Farin West

By Brad Dixon

Returning after a five year term in prison for a crime he didn't commit, to a town that sanctioned his conviction and to the cattle baron that murdered his father, Farin West was blinded by thoughts of revenge. He had become known as a dangerous man while he did his time at Yuma and even the thieves and killers of that hell hole avoided him.

Now he was going back to seek out those who had ruined his life and destroyed the world he had known. His only edge was that he no longer cared for money, comfort or even a decent life. His only thoughts were to make them pay and pay dearly.
But they knew he was coming and events would take him in many directions before he could finally confront those who had sent him away. His first rule was to trust no one, but he would learn that in order to stay alive long enough to see his plan through, he must come to rely on some old friends.
Out gunned, out numbered and out manoeuvred, he would play a deadly game of cat and mouse, right up to the final confrontation with the Kersey outfit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirador Publishing
• Release date: Jan 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9780956711168

Book preview

Farin West

By

Brad Dixon

Mirador Publishing

First Published by Mirador Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 by Brad Dixon

All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First edition: 2010

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflect the reality of any locations involved.

A copy of this work is available though the British Library.

IBSN : 978-0-9567111-5-1

Chapter One

Half hidden in the trees, I stared over the head of the crow bait dun at the old cabin, as a flood of memories ran through my mind. Although it was now overgrown with vines and scrub, it still looked pretty much the same. Pa and I had abandoned this small cabin after building our main house on the lower range.

As I let my mind wander, my thoughts flashed back to the time when the Kersey outfit had moved into the valley with a herd of cattle three thousand strong. When I had asked Pa about it, he explained what it meant. Our small herd would be muscled off the range and the entire winter graze would be gone if we didn’t act fast. Although Kersey didn’t know that Pa had filed on the land, it probably wouldn’t have mattered to him. He claimed the valley was free range and he had every right to run his cattle there. No doubt he planned to run us off or starve us out and he figured any legal moves on our part would likely take weeks. By then, it would be too late.

Around sundown that evening, Pa had said he needed to take a look around and he headed off toward the area where Kersey was grazing his cattle.

I had gotten back to the main house just after dark when I heard a horse approaching fast, running hard. Before I could reach the door, Pa burst in and grabbed me by the shoulders, speaking as fast as he could. I had never seen Pa so shaken up as he was that night and it scared me, although I tried not to show it.

Pa told me that he had found a camp on our east range where someone was branding cattle with a running brand. Whoever it was had worked a cinch ring into our own ‘W Bar’ brand, making it look like we were stealing Kersey cattle and branding them with our own brand.

As soon as I saw that setup, I figured the camp had been left undisturbed so’s they could catch one or both of us at the site and accuse us. I reckoned the camp was probably bein’ watched. As quick as the thought came to me, I saw riders breakin’ through the tree line. I ran for my horse, jumped in the saddle and rode back here as quick as I could. Now they’re right behind me boy, so I got to talk fast.

He caught his breath and continued, It looks like Kersey don’t just want to graze his cattle here, he wants our place, all of it!

I stared at him, dumbfounded by what he was suggesting. How can he get our place? I had asked.

If he can show we stole his cattle, he probably thinks he can put me away. With me gone, you wouldn’t have a chance of holdin’ on to the place. He don’t know I filed on the land and that’s the only thing that can save us. If anything happens to me, get the boundary map and the title to a lawyer. Do you remember where I left it?

Sure Pa, at the little cabin in the upper valley.

Then I heard the riders coming. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the last conversation me and Pa would ever have.

The riders had surrounded the house and yelled out, demanding that Pa come outside. Fearing for me, Pa had stepped out onto the porch. You know I never altered no brands, and my boy had no part in nothing like that either. I’m asking you to leave him be. I’ll go into town with you to see the marshal about this.

But Henry Kersey had had no intention of letting Sam West actually get to town. They had the drop on Pa and they forced us both leave with them. Heading toward town, the last thing I remembered was being struck a wicked blow from behind. When I came to, my head was pounding and I was in the Millers Fork jail. I learned that I was accused of helping to steal cattle and was told that my Pa had been shot and killed, supposedly while trying to escape. The story was that I had been knocked unconscious as I had tried to follow him. I was to stand trial for cattle rustling.

Although a few of the local people had supported me, it was a put-up job and I had been found guilty. Citing my age, the sentencing judge had given me a moderate sentence of five years in the Yuma territorial prison. I was seventeen at the time.

Now I stared at the old cabin, remembering the days Pa and I had spent together here while we worked at building the main house in the lower valley. My emotions were a mix of hatred for the Kersey outfit and a great loneliness for my father.

At a little over six feet and one hundred ninety pounds, I knew I was a burden to the worn out old horse I straddled. He was ready to go to pasture but he was still a good horse and had carried me all the way here from the Yuma prison. I had paid the owner for the old horse and worn out saddle with seven of the fifteen dollars given to me by the warden when I was released. The remaining eight dollars I paid to the owner of a general store just outside prison grounds for a new .45 cal. Colt single action army revolver, one hundred rounds of ammunition and a holster. Funny that the price was the exact amount of money I had left.

I had begun to practice with the Colt as soon as I was out of sight of the prison and the old skill quickly returned. I had always been good with my hands and I remembered Pa telling me early on that it could be my ruin unless I used careful judgment.

The old dun twitched his ears at the flies and I decided I would turn the old boy out as soon as I could find a replacement, so he could live out his days in the grassy fields of this upper range.

I had taken to wearing a beard while in prison, mostly because I needed to look older and rougher. I had put a lot of muscle on an already sizable frame and calluses on my hands from the rough work assigned to me. I admitted to myself that my stone grey eyes under heavy black brows and the full dark beard gave me a somewhat menacing appearance.

My anger and hatred for the men who destroyed my life had turned to a deep, resolute and ever present determination. Now that I was back, I intended to restore my father’s good name and the legacy he had intended for me. If I couldn’t clear the name of Sam West, I would give them reason to remember the name Farin West.

Chapter two

I dismounted, but still I hesitated to move over to the cabin. The old homestead had survived the years and although time and nature had taken its toll, it still appeared as sturdy as the day Pa had finished it. Memories of a happier time crowded back my hate as I thought of my childhood and how close I had felt to my father during the short time we spent here. The sights and sounds of this place reminded me of those days and I stood for a long time trying to block out the recent years and enjoy my memories.

Unlike many people who migrated from the east, Pa had been a true frontiersman. After my mother died during childbirth, Pa had decided to head west with me in tow. I could hardly imagine the enormity of the risk he undertook in venturing into the frontier with a young son and no wife. It had been a slow and methodical transition from cities and towns to the vast emptiness of the plains. We would move on only after Pa had taught me all he could about the area, trees, plants, animals and the people who lived there, whether white or Indian.

As a younger man Pa had been a scout for the Second Calvary under Major Cleveland Rhimes, stationed at Fort Riley, Kansas. His ability as a tracker and scout had grown quickly as he worked with two other scouts attached to the company, and added to his already impressive skills. The senior scout had been Sergeant Dallas Sanger, a man born and raised on the plains who could blend into the landscape at a moment’s notice if the situation called for it. The other was a full blooded Apache warrior named Eyatahay, who had a reputation for being able to track a snake over a flat rock and was adept at killing with a knife, an arrow or even his hands. Eyatahay had disliked firearms of any kind, claiming they were too loud and required little skill to use. He had once told Pa that a true warrior was measured by the strength of his enemies. It was the warrior who won in hand to hand combat that walked tallest in the tribes, for anyone could kill from a distance. His weapon of choice was his knife and he was a master in its use. The only men who had been able to communicate effectively with Eyatahay were Sergeant Sangar and after a few months, Pa.

Eyatahay had scouted for the Second Cavalry because he was a realist and he knew that war against the whites was a lost cause. He did what was required of him, rarely divulging any but the most necessary information, and never against his own people.

After leaving the army and suffering the loss of his wife, Pa seemed driven to train me to survive on my own, in any kind of situation. I thought he was sometimes rough and demanding but I now understood why.

We avoided settlements whenever possible as Pa had cared little for most human contact. I, on the other hand, found it exciting on the rare occasions when we went into a town or stopped to visit at a ranch or farmstead. I liked talking and playing with other boys. Sometimes though, I found that boys in the settlements were given to exaggeration and boasting about their skills and accomplishments when I saw little evidence of their abilities or the accuracy of their tales. However, pointing out their shortcomings had often resulted in minor altercations, followed by stern looks from their parents and quick departures for us. Like my father, I was most comfortable out on the plains with just the two of us.

Now, studying the weathered cabin here in the upper basin of the Little Buttes area of Colorado, I knew that life here in this place was the best a man could hope for. When Pa had first found this valley, he had sat for a long time without saying a word. I knew better than to interrupt my father when he was contemplating an idea or a problem, so I simply waited for him to reveal what he was thinking. I remember my surprise when Pa had said, Son, this is where we will make a life.

We had lived in this cabin for two years while Pa built our permanent house in the lower valley. Our closest neighbor back then was Cylas Mason and his family, eight miles to the west. Cylas and his wife had two sons and a daughter. Each of the boys was a natural born ghost in the woods and could bark a squirrel at three hundred yards with a long rifle. Pa respected Cylas and they had built a strong friendship over the years.

Pa had learned to be thorough, likely due to his military service. He knew the only way to insure ownership and a future for me was to hold a legal claim to his land. So as soon as he had set boundary markers, Pa had gone to Colorado Springs to file his claim. Usually claims were filed locally, but he knew how often those claims were misplaced, lost or burned in fires of questionable origin. He had made sure none of the boundary markers were visible to a casual observer. The steel pins were driven three inches below ground, but carefully marked on his map, with landmarks for locating them if the need arose. If my carefully thought out plan had any chance of working, I would need that map and copy of the deed to locate the limits of our ranch.

When the ‘Lazy KK bar’ outfit had moved their beef onto our range and crowded our cattle, we had moved the small herd to the upper basin, accessible only through a break in the rocks that had eroded out of the stone over the years. The passage led to the upper valley where we had built the original cabin. Only wide enough for two or three steers side by side, it had taken us nearly a day to get them through the notch.

The small valley wasn’t big enough to handle much more than this small herd and winters in this upper valley could be brutal. So Pa, being an old warrior, had decided to take the fight to the Kerseys. He knew he was in the right but he hadn’t known the extent of the greed or motives of the ‘Lazy KK bar’, or the extremes to which Kersey and his son Bret would be willing to go.

Now at twenty-two, my stay in prison had toughened me and taught me lessons I would never have learned anywhere else. I had learned how to fight. Not just boxing or wrestling, but fighting for my life where no rules applied and using every dirty trick was expected. I lost many fights in that first year, but I was a quick study and soon began to hold my own, then to beat down my antagonists. The brutality of prison life had taught me how to survive. I learned to win at cards, both fair and crooked, how to pick a lock (or someone’s pocket), how to use a knife and also how to make one. Because of the outcasts of society living on the misery of others who were bunched in that place, I had quickly learned things that sometimes took even hardened criminals years to perfect.

I had paid my dues with bruises and bought into the prison life with broken bones, cuts and stab wounds. Finally I learned enough that I gained a reputation for being dangerous man. In the Yuma territorial prison, this was an achievement that few men attained. In a world of cut-throats, murderers and thieves, bad men were the norm, but a dangerous man was someone to be avoided. Such a reputation generated few friends and many enemies, but it had sure cut down on the wear and tear on my knuckles. Once the proving time was over, I had emerged as one of the top feeders. I was always on my guard and rarely if ever trusted anyone. Now I was ready and anxious to even the score.

I left the horse ground-hitched in the edge of the tree line. I didn’t want to leave any trace that I had been here, no horseshoe tracks or picket pin holes. This cabin might need to be my base of operations, at least for the initial stage of the plan I had worked out during the time I spent in Yuma. I would set no pattern for anyone to see so I would use a different route if I came here again. I had heard that after my father’s death and my own imprisonment, the Kersey’s had moved into our main house and declared it theirs, by default. As far as anyone in town knew, the land had never been filed on and having a big outfit move into the area permanently had seemed a good financial boon for the town. It hadn’t hurt that Henry Kersey had offered to pay a foreclosure fee of five hundred dollars into the town coffers to at least make the transaction appear legal.

Henry’s son Bret, although only sixteen at the time, had begun to swagger around town and was often seen practicing with a six gun. The townspeople thought it was a small price to pay for the new prosperity they were enjoying.

I was the only one who knew now that the land and especially the water rights for three thousand acres was mine and mine alone. However, I would have to live long enough to legally establish that claim and I already knew the Kersey outfit wasn’t above murder. When they found out that I held legal claim, I might as well have a target painted on my back for every Kersey rider to take aim at. My plan could only succeed if I stayed alive to put it in motion.

As I approached the cabin I decided to use the hidden door we had built at the rear. It was a safety precaution my father had designed into the cellar so there would be two exits in case of an Indian attack. The rear door was nearly impossible to see unless you knew where to look and even then it took time to locate the lever that allowed the door to move. It was a clever contraption, typical of Pa’s ingenuity. Moving a rock near the base of the door allowed a spring loaded pin to move forward enough to let the catch operate. I swung the door inward and smelled the familiar damp, musty odor of the cellar as I ducked inside. I took down an old oil lamp and shook it. There was only a little oil left in the bottom. I must remember to bring more oil if I returned. I lit the lamp and peered about.

Making my way through the spider webs and decayed remnants of the items stored in the cellar, I climbed the ladder to the trap door in the floor. As I started to raise the door, I thought I heard a horse outside. No, it was more than one, two or three perhaps. I quickly extinguished the lamp and fanned the smoke away as best I could. Then I waited.

Someone tried the front door without much luck. I heard a hard grunt followed by the sound of the door giving way, then boots on the hardwood floor planks, two sets at least.

Man, this place is spooky, said a voice from close to the front door.

Get a grip on yourself Frank, we ain’t here on no social call. The boss said we was to search this place, but good, said the other man.

Didn’t you tell him we searched it when we found it four years ago? After a pause, the other man replied, Frank, you know as well as me that you can’t tell the boss nothin’. You take a chance just askin’ him something!

As I tried to recall if the trap door was visible above, I remembered again my father’s ingenuity. The trap door was constructed so that the planks appeared to be random length pieces of flooring rather than a rectangular door. Few people would give it a second glance and since I hadn’t yet opened the door prior to their arrival, nothing would be disturbed. Now, if my horse was back in the tree line far enough and if he kept quiet, he might go unnoticed. I could hear the men moving our old handmade furniture, shifting the table and poking around the fireplace. I wasn’t worried. The documents I was after would never be found in the dark or by casual search. My biggest fear during the years of my absence was that the cabin might have been burned.

Finding nothing, the men soon gave up with exasperated curses for being sent on such a wild goose chase.

Let’s go, Woody. Frank finally called the other man by name. This place gives me the creeps.

"Yeah, there’s nothin’ here, just