Scattered Destinations

By Troy Andrew Smith

Scattered Destinations: Soon to be a Major Motion Picture
I know I wasn't born in Dry Creek. Fact of the matter is, I don't remember where I was born or much about the event, but I'm pretty sure it happened or else I wouldn't be here. The point is, I've been in Dry Creek for as long as I can remember. I can't remember being born, but I do remember the day I ran into an old cowboy named Jack. That was the day my life really started. When it happened, it didn't seem like much at all but that's the way life is often times. Little things many times become big things. Here's the story of what happened. It was the day I started living.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Hulsey Books
• Release date: Feb 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224887453

Book preview

Prologue

I know I wasn’t born in Dry Creek. Fact of the matter is, I don’t remember where I was born or much about the event, but I’m pretty sure it happened or else I wouldn’t be here. The point is, I’ve been in Dry Creek for as long as I can remember. I can’t remember being born, but I do remember the day I ran into an old cowboy named Jack. That was the day my life really started. When it happened, it didn’t seem like much at all but that’s the way life is often times. Little things many times become big things. Here’s the story of what happened. It was the day I started living.

CHAPTER 1

Dry Creek, Wyoming lay in the Laplander region of the territory, where the mountains lapped over towards the prairie. There really was no creek even close to Dry Creek, wet or dry. It was remembered, at least by those who inhabited Dry Creek for most of its existence, that the miner who had named the town – whom none of the population of Dry Creek could remember for sure what his name had been – had a strange sense of humor. That had been the only characteristic of his that folks still remembered. It had served him well, he’d believed. He’d always thought that if you were friendly and made folks laugh from time to time, it was better protection than carrying a pistol or lugging a shotgun around. It had been a philosophy that had been proven right many times, right up until the time someone had killed him. He’d been found dead, not far from his shack. His head had been caved in by a large rock. The rock lay in evidence, covered in blood and hair, right next to him. His death had never been determined as to whether it was an accident or murder. Some folks said, with his sense of humor it could’ve been a very determined case of suicide. Truth was, it was a mystery never solved mostly because, none of those who had found him or lived in the area really cared. He’d left behind no kin – at least none anyone knew of. He’d just been a friendly sort of fellow that was no longer around. Could’ve happened to anyone. All they knew for sure was his sense of humor had died with him.

It had been noted and speculated on however, by more than a few residents of Dry Creek, that his Mail Ordered Bride had also disappeared at the same time, along with whatever gold he had mined. Although she might’ve been dead too, maybe even murdered by her now deceased husband – his guilt over killing her might’ve been the reason why he’d committed suicide by rock – her body had never been found, alive or dead. It was a mind-boggling case according to the Circuit Preacher who came along years later. Of course, his observation had been based on local gossip and legend. But, despite all of that, or maybe because of it all, the name Dry Creek had persevered.

None of that mattered to twelve-year-old Brady Whitehead. It didn’t matter to him what the town’s name was, it had always been Dry Creek for as long as he could remember and it probably always would be – he’d actually never given it a thought one way or another. 

The day was perfect and he had two hours off from helping his mother at the Café. He planned to make the best of them. He was happy as only a twelve-year-old boy can be, as he rolled his newly found barrel hoop – at full speed – down the boardwalk, guiding the hoop with a stick. 

Ranger, a lop-eared dog of doubtful heritage, ran alongside as Brady dodged the few citizens that were out on the boardwalk. Ranger wasn’t really Brady’s dog – at least that’s what Brady told people. Ranger was just a stray that had wandered in off the high prairie. He had been, half-starved with several cuts and wounds that were festered up and ugly. They were probably the result of a fight with coyotes, at least that’s what Brady figured. By whatever fate or gods that control such things, Ranger had wound up at the back door of Emily’s Café. Since there were plenty of scraps of food, that were going to be thrown out anyway, Brady had taken to feeding them to Ranger. Ranger had healed up from his wounds, put on weight and proceeded to be Brady’s almost constant companion. But, he was never Brady’s dog. Brady may have been Ranger’s human, but Brady never claimed to be Ranger’s owner, just his friend.

As Brady raced along, he felt like he was probably the fastest hoop runner in the world. Rounding the corner of one of the buildings he nearly collided with two women. Judith Weaver was an older spinster, never married and seldom had much good to say about men of any age but she especially did not like boys. She was quite sure they were germ infested and lacked any real purpose – unless of course, they were toting and packing a load for her so she didn’t have to carry anything herself.

Connie Lawrence, on the other hand, was a newly married eighteen-year-old woman who was as cute as a button. At least that’s what most of the men folk thought. Connie was still fascinated with exploring her man’s body and discovering all of the things it was capable of doing and wondered if all men’s bodies did those sorts of things? If they did, how old were the boys when they started doing ‘things?’ Truth was, Connie Lawrence loved men and they loved her. A fact that weighed heavy on her husband’s mind from time to time.

Normally, she wouldn’t have been in Judith’s company, but they had both been walking in the same direction, so Connie had decided to be neighborly and had fallen in step with Judith. She had been attempting to carry on a light-hearted conversation because, after all, there were only a few women of any age in Dry Creek to talk to. She was now silently chastising herself for her generosity and misguided need for female company. But, since both of them were on their way to the Mercantile, she had little hope of extracting herself from the older woman’s company. That’s when Brady came whooshing around the corner and ran between them, hoop and all. 

It was very nearly a collision, but Connie was, she had to admit, impressed with the boy’s skill at avoiding a direct hit with them as he raced on past them. She had to laugh a little at the sight of Ranger, tongue hanging, loping along in the street, keeping his boy in sight. Judith wasn’t as amused.

Lands sake, Judith shrilled!

Sorry, hollered Brady as he went past the two women, but he didn’t slow up or appear to be all that sorry.

Connie was still smiling at the boy’s departing backside. 

I don’t know what you find so amusing. That little heathen nearly crashed right into us, fussed the spinster Weaver. He nearly knocked me down as it was.

Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud, Connie retorted with a smile still on her face, I think he’s sort of cute.

Cute! It was obvious that thought had never crossed Judith’s mind, not even once. He’s a little heathen.

Lands sake, do you even know what a heathen looks like?

I do, stated the older woman. Him. She pointed at the empty air Brady Whitehead had just vacated.

Sheriff Don Welch fiddled with some of the paperwork that went with his job. He’d just received some new wanted posters that needed going through. Usually by the time he received them, the men whose pictures were printed on them were already dead or in custody. Don Welch didn’t much care though. In fact, his mind was miles away, so to speak. Really, his thoughts were centered on a white house, just down the street. It was a small house, nothing fancy. It did have a picket fence in front, with a gate that was always dragging it seemed, no matter how many times he’d re-hung it. He wasn’t sure if the gate was just contrary or if he was just a dang poor carpenter. He suspected maybe it was a little of both. Right now, though, the gate didn’t mean any more than the wanted posters did to him. 

His thoughts were centered on his wife, Virginia. She’d brought their son into the world. He had never had a complaint one about her, at least not until now. She had been his wife, lover, mother of their boy, and his best friend. 

He looked at the stack of wanted, pushed them to the side and got up to get a cup of coffee, but the pot was empty. It seemed like too much trouble to be worth building another pot, so he just sat his cup down. He stared out the window and wondered what Virginia was doing? He wondered if she would ever look at him again. He wondered if he should even care.

On the main street of Dry Creek – although it wasn’t officially named Main Street, its official name was Independence Street but hardly anyone ever referred to it as such – Brady Whitehead was busy concentrating on keeping his barrel hoop rolling, in spite of Ranger’s attempts to grab it now and again. The dog loved to chase things. Fortunately, for both Brady and Ranger, Brady had been able to break him of chasing wagons and buggies. He never did bite nothing, Brady knew, Ranger just acted like he was going to. Brady was laughing at Ranger and never saw the old cowboy backing out of the doorway of the mercantile until it was too late.

Jack Webster was too busy, taking in the pretty blue eyes and the sincere smile directed at him by the young woman working behind the counter of the mercantile, to pay any attention to where he was walking. Nor did he notice if any foot traffic might be stampeding his way. Not, at least, until just a split second before the collision. Jack turned, just in time to deflect the steel hoop with one hand, before Brady Whitehead’s head plowed dead center into Jack’s belly. Both, Brady and Jack fell onto the boardwalk with a crash. 

Jack hit the boardwalk, flat on his back, effectively knocking most of the air out of his lungs and causing his eyes to ‘bug’ out a bit. 

Ranger let out a startled yelp and ran across the street and between two buildings. Ranger had never been one to spend a lot of time hanging around a catastrophe for fear of being blamed as its cause.

Brady, on the other hand, had rolled over the top of Jack, up onto his feet, still concentrating on his hoop. It was now out into the street, veering directly into the path of a farmer’s wire wagon, being pulled by a pair of light draft horses. Brady was quickly in pursuit of his treasured hoop. He ran directly into the path of the team of horses. He caught the hoop with one hand, jerking it out of harm’s way, just before it rolled under the wheels of another wagon traveling in the opposite direction. 

Damn you Brady! yelled the farmer as he handled the lines on his team of startled horses to keep them from bolting and having a runaway through the middle of town. You’ll get yourself killed one of these days over a no-good piece of iron.

Sorry! Brady yelled back, but to his way of thinking, barrel hoops were hard to come by for a twelve-year-old boy and a bent one didn’t track worth a darn. Then he noticed the man, he had run into, still flat on his back on the boardwalk. Although he hated to, Brady Whitehead figured he’d best make sure the old man was okay. ‘Cause, if he didn’t and his mom heard about it – it seemed to Brady his mom heard about most everything – he’d catch thunder at the very least and bolts of lightning were possible. He hurried back to Jack’s side, hoop and all, and looked down at the old cowboy. 

Just then, he felt a stinging sensation in his knee and looked down at the three-corner tear in his pant leg. Dang it! exclaimed Brady. Now Mom’s really going to be mad at me. He peeked through the hole and discovered he wasn’t bleeding too much. It was just a scraped knee and he’d had plenty of those in his lifetime. 

Then he noticed the man he’d collided with, was still flat on his back and not moving much. Mister? You okay?

Jack tried to answer but he’d only had time to catch up to enough of the Wyoming air to let out a wheezing kind of cough as a reply.

You ain’t dying on me, are you? I wouldn’t know what to do with an old man that was dead. Especially, a dead old man that was a white man. I mean. I seen my Grandpa after he died, but that was at the funeral and he was actually already dead and had been that way for a while. I mean, he’d already been taken care of, wasn’t nothing I had to do for him.

Jack started to stir around, lifting himself up to rest against the wall of the mercantile.

You look a mite peaked, said Brady.

Can you hand me my hat, there, young feller? Jack pointed at the wide brimmed, high crowned hat, lying between the boardwalk and the hitch rail.

Yes, Sir. Brady retrieved the hat. You sure you ain’t dying?

Not this time, replied Jack. No thanks to you.

Said I was sorry, Brady stated as he retrieved Jack’s hat.

Yes, I believe you did, said Jack as he used one hand to smooth back the hair that was left on his head, and covered it in one smooth, well-practiced motion with the high crowned, wide brimmed hat. And I guess, this little incident was partially my fault as well. Don’t believe I was paying as close of attention as I should have been, concerning where I was going, instead of where I had already been.

Brady Whitehead wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t used to any adult apologizing to him, let alone a white man of, what Brady considered to be, of considerable age. 

Yes, sir, said Brady Whitehead. I mean, I didn’t see you coming. Since Brady didn’t mean to sound high handed, he quickly added. I mean, I don’t guess I was paying as close attention as I should’a been. You sure you be alright? If you ain’t, I need to know because my Mama would tan my hide if I was to leave an injured man laying next to the street.

Lying next to the street, corrected Jack.

Huh?

You would be leaving me lying next to the street, not laying, said Jack. I would need to be some object you laid down here, for me to be laying next to the street. Jack noticed the confused look on the young boy’s face. Never mind, added Jack, I’m not even sure if I know what I’m talking about.

Jack slowly swung his legs over the edge of the boardwalk. Young feller, I do believe I can assure you, you are safe from your mother’s wrath this time. I am most certain, I shall live for at least awhile longer. But, if you would be so kind, would you mind helping this old cowboy across the street? I don’t see nearly as well as I used to and I’d hate to get run over twice in one day.

Sure, said Brady. You going to the Hotel?

That would be correct, young sir.

You sure talk funny, observed Brady, never had nobody call me a sir of any kind, young or not.

A man I met once in my youth taught me that there is power in words and helped me to be aware of my vocabulary. I greatly respected that man and have since tried to practice what he taught.

Was he a school teacher? asked Brady?

No, he was my father.

I never knowed my father, replied Brady. He died early. Least that’s what Mama told me to tell people if they ask. Truth is, I don’t think she knows what’s happened to him. I don’t have to worry about it much though, nobody ever asks me about him around here. I guess my Mama’s already told them. Maybe, it’s the truth. Maybe he is dead.

Happens, said Jack, Sorry for your loss.

I am more worried about Ranger right now, said Brady as he pointed in the general direction where Ranger was last seen leaving town.

That your dog? asked Jack.

He’s not my dog, replied Brady, he just kind of hangs around. He gets scared easy though. Lots of people don’t like stray dogs and are mean to him.

He shall return, stated Jack. Of that I am most confident.

I don’t know, doubt and worry were written all over Brady Whitehead’s young face. He was pretty scared when he took off. He may never come back.

Oh, he’ll come back.

How do you know? asked Brady with a little bitterness in his voice.

You feed him, don’t you?

Brady nodded his head as he answered, Yes, sir.

Then he’ll be back, replied Jack, there’s never been a stray dog yet that would give up free food. Now, do you suppose we could manage to make our way across the street?

Jack stood with some degree of difficulty, due largely to too many years in the saddle, in too much bad weather. His knees cracked and popped in protest. Suddenly, Jack bent over in pain, clutched his side with one hand and grabbed a hold of a nearby hitch rail to steady himself.

You sure you’re okay? asked Brady Whitehead in alarm. I mean, honest to gosh, I didn’t run into you that hard. It seems like you’re making much more fuss over this than need be.

Yeah, well, you are probably most correct in your assumption. We didn’t collide with too much velocity, grimaced Jack, It’s just an old injury acting up a mite in order to remind me that I shouldn’t be getting knocked down by young boys.

I said I was sorry.

Jack grinned at the boy. I know. I was just having some fun with you. Now, lead on to that Hotel and I’ll follow you.

Once they got the other side of the street Jack told his young guide, Thank you, young sir, for your assistance.

You’re welcome, Sir, replied Brady not at all sure if he was addressing Jack in the correct manner, but was sure he didn’t want to sound as if he was dumb. He couldn’t think of the word illiterate.

Jack stepped over to one of the loafer chairs, outside the Hotel, and eased himself into it. He reached inside his vest pocket and pulled out a briar-wood pipe. He held it and quietly rubbed the bowl of the pipe between his thumb and forefinger. Jack stared down at the pipe like it might have some hidden message to translate to him, if he looked at it long enough.

Since Brady couldn’t think of anything better to say – he was starting to feel a little uncomfortable with the silence – he asked, You need a match to light it with?

Nope.

Are you out of tobacco? I could run fetch you some if you got the money to pay for it. I would, but I don’t have much money and what I gets I give to my mom.

Your mother appreciates it I’m sure, but no, I don’t need any tobacco. I don’t smoke it. Least ways, not anymore.

Where’d you get it? asked Brady. Somebody give it to you?

None of your business, answered Jack.

I bet it was a woman. Brady’s enthusiasm was starting to warm to the subject. Was she pretty?

Again, said Jack, his voice harsh but Brady didn’t feel any real threat. It is none of your business.

I bet she was pretty. That’s probably why you carry it around with you all the time. You wouldn’t do that if an ugly woman gave it to you, I don’t think. 

Tell you what, if it was possible for me to get you to shut up about my pipe, it would be a relief of such magnitude, it would seem like I should reward you in some way, stated Jack, but, my funds are slightly at a low ebb at this time. Jack rubbed his jaw like he was concentrating hard to come up with a solution. I believe I may have thought of a possible compensation for you, as a thank you for your assistance, and to get you to stop speculating about my pipe. If you wanted, I could let you see the scar I carry on this side that is the culprit that causes much of my pain. It was the reason why I was a tad bit slower to recuperate after our collision. Which might never have happened if we had either one of us been watching where he was going, I’d be glad to show it to you.

Brady Whitehead thought to himself that he’d rather have two bits, but seeing a scar was better than nothing.

Sure.

Jack pulled, tugged and twisted his shirt and vest around until he was able to expose most of a ragged, deep, reddish and purple colored scar located low down on his left side.

Holy cow! exclaimed Brady Whitehead. How did you get that?

Well, if you come around here tomorrow, stated Jack, I’ll tell you. Right now, I am rather fatigued.

Jack pulls a watch from his vest pocket, opens it and moves it out to the length of his arm and back trying to read the time.

You know how to tell time? asked Jack. 

"Yes, Sir.

What time’s that say?

Brady looked at the watch and suddenly turned to run. Holy cow! I got to get to work or Mama’s going to stretch my hide to the wall! He runs down the street towards the Café.

What’s your name? Jack called after him.

Brady. Brady Whitehead. And by then, Jack realized, Brady Whitehead was too far away to yell at without causing a scene. He quickly stuck his watch out in front of a passerby. Sir, could you look at this watch and tell me what time this says?

CHAPTER 2

The cabin faced away from the distant mountains and looked across a wide sweeping range of short grass prairie. The view was – depending upon one’s taste – either a magnificent, breathtaking vista or a whole lot of nothing leading away to more nothing. The homesteader’s cabin itself was plain. Split logs fitted together, as best as the builder was capable of, made up the walls. They were chinked with mud mixed with grass and had once been treated with Linseed Oil. It had turned them a little red in color, but that had faded with time and because no more coats of Linseed Oil had been applied. The roof was made out of pine poles covered in dirt. Grass grew on it now. At least in the places where the dirt still attempted to hold on and keep the weather out. The dirt was losing the battle. The inside, consisted of two rooms, one for living in and one for sleeping. The floor had been covered in rough cut boards, but those had been packed off by another settler who hadn’t wanted to see them go to waste. All in all, it was just your average, empty shack, but it had once been the dream home of a determined settler. It had been abandoned and mostly forgotten about for several years – until now.

Sam Weeks sat on his dun horse, Goblin, one leg across the pommel and wrapped around the saddle horn. He used his knife to cut a chunk off of a plug of tobacco and insert it into his mouth. That’s him down there, Goblin. We have finally run old Adolph to ground. Now, the question is, how do we take him? Shoot him through the window or wait ‘till he comes out in the morning?

Goblin shook his head and made a noise that Sam Weeks called his grumble noise. Goblin did a lot of grumbling.

I know, said Sam in reply, it ain’t fair to just shoot him down, but I don’t intend to go down there and arm wrestle with him.

Goblin grumbled some more.

As the sky darkened, the light from the only window on the side of the cabin, glowed brighter through the sheet of light material that had evidently