Silver and Gold: The Life of Big Tim

By Paul K Dunn

From the pen of Western writer Paul K. Dunn, here are three short stories following the life of central character, "Big Tim," from youth to old age. In the tradition of the pulp Westerns of the 1940s and '50s, these stories are action-packed, fast-paced and a must-read for fans of Western literature. Each story has a special twist that sets it apart from the older, traditional Western. You will be entertained, enthralled and at times amused by the life of Big Tim.

KIOWA COUNTRY
Big Tim was a young man but a civil war survivor destined to follow his dream of prospecting for gold in the American West. On his way to the California goldfields, his leisurely travel through Indian territory becomes a desperate flight and battle for survival. Through his struggles he develops an awareness of the reasons why all men fight . . . and die.

SILVER AND GOLD
"Return with us to those thrilling days of yesteryear" . . . and Big Tim's humorous encounter with an odd young man who he inadvertently helps in his quest to become an iconic future Western star of the early days of radio and television. Saddle up!

PARTNERS
His hair was grayer now and his shoulders were stooped, but he was still a massive man with a big hatred for the former partner who had treacherously double-crossed him. It had taken years, but finally he found him!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Aug 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228879800

Paul K Dunn

Paul K. Dunn is a writer and musician born and raised in the western prairies and Rocky Mountains. A long time resident of Calgary, Alberta, he now resides in a small village in the lake country of Northwestern Ontario, Canada, with his wife Ursula.

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Silver and Gold

The Life of Big Tim

Paul K Dunn

Silver and Gold

Copyright © 2022 by Paul K Dunn

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-7979-4 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-7978-7 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-7980-0 (eBook)

Contents

KIOWA COUNTRY

SILVER & GOLD

Partners

Dedicated to the memory of the people who lived and died in a different era. And who came from half a world away to make a better life. To Lee-ette and Alex and to Ellen och Gus. Vi älskar dig.

Kiowa Country

He edged his way slowly along the cliff face. On a small shelf parallel to the hard rock, he groped forward with a bloodied, twisted hand. He found that by flattening his back against the rock wall and reaching to find the crevices and outcroppings on the stone, he was making some progress. The ledge was no more than sixteen inches at its widest and ran the extent of the cliff, perhaps two hundred yards. He estimated that he had covered about half the distance he needed to go to reach safety. He could see ahead in the glare of the sun the stone basin atop the cliff that would, he hoped, be his salvation. If he could just climb the last one hundred yards of the mountain and reach the depression at the top, which would hide him from view, he knew he would live another day.

The Kiowa had been on his trail for over three days, and as good as they were at reading sign, even they couldn’t follow a man up a rock wall. At least they wouldn’t expect him to go the way he had, and now he knew that doing the unexpected might be the only thing that would allow him to live through this day. Plastered against the mountainside, he privately vowed that if he did get through it, never again would he prospect in Kiowa country.

He stopped for a breath and realized that despite the mangled and lacerated condition of his hands and feet, he felt no pain. He wondered at that briefly and then concluded that a man running for his life can’t really afford the time to think about some things. Feeling pain must be one of them, he decided.

With his back pressed tight against the rock, he could feel the heat that had been burned into the cliff by a desert sun, and in his position high above the canyon floor, another thought quickly entered his mind. He remembered how when water would boil over on a stove kettle and hit the stovetop, it would jump and make a whining sizzling sound as it bounced its way across the flat, hot surface of the stove. He felt like that now—like that drop of water, just as small and, at that moment, just as vulnerable.

He could feel the heat of the sun and could see, as he looked up the cliff wall, the shimmering of the heat waves off the flat surface of the rock. He knew that if he could reach the depression at the top, in a few hours the sun would drop quickly and he could make his way out of the basin, down the backside of the Witchita range, into the grasslands north of Wolf Creek, and out of Kiowa country … forever.

He’d been prospecting up the North Canadian River, finding small traces of placer deposits but not enough to convince him to set up a sluicerun or even stay in one place for more than a day. Prospecting had become his chosen livelihood since mustering out of Crook’s VIII corps at the end of the war for States’ rights. He’d seen a lot of death in those four years and more blood, he thought, than could fill the pond on his grandpappy’s farm back home. And if four years of war had taught him anything, he decided, that lesson was that he didn’t want to see anymore of it. He also thought that war or not, as long as he lived among other people, he would see people die. He wasn’t a philosophical man by nature, and he never tried to explain how he felt or why. He just knew what be liked and what he didn’t, and he knew he didn’t want to see anymore killing.

One night while encamped with the 1st Cavalry Division below Fisher Hill in Virginia, he had overheard the eccentric General George Crook laughingly tell General Averell, his cavalry commander, that the more he got to know people, the better he liked his mule. Somehow that statement defined his own feelings, and he knew from that moment on he wanted to get as far away from people as he could.

On the day he mustered out, he immediately collected his pay and exchanged some of it for the tools and gear of a prospector. He didn’t buy much: a small pick axe, a gold pan, a few odds and ends. Just enough supplies that he thought he’d need to help him learn more about prospecting as he moved his way west across a huge and still untamed frontier. He planned to work the streams and creeks along the way and replenish his supplies from the tailings. He didn’t expect much, not in this part of the country. Mostly he wanted to pan these waterways for the knowledge and the adventure he knew would come with the practice. Ultimately his destination was the California goldfields. Though the big strikes of ‘48 at Sutter’s Mill and at Pike’s Peak in ‘58 were already becoming historical legends, he had heard that a man with a little luck and a lot of hard work could still make a good living working the riverbeds of the west.

He slid his feet cautiously along the cliff ledge. The place where his hand had clutched a thin crevice was now smeared and wet with his blood. The ledge under his feet felt strong, and though his legs ached and pounded, he knew they wouldn’t play out on him. They’d never failed him before. He continued moving slowly, shuffling along the narrow ledge, inching closer to his sanctuary. At one point he chanced to look down and quickly wished that he hadn’t. It wasn’t the height that bothered him, as he’d been on mountains before; it was the condition of his feet. He could see the shiny blackness on the outside of his thin boots, and momentarily the thought occurred to him that the heat had caused the sweat to soak through. But then he knew it wasn’t the moisture but the blood from his own feet that was shining the boot leather. He made a mental note to himself, in his wry manner, that the next time he prospected in hill country, he would wear proper footwear. Still, he felt no pain. By holding tight to the cliff face and alternately pulling and clawing his way along the ledge, he could see now that he was less than fifty yards to safety.

He had entered Ft. Dodge in Indian territory two weeks earlier. His arrival at the newly established fort had been his chance to replenish his scanty supplies, which he’d carefully rationed since leaving Independence, Missouri. In Independence he had purchased a fine, sleek gelding from a man named McCrimmon, who had