Tall Rider

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  1 Mister Reuben Calthrop

  2 Ambushed

  3 Berry’s Crossing

  4 Break-out

  5 Death in a Quiet Canyon

  6 Buried Alive!

  7 God’s Fresh Air

  8 Striking Back

  9 Preparations

  10 East to the Border

  11 Destiny Trail

  12 The Homecoming

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  1

  MISTER REUBEN CALTHROP

  When a man’s been on the trail for three months pegged to a diet of beans, jerked beef, biscuit and dust, with never a taste of liquor from one week’s end to the next, no one should be surprised if he feels a thirst come on when he hits town.

  Not that Berry’s Crossing, Kansas, was much of a town. It seemed bigger and busier than it really was. Besides the emigrants who were always passing through looking for gold out West, the town had a regular population of maybe 3–400 souls, farmers and their families almost all of them. Back of the buildings that lined the only street was always a collection of tents and wagons belonging to travellers passing through. On the street there was an Indian agency, a subscription school and a store. Also a saloon, The Prairie Dog, which was a sight for the sore eyes of any bocarro who had been droving the 400 or so head of horses he and his fellows had caught and broken out west and herded eastwards for fifty days across the plains, over a good half the length of the Californian trail, to sell in the States.

  They were eight bocarros making the trip. They made camp outside Berry’s Crossing, on the banks of the wide, slow, shallow Kepwejo River, first watering the horses in groups of thirty then leading them to graze in a natural enclosure on the other side. After settling the herd, the men pitched their tents, for they intended to stay put a while, to rest up the horses who needed to recover from the rigours of the harsh trail they had been on for months and put on some weight.

  When they’d eaten, the eight drovers rolled out their blankets around the wagon that carried their supplies much as they’d done for the last fifty days, and slept.

  Next morning, they set about making a more permanent camp. Then they drew lots for who would stay with the herd and who would get to take a first look-see around town. Four would go and four would stay put. Bart Chandler was one of the lucky ones, and drew a long straw. He took a wash in the stream, shaved the stubble off his face and sat still for a comrade to cut back his bushy, overgrown hair. Then he dusted off his sombrero, brushed his buckskins down with a branch of teazle, and gave his boots a shine. He was ready.

  ‘C’mon, Jess,’ he said to a grizzled old-timer who had also drawn a long straw but had spent much less time on his titivating, ‘time we was off.’

  ‘No sense in hurrying, Bart,’ the old man grinned. ‘If we start by running and racing we’ll be all wore out before we git there!’

  Jesse Hayes drove the wagon and was the drovers’ cook and general do-all. Known as Old Jess, he was anywhere between fifty and seventy, sturdy, a wise old bird with always a cheery word for every situation. He saddled up his chestnut mare which was probably as old as him and prodded her into a leisurely amble as he went in pursuit of Bart. He had already set off with the two other drovers who had been winners in the lottery, Eli Hook and Billy Rively, also smartly turned out for the occasion.

  Berry’s Crossing had just the one street. The store and the agency faced each other halfway along and The Prairie Dog stood at the end furthest from the Kepwejo river, so the bocarros rode right through the town. It didn’t take long. The saloon was the tallest building, having a third floor which afforded a wide view of the country roundabout. Here the land was flat and dusty, and a single-track dirt trail led east towards a ridge of low hills which hung like low cloud over the distant horizon.

  Talking quietly among themselves, Bart and the drovers rode slowly up the street towards The Prairie Dog and hitched their horses at the rail.

  It was Saturday and not yet noon. But the saloon was open and doing business. Inside were several dozen men, a collection of farmers, cattle-drovers and hired hands. The place was full of noise and raucous laughter which faltered momentarily as the newcomers walked through the door.

  ‘And what do we have here?’ said a scoffing voice in the lull. ‘My, my! Bunch of simple boys from back East, wet behind the ears and looking as if they ain’t seen a man’s drink in a month of Sundays. Reg’lar travelling men, I’d say.’

  The three men sitting at his table laughed and nodded their heads.

  The scoffer was a tall, well-built man of twenty-five or thirty with blond hair and a Mexican moustache. He was dressed in black from boots to hat with only his fair hair, the pearl-handle six-shooter in its fancy holster and a red sateen waistcoat to make a contrast. Everything about him – from his air of strut and swagger to the cronies and hangers-on who nodded their approval of everything he said or did – proclaimed that here was a man who liked having his own way.

  ‘Wrong, mister,’ grinned Jess, as he passed by heading for the bar. ‘Fresh in from out West with a drove of fresh-broke horses. But you’re right about not seeing a drink in a long, long time. Bartender,’ he called, ‘bottle of whiskey needed here and four glasses.’

  The four companions sat at an empty table to wait for the bottle to arrive.

  ‘Cain’t sit there,’ drawled the man in black. ‘Table’s reserved.’

  ‘Don’t see nuthing to says how it’s reserved,’ said Eli.

  ‘You deaf, boy? There’s no notice to say horse-drovers are dirt-ignorant, but that don’t mean it isn’t the case. Table’s reserved if I say it is.’

  Bart turned to react to the insult, but Jess placed a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘Cool heads, boys,’ he said quietly. ‘We don’t want trouble. We come for a peaceful drink and that’s what we’re going to have.’

  He stood up and led his companions to another table at the far end of the bar.

  ‘That’s better,’ said the man in black. ‘The smell of horse-wrangling was overpowering. Fit to make a man render his breakfast.’

  His cronies guffawed.

  The bartender appeared with the bottle and four glasses.

  ‘Who’s the dude?’ asked Bart.

  ‘Reuben Calthrop. He’s not from around here. Jest passes through from time to time, usually looking for trouble. You don’t want to go messing with Rube. Got a temper on him like a riled hornet. Also a very bad loser. Don’t like being bested at nothing. Now that you know what you know, are you sure you still want to sit down and drink this?’

  ‘Set ’em down right here,’ said Bart. ‘We come a long way for this and we’re not going to wait any longer.’

  He reached for the bottle and poured four drinks.

  It was rough whiskey. It rasped on the throat and kicked like a mule, but it tasted good and was guaranteed to wash away the trail dust that collects in a man’s throat.

  ‘No hard feelings, boys,’ said Calthrop across the room. ‘A lot of greenhorns that pass through that door don’t know one end of a horse from another. You was so spruced up we had you down for a bunch of gold-diggers with high hopes. Enjoy your drink.’

  Bart and Jess and Eli and Billy relaxed and the level of whiskey in the bottle went down as they rediscovered the forgotten delights of sitting in a chair and leaning elbows on a table.

  ‘Come from out West, you say,’ Calthrop called again.

  ‘Colorado,’ said Jess.

  ‘Easy passage?’

  ‘So-so. Indians pretty much left us alone. Or else they was fighting each other for a change. Lost a few head, but we got off light overall.’

  ‘What you got?’

  ‘Nigh on four
hundred fully broke ponies,’ said Bart. ‘You can see for yourself. They’re resting up down by the river. You in the market for horse-flesh?’

  ‘Could be, if your goods are the quality you say and the price is right.’

  ‘Quality?’ said Bart. ‘Why there’s any number of ponies in the herd that could run the legs off any horse in this county.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ said Calthrop, a note of interest in his voice.

  ‘I do say. Best Colorado stock and in prime condition.’

  ‘Maybe we could have a trial. To see if your herd is as good as your pitch.’

  ‘I ain’t making no pitch, mister. I’m just giving you the plain truth,’ said Bart. ‘Why, the pony I work can outrun a storm.’

  ‘Run faster than the wind? Now that’s a critter I’d like to see.’

  ‘Just step outside, sir. She’s tethered to the rail.’

  Calthrop immediately got to his feet and walked to the door. His hangers-on followed as did the four bocarros.

  ‘That’s Rolla,’ said Bart, gesturing to a small-made palomino pony. ‘She isn’t big, she don’t look much, but she’s fleet and endurance should be her middle name.’

  ‘And that’s the critter that can keep ahead of a storm and run the competition into the ground?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘Don’t look so speedy to me. But there’s only one way of finding out,’ said Calthrop.

  ‘And which way is that?’ said Jess.

  ‘A race. Whatever quality horse-flesh you got there, I’ll lay good odds it don’t compare with what we already got here. What d’you say?’

  A ripple of interest ran through the small crowd that had gathered. Not much went on in Berry’s Crossing and the prospect of a little action raised the temperature.

  ‘And what you got to put up against Rolla?’ asked Jess.

  ‘I’ll show you. Nat,’ said Calthrop, and he turned to one of his sidekicks, ‘go get me the stallion.’

  Nat stepped across the street to a wooden building with a sign Jebb’s Stables and Livery over the door. A few moments later, he returned leading a tall black horse.

  ‘This here is Prince,’ said Calthrop, ‘Three times champeen of Salt Creek County. Ain’t no piece of horse-flesh this or any side of the Missouri got the legs of him. You talked big about your Rolla and now I’ll do the same about Prince. I’m prepared to back him up heavy for a single mile dash. I’ll lay you ten to one against your nag. I’ll go you five hundred dollars against fifty that Prince will grind the little palamino into the dust.’

  Voices in the crowd protested the odds were too long and wanted them shortened. Otherwise it wasn’t hardly worth their while chancing their luck.

  Jess, who’d been taking a look at Prince, took Bart to one side.

  ‘Go easy on this, Bart,’ he said. ‘That’s a strong horse he’s got there. Never done a day’s work; you can see he was bred for speed.’

  ‘Maybe. But look at them great big haunches. I’d say he was pretty fast over a furlong or two but too heavy for distance work. Rolla will leave him standing. Anyways, I reckon I’m too deep into this to back down now. Got to go through with it.’

  ‘Where you going to get fifty dollars for the stake?’

  ‘I’ll put up three, four horses from the herd, out of my share. They’ll be more than good for fifty dollars. Anyways, I ain’t counting to pay out on this.’

  ‘What you waiting for?’ asked Calthrop. ‘Sure it isn’t your nag but your tongue that can outrun the wind?’

  The crowd laughed.

  ‘Them odds is fine by me,’ said Bart. ‘You got yourself a race.’

  The preliminaries were arranged. The course was measured out and agreed on. It ran from the Prairie Dog about a half-mile along the dirt road out of town to a single tree and back, to finish where they’d started from. Judges were chosen and the off was fixed for five o’clock, which would allow enough time for the news to get around and the townsfolk to come and watch and lay their bets, if they were so minded. But there were precious few takers for the odds of ten to one against Rolla. Calthrop produced his $500 dollars and Eli Hook went back to the drove and picked out three head that were adjudged well worth Bart’s $50. The money and the ponies were deposited with old man Jebb the stableman, who acted as stakeholder.

  Just before five o’clock by the starter’s watch, Calthrop on Prince and Bart on Rolla lined up to the cheers of the crowd that had gathered to see the sport. Then the signal was given: ‘One, two, three … go!’ and they were off.

  They had not gone fifty yards before Prince had opened a gap which grew wider with each stride. At 200, his lead had grown further and at 400 it was still growing. Prince reached the tree first and turned, with Rolla lagging so far behind that she seemed to have no chance. But the gap didn’t grow any bigger and slowly began to get smaller. By the three-quarter mile mark, Prince was visibly tiring and Rolla was within striking distance. Another 200 yards and they were neck and neck. And then the little palomino passed the big stallion, although Calthrop had the whip to him, then left him further and further behind, eventually finished the course ahead by almost twenty yards.

  The crowd cheered Rolla across the line an easy winner. Jess rightly judged the size of the cheer as an indication of how the townsfolk felt towards Reuben Calthrop. He took the filly by the bridle and Bart dismounted. Horse and rider, surrounded by the crowd, stood and watched Prince, in a lather, come panting in. Calthrop jumped out of the saddle breathing hard. He said nothing but his face, as black as thunder, made his feelings plain.

  Old Jebb, the livery man, declared Bart the winner and said he could collect his winnings straight away, though if he so minded he could leave the ponies he put up for his stake with him, for a price to be agreed, if they were all in the same class as Rolla.

  ‘And if the price is right,’ he went on, ‘I might jest mosey down to your corral and look over what you got. You did say you was in the selling business? My stock is getting low. It could do with some replenishment.’

  ‘Be glad to see you,’ said Jess. ‘We’ll be staying put a spell. You’d be welcome any time. And what say you, Mr Calthrop?’ he went on. ‘You reckoned the race was a kind of trial. Well, now you’ve seen what sort of animal we got for sale….’

  Calthrop’s reply was to turn on his heel and, pulling hard on Prince’s rein, dragged him clear of the crowd, hitched him to a fence post and started whipping him with his crop.

  Prince rolled his eyes in fear and backed away from the man’s flailing thong. But held by the rein, there was no escape.

  Calthrop applied himself to his task with cold fury which grew icier still as the blood began to run down Prince’s sides and back. Legs, belly, withers, the man lashed out as whatever target presented itself. The crowd was silenced by the cruelty of the sight of it. And all because Calthrop had been bested in an honourably conducted race by an opponent everyone agreed was a fair winner. It was only when Calthrop started on the horse’s sensitive lips and nostrils and eyes that Bart stepped up to him and caught him by the arm.

  ‘Hold it there. You want to blind your animal?’

  Calthrop shook him off and whirled round with murder in his face.

  He dropped his whip, reached for his gun and fired at Bart twice before anyone was aware of what was happening.

  Bart collapsed in a heap. Two growing patches showed glistening red on the front of his shirt, just over his heart.

  ‘He attacked me,’ said Calthrop, as cool as cool. ‘You all saw it, you’re all witnesses. Grabbed me from behind. A man’s got a right to defend himself.’

  He glared fiercely at the crowd which had been stunned by what had happened.

  Jess dropped to his knees, stretched out one hand and felt for the beat of Bart’s blood in his veins.

  ‘He’s dead! You killed him!’ he said.

  ‘Self-defence,’ said Calthrop coolly. ‘It was him or me.’

  ‘He warn’t attacking nobody,�
�� said Eli Hook. ‘He only tried to stop you killing your horse that never done you any harm except to lose you a race.…’

  But his voice faltered as Calthrop turned and withered him with a glare.

  ‘Anyone of you want to take it up for your friend? I’m willing to accommodate any one of you here and now.’

  But he was backed up by his half dozen cronies and in a mood where he might do anything. There were no takers.

  There was no law neither, so the matter ended there.

  And that is how Bart Chandler died.

  His body was given a burial by the bocarros who changed their plans, moved the herd on from Berry’s Crossing the next day in hopes of finding a more welcoming town to rest up at.

  The death of one man in a lawless territory where life is cheap is nothing way out of the ordinary. So why am I telling you all this?

  My name is Chandler, Bradley Chandler.

  Bart Chandler was my brother.

  2

  AMBUSHED

  We heard the news from Jess, when he got back. But that was some time after Bart was shot dead at Berry’s Crossing.

  The bocarros, now reduced to just seven men, had moved on deeper into Kansas and sold the herd. Then they split up and went their separate ways. Some headed back West to try their hand at the same horse business again and the rest went on East hoping to get taken on by the government which always needed extra hands. Developing a territory isn’t easy or simple, especially when there’s not enough able men to do it.

  Eli Hook, Billy Rively, Alban Slade and Zeke Hays heard tell of a government herd that had stampeded from Fort Benson and were running at large over the Kansas prairies and would revert to wild if not rounded up. A reward of ten dollars was offered for each head returned to the quartermaster. Inside a month, they had brought in nearly a hundred between them. It was good money and quicker and easier earned than rounding up, breaking and herding a drove from Colorado.

  Then they heard tell that back East Majors & Russell, the biggest company of government freighters, were recruiting teamsters for wagon trains and paying them forty dollars gold a month. The deal was to guide and protect trains of twenty-five or more wagons laden with government supplies to provision the military outposts which grew up as the frontier moved ever westwards. It was a good deal for them. No one could blame them for going where the money was.