Showdown at Ribbon Rock

By G Russell Peterman

Joe Kirt; muleskinner, stagecoach driver, sometimes deputy and known man with a gun; is dying of consumption (tuberculosis). There is no known cure. Joe has seen doctors but none will tell him how long he has. So, Joe decides to take a last ten-mule hitch load up to Deer Creek Station on the North Platte, return to Cheyenne, and ride a boxcar with his mustang named Dancer down to Albuquerque, New Mexico to see Doc Cater, his old family doctor. It's a trip north and south filled with remembering, danger, and gun smoke.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G Russell Peterman
• Release date: Sep 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370992508

G Russell Peterman

G. Russell Peterman is a graduate of Thomasville, Missouri High School, Southwest Missouri State College, and Vanderbilt University. After retiring from teaching after 30 years, he turned to writing. Gene Russell Peterman writes as G. Russell Peterman. He collected up his forty years of poems and published them. Also, he co-authored with his daughter Kriston Peterman-Dunya four novels (two Historical fictions and two science fictions) and three short story collections. Writing his first novel alone was Luck's Wild, a Civil War story. This novel, Blue, is his second novel written alone and his tenth offering. G. Russell Peterman is married, a father, grandfather, and great grandfather. He believes in community service and has been a volunteer for 41 years. He was elected to the Fire Board of Directors , served 20 years as Treasurer and fire fighter, and earned the Missouri State Certification as a level 3 Fire Instructor. He was appointedTreasurer of the local water district and served for 19 years. He was appointed to the Cape Girardeau County Planning Commission, elected Chairman, and served 2 years.

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Showdown at Ribbon Rock

A western novelette

By G. Russell Peterman

Published by G. Russell Peterman at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 G. Russell Peterman

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retail and purchase our own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

This book is for all those of us that still read westerns.

Table of Contents

Chapter one: Before dying

Chapter two: Ribbon rock Canyon

Chapter three: The Raid

Chapter four: Orphaned

Chapter five: Beholden

Chapter six: A beginning

Chapter seven: Bushwhackers

Chapter eight: Night Deputy

Chapter nine: Alley Shootout

Chapter ten: Visit to Doc Cater

Chapter eleven: A redhead

Chapter twelve: Another promise

Chapter thirteen: Gunsmoke in Ribbon Rock

About the author

Other books by author

A sample chapter of the book Blue

Chapter One

Before dying

A half hour after sunrise on a calm late June morning a dying man with wary darting eyes stopped on an empty dusty Cheyenne street and looked into Saylor and Wilmore Freight Yard. He saw nothing unexpected. In the freight yard are five teams of mules hitched to two Suffolk freight wagons with extra four foot sideboards, fully loaded with tied tarps. Seeing no one, he guessed Deller was in the office telling Wilmore it was ready.

As if to deny his dying condition he pushes back his shoulders and strides strongly across to the open freight yard gate loaded down with Possible Bag, roped bedroll sling tied, a Sharps rifle, and short barreled double barreled shotgun. On each step his boots make small dust puffs that seem to hang in place in the still air before falling back.

Being a careful man, he stopped in the open gate for a second look, studied the area around the five mule teams and two tarp covered wagons. In an open gate holding corral are tied a spare mule and his saddled dun. Not an extra shadow or man insight—not even Deller. Things look as they should. The dying man nods his approval.

Like so many the dying man was of average height, five-foot-five in boots, with wide straight shoulders and strong hips. A cinched tight inch-wide brown leather belt darkened by years of use held up a pair of faded denim pants, bottoms tucked in the tops of flat heel walking boots that mark him as other than a cowboy. His flat-crowned sweat-ringed brown hat pulled down over yesterday barber trimmed unruly dark brown hair shades an expressionless young-looking clean shaven oval twenty-five-year-old sun bronzed face, a blank face that would have delighted any gambler, and wears an old well-traveled dark brown leather vest over a faded blue long sleeve shirt twice patched on the left forearm and elbow. Behind his belt protrudes an old 1855 sidehammer pocket pistol converted for cartridges with a worn wooden grip. His Pa called it a Colt because he bought it from a Colt dealer, but it was really made by Root Arms as its No. 2 Charter Oak model with a 4-inch octagon barrel.

The dying man called it a Colt too for it was one of the only two things he had from his Pa. The other was his dun, Dancer, which his Pa paid two dollars cash money for. Wild mustang hunters driving a herd south needed water and did not want to be bothered with a two week old colt. He remembered the morning of his twelfth birthday when Pa handed him the little dun’s lead rope saying with a grin, Name him...he’s yours. Remembering, his eyes glance at Dancer.

With a loud mouth filling harrumph the dying man spits, a forced spit to see if he was still dying today. The telltale red spot of blood in his spittle was larger and brighter than yesterday morning.

Downhill all the way, he muttered, explaining aloud to an empty freight yard his condition in muleskinner terms.

Only, his saddled dun’s ears turn.

Having faced death many times in his young life, the only reaction to this daily death sentence was a small shrug with no emotion showing on his face. And, not being a trusting man, he spit again, and saw again in his spittle an equally large bright red bloody spot. This one he believed.

Staring down at the second blood spot he muttered, Downhill for sure...be slow next time. Instantly it hit him that planning to be slow was a cowardly thought. His usually blank unreadable face frowned as he shook his head to get rid of it.

Noticing nothing unexpected he adjusted his grip on the weapon in each hand. The right carried a Buffalo Gun, an old single shot Sharps rifle with a heavy octagon barrel converted to take a .50-70 cartridge. In his left he carried an equally old short 15-inch barrel double-barreled sidehammer twelve-gauge shotgun made by the Rhode Island Field Gun Company. Loaded with buckshot a short barreled shotgun, that some called sawed off or coach gun, was dangerous up close; but next to useless at any distance. No man carried one for hunting rabbits or quail—and he did not. This one had frightened crowds and hidden killers in dark narrow alleys.

During his pause the dying man twisted his neck, pretending to ease an irritating Possible Bag strap or bedroll rope to sneak a last glance up and down the empty street, before his attention turned back to the freight yard. Darting eyes carefully scanned the yard a last time but saw no one. There are only tied down tarpaulins over two fully loaded freight wagons with extra sideboards hooked together, water barrels and tools hanging on each side, and five teams of harnessed and hitched mules, a ten-mule hitch. Reins are wrapped around a pushed forward and locked brake handle and over it a coiled driver’s bullwhip. Inside an open gate holding-corral tied to the top rail are an asked for spare mule and his dun, a solid grayish brown rangy mustang gelding without a single white marking, saddled with saddle bags. Tied on the seat of the second wagon are three sacks: a burlap sack of picket ropes and pins and two larger canvas sacks of hay.

Everything was as it should be. Nodding approval he strides toward the lead wagon. His boots stir dust puffs across the empty freight yard that again seems to hang a moment before falling back. Less than ten feet from the front wheel the noise of the office screen door spring stretching stopped him, his head turns to look.

Stepping out, Deller, an expected yard worker, lifted a hand in recognition. He sat down on the bench in front to finish smoking his black bowled corncob pipe.

Looks good, Deller, the dying man offered loudly in a pleased tone.

Joe, Deller answered, you’re fully loaded, tarp-covered and tied down, ten mules harnessed and hitched, and I got you a good spare mule. Deller paused to take a pull on his pipe and through a cloud of expelled smoke added, I remembered to saddle Dancer and tie on your saddlebags.

Thanks Deller, great job. It’s real still...not an ounce of a breeze...going to be a hot one. I’d best be down the road before it gets hot.

Between puffs Deller nodded agreement.

With an added thank you nod over the information given that Joe knew was correct for Deller would protect a soft touch. His kind was the reason Joe never could get ahead. It had been a farmer needing seed money, grubstaking a prospector, or a dozen others. Right now, after ten years of working, all Joe had after paying his bill this morning at the rooming house was what he carried, a saddled horse, things in his saddlebags, and the money in his pocket. And, there was very little of that. Only a few small coins, half dozen silver dollars, one gold eagle, and two folded five dollar greenbacks—a little more than thirty dollars to show for ten years of work.

Deller, the latest to share Joe’s wealth, had had trouble with a gambling debt. Knowing better Joe loaned Deller seventy dollars two years ago before driving as a favor to Otis Champion an overflow of six passengers; that could not wait for the Fremont, Elkhorn, and Missouri Valley Railroad to finish construction into Deadwood; desperate to get to the Black Hills gold fields. His stage to Deadwood, folks called it a Mud Wagon, had four drummers coming back. The afternoon he left some angry folks wanted Deller’s money or Deller’s hide. Loans to people with a gambling habit are not collectible nor were any of the others. If any had been, they would have asked a banker—not begged money off him. With pay for this run Joe would have just over fifty dollars.

Dying set Joe to wondering when the time came would there be enough for burial. If not, he guessed it would be a public expense to some town, city, or county. Thinking folks don’t like having dead bodies lying around he stepped up on the front wheel hub for the sideboards had raised the seat four more feet. Lifted his rifle and shotgun up to lean against the seat, lifted the provided canteen on the seat to make sure it is full, and he slipped his bedroll and Possible Bag off and up under the seat.

Stepping down he heard Deller pound hot ash out of his pipe. Nodding to Deller Joe started a first inspection walk around the five teams of mules and two wagons. On the far side Joe heard the front screen door spring stretch and door slam as Deller stepped into tell Mister Wilmore that he was here. Finishing his trip around the front wagon, he started inspecting the second.

On the far side Joe paused remembering Adolph Griggs’ comment this morning while he enjoyed a second cup of almost too hot coffee. Six-foot-six and three hundred pound Adolph, who could eat more than any two men, had paused in the middle of a grab for three more pancakes with one hand and other the pitcher of warm molasses. His comment interrupted a discussion that had wandered from Butch Cassidy and Al Rainer’s arrest last April for stealing a horse, to hard nosed former deputy Johnny Owens chances of winning election for sheriff and cleaning up Newcastle County, before plunging deep into Populists James Weaver’s chances in the upcoming presidential election against Harrison and Cleveland.

We’ve had 8 or 9 inches of rain so far. It’s a wet year, Adolph blurted out in his rough deep voice loud enough to drown out all the others and sparked a short respite from politics, but anyone claiming Wyoming had perfect weather suffered.

Grinning Joe told the assembled breakfast crowd he doubted there had been that much and also doubted that dry Wyoming ever had a wet year did help lengthen Wyoming’s weather discomfort for those Wyoming’s the best folks." Weather history intruded as others brought up dates of large rain storms, years of drought, and remembered or guessed at yearly rain totals. Glad he had been to finish his coffee and leave before politics started again.

The thought wet year made his usual blank face grin, but his darting eyes never stopped checking the wagon, wheels, water barrels, tools on the side, the two wagon hook-up, ten hitched mules, and the yard. Still grinning Joe ended his walk around the second wagon, heard the front screen door spring stretch, and started off to meet Mister Marion Wilmore as the door slammed. Suddenly, he had a feeling of being watched.

Being a careful man Joe trusted his feelings that have many times kept him alive. Someone was watching him, he was sure. Slowly his fingers worked his Pa’s old Sidehammer Pocket Colt up a little higher behind his belt, turned it to the right hand, and tried to make it look like a move to be more comfortable.

The screen door spring stretched a second time and slammed behind Deller. Wishing he dared to whirl around and look behind him, Joe stopped halfway. Watching the short flabby brown suited clean shaven black haired man walk toward him with a pale pasty color Joe thought Wilmore’s dying too.

Sign this, ordered Mister Wilmore, the pudgy station master and part owner, pushing forward a paper and short pencil. To Wilmore, Joe was not one of his company’s three regular muleskinners paid monthly, just another wandering one that drove when Wilmore had extra loads and moved on to drive for others when he did not.

Saw Deller had signed to verify what was under each tarp and Joe trusted Deller not to cause any trouble. If he did, Deller knew Joe would ask for his money back. Later, Deller might play games if he thought Joe pressed too hard to collect. After licking the pencil lead, Joe held the paper against his thigh and signed on the next empty line. Not being a company man, Joe held out his other hand for his pay while handing back the paper and pencil.

We agreed on 20 for this one way ten-mule hitch trip to Deer Creek Station. If you come back this way, I might have a load for you. Leave both wagons and mules with Herman Baxter. He’s paid for ‘em and will unload his stuff in his new store. The fool doesn’t know it takes more than a railroad spur, mail route, and a weekly stage to make it pay. Having finished his duty and having said his piece, Wilmore took back the signed paper and pencil before handing over two folded greenbacks.

Wilmore’s comments made Joe to wonder why the man was a little irritated that Baxter was opening his new store in a faraway place with a rail line along the Platte and could have more easily gotten these goods by rail and not by Wilmore’s freight wagon. Just how could Baxter hurt Wilmore’s freighting business Joe wondered? Then, it hit him that Baxter was really buying mules and wagons to haul his own freight. Being careful not to smile or act interested for Wilmore like all freighter owners was against railroads and competitors. Politely Joe nodded over the unasked for comment, accepts both folded greenbacks, and glanced down at two tens.

Wilmore waited for acceptance of payment.

His second nod and voiced, Okay, told Wilmore it was the correct amount and that they had a deal.

Wilmore nodded for he knew from pass dealings and Joe’s reputation that the job would be done, turned on his heels, and never looked back all the way back inside.

When the office door slammed shut Joe pushed both folded bills into a right front pants pocket. Still annoyed by that being watched feeling, Joe finished inspecting both wagons, checked to be sure that a pair of water barrels on each side of both wagons are almost full, and that all wheels were tight and greased. Carefully Joe inspected each mule, harness, and chain hook-up. It pleased Joe that only one of the ten mules seemed ornery, but pulling should cure that. Carefully Joe checked that all the lines were separated into two correct groups. Climbing down he observed movement and turned to look.

It’s Melvin Roe, another muleskinner, arriving for work.

Roe waved.

In response Joe nodded and lifted a hand.

One final time Joe inspected both wagons and all five hitched mule teams, corrected only one half twisted chain, before heading for the corral to get the extra mule and his rangy dun-colored mustang, Dancer, to tie on back. He would have let Dancer roam free but Mister Wilmore did not allow loose stock in his yard. While tying the extra mule behind the second wagon, Joe heard the front door spring stretch as