Duke Harper: Seeds of Violence

By DeLoy McAfee House

The year is 1861. Concerned about the threat of a Confederate invasion of New Mexico, Duke Harper joins the Colorado Volunteers in Denver and begins his journey into the Civil War. An amiable young man, he is haunted by his troubled family past, which was made worse by his often abusive stepfather. He is forever changed by many traumatic events,

• Language: English
• Publisher: DeLoy House
• Release date: Sep 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9780578888682

DeLoy McAfee House

DeLoy McAfee House has always been an enthusiast of history and literature. While celebrated early on, her writing talents took a back seat to helping put her husband through college, raising their two sons, and later on nursing her husband through a long illness. Her first novel was written in 1963, though it was never published. DeLoy lived most of her life in Roswell, New Mexico, and now resides in Bakersfield, California. As a lover of history, DeLoy has painstakingly researched and fact-checked many details about the Civil War in the West, a part of history that has been largely ignored. Not only do her books bring to life both the tumultuous nature of the times and the personal struggles of the characters, but her tireless dedication to historical accuracy brings these tales to life in a whole new way.

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Chapter 1

July, 1861 – Platte River, Colorado Territory Attempted Robbery; Duke is wounded, Mort killed

Who the hell is Duke Harper? I’m a nobody, that’s who, Duke said. He ground his teeth and looked sternly at Mort. You mark my words, old friend . . . there will come a day when people will know who Duke Harper is. I intend to be rich and famous some day . . . some way . . . He shook his head and shrugged. I wish I could do it fast and without working at it. Maybe I can do it with my guns. It doesn’t look like I’m getting anything out of ‘panning’ for gold. There’s got to be another way.

What do you mean—you wish you could get rich without working for it? Mort squinted his tired old eyes at Duke. He couldn’t believe he had heard him right. Duke was good with his guns. Not many men that Mort knew of were any better. He’d taught Duke himself when Duke was a young man of sixteen. Mort had taken him under his wing at a time when Duke was about to take up with a known group of bandits. Was he thinking about going back to that kind of life now?

Duke took another bite of his salt bacon and biscuit. He looked at the sand and rocks along the streambed before answering Mort. Well, shit, Mort. This panning for gold don’t seem to be working for me. All I’ve managed to find is about two ounces of gold dust for all the work I’ve put into digging since we’ve been here.

You should’ve stayed in Durango and took my sheriff’s job. At least the money comes in reg’lar.

Maybe. But you never got rich, did you, Mort? You didn’t seem to get money ahead for things you wanted.

Yeah, I know. Mort sighed. He picked up his panning tools. But it was an honest living and a dependable income. I’m proud of working to make this world a better and safer place for people to live in.

I want more than just a living, Duke said, getting up. All my life, seems like everyone else had more’n me. My stepfather used to say I’d never amount to anything. He’s rich . . . owns one of the biggest spreads in New Mexico. I’d like to show him I can be as rich as he is. Trouble is—I ain’t figured out how to do it yet.

Don’t fret over it, boy. You’ve got time. How old are you now? Twenty-four? Duke nodded. Look. Just live your life the best you can. One of these days, something is going to fly right up in your face and you’ll know that’s the thing you really want to do. It’s almost like finding the right woman. When that something special hits you, you won’t be able to think of nothin’ else—like you would with a special woman. You’ll become obsessed with it. If you don’t, it ain’t what you really want. Not everybody’s lucky enough to find the right woman or the right livelihood. If you’re smart, Duke, you’ll use your natural talents and make money from them. Invest your time and money wisely. Money makes money. That’s the way to do it, Duke.

I ‘spect you’re right, Mort. I’ll try prospecting a little longer. But if I don’t find a strike by the time the snow flies, I’ll try something else. He grinned at Mort. My ‘natural talent’ is my skill with guns. Maybe that’s how I’ll do it.

Mort shrugged. Suit yourself. Just keep it legal and stay out of trouble. Mort went downstream to a place where he had found a few pebble-sized nuggets of gold two days before. He didn’t want to waste time trying to find his fortune before he was too old to enjoy it.

Duke walked upstream, through the wide gorge in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. He followed a small branch off of the South Platte River. The serene beauty denied the existence of human turmoil. This was a place where dreams could come true with the luck of a healthy gold strike. That is, if you could keep it.

The air was crisp and clear on this mid-July day in 1861. Gravel and sand insulated the clear, cold water of the stream from its muddy base as it twisted and stretched its way through the long canyon. The air smelled strongly of the aroma of timber and brush warmed by the bright noonday sun.

Duke had panned a bit of dust now and then, but what he had in the little pouch in his pocket was not enough to trigger excitement in him. He felt a little drowsy instead. He looked up at the gathering clouds in the sky and could tell there would still be time for a short nap before the usual noontime mountain showers. He walked upstream a little farther in search of a likely place to nap.

Duke sat down on the warm sand and leaned against a grass-tufted bank. He crossed his long legs at the ankles in front of him and placed his rifle within comfortable reach beside him.

Peaceful as it was in the present surroundings, keeping a weapon within reach was a necessary habit that he had to have in order to survive the wiles of the frontier. A man could be surprised at any moment by a claim jumper, a wild, wounded, or sick animal, or perhaps an outlaw seeking revenge on the old retired sheriff, Mort. Duke, too, had made some enemies of his own as Mort’s deputy.

Duke yawned and stretched his long arms and body on the sand. He scrunched down and pulled his hat brim over his eyes, leaving just enough room to watch the clear, cold water tumble lazily over the rocky streambed. The sun was warm on him and the steady sound of water was soothing. He inhaled the thin mountain air slowly and was soon fast asleep.

* * *

A blast shattered the air. Duke sprang to his feet with his rifle in his hands. A shot from a strange rifle had jarred him awake. Each weapon had its own sound and that was not the sound of Mort’s gun.

Quickly, he jumped for cover in the brush on the side of the mountain. He cautiously made his way back downstream to Mort, being careful not to become a target himself. Carelessness was sure death in most cases.

One of the first things Mort had taught him was not to go running out in the open toward the sound of gunshots, to instead take cover and then get a good look at what was happening before taking action. Self-preservation and protection of innocent bystanders were the first two thoughts of a good lawman.

Questions flashed rapidly in Duke’s mind. Was the strange rife shot just a hunter getting close to his and Mort’s claim? Perhaps it was an approach-warning shot of visitors. Claim jumpers, maybe? Likely! No matter, Duke would not take chances.

He moved quickly and quietly a few feet. He stopped and listened. Hearing nothing, he moved on until he could see Mort.

Mort! My God! Duke whispered. His old friend lay face down in the stream. Duke’s trained eyes searched for a sign of life. Mort’s blood reddened the water around him. Duke could see no air bubbles coming from the water above Mort’s head and knew he must be dead.

A bear of a man floundered down the mountain and crossed the stream toward Mort. He searched the old man’s pockets, jerking the body around like a rag doll.

You no good son of a bitchin’ gold digger. Nothin’! Not one lousy nugget on ‘im, the man bellowed as he dropped Mort’s lifeless torso back into the bloody stream.

Duke felt weak. He had failed Mort as a protector. Then, as he watched the horrible scene, he took a deep breath. His body suddenly became rigid. Hatred and revenge surged through him.

He raised his rifle and aimed it steadily as though it were part of his body. He squeezed off a shot with deliberate intent to kill. The huge man fell across Mort.

Duke waited cautiously for a few seconds behind an earth-covered boulder and watched. There was no one else in view. He worked his way down to the edge of the bank, moving quietly, with his rifle ready.

There was no sign of other unwanted company. It was quiet. Even the animals had scurried for cover. There was only the sound of the water splashing down its path. The gentle rustle of a breeze moved through the trees. Clouds covered the sun and a light drizzle began to fall.

Duke moved toward the bodies. He felt for the intruder’s pulse. He was dead. Duke tried to move him but couldn’t budge the huge man with his free arm, so he laid his rifle on the bank to free his other hand, then managed to move the dead weight off his friend. He picked up Mort’s frail body and carried it to the bank away from the water to a clear place beneath a tree.

Briefly, Duke stared at the gaping hole in Mort’s chest. He was stunned. Mort had survived as a lawman for some thirty years. Now some damned thief caught him off guard miles from civilization and ended his life for the chance of a few nuggets of gold. The unfairness of fate filled Duke with rage.

That thieving son of a bitch, he growled. He felt sick inside. Tears blurred his vision. Suddenly, he turned and stomped toward the fat beast lying in the water.

The body was filthy. The odor of stale sweat was almost unbearable. His matted hair was long and wheat-colored and he had a heavy, reddish, tobacco-stained beard. His clothes were too tight. Folds of fat bulged from the ragged holes in his faded wool shirt and pants.

You goddamned thievin’ bastard! Duke exclaimed through gritted teeth. The muscles in his shoulders and face hardened. He kicked the unsightly hulk two or three times, violently. Then, realizing it served no purpose other than satisfying his own emotions, he turned and picked up his rifle on the bank where he had left it.

A bullet slapped the rock close to where the gun had lain.

Damn! Duke wheeled around toward the firing direction. He was caught by a bullet in his right side. Oh, my God! he moaned as he grabbed at his sticky side and stumbled for cover.

He edged around the boulder, close to Mort’s body. Quickly, he got the handgun and cartridge belt off Mort and then scurried up the hillside through the scrub oaks and rocks. Bullets whizzed about him as he hurled himself through clearings.

I’ve got to get to the cave, he thought, pausing just long enough to locate his attackers. He spotted two figures. Duke shot several rounds but didn’t hit either of the two targets below.

Blood oozed from his side. Thank God. It’s only a flesh wound, he surmised. Tore a big damned hole in the flesh, though. Shit!

Quickly, he cut a long strip of damp moss with his knife, pulled it loose from under the tree, and stuffed it inside his shirt to stop the bleeding.

Duke stayed pinned down for almost an hour. It was getting colder. The drizzle changed to cloudbursts of rain. He took advantage of the cover that the heavy rain provided and made a beeline for the cave that he had shared with Mort high above the stream. Maybe he could get to their ammunition and some food before the robbers could find him.

Inside, Duke was startled to find their belongings ransacked. They had found the cave! He searched quickly for ammunition. Gone . . . all the ammunition is gone! Damn! Well, shit! he mumbled. Have to make do with what I have and hope for the best.

Duke was weak from the loss of blood. He staggered and fell. His head was pounding.

Can’t quit. Keep going, he urged himself on. He forced his body to stand and managed to make his way through the rain to a covered ledge nearby that he’d spotted long ago. It would be a good fortress. He hoped his ammunition would be enough. He dug in to keep dry as best he could while he waited for a chance to defend himself.

The rain finally stopped and the sun came out.

He used each bullet carefully. It wasn’t easy to see his targets clearly through the brush and trees. But Duke took each chance he thought he had in order to save himself. At last he was down to only two bullets. He would keep those for close confrontation.

Duke could hear someone climbing above him. Gravel fell along the steep ledge beside him. He couldn’t see anyone.

Somehow, one of the men found a vulnerable spot from above Duke’s fortress. He blasted Duke in his left shoulder with a bullet.

Oh, shit! Not again! Duke felt the stab of pain almost at the same time he heard the shot. He knew it was fired from close range. He wheeled off balance and tumbled down the slope below the ledge. His head reeled into an abyss of unconsciousness. His body flipped and floundered and crashed into an alcove some twenty feet below the ledge.

Danger forced him into a dazed wakefulness. He heard sounds above him. He tried to move. His side and shoulder burned. He could feel his cold, clammy shirt. It was soaked with his own blood from the holes in his shoulder and his side. The moss pack had moved. It was lodged next to his belt and was useless.

Duke could see the loose, rotted pine needles, which partly covered the logs on one side of him and the huge tree roots jutting from the mountain on the other side. His body was imprisoned by the entanglement of the roots and logs. The odor of the damp earth filled his nostrils. He could taste the mud and rotted pine needles on his lips.

He was weak from the loss of blood. Once more, he slid into the depths of unconsciousness.

Chapter 2

Doc and Tosh Save Duke’s Life

It was beginning to get dark when Duke opened his eyes in dim consciousness. I can’t move my arms—my legs. What happened? He tried again and then lay still. Through the pain and confusion of his hazy awakening, his mind flew back to another time in New Mexico when he awoke with a similar surprise to find himself alive.

A vivid vision of his stepfather with a whip in his hand flashed through Duke’s mind. Marvin Reavis had whipped him into unconsciousness for missing a few stray calves in a roundup.

"Cows are money. My money," Reavis had bellowed.

It was late October. The winds were cold. Duke could feel the chill and dampness from the ravine. No. It was an arroyo. Or was it? Where was he? He was confused. He was a man. He was wet with blood. His body was wracked with pain and wedged in a cold, wet crevice, and yet, he was a sixteen-year-old boy again, lying in a cold arroyo.

His back felt hot in spite of the cold. It stung where the leather whip had cut through the shirt on his back. It was sticky with blood. It was not the first time his stepfather had used the whip on him. But this time, Reavis’ fury seemed greater than before.

The words of the foreman of the ranch were etched in Duke’s brain: You shouldn’t leave him here, señor. He’s only a boy. Besides, he got a cut on his head when he fell.

Shut up, Lujan! snapped the stout man. He’s my stepson and no concern of yours. I’ll make a responsible man out of him or kill him trying. Tie his mount to that bush near the ditch.

The boy moved and groaned. He opened his eyes and saw the hazy figures above him. He moved his lips but couldn’t speak.

You remember what I said, Daniel. You find those goddamned cows. And this time, don’t come home without them. You little bastard, you’re gonna learn to do as you’re told!

Reavis wheeled his horse and the men disappeared from sight.

It had been seven hard, bitter years since then, but the pain that coursed through Duke’s body brought back the memory as though it had happened that very day.

Duke never knew his own father. He had been killed when Duke was three years old. Lenella was still a baby. Their mother, Elizabeth, worked as a housekeeper, seamstress, and laundress to take care of them.

Elizabeth married Reavis when Duke was eleven and Lenella was seven years old. Reavis’ wife had died and left him with an infant son. Duke always felt that Reavis just married Elizabeth to get himself a housekeeper and two child laborers.

His fatherly memories were of a stepfather that he would hate ‘til his dying day. The only other older man that Duke knew well was Mort. He had given Duke fatherly guidance before Duke fell into a lawless path in his teens.

Mort. Duke was jarred to keen awareness with his realization that Mort was dead. He felt a great loss as he thought of the old man. Damn! I can’t do anything about Mort now—got to save myself. Mort wouldn’t want me to give up.

Duke tried to move. He vaguely remembered falling into the alcove. He was pinned down by the gnarled roots.

It would not be long before the two men would be down to finish him off. Duke suspected that the two attackers had returned to the cave and were still rummaging through his and Mort’s belongings. They would be looking for more gold than the small cache that Mort had found and stored in the cave. No doubt they knew where Duke was and that he was no threat to them in his condition.

Once more, Duke made a desperate attempt to free himself. Two rotted logs gripped his left leg, pinning the right one down. He tried to maneuver his good right arm to try to move the log. He couldn’t budge it. His body was too twisted and weak to get any leverage to free himself.

He looked around for his handgun. Finally, he saw it. The Colt lay about four feet away from him under an oak bush. It was hopeless. The two bullets he had saved were out of reach.

Duke was pinned down. There was nothing he could do about it. He had lost too much blood. He was too weak to move even if he could get loose. If the men did not come to finish him off, he would die from his wounds.

He wondered if his mother and sister would ever know what had happened to him. Blackness blotted out his thoughts.

Finally, the two men came to find Duke before total darkness fell. The tall one searched him and took the small gold pouch from his pocket. Duke was jarred awake by the stabbing pain from the movement of his wounded, imprisoned body.

Is that all he’s got? bellowed the short man. Duke could see scraggly red hair sticking out from under his hat.

Looks like, said the tall, thin man.

Shit! said the redhead. Twixt that and what we found in the cave, it’s hardly ‘nuff to pay for our target practice today. Well. Kill ‘im and le’s go.

The tall man started to turn away from Duke. Naw. No need wastin’ more bullets. Hell, he’s done for anyhow. Just look at that bloody mess.

Goddammit! I said kill the son of a bitch, the redhead snapped. I ain’t gonna walk away from here knowin’ there’s a breath left in the bastard. I’ve seen some men hurt worse’n that come trackin’ their would-be killers. Kill him!

The tall man shrugged his shoulders, pulled his hand iron from its holster and aimed it at Duke’s head. I guess it won’t hurt to put him out of his misery no how.

Duke felt nothing but the cold wetness of his shirt. His body was numbed by injury and shock. He could see the figures dimly through the lashes of his nearly closed eyelids. He felt like a disembodied spirit watching and listening to the scene as though it were happening to someone else.

Two shots fired simultaneously. The tall man and the short, red-haired man disappeared from Duke’s view. Duke’s body didn’t feel any different than before.

Am I dead? Duke wondered. Consciousness slipped from him once more.

Across the stream and a few yards above the alcove where Duke lay, two tall figures stood quietly in the shadows. Each held a gun in hand and watched as their targets dropped out of sight. The heavy smoke rose from their guns and filled the damp air with the acrid smell of gunpowder. They remained silent for a few seconds with ears straining for any sound in the near darkness.

Think that’s it, Doc? Tosh asked softly.

Probably, Doc answered, straining to hear sounds of movement.

Okay. Let’s go see who they were trying to kill.

They moved quietly across the stream, up the hillside, and into the cove. The area was almost like a cave with its masses of interwoven pine tree limbs for a high roof.

The two dead men were there; one was draped across the other where they had fallen down a slight incline. A few feet from them was another body—the intended victim of murder and robbery.

Don’t look too good, does he, Tosh? mumbled Doc. He felt around and managed to untangle Duke’s leg from the gripping logs, then snapped off some dead brush and dislodged a rock that held the body in the crevice. Tosh helped Doc move the body to a clear spot on the ground beneath the large tree limbs.

I’ll get our horses and see if I can find something to rig up a light. You’re going to need it if you plan on trying to fix up that mess, said Tosh.

Tosh retrieved their horses and belongings. There was barely enough daylight, but he was able to follow the men’s tracks and scout the area above them. He found the cave and brought blankets, rags, and a bucket for water.

Doc had built a small campfire while Tosh was gone. He had unsaddled the horses, taken a pan from his pack, filled it with water, and put it on to boil.

We’ll use what water we need to get this man fixed up and make some coffee out of the rest of the water, Doc said. You can take that bucket down to the stream to get more after we’re through here.

Tosh held Duke while Doc dug the bullet out of Duke’s shoulder. Doc sewed up that hole and then they took care of the two flesh wounds in the front and back of Duke’s side. Doc used some horsehair and a needle that he carried especially for that purpose. Then they set his broken leg. Doc covered Duke with a blanket and shook his head.

Don’t know how much good all this will do, Tosh. He may pull through if he hasn’t lost too much blood.

The two men, tired and hungry after their long ordeal, settled down to rest and nourish their own bodies. Tosh handed Doc a piece of jerky. Bet you a bottle of rotgut whiskey he don’t pull through, Tosh said.

Why? Doc bit off a chew of meat and looked into his half-breed friend’s eyes. You got anything against saving a white man’s life?

Hell. I don’t care what color he is. Tosh shrugged. He’s human. I just thought it might be more interesting if we had a little bet going, that’s all.

In that case, you’re on, Doc grinned. He put another chunk of wood on the fire.

After they’d rested, Tosh and Doc dragged the two bodies around the bend and a hundred yards or so up the canyon. They covered them with branches they had cut from trees.

That may discourage animals from getting to them ‘til we can see to bury them in the morning, said Doc.

Don’t count on it, Tosh growled. It may work with us close by, but it depends on how bold or how hungry the animals are in these parts.

That night, Tosh slept lightly, as he always did. The sound of an animal stepping on a twig could wake him up instantly. It could—and did. He didn’t see the animals, but he could hear them barking and yelping over their find.

During the loudest commotion, Doc awoke, sat up, and reached for his rifle.

Shh! Tosh cautioned. It’s too dark and there are too many of them. Leave ‘em be and they won’t notice us here.

Tosh and Doc stationed themselves to face the opening of the cove with their backsides to Duke, in case the animals smelled the fresh blood of the wounded man.

It was a restless night. They took turns guarding their patient until daylight.

Chapter 3

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Duke slept long and deeply. Even the move up the mountainside to his cave the following morning did not awaken him. Doc tended him carefully during his feverish hours. With that, and Duke’s youth and stamina on his side, he survived.

It was warm and dry in the cave. Duke awoke to the strong odor of venison roast and vegetable soup. He was hungry. He tried to raise himself up to look around, but fell back. He was too weak to steady himself.

Vague thoughts of what had happened to him raced through his mind. He remembered the two robbers and wondered if they had changed their minds about killing him.

Duke listened as footsteps and voices outside the cave came closer. Whoever was there wasn’t trying to conceal their presence. Two men stepped boldly through the cave entrance.

Hey, Doc! said the younger man. Looks like your patient pulled through after all. Guess I owe you a bottle of rot.

Duke thought that the young man must have been close to his own age. He was similar in build, too. He was well over six feet tall, broad shouldered, with narrow hips. His straight black hair hung slightly over his collar. He had high cheekbones and leathery tanned skin. His hazel eyes sparkled with warm amusement.

The other man, slightly shorter, had heavy eyebrows and thick dark brown hair. It was cut much shorter than that of the younger man. His eyes were so dark blue that they appeared to be black at first glance. He had a heavy mustache that came to his chin. Duke guessed him to be in his early thirties.

Both men sat down cross-legged on the floor beside Duke’s bedroll. Tosh was relieved to see Duke awake at last. He was afraid the wounded man may have had a concussion. Doc had suggested