Scar and the Double D Ranch

by Jim Cox

  “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.”

  »»•««

  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.”

  Chapter Two

  Scar had stopped fifteen miles east of Pinneo for his afternoon coffee. He sat in a field of lush grass with his coat collar up, waiting for the water to heat. Ten yards away was a mountain stream. Maude had been unsaddled and was now grazing. She had already been to the creek and had made two or three attempts to roll over. Their stop would not be lengthy, maybe thirty minutes, but it was time enough to stretch, build a fire, and drink a couple of cups of coffee. By the time they left, Maude would have a full belly and enough rest to complete the final leg of their day’s journey.

  Once
they were back on the trail, the balance of the afternoon was uneventful. They did get a glimpse of deer bounding over a ridge and an eagle sailing in the far-off sky. Scar was glad he chose a seldom-used trail to ride, instead of the more traveled road in the meadows to the south. The scenery was breathtaking. Huge virgin pine trees looked as though they were reaching for the sky, and the vertical cliffs bordering much of his travel were amazing. Mountain streams flowed down rocky beds wherever the terrain allowed. Overhead in the deep blue heavens, pillow-like clouds floated eastward. Huge boulders jutted up occasionally, causing the trail to wind around.

  Scar estimated there was another hour of travel left when he saw black clouds rolling their way. “We’d better find shelter, girl. There’s a storm coming,” he said conversationally. Maude quickened her step. Scar often talked to his mule. Of course, she never answered, but he truly believed she understood what he was saying.

  Thirty minutes later a fire was blazing under a rock overhang. The outcropping protruded eight feet from the cliff, had nine feet of headroom and was open in front and on both sides. The back of the outcropping was cut into the cliff’s wall, four to five feet deep. He had gathered several armloads of wood and was now on his way to the creek for water. Maude had found a patch of grass and was making the most of it before the storm hit. Black clouds were close by, but the rain hadn’t arrived.

  Scar poured a second cup while the bacon was cooking when Maude walked under the overhang. She was dripping wet. A short time later, she lay down at the back. Scar knew she was tired. It had been a long day.

  After eating, he spread his ground cloth, unrolled the bedding, and put a few more pieces of wood on the fire. He removed and placed his boots by his rifle, which was nearby. Sitting on his bedroll with his back against his saddle, Scar watched the rain come down amidst the firelight. It wasn’t long before snowflakes were intermingled with the rain. Scar knew the ground would be covered with a couple of inches of white when morning came, but he wouldn’t let snow bother his travel. Thanksgiving was only a week off. He wanted to be home to celebrate with Liz and the rest of the Double D—the people he considered family. His thoughts paused for a minute or two as he drank his coffee. Then his family of yesteryear came to mind.

  He recalled his childhood days in Blainsboro, Pennsylvania, when his pa was off to war. He remembered his ma and how hard she worked while his pa was gone, how she helped him with his school work and the times she read to him from the Bible. Scar remembered as if it was yesterday, the terrible day of her death, November 7, 1870. She died two months before her baby was to be born. I was thirteen.

  His coffee was cold, so he tossed it out and poured more. After a couple of swallows, his mind raced back to his childhood. He remembered his pa’s skinny body and his bloody handkerchiefs from coughing, due to his consumption. Their trip on an Ohio River barge to Cairo, Illinois, and from there on a Mississippi River boat to St. Louis as they pressed on to Colorado was still a vivid memory.

  He recalled his pa buying Maude and Frankie and a large wagon with a bonnet while in the big city. His thoughts went to his pa’s death on the trail a few days after leaving St. Louis. “He died less than a year after Ma died,” he mumbled.

  A gust of cold wind brought the big man back to the present. His shelter had become cold in spite of the close-by fire, so he drew his blankets around him and was soon sleeping. From habit, he woke after a few hours to put more wood on the fire. It blazed quickly, illuminating falling snow.

  Scar woke to the sound of Maude getting up and the wind blowing. It was first light and snow was swirling down. He rose, shook out his boots before stomping them on, and put on his hat and coat. He added wood to the fire, and while going for water, he saw Maude chomping grass in an area where she’d cleared the snow.

  He prepared his normal trail breakfast, three bacon and biscuit sandwiches with plenty of steaming black coffee. The hot coffee was especially fitting this morning because of the blizzard-like wind blowing through his shelter. After eating, he went to the stream for water to douse the fire. Afterward, he removed his rain slicker and repacked his gear before whistling for Maude. She snipped a few more mouthfuls, went to the stream for water, and then ambled to the shelter. He had the saddle waiting. After pulling the saddle girth tight and knotting it, he tied his bedroll and both bags behind the saddle.

  The second day’s travel toward home was much like the first, except for the wind and snow. The wind had eased, but the snow was now eight inches deep and still coming down. Travel was a little slower due to Maude’s cautiousness in the deep snow, but at the same time, the slower pace gave Scar comfort, knowing she’d most likely stay sure-footed if she didn’t hurry.

  In an effort to find a good shelter for the night, their day had lasted longer than normal, and it was now turning gray in spite of the snow-covered ground. Scar was about to give up and build a make-do refuge when he saw a dark spot on the side of the cliff. It was a cave.

  Scar woke to a bright sun the next morning. He looked back to say something to his mule, but she was gone. She sneaked past me in the soft sand, he thought with a smile as he placed firewood on the red embers. Before heading outside to collect snow for coffee, he stood at the cave’s entrance wall, looking for possible intruders, a habit he’d developed years past. He saw nothing except Maude, who had gone back to the far-off meadow for grass.

  Scar was humming songs as he packed and readied Maude to travel. He was in a good frame of mind with thoughts of Liz and the Double D. If his travels went well, he could be to the ranch by noon tomorrow.

  Maude stepped out at a fairly good pace considering the snow was now ten inches deep. It had warmed a bit, and the sun’s rays had caused an ice crust to form. Maude’s hooves made a crunching noise each time she punched through the icy snow. They were only a couple hundred yards from the cave when they rounded a boulder and Maude stepped on a pile of snow-covered loose rocks, causing her to stumble. She would have easily recovered if the big man had been paying attention, but his mind was on home. His weight added to the downhill force of the already stumbling mule. As she fell, he was thrown off, and Maude slid twenty feet down the mountain on her side. Scar immediately rose and ran to her. “What have I done to you, Maude?” he said in an apologetic voice. “It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” Maude was lying on her side with legs stretched out. Her eyes looked glassy. He made a fast overall assessment. Only her left side was visible. He then examined each of her legs. Both hind legs and her left foreleg looked normal, but as he raised her right foreleg, he saw a six-inch laceration above her knee that was bleeding quite profusely. He quickly removed his bandanna and made a tight tourniquet around her leg, which stopped the bleeding. He removed the saddle and other gear she was carrying and placed her head on his thigh. Scratching her forehead for several minutes seemed to calm her.

  It wasn’t long before she raised her head, pulled her legs under her body, and stood. Scar examined her right side but found no injuries. He patted her neck and scratched her forehead for a spell before picking up his saddle by its horn and slinging it over his shoulder. Then he picked up his carpet bag, and turning to Maude, said, “Let’s go, girl.” After she had taken a few steps, he noticed she was lame in front.

  They walked cautiously back to the cave. Maude went to the back wall where she stood three-legged. Scar quickly kindled a fire from the wood he’d left. After placing the coffee pot full of snow on the fire, he went to his mule. Even though the gash was ugly, he knew it would not cause her to limp, so he tenderly rubbed her injured lower leg with a small amount of pressure. When he moved his hand down her cannon bone to her pastern, she flinched. “You’ve sprung your pastern, girl,” he mumbled as he stood. “It’ll heal up in a couple days, but we’ll have to keep a hot wrap on it till then.” His mind went to Liz. The telegram I sent her said I’d be home by tomorrow, but with Maude’s injury, I’ll be at least two days late, maybe three…she’ll be worried.

  Scar p
ut these thoughts aside and started tending to Maude. She was his first priority under the present circumstance. He retrieved a clean pair of his underdrawers from his bag, cut off both legs with his boot knife, and went for the steaming pot. Squatting by his mule, he poured the hot water on the underdrawers and wrapped her pastern carefully. He then started tending the ugly gash. After he removed the tourniquet and saw the bleeding had stopped, he retied the bandanna, pulling the gash closed, which would enhance the healing process.

  The day passed very slowly. Scar replaced the wrap on Maude’s pastern with a hot one every hour or two. Between times, he sat drinking coffee with his mind on the past.

  Scar remembered the terrible experience he’d had with Luke Mills two days after burying his pa. Luke forced me to his cabin out of the rain, he remembered. During a drinking rage, he beat me with a rawhide whip, cutting nine bloody gashes on my back. I remember raising my head pleading for mercy when the whip tip caught my jaw, cutting my face open and leaving the scar I now carry. He did not recall much after the beating except for riding away from Luke’s place on Maude.

  Scar was told later Alice and Herb Douglas, along with Liz, were traveling to Colorado in a ten-member wagon train when Liz found him lying unconscious on the prairie, tethered to his mule. They provided him a bed in their wagon where Liz and her mother attended to his medical needs. Mrs. Douglas had applied ointment and wrapped his back wounds. After much pondering, she concluded his facial wound, which was reeking with rotten flesh, was causing blood poisoning. It had to be cut away and cauterized with a red-hot branding iron during an evening stop on the trail.

  Scar remained unconscious from the time Liz had found him until five days after the cauterization. She and her mother had taken care of him during the entire time and continued to do so for several more days. Scar’s reminiscing finally came to an end. He was brought back to the present when he heard his mule lying down.