This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE MARSHAL OF DENVER
First edition. April 22, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Landrun Publishing
ISBN: 979-8616468451
Written by Judge and Alanna Rodriguez.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
The Marshal of Denver (Legends of the Landrun)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
We wish to thank everyone whom has taken part in the writing and publication of this series. More than that, though, we wish to thank the Almighty for giving us the inspiration to follow through with our dreams in putting pen to paper, as it were.
We pray you find yourself being as caught up in this story as we found ourselves in writing it. We hope you enjoy reading our words and dare to hope, be inspired by them?
"For whosoever calls on the name of Lord shall be saved."
Romans 10:13
Author’s Note:
This is a work of fiction. We realize that there are several historical inaccuracies in here and for those of you who read this and wish to point them out, we can only say: “Yes, we know. They are there intentionally.”
It is our intent to write a book to entertain, not teach. If this book excites a love of history in you and you decide to do your own research, well, that is also what we intended.
Chapter 1
The creaking of saddle leather is the oldest memory John has. It is comforting, yet disturbing. He turns in his saddle to look around at the other hopefuls. He glances up to check the position of the sun. Almost noon. So many people sitting in wagons, on horses, standing, all waiting for the sound of the cannons. There must be several thousand. The army had sent troops to help keep “Sooners” from cheating the race. Harrison’s Horse Race, some were calling it. John calls it a new start. So much has happened before, so much to look forward to.
To his left, a family of blacks; parents with at least three children. The father looks around warily, as if afraid of those around his family, his hand rests on his Winchester. To his right, there’s an Oriental couple, a husband and wife. The husband speaks quietly to his apparently demure wife sitting in the seat next to him. The husband is younger, has a shaved head and ponytail. The wife has finely chiseled features. She is attractive, alluring. They, too, appear apprehensive.
Shielding his eyes against the glare, John looks toward the position of the sun once again not long now. He leans forward, looks further down the line and sees nothing but Conestoga Wagons, buckboards, and, like him, single riders. He turns around and sees his co-rider.
Red-Feather Under the Full Moon. Last night around the campfire there were mutterings about a redskin being able to take part in the landrun. Only after sending him away from the fire to his bedroll was John able to convince those around him that Red-Feather was a servant, not trying to get the land for himself. Not many people believed him, but at least there weren’t any more comments about lynching.
John sees the look on Red-Feather’s face. Annoyance. They have been traveling together for more than fifteen years since they were both at Fort Cobb together. Red-Feather has been a sound scout and a good friend. Their friendship had been forged in loneliness and battle. Battle against Red-Feather’s own people, the Comanche, and the isolation of losing John’s best friend, Josh.
Over the years, John has learned how to read Red-Feather’s face. In some ways, he could read the moods of his friend better than the man’s own wife and children. Yes, this look is definitely one of annoyance. I wonder what set him off this time. John motions him forward. “Are you all right?”
Red-Feather looks at him steadily. “Past noon. Why no race?”
John looks at the sky again. He was right. It was past noon, all right. “Well, I guess the exact time isn’t all that important. It will be noon when those cannons fire no matter what. That is the agreed-upon time.”
Red-Feather grunts, probably in disapproval of these silly white men.
Without warning, there is a rolling thunder as the cannons up and down the line fire. The race is on. People shout and scream in excitement. Red-Feather gives an ululating yell from over the thundering hooves and wagons rolling down the almost desolate plains. A horse screams in front of him just before he sees a cloud of dust. He moves to dodge it and turns in time to see the rider get trampled by other riders not able to get out of the way in time.
John knows this land. He has ridden through it in the service of the cavalry. He knows where to look. Without fail, he makes a beeline for the correct place. He guides his horse to a slightly northern direction. He and Red-Feather have been making plans since they heard about these lands being opened for settlement. Red-Feather has a number of dreams to fulfill, but he needs John’s help. John guides his horse around a Conestoga that is tumbling and flying into pieces, throwing its passengers in all directions.
John slows as he rides down into a gully. Afraid he has been riding too hard, too long, he doesn’t increase his horse’s pace beyond the canter he is at now. Being a retired Sergeant Major in the cavalry, John knows how to care for his mount. He also knows how and when to push his horse beyond the breaking point. This is not the time nor the place to do that. A stupid prairie dog or jack rabbit burrow can snap a horse’s leg in the blink of an eye.
The two riders go at a steady pace. They ride for hours. The horses become lathered and the riders saddle weary. John is sure they are close to their goal. He knows exactly where they are going, but some of the scenery has changed since he was last here. The place he is thinking of is the perfect location to live out their dreams. John reaches down into his haversack a
nd pulls out a bit of beef jerky. He sets it in his mouth to allow his saliva to moisten it enough to make it edible, only to discover a distinct lack of saliva. The riders come to a stop long enough to drink from canteens and glance around a bit. Not more than another ten miles or so. They won’t be able to get there today, but should arrive tomorrow sometime around noon, if they make it an early enough start. They were able to get to the head of the pack early enough no one should be able to beat them there unless they are sooners. Plus, this area was wide enough that their combined 160-acre plots were just a drop in the bucket.
They ride for so long, both riders are numb from the pounding their backsides have given their saddles. Just past the beginning of dark, they make a cold camp. They talk quietly, speaking about their hopes and dreams in the new area. Looking off to the west and northwest, they see campfires sparking up. People have already staked their claims. John shakes his head. Free land. What a joke. Man doesn’t own the land. If I haven’t learned anything in the 45 years I've been alive, it’s that man lives at the sufferance of nature. Man doesn’t own the land; the land owns its men.
After eating a small portion of their rations sparingly, the men seek their bedrolls. Excited, but not looking forward to another day in the saddle, they sleep easily with the howls and hunting sounds of the coyotes all around them. Though the landrun has scared away most of the wildlife, John expects to find whitetail deer, coons, possums, chickens, turkeys, and lots of rabbits to hunt.
Both men wake before dawn out of habit born from years of experience. They eat a cold breakfast of old fry bread and dried mutton bites before making way again. They start out slowly in the gray of false dawn. In the distance, John sees a few does with their fawns moving through the grasslands. He points them out to Red-Feather, who nods in appreciation.
They ride throughout the day east of most of the landrun lands, to a place only John knows. The lands were all opened by proclamation, and John knows the perfect place to make their dreams come to reality.
Since John’s fiancé was killed by Red-Legs back during the war, John has not ever expected to try and settle anywhere. In fact, not even now. Oh, he might be taking part in the landrun, but this is a special case. He’s only doing this for his long-time friend and then moving on. Each male over the age of twenty-one was allowed to stake out one plot of land a piece. For this plan to work, Red-Feather will need at least 320 acres to work with.
They eat lunch in the saddle, and arrive at the site in the middle of the afternoon. John rides up to the post on the second parcel of land by the creek they had crossed and pulls the papers off, feeling exultant. They’ve done it. Now they just have to keep it. Just before nightfall, John rides to the edge of his land to meet up with Red-Feather. Both men see the joy of having made it this far on each other's faces. Tomorrow, they will go to the land office listed on the papers and stake their claims. Then, at last Red-Feather will be able to bring his family and start the next phase of their plan.
That night, they share a campfire and meat from several snakes and rabbits that Red-Feather caught while exploring the land. Sitting by the fire, the friends share stories from each other’s past, stories the other had heard numerous times before, but are willing to hear again.
Red-Feather, normally taciturn and reticent, talks about how this area reminds him of where he grew up, southeast of Fort Sill. “It’s like coming home again. I half expect to see mother walking up from the creek holding an armful of reeds and a couple pots of clay any minute now. I keep looking to where we came from to see my father bringing a deer or elk for us to eat.”
John, in all their years of association, has never heard this level of wistfulness in his friend’s tone. This is also the most words John has ever heard his friend speak at one time.
After filling their bellies and relaxing with celebratory sips from the flask, John feels quite nostalgic. “Did I ever tell you how I came to be in the Army?”
Red-Feather shakes his head slowly, unsure why John would open up now of all times.
“My oldest memory is of the sound of creaking saddle leather. I had just turned six years old a few weeks before, I think. We were going on a trip, my father said. We stopped and dismounted in front of a large three-story house. I remember seeing a lot of kids working around the yard, all with the same type of look on their faces. Hopelessness. When we got to the door, my father rang the bell and we were greeted by a nun, Sister Margaretta. She took one look at me, then at my father, sighed and motioned us in.
“We were shown to an office on the third floor, where another nun, Mother Maria, sat in a leather chair, at a desk in front of an open window. She motioned for my father to sit in the chair in front of her and for Sister Margaretta to take me out of the office. Sister Margaretta took me to the second floor, which was open, with dozens of straw mattresses on the floor. She took me to the opposite end of the hall, and there was a small bowl of water sitting in front of a crucifix on the wall. She brought me over to it, showed me how to kneel, and guided me through a prayer. She then took some of the water from the bowl and made a sign of the cross on my forehead. She said, ‘Any time that you come into or go out of this room, you are to do just as I have done’. She also said, ‘This is going to be your new home for awhile’. I was young enough not to understand, so I asked if I could go outside and play. She said, ‘No child, because it is time for supper, and you must wash up to be ready to receive the Lord’s bounty.’
“We walked downstairs past a door that was closed, and she said, ‘That’s where the girls sleep. You are never to go inside that room. Ever.’ A little further down, on the other side of the hall she pointed to another room. This one was open, with rows and rows of benches. ‘This is the chapel. We have services every morning after breakfast and every evening after supper. You are required to attend each service, pay attention, and be quiet during them.’
“We went out the front door, and my father’s horse was gone. I asked, ‘Where’s papa?’
“ ‘Child, you are staying here now. Your Heavenly Father, we sisters, and these other children are your only family now.’ I started crying. I was confused, felt alone, utterly betrayed.
“Sister Margaretta stood at the side of the porch and rang a large bell mounted there. All of the other kids came up and lined up single file in front of the porch. Sister Margaretta introduced me to my new brothers and sisters and showed me where my place was at the back of the line. She moved to the head of the line, and the boy in front of me turned around and said, ‘Fresh meat, huh? I’m Josh.”
“‘Johnny.’
“We were marched around to the side of the building to troughs with pumps and Josh showed me how to wash up for supper. Once we’d washed up, we were led to a building in the back, filled with rows and rows of tables. The kids were seated from youngest in front to oldest in back. The Reverend Mother Maria gave grace, and we went to where the food was served to us by older kids. We had potatoes and porridge, while the sisters ate chicken and potatoes at the head table. We were served and seated like we were in line. Josh and I were some of the last served and were seated on the first row.”
John, while sharing his story, stares into the fire. He is interrupted by the rather loud snoring coming from his neighbor. He smiles and seeks his own bed roll.
Chapter 2
Johnny and Josh are on their way back with a couple of braces of rabbits for the sisters’ meals. Their grins wide at the success of their mission. They are the best hunters at St. Gregory’s Orphanage. If they bring back enough meat, they will be rewarded with some of it themselves. They are only a few hundred yards away, when Josh mentions he smells smoke.
They bolt towards the orphanage amidst the smoke and screams of the dying. The sight they come to is hell on earth. The grounds are strewn with the bodies of the other children and the sisters. The main building of the orphanage is ablaze, as is the chow hall. Leaving the scene are several dozen horsemen.
The two boys, now sixtee
n and seventeen, are stunned. They move around the edge of the clearing, out of the sight of either horses or men. They check the bodies for signs of life, finding none left alive. They work their way back to the chow hall and find Sister Margaretta. She is covered in blood. Her nudity is shocking to these boys. They move to cover her, as they had the others, when she groans. Josh starts trying to help her sit up, but stops when she screams. Both boys, tears flowing, kneel beside her. Josh takes a part of her shredded clothing and wets it with water from his water-skin. He dabs at her bloody face, trying to clear the blood from her eyes.
“Boys?” She moans.
“We’re here, sister.”
“Cold cellar. Trunk.” She gasps and is racked by a choking cough, “Father, forgive—” Her body arches one last time, then falls to the ground, lifeless. Tears streaming down their faces, the boys go to the shed and get shovels. After they bury Sister Margaretta, they continue to bury the rest. They say a short prayer over each one, as they were taught. The last funeral they had attended was that of Reverend Mother Maria, two years earlier. Now they buried Reverend Mother Rosa right next to her.
They work throughout the night until, utterly spent, both collapse. Johnny wakes late in the morning to the call of nature. He moves to the far side of the clearing and relieves himself at the base of a tree. He hears some rustling in the undergrowth, and fearing a return of the soldiers, runs back to Josh. Josh, still half asleep, had just roused when Johnny gets back, demanding what is going on. Johnny explains what he heard and, armed with shovels, both boys check the edge of the forest. After more than an hour, they give up searching and gather what they can find in preparation to leave.
Josh asks, “Think we should check the cellar?”
“I guess, who knows what we’ll find.”
They go to the now empty stable by the edge of the woods. Just beyond it, they find the root cellar door is well hidden by undergrowth. The sisters always insisted they be the only ones to ever go in there. Still armed with a shovel, Josh breaks off the rusted padlock to the door. He enters first, and as Johnny follows, he hears from behind him an angelic voice ask, “Johnny?”
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