Along The Fortune Trail (4 page)

L
onny pulled out the banded bundles of bills. He counted forty-three bundles, each of which had twenty-five bills. He separated the bundles into three piles when Bones reappeared. “I don't know, Lonny. She must a-misfired again. That hinge didn't go. We got a little warp on the seam, but nothin’ I could get the bar into. I gave it a go, but there ain't no way.”

The pile of money in front of him quickly displaced Lonny's disappointment over the news. “We got us a payday right here.”

In all, there were twenty-four bundles of ones, thirteen bundles of fives, six bundles of tens, six bags of silver dollars, one pouch of gold dust, two pouches of twenty-dollar gold pieces, and one pouch of gold nuggets. After figuring out that much, it became apparent that nobody present had the time, or math skills, to figure what that all amounted to. If Bones hadn't taken a last look in the bag and pulled out the file giving a full accounting of the contents, it might have been quite a while longer before they knew that they now had 6,765 dollars. When they read the total at the bottom of the ledger sheet, there was a long, uninterrupted minute of whooping and hollering.

As the celebration began to dwindle, Bones sensed what was coming next. He tensed his muscles several times in preparation for action. “Let's get this loaded up ‘n’ ride,” Lonny ordered. “We'll be at Sandy Springs by sundown … then we'll split ‘er up proper.”

Bones paused a moment. “I'm goin’ after Derrick. I'll only take half the money for me and him, and you can have the other half yourself … but I'm not leavin’ him behind. And I reckon you ain't payin’ him no more thought, so we'll be partin’ company now.”

“Like hell!” Lonny shouted back. “If you leave now, you're leavin’ empty. That soft lilly ain't nothin’ but dead or caught now, and you sure as hell ain't ridin’ outta here with a cut for him!”

Lonny's hand flashed for his gun, but Bones had known it was coming. He had his pistol drawn and aimed at Lonny's chest before Lonny had cleared his holster. Lonny froze in mid draw. “You just drop that iron so's I won't half to kill you,” Bones said. The hate in Lonny's eyes didn't matter to Bones, who stood with deadly ease. Lonny dropped his gun. “Move over there and take a seat,” Bones said, motioning with his pistol.

Lonny stood his ground, glaring at Bones, then spoke slowly in a rage-filled voice, “I'll see you dead, mister.”

Bones fired a shot that landed inches from Lonny's left foot. “Move, Lonny!” Lonny walked over and sat down, his face red and his upper lip curling.

Bones backed up a few steps and turned his attention to Cody, who looked as confused and unsure of what to do as a man could. “Cody, you unstrap that gun belt and bring it here. I got no trouble with you.” Cody looked nervously at Lonny, unsure of what to do. “Now, boy!” Bones yelled. He didn't want Cody looking to Lonny for anything at this particular moment. Cody jumped slightly, startled by the ferocity of Bones's command. He stumbled forward, undoing his buckle as he moved toward Bones. “Go take a seat next to Lonny and relax. I'll be on my way in a minute.”

Bones flung their gun belts and Lonny's shotgun fifty feet up the hill and quickly retrieved his saddlebags, keeping his eyes and attention on Lonny, who sat muttering. He knelt by the loot and used one hand to methodically put half of each pile into the saddlebags, making sure that he took only half of each denomination of the bills and four of the ten pouches, three of which were silver dollars and one with twenty dollar gold pieces. “I left you a little more ‘n half here,” Bones said as he stood and backed toward his horse, keeping the gun on Lonny while he untied his big dun and hoisted the saddlebags over its neck. “I'm goin’ after Derrick and I'm takin’ his horse. If you follow me, we'll be tradin’ lead, so's it's best if you just get on down your own trail. So long.”

In an instant, Bones had mounted and was gone around the downhill side of the train. Lonny jumped to his feet and hurried up the hill to retrieve his gun belt and shotgun. Moving to the front of the train, Lonny looked around the corner where Bones had disappeared. He saw that Bones had already put on some distance, both horses loping at a good rate for the terrain.

Bones was out of range and into some trees, but Lonny popped off a couple of pistol shots at him anyway. The rhythm of the rider and horses continued on, uninterrupted by anything behind them.

Lonny cursed to himself for a moment and turned back toward Cody, who was strapping on his gun belt with a sort of helpless expression on his face. “Get it packed up and let's get the hell outta here,” Lonny said. Minutes later, Lonny the Kid and Cody Royals were riding up the hill, heading south.

S
ammy Winds was seven years old when Comanches attacked the small wagon train his family was traveling with in New Mexico Territory. The men of the party had circled the wagons, unhitched the teams, and pushed the wagons over, attempting to fix a better defensive barricade. Sammy's father had ordered him into a small hole-like depression in the ground that the Winds wagon had rolled over on. He gave the boy a pistol and ordered him to keep quiet and stay put, no matter what happened.

From his little hiding place, young Sammy listened to the attack for the next hour, but it seemed like eternity. He could hear men shouting directions and information back and forth. Close movement outside occasionally interrupted the rays of light penetrating the tiny opening he had wiggled into, while the sound of gunfire and rumble of running horses took his thoughts away from the cramped heat of his surroundings. The screams and anguished sounds of the final desperate struggle slowly faded. All that remained was the yipping and howling of swarming Indians, who seemed to be everywhere. Overwhelming numbers had wiped out the entire wagon train, including his mother, and father, and older brother.

Sammy could hear them rummaging through wagons, pulling things out and throwing much of it aside. Suddenly, the wagon covering him began shifting and creaking as Indians climbed on and ripped apart all that had been carefully packed two months earlier. His eyes stayed fixed, wide open, as he held the big pistol with both hands. Tensed in a balled-up position, he waited to shoot the first Indian he saw. But, the wagon was never rolled back upright, and within an hour, all that could be heard was the wind of the prairie singing a lonely song. Still too frightened to move, he stayed in the safety of the hole until his unrelenting thirst and the fading daylight overcame his fear and drove him out.

It was the better part of a week before three riders came across the site of the attack and found the young boy who had survived alone. Sammy told how he had found a full canteen and some smoked meat amongst the ransacked wagons. The men were amazed to discover that the boy had also managed to bury his parents and brother by digging a shallow grave next to where each had fallen and using the shovel to leverage the bodies into the holes.

The men spent the next day and a half burying the other nineteen members of the wagon train, then gathered what they could find of the boy's belongings and mounted up. Lundy Flower took the boy on his mount, and the men rode hard for home.

Lundy was the ranch foreman at the famed Twin T. Ranch of northern New Mexico Territory. It was the biggest cattle operation in all of New Mexico. Owners Homer and Reuben Taylor, had welcomed Sammy and given him a home. Sammy had been naturally attached to Lundy, who fixed up his own special quarters in the bunkhouse and looked after the lad like a doting grandparent, making sure that the ranch hands held their cuss words and acted right around the boy.

At forty, Lundy was a blend of stamina, wisdom, humor, and know-how. He'd worked for the Taylor brothers for two decades and oversaw much of the operation. Lundy had never been married and was happy to take on the upbringing of Sammy, keeping the boy with him through all the jobs and activities of each day. He taught him about cattle and horses and land and people, and told him Bible stories and tales of the west, and talked to the boy about all manner of things under God's endless sky.

As Sammy got older, he began taking on more and more work. He worked the roundups and cattle drives, fixed fence, branded cattle, shoed horses, birthed calves, hunted predators and game, busted broncs, doing all manner of jobs associated with running an operation. He could do a man's work at twelve years old, and he had the respect of all the hands on the Twin T.

When Sammy bit off his first plug of chewing tobacco, he turned a sort of pale green and laughed with the boys as they got a kick out of his new coloring. Three months later, Sammy had perfected an ability to hit anything within fifteen feet with a stream of tobacco juice. The plugs he bit off were so big that there was usually a little dribble out of the corner of his mouth, so the boys began calling him “Leaky.” Sammy's talents with tobacco juice became a source of entertainment for the boys as they enjoyed the sunsets from the bunkhouse porch. Leaky was the “Champeen” against all challengers in every manner of spitting contests, ranging from distance and accuracy to pure showmanship, such as hitting a moving June bug while lying on his back atop the hitching post. The boys figured someone might beat Leaky if they made balancing or some other requirement part of the show.

When J.P. Stover came up with the idea of hitting a silver dollar in the dirt from ten feet while performing a headstand, the boys laughed and whooped it up, thinking it would certainly even up the odds. But man after man either toppled over before getting the shot off, or ended up with half of their shot pushing out just far enough to run directly up their noses or into their eyes, causing stinging pain to the contestant and uncontrollable laughter from the gallery. Leaky managed the headstand and a shot that was within inches of the silver dollar, proving he could spit from any contorted position, and furthering his legendary exploits with tobacco juice.

The years went by and Sammy Winds grew up straight and true. His easy manner and intelligence was equaled by his sense of humor, kindness, and humility, and Sammy was flat tough. He was the hardest working, most talented hand on the Twin T., and he never complained. Instead, he always pointed to the positive side of any situation, lifting the spirits of all who knew and worked with him.

The sun broke through the pines as shafts of piercing light that instantly brought a measure of warmth to the frosty, fall morning. Sammy Winds squatted in front of his fire rubbing his hands together, his breath forming little clouds of vanishing vapor each time he exhaled. The coffee was almost ready, the scent of it mixing with evergreen and the crisp air. Sammy took a deep breath, drinking in the morning aromas and feeling keenly alive as the fingers of sunlight massaged his back with increasing heat.

He saddled his horse, packed his bedroll, and ate the biscuits and jerky that Jacqueline had packed, stopping between bites to sip the hot, black coffee that was strong enough to take rust off a plow. The high country brought out his appetite and enhanced the flavor of the food. Sammy ate two grapefruit-sized biscuits and a half-pound of jerky before he mounted up and headed for town, twelve miles away. An hour later, he hit the stage trail and turned onto it for the remaining miles, then dozed in the saddle as his horse, Dobe, ambled along, knowing to follow the road.

The work of the week left Sammy tired. He'd had to pick up additional chores after one of the other ranch hands broke a collarbone trying to break a spirited young bronc named Pepper. Pepper had bucked high and hard, then galloped a few paces forward and stopped suddenly, bucking up his rear end and launching his rider straight over the front, where he landed hard in the dirt on his right shoulder.

Sammy had worked sixteen-hour days to pick up the slack for the injured ranch hand. At twenty years old, Sammy Winds stood six feet tall and carried 180 pounds of muscle on a thin, broad frame, giving him a slim appearance that concealed his true power. Thick, sandy colored hair and a straight angular jaw line framed his hazel eyes. The thirteen years he'd spent growing up on the Twin T. Ranch had honed Sammy into an expert with a horse, a rope, and a gun, and the boy was now a man.

D
obe whinnied at the rabbit that flushed out of the brush, waking Sammy from his ten-minute saddle siesta. He reached up with both hands over his head and stretched hard, letting out a long groan that sounded like a bear coming out of hibernation. The morning sun was well up now and the icy chill was gone, replaced by a seasonally-perfect temperature of early October.

Sammy pulled out a stick of tobacco and bit off a hunk, chewing it for a moment, then letting go with a shot of juice. “Well Dobe, this looks like one fine day to be visitin’ town and pickin’ up my new boots. What say we stretch out a bit?” Sammy flicked the reins and gave a light squeeze with his legs, which was all the encouragement Dobe needed. The muscular appaloosa leapt to a full gallop, pounding the trail and putting a wind in Sammy's face that caused him to whoop and feel overcome by the beauty of the morning and the joy of the moment. The last half-mile went quickly.

At the edge of town, Sammy brought Dobe back to a trot and turned up the main street. The morning activities at Agapito's general store were in full swing with folks loading wagon's in front. Sammy heard the ring of the hammer on the anvil over at the livery stable and picked up the scent of apple pies baking at Watson's boarding house, the delicious aroma wafting on the light breeze.

The trip up Main Street offered the chance to tip his hat and bid good morning to folks he knew, which was nearly everyone. If Sammy didn't recognize someone, it was because they weren't local. He'd been to town twice a month for the last fourteen years, making a point to get to know everyone. Some people had moved on and new folks came, and Sammy got to know most all of them. Still, he was shy talking about himself, but he always wanted to say hello and listen to what other folks had to say.

Sammy pulled up in front of King Leather Works and dismounted. He reached into his saddlebags for the treat, then tied the reins to the hitching post and fed the piece of hard candy to Dobe, who bobbed his head up and down in approval as he chomped. “That's a pretty good deal, eh boy? Don't run off with some filly … I'll be right back.”

A small bell attached to the door jingled when Sammy entered, alerting Jake's dog, Pinto, an old, white haired chihuahua, who began barking a sort of lazy alert. The small shop held the rich aroma of leather and pipe tobacco. It was an arranged clutter of saddles, saddlebags, boots, rifle scabbards, belts, purses, hats, wallets, and most every leather good known. If Jake King didn't have it, he could make it.

“Come on back,” came the yell from beyond the counter. Sammy edged down the thin aisle and worked his way past the counter, pausing for a second to let loose with a shot that found the hole of a spittoon a few feet away. As Sammy entered the workshop in back, Jake looked up from a holster he was working on and smiled through his long, gray beard. “Hello Sammy. Thought you might be in today.”

Sammy smiled broadly. “Yes, sir, Mister King. I've been thinking about those boots the better part of a month.” Sammy's eyes scanned the room, settling on the beautiful, hand-tooled boots with the letters SW smartly engraved near the top of both. He spoke as he walked to the shelf where the boots stood amongst other recently completed work. “How've you been, Mister King? Busy as ever looks like.”

“Well, I ain't hardly got no time with flintnappin’ lately. I've gotten right popular with special orders and such, saddles mostly. But I enjoyed makin’ yer boots. Those rat killers you got on look pretty well done in. I think you'll like them new ones just fine when you get ‘em a little wore in.”

Sammy was inspecting the workmanship with a look of awe. “These are plum beautiful. Prettier ‘n a sunrise at Poncha Lake … or chimney smoke at the east-end line shack in February.”

Jake laughed. “Well, didn't know boots could be so excitin’, but I'm glad they strike yer fancy. Set ‘n’ try ‘em on.”

Sammy sat down and wasted no time getting off his old boots and pulling on the new ones. The fit was perfect. Sammy stood up and shuffled a little jig. “Well, sir, I don't know how these could feel any better. Nice and snug, but no bind.” He walked around the shop, then stopped and pressed his toes up against the inside of the boots. “I believe another masterpiece has been created,” Sammy declared with a theatrical ring as he cocked his head and gave a hard stare at Jake, who in turn gave the same hard look back.

“Well, keep ‘em oiled up good while yer breakin’ ‘em in, and them'll be masterpieces for a long time,” Jake said. He stroked his beard and looked at Sammy with a glint in his eye. “I'll bet you could turn a fancy step wearin’ ‘em with Jenny Simpson. I got a notion that girl's got ‘er cap set fer you. I reckon she'll be at the big shindig tomorrow night at the Buckskin. The Miller boys ‘ll be fiddlin’. You comin?”

Sammy smiled and shot him a wry look. “Now, Mister King … you fixin’ up one of cupid's arrows with your flintnappin’? I'll admit, she turns my head. But I get tongue-tied around her, and dancin’ ain't my strong suit.”

Jake gave a mock look of disgust. “Get Jacqueline to show you a few steps! That woman could turn a two-step like nobody's business in her day.”

Sammy looked surprised. “Jacqueline? No kiddin’?”

“Oh yeah,” Jake said with knowing authority. “I took some spins ‘round the floor with her some years back. Well, ‘bout a score now that I ponder it. She showed all them ladies up with her style. I reckon I should of married her,” Jake mused whimsically. “I'd sure be eatin’ better ‘n my own cookin’.”

“That's a fact,” Sammy said. “She's sure the queen of the ball at the Twin T. Half the boys would pack up and move on if she ever left.”

The bell jingled in the front of the store, sending Pinto into another round of intermittent barking that sounded raspily unnatural and prompted a vision in Sammy's mind of what a big rat might sound like if it barked. “Ole Pinto says you have another customer. Thirteen dollars, right Jake? Or did the price spike a little cause they turned out so fine?” Sammy said as he smiled and fished in his pocket for the money.

“In the back,” Jake hollered toward the front of the store. Jake turned and looked at Sammy. “Tell you what. Come on back to town tomorrow night … or better yet, just stay over. Take a few spins around the floor with Jenny and you can have ‘em for twelve. I know I told you thirteen, but it'd be worth a dollar to see you two spark.”

“She's a fine woman,” Sammy said. “But I'm not sure I can get back so soon with J.P. on the mend from his broken collarbone. I had to strike out part way last night so I could spend a little time in town this mornin’ and be back on the T. this evenin’.”

“Well, yer just one big heartbreak story,” Jake said. “I'm glad you like the boots. Twelve dollars.”

Sammy slapped his silver down on the workbench and the two men shook hands.

“See you down the trail, Jake. Thanks for these fine boots. They're sure worth every penny.”