Arizona Star

By Don M. Russell

It was late spring, 1889. Pie Allen, two term mayor of Tucson, was recently deceased, but the town was already in mourning as the newly chosen town marshal had been bushwhacked. Lawlessness had run amuck for months as the number of bad-cases multiplied.

Jake Cantlin was summoned to Arizona by older brother, Matt, general manager of the large stage and freight outfit which had suffered substantial loses. Matt had convinced the town council Jake could bring resolution to the atrocities his company and the town suffered.

The harsh enlightenment that welcomed Jake to the blemished Arizona town comingled the brutality of murderous outlaws, a cantankerous ex-confederate colonel, desert Apaches, and the sly saloon owner, Frazee Zink.

An unsullied new U.S. Deputy Marshal, Joshua Stoner, took to Jake like a bear fresh out of hibernation that had found a spring-ripened trout stream. He saw that Jake was smart, strong, had the sand of Hickock and the six-gun ability of a Buffalo Bill sharp-shooter.

Signs of culprits that dealt the dirty cards were shuffled and sleeved. It would require clever and bold law work, but if Stoner and Cantlin could persevere, they might be able to restore sanctity to the town and put a shine on the star shaped law badges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jul 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781490781419

Don M. Russell

Don Russell was Oklahoma born and raised in Independence, Missouri, the origination point of the Santa Fe, Oregon and California Trails. The history of the West riveted into his character and he relates it with a cleverness that blends both the frontier’s ruthlessness and compassion into his stories.

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ARIZONA STAR PROLOGUE

The ten car smoke-belching-snake bumped and squealed, continually crying out in pain, as the miles stretched out far behind the red, rod-iron railed caboose.

The constant metal on metal rhythm hadn’t varied since Jake boarded in Shawnee, Kansas, fifteen crow-fly miles west of Kansas City. The vilifying noises, not for a minute - or even ten seconds, failed to interrupt the noxious stench from the locomotive’s stack that insisted on becoming an agonizing friend. Riding this iron villain all the way to San Antonio was going to be the longest three days and nights he’d spent for quite a spell. But Jake knew, from time to time, life deals a tainted card a man has to bow to, and Jake would do most anything for his older brother, Matt.

Three weeks ago Matt’s letter had reached him. The letter related outlaw problems despoiling the Arizona Star Freight and Stage Line in Tucson, Matt being general manager there. In the letter, he’d urgently requested Jake to come and help with getting the company out of the troubling transgressions; robberies and murders that’d been going on for some time now. The many problems were about to put the company out of business and the teamster’s families were devastated with the loss of loved ones.

It was dark outside – very dark. Jake’s mind was contemplating Matt’s letter as he idly held both hands to the sides of his face and squinted through the boards of the stock car. Small, squirming fragments of fire squirted skyward and floated above and alongside the rail cars, originating from the rugged, wheezing locomotive. They punched meandering holes in the rolling black sky and lived only a few ticks of a clock. He had no trouble dissecting them from God’s stars. When real stars showed through the black canopy they were higher and didn’t jump around like half starved chickens chasing a skimpy supply of throwed grain. Alongside the train, murky, phantom-like images sped along and meshed with the landscape, identity required guessing.

Jake removed his glove, reached up and stroked Cody’s muzzle when his buckskin gelding companion nickered and leaned toward him – a moment free of torment. Cody was a strong-chested horse with a good amount of Morgan bred into him; he represented the wages Jake was to earn for tending twenty superior quality mounts to San Antonio. He and Cody would go on from there, making the desert trail ride, just the two of them, to Tucson.

The army placed the order with a stock trader by the name of Franklin Pettis, out of Sedalia, Missouri, a friend, and a man whose reputation was held in high esteem by the U. S. Calvary. The horses were to be the stable for ranking officers at Fort Bowie, over Arizona way. Jake’s responsibility to the army stopped at San Antonio, they’d become cavalry duty past there. Jake had grown to know Pettis where Jake worked occasionally in the Kansas City stockyards. Most stockmen figured him as a tough young man that toted a tally book. His identity as a livestock detective wasn’t known to many other than Frank Pettis. That is, it wasn’t known until he singlehandedly stopped a pair of rancorous outlaws who were attempting to rob the stockyard bank. The two decided to shoot it out with Jake when he caught them in the act during broad daylight; that mistake cost one his life, the other would never again use his right arm; it was forever crippled from the .44 slug that tore away his elbow.

Once a blend of gray and rose-pink sky lightly kissed the eastern horizon upon reaching Dodge City, Kansas, the train slowed to a jerking, screeching stop. A whoosh of steam bellowed outward and whistled from between the five foot high steel wheels that lifted the cantankerous old boiler above the shiny tracks. She settled to take on more water, coal and fire wood. Jake relocated, moved two cars ahead, deciding he’d indulge the soft, upholstered seats regular passengers occupied. The horses under his watch had become docile, relegated to the train’s movement and superfluous sounds back somewhere around the stop at Great Bend. He’d check on the horses again later.

The Kansas man slowly worked his way into the passenger car as he smiled politely in greeting the non-dozing portion of a dozen and a half folks that made up the lot also traveling southwest. He settled, removed the holstered Colt and the wide belt, placing them on the seat between him and the wavy lines of the window glass. He’d try making up for the loss of sleep.

A pair of city-outfitted young ladies in petticoat-heavy skirts and matching purses, their curled hair tucked under short brimmed bonnets with yellow bows, moved back from three rows and squirmed into the seat across the aisle. Evidently they were from families of means, most likely going home from some distant school back east.

He carried himself easy-like, and despite wrinkled clothes and a three day growth of whiskers, he was a handsome man they hadn’t missed. He tried not to notice as the frilly admirers ridiculously wiggled into the seat across the aisle.

Giggles gave them away. Jake considered they were likely only thirteen, maybe fourteen. He’d pay ‘em no mind.

Within the hour, bright morning sun filled the rail car, reminiscent of new life brought into the world, a pleasant change from last night but not the best of conditions for catching shut-eye. He hoped the young ladies across the aisle would soon settle and grow quiet.

Pulling back the left lapel of the supple calf leather vest, he fingered the pocket inside, extracted a folded paper from a crumpled envelope, his second letter from brother, Matt. He reached to be sure of his holstered gun on the seat beside him and then straightened the letter with slight tugs at the corners:

Dear Brother Jake,

My position at Arizona Star requires this of me, I write to beseech your help.

There was another murder of one of my drivers yesterday. The Star owners and all others here are deeply saddened. And secondly the business suffers a loss of customers attributed to robbery and loss of freight contracts.

I desperately solicit your help. We must rectify. Hope you come soon.

Give my love to Mom, Dad and Emily.

Yours truly,

Matt

Without refolding the letter, he set it on the seat atop the holstered ivory handled Colt, closed his eyes and squeezed down. He’d try again for a little nap. He slipped his tall, trim body down in the seat and cut his waning blue eyes briefly toward the girls, and then away, in less time than it’d take to wink. He finger/thumb squeezed his hat brim to the bridge of his nose but didn’t fully appropriate the slight grin he felt within.

The nominal space to the green ripcord material seat in front required a push of his spurred boots into the dark space underneath; it allowed a mere fourteen to fifteen inches above the floor. He turned the pointed toes of both feet outward and wobbled his body into relaxation.

A trifling giggle escaped from across the aisle.

He’d sleep; however, ever since he’d been big enough to do the barn chores by himself he hadn’t been a body to latch onto much of it at any given time.

The Kansas man had spent his young life apprehending lawbreakers, from rustlers and bank robbers to shysters that forged documents, all in their thieving, shenanigan ways to gain unjust monetary gain. An old-time law dog once told him, A man’s stealing was like him having an itch that could only be scratched away when the purveyor of the itch committed thievery. He’d rolled that thought over in his mind several times in his duties of law enforcement.

There were law duty occasions where he had relinquished his stalwart commitment to not kill, and those times he did so in glaring necessity to save his own hide. He valued all lives and was guided accordingly by his father’s teaching and personal commitment to his God Almighty. Killing never came without leaving him with a noxious, hollow feeling.

Following two more sun rises and another sleepless night, along with backache that he figured couldn’t be worse if he’d carried a bulky J. B. Wilshire & Co. steel safe five miles over a cumbersome terrain.

It was close to noon of the third day when a grumpy, round-faced, flat nosed conductor stood rigidly in the middle of the car and blurted out in a gruff voice, San-a-tone.

For a man accustomed to a malicious life in various aspects of enforcing the laws, the train ride from Kansas City to San Antonio had been drab and mentally wearing. Once his backache was left behind at the depot, along with the horses in his control, he saddled the buckskin bronc and was ready to test the desert wilderness he’d read so much about in the past week.

(1)

Desert Banditos

J AKE FOUND THE VASTNESS of the desert captivating, the endless ruggedness enchanting, and the sweltering heat far more intense than he’d imagined! He’d never been near the bleak, sand covered country before, but the scorching, barren, quiet he construed as tenacious as mortal combat and almost equally inexplicable. However, his thin smile disclosed mystifying respect for the brutality and splendor of the Sonora Desert with the thin outline of mystic, distant mountains.

The desert’s overpowering calm allowed diverse visions of his homeland to roll through his mind in pleasant vestiges, bringing a gleam to the jubilant blue eyes that emphasized the handsome, sun-toned face. Back there, near Kansas City, the trees grew tall and were filled with lush green leaves that floated on strapping, flexible branches in the spring and summer; prairie grass, sparsely sprinkled with purple and yellow wild flowers habitually swayed with the gentle push of the ever-present breeze. And gurgling streambeds always carried fresh, sweet water. He imagined the coolness of that moisture on his wrinkled, parched lips; but his tongue found only jagged, desiccated flesh.

The lucid smell of horse and saddle over the past five days, since he’d ridden the emptiness of West Texas, clutched at his clothes and skin, stabbing through the onerous layer of dust. The denim jeans had become slick and shiny on the backside and thighs as he stood down to rest in the sparse shade of a meager, crooked-limbed mesquite tree that clung to life, seemingly like an orphan deposited in the barren land. The contorted tree stubbornly disallowed the elements to extinguish its’ destitute life.

The desert-newcomer uselessly brushed his clothes with a wrinkled hat, standing as close to the gangly tree as possible in want of the slight offer of shade, hoping to lessen the heat for at least a moment.

You know what, Mr. Tree? Jake stoically admired the meager tree with a slow lifting of his head and eyes, and said with a gravel voice, which caused his horse, Cody, to turn and look at him goggled-eyed, If I was a major …or a captain …and you was a soldier, I’d give you a medal! You got more spunk than most men. His lips smarted slightly as the meek smile found them.

Jake poured a generous portion of water into the sweat-streaked Stetson for Cody. Once the horse had drunk he hoisted the canteen overhead and poured slowly from the sparse vessel, allowing the slight stream of tepid water to flow through his hair and down his face. He spread his feet to allow the minimal runoff to fall and penetrate the ungracious soil where the tree’s dark craggy trunk rose from the ground. There. We all got a bit of good out of that.

‘Zinngg.’ A bullet split the air near Jake’s left ear. His hand, as if by magic, braced the grip of his Colt. He crouched to one knee by reflex, looking in the direction from which the shot came. Cody wrenched and nickered.

Hombre, a deep, raspy voice laced with weighty Spanish broke through, you want to live, you put down yor pistola and zee canteen. Leeve your horse tied to zee tree and walk toward de mountain range behin’ you.

Jake saw no one. Experience had taught him, he could even the game once he’d determined the whereabouts and strength of potential adversaries. He focused on a knot of boulders some thirty yards distant that was large enough to hide a pair of wagons. He shouted back, And what if I don’t?

Another bullet answered, slamming the ground beside him and throwing up a fan of fine sandy soil. We keel you and take yor theengs enyway, a different voice this time…from the rocks where Jake identified a gray-white puff of smoke.

‘Well, odds are in their favor; but I ain’t walkin’! He holstered the Colt, stuck the cork into the opening of the canteen and hung it on the saddle horn, Okay, okay!

He stooped and swung under Cody’s neck. Then, in the blink of an eye, he jerked the Winchester from the rifle boot and leaped to his left. Following two long strides, he ducked his head to his chin and hit the ground on agile, muscled shoulders. Tucking his body into a tight ball, he held the Winchester flush across his chest. A turbulence of dust obscured the profile his body offered the banditos.

He wedged into the stifling sand and lifted his head slightly. Braced on elbows, he chanced a look over the transitory cover, a spattering of melon-sized rocks which had collected clumps of brown bunch grass.

A small, rumpled man stepped out from behind the boulder, rifle at his shoulder. Another shot rang out! It missed the strapping young desert novice a good six feet.

The Mexicans both fired Greenies, old breech-loading single-shot carbines, but then both switched to Patterson revolvers. Sensing they’d lost the upper hand, they fired as quickly as they could with the vintage hand guns.

Perceiving the Mexicans to be simple desert rats, Jake’s confidence grew. He hypothesized the odds were now in his favor. He sent three .44 caliber chunks of lead to their position from behind his newly acquired stronghold.

All grew quiet.

Senior, one of the banditos cried out dubiously, his voice strained, not defiant as when they had the drop on Jake, maybee we need to talk!

You didn’t seem to think so before. Why talk now? Jake barked back intrepidly.

A brief silence fell between them. And then, We thenk you are someone else – not the hombre’ we thenk you are before.

Oh yea! Well step out from behind them rocks so I can get a good look at you.

A few seconds passed. Si…but you no shoot, okay?

Okay. Step out and lay them guns down where I can see ‘em.

They stepped into the open, one with pistol hanging low in hand and gently laid his rifle on the sandy hard-pack at his feet. The rifle-man poked his aged Patterson back into the holster at his midsection, all the while keeping a twitching eye on the American.

Jake lowered the barrel of the Winchester and looked them over. The man with his Patterson holstered moved slightly to his left and pushed one foot to the side. He sneered through a veil of dirty black hair. Both men had grimy, multicolored serapes draped around their shoulders, their boot’s soles separated from the tormented leather uppers, and encrusted canvas pants long past washable. Surprisingly each of them touted a vibrant new sombrero, complete with beads and braided string ties.

Where’d you get them sombreros? Jake’s voice was amplified.

We buy yesterday, a subtle response dispatched.

Jake rolled his eyes. Look boys, I ain’t no fool. You didn’t buy them hats…you stole ‘em didn’t you?

The two dark skinned pirates ogled one another before turning back to Jake. The one with a disgustingly grimy moustache, the man that held a hand close to the holstered gun, dropped his eyes and drawled, Si, we take from bathhouse in El Paso yesterday.

Bet ya didn’t take no bath though, Jake’s voice disclosed a guarded laugh.

"No, senor, no bath."

‘Uummm, El Paso just a day or less in front of me’, Jake thought. He shouted back, Sounds to me like you two think you can take just about anything you want. Where I come from they put you in jail for that…you want to go to jail? He flipped the barrel of his Winchester toward El Paso, gesturing as if he’d take them back to town.

"No, senor – no jail!"

The grimy moustache bandit slowly wrapped his fingers around the old revolver at his side, No jail, hombre. The sour face crumpled, You maybe take my cowsin, but you not take me.

Jake jerked the Winchester to level and raised his left hand, Stop! If you pull that gun I’ll have to shoot.

His warning froze the would-be bandit momentarily, but only momentarily. His eyes narrowed and he spat; his old revolver readied the answer.

The Kansas man’s Winchester roared and shot flame.

Yiii! The Mex toppled before he could get a shot off. The meaty part of his thigh flushed a dark red blossom and he flopped to the ground.

I didn’t want to do that, amigo…what the hell’s wrong with you? When I told you to stop you shoulda stopped. Now look what you caused!

Jake was a peace-loving man, not the type of rogue that derives satisfaction out of killing or injuring a man beyond need. He didn’t figure these two for hard cases, thought them to be not much more than petty thieves, taking just enough to stay alive, not smart enough to steal much more than sombreros. He shouted to the Mex that remained upright, You, he shook the muzzle of the rifle at him; are your horses back there behind those rocks? He lifted his chin and flipped his head toward the enormous stones.

"Si, senor, horses." The man pushed his hands high in the air, fear gripped his face.

Jake gestured at the man, Put them guns down at your partner’s feet, and get your horses. I’m not going to shoot you, and as for him, Jake nodded at the injured man he’d wounded, I want you to pack him up and the two of ya get outta here before I get mad. I don’t want to waste away the day with the likes of you.

Soon the downcast man appeared from behind the prodigious boulders, scuffing the crusty earth with his craggy boots. He led two decent looking horses in tow, both saddled with wood-frame, single-rig Spanish saddles. A third, a packhorse, carried only a light load wrapped with the remnant of canvas. The old nag’s ribs could be counted from forty yards away and her tail chewed by a mule.

The heat of the day drew beads of perspiration to Jake’s upper lip, Hombres, I don’t like the idea of you shooting at me. I should probably stake you down and let the coyotes make a meal of your ornery hides…but I’m not going to. Jake paused and rubbed his chin. He pulled the fixin’s from his shirt pocket and started a cigarette, glancing rhythmically at his deficient adversaries. After running the paper along his tongue, he scratched a match with his thumbnail and lit the twisted end of the quirley.

Jake’s eyes methodically appraised the Mexicans as he exhaled a sizeable stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. Here’s what we’re gonna do, hombres, he squeezed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. First, you, he slapped the rifle barrel again in the direction of the man standing, wrap your cousin’s leg…wrap it tight to stop the blood flow, and you’re going to leave your guns, all of them, here. Then you’re going to empty them canteens of yours at the base of that tree there. He pointed to the scrappy little tree he’d complimented earlier.

The Mexican’s eyes widened. "But, senor, you would leeve us weeth no water?"

Si. Jake responded. Knowing El Paso was only a day’s ride, maybe less, they might get real thirsty, but they wouldn’t die. Then you two are to walk to the base of that mountain, the one you wanted me to walk to. He waved the rifle barrel. I’ll leave your guns here and you can come back and get them. I figure that’ll take you long enough that it’ll for sure be dark before you get back…Si?

The two men looked at one another and started jabbering Spanish.

Whoa! Hold on now. Jake shouted and the fussing between them stopped. And while you’re headin’ to that mountain, I’m staying right here and will fix myself a little something to eat. He squatted on his heels and laid the rifle across his knees. He had no intention of eating but by saying so he could be assured the two bandits wouldn’t return too quickly. ‘But they surely wouldn’t go clear to the mountain…would they?’

The Mexicans were panicky and glowed with anxiety, but failed to move at the directions given them.

Jake levered a shell into the chamber of the long gun. You either vamoose or I’m changing my mind and will put you in the ground, here and now!

The would-be-thieves started off, the wounded man gripping the bandaged leg and hobbling. Within the first two hundred yards, they wearily looked over their shoulders time and again before dropping into a sand flat and disappeared from sight.

The Mexican bandits were not young men. Their faces were drawn and the way they carried themselves told of age. The dawdling movement reminded Jake of his aging father.

(2)

AMERICANO & LUCINDA

J UST TWO MONTHS PRIOR , on his twenty-fifth birthday, Jake informed his father he was going to be making this trip. His older brother, Matt, from down in Tucson, sent a letter in dire desperation stating he needed Jake’s help. Matt had taken on the job as general manager of a freight outfit that was being tormented with robbery and murder; he was confident there wasn’t a better man to handle the job of security for the Arizona Star Freight Company than was his brother, Jake Cantlin.

The dusty, rutted road on the outskirts of El Paso carried Jake through a strung-out, formidable accumulation of unique, scattered wickiups and simple, scrappy adobes strewn among dismal cactus and rock formations. He could tell the river was within a stones throw; a well used path could be seen falling over a cactus clustered rise laden with shards of clay vessels that had likely been overburdening and jostled from the grasp of young transporters.

For the number of structures, humans were scarce; those visible were squatted near their dwelling, but mostly wide-eyed small boys clad in ripped, grimy pants of varied length. The boys hesitated from make-believe sword fights alongside timid, dark, frazzle-haired childish girls that held tattered dresses close to their bodies. With heads raised slightly, they occasionally lifted a hand to acknowledge the American. Jake grinned and winked at two, thumbing the brim of his hat as he did so. Their wide-eyed grinning responses, with closed fingers held near their mouths, reflected a shy apprehension. He waved approvingly and looked over a shoulder as he walked Cody slowly onward.

Smoke rose above the rocks and spiny, leafless plants that shrouded hills, giving notice El Paso was a short distance ahead. Across the Rio, the hillsides in Mexico sat mixtures of earthen adobes, casita shacks and jacals on the lower elevations, near the river and half way uphill. From there, on the up side of the hills, hacienda style structures with tile