The rider came from the east.
He sat there on the edge of town in the late afternoon sun, looking at the small dirt street, his eyes taking everything in. He slumped in the saddle, and the horse he was on stood with head down. Both rider and horse looked like they had come a long way in a short time. The young man was tall and lean as a whip stock, with gray eyes that seemed as hard as the granite of the Rocky Mountains that over looked the small town of Alamosa Colorado. He was dressed in the manor of a drifting cowhand, except for the faded Confederate cavalry hat from the recent war on his head.
Seeing what was to see, he touched the tired horse lightly with his spurs and rode down the main street, stopping in front of the saloon. Getting off the horse, he stood for a moment straitening his back, and then walked across the board sidewalk and through the bat wing doors, his boot heels sounding hollow on the wood. He had paused only for a brief instant looking at the three hard ridden horses at the hitching rail.
Once inside the shaded saloon, he knew trouble was in the air. Three men, rough dressed and down at the boot heels, were fanned out facing a single man with his back against the bar. The young man backed to the bar looked to be a rancher. Stove pipe chaps, and good clothes, with a faded blue Union cavalry hat on his head. It was this hat that was the seed of the trouble. The three drifters facing him all had tattered remains of the butternut and gray, as did a lot of young men who drifted west after the war. He was in a tight fix, being braced by the three drifters, but he stood firm, not showing any fear, although any normal man would.
"Well now brother Lyle, we seem to have a brother in arms joining us!" said the center drifter, and the leader. The tall stranger stepped to the short end of the bar that was near the swinging doors. The bartender came over and asked what he'd have.
"Whiskey." came the short reply.
The bartender poured the whiskey and the stranger held up the glass to the light looking, then sipped at the whiskey carefully.
"We're fixin to shoot us a blue belly! What ya think of that." said the center drifter.
"Not much. Lee surrendered a few years back, ain't you heard?" the stranger replied.
"It ain't never over, long as there's blue belly's like this to kill. "
"Big difference 'tween killin and murder." the stranger said. " You're just a pack of murdering trash!"
A stunned silence fell, but not for long. The leader took a step in the strangers direction, his hand inching closer to the .36 Navy Colt on his hip.
"Murdering trash!?" he yelled, "How can you say that? We're the same, fought for the same flag!"
The stranger stood still, only lifting up his glass and tossing off the rest of the whiskey, then slowly putting the glass down with his left hand. Unseen by the others, his right hand behind the bar had already lifted of the rawhide tong from the hammer of the 1860 Army Colt conversion on his belt.
"Fact is" he said, "Only thing like you, is the scum at the bottom of the chamber pot!"
The words were delivered in a cold harsh tone, and in the moment of shock, the stranger made his move. He wasn't about to see an innocent man murdered before his eyes. His hand came up over the bar with the .44 Colt already cocked, and he shot the leader right in the chest. The heavy ball knocked the would be killer back a step, and then down in the saw dust on the floor. Then all hell broke loose.
The two remaining drifters drew on the stranger, and the rancher drew on them. In a few moments of gunfire, the saloon was filled with dirty white powder smoke. The saloon loafers who had crowed back against the walls out of the line of fire, hit the floor. The sudden silence after the gunfire was as startling as the fight.
All three of the drifters were down, and the rancher was leaning back against the bar, his right arm down by his side with the shoulder of his shirt slowly turning red. He'd killed the one drifter right in front of him, but had been hit. The bar tender came around the bar and helped him to a chair.
"I got ya major. Just sit tight, we'll send for the doc."
The stranger was thumbing fresh rounds into the Colt, and paused.
"Major?" he asked.
For the first time, the young rancher spoke up.
"Major Robert Branson, of the Army of the Potomac, in the late war. I don't believe we've had the chance to be introduced. I'm very grateful for your help, whatever your name is." the rancher said.
"Friends just call me Slim." said the stranger. "Sargent under John Mosby."
The major nodded, and leaned back in the chair, holding a bar towel to his shoulder.
"You got a doc in this town?" asked Slim.
"Yeah, we got one," said the bartender, looking at a pocket watch. " But this late in the day, he ain't gonna be sober."
Slim stood over the major and took a look at the wound.
"I can get that out for you. Done it plenty times before, but it ain't gonna be fun." he told the major.
The rancher known as the major looked up at Slim for long moment.
"I guess you've had the know how after that damm war. Go ahead, I'd rather you do it that the drunk saw bones they have here."
Slim turned to the barman. "I want whiskey, and clean cloth. Now."
Slim reached into a pocket and took out a well used Barlow knife. On the bolster was the arrow of the John Russell Company. He opened the blade with a crisp snap, and slopped some whiskey over the blade, shaking it off. He looked at the major.
"Okay, brace yourself, this is gonna burn a bit." he said, then slopped some of the whiskey into the wound.
"GOD DA..." The major yelled curses at the ceiling, cussing a blue streak, and saloon loafers who had been crowded back against the walls when trouble broke. now edge closer, elbowing each other and grinning at the curses the major yelled at the ceiling. Sweat broke out on his brow, and ran down his face, but he never flinched while Slim dug in with the pointy tip of the Barlow knife. Slim worked fast, knowing all men had a breaking point, and after a moment, held up a bloody .36 caliber ball in his equally bloody fingers. One side was flattened.
"All done" said Slim, "It was right up against the bone, but didn't do much damage. Now if that had been a .44, we'd have to do a mite more diggin. "
"Thanks," said the major, " But I think you enjoyed that too much, reb."
Slim saw the weak smile, and knew the major was ribbing him a bit. trying to keep the pain at bay.
"Maybe so," said Slim, while wiping the blood of the barlow knife. " Ya see, while I got to shoot at all those pretty blue uniforms, this was the very first time I got to whittle on a yank."
The major looked at him, then smiled in spite of the pain.
"Sam, the bottle of brandy. The good stuff." The major told the barman.
The barman came over with a bottle, and the major told Slim to have a drink. Slim poured out a good measure and swallowed.
"Damm. So this is what I've been missing by drinking bar whiskey!"
The major took the bottle and lifted it to his lips and rank deep, until he gasped from the brandy fumes, and the fire in his belly. Then he studied the strange drifter who had saved his life. Slim was sitting there taking slow strokes on a small whet stone from a pocket. He was giving a honing to the knife that he'd cut out the bullet with. The major was a judge of men, but this one had him stumped.
"You need a job?" the major asked.
"Well, I am down to a few coins in the pocket." said Slim
"You ever worked cows before?"
"Yeah, I've pushed a few head in my time." Slim told him.
"By day or night?" asked the major with a grin.
Then for the first time, the lean drifter named Slim smiled, the hard gray eyes twinkled a little.
"A little of both!" he told the major.
"Well, at least your honest about it. I've got a ranch just west of here, and I could use another hand. It ain't much yet, but It's going to be. I've got a German Cook and a Mexican Vaquero so far."
Slim put the stone away, and stropped the knife on his boot top for a bit.
"A German cook and Mex Vaquero. Seems like quite a party. Alright."
Slim stood up and folded up his barlow knife, and then a short heavy set man burst into the saloon. It was the Doctor.
"Here's you patient sawbones. Patch him up so he doesn't leak to death before I get him to his ranch. The bullet is already out, so just fix him up."
"Out?" the half drunk doctor asked indignantly, "Who took it out? I get a dollar a bullet for removal. Who the hell are you?"
Slim took a step toward the doctor, and the eyes went to hard gray granite again.
"Just patch him up and shut up, now." Slim said in a very quiet tone of voice. The doc looked at the three dead men on the floor then at Slim again, and decided on the better part of valor.
When the doc was done, Slim helped the major stand up, and the major swayed a little, unsteady, and groaned with the pain.
"Just get me home to Gusty." he said.
"Gusty?' Slim asked
"The cook. He's also a pretty good doc. He'll take care of things." Then the major looked at Slim for a long moment.
"You know, I got a strange feeling that you two are gonna be good friends. He talks a lot, and you don't."
Slim helped the major up on his horse, and then looked at his own mount.
"This cayuse of mine is pretty wore down." he said.
The major pointed to two mountains west of town.
"You see those peaks? By the time the sun if full down behind them, your horse is going to be eating oats and rolling in green grass."
" Alright then. Let's ride."
The two men rode west toward the setting sun. It was to be the start of a very long friendship.
He sat there on the edge of town in the late afternoon sun, looking at the small dirt street, his eyes taking everything in. He slumped in the saddle, and the horse he was on stood with head down. Both rider and horse looked like they had come a long way in a short time. The young man was tall and lean as a whip stock, with gray eyes that seemed as hard as the granite of the Rocky Mountains that over looked the small town of Alamosa Colorado. He was dressed in the manor of a drifting cowhand, except for the faded Confederate cavalry hat from the recent war on his head.
Seeing what was to see, he touched the tired horse lightly with his spurs and rode down the main street, stopping in front of the saloon. Getting off the horse, he stood for a moment straitening his back, and then walked across the board sidewalk and through the bat wing doors, his boot heels sounding hollow on the wood. He had paused only for a brief instant looking at the three hard ridden horses at the hitching rail.
Once inside the shaded saloon, he knew trouble was in the air. Three men, rough dressed and down at the boot heels, were fanned out facing a single man with his back against the bar. The young man backed to the bar looked to be a rancher. Stove pipe chaps, and good clothes, with a faded blue Union cavalry hat on his head. It was this hat that was the seed of the trouble. The three drifters facing him all had tattered remains of the butternut and gray, as did a lot of young men who drifted west after the war. He was in a tight fix, being braced by the three drifters, but he stood firm, not showing any fear, although any normal man would.
"Well now brother Lyle, we seem to have a brother in arms joining us!" said the center drifter, and the leader. The tall stranger stepped to the short end of the bar that was near the swinging doors. The bartender came over and asked what he'd have.
"Whiskey." came the short reply.
The bartender poured the whiskey and the stranger held up the glass to the light looking, then sipped at the whiskey carefully.
"We're fixin to shoot us a blue belly! What ya think of that." said the center drifter.
"Not much. Lee surrendered a few years back, ain't you heard?" the stranger replied.
"It ain't never over, long as there's blue belly's like this to kill. "
"Big difference 'tween killin and murder." the stranger said. " You're just a pack of murdering trash!"
A stunned silence fell, but not for long. The leader took a step in the strangers direction, his hand inching closer to the .36 Navy Colt on his hip.
"Murdering trash!?" he yelled, "How can you say that? We're the same, fought for the same flag!"
The stranger stood still, only lifting up his glass and tossing off the rest of the whiskey, then slowly putting the glass down with his left hand. Unseen by the others, his right hand behind the bar had already lifted of the rawhide tong from the hammer of the 1860 Army Colt conversion on his belt.
"Fact is" he said, "Only thing like you, is the scum at the bottom of the chamber pot!"
The words were delivered in a cold harsh tone, and in the moment of shock, the stranger made his move. He wasn't about to see an innocent man murdered before his eyes. His hand came up over the bar with the .44 Colt already cocked, and he shot the leader right in the chest. The heavy ball knocked the would be killer back a step, and then down in the saw dust on the floor. Then all hell broke loose.
The two remaining drifters drew on the stranger, and the rancher drew on them. In a few moments of gunfire, the saloon was filled with dirty white powder smoke. The saloon loafers who had crowed back against the walls out of the line of fire, hit the floor. The sudden silence after the gunfire was as startling as the fight.
All three of the drifters were down, and the rancher was leaning back against the bar, his right arm down by his side with the shoulder of his shirt slowly turning red. He'd killed the one drifter right in front of him, but had been hit. The bar tender came around the bar and helped him to a chair.
"I got ya major. Just sit tight, we'll send for the doc."
The stranger was thumbing fresh rounds into the Colt, and paused.
"Major?" he asked.
For the first time, the young rancher spoke up.
"Major Robert Branson, of the Army of the Potomac, in the late war. I don't believe we've had the chance to be introduced. I'm very grateful for your help, whatever your name is." the rancher said.
"Friends just call me Slim." said the stranger. "Sargent under John Mosby."
The major nodded, and leaned back in the chair, holding a bar towel to his shoulder.
"You got a doc in this town?" asked Slim.
"Yeah, we got one," said the bartender, looking at a pocket watch. " But this late in the day, he ain't gonna be sober."
Slim stood over the major and took a look at the wound.
"I can get that out for you. Done it plenty times before, but it ain't gonna be fun." he told the major.
The rancher known as the major looked up at Slim for long moment.
"I guess you've had the know how after that damm war. Go ahead, I'd rather you do it that the drunk saw bones they have here."
Slim turned to the barman. "I want whiskey, and clean cloth. Now."
Slim reached into a pocket and took out a well used Barlow knife. On the bolster was the arrow of the John Russell Company. He opened the blade with a crisp snap, and slopped some whiskey over the blade, shaking it off. He looked at the major.
"Okay, brace yourself, this is gonna burn a bit." he said, then slopped some of the whiskey into the wound.
"GOD DA..." The major yelled curses at the ceiling, cussing a blue streak, and saloon loafers who had been crowded back against the walls when trouble broke. now edge closer, elbowing each other and grinning at the curses the major yelled at the ceiling. Sweat broke out on his brow, and ran down his face, but he never flinched while Slim dug in with the pointy tip of the Barlow knife. Slim worked fast, knowing all men had a breaking point, and after a moment, held up a bloody .36 caliber ball in his equally bloody fingers. One side was flattened.
"All done" said Slim, "It was right up against the bone, but didn't do much damage. Now if that had been a .44, we'd have to do a mite more diggin. "
"Thanks," said the major, " But I think you enjoyed that too much, reb."
Slim saw the weak smile, and knew the major was ribbing him a bit. trying to keep the pain at bay.
"Maybe so," said Slim, while wiping the blood of the barlow knife. " Ya see, while I got to shoot at all those pretty blue uniforms, this was the very first time I got to whittle on a yank."
The major looked at him, then smiled in spite of the pain.
"Sam, the bottle of brandy. The good stuff." The major told the barman.
The barman came over with a bottle, and the major told Slim to have a drink. Slim poured out a good measure and swallowed.
"Damm. So this is what I've been missing by drinking bar whiskey!"
The major took the bottle and lifted it to his lips and rank deep, until he gasped from the brandy fumes, and the fire in his belly. Then he studied the strange drifter who had saved his life. Slim was sitting there taking slow strokes on a small whet stone from a pocket. He was giving a honing to the knife that he'd cut out the bullet with. The major was a judge of men, but this one had him stumped.
"You need a job?" the major asked.
"Well, I am down to a few coins in the pocket." said Slim
"You ever worked cows before?"
"Yeah, I've pushed a few head in my time." Slim told him.
"By day or night?" asked the major with a grin.
Then for the first time, the lean drifter named Slim smiled, the hard gray eyes twinkled a little.
"A little of both!" he told the major.
"Well, at least your honest about it. I've got a ranch just west of here, and I could use another hand. It ain't much yet, but It's going to be. I've got a German Cook and a Mexican Vaquero so far."
Slim put the stone away, and stropped the knife on his boot top for a bit.
"A German cook and Mex Vaquero. Seems like quite a party. Alright."
Slim stood up and folded up his barlow knife, and then a short heavy set man burst into the saloon. It was the Doctor.
"Here's you patient sawbones. Patch him up so he doesn't leak to death before I get him to his ranch. The bullet is already out, so just fix him up."
"Out?" the half drunk doctor asked indignantly, "Who took it out? I get a dollar a bullet for removal. Who the hell are you?"
Slim took a step toward the doctor, and the eyes went to hard gray granite again.
"Just patch him up and shut up, now." Slim said in a very quiet tone of voice. The doc looked at the three dead men on the floor then at Slim again, and decided on the better part of valor.
When the doc was done, Slim helped the major stand up, and the major swayed a little, unsteady, and groaned with the pain.
"Just get me home to Gusty." he said.
"Gusty?' Slim asked
"The cook. He's also a pretty good doc. He'll take care of things." Then the major looked at Slim for a long moment.
"You know, I got a strange feeling that you two are gonna be good friends. He talks a lot, and you don't."
Slim helped the major up on his horse, and then looked at his own mount.
"This cayuse of mine is pretty wore down." he said.
The major pointed to two mountains west of town.
"You see those peaks? By the time the sun if full down behind them, your horse is going to be eating oats and rolling in green grass."
" Alright then. Let's ride."
The two men rode west toward the setting sun. It was to be the start of a very long friendship.
