Monthly Archives: October 2020

Trails End… Chapter 6


Chapter 6

All that came north on the first boats of spring wasn’t gloom and doom; there was a bright side too. Not all the passengers were hard cases, some were legitimate gold seekers. Dusty noticed something else, something that really excited him. Among some passengers were families, families perhaps hoping to strike it rich, but it seemed to Dusty there were other reasons for coming north. These were people searching for a fresh start, and he knew they would be the ones to settle this great land, raising their families to continue on after them. Some would become trappers, while others would learn to farm the fertile soil during the long summer days. There would be builders, blacksmiths, and an entire spectrum of other valuable trades.

After finishing at George’s, Dusty headed for the livery. He would need a strong, sure-footed mount for the days ahead, and earlier that morning he’d seen a few excellent prospects being unloaded from the L. J. Perry.

“Mornin’ Jeb, ya got anything worth lookin’ at in that new bunch of broncos’ ya got in this mornin’?”

After asking his question Dusty could see Jeb was a little flustered, or maybe mad was a better word.

“I’ll tell ya what I got!” He growled. “I got me a load of dynamite on four hooves. I don’t know how he was shipped in this bunch. I told Karl I wanted good, sturdy, riding stock, and he sends me this airhead. I probably couldn’t even give him away. Come, take a look, you’ll see what I mean.”

     The main corral held all the horses, but one. Off to one side was a small-holding pin with a big, angry pinto palomino doing his best to kick his way free.

“Wow!” Dusty exclaimed, “That’s some Cayuses, he’s beautiful.”

Before Jeb could stop him, Dusty started moving with slow steps toward the pin holding the angry horse. He spoke softly to the rearing, snorting animal, trying to calm him down with his reassuring voice.

As the man approached, the big pinto stopped and stood still. Snorting, he looked at him with big-brown-intelligent eyes filled with curiosity. His ears came forward, wondering what this man was about. When Dusty was within reach, the horse’s ears went back and he bared his teeth. He looked anything but friendly; ready to lunge at the man the instant he came within striking range.

All the while Dusty was moving up next to the rails he continued a one-sided conversation with the trembling, fierce-looking animal. He knew horses were curious by nature so when he extended his hand the snorting horse stretched his neck to its full length to sniff at it or was it to bite it… Even though he knew the horse’s jaws were stronger than a lion’s and at any moment this animal could do severe damage to his hand. Dusty showed no fear as the muzzle touched his open hand; he held it still for examination by this magnificent animal. Continuing to whisper as the stallion’s curiosity took over, Dusty brought his other hand up to stroke the muscular gold and white neck. The pinto shied back and tossed his head a little, but didn’t bolt. For whatever reason, he was tolerating this man with a soft voice.

“Now,” Dusty said, “That isn’t so bad, is it?”

 Turning to the speechless, amazed hostler, Dusty asked, “How much? If the price is right, I’ll take your problem off yer hands and if ya do me right, I’ll take that bay mare in the other corral too.”

The old wrangler couldn’t believe his good fortune, he was getting rid of the temperamental pinto and one of the bays. . . and then the other shoe dropped.

“This here letter authorizes me ta purchase whatever I feel necessary ta conduct the business of the United States Marshal’s Service,” Dusty said, as he pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his vest. It also says I have the authority to commandeer if in my judgment the price being asked is too high. If ya choose to charge a fair price, you’ll receive payment from the United States Government. Either way, you’ll receive payment, it can be yer asking price or they’ll just guess at it and send ya what they think the horses are worth.”

By now Jeb was thoroughly confused. This letter was authorizing a U.S. Marshal to make purchases in the name of the United States government. So what was Dusty doing with it? When he put this question to Dusty, a look of astonishment came on his face as Dusty produced a badge from his vest pocket. Dusty gave a brief explanation and said everything would be clarified at the town meeting tomorrow night.

After buying the tack he would need for both horses and giving a short lesson in much-needed manners to the pinto, Dusty attempted to saddle up the big stallion. At first, the horse wasn’t having any of it. His ears went back, and he kicked out at Dusty. To Jeb’s surprise, Dusty took it all in stride. Calmly he gently talked to the pinto until the horse just stood there trembling, still wary of the soft-spoken man, but tolerating him.

“Easy big fella,” Dusty spoke firmly, but with kindness in his voice. “We’re gonna be grand friends, the two of us.” He slowly reached into his vest pocket and retrieved a white lump he had taken from the grub tent. Offering it to the horse Dusty waited while the horse’s natural curiosity got the better of him causing him to forget what was happening as once again this man offered his hand. But this time it was different, something else was being offered besides the hand.

Dusty could see the horse’s curiosity was getting the better of him; his ears were no longer pulled back and the wild look was gone from his eyes. Stretching his neck toward the man, his soft muzzle was now hovering a scant inch from Dusty’s outstretched hand. Jeb was holding his breath as he watched all this unfold before his eyes. He knew a horse could bite a man’s fingers off and was sure Dusty knew it too. But Dusty continued talking ever so softly as the magnificent horse gently took the lump from Dusty’s hand.

“There now,” Dusty said with tenderness in his voice, “That’s pretty good stuff, isn’t it?”

He offered another lump to the animal, and this time there wasn’t any hesitation.

Jeb had heard the tales about how Dusty could talk to the animals, but he never put much store in it… until now, that is. Watching what was happening before his own eyes were irrefutable and it and it certainly made him a believer. He had never seen anything quite like it and as Dusty started saddling the horse, Jeb knew the tales were more than just rumors spoke around a campfire… this man truly could talk to the animals.

“Well now, if that’s all ya got?” Dusty said after a half-hearted bucking session. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Jeb, who was staring with amazement at the mounted man, could only scratch his scruffy whiskers and shake his head; he had to believe his own eyes.

After making arrangements with the hostler to stable the bay at the livery until he could make other arrangements, he headed the pinto down the trail leading toward Sunrise.

Dusty had almost forgotten how enjoyable riding a good horse could be. The pinto had a smooth gate and seemed to be enjoying the trail as much as Dusty, unfortunately, unbeknownst to the rider, this serenity was about to come to an abrupt end.

Dusty was deep in thought and caught completely by surprise when a man with a rifle stepped from behind a big cottonwood and straddled the trail.

“That’s far enough,” he said with an edge to his voice. “What are ya fallerin’ us for?”

The man had caught Dusty with his guard down, and now he could very easily pay for it with his life. The man confronting him had him puzzled, looking about he could see no other person, so what was this guy talking about “us” for was someone else hiding close-by ready to shoot? Not wanting to excite a man pointing a rifle at him whom he didn’t recognize, he started trying to tell him he wasn’t following him, but the man wasn’t having any of it. Dusty could tell the man didn’t like confrontations, and he seemed very nervous as if he were protecting something… or someone. Trying to look around and not be too obvious about it, Dusty noticed the pinto’s head turned toward the big cottonwood where the man had stepped from, and the horses’ ears went forward.

Dusty shifted his weight in the saddle and started to explain who he was, but at that exact moment, all the talk was put on hold. First, there was the sound of something crashing through the brush, a shot ringing out, then a woman’s scream, and a baby crying… A baby crying? This was more than the high-strung pinto could take; he exploded into a wild bucking frenzy, catching Dusty completely off guard. In all the confusion, Dusty wasn’t sure whether he should duck the shot or just hang on. The latter seemed the best choice at the moment, but to Dusty’s chagrin, the decision was made a moment too late. The pinto went up in the air and switched ends so fast all Dusty had time to do was to roll into a ball as he sailed through the air. He knew the landing was going to hurt . . .  

To Be Continued…

Trails End… Chapter 5



Chapter 5

Walker didn’t like town all that much, and he wasn’t sure what drew him there this particular morning. He had waked before daylight with his friend Dusty on his mind. Something was wrong or was about to happen, of this he was sure. Long ago he learned to pay attention to the strange premonitions he would get from time to time. The one time he didn’t pay attention, it almost cost him his life.

Breaking up the fracas in the Grub Tent seemed to only pacify part of his anxiety. He knew in his heart he was supposed to do something else, but what it could be he couldn’t imagine. In the confusion that had taken place after he had forced the man with the knife to give it up, he slipped away and found a vantage point from where he couldn’t be observed from the Grub Tent.  

What he saw while watching from his hiding place was a town buzzing with excitement. All the new gold seekers hurrying about gathering the supplies and equipment they would need in their quest for gold. Some, he knew, had already taken to the trail. Those were the ones who came prepared and had brought all the needed gear with them.

Most all the locals were standing around the dock where the L.J. Perry, a sturdy two-mast schooner piloted by “Cap” Lathrop, was in the process of tying up. By the way she was riding in the water, she had a full load on. Like the Utopia, she too was carrying a full complement of passengers and cargo, even the aft deck was loaded with livestock; horses, a few cows heavy with calves, and cages holding chickens and ducks.

Dusty and Dynamite O’Brien strolled down from the Grub Tent and stood watching as they put the gangplank in place and the passengers started coming ashore. Mostly they looked like all the other gold seekers that had come before them, but some. . . Some had another look . . . the look of trouble. They wore Colts tied low on their hip. Personal upkeep wasn’t a top priority, and they all had a shifty look about them, but inspecting their hands told the actual story, they were soft-looking, with no apparent calluses were visible. It was obvious these men hadn’t done a hard day’s work in their adult life, and it was very unlikely they were about to start now. Looking hard at them, Dusty tried his best to memorize as much as he could about each individual’s appearance. By the time all the passengers were ashore, Dusty had counted a total of seven men that were suspect. More than likely they were all wanted for something somewhere, and now they were his problem.

After all the passengers were ashore, then came the livestock. Last fall Jeb over at the livery had sent a friend down to Seattle with a poke of gold for the purchase of more livestock, namely horses and mules. He knew they would take up a lot of space and need a considerable amount of care on the voyage north. So it wasn’t too hard to understand why it would cost more for their passage than it did the actual purchase price of the animal. He also knew what would be involved in their upkeep during the winter and he had planned accordingly for that by having five one hundred pound sacks of alfalfa seed brought up too.  

Last summer, the old wrangler thinking ahead, and while most of the menfolk were out digging for gold, he had spent the long summer days of never-ending light, getting a plot of ground cleared and ready for planting. He figured it was a win, win situation. If he didn’t sell the animals, he’d have his own hay to feed them, and if he sold the stock to someone, that person would need hay. He would have it available for sale, so either way, he’d be making a living.

Along with Jeb’s stock, there were a few dozen chickens and two milk cows were soon to drop calves. These animals were for George Roll. Like Jeb, he was a real entrepreneur. Eventually, George planned to have enough hens laying that he could sell fresh eggs at his store and once the cows calved there would be fresh milk to sell too.

It took most of the morning to offload all the supplies. When all the passengers had come ashore and of course the mailbag, most of the townfolk lost interest and drifted back to their work or to George’s store to wait for mail call.

Dusty and Johnny decided rather than fighting the crowd at the general store, another cup of coffee was in order, so they headed for V.O.‘.

The two friends found an empty table by the kitchen and made themselves comfortable. It was still busy, so they helped themselves to a steaming hot mug of the dark brew V.O. claimed was coffee.

“Bilgewater!” the old sea Captain declared with a twinkle in his eye, as V.O. approached their table.

“You could always get on your little boat and row to the next port.” The grub tent owner said, jabbing right back in fun. He always could get the better of Johnny by calling the Utopia a “little” boat.

Dusty knew this could go on for a while, so with a smile on his face, he sat back, enjoying the fun right along with his two good friends. Soon it settled down, and the conversation turned to the earlier trouble of that morning.

Dusty looked about, seeing that no one was paying attention to them, then he spoke in a low voice so only his friends could hear.

He told V.O. of the letter asking him to return to active duty with the Marshal’s service and he spoke of the danger the town was about to find itself in and he assured his friends he had a plan, albeit a feeble one. But Dusty needed help, someone not afraid of long odds, and he let V.O know he was his first choice.

This was because V.O. himself had been a [1]lawman in the Arizona territory some years back and was no stranger to danger. He was considerably older now, but then too, so was Dusty.

“I can’t prove it yet, but all these hard cases we’ve seen comin’ ashore I believe are all part of a gang, and whatever they have on their minds I guarantee will bring nothing but grief ta this here town,” Dusty stated this with unmistakable trepidation in his voice.

“Well, what can be done? We just can’t go up and ask one of them . . . hey, are you a crook and what are you doing here?” V.O asked with a chuckle, trying to bring a little levity into the serious conversation.

“That might not be such a bad idée,” Dusty said. “I’m goin’ a need a deputy ta watch my back. I don’t think any of these guys would be opposed ta shootin’ a feller in the back ifin the opportunity presented itself.”

Dusty watched V.O. closely as he said this, and the reaction he was hoping for was instant and showed on the old lawman’s face.

“You know I can do that for you, even though I might be a little rusty with my colt. I haven’t had one of those blackout spells in months. Maybe the Doc down in Arizona was wrong. Maybe I’m over them.”

 V.O. sounded sincere, and Dusty knew he could trust him with his life. V.O.’s integrity and grit were without reproach, and even if he was rusty, he would still be better than most. His gun skills were what legends were made of.

Dusty didn’t hesitate.  After accepting V.O.’s offer and swearing him in as Deputy U.S. Marshal, Dusty explained what their next move would be, and then the trio agreed they would meet up later.

When they split up Dusty headed to the general store to post a notice calling for a town meeting and to check out one of his theories.

“Back so soon?” George asked with a smile as Dusty closed the squeaky front door and a little bell above it jingled, announcing his arrival.

“As long as ya don’t oil the hinges on this here door I don’t see any reason fer that annoying, noisy little bell, this squeaky door could wake up the dead,” Then, taking his friend aside he told George of his suspicions and told him of his decision to return to active duty with the Marshal’s service until they could find someone else to take the job. The storekeeper listened closely and had very little to say at the conclusion of the grim news. Dusty said he was posting a notice calling for a town meeting for the following evening. He would, at that time, let the town folks know the law had come to Hope … and he was it.

[1]The history of the Grub Tent owner can be found in “The Adventures of Dusty Sourdough,” book two, “The Trail to Wrangell.”

To Be Continued …

Trail’s End… Chapter 4


     Chapter 4

Pete, grumbling to himself, pushed his two unstable groaning partners toward their horses tied at the hitching rail. After a struggle to get them mounted, the trio road out of town toward Sunrise. The conversation was nonexistent, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Red and Frank, Pete’s not so bright partners, were still recovering and trying to figure out in their feeble minds what had taken place just before everything went wrong. They were sure the advantage was in their favor. Pete, on the other hand, was fuming and being the vengeful coward he was, he was already conjuring up a plan to get even.

Blackjack was sitting at a corner table dealing a crooked game of cards when Pete came busting through the saloon doors.

Blackjack had told all the boys not to act like they knew him and not to hang around together in any groups larger than three. But Pete, with such a mad on, either forgot the orders or just plain ignored them. Whatever the case, Blackjack had to act and act fast.

Pete didn’t slow his pace, shoving people aside as he headed directly for Blackjack’s table, but before he had a chance to open his mouth, Blackjack jumped to his feet, pulled his gun and swung it hard. The blow caught Pete above the left ear, dropping him to the floor like a hundred-pound sack of feed. Pete didn’t move. It was obvious he was either out cold or dead. The incident took less than a few seconds and was over before anybody knew what was happening, including the two miners Blackjack was in the process of fleecing in a friendly game of poker.

“Get this troublemaker out of here. Throw him out back!” Blackjack yelled at the barkeep while sitting back down at the poker table like it was normal to knock someone unconscious for no apparent reason. He apologized for the interruption as if he had just swatted an annoying fly and started dealing a new hand. In a moment all was forgotten, and the activities at the “Sluice Box” resumed without a second thought. It was, after all, an everyday occurrence, and men who frequented such places expected fights to break out, and generally they weren’t disappointed.

Blackjack dealt a few more hands, then made up a lame excuse to end the game and abruptly left the table. Even though the miners still had a little gold sitting in front of them, there would be another time.

He stopped at the bar, whispered something to Big Mike, and then sauntered back to his office where the barkeep had unceremoniously dumped Pete on the floor. Blackjack walked over to the washstand, picked up the pitcher of water normally used for washing, and rudely threw it on the unconscious man’s head.

Pete jerked up, spitting and sputtering and reaching for his gun. As it cleared the holster Blackjack kicked it from his hand and viciously yanked him up by the shirtfront.

While still gripping the shirt in a twisted ball, he pulled the man’s ugly face within inches of his own.

Blackjack’s face contorted into a hideous mask, his entire body shaking with anger, barely controlling his voice, speaking through clenched teeth to the petrified man.

“I should have killed you . . . If these fools around here figure out we all know each other, the whole plan will blow up. If that happens I will kill you, you fool! Do you understand … do you?”

Blackjack violently shoved Pete away from him and tried to compose himself.

“Most of them,” he continued with a little more self-control, “around here aren’t smart enough to come in out of the rain, if they were, they surely wouldn’t be up here looking for something, probably only [1]one-in-a-hundred will find. There are, however, some a little too smart for their own good. Like that fool called Dusty Sourdough …”

“Yah!” interrupted Pete. “That’s who I was comin’ ta tell ya about. I was fixin’ ta teach one of them worthless, good fer nothin’ prospectors some manners at that Grub Tent over in Hope when he stuck his two cents worth in. He acts like he’s the law, but we didn’t see a badge . . .”

“What do you mean, we?” Blackjack interrupted in a menacing voice. “Who else was there?”

“Red n’ Frank, we were about ta cancel that Dusty feller’s ticket when some others took a hand in it. One of them was a big Indian who had the drop on us. We got run out of town and told not ta come back!”

Blackjack’s anger started to boil again, and he was about to erupt like a volcano. He had nothing but contempt for the man standing in front of him, “GET OUT!” He exploded, “you and those two worthless idiots go out to the hideout and stay there until I send for you . . . If I see you or them in town again, I’ll make you regret the day you laid eyes on this place.”

By now, even Pete was smart enough to see how livid Blackjack was, so cautiously, not turning his back on this mans’ fury, he started backing toward the door leading to the alley. He reached for the handle, yanked the door open, and without another word, or any wasted motion, made a hasty retreat down the alley, never knowing how close he had come to meeting the Grim Reaper.

Pete slowed to a walk as he reached the end of the alley. He wanted to pull himself together before finding his two friends; it wouldn’t do to have them see him in such a cowardly state. He had to tell them they had to leave town, and it needed to be in such a way it would sound like it was his idea; it wouldn’t due to have the boys think he cowed down to Blackjack, or anybody else.

For a moment, he reflected on the sequence of events and his face twisted into an ugly smirk, he’d show ‘em, nobody pushes Big Pete around and lives ta talk about it, Blackjack included, he’d get his too and he wouldn’t even see it comin’.

As a young boy, Pete was a bully. He was bigger than other kids his age and took pleasure in pushing them around, beating them up when they didn’t obey him. It wasn’t until Billy Taylor, a new boy his own size, came along. Did he show to be the coward he was? One day when he started picking on a smaller boy, Billy, who didn’t like bullies, stepped between the two and showed Pete for what he was. Of course Pete backed down with fear, begging not to be hit. The next day he refused to return to school and in the end he ran away from home. It wasn’t long after that his life of crime began. Through the years it escalated to where it was now, still a coward who took all he could from the weak and unsuspecting without concern for human dignity or life.

After finding his two cohorts and explaining the situation, his version, of course, they headed out of town. Unbeknownst to them, they weren’t alone, more trouble was following very close behind . . .

[1] In truth, only about 1% of the gold rushers who came North ever struck it rich.

To Be Continued…