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Short Stories & Tall Tales
The Rustlers of Alpowa Pass
Kevin Carson
Deputy Albert Allen was tacking up his horse in the livery stable owned by the Sheriff. He retrieved his saddle and slung it over the sorrel he preferred to ride.
“I’ll rig him up for you if you like,” offered Billie Lloyd, the stable hand.
Allen bent over working to tighten the cinch, “Almost done now Billie, you just keep on cleaning up.”
Billie watched, resting on his pitchfork while Allen finished up, “Where are you bound?”
“I have business to attend to out Covello way. After that, we’ll see,” Allen replied.
“What’s going on?”
Allen tightened the girth cinch strap, not too tight, he knew just the right amount. He waited, sometimes a horse will inhale deeply to expand their span just to make sure they get a little more room. When they did that, the cinch was loose and could tumble an unwary rider. Another reason Allen preferred to saddle his own mounts. With his left hand, he looped the reins around the pommel and rested his hand there.
“Nothing you need concern yourself with Billie,” Allen said pointedly, “You have your job to do and I have mine.”
He swung up on the horse and guided the sorrel out into the alley. He steered the horse out of the livery and down the side street onto the main thoroughfare of the town of Dayton. The town was the seat of Columbia County. The county took its name from the nearby Columbia River. The big river stretched all the way to the ocean and divided the Washington Territory from Oregon.
The country was in the depths of an economic collapse that touched everyone in the territory. There had been a run on banks, a panic, and everyone lost money. Whatever the cause, the county was feeling the pain and it was a tough time for everyone. Plenty of men were out of work. The price of beef cattle was rising to a crazy high. At the same time, the cost to feed to raise that stock was rising. Many ranchers had confided to Allen that they didn’t know how they could afford to feed their animals. To add insult to financial injury, the banks were calling notes due to cover their own shortfalls. Rustling, which had long been a problem in the territories, was at an all-time high. Deputy Allen couldn’t solve the money problem for the ranchers but he intended to put a stop to the rustling once and for all.
He rode directly down the main street. He came abreast of the city hall with its rough-hewn jail bolted on to the back wall of the building. Allen approved of the Spartan jail structure. Jail ought not to be comfortable in his opinion. There was after all, a price to be paid for wrongdoing. With that thought foremost in his mind, he headed south out of town in the general direction of the Touchet River. He wasn’t heading for the place called Covello. He had a rendezvous at another location that he wished to keep confidential. He didn’t think Billie was trustworthy so he misled him about his destination.
An hour later, the deputy reached a rendezvous along the South Fork of the Touchet River. Several men were waiting for him. He recognized Daniel Rogers, a prominent rancher. Two of the rancher’s cow hands were walking the width of the wash that slanted down to the river.
Rogers rode up to Allen. “Thanks for coming out Deputy. This is where my cattle were grazing. We see plenty of sign that men on horses, looks to be three or four, drove my animals from here and over the ridge yonder,” said Rogers.
“We’ll find them or the men responsible. I promise,” said Allen.
The deputy surveyed the approach to the ridge. It wasn’t steep, and there was a draw heading into a saddle dip at the crest. It wouldn’t be too bad to move a herd up there and then over the ridgeline.
Allen nodded, “That fold is the only direct route out of the river valley you could drive some cows up without being seen. Let’s ride on a ways up the draw and spread out. We’ll see what’s what.”
The four men rode in tandem, with ten yards between them.
At first, in the loam and soft earth near the river it was easy to see the trail of hooves. As the ground grew rockier and more sage brush and bunchgrass covered the ground, it became increasingly difficult to find hoof prints.
Allen looked back at the rancher, “I’m just guessing now.”
Rogers shrugged in resignation, “We had some rain up here the other night. It must have softened whatever tracks were here. Looks like the trail has gone cold.”
Allen took his hat off and shook off the dust in disgust.
***
Sheriff Weatherford was five years younger than Allen. Weatherford had grown up in Dayton, proved up on his land and then sold it to buy and run his livery business in town. The people of the county had elected him sheriff.
Despite the bad economy, things seemed to be going well for Sherriff Weatherford. Everything that is, except his troublesome deputy. Weatherford thought that whenever the Sheriff needed his deputy he was nowhere to be found. Oh sure, Deputy Allen’s adventures often turned up the perpetrator of a crime. That vexed the sheriff and it bothered him that the judges would often call on Allen first. Now, Mrs. Findler was missing a shipment of goods for her sewing machine business. And Allen had gone off god knows where and couldn’t be of assistance.
The errant deputy rode back into town the following afternoon. After meeting Rogers, Deputy Allen had decided that he would check out all the places with five miles of the site of the crime that could support a herd for a few days with water and enough grass for stock to graze upon. He had slept rough the previous night. He camped up against the shelter of a mountain side and he was still stiff from sleeping on the hard ground. He rode to a hitching post in front of the Home Comfort Cafe and tied his horse off to the rail. He stepped up to the boardwalk and entered the eatery.
“You look like hell deputy,” said the proprietor John Harrison.
“You should talk John,” replied Allen good naturedly. He was used to Harrison’s barbs. He liked to give the deputy a bad time and Allen gave him back as good as he received.
“Long night out of doors,” he explained as he took a seat.
“How about some eggs?”
“That will be welcome. Thanks,” Allen stretched in the chair.
Harrison brought a plate of eggs to his table. “You want some hot coffee to go with that?” Allen was eating heartily but he nodded that he would like some.
As Harrison set down the steaming cup, the door to the street opened and Sheriff Weatherford came in and sat down at the table with Allen. He signaled for coffee also and the owner brought him a mug as well. Weatherford removed his hat and blew across the mug before sipping at his coffee. It was a habit that annoyed Allen. If you want hot coffee drink it hot, otherwise wait for it to cool.
“You were out late Deputy Allen,” said Weatherford.
“That I was.”
“To what purpose Albert?” Asked Sheriff Weatherford.
“Just doing my job Sheriff.”
“Am I included in these secretive enquiries and wanderings of yours?”
“I’ll be sure to let you know when I find what I am looking for.”
Allen drained his coffee.
“Where were you Deputy?” Said the Sheriff, pointedly reminding his second-in-command of his station.
“Scouting up around Covello.”
“My brother’s place is up there,” said the Sheriff.
“I know.”
“Did you by chance stop by to see him?”
“No.”
“What kind of trouble is brewing up in Covello?”
Deputy Allen stood up and picked up his hat. He threw some money on the table.
“No trouble at all Sheriff, because I am showing the folks that there is law in the county,” he walked to the door with his hat in his hand.
“Hey, what do you mean by that?”
“Enjoy your coffee Sheriff,” said Allen as he opened the door and passed out onto the street. He closed it firmly behind him.
Sheriff Weatherford had thought of something smarter to say but Allen was already out the door.
That’s the problem with hiring a deputy with experience, thought Weatherford. Always got all the answers, thinks he is better than everyone else in the law business. Well, thought the brooding sheriff, he better just watch his step. Jobs were hard to come by these days.
Allen forced the exchange of words with the sheriff out of his mind. It didn’t take much talking with Weatherford to get worked up. Deputy Allen knew that the only reason that the Sheriff hadn’t fired him was that Allen got results and the Sheriff himself didn’t need to get his hands dirty.
The Sheriff had a hands-off policy but Allen was a hands-on deputy. Weatherford didn’t want any local folks questioned even if they were suspects. No feathers ruffled and business and usual was his philosophy. Allen believed that the local criminal element took advantage of Weatherford’s easy-going nature.
Allen mounted his horse and took him down the road towards the river. He didn’t want to go back to the court house until his irritation had settled down.
Riding along the river bank, where it was relatively flat was pleasant in the shade of the trees. He’d rest his mind and give his horse a chance to drink his fill as well.
Before he made the river on the outskirts of town, he came upon a man on foot walking down the road. The man veered off towards George Reed’s Mighty Fine Saloon and made to enter the place. Allen could see it was Billie Lloyd.
Allen was intrigued, “Hey Billie!” He called.
Billie turned and shot a scowl in reply.
“It’s early yet, you ought not to be visiting a saloon.”
“The hell you say Deputy; I quit the livery,” said Billie.
“Why’d you do that for?”
“I don’t want to work for you or your Sheriff. That’s why. Mostly, I just can’t abide you.”
“Billie, that hurts. I always imagined that we were best friends,” said Allen, but he wasn’t smiling.
Billie strode up and grabbed the halter of Allen’s horse, his face flush with rage. “You think you are better than me. Always on your high horse.”
Allen considered where he was sitting and almost smiled but instead he said, “No Billie, I don’t think that way.”
“One day,” vowed Billie, “I’ll be wearing silk suits and diamonds.”
“Just as likely, you’ll be wearing shackles and facing the noose.”
“If I do, you’ll not be the one to put them on me.”
“Let go my horse Billie or you’ll find yourself wearing them today,” said Allen resting his hand on his gun.
“One of these days, it’ll be me with the gun and you will wish to hell you hadn’t crossed me.”
Allen reined hard to the left and nudged his horse. The big animal’s movement brought him close enough to lash out with a vicious kick that sent Billie sprawling in the road.
“Fair warning Billie-boy, if I see you with a gun you will regret it,” said Allen, “Meantime, let me buy you your drink.” He tossed two bits onto the street.
As he rode away, Allen thought to himself, I probably should have locked him up for threatening an officer of the law. It would mean another argument with Weatherford. Might as well head for home. He turned his horse and headed back towards his own house at the edge of town.
As Deputy Allen entered his home he heard the usual noises of his rambunctious boys arguing about some grievance. He entered the kitchen and leaned against the door frame. He watched his wife Sarah working at the stove. She was ten years younger than him. Slim and pretty. Allen thought he was a lucky man as he watched her labor with graceful and sure movements.
“I’m home Sarah.”
She embraced him tightly. He knew she worried.
He kissed her cheek put his face into her hair and inhaled her scent. It was good to be home.
***
Allen woke abruptly from sleep with the suspicion that something was wrong. He was on his feet at once in the center of their bedroom. He stood still and listened as carefully as he could. Was that the rustle of some leaves and the crunch of a footfall on dry grass outside? His wife Sarah was asleep and unaware.
He left his boots but slid his pants on and crept, bare-chested down the stairway and into the children’s room. James, the teenager was breathing steadily in one bed. Five year old Fred slept soundly in his bed. They were safe.
Allen went back into the hall and took his Winchester down from the gun rack there. He knew it was loaded. He held it close, like an old friend.
He opened the hall door and slipped out onto the back porch shirtless, the Winchester at the ready. He made his way to a small stand of locus trees where he could look along the side of the house. Barefoot was good, bare feet were quiet. It was a moonless night and he moved silently in the darkness. His eyes were still pretty good at night and he kept scanning the area on the hillside below the house.
He thought he saw something moving there. Could be an animal he thought. But he really didn’t think it was a deer. He was pretty sure it was Billie Lloyd watching his house and plotting some kind of revenge.
Allen decided he had waited long enough. He crept closer as silently as he could, soft-footing it in his bare feet. He raised the rifle and shouted, “Come out of there, this is Deputy Sheriff Allen.” There was thrashing and rustling in the thicket on the downslope. The sounds of a running man.
Allen skirted his house and reached the road. He ran downhill on the road parallel to the runner. The vegetation on the hillside cleared out a hundred feet further down. He took to a knee and raised the Winchester. Allen could see movement in the dark which he tracked with the rifle. The fast-moving figure was a barely discernable and too far off to shoot. It was too dark to shoot safely with other houses nearby.
It didn’t matter. He knew who it was with near certainty. It would be dawn in a few hours. He knew what he needed to do.
The man Allen sought could be found most days along the main street of Dayton. The man would watch the traffic of wagons passing. It was his way of demonstrating that he was available for work. Palus Jim preferred to work as a cow hand and Allen knew from personal experience that the man was the best all-around cowboy in southeast Washington.
The man was called Palus Indian Jim, but Allen knew it was just as likely that he was Cayuse. Tribes had banded together after the devastating wars against the Indians. The troops rounded up and shot all the Indian horses. No one knew how many. Before the wars, the Palus and Cayuse tribes were masters of the horse. Afterwards, they had none.
Allen had met Jim when he gotten in some trouble by drinking whiskey in a moment of weakness. Allen had hurried to the saloon when he heard a fight had broken out. Jim was knocking white men down with fearsome concentration. The deputy paid what Jim owed for the breakage and dried Jim out in the jail for a day or two. Jim worked on Allen’s place to work off the debt.
Allen found him leaning against a post by the saw mill. Jim wore a Powder River hat with a native patterned band. His shirt was worn outside his pants with a broad belt buckled over it. He wore soft topped moccasins. Allen had once offered him a pair of his own boots but he said they didn’t feel right. Jim’s only concession to riding like a white man was to use a wrangler’s saddle and stirrups.
“Hoya Jim.” Allen said, using the native greeting.
“Hoya Albert,” replied Jim.
“I have some work for you if you are interested.”
“At your place?”
“No, this is more like that time you scouted out those claim jumpers for me.”
“Sure then, what do you need?”
“I need you to shadow someone for a few days and tell me where they have been and what they were doing.”
“No problem.”
“How much do you want?”
“Two dollars. Who is it?”
“Billie Lloyd. I think he is up to no good so don’t put yourself in danger; just track and watch.”
“OK, sounds fine,” said Jim.
“Do you have a weapon?”
Jim reached under his shirt and produced a sizable blade.
“OK, don’t use it unless your life depends on it.”
“I know what happens if an Indian kill a white man Albert.”
Allen looked straight into Jim’s dark eyes. ”I know you do Jim. Just be safe. But, if something goes wrong; things go south, you know I’ll back you up all the way.”
Jim just stared back.
Allen knew the man trusted him and cared about Allen’s family. For his part, Allen trusted Jim without hesitation. But he also understood that there had been too many lies and broken promises in Indian country.
Jim spoke, “I can start now if you have a horse I can use at the livery?”
“I’d like to avoid the livery,” said Allen.
“Let’s go get you a horse from my place.”
“Alright then.”
Jim seemed happy at the prospect of easy money and a job tracking a white man. Allen felt better knowing that Jim would latch onto Billie like a blood hound.
***
Two days later Jim appeared in the doorway of the Sheriff’s office. He didn’t say anything so Allen spoke, “Come on in Jim.”
“I like it better if you come out.”
Allen put on his hat and followed Jim who led him to the road behind the courthouse.
Jim looked around to make sure no one was listening, then he spoke, “That Billie, he is running cows.”
“Who is he working for?”
“Hard to tell. Yesterday, he drove wagon for George Young, the butcher. He took it out towards Starbuck. I’ll need to show you where.”
Allen retrieved his own horse and they rode together silently for an hour and a half. Jim turned off the main road and into a ravine with a sharply cut bank.
Allen could see that the ground round about had been disturbed by digging. Loose and still damp earth was mounded up in a big pile.
Jim got down from his mount and so did Allen.
Jim knelt and clawed at the dirt with his large hands. He dug down about a foot. He reached in and grasped something in the dirt pile and pulled out a rolled up cowhide. He shook the dirt out and unrolled the rigid hide as best he could. Jim laid it down on the dirt mound and traced the brand with a finger.
He looked up at Allen.
Allen knelt and studied the mark,
“Who’s brand?” Asked Jim.
“I don’t recognize it.”
“It’s been over branded,” said Jim.
Jim was right, Allen studied the pattern.
“Did Billie see you?”
Jim looked at Allen solemnly, “Even if they did, they didn’t really see me.”
“Of course they didn’t,” said Allen.
He rummaged in his pocket, “Here’s your money. You can make more when we get back, I’d like you to keep an eye on the comings and goings at George Young’s butcher shop in town.”
“Jim. Do you have an Indian name?”
“Sure.”
“What is it?”
“We don’t tell the white man our names anymore.”
“Why?”
“First, the preachers come and they take our religion, then the trappers come and take the fox and beaver, then government take our land, and then the gen’rals kill all our horses.”
Allen listened. It was true.
“All we have left are our names. Maybe the white man take those too.”
Allen carefully rolled up the hide.
“I’ll keep this one. Let’s get things back looking like it did before we dug here.”
“Keep on them Jim,” now we know Billie’s involved as well as the butcher. Let’s see how far it goes.”
Allen pulled out his pocket pad and wrote a note that included everything Jim had told him.
“Since you have followed these men out towards Pomeroy, I’d like you to take this to the Garfield County Sheriff. His name is Dickson. You’ll find him in the courthouse. I’m asking him to keep watch on the movements of the cattle thieves and to send for me when they move.”
Jim folded up the note and put it in his pants pocket.
“This is most fun than I had in a long time,” said Jim.
***
Four days after they had uncovered the hides, Jim found Deputy Allen on the street and fell in with him.
“Looks like George Young, he’s the boss. Billie and Bud Pettyjohn the ones I think are stealing cattle. Young pays by the head. Then Billie and Chance Taylor take them to the railheads or George Young’ slaughter house. Then they pick up the hides in a wagon and bury them.”
Allen recognized all the names. At one point or another, all of them had run afoul of the law.
“One more thing,” said Jim.
“They are gatherin’ up a herd down in one of the valleys below Alpowa Pass.”
“Will you do a favor for me Jim?”
“What favor?”
“I’m going to need to go out there quick when they move the herd. I want you to watch over my family when I am gone. I think someone’s been creeping around our house at night.”
“Likely Billie. He hates you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” said Allen.
Allen went back into the court house and upstairs to the clerk’s office. He poured through the dockets of the criminal cases that involved George Young. Nasty character. Attempted murder, theft, quite a laundry list of complaints.
***
Two days later Allen was reviewing his notes in the Sheriff’s office. He was thinking about telling the Sheriff what he knew when a Western Union runner burst through the door.
“I have a message for Deputy Allen.”
“That’s me.”
Allen gave the boy a tip.
He glanced at it and handed it over to Sheriff Weatherford who was seated at his desk in the center of the room.
“What’s this?”
“A message from Deputy Sheriff Burlingame over in Garfield County. He says some rustlers are moving cattle along the Alpowa trail. They are bringing them over Pataha Ridge. Man named Church saw them and noticed that the cattle had a lot of different brands.”
“And when were you going to tell me about this?”
“I am telling you.”
“Took my time Sheriff. You know how you want to make sure I get my facts right.”
Weatherford gazed out the window in concern, “Alright then, go get them deputy.”
“Since I am going to be gone, you get to bring George Young in.”
Weatherford seemed dumbfounded.
Allen hurried out the door. He stuck his head back in, “He’s dangerous, be sure to take your pistol.”
***
The ranch was situated on high ground above the main road. Sheriff Dickson had picked the most likely trail to capture the rustlers.
Allen rode up and got off his horse. He knew the lawmen. He shook Sheriff Dickson’s hand and nodded at his deputy Tom Burlingame, both good men. A couple of citizens were with them.
Dickson introduced them; “Boys, this is Deputy Allen, come to help us with these trouble makers.”
The men of the posse nodded his way. Allen tried to break the ice. “Glad to have a posse on this one.”
The deputy introduced the three men, “Deputy, this is Lew Tidwell, Sam Shawley, and Peter Setter. They’ve come to help.”
“Pleased to meet you men.”
“We were just about to eat. Let’s get our plates and wait out here on the porch where we can watch the road,” said Sheriff Dickson.
Allen had barely gotten a fork full of food in his mouth when he heard the noise of men, horses, and cattle in the distance. He set his plate aside and walked down towards the road with Burlingame following.
Two riders came into view driving sixty some head of cattle.
“Let’s mount up,” said Burlingame.
He and Allen were the first two riders mounted as the rest of the posse ran to their horses.
Billie Lloyd saw them coming and broke away from the herd riding hard.
Allen was up on the bank riding parallel to Lloyd. He yelled down; “Billie, it’s Deputy Allen. Stop and put up your hands. You are under arrest!”
They had ridden a couple of hundred yards at a full gallop.
Allen fired a shot in the air.
“Stop now!”
Billie pulled his gun and swung off on the opposite side his horse from Allen. ”You go to Hell!” screamed Billie as he snapped off a shot at point-blank range.
Allen jumped his horse over the ditch from the high ground to the road as Billie fired from behind his horse. Allen felt a sudden quick sting on his scalp, maybe a ricocheted from a bullet.
About fifty yards back, Allen could see Burlingame going after the other rustler. Allen thought the man looked like Bud Pettyjohn.
Pettyjohn dismounted and ran. He turned and fired his revolver. One, two, three shots. Burlingame pulled up and dismounted.
Allen dropped off his horse, holstered his pistol and drew his Winchester rifle. He followed Billie and dropped to a knee to steady his aim. A bullet passed through the air where he had been standing. He had a clear shot at Billie but the other rustler was also shooting at Allen.
Allen quickly fired off a shot at Billie then swung his rifle towards Bud. The melee of horses, men and cattle cleared for a few seconds and then both deputies had unobstructed shots at Pettyjohn. Allen shot back. Pettyjohn cursed and grabbed his leg. He had shot low.
Allen skirted the herd as he cautiously stalked downhill in the direction he had last seen Billie.
He found Billie laying on the ground trying to crawl. He kicked Billie’s gun into the ditch.
The rest of the posse caught up and went to work. The three citizens gathered up the scattered animals and took them back up to the Lee ranch.
Allen kneeled down by Billie, “Where are you hit?”
“Hurts like hell, my legs and my wrist,” said Billie.
“You will wear shackles,” said Deputy Allen, “I was right.”
Billie was silent.
The men from the posse returned with a wagon. Allen helped load Billie inside.
The wounded man was whimpering and breathing fast and hard.
“Says his name is Pettyjohn. You know him?” Asked Sheriff Dickson.
“I know him,” said Allen, as he examined Bud Pettyjohn’s shattered leg.
Pettyjohn moaned in agony.
“We’ll need to find a doctor,” Said Burlingame, “Worst leg wound I have ever seen. He’ll lose the leg for sure.”
“There should be another man here,” said Allen.
“Maybe there were more down the road bringing more cattle. They may have heard the gunfire and vamoosed,” said the Sheriff.
“Bud, listen to me. It’s Albert Allen from Dayton. This is important. Was anyone coming up behind you? It will go easier if you help me.”
“Deputy, I’m awful sorry.”
“I know you are Bud,” said Allen.
“Chance Taylor is bringing up some horses we took. He is behind us,” said Bud Pettyjohn and then passed out.
The deputy, Tom Burlingame, looked at Allen, “You are bleeding.”
Allen felt his scalp. There was a groove were the bullet had scored his skin, “That’s where I part my hair anyway.”
“I’m going to head on down the road and check it out,” said Allen.
Burlingame agreed, “Let’s go then.”
The two deputies rode with grim determination down the grade.
***
“So, I cocked my pistol under his jaw and he dropped his gun and put up his hands,” said Deputy Allen.
Deputy Burlingame had just settled their prisoner, Chance Tayler, in the wagon beside his wounded confederates
Sheriff Dickson surveyed the captured herd, “I know most of these brands but these three have no markings. Look kind of wild.”
“No way to tell who they belong too. Maybe they are Indian horses,” said Burlingame.
“I’ll take them with me,” said Allen. “I have a good idea who they belong to.”
***
Allen found Jim outside his lodge.
Seeing Allen ride up, Jim rose to his feet from the group of men crouched in the shade of a Cottonwood tree.
“Hoya Deputy,” said Jim.
“Hoya,” said Allen.
Jim walked up to the horses that the deputy was leading.
“Two mares and a stallion,” he said.
“Indian ponies I think,” said Allen; knowing that the tribe didn’t geld their horses.
Jim nodded.
Allen handed him the lead line. “Then this is where they belong,” said Allen swinging his horse about to head up the trail.
Jim replied, “A man could raise a herd from these horses.”
A moment later, Jim called out;
“Strong Heart.”
Allen turned in the saddle.
“I am called Strong Heart. That is my name.”
Allen grinned, aware that he had made some deeper connection to the man, “That’s a good name.”
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