Raining Trouble
By Randall Sawka
Digital ISBNs
Kindle 978-1-77299-206-9
EPUB 978-1-77299-207-6
WEB 978-1-77299-208-3
Print ISBN 978-1-77299-209-0
Copyright 2016 by Randall Sawka
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Dedication
To my amazing wife Nancy, with love.
Chapter One
Ron Ward wore a wide smile on his handsome face as he gripped his horse’s reins. Beside him his giant friend known as Once Dunn leaned over the pommels of his horse. The two men stared at the green valley in front of them.
“Aren’t they something?” asked Ward as they looked at twenty-five or thirty horses eating the lush grass.
“I can’t say I’ve ever seen a finer bunch of horses.”
Ward knew horses. His ranch on the Texas border raised some of the finest stock west of the Mississippi. A tall man, just over six feet, Ward had broad shoulders and narrow hips on his muscular frame. On his hips rested twin Colts and in his scabbard a custom-made Winchester. Those who knew him well never tested his abilities with his guns or his fists. However, Ward’s good looks and light-hearted style did draw the attention of the ladies.
Once Dunn’s black stood several hands higher than Ward’s chestnut. Dunn needed a big horse to carry his six-foot-five powerful frame. The giant of a man preferred a face-to-face scrap to a gun battle, but had plenty of talent with his guns. He learned to box in his youth on the east coast and moved west as a young man, looking for adventure.
Nobody who knew him called him by his given name, Frank. Dunn earned his nickname in his first fight after moving west. His big opponent crashed to the ground after the first punch. A bystander at the fight saw Dunn’s power and yelled, “if that man hits you once, you’re done.“
Once Dunn bought a piece of land next to the Ward ranch. It wasn’t nearly as big as Ward’s spread, but it had good water and plenty of feed.
Ron Ward was long a fixture in the area south of where they sat. His large spread had been purchased by Ward’s father many years earlier. He took over the ranch after his father was killed fighting off rustlers. A few years later Dunn settled next door. The two men teamed up to protect their stock. Several times rustlers tried to steal cattle. Each time the thieves turned tail and ran. The reputation of the ranchers spread quickly. Soon the outlaws kept their distance. Since then Ron and Once had each other’s back.
The two friends planned on visiting a family friend of Ward’s on a nearby ranch and then attend a horse auction in Wyoming.
In the valley below them a small ranch house sat circled by corals and buildings. A few colts milled around one coral. Across the valley two horses danced away from the rest of the herd. They moved to the bottom of the hill from which Ward and Dunn watched.
The darker of the two horses rubbed against the other then bolted along the bottom of the hill like a flash of lightning. The second horse, a tall grey, took a dozen effortless strides as it caught and passed the other horse.
Ward sat up straight. “That has to be racing stock.”
“Especially the grey.”
The two horses stopped at a stream and drank. The grey shook its head, sending a fan of water into the bright sunlight. Mud spat out behind the horses as they sped away from the stream and joined the other horses in the shade of the trees.
“Once, I reckon we should get over to Jed Cochran’s ranch. I only met him when I was small. Pa spoke highly of him. It’s a log house and should be a few miles the other side of this ranch.”
Their horses had their second wind and galloped smoothly along the crest of the hill. The horses reduced speed as they moved down the hill and splashed through a shallow stream. At the top of the next hill another ranch appeared.
The gleaming log ranch house sat against thick trees on the north end of the property, protecting it from the cold north winds of winter.
“Jed’s place,” said Ward as he wiped sweat from his brow.
The smell of frying bacon wafted toward the riders from smoke billowing out of the chimney.
Dunn smiled. “That smell tells me we timed our visit perfectly. I’m mighty hungry.”
“When aren’t you hungry? Jed’s wife Lynn is supposed to be a fine cook. You’re in for a treat.”
In the Cochran house Lynn looked up from a pan of fried potatoes as Ward and Dunn rode toward the ranch house. “Jed, riders coming down the hill.”
“Scrum hands?” asked Jed as he strapped on his gun belt.
“Can’t say for sure. They’re a ways out yet.”
Jed Cochran stood beside his wife and slid cartridges into his rifle. “They may not be Scrum hands. Big men, though. I’ll handle this. Stay in the house, Lynn.”
“Be careful. Remember last week.”
The previous week Cochran’s wealthy and powerful neighbour, Barry Scrum had sent a couple ranch hands to try and force The Cochran’s off their land. The Scrum hands had no idea how much talent Cochran had with a rifle. The two men had fired warning shots from their horses as they closed on the sturdy log house. Jed Cochran had smashed out a window and fired two rounds, hitting both men, one in the leg and the other in the arm.
The men had turned their horses in a matter of seconds and disappeared over the hill. Cochran had saddled his horse and followed them. He found a trail of blood leading to the Scrum ranch. Cochran had decided there and then to not trust Scrum for a second.
Cochran walked out the front door of the house and stayed in the shadow of the veranda roof. He then moved into a sliver of light so the riders could see him but kept partly behind a support post of the veranda.
“The riders may consider a shot,” thought Cochran. “But at this distance and with me not on a horse I have the advantage.”
Even from a distance Jed recognized the high quality horses and clean, fine clothes on the riders. He doubted Scrum hands could afford those horses or dress that well. Still he kept his finger near the trigger of his rifle. Cochran didn’t recognize the riders but saw little likelihood of trouble.
Both Ward and Dunn slowed their pace when they spotted the man with the rifle. Their respect grew when they saw the man grip the weapon in an efficient, confident manner.
“That’s close enough,” shouted Cochran.
The two friends reigned in their horses.
Ward kept his hands in view. “Howdy. We’re looking for Jed Cochran.”
“You found him.”
“I’m Ron Ward. We met when I was young. My father was Len Ward.”
Cochran looked Ward up and down. He lowered his rifle. “Well, I’ll be. You’re the spitting image of your pa. Now let’s stow your horses in the barn and you two can join us in the house for a bite to eat.”
“Thanks,” said Ward.
“Obliged,” added Dunn.
Ward introduced his old family friend to Once Dunn while they unsaddled the horses and rubbed them down. Both horses ate grain supplied by Jed. The barn mirrored the rest of Jed’s spread, well maintained and clean. A line of stalls on each side of the barn held a few horses of equal quality to those on the pastureland. Two cows at the back of the barn bawled when Ron and Once’s horses settled into hay-covered stalls beside them.
“Fine horses.” Jed ran his hand along the neck of Ward’s mount.
“Pa said you kn
ew horse flesh,” replied Ward. “You have some fine stock yourself.”
“A handful, but I need more land before I can increase the size of the herd,” replied Jed as he led them into the house.
Jed introduced the visitors to Lynn who invited them for lunch.
Big Once Dunn eyed the bacon and fried potatoes on the stove, and the golden-brown bread Lynn pulled out of the oven. “Ma’am, I must say, this smells great.”
Ward accepted a steaming cup of coffee from Lynn. “I noticed racing gear in the barn. Pa didn’t mention you breed race horses.”
“Started about ten years ago.” Jed Cochran nodded. “It’s big business around here.”
“Tough business,” added Dunn as he sopped up some gravy with bread.
“Tougher than I thought. That horse in the far stall of the barn is my most promising runner, but…”
“Yes, I saw the bandaged leg,” said Ward. “It appears someone around here doesn’t like competition.”
After lunch the three men walked the worn path from the house to the barn. They passed well-tended gardens and several young colts prancing around a coral. Jed opened the rear door of the barn and a large wedge of light fell on the injured horse.
Once Dunn leaned on the rail of the stall. “Looks like it’s standing okay.”
“That it can,” said Cochran pointing at the lower part of a rear leg of the horse. “I was putting it through its paces when two men from up on the rise to the north opened fire. One bullet caught Milo here in the leg. It was touch and go for a while. But, I think he’ll be fine. He’s the fastest horse in the area and I aim to prove it.”
Ron Ward admired the fine racing saddle on the far end of the coral. “Do you know who caused the trouble?”
“Sure I know. It’s that skunk Barry Scrum. I can’t prove it was his men that did the shooting, but I know it was him that sent them. He knew my horse would win against his best.”
“My guess is that they were regular cowhands,” added Dunn. “They had a big target in this horse and only grazed it. Jed, do you mind if I take a look, I know a thing or two about leg injuries?”
“Obliged if you did.”
Once Dunn pulled the rope off the post that held the stall gate closed. He walked into the stall and stood directly in front of the horse as it backed up a step. The big animal locked eyes and seemed to accept Dunn and relax. Once bent over and removed the bandage on the horse’s leg.
He leaned closer. “Heck, not too bad. Ron, can you grab the green bottle and a small piece of cloth from my saddle bag?”
Ward nodded and flipped open the leather saddlebag. He found the bottle sharing a pouch with some clean cloths. He removed the bottle and one cloth and handed them to his close friend.
Dunn poured a small amount of the liquid on the cloth and dabbed it on the wound. “This will help a small wound like this heal in a day or two. I suspect she'll be fine.” He wrapped a clean bandage around the leg and left the stall. “I can't say I like the idea of someone shooting at a horse so it can't compete in a race.”
“I agree,” said Ward. “What's worse is someone like Scrum having someone else do his dirty work. One wonders if we shouldn't take some time and teach this Scrum fellow a lesson?”
Jed Cochran shook his head. “I've been wanting to deal with him for a long time. Fact is, Scrum's a powerful man in these parts.”
Both Ward and Dunn smiled as Ward spoke. “There isn't much Once and I enjoy more than dealing with guys like that.” Ward stood silently for half a minute. “Jed, we need to know a little bit about this man. I'm guessing that anyone who would have someone shoot a competing horse likes a sure thing and isn't much of a gambler.”
“Heck, no,” replied Cochran. “He likes nothing more than gambling. Trouble is, he isn't big on losing. He's known in these parts for cheating his way to wealth. I've had a couple other horses up against his over the last year that should have easily won. Both ran far slower than their capabilities.”
“Any proof that Scrum did something?”
“Nothing I can prove. I can tell you that after the last race I found strange footprints leading up to the barn and noticed a smell in this bucket I used to feed that horse.” Cochran took a wooden pail off a hook on the wall and handed it to Dunn. “I never used the bucket again.”
Dunn smelled the bucket and winced. “Smells familiar.”
Dunn scooped some of the oats remaining at the bottom of the bucket and studied them. He picked out some small green leaves and smelled them. “Yup, it's valerian.”
Jed shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
“I learned a lot about medicines from my uncle who was a doctor. This is used to put people to sleep. A little bit will make you tired.”
“I lost a good chunk of money on those races,” said Cochran.
“You best steer clear of racing against this Scrum,” added Ward. “At least until we teach him a lesson or two.”
“I will avoid it.” Cochran frowned. “Turns out there's a race coming up real soon. It’s not a horse race and I’m having a bad feeling about it.”
“Sound's interesting, what kind of race?” asked Ron.
Cochran led the other two out of the barn. He leaned on a hitching post outside the barn and glanced northward. “Just north of here is a small ranch owned by a fellow named Tom Sheridan. He and his family are good folk. It's known in these parts that Tom's young boy Bart runs like the wind. Barry Scrum never misses an opportunity to take someone’s money and convinced Tom to bet his ranch that he had a man that could outrun the boy.”
“Risky when dealing with a coyote like Scrum,” added Dunn.
“Seems that Barry Scrum agreed to cover the costs of Bart's college education if the boy won.”
“And you suspect that Scrum has a plan to cheat the Sheridans?” interjected Ron Ward.
“Suspect? Heck, we know it now. Scrum brought in a man from Kansas City and hired him temporarily so he'd qualify for the race. Word is that he was a mighty competitive runner and all he does is train at the Scrum spread.”
“I'm guessing the Sheridan family didn't take that news well,” said Ward.
“They weren't shocked that Scrum pulled a fast-one. They know this city runner but still think young Bart can beat him because the man isn’t young.” Jed points to some high hills to the south. “This race is cross-country. It has rough ground the city fellow won't be used to. Still, Scrum isn't one to take chances.”
Once Dunn stared at the hills. “Ron and I would sure like to have a look at the race course.”
“I'll draw you a map. Both runners have been practicing on it and it's packed down pretty good. Bart's turn is tomorrow and he usually trains around nine in the morning, before the mid-day heat.”
Chapter Two
The next morning Ward and Dunn rode out early. A well-used trail would have had them at the race site within two hours. Instead, they pointed their horses southeast and used an old Indian trail leading through a heavily wooded area.
Just shy of the valley and the race route they staked their horses beside a small stream and moved quietly up a hill and to the edge of the trees. The high vantage point provided an excellent view of much of the path used in the race. Ten feet out from the tree line the trail turned to the right and moved up a steep hill.
“Seems totally deserted right now,” noted Dunn.
“I think so too,” replied Ward as he prepared to step into the open. As his foot hit the ground he stopped and pulled it back into the shadow of the trees. He put a finger to his lips to ask silence from his good friend and pointed down the hill to their right.
The crunching sound of fast-moving footsteps on gravel grew louder. Soon steady heavy breathing announced the approach of a runner. Moments later a young man dashed past. The runner moved steadily, barely slowing as his powerful legs carried him up the steep grade. Bart Sheridan's handsome face wore sweat and a sense of purpose. His trim muscular limbs moved his five-foot-four body alon
g the trail. A thin hand brushed back his thick blond hair.
“Can't be over fifteen,” commented Ron Ward. “I'll be, he stopped at the top of the hill.”
While looking down at the valley Bart ran on the spot for thirty seconds. He extended his right leg in front of him and set it on a three-foot-high boulder. With ease he leaned forward and stretched, his head touching his leg. The second leg stretched as easily as the first. A few quick breaths preceded a return to running.
“Seems we have company.” Once Dunn gestured to a lower hill to their right.
Two riders sat on their horses and watched the youngster run. Bart dipped quickly down a gulley on the undulating course. His pace slowed considerably as he climbed the next hill, the tallest and steepest on the trail. Tall jagged boulders blocked the views of both groups watching.
The men on horseback moved their mounts to the eastern edge of the hilltop.
Bart Sheridan appeared at the far end of the hill across from the two men on horses and wound his way down the last section of the race trail.
“Once, hand me that field glass.”
Dunn pulled the field glass out of his pocket and handed it to his friend. Ward stepped back several steps so no sunlight would reflect off the lens.
He watched the two men on horseback closely. The taller of the two men leaned forward as Bart reached the finish line marked by two poles stuck in the ground. The tall man moved his left hand closer to his face. A glint of light flashed off the man's pocket watch. The concerned look on his face caused the most concern for Ward. “They look very unhappy.”
Dunn tightened his grip on the rifle he always kept with him.
Young Sheridan drank from a canteen that had been hanging from the pommel of his horse that stood in the shade of a tree near the start-finish line. The young man shrugged and stretched his legs.
Movement at the far end of the valley caught Ron's attention. A horse bounded along the shade of the hill. “More company.” Ward trained the field glass on the fast-moving rider. The horse moved well and the rider sat confidently in the saddle. The rider wasn't large but knew how to handle a horse.
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