Savage Wolf: Western Ranchers Settling 1860s Colorado

By Arthur C. Eastly

He was on his own at twelve years old and learned to hunt, drive teams of oxen, trap beaver, and came to know mountain men, Indians, and white settlers. Some were honest but most you had better keep an eye on.

Trace Truejay never backed away from aggressive trappers, fighting everyone who crossed him with fists, knives, or rifles, u

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eastly Enterprises
• Release date: Dec 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781988993287

Arthur C. Eastly

Arthur C. Eastly was educated at the University of Oklahoma. He enjoys writing frontier stories that enhance the self-reliance, determination, and courage our ancestors used to face dangerous hardships and move forward. His novel, Black Arrow, won second place in a New York fiction contest. Arthur currently resides in Alberta, Canada. This is his third book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

T

all burley Wally Turnbull, no longer young, walked to the chuckwagon and filled a tin plate with the cook’s beef stew before going to the campfire to sit near the crew. His cynical eyes looked at each man before turning to check the cattle. His cattle!

While he chewed the beef, his mind reviewed the past year and a half. He had left the war in the east and come out of Georgia with Sam Jackson for a companion, working their way across the war-torn countryside to New Orleans. The ruined, devastated, and burned out plantations they passed caused Turnbull to sleep poorly and suffer nightmares. They traveled with superior riding horses, guns, and a pack animal to carry provisions. Before leaving his own family’s ruined plantation, Turnbull dug from the ground a hidden cache of gold coins he had hoarded before the war. It wasn’t a large amount of money, but times were tough and even a few coins set them well above the great majority of people. The high quality of their animals and equipment drew attention from the outcasts and criminals who were living by robbing and killing the poor people attempting to survive the tough wartime days.

Reaching Georgia’s border, they crossed into Alabama at a point due east of Birmingham and turned south along the east-side of the Talladega Mountains with the intent of avoiding Birmingham and Montgomery, cities with large numbers of citizens and Confederate army units. Two days travel brought them to a point where they could see Cheaha Mountain, which an old man had told them earlier in the day was the highest elevation in Alabama. Jackson spotted a good campsite up against a steep rise to provide shelter from the weather and they prepared a camp and started cooking meat on a small fire. Turnbull used his knife to slice off a strip of meat and sat chewing with his mug of coffee beside him when Jackson quietly said, Horses coming. Both men grabbed Winchesters and stepped into the trees to await the arrival of the travelers. They had fought Yankees for two years, sometimes winning and often losing, but one thing they had learned was to fight from cover.

Several minutes went by before three men rode up to the edge of the clearing on skinny, undernourished ponies. The men looked even worse. After sitting there looking the camp over, the man in the middle called out, Hello the camp, you got any food you can share with we’uns?

Jackson appeared in the fringe of the trees. We don’t have enough to feed ourselves, you boys best keep on riding. Now with Jackson in a conversation, Turnbull watched the trees around the clearing for more men trying to sneak up on them.

Mighty fine camp you got here, mister. Three strong horses and good looking gear and here you go trying to shoo we’uns off into the coming night. Hoped to find neighborly folks to spare a bite, now I figure we deserve to take all you got.

Jackson didn’t reply and after waiting a minute or so, the talker grabbed his old single-shot muzzleloader. Jackson waited until the muzzleloader was coming up before he raised his Winchester from where he held it beside his leg and shot the loud-talking thief, knocking him to the ground. The man to the left was coming up with his long gun and Jackson shot him. The Winchester swung to point at the man still sitting on his horse. He hadn’t moved, but his jaw started flapping. Don’t be shooting this old boy, I don’t have a gun.

Get off that horse and step out where I can see you. As he limped clear of the horses, it was obvious he was no youngster. Jackson figured he must be at least fifty and his clothes looked like they had never been washed or patched. Jackson growled. You lay your knife and axe on the ground and step clear. Go to yonder tree stump and sit on it with your hands on your knees. As the man’s knees started to bend to sit a shot came from where Turnbull was hidden, and a shrill scream came from the trees just to the side of the three horses. Jackson disappeared. Several minutes went by and the injured man in the trees kept yelling for help. Finally, Jackson spoke. Mister, you got one chance to live. Tell me the truth. How many men are there in the trees?

There are four of us. Two is dead and young Ab is out there in the trees hurting. The silence stretched out. As soon as Jackson heard the words, he faded deeper into the trees and began circling. He took his time making sure his boots didn’t crack a branch or make any kind of noise. He could hear the injured man calling for help and used that as an aid in locating him. Finally, Jackson arrived at a spot where he could see the man. The long gun lay on the ground maybe four feet away. The man’s right leg was bleeding and it looked to Jackson like a serious wound. Some time had gone by and the amount of blood lost would probably be serious. Jackson was behind the man and slowly he advanced, not making any noise. The man was sagging and his head inched down to the ground. Jackson was only three long strides away. There was a large knife and a kindling axe behind the man’s belt, no sign of a pistol. Jackson stepped sideways and picked up the long gun. When Jackson got to where he could look at the face, he saw a young man who appeared to be dead or at least unconscious. After watching for several minutes, Jackson backed away and went into the clearing. Your Ab is dead, plumb bled to death. Jackson looked at the man for a while. Best thing for me to do is slit your throat, that way you won’t be bothering us again. The old man’s mouth fell open and he seemed to be trying to say something but no words came out. Jackson grimaced. Tell you what. You gather up your gear and ride out of here. You ever cross my trail again and I will shoot you on sight. Get going afore I change my mind. The old man grabbed his knife and axe and swung into his saddle. Jackson picked up a long gun and a powder bag and handed them up to the man. At least he was riding away with more than he had when he arrived. Jackson watched the rider go off to the north before walking to the campfire. Their meat was overcooked and charred. They ate it standing up and drank coffee before packing up and riding south for four miles to find a new campsite to spend the night in.

Following a trail for two days, they were approaching a point where another trail came in from the west to join it. An older man had his horse and wagon pulled to a stop to watch as they rode toward him. They separated, leaving a space between their horses and pulled to a stop. Howdy there, folks. Ain’t seen anybody since three days back. Where you fellas got in your head for going to?

Turnbull looked the old man and his outfit over before replying. We are riding our way to New Orleans over in Mississippi.

Right pert place is Orleans, been there to look at the womenfolk a few times. He pointed south along the trail they were on. If you keep following this here trail, it will take you to Montgomery. A no-good place to go now with all the war troubles they have. This here trail I come over will take you to a crossing point on the Alabama River. Once you get across, you will be in Chilton County. Not much there now. You cut out to the southwest the trail will take you to the Alabama where it turns south. Just follow along and it will take you to Mobile. My own self would head west and stay clear of Mobile.

How far is it from here to the river?

The old man took off his floppy hat and scratched his head. Can’t claim to know how far it may be. I opine it must be around fifty miles.

Turnbull smiled. Thank you for the information. May I ask what you do?

Not much an old man can do except hunting meat, trapping a mite of fur, anything to get my hands on a dollar. Two days back, Union gorillas raided me and took my long gun, powder bag, belt knife, and what little food I was carrying along. They overlooked my axe which was under a pile of firewood.

Turnbull pointed at the two horses they had taken away from the recent fight. We were attacked by bandits and came away with those two ponies. We’ll give them to you along with all they are carrying.

The old man sat up straighter and looked at the ponies. He could see long guns. He grinned. Why that is right neighborly of you fellas, a fine thing for you to do. It would set me up to go hunting meat and start eating again. Why this is turning into the finest day to come my way in a coon’s age. Jackson turned his horse and rode back to untie the lead rope from their own packhorse. He came to the back of the wagon and tied the rope firmly to an iron fitting.

*    *    *

Riding along the Alabama River proved to be much like the old man had told them in just a few words. The river wound around but by staying back a mile or so they made good time traveling. They didn’t hurry, always watchful for the many war veterans, or just plain lowlifes plaguing the countryside. Finally, they came to the point where the Tombigbee River flowed down from the northwest to join the Alabama. Fording the new river, Turnbull pointed the horses due west and two days later they crossed into Mississippi and turned south to New Orleans. A month in New Orleans was all Turnbull could stand. He had grown up on a large plantation and liked his freedom to move around without crowds of people talking in strange languages. There was water everywhere in New Orleans, clammy humidity, and a city with many strange and odious aromas wafting about which bothered him. The women looked good dressed in clothes of many colors and acted in strange ways which often offended him. Stocking up with a load of supplies, they pointed the horses west; actually northwest, following the Mississippi north to the junction with the Red River where they turned west for Texas.

Well across Louisiana, they left the Red River at Shreveport and rode west along single dirt paths through the trees and occasionally on a two-rut wagon road. They were well-armed and careful as they passed war veterans and tiny farms sitting on the countryside surviving in at best a log cabin. It was not a time to trust anyone; there were too many ragged people looking for an edge to improve their survival. The two men never slept lying flat on the ground. To sleep soundly was asking to be killed and robbed. Each night, they made coffee and cooked meat and often rode on for a mile or so before settling down for the night with their backs against a tree and a blanket for warmth. Only once did men attempt to enter their night camp and Jackson shot the man coming nearest. The rest vanished into the darkness under the trees. They had already slept for several hours and decided to load the packhorse and ride away without going near the dead man.

Game was plentiful and they shot what they needed; deer, elk, turkeys, and occasionally traded for bread or biscuits at some lonely farm. The tiny towns were unappealing, usually populated with untrustworthy ragged men sitting around on stumps or leaning against walls. Armed as they were with Winchesters carried across their saddles, most people stayed wide and clear of them. Once they were in Texas, Turnbull decided to go to the tiny settlement of Ft. Worth, and they arrived in the tail-end of winter.

Jackson found an abandoned adobe with a small pole corral and they moved in. All it contained was one room with two bunks, a fieldstone fireplace, and one rickety wooden chair. They swept it clean, repaired the door and settled down to learn what was happening in Ft. Worth. Jackson liked to play poker, Turnbull smoked cigars, and they spent their time moving amongst the saloons being friendly and exchanging stories with anyone who wished to talk. Mostly, they listened. Within a week, they were accepted in the small town, no longer a curiosity, and treated like they had been there for months. Soon, they would be old-timers in the small town, which sat on bare land in the middle of far-reaching short grasslands. Turnbull became friendly with an elderly Mexican living near their cabin and arranged to buy a cart full of hay for the horses. Green grass would start growing soon, but the horses needed to be fed meantime. Water for drinking, cooking, and the horses came from a hand-dug community well nearby. Occasionally, the old Mexican fed them his native food which tasted strange to begin with until they developed a liking for the lively, often spicy palate and found cantinas where they chose to eat many meals. Many subjects were talked about among the people, but the dominant subject always returned to the cattle drives going north to tap beef markets and supply food to people in the east. It was wartime demand for food, hides, and bones for fertilizer and, in the east, there was a shortage of men to work outside the armies. After listening to the talk for a few weeks, Turnbull conceived an idea for starting a ranch which he discussed with Jackson.

Each year, many cattle drives went north past Ft. Worth to cross Indian Territory on the way to Springfield, Jefferson City, and Kansas City up in Missouri. Now, there was talk of a new town called Dodge City which was starting up out in the middle of the wide-spreading grasslands of Kansas. On the south side of Indian Territory flowed the Red River, bringing water from far to the west and it could be a dangerous barrier to herds of cattle. Often, they heard stories of young men who died driving cattle across the river, often boys as young as fifteen, and also there were Indians and renegade white men to contend with. Comanche’s, Apaches, Cheyenne, and a mix of numerous tribes the white men in the east had herded west in order to steal their homelands. It was a tough area of the country and very difficult to cross because of problems with weather, rough territory, and people, and to do it you needed to be ready to fight.

Wandering around in a trading post one day, Turnbull spotted a hand-drawn map on one wall and spent several hours studying it. It was roughly drawn and probably not greatly accurate, but he felt it gave him a feeling for the countryside. The Red River seemed to be around eighty miles north of Ft. Worth and the map showed it flowing down from the far north-west coming out of New Mexico Territory. The map didn’t have distances on it, but Turnbull figured it must be five hundred miles or more to the head of the river. A long ways! If they could round up a herd of cattle and drive west along the Red River it might take thirty or forty days to arrive, and out there somewhere he would set up a ranch and start to build a new future. Together, the two men planned, made a list of supplies, and considered how many men and horses would have to be found to accomplish the task. Turnbull hired the old Mexican’s grandson to take the horses out for grazing on the newly emerging grass and fill the water trough each day. The first thing they had to find was a good wagon with a canvas top to carry food, water barrels, bedrolls, tools and all the other miscellaneous items, along with a strong team of horses to pull the load.

As the grass turned green, cattle herds started arriving, coming from the south, and going past Fort Worth. At each opportunity, one or the other of the two men talked to the cattle drive bosses, learning all they could. The most surprising fact was the youth of the bosses, often only seventeen or so, but strong, tough, determined, and ready to fight at a moment’s notice. The cowboys rode half-broke horses, used several every day, and every man was armed with a pistol, a rifle, and large knives. They made a tough rousting group who would fight. They tended to be silent watchful men who only talked when necessary and did as the bosses ordered. You learned to admire them. It was a hard task that demanded constant attention and these Texas men were built and ready for it. These thoughts sounded a faint warning in Turnbull’s head. He came to understand these Texans were tough individuals from a hard scrapple background and rougher environment than back east where he grew up.

With the old Mexican for a guide, the men rode north to see the Red River and become familiar with the terrain. The wide-open grasslands were mostly bare of trees except along streams or low places where extra water gathered. Along the Red River, there were occasional places where oaks, aspen, and willow grew in clumps but mostly it was wide open grass-covered country. In many places, the river had washed a wide course which was often muddy and silt-laden. Other sites had riverbanks that were steep and kept the waters contained in narrow fast-moving streams. The old Mexican explained it was best to take the cattle across where the riverbanks existed because often there was quicksand and sinkholes in the wide muddy lowlands. They spent five days riding around looking at everything and working their way west. Drinking coffee with an occasional traveler passing by, they learned until a feeling of comfort set in. On the last day, they camped on the river where the Chisholm Trail crossed the Red. In the morning, they would return to Fort Worth.

A herd of Texas Longhorns came over the horizon, headed toward them, trailing a long dust cloud behind. Under the limbs of a large tree, the three men had a cooking fire burning and sat there watching the activity. It wasn’t a large herd, probably numbering around fifteen hundred head and most of the animals were steers. The cattle hit the river maybe a quarter of a mile to the east of the campsite and swam across before settling down for the night. The trail drive’s cook wagon turned for the trees, stopping a short distance away. Three men rode alongside it.

Wally Turnbull stood up. Good afternoon, gentlemen, can I offer you a mug of coffee while you wait? The oldest of the three riders who might have twenty years behind him swung down from the saddle and pulled a battered tin cup from his saddlebag. He walked toward Turnbull who stuck out his hand. Welcome to our camp. My name is Turnbull.

The cowboy who appeared to be the cattle drive foreman shook hands. His face showed no reaction. My name’s Hector. The old Mexican filled the tin mug with coffee. Hector sipped his coffee as his eyes carefully took in all the details of the camp, the people, clothing, and equipment. He didn’t comment, just looked, and whatever he was thinking remained behind his blank face. The cattle were across the Red River and safe in case a rainstorm blew in overnight. The steers had been watered and now spread out on the grass to graze. While the cook lit a fire, one cowboy brought a pail of water from the river and filled the large coffeepot before setting it to boil. A large kettle went over the fire to hang from a three-legged metal tripod and the cook started adding to the contents. Turnbull figured he was building volume to an already prepared stew.

Turnbull queried, Where are you heading with your herd of cattle?

Hector’s soft voice drawled. Pointed north for Kansas Territory, got six weeks on the trail behind us and expect to take as long again to arrive. Turnbull was wearing clothing much like everyone around; still, there was something different about him. Hector developed a feeling he was ex-army and from the voice had probably served in the Confederacy. Well, what went on back east was of no interest. All types of people were roving around the countryside and as long as they minded their own business Hector didn’t care what they did; he had his hands full handling the herd and crew. Eating was winding down and just before full darkness, a buckskin-clad rider rode in and ground-hitched his horse. With a mug of coffee and a tin plate of stew, he went to sit beside Hector on a log. After eating, the rider picked up a stick and drew a map in the dirt. After a brief discussion, Hector assigned night assignments and two riders saddled fresh horses and rode away for the first shift. With no waste of effort, the crew found places for themselves and rolled up in blankets to get what sleep they could. Hector and the cook sat together sipping coffee for a few minutes before turning in for the night. In the first gray light of morning, the cowboys ate breakfast standing around the fire and in a matter of minutes had horses saddled and were riding away to start pushing the cattle north. The cook wagon stirred a bit of dust when it rolled away. Turnbull, Jackson, and the old Mexican once again found themselves alone on the prairie.

*    *    *

Turnbull and Jackson rode to Dallas and recruited a crew of rough, jobless men and a cook to man their wagon. He led them north and across the Red River, rode west two miles past the Little Wichita River where the Chisholm Trail came out of Texas. On the south side of a bluff, they set up a well-sheltered camp in the growth of aspen trees. For three days they waited and watched for a herd of cattle coming north. The third day started when the sun came up but soon afterward rain started falling and gradually the water level in the river started to rise. Over the next few hours, the speed of the water increased. Jackson told the crew, The river water is getting deep and has speeded up, sure wouldn’t try to cross the river now. Gradually, the water level approached the top of the riverbanks and just before night arrived a cattle herd came over the horizon in the misty storm and approached the Red River. On a rainy, foggy evening Sam Jackson watched the front of the trail drive start fording the Red River and the cattle were swimming. The water level in the river was rising at a fast rate and cattle were being washed away by the current. Jackson shook his head in wonder, muttering to himself, ‘If I was in charge of the drive those cattle would be staying on the south side.’ Jackson watched until the crossing was called off before he rode back to camp to talk to Colonel Wally Turnbull. Colonel, a large herd of cattle are at the Red and maybe half are across the river. Looks to me like a high portion of the animals are cows.

Have they stopped pushing the herd across the river?

Yes, sir, the water is starting to come over the banks and is running fast. Seems to me the drive foreman has decided it is too dangerous to keep crossing over and is goin’ to wait for the river to go down.

Very good, Sam. We are going to need cows to build our ranch so this is a great opportunity for us. Let’s go and get them and, like we discussed, drive north for a ways to lay a false trail.

Sam led the crew out to rustle an estimated two thousand head of cattle that had crossed the Red River before the rising water level divided the herd, leaving most of the cattle still on the south side. With rifles in hand, they walked their horses up to the camp the cowboys had established. The first cowboy to see them grabbed for his Winchester and Sam shot him. The sound of rifle shots was muffled by rain and wind and when it was over three cowboys were down and two had gotten into a low spot in the ground. Sam knew that one of them was wounded. Going after them would result in some of his men being shot and he had no cowboys to spare. Sam yelled, Back off, men. Let’s get this herd moving. Sam pointed at two men and told them, Round up the riding stock and push them into the herd. The rest of you help me start the cattle moving north for Kansas. This last was spoken loudly in the hope that the two cowboys would hear it.

Sam Jackson organized the drive and turned the herd north away from the Red River. There had been five cowboys on the north side of the river and three of them were lying dead on the wet grass from rifle shots. At least one of the other two was wounded and both cowboys were hidden in a saltlick dug over the years by buffalo. The riding stock had been pushed into the cattle herd leaving the cowboys with nothing to ride so they didn’t bother with the two men. They were going north to lay a false trail expecting the Texas drive foreman to assume they were headed for Kansas. The cattle were tired from the long day of travel and didn’t want to go, so they had to be pushed.

When Sam figured they had gone north about three miles they came to the valley and turned the herd west with the hope the rain would wash out their tracks. Colonel Turnbull had gone to camp and with the cook packed up their belongings. With just two of them, it took most of an hour before heading off north with the cook driving the wagon and Turnbull riding alongside. The rain was splattering on their yellow slickers. They drove the wagon north till they were on the edge of the long shallow valley which Turnbull had agreed with Sam to use to move west. An hour later, the herd started to go past in front of them.

Turnbull grinned at Sam as the foreman rode over from the rear of the herd. Great job you did, Sam, and it looks to me like there are quite a few cows in the herd.

Yes there are, Colonel, during branding will be the best time to get a good count. Sam waved his arm to tell the cook to start travelling.

*    *    *

The first two days were slow due to the mud and water and finally, the sun returned. Following the Red took them to the northwest and ten days later the herd left Indian Territory and started across the Texas Panhandle. Sam had worried about the cowboys pursuing them but no one had shown up. They stayed with the Red River because it was a source of water. The Texas Panhandle was dry country with short-leafed grass, damn few trees, and a blistering sun that beat down on the herd every day. Many days the herd covered ten miles or fewer and when water was available they stopped to let the cattle drink and graze on the short dried up grass. Fifteen days out into the Pan Handle, the herd came to where the Red made a turn to the southwest. After settling into camp, a lone rider appeared from the north. They fed him and while he wasn’t much of a talker, Turnbull learned the Canadian River was some twenty miles to the north. Driving past the small settlement of Amarillo, they restocked supplies and the next day arrived on the Canadian. Following the Canadian across the dry dusty grasslands brought them to Logan, a gathering of shacks, on the high plains east of the mountains of New Mexico. Travelling north along Ute Creek, they settled in near the Santa Fe Trail. It had taken six weeks to make the drive and now they needed living quarters for the men, horses, and the bosses.

Turnbull settled the cattle herd in open, lonely country with no people around to be a bother. More than a hundred miles west in the small town of Taos, supplies could be bought and hauled home with packhorses. The men, along with the cattle, toughed out the winter having a miserable struggle to keep warm and fed. They lived in hastily built dugouts with no stove to provide heat and cook food on. When spring came, almost half the crew left, taking horses and saddles they slipped away, one at a time. Turnbull realized the site was too open, too subject to hard winters with long blowing icy winds, and always the threat of snow blizzards. After the cows in the herd dropped their calves, Turnbull led the men in a drive north to find better country in which to set up a ranch, stopping on the south fork of the Republican River in Colorado Territory. After two winters on the Republican, he sent men to scout to the north for a good location to move to, somewhere on the edge of the mountains with good grass and wood for heat.

The cattle herd had grown too close to four thousand head and Turnbull’s foreman put the men to work cutting out steers and older animals and drove them west to Denver City to sell and pick up some cash. Sam Jackson had been gone for six days now and should be starting back with needed supplies and the money left over from the sale. When Jackson returned, they would begin preparations to start the cattle drive to a new location. Sam Jackson had trailed with Turnbull for close to twenty years now and could be depended on. Together, they had left Georgia before the war ended. Fighting in the war wasn’t going well and they came to believe the South was going to lose. No sense in staying around when you were on the losing side. They rode out of Georgia, traveling mostly during the darkness of night and slowly found their way west. Colonel Turnbull and Sergeant Jackson never regretted their decision to ride away from the ruins of the south. Sam knew how to handle men, was tough, and fast with a pistol. He got what needed doing done, taking no sass from the men. With his fists and his gun, he kept them in line and consequently, Turnbull was sheltered and protected. Without realizing the changes taking place in him, he became soft. Turnbull gave orders which were obeyed, not because the men respected him, but because Jackson was ever ready to enforce obedience. Two more long, hot, dusty, days Turnbull lazed around the meager camp waiting. The days were blistering hot and the wind never seemed to stop blowing. Overhead, the sky stretched far in every direction. It was a hot, dry area where rain rarely fell, and when it did the moisture was soon sucked up by the parched ground. At mid-afternoon, a man rode in and announced, Group of riders heading our way.

Turnbull stood in the sparse shade of a mesquite bush and focused his army glasses on the riders. Out in front was the large body of Sam Jackson leading the men back to the ranch. Calling it a ranch site was over exaggerating. There were a few scattered wood and sod shacks spread out around a hastily constructed corral and very little else. Water for cooking, drinking, and the animals came from the Republican River. Turnbull was not happy. This was no way for a man of his stature to be living. He had grown up in a large two-storied mansion located on a successful plantation with slaves to take care of all the chores and work while he rode his horses and gave orders. What he wanted was a better location for the ranch where he could build an impressive house to live in and entertain guests in a grand style. Sam Jackson slowed the horses to a walk to reduce the dust they were raising. He sent the men to the corral and rode his horse into camp to stop beside Turnbull. Afternoon, Colonel. He removed his Stetson and wiped the wet hatband before replacing the hat.

Good to have you back, Sam. How did your trip go?

No complaints, Colonel. It took more time than expected to find buyers for all the cattle. Denver City isn’t all that large a place, a mighty small market really. Shouldn’t have taken so many head; seemed like we flooded the market. Each time I made a sale, it drove the price down for the next buyer. Still, the cattle all sold and we brought back supplies enough to last until fall, with some help from hunting meat. There’s around nine hundred dollars in my saddlebags to pass over to you.

Well done, Sam. Climb down, get a mug of coffee, and rest yourself until the cook gets supper ready. You can tell me about Denver City.

*    *    *

Two days later, the cattle herd started north, leaving behind the shacks they had lived in with the adjoining corral and the wide-spreading grasslands surrounding the site. Thirty days later after a dry, hot, and often thirsty drive, the trail herd drank their fill from Box Elder Creek and spread out on the grass to fill their stomachs. A temporary camp was established.

*    *    *

Trace Truejay sat his horse on the north bank of Cache la Poudre River, watching a rider coming west along the trail through the front range that gave access to the west side of the mountains. From the way the rider sat his horse, Trace knew it was old Bill Craig. Bill pulled his horses to a stop some twenty feet away. Trace held up his hand. How are you making it, Bill?

Craig studied Truejay carefully while he stuffed tobacco into a well-used pipe, scratched a wooden match on his rifle butt, and puffed. When the pipe was burning to his satisfaction, he spoke. Well now, young Trace, this old man is going out after fur.

You don’t seem any different from when we first met back in ‘49.

No different excepting pains come with old age.

You got time to light a fire, make coffee, and catch up?

Craig smiled. Time is about all an old man has. Hain’t had coffee since first light.

Ride over there next to the trees and we’ll make coffee. Trace turned his horse and didn’t look back, expecting Old Bill to follow. Dismounting, Trace tied his horse to a tree and started gathering together dry branches. As he worked he saw from the corner of his eye Bill coming. Quickly, Trace put together a handful of dry grass, a few pieces of bark, and broke small dry sticks as kindling. With the pile ready, he used a match to light the grass. While the small fire grew and started to burn the kindling, Trace brought larger pieces of firewood and cautiously added some to the fire. Soon, he had a spirited little fire burning. He walked to his horse and dug out a small coffeepot and carried it to the Cache la Poudre to fill with water. Adding a few larger chunks of dry wood to the fire, Trace set the pot near the flames to heat. Craig sat crossed-legged on the ground with his cup beside him and studied the fire. Take time for the water to heat. He puffed his pipe and blew a smoke ring. Found me a secret spot with beaver for the taking. His sharp blue eyes glanced at Trace before moving on.

Sounds good, Bill, hope you get a big catch. Are you going to stay out all winter?

Nope, don’t think so, just want to get a stake and spend some time out in the clean air where it is quiet. With damn people around all the time, there’s no end to the noise day in and out. When winter starts to settle in, my plan is to hightail it back here.

Snow can get almighty deep over on the west side. Trace leaned over to touch the pot. Not hot yet.

Craig puffed his pipe and sat in silence for several minutes before asking, How are those cow critters of yours doing?

Fairly good, Bill, get enough steers each year to sell and raise a few dollars for buying supplies.

About all a man can expect. Craig shrugged and knocked his pipe bowl on a small rock before starting to pack it with tobacco again. His head was down but his eyes never stopped watching. He saw Trace’s head swing as the boy checked all around for any sign of other people. Bill Craig smiled to himself seeing Trace do the checking. ‘That boy always was alert.’ When the pot started steaming, Trace took the lid off and dropped in freshly crushed coffee beans. The two men watched the pot as it boiled until Trace pulled it away from the fire so it could settle down. After a bit, he lifted the pot and filled Craig’s cup, then his own. Craig sipped his coffee and puffed his pipe. They sat there enjoying the silence and being together. Without turning his head, Craig said, While back, I rode out on the grasslands. Trace glanced at him. An outfit settled on the Big Thompson River and turned loose a herd of Texas Longhorns. They are telling the farmers and other people settled on the grass out there to move out. Trace looked at him, sipped his coffee, and kept quiet. Figured you should know cause you drive your cow animals south across lands they be claiming.

That I do. It only takes a few days, they eat a little grass, and it should be no problem.

Craig puffed his pipe. What you say is for sure honest true; farmers tell me these fellas look for arguments. You best keep a rifle handy.

Trace smiled. "Always do Bill. Never go looking for trouble, but