunities to earn wealth, his hope to become a Don and shape lives of others cut short by a man not a quarter as worthy of living.
Pike sighed. More would be here, some like Ezra Bouchard sooner, others later. Everyone ended their days somewhere like this but, for his effort and those of many choosing trails similar, fewer would be left as scattered skeletons lost to memory in canyons equally forgotten. Fewer still, he hoped and prayed, would arrive here because some gutless outlaw pulled a trigger during a robbery or hold-up. He believed, had believed for some time, those days were largely behind them now but knew deep inside they could and certainly would return if good men and women ceased being diligent in face of danger or chose trails which undermined justice instead of demanding it.
Rising, he edged lightly past another small iron fence, also new since his last visit, sitting with his back to a boulder facing the west, the Boot Hill side. At one time, all graves here were by his gun or fists, a few by noose he’d tied with his own hands. He used to count them and knew exactly how many there were but those days had passed, Adam having become tired of replaying each scene and testing them against a morality he believed should exist which never had.
Some here now were the work of others. Dane Hessledorn had put a few here as Sheriff. Step had also early in his time as Sheriff but none in years as Morale’s reputation and Adam’s own presence altered opinion of troublemakers dramatically. Even Mandano had several graves to his credit of men so foolish to think robbing his saloon would be easy or worthwhile.
A chill breeze blew over him and he shivered. Rain spit from grey clouds lowered again after a brief respite reminding him again that winter was near at hand, the season when all things die, awaiting rebirth with the coming of spring. His season, spring, would arrive but not soon enough and for all men buried anywhere, would never come again.
Adam’s eyes passed over the many crosses erected, all looking the same from behind. On the front, the greatest number read simply “Unknown Outlaw” and a year as, at the first, he’d instructed Big Injun any he sent up for burial would receive no name honoring them or causing dishonor to their families, a practice maintained without exception until this day. Thieves and murderers, cowardly parasites feeding off the good and decent, they deserved no recognition for lives gone bad and Adam would assure they got none.
‘What did cause some men to go bad?’ Pike wondered. He did not believe, could never believe, that more than the fewest were born that way. Something in their upbringing, some queer quirk of mind turned them from being like other folks into what they became. ‘What was missing from within them?’ he puzzled, ‘What hole were they trying to fill inside by stealing, robbing and killing?’
He did not know. Some hatful of resentment, perhaps, flamed to a consuming bonfire of hatred that drove them to evil. Or something, maybe, lacking in their soul, some godliness or compassion most have and never recognize was lost by these kind so compelled a lifetime of selfishness and greed, an overwhelming self-centered thinking that said taking lives or property was somehow justified or right.
He believed he would never know. The newest grave, Petra’s, held a body not yet cold beneath earth not yet settled, the final home of a gifted but twisted man. Big Injun wasted no time in this misery inducing season getting the dead under and likely, as Adam sat, had already finished the grave sign so to get back to his warm fire quicker.
Petra was a capable man, by all accounts smarter than most and gifted physically as few others. He could have done well in many occupations, would have thrived in opportunities the West gave men of courage, daring and brains, all three which he had in abundance. Did his father’s death so affect him that he became a murderer for money or was it just money? If Adam had let his father live, had found some other way, would Petra be laying here dead today? Or would others lay here years ahead of their time, murdered by a son of a murderer?
He shivered again but less from the wind than haunts in his own mind. Letting Demitri go was no answer, whatever consequences may have resulted. The man had robbed and killed; law required and a civilized society demanded action against those unable to live within rules and bounds. He had no choice then and no choice today; in both, he had but one trail, the right trail, to follow.
Not all trails were right to follow, he understood, nor was it always easy to tell them apart. With each trail a man takes, hundreds of others can no longer be taken but dozens new open to him. In life, every person makes decisions which allow future decisions or deny their possibility and the sum of those decisions equal the total of a man’s life.
What if, in 1863, instead of meeting kindly Sheriff Rankin way back in Minnesota with his thoughtful guidance about Pike’s boots and clothes, he’d met that oafish, filthy sheriff in Omaha who tried to take Adam’s money, gear and his first and favorite horse Molly, to boot? What would he have done, given his quick temper and quicker gun? Would a single, rash decision have gotten him labeled an outlaw, leading him down a trail ending here on the west side under cold, clammy uncaring dirt long before his natural time?
What if, instead of the good men of the Running BP, Bob Patterson, Tucker, Charlie and the rest, Pike had run up on Roy Hawkin’s band? Hawk had been charismatic, a leader with a shrewd, organized mind keen to the ways of the times. Would Adam have fallen in with them, become an outlaw and, like them, left bleached bones up in the Bottoms where Pike left Hawkins?
He could not say. The line between being good and not seemed broad and bold when sitting at Ma’s knee back home but here, in a world less obvious, it was often difficult to know. Many became outlaws by accident, some by a small decision made carelessly that led to consequences unseen. A few, a graceless few, seemed to have born for that life but a scarce few they were. The most, he believed and knew, lay here today from the smallest twist in the trail they followed and, knew too, he could as easily today be below ground as above.
More rain spattered as the wind became increasingly unpleasant. The heavy thud of a sledge on wood broke through Pike’s thoughts and he looked to see Big Injun driving a marker at the head of the newest grave. He smiled. Like most men, Big Injun worked fast when motivated and little gave him more than money except cold rain. He walked over and read ‘It Didnt Have To Be’ written almost as instructed.
“Sorry, Pike, missed little mark.” Big Injun smiled. “Soon too cold to post new sign. Is alright?”
Adam put his hand on the man’s forearm and smiled. “Sure, Big Injun, is alright.”
“Ground get hard. Soon freeze.” the Ute observed. “Maybe no more dead ‘til spring, Pike?”
“Maybe no more at all, Big Injun, least if I have my way.” Adam answered solemnly, fishing a pair of dollar coins from his pocket and handing them over. “Good night, Big Injun. See you around.”
Putting his horse to a canter so to beat the rain, Pike headed home where, like at other war
m homes, smoke swirling above chimneys declared how a loving wife was preparing a fresh meal for him and their children, a woman wishful for his early return and who made biscuits for him because, they both knew, everything is better with biscuits.
Adam smiled at the aroma of biscuits not yet reaching him, satisfied he had ridden good trails.
Epilog
Pastor Samuel Perkins sat before a small ledger, huddled beneath a horsehair blanket against an early winter wind howling through gaps in plank walls, rain battering windows in a cacophony of mind numbing noise. Bowing his head against fingers intertwined, knuckles white in clenching desperation, he mouthed yet another prayer for guidance but opened his eyes to those same numbers and totals he’d seen for days that told of too few funds to continue.
Four years earlier, he’d been graced to open the Orphanage of Denver through a gift willed for that purpose by a wealthy congregant, an event greeted with great fanfare and grand accolades from the town’s people. At a time when mothers often died in childbirth and men were killed by accidents in mines, on ranches or through the incessant, needless violence of their era, parentless children survived as best they could, passed between kinfolk if any or taken in by kindly neighbors when such good folks could. Too often, he knew, their benefactors were often madams or outlaws who used the young until they served no additional purpose then cast them aside.
He shivered through a blast of wicked cold penetrating seams in the window, giving a worried glance to the wall in front of him which shielded from view twenty-four boys bedded down on eighteen cots, concerned the small stove in the room’s center was inadequate to provide any comfort, the night an early reminder of how vicious Rocky Mountain winters can be. Behind him, another thin pine barrier separated his seat from fifteen girls, the youngest but two and oldest only twelve. He pictured them huddled close together under thin blankets near an underfed stove to stay warm while calming the few whose nerves were always rattled by whipping winds shaking walls poorly built to stand against them.
Himself the child of a sickly woman who was called home to her Lord when he was but three and a drunkard father who met some unknown fate when Samuel was five, he’d been gifted with a new life by a kindly country parson whose family of seven already stretched meager resources but was raised despite that with love of people and of the Bible. Upon reaching adulthood, he heard the calling himself and learned the ministry, traveling between mining camps and small towns for three decades before a chance encounter led him to a small Denver congregation in need of a pastor.
The abandoned warehouse had seemed perfect for his mission of providing for God’s forsaken young with ample space for their bedding and a tiny office able to accommodate a desk, his cot and a small reading chair. Through donations well meant a small kitchen was added where volunteers from community and church assisted youngsters living in the orphanage, teaching scripture and life lessons while doing so. For three and a half years, gifts from merchants, tithes received and what small income the older boys could earn had kept doors open and food in the pantry.
It wasn’t until spring rains flooded Cherry Creek six months before that his real trouble began. He’d known, of course, that the river overran its banks most every year but believed the warehouse had been built up an incline sufficiently far to have no worry, thinking seemingly made sensible by history as the structure had lasted untouched fifteen or more years already. The last spring, however, had been exceptional, huge mountain snowpacks melting under a sun uncommonly hot for the season while rains in March and April continuing unabated brought unrelenting torrents of water surging into town, ripping away a large portion of the building’s foundation.
That the Town Council deemed the building unsafe was, he knew, the proper decision and felt grateful they had given him the summer then fall to find another suitable for use. For those months, he combed the town with no success, the several buildings available being far beyond his ability to secure while other resources dried up in a searing hot summer that ruined many ranchers in the region so they had no more to give, their own families suffering as herds died of thirst or starvation on prairies baked dry and lacking life-sustaining flows from peaks denuded of snow too fast and too early.
From the merchants, Samuel was able to receive help for a time but soon enough their ability if not desire became limited. The same floods that ruined his building and the ranchers also washed out thousands of miners panning or digging for gold in canyons all about Denver, their loss translating to few sales for grocers and supply houses depending on the needs of those men for a livelihood. Even saloons and gambling halls suffered, many closing completely while the remainder struggled with few customers in what had been the town’s greatest source of wealth for two decades.
Now, only weeks remained before the Council would insist he move the children elsewhere. A few good souls had offered to take the youngest but, for most sleeping around him this night, none had come forward so they would be turned out to fend for themselves. Such a dilemma for the town fathers was admittedly difficult but permitting the orphanage to continue in a structure where roof and walls would most certainly collapse from snow or wind they could not abide, reasoning Samuel understood even while disagreeing vehemently.
For himself, the failure was greater than just a building or the children. He had placed all faith in this service, given all he had to the Lord and this work and knew now it had not been enough. In some way he did not understand, his piety had been compromised and his humility lacking. He saw all honors given him when starting received with too much personal credit taken and too little given his Lord. Deep within, a wellspring of pride was the real source of crippling floods, washing away moral underpinnings in an erosive dripping of satisfaction over his accomplishments. Through pain inflicted on these innocent children, he would suffer eternal damnation for pride undeserved and arrogance toward his God.
Shoving aside the ledger, he bowed his head and prayed again, feeling his elbows against the rough wooden desk through cotton sleeves of a shirt worn too long to be decent. Interrupted in his plea by a growling stomach protesting against no supper, he raised his head and considered the thin slab of meat on bread left him by one of the young girls before deciding to save it to eat at breakfast. Dwindling supplies had to be kept for the children, his own slender frame becoming gaunt as he worked to keep them from deprivation. A few generous merchants had only reduced donations while others denied him new credit on accounts long overdue, knowing the orphanage would soon be forced to close and not willing to extend more without chance of repayment, leaving their larder almost barren.
Dark hopelessness settled over him. Shifting in his chair, he prepared to douse the smoky oil lamp and attempt to sleep, an effort sure to be futile with an empty belly and ravaging wind to keep him from comforting rest. Of late, even his slumber was agitated and disturbed, faces of children depending on him to protect rising up accusingly, demanding to know why his devout ways were so inadequate or pleading for him to rescue them from fates undeserved. He shuddered as images of each child worn and broken long before their years would suggest proper came to him, all attached to names known so well and loved so dearly.
Sighing sadly, his eyes fell on a small stack of mail delivered earlier and left untouched during his review of orphanage books. Despair came over him, each surely another heart-rending call for aid he could not give or notices of bills he could not pay, such that he wished to ignore them all and be spared the pain brought. Hesitating only a moment, unable by conscience to pass on duty required of him, he took the letters into his lap, staring at them bleakly.
Only three this day had arrived, the first pair being notes from merchants as expected while the other, addressed to him by name, contained a letter. Unfolding the top half, he read three words seen so often that he could not continue. “We desperately need” was a call to action for any man of the cloth but he had no action to take, no help to give, no Lord to share. Dropping all on his desk, h
e lowered his head to hands propped on his knees, mortified by shortcomings exposed in him. The adversity given by his God was absolute, proving him unworthy to preach the gospel or wear the garb of a minister.
Resolving at last to face truth, he knew his only choice was to resign from the church, surrender his claim to grace. The Lord had brought forth floods before as a test of men’s faith, had done so again to test his and he had failed.
Reddened, exhausted eyes staring at the floor saw nothing then, beneath his desk, a small white envelope came to view. Samuel eyed it perplexed, certain only three were received that day, deciding after a moment it must have been delivered while he was out and been dropped. Curious, he reached for it, his arms almost too heavy to lift back to his lap.
Glancing at it, he was intrigued, addressed as it was only to Denver Children’s Orphanage and in pen precisely written by a strong, masculine hand. Uncertain, nearly all his correspondence coming from women, often elderly with spidery penmanship, he studied it forlornly then slit it open. From inside, he withdrew a single sheet of paper and unfolded it, another wrapped within falling to his lap. Holding the note up to the lamp, he read:
“Director of Denver Orphanage,
Please find enclosed a bank draft issued to your organization to be used for housing and feeding your orphaned children.
The man whose money this was died an untimely death recently as a result of his violations of the laws of God and man with no kin to claim wealth gained through a lifetime of evil. As his mean work certainly caused several young people to live without a father, it seems fitting to place these funds to help others with none also.
You are trusted to use these funds for no purpose except aiding the orphans in your charge.
Sincerely yours,
Adam Pike, United States Marshal (Ret.)
Northern District of Colorado and Wyoming Territory”
Samuel read the letter twice, unbelieving, then peered at numbers on the accompanying bank draft, eyes widening in astonishment. He moved the draft close to the lamp to be sure, seeing positively the amount carefully inscribed was in fact sufficient for a new building and to support operations of the orphanage for many years ahead.
Dropping to his knees, tears flowing freely off his emaciated cheeks onto the paper, he bowed his head and gave thanks to his Lord and God.
Acknowledgements
The first and most important acknowledgement has to be given my loving wife Robin who, for so many years, has been supportive, helpful and a bedrock of sanity in a world seemingly less sane by the day. In addition to interminable hours listening to chattering, winding stories which became the Western Settler Saga, she served most capably as our editor-in-chief, researcher-in-chief, good-idea-person-in-chief and, critically, encourager-in-chief. Without her endless help, Adam Pike and Western Settler Saga might still have been written but would have been incredibly less fun to do.
As well, no writer can succeed without capable, competent and focused editing assistance. In that role none would believe, I recognize Scott Steinmetz, the Wasatch Wizard. His corrections, suggestions and lightning bolt wisdom delivered from on-high in the Utah peaks are central to our shared success.
Attentive readers, also, will note certain dialogue woven through Western Settler Saga episodes evoke memories from a number of outstanding lyricists and songwriters our era produced. Throughout most of human history, grand composers were in one world and brilliant wordsmiths in another, coexisting but never crossing. It was not until the latter half of the 20th century, after a forty year gestation period, did these two universes unite into one, evolving into one of the universes most powerful forces for change and progress transmitted by radio, record albums and, later CD’s. The influences of these grand artists on my thinking, behavior and beliefs has been profound and nearly immeasurable so they receive in the Saga a sincere, if humble, thank you for the many ways their work improved our quality of life.
Among those honored here, in no particular order except at the end, are Neil Diamond; Woody Guthrie; Stephen Stills and Crosby, Stills, Nash; Carole King; Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel; Pete Seeger; Eagles; The Kingston Trio; Earth, Wind and Fire; Steve Winwood through all his many incarnations; The Grateful Dead; America; Joni Mitchell; Jim Morrison; Melanie; Pete Townshend and The Who; Billy Joel; Yes; the incomparable Boss, Bruce Springsteen; and the greatest non-violent revolutionary voice of reason in our times, Mr. Bob Dylan. To all, I express intense gratitude and unending appreciation for many ways you made our lives better.
…son of a South Dakota farm boy and a Tennessee lady lives with his wife and two dogs on a 34 acre farm in Lapeer, Michigan. While feeding good people with corn, soybeans and wheat, he shares life with rabbits, groundhogs, raccoons, chipmunk and deer, flocks of wild turkeys both feathered and not, hawks, doves, vultures, and odd varieties of fish (including pike) occupying a small 38 acre lake adjoining their land.
Raised in rural Michigan on our traditional American principles of honesty, thrift, hard work and self-reliance, he brings these time honored values to life through the words and deeds of Adam Pike and the cast of Western Settler Saga.
Gallen welcomes reader comments, suggestions and howdies by way of smoke signals and email at
[email protected].
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