Noah Landers, Welcome Home

By Terry Heaton

Noah Landers, Welcome Home by Terry Heaton

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662475771

Book preview

1

The young man was taken to the manager’s office. The clerk rapped lightly and opened the door a crack. Mr. McCardle? There’s a gentleman to see you.

Fine, I’m done with these accounts. Please take them for filing and show him in.

The clerk took the folders from his boss and opened the door to let the young man in. Mr. McCardle, this is Mister?

Nolan, the newcomer supplied the name. He was a trifle over six feet tall and weighed about 220 pounds. With a barrel chest and narrow waist, he looked to be all muscle. He wore a black broadcloth suit that was obviously tailored for him. All in all, a fine figure of a man, as they say.

Well, Mr. Nolan, what can I do for you?

Excuse me one moment, Mr. McCardle. He turned around and opened the door swiftly. No one was there. Sorry, I really don’t want anyone to hear this but you.

Should I be reaching for a gun, Mr. Nolan? the bank manager asked.

That won’t be necessary, Mr. McCardle, and my name is not Nolan. It’s Noah Landers. I’ve come to check on these bank statements of the last few months.

You’re little Noah? Well, not so little anymore. Why the phony name? Do you think my clerk has done something?

No, sir, not your clerk. I just didn’t want anyone to know that I was here yet. Until I get a handle on what’s going on at the ranch, I’d just as soon not have my presence known.

I see, and just what do you think is going on at the ranch, if I may be so bold as to ask? Mr. McCardle cocked an eyebrow at the young man.

That is what I am here to find out. According to these statements that you sent to me in New Orleans, the ranch has been steadily losing money for almost a year now. Do you know of any reason that should be so?

The bank manager shook his head. Why didn’t you come in a year ago?

I haven’t been in New Orleans for some time. Mail finally caught up with me while I was in Abilene. My father passed away six years ago while I was away at war. That letter sat at my aunt’s house until they found me two weeks ago. The letter said that Mike Hazen would handle the day-to-day business until I returned. He’s one of only a few men my father would have trusted to maintain the place. I must speak with him as soon as possible.

I’m afraid that’s not possible at all, Mr. McCardle sadly said. He was thrown from a horse about thirteen months ago. When they found him, he was already dead. Since then, the new foreman has been in charge. He made a face like he had a bad taste in his mouth. It sounds like that’s when the cash flow changed.

Well, I don’t believe in coincidences, so I guess I’ll just have to check it out. In the meantime, I don’t want anyone to know who I am. I’ll go out there job hunting and see if I can find out anything. Have you got someplace I can park my bags and change my clothes? I don’t want to be renting a room if I’m supposed to be a cowboy riding the grub line.

I understand completely. Are you sure you can pass for an out-of-work cowboy? What if they put you to work? Can you convince them?

I’m sure there won’t be any problems, at least not for me. My bags?

Right. I wouldn’t do this for just anybody, but your father was a good friend of mine. In fact, he helped me get this bank going years ago. If anything, I owe him a good many favors, and now you since he is gone. He started to scribble on a pad. When you leave the bank, turn to your right and then take the second alley to the right. That’s actually Middle Street. The house is two blocks back, right on the corner of Oak Street. White house, picket fence, petunias in the flower boxes. My wife will answer the door. Hand her this note. She’ll see to your needs.

That is very kind of you, Mr. McCardle. I’ll be back to see you soon. I just have to figure out how to get my horse from the stable by the train station.

The bank manager shook Noah’s hand and walked with him to the front door. Good luck, Mr. Nolan. He said for anyone listening, then continued in a whisper, I’ll have a boy fetch your horse and take it to the back door of my house. How will he know which one is yours?

He’s a big dapple wearing a well-worn saddle and empty saddlebags. Tell the boy to approach slowly. Noah grinned back and stepped out the door. Two blocks to the right and two blocks back, he started up the boardwalk, keeping an eye on his surroundings. He didn’t wish to be observed going to the banker’s house. Then he got to thinking the way he was dressed and the bags he was carrying might just make him look like a salesman that had just made a sale to the banker and was dropping it off at his house. It really didn’t matter in the long run. No one really paid much attention to him anyway.

He knocked on the front door of the McCardle residence, and the door was opened by a rather nice-looking older woman. He spoke not a word, just handed her the note. He didn’t know what it said, he hadn’t read it, but it obviously had an impression on the woman. She glanced up and down the street, then opened the door wide, motioning for him to come in.

You’re Noah Landers? My, you’re all grown up into a fine-looking young man. I am so sorry about your father. He and your mother were very good friends to us. Follow me, please. She led the way down a narrow hallway to a room toward the back of the house. This is a spare room that my husband just uses for an office. You can put your bags there in the corner. She glanced at the note. I’ll fix you a late lunch while you change clothes.

Thank you very kindly, Mrs. McCardle, but I won’t be wanting any lunch. I want to show up at the ranch hungry to help out with my grub-line-riding cowboy persona. I’ll just need to know when the boy shows up with my horse.

I’ll come get you as soon as it is here, she replied.

2

Noah opened his bags and pulled out an old pair of faded jeans, a plaid shirt, a calfskin vest, a bandanna, a beat-up hat, and a pair of boots with broken in uppers with soles that only showed a lot of wear in the arch up against the heel—rider’s boots for sure. The man that wore these spent more time in the saddle than walking on the ground. He unwound a piece of heavy cloth and pulled the spurs out and strapped them on the boots.

He removed the suit and carefully placed it on a hanger just the way it would be worn, pants draped over the bottom rung, shirt over the hanger, then the vest over the shirt, and finally the coat over everything else, then hung it on the back of the closet door.

First thing he put on once he’d stripped down was the hat, just like any real cowboy.

After he was dressed, he reached into the bag and pulled out a well-worn holster and cartridge belt that had seen plenty of use, strapped it around his hips, then shoved his hand back into the bag and pulled out a Remington New Model Army conversion chambered in .44-40. It was obviously as well used as the holster. It was originally a cap-and-ball pistol that he had converted to use center fire cartridges by a gun smith in Kansas City. He loaded it from a fresh box of shells and dropped it into the holster, then checked the belt loops to make sure they were also filled. The sixth loop from the right had a .45-70 cartridge in it. When he got to the oversized cartridge, he knew there were only five left. He hoped that if he was in a difficult situation, he would never need to use that many cartridges to get to that point, but if he did, he would know.

He took out a bedroll and unrolled it across the floor. Inside the roll was a Winchester Model 1866 rifle, also chambered in .44-40. Some people called them Yellow Boys because of the brass frames. As far as he was concerned, this could have been the best one made. He never had the first problem with it, and it had seen much use.

He made a stack of what he wanted to put in his saddlebags to reflect the sparse living of a man riding the grub line, one change of clothes, and the open box of cartridges, and not much else other than a beat-up old coffee pot and a cup. He did not expect anyone to search his stuff, but one could never be sure.

There was a rap at the door, and Mrs. McCardle quietly announced the arrival of his horse. Noah repacked his bags and stacked them in the corner, then rolled up his bedroll before opening the door.

Thank you, Mrs. McCardle, he said as he settled into his vest. I’d best be going now. I want to get to the ranch before dark.

She led him to the back door, peered out to make sure it was clear, and swung the door open. You be careful, young man. Mark my words, there’s trouble brewing.

He cocked an eyebrow and looked at her quizzically as he stuffed the rifle in the boot, then filled the saddle bags and put the straps around his bedroll.

Men always unburden themselves to their wives, all the aggravations of the day and everything they hear while on the job. Their wives usually end up with all the news going around, and of course, most women like to talk, she continued, but I learn more if I just listen. I’ve heard things that didn’t sit well with me, but I kept my mouth shut. My husband doesn’t discuss his business at home, so I really wouldn’t have much to tell them anyway if I wanted to, which I don’t. The other women figure since I am the wife of the banker that I don’t know what’s going on around here. They tell me everything they know, who’s going here, who’s seeing who, whose credit is over extended, and who is flush with money. I could start my own newspaper if I wanted. She smiled when she finished speaking.

So do you know anything that I should know before heading to the ranch? Noah asked.

Nothing for certain. Half of what I hear is overridden by the other half. I’m just saying be careful. There are a lot of new people around these days and not many of the older ones.

Noah tightened the cinch on his horse, tipped his hat, and swung easily into the saddle.

You’ve done quite a bit of that by the looks of it, Mrs. McCardle commented.

Yes ’am, I done my fair share of ridin’. Noah slipped easily into the vernacular of his role. He tipped his hat again, turned the horse with a knee, and with just a nudge, the horse broke into a space-eating lope.

That is not a boy, she spoke to herself. I think there will be blood on the grass before this is over.

3

Noah had not been on the ranch in nearly thirteen years. He was thirteen when his father sent him off to live with his mother’s sister in New Orleans. He went to school there, got an education, and even studied law for a while. Once it occurred to Noah that his teachers didn’t have much more to give him, he left school and continued to learn on his own. He found that punching cows and lying around in a bunk house or beside a campfire at night gave him plenty of time to think and read. He read whatever he could get his hands on, and he had done a lot of thinking.

At eighteen, he had ridden north to join up with the Union. He didn’t know exactly what they were fighting for. Everyone fighting had a different reason. States’ rights were the cause for the start of it, should states be able to break from the nation to form their own country or not. Some people said it was the issue of slavery, some for, some against. He was never one to think he had the right to enslave anyone, but the reason he joined the North was because he didn’t believe the country should be divided up like that.

After the war, he worked on several different spreads and learned the ropes, as they say. It never paid to let others realize just how smart he was and how much he knew. There was always someone to resent it and want to cause trouble.

Noah had been taught boxing at one of his schools, but that wasn’t much help in a knock-down-drag-’em-out fight. So he got good at that also. Teeth, nails, and boots, he learned it all. Those that preferred to reach for a gun fared little better with him. He could shoot anything with either hand and had won many a bet and survived not a few gun battles. He’d fought rebels, rustlers, renegades, and even Indians a time or two. He was still around. Most of them were not. He was not concerned about some cowboy that might want a piece of him. He realized he really didn’t much care right now.

First, his father died six years ago, thrown from a horse he’d been told, then Mike Hazen just over a year ago. Another bad horse? Of all the people in the world he could imagine being thrown from a horse to their death, his father and Mike Hazen would be last on the list. This was definitely going to take some investigation.

It was coming on to dusk, and he could see the ranch yard ahead of him.

Better clear your mind and be ready for anything, he told himself.

4

The cook had just finished feeding the men and was herding them out the door so he could clean up, when he saw the cowboy ride into the yard. Looking for a meal or a job? he asked.

A job if there’s one that needs doin’, a meal and some coffee if not.

’Light and set, boy. I’ve got enough left over for another plate. The food and coffee I can give you, but you’ll have to ask the foreman about the job.

Who would that be?

Bob Kiel is the man to see. But in the meantime, let’s get you fed. The cook continued to talk as he dished up a plate for Noah. Sure wish I was young enough to be out ridin’ the grub line. Not that I’m that old, mind you, just too many long drives and rough broncs.

I know what you mean about the rough broncs. It was one of them did in my pa.

Crippled him up? the cook asked.

Just fore it killed him. Noah sighed.

Ain’t that odd, mused the cook. Just like Dark.

Beg pardon.

Darklin Landers, the best boss and friend a man could have was killed by a buckin’ outlaw of a dirty roan horse.

Sounds like you had good feelins for the man, Noah commented.

You bet I did. Not like this new—

Evening, Les, who’s your friend? came a voice from the door.

Oh, howdy Bo—Mr. Keil, the cook corrected himself at the look he received. "This here young fella was passin’ by and lookin’ for work or a meal. I told him the