The Winslow War

by Darrel Bird

he was just feeling his oats.” Calvin grinned up at him, and then he walked over to open the gate.

  “How much stock do you reckon is in Coon canyon?” Blake asked as they rode up the valley.

  “Maybe a couple hundred head, and a few more horse stock, the rest is off down yonder in Wildhorse canyon, and up on the mesa.”

  “Blake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How come you joined up to fight with the south ain’t slavery wrong?”

  “I reckon it is boy, I was young and took off with Pap yelling at me not to go, and I joined up with the first Army I came too, which was Patterson’s outfit heading off from Texas. I didn’t know nothing about no war, but when the killing started I found out real quick. When you are in the middle of a war, you are mostly just trying to stay alive more than thinking about the right and wrong of a thing.”

  “Well…whoever was right…the war is over so how come people like Carson is telling us we can’t live on our own land?”

  “Most people that go roaring around like that ain’t ever seen a day of war. I reckon Carson is that sort of feller. They yap about ideals, but the truth of it is, most men who fight in a war don’t ever want to see another day of it. I’m one of’em. See them cows yonder? Lets gather every head of beef we got back down to the valley.” Blake spurred his horse, and raced off toward the grazing cattle.

  They worked a week doing the hot and dangerous work of moving cattle out of draws, and arroyo’s. During the last of the second week they had better than five hundred head grazing peacefully on the rich grass of the valley.

  They were eating supper when Blake spoke, “Calvin, I need to ride into Winslow and see if I can hire some help for the branding, can you slaughter that hog by yourself while I am gone?”

  “Sure I can, but you’re liable to get backshot if you go riding in there, hadn’t I better go with you? What you gonna use for money anyhow Blake? I ain’t got two cents to rub together.”

  “I got my Army pay, I didn’t spend much. We raided a northern supply wagon that had money on it, and the Captain paid us off with that. I ain’t all that easy to kill neither.”

  “Come to look at you I don’t reckon you are. Pa was proud of you Blake.”

  “You don’t say? I thought maybe there was a rift twixt me and Pa, me riding off that way.”

  “Ain’t no war could have made a rift twixt Pa and his kids.”

  “No I expect not, come to think on it. Pa was a good man.”

  “We got to make it right Blake.”

  “It’ll come boy, it’ll come. Lets get some sleep; them cows done wore me out.”

  “Good night Blake.”

  “Good night boy.”

  The next day Blake rode the twenty miles into Winslow on the Dun, the green broke horse had turned out to be a fair cutting horse, He seemed to sense what Blake required of him, and Blake had begun to favor the big horse over the other smaller stock.

  When he came into the cattle town of Winslow he didn’t see much had changed although it was beginning too. The bank was brick; some of the houses were sod and some were plain sawn lumber. He pulled up to the saloon where ranchers met to discuss the weather, riding stock, cattle or any other number of subjects that might come up.

  The saloon was the place where men came to get jobs too, because it was the clearing house for information in the Arizona of 1865.

  He walked up under the low overhanging porch that protruded into the street. There were four saddle horses tied to the rail that doubled as a hitching post. A man with his leg cut off just below the knee sat in a chair outside the saloon. The man had on scraps of a southern uniform. He nodded as he walked past.

  He walked inside the dimly lit place and stopped until his eyes adjusted. Only then was he able to make out the bar in the back of the room clearly.

  “I’ll take a cup of coffee if it ain’t more than a week old.” He said to the older fellow behind the bar.

  “Just made it come daylight this morning. We got whiskey and beer.”

  “The coffee will do.”

  “Not many men come in here to drink coffee; I’m usually the only one that drinks it. Its your funeral soldier, it hot and its strong.”

  “Why do you say soldier?”

  “Seen them crossed rifles on your hat is all.”

  “I’m looking for a couple men to help with the branding, do you know anyone?”

  “Lots of men coming back from the war, they come and go. I sent Brad Gunner to get my mail; he’ll be back in a minute, then there’s the peg leg sitting outside, but he’s a Reb. Reb’s don’t get hired around here. Ain’t too much business today, but you might come back tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the coffee old timer.”

  “You’re welcome.” He heard the man say, but he had already turned to walk out the door. When he got back to the porch he stood, took his hat off to scratch his wooly head.

  “You got a case of greybacks? Turpentine will knock’em.” The man said from his chair.

  “Ain’t greybacks, its trail dust and too long without a haircut.” He looked at the man.

  “Where did you get the game leg?”

  “Chancellorsville. Got hit by a cannon ball. I can tell you been in the war, you got that wore down look same as the rest of us.”

  “Can you ride with that leg?”

  “If I ride the leg will go with me. I overheard you talking to the barkeep in there, and I’m available to work.”

  A man walked out of the saloon behind him, “No reb’s will work around here.”

  “You got the job.” He turned to the other man, “Your whiskey is getting warm son, I suggest you get back to it fore it gets spilt when the bullets start a flying.”

  The man stared at Blake, and he didn’t like what he saw. He turned and walked back inside.

  “My name is Blake, I’m waiting for a man to get back from the post office.” He reached out his hand, and the man shook it. He leaned against the porch post to wait. Soon a bowlegged man emerged from the post office, and crossed the street to the saloon porch.

  “You Gunner? I’m looking for one other man to help with the branding, you interested?”

  “Sure am, how many head you got to brand?”

  “About four hundred head, maybe more, I’ll pay a bonus when the job is done.”

  “Let me give old Mose his mail, and I’ll grab my gear, its stacked in the back of the saloon.”

  The man came out of the saloon carrying his saddle, “My horse is in the stable yonder, I been mucking out the stalls for stable and feed for him.”

  “We’ll wait, what’s your name mister?” He turned to the other man.

  “Name is Bill Stucky.”

  “You hired the reb?”

  “What of it, you want to work or not?”

  “Mr. I’ll ride with anybody if it means I don’t have to muck horse shit, he can even ride back of me if you want. You wait, I’ll be right back.” He threw his saddle across his back and went legging it toward the stables.

  “That cowboy ain’t had a good meal in a while looks like.” Stucky said. “Matter of fact, my back bones done come up to see if my throat’s been cut.”

  “Yeah, well we got food at the ranch; I’d buy you boys something, but I need all the cash I got to pay you to work.”

  “That’s all right mister, I am familiar with hungry. Why, I began to think he was my first cousin before I got home.”

  “I know what you mean, I was down to rattlesnake and grass hoppers before I pulled up to the door of my own ranch house.” Blake replied.

  The cowboy came back down the street riding a fine looking Roan. He stopped his horse where the men were waiting, “The pegleg can ride with me.”

  “You can call me Bill, or Stucky, but don’t call me pegleg. Would you please put that horse over here next to the porch?”

  “Oh yeah, but how you gonna get off him?” The cowboy asked as he led the horse over to the edge of the porch. Stucky reached out a
nd grabbed the saddle horn, and swung himself on.

  “Same way I got on.”

  Gunner shook hands with Stucky, ”Most people call me Skinner.”

  “If you boys are done with the introductions, its time we leave.” Blake led off down the street. The other two men began to discuss the merits of mucking stables versus working cattle.

  “I druther work cows, than muck stables any day.” Skinner said.

  “Stables gotta be mucked too, how’d you like to stand around in your own shit?”

  “Long as I don’t have to do it afoot.”

  “How are you going to stand in your own shit if you ain’t afoot, that don’t make no sense!”

  The two gabbed on as they laid down the distance. Blake watched the two, the way they rode, and decided he had himself a couple good hands. He would need them to brand a hundreds of head of young stuff, because the cattle had been let go, and they were more than half wild. A small calf wasn’t too much trouble to rope, and brand, but a large animal weighing better than two hundred pounds was another matter. Most of the stuff they had to brand was more than a year old. Some of the mother stock was still very protective of their young, and would gore a horse or rider who had gotten off his horse to do some chore or other.

  Stucky rode as if he had