Hat Creek Station

By James A. Sprigler

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 2, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462842018

James A. Sprigler

The author grew up in South Dakota on a cattle ranch. Along with his younger siblings, he worked at breaking horses and doing what every person did on the farms and ranches of the era. From putting up hay to milking the cows, they were kept busy. After a few years in the U.S. Marine Corps, he returned to his home state to finish his education, and this is where he found his bride. They have, as of now, been together for over fifty years. They have four children and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2009 by James A. Sprigler.

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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.

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

DEDICATION

TO BILL AND TARA AND THE PEOPLE

We dine with on a daily basis at Abby’s

My thanks to all of you: Alice, Charlie,

Gloria, Will, Pat, Richard, Martha, Tom.

It was so much fun putting you in the

story and having you play a part.

INTRODUCTION

In the years after the Civil War, the expansion and growth of this country was huge. Gold had been discovered earlier in California, and people were moving toward the West in large numbers to get in on the gold rush. However, in between the two coasts there were thousands of Native Americans who held the vast amounts of land, and these native people were pushed out and shoved off their land and put on reservations. They had been tamed, so to speak. For the most part, these native people had lived off the land for hundreds of years, and being confined to the reservation was like going to prison. They had lost their freedom.

In the 1870s, Custer and his men found gold near what is now called Custer in the Black Hills, and once more, the Native Americans were confined to an even smaller portion of their land. Those that could get out and get away did so, and they combined forces in Montana and the Big Horn River. This is where an overconfident George Custer was out thought and outfought, and while the Indians won the Battle of the Little Big Horn, this is also where they lost the war. More troops were brought in with more guns and a never-ending source of supplies. And the Indians were rounded up and put back on smaller reservations, and their food source was slaughtered to almost extinction, and the red man was starved to compliance.

Meanwhile, down in southern Texas, vast amounts of long-horned cattle had multiplied; and the cattlemen down there had no market big enough, so the cattle had to go somewhere, and there was only one direction they could go and that was north—first to Kansas, and then, when that market filled up, they eventually took the cattle all the way to the Canadian border.

At this time, investors from Europe, primarily England, came to America and found out that they, with some help, could control vast amounts of open range on which these southern cattle could graze and fatten. Areas larger than the state of Rhode Island became ranches, and for a short time of about fifteen years, they prospered. In the mid-1800s, blizzards came down from Canada and wiped out these cattle barons; and by 1900, there were few, if any, left.

These stories are all about what happened in the aftermath of one of these blizzards that spanned the Dakotas and the high plains.

The 1880s had come into their own. The country was settling up. It seemed like every person that could afford a team and owned a walking plow was settling on their own one hundred and sixty acres. Most of the land they were breaking up should never have been plowed—not because the land wasn’t good or the soil was bad. It was because in this part of the country, the rains didn’t come every year, and most dried out in a few years. And either the people moved on to some more productive land, or they moved to a town and started a new profession.

Deputy U.S. Marshal Hero Price and his wife had made their home in Custer, South Dakota. He had been stationed here for several years, but they had just been married for less than a year. Hero’s bachelor home now had a female’s touch. No longer were there shades on the windows. The windows were now outlined with curtains, and where he had stored his saddle and pack equipment had been moved to a storage shed. The piles of evidence that he had acquired and stored had been removed, and that room was now the dining area.

The tiny room he had used for his bedroom was now fitted with shelves, and it had become a pantry. His office was now the master bedroom, and the front porch was enclosed. And this is where Hero had his desk and where he did his paperwork and did his interviews. There is no telling how far a woman will go to change her man’s habits, but the first item on her list is almost always the home.

Granted, the house had become more functional for full-time living for two people, and it had become a beautiful place both inside and out. Mrs. Price had planted flowers and a small vegetable garden where Hero used to tie his horse.

She managed to get someone to repaint the house a soft white, and then she had him trim the building with blue paint Mollie Bea Price hired a carpenter to build and install a picket fence around the property, and as long as the painter was there, he got to paint the new fence. All this was done in the first month since they had returned from their honeymoon to Chicago, where they once again met their families.

Hero, like most bridegrooms, was amazed at the daily changes Mollie made—not that she didn’t make it better and more attractive, but rather how fast she got the job done.

The iron bed that Hero found in the house when he bought it was what he slept on. This bed was now stored in the shed at the back of the house, and in its place was a four-poster bed with a canopy. And on each side of the bed was a set of matched dressers in which to store clothing and things. At the foot of the bed was a dressing table and mirror.

In the office, the women’s touch had also arrived now. No longer were papers piled and stored in boxes. Mollie had purchased a set of filing cabinets, and she had taken the time to align them form A to Z. Hero could now find things at a moment’s notice.

His rifle was now hung on the wall and the ammunition stacked neatly in their boxes on a shelf under the weapon. His coats and hats were on racks and neatly arranged, as were his boots. There was a place for everything, and everything must be in its place. Mollie was a great housekeeper, and she has an eye for decorating. She had transformed a mess into a beautiful home. There would be other improvements from time to time, but for now she had the place under control, and Hero liked it that way.

The last case that Hero worked kept him away from home for almost a year. During this time, he found and married his childhood sweetheart. She had been married to an officer at Fort Meade, and he was killed trying to stop some horse thieves. One of her friends thought it would be nice if she met someone new, but the luck of the draw was with her, and she found her first love. It was love at first sight again, and after a three-week courtship, they married. And now both of them had lots to look forward to.

They had come back to Custer in the spring, and by fall, the house and grounds were finished. Mollie was asked if she would like to teach school, and she leapt at the chance. She would teach the seventh and eighth grades, and later, she might move on up to a high school position if Custer decided to build one.

The marshal, on the other hand, was back to doing his regular job. While he had been gone, there were a lot of little things that had built up, and he was working long hours so that he could spend more time at home with his wife.

It seemed that every homesteader in the country was disagreeing about where their boundary lines were, and there was not a local surveyor to take care of the problem; so until a credited surveyor could be found, it became the marshal’s duty to calm the situation down and try to make both parties happy.

The summer rains came on a regular basis, and the crops were good. Fall began with warm weather until Christmas. Then it got cold. Twenty below zero at times, and then the weather warmed for a few days as the New Year came in and the schools started for the last semester. It had almost become balmy. The men working outside were in their shirtsleeves, and the women hung their wash on the clothesline without a jacket. It was so nice that some of the children going to school didn’t take any winter clothing.

Marshal Price received a wire on New Year’s Eve that he should be in Cheyenne, Wyoming, on January 3. There he was to meet up with another marshal named Charlie West. Marshal West would tell him what the Marshals Service had in mind at that time.

The weather was nice as Hero packed his bags. He thought about leaving his winter clothing at home, but at the last minute, he added about every piece of heavy clothing he could find. Long wool underwear topped the list, as did his felt-lined snow boots. He felt a little silly taking all this heavy-duty clothing, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

New Year’s Day found Hero Price kissing his wife good-by as he and his baggage mounted the local train headed for Edgemont. At Edgemont, he would ride the stagecoach to Cheyenne. It would be a two-day trip, and he had probably stayed home one day longer than he should have; but with a little luck, he should be in the big city in the middle of the afternoon of the third. A few hours more, or less, at this time of the year wouldn’t make a heck of difference one way or another.

At Edgemont, the stagecoach was loading as Hero laid his bags at the wheel of the stage. He then entered the stage office to purchase a ticket, but since the stage was full of people and he was the marshal, he could ride shotgun, and the trip would make him a little extra money. The regular shotgun rider was still celebrating either Christmas or New Year’s. It was kind of hard to tell which, as the guard had been drunk for the last ten days, and by now he had the shakes so bad, it wasn’t safe for him to handle a club, let alone a double-barreled greener. The driver said that they weren’t carrying anything of value, and he wasn’t expecting any trouble, but he would welcome the companionship and some conversation from somebody that was stone-cold sober and would stay that way for the whole trip.

They pulled out of Edgemont on time with a six-horse hitch. At the south edge of town, the driver popped his blacksnake whip, and the horses broke into a hard ground-covering lope. He let them run this way for several miles before he slowed then to a trot. It would take a couple of hours before they pulled into Hat Creek Station.

Hat Creek Station was manned by Carl and Ellie Johnson. Carl had come up the trail from Texas with a cattle herd and had liked what he saw of the country, and when the cowboys got paid, he sent the money home for his wife to come up here and be with him. The stage company offered him over twice the money he made as a cowboy, and they furnished him with a home and board and room. He got to keep half of what they charged for meals and for the few rooms they had for overnight customers. If he wanted to run a bar, that was his business, and what he made from that he kept in a different pocket.

Ellie did all the cooking and taking care of the station, while Carl took care of the stage horses and the livery. He also did the hunting. He had elk and mule deer at his doorstep. and in the fall. he bought a beef or two and maybe a hog if he could fine someone that raised hogs. They ate well most of the time. In the summer most of their meat had been canned in the fall before. In the fall and winter, most of the meat was fresh, killed and hung on the big cottonwood at the back of the house. Every morning, Carl would let the meat down with the rope hoist and cut off what Ellie needed for the day, and take it into the house where she would prepare it for their dinner or supper. And she would have a good meal ready for the travelers. Every three days, Ellie baked bread and rolls.

The Johnsons had ran the place long enough that all the local bachelors knew when she baked, and most of them, at one time or another, had managed to reliever her of an extra loaf of bread. She had one fellow that came every week and bought two loaves if she could spare them, and if she baked a pie or two, he would take one of them home too.

The driver ran the teams the last mile into the station and slid the coach to a stop. He told everyone that he thought a weather front was coming in, and he wanted them to get their meal and their bathroom duties done in a half hour.

Carl and the driver hooked up the new teams, and while the passengers had their meals, he rummaged in the box and found some heaver clothing. Marshal Price noticed the additional clothing, and he too added to what he was wearing. He held the horses until the driver came out of the station and mounted the stage. Carl made sure that everyone that got off the stage got back on, and with a wave of his hand, he sent the stage on its way.

As they got started, the driver handed Hero a Winchester shell box saying, Take care of this, son. It will be all we got to eat for the next few hours. The next two stations don’t cook for anyone.

The next two stations came and went. They exchanged teams, and the passengers got out and walked around for a few minutes to get some circulation going in their bodies before the next forty-mile run.

A new driver came on board at Jay Em, and he too was dressed for the cold. It seemed that at every mile, it got colder, and now the snow had started to fall—at first, just a few flakes, and then it got heavier, and the wind started to blow. We may not get to Cheyenne today. shouted the driver. If it don’t get any worse, we will be all right, but I think this is going to be one hell of a blow.

Luck was with the stage, and it pulled into the Cheyenne Station only an hour late. The station hands unloaded the passengers and the baggage, and the horses were rubbed down and put away in the barn.

Marshal Price gathered his gear and walked to the Plainsman Hotel where he supposedly had a room. When he went to check in, he found that they had let his room go because the management had thought the stage would not make it in today. There were no more rooms left. What do I do now? he asked the clerk. I was only an hour late. Don’t you hold your rooms longer that an hour?

Mister, I just do as I am told, and I was told to let the room go, and that is what I did. You are welcome to stay in the lobby if you want to, but I think you will find that every other hotel in town is full for the Cattlemen’s Association meetings. I’m sorry, but that’s all that I can do.

Hero Price walked over to one of the high-backed chairs and sat down. He was thinking about what he should do next when a tall thin man tapped him on the shoulder. You wouldn’t be Mr. Price, would you? inquired the man.

Yes I’m Price. What can I do for you?

Right now, you can’t do a thing for me, but I am in a position to help you. My name is Charlie West, and I have a place for you to sleep and rest up.

The two men shook hands, and Charlie helped Hero tote his bags to their room.

Marshal West has been stationed in Eastern Wyoming. As with most marshals and their deputies, they were free to go anywhere or to travel to any place. They had been given general areas to cover, and for the most part, they respected the boundary. If they suspected something or someone outside their area, they could ask for help or they could follow the lead themselves. Marshal West was up to his ears in a range war in Johnson County, and it had spilled over into eastern Wyoming and was about to spread into the Dakotas.

Tom Horn was in jail and waiting trial for the murder of several people, and as far as the marshal could tell, he had been employed by the big cattle ranchers—the very people that were having their meeting in Cheyenne starting in the morning. The nearest marshal that this meeting might affect would be Hero Price because of his location to several of the English cattle barons that bordered the Wyoming line and to the huge ranches from Lusk, Wyoming, to the Montana line.

Since the end of the Civil War, when the large drives of cattle from Texas began to come north and the containment of the Indians made it possible for men to control huge areas of land, there had been feuds over who should own it. The cattlemen thought that because they, with a few men, could control the water holes, the springs, and creeks, they should have control of the land. They figured that even if they didn’t own it outright, it was theirs to have, and they were willing to import the last of the gunslingers or gunfighters to protect their rights.

Small farmers and homesteaders managed to find their one hundred and sixty acre plots hither and yon all over the state, and as soon as a rancher found a dead animal, it was blamed on the farmers. God help anyone that butchered a beef with a rancher’s brand on it. They were hung from the nearest tree or telegraph pole, and their bodies left to twist in the wind. How many people died this way will never be known.

Every little badass that could fire a gun was being hired for three times the cowpuncher’s wages. These temperamental misfits not only fought the underarmed homesteaders and farmers, they fought each other to see who was the fastest. There were gunfights daily and innocent people killed every week needlessly. The