Trail to Vallecitos: Little Valley

© 2012 James Richard Langston. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   7/31/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5394-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5392-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5393-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913734

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

I would like to dedicate this writing to

the memory of TOM LANDERS who once said about me,

He will be good at whatever he tries.

That statement has caused me to maintain a positive mental attitude throughout my lifetime.

To Marcel

Chapter 1

He still wore the Smith & Wesson .44 that he had the night Brave Eagle was killed and he wore it lying low down on his right thigh, tied down. Some work he had done on the weapon had resulted in it having a hair trigger. The handle was warn smooth from use but he kept the working parts well cared for, cleaned and oiled. When the hired gun reached for his weapon, it was Katie bar the door. Renegar’s hand was poised with his thumb hooked over his gun belt, three fingers from that Smith & Wesson pistol. When his adversary opened the ball, asking Jim to dance, Renegar’s gun hand flashed to the .44 in its holster. His weapon swung forward from its resting place, his trigger finger pressing half a hair on the hair trigger. He lifted his pistol, swung it into play, cocked the hammer and pointed it at his opponent, all in one continuous, smooth motion. The action was so smooth and fast that nobody actually saw it. Renegar’s movement happened with blinding speed, accomplished by hundreds of hours of practice.

The last split second that he was observed by anyone, he was standing there, empty handed and in less than half a heartbeat, he was still standing there, but with a smoking .44 in his fist. The sharp, acrid taste of the smoke burned the taste buds of those close that sucked in a breath of shock through wide open mouths. Just seconds before, the barrel of Renegar’s .44 stood firm in its search for the heart of the hired gun. As the gun bucked in his hand, fire and brimstone roared from the business end of the weapon and a chunk of hot, speeding lead split the air, like an unseen bolt of blue, white lightning and nailed the tobacco sack tag that hung from the gunman’s left shirt pocket and pinned it to his heart. Blood, gore, lung matter, heart fragments and chips of shattered bone spewed out behind the man and painted a support post, causing it to look like an Indian burial ground monument, looming tall in a cloud of thick gun smoke like it was standing in a layer of cool early morning mist. The difference being that the gunpowder smoke tickled the noses of those close and burned their eyes.

The gunman sank to his knees, his pistol hanging on his right index finger, hammer eared back. He seemed to lack the strength it took to lift the gun, let alone to pull the trigger. His head hung down and he stared at the pistol, drooling from the corners of his mouth, wondering why the damn thing just hung there. A large circle of crimson spread across the front of his shirt as his eyes began to glaze over. He blinked a couple of times, trying to clear the glaze. He still had just enough blood in his brain that life was holding on even though his pumper had stopped.

Renegar walked over, kicked the pistol from his hand and the hammer fell on the round in the chamber and exploded a chunk of hot lead into the floor, kicking a puff of dust into the air.. He stood looking down at the man. The gunman looked up with the glaze of death, quickly, taking hold. He blinked again, as sweat ran down into his eyes, trying to see through the salty glaze.

I should have taken you, Renegar. He said in a blood foaming gurgle. A trickle of blood seeped from one corner of his mouth and ran down his chin and dripped off the ends of his whiskers to the floor. He licked at the corner of his mouth, tasting the salty, crimson fluid, intermingled with sweat. He gritted his blood covered teeth in pain.

Renegar looked him in his pale, weak eyes and whispered so that only he could hear, But I’m not Renegar.

Sure you are, the man chocked. I have a picture of you. He was trying hard to form the gurgled, blood soaked sounds into words.

But I’m not, said Renegar.

Then who are you? the gunman asked, his breath coming in short gasps. He spat blood to the floor, holding his hand over his chest. His brain still working even though his pumper was dry. In a very short time, matter of seconds, the brain would die also. He blinked.

I’m the Brave at Manel’s Trading Post, Jim said.

The gunman had heard the legend. Now he knew the Brave. He gasped one last time and fell forward as if he had been scared to death, then he expelled his last breath. He landed face down, exposing a large hole of gore in his back, where the fragmented, chunk of hot lead exploded out. As death loosed the muscles of the man, his bowels and bladder acted, filling the room with stench. The witnesses present, all told the same story. Renegar had fired in self defense, but none of them had actually seen him move.

See if he has enough dinero in his pockets to pay for his burial, Renegar said to the deputy that came to investigate the shooting, if not, then send me the bill, but if I pay the bill, he only gets a pine box in Boot Hill, understood? He also gets no marker.

Understood, said the deputy.

The deputy took statements from three of the witnesses and they signed, approving what he wrote. He went through the pockets of the dead man and found a handful of Double Eagles.

There’s more than enough gold here to put this fellow in the ground, he said. He still only gets a pine box in Boot Hill, anyway. If it’s okay with you, I’ll put the rest of this money in the orphans fund down at the church; preacher says he can use all the help he can get with all of them young’uns

That’s fine with me, said Renegar. I can’t think of a better use for it. If you have nothing else for me to do, I’ll be on my way.

As far as I’m concerned, the incident is closed, the deputy said. With these witnesses, I’m sure there won’t be any inquest. I’ll just give this statement with these signatures and my witness to the judge. He’ll most likely enter it in the records as case closed.

Renegar put on his hat and walked from the building.

*******

The attempt on his life was the final straw. He had to get away from everything, at least for a while and pull things back together. Renegar only had a suspicion that Craig Morris was behind the attempt. He couldn’t go after Morris, Morris was too well protected and besides, he was the only one who heard, what he thought, was the name Morris, from the whisper of the dying man’s lips, but he couldn’t be sure. He had been thinking, for some time, about getting away from it all for a while, anyway. He was debating it in his mind whether to stay in St. Louis or move to the land he owned in New Mexico Territory. The only way to finally decide whether to go swimming or not is to jump in and test the waters. Thus, he made his decision.

The next day found him standing on the platform at the St Louis train station. The weather was cold and he was ticketed for Albuquerque, New Mexico Territory. The train he was to take was just pulling in and the steam, escaping from the relief valves, swirled around him and floated off into the cold morning air. He looked forward to resting on the train after an all night meeting with his attorney. The urge to return to the west, pulled at him like a magnet breaks the resistance of a rod of steel. All he could think of was the valley where he and Brave Eagle had spent so many long hours together, a place of peace and calm where he could think things through. He wasn’t being a coward; on the contrary, he was just afraid of himself, what he might do if he let himself go. He could not chance going on a killing spree. Lord knows how many he would kill before he was finished if he lost control of himself and his Indian training took over. He also realized that he could get killed in the process. It was best that he leave St. Louis.

Two days later he was in the middle of a train change in Fort Worth, Texas.

There is, in this world, a certain breed of man that always stands tall above the crowd, no matter where he is. There was Alexander the Great, Richard of England, Columbus, Washington and Sitting Bull just to name a few. Custer was short. There were those who went forth to tame a nation, to explore new rivers, valleys and mountain ranges. Most of them were never found in the pages of history, but they were the unsung heroes of the American west. Jim Renegar was such a man.

He was the kind of man that made friends very slowly, but once made, he was a friend for life. He was a tall man, wide shoulders, thick chest but with narrow hips and a flat, muscular stomach. He had long sideburns, a brush mustache and heavy eyebrows. His hair flooded from under his hat and hung almost to his shoulders, kept neatly trimmed. His high cheek bones stood firm in support of his deep brown eyes. He moved with a controlled motion but appeared to be loose and easy.

At the moment, he walked along the platform toward the train that stood like a monstrous creature, spitting out steam through relief valves, like smoke from a fire eating dragon’s gills.

The train car which he boarded in Fort Worth was one of typical design for the period. It had iron framed seats that had wooden slating. The wood was covered with thin padding, sewn into a slip of heavy, paisley designed cloth with burn holes, here and there, from careless cigarette smokers. The arm rests were exposed metal, hammered flat, and left a lot to be desired in comfort.

There were kerosene lanterns that hung from the walls between every-other window. The alternate wall panels were covered with long strips of mirror which gave you a split shot view of yourself as you passed by, walking down the aisle. The floor was constructed of oil soaked hardwood, usually littered with quirly butts and a few spent quids of chewing tobacco that had missed the spittoons. The windows were two-paneled solid glass. The bottom panel was fixed in place and only the top panel was moveable, hinged to the bottom panel frame so that it could swing down. With the weather like it was, nobody wanted a top panel open anyway. The only toilet was placed in the baggage car, in a corner, behind a curtain. It was nothing more than a toilet seat, similar to an outhouse, with a hole cut in the floor of the car. Folks usually came out of it in the winter time with a cold butt. There was usually a box of therapeutic papers next to the seat.

Renegar had left his horse, Goblin, to be stalled in the stock car, along with his saddle and other gear and was assured that the stock car would be coupled to the train he took from Fort Worth. The stock car was closed in, had an attendant and kept fairly warm by a potbellied heater like the one in the passenger car. He brought his war bag, saddlebags and Winchester into the passenger car with him. He walked down the aisle of the car, noting the other passengers as he went. The one that stopped his eyes was a beautiful woman, sitting by herself. He stopped short and found an empty seat and sat down, placing his war bag, rifle and saddlebags in the seat opposite his.

He looked at the woman again and she lifted her eyes from the book she was reading, looked into his and smiled a warm, soft smile that stirred his loins and then she returned her attention to the book. The Conductor came through the car and she asked him to take her bag from the seat next to her and put it in the baggage car. As he walked passed Jim’s seat, Jim noticed the initials PC sewn into the cloth side of her bag.

He didn’t want her to think he was starring at her so he averted his eyes and looked up and down the station platform. He watched the baggage handler pull a heavily loaded cart to the baggage car which served as a mail car as well, some luggage but mostly boxes of various sizes. In a matter of minutes, the luggage and freight was all loaded in the baggage car, the side door closed and locked.

The ‘All Aboard’ call was sounded and soon the train gave its initial lunge and then a relatively smooth movement took over and the city of Fort Worth began to pass the coach windows at a faster and faster speed, the engine sounding its steam whistle before each major train track and road crossing. Before long the whistle blasts became fewer and fewer as the number of crossings dwindled and the city was left behind; the open country dominated the passengers’ view. Renegar settled back in his seat and watch the scene changes. A few hours went by and the cloak of night was pulled over the train by the long, golden fingers of waning sunlight and the inside light of the passenger coach was replaced by the orange glow of the coal oil lamps, mounted on the walls. The dull cherry red glow of the potbelly heater became apparent in the darkened coach.

Renegar was staring at the window with his eyes half closed, as though he could see past the dark reflective glass to the black countryside beyond, and in his mind’s eye, he could. His memories of the west were vivid. But, actually, he was looking at the reflections of the others with whom he shared the railroad car. There was the drummer with the coat that was or seemed to be two sizes too small for him. ‘That man is two sizes too large for that coat,’ he thought.

He looked like so many other drummers with his round derby hat, pokey dotted bow tie and slicked down hair, slicked down, probably, with some kind of, animal fat, hair preparation. Always with an egg sucking smile, a flat satchel that contained samples or hand drawn pictures of the goods he had to sell, ready to show to anyone who might show an interest.

Then there were the two cowpokes that were probably on their way back home from delivering cattle to the stock yards in Fort Worth. They would have horses in the stock car where Jim’s cayuse was. Farther down the car was an older lady and seated next to her was, surely, her husband, headed for, who knew where, maybe to visit the grandchildren or returning from a visit of that sort.

His muscles tightened ever so slightly but tightened none the less, when he glanced at the man in the last seat, near the rear door; a medium built man wearing stripped pants, a long sleeved shirt with fitted leather cuffs on top of the shirt sleeve cuffs. He had a high top Resistol hat with a wild turkey feather tucked in the rawhide hat band. Renegar knew that this was the one who needed watching in the event of any kind of confrontation. He was the only one, other than himself, maybe, who seemed separated from the rest of the passengers. Then he glanced back to the young woman with the initials, PC, he felt his loins stir again.

His attention was drawn to her, without resistance on his part, when she stood and walked to the end of the coach and looked out through the glass in the door. She was dressed in a doe hide skirt, split in the middle for ease of walking or riding and a waistcoat that complimented her trim, designed, hand tooled boots. She was evidently a western woman and no sidesaddle rider who would have looked out of place in a long dress. She wore a round brimmed, flat crowned hat that matched the color of her outfit. Her hair was bunched in a ball and laid on the back of her neck. Renegar’s eyes lingered on her reflection for a long time, his mind, lingered even longer. The sight of her long, shapely figure, standing at the door window, caused the stirring in his loins, again.

He shifted his attention to the blackness of the other side of the glass. He actually didn’t need to see the countryside beyond the window for he knew it like he knew his own face in a mirror. He had spent many long hours in the pursuit of jackrabbits, or whatever jumped up and ran, all through country just like that. He grew from remembrance, to the fringe beginnings of manhood, there.

The buttes, arroyos, cliffs and ledges, forests, canyons and dry washes that laced the foothills of the majestic Rocky Mountain range were the elements of his playground, growing up. His food was gathered from nature and his water was furnished by the springs and high-up snow melts. All these were part and parcel of the man and closing his eyes, he could feel and smell the memories of those years gone by. He thought of the time he had climbed so high up a pine tree that a full grown bear, on the ground below, appeared no larger than a prairie dog. He chuckled softly to himself at the thought and sighed with relief at the thought of when the bear gave up and meandered on, disappearing into the forest, allowing him to climb back to the ground.

In his mind’s eye, Renegar saw the steep cliff sides of King’s Canyon as the train did its clickidy-clack around the sweeping curves that followed the bank of the river which flowed, through the canyon pass, on the opposite side of the tracks from the cliff side. The railroad bed had been cut and blasted from solid rock, in some places so that the tracks could be laid well above the flood level; floods caused by the spring thaw.

He could mentally see the stands of cane, where he used to cut fishing poles and then spend the day drowning worms, leaned back against a Willow, Sycamore or Oak tree. There were many other kinds of growth that mingled between the water and the railroad bed. ‘Most are free of leaves this time of year,’ he thought, ‘but it won’t be long before the buds start to swell.’ Swell they would with the pride of coming alive to bring forth new leaves and in some cases, nuts and fruits of different kinds. There was plenty of Hickory and Pecan that flourished in the bottom land along the river as well as countless Willow, Cottonwood and Cypress. It was a rich river basin and the water was its life’s blood. The basin was filled with countless types of wildlife and the river was filled with fish; a place where a man could live off the land the rest of his life.

The renewing of the seasons always made Jim feel good inside, and he looked forward to each season change, but he was most fond of spring, with its promise of summer, kind of like the feeling a child gets on Christmas Eve in anticipation of Christmas. Summers in New Mexico Territory could be and usually were very hot but it was a dry heat and something he was looking forward to. They were not like the humid summers back east. A hundred degrees back east felt like a hundred and ten. In the southwest, a hundred degrees felt more like ninety. The difference was in the humidity that was high in the east and very low in the southwest. The fishing was always good early mornings and late afternoons. Fish, like people, had to eat; the trick was to figure out what to put on the menu on any given day. The sulfur odor of burning coal tainted the air with pungent fumes that caused his eyes to water just a little and he figured that everybody in the coach suffered from the same problem. His thoughts moved in reverse to the scene just a few days earlier, when he’d had a close brush with death, and he couldn’t help thinking about it. When a man comes to the realization that death is as strong a possibility as living, he reaches deep down in his own soul for the direction he needs to take. He comes up with a lot of questions, sometimes, for which answers are hard to gather. He knew the law of averages would eventually catch up with him, if he kept wearing a gun but taking it off could cause that law to, not only catch but, overrun him and put him into an early grave. For now, he decided to keep the .44 close at hand, low and tied down. He knew that the lawless would always have guns.

Question number one, why had he decided to return to the west to sort things out? He really didn’t have a solid answer to that particular question. He wasn’t afraid of Craig Morris but in St. Louis, he was on Morris’s turf. In Santa Rosa, New Mexico Territory, he would be on his own ground, always the advantage. He knew, finally, that you just didn’t turn your back on men like Craig Morris. You separate yourself from them, if possible and if not possible, you face them, but on your turf and your terms and then you try your best to kill the bastard before he kills you.

On the surface, he seemed to be tied to life in St. Louis but subconsciously, he had much deeper roots in the west and they held him tighter. Now, that clinging force, way back in his subconscious mind, was drawing him back to the rooting place of his life, the place where the seed of his father had sprung to life. He had begun there. Maybe he would find the answers that would satisfy his restlessness. Basically, he was in search of the truth. Sure, he had built a fortune and a whole different life style back in St. Louis; yet, here he was on his way to a section of the country that was just barely past the savage stage.

He gazed at the window of the railroad car as if watching the countryside fly by, but it was as black as coal outside and the only thing he could see were the reflections of the five men and two women who shared the car with him. ‘I wonder what that good looking heifer is doing out here in this hard country, without an escort?’ he thought to himself about ‘PC’, whatever those initials stood for.

The wicks of the coal oil lamps provided very little light but the soft orange glow was sufficient for him to see the passengers slumped in their seats in restless half sleep as the train cut through the darkness of the early morning hours. The lamplight produced dark featured shadows on the faces that he could see. The night sky was crystal clear. Millions of bright stars filled the wide expanse from horizon to horizon and Renegar stopped and stood on the platform, between cars, on his way to visit with his horse. He pulled the collar of his sheepskin coat up around his ears and gazed at the heavens. There was a chill on the wind that wrapped the