Hell on the Prairie (22 page)

The deputy had his hands full without listening to
Maggert’s whining, punctuated with nasty jabs by Dickey and Rhodes,
both implicating Maggert all the way.

Croy shoved all three in a jail cell. “The dentist
will be around eventually, after he sees to the honest folk.” To
Hank, he said, “Get on out of here. I’ll take the lady’s word on
you, but only because I don’t have time to look in on it.”

He took the other bodies off our hands, too, so only
Pa was left and we drove to the undertaker’s. He gave me an
envelope to hold a lock of Pa’s hair. My dollar and fourteen cents
didn’t go far, and we still had to buy a harness, fetch my wagon,
and visit the widow woman to pick up the wagon Pa had won. Whether
it came with a harness, I didn’t know. Harnesses seemed in short
supply these days.

We picked up Zeb. His arm was bandaged and in a
sling.

“
I hope he’s better at pulling teeth than he
is at digging out bullets,” he mumbled as he climbed on the wagon.
“But I got us a job.”

“
What?”

“
Helping clean up. They need mules to right
the wagons and get them where they belong, and all the dead animals
have to be drug out to the pit some men are digging outside of
town. First thing, we have to pick up a fresno at the blacksmith’s
shop and help dig.”

“
Zeb, I do believe you inherited Pa’s gift of
gab.”

“
That’s a fact,” Hank muttered. I expect he’d
been the target of Zeb’s blarney for the past seven
years.

“
We get a cut rate at the livery, and free
meals.”

“
Even at a cut rate, we can’t afford the
livery. I spent my dollar and fourteen cents at the
undertaker’s.”

“
Don’t you worry about that,” my brother said.
“I told them we wouldn’t take any money, but if they have some
harnesses laying around, we could sure use them. They told me to
take a harness off the mules at the edge of town. Maybe we can find
something to sell or trade for the livery fee.”

Hank scowled. “Don’t you think it best we skedaddle
before they decide to lock us up?”

“
Nope,” I said. “Your time for running from
the law is over.”

We took the wagon back to Mary and Virgil, hooked
the new harness up to our wagon, and came back to town, ready to
work.

***

Hank and I sweated buckets the next two days –both
from the hard work and the hot sun. Zeb mostly supervised, what
with his broken arm and his strong kinship to Pa’s aversion to
work, but he sweated, too, especially when he saw a badge. By the
end of the job, they’d even stopped flinching every time they saw
Deputy Croy.

The Imperial Hotel put us up and provided free
baths, which we sorely needed. We ate fine meals at Ma’s Café and
met some nice folks. By the time the job was done, we’d made
friends that I’d always remember.

If I hadn’t promised Pa that I’d take him to the
Pacific Ocean, Wolf Creek would be a place to consider settling.
Not to be, though. I had a lock of Pa’s hair and we were headed
west.

The next morning, I hitched four mules to my wagon
with Hank’s help. It was nice not to do everything myself. The new
harness was a lot better quality than my old one, thanks to the
town citizens. Hank saddled his horse and Zeb’s, too. I thought he
might want to ride in the wagon what with his arm and all, but he
insisted he could mount up himself.

After we get set to leave, I asked Hank, “Got any
plans?”

“
Farming in Oregon sounds good.”

“
Zeb?”

“
Sounds good to me, too.”

“
Oregon’s on the Pacific Ocean so I’m all
right with that. Let’s get the wagon from the widow woman and head
out.”

Zeb cleared his throat. “We have to pick up a load
from the train first.”

I could tell by the way his cheek flinched that he’d
been up to his handiwork again. “What load?”

“
The one we’re taking to Kearney. It’s right
on the way, and for good pay.”

“
We could use the cash.”

“
I suppose I have to do all the loading,” Hank
grumbled.

An hour later, we drove west out of Wolf Creek and
then I pointed the mules north to hook up with the Oregon Trail. My
brother, my friend, my mules, and me.

We looked forward to a more peaceful time.

THE END

NEW BEGINNINGS

By

James J. Griffin

Ben Tolliver, his Stetson pulled low over
his eyes, was dozing in a tilted-back chair in front of his livery
stable. His pet paint, Cholla, was next to him, munching on hay.
Ben had unbuttoned his shirt, allowing the afternoon sun to warm
his chest and belly. Those warm rays sure felt good on his
still-healing stomach wound.

Ben stirred when Cholla gave a soft warning
nicker. He let the chair drop, shoved back his hat, and came to his
feet as two men approached. One of the pair was Sheriff G.W.
Satterlee.

“
Mornin’, Sheriff,” Ben
called.

“
Mornin’ yourself, Bill, I mean, Ben.”
Much of Wolf Creek, including the sheriff, still had not gotten
used to calling Ben by his correct name, rather than Bill Torrance,
the alias Ben had used when he rode into Wolf Creek. “I’d like you
to meet…”

“
Dave Benteen,” Ben finished, sticking
out his hand, which the gunsmith readily took. “Been quite some
time since I’ve seen you, Dave. What’ve you been up to?”

“
A little of this and that,” Benteen
said. “And a lot of travelin’. How about you, Ben?”

“
The same,” Ben answered. “Never
expected to see you in this town. Then again, I never expected to
be livin’ in Kansas either. Seems like pretty much everyone lands
in Wolf Creek sooner or later. You plannin’ on stayin’
long?”

Benteen shrugged. “
Quien sabe
?”

“
You two know each other?” Satterlee
questioned.

“
Sure do,” Ben answered. “Dave’s the
hombre who converted my Navies from cap and ball to .44 rimfire
cartridge some time back. As you saw when the Danby gang ambushed
us, that certainly makes for faster firin’. Saved my bacon more’n
once. Either of you want some coffee? I just made a fresh
pot.”

“
Not right now, thanks,” Satterlee
said. “I came by to ask if you’d reconsider my offer to become one
of my deputies. You’d still be able to run your livery, and I’m
certain the extra cash would come in handy. Ben, you’re a natural
for law enforcement. Don’t tell me you haven’t missed it since you
left the Rangers.”

“
G.W., like I told you before, I
appreciate the offer, but I just don’t want anything more than my
horses. Been burned too many times in the past.”

Satterlee started to press the matter
further, then let it drop. Clearly, whatever had driven Tolliver
out of law work was something he didn’t want to discuss, at least
not yet. Satterlee looked at Tolliver’s open shirt and changed the
subject. He chuckled.

“
Ben, too bad you don’t want to become
a deputy. That way when Edith Pettigrew files a complaint about you
goin’ around town half-naked, you could investigate it yourself and
tell her you found no law about not wearin’ a shirt in public in
Wolf Creek.”

Ben returned the sheriff’s chuckle with one
of his own.

“
Figured Mrs. Pettigrew was tryin’ to
stir things up again. She came by here earlier with a gaggle of her
church ladies.”

“
Ah, yes, the Wolf Creek Christian
Ladies Quilting and Sewing Society,” Satterlee said, with a
sigh.

“
Edith Pettigrew?” Benteen broke
in.

“
Edith Pettigrew, widow of Seth
Pettigrew, one of the founders of Wolf Creek, and the town
busybody, which is a polite way of sayin’ she’s a real pain in the
butt,” Satterlee explained. “Always findin’ something to make a
fuss about. Lately she’s made it her business to complain every
time she spots Ben not wearin’ a shirt. Truthfully, I wonder
whether she really enjoys seein’ Ben shirtless.”

“
Yep, but I think she was disappointed
today, G.W.,” Ben said. “Had my shirt on and buttoned up tight when
she and the rest of those squawking magpies showed up.”

“
So that’s why she hasn’t been by my
office yet. Mebbe she went to see Marshal Gardner instead, or with
luck won’t bother either one of us, since she really doesn’t have
anything on you, this time.”

“
You didn’t let me finish,” Ben said.
“Mrs. Pettigrew told me she had brought her friends along so they
could see for themselves me paradin’ on the streets half-naked.
Said they intended to look into the matter. So, I told her if they
wanted to look into the matter I’d oblige ‘em. Pulled off my shirt
and tossed it on the fence right in front of those women, then
stood there like a Greek statue. You should’ve seen the looks on
their faces. They ran off cacklin’ like a bunch of wet
hens.”

“
Oh, Lord, no,” Satterlee said, with a
groan. “Ben, you didn’t.”

“
I sure enough did,” Ben
answered.

“
That means Mrs. Pettigrew is either
searchin’ for me, or is in my office waitin’ for my return,”
Satterlee said. “Reckon I might as well get back there and let her
get her tirade over with.”

“
Sorry if I caused you more trouble,
G.W.,” Ben said.

“
It don’t matter,” Satterlee answered.
“If it wasn’t you, Edith Pettigrew would find somethin’ else to
bother me with. Meantime, don’t forget that deputy’s job is open
any time you want it.”

“
If I ever change my mind, you’ll be
the first to know,” Ben said. “Dave, good seein’ you again. Stop by
first chance you get. We can catch up on old times.”

“
I’ll do just that,” Benteen promised.
“Sheriff, if you don’t mind my taggin’ along a bit more, I’d kinda
like to meet this Edith Pettigrew.”

“
It’s your funeral,” Satterlee
said.

***

Cholla had disappeared into the barn while
Ben talked with Satterlee and Benteen. Now he reappeared, his
bridle, which he’d lifted from its peg, clamped in his teeth. He
trotted up to Ben and tossed his head.

“
You want to go for a ride, eh, pal?”
Ben asked, as he took the bridle from Cholla. “Reckon that’s not a
bad idea. Work’s all done until feedin’ time anyhow.”

Ben flipped the wooden sign on the big
sliding door from “Open” to “Closed”, took a piece of chalk from
his shirt pocket and scrawled “Back after 4” under that, then,
buttoning his shirt and tucking it in, headed inside the stable,
Cholla at his heels. It only took a few minutes for him to put some
jerky in his saddlebags, toss the saddle on the big paint’s back,
slide the headstall over his ears and the bit into his mouth, and
mount. Ten minutes later, the last buildings of Wolf Creek faded
from sight.

Ben rode due west for several miles, letting
Cholla choose his own pace, then turned northwest. He rode another
mile, then turned his horse into the brush, following a barely
discernible antelope trail. He kept on that trail for some
distance, until he reached a jumble of boulders, most of which were
horse-height and above. He weaved his way through those, the gaps
getting ever narrower. The sure-footed Cholla, knowing their
destination, never snorted a protest, just moved slowly but
steadily onward, until they came to a sheer rock ledge, which rose
at least seventy five feet straight up. The trail, what was left of
it, turned left along the ledge’s base. For three hundred yards,
the trail ran along a knife-edged ridge top. To the right and left
of the trail the ground dropped abruptly, a plunge of one hundred
feet or more, until it returned to the base of the ledge on its
right. To all appearances, there was no way over or around that
ledge for a man on foot, let alone horseback, but Cholla turned
sideways and sidled along the rocks, left hooves partially off the
trail, until he came to a crack in the ledge. He walked half the
length of his body, then stopped. Ben dismounted from the right and
stepped into the defile. Cholla backed up and followed Ben. Man and
horse squeezed their way through that narrow crack for two hundred
yards, until it opened onto a small, steep-sided valley, surrounded
on all sides by unscalable cliffs. Except for a little area
directly below where Ben stood, the valley was filled by a deep,
clear blue lake. Ben had discovered this geologic fluke of nature,
which he’d named Blue Hole after the lake’s color, his first time
on the way to Wolf Creek. He had spied a roving band of Kiowa
warriors before they managed to spot him. Traveling unarmed as
usual, Ben’s only hope for survival was to melt into the brush and
find a hiding spot before being discovered. When he squeezed
himself and his horse into that crevice, he’d never expected it to
open onto this hidden little paradise. Bill doubted that anyone but
himself, white or Indian, knew of its existence. There was
certainly no sign any other human had ever trod here.

“
We made it again, pard,” Ben said to
Cholla, tweaking his ears. “Neither of us better put on any pounds,
though, or we’ll never fit through that crack.” He climbed back
into the saddle and sent Cholla down the slope, the horse sliding
most of the way on his haunches until they reached the
bottom.

Ben dismounted and stripped the gear from
Cholla, then peeled off his clothes. He pulled himself onto the
paint’s back and heeled Cholla into the cold, clear water. An eager
swimmer, Cholla stuck his nose in the lake up to his eyes, blowing
bubbles, then started pawing at the water before plunging in. Ben
grabbed his horse’s thick mane, wrapped his arms around Cholla’s
neck, and leaned low over the horse’s withers as they struck out
for the opposite shore, only Cholla’s ears, eyes, and nostrils, and
Ben’s head and neck, visible above the surface. They made several
trips across the lake and back before Cholla emerged from the water
and shook himself vigorously, sending water droplets flying in all
directions.