by Phil Truman
As Henry hurriedly finished saddling up his new horse, Epperly asked him, “Where you so all het up about getting off to?”
“Denver,” Henry said. “Man up there wants to see me about some land.” He finished tying on his saddlebags and mounted up. Looking down at the livery man, he said, “You take care of old Jeff, Epperly. He’s a damn fine horse.” Henry trotted the mare out of the barn, turned her south, and spurred the animal into a gallop.
Epperly watched for a couple seconds, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “Denver’s t’other way!” he shouted.
* * *
“Yeah, there was a man in here like you’re talking about,” Epperly told the two lawmen. “Called hisself Ned Christie. He lit outta here early this morning in a real hurry. Said he was going to Denver, but I don’t think so. Took off at a full gallop, headed south. Musta had something to do with you two fellas.”
Epperly was right about the mare, she was sure enough sturdy. She kept up a strong pace through the high, dry land heading into New Mexico. After he came through the mountains, Henry stopped in the little town of Raton to find them some water, but moved on quickly after the horse had her fill. He’d paused atop a ridge a few miles back to give the mare a breather, and when he looked back, he saw a dust cloud rising from the valley they’d just come up from. It was maybe ten, twelve miles back, but it told Henry whoever was making it was riding hard. No way of knowing from that distance if it was the lawmen, but Henry believed it was.
The terrain got flatter and hotter south of Raton but Henry kept pushing. By the time he got to a place called Abbott the sun was almost down and the mare spent. As strong as she was, he knew she wouldn’t be able to keep up the pace for another day. He stood at a water trough letting the horse drink, looking around at the town. It wasn’t much of a place, but there did seem to be a fair amount of horse traffic coming in and out. It had the usual saloon and general store, a small livery and one or two other businesses. There was even a little eating establishment busy with customers. Henry looked at the western mountains as the last tip of the sun slipped behind them. In another hour or so it’d be totally dark. He looked over at the front of the saloon again eyeing several horses tied there. Later on, after dark, he’d have to do some horse trading, and it looked like he’d have a fairly good lot to pick from.
“C’mon, big lady,” Henry said to the horse, patting her on the neck. “Let’s go see if we can find us something to eat.”
Henry got the horse some feed at the livery. He asked the man there to rub her down, then he stripped off the saddle and bridle. Paying the man the six bits required, he said he’d be back for his horse and gear later, and walked over to the eatery. He reached in his pocket to feel for what money he had left, hoping there was enough to get a big steak and some potatoes. He hadn’t eaten all day and was damn hungry, and bone tired. There’d been no detection of anyone following him for several hours, but he had to assume the two lawmen were still coming. As much as he wanted to, there’d be no lingering over his meal; he’d have to eat up and get out.
Near nine o’clock, Henry saddled the mare loosely and led her up next to the string of horses outside the saloon. Piano music issued from the building, twining through loud and boisterous voices; it appeared those within were well occupied. Quickly scanning the animals, Henry chose a sorrel gelding which looked strong and fast. He untied the sorrel from the rail and led the two horses into the alleyway between the buildings to hide from the glare of the saloon door and windows. There he unsaddled the sorrel, tossing the gear to the ground beside the mare, and re-saddled the gelding with his own. He threw the grounded saddle on the mare, loosely strapping the cinch, then led her back to the saloon hitching rail where he tied her.
He scratched the mare’s forehead, and she snuffled back at him. “You been a fine ride, old girl. Thanks for carrying me like you done. I’d say you’re a fair trade for that sorrel. Hope your new boss gets to feel the same way, too.” Henry mounted the sorrel and walked him down the middle of the street in the midst of all the other tracks so no one would know which were his mount’s. He took the road heading east out of town, hoping his trackers would think he’d continued south.
* * *
It’d be hard to call Perrytown a town; more like a settlement. It had a trading post, an old way station for a now defunct stage line, a rail siding for cattle and such. But it didn’t look like there’d been many trains coming through of late. Weeds, which had sprung up in the brief spring rains, stood shaggily at a few spots between the tracks. The tufts of weeds were a small model, a little metaphor of Perrytown: dry and gray and sun-baked; on the verge of being blown into oblivion by the hot desert winds.
There were only four houses in the village; shacks, really. So Henry figured he’d go to the one in the least stage of disrepair to find his friend, Amos Perry. A town’s namesake ought to have the nicest house there, he reasoned. Henry couldn’t be sure Perry would remember him. Amos had been a Principal Chief of the Cherokees when Henry was a boy, and had helped him when he got in trouble. But that had been a few years back, and Perry had picked up and moved all the way out here to New Mexico for reasons Henry didn’t know about.
“Mister Perry?” Henry stood holding his hat in an attitude of humility and respect when the old man opened the door. He thought he recognized the old chief, but he looked a lot older, much older than his years.
“Yes,” the man responded.
“I’m Henry Starr from the Nations. Don’t know if you remember me, but you knew my uncle… and my dad, when they were alive. You helped me get out of jail when I got in a scrape as a boy.”
The old man’s eyes brightened and he smiled. “Ah, yes. Young Henry, the son of George.” He got quiet for a few seconds, then reached out with both hands grabbing Henry at the shoulders. “I knew your grandfather, too,” he said softly. “He was a great warrior.”
Henry nodded. He’d only known Tom Starr through the stories he’d heard. Perry released his grip on Henry and pulled him by one arm into the house. “Come in and eat,” he said. He spoke Cherokee to a young boy sitting on the floor. “My grandson will take care of your horse,” Amos said to Henry. “Sit here and have some venison stew.” He indicated a place at the table across from him, and then spoke softly to a woman at the fireplace, also in Cherokee. The woman silently ladled up a bowl of the stew and set it before their guest.
“So, young Starr, how are things back in the Nations?”
Henry dug into the stew, shoveling in several spoonfuls before responding. “Well,” he started, taking two more hurried bites. He chewed a chunk of venison, and swallowed. “I reckon it’s about the same as you last saw it. ’Course, the Cherokee Nation is part of the State of Oklahoma now, as are all the nations.”
“Yes, I knew that was coming,” said Perry.
“How’d you know that?” Henry asked. He spooned in a couple more bites of stew.
“The White Man has never been honest,” Perry said. He leaned forward putting his forearms on the table, talking into the tabletop. “When he told us to come out to the Territory, he said the land would always be ours; it would be our nation forever. We already had a nation in the land he called Georgia and in the mountains of the Carolinas and Tennessee; it had been there long before the white man came. We didn’t want to come out here, but their leader Jackson forced us. I was just a little boy when we walked across The Trail. I saw my mother die and my baby sister, many cousins. Then those after Jackson told us we couldn’t have our government; they said our children could not speak Cherokee and must go to white schools.”
Perry fell silent watching his guest scrape the last of his stew from his bowl. Henry noticed the old chief watching him. He licked the spoon and set it down in the bowl. “Is that why you left the Territory?” he asked.
Perry spoke Cherokee again to the woman and motioned with his hand toward Henry’s bowl. She came to the table with the pot of stew and ladled more into Henry’s bowl. He
didn’t protest, and resumed his eager eating.
“If you are Indian,” the old chief said. “You cannot escape the whites. It does no good to run from them. No, it was the Ross men who drove me from the Territory.”
Henry nodded and continued eating, keeping his eyes on the bowl of food. Perry continued. “Much of the time we Cherokee treat each other worse than do the white men.”
There was consent with Henry, more nodding.
“And you, young Starr, why did you leave the Nations?”
Henry finished the stew and set the bowl aside. He looked at the man opposite him, then at the woman by the stove. “I, uh… there was some confusion on something I once done in Arkansas. New governor was going to let them haul me back there.”
The old man’s face creased with sad amusement. “Still running from the law, are you?”
“Two lawmen,” Henry said with a grin, then added with braggadocio, “One of them is Bill Tilghman.”
“Tilghman, huh?” Perry said. He arched an eyebrow. “Impressive. He doesn’t come after just anyone.”
“I stopped at a bank in Colorado to make a withdrawal. Apparently, they didn’t take kindly to it.”
Perry shook his head in bewilderment. “It’s a mystery,” he said. “Never understood why white people place so much importance on their paper. How does it have value? A deerskin has value. A good pair of moccasins has value. A shank of hog has value. A log house has value. The value of the white man’s paper comes and goes. After his Civil War, the only value his paper had was to start cook fires. Then, as now, you’d be better off having squirrel meat in hand than white man’s money.”
The boy came back into the house, and the old man turned to look at him.
“My son died in the Nations,” he continued. “My wife a year ago. I now have only my grandson, and my daughter-in-law. They are of great value to me.”
Perry ended his quiet lecture and sat looking at his guest. Henry avoided his host’s gaze, shifting nervously in his chair. He could feel the query in the old chief’s silence, but he didn’t know how to respond. Judging that, Perry moved on.
“Are you bringing Bill Tilghman to my door, then?”
“Naw, naw,” Henry said, shifting around some more and coughing into his hand. “I lost them in the town of Abbott west of here. I saw no sign all day they’d found my trail.”
Perry shook his head and grunted. “I doubt the great Tilghman lost your trail. He has the mind of a stalking bear. Sooner or later he will find you.”
Henry said nothing, only stared at the fire.
At length, Perry said, “You will have to leave tomorrow. I will give you provisions for a few days ride.”
Chapter Sixteen
Henry rode east. It was high summer where dust devils and rattlers ruled the sun-baked Texas Panhandle. Through the long endless miles, his mind replayed the voice of Amos Perry. There was no missing the admonition: he should return to his family. When he’d left Perrytown two days ago, he’d meant to head southwest to Albuquerque, but the old man grabbed the reins of his horse and said, “You will not find what you seek by running away. Return to your son, return to your young wife.”
So, out of respect for the old man, he turned and rode east. His intent was to ride out of sight, then circle wide heading back west. But he’d kept riding east. And he thought about his son.
He slouched in the saddle, and his head drooped as did the sorrel’s. Henry dozed in the afternoon heat and the rocking rhythm of the horse’s slow gait. A shotgun blast brought him fully awake, and he reined the horse to a stop. From the volume of sound the gunshot appeared to be some distance away, and in front of him. But, despite the near flatness of the land, he saw no shooter through the hazy air. He rode ahead another two hundred yards at a lope, scanning the land ahead, when a second boom sounded. This time it was louder, and he could tell it came from his right front. He pulled the horse to a stop and stood in the stirrups. He could see, maybe a half-mile off, the rippling lump of a figure sitting on the ground. Another discharge issued and he saw the muzzle flash. Henry could not distinguish a target, though. It appeared the shooter aimed at the ground, as big clouds of dirt would explode some thirty or so yards from the shooter.
Henry angled the horse to approach the gunner from the rear, coming at him at a fast walk. At about fifty yards—a fairly safe distance from the gun’s blast, he judged—Henry stopped the horse. He loosened the holster strap over the hammer of his Colt, resting his hand on the handle. “Hey!” he yelled.
The man turned, not quite pointing the shotgun at Henry. He placed his hand on the ground and pushed himself to his feet, looking back at Henry. He was a big man, round at the middle, wearing overalls and a brimmed straw hat bent at many angles.
“Whatcha shootin’ at?” Henry shouted.
“Dogs,” the man hollered back.
Henry stood again in the stirrups and squinted to look. “What dogs?” he asked. “I don’t see no dogs.”
“See, that’s my problem,” the man said. “It be prairie dogs. Ever time I get a bead on one, the damn critter ducks back down in his hole.”
“You wouldn’t shoot me, would ya?” Henry asked.
“Naw, come on in.”
The man waited while Henry rode up to him. Leaning with his forearms on the saddle horn, Henry looked down at him and asked, “Why you shooting at prairie dogs?”
“Why, for supper, of course” the man answered. He turned to look back at the prairie dog town thirty paces off, cracking the breach of the shotgun to put in two new shells. It was a big double barrel piece. Two of the fat rodents stuck up from the mounds of their burrow holes, looking back at the two men; then another joined them. One chittered insolently at the man with the shotgun.
“Damn varmits,” the man said. He leveled the shotgun and winged off another shot. A cloud of yellow-gray dirt blossomed, but when it cleared there was no sign of the prairie dogs.
“Mind if I take a shot?” Henry asked the man.
“Hell, be my guest,” he answered, handing Henry the shotgun while looking toward the town. “They damn varmits,” he muttered.
“You keep that coon gun,” Henry said. “Believe I’ll try my Colt.”
He sat on the ground, crossing his ankles and keeping his left knee high. He pulled the pistol from its holster and laid the barrel across his knee to steady it. He sighted along its length toward the mound where they’d last seen one of the foolhardy dogs, and he waited.
After thirty seconds, the top of a furry little head to the level of its eyes popped above the crest of the mound. It waited another cautious few seconds, then emerged up to its waist.
“There he is,” whispered the fat man. “You got a shot. Take him! Take him!”
“Hold on,” Henry said quietly and calmly.
In five seconds the second dog stood from his mound, and the first one brazenly started his taunting chatter at the men. That’s when Henry shot him in the mouth, flipping him once over backwards. Before the sound of the first shot faded, he swiveled the pistol barrel slightly and took out the first one’s surprised partner.
“Hot damn!” the fat man said. “That’s some fine shootin’.”
Still sitting, Henry asked, “How many you going to need for supper?”
“You stayin’?”
“I ain’t never et prairie dog, but I reckon so.”
“Then one more oughta do it, if he’s fair size.”
Henry parked the pistol barrel on his knee again, and waited.
* * *
“What be your name, mister?” the fat man asked. He’d tied the hind feet of the six supper prairie dogs to either end of a length of twine and slung them over his shoulder. He walked alongside Henry, who sat astride his horse. Some of the younger varmints, curious to what was going on above ground, had stuck their heads up. Henry had nailed them. The fat man assured Henry they’d all be cooked.
“Name’s Zeke Proctor,” Henry replied.
“Wha
t brings you out’n t’here, Mister Proctor? Ain’t country we see a lot of folks travelin’.”
“Up from Lubbock to sell a man some horses over in Tucumcari.”
“Know some folks in Lubbock. You know Burt Dooley?”
“Can’t say’s I do.”
“Huh. Kinda funny you wouldn’t, as he’s in the horse bidness, too.”
“Just had a short stay in Lubbock. Actually live in Fort Worth,” Henry added, hoping that’d cover the man’s curiosity. He figured he’d better do some asking, before his story got too complicated. “Who might you be?” he asked.
“Proper name’s Reverend Blakey, but most just call me Jake.”
“You’re a preacher, then?”
“Damn sure am.”
Henry scanned the horizon. “Don’t see no sign of a town nearby. You got a church? Or you just preach to prairie dogs?”
Blakey laughed a little. “Naw, we got us a church, awright. But it ain’t a town church. We built it out here on the land. Kindy next to m’house. Sort of in the middle for all my congregants—my two brothers and they families, my oldest boy’s wife and they kids, then there’s my wife and daughters. They’s an old hog farmer some miles off with a passel shows up. All told, with they kids and all, we got about thirty gathers up at most meetin’s.”
“Seems like a pretty fair-sized congregation, considering the population around here,” Henry said.
“Well, we stir up a pretty good shoutin’ to the Lord. Fact is, we’re havin’ a meetin’ tonight. You eatin’ supper with us, I expect you’d want to come along.”
As they approached the house, a wind-gouged clapboard structure which appeared to lean slightly in the direction the prevailing winds blew, a mongrel dog came out from under the porch and stood barking at the men. A large stern-faced woman appeared at the open front door and stood, hands on her stout hips. Two somber young girls, who Henry judged to be about eight and ten, stood behind the woman on either side.
Jake stopped ten feet in front of the group, picked a small rock from the ground and threw it at the dog. “Shaddup, Roy!” he said. The dog cowered at the rock strike on the ground beside him and trotted, tail-tucked, back to the underside of the porch.