Beyond the Big River: And Other Western Stories

By Chuck Lewis

The fateful trials of a wagon train crossing the Mississippi River; the entertaining conversation between two old-timers killing time instead of bad men; a sheriff with heart trouble still trying to do his job on the plains of Kansas; a touching Wyoming tale of an aging rancher out for revenge; a Boston lady discovering violence in Tombstone, Arizona; the poignant memoir of a youth facing a gallows in Texas; a wounded marshal caught up in a disturbing family death near Cripple Creek, Colorado; a desperate man full of love for his dying wife in Dodge City, Kansas; an Arizona posse out for the kill; and an injured gambler cared for by a traveling troupe of prostitutes in Nevada.

Such are the men and women who fill the pages of ten new intriguing tales of the American west of the nineteenth century. These narratives of human interest are all wrapped up in themes of mystery, death, love, and dedication. Forgoing the standard heroics and shoot-'em-up action found in formula westerns, this collection of stories intimately explores the people and their continual struggle with themselves and each other as they seek their own brand of justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 7, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595843107

Chuck Lewis

Chuck Lewis is a member of the Western Writers of America, is the author of When Good Men Ride, Two From the West, and others, and is a literary reviewer for True West magazine. He obviously is also drawn to western movies. He and his wife Pat reside in Wickenburg, Arizona.

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Copyright © 2006 by Chuck Lewis

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Contents

When Johnny Duncan Died

Watchin’ The Rain

Gut-Shot

Comin’ Over The Ridge

A Shortcut To Murder

Beyond The Big River

The Posse

A Pretty Good Bad Man

Hempen Rope

The Big Mistake

For Wayne Potter,

friend and westerner.

BEYOND THE BIG RIVER

and other western stories

WHEN JOHNNY DUNCAN

DIED

CHET WILSON is my name. I was foreman of the Rafter-U in Wyoming during those last years of the big independent cattle ranches before everything went to hell. After the northern ranges started drying up in 1886, and with the cattle dying off by the thousands that winter, a lot of the big outfits were in trouble. By the 1890s, with the big depression, a bad economy, and loss of jobs, we were all hurting. What money there was came from the east and it started buying up a lot of the ranches from desperate owners who didn’t have much choice about selling. All those spreads were merging into cooperatives. Who the hell wanted to work for a co-op?

Ranching was about to change. Fencing was talked about, better procedures for stock handling had to be introduced, and the stock itself became the newer and better breeds of cattle that slowly were showing up in the business. It appeared that we had to start growing our own feed, too, and there was a lot of grumbling from regular working cowmen about being turned into farmers. Farmers! With fences!

The few hands who were kept on to work the dwindling herds in those last years of the 1880s were suspicious of easterners, big money, politicians, businessmen, investors, and all the rumors about what was coming. Of course the rumors all turned out to be true, but in 1889 the changes were still coming slowly. That didn’t matter, though, the cowboys didn’t like change. They wondered what was wrong with the way they were already doing everything? What the hell did those damn fools back east know about ranching? And goddamn it, what’s gonna happen to me? That’s what they wanted to know. That’s what they were suspicious of. But, it was more than being suspicious; they were afraid. That fear of the unknown gave rise to a lot of anger. Yes, sir, everything was going to hell, and we felt like we were going with it.

The Rafter-U was owned by George Utting, one of the good old boys who had been in the Crow River Basin since the first ranches started up. He got the Rafter going, kept buying up more land and even killed a man once to get more of it, but evidently it was a fair shooting and it never happened again. Mister Utting was a Texas man, but once married a woman from someplace in Pennsylvania. He left the ranch for several days and came back to the Rafter with a new wife named Charlotte. She fit in pretty well and he called her Charlie. She was a nice lady. She tried three times to give him children, but all the babies died and so did she that third time. Utting never married again.

Back when I showed up, the boss took me on as a regular cowhand, and somehow we connected and worked well together. I think he liked me because I’d had some schooling and knew my three Rs pretty well. As young as I was I was eventually named second foreman, and then when the top foreman, Banger Wells, was killed in a bad fall, I moved up and ran the place.

Things went well. There were about twenty to twenty-five hands working the Rafter most of the time, and all of them were good men. They used to jokingly tell other people they worked in China, claiming our brand looked like a man with a pointed hat, just like a Chinaman. Mister Utting caught wind of that and asked them one time if it was alright if he paid them a Chinaman’s wage, and they all choked and got worried looks on their faces. Then he laughed and said he’d change the brand if they wanted him to, but they sobered up and said they liked things they way they were. No, sir, Mister Utting, they just felt comfortable with their own fondness working at the Chinaman, and no more was said about it. We still called the brand the Chinaman.

Mister Utting got older, the country got dryer, and things got worse. I had to let more and more men go as time went on, until there were only five steady cowboys and me left to operate the place.

They were all good-natured older men who had been working cows all their lives and didn’t know much else. I say they were older, but at the time I tell of, in 1889, I was forty-five myself and actually the oldest among them. Cowboys were usually young fellows in their twenties and younger kids, all full of fire with the energy to put in those long tiring days, whereas the older men were starting to slow down some. The youngest cowboys were let go first, with the owners thinking they had the best chance at finding work, maybe even doing other jobs if they had to. They figured they had more time ahead of them, I guess. So the older, more experienced men with less of a future, were kept on to work the shrinking herds and try to keep things going.

Will Van Etten was the next oldest of the crew. He was forty-two and still a tough, strong worker I was glad to have on the ranch. He could straighten out some of the other men if there ever was a disagreement of some kind, and could easily lay out even the young ones with a punch that hit like a hammer. Other than that he was a laugher and easy to get along with. I looked to him as being my second foreman.

Sandy Harkins was also forty-two, but three months younger than Will. Will called him Junior and Sandy called Will Pop. They were close friends and had known each other a long time.

Marble Jackson was a light-skinned colored man who probably had a lot of white blood behind him. That didn’t seem to bother cowboys much in those days, and there were a lot of black cowboys around who seemed to fit in most of the time. Jackson was recognized as one of the best horse trainers in the basin, and we were proud to have him. Even he didn’t really know how old he was, but he figured he was about forty.

George Muller was thirty-six and had one ear missing along with a lot of the skin above it. He had actually been partially scalped by an Indian when he was a young boy in western Kansas, and the whole mess had dried up to a big wrinkled scar that pulled up his mouth and eye on that side. It all gave him a mean look, but he was just about the gentlest man I ever knew. Beyond that he was a hell of a worker, and that’s what counted.

The youngest man among us was Tommy Gaines. He was only thirty-one and still talked and acted like he was younger. He was a big man and sometimes did things that were hard to believe. He could lift more, break more, and eat more than anyone on the ranch, but there were times when I thought he did it all to show off rather than doing it because it was part of the job. However, he was a valuable man to have for many reasons and never balked at a job that needed doing. There were complaints from some of the men about his bullying personality sometimes, but they always seemed to handle it themselves and put him in his place. It never changed him much, though.

The only other person on the ranch was old Billy Chaffin, the cook, but he lived up in the house with Mister Utting. We called him Lard because of his often-times over-use of that substance. Most foods he cooked that didn’t require grease were pretty good, but we tried not to eat too much of those that did. Constipation was never a problem on the ranch. Lard had been with Utting since before I knew him, so we were stuck with him.

We lived a slow and routine life. We worked well together and felt fortunate to be working at all, considering how conditions were across other parts of the range. Cowboys were pretty simple fellows in those days, and it didn’t take much of a nudge to reach our emotions.

That’s the way things were when Johnny Duncan showed up.

MISTER UTTING and I were sitting out on the front porch of the main house early one cool evening, when the old man squinted down the road and said, Who’s that coming? I can’t make him out.

I looked and squinted too, but couldn’t recognize the rider walking his horse slowly up the road to the house. Don’t know him, I answered. Probably another hungry cowboy riding the grub line. He wouldn’t be the first.

Well, said the old man, we can always give a man a meal if nothing else. And give him a bunk for the night. He’ll know we’re not hiring. He got up and went back in the house. I knew he wasn’t being unfriendly, it’s just that it made him feel bad to see so many men out of work and not being able to do anything for them. It fell to me to do that.

I stepped down from the porch and walked forward to meet the rider coming in. He somehow gave me an uncertain feeling about him and I studied him as he approached. The horse was a good-looking buckskin with a healthy coat and a clear eye. A rifle stock jutted up from the front of the saddle, and all the leather, including the saddle, had a well-used look to it, but it was also well cared for. The man himself was the same way.

He appeared to be about sixty years old or more and had a face that could only have been handsome when younger. The small handlebar mustache on his lip was neat and trimmed and the iron-gray hair beneath his hat showed the same care. His hat was a top-dollar Stetson with an obvious history of wear to it, and the heavy elk-hide coat showed evidence of some age on it. The boots and spurs were the best available. He sat there looking for all the world like one of those dramatic figures on the covers of the western adventure books that are around now.

The buckskin slowed to a stop in front of me with no obvious use of the reins, and the man touched the brim of his hat and offered a slight smile with a steady look from a pair of ice-blue eyes. Good evening, sir, he said in a soft voice. My name is Johnny Duncan, and I’m looking for work like a thousand other men. I don’t expect you to have any jobs available, but I’d welcome a bit of food if you can spare it.

He grimaced and looked away to the lowering sun a moment, then back to me. Begging’s tough on a man, he added.

I’d already fed dozens of such wandering cowboys, and it made my throat tighten up. Nobody has to beg here at the Rafter, Mister Duncan. We can offer you some left-overs from tonight’s meal and we have plenty of coffee, if that’ll do you for now.

I’d be obliged, sir, he answered politely.

My name’s Chet Wilson, I told him. I’m the foreman here. Follow me and we’ll get you fixed up for the night

I don’t expect that, he said.

Using one of our extra bunks for a night don’t hurt us any, I laughed. C’mon, follow me over to the bunkhouse.

The ranch had once had two bunkhouses, but the largest of them had burned down a year or so before, so everybody used the one that was left. It was plenty big enough. It had ten bunks in it, a stove, a big table and a lot of chairs. We all had plenty of space for each man to spread out as he chose.

I say we because I slept there too, although I had a small room all to myself on the end of the building. There was a brief time when I was invited to share the house with Mister Utting, but after a while I felt like the men were thinking I was better than they were, so I came back out to the largest bunkhouse. That’s the one that burned down, but I simply moved over to the other one and joined the other cowboys. They didn’t mind. I even told them they could talk about the boss and the foreman all they wanted and it wouldn’t bother me. But if they wanted to curse me for something, it had better be in the form of a suggestion on how to do something better, otherwise I might be offended. We all got along.

Johnny Duncan stepped lightly down from his horse and said, My horse comes first, so point me in the right direction.

I poked a finger at the corral and hay rack and watched as he expertly cared for his animal. He was smooth and practiced at everything he did. He moved with a grace not often seen in older men, and

I was already beginning to like him. He walked back to me with a stride that somehow seemed familiar. I’d never met Johnny Duncan before, but there were only a few types of men who walked like that. He was a wonderful figure of a man. He carried his Winchester loosely in his hand, muzzle down, and I thought nothing of it. We all had rifles lying around.

We stepped into the warm room and the men cranked their heads around to say howdy to me, but saw a stranger with me and hesitated. Boys, I announced, we got another cowboy here in need of something hot in his belly and something soft to sleep on for a night.

The boys nodded and grunted a few greetings.

Will Van Etten spoke up right away. Sorry, but there ain’t much left to eat, he said, and swung his eyes over at Tommy. Somebody ate it all.

Tommy stuck out his chin. Not all of it. There’s a hunk of that pie left.

Yeah, and the rest of us were lucky to get a piece!

Well, hell, there were two pies! That was enough for everybody.

Shit, I barely had enough to taste it! It was apple, I think, but I ain’t sure!

I’d appreciate a piece of pie and some coffee, came the stranger’s soft voice, which seemed louder in the room than the yelling coming from the joking men.

Help yourself to whatever you can find, Johnny, I told him. At least you’ll get a breakfast in the morning. I glanced at the men and said, This is Johnny Duncan, boys. He’s a guest, remember, so go easy on him.

Bless those men. They all got sober looks on their faces, knowing that this older man was wandering around without a job or a place to hang his hat. They knew how lucky they were.

You can use this first empty bunk here, I pointed out to Johnny. Make yourself to home.

Johnny nodded and propped his ‘73 Winchester against the wall next to the head of the bunk. He walked over and poured himself a cup of some of our strong coffee and set the pot back down on the small stove that heated the room. He turned away toward the bunk and slid off his coat. He tossed it onto the bunk and turned back to fetch his cup. We all stared at the cartridge belt cinched around his waist and the single-action Colt .45 snugged high across his belly in a cross-draw holster. It looked like it had been there a long time.

The men immediately grew silent and a couple of them slid glances in my direction, waiting for me to say something. I did. Sorry, Johnny, but we don’t wear guns in the bunkhouse.

He paused with the cup held up in front of his face. He slowly lowered it and both eyebrows went up. He stared at me for several heartbeats with those almost-colorless blue eyes. He barely nodded as the eyebrows went down, but he unbuckled his gunbelt, turned, and nonchalantly dropped it onto the bunk.

Guns aren’t too scarce on a large ranch like this, are they? he asked as he picked up his coffee again. He gazed at me over the rim, waiting for an answer.

Enough of them, I guess, I offered. I grinned at the men. It’s a working ranch, Mister Duncan. At least it used to be. We usually pack a pistol in a saddle-bag, or someplace out of the way. You look like you know your way around a cow camp, sir, so you know belt guns are a nuisance when you’re working.

He lifted the tin plate with the single piece of pie in it and carried it to the table. As he sat down he nodded and breathed a heavy sigh. I didn’t mean any insult by the question, he said. I just know there’s a lot of loose money-hungry cowboys riding the range nowadays. He shrugged. It’s your business. I just take care of myself. He started in on the pie.

Where’d you work last, Johnny? asked Will. I wondered if the old man would think that to be a nosey question.

Up north, Johnny replied, mumbling around the pie on his mouth. He knew he wasn’t saying much by that answer, but he also knew that everybody got the message and wouldn’t ask again. He swung his eyes around the large room, noting the settled look it had. You boys are lucky to have been able to keep your jobs. You all have been here a long time, I take it.

We didn’t know whether that was a question or not, but I answered up. We’ve all been here for several years, now, I said. I reckon it’s the only home we’ve had for some time, now.

That’s for sure, put in Sandy. We ain’t gettin’ rich, but at least we’re eatin’.

The others chuckled. Yeah, especially Tommy, Will teased again.

Johnny spoke up again with another curious question. With all the loose cowboys riding the grub line, have a pair of dark-haired brothers come in lately?

The men just looked at him in a different way, now. A thought they must have had, same as I had, was whether this old man was a lawman or something. It had been an odd question and pretty direct about what he wanted to know.

Okay, Mister Duncan, what’s your story? I asked firmly. Are you after these men for some reason? Are you a marshal or something? Ifso, we can talk about it. If not, then why are you asking about some cowboys who could be any two of all the men wandering around the west.

Johnny Duncan leaned back in his chair. He sighed again and scanned the faces waiting for an answer. He nodded. I’ve told this story to some honest crews before, and you look like you deserve an explanation. He cleared his throat and got into his tale.

"I had my own outfit just up over the Montana line. Not as big as most, but I did have thirty thousand acres. Ran it with the help of my son and his two sons, and we had a good number of men working for us. Then the big dry-up came onto us just like it did down here, maybe worse. Had to let every one of our crew go. Cattle were dying all over the place. I don’t need to tell you what it was like.

One day about six months ago—early this spring it was—I was out checking some of the farthest stock and figured I’d find my boys out there. They’d been gone overnight and hadn’t said they planned to do so, and I wondered what was holding them up.

At this point Johnny paused for a minute and gazed at the flicker of flames that showed through the front door grate of our stove. Then he went on in a tighter voice.

"I found them, alright. They were all dead. They had been shot, and they were all dead. I couldn’t believe it. My son and two grandsons, my heirs, my blood and future family for generations to come, they were suddenly dead. Gone.

"I eventually got mounted again to go back to the ranch. I hated the thought of telling my wife and daughter-in-law that all our young men were dead. And I knew I would have to get a wagon to go out and bring them all in. I was all numb inside.

I got to the house and—and— He wagged his head slowly. "I found the rest of my family dead. My wife