El Sombre: The Saga of Boozer Runyan

By Davy L. Moody

El Sombre: Saga of Boozer Runyan

Cheyenne, Wyoming, in the l880s,
finds itself in the grip of a secret,
underworld crime syndicate, that is
grabbing land from the locals.

Undercover U.S. Marshal, Adam
West, (Alias, Boozer Runyan) from
Washington, DC, arrives, incognito,
discovering an invisible empire of
Satanic interests that are seeking to
fund a war, at the risk of collapsing
the American Banking System,
using The Wild Bunch as pawns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477274569

Davy L. Moody

Dave, a graduate of Ouachita Baptist University, Class of 1951-53, is married to his wife of 49 years, Effie Crump-Moody. Dave, a military graduate of the OBU ROTC program, was assigned to USARPAC, 25th Infantry (Tropical Lightning) Division in 1954, and later as an infantry line officer, was assigned to Coronado Naval Base near San Diego, for training in “Embarcation and Loading,” in preparation for transfer of the 35th Infantry “The Cacti” Regiment to the Korean War Zone. While in Coronado, he had opportunities to cross over the border into Tijuana, Mexico, to get a first-hand look at the hardship, poverty, and suffering of the ordinary citizens in the setting of the tougher elements of the Mexican border environment. This experience, in part, formed the background setting for his second novel, El Sombre—Shadow of the Mast.

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter 1: Look What The Dust Blowed In!

Chapter 2: Boozer Runyan on Probation

Chapter 3: Boozer’s Triumph

Chapter 4: The Diamond D Incident

Chapter 5: Boozer Forms an Alliance

Chapter 6: A Night Under the Stars

Chapter 7: Moonlight Marauders

Chapter 8: Boozer Buys Some Stock

Chapter 9: Boozer Goes to Church

Chapter 10: Boozer Accepts a Proposition

Chapter 11: A Secret Meeting at the Cheyenne Club

Chapter 12: Rogue Riders

Chapter 13: Gunplay at Hanley’s Hereford Hacienda

Chapter 14: Hanley’s Helping Hand

Chapter 15: Runyan Riles and Routs the Wild Bunch

Chapter 16: Butch Cassidy Gang Takes Lizzy’s Ring in Train Robbery

Chapter 17: Boozer Runyan, Alias, Adam West, U.S. Marshal

Chapter 18: Bat Masterson Pays Friendly Visit, and Opts Out

Chapter 19: Lizzy Arrives in Town

Chapter 20: Kid Turner Arrives in Town

Chapter 21: El Sombre Eavesdrops at Hanley’s Hereford Hacienda

Chapter 22: George Curry, alias Big Nose Maneuse, Goes from Predator to Prey

Chapter 23: Kid Turner on the Rampage

Chapter 24: Shootout at High Noon; Boozer Comes in Second

Chapter 25: El Sombre Infiltrates the Circle of Thirteen

Chapter 26: Attack on the Trotter Ranch

Chapter 27: A Financial Noose for the Circle of Thirteen

Chapter 28: The Wrath of El Sombre

Chapter 29: The Duke of Arlington to the Fore

Chapter 30: Boozer’s Ghost Upsets the Cook

Chapter 31: The Duke of Arlington Makes the Rounds

Chapter 32: The Duke of Arlington in Peril

Chapter 33: The Duke of Arlington Misses a Hunt

Chapter 34: War clouds, Intrigue, and Demon Force

Chapter 35: The Troubled Cowpoke from the Rafter Z

Chapter 36: Search Warrants for the Diamond D, Triple H, and Rafter Z

Chapter 37: A Bomb for the Bandits of Rafter Z

Chapter 38: Secret in the Sandstone at the Rafter Z

Chapter 39: A Venture Into the Dark Unknown

Chapter 40: Storming the Brigands’ Lair

Chapter 41: Prisoners Freed from Bandit Greed

Chapter 42: Safe Haven

Chapter 43: A Moonlight Stroll

Chapter 44: Danger Stalks the Night

Chapter 45: Troubled Spirits and Triumphant Souls

Ballad of Adam West by Davy L. Moody

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my beloved wife and companion of 55 years, Effie M. Crump-Moody, who has truly been my helpmeet and partner, in these more than 55 years service as a bi-vocational worker for the Southern Baptist Convention and who will surely receive the Crown of Life, and the Crown of Motherhood, as she meets the criteria of the virtuous woman described in Proverbs 31:10-31.

Chapter 1: Look What The Dust Blowed In!

The arrival of Boozer Runyan was observed only by a couple of deputies who had been situated on the porch of the jail, each cradling a double-barreled shotgun in his arms. The deputies, shielded from the storm by several bales of hay piled head high, had been keeping guard. The word was out that the Wild Bunch was in the territory. The Cattlemen’s Association Bank had made a deal with the Town Marshal to pay 50% of the wages of the deputies with the understanding that they would keep watch and respond immediately if there was any attempt to steal the miner’s or cattlemen’s payroll which made its way into town once a month.

The two deputies had braved the dust storm that had been sweeping through the town the past three hours, but now it appeared that the wind was dying down. Most of the town’s citizenry had retreated from the storm behind closed shutters. It was three p.m. now and the storm had begun just before noon. Livestock, horses and pets had been secured in any makeshift shelters available. The howling wind hurled the abrasive sand at a velocity capable of peeling skin and blinding the eyes.

With their bandannas shielding their noses, the deputies, except for their badges, might have been mistaken for bandits, themselves.

Wal, looka there, Miles, look what thuh dust blowed in! Do you see what I see!—Er am I hallucinatin’?

200352754-001.jpg

Adam West, U.S. Marshal, Indian Territory, alias Boozer Runyan

The obscure form of a man leading a burro laden with strange utensils, emerged during a brief lull, only to be quickly swallowed up, again, by the storm.

Yuh must be; I don’t see nuthin, declared Hawkins.

Keep lookin’ down thuh street by the corral. Somethin’s out there.

Ain’t nobody with good sense out there in this storm. The Wild Bunch is givin’ yuh thuh jitters. Wait! I did see something! He eared back the hammers on the shotgun, keeping it pointed in the general direction of the corral. Miles followed suit.

A break in the storm revealed a very ludicrous picture. A bedraggled, bewhiskered old man was pulling, jerking, and pushing a very balky mule that was determined to make its way to the watering trough that was filled with nothing but wet sand. The mule was pulling stubbornly towards the trough and it’s equally determined, grisly-bearded master, was pulling hard to get it in the shelter of the stall at the corral.

The wind made it impossible to hear all the old man was saying but the louder phrases were wafted on the breeze and reached their straining ears,

. . . old crow-bait! . . . going to . . . you ring-necked rapscallion . . . fugitive from a glue factory! . . . If yew don’t . . . Blast it, Nellie! . . . They ain’t nuthin but sand . . . water trough . . . Gonna tie a stick ’o dynamite . . . tail . . . feed yuhr carcass tuh the wolves!

The disheveled figure finally dragged the huge burro bodily through the door into the stall and the wind slammed the door with a bang.

The two deputies sauntered down the street laughing behind their bandannas and the tears in their eyes were not from the sand, entirely. They eased the hammers back in place and looked at each other, guffawing merrily. Hawkins slapped his dusty knees in glee,

Don’t know which of them critters is the most determined!

Miles remarked, gleefully, I got tuh see the rest of this show if the Wild Bunch does hold up the bank. What about yew?

I wouldn’t miss this show iffin my house was on fire, but stand back; I seen that mule back hez ears en bare hees teeth just as he was dragged into the stall. If the old codger gets close to those hoofs he’s liable to make a quick exit—by air!

No sooner than the remark was made, the door slapped back against the wall of the stall and a figure came flying out to sprawl face down in the swirling, deep dust of the street. The figure seemed to lay stunned for a moment then, slowly got up, dusting himself off with his shabby sombrero, holding what looked like a bottle of liquor in the other hand. He pulled the cork, took a long swig, and put the cork back, and shoved the bottle in his back pocket, chased down and replaced his old sombrero, turned with determination and staggered back inside. They could hear a he-haw of rage and a loud thumping noise and they looked knowingly at each other.

I think the guy is drunk as a skunk! said Hawkins.

Which one do yuh think we shud put in protective custody? The mule or the fool? questioned Miles, with a smirk.

I’d say the first one thet comes out thet door.

The words were prophetic. The disheveled figure came flying back out the door, a halter in one hand, and a singletree in the other, landing on his rump in a cloud of dust. He lay there, breathless, for one painful moment, and then sat up, painfully extracting a broken bottle from his hip pocket.

I’ll teach you . . . ! You old fleabag . . . botfly bait!

He got up, unsteadily, staggered, took a firm grip on the singletree waving it like a club, stood weaving drunkenly and took a step as if to go back inside, but was collared by Miles, the heftier of the two deputies.

The dust-covered, crusty old man, with the bleary eyes, howled, Lemme go! I’m gonna teach that critter a lesson!

Hold on, old man, this is the law! If you don’t, I’m gonna bend the barrel of this six gun over your skull. Out here we don’t treat our critters like this. Hawkins, check on the mule.

You go check on the mule, retorted Hawkins, I ain’t gettin within ten foot ov thet critter. Mules en I don’t gee-haw! Nevertheless, he looked cautiously in through the door, and the mule was serenely helping herself to a heaping pile of cracked corn, bran and oats in the manger. Hawkins walked cautiously and fearfully around the mule staying well clear of the iron shod hoofs, and found no cuts or bruises.

Thuh mule looks ok to me; not a scratch on ’er.

Shucks, I wouldn’t hurt old Nellie! She’s cantankerous, and mule-headed, any time she smells water, but (hic!) I wus (hic!) just trying to get her outta thuh (hic!) storm (hic!) Shore cud use a little liquid refreshment, myself (hic!)

What do we book him on, Miles? Drunk ‘en disorderly, disturbin’ the peace, or, domestic violence? laughed Hawkins.

‘Domestic violence!’(hic!) Why, yuh young whippersnapper, I’ll (hic!) . . . his boot heel came down hard on Hawkins’ boot toe.

Ow! Add to thet, resistin’ arrest, en assault on an officer ov thuh law; let’s book ’em on all five! Help me get the cuffs on this squirmin’ vermin.

Together they struggled and dragged the unwilling prisoner to the jail and the doors clanged shut. They decided to leave the cuffs on for good measure.

Hey! Don’t I get a drink, or supper, or something? (hic!) I just journeyed ten miles acrost the desert in a dust storm, and I need a drink to clear muh parched throat! I know my rights! He began shaking the bars hard enough to rattle the door.

Give ’em a piece ov thet beef jerky, and a dipper uv water, en mebbe he’ll shut up, grumbled Hawkins.

Hawkins, he’s not talking about water, it’s booze he’s callin’ for and it’s agin the rules to give ’im liquor.

Put the water in a liquor bottle; he’s too drunk tuh know thuh difference, winked Miles.

Hawkins followed suit and the drowsy prisoner, roused and munched hungrily on the jerky and guzzled the water. In a minute he yelled, What’s in thet bottle? Air ye trying to pizen me?

That’s water, and it’s all yer gettin while yuh enjoy our hospitality. Go tuh sleep, yuh ol’ coot, and let us hev a little quiet time.

Hawkins blew out the kerosene lamp next to the cell block and returned to the Marshal’s office. Miles took out a deck of cards. He reached into a drawer and brought out a handful of pennies and counted them out until they were evenly divided and began a poker game, knowing it would be four more hours before they could lock up.

Back in the cell, Boozer Runyan listened to the conversation of the two for a moment then lay back on the cot, smiling. He congratulated himself, and old Nellie, for putting on such a good act, and settled down for a well-deserved rest. They had been successful in getting the attention of the local constabulary, as well as free room and board for the night!

As tired as he was, Runyan’s eyes, now keen and thoughtful, were reviewing the circumstances that brought him and old Nellie to this town. Boozer Runyan was not his real name. He was Johnathan Vonderbuilte, a multi-millionaire, soldier-of-fortune, who could have slept in the finest of hotels, had he not been working undercover. His work for High Command Liaison, often called for various aliases and disguises to hide his true identity and purpose. In fact, he was known in Washington, DC, as U.S. Marshal Adam West—another alias to confuse the ungodly.

He, with two of his peers, William Pennye, and Richard Rothchilde, all fabulously rich, were the heart and soul of High Command Liaison, which in turn worked hand in hand with a secret international organization known as High Command. This organization was the pilot program for an organization which was now on the drawing board, which would be called The League of Nations. High Command was a pilot program set up by treaty with member nations who would join forces to fight international crime, to battle piracy on the high seas, slavery, smuggling, and tyrants who would use their overwhelming wealth and power to exploit and terrorize the masses.

Johnathan Vonderbuilte, code-name Shadow-man, was the cutting edge of the organization; William Pennye, code-name Desk-man, was the logistical support arm; and Richard Rothchilde, code-name, Liaison-man, handled the legal aspects both on the national and international scene.

The pledge of High Command Liaison was drafted by Johnathan Vonderbuilte, and it read:

"Having been blessed by the hand of the Almighty God, with riches beyond measure, I, Johnathan Vonderbuilte, I, Richard Rothchilde, and I, William Pennye, declare before the Almighty, and Great I Am, and covenant in the presence of each other, that we will use such resources as we now have and such as we may accrue, hereafter, for the good of mankind, and to the praise and glory of God Almighty, and to this end we pledge our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor. God help us to remain always—Servants of the Most High God."

Johnathan Vonderbuilte, alias Boozer Runyan, at the moment, was entitled to wear any, then known, badge of law officer, including the badge of Texas Ranger. He was also entitled to wear any uniform of the U.S. Armed Services up to and including, the equivalent rank of four-star General and was delegated authority from President James A. Garfield, to assume command of the U.S. Military Forces in times of martial law. In spite of his aged and grizzled appearance, brought on by skillful make-up, Johnathan was only 26 years of age!

Johnathan’s most feared alias, on the international scene, by the underworld networks, was El Sombre. Many an underworld organization that thumbed its nose at law enforcement agencies lived in mortal fear of an encounter with this mysterious destroying angel of justice and judgment.

Johnathan reached into a secret pocket of his old faded vest, and pulled out a tintype of a beautiful auburn-haired lady, which he always kept close to his heart. This was a picture of his betrothed, Elizabeth Turner, a young lady he had met in Arizona, hardly a year ago, while battling desert marauders. He had not intended for her to become cognizant of his dangerous identity and assignments, but Elizabeth and her mother, Molly, had stumbled onto his secret storage rooms that concealed his equipment and weapons, and costumes, while visiting the Vonderbilte Mansion in Virginia, on the shores of the Potomac.

In spite of their concern for him on his dangerous assignments, they had given him their blessings and promised to keep his secret. Upon discovering the vital role he played in the righting of wrongs, the reluctant Elizabeth, nearing the matronly age of twenty-three, agreed to postpone their marriage, until completion of this pressing assignment. Elizabeth and her Mother, with the help of Johnathan’s Majordomo, Victor Huge, even now, were preparing for the day of the wedding, although no exact date had been set.

Johnathan kissed the tintype, replaced it carefully in its secret lodging place and breathing a prayer of protection for his new family-to-be, lay back on the old lumpy mattress to look at the cement ceiling. He would have loved to have his King James Bible to read for a few minutes, in spite of his weariness, but, alas, it was in the pack of old Nellie; besides, the deputies had deprived him of his lantern light.

He was thinking, I will have to keep a low profile, until I learn the lay of the land. The act Nellie and I put on was to get the attention of the local Marshal and furnish the profile that I need to fit in with the scenario here. Until I learn who to trust in this neighborhood, I will have to keep up the act. He smiled, If the Marshal knew that I have a key to his jail and cell blocks, he’d probably hang me high! He chuckled to himself, and fell blissfully off to sleep.

When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid; yea, thou shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet. (Proverbs 3:24)

Chapter 2: Boozer Runyan

on Probation

Breakfast, such as it was, came at 8:00 a.m. Nate Higgins, Town Marshal, appeared at 7:30 a.m. and started his early rounds. Noticing that Runyan was the only prisoner, he yawned and began shuffling through the wanted dodgers. Finding none that resembled Runyan, he walked over to the cell and surveyed the ostensibly sleeping prisoner, and his deep base voice echoed in the morning stillness,

Wake up! Breakfast time! Higgins deliberately rattled the bars with his night-stick.

Runyan managed a convincing groan and sat up on the bunk, holding his head in his hands.

Got a hang-over, eh? Bet it’s not the first time, eh? The big Marshal spoke, Get over here and put your hands through the bars; I’m taking off those cuffs.

Runyan shambled over still holding his head awkwardly in his manacled hands. He blinked owlishly once or twice and shoved his manacled hands through the cell door.

What’s yer handle, old-timer? asked the Marshal.

It ain’t my real name, but they call me Boozer, Boozer Runyan.

And what might be yer real name? asked the Marshal, as the manacles were removed, and the prisoner began to rub the circulation back into his wrists.

Promise not to laugh? Promise to keep it to yerself? The Marshal nodded in the affirmative.

My mother christened me ‘Basil Runyan’ . . . en it’s the name thet drove me to drink, Runyan said, solemnly.

The Marshal grinned, Your secret’s safe with me. Johnathan liked him already. Your breakfast has been ordered and it’s going to be here shortly, but first, I gotta get some information for my records. My deputies have charged you with disturbin’ the peace, drunk and disorderly, vagrancy, and assault upon a deputy; it’s my duty to tell you anything you say may be held against you. Nevertheless, I need a bit of information.

He pulled out a pad and moistened the dry tip of his pencil with his lips and began to talk as he wrote:

Incident Report:

Date: March 28, l889

Time: 3:00 p.m.

Place: Main Street, town of Cheyenne

Plaintiffs: Deputies Miles and Hawkins

Defendant: Boozer Runyan,

Age:

Here he paused and asked, What’s yur age, Runyan?

Over twenty-one, Marshal.

The Marshal snorted, and wrote: Over 21.

Born . . . ? asked the Marshal.

I’m here, ain’t I? . . . Course I’m born!

"I mean, where were you born?"

Dunno, I wuz too young to notice.

Controlling his rising anger, the Marshal asked, tersely, Where are you from?

Pick a state; I been to all uv ’em.

So, yer not talkin’, eh? queried the Marshal.

I don’t talk very much when I’m hungry; it affects muh memory, Runyan stated, pointedly.

When was the last time you ate? asked Higgins.

Must hev been about two days ago; I’d never hev made it through the Wind River Valley, if’in I hadn’t had a good stock uv liquid refreshment.

Well, I’ll go see what’s keepin’ Marge with that breakfast—Oh, here she comes now.

The door slammed behind a slim brunette who looked about nineteen. She wore an apron that had about three day’s layers of grease, flour and food stains, but her hands were clean and her nails were neatly trimmed and painted a natural color, from a bees’ wax formula handed down from her grandmother. She was bearing a covered tray with two plates, one for the sheriff and the other for the prisoner. She was pretty, even with her brunette hair tucked up in a bun and tied with a stringy blue ribbon. Underneath the splattered apron, she wore a clean, blue-flowered gingham dress, and Higgins had noticed her always well-kept and neatly dressed when off duty.

Marshal, the one with an apple, and ham is yours; the one with the fat-back bacon goes to the prisoner. It don’t matter which cup of coffee yuh get; they’re both stale. Ol’ Mitch wouldn’t let me make fresh coffee until the yesterday’s batch is used up. Come over a little later and I’ll get you a fresh cup, she said, apologetically.

Don’t worry yore pretty little head, Marge; I’ll probably have to give the prisoner both cups to sober ’im up.

Marge surveyed the disheveled prisoner.

He don’t look as mean as Miles made him out to be, Marshal; he’d be fairly good lookin’ if he had a bath and a shave. Want me tuh bring him a pitcher of hot, soapy water?

Thanks, Marge, it might help the smell around here, grinned the Marshal; give me until about ten to sober him up and we’ll see.

Marshal, what about old Nellie? Did she get her breakfast this morning? By, thuh way, could I get someone tuh bring my prospecting gear and blanket? It gets kinda chilly on an ol’ man’s bones late at night here, piped up Boozer.

I get a fifteen-minute break, shortly, Marshal. I’ll go check on his mother, if you’ll tell me where she is, she volunteered.

Old Nellie is his mule; and she’s down at the Baxter corral. I plumb forgot to get his belongins. I may need them for state’s evidence, explained the Marshal; . . . guess I’ll wind up paying for her feed. May have to auction off old Nellie to pay the bill, Higgins winked, slyly, at Marge.

Thet won’t be necessary, Marshal, said Runyan, as he fumbled in his pockets and finally produced a dime-sized gold nugget. Here, give this to the livery owner; there’s more where thet came from. Tell him to take good care of old Nellie, ’en he won’t be sorry!

Boozer, yer full o’ surprises! If thet’s real, thet’s enough to feed ’er for uh month!

It’s real, Marshal, ’en I got more in my gear. I’d be much obliged ifin yu’d put the sack o’ nuggets in the bank fer me, afore some-wun makes off with it; it’s about 30 lbs o’ the mother lode.

You’ve got a sack-full o’ this stuff? Why’nt yuh say so before now? It may be long gone, already. Eat yur breakfast, Boozer. C’mon, Marge, I may need yuh to sign as a witness as to the weight of the sack. Exactly where in your gear is it? he queried.

It’s wrapped up in my bedroll in a draw-string leather pouch.

Ok, Marge, let’s go, I’ll explain yuhr absence to ol’ Fitch. We’d better hurry.

The door closed behind them. Johnathan slipped the jail key from its hiding place in a secret pocket of his belt, next to his badge, and opened the cell door. He retrieved his six-gun that the deputies had confiscated, checked the cylinder, and placed it under his bunk mattress, returned to the cell and re-locked the door and replaced the key. If the Marshal was honest, he would not need the gun, but if the gold became too great a temptation—well, he would be prepared!

When the Marshal returned, he was alone, and had Johnathan’s mule pack, including the bedroll. He was puffing from exertion, when he handed a deposit slip through the bars and asked,

Can yuh read, ol’ timer?

Shore can; got a ninth grade education.

Johnathan looked at the deposit slip and it read,

Cattlemen’s Association Bank. Deposited to the account of Boozer Runyan, thirty lbs., one ounce, of gold dust and nuggets, 85% pure, at the going sum of Fifteen dollars and 42 cents per ounce= $7532.46, less $10.00 assay fee= $7522.46. Welcome to Cheyenne, Mister Runyan.

Skip Brandon.

Guess you know the banker raised his eyebrows, a little, and asked if I had heard of any gold robberies lately. The Assayer seemed to think the lode was a little too pure. He found some lead deposits, along with some granite sand and gravel, but no traces of mercury. Said he had never heard of any such mixture hereabouts. He’s some curious as to where yuh got this gold. I strongly recommend yuh keep yer trap shut about your source; else you may start a gold rush and cause all kinds of chaos. If yuh get drunk and divulge yore secret, yore life won’t be worth a plugged nickel, warned the Marshal.

Johnathan could have told him it came from the Klondike mine in which he, himself, had controlling interest, but he kept the news to himself.

Don’t worry, Marshal, I never got that drunk in mah whole life, in fact, I’d appreciate it if you and the others would not mention mah riches, ’cause I’d be overrun with nosey gold-diggers.

Wal, they’s five of us that know, already: Thuh waitress, Marge Bennett; Banker, Skip Brandon; myself; Lloyd Smith, the Assayer; and you. Thet’s about four too many. Don’t be surprised if word gets out. Meanwhile, I guess I won’t be able to add ‘vagrancy’ to the charges I already have, but if I find that is stolen gold, you’re in a heap o’ trouble, he stated, flatly.

The Marshal continued,

I see yuh licked the platter and drank both cups while I was gone. It wasn’t the best of meals. The county is kinda chinchy on vittles for prisoners, but if you want to spend a little o’ thet gold you can eat a little better, but not much better, until ol’ Fitch gets himself a better cook.

I’ll take muh chances on thuh county fare fer the time bein’; it’s better’n I’m used to out there in the valley, besides it’ll be only trouble if I don’t keep a low profile. I’d appreciate it if yuh’d not blab my finances to thuh deputies.

No problem. Just be on your best behavior, and maybe you’ll get off with a small fine when the Circuit Judge rolls in. It’ll do yuh good to dry out for a day or two. By the way, yuh’d best respect muh deputies; they’re dumb, but honest. We’ve got a lot on our minds. Someone’s stirrin’ up the Cheyennes and the Arapahoes. It’s a wonder yuh didn’t get yur hair lifted comin’ through Warm Valley. We’ve had some rumors about the Wild Bunch being in the area, too. Yuh didn’t run across any rough looking owlhoots along the way, did you?

Nope. Seen an Injun or two, but they seemed friendly enough. Probably Crow; over about Wind River. Didn’t look like Cheyenne or Arapahoes. They had been buffalo hunting and had several packs of meat and hides; no war paint.

Boozier neglected to tell the Marshal that he and Nellie had been air-lifted by dirigible within ten miles of Cheyenne, before the storm started.

Well, it’s gonna get lively before thuh week is over, got some drovers coming down the trail from the Circle K. Comin’ in from Fort Washakie, where they left about 500 head of beef, by government contract, for the Shoshones and Arapahoes, who been complaining that the buffalo have been scarce this year. Yu’d think there’d be enough buffalo to feed 5000 head of Injuns on that Wind River Reservation; they got 1,888,334 acres o’ prime land on thet reservation!

I’ve heard of the Circle K; that’s a Texas brand, isn’t it?

Yep. Got a black foreman, ‘Silver’ Spann. He’s a ring-tailed raniyhan; heller with a gun. Holds ’en in line, except when they get to the end o’ thuh trail; then turns them loose. This is the end o’ the trail. He’s got a segundo who keeps talley, named Grant Woolford. He’s black also, and plum deadly with a gun, too. I been out to their trail camp once and they had a black cook, Hoover B. Lloyd, and I’m tellin’ yuh that outfit eats well. Thuh rest of the cowboys are Mexican, Indian, and some white, but they toe thuh line, and work as a team. It’s a rugged outfit, but treat em right and yuh got a friend for life; cross ’em, en yuh’r in trouble. Yuh don’t mess with Texans; I grew up there, myself. Me en muh deputies are gonna be right busy when they get here, cause they always try to make their first stop, the Cheyenne Club; they seem to get a kick out of arousin’ the dander of them stuck-up barons. They don’t have no hankerin’ for thuh rich snobs.

Say, Marshal, when is the Circuit Judge due to be here?

Sometime next month; I’ll hev to check muh calendar. Why?

Could I git out on probation—for a small fee?

The Marshal pondered the motive and import of the question, then scowled, Eh? Guess I’m goin’ to hev tuh add ‘attempted bribery’ tuh thuh rest o’ thuh charges! Ol’ codger, yer lookin’ at uh man that don’t cotton to ‘deals’; . . . been poor all my life, but honest! Jest cause yuh got a pile o’ gold, you ain’t due enny preferential treatment.

But, Marshal, I ain’t even sentenced, yet. Don’t I even get a chance to talk tuh a lawyer? B’sides, I wuzzent talkin’ about givin’ a bribe; I was talkin’ about puttin’ up collateral fer the damage I done, so I could be workin’ up my defense by thuh time the Circuit Judge gets here.

Whut damage? Whut defense? asked the Marshal, craftily.

Knowing, full well, where the Marshal was headed, Johnathan deliberately responded, Didn’t I stomp on yuhr deputies toes? I must hev been drunker ’n I thought!

So! Yuh admit it! Didn’t I tell yuh anything yuh said would be held against yuh? Now I got me a confession. Keep on talkin’, yer gettin’ in deeper en deeper! Keep goin’, soon I’ll hev enough to hang yuh!

The smug, triumphant look on the Marshal’s face revealed he was congratulating himself for his expertise in questioning the closed-mouth, prisoner.

Marshal, yuhr makin’ a mountain out uv a gopher hole.

What if everyone in town stomped on my deputies boot toes? Why . . .

Booker flopped disgustedly back on the lumpy bunk. Humph! Next thing I know you’ll charge me with incitin’ a riot!

I’ll give it some thought, smirked the Marshal; meanwhile, yuh need a dryin’ out period, and I just might be tempted to add ‘terroristic threatenin’ tuh thuh list.

Humph! So much for thuh ‘poor en honest’ Marshal! drawled Boozer.

I’m honestly trying to dry yuh out, you ol’ boozer, grumbled the Marshal; but I guess it’s too late for thet! He unlocked the cell door, and swung it wide. Go on, get outta my sight!

The Marshal returned to his desk, and laid out Boozer’s personal effects including his holster and cartridge belt that had been confiscated the night before. Then, noting the empty holster, he muttered,

Now where in the dickens did those knuckleheads put yuhr Colt 44? It’s shure hard to get good help aroun’ here.

He began lookin through the file and desk, becoming more and more frustrated.

Johnathan appropriated the empty holster and belt and strapped it on, tying the holster down just above his right knee. He stepped back into his cell, and pulled the Colt 44 from its hiding place and slid it into the holster. He returned to pick up his other personal effects, and the Marshal was still turning things upside down.

What yuh lookin’ fer, Marshal?—It’s all here, he stated, matter-of-factly.

I’m lookin’ fer yuhr . . . , he paused and looked up, aghast that the lost pistol, with half a walnut handle missing, was snugly ensconced in Boozer’s holster. What air yuh?—A magician? Where’d yuh find that iron?

Why, Marshal, it was never far from my person, smiled Boozer.

Like, I said; it’s sure hard to get good help around here!

Well, Marshal, whut do I owe yuh? asked Boozer.

About a month of good behavior, but I guess thet’s too much to hope fer! Don’t ferget yore hat, and I’m confisticatin’ all your prospectin’ gear if you leave it past noon.

As he spoke, he sailed the ragged and soiled sombrero, forcibly, to Boozer who caught it deftly.

Thanks, Marshal . . . See ya aroun’.

Noting the catch, the Marshal eyes narrowed slightly, and he stroked his beard, thoughtfully, as Boozer shambled out through the door. Higgins murmured, There’s a man thet’ll bear watchin’; he ain’t as old and as drunk as he seems.

The Marshal went back through his wanted dodgers again, finding nothing of interest, and tossed them on the desk in disgust. Then he reached into the desk drawer for a copy of the King James Bible, put his feet on his desk, leaned back, and began reading at random, from Proverbs, the book of wisdom:

There is (he) that maketh himself rich, yet hath nothing: There is (he) that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches. (Proverbs 13:7)

Chapter 3: Boozer’s Triumph

Johnathan walked away from the jail too steadily for the first ten paces then it dawned upon him he was out of character, so he let his shoulders slump, and began to shamble unsteadily toward the Cheyenne Club. He had in mind getting a swamper’s job to give him the appearance of invisibility, so he could eavesdrop on conversation and pick up the drift of the community. Somewhere in this town was an organization that was grabbing land for purposes unknown, by nefarious means, and he intended to ferret it out and get a handle on the kingpins.

This organization had no name and although High Command Liaison had been aware of it for some time. It had no apparent geographic location. Thus far, High Command Liaison had determined that it was buying up properties at a fast rate of speed and