A Man Called Scar

by Jim Cox

  »»•««

  Scar was holding coffee in his lookout stand by the time it was full light. He had rested well, eaten a good breakfast, and packed his belongings. Nothing stirred in the valley, but looking through binoculars, he saw clusters of black dots a few miles to the south. He assumed the dots were buffalo. To the north, between mountain tops, eagles soared. Time passed slowly.

  By midmorning, the bright sun was beaming down heat waves. As Scar stood to remove his coat, he saw a line of dust in the far distance coming toward him. He set the binoculars aside, not wanting the sun to reflect off the glass and give away his position. The dust moved at a snail’s pace.

  Several minutes later, Scar’s suspicions came true. Three riders drove twenty-one head of cows up the valley. He knew the only thing in the valley where they were heading was a boxed canyon, maybe several. Most likely they were driving the cows to one. An hour later the dust disappeared among the mountain ridges to the north.

  It would take time for the three riders to leave the valley, so Scar went back to his campsite, kindled a small fire to make more coffee, and ate a hardtack. After drinking two cups, he went back to his stand where he sat with his back against a tree.

  For the next three hours, he took in the beautiful landscape and watched an occasional wild animal pass through the valley. His thoughts rambled. He was thinking of Liz when the dust reappeared. The men he had seen earlier were returning without the cows.

  When they had traveled past him a mile or so, he whistled for Maude, saddled her, tied his saddle bag and carpet bag to the back of the saddle, and headed down the mountain toward the cow tracks. It was obvious from the ruts dozens of cows had been driven up the trail over the years. However, the morning’s prints covered the old tracks and were easy to follow. After riding for an hour, the tracks led to a row of felled trees piled across the opening of a horseshoe boxed canyon. A couple of small trees served as the gate. Scar found his way in and was astonished at what he saw. He estimated the canyon encompassed seven hundred acres of lush grass surrounded by high cliffs. Over five hundred cows were milling about. Not far from the entrance was a smoldering fire pit with branding irons close by.

  For the next hour, Scar scouted the brands on the cows. They varied in the healing process from freshly burned to completely healed. Scar could easily distinguish the newly altered portion of the brands and made the appropriate sketches on his notepad. There were eight altered brands. The originals could have been easily changed with a straight iron by connecting a few lines on the original brands. He tore out the sketches, put them in his vest pocket, and headed for Pinneo. It would be dark when he got there.

  Pinneo was quiet when Scar rode down its only street. The homes and businesses were mostly dark except for the tavern located in the middle of town that echoed with a piano and loud talking. The big man smiled. “Just like most western towns,” he mumbled. “They all support a tavern.” As he continued, he saw a café, a bank, the jail, a mercantile, a barber, and a livery. They were all dark. He was looking for a hotel but saw none. Near the road’s end was a big house with a boarding house sign, but it was dark too. Scar started to leave to find a site to camp but changed his mind.

  Several minutes after his firm knock, a dim light shone through a porch window. The door eased back revealing an old woman wearing a robe over a nightgown hanging to her ankles. She raised her lamp higher, eyeing the big stranger from hat to boot. Her gray hair was twisted under her nightcap, and she was barefoot. “It’s awful late,” she said with a sour face. “I’ve been asleep for over an hour. Couldn’t you have slept under the stars?”

  “I considered that, ma’am, but I’ve slept under ’em for the past ten days and thought it was time for a soft bed. But if it’s too much trouble, I can spend another night under ’em.” The old woman softened and introduced herself. Scar responded by saying his name was Bart Carter.

  They settled on six bits a day, which included his room, breakfast and supper, and a stall with feed for Maude. Taking Maude to the barn behind the house, he removed the saddle and put her in a stall, and then he put a pint of oats and five ears of corn in the trough. Taking his rifle from the saddle boot and retrieving his two bags, Scar headed for bed.

  Scar woke at first light, splashed water on his face, and finger-combed his hair. After dressing and putting on his coat, he headed downstairs with his saddle bag. Mrs. Detwiler saw him at the back door and called to him, “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes, Bart. Aren’t you gonna eat with us?”

  “No, ma’am. I may be back later, but don’t wait on me.”

  “I keep food warm until eight o’clock. After that, I put things away. Coffee is always on. By the way, I do laundry for twenty-five cents. If you need anything washed, lay them by your door…I’ll pick ’em up.”

  “I’m obliged to know that, ma’am. I have several things that need washed.” Scar nodded his goodbye and went to the barn to give Maude a feeding of oats and corn, along with a fork of hay. Her water barrel was still over half full.

  Scar walked down the road, saw an open shop with a sign in the window saying HAIRCUT AND BEARD TRIM 10 CENTS—BATH 15 CENTS. When Scar entered, the barber motioned toward the chair. Scar put his saddle bag in a chair before sitting. “Cut my hair and trim my beard, but leave the whiskers around my scar fairly long.” The barber’s face took on a puzzled look as he observed the big man’s scar. “After you’re finished cutting, I’d like a bath if the water’s clean and hot.”

  “It’s early. Only two men have used the tub, and I always keep a couple of buckets heating on the fire outside.”

  After his haircut, Scar headed for the outside tub, climbed in, and soaked for several minutes. The hot water felt good. Scar toweled off, removed clean clothes from his saddlebag, and dressed. He was paying the two bits when the barber asked, “You wouldn’t be the man called Scar…the man who put his life on the line to save a fellow trail driver during a stampede a couple years back?”

  Scar answered nonchalantly. “It could have been me. I was on a cattle drive two years back, and some folks do call me Scar.”

  “Sure had people talking,” said the barber. “Your name still comes up from time to time.” Scar smiled, tipped his hat, and left.

  He was feeling refreshed and ready for his morning meal. As he remembered, the café was across the street and north a few doors. All eyes turned his way when he entered. His muscular body nearly filled the door, and his black, flat-brimmed hat almost touched the top of the door frame. He hung his coat on a wall peg and headed for a corner table. Coffee was being poured for him by the time he sat down. One by one the customers went back to eating.

  Scar was evaluating the men at the five bench tables when a pleasant looking, middle-aged woman brought his food. It was like most western restaurants—there were no choices. You ate what they brought. His plate was filled with three fried eggs, fried potatoes, four pieces of bacon, and a bowl of gravy. Centered on the table were salt and pepper, butter, jelly, and a platter of biscuits. Scar dug in but continued to observe the other tables. They matched men in other western towns he’d been to—a conglomerate of nationalities, races, and physical characteristics. Some were tall and skinny, some had beards or mustaches, and some were clean-shaven. Some were dressed well, but some wore clothing that was nearly rags. They were all different but were the same. Occasional stares came his way.

  When he finished eating, the waitress filled his cup again and took his empty plate. She’d been to his table three times with coffee when he waved her off with a smile, paid his bill, and left with everyone’s eyes on his back. At least that’s what he imagined.

  By this time of day, the hitching rails held several ties, so Scar walked slowly up the boardwalk looking at brands. Several of the original brands he had seen on the stolen cattle were present on horses’ rumps, but he found none of the altered ones. After walking along both sides of the street, he came to a building with a sheriff’s sign hanging beside
the door. He entered.

  The sheriff had his back to the door doing paperwork when Scar entered. “Have a seat,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Be with you in a minute.” Scar remained standing inside the door. A little later the sheriff turned toward the door and stared at the huge stranger. His eyes lingered on the scar. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “My name is Bart Carter, but most folks call me Scar,” the big man said.

  The sheriff extended his hand. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Scar. I’ve heard a lot of good reports about you.” After shaking hands, Scar was again offered a chair. The sheriff sat back down behind his desk and asked, “What brings you to Pinneo?”

  “I was sent here by Governor Routt to investigate the rustling that’s been going on around here. I work for him. He made me a state marshal a couple months back.”

  The sheriff stared at Scar for a time, and then with a furrowed forehead and tight lips, said authoritatively, “What’s this all about? I didn’t know Colorado had marshals, and I’ve never heard of the governor sending a man to solve small town problems.”

  “It’s something new,” Scar said. “A couple months back, Governor Routt selected a group of five marshals to fight crime within the state. I’m one of the marshals and have been assigned to the northwest area. He wants to put a stop to the rampant criminal activity going on and stop outlaws from robbing town after town. He says it’s time to use the latest equipment, mainly the telegraph, to communicate any criminal activity with town sheriffs.”

  “No one has contacted me about these new marshals,” the sheriff said.

  “We wanted to keep the investigation quiet. I’ve been in the area for the last ten days observing cattle movements.”

  “I ain’t very pleased, the governor sending you in here telling me how to do my job,” the red-faced sheriff shouted, slamming his fist on his desk. “I’ve heard about your boldness, but it don’t cut nothing with me. You’re big…I’ll give you that, but you’re still a wet-behind-the-ears kid and ain’t capable of solving cow thievery.”

  Scar let several seconds go by, restraining a smile. “When you’ve settled yourself, Sheriff, I’ll discuss the matter with you and fill you in on what I’ve found.”

  The local lawman shook his head and offered an apology. “I’m sorry…I have a bad temper.”

  “You’re right, Sheriff. I know I’m not capable of stopping the rustling on my own. I’m only nineteen, and this is my first assignment. I need your help. I believe if we work together, we can stop the thievery.”

  “What’s your story, Scar? What’s your plan to catch the thieves?”

  Scar explained his surveillance findings in great detail, especially the part about the box canyon, the branding irons, and the altered brands. He removed the papers from his vest pocket and handed them to the sheriff. “I made sketches of the original brands I found on the cows in the canyon. As you can see, it would be easy to change these, using a straight iron to alter the originals.”

  The sheriff examined the papers for a spell and said, “You’re right Scar. It would be easy to change these to the altered brand.”

  “Can you identify who owns the brands?” he asked. The sheriff nodded and started naming the ranches and the owners’ names. Scar wrote down the information beside the appropriate sketches. When the sheriff came to the altered brand, he hesitated. “I ain’t sure about this one—it’s kind of a mystery brand roaming our open grazing. We call it the Connected Triple Box brand because there are three interlocking boxes in the brand. There’s a few head on the range that carries it…maybe a hundred. I’ve never met the owner, but I’ve been told he lives in Texas. A few years back, he drove several head of cows to our area, and every year since then, their offspring and culls are sold and the money sent off.”

  “The information is a big help, Sheriff. Our suspect list has been narrowed down to one. All we have to do is to find out who owns the Connected Triple Box brand.”

  “How are we gonna do that?” the puzzled lawman asked.

  “I’ll send a telegram to the governor’s office asking for the owner’s name. All ranches and brands are on file in the capital.”

  “I didn’t know files were kept,” said the sheriff. “When did the state start gathering file information?”

  “About three years ago,” Scar said with a slight smile. “Where’s the telegraph office, Sheriff?”

  Before supper time, Scar returned to the jail holding a telegram. The sheriff poured coffee, and they both sat down. “I can see you’ve got a reply. What did you find out?”

  “One of the governor’s assistants says the Triple Box brand is owned by Jeff Collins. He also said Mr. Collins owns the Swinging Gate brand, which is a large spread close to Pinneo.” Scar handed the telegram to the sheriff.

  “I can’t believe this,” the lawman said. “Jeff Collins is one of the most respected ranchers in the area.” A minute or so passed until the sheriff spoke again. “It sure looks to me like he’s the guilty one—not much doubt about it.” The sheriff paused and then said, “You had a sketch of the Swinging Gate. Why would Jeff rustle his own cows?”

  “I guess it was to throw the suspicion away from him.”

  “The acting judge will be around next week. We can have Jeff’s trial while he’s here. It won’t be hard to gather a jury once the word gets out,” the lawman said.

  “Do you need me to help in the arrest, Sheriff?”

  He thought on the matter for a spell. “I’ll handle it on my own, Scar, if you don’t mind. Jeff is a good friend of mine.” Scar nodded his approval. He didn’t worry the rustler was a friend of the sheriff. He knew justice would be served by the Pinneo lawman.

  Scar set his cup down. “I’ll be leaving in the morning unless you change your mind about needing my help.”

  The sheriff asked, “Mind if we have breakfast together before you leave?”

  “I’d be obliged,” the big man answered. “I need to replenish my traveling supplies at the mercantile and then send my wife a telegram, telling her I’ll be home in three or four days. We can eat beforehand. I’ll be at the café by first light, Sheriff…see you then.”

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  The two lawmen had pushed their breakfast plates back and held their third refills when the sheriff started with a sober face. “I’m beholden to you for solving my rustling problem, Scar. And I’m awful sorry for losing my temper with you yesterday. I didn’t mean a thing I said. You’re a credit to our profession, and I’m glad I had the chance to meet you.”

  “Thanks for those words,” Scar said, “and if you’re ever in Flat Peaks, look me up.” They stood, shook hands, and Scar headed for the telegraph office with Maude following.

  The sheriff was standing at the café door watching Scar leave when several men got up from their food and gathered around him. After a long pause, a tall skinny cowhand asked, “Who is that big man, Sheriff?”

  “Why does he ride a floppy-eared mule?” another asked.

  The sheriff turned to face the bystanders. “That’s Scar, the man we heard about a couple years back. He’s the man with those unique fighting skills. I’ve heard, it’s a sight to see how he can use his hands and body during a fight. Once he brought in three tough cattle thieves. They had him cornered with guns, but within minutes, Scar had their hands tied and was herding them to the local town’s lockup. He also laid his life on the line to keep a fellow trail hand from being trampled in a stampede during a cattle drive a couple years back. The governor appointed him as a state marshal. That’s why he was in Pinneo…to help me solve our rustling problem. As far as the mule is concerned, she’s never very far from him. He says she’s like a family member, and they work together as a team.”

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