Remembrance And Regret

Remembrance and Regret

Story and Cover Illustration by Mike Poppe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright, Mike Poppe, January 1, 2019

Remembrance and Regret is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to anyone living or dead, is unintended.

Other E books I've Written. Available at all E book retailers, except Amazon. com

Westerns:

Follow The Sun

The Marshal and The Madam

Return to Ballyickeen

Dear Benjamin

If By Chance

Onward West

Jump For Jump

McKay's Promise

Seeking Delia

Showdown At Silver Tip

Detective:

The Sparrows Whispering

Retribution Unlimited

And Then Came Murder

Shakespeare, Mark Twain and Me

Scarlet Women

Brennan's Way

Half Past Murder

One Bullet

We, The Wicked

Stryker

Never Safe

Lost Highway

The King of Diamonds

Chapter 1

You lookin' for a meal, a job, or trouble?

The question came from the mouth of a tall rangy old man standing on the front porch of the ranch house. That hawk-like face had been lined and carved from many decades of exposure to the sun and wind. His shoulder length hair and slouching posture I guessed to be carryovers from years spent trapping beaver as a mountain man. I had no doubt that he'd fought his share of Pawnee, Crow, Lakota, and Blackfoot Indians. More than likely he'd spent a few winters with tribes known to be more accepting of the mountain men, such as the Nez Perce, Cheyenne, and Arapaho. Not that those tribes were always peaceful. The simple truth was when it came to being unpredictable, I'd found Indians to be not much different from white men.

From the moment he'd first caught sight of me making my way down into the valley astride my Appaloosa, he'd not once let his eyes drift away from me. I knew that to be true, for I'd afforded him the same measure of respect. Twenty feet from the ranch house, I reined my horse to a stop, dropped the reins, then let my hands fall where they were in clear view.

The old man had a .50 caliber Sharps rifle in position for quick use, should it be needed. That old frontiersman's best days might now be a memory, but something about him suggested that he was still capable of being a ferocious wildcat if angered. His kind died hard. Long and lean like a wolf, his long brown hair was beginning to show a few strands of silver here and there. His aging eyes were cold and dark. The salt and pepper mustache and beard looked right at home on his weather-bronzed face.

In answer to his question, I declared, I'll pass on the trouble. Had my fill already. I reckon I could do with a meal, but if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to work for it.

He replied, That so? What can you do?

Just about anything that needs doing on a ranch, including chopping firewood, or repairing fences. I threw those two jobs out there for him to consider because most cowhands tended to shy away from any work that couldn't be done from horseback.

That hard old timer looked me over good. For sure, he wasn't going to take me for a preacher on his way to Camp Meetin'. By guess and by golly, I figured to stand close to six foot tall. Depending on whether or not I'd been eating regularly, I should weigh in somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred eighty pounds. From my weather-beaten hat, down to my badly scarred, down at the heel boots, you couldn't get a plug nickel for everything I wore. Well, that wasn't exactly right. My Army Colt pistol and my Henry rifle would fetch a fair price anywhere. It didn't take an expert to see that they had been well taken care of.

Apparently having made at least a partial decision regarding me, the old man lowered the Sharps rifle. Where you headed?

Grinning, I replied. Anywhere I ain't been.

Got a name?

Fargo Stone.

He nodded. Folks call me Laramie. Pointing toward the barn, he said, Take care of your horse. There's plenty of grain and water. After that, you can take an ax to that wood pile behind the house. By that time, supper should be just about ready.

* * *

I'd just finished splitting and stacking the last of the wood when Laramie called from the back porch. You can wash up over there at the side of the house, then come on inside. Supper's just about ready.

After drying off with a towel, I slipped my shirt back on, climbed the steps to the back porch, stepped inside, then stopped dead in my tracks. Over the past few years, my opportunities to talk to pretty women had been few and far between. Now, I found myself standing no more than two feet from a woman with red hair, piercing green eyes, and a fair sprinkling of freckles.

Laramie, taking note of the look of despair on my face, spoke up. Fargo Stone, meet Rusty Gallagher. Not only is Rusty the cook on this outfit, but she also just happens to be the boss.

Miss Gallagher took a quick look at my dust-covered clothes that hadn't been changed in three days, then as her eyes remained focused on the frontiersman, spoke to me. Laramie tells me you've worked for your supper. You might as well sit. Your food's getting cold.

Ma'am, it's been a long time since I sat down to eat anywhere except by myself, or with a bunch of rough-edged cowhands. I'm not sure I should be here.

Before I could finish, she grabbed me by the arm and pushed me toward the dinner table. Sit. Laramie promised you a meal. I won't make a liar out of him.

That grizzled old man's face was blank, but I thought I detected a certain amount of amusement in his eyes as she pointed to the chair I was expected to use. My table manners, what few I had, must have been pretty awful by Rusty Gallagher's standards, but to her credit, she chose not to make a big deal about it.

When we finished eating, I said, Miss Gallagher, that might be the best meal I've ever had.

Dismissing my statement, she argued, I doubt that. Why don't you get out of my hair, and have a smoke with Laramie, so I can do these dishes?

Once out on the front porch, Laramie and I sat on the top porch railing and rolled cigarettes as the cool evening autumn breeze reminded me that winter was not far off. Looking out at the portion of the valley in front of us, I said, I've worked in a lot of places, but I figure it would take a while for a man to get tired of the scenery around here.

Laramie lit his cigarette, passed his burning match to me. Yeah, it's pretty nice. I've seen a few places like Blue Valley in Colorado, and around the Tetons in Wyoming that I'd say are the next thing to heaven, but this place ain't all that far behind. Make no mistake, from what I've been told, winter here ain't no Sunday Go To Meeting picnic, but I doubt it's as bad as it gets on the front range of Colorado.

How much of this valley belongs to that woman inside? I asked.

All of it, Laramie answered. Abe Gallagher was the first to take up ranching in this area. Told me that the first thing he did was to make a three day ride to get the deed recorded on this valley. Said as a young man, he lost a farm back in Ohio because he didn't have the papers needed to fight off a claim jumper. He was bound and determined that it was never going to happen again.

That Abe Gallagher you referred to, he was Rusty's father?

Yep. Abe was killed right after I started here, about seven months ago.

Since I figured to be heading on down the trail first thing in the morning, I'm not sure why I asked, especially since a man getting hurt or killed while working on a cattle ranch was not all that uncommon. Rusty's father, was he killed in an accident?

Laramie took a draw off his cigarette, exhaled the tobacco smoke, then shook his head. Naw. He was out riding on the north range when somebody shot him out of the saddle. The riders who found him said Indians killed him.

Something I heard in Laramie's voice raised my curiosity. Those riders, they see the Indians?

Laramie's face showed a scowl, as he shook his head in a No response. According to how they told the story, by the time they happened upon his body, old Gallagher had already stopped bleeding. They figured it was Indians because the old man had been scalped. Through the thin veil of cigarette smoke, Laramie's eyes left me with the impression that it was far from a settled matter in his mind.

So what makes you think those wranglers were wrong?

He turned, then spit with the wind. I saw the body when they brought him in. Keep in mind that I've seen my share of scalped folks here and there. Gallagher had been scalped alright, but it looked like the work of someone who had never taken a scalp before. An Indian can usually take a scalp in one smooth cut, two at the most. Whoever took Gallagher's hair made a real mess of the job. I could be wrong, but my guess is that a white man killed the old man, then tried to make it look like it was the work of Indians.

Did Gallagher have any enemies that you know of?

Laramie ground out what was left of his cigarette on the heel of his boot, then tossed the remnants out onto the dirt in front of the porch. None that you'd call real enemies, but as I said, I've only been around for the past seven months. You see, her father wasn't the first on this spread to be killed and scalped. A couple of weeks before I hired on, a Circle G hand by the name of Tom Redman died the same way.

After grinding out my cigarette butt, I couldn't resist satisfying my curiosity. Then after those two, there were no more deaths?

Not exactly, Laramie replied. One rider was found dead on the south range with his boot still stuck in the stirrup. He'd been dragged to death. A few weeks later, another of our hands disappeared on his way back to the ranch from town. The next day, he was found in eight feet of water, stuck under a brush pile at the base of the bridge over Taylor Creek.

As we watched the Sun begin to disappear over the western hills, I inquired, So how many hands you got left?