Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch Read online

  After several hours of hiking through thick sage and rabbit brush, crossing washes and detouring around deep gullies, an exhausted Walsh topped a small rise and saw buildings about two miles ahead. He stopped and drank the last few mouthfuls of water left in his canteen now that he no longer needed to ration it. With a sense of relief and renewed energy he hobbled on leading drooping horses, knowing his blistered feet would at last get some relief.

  Chapter 2

  Henryville resembled most other small cow towns of the 1870s. It was hastily sited in the middle of Henry valley on an oxbow of a slow meandering stream that ran high and muddy in early spring and nearly dry in late summer.

  Half dozen saloons shared Main Street with two hotel/restaurants, a general store, two barbershops, a feed store, apothecary and a white clapboard church. At the south end of Main Street, a blacksmith shop, livery stable and several acres of stock-holding corrals marked the town’s unofficial boundary. When a breeze blew from the south or southwest, the strong smell of cow manure rolled over the town along with dust and dry tumble weeds.East of town, about twenty miles of sage and rabbit brush flats and a few sand dunes gradually sloped up to juniper and pinon covered foothills. Towering above the foothills, steep rocky peaks and aspen covered valleys kept their snow covering well into summer.

  A bright orange ball of a late afternoon sun hovered low on the western horizon. Its rays penetrated weakly through a dusty haze tinting everything a pasty orange as Walsh stumbled into Henryville. Exhausted and covered with trail dust, he limped down Main Street leading two tired horses. Several cowpunchers lounging against a hitching rail stopped talking and stared. Townspeople strolling along Main’s two block long boardwalk suddenly froze and watched the procession with shocked expressions.

  Walsh licked his chapped lips and desperately wanted to stop in the nearest saloon and forget this day had ever happened, but knew he must find the sheriff first. A few comforting shots of rot-gut rye would have to wait a little longer. He angled over to a hitching post in front of a two story building with a false front. Its coating of cheap red paint faded and peeling. An equally faded sign nailed to the front read Rancher Inn and Stage Stop.

  Before Walsh could single someone out to ask who the law was in town, a tall laky figure with a gold star pinned to his vest pushed through a gathering crowd of onlookers. He strode over to Walsh. “I’m Sheriff Williams, what’s going on here...who’s the body?” he demanded pointing to the horse with the shooter’s body draped over it.

  “I don’t know; he ambushed me in a canyon I think is called Dry Bone Gulch north of here this morning. Would’ve finished me off if I hadn’t got lucky and got him first.”

  Williams walked around the horse and lifted the dusty canvas covering the dead man’s torso. “What the hell!” he exclaimed. “You’ve killed Randal Crawley...he’s a big rancher here-abouts. I think you better hand over that Colt you’re carrying.” His own pistol suddenly in his hand pointed at Walsh with hammer on full cock.

  Walsh spread his hands, then slowly drew his Colt with his left hand and gave it to the sheriff butt forward. “Look, Sheriff. I had no idea...”

  “Hold your peace, I’ll talk to you in a moment and hear what ya got to say.” Williams said looking around and spotting a short heavy set man standing nearby, “Joe, go get Doc Thurgood and the undertaker. Let’s get this body off the street.”

  By this time the crowd had swelled to a couple of dozen townspeople and cowboys. An ugly murmur ran through the crowd as the sheriff gestured to Walsh to follow him around the corner to a squat gray weathered wood and adobe building with barred windows. Another man with a Winchester on half-cock brought up the rear.

  Walsh followed the sheriff into a large rectangular room that served as city offices and courtroom. Their boots echoed on the rough-sawed plank floor scarred from countless sharp roweled spurs and stained from tobacco chaw near misses aimed at a dented and tarnished brass spittoon near the door.

  Sheriff Williams stopped at a small oak desk in the far corner with wanted posters tacked on two walls. “Have a seat,” he motioned Walsh to a heavy, well-used wooden chair while he pushed a pile of papers aside and perched on a corner of the cluttered desk. “Mind telling me who you are and why you happened to be in my neck of the woods with the body of one of our prominent ranchers?” Williams questioned in a no-nonsense tone. His cold, unwavering grey eyes boring through Walsh conveying an unmistaken message that this was one sheriff no one crossed. Walsh fought down rising anger, resentment and an urge to lash out. He realized this whole thing could turn ugly fast if he got mouthy or didn’t cooperate.

  “Well, my parents named me Walsh Patrick, and I’ve been working my way south from Montana looking for a cow punching job. A few days ago, I ran into a Basque sheepherder who told me I might find some ranches hiring in this valley. Hopefully, the herds are in better shape than up north where they had a hard winter and heavy losses.”

  “And this sheepherder told you about the cut-off through Dry Bone Gulch to Henry Valley?”

  Before Walsh could answer, a short, thin man in a dirty grey shirt with rolled up sleeves burst through the door.

  “Sheriff, what do ya want me to do with Crawley’s body? I can’t keep him above ground too much longer.”

  “Well, go down to Wilson’s ice pit, get some ice and keep him cool until we can get his wife in here...and tell Justin I want to see him pronto.” Williams swiveled back to face Walsh again. “I’ve got to notify his wife about what happened, and there’s going to be fury and hell to pay when she gets here. 1As an ex-sister-in-law, I know what a firebrand she can be” Memories of her hot temper flashed through his mind causing a brief wry smile. “Meanwhile until my deputy shows up, let’s hear your story about what happened up in Dry Bone.”

  Walsh exhaled slowly and bit his lower lip so hard he grimaced in pain. He didn’t want to relive the ambush, but knew he had no choice. I should have buried the body in the canyon and rode on. No one would have ever found him and I wouldn’t be in the pickle I’m in now. Maybe one day I’ll learn to mind my own business in spite of what ma used to say about helping others and doing the right thing, he thought, regretting his decision to pack the body into town.

  Clanking spurs and loud boot steps on the wood floor again interrupted them as Justin, the deputy, strolled through the doorway, “Looking for me, Nate?”

  “Yep, I need you to ride out to the Crawley place and tell Silvia about her husband. She’ll want to come in and make sure Randal gets a decent burial. So escort her back here as soon as you can...and we don’t need a dozen gun-packing hands bent on revenge coming with her either.”

  “It’ll be dark soon, you still want me to leave now...I probably won’t get to the Crawley ranch until well after midnight?”

  “Can’t be helped Justin, I need ya all back here as early tomorrow as you can make it. I think it’s going to be a little tense around here. Besides you know the way out there better than anyone.” Williams grinned as he nodded at the door to emphasize that he meant now and turned back to Walsh.

  “Now, maybe we can get back to what you say happened,” Williams said as he focused his attention back on getting to the bottom of a real messy situation that was getting ugly fast.

  Walsh tersely recounted details of the ambush stressing that he never knew or met Randal Crawley until he lay dying in the dry creek bottom. “Why Crawley tried to kill me from ambush is a complete mystery,” Walsh concluded with a shrug. “And if I up and killed him for some other reason, why would I bring the body here rather than let the buzzards and varmints take care of him and make tracks out of the territory?”

  “Good point, but it appears to me you’ve tied a knot in the devil’s tail, and you’re going to have a helluva time untying it no matter what happened.”

  They both fell silent for a few moments trying to make sense of what had happened. Williams picked up an ancient six-inch obsidian knife that he used as a letter opener and ran h
is thumb along the side of its razor-edged knapped surface – something he often did when thinking through a difficult problem. Walsh has a point. The stickler is Crawley was a prosperous rancher who owned one of the biggest spreads in the territory and as far as I know had no obvious enemies. Why would he want someone dead bad enough to wait in ambush? How did he know that person would be riding through Dry Bone Gulch? What did he have to gain by ambushing someone? If Walsh was mistaken for someone else, who was the true target? The sheriff reluctantly admitted to himself that right now he was drawing from a deep and empty well.

  He looked over at Walsh who sat hunched over in the wooden chair. “My gut feeling is you’re telling me the truth, but we’re going to need a lot more than that. Crawley’s kin ain’t likely to give a hoot about my hunches. We’ve got to come up with some answers pronto or it’s going to get mighty ugly. You better stay here tonight, pick a cell and get some sleep. I’ll walk over to the Green Parrot and ask Nellie to send over some supper. You’re officially not under arrest, but I want you to stay close till we get to the bottom of this.” Williams stood up and plucked his dusty trail-worn black Stetson off a wooden peg wedged between two rough wall boards.

  Williams stepped inside the Green Parrot to wonderful smells wafting from Nellie’s big cast iron cooking stove. His stomach growled at the thought of antelope stew and sourdough biscuits. But, duty came first. He would have to come back later and take his chances on finding any leftovers.

  Nellie backed through the kitchen door into a small dining area with a tray of plates and cups. She spotted Williams standing near the door and flashed him a warm smile. “You’re just in time for a slice of pinto bean pie...just out of the oven.”

  Nellie’s offer of a generous slice of her locally famous pie hit Williams where he was vulnerable. “Mighty tempting but gotta go down to Waldon’s livery for awhile. Hopefully there’ll be some left when I get back.”

  “You’re taking a big gamble...won’t promise, but see what I can save for a starving lawman.”

  “Appreciate that. Gotta a man over at the jail, can you send him over some supper? He’s not under arrest, just putting him up for night. He’s the one that brought in Crawley’s body.”

  Nellie’s brown eyes changed from a twinkle to alarm and her face took on a worried expression. “Heard about that. Hope it doesn’t cause a big ruckus when Circle C riders get here. You could get killed if they want their own brand of justice and you stand in their way. And I know that’s exactly what you’ll do.”

  “I’m the sheriff...took an oath. Never backed down yet to a mob.” Williams said regretting his macho remark as soon as he said it. Conscious of how attractive she looked with her Danish blonde hair tied back in a bun, he awkwardly tried to avoid her cool stare. Deciding retreat was the best option, he gave her a reassuring smile and headed for door. “Keep it warm. I’ll be back in awhile.”

  Williams strolled a couple of hundred yards down Henryville's dusty main street dimly lit from kerosene lamps inside the saloons. Waldon’s livery loomed dark against a slightly lighter night sky on the south edge of town, the last building before sagebrush and tumbleweeds took over.

  He found the owner in the loft forking hay into a pile below in the pale yellow light of a single lantern. “Evening, Seth, I need to take a look at the saddles that came in with Crawley’s body.”

  “Figured you’d be by. Put everything over there on a straw bale next to the lantern. One of them saddles was tore up pretty bad. Wonder what happened to it?”

  A saddle with fine tooled leather and Mexican silver conchos obviously belonged to Crawley. Williams picked up Walsh’s trail worn saddle or what was left of it and held it under the light of the kerosene lamp, noting the scuffing and drag marks on the left stirrup. He looked carefully at the mangled leather and splintered wood. It appeared as Walsh described it. The damage could have come from a heavy caliber bullet that struck just below the saddle horn from above and slightly in front. It destroyed the horn, plowed through the leather covered wood saddle tree and missed Walsh’s upper leg by a hair.

  Williams handed the saddle to Seth. “Look at the way this saddle is torn up. What do you make of it?”

  “Well, when I rode with the Twelfth Mississippi Cavalry in ‘64, I saw a lot of shot up saddles and the hole in this leather looks like a 45 or 50 caliber minnie ball went right through it. And I don’t know of anything but a heavy caliber bullet can splinter a saddle tree and tear up leather like this...”

  “Thanks, that’s kinda the way I see it too...need to take a look at Walsh’s mount too.”

  Seth fetched a coiled rope off a peg in the wall. “Bring the lantern, and I’ll throw a loop over him. He’s in the back corral.” A few moments later, Seth led a limping sorrel gelding into the light. “I put some liniment on the bruise, and can probably put a new shoe on sometime tomorrow if the swelling goes down.”

  Williams checked the top of the withers. “Look at this wound, Seth. Think a bullet could have done that?”

  “Sure could. Way that wound looks, a bullet would have to come from high up, hit the saddle and grazed the hide on its way out. Don’t think a six shooter or Winchester made that furrow. Most likely a large caliber. Might have been a Springfield or Remington in 50-70 or 45-70 caliber.”

  “Looks that way. So far it doesn’t look like Walsh has tried to throw sand in anyone’s eyes over this. I'll pick up that saddle later on...probably need it as evidence. Obliged, Seth.”

  Williams left the livery barn and sauntered up main street a hundred yards to the Drover’s Saloon. A southwest wind started kicking up dust and brought with it the ever-present smell of cow manure and rain. Hopefully, it’ll blow over. I don’t feel like coping with Main Street turned into a muddy quagmire in the morning with all this going on, he thought kicking away a large tumbleweed that a sudden gust blew against his leg.

  Drover’s Saloon, a favorite watering hole for local ranchers and townspeople was not as rowdy as the Black Widow saloon across the street or the Painted Lady a few doors up. It also served better quality liquor and was the best place to pick up reliable range gossip. Williams wanted to get a sense of what locals felt about Crawley’s death. And, most importantly, were they in a mood where they could be stirred up enough to take justice into their own hands. He stepped lightly through the swinging doors, moved off to one side and paused a moment while his vision adjusted to the light given off by a half dozen oil lamps hanging from the ceiling.

  Several cowhands lounged at the polished wood bar joking loudly as they nursed tall mugs of frothy beer or shot glasses of amber colored rye. One of the hands -- short and stocky with a dark complexion--wore batwing chaps and leaned against the far end of the bar munching on a pickled egg.

  Williams strolled over. He helped the rider out of a tight spot a few months ago and knew he could get some straight answers. “Howdy, Buck. How’s things out at the Box D?”

  “Fair to middling. What’s this I hear about Crawley gettin’ killed and some moth-eaten puncher bringing him in tied over his saddle?”

  “That’s about the size of it. Claimed he was ambushed and had to defend himself. What I need to know, Buck, is what’s the talk going around? Anybody riled up enough to try and take the law into his own hands?”

  “I haven’t heard of any so far. Crawley was likeable enough, but he pretty much kept to himself. Wasn’t too social like. I don’t know of anyone who was close to him other than his family...at least enough to make it personal,” Buck volunteered.

  “Obliged,” Williams said and turned to leave when a slim cowboy who looked like he was just out of his teens pushed himself away from the bar.

  “Sheriff, what are ya going to do about that saddle trash that killed one of our ranchers? I think ya need some help...” he slurred, his stance unsteady from drinking too much cheap rye.

  Williams recognized him as a new hand hired on at the Bar S, one of the smaller outfits in the valley. He noted the gun worn l
ow and tied down. Rumor going around was the kid had a chip on his shoulder and wanted to make a name for himself. A dangerous combination especially when mixed with cheap whiskey.

  “Look, cowboy, I’m following up on some promising signs, and I’ll let the town council know how it pans out first. If I need help, you’ll hear about it,” the sheriff said evenly. He turned slightly so his right side was toward the belligerent cowhand and waited. Being a south paw he favored a cross draw holster on his right hip, pistol butt forward.

  A little melodramatic, he thought. But then I’ve seen good lawmen killed when they misread what alcohol and a hot head suddenly explode into. Especially when a would-be fast gun is out to get a reputation.

  The cowhand, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncertain about what to do next. It slowly dawned on him through a cloud of alcohol that perhaps he had a mountain lion by the tail and didn’t know quite how to let go. Before he could decide what to do next, his two companions grabbed his arms and mumbled an apology to Williams. They hustled him out, leaving the saloon doors swinging noisily back and forth on unoiled hinges.

  Williams slowly exhaled and relaxed. The sudden tension in the room started to dissipate and card players resumed their games of chance. A piano player started banging out tunes on an old upright that badly needed tuning.

  Williams changed his mind. Maybe he did need a beer and bellied up to the bar and ordered one, relieved the standoff had not turned into a gunfight. The last thing he wanted to deal with right now was trading lead with a hot-headed cowpuncher who thought he was a gunfighter. Hopefully that mutton head’s companions will explain to him when he sobers up how close he came to knocking on Saint Peter’s door, Williams thought as he fished an egg out of a half-gallon glass container that contained a couple dozen boiled eggs pickled in vinegar and red beet juice.