Tom Sheehan

Even now, 150 years later, within the family historians, and we have a few of them, old Uncle Joshan Rock is more than a legend, and though none of us have a recording from that time, the stories still pass down through the new members of the family as soon as they are keen on listening, paying attention, hearing the music in the words if not in a song.

Some of the stories go like this one, and every once in a while a pair of young eyes finds an incandescence telling another chapter is taking root:

Tom Sheehan

The grass was brown, the tree line green and the mountain tops white, the highest ones sticking up into the vague, pale sky. Not much at all seemed different in the dawn flash. To the roused cowpoke slipping out of his blanket, it all said, “Coffee to start the day.”

Tom Sheehan

Deacon Almsbury wasn’t an agent of God. He didn’t come from Heaven, but came right up out of Hell … and he was on his way this day to Breakheart Station. Clothed somewhat in cleric’s black but far from the actual garb, Almsbury’s true shape and dimensions were hidden. So were his weapons, cached in some fold of black cloth and often appeared mysteriously in his hands quicker than a pair of rabbits.

Tom Sheehan

Not everything is as it seems. Sheriff Colum Twyne had heard that said a number of times, and here he was being the proof of the saying. He was hoping it was a true observation in this case.

Tom Sheehan

In a dark room of his home, in Beverly, Massachusetts in the year of Our Lord 1908, a man died alone. The house, silent and chilly, had wrapped its cool arms about the man breathing slowly and labored, no caretakers immediately at hand, and none frankly wanted. His name was Edgar Charbonneau, retired colonel of the 4th Cavalry of the U. S. Army, last day of duty on the plains of Texas in 1885, after 37 years of service.

Tom Sheehan

The pickings were slim, if there were any at all, and Thorn Lavery looked down the length of the ranch and saw one mule, three cows, and four cowpokes, all idling like scarecrows, and he made a quick decision.

Tom Sheehan

“Who among you will swear to devote his life to country and crown? Stand you then and be appointed.”

He had stood up on that solemn occasion, had been counted, and subsequently dishonored and disparaged by his entire country, which quickly had gone under a different rule.

Tom Sheehan

Hobart Bridgewater, Hobie to most folks, was a freighter who promised delivery of whiskey to several saloons along the Snake River. “I go get it for you and bring it back, and then you pay me. If you don’t pay me, you don’t get the load and I don’t bring you no more. That’s all easy for you gents and tough for me. Some days out there on the trail I have to keep my rifle leveled and ready, that’s why I have the best shot in all the territory riding up there with me.

Tom Sheehan

He had been there, under the bar in the Dead Horse Saloon, in Fairly, Nevada, for 6 days on his hands and knees, resting occasionally on his butt. Sleep came to him fitfully at times, hunger soon assuaged, thirst tended, while anger and revenge sat on his plate like a sirloin steak. He would not leave, and Max Turcotte, the bartender, for the kid’s revenge, had run an auger through the bar front so he could see through to the front door when anybody entered. The boy could remain hidden while he watched for the man who had killed his parents.

Tom Sheehan

He was “that boy” in town, born in a room above the Bull’s Head Saloon, living there most of his early life, subjected to scornful castigation, taunts, and frequent beatings at the hands of bullies. He spent limitless hours of young exploration in the alleys of Westcott, Arizona, sometimes hounded by peers who maligned him with the harshest nicknames, all speaking directly to his birthright, “that bastard boy born upstairs at the saloon.”