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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Freighter’s Holiday
Tom Sheehan
They were paired up for six years in a freighter’s seat, content with each other’s attitude and contribution, survivors of scams, battles, life’s threats on their persons by a scattering of road agents, brigands and renegades of different orders. Harry Molson and Gobi Manfred were partners in the Molson & Manfred Movers, which became known as The 3 Ems across the territory. The team sported four of the biggest, grandest, handsomest Percheron horses in the whole land. The two freighters had done well in their time, but they realized the railroad, in many growing branches and lines, was chasing them clear across the territory and would one day boost them right out of place.
“Another year, Harry,” Manfred said, a broad smile on his face, a deep thought being exposed to his friend. They were headed north off the Plateau Road, crossing the tracks of the Wyoming Plateau Railroad near Upper Springs. “Another year and we can pack it in, start raisin’ our own cows. That piece of land is just waitin’ for us. I can feel it. Lester Hennings says he’s happiest doing cow work, long as he gets rain enough he’s prayin’ for all the time.”
Molson read his partner easy as a page in a book.
“He’s a good man, old Lester is,” Molson said, snapping the reins lightly in his hands, clucking softly in his throat. The lead horse stood one ear up tall. “Can’t forget him that time we was pinned down in Grotto Canyon and them bums was wantin’ all we had.”
Manfred jumped right in. “Yeh, old Lester’s ‘bout as good with a rifle as we are with this team of horses.” He looked down with pride on the four huge horses under his reins. Percherons from French Horse Heaven, he always called them. “But I was sure glad he was uphill of us and them and made like he was a dozen Lesters at protectin’ friends. Yes, sir, knows how to make up his mind, old Lester.”
It was 1875, the war long over, railroads on the open road but years away from “uphill places.”
Their horses, Percheron-Normans, came from a breed developed not far from Paris, France, a place called Le Perche. Before the Civil War between the states, a good number of Percheron stallions and mares had made the trip from Le Perche. They could trot up to 10 miles a day, day after day, and haul a heavy load behind them, rugged animals doing what they were bred for.
Gobi Manfred had won a team in a card game and Harry Molson, trained in the army, saved a family that had turned around in Oklahoma to go back to Rhode Island. On safe departure from a train station the family gave Molson their team of horses, a pair of Percherons. How he loved those mighty horses. In a small town in lower Wyoming, it was the two teams who noticed each other at a small freighter’s office as their owners gabbed away with a mutual friend. The horses drew the two men together into a series of conversations, at the bar and at the card table, and they started a freight line to work mostly in the Wyoming territory.
They worked hard, fair and square and enjoyed a solid reputation for getting the job done, sometimes in extreme situations. “Them 3Ms’s is good old boys ‘n’ knows what they‘re doin’,” was heard in a number of quarters. It helped them attract new customers in the high country.
On this day, an early chill in the air, a few leaves caught unawares by a breeze off the hills, the 3ms were hustling a load of ammunition disguised as crates of canned fruit. They had just crested an incline in the road south of Portsby when Manfred, scanning not just the road ahead but the other side of a twist in the road that showed downhill. Three men were working on a tree at a narrow place in the road and he realized they were going to drop the tree onto the road. He estimated that they’d be there in a matter of ten minutes, with another incline to contend with.
“Harry,” he said, “how far back was them soldiers we saw?”
“About five miles. Why?”
“We got company ahead. They’re gonna stop us in our tracks, so we gotta turn back or fight ‘em off. I seen three of ‘em around the double bend ahead. I ‘d say they know what we’re haulin’ here.”
“Hell, Gobi, I been dreamin’ all the time too about that ranch of ours. Let’s run for it. Maybe them soldiers ain’t too far off and can hear any shots we fire.” The reins were already laid over and twisted in his hands, and the lead Percheron, Big Abe, was leaning for a turn, drawing his mates with him. There was plenty of room for the wagon to turn around.
“C’mon, Abe,” Molson yelled. “Dig in, boy. You got depends settin’ on you.” His hands flashed on the reins and he leaned over as if to prevent the wagon from tipping on one side. His mind found an image of the load slipping its ropes, sliding off the wagon, business going downhill.
That’s the moment when a single round slapped into the side of the wagon from close range. A rider rode himself into view, his rifle lowered and aimed at them. He was thirty feet away and wearing a bandana over half his face. Under his sombrero brim his eyes were dark.
“Hold it right there, you two. We got you tied up already, so don’t play any games with us. You can’t go on and you can’t go back. All we want is your load. You be careful, no tricks, and we’ll just ride off with your wagon.”
Without moving his lips, Molson said, “Gobi, I know this fella. Seen his belt buckle someplace before. So don’t do nothin’, sit tight and we’ll catch this fella when he least expects anythin’ gonna happen to him.”
In the same kind of whisper, his lips still, Manfred said, “You sure on him, Harry? Real sure?”
“Yup.”
“You fellas stop that damned chattering and climb down off that wagon real slow and careful and leave your guns on the ground. Maybe you can have them when we leave, just in case some animals come callin’ on ya during the night.”
Manfred, setting his rifle down in the bucket of the wagon, said, “That’s right sociable of you. Some mighty potent critters up in this neck of the woods. But I gotta tell you somethin’ real important for you and your boys up there to remember … you take damned good care these animals. Not many of them around. They’s real special to us. Let ‘em loose and we’ll find them. ‘Spect you can do that.”
“Sure, old timer, they’ll be loose enough to find, after we get what we come for, that ammo. We heard all about it at the … oh, well, no mind of that. Just no tricks. Deal?” The rifle was still pointed at their midsections as three other masked men rode up.
Manfred, looking over the new arrivals, whispered to his pal, “Harry, you know any these others? See ‘em before?”
“Nah, just the fella with the belt buckle like it wants to say his name on’y can’t spell it. I’d know him in Heaven or Hell where his final word carries him.”
One of the newcomers, maybe the boss of the gang the way he looked things over, said to the others, “Take the whole wagon like we planned and make sure all their guns go with us.”
He looked at Molson who was staring at him. “You got something to say, old timer?”
“Don’t hurt them horses none is all. Feed ‘em when it gets dark. They’ll work all day tomorrow for you depends how far you go.”
The gang leader laughed. “Check the old timer telling us what to do. Wonder he got this far with his big mouth.” He looked everything over. “Toss their guns up here. Don’t leave nothing else.”
“Don’t we leave ‘em a canteen? Only right.” It was the first robber talking.
“Nothing, I said. No way we’re leaving stuff they can track back. Nothing they can track us with.” He said to one of the men, “Jack, you give me your horse and then drive the wagon where we said we would. Go ahead now. We’ll take these boys and leave ‘em off the road aways. Make ‘em walk a bit.”
He told Molson and Manfred to mount double up on the extra horse and then they all rode up into the hills. In an hour the two freighters were dropped off in a wooded section after a hard ride.
It took the two freighters a whole day to find their way out of the woods and get a ride to the nearest town where they reported the holdup. The sheriff said he’d check the area and try to backtrack on the wagon. “Anything special about them,” he asked.
Both men shook their heads. “Just masked robbers,” was their dual replies. “Just masked robbers.”
Molson told the sheriff they’d be buying a couple of horses and looking on their own. “You boys be careful. I know you want them animals back, but don’t get shot trying that.”
For a full week there was not a word, not a trace or a sign that the sheriff could follow all the way. “They been in and out of the river three times at least. No sign anywhere else, but if they didn’t kill them animals, they’ll be spotted. Someone will see them, don’t worry. You boys just be careful out there. I don’t want any killing going on.”
But for that week Molson and Manfred only stayed on the roads of the area, and they hit every saloon in a hundred mile radius.
A week later, on a Saturday evening, they walked into the Pearl Bottom Saloon in Shepherd’s Hill, Wyoming. The crowd was noisy, the bar was full, and the ladies were singing and working favors and selling drinks. In one corner a man in a derby hat played the piano.
Three men walked in, studied the bar, looked at an empty table in a far corner and motioned for a waitress to come take their orders. Each man wore his guns in hip holsters, wore decent sombreros and vests over their shirts, and spurs on their boots, like they had just finished off a trail drive and wanted to wipe the dust from their throats.
Molson said to his pal, “Gobi, you sit here until I come back. Don’t let no one take our table. I got some settin’ up to do and a little close range spookin’.” He walked over to the bar and said to the barkeep working the far end of the bar, “You folks got a good gunsmith here can fix a couple of shotguns I got broke?”
“Sure have. He ain’t here now but he’ll be in pretty soon. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” Molson said, “I’ll go get them shotguns right now. Might save some time this trip.” He walked to the door and just before he went outside he yelled to Manfred, and said, “Gobi, I’m fetchin’ them shotguns gotta be fixed. Fella comin’ in soon. Be right back.”
In a few minutes he returned with two shotguns and put one on the table in front of Manfred and spoke extra loud. “This damn thing’s still plumb bad, Gobi. I don’t know if it can be fixed. You best keep it until I see if the fella can fix it when he comes in.”
Just then, as another customer came to his end of the bar, the barkeep yelled to Molson and said, “The gent’s here can fix or take a look at your shotgun, mister.” He pointed to the new customer.
Molson, with one shotgun in his hands, walked toward that end of the saloon. As he walked by the table where the three gents had sat down a bit earlier, he laid the shotgun on the shoulders of one of the men, with the bore right against the man’s ear. “Don’t move, mister, or you’re dead. You stole our wagon and our horses. If you hurt those horses, you’re dead again all over.”
One of man’s table mates moved as if to draw his gun and Manfred, with the other shotgun, was standing ten feet away with a bead down on the table. “Don’t try it, sonny,” he said, with the surest conviction in his voice saying that he’d shoot as soon as look.
Molson yelled to the barkeep, “Send for the sheriff. He’s across the street in the general store. These fellas stole our wagon, our load of ammunition and our team of horses. If this man moves, he gets dead. If any of his gang here at the table moves, Gobi behind me will blast him to Kingdom come, bet on it. He loves those horses much as I do. Now get the sheriff.”
The barkeep pointed across the room and a young man scooted out the door.
Molson nudged the robber chief with the bore of the shotgun. “No games, like you said when you stole our stuff, or you’re dead.” He nudged him again.
The sheriff came in and said, “How do you know these are the gents that robbed you?”
“Check his belt buckle,” Molson said. “It got the biggest star on it I ever seen. I wouldn’t forget that buckle ever. Ask him if he killed our horses or where he’s got them hidden. Four proud Percherons from the Heaven of Horses. I’m gettin’ itchy with this here gun about wearin’ me down.”
The sheriff, with his gun on the robber chief, said, “What do you say to that? That buckle’s sure a dead giveaway.”
“I just got it a few days ago. Bought it off a drummer on the road. Gave him 20 dollars for it.”
The barkeep said, “He’s lying, Sheriff. He was wearing that buckle two weeks ago at least when he was in here a few other times. I remember it.”
The sheriff said to Manfred, “Try one of the others, see if he knows where the horses and wagon are.”
Gobi Manfred, lover of Percherons, laid the shotgun on the shoulder of another man, and slid the cold bore against the man’s ear. “I’m gettin’ awful anxious about my horses, mister, and I can only count to sixteen, so I’m gonna do all my ‘rithmetic and then shoot.” He jabbed him again.
“We tied them off in that canyon by the river, a dozen miles up the river and on the other side.”
Molson said, “You need help with these gents, Sheriff? We can stay with you, but we’d rather find our horses.”
The sheriff pointed at three men at the next table. “You three are now deputies. Put your guns on them.” Then he said to the robbers, “You three gents drop your guns right now. You’re under arrest.”
Turning to Molson and Manfred, he said, “You gents go fetch your horses and come back here. We’ll have court in two days when the judge comes through. I’ll need you here.”
In unison the two freighters said, “We’ll be here, Sheriff. These boys better pray them horses ain’t dead from mountain lions or squaw cookin’ ‘cause they’s Hell to pay for that.”
Molson added, “We ain’t worked in a week , Sheriff, like we been on vacation. Let’s hope we get to work pretty soon.”
With their shotguns over their shoulders the two freighters walked out of the saloon and went to find their Percherons.
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