Collected Western Stories

By Paul Morrison

COLLECTED WESTERN STORIES is inspired by the American West. They are the stories of adventurers and explorers of the lands inhabited by the Native Americans who had to constantly fight the newcomers whom they considered invaders. The stories develop paradoxical heroes: settlers and their families, risking all to begin a new life, as well as the gunfighters who sought to impose the rule of the gun. Another Notch for Sam and The Hanging Tree are stories of these gunfighters while in Comanche Run and The Wind Spirit, the reader will witness the struggles of the Native Americans.

Important events in American history are not overlooked. The story, Grey Steel, Rivets and Canvas tells of the last attempt by the Confederacy to change the course of the Civil War. The plan is an ambitious one which may just work. Or will it? Western Delight will take the reader, travelling in a time machine back to the Battle of the Little Big Horn in a story which has a strange twist to its end. In yet another story, The Last Ride, we hear first-hand, an eye-witness account of the Little Big Horn battle from a soldier in a battle when there were no survivors from Custer’s command. How did he survive when all of the others died? The seventeen stories in this collection will inspire and entertain all who are interested in the American West and even those who aren’t, but who just love a good story and a good read...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Morrison
• Release date: Jul 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781925074024

Paul Morrison

Paul Morrison, a retired museologist, has also been a writer for most of his life. “I cannot remember a time when I was not writing, even when I was five or six years old. I grew up with books such as TREASURE ISLAND, 20,000 LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA and THE TIME MACHINE — these and the many other books which I read in my early years fed my imagination, a voracious imagination transporting me to faraway places, other worlds and to other times in both the recent and the more distant past...” Many of these worlds and places are visited in the novels and short story collections he has written.Besides a love of fiction, Paul also reads widely on ancient history and archaeology. “I am particularly interested in Ancient Egypt, mainly Old Kingdom Egypt during the age of the pyramid builders. I have always been intrigued as to how the pyramids were built and also about the lives of the pharaohs and the workers who constructed the pyramids. There were many questions filling my mind, but few if any answers.” This inquiring interest led to the GIZA TRILOGY books, THE PHARAOH, THE SPHINX and THE THREE QUEENS, a monumental work of well-researched fiction set against the backdrop of the three pyramids on the Giza Plateau. Together, with their associated books, THE DIVINE LIGHT, ETERNAL EGYPT (Supplement to the Giza Trilogy), and SECRET OF THE PYRAMID, these books total more than 1.3 million words! Other books written by Paul cover a wide range of subjects including historical fiction, science fiction, ghost and detective stories as well as many other genres.Paul currently lives in Hobart, Tasmania with his wife in a house overlooking the Derwent River. “The magnificent views of Hobart and Mount Wellington inspire me in my writings — but the most important inspiration is my wife, Helena.”

Book preview

PRAIRIE DOG

He couldn’t keep his eyes off it, not that Willy Drinkwater had much choice. He wasn’t going anywhere — at least in this life. Death could not be too far away, maybe in one day — maybe two, certainly no longer. It would be a painful death, one with much suffering. Willy Bridgewater didn’t think he deserved this suffering. Life (and death) could be so unfair!

He was suddenly thinking back to the day before...

He had been minding his own business, riding alone from the small town of Hope on the border of New Mexico to the smaller town of Libertad, just across the border in Mexico. The ride was only twenty five miles, and would take a little over two hours on a not so hot day and three hours on a very hot day. Willy Drinkwater had been midway into his ride when he spotted the half dozen horsemen.

It ain’t no use trying to outrun them, he said to his horse, watching the mystery riders turning from the south before hurrying towards him. From their dust trail, he knew the six men would be upon him within minutes. They were riding at a rapid pace — obviously on important business although what this business was Willy had no idea.

The year was 1859. Commanche raiding parties had been active in New Mexico for several years, although in recent times the Indians had been relatively quiet. Willy Drinkwater strained his eyes.

The riders were approaching at a furious pace. In-between the clouds of rising dust, he could see the dirty whites of their shirts and the traditional Mexican hats, the broad-rimmed sombreros. He was suddenly wondering what a band of Mexicans in a hurry would be doing over the border. A short time later, the six riders rode up alongside him.

"Good morning, senior, said the lead rider in perfect English. He was studying Willy closely. What brings you to the middle of nowhere on such a beautiful day?" Willy could see the others, their hands close to their gun holsters. It would be foolish to do anything stupid but then again, Willy was an impulsive person.

What business is it of yours, Willy replied casually to hide his nervousness, before adding, Is it a crime to go riding in the desert? The other man smiled a broad grin.

"No crime, senior. However, it can be very dangerous. Do you wish to be impaled on a Commanche lance. Such a death would be a painful one." Willy glanced towards the horizon.

I don’t see any Commanches. The other man laughed loudly. The others with him laughed too.

What of bandits? questioned the man. Are you not afraid you will be robbed? This time it was Willy’s turn to laugh.

"Rob me of what? My horse is old and my gun is older. I don’t have a dime on me. Who would want to rob someone as poor as me? Only a fool, or fools would rob me. He looked at the man and then glanced at the others, all of whom had serious expressions on their faces. You’re not fools are you?"

We are merely fellow travellers, replied the man...

Now here he was in the most difficult of circumstances. Willy Drinkwater had expected the men to ride on and leave him in peace. Here he was and Willy Drinkwater was dying. And yet, his horse was nearby, tied to a cactus and his gun within an arm’s length. The riders, however, were gone. They had ridden off barely an hour before. Only a fool would call another man a fool, particularly if there were six of these so-called fools.

Willy couldn’t keep his eyes off it. The prairie dog was barely a foot away, its eyes staring into his own — not looking up at him but looking straight ahead...

The men had forced Willy to dismount. Take my horse and gun, he told them. The fools had the upperhand and Willy was not going to argue with them. He expected them to rob him but in thinking this, Willy Drinkwater was totally wrong.

Start digging, the man ordered.

Digging with what?

With your hands.

Why?

We are not going to rob you, promised the man.

The noise of a gun being cocked behind his head brought any further questions to a speedy end. Willy began his digging. A half hour later, the man ordered him to stop. Willy stood before the deep hole, his bleeding hands at his side and looked down into what he knew would be his grave.

Get in! ordered the man. Willy obeyed. He was determined to get it over with quickly. A bullet to the head would be a speedy and merciful death...

The prairie dog was eyeing him with curiosity. Get away from me, shouted Willy. The small creature stood its ground. A sudden thought came to him. What do prairie dogs eat? He was sure it was only berries and grass. Maybe, just maybe he was wrong. He was in no position to stop the prairie dog from eating his face...

The men had quickly shovelled the dirt over Willy’s body, careful to keep his head above the ground. This gave Willy an ant’s eye view of the six men riding away. Hey! What are you doing? The words, however, were impolitely ignored. He could hear his horse snorting nearby and Willy struggled to turn his head from under the mountain of earth covering his body. There was his horse and nearby, his gun and holster. The man had been right when he said they were not going to rob Willy.

Willy tried to move his arms and body to free himself but he couldn’t. The weight of the soil was far too heavy. He glanced up at the sky. The sun was directly above and the day was growing extremely hot. He wondered if he would die of thirst or of something else. The grave was on the side of a small slope and further down this slope, Willy could see tiny objects, black objects moving around — an ants nest! Dying of thirst was a far more merciful death than being eaten alive by ants. He judged the nest to be no more than twenty feet away, a small distance for him but a greater distance for the ants. Besides, they were busy feasting on a small lizard. Again, Willy looked up at the sky. The lizard would keep the ants busy for most of the day. Ants did not come out at night and the following morning, when they did, Willy Drinkwater would be free and far away from here.

The day was growing steadily hotter.

The sweat pouring from his head helped to cool him. Soon, however, this sweat evaporated completely in the relentless heat from the desert sun. Willy could feel his head on fire, his blistering lips growing sorer and sorer. The horizon became a blur until finally vanishing into darkness. Willy could no longer see. The ants continued to terrify his thoughts. What would happen when they finally ate the lizard? Ants were hungry critters. They would then eat Willy Drinkwater!

Another and stranger thought now came into his delirious mind.

Drinkwater was a funny name. Everyone always told him this. His name was Drinkwater and yet, here he was stuck in the baking earth with only his head sticking out. There was no water. The nearest water was in Hope. Funny name for a town, Willy thought quietly to himself. Nearly as funny as Drinkwater. Where were the ants? Then he heard a loud noise from nearby. Something was moving closer to him...

The prairie dog was eyeing him and he in turn, was eyeing the prairie dog. Earlier thoughts of being eaten by the critter were soon forgotten. It just seemed curious, curious to watch a man die. He tried to give the prairie dog a name but names escaped him. It was difficult to think. The sun was sapping the energy and the life from his brain. He was being baked alive!

The prairie dog came closer and Willy could see through his blurry eyes its tiny whiskers twitching. The tiny eyes were looking into his own and in those tiny eyes, Willy could see sympathy, a compassion he would never have expected from such a simple creature.

Don’t worry, he said to his new friend through his blistered lips. "I will be alright. Once it gets dark, I’ll get the energy back to free myself. I will get out of here — I know I will." Already, the shadows were beginning to lengthen. Night would not be too far away. The prairie dog gave Willy Drinkwater a newfound hope.

It was sometime later when Willy felt something crawling up his face. Ouch! The tiny object had bitten him. He struggled with his tired eyes and saw another black object on the ground in front of his blistered lips. Ants! He furiously glanced around. There were only three or four of them. They must be scouts, he thought to himself. Night could not be too far away. Ants don’t come out at night — or do they? Willy looked at the prairie dog still watching him from nearby. I sure wish you were an ant-eater! The prairie dog ignore his words and continued watching.

A few minutes must have passed before Willy noticed the faint trail coming up the slope towards him. The ants were on the move. The hope quickly left him and he wished he could die a quick death. If only the bandits had shot him dead! Why did they bury him alive? He had only called them fools. He turned his attention back to the ants. Night could not be too far away.

When he finally turned his attention away from his impending death, the approaching trail of ants, Willy suddenly noticed blackness all around him. Night had been less than an hour away — now it was strangely a minute away! The ground was also trembling and there was a loud roar in the darkened skies above. He looked at the prairie dog but it was gone, most likely frightened off by the noise of the approaching storm. The ants...

They were nearly upon him when the first splash of rain drops struck the dry dirt. Within seconds, the splashes had turned into a deluge which to the ants was a tidal wave that quickly washed them away. The rain came down harder and harder, washing away the heat from Willy’s blured and exhausted mind. Ten minutes later and with the rain continuing to cascade down like a waterfall, something even stranger and unexpected happened.

The earth around him began to move.

Willy Drinkwater felt himself sliding down the slope. The torrents of rain pouring down the slope had washed the earth away, freeing him from his grave. Then as suddenly as it had begun the rain stopped. Willy quickly untied his frightened horse and searched for his gun holster but it was lost, buried in the mud beneath the slope. A few short minutes later and he was riding away in the direction of Libertad, a fitting name for his experience. Willy suddenly pulled his horse to a stop to momentarily search for his friend. The prairie dog was nowhere to be seen and Willy hoped that it was safely somewhere in its burrow. The prairie dog had kept Willy alive and had been company during his terrifying ordeal. He had always considered prairie dogs as nothing more than vermon — now, Willy Drinkwater was thinking far more differently...

THE FIRST WINTER

They stood huddled in small groups. They were looking in his direction and were talking quietly amongst themselves. When they saw that he had noticed them, they turned their backs and began to disperse.

Joe Spaddler slowed the wagon to a halt. He watched as the Indians returned to the teepees that lay scattered around the wooden government buildings on the reservation. The air was bitterly cold and there was the smell of snow in the air. It would be another miserable winter. Joe Spaddler climbed from the wagon, rubbing the cold from his face with his frozen hands and then entered the rough wooden building. Above its door was a faded and painted sign, Evans General Store & Knick-Knacks.

He found Henry Evans looking out the window. Mrs Evans sat in a rocking chair beside the fire, while the two young Evans’ children were playing with some of the knick-knacks on the floor. Evans nodded his acknowledgement before turning his attention back to the window.

I don’t like it, he said.

Another cold winter, agreed Joe.

The weather don’t worry me, Evans said with concern in his voice. It’s those Indians that worry me.

Joe Spaddler laughed.

Thieving from you again, Henry? Maybe you should invest in a double-barrel shotgun and some buckshot — teach them a good lesson.

They are up to something and thievings only a small part of it. Evans turned from the window and looked at his two young children. Joe, I want you to do me a favour and take little Henry and Martha back to town with you. They can stay with their aunt.

Joe Spaddler glanced at Mrs Evans but she was silent.

Henry, you’re worrying about nothing, he said. "Those Indians were hostile a year ago, but that Chief Joseph of theirs has promised there will be no more fighting — things have changed in a year."

Sure most of them are peaceful now, replied Evans, "but some of them have been acting strange lately. It’s old Chief Fox Tail and his group — been acting real strange."

Strange?

Four weeks ago it began. When Reverend Beal first started teaching them about the Good Lord. Most of them listened quietly but Fox Tail and his followers were restless. They began to ask questions.

What sort of questions?

Questions that shouldn’t be asked.

Such as...?

Evans looked at his two young children playing on the floor. He moved closer to Joe Spaddler. His words were whispered ones.

Why was the Lord crucified?

Why, that’s a harmless question, laughed Joe. You are worrying over nothing, Henry. What other questions did they ask?

If the Lord could rise up from the dead after all his pain and suffering, could the Indians also rise up from their own pain and suffering to become one people again.

Joe Spaddler thought seriously about this question.

The first question was easy enough, but the second one I don’t really understand.

They are trying to draw strength from the Lord. If Jesus Christ could triumph, then they think that they too can triumph over their adversaries.

There’s nothing wrong with that, Henry. It’s a Christian belief we all believe in — I guess it gives us a little bit of hope.

"Hope for harmless Indians maybe... But this Chief Fox Tail has resisted all efforts to teach him and his group the ways of civilization. When Reverend Beal began his preaching, Fox Tail suddenly began to notice."

An instant conversion, laughed Joe.

It’s no funny matter! There was anger in Henry Evan’s voice. "There are lives at risk! Fox Tail and his people are up to something. In their minds, they are twisting the Reverend’s words and confusing them with their own primitive beliefs — all this talk about resurrection. It spells trouble."

Have you spoken to the army?

There is no real evidence — not at the moment.

Then what makes you so sure?

You saw them standing around outside in groups. They were talking. They were planning. A year ago, they were fighting the army up in the Bear Paw Mountains.

That was a year ago, Henry. They are a beaten people now.

I’m not so sure. Evans again looked out the window. He motioned for Joe to join him.

The Indians had emerged from their teepees and were once more gathered in small groups. They seemed excited and were looking at the distant line of hills on the edge of the reservation. One Indian, a very old Indian seemed to be going from group to group. Joe Spaddler guessed that the old man must be Chief Fox Tail.

Maybe you should have a word with McBride, he suggested. He’s the Indian agent — it’s his job to worry, not yours. Joe Spaddler continued to watch the strange actions of the Indians and his own suspicions began to grow.

I’ve already spoken to him, replied Evans.

And...?

The man is a drunken fool. He doesn’t care much for the Indians. I asked him to send in a company of soldiers but he was so drunk, he couldn’t remember the conversation. When I approached him again, when he was sober, he refused. He was most likely frightened the army would catch on to his little racket of cheating and mistreating the Indians. Evans shook his head in frustration. "We will all be scalped before McBride does anything!"

Mrs Evans let out a cry of horror and Henry Evans suddenly realised the stupidity of his words. He hurried forward and comforted her. Joe Spaddler stayed by the window. The Indians continued to stand around in their small groups outside, talking and pointing to the distant hills.

I had better get those sacks of flour unloaded from the wagon, Joe said. It would soon be dark and he wanted to be away from the reservation before there was trouble. When the wagon finally departed a short time later, Henry and Martha were with him. At least the children would be safe from the trouble that was brewing.

It was two weeks later when Joe Spaddler returned to the reservation. It was a Sunday morning and Joe stopped the wagon to watch the unusual and unexpected sight. A year ago they were worshipping in their savage ways, he sighed to himself and for a moment, Henry Evans’ fears and suspicions were forgotten.

The Indians were seated on the bare and frozen earth. A large fire had been lit to help keep them warm, but the warmth of this fire was directed more towards the comfort of the man who stood beside the fire. The standing figure was dressed in black but the white collar and vest identified his occupation and the raised voice his purpose. His audience sat silent and watchful, listening to every word being spoken.

The fear of the Lord is with you; His understanding and forgiveness is your salvation from evil! announced Reverend Beal as he thumped the empty air which was his pulpit with his fist. An Indian standing nearby struggled to translate the hurried words to the others. Joe Spaddler looked to see if he could find Chief Fox Tail in the audience.

He found him sitting in the front row. The old chief seemed to be listening to every word with an intensity of concentration and, with every change of tone in Reverend Beal’s voice, the expression on Fox Tail’s face also changed. At times his head would rock from side to side, and then he would lean forward as if he had suddenly found what he was looking for. He would then smile and nod his head. Around him sat his followers and they too listened to the words.

It was their first winter spent on the reservation. Joe Spaddler could see that they looked a miserable bunch of Indians. They were mountain Indians and the flat plains around the reservation, devoid of the familiar pine forests and mountain streams was foreign to them. They had no protection from the bitterly cold winds that were now blowing down from the north, and already, there was a sick coughing gradually creeping through their diminishing numbers. At times, this cough threatened to interrupt Reverend Beal’s sermon and the minister struggled to lift his voice above it.

The sermon had now progressed from threats of divine punishment for misguided souls to the Nativity. Reverend Beal’s words were now softer and