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Short Stories & Tall Tales
The Arizona Kid
By Christopher Scott
The great horse lunged ever forward as its thundering hooves pounded the earth beneath its rider. The high-desert brush whipped at its forelegs as the surefooted beast raced with dangerous abandon through unfamiliar territory. Its massive chest heaved as it gasped for air. Its mouth was thick with froth and its hair glistened heavy with sweat.
The rider leaned into the horses’ shoulder, shouting for the animal to give more. Forcing him onward, pushing him for all he was worth, refusing to slow down.
To lessen the pace could mean his death, or even worse…capture.
He was riding hatless. The wind had whipped it from his head and left it hopelessly lost to the desert sage sometime back. There was no thought of a quick retrieval, for the moment was too serious and time was too short.
The horses’ name was Rusty. He was a huge bay gelding, three years old, in his prime, and as sure-footed on the high desert as any wild mustang.
The rider went by the name of “Arizona Kid”.
He didn’t choose it; it was given to him as a moniker by seasoned newspapermen back east, and the young authors of dime novels. He had never been to Arizona, but that didn’t matter, the name had stuck. It was written on the wanted posters that bore a crude, pencil-sketched resemblance of his face.
His real name was Chester Peabody, but ‘Arizona Kid’ seemed to be a more ‘rugged’ name for a famous outlaw, or so the reporters and authors would have their readers believe. They took liberties with the facts. They wrote whatever it took to sell more papers.
Chester didn’t consider himself an outlaw. He always thought of himself as more of a survivor. Only doing what was necessary to keep himself alive. Most of what he took, he sent east to his wife and children back in Boston. They needed the money as much as he did, maybe more.
Chester’s story started about five years earlier. Chester B. Peabody, family man, accountant, 24 years old and very unhappy. His days were spent shuffling paperwork and dealing with other people’s money, while making very little of his own. His evenings were spent with his head buried in the local papers reading endless stories of fortunes being made out west, stories of gold, and the men who found it. The papers claimed that a man could just pick it up off the ground by the bucketful. Make a fortune in a day without even breaking a sweat. The discovery of gold out west was real all right. But little did Chester realize, these stories didn’t hold much truth.
But still, the prospect and the adventure of finding gold had consumed him to the point of leaving his work and family to go in search of it. As he left, he told his wife and children he would be back, and they would all be rich.
That was five years ago. And like so many other men who were lured to the west by stories of wealth and grandeur, it didn’t take Chester B. Peabody long to realize there was a lot more hard work and good luck involved in becoming wealthy from gold than the papers led him to believe, and like most of the men who were lured by the dream of riches, he soon become discouraged.
With his money running low and no healthy disposition for long hours of manual labor, he tried to find work in what he knew best, but there wasn’t much call for accountants in the mining camps or small towns of the area. His situation soon became desperate which forced him to, as desperate men sometimes do, to take desperate measures.
Thinking long and hard about what he could do to earn some much needed cash, Chester B. Peabody did what he once thought unthinkable. He robbed a bank. And soon after, he robbed another. From that point on there was no turning back. He soon expanded his new way of life to trains and stagecoaches, it didn’t really matter, they all carried money and he was more than willing to take it whenever he needed it.
Chester had soon committed so many robberies he lost count. A close call from time to time came with the territory, but he never got caught. He attributed his narrow escapes to his horse, Rusty.
Chester had purchased the horse from a wealthy rancher up in Wyoming a little over two years ago. He was fresh broke and still a little feisty, but if there was one honest thing Chester was good at, it was horses. It came natural to him like breathing in the desert air or soaking up the summer sunshine. He knew how to pick a good horse and he knew how to handle them.
As Chester had expected, Rusty proved to be fast, and long-winded too. He could outrun and out distance any horse that dared to challenge him, that is…except for today. A determined posse was closing in on him and Rusty was getting tired. The way things were going, if lady luck refused to show herself, it wouldn’t be long before the lead horse would bring the Sheriff within shooting range.
Unfortunately for Chester and his horse, he was right. In short order, a single shot ring out. Rusty, the trusted horse of the Arizona Kid stumbled and collapsed to the ground spilling Chester from his saddle.
As the Sheriff and the rest of the posse approached the Kid, they found him kneeling on the ground stroking the forehead of his trusted steed. The horse lay quiet. No pounding hooves, no gasping for breath. The horse lay still as tears of grief rolled down Chester’s’ cheeks.
“You shot my horse,” he cried out.
“It would have been better for everyone concerned if I had shot you, and believe me, I was trying.” answered the Sheriff. “Too bad about your horse.”
He holstered his gun, dismounted and stepped up to the Kid. The rest of the posse wasn’t so trusting. They’re guns were out and pointed directly at the Kid.
“You had best stand up and drop that gun belt,” ordered the Sheriff. “Arizona Kid, I’m placing you under arrest for robbery and running from the law. This little chase you sent us on has winded all of our horses to the breaking point, and since you don’t seem to have one of your own at the moment, I guess you’ll be walking.”
The Sheriff cuffed Chester’s’ hands and tied a rope to them. They walked slow, giving their horses a much needed break as they towed the Arizona Kid back to town where he was paraded down main street like a trophy prize as they lead him to the jail.
The ensuing trial was sensational to say the least. Reporters and authors from across the country leaned on every word. It ended with the Arizona Kid being sentenced to ten years of hard labor.
In prison, his way with horses became known and after several years he was put in charge of the prison stables.
Upon his release he disappeared from sight, blending into the fabric of society.
He was never heard from again except for a brief moment in time many years later, when a small town cub reporter out of Kentucky published an article in the local paper about an older man who worked for a local stable that was making a name for itself with several prized thoroughbreds in its fold. His name was Chester but he went by the name of ‘Arizona’. He worked for the stable as their head trainer. Nobody made the connection and that was just fine with Chester, the ex Arizona Kid.
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