HAWKE: A Journey Home

By JAMES G. STANLEY

Tom Hawke, a veteran of the War Between the States, goes West to find a new  life.    

Cattle  drives, gun  fights and running from the  law bring  him to   a   small

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grosvenor Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578874326

Book preview

One

Chapter 1

 HAWKE: A JOURNEY HOME

Slowly…ever so cautiously…he backed out of the general store. How could it have gone so wrong? Glancing quickly to his left, then right, he watched the young cowhand who had come with the rancher into the store. He was young—but he still wore a gun.

     Reaching the door, he put his left hand on the latch and gently pulled. Quickly glancing about to see that no one was behind him, he dashed out putting his gun into the holster. Hastily, he grabbed the bridle and leapt onto his horse. The Black turned and began to race out of town. He heard a couple of shots. Leaning as close to the Black as he could, they did not come close enough to give pause or concern.

    Surprise was the first reaction. His heart seemed to race wildly. It was a long time before he could think with any reason. It was then that the real panic began to set in. He tried to take stock of his situation even as his horse raced to wherever he might be headed. He had no idea where he would go. He did know he wanted to head for the mountains. He had killed a man, seemingly unprovoked. This man had cheated him, and had stolen cattle from a variety of local cattlemen in the area. While the rancher had reached for his gun first, Tom knew it was still murder. Any judge in the area would convict him. The only witness was the young cowboy who worked now for a dead rancher. He had simply been too quick.

   It was late afternoon. If only dusk or dark would come soon. He just knew that he had to make as much distance from this killing and this town as possible. He had no place to hide to protect himself from the posse he knew would follow. He had little food. Only a couple of biscuits and a few pieces of dried beef buried deep in his pack. He had no coffee and certainly no food for hiding out or for any travel.

    In his favor was his experience as a cowhand, a trail hand with abilities to follow a difficult trail and use a gun. Factors not in his favor were the impulsive nature of his shooting. He had not expected to confront that man when he entered the store. He had not planned to make a run for the hills. Had he planned the shooting, he certainly would have stashed some food and coffee simply for survival.

   The storm struck at dusk, and it was violent. The wind caught the lone rider on the trail at a most difficult time. The Black was weary, in desperate need of rest and good grass. Tom had to go on. The big horse continued to respond to his demand to put distance between the town and himself.

   The rain was welcome. The lightning and thunder seemed to shake the rider’s world. He welcomed the fact that his trail would be erased in the mud made by the rain and running torrents that crossed the path. As the trail climbed and wound into the foot hills of the Rocky Mountains, he was aware of his own weariness and the slowing gait of his horse. He was soaked to the skin, and keenly aware of the desperate loneliness of his situation.

   He awakened suddenly! The Black had come to a stop and was taking the opportunity of a sleeping rider to drink from the stream which flowed over the rocks in its long unknowing rush to a very distant ocean. Quickly, the rider checked his surroundings. It was dark, and the rain fell heavily. When his horse had finished the long drink, he pulled the reins to the left. The Black began to walk downstream. For over an hour, the horse slowly followed the stream bed.

    In the dark the rider finally turned out of the stream and rode into the woods that bordered it. He leaned far over the Black’s neck so as not to get hit by low hanging branches. The Black found the open area. Looking around in the darkness, the rider saw the dark outlines of the surrounding forest. Falling off his horse, he quickly removed the saddle, placing it under a spreading pine tree. He lay down, wearily resting his head on the hard leather saddle.

   He slept, but his sleep was troubled. It always was when he had shot someone. He awakened the next morning to find his horse cropping grass only a few feet away. The sun had already made its morning appearance. He arose and stiffly walked into the woods a few feet to relieve himself. Only then did he remind himself of the limited amount of food. No coffee, a biscuit left over from the day before, and a few bites of dried meat. He was lucky—but he was also in very sad shape. He knew he was in the foothill country just east of the Rockies, and very alone. He had nowhere to go.

   He climbed into the saddle, looked at the sun, and headed north.

  The July heat was stifling. Lately, the rain had been sparse, and the hot sun and dust had been plentiful. Only the steady wind provided any relief, and that wasn’t much.

  She looked out over the farm. The pain in her chest was real. How she missed Yancy! He had been her strength in those first years as they had begun the process of building this farm, their family, their future. She had the family: Billy, needing the guidance of a wise and good man, and Marin, a toddler--the apple of her eye and adored by Billy. Raising two small children and running a small ranch had brought her to this weariness and the painful loneliness she now felt.

   She was in her early mid-twenties and still showed the full bloom of a young woman. She would not be characterized as beautiful. In fact, she had always thought of herself as plain. It had not mattered. Yancy had loved her deeply and with great strength. Her maturity, her eyes, her smile and sense of inner strength had attracted Yancy to her. She was now western, a woman of the plains.

   She surveyed the ranch, and quickly listed all the tasks which had to be done: mending fences, repairing the barn door, chopping wood for the endless winters, cutting the hay for winter storage…the list seemed endless.

   The longer the list grew, the more discouraged she became. She simply didn’t have the strength to do these tasks in this heat.

     It was Billy who noticed the riders first. Running from the barn, he yelled and pointed down the trail. There were two of them. She immediately recognized the person of Langhorn, but the other rider was unknown. She had not liked Langhorn the first time she met him in town at the dance two months before Yancy’s death. His actions since had confirmed her first suspicions. Out of breath, Billy came to stand beside her. Excited by the prospect of visitors, he also caught his mother’s mood, and looked at her strangely as he stood nervously shifting from one foot to the other.

    Riding slowly up the long lane, they came. It had not been the first time Langhorn had been here. He was not wanted. She had told him that, but it didn’t keep him from coming anyway. If Yancy were here, Langhorn wouldn’t consider coming. That was the problem. Yancy was no longer here, and she was powerless to force him to stay away.

     They rode into the farm yard, and stopped just a few feet from Karin and Billy. Howdy Ma’am, mind if we water our horses a bit? Langhorn asked.

 Suit yourself—then move on! she replied. She was western, and she understood as well as anyone the code of the west in caring for a tired and thirsty rider. She also knew Langhorn.

   Langhorn had been in the area when she and Yancy arrived just a few years ago. He was a rancher who had slowly grown into a rather wealthy cattleman. The reasons for his acquired wealth were not always obvious. He had a reputation for the handling of his riders. They seldom stayed long. Those that stayed for any length of time seemed to develop the reputation as less than savory persons. She had met him first at a dance a year before in Franklin. He had held her in a way that she had not liked. She broke away and walked off the floor. Yancy had been furious, but then was neither the time nor the place to force the issue.

   Only after Yancy was found dead did Langhorn find the courage to show up around the small farm. On this occasion he had brought along one of his riders. Here he was adding more frustration to the load of work that needed to be done.

   After both horses and men had their fill of fresh water, Langhorn approached the low porch where Karin stood. Ma’am, ya know, ya really need help with this ranch, or ya need to think about sellin’ it.

   Mr. Langhorn, I thank you for thinking of my troubles, but I’ll manage myself. What gets done will get done, and what doesn’t won’t, Karin replied.

   The problem, ma’am, is that I would like to be helpful. My riders could be of real help getting in the hay and making some of the repairs for ya.

   Her smile was an ironic smile. When had she ever heard of riders getting down off their horses and willingly working on foot? Not any self-respecting cowboy she had heard of. No thank you¸ Mr. Langhorn. I suspect your riders are much more comfortable riding behind cows than they are cutting and stacking new-cut hay.

    Ma’am, I’m offering help.

   Mr. Langhorn, I did not ask for help, from you or anyone else. Good day! With that she took Billy’s arm, turned, and went into the house. Closing the door, she placed the bar across to lock it. She still held the shotgun.

   Langhorn was angry. He had ridden all the way over to this place, and after only a few words, had been told to leave. He would leave, but he didn’t like it. He knew there would be other days and other opportunities to press his wishes.

   He wanted her, and he wanted her land. He wasn’t sure it was in that order. Besides, Weeks had heard their talk and would know what he was about. He had no doubt that soon other of his riders would learn of it. That’s what really bothered him. Maybe next time he’d come alone. Turning quickly, he walked to his horse. Both men mounted, turned their horses in the direction from which they had come, and rode away.

  Standing in the darkness behind the door frame, Karin released a huge sigh of relief. She suspected his intentions, and she shuddered at the thought. She knew he was right. She did need help. If truth be known, she needed a man. But not him—or his help. It was never easy. She realized it was only going to be more difficult before she would be able to see the joy of the future that she and Yancy had built their dreams around. For now, the children needed her attention. The sadness and loneliness came over her again. This time they were tinged with apprehension.

  He had ridden toward the north for days. He had no idea where he was, for he had ridden into the mountains following what trails there were until they ended. Then, he rode on making his own paths.

   He had not seen much game, at least up close. He was not a great hunter. He was a much better rider. The only problem was that for three days he had not eaten anything but berries and a roasted rabbit. He needed supplies, and he needed to find work. That was not going to be easy. Riding into the mountains was not the way to find either.

  It had been ten days since he had raced out of town. He guessed that he had ridden a couple hundred miles into the mountains. As he slowly made his way down the mountains, he decided to head north. Hopefully, he would come to a place to get some supplies.

    His first sign was a small trail of smoke rising from amongst the trees. He stopped. On the trail it was always wise to be cautious. The fact that smoke meant other folk urged him onward. The big Black walked slowly down the trail. Turning the bend, Tom noticed a small cabin a few hundred yards away. Built near the wall of the mountain, it lay in front of a small pasture with a couple of old mules and a horse. He rode on slowly. He was reminded that riding through the mountains from time to time he would see an open area where a small farm could be, if only folks could get there. They had gotten here. Someone had.

    He saw it first, and then it barked. A rather scraggly begotten dog came round the corner of the cottage barking loudly as if making a point of calling his master. Tom slowly approached the place. Hallo there! Anyone here? he called.

      Who’s askin’? was the faint reply.

   Just traveling through, saw your cabin and hoped for a hot meal. Mind if I get off my horse?

   Nah! Come on in. Never mind the dog, and your horse won’t go anywhere.

   Stepping into the dark interior, the rider was momentarily sightless. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a few red coals in the fireplace, a small crude table, and a mattress lined with pine boughs. A smaller, older bearded man sat in a chair near the fireplace. Obviously he was in great pain; his face was tight with tension. He was sweating which contributed to the foulness of the air in the small room. On a closer look, one leg was supporting him under the chair. The left leg was extended rather unnatural-like. What happened? was Tom’s first comment.

   I broke my leg up stream a-ways this morning, he replied. I was lucky to get back. Had to drag myself holding onto my horse all the way back. At least here I have food, a fire, and some shelter over my head until I can use this leg again. But it about killed me. I haven’t been able to get up since I got here. It’s been too painful.

  My name’s Bodkin, by the way.

    Old man, ya got some wood. I saw it outside. I’ll build up your fire, heat some water, and then I’ll try to fix that leg. Back in the war I worked with a surgeon for a while and watched him set a few broken legs. But, old man, I never done it myself. This will be a first. The old man only nodded; he made no reply.

    Tom quickly set about building a fire and searching for water to heat. He found some in the stream that flowed in the woods back of the cabin. Got any whiskey? Tom asked.

   It’s in the jug on the shelf over the fireplace, was the old man’s reply. Tom reached for it, pulled the plug, and smelled. It would do, undoubtedly, very well.

   Ol’ man, I’m going to put you on the bed, wash your leg off, and then I’ll see if I can remember anything from what I used to watch. The mountain man simply nodded. Approaching the man, Tom gently but with great strength lifted him up out of his chair and to his bed. During the ordeal, the injured man didn’t utter a sound, but the sweating started again. Tom knew the journey from chair to bed had been anything but painless.

   Leaving the man to rest, Tom checked the water. It had just begun to steam. He began to look about for blankets. Maybe some actual clean clothes or rags. When he had gathered what he needed, he found some biscuits and some dried beef. He ate a few bites. So much, he thought, for a hot meal. Maybe tomorrow. Bodkin, I’m going to need ya to drink a few swallows of this here rot-gut liqueur. I gather you’ve already had some. He put the jug to the bearded man’s lips, and allowed him to take a few swallows. Have some more. This here job is going to hurt. I don’t want you to feel it too much, Tom encouraged.

   He slowly turned away from the bed, and went outside the cabin to take stock. He didn’t know who this old man was. He didn’t know where he was, and he was going to try to do something that he had never done before. He realized he was frightened. At the last minute, he remembered that he needed a few straight sticks to keep the man’s leg from bending once it was set. Then he set to work.

    Later, it began to rain. Tom was relieved. Any trail over the mountains would be washed away. Anyone trying to trail him would have to be lucky rather than skillful. Tom heard the sound. and looked at the man on the bed. He was beginning to stir. Ol’ man, you’re coming to. I’ll fix ya some of this hot rabbit stew I’ve been working on over here.

   He groaned, How’s my leg? It feels like it fell off. Did ya fix it?

   Tom didn’t immediately reply, but walked over to the rough bed. Old timer, he replied, I did the best I know how. I think I fixed it all right, but you’ll probably limp. And you’ll sure need to take it easy for a while. I don’t know if I set it just right, but I tried. Your whiskey helped to keep ya out while I worked.

    The bearded man gave him a tired look of admiration and gratitude. I was fixing to leave the mountains and head back to town somewhere in about a week, but then I bunged this leg. My guess is I’ll not be leaving very soon. He added, I have a few furs stashed away, and I need to head back to  civilization to get some supplies. I guess I’ll not be in a hurry.

    Tom smiled. I’ll be content to stick around a while, do a little hunting, and look after ya for a few days. Are there any towns nearby where I can get some supplies? he asked.

    No, the old man replied, it would take you three weeks just to go and get back, unless you’re planning on leaving for good.  

    I’ll stay for now. That dog of yours doesn’t look like he could fix your coffee or cook your stew. On top of that, he builds a lousy fire. I’ll stay and wander down the trail with you when the time’s right.

     In a few days, the old man was beginning to move about the cabin. Tom went into the woods and found a strong stick that would work as a cane. The mountain man began to slowly but carefully enjoy his freedom of movement, even though the cane didn’t fit just right. As he tried to get around, he fell more than once when the cane caught on branches or tree roots.

    A handful of weeks later, the old man began to gather his furs and prepare to leave the cabin. His horse and pack mules had been found up the canyon a short way, and were brought back and loaded for the long trek that lay ahead. With hardly a nod, both men got into their saddles and headed up the trail out of the canyon. The old man led the mules with a rope, and the dog trailed lazily behind.

   Even in the early morning just after sunrise, it was hot. The breeze offered small comfort. The blowing sand and dust were a constant irritant to eyes and to disposition.

  She rose quietly, not wanting to waken the children. The darkness of night had brought some relief of temperatures, but had, as always, brought the loneliness that seemed an ever-present part of her life now. She understood, even if she sometimes indulged herself, that the self-pity at losing Yancy was not good for her—and certainly not good for the children.

   She  picked up the water bucket and headed for the well. She dipped a good bucketful and started back to the cabin. Only then did she look up in the direction of the barn and the corral. The two horses she had put into the corral last evening were there, so what was bothering her? Beyond the corral, she looked out into the pasture. A handful of her beef cattle was there. Often they drifted out of sight. The realization dawned. Her small herd of horses that stayed faithfully in the pasture area was not there. Where were they?

  Could it be that they had simply drifted off? It surely was possible, but not likely. Often as not they looked for her in the morning for the affection and attention she showed them. For them to be missing was unusual. She became flustered but quickly regained her senses. If they didn’t come back into the pasture this morning, she and Billy would ride out and look for them. Her horses were important to her. She had built her hopes around this small herd for the future of the ranch. It was the horses that would sustain her and her children. Now they were gone. She had wonderful pasture land. There were many places they could drift. Only they never had. As Karin began to worry, she felt suddenly weak. If they were gone—what would she do then?

  The trail through the mountains was long and tiring. One reward for Tom was his new acquaintance with Bodkin. For Tom the foothills of the Rockies were a new mystery discovered.  For Bodkin the path to civilization proved familiar, if not easy. Tom’s confidence in his ability to function and survive in the mountains increased as he continued to learn the satisfactions of mountain trails. On flat land, on the plains and prairies, he was at home. The mountains represented grandeur beyond imagination. At the same time, he found them dangerous and treacherous.

   The leg had healed, at least enough to use easily with a cane. The weeks since Tom had found Bodkin in pain in his cabin had allowed the forging of a friendship of sorts. A growing sense of mutual respect between the two men was a consequence of the sharing of knowledge, skills and trust of having placed one’s life in the hands of another. He had learned that Bodkin had come to the mountains six winters before for trapping and to do a little prospecting. He had supported himself with trapping his