The Resurrection of Beaver Gulch

1. Buckboard Bounce

The chair made a thud as its front legs hit the ramada floor. What the hell is that? Mayor Rafe Hollins shielded his eyes from the setting sun and uttered his question to no one. Hey, Doc! Get out here. He leaned back in the rickety plank chair carefully positioned along the wall next to the Dusty Gullet Saloon’s swinging batwing doors. He crossed his boots, held them firmly against the wooden column that helped hold the ramada's roof in place, and squinted into the setting sun to see what in tarnation was coming down the street. Doc, seems there’s a feller out here pullin’ his own wagon. Fool thinks he’s a horse!

The chair gave out with its usual squawking complaint about being made to balance on its two hind legs, a complaint always registered and ever ignored.

He called out again. Doc! You gotta get out here. Nothing exciting or interesting ever happened in Beaver Gulch, a small town in the New Mexico Territory. Why should today be any different? But what in the Sam Hill was it?

The object in question had appeared as a rising swirl of dust at the far end of the street, a good quarter mile to the west, and was now coming into better view. Its silhouette shape as it emerged from the dusty cloud suggested that it had to be some kind of wagon, and whatever or whoever was pulling it, if it wasn’t a man, it was the smallest draft animal Rafe had ever laid eyes upon. Goat? Dog? Pony? And the slowest; it was taking forever to get within visible range. He shaded his eyes with the cup of his hand as the far-off wagon moved slowly toward him.

Has to be a man. Rafe chirped out a doubtful whistle no one else heard. Never seen nothin’ like that.

Rafe’s chair back rammed the plank wall of the saloon with a plunk and came to rest with its usual abrupt stop. He knew from experience that would happen. He sat in this chair every afternoon except Sundays, when he would be with Emma, his long-suffering wife, or so she’d have everyone believe, in church. Until the Beaver boys ran the preacher out of town, that was.

Mornings usually found Rafe in his office in the courthouse after which he waited in the chair in front of the saloon for what Easterners called cocktail hour when he could go inside for a drink.

His mind wandered from the unusual happening on the street and gave thought to the days when he was a young buck roaming the country looking for a place to let down, usually not permanently. He’d done a spell panning and digging during the rush of ’49 and wandered into Beaver Gulch when his freelance prospecting career had failed to, so to speak, pan out. Knowing mining and livestock, he’d taken a salaried job in the coal mines, tending the mules.

That was a long time ago. Now he was mayor.

He wiped the back of a calloused, time-worn hand across his mouth, feeling the rough brush of his stubble, the shadow that Emma always nagged him to shave down some. Today’s stubble was at a minimum. She’d fussed at him the night before, and he’d stropped the razor, lathered up at the horse trough, and scraped off enough to keep Emma off his back.

The sun slipped behind the far mountains to the west. Rafe poked his head forward, shaded his eyes from the twilight western sky with both hands, and made out the spectacle moving toward him at a snail’s gait.

Well, I’ll be… He leaned to one side, reached over and pushed open the half of the swinging door nearest him. Doc! Rafe called out with a tone of urgency. Get your worthless hide out here! You ain’t gonna believe this. He released the door and resumed his position.

After a brief delay, Doc Prouty was at the door, looking across the top. What?

I been callin’ you. Get your duff out here. Lookie down the street.

Juniper Prouty was native-born and smarter than most. When he was of age, the town council, when the town was prosperous, had footed the bill for Juniper to go back east to medical school with the proviso that he return to Beaver Gulch and be apprentice to the town doctor. He had graduated with honors and returned as assistant to old Doc Hornsby who mentored him in the practice of medicine in the wild west. Gunshot wounds, the fever, broken bones, deliveries, consumption, snake bites, and the like. Nothing much he’d learned in medical school applied out here. Juniper’s practical education was provided by Doc Hornsby, who then retired at eighty, turned the practice over to Juniper, and died the following week. That was when Juniper became known to all as Doc Prouty.

By now, the moving article was about a hundred yards down the street and still creeping along. Doc Prouty came out and pulled up the next plank chair.What in tarnation...?

Rafe spat into the dust. Feller must not have a horse no more.

Or never did?

They waited and after a time, the peculiar assemblage, man and four-wheeled wagon, came abreast of where they perched. A young man was walking in front of a buckboard, the harness around his shoulders, the thills hooked to the harness, the fellow leaning into the harness, pulling with all his might and making slow progress for his efforts.

The buckboard’s cargo area contained a bedroll, a saddle, the rest of the tack, and a rifle leaning against the seat. The men couldn’t see what else might be in there, but what they saw was heavy enough to make for a strenuous pull, no effort for a good horse, but nearly impossible for a man alone. Yet this man was getting the job done. Rafe was impressed. He hoped this young man would hang around town for a while. They could use a few more like him.

The young man stopped in front of the saloon, pulled his bandanna up and wiped the sweat and dirt from his face. Howdy, he said to his curious audience of two.

Howdy, they returned in unison.

Which way to the livery? the young man asked.

Rafe shot a knowing glance at Doc, who recognized the signal. Some of Rafe’s brand of humor was upon them. It started. You needing a stall fer the night? Some oats? Maybe a curry?

The young fellow dropped a weary sigh and wiped his face again. He made as if to laugh, but only as a gesture of good nature. I need to put this rig away. Where’s the livery?

Rafe didn’t let up. You pass one on your way into town?

No, sir, I did not.

Well, sonny, we got only one street here. Iffen you didn’t pass a livery yet, it cain’t be back there.

So I keep going and look one side or t'other?

Can if you want. Won’t do you no good.

How come?

Cause it ain’t down there neither.

The young fellow adjusted the weight of the harness on his shoulders. Then where, if you please, is it?

We ain’t got no livery.

You ain’t got a lot of places in this town, the stranger said. Half the businesses are boarded up. Sign outside of town says ‘pop. 1620.’ Where is everybody?

The older man tugged his earlobe. They’s another sign just like it at the east end, son. Gold rush up north. They’s all left to strike it rich. The feller that painted the signs and kept ’em up to date was among the first to go.

***

Chance Weston had heard about the gold strike in the Black Hills and had seen other towns experience population shrinkage due to the rush. He hadn’t gone because prospecting wasn’t his trade and wealth wasn’t his ambition.

He lifted the harness off his shoulders, straightened up, and came from the middle of the street to stand in front of the two townsmen. He wiped his brow again, stood a moment in front of them while he considered how he might get a straight answer out of these two jokers. He looked from one to the other. The older one in his sixties, the younger one in his forties, both with pot bellies and balding heads, the one talking wearing bifocals and needing a shave and the other with a mustache and a bowler hat, like the Englishmen he’d seen in picture books.

Gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Chance Weston. I’m new in town. I got no friends here, just passing through, on my way to I don’t know where. Might stay if I can find work. Just now I need a place to store my wagon and my things and maybe buy a horse. Do either of you know where that might be?

Glad to meetcha, Mr. Weston, the mustache said. I’m Doc Prouty. This smart-alec sitting next to me is Mayor Hollins. He’s our shiftless leader, but we all call him Rafe ’cause that’s his name. We got no livery. Not yet at least. Most folks who don’t have their own stables keep their horses and wagons in the town corral. Everybody does their own shoeing, the blacksmith being indisposed at the moment.

You gents keep your rigs and animals there?

No, Doc said. I keep mine at home. Doc too. It’s for folks who ain’t got the means. And strangers like yourself.

This corral. Where do I find it?

Down the street on the left. Not far. There’s stalls under a lean-to for the horses and you just find a space for your wagon. You can tell which ones ain’t taken. They’s empty. I assume you don’t travel all the time, pulling your own rig. Where’s your hoss?

Chance gestured behind him with his head. Back there. Up the mountain.

The others waited for more of an explanation. When one didn’t come, Rafe said, Well, what in tarnation became of your pony?

Took a step into an animal hole, maybe a woodchuck. Broke her leg. I had to shoot her. Poor old Suzie. She was having a lot of pain. I ain’t no horse doctor, but I don’t think that leg coulda been set. She was old and would take too long to mend. Time was she’d’ve sidestepped that hole. I’m sure gonna miss her.

Just left her up there? Doc asked, the sympathy for a man’s loss of his horse evident in his voice.

Buried her.

Rafe sat forward. Now I know you’s a strapping young feller, pulling that buckboard all this way by yourself, but you ain’t telling us you hoisted a dead horse into a grave without no help or no draft horse to pull her. Horse weighs what? One, two-thousand pounds. Cain’t be done by no one man.

Chance looked back down the street in the direction of the mountain. It pained him to discuss Susie’s demise. They’d been together a long time. He spoke slowly. No. I dug the hole with my spade. Took all day, but the ground was soft. I led Suzie to it, and shot her so’s she’d fall in. Then I covered her over. Broke my heart hearing her whinnying in pain while I was digging, but I knew it’d be over soon, and I couldn’t stand the thought of buzzards and hyenas picking at her bones. Been with me since I was a boy. We was born the same year. Growed up together. Only horse I ever owned. He looked toward the east. That corral. Down thatta way on the left?

Yes, Doc Prouty said. Pick a spot and make it your own. You can sleep there too if you don’t mind open spaces.

Stuff be safe down there?

Rafe laughed out loud. Doc shot him some obvious disapproval and Rafe answered. Ain’t nobody in this town got doodly squat, son. Nothing to steal, so the thieves go someplace else. Only thing gets stolen around here is some poor young thing’s heart at the Saturday night dance.

Who do I pay?

Nobody, Doc said. It’s community property. You trade here in town, that helps offset the maintenance, which there ain’t none of. You see something needs fixing, pitch in and mend it. Buy your horse grain at the general...oops, I forgot. You won’t need no grain.

’Cept fer hisself, Rafe said and laughed alone at his joke. Then he added, They’s sportin’ ladies at Moss Molly’s might be willin’ to take a curry to your hide and give you a rubdown.

Rafe, leave the boy alone, Doc said. Cain’t you see he’s mourning the loss of his horse?

Rafe spat again and offered not the slightest sign of remorse. You say you’re looking for work. What kinda work you do?

Most anything that ain’t illegal.

You look to be a strapping young feller, able to take care of yourself. How’re you with a six-shooter?

Chance looked at him with just a touch of suspicion. I’m a fair hand, but I don’t use it in any occupational practice. Just for snakes and game.

Well, I notice you ain’t heeled.

In the wagon. Kept getting hung up on the harness. He paused, looked around, then said, Why would you take notice of my lack of firepower anyway? You ain’t totin’. Neither’s your associate there.

Doc laughed. Associate. Ain’t nobody Rafe Hollins’s associate. Nobody’d want to associate with him.

Rafe snorted and spat again. Mind your manners, Doc. I’m asking this boy about his skills with a weapon because we got a vacancy and he needs a job.

What kind of vacancy? Chance asked.

Beaver Gulch needs a sheriff.

That was a first. Nobody’d ever suggested Chance might become any kind of lawman. Did you used to have one? I passed a sheriff’s office back there. What happened to your sheriff?

Found our town and its people not to his liking. Decided we didn’t need him around here and sure didn’t want him either.

Did you need him?

Not really, everybody mostly stays out of trouble, but what’s a town with a jail and no sheriff?

Chance got the feeling he wasn’t hearing the complete story. Well, I don’t want that kind of job, gentlemen. I don’t much take to responsibility, I don’t like to altercate with nobody, and I’m as likely to get drunk and earn some incarcerations as the next feller.

Wouldn’t happen, Doc said. We don’t have a judge neither. You can’t be thrown in jail when there's nobody to arrest you, try you, or guard you.

Now wait, Rafe said. Doc’s got that wrong. I try the misdemeanor cases. A circuit judge comes through every now and again for any high crimes we might need to deal with.

These two men, authorities apparently, didn’t seem to be together on how their small town government worked, making it up as they went along. It was good Chance wasn’t in the market for that kind of job. He’d be working for a lame brain as far as he could tell.

Chance got into harness again, bade the two gaffers a good day, and prepared to start pulling eastward down the street. He overheard the remarks of his two new acquaintances.

How you suppose he made it this far? Doc asked.

Rafe looked westward. Downhill most of the way. I bet he rode in the wagon with the thills pointed up and steered with his boots on the crossbar. That’s how I’d ’a done it. When I was younger. That boy reminds me of me when I was that age. What time is it? I’m gettin’ an awful thirst sittin’ around here talkin’ to strangers.

2. A New Mount

Chance put his shoulder into the harness and pushed hard. The buckboard didn't budge. He pushed again. Nothing. One more hard shove. The buckboard’s front wheels scraped a track about five inches long in the dust as he pulled the buckboard forward but the front wheels refused to turn. He sneaked a glance at the mayor and doctor, both of whom were chortling into their fists and trying to look away as if unconcerned. Then it hit him. The brake. He’d set the brake right after unharnessing himself to talk to the two town habitues. Just habit. The street was flat. The wagon couldn’t possibly coast away.

Ignoring their laughter and feigning indifference to his embarrassment, he unhitched himself, moved back to the buckboard, and reset the brake. Then he hitched himself to the harness again and began the slow trek to where they’d told him he’d find the corral.

Sure enough, the corral was about four blocks to the east, wedged in between another saloon with a hitching post out front and a blacksmith’s shop with a hand-lettered closed till further notice sign hanging from the wooden frame that had been a doorway.

No blacksmith either, Chance said to himself. No livery, no judge, no sheriff, what else don’t they have? If there was need for these positions, occupations every town needs, why weren’t they filled? What had become of their former holders?

The corral was about a hundred feet square and had open slots for wagons, marked only by the wheel tracks of their former occupants, and a long lean-to with railings separating stalls into which horses could be kept. Two wagons were parked in the slots and one horse was in a makeshift stall. A covered pavilion had been raised on the west side. It had a wooden floor, a raised platform at one end wide enough for several people, and folding funeral parlor style chairs stacked against half walls that reached up midway to the covered roof. Chance had seen this setup countless times. It would accommodate town meetings, dances, traveling entertainers, and camp meetings where itinerant evangelists would save souls, baptize the masses, heal the sick, and preach fire and brimstone. Chance wondered whether any of that went on these days in this town.

The wagons looked neglected and so did the horse, a brown sorrel mare with a coat long since neglected and ribs sticking out on both sides.

Chance gave the horse the once over. Groomed, fed, and filled out, she’d look something like Susie although without Susie’s white stockings and face.

He intended to find out who owned the mare and what it would take to change that ownership. He needed a horse and this horse obviously needed a caring owner.

Chance took the bag of grain Susie hadn’t consumed and poured a portion into the feeding trough in the neglected horse’s stall. While she greedily consumed this unexpected meal, Chance walked to a pump located at the end of the watering trough. He pumped