Sunset Over the Rockies

By Tom E. Hicklin

After three years of brutal fighting in the American Civil War, Bill Barton and his best friend head west, hoping to strike it rich in the gold fields of Colorado. But an attack on the road to Central City leaves his friend dead and Bill badly injured.

 

Barely recovered and no longer having the heart for prospecting, Bill moves to Denver, where he finds a steady job with the city marshal's office. But as his prospects improve and he begins dreaming of a brighter future, he's faced with another horrifying act of violence, instigated by the same man who had killed his partner and left him for dead.

 

Bill sets out to find the killer and bring him to justice. What he doesn't realize is that, as he pursues the killer, the killer is pursuing him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ol' Pard Publishing
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735482811

Tom E. Hicklin

Tom Hicklin was born and raised in Colorado, and has had a strong interest in American history and the Civil War for as long as he can remember. After a brief flirtation with writing in college, he spent most of his adult life working in accounting or IT. He has since left the rat race and is now concentrating on his two great passions—history and writing. He currently lives in Cincinnati with his girlfriend and two dogs.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Colorado Rockies in the summer were, to Bill Barton, the closest you could get to heaven on this earth. Rain storms, while frequent and sometimes intense, were short and refreshing, the sun was warm, and the breeze coming off the snow-capped peaks was cool enough to make a body comfortable when performing even the most arduous task.

The forests (what was left of them) were a tapestry of dark evergreens and lightly colored aspen. Bill particularly liked the aspen. Their leaves didn’t block out as much light as the heavy boughs of the spruce and pine, and when the wind shook their leaves, the light flickered as if you were standing inside a crystal vase. Even the areas stripped of their trees to feed the needs of the growing mining camps and towns were quickly covered with green grass and colorful wildflowers.

And oh the sunsets! They were explosions of multicolored beams and fiery-red clouds that Bill imagined were much like what the ancients saw when they talked to God.

The wagon hit a large rock and Bill bounced off the seat and back down, sending a bolt of pain up his lower back. The rocky ground that gave the mountains their name was probably the only thing Bill didn’t like about the Rockies. Particularly the roads. Except for the main routes down to Denver and Golden, most were little more than rocky paths, and the road from their claim down to Black Hawk was no exception.

Back botherin’ ya? Horace asked.

Bill gave his old war pard a sideways glance. Ain’t yours?

Horace shrugged. Some, I suppose.

Some, I suppose, Bill mimicked under his breath. They had been on the road since sunup, with only one stop for a midday meal, and now the sun was well into its descent toward the peaks to their right. No man on earth could go that long bouncing up and down on a stiff, low-backed seat and not feel some pain.

You mean to tell me all this rocking and swaying for hours on end ain’t got your back in a bind? Bill asked.

I’m fine.

Bill didn’t believe him. While the seat of the Schuttler wagon they’d purchased in San Antonio after mustering out of the Sixty-fourth Ohio Volunteer Infantry had leaf springs, they were no match for the rocky mountain roads, and the low back of the seat offered no relief.

But that was Horace. Even during the war's worst, he took things in stride. The most Bill could ever get out of him was a shrug and It’s God’s will. Which frustrated Bill to no end. After all, bellyaching wasn’t any fun unless it had company.

I think you’re holding back, pard. Bill always suspected Horace’s stoicism had something to do with the sight of a pile of limbs outside the hospital tent after Shiloh.  It seemed before that Horace was just as quick to bellyache as the next man, and not above exaggerating some to get a transfer to Company Q (what the men euphemistically called sick leave).

They hit another large rock and the two men bounced and the leaf springs screeched as the wagon came down hard on the compact earth. Through his own pain, Bill noted the grimace on his pard’s face. Hurt’s, don’t it.

Of course it hurts, dammit, Horace snapped. You think a man can ride one of these contraptions all day and not hurt?

Bill gave his partner a smug smile. That’s what I been saying is all....Besides, we’re almost to the last stretch. We’ll be settled in and enjoying a couple cool drafts in the Concert Hall before you know it.

You’re one contrary, son-of-a— Horace began.

Three riders appeared from around the bend ahead. Bill reached down and pulled the Henry rifle from the scabbard tacked to the inside of the wagon just below the seat.

Recognize ’em? Horace asked.

Bill shook his head. Nope. But I don’t like their cut.

Even from a distance, Bill could tell the three men were hard characters. The way they sat their horses said they were ready for trouble, and the fact they showed no sign of yielding the road said they didn’t back down.

As they got closer, his suspicion grew. Their clothes were old and worn, repaired with pieces of fur and hide. They were definitely not miners. More likely buffalo hunters or the like. In which case they were far from anywhere they could make an honest living.

Horace called out, Hello ahead! Yield the road, if you please!

At first the three riders didn’t respond. They continued to block the road, and the mules pulling the wagon slowed, forcing Horace to use the whip to keep them moving.

Bill slowly levered a round into the chamber of the Henry and braced the butt of the gun on his thigh. Though he kept his finger away from the trigger, it was close, just in case. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Horace unbutton his jacket, clearing the way to the revolver he wore in a cross-draw holster. Though the bag of gold they carried was small, it was all they had, and both men were prepared to defend it to the death.

When it was clear Horace would not stop the wagon, the men yielded—just barely. They continued to crowd the mules and wagon with their horses, even while putting on a show of acquiescence.

Up close, Bill could see one man was much older than the other two, and the family resemblance was clear. The three shared the same hairline and facial features. All three were large men, their skin brown from dirt and sun, their clothes splotched with stains. And they smelled like an open grave. All three carried revolvers tucked in belts cinched high on their waists, and knives large enough to cut down a small tree. But thankfully they kept their hands away from their weapons.

The older man tipped his hat and smiled, revealing a row of rotten, gray teeth. Howdy, gents, he called out. On your way to town, are you?

That we are, sir, and thank you for yielding the road, Horace responded. There’s little enough room to maneuver this Schuttler as it is.

The man nodded and smiled. By now the three had stopped and made no further effort to impede their progress. The older man seemed friendly enough, but the younger two never spoke or cracked a smile. Horace slowed so as not to spook the horses, but never stopped the wagon.

Sun’s going down. You boys have a ways to travel?

We’ll be sipping a couple drams in the Concert Hall by sundown, Horace responded. Inwardly Bill winced.

Once passed the three, Horace sped up. You boys have fun in Central City, the older man called out. And watch yourselves!

Horace waved over his shoulder. Bill twisted around in his seat and nodded. He stayed like that until they were around the bend and the three were out of sight. Then he turned around in his seat and sighed, feeling the tension slowly leave his body. Those boys are up to no good.

Horace nodded. Think we should say something to the sheriff in Black Hawk?

Bill shrugged, Wouldn’t hurt. I don’t think they’ll sulk around these parts for long though.

They rode in silence for a few moments. Bill felt his body continue to relax and welcomed the release. Then he thought of something. You shouldn’t have said anything about where we were headed.

What do you mean? Horace asked.

Just that. Where we are going is none of their business. And no one in these parts goes to Black Hawk or Central City unless they have gold to spend or sell.

Horace shrugged. We’re on the road. Seemed pretty obvious to me.

Still.

You worry too much.

You don’t worry enough.

The war’s over, Bill.

Not out here. It’s just a different kind of war is all. And it’s every man for himself.

Horace frowned and opened his mouth to respond when a fist full of blood and flesh blossomed out of his chest. Bill heard the gunshot as Horace dropped the reigns and slumped over onto him.

Bill pushed his partner’s body away and twisted around. There was one of the strangers on the road, reloading a Sharps carbine like the kind cavalrymen carried. Bill raised the Henry and fired off two rounds in quick succession. Neither came anywhere near the stranger, but it made him flinch and pause in his reloading. Then the other two appeared, and the three trotted toward the wagon, weapons at the ready.

By now the mules, spooked by the gunshots and the smell of blood spattered on their haunches, were picking up speed. Looking down, Bill saw the reins had fallen out of the wagon and were dragging in the dirt below. He looked ahead and saw they were approaching the point in the road where it made a sharp turn to the left and began the downward descent into Black Hawk.

Bill hated that stretch of road. It was nothing but a narrow ledge, blasted out of the mountainside, and the drop off, though not far or steep by Rocky Mountain standards, was still enough to kill a man. He applied the brakes, but stopped when the sounds of gunshots and horse hooves pounding the rocky earth told him his attackers were gaining on him. He twisted around again and fired four more shots.

None of them had a ghost of a chance of hitting anything as long as they were moving, so the attackers stopped their pursuit and raised their guns to take more careful aim. Bill fired again to keep them on edge and climbed into the back of the wagon.

Bullets tore into the side of the wagon, missing Bill by inches. One mule brayed loudly and stumbled, but regained his footing and began to gallop. The other mule matched his partner’s speed, and so they hit the bend in the road at a full run. At the same time, the wagon hit a rock and tipped over, spilling Bill, Horace’s body, and their luggage, complete with the bag of gold, out and over the embankment.

Bill hit the steep slope with a glancing blow and starting spinning. He hit again and was airborne. As he twirled through the air, he saw the top of a pine tree fast approaching. He’d lost the Henry on the first bounce, so he raised both hands to protect his face.

Then he was in the tree, the small branches at the top slapping, scraping, and spinning him around until he didn’t know which way was up. He reached out and tried to grab the trunk, but the branches slapped his hands away. Then the branches were larger, hitting him like a boxer’s fist, knocking the air out of his lungs and spinning him even harder. He tried to grab something, anything, but he couldn’t get a grip.

As the tree limbs got bigger, they started breaking bones. With each snap, a bolt of pain shot through Bill’s body, until he knew nothing but agony. The tree continued to slap him, punch him, and spin him around until he hit the ground, but by then it was just another blow among many.

The impact momentarily knocked him unconscious. When he came to, the pain seemed worse. He tried to move, but his limbs didn’t respond. He blinked and saw a sharp rock sticking up out of the ground. If he’d hit two inches to the left, his head would have cracked open like a ripe melon.

Then he heard the mules screaming in pain. He turned his head in that direction, but couldn’t see the animals or the wagon. What he did see was a misshapen pile of clothes, covered in blood. As he lost consciousness again, he realized what he was looking at was his pard’s broken body.

Chapter Two

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The gunfire that killed Horace had attracted the attention of some miners working their claims in North Clear Creek. They found Bill, barely alive, in the wreckage. From the bullet hole in Horace they quickly surmised the cause of the crash and formed a posse, but the road agents who had attacked them were long gone.

Fortunately for Bill, one of the miners who found him had been a doctor in Germany before coming to America. He’d set Bill’s broken bones and nursed him for almost two months. Then they moved him to Central City, where he stayed under the care of the town physician, living off the small bag of gold the miners had recovered for him from the wreckage.

By the spring of 1867 he could walk without assistance, and the gold was almost all gone. Having lost interest in mining without his friend and partner, Bill sold his claim and headed down the canyon to Golden. Not finding work there, he drifted east, to Denver, where he found work as a jailer for the city.

He’d applied for the position of deputy, but he’d still had a pronounced limp and suffered from a great deal of pain in his back and extremities. Pain that he managed with alcohol. He could have gotten opium tablets from the doctor, but he’d gotten hooked on those while recuperating, and kicking the habit had been almost as bad as the pain. He didn’t want to go through that again. Besides which, they made him slow and befuddled. Sighting his obvious infirmities, the marshal—a fellow veteran not much older than Bill, named David J. Cook—had turned him down, but offered the job of jailer as consolation.

The city jail on F Street, just off Holladay, was an old warehouse purchased by the city in 1866 and converted into a jail. It had not been intended to hold anyone for very long. At the time, Denver justice was still handled by the People’s Court. When someone was arrested for a serious crime, the process was quick and definitive. Within a day, a crowd of citizens would form outside the jail. They would choose a judge, a prosecuting attorney, and a defense attorney from the crowd (none with any legal training), and everyone else became the jury. The trial lasted a couple hours at most, and if they found the defendant guilty, there were only two sentences: death by hanging or banishment from the territory.

In 1867 Denver City became the capital of Colorado Territory, and with the influx of politicians and their families came a push for a more sophisticated justice system. But with the transcontinental railroad going through Cheyenne 100 miles to the north, and placer gold mining drying up, the city and territory lacked the income to modernize. So now, while there was a real court, with real attorneys, and a territorial prison being built in Canyon City, Denver still used the same old converted warehouse for the jail.

Most of the people who spent time in the jail were drunks or rowdies sleeping it off. Public intoxication was illegal, and fights (with fists, knives, or guns) would break out with some regularity, landing the participants (if they survived) in jail. In the morning, the prisoners would appear before the justice of the peace, and, depending on the severity, be fined or banished, with an occasional hanging thrown in when warranted.

So Bill spent his nights babysitting drunks. Then he cleaned up their messes in the morning before walking home to his room in a boarding house on California Street on the east end of town.

It was now April 1868, and though the days were warmer, the nights were still cold. The warehouse area, with its banks of cells built of wood and iron bars, had only one stove, and it was lit only when the temperature dropped below freezing. Bill spent most of his time in the front room, at the desk next to the wood stove, feeding the fire and preparing the paperwork for presentation to the court in the morning along with the prisoners. Most were fined $12.00 for public drunkenness, $2.00 of which went to the arresting officer.

It was that $2.00 per arrest that attracted Bill’s attention the most. His salary as jailer barely paid for his room and board, leaving him precious little for whiskey and other necessities.  He still wanted to be a deputy, and now, except for when it was cold, or when he over-exerted himself, the limp was gone and his back pain was tolerable. He was sure he could handle working a beat, rounding up drunks and ensuring prostitutes didn’t display their wares in public. The fights would just depend—wrestling might be a problem, but he could still handle a gun.

Bill was fingering a new hole that he’d just discovered in the seam of his pants and thinking of what he could do with the extra money he could make as deputy when a loud bang and a blast of cold air interrupted his ruminating. The double front doors had flown open, and Deputy Simon Parker strode in with a passed-out drunk under his arm.

Parker was a big man, over six feet tall and stout as an ox, and the man he carried seemed small in comparison. Parker dropped his load and shook his arm. Bastard passed out somewhere on Larimer and I had to carry his sorry self the last couple blocks, the big deputy growled.

Bill stood up and came around to the front of the desk. Whatta you got there, Simon? He could tell from the smell the man had already puked and pissed himself, and his boots were caked with horse shit. He probably wouldn’t cause any problems in the night, but the mess he’d leave in the morning was not one Bill looked forward to cleaning.

Well, Bill, don’t you recognize little Johnny here? Shit shoveler down at the Elephant Corral?

I don’t get down that way much myself, since I don’t have a stagecoach or run a dray line, Bill said deadpan.

Bah! Parker barked. You need to get out in the daylight more, Billy-boy. There’s a whole world out there just passing you by. I bet you haven’t even seen the fancy new whorehouse opened up this end of Holladay Street, have you? Parker laughed at the discomfort that crossed Bill’s face.

This end you say? That’s pushing the boundaries, isn’t it? Bill asked. While there were still whorehouses scattered throughout town, all the new ones were limited to the upper end of Holladay Street.

Parker shrugged. Someone has some clout with the big bugs at the capital, I’m guessing.

He reached down, grabbed the still-sleeping drunk, and headed toward the back. Which cell you want him in?

Put him in two, Bill yelled back as Parker grabbed the keys and disappeared into the bowels of the building.

Bill went around the desk and pulled out a fresh form. He filled out what he could and would wait for Parker to return to fill out the rest. Then he threw a couple logs into the wood stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. You want a cup, Simon? he called out.

Don’t mind if I do, came the reply. He poured a second cup and put the pot back on the stove.

Blowing away the steam rising from his cup, Bill made his way around the desk to sit, but before he got there a blast of wind blew the doors open. Dammit, Simon, you need to learn how to properly close a door!

Wass that?!

Nothing! Bill grumbled as he made his way across the room. He winced as a sharp pain shot down his lower back and into his left leg. He let himself go and limped across the room until Parker reappeared, then he straightened up and did his best to hide the limp and pain.

Back bothering you? Parker asked.

Bill grunted a response. I’m fine.

Bill slammed the doors closed harder than intended and made his way back to the desk, only limping a couple of