Night of the Bull

By Jarold L. Hampton

Before going out on the range to roundup longhorn cattle with the men of the Cannonball Cut Ranch, Owen Prescott meets Kay Mason, the new schoolteacher for the town of Rock Creek in Wyoming Territory. Their hearts are drawn to each other, but because of her faith, circumstances are all wrong.

After killing four bulls for breeding rights, Broken Horn disappears for two years. Now he is back on the Cannonball Cut Ranch. Then, a night of terror, destruction, and more death by Broken Horn. In great fear, Owen watches the immense beast attack anything that moves. Alone with a killer, Owen desperately tries to stay alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638857938

Book preview

Table of Contents

Cover

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

cover.jpg

Night of the Bull

Jarold L. Hampton

ISBN 978-1-63885-792-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63885-793-8 (Digital)

Copyright © 2022 Jarold L. Hampton

All rights reserved

First Edition

Illustrations by the author

Scripture Quotations from the King James Version

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 publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

I thank my wife, Theresa, for all her encouragement and help she gave me in writing this novel.

Chapter 1

Dust!

Immediately it exploded into a cloud, engulfing its makers: two range bulls wild in savage combat.

They pounded and bashed each other in mad fury. Rammed heads. Heaved and pushed. Strained and grunted; each determined to be the victor, each determined to destroy the other. Both bulls were large, nearly equal in size and bulged with muscle. The larger was a black and white, the slightly smaller—a red and white. For two hours the battle continued with these two huge brutes vying for the final thrust, the final blow that would bring victory. It was near the end of the battle when a cowboy, riding to the crest of a nearby hill, was startled by the sudden sight of the black and white in combat with another bull. Intrigued, he sat and watched the short remainder of the fight.

The bulls continued their attacks until victory came for one, but it was not by beating the other down or killing it. Victory came for the black and white when the red and white, hurt and exhausted, turned and ran. The black and white chased him, forcing him off the small, low hill on which they fought, then stopped and watched as the red and white fled around the bend of another small, low hill. Mad with triumph he thrust his head out, and with strains of primeval wildness, shattered the air with a long, raspy bellow that started low and deep and ended in a high shriek. He pawed the ground and flung dirt up onto his heaving sides, then high up over his shoulders letting it cascade down on his back, neck and head. Thrusting his head out again he bellowed loud and long warning all other bulls that he was now king of their domain. Beware!

For two years this bull had been missing, thought dead, but there he stood: large, defiant and charged with victory. Owen Prescott waited a moment longer to make certain of his discovery. Convinced he turned his horse and descended the low hill.

Wes Bowmont scanned the surrounding area anxiously. Owen had not returned and Wes, foreman of the Cannonball Cut Ranch, had to meet Jonas Terrell at the train depot in the town of Rock Creek at 4:00 PM. Jonas, his boss and owner of the ranch, was coming in from a long business trip and would be very weary, so Wes wanted to be on time with a wagon to carry Jonas and his baggage back to the ranch without delay. He didn't want Jonas to have to wait for someone to come for him—not after his long trip. It was nearing three o'clock in the afternoon and Wes and the men with him were five miles from the town. The distance and the need to head there soon, if he were to meet Jonas on time, concerned him, making him anxious. Where is Owen?

For three days, Wes and fifteen other men had been out on the open range south of Rock Creek, up at the Pine Ridge area and higher up on the Laramie Plains and the eastern foothills of the Medicine Bow Mountains getting a rough count and location of Jonas Terrell's cattle. Each day the men gave their reports to Wes. On this third day all the men, except Owen, had returned to camp at Pine Ridge and given Wes their counts for the day. Once Owen arrived all the men could head back to the ranch, except Wes and Shorty who would head to town with the wagon, but there was no sign of him. Wes determined that if he didn't show in the next ten or fifteen minutes he'd have to get going. He couldn't wait any longer.

There he is, Luke said quietly and matter of fact.

All eyes turned to where Luke pointed at a rider far off in the distance wending his way over and around low hills.

Ten minutes later, Owen rode up to the waiting men and was immediately bombarded with a barrage of jovial insults for his tardiness: You been nappin' out there some place were you? asked Shorty.

Now, Shorty, you know Owen won't do that. Ain't no one with 'im ta tuck 'im in. He's just a mite slower than the rest of us more perficient punchers is all the matter, said Clem.

There was a sudden nodding of heads and burst of laughter.

Maybe he forgot his compass 'n' got lost. We gotta give 'im some slack now, Sandy said with a chuckle.

Or maybe he sat down by a puddle of water and gazed at his purty face for a long spell, said Joe.

Or mebbe he set by thet puddle a-thinkin' of a way 't give hisself a bath somehow. Sniff, sniff, he loudly sniffed. "By the air I'm-a breathin', I'd say thet was jest what he was a-thinkin'.'' added Mike. There was an explosion of laughter.

Owen smiled, saying, Very funny. Very funny. Boys, I've been out working while it appears you've all been back here havin' a social get-together.

Owen, this ain't no social get-together. We just know how to get our work done pronto. Did-ja have ta read yer instruction manual ta see how ta do yer job? asked Jake.

No wonder he's late. He's a slow reader, added Bob with a wide grin.

The men laughed and continued their jovial insults while Owen sat smiling, quietly letting them enjoy their mirth.

Finally Wes spoke, How many?

Two hundred and fifty…most of them bunched up. A quarter of them are longhorns with a dozen of them being calves, answered Owen.

Wes wet the tip of his pencil with his tongue and jotted down the counts on a scrubby notepad he carried in his vest pocket, then added the totals. What's the tally? asked Pete.

Seven thousand three hundred. Over twelve hundred are longhorns—three hundred of them are calves.

Pretty much what we figured, Pete responded.

You reckon Jonas will get a buyer for those longhorns? asked Sandy.

Oh, he'll get his buyer. You won't have to worry about Jonas.

Sandy smiled, saying, I 'spose he will, even if those longhorns are just hides stretched over bones in comparison to the meaty shorthorns.

Wes chuckled. All right boys, head on back to the ranch! He turned to Shorty, Let's head to town.

Sprig spoke up, Can I go, too?

Wes, mounting his horse, nodded his head. Mount up.

Owen had more news for the foreman. I saw Broken Horn. In fact, he's just west of us, not far away.

Wes looked over at Owen in surprise. You sure it was him? It's been two years!

It was him all right. There isn't a body around that'd have a hard time figuring out who that old longhorn is, or whatever breed he is. He's big, Wes. Bigger than I remember him. I'd say he's in the prime of life and mean as ever. I just saw the tail-end of how he handled another big bull and if that bull hadn't run he'd be dead now.

Wes said nothing as Owen's words brought back memory of the bull with a broken, jagged left horn. A bull that had killed four other bulls for breeding rights. A bull whose lineage was questionable, most believing he was not a true longhorn by the shorter length of horns and conformation of head and body. The prevailing belief was that he was a mixture of longhorn and Spanish fighting bull, but no one knew for sure. He had been trailed up from Texas with a herd of longhorns five years back and a major cause of concern and trouble for the Cannonball Cut Ranch up until two years ago when he disappeared. Now he was back.

He'll bring us grief—like a bad dream becoming real.

Wes remained mute, knowing the truth of Owen's words, then gently pushed his spurs into his horse's sides. He had to get to town. As he rode away a deep furrow creased his brow. Broken Horn! he mumbled to himself.

Chapter 2

Rock Creek sizzled like a hot brand burned in the sands of southeast Wyoming Territory. For the better part of a year, it was a dormant, uneventful town with the majority of its people being the usual citizenry of western territorial communities. But when late summer arrived a new element came—the cowboy. There was always a number of local cowboys the year round, but at the end of summer there was a great infusion as they came in great droves from faraway places with their herds of cattle to be shipped out of Rock Creek. With them came an abundance of energy, exuberance and excitement at the end of a long cattle drive and it wasn't long before the local cowboys joined them in wild abandon—all reasons for Rock Creek's zest. The townspeople simply paled in color and fiber next to the cowboy who brought life and fire to their town.

The town lay in a small valley bordered on the north by low hills and on the south by low bluffs. It sat on both banks of a winding creek named Rock Creek from which the town got its name. Main Street, an east-west street, ran between the majority of businesses and the Union Pacific Railroad tracks just north of the creek. On the south side of the creek were a few scattered dwellings. Connecting both sides of the creek was the wooden bridge, Rock Creek Bridge, part of Rock Creek Road, a north-south road, the major and most traveled road used to come in and out of Rock Creek.

On this Friday afternoon, August 28, 1885, Rock Creek was alive with the exuberant, boisterous noises and activities of fun-seeking cowboys. The UP train had just rolled into town wheezing and hissing to a stop in front of the depot and pump house. Steam and smoke spewed from the chimney stack and pipes. Rock Creek! shouted the conductor. Weary passengers soon stepped down from Pullman cars, often called Pullmans, to stretch and to go to one of several eating establishments recommended for their good food. It was the norm after eating, and if time permitted, that most of the passengers would shop the stores before boarding Pullmans to continue their journey, but occasionally a few would stay in Rock Creek.

Three cowboys were not a part of the town's boisterous activities. Instead, they were on the depot platform leaning against the depot, watching and assessing those who stepped off the train. They were: Sprig, a tall, lanky sixteen year old; Shorty, short in stature but with arms the thickness of railroad ties. He had close-cropped hair and a mustache the color of straw. And then there was Wes, big and tall. They had made it to the depot fifteen minutes before the train arrived. Wes was relieved they were early. Jonas wouldn't have to wait for someone to come for him. He was also anxious to give Jonas the count on the cattle and the news of Broken Horn, knowing Jonas would want to know immediately.

On the other side of the train to the west and across Main Street Charlie Jones bolted quickly into the Bullhead Saloon and rushed over to Rhett Ballard, a big man and hired hand at the Broderick Ranch ten miles to the southwest of town. Rhett sat at a table playing poker with four other cowboys: Dollar Bill, Nevada, Ward Dillon and Raymond Hart. That preacher is here, the one yuh threw out of town last year, spoke Charlie, catching his breath.

Rhett stood up and kicked his chair away. Where?

At Harry's.

Dollar Bill, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in hand, stood up with the others. They quickly followed Rhett and Charlie out of the saloon, mounted their horses, and galloped over to Harry's Blacksmith Shop and Livery Stable at the east end of Main Street. The large stable doors were open and they rode in before dismounting. A black buggy was there and Harry was unhitching the horse from it. On the other side, speechless from the cowboy's entry, was Reverend Lamar Reynolds, a circuit riding minister.

Rhett dismounted and walked around the buggy to the reverend. I see that you're back again.

Well, yes. This town is on my circuit.

Rhett kept his gaze on him but spoke to Harry. Harry, hitch that horse back up. The reverend is about to leave. With a bewildered look Harry looked over at the reverend.

The man is mistaken. I do plan to stay. Go ahead and stable my horse.

Rhett drew up close to the reverend and put an arm around his shoulders. Come with me, and with force, he led him to the open doors. What do you see out there?

Why, a town, of course.

That's right. A town—my town. I like this town because it's a free town without a lot of rules and regulations. Now look closely. What else do you see?

Reverend Reynolds scanned the town and surrounding area. I'm not sure what you're wanting me to see, he said, turning to Rhett.

Just look at that wide open skyline. Not a church steeple anywhere. That means there's no sin bustin' preacher here to demand all kinds of rules and laws from an old, outdated, meaningless book. I like it that way. I like my freedom. He withdrew his arm and looked straight into the reverend's blue eyes. I threw you out of town once and I'm doing it again. He looked at Harry. Hitch up that horse! and then back at the reverend. Get in that buggy and don't ever come back! He shoved Reverend Reynolds toward the buggy.

You have no right to do this!

Get in your buggy!

As Sprig, Shorty and Wes leaned against the depot waiting for Jonas to appear a passenger, with baggage in each hand, stepped down from a Pullman. The men were immediately drawn with interest and straightened themselves from relaxed leaning, and then cocked their hats back off their foreheads as the person came toward them.

She was young—twenty-one years old—stunningly beautiful and appareled in a white blouse with a collar and ruffled sleeves, a full length, light gray skirt, and over her shoulders hung a cape of the same gray. Crowning her light brown hair was a small bonnet. In all, she was plainly dressed, yet her beauty against such simple dress and color captivated and enthralled the cowboys.

As she walked past they nodded. She nodded back with a smile and continued on to her destination. Sprig's eyes were wide as he uttered, Wow, oh wow!

Yeah, agreed Shorty, as he winked at Wes.

She's beautiful! Sprig said dreamily.

Wes smiled at Sprig, and then turned to look at the woman who affected him so dramatically.

Do yuh think she's movin' here? asked Sprig.

I don't know, but one of us ought to help her, don't you think, Wes? Again, Shorty winked at him.

I'll help her! shot Sprig in a voice of excitement.

Wes looked over to Shorty. I don't know. Maybe I'd like to help her, he said looking back at Sprig. You're a little young aren't you, Sprig? She needs a man!"

Ah, come on, Wes. I'm man enough! Let me help her!

Wes laughed. All right, go ahead, but remember…she's a woman and you're—

I'm man enough, Wes! Sprig cut in with a scowl on his face. He turned, still with a scowl, and hurried off to help the young lady in gray who was beginning to cross the railroad tracks in front of the locomotive.

Wes and Shorty laughed.

Reverend Reynolds got in his buggy, waited until Harry had the horse hitched to it, then snapped the reins, guiding the horse out onto Main Street. Rhett mounted his horse, rode up next to the reverend's and whacked it hard with his quirt, shouting, Yah! The horse bolted into a run. Immediately the cowboys spurred their horses after the horse and buggy, shouting and shooting their guns.

Alarmed and seeing their fast approach the young lady in gray, who had just stepped around the front of the locomotive and about to cross the street, abruptly stopped. She quickly stepped back while other bewildered people and animals scurried to the sides when the horse and buggy and cowboys rode past, leaving a trail of dust.

What's happening? asked one man standing at the entrance to the Wyoming House Saloon.

It looks to me like it's that preacher that came here last year. They're chasing him out of town again, answered another.

I believe you're right. Hah! Well, we don't need his kind anyway.

Yeah!

Reverend Reynolds whisked toward Rock Creek Road. There he turned onto it heading south, out of town, hoping the cowboys would abandon the chase, but they didn't.

The young lady in gray resumed her walk through the haze of dust. Sprig was just behind her when she heard him. She abruptly stopped, again, and turned to see who it was. Sprig nearly ran into her. His face flushed. Howdy, ma'am, he greeted her with a shy smile. Kin I help yuh with yur baggage?

Oh! You startled me, she returned, eyes wide.

Sorry, ma'am.

I'd be grateful if you would, she answered in a tired breath.

Sprig took them and was glad he came to her aid after feeling the weight of each. My name's Johnny Sprigner, but everybody calls me Sprig. Yuh kin call me Sprig. What's yurs?

Kay Mason, she warmly replied as they began to walk toward town.

Yuh gonna stay here long, Miss Mason?

Kay stopped. With a hand shielding her eyes she gazed at the town and scanned the surrounding area. To the south she noticed that the horse and buggy and the six cowboys had crossed the bridge and were about to ascend the dirt road to the low bluffs. They were still traveling quickly. What is their hurry? she thought. Then she turned to Sprig, I hope so.

I hope so, too, Miss Mason. I think yu're gonna like it here. Kay smiled. Do yuh know anything about our town?

No, I don't, except that it's got a lot of cattle.

Yeh, I reckon it does. Cattle's the big business 'round here. It's not always been that way. Used t' be a railroad town, but that's changed. It's more of a cow town now. We've got the usual businesses though: saloons—five of 'em—two of 'em with dance halls. We have two hotels, a livery stable 'n' blacksmith shop, two stores, a boot and shoe store, some restaurants. One of 'em called the Eatin' House. He pointed his chin to it among the row of businesses lining Main Street. Will Baker runs it. Food is tolerable, but the pies! Sprig threw his head back, closed his eyes, and licked his lips. Have yuh ever bit inta something with a taste so good yur tongue gets all excited 'n' yuh just have t' slowdown in eatin' it 'cause yuh want the taste t' last as long as it can? Well, that's the pies there. Made by a little black lady, name of Aunt Fanny.

Mmm. You're making me hungry. Kay replied with a smile as she mused over Sprig's depiction of the taste of Aunt Fanny's pies.

Oh, ma'am, yu've gotta try them pies someday.

By what you say about them, I believe I will.

Oh, yuh gotta, ma'am, yuh gotta!

There was a moment of silence as Kay surveyed the town as if looking for something. Where is the school? she asked turning to Sprig.

Pointing again with his chin, Right over there in that white, two-story building past the Taylor Hotel, other side of the street.

Oh, she said, her eyebrows raised. She scanned the town again. You didn't mention a church. Rock Creek does have a church, doesn't it? I don't see one.

No, ma'am, not a one. Besides, I don't think nobody a'tall has time for that kind of stuff. I hear that one hundred railroad cars a-cattle are shipped out-a Rock Creek every twenty-four hours. Ranchers from all over, even as far away as Idaho 'n' Oregon Territory are bringin' their cattle here t' be shipped off t' the east. Only a few times did a preacher ride inta town for a week t' have services or whatever they do. I've never been t' one, but I heerd of them meetin's.

Oh, a circuit riding minister! So there is some form of worship service here, little as it may be.

I s'pose so, but not too many people go t' 'em, I've been told.

Kay pondered Sprig's words for a moment. She walked a few steps away in silence, thinking about them, and decided to change the subject. She turned back to Sprig. Sprig, I see that you are a cowboy. Do you work on a ranch nearby…for your father, perhaps?

Sprig appeared pleased by her observant remark and his face glowed with pride. Yeh, ma'am, I am a cowboy, but I don't work for my pa. I don't know who he is. I was orphaned when I was just a pup, so I don't know who my pa or ma are. I ride for Jonas Terrell, one of the largest cattle ranchers 'round here. He owns the Cannonball Cut Ranch. Its brand is the CCR, but everybody calls it the CC.

Cannonball Cut Ranch. That's an interesting name. What's the significance of it?

Well, there's a draw with a creek, name-a Meiser Creek, that runs through it with a railroad bridge over the creek. The draw has some kind-a rock balls stuck inta the sides of it. They get as big as sixteen inches 'round 'n' look like cannonballs. Yuh open one 'n' yuh might find some crystals. 'Cause it's on his land Jonas made it his brand.

How picturesque! I'd like to see it someday.

Yuh stick 'round, ma'am, 'n' yuh will. 'N' I'm hopin' t' be the one t' show yuh.

Kay smiled. Are many of the cattle here Mr. Terrell's?

No, ma'am, not a one. His are still out on the range, but we're gonna ship his cattle real soon. We're gonna have a roundup any day now, I reckon. When we bring in Jonas's cattle there's gonna be almost as much as what's here already, 'n' what's here belongs t' a number a ranchers.

My, he must have a lot of cattle.

Yuh, ma'am, he does.

Kay, noticing the large letters on a building in front of them asked, Sprig, straight ahead is the Wyoming House Hotel. Which is the better, that one or the Taylor Hotel?

Both good hotels, ma'am, but I lean more t' the Taylor.

And why is that?

Well, they both have saloons 'n' billiard halls, 'n' they each have a store, but the Taylor has a restaurant. The only problem is, the railroad tracks are right behind it, but I still think yu'll like it better than the Wyoming House Hotel. It seems t' have a little more uppityness t' it. I don't know if it's any more expensive, but t' me, it's the better of the two.

Kay chuckled. I'm not an uppity person, but anyway, to the Taylor we go!

They walked in silence toward the hotel. The smell of cattle was strong and Kay's nose wrinkled because of it. She realized that if she were going to live in Rock Creek she'd have to get used to the smell. It was part of town. Sprig could see that she was annoyed by it and remarked, matter-of-fact, Strong sometimes, worse other times. It takes time gettin' used t' it, I s'pose. Me, I've been 'round it all my life so I don't think nothin' of it. It's just a strong summer smell. Come winter, it'll be tame…some.

Kay responded in a tone of mirth, I suppose in time I'll get accustomed to it, but right now it's absolutely the most disgusting, nose wrenching odor I've smelled in a long time!

Both burst out in laughter.

Kay looked to the south again and noticed that the horse and buggy and cowboys were just about to reach the top of the bluffs. The horse pulling the buggy was not moving as quickly as it had been and it appeared that the cowboys were goading it on up the hill. What is the problem? she thought.

Kay and Sprig passed a two story wooden building to their right, on the corner of Main Street and Rock Creek Road. On its front, above its open door, was a sign with large, red letters: Bull Head Saloon and a black head of a bull. In