Duel Decision

By Milo Grant

Duel Decision concerns a young man from Wyoming who, after
attaining a college education and beginning a big-city career as a
newspaperman, must return to his ranch to settle personal affairs.
A two- or three-day chore develops into a chaotic summer of mystery,
romance and violence, told from his reportorial viewpoint. Only 24
years old, he matures rapidly in a setting that depicts the later period
of the Wild West in 1890, where gun fi ghts, cattle rustling, highway
robbery, kidnapping and other perilous activities were still occasionally
encountered. He becomes fully involved in these unexpected situations
and must somehow overcome them to protect his life, his love, and
his property.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456814953

Milo Grant

My writing career began in a one-room country schoolhouse in South Dakota where I scribbled short Western stories in little spiral notebooks and charged my classmates a penny or two to read them. My ambition to be an author was delayed by college, Air Force, marriage with children and other distractions. Eventually, while teaching English in Lander, Wyoming, I succeded in writing Duel Decision, using a pseudonym: Milo Grant. It was not published. Years later (2008) I did publish a juvenile novel (Sinks Canyon Mystery) under my own name. In that story, one of the characters spent his spare time writing a rather racy Western novel. It was only natural that I named that character “Milo Grant” and the book he was writing was, of course, Duel Decision! Thus we have a unique situation in which a fi ctional character wrote a book which became real--this one. RLN (Milo Grant)

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Milo Grant.

Library of Congress Control Number:    2010916779

ISBN: Hardcover     978-1-4568-1494-6

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4568-1493-9

ISBN: Ebook           978-1-4568-1495-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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DEDICATION

To my sister DeElda, whose love of books influenced my

earliest desire to read novels, then write them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

I hadn’t expected a stagecoach hold-up twenty minutes after we began our journey at Rawlins, but at least it had to be the shortest and least productive act of banditry in the annals of Wyoming history.

We had barely settled into our hard and unyielding seats, trying to adjust our bodies from the relative comfort of a train coach to the extreme discomfort of a stagecoach. Almost immediately we started complaining, dreading the two-day trip to Lander. Suddenly our driver slowed the rig to a stop and at the same time we heard the shouted command, Drop that rifle and throw up your hands!

This demand was accompanied by a shot from a revolver, and I heard our guard belatedly cry out, Don’t shoot, mister! You can have it all! I assumed that the shot had not hit him, that it was only a warning.

We five passengers looked at one another in astonishment. This could not be happening! After all, it was 1890, and the Wild West had been tamed by now, although there were still a few bands of outlaws roaming around the country, most notably Butch Cassidy and his Wild Bunch, but he specialized in holding up banks and trains, not stagecoaches. Was this a joke of some kind?

Curious, I looked out my side of the coach and saw three saddled horses standing motionless beside the trail. Two masked men were standing near them, their guns drawn and pointed to the top of our conveyance. Then I noticed another man just getting up off the ground, also masked and holding a pistol which he aimed directly at me. I quickly brought my head back into the coach. Later, I learned that this was the trio’s unique method of stopping the stage: feigning an injured man lying on the ground. Naturally, anyone coming upon such a scene would stop to help, since the bandits drew their bandanas over their noses only at the last moment. The driver and his guard were taken totally by surprise.

But their blossoming visions of easy wealth were nipped in the bud. A group of riders from Rawlins was bearing down hard on the scene. The three bandits immediately abandoned their attempt to rob us, hastily mounted their horses (one missing his stirrup and vaulting into the saddle instead) and rode off in a panic (a second one leaving his hat behind). Four of the newcomers chased after them, while three others, one with a silver badge on his vest, pulled up at the stagecoach. They boisterously engaged in an interchange with our driver and guard, accompanied with much laughing and good-natured banter as if what had just happened was a playful prank of some kind.

The sheriff soon appeared at the side of the coach and peered in. You folks okay in there? he asked, grinning beneath his handle-bar mustache. I bet you all thought you were ‘bout to be relieved of your valuables, right?

One of our party spoke up: "What the hell was that all about?"

The lawman laughed again. "We knowed what was goin’ on, ‘cept we was a little late gittin’ here. They found out there was a pretty good bundle of cash in the strongbox and they figgered on gittin’ it for themselves! We was gonna lay a trap for ‘em, but them varmints got here first. Bet they won’t try that trick agin!"

Another passenger asked, Who were they? Did you know them?

"I know one of ‘em. Name’s Sam Slade. He’s a no-account drifter tryin’ to be a big-shot outlaw. My boys’ll catch ‘em, or if they don’t, they’ll run ‘em clear outta the territory. You ain’t got nothin’ more to worry about on this trip."

Another passenger added his observation: I thought it was one of Buffalo Bill’s acts! Just saw his show in Cheyenne. Stagecoach holdups and Indian attacks and the whole shebang! Never thought I’d see the real thing!

Well, they tried, anyhow, the sheriff said. "First time I saw that way of robbin’ a stagecoach. Better’n shootin’ somebody, anyhow. Less likely to git shot, too. Well, you folks have a nice trip!" And with that, he turned back to the driver and after some more brief raillery, left with his two deputies and headed back toward town.

Our trip’s early but exciting interruption was over.

My name is Adam Randolph. I am writing this story long after the stark and deadly events described herein should have softened and faded from my memory, but they are still sharp and clear. That summer spent on my ranch in Wyoming will always be a bitter-sweet episode in my past: bitter because of unfortunate events I had no control over but became deeply involved in, sweet because . . . well, that comes later. The fact that you are reading this depiction of that summer shows that I survived; my survival was the result of luck, mostly, and the help of a loyal cowboy who was willing to risk his life to save mine.

This story started out as a feature article for the Chicago Tribune. I had intended to stay in Wyoming only a few days and my editor suggested that I take notes and let its readers know what changes had occurred out on the frontier during the past few years. I thought that was a good idea, giving me something to do while tending to rather mundane and uninteresting duties. So I started taking notes, jotting down the day’s events in my notebook while they were still fresh. Being a reporter, I was careful to record the who, what, where, when, and why of those events, as all good reporters do. As my two-or three-day stay in Wyoming lengthened into weeks, my journal began taking on voluminous size. I was quoting people as exactly as possible, describing scenes and events as carefully as I could, until what I had written began to look like a book, not a newspaper story.

It came to me suddenly: make an actual book out of it! My experiences were actually quite similar to the lurid adventures described in Western novels such as those by Mark Twain or Bret Hart or Jack London or, later, Owen Wister. What I was describing was certainly not the usual goings-on of ordinary people; on the contrary, they were extraordinary, something totally beyond what normal people experience, not because I was trying to plunge myself into such situations, but simply because I was unwillingly thrust into the most fantastic and dangerous incidents of my life.

Since my journal transformed itself into a book, it soon developed a fictional style, adding those traditional elements of story-telling that may not be included in a newspaper article, especially dialogue: I tried to remember word-for-word what I had heard each day. However, since I was now writing it as fiction, I gave myself permission to elaborate here and there, but basically what you will read is what happened as accurately as I could remember.

Looking back on that summer of 1890, I feel very fortunate that I came through with body and mind intact. Had I known what was in store for me as I waited in Rawlins to board the stage to Lander, I might have climbed right back on the train without bothering to know where it was going. But recollecting past experiences gives one perspective, and I think I matured more in that one summer than in the previous ten. Because the incidents I’m describing herein are now cured, so to speak (as newly cut wood eventually cures and becomes stable), I cannot help commenting about them now and then from this later, matured viewpoint, thus presenting an up-to-date image of long-past activities. Forgive me if these occasional editorial comments distract you; it’s my journalistic style and you’ll get used to it. And I promise not to refer to you as dear reader, as old-time novelists used to do. After all, as I write this, it’s well into the twentieth century and I have tried to keep up with modern times.

So this is it, a story originally conceived as a newspaper article, transformed into a book and composed like fiction. The result has as little of both styles which may confuse some readers, maybe exasperate a few more. But every journalist thinks he has a book in him and I was able to get mine out early in my career because it was written soon after the actual events. I think the story is worth telling. You will be the judge.

CHAPTER 1

The stage from Rawlins rolled into Lander at four o’clock in the afternoon of a bright, cloudless spring day which hinted of an unusual warm spell. At the crest of the small hill southeast of the settlement, I aroused my travel-numbed senses and poked my head out the window to make a quick survey of the town which I had once called home. It looked pretty much the same as it did in ‘84. The unusually wide street, pointing toward Red Butte in the west, was as dusty and wheel-rutted as it always was in the spring between rains. The buildings on Main Street looked smaller and a little more weather-beaten than I had remembered them. There were a few new structures in evidence but I could see at a glance that Lander had made little real progress during the last six years. I suddenly wished that I had not found it necessary to interrupt my comfortable city career to renew acquaintances with this unpleasant reminder of the past. As the coach lurched down the hill, churning up the inevitable cloud of dust which had plagued most of its journey, the driver yelled shrilly and cracked his long whip over the lead horses’ ears so that he could enter town with his usual flourish. The vehicle clattered across the log bridge spanning the Popo Agie River at the east end of the street and then was braked to a sliding halt in front of the Lander Hotel.

This establishment was a two-story wooden structure which served as the stage stop, Wells Fargo depot, post office and social center of the town. Cap Nickerson, the jovial, white-bearded proprietor, was there to greet the passengers with his customary boisterous hospitality. We climbed out of the coach with stiff, painful slowness. I slapped two days’ accumulation of dust from my clothing and claimed my single valise from the pile of luggage which the driver tossed down from the boot. After shaking hands with one of my recent travelling companions, I limped awkwardly into the dim lobby of the hotel, nothing on my mind but a bath, a shave, a meal and a bed. I was in no mood to respond to the cheerful attentions of the hangers-on, friends and relatives who had awaited the arrival of the stage as if that were the main event of the day. On this particular day, it was. They were excitedly listening to the other passengers’ accounts of the botched hold-up attempt of the previous day. I thought grimly that they wouldn’t be so damned cheerful if they were the ones who had to ride in that kidney-shaking contraption and risk getting shot or robbed too.

Good afternoon, sir! exclaimed a pimply-faced young desk clerk as I lurched toward him like a drunkard. Since the other passengers were so involved with their greeters out front, I was first in line for a room and the bathtub, for which I was thankful. I grunted something in reply to the youth, but my voice was as gritty as my clothing. I had not used it for hours; we passengers in the stagecoach had exhausted most of our conversational wit early in the journey and had spent most of the last day in sullen silence and boredom, too shaken and dusty to bother with social amenities. Fortunately, one of the occupants of the Concord had been a welcome addition to the imprisoned passengers, one with whom I could actually hold an intelligent conversation, and for that I was grateful, but now I was in no mood to talk to anyone.

Didja have a good trip? inquired the clerk needlessly, grinning at me as if he or I had said something funny. His protruding teeth gave him the appearance of a well-satisfied beaver. I signed the guest book and dropped the pen on the counter impatiently.

A fine trip, I grunted. Best trip I ever had, in fact. I got shook out of only five years of my life this time instead of the usual ten. Can I have a room?

The clerk laughed hilariously, spraying everything in front of him with droplets of spittle. He seemed easily amused. He gave me a key and pointed toward the stairway. Room eight. Bath’s at the end o’ the hall. Plenty o’ hot water. Help yourself!

I nodded, stooped over with a wince to pick up my bag, and climbed the creaking stairs. I could hear the clerk snickering at my old-man motions. Damn fool’s probably never been on a stage trip in his life, I thought.

My room was a small, dingy cubicle with water-stained wallpaper of some flowered pattern long since faded into obscurity. A leaky roof had re-decorated the ceiling with fantastic, somber designs like illustrations from a Gothic horror story. The room was furnished with an iron bed, a decrepit dresser, a mirror, a wash stand, and a rush-seated chair which was sagging ominously in the middle. What the hell, I thought. It’s good enough for one or two days, anyhow. I won’t be staying in this dumpy little town much longer than that. If I do, I’ll stay at Granny’s old house, providing I can get it cleaned up fit to live in. It couldn’t be any worse than this.

After opening the window which looked out upon the hotel’s stable yard, I started shucking off my shapeless, wrinkled suit. More clouds of dust circulated about the narrow room, giving an almost solid look to the shafts of late afternoon sunlight slanting through the window. I stripped down completely, found a fairly respectable dressing gown in the tiny closet, put it on, peered warily out the door, and then headed for the bathroom. An hour later I returned to my cell feeling almost like a normal human being for the first time since I had left Chicago.

After digging out a fresh set of under-clothes and a clean shirt from my valise, I again brushed off the last vestiges of dust from my suit as well as I could and dressed. Then I locked the door and headed hungrily for the hotel’s dining room.

Throughout my wearisome journey I had anticipated a pleasant, restful evening of dining and idle conversation at the hotel. Two days of a stagecoach trip, however, preceded by an equal length of time on a Union Pacific passenger train, had taken their toll. I could hardly stay awake. My replies to friendly inquiries from the other table guests must have sounded almost rude. Immediately after finishing my apple pie, I regretfully excused myself and returned to my less cheerful but much more peaceful room. Although it was not yet dark outside, I went straight to bed.

As tired as I was, my mind reeled from the past few days’ activities and sleep would not come. The trek across the prairie flashed back as if I were still experiencing it. The stagecoach reminded me of a wind-driven tumbleweed bouncing erratically across the almost endless Wyoming wasteland. A hundred and fifty miles of bone-jarring torture had sapped my vigor and morale until I was barely conscious of where I was going or why I had to go there. All I knew for certain was that as much as if disliked that frightful coach ride, I had not been particularly anxious to reach my destination.

Four other passengers in the coach had shared the common misery of the trip. Slouched down upon hard and unyielding seats as if they had given up all hope of finishing their journey in one piece, they reminded me of rag dolls with carelessly attached heads. I was certain that the hopeful fact that it was only a two-day trip from Rawlins prevented the passengers from leaping madly out of the dusty, swaying coach to put a blessed end to their suffering under the spinning yellow wheels.

Lying in bed, my mind slowly fading into oblivion, I went over the reason for my return to Lander. I concluded that it is not always a pleasant experience to visit one’s old home town. Sometimes it can be downright disagreeable. When a man returns to the scenes of his youth, he probably does so with a feeling that he no longer belongs there, that he may not even be wanted there. But it works both ways: I didn’t want to be there either. I was forced to attend an unwelcome reunion with the already half-forgotten but bitter past. This dismal realization was my last conscious thought before I blissfully sank into the first sound sleep I had had in days.

CHAPTER 2

My unwilling journey had begun in Chicago a week earlier. A long, tiring railroad ride had brought me most of the way, followed by that cursed stagecoach punishment. It seemed incredible to me that in 1890 nothing better than a Concord stage had been developed for overland travel to out-of-the-way places. I had read about the possibility of horseless carriages being used as public conveyances but immediately discounted the notion as a waste of effort. How could they negotiate those terrible Wyoming trails which sometimes even defeated a six-horse stagecoach team?

I was the first passenger to board the coach at Rawlins. Two dry-goods salesmen and a cattle buyer from Cheyenne got on before the last passenger showed up. I recognized him: an old Lander acquaintance and my spirits rose at once. It was Woodrow Rogers, the comfortably middle-aged and balding editor of Lander’s leading weekly, the Fremont Clipper. A familiar face on this desolate trip through Wyoming was a welcome sight. Rogers did not recognize me at first. It had been six years since I had last seen him, when I was a mere eighteen-year-old ranch boy. I quickly introduced myself, eager to have a fellow passenger on board with whom I could swap talk of our trade. I had already decided that I had nothing in common with the other passengers. After a short pause, a gleam of recognition appeared behind Rogers’ steel-rimmed spectacles. Adam Randolph! he exclaimed. What brings you back to this part of the country?

We shook hands vigorously. It’s not a pleasure trip, I assure you, I replied, sighing. I’m going to Lander to settle my father’s affairs. You knew that he died, didn’t you?

His face lost its cheerful expression as he said, Why no, I didn’t! I’ve been away for a spell. I’m sorry to hear that, Adam. Your father and I have been friends for many years. Did he go suddenly?

More or less. A heart attack. He didn’t suffer. The funeral was last week and of course I didn’t get the word until it was too late to be back for that.

That’s too bad. I’m sure sorry that bad luck brings you back to your home town.

There was an awkward pause as the stagecoach began its journey into the endless open spaces toward the northwest. As soon as we left the bustling city of Rawlins I knew that the road to Lander was in no better shape than ever. It had been raining in the vicinity and the spinning wheels and horses’ hooves flung mud and water in all directions. I hoped my single valise in the boot would stay dry and secure. The taciturn individual with the reins up front merely spat tobacco juice along the trail and urged his horses to greater efforts. The guard (riding shotgun, as they called it then) sat stoically beside the driver, seemingly bored with his job; highwaymen were rare by 1890.

But not unheard of. The attempted hold-up occurred very soon after we left Rawlins, and that momentary diversion brought everyone together with shared opinions of the event; talk flowed freely—we lost the reserve that all strangers exhibit when first brought together. But after that, boredom took over and if it weren’t for Woodrow Rogers, I would have been in for a dreary journey indeed. After the usual irrelevancies, Woodrow Rogers began asking me about my activities of the past six years.

Well, when I left Lander in ‘84 I was pretty much soured on this part of the country. I think you know why.

I recall what happened, except for the details, Rogers said slowly as his mind sifted through the years. Your older brother was killed in some sort of a gun fight, wasn’t he? And then your mother died shortly afterwards?

That’s right, I answered, frowning over the bitter recollection. Those incidents probably brought my feelings to a head. I knew I wasn’t cut out for the kind of life my father led. I just couldn’t see myself nursing a bunch of cows for a living.

Well, following in a father’s footsteps isn’t always the best thing for a son to do, agreed Rogers.

My folks’ life on the ranch was pretty hard until Henry got old enough to help out, I continued. Then he was killed and that was just too much for Mother. I guess you know the rest.

Meditatively filling a pipe, Rogers said, I know she passed away soon after. But I doubt that Henry’s death had much to do with it.

He was killed and then she died, I said matter-of-factly. Henry was always her favorite son and she took his death pretty hard. I figure she was overwhelmed by the Western way of life, Mr. Rogers. Killed by the unpredictable hardships of the frontier as surely as Henry was. At the time, I felt like getting revenge, evening the score. If I had stayed much longer in Lander, I know I would have tried. I had to get out or I’d have gone crazy! I hated to leave Pa, but I just couldn’t take that sort of life any more. I didn’t want to rot away in a little village in the middle of nowhere! So I ran away. Nervously, I took out a tailor-made cigarette and lit it as I watched with little interest the slowly-passing desolation of the Red Desert country.

Well, Adam, I think you’ll find that Lander has changed considerably since you went away. And I don’t know but what . . .

Sure, Mr. Rogers, I said impatiently, it’s still your home town and I know how you feel about it and all that, but it just doesn’t fit into my life style any more, can’t you see?

Well, yes, I think I do. There was a short pause while we smoked reflectively, then Rogers asked, What did you do after you left?

"I had a little money saved up, and with Pa’s help and a lot of hard work I managed to get through college. Then when we were back in Illinois visiting some of Dad’s relatives, one of them helped me get a job with the Chicago Tribune. Now I’m a genuine reporter!"

A note of pride crept into my voice. I knew that Rogers had always considered journalism one of the best professions there is. He immediately showed more interest in my story, so I went on: You know what my editor said when he found out I had to go back to Wyoming? He said to take notes, and I could write a feature article for the paper when I got back. Sights, sounds, people, how they felt about Wyoming becoming a state this summer, things like that. He said hardly anyone in Chicago knew anything about the West except what they read in pulp magazines or had seen at those wild west shows like Buffalo Bill’s which give a distorted view of what the West was like, and he wanted me to tell about it as it really is. I said I’d think about it if I had the time.

Sounds like a good idea to me, Rogers replied. If you’re a good reporter, a few days ought to be enough to get the feel of the country again. I’ll help you get your report back to your editor if you want to get to work on it right away.

I thanked him, but at that particular time I had no intention of writing anything; I just wanted to do what had to be done and get back to my Chicago life. We both fell silent for a while, watching the changing scenery but thinking of other things. Then the publisher continued: What do you plan to do with the family ranch now?

Sell it.

Just like that? Don’t you have any sentimental feelings about it?

None. I’ve had my fill of this country. I’m a city slicker now. I laughed without humor. I’m going to sell the ranch just as soon as possible. In fact, I’ve already got a buyer lined up in Chicago. If that deal falls through, there ought to be a good market in Lander for a nice little fenced outfit of perpetual boredom.

Rogers laughed. Maybe, but you’d better advertise it in some other way.

I’m going to get as much money out of the old place as I can, as soon as I can, and leave just as quick as I can!

Well, your bitterness hasn’t seemed to have changed much since you’ve been away, Adam. But I guess you know what you want to do. I’ll be sorry to see the last of the Randolph family leave Lander, though. Your father was one of the earliest settlers there.

Yes, he was one of the first. Actually, he led a rather interesting life, until the last few years, at least. You know about it, don’t you?

I know he was a veteran, but he never talked much about the war.

He was a major in the Union army. A few years after he was discharged in ‘65 he brought his family West, when I was just a baby. He thought he would find sudden wealth in the Colorado gold fields. Well, that didn’t pan out very well, no pun intended, so when he heard there was a good grazing area opening up in Wyoming, we moved to Lander and he started herding cows. Then he sent for old Freddy.

He’s your hired hand?

He was an army cook with Pa’s regiment. Pa promised him a job after the war, so when he started ranching he sent for him and he became our general handy-man and camp cook. He’s still on the ranch, along with another hired hand that Pa took on after I left. I’ve never met the new one. Pa homesteaded his section in the valley out towards Sinks Canyon, you know, and then gradually kept adding more acres to it in the valley and up in the foothills. He owned just about all of the Table Mountain area. Of course, there was always the open range in the mountains to graze cattle on, too. He figured he had the world by the tail then, I guess. He even sent for his mother. Maybe you don’t remember Grandma—she lived in a little house in town during her last few years. Anyhow, my brother and I grew up on the ranch. But now I’m the only one left and I can’t wait to shed myself of Wyoming.

You feel that way, Adam, because of one unfortunate incident. I think you’re being unreasonable when you condemn our way of life out here. After all, the pioneering instinct is what made this country great. Our ancestors have always been able to push on toward new horizons and open up new areas to civilization. Your father was a pioneer. He made it possible for others to settle down here in Wyoming and raise their families in peace and freedom, where there’s still room to spread out and to take a deep breath of fresh air. That’s an honorable heritage, Adam.

You may be right, I said without conviction and totally uninterested in his pedantic description of the Westward movement, but when a country is directly or indirectly responsible for the death of one’s whole family, you can’t expect a man to be in love with it!

Nevertheless, you’re being too critical, Rogers argued. As I remember, your father’s ranch is one of the better ones in the area. He made a good living. You could too, if you stuck it out.

No thanks. I’m a newspaperman now.

There was another long pause. Rogers seemed to be thinking deeply about something. I watched the familiar scenery slide by, not really taking notice of it. Rogers spoke again: I think your father was happy out there on the ranch, even though he knew you weren’t suited for it. He didn’t seem to be too upset about your leaving, judging by the talk we had about it.

No, I guess he knew how I felt. I sure grumbled enough, anyhow. It’s not that I’m afraid of honest work—I’ll work as hard as anyone else, but the work has to be something I like to do. Isn’t that the way with you?

It’s that way with everyone. Or should be.

Whenever Pa got a letter from me he knew I wouldn’t be back, except for visits. I wanted to see him settle down with me in Chicago when he got too old for the ranch, and I think he might have done that, too, if time hadn’t caught up with him.

The other passengers must have been listening, judging by their rapt expressions. They must have considered me a strange breed of man. But what did I care what they thought? I was not one of them. In a few days I would be rid of all ties with Wyoming. One last encounter with the old life, I vowed, and it was back to the bright lights for me, with no regrets.

The squeaking of the coach on its thorough braces soon dulled our conversational wit. Most speech within the vehicle gradually subsided. After a while, probably about twenty miles out of Rawlins, we all tried to doze off in order to pass through the endless miles as painlessly as possible. Rogers and I knew that we would have plenty of time to talk over the old days, as we had just begun this last leg of our journey. Again I was thankful that he was along. It seemed to me that the other passengers made only insipid and dull-witted comments. As a reporter, I was accustomed to talking to ignorant people, but I preferred someone like Woodrow Rogers for discourse on other things besides the weather and the cattle business.

We found soon enough that sleep on the stagecoach was practically impossible. I regained my senses to hear snatches of conversation among the other three passengers, who seemed to be seasoned Western travelers. They were discussing the old days of the seventies and eighties. Their talk, prompted by our own little encounter with highwaymen, drifted to the subject of Butch Cassidy, who was making things interesting for the banks and railroads in the West. The cattle buyer, it seemed, had had first-hand experience with Butch Cassidy. He had been in Cheyenne when Cassidy’s entire crew, known