by Edward Gates
He thought about Charlie. He smiled thinking about Charlie. What a character he was. His anxiety began to abate. What did he say when they first met? “I know about you.” Russell wondered what good ol’ Charlie meant by that.
Russell pulled his tired, sore body out of the bed and stretched his back. His entire body ached from the uncomfortable trip to the cabin from the Canadian River. Sleeping on that bed didn’t help at all. How these people survived day after day in these conditions was a wonder to him. What a horrible bed, he thought. He slept better on the ground of the prairie the night before. He pulled open the shutter and let in the daylight. He picked up one of his shoes from next to the bed and slipped it on but didn’t see the other shoe. It must have been kicked under the bed. He reached under the bed, but couldn’t feel it. He got down on his hands and knees and looked, but it wasn’t there. He stood and looked around the cabin, but it was gone. He scratched his head in thought. Where the hell is my other shoe?
Charlie sat atop his grey gelding in the early morning shadows of the livery stable watching the townspeople coming and going through the different establishments. There were too many people around to take a chance on being recognized. Mornings were the busiest times in Amarillo. People came to town early to get their business done before the heat of day made it too uncomfortable.
Amarillo had a central street, named Polk Street that ran perpendicular to the rail tracks and featured a row of businesses along both sides of the dirt thoroughfare. A few cross streets intersected this central street and led to residential areas around the town. Amarillo was not a very large city in 1892. Its population was only around 600 people, and a good number of them still lived about a mile away in the original settlement which had become known as Old Town.
On the west side of town, along the railroad tracks running around Wild Horse Lake, was nothing but stock yards and corrals. They stretched all the way around Old Town and all along the rail line as it turned north.
Livestock was the main commerce in Amarillo. The brokers dealt in all kinds of livestock, but mostly cattle. Herds from all around the south and the west came through Amarillo to be shipped by rail. It was the best place to ship livestock to all parts of the country.
There was virtually no breeze this morning, so dust from the stockyards hung thick in the air. The sun filtering though these dust particles turned the air a golden yellow and cast a bronze hue over the entire town. With no breeze, the stench from the stockyards was almost choking.
Charlie knew that as soon as he was spotted in town, Captain Bill McDonald would find some task to assign to him. He didn’t have time for that right now. Charlie maneuvered Gus out of sight behind the livery barn. He wanted to get his business done and get back to his cabin before anyone knew he had returned from Cañon City.
Charlie walked Gus along the back streets of Amarillo trying to be as inconspicuous as he could. He kept thinking how he would have been better off leaving the time traveler out there on the prairie. Let him fend for himself. Maybe Russell was right. Maybe they would have found him there and brought him back to where he belongs. Maybe he’d never be found. Maybe Russell was stuck here with Charlie in 1892. He shook his head at this notion. He couldn’t think about that now. He had enough to worry about without this new set of problems. He hadn’t counted on Russell to deal with.
Charlie walked Gus across the rails and turned west toward the stock pens. Right before the pens was a small row of three buildings. The building on the west end of this row was the office of livestock broker J.J. Billingsly. The office in the middle was a telegraph office, and the building on the east end of this row was Doc Morgan’s home and office.
Nobody was sure whether Walter Morgan was a real doctor or not. He came to the Old Town settlement about four years earlier and set up shop as an undertaker. Since they didn’t have a doctor at the time, people started coming to see him with their ailments and injuries. They figured he had to know something about the body if he was an undertaker. He patched them up as best he could. Things worked out pretty well for him and his patients, so pretty soon everybody started calling him ‘Doc’. He had the best of both worlds. If his treatments didn’t work out for his patients, he would eventually bury them. Two years ago, a Doctor Cornelius, Tuck Cornelius’s father, set up a practice. However, some people still came to see “Doc” Morgan. Charlie was one of them.
Charlie pulled Gus around the back of Doc’s office and tied him to a rail alongside the building. The doctor was out back working. Doc Morgan was a short, thin man somewhere in his forties with close-cropped black hair. He didn’t have a family. Rumor had it that he left a betrothed on a farm in Indiana and headed west, never looking back.
Doc was wearing his signature black trousers, white shirt, with no collar, and had the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. He also sported an unbuttoned black vest. The man owned a black fedora hat that he kept in his office, but Charlie could never remember seeing him wear it.
He was sawing wood planks to construct lids for two freshly made coffins leaning up against the back wall of his office.
“You had a bad week, Doc? Or you expecting some kind of trouble?” Charlie quipped. His question obviously startled the doctor who jumped. He dropped the saw and turned around.
“Damn it, Charlie! You shouldn’t sneak up on a fella like that.” Morgan put his hand on his chest, stepped away from the wood planks as he appeared to try and gather his composure. “Damn near scared me to death!”
“Sorry, Doc. I wasn’t meanin’ to rattle ya’,” Charlie walked over and shook the doc’s hand.
“You just get back?” Doc Morgan picked up his saw and put it on top of the plank he was cutting.
“Got back last night and went straight to the cabin. So, why the
coffins?”
“No reason,” the doctor said. “Just bored. Been too damn quiet around here. Nobody’s sick and nobody’s dying. I just needed to do something.” After a minute he asked “So what brings you here? You feeling all right?”
“Oh yeah, yeah. I’m fine, just fine,” Charlie answered quickly.
There was an awkward moment of silence. Doc Morgan was waiting for Charlie to say what was on his mind. Charlie didn’t know exactly how to ask. He had practiced his speech all the way into town from his cabin, but now it all went away.
“Well, Charlie, What is it? ‘Cuz I got to finish these lids,” the doctor finally said.
“I got this friend,” Charlie began. “He came to visit me last night at the cabin. And uh, he … he comes from a far way off. Ya’ see?” There was another pause. Doc Morgan looked a little queer at Charlie, but Charlie continued. “Anyway, he’s got these clothes that don’t really fit in out here in these parts.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t fit in’?” the doctor asked.
“Well, Doc. They just ain’t right. They don’t fit the boy right. He’s kind of a shave tail and … well, they just ain’t right for this part of the country.”
“Well what the hell do you want me to do about it? I ain’t no tailor, here.”
“I know. I know,” Charlie said. This was a lot harder conversation than he had imagined. He was still searching for the right words; saying what came to mind next.
“Well, doc, I was just wondering … if maybe you … uh, well, maybe you still had some clothes from some of your clients that didn’t go home and maybe didn’t need them clothes no more.”
Doc Morgan gave a little laugh. “How big is this fella?” he asked.
“Well, he’s a thin boy, but a couple inches taller than me.”
“Why don’t you take him down to the mercantile and get him something new?” the doctor suggested.
“Well, Doc. The kid sticks out like a bruise as it is. I don’t want him wearing nothing new. You got something in there or not?”
“Take it easy, Charlie,” Morgan said. “There’s a few old clothes in a bag on the shelf in the back room. They’re pretty ripe, though. You’ll have
to do something to ‘em before he can wear them.”
“Thanks, Doc. I owe ya’,” Charlie replied.
Charlie opened his saddle bag and pulled out Russell’s shoe. He started heading to the back door of Doc Morgan’s place when the undertaker noticed the shoe.
“What the hell is that, Charlie?” Morgan asked.
“Can you believe this? It’s one of his shoes!”
Doc Morgan walked over and took the shoe from Charlie’s hand. He was staring at it apparently in awe.
“Well I never,” the doctor said. “I’ve never seen anything like this. What kinda hide is this? That’s the softest thing I ever felt … and light as a damn feather. Where’d you say this friend of yours is from?”
“I didn’t say. And I ain’t rightly sure. I think it’s some other country or something,” Charlie said. “He tried to explain it to me last night, but I didn’t understand it.”
Charlie took the shoe back from the doctor and went inside the building.
Doc Morgan’s back room was used as an embalming room, operating room, examining room, and storage room. A large stained wooden table was in the middle of the room and a smaller table took up half of one side wall. That table had a couple of fancy wooden boxes on it that Charlie knew held the doc’s instruments. On the bottom shelf was the black canvas bag that Doc Morgan referred to. Under a shelf next to the bag, were a few pairs of boots and a couple of old shoes. That’s what he was looking for. Pulling the bag off the shelf, he dropped it on the table in the center of the room. He picked up two pairs of boots and set them on the table next to Russell’s shoe and selected the pair that was closest to the size of the shoe.
Charlie untied the rope that had the bag somewhat sealed and pulled the bag open. The disgusting odor of old dirt, rotting bodily fluids, decaying tissue, and death immediately filled the room. Charlie coughed and gagged and pulled away from the bag of clothes, trying to catch a breath of fresh air. He was going to need a minute or so to get used to that smell before he went back into the bag.
“I told you they was ripe,” the doctor said as he stepped into the room from outside.
“By God you weren’t lying.” Charlie coughed again. “That’s the foulest thing I think I ever smelled in my life. What do you keep these things for, anyway?”
“Well, mostly I just forget they’re there. When I finally get around to cleaning up this stuff, I usually just burn them. Sometimes, if they ain’t in too bad a shape, I’ll send them over to the Chinaman and clean them up and give ’em away to some folks that could use them.”
Charlie shook his head and pulled the bag off the table and took it outside into the open air. He dumped the bag out onto the ground and started separating them. All of the clothes were pretty old. Some were torn up so bad they weren’t able to be worn. There were a few woman’s clothes, but mostly men’s. All had some kind of stains on them from blood, dirt, and who knows what other bodily fluids. He picked out a pair of pants that he thought might fit the time-jumper and a couple of shirts that were not too badly ripped up or stained.
“You want these others back in the bag?” Charlie asked.
“Nah. Just leave ’em there. I’ll go through it now,” The doc said. “It’ll give me something else to do today.”
Charlie rolled the pants and shirts up and stuffed them into one side of his saddle bags. He went back in and grabbed the boots and Russell’s shoe and stuffed them in the other side of the saddle bags. He shook hands with the doctor and got Morgan’s assurance that he would keep this just between the two of them. He mounted Gus and took off to the north to get as far away from town as he could. He was going to make a wide swing east away from town to get back to his cabin. He had to figure a way of getting these clothes cleaned up and on Russell before anyone found out that he was here.
Russell had looked everywhere for his other gym shoe. He was getting frustrated. He sat on the stool with one shoe on, racking his brain. Charlie, he finally thought. Charlie had to have taken it. He jumped up from the stool and pushed the door open.
“Charlie?” he hollered as he turned the corner of the cabin and headed for Gus’s stall.
“Where’s my shoe!?” he demanded. He stopped when he noticed that Charlie and Gus were gone. Now what!
7
Abe Walker
Driving three thousand head of cattle north from the Pecos valley is a long, hard, dirty endeavor. For Abe Walker, who was now in his sixties, this trip was particularly rough. In his prime, Abraham Silas Walker was a towering figure with rust-red hair and a fiery temper. He stood well over six feet tall with massive shoulders, a barrel chest, and large strong arms. Just his physical presence intimidated those around him.
Now, Abe was a sickly old man; a mere shadow of his youth. His massive shoulders and torso had all but disappeared, and his shoulder-length hair was thinner and mostly silver highlighted with wisps of reddish-brown streaks. His eyesight had become clouded and distorted, and his demeanor had gotten worse, if that was possible. The death of his only son and heir a few years ago only made the anger and resentment grow stronger and deeper within him. He vowed revenge for the murder of his son and that’s all he’s been able to think about since he started this drive. He means to see that promise carried out before he dies.
The herd was a day outside of Amarillo. Abe sat astride a large palomino that stood sixteen hands and rode alone alongside the massive herd with a red bandana covering his nose and mouth to protect from the dust. Being so close to Amarillo brought to mind his vendetta with Charlie Turlock. The last time he was in Amarillo, Charlie was nowhere to be found. This time he was counting on settling a long overdue score with the Ranger.
Mac Sherman, Abe’s ranch manager and foreman, galloped forward to ride alongside his boss. Mac was Abe’s right hand man and Abe counted on him for everything. He made sure Abe’s ranch ran like a well-oiled machine. He was also a problem solver; any problem at all. Mac had a way of making trouble vanish.
“Pretty soon we’ll be outside Amarillo, Mr. Walker,” Mac said. “You want to graze them here or push ’em north of town?”
Abe lowered his bandana. “Naw, keep ’em rolling. We’ll bed them in that grass valley just north of town for a few days. That should fatten them up before we corral them.” Abe pulled on the reins of his palomino. As if they were joined together, Mac reined in his horse as well.
Sherman was a hard man who came west from Missouri. Rumor had it that, in his youth, he rode with Captain Bill Quantrill during the war. When things got too hot for Quantrill’s Raiders he headed west trying to escape his reputation and any wanted posters that might be out on him. Abe Walker met him in a saloon in Tucson. Mac was involved in a ruckus in a bar and seemed to handle it with a very cool poise and confidence. That impressed Abe, and he hired him on the spot. Mac quickly became the man Abe counted on in a fix. It wasn’t long before Mac became foreman and then ranch manager.
Abe looked at the scar that ran across Mac’s forehead. It was impossible not to notice it. The anger that was already festering in him rose like molten lava as he remembered the day Mac got that scar, courtesy of a slug from Charlie Turlock’s revolver. It was the same day Charlie shot and killed Jeremiah. He knew the memory was as fresh in Mac’s mind as it was in his. Abe had seen the pain and anger in Mac’s face every time Mac saw his reflection in a mirror or in the gawks of someone’s stare. Like himself, he was sure that Mac was aiming to even the score with Ranger Charlie Turlock.
“I don’t want any trouble in Amarillo, Mac, and I mean it. At least not until we unload this herd. No trouble of any kind.” Abe gave his foreman a slight nod to put a final emphasis on his last remark. Abe wanted to make sure he understood. Mac nodded his understanding. Abe touched his spurs to the side of the palomino and started off at a walk. Mac followed alongside.
“The trouble we had a few years back will still be on people’s minds. That marshal will be looking for any reason to pester us,” Abe continued. “Any reason
at all. He’s a tough man and I made him look bad the last time we were here.” Abe paused. “He won’t forget that. He’ll be ready for us this time. The last thing I want here is a war before I get these cows sold.”
“You want me to go in and … uh … talk to him?” Mac asked.
Walker snickered under his breath. Abe knew Mac’s way of “talking” to people was pretty one-sided. And if the conversation went on a little too long, someone got hurt; and it was never Mac. Mac Sherman was a dead shot with a killer instinct. He entered any fracas with a calm head, which made him even more deadly. Mac learned early on that the first person to lose his composure was the first person to lose the battle. He always came out on top.
“No, best to leave him be, at least for now,” Walker replied. “Just tell the men. I can’t afford to lose anyone on this drive at this point. I need every one of them, especially now that we’re so close.” Abe pointed his finger at Mac and frowned. “If I have to come get any of them, they’re gonna wish I hadn’t. You tell ‘em that, Mac.”
“Yes sir,” Mac said reluctantly. Mac was as true to Abe as a person could be. But he also looked after his men. Walker was well aware that these men worked long and hard to bring the herd this far and they deserved to have some fun in town and relax. He knew Mac would have a hard time delivering his message to the men.
Abe always backed his hands no matter what. He and Mac never let anything get in the way of his boys cutting loose. Whatever trouble they caused, Mac would always take care of it later. But this time was different. Abe had to get his business done first. Later he would tell Mac exactly why.
“What about the ranger?” Mac asked after a short pause.
The last time they were in Amarillo, Mac spent the better part of his time trying to find Charlie. Just by coincidence, Charlie happened to be out of town at that time, running prisoners to Cañon City.