The Last Ride of Caleb O'Toole (4 page)

“Did you say wait until the wagon train builds up?” Caleb tried to shake off his fears as he looked into the setting western sun.

“For protection. Troops'll be riding in pretty soon for escort. No one goes through these days until they got better numbers on account of the Indians and all. Folks going it alone are dead meat. They need to wait for maybe thirty more wagons before the next one heads out. Until then, nobody in their right mind goes it alone.”

“How long?” asked Caleb.

“Best guess is a week or two.”

“Where's Dobytown?” Julie pulled Tilly to her, wrapping her in her arms.

“South of the Platte River a few miles outside old Fort Kearny. Can't miss it. Watch your hat, though. That is one mean town. Now, you three move along, I've got work to do.” The fussy little man shuffled off to some imaginary task, leaving Caleb, Julie, and Tilly standing forlornly by the empty railroad tracks. Caleb took a deep breath, grabbed Dusty's reins, and eased the wagon away from the tracks. Silently, Julie helped Tilly up with Tumble, and then she climbed aboard.

***

“What are we going to do, Caleb?” worried Julie as they rode alongside the tracks.

“I don't know. I guess we'll head to Dobytown and wait for the wagon train and go with them.”

“But, we'll need to stay for a week or so, and then pay them to take us on. We'd never make it alone,” said Julie. “Our money will never last. Maybe we should go back to Great Bend.”

Caleb looked long at Julie as they rode south in the late afternoon sun over the bridge that spanned the Platte River. The idea of going back to the violence and sadness of Great Bend was out of the question after weeks of travel. Their only real option was to head to Aunt Sarah's ranch. It was a hard choice to make, but at least they would have a home, and some money.

***

A few miles later, they trotted past the tall wooden fence that surrounded the dismantled Fort Kearny. Old barrels and boxes lay strewn about from the days it served as an outfitting depot for pioneers headed for the Oregon Trail. A burned-out service wagon stood next to a broken-down cannon, reminders of years past when Fort Kearny provided protection for settlers against Indian attack. Parts of the fence had been taken apart or sagged in neglect. Even an old Pony Express sign dangled from a chain, clattering in the hot breeze. Caleb had often dreamed about being a Pony Express rider, but the company was shut down when the railroads came, way before he was even born.

A half-hour later, they entered the run-down, ramshackle place called Dobytown. There were a few dusty, broken-down buildings; some looked like they were made out of mud. Suddenly, several drunken cowboys galloped past at breakneck speed, firing their pistols into the air. Caleb jerked Dusty to the side, leaped into the back of the wagon, and reached for his Sharps rifle. Julie grabbed Tilly and held her head down, then drew her Colt.

“Yeehawwww!” A cowpoke let out a whoop as he lit a string of firecrackers and hurled them from his horse. Cowboys piled out of the saloon doors next to the livery. A red, white, and blue Fourth of July banner flapped in the breeze in front of the saloon. Caleb stuck his head up and watched as one of the cowhands leaped on his horse and raced along the dusty street. The other men cheered as the galloping cowboy pulled his pistol and fired at the telegraph poles as he tore past them. Then he stopped and reloaded, turned around, and fired six more shots.

“Twelve in a row and I hit every skunkin' one of 'em!” he boasted as he jumped off the horse. He collected some money from the others, who slapped him on the back as they went back inside the Dobytown Saloon. Caleb saw an old stableman struggling with some horses. Curious, he watched the old man limp into the barn, dragging the horses in after him.

“I have an idea,” Caleb said as he turned Dusty around and headed toward the livery.

***

“You say you'll do the muckin' and the groomin' for the chance to bunk down? No pay?” said the old stableman.

“That's right.” Caleb said. “Just until they get the wagon train together, then we'll go.”

The stableman scratched his head at the prospect of being able to take it easy on his aching back, eyes brightening at the thought of taking naps when it suited him. After all, it was nearly sundown, and there were about a dozen horses to tend to. “Tell you what, lad. You can have that big double stall in the back. Just put yourself down some fresh hay, and after you get settled in, you can start by brushing down that big black over there. Can you shoe?”

“Yes, sir!”

The stableman's eyes lit up at that piece of good news. “That seals the deal. Now, the way I work it, whatever horse gets tied up out front, bring 'em inside for feed and water. But this big black here needs a shoe on the hind left. When you're done with that, brush him down and tie him to the rail outside. His owner's headin' out tonight.”

***

Caleb brushed the big black stallion with long gentle strokes. The huge horse's flanks rippled as the bristles tickled his hide. The saddle was an Army issue. A leather scabbard held a gleaming Spencer rifle. He was tempted to hold it, but common sense got the better of him. Suddenly, he got goose bumps. He pulled off the saddle and scabbard and set them on the top rail of a stall.
It couldn't be
, he thought, as he ran his fingers over the initials that were carved into the stock. “N.V.” His mind flashed on the mysterious stranger and the big stallion that last terrible night in Great Bend, his mad charge into the ranks of the black-coated murderers. He turned back to the black and continued to brush it, studying the scars along its flank. This was a true warhorse.

Caleb heard Tilly crying and looked over at Julie as she raked fresh hay into the horse stall they were to bunk in later.

“Here.” Julie took the locket from Tilly's neck. “See how pretty she is? Just like you. And Father is so handsome.” Together they studied the tiny photo of their parents.

Caleb shut his eyes. He could picture them clear as day. “Want to hear a story?” Julie asked Tilly. Hearing Julie tell a story like their father brought an ache to Caleb's heart as he brushed the black horse.

“Once upon a time?” sniffled Tilly, brightening a little at the thought of inventing a new story. She snuggled close to Julie in their bed of hay, grabbing onto Tumble.

“Well, once upon a time, there was…”

“A beautiful princess!” Tilly always wanted her stories started in this fashion.

“A beautiful princess, and she…”

“Was locked in a dragon's cave!” exclaimed Tilly as she snuggled in tighter next to Julie.

“It's always about the dragon now,” said Caleb. Exhausted as he was, his night was not near over.

“Yes, since that night.” said Julie sadly.

“I'm going over to the saloon. Maybe they'll let me wash some dishes or something and give us some food.”

“Thank you, Caleb,” said Julie, her eyes shining in gratitude for her brother. “But be careful. This town seems kind of wild.” She turned back to Tilly and continued her story.

“I will.” Caleb gave Dusty a pat as he took him outside and tied him up next to their wagon. Then he went back for the black. He hoisted the saddle onto the horse and cinched it tight. Carefully, he secured the Spencer rifle and scabbard, once again noting the “N.V.” carved into the stock. He wondered if the hands that carried it into battle were the hands of the dark rider of Great Bend. He led the stallion outside and tied him carefully to the rail. Satisfied that the horse wasn't going anywhere, he headed to the Dobytown Saloon.

You want to what?” said Red at the back door of the saloon.

“Work for food?” said Caleb to the saloon lady with the flaming red hair. “My sisters and I are sleeping in the livery until the wagon train heads out.”

“Land sakes, boy, Dobytown is no place for children. This mud hole is nothin' but a snake pit. It's full of killers and thieves. They'll take your life as quick as they'll take your money. Heck, soldiers won't even come around here. You best take your sisters and ride on out.”

“We've got nowhere to go,” pleaded Caleb.

“Red!” barked a voice from inside. “What in tarnation are you doing talkin' with that boy? I got a business to run!”

“Please?”

“Sit tight. I'll see what I can do.” Red softened as she looked hard at Caleb. Then she disappeared into the saloon. Caleb could hear her talking with the man inside over the sound of the piano. After a minute, she came back outside.

“All right. Tom says to put you to work. But just for tonight,” said Red as she motioned Caleb inside.

The Dobytown Saloon was hopping. Some cowboys were whooping it up, drinking away the trail dust and playing poker. Tough-looking men, six-shooters on the bar in front of them, silently stared into their whiskey. The piano player kept it lively, his long, skinny fingers dancing over the keys and filling the saloon with favorite tunes. Caleb washed and dried glasses and set them on the long wooden bar. Saloon girls dressed in brightly colored dresses sashayed past and ruffled his hair. Smoke from cigars cast a blue haze across the room. Suddenly, two drunken cowhands broke out into a fight. One of them reared back and punched the other and knocked him out cold. Immediately, the burly cowpoke picked him up and threw him right past Caleb, straight through the saloon doors and into the street. The other cowhands barely noticed.
No
wonder
Father
never
let
me
go
with
him
inside
the
Last
Chance
Saloon
in
Great
Bend
, Caleb thought.

“Hang in a little longer and we'll fix you up some supper. You've earned it,” said Red as she shoved some dirty glasses into Caleb's tired hands.

“Thanks, Red. I'll work all night if I have to.” Caleb said, for he and his sisters needed every dime he made.

“Hey, Tom!” yelled Red to the bartender. “What do you say we keep this kid? Cute, ain't he?”

Tom looked up from the bar and slid a bottle of whiskey over to some dusty cowboys. “It's gettin' late. Give him his grub and give him the boot.”

Red laughed and gave Caleb a wink. “I'll give you a boot,” she said to Tom. “Right up your…” Red stopped in her tracks. She went white as a ghost. The creak of the saloon doors silenced the din of the room. Things seemed to stall in time for a few seconds. Caleb turned to see what she was looking at and felt his knees almost buckle. It was the stranger from Great Bend. The dark rider who tried to save the Thatchers. He stood tall and dangerous, about six foot three. The hands that gripped the swinging doors looked to be made of iron. A black hat covered his hair but couldn't hide the piercing eyes and whiskered jaw. A Colt revolver strapped to his hip stood ready under the long dark coat. Some of the cowboys looked up from their whiskey to take in the stranger. Others could not meet the intense gaze of the man.

“Lord, no…” said Red, her breath catching in her throat. She took Caleb by the elbow and led him around to the side of the bar. “Just my luck. Of all men to show up in this godforsaken town.”

“Why…who is he?” Caleb's mind raced.

“It's William Henderson! The Killer of Quick Creek! They must have let him out of prison.” Red took a deep breath to compose herself. “Whatever you do, Caleb, steer clear of him.” Too late. William Henderson caught Caleb's eye, the man's steely stare turning his legs to water. Caleb felt a shock to his boots. He had heard about the former war hero who went crazy and killed three Union soldiers, a cold-blooded killer who was locked up in Fort Leavenworth prison. Cowboys shifted clear as the tall, dark figure passed through the swinging saloon doors and made his way along the bar. Caleb felt the grip of Red's hands on his shoulders as Henderson walked over to them, the eerie quiet giving way to the heavy sound of his boots.

“Boy,” said William Henderson, as he stood towering above them, his voice a rumble. “Why don't you make yourself useful and bring a bottle of whiskey to that table over there.” He pointed to a lone table against the wall. He then nodded to Red and touched his hat. “Red. Been a long time.”

“William…yes…uh…long time,” Red managed to choke.

“Give him this,” said Red as Henderson sat down at his table. Shaking, she grabbed a bottle and a glass and shoved them into Caleb's hands. “Then stay out of his way. I've worked every saloon this side of the Missouri River. Believe me, I know the man. He's nothing but a coldhearted killer.”

The man may be a killer, but he was also something else. Caleb had seen it himself in Great Bend when Henderson drove off four murderers and tried to save Mr. Thatcher. In his heart, he felt something wasn't right. Caleb drew a breath and made his way over to Henderson's table. He put the bottle and glass in front of Henderson, who then poured himself a shot. Caleb stood before the man and tried to control the shaking in his knees.

“That night in Great Bend. It was you, wasn't it?” asked Caleb nervously. Henderson drank his whiskey and surveyed the saloon.

“Must be somebody else you're thinking of,” he replied in a low growl.

“You tried to save Mr. Thatcher. I saw you,” Caleb said.

Suddenly, Henderson reached up and took hold of Caleb's shirt, drawing him close. “I tell you, boy, you must be talkin' about another man. You don't know me and I don't know you,” Henderson said in a low whisper as he poured himself another shot of whiskey. “Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir,” Caleb gulped.

“Good. Now go on about your business.” Henderson released Caleb, then pulled his hat down over his eyes and leaned back into his chair.

Caleb moved away from the table. He vowed to keep his mouth shut, leave this Henderson alone, and get back to making money off the cowhands. Suddenly, the saloon doors burst open. Four men in grimy black dusters and black hats shook the trail dust off as they bellied up to the bar. Caleb nearly bumped into the biggest one. As he looked up into the huge man's eyes, his mind reeled. These were the thieves who shot Mr. Jackson and the Thatchers! The man stared hard at Caleb, then burst into a big grin. Caleb fully expected the worst, but the man did not appear to recognize him. Caleb breathed a sigh of relief and edged over to the other end of the bar, thankful that it had been dark and smoky that night back in Great Bend. He vowed to keep his head down, his mouth shut, and try to stay out of their way.

“Red!” shouted the oldest one who must have been the leader. He was big and mean-looking with greasy black hair. His face had the look of perpetual rage. “It's gonna be a long night. Line 'em up and keep 'em comin'.” He had black teeth! Quickly, Caleb turned away, remembering Tilly's vision of the black-toothed dragon.

“Well, well. If it ain't the Blackstone boys!” shouted Red, one eye on Henderson. “Eli Blackstone, you have made my night. Girls, get over here and leave those other worn-out doggies. We've got some real company!” Caleb was nearly trampled by the money-hungry saloon girls as they shrieked with delight and sashayed over to the Blackstones.

As Caleb hustled through the night, he felt a little safer. He found that working hard and minding his own business was the best course of things. He made money too, and as he did, he learned the names of the murderous Blackstone brothers. There was Eli, or Blacktooth, who was the oldest. Then Davey, or Mountain Man, who killed Mr. Jackson. The youngest was named Earl and he had a face like a rat, skimpy whiskers streaking out from under a pointy nose, eyes darting in a beady stare. Rat Face picked at an angry sore on his neck as he threw down a shot of whiskey. Then there was Nathan, the one who shot the Thatchers. He was an ugly, vicious-looking man with deep scars on his face and the black eyes of the dead. Caleb shuddered to look at him, for it was like being stared at by a rattlesnake.

Just then, the swinging doors opened and a burly man walked toward the bar, a Sheriff's badge pinned to his chest. The man shot the hairs up on Caleb's neck as he gruffly shouldered his way past him. There was something shifty and cruel in his nature. Immediately, the bartender set down a shot of whiskey.

“Sheriff Wayne!” bellowed Blacktooth.

“Eli,” grinned the Sheriff as he tossed down the whiskey. Caleb saw Henderson pull his hat down farther over his eyes.

“Thought we'd have us a little fun,” Blacktooth said with a chuckle, leveling his gaze at Sheriff Wayne. Caleb shot a look to the Sheriff and noticed a sly wink. “Want to join us?”

“No,” said the Sheriff with a snicker as he set his glass on the bar and walked toward the door. “You boys have your fun. Be good now.”

“OK, Sheriff Wayne, we'll be sure and do that,” sneered Snake, who suddenly appeared behind Caleb with a saloon girl in tow. He took hold of a whiskey bottle and started to drain it, then laughed and poured the last of it on Caleb's head, slamming the bottle on the bar. “What are you lookin' at, boy?” Caleb sputtered and wiped the burning whiskey from his eyes. “More whiskey!”

Caleb, his eyes stinging, went behind the bar, his mind racing. He figured he should make his exit, but since they didn't seem to recognize him, money and food were his main concern. If he did a good job, maybe he could talk Tom into letting him come back and work at the saloon until the wagon train was ready. Then he and his sisters would be all right. Caleb pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and headed back.

“What we need is a little poker game!” whooped Mountain Man as he stalked over to the card table. “Bring that whiskey over here, Bottle Boy!”

Caleb hustled over with the bottle. Mountain Man, Snake, and Rat Face surrounded several cowboys who were in the middle of their poker game. Mountain Man picked up an old cowpoke and tossed him from his chair like a rag doll. Then he took a seat and reached for a deck of cards. The three remaining cowboys exchanged dubious looks. Caleb dubbed them Eye Patch, Long Beard, and Irishman, and all seemed pretty reluctant to play. Eye Patch got up to leave, but Snake slammed him back into his chair.

“Fill us up, Bottle Boy!” said Rat Face, his sinister rodent grin and beady eyes challenging Caleb. Snake and Blacktooth held their glasses out to Caleb, and he filled their whiskey glasses while Mountain Man dealt the cards.

“Now this little game is called Davey's Draw,” Mountain Man giggled.

“Forget it, I'm out.” The Irishman rose from his chair. Snake slammed him back down as Rat Face drew his Colt. Eye Patch and Long Beard sat frozen, figuring they had better go along with the game.

Caleb felt Blacktooth's hand on his shoulder. “Fill theirs up too, boy,” said Blacktooth, indicating the empty glasses on the poker table. “Can't forget our manners!” said the killer with a chuckle. Caleb glanced over to Henderson's table at the other end of the saloon. Henderson sat quietly, hat down over his eyes. Like the ticking clock on the wall, Caleb could almost hear the beating of his own heart as he filled up the poker players' glasses.

***

Deeper into the evening, Caleb felt the fatigue hit him like a steam engine when he heard the words that could change a night of fun on the town into a deadly rampage.

“That's cheating!” shouted Irishman. Everything stopped. The piano player ducked down, the girls stopped laughing, and all conversation came to a halt. The air took on a menacing stillness, like the gunpowder smell of a shot fired. Quickly, Mountain Man grabbed Irishman in his huge fist. The other cowboys edged carefully away from the poker table. Caleb looked over to see Henderson slowly pull his Colt revolver and hold it at the ready under his table.

“What did you say?” Mountain Man held Irishman in his grip.

“I had three nines!” said Irishman in protest.

Blacktooth dropped Red like a sack of potatoes and walked slowly to the table and checked out the cards. “Well now, Mr. Englishman, my brother Davey here's got a full house. In these United States of America that beats three of a kind.”

“News to you, I'm Irish. He had two fives, everybody saw!” squealed Irishman. “He cheated and drew twice!”

“Everybody?” Blacktooth asked in a deadly voice. “Who here seen that?” Rat Face and Snake grabbed the handles of their Colts and stared down the room, itching for a fight. No one spoke. Mountain Man hung onto the sputtering Irishman like a bear playing with a fish.