by Stephen Paul
Bronson raised his hands in submission. “No I don't, but I’m not looking for any trouble and I’m not callin’ you a liar.”
“Now you’re callin’ me a liar,” Cletus said. He dropped his hand near his gun butt. “You better ride out of here and don’t come back unless you’re looking for a lot of trouble. Comprende?”
“I think you’re right.” Bronson turned his horse away from them, then asked, “Where’s the boy?”
“Don't see why it's any of your concern, unless you're the boy's uncle. You a miner?"
"Now why would you ask me that? And what about the boy?" He thought he saw a glint of greed show in the eyes of the two men.
"Nothing, he’s been taken to Rawlins. You can find him there.” Cletus narrowed his eyes, held his right hand away from his gun butt and spread his feet. “You just git now if you know what's good for you.”
Bronson nodded, turned the roan and trotted away from the house. He could feel their eyes boring into his back, and when he crossed the creek and came out at the edge of a pasture. He turned the horse sideways to the house and climbed down. Cletus and the younger man, the gunslinger, couldn’t see what he was doing, but he could hear their voices carrying in the crisp air.
* * * *
“What the hell that sodbuster doin’ now?” asked the Kid. He held his hand up to keep the sun out of his eyes.
"I dunno, but he ain't too smart," answered Cletus. He watched Bronson ride toward them.
“I should of shown him the notches on my gun butt,” the Kid said. “Look, he’s coming back, the fool. It's gonna happen just like I told Mason it would. Guess that fella ain't too smart now, is he?”
Bronson rode closer. His back was straight, stained hat pulled low, and his left hand draped down by his leg.
“Well, I’ll be damned, he’s carrying a gun,” the Kid said, taking his tie-down off his pistol’s hammer. "And he's left-handed. You ever hear of a left-handed gunfighter?"
"I might of, but I don't recall right this instant," Cletus said, licking his lips.
The two men spread their feet and let their arms hang. The Kid grinned at Cletus as Bronson rode up to the front of the porch. "Before you make a mistake, you better know…I'm the Rimrock Kid." He stuck his chest out.
"I guess that means I should kill you first," Bronson said in a low voice.
Chapter Three
"You gonna take us both on?" the Kid asked, a wide grin split across his face. "A left-handed, sod-bustin miner?"
"Unless you answer some questions, who hung them?" Bronson's eyes bored into the two men, never blinking.
Cletus glanced over at him. "Why don't you just go your way? Make it easy on yourself."
"Hold on now, I'll answer his questions. Don't want no gunfighter to take us on and kill the two of us. Okay, the ones who strung them up were—" The Kid turned and drew his Colt. His hand was a blur and a wolfish grin appeared on his face.
As the Kid brought the cocked pistol up and leveled it toward the man on the horse, he fired and an instant later was blown off his feet. He crashed against the outside wall of the house and sank to the floor. A moan came from his lips and he rolled on his back. The Kid looked down in wonder and disbelief at the hole in his chest. Dark blood soaked his shirtfront and frothy bubbles came from his mouth.
Cletus had his gun half out of his holster when Bronson turned his Colt toward him. The cocking of the hammer sounded loud, like a nail hammering a coffin closed.
"You don't drop it, you're dead." Bronson's voice was flat. Cletus threw the pistol off the porch and lifted his hands high above him. A puff of dust came up where the pistol landed in the dirt. Bronson was shaken but didn’t show it. He’d paused! There was a chunk of his shirt missing where the Kid’s bullet had missed his side by a hair’s breath.
Still covering the fat man, Bronson dismounted, walked onto the porch and over to the Kid. He kicked away the pistol the Kid dropped when he was shot.
The Kid's hand covered the wound, blood leaking through his fingers. "Nobody ever beat my fast draw. You’re lucky I missed. What's your name?" The froth that bubbled from his mouth now trickled down his chin and puddled on his neck.
"You're lung shot. Too bad, I was going for your heart. Been too long." Bronson said softly, "I didn't want to kill you. I wasn't looking for trouble."
"Who are you?" The Kid gasped. He tried grabbing Bronson's free hand, but Bronson pulled it back. In his other hand the Colt still covered Cletus.
"It doesn't make any difference now; you're going be dead in a minute or two."
"Tell me. I have the right to knowed who killed me."
"The name's Bronson."
"Bronson? Can’t be John Bronson, the lawman, he died in Laramie." The Kid's eyes opened wide from realization. "If I'd known…"
One last bubble of blood floated into the air and a long, drawn out death rattle came deep from the Kid's throat. His eyes partially closed, glazed over and the Rimrock Kid stared at eternity.
Bronson stood up and turned to Cletus. "Put your hands down."
With a sigh of relief, Cletus dropped his hands to his side. Bronson's fist caught him on the side of the jaw, knocking him backward. Before he could recover, a flurry of blows hit him in the gut and face. Cletus's feet slid out from under him and he sank to the porch floor in a sitting position.
"No more, no more, please," Cletus moaned. The back of his hand went to his mouth, wiping the blood off.
"I want some answers or I'll half beat you to death, then gut shoot you. Who hung the Hudsons?" Bronson said.
"If I tell you, I'm dead."
"If you don't, you're dead." Bronson slammed his pistol barrel across Cletus's kneecap bringing a sharp crack of breaking bone.
For a big man, Cletus screamed high and shrill. "Oh, God, don't hit me no more. It was Royce Waldrip. He's the one who hired us." Tears flowed down his cheeks.
"Who is he? Who's he work for?" Bronson's voice was menacing.
"I don't know; he don't seem to answer to nobody. Paid us cash money. Maybe he owns a spread around here, I swear I don't know."
"Tell me what happened." Bronson backed away and put his Colt back in the holster.
"Can't you close the Kid's eyes? It ain't right him lying dead with his eyes open."
"You can do it later, if you're alive. Why were they hung, and don't tell me they were rustlers." He moved to stand between the body and Cletus.
"They had control of the water when they homesteaded this place. They had some fresh branded cattle. Said they bought 'em. A range detective said the cows weren't theirs...they'd been rustled." Cletus rocked on his bottom, both arms hugging his broken knee.
"What's the range detective's name?"
"I don't know!" Cletus started to blubber. "He was with Waldrip."
"Where'd they hang them?"
"Up Rattlesnake Gulch, the one Horse Creek runs out of. Hung 'em from a big old dead cottonwood standing by itself; buried them there too," Cletus said. "That's what I heard, I weren't there myself," he added quickly.
"What about the boy? He hurt?" Bronson's voice was so low the other man leaned toward him to hear.
"Jist slapped around a bit. A fella by the name of Matson took him to Rawlins, or at least said he was gonna; I was told to stay here with the Kid to take the place over. Keep anybody else from trying to squat on it. Matson said if the uncle came to direct him to town."
"That doesn't make sense. This Waldrip hangs my sister and her husband, another man takes their boy and wants you to tell me to go looking for him?"
"That's what they told me to do, I didn't ask why." Cletus grimaced from the pain of his broken kneecap.
"What rancher you working for then?"
"None. Me and the Kid were in Rawlins, playing some Faro and looking for work. Waldrip hired us to stay at this place for a while. Like I said, I weren't there when they was hung…I swear."
Bronson picked up the dead man's pistol and Cletus's. He dropped them in a
water trough by the porch and climbed on his horse. "You better not be lying." He turned the roan and headed in the direction of the gulch at a lope.
The water in Horse Creek swirled, eddied, broke over rocks, and cut out the underbelly of the dirt banks as it flowed down from the mountain. After riding up the gulch at a walk for an hour, a single cottonwood tree stood in a small meadow inside a shelf of limestone. Pieces of two ropes hung down from a low, thick, branch and rocked back and forth in the wind. Near the tree, a mound of creek rocks were piled high with an old wagon wheel lying over the top.
A sudden pain of loneliness, rage and fear, nearly doubled him over in the saddle. He stumbled out of the saddle and let the reins hang from the horse. With unsteady hands Bronson took his hat off and dropped it on a rock as he approached the grave. The toe of a boot stuck out from the bottom. Goddamn 'em! They didn't even bury them proper. Yea, now that’s what I’m talking about… Bronson felt the dark anger take a hold of him. His eyes filled with tears, something they hadn't done in thirty years. Bronson sat down on a rock and lowered his head. Ellie, this shouldn't have happened to you and Sam. With a sigh, he stood up and took off his shirt. He untied the small mining shovel from the bedroll.
His eyes were blurry and his back burned red from the sun when he replaced the rocks on top of the two newly dug graves. Ellie and Sam were buried proper now, nothing would get them. Passive is good here because of the mood.
With his hat in his hand, he bowed his head. Ellie, if I'd only known sooner, you and Sam would be alive. The thoughts rushed into his mind. I swear I'm gonna find Tommy and then make someone pay for what they did to you. I don't know the Bible to say some words, but I hope God watches over you. His hat went back on his head.
He took the shovel and the gold pan and laid them between a crack in a shelf of rocks. Bronson put his shirt back on, mounted the horse and headed back to the ranch. He wasn't sure if the haze over his eyes was from the sun or rage. This country, with the fresh water, blue skies and lush natural meadows, was a place that Ellie and Sam should have raised their son to be a man. Not murdered.
High on a sandstone bluff, a man watched Bronson. A man without pity or compassion.
Buzzards walked on the porch and one pecked at the body still lying where it had died. The front door of the house stood open, the wind banging it open and closed.
"Looks like Cletus didn't want to stick around, doesn't it, boy?" Bronson patted the neck of the horse. He rode wide around the ranch house and went to the corral where a dozen horses stood. He reached over and opened the gate, then hollered and whooped, spurring the roan inside. The horses cut around them and ran out of the corral, heading north, freedom bound. Nothing was in the barn except an open stall door, so Bronson turned the roan to the southwest. He wanted to make the Stone Ranch stage stop before the sun was too far down. Riding all night should find him in Rawlins.
The wind blew out of the west, stinging his eyes from the sand blowing off the dunes that surrounded the country. The sun was still up when he passed the Spanish Mine stage stop at a trot, skirting it by a mile. He rode into the Stone Ranch four hours later.
The smell of cooked venison made his mouth water as he tied the horse's reins to the hitching post. He entered the log building with bars on the windows and saw Becky Strand standing at the stove.
She turned when he closed the door. She saw who it was and smiled. "John, I haven't seen you for months. What brings you here?"
"Troubles, Becky. Wendell around?"
"Getting firewood...here he comes now." The door opened and a middle-aged man came inside, with an armload of wood. He dropped the wood in a box and turned to Bronson, his hand out.
"John, how are you?" Wendell said, his face brightening.
"In a bad way. Ellie and Sam were murdered a couple of days ago."
Becky's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, no! What happened? Where's Tommy?"
"You need a drink." Wendell reached inside a cupboard and brought a bottle and two glasses out. "Tell us what happened." He poured whiskey in both glasses and handed Bronson one.
"A range detective accused them of cattle rustling and they were hung. The man I talked to didn’t know his name, but I did find out a man by the name of Royce Waldrip hired two drifters to stay at the ranch. Someone named Matson took the boy to Rawlins. I'm heading there to find him and Tommy." Bronson took a sip of the drink.
"I never heard of no one called Matson. Now Waldrip, I have heard of him. Supposed to work for the Stockgrower’s Association. How do you know it was him?" Strand asked. Becky had come over and stood by her husband.
"I was told by a man named Cletus over on Ellen's ranch. He and a hard case by the name of the Rimrock Kid said they were running the place," Bronson said. He put the glass to his lips and finished the whiskey in one swallow.
"The Rimrock Kid has a reputation for being fast and mean." Wendell looked suspiciously at Bronson. "I see you’re carrying your Colt. Since you're standing here I'm guessing the Kid's dead."
"Unless the buzzards were eating on a live one, he is." Bronson sat down in a chair and ran a hand over his face. "God knows I tried leaving my gun in the saddlebag. I didn't want this, you know that, Wendell...Becky." Bronson held his glass out while Strand refilled it. "The two threatened me. The Kid slapped leather first."
"We understand, John. What are you going to do?" Becky asked, laying a hand on his arm.
"I'm going to get my nephew first, then find this Matson and Waldrip and make them pay. I want you to hold on to the gold I panned. I'd like to bring Tommy back here after I get him and have you care for him for a bit. Would you do that for me?"
"Of course. You saved our lives once. Doing this still wouldn't repay you." Wendell said.
"If something happens to me, give the gold to the boy. I'd written Ellen and told her I found a nice little strike and I'd get them out of debt. Doesn't mean so much now." He angrily ran his hand through his hair. "If I'm not back in a week, get a hold of the U.S. Marshall in Cheyenne, his name's Roberts. Tell him what I've told you; maybe he'll get Waldrip and Matson, if I can't. Wendell, you'll have to get Tommy for me if I die."
"I'll go with you now, John."
"No. You have Becky to take care of and the stage stop to run. Wendell, the Kid almost shot me because I paused. There’s something inside my head not letting me pull the trigger. I can’t take a chance on getting you hurt or killed. Give me a week. You might have to call in some favors that are owed me from Laramie, if you have to get him."
Strand looked at Bronson and shook his head. "Now’s when you need me to help. My god, man, a split second delay you’re good as dead. Even someone as fast as you.”
Bronson slowly shook his head. “I’m not arguing, Wendell. Will you do as I ask?”
“My word, anything happens to you, we'll get Tommy somehow and raise him."
"Thanks, I knew I could count on you," Bronson said, relief showing on his face.
"You need to eat and rest before you go," Becky said. "Your gold will be safe, we have a trapdoor with a lockbox in the room below that we keep our valuables in. And the bars on the windows keep anyone from breaking in when we're gone."
"Thanks, this will keep me from worrying. Let me eat and I’ve got to ride. No telling what’s happening to Tommy."
Bronson rode out into the night illuminated by a full moon and a canopy of stars. He left the horse he’d been riding and took a palomino quarter horse he owned, named Shoshone. When he went into the mountains to pan, the horse had come up lame. The Strands had kept it for him to let the lameness mend and he had ridden the roan.
He nudged the horse forward with his knees. Shoshone was fit and anxious to go. Months in a corral instead of wandering the country had him prancing down the dirt road. The Colt .44 was cleaned and oiled and in his boot was a Navy .32. A 44-40 Winchester, in a scabbard under the saddle had been handed to him by Wendell. He would stop at the Brown's Canyon stage stop and take a quick nap-long enough so he
would have his wits about him. After ten hours of riding, the horse would need to rest and take some water. Though he felt the urgency of getting the boy, he knew his worst enemy would be lack of sleep. Drowsiness would kill him. After a rest: Rawlins, and if the boy was hurt or dead, then God help those responsible.
Chapter Four
Bronson ate the dust blown up from the wind and rode south on the main road heading to Rawlins. Coming out of the alkali flats he followed the stage, being pulled by six horses, up the draws of Willow Hill and into the Brown’s Canyon stage stop where it stopped to change the horses and let the passengers eat some food. The sun had come up and so far wasn’t hot. The early morning air was crisp and cool.
Two men, a woman and young girl climbed wearily out of the stage and entered the building, Bronson walked in behind them. The sun was a little shy of high noon. He figured he would pull into Rawlins around noontime, and then the search would begin for his nephew.
Bronson sat with the four passengers at a long table and ate eggs and beef stew served from a huge pot set in the middle of the table. He finished the plate and sopped the gravy up with a chunk of sheepherder’s bread. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat back.
“Mister, what’s your horse’s name?” the young girl asked. She had light blonde hair and a smile that lit the room up. She wore a green bonnet tied under her chin and a green dress with an apron on the front. The girl stood up from the bench and moved by his side.
“Hanna, you shush now and come sit down. Leave the man alone. I’m sorry sir, this is the first time she’s been that forward.” The woman speaking was an older version of the girl. Blonde hair, and when she smiled after speaking, it was a reflection of her daughter’s smile.
“That’s okay, ma’am. His name is Shoshone. Named after the Indian tribe who caught him on the prairie when he was a colt. I’ve had him a long time, sweetheart.” Bronson was amazed at how blue both the mother’s and daughter’s eyes were. “Where you heading?” he asked the mother as they both stood up at the same time. He walked with her to the door.