West Elk Cowboy Company

                Ride For The Brand

                He'd started this day out jist like any other.  He got up, filled his lip with snuff, put on his boots and reached for the bottle of rot-gut next to his bed.  Only problem was, he'd finished it off the night before.  No bother though, he'd jist go without breakfast.  Somethin' was different today, he wasn't shore what though.  He jist had that feelin' in the pit of his gut, that uneasy feelin'.  That feelin' a fella gets when he knows somethin' ain't right, but he ain't got no clue what it is.  He brushed it off, probably jist the result of no breakfast. 

         He walks over and unties his pony from the picket line and leaves him standin' ground.  He ambles on over to the lean to on the side of the line shack.  He grabs his blankets and his old saddle.  He reminds himself that he really needs to oil his saddle, the old man would have gave him a good lashin' fer lettin his saddle get like this.  No time fer that now though, he's got things t' do.  He swings the saddle up and talks to his pony.  "Easy now Airborn, I ain't in the mood fer excitement this morning."  Airborn, what a name fer a horse, but he remembers the day, he named that pony.  It was ten years ago, down in Colorado, he was driftin' and picked up some work bustin' broncs.  He'd broke a couple horses fer that old crook that called hisself a rancher.  That  old boy, thought he was buying a show when he made the deal.  That rancher told him, "If you can get that pony circlin the ring by sundown, you can have 'em."  He musta gone airborn a hundred times that day, but he was a little more stubborn than that critter, and wound up ownin' 'em.  After that day Airborn seemed like a good name.  Course, he couldn't complain none though, this old pony'd been good to him.  Some times the high spirited ones make the best rides.  Enough of reminiscin' he had things t' do today.  He didn't particularly want to do them, but he had things t' do.

                His pa had always told him "Son, you take a man's money and bed in his bunk, you best ride fer his brand."  Well, that's what he was doin' today.  He wished he wasn't, but he was.  Weren't no sense in fightin' it, he knew what needed done, and he aimed t' do it.  Every day, he kept seein' a few less calves on the high mesa.  He knew where they was goin', over the pass.  They wasn't wanderin' either, they had a little coaxin'.  It was rustlin' fer sure.  He had a perty good guess where t' look too.  That old miner camp on the other side of Prospector Gulch had fresh soot on the stovepipe a few days back.  He knew somethin' weren't right, that camp had been deserted since he was a young 'un, last time anyone lived there was old man Bennett.  The old man had died 40 years ago, this was the first signs of use since then.  Somethin' weren't right, and he aimed to find out what. 

                As he started up Cascade Ridge, the stars was still hangin' on t' the sky.  He'd always loved the stars.  He liked the way they looked, and he liked the way they seemed t' frame the full moon.  Course, his mama loved the stars.  When he was a young 'un she taught him their names, course nowadays, he couldn't  remember them.  But that didn't change things none, he still loved the stars.  As him and Airborn plodded up the trail towards the ridgeline and the high mesa, he seen a shootin' star.  He took a minute t' make a wish, just like his mama used to.  He wished that with any luck, this wouldn't be the last night sky he saw.  He forgot about the stars and his mind went back to his chore at hand.

                As he topped the ridge, the old sun was tryin' t' peak its head up in the valley 'tween the twin peaks on Diablo Mountain.  Diablo Mountain, some old timer called that one right.  That mountain was dangerous, not t' mention, he always felt the hair on his neck stand up whenever he got up on it.  Peculiar it was, but, that's how it was.  He works his way through the meadows and notices pony tracks, they ain't from him and Airborn though, these ponies were shod, Airborn didn't take t' shoes none, and he'd never had 'em.  He could see the path they'd taken, three or four horses pushin' cattle, maybe twenty head.  Somethin' wasn't right, whoever was rustlin' these cattle was gettin' perty bold.  He figured he best be on his guard.  He pulls his Colt out of the holster and gives the wheel a spin on his arm, he even adds a bean in the empty hole, and holsters it.  He pulls his old Evans out of the scabbard and fills it up, 17 beans in all, and one more in the hole.  If trouble comes a'callin' he'll be ready.

                He starts t' followin' the trail someone left for him, and shore nuff, its headed where he figured.  Straight up and over the top of Hell's Pass.  He stops fer a minute and rests his pony.  This here trail is steeper n' a cow's face, and ol' Airborn ain't a young pony these days, not t' mention he ain't packin' as light a load as he used to.  He starts t' let his mind wander a piece as his pony rests.  He wonders if these cattle are really worth dyin' for.  Course they are you fool, he tells hisself.  These cattle are a man's livin' and you make your livin' offa him. Without these cows, you'll both be out of a livin'.  Sides, he knows he signed on and has t' ride fer the brand.

                His thinkin' gets interrupted by the crack of a rifle.  He feels somethin' brush his face as old Airborn comes uncorked.  He scrambles for cover behind a downed pine.  He's scoldin' hisself now, he shoulda been payin attention, stead of thinkin' about things that was already decided.  He sees his pony, Airborn finally calmed down about a hundred yards back in the spruce.  He'd like to get over there, t' tie 'em up and get his rifle.  Problem is, he don't know where that shot come from, he can feel the blood tricklin' down his cheek where that bullet grazed him, it wasn't an accident.  Someone tried to kill him.  If he moves for his horse, they'll probly try it again.  If he'd been payin' attention, he'd a known where that shot come from.  As it is, he ain't got a clue.  He cusses hisself again, fer bein' so stupid, he's smarter than that. 

                He sets and he waits.  He listens.  He sets fer what seems like an eternity, and then he hears it.  The wind shifts just right and he can hear cattle.  Maybe a mile away, up the trail.  That's good, chances are, whoever fired that rifle is with them cattle.  He hears a horse comin' down the trail.  If the rider's bringin' trouble, his six gun won't be much help.  Its now or never, he's gotta get to his rifle.  He stays low, and tries t' use the brush and downed timber for cover.  He makes his way toward Airborn.  It seems like hours when he finally slides under a downed pine and pulls his Evans out of the scabbard.  He lays across the downed pine and points his rifle up the trail.  Then he waits.  He can still hear hoof beats, and they're gettin' closer.  Then he spots the rider, comin' down the trail easy.  He looks like he's lookin' for somethin'.  Airborn whinnies, and the rider whips around to face the sound.  He fires his rifle and hollers out "Holster that rifle or the next one goes in y'!"  The rider holsters his rifle, "I don't mean no harm friend, whoever y' are."  He hollers back, "I'm Stretch Roberts from the Double T, who the hell are you?"  "Curly Sanders from the Bar T."  "You're an awful long ways from the Bar T, what brings you boys onto my stretch of range?"  "We're looking fer strays, at least that's the polite way of sayin' it.  Our cattle, been feelin' the urge to roam lately."

                He keeps his rifle cocked and unties Airborn.  He walks towards the rider keepin' an eye on 'im.  Once he gets closer, he speaks again.  "You been havin' cattle rustled too?"  "Yep" replies the rider.  He says, "Well, thats kinda funny, 'cause you're comin' from the direction the tracks I been followin', are goin'.  Last night 3 er 4 riders come through and pushed about 20 head up this pass.  Funny thing is, someone just took a shot at me, and then here you come packin' a rifle nosin' around.  I got half a mind to shoot you where you stand mister."  The rider starts t' back his horse up, and reaches down to unlash his six-gun.  "Don't go fer that gun cowboy, I'll send you straight t' the gates of hell!"  The rider don't listen though, he makes a move fer his gun and Stretch was faster.  The rider hit the ground and his pony bolted.  He walks up to the rider, kicks his pistol away, and leans over.  "Why'd you draw on me cowboy?"  "I had too, you had me figured, don't matter now though, them cattle are over the pass, and once they're grazin' on Bar T ground, my pardners 'il be back to even the score."  He turns t' leave, then spins around and fires his Colt once more, the rider doesn't stir.  He figured, it was only right, the fella was gutshot.  Cattle rustler or not, no man deserves t' die that way, killin' 'im outright was the right thing t' do.  Sides, the rider drew first, he was justified.

                He sets down back in the trees and thinks on the situation a bit.  Does he head over the pass, and try t' get them cows back?  Or should he go back to the spread and get some help?  Goin' back to the spread would take at least two days, by then, them cattle would be worked over with a runnin' iron.  He knew what he had to do, there weren't no other choice, he was goin' over Hell's Pass and gettin' them cattle back.

                He reloads his guns, and mounts up.  He ain't sure how long he's got left t' live, but ain't no sense worryin' over it.  He heads toward the pass, stayin' in the trees and keepin' his eyes open.  He's got to keep it together now, that rider's amigos heard them shots, and fer sure they'll be on the lookout.  He nears the top of the pass and hears cattle.  He's gettin' close.  He climbs offa Airborn and ties 'im up.  He grabs his Evans out of the scabbard and stays low movin' toward the ridgeline.  He crawls the last 50 feet on his belly and peers down over the ridge into Ute basin and Sheep Creek.  He sees the cattle, them are Double T cattle alright, about twenty five head, grazin' in the basin.  But he don't see no riders.  He figures he's got a good spot, he jist sets tight and waits.  With any luck, they'll start a fire come nightfall and he can follow the smoke. 

                He leans back against a rock and waits.  Fore he knows it, he drifts off to sleep.  When he wakes up, its dark, and he can smell smoke, but he smells somethin' else too.  He can't place the smell, but its out of place.  Burnt hair!  That's what he smells, they been hittin' them cattle with the runnin' iron already, but that smell wouldn't carry this far.  Then he hears footsteps, real quiet like.  Sounds like moccasins.  He'd heard them kinda steps before.  He lays his rifle and his hat down, and draws his knife.  He slips around the rock and ducks down into the ravine.  He makes his way back around and back up, and comes out on the ridge about 20 yards from the rock and his rifle.  He watches.  A few minutes later, he sees the silhouette of a man, the fella has a gun drawn and walks real slow toward that rock and his hat.  The fella hollers, "Don't move."  Too late, he stands up and throws his knife.  His knife finds the mark and the stranger falls, Stretch's knife buried in the middle of his back.  Stretch pulls his six gun and quietly makes his was toward the stranger.  "Put yer hands where I can see 'em, or I'll kill y; fer sure."   The stranger put his hands on the ground, and lays there.  Stretch walks up and rolls him over.  He knows this cowboy, he knows this cowboy real well.  It's Charly Davis, Stretch and Charly punched cows together for ten years on the Hangin' Y.  "Charly, what are you doin' rustlin'?  This ain't your style."  "I didn't have no choice Stretch, if I didn't go along with it, they'd a killed me."  "Better dead and honest, than breathin' and rustlin' cattle." He didn't know if Charly heard that or not.  When he looked down, Charly was dead.  He gets his knife back and mounts up.  Now's the time, he had to get them cattle back.

                He makes his was off the ridge, stayin' in the trees.  He follows the smell of the smoke, he knows the rustlers won't be camped too far from the cattle.  Pretty soon, he hears voices and smells beans cookin'.  He ties up Airborn and makes his way on foot.  There they are.  He can see 'em through the trees, two men with their backs to him.  He stops for a minute, he wished fer one more sight of the stars this morning.  He got it. 

                He takes a minute, fills his lip with snuff and gazes up at the stars.  He'd always loved the stars.  He sets there admirin' the stars and enjoyin' his snuff.  He ain't real sure how this 'il turn out.  This may be the last enjoyment he has in this world.  After about ten minutes, he draws his Colt, and creeps up on the camp.  He's only ten feet behind the two men now.  "Stand up slow, and put yer hands up, I came t' get my cattle back."  They stand up, but their hands don't move.  He's just about t' tell 'em again, when they both spin around and reach fer their hip.  He fans the hammer and they both fall to the ground dead.

                After that, everything happened in slow motion.  He felt a searing pain, like a hot iron tearing through his back and chest.  Then he heard the report of a rifle, a big rifle, probably a Sharps.  He turned and fired his pistol and the shooter dropped to the ground, dead to rights.  He felt hisself falling, and he hit the ground.  As he layed there on his back, he was starin' up at the stars in the night sky.  He had always loved to look at the stars.  His mama had too.  When he was a young 'un she taught him their names, course, he couldn't remember 'em now.  That didn't change nothin' though, he still loved to look at the stars.  He saw a shootin' star streak across the sky.  He took a minute to make a wish, just like his mama used too.  He wished that there were stars in Heaven, and he wished that Airborn would be alright.  That horse was his best friend.  As he layed there starin' at the stars, he could hear the timber wolves start to howl, and somewhere nearby an owl was callin' out to the skies.  Then everything started to get quiet, and all there was were the stars.  The stars and him, and that's all that mattered now, he'd stopped the rustlers, and he'd got to see one more starlit sky. 

                The cowboys from the Double T found him the next day.  They buried him and said some words over his grave.  Then marked it with a cross.  They tried to take Airborn with 'em back to the spread, but he wouldn't go.  They had to leave 'im there.  That pony just stood by the grave, and never moved.  To this day, the cowboys claim, Stretch and Airborn roam Diablo Mountain.  They say that when the stars are out, holdin' on to the sky, that sometimes a man will see old Stretch and Airborn ridin' a moonlit trail and gazin' at the stars.  And sometimes when the breeze is right, Stretch 'il be heard sayin', "I always have loved the stars.  My mama taught me their names when I was a young 'un.  Course, I can't remember them now.  But that don't matter none.  All that matters is that they're up there, and I'm here, and I get t'  see them."

Copyright 2008.  Slim Farnsworth, West Elk Cowboy Company

This story may not be reproduced without the author's writtten permission.