Apache` Patch

By Stuart Haussler

Apache Patch` is a novel based on a theme I have used in seven other westerns I have written about the United States Marshal Service. A concept where the Marshal Service was one of the two major arms in establishing law and order as we know it today. The other aim was a strong judiciary working in concert with the Marshals. This collaboration was a determined, calculated effort to cripple lawlessness in a developing nation, not just The Wild West, and to finally establish justice on the local level, with local control.

The concept evolved to have Marshals at large, involved in any occupation, and to act as ombudsmen, amicus curiae or as a law officer when they saw the need, anywhere, and anytime. No matter what they were pursuing, they were to wear their badges at all times, one over their heart and one on their holster, and they were to be compensated as a United States Marshal all of their lives.

KT Pritchard is the main character, who as a young man gives up being a Sheriff in a small Kansas town to move on with his life to fulfill a desire to be a rancher. He decides to head for Apache`Patch, an enclave of the Apache`Nation in an area of lush grass and plentiful water in southwest Missouri that follows the course of the White River. KT is visited by events that eventually finds him taking on the role of United States Marshal at large. He is summoned to such service by the persuasive and inspired personality of one William Winfield Webster, Chief United States Marshal. He is sustained by one Cornielius Bidel, leading Judge of the Fifth Federal District Court of Kansas City.

A bureaucratic governmental plan fraught with inevitable flaws, difficulties

and problems, even though a praiseworthy attempt to right a wrong, is devised. This is in an attempt to make restitution to the hostile British, Hereford cattle breeders, for the cattle lost on the open ranges after they were introduced by the British, at the request of the President of the United States.

A massive herd, twenty thousand head, is initiated at Apache`Patch. These cattle are to be driven north and combined with two more herds of twenty thousand and eventually concentrated for the British at a ranch established at Tryon, Nebraska. Mary Marguerite Eagle, know as Ramrod, daughter of Screaming Eagle, an Apache`Chief, is in charge of the cattle operation for the Apache`Nation in Apache`Patch. She becomes the ramrod of the Nation's cattle which by agreement become the nucleus for the governmental plan under the direction of Marshal KT Pritchard. A love affair develops between the two after they meet and together deal with the daily trials, tribulations and adversities of the trail and the plan.

The story introduces the reader to many memorable characters who helped build the west, and in doing so, the nation. The novel tells from my heart and experience, of quintessential love, twisted and coiled bigotry and the indomitable spirit of the men and women who pioneered the west. Values shared by any human being are incorporated throughout the storytelling, thereby enabling the reader's minds-eye to see and hear more than the written word.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 14, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462838837

Stuart Haussler

Stuart Haussler has been writing Western and Military novels for twenty years. He brings to his novels, based on his eighty years, knowledge acquired as a Rancher, Doctor, Teacher and Naval/Marine Officer. So as to entertain, Sedition: The Mother of Treason is an intentional fabrication of the mind, based on imagination, experience, dedication, concern for and a total love of his country. Tid-bits of today's reality innoculate the story with the fibers of truth by insinuation.

Book preview

APACHE’ PATCH

STUART HAUSSLER

COPYRIGHT © 2001 BY STUART HAUSSLER.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

All Colt registered and common law trademarks as cited below are used with the permission of New Colt Holding Corp. All rights reserved. Specifically, COLT, PEACEMAKER, SINGLE ACTION ARMY, AND FRONTIER SIX SHOOTER.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

ADDENDUM

To A True Friend

Mary Marguerite Mc Cardle Singer

Chapter One

You look like you’re happy.

Why do you say that?

The way you’re sitting back in that chair, and … well … maybe it’s just the look on your face.

Contentment? Is that what you see?

That I could allow to be said. Yeah, now that you mention it, you do look like a contented cow.

You know somethin’, Injun?

What?

The only reason they let you in here is because you were my Deputy. Watch out, Birdy may cut you off clean and proper now that I’m a foot loose, plain but nothing cowboy.

The young and handsome Indian turned to the bar to yell, Birdy, Ken here, the ex-Sheriff, says you’ll cut me off if I don’t watch out.

Birdy, the plump, pretty, but brusk, owner of the Busted Spur Saloon, looked up to cry out, Hear that, you all. The ex-Sheriff thinks I’m gonna cut off my best lemonade customer just ‘cause he took a hankerin’ to movin’ on. Now’s that beat all … or not? You all think I’d cut off Racer … Injun or not?"

Laughter erupted, followed by a spontaneous thumping on the floor as a chorus of voices yelled out, Lemonade for Racer.

A lemonade for Racer it is, Birdy yelled back and then added, and a slap on the glass for the rest of ya’.

A slap on the glass was Birdy’s way of saying a free drink, which she was in a habit of doing from time to time without a reason. The Broken Spur was the only saloon in Caldwell, Kansas. The anxious drovers on the Chisholm Trail, just outside of town, necessitated the Saloon and Sheriff.

The Sheriff never seemed to last too long, for one reason or another.

The saloon came into Birdy Stockmeier’s possession by chance. She had been hired on as a drover by one James Dolan in Austin Texas. He was a very prominent and powerful cattleman and some had even accused him of rustling and other unscrupulous and devious means of making money, but nothing could ever be proved.

Birdy was young, beautiful and looking for a leg up in life when she decided one day to work her way north. She happened on James Dolan in an Austin bar, and her beauty caused him to walk over to ask, What’s a beauty like you doing in a Saloon?

Well, mister, I don’t know who you are but I’d have to say, as a woman, I like your cut, and if, as a man, it’s any of your business, this is where Drovers come-a-lookin’ for work.

You ‘re looking for work as a Drover?

What’s so strange about that? Just because I’m a woman? I have to eat and move on in life just like a man, or don’t you see it … that-a-way?

"Let’s say I never thought of it, that-a-way, before. You … are you really good enough? Can you really handle that six-gun strapped to your

leg?"

Not only that Mr., but wait a minute, what’s your name, and what’s your interest?

Good questions!

You mean, for a woman, Birdy interrupted.

Now that you mention it, that maybe is it, but then again I don’t think so. You’ve got my attention, but I’m beginning to believe you are what you say.

And what’s that?

You haven’t finished. Go on and finish what you were saying about your prowess.

Prowess? Now … that’s a mighty big word.

With a six-gun.

You mean my ability, do you?

Quick, aren’t you?

Yeah, with men meanings, and my six-gun, horse and rope. I was brought up on my Daddy’s ranch and started punchin’ cattle before I could fit square in a saddle.

Who was your father?

Wait a minute now … after you. What’s your name?

James Dolan.

The Triple D.-Dolan?

I am, one in the same.

Fancy way to put it. My Daddy was Burt Stockmeier. Whipped S.

Never heard of it.

The hell he hasn’t. Rustled many of ‘em, Birdy thought, and as she tried to hide her true feelings, she smiled a knowing smile, while saying, You never heard of it?

Just like all the rest, you think I had some of them rustled, don’t you?

Now that you mentioned it, my father mentioned it, but how the hell did you know what I was thinking?

Written on your face. All over your face, and by the way, what’s your name.

Stockmeier, Birdy, with a Y.

What’s that mean?

Curiosity of a … not with the wings of.

I’ll go no further with that. I’ve got a herd trailing north on the Shawnee to Donaldson and over to Red River Station, then north on the Chisholm to Wichita. Cook or drive?

If you want ‘em to get there alive, Drovers and cattle, I drive. How many head?

Starting out, or when you get to Wichita?

You sayin’ my father and others are right? Sorry … your Ramrod, Charlie Strib?

Charlie is. How’d you know?

Remember, I’ve lived hereabouts all of my life. I’d allow, Charlie’s the best stray catcher hereabouts, if that’s what you’re callin’ him.

Charlie’s been known to increase the size of a herd as he moves north. There’s danger associated with it, you know. Some loose guns think that means rustlin’ , not strays.

Is it?

Some brands, if fussed over or twisted, could be straightened out to be Triple D.

You’ve got it all figured. Don’t ya!

That’s what my banker says.

I’ll make the drive.

Fifteen a month and a hundred bonus at the end.

Fine.

One question.

What?

What about your ranch?

Sold it when my daddy died. I’m movin’ on to find another life.

Doing what?

I want a man and another ranch we can work together. I’ve got my money in my poke and that should help.

In a poke?

Tied around my waist.

You ‘re crazy, girl. Come on, we’ll put it in the bank. You don’t need that extra weight on the trail. One more thing, on the trail, if you have anybody come after you with a gun or rope high tail it out of there and let me know where you are and I’ll settle up with you.

That possible?

It is when you’re out rounding up strays.

While Birdy slapped all the glasses that found their way to where she stood, behind the bar, she asked anyone who would listen, Wan’ ta know how I came by this place?"

Not again, Ken shouted out.

Nobody has to pay no mind to you, ex-Sheriff, if you please.

Tell us, Birdy, but before you do, how about my lemonade?

Comin’ up, Racer. As Dolan said it might happen, I was run off by the rope. I lit for town, and was dang near caught until I lost ‘em at the Cimarron. Being a might littler my horse wasn’t comin’ up short of air, and sashayed across that river quickern than I can tell about it. I made it tahere about sundown needing a drink and a crowd to hide in. Dirty Harry Stockwell owned the place and he took a right now displeasure in my being in here when I walked up to the bar. Listenin’ to him jawin’ at me about it, I lit up one of them smelly Mexican, I calls ‘em beans, and he sure enough popped a button about that. I started to draw, but thought the better of it, and after leaning across the bar to grab a bottle and pour myself the drink I needed, I challenged him.

To what?

Three things, and the stakes were my poke, which I had never put in no bank. My poke was a sizeable amount, against this place, and the winner was to take all.

There were always those who hadn’t heard the story and at this point would call out, What things?

To which Birdy would eagerly reply, One hand, five cards dealt … house deck. Ten double shots of bourbon … house best. Then bed, and who could ever last it out won.

At this point Birdy would stop the story and look to slap glasses, and invariably a voice would call out, You ‘re here so you won, but how?

Birdy would take to wiping the bar, coyly hanging her head down, only to look up to flutter her eyelids while muttering something about, Maybe I shouldn’t go on. It ain’t lady like.

But even those who had heard the story, over and over again, were always hoping for a change to the ending, and would insist in unison, Come on, Birdy, tell us.

Birdy would pour herself a drink, and with one pull, down it, then give a slight cough and continue, Well, I held five aces. The house lost. I downed the ten double shots while Dirty Harry tried to find out where he was after eight. The house lost. I led him to the bed.

Birdy would pause until a voice would cry out, What happened in the bed?

Tellin’ that wouldn’t be lady like, but figure it this way. The house … lost ‘cause I own the place and we buried Dirty Harry, the next mornin’. What he died of is written on his tomb-stone up there on the hill.

At this point the uninitiated would start to get up and head for the door, but Birdy would call out, No need to tucker yourself out going up that hill. I’ll tell ya what it says. It says, ‘Here lies Dirty Harry Stockwell, born in bed, died in bed, all by a Lady’s hand’."

What’s that mean, Birdy?

You figure it out. Who needs a drink?

Ken stood up and looking at Racer asked, Racer, I’ve heard that gobbledygook so many times, but still have one question. How come no one ever calls her on the five aces?

Sheriff, they’re not interested in cards, and Birdy knows it.

Maybe you’re right. Never thought of it that way.

Where we goin’, Sheriff ?

No more Sheriff, Racer. It’s just KT from here on out. I’m headin’ out in the morning. You comin’ with me?

No. Where you goin’?

Missoura."

Why?

I’ll tell ya in the morning, KT abruptly turned and called out to Birdy, So long, Birdy. I’ll miss ya.

Feeling the same, Sheriff. Stay out of trouble and do come back ta see us."

The two men left and once outside KT asked Racer, Hungry?

Always.

Let’s go over to Sundown’s and have the usual.

You mean the only. The one and only.

Give ole’ Webster Sundown credit, Racer. His foods the best, even though the same.

I wonder how he ever came up with the idea?

I asked him once, and he said he can do it cheaper and better ‘cause they cook the same thing day in and day out.

That’s the truth all right. It is the best … but the same.

The two men walked in the restaurant and were greeted by a rotund man wearing a white apron and a trail hardened cowboy hat. His voice was infectious as he welcomed them with, The best lawmen in the west have just arrived.

You mean in Caldwell, Kansas, don’t ya, Webster?"

The customer is always right Deputy.

We’ve stepped down and are headin’ out, Webster.

Heard the same, but you’ll always get the law’s price. Steaks the same?

KT smiled and as he sat said, Well and well, Webster. Just like yesterday morning.

Coming up, Sheriff.

Webster Sundown had been a Drover for several years and always found himself, while on the trail, yearning for what he called a cattleman’s meal. Steak, any kind, fresh eggs, as many as possible, potatoes with cherry gravy, fried turnips, softened up hot trail biscuits, and lots of tongue blisterin’ hot coffee with or without, but most of the time with … sweetening. WHISKEY!

When they’d cross over into Kansas, east of Caldwell, he could begin to taste his meal of meals. It meant at least two more days drivin’ to Wichita. Drinks there were in Caldwell, but the food was not worth messin’ with. One year, after finishing up at Wichita, he headed back to Caldwell with his plan. He’d open his own restaurant with only one thing on the menu. You could subtract, ask for more or leave it. The restaurant was like your mother’s kitchen and the big pot belly stove was the gatherin’ place when either those Kansas hot winds or snow drove down across the plains. Webster’s coffee and whiskey were sought after. His steaks were from his own herd and butchered by his own hand. The eggs from his hens and the vegetables from his gardens. He would bury his vegetables in layers all summer, and all winter could peal back the tarps to harvest the potatoes, turnips and pickled cherries, but whenever possible he would use fresh herbs for his gravies. Gravy was his specialty and his secret was in the herbs and spices he grew, or had sent from Kansas City.

Steaks were always cookin’ and his trade was cattlemen. Their steaks were always well done, so as to kill the little critters that walk around in raw meat, and to give them that was hungry more time to savor the smell of the sizzling fat that is the flavor of good corn fed beef.

Webster took heed of the fact that his patrons liked the congenial atmosphere of his place, and that the good food and aromas imparted, especially when there was a warm fire burning in the gigantic pot belly stove in the middle of the room. The whiskey was always the best and he was more than liberal with it. However, if a poke would have too much and become what he called a bore, for loud talk was not out of the ordinary, but slurring repetition was the sign he looked for, he would be sure they were well fed, take what was due, and then would personally throw them bodily out the front door, to always return to a warm round of the other patron’s applause. Webster was not to be tampered with, for under his apron was a six-gun. However, his upper body strength precluded the necessity of ever having to use it. As time passed few, as he would say, have to be disciplined , but occasionally a newcomer would lose his favor.

The walls were covered with cowboy hats he had acquired from happy pokes. He never wore the same one more than one day. His whole life was his food.

Webster always had two of the prettiest gals a cowboy’s eyes could want to see to help in the kitchen and serve his food. He would rail at the errant cattleman with, Careful! Better treat her likes she’s my daughter ‘cause I’m watchin’, and I don’t allow’s for a gentleman gettin’ out of line.

No one knew where he found his gals, but one time, when asked, he confided to Ken, "I have a contact in Wichita. Elsie Willows is her name,

she’s the madam, runs the whore house. I’m a cowman, Sheriff, and like most cowmen I don’t cotton to gals being in whore houses. They’re meant to be sweethearts and wives. God, you know… he designed and meant for it to be that away. Elsie don’t necessarily agree with that, but does say some were and some weren’t meant to be whores. The ones who don’t really fit in, she lets me know about. I go and get ‘em when I need ‘em, and all have gone on to be, eventually, what God meant for ‘ em to do and be. KT was taken back by the sincerity of what Webster had said, and exclaimed piously, I agree, Webster. You’re to be congratulated, and may God Bless your good works."

No congrats necessary, Sheriff. I read that trash they write about the west. Those still wet behind the ears, take a peek and run writers from back there. You read their stuff and all the west is, is guns, whiskey, whores and outlaws. They don’t have a notion of what the west is really all about and what it will mean one day to this country, and they sure as hell haven’t gone outta their way to meet the fine women who have given so much to their men and the west."

On this occasion, Sheriff KT Pritchard couldn’t find the necessary words to say to Webster. So in the typical western way of replying to many things, he tipped his hat, and coupled with a genuine smile, said all that needed to be said.

Webster came back to set two whiskeys on the table and comment, You fellas need a little something to run around your teeth while waitin’, and was gone before they could reply.

That man is something, Racer. How much do you know about him?

Not much. He’s not big on talkin’ about himself. John Guthrie, over at the Bank told me there’s more to him than most realize. John, you know, married Becky, one of Webster’s gals.

What more is there to him?

John made me swear to not be telling, but I don’t think he’d mind if I told you. Seems Webster is building up a fund to start up an orphanage.

What’s behind that?

Seems all John can figure, from what Webster has said, he was an orphan and didn’t like it much. Webster’s mother was a whore, had him, gave him up, and nobody wanted him so he got passed around.

Dang! That’s a lot of weight to be carrin’ around all your life.

I know, but ‘ cause of what happened to him, he’s gonna make it better for some other kids."

KT heard the sizzling steaks at about the same time he smelled them. The plates were large and full. Webster set the plates down and said, Coffee is comin’ up. I’ve sweetened ‘em for you, since you don’t wear the star anymore.

Thanks, Webster. This will keep us busy. I have the feelin’ I’m gonna miss your steaks. What are they tonight?"

Sheriff, those are the third cut off the loin, just before the T-bone. The secret, besides the corn I feed my critters and the agin’, is what I soak ‘em in for a few hours.

What’s that?

A secret, Sheriff, to most, but to you, it’s beef broth with chokeberry juice.

That’s it?

No! Hell no! Caught me fudgin’ . There’s rot gut whiskey, but never forget there’s somethin’ in that chokeberry juice that softens up the meat through and through. The whiskey, with the right cookin’, helps give it the flavor.

Where’d you get that recipe?

An Apache squaw."

Where and when?

When I was foot loose awhile back. We were a mite south and east of Cassville, Missoura. It’s called ApachePatch. It runs for about fifty miles east and west. Lots of ridge-backs, but a big wide valley of grass and a meandering river that flows clear and fast. Lots of fish and game, an ideal place.

How’d it get that name, ApachePatch? There’s no Apache in those parts.

Now that’s where you’re wrong. There’s a bunch of Apaches that control it, but they’re not Mescalero Apaches. The Mescalero Apache don’t cotton to white men. Seems these Apache have been there for years. No one can give a reason why they’re there, other than like most Indians, they tend to roam. They spoil the land and move on.

Racer put his fork down, and looking up at Webster demanded, Spoil? Just what do you mean by that?

No offense meant, Racer, but, before you get your back up, remember one thing, you’re an educated Indian. Most Indians roaming around use up the land, and when the land can’t no longer take care of ‘em, or it makes ‘em sick, they move on.

It was becoming more evident to KT, Racer was aroused by Webster’s words. KT quickly reached over to grab Racer’s wrist. The mere act was enough, and KT felt the tension leave Racer. KT said, Didn’t mean to interrupt, Racer, go on with what you were going to say.

I was going to say, if that’s the case, then how come the Apache have been there so long?"

Now Webster was irritated, and his eyes spat displeasure at being challenged by Racer in his own place and he snarled, I never said Indians couldn’t learn. You’re educated, and I’ll be askin’ you, if you move your innards, do you leave it on the ground … exposed?

Racer was on his feet before KT could stop him and when nose to nose with Webster, exclaimed, NO!

Webster’s hand shot up to grab Racer’s neck just below his lower jaw, giving him the leverage to slam Racer back into his chair, and with his teeth clenched together he hissed, Just remember whose place this is, and if you don’t, you wouldn’t be the first person I’ve killed if need be. If you think I’m joking, do you feel the cold barrel of my gun on your neck? Webster’s eyes momentarily shifted to KT and then flashed back to Racer as he finished saying, And Sheriff, don’t you move.

KT didn’t move, and seeing Webster’s hand relax, hurriedly said, Webster, this makes no sense and you two are ruinin’ my meal. I’m sorry I ever asked and I apologize for askin’.

Webster’s eyes smoothed over, and his hand holding Racer by the neck relaxed, and slipping his gun back into its holster, announced calmly, "My apologies, Sheriff, Deputy. I’ll make it up with the best piece of pie you ever had."

Webster turned and was gone before either KT or Racer realized what had happened.

KT looked over at Racer to say, I have a feeling, Deputy, he could have, and would have, killed you.

I have the same feeling, Sheriff. I didn’t realize he was that fast and lively.

You let other folk’s remarks about your brothers get you into trouble, Racer.

I know it. I admit it, and he was right in what he said.

"Now just what does that mean?"

The Indian is not as civilized as the white man. He doesn’t understand many things the white man does, but that’s no excuse, for he must learn. He can’t set himself off from the white man. He must join the white man’s ways and live with him side by side.

I know this is leading someplace, Racer, but I have to say what you said is right, but you’re goin’ to have one hell of a time convincing your Indian brothers that what you say is right. Your white brothers, I reckon, will understand.

I know that, Sheriff. That’s why I’m going back to my people to teach them what I have learned, know, and observed.

How long have I known you, Racer?

Five years, Sheriff.

It’s KT, Racer, remember? Did I ever ask you where you came from?

No.

Why not?

I handed you the recommendation from my best teacher, Benjamin Hull, at the Indian school and you said that was all you needed, ‘cause you knew him.

"You ‘re right. I needed a Deputy, more than to be worryin’ about you being Injun, and you looked and sounded like a Deputy. I remember now. Where did you come from?"

The Dakota Territory. I am Sioux. My father was chief of a small band south of the Black Hills.

Black Hills?

From a distance the hills look dark and foreboding, and the Medicine men always described them as a Holy place. They were, and still are, afraid of them. This is the way they found to explain the Hills.

You ‘re Sioux?

I am, and my father knew I must learn the white man’s ways. He knew of the school outside of Kansas City and sent me. He said the Sioux were wanderers, not as disciplined as they should be and had earned a very bad reputation as renegades. We do share with the white man a belief in an all-powerful God we call Wakan Tanka. We are not what we are so often called … heathens. Most Indians try to be one with what surrounds them.

I know, Racer, I know, we’ve talked about it many times. Your peoples must integrate and not be set aside looking to others. The Indian has lost the war and must now move on with the white man. Side by side as brothers with a purpose and cause.

I agree, that is why I return to teach.

Two hands reached down to take their plates and Webster said, The food, your food, it is cold. I have new plates for you, and as he turned to hand the plates to Becky, one of his helpers, as he placed fresh plates in front of them, he added, It is unfortunate, Racer, that we exchanged displeasure with one-another. I have always liked you and respected you as a lawman. Your being an Indian made, and makes, no difference to me. I will miss you both.

Racer pushed his chair back to rise, and the men embraced as KT took in the act with particular pleasure. A sustained silence of approval filled the room as all eyes fell on the two men. All they had said had been overheard. Breaking their embrace, a wave of applause swept through the room, followed by several hoops and hollers.

KT thought, Never expected to see this day. Maybe it’s a sign of things to come. He stood to grasp the hand of a smiling Blue Racer and advised, Time to leave, Deputy, for once, we’re ahead.

The two men walked to the door and spontaneously turned to acknowledge those in the restaurant, waved goodbye, and then tipped their hats.

Once outside Racer turned to KT to ask, "When do you plan to

leave?"

I’m ready now and I think I’ll do it on a full stomach and heart. What about you?

I wasn’t going to leave until the morning, but I’m ready, Sheriff. I best leave now because it won’t get any easier tomorrow. I’m headin’ north, as you head south, to stay for a spell at the Crow Village in a settlement called Chamberlain, on the Missoura River. I want to find a brave or Indian maiden to help me when I get to the Hills. They have a school there that educates Indians to teach Indians."

I wish you the best, Racer. I thank you for being the Deputy you have been. I know whatever you do, it will turn out the way you want it to.

You take care, Sheriff. I mean, KT, and thank you for giving me what you have of yourself. I like that you decided to call me Racer.

You did? You do?

I did and do. Never did like the name Blue, but my last name, Racer, I like.

It was just easier for me to say somehow, Racer. I’ll miss you and one day I’ll see you again. Goodbye, for now. KT Pritchard abruptly turned on his heel and strode toward the livery without looking back … he couldn’t.

As he walked in the livery, Bob Stryker, the owner looked up and asked, Supposin’ you’ll want your horse and that you’ll be headin’ out?

KT looked surprised and asked, Now, Bob, how’d you have that figured?

I’ve been where you are, Sheriff. That’s havin’ ta say goodbye, and it ain’t always easy. I went over to your digs to prove it to myself, my feelin’ about what you’d be up to, and sure enough, your belongin’s were ready. I brought ‘em over here and Utley is saddled and ready to go."

Thanks. You’re right, it’s not easy. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me over the years. You made being Sheriff a lot easier than it might have been.

Well, Sheriff, I’m gonna miss you, but you’re young and need to be movin’ on. You’re not and haven’t been like the usual breed of lawman that come ridin’ through here. I feel a change comin’ on, so just one more thing, I put the grub Webster wanted you to have in your saddlebag. Webster and me … well … we rode out earlier to Crossin’ Point and made you a camp site for tonight. There’s a fire goin’ and the pot of coffee, egg shells and all, is sittin’ by it. One more thing, Sheriff, Bob Stryker had to stop ‘cause he was just plain chokin’ up, but he cleared his throat and finished off by sayin’, It’s just goodbye, Sheriff."

Before KT could move to him, Bob had spun around and was gone out the back door with his hand groping for the kerchief strung out from his back pocket.

Walking to the stable, KT found Utley, as Bob had said, saddled and ready to go. KT led the horse outside and after honkerin’ down in the saddle, rode off at a gallop. They rode as one until KT, after a few minutes, brought the horse to a stop saying, Best slow it down, Utley. Seems this air is makin’ me tear … more than usual, and then wiping his face with his sleeve, cleared his throat. After a few more minutes, KT patted Utley on the neck and continued, We’ll canter, Utley, and that coffee will sure taste good. Wonder how they knew which direction I was headin’?

KT and Utley stayed at the canter until the smoke from the fire at Crossing Point was seen. KT called out, Slow it to a trot, Utley, and then a walk. I’m slidin’ off. You walk on in.

KT’s request was nothing new to Utley. He knew the routine, for they had used it many times and it took the un-expecting by surprise every time.

Crossing Point was a spot east of Caldwell where a single rider could cut north to Wichita while paralleling the Chisholm Trail, but not become involved with some of the less desirables who even at the last minute were looking to round up ‘strays’. It was known more to the locals, for there were no distinct markings, or trails leading to it.

There was a small cut only the familiar knew about and it was there, Bob and Webster had made camp for KT. After sliding down from Utley, KT moved north and then south to position himself so he could have an unobstructed view of the campsite nestled in-between a few trees that stood on the very edge of the cut. He saw Utley standing at the edge of the clearing and a smoldering fire with the coffee pot nestled in the coals, but nothing else. KT knew, instantaneously, something was wrong, for Bob had set the pot next to the fire for him to nestle down in the coals when he arrived. He waited.

Nothing happened. He watched Utley for a sign. Utley started to raise his head, but it was too late, KT heard the click of the hammer. He didn’t move and after a few moments heard a woman’s voice say, Stay right where you are. Move your hand slowly to your gun and slide it slowly from the holster. Do … it … NOW!

KT slid the gun out and let it fall to the ground and waited. The voice instructed, Get down on the ground and roll over on your back. Keep your arms spread out from your sides and away from your knife.

I don’t carry a knife.

How do I know that … for sure? Do as I said.

KT complied, and looking up saw a woman immediately move to put her feet on either side of his chest, and her gun moved down to rest on his upper lip as she said, Don’t think about trying to throw me off balance. If you do, this gun will go off. Understand?

I understand.

Good! Now, are you the one somebody else made this camp for or did you just come upon it?

It was made for me.

Why?

It was a friendly gesture, a way of sayin’ goodbye.

From what?

Goodbye from what?

You heard me. Why … were … they … saying … goodbye?

I was Sheriff in Caldwell, and I’ve quit to move on.

Can you prove it?

In my vest pocket, you’ll find my badge.

I won’t find anything. I’m gonna step back and you carefully find the badge and drop it on the ground."

KT did as he was told and the woman reached down to snap up the badge and say, Looks real, but how do I really know?

You don’t, if you won’t take my word for it.

Then I best just shoot you and get it over with.

Why? I haven’t done anything to you.

You tried to sneak up on me.

Wrong. Very wrong. I was being cautious. That’s a fault?

No, it’s not! Keep talking.

Names, KT Pritchard. I’m headin’ for south and east of Joplin. I’m gonna take a look at a place called Apache Flats and …

Why?

Heard tell it had what a cowpoke would need to start a herd.

You ‘re not making sense, Sheriff.

You believin’ I was what I said I was?

Might be. Make sense, Sheriff … a herd of what?

Cattle.

That land is Apache land."

All of it? Before you answer, just wait a minute. I’m hankerin’ to get off my back and have some of that coffee. Now, if you’re gonna shoot me, I’d say, go ahead and get it over with, but I don’t think you’re gonna do it.

You ‘re right, I believe you. Get up and walk over to your horse and tend to him while I pour you a cup.

Need another cup?

No. It seems your friends expected you’d have company. They left two cups.

That’s not all.

How’d you know that?

I know Webster.

You ‘re right, they left a wrap of jerky.

You seem to know a lot about what they did. How?

I heard them coming and I watched what they did.

They didn’t see you?

Must not have, must they.

Can I have my badge and gun back?

The young woman smiled and stepped forward to hand them to KT, and as she did he gave her the measure a lawman would. She was about five, five. Coal black hair drawn back into a tight horse tail braid. Her eyes were azure blue, but seemed cold because of a black ring around the blue that KT had never seen before. She wore a white shirt and a black bolero leather vest. Her pants were buckskin and were tucked in her mid-calf high mocassins. There was a knife handle protruding from the leather lacing on the right mocassin. She wore a black leather belt and holster on her hip that was lashed to her thigh. She s about twenty, Wonder where the