by Darrel Bird
from, boy?” the tall man asked, after he had chewed a while on the jerky.
The short man scratched his beard and eyed the Hawkins leaning three or four feet away against a tree.
“The other side of Louisville, about 30 miles,” John answered.
He was growing more and more uneasy, and he sensed the men were up to no-good. The short man continued to take in everything about the camp. His hand was nervously hovering near the pig sticker in his belt. The tall man tried to put on an amicable demeanor, but it only put John even more on edge.
The short man didn’t try to hide his hostility. He jumped up and pulled the skinning knife out of its sheath.
“Enough of this, Clyde. Let’s get the horse and get on.” Now he was glaring.
The fake amiable look left the tall man, and he jerked to his feet, fumbling with a derringer.
John grabbed a log of firewood with an iron grasp, and he came up swinging it with all his might. He hit the short man upside the noggin, and laid him out cold. He leaped on the tall one and rode him to the ground. He managed to get his legs clamped around Clyde’s head, and he yanked it twice. Clyde’s tongue was protruding from his mouth as John squeezed his legs tighter around the skinny neck.
“You just lay there, mister, and get yer hands up where I can get holt of ’em!” John gave another jerk with his legs, and Clyde put his hands out to John. John fished in his pocket for the rawhide string he kept there to hang game up with, and he quickly wrapped it around Clyde’s hands and tied them snuggly. Then he pulled the long rawhide string between Clyde’s legs, and up around his neck. His face began turning blue, but John was mean mad, and didn’t really care.
He walked over to the other fool and tied his hands behind him with more rawhide string. The man batted his eyes a little, but otherwise never moved. He was still out cold.
John began to break camp and gather his things. He loaded the Hawkins and saddled Rosie. He found the derringer the man had tried to shoot him with and put it in his pocket. Then he saddled the stallion and put the short man on it. He figured Clyde could walk faster than the short one and keep up, so he tied him to the stallion’s bridle. He intended to hand them over to the authorities in Jefferson Landing, some ten miles up the river.
He made the town about four o’clock that afternoon. The town wasn’t much, just three stores, a trading post, a church, a stable, and a sheriff’s office. He was encouraged by the sight of the little church with a wood cross atop it. He figured there would be law-abiding, decent folk there.
The sheriff came out of his office as John rode up leading the two men.
“What you got there, Son?” the sheriff asked.
“My name is John Shay, lately of Louisville, Kentucky, Sir. These two men tried to rob me and take my horse.”
The sheriff looked up at John with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, Mr. John Shay, lately of Louisville, that there is Clyde Turner, a gambler that shot and killed a man near here in a robbery. And the other one is Shorty Tate what escaped from prison down near New Orleans. We been lookin’ fer ‘em both. Git off that horse.” He reached up to pull Shorty off the stallion, and Shorty kicked at the sheriff. The sheriff looked at him sternly.
“Won’t be long till you be kickin’ at the end of a rope, mister. Now you best behave if you want to eat until you do.” And the sheriff yanked him to the ground.
John helped him get them into the sheriff’s office and back into the jail. After they were locked up, John talked with the sheriff a while. He liked the amiable lawman.
“I can see yer a decent sort, Son. Today is Sattidy, and tomorrow we have a real preacher over at the church, if you would like to stay through. You can stay here in tha bunk over there tonight.” The sheriff pointed to a bunk standing against a back wall.
“I would like that, Sheriff. Could I get some feed for my mare? And what do I do with the stallion Clyde Turner was riding? He ain’t mine.”
“You might as well keep him, Son. He ain’t got no brand on him. Clyde most likely stole him, but there ain’t no telling where, so ’less some body claims him, you just tell ’em I said you could keep him and I’ll give you a letter. If somebody comes looking for him I’ll tell ’em about you. You go on over to the stable and tell Burt I sent you and they ain’t no charge fer the feed and stable tonight. And you can pick ’em up after church and be on your way.”
John shook hands with the kind man. “Thank you, Sir.” The next day John went to the little church. Every seat was filled, and the people all made a fuss over John, but he didn’t mind.
The circuit pastor gave a long sermon. It was about Jesus feeding a whole passel of people who et it all up exceptin’ a few pieces. John wondered where he got the money for so many people. Guess He used part of His inheritance that the preacher talked about.
“Sure is something,” John mused. “The preacher said we got an inheritance too, but Pap ain’t got much, so mine won’t be much.”
The sheriff invited John to lunch with him and his wife, so John took him up on it. They had a simple meal, while the sheriff talked about the state of things political. He seemed to know a lot about politics. His wife kept shoving food at John until John finally threw up his hands and quit.
About two o’clock John announced he best be getting along, and stood to go. The sheriff’s wife went into the kitchen and came back out with a big sack and shoved it at John.
“No need for that ma’am, I got plenty.”
“Now you just go ’long and take that, young man. You got to eat on the trail. I’ll have it no other way.”
“Take it, Son; they ain’t no arguing with Beth. I ain’t won an argument in twenty-five years.” The sheriff’s eyes twinkled as he looked fondly at his wife.
John headed for the stable and saddled the stallion, and loaded Rosie with the rest of his truck and his bedroll. The stallion was a little skittish as he put his foot in the stirrup to mount, but settled down once he was in the saddle.
He stopped at the sheriff’s office. The sheriff was sitting outside the door, with his chair tilted back against the wall.
“What will happen with those men, Sheriff?” John asked.
“They gonna hang Clyde fer sure, and probably Shorty, too. This country has got to maintain some kind of justice,” the sheriff told him.
“Good bye, Sheriff, and thank you.”
“So-long young man, and may God ride with ye. It’s been a pleasure knowin’ ye; if you get back this way stop in.”
“I will.” And John headed the stallion toward St. Louis.
John thought about the strange turn of events. He now had more than he had started out with, what with the stallion and a whole sack of grub, plus the derringer. He didn’t figure it was much good in a fight. It had certainly done Clyde no good.
He would sell the extra saddle in St. Louis, and perhaps Rosie, too. He needed cash money. He figured to find a job in St. Louis till he got up enough supplies to head on west.
He rode steadily for the rest of the afternoon, and made camp late, just as the sun went down. This time he pulled way off the trail to camp. He had learned something from his experience of getting waylaid by highway robbers, and he certainly didn’t want a repeat. He made a small fire in the trees to help break up the smoke. After he ate he put it out, tethered the horses close to him, and went to sleep with his rifle at his side. He made the rest of the trip to the St. Louis ferry without further incident.
The little settlement had sprung up around the trade of people using the ferry. John rode down the main street gawking at all the wagons and horses and people. The sound of a fiddle and foot-stomping came through the open door of a saloon. Inside, the men were clattering around, stomping, holding on to scantily dressed women.
As he passed the saloon a shot rang out, and a man came staggering through the door holding his chest. John saw blood running between his fingers as he clutched at his chest. Th
e man staggered and fell to the ground.
No one came out of the saloon. He rode over to the man and got off the stallion. He moved the man’s hand so he could see the wound, but the man was no longer breathing.
Another man came out of the saloon. “What was that about, Mister?” John asked the man.
“Card shark. He cheated at cards,” the man told him. “Just leave him lay and the undertaker will get him. He gets a half dollar from the gov’ment and what’s on the corpse fer puttin’em under.”
John got up slowly and looked around. The people continued to pass by, paying no attention to the dead man. Just like that, he thought, over a card game!
He gathered the reins of the stallion and headed out of town. This is not a good place to stay, he thought. I’ll camp outside town, and come in when the ferry runs tomorrow.
That night he made dry camp. He wrapped himself in his blankets, and lay close by his horses. He thought about the wasted life he had just witnessed.
The next morning he rose before daybreak and struck a small fire with flint and steel. He ate hurriedly, then packed up and headed back to the ferry, getting there just past dawn. The ferry was already loading for a trip across the Mississippi to St. Louis; John paid ten cents fare for himself and the two horses.
When the ferry docked on the St. Louis side, John led his horses off and decided to walk through the town. The streets were crowded, hub-to-hub and stirrup-to-stirrup, with men, horses, and wagons. He passed the blacksmith shop, where there was a line of horses waiting to be shod, and wagons needing wheels banded and axels repaired.
John had never seen anything like it. Everywhere, it was a feverish melee of humanity. John didn’t stop as he led his horses down the street to the other side of town.
About a quarter mile outside town he came on a group of six wagons beside a small creek that ran back toward the Mississippi River. The folks looked more like his kind of people, as women worked around campfires and kids ran and played among the wagons.
He stopped by the creek, fairly close to one of the wagons, to make camp. He had to go a ways to find wood, as the previous campers had used everything that even resembled wood, anywhere in the vicinity. As he sat eating, a man came over from the wagon nearest him. The man looked like a farmer in his homespun clothes and high-top shoes, and he appeared to be about forty. He had a friendly face.
“Howdy, Mister. Might I ask where ye be headin’?” the man asked.
“Out to the western lands,” John replied. He talked with the man a while about farming, then the conversation came around to talk about the lands west of St. Louis.
“Say Mister, where is everybody headin’ in these wagons?”
“Hayes, Kansas is where we are headed, day after tomorrow. We done been here three days now. Three of the wagons are going further out to Wyoming. We aim to homestead.”
“I’ll be roped and hog-tied, you mean to tell me all these people are a going west?”
“Yes, Sir. Can you shoot that rifle, Son?
“Yes, Sir, I reckon I can. I been shootin it all my life.”
“If you was a mind to hunt for us, we would each take turns feeding you and your horses if you would consider going along with us, at least as far as Hayes, Kansas.”
“I might just do that, Mister.”
“Good, I’ll see what the others think.”
John saw the group of six men and a boy of about fifteen gather around, talking and gesturing. After a while the farmer