|
Short Stories & Tall Tales
Dry Well Reunion
By Christopher Scott
Frank Canby stood at the crossroads. His horse nickered and scuffed at the dirt. The animal had better sense than Frank as it tried to shy away from the trail to the west. It wanted to head in the opposite direction, toward the safe and friendly town of Prairie View. Unfortunately, that was not the way Frank intended to go. It was the trail heading west he needed to travel.
It was called the “D.C.” trail for the simple reason that it followed the rim of the treacherous Devils Canyon; a narrow slit in the ground that split the high plateau it ran through, like a jagged, open wound cutting deep into the barren landscape, it ran on for miles until it ended at the plateau’s abrupt edge, opening itself up to the Striker Valley far below.
The D.C. trail was a dangerous and seldom used shortcut between the plateau and the valley and was only taken by the most adventurous or fool hearty traveler, as it eventually had no choice but to drop over the canyon rim and in one long, steep, rock covered dust choking run it made it’s way down to the bottom and out the far end. It was an unpleasant journey at best which ended on a rather unfriendly road heading toward a dying little mining town called Dry Well, built on the fortunes of an old silver mine that had all but died out. The town was once called Deep Well, and boasted a population of nearly two thousand, that is until the silver began to peter out and the Dewey mine, which was the largest employer in the area, went bust. Most everyone moved on as the town quickly lost its identity. And to those who remained, the town eventually became known as Dry Well in reference to it’s dried up fortunes. Frank had never been to Dry Well. Never really had a reason to, before now. But today, he had no choice in the matter. This was something he had to do. Someone had taken his most prized possession and he was about to get it back.
As he pulled on the reins, Frank and his horse reluctantly headed out along the D.C. trail.
Franks journey to Dry Well was not one he looked forward to, but circumstances gave him little choice. It had to be taken. His son, Jessie was in Dry Well and he was in trouble.
Frank was a widower who dearly loved his son. Five years earlier he had promised his wife, as she lay on her deathbed that he would raise Jessie to be a decent and upright young man. He thought he had been doing a good job of it, but three months ago Jessie had up and disappeared. Frank was always of the mind that something was not right. It wasn’t like Jessie to just leave without a word, and he had been desperately searching for him ever since.
It had all started the day Joe Mason and his gang rode into Cactus Bow. Frank was a respected businessman and owner of the town’s gunsmith shop. He took in all manner of pistols and rifles in need of repair. His current reputation as a man who could handle the most difficult repair of any gun, premised the fact that his past reputation had required him to handle the guns he now repaired for others with even more precision. It was a fact that Frank was not proud of and one he tended to keep to himself.
He spent a lot of time with his son, Jessie, teaching him the finer points of gun repair and how to defend himself by drawing fast and shooting straight. Jessie had a natural talent for it and was always eager to show off what he could do. He was a typically inquisitive fifteen-year old who at times let his curiosity get the best of his judgment. The Mason gang had been in town for several days and Jessie, being eager to show off his skill with a handgun, introduced himself to a couple of the boys and promptly challenged one of them to a friendly shooting match, to which he won easily. That didn’t set well with the Mason boys. They plotted on how they would extract their revenge on Jessie before they left town, but until then, they kept up friendly appearances.
During the course of their “Friendship” it became known that Jessie could read and write, which none of the Mason’s were able to do. This made their distain for Jessie all the more prevalent.
On the day the Mason gang left town, Jessie disappeared. The sheriff, as well as some of the townsfolk figured the Mason’s had convinced Jessie to run off and join their gang. Frank knew his son better than anyone in town. He knew Jessie wouldn’t have run off like that. He figured the Mason gang had something to do with it alright and if Jessie was with them, it was against his will. That fact came to light in a note Jessie was able to slip to a teller at a bank the Mason’s had robbed several weeks ago. The note explained his predicament as well as where he could be found. The note made its way to the Sheriff in Cactus Bow who passed it on to Frank.
“Looks like I may have been wrong about your boy,” remarked the sheriff as he handed Frank the note.
Frank read the note over several times holding back a full range of emotions as they began to overtake him. He lifted his head from the paper, and as he held back the tears in his eyes he let it be known, “That’s Jessie’s writing alright, I’d know it anywhere. I’ll be headin’ to Dry Well first thing in the morning to get my boy.”
“If you like, I’ll round up a couple of my men and we’ll head out with you,” offered the sheriff.
Frank cut him off before he could say another word.
“I appreciate the offer sheriff but to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t want your help. I did my best to convince you and the people of this town that Jessie wouldn’t have ran off like that. No one believed me, and no one offered to lift a finger to help me find him. I’ve been searching for the Mason gang on my own for three months solid now. You didn’t offer your help then and I certainly don’t want it now. I’ll do this on my own.”
The sheriff knew the truth of it and didn’t take offence. “You certainly have a right to be upset Frank, but don’t let your anger make you out to be a fool. You can’t take on the Mason gang on your own.”
“I won’t be on my own," replied Frank. “Jessie will give me a hand. Now if you don’t mind, I need to get myself ready for an early start.” And with that, Frank turned and headed home.
Before sunup the next morning Frank had packed his saddlebags, strapped on his best guns and slipped his favorite rifle snugly into its scabbard. He mounted up and headed toward Devils Canyon, and beyond that, the town of Dry Well.
The trail along the canyon rim was misleading at best. It looked inviting as it started out, wide and flat with very little dust, but once you were well on your way and getting comfortable with the lay of the land, things began to change. The flat and easy traveling ground gave way to a more perilous landscape of rocks, ruts and plenty of dust. Eventually, the trail slipped over the rim and dropped down along the canyon wall as it headed for the bottom. It was steep and rocky, barely wide enough for two horses to pass and a tough stretch for anything on wheels. Wagons did take the trail from time to time but it was a dangerous way to travel. Over the years, more than one wagon had slipped off the edge. The local buzzards kept a close eye on anything that moved along the trail within the canyon. They were always eager to feast on horsemeat whenever some unfortunate beast didn’t make the grade.
As Frank carefully negotiated the trail he was grateful he was riding a horse and praying he wouldn’t meet up with a wagon heading in the opposite direction.
The trail along the canyon wall was shaded and a bit cooler than up on the rim, and even though it was steep and treacherous, it was a welcome relief from the heat of the day. Frank used the slow pace of the cool trail to think through his plan on how he would handle the situation once he rode into Dry Well. It would be tricky but there was no way he was leaving without his son.
The days heat gave way to the cool of the night. Frank had made it to the bottom of the canyon and had followed a small creek to within several miles of Dry Well. He had come out of Devils Canyon just as the sun was sinking low along the horizon and since he didn’t want to ride into town at night, he decided to stop and make camp along the creek. A decent nights rest would do him good, as he needed to be at his very best the following day. An early start would put him in Dry Well by late morning.
As Frank entered town he kept alert. He needed things to go smoothly with no surprises. Main Street was not impressive. Several dozen assorted buildings lined each side. A few were empty and many looked as if they had seen better days. Several people were going about their business, but there was a noticeable lack of vitality in the air except for a dozen or so dogs that were roaming about. A pack of these dogs began to nip at the heels of his horse as he moved down the street. He was seriously thinking about putting a bullet in one of them hoping it would give the others something to gnaw on other than his horse, but about that same time an older gent stepped into the street and did the deed for him. It scattered the pack for a few minutes but the smell of blood brought them back to the fresh kill. The man walked up to Frank with his gun still drawn.
“And just who might you be?” he questioned. “This here ain’t a town that gets too many visitors coming in from this direction. Most travelers with any sense avoid the D.C. trail. What’s yer business here?”
Frank ignored the inquiries and kept moving as the stranger walked beside him. “Thanks for getting those dogs off my horse mister. The name is Frank and I’m just passing through. Is there a place in this town where a man can wash the dust out of his throat?”
“That would be the ‘Red Horse’ saloon, last on the right. The clientele is a little rough, I’d watch my step if I were you.”
“Thanks for the warning mister," replied Frank as he continued on to the Red Horse where he hitched up and stepped lightly through the door.
The place was small and dusty. A long bar and several tables nearly filled the room and cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. It came from the corner table where several men sat with a bottle of whiskey and a deck of cards. The game and the conversation were put on hold when Frank entered the room. All eyes followed him to the bar.
“Have any cold beer?” inquired Frank.
The bartender gave him a long hard look. “Warm whiskey will have to do. No such thing as ice in these parts. If you’re lookin’ for something cool, we got us a cellar. Ain’t nothin’ in it at the moment but that could change. I’ve been known to toss a stranger or two down the hole if they give me any trouble, or if I should decide I don’t like em’.”
“Well, let’s just hope I’m a likable sort then,” replied Frank
“Ya, let’s hope so," snarled the bartender as he poured the drink.
Frank took the glass and moved over to an empty table. Sitting down, he started to shuffle a deck of cards he found there. As he began to lay out the cards in front of him, one of the men at the corner table spoke up.
“You a poker player?”
“I’m not a regular at it but I have played a hand or two," replied Frank.
“Well we got an extra chair here if your interested. It’s not too often we get to play for someone else’s money. We tend to get a little tired of trading our own money amongst ourselves, if you know what I mean.”
Frank considered the invitation. “I’ll make you a deal. Tell me where a man can get something to eat around here and if you’re still around when I come back, I’ll give you boys a chance to pay for it… if you know what I mean.”
“You can get some grub right next door," replied one of the men. “But don’t spend all your money on your belly now; we want our chance to empty your pockets.”
Frank finished laying out the cards. It was a distinctive setup to a game he and Jessie had made up some time ago. He left them spread out on the table as he got up and walked out the door.
Frank stepped into the small diner. The smell of coffee and beans filled the room. It was brighter than the saloon but not any cleaner and from the decor it was easy to see it hadn’t had a woman’s touch in quite some time. The cook, a large man with greasy hair and a very large moustache stepped up to the counter. A cigarette hung from his lips and a look of distrust was in his eye, which he directed at Frank as he wiped off his dirty hands on his grease-stained shirt. He took a long drag from the cigarette and removed it. The smoke poured from his mouth as he spoke.
“What’s your pleasure? I got coffee, beans, bacon, steak and eggs.”
Frank pulled up a chair at a table next to the window overlooking the street. “I reckon I’ll have the coffee, steak and eggs, Boil the coffee and burn the steak.”
“Coffee’s already boiling, that’ll be four bits," replied the cook.
“Just passing through?”
“Yup”
“Where did you come from?”
“East”
“Where are you headin’?”
“West”
“Yer not very talkative, are ya?”
“Oh I can be talkative, as long as it ain’t about my personal business.”
The cook was smart enough to know when to stop prying and since he hadn’t had an out of town customer for some time he was eager to continue the conversation. So he changed the subject.
“I’ve been cookin’ here for close to twenty years through fat and lean, and right now, things are mighty lean. Been that way for quite a spell now. We get more than our share of undesirable types coming through these days. I’ve a good eye for em’ and I’d say you’re not the type.”
“You don’t say. And just what does the ‘type’ look like?” inquired Frank.
“Oh, it’s really more about how they act than what they look like, you know, loud-mouth, cocky and looking for trouble; that type,” replied the cook. “As for you, I can tell you’re lookin’ for something alright. Not sure what it is, but I know it ain’t trouble.”
Just then four horsemen came riding down the street. They pulled up right next to the diner in front of the Red Horse saloon. Three surly looking men and a young boy dismounted. It was Jessie! Frank almost jumped out of his seat but he knew he needed to stay calm and play this hand the way he had laid it out in his mind. He knew it would be to his advantage to stay calm and he needed every bit of advantage he could get. So he sat back and took notice of the three men as they walked into the saloon with Jessie.
“Now there,” remarked the cook as he pointed out the window. “That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about. Those Mason boys are nothing but trouble. Been here for several months now stirring things up. It’s a genuine shame the way they treat that kid. No better than a dog I tell you.”
That comment only increased Frank’s determination to put an end to this nightmare here and now. He excused himself, handed the cook a dollar and headed for the door.
As the Mason boys stepped into the Red Horse, they walked passed the table where Frank had laid out the cards. As Jessie approached the table he stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the cards in disbelief. He knew that layout, and it gave him a sense of renewed hope to know his father may be close by, but where was he? Had he missed him? Was he here and gone already? Or were the cards laid out as a signal to him to be ready.
“Get moving their boy," growled the gruff old man behind Jessie as he reached out and gave him a shove hard enough to cause him to stumble up to the bar.
He barked his orders to the bartender. “Give me a whiskey and the boy here his usual.”
The bartender set the drinks down in front of the old man. “One whiskey and one water," he replied with a sarcastic tone.
The old man spoke up to the bartender. “Can’t git the boy to drink a man’s drink, all he ever wants is plain water. Maybe we should give it to him in a bowl and let him lap it up. If the little whelp didn’t know how to read and write, I’d have put him down by now, but since none of us boys ever learned how, he comes in handy every now and again. I guess we’ll keep hold of him for a time but I might just want to hobble him if he don’t quit tryin’ to run off.”
The old man gave Jessie a hard slap on the back of the head for nothing more than emphasis. “Ain’t that right boy," he declared with a laugh.
“Now is that any way to treat the boy?” came the voice from the door of the Red Horse.
All eyes went to the door. The old man and Jessie both turned and as the old man was about to reply, Jessie whipped the gun out of the old mans left holster and fired off two shots at the two Mason boys sitting at the table. The kid was fast and accurate. The men barely had time to unholster their guns when bullets slammed into their chests. The three poker players at the corner table dove for cover. The bartender pulled a sawed off shotgun out from under the bar but Frank removed any thought from his mind about using it, with a bullet between his eyes. This gave the old man time to draw his other pistol. He grabbed Jessie around the neck and stepped behind him. He held the gun to Jessie’s head and made his demand.
“You and the boy drop your guns or I’ll put a bullet in his head right now…and get away from that door, I’m headin’ out.”
Jessie dropped his gun but Frank had come too far and searched too long to let this hombre get away and their was no way he was going to let Jessie out of his sight.
The old man threatened Frank once again. “I’m tellin’ you one last time, drop the gun or the boy gets a bullet.”
Frank had never expected the old man to take the cowards way out and he didn’t want to take a chance on Jessie getting hurt so he reluctantly set his gun down, gave Jessie a wink of reassurance and moved away from the door.
The old man backed out of the saloon keeping Jessie between him and Frank. As he cleared the door he and Jessie both turned to see something just out of Franks field of view. As the old man removed the gun from Jessie’s head as if to defend himself, Jessie broke free and dove back into the saloon, a single loud blast was heard and the old man was thrown from his feet, landing in a heap just off the walkway.
Jessie got up off the floor, and even though he was almost as tall as his father, he ran and jumped into his arms. The tears flowed from the eyes of both father and son.
“I knew you’d come for me, I knew you would," cried Jessie.
“I would have searched heaven and hell for you son. I would have searched ‘till the day I died, and then some.”
After a time, they both walked outside to see who had fired the fatal shot at the old man.
There in the doorway of the diner stood the cook with a shotgun cradled in his arms.
“I knew you were looking for something mister, I just didn’t know what it was, ‘till now."
|
|
|
|
|
Send this story to a friend
|
|
|
|
|
