Alamosa County Colorado, 1988.
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The dusty Ford pickup truck and the Dodge crew cab following it pulled up and stopped at the proposed work site out on the empty prarrie. The owner of the double B ranch got out and adressed the men getting out of the crew vehicle.
"Okay, set up the drilling gear over there, and stack the pipe sections over by the survey stakes"
Steve Branson was the great grandson of the founder of the double B ranch, one Bob Branson, who had come west after the civil war to look for his fortune. Now Steve was setting up a drilling rig to bore a new water hole and set up a windmill to pump the water for his stock of cattle. In his late 50's he was the picture of the western rancher. Of medium hight and stocky muscular build from a lifetime of hard outdoor work, his grey streaked dark hair stuck out from under the ball cap from a livestock feed company. The hat was as weathered as the tanned lined face under it. From under the hat he gazed at the land that had been in his family for a hundred years.
The men were busy unloading equiptment, and one young ranch hand carrying a section of pipe looked over with a puzzeled look on his face. One of the several hands was acting in a most peculiar manner. Pete was a full blooded Arapaho and had been with the ranch most of his life. Also in his 50's, his long black ponytail was streaked with grey. He had bent down and picked something up from the ground and had studied it for a moment. Now he was squating on his haunches looking closely at a piece of ground off to the side. Soon all the crew were watching Pete as he went about his strange behavoir. He would squat down, study a piece of ground intently, stand up and move a few paces to the side and squat again. Then he stood up and slowly walked backward for a bit and stopped and looked carefully at were he had been scrutinizing. They did'nt interfere with him as Pete was well known as the best tracker and big game guide in Arapaho county.
They walked over to him and asked what he was doing. He held up a dirt encrusted rusty object in his hand. Steve took it and examined Pete's object.
"It's an old rusty pocket knife. Jeez, its hardly recognizable as anything, its so corroded. "
"Let me see it" said a middle age ranch hand. Joe was a collector of old pocket knives. He took the object and walked over to the Dodge crew truck and got a wire brush out of the tool box. He scrubbed away some of the dirt and years of rust and slowly an outline came faintly clear under the corrosion. It was the remains of an old barlow type of pocket knife that had been dropped by someone with the blade opened. He said as much to the crew, and they gave it a moments thought.
"Well, an old pocket knife dropped by somebody ain't going to get you out of a days work." Steve told them.
"But you can't drill here, boss." said Pete. "It's wrong to disturb the dead."
"What the heck are you talking about, Pete?"
"Graves. Three of them right there." He pointed at the ground he had been studying.
The boss and the crew expressed doubt so Pete had them stand right were he stood when he had noticed them. Sure enough, there in the hard dry ground was three faint but distinct depressions in the ground.
"That ain't all boss. There's these" He held out his hand and in his callused palm was a couple black dirt encrusted tubular objects. Steve Branson stared at them for a long moment.
"Joe, give me that brush."
Steve scrubbed on one of the the small objects and soon the dirt and black tarnsh of a century gave way to a faint gleam of brass. They were old cartridges from very long ago. He turned the short fat shells over in his hand.
"What are they boss?" asked one of the ranch hands, "They look too short for .44 mags."
"By God, I think their .44 Russian. " said Steve.
"There was a fight here, boss. A long time ago, but people died here. Its bad medicine to disturb the dead." Insisted Pete.
Steve Branson looked around and wondered out loud.
"What the hell happened here?"
Alamosa County, Colorado, 1888.
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The middle age cowhand called Slim poked at the horse apple with his boot. Still moist. He looked up at the hot cloudless sky and he knew they were only an hour at the most behind the stolen cattle.He had become the forman of the double b ranch in the 15 years he had been with the Major. That was what they called the boss and owner. Major Bob Branson had founded the ranch after the civil war in which he had become a major in the Union cavelry. A tough no nonsense man, he had made it into a profitable operation. Now a small herd of his cows had been run off in the night and they were in pursuit of the stolen live stock. It was clear from the heading they were going that the rustlers were driving for Walsenburg and a fast sale at the new rail head. He swung back up into the saddle.
They started off again and rode hard. The Major, Slim, Ramon the vaquero, a lean tough young man, Julius the freed slave, a bull strong and feerless hand, and the two young runaway farm boys from Indianna, Jimmy and Tom Fowler They had grown into good hands in the 5 years they had been with the Major. Bringing up the rear on a steady sorrell was Gustav Wasserman the cook, called Gusty for short. The short stocky German was carrying his double barrel Greener over his saddle horn on a rawhide tong.
Soon they could see the dust of the stolen herd and they paused just below the rise and studdied them.
"When we ride up to them, keep a good 10 feet between you and have your rifles out. We're not taking chances or prisoners if they play it hard." The Major told them "We're here to take back what's ours. I won't put up with any debate on that issue. Clear?"
The men nodded. They had all been with the Major long enough to know there would be killing today. They took the rifles out and levered a round into the chamber. The Major was a generous employer, and two years before at the end of a good drive he had bought them all a new Winchester carbine as a bonus. He said he liked to have his men well armed. Now they rode down to the rawhiders with carbines out and ready, and Gusty held his shotgun across the saddle. The Major drew his long barrel Smith and Wesson revolver and held it down by his knee.
The rawhiders saw them come over the slight rise and stopped in a group to meet them. Slim took a quick count and glanced over at the Major. There were 11 of the rustlers, giving the cattle thieves an edge in numbers. The Major sat strait in the saddle and appeared to take no notice of it. They rode right up to the rustlers. One of them, the leader no doubt, rode a little out in front to meet them. A big man in a dirty blue shirt with food stains on it and a brown cowhide vest.
"'less you want more trouble than you can handle, you best ride back the way you come. Ain't nothin to talk about!"
"You're absolutly right." said the Major, and shot him.
The Major made no threats or warning, just raised the Smith and Wesson and thumbed off two rounds both of which hit the big man knocking him out of the saddle. There was a moment of stunned silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity, then a stutter of gunfire broke the quiet prarrie afternoon. Some of the rawhiders went for their guns, some fled. Those that fled lived, those that stayed died. Ramon levered quick shots at the group of rustlers, that emptied another saddle, and off to the other flank there was a deep boom of a shotgun, and the charge of blue whistlers from Gusty's Greener emptied yet another saddle.
Then as fast as it had started it was over. Some of the rustlers were galloping away followed by a couple of horses with no riders. A couple of the fleeing riders were swaying in thier saddles, carrying lead. On the ground were three dead men. The Major broke open the Smith and Wesson and reloaded.
But the fight had not been one sided. Julius was down with a bullet through his shoulder,and Ramon had a hole through his side from front to back. Gusty was pulling his kit from the saddle bag of his mount. In addition to cook, he was the ranch barber, and doctor when needed. Now he checked the wounded men. Ramon was not in bad shape, the bullet had gone through just above the hip. Painfull, but not fatal. Julius was more serious. He was flat on the ground, and Gusty pulled open his barlow knife and slit away the shirt from the black mans shoulder. A round puckered hole was in the front with a matching hole in the back. Gusty used the barlow again to cut up some strips of cloth from those he had in his kit. Tossing the pocket knife down on the brown grass by his medical kit he packed the bleeding wound in Julius's shoulder, but he was worried. He looked up at the Major.
"Vee should get him to der doctor in town," he told the Major in his thick German accent. "Also is bleeding very bad."
They got Julius up onto his horse and tied him in the saddle. Gusty grabbed his kit and mounted up in a hurry to get Julius to the doctor in Alamosa, and they rode off at a good pace accompanied by the Major and Tom Fowler riding beside Julius.
The rustlers old wagon was nearby, so they dug three shallow graves with the battered shovel they found in it, and burried the cattle thieves where they fell. It was hot work in the hard dry ground, and the canteens were drained by the time they had finished.
"Do you think we should say something?" asked Jimmy Fowler when they were done.
Ramon and Slim looked at each other then at Jimmy.
"Sure kid. We'll wait right here for ya." said Slim.
"Why are you waiting for me? Where am I going?" asked a puzzled Jimmy.
"Why its gonna take you some time to get into town and pass out the notices about the church hymm singing we're gonna have out here. Maybe even a box lunch social after it."
"Okay, okay. Just a thought."
"Hey Amigo," said the vaquero who had been sitting in the shade of a sage bush nurshing the bullet hole in his side, "these men you have just burried, they would have just shot you down and left you for the vultures. You have already done more for them than they would have done for you. Eh?"
"Yeah, you're right. The devil with them!" He tossed the shovel aside.
Slim dusted himself off and stepped up into the saddle.
"Lets start moving the herd back home, boys."
They rode off from the freshly dug graves, and soon the area was deserted. The wind whispered as it blew the dry brown grass, and the forgotten pocket knife lay on the ground, the dust killing any sheen and hiding it in the gentley swaying grass.
-------------------------------------------
The dusty Ford pickup truck and the Dodge crew cab following it pulled up and stopped at the proposed work site out on the empty prarrie. The owner of the double B ranch got out and adressed the men getting out of the crew vehicle.
"Okay, set up the drilling gear over there, and stack the pipe sections over by the survey stakes"
Steve Branson was the great grandson of the founder of the double B ranch, one Bob Branson, who had come west after the civil war to look for his fortune. Now Steve was setting up a drilling rig to bore a new water hole and set up a windmill to pump the water for his stock of cattle. In his late 50's he was the picture of the western rancher. Of medium hight and stocky muscular build from a lifetime of hard outdoor work, his grey streaked dark hair stuck out from under the ball cap from a livestock feed company. The hat was as weathered as the tanned lined face under it. From under the hat he gazed at the land that had been in his family for a hundred years.
The men were busy unloading equiptment, and one young ranch hand carrying a section of pipe looked over with a puzzeled look on his face. One of the several hands was acting in a most peculiar manner. Pete was a full blooded Arapaho and had been with the ranch most of his life. Also in his 50's, his long black ponytail was streaked with grey. He had bent down and picked something up from the ground and had studied it for a moment. Now he was squating on his haunches looking closely at a piece of ground off to the side. Soon all the crew were watching Pete as he went about his strange behavoir. He would squat down, study a piece of ground intently, stand up and move a few paces to the side and squat again. Then he stood up and slowly walked backward for a bit and stopped and looked carefully at were he had been scrutinizing. They did'nt interfere with him as Pete was well known as the best tracker and big game guide in Arapaho county.
They walked over to him and asked what he was doing. He held up a dirt encrusted rusty object in his hand. Steve took it and examined Pete's object.
"It's an old rusty pocket knife. Jeez, its hardly recognizable as anything, its so corroded. "
"Let me see it" said a middle age ranch hand. Joe was a collector of old pocket knives. He took the object and walked over to the Dodge crew truck and got a wire brush out of the tool box. He scrubbed away some of the dirt and years of rust and slowly an outline came faintly clear under the corrosion. It was the remains of an old barlow type of pocket knife that had been dropped by someone with the blade opened. He said as much to the crew, and they gave it a moments thought.
"Well, an old pocket knife dropped by somebody ain't going to get you out of a days work." Steve told them.
"But you can't drill here, boss." said Pete. "It's wrong to disturb the dead."
"What the heck are you talking about, Pete?"
"Graves. Three of them right there." He pointed at the ground he had been studying.
The boss and the crew expressed doubt so Pete had them stand right were he stood when he had noticed them. Sure enough, there in the hard dry ground was three faint but distinct depressions in the ground.
"That ain't all boss. There's these" He held out his hand and in his callused palm was a couple black dirt encrusted tubular objects. Steve Branson stared at them for a long moment.
"Joe, give me that brush."
Steve scrubbed on one of the the small objects and soon the dirt and black tarnsh of a century gave way to a faint gleam of brass. They were old cartridges from very long ago. He turned the short fat shells over in his hand.
"What are they boss?" asked one of the ranch hands, "They look too short for .44 mags."
"By God, I think their .44 Russian. " said Steve.
"There was a fight here, boss. A long time ago, but people died here. Its bad medicine to disturb the dead." Insisted Pete.
Steve Branson looked around and wondered out loud.
"What the hell happened here?"
Alamosa County, Colorado, 1888.
-------------------------------------------
The middle age cowhand called Slim poked at the horse apple with his boot. Still moist. He looked up at the hot cloudless sky and he knew they were only an hour at the most behind the stolen cattle.He had become the forman of the double b ranch in the 15 years he had been with the Major. That was what they called the boss and owner. Major Bob Branson had founded the ranch after the civil war in which he had become a major in the Union cavelry. A tough no nonsense man, he had made it into a profitable operation. Now a small herd of his cows had been run off in the night and they were in pursuit of the stolen live stock. It was clear from the heading they were going that the rustlers were driving for Walsenburg and a fast sale at the new rail head. He swung back up into the saddle.
They started off again and rode hard. The Major, Slim, Ramon the vaquero, a lean tough young man, Julius the freed slave, a bull strong and feerless hand, and the two young runaway farm boys from Indianna, Jimmy and Tom Fowler They had grown into good hands in the 5 years they had been with the Major. Bringing up the rear on a steady sorrell was Gustav Wasserman the cook, called Gusty for short. The short stocky German was carrying his double barrel Greener over his saddle horn on a rawhide tong.
Soon they could see the dust of the stolen herd and they paused just below the rise and studdied them.
"When we ride up to them, keep a good 10 feet between you and have your rifles out. We're not taking chances or prisoners if they play it hard." The Major told them "We're here to take back what's ours. I won't put up with any debate on that issue. Clear?"
The men nodded. They had all been with the Major long enough to know there would be killing today. They took the rifles out and levered a round into the chamber. The Major was a generous employer, and two years before at the end of a good drive he had bought them all a new Winchester carbine as a bonus. He said he liked to have his men well armed. Now they rode down to the rawhiders with carbines out and ready, and Gusty held his shotgun across the saddle. The Major drew his long barrel Smith and Wesson revolver and held it down by his knee.
The rawhiders saw them come over the slight rise and stopped in a group to meet them. Slim took a quick count and glanced over at the Major. There were 11 of the rustlers, giving the cattle thieves an edge in numbers. The Major sat strait in the saddle and appeared to take no notice of it. They rode right up to the rustlers. One of them, the leader no doubt, rode a little out in front to meet them. A big man in a dirty blue shirt with food stains on it and a brown cowhide vest.
"'less you want more trouble than you can handle, you best ride back the way you come. Ain't nothin to talk about!"
"You're absolutly right." said the Major, and shot him.
The Major made no threats or warning, just raised the Smith and Wesson and thumbed off two rounds both of which hit the big man knocking him out of the saddle. There was a moment of stunned silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity, then a stutter of gunfire broke the quiet prarrie afternoon. Some of the rawhiders went for their guns, some fled. Those that fled lived, those that stayed died. Ramon levered quick shots at the group of rustlers, that emptied another saddle, and off to the other flank there was a deep boom of a shotgun, and the charge of blue whistlers from Gusty's Greener emptied yet another saddle.
Then as fast as it had started it was over. Some of the rustlers were galloping away followed by a couple of horses with no riders. A couple of the fleeing riders were swaying in thier saddles, carrying lead. On the ground were three dead men. The Major broke open the Smith and Wesson and reloaded.
But the fight had not been one sided. Julius was down with a bullet through his shoulder,and Ramon had a hole through his side from front to back. Gusty was pulling his kit from the saddle bag of his mount. In addition to cook, he was the ranch barber, and doctor when needed. Now he checked the wounded men. Ramon was not in bad shape, the bullet had gone through just above the hip. Painfull, but not fatal. Julius was more serious. He was flat on the ground, and Gusty pulled open his barlow knife and slit away the shirt from the black mans shoulder. A round puckered hole was in the front with a matching hole in the back. Gusty used the barlow again to cut up some strips of cloth from those he had in his kit. Tossing the pocket knife down on the brown grass by his medical kit he packed the bleeding wound in Julius's shoulder, but he was worried. He looked up at the Major.
"Vee should get him to der doctor in town," he told the Major in his thick German accent. "Also is bleeding very bad."
They got Julius up onto his horse and tied him in the saddle. Gusty grabbed his kit and mounted up in a hurry to get Julius to the doctor in Alamosa, and they rode off at a good pace accompanied by the Major and Tom Fowler riding beside Julius.
The rustlers old wagon was nearby, so they dug three shallow graves with the battered shovel they found in it, and burried the cattle thieves where they fell. It was hot work in the hard dry ground, and the canteens were drained by the time they had finished.
"Do you think we should say something?" asked Jimmy Fowler when they were done.
Ramon and Slim looked at each other then at Jimmy.
"Sure kid. We'll wait right here for ya." said Slim.
"Why are you waiting for me? Where am I going?" asked a puzzled Jimmy.
"Why its gonna take you some time to get into town and pass out the notices about the church hymm singing we're gonna have out here. Maybe even a box lunch social after it."
"Okay, okay. Just a thought."
"Hey Amigo," said the vaquero who had been sitting in the shade of a sage bush nurshing the bullet hole in his side, "these men you have just burried, they would have just shot you down and left you for the vultures. You have already done more for them than they would have done for you. Eh?"
"Yeah, you're right. The devil with them!" He tossed the shovel aside.
Slim dusted himself off and stepped up into the saddle.
"Lets start moving the herd back home, boys."
They rode off from the freshly dug graves, and soon the area was deserted. The wind whispered as it blew the dry brown grass, and the forgotten pocket knife lay on the ground, the dust killing any sheen and hiding it in the gentley swaying grass.
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