The Cowboy from Illinois

By Ross Phifer

A cowboy from an unexpected place is on a mission traveling through the Kansas Territory during its formative period, four years before the Civil War. 'Bloody Kansas' was transitioning from the Wild West to a territory; however, the laws were not yet set in place, and the Pro-Slavery government was leading the predominately Anti-Slavery public. The cowboy encounters political turmoil and the remains of the yet untamed wilderness. The indigenous tribes are rebelling against harsh treatment, the influx of tribes being repositioned from the East, and the invasion of settlers taking their land. At the same time, inscrutable individuals disregard any law while selfishly taking advantage of the situation where laws only apply in towns.

Western fiction has many timeless stories that omit all political turmoil. 'TOBY WALKER - The Cowboy from Illinois' wraps the developing history within the story such that at the confluence of invasion, confrontation, lawlessness, terror, and indignation, one might find realism, empathy, and understanding.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outlaws Publishing LLC
• Release date: May 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227954985

Ross Phifer

Ross holds a BS and MS in Mathematics and began his career as a Math Teacher and shifted to the reinsurance field, where, as an underwriter, he analyzed proposals of treaty reinsurance, assessed risk, set and negotiated rates, wrote contract terms, and participated as a leader within the industry as a member of the Actuarial Committee of the national association. His last position was COO of a reinsurance company. As a consultant, he audited contracts, served as an expert witness, and was an arbitrator in insurance carrier disputes. Additionally, he was a founding member of a group attempting to launch a new reinsurance company in Bermuda. Ross started writing as an outcome of analysis in the reinsurance industry, where he saw developing trends and chose to report them to his peers. He also wrote contract language for reinsurance treaties, which he designed, priced, and negotiated with reinsurers. Ross was chairman of the first actuarial study of damage from hurricanes, tornados, floods, and earthquakes in the USA and wrote and presented the results at a national convention. He wrote more than two dozen articles published in industry periodicals regarding trends within the industry, including two five-year retrospective reviews of the industry's performance. Ross launched a series of articles regarding measures of financial performance in the industry. Leadership at this stage motivated him to author a professional book published by John Wiley & Sons entitled "Reinsurance Fundamentals." He began to write fiction after retirement, progressing to several novels and short stories.

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INTRODUCTION:

The Cowboy from Illinois is a work of fiction. The author's imagination creates the story's names, characters, events, places, and incidents. Some resemblance to actual happenstances is intentional.

Copyright © 2024 by Ross Phifer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copywritten material.

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

This book may contain views, premises, depictions, and statements by the author that are not necessarily shared or endorsed by Outlaws Publishing LLC.

For information contact: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Michael Thomas

Cover design by Outlaws Publishing LLC

Published by Outlaws Publishing LLC

May 2024

10987654321 

#1. Summer 1857

Eastern Kansas Territory

Missouri was easy; it had trails. 'Leaving Missouri,' the sign said, and the trail disappeared. What one was entering was left unsaid. The grass was the color of pale pond scum and was tall. It waved and rippled back - agitated like the desert's sand. It surged and roiled back - undulating as disturbed water does. The grass was constantly in motion, yet it moved not at all. The horse high-stepped, unsure of its footings, and two miles in, they both wanted to turn back.

Hot and dusty, with the afternoon sun in one's eyes, the grass long enough to reach the horse's belly, bugs were swirling, and one could not keep the direction straight. It made for an uncomfortable ride. Back in Missouri, he'd seen a tree the day before when he passed a creek. Today, none were apparent.

As noteworthy as that was, Toby could see forever. There was a lot of nothing. No shade. No flowers. No corn. Just grass. 

The sky was blue all the way around. No clouds, just a big, hot, orange sun moving across the sky. It appeared to be making more progress than he was.

He was crossing the Kansas Territory, along the southern border, which was the north of Indian country, the land between the Kansas Territory and the State of Texas, where they were still bringing the Indians.

The Kansas Territory stretched all the mountains. Toby's eventual goal was the New Mexico Territory. That was where he'd last heard from his brother, Jonathan. Toby had sold their parents' ranch in Illinois and headed west to find his brother and give him his share. He'd crossed the Mississippi before, during several visits to Saint Louis. Missouri had roads, but they were not as good as those back in Illinois, with more traffic. However, there were no roads here in the Kansas Territory, and every step was uncomfortable in the tall

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grass. Kansas had trails, but none were evident here.

Progress was not easy. The tall grass rolled, masking the ground, and tall enough to brush against Sage's chest and legs. When Sage was uncomfortable, his ears twitched. Toby observed that his horse was anxious right now. Something was bothering his horse, and Toby was ill at ease, worrying that trouble was near.

Sage was a great horse; bright, too. Horses lived in groups, and they communicated very well among their kind. They seldom make loud noises but easily express hunger, loneliness, or anger. They often make subtle noises, almost like a cat purring. So, most cowboys could sense signs from the horse, from ear placements to their sounds and body language. Observant cowboys listened to the messages from their horses throughout the day. They knew when their horse was tired, thirsty, hungry, or ready to work. This particular set of signs that Sage was exhibiting made Toby nervous.

Toby was not quite sure just where the Southern border of Kansas was, but he'd planned a route to avoid Indian contact. Part of the issue was that in Kansas, nowhere was everywhere.

He needed to keep heading west and avoid drifting southward as he progressed.

Toby kept his eyes on an eagle or hawk circling far ahead, gliding in a featureless sky. He gently led Sage in that direction. He knew there was a town somewhere in this area, but the long grass roiled in the hot breeze, and one could not tell the high spots from the gullies, much less see a landmark. So, finding one's way was not an easy thing to do.

Sage was a half Arabian, typically had remarkable endurance, and was half Spotted Horse known as a handsome breed. He was a light brown with a dozen spots with different shapes on his haunches, a big black one at his withers, and a black forelock and tail.

In learning about the horse's endurance, Toby knew it worked best when the heartbeat was less than 60 beats per minute. Toby tried to count while he tapped a finger ten times, then multiplied by six. This method did not work every time; it was too easily disrupted. However, the effort did help keep a sense of how fast they traveled. At least he realized when the heartbeat was raised, and they needed to slow down. He did not want to strain the horse he loved.

Toby pressed forward, not pushing Sage hard. The pace was a lope, not fast like a gallop or slow like a trot. The goal was to progress. Something would show up sooner or later, and he hoped it would not be Indians.

Toby was a robust and lanky cowboy in his twenties. A blond, his hair had turned more brown than golden, and was worn short. He wore tan work pants and a blue shirt with a vest. There was a holstered pistol on his right hip, and a rifle slipped into the sheath on the saddle's right side. His bedroll was thick and lumpy, wrapped in a red and blue blanket. He had quick, blue eyes that scrolled the horizon for landmarks, Indians, or something noteworthy, but he saw nothing but grass blowing in the breeze.

He had the Walker's nose. His dad's had gotten longer as he aged, straight, thin, and dominant. Some thought it handsome. But growing up, he'd known his nose was the longest in the school, except his brother's. The nose aside, the Walker boys were stand-outs in the small school they attended. Most of the other kids either worked for the Walkers or sold their corn to them, at least the feed corn, for the Walker ranch was a vast spread in the Southwest quadrant of the State of Illinois.

Toby loved his older brother and strove to be like him, which created a competition, with Toby trying to catch up. Others deferred to them. The Walker ranch was so large it dominated the entire area.

In school, he learned that others listened, making it essential that his words were correct and reasoned when he spoke. His father taught him to think of others first, for that philosophy had driven the Walker ranch from a modest beginning to prominence. Pop Walker purchased a larger piece of land elsewhere when the ranch grew, then traded that for the small acreage he wished to annex. Everyone benefited. The Walker Ranch grew, and everyone they did business with also profited.

Toby was a hard, driving person and a natural leader, and once he set his mind on something, he eventually achieved the goal. Today, there was no goal. He would make some progress heading west, but over there looked just like here, and there was nothing on the horizon to use as a target.

For example, a gully would just pop up before them, invisible before their arrival. The grass hid the slope, so footing was problematic. Once down, there was a problem of getting up the other side. It wasn't wet, but it was never easy. Some of these were quite steep, so the horse and rider would turn and walk up the crease until an apparent exit.

Although one could see for miles, there was no straight line to get over there, as gullies and low spots were scattered in between.

Everything looked flat, but Toby was learning nothing looked like it was. He heard animals scurrying away when they passed but couldn't see what they were. The pair moved anxiously as the horse was unsure about its footing in this strange land.

The long view was solid grass, but close by, it was a mix: grass, of course, chickweed, some ragweed, thistles, and scattered milkweed. The combination also included some thorny plants. Sage overlooked the thorns. A couple of times, when he walked right into a bunch of thorns, he was cut. Toby did not have a salve to stop infection, which was worrisome. At times, Toby concentrated so hard on looking down, striving to see the thorns to direct Sage around them, that he lost sight of his direction. 

The grass was a constant problem. Toby had to deal with it, and that never changed. It never got easier. 

Moving on, Toby spotted a large patch of yellow. Dandelions and some mustard plants covered a large section. Toby pulled up Sage, and they ambled through the area. Toby saw corn speedwell, which, as a child, he'd weeded between rows of corn. Another was black medic, an odd name for a weed with yellow flowers. He could have eaten the dandelion or mustard greens if hungry.

Ahead, the eagle flew away, and with nothing to use as a guide, Toby kept the sun off his left shoulder for a time. Yet the sun kept moving, so one had to adjust constantly to stay straight. He looked back to check if he was drifting, but the grass quickly covered his trail. That didn't work.

As they went over a small gully, there was an adjustment for both rider and horse with a creak of saddle leather to launch up the far side. Once on the other side, a couple of birds flew up. Toby quickly drew his pistol and shot at one, missing. He holstered his gun, knowing that hitting a moving bird was very difficult. Turning Sage, he watched as they descended. 

Stay here, Sage. Drawing his rifle, Toby walked toward the birds' landing area. He should have a scattergun, small-bore, no rifling, and much better for shooting fowl. If Toby were lucky enough to hit a bird using his rifle, the bullet would severely damage the little bird. Nonetheless, hungry, he walked in the direction they had taken, rifle ready.

The rifle was brand new, a Lorenz Rifle from Austria. The one Toby had selected had a shortened barrel, which was better for traveling. It was a rifled musket hand-carved on the stock with an eagle on the right side, away from the body of a right-handed shooter. It was an expensive, well-made rifle. Being a musket required loading through the barrel for each shot; thus, Toby took the time to load it properly.

Toby walked past where the birds landed and swung wide to approach from another direction. Being close, he walked in measured steps, being careful to watch. Suddenly, a furious disturbance, uproar, and tumultuous flapping, and the startled birds took flight. They started in different directions, but one turned after the other, flapping madly in their getaway. Toby raised the rifle and shot once. He aimed at the left bird but luckily hit the one on the right.

It took some time to find the bird. Toby crisscrossed back and forth until he found the bird, a peasant. The head and one shoulder were gone. But half a bird would suffice for his meal. He forced it into his bedroll and mounted Sage, moving onward.

The sun was lower now, so Toby thought to look for a place to bed down as he mounted Sage. He could not see where there might be water. There were no trees. There wasn't even a spot with protection from the wind, which wasn't troublesome now but could be unsettling at night.

He rode ahead for a while, then finally told Sage they would stop where they were, right between nowhere and no place.

He let Sage drink water from his hat and had some himself from the canteen. It would not last long if they both drank from it. He took Sage's saddle and bridle off, and now free of the equipment, Sage spun in a couple of circles. However, the celebratory romp did not last long; moving in the tall grass was not fun.

Toby set up to cook the pheasant. He cleared a small area but lacked any wood; he used grass for the fire. He stopped and thought for a while. The situation could be dangerous. The wind might blow the grass and catch other grass on fire - it would not be as stable as a woodpile. It also would be difficult; grass burned quickly, and he would have to gather more the entire time it burned. 

On top of everything else, he didn't have a rock to use as a frying pan. Toby was traveling light and thus did not bring cooking materials. He'd been okay in Missouri because towns were regularly spaced where he could take advantage of the meals and cooking implements. He now realized that, here in Kanas, he might have trouble preparing regular meals.

Running through the few options, Toby buried the bird in the small clearing, where he picked the grass and built a fire on top. He ripped up a considerable amount of extra grass before he started the fire. The open space helped prevent the fire from getting out of control; he had an area wider than his height around the spot.

He lit the fire and kept it going for a spell. He had no idea whether the bird was ready or not.  But he was tired, and the stash of grass was gone. So, he dug up the bird and found it was crusty black, and his knife found good meat inside. The feathers were mainly burned off, but not all gone. He turned the bird inside out and ate. 

It wasn't the best meal, but it satisfied his hunger. He kept the legs for the next day, although they were small. He laid his head on the saddle and covered himself with his blanket. Nodding off, he could hear the melodious outflow of Sage's breath, with an occasional soft whinny.

Getting to sleep was not easy, but once settled, he did sleep through the night under a star-filled sky.

The next day, Toby woke to a pinkish-orange sky. There was a thin layer of clouds across the heavens, with the sun poking up underneath. It shifted to gray as the sun rose above the cloud layer, and the clouds dissipated. The sky was back to blue with no rain in sight.

They rose and left. Toby nibbled on some jerky as they started across the plains. In a finger of time, they crossed some wagon tracks and followed them. For a while, the path seemed to be just going around some trouble spot he could not see, and after a time, the course straightened out and headed west. He made better time with the grass pressed down in the wagon tracks, and Sage also seemed happier. They relaxed.

He rode in this fashion past midday.

At the top of a rise, he could see a two-wagon train with a couple of outriders. One was a covered wagon, huge. Toby picked up his speed, knowing they would hear him coming. They stopped, and the riders turned toward him with cautious eyes on the coming stranger.

Toby slowed Sage and raised his right hand, waving as he approached. Hello! I'm Toby Walker; mind if I ride along for a spell?

A tall man on a brown horse responded, We are the Basajuan family. Where are you headed?

New Mexico Territory, was Toby's response. Been alone for several days across Missouri and could use some company.

You got your own food?

Yes, I'm set.

Well, you are welcome, then.  My name is Estebe Basajuan.  Estebe was a bearded man, and Toby noticed prominent upper teeth. He'd probably tried to hide them with the mustache and beard.

Toby asked, Where are you heading? 

To California. We plan to settle along the banks of a river in the hill country. You look like a cowboy, ride like a cowboy, but you don't talk like one. Where are you from?

I hail from Illinois. My folks ran a waystation for cattle driven to the slaughterhouses in Chicago. Much of the land in Illinois is planted with corn and fenced, so there are just a couple of routes the cattle drivers can take.

Well, we are not experts on cowboys. You are the first we understood, commented Estebe.

Estebe motioned for his wagons to move, and they left first. He rode next to Toby in the tracks, chatting as they moved. Added

One wagon had four huge wheels with massive hubs; the front wheels, slightly smaller, turned in tandem when the wagon made a wide turn. Each had an iron rim to make the wheel last for the long trip. The wagon bed was crafted upon cleats set on top of the axles, boxed high, and covered with hoops and canvas. The sides were high, extending well above the wheels. They had an extra wheel fixed below the flooring.

Estebe handed something to his brother, who was driving the wagon, and Estebe had to stand in the stirrups to extend his reach to transfer the object. The wagon was pulled by four huge horses, well taller than 16 hands, with thick legs and long hairs around the hooves. They were chestnut brown, although the flanks were wet with sweat and appeared darker than other parts. Somehow, the