Rider from the High Lonesome

By Carig Main

Cody Winters, a former lawman and most recently a trapper in the rugged northern wilderness of Arizona, was headed for Camp Wooda town where he hoped to settle down and begin a new life for himself.
He would soon learn that strangers were not always welcomed in Camp Wood. Those that stayed too long typically ended up at the undertakers. From the moment he rode into town, he fell under the critical sharp-eyed gaze of the always ruthless and often corrupt town marshal.
As Cody rode up the street, he fell under the curious blue-eyed gaze of another set of eyes as well. They belonged to Miss Holly Granger, the beautiful daughter of a prosperous cattle rancher. The ranchers daughter and the former lawman would soon meet and, from that moment on, see their lives swept away toward an unforeseen adventure, and with it hidden danger at every turn.

This riveting story of the Old West is packed with adventure, danger, old-fashion frontier justice, and steamy romance. the Author

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481725453

Carig Main

CRAIG MAIN, a United States Air Force retiree and “baby boomer,” is an inspiring new author of western novels. Rider from the High Lonesome is his fourth novel. Previous novels include: Shadow of the Mogollon Rim, Raiders of Salt River Canyon, and Four Peaks: The Final Campaign. The first three books are a series about an Arizona Ranger by the name of Clint Wells. Though retiring recently to his home state of Indiana, Craig lived in Arizona for most of his adult life—beginning in January 1965. He spent a good deal of his free time camping, hiking, and mountain-biking throughout central and northern Arizona, which includes the Mogollon Rim, Salt River Canyon, Four Peaks, and the Prescott National Forest regions. He is very familiar with the towns and locations mentioned in this exciting new novel. His new character, Cody Winters, continues to reflect Craig’s Western spirit. This is a novel that young adults and “baby boomers” alike will enjoy.

Book preview

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2013 by Craig Main. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/11/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-2546-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-2544-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-2545-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013904427

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction

Cast of Characters

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Books by the Author:

Shadow of the Mogollon Rim

Raiders of Salt River Canyon

Four Peaks: The Final Campaign

A very special

THANK YOU

To the following:

My friend and story editor,

Iris Matthews

And to

My friend and Spanish text advisor,

Ana Grissom

Cover illustration by

Duane Hull

An advanced art student enrolled at

Springs Valley High School

French Lick, IN

Under the direction of art instructor

Abby Laux

Dedicated to all those individuals

Who have experienced the

High Lonesome

And to those who are trying hard to

Find a piece of it for themselves.

Introduction

What is a resident of the West referring to when he or she speaks of the High Lonesome? Well, that is rather difficult to answer. Most likely, each individual will have his or her own interpretation of the term. If you will, please allow me to give you my interpretation as it pertained to my many wonderful years of living in the West—or to be more precise, in Arizona.

When I think about the High Lonesome, I am envisioning a place that is so distantly removed from the general populace that I cannot detect the sound of another human voice or anything man-made. Only the sounds of nature can be heard.

When I look out from my position high on a ridge, I can only see a pine-covered valley below me. There are no visible roads or man-made structures to spoil the landscape. High overhead, I hear a red-tailed hawk screaming out its call to its mate. In the tall pines surrounding me, I hear the chattering of a Stellar’s Jay or perhaps the loud squawking of an ill-tempered glossy-black raven.

Scurrying about the rocky ground nearby are frisky little chipmunks running from one burrow entrance to another playing a game of hide-and-seek. Also, close at hand, are a few bushy-tailed, tufted-eared squirrels nibbling at some pinecones. And way off in the distance—because they are cautious creatures—are mule deer and elk and black bear foraging in the meadows. And lurking nearby—normally undetected by humans—is a mountain lion in search of his next meal. I can only hope that I’m not on the menu. There was an occasion, several years ago, when I came face-to-face with a mountain lion at a lonely campground high up on Mount Graham in east-central Arizona. Though the mountain lion got a bit too close for comfort, I was able to make a safe retreat. (Perhaps he had already eaten his fill earlier that day.)

Joining me on this high ridge is a good-natured horse. The breed really doesn’t matter to me as long as it is a sturdy and sure-footed animal with a smooth gait.

An arm’s length away is a low-burning, virtually smokeless campfire. Suspended above the campfire is a pot of simmering baked beans seasoned with bacon and brown sugar. As I stir the beans with one hand, I am balancing a cup of hot coffee in my other hand. In the cool fall air, its steam warms my face whenever I take a sip.

My shelter—a silicone-treated canvas tent—is about ten feet away, just far enough away that sparks from my campfire will not set it ablaze. Under the tent’s waterproof floor is a thick pad of pine needles for increased sleeping comfort.

At an altitude exceeding 7000 feet, the night sky looks much different than it does from the desert floor. Every star glows like a thousand-watt light bulb—and each one seems many times larger in October’s clear, cool, cloudless night sky.

Well, there you have it, my own personal interpretation of the High Lonesome. I could go on, but I think you get the general idea. Did it remind you of a place that you once visited? What? You have not experienced your own personal High Lonesome? What are you waiting for? It is out there—awaiting your arrival.

The West still has some unique places—though, sadly, they are disappearing rather fast. Perhaps they should be added to the government’s Most Endangered list. (Just an idle thought.)

The Author

Cast of Characters

Cody Winters, a former member of the Arizona Rangers, had left the bustling town of Prescott at the ripe old age of twenty-four for the majestic mountains and verdant valleys of northern Arizona. He had become a trapper, a lonely life that suited him—at least for a time. He was now twenty-nine, and riding away from his familiar and isolated surroundings for the nearest town. He was not sure what he was looking for in life but maybe he would find it in Camp Wood.

Holly Granger, a beautiful woman of a mere twenty-one years, was walking along the well-worn wooden boardwalk when she espied the well-tanned, lanky stranger riding down the main street of town on a magnificent Appaloosa. He was fully clad in buckskins. She thought him rather handsome, but in desperate need of a shave and a haircut. Her eyes followed him all the way to the livery stable. Little did she know, at that moment, just how much this stranger would alter her life—and in a very short period of time.

Ed Granger, a well-established cattleman, was beside himself over the loss of so many cattle. Rustlers were greatly affecting his financial future. Because the cattle were being siphoned off so easily, the rancher had even reached the point of distrusting some of his own riders. Moreover, he was especially angry with the local sheriff for not doing more to stop the rustling. The rancher was in desperate need of help, and from someone he could wholly depend on to clean out the nest of rustlers. As he closed the door to the general store and stepped out onto the boardwalk, he spotted the stranger. He would not have given him a second glance if it were not for the apparent great interest his daughter was showing in the man.

Marshal Mike Laws, a seasoned lawman, was standing on the boardwalk just outside his office. He watched, with extreme interest, the buckskin-clad stranger riding up the street with a packhorse in-tow. The marshal was not keen on strangers hanging around his town, and he would see to it that this stranger moved on down the trail. Typically, anyone failing to comply with the lawman’s directives often faced his type of justice—the type that was frequently fatal.

Burt English, a gambler of questionable background, was standing across the street in front of his saloon when he noticed the stranger. Normally he would not give a stranger a second look, but he was disturbed by the interest that Holly Granger was displaying toward the man. He had, long ago, made up his mind that she would be his property someday—and competition was not at all welcomed.

image%201.jpgimage%202.jpgimage%203.jpg

Chapter One

T hursday, September 20, 1894.

26028.jpg

Chet Blue halted the sleek black carriage in front of the large, two-story, Victorian-style house and stepped down. He secured the well-muscled trotting horse to the hitching rail before ascending the six fieldstone steps leading up to the wide ornate porch. He pulled the doorbell cord one time, opened the glass-paneled oak door, and entered the house.

The owner of the High Mesa Ranch hired Chet as his foreman twenty years ago when the ranch was just a few hundred acres in size. He was just twenty-four years old at the time. Over the years, Chet’s experience, resolve and loyalty have made the ranch what it is today—a successful business enterprise. The ranch has grown a hundred-fold, and has prospered beyond his wildest dreams. Chet harbors great satisfaction in knowing that he has been a key player in its success. However, his feelings of contentment have recently been overshadowed by the trouble that has befallen the ranch.

Chet, a man of average height and slender build, sports a well-trimmed beard and mustache, and has a full head of hair that is slowly turning gray about the temples. His face is slightly ruddy and leathery from so many years of riding in the blistering Arizona sun.

Yer carriage is ready, Mr. Granger! the wiry foreman loudly announced from the spacious foyer.

I’ll be down in a minute, Chet! the venerable ranch owner shouted from an upstairs bedroom.

Ed Granger, who recently turned fifty years of age, is a tall man (just over six feet) of average build. His neatly trimmed mustache and thick, wavy hair are prematurely gray. He is a rather handsome man—in fact, most observers would say he is very distinguished looking. Lastly, he is a widower—his wife having died two years ago in a riding accident. Not long after her death, and to his annoyance, the single ladies of Camp Wood wasted little time in lining him up squarely in their matrimonial sights. So far, by purposely being a fast moving target, none have managed to lasso him.

Holly! the rancher called out—in an effort to summon his twenty-one-year-old daughter.

I’m in my room, Father! she shouted from the far end of the long hallway."

The carriage is here! Are you ready to go?!

Almost! Just give me a minute more!

Is there a problem?!

No, Father! she fibbed as she fumbled with the final two buttons on the well-tailored blouse. Go on down… I’ll join you on the porch!

Holly Granger is a striking young woman. She has sparkling blue eyes, curly brown hair that flows almost to her waist, and a curvaceous figure that most women would envy. Her breasts are more than ample—which is the reason behind her present frustration. The blouse is a bit too tailored. The single young men of Camp Wood virtually fall all over themselves whenever she strolls past them on the boardwalk. Unfortunately, there is an older man in town who has taken a keen interest in her as well. He is dangerous—and she knows it.

Holly! the rancher called out once more—this time from the foyer before joining Chet on the porch.

Coming! she panted as she sped down the hallway with her short-waisted jacket draped over her forearm. Soon she was at the bottom of the staircase and racing out the front door.

Ya look lovely this mornin’, Miss Granger, complimented Chet as he helped her into the carriage. Ya shore are easy on these old, tired eyes of mine.

Thank you, Mr. Blue, she warmly replied.

Chet loaded the two leather suitcases onto the rear of the carriage, untied the horse from the hitching rail, and quickly turned about to face his boss.

Yore ready to go, Mr. Granger.

Chet never referred to his boss in an informal way. It was a choice he made twenty years ago. Ed Granger had gotten used to it, even though he had asked Chet a hundred times to call him by his first name.

We’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, Chet. Keep your eyes peeled for trouble.

Yes, sir. Ya can count on me.

I know that to be true, Chet. I just wish I felt the same way about some the new riders we hired in January to watch over our herd.

Yeah, I know whatcha mean, Chet said as he pulled at his mustache. Just so ya know, sir… I’ve got my eye on a few of them new riders. So far, I don’t think they are on to me.

Be very careful, Chet. I certainly don’t want you harvesting a bullet in your back.

I’ll be careful, sir, Chet said as he patted his holster and grinned.

Ed Granger nodded his head and pointed the single-horse carriage northwest toward Camp Wood—a casual drive, on a normal day, of forty minutes.

The ranch house is located atop a fairly high mesa (roughly 200’ in elevation), just northeast of Sheridan Mountain, between the west and east forks of Sycamore Creek. The view is nothing short of spectacular.

Holly Granger took in her surroundings as the carriage wound its way down the mesa to the valley floor and traversed the west fork of Sycamore Creek.

The water is a bit low in the creek, Father, she observed. It’s probably under six inches.

The fall rains will come before long, my dear, remarked her father, with a hint of optimism in his baritone voice.

As the carriage rolled onward, Holly continued her observations. Though a few clouds drifted gently by on the distant horizon, the sky overhead was clear. For a late-September morning, it was rather warm and pleasant. All in all, it was a splendid day for a ride in the carriage.

Isn’t it just lovely out here, Father?

The rancher took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Yes, my dear, it most certainly is. I’m so glad your mother and I had the courage to move out here.

I agree! Holly said brightly.

It’s hard to believe we’ve been here for more’n twenty years. You were just a baby when your mother and I left our small forty-acre farm nestled among the rolling hills of southern Indiana.

Well, there is certainly nothing small about our ranch here in Arizona. I love the open spaces… and I especially love riding through the high chaparral and on up to where the junipers and piñon pines grow.

Yes, it is lovely up there, he replied.

Sometimes, Father, I even ride up the slope of Sheridan Mountain to where the tall ponderosa pines whisper gently in the wind. I just love breathing in the sweet vanilla aroma they so generously give off.

This ranch certainly didn’t come cheap… as you well know. Your mother and I worked our fingers to the bone to acquire this land. To keep it, we fought blood-thirsty Indians, cutthroat Mexican bandits, and hardcore rustlers.

Ed Granger paused for a long moment as he considered his next comment.

Sadly, we’ve lost some first-rate riders along the way. Chet has been with me longer than anyone. He has stood at my side through it all… the good and the bad. There’s not a better man in all Arizona.

What’s your opinion of the new riders we now have in our employ? asked Holly.

Well, in regards to them, I’m not so sure how I feel. We’ve lost nearly four hundred head of cattle over the past eight months. It just doesn’t make sense when I consider all the riders that we have in our employ. How, in heavens name, could a band of mangy rustlers sneak onto our land undetected and make off with so many of our steers without some kind of inside help?

So, Father, if I’m reading you correctly, you think that someone on our payroll is assisting the rustlers… right?

Yes, Holly, he grimly replied, I have no doubt that it is happening just that way. And we have got to put a stop to it… and soon.

No one spoke for the next couple of miles. Both father and daughter were in deep contemplation about the troublesome situation at the ranch.

The High Mesa Ranch presently covers an area close to one hundred square miles. Four thousand bald-faced steers, and nearly forty riders (including the foremen) call the ranch their home. Granger also employs a part-time housekeeper; a full-time, live-in cook; and a part-time, general-purpose handyman to keep up the repairs on the house and other buildings. There is also a young woman that comes by the ranch once a week to do the laundry and ironing.

After an almost undetectable sigh, the rancher finally broke the silence. We’re going to get to the bottom of this raw deal, my dear. You just wait and see.

I believe you, Father, Holly was quick to reply. But wouldn’t it be grand if you could find someone that could be trusted to assist you and Mr. Blue in solving the problem. I’m rather thinking of a man that’s good with a six-gun… a man who could infiltrate and ultimately clean out the gang of rustlers.

Hmm, like an undercover agent?

Yes, Father.

Now, that, my dear, would indeed be grand. Regrettably, I know of no such man like that around these parts.

I just wish we could count on Marshal Laws. He just doesn’t seem all that interested in helping us, complained Holly as she bit down gently on her lower lip. It is my opinion that he is rather useless.

I know just what you mean. He says he is working on some leads, but I doubt his honesty. Perhaps that deputy of his could help us. I hear he is rather sweet on you.

Eric Green! No way! she countered. He’s so immature. He only knows how to pant like a puppy dog whenever he is near me. I find him most irritating.

That’s hilarious! declared the rancher. Then he laughed heartily.

Holly laughed, too, as she leaned over and gave her father a hug. She knew if any man could solve their rustling problem, it was her father. She just wished, however, that he had a number of dependable men on the payroll that could handle a six-shooter in a skillful manner. She felt strongly in her mind that their trouble would not end until some flaming lead was sent flying about the ranch—and the sooner the better.

The ride to Camp Wood continued without incident. On arrival, they dropped off the carriage at the livery stable and walked the short distance to the Overlook Hotel—so called, because of its location on a small hill overlooking the town. It is much more suitable than the English Hotel, which is located above a saloon at the north end of town. Not only is the English Hotel rather sleazy in its accommodations, the same could be said of its owner, Burt English.

Holly is somewhat fearful of the thirty-seven-year-old English. He routinely stares at her with hungry eyes anytime she is in town. During a couple of past visits, he made some unsolicited advances. So far, she has managed to keep him at bay. She is also keeping English’s annoying behavior from her father because she knows the gambler has a reputation around town of being handy with the concealed pistol that he carries in a shoulder holster. The last thing she wants is for her father to be killed.

Unknown to Holly, Burt English usually has one of his seedy men lurking in the shadows to cover his play. He is not above ambushing his enemies—and, in fact, has killed several of his adversaries from a place of hiding.

Marshal Mike Laws has a wanted poster on Burt English, but has never made any attempt to arrest the gambler. Many of Camp Wood’s residents believe that the marshal is bought and paid for by the gambler. Ed Granger is of the same mindset.

At the hotel, the rancher rented two adjoining rooms. He then requested that his and Holly’s luggage be picked up at the livery stable and brought to their respective rooms. The bellman was sent immediately to the livery stable.

Later, after the luggage was delivered, the rancher summoned his daughter. He asked, Holly, are you hungry?

Yes, Father, I am. I didn’t eat breakfast this morning. I was too busy with last-minute packing.

Neither did I, her father readily confessed.

So, where do you want to go for our meal? asked Holly.

Well, we could go downstairs and eat in the hotel dining room… or… we could go back to that new café on Market Street. Which would you prefer?

We had a scrumptious meal and great service at the café the last time we were in town. I vote for it.

I definitely agree with you, my dear. Secure your room, he concluded as he stepped out into the hallway and lock the door to his own room.

Moments later, father and daughter were seated at a cozy little table inside the Chatterbox Café.

An hour later, Holly and her father departed the café and made their way to the bank. As they were crossing the street, Holly felt like she was being watched. Her intuition was dead on. Off to her left was the twenty-five-year-old town deputy, Eric Green, whom she thought was not much smarter than a two-year-old. He was staring at her from the doorway of the marshal’s office. When she glanced his way he quickly tipped his hat at her. She gave him a faint smile and quickly turned her head back to its frontal position. What a jackass, she whispered to herself.

Unknown to Holly, another pair of leering eyes was following her every move. Burt English was focusing on her shapely figure from inside the saloon. He stepped closer to the bat-wing doors for a better look.

Someday— he thought aloud.

Whatcha say? asked the crusty, sixty-year-old Newt Olney from a nearby card table.

I’m not addressing you, Newt, English sourly answered.

Sorry, boss. I just—

Forget it, snapped English as he watched Holly enter the bank with her father. He walked over to the round card table and sat down opposite his mindless gofer.

Newt Olney was nothing more than a back-shooter and a rustler. He was uneducated, a drunk, and easily led about. English hired him cheap, and kept him around to do his bidding.

Did somethin’ out thar grab yer attention, boss? Olney asked.

You could say that, English replied as he rubbed his chin. If I play my cards right, I just might own me a fine ranch one day… and a pretty little gal to go with it.

Whatcha got in mind, boss?

Not sure yet, Newt. Give me a little more time to work out the details, English cagily responded as he shuffled the frayed cards.

Jerry, bring Newt and me another round of beer! the scheming owner of the hotel/saloon yelled across the room to his mild-mannered barkeeper.

Coming right up, Mr. English!

English turned his attention back to his gofer. Have you seen Mason recently?

Can’t say as I have, boss. Marshal Laws might have seen him of late.

"Sometime today, I want you to get word to Laws that I want to meet with Mason. I need to