by John Hansen
Sarah had a puzzled look on her face. “What’s this?”
“Josh left it,” said Lester simply.
Sarah unfolded the paper and began to read what was written there:
Dear Sarah and Lester,
If I do not return from my quest for justice I want the two of you to split my savings which Lester is holding. Any of my other worldly goods that might be recovered are yours as well. Also, please write my father (William Morrow) in Galveston, Texas, and let him know what happened to me. Your friend, Josh Morrow
P.S. Sarah, you are a good woman. I wish you well in life.
Sarah began to tear up as she quietly read what amounted to Josh’s will a second time. When she was finished she folded the paper and handed it back to Lester. She sighed heavily as a single tear rolled down her cheek. “I don’t understand why he would do this for me, Lester.”
“I do,” said Lester in a kind voice. “You’re a good person. Sure you hit a rough spot in Bear Creek, but that’s in the past. Fair-minded folks’ll judge you on who you are today and not for times gone by. Josh is one of those people; he’s got a good heart.”
“Oh, I know he does,” said Sarah as she clasped her hands together and rested them on the table in front of her. “It’s just that I’ve been nothing but trouble for him.”
“Count your blessings, Sarah,” admonished Lester. “Friends do for friends. Just look at what Josh is doin’ right now for his friend Seth. If you ask me he’s ah-dishin’ up a big helpin’ a bad times and he knows it, but he’s ah-doin’ it anyways. You should consider yourself lucky to have Josh Morrow as a friend.”
“I do,” said Sarah, “it’s just that…” She paused, wondering if she should reveal any of her innermost feelings about Josh. She was embarrassed; here she was wanting to talk to Lester as if he were her father and she was seeking advice. The silence was deafening and then Lester said: “I ain’t never had all that much experience when it comes to affairs of the heart, but what little I do know ‘bout the subject tells me that if there’s a spark there that by and by it’ll become a fire.”
Sarah blushed. She was so conflicted. Enough had been said. “It’s getting dark,” she said as she rose from her chair. “I best get these dishes done up.”
For a brief moment Lester looked at Sarah; she avoided eye contact as she went about gathering the dirty dishes from the table. The single tear on her cheek had dissipated, but there appeared to be more in the making. Knowing that there was little he could do or say to hold them back, he rose from his chair and said: “Me an’ Rufus is gonna go down and check on the mules. We’ll be back in a bit.”
“OK,” said Sarah casually with her back to Lester, and then, when she could no longer hear the banter between Lester and Rufus, she sat down in the chair nearest the stove. For a moment she listened to the fire crackle and pop and the hum of the water in the big metal pot as it worked towards boiling. The solitude was overwhelming. She felt so alone; there was no point fighting it and so she allowed herself to cry. She wished that Josh would come back.
Chapter Twelve
Sheriff Hollis had arrived at the mouth of Chokecherry Creek at about dusk. He’d ridden a short ways up the trail and then made a cold camp in a shallow side canyon off the trail. If what Rudy had told him about Stevenson always riding out to Chokecherry Canyon to meet the marshal was correct, he hoped that he’d be lucky enough to intercept him somewhere down in the canyon.
After a cold breakfast of elk jerky and a couple of dry sourdough biscuits that his wife had made, Hollis saddled up and headed towards the main trail in the bottom of Chokecherry Canyon. He had no idea what the marshal looked like; his only clue was what Rudy had told him about the marshal riding a big gray horse. He’d been pondering this fact on the ride up to see Buster and his gang yesterday when it came to him that he’d seen a big gray horse tied to a hitching rail near the Gold Strike on several occasions during the past couple of weeks. In fact, if his memory served him correctly, there was a big gray hitched out front of the Gold Strike when the uppity Texan killed the Swede and walked out with the new whore. “That sonovabitch’s been comin’ and goin’ as he pleases right under my nose,” grumbled Hollis aloud. “That’s gonna end right soon.” There was only one problem with that declaration: Hollis didn’t know exactly where in Chokecherry Canyon the marshal would be, if at all. And so he started up the canyon on the trail that paralleled the creek looking for a man on a big gray horse, hopeful that he would be the marshal. Chokecherry Canyon was a fairly broad canyon in comparison to some of the other nearby drainages. There were, as its name implied, numerous chokecherry trees along the creek, but to either side of it there was good, rich soil that supported grassy meadows and scattered aspen and ponderosa pine. The canyon bottom had an abundance of forage for livestock and wildlife, making it a preferred route for pack trains going to Boise. Freight wagons, on the other hand, didn’t go this way due to the lack of a road owing to the steep climb needed to get out of the head of the canyon.
It was shaping up to be another exceptionally hot day. Hollis had gone about two miles up the canyon when he came to a place where the creek meandered from one side of the canyon to the other. It was at this point that the trail crossed through the creek, which was no more than about fifteen feet wide and a foot deep. It made for a convenient place to water a horse due to the brush having been worn down over time from all of the traffic crossing the creek here. And so Hollis dismounted and allowed his horse to drink while he went just upstream and scooped water first onto his face and then up to his mouth to drink. And then came an unwanted voice. “Hot day, huh, Sheriff?”
Hollis looked up and across the creek; there stood the half-breed, Sean O’Fallon. He had an evil smile on his face and a swagger to his stance. Both of his thumbs were tucked just behind the center of his gun belt. He was staring intently at Hollis. “What are you doin’ here, Sean? I thought you and Buster and the boys would be workin’ your way over to Sheep Springs,” said the sheriff cautiously from his kneeling position beside the creek.
O’Fallon laughed wickedly. “You think too much, Hollis,” he said sarcastically.
Slowly and carefully, so as to not aggravate O’Fallon, the sheriff got to his feet. He felt more confident now that he was standing and facing the half-breed. It was almost like a replay of yesterday. “Does Buster know you’re here?” asked Hollis.
“Oh, I reckon he’s got a pretty good idea where I’m at. I didn’t keep no secrets from ‘im when I left.”
“So you and Buster have parted company?” asked Hollis.
“Yeah, I’m done with those dumb bastards and you too,” replied O’Fallon angrily. “We been buyin’ you off way too long.”
Hollis’ demeanor became more tense. He watched O’Fallon’s eyes carefully, as he knew that’d be the first indicator of when he was going for his gun. “Well, Sean, it’s been over a year now and you boys have done alright and you’ve managed to stay outa jail and off the gallows. If you ask me, it sure as hell beats workin’ for a livin’.”
“Maybe that’s the way you see it, Sheriff, but from where I stand we been havin’ to slice the pie way too thin. And now with this marshal from Boise up here pokin’ around, I figure you’re about as useful as a bull with no balls.”
“Sorry you feel that way, Sean,” replied Hollis in a disingenuous tone of voice.
“Yeah, I’ll just bet you are,” snorted O’Fallon, and then he laughed. “But once I’m done with you, ain’t none of this gonna matter ‘cause you won’t be feelin’ a thing.”
The half-breed’s words didn’t have the desired effect on the sheriff. His facial expression didn’t change except for a slight smirk. It was like he welcomed O’Fallon’s threat. “So you wanna try your hand again, do ya, Sean?”
O’Fallon stared back at Hollis. Both of his thumbs remained tucked behind the center of his gun belt. Yesterday at Hollis’ cabin had been an embarrassment. He’d felt humiliated in front of his peers.
And now it seemed like the courage that he had mustered to make the ride here and challenge the sheriff had been exhausted—now when he needed it most. But it was too late; his pride had committed him to a one-way trip. He couldn’t back down now. His mind was spinning furiously. Second thoughts of what Buster and the boys were doing at that moment kept flashing through his mind like a bad lightning storm. His heart pounded in his ears so fast that he couldn’t separate the beats. He was feeling sick to his stomach but he couldn’t back down.
And then Hollis said calmly: “We gonna dance, Sean? I saved a spot on my card just for you.”
The veins in O’Fallon’s neck pulsated with anger, but it was apparent to him that his anger was no match for the sheriff’s lack of fear; nonetheless, his pride was in charge and so he said in a hateful tone: “I’m gonna teach you some respect.”
Hollis smiled derisively. He knew that he could beat O’Fallon in a gunfight and he intended to end it now rather than get bushwhacked later on, and so he said: “Sean, you’re wastin’ my time. Things didn’t go good for ya yesterday so you went and got yourself all worked up about it and well, here ya are. So let’s start the music.”
Slowly, O’Fallon removed his thumbs from behind his gun belt and lowered his hands to his side. His hands were trembling, but this demon called pride was dictating his actions.
It was clear to Hollis that O’Fallon was scared, but he wasn’t about to let him off of the hook and so he said: “Whenever you’re ready, Sean, fill your hand. Course we know how that worked out.” And then Hollis laughed.
Hollis’ words had their intended effect. O’Fallon’s eyes widened with intent and his pistol had just cleared its holster when the hammer of Hollis’ .44 Remington dropped, sending a bullet into O’Fallon’s wildly throbbing heart. The shock instantly registered on O’Fallon’s face as his heart’s rhythm stumbled to a halt. His pistol, still not cocked, eased from his hand and fell to the ground almost in unison to his knees slowly buckling. And then like the felling of a big tree when the last of the holding wood has been severed, O’Fallon tilted uncontrollably face first into the edge of Chokecherry Creek. Hollis stood on the opposite side of the creek, pistol in hand, staring down at O’Fallon’s lifeless body. He was numb, almost indifferent to what he had just done. Within moments, a blood cloud had formed over the body that lingered in the shallow water at the creek’s edge, and then little by little as it floated too near the current it was snatched away and sent on its way to obscurity.
The sheriff had come to savor the adrenalin rush that he got when killing a man, but this wasn’t one of those times. He had a more important task at hand, albeit it involved killing a man, but it was a killing of importance; Sean O’Fallon was nothing more than an impediment to, ironically, the sheriff being able to disassociate himself from the O’Fallons, Kreggs, and Menaghers of the world. But this could only happen if he got rid of the marshal and got the gold that he was hopefully carrying.
Chapter Thirteen
There had been a full moon the night before and Edgar had taken advantage of it, riding throughout the night. His horse had thrown a shoe on the rocky Moonshine Creek trail and was now walking a little gimpy, making his progress a bit slower. He was a couple of miles from Bear Creek when his thoughts concerning the events at his and Leroy’s camp had finally gelled into some sort of plan—or at least he hoped so. The first part of his plan called for him keeping all of the gold that he and Leroy had dug out of their claim since the last time the sheriff had been by demanding protection money. It had galled both he and Leroy that they had to make the sheriff a full partner, giving him a third of everything that they found; if not they were going to jail for murder. The inequity of this arrangement grated on them constantly, and there was seldom an hour of the waking day that they didn’t bemoan the fact that they had to give the sheriff a cut for doing what they perceived as absolutely nothing to earn it. But now he had all of the gold that he and Leroy had recovered during the last ten days and he aimed to keep it. He’d worked too hard for it to do otherwise. They’d gotten into some rich dirt, even finding some decent-sized nuggets in the bottom of their sluice box instead of just flecks of gold. Edgar figured it was close to $10,000.00 worth; that was enough to lie for, maybe even kill for. And so it was that Edgar found himself riding by the light of the moon up a side canyon that intersected the Bear Creek road looking for a place to stash his gold. It was a dry canyon with mostly sagebrush and some scattered ponderosa pines. In his haste to abandon Leroy, he had grabbed only the saddlebags containing the gold and had not thought about bringing a shovel, but then, at that point, he just wanted to put distance between himself and the deputy marshal that had Leroy pinned down. He was riding slowly, looking for an opportune place to hide the saddlebags, when there it was. A huge ponderosa pine had been struck by lightning at some point in the past. The fire had hollowed out a good deal of the tree—so much so that it caused it to fall over during a big wind event. Edgar, who was riding bareback, pretty much slid down the side of his horse. He dropped the reins and walked over to the fallen tree; lying on its side, near the base it hit him at about waist high. A good deal of snowberry and some bitterbrush had grown up around the fallen giant. The entrance to the charcoal cavity was partially obscured. Edgar waded through the brush and knelt before the entrance to the cavity. In the poor light it was difficult to tell exactly how far back the cavity extended, but it was beyond the reach of his arm. “This’ll have to do,” he said aloud. “Won’t be long term anyway,” he further reasoned with himself. “Soon as things settle down I’ll come back for this.” And so Edgar shoved the saddlebags up into the hollow tree close to five feet, he reckoned.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon as Edgar rode into Bear Creek. Lanterns were visible through some windows and others not, with the dark windows probably winning out. That was good, thought Edgar. Me ridin’ in here bareback without no gear of any kind is bound to look peculiar to some folks. Don’t need people runnin’ their jaws about why I come to town without Leroy and such. They’ll be doin’ that soon enough.
Edgar’s first stop was at the livery stable and blacksmith. A heavyset man with thinning brown hair that was graying around the temples stepped out to meet Edgar. “Mornin’,” said the blacksmith as he eyed Edgar’s appearance.
“Mornin’,” replied Edgar in a businesslike tone as he slid down from his horse. “My horse threw its right front shoe. Do you suppose you can put a new one on for me this morning?”
The smithy, who had taken a Sioux arrow in his left hip some years back, walked with a limp. As he stepped closer to Edgar, he paused and looked at him in a bemused manner. “What the hell happened to you?”
Without thinking Edgar said: “Why?”
The smithy laughed. “Look at yourself. You look like you been sleepin’ with the hogs.”
It was only then that Edgar took in the full measure of himself. He had charcoal smudges and scuff marks the full length of his body. His appearance took him by surprise. His mind was frantic to process a suitable lie. And then it came to him so quickly that the words were there like he had no control over them. “I fell in the campfire.”
“How come didn’t ya get burnt?” replied the smithy disbelievingly.
“The fire was out. It was just ashes.”
“Wuhl, were ya drunk? Ya look like ya musta wallered in it like an’ ole sow hog.”
Edgar was becoming irritated with the smithy’s probing. He wasn’t an experienced liar, having usually left that to Leroy in the past, but he was quickly learning that one lie usually led to another. “I was tryin’ to get away from this fellar that bushwhacked me and Leroy. I was runnin’ for my horse and I tripped on the fire ring at our camp. I was lucky to get away with my life.”
The smithy’s demeanor became more serious. “Well, what happened to your partner?”
“Dead, I reckon,” replied Edgar with little emotion. “I aim to find the sheriff an’ see if we can’t track this f
ellar down that done the killin’.”
The smithy shook his head. “Well, good luck with that.” He paused. “Don’t know about the sheriff, but you can probably find his deputies over at the Blue Bird Café havin’ breakfast.”
“Thanks,” said Edgar, and with that he turned and headed towards the Blue Bird.
Bear Creek was not a big town and it took Edgar only a few minutes to walk to the café. As he entered the restaurant Edgar observed that there were patrons at three different tables; two of the occupied tables were along the wall on the street side of the room, and the other was a table along the opposite wall and towards the back. There was also a door there by which people could exit the restaurant if they’d tied their horse out back, or it was also the shortest route to the privy. It was at the table near the back door that Edgar saw the deputies. One of them, Edgar had never seen before. He appeared to be a little over six feet tall with a build that suggested he seldom missed a meal. His features were soft with a wispy blond moustache. He wore a Union cavalry slouch hat and carried a Walker Colt .44—not exactly a gunman’s rig. His partner, on the other hand, was a familiar face. He was a wiry-looking guy with short black hair and a robust moustache and goatee. He wore a peaked Stetson hat and carried a Starr Army .44 in a cross-draw position on his left hip. It was obvious by his appearance that he fancied himself a pistoleer, and his demeanor did nothing to counter that image. He had accompanied Hollis to Edgar and Leroy’s claim to collect payment not too long ago. Hollis hadn’t introduced the man, and he didn’t speak the entire time that he and Hollis were at Edgar and Leroy’s camp. Hollis had made it pretty clear that his call wasn’t social and to think otherwise would have been a mistake. From Edgar and Leroy’s perspective, it was as if he thought he was better than they were and he was doing them a favor by even associating with them. The hypocrisy of it all was something that Edgar and Leroy had analyzed with the aid of some cheap whiskey around their campfire that night after Hollis and his stone-faced deputy had left. Edgar could hear Leroy now. “There’ll come a day when that high and mighty sonovabitch will get his comeuppance, and I’ll be the one to give it to him,” he’d boasted when he was about four sheets to the wind. As Edgar neared the deputy’s table, the smaller one turned his head and made eye contact with him. It was obvious that the deputy recognized him but he said nothing.