Cold River

By Kellum Davis

William Gold is a detective in Philadelphia, but loses his job in the Panic of ‘93. He learns of his inheritance and heads west, but what he finds instead is the mystery behind his family and the love of a beautiful woman. He becomes the Marshall of Cold River, uses his forensics skills as a detective to solve the murder of his father he never knew, and then hunts down the men that killed him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kellum Davis
• Release date: Sep 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463252734

Book preview

Cold River

By: Kellum Davis

Copyright TXu 2-130-684

Justin Schulte

2019

Dedicated to my father, Charles Edward Schulte, Jr., a veteran of World War II and the Korean War, a true American and a wonderful father.

Prologue

A man stepped onto the boardwalk, tied his scarf tight against his neck, and buttoned his coat around it to shut out the cold. Looking upward into a cloudless sky, the sun shined bright, promising a nice day. Though it had not snowed for nearly a month, small drifts collected in the dark corners of buildings. A man came out behind him shutting his office door.

Follow me, the first man said, I need to break a large bill. Walking to the bank next door, he continued, Thanks for doing this. It’s best we handle it this way. If I show up unannounced, I think it would be quite a shock to him. No way of knowing how he will react. He may even rebel against me.

Not a problem. I liked Philadelphia when you sent me there. It’s the first time I’ve ever been east. Don’t mind going back, but it’s a long train ride.

Eight horses waited at the rail loaded down with weapons and gear for a long ride. Standing guard with his back to the doorway, a man kept a keen eye on everything around him. Nothing unusual, but he looked as if he was standing guard, just a bit out of place in front of a bank. When he turned, a two-holster gun belt appeared from inside a dried, cracked slicker, and he kept a wary eye on the two approaching men. The second man slowly moved his right hand inside his coat to his revolver in a shoulder holster, but the man in the doorway drew his Colt.

Leave it be mister. Move your hand back to your side. I don’t want to have to kill you both. Now, move against the wall where I can watch you. No one does anything stupid and no one gets killed, inside or outside. We’ll be out of town in a few minutes.

Backs pressed against the wall, the guard kept his gun trained on them. A long two minutes later, six men came out of the bank as calm as if they were leaving Sunday services with handkerchiefs covering their faces and hats pulled down tight. Two carried saddlebags stuffed full.

The first man looked the masked men over carefully, Something awful familiar about them.

The six mounted up while the man in the doorway covered them. A masked man looked around to see if anyone took notice, and then at the two men against the wall. When he spotted the first man, his eyes narrowed. Elbowing the rider next to him, both glared at the men against the wall.

One whispered to the other, Let’s shoot’m now. Kilt in a bank holdup. It’s perfect.

Who’s that he’s with?

Don’t know. Hell, let’s shoot ‘em both.

The guard slipped into the saddle, tipping his hat to the two men just as two police officers rounded the corner. They were grizzly veterans talking, oblivious to what was happening, but in no way to be crossed. The seven men turned their mounts east and bolted into a gallop.

Stepping off the train, the man scanned his perimeter with his eyes scanning everything that moved. The bank robbery he witnessed still gave him the jitters. Everyone looked innocent enough, so he headed for the stables. Saying little, he paid the hostler and began methodically strapping on his tack and gear. Within minutes, the man rode out of town due south on the old cattle trail just as the sun hit its zenith. He would be home in three days, a ride he had made countless times. His horse knew the trail as well as he.

As the town disappeared out of sight, the rolling hills of the prairie stretched out around him. Much had changed over the decades. The Cavalry forced the Arapaho and Cheyenne onto reservations long ago and men had settled nearly every square mile of eastern Colorado. Farms and ranches replaced the bison and ancient hunting grounds of the Indians.

At sundown, he pulled off the trail a bit to the west and made camp under a century old American elm in a shallow valley. Few trees grew on the plains, and those that survived the dry summers and brutally harsh winters, were treasured. A fire ring of stones has lain under its vase-like canopy for decades and seen more camp fires than the Oregon Trail.

Knowing wood is scarce on this trail, he untied a few sticks of wood he toted, and with dead grass and leaves, built a fire. A half-hour later, he raked out coals into a pile, and then added a precious log to the main fire. He poured several ounces of olive oil into a skillet and set it on the coals. Slicing a pound of dried beef, when the oil began to pop, he dropped it into the oil, shook it hard, and left it on the coals.

The wind calmed at sundown just as the cold crept in, but what little supply of wood he carried, he had to save it for cooking. Filling a cup full of whiskey, he leaned against his saddle and waited on his dinner. Looking up at the brilliant sky full of stars, he loved the solitude of the prairie, the quiet stillness, and the occasional sound of a nearby animal.

He began to wonder about his upcoming trip. Thirty-two years old now, thirty-two years, where did the time go? What was he like? Did she raise him right? Was he good-natured or mean as a snake? Was he educated or an ignoramus? She definitely had her faults, but she loved that baby. I would like to think she did a good job raising him. Her cherished image formed clearly in his mind. Why did she leave? I loved her with all my heart. I gave her everything. He sighed heavily. No use reliving that again, water under the bridge.

With the beef sizzling, he sliced a loaf of bread and put the beef between two pieces. Eating the last of it, he wiped out the skillet and packed it away. As the fire died away, he spread out his bedroll and covered himself with two thick, wool blankets. Being nearly sixty years old, sleeping on the ground was not easy at it once was; he was accustomed to a bed. Finally, he drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, he turned his boots upside down and gave them a good shake. In the winter, most small critters were dormant, but it was habit. Rekindling the fire, he made coffee. Pulling a small iron oven from his saddlebag, he mixed flour, baking powder, salt, and water, shaping them into biscuits. He placed it on a bed of coals and scooped up more and laid them on the lid. While he waited on his biscuits, he packed up his bedroll.

Raking off the dead coals from the lid, he scooped up hot ones and dropped them on the lid. When his biscuits cooked golden brown, he covered them in honey and set them aside, drinking his coffee. When the biscuits had cooled, he devoured them in minutes.

Packing everything away, he rode out into a quiet, cold morning. The ride home went as routine as he expected, and the morning of the third day, rising before sunrise, he made coffee only, skipping his biscuits. Knowing he was no more than fifteen miles from his ranch, if he rode out at first light, he would be home before noon.

With the eastern sky ablaze with hues of orange, grey, and red, he fastened everything back to his mare. Slipping into the leather, a light breeze blew from the north so he buttoned his jacket and turned up his collar, protecting him against the wind. Looking into a cloudless sky and everything around him, he smiled feeling he had a great day ahead.

Spurring his horse into action, he crested the next hill, spotting a camp full of men in the basin. Horses saddled and ready, they were drinking coffee. Nodding at the seven men, he continued to ride southeast toward the cattle trail. Passing by, he recognized his neighbors to the north. The men made several spastic gestures toward him and began talking among themselves, but he couldn’t make out what they said.

Suddenly, he spotted the man in the doorway during the bank robbery going for his sidearm, but well out of range for a revolver. Drawing his Winchester, he fired, hitting him dead center. Working the action, he fired again, and then rode out at a dead run. The man on horseback knew there was something familiar about those men. Five men leaped into the saddle, but one limped badly, not wanting to be left behind.

With his horse at a full gallop, the man knew not how he would escape. His mare was strong but a horse can only run so far. Galloping into a basin, and then to the top a hill, he descended unseen into the next valley. Keeping his mount at a gallop, he rode a beeline to his ranch. Running her for about seven minutes, he knew he had to slow his mare or he would kill her. What would he give right now for one of his thoroughbreds?

Bringing her down to a trot, he kept this pace but constantly looked over his shoulder. As he crested the next hill, a slug blasted through his right shoulder and out the front. He slumped forward against his horse’s neck and the mare leaped into a gallop again. Struggling to stay in the saddle, another slug slammed into his lower right back, and he tumbled from the saddle as his horse galloped home. Lying on his back and struggling to get up, his strength quickly slipped away. A minute later, six riders surrounded him, drawing their revolvers.

Glaring with contempt, he tried to speak but coughed horribly, spitting up blood. With his life slipping away quickly, he blurted out, You were all a bad seed from the beginning, evil to the core. You brought sin into our paradise. Damn you to hell.

In the next instant, all six fired their revolvers, shooting him again, and then again, long after he was dead.

Passing through the prairie grass, Winchester in hand, Eleanor White eyes scanned her perimeter. Hearing two shots from what was clearly a big-bore rifle just beyond her fence line, she wanted an answer. Most of the large game had been hunted to near extinction around here, so why the big-bore? Not to mention, they were just a little too close to her cattle.

Topping a hill, down below in a campsite with a smoldering fire which angered her, easily blowing into a grass fire, a body lay next to the fire. From his position, he didn’t look like he was sleeping. Staying still for a long while, she had no desire to ride into an ambush.

Nothing moved, so she spurred her horse and slowly rode into the campsite. A horse stood tied to a string line with tracks of many other horses all around. There were others here before? When? Checking her surroundings one last time, she dismounted, knelt down and felt for a pulse, he was dead.

Turning him over on his back, he had a gunshot in his chest and another just below his right shoulder. Did the others kill him and leave him here? Looking at a murdered man, she didn’t know what to do. Thinking a moment, she couldn’t just leave the body on the prairie to be eaten by the buzzards and coyotes. She had to bring it along.

Eleanor was a husky woman, standing a good six feet, two hundred pounds, stronger than some men her size. She reached underneath the body, picked him up and laid him over the lone horse. Thank god he was small man. Suddenly, far off to the south, she heard a rifle shot, and then less than a minute later, another.

A bad feeling came over her; like death was upon her. Moving quickly, she tied the body to the horse, grabbed a canteen and dowsed the fire. Minutes later, she heard multiple gunshots, probably revolvers because it was about twenty. Mounting up, she tied the reins of the other horse to the pommel, rode east to her ranch, and then circled back to the trail to town.

Paul stabbed a pitchfork into the haystack and tossed it into a stall when he heard hoof beats outside. Boss man must be home, he said aloud. Then his subconscious asked, Why is he running his horse?

Going outside, he squinted in the sunshine. The mare came in all right, but no rider. Where was Mr. Gold? Looking all around, he saw him not.

Mr. Gold? No one answered. Walking to the main house, he stepped through the doorway and called out again.

Betts the housekeeper peeked around the corner, Missa Gold ain’t home. He’z in Denva, yu knoad dat.

Going back outside, the mare stood in the barn next to her stall. When Paul came near, she whinnied loudly and bobbed her head, odd like. Looking her over, she was lathered up from a hard run, spots of blood covered her neck and a trail of blood ran down the saddle, dropping onto the stirrup.

Damn!

Quickly stripping off the tack, he slapped her ass and she pranced into her stall. Saddling another, he rode out. Riding at a trot south out the long front drive, Paul turned southwest, rode past the neighbor’s ranch, and then turned northwest backtracking the horse. Paul was no tracker, but he knew his boss would be riding in from Julesburg, so he followed the road to the old cattle trail. Keeping his horse at a trot, from time to time, he would see signs that the horse had left behind, crushed grass or a clear hoof print.

Riding a couple of hours, he crested a hill and spotted something lying in the grass several hundred yards ahead. Starting from the top of his head, the spirit of death swept through his body, clear to his toes. A sensation so strong he nearly fell from the saddle as if he had vertigo. The closer he rode, the deeper that feeling sunk inside him.

Riding alongside the body, laying face up, Paul recognized his boss, Mr. Otto Gold. Taking a deep breath, tears poured from his eyes. Wiping them away with his sleeve, he dismounted and knelt beside the body, seeing at least fifteen bullet holes, probably more. Riddled with bullets, not only was Mr. Gold dead, he was violently murdered; a hard thing to look upon knowing how much he loved this man.

Damn! wiping his tears away again.

A bigger man than most, Paul slipped his arms underneath the body, and with all his strength, he picked him up and laid him over the saddle. Tying him down, he took up the reins, and began walking toward home.

Frank Reynolds stepped out his office and locked the door. With a dark moon, the streets of Denver were dimly lit by the occasional street lamp, some electric, but a few coal oil lamps still burned. Frank rarely worked this late, normally going home with plenty of daylight left to help his father with the chores. Walking four blocks to the livery stable, he knew Marty was long gone for the evening.

Swinging open one door, as he stepped inside, men rushed from the darkness, slamming him onto the hay. Frank fought viscously, but there were too many, and they held him tight. Black as coal, he couldn’t see anything. Suddenly, he felt cold steel touch his temple.

What was your business with Otto Gold? one whispered.

None of your business asshole, he is a client and that is privileged information, he shot back.

The man cocked the hammer back, This bullet will be privileged information for your brain if you don’t answer me.

Thinking quickly, Frank lied, He hired me to file some documents with the City.

That’s a lie. You’re not a lawyer. You got about three seconds to tell the truth.

Frank relinquished, He hired me to find his son. He wanted to meet him.

Where does he live?

Frank hesitated.

Shoving the barrel hard against his temple, he growled, I said, where does he live?

Philadelphia.

The man laughed, See, that wasn’t so difficult.

Clubbing Frank in the temple with the Colt, he left the unconscious man in the hay.

Without a reason to get up early, William slept late again, not rising until nine o’clock. A routine he followed for weeks now ever since he received his termination papers. Washing up, he walked down to the coffee shop to meet up with his buddies, a ritual that started when they all got that dreaded termination.

The waitress brought him a cup of coffee, and the men sat in silence, not much to say anymore. Some men had families to support and were beginning to run out of what meager saving they had. The single men had only the lifestyle they had grown accustomed to, and those that were diligent about saving money, had a little more to fall back on. Unable to find work, not even the most menial job, men cried every day; they had no answers, losing hope and confidence. Many had packed up and went west looking for work, just wondering here and there, looking for that answer.

Some argued it started with the Sherman Silver Purchase Act of 1890, requiring the government to purchase millions of ounces of silver for coinage, issuing millions of dollars in paper money, creating inflation. Investors bought cheap silver, exchanged it at the U.S. Treasury for gold as Federal law allowed them to do, sold the gold on the metal market, and then bought more silver to repeat the process. Demand for silver collapsed, while the demand for gold exploded, and the U.S. Treasury’s gold dropped to a dangerously low level, creating a severe panic. The silver mines began closing at alarming rates and a depression swept through Denver and other Colorado cities. Immediately, when he assumed office in 1893, President Cleveland pushed Congress to repeal the law.

Many blamed the McKinley Tariff of 1890, driving up the cost of foreign goods, stunting economic growth, and doing nothing to stem falling agricultural prices. A series of droughts in the Midwest caused farms to fail and land value dropped, a separate panic among destitute farmers. Others claimed it was the over expansion of the railroads throughout America. Using subsidies from the U.S. government, railroads overextended, creating too many trunk lines that could not sustain a steady profit.

On February 23, 1893, the Pennsylvania and Reading Railroad collapsed followed by the National Cordage Company, the largest traded company on Wall Street. Over the next year, 125 railroads and 30 major steel companies went into receivership, 16,000 businesses failed, causing millions of workers throughout America to lose their jobs. All this created a run on the banks causing over 600 bank failures. The American economy slipped into a deep depression and no one saw an end in sight.

Though wages had steadily risen for three decades, they now dropped drastically as companies tried desperately to cut expenses when their revenues collapsed. American workers rebelled, demanding not only higher wages, but better working conditions. Unrest among workers created over 1,300 strikes, involving 750,000 workers in factories, railroads, and mines in just 1894 alone.

Strikes became so wide spread, company managers, state and federal authorities, saw it as nothing less than a national insurrection, determined to fight labor head-on. Strikes melted into violent confrontations between labor and authorities, leaving many workers dead, fighting for what was right. Violence broke out often with the coal miners in several states. The most severe violence occurred in the Pullman strike, which lasted ten weeks, leaving 30 dead, 57 maimed or injured, and shutting down most of the nation’s railroads in July 1894.

William finished his coffee, and without a word, got up and left. Standing on the street corner, he looked to the east, the west, north, and then south. He didn’t know where to go. He didn’t know what to do. So, he just went home. Stepping into the lobby of his apartment building, he stopped at his mailbox and a voice told him to get his mail.

You haven’t checked it for days, the voice said.

Why, he said aloud, Nothing ever there now.

He slipped his key in and unlocked the box to find a single letter. Pulling it out, he read the return address:

Attorney George Long

101 Main Street

Cold River, Colorado

What the hell is this?

Part I

The Long Lost Heir

1

A lone rider rode through the tall grass, thick and woven like a spider’s web, rising to his horse’s belly. The stallion struggled mightily as his hoofs caught in the twines of grass, causing him to misstep. Pushing through the web of grasses, the trek slowly drained his energy. Before the great migration of Europeans, tens of millions of bison roamed these prairies and kept the grasses cropped, but the great herds disappeared years ago with the hide hunters. The grasses now grew out of control, sometimes hell to pass through.

The rider had never seen anything like the Great Plains. A prairie of rolling hills stretched out far beyond what he could see and the sky matched its expanse. Grass waving in the wind with an occasional tree far in the distance, swallowed in the vast solitude, he felt like a tiny ship floating on the ocean. Cresting a hill, he drew up. A solitary bison grazed in the valley; a sight he never thought he would see in his lifetime. A massive bull that had to weigh a ton, with a shaggy mane down his neck, thick matted hair covering his shoulders to his front hooves, short horns growing upward, and coal black, lonely eyes. Passing as close as he felt safe, it was the biggest, fiercest looking beast he ever came across. The bison paid him no mind, grazing in the prairie grass.

Crossing the valley, he rode to the top of the next hill. Looking below, he spied a sight that caused him to shudder and shake his head. A Conestoga wagon sat alone in the valley. The horses stolen and all its contents were spread out around it. Two bodies lay dead in the grass. Spurring his horse, he passed through the prairie and pulled up alongside the dead. A man and woman lay slumped forward, face down from a sitting position, both with a single bullet wound in the back of the head.

Brutal executions, the rider said aloud, seeing this many times before. Raiders, no doubt, killed two people for a few dollars. Life is cheap out here on the prairie.

The rider dismounted and walked all around the area. Everything from the wagon lay upon the ground, trunks torn open and the contents thrown out everywhere. Circling wide, he looked down at a child’s rag doll. Picking it up, where was the child? Did they take her? That’s highly unlikely. If it were Indians that did this, yes, that would be plausible, but this was done by raiders. They almost never take children, always killing them to leave no witnesses.

When he looked back at the wagon, he noticed a corner of a cabinet jutting from underneath. He dropped to one knee seeing a three-foot square box mounted underneath. Stepping over, he kneeled down and opened the cabinet. Squished inside, a little girl stared back with absolute fear in her eyes. She pressed hard against the back wall.

Smiling, Well, hello there. Her fear remained and shuffled a little in the confined space. I won’t hurt you. You can come out now.

She pushed herself against the back wall even more if it was possible and could go no farther.

It’s all right. You can come out. I won’t hurt you.

Reaching his hand in, he held it out. She shuffled a bit again, so scared. He held his hand still, not giving up.

You can’t stay in there forever.

Timidly, she reached out and took his hand. Gently, he led her out of her box. Standing up, her knees and joints were stiff, moving with difficulty for a minute. Looking her over, she was eight or nine years old, shoulder length auburn hair tied into two braids, a few visible freckles underneath her light brown eyes, a beautiful little girl.

You okay? he asked. She just stared and said nothing. You look okay. Doesn’t look like you’re hurt. Is this yours? He held up the doll and she snatched it out of his hand, hugging it tightly. I thought so.

Is that your mother and father over there? She nodded. You know they’re dead, don’t you? She nodded again. Did you see it happen? She shook her head. Do you want to see them? She nodded.

Kneeling down, he said in as gentle a voice as he could produce, I think you should. It will be a terrible thing to see, especially for a child, but this way you know it for sure, not just someone telling you. It will give you final knowledge of your mother and father.

Standing up, Stay here okay. She leaped against his leg and clung to it. It’s all right sweetheart. No one is near and you’ll be safe. Stay right here for just a minute.

Walking around to the bodies, he laid them on their backs, not wanting her to see the bullet holes in the back of their head. Going back, he picked her up like a father picks up his daughter.

It’s going to be really hard to see them like this. Are you ready? She nodded. Okay.

When he walked around the wagon, he immediately noticed their eyes were open and cringed at missing that. Looking upon her mommy and daddy, she slipped out of his arms, stepped over and closed their eyes. Rushing back, she hugged his waist tightly and started crying. He picked her up and she clung to his neck. Walking to the rear of the wagon, he pried her away and set her down.

I see your father’s shovel. I need to bury them. It’s going to take a little while, okay. She just stared. He took off his gun belt and set it next to her to make it easier to dig. Don’t touch that okay. I need you to watch all around us while I dig. If you see anything move, anything at all, you call out, okay. She nodded.

Before he started, he pulled some jerky from his saddlebags and gave it to her along with a canteen of water. Three hours later, he finished burying the bodies, washed the dirt from his hands, and wiped them on his pants legs. From his saddlebag, he got his Bible, took the little girl by the hand and led her to the graves.

After reading from Ecclesiastics, he closed his Bible and said, Lord have mercy on their souls and give this girl the strength to go forward. Pausing, he added, "As it is written in Romans 12:19: ‘Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ Father seek justice for this little girl."

Picking her up, he set her in the back of the wagon again. William held up a gold rope chain and cross. This was around your mother’s neck, probably an heirloom or a gift from your father. I can’t believe the raiders missed it. You should keep it always in remembrance of her. He fastened it around her neck and tucked it under her dress.

Lastly, he gathered up all her clothes