by Edward Gates
“Turlock will get what’s coming to him in due time. You’d better be careful. I think Turlock already proved that he’s nobody to mess with, Mac. And I certainly can’t afford to lose you now,” Abe said.
“I owe him, Mr. Walker,” Mac said firmly. “He’s mine as soon as our business is done.”
He shot Abe a look and gave a quick nod that told his boss he was done talking. With that he lightly kicked his horse and took off at a quick trot, leaving Abe Walker in his dust.
Abe pulled his bandana back over his nose and mouth and turned his palomino to the left, heading to the other side of the herd. He looked to the west and watched the sun on its descent toward the top of the distant mountains. Time was getting on, but they still had a few more hours of daylight. Abe was pleased that they had made such good time getting to this point.
He pushed his crew hard and they responded. They would head for a watering hole a little northwest of where they were, just alongside the grass valley north of Amarillo. Abe caught up to the flank rider and, over the noise of the herd, hollered an order.
“Turn ’em up! Turn ’em up!” He began swirling his hand in a circle above his head and pointed to a ridge off to the north.
The rider gave an understanding nod. He then took off at a gallop and headed for the front of the herd, relaying his boss’s commands to the other riders as he passed them. In a few moments, with the crew of cowboys chanting and whistling, the single mass of thousands of longhorn cows made a slow guided turn to the left and headed up the rise toward a fresh water lake just on the other side of the crest. The lake was fed by a stream north of Amarillo, the same stream that had replenished Charlie and Russell on their way back to Charlie’s cabin.
As the herd neared the top of the ridge the lead cows smelled the scent of the water. That was all they needed to get there on their own. Abe galloped to the top of the ridge and stopped to watch as the cattle slowly moved up the ridge as a single unit. It was poetry to him. He never got tired of seeing that sight. With no one around him, he sat back in his saddle, pulled his bandana down to his neck, and smiled.
Abe looked off to his right, and stared at the horizon to the south-east. His brief smile quickly turned into a frown. Just a short ride out in that direction was Amarillo. He was not looking forward to venturing into that town. He fought the urge to bypass the town completely and continue on to Dodge. But Abe knew his crew hadn’t seen a glass of whiskey or a pretty girl for months. He knew they were all itching to get into town and bust loose. He hoped his words to Mac would hit home. But he also knew some of these roughnecks would do whatever they wanted regardless of the consequences. He was not looking forward to dealing with any problems. He didn’t have the time or the inclination.
Abe and Mac hadn’t set foot in Amarillo in more than three years; not since the killing. Now, this town had a new mayor and a new council. If there was trouble, it wouldn’t be easy to bribe them over to his way of thinking, as he did before.
Even if he could, there was Marshall Cook, and he wouldn’t back down a second time. And, of course, there was Mac. Eventually he and Ranger Turlock were going to cross paths with each other. As much as he didn’t want that meeting to happen, he knew he couldn’t prevent it.
Maybe it was his age. Maybe it was his health. Whatever it was, he had a bad feeling about this trip to Amarillo. He was not looking forward to the next few days. His mind and probably Mac’s too, was already set in what had to be done. Charlie Turlock had to pay for what he did. The inevitable confrontations were in the wind. He just hoped he was still around to pick up the pieces after it was all over.
As he sat on the ridge staring at the southeastern horizon, he lowered his head and turned back to watch the herd move over the crest of the rise in search of water. The lead cows were on a quick march to the edge of the lake. As always, the rest of the herd followed the lead cows wherever they went, and his smile returned. He pushed the thoughts of Charlie and Amarillo out of his head and enjoyed the sights of his cows. He relished in the thoughts of all that he built; this herd, the fortune he amassed, and empire he built. All for his son; his only son gunned down by a lawman. Goddamn that Turlock!
8
New Clothes
Russell sat outside on the ground, leaning against the front wall of Charlie’s cabin. He sat staring at the stream that flowed along the bottom of the hill, amazed at how clean and pristine the water appeared. In his time there were very few streams left at all. The ones still there ran in various colors depending on what polluted soil they flowed through.
He’d heard about streams like this in his history studies but never thought he’d be fortunate enough to actually see, smell and taste one. He breathed in deeply through his nose and savored the scent of the trees and the land around him. No pollutants, he thought, just the clean, crisp air. However, he did notice the faint sour aroma from the stockyards some miles away, but it was not distracting. He had to remember this so he could explain it to everyone when he got back, if he ever got back.
Russell looked around the grounds outside the cabin. With only one shoe on, he couldn’t stray very far. Walking was a chore. He had already stepped on sharp sticks and stones with his sock-covered foot.
Charlie walked alongside Gus as they approached the cabin and saw Russell limp around the grounds.
“Don’t wander too far,” Charlie said. Russell jumped at the sound of Charlie’s voice.
“Charlie! Where have you been?” Russell demanded. “You shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that.” He took a few quick steps toward Charlie and stepped on another stick with his shoeless foot. “Damn!” he hollered. “Where’s my shoe, Charlie?”
“Come on. Hurry up. I got some boots for you,” Charlie said.
“What? I don’t want any boots. I want my gym shoe back,” Russell protested.
Charlie went to Gus’s coral and grabbed the water bucket. He handed it to Russell along with his other shoe.
“Fill it with water and bring it over to that old tree stump there.” Charlie pointed to the stump of a long ago felled tree. Russell slipped on his other gym shoe and headed down to the stream for water.
Charlie dumped the contents of his saddle bags on the ground by the stump. The stench from the clothes had subsided a bit, but it was still quite overpowering. He went inside, started a fire in the stove, filled the coffee pot with water and set it on the burner plate on top of the stove. He removed a well-used soap cake, a tin of saddle soap, and an old rag from the washstand and set them on the table. Charlie went back outside and waited for Russell.
“My God! What is that smell?” Russell asked, as he returned with the water.
“Take that pile of clothes and dump them in the bucket and make sure they all stay under the water. That’ll cut the smell for a while until the water gets hot enough to wash them.”
“Wash them?” Russell asked.
Charlie brought out the water bucket from inside the house. When the water in the coffee pot was hot, he added it to the half-filled bucket.
“Take those clothes out of the cold water and put them in this hot water bath. When they’re good and soaked, you can start rubbing them down with that soap bar.” Charlie pointed to the small soap cake on the table.
“Are these your clothes?” Russell asked.
“Nope,” Charlie said, without looking up. He soaked the rag he had pulled from the washstand and went back inside without saying another word. Charlie sat down on the stool with the saddle soap and began cleaning the boots he had just brought home.
The boots were worn, but still in good shape. By the wear shown on the inside heels and ankles, Charlie surmised that the boots were worn by a cowboy, or someone who spent a lot of time on horseback.
When he finished cleaning one boot he set it on the table. Real nice, he thought, and began cleaning the other boot. He watched Russell outside push the clothes back down in the bucket.
“The more often you push them down in the water, th
e cleaner they’ll get.”
“You want me to wash your clothes?” Russell asked indignantly.
“Not my clothes,” Charlie answered. After a pause he added, “They’re your clothes.”
Russell stared at Charlie with a look of disbelief.
“There is no way in hell I’m wearing these … these things!”
Charlie put down the boot he was scrubbing and raised his eyes to meet Russell’s.
“Look, boy!” Charlie spoke slowly, trying to control his temper. “I don’t know what you’re doing here. And frankly, I really don’t care anymore. But you are here right now and that’s not going to change anytime soon. So you’d better get used to it.”
The two stared at each other for a while in silence. Charlie could see Russell’s brow furrowed with defiance. Charlie’s resolve stiffened and he rose and stepped toward Russell.
“If there’s one thing I know,” he continued, “it’s that you can’t go around these parts dressed like you are. The last thing you want to do is draw attention to yourself. If you don’t want to wear these things then I’ll just take you back out to the river and leave you there to fend for yourself. You savvy?”
Russell stood in the doorway staring back at Charlie and by the look on his face it was plain to see that he knew Charlie’s words rang true. Charlie waited for a reply, but Russell didn’t say a single thing.
“And that’s the most explaining I ever did to anyone in twenty years!” Charlie went back to working on the boot. Russell grabbed the bar of soap, walked out of the cabin, and scrubbed each garment.
Charlie finished rubbing down the boots getting them fairly clean. They were still pretty worn, but he thought it was probably better they looked that way.
“How many times do I wash these things?” Russell asked.
“Till they don’t smell no more,” Charlie answered. “Then you dump them in that other bucket of cold water and rinse them out the same way until the water runs clear.”
Russell stood holding a crumpled, dripping, white shirt. In disgust he threw the shirt back into the bucket and the water splashed up and soaked the clothes he was wearing. Charlie chuckled and turned away.
As Russell worked on scrubbing his new clothes, Charlie opened the old trunk at the foot of his bed. He pulled out an old, well-worn hat he had used only a few years before and set it on the bed. He knew Russell would not fit into any of his old clothes, except for maybe a vest he had. A nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .32 revolver sat on top of a stack of neatly folded old clothes in the trunk. Charlie slid the pistol into his belt along his back.
The old leather vest with rawhide fringes along the bottom was still in pretty good shape. Some of the fringes were missing and there was a small tear near the left pocket. Other than that, it was wearable. He hung the vest over the back of the chair and nodded approvingly. That should fit the boy.
Charlie turned back to the trunk and was about to close the lid when he paused. It had been a long time since he had gone through this vault of his past. A few newspapers containing stories of Ranger exploits where he had been involved, some small gifts that he received during exchanges with the local Indian tribes. All fond memories from his life in the nineteenth century that no one else would ever see. He didn’t even know why he kept them. Some sentimental attachment, he guessed.
Then Charlie noticed the canvas bag at the bottom of the trunk. He had kept that bag locked up in the trunk for these past thirty years. The memory of his escape as a youth flashed back in his mind like a lightning bolt in a dark sky. The bag contained his past and it wasn’t pleasant. He reached to pick up the bag but then changed his mind. Its fine where it is. He didn’t need to hold it to have those memories come back, and he was not sure he wanted them back.
He felt guilty about running away when he was young. He always planned to go back, but could never muster up the nerve to do so. Charlie sat down on the side of the bed overwhelmed with emotion as the haunting picture ran through his mind of the night a man died on his watch. He questioned if all this really turned out the way he thought it would.
“You all right?” Russell asked.
The question snapped Charlie back to reality. He hadn’t noticed that Russell had re-entered the cabin and was watching him from the table.
He pushed the lid of the trunk shut, and tossed the dirty old hat to Russell.
“See if this will fit that head of yours.”
The hat was a little tight, but Russell said it would work fine.
Charlie stood and nodded his approval at Russell. “When those clothes are dry, we’ll head to town to get some food and supplies.”
Russell’s eyes beamed. The excitement of going to see the old west town of Amarillo was plain to see. Then a sense of dread shot through Charlie’s innards like an arrow. He couldn’t see anything positive coming from a trip to town with this time traveler. Something was bound to go wrong.
9
Amarillo
Russell again felt the clothes he’d washed earlier and hung to dry over a rail fence around Gus’s corral. They weren’t completely dry, yet, but he put them on anyway. He just couldn’t wait to see Amarillo in 1892. The pants were a little big in the waist, but an old pair of Charlie’s suspenders kept them from falling off. The length, on the other hand, was a good fit. The white cotton shirt was tight across his chest and neck and he couldn’t button the collar button. The sleeves were way too short, so he rolled them up to just below the elbow. Charlie’s old vest fit fine, but it was heavy and made his damp clothes feel even wetter. Russell chose to carry it until his shirt dried completely.
“I feel like an idiot in these things,” Russell said.
Charlie smiled and set his old hat on Russell’s head. “You’ll do,” he said. “Walk slowly in them boots. It’ll take a little while for you to get used to them. I don‘t want you stumbling all over. Then you would look like a fool.”
Russell stood in the doorway and watched Charlie turn the corner toward Gus’s stall. As Charlie instructed, he cautiously took a step to follow Charlie around the outside of the cabin and felt his foot slip a little inside the boot. There was no arch support. It appeared to him that either boot would fit either foot. There was no left or right boot, just two of the same.
Russell braced himself along the wall of the cabin as he gingerly walked around in the boots. As Charlie said, this was going to take some time to get used to.
Charlie rode up alongside Russell atop Gus, removed his foot from the stirrup, and offered his hand. “Grab hold and climb on. Time for us to get some chow.”
Russell stepped up on the stirrup and swung himself onto Gus’s back behind the saddle. Charlie clicked his tongue and Gus started off at a slow walk down the path toward Amarillo.
It was around noon when they left the cabin and the sun was straight up in the sky. As they left the shade of the trees, Russell could feel the sun drying his clothes. It was a welcomed heat.
“When we get into town, we’ll be doing a lot of walking. I want you to keep your mouth shut when we get around people,” Charlie ordered.
“What for?”
“You have to stay as unnoticed as possible. If people ask, I’ll tell them you’re a friend from back East, and that you stopped for a visit on your way to California. I want you to play as dumb as possible. It should be easy for you. Just don’t open your mouth if you don’t have to.”
“What am I going to California for?” Russell asked.
“I don’t know, boy! Figure something out yourself.”
The ride to Amarillo was only a few miles. Russell kept looking around at everything. He seemed to be having trouble containing his excitement. Charlie looked to the west at a huge dust cloud rising off the prairie. “Abe’s here already,” he said, not meaning it for anyone’s ears. He knew where Abe was heading. He knew that by this evening the grass valley northwest of town would be covered with Abe’s cattle. It all starts tonight.
They rode into town from
the northeast but the remnants of the original Oneida settlement to the west, by the Amarillo River, were in plain sight. People and businesses were still in the process of moving to the current site of Amarillo, about a mile in from the river on higher ground. Although somewhat faded, some of the houses were covered in yellow paint from the celebration of when Amarillo was awarded the county seat a few years earlier.
By the time they got to the outskirts of Amarillo, Russell put on Charlie’s vest and his old-west ensemble was now complete. In town, Charlie put Gus in the livery stable and exchanged pleasantries and small talk with Tuck Cornelius, the proprietor. Gus was going to get new shoes by the local blacksmith, and then groomed by Tuck personally. He’d be well cared for and well fed today. A pampering he more than deserved.
As the two walked down the raised wooden sidewalk into town, Russell watched the people making their way about. Fascinated with the clothing that everyone wore, he looked at his own clothes and was satisfied with Charlie’s selection. He realized that Charlie was right in his assessment. Russell blended in with the masses.
Russell read every sign as he passed the various businesses that lined the street. Some buildings, like some of the homes, were covered in a faded yellow paint. Others were ornately whitewashed with green or red trim. Yet, some were just unpainted weathered wood.
Russell kept checking his gait, trying to take measured steps so as not to stumble. He was still getting used to wearing those ill-fitting boots. “Where are we going?”
Charlie didn’t answer. They walked past the White & Tipton Hardware store and Russell had to stop and look. He was fascinated with the tools, and the bags of seeds and feed, and household items on display in the windows and out on the sidewalk. He wanted to go inside the store but Charlie kept walking. They passed by Taylor’s saloon and another mercantile store. Charlie stopped and opened a non-descript door and the two walked into City Marshal Cook’s office.