Short Stories & Tall Tales
Prairie Crossfire
Tom Sheehan
A pinnacle of rocky Amber Mountain split the evening sun into bright pieces, and a good chunk of an orange ruddy glow settled into the town of Widow’s Walk as Hank Grob, son of a ranching father, standing beside his horse in the middle of the road, tossed his dare onto the feet of the gathered citizens. Evening dust sat still after a hot day.
Silence all around was as thick as the ruddy glow, and just as soft on the ears as the glow was on the eyes. Young Grob, humiliated by his own townspeople, rage setting its teeth for a bigger bite on his senses, let the orange glow turn to fire in his eyes.
“My father carried half of you on his back more times than once,” he yelled, his feelings coming up from his boots. “He gave you meat when the hunt was bad, stood behind bills you piled up at Carty’s store, rode on a dozen posses when he had his own problems well after he gave up the sheriff’s job. Now, a bad ass murderer has hurt three of his men just to back up his promise to kill my father, and you all shrink from what’s really coming down on you. If my father goes down to this madman, how far behind do you think Widow’s Walk will be as a town?”
Hank Grob was a handsome, fuzzy-cheeked, blond, blue-eyed youngster who overnight was finding his serious side. It was almost scratched up in his face as he seethed sitting his horse, holding the reins. He pointed at many of those gathered. “Down and gone, all of it and all of you. You won’t be able to come back as a town. Never. Burkett’ll come after you next. All at once or one at a time. That’s the way he works, whole hog or nibbling one piece at a time.”
Convicted and escaped murderer Hellcat Burkett, twice convicted, twice jailed, twice escaped, had sworn he’d murder the elder Grob. Henry Grob had captured Burkett both times when he was Widow’s Walk’s sheriff and had become a prominent rancher after giving up his badge, tired of the lazy town. For the last 7 years Burkett had languished behind bars of the territorial prison. It wasn’t strong enough, even after the first escape, to keep him inside.
Not one voice arose in the crowd, until a 14-year old friend of Hank Grob, Hookie Littlefield, red-haired, freckle-faced, twice the size of a peanut, stepped out of the crowd, a pistol displayed prominently and oversized where it was tucked into his belt, yelled out, “I’m packing my grandfather’s gun, Hank, and I’m with you all the way.” He stepped away from the crowd as if distancing himself from them.
“Me and you, Hookie,” young Grob said, “we’ll fight him to the teeth.” He believed he had unsettled the crowd enough, but wanted one more shot into their pride, if they had anything left at all. So, in one swing of his arm he hoisted Hookie up on his horse and the pair rode off down the main street and out of town, two best-of-pals.
The congregational gasp was left behind them, laying in the orange glow fading away toward evening in Widow’s Walk. Few of them looked into others’ eyes, and most of them crawled away, to bed or drink, or momentary safety from the evil bandit named Hellcat Burkett, born as the devil in their own town.
Burkett’s second break from jail was as sensational as his first break-out, as he had forecast it well in advance, and it made an entry into “near impossible escapes,” an on-going study on jail breaks that would soon circulate in the entire west. The study should have become a warden’s first tool of control, but was relegated to forgotten drawers in many wardens’ offices.
Meanwhile, on this day, Henry Grob, at a branding session for some of his cattle, wondered where his son was, knowing the youth was never one to shy away from work or any of the duties of the ranch, but had been very protective of his father. That charmed the older Grob, but also alarmed him, the boy sometimes being too dramatic in his notions.
He had no idea at all about the boy’s whereabouts, or intentions, but realized the Burkett situation was probably uppermost in his son’s mind. A gnawing concern had made an entrance.
At that precise moment, Hank Grob and his pal Hookie were out on the prairie, the flowers rampant in their color schemes, the grass as rich as it would be for the balance of the year, and hawks in a slow overhead hunt for prairie food on the run.
The danger had superimposed itself on Hank’s mind, as he said to Hookie, “I know we can’t get his guns away from him, that Burkett, but we gotta do something that puts him behind in his chances. Stretch him out some. I am not sure what that is.”
Hookie, bright-eyed, a little ornery in his own right, always mischievous, said, “The thing I heard my grandfather say once, about a murdering rat, was to get him away from his horse. A cowboy without a horse is a better target than one on his horse. He’s like a fish in a barrel, even if he’s out on the grass. If we can get him away from his mount, get him on open ground, we got a chance, especially if there’s two of us.”
He paused and said, “I’m sticking with my promise, Hank. I’m with you no matter what happens.” He crossed his heart and put his hand out to Hank Grob who grabbed it and wrung it good with an old clubhouse shake, then he started chuckling deep in his throat, and hearty laughter followed.
“What is it, Hookie? What’s so funny?”
“Think about it, Hank. You’re so all-fired mad and angry in all directions now, and if we could pull off something like this, well I bet Burkett would be the laughing stock from here through all the territory. Him done in by a couple of kids barely off their own little ponies.” The giggles continued gurgling in his throat. His smile was bright as a flag, and his hair seemingly redder in the sun than it was an hour earlier. Joy instead of fear and trepidation rode on his face in full riot; he could have been entering a house party or a barn dance for the first time.
“Well, it’s a great idea, Hookie, but we can’t go at him together. We got to be apart if he catches one of us out in the open, so’s the other can get a shot on him. I heard pa telling ma that Burkett’s probably been around and knows pa’s routines. That means he knows his work on the north pasture, all the stuff he’s been doing this week.”
“You mean, that’s where we ought to put ourselves,” Hookie advanced, but not as a question. “That means we got to get out there early so Burkett don’t see us getting set up, which means we say we’re going fishing in the morning, real early in the morning. I can do it easy. Can you?”
“No problem there, Hookie. I’ll set my pole and creel on the porch tonight when my folks are sitting there for talking and enjoying the evening sun and the smell of prairie flowers, like they do most nights in this weather. That’ll cover me for getting away before sun-up. But the rifles got to be stashed secretly, beforehand, and away from the houses. I’ll have mine behind the barn in that pile of broken wheels.”
“Me, too. I’ll do the same, but where’ll we set up?”
“One of us takes the cottonwood stand and the other takes the remains of the old line shack. They’re both far enough out in pasturage without any other cover so that we don’t walk past him if he’s hid out. And far enough apart to catch him in the middle. We got to get his horse at least.” He aimed an imaginative rifle and clicked off an imaginative shot. Smiles filled their faces.
There came a few moments of silence, as if the two youths were measuring any oncoming incidents. Each one recognized the moment for what it was, and then took themselves past any dangers implied in the undertaking. The looks found in each one’s eyes, at that specific twist of time, sent a realization that they were cemented forever. Pals, pards, buddies until Kingdom come.
Hookie understood where he was. “You think he’s coming in that way, Hank? No other way?”
“He ain’t coming from town, that’s for sure, so he’s got to come this way. The sheriff said he was looking, but I don’t believe any of them. It’s like they’ve gone into a cave.”
”Think it’s tomorrow?”
“If not tomorrow, then we go out again the next day.”
“Not fishing then?”
“No, stay-overs will do. We’ve done it so many times.” The smile was wide, as if they shared so many young men’s secrets at their sleep-overs.
That satisfied both of them and they went their ways for the evening.
After the supper meal at the Grob’s place, with the sun burning the mountain peaks with orange and red flares like an arsonist at high work, the prairie flowers dancing in a soft breeze, the family sat on the front porch enjoying each other, the atmosphere, the sometimes silence that managed to settle upon them. Burkett was not part of the atmosphere.
Hank, in a deliberate manner, set his fishing pole and creel on the end of the porch, cocked his head at an angle, as though he could see the morning before it arrived. It made his father smile in a quick memory of another time.
For the family the evening ritual was working in place, as Henry Grob told of the jobs finished during the day and what needed to be done on the morrow. It was like his work catalogue or his work journal. He took his time, explaining all the routines, all the particular duties and special considerations, so that his son would pick up the important parts of them. Ranching was a tough job and took lots of learning, especially early learning.
Neither parent mentioned Burkett’s threats; they’d heard them before, and had seen three of their ranch hands hurt by a bushwhacker. Instead, as if in substitution, they heard coming to them the screech of a hawk in the evening sky, an owl say hello from the barn, the thunder of crickets and peepers working their way toward the coming darkness. There was a hum of lay-over heat that the day had left in its wake and it touched each of the parents in a nostalgic way.
It did not have the same influence on Hank, thinking forward on his mission.
His mother, looking at the fishing gear, said, “Want me to wake you in the morning, Hank?” Her head was cocked at a comfortable angle, enjoying the soft evening, her family, and the porch her husband had built at her request. The only disparate sign might have been a concern lurking in the corner of her eyes, but all mothers seem to have that private shield of worry. Most of them wear it forever, so that look surprises no one.
The father shook his head, as Hank said, “Hookie says he’ll whistle for me. He’s busting to get that big one he lost last time. Says he’s growing a couple of dozen fat worms in coffee grounds and good soil in an old bucket. Swears he’ll get him this time. Calls him Old Hardacre.”
“He was around when I was a boy,” the father said, “but we called him Old Trailwise back then,” and the mother laughed at the thought, and said, “I’d rather not skin him up and cook him if he was to be dropped in my kitchen.”
“Them fish ain’t for eating, Ma,” Hank said, “they’re just for catching. That’s all.”
Day’s end pointed at them and the evening closed down soft and full and as safe as a hay pile in the mow of the barn. The sky darkened, sleep called, secrets moved around as surely as the worms in Hookie’s bucket. Only the planning youngsters were awake in the thick of night … and a desperate and cruel man bound on a desperate and cruel errand.
Hellcat Burkett, his mind-set on murder, moseyed in from the north in the dead of night, intent on placing himself near where Grob would spend a piece of his day. He’d spent the night in a small draw and had his horse hobbled well down out of sight. Stars had popped up on the sheet of the sky and now and then he saw and wondered about a shooting star flipping across that sheet of sky. He marked his comfort zone as he listened to a few coyote calls, an owl’s hooting hello to another owl, and the constant hum of undisturbed insects, all saying he was pretty sure he was alone out on the great acreage of grass that belonged to his arch enemy, Henry Grob.
He thought that nothing much had changed out in the world.
Yet his mind was as full of the past as it was of the present, remembering Grob’s gun lined up on his navel on two grim situations. Those visions he’d never forget; they would hound him forever until he had righted his own ship of balance. Thus, today was a day of revenge. This is why he had broken out of jail for the second time. This time it would pay off. Then, he promised himself, he’d get out of the territory and head for California or Montana. Dwelling on the choices, he nudged his back into a comfortable position and dozed off thinking California’d be best for him.
Normal night sounds were a comfort.
Morning was different from the one planned by the two young heroes, who rose early in still-heavy darkness and situated themselves as they had envisioned, Hank behind the wreck of an old line shack and Hookie in the quick thickness of a few cottonwood trees that grew like a monument on the edge of the grass, near a dried up stream. The lunch they carried went fast, for it also satisfied their breakfast. The water they carried, however, guaranteed them the day, for they had long ago learned what a cow or horse was reduced to without water as well as a man.
On parting in the dry darkness, they shook hands, and Hookie said, “Hank, you’re the best friend a pal could have. I hope we can talk about this a few days from now, and a few years from now. Won’t that be nice? Us slipping out of a dance some night and going outside and telling our part in all of this to some other cowpokes.” He walked off as Hank said, letting the words trail after him, “Don’t worry, Hookie, we got him beat.”
The boys did not know that Burkett was already on the grass with them, or that Hank’s father had decided to change his daily routine.
Fate was drawing lines and setting deeds, much as it did every day as time advanced into the western plains and climbed the far mountains.
Each boy watched the undulating grass closely, the view running across the mostly flat range, and saw nothing. Their patience, as if blood-bonded by their mission, excelled in its control, and they now and then moved deeper into a more comfortable position.
They did not sleep, however, each aware of the other’s promise and dependence.
The day went past noon and the only motion came from birds floating on invisible high thermals or slicing on swift wings across the vast prairie. The sun could crawl or sprint, as could the clouds that came along. Shadows were non-existent.
It was past noon, the thought of food beginning a strangely familiar onset, when Hank saw a movement less than 100 yards from his place of concealment. The spot of movement looked like a Stetson just appearing across a horizon line, as if the hat was on the head of a man moving very slowly, keeping crouched in a slight, defilade position. He wanted to call out to Hookie, and hoped Hookie had seen the same sight.
He thought: If Burkett’s there, and is really hiding, does he know we’re here? Where’s his horse? He tried to remember what that patch of ground looked like, and then he barely remembered a slight dip in the land. Was it deep enough to hide a horse? His options were few; he could wait for more movement, a better sign. Or, he thought: I can flush him out before he gets to his horse.
Day was sliding toward Amber Mountain at the end of the prairie where it would lay warm in foothills and rocky crags, leaving its tenuous imprint. Minutes clicked by on the imaginative watch face.
Hank saw the movement again and in a quick decision placed his rifle across a slab of plank and waited. When the movement came again he rammed a shot right into the ground directly below the unknown’s hat. It had to be Burkett, he was sure.
Hank waited to see if Burkett would fire back at him, or if Hookie would try to get Burkett in a cross fire. They had to keep separated, and not get too close together where Burkett could get the drop on the both of them at one time.
There was no return fire from Burkett, and nothing at all from Hookie.
Time almost stood still on the prairie as ten minutes seemed like an hour.
From back off the way where Burkett was, but from closer to the defilade swale he remembered, a single shot rang out. And of all the surprises Hank could wish for, at least that far in the venture, were out in front of him as he saw a deep chestnut-colored horse running across the grass, full tilt toward the edge of the mountains, its saddle in place.
Hank waited for Hookie to yell out that he had spooked the horse, but there was silence. No shot came at him, even as the horse remained visible almost a mile away, still at a gallop.
Hank was spooked himself when sound rose up behind him.
But it was his father with a few of his ranch hands, all carrying rifles.
“What’s going on here, Hank? Where’s Hookie?”
“He spooked Burkett’s horse, Pa. Got in on top of him and spooked him. Critter’s still running out there like he’s headed for Boonville or some such place.”
“Where’s Burkett?”
“In that swale ahead of us, Pa, scrunched down like he was afraid to show hisself. It’s just gotta be him. We’ve been here for hours. Fact is, I’m getting hungry.”
The elder Grob said to his men, “Lay some fire over there on that slight rise, boys. Burkett’s probably lying on his belly again, out of the firing line. Let’s scare him straight up off the ground.”
A withering fusillade of rifle shots pounded the area near Burkett’s swale, and then a Stetson was signaling Burkett’s latest demise. He stood without a weapon, waving his arms in the air.
From the far side, almost on top of Burkett, Hookie appeared. “We got him, Hank. We got him. See that horse of his run? Dang it all, Hank, you see that horse light out?” His voice had risen to its peak.
A small sign of age had made its imprint on each boy, yet each one held onto a piece of youthful splendor.
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