The Long Ride

By Olin Thompson

This the first story in the saga of two families, Dean and Egan, drawn together by friendship as well as desire to give justice to the small communities in a raw Wyoming. They dealt it as it should be done, swiftly and surely.
They had little time or patience with those who would take and waste lives of those who would strive for life in the harshest of environments.
The Deans and Egans were epitome of hard work, endurance, and justice in the late
1870s. — The author
The Long Ride is a real page-turning western in the style of Louis L’amour. I can hardly wait for Mr. Thompson’s next book. — Sam Warren, editor The Writer’s Life
A real page turner. Never seems to end the action. Very compelling reading. — Father Williams

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Warren
• Release date: Jul 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9780945949336

Book preview

The Long Ride

The first book in the series: Dean and Egan, the Story of Two Families

Written by Olin Thompson

Look for these books in the future by author Olin Thompson in the Dean and Egan, the Story of Two Families series:

The Dogs of Justice

No Hiding Place

Edge of the Knife

Terror and Revenge

Copyright © 2006 by Olin Thompson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

This free eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and to give you a sample of the works of author, Olin Thompson. If you enjoyed reading it, we hope you will consider buying the other book in the series.

See other books by Olin Thompson at the back

ISBN: 978-0-945949-33-6

Published by:

BOOKWARREN PUBLISHING SERVICES

3322 Eighth Ave., Studio 1

San Diego, CA 92103

mailto:[e-mail]

Website: http://www.bookwarren.com

DEDICATION

I want to thank my wife for her patience and assistance in reading and editing my work. The most influential person who urged me to test my talents and start writing was my college English professor. My mother said my imagination was too vivid anHd kept trying to get me to think like an accountant. I just couldn’t do that. I had to write.

That’s about it. My father was an accountant and thought that as a writer I’d never make it. He’s probably right, but then, I love writing more than adding and subtracting. Who knows what a deferred accrual debit is anyhow?

PROLOGUE

In the early years of this country, men emerged who would be lawmen. Some of those would-be lawmen were, in reality, as many of the men before them, were outlaws who saw the opportunity to use their positions of power, a badge and a gun, to take from those less fortunate, using every bit of the law as their shield. This opportunism was typical throughout the history of mankind from the beginning of time.

However, two men, Dean and Egan, came from rancher stock that had a morality and an ethic which demanded right and justice must work or the future of the country was, indeed, bleak.

They pinned on their badges and went to work to protect the innocent and prosecute the evil doers who preyed on the less fortunate.

Their stories are intertwined in this tale. The men converge on one particularly important theme.

Justice will prevail.

Chapter 1

The killer was in Montana. Will Dean would have to bring him home.

Conroy had been drinking all day in the Aquisto, New Mexico bar CORONA GLORIOSA. His speech was slurred and his actions were belligerent. His breath was rancid from unwashed teeth and the alcohol created even more corruption. He spit often into the green brass spittoon trying to relieve the ugly taste from his mouth – it didn’t do any good. Sometimes he missed and spit on the floor and sawdust splattered. The dark interior of the saloon was lit only by the ambiance from the exterior light which gave an eerie glow to the aged yellow wood and row scarred dirty floor.

Conroy yelled, Leave the go’dam’ bottle, Tom. I got two dollars an’ I wanna drink two dollars worth.

You had enough, cowboy, the man called Tom said.

Conners tried to focus again. They’s better places than this to get a dring, he said stupidly.

Fine with me. Tom turned and walked away setting the bottle down on the counter behind the shaved log bar.

Conroy rose and wove a path out the door and down the street. He stuck a hand in his pocket and felt two coins, one was a silver dollar and no matter how hard he looked at it he couldn’t make out the other, but thought it might be two bits.

His mind tried to realize what he’d done and finally it came to him that he had spent every cent he had in the world.

Damn! he said to no one in particular, but the lady walking by looked insulted.

Sorry, he tipped his hat and almost fell, Ma’am. He stuck out his tongue at her as she turned into a garment shop.

Edgar stepped on the stoop in front of the board walk and made a weaving bee line for the bank. Get some money, he mumbled to himself.

Good day, sir, the man in the green eye shade said as Edgar walked in. Motes hung in the still air lit by the bright sunlight as it pierced the window.

Good day to you, yourself. And then Edgar hiccupped. May I help you?

Need some money.

Well, what’s the account name? the man asked pleasantly and took a form from his little stack of chits. He clearly figured the customer was not going to be able to make out the form for himself.

Under the name of, Edgar turned and looked around at the others in the room, leaned closer to the window, and whispered, Stick M. Up.

That’s funny sir, the man said, smiled, but looked uncomfortable.

Ain’t funny, mister, plumb serious. And then Edgar Conroy slid the well worn black Colt six shooter across the counter and held it for the man to see. Edgar licked at his too long greying moustache then wiped it dry with the tattered sleeve of his sweat stained wrangler’s shirt. He felt himself wanting to pee or spit, but didn’t do either.

I haven’t got much, the banker said quivering and slid open the drawer. As you can see. There’s not but about forty dollars here, he whined.

Edgar stood straight up and smirked, Well, then, I guess I’ll have that.

The man didn’t bother counting the money out to Edgar and as the robber turned to leave the banker screamed, Robbery!

Edgar turned and with his pistol banging away he plugged two holes in the wall just above the yeller’s head; then Edgar called loudly, Ever’one stay still. I ain’t inter’sted in killin’ no one, but anyone follers, I’ll do it, sure enough.

Everyone stayed still and two men in the back, wide eyed, held their hands up at shoulder level while the hollow ring of the shots in the room still echoed in their ears.

Stay whar you are!

Edgar then ran out the door and tripped on the step off the wood walkway. When he gathered himself together he saw the Sheriff and another man running across the street.

Without hesitation Edgar pulled the trigger of the pistol and watched one of the two fall and then he shot again and the second man seemed like he slipped in the dusty street and folded in a lump.

Damn, I’m in a pile o’ buffalo manure now, Edgar lamented softly to himself. He ran down the street two more doors, jammed the bundle of singles and other paper money in a pocket, jumped in the saddle, and kicked the sides of the pony. He felt somewhat sober at that instant.

He raced off to the north in a big hurry. His mind still wasn’t focused on his act, but he knew he had done something incredibly bad. He very nearly peed his pants as he spit a long stream into the wind whistling by him.

Deputy Federal Marshal Will Dean was a strong man. Just over 22, muscular, big in the shoulders and husky. Face made firm by strong jaw and heavy forehead. His hair was course and waved slightly. He had an eyebrow scar from a fight when he was a youth. Will had grown up on a two hundred acre New Mexico ranch cut from a hacienda by the generous owner, a ranch not quite busted; his family now dead from pain, sorrow, and just plain worn out.

Nice lookin’ kid.

Will smiled when he heard someone say that one time as he worked at scrubbing the jailhouse floor. He was pleased they thought so.

His parents homesteaded the small ranchito and had dreams of a bigger, more productive, place. Will had been the son born before the war. To pass the horrible hours, days, and years of miserable fight- ing, his father told Will, I thought about you and your mother, son. That was what got me through.

Then Will’s father added proudly, And you are our son. Will Dean’s mother, Ida, was a pleasant soul. Ida buried her husband when he died after a fall from his horse. She tried to run the distressed ranch herself. Will was some help, but Ida forced him to go to school.

One day, his books underarm and the chewed-end pencil behind his ear, he came home to find his mother asleep at the hand hewn square table in the large one room house.

Hi, Mom! Will called, went to the pump and got a face full of water to wash away the salty sweat. Mom! Will urged, but she rested her head in her arms.

Hey, time for chores.

He went out and milked the old cow, mucked the stall, and ran some water into the ditch for the two unruly pigs.

Time for fresh bacon, he muttered. How about some pork chops and a nice ham. He looked up and calculated. We’ll pay off what we owe the grocer with the meat we don’t use.

He returned to the house and before he entered, he tried to stomp the manure smell and residue from his worn out boots – his mother swept the dirt floor clean every day with the home-bound corn straw broom.

She was still where she’d been when he came in, so he went to her side and shrugged her a little to wake her. She fell over with her eyes closed and lips locked shut; he found she was dead.

Will was devastated since he’d lost both parents before he was sixteen, before he was a man, and before they could help him get past the hardest days. He was all alone now and nothing could change it though he knew he would survive.

But how? He wondered.

Will got the worn out spade from the corral and looked around for a spot away from the house near his father’s grave, and shoveled up a burial site for his mother. She would be happy here, he knew, beside his father. Will cried, silently, only a few salty tears.

He lingered about the house for several days, wondering what to do – stay or go? And if he went, where would he go?

Sheriff Benson liked young Will Dean and told people the boy would amount to something; so, at sixteen Will had to have a job and Deputy Sheriff was as good as any at the time; but there were no openings. Will had to stay with the Sheriff and his wife while the boy went to school.

Will felt that if nothing else went badly for him in that his sixteenth year he’d make it. His Mom and his Dad dying was enough, he thought. His seventeenth year he finally got a job with the Sheriff, cleaning the office mostly, until the other Deputies moved on. Paid fifty cents a day, but that was more than the nothing a day he’d been getting in school.

The Deputy latest to leave gave Will a .44-40 Army Number 1 Colt with black grips, obviously from dirty hands; it had been stuffed in a burlap wrap. The Colt was used, but it seemed it had never been abused. The Colt was Will’s, the man said. Will admired it and would liked to have had it, but it seemed too much to wish for.

I’m not sure when I might get back this way, boy, so you take good care of it. When you get some money you buy your own gun and save this one for me. I’ll try to collect it someday. You be good, hear?

Will could only stand jaw flapping and astounded someone would offer him a pistol like that. It was beautiful he told the man.

And the former Deputy rode off on that ugly dunn colored thing he called a horse. The zebra stripes of the near-wild pack animal – he said he had collected in the Chama-Rio Aribas wild lands – was obviously anxious to kick the pack off and go on his own. The departing Deputy tugged on the rope around its neck and muzzle and they were gone; tall and straight, his eyes ahead, the Deputy never looked back, though Will waved.

The days passed for the fledgling lawman while he learned how to use the .44-40. Days on duty he oiled the holster. He practiced how to shoot straight and draw rapidly – in that order – while he was off duty.

When he was nearly eighteen a flier came through that the Federals were looking for Marshals for the Wyoming territory.

Think I’ll write ‘em, Will said to Sheriff Benson.

You ain’t got a chance. Too many lawmen already applying for them jobs. Lookee here, time to apply is up the end of the month. You’re too late anyhow.

But Will applied and the appointments were made in Denver. Will was the last one to be chosen. He found, years later, a glowing report from Sheriff Benson was the reason they took him as the youngest Marshal.

Then, as Deputy Federal Marshal, riding into Cheyenne to pick up his mail one warm summer day two years later, Will had an uneasy feeling. He’d paced the floor the next night without getting the tension relieved.

Come to bed, Will, his new wife urged.

I’m sorta nervous about something. I don’t know what it is, but it’s really botherin’ me. Like something I left undone at the office, but I checked and it’s all finished. He shook his head to clear the specter. Momma used to say somethin’ was walkin’ on her grave, he told his wife and sighed.

I’ll get up and make some coffee, she finally said. Thanks, but you get some sleep.

Elizabeth ignored him. She was his wife of only a month and seemed still caught up in the close and warm feeling with her man.

Will picked up the paper and read, September 4, 1876; the paper said it served the latest news. He had a terrible feeling earlier that day and then that night the cold dread of something evil fell on him.

Here, drink this, she said and sat down on the kitchen chair across from him.

Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Just something. I can’t shake it.

But he sipped at the steaming mug of coffee and wondered, while outside the Summer wind whistled and thunder in the distant mountains rumbled their own music.

Chapter 2

Connor’s flight in terror started with his own poor physical condition as well as a badly handled horse. The pair forded a river early the next day after riding all night and half way across he stopped his horse, splashed water on himself with his sweat stained cowboy’s hat, and sat in the swirl for a few minutes. Edgar’s stomach rumbled and he wasn’t sure if it was from hunger or illness; but, he removed his pistol belt and hung it over the saddle. The horse turned and watched as the man slid into the water and Conroy was, again, violently ill from the ingestion of so much alcohol and the contaminants it was made with. He had answered his own question.

Conroy wanted to just sit down in the stream; but it was, he concluded from the river at the horses belly, a bit deep here for that.

Conroy stood and realized his dizziness was due to lack of food as much as from being hung over from his drunken binge. He waded, pushing water ahead of him, ashore and sat sopping wet on the rocky beach. He shook like a wet dog and flung water in every direction. His head nearly exploded from the pain which accompanied that little adventure.

The wind, though warm, swooshing down the gorge chilled him as it passed over his wet clothes. He shivered and hugged himself though nothing he did stopped the cold; all the while he looked around, still stupored by the effects of hunger and drunken debauchery. He found a few rays of sun leaking through the crags of the rocky walls. He pulled his mutton headed cayuse toward the light, looking for warmth.

He nearly ran into them. They stood their horses just looking like they were watching his antics. Edgar nearly jumped out of his skin when he found the the two men sitting with forearms across their saddle horns, leaning and watching.

Think he’s about half dead or half ‘live, Buzz? Lookin’ about half dead.

Whatchew fellers want? Edgar asked angrily.

Nothin’. Nothin’ atall. Don’t look like you got nothin’ to take anyhow.

Wall, get outta my way. Conroy lowered his head and flung his hat left and right to wave them away as he trudged forward, hauling at his black and white spotted gelding. His mind still barely functioned. He didn’t have any ambition or any idea what direction to go. He hadn’t made a plan yet, so he was just moving here and there. If he ended up somewhere, then that was fine. Edgar blew his nose, one nostril at a time, clearing it of water and drainage. He didn’t feel better, but he thought he might if he got a little food.

The two men heeled their horses back a mite and let him by. Poor creature, the man called Buzz said without sympathy. Edgar wasn’t drying very fast and even on a warm day the wind still cooled him off plenty while he watched for the sun, but as fast as he moved toward it, it went away.

Damn! Edgar muttered to himself. He sneezed a big Aaagh! Talks, Buzz.

Well, he sneezes Lunker, Buzz said with a snort.

Yeah. He said, ‘damn,’ Lunker advised in a serious sort of way.

Yup. But he don’t talk no sense, Buzz agreed.

Conroy turned and looked at them, his eyes full of terror and meanness. He would draw, cut them down, watch them fall off their horses, kick them in the water, and the two would float all the way to Albaturkey, he thought as his nose drained onto his upper lip and he first licked at it then wiped it with a wet shirt sleeve.

Then Edgar realized his gunbelt and all the firepower was still over his saddle. He just stood there looking at the two.

Silent now, Buzz said softly.

Can’t talk, Lunker said conspiratorially. Yup. Can’t talk.

Can too, Edgar finally acknowledged. He sneezed again, equally grandly. Aaaaagh!

Can too, the two men agreed nodding at one another.

Buzz wondered, ...if the man is drinkin’ somethin’ he oughta share with us?

Nope. All drunk up. Edgar didn’t look up. He wiped his nose again.

All of it?

Yeah. I drunk it up. He coughed up phlegm and spit into the water and watched it float away.

Well, that’s not neighborly to not offer none to friends. I got no friends.

Got to go back to work cowboyin’? Buzz wondered. Nope, Edgar snapped.

Where you ride? Lunker asked. Got fired.

Booted? Buzz said with an amazed tone. Yeah. Conroy hung his head.

"Kiss the rancher’s