John silenced Riker for a brief time with a hard right that sent him skidding on his back, then stood ready with Rubin to meet the charge. In seconds, the two Triple-G men were exchanging punches with the men from Kansas. Having seen more than one saloon brawl, Liz backed away quickly, thinking to grab the whiskey bottle from the table as she did.
With no time to scramble up from behind the table before the onrush from the three Kansas cowhands, Perley dived under it and grabbed the first pair of unfamiliar boots he could get his hands on. Taking a firm grip, he jerked the boots toward him, pulling the surprised cowhand off his feet, to land hard on his back. Stunned for the moment, the cowhand was helpless to prevent Perley from pulling him out from under the table.
“You take care of that one, Perley!” Rubin yelled when he saw the man disappear just as he was throwing a punch at him.
“I got him!” Perley yelled back.
Before the Kansan could collect himself, Perley pinned him to the floor with a chair clamped over his chest, sitting on it to keep him trapped. When his opponent tried to fight his way out of his predicament, Perley responded with a series of rights and lefts. After a few minutes of this punishment, Perley could see the fight draining out of the Kansan, so he asked, “You had enough?”
“I’ve had enough,” the man gasped, clearly helpless to defend himself.
“Fair enough,” Perley agreed. “If I let you up, we’re done, right?”
“We’re done,” the cowhand agreed. “I didn’t want no part of Riker’s trouble in the first place.”
Perley got out of the chair, removed it from the cowhand’s chest, then extended his hand to help him up. The timing was such that the contest between the man’s two friends and Perley’s brothers also came to a halt, with both sides calling it a draw. The hostile air seemed to have cleared entirely, with even a grin from a couple of the participants, and there appeared to be a desire for a truce from both sides. The circle of patrons that had formed to watch the brawl dispersed to return to their drinking. The event was passed off by all as a harmless fistfight to vent the hardships of a long trail drive—with the exception of one participant.
His head cleared now, after the flush punch that sent him reeling, Riker sought revenge—revenge that would not be satisfied in a fistfight. While the others were distracted in the process of shaking hands, he quietly drew the .44 Colt he wore and raised it to take aim. He had not yet cocked the hammer back when the whiskey bottle wielded by Liz caught him upside his head, and he collapsed to the floor again.
“Well, I reckon that about signals the end of the drinkin’,” Rubin declared when he realized what Liz had just done. “I expect everybody’s worked up an appetite for supper, so we might as well go on over to the Ogallala House.”
“I think we’re gonna call the card game done,” one of the Kansas cowhands said. “We’d best get Riker outta here before he starts more trouble.” He turned to Rubin and said, “None of the rest of us was even thinkin’ about pullin’ a gun.”
“I know,” Rubin replied. “No hard feelin’s a’tall. It was nice gettin’ to know you boys.”
That brought a laugh from both sides.
Perley gave Liz the price of her standard service, telling her that it was worth it in exchange for her action to prevent Riker from shooting one of them.
“You can keep the bottle, too,” he said. It was still over half full. “That’s a good bottle. Didn’t even break when you hit him in the head.”
They stopped to talk to the bartender on their way out of the saloon. Rubin wanted to make sure they left on good terms.
“My name’s Rubin Gates. These two are my brothers, John and Perley. We set the table and chairs back up,” he told him. “I didn’t see that anything got broken.”
Billy Fowler, a slim little man with snowy white hair and beard, responded cordially enough. “I ’preciate you tellin’ me, Mr. Gates. Most of my customers wouldn’t care whether they broke up the furniture or not.”
When he said that, something triggered his mind. “Gates,” he repeated. “Did you say one of your brothers is named Pearly?”
“That’s Perley,” Rubin said, nodding toward him.
“Pearly Gates,” Billy said. “That’s a name you ain’t likely to forget. If that don’t beat all, and I’ve heard it twice in the last six months.” He took another look at Perley. “Only the first one was a helluva lot older than you.” He couldn’t help noticing the look of surprise registering on their faces. “Is he kin of yours?”
“Our grandpa,” Perley said. “As a matter of fact, we’ve been tryin’ to find him. Has he settled around Ogallala somewhere?”
“No,” Billy replied. “He was just passin’ through here. Nice old feller—said he was on his way to see the high mountains while they were still there.” He chuckled when he recalled it. “I don’t know where he thought they might be goin’.”
“Did he say where in the mountains he was headin’?” John asked.
“Well, no, not exactly, but I think he was talkin’ about Colorado, ’cause he was askin’ about the South Platte River. You know—whether it went to the mountains, or should he be on the North Platte.”
They talked a while longer to Billy, but soon realized that he had told them all he could about their grandpa’s plans. So, they thanked him for his help and walked to the Ogallala House to discuss it over supper.
“Whaddaya figure the odds of that happenin’?” John remarked. “Ride over eight hundred miles, and strike Grandpa’s trail in a saloon.” He shrugged. “Well, we know now he ain’t dead.” The question before Rubin and John was what to do about it, if anything.
They were not certain, but Perley was. “I figure this was a sign, just like Mama was talkin’ about. She said we’d find him if we’re supposed to, and this is too unlikely to be a coincidence. I’m thinkin’ I’m supposed to ride the South Platte to Colorado, just like Grandpa did. Maybe I’ll find him in that town we heard about, on Cherry Creek—what’s the name of it?”
“Denver,” Rubin said. “There were a lot of people lookin’ for gold around there. Maybe Grandpa’s gone out there to strike it rich. I know you’re thinkin’ about what Mama said, tellin’ him about Pa dyin’, but I don’t think she’d expect you to go that far.”
It was hard to explain his feelings to his brothers. They wouldn’t understand, but he had an overpowering desire to find the old man. The cattle drive was over, so now would be the best time to be away from the ranch, and he was already hundreds of miles closer to Denver here in Ogallala. It was just too much of a coincidence to strike his trail here, and it would have to be a mistake not to continue on.
His mind made up, he informed them. “Come mornin’, I’ll be headin’ west. Reckon you two can find your way back to Lamar County without me?”
“You’re crazy—you know that, don’t you?” John replied. “There ain’t no tellin’ where that old man ended up.”
“Yeah, but I’ve gotta look anyway, to suit myself,” Perley insisted.
Rubin knew better than to try to dissuade him. “So be it,” he said. “I’ll explain to Mama why you didn’t come home. She’ll appreciate you still lookin’ for him.”
“I’ll take Buck and cut out a packhorse in the mornin’,” Perley said, already thinking about the supplies he would need.
“Make sure you take extra cartridges for that Winchester,” John said. “And you keep a sharp eye about you.”
They spent the night with the rest of the Triple-G crew, beside a small creek, since there were no rooms available at the hotel. After breakfast the next morning, John and Rubin started back to Texas with most of the men, while Perley visited Louis Aufdengarten’s general supply store to outfit himself for the journey he was determined to take.
When he had completed his purchases, he started out on the road, right beside the store, that led to the South Platte River. Once again, he was looking forward to the adventure, much like he imagined his grandfather had fel
t as he started out on the same trail.
CHAPTER 5
With a new spirit of adventure, Perley set out to follow the South Platte to the west as the river wound its way across the seemingly endless prairie. The clerk in the general store where he bought his supplies told him that he would have to travel close to one hundred seventy-five miles before he would likely see the mountains on the horizon. The little town called Denver was over two hundred miles from Ogallala. Perley didn’t care. He was in no hurry, the cattle had been delivered to market, and he had a good horse under him and enough money to buy any supplies he might come to need.
According to the store clerk, he would come to a fork in the road about thirty miles west of Ogallala, where another trail on the north side of the river headed out a little more to the north.
“Make sure you don’t take that one,” the clerk had said. “You do and you’ll end up in Cheyenne, in Wyoming. About ten miles beyond that fork is where the town of Julesburg was, before the Indians raided and burned it. You’ll know you’re on the right trail when you see what’s left of it.”
Perley figured the fork in the trail might be a good place to rest his horses. He started the bay gelding out at an easy lope for a couple of miles before letting him settle back to a comfortable walk. He usually let his horses rest after riding about twenty or twenty-five miles, but it wouldn’t be any strain on Buck or the sorrel packhorse he was leading to continue another five miles. Neither horse showed any signs of tiring.
Although there was a common trail running along the river, he met no one else as he rode. When he approached the spot where the other trail the clerk had mentioned forked off, he could see that it led directly to the riverbank. Perley decided to follow it down to the water, but pulled Buck up short when he spotted a couple of horses grazing near the bank. He scanned the trees that lined the river, but saw no one. He decided to proceed, but with caution, so he drew the Winchester from the saddle sling and nudged Buck to move slowly into the trees.
He had not gone more than a few yards when a woman suddenly popped out from behind a cottonwood, with a pistol aimed at him. He reined back hard, almost making Buck rear up, but the woman didn’t shoot.
“Stop right there!” she commanded.
A few feet away, someone stepped out from behind another tree, also holding a gun. Perley started to slowly back Buck away.
“I said stop,” the woman said.
“Perley Gates!” the second person exclaimed. “It’s all right, Stella—I know him.” She dropped the pistol down to her side. “You remember me, don’t you? I’m Liz, from last night.”
It struck him then—it was Liz, all right, but she was dressed in men’s clothes and boots, and her hair was pulled up under a hat. Sizable woman that she was, she looked like a man, standing in the shadow of the tree.
“Well, I’ll be . . .” he started. “Why were you fixin’ to shoot me?”
“Because we thought you were Kenny Lamb, coming back to see what else he could steal before he killed us,” Stella said.
“Who’s Kenny Lamb?” Perley asked as he stepped down from the saddle.
Liz explained. “He’s a no-account drifter who’s been hangin’ around the saloon. We paid him to take us to Cheyenne. He said he could protect us from any outlaws or wild Sioux renegades—only trouble is, we needed somebody to protect us from him. He was gettin’ free service to boot, but I reckon that wasn’t enough. He wanted to clean us out, and I know he was plannin’ to leave us out here with our throats cut. He didn’t figure on us havin’ guns, did he Stella?”
Stella held her pistol up again for him to see, grinning as she did.
“He sneaked up on me when I was down in the bushes, yonder,” Liz continued. “He didn’t know that Stella was over behind another bush, and she had her pistol with her. I let out a yell when he grabbed me by the throat, and Stella came to my rescue.” She paused to chuckle over the memory. “When Kenny saw her gun, he ran for it.”
“I shot at him three times,” Stella said, “but I reckon I can’t hit doodley-squat with a pistol.”
“Anyway,” Liz went on, “I guess he decided to settle for what he could take on the run. The son of a bitch took off with our packhorse. When we heard your horse whinny, we thought it was him coming back.”
Perley was amazed to hear the women’s story. “What were you goin’ to Cheyenne for?”
Liz had said nothing about planning to take an early morning trip when she sat with them the night before. He thought he would have remembered it.
“Well,” Liz began, “that’s another story, one you already know something about. Seems like I bought a whole lot of trouble for myself when I hit Riker upside the head with that bottle. After they left last night, one of his friends came back to warn me that Riker swore he was gonna come after me. His friend, I think his name is Red, said Riker wasn’t foolin’, and he thought I’d best find a place to hide. I thought I’d be better off somewhere besides Ogallala, and Stella has a friend that runs the Cattleman’s Saloon in Cheyenne, so she said she’d go with me.”
“Is that why you’re dressed up like a man?” Perley asked, since she hadn’t offered to explain.
“Yep. It was Stella’s idea. She figured if Riker happened to catch sight of us, he’d think she was with a man.”
“I was plannin’ to go to Cheyenne anyway,” Stella said. “It’s a bigger town than Ogallala. Me and Liz oughta do real well there.”
“I reckon we’ll just have to make it to Cheyenne on our own,” Liz said. “I know I ain’t goin’ back to the Cowboy’s Rest. Hell, we’d most likely be leavin’ there in a couple of months anyway. Ogallala gets pretty dead in the winter after the last herds are brought in.”
“I swear,” Perley responded, “that’s enough bad luck to last for a good while. Did you say this fellow ran off with your packhorse?”
“He did,” Liz replied. “And it was already packed up ready to start out, and that’s a problem.” She looked at Stella, who nodded in agreement. “All our food and cookin’ supplies were on that horse—our clothes, fryin’ pans, coffeepot . . . didn’t leave us anything to start out with. I reckon we oughta thank our lucky stars that our ridin’ horses were down at the water, or we’d be on foot.”
Perley thought about their plight for a long moment before commenting. “I expect it’s a hundred and fifty miles from here to Cheyenne.”
He paused again, thinking about his quest to follow his grandfather into Colorado, before reluctantly volunteering. “You can’t make that trip without anything to cook—or even to cook with, if you had it. I reckon I can see you to Cheyenne. I’ve got enough bacon and such for the three of us, and if we’re lucky, we might run up on something to shoot. ’Course, that’s if you want me to come along.”
The expressions displayed on both of their faces were answer enough.
“I declare!” Stella exclaimed. “I might better drop down on my knees right now and thank the Good Lord for sendin’ us an angel. Me and Liz was wonderin’ what in the world we was gonna do.”
“We coulda rode back to Ogallala,” Liz said. “But I was scared to go back there. I was set on ridin’ to Cheyenne even if I starved to death on the way. I’ll figure some way to pay you back for takin’ us. Were you headin’ that way anyway?”
“No, ma’am,” Perley replied. “I was gonna stay on that other trail into Colorado, headin’ to Denver.”
His remark caused Liz to remember his talking to Billy Fowler, so she asked, “Is that where you were goin’ to look for your grandpa?”
“Yep, that’s where I was aimin’ to start lookin’, anyway. That bartender said that’s where Grandpa was talkin’ about.”
“I reckon we’re messin’ up your plans.” She said it as if to apologize, but she was not about to refuse his help.
“No matter,” he said. “I’ll see you ladies to Cheyenne, then I’ll head south to Denver from there. It’s gonna be a little while before we start out, though. I’ve
gotta rest my horses.”
While the horses were drinking from the river, Perley rebuilt the fire the women had built to cook their breakfast and put his coffeepot on to boil. While they enjoyed his coffee, Stella sought to make his acquaintance.
“I ain’t sure I heard right when you first rode up, me gettin’ ready to shoot you and all. What did Liz call you?”
“Perley,” he answered. “Perley Gates.”
She paused, not sure, so he said, “Like the gates up in Heaven, just not spelled the same.”
Stella couldn’t help chuckling. “Your mama and papa musta had a real sense of humor to put a name like that on a young’un.”
“I was named for my grandpa,” Perley said patiently, then repeated the story of how he came to be called Perley Gates, an explanation he had given a hundred times or more.
When he had finished, Stella commented, “Well, that’s a right good name for an angel, and that’s what me and Liz are gonna call you—Angel.” She grinned at Liz and Liz grinned in agreement.
“I reckon I’d rather you call me Perley,” he said.
* * *
It was not yet noon when they crossed over the South Platte and set out on the trail to Cheyenne. Perley couldn’t help but wonder how he happened to decide the fork in the trail was where he wanted to rest his horses. He had been following the river all the way, he could have stopped anywhere to rest the horses, but he decided to push them another five miles. Had he not, he would no doubt never have run into Liz and Stella and would be on his way to Denver. Another damn cow pie, he thought, but as soon as he thought it, he chastised himself. It was a lucky thing for them that he had come along. They would have been in a hell of a fix on their own.
The Legend of Perley Gates Page 7