The Desolater

By Kellum Davis

Sgt. Anderson and Sgt. Gold were two of the best soldiers in the U.S. Cavalry. Matthew Gold now lives a quiet life in NYC when he learns someone murdered his Army buddy. Traveling out west, he investigates the murder and protects the widow’s ranch. Ever so slowly, he transitions back into that great soldier that he once was while finding love and hate, loyalty and treachery, revenge and justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kellum Davis
• Release date: Mar 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370346066

Book preview

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The Desolater

Kellum Davis

Copyright TXu2-014-107

Justin Schulte

2016

Dedicated to my brother Fred who always believed in me. The finest man I have ever known.

Chapter 1

Stepping out of the telegrapher office, the man looked up and down the street, seeing nothing unusual. Getting the answer he wanted and feeling uneasy, he thought that he needed to get back to his ranch. Though he didn’t like traveling into town without getting supplies or something out the trip, his conscience told him to get out of town now.

He mounted up and rode out east, keeping his horse at a trot. With that uneasy feeling nagging at him, he wanted to keep his horse fresh, so he brought his mount down to a walk. The ride back to his homestead was an entire day’s ride.

Riding through the afternoon, he just couldn’t shake the uneasiness that remained deep within him. It was that same feeling he used to get years ago when he rode the western states and territories in the Cavalry, when he dealt with danger every day. He had not felt this way in years. The West was different now.

Fading into the mountains, he rode through the pines, piñons, and cedars, passing through the valleys and over the ridges. Riding over a mountain pass, he pulled up and looked in all directions; he saw nothing. Sitting still for a little while, he stretched out his senses, studying his perimeter. Finally, he rode.

At dusk, he made camp on high ground in the midst of the tall pines that stretched to the sky. Knowing that darkness would bring cold temperatures in this late winter weather, he did not build a fire. That feeling still loomed in him. The night was cold and calm; he did not sleep well.

In the morning, he skipped breakfast and rode out at first light. Riding as cautiously as the day before, he made his way slowly back to the ranch. The closer he got home, the better he felt. He just had to get back home. Dropping into a dry gulch, he followed it for its excellent cover. After several hundred yards, it began to take a turn away from his direction, so the rider popped out and rode up a hill to high ground. Halting in the midst of cedar trees, the lone rider scanned the horizon. Someone was out there. He could feel it.

Before he could check his entire perimeter, a rifle slug slammed into the neck of his horse, dropping the beast where he stood. As his horse fell, the rider pulled his rifle from its scabbard along with his saddlebags, seeking cover among the rocks. His horse tried to get up but failed, and then began to breathe heavily. Oh how he loved that horse, riding him the past seven years.

Seeing one of his attackers moving from cover to cover, he took quick aim and dropped him, then worked the bolt of his Springfield. With that, his enemies opened up on him, causing him to hunker down tight against the rocks. After thirty seconds, the volley of shots ceased; popping up, he picked off another. He began to take a count, catching sight of at least a dozen men, though he suspected more were out there.

Damn, that’s a lot of men to send after me, he said aloud.

Though he was expecting trouble the past few months, the rider could not believe he was in a gun battle, thinking he left this all behind when he mustered out of the Cavalry a decade before. He thought of his children, his young son and daughter, his beautiful wife, who he loved so much. What will they do without me?

He pulled his ammo boxes from the saddlebag, opened and left them within reach. Hunkering low, he carefully watched as the enemy moved from one position to another. As slugs slammed into the rocks and whizzed all around him, he stayed calm, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. Dropping another, he worked the bolt. Though, he still had one more cartridge. He pulled out the stripper clip and shoved in another, giving him another five shots.

Well, if this is how I’m finally going out. I’m gonna give ‘em hell and make them regret they ever knew me.

They moved quickly to surround him, slowly making their way up the hill. He popped up from behind his cover and fired repeatedly until the clip clicked empty, taking out two more. Dropping back into cover, he reloaded another clip.

Again, he fired until the clip emptied. Having to expose himself to fight, he took a slug into the left shoulder. The pain came slowly, but built terrible momentum, burning like fire within a half-minute. With his shirt bloody and sticking to his skin, his shoulder throbbing in pain, to keep fighting was well ingrained from his many years in the Cavalry. If he quit, he was dead. Louis Anderson was in a fight for his life.

Killing three more in the last two volleys, he rammed another clip in as fast as his wounded arm would allow him. His enemy was no closer than 50 yards, so he knew he still needed his rifle at that range. Sliding over his cover, he sighted movement, waited, and then squeezed the trigger, hearing another scream out in pain.

Got another, he said calmly.

Leaning against a rock, his shoulder throbbing terribly, he made a quick count. Seven down, about ten left. That’s not bad odds. I’ve been in worst positions than this before.

He slid over the rocks, looked for the enemy and popped off a round, killing another. The way they moved among the rocks, rarely giving him a target. His enemy reminded him of the Apache, the greatest guerilla fighters in the world. Seeing they were now within thirty yards and were just about to completely encircle him, he knew the Springfield was useless. Knowing what he had to do now, he pulled out both his Colts and loaded the last chamber he always kept empty for safety. The revolvers gave him far more firepower at close range, but it also exposed him to fire.

Standing up he looked for the slightest movement. One moved over his cover and he plugged him in the forehead. With that, they began to come out from behind their cover, and as they did, the lone gunman, with a revolver in each hand, did what he did best, aim, and fire rapidly. His accuracy was second to none as his revolvers were like an extension of his arms.

The next man to come out took a slug square in the chest. After that, they were coming out nearly at once. As movement caught his eye, he would turn that direction and fire. An enemy moved at his left, he turned and fired with his right arm. Catching movement to his right, he instinctively fired with his left.

Men were coming fast and he was firing from side to side as fast as his hands could work. Seconds later, one revolver clicked empty, and then the other. As he moved to take cover, he took another slug, this one tearing away at his right side.

He learned long ago not to call out in pain if he could help it as too not allow his enemy to know he was injured. Dropping to the ground, he ignored the pain and reloaded as fast as he could. These Peacemakers were the best for power and accuracy, but they were slow to reload, even in the hands of an expert.

A minute later, he was ready. He knew that he plugged another five, at least. Shot twice, in excruciating pain, nearly surrounded, at least another five, he knew he was in trouble.

Suddenly, calmness fell upon him. This is how he cut his teeth. How he had, at one time, lived his life, fighting for his life. Memories of countless battles in the Cavalry flashed through his mind. How many gun battles had he fought? Now, he was doing it one final time. Only one thing left to do, fight to the death.

Catching movement out of the corner of his right eye, he stood up as quickly as his wounds would allow him and he fired. At twenty-five feet, the slug blew the man clean off his feet. A bullet whizzed by his ear. He turned and fired, killing another. Seeing men, they were all around; unable to react quick enough, yet he still fought. Within seconds, he plugged several more, but he took a slug in his thigh, then one in his left arm and he dropped his revolver. He aimed to kill another, but took a slug in the neck, and then another just above the heart.

His knees buckled and he lost his balance, falling backward. Lying still, unable to move or see, he could hear footsteps coming upon him. Knowing that he fought a good fight, not just today, but all his life, he relaxed and died.

It was opening day, and sitting behind the dugout near first base, Matt was yelling at the umpire. Come on ump, you know that was high. How come you never give the Giants a break against these stinking Cubs?

The Cubs won the illustrious pennant four of the last five years and Matt knew the Giants needed every break they could get. The dominant team of the day, the Cubs destroyed the rest of the National League. Matt believed they would be around to win many World Series in the future.

Matt was a devoted fan of the Giants ever since he saw Christy Mathewson pitch in St. Louis one spring day, back in ‘01. Watching Mathewson, Matt believed, was like watching De Vinci paint, an artist on the mound. The man threw a mean fastball, a beautiful curve ball, and another of his own invention, called the ‘fadeaway.’ He could place that ball anywhere in the strike zone he wanted it, whether it was dead center or just nicking a corner.

Matt moved to Manhattan and since became a fixture here at the Polo Grounds; he had not missed a game the past eight seasons. He was here for every home game, watching the Giants win pennants in ‘04 and ‘05. In 1904, John ‘Muggsy’ McGraw, the Giants manager, detested Ban Johnson, President of the American League, and refused to play the AL Champion at the end of the season. It was not until the next year that the owners sanctioned the World Championship Series and made it mandatory. Attending all five games, Matt watched the Giants destroy the Athletics in the 1905 World Championship Series, seeing first hand, Christy Mathewson throw three shutouts. For games one and three, Matt took the train to Philadelphia and paid scalpers top dollar for tickets.

He was here for every home game during the 1908 season. Watching the Giants, the Cubs, and Pirates that season battle to the very end for the pennant, including the game that became known as the infamous ‘Merkle’s Boner,’ which cost the Giants the pennant. In the American League, Connie Mack’s Philadelphia A’s were now becoming a force to be reckoned with, winning the Series last year. Still, Matt could feel it; 1910 was the year of the Giants. They would win the National League pennant once again.

Everyone became familiar with Matt’s passion for the team. Though highly vocal, he was never crude or disruptive like so many fans, players, and managers, especially as McGraw would often get. Matt never saw a temper, or a mouth before like that of McGraw. His violent outbursts and cursing tirades became legend.

Always striving to stay calm, it was not always easy for Matt with so many fans throwing bottles, rocks and anything else they had on hand. Fans often rushed the field, attacking players, managers, and umpires. Matt saw enough police protection for the players and the arrest of fans to fill the rest of his life. Baseball in these days was a wild, hostile game engulfed in violence, vulgarity, cheating, and gambling. This behavior became every bit a part of the game.

As Matt watched Mathewson, who got the opening day start, Matt could not help long ago to get a man crush on this great athlete. The only other pitchers that Matt truly admired were Cy Young of the Boston Red Sox, though he was at the end of his career, and Walter Johnson of the Washington Senators. Geez, Matt would think, How can a man throw so hard?

Whenever the Senators came to town and he pitched against the hated Yankees, Matt was there to pull for him. Matt was glad that Johnson pitched in the American League so his beloved Giants never saw him, maybe one day in a World Series. Johnson and Mathewson were polar-opposite pitchers. Whereas Johnson used sheer power and speed to blow away the batter, Mathewson used finesse and accuracy. They were the best of both worlds.

This day, his Giants would prevail, and Matt left the Polo Grounds with a smile on his face. Walking down the streets of Manhattan, Matt stopped in at his favorite butcher shop and purchased a pound of jerked beef. Twenty-seven years in the U.S. Army hooked him on it; the habit of chewing on jerky would always stay with him. Matt preferred elk and venison jerky, but they were rarely available on Manhattan Island.

Stepping into the lobby of his apartment building, he retrieved the mail from the box and headed upstairs. Three flights up, he turned out of the staircase and to the right toward his apartment. Thumbing through the letters, one caught his attention. It was a telegram, marked ‘Confidential,’ in a sealed envelope. Unlocking his door and stepping inside, the telegram kindled his interest. Dropping everything else, he quickly opened it.

Reading the telegram, Matt just stared at it. He read it again, then again and again, as if he was reading it wrong. Setting it down, he just gazed in thought. He really did not know how to feel because somehow he just did not believe it. After a moment, he pulled a bottle of scotch whiskey from a cupboard, poured a tumbler full, and drank it down in several large swallows. He poured another.

Knowing what he needed to do; Matt went to his closets and gathered items he knew that he would need. Clothing was obvious, but items that he had not used in years and glad that he never threw out or gave away. Matt was the type who just knew some day he would need something again and never got rid of it. He found his saddlebags, canteens, gun sheath, bedroll, and other stuff he carried on horseback.

From the back of the closet, he pulled out his rifle, a little used, beautiful, Springfield Model 1903 bolt-action rifle, the finest in the entire world, although the Germans might have something to say about that with their Mauser. Next to it, he pulled out his Model 1873 Trapdoor Springfield carbine, wrapped in an oilcloth. What an old friend he thought. He carried it all his years in the Cavalry; it served him well. The rifle showed signs of much use, but still worked as well today as the day the Army issued it to him.

Many memories raced through his mind at once, the many battles and near death experiences. He and this old rifle went through a great deal together, but it was not the gun this new Springfield was. A different gun for a different era, he wrapped it up and placed it back into the closet.

From the top of the closet, he retrieved his two Colt Single Action Army revolvers, nicknamed the Peacemaker. Now this revolver would never be obsolete. He also carried these through his entire service in the Cavalry, buying them himself his first year of enlistment. They cost him three months’ pay, but he knew from the beginning, they would be every bit worth the money he paid. The final piece of equipment he pulled from the back of the closet, his battle-axe. Matt let out a cynical laugh.

Thinking about clothing, what should he take? Pulling out his buckskins, two pairs from his drawer, he laid them out on his bed. When on horseback, Matt preferred buckskins. Around the house or post, he wore Levi’s, so he pulled out four pairs, setting one aside for tomorrow, the others next to the buckskins.

He pulled out seven pairs of underwear, seven pairs of socks, and seven undershirts, setting one each for tomorrow, the rest on the bed. Seven pairs, how he had changed. Thirty years ago, he did not see seven pairs from one end of the year to the other. Thirty years ago he did not even own this much clothing, now that was what he was packing. How he had changed.

Into his saddlebags, he placed one pair of buckskins, underwear, socks, and undershirt. The rest of the clothes, he put into the trusty rucksack he carried for decades. In addition, in his rucksack, he placed his Colts, gun belts, battle-axe, and equipment.

Slipping the rifle into a travel sheath, Matt decided he had everything he needed. When he got to the Anderson ranch, he would leave his extra clothes there and only carry one change with him in his saddlebags. The U.S. Cavalry taught him to be an expert in traveling light, and he would be doing it again.

He gathered everything and placed it in the den near the door. Matt now remembered that the bank was closed for the day to withdraw the money needed, so he would have to wait until morning. Matt kicked off his boots and washed up, sitting on the divan with a bottle the scotch and tumbler.

Matt leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, head down. Tears began to run down his cheeks so he let it go and cried for a minute. Wiping his tears away, he drank another glass of scotch. Sitting in silence, he did not move from the couch for an hour. Finally, he rose and fixed an easy meal. Afterwards, he lay down. He did not feel like doing anything, his mind filled with memories. Laying in bed for hours, he finally fell asleep.

Matt was always an early riser. Sleeping until four the next morning, he went downstairs for a bath, and dressed in the clothes he left out. As was his usual routine, he fixed a hearty breakfast. Eating a large breakfast was a practice Matt acquired when he was a youngster, never understanding those who did not eat breakfast. If he did not eat, Matt was hungry within an hour of rising in the morning.

On his way out the door, he gathered up his gear and slipped the telegram into his front pocket. Locking the door, he went directly to his landlord’s apartment on the first floor and informed him that he would be out of town for an unknown length of time. He would have three months’ rent sent over and ask if he would watch over his room. Matt liked his landlord, and his landlord felt the same about Matt. Matt was little trouble was never late on his rent.

Walking down the streets of Manhattan, he was among the working class and the businessmen hustling to and fro. Coming around the corner, he approached the First State Bank of New York. Stepping into the bank lobby, the security guard greeted him, a man Matt has known now for many years. The two men shook hands and he left his rucksack and rifle with him at the door.

Going out of town Matt? he asked him.

Yes James, I’ll be gone for a while too, Matt responded.

Going out of town on the second day of baseball season? That doesn’t sound like you Matt, must be important, James said.

Yes it is. Wish I could elaborate, but I can’t. I did get to catch the season opener with the Cubs yesterday. Giants won. I got a good feeling about this season.

Well, my money is on the Athletics, now that’s a team on the rise, James said with excitement.

Well if they make it there, they’ll never beat the Cubs, Matt replied. James changed the subject, You’re probably here to see Mr. Hall.

Yeah, let me see if he is busy, Matt replied.

All right, I’ll see you on my way out, James said.

Matt walked into the lobby with three teller booths on the left and on the right out on the open floor, were three secretaries at their desk and behind them in glass offices, three bank officers. He walked past the first two desks to the farthest secretary, a young, pretty woman, blonde hair with a touch of red, bright green eyes, and a small frame. She had such a feminine way about her that most men noticed everywhere she went. Matt admired her beauty with such awe, but she was so much younger than he was. She greeted him with a warm smile.

Miss Kilpatrick was Mike Hall’s personal secretary. For years, Matt ate lunch with them both every Wednesday. When he talked, he always felt that she was genuinely interested in his stories. Listening intently, she asked him many questions about his days in the U.S. Cavalry. She asked him over and over about the Indians he saw and fought, his many gun battles, his expeditions, and his many other experiences.

When he approached her, she looked at him with great pleasure. He was such a handsome man, a six-footer, stout, strong, and in great shape. Striking features in his face, graying hair, and sky blue eyes. She wanted so desperately for him to ask her out for an evening of dinner and music.

Mr. Gold, how are you today? she asked with her usual pretty smile.

I am fine, Miss Kilpatrick. How are you?

Busy, busy. The bank grows and grows with business every month, she said.

That’s Mike for you. If there is one thing that he knows, it’s how to drum up business and make money, Matt said.

That’s the truth. When he came to work here five years ago, we were growing only about 2 to 3% a year. Now we are growing more than 20%. I don’t know how we are going to stay in the same building before long, she said.

Well, let me talk to him. I have some business of my own.

Sure, but you can talk to me anytime you like, she said.

We do every Wednesday, Matt said.

Well, it doesn’t just have to be on Wednesdays. There was hope in her voice.

As Matt turned to Mike’s office, the words finally penetrated his thick skull. Now what did she mean by that? Matt stepped into his office and Mike greeted him with an enthusiastic handshake.

Are you busy? Matt asked.

Always, you know that. Thought you would be getting ready to head out to the Polo Grounds by now, the Cubs are in town. Matt did not answer him, sitting in a chair facing Mike, looking around as if he never had been in Mike’s office before. What’s wrong? Mike asked.

What makes you think that?

Because this is Tuesday, not Wednesday, and you’ve been coming into my office for nearly ten years and you’ve never just plopped down in a chair and said nothing. Every move you make has a purpose. Hell, you don’t even take a dump without scheduling it.

Not today. Matt answered his first question. He said nothing for a moment, and then asked, Did Margaret Anderson send you a telegram?

No. Why? Should she?

Matt handed him the telegram he got yesterday.

louis anderson murdered stop need your help stop come directly stop margaret anderson stop

Mike pushed back in his chair, blew a big sigh, and stared into never land. Goddamn! This is the first I’ve heard of this. Something like this, she’d contact you first anyway, Mike stated. Is that where you’re headed now?

Of course, if he was murdered, I want to know why. If she requested my help like this, she’s most likely in trouble somehow. Honestly, I really don’t even know her, I’ve only met her once and that was at their wedding ten years ago, and I’ve certainly never met their two kids. But Lou was my army bud and best friend and if he was murdered, I aim to find out by whom.

Who would murder Louis? Mike asked. That’s like murdering George Washington or someone like that. This doesn’t make any sense at all.

Yeah, I know. Believe me, I thought about that for hours. Not only that, but how? You don’t just murder a man like Louis Anderson. He’s one of the toughest hombres on earth to kill.

Mike did not know what to say. He just let out another sigh. He knew Louis too, but not nearly to the extent that Matt did. His knowledge of Louis and his wife was mainly through correspondence and business.

When you get out there, Mike finally said, Let her know that I will do whatever financially she needs or would like me to do, and I too am here for her.

Certainly, Matt replied. As for me, could you send three months advanced rent over to my landlord and if I’m gone longer than that, take care of it for me?

Sure, you know I will

Also, keep your eye out for any telegraph that I may send requesting drafts, supplies, or equipment and such.

No problem.

With that, the two shook hands and Matt stopped at the teller and pulled out $300, plenty to get him where he was going and then some. On his way out, he said goodbye to Miss Kilpatrick.

Miss Kilpatrick looked at him curiously, Are you leaving?

Yes, for a while.

"Like out of town leaving?" she asked again.

He noticed the disappointment in her voice and her eyes. Matt always was adept at reading people’s eyes.

"Yes, I have to.