Lonely on the Mountain

By Barry Ray

Matthew Brennan was a big man, more suited to wrestling bears than sitting a horse. He lived in a valley they called Paradise, with his young, beautiful, dark-haired, fiery wife of Spanish and Irish descent and their young son.

High mountains, with only one entrance, surrounded the valley, and that entrance was a small cave with a natural hot springs that supplied the valley with water. Water ran in two directions from the cave, one small stream flowed to the outside world while the other flowed down the center of the first valley to the lake situated against the mountains, where the second leg of the valley branched north.

The single entrance cave was guarded by Bitty, an old mans best friend and possibly the largest female grizzly bear in existence. You didnt come calling on the Brennans. As a matter of fact, the entrance to the valley was a well-guarded secret, shared only by the few residents that occupied this paradise.

One of those residents was a Cheyenne war chief with an Indian name no one could pronounce. But the literal translation in English would have been Rogue, and that was the handle Brennan hung on his good friend.

Brennan had discovered the beautiful valley quite by accident. While wounded and running from those who had shot him, his Appaloosa horse Sob had stumbled through a blizzard to deposit his rider on the soft sand floor of a warm cave, somewhere in Northwestern Colorado.

Matthew Brennan was found there by Val, the old self-appointed guardian of the valley, and nursed back to health.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524643553

Barry Ray

Look for these books also by Barry Ray: Farrago, Hidden Valley, Cully and B A D. Barry and his wife Dee now reside in Southern California.

Book preview

LONELY ON THE MOUNTAIN

Book 1

Chapter 1

As the man worked around the camp fire in preparation of his evening meal, a casual observer would see a big man, standing two inches over six feet, two hundred plus pounds and no fat. A trained observer would further notice the deep, broad chest and the rippling muscles of the forearms; the muscles that come from years of work with axe, post-hole digger and single jack. He narrowed at the waist as a man will who is born to the saddle, and he moved about the camp with the grace of a large cat. Because of the woodsman he was he unconsciously made no sound.

Damn, Dog! He said to his companion, which was not a dog at all, but a one hundred twenty pound timber wolf he’d rescued from a trap when just a pup. There’s four little dots, way down there in the valley, must be people on horseback. Not enough bodies for a posse, and being a hundred fifty miles from Denver, I would have thought they’d have given up by now anyway.

He retrieved his binoculars from his saddlebags, and they were of excellent quality, relieved from a Yankee Colonel in the War Between the States.

Something mighty peculiar about that foursome, he continued in his conversation with the wolf. Two big gents and one medium sized, but that fourth one is just a boy. What could they be doing out here in the middle of nowhere?

Hell Brennan! He thought to himself, for that matter, what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere? On reflection, he had to admit the country around him was glorious, with deep valleys covered with lush grass and high mountains; snow capped this time of year. Pine trees and Aspens on all the hills, and clear up the mountains to snow line. There were little streams running down knolls, hills and mountain sides, with Beaver damns at the bottom, forming hundreds of small lakes and ponds. There seemed to be wildlife in all directions.

The small group of strangers was closer now, and he could make out the color of their horses. It was coming on dark and they must have spotted his fire, for they were headed straight at him. Well, he was not ordinarily a careless man, but he had made camp right out here at the end of tree line on a promontory. He chided himself for his obvious ego, but he was tired of running and he felt mean. It was his way of saying: Here I am, if you want me, come on ahead.

Again reflecting on his predicament, Matthew Brennan, as he watched the riders approach, was remembering just why it was that he found himself in this lonely part of Colorado.

Winter was rapidly approaching, and with the tidy little some he had washed out of creeks, and up and down the Platt River, he had planned to stay over in Denver until spring. He knew full well he should never go to town. He and snooty town folk had never gotten along. He had pulled his horse up to the hitching post at the first bar he had come to. It wasn’t much, kind of a dingy little place called the Bib and Bucket. But in his worn denims and rundown boot heels, he would have felt out of place in a nice restaurant among the swells.

The bartender was a huge, fat, bald man, with a nose that looked like one of those Baseballs, kids were starting to hit around with sticks. He said his name was Pat, and asked Matt what was his pleasure?

You got a cold beer? Asked Matt.

I serve my beer at ambient temperature, replied the bartender.

Well, I like it some cooler then that, but if all you have is room temperature, that’ll have to do.

Big Pat just stood there with his mouth open, and stared at Matthew Brennan. Pat loved his joke, and had a true fondness for words. He picked a word a week out of an old dictionary he couldn’t remember how he had come by, and would toss it around until he drove everybody crazy. This was the third day for ambient, and Matt had just ruined his whole week.

As Pat sat the beer mug down in front of Brennan, it exploded into a thousand fragments. The roar of the gun was loud in the confined area of the bar, but true to his nature, Matt slowly looked up at the mirror behind the bar and saw in its reflection three young men standing in the doorway. One with a smoking gun still in his hand, and pointed directly at Matt.

Pat, I wonder if you’d be good enough to pour me another beer, Matt said in a barely audible voice.

Now ain’t he the polite one? Said the young man with the gun. And continued with a snarl in his tone, Pat! Make it four beers, and your friend there is buyin’.

Alex! Said Pat. I don’t want no trouble in here from you boys today. You run off most of my customers yesterday. You know you ain’t old enough to be drinkin’, and your brother Ben told me if I served you boys again he was going to shut me down.

Shut your fat mouth and pour the beers, the young antagonist spouted disrespectfully.

Pat poured four beers, sat one before Matt, and the other three next to it. Alex Polk and his two companions, the brothers Tom and Luke Buchard, had not moved from the entrance of the saloon.

Collect the money from the gent, fat man, Alex said to Pat.

Pat looked a Matthew Brennan with pleading eyes. I don’t know what to tell you, mister. Would you be inclined to buy these boys a beer?

I don’t think so, said Matt quietly, while still facing the bar and observing the three rowdies in the mirror.

The bartender looked past Matt at the boys in the doorway, and wished that he were somewhere else, anywhere else.

Alex grinned, and put his gun back in its holster.

Okay, mister, he said. Turn around. I tried to be sociable, but you just wouldn’t have it that way. Now we’re gonna send you to your maker.

Matt looked again at the mirror, and not for the first time, wondered what in the world would prompt a man to challenge another. One he knew absolutely nothing about, to a fight to the death? He hated situations like this, but recognized in these three boys something cruel and evil.

What Alex Polk and Tom and Luke Buchard saw when Matt turned, was a tall, powerfully built man with gray eyes and a not unhandsome face, with dark curly hair hanging down on his forehead, noticeable with his Stetson pushed back. This was obviously no man to fool with. On his right hip hung a forty- four with a walnut grip, much polished and worn from years of obvious use. And his holster was tied down. What they did not see was the gun stuck in his belt at the back of his pants. What they did not know, was that Matthew Brennan had a natural talent with guns and could get either one into play faster than the eye could follow.

I’ll forget you owe me a beer, youngster, Matt said in a still calm voice, if you’ll just turn around and walk back out the door you came in.

Alex cocked his head to one side.

I think you’re yellow mister.

You don’t have to bait me, boy, said Matt. If you want a piece of me, you got it. Then he raised one eyebrow, already knowing the answer to his next question. Is it going to be just you and me, or am I taking on all three of you?

Now don’t start anything in here, cried Pat the bartender. And reaching for his shotgun under the bar inadvertently started the fur to fly.

Matt ignored the bartender and watched as the three young men went for their guns. He had been here too many times and saw it all as in slow motion. Alex was fast, very fast. His gun was clearing leather when Matt felt his own right hand gun buck in his palm. His first shot took Alex in the throat, no need for more there. By now, Tom Buchard had his gun out and something tugged at Matt’s left sleeve. This time Matt’s other gun bucked in his left hand, and Tom took one in the belly. With a shocked expression on his face, Tom put his gun back in its holster and fell to his knees and began to sob like a child. Luke Buchard screamed something incoherent, threw down his gun, and ran out the door.

In less than a heartbeat, one boy was dead with his throat torn out, and another was gut shot and dying.

Matt now gave his full attention to Pat behind the bar. The shotgun hung from one meaty hand, but was forgotten. The expression on his face showed total shock. When he realized Matt was eyeing him over two deadly forty-fours; he dropped the shotgun and threw up his hands.

I don’t know who you are, mister, said Pat in a calmer voice than he actually felt, and I sure never saw anybody faster, but I think you just killed yourself.

You want to explain that to me, stated Matt, as he nonchalantly reloaded and replaced his guns.

Pat looked at him with something akin to hero worship.

He had owned a lot of bars, in a lot of towns, and had seen a good many so-called bad men. He knew he was looking at the best of them all. What puzzled him was the fact that he couldn’t place this man. He wasn’t Billy The Kid, or Clay Allison, and Tom Bull and Henry Bucannon were assumed dead. Of course, in this western country of many men, and many weapons, there were a lot of slick gun hands that purposely avoided a reputation.

Who are you, mister? Asked Pat.

That’s not important, now explain what you mean by, I’ve killed myself. Matt picked up his beer and began to sip while preparing to listen.

Well, said Pat. The Buchard boys were nobodies, but in Mr. Polk there, you have killed the younger brother of Ben Polk, who just happens to own the largest cattle spread in these parts. He’s got forty hands and runs cattle damn near to Cheyenne. He’s a vindictive man and just naturally runs to mean.

What about the law in this town? Asked Matt.

Oh, we’ve got plenty of law in Denver, but you’ll not have trouble with them. I saw it all, and it was a fair fight, at least on your part. I’ll explain to the law, but my advice to you would be to dust out of this town as fast as your horse can move.

Matt didn’t much like the idea of running, but knew that caution was the generally the better part of valor. That was five days ago, and the mountain bred Appaloosa did not shirk when it came to covering territory.

Matt had covered his tracks well and he was no stranger in mountains and wooded country. Ben Polk and his outfit might find him, but they would have to do it by means of hunt and seek in all directions. He was certain he left no trail they could find, unless they had with them a very gifted tracker.

Hello the camp, called one of the approaching riders.

Matt sat back away from the fire under a heavy tarp he had stretched between pines. He had a blanket over his shoulders and one over his knees. His gun was in his hand along side his right leg, and hidden from view by the blanket. The wolf was standing and bristling, showing bared teeth, but making no sound. Matt knew that this was when the animal was his most dangerous.

Come on in if you’re friendly, called Matt.

They approached the fire, but did not immediately dismount.

Thought you might be Indians, said the bigger of the two big men.

Aha, was Matt’s only comment.

I’m Hank Burdet, the big man on horseback continued. This fella here (indicating the other large man) is Sid Rollins, and these folks are Theodore Merced and his nephew George. That coffee sure smells good."

Help yourself, said Matt.

The foursomes stepped down, produced cups, and poured themselves coffee.

There was something strange about the nephew George, but Matt could not put a finger on it. About this time, they all seemed to notice old Dog, and jumping back, they almost scalded themselves.

Gees! Cried the nephew George Merced in a shrill voice. Is that a wolf?

Dog! Said Matt. At the command, the wolf dropped to his belly, but continued to show naked fangs.

It is a wolf, isn’t it? Said George Merced, with more of a statement then a question. Then he continued, Is he yours? Is he tame?"

Well, let’s see, said Matt. I guess he is a wolf. He has never struck me as being tame, and I don’t own him. He just hangs around. Except when I’m in town, then he stays out in the flats, or in the trees, waiting for me to get back on the trail. You folks come far? Asked Matt, changing the subject.

We’ve come from Denver, most recently, replied Theodore Merced. We’re headed for Utah Territory."

At this time of year? Questioned Matt in a concerned tone. You know there’s a rainstorm headed this way and it’s going to last awhile, and you can bet before it’s through we’ll have our first snow of the season. You’re at almost nine thousand feet here in the Gore Pass. My guess is that in the next four or five days, this and all the other passes will be closed. You go any farther west right now and you won’t be able to get in or out. There won’t be enough food, and you’ll either freeze to death, or starve. As Matt stood and warmed his hands over the fire, he continued, I don’t ordinarily poke my nose in other peoples business, but my advice to you would be to return to Denver, and wait for spring.

Theodore and George Merced both looked at their companions Hank and Sid.

You two said when we hired you to guide us that we would have no trouble this time of year going through these mountains to Utah. George said in that high-pitched voice again.

Sid and Hank just looked at each other and shrugged. Matt wondered to himself. What in the world is going on here? Then he looked closer at George and realized what had been bothering him. George Merced was not a nephew, a niece maybe, but definitely not a boy. This situation was becoming stranger all the time.

Without warning, lightning lit up the sky and thunder rolled across the mountains. The noise was loud enough to wake the dead. Almost immediately, the rain began, and soon was falling in sheets.

Matt was back under his tarp and protected by it. It was also stretched out far enough to cover his fire. He had hauled in plenty of dry wood for himself knowing he’d be here awhile, but the Merceds, along with Hank and Sid, were completely exposed to the elements.

I suggest, said Matt, that you whip yourselves together some sort of shelter over there in those trees. This is going to be a long, wet one.

With that, Theodore Merced, Hank and Sid, rushed to get equipment from their horses. After leading them to the trees, they built a rope corral by encircling several large pines with rope. They then set about building a shelter by stretching blankets and ponchos between trees.

The girl had not moved, and Matt noticed she was watching the wolf.

Do you mind if I pet your wolf? She finally asked.

It’s alright with me, if it’s alright with him.

The girl advanced on the wolf slowly and proceeded to move her hand toward the big head. It appeared old Dog’s big yellow eyes were looking right into the girls, and then so fast it startled even Matt, the wolf jumped out, and with big teeth snapping, came within a fraction of an inch of taking off her hand. She jumped back, screamed, and her hat fell off.

She had jet black and flowing hair that fell loosely, half way down her back. Fury was in her eyes, as she grabbed up her hat, shoved it on her head without bothering to try and hide her hair, and screamed at Matt.

You said I could pet that dog. He almost tore my hand off.

Matthew Brennan began with a smile that immediately changed his features entirely. He was, when he smiled, a startlingly handsome man. Funny thing, lady, that’s exactly the way he treats me when I get to close to him. I couldn’t resist finding out if it was just me the dog didn’t like or if he hated everybody. Now, tell me Miss Merced, if you will. Why are you traveling all over these Rocky Mountains masquerading as a boy? You are really quite lovely, you know.

All right, I am actually Grace Merced. George was my uncles’ idea.

She was still upset, and it was obvious she had not yet decided to forgive Matt for his part in her near disaster with the wolf.

Hank Burdet and Sid Rollins were the only guides we could find in Denver and Uncle Theo was concerned for my safety in the presence of those two undesirables. My uncle is a recent Mormon convert. He wants to join with a settlement he’s heard about near the Great Salt Lake, in Utah territory.

And you? Asked Matt, with a twinkle in his eye. Are you also a recent convert? They have many wives I understand. I’m sure you will do well as a Mormon gentlemen’s second or third wife.

Graces’ eyes flashed. She was not amused. She was however, confused. She had always been a girl who was honest with herself, and knew her mind well. Yet, in the presence of this man… I don’t even know his name, she thought. Quit it Grace, she chided herself. You’re being silly, he’s just a no account drifter.

I am not Mormon, she offered, but Theo is my only living relative.

Sid and Hank had helped put together a shelter for Theodore and Grace Merced. They had both known Grace was a woman from the beginning and had already formulated their plans. In Sid’s case, they were definitely not honorable.

You know who that jasper is don’t ya’? Asked Sid, as he unsaddled the Merceds’ horses in the makeshift corral.

Yeah, answered Hank, he’s the one old Ben Polk has offered that thousand dollar reward for.

Oh, I think you’re right there, said Sid. But that’s not what I’m talking about.

What are you talking about?

That’s Matt Brennan, the gunfighter.

Are you sure? Asked Hank, with a less than happy expression on his already homely face.

I’m sure all right. I saw him once in Tucson. I was riding with Burt Hamil then, and we’d hired our guns to the Briggs outfit to clean out a pack of nesters. We’d been burning homesteads right and left, and about had them dirt farmers ready to holler Calf-Rope. When here comes this Brennan from nowhere and burns down the Briggs ranch house. Then he shows up in Tucson, and guns down Burt and Ray Hamil, along with that mean gunny Cheyenne Harder. I rode into town just as all hell started popping. That Hamil lot was nasty, and they were good with any kind of gun, yet only one of them even cleared leather. Well, hell, Sid continued as if Hank weren’t even there. We’ll just go ahead with our plans for this old man and the girl. If we get a chance, we might be able to pop this gunfighter from cover and pick up a cool thousand. And Hank! I want it understood, that we’re going to do what we said we were going to do first; no matter what. I want that girl. I’m flat going to tame that little panther.

Chapter 2

Ben Polk buried his brother without a great deal of flourish. He knew the kid was no good, but he was blood kin. Ben had tried his utmost to keep the kid out of trouble, but the boy was headstrong and rebellious, and it didn’t help matters much that he was exceptionally good with a gun. All these attributes could have been qualities had he just had time to grow in to them.

He sent all his hands out looking for his brothers’ killer. They had just about all come back in haggard, beaten and scared. Scared of what Ben would do to them for finding no sign.

The man had simply vanished. There was nothing for it now but to put the hands back to work and go looking for this dude himself. He had a pretty good description from Pat at the Bib and Bucket so he didn’t figure it would be all that tough to pick up some sign. He had broken old Pat’s big nose for being so damned uppity and backing this stranger on the telling of the shooting to the law. He would go back to the ranch, get what he needed, and leave out at daybreak.

Ben Polk was looking over his property as he rode, and he liked the idea that he couldn’t see the end of it anywhere in sight. He also knew that you could ride for days, and still be on the Polk spread.

Ben had come into this country ten years ago, and had brought his kid brother with him. He started with one ranch on a lousy one hundred sixty acres. He had pushed and shoved, fought knuckle and skull, and had even killed four men to get where he was today. He thought it was all worth it, and truth be known, he enjoyed every bit of the struggle, even the killing of those four men. They were all stand up gunfights. Ben Polk was certainly no stranger to a gun, and on a ranch with forty hands, and all carrying guns, it was known by all, that Ben Polk was fast.

At six feet four inches tall, and two hundred forty pounds, he had physically stomped every man in Colorado who thought he was tough.

Ben was curious about this stranger, for young Alex had been very fast, and the Buchard boys, Tom anyway, was pretty good in his own right. Tom Buchard died hard, gut shot like that, and Luke hadn’t been heard from since, and probably wouldn’t be. Cowards live a long and miserable life, he thought.

Ben had a feeling about this stranger. A lonesome country type, he speculated. He would head west out of Denver no doubt, into that God forsaken Gore Pass region.

Being from the hills of Kentucky himself, he was noted for his woodsman like skills and could move through the forest like smoke. It was said he could trail a snake over a rock.

He would find his man, and he would beat him to death with his bare hands, or simply shoot him down and get back to building his fortune, which ever was the most expedient.

While Ben Polk was preparing to go after his brother’s killer, another man was sitting around a campfire alone in a miserable rainstorm. And it gave him a lot of time to think, and Matt Brendan’s first thoughts were of a small, longhaired, dark eyed girl he had seen just recently. True, they hadn’t spent a lot of time together, but they did sit around the fire most of the night and became what you might even regard as friends.

She came to his fire yesterday morning and announced that if they wanted to continue on to Utah, they would have to leave now, in the rain, before snow started, or Hank and Sid would return to Denver and the Merceds could fend for themselves.

Matt may have been wrong, but he sensed a reluctance in Grace to leave, it was nonsense of course. What could she possibly see in a rundown old saddle tramp like him?

At thirty-two years old, Matthew Brennan, in his own