Cowboy to Freedom

By Trevor L. White

Texas 1860s. Dan Lyons had been in frontier towns
before but when he accepted Taylor Countys job as District
Rural Sheriff to assist in the protection of the outlying
ranches from Indian raids, he hadnt anticipated being in the
area very long. Now after several years of being based in the
fledgling town of Sabilene he had grown to like the place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Jul 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477152997

Trevor L. White

n/a

Book preview

Cowboy to Freedom

Trevor L. White

Copyright © 2012 by Trevor L. White.

Cover Design: Philip Garth White

ISBN:                       Ebook                       978-1-4771-5299-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

Other books written by the author:

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0800-891-366

www.xlibris.co.nz

[e-mail]

700379

Contents

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

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Acknowledgements

+++++++++++++++++++++

Texas 1860’s. Dan Lyons had been in frontier towns before but when he accepted Taylor County’s job as District Rural Sheriff to assist in the protection of the outlying ranches from Indian raids, he hadn’t anticipated being in the area very long. Now after several years of being based in the fledgling town of Sabilene he had grown to like the place.

+++++++++++++++++++++

Mister Joseph G. McCoy’s 250 acre stockyard cattle sales business had kick started Sabilene as a town. Tens of thousands of Longhorn cattle flooded into the sales ring, brought in by hundreds of cowboys all wanting to whoop it up and have a good time. With the cowboys came the saloons, the booze, the girls, the gamblers, the gunfighters, bank robbers, stagecoach robbers and cattle rustlers.

Sheriff Lyons and his two deputies, Travis and Deighton, also had their hands full with a maniacal killer heading a gang of stagecoach robbers. Could the Texas Rangers help?

To our grandchildren: Jake, Henry, Flynn and Rick.

Kyla, Jade, Kate, Penny, Stacey and Alexandria.

Chapter One

The darkness of the night crashed into daylight. Roy Turnbull’s head pounded. Whisky throbs pulverized his senses as he lay flaked out on his bunk-cot. He was vaguely aware of sounds outside.

++++++++++++++

‘Let’s get him,’ Sheriff Dan Lyons whispered to his two deputies as he stepped round the blood soaked body of the Bar T’s Ranch’s foreman, sprawled three yards in front of the bunk house door. All guns were drawn.

The Sheriff’s posse had galloped to the Bar T at the urgent request of the ranch’s tearful owner, pretty, dark haired Deborah Webb. She reported that her elderly and popular foreman Frank Kenny had been shot and that her drunken ranch hand Roy Turnbull may have been responsible. Deborah had checked for life and then bravely peeked into the bunkhouse to find Turnbull asleep. A Colt 45 had spilled out of his gun belt and lay beside the sleeping man. She then made for the sheriff’s office as fast as her horse could carry her.

On the ride back a subdued Deborah Webb explained that the men had been having quarrels. Foreman Kenny had threatened to dismiss the hand more than once. Turnbull had been too casual with his work and that had led to the loss of valuable stock. The latest crisis had come to a head late yesterday afternoon when a bunch of steers had wandered off the property. Turnbull should have herded them into the top boundary canyon.

Foreman Kenny had corralled the stocky young cowboy with the screwed on Stetson as he sashayed his pinto into the stables.

‘Where’d you put the mob?’ He’d asked.

No reply as he dismounted.

‘I didn’t see them in the top canyon.’

Still no reply as the cowboy turned his back on the foreman and began loosening the girth.

‘What’re you up to lad?’

Kenny took a pace forward, grabbed Turnbull’s right shoulder and spun him around.

‘Don’t turn your back on me, Turnbull,’ his voice rising in annoyance and frustration. He had tried many times to drive some sense of responsibility into this young cowboy’s thick skull. A deep black thought escaped his lips. ‘You’re not fleecing off stock are you?’

Deborah witnessed the scene. Her hand flew to her mouth. She took in a gulp of air and was tempted to intervene. But the ranch’s finances were becoming precarious. So many stock losses and so few sales meant the ranch was plunging deeper and deeper into debt. The Sabilene Settlers Bank was seeking a reduction of the ranch’s loan. Was this young cowboy, whom she had a some liking for stealing the ranch’s stock?

For a time Roy Turnbull didn’t answer the foreman’s accusation. Then his voice lashed out.

‘Get out of my way! I’m going to town. You can’t stop me.’ He retightened the saddle girth and attempted to place a foot into a stirrup.

Kenny yanked Turnbull backwards, flinging him to the ground. The foreman was in a rage. His face was taut, teeth clenched, fists swinging at his sides and feet apart. Finding it difficult to control his anger, he stepped above the youngster, looking down on a troubled face. Kenny was tempted to beat some sense into the young man to punish him for being an irresponsible brat.

Finally the foreman calmed himself, gaining control. If only the young man could see where his entire lackadaisical attitude towards ranching employment was leading, but no they had been through this more times than enough lately.

He grasped Turnbull’s out flung hand, pulled him onto his feet and eyeballed strongly. ‘You give me answers! Understand?’ he said savagely. He thought over his next words. ‘Or you can keep riding out.’

Deborah knew that Kenny wouldn’t admit it, but he too had a soft spot for this young ranch hand.

‘Leave me alone. I gotta go,’ Turnbull howled confused. ‘I’ll come back for my gear and be off in the morning… if that’s the way you want it.’

At that moment he saw Deborah watching. A red flush swept over his face. He grabbed the pinto’s reins, catapulted into the saddle and rode off at a gallop.

Kenny slammed his stetson onto his thigh, annoyed he strode out of the stable. Seeing Deborah he purposefully approached her. ‘We’ve got to let him go this time, Miss Webb,’ Kenny said in desperation. ‘We just can’t afford to lose any more stock.’

‘Yes.’ she said, her hand rising to her throat. ‘We’ve given him all the slack we can. I’ve put it off too long.’

Kenny watched her walk back to the ranch house. There was disappointment in that walk that stretched all the way to the heart.

++++++++++++++

Sheriff Lyons was a proud Texan, tall and lean, with silver grey hair, a friendly face and sharp blue eyes. He wore his two six shooters low holstered in two, crossed-over gun belts. It was said that no one ever fired a second shot at him. As they rode into the Bar T he took off his wide-brimmed, flat-crowned cream hat and said quietly to her. ‘You go back to the house Miss Deborah, ma’am. We’ll handle this from now on. Best you let justice take its course.’

He’d wanted his remarks to sound as friendly advice.

Tears came to the young woman’s eyes.

He swung out of the saddle, helped her off her horse and gave up the reins to a deputy. In a fatherly manner he put an arm round her shoulders, before she abruptly ran to the house.

With a frown the sheriff replaced his hat, gave a get-ready-glance at his deputies. Together they made ready their guns and advanced towards the bunkhouse. Sheriff Lyons flung the bunkhouse door open with a rush that slammed it hard against the wall.

Roy Turnbull didn’t stir.

The three lawmen stepped up to the bunk. Rumpled threadbare blankets were tossed back. Rough hands grabbed him. His fully clothed body was dumped onto the floor with a spine crunching thump. Roy mumbled incoherently and momentarily raised an arm.

‘He’s still got his gun belt on!’ said one of the deputies. ‘And his gun has fallen off the bed.’

‘Dog-gone it man! Get the gun belt off him,’ ordered Sheriff Lyons.

‘Travis, hand that revolver up to me. I want to check the rounds.’ He gave the bunkhouse a casual look over. Where the foreman slept it was neat and tidy.

‘Deighton,’ he spoke to the other deputy, ‘Get a bucket of water and throw it over this dung pile.’

Handing over the gun, the young and lean, blonde haired Deputy Travis said, ‘He’s stinks of whisky and needs something he hasn’t had for a long time.’

‘What’s that?’ asked the Sheriff, opening up the six shooter and finding two empty cartridge cases.

‘A bath!’ Deputy Travis replied in disgust. ‘Clothes are filthy too.’

‘He’ll get more than a bath,’ said the Sheriff gruffly. ‘Wait until I’m through with him.’

Deputy Deighton came in and, with a swish, threw a bucket of water over Roy Turnbull, who barely moved.

‘Get him to his feet. Cuff him. Put him on a horse and throw him in the lock up,’ ordered Lyons.

Turnbull was frog marched out and hoisted onto a horse. The deputies tied Turnbull to his horse and they rode off.

Meanwhile the town Doctor had arrived and was examining the foreman’s body that lay in the dust with congealed blood cutting a swath from his shirt to the ground.

‘Been dead since late last night,’ he informed Sheriff Lyons. ‘Two gunshot wounds. One through the heart, the other one entered into the lungs. He didn’t stand a chance of surviving.’ Doc Willis bent over the body again inspecting the gunshot wounds.

‘Can we get him on to your buckboard and back to your surgery? I wanna take a closer look at those two slugs in him. I’ve gotta compare ‘em with the ones young Turnbull has fired off.’

Doc Willis was dressed in his old navy blue suit. He cut a portly figure and was the only doctor in Sabilene. He’d been around cattle men since he arrived in Texas from Glasgow, Scotland, twenty years ago. He liked western frontier towns and he got along with most law enforcement types, except the last town he’d practiced in. The sheriff there had been corrupted by the local saloon owner. He hadn’t been interested in bringing law and order to the town from day one, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise Doc Willis and the few worthy citizens had left shortly thereafter, fearing for their lives.

He hadn’t long been in Sabilene before the townsfolk had seen to it that he had the premises he needed to service the district.

The Doc eyed Sheriff Dan Lyons inquisitively.

‘He’s used two bullets recently,’ said the Sheriff.

‘Open and shut case, then Sheriff,’ said the doctor, finally closing his case and walking round to take up the legs. Lyons was now stationed at the head and shoulders ready to lift the body onto the buckboard.

‘Looks like it,’ admitted the lawman. ‘Popular man, Frank Kenny, and a good ranch hand with cattle. That Miss Deborah will be hard pressed to find a better ranch foreman.’ In unison they lifted and positioned the body on the buggy.

‘I’d better look in and see if she needs help. Catch up with you on the trail, Doc?’

‘No, I’ll come to the house with you. She may need a sedative and a doctor’s friendly advice.’ He knew how abrupt Sheriff Lyons could be, especially having the prosecution of a murderer on his mind.

As they walked to the house the Sheriff said, ‘I’d like all the evidence packaged up for the Circuit Judge, Doc. So I’ll ride with you back to town.’

‘When’s he due in town?’

‘In a few days.’

Chapter Two

Roy Turnbull clutched an old torn blanket tightly around his naked body. His public wash down had garnered plenty of attention. People were yelling obscenities at him and he didn’t know why.

The deputies then half dragged, half paraded him down the dusty street. The procession of jeering followers became louder the further they went.

The Bar T foreman Frank Kenny had been a popular and well-liked man. He had been a skilled cattle hand and had driven in the first cattle drive that had located in the district. He’d assisted in the building of the first stables and general store in town. It was Deborah Webb’s father Stan who had lured him back to ranching.

Roy Turnbull was struggling to stay on his bare feet and was anxious for his own safety. The deputies too were becoming fearful that they had made a mistake by informing the first few spectators. The braying, taunting mob was beginning to get physical, forcing the deputies to hurry. They looked anxiously ahead, keen to make the jailhouse before the mob turned into a lynching party!

They quickly reached the jailhouse and Turnbull was pushed roughly inside his new home, smacking his shoulder hard against the back wall of the small cell.

Roy Turnbull’s head was still pounding. What was going on? Why had he been manhandled? His wrists and ankles were raw, his stomach and ribs were bruised and aching from the ride to town. Why had they done that? He wasn’t a criminal. He had his rights. He’d done nothing wrong. Nothing wrong… that he could remember? Why had they taken away his clothes? The back of his head hurt. He put up a hand to give it a rub and found a cut and a lump. How did that happen? Why had they put him in jail?

‘I just can’t remember… anything,’ he mumbled to himself, nestling his aching head into his palms. A tear dripped across his cheek.

A cold wind blew through the bars of his cell window. He pulled the old blanket closer and settled on the bare wooden bench that formed the bed. What the hell was going on?

It was all Jim Horton’s fault. His father owned the ranch neighbouring the Bar T. At first Jim Horton had brought Deborah vegetables and flour twice a week during the day. Turnbull had let the night herd trample all over the ranch’s vegetable plot and that gave Horton the chance to be the hero. Then one night Horton had visited, bringing two bottles of whisky with him and stayed until after sundown. For the past three weeks it had become a regular occurrence and the light in Deborah’s bedroom had come on long before Horton had ridden off!

He’d told the foreman, but Frank Kenny said it was none of his business. But it was. Something about the way Deborah acted around him. Her hands shook and she seemed to be in a daze. Once he got close enough to look at her eyes, they were bloodshot. He persisted in telling Kenny that something wasn’t right, but was given such a dressing down that he visited town to get drunk and played cards till late.

That’s why I’m here, Roy Turnbull told himself. Gambling had put him in debt to the card sharps that polluted the local saloon. He’d probably fought one of them when he was drunk, instead of paying up. Must have done him some damage.

Last night? He ran his fingers through his thick tangled hair, trying to think. But his thoughts were interrupted by a visitor in a suit. A lawyer.

Later still that morning another visitor. Sheriff Lyons. ‘Right! Let’s be having you Turnbull.’

++++++++++++++

It was several days after the funeral of Frank Kenny, when she visited the local print shop to create a situation vacant sign for a ranch foreman that Deborah learnt of the public washing and the angry procession that followed Roy Turnbull to the jailhouse. It didn’t seem fair that Roy’s clothes should have been taken from him, she told the newspaperman.

‘They were only rags, Miss Webb, and just as smelly as he was. The deputies reckoned