A Gunslingers Affliction: Exceptional Western Thriller

By Ronald Garver

Uncontrollable hallucinations, anorexic demons, and revolting apparitions, center stage a period in the 1800s already guilt-riddled with a moral sense of judgment.
Allyall will love A Gunslingers Affliction, never falter, for the moment, antiquity lives in allyall.
Ride along with Frank and Tom McLaury as they discover a mountain from Hell, and gold streaming down for the taking ... except for a horrifying creature thrashing down the mountain HEADING STRAIGHT FOR THEM...
Frank McLaurys unique fast draw left a man dead in West Texas. Forced to go on the dodge from the Texas Rangers, posses, bounty hunters, demons, himself, and guilt ... he seeks refuge in the wilderness. Befriended by another desperado likewise on the dodge, saved Franks sanity.
Franks physical hardship and struggles with confrontations of life in the wilderness ..., beset only by the tenderness of a gorgeous Mexican girl he rescues from a notorious gang of outlaws ... falls in love...

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Feb 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781489710994

Ronald Garver

Ronald Garver is an extraordinary man - an acute bad-ass, and has an odd affinity for kick-ass westerns. Comanche Indian Heritage stirs Garver’s blood ‘round. He resides in North Texas where John Wesley Hardin and John (Doc) Holiday lived. Writing for most of his life, numerous books, short stories, and editor of a local newspaper - A Gunslingers Affliction novel blossomed in the traditional dialog of the 1800’s... Garver’s unique voice depicts a different kind of Exceptional Western Thriller, sending y’all on a mind-trip of terrifying ancient relics, secrecy, and thrilling romance. Y’all will cry a little, yet feel at home on the range...

Book preview

Chapter One

Gunslinging (has come to be a) Disease

"W here’s thet no good coward Frank McLaury?" said a roaring voice from within Duffy’s Bell’s saloon. Uncle Fester, just leaving JP mercantile, wheeled on his heel at the sound of the rough voice.

I aim tuh kill that coward McLaury, bellowed the voice again. I hear tell my girl had given him a white silk scarf, ‘n I’m a-aimin’ tuh wear it home, red with his blood.

The melodious songbirds shuddered beneath the overhangs, and the rising Texas sun overwhelmed Uncle Fester with its fresh, crisp, honeysuckle morning in the spring of 1877 Del Rio, Texas. Unnerved by the threat against his nephew, Fester hustled past Folsom’s tin shop carrying the heavy sacks of supplies. He hurled them in the rear of the wagon and jumped up in the seat.

Frank my boy, when I walked past Duffy Bell’s saloon I heard John Wesley a-hollering’ drunk, ‘n I ‘spect, brimmin’ over with rotgut whiskey, ‘n bellowin’ like a lunger swearin’ thet he wus goin’ tuh kill you. He’s a-hankerin’ fer a-killin’ so be careful.

What again, said Frank his brow wrinkled in anger. Why does he want tuh kill me fer this time? Frank eyed Fester as if cross-examining. I suppose to insult me again. He won’t brag fer a second time; I’ll see to it.

Something ‘bout a white silk scarf his girl gave you, intoned Uncle Fester, lighting his pipe on the gallop.

I quit seein’ the girl a long time ago, said Frank his face wrinkling at the brow.

She’s still sweet on you, imparted Fester his voice falling to a whisper. She brags ‘bout you ‘n her gettin’ on – but never mind reasons, John Wesley is drunk, ugly, ‘n crazy. He’s achin’ tuh kill somebody, anybody. He’d like folks tuh think he’s a badass – ‘n he is, especially when drunk.

Frank slapped the reins on the two stallions for a faster gallop and headed for home.

Kill! Again. Will it ever stop? Frank was angered, quiet, and puzzled over yet another dilemma, another killing. Why was the visionary so vigorous, this sullen passionate ravishment in his blood, the realization of Father to son blood-to-blood fighting, the re-occurrences, the increased strange emotions that had raised in him a savage strain to kill?

John Wesley Hardin shore ‘nough brags tuh kill you, Uncle Fester replied unshaken, be best if you clear out of town fer a spell.

Frank tried to put this dilemma in perspective. Will it ever stop, he wondered. Kill, kept welling up in his throat, that erupting rush of tainted blood, like a blue northern shaking a flame in his inner embodiment, then subsiding, leaving him sputtering and disturbed. He could not seem to shake it.

A mile and a half from town Frank reined to a halt at the hitching rail in front of their ranch. Uncle Fester had been in deep thought. He jumped down, turned on his heel, and entered the kitchen.

Frank smelled the strong aroma of coffee; it brought back memories of weeks on the Chisholm Trail. He followed the scent and stood before a worried Uncle Fester.

Frank, I know you can’t avoid a meetin’ with John Wesley, said the concerned Uncle Fester, ’n I’m shore there’ll be a killin’. Jest leave town ‘til John Wesley sobers up.

Ta hell you say, said Frank annoyed, shrugged, John Wesley has always been a badass braggart.

Frank’s silver-haired mother Anna, standing at the wood stove preparing biscuits, gravy, and coffee for the family; a herd of sisters came scrubbing into the kitchen yawning and rubbing their eyes. Anna turned to face Frank; her brow tattered, her eyes pleading.

Oh Frank, please don’t, yore father ... he was shot back yonder in those streets?

I know Ma, jest a misunderstandin’, some cowpuncher wants tuh make trouble, I’ll take care of it, and don’t ya worry.

All right Frank, but John Wesley Hardin ... be careful, he’s a bad sort, Anna replied and turned back to the stove scooping up the sourdough biscuits and swatting a hand of a curious seeker, Jasmine, thumbing the gravy.

Frank wondered if he shared Uncle Fester’s notion of the apocalypse, meeting the preacher, John Wesley Hardin. His thoughts were vague. However, on the instant of final decision, when he had settled with himself that he would face John Wesley, such a storm of passion assailed in him that he felt as if being shaken with a delirium. Fear not fettered in his blood, for his hand, self-possessed with determination, and poised like a deer, and for all he could feel not a muscle tightened not even quivered. He did not fear John Wesley, or any other man for that matter, but had an inexplicable fear of himself, a strange energy pushing him made him reflect and shake inside himself as if he had nothing at all to say about this apparition gaining strength in his bosom. He resolved into reluctance never letting himself forge ahead and kill, yet some uncontrollable force he was not accountable for had compelled him otherwise.

I know it’ll be hard tuh keep out of John Wesley way, said Uncle Fester, he shore ‘nough ain’t much fer you tuh bother with ... jest go up in the hills ‘till things cool off.

I’m not a coward, said Frank in scorn.

I reckoned you’d say thet. If you met John Wesley on the street, I’m not afraid he would out-draw ya. You have yore father’s blood, his deadly eye, ‘n his quick hand with a gun. But Frank, whet I’m most afraid of is thet you’d kill John Wesley, ‘n then…

Kill! That concerned word again bothered Frank, would he realize the significance?

Silence oppressed the morning air as Frank, pondering over the juncture, sinking into his flesh like a full vigor of wretchedness trying to realize their consequences.

Uncle Fester moseyed over to the wood stove and poured a cup of coffee.

Frank, Texas may never recover from thet damn civil war. Why the Texas Rangers are tryin’ tuh kill off the worst of ‘em badass outlaws, leastwise in Texas. I consider you not tuh be one of ‘em, but yore sure ‘nough an overpowerin’ exceptional Texan, ‘cept fer that disposition of yourn you’d have a chance in life, but if you go gunslingin’, ‘n kill a man, yore done fer. Then you’d kill another ‘n another. You’d become one of ‘em badass Texas border outlaws. Times are nearin’ the twentieth century, ‘n the Rangers mean law ‘n order fer Texas. This even-break shit, who drew first defense, doesn’t work with them. If you resist arrest, they’d most likely kill you. If you submit tuh arrest, they’d hang you.

Hang! exclaimed Frank disgusted drawing in the corners of his mouth.

I reckon not, replied Fester. "You’d be like yore father ... too damn ready tuh draw, I’d say. The Texas Rangers are enforcin’ the laws; yore father would’ve gone on the dodge plumb to the Mexican border. ‘N son, yore shore ‘nough a chip off the ole block - can’t hold yore temper fer a minute or run away from trouble resultin’ in you goin’ on the dodge in the end.

When you wus younger yore father wus killed in the middle of Market Street back yonder in Del Rio ‘n the fact wus thet he had shot twice after two bullets had passed through his heart – jest think of the terrible quickenin’ of a man dyin’, ‘n keeps on shootin’ ‘n killin’.

I remember thet day, answered Frank unemotionally, whet you say is all well ‘n good, Uncle Fester, then the only way out fer me is tuh run, ‘n I’d never do thet. John Wesley ‘n his outfit has already made me look like a coward. He says I’m a-scared tuh come out ‘n face him. A man simply can’t do thet in Texas ‘n hold his head up. Besides, John Wesley would shoot me in the back some day if I didn’t face him.

I spect yore shore ‘enough goin’ tuh challenge him then, said Uncle Fester uttering a small, bemused groan.

Reckon so, replied Frank not standoffish.

Thet damn curse again, it killed yore dad. I know, yore different, I remember yore moodiness, quiet inside, then loose yore temper ‘n talk wild, I wus never much concerned ‘bout you then. But now, huh, you’re gittin’ unruffled, withdrawn ‘n you think deep inside yore head - ‘n I don’t like thet look in yore eyes a-tall. It’s yore father’s blood edgin’ you on tuh the kill.

Whet would Dad have done if he were alive, asked Frank not questioning exactly, and squinted at Uncle Fester.

I know whet he would’ve done, said Uncle Fester wrinkling his brow in remembrance.

Wal, he’d go after the braggart, I know fer sure, said Frank with a raised eyebrow. Dad wouldn’t take it fer a minute; he would challenge the braggart. Thet settles it then; I’m goin’ tuh town ‘n call-out, John Wesley.

A long silence ensued. Frank fingered his neckerchief discouraged in deep thought, sat with troubled eyes. Uncle Fester, perplexed in a gloomy thought of the future, turned again to face Frank with an expression denoting resignation and yet spirited showing blood-to-blood.

Frank, you have the fastest Palomino in Del Rio, said Uncle Fester. After you meet John Wesley, ‘n I’m shore you’ll kill him, ride back, ‘n I’ll have yore Palomino saddled, ‘n yore bed roll and saddlebags packed.

Uncle Fester turned on his heel and went outside toward the barn leaving Frank to revolve in his mind a singular thought.

Weather Frank had a sense of freedom and independence of a rational animal, instinct or not; he was supposed to feel when he sits at a table in a pure attitude smoking his pipe swinging one leg carelessly to-and-fro and having his boots cleaned without even the trouble of having taken them off. Was it prospective misery of taking them off, or contrary to the wretchedness that disturbed his reflections, or was it the soothing effects of the tobacco easing his feelings of a killing? What was it that mollified his thoughts, was it evident, tinctured for the nonce with a spice of reality of the outcome natural to his general nature, or fear of other consequences.

Frank looked at his sweet mother, stirring, humming, and mixing. Would she understand?

The hour of the gun clutched his soul. Mindful of years turning nightmares, Frank became a thoughtful man.

Frank McLaury went to the pantry and buckled on his dad’s big Colt .45 six-shot pistol, scarred with use, had notches in the handle. For years, even as a young boy, Frank practice with that gun drawing only holster high, that which his father had taught him. Gossip at Duffy Bells Saloon swore that while dying, his father’s fingers had stiffened so tightly in a dying-grip they needed to be pried open. Frank gazed at the barrel of the frontier Colt .45 gleaming back at him from the sun’s brightness through the kitchen window, seemed as though the Colt chose, this time, the pistol, never drawn upon any man since it came into Frank’s possession, not until now.

Frank had fired it daily to keep a keen eye and steady hand. He could draw and fire from his holster with inconceivable rapidity, and split a gold twenty-dollar coin at twenty feet pointed edgewise.

Frank ambled out, mounted Uncle Fester’s bay and galloped down the path toward the gate.

The sun was spreading its orange glow over the swirling dust devils in the stirring breeze full of honeysuckle blossom fragrances, and the melody of spirited songbirds was refreshing to his disposition.

He continued his ride down the road and felt the crisp, fragrant morning air upon his face. The bay horse beneath his rump whinnied, and the invigorating fragrant air greeted Frank as it did many times before, but this time the air was filled with despondency. He galloped along the trail that he had often rode not noticing the gray banks of soil, now baked and cracked open unfolding huge fissures.

Frank approached the outskirts of Del Rio, Texas. A middle-aged woman stood on her porch, waved to a fellow rancher passing in a wagon - they nodded to Frank; he saw them, but his reflexes tuned another - did not respond.

Some wretched cogitation entered Frank’s mind, it seemed to him the first time he had felt the morning air ripple over his face, or felt the sun, or smelled the orange blossoms so afflated with life fluttering in the breeze. It is an intense time, Frank thought, maybe the last day of my life.

It seemed like the first time Frank looked down Main

1StreetsofDelRioTXSS72138826.jpg

Street, in remembrance of his dad and his passion for life, the law, and ranching, the streets of Del Rio, Texas looked back at him conning his memory for a stay of execution. He knew imperceptibly the importance the town was to that unsettled part of the vast state of Texas because it was the trading center of several hundred miles of territory, and soon the railroad. On Main Street, there were many buildings, some brick, some frame, mostly Adobe, and one-third of them, and by far the most prosperous were saloons.

Frank reined his horse onto Market Street, the widest street lined by hitching-rails, saddle horses, and buggies of various kinds. Frank’s eyes scanned the street taking on both sides at a glance particularly persons strolling on the boardwalks at the pace of oblivion - some strolled up-and-down.

Several Border Collies ran down the center of Market Street and a stream of smaller dogs in pursuit. A satisfying day fer a killing, Frank thought, even the animals sense tuh move out of my way. My perception of beauty is sharper than I can remember, even the cacti seems taller, ‘n I sense somethin’ in the air - ‘n fer the first time the trees smell sweeter. The cottonwoods leaves are brown - the leaves crumbling from a lack of moisture, the limbs seem tuh fold together in a single-black scar. Even the sun is brighter, or is my memory just keener. The songbirds are tweetin’ ever so sharply.

Suddenly, the buildings gave up their colors, and the streets took on sharp gray lines. A crack in them would swallow Frank.

Frank reined back his horse; there was no one in sight. He pulled to a full halt. His palomino pawed the dirt; they remained as still as a fawn curled up in tall grass. He visualized his dad, how could he have not seen a desperado on the roof aiming a Winchester at him while two riders rode herd on him.

2DelRioTXGunfighterDTl17465205.jpg

Courtesy Philcold Dremastime.com

Frank shook his head; it hurt, though he must clear it of all unimportant events disturbing his concentration. He must keep sharp, not dense, as his father must have experienced firing his big Colt .45 at two desperadoes at the stroke of highnoon, all three of them laid dead including his father face down in the dirt in front of Duffy Bell’s saloon.

Frank slightly spurred his bay horses’ flanks – he stepped forward then halted in front of Joel Long’s Saloon, the first saloon on the south side of Market Street. Frank slipped off his mount and crept like a cat towards the swinging doors. Bystanders spoke to him, and he turned to look at them after they had passed. He paused, took a sharp survey of the interior, and pushed open the swinging doors.

Joel Long’s Saloon is sure ‘nough filled with haze, Frank thought, though chilly for this time of year.

The bar, filled with dancing girls and cowboys brewing ornery noises, the air stagnant with coal-oil stink, brimstone, and sweaty body odors, cigar and cigarette smoke. Frank heard noises of glass breaking amidst piano playing discords as several drunks were thumping out what they thought was tunes of merriment ceased upon his entrance. The room grew silent at his ensuing presence; like a single human entering a field of cattle – all eyes on him. Then the sound broke to the clink of Mexican silver dollars at a Monte table.

Joel Long straightened behind the bar when he saw Frank. All eyes, except those of the Mexican gamblers at the monte tables, whirled upon Frank again. Their observations were keen, speculative. These men knew John Wesley Hardin was looking for trouble; they had heard his brags. Several of the cowboys present exchanged fearful looks. Frank, wary by genuine Texas instinct, the boy Frank, now a full-grown Texan and son of a local rancher and gunslinger Robert McLaury, shot down in the middle of Market Street, greeted Frank cautiously, but no one exchanged glances. They quickly returned to their drinks and cards.

Joel Long, short and plump, was a raw-boned Texan with a long mustache curled to his cheeks and waxed to sharp points. He shifted his bulk to one leg and with his big bony callous hands outstretched upon the bar bore a wipe cloth rubbing it across the bar.

Howdy, Frank, said Joel his voice shaky, looked down to avert Frank’s piercing gaze.

Howdy, Joel, replied Frank, frowning, Say, Joel, I hear tell there’s a bushwhacker in town lookin’ fer me.

Reckon there is, Frank, returned Joel still averting Frank’s gaze. John Wesley came in here ‘bout an hour ago. Shore wus riled some, ‘n a-roarin’ fer yore blood.

Anybody with him? queried Frank.

Sam Outcalt, ‘n Bo Ashton, ‘n a little cowpuncher I ain’t never seed before. All of ‘em wus coaxin’ John Wesley tuh leave town. But, he looked at ‘em with those glazed eyes of his – told ‘em tuh shut-up. Frank - he’s here fer a killin’.

Why doesn’t Sheriff McAlester lock him up if he’s a-hankerin’ fer a killin’?

McAlester conveniently went away with the Rangers - said there’s been another raid at Foster’s Ranch - the Comanche’s most likely. – I think he jest wanted to git away.

Frank parted the swinging doors and looked down the street.

Frank, I’m a-tippin’ ya off, Long roared. John Wesley is at Duffy Bell’s place down the street on the corner. He’s a-huntin’ you, he’ll show there.

Leery of Long’s outburst was wary of his intentions. Frank slowly paused at every door ambling slowly along the length of the long block meeting many folks bustling along, clerks, merchants, Mexicans, cowboys, and women searching for any entrance to quickly hide and perhaps watch the gunplay they expected to happen at any moment.

Market Street suddenly became quiet. And when Frank turned to retrace his steps, the street was nearly empty.

Fearful eyes gawked from door-windows, and from around the corners of buildings. Del Rio saw much the same situation every few days, Frank reasoned. An aura filled the air like a ghost of consequences flooding Market Street, a Texan’s inherent instinct for gunplay, he knew the feeling, was inborn in every Texan, that numbness to sense with the remarkable quickness the signs of coming gunplay.

Frank McLaury had come to town to meet his enemy, and everybody knew it. When Frank walked to within fifty paces of a saloon, he would stop and listen to the clatter from inside, then crouch like an Ape and amble ahead like a cautious cat then back to the boardwalk stepping along in this way the length of Market Street. Occasionally looking over his shoulder, Joel Long appeared smirking at him standing on the boardwalk with his girls waving him on down the street.

Frank crossed the street and ambled down the other side.

Nothing happened. He traversed the whole length of the block without seeing a person or hush of babble.

Frank had not been in Duffy Bell’s saloon for some time. Partially hidden behind mesquite trees overshadowing the front, one side was inconspicuous. Frank knew himself to be calm and steady. However, he was conscious of a strange fury wanting him to leap ahead; this meeting seemed much too long for the gunplay bound to happen. His sensations about to overpower the inevitable forecasted like a dream.

As Frank approached the saloon, he heard shouting, one voice screaming above all others.

Where’s thet no good for-flushin’ lyin’ coward Frank McLaury? The swinging doors burst outward as if impelled by a Texas tornado. A bow-legged unshaven desperado wearing wooly chaps flung himself outward upon the boardwalk.

At the sight of Frank, John Wesley Hardin jumped into the air like a startled cat, hollering a savage roar.

Frank stopped, stood rigid at the outer edge of the boardwalk perhaps a dozen steps from Duffy Bell’s swinging doors.

Is this the drunk, John Wesley Hardin, Frank thought, he doesn’t show it in his demeanor. John Wesley lunged forward, rapidly closing the gap. Red-faced, sweaty, disheveled, and hatless, his face distorted, the raw hatred in his eyes toned the moment like a hungry mountain lion on the verge of a kill. Drunk, and expressionless of the inevitable, John Wesley, most malignant intent to kill, displayed wild-eyes and a sinister stature. He had already shot a man for snoring, and this showed in his disposition.

Hardin approached closer, and at every step bellowing his rancor, mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his movements, then halted a good twenty-five paces and wheeled on his heel facing Frank.

Draw – you polecat! John Wesley shouted his face gnarled. Whet are ya a-waitin’ fer?

You! John Wesley, replied Frank in a controlled tone much like a preacher’s plea.

13GunfightinDelRioTXDTl632993662.jpg

Courtesy Philcold Dreamstime.com

John Wesley Hardin’s right and left arms stiffening extending downward, his fingers curled, his guns moved.

Frank drew his six-gun underhandedlike, a draw his father had taught him — two shots of the hot lead sounding almost as one splattered death across the boardwalk. John Wesley’s big Colts exploded, twisting downward breaking both trigger fingers, hurling him backward against the swinging doors, still smoking, they launched from his hands and skidded down the boardwalk — one bullet scattered the dust yonder of Frank’s feet, the other strayed into oblivion.

John Wesley was dead, Frank assured himself wheeling on his heel, looking back, men surrounding John Wesley,

Plum center, said a Mexican.

Another Mexican, who evidently had just left the monte table, leaned down and pulled open John Wesley’s shirt. He laid a chip over his chest; the edges covered the two bullet holes in his heart.

Frank dragged his spurs up the boardwalk to the hitching rail where Uncle Fester’s horse waited. Joel Long stood outside with his dancing girls speculating: had Frank received a wound, he wondered.

You ok, asked Joel Long with a putted grin. The girls had their hands over their mouths.

Yeah, jest dusted me. Answered Frank grimly.

In deaths dying wake, wreathing spectators emerging, their voices declaring a reckoning.

John Wesley got whet he deserved – you, Frank, wus jest too fast fer him - like father like son I reckon, said Joel shrugging, and then herded his girls back through the swinging doors.

Frank thought, I might have spared myself the anxiety imagining how awful it would feel to kill a man. I wonder if my father felt guilt. I do not feel anything, no remorse, not even sorrow, perhaps relieved that I have rid Del Rio, Texas of a drunken, evil braggart, and a quarrelsome desperado.

Chapter Two

On the Dodge

F rank returned home. Uncle Fester stood holding the bridle of Frank’s Palomino, a spirited horse, saddled, with canteen, rope, and bags. Fester knew Frank had killed the braggart, and must now go on the dodge.

A subtle shock charged Frank’s spirit. The consequence of his act became apparent at the sight of his horse and the look on Uncle Fester’s face - he recalled the notion that he must now become a fugitive on the dodge. An unreasonable hatred shook his querulousness.

Uncle Fester, meetin’ John Wesley wasn’t much, he only dusted my boots; thet’s all. ‘N for thet, I’ve got tuh go on the dodge.

Son, you killed John Wesley then? asked Uncle Fester his tone commanding yet he knew the answer.

Yes, for a moment I watched him die, and then I hurried away before the crowd would make of it something it wusn’t.

I knew it, said Uncle Fester. Long ago I seed it comin’. But now you have tuh leave this part of southwest Texas. Listen son, don’t ever fret over what’s right, and never forget, you’re not an outlaw. Meebe you’ll never grow hard ‘n calloused like all ‘em other border outlaws - this is Texas, ‘n wild times, remember, yore, yore father’s son. Blood runs thick hereabouts. The laws as the Rangers are lyin’ down will not change the life of outlaws in these parts. Even yore mother, who’s a God fearin’ woman, has had her share in makin’ ya whet you are. Remember, she wus one of ‘em fightin’ pioneers of Texas. Those were wild years, ‘n hard time’s, wus before you wus born but developed in her the instinct tuh fight tuh save her family. Thet instinct has cropped out in you Frank, ‘n it will be many years before it dies out in the boys born in Texas.

I’m an outlaw now, said Frank shuddering.

"No, yore not an outlaw, but you must leave Texas now. Yore caught up in the times of the new Texas Rangers wantin’ tuh clean out all ‘em badass outlaws.

Perhaps you are an outlaw in Texas, and must leave till time makes it safe fer you tuh come home.

An outlaw, Frank muttered in disbelief, but the realization caused his concern to go on the dodge.

If we had money ..., continued Uncle Fester loading his pipe ... I reckon the scaffold is no place fer, Frank McLaury, anyway. Head fer the mountains Frank, the wild country, but wherever you go ‘n whet ever you do – be an honest man. If you have tuh herd with outlaws, try not tuh become one ‘n never forgit you’re from the blood of McLaury’s. There are outlaws, many of who have been driven tuh Del Rio because of the Civil War ‘n later the Ranger laws such as you are up against now. They are not all bad. If you meet up with the bad ones, avoid gunplay if you can. Don’t git drunk, ‘cause drunks have short tempers, and will force gunplay. Work an honest livin’ if you can. I needn’t tell you whet tuh do if it comes to gunplay, as likely it will. Remember son; you can’t come home. If ever this killin’ is lived down I’ll git word to you somehow; I know it’s a big country out there and in this unsettled country ... Goodbye son, and mark my words.

Frank’s mother wiped her tears away with her apron, waved vigorously, and turned back into the kitchen.

Chapter Three

Frank Escapes into the Wilderness

F rank had tears streaming down his cheeks blurring his sight, and a lump contracting his throat, gripped his Uncle’s hand and nodded him a farewell, leaped upon his Palomino and rode off.

Frank traveled an extraordinary distance that day. As the sun began to fault, he passed many wranglers herding cattle, leering at him, yet they nodded, Frank returned the courtesy, but the cover of brush did not suit him for a camp. The land was nearly barren, a region with weak growth of mesquite and riddled with prickly pear cactus. He rode an old trail across the country where occasionally he caught a glimpse of the rolling hills in the distance where he had often hunted, plenty of grass and water. When he reached higher ground, he did not stop at the first suitable campsite; that would be the first the Rangers would scour. He rode on until he came out upon a ridge of mesquite trees and underbrush where a considerable stretch of country beneath him became visible, though barren, like the breath of life that had deserted the lonely land, characterizing of all haunts he rode across the ridges. He wanted to see the wide-open spaces his father had told him about and get a glimpse of the vast wilderness lying everywhere beyond Del Rio, Texas.

The sun cast shadows over the shallow valley in New Mexico when he decided to camp. If he could find one in the mesquites that suited him for suitable concealment, he would water his horse, and then set up camp. He rode by old campsites that he reckoned had bedded down many cowboys. He wondered if Billy the Kid had bedded down there. Most of these camps, however, did not suit his notion, and the significance of his predicament did not occur to him at this late hour.

The sun flickered through the mesquites when he found a secluded spot. He discovered it to be very isolated away from prowling eyes and noses of dogs. It was under cover of thick mesquites, oaks, and cottonwoods, a considerable distance from the old trail.

He took the saddle pack off the horse and looked among his effects for a hobble. He seldom used a hobble on this horse. He cut a few feet off his lasso just in case. His palomino horse, not accustomed to such hampering of his legs whinnying all the way fifty paces from the camp to graze on the grass.

His palomino settled down, Frank made a small fire, prepared some beans, and ate some beef jerky while boiling a pot of coffee atop a pile of mesquite. That done he sat down and filled his pipe.

Twilight had chased the sun into darkness. The moon was big, white, and full, just rising in the east over the mesquites. A few twinkling stars had begun to show, and brought memories of nights under the stars with his father and brothers. The moon brightened and distanced itself, while the continuous low hum of katydids and the chirping of crickets made their presence known. Above him, on a tree branch, the sound of an owl, on lower branches, the evening caroling songbirds sang to ease the tension of his first day on the dodge. The rhythm of the katydids soon ceased their thrilling singing and then the quietude had thrust its illusions upon him. The bright night cast little shadows; his camp seemed all the more isolated and lonely. Frank had a sense of relief though it suddenly dawned upon him that he was nervous, watchful, and sleepless. The fact that outlawry crept into his being causing him alarming panic, he began to think back and take note of his late actions and their motives. That one day in Del Rio, Texas had brought upon him loneliness, and would forever change his life. He had always been free, even happy, especially when out alone with nature speaking to him in the wilderness. He had become, in a few short hours, grave and preoccupied. The silence once sweet was now deafening, had not meant anything to him now except a commonplace whereby he might better hear the sounds of pursuit. The gentle lonesomeness and contemplation of starry nights had always been beautiful to him, now only conveyed a sense of safety.

He intended to be off by dawn, after some past due bacon, eggs, coffee, and biscuits, and maybe he would take the time to cook a steak –